er voice was sad, and her eyes showed traces of that wistful despair
into which she could so readily sink at times.

"Why, yes I do, Angelface," he insisted. "What makes you ask? What's
come over you?" He was wondering whether she had heard anything or seen
anything and was concealing her knowledge behind this preliminary
inquiry.

"Nothing," she replied. "Only you don't love me. I don't know what it
is. I don't know why. But I can feel it right here," and she laid her
hand on her heart.

The action was sincere, unstudied. It hurt him, for it was like that of
a little child.

"Oh, hush! Don't say that," he pleaded. "You know I do. Don't look so
gloomy. I love you--don't you know I do?" and he kissed her.

"No, no!" said Angela. "I know! You don't. Oh, dear; oh, dear; I feel so
bad!"

Eugene was dreading another display of the hysteria with which he was
familiar, but it did not come. She conquered her mood, inasmuch as she
had no real basis for suspicion, and went about the work of getting him
his dinner. She was depressed, though, and he was fearful. What if she
should ever find out!

More days passed. Carlotta called him up at the shop occasionally, for
there was no phone where he lived, and she would not have risked it if
there had been. She sent him registered notes to be signed for,
addressed to Henry Kingsland and directed to the post office at Speonk.
Eugene was not known there as Witla and easily secured these missives,
which were usually very guarded in their expressions and concerned
appointments--the vaguest, most mysterious directions, which he
understood. They made arrangements largely from meeting to meeting,
saying, "If I can't keep it Thursday at two it will be Friday at the
same time; and if not then, Saturday. If anything happens I'll send you
a registered special." So it went on.

One noontime Eugene walked down to the little post office at Speonk to
look for a letter, for Carlotta had not been able to meet him the
previous day and had phoned instead that she would write the following
day. He found it safely enough, and after glancing at it--it contained
but few words--decided to tear it up as usual and throw the pieces away.
A mere expression, "Ashes of Roses," which she sometimes used to
designate herself, and the superscription, "Oh, Genie!" made it,
however, inexpressibly dear to him. He thought he would hold it in his
possession just a little while--a few hours longer. It was enigmatic