She walked across the floor, drawing on her heavy riding gloves. Then she stepped out into the night.
Presently the sharp thudding of her pony’s hoofs sounded clearly upon the hard road. Minute by minute they died away, and when they had been swallowed by the night’s silence, Nash, for the first time in months, felt a great, crushing sense of loneliness.
The girl had gone—out of his life—forever. And, somehow, he had begun to have a deeper feeling than that of mere friendship toward her. He had even begun to dream those glorious, rose-colored dreams which come to all men, soon or late.
And what an end they had come to! His air castles were toppling about his shoulders.
To-morrow she would appear against him before the engineering board in Los Angeles. He would face her—not as a man wrongly accused of betraying his city, but as a self-confessed murderer of her brother—a creature to be despised and shunned.
She, whom once he thought would champion his cause, and fight for the opportunity to undo what she at first fancied was her duty, would now be only too glad to see him condemned.
And so this was to be the end of everything, he soliloquized bitterly. All his efforts and endeavors were to go for naught. He would be made an example of before the whole State of California.
“What a penalty!” he murmured to himself.
“We want to get that midnight train from San Fernando,” the detective said sharply.
“I am ready,” Nash responded quietly.