The Spectator., 1915-04-23
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no matter to what depth her flesh and blood had fallen. Never had she seen among the usual amateur photographs one presenting two boys. Once she had come across a photograph of smooth-faced youth who was in the act of squinting along the top of an engineers tripod. Arthur had laugh ingly taken 1t away from her. saying that 1t represented him when he had had ambitions to build bridges.
 To build bridges. The phrase awoke something in Elsa's mind. Bridges. She sat up in bed, mentally keen for the first time since dinner. "I have built bridges in my time over which trains are passing at this moment. have fought torrents, and floods. and hurricanes. and myself"
 He was Paul Ellison, son and broth CT, and they had plotted him out of their lives by destroying all physical signs of him. There was something inhuman In the deliberateness of 1t. something unforgivable.
 They had made no foolish attempt
 
 had come from New York to the little valley in order to leave behind the scene of their disgrace and all those who had known them. Arthur was an inveterate traveller. Half the year found him in Europe, painting little. writing little less. frequenting the lesser known villages in France and Italy. He did not care for horses. for hunting, for sports of any kind. And yet he was sturdy, clear-eyed, fresh- skinned. He walked always; he was forever tramping of to the pine-hood- ed hills, with his painting kit over his shoulders and his camp stool under his arm. Later. Elsa began to under stand that he was a true scholar. not merely an educated man. He was be- sides linguist of amazing facility, a pianist who invariably preferred as his audience his own two ears. Ar thur would have been a great drama tist or a great poet, if If he had fought for prizes coveted by man. kind, if he had thrown aside his dreams and gone into the turmoil. if he had taken up mans burden and carried 1t to success. Elsa, daughter of a man who had fought in the great arena from his youth to his death. Elsa was not meant for the wife of a dreamer.
 Paul Ellison. What was his crime in comparison to his expiation of it? He had built bridges, fought torrents. hurricanes. himself. No, he was not a scholar: he saw no romance in the multifarious things he had of neces- sity put his hand to; these had been daily matter-of-fact occupations. A strange gladness seemed to loosen the tenseness of her aching nerves.
 Then, out of the real world about the shriek of a parrot. She would have recognized that piercing cry any where. It was Rajah. In the next room, and she had not known that Warrington (she would always know him by that name) was stopping at the same hotel! She listened intently Presently she heard untitled sounds; a chatter of metal. A few minutes later came softer tinkle. scurry of batter ing feet, then silence.
 Elsa ran to the door and stood mo- tionless by the jamb, waiting, ethereal ly white in the moonshine. She should have gone back to bed but thrill of unknown fear held her. She saw War rington. fully dressed, issue forth eau tiously, glance about. then pass down the gallery. stepping with the light ness of a cat.
 She returned hastily to her room, threw over her shoulder kimono, and went back to the door. hesitating there for breath or two. She stepped out upon the gallery. walked as far as Warrington's door, and paused there.
 The gallery floor was trellised with moonlight and shadow. She saw some thing lying in the center of a patch of light. and she stopped. The light was too dim for her to read: so she re- entered her own room and turned on the light. It was Warringtons letter of credit. She gave low laugh, per haps a bit hysterical. There was no doubt of 1t. Someone had entered his room. There had been a struggle in which he had been the stronger, and the thief had dropped his plunder GAS matter of fact, the Chinaman. find. ing himself closed in upon, had thrown the letter of credit toward the railing, in hope that it would fall over to the ground below, where. later. he could recover it) Elsa pressed 1t to her heart as another woman might have pressed rose. and laughed again Something of his; something to give her the excuse to see and to speak to him again. Tomorrow she would know; and he would tell her the truth. even as her heart knew it now. For what other reason had he turned away from her that first day out of Ran goon. hurt and broken? Paul Ellison: and she had told him that she was go-