gh this episode, and now, impassive as ever, he helped me along and
stowed me into the big motor.

Half the journalists in London seemed to be waiting outside, and raised
a cheer as we appeared. Mary declared that it was quite a triumphant
exit.

CHAPTER XXVIII

WITH MARY AT MORWEN

"It's terrible, Maurice! If only I could have a line, even a wire, from
her, or her father, just to say she was alive, I wouldn't mind so much."

"She may have written and the letter got lost in transit," I suggested.

"Then why didn't she write again, or wire?" persisted Mary. "And there
are her clothes; why, she hadn't even a second gown with her. I believe
she's dead, Maurice; I do indeed!"

She began to cry softly, poor, dear little woman, and I did not know
what to say to comfort her. I dare not give her the slightest hint as to
what had befallen Anne, or of my own agony of mind concerning her; for
that would only have added to her distress. And I knew now why it was
imperative that she should be spared any extra worry, and, if possible,
be reassured about her friend.

"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "You'd have heard soon enough if anything had
happened to her. And the clothes prove nothing; her father's a wealthy
man, and, when she found the things didn't arrive, she'd just buy more.
Depend upon it, her father went to meet her when he left the hotel at
Berlin, and they're jaunting off on their travels together all right."

"I don't believe it!" she cried stormily. "Anne would have written to
me again and again, rather than let me endure this suspense. And if one
letter went astray it's impossible that they all should. But you--I
can't understand you, Maurice! You're as unsympathetic as Jim, and
yet--I thought--I was sure--you loved her!"

This was almost more than I could stand.

"God knows I do love her!" I said as steadily as I could. "She will
always be the one woman in the world for me, Mary, even if I never see
or hear of her again. But I'm not going to encourage you in all this
futile worry, nor is Jim. He's not unsympathetic, really, but he knows
how bad it is for you, as you ought to know, too. Anne's your friend,
and you love her dearly--but--remember, you're Jim's wife, and more
precious to him than all the world."

She flushed hotly at that; I saw it, though I was careful not to look
directly at her.

"Yes, I--I know that," she said, almost in a whisper. "And I'll try not
to worry, for his,--for all our sak