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ashes beneath some ghastly heap of smouldering wreckage.

His mind refused to entertain the hope that they had survived the disaster. He was convinced that they were no more. He knew he would never see them again. He had bidden them farewell in his heart, and already he pictured the grave in which their ashes should lie—if they were found—a grave upon which Grace’s favourite roses should bloom in due season.

His abasement was abject.

He had sinned, and could never atone; but the grave of his loved ones should be the shrine to which his repentant feet should beat a path all the days of his life.

Not again for him were the temptations of the flesh. He would live alone. His work should reflect the deeper knowledge of life born of his association with tragedy. He would write, and the world would weep.

Even in this hour of anguish the ego of the writer was not silenced.

For many miles there was silence in the racing car. The sobs of the young woman were hushed. Oppressive thoughts filled the small enclosed space as with something substantial, tangible.

Through small towns, widely spaced over the undulating country, the car roared, following the procession of tail-lights, and urged forward by the glaring head-lights and honking horns behind—hurrying upon a mortal inferno.

They were nearing the hill of which they had been warned when Harley lifted his head.

“How much for the trip?” he asked coldly.

Roy started.

“Eh? Oh, we can settle that when we get back, Mr. Harley.”

“I may not be going back———.”

The elderly man, who had overheard, hastened to speak.