accept the thing which has occurred as inevitable, and therefore not to be regretted or remembered. But there are few women who can look at life from that standpoint.
"She could never begin to appreciate that sacrifice," he said. "Little devil."
And then, horribly, vividly, the truth came back to him that Andree loved him; that he had taught her to love him. And after that he looked up at a step on the gravelly beach, and saw Tempest.
"I guessed you were here," said Tempest. "I have come for that paper, Heriot."
Tempest had always called him Heriot since Andree came between them. But to-day the name struck Dick's ears with sharpened force. It reminded him that this breaking of a friendship which would leave raw edges through the length of two men's lives would trouble Andree no more than the death of Robison, or of Ogilvie, or of that wild O'Hara who had died with her name in his mouth.
"I haven't got the paper," he said. "Couldn't you?"
Tempest shook his head slightly, like a stag when the midges are about him.
"It is true, then?" he asked. "It reads like truth? Tell me, Dick, for I have got to know it now."
"Why, yes." Dick tried to hide his nervousness by knocking out his pipe and thrusting it into his side-pocket. "Bound to be extenuating circumstances when the matter's gone into, though. Ducane's so much better this morning that I think we needn't delay at all. Did you come to call me for breakfast?"
"What do you intend to do with that paper?" asked Tempest.
"Keep it for the present, anyway."
"You will give it to me," said Tempest quietly.
"Not on your life." Dick buttoned up his tunic with a short laugh. "Don't talk that way," he said. "You know you don't expect me to give it."
The rare fury blazed into Tempest's face. Those careless words had knocked the skin off the unhealed sore below, and though the spirit had won out to a certain
