ho had taken his wife from him. He could not bear
to think of the frightened misery that must have driven the girl to such
a step, nor of the wretched disillusionment in store for her. Jacqueline
ashamed; his gallant, loyal, high-hearted little playmate cowering under
the whips of the world's scorn--it was a thought that drove all the
youth out of Philip's face, and left it so grim and fierce that many a
passing stranger stared at him covertly, wondering what tragedy lay
behind such a mask of pain.

Only once did the effect of Jacqueline's shame upon his own life occur
to Philip, and then he wrote a hasty line to the Bishop of his diocese,
offering to resign at once from the ministry. No other alternative
occurred to him. If Jacqueline had needed him when he married her, how
infinitely greater was her need of him now! What came to either of them
they would share together, he and his wife.

Nor was his decision entirely altruistic. Her going had already taught
him one thing. "We are so used to each other," the piteous little letter
had said. Yes, they were used to each other; so used that they would
never again be able to do without each other.

His search did not end in New York. He found there only the news,
gathered by James and Jemima Thorpe, that Channing had sailed a few
hours before for Europe, and not alone. The steamship office had
registered the name of a Mr. James Percival and wife, in whom it was not
difficult to recognize the author.

Philip followed by the next boat, but found some difficulty,
inexperienced traveler that he was, in coming upon traces of the pair,
who doubled and twisted upon their tracks as if conscious of pursuit. It
was some weeks before he ran his quarry to earth in Paris, having been
directed to one of those "coquettish apartments" known to experts in the
art of travel, who scorn the great, banal caravansaries of the ordinary
tourist.

Entering an unpretentious gate between an apothecary shop and a
_patisserie_, he found himself in one of the hidden court-yards of the
old city, where a placid, vine-covered mansion dozed in the sun, remote
from the rattle of cobblestones and the vulgar gaze of the passing
world. Doves preened themselves on the flagging, a cat occupied herself
maternally with her young on the doorstep, birds were busy in the ivy.
It was an ideal retreat for a honeymoon.

Philip, his jaw set and his heart pounding, jerked at the old-fashioned
bell-handle, and the do