With the falling of the sword that severed her last hope a new
self-possession came to her--the quiet of despair. Her brain cleared,
her fevered pulse became normal, the weariness that had racked her frame
passed from her. She only asked to be alone for a little--alone with her
love and her memories. She quarreled no more with Fate.

The butler preceded her, lighting the way. At the door of the library,
she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Calmly she entered and softly
closed the door behind her. In the blaze of the electrics she saw every
nook and corner of the room--photographically--every tone and color,
every glint and gleam, but her mind fastened itself with remorseless
logic to one thing only--the sliding panel. In her distracted vision it
seemed to move, to slip back even as she gazed. The grain of the wood
appeared to writhe, to creep up and down and ripple as if with the evil
life of what lay behind. She forced herself to walk across the room to
lay her weakened fingers, from which all sense of touch seemed to have
withdrawn, upon that vibrating panel. The face of the safe stood
revealed. Slowly with growing fear she turned the numbers of the
combination and paused--she could not face the ordeal, but with the
releasing of the clutch, the weight of the door caused it to open
slowly, as if an invisible force drew it outward and Mrs. Marteen saw
before her the empty shelves within. As if in a dream she pressed the
spring, and realized that the carefully planned hiding place, was hiding
place no more. She stood still with outstretched arms, as if crucified.
The mute evidence of that opened door was not to be refuted. Her enemy
had triumphed; her own sin had found her out. No self-pity eased the
awful moments. Hot pity poured in upon her heart, but not for herself in
this hour of misery--but for her daughter, for the innocent sweet soul
of truth, whose faith had been shattered, whose deepest love had been