nderstand!
I cashed that check because--because I want to take the
responsibility of it and whatever penalty comes along with it. I
don't believe father will ever tell. He's too proud; it would strike
back at him too hard. But you would have to know; he'd tell you; and
I wanted to tell you first myself. I want to go away knowing you
believe and trust me, no matter what father says about me, no matter
what every one thinks about me. I want to hear you say it--that you
will be waiting--just like this--for me to come back to when I've
squared it all off and can explain.... Why, Marjorie--Marjorie!"

Patsy waited in an agony of dread, hope, prayer--waited for the
answer she, the girl he loved, would make. It came at last, slowly,
deliberately, as if spoken, impersonally, by the foreman of a jury:

"I don't believe in you, Billy. I'm sorry, but I don't believe I
could ever trust you again. Your father has always said you couldn't
take care of money; this simply means you have got yourself into some
wretched hole, and forging your father's name was the only way out of
it. I suppose you think the circumstances, whatever they may be, have
warranted the act; but that act puts a stigma on your name which
makes it unfit for any woman to bear; and if you have any spark of
manhood left, you'll unwish the wish--you will unthink the
thought--that I would wait--or even want you--ever--to come back."

A cry--a startled, frightened cry--rang through the rooms. It did not
come from either Marjorie or her leading man. Patsy stood with a
vagabond glove pressed hard over her mouth--quite unconscious that
the cry had escaped and that there was no longer need of
muzzling--then plunged headlong through the hangings into the
library. Marjorie Schuyler was standing alone.

"Where is he--your man?"

"He's gone--and please don't call him--that!"

"Go after him--hurry--don't let him go! Don't ye understand? He
mustn't go away with no one believing in him. Tell him it's a
mistake; tell him anything--only go!"

While Patsy's tongue burred out its Irish brogue she pushed at the
tall figure in front of her--pushed with all her might. "Are ye
nailed to the floor? What's happened to your feet? For Heaven's sake,
lift them and let them take ye after him. Don't ye hear? There's the
front door slamming behind him. He'll be gone past your calling in
another minute. Dear heart alive, ye can't be meaning to let him
go--this way!"

But Marjorie Schuyl