He had gone out one bright Sunday
afternoon flashed with the anticipation of his fondest hopes and as
he stepped gaily on board the saucy-looking yacht that awaited him
at the pier a boisterous shout went up from merry-making companions.
Who among the lookers-on, glancing at the calm sky, would have then
predicted the approaching storm.
Sad to relate none who went out ever returned to tell the sad story.
Some waterman who afterwards passed the spot brought back the
tidings that the trim little craft was a complete wreck and that so
far the bodies had not been recovered.
Strange as it may seem Montague Arnold suddenly aroused himself from
his semi-brutal state and sent a lengthy cablegram to none other
than Phillip Lawson.
We will not question the motives which prompted this sense of duty.
Let us charitably hope that the impression left by the Divine
Architect was not entirely obliterated, that his last generous act
was due to that source.
It was the evening of the same day that Marguerite Verne had
received the news of Hubert Tracy's sad end.
She was in her own chamber, locking perplexed and troubled. "Am I to
blame for his death? Heaven forbid! Did I wish it! Ah no!" then she
thought of Cousin Jennie's prophetic speech and a chill seized her
as of ague.
Pages:
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453