His admiration for her, instead of suffering the shock that might have been anticipated--and which was secretly dreaded, to be quite candid--had grown more intense under the test. What would be her attitude toward him? That was the question. What had the five years and new environment done for her? Eager as he was to discover the state of her feelings, he recognized, however, the more pressing matters that were to be considered. The peace and welfare of the girl herself demanded his first thoughts, his most devoted efforts. Tragedy stalked close beside her. He was afraid to think how close it was, or when it would make its ugly presence felt. He lost no time, therefore, in apprising Mary Braddock of the true state of affairs. She sat before him, a great dread in her dark eyes, the pallor of helplessness on her cheek, listening to the direful tale he told. He did not make the mistake of minimizing the situation. He spared her not the details, nor softened the stubborn facts. As clearly as possible he drew for her the picture of Thomas Braddock as he had seen him. He repeated faithfully all that Dick Cronk and the Noakeses had told him, neglecting no particular in the known history of her husband since the old circus days. She was very still and tense. Her eyes never left his face while he was speaking, except once when she looked toward the door in response to a sound that led her to believe that Christine was returning. There were times when he imagined that she was not breathing. After the first few minutes she asked no questions, but mutely absorbed the story as it fell from his lips. The light of joy and gladness in her eyes that had been his welcome was gone now. In its place was the dark gleam of dread and anxiety. She interrupted him once, to ask him to tell her again how Braddock looked and how he had acted. As he repeated the description, her perplexed, even doubting, expression caused him to hesitate, but she shook her head as if putting something out of her mind and signified that he was to proceed. "I would not have known him," he concluded, "he was so unlike the man I knew." "He had not touched whiskey, you say--not since--" "Not in three years. It has wrought an unbelievable change in him." "I knew him, David, before he drank at all," she said, staring past him. "Perhaps the change would not be so great to me." "He has aged many years. There are hard, desperate lines in his face. You _would_ see a change, I am afraid, Mrs. Braddock." She was silent for a moment. "Go on, David," she said, suddenly passing her hand before her eyes in a movement as expressive as it was involuntary. "Dick Cronk has a certain amount of influence over him, you say."