thing was very real. But to the best of her ability she had thought out what had to be done. She saw herself as the hapless instrument of destiny. And she had not endured nine-and-twenty years of life without a clear perception of the stern fact that its decrees, no matter how ruthless, how savage, must be accepted.
She now awaited, with every spark of patience she could muster, a reply to her letter to Saul Hartz. He might not even deign to answer it. Or if answer he did, being the man he was, with so many calls upon his inadequate day of twenty-four hours, he was hardly likely to find the time or to take the trouble to pay a visit to Brompton Square. And in that event, which seemed to grow more and more inevitable, what then must be her course of action?
In the grip of a problem that would not bear thinking about, Helen waited, every sense astretch, for the arrival of each post. Three and four times a day she flew to the letter box, in the vain hope of seeing the crabbed, familiar handwriting of Saul Hartz lying in it.
Would no answer come? In the course of a distracted Wednesday that question became in her mind a specter. In Fate's hourglass the sands were running out. Life was now so sharp a torment that it was hardly bearable. Strong her will yet was and, in spite of all, her faith still firm. And at the beck of some power, not herself, she was called to play a part which she believed to have the highest sanction.
