nough for question, and when they did, Bittridge
had nothing but confused answers to give to the effect that he did not
know what it meant, but he would find out. He got into a hack and had
himself driven to his hotel, but he never made the inquiry which he
threatened.

In his own house Richard Kenton lay down awhile, deadly sick, and
his wife had to bring him brandy before he could control his nerves
sufficiently to speak. Then he told her what he had done, and why, and
Mary pulled off his shoes and put a hot-water bottle to his cold feet.
It was not exactly the treatment for a champion, but Mary Kenton was not
thinking of that, and when Richard said he still felt a little sick at
the stomach she wanted him to try a drop of camphor in addition to the
brandy. She said he must not talk, but she wished him so much to talk
that she was glad when he began.

"It seemed to be something I had to do, Mary, but I would give anything
if I had not been obliged to do it:

"Yes, I know just how you feel, Dick, and I think it's pretty hard this
has come on you. I do think Ellen might--"

"It wasn't her fault, Mary. You mustn't blame her. She's had more to
bear than all the rest of us." Mary looked stubbornly unconvinced, and
she was not moved, apparently, by what he went on to say. "The thing now
is to keep what I've done from making more mischief for her."

"What do you mean, Dick? You don't believe he'll do anything about it,
do you?"

"No, I'm not afraid of that. His mouth is shut. But you can't tell how
Ellen will take it. She may side with him now."

"Dick! If I thought Ellen Kenton could be such a fool as that!"

"If she's in love with him she'll take his part."

"But she can't be in love with him when she knows how he acted to your
father!"

"We can't be sure of that. I know how he acted to father; but at this
minute I pity him so that I could take his part against father. And I
can understand how Ellen--Anyway, I must make a clean breast of it. What
day is this Thursday? And they sail Saturday! I must write--"

He lifted himself on his elbow, and made as if to throw off the shawl
she had spread upon him.

"No, no! I will write, Dick! I will write to your mother. What shall
I say?" She whirled about, and got the paper and ink out of her
writing-desk, and sat down near him to keep him from getting up, and
wrote the date, and the address, "Dear Mother Kenton," which was the way
she always began her letters to Mrs.