understand, sir," said Wade patiently. "I quite understand. Still it is
my duty to report to you that Mr. Thorpe is expecting you."

"Nevertheless, I shall not--"

"Perhaps I should inform you that your grandfather is--er--confined to his
bed. As a matter of fact, Mr. Braden, he is confined to his death-bed."

Braden was shocked. Later on, as he was being rushed across town in the
car, he drew from Wade all of the distressing details. He had never
suspected the truth. Indeed, his grandfather had kept the truth from him
so successfully that he had come to look upon him as one of the fortunate
few who arrive at death in the full possession of health, those who die
because the machinery stops of its own accord. And now the worst possible
death was stalking his benefactor, driving,--always driving without pity.
Braden's heart was cold, his face pallid with dread as he hurried up the
steps to the front door of the familiar old house.

He had forgotten Anne and his vow never to enter the house so long as she
was mistress of it. He forgot that her freedom was about to become an
accomplished fact, that the thing she had anticipated was now at hand. He
had often wondered how long it would be in coming to her, and how she
would stand up under the strain of the half score of years or more that
conceivably might be left to the man she had married. There had been times
when he laughed in secret anticipation of the probabilities that attended
her unwholesome adventure. Years of it! Years of bondage before she could
lay hands upon the hard-earned fruits of freedom!

As he entered the hall Anne came out of the library to greet him. There
was no hesitation on her part, no pretending. She came directly to him,
her hand extended. He had stopped stock-still on seeing her.

"I am glad you have come, Braden," she said, letting her hand fall to her
side. Either he had ignored it or was too dismayed to notice it at all.
"Mr. Thorpe has waited long and patiently for you. I am glad you have
come."

He was staring at her, transfixed. There was no change in her appearance.
She was just as he had seen her on that last, never-to-be-forgotten
day,--the same tall, slender, beautiful Anne. And yet, as he stared, he saw
something in her eyes that had not been there before: the shadow of fear.

"I must see him immediately," said he, and was at once conscious of a
regret that he had not first said something kind to her. She had the
stricken look in