. Tavernake glanced at the address upon
the card: 1134, East Third Street. For a moment he was puzzled. Then the
light broke in upon him suddenly. His heart gave a leap. He turned back
into the place to ask for some directions and once more stopped short.
Down the stone corridor, like one who flies from some hideous fate, came
a slim black figure, with white face and set, horrified stare. Tavernake
held out his hands and she came to him with a great wondering sob.

"Leonard!" she cried. "Leonard!"

"There's no doubt about me," he answered, quickly. "Am I such a very
terrifying object?"

She stood quite still and struggled hard. By and by the giddiness
passed.

"Leonard," she murmured, "I am ill."

Then she began to smile.

"It is too absurd," she faltered, "but you've got to do it all over
again."'

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Get me something to eat at once," she begged. "I am starving. Somewhere
where it's cool. Leonard, how wonderful! I never even knew that you were
in New York."

He called a carriage and took her off to a roof garden. There, as it was
early, they got a seat near the parapet. Tavernake talked clumsily about
himself most of the time. There was a lump in his throat. He felt all
the while that tragedy was very near. By degrees, though, as she ate and
drank, the color came back to her cheeks, the fear of a breakdown seemed
to pass away. She became even cheerful.

"We are really the most amazing people, Leonard," she declared. "You
stumbled into my life once before when I was on the point of being
turned out of my rooms. You've come into it again and you find me once
more homeless. Don't spend too much money upon our dinner, for I warn
you that I am going to borrow from you."

He laughed.

"That's good news," he remarked, "but I'm not sure that I'm going to
lend anything."

He leaned across the table. Their dinner had taken long in preparing and
the dusk was falling now. Over them were the stars, the band was playing
soft music, the hubbub of the streets lay far below. Almost they were in
a little world by themselves.

"Dear Beatrice," he said, "three times I asked you to marry me and you
would not, and I asked you because I was a selfish brute, and because
I knew that it was good for me and that it would save me from things of
which I was afraid. And now I am asking you the same thing again, but I
have a bigger reason, Beatrice. I have been alone most of the last two
years, I have