etains no recollection of his actions,
of his intentions. He went back to that last unclouded moment in the
cafe with Maria, Paredes, and the stranger. Where had he gone after he
had left them? He had looked at his watch. He had told himself he must
catch the twelve-fifteen train. He must have gone from the restaurant,
proceeding automatically, and caught the train. That would account for
the sensation of motion in a swift vehicle, and perhaps there had been a
taxicab to the station. Doubtless in the woods near the Cedars he had
decided it was too late to go in, or that it was wiser not to. He had
answered to the necessity of sleeping somewhere. But why had he come
here? Where, indeed, was he?

At least he could answer that. He drew on his shoes--a pair of patent
leather pumps. He fumbled for his handkerchief, thinking he would brush
the earth from them. He searched each of his pockets. His handkerchief
was gone. No matter. He got to his feet, lurching for a moment dizzily.
He glanced with distaste at his rumpled evening clothing. To hide it as
far as possible he buttoned his overcoat collar about his neck. On
tip-toe he approached the door, and, with the emotions of a thief,
opened it quietly. He sighed. The rest of the house was as empty as this
room. The hall was thick with dust. The rear door by which he must have
entered stood half open. The lock was broken and rusty.

He commenced to understand. There was a deserted farmhouse less than two
miles from the Cedars. Since he had always known about it, it wasn't
unusual he should have taken shelter there after deciding not to go in to
his grandfather.

He stepped through the doorway to the unkempt yard about whose tumbled
fences the woods advanced thickly. He recognized the place. For some time
he stood ashamed, yet fair enough to seek the cause of his experience in
some mental unhealth deeper than any reaction from last night's folly.

He glanced at his watch. It was after two o'clock. The mournful
neighbourhood, the growing chill in the air, the sullen sky, urged him
away. He walked down the road. Of course he couldn't go to the Cedars in
this condition. He would return to his apartment in New York where he
could bathe, change his clothes, recover from this feeling of physical
ill, and remember, perhaps, something more.

It wasn't far to the little village on the railroad, and at this hour
there were plenty of trains. He hoped no one he knew would see him at the