He went towards the
door without speaking. At the threshold he halted and, looking back at
her, said firmly:

"I am sorry for you, Laura, but remember--you've got to tell the
truth."

"Please go," she cried almost hysterically.

He went out, closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER XVII.

With a sigh of intense relief, Laura sank utterly exhausted into the
armchair which Brockton had vacated.

Everything had come so suddenly that the girl's brain was all awhirl.
John might arrive any moment. She must decide at once on what was to be
done. What could she say to him? How much did she wish to say; how much
would he believe? Was it possible that Providence had relented, and
that, after all, she was to be truly happy, marry the only man she had
ever truly, unselfishly loved, and still have all those luxuries which
she could not live without? John was now a rich man. That made all the
difference in the world. It would not make her love him any the more,
but, as a rich man's wife, as _his_ wife, she knew she would be truly
happy. She might have married him, even if he had been unsuccessful and
returned to her penniless, but would their happiness have lasted, could
their love have survived all the hardships which poverty brings in its
train? Of course, she could not tell him about Brockton. He was not the
kind of man she dare tell it to. He would never forgive her; he might
even kill her. No, she must go on lying to the end, until she was
safely married, and then she would turn over a new leaf altogether.
While she sat there, her elbows between her knees, her chin on her
hands, engrossed in thought, Annie entered and began to dust the room.
Laura watched her in moody silence for a few minutes. Then she said:

"Annie!"

"Yassum."

"Do you remember in the boarding-house--when we finally packed up--what
you did with everything?"

"Yassum."

"You remember that I used to keep a pistol?"

"Yo' mean dat one yo' say dat gemman out West gave yuh once?"

"Yes."

"Yassum, Ah 'membuh it."

"Where is it now?"

"Last Ah saw of it was in dis heah draw' in de writin'-desk."

Crossing to the other side of the room, the negress opened the desk and
began to fumble among a lot of old papers. Finally she drew out a
small, thirty-two calibre revolver, which she held out gingerly.

"Is dis it?"

Laura turned and looked.

"Yes," she said quickly. "Put it back. I thought that perhaps it was
lost."

Annie had no soon