The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. I don’t know. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Happy Birthday, then. She had exposed the real story behind Peters tragedy, that dark, handsome Chuck had killed himself by leaving the car running in the garage, not from a “heart attack” as 111 claimed the party line.
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