But his
ship might have sunk with all on board for any sign he gave. Others
had ceased to grumble at his silence; his name was rarely mentioned.
If she had known his address she would have written to him and
demanded one letter. She had given no promise. Her husband had
commanded and she had obeyed. She had always obeyed him, as she had
vowed at the altar. But she had her share of feminine guile, and if
she had known where to address Masters she would have quieted her
conscience with the assurance that a letter from him was a necessary
part of her cure. She felt that the mere sight of his handwriting on
an envelope addressed to herself would transport her back to that
hour in Dolores, and if she could correspond with him life would no
longer be unendurable. But although he had casually alluded to his
club in New York she could not recall the name, if he had mentioned it.
She went to the Mercantile Library one day and looked over files of
magazines and reviews. His name appeared in none of them. It was
useless to look over newspaper files, as editorials were not signed.
But he must be writing for one of them. He had his immediate living
to make.
What should she do?
As she groped her way down the dark staircase of the library she
remembered the newspaper friend, Ralph Holt, who had packed his books
--so the chambermaid had informed her casually--and whom she had met
once when walking with Masters.
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