This strange little, wonderful creature had come to him
from out of a dead world, and her lips, and her arms, and the soft
caress of her hands had sent his own world reeling about his head so
swiftly that he had been drawn into a maelstrom to which he could find
no bottom. Before McDowell she had claimed him. And before McDowell he
had accepted her. He had lived the great lie as he had strengthened
himself to live it, but success was no longer a triumph. There rushed
into his brain like a consuming flame the desire to confess the truth,
to tell this girl whose arms were about him that he was not Derwent
Conniston, her brother, but John Keith, the murderer. Something drove
it back, something that was still more potent, more demanding, the
overwhelming urge of that fighting force in every man which calls for
self-preservation.
Slowly he drew himself away from her, knowing that for this night at
least his back was to the wall. She was smiling at him from out of the
big chair, and in spite of himself he smiled back at her.
"I must send you to bed now, Mary Josephine, and tomorrow we will talk
everything over," he said. "You're so tired you're ready to fall asleep
in a minute.
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