After another moment of hesitation she opened the envelope and drew forth a sheet of paper. Quickly her eyes went over the scrawl. It began with the address, "Dear Mrs. Gilmore," and the last two words of that were underscored, as if there was a concealed gibe in the "Mrs. Gilmore." I want to talk with you on some business. If you don't want me to come there, you better come to see me. Phone Joe's place & he'll tell you where I am. It was unsigned, but no signature was needed for her to know the identity of the sender; she knew that all too well. Her hands clenched, crushing the paper between her fingers. "Oh, what a fool I've been to take this chance!" she exclaimed bitterly. "He'll hound me, as he hounded me before. I--I thought I'd got away from him for good. I thought he was----" A step sounded down the hall, a quick step that she had learned to know during the past three weeks. Hastily she thrust the crumpled letter and its envelope into the bodice of her morning gown and, as the door opened, forced a smile to her lips. "Good morning, my dear," she greeted her husband. "Your indolent wife is just finishing her breakfast. You look as if you had been up for hours, and you must be going somewhere!" Kirklan Gilmore, clad in a gray business suit, instead of white flannels, blazer coat, and canvas Oxfords that he wore for his mornings at home, crossed the room eagerly and bent to kiss the lips raised dutifully to him. Gilmore was dark, while his wife was fair. He was slender, and his eyes had something of a poet's dreaminess in them--black eyes, with an intense light when he felt any strong emotion, either personally or through the characters that he put down on paper and breathed the breath of life into. He sat down beside the narrow table and touched his fingers in a gentle caress to the back of his wife's hand, as his eyes devoured her fondly. "You don't know how wonderful you are, Helen! If I could only put you into a book--as you are. But I'm afraid it would turn out to be a volume of poetry, and poetry doesn't make a best seller. You--you are the most beautiful thing that ever lived!" Despite an agitation that she could hardly keep from being observed, Helen flushed, and her eyes lighted with pleasure. She liked being told she was beautiful. It was the one story that never grew old to her. "Thanks, Kirklan; it's nice of you to say that--especially in the morning. Why the street clothes? Are you going somewhere?" "Yes, I am, worse luck. That slave-driving publisher of mine has called a halt to our honeymoon. A wire came from him this morning, commanding me to come in town and see him. I know what that means; he's going to pep me and send me back to my knitting. Well, we can't blame Atchinson for that; I've promised him the new book for winter publication. Thank Heaven, it's two thirds finished. I thought we might run into New York together; make the trip in the car, you know. There'll be lunch with Atchinson."