She thanked him.
"In the meantime,"—his quiet voice deepened to intensity—"we who share great and unhappy secrets must keep close together in the thoughts of one another. We can but watch out in the hope that somehow—somewhen—a sign may be given."
Helen was not able to speak. A single tear forced its way slowly along an eyelid and down a thin cheek.
Just as she was about to turn away in the direction of her club, an afterthought, swift and half-formed, caused Hierons still to detain her.
"There's just one thing," he said, "that—that occurs to me." In odd contrast to his habitual air of decision his voice was halting, his words fragmentary. "There may . . . may be a possibility . . . and yet no . . . after all . . . it hardly bears thinking about." In a fashion abrupt and strange he checked his words. "It wouldn't be wise to. . . ."
Helen looked at him disconcertedly. The man who was speaking was not the George Hierons she knew.
"No, we won't clutch at straws," he said enigmatically. "Let us continue to meet the facts of the case. But whenever you want me, ring up my hotel and I will come to you at once."
She thanked him again. Then she turned and walked slowly down the street.
For a minute or more he stood to watch that tragic figure pass from view. An unspeakable oppression weighed heavily upon him. And then in the midst of
