“No: not yet,” she said, drawing herself up.
“Not yet?” cried Thorpe, in wonder at the firmness and determination she displayed.
“Not yet: I am going to see Armstrong Dale.”
“No,” cried Pacey excitedly. “You must not do that. I will see him and tell him you are here. It may bring him to his senses, and he will come to you.”
Cornel turned to him, smiling sadly.
“You tell me that he is slipping away into the gulf, and when I would go to hold out my hands to save him, you say, ‘Wait, and he will come to you!’”
“At any rate you cannot go,” cried Thorpe.
“Armstrong Dale is my affianced husband, and at heart, in his weakness and despair, he calls to me for help. I am going to him now.”
“And God speed your work!” cried Pacey excitedly, “for if ever angel came to help man in his sorest need, it is now.”
The next minute, without a word, Cornel Thorpe was walking alone down the old staircase to the street, while Pacey and her brother followed, as if they were in a dream.