It was a point
which often occurred to her mind, but upon which she did not care
to dwell even now. But John Hampden--John Hampden was different.
He was not wholly sincere. She sighed wearily. But nevertheless
he was not like some of the others.
She started up in bed, seized with a sudden dreadful idea. He
was a detective!
She understood now why she had found so much that was white in
him, but so much that was false. His presence seemed to be very
near her. Something caressing in his voice echoed in her mind.
She found herself to be listening to the muted sounds of
Limehouse and of the waterway which flowed so close beside her.
That old longing for the home of her childhood returned tenfold,
and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She was falling in
love with this man whose object was her father's ruin. A cold
terror clutched at her heart. Even now, while their friendship
was so new, so strange, there was a query, a stark, terrifying
query, to stand up before her.
If put to the test, which would she choose?
She was unable to face that issue, and dropped back upon her
pillow, stifling a sob.
Yes, he was a detective. In some way her father had at last
attracted the serious attention of the law.
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