In James Garston’s startled eyes there was an expression of wondering mystery. For with a woman’s self-protective instinct, his estranged wife had eluded her household at the “Circassia,” and stolen away from the dinner circle, robed in a costume of stainless white. Down the deserted side stairway, she had fled, swathed in secretly purchased storm wrappings such as a woman of the people might wear. And now, she looked strangely young and fair as he sprang toward her. She had not been recognized by the hotel attaches; no one had seen her leave the “Circassia.” And neither Justine, the watchful, nor the amanuensis knew—not even the butler detective—that their mistress had gone forth in the storm, her own apartment doors being locked. She had victoriously passed all the dangers which she feared. A wild haste now possessed her; only to be safe at home again! In silence Elaine Willoughby placed a bundle upon the table, and then, the eyes of the unhappy couple met. “It is all there—everything,” faltered Margaret Cranstoun. “Hasten, for I must save myself; I can not linger. This visit must be kept a secret from all, for the child’s sake. Examine and destroy them!” There was that in her eyes which compelled obedience, and the beautiful woman stood clutching at a table, as Garston, with a mighty effort at self-control, glancing rapidly at each faded token, cast them one by one into the fire. Ashes of life, “dead fruits of the fugitive years!” The flames merrily leaped up, and without the wild storm lashed the window-panes. In a few moments, the work of destruction was complete. Margaret Cranstoun started back as her husband faced her, for some overmastering emotion now quickly convulsed his strong face. A strange fear palsied her tongue. She had never seen that ashen look upon his strong face in life before. “There is the Trust Company’s receipt,” he said, speaking as if in a dream, while his eyes roved over her loveliness, as she stood there with her trembling hands clasped on her heaving bosom. A woman to draw men to her feet—a throbbing, passionate, love-haunted queen—the apotheosis of love! “Do you agree to my proposition about my will?” the Senator slowly said; “and I may at some future day hope to see—” He paused abruptly, for Margaret Cranstoun reeled. Her strength was failing; there were strange shadows in the room; the fitful fire glared in weird flashes! “Let me go! Let me go!” she cried. “You can write to me as before.” “I must go!” For there were strange shadows gathering on his convulsed face. She turned as if to flee. Her husband was too quick for her. With a single bound he reached the door and locked it. “Margaret!” he wildly cried, as he crushed her to his breast, “the past is dead. Its record lies there, ashes to ashes—the ashes of a dead life! “Let me live! Let us go on to the end together.