Her thoughts began to run riot. What did it all mean? What was this faith? There was, there must be something in it. There was the Holmes boy—suppose it was only some nervous disorder—well, something had risen superior to whatever it was and had cured him. There was Naida Thornton—true, she was ill again—her heart, Mr. Thornton had said—but she could still walk, a thing she had not been able to do for a long time until she came to Needley.
Helena laughed again—oh, it was a good game! The Doc had made no mistake about that—but then, when it came to planting anything the Doc rarely did make a mistake. Fancy fifty thousand dollars in one haul! Fifty thousand in one haul! The bank had sent her a passbook with that amount to her credit. And that was only the beginning—hardly anybody had come yet, and already there was several hundred dollars more in real money that she had handed over to Madison from the offering box.
Money! They'd have more money than they'd know what to do with before they got through—there was nothing the matter with the game—all there was to do was to play it to a finish. And there wasn't the slightest risk about it—everything was given voluntarily. Oh, the game was all right—but somehow she wasn't happy—not
nearly so happy as she had been in New York, even in lean periods when she and the Doc had been pressed for money. But, anyway, then they had been together, and fought, and laughed, and loved, and quarrelled through flush times and bad.
Maybe that was it! The Doc! Of course, she loved him—she had loved him ever since she had known him. There was no secret about that—she loved him fiercely, passionately, more than she loved anything else in the world, with all the love she was capable of—more than he loved her—he seemed to accept her, too often, so casually, so indifferently, so much as a matter of course. He was so confidently and complacently sure of her—and she was not at all sure of him. She was only sure that he was quite right in being sure—she couldn't help loving him if she tried.
She had hardly seen anything of him since that night in the Roost before he had left for Needley—and he hadn't seemed to care much whether she did or not. That talk about playing the game and taking no chances was all bosh—there had been plenty of chances where it wouldn't have hurt the game any. Perhaps the little jolt she had given him last night, turning the tables a little, would wake him up a bit. Perhaps, as the Flopper had said, he would come out to-night, and—
"Helena! Helena!"
Helena sat suddenly upright—the noise of the surf muffled the sound of the voice, but that was
probably Doc now—she could hear footsteps running from the direction of the cottage. Deliberately, Helena leaned back again against the rock, took out a cigarette and with no attempt to shade the flame of the match, rather to use it as a challenging beacon, held it to the cigarette—but for the second time she flung both match and cigarette hurriedly away. It wasn't Madison at all—it was only the Flopper.
"Say!" gasped the Flopper, blowing hard. "Why can't youse answer when yer called? Wot you tryin' ter do—light a bonfire ter save yer voice? Say, youse wanter get a wiggle on—beat it—quick! Dey're after you."