lready made his mouth stern,
and sent little lines to wrinkle his forehead. He had spared her
hitherto--had hoped to keep on sparing her--yet she had not spared
Winifred! But who had prompted her to this heartless deed? He loved his
mother. Her faults were those of society, her virtues were her own. She
had lived too long in an atmosphere of artificiality not to have lost
much of the fine American womanliness that was her birthright. That
could be cured--he alone knew how. The puzzling query, for a little
while, was the identity of the cruel, calculating, ruthless enemy who
struck by her hand.

There was less light shed on Winifred's own behavior. He recalled her
words: "You want to know if I love you--yes, yes--I want you to stay a
long time this afternoon--don't ask me why I told you that awful fib--"

And then her confession to Miss Goodman: "I am going away to-morrow--for
always, I'm afraid."

What did that portend? Ah, yes; she was going to some place where he
could not find her, to bury herself away from his love and because of
her love for him. It was no new idea in woman's heart, this. For long
ages in India sorrowing wives burned themselves to death on the funeral
pyres of their lords. Poor Winifred only reversed the method of the
sacrifice--its result would be the same.

"But 'to-morrow'--to-day, that is. You are quite sure of her words?" he
persisted.

"Oh, yes, sir; quite sure. Besides she has left her clothes and letters,
and little knick-knacks of jewelry. Would you care to see them?"

For an instant he hesitated, for he was a man of refinement, and he
hated the necessity of prying into the little secrets of his dear one.
Then he agreed, and Miss Goodman took him from her own sitting-room to
that tenanted by Winifred. Her presence seemed to linger in the air.
His eyes traveled to the chair from which she rose with that glad
crooning cry when he came to her so few hours earlier.

On the table lay her tiny writing-case. In it, unopened, and hidden by
the discouraging missive from the bookbinder's, rested the note from the
dramatic agent, with the thrice-important clue of its plain statement:
"I have made no appointment for you at any house near East Orange."

But Miss Goodman had already thrown open the door which led to
Winifred's bedroom.

"You can see for yourself, sir," she said, "the room was not occupied
last night. Nor that she could be in the house without me knowing
it, poor thing. There