Circumstantial evidence was all against the Spokane. While nobody could say for certain that she had committed the unpardonable sin of going to the bottom, she could not prove an alibi. One day she had been sending out signals of distress by wireless and the next day, when a philanthropic vessel had endeavored to find her in the vicinity from which the appeals had come, there was not a trace of her. Others had joined in the search to no avail. She was finally given up for lost and the search was abandoned. Then and only then, did Dorfield awake to the fact that the popular Danny Dexter had been on the Spokane.

“Poor Mary Louise!” was heard on every side, and then often was added, “Well, thank goodness, she has plenty of money!”

It is strange how many persons seem to feel that plenty of money will soften any blow. Josie’s voice was the only one raised in complaint that Mary Louise would have been better off were she not so well off, but then even Elizabeth had to admit that Josie was a wee bit peculiar about worldly things. In spite of the fact that the astute Josie was practical and businesslike, she had an unworldly philosophy worthy of Diogenes. Like that old gentleman, she would have been perfectly happy with no habitation but a tub but she would have put the tub to more practical use than the ancient worthy is reported to have done.

The time had come for Irene to break the sad news to Mary Louise concerning her dear Danny. It took every bit of character the lame girl possessed to screw her courage up to the point of breaching the subject.

“It wouldn’t be so hard if I didn’t love her so much,” she said to herself, and then added, “but it is because I do love her so much that I am chosen to be the one to do it.”

Like all difficult things it was not so hard to do when once she had started. Dr. Coles had telephoned her that morning that he felt it was hardly fair to keep Mary Louise in ignorance any longer; and the evening before Bob Dulaney had come to tell her that all hope of the Spokane was given up, and that the storm on the Pacific in that particular region had raged so fiercely for several days that it was considered by those experienced in such matters utterly absurd to fancy for an instant that men in open boats could have escaped drowning.

Bob Dulaney was grief-stricken. He had been hoping against all reason that Danny had escaped.

“I just can’t believe it! Old Danny Dexter! Why, ‘Irene for all time,’ Danny was the livest person I ever knew—so alive that I simply can’t think of him as dead.”

“Irene for all time” was a name Bob had for Irene—just a little joke of their own brought about when he was introduced to her by Danny. He usually called her by that funny little title.

“Well, let’s not think of him as dead. Lots of dead persons are more alive than live ones, and lots of live ones are deader than dead ones. Why shouldn’t we just think and speak of Danny as alive? I think it will be a beautiful way to remember him.”

“Oh, ‘Irene for all time,’ you are a comfort to a fellow! I wish I could help you when you have to break it to poor little Mary Louise. It is hard on you to be the one but then it is a compliment too. Everybody turns to you when something difficult must be done.”

Irene smiled. It was pleasant to be approved of and liked by this clean, clever young man. Perhaps his kind approval was one thing that made the difficult task a little easier than she had dreamed possible.

Mary Louise was going over her grandfather’s clothes and his personal effects. Irene found her in a small cozy room down stairs, the room where Grandpa Jim had loved to sit and smoke and see his intimate friends. It was the same room where Mary Louise’s wedding presents had been when Felix Markle and his confederate had so cleverly packed them all off. Mary Louise had had all of her grandfather’s things brought to this room and she was busily engaged in going over piles of wearing apparel with a view to giving away the things to persons who might need them.

“I know Grandpa Jim would hate to see good warm clothes go to waste, but it is hard to part with some of these things that bring him back so plainly.” She held up a broadcloth coat that seemed to have retained the shape of the beloved old gentleman.

“To whom will you give them, Mary Louise?” asked Irene.

“I can’t bear to give them to anyone who would look ridiculous in them. Uncle Eben, of course, wants everything, but he is so short and bow-legged and Grandpa Jim was over six feet. I am giving him some of the things, but I can’t contemplate Uncle Eben in a frock coat that would almost touch the ground. There is a nice old gentleman who lives around the corner, old Mr. Curtiss. He hasn’t been here very long and he doesn’t know many persons, but Grandpa Jim struck up an acquaintance with him and liked to talk of old times with him. He is from South Carolina and has seen better days—not that he ever mentions it, but one just surmises he has. He is as poor as poor can be now.”

“Why I know him! Bob Dulaney introduced me one day when we were sitting in the park. Bob says he has a small job on his newspaper. They send him out to interview a certain type of politician and, besides that, he writes the obituaries and, being well up on who’s who, he keeps a little ahead on special articles about great persons who are likely to die soon or suddenly.”

“I think he would be a very suitable person to wear Grandpa Jim’s things. He is tall and dignified and the poor dear is so very shabby. Do you think it would hurt his feelings?” asked Mary Louise, tenderly patting the broadcloth coat.

“I don’t think it could at all. He’d feel honored, I believe, because giving things like this is not like charity. Let me help you bundle them up.”

Together the two girls worked, Irene folding and wrapping the things as Mary Louise sorted them.

“All of this pile goes to the Salvation Army; these things to Uncle Eben and these to Mr. Curtiss. I want Uncle Peter Conant to have his silver-headed cane. His fur-lined overcoat I have saved for Danny.”

Finally, the clothes were all neatly wrapped and tied up, each with a label written in Irene’s clear legible handwriting. It was difficult for Irene to write evenly with her hand trembling with emotion at the thought of the ordeal ahead of her. She felt it would be best to wait for her friend to get the business in hand finished before she had anything more to bear, and so she waited until the last string was tied, the last bundle labeled, and Uncle Eben had come and carried them all off to be delivered at his convenience, before she broached the subject uppermost in her heart.

“Mary Louise, I have something to tell you,” she began.

“Yes, darling, I know you have.”

“Oh, you do?”

“I have known it all morning, ever since you came in the room. I am ready to hear now. What is it, Irene?”

For a moment Irene could not speak. She shut her eyes and prayed for strength. If Mary Louise could be so calm, it was not for her to break down.

“Has it—has it something to do with—with Danny?” For a moment Mary Louise grasped a chair for support. Her breath came in gasps. Then she gathered her forces, stiffened up and smiled wanly. “I’ve felt it all along. What is it? You can tell me dear—I have touched bottom, as it were, in misery and unhappiness and I can bear anything.” “The Spokane is reported missing,” said Irene softly.

“Missing,” Mary Louise half whispered. “Tell me more.”

“She was sending out wireless calls for help—”

“Ah! It was then that Danny sent me the message. He must have known and tried to get a word to me before—before.”

“Yes, dear!”

“And wasn’t it wonderful that it reached me? And wasn’t it like Danny to do it? He knows—knew—wireless telegraphy, you remember, Irene? He learned it in his service overseas.”

“Yes, dear!”

Mary Louise spoke softly:

“What else do they know?” Her eyes were dry and strangely brilliant.

“Nothing but that various vessels went to the assistance of the Spokane but could find no trace of her and a great storm, a hurricane, had been raging for some time during and after the Spokane’s wireless messages were received and it is feared—it is believed—it is known by persons who have had experience in such things that lifeboats could not have weathered such a storm. It is thought that all on board were—were lost.”

“Nobody can tell though, for sure!” there was a ring of hope in the poor girl’s voice.

“No darling, not for sure, but we are all of us afraid there is absolutely no chance for Danny to have been saved. Even Bob Dulaney has given up hope—and you know Bob would keep on hoping against hope. He came last night to tell me I should tell you. Dr. Coles telephoned this morning that it was hardly fair to keep you in ignorance any longer.”

“You are all of you very good to me. My words sound cold but I don’t mean them to. I know how hard this has been for you, my dear. It was just like you to take such a hard task on yourself. I—I do thank you, Irene.”

Never a tear, scarcely a falter in the clear voice! It was more tragic to have Mary Louise take the news that way than it would have been had she broken down and wept.

“You mustn’t feel too sorry for me, Irene. Tell the girls they mustn’t either. I can bear this trouble. Somehow I feel that I am not the one who has to bear it. I have been very happy with both Grandpa Jim and Danny and, now that they are gone, I can remember the happy times and be thankful for them. But oh, Irene, the dreary, dreary years to come!” She leaned back in her chair, for a moment she closed her eyes and her mouth looked weary and drawn.