"You can go away," said Mrs. Carshaw, "without letting him know whither you have gone, and till you go you can throw cold water on his passion by pretending dislike or indifference--" "But could I do such a thing, even if I tried?" came the despairing cry. "It will be hard, certainly, but a woman should be able to accomplish everything for the man she loves. Remember for whose sake you will be doing it, and promise me before I leave you." "Oh, you should give me time to think before I promise anything," sobbed Winifred. "I believe I shall go mad. I am the most unfortunate girl that ever lived. I did not seek him--he sought me; and now, when I--Have you no pity?" "You see that I have--not only pity, but confidence. It is hard, but I feel that you will rise to it. I, and you, are acting for Rex's sake, and I hope, I believe, you will do your share in saving him. And now I must go, leaving my sting behind me. I am so sorry! I never dreamed that I should like you so well. I have seen you before somewhere--it seems to me in an old dream. Good-by, good-by! It had to be done, and I have done it, but not gladly. Heaven help us women, and especially all mothers!" Winifred could not answer. She was choked with sobs, so Mrs. Carshaw took her departure in a kind of stealthy haste. She was far more unhappy now than when she entered that quiet house. She came in bristling with resolution. She went out, seemingly victorious, but feeling small and mean. When she was gone Winifred threw herself on a couch with buried head, and was still there an hour later when Miss Goodman brought up a letter. It was from a dramatic agent whom she had often haunted for work--or rather it was a letter on his office paper, making an appointment between her and a "manager" at some high-sounding address in East Orange, New Jersey, when, the writer said, "business might result." She had hardly read it when Rex Carshaw's tap came to the door. About that same time Steingall threw a note across his office table to Clancy, who was there to announce that in a house in Brooklyn a fine haul of coiners, dies, presses, and other illicit articles, human and inanimate, had just been made. "Ralph V. Voles and his bad man from the West have come back to New York again," said the chief. "You might give 'em an eye." "Why on earth doesn't Carshaw marry the girl?" said Clancy. "I dunno. He's straight, isn't he?" "Strikes me that way." "Me, too. Anyhow, let's pick up a few threads. I've a notion that Senator Meiklejohn thinks he has side-stepped the Bureau." Clancy laughed. His mirth was grotesque as the grin of one of those carved ivories of Japan, and to the effect of the crinkled features was added a shrill cackle. The chief glanced up. "Don't do that," he said sharply. "You get my goat when you make that beastly noise!" These two were beginning again to snap at each other about the Senator and his affairs, and their official quarrels usually ended badly for the other fellow.