The dog came scrambling over the smooth floor with a joyous yelp. He picked him up and pa.s.sing out the door went down the street. The few remaining dollars he had left burned in his pocket. He tossed them into the first sewer. He was now free--free to begin clean handed.

A little farther along he came to a gang of men at work upon the excavation for a new house. He needed money for food and a night's lodging. He went to the foreman.

"Want an extra hand?"

"Wot th' devil ye 're givin' us?"

"I 'm in earnest. I have n't a cent. I need work. Try me."

The burly foreman looked him over with a grin. Then as though he saw a good joke in it, he gave him a shovel and sent him into the cellar.

Donaldson removed his coat and rolling up his sleeves took his place beside the others. Sandy found a comfortable nest in the discarded garment and settled down contentedly.

CHAPTER XXVIII

_The Seventh Noon_

When Arsdale with the nurse at his heels rushed up-stairs, he found his sister before the mirror combing her hair. There was nothing hysterical about her, but her white calmness in itself was ominous.

"What is it, Elaine?" he panted, "has Donaldson gone mad?"

"No," she answered, "I should say that he is quite sane now."

"But what the deuce was the trouble with him? He looked as though he had lost his senses."

"Perhaps he has just found them."

The nurse interrupted him, in an aside,

"I would n't agitate her further." To the girl, she said, "Don't you think you had better lie down for a little, Miss Arsdale?"

"Please don't worry about me," she replied calmly, "I am going to change my dress and then I shall come down-stairs. I wish you would go to Marie--both of you. It is she who needs attention."

"But--" broke in Arsdale.

"There's a good boy. Do what you can to make her comfortable. I will join you in a few minutes."

Uncomprehending, Arsdale reluctantly led the way out. She closed the door behind them and turned to her mirror again.

"Well," demanded her reflection, "what are you going to do now?"

"Do? I shall go on as I have always done."

"Shall you?"

"Why not? There is Ben. Perhaps we shall go out into the country to live--perhaps we shall travel."

"Shall you?"

"That is certainly the sensible thing to do."

"Shall you?"

She smoothed back the hair from her throbbing temples.

"He looked very much in need of help," suggested the mirror.

"Who?"

"Peter Donaldson."

"Oh," gasped Elaine, "why did he do it? Why did he do it?"

The mirror recognized the question as one which every woman has asked at least once in her lifetime. But somehow this did not swerve her from her insistence.

"You must judge him from what you yourself have seen of him," the mirror harped back to Donaldson's own words.

"He acted bravely before me--before Ben. He did do bravely," cried the girl.

"And yet below these acts he had a craven heart?" hinted she of the mirror.

"No. No. It isn't possible! It isn't possible!"

"But he admitted the dreadful thing he tried to do."

"That was the folly of a moment. He has grown through it. He asked no mercy--asked no pardon. Did n't you see the expression upon his haggard face as he left the room?"

"Were you looking?" queried she of the mirror in surprise. "Your eyes were away from him."

"But one couldn't help but see that!"

The woman in the mirror found herself suddenly put upon the defensive.

"Where has he gone?" cried the girl. "What is he going to do now?"

"Will he do bravely whatever lies before him?"

"Yes. He will! He will!"

"How do you know?"

"I know. That is enough."

"Then why do you not call him back?"