“You are unkind,” Inez retorted, quickly. “You know how much all mention of this pains me, yet you persist.”
“Forgive me.” Armstrong controlled himself and held out his hand kindly. “I don’t mean to hurt you, believe me, but my mind is ever searching out that connecting link. You won’t tell me about it, so I suppose I shall never find it.”
She started to reply, but as quickly checked herself. “There is nothing for me to tell,” she said, at length, without looking up. “I will send Helen to you,” she added, as she hastened away.
Armstrong again threw himself upon the couch, and, trying to assume the same position, closed his eyes in a vain endeavor to summon back the vision he had seen. If it had only continued a little longer he might have learned all! The fugitive nature of his quest proved a fascination, and day after day he exerted every effort to gratify his whim.
Inez clearly avoided him. Whether or not this was apparent to the other members of the family he could not tell, but it was quite obvious to him. There must be some reason beyond what he knew, and he had almost stumbled upon it! Another week passed by, more rapidly than any since his convalescence began because of the determination with which he pursued his baffling problem.
Again he lay upon his couch in the garden, his eyes closed, but with his mind fixed upon its one desire. Suddenly he felt the presence of some one. A thrill of expectation passed through him, but he dared not open his eyes lest the impression should disappear. For what seemed a long time he was conscious of this person standing beside him, and he knew that whoever it might be was gazing at him intently. Then he felt a hand gently take his arm, which was hanging over the side of the couch, and, raising it carefully, place it in a more comfortable position. Then the hand rested for a moment on his forehead.
Opening his eyes a little, as if by intuition, he saw Miss Thayer tiptoeing along the path toward the house. He closed his eyes again, and as he did so he felt a sudden return of the subconscious impression.
Now, in his mind’s eye he saw a cheaply furnished room, and Miss Thayer leaning, with ashen face and dishevelled hair, against a closed door. He saw her sink upon the floor and pass through a paroxysm of grief. She murmured some incoherent words, and then stood erect, looking straight at him as he lay upon the bed. Then she lifted his arm, just as she had a moment before, and covered his hand with kisses, sobbing the while with no attempt at control.
“Speak to me!” he seemed to hear her say. “Tell me that you are not dead!” He could feel the intensity of her gaze even as he lay there. “Jack, my beloved; you are mine, dear—do you hear?—and I am yours.” Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead. “How I have loved you all these weeks!... Now I can tell you of it, dear—it will do no harm!”
Held by a force he could not have broken had he wished, Armstrong watched the progress of the tragedy.