E. Lucy vomited onto the floor at the sight of her mother dying, the black spots expanding across her corpse. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. She glanced at the soft-ticking clock with the exposed brass pendulum upon the white marble mantel, and made a rapid calculation. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. O'Higgins did not confide in me.
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