The scene which followed had been unforgetable—­the chauffeur and Hilmer lifting Mrs. Hilmer into her wheeled chair; Helen Starratt coming forward considerately with a steamer rug for the invalid’s comfort; Fred, standing outside the pale of all this activity like a dreamer constructing stage directions for the puppets of his imagination.  And out of the almost placid atmosphere of domestic bustle the voice of Mrs. Hilmer again breaking the stillness, this time with a cool and knifelike precision as she said, turning her pale, icy eyes on Helen Starratt: 

“My dear, your nurse-girl days are over...We’ve had you a long time and we can’t be too selfish—­now that your husband is back!”

Could Fred ever wipe from his memory the startled look which had swept Helen’s face as she released her hold on the wheeled chair?  Or the diabolical content with which Mrs. Hilmer settled back as she went on slowly, clearly, as if the steady drip of her words fascinated her: 

“You wouldn’t want to stay here...this is no place for lovers...And, besides, there isn’t room for two!”

Helen’s hands had fallen inertly at her sides as she stood facing Hilmer, as if waiting for his decision.  But he had made no move, he merely had returned her gaze in equal silence.  At that moment Mrs. Hilmer’s clawlike fingers closed over her husband’s mangled thumb with a clutch of triumph and she had turned with a painful twist to dart her venomous scorn at Helen.  A fortnight ago the doctors had given Mrs. Hilmer a scant six months of life.  But now Fred Starratt knew that she would live as long as her spirits had vengeance to feed upon.

Thus had the door closed upon Hilmer and his crippled gaoler.  Already Helen Starratt had gained the street corner.  Fred was seized with an impulse to overtake her, but it had died as quickly.  There was nothing he could offer ... not even a lodging for the night.  Instead he had turned and walked briskly in an opposite direction.

* * * * *

As he drew nearer town the cries of the newsboys grew more insistent ... so insistent that Fred bought a paper.  By this time they had cleared away the charred wreckage of Storch’s shack, discovering the secret which its ruins had concealed.  He found himself wondering how soon they would link him with the still-born plot which had achieved so much tragedy in spite of its miscarriage.  Of Ginger there was little trace.  She had been caught up in a winding sheet of flame, a chariot of fire which had swept clean her pitiful and outraged body...  Again he saw her face, wistful in the glare of that portentous noon, framed by the outline of Storch’s doorway, heard himself call her name in agony, and woke to find only a memory answering him.  And there came to him a realization of the terrible beauty of that moment which had released her spirit in white-heated transfiguration.