Mammy Cely was in her usual deep sleep, but Margaret took the precaution to close her door. With swift noiseless steps she dressed herself, and taking a handbag filled it with baby garments. She stuffed a pocket book well down into the bag, having first taken from it a roll of bills and secreted them about her person. A superstitious thrill passed through her at sight of the money. It was much more than she was in the habit of drawing and it had been taken from the bank only yesterday. The teller had said to her as he handed it to her, "Mrs. De Jarnette, that is a large sum to have in the house. I should not let the amount be known to the servants--or to anybody." What had prompted her to draw so much money? Surely it was God's leading. He meant her to escape! She went next to a drawer and took out her jewels, mostly gifts from her father, with a few simple things that were her mother's. There was a diamond brooch and earrings and necklace that had been Victor's mother's. She had forgotten them in her guilty flight, and they had come to Margaret. She put them back into the drawer and with them some gifts of Victor's that she could not bring herself just then to take, marking the box plainly, "The De Jarnette diamonds," and locking them up. This done, she sat down with the clock before her and wrote two notes--one, a very brief one, to Richard De Jarnette. It said: "I leave you the De Jarnette diamonds. I would willingly give up the De Jarnette money if you will relinquish your claim to Philip. But I shall _never_ let you have my child." It was in different vein that she wrote to Judge Kirtley. He must forgive her for going--she couldn't help it. She simply had to go. The appeal might fail as this had. The world was so large. She was sure that she could find some place in it where she could hide away and be at peace. She had not told him because she thought it might be better for a while for him not to know. Then, too, she had felt sure that he would try to dissuade her--and she _must_ go. He would forgive her, she knew. He had been a father to her-- Here the page was blurred and the letter ended abruptly. Sealing and directing both she placed them on the mantel in plain sight. The car line runs past Dupont Circle and the house on Massachusetts Avenue was not far off. She would be in time for the "owl car," which would take her to the B. and O. station. She would not risk calling a carriage. When she finished the letters Margaret took up her bag and went softly down the great stairway. A dim light was burning in the hall, and by it she made her way to the door, unlocking it and drawing back the heavy bolts. There was no sign of tremor in her hand, no fear in her face,--only a fierce eagerness to be gone. Putting the bag on the outside, and leaving the door ajar that there might be no delay, she crept noiselessly up the stairs again.