irlish
concealments. He had believed her tender-hearted. If she had not been
so, why had she married him? And he thought that a girl of her strong
character and sensitive spirit might be stabbed with remorse sometimes
after gathering the flower of happiness for herself so near a new-made
grave. He could not bear to think that Barbara might torture her
conscience for his sake. He wanted her to be happy, wanted it more than
anything else now. Not that he was naturally a marvel of unselfishness,
but that he loved Barbara Fay better than he had ever loved himself. If
this story which he had written--like, yet unlike, her own
story--should happen to fall into Barbara's hands, she might find
consolation through all the coming years, because of certain thoughts
from the man's point of view, thoughts that would almost surely be new
to her. And what joy for Denin, even lying in the gulf of
forgetfulness, if his hand could reach out from the shadows to give her
a thornless white rose of peace!

He wondered eagerly if he could find a publisher in New York--a
publisher who produced books in England as well as America--to accept
his manuscript.

Now that the wish was born, it seemed too good to be true that anything
could come of it. Still, he determined to try, and try at once. Full of
excitement he went out into a noisy street, and bought several
newspapers and magazines. There were a number of publishers'
advertisements in them all, some with familiar names, but one he had
known ever since he was old enough to read books. It was a name of
importance in the publishing world, but there was no harm in aiming
high. He had brought the manuscript out with him, because he could not
bear to leave it alone in a strange house. Now he decided to take the
parcel to the publisher himself. Nothing would have induced him to
trust it to the post.

CHAPTER V

Four-thirty in the afternoon was Eversedge Sibley's hour for leaving
his office. If he had cared about escaping earlier he could easily have
got away, for since his father's death he stood at the head of the old
publishing house; but to him business was the romance, poetry, and
adventure of life. He passionately loved the champ and roar of the
printing-presses as many people love a Wagner opera. There were never
two days alike. Something new was always happening. Yet just because he
was young for his "job," and knew that he was a man of moods and
temperament, he forced himself