"Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor horrid lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime."--Byron.
Lennox Sanderson was stretched in his window-seat with a book, of
which, however, he knew nothing--not even the title--his mind being
occupied by other thoughts than reading at that particular time.
Did he dare do it? The audacity of the proceeding was sufficient to
make the iron will of even Lennox Sanderson waver. And yet, to lose
her! Such a contingency was not to be considered. His mind flew
backward and forward like a shuttle, he turned the leaves of his book;
he smoked, but no light came from within or without.
He glanced about the familiar objects in his sitting-room as one
unconsciously does when the mind is on the rack of anxiety, as if to
seek council from the mute things that make up so large a part of our
daily lives.
It was an ideal sitting-room for a college student, the luxury of the
appointments absolutely subservient to taste and simplicity. Heavy red
curtains divided the sitting-room from the bedroom beyond, and imparted
a degree of genial warmth to the atmosphere. Russian candlesticks of
highly polished brass stood about on the mantel-piece and book shelves.
Above the high oak wainscoting the walls were covered with dark red
paper, against which background brown photographs of famous paintings
showed to excellent advantage. They were reproductions of Botticelli,
Rembrant, Franz Hals and Velasquez hung with artistic irregularity.
Above the mantel-piece were curious old weapons, swords, matchetes,
flintlocks and carbines. A helmet and breastplate filled the space
between the two windows. Some dozen or more of pipe racks held the
young collegian's famous collection of pipes that told the history of
smoking from the introduction during the reign of Elizabeth, down to
the present day.
In taking a mental inventory of his household goods, Sanderson's eyes
fell on the photograph of a woman on the mantel-piece. He frowned.
What right had she there, when his mind was full of another? He walked
over to the picture and threw it into the fire. It was not the first
picture to know a similar fate after occupying that place of honor.
The blackened edges of the picture were whirling up the chimney, when
Sanderson's attention was arrested by a knock.
"Come in," he called, and a young man of about his own age entered.
Without being in the least ill-looking, there was something repellent
about the new comer. His eyes were shifty and too close together to be
trustworthy. Otherwise no fault could be found with his appearance.