For a moment Beveridge thought of turning and rowing back. But he was not yet through. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but he would not retreat now. “You are willing to be free?” he whispered. “Oh--yes.” “To leave him forever?” “Yes.” “Then we understand each other, Madge. It may take some time.” “I don't care--I don't care for anything now.” “I shall have to do some thinking.” “Do you think it will be hard?” “No, but we shall see. Shall we start back--I'm afraid you won't get home till pretty late, now.” “It doesn't matter; I'm alone there now, you know. But still, perhaps we'd better.” As they rowed down the stream, and later, on the ride back to the city, Beveridge could not but be fascinated by Madge, in the flow of spirits that had come with the freedom of this evening. She liked to look at him and to laugh at his little jokes. She caressed him in a hundred ways with her voice and her eyes. She rode her wheel with the lightness of youth, and led the way flying down the paved streets of the city. And when at last she dismounted at “The Teamster's Friend,” and unlocked the side door, she was in a merry glow. “Come in,” she said. “Don't you want to get to sleep? It is late.” “I'm not tired. We must have something to eat after that ride. Wasn't it fine?” So he went in with her, and they sat down to a cold lunch in the dining room. When he rose to go, and they were both lingering in the dining-room door, he said, smiling, “By the way, Madge, while I think of it, I want an empty bottle.” “Come out into the bar-room. You can help yourself.” She lighted the gas for him, and he went in behind the bar and rummaged among some bottles and flasks that stood on the floor. At length he found one that seemed to suit him, and stood a moment looking intently at the label. “Do you find what you want?” “Yes, this will do first-rate.” She followed him to the door, and said, as he stood on the step, “When am I to see you again?” “In a few days.” “Not to-morrow?” “No, I'm afraid not. I expect to be out of the city over Sunday. I have to go where I'm sent, you know.” “Do you know,” she said, with a smile, “you have not told me anything about your business? Why, I hardly think I know anything about you.” “You will soon know enough.” She smiled again. “Wait, you will have to be a little careful about coming. Mr. Murphy goes away about ten o'clock every night. You might come a little later, and then if Joe isn't here, I will be down. If you don't see me, you mustn't ask any questions.” “I won't.” “And you will be thinking about--” “Yes. We 'll talk it over next time. Good night.” “Good night,” she replied. And when he had walked a little way, he heard her humming a tune to herself in the doorway. Wilson was sitting in the shadow on the steps of the lumber office. He rose and came forward. “Hello, Bill!” “That you, Bert?”