“He has undertaken a dangerous thing, has he not?” Sanders managed to say.
“Dangerous?” Helen shuddered. “He has an enemy there who is now seeking his life. They are sure to meet. They have already quarrelled, and—about this very thing.”
She sat down in the chair she had just left and Sanders stood near her. There was a voice in the hall. It was the Major ordering a servant to bring in mint julep, and the next moment he was in the parlor hospitably introducing himself to the visitor.
Seeing her opportunity, Helen rose and left them together. She went up to her room, with heavy, dragging footsteps, and stood at the window overlooking the Dwight garden and lawn.
Carson knew that Sanders was in town, she told herself, in gloomy self-reproach. He knew his rival was with her, and right now as the poor boy was speeding on to—his death, he thought Sanders was making love to her. Helen bit her quivering lip and clinched her fingers. “Poor boy!” she thought, almost with a sob, “he deserves better treatment than that.”
CHAPTER XVII
