on in this way much longer.  Before leaving Ed had again rifled the safe, thus disregarding for a second time his explicit agreement with his wife.  Of course, he was welcome to whatever money he needed, even in excess of his allowance; but his act showed his weak sense of honor and strengthened Alaire’s conviction that he was in every way rapidly deteriorating.  As yet she could not believe him really wicked at heart—­he had many qualities which were above the average—­nor could she convince herself that he had been criminally involved in Tad Lewis’s schemes.  And yet, what other explanation could there be?  Ed’s behavior had been extraordinary; his evident terror at news of Dave Law’s expedition, his conversation with Tad Lewis over the telephone, his subsequent actions at the river, all seemed to indicate that he had some vital interest in maintaining the mystery of Guzman’s death.  What could it be?

Suspicions like these were extremely disturbing.  In spite of herself Alaire began to think more seriously about that separation which Ed had so frequently offered her.  Her whole nature, it is true, recoiled at the thought of divorce; it was a thing utterly repugnant to her sentiment and her creed—­a thing that stood for notoriety, gossip, scandal.  Deep in her heart she felt that divorce was wicked, for marriage to her had always meant a sacred and unbreakable bond.  And yet there seemed to be no alternative.  She wished Ed would go away—­leave her quietly and for ever, so that she might live out her empty life in seclusion—­but that, of course, he would never do.

Such longings were not strangers to Alaire; they were old and persistent enemies; but of late the prospect of a loveless, childless future was growing more and more unbearable.  Even her day dreams failed to give their customary relief; those imaginary figures with whom she took counsel were strangely unresponsive.

She had told Paloma Jones about her dream-children, but she had not confessed the existence of another and a far more intimate creature of her brain—­one who occupied the place Ed Austin should have held.  There was such a person, however, and Alaire called him her dream husband.  Now this man’s physical aspect was never long the same; it altered according to her changing ideals or to the impression left by new acquaintances; nevertheless, he was in some ways the most real and the most tangible of all her pale romantic fancies.  No one who has watched a solitary child at play can doubt that it sees and hears playmates invisible to others.  Alaire Austin, in the remotest depths of her being, was still a child.  Of late her prince had assumed new characteristics and a new form.  He was no longer any one of the many shapes he had been; he was more like the spirit of the out-of-doors—­a strong-limbed, deep-chested, sun-bronzed creature, with a strain of gipsy blood that called to hers.  He was moody, yet tender, roughly masculine, and yet possessed of the gentleness and poetry of a girl.  He was violent tempered; he was brave; he rode a magnificent bay mare that worshiped him, as did all animals.