ope that he was about to see Elsie alone.

She met him at the door, her face a-quiver with feeling, a note of alarm
in her voice. "Have you heard the cheering? They are denouncing you over
there!"

"I suppose so. But let's not talk of such unimportant matters; this is
our last evening together, and I want to forget the storm outside. Since
I left you last night I have had a most remarkable experience, and I--"

"Oh, you mean catching the murderer; tell me about it!"

"No. Oh no; that is not worth telling. I mean something more intimately
personal." Shrill yells from across the way interrupted him, and Elsie
rose and shut the window. "I hate them; they are worse than savages,"
she said. "Please don't mind them."

He went on: "I was about to say I had a deal of time to think on my long
ride this morning, and I reached some conclusions which I want to tell
you about. When my prisoner was safe in the guard-house, I went over to
see how my little temple of art looked--I mean your studio, of course. I
closed the door and dropped into one of the big chairs, hoping to gain
rest and serenity in the beauty and quiet of the place. But I didn't; I
was painfully depressed."

She opened her eyes very wide at this. "Why?"

"Because everything I saw there emphasized the irrevocable loss I had
suffered. I couldn't endure the thought of it, and I fled. I could not
remain without weeping, and you know a man is ashamed of his tears; but
when I got your note of warning I flung conscience to the winds! 'It is
not a crime to love a woman,' I said. 'I will write to her and say to
her "I love you, no matter what happens;"' and, now I find you here, I
tell it to you instead of writing it."

She was facing him with a look of perplexity and alarm. One hand laid
upon her throat seemed to express suffering. When she spoke her voice
was very low.

"What do you expect me to say; you make it so hard for me! Why do you
tell me this?"

"Because I could not rest till I had spoken. For a long time I thought
you were bound to Lawson, and since then I've tried to keep silent
because of my poverty and--no one knows better than I the unreason of it
all--I do not ask you to speak except to say, 'I am sorry.' When I found
you were still within reach, the desire to let you know my feeling
overcame every other consideration. I can't even do the customary thing
and ask you to wait, for my future is as uncertain as my present, but if
you could say you lo