Dean, who
had come to mock, listened with a clutch at his heart that made him
first shiver and then turn burning hot and faint. He passed his
handkerchief over his forehead nervously, gripped at the seat to steady
himself.
At length he could stand the strain no longer As he rose and stumbled
his way towards the door, towards the fresh air, the preacher stopped in
his discourse to send an individual message to him.
"Stay, my friend!" he cried. "To-night is the hour for you to choose.
To-morrow I shall be gone. To-morrow will be too late. Choose now!"
But Dean had thrust open the swinging doors and had disappeared into the
night.
At his hotel the porter handed him a telegram just arrived. It was from
Lars Larssen--an order to proceed to New York and wait the shipowner's
arrival there. It had been despatched by wireless from on board the s.s.
"Aurelia."
That scrap of paper came as a bracing tonic to Arthur Dean. It was an
order, and just now he ached to be ordered. The curt message out-weighed
all the burning words of the preacher. Even from three thousand miles
away Lars Larssen could grip hold of the mind of the young fellow and
bend it to his purpose.
The next morning Dean was smiling scornfully at his weakness of the
night before. He paid for a train ticket for New York via Toronto in a
newly confident frame of mind. He was Larssen's man again.
* * * * *
At the beginning of the journey Dean read papers and magazines and
smoked away the long hours.
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