Peter choked. The last straw! But he might have known,—he, himself, supposed dead, Blair dead, what more natural than that Carly should turn to old Kit?
With a mere nod to the man who had unwittingly dealt him this final blow, Peter walked out into the night.
And he walked and walked. Up Broadway to the Circle, on up and into Riverside Drive, and along the Hudson as far as he could go.
Thinking deeply, planning desperately, only to be confronted with the awful picture of his father's consternation at the shattering of his beliefs and the collapse of his celebrity.
At times he would tell himself he was absurdly apprehensive, that any parents would rather have their lost son restored than to have the applause and notoriety of public fame. And, then, he would realize that while that might be generally true, yet this was a peculiar case. His father was a proud, sensitive nature. Perhaps—Peter shuddered,—perhaps he wouldn't love a son who by his return made him the most laughed at man in the whole world!
Peter longed to go to some one for advice. Shelby, now,—his big efficient mind would know at once what was best to do.
But he couldn't disclose himself to Kit and not to any one else. Kit couldn't keep that a secret, even if he wanted to do so.
And— Kit was engaged to Carly! He never wanted to see either of them again!
Poor, lonely, troubled Peter. Only one plain, sure truth abided. He must do his duty, and he felt pretty sure he knew what that duty was. It was to stay out of the life he had lost.
There was no other possible course.