Five minutes later we were standing side by side, in a spot where we could not be observed, she panting and breathless, and I full of eager questions as to the reason of her flight.
“So you actually followed me all the way here, Godfrey!” she exclaimed anxiously, turning those dear eyes upon me, those eyes the expression of which was always as wondering and innocent as a child’s.
“Because I am determined that you shall not again escape me, Ella,” was my answer, grasping her hand and raising it with reverence to my lips.
Are we ever truly read, I wonder, save by the one that loves us best? Love is blind, the phrase runs; yet, I would rather say Love sees as God sees, and with infinite wisdom has infinite pardon.
What was it I felt? I hardly know. I acted without knowing—only stung into a bitter, burning, all-corroding jealousy that drove me like a whip of scorpions.
“You should never have done this,” she answered calmly, though her voice trembled just a little. “Have I not already told you that—that our meeting was unfortunate, and that we must again part?”
“But why?” I demanded fiercely.
“It is imperative,” she faltered. “I can never be yours.”
“But you shall—Ella!” I cried fiercely, “in this past twenty-four hours I have discovered a great deal. Unknown to me there was a man staying with Miller at Studland. The real object of your visit there was to speak with him in secret. You did so and left by motor car, while he travelled here by train. Your father has no idea that he and Miller are friends nor has he any idea of his true identity. He believes him to be Gordon-Wright, yet I know him under the name of Lieutenant Harold Shacklock.”
“You—you know him?” she gasped.