He managed a smile. The nicest thing about him, Clancy decided, was his sportsmanship.
"Well, I have rushed matters, Miss Deane. But—don't forget me, please."
"I won't," she promised. "And I hope you have a fine trip and make a great success."
"Thank you," he said. "Good-by."
They touched hands for a moment, and then he was gone. Thus banal, almost always, are the moments that follow upon the ones that have reached for the height of emotion.
Clancy was left alone almost before she realized it. Up-stairs, in her shabby bedroom, she wondered if any other girl had ever crowded so much of differing experience into a few days. Truth was stranger than fiction—save in this: in fiction, all difficulties were finally surmounted, all problems solved.
But her own case— One who flees always prejudices his case. Fanchon DeLisle's reply to Vandervent's telegram would arrive by the morrow, anyway. The only reason that Clancy had not been called upon by Vandervent's men that she could conceive was that the storm had delayed the transmission of telegrams. A thin reed on which to lean! She suddenly wished with all her heart that she loved Randall. If she did love him, she could demand his protection. That protection suddenly loomed large before her frightened eyes.
Well, there was only one thing to do. Accepting defeat bravely is better than running away from it eternally. Also, in her mind lived the idea that Vandervent might possibly— Absurd! He'd only met her last night. And he was an officer of the law, sworn to do his duty.
She had no preconceived idea of what she'd do. She felt dull, bewildered, dazed.
Surrender! It was the only thing to do. Better by far that than being rudely taken to the Tombs. She'd read of the Tombs prison. What a horrible name! How it suggested the gruesome things! Lesser characters than Clancy for much less reason have had recourse to poison, to other things— It never even entered her head.