him to you, and leave New York one hundred miles behind you. If you are
found in this city any time after the month of September, you take all
the risks. I shall not stand between you and justice again. You are the
most ungrateful sinner that I have ever dealt with. Now go and weep for
yourself. Don't waste any tears on Mrs. Endicott."

Sobbing like an angry and humiliated child, Edith rushed out of the
room. Curran felt excessively foolish. Though partly in league with
Arthur, the present situation went beyond him.

"Be hanged if I don't feel like demanding an explanation," he said
awkwardly.

"You don't need it," said Arthur as he proceeded to make it. "Can't you
see that Horace Endicott is acting through me, and has been from the
first, to secure the things I have secured. He is dead as I told you.
How he got away, kept himself hid, and all that, you are as good an
authority as I. While he was alive you could have found him as easily as
I could, but he was beyond search always, though I guess not beyond
betrayal. Well, let me congratulate you on getting your little family
together again. Don't worry over what has happened to-night. Drop the
Endicott case. You can see there's no luck in it for any one."

Certainly there had been no luck in it for the Currans. Arthur went to
his club in the best humor, shaking with laughter over the complete
crushing of Edith, with whom he felt himself quite even in the contest
that had endured so long. Next morning it would be Sonia's turn. Ah,
what a despicable thing is man's love, how unstable and profitless! No
wonder Honora valued it so lightly. How Horace Endicott had raved over
this whited sepulcher five years ago, believed in her, sworn by her
virtue and truth! And to-day he regarded her without feeling, neither
love nor hate, perfect indifference only marking his mental attitude in
her regard. Somehow one liked to feel that love is unchangeable, as with
the mother, the father; as with God also, for whom sin does not change
relationship with the sinner.

When he stood before her the next day in the hotel parlor, she reminded
him in her exquisite beauty of a play seen from the back of the stage;
the illusion so successful with the audience is there an exposed sham,
without coherence, and without beauty. Her eyes had a scared look. She
had to say to herself, if this is Horace then my time has come, if it is
Arthur Dillon I have nothing to worry about, before her hate came to