"And then a week later," gulped Hannah, "when the doctor came to tend his wife, Sam told it, for Mr. O'Neill had said the doctor sent him there to telephone. And the doctor never would have told but for Hughie's nerves. He said so when he pledged us both to keep it secret. He spoke wonderful about Mr. O'Neill. That I must say. And he called him somebody Donkeyhote--" "Where is Mr. O'Neill?" "He drove down to the village with Mr. Rittenhouse for the mail." Joan glided away like a shadow. Don Quixote! And so he had done that strange, fantastic thing for her--and she had given the money away to Don! Joan stopped at the foot of the stairway, her face colorless and unbelieving, her mind casting up a vivid picture of the night of search in the sitting room. It--could--not--be! Ah, but it could! For Kenny, reckless and on his mettle, was a finished actor. And the morning at the telephone! His silence and constraint had bothered her then not a little. Later, whirling through the blizzard in a taxi, he had begged her not to do it. And he had surrendered in the end with a sigh and smiled and kissed her. His eyes, warmly blue, irresistibly Irish in their tenderness, seemed now to stare at her with sad reproach. Ah, the kindness of him! Hot stinging tears rolled slowly down the girl's white cheeks. "Joan!" It was Brian's voice behind her. Joan turned, trembling, blinked and smiled. Something in her face drove his memory back to the moonlit wood. Niobe on the verge of a passion of tears! "You look like a sad little brown thrush," he said gently. His voice, his eyes chilled her with foreboding. They stood in utter silence. Joan touched the throbbing veins in her throat and moistened her lips. "You have heard from Mr. Whitaker--" "Yes, Garry brought the letter up." "When--" "I'm sailing in a week. I go from here--to-morrow." "Brian!" The terror in her eyes startled him and the tension snapped. An instant later she was crying wildly in his arms. Brian crushed his lips against her cheek, conscious only of an agonizing stab of joy, then Joan pulled away, her eyes dark with grief and shame. "Oh, Brian, Brian," she whispered passionately, "I--want--to die." "I've wanted to die for weeks," said Brian. "Almost I think I did." Joan caught her breath with a shuddering gasp. "Don't!" said Brian. "I--can't bear to hear you cry. I've always known that I was a pretty poor sort but this--" His honest eyes begged for understanding, Joan's face, wet with tears, condoned. "I--I am worse," she said unsteadily. He caught her hands rebelliously. "But you love me," he said wistfully. "That, at least--" Joan slipped into his arms again with a sob. "I love you better than my life," she said, "and I may--never--say it again." [Illustration: "I love you better than my life," Joan said, "and I may--never--say it again."] Brian pressed his cheek against her hair.