"And you--you--"
Allison Lee strode between them facing Neale. "See! She knows... and
if you would spare her--go!" he exclaimed.
"She knows--what?" gasped Neale, in a frenzy between doubt and
certainty.
Allie felt a horrible, nameless, insidious sense of falsity--a
nightmare unreality--an intangible Neale, fated, drifting away from
her.
"Good-bye--Allie! ... Bless you! I'll be--happy--knowing--you're--"
He choked, and the tears streamed down his face. It was a face
convulsed by renunciation, not by guilt. Whatever he had done, it
was not base.
"DON'T LET ME--GO! ... _I_--FORGIVE YOU!" she burst out. She held
out her arms. "THERE'S NO ONE IN THE WORLD BUT YOU!"
But Neale plunged away, upheld by Slingerland, and Allie's world
grew suddenly empty and black.
The train swayed and creaked along through the Night with that
strain and effort which told of upgrade. The oil-lamps burned dimly
in corners of the coach. There were soldiers at open windows looking
out. There were passengers asleep sitting up and lying down and
huddled over their baggage.
But Allie Lee was not asleep. She lay propped up with pillows and
blankets, covered by a heavy coat. Her window was open, and a cool
desert wind softly blew her hair. She stared out into the night, and
the wheels seemed to be grinding over her crushed heart.
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