once." He sought a telephone, but there was no
response. He tried again, but vainly. A third attempt, however, and
Aleta's voice, half frantic, answered his.

"He's killed himself," she cried. "Oh, Frank, I don't know what to do."

"He? Who?" Frank asked startled.

"Frank, you know! The man who wanted me to--"

"Do you mean the Supervisor?"

"Yes.... They say it was an accident. But I know better. He lost his
money in the safe deposit failure.... Oh, Frank, please come to
me, quick."

CHAPTER LXXXVI

A NEW CITY GOVERNMENT

Frank found Aleta, dry-eyed, frantic, pacing up and down her little
sitting room which always looked so quaintly attractive with its jumble
of paintings and bric-a-brac, its distinctive furniture and
draperies--all symbolic of the helter-skelter artistry which was a part
of Aleta's nature. She took Frank's hand and clung to it.

"I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "I'm so glad you've come."

It was a little time ere she could tell him of the tragedy. The man had
been run over, quickly killed. Witnesses had seen him stagger, fall
directly in the path of an advancing car. A doctor called it apoplexy.

"But I know better," sobbed Aleta, for the tears had come by now. "He
never was sick in his life. He thought he'd lost me when the money went
... his money in the California Safe Deposit Company."

Frank took a seat beside her on the couch, whose flaming, joyous colors
seemed a mockery just then. "Aleta," he said, "I wish I could help you.
I wish I knew how, but I don't."

She lifted her tear-stained eyes to his with a curious bitterness. "No
... you don't. But thank you. Just your coming's helped me, Frank. I'm
better. Go--and let me think things over." She tried to smile, but the
tears came.

"Life's a hideous puzzle. Perhaps if I'd gone with him, all would have
come right.... I'd have made him happy."

"But what about yourself?"

Again that bitter, enigmatic look came to her eyes. "I guess ... that
doesn't matter, Frank."

He left her, a queer ache in his heart. Was she right about the man's
committing suicide. Poor devil! He had stolen for a woman. Others had
filched his plunder. Then God had taken his misguided life.

But had He? Was God a murderer? A passive conniver at theft? No, that
were blasphemy! Yet, if He _permitted_ such things--? No, that couldn't
be, either. It was all an abominable enigma, as Aleta said. Unless--the
thought came startlingly--it were all a