Brockton stood still, looking her squarely in the eyes. His manner was extremely serious and determined. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I've got to." Slowly and deliberately he went on: "Last summer, in Denver, I told John Madison that if this time ever came--when you would return to me of your own free will--I'd have you write him the truth. Before we go any further, I'd like you to do that--now." Even under her cosmetics, the girl grew a shade paler. In a trembling, uncertain voice, she faltered: "Say good-by?" "Just that," said Brockton firmly. She looked distressed. The muscles about the corners of her mouth worked convulsively. "I wouldn't know how to begin. It will hurt him terribly." "It will be worse if you don't," insisted the broker. "He'll like you the better for telling him. It would be honest, and that is what he expects." She knew he was right, and that there was no way out of it, yet this was the hardest ordeal of all. In her heart she knew she was lying--lying to Brockton, lying to John, lying to herself. But she must lie, for she had not the strength to resist. The world was too hard, the suffering too great. What could she tell John--that she had ceased to love him and gone back to her old life? How he would despise her! Yet it must be----. Her eyes blinded with scalding tears, she asked: "Must I write--now?" "I think you should," he replied kindly but firmly. Dropping onto a seat near the table, she took up a pen. "How shall I begin?" she asked tremulously. He looked at her in surprise. "Do you mean that you don't know what to say?" She nodded and turned away her head, not daring to let him see her white, tear-stained face. He made a step forward. "Then I'll dictate a letter," he said. "That's right," she half-sobbed. "I'll do just as you say. You're the one to tell me now----" "Address it the way you want to," he said. "I'm going to be pretty brutal. In the long run, I think that is best, don't you?" "It's up to you," she said quietly. "Ready?" "Begin." Looking-over her shoulder, while she put pen to paper, he began to dictate: "This is the last letter you will ever receive from me. All is over between us. I need not enter into explanations. I have tried and I have failed. Do not think badly of me. It was beyond my strength. Good-by. I shall not tell you where I've gone, but remind you of what Brockton told you the last time he saw you. He is here now, dictating this letter. What I am doing is voluntary--my own suggestion. Don't grieve. Be happy and successful. I do not love you----" When she came to the last sentence, she stopped, laid her pen down, and looked up at the broker. "Will--please--" she protested. But he insisted. "It has got to go just that way," he said determinedly. "'I do not love you.' Sign it 'Laura.' Fold it, put it in an envelope--seal it--address it. Shall I mail it?" She hesitated, and then stammered: