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A bag it was and when they raced to the field in which it fell they discovered that it was improvised, roughly sewn and weighted with sand. The superintendent read the label and frowned. "'To the Driver of Ambulance B. T. 9743, 131st General Hospital' this is evidently for you, Miss Laramore." "For me, Mrs. Crane?" Vera Laramore came forward, a picture of astonishment and took the bag.
The note was written in a bold hand, and ran as follows: "Having heard that you visit the prison, and are interested in the case of a criminal prisoner, the desire of seeing you arose in me. Ask for a permission to see me. I can give you a good deal of information concerning your protegee, and also our group. Yours gratefully, VERA DOUKHOVA."
In the afternoon she was going out with Vera. That was not, however, what occupied her mind as she brushed aside her work. She had determined to have a settlement with Siegmund, as to how matters should continue. She was going to have no more of the past three years' life; things had come to a crisis, and there must be an alteration.
While in Paris he completed his blank-verse play, "The Duchess of Padua," and sent it to Miss Mary Anderson in America, who refused it, although she had commissioned him, he always said, to write it. It seems to me inferior even to "Vera" in interest, more academic and further from life, and when produced in New York in 1891 it was a complete frost.
"My name is Egan," the stranger said, "and this is my companion, Grady. We are New York detectives, over here on important business. The man we are after is Mark Fenwick." Vera had entirely recovered her self-possession by this time. She was able to regard the men coolly and critically.
She's made up her mind. It's not because she loved him nor, I think, for anything very much that her uncle said. She's got some idea in her head. Perhaps you can explain it." "I?" said Vera, looking at me. "Yes. She gave me a message for you." "What was it?" But even as she asked the question she seemed to fear the answer, because she turned away from me.
Let it be sufficient to say that it is absolutely imperative that you give your sister shelter, and that nobody but yourself should know where she is." "But how did you find her?" Vera asked. "And who was it suggested that you should bring her to me?" "Let me just mention the name of Zary," Venner replied. "Oh, I can come round here to-morrow and tell you all about it.
People were working on this set, and he presently identified the play, for Muriel Mercer in a neat black dress entered to bring comfort to the tenement dwellers. But this play, too, had ceased to interest him. He knew that Vera Vanderpool had escaped the blight of Broadway to choose the worthwhile, the true, the vital things of life, and that was about all he now cared to know of the actual play.
"No more spooks," he laughed, "no more spirit rappings." Through her tears Vera smiled up at him a wan, broken smile. She gave a shudder of distaste. "Never!" she whispered. "I promise." Their eyes met; the girl's looking into his shyly, gratefully; the man's searching hers eagerly. And suddenly they saw each other with a new and wonderful sympathy and understanding.
He was in the habit of weighing his words and his actions before he spoke or acted, his mind was tardy to take in new thoughts and new ideas, and he was cautious and almost sluggish in taking any steps in a strange and unaccustomed direction. Nevertheless, in this matter of Vera, he had succumbed to his fate with all the uncalculating blindness of a boy in his teens.
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