“You see!” she whispered.
“Lucy,” he began, protesting.
But suddenly she caught him by the arm. “Allan,”
she whispered, “I know that you have to try
to stop me. But it is no use, and I must do it!
And I cannot bear to hear you—it makes it
too hard for me. My course is chosen, and nothing
in the world can turn me; and I want you to go away
and leave me. I want you to go—right
now! I am not afraid of Waterman; I am not afraid
of anything that he can do. I am only afraid
of you, and your unhappiness. I want you to leave
me to my fate! I want you to stop thinking about
me!”
“I cannot do it, Lucy,” he said.
She reached up and pulled the signal cord; and the
cab came to a halt.
“I want you to get out, Allan!” she cried
wildly. “Please get out, and go away.”
He started to protest again; but she pushed him away
in frenzy. “Go, go!” she cried; and
half dazed, and scarcely realising what he did, he
gave way to her and stepped out into the street.
“Drive!” she called to the man, and shut
the door; and Montague found himself standing on a
driveway in the park, with the lights of the cab disappearing
around a turn.
Montague started to walk. He had no idea where
he went; his mind was in a whirl, and he was lost
to everything about him. He must have spent a
couple of hours wandering about the park and the streets
of the city; when at last he stopped and looked about
him, he was on a lighted thoroughfare, and a big clock
in front of a jewellery store was pointing to the
hour of two.
He looked around. Immediately across the street
was a building which he recognised as the office of
the Express; and in a flash he thought of Bates.
“Come in after the paper has gone to press,”
the latter had said.
He went in and entered the elevator.
“I want to see Mr. Bates, a reporter,”
he said.
“City-room,” said the elevator man; “eleventh
floor.”
Montague confronted a very cross and sleepy-looking
office-boy. “Is Mr. Bates in?” he
asked.
“I dunno,” said the boy, and slowly let
himself down from the table upon which he had been
sitting. Montague produced a card, and the boy
disappeared. “This way,” he said,
when he returned; and Montague found himself in a
huge room, crowded with desks and chairs. Everything
was in confusion; the floor was literally buried out
of sight in paper.
Montague observed that there were only about a dozen
men in the room; and several of these were putting
on their coats. “There he is, over there,”
said the office-boy.
He looked and saw Bates sitting at a desk, with his
head buried in his arms. “Tired,”
he thought to himself.
“Hello, Bates,” he said; then, as the
other looked up, he gave a start of dismay.
“What’s the matter?” he cried.
It was half a minute before Bates replied. His
voice was husky. “They sold me out,”
he whispered.
