First off when he came in I was afraid to move, then, when I got a good look at his face, I saw he didn’t know. He was so crazy with joy and triumph he didn’t notice how I acted—trembly and excited about the things that didn’t matter. How did she get there—what made her go—were the questions I was keen to have answered. Did it off her own bat—recognized the voice on the phone—instinct—knew all along something was wrong—and just rushed off without thinking of anything. She was a tip-topper—wonderful girl—seemed almost as if she was clairvoyant, didn’t I think so? Yes, I did, but maybe when it was your father you felt that way, and I sank back against the cushions of the davenport, weak in the knees and swallowing down a lump in my throat as big as a new potato. The next day I had a letter from her that made me sick—gratitude bubbling out of every line—and saying she’d told Jack and how never, as long as either of them lived, would they reveal it to a soul. That made me sicker—the two of them down on their bended knees! I’ve lied in my life, and though it’s come back on me like a bad dream, I’ve been able to bear it. But having two people like that ready to worship you because you did something that you didn’t do would take the spirit out of Theodore Roosevelt. Then came the great excitement, the case going to the public, and Babbitts’ getting his Big Story. It made a worse uproar than the suicide and disappearance, the city was stunned and thrilled and everything else it could be, and not a man, woman or child but was reading the _Dispatch_ and asking you if you’d ever heard of such an awful thing and enjoying every word of it. Babbitts’ picture was in all the papers—and a _raise_, well, I guess so! It would have been the proudest moment of my life, but who can be proud when they’re full up with nothing but guilty conscience? Not me, anyway. Even when Babbitts came home Friday night with a set of black lynx furs, carrying them himself and putting them on me, I felt no joy. Can you understand it—having a secret from the one you love best, and not knowing if he knew that secret whether he wouldn’t drop you out of his arms like a live coal and you’d see the love dying from his face? Oh, it was awful. I had to turn away from him to the mirror—getting up the right smile for a fur set when a rope of pearls wouldn’t have lifted the misery off me. Sunday Jack asked us to his place for dinner—just us two and Miss Whitehall. All the way downtown Babbitts was wondering why it was only Miss Whitehall—sort of funny he didn’t include Mr. George, who was often there, and even the old man, seeing it was to be a dinner of the Harland case outfit. I had my own ideas on the subject, and they made me limp, sitting small and peaked beside Babbitts, with my hands damp and clammy in my new white gloves.