The last light of the day shone on his smooth
brown face, with its steady eyes and strong mouth.
"Yes," he said, and still through his quiet tones she seemed to hear a
faint echo of the subdued twang which dwellers in the Far West sometimes
acquire. "I, John Merrivale, late of California, beg to render to you,
Hilary St. Orme, in addition to my respectful homage, that freedom for
which you have not deigned to ask."
She stared at him dumbly, one hand pressed against her breast. The ripple
of the river ran softly through the silence. Slowly at last Merrivale
turned to go.
And then sharply, uncertainly, she spoke.
"Wait, please!" she said.
She moved close to him and laid her hand on the flower-bedecked
balustrade, trembling very much.
"Why have you done this?" Her quivering voice sounded like a prayer.
He hesitated, then answered her quietly through the gloom.
"I did it because I loved you."
"And what did you hope to gain by it?" breathed Hilary.
He did not answer, and she drew a little nearer as though his silence
reassured her.
"Wouldn't it have saved a lot of trouble," she said, her voice very low
but no longer uncertain, "if you had given me my freedom in the first
place? Don't you think you ought to have done that?"
"I don't know," Merrivale said. "That fellow spoilt my game. So I offer
it to you now--with apologies."
"I should have appreciated it--in the first place," said Hilary, and
suddenly there was a ripple of laughter in her voice like an echo of the
water below them.
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