rush, but his only
thought was of the quickest way, so he let himself be swept into the
maelstrom of the subway and was pounded aboard a Lexington Avenue
express. All these people struggling frantically to get somewhere! The
pleasures awaiting them at their journey's end should be colourful and
compelling; yet it was clear to him sordid discontent lurked for some,
and for others unavoidable sorrows. It was beyond belief that their
self-centred haste should let creep in no knowledge of the destination
and the purpose of this companion, even more eager than themselves,
intimately crushed among them.

He managed to free his arm so he could glance at his watch, and he
peered between bobbing heads through the windows at the station signs.
At Eighty-sixth Street he escaped and tore, limping, up the stairs while
people stared at him, or, if in his haste he had brushed unthinkingly
against them, called out remarks angry or sarcastic. His leg commenced
to ache, but he ran across to Fifth Avenue and down it to the Planter
house. While he waited before the huge, heavy glass and iron doors he
caught his breath, counting the seconds.

It was Simpson who opened.

"I'm not sure Miss Planter has returned, sir. If so, she would be
upstairs. When she went out she said something about not being disturbed
this evening. Yes, sir. She left with Mr. Dalrymple less than two hours
ago."

George walked into the vast hall.

"I must see her, Simpson, at once."

He started toward hangings, half-drawn, through which he could see only
partially a dimly lighted room.

"I will tell her, sir."

George swung.

"But not my name, Simpson. Tell her it is a message from her brother, of
the greatest importance."

George held his breath.

"What is it, Simpson?"

The clear contralto voice steadied him. If she was alone in there he
would have a better chance than he had hoped for, and he heard no other
voice; but why should she be alone at this exciting hour in a dimly
lighted room? Was it possible that she hadn't told any one yet what she
had done, had returned to the house and chosen solitude, instead, in a
dim light? Then why? Why?

He dismissed Simpson with a nod and entered between the hangings.

She was alone. She stood before a cold fireplace at the end of the room
as if she had just risen from a chair near by. She was straight and
motionless, but she projected an air of fright, as if she had been
caught at an indiscretion; and, as Ge