"I shan't worry!" she said flatly. "I shan't do it. If Carl comes
home with a tree on his spine, it's his own concern. Why _I_ should
have to endure all this, however, I can't for the life of me see. I've
one consolation anyway. A good part of my life's over. Death will be
a welcome relief after what _I've_ gone through!"

Shrugging as the window closed Carl drove on rapidly down the driveway.

It pleased him to ride madly with the wind and storm. The gale, laden
with dust and grit, bit and stung and tore rudely at his coat and hair.
The great lamps of the car flashed brilliantly ahead, revealing the
wind-beaten grasses by the wayside. Somewhere back in his mind there
was a troublesome stir of conscience. It had bothered him for days.
It had driven him irresistibly to-night at dinner to speak of visiting
his cousin's camp, though he bit his lip immediately afterward in a
flash of indecision. The turbulent night had seemed of a sort to think
things over. Moonlit fields and roads were enervating. Storm whipping
a man's blood into fire and energy--biting his brain into relentless
activity!--there was a thing for you.

Whiskey did not help. Last night it had treacherously magnified the
voice of conscience into a gibing roar.

Money! Money! The ray of the lamps ahead, the fork of the lightning,
the flickering gaslight there at the crossroads, they were all the
color of gold and like gold--of a flame that burned. Yes, he must have
money. No matter what the voice, he must have money.

At the crossroads he halted suddenly. To the south now lay his
cousin's camp, to the north the storm.