we were married. She was never to know she
had a mother, she was to think her real mother was dead and that I
was just some one who loved her. But if we were married I would not
have to die to her. Tell me--oh, tell me, Harrie, that we can be
married--and go away--where nobody knows!"

But he would tell her nothing. With twitching shoulders and head
turned from her he tried to draw his hands from those which held his
in piteous appeal, and presently she seemed to understand, and into
her face came a ghastly, shuddering smile, and slowly she got up and
drew a deep breath.

As she stood aside Harrie, with a sudden movement, was on his feet
and at the door. His hand was on the knob and he tried to open the
door, but instantly Selwyn was by him, and with hold none too gentle
he was thrust back into the room.

"You damned coward!" Selwyn's voice was low. "She is the mother of
your child, and you want to quit her; to run, rather than pay your
price! By God! I'll see you dead before you do!"

Again the room grew still. The ticking of the clock and the beat of
raindrops on the windowpanes mingled with the soft purring of the
fire's flames, and each waited, we knew not for what; and then Etta
spoke.

"But you, too, would have to pay--if he were made to pay--the price."
She looked at Selwyn. "It is not fair that you should pay. I will
go away--somewhere. It does not matter about the baby or me. Thank
you, but-- Good-by. I'm going--away."

Before I could reach her, hold her back, she was out of the room and
running down the steps and the front door had closed. Mrs. Mundy
looked up as I leaned over the banister. "It is better to leave her
alone to-day," she said, and I saw that she was crying. "We can see
her to-morrow. She had better be by herself for a while."

Back in the room Selwyn and I looked at each other with white and
troubled faces. We had bungled badly and nothing had been done.

"Come to-morrow night. I must see David Guard, must see Etta again,
before I-- Come to-morrow and I will tell you. I must be sure." I
turned toward Harrie, but he had gone into the hall. Quickly my
hands went out to Selwyn, and for a long moment he held them in his,
then, without speaking, he turned and left me.

CHAPTER XXIX

I know I should not think too constantly about it. I try not to, but
I cannot shake off the shock, the horror of Etta's death. Selwyn
inclosed the note she wrote him in the