Jean Bower walked away from the prison gate in a maze of such misery as she had not believed a human being could feel. For the first time in her life she realized what some people learn very soon, and others never learn at all, even if they live to be quite old people. This is that we do not know, with any real knowledge, even those whom we most passionately love and trust.
She had felt so sure, so absolutely certain, that the story of Harry Garlett’s meeting a woman in the wood was a malicious lie! And now she knew that it was true, and that there was some strange, painful mystery behind it.
She had seen his pale face flush, and the look of embarrassment, almost of shame, with which he had muttered: “There are certain things about his past no man has the right to reveal—even to his near
