He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his hands in his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set.  He was getting some vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for the ill which affected him.  Every once in a while he would clinch his fingers and tap his foot—­signs of the stirring mental process he was undergoing.  His whole nature was vigorously and powerfully shaken up, and he was finding what limits the mind has to endurance.  He drank more brandy and soda than he had any evening in months.  He was altogether a fine example of great mental perturbation.

For all his study nothing came of the evening except this—­he sent the money.  It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of the most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got an envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it up.

Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place.

“You take this to this address,” he said, handing him the envelope, “and give it to Mrs. Hurstwood.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy.

“If she isn’t there bring it back.”

“Yes, sir”

“You’ve seen my wife?” he asked as a precautionary measure as the boy turned to go.

“Oh, yes, sir.  I know her.”

“All right, now.  Hurry right back.”

“Any answer?”

“I guess not.”

The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings.  Now he had done it.  There was no use speculating over that.  He was beaten for to-night and he might just as well make the best of it.  But, oh, the wretchedness of being forced this way!  He could see her meeting the boy at the door and smiling sardonically.  She would take the envelope and know that she had triumphed.  If he only had that letter back he wouldn’t send it.  He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his face.

For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends who were drinking.  He tried to get the interest of things about him, but it was not to be.  All the time his thoughts would run out to his home and see the scene being therein enacted.  All the time he was wondering what she would say when the boy handed her the envelope.

In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned.  He had evidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking anything out of his pocket.

“Well?” said Hurstwood.

“I gave it to her.”

“My wife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any answer?”

“She said it was high time.”

Hurstwood scowled fiercely.

There was no more to be done upon that score that night.  He went on brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired again to the Palmer House.  He wondered what the morning would bring forth, and slept anything but soundly upon it.  Next day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspicious and hopeful of its contents.  No word from Carrie.  Nothing from his wife, which was pleasant.