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Page 77
"If you only knew how I despised him," she said, "you wouldn't think
it necessary to excuse yourself--though I don't know yet what it's all
about."
"Simply, I happen to have the whip-hand of the Shaynon conscience,"
returned P. Sybarite; "I happened to know that Bayard is secretly the
husband of a woman notorious in New York under the name of Mrs.
Jefferson Inche."
"Is that true? Dare I believe--?"
Intimations of fears inexpressibly alleviated breathed in her cry.
"I believe it."
"On what grounds? Tell me!"
"The word of the lady herself, together with the evidence of his
confusion just now. What more do you need?"
Turning aside, the girl rested a hand upon the balustrade and gazed
blankly off through the night.
"But--I can't help thinking there must be some mistake--some terrible
mistake."
"If so, it is theirs--the Shaynons', father and son."
"But they've been bringing such pressure to bear to make me agree to
an earlier wedding day--!"
"Not even that shakes my belief in Mrs. Inche's story. As a matter of
fact, Bayard offered her half a million if she'd divorce him quietly,
without any publicity, in the West."
"And she accepted--?"
"She has refused, believing she stands to gain more by holding on."
"If that is true, how can it be that he has been begging me this very
night to marry him within a month?"
"He may have entertained hopes of gaining his end--his freedom--in
another way."
"It's--it's inexpressibly horrible!" the girl cried, twisting her
hands together.
"Furthermore," argued the little man, purposefully unresponsive, "he
probably thinks himself forced to seem insistent by the part he's
playing. His father doesn't know of this entanglement; he'd disinherit
Bayard if he did; naturally, Bayard wouldn't dare to seem reluctant to
hasten matters, for fear of rousing the old man's suspicions."
"It may be so," she responded vacantly, in the confusion of adjusting
her vision of life to this new and blinding light....
"Tell me," he suggested presently, stammering--"if you don't mind
giving me more of your confidence--to which I don't pretend to have
any right--only my interest in--in you--the mystery with which you
surround yourself--living alone there in that wretched boarding-house--"
He broke off with a brief uneasy laugh: "I don't seem to get
anywhere.... My fear lest you think me presumptuous--"
"Don't fear that for another instant--please!" she begged earnestly;
and swinging to face him again, gave him an impulsive hand. "I'm so
grateful to you for--for what you've saved me from--"
"Then..." Self-distrustful, he retained her fingers only transiently.
"Then why not tell me--everything. If I understood, I might be able to
offer some suggestions--to save you further distress--"
"Oh, no; you can't do that," she interrupted. "If what you've said is
true, I--I shall simply continue to live by myself."
"You don't mean you would go back to Thirty-eighth Street?"
"No," she said thoughtfully, "I'm--I don't mean that."
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