Denzil could not know this, however. It was impossible for him to analyse
the natures of these two people. He had instinct, but not enough to judge
the whole situation, and so for two months after Carnac disappeared he
had lived a life of torture. Again and again he had determined to tell
Junia the story of Tarboe's brother, but instinctive delicacy stopped
him. He could not tell her the terrible story which had robbed him of all
he loved and had made him the avenger of the dead. A half-dozen times
after she came back from John Grier's office, with slightly heightening
colour, and the bright interest in her eyes, and had gone about the
garden fondling the flowers, he had started towards her; but had stopped
short before her natural modesty. Besides, why should he tell her? She
had her own life to make, her own row to hoe. Yet, as the weeks passed,
it seemed he must break upon this dangerous romance; and then suddenly
she went to visit her sick aunt in the Far West. Denzil did not know,
however, that, in John Grier's office as she had gone over figures of a
society in which she was interested, the big hand of Tarboe had suddenly
closed upon her fingers, and that his head bent down beside hers for one
swift instant, as though he would whisper to her.
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