sked.

"Yes. And you--you are well?"

There was a pause, and then came the query again,

"Is that you?"

"Yes, can't you hear my voice?"

"It does n't sound like your voice. Is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing. I don't understand what you mean."

She hesitated again and then answered,

"It--it made me almost afraid."

"It's your nerves. Did you sleep well?"

"Yea. And is Ben all right?"

"Yes."

"There it is again," she broke in. "Your voice sounds harsh."

"That must be your imagination."

"Perhaps," she faltered. "Are you going to bring him home to-day?"

"Probably not until this evening. But," he broke in, "I shall come
sooner myself. I shall come this morning. Will you tell that
gentleman waiting near the gate to come down here?"

"What gentleman?"

"You probably have n't seen him. I put him there on guard."

"You are thoughtful. Your voice is natural again. Is Ben awake now?"

"Yes."

"And does he know?"

"Some things."

"Mr. Donaldson," she said, and he caught the shuddering fear in her
voice, "are you keeping anything from me?"

"I don't know what you mean, but I will come up so that you may see
there has been no change."

"I still think you are concealing something."

"Nothing that is not better concealed; nothing that you could help."

"I should rather know. I do not like being guarded in that way."

"We all have to guard one another. You in your turn guard me."

"From what?"

"Many things. You are doing it now--this minute."

"From what?" she insisted.

"From myself."

"Oh, I don't know what you mean. I think you had better come up here
at once--if it is safe to leave Ben."

"I shall make it safe. Don't forget to send down my man."

He hung up the receiver and turned to Arsdale. The latter must have
noticed instantly the change in Donaldson's expression, for he rose to
his elbow with eager face.

"You'll tell me before you go! You'll tell before--"

"You didn't kill," answered Donaldson.

"Thank God!"

"She is n't even wounded seriously."

"She knows that it was I?"

"Yes. She knows."

"How she must hate me, gentle Elaine."

"It is hard for her to hate any one."

"You think she--she might forgive?"

"I don't know. That remains to be seen."

The man buried his face in his arms and wept. This was not maudlin
sentimentality; it struck deeper.

"Are you ready to do anything more than regret?" demanded Donaldson.
"Are you read