“Then come away. You have done all you
could, and you have failed, haven’t you?”
“It is not time for me to go,” Elinor
said. And Lily, puzzled and baffled, found herself
again looking into Elinor’s quiet, inscrutable
eyes.
Elinor had taken it for granted that the girl was
going home, and together they packed almost in silence.
Once Elinor looked up from folding a garment, and
said:
“You said you had not understood before, but
that now you do. What did you mean?”
“Pink Denslow was here.”
“What does he know?”
“Do you think I ought to tell you, Aunt Elinor?
It isn’t that I don’t trust you.
You must believe that, but don’t you see that
so long as you stay here—he said that to
me—you are one of them.”
Elinor resumed her folding.
“Yes, I suppose I am one of them,” she
said quietly. “And you are right.
You must not tell me anything. Pink is Henry
Denslow’s son, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Do they—still live in the old house?”
“Yes.”
Elinor continued her methodical work.
Willy Cameron was free that evening. Although
he had not slept at all the night before, he felt
singularly awake and active. The Committee had
made temporary quarters of his small back room at the
pharmacy, and there had sat in rather depressed conclave
during a part of the afternoon. Pink Denslow
had come in late, and had remained, silent and haggard,
through the debate.
There was nothing to do but to start again in an attempt
to get files and card indexes. Greater secrecy
was to be preserved and enjoined, the location of
the office to be known only to a small inner circle,
and careful policing of it and of the building which
housed it to be established. As a further safeguard,
two duplicate files would be kept in other places.
The Committee groaned over its own underestimate
of the knowledge of the radicals.
The two buildings chosen for destruction were, respectively,
the bank building where their file was kept, and the
club, where nine-tenths of the officers of the Committee
were members. The significance of the double
outrage was unquestionable.
When the meeting broke up Pink remained behind.
He found it rather difficult to broach the matter
in his mind. It was always hard for him to talk
about Lily Cardew, and lately he had had a growing
conviction that Willy Cameron found it equally difficult.
He wondered if Cameron, too, was in love with Lily.
There had been a queer look in his face on those
rare occasions when Pink had mentioned her, a sort
of exaltation, and an odd difficulty afterwards in
getting back to the subject in hand.
Pink had developed an enormous affection and admiration
for Willy Cameron, a strange, loyal, half wistful,
totally unselfish devotion. It had steadied him,
when the loss of Lily might have made him reckless,
and had taken the form in recent weeks of finding
innumerable business opportunities, which Willy Cameron
cheerfully refused to take.
