Alix was beginning the denial that she had given him so confidently last night, but she interrupted herself, and stopped short.  The conviction rushed upon her in an overwhelming wave that she had no right to repeat that denial now that the last dreadful twenty-four hours had changed the whole situation, and that she herself had better reason to suspect Cherry than either Martin or his gossiping aunt.  She sat sick and silent, unable to speak again, thinking only that it was Peter that Mrs. Lloyd had seen with Cherry that day, and that there must have been something in their attitude that revealed their secret even to her first casual look.

The vaudeville show whirled and crashed and rattled on its way.  Martin applauded heartily but involuntarily; Alix applauded mechanically.  Their conversation was closed.

Meanwhile, Cherry and Peter had their first opportunity to speak to each other alone.  It occurred to neither of them that it was strange to find this chance in the rustling darkness of the big vaudeville house, with several thousand of persons pressing all about them.  To both the thirst for speech was a burning necessity, and it was with an almost dizzy sense of relief that Cherry turned to him with her first words.

“Peter, I don’t dare say much!  Can you hear me?”

“Perfectly!” he answered, looking at his folded program.

“Peter, I’ve been thinking—­about our plan, I mean!  Martin plans to go on Monday.  But something has happened since I saw you this morning, something that makes a difference!  I had a letter, a letter from some woman connecting his name with another woman, a Hatty Woods—­she’s notorious in Red Creek—­and this Joe King crowd that he went with—­I don’t know who wrote the letter, or why she wrote,” she said, hastily, as Peter interpolated a question.  “And I don’t care!  I haven’t spoken to Martin about it.  But I’ve been thinking about it all day.  And of course it makes a difference to us—­to you and me.  As far as Martin goes, I am free now; what is justice to Martin, and kindness to Martin, will never count with me any more!”

Peter wasted no words.  His face was thoughtful.

“He goes Monday,” he said.  “We can go Sunday.”

“Does the boat sail Sunday?”

“I am sure of it.  This is Thursday night.  Your suitcase I checked again yesterday.  Was it only yesterday?”

“That’s all!”

“We would have been on the train to-night, Cherry, flying toward New Orleans!”

Her small hand gripped his in the darkness.

“If we only were!” he heard her breathe.

He turned to her, so exquisite in her distress.  Her breast was rising and falling quickly.

“Patience, sweetheart!” he said.  “Patience for only a few days more!  To-morrow I’ll make the arrangements.  Sunday is only two days off.”

“Sunday will be day after day after to-morrow,” she said whimsically.