ipwrecked; his faith destroyed.
How could she have treated him so? She had been practically engaged to
him; and she had left him a prey to every horrible emotion at a time
when one word would have put his mind at rest. No clew as to her
whereabouts by which he could trace her.

She passed that over with her little crooked, sarcastic smile. She had
telegraphed and written both--and the second letter had been registered.
He had probably forgotten that little fact. But it was of little
consequence now. The sting lay in what followed.

And then what did he learn? the letter inquired. That a man he supposed
to be his friend, a fellow he had met daily in Arizona for a couple of
months at a time, had systematically pumped him about her; had taken
means of ascertaining her financial status, and, recognizing her as his
opportunity (that was where the word came from) had rushed off to San
Francisco, married her hand over fist, and launched himself as a
capitalist--on her capital. And she had allowed it.

The girl dropped the pages in her lap. Her little fist came down on top
of them.

"It's a despicable letter," she told herself hotly. "And what he thinks
to gain by it, I don't know. He just wants to make trouble.--And he
has," she breathed with a downward sigh.

The question was, what to do now. And pride stood at her elbow and
pointed out the only course.

This Arthur Hammond, this big, quiet, self-contained, efficient,
indifferent young man--whose opportunity she was--must never know that
she knew, or, knowing, cared.

That was the only solution. Pride forbade a scene--on his account; on
hers; on Bixler McFay's; on everybody's, when it came to that. No one
should know--anything.

"After a while I shall get quite old and pin-cushiony," she assured
herself, "and pricks won't prick; and nothing will matter. I must be
quite affable, and quite indifferent, and always polite--for women are
only rude to men they care about." Her lips trembled. "It's all happened
before, hundreds of times to hundreds of women--and money is very
interesting to men--and there's no reason why this shouldn't happen to
you, Ikey, dear--and a hundred of years from now it won't make any
difference anyway.

"But I'll never tell him anything again----"

For latterly she had told him many things about herself--young
lonesomenesses that nothing could dispel; family hunger for brothers and
sisters and all the ramifications of a home; and, half uncons