"You were thinking of me, Hetty," said the man.
For a long time she stared at him, transfixed, and then, with a low moan, covered her eyes with her hands.
"Is it true—is it a dream?" she sobbed.
He dropped down beside her and gathered her in his strong, eager arms.
"You WERE thinking of me, weren't you? And reproaching yourself, and hating yourself for running away like this? I thought so. Well, you might just as well try to dodge the smartest detective in the world as to give me the slip now, darling."
"You—you spied on me?" she cried, in muffled tones. She lay very limp in his arms.
"I did," he confessed, without shame. "'Gad, when I think of what I might be doing at this moment if I hadn't found you out in time! Think of me back there in London, racing about like a madman, searching for you in every—"
"Please, please!" she implored.
"But luck was with me. You can't get away, Hetty. I shan't let you out of my sight again. I'll camp in front of your door and you'll see me wither and die of sleeplessness, for one or the other of my eyes will always be open."
"Oh, I am so tired, so miserable," she murmured.