The Lion's Mouse. C. N. Williamson
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meanwhile you'll come and call on me in the stateroom sometimes if you don't mind?"
Roger smiled. A silver lining began to glimmer through the cloud.
By good luck he knew no one on board save O'Reilly, who fortunately was in another car, and he hoped that few people knew him. He could not resist her invitation. He began by deciding to spend a half hour with his "invalid cousin" now and again. As through the veil of beauty he caught glimpses of something like character within, Roger felt that the mystery thickened.
The inevitable moment came. The porter was brushing men's hats and coats. Suitcases were being fastened up. The Limited was slowing down in the big station. Then, and not till then, did Miss White show herself at the door of Stateroom A. Sands, who had knocked to tell her that she had better come out, was waiting to guard her for the last time. Neither had much to say. The hope of haven had not raised the girl's spirits. As Sands gave her a hand, stepping on to the platform, he saw Justin O'Reilly, already out of the train and looking about with the air of expecting someone. O'Reilly took off his hat, with an unnecessarily cordial smile for Sands. At heart they were enemies. Roger took the smile to mean amusement at sight of his companion. He felt annoyed. Miss White was looking straight ahead, a brilliant colour staining the cheeks usually pale.
The rendezvous, she had explained to him, was at a news stand. "There!" she said, "that is where he will be. There's such a crowd, I can't see him yet."
They neared the news stand, and as "Miss White" was a tall girl whose head could be seen above the hats of average women, he expected a man to start eagerly forward. But no man separated himself from the crowd. She was beginning to look anxious: there was no flush on her cheeks now.
"Where can he be?" she said. "Something must have happened."
"Taxi broken down, perhaps," Roger tried consolation.
"Oh, if only it's nothing worse! I must just wait. But you, Mr. Sands, I oughtn't to ask. … "
"You needn't," Roger cut her short. "I'm not going to desert you."
"I might have known you wouldn't. He can't be long!"
"What about the envelope? Will you have it now?" Roger asked. She had begged him to keep it until they were out of the train.
"Not yet. I daren't. You're sure it hasn't been stolen from you? Do please make certain!"
He put his hand inside his coat, and felt the envelope, which was safe, of course. "It's there, as large as life."
"Thank heaven!" she breathed.
Minutes passed: fifteen minutes; twenty; thirty. The girl was white as ashes, and dark shadows lay under her eyes. "All hope is over!" she said, as Sands glanced at his watch, when they had stood for three-quarters of an hour. "Some terrible thing has prevented him from meeting me. I don't know what's going to become of me now!"
II
THE NET
"You made no plan what to do if your friend didn't turn up?" Roger enquired. "Have you any other friends in Chicago?"
"Not one."
"Have you ever lived here, or stayed here?"
"No."
If he had now been capable of suspecting her, all his first suspicions of Miss Beverley White would have marshalled themselves in his brain. Nothing had happened during the whole journey to justify her fantastic story of mysterious danger. As for the wonderful envelope, who could tell that it didn't contain blank paper? But Sands had got beyond this stage. If he were a fool, he asked to be nothing better.
"Is that friend you talk of more than a friend?"
"No, only a person I trusted for reasons I can't tell you."
"I see. And you don't know what will become of you since he's failed you, and you're turned adrift in a strange town?"
"I don't know at all. I feel stunned—as if it didn't matter."
"It does matter to a girl like you, left alone without friends in a big city where you're a stranger. Have you money?"
"I had enough and more than enough for my journey here, enough to pay you back for all you've done. I expected to get more money, and to be looked after in Chicago. Perhaps I can find work."
"Do you think after all that's passed I can go coolly on my way leaving you alone in Chicago? I may be a fool, but I have another proposal to make." He paused.
She looked up as if startled.
"What do you say to marrying me and going on to New York as my wife?"
For a minute he thought she was going to faint. She seemed suddenly to become limp. She swayed a little on her feet, and he caught her arm.
"You're tired out, standing so long," he exclaimed.
"No, it's not that. Forgive me. It was almost too much, finding out the height of your goodness. Yet, 'height' is the word!"
"You'll marry me, then!" he cried.
"No," the girl answered, "I thank you with my whole heart, but I can't."
"Why … why?" he stammered. "Unless you're married already."
"I'm not married. No man has ever been anything to me. I swear that to you! But I can't tell you any more about myself."
Roger did not speak for a minute. At last he said:
"See here, you and I have got to talk. We can't do that where we are, with people jostling us this way and that. There's one thing certain. However this ends, I'm not going to leave you alone in Chicago. We've got plenty of time. Will you let me take you to a quiet restaurant? We can thrash matters out across the table."
"Very well," she agreed.
Roger knew Chicago. When he had arranged to have his luggage put in safe keeping, he got a taxi and took the girl to a dull but good place, sure to be practically empty at that hour. They sat down at a table in a corner, and Sands ordered an oyster stew.
"Do you dislike me?" he began his catechism. "Could you like me enough to think of me as a husband, if we'd met in a conventional, society sort of way?"
"Yes, I could. I do want you to know that. You've been so splendid to me."
"So far so good, but I haven't been splendid. I've fallen in love with you. I haven't been in love before … that is, not since I was twenty. I've never had time. … "
"You haven't taken much time in doing it now!" She gave a queer little laugh with a sob in it.
"I've learned the lesson that time isn't the thing needed. I want you more than I ever wanted anything in my life, and I'll take you … as you stand."
"You haven't stopped to think … to count the cost," she said. "Imagine what it would be for a man like you to have a wife he knew nothing about, just a single figure cut off its background, in a picture he'd never seen. People would ask: 'Who was she?' and there'd be no answer."
"They'd not ask me that," said Roger obstinately. "And I wouldn't care what they asked each other. I'm not a society man, though I might enjoy putting my wife on the top floor. And I can do that with you if I choose! You say I'm a man of importance. I'm important enough anyhow to take the wife I want, and to put her where I want her to be."
"Yes, perhaps. But it wouldn't be only for a little while that I'd not be allowed to tell you about myself. It would be for always. You couldn't love me enough to be happy in spite of that."
"I