CORNELIUS MORRISON HAD arrived in Reddington a few months after the Dallas tragedy. He had reappeared in Helen’s life at a time when every waking moment was dull pain to her, and the days and the months and the years stretched ahead of her like a long, dark, dreary road with a blind end.

Helen Dane had loved the son of the man whose last act had cast such a shadow upon the boy who bore his name. Helen had loved Stephen from the first time he had come to call on her the night after the dance her father had given her when she returned to be the young mistress of his house. He had danced with her half a dozen times that evening. He had claimed her for “Home, Sweet Home.” Well, who had a better right? They had known each other as children, years before they went East to school. Their fathers served on several same boards of directors together. During “Home, Sweet Home” Stephen asked Helen if he might “call.” Such was the custom in those days. He was returning to his law school shortly. He asked if he might call the next evening, that is, if she was going to be at home, and if she hadn’t too many other bookings. She was going to be at home. If she had other bookings, she canceled them. Stephen found her alone.

They sat in Judge Dane’s big quiet drawing-room, one on each side of the rose-shaded table lamp and discussed such impersonal subjects as the football game in New Haven last November, and the boat-race on the Thames last June, and the plays they had seen last spring in New York, and the places they had dined and danced there; and Shaw and Ibsen and Arnold Daly and Nazimova. It was a typical call for that era. Helen had carried on conversations of the same sort with many a young man before. But never had her hands been cold, and her face hot, and never had she lain awake afterward for three hours and a half.