“You’ve made him out a drunken old beach comber—Robertson, the finest fellow who ever lived! You’ve got all the[Pg 191] facts there—any one could recognize ’em. You say—”
Olive could endure no more of this nightmare. She snatched the magazine out of his hands. “Remorse,” the story was called, and the author’s name was given as “John Hunt.” She suddenly collapsed upon the bottom step of the stairs.
For a moment the young man remained the just and stern judge. Then he bent over her and said, in a voice of quite human solicitude:
“I’m—perhaps you didn’t realize. Look here—I wish I hadn’t said all that! I’m—please don’t cry!”
“I’m not crying,” replied Olive, in a stifled voice. “Please forgive me! It really isn’t funny, but—oh, oh, I just can’t help it!”
He bent nearer.
“Are you laughing?” he demanded incredulously.
“Oh, please forgive me! It’s horrible, but—I’ll stop in a moment. You see, that awful story is Miss Torrance’s, but I wrote a story, too—only mine was better, I think, and funnier. You see, we both—”
“You and Miss Torrance each wrote a story about Robertson?”
“Yes, both of us, and neither of us knew. Oh, imagine the editors, and Miss Torrance, and poor Mr. Robertson, and you, and me—”