! Oh, Ginger, I'm paying for it! I wonder if running
away is going to do me any good at all. Perhaps, if Mr. Faucitt has some
real hard work for me to do...

"Of course, I know exactly how all this has come about. Elsa's pretty
and attractive. But the point is that she is a success, and as a success
she appeals to Gerald's weakest side. He worships success. She is going
to have a marvellous career, and she can help Gerald on in his. He can
write plays for her to star in. What have I to offer against that? Yes,
I know it's grovelling and contemptible of me to say that, Ginger. I
ought to be above it, oughtn't I--talking as if I were competing for
some prize... But I haven't any pride left. Oh, well!

"There! I've poured it all out and I really do feel a little better
just for the moment. It won't last, of course, but even a minute is
something. Ginger, dear, I shan't see you for ever so long, even if we
ever do meet again, but you'll try to remember that I'm thinking of
you a whole lot, won't you? I feel responsible for you. You're my baby.
You've got started now and you've only to stick to it. Please, please,
please don't 'make a hash of it'! Good-bye. I never did find that
photograph of me that we were looking for that afternoon in the
apartment, or I would send it to you. Then you could have kept it on
your mantelpiece, and whenever you felt inclined to make a hash of
anything I would have caught your eye sternly and you would have pulled
up.

"Good-bye, Ginger. I shall have to stop now. The mail is just closing.

"Always your pal, wherever I am.---SALLY."

Ginger laid the letter down, and a little sound escaped him that was
half a sigh, half an oath. He was wondering whether even now some
desirable end might not be achieved by going to Chicago and breaking
Gerald Foster's neck. Abandoning this scheme as impracticable, and
not being able to think of anything else to do he re-lit his pipe and
started to read the letter again.

CHAPTER XII. SOME LETTERS FOR GINGER

Laurette et Cie,

Regent Street,

London, W.,

England.

January 21st.

Dear Ginger,--I'm feeling better. As it's three months since I last
wrote to you, no doubt you will say to yourself that I would be a poor,
weak-minded creature if I wasn't. I suppose one ought to be able to get
over anything in three months. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I haven't quite
succeeded in doing that, but at least I have managed to get my troubles
sto