"I shall try to find her, of course,--though I think she'll let us hear from her of her own accord, pretty soon, now. But I shan't wait for that. First I shall go to Aunt Eunice and see if she knows the names of any of the people with whom Helen used to live, before she came to her. Then, whatever clues I find I shall endeavor to follow to the end. Meanwhile, so far as Dalton is concerned,--_my wife is out of town_. That's all. It's no one's business. The matter will be hauled over every dinner-table and rolled under the tongue of every old tabby in town. But they can only surmise and suspect. They can't know anything about it. And we'll be mighty careful that they don't. Brett--bless him!--has been the soul of discretion. We'll see that we follow suit. _My wife is out of town!_ That's all!" And he turned and flung himself from the room. As soon as possible Burke Denby went to his Aunt Eunice and told her his sorry tale. From her he obtained one or two names, and--what he eagerly grasped at--an address in Boston. Each of these clues he followed assiduously, only to find that it led nowhere. Angrier, but no wiser, he went back home. The detective, too, reported no progress. And as the days became weeks, and the weeks a month, with no word of Helen, Burke settled into a bitterness of wrath and resentment that would not brook the mention of Helen's name in his presence. Burke was feeling very much abused these days. He was, indeed, thinking of himself and pitying himself almost constantly. The woman to whom he had given his name (and for whom he had sacrificed so much) had made that name a byword and a laughing stock in his native town. He was neither bachelor nor husband. He was not even a widower, but a nondescript thing to be pointed out as a sort of monster. Even his child was taken away from him; and was doubtless being brought up to hate him--Burke forgot that Dorothy Elizabeth was as yet but slightly over two years old. As for Helen's side of the matter--Burke was too busy polishing his own shield of defense to give any consideration to hers. When he thought of his wife, it was usually only to say bitterly to himself: "Humph! When that ten thousand dollars is gone we'll hear from her all right!" And he was not worrying at all about her comfort--with ten thousand dollars to spend. "She knows where _she_ is, and she knows where _I_ am," he would declare fiercely to himself. "When she gets good and ready she'll come--and not until then, evidently!" In March a line from Dr. Gleason said that he would be in town a day or two, and would drop in to see them. With the letter in his hand, Burke went to his father. "Gleason's coming Friday," he announced tersely. "Well?" "We've got to settle on what to tell him." "About--" "Helen--yes. Of course--he'll have to know something; but--I shall tell him mighty little." Burke's lips snapped together in the grim manner that was becoming habitual with him.