“You know his real name?”
The question surprised me.
“Of course I do. Harry Lucas.”
He did not answer, and something in the quality of his silence struck me as peculiar.
“Anne, do you remember that, as we drove home from the Matoppos that day, I told you that I knew what I had to do?”
“Of course I remember.”
“I think that I may fairly say I have done it. The man you love is cleared of suspicion.”
“Was that what you meant?”
“Of course.”
I hung my head, ashamed of the baseless suspicion I had entertained. He spoke again in a thoughtful voice:
“When I was a mere youngster, I was in love with a girl who jilted me. After that I thought only of my work. My career meant everything to me. Then I met you, Anne—and all that seemed worth nothing. But youth’s call to youth. … I’ve still got my work.”
I was silent. I suppose one can’t really love two men at once—but you can feel like it. The magnetism of this man was very great. I looked up at him suddenly.
“I think that you’ll go very far,” I said dreamily. “I think that you’ve got a great career ahead of you. You’ll be one of the world’s big men.”
I felt as though I was uttering a prophecy.