Thornton stooped, placed a knot upon the fire, straightened up--and
faced her.

"It's awfully good of you to think of me," he said in a low tone; "but,
really, it won't be half as bad as you are picturing it in your mind.
And really"--he hesitated, fumbling for his words--"you see--that
is--what other people might say--your--reputation--"

With a sudden cry, white-faced, Helena was on her feet, staring at him,
her hands clutched at her bosom--a wild, demoniacal, mocking orgy in her
soul. Her reputation! It seemed she wanted to scream out the words--_her
reputation_!

Thornton's face flushed with a quick-sweeping flood of crimson.

"I'm a brute--a brute with a blundering tongue!" he cried miserably.
"You had not thought of that--and I made you. I could have found another
excuse for going if I had only had wit enough. I was a brute once before
to-night, and--" He stopped, and for a moment stood there looking at
her, stood in the firelight, his face white again even in the ruddy
glow--and then he was gone.

Time passed without meaning to Helena. The steady patter of the rain was
on the leaves, the sullen, constant drip of water to the ground, and
now, occasionally, a rush of wind, a heavier downpour. She sat before
the fire, staring into it, her elbows on her knees, her face held
tightly in her hands, the brown hair, wet and wayward now, about her
temples. Once she moved, once her eyes changed their direction--to fix
upon her sleeve in a strange, questioning surprise.

"I let him go without his coat," she said.

--XVIII--

THE BOOMERANG

It was early afternoon, as Madison, emerging from the wagon track, and
walking slowly, started across the lawn toward the Patriarch's cottage.
He was in a mood that he made no attempt to define--except that it
wasn't a very pleasant mood. Before Thornton had returned to Needley it
had been bad enough, after that, with his infernal car, it had
been--hell.

Madison's fists clenched, and his gray eyes glinted angrily. His hands
had been tied like a baby's--like a damned infant's! Helena was getting
away from him further every day, and he couldn't stop it--without
stopping the game! He couldn't tell Thornton that Helena belonged to
him--had belonged to him! He couldn't even evidence an interest in what
was going on. He had to put on a front, a suave, cordial, dignified
front before Thornton--while he itched to smash the other's face to
pulp! Hell--that's what it was--pur