A
quick, eager flush came to his cheeks. She knew how, since she had shown
last night that she knew him as Smarlinghue, that, despite all her own
brave, resolute protests, he was determined to fight this thing out to
the end--separately, if she would not let him join forces with her--but,
in any case, to the end. It was the old name again--Dear Philanthropic
Crook! Did it mean that she had surrendered, then, at last, that she had
finally accepted the situation, and that he was to enter this shadowland
of hers beside her! The flush died away. It was only his own wish that
had been father to the thought. This was another "call to arms" of quite
a different nature, and born, not out of her own peril, but born, as in
the old days again, out of the maze of her strange environment. "You
have set New York ablaze, you have made me far more afraid for you than
I am for myself; but I cannot see where there is any danger here, or
else I would not have written this. You--" He was reading impetuously
now, his brain, alert and keen, sorting and sifting out, as it were, the
salient, vital points, "... old Colonel Milford and his wife...
Louisiana... letter... family heirloom.
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