“Oh, thank you so much!” she said, effusively. “It _is_ good of you!--And I don’t know what _would_ have happened if anything serious had gone wrong with Ed to-night!--You see, we’re sailing for Buenos Ayres to-morrow! And he’s got such a good post--an agency--and if anything had prevented his going----” “Never mind that, my dear,” said Durham, cutting short her loquacity. “These kind people do not want to go into our private affairs. Come along. I’ve inconvenienced them enough already.” He held out his hand to Mrs. Satterthwaite. “Good-bye, madam--and many thanks.” She looked him in the eyes as she took his hand. They were the eyes of a stranger. “Good-bye, Mr. Durham,” she said, and turned away. Satterthwaite escorted the couple to the door. “Your hat is here,” he said, as he took it off the clothes-peg where Tremaine had hung it. “Good-bye.--Good-bye, Mr. Durham.--What boat do you sail by to-morrow?” The enquiry was in the most casual tone of courteous interest. “The _Manhattan_.” “Pleasant voyage--and good luck to you both!” he said, cheerfully, and closed the door. He stood for a moment listening to their happy voices as they went out of the building and then turned to find his wife standing by his side. “Jack!” she cried, and her eyes searched his face as if to read acknowledged partnership in a crime. “He’s gone?” He nodded, smiling at her. “Gone, right enough--and he’ll get his legacy. I can trace him quite easily now we know the name of his boat. That gives us a clear conscience.” “Does it, Jack?--Does it?--Oh, I wish I could be sure!--Durham is not the man Tremaine was!” “He’s a happier man than Tremaine would be, anyway! Think of their delight when they get that legacy!” He led her back into the dining-room, where the remains of their anniversary feast were yet upon the table. “And, dear!” he looked into her eyes, “we are happier people than we should have been had Durham not replaced Tremaine!” She shook her head, still doubtful. “But if he remembers?” she queried. “He goes a long way off, into a new environment. The chances are against his remembering at all. If he does,” he shrugged his shoulders, “he will probably himself put it down as a hallucination from which his devoted little wife will nurse him back. Don’t worry, my dear. We did the right thing.” “If only I could be sure!” she said, with a sigh. * * * * * * The next morning Dorothy woke up to see her mother bending over her bed. “Where’s Dada, Mummy?” she asked. “Dada?” said Mrs. Satterthwaite, as though she did not understand. “Yes,” said the child. “Dada--Dada who came back last night!” Her mother shook her head, smilingly. “You dreamed it, dear,” she said. “Dada was killed in the war.” THE LOVERS