As he delivered this passionate utterance, Kilgariff threw his arm around the girl’s waist, and for a moment held her closely. She let her head rest upon his shoulder, and did not resist or resent his impulse when he kissed her reverently upon the forehead. But an instant later, she suddenly realised the situation, and quickly sprang to her feet, he rising with her and facing her with strained nerves and eyes fixed upon her own, sternly but caressingly. Evelyn Byrd was not given to tears, and for that reason the drops that now trickled down her cheeks had far more meaning to Kilgariff than a woman’s tears sometimes have for a man. For a time, she looked him full in the face, not attempting to conceal her tears even by brushing them away. She simply let them flow, as an honest expression of her emotion. Finally she so far composed herself as to speak. “Owen Kilgariff,” she said—it was the first time she had ever so addressed him—“Owen Kilgariff, you have dealt honestly with me; I want to deal honestly with you. If I were worthy of your love, I should rejoice in it. As it is, this is the greatest calamity of my life. You do not know—but you shall. There are reasons that forbid me to accept the love you have offered—peremptory reasons. You shall know them quickly.” With that she glided out of the room, and Owen Kilgariff was left alone. XXXI THE LAST FLIGHT OF EVELYN EVELYN went for a few minutes to her room. There she bathed her eyes; for like all women, she was ashamed of the tears that did her honour by attesting the tender intensity of her womanhood. That done, she went to the laboratory, where she found Dorothy at work. To her she said:— “Please let me have my book. I want Mr. Kilgariff to read it.” Dorothy asked no explanation. She needed none. She went at once and fetched the manuscript. Evelyn took it and returned to the parlour, where she placed it in Kilgariff’s hands. “Please read that, carefully,” she said. “Then you will understand.” “If you mean,” he replied, “that anything this manuscript may reveal concerning your past life can lessen my love for you, you are utterly wrong, and the reading is unnecessary. If you wish only that I shall know you better, and more perfectly understand the influences that have made you the woman you are, I shall be glad to read every line and word that you have written.” “Please read it.” That was all she said, and she instantly left the room. Five minutes later she told Dorothy she wanted the carriage. “I want to go to Warlock,” she said, “on a little visit to Mrs. Pegram. Oh, Dorothy! you understand.” “Yes, dear,” answered Dorothy, “I understand. It is rather late to start to Warlock. It is a thirty-mile drive. But I’ll give you Dick for your coachman, and there is a moon. Dick is quite a military man now, and he knows what a forced march means. He’ll get you to Warlock in time for a late supper.”