life of him see that he was to blame. Had he been to blame, he says, he
would have shot himself."

"Would he?" he remarked indifferently.

"He sails for Europe on Saturday--if he hears she's found."

He bit back an exclamation of anger.

"What, under heaven, has he to do with it?" he asked.

"A great deal, one would think. But have you seen her? Tell me of her."

"Be good to her," he answered, "she is in a hard place and needs a great
deal of love."

"And we can give it to her, you and I?"

"Mine is hers already, if it's any help."

"Was it hers before she knew Arnold even?"

"Long before--before he or you or I were born."

"And does she understand?"

"She doesn't know--but what difference does that make?"

Her eyes, in the flickering light, gave him an impression of remoteness
as of dim stars.

"I wonder how it feels to be loved like that?" she said, a little
wistfully.

"You would never have cared for it," he answered, with a flash of his
penetrating insight, "for the kind of man who could have loved you in
that way you couldn't have loved."

"You mean that I was born to adore the god in the brute?" she asked.

"Oh, well, so long as it's the god!" he retorted laughing.

But she paid no heed to his remark, and drawing her coat about her as if
she were cold, she sat in silence until the carriage was driven upon the
ferry and they began the trip across.

"She came this way all alone and at night?" she said.

"How or why we shall probably never know entirely," he answered. "I
doubt if she realised herself where she was going."

"It looks meaningless from a distance, but, I suppose, in reality, it
was a courageous flight?"

"Yes, I think there was courage in it," he responded quietly.

She turned her eyes away, looking out as they drove through the open
country upon the black fields and the stars. Neither of them spoke again
until the carriage stopped and the footman jumped down to ask for some
directions. Then as they drew up presently before the little gate, Adams
helped her out and along the path into the house.

"She is in there," he said, pointing to a closed door, "when you see her
you will understand."

"But you will come, too?" she asked, hesitating.

He shook his head. "Her heart is bleeding--it's a woman that she wants."

Then he opened the door, and pushing her gently inside, closed it after
her.

At first Gerty could see but faintly by the light of a lamp which
smoked, but