Woodward assented.

"Tell her she shall have her release, but to get it she will have to

walk through the mire and there will be no one waiting for her on the

other side. Can you remember that? Not even you will be there." He was

entirely self-assured so that Woodward felt a chill of dismay.

"I shall contest the suit," went on Jasper, "and I believe that I

shall win it. You may tell Betty so if you like or she can wait to

hear it from my lawyer." He put the envelope into his pocket, crossed

the room, and held back one of the crimson curtains of the door.

"If you have nothing more to say," he smiled, "neither have I.

Good-bye."

He bowed slightly, and Woodward found himself passing before him in

silence and some confusion. He stood for a moment in the hall and,

having stammered his way to a cold "Good-afternoon," he put on his hat

and went out.

Jasper returned to the empty drawing-room and began his weaving march.

Before he could begin his spinning which he hoped would entangle Betty

and leave her powerless for him to hold or to release at will, he must

go to Jane West and tell her what trick life with his help had played

upon her. The prospect was bitterly distasteful. Jasper accused

himself of selfishness. Because she cared nothing for the world, was a

creature apart, he had let the world think what it would. He knew that

an askance look would not hurt her; for himself, secure in innocence,

he did not care; for Betty, he had thought her cruelly certain of him.

He went to Jane the day after his interview with Woodward Kane. It was

Sunday afternoon. She was out, but came in very soon, and he stood up

to meet her with an air of confusion and guilt.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked, pulling her gloves from her

long hands.

Her quickly observant eyes swept him. She walked to him and stood

near. The frosty air was still about her and her face was lightly

stung to color with exercise. Her wild eyes were startling under the

brim of her smart, tailored hat.

Jasper put a hand on either of her shoulders and bent his head before

her. "My poor child--if I'd only left you in your kitchen!"

Joan tightened her lips, then smiled uncertainly. "You've got me

scared," she said, stepped back and sat down, her hands in her muff.

"What is it?" she asked; and in that moment of waiting she was sickly

reminded of other moments in her life--of the nearing sound of

Pierre's webs on a crystal winter night, of the sound of Prosper's

footsteps going away from her up the mountain trail on a swordlike,

autumn morning.




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