le quality, and she discerned in them now a
flippancy which perplexed her. She was not quite certain that the Edward
who wrote to her now was the same Edward that she had known. One
afternoon, the day after a mail had arrived from Tahiti, when she was
driving with Bateman he said to her:

"Did Edward tell you when he was sailing?"

"No, he didn't mention it. I thought he might have said something to you
about it."

"Not a word."

"You know what Edward is," she laughed in reply, "he has no sense of
time. If it occurs to you next time you write you might ask him when
he's thinking of coming."

Her manner was so unconcerned that only Bateman's acute sensitiveness
could have discerned in her request a very urgent desire. He laughed
lightly.

"Yes. I'll ask him. I can't imagine what he's thinking about."

A few days later, meeting him again, she noticed that something troubled
him. They had been much together since Edward left Chicago; they were
both devoted to him and each in his desire to talk of the absent one
found a willing listener; the consequence was that Isabel knew every
expression of Bateman's face, and his denials now were useless against
her keen instinct. Something told her that his harassed look had to do
with Edward and she did not rest till she had made him confess.

"The fact is," he said at last, "I heard in a round-about way that
Edward was no longer working for Braunschmidt and Co., and yesterday I
took the opportunity to ask Mr Braunschmidt himself."

"Well?"

"Edward left his employment with them nearly a year ago."

"How strange he should have said nothing about it!"

Bateman hesitated, but he had gone so far now that he was obliged to
tell the rest. It made him feel dreadfully embarrassed.

"He was fired."

"In heaven's name what for?"

"It appears they warned him once or twice, and at last they told him to
get out. They say he was lazy and incompetent."

"Edward?"

They were silent for a while, and then he saw that Isabel was crying.
Instinctively he seized her hand.

"Oh, my dear, don't, don't," he said. "I can't bear to see it."

She was so unstrung that she let her hand rest in his. He tried to
console her.

"It's incomprehensible, isn't it? It's so unlike Edward. I can't help
feeling there must be some mistake."

She did not say anything for a while, and when she spoke it was
hesitatingly.

"Has it struck you that there was anything queer in his letters lately?"
sh