The personal interest of so conspicuous a person as Mary Randall, in Elsie’s case, had undoubtedly urged Harvey on—when otherwise he might have given up. Even so, his courage and persistency, and personal sacrifices, were wonderful to behold.
On the night when Druce was at last removed from the jail Harvey was standing in an alley opposite the public entrance to the jail watching the automobile which stood awaiting the coming of someone from within.
Finally he saw the slender figure of a woman emerge from a doorway and enter the automobile. He knew that figure. He ran across the street and around the car. He noted its number with one of those keen flashes of memory, conscious at the moment that he should remember that number as long as he drew breath.
He flung open the door on the further side of the automobile.
Elsie faced him. “What are you doing here?” she asked in an icy little voice.
“I—no—Won’t you come to your mother, Elsie? Won’t you come away from this man? Your mother and Patience love you so much and have been trying so hard to find you and—”
“I can’t, Harvey—I—perhaps—Oh! Go away. Druce is coming. He will—hurt you.”
“It doesn’t matter about me. It’s you.”
“I—I must stand by my husband.”
“Husband! He isn’t your husband. He fooled you with a marriage license. Anybody can get a license in Chicago, but Druce’s license was never returned. He likely got some fellow to pretend to perform the marriage. Elsie, it wasn’t legal, I can prove it.”