“Ban; she’s married.”
“Married!”
The telegraph instrument clicked in the tiny rhythm of an elfin bass-drum. “O.S. O.S.” Click. Click. Click-click-click. Mechanically responsive to his office he answered, and for a moment was concerned with some message about a local freight. When he raised his face again, Miss Van Arsdale read there a sick and floundering skepticism.
“Married!” he repeated. “Io! She couldn’t.”
The woman, startled by the conviction in his tone, wondered how much that might imply.
“She wrote me,” said she presently.
“That she was married?”
“That she would be by the time the letter reached me.”
(“You will think me a fool,” the girl had written impetuously, “and perhaps a cruel fool. But it is the wise thing, really. Del Eyre is so safe! He is safety itself for a girl like me. And I have discovered that I can’t wholly trust myself.... Be gentle with him, and make him do something worth while.”)
“Ah!” said Ban. “But that—”