no more to him now than she was yesterday, or the
day before. And she would leave him, even if it destroyed her, heart and
soul. He was sure of that. For years she had suffered her heart to be
ground out of her because of the "bit of madness" that was in her, because
of that earlier tragedy in her life--and her promise, her pledge to her
father, her God, and herself. Without arguing a possible change in her
because of her love for him, John Aldous accepted these things. He believed
that if he told Joanne the truth he would lose her.

His determination not to tell her, to keep from her the secret of the grave
and the fact that Mortimer FitzHugh was alive, grew stronger in him with
each breath that he drew. He believed that it was the right thing to do,
that it was the honourable and the only thing to do. Now that the first
shock was over, he did not feel that he had lost Joanne, or that there was
a very great danger of losing her. For a moment it occurred to him that he
might turn the law upon Culver Rann, and in the same breath he laughed at
this absurdity. The law could not help him. He alone could work out his own
and Joanne's salvation. And what was to happen must happen very soon--up in
the mountains. When it was all over, and he returned, he would tell Joanne.

His heart beat more quickly as he finished dressing. In a few minutes more
he would be with Joanne, and in spite of what had happened, and what might
happen, he was happy. Yesterday he had dreamed. To-day was reality--and it
was a glorious reality. Joanne belonged to him. She loved him. She was his
wife, and when he went to her it was with the feeling that only a serpent
lay in the path of their paradise--a serpent which he would crush with as
little compunction as that serpent would have destroyed her. Utterly and
remorselessly his mind was made up.

The Blacktons' supper hour was five-thirty, and he was a quarter of an hour
late when he tapped at Joanne's door. He felt the warmth of a strange and
delightful embarrassment flushing his face as the door opened, and she
stood before him. In her face, too, was a telltale riot of colour which the
deep tan partly concealed in his own.

"I--I am a little late, am I not, Joanne?" he asked.

"You are, sir. If you have taken all this time dressing you are worse than
a woman. I have been waiting fifteen minutes!"

"Old Donald came to see me," he apologized. "Joanne----"

"You mustn't, John!" she expostulated in a