Everything had come so suddenly that the girl's brain was all awhirl. John might arrive any moment. She must decide at once on what was to be done. What could she say to him? How much did she wish to say; how much would he believe? Was it possible that Providence had relented, and that, after all, she was to be truly happy, marry the only man she had ever truly, unselfishly loved, and still have all those luxuries which she could not live without? John was now a rich man. That made all the difference in the world. It would not make her love him any the more, but, as a rich man's wife, as _his_ wife, she knew she would be truly happy. She might have married him, even if he had been unsuccessful and returned to her penniless, but would their happiness have lasted, could their love have survived all the hardships which poverty brings in its train? Of course, she could not tell him about Brockton. He was not the kind of man she dare tell it to. He would never forgive her; he might even kill her. No, she must go on lying to the end, until she was safely married, and then she would turn over a new leaf altogether. While she sat there, her elbows between her knees, her chin on her hands, engrossed in thought, Annie entered and began to dust the room. Laura watched her in moody silence for a few minutes. Then she said: "Annie!" "Yassum." "Do you remember in the boarding-house--when we finally packed up--what you did with everything?" "Yassum." "You remember that I used to keep a pistol?" "Yo' mean dat one yo' say dat gemman out West gave yuh once?" "Yes." "Yassum, Ah 'membuh it." "Where is it now?" "Last Ah saw of it was in dis heah draw' in de writin'-desk." Crossing to the other side of the room, the negress opened the desk and began to fumble among a lot of old papers. Finally she drew out a small, thirty-two calibre revolver, which she held out gingerly. "Is dis it?" Laura turned and looked. "Yes," she said quickly. "Put it back. I thought that perhaps it was lost." Annie had no sooner replaced the weapon in the drawer when the front door-bell rang. Laura turned pale and started to her feet. Could that be John? Instinctively, she gathered her negligee gown closer to her frail, trembling figure, and, hurrying to the mirror, put those little finishing touches to her hair which no woman, jealous of her personal appearance, would think of neglecting, even though the house was on fire. She was so unstrung and agitated that she could hardly stand; she had to hold the table with one hand to maintain her balance. She could not articulate; her voice stuck in her throat. "See--who--that is--and let me know," she gasped. "Yassum." The maid went out into the private hall and opened the door. Immediately was heard the voice of Elfie St. Clair. "Hello, Annie. Folks in?" "Yassum; she's in."