Valentine Blyth.
"Just in time, sir," said the page, grinning at his young master as he
opened the door. "It's on the stroke of eleven."
Zack muttered something savage in reply, which it is not perhaps
advisable to report. The servant secured the lock and bolts, while he
put his hat on the hall table, and lit his bedroom candle.
* * * * *
Rather more than an hour after this time--or, in other words, a little
past midnight--the door opened again softly, and Zack appeared on the
step, equipped for his nocturnal expedition.
He hesitated, as he put the key into the lock from outside, before he
closed the door behind him. He had never done this on former occasions;
he could not tell why he did it now. We are mysteries even to
ourselves; and there are times when the Voices of the future that are
in us, yet not ours, speak, and make the earthly part of us conscious
of their presence. Oftenest our mortal sense feels that they are
breaking their dread silence at those supreme moments of existence,
when on the choice between two apparently trifling alternatives hangs
suspended the whole future of a life. And thus it was now with the
young man who stood on the threshold of his home, doubtful whether he
should pursue or abandon the purpose which was then uppermost in his
mind.
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