n favors conferred upon us."

Gard's heart stood still. A sweeping regret invaded him that he had not
slain the man when his hands were upon him. He threw the note aside and
turned again to Mrs. Marteen's letter.

"You see," he read, "there is nothing for me to do. A wireless to
Dorothy? She has doubtless had the information since the hour of my
departure. What can I do? I have thought of you; but how make you, who
know nothing of Victor Mahr, understand anything in a message that would
not reveal all to everyone who must aid in its transmission? That at
least mustn't happen. I am praying every minute that she will go to
you--you, who know and have tolerated me. I can't bear for her to
know--I can't--it's killing me! My heart contracts and stops when I
think of it."

Further down the page, in another ink, evidently written later, was a
single note:

"I've left a message with the wireless operator, a sort of desperate
hope that it may be of some use--to Dorothy, telling her to consult you
on all matters of importance. I've written one to you, telling you to
find her. The man says he'll send them out as soon as he gets into touch
with anyone."

A still later entry:

"Two P.M.--I'm in my cabin all the time. I think that I shall go mad.
That sounds conventional, doesn't it--reminiscent of melodrama! I assure
you it's worse than real. I feel as if for years and years I've been
asleep, and now've wakened up into a nightmare. I _can_ write to you;
that's the one thing that gives me relief. Your kindness seems a shield
behind which I can crawl. I can't sleep; I can only--not think--no, it
isn't thinking I do--it's realizing--and everything is terrible. The
sunlight makes ripples on my cabin ceiling; they weave and part and
wrinkle. I try to fix my attention on them, and hypnotize myself into
lethargy. Sometimes I almost succeed, and then I begin realizing again.
And in the night I stare at the electric light till my eyes ache, and
try to numb my thoughts. Must my little girl know what I am? Can't that
be averted? I know it can't--I know, and yet I pray and
pray--I--_pray!"_

Another sheet, evidently torn from a pad: "The wireless is out of order;
they couldn't send my messages. You don't know the despair that has
taken hold of me. My mind feels white--that's the only way I can
describe it--cold and white--frozen, a blank. My body is that way, too.
I hold my hands to the light, and it doesn't seem as if there was even