"Good-by, Jim," she said, with some emotion. "I'm so glad to know you're happy."

"You bet," he grinned. "Never mind, I can get out all right. Good-by again."

"Good-by," she said very softly.

The door closed behind him, and once more she took up her solitary vigil at the window. If John would only come! The precious minutes were slipping away. They would never be able to make that train. She wondered what had detained him. Suddenly, a cold chill ran through her. Suppose he had met some one downtown who had told him about her and Brockton. Then he would never come back again, or, if he did, it would be only to wreak his vengeance. In spite of herself she trembled at the mere idea. To change her thoughts, she began to busy herself about the room, collecting the small packages, counting the trunks, showing Annie how to close the apartment when they had gone. Suddenly the front doorbell rang. She gave a joyful exclamation.

"Hurry, Annie—there's Mr. Madison!"

The girl passed into the corridor and a moment later her voice was heard saying:

"She's waitin' for yuh, Mr. Madison."

Laura hastened forward to greet him. John came in, hat in hand, followed by Annie. He stopped short as he entered, and looked long and searchingly at Laura, who had hurried joyously to embrace him. Instinctively she felt that something had happened. That look of suspicion and distrust was not in his eyes when he left her that morning, She trembled but remained firm. Annie disappeared and Laura took his hat and coat and placed them on a trunk.

"Aren't you a little late, dear?" she said timidly.

He remained gloomily silent for a moment. Then, he said:

"I—I was detained downtown a few minutes. I think that we can carry out our plan all right."

"Has anything happened?" she inquired, trying to conceal her anxiety.

"No," he replied hesitatingly. "I've made all the arrangements. The men will be here in a few minutes for your trunks." Feeling in his pocket, he added: "I've got the railroad tickets and everything else, but——"

"But what, John?"

He went over to her. Instinctively she understood that she was about to go through an ordeal. She seemed to feel that he had become acquainted with something which might interfere with the realization of her long-cherished dream. He looked at her long and searchingly. Evidently he, too, was much wrought up, but when he spoke it was with a calm dignity and force which showed the character of the man.

"Laura," he began.

"Yes?" she answered timidly.

"You know when I went downtown I said I was going to call on two or three of my friends in Park Row."

"I know."

"I told them who I was going to marry."

"Well?"

"They said something about you and Brockton, and I found that they'd said too much, but not quite enough."

"What did they say?"

"Just that—too much and not quite enough. There's a minister waiting for us over on Madison Avenue. You see, then you'll be my wife. That's pretty serious business, and all I want now from you is the truth."

She looked at him inquiringly, fearfully—not knowing what to say.

"Well?" she stammered.

"Just tell me what they said was just an echo of the past—that it came from what had been going on before that wonderful day out there in Colorado. Tell me that you've been on the level. I don't want their word, Laura—I just want yours."

The girl shrank back a moment before his anxious face, then summoned up all her courage, looked frankly into his eyes, and with as innocent an expression as she was able to put on, said:

"Yes, John, I have been on the level."

He sprang forward with a joyful exclamation:

"I knew that, dear, I knew it!" he cried.

Taking her in his arms, he kissed her hotly. She clung to him in pitiful helplessness. His manner had suddenly changed to one of almost boyish happiness.

"Well," he went on joyfully, "now everything's all ready, let's get on the job. We haven't a great deal of time. Get your duds on."

"When do we go?"

"Right away. The idea is to get away."

"All right," she said gleefully. Getting her hat off the trunk, she crossed to the mirror and put it on.

He surveyed the room and laughed.

"You've got trunks enough, haven't you? One might think we're moving a whole colony. And, by the way, to me you are a whole colony—anyway, you're the only one I ever wanted to settle with."

"That's good," she laughed lightly.

Taking her bag off the bureau, she went to the trunk and got her purse, coat and umbrella, as if ready to leave. Hurriedly gathering her things together and adjusting her hat, she said, almost to herself, in a low tone:

"I'm so excited. Come on!"

Madison went to get his hat and coat, and both were about to leave, when suddenly they heard the outer door slam. Instinctively both halted and waited. Who could it be? John looked questioningly at Laura, who stood, pale as death and as motionless as if changed into marble. A moment later Brockton entered leisurely, with his hat on and his coat, half-drawn off, hanging loosely on his arm. He paid no attention to either of them, but walked straight through the room, without speaking, and disappeared through the portieres into the sleeping apartments beyond. His manner was that of a man who knows he is at home and has no account to render to anyone either for the manner of his entrance or what rooms he may enter. Laura, who at first had made a quick movement forward, as if to bar his further progress, fell back, terrified. Putting her coat, bag and umbrella down on a chair, she stood, dazed and trembling, powerless to avert the crisis which she realized was at hand. Madison, who had watched the broker's actions with amazement, suddenly grew rigid as a statue. His square jaw snapped with a determined click, and one hand slipped stealthily into his hip pocket. No one spoke. The tense silence was ominous and painful.

It seemed like an hour, but less than a minute had elapsed when Brockton reentered, with coat and hat off. Carelessly picking up a newspaper, he took a seat in the armchair, and, leisurely crossing his legs, looked over at the others, who still stood motionless, watching him. Greeting John lightly, he said:

"Hello, Madison, when did you get in?"

Slowly John seemed to recover himself. Suddenly his hand went swiftly to his hip pocket and he drew out a revolver. Eyeing the broker with savage determination, he deliberately and slowly covered him with the deadly weapon. Brockton, who had seen the movement, sprang quickly to his feet. Laura, terror stricken, screamed loudly and threw herself right in the line of fire.

"Don't shoot!" she pleaded hoarsely.

Madison kept his rival covered, but he did not shoot. There was an uncertain expression in his face, as if he was wavering in his own mind as to whether he would kill this man or not. Slowly his whole frame relaxed. He lowered the pistol and quietly replaced it in his pocket, much to the relief of Brockton, who, notwithstanding the danger that confronted him, had stood his ground like a man. Turning to Laura, the Westerner said slowly:

"Thank you. You said that just in time."

There was an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Laura weeping half hysterically. Finally Brockton, who had recovered his self-possession, said:

"Well, you see, Madison—what I told you that time in Denver——"

John made another threatening gesture which brought him face to face with the broker.

"Look out, Brockton," he said. "I don't want to talk to you——"

"All right," rejoined the broker, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Madison turned to Laura. Peremptorily he said:

"Now get that man out of here."

"John—I——" she protested cheerfully.

"Get him out!" he almost shouted. "Get him out before I lose my temper, or they'll—or they'll take him out without his help!"

The girl laid a supplicating hand on the broker's arm.

"Go—go! Please go!" she pleaded.

"All right," he replied. "If that's the way you want it, I'm willing."

He turned and went into the inner room to get his hat and coat, while John and Laura stood facing each other, without speaking. Brockton soon reentered, and without a word moved in the direction of the door. The others remained motionless. As the broker put his hand on the door, Laura started forward. Turning to Madison, she pointed at the man who was leaving.

"Before he goes," she cried, "I want to tell you how I learned to despise him. John, I know you don't believe me, but it's true—it's true. I don't love anyone in the world but just you. I know you don't think that it can be explained—maybe there isn't any explanation. I couldn't help it. I was so poor, and I had to live. He wouldn't let me work. He's let me live only one way, and I was hungry. Do you know what that means? I was hungry and didn't have clothes to keep me warm, and I tried, oh, John! I tried so hard to do the other thing—the right thing—but I couldn't."

He listened in silence. There was no anger in his eyes, no menace in his attitude. He merely appeared dumbfounded, crushed; there was in his face a look of mute, helpless astonishment, as a child might look when it saw an edifice of sand carefully and lovingly erected, levelled to the ground by the first careless wave. Almost apologetically he said:

"I—I know I couldn't help much, and perhaps I could have forgiven you if you hadn't lied to me. That's what hurt."

He turned fiercely on Brockton, and approaching close so he could look him straight in the eyes, he said contemptuously:

"I expected you to lie; you're that kind of a man. You left me with a shake of the hand, and you gave me your word, and you didn't keep it. Why should you keep it? Why should anything make any difference to you? Why, you pup, you've no right to live in the same world with decent folks. Now you make yourself scarce, or take it from me, I'll just kill you, that's all!"

"I'll leave, Madison," replied the broker coolly; "but I'm not going to let you think that I didn't do the right thing with you. She came to me voluntarily. She said she wanted to come back. I told you she'd do that when I was in Colorado; you didn't believe me. I told you that when she did this sort of thing I'd let you know. I dictated a letter to her to send to you, and I left it, sealed and stamped, in her hands to mail. She didn't do it. If there's been a lie, she told it. I didn't."

Madison looked at Laura, who hung her head in mute acknowledgment of her guilt. As he suddenly realized how she had tricked him he turned pale, and with a smothered cry sank down on one of the trunks. Until this very moment he still believed in her. He could have forgiven her returning to Brockton, everything; but she had deliberately lied to him and deceived him. That he could never forgive. There was a moment's silence, and Brockton advanced towards him.

"You see! Why, my boy, whatever you think of me or the life I lead, I wouldn't have had this come to you for anything in the world. No, I wouldn't. My women don't mean a whole lot to me because I don't take them seriously. I wish I had the faith and the youth to feel the way you do. You're all in and broken up, but I wish I could be broken up just once. I did what I thought was best for you because I didn't think she could ever go through the way you wanted her to. I'm sorry it's all turned out bad. Good-bye."

He looked at John for a moment, as if expecting some reply, but the big Westerner maintained a dogged silence. With a shrug of his shoulders and without so much as glancing at Laura, Brockton strode to the door and slammed it shut behind him.



Madison stood looking at her in silence. There was nothing more to say or do. The broker was right. He had been a poor fool; he had taken this woman too seriously. She was no better than all of her kind. Yet it seemed as if there was something wrong somewhere. It had ended so differently to what he expected. He would never believe in womankind again. Slowly he made his way toward the door, while she, her heart breaking, her face white as death, the hot tears streaming down her cheeks, stood still, not daring to say a word or make a movement. His drawn face and haunted eyes looked as though some great grief had suddenly come into his life, a grief he could not understand. But he gave her no chance to speak. He seemed to be feeling around for something to say, some way to get out and away without further delay. He went towards the door, and with a pitiful gesture of his hand, seemed to be saying farewell forever. With a stifled sob, she darted forward.

"John, I——"

He turned and looked at her sternly.

"I'd be careful what I said if I were you. Don't try to make excuses. I understand."

"It's not excuses," she sobbed. "I want to tell you what's in my heart, but I can't; it won't speak, and you don't believe my voice."

"You'd better leave it unsaid."

"But I must tell," she cried hysterically. "I can't let you go like this."

Going over to him, she made a weak attempt to put her arms around him; but calmly, dispassionately, he took her hands and put them down. Wildly, pleadingly, she went on:

"I love you! I—how can I tell you—but I do, I do, and you won't believe me."

He remained silent for a moment, and then taking her by the hand, he led her over to the chair and placed her in it. He drew back a few steps, and in a gentle but firm tone, tinged with grief which carried tremendous conviction with it, he said:

"I think you do as far as you are able; but, Laura, I guess you don't know what a decent sentiment is. You're not immoral, you're just unmoral, kind o' all out of shape, and I'm afraid there isn't a particle of hope for you. When we met neither of us had any reason to be proud, but I believed that you would see in this the chance of salvation which sometimes comes to a man and a woman fixed as we were then. What had been had been. It was all in the great to-be for us, and now, how you've kept your word! What little that promise meant, when I thought you handed me a new lease of life!"

She cowered before him, unable to say a word in her own defense, almost wishing he would beat her.

"You're killing me—killing me!" she cried in anguish.

He shrugged his shoulders skeptically.

"Don't make such a mistake," he replied ironically. "In a month you'll recover. There will be days when you will think of me, just for a moment, and then it will be all over. With you it is the easiest way, and it always will be. You'll go on and on until you're finally left a wreck, just the type of the common woman. And you'll sink until you're down to the very bed-rock of depravity. I pity you."

Laura quickly raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes were swollen, her face haggard and drawn. Madison found himself wondering how he could ever have thought her even good looking. Her voice was metallic and hard.

"You'll never leave me to do that. I'll kill myself!" she cried hoarsely.

"Perhaps that's the only thing left for you to do," he replied cynically; "but you'll not do it. It's easier to live."

He went to get his hat and coat. Then he turned and looked at her. Laura rose at the same time. There was an unnatural glitter in her eyes. She breathed hard. Her bosom rose and fell spasmodically.

"John," she cried exaltedly, "I said I'd kill myself, and I mean every word of it. If it's the only thing to do, I'll do it, and I'll do it before your very eyes!"

Quickly she snatched up the satchel, opened it, and took out the revolver. Then she stood facing him, waiting.

"You understand," she cried hysterically, "that when your hand touches that door I'm going to shoot myself. I will, so help me God!"

He halted and looked back at her, a covert smile of contempt hovering about his mouth.

"Kill yourself—before me!" he exclaimed ironically. "You'll wait a minute, won't you?" Returning to the inner room, he called out: "Annie! Annie!"

The colored maid came running in.

"Yessuh!"

Madison pointed to Laura.

"You see your mistress there has a pistol in her hand?"

The girl, frightened out of her wits, could only gurgle an incoherent:

"Yessuh!"

"She wants to kill herself," said Madison. "I just called you to witness that the act is entirely voluntary on her part." Turning to the frenzied, hysterical woman, he said indifferently: "Now go ahead!"

In a state bordering on collapse, Laura dropped the pistol on the floor.

"John, I—can't——"

Madison waved the maid away.

"Annie, she's evidently changed her mind. You may go."

"But, Miss Laura, Ah——"

"You may go!" he cried peremptorily.

Bewildered and not understanding, the negress disappeared through the portieres. In the same gentle tone, but carrying with it an almost frigid conviction, he went on:

"You didn't have the nerve. I knew you wouldn't. For a moment you thought the only decent thing for you to do was to die, and yet you couldn't go through. I am sorry for you—more sorry than I can tell."

He took a step toward the door.

"You're going—you're going?" she wailed.

"Yes," he replied firmly.

She wept softly. Between her sobs she cried:

"And—and—you never thought that perhaps I'm frail, and weak, and a woman, and that now, maybe, I need your strength, and you might give it to me, and it might be better. I want to lean on you—lean on you, John. I know I need some one." Coaxingly she entreated him; in her tenderest, most seductive tones she made a last desperate effort to win him back. "Aren't you going to let me? Won't you give me another chance?" she pleaded tearfully.

He repelled her coldly.

"I gave you your chance, Laura," he replied.

"Give me another!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck.

He struggled with her, disentangling himself from her frantic embrace. Pulling away, he said determinedly:

"You leaned the wrong way. Good-bye."

Going quickly to the door before she could again stop him, he opened the door and disappeared. An instant later she heard the outer corridor door slam. He was gone—forever!

She uttered a shrill scream of despair.

"John—John—I——"

Only a dead silence answered her frenzied, pitiful call. John was no longer there to hear her. He was gone from her—forever. She would never look on his face again. She could not blame him. She alone was at fault. But what a blow! Her dream of a life of happiness with the man she loved, her dream of self-redemption and regeneration, all that was blasted at one stroke! And now Will Brockton was gone also. She had lost them both. Abandoned and despised by the man she loved and also by the man to whom she owed everything, her future life was a blank. She must begin her career all over again. She had sunk to what she was before. For several minutes she crouched motionless on the trunk, her entire body shaken by convulsive sobbing. Then suddenly she sat up and looked wildly around her. Rising in a dazed fashion from the trunk, she staggered a few steps across the room. All at once her eyes caught the gleam of the pistol lying on the floor. With a loud cry of mingled despair and anger, she picked the weapon up, and, crossing to the bureau, threw it in a drawer. Then, with a sigh of intense relief, she called out loudly:

"Annie! Annie!"

The negress put her head through the portieres, her eyes as big as saucers. She had heard the loud talking, but had been afraid to come near the room. Looking at her mistress with blank astonishment, she exclaimed:

"Ain't yuh goin' away, Miss Laura?"



By a supreme effort, Laura pulled herself together. She was a fool to show such weakness. Why should she allow these men to interfere with her and dictate to her? Defiantly she cried:

"No, I'm not! I'm going to stay right here. Open these trunks. Take out those clothes. Get me my prettiest dress. Hurry up!" Going to the mirror, while Annie obeyed her orders, she added: "Get my new hat! Dress up my body and paint up my face—it's all they've left of me." In a lower, agonized tone, to herself, she added bitterly: "They've taken my soul away with them!"

"Yes'm, yes'm," cried Annie, happy at anything which promised a change.

Opening the big trunk, the negress took out the handsome dresses which had been so carefully packed only a few moments before. Then unfastening a box, she lifted out the large picture hat with plumes which her mistress took from her. As Laura stood in front of the mirror, putting her hat on and touching up her complexion to hide the traces of recent tears, she forced herself to hum.

"Doll me up, Annie!" she cried lightly, as if by sheer force of will power compelling herself to be light hearted and gay.

"Yuh goin' out, Miss Laura?"

"Yes, I'm going to Broadway to make a hit, and to h—ll with the rest!"

As she spoke, a hurdy-gurdy in the street under her window began to play the tune of "Bon-bon Buddy, My Chocolate Drop." Laura stopped her humming and listened. There was something in this rag-time melody which at that moment particularly appealed to her. It was peculiarly suggestive of the low life, the criminality and prostitution that constitute the night excitement of that section of New York City known as "The Tenderloin." The common tune and its vulgar associations was like the spreading before her eyes of a vivid panorama showing with terrific realism the inevitable depravity that awaited her. Rudely torn from every ideal which she had so weakly endeavored to grasp, she had been, thrown back into the mire and slime at the very moment when her emancipation seemed to be assured. Standing before the tall mirror, with her flashy dress on one arm and her equally exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, she recognized in herself the type of woman depicted by the vulgar street melody, and the full realization of her ignominy came to her now, perhaps for the first time.

The negress, in the happiness of continuing to serve her mistress in her questionable career, picked up the tune as she started to unpack the finery which only a short time before had been so carefully and lovingly laid away in the trunk. Shaken by convulsive sobs, resigned to what she was powerless to prevent, Laura turned and tottered towards the bedroom. Then, as the true significance of her pitiful position dawned upon her, she sank, limp and helpless, on the sofa, gasping pathetically:

"Oh, God! Oh, my God!"

In the street below the hurdy-gurdy continued grinding out "Bon-bon Buddy, My Chocolate Drop," with the negress idly accompanying it.

THE END