“Well, perhaps, one couldn’t blame him.  You are going back to England with Potter after the wedding?”

His companion said she was, and Courthorne sat silent a moment or two, for the news was at once a relief to him and a cause of thoughtfulness.  Ailly Blake, who would never be deceived by the resemblance between him and Winston, was a standing menace while she remained anywhere near the frontier of Canada.  He had discovered that it is usually the last thing one expects or desires that happens, and it was clearly advisable for Lance Courthorne to efface himself very shortly, while the easiest way to do it was to merge his identity with that of the man who had gone in his name to Silverdale.  Winston had, so far as everybody else knew, been drowned, and he must in the meanwhile, at least, not be compelled to appear again.  It would simplify everything if Ailly Blake, who evidently did not know of Trooper Shannon’s death, went away.

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad to hear it, and I’m leaving this country, too.  I’m going east to-morrow to Silverdale.  I wonder if I could be permitted to send you a wedding present.”

The girl turned to him with a crimson spot in her cheek, and there was a little hoarse thrill in her voice that made its impression even on him.

“Once I thought I’d have every little thing you gave me buried with me,” she said.  “I felt I couldn’t part with them, and now I’ll remember you often when I should forget,—­but whatever you send I’ll burn.  I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I can’t help it.  Perhaps it’s mad, foolish, but I want you to think well of me still.”

She stopped and caught her breath with a little gasp, while her voice grew strained and broken as she went on.

“Lance,” she said passionately, “can’t you understand?  It’s my one chance to creep back to where I was before you came my way—­and Potter’s kind to me.  At least, I can be straight with him, and I pray I’ll never see your face, or hear your name again.  Now go—­go—­I can’t bear any more from you.”

Courthorne stood still, looking at her, for almost a minute, while the wild reckless devil that was in him awoke.  Clever as he was, he was apt now and then to fling prudence to the winds, and he was swayed by an almost uncontrollable impulse to stay beside the girl who, he realized, though she recognized his worthlessness, loved him still.  That he did not love her, and, perhaps, never had done so, did not count with him.  It was in his nature to find pleasure in snatching her from a better man.  Then some faint sense of the wantonness and cruelty of it came upon him, and by a tense effort he made her a little inclination that was not ironical.

“Well,” he said, “if they are worth anything my good wishes go with you.  At least, they can’t hurt you.”

He held his hand out, but Ailly Blake shrank away from him and pointed to the door.