From that time on I was haunted by Rosemary's thin, beautiful face, the suppressed anguish in her eyes, and the wretched conviction that I was of no use—that I'd stumbled against a high, blank wall. Often at night I dreamed of her in a feverish way, queer dreams that I couldn't remember when I waked, though they left me depressed and anxious. And then, one night nearly four weeks after Murray had been pronounced a saved man, came the climax.

As usual, I was thinking of the Murrays when I went to bed—how well and handsome and happy he was, how mysteriously and silently the girl was fading. I must have dropped off to sleep with these thoughts in my mind, and how long I slept I don't know, but I waked, sitting up, hearing loud sobs. At first I imagined they were Rosemary's. Then I realized that they were my own.

In a moment Jim was with me, holding me tight, as if I were a child. "Darling one, what is it? Tell Jim!" he implored.

"I don't know," I wailed. "Except the letter—or was it a telegram? And then that dark precipice! She was on the edge. She called to me: 'Elizabeth—help! help!' But the whole ocean came rolling between us. Oh, Jim, I must get to her!"

"I suppose it's Rosemary you're talking about," Jim said. "But it was only a dream, dearest child. You're not awake yet. Nothing has happened to Rosemary."

But I couldn't be consoled. "I suppose it was a dream," I wept. "But it's true; I know it is. I know something has happened—something terrible."

"Well, let's hope it hasn't," soothed Jim. "What could happen in the middle of the night? It's a quarter to three. We can't do anything till morning. Then, if you still feel anxious, I'll take you over to the Manor in the car as early as you like. That is, I will if you're good and do your best to go to sleep again now."

How I adored him, and how sorry I was for Rosemary because a black cloud obscured the brightness of her love, which might have been as sweet as mine!

I couldn't sleep again as Jim wished me to do, but he comforted me, and the dark hours passed. As soon as it was light, however, I bounded up, bathed and dressed, and Jim did the same for the sake of "standing by"; which was silly of us, perhaps, because it would be hardly decent to start before half-past nine. If we did we should reach the Manor at an absurd hour, especially as Ralston and Rosemary were lazy creatures, even now, when he was rejoicing in this new lease of life. She hated to get up early, and he liked to do what she liked.

"If anything had been wrong, I think we should have got a telegram by this time," said Jim, as he tried to make me eat breakfast. "You know how quickly a wire is delivered at our office from Merriton, and——"

At that instant a footman appeared with a brown envelope on a silver tray. It was addressed to "Lady Courtenaye," but I asked Jim to open it and read the message first.

"Rosemary has—gone," he told me. "Murray asks if, by any chance, she has come here. There's a 'reply-paid' form; but he wants us to run over to him if we can."

Jim scrawled an answer:

Deeply regret she is not here. Will be with you shortly.

and sent it off by the post-office boy who waited, though it was probable that we should see Murray before our response to his question reached him.

I think I was never so sorry for any man in my life!

"I have been too happy!" he said, when he had come to meet us in the hall—walking firmly in these days—and had led us into his study or "den." "She's such a friend of yours, Elizabeth. Has she consciously or unconsciously given you some clue?"

"No real clue," I told him, regretfully; "though I may think of a forgotten hint when we've talked things over. But you must tell us exactly what has happened."

Poor Murray held himself in iron control. Perhaps he even "hoped for the best," as Jim urged him to do. But I saw through the false calmness into a despairing soul. Already the newly lit flame of restored vitality burned low. He looked years older, and I would have given much if Sir Beverley or even the understudy had been in the house. Doctor Thomas had gone a week ago, however, Sir Beverley judging that Murray could now get on by himself. Alas, he had not guessed how literally the man would be left alone to do this!

The morning of yesterday had passed, Murray said, in an ordinary way. Then, by the second post, which arrived after luncheon, a registered letter had come for Rosemary. Such letters appeared now and then, at regular intervals, and Rosemary had explained that they were sent on by her bank in London, and contained enclosures from America. Rosemary never talked to him of these letters, or of America at all, having told him once, before their marriage, that her one link with that country now was her sister. Whether or not she was fond of the sister he could not say; but she always seemed restless when one of these registered letters arrived.

Yesterday was no exception to the rule. When the letter was handed to Rosemary she and her husband were having coffee and cigarettes in her boudoir. She flushed at sight of the envelope, but tossed it aside unopened, as though she took no interest in its contents, and continued the conversation as if it had not been broken off. Murray felt uneasily conscious, however, that she was thinking of the letter, and made an excuse to leave her alone so that she might read it in peace. Depressed and anxious, he strolled out on the lawn with the dogs. One of them made a rush at the open bay window into the boudoir; and, snatching the animal back by its collar, Murray caught a glimpse of Rosemary burning something in the grate.

Soon after she had joined him out of doors, and had made an effort to be gay. He had thought, however, that she was absent-minded, and he longed to ask what the trouble was; but America as a subject of conversation was taboo.

For the rest of the day they were mostly together, and never had Rosemary been so loving or so sweet.

At night Ralston had remained with his wife in her room till twelve. They had talked of their wonderful meeting on the Aquitania, and the life to which it had led. Then the clock striking midnight reminded Rosemary that it was late. She had a headache, she said, and would take some aspirin. Murray was banished to his own room, which adjoined hers, but the door was left open between.

It was some time before Ralston went to sleep, yet he heard no sound from Rosemary's room. At last, however, he must have slumbered heavily, for he knew no more till dawn. Somehow, he had got into the habit of rousing at six, though he generally dozed again. This time he waked as usual, and, remembering Rosemary's headache, tiptoed to the door and peeped into the darkened room. To his surprise she was not in bed. Still, he was not worried. His thought was that she had risen early and stealthily, not to rouse him, and that she had gone to the bathroom next door to bathe and dress for an early walk.

He tapped at the bathroom door, but getting no answer, turned the handle. Rosemary was not in the room, and there were no towels lying about.

Murray's next move was to draw back the curtains across one of the open windows; and it was then that he saw an envelope stuck into the mirror over the dressing table. His name was on it, and with a stab of apprehension he broke the seal.

The letter which this envelope had contained he showed to Jim and me. It was written in pencil, and was very short. It said:

Good-bye, my Beloved. I must go, and I cannot even tell you why. You may find out some day, but I hope not, for both our sakes. It would only make you more unhappy. You would hate me, I think, if you knew the truth. But oh, try not to do that. I love you so much! I am so happy that you are growing well and strong, yet if I had known I should not have dared to marry you, because from the first this that has happened was bound to happen. Forgive me for hurting you. I didn't mean to do it. I thought only to make your last days on this earth happier, and to keep a blessed memory for myself. While I live I shall love you, but it will be best for you to forget.

Rosemary.

In spite of this farewell, Ralston had hoped to hear something of Rosemary from me. At all events, he wanted our advice, Jim's and mine.

It was a blow to him that we had no news to give; and it was hard even to offer advice. What could we say? I had known for long that the girl was miserable, and this sudden break-up of everything was more of a shock than a surprise. I was afraid to say: "Get her back at any price!" for—the price (not in money but in heart's blood) might prove too high. Instead I hedged.

"What if Rosemary is right?" I ventured. "What if it would be best as she says, for both your sakes, to let her go?"

Murray's eyes flashed rage. "Is that your real advice?" he flung at me. "If it is, you're not the woman I thought you. I'll move heaven and earth to get Rosemary back, because we love each other, and nothing else matters."

"Well, that's what I wanted to find out!" I exclaimed in a changed tone. "That's the way I should feel in your place——"

"I, too!" chimed in Jim.

"And since that is the way you feel," I went on, "I've thought of something, or rather, someone, that may help. Mrs. Paul Jennings."

Ralston stared, and repeated the name.

"Mrs. Paul Jennings? What is she likely to know about Rosemary's secrets that you don't know?"

"That's for you to find out," I answered. "It's an impression I have. I may be mistaken. But it's worth trying. I should send for Mrs. Paul Jennings if I were you."

"I will!" cried Murray. "I'll send a note now—and the car to fetch her here."