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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"A Maker of History"

Her hair was wildly disordered. She carried her hat in
her hand.
"You mean it?" she cried.
"You know that I do!"
She turned and looked up the road along which they had come. There was
no soul in sight. She looked even up at the long line of windows which
frowned down upon them from the back of the Hall. They, too, were
empty. She thrust a long envelope suddenly into his hand.
"Guard this for me," she whispered. "Don't let any one know that you
have it. Don't speak of it to any one. Keep it until I can send for it."
He thrust it into his inner pocket and buttoned his coat.
"It is quite safe," he said simply.
Her eyes flashed her gratitude upon him. For the first time he saw
something in her face--heard it in her tone, which made his heart beat.
After all she was human.
"You are very good to me," she murmured. "Believe me, I am not quite as
bad as I seem. Good-bye."
He turned with her towards the car, and she gave a low cry. He too
started. The car was a mile away, tearing up a hill, and almost out of
sight. In the lane behind they could hear the sound of galloping horses.
He caught her by the wrist, dragged her through the gate, and behind a
great shrub on the lawn.


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