“For years,” she said softly, stretching her hand impulsively toward him. “Josephine told me when she died, so I could guard Lucy against all knowledge of it. I have kept it as secret as the grave. Nobody has ever had from me any suspicion of the truth. It has made no difference to me, Aleck! I have only respected you the more, because you could begin over again and build up a new name and a new life.”
He took her hand. It was wet and cold, and he folded it in his, and as she went on drew her closer to his side. He felt the soothing comfort of her words and manner, but his eyes were on the floor as he muttered, “I thought nobody knew; I thought it was hidden so well!”
The room had grown dark and darker. Outside, the rain was coming down in gray sheets, and dazzling flashes of lightning flooded the heavens. Peal upon peal of thunder smote their ears. She thought, “They are at home by this time; he will be here soon.” Laying her other hand upon Bancroft’s arm she hurried on, in broken, pleading speech: “Aleck, you must not stay here! You must hide somewhere, where he cannot find you! Conrad—I came to warn you—he knows, by this time—who you are. He will be here soon.”
“Conrad! Does he know? Are you sure?”
“Yes. They went to ride up the canyon, he and Lucy. She said she was going to tell him. Aleck, you must not stay here! He may come any minute!”
He dropped her hand and started back. “Lucy!” he cried, and again, “Lucy! Does she know, too?” He sank into his chair and buried his face in his arms. Louise stood beside him, her hand upon his shoulder, her voice soft with loving compassion.
“I don’t know how she knew, nor how long she has known. Until this afternoon I had no idea that she, or any one, knew anything about it. But she came to my room and told me that she was going to ride with him, that she loved him, and that she was going to tell him who you are.”
He made no answer; but she guessed by his troubled breathing with what shame and despair he was struggling. She bent over him, her arm across his shoulder, her cheek upon his hair. Above the pealing, echoing thunder and the rattling boom of some sound which in their absorption they had scarcely noted, there came into the room the sudden din of cries and shouts and pistol shots.
“It’s Conrad! He’s coming!” cried Louise, running to the window, her excited mind still dominated by the single idea. Bancroft grasped the pistol. Looking back, she saw him point it at his own temple. Springing to his side, she seized it with both hands, crying out, “Aleck, don’t do that! Don’t give up! Give it to me!”