"Dorothy," he said when he felt his mastery complete, "I have already made it hard enough for myself by committing a folly against which you gave me ample warning. I am trying now to redeem myself and merit your trust and regard."
Her eyes met his in a long, love-revealing look—a look that could bridge all the gulfs of time and the vast abyss of space itself—and words would have been but a jar. Whatever the outcome, after this, nothing could rob them of the deep, supernal joy that flashed there between them for a moment.
Even when her lashes fell, at last, the silence was maintained.
After a time Garrison spoke again, returning to earth and the unfinished labor before him.
"I must go," he said, consulting his watch. "I hope to catch a train for Branchville in order to be there early in the morning."
"On our—this business?" she inquired.
He felt it quite impossible to raise her hopes—or perhaps her fears—by announcing he felt he should find John Hardy's latest will. Moreover, he had undergone a wakeful man's distrust of the "dream" he had experienced after falling at the hands of Wicks. He resorted to a harmless deceit, which, after all, was not entirely deceitful.
"Mr. Fairfax left for Branchville—he said to spring a surprise," he imparted. "I thought it would do no harm to be on hand and prepare for his moves, as far as possible."
He had risen. Dorothy did likewise. A slight suggestion of paleness overspread her face, followed at once by a faint, soft flush of color.
"I hope you will try to avoid him—avoid anything that might be dangerous," she faltered. "I feel already I shall never be able to forgive myself for the dangers into which I have sent you."