Late that evening Coningsby entered Jerold Wharton's room.
"Jerry, old man," he said simply, "I want you to read this." And he held out a sheet of paper, one of the pages of a letter.
Jerold took it and as he read, he recognized Olga Fullerton's handwriting.
"When you were gone I felt strangely lonesome. Nothing seemed to interest me. I went up to my sister's home in Sharon for a few weeks, but I felt so lonesome that I had to return. Up in my room the other night I sat by the window and thought the matter over. And as I sat there, I realized the truth at last. Since I have been with you during your illness, you came to mean more to me than I had realized. When two persons are thrown constantly together for any length of time they must needs either bore or grow to think a great deal of each other. And, Conny, you did not bore me … Won't you come back?… Next week I am opening my third season in 'The Better Self,' and every night as I play the part, I will be thinking of you." …
As Jerold Wharton finished reading, he glanced up, and though his lips were smiling his eyes seemed strangely sad.
"And now, of course, you will go back," he whispered slowly.
"No," replied Coningsby, "I can't go back."
And then he repeated the story which Mowbray had told to him. He dwelt upon the terrors of the Ker-
