There had been only a few words in the note, and those few carefully
chosen, guarded, like the notes of old, lest they should fall into a
stranger's hand; but he had read only too clearly between the lines. She
had had only far too much more reason for fear than she had admitted to
him; and those fears had crystallised into realities. One sentence in
the note stood out above all others, a sentence that had lived with him
since that morning months ago, the words seeming to visualise her, high
in her courage, brave in the unselfishness of her love: "Jimmie, I must
not, I cannot, I will not bring you into the shadows again; I must fight
this out alone."

He recalled the feverish haste in which he had acted that morning--the
one thought that had possessed him being to reach her if possible before
she could put her designs into execution. Benson, his chauffeur,
reckless of speed laws, had rushed him to the hotel where, pending the
remodelling of the Fifth Avenue mansion, she had taken rooms. Here, he
learned that she had given up her apartments on the previous afternoon,
and that it was understood she had left for an extended travel tour, and
that her baggage had been taken to the Pennsylvania Station. From the
hotel he had gone to the trust company in whose hands she had placed the
management of her estate. With a few additional details, disquieting
rather than otherwise, it was the story of the hotel over again. They
did not know where she was, except that she had told them she was going
away for a long trip, had given them the fullest powers to handle her
affairs, and, on the previous afternoon, had drawn a very large sum of
money before leaving the institution.

He had returned then, like a man dazed, to his home on Riverside Drive,
and had locked himself in his den to think it out. She had covered her
tracks well--and had done it in a masterly way because she had done it