The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Why not kill her here, and leave silently, the way he must have come? Could it be that he had not the intention to kill her? En tout cas, it gave her a chance. He lost control of the machine, was upset and nearly killed. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. His hand went with an almost instinctive inquiry to his jawbone again.
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