Almost at once the door opened, and Simon passed out. * * * * * Patricia fingered her letter as though it were unreal. At length— “I—I can’t say much,” she said shakily. “And I can’t attempt to thank.” “You know that I want no thanks,” said Simon Beaulieu. “But I’d like to beg your pardon for what I said at Goodwood. I might have known, Simon . . . I—I’ve no excuse.” “I think you had every excuse,” said Simon Beaulieu. “I should have been most bitter. If I’d just shown you my death-warrant out of the blue, and you—you’d said, ‘One moment . . . I jus’ want to see a man about a dog,’ I should have gone off the deep end.” Patricia stared at the letter. “I’m dazed,” she said. “Dazed. I owe you more than my life, yet—I can’t thank you, Simon. It—it won’t go into words. . . . I’ll pray for you every night: but, then, that’s nothing. I’ve done that for months. The queer thing is I feel more proud than grateful—proud of . . . my man. . . .” There was a long silence. Then— “Thank you, Pat,” said Simon tenderly. He rose to his feet. “And now let’s go an’ have a dance.” The girl rose and led the way to the door. Arrived there, she closed it carefully and swung about. “Simon!” Her hands were upon his shoulders, and her face three inches away. “Simon, you terrify me! What have you done? From the moment you left me at Goodwood, I’ve been frightened to death. When first I saw you that day, there was something wrong. Then you behaved so strangely—as if you didn’t care. Suddenly you promised me the letter, as one promises sweets to a child. And now—here it is. . . . Simon, for God’s sake tell me! What have you done?” Simon patted her arm. “Done?” he said, smiling. “Nothing.” “But why—how. . . . How did you get my letter?” “To tell you the truth, I bought it.” “_Bought it?_” “Bought it. I happened to have ten thousand and I bought it with that.” Patricia tried to speak, but no words would come. She began to tremble. The man put an arm about her and guided her to a chair. “Listen, dear,” he said, and told her his tale. When he had finished— “Why,” said Patricia slowly, “why did you put so much on? Four hundred on an outsider’s the bet of a desperate man.” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Simon, regarding his feet. “I suppose one goes mad now and then. Wonderful shoes Stoop makes. D’you know he made me these before the War?” “Why did you put so much on?” The man made fast a shoe-lace before replying. Then he looked up. “Pat,” he said quietly, “I’m not going to tell you why.” “You needn’t,” said Patricia. “I know.” She took the letter from her dress and put it into his hand. “Read that,” she said. “And see how minds think alike.” _July 27th._ _MY DARLING_,