thing that I am able to give her. She is my daughter
and--well, you are to understand that I shall stand by her, no matter what
she does. I have but one object in coming to see you to-day. I need not
put it into words."

A few days later Simmy came in, drooping. "Well, the first half-million is
gone. Next month another five hundred thousand goes. I hope you are happy,
Brady."

"I hope Anne is happy," was all that Thorpe said in response.

* * * * *

No word came to him from Anne. She was as silent as the sphinx. Not a day
passed that did not find him running eagerly,--hopefully,--through his mail,
looking for the letter he hoped for and was sure that eventually she would
write to him. But no letter came. The only news he had of her was obtained
through Simmy, who kept him acquainted with the progress of his client's
affairs, forgetting quite simply the admonition concerning secrecy.

Thorpe virtually abandoned his visits to the home of the young Tresslyns.
He had them out to dinner and the theatre occasionally. They talked quite
freely with him about the all-important topic, and seemed not to be
unhappy or unduly exercised over the step Anne had taken. In fact, George
was bursting with pride in his sister. Apparently he had no other thought
than that everything would turn out right and fair for her in the end. But
the covert, anxious, analysing look in Lutie's eyes was always present and
it was disconcerting.

He avoided the little flat in which he had spent so many happy, and in a
sense profitable hours, and they appreciated his reason for doing so. They
kept their own counsel. He had no means of knowing that Anne Thorpe's
visits were but little more frequent than his.

Anne's silence, her persistent aloofness, began to irritate him at last.
Weeks had passed since her return to the city and she had given no sign.
He had long since ceased his sly pilgrimages to the neighbourhood of
Washington Square. Now as the days grew shorter and the nights infinitely
longer, he was conscious, first, of a distinct feeling of resentment
toward her, and later on of an acute sense of uneasiness. The long, dreary
hours of darkness fed him with reflections that kept him awake most of the
night, and only his iron will held his hand and nerves steady during the
days between the black seasons. The theatre palled on him, books failed to
hold his attention, people annoyed him. He could not concentrate his