m the police, so far as I could see, and unless some
miracle should suddenly come to pass, I should be obliged to stand by
while Karine Cunningham gave her unwilling self to Wildred.

Whatever her secret reason for consenting to do so might be, she had
plainly let me understand that she meant to marry the man, unless Fate
especially intervened in her behalf.

There was no hope that she would let me save her by carrying her away. I
had not even the slightest reason to suppose that she cared for me, save
as a friend, in the midst of what otherwise she had said would be
friendlessness.

My hands were bound, therefore, so long as Carson Wildred was able to
hold up his guilty head before the world, and pass himself off as a
blameless member of society.

Between the horns of this dilemma--and heaven knows they were both sharp
enough--I could only choose the one on which Karine and I seemed less
likely to be torn; and therefore it was that I elected to go to America.

I did not feel that I could bear to leave without a word to her. How
could I tell in what light my absence might be made to appear? From the
vague hints she had dropped as to her relations with Sir Walter and Lady
Tressidy, I hardly considered that it would be safe to write to her.
Such a letter as I must send, should I write at all, if read by eyes for
which it was not intended, might bring Karine into serious trouble. It
was true that Lady Tressidy had appeared to be inclined towards
friendliness with me, but she had then no suspicions of my attitude to
Karine.

I would go down into the country and call upon Lady Tressidy and Miss
Cunningham, I resolved; and if I had no opportunity of speaking with my
beautiful girl in private, I would contrive to slip into her own hand a
note previously prepared.

My decisions, when made, are usually soon acted upon. Within a couple of
hours after receiving the inspector's letter and the message from New
York my passage was engaged for the following day. A curious mood was
upon me as I began my preparations. Hardly more than a fortnight ago I
had been congratulating myself on the prospect of a considerable stay in
London. My ideal existence had for the moment been an utterly aimless
one. I was sated with excitement and what is popularly called
"adventure," and had only wanted to rest and amuse myself. I had meant
to be a man about town until I should again tire of the life, drifting
agreeably here and there, taking ple