The paper fell from his trembling fingers, but he regained it, natural
instinct inspiring a fear that the clerk would read it.
"Good Lord!" he gasped.
"Bad news, Mr. Rollins?" asked the clerk sympathetically, but the
stricken, bewildered man did not answer.
What did it mean? A vast faintness attacked him as the truth began to
penetrate. Out of the whirling mystery came the astounding, ponderous
realization that he had blundered, that he had wronged her, that he had
accused her of--Oh, that dear, stricken figure in the hallway above!
He leaped to the staircase. Three steps at a time he flew back to the
scene of the miserable tragedy. What he thought, what he felt as he rushed
into the hallway can only be imagined. She was gone--heartbroken, killed!
And she had kissed him and said she loved him!
A light shone through the transoms over the doors that led into her
apartments. Quaking with fear, he ran down the hall and beat a violent
tattoo upon her parlor door. Again he rapped, crazed by remorse, fear,
love, pity, shame, and a hundred other emotions.
"Who is it?" came in stifled tones from within.
"It is I--Rossiter--I mean Rollins! I must see you--now! For pity's sake,
let me in!"
"How dare you--" she began shrilly; but he was not to be denied.
"If you don't open this door I'll kick it in!" he shouted. "I must see
you!"
After a moment the door flew open and he stood facing her. She was like a
queen. Her figure was as straight as an arrow, her eyes blazing. But there
had been tears in them a moment before.
"Another insult!" she exclaimed, and the scorn in her voice was
withering. He paused abashed, for the first time realizing that he had
hurt her beyond reparation. His voice faltered and the tears flew to his
eyes.
"I don't know what to say to you. It has been a mistake--a frightful
mistake--and I don't know whether you'll let me explain. When I got
downstairs I found this telegram and--for heaven's sake, let me tell you
the wretched story. Don't turn away from me! You shall listen to me if I
have to hold you!" His manner changed suddenly to the violent, imperious
forcefulness of a man driven to the last resort.
"Must I call for help?" she cried, thoroughly alarmed, once more the weak
woman, face to face, as she thought, with an insane man.
"I love you better than my own life, and I've hurt you terribly. I'm not
crazy, Helen! But I've been a fool, and I'll go crazy if you don't give me
a chance to explain."
Whether she gave the chance or no he took it, and from his eager,
pleading lips raced the whole story of his connection with the Wharton
affair from first to last.
He humbled himself, accused himself, ridiculed himself, and wound up by
throwing himself upon her mercy, uttering protestations of the love which
had really been his undoing.
She heard him through without a word. The light in her eyes changed; the
fear left them and the scorn fled. Instead there grew, by stages, wonder,
incredulity, wavering doubt and--joy. She understood him and she loved
him! The awful horror of that meeting in the hallway was swept away like
unto the transformation scene in the fairy spectacle.
When he fell upon his knee and sought to clasp her fingers in his cold
hand she smiled, and, stooping over, placed both hands on his cheeks and
kissed him.
What followed her kiss of forgiveness may be more easily imagined than
told.
"You see it was perfectly natural for me to mistake you for Mrs.
Wharton," he said after awhile. "You had the gray jacket, the sailor hat,
the purple parasol, and you are beautiful. And, besides all that, you were
found red-handed in that ridiculous town of Fossingford. Why shouldn't I
have suspected you with such a preponderance of evidence against you?
Anybody who would get off of a night train in Fossingford certainly ought
to be ashamed of something."
"But Fossingford is on the map, isn't it? One has a perfect right to get
off where she likes, hasn't she, provided it is on the map?"
"Not at all! That's what maps are for: to let you see where you don't get
off."
"But I was obliged to get off there. My ticket said 'Fossingford,' and,
besides, I was to be met at the station in a most legitimate manner. You
had no right to jump at conclusions."
"Well, if you had not descended to earth at Fossingford I wouldn't be in
heaven at Eagle Nest. Come to think of it, I believe you did quite the
proper thing in getting off at Fossingford--no matter what the hour."
"You must remember always that I have not taken you to task for a most
flagrant piece of--shall I say indiscretion?"
"Good Heavens!"
"You stopped off at Fossingford for the sole purpose of seeing another
woman."
"That's all very fine, dear, but you'll admit that Dudley was an
excellent substitute for Havens. Can't you see how easy it was to be
mistaken?"
"I won't fall into easy submission. Still, I believe I could recommend
you as a detective. They usually do the most unheard of things--just as
you have. Poor Jim Dudley an actor! Mistaken for such a man as you say
Havens is! It is even more ridiculous than that I should be mistaken for
Mrs. Wharton."
"Say, I'd like to know something about Dudley. It was his confounded
devotion to you that helped matters along in my mind. What is he to you?"
"He came here to-night to repeat a question that had been answered
unalterably once before. Jim Dudley? Have you never heard of James Dudley,
the man who owns all of those big mines in South America, the man who--"
"Who owns the yachts and automobiles and--and the railroad trains? Is he
the one? The man with the millions? Good Lord! And you could have had him
instead of me? Helen, I--I don't understand it. Why didn't you take him?"
She hesitated a moment before answering brightly:
"Perhaps it is because I have a fancy for the ridiculous."