"Well, I presume it was marriage. She simply stated that something had occurred that was taking her to Chicago at once with a young man." Elspeth Gordon watched the face of Mrs. Tweksbury's adopted son. She felt she was serving a righteous cause. If any worthy young man came to harm from the folly she had permitted she could never forgive herself! Miss Gordon had an elastic conscience. Raymond's countenance grew suddenly blank. He had recovered his self-control. He laughed presently--it was a light, well-modulated laugh, not the laugh of a shocked or very much interested man. Miss Gordon was relieved--but disappointed. And then Raymond went out to do his thinking alone. He walked the streets as people often do who are lonely and can find relief in action. He had never been so confused in his life, but then, he reflected, what did he really know about the girl with whom he had spent so many happy, sweet, unforgettable hours? The one black hour through which she had, somehow, stood as the only tangible safe thing he could recall, had shattered his faith in himself, in everything. What was she? Who was she? And now she had gone--with some man! It sounded cruel and harsh--but it could not, it never could, blot out certain memories which lay deep in Raymond's mind. He was miserable beyond words. He deplored his own part in the unhappy affair; he could not adjust himself to the inevitable--the end of the amazing and romantic episode. Of course he had always known that it must end some time, but while he drifted damnably he had not given much thought to that. But now he had finished it by his own beastiality when, had he kept his head, it might have passed as it came--a thing undefiled; a beautiful, tender memory. Perhaps--and at this Raymond shuddered--perhaps he had driven the girl upon a reef. He had heard of such things. In despair she had violently taken herself out of his reach. He could not believe she had been seriously involved while she played with him. Whatever she was, he could but believe that she was innocent in her regard for him--else why this mad flight? And he could not believe that her regard for him was serious. He was humble enough. After leaving Joan the night before Raymond had met his Other Self squarely in the shrouded house. Toward morning he had come to a conclusion: he was prepared to pay to the uttermost for his folly, whatever the demand might be. She must be the judge. He would go to the tea room--not to the house that he had so brutally invaded. He would again talk to the girl and watch her--he would make her understand that he was not as weak as he might seem. If he had misunderstood, that should not exempt him from responsibility. But if she should spurn any attempt of his to remedy the evil he could regard himself with a comparatively clean conscience.