He heard her whisper, under her breath, "It"s for me!" And then again, "It"s for me!"
"Lucy," he began; but suddenly she put up her hand, and rushed toward him.
"Hush! he doesn"t know!" she panted breathlessly. "I haven"t told him."
And then she turned toward Ryder again. "Oh, surely there must be some way," she cried, wildly. "Surely--"
Ryder had sunk down in a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"Ruined!" he exclaimed. "Utterly ruined! I won"t have a dollar left in the world."
"No, no," cried Lucy, "it cannot be!" And she put her hands to her forehead, striving to think. "It must be stopped. I"ll go and see him. I"ll plead with him."
"You must not, Lucy!" cried Montague, starting toward her.
But again she whirled upon him. "Not a word!" she whispered, with fierce intensity. "Not a word!"
And she rushed into the next room, and half a minute later came back with her hat and wrap.
"Allan," she said, "tell them to call me a cab!"
He tried to protest again; but she would not hear him. "You can ride with me," she said. "You can talk then. Call me a cab! Please--save me that trouble."
He gave the message: and Lucy, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the room, twisting her hands together nervously.
"Now, Allan, go downstairs," she said; "wait for me there." And after another glance at the broken figure of Ryder, he took his hat and coat and obeyed.
Montague spent his time pacing back and forth in the entrance-hall.
The cab arrived, and a minute later Lucy appeared, wearing a heavy veil. She went straight to the vehicle, and sprang in, and Montague followed. She gave the driver the address of Waterman"s great marble palace over by the park; and the cab started.
Then suddenly she turned upon Montague, speaking swiftly and intensely.
"I know what you are going to say," she cried. "But you must spare me--and you must spare yourself. I am sorry that you should have to know this--G.o.d knows that I could not help it! But it cannot be undone. And there is no other way out of it. I must go to him, and try to save Ryder!"
"Lucy," he began, "listen to me--"
"I don"t want to listen to you," she cried wildly--almost hysterically. "I cannot bear to be argued with. It is too hard for me as it is!"
"But think of the practical side of it!" he cried. "Do you imagine that you can stop this huge machine that Waterman has set in motion?"
"I don"t know, I don"t know!" she exclaimed, choking back a sob. "I can only do what I can. If he has any spark of feeling in him--I"ll get down on my knees to him, I will beg him--"
"But, Lucy! think of what you are doing. You go there to his house at night! You put yourself into his power!"
"I don"t care, Allan--I am not afraid of him. I have thought about myself too long. Now I must think about the man I love."
Montague did not answer, for a moment. "Lucy," he said at last, "will you tell me how you have thought of yourself in one single thing?"
"Yes, yes--I will!" she cried, vehemently. "I have known all along that Waterman was following me. I have been haunted by the thought of him--I have felt his power in everything that has befallen us.
And I have never once told Ryder of his peril!"
"That was more a kindness to him--" began the other.
"No, no!" panted Lucy; and she caught his coat sleeve in her trembling hands. "You see, you see--you cannot even imagine it of me! I kept it a secret--because I was afraid!"
"Afraid?" he echoed.
"I was afraid that Ryder would leave me! I was afraid that he would give me up! And I loved him too much!--Now," she rushed on--"you see what kind of a person I have been! And I can sit here, and tell you that! Is there anything that can make me ashamed after that? Is there anything that can degrade me after that? And what is there left for me to do but go to Waterman and try to undo what I have done?"
Montague was speechless, before the agony of her humiliation.
"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.
CHAPTER XXI
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.