And, being a white man, Jack Denver merely raised her fingers to his lips and left her. It was final; it was unalterable, and it was not for him to make it harder. She heard his car drive away, and she gave a little sobbing cry. Then very steadily she walked into the house. From that day to this she hadn’t seen Jack; that had been all. All, that is, except one thing—the one thing which would have supplied the answer to her oft-repeated question. A minute after she had walked into the house a man stepped out of some bushes close to where she had been standing. At first glance it would have been hard to recognize who it was; his face was so distorted with devilish fury that he looked like a fiend. For a while he stood there, his fists tight clenched. Then he suddenly swayed, and instinctively one hand went to his heart. The fury was replaced by agony—which in its turn gave way to relief. And shortly after Hubert Garling, outwardly calm, followed his wife indoors. That had been three months ago. And three days ago he had done the amazingly unexpected thing. They were having lunch, and he suddenly asked her about Jack. “What’s become of that nice fellow Denver?” he remarked. “We never seem to see him now.” “I don’t know,” she answered, calmly, though she felt that all the colour had left her face. “Perhaps he’s on leave or manœuvres or something.” “Why don’t you write and ask him to come over?” continued her husband. “Ask him over for the weekend.” “I’ll write, certainly,” she said, and wondered whether he could hear the pounding of her heart. “The workmen are away from the tower, you know,” he went on; “and he seemed an amusing chap.” “I’ll write after lunch,” she said, quietly. And thus it came about that Jack Denver received the following morning a letter in a writing that made his hand shake uncontrollably as he opened the envelope. “Hubert, for some astounding reason, is anxious for you to come and stay. As for me—I think I shall go mad I don’t see you again soon. If you think it unwise, plead duty as an excuse. But I think you’ll have to come soon, or else the sudden cessation of your visits here will make H. suspicious. Come for the weekend. “H. G.” He stared at his untasted breakfast; then he shrugged his shoulders. So be it. And his answer was duly delivered at the Pines. “Dear Mrs. Garling,— “How charming of you! I fear you must have thought I was dead, but we do work—sometimes! I’ll come in time for lunch on Saturday if I may. “Yours sincerely, “Jack Denver.”