hind the greater part of her wardrobe, does
look singular. But it seems that the house was rented furnished, and I
fancy she lived always in light marching orders, and probably carried
the most valuable of her possessions upon her person and in her
suit-case. Well, I am thankful she has decamped."

"You don't fear her returning?" asked James with some anxiety.

"No, I have no fear of that. She is probably broken-hearted over the
death of that man. She is not of the sort to kidnap on her own account.
It was only for him. Clemency has nothing more to fear."

"I am thankful."

"You can well believe that I am, when I tell you that this afternoon I
am absolutely sure, for the first time in years, that the girl is safe
to come and go as she pleases. I have had hideous uncertainty as well as
hideous certainty to cope with. Now it is down to the hideous certainty.
That is bad enough, but fate on an open field is less unmanning than
fate in ambush. I have long known to a nicety the fate in the field."
Gordon hesitated a second, then he said abruptly, with his face turned
from his companion, in a rough voice, "Clara can't last many days."

James made an exclamation.

"She has gone down hill rapidly during the last two days," said Gordon.
"I have been increasing the morphine. It can't last long." Gordon ended
the sentence with a hoarse sob.

"I can't say anything," James faltered after a second, "but you know--"

"Yes, I know," Gordon said. "You are as sorry as any one can be who is
not, so to speak, the hero, or rather the coward, of the tragedy. Yes, I
know. I'm obliged to you, Elliot, but all of us have to face death,
whether it is our own or the death of another dearer than ourselves,
alone. A soul is a horribly lonely thing in the worst places of life."

"Have you told Clemency?"

"No, I have put it off until the last minute. What good can it do? She
knows that Clara is very ill, but she does not know, she has never
known, the character of the illness. Sometimes I have a curious feeling
that instinct has asserted itself, and that Clemency, fond as she is of
my wife, has not exactly the affection which she would have had for her
own mother."

"I don't think she knows any difference at all," James said. "I think
the poor little girl will about break her heart."

"I did not mean to underestimate Clemency's affection," said Gordon,
"but what I say is true. The girl herself will never know it, and, you
may not believ