It was curious how easily she swung in her thoughts from God to Allston. From this point it was upon him that she concentrated. In this mood she conceived a new idea. It might be that he would have another of those queer notions he called “hunches” and come up here to see if she was asleep. She must protect him against that possibility. To throw him off his guard she must write a note and leave it on her pillow. She found the stub of a pencil and a bit of paper. She wrote impulsively and with little thought of what she was writing except the object to be obtained. Her letters were big and scrawly and many of her words mis-spelled. Deer sir [she wrote]. I’m goin off tonite and not comin back. You will no why sum day. I am allrite. Plese dont hunt for me. You have been orful good to me an with meny thanks I am your frend ROXIE KESTER If he did not find this to-night some one would find it in the morning. It would explain to Allston why his hot muffins were not ready. When Roxie rose from the table she looked all about the room to make sure no one saw her. As an extra precaution she blew out the light. Then she pressed the note to her lips over the words “Deer sir,” and kissed them again and again--wildly, passionately, sobbingly. A moment later she pawed around in the dark for her half-made-up bundle, placed it under her arm, and stole down the kitchen stairs. Every time they creaked she paused and held her breath, though she knew the half-hour must be almost spent. Reaching the bottom she tiptoed to the kitchen table and felt around in the drawer until she found her knife. She concealed this in the bundle. From the next room came the sound of voices; first Miss Wilmer’s voice; then Allston’s voice; then Miss Wilmer’s voice, and finally a hearty laugh from Allston. She closed her eyes as though to shut out the picture this called up. “It’s a lie,” she said to herself. She went on out the door and across the grass. Bud was waiting. Detaching himself from the dark he hurried forward to meet her. CHAPTER XIV Allston talked rather more than usual that evening and he laughed often. But he was strangely restless. At least a half-dozen times he rose abruptly from his chair and walked about the room, picking up a book only to drop it, moving to the window only to turn away, lighting a cigarette only to toss it into the fire after a few puffs. For an hour or more Wilmer noted his uneasiness without comment, but finally laughingly referred to it. “If you were a woman I’d say you had the fidgets,” she declared. “No--it isn’t that,” he answered. “My nerves are steady enough.” “Then why don’t you sit still?” “I give it up,” he smiled. “It’s that Bud Childers,” broke in Howe. “He’s getting on my nerves too.” Wilmer glanced up and shot a quick question at her father. “You’ve heard something, then, that you haven’t told me?” “No,” returned Howe. “You’ve seen him?”