“Then, as one of us, I'll tell you,” Carson said, impressively. “Helen, Pete, is not dead.”
“Not dead?” She stared at him incredulously from her great, beautiful eyes. Slowly her white hand went out till it rested on his, and remained there, quivering.
“No, he's alive and so far in safe keeping, free from harm at present, anyway.”
Her fingers tightened on his hand, her sweet, appealing face drew nearer to his; she took a deep breath. “Oh, Carson, don't say that unless you are quite sure.”
“I am absolutely sure,” he said; and then, as they sat, her hand still lingering unconsciously on his, he explained it all, leaving the part he had taken out of the recital as much as possible, and giving the chief credit to his supporters. She sat spellbound, her sympathetic soul melting and flowing into the warm current of his own while he talked as it seemed to her no human being had ever talked before.
When he had concluded she drew away her hand and sat erect, her bosom heaving, her eyes glistening.
“Oh, Carson,” she cried; “I never was so happy in my life! It actually pains me.” She pressed her hand to her breast. “Mammy will be so—but you say she must not—must not yet—”
“That's the trouble,” Dwight said, regretfully.
“I'm sure I could put her and Lewis on their guard so that they would act with discretion, but Blackburn and Garner—in fact, all the rest—are afraid to risk them, just now anyway. You see, they think Linda and Lewis might betray it in their emotions—their very happiness—and so undo everything we have accomplished.”
“Surely, now that the report of Sam Dudlow's confession has gone out, they would let Pete alone,” Helen said.