Now since Fanny Colville had come into his path of duty, pity and kindness had grown into love, strong, fervent, and abiding.
He strolled into her drawing-room one day a few months after her husband's death, and found her sitting cosily before the fire with a bit of fancy-work lying on her lap.
"I hope I do not disturb you," he said, noting her dreamy look. "You seemed to be thinking on some very absorbing subject when I entered."
"I was thinking of you, Mr. Shelton," returned the young widow, with a smile and a slight blush.
"Of me!" exclaimed the detective, observing the blush with a thrill of pleasure. "I hope your thoughts were agreeable ones."
"They could not be otherwise when I think of my kind friend and preserver," answered Fanny, giving him a gentle glance from her frank, dark eyes. "Oh, Mr. Shelton, when I think of myself as I was when you discovered me in that loathsome dungeon, starving and freezing in my wretched rags, and delivered me from my bonds—when I remember that and contrast it with my present happy lot, I feel that I can never repay the great debt of gratitude I owe you."
"I fear," he said, at length, "that you overestimate the value of the service I did you, Mrs. Colville. It is true, I suppose that I saved your life, but what then? Life to many is not as great a boon that they would thank one for saving it."
"Ah, but they are misanthropic," returned Fanny, brightly. "Life to me, Mr. Shelton, is a great boon. I love to live! I love to feel the warm blood rushing through my veins with the ardor of youth and hope. I love to feel my pulses bounding with life's fitful fever. Oh, Mr. Shelton, can I do nothing to show my gratitude for all you have done for me?"
The detective drew nearer and took her soft, warm hand impulsively in his own.