Henrietta's first act on awakening was to look for Lem and, as she might have expected, the boy was gone. Her next was to look at her watch. She felt she must have slept until midday, so different was her physical and mental condition than when she had thrown herself on the bed. For some quite unaccountable reason she felt tremendously strong and buoyant. For a few moments she could not grasp why she felt so, and then she suddenly realized that her cheer of mind was due to the fact that Freeman, for the only time in years, was not a threatening menace, but absolutely under her control. Until she chose to permit him to be clad, he was her prisoner, and as her prisoner, subject to her orders.

When she had drawn on her kimona and tiptoed out of her room on her way to the bath, she glanced at Freeman's closed door and smiled. No need to worry about Freeman for an hour or two.

Half an hour later, fully garbed, she stepped from her room again, and this time she tapped on Freeman's door, gently at first and then more vigorously. There was no response. Henrietta opened the door and looked into the room. It was empty; Freeman was gone.

In the hall, in the corner nearest Henrietta's door, stood a wood box, receptacle for the wood used in the winter stoves, and above this the plaster and lath had been broken. It was in the hole in the wall thus made that Henrietta had thrust Freeman's trousers, crowding them down out of sight. They were still there, and as if in answer to another query that came into Henrietta's mind at the moment, she heard Gay's voice, brisk and happy, speaking to Lorna below. If Freeman had fled, he had not persuaded Gay to fly with him. Probably he had fled with such covering as he could improvise, hoping to arouse one of his boon companions and beg what was necessary, Henrietta thought.

When she reached the hall below she found Gay, Lorna, and Johnnie Alberson there, laughing over some item in the morning Eagle.

“Lem has gone,” she said.

“Good for Lem,” said Johnnie, and he handed her the paper, pointing to a headline.

“Riverbank Loses Only Saint,” the headline said. “Little Brother of Stray Dogs Departs for Parts Unknown. Holy Life Too Strenuous For Saint Harvey of Riverbank.”

Lorna and Johnnie, it seemed, had already breakfasted. Henrietta, leaving the three to laugh over the article in the paper, went to the dining-room and through it into the kitchen, where Miss Susan was thumping at a piece of wet wood in her stove, using the lid-lifter.

“Lem has run away,” Henrietta said without preliminaries.

“And good riddance. Hope I never set eyes on him again, the mean thief! Him and his pa, indeed! Robbin' and cheatin'!”

“No, Lem's not a thief. Here is the money you missed.”

Miss Susan looked at the bills.

“What's that money? I got mine off of him. He did n't go and steal it over again? You don't mean to tell me that young—”

“No. It wasn't your money you found on him. That was money his father gave him—to run away with, I suppose. He did not take your money at all. Miss Susan, Freeman has gone.”

Miss Susan put down the lid-lifter and turned to Henrietta.

“Gone? Run off, you mean? Well, a nice kettle of fish him and you are, I must say, you and your fine husband, lyin' and fightin' with Carter Bruce all over my front yard, and makin' love to Gay and Johnnie! I never heard of such go-ings-on in all my born days. What'd that worthless husband of yours run of! for?”

She looked at Henrietta keenly.

“It was him stole my money, was n't it?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Then he's good riddance, and that's all I've got to say about that,” said Susan. “And the farther that worthless Lem goes and the longer he stays, the better I 'll like it. When you going?”

“Now. Any time. Whenever you wish,” said Henrietta.

“You can't go too soon to suit me,” said Miss Susan. “I've had enough and a plenty of the whole lot of you. If you want to get yourself some breakfast you can, and if you don't want to, you need n't, but I hope I won't see you around too long. I've got to get your room ready for the next boarder that comes, and I'd like to have it empty by noon.”

Henrietta hesitated, but only for a moment. “Of course I'll go if you want me to go, Miss Susan,” she said cheerfully. “You've been very kind and patient with me. I just want to thank you for that. I 'll never forget that. I will have breakfast before I go. I'm ravenous this morning.”

She found the coffee-pot on the back of the stove, and Miss Susan grudgingly opened the oven door and let Henrietta see where her breakfast had been kept warm. Henrietta carried it to the dining-room. She was eating when Johnnie Alberson came in and took a seat opposite her.

“I'm going away,” she said.

“You! Going away! Where? What for?” he asked.

“Miss Susan needs my room; she expects another boarder.”

“But, hold on! You don't mean it, do you? Where are you going?”

“I don't know—yet. Away from Riverbank, I suppose. I have n't had time to think yet. She just told me.”

“But, look here!” he said. “You mean she is sending you away?”

“It seems to be that.”

“It does, does it?” said Alberson, and he was out of his chair and on his way to the kitchen, and did not wait, although she called, “Johnnie, wait!” after him.

Henrietta ate her breakfast slowly. She could hear Johnnie's briskly cheerful tone and Miss Susan's voice—at first hard and obstinate, and then yielding. Johnnie came back into the din-ing-room and sat opposite Henrietta again.

“That's all right now,” he said. “You don't have to go unless you want to. She's willing to have you stay.”

“She is? Miss Susan is? Whatever did you say to her?”

Johnnie leaned forward and smiled at Henrietta.

“I'm an Alberson, you know; one of the River-bank Albersons,” he said. “We are used to having our way.”

“But that's no reason—that's—she would not let that change her mind. You said something else.”

“Why, yes; I did,” said Johnnie. “I told her you were going to marry an Alberson. I told her you were going to marry me.”

Henrietta put down her fork and looked at him squarely.

“But I told you I had a husband. You know I have a husband in Colorado. I told you so.”

“Of course. I remember that. I honor you for that, Henrietta. But of course it was all a lie. You have no husband in Colorado. Have you?” Henrietta tried to look into his eyes and say she had, but his eyes would not look into hers seriously. They twinkled mischievously and looked through her eyes into her heart. She drew a deep breath, like one drowning, and looked down.

“No,” she said. “I have no husband—in Colorado.”