The inheritance was the big, prosperous Westchester farm where she lived--had always lived with her grandfather since her parents' death. It was turning out to be very valuable because of the mania of the wealthy for Westchester acreage and a revival in a hundred villages of the magnificence of the old Patroons. Outside of her own house and farm she had land to sell to the landed and republican gentry; and she sold it and they bought it with an avidity that placed her financial independence beyond doubt. All the morning she transacted business downtown with the lawyer. In the afternoon she went to a matinee all by herself, and would have had a most blissful day had it not been for the unquiet memory of a young man who, she had learned that morning, was fairly certain of eternal damnation. That evening she went back to Westchester absent-minded and depressed. [Illustration] [Illustration] XXV IT was in early June when she arrived in town again. He was in the lobby as usual; he lunched at the table by the window as usual. There seemed to be nothing changed about him except that he was a handsomer man than she had supposed him. She ate very little luncheon. As usual, he glanced at her once--a perfectly pleasant and inoffensive glance--and resumed his luncheon and his newspaper. He was always quiet, always alone. There seemed to be a curious sort of stillness which radiated from him, laying a spell upon his environment for a few paces on every side of him. She had felt this; she felt it now. Downtown her business was finally transacted; she went to a matinee all by herself, and found herself staring beyond the painted curtain and the mummers--beyond the bedizened scenery--out into the world somewhere and into two dark, boyish eyes that looked so pleasantly back at her. And suddenly her own eyes filled; she bent her head and touched them with her handkerchief. No, she must never again come to the Hotel Aurora Borealis. There were reasons. Besides, it was no longer necessary for her to come to town at all. She _must_ not come any more. . . . And yet, if she could only know what became of him--whether salvation ever found him---- The curtain fell; she rose and pinned on her hat, gathered her trifles, and moved out with the others into the afternoon sunshine of Broadway. That evening she dined in her room. She had brought no luggage. About ten o'clock the cab was announced. As she walked through the nearly deserted lobby she looked around for him. He stood near the door, talking to the hotel detective. Halting a moment to button her gloves, she heard the detective say: "Never mind the whys and whats! You fade away! Understand?" "By what authority do you forbid me entrance to this hotel?" asked the young man coolly. "Well, it's good enough for you that I tell you to keep out!" "I can not comply with your suggestion. I have an appointment here in half an hour."