o thought of explaining now to Jude occurred to her as she stood
cringing and trembling against the house in the darkness. Only one
thought possessed her vitally--Jude must never see her again. If he did,
he would kill her. Kill her as Pierre was said to have killed poor
little Lola, long, long ago.

Joyce's teeth chattered and she gripped her shaking hands over them.
When her heart _did_ beat--and minutes seemed to pass when it made no
motion--it hurt her cruelly.

What was he doing in there? The storm was gaining power, and no other
sound rose in the blackness. Then suddenly Jude rushed from the house.
He passed so close to Joyce that his coat touched her. By some power
entirely outside of ordinary hearing or seeing, Joyce knew that he was
making for the Black Cat with the tale of his wrongs. They all did that.
It was the finishing stroke for the woman.

Alone, in the blackness and storm, reason reasserted itself in Joyce's
mind. It brought no comfort with its restored poise; rather, it brought
a realization of her true position. Her life was as utterly shattered
and devastated as was the little home. Everything was gone. The future,
with pitiful choice, was as densely black as the night that shut her in
with her dull misery. With Jude, there could be no possible
understanding. To confront him, even with the powers of the Black Cat at
call, would be the wildest folly. There was nothing to say--nothing.

Still, Jude had money. It was quite plain to the keen mind now--it was
Gaston's money! Ralph Drew had probably sent the money in payment and
instead of passing the amount on to Gaston, who had advanced the
different sums, Jude was making off with it. She must stop that. For
herself, what did it matter? But still, if Gaston, who had such power,
could hold Jude and claim the money, he might find a way out of this
awful trouble. She must go to Gaston, and at once.

Aching in every limb, and soaked to the skin, Joyce turned toward the
North Woods. The howling wind was with her, and it was the only help she
had. So she came at last to the lonely little shack among the pines.

Gaston had built a roaring piney fire upon the hearth of his outer room.
He was luxuriating before this with a long-stemmed pipe between his
lips.

The day had perplexed and touched him deeply. Never before in all his
St. Ange life had he seemed to get so close to the heart, the human
heart, of things. Joyce's white, still anguish over the death