“Too late. Good-by, all. If possible, do not let my wife know the truth. Can't you tell her—I died of heart failure—or—something like that?”
The poison he had taken was of quick effect. Though a doctor was telephoned for at once, Mr. Porter was dead before he came.
Everything was now made clear, and Fleming Stone's work in West Sedgwick was done.
I was chagrined, for I felt that all he had discovered, I ought to have found out for myself.
But as I glanced at Florence, and saw her lovely eyes fixed on me, I knew that one reason I had failed in my work was because of her distracting influence on it.
“Take me away from here,” she said, and I gently led her from the library.
We went into the small drawing-room, and, unable to restrain my eagerness, I said,
“Tell me, dear, have you broken with Hall?”
“Yes,” she said, looking up shyly into my face. “I learned from his own lips the story of the Brooklyn girl. Then I knew that he really loves her, but wanted to marry me for my fortune. This knowledge was enough for me. I realize now that I never loved Gregory, and I have told him so.”
“And you do love somebody else?” I whispered ecstatically. “Oh, Florence! I know this is not the time or the place, but just tell me, dear, if you ever love any one, it will be—”