As Stephen’s step died in the distance, all Hugh’s uncertainty came back, and he turned to Helen disconcertedly.
“I hope this is the right thing I am doing.”
“I am sure it is,” the girl said. “Dr. Latham thinks so too.”
“Are you? Still something keeps telling me I shouldn’t go—I dare say it’s my imagination.”
“Why, yes,” she reassured him, “what difference could it make, Hugh, whether you search this afternoon or this evening?”
“None, of course,” he admitted; “the strain has lasted so long it’s on my nerves. Oh,” he broke out anew, “if I could only think where to look now. But I can’t—I can’t.” He looked about the room distractedly.
Helen came to him, and put her hand on him. “It is going to be all right, Hugh—I’m certain it’s going to be all right.”
“Yes, I hope so,” he said; “but, Helen, if it shouldn’t?”
“If it shouldn’t?” she said, startled, and touched too now by his discomfort, his vacillation.
“This would have to be good-by, Helen.”