All these things passed through the mind of Edyth Vale, as she sat regarding the young man at the window. Finally he lifted his eyes and turned them upon her—beautiful eyes—remarkable, full of perception, compelling. As he caught her intent, inquiring look, he smiled; she colored slightly, but met his glance bravely.
“Last night I heard you spoken of,” she said, “and it occurred to me that you could aid me.”
“I should be glad to,” said he. “It sometimes happens that I can be of service to persons extraordinarily circumstanced. If you will let me hear your story—for,” with a smile, “all who come to see me as you have done have a story—I shall be able to definitely say whether your case comes within my province.”
She hesitated a moment, her hands nervously engaged with the gloves. Then she said, frankly.
“I suppose it is only sensible to speak quite candidly with you, Mr. Ashton-Kirk, as one does with a lawyer or a physician.”
He nodded.
“Of course,” said he.
For another moment she seemed to be turning her thoughts over and seeking the best means of making a beginning.
“It is very silly of me, I know,” she said; “but I feel quite like the working girl who writes to the correspondence editor of an evening paper for advice in smoothing out her love affairs.” She bent toward him, the laugh vanishing from her face, a troubled look taking its place, and continued. “I am to be married—some day—and it is about that that I wish to speak to you.”
“I realize the difficulties of the subject,” spoke Ashton-Kirk quietly.
“What I am going to tell you, I have never mentioned to anyone before. It has been three years ago—four years at Christmas time—since I first met Allan Morris,” she said. “Our engagement so quickly followed that my friends said it was a very clear case of love at first sight. Perhaps it was!
“However that might be, we were very happy for a time. But trouble was in store for us. I had always disbelieved in long engagements, had always been very outspoken against them, in fact. This is perhaps what made me so quickly notice an absence of haste on Mr. Morris’ part as to the wedding. When the subject came up, as it naturally would, he seemed to avoid it. At first I was surprised; but finally I grew annoyed, and spoke my mind very frankly.
“You see, he is not at all well off, and I am—well I have a great deal. I thought this might have something to do with his apparent reluctance. But no, it was something else. As I just said, I spoke frankly; and he was equally candid, after a fashion. He said it was quite impossible for us to be married for some time. There was a something—he did not say what—which must first be settled. Naturally I grew curious. I desired to know what it was that so stood in the way of our happiness. He replied that it was something that must not be spoken of, and was so very earnest in the matter that I did not mention it again—for a long time.
“You may think, Mr. Ashton-Kirk, that my fiancé was no very ardent lover. But I was assured, and I do not lack perception, that he was passionately fond of me. And I still think so. But as time went by, things did not alter; our wedding was a vague expectation; even more than before Mr. Morris avoided mention of anything definite.
“I am not naturally patient; and my rearing as the only child of an enormously rich man has perhaps added to my impetuousness. In a burst of temper one day, I broke the engagement, gave him back his ring and did a number of other rather silly things. But he was so tragic in his despair—so utterly brokenhearted and white—that I immediately relented and we patched the matter up once more. That he loved me was plain; but that he could not marry me—for some mysterious reason—was even plainer.
“After this I began to notice a change in him. He was rather silent and given to reverie; he seldom laughed. Sometimes he was haggard and so wrought up, apparently, that he could scarcely contain himself. He would pace the floor, evidently with little realization as to what he was doing. Once he was really dreadfully agitated. I calmed him as well as I could, and he sat for a long time, thinking deeply. As I watched him, he sprang to his feet and dashing his fist upon a table, cried out, passionately:
“ ‘The black-hearted rascal! He’s mocking me!’
“Then like a flash he realized the strangeness of his conduct, and with anxious, alarmed face, asked my pardon. I felt that this was an opportunity to put an end to a situation that was growing intolerable. My persistent questioning gained me something, but, on the whole, not a great deal.
“The thing that was troubling him was a business matter. In some way he was in the hands of someone—these are
