He looked at her long and soberly, and took both her hands in his.
"It was the one place you couldn't help," he muttered. "It was that sort—my love, I mean. I had to know; had to know that I wouldn't put a hateful mark on you by loving. I had to know that. Don't you see?"
She moved closer and came between him and the sunshine that poured through the open door. The glorious light was caught by her hair and thrown, it seemed, to the veriest corners of the dingy little room.
"The light!" he cried.
She settled against him, her lips on his, and clung so. From outside came the shrilling call of the Captain. VB crushed her closer.
CHAPTER XXVI
To the Victor
Up the flagged walk to the house of chill, white stone overlooking the North River went a messenger, and through the imposing front portal he handed a letter, hidden away in a sheaf of others. A modest-appearing letter; indeed, perhaps something less than modest; possibly humble, for its corners were crumpled and its edges frayed. Yet, of all the packages handed him, Daniel Lenox, alone at his breakfast, singled it out for the earliest attention.
And what he read was this: