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Updated: June 26, 2025
And how could he leave her, knowing that Robert Clinton was beginning to climb upward with eyes fastened upon her face? But it was not the sight of Fran's danger that had for ever alienated Gregory from Grace Noir. In an instant, she had stood revealed to him as an unlovely monster.
"She shall do nothing of the sort," he coldly responded. "Yes," Fran retorted violently, "I tell you she must go!" He struck the table with his palm. "Never!" "Shall I use my last resource?" Fran's eyes gleamed ominously. The hand upon the table became a fist. That was his only reply. "I would entreat you," said Fran, faltering, "and with tears but what good would it do? None.
As she closed her teeth, each little pearl meeting a pearly rival, her "git" had something of the force of physical ejectment. Behind large spectacle lenses, sparks flashed from Mrs. Jefferson's eyes. She sniffed battle. But her tightly compressed lips showed that she lacked both Fran's teeth and Fran's intrepidity. One steps cautiously at seventy-odd. Fran comprehended.
I know you now, I know you now...." He stumbled down the steps, pushing out of his way those who opposed his progress. Grace stared after him with bloodless cheeks and smoldering eyes. Clearly, she decided, the sight of Fran's fearful danger had unbalanced his mind. But how could he care so much about that Fran?
Fran had been a show-girl, a trainer of lions, and Abbott distinctly remembered that she had spoken of a "Samson". Fran had just these movements and this height. He missed Fran's mellow voice, but voices may be disguised; and the hands now raised toward the audience may have been stained dark. Who was that "sick friend" that Fran had possibly mentioned only as an excuse for escaping?
To be sure the voice was entirely different, but the rapidity and decisiveness of action, and the air of authority, were Fran's very own. However, the show-girl's hands were as dark as an Italian's, while Fran's were well, not so dark, at any rate, Abbott's brow did not relax. He stood motionless, staring at everything before him with painful intentness.
Gregory, however, was deeply touched by Fran's yearning arms. He rose and stood before her. "Fran, child, we promise that what you saw shall never happen again. But you mustn't tell about it. I know you won't tell. I can't send Grace away, because I need her. She will not go because she knows herself to be strong. We are going to hide our souls.
Hardly had Abbott Ashton disappeared down the village vista of moonlight and shadow-patches, before Fran's mood changed. Instead of seeking to carry out her threat of bearding the lion in the den, she sank down on the porch-steps, gathered her knees in her arms, and stared straight before her.
If anything could have prejudiced Hamilton Gregory against Fran's interests it would have been her slighting allusion to the one who typified his most exalted ideals as "that woman". But Fran was to him nothing but an agent bringing out of the past a secret he had preserved for almost twenty years.
Long fishing-poles projecting from the back of the buggy, protested against the commercialism of the age; their yellow hue streaked the somber background of a money-getting world, while the very joints of the poles mocked at continuity of purpose. By Fran's side, Abbott discovered a man.
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