A dark train drew out of a dark station. With it went Hope, the shadow, silently, from my heart. . . .
VIII
The days passed. Mentone, Miss Leslie wrote me, was doing everything for Susan that we had desired. "But she is determined," she added, "to be back in Paris by the last week of February—when the baby was expected. She begins to be bothered that you write so scrappily and vaguely, and that she hears nothing directly from Lieutenant Kane or Jeanne-Marie. I shall have to tell her soon now, in any case. It seems more difficult as I come nearer to it, but I still feel sure we have done the right thing. I'm certain now that Susan will be able to face and bear it. Already she's full of plans for the future—wonderful! Possibly, if an opportunity offers, I shall tell her to-night."
The next afternoon my telephone rang. When I answered it, Susan spoke to me. "Ambo," she said, "I'm at the France-et-Choiseul. Please come over at once, no matter how busy you are. You owe that much to me, I think." She had hung up the receiver before I could stammer a reply.
But nothing more was necessary. I went to her as a criminal goes to confession, knowing at last how hideously in her eyes I had sinned.
"You meant well, Ambo," she said with a gentleness that yielded nothing—"you and Mona. Meaning well's what I feel now I can never quite forgive you. You, Ambo. Poor Mona doesn't count in this. But you—I thought I was safe with you. No matter."
Later she said: "I've seen Madame Guyot—a horrible woman; and the baby. He's a nice baby. You did just right about him, Ambo. Thank you for that." She mused a moment. "I suppose it's absurd to think he looks like Jimmy? But to me he does. I'm going to adopt him, Ambo. You see"—her smile was wistful—"I am going to have a baby of my own, after all."
"I'd thought of adopting him, myself," I babbled; "but of course——"
"Of course," said Susan.