She closed her eyes;
her lips and eyelids trembled. "Only one, Bartley.
Only one. And he threw it back at me a second time."
She felt the strength leap in the arms
that held her so lightly.
"Try him again, Hilda. Try him once again."
She looked up into his eyes, and hid her
face in her hands.
CHAPTER X
On Tuesday afternoon a Boston lawyer,
who had been trying a case in Vermont,
was standing on the siding at White River Junction
when the Canadian Express pulled by on its
northward journey. As the day-coaches at
the rear end of the long train swept by him,
the lawyer noticed at one of the windows a
man's head, with thick rumpled hair.
"Curious," he thought; "that looked like
Alexander, but what would he be doing back
there in the daycoaches?"
It was, indeed, Alexander.
That morning a telegram from Moorlock
had reached him, telling him that there was
serious trouble with the bridge and that he
was needed there at once, so he had caught
the first train out of New York. He had taken
a seat in a day-coach to avoid the risk of
meeting any one he knew, and because he did
not wish to be comfortable. When the
telegram arrived, Alexander was at his rooms
on Tenth Street, packing his bag to go to Boston.
On Monday night he had written a long letter
to his wife, but when morning came he was
afraid to send it, and the letter was still
in his pocket. Winifred was not a woman
who could bear disappointment.
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