“I thought I saw our friend the sheriff down on Clark Street, aboard a car,” Craig remarks, at which the other smiles.
“Yes, he was here. I had a long chat with Bob, and he starts home to-night satisfied. He put in the night watching the Sherman, but of course Phœnix never turned up again. By this time he is in Canada, if he caught that late train. I will be back in an hour or two. Stay to dinner.”
“Thanks,” returns Aleck, mentally deciding to await an invitation from Dorothy or her father before committing himself.
“You’ll find father in the library, I believe; walk right in, Craig, I must be gone.”
Aleck knows the way. That library will never be forgotten by him, since the strange occurrences of the preceding night.
But Mr. Cereal is not there. On the contrary, as Aleck opens the door and enters, he finds himself in the presence of Dorothy—in tears. This, of course, confounds him; no man knows how to act under such circumstances. Bold enough to face any danger, the hero feels weak in the presence of a weeping woman.
She looks up and sees him, then smiles through her tears; it is like the April sunshine peeping out amid the clouds, and Aleck can mentally see the rainbow of promise.
“Oh, Mr. Craig! how silly I must appear in your eyes; but want of sleep and nervous exhaustion have made me hysterical,” she hastens to say, holding out a hand, then quickly withdrawing it.
“I trust nothing further of a serious nature has happened,” he remarks anxiously.
“No, no! She is getting along nicely. Father is at her side much of the time. He has forgiven all and is eager to make her happy. She knows the end is not far distant, and you would be surprised to see how contented she is. I doubt whether in the whole of Chicago to-day you could find a woman so happy as Adela. It is because she is going—if she had to live she would fear for the future. The future seems bright and heavenly now to her, poor Adela.”