"I?" exclaimed Murray, then laughed amusedly. "Nonsense!"
"Well, there was a fuss," said the girl. "I hoped that Father might begin to see Doctor Scudder as I saw him; but I don't know—it's terribly hard to tell just what he thinks and does not think, for he seldom says anything. When we were alone, he told me to take that note out to you, and to have you take me to Morongo Valley at once—without any delay."
"And no reason given?" asked Murray, in open astonishment.
"None," she responded. "I thought that perhaps he wanted to get you away from Doctor Scudder, to prevent trouble; but why should I go too? He refused absolutely to explain anything."
Murray reflected that there might be excellent reasons for the girl going too, but that certainly none appeared.
"Well," he said whimsically, "since we're on our way, we might as well go! I certainly am honored and delighted by your company, Miss Lee. I think you're a very wonderful sort of woman, and that your father should send you with me, like this, implies a trust which I shall try to deserve."
The girl glanced at him, and to his amazement he saw that a smile was rippling in her face.
"You've been wondering about me, I suppose? Most people do; they seem to think that it must be terrible to acknowledge a Chinaman as one's father, and to love him! I remember that when some of the girls came home with me one vacation, they could not see the wealth and happiness around me, the devoted servants such as they had never been used to, the love and affection which had been flung about me. All they could see was the yellow man who was their host——"
Her voice trailed off, and suddenly Murray realized that her smile had not been one of mirth. A quick flash of pity leaped through him. He saw her life as it must be—always a stigma upon her, always the yellow man whom she loved and who loved her, always the shadow that enveloped her friendships and all that she did!
"A year ago, Miss Lee," he said quietly, "I was among the leaders of my profession. Through the deadly sin of heedlessness, of failure to observe what I was doing in the effort always to do more in my profession, I became a drug fiend. Since then, I have conquered myself—but in the world's eyes I can never be rehabilitated. So I, too, have learned the folly of caring what the world thinks or says. It is the inward self that matters; nothing else."