He waited impatiently for the evening. Wallie, smothered in a great
raincoat, he sent forth on a general foraging expedition and to bring
up some of Conniston's clothes. It was a quarter of eight when he left
for Miriam Kirkstone's home.
Even at that early hour the night lay about him heavy and dark and
saturated with a heavy mist. From the summit of the hill he could no
longer make out the valley of the Saskatchewan. He walked down into a
pit in which the scattered lights of the town burned dully like distant
stars. It was a little after eight when he came to the Kirkstone house.
It was set well back in an iron-fenced area thick with trees and
shrubbery, and he saw that the porch light was burning to show him the
way. Curtains were drawn, but a glow of warm light lay behind them.
He was sure that Miriam Kirkstone must have heard the crunch of his
feet on the gravel walk, for he had scarcely touched the old-fashioned
knocker on the door when the door itself was opened. It was Miriam who
greeted him. Again he held her hand for a moment in his own.
It was not cold, as it had been in McDowell's office. It was almost
feverishly hot, and the pupils of the girl's eyes were big, and dark,
and filled with a luminous fire.
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