sper, "and I believe that I
shall win it. You may tell Betty so if you like or she can wait to
hear it from my lawyer." He put the envelope into his pocket, crossed
the room, and held back one of the crimson curtains of the door.

"If you have nothing more to say," he smiled, "neither have I.
Good-bye."

He bowed slightly, and Woodward found himself passing before him in
silence and some confusion. He stood for a moment in the hall and,
having stammered his way to a cold "Good-afternoon," he put on his hat
and went out.

Jasper returned to the empty drawing-room and began his weaving march.

Before he could begin his spinning which he hoped would entangle Betty
and leave her powerless for him to hold or to release at will, he must
go to Jane West and tell her what trick life with his help had played
upon her. The prospect was bitterly distasteful. Jasper accused
himself of selfishness. Because she cared nothing for the world, was a
creature apart, he had let the world think what it would. He knew that
an askance look would not hurt her; for himself, secure in innocence,
he did not care; for Betty, he had thought her cruelly certain of him.

He went to Jane the day after his interview with Woodward Kane. It was
Sunday afternoon. She was out, but came in very soon, and he stood up
to meet her with an air of confusion and guilt.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked, pulling her gloves from her
long hands.

Her quickly observant eyes swept him. She walked to him and stood
near. The frosty air was still about her and her face was lightly
stung to color with exercise. Her wild eyes were startling under the
brim of her smart, tailored hat.

Jasper put a hand on either of her shoulders and bent his head before
her. "My poor child--if I'd only left you in your kitchen!"

Joan tightened her lips, then smiled uncertainly. "You've got me
scared," she said, stepped back and sat down, her hands in her muff.
"What is it?" she asked; and in that moment of waiting she was sickly
reminded of other moments in her life--of the nearing sound of
Pierre's webs on a crystal winter night, of the sound of Prosper's
footsteps going away from her up the mountain trail on a swordlike,
autumn morning.

Jasper began his pacing. Feeling carefully for delicate phrases, he
told her Betty's accusation, of her purpose.

Joan took off her hat, pushed back the hair from her forehead; then,
as he came to the end, she looked up at him. Her p