“It is certain that some of them have had more than a passing fancy for you, Frank,” laughed Harry.
Merriwell did not smile.
“Harry,” he said, gravely, “my thoughts are now of Inza alone. All other girls are forgotten. She always had the utmost confidence in me. She trusted me, and she believed I could do anything. If she knew I were in San Francisco she would find a way to appeal to me for aid. I can fancy her alone with her invalid father, whose one ambition is to make a good match for his child before he dies. I can fancy her appealing to him, begging him not to force her into this odious marriage. She is not the girl to cringe or cry. She is impulsive, hot-blooded, passionate, and, as a last resort, to escape this English lord, she might do something desperate. Nay, she might commit suicide.”
Harry was inclined to laugh at this, but he saw that Merriwell was very grave and earnest, and he refrained. He shook his head, however, saying:
“You cannot be in earnest, old fellow. Girls do not commit suicide nowadays.”
“I assure you there is no telling what a girl like Inza Burrage might do. That is what worries me. I feel that it is my duty to aid her, but how—how can I reach her?”
“Pive it gup—I mean give it up, old man. Let us sleep over it to-night.”
“Sleep—sleep after hearing this? Impossible!”
“But you can do nothing until daylight comes.”
“That is true, and I am wondering what I shall be able to do then. That is why I cannot sleep.”