THE LAST FLIGHT OF EVELYN

EVELYN went for a few minutes to her room. There she bathed her eyes; for like all women, she was ashamed of the tears that did her honour by attesting the tender intensity of her womanhood.

That done, she went to the laboratory, where she found Dorothy at work. To her she said:—

“Please let me have my book. I want Mr. Kilgariff to read it.”

Dorothy asked no explanation. She needed none. She went at once and fetched the manuscript. Evelyn took it and returned to the parlour, where she placed it in Kilgariff’s hands.

“Please read that, carefully,” she said. “Then you will understand.”

“If you mean,” he replied, “that anything this manuscript may reveal concerning your past life can lessen my love for you, you are utterly wrong, and the reading is unnecessary. If you wish only that I shall know you better, and more perfectly understand the influences that have made you the woman you are, I shall be glad to read every line and word that you have written.”

“Please read it.” That was all she said, and she instantly left the room.

Five minutes later she told Dorothy she wanted the carriage.

“I want to go to Warlock,” she said, “on a little visit to Mrs. Pegram. Oh, Dorothy! you understand.”

“Yes, dear,” answered Dorothy, “I understand. It is rather late to start to Warlock. It is a thirty-mile drive. But I’ll give you Dick for your coachman, and there is a moon. Dick is quite a military man now, and he knows what a forced march means. He’ll get you to Warlock in time for a late supper.”

Dick drove like a son of Jehu. After the manner of the family negro in Virginia, he shrewdly conjectured what was in the wind; and when he put up his horses at Warlock before even the regular supper was served, he said to the stableman:—

“I reckon mebbe Mas’ Owen Kilgariff’ll want stablin’ here for a good horse to-morrow, an’ purty soon in de mawnin’ at dat.”