should Mr. Farrington kill himself?"

"I am sure that he had not the slightest idea of doing anything so
unselfish," returned Lady Dinsmore, composedly.

"Then what----"

"Why are you so absolutely sure that he _is_ dead?" she asked softly.

Frank stared at her in blank amazement.

"What do you mean?" he gasped. Was she mad also?

"Simply that he is no more dead than you or I," she retorted, coolly.
"What evidence have we? A letter, in his own handwriting, telling us
gravely that he has decided to die! Does it sound probable? It is a safe
presumption that that is the farthest thing from his intentions. For
when did Gregory ever tell the truth concerning his movements? No,
depend upon it, he is not dead. For purposes of his own, he is
pretending to be. He has decided to exist--surreptitiously."

"Why should he?" asked the bewildered young man. This was the maddest
theory of all. His head swam with a riot of conflicting impressions. He
seemed to have been hurled headlong into a frightful nightmare, and he
longed to emerge again into the light of the prosaic, everyday world.

The door at the farther end of the room opened. He looked up eagerly,
half expecting to see Farrington himself, smiling upon the threshold.

It was Doris. She stood there for a moment, uncertain, gazing at them
rather strangely. In her white morning dress, slightly crumpled, and her
dark hair arranged in smooth bandeaux, she was amazingly like a child.
The somewhat cold spring sunlight which streamed through the window
showed that the event of the night had already set its mark upon her.
There were faint violet shadows beneath her eyes, and her face was pale.

Frank came forward hastily, everything blotted from his mind but the
sight of her white, grief-stricken face. He took both her hands in his
warm clasp.

The girl gave him a long, searching scrutiny, then her lips quivered,
and with a smothered sob she flung herself into his arms and hid her
face on his shoulder.

Frank held her tenderly. "Don't," he whispered unsteadily--"don't cry,
dear."

In her sorrow, she was inexpressibly sweet and precious to him.

He bent down and smoothed with gentle fingers the soft, dusky hair. The
fragrance of it filled his nostrils. Its softness sent a delicious
ecstasy thrilling from his finger-tips up his arm. All his life he
would remember this one moment. He gazed down at her tenderly, a
wonderful light in his young face.

"Dear!" he whispered a