The late chapters of that gilt-bound edition of womanhood, Catherine Cabot, read like the cheapest of thrillers. Soon after reëstablishing herself in her husband-less home, she had sent for Dr. Shayle. What had passed between her and the likable young man whom she had “made” in a week was best judged by the fact that she un-made him in a day. In notes, over the telephone and during such informal social functions as she could make excuse to attend in her mourning, she ruined him professionally. To his rich practice she expressed her regrets that she no longer could sponsor him—that his conduct with one who had brought disgrace to so many had proved him an unfit person to have about the home in his intimate capacity. All of which reminded Holt that he had a letter for her.
The envelope which he tendered was addressed to and had been opened by John Cabot. Above the heading of a Chicago hotel was scrawled the osteopath’s name. Inside was the request that Mr. Cabot forward to Miss Trent the unsealed enclosure.
The note to Dolores read:
Dear You:
My chief regret is having distressed you. Don’t be distressed about me any more. Already my hurt is healing, salved by the honor of having known you. I daren’t forget you, because remembering you is the best thing in my life at the present moment. Have refused the last bribe of her who made me what I was—yesterday. Am on my way West where I can start fair with doctor men who use their powers to help instead of hinder. The ambition, I find, is not a gift—it’s inherited. You great little chump, there is only one hope in my heart—may you be happy.
Dear Me.
So then; to one, at least, she had not been a lasting grief! Dolores felt very proud for herself and for Clarke Shayle. She turned to her caller with the impulse to confide her good news, but hesitated at the look of him. He had yielded to the Airedale’s importunities and was scratching the stub ears. The eyes of the dog were rolling from realized bliss. Those of the implement of bliss were troubled. She could see that attorney Holt was planning whatever he had come to say.
“Miss Trent,” he began on noting that he again had her attention, “Mr. Cabot has been acting under my insistent advice in not coming to see you. I know that he wishes to come. My stand is based upon my high regard for him and, may I add, for you? He intends to accomplish a divorce from Mrs. Cabot as soon as possible, but on his own terms—terms primarily calculated to repudiate the slurs cast upon you. His ruling desire is to save your good name. I want to see him carry out this idea. Miss Trent, do you?”
“Why—why, yes,” faltered the girl.
“I am glad to hear you say that, because—Well, you and he, lovely little lady, know better than I just why. His position is at present extremely jeopardous. He is watched night and day by detectives.”