ove him any more. She thought now that she never had
loved him.

What about the time when he came back? What would she do then? She
shivered.

But Chris, after all, was not to come back. He would never come back
again. The cable was there when she reached her apartment--a cold
statement, irrefutable, final.

She had put the flowers on the table and had raised her hands to unpin
her hat when she saw it. She read it with a glance first, then slowly,
painfully, her heart contracted as if a hand had squeezed it. She stood
very still, not so much stricken as horrified, and her first conscious
thought was of remorse, terrible, gasping remorse. All that afternoon,
while she had been hating Natalie and nursing her love for Clay, Chris
had been lying dead somewhere.

Chris was dead.

She felt very tired, but not faint. It seemed dreadful, indeed, that she
could be standing there, full of life, while Chris was dead. Such grief
as she felt was for him, not for herself. He had loved life so, even
when he cheapened it. He had wanted to live and now he was dead. She,
who did not care greatly to live, lived on, and he was gone.

All at once she felt terribly alone. She wanted some one with her. She
wanted to talk it all out to some one who understood. She wanted Clay.
She said to herself that she did not want him because she loved him.
All love was dead in her now. She wanted him because he was strong and
understanding. She made this very clear to herself, because she had a
morbid fancy that Chris might be watching her. There were people who
believed that sort of thing. To her excited fancy it seemed as though
Chris's cynical smile might flash out from any dusky corner.

She knew she was not being quite rational. Which was strange, because
she felt so strong, and because the voice with which she called
Clayton's number was so steady. She knew, too, that she was no longer
in love with Clay, because his steady voice over the telephone left her
quite calm and unmoved.

"I want you to come up, Clay," she said. "If you can, easily."

"I can come at once. Is anything wrong?"

"Chris has been killed," she replied, and hung up the receiver. Then
she sat down to wait, and to watch for Chris's cynical smile to flash in
some dusky corner.

Clayton found her there, collapsed in her chair, a slim, gray-faced girl
with the rouge giving a grotesque vitality to her bloodless cheeks. She
got up very calmly and gave him the cablegram. The