prompt:
Chapter: It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets,
after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that
Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He
thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it
open.

"Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written to me at
all."

He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few
minutes, but soon recovered. "She wouldn't write at all if she didn't
care for me."

This was his one resource against the depression which held him. He
could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he
thought he knew.

There was really something exceedingly human--if not pathetic--in his
being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so
long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for
comfort--and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they
bind us all.

The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from
McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could
get out of the whole entanglement--perhaps it would not matter. He
wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose
Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a
life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart.

It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for
consideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow and
the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away.
It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have gone
home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the last
fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned the
thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie.

It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. He
was not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility of
persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly. Their
mutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only away!

While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some
clean linen in the morning.

This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the
Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the
stairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they had
changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk.

"Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk.

"I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry list.
"Yes."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his
astonishment. "Alone?" he added.

"Yes," said the clerk.

Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal
his feelings.

"How's that?" he thought. "They've had a row."

He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As he
did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if she had gone
to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided to call at
once.

"I know what I'll do," he thought. "I'll go to the door and ask if Mr.
Drouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there or not and
where Carrie is."

He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He
decided to go immediately after supper.

On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see
if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could scarcely eat,
however, he was so anxious to be about his errand. Before starting he
thought it well to discover where Drouet would be, and returned to his
hotel.

"Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk.

"No," answered the latter, "he's in his room. Do you wish to send up a
card?" "No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled
out.

He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place this time walking
boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock.

"Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly.

"He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell this
to Mrs. Hale.

"Is Mrs. Drouet in?"

"No, she has gone to the theatre."

"Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if
burdened with something important, "You don't know to which theatre?"

The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking
Hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes, Hooley's."

"Thank you," returned the manager, and, tipping his hat slightly, went
away.

"I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact he did
not. Before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought
the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As much as he
longed to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not
wish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might do so--in
the morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer question before him.

This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising
spirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the resort
anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were making the
place lively with their conversation. A group of Cook County politicians
were conferring about a round cherry-wood table in the rear portion of
the room. Several young merrymakers were chattering at the bar before
making a belated visit to the theatre. A shabbily-genteel individual,
with a red nose and an old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale
alone at one end of the bar. Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and
went into his office.

About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local sport
and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his office
came to the door.

"Hello, George!" he exclaimed.

"How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of
him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little
room.

"What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little glum.
Haven't lost at the track, have you?"

"I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other day."

"Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that."

Hurstwood smiled.

While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood's
friends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out, some
actors began to drop in--among them some notabilities.

Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in
American resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off gilt from
those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it was
toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged among
them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe the
plane he occupied when there were those present who did not appreciate
him, but, in situations like the present, where he could shine as a
gentleman and be received without equivocation as a friend and equal
among men of known ability, he was most delighted. It was on such
occasions, if ever, that he would "take something." When the social
flavour was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking
glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his turn
to pay as if he were an outsider like the others. If he ever approached
intoxication--or rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which
precedes the more sloven state--it was when individuals such as these
were gathered about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting
celebrities. To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather
relieved to find company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he
laid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily.

It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began to crop
up--those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion of
the conversation among American men under such circumstances.

Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company
took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He was very
roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his mind,
though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as if his
troubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he began to turn
over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the
cashier, who soon left.

It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone
to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a rule,
no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about
the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with the
owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but, nevertheless,
Hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash drawers and the
safe in order to see that they were tightly closed. Then he would lock
his own little office and set the proper light burning near the safe,
after which he would take his departure.

Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but
to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe.
His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door responded. He was
slightly surprised at that, and looking in found the money cases as left
for the day, apparently unprotected. His first thought was, of course,
to inspect the drawers and shut the door.

"I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought.

The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before
that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. He had
never failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had other thoughts. He
had been revolving the problem of a business of his own.

"I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money
drawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It was quite a
superfluous action, which another time might not have happened at all.

As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks
issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they represented, but
paused to view them. Then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers.
In that were the receipts of the day.

"I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way," his
mind said to itself. "They must have forgotten it."

He looked at the other drawer and paused again.

"Count them," said a voice in his ear.

He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,
letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one
hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought he counted
ten such.

"Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering. "What
makes me pause here?"

For answer there came the strangest words:

"Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?"

Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his
property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. He
was worth more than forty thousand, all told--but she would get that.

He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers
and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might so
easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused. Finally he went
to the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he tried the door,
which he had previously locked. What was this thing, making him
suspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. He came back to
the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went and
unlocked his little office door and turned on the light. He also opened
his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange thoughts.

"The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least little crack
in it. The lock has not been sprung."

The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the
entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a
solution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose up
and stood stock-still, looking at the floor.

"What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly
up and scratched his head.

The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant
proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his
veins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the
situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him.
He could see great opportunities with that. He could get Carrie. Oh,
yes, he could! He could get rid of his wife. That letter, too, was
waiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would not need to answer that.
He went back to the safe and put his hand on the knob. Then he pulled
the door open and took the drawer with the money quite out.

With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think
about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly with
Carrie for years.

Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a stern hand
had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully around. Not a soul
was present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by on the sidewalk. He
took the box and the money and put it back in the safe. Then he partly
closed the door again.

To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the
individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles
in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless
graphically portrayed. Those who have never heard that solemn voice of
the ghostly clock which ticks with awful distinctness, "thou shalt,"
"thou shalt not," "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," are in no position to
judge. Not alone in sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental
conflict possible. The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn
by desire toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is
proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. We must
remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no knowledge of
right is predicated of the animal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men
are still led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. It
is instinct which recalls the criminal--it is instinct (where highly
organised reasoning is absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of
danger, his fear of wrong.

At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind wavers.
The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To those who
have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following will appeal
on the simple ground of revelation.

When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease and
daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one could tell
what he wished to do. He could work this thing out for himself.

The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his
brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was
still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the
time was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye always
seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. He
strolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe again.
He put his hand on the knob and opened it. There was the money! Surely
no harm could come from looking at it!

He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so smooth,
so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He decided he
would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his pocket. Then he
looked at that and saw they would not go there. His hand satchel! To be
sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that--all of it would. No one
would think anything of it either. He went into the little office and
took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his desk and
went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not want to fill it out
in the big room. First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts
of the day. He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and
pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating.

The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost
inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not
bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it--to ponder
over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a keen
desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs
that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. He did
not know what evil might result from it to him--how soon he might come
to grief. The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him,
and never would have, under any circumstances.

After he had all the money in the handbag, a revulsion of feeling seized
him. He would not do it--no! Think of what a scandal it would make. The
police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, and where? Oh,
the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took out the two boxes
and put all the money back. In his excitement he forgot what he was
doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the door to,
he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again. There
were the two boxes mixed.

He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had
gone. Why be afraid?

While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Did
he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed.
Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.

The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat
burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked about him
and decided instantly. There was no delaying now.

"Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away, they'll
know who took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides, other things will
happen."

At once he became the man of action.

"I must get out of this," he thought.

He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat,
locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out all but one
light and opened the door. He tried to put on his old assured air, but
it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly.

"I wish I hadn't done that," he said. "That was a mistake."

He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom
he knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that
quickly.

"I wonder how the trains run?" he thought.

Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly half-past
one.

At the first drugstore he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone
booth inside. It was a famous drugstore, and contained one of the first
private telephone booths ever erected. "I want to use your 'phone a
minute," he said to the night clerk.

The latter nodded.

"Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up the Michigan
Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.

"How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked.

The man explained the hours.

"No more to-night?"

"Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too," he added. "There is a mail
train out of here at three o'clock."

"All right," said Hurstwood. "What time does that get to Detroit?"

He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river into
Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. He was
relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.

"Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "They can't get on
my track before noon."

Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if he got
her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into the nearest cab
standing by.

"To Ogden Place," he said sharply. "I'll give you a dollar more if you
make good time."

The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop which was
fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do. Reaching
the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the bell in waking
the servant.

"Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked.

"Yes," said the astonished girl.

"Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is in the
hospital, injured, and wants to see her."

The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strained and
emphatic manner.

"What!" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes.

"Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. The cab's
downstairs."

Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting
everything save the necessities.

"Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly. "He wants to see you. Come
quickly."

Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.

"Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.

The cabby began to turn the horse around. "Michigan Central depot," he
said, standing up and speaking so low that Carrie could not hear, "as
fast as you can go."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Hurstwood spends the day thinking of his plight. Carrie no longer wants to see him. His wife is seeking to ruin him. What can he do? Noticing that Drouet is now living at the Palmer House, Hurstwood rushes out to Carrie's apartment but finds she is not at home. He returns to the saloon and begins to imbibe more than is his custom. For a time he forgets his troubles and enjoys the society of wealthy friends and acquaintances. After the saloon closes, Hurstwood works in his office. Checking the safe door, as is his nightly custom, Hurstwood is astonished to discover that it had not been locked and that about ten thousand dollars is in it. Before he shuts the safe he pauses to consider what it would be like to have so much ready cash. He could run off with Carrie and get rid of his wife. The liquor warms his imagination. Hurstwood wavers back and forth for some time, removing the money, then replacing it, and removing it again and yet again. Suddenly, the lock snaps shut as he stands with the money in his hand. The indecision turns to action. Hurstwood stuffs the money into a satchel and rushes out. He takes a cab to Carrie's apartment and tells the servant girl to fetch Carrie because Drouet is in the hospital and wishes to see her. Carrie is so bewildered that she believes the story and the cab carries them off to the railroad terminal.


prompt:
Chapter: The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling herself
and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:

"What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?"

"It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He was very
much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had Carrie with
him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law. Therefore he
was in no mood for anything save such words as would further his plans
distinctly.

Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between
her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. The one
thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.

"Where is he?"

"Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take the
train. It's the quickest way."

Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness of the
city by night held her attention. She looked at the long receding rows
of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.

"How did he hurt himself?" she asked--meaning what was the nature of his
injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more than necessary,
and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger.

"I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go and get
you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need for alarm, but
that I shouldn't fail to bring you."

The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,
wondering.

Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one in so
delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only think of how
needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrie seemed
quite tractable, and he congratulated himself.

In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he handed
the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.

"You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the waiting-room,
"while I get the tickets."

"Have I much time to catch that train for Detroit?" he asked of the
agent.

"Four minutes," said the latter.

He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.

"Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back.

"Not very," he said. "We must get right in."

He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the ticket
man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she could not see,
and then hurried after.

There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or two
common day coaches. As the train had only recently been made up and few
passengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemen waiting.
They entered the rear day coach and sat down. Almost immediately, "All
aboard," resounded faintly from the outside, and the train started.

Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious--this going to a
depot--but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the natural
that she did not attach too much weight to anything she imagined.

"How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed easier.

"Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not bring
a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervous to reach
Drouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwood contemplated her and
felt this. He was not disturbed that it should be so. He did not trouble
because she was moved sympathetically in the matter. It was one of the
qualities in her which pleased him exceedingly. He was only thinking how
he should explain. Even this was not the most serious thing in his mind,
however. His own deed and present flight were the great shadows which
weighed upon him.

"What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What a mistake!"

In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had been
done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from justice.
He had often read of such things, and had thought they must be terrible,
but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and looked into the
past. The future was a thing which concerned the Canadian line. He
wanted to reach that. As for the rest he surveyed his actions for the
evening, and counted them parts of a great mistake.

"Still," he said, "what could I have done?"

Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do so
by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless, harassing
round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the proposition he had
in the presence of Carrie.

The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran rather
slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visible without.
The engine gave short calls with its whistle, and frequently the bell
rang. Several brakemen came through, bearing lanterns. They were locking
the vestibules and putting the cars in order for a long run.

Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent streets
flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began its whistle-calls
of four parts, with which it signalled danger to important crossings.

"Is it very far?" asked Carrie. "Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could
hardly repress a smile at her simplicity. He wanted to explain and
conciliate her, but he also wanted to be well out of Chicago.

In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie that it
was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.

"Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far beyond the
city limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line at a
great rate.

"No," he said, "not where we are going."

There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in an
instant.

Her pretty brow began to contract.

"We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked.

He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come now as
later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle negative.

"What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of the errand
being different from what she had thought.

He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.

"Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice showing the
quality of fright.

"I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come along
with me to another city."

"Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me off. I
don't want to go with you."

She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something which
had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now was to get
off and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, the terrible
trick would be amended.

She arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere. She knew she
had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her.

"Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any good
to get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait a
moment."

She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No one saw
this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and they
were attempting to doze.

"I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her
will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large tears began to
gather in her eyes.

Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and ceased
to think of his own situation. He must do something with this girl, or
she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasion with all his
powers aroused.

"Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. I didn't
mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything to make you feel
bad."

"Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh--oo--o!"

"There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to me?
Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do this thing. I
couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't you listen?"

Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear a word
he said.

"Won't you listen?" he asked.

"No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take me out of
this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you. It's a shame,"
and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression.

Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had just
cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he could straighten
this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor would come through for the
tickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind. Before everything
he must make her quiet.

"You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said Hurstwood. "It
won't be very long until we reach another station. You can get out then
if you want to. I won't stop you. All I want you to do is to listen a
moment. You'll let me tell you, won't you?"

Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the window,
where outside all was black. The train was speeding with steady grace
across the fields and through patches of wood. The long whistles
came with sad, musical effect as the lonely woodland crossings were
approached.

Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two fares that
had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood, who handed out the
tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie made no move. She did not look
about.

When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.

"You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't mean
to, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay away
from you after the first time I saw you."

He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by the
board. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be a
factor in their relationship. The money he had stolen he tried to shut
out of his mind.

"Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to go away from
me. I am going to get out at the very next station."

She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.

"All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After all you
have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't want to do you any
harm. I'll give you the money to go back with when you go. I merely want
to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop me from loving you, whatever you may
think."

He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply. "You think I have
deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do it willingly. I'm through
with my wife. She hasn't any claims on me. I'll never see her any more.
That's why I'm here to-night. That's why I came and got you."

"You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You deceived me.
You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force me to
run away with you."

She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. He let
her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.

"Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me explain. If
you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my wife
is nothing to me. She hasn't been anything for years or I wouldn't have
ever come near you. I'm going to get a divorce just as soon as I can.
I'll never see her again. I'm done with all that. You're the only person
I want. If I can have you I won't ever think of another woman again."

Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere
enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in
Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did
not want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived
her once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there is
something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman,
especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by love of
her.

The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and
disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie
could feel that she was being borne a long distance off--that the engine
was making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt at times
as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one would come to
her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless thing--so far was
she from any aid, no matter what she did. All the while Hurstwood was
endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike
home and bring her into sympathy with him.

"I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do."

Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.

"When I say you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided to put
everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I'm going
off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while, and then
anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in New York, if you say."

"I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to get off
this train. Where are we going?"

"To Detroit," said Hurstwood.

"Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite a
point seemed to increase the difficulty.

"Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great danger
that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but travel with me.
I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New York, and
then if you don't want to stay you can go back. It will be better than
trying to go back to-night."

The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It
seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if she
tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was speeding
toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she liked. She
thought, but made no sign.

Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled his
ardour.

"Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicago any
more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't come with
me. You won't go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?"

"I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly.

Hurstwood kept silent for a while.

Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act if
she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.

"Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for me at
all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever you say. I'll
marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself time to think it over.
I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I hadn't loved you. I tell you,
Carrie, before God, I can't live without you. I won't!"

There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealed
deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating
him now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up in
this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and pressed
it with all the force of an appeal.

The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on a side
track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few sprinkles on the
window began to indicate that it was raining. Carrie hung in a quandary,
balancing between decision and helplessness. Now the train stopped, and
she was listening to his plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was
still.

She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute slipped
by and still she hesitated, he pleading.

"Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she now had
the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.

"Of course," he answered, "you know I will."

Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She
began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.

The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject.

"Aren't you very tired?" he said.

"No," she answered.

"Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?"

She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she was
beginning to notice what she had always felt--his thoughtfulness.

"Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better."

She shook her head.

"Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged his
light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.

"There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little." He
could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside her
and thought a moment.

"I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said.

"So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the
sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on
frantically through the shadow to a newer world.

The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of
satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary
relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of his
time to devote to the consideration of his own error.

His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sum
or any other could never compensate for the state which he had thus
foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends, his
name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to have her.
He was shut out from Chicago--from his easy, comfortable state. He
had robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant
evenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the more unbearable it
became. He began to think that he would try and restore himself to his
old state. He would return the miserable thievings of the night and
explain. Perhaps Moy would understand. Perhaps they would forgive him
and let him come back.

By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. They had
probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives would
be watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaulters had
been captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paled somewhat. His
hands felt as if they must have something to do. He simulated interest
in several scenes without which he did not feel. He repeatedly beat his
foot upon the floor.

Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea what it
meant or that it was important.

He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on through
to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could have saved time. He
jumped up and sought the conductor.

"Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked.

"Yes, the next sleeper back does."

He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to
inquire at the depot.

The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.

"I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said to
Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off."

He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm exterior.
Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was drifting
mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.

The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily around
him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that indicated
studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office.

"The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked.

"In twenty minutes," said the man.

He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to
Carrie.

"We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie looked
tired and weary.

"I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily.

"You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said.

"I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even a
handkerchief."

"You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he
explained. "You can call in a dressmaker."

Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood breathed
a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to the river, and
there they were ferried over. They had barely pulled the train off the
ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh.

"It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his relief.
"We get there the first thing in the morning."

Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.

"I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "I'm hungry."

To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is
invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces
and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind,
which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood
of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden
from view. There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite
dramatic expression--"I am going away."

As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she
had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she
was without the necessary apparel for travelling. She quite forgot
Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and
cosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. It was an interesting
world to her. Her life had just begun. She did not feel herself defeated
at all. Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held much.
Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom--who knows? Perhaps
she would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the level of erring.
She was saved in that she was hopeful.

The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they
stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering at
the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwood had
been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he had
stopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he heard it
called anew by a busman.

"We'll go right up and get rooms," he said.

At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while the clerk
came forward. He was thinking what name he would put down. With the
latter before him he found no time for hesitation. A name he had seen
out of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasing enough. With
an easy hand he wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It was the largest
concession to necessity he felt like making. His initials he could not
spare.

When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had secured
her a lovely chamber.

"You have a bath there," said he. "Now you can clean up when you get
ready."

Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked at
himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk, no
change of linen, not even a hair-brush.

"I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a hair-brush.
Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I'll go for a shave and
come back and get you, and then we'll go out and look for some clothes
for you."

He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.

"All right," said Carrie.

She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited for
the boy, who soon knocked.

"Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding out his
hands, but she did not move to take them.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly.

"Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently.

"Don't you care for me at all?"

She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.

"Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking one of
her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "You once said you did."

"What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie.

"I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much."

"You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking cleanly
home.

"Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am. It's too late now. Won't
you try and care for me a little?"

He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.

She shook her head negatively.

"Let me start all over again. Be my wife from to-day on."

Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he slipped
his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He held her quite
close. Instantly there flamed up in his body the all compelling desire.
His affection took an ardent form.

"Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him.

"Won't you love me?" he said. "Won't you be mine from now on?"

Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment before she
had been listening with some complacency, remembering her old affection
for him. He was so handsome, so daring!

Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which rose
feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she was,
began to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whose bosom she
was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved her, and she
was alone. If she did not turn to him--accept of his love--where else
might she go? Her resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong
feeling.

She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What magnetism
there was she could never know. His many sins, however, were for the
moment all forgotten.

He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further
opposition was useless.

"Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how.

"This very day," he said, with all delight.

Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon her
regretfully.

"You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour."

Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.

Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop. For the
moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrie seemed
to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. Life seemed
worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things customary and
attached seemed as if it might have happiness in store. The storm showed
a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot of gold.

He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was
fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly. Instantly
his heart sank. "Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are
you doing down here?"

Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny, the
stock-broker.

"Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mind
working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently did
not know--he had not read the papers.

"Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny
genially. "Stopping here?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the
register.

"Going to be in town long?"

"No, only a day or so."

"Is that so? Had your breakfast?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave."

"Won't you come have a drink?"

"Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later. Are
you stopping here?"

"Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again added: "How are
things out in Chicago?"

"About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially.

"Wife with you?"

"No."

"Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for
breakfast. Come in when you're through."

"I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was a
trial to him. It seemed to add complications with very word. This man
called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had left.
Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort--all these were in his greeting
and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer
with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him. All
at once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers would have
accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the
possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man's eyes, a
safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into the barber shop. He
decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.

Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear,
and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by the
ladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous
place.

Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him. He was
of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and with
a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward politician's.
This individual had been evidently talking with the clerk, but now he
surveyed the ex-manager keenly.

Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type.
Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective--that he was being
watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind
was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could these people
do? He began to trouble concerning the extradition laws. He did not
understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be arrested. Oh, if Carrie
should find out! Montreal was too warm for him. He began to long to be
out of it.

Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked
refreshed--more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had gone
she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love was not
blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed increased. He
could not take her in his arms; he did not even try. Something about her
forbade it. In part his opinion was the result of his own experiences
and reflections below stairs.

"You're ready, are you?" he said kindly.

"Yes," she answered.

"We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appeal to me
very much."

"All right," said Carrie.

They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual was
standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from showing that
he knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in the fellow's eye was
galling. Still they passed, and he explained to Carrie concerning the
city. Another restaurant was not long in showing itself, and here they
entered.

"What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely
because it was not like Chicago.

"It Isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood. "Don't you like it?"

"No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the great
Western city.

"Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood.

"What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this
town.

"Nothing much," returned Hurstwood. "It's quite a resort. There's some
pretty scenery about here."

Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much about her
situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation.

"We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really glad
to note her dissatisfaction. "You pick out your clothes as soon as
breakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon. You'll like that.
It's a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago."

He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these
detectives would do--what move his employers at Chicago would make--then
he would slip away--down to New York, where it was easy to hide. He knew
enough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of
mystification were infinite.

The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became.
He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. The firm
would probably employ detectives to watch him--Pinkerton men or agents
of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him the moment he tried to leave
Canada. So he might be compelled to remain here months, and in what a
state!

Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the
morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal deed
had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments, and went
to secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspicious faces were
about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so he sought the
main parlour on the floor above and, seated by a window there, looked
them over. Very little was given to his crime, but it was there,
several "sticks" in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders,
accidents, marriages, and other news. He wished, half sadly, that he
could undo it all. Every moment of his time in this far-off abode of
safety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake. There
could have been an easier way out if he had only known.

He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep them
out of the hands of Carrie.

"Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. She was engaged in looking
out of the window.

"Oh, all right," she answered.

He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a
knock came at their door.

"Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie.

Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual whom he
had so thoroughly suspected.

"You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume of
affected shrewdness and assurance.

"Yes," said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly that some
of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men as these were
of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He stepped out and closed
the door.

"Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the man
confidentially.

"I can guess," said Hurstwood softly.

"Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?"

"That's my affair," said Hurstwood grimly.

"You can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him coolly.

"Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't
understand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.
Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside. You'll
have to excuse me." "Well, now, there's no use of your talking that
way," said the man, "when you're in the hands of the police. We can make
a lot of trouble for you if we want to. You're not registered right in
this house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don't
know you're here yet. You might as well be reasonable."

"What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood.

"Whether you're going to send back that money or not."

Hurstwood paused and studied the floor.

"There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last. "There's
no use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I know just what you
can do and what you can't. You can create a lot of trouble if you want
to. I know that all right, but it won't help you to get the money. Now,
I've made up my mind what to do. I've already written Fitzgerald and
Moy, so there's nothing I can say. You wait until you hear more from
them."

All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the door,
down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now near the
end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour.

"You won't give it up?" said the man.

The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his brain.
Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn't want the
money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy, maybe it would be
all right again.

"See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. I
respect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the people who
know."

"Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man.

"I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get ready there'll be
nothing to stop me for."

He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed an
intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room.

"Who was it?" asked Carrie.

"A friend of mine from Chicago."

The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it did
after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to induce a deep
gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him most was the fact
that he was being pursued as a thief. He began to see the nature of that
social injustice which sees but one side--often but a single point in
a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one thing, his taking the
money. How and wherefore were but indifferently dealt with. All the
complications which led up to it were unknown. He was accused without
being understood.

Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the
money back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then
send it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would
ask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made about
writing them. Then he would leave this peculiar town.

For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the tangle. He
wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. He finally narrowed it
down to an assertion that he was light-headed from entertaining friends,
had found the safe open, and having gone so far as to take the money
out, had accidentally closed it. This act he regretted very much. He was
sorry he had put them to so much trouble. He would undo what he could by
sending the money back--the major portion of it. The remainder he would
pay up as soon as he could. Was there any possibility of his being
restored? This he only hinted at.

The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very
construction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful
thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given him. He
forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a sword, and that
if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with it, the jagged line
of separation and reunion would always show. He was always forgetting
something--his wife, Carrie, his need of money, present situation, or
something--and so did not reason clearly. Nevertheless, he sent the
letter, waiting a reply before sending the money.

Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting what
joy out of it he could.

Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their open
windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song in the
air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She seemed the
one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would only love him
wholly--only throw her arms around him in the blissful spirit in which
he had seen her in the little park in Chicago--how happy he would be!
It would repay him; it would show him that he had not lost all. He would
not care.

"Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are you
going to stay with me from now on?"

She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value of
the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now, keen
and strong--love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could not help
smiling.

"Let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "Don't make me worry
any more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get a nice flat.
I'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won't you be mine?"

Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her, but
the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance of
affection. She felt rather sorry for him--a sorrow born of what had only
recently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt for him.
She would have known as much if she could have analysed her feelings,
but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great feeling broke
down the barriers between them.

"You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, nodding her head.

He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and cheeks.

"You must marry me, though," she said. "I'll get a license to-day," he
answered.

"How?" she asked.

"Under a new name," he answered. "I'll take a new name and live a new
life. From now on I'm Murdock."

"Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie.

"Why not?" he said.

"I don't like it."

"Well, what shall I take?" he asked.

"Oh, anything, only don't take that."

He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said:

"How would Wheeler do?"

"That's all right," said Carrie.

"Well, then, Wheeler," he said. "I'll get the license this afternoon."

They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found
convenient.

At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. He
was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had come
about as it had. If the money were returned, they would not trouble
to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As for his
returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they had not
quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think it over
and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little time, and so on.

The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they wanted
the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his doom.
He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they would send,
keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his acquiescence,
explained to the representative who called at the hotel the same day,
took a certificate of payment, and told Carrie to pack her trunk. He was
slightly depressed over this newest move at the time he began to make
it, but eventually restored himself. He feared that even yet he might be
seized and taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements, but it was
scarcely possible. He ordered Carrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he
had it sent by express to New York. No one seemed to be observing him,
but he left at night. He was greatly agitated lest at the first station
across the border or at the depot in New York there should be waiting
for him an officer of the law.

Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry into
the latter city in the morning. The round green hills sentinelling the
broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her attention by their beauty
as the train followed the line of the stream. She had heard of the
Hudson River, the great city of New York, and now she looked out,
filling her mind with the wonder of it.

As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east bank of
the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention to the
fact that they were on the edge of the city. After her experience with
Chicago, she expected long lines of cars--a great highway of tracks--and
noted the difference. The sight of a few boats in the Harlem and more
in the East River tickled her young heart. It was the first sign of the
great sea. Next came a plain street with five-story brick flats, and
then the train plunged into the tunnel.

"Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a few minutes of
darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose and gathered up
his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest tension. With Carrie
he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one approached him, but
he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the street entrance.
So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie, who fell behind,
wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed through the depot proper
the strain reached its climax and began to wane. All at once he was on
the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him. He heaved a great breath
and turned, remembering Carrie.

"I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said.

"I was trying to remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," he
answered.

Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene.

"How large is New York?" she asked.

"Oh a million or more," said Hurstwood.

He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way.

For the first time in years the thought that he must count these little
expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing.

He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a flat.
Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.

"We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said.

Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more important
hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he knew. He stood up
and spoke to the driver.

"Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be less frequented by
those whom he knew. Then he sat down.

"Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take the tall
five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families.

"Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. "There are
no lawns in New York. All these are houses."

"Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to have a few
opinions of her own.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Hurstwood and Carrie board the Detroit train. When the train is out of Chicago Hurstwood admits that Drouet's injury was merely a ruse to get Carrie to go away with him. She makes an effort to get away from Hurstwood but his pleadings and explanations make her reconsider. She is drawn by his daring and power and is flattered by the thought that he has left Chicago to be with her. Carrie is once again struck by indecision, but decides in favor of Hurstwood when he offers to marry her. From Detroit the couple continue in a sleeping car to Montreal, where they register in a hotel under the name of "G. W. Murdock and wife." In the lobby of the hotel Hurstwood experiences the first of a series of encounters with his past life in Chicago, a stockbroker named Mr. Kenny. The fear of being discovered causes him to decline Kenny's invitation to breakfast with him. Next he spies a man who seems to be a private detective and concludes that Montreal is too warm for him. He plans to move to New York because "its mysteries and possibilities of mystification" are "infinite." Hurstwood reads the local papers, wherein is published an account of his misdeeds, and he regrets his terrible error. A knock at the door reveals a Chicago detective who threatens him with exposure and arrest if he does not return the money. Hurstwood corresponds with Fitzgerald and Moy, with the result that he repays $9,500 and keeps $1,300 as a "loan." Carrie, of course, is ignorant of the whole affair. The couple are married illegally under the name of Wheeler, "by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found convenient." The newlyweds board the New York train and arrive the next morning. Carrie, who is beginning "to have a few opinions of her own," does not like New York after her first impression.