"Why—by simply—going away!"
Thornton almost broke again into that maddening laugh, but caught himself in time.
"That sounds—devilish easy!" he said, furiously, but the flare of passion died at birth, for Joan was saying:
"I have some money of my own—I will send it all to you. I will get money for you—as long as you need it—but after a time you will—not need it! And then"—here Joan stretched out her clasped hands—"I know it sounds almost impossible—but it can be made true—you can come back to us all; help us keep the secret, and—watch with us. You and I owe this—to Aunt Doris; to my mother! It may be your—your—recompense."
Thornton got upon his feet. He held to the table to steady himself, and a subtle dignity grew upon him.
"I am going away," he said, slowly, "until I can think over this infernal business by myself. The time to act hasn't come yet—that's certain. I don't want—your money; not now. If I do, I'll send for it. If I ever come again it will be to—" he paused, flung his head up—"to see you; to look on at the working out of the damned mess."
He reached out for the locket and case.
"Good-bye," he said, gruffly. "You need not be afraid—not now."
"I am not afraid." Joan rose weakly. "I shall wait for you. I am sure you will come.
"Good-bye; good-bye!"