October 13, 2025 • 17 mins
11 - The Best Man by Grace Livingston Hill.
Cyril Gordon, a young and handsome secret service agent is running from pursuers who desperately want the information he holds. He hides out from them in a church, and then finds himself married to a woman he’s never seen before. A sweet and sometimes, funny, romance, with several exciting chases.
Cyril Gordon, a young and handsome secret service agent is running from pursuers who desperately want the information he holds. He hides out from them in a church, and then finds himself married to a woman he’s never seen before. A sweet and sometimes, funny, romance, with several exciting chases.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:01):
Chapter eleven of The Best Man. This LibriVox recording is
in the public domain. Recording by Gale maddern. The Best
Man by Grace livingstone Hill, Chapter eleven. There were a
lot of people at the station. They had been to
a family gathering of some sort, from their remarks, and
(00:21):
they talked loudly, and much so that the two stood apart,
for the seats were all occupied, and had no opportunity
for conversation save a quiet, smiling comment now and then.
Upon the chatter about them, or the odd remarks they heard,
there had come a constraint upon them, a withdrawing of
each into his shell, each conscious of something that separated.
(00:46):
Gordon struggled to prevent it, but he seemed helpless. Celia
would smile in answer to his quiet remarks, but it
was a smile of distance, such as she had worn.
Early in the morning. She had quite found her former
standing ground with its fence of prejudice, and she was
repairing the brakes through which she had gone over to
the enemy. During the day. She was bracing herself with
(01:09):
dire reminders and snatches from those terrible letters which were
written in characters of fire. In her heart, never never
could she care for a man who had done what
this man had done. She had forgotten for a little
while those terrible things he had said of her dear
dead father. How could she have forgotten for an instant?
(01:30):
How could she have let her hand lie close to
the hand that had defiled itself by writing such things.
By the time they were seated in the train, she
was freezing in her attitude, and poor Gordon sat miserably
beside her and tried to think what he had done
to offend her. It was not his fault that her
hand had lain near his on the rail. She had
(01:53):
put it there herself. Perhaps she expected him to put
his over it, to show her that he cared, as
a broad dygroom should care, as he did care in reality,
if he only had the right. And perhaps she was
hurt that he had stood coolly and said or done nothing.
But he could not help it. Much to Gordon's relief,
(02:14):
the train carried a parlor car, and it happened on
this particular day to be almost deserted, save for a
deaf old man with a florid complexion and a gold
knobbed cane who slumbered audibly at the further end. From
the two cheers Gordon selected. He established his companion comfortably,
disposed of the baggage, and sat down, But the girl
(02:36):
paid no heed to him. With a sad set face,
she stared out of the window, her eyes seeming to
see nothing. For two hours she sat so he making
remarks occasionally to which she made little or no reply,
until he lapsed into silence, looking at her with troubled eyes. Finally,
(02:58):
just as they neared the outskirts of Pittsburgh, he leaned
softly forward and touched her coat sleeve to attract her attention.
Have I offended hurt you in any way? He asked gently.
She turned toward him, and her eyes were brimming full
of tears. No, she said, and her lips were trembling. No,
(03:20):
you have been most kind, But but I cannot forget
those letters. She ended with a sob and put up
her handkerchief quickly to stifle it. Letters. He asked, helplessly,
What letters? The letters you wrote me, All the letters
of the last five months. I cannot forget them. I
(03:40):
can never forget them. How could you think I could?
He looked at her anxiously, not knowing what to say,
and yet he must say something. The time had come
when some kind of an understanding, some clearing up of facts,
must take place. He must go cautiously, but he must
(04:00):
find out what was the matter. He could not see
her suffer, so there must be some way to let
her know that, so far as he was concerned, she
need suffer nothing further, and that he would do all
in his power to set her right with the world.
But letters he had written. No letters. His face lighted
(04:21):
up with the swift certainty of one thing about which
he did not be sure. She still thought him the
man she had intended to marry. She was not therefore
troubled about that phase of the question. It was strange,
almost unbelievable, But it was true that he personally was
not responsible for the trouble in her eyes. What trouble
(04:43):
she might feel when she knew all he had yet
to find out. But it was a great relief to
be sure of so much. Still, something must be said. Letters,
he repeated again, stupidly, and then added, with perplexed tone,
Would you mind telling me just what it was in
the letters that hurt you? She turned eyes of astonishment
(05:07):
on him. How can you ask, she said, bitterly, You
surely must know how terrible they were to me. You
could not be the man you have seemed to be
to day if you did not know what you were
doing to me in making all those terrible threats. You
must know how cruel they were. I'm afraid I don't understand,
(05:27):
he said earnestly, the trouble still most apparent in his eyes.
Would you mind being a little more explicit? Would you
mind telling me exactly what you think I wrote you?
That sounded like a threat. He asked the question half hesitatingly,
because he was not quite sure whether he was justified
in thus obtaining private information under false pretenses. And yet
(05:51):
he felt that he must know just what troubled her
or he could never help her. And he was sure
that if she knew he was an utter stranger, even
a kindly one, those gentle lips would never open to
inform him upon her torturer. As it was, she could
tell him her trouble with a perfectly clear conscience, thinking
she was telling it to the man who knew all
(06:13):
about it. But his hesitation about prying into an utter
stranger's private affairs, even with a good motive, gave him
an air of troubled dignity and real anxiety to know
his fault that puzzled the girl more than all that
had gone before. I cannot understand how you can ask
such a question, since it has been the constant subject
(06:36):
of discussion in all our letters, she replied, sitting up
with asperity and drying her tears. She was on the
verge of growing angry with him for his petty, wilful
misunderstanding of words whose meaning she felt he must know. Well,
I do ask it, he said, quietly, and believe me,
I have a good motive in doing so. She looked
(06:58):
at him in surprise. It was impossible to be angry
with those kindly eyes, even though he did persist in
a wilful stupidity. Well, then, since you wish it, stated
once more, I will tell you, she declared, the tears
welling again into her eyes. You first demanded that I marry.
You demanded, without any pretense whatever of caring for me,
(07:23):
with a hidden threat in your demand that if I
did not, you would bring some dire calamity upon me
by means that were already in your power. You took
me for the same foolish little girl whom you had
delighted to tease for years before you went abroad to live,
And when I refused you, you told me that you
could not only take away from my mother all the
(07:45):
property which she had inherited from her brother by means
of a will made just before my uncle's death, an
unknown except to his lawyer and you, but that you
could and would blacken my dear dead father's name and honor,
and show that every cent that belonged to mother and
Jefferson and myself was stolen property. When I challenged you
(08:09):
to prove any such thing against my honored father, you
went still further and threatened to bring out a terrible
story and prove it with witnesses who would swear to
anything you said. You knew my father's white life, You
as much as owned your charges were false, And yet
you did to send me a letter from a vile
creature who pretended that she was his first wife, and
(08:32):
who said she could prove that he had spent much
of his time in her company. You knew the whole
thing was a falsehood, but you dared to threaten to
make this known through the newspapers if I did not
marry you. You realized that I knew that, even though
few people and no friends would believe such a thing
of my father, such a report in the papers, false
(08:53):
though it was, would crush my mother to death. You
knew that I would give my life to save her,
and so you had me in your power, as you
have me now. You have always wanted me in your power,
just because you love to torture, and now you have me.
But you cannot make me forget what you have done.
I have given my life, but I cannot give any more.
(09:16):
If it is not sufficient, you will have to do
your worst. She dropped her face into the little wet handkerchief,
and Gordon sat with white, drawn countenance and clenched hands.
He was fairly trembling with indignation toward the villain who
had thus dared impose upon this delicate flower of womanhood.
(09:37):
He longed to search the world over for the false bridegroom,
and finding give him his just dues. And what should
he do or say? Dared he tell her at once
who he was, and trust to her kind heart to
forgive his terrible blunder and keep his secret till the
message was safely delivered. Dared he had he any right? No?
(10:00):
The secret was not his to divulge, either for his
own benefit or for any others. He must keep that
to himself, but he must help her in some way.
At last, he began to speak, scarcely knowing what he
was about to say. It is terrible, terrible what you
have told me. To have written such things to one
(10:22):
like you, in fact, to any one on earth, seems
to me unforgivable. It is the most inhuman cruelty I
have ever heard of. You were fully justified in hating
and despising the man who wrote such words to you.
Then why did you write them? She burst forth? And
how can you sit there calmly and talk that way
(10:43):
about it, as if you had nothing to do with
the matter. Because I never wrote those letters, he said,
looking her steadily, earnestly in the eyes. You never wrote them,
she exclaimed, excitedly. You dare to deny it? I dare
to deny it. His voice was quiet, earnest, convincing. She
(11:05):
looked at him, dazed, bewildered, indignant, sorrowful. But you cannot
deny it, she said, her fragile frame trembling with excitement.
I have the letters all in my suit case. You
cannot deny your own handwriting. I have the last awful one,
the one in which you threatened father's good name, here
(11:28):
in my hand bag. I did not put it with
the rest, and I had no opportunity to destroy it
before leaving home. I felt as if I must always
keep it with me, lest otherwise its awful secret would
somehow get out there it is. Read it and see
your own name signed to the words you say you
did not write. While she talked, her trembling fingers had
(11:53):
taken a folded, crumpled letter from her little hand bag,
and this she reached over and laid upon the arm
of the chair. Read it, she said, Read it and
see that you cannot deny it. I should rather not
read it, he said. I do not need to read
it to deny that I ever wrote such things to you.
(12:13):
But I insist that you read it, said the girl.
If you insist, I will read it, he said, taking
the letter reluctantly and opening it. She sat watching him
furtively through the tears while he read. Saw the angry
flush steal into his cheeks as the villainy of a
fellow man was revealed to him through the brief coarse
(12:36):
cruel epistle, and she mistook the flush for one of shame.
Then his true brown eyes looked up and met her
tearful gaze, steadily, a fine anger burning in them. And
do you think I wrote that? He said something in
his voice. She could not understand. What else could I
(12:57):
think it bears your signature? She answered coldly? The letter
is vile, he said, and the man who wrote it
is a blackguard and deserves the utmost that the law
allows for such offenses. With your permission, I shall make
it my business to see that he gets it. What
do you mean, she said, wide eyed? How could you
(13:19):
punish yourself? You cannot still deny that you wrote the letter.
I still deny that I wrote it or ever saw it,
until you handed it to me just now. The girl
looked at him, nonplussed, more than half convinced in spite
of her reason. But isn't that your handwriting? It is not? Look?
(13:42):
He took out his fountain pen, and, holding the letter
on the arm of her chair, he wrote rapidly in
his natural hand her own name and address beneath the
address on the envelope, then held it up to her.
Do they look alike? The two writings were as utterly
unlike as possible, the letter being addressed in an almost
(14:03):
unreadable scrawl, and the fresh writing standing fine and clear,
in a script that spoke of character and business ability.
Even a child could see at a glance that the
two were not written by the same hand, And yet,
of course it might have been practiced for the purpose
of deception. This thought flashed through the minds of both
(14:24):
even as he held it out for her to look.
She looked from the envelope to his eyes, and back
to the letter, startled, not knowing what to think. But
before either of them had time for another word, the conductor,
the porter, and several people from the car behind came
hurriedly through, and they realized that while they talked, the
(14:45):
train had come to a halt amid the blazing electric
lights of a great city station. Why, said Gordon, startled,
We must have reached Pittsburgh. Is this Pittsburgh, he called
out to the vanishing porter. Yes, sir, eh, yelled the porter,
putting his head around the curve of the passageway. You
better hurry, sir, for this train goes on to Cincinnati
(15:07):
pretty quick. WI is late gettin in. You see neither
of them had noticed a man in rough clothes with
slouch hat and hands in his pockets, who had boarded
the train a few miles back and walked through the
car several times, eyeing them keenly. He stuck his head
in at the door, now furtively, and drew back quickly
again out of sight. Gordon hurriedly gathered up the baggage
(15:32):
and they went out of the car, the porter rushing
back as they reached the door to assist them and
get a last tip. There was no opportunity to say
anything more as they mingled with the crowd until the
porter landed their baggage in the great station and hurried
back to his train. The man with the slouch hat
followed and stood unobtrusively behind them. Gordon looked down at
(15:56):
the white drawn face of the girl, and his heart
was touched with compassion for her trouble. He must make
her some satisfactory explanation at once that would set her
heart at rest. But he could not do it here,
for every seat about them was filled with noisy, chattering folk.
He stooped and whispered low and tenderly, don't worry, little girl,
(16:19):
Just try to trust me. And I will explain it all.
Can you explain it? She asked anxiously, as if catching
at a rope thrown out to save her life perfectly,
he said, if you will be patient and trust me,
but we cannot talk here. Just wait in a seat
until I see if I can get the stateroom on
(16:40):
the sleeper. He left her with his courteous bow, and
she sat watching his tall, fine figure as he threaded
his way among the crowds to the pullman window, her
heart filled with mingling emotions. In spite of her reason,
a tiny bit of hope for the future was springing
up in her heart, and without her own will, she
(17:00):
found herself inclined to trust him. At least it was
all she could do at present. End of chapter eleven,
Chapter eleven of The Best Man. This LibriVox recording is
in the public domain. Recording by Gale maddern. The Best
Man by Grace livingstone Hill, Chapter eleven. There were a
lot of people at the station. They had been to
a family gathering of some sort, from their remarks, and
(00:21):
they talked loudly, and much so that the two stood apart,
for the seats were all occupied, and had no opportunity
for conversation save a quiet, smiling comment now and then.
Upon the chatter about them, or the odd remarks they heard,
there had come a constraint upon them, a withdrawing of
each into his shell, each conscious of something that separated.
(00:46):
Gordon struggled to prevent it, but he seemed helpless. Celia
would smile in answer to his quiet remarks, but it
was a smile of distance, such as she had worn.
Early in the morning. She had quite found her former
standing ground with its fence of prejudice, and she was
repairing the brakes through which she had gone over to
the enemy. During the day. She was bracing herself with
(01:09):
dire reminders and snatches from those terrible letters which were
written in characters of fire. In her heart, never never
could she care for a man who had done what
this man had done. She had forgotten for a little
while those terrible things he had said of her dear
dead father. How could she have forgotten for an instant?
(01:30):
How could she have let her hand lie close to
the hand that had defiled itself by writing such things.
By the time they were seated in the train, she
was freezing in her attitude, and poor Gordon sat miserably
beside her and tried to think what he had done
to offend her. It was not his fault that her
hand had lain near his on the rail. She had
(01:53):
put it there herself. Perhaps she expected him to put
his over it, to show her that he cared, as
a broad dygroom should care, as he did care in reality,
if he only had the right. And perhaps she was
hurt that he had stood coolly and said or done nothing.
But he could not help it. Much to Gordon's relief,
(02:14):
the train carried a parlor car, and it happened on
this particular day to be almost deserted, save for a
deaf old man with a florid complexion and a gold
knobbed cane who slumbered audibly at the further end. From
the two cheers Gordon selected. He established his companion comfortably,
disposed of the baggage, and sat down, But the girl
(02:36):
paid no heed to him. With a sad set face,
she stared out of the window, her eyes seeming to
see nothing. For two hours she sat so he making
remarks occasionally to which she made little or no reply,
until he lapsed into silence, looking at her with troubled eyes. Finally,
(02:58):
just as they neared the outskirts of Pittsburgh, he leaned
softly forward and touched her coat sleeve to attract her attention.
Have I offended hurt you in any way? He asked gently.
She turned toward him, and her eyes were brimming full
of tears. No, she said, and her lips were trembling. No,
(03:20):
you have been most kind, But but I cannot forget
those letters. She ended with a sob and put up
her handkerchief quickly to stifle it. Letters. He asked, helplessly,
What letters? The letters you wrote me, All the letters
of the last five months. I cannot forget them. I
(03:40):
can never forget them. How could you think I could?
He looked at her anxiously, not knowing what to say,
and yet he must say something. The time had come
when some kind of an understanding, some clearing up of facts,
must take place. He must go cautiously, but he must
(04:00):
find out what was the matter. He could not see
her suffer, so there must be some way to let
her know that, so far as he was concerned, she
need suffer nothing further, and that he would do all
in his power to set her right with the world.
But letters he had written. No letters. His face lighted
(04:21):
up with the swift certainty of one thing about which
he did not be sure. She still thought him the
man she had intended to marry. She was not therefore
troubled about that phase of the question. It was strange,
almost unbelievable, But it was true that he personally was
not responsible for the trouble in her eyes. What trouble
(04:43):
she might feel when she knew all he had yet
to find out. But it was a great relief to
be sure of so much. Still, something must be said. Letters,
he repeated again, stupidly, and then added, with perplexed tone,
Would you mind telling me just what it was in
the letters that hurt you? She turned eyes of astonishment
(05:07):
on him. How can you ask, she said, bitterly, You
surely must know how terrible they were to me. You
could not be the man you have seemed to be
to day if you did not know what you were
doing to me in making all those terrible threats. You
must know how cruel they were. I'm afraid I don't understand,
(05:27):
he said earnestly, the trouble still most apparent in his eyes.
Would you mind being a little more explicit? Would you
mind telling me exactly what you think I wrote you?
That sounded like a threat. He asked the question half hesitatingly,
because he was not quite sure whether he was justified
in thus obtaining private information under false pretenses. And yet
(05:51):
he felt that he must know just what troubled her
or he could never help her. And he was sure
that if she knew he was an utter stranger, even
a kindly one, those gentle lips would never open to
inform him upon her torturer. As it was, she could
tell him her trouble with a perfectly clear conscience, thinking
she was telling it to the man who knew all
(06:13):
about it. But his hesitation about prying into an utter
stranger's private affairs, even with a good motive, gave him
an air of troubled dignity and real anxiety to know
his fault that puzzled the girl more than all that
had gone before. I cannot understand how you can ask
such a question, since it has been the constant subject
(06:36):
of discussion in all our letters, she replied, sitting up
with asperity and drying her tears. She was on the
verge of growing angry with him for his petty, wilful
misunderstanding of words whose meaning she felt he must know. Well,
I do ask it, he said, quietly, and believe me,
I have a good motive in doing so. She looked
(06:58):
at him in surprise. It was impossible to be angry
with those kindly eyes, even though he did persist in
a wilful stupidity. Well, then, since you wish it, stated
once more, I will tell you, she declared, the tears
welling again into her eyes. You first demanded that I marry.
You demanded, without any pretense whatever of caring for me,
(07:23):
with a hidden threat in your demand that if I
did not, you would bring some dire calamity upon me
by means that were already in your power. You took
me for the same foolish little girl whom you had
delighted to tease for years before you went abroad to live,
And when I refused you, you told me that you
could not only take away from my mother all the
(07:45):
property which she had inherited from her brother by means
of a will made just before my uncle's death, an
unknown except to his lawyer and you, but that you
could and would blacken my dear dead father's name and honor,
and show that every cent that belonged to mother and
Jefferson and myself was stolen property. When I challenged you
(08:09):
to prove any such thing against my honored father, you
went still further and threatened to bring out a terrible
story and prove it with witnesses who would swear to
anything you said. You knew my father's white life, You
as much as owned your charges were false, And yet
you did to send me a letter from a vile
creature who pretended that she was his first wife, and
(08:32):
who said she could prove that he had spent much
of his time in her company. You knew the whole
thing was a falsehood, but you dared to threaten to
make this known through the newspapers if I did not
marry you. You realized that I knew that, even though
few people and no friends would believe such a thing
of my father, such a report in the papers, false
(08:53):
though it was, would crush my mother to death. You
knew that I would give my life to save her,
and so you had me in your power, as you
have me now. You have always wanted me in your power,
just because you love to torture, and now you have me.
But you cannot make me forget what you have done.
I have given my life, but I cannot give any more.
(09:16):
If it is not sufficient, you will have to do
your worst. She dropped her face into the little wet handkerchief,
and Gordon sat with white, drawn countenance and clenched hands.
He was fairly trembling with indignation toward the villain who
had thus dared impose upon this delicate flower of womanhood.
(09:37):
He longed to search the world over for the false bridegroom,
and finding give him his just dues. And what should
he do or say? Dared he tell her at once
who he was, and trust to her kind heart to
forgive his terrible blunder and keep his secret till the
message was safely delivered. Dared he had he any right? No?
(10:00):
The secret was not his to divulge, either for his
own benefit or for any others. He must keep that
to himself, but he must help her in some way.
At last, he began to speak, scarcely knowing what he
was about to say. It is terrible, terrible what you
have told me. To have written such things to one
(10:22):
like you, in fact, to any one on earth, seems
to me unforgivable. It is the most inhuman cruelty I
have ever heard of. You were fully justified in hating
and despising the man who wrote such words to you.
Then why did you write them? She burst forth? And
how can you sit there calmly and talk that way
(10:43):
about it, as if you had nothing to do with
the matter. Because I never wrote those letters, he said,
looking her steadily, earnestly in the eyes. You never wrote them,
she exclaimed, excitedly. You dare to deny it? I dare
to deny it. His voice was quiet, earnest, convincing. She
(11:05):
looked at him, dazed, bewildered, indignant, sorrowful. But you cannot
deny it, she said, her fragile frame trembling with excitement.
I have the letters all in my suit case. You
cannot deny your own handwriting. I have the last awful one,
the one in which you threatened father's good name, here
(11:28):
in my hand bag. I did not put it with
the rest, and I had no opportunity to destroy it
before leaving home. I felt as if I must always
keep it with me, lest otherwise its awful secret would
somehow get out there it is. Read it and see
your own name signed to the words you say you
did not write. While she talked, her trembling fingers had
(11:53):
taken a folded, crumpled letter from her little hand bag,
and this she reached over and laid upon the arm
of the chair. Read it, she said, Read it and
see that you cannot deny it. I should rather not
read it, he said. I do not need to read
it to deny that I ever wrote such things to you.
(12:13):
But I insist that you read it, said the girl.
If you insist, I will read it, he said, taking
the letter reluctantly and opening it. She sat watching him
furtively through the tears while he read. Saw the angry
flush steal into his cheeks as the villainy of a
fellow man was revealed to him through the brief coarse
(12:36):
cruel epistle, and she mistook the flush for one of shame.
Then his true brown eyes looked up and met her
tearful gaze, steadily, a fine anger burning in them. And
do you think I wrote that? He said something in
his voice. She could not understand. What else could I
(12:57):
think it bears your signature? She answered coldly? The letter
is vile, he said, and the man who wrote it
is a blackguard and deserves the utmost that the law
allows for such offenses. With your permission, I shall make
it my business to see that he gets it. What
do you mean, she said, wide eyed? How could you
(13:19):
punish yourself? You cannot still deny that you wrote the letter.
I still deny that I wrote it or ever saw it,
until you handed it to me just now. The girl
looked at him, nonplussed, more than half convinced in spite
of her reason. But isn't that your handwriting? It is not? Look?
(13:42):
He took out his fountain pen, and, holding the letter
on the arm of her chair, he wrote rapidly in
his natural hand her own name and address beneath the
address on the envelope, then held it up to her.
Do they look alike? The two writings were as utterly
unlike as possible, the letter being addressed in an almost
(14:03):
unreadable scrawl, and the fresh writing standing fine and clear,
in a script that spoke of character and business ability.
Even a child could see at a glance that the
two were not written by the same hand, And yet,
of course it might have been practiced for the purpose
of deception. This thought flashed through the minds of both
(14:24):
even as he held it out for her to look.
She looked from the envelope to his eyes, and back
to the letter, startled, not knowing what to think. But
before either of them had time for another word, the conductor,
the porter, and several people from the car behind came
hurriedly through, and they realized that while they talked, the
(14:45):
train had come to a halt amid the blazing electric
lights of a great city station. Why, said Gordon, startled,
We must have reached Pittsburgh. Is this Pittsburgh, he called
out to the vanishing porter. Yes, sir, eh, yelled the porter,
putting his head around the curve of the passageway. You
better hurry, sir, for this train goes on to Cincinnati
(15:07):
pretty quick. WI is late gettin in. You see neither
of them had noticed a man in rough clothes with
slouch hat and hands in his pockets, who had boarded
the train a few miles back and walked through the
car several times, eyeing them keenly. He stuck his head
in at the door, now furtively, and drew back quickly
again out of sight. Gordon hurriedly gathered up the baggage
(15:32):
and they went out of the car, the porter rushing
back as they reached the door to assist them and
get a last tip. There was no opportunity to say
anything more as they mingled with the crowd until the
porter landed their baggage in the great station and hurried
back to his train. The man with the slouch hat
followed and stood unobtrusively behind them. Gordon looked down at
(15:56):
the white drawn face of the girl, and his heart
was touched with compassion for her trouble. He must make
her some satisfactory explanation at once that would set her
heart at rest. But he could not do it here,
for every seat about them was filled with noisy, chattering folk.
He stooped and whispered low and tenderly, don't worry, little girl,
(16:19):
Just try to trust me. And I will explain it all.
Can you explain it? She asked anxiously, as if catching
at a rope thrown out to save her life perfectly,
he said, if you will be patient and trust me,
but we cannot talk here. Just wait in a seat
until I see if I can get the stateroom on
(16:40):
the sleeper. He left her with his courteous bow, and
she sat watching his tall, fine figure as he threaded
his way among the crowds to the pullman window, her
heart filled with mingling emotions. In spite of her reason,
a tiny bit of hope for the future was springing
up in her heart, and without her own will, she
(17:00):
found herself inclined to trust him. At least it was
all she could do at present. End of chapter eleven,
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