"I don't wonder you ask; that is the question I have set myself to answer. I saw Ralph Buckner yesterday as I was driving up Fifth Avenue, and the sight of him filled me with apprehension." "Your first husband--in New York?" Alice asked, surprised. "Yes--what can he be doing here?" "You don't know that it has anything to do with you, do you?" "No; but I am so apprehensive that I imagine everything." "But the past is dead, Eleanor dear. To have it recalled is of course painful, but why should you dread it?" Mrs. Gorham did not answer at once, and the girl was amazed to witness the conflict of emotion which her face expressed. At last Eleanor raised her eyes. "The past is not wholly dead," she said, in a low voice. "That is the unfortunate part. There is one event which happened back there in Colorado, right after Carina was killed, which has never--can never be explained. It is the only detail of that awful tragedy which I have not told your father, and I could not even tell you." "Can't you tell me enough so I can really help you, Eleanor?" "No, not even as much as that. The appearances were all against me. I know that nothing occurred of which I need feel ashamed, but the circumstantial evidence is so strong that it would be beyond human possibility to expect any one, even one as generous as your father, to accept my unsupported statement." "Has this to do with your first husband?" "I fear that if he has come in possession of the facts he may intend to use them against me." "Then the only thing for you to do is to see father at once, and to tell him everything yourself before that horrid man has the opportunity. There is nothing, Eleanor, which you could tell him which he would not accept exactly as you stated. Why, of course there isn't." "I wish I had your confidence, dear," Eleanor sighed, "but that would be asking too much." "Was Mr. Buckner concerned in it?" "No; it was another man--the only other man I ever met except your father whom I would include among God's noblemen." "Some one you loved, Eleanor?" the girl asked, hesitatingly. "No, dear, not that!" she cried, hastily. "I was in no condition at that time to love any one. It was, as I told you, right after Carina's death. He was the friend who protected me and who helped me at that time--I told you about it--but who would believe that it was simply an act of humanity?" "Father would believe it, Eleanor," the girl cried, firmly. "You must tell him, and you must tell him now--now--he is in the library." "Oh, I cannot!" cried Eleanor, shrinking; "Robert is so much to me that I cannot run the risk of having even a doubt disturb the perfect understanding that has always existed between us." "You must, Eleanor," insisted Alice, rising and urging Mrs. Gorham to her feet. "You must--shall I go with you?" "No, dear," Eleanor replied. "I will go"; and with slow footsteps she left the room. * * * * *