Drew was sorely perplexed. He realized that Ruth's wild description of her encounter with Joyce had left many unexplained points. Evidently Joyce herself had, in some way, learned more of Gaston's past than Drew had at first supposed. Then, to tell Gaston, even in his trouble, that a guest of his, Drew's, had gone into the other's home and caused this calamity, was too cold-blooded a thing to do, without due consideration. He knew, better than his companion did, that if Joyce had carried out her intention, there was no need of haste. Gaston was looking keenly at him. "You are keeping something from me, Drew," he said slowly, "and you have a reason for doing so?" "Yes, Gaston, I am; and I have." The further he became involved, the more hopeless the position became to Drew. Gaston was seeking to solve Joyce Lauzoon's problem and his own, without the test of Ruth Dale. Not only Ruth's confession as to Joyce, but Ruth herself must enter into Gaston's future plan of action. "You know, Drew, who went to my house?" "Yes; I know that Joyce had a visitor who might have influenced her to take this step; but I have reason to believe that Joyce did not act upon this other's initiative entirely. She had certain knowledge of her own that--urged the course she has taken." "That is impossible!" Gaston's eyes flashed. Recalling that last scene with Joyce, he could not doubt her simple faithfulness--unless that faith of hers had been turned into a channel which she fondly believed was for his greater good. Nothing could change Joyce Lauzoon. Whatever had been the cause, Gaston knew, she had forgotten herself in her decision. "I am--sure I am right, Gaston." "And you refuse to tell me who has seen her?" A slow anger was mounting in Gaston. Before Drew could reply, a merry call from the hall smote both men into dead silence. "Ruthie! Ruth Dale, where are you? Come, let's go and see how things look the morning after?" Constance Drew had given Gaston his answer. By the magic of that name she had connected the Past and the Present. The shock was tremendous, but Gaston bore it with only a tightening of the lips to show the agony he was enduring. Presently an aimless question broke the unendurable stillness of the room. "Who--is--that, Drew?" "Ruth Dale--your brother's widow." "So--he is dead?" At such vital times in life, the mind leaps over chasms of events, and takes much for granted. "Yes; he died a year ago." "How long--have you known, Drew--about him and me?" "Only a few nights ago. He was my friend for a comparatively few years--but he was--a dear friend!" Drew spoke as if defence were necessary. "I wonder--how much you _do_ know, Drew?" Gaston's face quivered. He began to understand Joyce's soul-struggle. "Everything, Dale," the name clung uncertainly upon the speaker's lips; "everything--vital. Philip confessed--the week before he died." Both men lowered their eyes. They dared not face each other for a moment.