He also dropped in at the Vanderbilt for lunch on Thursday.
Friday morning he was in the court-room, ostensibly to hear sentence
pronounced. He sat outside the railing. Seven of his fellow-jurors
straggled in as the hour for convening court approached. Sampson found
himself flanked by No. 7 and No. 12, the former a trifle winded after a
long run from Worth Street. In a hoarse wheeze he informed Sampson that
“she'll be here in a minute,” and, sure enough, the words were barely
out of his mouth when Alexandra Hildebrand entered the court-room with
Mr. O 'Brien.
Sampson was shocked by her appearance. She was pale and tired-looking
and there were dark circles beneath her wonderful eyes. She looked ill
and worn. His heart went out to her. He longed to hold her close and
whisper--
“My God!” oozed from No. 7's agonised lips. “She's--she's sick!”
Sampson kicked him violently on the shin. “She'll hear you, you
blithering idiot,” he grated out.
The courtesy of the Court was extended once more to Miss Hildebrand.
She was invited to have a seat inside the railing. If she recognised a
single one of the eight jurors who sat outside, she failed to betray
the fact by sign or deed. The prisoner, a troubled, anxious look in his
eyes, entered and took his accustomed seat instead of standing at the
foot of the jury box to await sentence. Miss Hildebrand put her arm
over his shoulders and brushed his lean old cheek with her lips. He was
singularly unmoved by this act of devotion. Sampson glowered. The old
man might at least have given her a look of gratitude, a pat of the
hand--oh, anything gentle and grandfatherly. But there he sat, as rigid
as an oak, his gaze fixed on the Court, his body hunched forward in an
attitude of suspense. He was not thinking of Alexandra.
Hildebrand arose when his name was called, and it was plain that he
maintained his composure only by the greatest exertion of the will.
Sampson watched him curiously. He had the feeling that the old man would
collapse if the Court's decision proved severe.
The customary questions and answers followed, the old man responding in
a voice barely audible to those close by.
“The Court, respecting the wishes of the jurors who tried and found you
guilty, James Hildebrand, is inclined to be merciful. It is the judgment
of this Court that the penalty in your case shall be fixed at two years'
imprisonment, but in view of the recommendation presented here and
because of your previous reputation for integrity and the fact that you
voluntarily surrendered yourself to justice, sentence is suspended.”
Other remarks by the Court followed, but Sampson did not hear them.
His whole attention was centred on Alexandra Hildebrand. Her slim body
straightened up, her eyes brightened, and a heavenly smile transfigured
her face.
Sampson felt like cheering!
A few minutes later she passed him in the rotunda. For an instant their
eyes met. There was a deep, searching expression in hers. Suddenly a
deep flush covered her smooth cheek and her eyes fell. She hurried past,
and he, stock-still with wonder and joy over this astounding exposition
of confusion on her part, failed utterly to pursue an advantage that
would have been seized upon with alacrity by the atavistic No. 12. He
allowed her to escape!
[Illustration: 0123]
Aroused to action too late, he bolted after her, only to see her enter
a waiting taxi-cab and--yes, she _did_ look back over her shoulder.
She knew he would follow! He raised his hat, and he was sure that she
smiled--faintly, it is true, but still she smiled. If he hoped that she
would condescend to alter her course, he was doomed to disappointment.
The driver obeyed his original instructions and shot off in the
direction of Lafayette Street.
The memory of her tribute--a blush and a fleeting smile--was to linger
with Sampson for many a weary, watchful day.
The taxi-cab--a noisy, ungentle abomination--was whirling her corporeal
loveliness out of his reach and vision with exasperating swiftness,
leaving him high and dry in an endless, barren desert. His heart gave
a tremendous jump when a traffic policeman stopped the car at the
corner above. He set forth as fast as his long legs could carry him with
dignity, hoping and praying that the officer would be as slow and as
stubborn about--But she must have looked into the fellow's eyes and
smiled, for, with surprising amiability, he signified that she was
to proceed. Apparently he was too dazzled to reprimand or caution the
driver, for the taxi went forward at an increased speed.
Some one touched Sampson's elbow. He withdrew his gaze from the
vanishing taxi-cab and allowed it to rest in sheer amazement upon the
bleak countenance of No. 7.
“She's going away,” said No. 7 in sepulchral tones.
“Evidently,” said Sampson. “Exceeding the speed limit while she is about
it, too.”
“I mean,” said the other, “she's going to take a long journey. She's
leaving New York! That taxi is full of satchels and valises and stuff,
and the driver has orders to get her to the Hudson tube by eleven
o'clock. I heard that much anyhow, hangin' around here. Say, do you know
there is another woman in that cab with her? There sure is. I saw her
plain as day. Kind of an old woman with two or three little satchels and
one of them dinky white dogs in her lap.”
“A lady's maid,” said Sampson.
“Where do you suppose she's going?”
“How should I know?” demanded Sampson severely.
“And why is she running away without grandpa? What's going to become of
the old man? Seems as though she'd ought to hang around until he's--”
“I daresay she knows what she is doing,” said Sampson, disturbed by the
same thoughts.
“Maybe he's going to join her later on?” hopefully. “Over in Jersey
somewhere.”
“Very likely. Good-bye.” Sampson wrung the limp hand of No. 7 and made
off toward Broadway.
He lunched with a friend at the Lawyers' Club. In the smoking room
afterwards, he came face to face with the assistant district attorney
who had prosecuted the case of James Hildebrand. His friend exclaimed:
“Hello, Wilks! You ought to know Mr. Sampson. He's been under your nose
for a week or ten days.”
Wilks grinned as he shook hands with the exjuror. “Glad to know you as
Mr. Sampson, sir, and not as No. 3. We had a rather interesting week, of
it, didn't we?”
Sampson was surprised to find that he rather liked the good-humoured
twinkle in Wilks's eyes. He had thoroughly disapproved of him up to this
instant. Now he appeared as a mild, pleasant-voiced young man with a far
from vindictive eye and a singularly engaging smile. Departing from his
rôle as prosecutor, Wilks succeeded in becoming an uncommonly decent
fellow.
“Interesting, to say the least,” replied Sampson.
Wilks had coffee with them, and a cigar.
“I must say, Mr. Sampson, that you jurors had something out of the
ordinary to contend with. There isn't the remotest doubt that old
Hildebrand is guilty, and yet there was a wave of sympathy for him that
extended to all of us, enveloped us, so to speak. At the outset, we were
disposed to go easy with him, realising that we had a dead open and shut
case against him.
“We awoke to our danger when the trial was half over. That is to say, we
awoke to the fact that Miss Alexandra Hildebrand was likely to upset the
whole pot of beans for us. You have no idea what we sometimes have to
contend with. There is nothing so difficult to fight against as the
force of feminine appeal. Men are simple things, you see. We boast about
our righteous strength of purpose, but along comes a gentle, frail bit
of womanhood and we find ourselves--well, up in the air! Miss Hildebrand
had a decidedly agreeable effect on all of us. It is only natural that
she should. We realised what it all meant to her, and I daresay there
wasn't one of us who relished the thought of hurting her.
“Her devotion was really quite beautiful,” observed Sampson, feeling
that he had to put himself on record.
“I understand how you jurors felt about her and, through her, about the
old man. The State is satisfied to let him off as you recommended. It is
more than likely that he was badly treated in those deals with Stevens
and Drew, and if he can rehabilitate himself I think we will have
done well not to oppose leniency. At any rate, his granddaughter has
something to rejoice over, even though she may have been shocked by your
decision that he is guilty.”
“What do you know about her, Mr. Wilks?” inquired Sampson.
“Nothing in particular. She is an orphan, as you know, and I understand
she has been residing with her grandfather in Switzerland. She returned
to this country with him at the time of his voluntary surrender three
months ago. His bail was fixed at twenty thousand dollars, and she tried
to raise it, but failed. She has been trying to sell his Bronx property,
but, of course, that sort of thing takes time. I understand that a deal
is about to be closed, however, thanks to her untiring efforts, and
the old man may realise handsomely after all. I suppose the Cornwallis
Realty and Investment Company will bring civil action to regain the
fifty thousand lost through his defection. If he is sensible he will
restore the amount and--well, that will be the end of it.”
“Why didn't he sell it long ago?”
“He couldn't very well manage it without coming to New York, and he was
so closely watched that he couldn't do that without running a very great
risk. Evidently she, believing absolutely in his innocence, induced him
to give himself up and have his name cleared of the stigma that was upon
it. This is mere conjecture, of course.”
“Well, she's a brick, at any rate,” said Sampson, with some enthusiasm.
Wilks smiled. “That verdict, at least, is universal. Justice, however,
has miscarried in more cases than I care to mention, simply because some
little woman proves herself to be a brick. No doubt you will recall any
number of such cases right here in New York. If we had had the remotest
idea what Miss Hildebrand was like, we would have put up a strenuous
kick against her sitting beside the prisoner where you all could see
and be seen. She made it hard for you to convict the old man, and she
certainly wormed the recommendation to the Court out of you. To tell you
the truth, we feared an acquittal. When the jury stayed out all night I
said to myself: 'We're licked, sure as shooting. 'The best we looked
for was a disagreement. I've been told that the first half dozen ballots
stood eleven to one for acquittal. So you see, I wasn't far off in my
surmise. It has taught me a lesson. There will be no more attractive,
thoroughly upsetting young ladies to cast spells over judge, jury, and
lawyers if I can help it. I hope you will pardon me for saying it, Mr.
Sampson, but I am firmly convinced if there had been no Miss Alexandra
Hildebrand in the case you gentlemen would have brought in your verdict
in twenty minutes.”
“I suppose you know that I am the one who stood out against the eleven,”
said Sampson.
“I suspected as much. I don't mind saying that the State counted on you,
Mr. Sampson.” Sampson started. How was this? The State counted on him
also? Suddenly he flushed.
“I had a notion that Miss Hildebrand counted on me, Mr. Wilks.”
“She did,” said the lawyer. “I think she lost a little of her
confidence, however, as the trial progressed. She appeared to be
devoting nearly all of her energies to you. You, apparently, were the
one who had to be subdued, if you will forgive the term. She is the
cleverest, shrewdest young woman I've ever seen. She is the best judge
of men that I've ever encountered--far and away better than I or any one
connected with our office. When that jury was completed I realised,
with a sort of shock, that it was she who selected it. She made but one
mistake--and that was in you. There is where we were smarter than she.
I knew that you would do the right thing by us, in spite of your very
palpable efforts to get off. If there had been some one else in your
place, Mr. Sampson, James Hildebrand would have been acquitted.”
“Possibly,” said Sampson, with a sinking of the heart. He felt like a
Judas! She had made but one mistake, and it was fatal!
“As I was saying,” went on Wilks, blowing rings toward the ceiling,
“women play thunder with us sometimes. A friend of mine from Chicago
dined with me last night. He is in the State's Attorney's office out
there and he's down here on business. You ought to hear him on the
subject of women mixing up in criminal cases. He says it's fatal--if
they're pretty and appealing. Nine times out of ten they have more
nerve, more character and a good deal more intelligence than the average
juryman, and Mr. Juror is like wax in their hands. Take a case they
had out there last fall--the Brownley case--you read about it, perhaps.
Young fellow from Louisiana got into bad company in Chicago, and went
all wrong. Gambled and then had to rob his employers to get square with
the world. His father and sister came up from New Orleans and made a
fight for him. They got the best legal talent in town, and then little
sister sat beside brother and petted him from time to time. A cinch! The
jury was out an hour. Not guilty! See what I mean? And you remember
the Paris case a year or two ago when the detectives nabbed a couple
of international card sharks and bunco men after they had worked the
Atlantic for two years straight without being landed? French juries
tried 'em separately. One of them got five years and the other got off
scot free. Why? Because his pretty young wife turned up and--well, you
know the French! Woman is lovely in her place, but her place isn't in
the court-room unless she favours the prosecution.”
“They're like good-looking nurses,” said Sampson's friend. “They make a
chap forget everything else.”
“Same principle,” said Wilks. “Patients and juries are much the same.
They require careful nursing.”
Sampson was like a lost soul during the weeks that followed the trial.
The hundred and one distractions he sought in the feverish effort to
drive Alexandra Hildebrand out of his thoughts failed of their purpose.
They only left him more eager than before. He longed for a glimpse of
her adorable face, for a single look into her eyes, for the smile she
had promised as she rode away from him, for the sheer fragrance of her
unapproachable beauty. She filled his heart and brain, and she was lost
to him.
The most depressing fits of jealousy overtook him. He tried to reason
with himself. Why shouldn't she have a sweetheart? Why shouldn't she be
in love with some one? What else could he expect--in heaven's name, what
else? Of course there was one among all the hundreds who adored her that
she could adore in return. Still he was sick with jealousy. He hated
even the possibility that there was a man living who could claim her as
his own.
At the end of a month of resolute inactivity, he threw off all restraint
and inaugurated a determined though innocuous search for her. He made it
his business to stroll up and down Fifth Avenue during the fashionable
hours of the day, and so frantic were his efforts to discover her in the
shifting throngs that he always went home with a headache, bone-weary
and appetiteless. His alert, all-enveloping gaze swept the avenue from
Thirty-fourth Street to Fiftieth at least twice a day, and by night it
raked the theatres and restaurants with an assiduity that rendered him
an impossible companion for friends who were so unfortunate as to be
involved in his prowlings. His lack of concentration, except in one
pursuit, was woful. His friends were annoyed, and justly. No one likes
inattention. Half the time he didn't hear a word they were saying to
him, and the other half they were resentfully silent.
He invaded Altman's, McCreery's, Lord & Taylor's and the other big
shops, buying things that he did not want, and he entered no end of
fashionable millinery establishments--and once a prominent corset
concern--not for the sake of purchasing, of course, but always with the
manner of an irritated gentleman looking for an inconsiderate wife.
This determined effort to ferret out Miss Hildebrand was due to a
report from No. 7, on whom he called one day in regard to an electrical
disturbance in his apartment. No. 7 told him that No. 4, who was the
proprietor of a plumbing establishment in Amsterdam Avenue, had seen
Miss Hildebrand on top of a passing Fifth Avenue stage. By means of some
remarkable sprinting No. 4, fortunately an unmarried man, overtook the
stage at the corner above (Forty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue), and
climbed aboard. Just as he sat down, all out of breath, two seats behind
the young lady, she got off and entered Sloane's. No. 4 had a short
argument with the conductor about paying fare for a ride of two blocks,
but it was long enough to carry him to the corner above Sloane's, so that
when he got back to the big shop she was lost.
He was not discouraged. Saying that he was waiting for his wife he
continued to invest the approach to the elevators with such success that
after nearly an hour (and an hour as computed by plumbers is no small
matter) he was rewarded by the appearance of Miss Hildebrand.
Without notifying the floorwalkers that he couldn't wait any longer for
his wife, he made off after the young lady, leaving them to think, if
they thought at all, that his wife was a very beautiful person who had
married considerably beneath her station. Miss Hildebrand waited at
the corner for a stage. No. 4 already had squandered ten cents, but he
didn't allow that to stand in the way of further adventure. He had his
dime ready when the 'bus came along--in fact, he had two dimes ready,
for it was his secret hope that she would recognise him. But alas! There
was room for but one more passenger, and he was left standing on the
curb, while she went rattling up the avenue in what he reckoned to be
the swiftest 'bus in the service.
Sampson's deductions were clear. She wouldn't be shopping at Sloane's
unless she was buying furnishings of some sort for a house, and it was
reasonable to suppose that the house was somewhere within reach of the
stage line route. No. 4 had failed to note, however, whether she took
a Riverside Drive or a Fifth Avenue stage. Although Sampson was not in
need of a plumber's services, he looked up No. 4 and had him send men
around to inspect the drain in the kitchen sink. It cost him nearly
twelve dollars to have a five minutes' profitless interview with the
master-plumber.
It was at this time that he began his pilgrimages up and down Fifth
Avenue, and it was also about this time that he acknowledged himself to
be a drivelling, silly, sentimental idiot--worse even than the drooping
No. 7.
In the course of his investigations he dropped in to see No. 8 at the
hat store; he talked insurance with No. 11 (and forever afterward had it
talked with him, despite all the pains he took to stop it); he ordered a
suit of clothes at the tailor shop of No. 6; and he even went so far as
to consult No. 1 about having his piano tuned, a proceeding which called
for the immediate acquisition of an instrument. (It occurred to him,
however, that it might prove to be money well spent, for any man who is
thinking of getting married ought to have a grand piano if he can afford
it.)
One day, overcoming an aversion, he sauntered up to a place in Broadway
and inquired for No. 12. To his amazement, No. 12 seemed a bit hazy as
to the existence of such a person as Miss Hildebrand. It was some time
before the fellow could call her to mind, and then only when the trial
was mentioned.
“Ah, yes,” said he, rapping his brow soundly, “I get you now. The pretty
little thing we saw at the trial. Lord, man, how long ago was that? Two
months? Well, say, I've seen a couple or three since then that make
her look like a last year's bird's-nest. I'm demonstrating for a little
cutey in the Follies just at present and she has Miss Hildebrand lashed
to the mast. Yellow hair and eyes as blue as--What's your hurry? I'm not
busy--got all kinds of time.”
But Sampson “walked out on him,” raging inwardly. It was all he could
do to conquer an impulse to kick No. 12. Comparing Alexandra Hildebrand
with a “little cutey in the Follies”! And forgetting her, too!
Unspeakable!
He discovered James Hildebrand a day or two later. The old man was
living in a small hotel just off Broadway, in the upper Forties. An
actor friend of Sampson's was living in the same hotel, and it was
through him that he learned that Hildebrand had been stopping there for
nearly two months, quite alone. A surprisingly pretty young woman had
called to see him on two or three occasions. According to Sampson's
informant, the old gentleman had just concluded a real estate deal
running into the hundreds of thousands and was soon to return to Europe.
This was most regrettable, lamented the actor, for he couldn't remember
ever having seen a prettier girl than Hildebrand's visitor--who, he had
found out at the desk, was a relative of some description.
A simple process would have been to interview old Mr. Hildebrand,
but Sampson's pride and good-breeding proved sufficiently strong and
steadfast in the crisis. He held himself aloof.
A week later he saw Mr. Hildebrand off on one of the trans-Atlantic
liners. Mr. Hildebrand was not aware of the fact that he was being seen
off by any one, however, and Sampson was quite positively certain that
no one else was there for the purpose. There was no sign of Alexandra.
He went abroad that summer.... Early in the autumn he was back in New
York, resolved to be a fool no longer. No doubt she had married the chap
she loved--and was living happily, contentedly in luxurious splendour
supplied by Sloane's--as long ago, no doubt, as the early spring it may
have happened.
His heart had once ached for her as an orphan, but all that would now be
altered if she had taken unto herself a husband. Somehow one ceases to
be an orphan the instant one marries. You never think of a fatherless
and motherless wife as an orphan. An orphan is some one you are expected
to feel sorry for.
He never had thought of himself as an orphan, although his father and
mother had been dead for years. No one ever had been sorry for him
because he was an orphan. What is it that supplies pity for one sex and
not for the other?
January found him in California. A year ago he had planned--Alas,
his thoughts were ever prone to leap backward to the events of a year
ago--back to the twentieth day of January. He would never forget it. On
that day he first looked upon the loveliest of all God's creatures. The
year had not dimmed his vision. He could see her still as plainly as on
that memorable January day when they “landed” him.
He wanted to see her once more, married or single, just to tell her that
it was conscience that caused him to fail her in her hour of need. He
wanted her to understand. He wanted her to believe that he couldn't help
being honest, and he wanted very much to hear her say that he did the
only thing an honourable gentleman could possibly do.
Wending his way northward, he came to San Francisco late in February,
and there fell into the open arms of several classmates whom he had not
seen since his college days. One of them was Jimmy Dorr, now a brilliant
editor and journalist. To him he related the story of the Hildebrand
trial, and the fruitless quest of the girl he still dreamed about. Jimmy
was vastly interested. He was a romanticist. His eyes glittered with
excitement.
“By Jove, it's a corker!” he exclaimed, breathlessly.
“A corker?” repeated Sampson, staring.
“Corking idea for a novel, that's what I mean. Why, you couldn't beat it
if you sat down and thought day and night for ten years. Ideas, that's
what the novelists want. The only thing that has kept me from breaking
into the literary game is an absolute paucity of--ideas. And here
you are handing me one. I shall write a novel. I'll have you find her
imprisoned in a dungeon by the conniving grandparent--”
“Or by a rascally husband,” put in Sampson, gloomily.
Dorr became thoughtful. “By the way, we've been having a more or less
notable trial here for the past week and a half. Lot of interest in it
all over the country. Have you heard of the Rodriguez ease?”
“Not yet,” said Sampson, resignedly. “Fire away. I 'll listen.”
“The arguments to the jury will be concluded to-morrow morning and there
ought to be a verdict before night. How would you like to go around
there with me at ten o 'clock and hear the State's closing argument? I
can manage it easily, although it's hard to get tickets. In a word, it
is the most popular show in town. Standing room only. Come along, and
I'll bet my head you'll never forget the experience.”
“I hate a court-room,” said Sampson.
“Well, you won't hate this one. I've been dropping in every day for an
hour or so, and, by gad, it _is_ interesting.” A faraway, dreamy look
came into Dorr's spectacled eyes. “Rodriguez is a wonderful character.
You see such chaps only in books and plays--seldom in plays, however,
for you couldn't find actors to look the part. He is a Spaniard, a
native of Mexico City, and as lofty as any grandee you'd find in old
Granada itself. Private detectives caught him in Tokio last summer,
after a world-wide search of three years. He is charged with forgery.
Forged a deed to some property in Berkeley and got away with the
proceeds of the sale. He stubbornly maintains that the deed was a
bona-fide instrument, and is fighting tooth and nail against the people
who accuse him. I 'd like to have you see him, Sampy.”
The next morning, a bit bored but conscious of a thrill of interest
in attending a trial in the capacity of spectator instead of talesman,
Sampson accompanied the editor to the court-room where the case of
the State vs. Victoriana Rodriguez was being heard. The corridors
and approaches were packed with people. A subdued buzz of excitement
pervaded the air. Every face in the throng revealed the ultimate of
eagerness, each body was charged with a muscular ambition to crowd past
the obstructing bodies before it. Sampson had never witnessed anything
like this before. He demurred.
“See here, Jimmy, I refuse to surge with a mob like this. Good-bye, old
man. See you--”
But Dorr conducted him to the private entrance to the judge's chambers,
and a few minutes later into the crowded court-room. They found places
behind the row of reporters and stood with their backs to the wall.
The jury was in the box, awaiting the opening of court. Sampson surveyed
them with some interest. They were a youngish lot of men and, to his way
of thinking, about as far from intelligent as the average New York jury.
They looked dazed, bewildered and distinctly uncomfortable. He knew how
they were feeling--no one knew better than he!
The prisoner entered, followed by his counsel, and took his seat.
Sampson favoured Dorr with a smile of derision. Rodriguez was a most
ordinary looking fellow--swarthy, unimposing and at least sixty years
of age. He was not at all Sampson's conception of a Spanish grandee.
Certainly he was not the sort of chap an author would put into a book
with the expectation of having his readers accept him as a hero.
“Good Lord, Jimmy, is _that_ the marvellous character you've been
talking about!” whispered the New Yorker. “Why, he's just a plain,
ordinary greaser. Nothing lofty about him.”
But Jimmy didn't hear. He was gazing in rapt eagerness over the heads
of the seated throng outside the railing. Sampson leaned forward and
whispered something to the reporter from Dorr's paper. He repeated the
remark, receiving no response the first time. The young fellow's reply,
when it came, was what Sampson, from his vast experience in law courts,
summed up as “totally irrelevant and not pertinent to the case.”
Somewhat annoyed, he turned to Jimmy Dorr. That gentleman's gaze was
fixed, so Sampson followed it. A young woman had taken the seat beside
the prisoner. He could not see her face, but something told him that it
was attractive--and then he was suddenly interested in the way her dark
hair grew about her neck and ears. Dorr was whispering:
“She's the most wonderful thing you ever laid eyes on, Sampy. Wait
till you get a good peek at her face. You'll forget your old Miss
Hill-obeans. She landed here about a month ago, straight from Spain,
where she has been in a convent since she was fourteen. Doesn't speak a
word of English--not a syllable, the reporters say. She--Hey! Sh! What
the devil's the matter with you!”
Sampson had uttered a very audible exclamation. He was staring at her
with widespread, glazed, unbelieving eyes. She had turned to favour the
reporters with a wistful, shy, entrancing “good morning” smile, and he
looked once more upon the face he had never forgotten and would never
forget.
“My God!” he whispered, grasping Dorr's arm in a grip that caused his
friend to wince. “Why, it's--Not a word of English! A month ago! Out of
a convent!” He was babbling weakly. His brain was not working.
“Is it too hot in here for you, old man!” whispered Dorr, alarmed.
“Shall we get out! You look as though--”
“Who is she!” gasped Sampson.
Dorr looked triumphant. “I thought she'd bowl you over. But, my Lord, I
didn't dream she'd give you such a jolt as this. The whole damned
bunch of us has gone mad over her. She's old Rodriguez's daughter--the
Senorita Isabella Consuelo Maria Rodriguez.”
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Light that Lies, by George Barr McCutcheon