EWING’S STORY 63 
In this he succeeded after a fashion, and as time 
passed he grew successful. A career seemed pos- . 
sible. 
In the meantime he married. A mere girl, pretty, 
unsophisticated, affectionate but utterly ignorant of 
the responsibilities she was incurring—that was how 
Ewing described his wife. They never got on to- 
gether after the first flush faded. They quarrelled 
and made up and quarrelled again and then came, 
suddenly, the demolition of their house of cards. 
“‘T blame myself,’’ said my companion, ‘‘I blame 
myself more than Millie. She was used to atten- 
tion. And I thought of nothing but my music—my- 
self. One night I came in late—I’d played that 
night—and found she had gone. She left a note— 
a few words only. ‘She’d met some one, she said, 
who’d be kind to her. 
“‘T took it pretty hard. I was half-mad, I think, 
for a time. I forgot my violin, my career, every- 
thing. I hit up the booze till I got to be a wreck. 
I began to inquire around and finally located the 
man my wife had run off with. He was a fellow 
named Donohue, a broncho buster with one of the 
Wild West outfits—sort of a tough proposition, from 
all accounts. But he must have cared for Millie— 
there wasn’t any other reason for taking her away. 
“‘Finally I started out to find them. I’d drink a 
while, then work some; then whenever I found a 
clue, I’d follow after. They found out about it and 
Donohue deserted my wife. That made me glad. 
