Louise covered her face with her hands, and he saw that she was sobbing gently.
“It was some time before I could speak,” continued Leslie. “I was still holding his wrist tightly, and it was not until he spoke again that I felt as if I could explain.”
“‘Where are you taking me?’ he said. ‘Is it necessary for Mr Leslie, my father’s friend, to play policeman in the case?’
“‘When will you learn to believe and trust in me, Harry Vine?’ I said.
“‘Never,’ he replied bitterly, and in the gladness of my heart I laughed, and could have taken him in my arms and embraced him as one would a lost brother just returned to us from the dead.
“‘You will repent that,’ I said; and I felt then that my course was marked out, and I could see my way.”
Louise let fall her hands, and sank into a chair, her eyes dilating as she gazed earnestly at the quiet, enduring man, who now narrated to her much that was new; and ever as he spoke something in her brain seemed to keep on repeating in a low and constant repetition:
“He loves me—he loves me—but it can never be.”
“‘Where am I taking you?’ I said,” continued Leslie. “‘To where you can make a fresh start in life.’” And as Louise gazed at him she saw that he was looking fixedly at the spot upon the carpet where her brother had last stood when he was in that room.
“‘Not to—’