And so the long-troubled Duchess, who to her acquaintances had always
seemed as unemotional as the dust-coated, moth-eaten parrot which
stood in mummified aloofness upon her safe, had made a momentous
decision that had sent through her old veins the thrilling sap of a
great crisis, a great suspense. She had tried to guide destiny. She
was now through with such endeavor. She had no right, because of her
love for Larry, to withhold longer the facts of Maggie's parentage.
She was now going to tell the truth, and let events work out as they
would.
But the events--what were they going to be?
For a moment the Duchess had been impelled to tell the truth straight
out to Maggie. But she had caught herself in time. This whole affair
was Larry's affair, and the truth belonged to him to be used as he saw
fit. So when she had told Maggie that she would get word to Larry, it
was this truth which she had had in mind, and only in a very minor way
the news which Maggie had brought.
This was, of course, such a truth as could be safely communicated only
by word of mouth. The Duchess realized that Larry no longer dared come
to her, and that therefore she must manage somehow to get to him. And
get to him without betraying his whereabouts.
There was little chance that the police would search her place or
greatly bother her.
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