Then she called herself a coward, and stepped daintily on along the muddy street, wondering whether it would be possible to go by some other way, and so avoid this shadow which dogged her steps.
There was one way to get over it—to mention if to Rich, and ask her to bid Hendon wait for her and see her home. But that, she said, she would sooner die than do; so she had tried four different ways of reaching home, and always with the figure following her to the door of the house where she lodged, and where Mark sat waiting for her to come.
It was always the same: the muffled-up figure followed her closely, and kept on the same side of the way till he reached her door, when it crossed over, and waited till she went in, breathless and trembling.
Over and over again the little frightened girl tried to devise some plan, but all in vain; till this night of the foggy winter she was crossing the street, rejoicing that he was so near home, when there was a shout, a horse’s hot breath was upon her cheek, and she was sent staggering sideways, and would have fallen had not the muffled-up figure been at hand, caught her in his arms, and borne her to the pavement, while the cab disappeared in the yellow mist.
“My own darling! Are you hurt?” he cried passionately.
“Hendon! You!” she panted.
“Yes, I,” he said. “You are hurt!”
“No, no,” she cried; “only frightened. The horse struck my shoulder. But—but was it you who followed every night all the way home?”
“Yes,” he said, coldly now, “you knew it was.”
“I did not,” she retorted angrily; and then in half hysterical terms, “how dare you go on frightening me night after night like this? It has been horrible. You have made me ill.”