The Hollow of Her Hand

The Hollow of Her Hand

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hollow of Her Hand, by George
Barr McCutcheon (#14 in our series by George Barr McCutcheon)
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Title: The Hollow of Her Hand
Author: George Barr McCutcheon
Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6045] [Yes, we are more than one
year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 23, 2002]
Edition: 10

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[Illustration: "The black pile is mine, the gay pile is yours," she went on,
turning toward the sleeping girl]
THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND
By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON

CONTENTS

I MARCH COMES IN LIKE THE LION
II THE PASSING OF A NIGHT
III HETTY CASTLETON
IV WHILE THE MOB WAITED
V DISCUSSING A SISTER-IN-LAW
VI SOUTHLOOK
VII A FAITHFUL CRAYON-POINT
VIII IN WHICH HETTY IS WEIGHED
IX HAWKRIGHT'S MODEL
X THE GHOST AT THE FEAST
XI MAN PROPOSES
XII THE APPROACH OF A MAN NAMED SMITH
XIII MR. WRANDALL PERJURES HIMSELF
XIV IN THE SHADOW OF THE MILL
XV SARA WRANDALL FINDS THE TRUTH
XVI THE SECOND ENCOUNTER
XVII CROSSING THE CHANNEL
XVIII RATTLING OLD BONES
XIX VIVIAN AIRS HER OPINIONS

XX ONCE MORE AT BURTON'S INN
XXI DISTURBING NEWS
XXII THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND
XXIII SARA WRANDALL'S DECISION
XXIV THE JURY OF FOUR
XXV RENUNCIATION

CHAPTER I
MARCH COMES IN LIKE THE LION

The train, which had roared through a withering gale of sleet all the
way up from New York, came to a standstill, with many an ear-splitting
sigh, alongside the little station, and a reluctant porter opened his
vestibule door to descend to the snow-swept platform: a solitary
passenger had reached the journey's end. The swirl of snow and sleet
screaming out of the blackness at the end of the station-building
enveloped the porter in an instant, and cut his ears and neck with
stinging force as he turned his back against the gale. A pair of lonely,
half-obscured platform lights gleamed fatuously at the top of their icy
posts at each end of the station; two or three frost-encrusted windows
glowed dully in the side of the building, while one shone brightly
where the operator sat waiting for the passing of No. 33.
The train itself was dark. Frosty windows, pelted for miles by the
furious gale, white outside but black within, protected the snug
travellers who slept the sleep of the hurried and thought not of the
storm that beat about their ears nor wondered at the stopping of the fast
express at a place where it had never stopped before. Far ahead the
panting engine shed from its open fire-box an aureole of glaring red as
the stoker fed coal into its rapacious maw. The unblinking head-light
threw its rays into the thick of the blinding snow storm, fruitlessly
searching for the rails through drifts denser than fog and filled with
strange, half-visible shapes.
An order had been issued for the stopping of the fast express at B--, a
noteworthy concession in these days of premeditated haste. Not in the

previous career of flying 33 had it even so much as slowed down for
the insignificant little station, through which it swooped at midnight the
whole year round. Just before pulling out of New York on this eventful
night the conductor received a command to stop 33 at B---- and let
down a single passenger, a circumstance which meant trouble for every
despatcher along the line.
The woman who got down at B---- in the wake of the shivering but
deferential porter, and who passed by the conductors without lifting her
face, was without hand luggage of any description. She was heavily
veiled, and warmly clad in furs. At eleven o'clock that night she had
entered the compartment in New York. Throughout the