She had needed the money; she had accepted it. That is to say, she had accepted the check, but had not cashed it. Not yet, at least. Why not? What was the explanation? His uneasiness, all on Hetty’s account, began to take shape. He remembered the girl’s sullen hopelessness, her friendlessness. She had been ready to give up, to submit to whatever misfortunes might come upon her. There had always been a defiant, reckless, fatalistic streak in Hetty. And Wint, remembering, was afraid it had taken the ascendant in the girl. He was afraid. He did not put into words, even in his thoughts, the truth of this fear. But he did write to a college classmate, who was working at the time on one of the Columbus papers, and asked him to try to locate Hetty at one of the hospitals. He told the circumstances. And two or three days later, the man wrote to say that there was no such person as Hetty in any hospital in Columbus under her own name; and that as far as he could learn, there was no one approximating her description. When this letter came, it tended to clinch Wint’s fears. He was not yet convinced that Hetty had chosen to--do that which writes “Finis” as the bottom of life’s last page. But he was almost convinced, almost ready to believe. It made Wint distinctly unhappy. He had an honest liking and respect for Hetty, an old friendship for the girl. He did not tell either his father or mother of the matter of the check; nor did he tell them what he feared had come to pass. There was no need, he thought, of worrying them. There was nothing that could be done.