She tried to smile at him bravely.  She understood.  For a moment she looked at him in the old way and all the pent-up love that would have, that had done and dared everything for him struggled in her rapidly rising and falling breast.

It was now or never.  She knew it, the supreme effort.  One word or look too many from her and all would be lost.  She flung her arms about him and kissed him.  “Remember—­one week from to-day—­a personal—­in the star,” she panted.

She literally tore herself from his arms, gathered up her grip, and was gone.

A week passed.  The quiet little woman at the Oceanview House was still as much a mystery to the other guests as when she arrived, travel-stained and worn with the repressed emotion of her sacrifice.  She had appeared to show no interest in anything, to take her meals mechanically, to stay most of the time in her room, never to enter into any of the recreations of the famous winter resort.

Only once a day did she betray the slightest concern about anything around her.  That was when the New York papers arrived.  Then she was always first at the news-stand, and the boy handed out to her, as a matter of habit, the star.  Yet no one ever saw her read it.  Directly afterward she would retire to her room.  There she would pore over the first page, reading and rereading every personal in it.  Sometimes she would try reading them backward and transposing the words, as if the message they contained might be in the form of a cryptograph.

The strain and the suspense began to show on her.  Day after day passed, until it was nearly two weeks since the parting in New York.  Day after day she grew more worn by worry and fear.  What had happened?

In desperation she herself wired a personal to the paper:  “Weston.  Write me at the Oceanview.  Easton.”

For three days she waited for an answer.  Then she wired the personal again.  Still there was no reply and no hint of reply.  Had they captured him?  Or was he so closely pursued that he did not dare to reply even in the cryptic manner on which they had agreed!

She took the file of papers which she kept and again ran through the personals, even going back to the very day after they had separated.  Perhaps she had missed one, though she knew that she could not have done so, for she had looked at them a hundred times.  Where was he?  Why did he not answer her message in some way?  No one had followed her.  Were they centering their efforts on capturing him?

She haunted the news-stand in the lobby of the beautifully appointed hotel.  Her desire to read newspapers grew.  She read everything.

It was just two weeks since they had left New York on their separate journeys when, on the evening of another newsless day, she was passing the news-stand.  From force of habit she glanced at an early edition of an evening paper.

The big black type of the heading caught her eye: