"Who knows?"
"On our side your uncles, my brother and I,—and your cousin, I think, guesses. The President, also, is aware—"
She reddened deeply. "I know," she said, in a stifled voice. "The President, too, is generous—"
"On his—on Mr. Rand's side, certain men whom we need not name. That he has secured their silence, events have proved, and I take it for granted that he has been careful to recall and to destroy any writing that might incriminate. He is, I think, quite safe."
She turned from him and, sitting down by the table, laid her head upon her arms. He regarded her for a moment with compassion and understanding, chivalrous and deep, then, moving to the window, stood there with his face to the evening star. At last she spoke in a broken and tremulous voice "Mr. Cary—"
He came to her side. "It is a peaceful night, still and bright. You will sleep, will you not? Leave all this to Time and to the power of steadfast love! You may yet see in this land the grandeur of the dawn."
"I know that I shall," she answered. "And when I see it, I shall think reverently of you. It was like you to come, like you to help me so. Now, good-night!"
She took his hand, and before he could prevent her, raised it to her lips. "No,—let me! You are generous and you are noble. I acknowledge it from my heart. Good-night—good-bye!"
He showed for a moment his pent emotion, then strove with and conquered it. "I will go. Your cousin is from home, and you are alone to-night. Would you prefer that she should return?"
"No. I had rather be alone."