He had intended not to speak with her at present. But the wish had conquered him to-night to hear her assurance that she understood. He had been a criminal and must work out his sentence. Under a sacred obligation to protect her, he had injured her at each attempt, from the finale at the lingerie shop to her present exile. She had shown pity for his weakness before and perhaps could forgive him now. He never could himself. He had been overcome in the moment of his greatest strength, when he had felt safe in his sorrow. Now, when weakest, he dared not tempt himself. His only chance of reinstating himself in his own opinion was to win the fight he had undertaken. Their loyal acquaintance would explain. Meantime was she well and would she try to be contented until he could force a change? And would she believe? That she did believe steadied Dolores through the discouragement of another prepaid rent receipt. When the “change” came, it was not of John’s enforcement. One afternoon Rufus Holt called on her. He came in on the breeze that wafted him through life. His smile was still cheery, his manner even more courteous than usual. Yet he was different. Considerately he attempted to “explain.” The late chapters of that gilt-bound edition of womanhood, Catherine Cabot, read like the cheapest of thrillers. Soon after reëstablishing herself in her husband-less home, she had sent for Dr. Shayle. What had passed between her and the likable young man whom she had “made” in a week was best judged by the fact that she un-made him in a day. In notes, over the telephone and during such informal social functions as she could make excuse to attend in her mourning, she ruined him professionally. To his rich practice she expressed her regrets that she no longer could sponsor him--that his conduct with one who had brought disgrace to so many had proved him an unfit person to have about the home in his intimate capacity. All of which reminded Holt that he had a letter for her. The envelope which he tendered was addressed to and had been opened by John Cabot. Above the heading of a Chicago hotel was scrawled the osteopath’s name. Inside was the request that Mr. Cabot forward to Miss Trent the unsealed enclosure. The note to Dolores read: _Dear You_: My chief regret is having distressed you. Don’t be distressed about me any more. Already my hurt is healing, salved by the honor of having known you. I daren’t forget you, because remembering you is the best thing in my life at the present moment. Have refused the last bribe of her who made me what I was--yesterday. Am on my way West where I can start fair with doctor men who use their powers to help instead of hinder. The ambition, I find, is not a gift--it’s inherited. You great little chump, there is only one hope in my heart--may you be happy. Dear Me.