see me? Well, that'll help some--she'll probably do as she's told,
and--"

Madison paused abruptly, gazed abstractedly at the private car across
the tracks on the siding, and pulled at his cigar.

Helena watched him in silence--a little bitterly. That quick, clever,
cunning brain of his was at work again--scheming--scheming--always
scheming--and Naida Thornton was dead.

"I'll tell you," said Madison, speaking again as abruptly as he had
stopped. "It's simple enough. There's a westbound train due in an hour
or so--we'll couple the private car onto that and send it right along to
Chicago. What the authorities don't know won't hurt them. There's no
reason for anybody except Thornton to know what's happened till she gets
there--I'll wire him. The main thing is that the car won't be here in
the morning, and that'll take a little of the intimate touch of Needley
off. It might well have happened on her way home--journey too much for
her--left too soon--see? Thornton'll see it in the right light because
he's got fifty thousand dollars worth of faith in what's going on
here--get that? He won't want to harm the 'cause.' There'll be some
publicity of course, we can't help that--but it won't hurt much--and
Thornton can gag a whole lot of it--he'd want to anyway for his own
sake. Now then, kid, there's Sam over there--you pile into the wagon and
go home, while I get busy--and don't you say a word about this, even to
the Flopper."

And so Helena drove back to the Patriarch's cottage that night, a little
silent figure in the back seat of the wagon--and her hands were locked
tightly together in her lap--and to her, as she drove over the peaceful,