"Why do you believe she has changed?" Whitcomb returned the other's gaze now doggedly. "Because, after you left, she wept;--according to impartial testimony, loud and long. Also she dug up my photograph and placed it on a table beside her father's. This information was fed to me with the jelly." "Blanche Aurora!" exclaimed Whitcomb, scowling. "Exactly. Now, then!" "Well," said Whitcomb, "it seems the time to tell you. While you were in the hospital your jabbering aroused my suspicions. I wasn't Henry Radcliffe and I hadn't been forbidden; so I went through some of your papers. When I had found the Antlers correspondence I didn't need to go any farther." King's thoughtful frown deepened and his face grew slowly and darkly red. Whitcomb maintained his steady regard. "At that time I didn't know whether you were going to live or not, but I did know that justice was going to be done you." Recollection of Whitcomb's devotion swept over the other man like a tide, submerging the first sensation of outraged privacy: of having been outwitted. "You meant well," he said in a low tone. "Yes, and I did well," said Whitcomb slowly. "I didn't tell Radcliffe till the night before we left Chicago. Harriet was in Wisconsin. I don't know her so well as Linda; but Linda is as fair-minded as another fellow. There was only one thing to do in her case." There was a short silence, then Whitcomb continued:-- "I'll tell you frankly that if I had had any idea of the depth of her feeling in the matter, I should have hesitated. This laying down your life for a friend isn't in my line. It's beyond me. You know how I've banked on seeing her. Well, she can't see me. I used to be awfully afraid of you and it passed. Now I'm afraid of you again." King saw his friend's increasing difficulty of speech, and he put a hand on the big brown arm. "No cause, Freddy. Absolutely no cause," he said. There was silence for a time, then King sank back from the erect posture he had maintained. "It can't be helped," he said, speaking low. "It can't be helped." "No," said Whitcomb roughly, "and it ought not to be helped. There was no sense in your quixotism." "Would you, do you believe," asked King slowly,--"would _you_ do as much for Linda?" The other looked up at him sharply. "Did you do it for Linda?" "Yes; every act of my life I believed was for Linda," returned King quietly. "Then"--began Whitcomb excitedly. "Yes; _then_," interrupted King, still quietly. "Then; not now. It's over. It's finished." Whitcomb frowned off toward the illimitable sea; and Madge's attempt at consolation came back to him. He repudiated it. Linda Barry was peerless. CHAPTER XXV THE MAN AND THE MAID King's improvement was slow, but steady, and the stretch of good weather upon which he happened on arriving at the Cape enabled him to live out-of-doors and was a great factor in his favor.