The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1920-04-23
CHAPTER ~.

She had always been, when he last
saw her, the outstanding beauty of
Syracuse, but he was astounded to be-
hold what the interval of two years
had done for her. She had taken up
on herself new maturity; her figure,
exceptionally graceful, was still slen-
der; but suggestive Of a more woman
ly, more inclusive charm.
He was being presented to her !!
He, who had kissed her a thousand
times, was undergoing the ritual of
| presentation and she was smiling at
him with those grave, sweet eyes Of
hers, and calling him by his adopted
name! His mask of protection had
never seemed so slight, so insufficient !;
the fragrance of her, and the illusion
caused by this, threatened his bal
ance and set his nerves on edge; for
tunately, the routine of the conven-
lions interviewed to save him from his
inarticulateness. For one thing, there
was the rite of introduction to Arm
strong, and after that there was a
dash of prOmiscuous conversation,
with not little weather philosophy in
it. Then came the memorable hush
caused by the presence of a stranger
whose fads and fancies are still mat
ter of conjecture, and out of that hush,
question, and Hilliard was suddenly
visited by species of self-hypnosis.
If he had been moved at all by the
sight Of Angela, whom he had loved
as younger sister, he was, by COM
parisOn, shaken as by whirlwind by
the sight of Carol Durant, whom he
had loved as q woman. Not on the
train, not at the hotel, not even when
he witnessed Angela's severe grief,
had he remotely conceived that this
instant would be so difficult to sur
mount. What in New York had SEEM
ed a regeneration, and earlier on this
same evening had appeared a very
dubious deception, was rapidly taking
upon itself the color of irremediable
beyond belief; and as he stared in
dumb suspense at Carol, recalling
thousand episodes and q thousand
privileges of the long ago, he was
preyed upon by a slow-stealing grim
ness Of despair which left him sick
with misery.
She was waiting for an answer
and the others were waiting, too, and
watching him. He felt that guilt was
stamped on his every feature
he felt that every thought of his must
be as crystal to the four who waited
for him to speak.
He was himself and he was not him
self; he was ostensibly Henry Hilliard,
a man in whom it couldn't be suspect
ed that the heart and soul of Dicky
Morgan were embodied; he was tram
scendentalist; a spectator at his own
funeral. Sight of the Croix de Guerre
Of poor Pierre Dutout, who In be-
queathing that impressive bit of
bronze to him, hadn't dreamed that
he was leaving heritage of chicanery
along with it, engendered in billiard
thrill which nearly found its outlet
in paroxysm of wild laughter. And
the newspaper, with Dutout'S most
genuine citation in it! And the old
passport photograph which he had
hidden for fear that his real name,
Endorsed on it, might be cabled home,
together with proof to the world that
he hadn't been a hero-that he had
failed in this, as in every other I'M
dertaking of his life. And all the
dates in accuracy! And If anyone
cared to trace back the story, where
was the flaw? Where was there a
loophole? And who would recognize
Dick Morgan in his cloak and mask of
utter miracle?
Who had?
Lightninglike, his brain included all
the salient items Of the picture in
single flash. There was Dicky Nor