The weekly Iberian., 1920-05-22
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 a new maturity; her figure,
exceptionally graceful, was still slen-
der; but suggestive of a more woman
ly, a more inclusive charm.
He was being presented to lrer !!
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-
tions intervened to save, him from his
inarticulateneSS. For one thing, there
was the rite of Introduction to Arm
strong, and after that there was a
with not little weather philosophy in
it. Then came the ineXorable hush
caused by the presence of stranger
whose fadS and fancies are still a 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 a younger sister, he was, by COM
parison, shaken as by a whirlwind by
the sight of Carol Durant, whom he
had loved as a 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 regeneration, and earlier ON this
same evening had appeared a very
dubious deception, wast rapidly taking
upon itself the color Of irremediable
wrong. His Imagination was aroused
beyond belief; and as he stared in
dumb suspense at Carol, recalling
thousand episodes and a thousand
privileges of the long ago, he was
preyed upon by 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 1t couldn't be suspect
ed that the heart and soul of Dicky
Morgan were embodied; he was tran
scendentalist 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 a heritage of chicanery
along with it, engendered in Hilliard
a thrill which nearly found it's outlet
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,
ndorsed 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
1ertaking of his life. and all the
iates in accuracy. And if anyone
cared to trace back the story, where
vas the flaw? Where was there a
oophole? And who would recognize
Dick Morgan in his cloak and mask of |
liter miracle?
Who had?
Lightninglike, his brain included all
he salient items of the picture in a
single flash. There was Dicky Nor