The countess drew back. “Then,” she said, with a break in her voice. “Then— Good-by.”
“Good-by?”
“Good-by—forever. That dispatch will mark the end for you and me. I beg! I implore you not to send it. But I warn you, too!”
Slowly but decidedly Topham shook his head. “God help me!” he breathed. “But send it I must!”
Swiftly, as if desiring to put himself beyond the reach of temptation, he snatched up the pen and scribbled a score of hasty words. Then he hurried to the clerk’s grating, thrust it in, and turning, staggered blindly toward the door.
But the countess was waiting for him, and in her eyes he saw a light he had never thought to see again. Heedless of who might see she stretched her arms wide.
“Thank God! Oh! Thank God! that there is one true man left,” she cried. “I thought all men were liars till you showed me to the contrary. I had to try you, beloved! I had to do my best to stop you, and I did do my best. But I was praying all the while that I might fail. And I thank God I did fail. Take me, beloved, and do with me what you will. I can trust you with anything in the world.”
CHAPTER XXII
Leeds of the Star was the first of a group to spy McNew as he swung past the pillared portico and turned down the asphalt walk to the office building. Leeds rubbed his eyes and looked again. McNew had not been to the White House for five years—not since the President had declared him morally guilty of murder by his having stirred up the class hatred that had led to it. That he should come there at that late day meant something out of the ordinary.
Leeds was a local man, however, and did not take a very intense interest in the doings of New York newspaper proprietors, no matter how yellow they might be. So he turned to Iverson of the Gazette.