But the haphazard mention of his mother's visit, the coincidence of Winifred's unexpectedly strange behavior and equally unexpected transition to a wildly declared love, revealed some of the hidden sources of events, and over the volcano of his soul he imposed a layer of ice. He even smiled pleasantly as he begged Miss Goodman to dry her eyes and be seated. "We are at loggerheads, you see," he said, almost cheerfully. "Just let us sit down and have a quiet talk. Tell me everything you know, and in the order in which things happened. Tell me facts, and if you are guessing at probabilities, tell me you are guessing. Then we shall soon unravel the tangled threads." Thus reassured, Miss Goodman took him through the records of the past forty-eight hours, so far as she knew them. After the first few words he required no explanations of his mother's presence in that middle-class section of Manhattan. She had gone there in her stately limousine to awe and bewilder a poor little girl--to frighten an innocent out of loving her son and thus endangering her own grandiose projects for his future. It was pardonable, perhaps, from a worldly woman's point of view. That there were other aspects of it she should soon see, with a certain definiteness, the cold outlines of which already made his mouth stern, and sent little lines to wrinkle his forehead. He had spared her hitherto--had hoped to keep on sparing her--yet she had not spared Winifred! But who had prompted her to this heartless deed? He loved his mother. Her faults were those of society, her virtues were her own. She had lived too long in an atmosphere of artificiality not to have lost much of the fine American womanliness that was her birthright. That could be cured--he alone knew how. The puzzling query, for a little while, was the identity of the cruel, calculating, ruthless enemy who struck by her hand. There was less light shed on Winifred's own behavior. He recalled her words: "You want to know if I love you--yes, yes--I want you to stay a long time this afternoon--don't ask me why I told you that awful fib--" And then her confession to Miss Goodman: "I am going away to-morrow--for always, I'm afraid." What did that portend? Ah, yes; she was going to some place where he could not find her, to bury herself away from his love and because of her love for him. It was no new idea in woman's heart, this. For long ages in India sorrowing wives burned themselves to death on the funeral pyres of their lords. Poor Winifred only reversed the method of the sacrifice--its result would be the same. "But 'to-morrow'--to-day, that is. You are quite sure of her words?" he persisted. "Oh, yes, sir; quite sure. Besides she has left her clothes and letters, and little knick-knacks of jewelry. Would you care to see them?"