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Updated: May 24, 2025
Don't you, Fowle?" and Carshaw gave the disappointed wooer a look of such manifest purpose that something had to happen quickly. Something did happen. Fowle knew the game was up, and behaved after the manner of his kind. "You're a cute little thing, Winifred Bartlett," he sneered, with a malicious glance from the girl to Carshaw, while a coarse guffaw imparted venom to his utterance.
It means two thousand dollars a year for housekeeping, and I have calculated that the sale of all our goods will pay our personal debts and leave you and me five thousand each to set up small establishments." Mrs. Carshaw flounced into a chair. "You must be quite mad!" she cried. "No, mother, sane quite sane for the first time. Don't you believe me? Go to your lawyers; the scheme is really theirs.
Carshaw looked out of the window, while his mother, true to her caste, affected nonchalance before the domestic. "Now," said he when they were alone, "drink this. It will steady your nerves." She was frightened at last. Her hand shook as it took the proffered glass. "What has happened?" she asked, with quavering voice. She had never seen her son like this before.
The girl and the woman sat some distance from him the room was large near a window, looking out, and anon exchanging a remark in quiet voices. Then a lunch was brought into them, Carshaw meantime buried in the newspaper except when he stole a glance at Winifred.
It all comes to this, Mr. Carshaw: the Bureau's hands are tied, but it can and will assist an outsider, whom it trusts, who means rescuing Miss Bartlett from the exile which threatens her. We have looked you over carefully, and think you are trustworthy " "The Lord help you if you're not!" broke in Clancy. "I like the girl. It will be a bad day for the man who works her evil."
"You'd make a bum detective. Imagine that poor girl crying her eyes out in a cold dark cell all because you were too squeamish to give her belongings the once over!" Carshaw was not misled by Clancy's manner. He knew that his friend was only consumed by impatience to be on the trail. "You've fired plenty of questions at me," he said quietly. "Now it's my turn.
Perhaps, in her heart of hearts, she wondered if every young man who might be in love with a girl imposed such rigid restraint on himself as Rex Carshaw when he was in her company. The unspoken language of love was plain in every glance, in every tone, in the merest touch of their hands. But he spoke no definite word, and their lips had never met.
Next morning Carshaw, a hard man when offended, visited Brown, Son & Brown, who had executed a large rebinding order for his father's library, and Fowle was speedily out of a job. The ex-foreman knew the source of his misfortune, and vowed vengeance. In the evening, about half past six, Carshaw was back in One Hundred and Twelfth Street.
It was heartless of you, mother. Did not Winifred's angel face, twisted into misery by your lies, cause you one pang of remorse?" Mrs. Carshaw rose unsteadily. Her face was ghastly in its whiteness. "Rex, spare me, for Heaven's sake!" she faltered. "I did it for the best. I have suffered more than you know." "I am glad to hear it.
"You stole me from my mother," sobbed Winifred despairingly. "I am sure you did. You are afraid now lest some one should recognize me. I am 'the image of my mother' that horrible man said, and I am to be taken away because I resemble her. It is you who are frightened, not I. I defy you. Even Mrs. Carshaw knew my face.
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