Locke’s pulse beat rapidly. With his handkerchief he wiped his forehead. It was ridiculous, of course, for a man like him to flush and shiver like a big boy suffering from his first attack of calf love; but, try as he might, he could not steady himself as he approached the cottage and discovered that, though the curtains were drawn, there was a light in the parlor. Perhaps Benton King was there! Well, what of it? Was he the man to turn back and leave the field to a rival? Were King there, it was all the more reason why he should make haste to put himself right in her eyes. His jaws set, he followed the walk to the front door, and rang. One of the parlor windows, near by, was open, but the shade was drawn well down, so that anybody within the room could not be seen by a person outside who might seek to look in. As he turned in from the street, he had fancied he caught the sound of voices drifting out through that window, and one was, he believed, that of Janet. Presently the maid came, and he asked for Miss Harting. “I haven’t a card,” he said. “Please tell her it is Mr. Locke, who would like to see her a few minutes.” He was left standing in the hall, which was lighted by the soft glow of a shaded lamp. In a brief time the maid returned. “Miss Harting is engaged,” she said, “and cannot see you.” It seemed that his heart stopped beating, and he stood quite still, unwilling to believe it could be true. The maid opened the door. He passed out with the step of a somnambulist. So, after all, she was that sort of a girl! Only the thoughtless and shallow render judgment without a proper hearing and an investigation. He had thought her something more than a girl easily swayed and swept away by every light, shifting wind; but it now seemed that he had invested her with imaginary qualities and a character which she did not possess. The door closed behind him. His feet threatened to drag as he walked toward the gate. Suddenly he stiffened at the sound of a laugh heard through the open window. His teeth clicked, his hands clenched, and every nerve in his body seemed to jerk taut as a bowstring. King was there――laughing! He had turned to face the window, and for a few seconds he stood perfectly rigid and motionless. He struck no pose, made no gesture; but he, too, laughed, silently. “Last time we met,” he breathed at length, “you called me a liar, Benton King, and I held myself. If you were to repeat that word to me to-night, I’d knock you down in your tracks.” His step was steady enough now as he walked away. For a moment he thought of returning to the hotel and writing her a letter, stating the truth briefly; but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. “She’ll find out in time,” he said; “for the whole of Kingsbridge will know after the meeting Thursday night. When she does find out, perhaps she’ll be sorry for her mistake, but it will be too late.” CHAPTER XXXIX