In another moment she was walking down the platform by the side of the train with her arm through that of her husband, preceded by two porters loaded with bags and suitcases and flowers and candy; and every now and then she turned to look back at the Erring Knights, who were waving their handkerchiefs frantically in unrestrained and triumphant glee. And then, throwing a last kiss from the car platform, while Knowlton waved his hat, they disappeared inside, and a minute later the train pulled out.
It happened, by a curious coincidence, that that train held two sets of passengers for the little town of Warton, Ohio.
In a day-coach, seated side by side, were two men. The face of one, dark and evil looking, wore lines of sleeplessness and despair and fear. The other, a small, heavy-set man with a ruddy countenance, was seated next the aisle, and had an appearance of watchfulness as he kept one eye on his companion while he scanned the columns of a newspaper with the other. William Sherman was going home to pay.
But a few feet away, in a Pullman, sat the man he had tried to ruin and the girl he had tried to wrong.
They were looking at each other, they felt, almost for the first time. Between them, on the seat, their hands were closely clasped together.
Thus they sat for many minutes, silent, while the train passed through the city, crossed to the west, and started on its journey northward along the banks of the glorious Hudson.
“Dearest,” said the man in a caressing tone.
The girl pressed his hand tighter and sighed happily.
“They’re good fellows,” the man continued, “every one of them. And to think what we owe them! Everything — everything.”
“Yes,” said the girl, “everything. We must never forget them.”
But the truth was, as was clearly apparent from the tone of her voice and the melting of her eyes into his, that she had forgotten them already!