“Lots of great and wise fools! Pardon me, Miss Powell, but I’d rather be baffled by any human cleverness than to admit the possibility of superhuman intervention.”
“But that doesn’t help matters, Mr. Coe. Your preferences don’t solve mysteries,—your disbelief doesn’t help to find the truth. I’m vanquished,—I’m ready to go over to the other side. I’ll accept the theory of Poltergeist or disembodied spirits or levitation or anything, now that you tell me a human being couldn’t get into that room!”
“But a human being did!”
“You only assume that because you’re not willing to believe the other. Anyway, I can see you have no hope of restoring my lover to me?”
“I can’t say I’ve a definite hope,—that is a hope founded on belief,—but of course, I hope.”
“Oh, that kind of hope,—merely a wish or desire,—that doesn’t mean anything!”
Not blaming Coe, but deeply disappointed, Elsie turned her thoughts to duty. Her torn, bleeding heart knew at last the meaning of the word despair. Yet her unselfish nature would not let her forget those dependent upon her. And so she made up her mind what she would do.
That night Fenn Whiting renewed his suit.
“Have you any hope of Kimball’s return?” he asked, gently.
“No,” Elsie returned in a low voice, devoid of all inflection, “no, Fenn, I haven’t.”