When she was alone Lorelei gave a sigh of relief, which changed to a sob as the sense of her helplessness surged over her again.  She was worn out, and yet she could not rest.  She longed for the open air, and yet she dreaded to show herself abroad, fearing that some one would read her secret.  Thoughts of the evening performance at the theater filled her with unfamiliar misgivings—­she wondered if she could appear in public without breaking down.  She knew well enough who had fired that shot—­would others fail to suspect?  The secrecy in which the whole affair was veiled seemed terribly artificial; it was impossible that such a barefaced conspiracy to suppress the truth could long remain undiscovered.  And—­if Hammon died, what then?  He was reported to be very low; suppose he became delirious and betrayed himself?  She would be involved—­and Merkle and Bob.

Every clang of the elevator gate, every footfall outside her door alarmed her.  As with most women, her knowledge of the law was negligible, her conception of its workings was grotesquely child-like.

Yet, after all, the incidents of the shooting affected her less than the amazing change in her own fortunes; she was a wife.  The word sounded shockingly unreal.  This was no longer her home, her sanctuary; another had equal share in it.  She no longer belonged to herself:  another—­possessed her.  And, worst of all, that other was practically a stranger.  She felt her cheeks burn; she was suffocated by a sense of shame from which there was no escape.  In one night she had passed the turning-point from girlhood to womanhood, from womanhood to wifehood, and there had been no love, no faith, no glamour even, in the act.  She had deliberately sold herself; she wearily wondered where the new road led—­surely not to happiness.

Toward evening Adoree Demorest telephoned, and with many anticipatory exclamations of pleasure invited Lorelei to dine.  “I can’t,” answered Lorelei, faintly.

“Bother your engagements!” Miss Demorest’s disappointment was keen.

“I can’t even explain, unless—­you’ll come here.”

“To dinner?”

Lorelei decided swiftly.  She dreaded to be alone with Bob; her constraint in his presence was painful, and he also, before going out, had appeared very ill at ease.  He had not even made plans for the evening meal.  In view of all this she answered: 

“Yes, to dinner.  Please, please come.”

“What is the matter?”

“I’ll—­tell you later.”

Miss Demorest yielded, not without some regret.  “I was going to cook the supper myself, and I’m all done up like a sore foot; but I’ll remove the bandages.  I suppose you know the potatoes are peeled and the salad will spoil unless I bring it?”

“Then bring it, and hurry.”