t still enough to mitigate to some extent
his temporary horror of utter loneliness.

He felt painfully the heaviness of his debt to the woman he had married.
He who had promised her new life and the rich fulfilment thereof had
accomplished only its waste and desolation. He had thrust upon her the
chance to find happiness, and as rudely had snatched it away from her.
Nor could he imagine any way in which he might be able to expiate his
breach of trust--his sins of omission and commission, alike deadly and
unpardonable!

Unless ... He caught eagerly at the thought: he might "die" again--go
away once more, and forever; bury himself deep beyond the groping
tentacles of civilization; disappear finally, notifying her of his
intention, so that she might seek legal freedom from his name. It only
needed Max's silence, which could unquestionably be secured, to insure
her against the least breath of scandal, the faintest whisper of
gossip.... Not that Max really knew anything; but the name of Whitaker,
as identified with Hugh Morten, might better be permitted to pass
unechoed into oblivion....

And with this very thought in mind he became aware of the echo of that
name in his hearing.

A page, bearing something on a salver, ambled through the lounge, now
and again opening his mouth to bleat, dispassionately: "Mista Whitaker,
Mista Whitaker!"

The owner of that name experienced a flush of exasperation. What right
had the management to cause him to be advertised in every public room of
the establishment?... But the next instant his resentment evaporated,
when he remembered that he remained Mr. Hugh Morten in the managerial
comprehension.

He lifted a finger; the boy swerved toward him, tendered a blue
envelope, accepted a gratuity and departed.

It was a cable message: very probably an answer to his to Grace Pettit.
Whitaker tore the envelope and unfolded the enclosure, glancing first at
the signature to verify his surmise. As he did so, he heard his name a
second time.

"Pardon me; this is Mr. Whitaker?"

A man stood beside the little table--one whom Whitaker had indifferently
noticed on entering as an equally lonely lounger at another table.

Though he frowned involuntarily with annoyance, he couldn't well deny
his identity.

"Yes," he said shortly, looking the man up and down with a captious eye.

Yet it was hard to find much fault with this invader of his
preoccupation. He had the poise and the dress of a gentlem