"She has written to me," said Jasper. "She wants her liberty. She

wants it in such a way that she will fly clear and I--yes, and you,

too, will be left in the mud. There's a man somewhere, of course. She

thinks she has evidence, witnesses against me. I don't know what

rubbish she has got together. But I'm going to fight her. I'm going to

win. I'll save you if I can, Jane; if not, of course I am at your

service for any amends--"

He stopped in his halting speech, for Joan had stood up and was moving

across the room, her eyes fastened on the letter in his hands. She had

the air of a sleep-walker.

She opened a drawer of her desk, took out an old tin box, once used

for tobacco, and drew forth a small, gray envelope torn in two. Then

she came back to him and said, "Let me see that letter," and he obeyed

as though she had the right to ask.

She took his letter and hers and compared the two, the small, gray

squares lying unopened on her knee, and she spoke incomprehensibly.

"Betty is 'the tall child,'" she said, and laughed with a catch in her

breath.

Jasper looked at the envelopes. They were identical; Betty's gray

note-paper crossed by Betty's angular, upright hand, very bold, very

black. The torn envelope was addressed to Prosper Gael. Jasper took

it, opened each half, laid the parts together, and read: Jasper is dying. By the time you get this he will be dead. If

you can forgive me for having failed you in courage last year,

come back. What I have been to you before I will be again, only,

this time, we can love openly. Come back.

"Jane,"--Morena spoke brokenly,--"what does it mean?"

"He built that cabin in Wyoming for her," said Joan, speaking as

though Jasper had seen the cañon hiding-place and known its history,

"and she didn't come. He brought me there on his sled. I was hurt. I

was terribly hurt. He took care of me--"

"Prosper?" Jasper thrust in. His face was drawn with excitement.

"Yes. Prosper Gael. I was there with him for months. At first I wasn't

strong enough to go away, and then, after a while, I tried. But I was

too lonely and sorrowful. In the spring I loved him. I thought I loved

him. He wanted me. I was all alone in the world. I didn't know that he

loved another woman. I thought she was dead--like Pierre. Prosper had

clothes for her there. I suppose--I've thought it out since--that she

was to leave as if for a short journey, and then secretly go on that

long one, and she couldn't take many things with her. So he had

beautiful stuffs for her--and a little suit to wear in the snow.

That's how I came to call her 'the tall child,' seeing that little

suit, long and narrow.... This letter came one morning, one awfully

bright morning. He read it and went out and the next day he went away.

Afterwards I found the letter torn in two beside his desk on the

floor. I took it and I've always kept it. 'The tall child'! He looked

so terrible when I called her that.... And she was your Betty all the

time!"




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