Helen’s first impulse was to raise the window—to call. She hesitated. It might not be she. The alley lights were dim and far away. And if it proved to be, was it wise to establish communication with her when she was taking such pains to avoid it? No. Laurel’s mother knew best. The minute she became even a recognized shadow in her child’s life she ran the risk of defeating the object of her sacrifice.

Laurel believed her mother was somewhere in South America and submitted without protest to the futility of locating her, submitted, too, without protest to the futility of breaking her determined silence. If she even suspected that her mother was near by in hiding somewhere, watching, looking on in the old eager anxious way, she would not be content till she had found her; and if she found her, and if it proved, indeed that it was as Helen had persuaded her to hope, that her mother had married Alfred Munn for her sake, as likely as not—no, more likely than not—Laurel would insist upon returning to her mother under whatever circumstances. She was capable of it.

Laurel was almost her old self now. She smiled again, laughed again, shone and glowed again over old delights and joys, over new delights and joys. Occasionally the troubled, hurt look would steal across her features. And at such times Helen knew that Laurel was doubting again, suffering again, longing to be brought face to face with actual proof of her mother’s high motive. But it was better that the doubts should remain than that her mother’s act of self-abnegation should be robbed of its fruit. Helen pulled down the window-shade and went downstairs.

It was not until she was in her own room with her door closed, with the window draperies drawn close, seated before her dressing-table brushing her shining hair, that she thought about the alimony. Stephen had felt just as she had when she first broached the subject to him, that of course Laurel’s mother must live as she was accustomed to live whatever had been the terms of the divorce. So far, however, Stephen had failed to establish communication of any sort with Stella. She had left her Boston apartment as a bird a nest, and the route she had taken was as trackless, as scentless as the bird’s through the air.

She had left no trace of any kind, anywhere—not even with her lawyer, not even with her bank from which she had withdrawn her account. Since her marriage to Alfred Munn, not a single check of Stephen’s had been cashed by her. Not a single check had even been received by her. They were returned to Stephen unopened, with the recurring announcement “Not known” in the corner of the envelope.