"The defeat was in a way a concession--a half-dazed compromise--merely a parody on a real victory for the enemy; because it roused in me a horror that left the enemy almost no consolation, no comfort, even no physical relief. The enemy is I myself, you understand--that other self we know about. "She was perfectly furious, Duane; she wrestled with me, fought to make me yield more than I had--which was almost nothing--begged me, brutalised me, pleaded, tormented, cajoled. I was nearly dead when the sun rose; but I had gone through it. "I wish you could come. She is still watching me. It's an armed truce, but I know she'll break it if the chance comes. There is no honour in her, Duane, no faith, no reason, no mercy. I know her. "Can you not come? I won't ask it if your father needs you. Only if he does not, I think you had better come very soon. "When may I restore the red cross to the top of my letters to you? I suppose I had better place it on the next letter, because if I do not you might think that another battle had gone against me. "Don't reproach me. I couldn't stand it just now. Because I am a very tired girl, Duane, and what has happened is heavy in my heart--heavy on my head and shoulders like that monster Sindbad bore. "Can you come and free me? One word--your arms around me--and I am safe. "G.S." As he finished, a maid came bearing a telegram on a salver. "Tell him to wait," said Duane, tearing open the white night-message: "Your father is ill at San Antonio and wishes you to come at once. Notify your mother but do not alarm her. Your father's condition is favorable, but the outcome is uncertain. "WELLS, _Secretary_." Duane took three telegram blanks from the note-paper rack and wrote: "My father is ill at San Antonio. They have just wired me, and I shall take the first train. Stand by me now. Win out for my sake. I put you on your honour until I can reach you." And to his father: "I leave on first train for San Antonio. It's going to be all right, father." And to his mother: "Am leaving for San Antonio because I don't think father is well enough to I'll write you and wire you. Love to you and Naida." He gave the maid the money, turned, and unhooking the receiver of the telephone, called up the Grand Central Station. CHAPTER XVI THROUGH THE WOODS