In September Helen Denby and Dorothy Elizabeth went to London. With their going, a measure of peace came to Frank Gleason. Not having their constant presence to remind him of his friend's domestic complications, he could the more easily adopt his sister's complacent attitude of cheery confidence that it would all come out right in time—that it must come out right. Furthermore, with Helen not under his own roof, he was not so guiltily conscious of "aiding and abetting" a friend's runaway wife.

Soon after Helen's departure for London, a letter from Burke Denby in far-away South America told of the Denbys' rejoicing at the happy outcome of the Arctic trip, and expressed the hope that the doctor was well, and that they might meet him as soon as possible after their return from South America in December.

The letter was friendly and cordial, but not long. It told little of their work, and nothing of themselves. And, in spite of its verbal cordiality, the doctor felt, at its conclusion, that he had, as it were, been attending a formal reception when he had hoped for a cozy chat by the fire.

In December, at Burke's bidding, he ran up to Dalton for a brief visit, but it proved to be as stiff and unsatisfying as the letter had been. Burke never mentioned his wife; but he wore so unmistakable an "Of-course-I-understand-you-are-angry-with-me" air, that the doctor (much to his subsequent vexation when he realized it) went out of his way to be heartily cordial, as if in refutation of the disapproval idea—which was not the impression the doctor really wished to convey at all. He was, in fact, very angry with Burke. He wanted nothing so much as to give him a piece of his mind. Yet, so potent was Burke's dignified aloofness that he found himself chattering of Inca antiquities and Babylonian tablets instead of delivering his planned dissertation on the futility of quarrels in general and of Burke's and Helen's in particular.

With John Denby he had little better success, so far as results were concerned; though he did succeed in asking a few questions.

"You have never heard from—Mrs. Denby?" he began abruptly, the minute he found himself alone with Burke's father.

"Never."

"But you—you would like to!"

The old man's face became suddenly mask-like—a phenomenon with which John Denby's business associates were very familiar, but which Dr. Frank Gleason had never happened to witness before.

"If you will pardon me, doctor," began John Denby in a colorless voice, "I would rather not discuss the lady. There isn't anything new that I can say, and I am beginning to feel—as does my son—that I would rather not hear her name mentioned."

This ended it, of course. There was nothing the doctor could say or do. Bound by his promise to Helen Denby, he could not tell the facts; and silenced by his host's words and manner, he could not discuss potentialities. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to drop the subject. And he dropped it. He went home the next day. Resolutely then he busied himself with his own affairs. Determinedly he set himself to forget the affairs of the Denbys. This was the more easily accomplished because of the long silences and absences of the Denby men themselves, and because Helen Denby still remained abroad with Angie Reynolds.

In London Helen Denby was living in a new world. Quick to realize the advantages that were now hers, she determined to make the most of them—especially for Betty. Always everything now centered around Betty.

In Mrs. Reynolds Helen had found a warm friend and sympathetic ally, one who, she knew, would keep quite to herself the story Helen had told her. Even Mr. Reynolds was not let into the inner secret of Helen's presence with them. To him she was a companion governess, a friend of the Thayers', to whom his wife had taken a great fancy—a most charming little woman, indeed, whom he himself liked very much.

Freed from the fear of meeting Burke Denby or any of his friends, Helen, for the first time since her flight from Dalton, felt that she was really safe, and that she could, with an undivided mind, devote her entire attention to her self-imposed task.

From London to Berlin, and from Berlin to Genoa, she went happily, as Mr. Reynolds's business called him. To Helen it made little difference where she was, so long as she could force every picture, statue, mountain, concert, book, or individual to pay toll to her insatiable hunger "to know"—that she might tell Betty.

Mrs. Reynolds, almost as eager and interested as Helen herself, conducted their daily lives with an eye always alert as to what would be best for Helen and Betty. Teachers for Gladys and Betty—were teachers for Helen, too; and carefully Mrs. Reynolds made it a point that her own social friends should also be Helen's—which Helen accepted with unruffled cheerfulness. Helen, indeed, had now almost reached the goal long ago set for her by Mrs. Thayer: it was very nearly a matter of supreme indifference to her whether she met people or not, so far as the idea of meeting them was concerned. There came a day, however, when, for a moment, Helen almost yielded to her old run-and-hide temptation.

They were back in London, and it was near the close of Helen's third year abroad.

"I met Mr. Donald Estey this morning," said Mrs. Reynolds at the luncheon table that noon. "I asked him to dine with us to-morrow night. He is here for the winter."

"So? Good! I shall be glad to see Estey," commented her husband.

Once Helen would have given a cry, dropped her fork with a clatter, or otherwise made her startled perturbation conspicuous to all. That only an almost imperceptible movement and a slight change of color resulted now showed something of what Helen Denby had learned during the last few years.

"You say Mr. Donald Estey will be—here, to-morrow?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. You remember him," nodded Mrs. Reynolds. "He was at the Thayers' at the same time I was there six years ago—tall, good-looking fellow with glasses."

"Yes, I remember," smiled Helen. And never would one have imagined that behind the quiet words was a wild clamor of "Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do—what shall I do?"

What Helen Denby wanted to do was to run away—far away, where Mr. Donald Estey could never find her. Next best would be to tell Mrs. Reynolds that she could not see him; but to do that, she would have to tell why—and she did not want to tell even Mrs. Reynolds the story of that awful hour at the Thayers' North Shore cottage. True, she might feign illness and plead a headache; but Mrs. Reynolds had said that Mr. Estey was to be in London all winter—and she could not very well have a headache all winter! There was plainly no way but to meet this thing fairly and squarely. Besides, had not Mrs. Thayer said long ago that emergencies were the greatest test of manners, as well as of ropes and housewives, and that she must always be ready for emergencies? Was she to fail now at this, her first real test?

Mr. Donald Estey was already in the drawing-room when Helen Denby came down to dinner the following evening. She had put on a simple white dress—after a horrified rejection of a blue one, her first choice. (She had remembered just in time that Mr. Donald Estey's favorite color was blue.) She was pale, but she looked charmingly pretty as she entered the room.

"You remember Mr. Estey," Mrs. Reynolds murmured. The next moment Helen found her hand in a warm clasp, and a pair of laughing gray eyes looking straight into hers.

"Oh, yes, I remember him very well," she contrived to say cheerfully.

"And I remember Mrs. Darling very well," came to her ears in Mr. Donald Estey's smoothly noncommittal voice. Then she forced herself to walk calmly across the room and to sit down leisurely.

What anybody said next she did not hear. Somewhere within her a voice was exulting: "I've done it, I've done it, and I didn't make a break!"

It was a small table, and conversation at dinner was general. At first Helen said little, not trusting herself to speak unless a question made speech imperative; but gradually she found the tense something within her relaxing. She was able then to talk more freely; and before the dinner was over she was apparently quite her usual self.

As to Mr. Donald Estey—Mr. Donald Estey was piqued and surprised, but mightily interested. Half his anticipated pleasure in this dinner had been the fact that he was to see Mrs. Darling again. She would blush and stammer, and be adorably embarrassed, of course. He had not forgotten how distractingly pretty she was when she blushed. He would like to see her blush again.

But here she was—and she had not blushed at all. What had happened? A cool little woman in a cool little gown had put a cool little hand in his, with a cool "Oh, yes, I remember him very well." And that was all. Yet she was the same Mrs. Darling that he had met six years before, and that had— But was she the same, really the same? That Mrs. Darling could never have carried off a meeting like this with such sweet serenity. He wondered—

Mr. Donald Estey was still trying to pigeonhole the women he met.

Mr. Donald Estey found frequent opportunity for studying his new-old friend during the days that followed, for they were much together. In Mrs. Reynolds's eyes he made a very convenient fourth for a day's sight-seeing trip or a concert, and she often asked him to join them. Also he made an even more convenient escort for herself and Helen when, as often happened, Mr. Reynolds was unable to accompany them.

In one way and another, therefore, he was thrown often with this somewhat baffling young woman, who refused to be catalogued. The very fact that he still could not place her made him more persistent than ever. Besides, to himself he owned that he found her very charming—and very charming all the time. There was never on his part now that old feeling of aversion, of which he used to be conscious at times. And she was always quite the lady. He wondered how he could ever have thought her anything else. True, on that remarkable occasion six years before, she had said something about learning how to please—But he was trying to forget that scene. He did not believe that everything was quite straight about that extraordinary occasion. There must have been, in some way, a mistake. He did not believe, anyway, that it signified. At all events, he was not going to worry about a dead and gone past like that.

Mr. Donald Estey was not the only one that was trying to forget that occasion. Helen herself was putting it behind her whenever the thought of it entered her head. Thinking of it brought embarrassment; and she did not like to feel embarrassed. She believed that he was trying to show that he had forgotten it; and if he were disposed to forget the ridiculous affair, surely she should be more than glad to do it. And she considered it very fine of him—very fine, indeed. She liked him, too. She liked him very much, and she enjoyed being with him. And there could be no harm now, either, in being with him all she liked, for he could never make the mistake of thinking she cared for him particularly. He understood that she loved some one else. They might be as friendly as they pleased. There could never—thank Heaven!—be any misunderstanding about their relationship.

Confidently serene, therefore, Helen Denby enjoyed to the full the stimulus of Mr. Donald Estey's companionship. Then, abruptly, her house of cards tumbled about her ears.

"Mrs. Darling, will you marry me?" the man asked one day. He spoke lightly, so lightly that she could not believe him serious. Yet she gave him a startled glance before she answered.

"Mr. Estey, please don't jest!"

"I'm not jesting. I'm in earnest. Will you marry me?"

"Mr. Estey!" She could only gasp her dismay.

"You seem surprised." He was still smiling.

"But you can't—you can't be in earnest, Mr. Estey."

"Why not, pray?"

"Why, you know—you must remember—what I—I told you, six years ago." The red suffused her face.

"You mean—that you cared for some one else?" He spoke gravely now. The smile was quite gone from his eyes. "But, Mrs. Darling, it's just there that I can't believe you're in earnest. Besides, that was six years ago."

"But I am in earnest, and it's the same—now," she urged feverishly. "Oh, Mr. Estey, please, please, don't let's spoil our friendship—this way. I thought you understood—I supposed, of course, you understood that I—I loved some one else very much."

"But, Mrs. Darling, you said that six years ago, and—and you're still free now. Naturally no man would be such a fool as to let— So I thought, of course, that you had—had—" He came to a helpless pause.

The color swept her face again.

"But I told you then that I was—was learning—was trying to learn— Oh, why do you make me say it?"

He glanced at her face, then jerked himself to his feet angrily.

"Oh, come, come, Mrs. Darling, you don't expect me to believe that you now, now are still trying to learn to please (as you call it) some mythically impossible man!"

"He's not mythically impossible. He's real."

"Then he's blind, deaf, and dumb, I suppose!" Mr. Donald Estey's voice was still wrathful.

In spite of herself Helen Denby laughed.

"No, no, oh, no! He's—" Suddenly her face grew grave, and very earnest. "Mr. Estey, I can't tell you. You wouldn't understand. If you—you care anything for me, you will not question me any more. I can't tell you. Please, please don't say any more."

But Mr. Donald Estey did say more—a little more. He did not say much, for the piteous pleading in the blue eyes stayed half the words on his lips before they were uttered. In the end he went away with a baffled, hurt pain in his own eyes, and Helen did not see him again for some days. But he came back in time. The pain still lurked in his eyes, but there was a resolute smile on his lips.

"If you'll permit, I want things to be as they were before," he told her. "I'm still your friend, and I hope you are mine."

"Why, of course, of course," she stammered. "Only, I—you—"

As she hesitated, plainly disturbed, he raised a quick hand of protest.

"Don't worry." His resolute smile became almost gay. "You'll see how good a friend I can be!"

If Mr. Donald Estey was hoping to take by strategy the citadel that had refused to surrender, he gave no sign. As the days came and went, he was clearly and consistently the good friend he had said he would be; and Helen Denby found no cause to complain, or to fear untoward results.

And so the winter passed and spring came; and it was on a beautiful day in early spring that Helen took Betty (now nine years old) to one of London's most famous curio-shops. There was to be an auction shortly of a very valuable collection of books and curios, and the advertising catalogue sent to Mr. Reynolds had fallen into Helen's hands.

It was no new thing for Helen to haunt curio-shops and museum-cabinets given over to Babylonian tablets and Egyptian scarabs. Helen had never forgotten the little brown and yellow "soap-cakes" which were so treasured by Burke and his father, and of which she had been so jealous in the old days at Dalton. At every opportunity now she studied them. She wanted to know something about them; but especially she wanted Betty to know about them. Betty must know something about everything—that was of interest to Burke Denby.

To-day, standing with Betty before a glass case of carefully numbered treasures, she was so assiduously studying the catalogue in her hand that she did not notice the approach of the tall man wearing glasses, until an amused voice reached her ears.

"Going in for archÆology, Mrs. Darling?"

So violent was her start that it looked almost like one of guilt.

"Oh, Mr. Estey! I—I didn't see you."

His eyes twinkled.

"I should say not—or hear me, either. I spoke twice before you deigned to turn. I did not know you were so interested in archÆology, Mrs. Darling."

She laughed lightly.

"I'm not. I think it's—" Her face changed suddenly. "Oh, yes, I'm interested—very much interested," she corrected hastily. "But I mean I—I don't know anything about it. But I—I'm trying to learn. Perhaps you— Can you tell me anything about these things?"

Something in her face, the fateful "learn," and her embarrassed manner, sent his thoughts back to the scene between them years before. Stifling an almost uncontrollable impulse to query, "Is it to please him, then, that you must learn archÆology?" he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," he smiled. "Oh, I know a little something of them, it's true; but I've just been chatting with a man out in the front shop who could talk to you by the hour about those things—and grow fat on it. He's looking at a toby jug now. Shall I bring him in?"

"No, no, Mr. Estey, of course not!"

"But, really, you'd find him interesting, I'm sure. I met him in Egypt last year. His name is Denby—a New Englander like— Why, Mrs. Darling, what is the matter? Are you faint? You're white as chalk!"

She shook her head.

"No, no, I'm all right. Did you mean"—with white lips she asked the question—"Mr. John Denby?" She threw a quick look at Betty, who was now halfway across the room standing in awed wonder before a huge Buddha.

"No, this is Burke Denby, John Denby's son. I met them both last year. But you seem to— Do you know them?"

"Yes." She said the word quietly, yet with an odd restraint that puzzled him. He saw that the color was coming back to her face—what he could not see or know was that underneath that calm exterior the little woman at his side was wildly adjuring herself: "Now, mind, mind, this is an emergency. Mind you meet it right!" He saw that she took one quick step toward Betty, only to stop and look about her a little uncertainly.

"Mr. Estey,"—she was facing him now. Her chin was lifted determinedly, but he noticed that her lips were trembling. "I do not want to see Mr. Burke Denby, and he must not see me. There is no way out of this place, apparently, except through the front shop, where he is. I want you to go out there and—and talk to him. Then Betty and I can slip by unnoticed."

"But—but—" stammered the dumfounded man.

"Mr. Estey, you will do what I ask you to—and please go—quickly! He's sure to come out to see—these." She just touched the case of Babylonian tablets.

To the man, looking into her anguished eyes, came a swift, overwhelming revelation. He remembered, suddenly, stories he had heard of a tragedy in Burke Denby's domestic affairs. He remembered words—illuminating words—that this woman had said to him. It could not be— And yet—

He caught his breath.

"Is he—are you—"

"I am Mrs. Burke Denby," she interrupted quietly. "You will not betray me, I know. Now, will you go, please?"

For one appalled instant he gazed straight into her eyes; then without a word he turned and left her.

He knew, a minute later, that he was saying something (he wondered afterward what it was) to Mr. Burke Denby out in the main shop. He knew, too, without looking up, that a woman and a little girl passed quietly by at the other side of the room and disappeared through the open doorway. Then, dazedly, Mr. Donald Estey looked about him. He was wondering if, after all, he had not been dreaming.

That evening he learned that it was not a dream. Freely, and with a frank confidence that touched him deeply, the woman he had known as Mrs. Darling told him the whole story. He heard it with naturally varying emotions. He tried to be just, to be coolly unprejudiced. He tried also, to hide his own heartache. He even tried to be glad that she loved her husband, as she so unmistakably did.

"And you'll tell him now, of course—where you are," he said, when she had finished.

"No, no! I can't do that."

"But do you think that is—right?"

"I am sure it is."

"But if your husband wants you—"

"He doesn't want me."

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure."

A curious look came to the man's eyes, a grim smile to his lips.

"Er"—he hesitated a little—"you don't want to forget that—er—you have long ago qualified for—that understudy. You remember that—I wanted you."

The rich color that flamed into her face told that she fully understood what he meant, yet she shook her head vehemently.

"No, no! Ah, please, don't jest about—that. I was very much in earnest—indeed, I was! And I thought then—that I really could—could— But I understand—lots of things now that I never understood before. It is really all for Betty that I am working now. I want to make her—what he would want her to be."

"Nonsense, my dear woman! As if you yourself were not the most—"

She stopped him with a gesture. Her eyes had grown very serious.

"I don't want you to talk that way, please. I would rather think—just of Betty."

"But what about—him?"

"I don't know." Her eyes grew fathomless. She turned them toward the window. "Of course I think and think and think. And of course I wonder—how it's all coming out. I'm sure I'm doing right now, and I think—I was doing right—then."

"Then?"

"When I went away—at the first. I can't see how I could have done anything else, as things were. Some way, all along, I've felt as if I were traveling a—a long road, and that on each side was a tall hedge. I can't look over it, nor through it. I can't even look ahead—very far. The road turns—so often. But there have never been any crossroads—there's never been any other way I could take, as I looked at it. Don't you see, Mr. Estey?"

"Yes, I think I see." The old baffled pain had come back to his eyes, but she did not seem to notice it. Her gaze had drifted back to the window.

"And so I feel that now I'm still on that road and that it's leading—somewhere; and some day I shall know. Until then, there isn't anything I can do—don't you see?—there isn't anything I can do but to keep—straight ahead. There really isn't, Mr. Estey."

"No, I suppose there isn't," said Mr. Donald Estey, rising to his feet with a long sigh.