Perhaps he was even now hiding somewhere near, waiting to pounce upon her when she should go out of that wretched place, and wrest that precious confession from her.
But he should not have it—he must not have it; she would make a bold fight, frail woman though she was, before she would yield up the only thing in the world that would clear her betrothed lover’s name from dishonor.
She had one hope, else her courage would have failed her utterly—the policeman whom she had asked to have a care for her safety and who had been so civil to her.
But she had been gone much longer than she had told him she would be, and possibly he had become tired of waiting for her and gone away.
A tumult of thoughts like these filled her mind and nearly bewildered her, but above and over all was a stern determination never to part with that paper until all the world should know of its contents.
Convinced that the face no longer glared upon her, she slipped it within her bosom and buttoned her dress close over it. Then she arose to go.
Yes, she could not bear to leave that dying man, perhaps never to see him alive again, without a few comforting words. His own last words had told her that he feared the future—that he dreaded to go forth into the great and mysterious eternity, and she longed to give him a little cheer, even though she knew that every moment’s delay but increased her own danger.
“I must leave you now,” she said, gently, and bending nearer to him, a great pity shining in her lovely face; “and I thank you more than I can tell you for the act of justice that you have at last done.”
“I thank you, miss,” he said, feebly, and with quivering lips, “for being so kind and gentle to me, and I hope you’ll forgive me as well for my share in that night’s business,” he concluded, humbly.
Could she forgive it?