above his pink scalp. He seemed hurried and flustered and when Taylor returned for the message he thought the bright blue eyes looked at him almost with hostility. Surely, trouble was in them, and the old editor was curt in his manner.
All the way home Taylor drove doggedly. A part of him wanted to turn back, to go away, to leave this mess which he had brought down upon Foraker's Folly. Oh, he had wanted to help, and he had brought the ideal which was represented in the pine forest face to face with a hungry power which was its worst enemy! He had wanted to help and had done the worst he could have done by conscious planning. He had wanted to lighten the burden on Helen's shoulders and had increased it to a crushing weight—so he wanted to run—to run.
That was the mean part of him, that was the impulse which was out of the question. There was but one thing for him to do: Tell her, face the fact, stand beside her and fight his father—with his inexperience and bare hands.
A sudden emptiness came about his middle, as though strength had drained from his vitals.
Helen was not at home when he entered, prepared to blurt out his confession. He left the note from Bryant on her desk and went out, so absorbed in his problem that he even forgot Pauguk and went too close and had to leap beyond her reach as she rushed at him, snarling wickedly.
He could not eat that night, and Beauchamp made much of his bad appetite, complaining half in fun as he brought food to the table.
"Ah well," the Frenchman said finally, nodding his
