It was from this girl, so amazingly like her father, that he would
have fled in any event. His nature revolted against the possibility of
constant association with her, he scarcely could have maintained even
a perfunctory show of consideration for her. And then something told
him that her confidences would grow, that she would go farther in the
effort to justify her father. He realized that he could not stand by
and hear the things she doubtless would feel called upon to say in
respect to Mary Braddock. His sleepless night had drawn many ugly
pictures for him to efface before he could be at peace with himself.
All through that dismal night he had given his thoughts to these
people, and to three cities,--London, Paris and New York.
In the last of these, Mary Braddock was living. Staring up at the dim,
flickering shadows on the ceiling, he traveled in horrid conjecture
from one to the other of these immense wildernesses. Ahead of him
stalked the ugly figure of Robert Grand, who _knew_--who perhaps had
known all the time; at his side was the knowledge that the five years
had come to an end. Was Mary Braddock, after all, in a position to
redeem her promise?
The candle sputtered and went out.
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