face filled with surprise and something else that resembled uneasiness, and before he could speak she continued:
“The other day our collector showed me one of the bills you had given me, and asked where I got it. He said they were counterfeit. I thought you would want to know.”
Knowlton had turned pale and was staring at her fixedly.
“Well?” he said.
“Shall I tell him?”
“Why—didn’t you?” the young man stammered eagerly.
“No. I thought I had better speak to you first. You see—” Lila’s voice faltered and ceased, her face reddening to the tips of her ears with shame.
Knowlton picked up the bill he had laid on the counter and returned it to his pocket. His hand trembled nervously, and his voice was low and uncertain as he said:
“If it’s all the same to you, I—it would be better not to tell him. I shall not bother you with more of them. And I—I thank you,” he added, as he turned away. That was all.
Lila turned to her desk, sick at heart; and when little Dumain bustled over a few minutes later with the intention of learning something of what Knowlton had said to her, he found her in tears.
“Mon Dieu!” he gasped. The sight of Miss Williams crying was unprecedented and, to Dumain, extremely painful. “What is zee mattaire?”
“Nothing,” said Lila. “I have a headache. For goodness’ sake, don’t stand and stare at me!”
Whereupon Dumain retreated to the corner where he had left the others in secret session. He decided not to tell them about Lila’s tears, being convinced that if he did so they would proceed to murder Knowlton on Broadway at high noon.
Besides, he had an idea that the tears were caused by Knowlton’s having said farewell, in which case there would be no necessity for action on the part of the Erring Knights. Dumain was certainly not a coward; but he was—let us say—discreet.
Lila was overwhelmed with shame and humiliation. She had told Knowlton that she had lied for his sake, which amounted to a confession of her interest in him and regard for him. He must have understood. And he had muttered a perfunctory thank you, and walked away.
But perhaps he took it as a matter of course. Perhaps he regarded her as one of those creatures to whom deception is natural—of loose morals and conscience—whose aid may be depended upon by any stray enemy of society and morality.
This thought was unbearable. Lila clenched her fists tightly till the little pink nails bit sharp rings in the white palms of her hands.
Why had he not explained? It could have been but for one of two reasons: either he was guilty and could not, or he regarded her opinion as unimportant and did not care to.
And if he were guilty; but that was impossible. John Knowlton, the man to whom she had given her heart unreservedly, and forever, a counterfeiter—a criminal? It could not be.
There remained only the supposition that he cared so little about her that her good opinion was a matter of indifference to him. And this, though mortifying, was bearable. Still was she filled with shame, for he had heard her confession, and had made no sign.
Most probably she would never know, for she felt convinced that she would never see Knowlton again. She had been unable to avoid overhearing a great deal of the conversation of the Erring Knights concerning him, and Dumain himself had told her that they had warned him to stay away from the Lamartine.
She smiled bitterly as she thought of that warning. If her anxious protectors only knew how little likelihood there was of Knowlton’s taking the trouble either to harm her or to make her happy!
For hours these thoughts filled her mind, confusedly, without beginning or end. It seemed that the afternoon would never pass.
Gradually the lobby filled, and for a time business at the telegraph desk was almost brisk. The Erring Knights strolled in and out aimlessly. From the billiard room down the hall came the sound of clicking balls and banging cues.
Now
“The other day our collector showed me one of the bills you had given me, and asked where I got it. He said they were counterfeit. I thought you would want to know.”
Knowlton had turned pale and was staring at her fixedly.
“Well?” he said.
“Shall I tell him?”
“Why—didn’t you?” the young man stammered eagerly.
“No. I thought I had better speak to you first. You see—” Lila’s voice faltered and ceased, her face reddening to the tips of her ears with shame.
Knowlton picked up the bill he had laid on the counter and returned it to his pocket. His hand trembled nervously, and his voice was low and uncertain as he said:
“If it’s all the same to you, I—it would be better not to tell him. I shall not bother you with more of them. And I—I thank you,” he added, as he turned away. That was all.
Lila turned to her desk, sick at heart; and when little Dumain bustled over a few minutes later with the intention of learning something of what Knowlton had said to her, he found her in tears.
“Mon Dieu!” he gasped. The sight of Miss Williams crying was unprecedented and, to Dumain, extremely painful. “What is zee mattaire?”
“Nothing,” said Lila. “I have a headache. For goodness’ sake, don’t stand and stare at me!”
Whereupon Dumain retreated to the corner where he had left the others in secret session. He decided not to tell them about Lila’s tears, being convinced that if he did so they would proceed to murder Knowlton on Broadway at high noon.
Besides, he had an idea that the tears were caused by Knowlton’s having said farewell, in which case there would be no necessity for action on the part of the Erring Knights. Dumain was certainly not a coward; but he was—let us say—discreet.
Lila was overwhelmed with shame and humiliation. She had told Knowlton that she had lied for his sake, which amounted to a confession of her interest in him and regard for him. He must have understood. And he had muttered a perfunctory thank you, and walked away.
But perhaps he took it as a matter of course. Perhaps he regarded her as one of those creatures to whom deception is natural—of loose morals and conscience—whose aid may be depended upon by any stray enemy of society and morality.
This thought was unbearable. Lila clenched her fists tightly till the little pink nails bit sharp rings in the white palms of her hands.
Why had he not explained? It could have been but for one of two reasons: either he was guilty and could not, or he regarded her opinion as unimportant and did not care to.
And if he were guilty; but that was impossible. John Knowlton, the man to whom she had given her heart unreservedly, and forever, a counterfeiter—a criminal? It could not be.
There remained only the supposition that he cared so little about her that her good opinion was a matter of indifference to him. And this, though mortifying, was bearable. Still was she filled with shame, for he had heard her confession, and had made no sign.
Most probably she would never know, for she felt convinced that she would never see Knowlton again. She had been unable to avoid overhearing a great deal of the conversation of the Erring Knights concerning him, and Dumain himself had told her that they had warned him to stay away from the Lamartine.
She smiled bitterly as she thought of that warning. If her anxious protectors only knew how little likelihood there was of Knowlton’s taking the trouble either to harm her or to make her happy!
For hours these thoughts filled her mind, confusedly, without beginning or end. It seemed that the afternoon would never pass.
Gradually the lobby filled, and for a time business at the telegraph desk was almost brisk. The Erring Knights strolled in and out aimlessly. From the billiard room down the hall came the sound of clicking balls and banging cues.
Now
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