Success. Samuel Hopkins Adams

just as a friendly memento?” she cried, incredulous.

      “I don’t take anything from anybody,” he retorted doggedly.

      “Ah; that’s small-minded,” she accused. “That’s ungenerous. I wouldn’t think that of you.”

      He strode along in moody thought for a few paces. Presently he turned to her a rigid face. “If you had ever had to accept food to keep you alive, you’d understand.”

      For a moment she was shocked and sorry. Then her tact asserted itself. “But I have,” she said readily, “all my life. Most of us do.”

      The hard muscles around his mouth relaxed. “You remind me,” he said, “that I’m not as real a socialist as I thought. Nevertheless, that rankles in my memory. When I got my first job, I swore I’d never accept anything from anybody again. One of the passengers on your train tried to tip me a hundred dollars.”

      “He must have been a fool,” said Io scornfully.

      Banneker held open the station-door for her. “I’ve got to send a wire or two,” said he. “Take a look at this. It may give some news about general railroad conditions.” He handed her the newspaper which had arrived that morning.

      When he came out again, the station was empty.

      Io was gone. So was the newspaper.

CHAPTER IX

       Table of Contents

      Deep in work at her desk, Camilla Van Arsdale noted, with the outer tentacles of her mind, slow footsteps outside and a stir of air that told of the door being opened. Without lifting her head she called:

      “You’ll find towels and a bathrobe in the passageway.”

      There was no reply. Miss Van Arsdale twisted in her chair, gave one look, rose and strode to the threshold where Io Welland stood rigid and still.

      “What is it?” she demanded sharply.

      The girl’s hands gripped a folded newspaper. She lifted it as if for Miss Van Arsdale’s acceptance, then let it fall to the floor. Her throat worked, struggling for utterance, as it might be against the pressure of invisible fingers.

      “The beast! Oh, the beast!” she whispered.

      The older woman threw an arm over her shoulders and led her to the big chair before the fireplace. Io let herself be thrust into it, stiff and unyielding as a manikin. Any other woman but Camilla Van Arsdale would have asked questions. She went more directly to the point. Picking up the newspaper she opened it. Halfway across an inside page ran the explanation of Io’s collapse.

      BRITON’S BEAUTIFUL FIANCÉE LOST

      read the caption, in the glaring vulgarity of extra-heavy type, and below;

      Ducal Heir Offers Private Reward to Dinner Party of Friends

      After an estimating look at the girl, who sat quite still with hot, blurred eyes, Miss Van Arsdale carefully read the article through.

      “Here is advertising enough to satisfy the greediest appetite for print,” she remarked grimly.

      “He’s on one of his brutal drunks.” The words seemed to grit in the girl’s throat. “I wish he were dead! Oh, I wish he were dead!”

      Miss Van Arsdale laid hold on her shoulders and shook her hard. “Listen to me, Irene Welland. You’re on the way to hysterics or some such foolishness. I won’t have it! Do you understand? Are you listening to me?”

      “I’m listening. But it won’t make any difference what you say.”

      “Look at me. Don’t stare into nothingness that way. Have you read this?”

      “Enough of it. It ends everything.”

      “I should hope so, indeed. My dear!” The woman’s voice changed and softened. “You haven’t found that you cared for him, after all, more than you thought? It isn’t that?”

      “No; it isn’t that. It’s the beastliness of the whole thing. It’s the disgrace.”

      Miss Van Arsdale turned to the paper again.

      “Your name isn’t given.”

      “It might as well be. As soon as it gets back to New York, every one will know.”

      “If I read correctly between the lines of this scurrilous thing, Mr. Holmesley gave what was to have been his bachelor dinner, took too much to drink, and suggested that every man there go on a separate search for the lost bride offering two thousand dollars reward for the one who found her. Apparently it was to have been quite private, but it leaked out. There’s a hint that he had been drinking heavily for some days.”

      “My fault,” declared Io feverishly. “He told me once that if ever I played anything but fair with him, he’d go to the devil the quickest way he could.”

      “Then he’s a coward,” pronounced Miss Van Arsdale vigorously.

      “What am I? I didn’t play fair with him. I practically jilted him without even letting him know why.”

      Miss Van Arsdale frowned. “Didn’t you send him word?”

      “Yes. I telegraphed him. I told him I’d write and explain. I haven’t written. How could I explain? What was there to say? But I ought to have said something. Oh, Miss Van Arsdale, why didn’t I write!”

      “But you did intend to go on and face him and have it out. You told me that.”

      A faint tinge of color relieved the white rigidity of Io’s face. “Yes,” she agreed. “I did mean it. Now it’s too late and I’m disgraced.”

      “Don’t be melodramatic. And don’t waste yourself in self-pity. To-morrow you’ll see things clearer, after you’ve slept.”

      “Sleep? I couldn’t.” She pressed both hands to her temples, lifting tragic and lustrous eyes to her companion. “I think my head is going to burst from trying not to think.”

      After some hesitancy Miss Van Arsdale went to a wall-cabinet, took out a phial, shook into her hand two little pellets, and returned the phial, carefully locking the cabinet upon it.

      “Take a hot bath,” she directed. “Then I’m going to give you just a little to eat. And then these.” She held out the drug.

      Io acquiesced dully.

      Early in the morning, before the first forelight of dawn had started the birds to prophetic chirpings, the recluse heard light movements in the outer room. Throwing on a robe she went in to investigate. On the bearskin before the flickering fire sat Io, an apparition of soft curves.

      “D—d—don’t make a light,” she whimpered. “I’ve been crying.”

      “That’s good. The best thing you could do.”

      “I want to go home,” wailed Io.

      “That’s good, too. Though perhaps you’d better wait a little. Why, in particular do you want to go home?”

      “I w-w-w-want to m-m-marry Delavan Eyre.”

      A quiver of humor trembled about the corners of Camilla Van Arsdale’s mouth. “Echoes of remorse,” she commented.

      “No. It isn’t remorse. I want to feel safe, secure. I’m afraid of things. I want to go to-morrow. Tell Mr. Banneker he must arrange it for me.”

      “We’ll see. Now you go back to bed and sleep.”

      “I’d rather sleep here,”