to me—­if he had known; nobody could—­nobody could.  Now, all sorts of things are assailing me; not only the horror that Dorothy should know, but the horror of having done such things.  I can’t feel that it was I; it must have been somebody else.  Why, I couldn’t have; it’s impossible; and yet I did, I did, I did!  Sometimes I laugh, and then I am frightened at myself—­I did it just then; it was at the thought that here am I, writing letters—­I, who have always thought letters that incriminate were the weakness of fools, the blind spot of intelligence—­I, who have profited by letters—­written in anger, in love, in the passion of money-getting—­everything—­I’m writing—­writing from my bursting heart.  Ah, you wanted me to realize; I’m fulfilling your wish.  Oh, good, kind soul that you are, forgive me!  I’m clinging to the thought of you to save me; I’m trusting in you blindly.  It’s five days since I left.”

The sheet that followed was on beflagged yachting paper: 

“What luck!  I happened on the Detmores the moment I landed.  They were just sailing.  I transferred to them.  I’m on board and homeward bound.  We reach St. Augustine to-morrow night; then I’m coming through as fast as I can.  I’ve thought it all over now.  Since the wireless messages weren’t sent, I shall send no cable or telegram.  I shall find out what the situation is, and perhaps it will be better for me just to disappear.  It may be best that Dorothy shall never see me again.  I shall go straight home.  I’m posting this in St. Augustine; it will probably go on the same train with me.  When you receive this and have read it, come to me.  I shall need you, I know—­but perhaps you won’t care to; perhaps you won’t want to be mixed up in an affair that may already be the talk of the town.  It’s one thing to know a criminal who goes unquestioned and another to befriend one revealed and convicted.  Don’t come, then.  I am at the very end of my endurance now.  What sort of a wreck will walk into that disgraced home of mine?  And still I pray and pray—­”

Gard stood up.  A sudden dizziness seized him.  Go to her!  Of course he must, at once, at once; there was not a moment to be lost.  He calculated the length of time the letter had taken to reach him since its delivery in the city—­hours at least.  And she had returned home to find—­what?  He almost cried out in his anguish—­to find Dorothy gone, no one at the house knew where.  What must she think?

He snatched up the telephone and called her number, his voice shaking in spite of his effort to control it.

The butler answered.  Yes; madam had returned suddenly; had gone to the library for something; had asked for Miss Dorothy, and when she heard she was away, had made no comment, and left shortly afterwards.  Yes, she appeared ill, very ill.

“I’m coming over,” Gard cut in.  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”