the day at last arrived when sperry must return to new york. his mail during the last few days compelled his immediate presence. although he gauged the contents of several letters as false alarms there were three that left no room for refusal: one meant an operation that he dared not leave to his assistant's hands; the other two meant money. he had begun to notice, too, a little coldness on the part of his host; holcomb's manner toward him had also set him to thinking. upon one occasion thayor's strained silence, when he was alone with him smoking in his den and alice had retired, had thrown sperry into a state of positive alarm and kept his heart thumping the while, until a yawn of his host and a cheerful good-night relieved him of his fear. the doctor, like others of his ilk, was innately a coward.
on the last night of his visit, alice and sperry sat together in a corner of the veranda. thayor had gone over to holcomb's cabin for a talk; margaret had retired early.
alice had been strangely silent since dinner. the doctor's figure in the wicker armchair drawn close to her own, showed dimly in the dusk. tree toads croaked in the blackness beyond the veranda rail; the air smelled of rain. all growing things seemed to have ceased living; the air was heavy and laden with a resinous, dreamy vapour—magnetic, intoxicating. such a night plays havoc with some women. under these stifled conditions she is no longer normal; she becomes weak, pliable—she no longer reasons; she craves excitement, deceit, misadventure, confession—quarrels—jealousy—love—stringing their nerves to a tension and breeding a certain melancholy; it tortures by its suppression; a flash of lightning or a drenching rain would have been a relief.
for some moments neither had spoken. the man close to her in the dusk was biding his time.
"dear—" he whispered at length.
she did not answer.
he leaned toward her until the glow from his cigar illumined her eyes; he saw they were full of tears. his hand closed upon her own lying idle in her lap. she began to tremble as if seized with a nervous chill. it was the condition he had been waiting for. he watched her now with a thrill of satisfaction—with that suppressed exultance of a gambler holding a winning card.
"there—there," he said affectionately, smoothing with comforting little pats her trembling fingers. being a born gambler he sat in this game easily; just as he had sat in many a game before when the stakes were high—yet he knew that never in his whole discreditable life had he played for as high stakes as this woman's heart.
her silence irritated him. he threw his half-smoked cigar into the blackness beyond the veranda rail and leaned close to her white throat, framed in the soft filmy lace of her gown.
"why are you so silent?" he asked. "is it because—of to-morrow?"
"sh-sh-sh! do be careful," she cautioned him; "someone might hear you."
"we are quite alone, you and i," he returned curtly. "you know he is with holcomb and margaret is in bed." his voice sunk to infinite tenderness. "you are very nervous, dear," he said, raising both her hands firmly to his lips.
"don't," she moaned faintly. "can't you see i'm trying to be brave; can't you see how hard it is? you must not!"
he bent closer with slow determination until she felt the warmth of his breath upon her lips.
"kiss me," he pleaded tensely; "i love you."
her breath came quick, her whole body trembling violently. there was a hushed moment in which he saw her dark eyes dilate and half close with a savage gleam.
he sprang toward her.
"for god's sake, don't!" she gasped, as he tried to take her in his arms.
"i love you—i love you!" he repeated fiercely. "don't you trust me? you will—you shall listen to me. i can't leave you like this; it may be months before we shall see each other again. it is your right to be happy—to be loved—every woman has—why don't you take it?"
"what do you mean?" she stammered, her blood running cold.
"i mean that neither he nor your daughter loves you—that you are mine—not theirs."
she lay back in the wicker chair, scarcely breathing.
"yes, it's my fault," he continued pitilessly; "but it is because i love you—because you are dearest to me. i want you near me—close to me always. i've thought it all out. come to new york; there we shall find an enchanted island, the paradise i have longed for—that we've both longed for."
her eyes looked straight into his own. they were wide open—filled for the instant with a strange look of amazement.
her breath came in quick little gasps; a subtle anger seemed to close her throat.
she sprang to her feet, steadied herself by the chair back, and without another word, her white hands clenched to her side, turned slowly into the opening leading to the hall.
her astonishment and disgust were genuine.
at this instant the door of holcomb's cabin swung back and a flow of light streamed out. sperry halted and stood immovable in a protecting shadow. thayor moved slowly across the compound. as his foot touched the lower step of the veranda a thin, dry laugh escaped the doctor's white lips.
"i've been waiting patiently for a nightcap with you," he said.
"mental telepathy," returned his host. "i was just thinking of it myself. it's so late everybody has gone to bed, but i expect we can——no—here's blakeman. brandy and soda, blakeman, and some cracked ice."
"very good, sir—anything else, sir," replied blakeman, pulling his face into shape—he had heard every word that had passed.
"no, that will do."
"thank you, sir."
sperry studied the butler's impassible face for a moment, measured with his eye the distance from the pantry window to the corner of the veranda, then he drew a long breath—the first he had drawn in some minutes.
