econd note was from Miss Isobel and was marked "Confidential." In
incoherent sentences it told of a letter just received from Eleanor, in
which she announced that she was planning to make her professional debut
in July, and that as Mr. Phipps was connected with the play in which she
was to appear, she felt that she could accept no further favors from her
grandmother. Miss Isobel implored Quin to come at once and advise her
what to do about telling Madam, especially as they were leaving for Maine
within the next ten days.

The third delicately penned epistle was a gentle effusion from Miss Enid,
who was home on a visit and eager to see "dear Quin, who had been the
innocent means of reuniting her and the dearest man in all the world."

It was these letters that put Quin's desire for flight into instant
action. He must go where he would not be questioned or asked for advice.
The mere mention of Eleanor's name was agony to him. It contracted his
throat and sent the blood pounding through his veins. His hurt was so
intolerable that he shrank from even a touch of sympathy. Perhaps later
on he would be able to face the situation, but just now his one desire
was to get away from everything connected with his unhappiness.

In beating about in his mind for a temporary refuge, he remembered a
downtown rooming-house to which he had once gone with Dirks, the foreman
at Bartlett & Bangs. Here he transferred his few possessions, and
persuaded Rose to tell the Bartletts that he had left town for an
indefinite stay. This he hoped would account for his absence until they
left for their summer vacation.

The ten weeks that followed are not pleasant ones to dwell upon. The
picture of Quin tramping the streets by day in a half-hearted search for
work, and tramping them again at night when he could not sleep, of him
lying face downward on a cot in a small damp room, with all his
confidence and bravado gone, and only his racking cough for company, are
better left unchronicled.

He fought his despair with dogged determination, but his love for Eleanor
had twined itself around everything that was worth while in him. In
plucking it out he uprooted his ambition, his carefully acquired
friendships, his belief in himself, his faith in the future. For eighteen
months he had lived in the radiance of one all-absorbing dream, with a
faith in its ultimate fulfilment that transcended every fear. And now
that that hope was dead, the blackness of despa