He went abroad that summer.... Early in the autumn he was back in New York, resolved to be a fool no longer. No doubt she had married the chap she loved--and was living happily, contentedly in luxurious splendour supplied by Sloane's--as long ago, no doubt, as the early spring it may have happened. His heart had once ached for her as an orphan, but all that would now be altered if she had taken unto herself a husband. Somehow one ceases to be an orphan the instant one marries. You never think of a fatherless and motherless wife as an orphan. An orphan is some one you are expected to feel sorry for. He never had thought of himself as an orphan, although his father and mother had been dead for years. No one ever had been sorry for him because he was an orphan. What is it that supplies pity for one sex and not for the other? January found him in California. A year ago he had planned--Alas, his thoughts were ever prone to leap backward to the events of a year ago--back to the twentieth day of January. He would never forget it. On that day he first looked upon the loveliest of all God's creatures. The year had not dimmed his vision. He could see her still as plainly as on that memorable January day when they “landed” him. He wanted to see her once more, married or single, just to tell her that it was conscience that caused him to fail her in her hour of need. He wanted her to understand. He wanted her to believe that he couldn't help being honest, and he wanted very much to hear her say that he did the only thing an honourable gentleman could possibly do. Wending his way northward, he came to San Francisco late in February, and there fell into the open arms of several classmates whom he had not seen since his college days. One of them was Jimmy Dorr, now a brilliant editor and journalist. To him he related the story of the Hildebrand trial, and the fruitless quest of the girl he still dreamed about. Jimmy was vastly interested. He was a romanticist. His eyes glittered with excitement. “By Jove, it's a corker!” he exclaimed, breathlessly. “A corker?” repeated Sampson, staring. “Corking idea for a novel, that's what I mean. Why, you couldn't beat it if you sat down and thought day and night for ten years. Ideas, that's what the novelists want. The only thing that has kept me from breaking into the literary game is an absolute paucity of--ideas. And here you are handing me one. I shall write a novel. I'll have you find her imprisoned in a dungeon by the conniving grandparent--” “Or by a rascally husband,” put in Sampson, gloomily. Dorr became thoughtful. “By the way, we've been having a more or less notable trial here for the past week and a half. Lot of interest in it all over the country. Have you heard of the Rodriguez ease?” “Not yet,” said Sampson, resignedly. “Fire away. I 'll listen.”