It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. It was fastened inside. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. She felt a semi-sharp object being gently impressed into her back. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. His perseverance was amply rewarded. His lawful wife; but nothing more; beyond that she was only an idea, a trust. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient.
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