er
distress, "I ask you, if it isn't just cowardice to run away now, and
leave me and Jim to face the whole thing alone?"

"To run away? What do you mean?" demanded Louisa, placing her hand on
the girl's shoulder, forcing her to turn round and to face her.

"Who's running away?" queried Colonel Harris with a frown.

"Luke," said Edie hotly, "is running away. He came home just now, and
calmly told me that he was going off abroad to-night, and since then
he has been shut up in his room, packing his things. I have been all
alone here all day. Jim won't be home till late to-night. Poor old
Jim! what a fearful home-coming it will be for him."

But to this renewal of Edie's lamentations, Louisa had not listened,
only to the words: "Luke said that he was going abroad to-night!"

Luke--fugitive from justice! The monstrous, unbelievable picture
which she had tried to visualize just now had become a mirror
reflecting awful, hideous reality.

"Where's Luke?" asked the colonel. "I'd better see him."

"No, father," interposed Louisa quickly. "I'd sooner speak to Luke.
Can I go to him, Edie?"

"Yes, I think so," replied the other. "I don't suppose that he has
locked his door."

"Louisa," said her father gently, "I don't think you'll be doing any
good, dear. A man must act as he thinks best."

"I'm not," she replied, "going to interfere with Luke's plans. I only
want to speak to him. Don't bother, Edie. I know my way."

CHAPTER XXXIII

IF YOU WOULD ONLY LET YOURSELF GO

Luke was sitting at a desk, writing, when Louisa entered his room.
Only one lamp shaded with yellow silk hung above the desk, throwing
golden light on paper and blotting pad and on the hand which held the
pen.

When Luke turned at the sound of the opening door his face remained in
deep shadow. He could not of course see her distinctly, as her figure
was silhouetted against the light in the passage behind her; that was
no doubt the reason why he did not rise to greet her when she entered,
but remained seated at his desk.

"May I come in, Luke?" she asked.

"Certainly," he replied. "I was just writing to you."

"Then give me your unfinished letter, and tell me what else you were
going to write."

"Oh! I had only got as far as your name," he said, pointing to the
empty page before him.

"Was it so difficult then," she asked, "to tell me everything?"

She had come forward into the room, and stood beside his desk, one
hand resting upon it,