That was the profound mystery.  No one knew better than he that Joe was not given to such prodigal generosity; neither were twenty-dollar bills frequent with him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE CAT AND THE MOUSE

Mr. Gilmore, having yielded once again to temptation, found himself at Marshall Langham’s door.  He asked for the lawyer, but was informed he was not at home, a fact of which Mr. Gilmore was perfectly well aware, since he had parted from him not twenty minutes before at the court-house steps.  Mrs. Langham was at home, however, and at this welcome information the gambler, smiling, strode into the hall.

From the parlor, Evelyn heard his voice.  She had found him amusing in the first days of their acquaintance, and possibly she might again find him diverting, but this afternoon he had chosen ill for his call.  She was quite sure she detested him.  For the first time she measured him by standards of which he could know nothing, and found no good thing in him.  What had Marsh meant when he forced this most undesirable acquaintance on her!

“You wanted to see Marsh?” she asked, as she gave him her hand.

“That will keep,” said Gilmore cheerfully.  “May I stay?” he added.

“If you wish,” she answered indifferently.

She felt a sense of shame at his presence there.  Everything about her seemed to sink to his level, which was a very low level, she was sure.  These afternoon calls were a recent feature of their intimacy.  Before Gilmore came, she had been thinking for the hundredth time of John North—­the man she had once loved and now hated, but in whose honor she had such confidence that she knew he would face death rather than compromise her.  In spite of the fact that he had scorned her, had thrown her aside for another, she had had on his account many a soul-rending struggle with her conscience, with her better self.  She knew that a word from her, and his prison doors would open to a free world.  Time and again this word had trembled on her lips unuttered.  She knew also that it was not hate of North that kept her silent.  It was an intangible, unformed, unthoughtout fear of what might follow after.  North, she knew, was innocent; who then was guilty?  She closed her eyes and shut her lips.  That North would ultimately clear himself she never seriously doubted, and yet the burden of her secret was intolerable.  In her present mood, she was accessible to every passing influence, and to-day it was Gilmore’s fate to find her both penitent and rebellious, but he could not know this, he only knew that she was quieter than usual.