In Allan John's voice suddenly it was as though tone itself was fashion. "That's what I want to tell you," said Allan John. "I've done a horrid thing, a regular kid college-boy sort of thing. I've taken something from your house, that silver salt cellar you know that I forgot to give back, and left it with a man in the village as security for the price of a railroad ticket to town, and a telegram to my brother and this phone message. I didn't have a cent you know. But the instant I hear from my brother----" "Why, you silly!" I cried. "Why didn't you speak to my Husband?" "Oh, your Husband," said Allan John, just a bit drily, "would have given me the whole house. But he wouldn't let me leave it! And it was quite time I was leaving," the voice quickened sharply. "I had to leave some time you know. And all of a sudden I--I had to leave at once! Rollins, you know! His break about the little girl. After young Kennilworth's cubbishness I simply couldn't put another slight on that lovely little girl. But--" His voice was all gray and again spent, like ashes. "But I just couldn't play," he said. "Not that!" "Why of course you couldn't play," I cried. "Nobody expected you to! Rollins is a--a horror!" "Oh, Rollins is all right enough," said Allan John. "It's life that is the horror." "Yes, but Allan John--!" I parried. "You people have been angels to me," he interrupted me sharply. "I shall never forget it. Nor the lovely little girl. I'm going back to Montana to see how my ranch looks. I can't talk now. Not to anybody. For God's sake don't call anybody. But if I get straightened out again, ever, you'll hear from me. And if I don't----" "But, Allan John," I protested. "Everybody will be desolated, your going off like this! Why, you're not even equipped in the simplest way! Not a single bit of baggage! Not a personal possession!" Across the buzzing wires it seemed suddenly as though I could actually hear Allan John making one last really desperate effort to smile. "I've got my little silver whistle," said Allan John. As though in confirmation of the fact he lifted the silver bauble to his lips and blew a single flutey note across the sixty miles. "Goodbye!" he said. Before I had fairly dropped the receiver back into its place, the May Girl was at my elbow. Her lovely childish eyes were strangely alert, her radiant head cocked ever so slightly to one side as though she held a shell to her listening ear. But there was no shell in her hand. "What was that?" cried the May Girl. "I thought I heard Allan John's whistle!" CHAPTER VI