"Dear," she begged, "you won't ever be sorry, will you, and—does this sound selfish, I wonder?—you won't mind waiting?"
He smiled down at her.
"I shall never be sorry," he declared firmly. "I shall always bless this night and the impulse that brought you here. And as to waiting," he went on, "well, I have had four years of waiting without any particular hope, even of seeing you again. I think that with hope I can hold out a little longer."
He went over to the telephone and spoke for a few moments. Then he laid down the receiver and returned.
"A boy is bringing up the key of your room at once," he announced. "You will be in the south block, a long way off, but the rooms there are comfortable."
"Thank you, John dear," she said, smiling.
"Just one thing more," he continued. "I want you to remember that this miserable, tangled skein of unhappiness which you have called life is finished and done with. From to-night you belong to me. I must see you to-morrow—if possible at Dredlinton House—and we can work out some plans then. But you are to worry about nothing. Remember that I am here, and I love you.—Good night!"
Once more she rested for a moment in his arms. The seconds sped by.
Then he took a quick step backwards, and they both stared at the door.
It was closed now, but the slam of it a moment before had sounded like
a pistol shot.
"Who was that?" she asked in a terrified whisper.
"That idiot of a boy with the key, I expect," he replied. "Wait, dear."