During the next few days, Wray snapped his fingers twice, and on each occasion Jennie ran to him like a dog, as she had foreseen she would. The first time was in response to a telegram. The telegram said, simply: Studio Thursday, 3 P.M. There was no signature, but Jennie knew what it meant. By one o’clock she was dressing feverishly; by two, she had said good-by to her mother and was on her way. She was not thinking of her twenty-five thousand dollars now, or of any offering up of herself. Her one objective was to drive that woman from the Byzantine chair so that Hubert shouldn’t look at her again. But she had not got out of Indiana Avenue on her way to the trolley car when something happened which had never happened in her life before. She received another telegram, the second in one day. The messenger boy, who was a neighbor’s son, had hailed her from across the street. "Hello, Jennie! Are you Miss Jane Scarborough Follett? That’s a name and a half, ain’t it?" Her first thought was that Hubert was wiring to put her off because he wanted the other woman, after all. Her second, that he had already addressed her as "Miss Jennie Follett," and she doubted if he knew her full baptismal name. Only in one connection had it been used of late, and that recollection made her tremble. This message, too, was unsigned, and, being so, it puzzled her: Always close to you in spirit and loving you. That wasn’t like Hubert—and Bob was on the sea. She walked slowly, reading it again and again, till her eyes caught the address in a corner—Havana. She remembered then that the _Demerara_ was to touch at that port, and understood. Crushing the telegraphic slip into the bottom of her handbag, she made her way to the square and took her place in the car. As she jolted down the face of the cliff she wished that this message hadn’t come till after her return from the studio. Then it wouldn’t have mattered. It would have been too late to matter. Not that it mattered now—only, that the way in which Bob expressed himself made her feel uneasy. "Always close to you in spirit." She didn’t want him to be close to her in any way, but in spirit least of all. Latterly, she had heard Mrs. Weatherby, a convert to some school of New Thought, discourse on the unreality of separations and the bridging power of spirit, and while these ideas made no appeal to her, they endued Bob’s telegram with a ghostly creepiness. If he was close to her in spirit on an errand like the present one.... So she turned back from the very studio door. She couldn’t go in. She couldn’t so much as put her hand on the knob. Knowing that Hubert was within a few yards of her, eager to be hers as she was to be his, she crept guiltily down the stairs. She cried all night from humiliation and repentance. It was as if Bob had laid a spell on her. Unless she could break it, her life would be ruined.