I sat for a moment half-dazed, with this astonishing note in my fingers. Then I read it through again—there could be no doubting the sincerity of the writer, her passionate earnestness. "I cannot be your wife ... it is quite, quite impossible." But why was it impossible? Clearly not from any lack of affection. If the note proved anything, it proved that Marcia Lawrence loved Burr Curtiss far beyond the usual application of the word.

Why, then, had she fled? "There can be no explanation." There was nothing left but flight; the marriage was impossible. But why should it be impossible? Was not that too strong a term? Yet she no doubt believed it. Something had happened; there had been some sudden and startling revelation—the revelation of a secret so hideous that, rather than betray it, rather than risk an explanation, she had fled. But that was such a desperate thing to do; such a suicidal thing; and a woman does not throw away her happiness thoughtlessly!

I glanced at Curtiss, who had sunk down again into his chair and sat staring straight before him. Was there in his past some unnamable stain which had lain hidden till this last moment; which this stainless woman had shrunk from, horrified?

Or was there, after all, another man? A man, perhaps, whom she had never intentionally encouraged, yet who had fallen thrall to her, none the less, who had determined to possess her, and who, by some trick, some desperate throw, had managed, at the last moment, to snatch her away from Curtiss? Had she fled from the house of her own volition? Was there any possible explanation of such a flight? None, except that she had suddenly found herself face to face with the fact that she no longer loved the man she was about to marry—face to face with a future so intolerable that any shame, any disgrace, was preferable to it. Yet as I looked again at the note's wording, I recognised anew the absurdity of such a theory. Whatever the solution of the mystery, there could be no doubting Marcia Lawrence's love for Burr Curtiss; whomever she had loved in the past, it was certain that now she loved only him. And even in Mrs. Lawrence's attitude, I seemed to discern an affection for him more intense than is usually bestowed upon a son-in-law—at least, until he has been tested in the crucible of marriage.

There could be, I told myself, only one other explanation. Marcia Lawrence had been abducted. It was true, as her mother had pointed out, that a single scream would have alarmed the house; but perhaps that scream had never been uttered. It could have been prevented easily enough. And there had 

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