The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

part would create. How would the papers talk about it? Every man he knew 
would be wondering. He would have to explain and deny and make a general 
mark of himself. Then Moy would come and confer with him and there 
would be the devil to pay. 
Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this, and 
his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything—not a loophole left. 
Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the approaching 
affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, he did not worry over 
that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout of trouble. He could 
arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie would be glad to wait, if necessary. He 
would see how things turned out to-morrow, and then he would talk to her. 
They were going to meet as usual. He saw only her pretty face and neat 
figure and wondered why life was not arranged so that such joy as he found 

---

with her could be steadily maintained. How much more pleasant it would 
be. Then he would take up his wife's threat again, and the wrinkles and 
moisture would return. 
In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but there 
was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some reason he felt as if 
something might come that way, and was relieved when all the envelopes 
had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. He began to feel the 
appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the office, and 
decided before going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop in at the Grand 
Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While the danger had not 
lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with him no news was good 
news. If he could only get plenty of time to think, perhaps something would 
turn up. Surely, surely, this thing would not drift along to catastrophe and 
he not find a way out. 
His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and 
waited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post for an hour or 
more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly. Could something have 
happened out there to keep her away? Could she have been reached by his 
wife? Surely not. So little did he consider Drouet that it never once occurred 
to him to worry about his finding out. He grew restless as he ruminated, and 
then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had not been able to get away 
this morning. That was why no letter notifying him had come. He would get 
one to-day. It would probably be on his desk when he got back. He would 
look for it at once. 
After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the Madison car. To 
add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with little fleecy 
clouds which shut out the sun. The wind veered to the east, and by the time 
he reached his office it was threatening to drizzle all afternoon. 
He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from Carrie. 
Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He thanked his stars 
that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when he needed 
to think so much. He walked the floor again, pretending to be in an ordinary 
mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of words. 
At one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returned a 
messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a feeling of 
doubt. 
"I'm to bring an answer," said the boy. 
Hurstwood recognised his wife's writing. He tore it open and read without a 
show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and was sharply and 
coldly worded throughout. 

---

"I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to carry out my 
plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn't matter in the least. But I 
must have some money. So don't delay, but send it by the boy." 
When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The audacity of 
the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also—the deepest element of 
revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but four words in reply—"Go to 
the devil!"—but he compromised by telling the boy that there would be no 
reply. Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without seeing, 
contemplating the result of his work. What would she do about that? The 
confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him into submission? 
He would go up there and have it out with her, that's what he would do. She 
was carrying things with too high a hand. These were his first thoughts. 
Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to be done. 
A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her well enough to 
know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it up. 
Possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once. 
"Damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "I'll make it hot for her if 
she causes me trouble. I'll make her change her tone if I have to use force to 
do it!" 
He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The long 
drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers at the 
bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless; umbrellas 
were up. The street looked like a sea of round black cloth roofs, twisting, 
bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were rattling in a noisy line and 
everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they could. He scarcely 
noticed the picture. He was forever confronting his wife, demanding of her to 
change her attitude toward him before he worked her bodily harm. 
At four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the money was 
not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before Fitzgerald and 
Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get it. 
Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing. Yes, he 
would send her the money. He'd take it to her—he would go up there and 
have a talk with her, and that at once. 
He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would have some 
arrangement of this thing. 
He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the North Side. 
On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the case. What 
did she know? What had she done? Maybe she'd got hold of Carrie, who 
knows—or—or Drouet. Perhaps she really had evidence, and was prepared 

---

to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush. She was shrewd. 
Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good grounds? 
He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other—that he 
had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would go in and 
see, anyhow. He would have no row. 
By the time he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the difficulties 
of his situation and wished over and over that some solution would offer 
itself, that he could see his way out. He alighted and went up the steps to 
the front door, but it was with a nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled 
out his key and tried to insert it, but another key was on the inside. He 
shook at the knob, but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No 
answer. He rang again—this time harder. Still no answer. He jangled it 
fiercely several times in succession, but without avail. Then he went below. 
There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen, protected 
by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against burglars. When he 
reached this he noticed that it also was bolted and that the kitchen windows 
were down. What could it mean? He rang the bell and then waited. Finally, 
seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went back to his cab. 
"I guess they've gone out," he said apologetically to the individual who was 
hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin rain-coat. 
"I saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby. 
Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed moodily 
into the cab, relieved and distressed. 
So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well, by the 
Lord, that did beat all!