"He has withdrawn," muttered Francis Lamotte, settling himself back as comfortably as possible, and clasping his hands behind his head.
"And he means what he says; something has happened in my absence; I can't understand it, but it's so much the better for me."
CHAPTER XII.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday, three days; three nights. The events chronicled in the foregoing chapters, crowded themselves into the space of three days.
But these were exceptional days; life does not move on thus, especially in the usually staid and well regulated town of W——. Men and women are not qualified to run a long, high pressure race. Action, and then—reaction. Reaction from every emotion, every sorrow, every joy. God help us.
We weep for days, but not for years. We suffer, but here and there comes a respite from our pain. We live in a delirium of joy for a brief space, and vegetate in dullness, in apathy, in hardness of heart, in indifference, or in despair, according to our various natures, for the rest of our natural lives. So let it be, it is the lot common to all.
"No man can hide from it, but it will find him out,
Nor run from it, but it overtaketh him."
After the robbery, after the flight, after the coming and departure of the two detectives, dullness settled down upon our friends in W——.