Then a silence fell between them. He had reseated himself, his manly heart too full for words. He knew well that this woman, whose unhappiness was even tenfold greater than his own, was his firm and noble friend. The world spoke ill of her, and yet she was so upright, so sweet, so true.
And while they sat there—he, a thief, still holding the soft white hand that he had kissed with such reverence—a pair of shrewdly evil eyes were watching them out of the darkness and observing everything.
At midnight, when he returned to Brighton, the secret watcher, a hard-faced, thin-nosed woman, slight, narrow-waisted, rather elegantly dressed in deep mourning, travelled by the same train, and watched him to his hiding-place; and having done so, she strolled leisurely down to the King’s Road, where, upon the deserted promenade, she met a bent, wizened-faced, little old man, who was awaiting her.
With him she walked up and down until nearly one o’clock in the morning, engaged in earnest conversation, sometimes accompanied by quick gesticulation.
And they both laughed quietly together, the old man now and then shrugging his shoulders.
Chapter Twenty Two.
Shows Hinckeldeym’s Tactics.
Five weeks later.