“Thanks,” he said huskily. “Now, you wait there.”
The girl stopped at the place he had pointed out, watching Armstrong as he signed to Cornel to approach, and held out his hand.
She took it mechanically, and held it fast.
“Thank you for what you have done,” he said.
“Now go and forget me. You see I am hopelessly gone. It was to be, and it is of no use to fight against fate. Now go back to your brother.”
“And leave you—sick?”
“Yes; even if I were dying. God bless you, dear! Think of me as I used to be.”
“Armstrong!” she cried, with her hands extended toward him. But he waved her off.
“No, no. I am a scoundrel, but not black enough for that. Go back to your brother.”
“Go?”