She waited as long as she could, then exclaimed, in an uncertain voice: “What about him? Where is he?” “He's gone.” “Where?” “Nobody on earth can tell you that.” She leaned across the table and caught his arm. “Is he dead?” “Yes, dead--and buried.” She leaned back in her chair. She could not take her eyes from his face, and yet she said nothing. It could not be said that her face showed a trace of happiness, but there was, nevertheless, a strange sort of relief there. For a long time neither spoke. But Beveridge's impetuous nature could not long endure this silence. “Well, Madge,” he broke out, “do you still want me?” She did not answer. “That's what I've come to know. If you 'll do it, we will be married to-night.” “You couldn't--” her voice was low and dreamy. “You couldn't get a license before to-morrow,” she said. “It's queer,” said Dick, “but that is the Beveridge of it. You can't tell what he is going to do next. I don't believe he knows himself half the time.” The _Captain_, with Annie at the tiller and Dick stretched lazily out beside her, was skimming and bounding along off the Grosse Pointe light. “Wasn't it--” Annie wore a conscious expression--“wasn't it rather sudden?” “It must have been. But that is Beveridge.” “And she was a saloon keeper's wife?” “Yes,--but it wasn't so bad as it sounds when you say it that way. She was too good for McGlory.” “Oh, you--you know her?” “I've seen her, yes.” “But isn't she--old?” “Not so very. She can't be much older than Beveridge. She is good looking--almost pretty. And she looks sort of--well, when you saw her there in McGlory's place, it seemed too bad. She was quiet, and she looked as if she was made for something better.” They were silent for a time. Then their eyes met, and she missed his answering smile. “What is it, Dick?” she asked. “I was thinking about Henry--about what he was, and then what he did for me. We have everything to thank him for, you and I, Annie.” He paused, then went on. “I suppose he was wrong--he must have been wrong if we are to believe in law at all. But that night on the steamer, when he was telling us about it, I watched him and Beveridge both pretty closely,--the expression of their faces and their eyes. The way a man looks at you tells so much, Annie. And I knew all the while, though Beveridge was standing there for the law, and Henry for what they call crime, still--” “What, Dick?” “--if I were in a tight place again and had to choose which of those two men to trust my life with, I shouldn't need to stop to think. It would be Henry, every time.” He sat up to shift his position, when something which he saw on the northern horizon drove the clouds from his face. This was a great day for Dick. “Look, Annie!” He was pointing eagerly. “Look there!” “Where?” “Can't you see it--the _Anne?_”