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marriage. You’ve misconstrued something he has said.” She was looking at Ann with burning eyes. “What was it that made you imagine that he . . . he really loved you?”

“Why should I tell you anything further?” answered Ann quietly. “All that I wrote in my letter to you was true—not only that Gerald Waring wanted to marry me, but that he would never ask you to be his wife—now.”

“So he’s been discussing me with you?”

“Oh, Mrs. Holmes, how can you ask that question! Surely a man who would do that would be a . . . a pretty shabby sort of person.”

“You’ve magnified him into a hero, have your”

Ann shook her head.

“I don’t see him either as a hero, or an utter blackguard. Need we go on discussing him?”

Suddenly Vera gripped her hand.

“I’ve got to be certain, certain that what you say is true. Oh, my God! It’s killing me, this—this doubt. I can’t go on untess I know the truth.”

“Why don’t you ask him then, if you can’t believe me?”’

Vera made no reply, and Ann knew that the question had been cruel; for it was evident, even before she spoke again, that Mrs. Holmes had no knowledge of Waring’s present address.

“Is he here, in Wairiri, now?”

Ann rose and crossed to her desk.

“He’s in Wellington,” she said, “and I had this letter from him this morning. He doesn’t call it a love letter—and I don’t think I’m acting unfairly in showing it to you. He owes you more . . . more confidence than he owes me. And I shall never tell him that you