“You have not!” cried Henderson, violently.  “That’s all nonsense!  Give me just one word of permission.  That is all that is required of you.”

“‘Required?’ You grant, then, that there is something ‘required?’”

“One word.  Nothing more.”

“Did you ever know one word could be so big, so black, so desperately bitter?  Oh, Hart!”

“No.”

“But you know it now, Hart!”

“Yes.”

“And still you say that it is ‘required?’”

Henderson suffered unspeakably.  At last he said:  “If you had seen and heard him, Edith, you, too, would feel that it is ‘required.’  Remember——­”

“No!  No!  No!” she cried.  “Don’t ask me to remember even the least of my pride and folly.  Let me forget!”

She sat silent for a long time.

“Will you go with me?” she whispered.

“Of course.”

At last she arose.

“I might as well give up and have it over,” she faltered.

That was the first time in her life that Edith Carr ever had proposed to give up anything she wanted.

“Help me, Hart!”

Henderson started around the beach assisting her all he could.  Finally he stopped.

“Edith, there is no sense in this!  You are too tired to go.  You know you can trust me.  You wait in any of these lovely places and send me.  You will be safe, and I’ll run.  One word is all that is necessary.”

“But I’ve got to say that word myself, Hart!”

“Then write it, and let me carry it.  The message is not going to prove who went to the office and sent it.”

“That is quite true,” she said, dropping wearily, but she made no movement to take the pen and paper he offered.

“Hart, you write it,” she said at last.

Henderson turned away his face.  He gripped the pen, while his breath sucked between his dry teeth.

“Certainly!” he said when he could speak.  “Mackinac, August 27, 1908.  Philip Ammon, Lake Shore Hospital, Chicago.”  He paused with suspended pen and glanced at Edith.  Her white lips were working, but no sound came.  “Miss Comstock is with the Terence O’Mores, on Mackinac Island,” prompted Henderson.

Edith nodded.

“Signed, Henderson,” continued the big man.

Edith shook her head.

“Say, ‘She is well and happy,’ and sign, Edith Carr!” she panted.

“Not on your life!” flashed Henderson.

“For the love of mercy, Hart, don’t make this any harder!  It is the least I can do, and it takes every ounce of strength in me to do it.”

“Will you wait for me here?” he asked.