“You are a strange girl,” said Mrs. Belding, gravely.  “But you are right.  Dr. Cutts says, if he escapes without fever, there is nothing very serious in the wound itself.  The blow that made that gash in his head was not the one which made him unconscious.  They found another, behind his ear; the skin was not broken.  There was a bump about as big as a walnut.  They said it was concussion of the brain, but no fracture anywhere.  By the way, Dr. Cutts complimented me very handsomely on the way I had managed the case before his arrival.  He said there was positively a professional excellence about my bandage.  You may imagine I did not set him right.”

Alice, laughing and blushing, said, “I will allow you all the credit.”

Mrs. Belding kissed her, and said, “Good-night,” and walked to the door.  There she paused a moment, and came back to the bed.  “I think, after all, I had better say now what I thought of keeping till to-morrow.  I thank you for your confidence to-night, and shall respect it.  But you will see, I am sure, the necessity of being very circumspect, under the circumstances.  If you should want to do anything for Arthur while he is ill, I should feel it my duty to forbid it.”

Alice received this charge with frank, open eyes.  “I should not dream of such a thing,” she said.  “If he had died, I should have been his widow; but, as he is to live, he must come for me if he wants me.  I was very silly about him, but I must take the consequences.  I can’t now take advantage of the poor fellow, by saving his life and establishing a claim on it.  So I will promise anything you want.  I am so happy that I will promise easily.  But I am also very sleepy.”

The beautiful eyelids were indeed heavy and drooping.  The night’s excitement had left her wearied and utterly content.  She fell asleep even as her mother kissed her forehead.

The feeling of Offitt as he left Algonquin Avenue and struck into a side street was one of pure exultation.  He had accomplished the boldest act of his life.  He had shown address, skill, and courage.  He had done a thing which had appalled him in the contemplation, merely on account of its physical difficulties and dangers.  He had done it successfully.  He had a large amount of money in his pocket—­enough to carry his bride to the ends of the earth.  When it was gone—­well, at worst, he could leave her, and shift for himself again.  He had not a particle of regret or remorse; and, in fact, these sentiments are far rarer than moralists would have us believe.  A ruffian who commits a crime usually glories in it.  It exalts him in his own eyes, all the more that he is compelled to keep silent about it.  As Offitt walked rapidly in the direction of Dean Street, the only shadow on his exultation was his sudden perception of the fact that he had better not tell Maud what he had done.  In all his plans he had promised himself the pleasure of telling her that she was avenged upon her enemy by the hands of her lover; he had thought he might extort his first kiss by that heroic avowal; but now, as he walked stealthily down the silent street, he saw that nobody in the universe could be made his confidant.