Gordon Craig Part 34

"Without doubt. Moreover," and I lowered my voice in sudden embarra.s.sment, "within the last two weeks the Captain had received news from his agent in the North, which gave him fresh confidence. From his standpoint he no longer had any cause for fear from the chief source."

"What--what do you mean?"

"You will believe me? You will not think I manufacture this?"

"Certainly not:--but--but I do not understand."

"Well, the man reported that he had found trace of Philip Henley; he told of the life the man was leading, and where he lived. I think all this must have been immediately after your separation, as he mentioned no wife. However, he described something even more important."

"You must tell me," she burst forth, as I hesitated. "Don't be afraid to trust me with all you know."

"I am not afraid," I returned stoutly enough, "not in the sense you mean, at least, yet it is never easy to be the bearer of evil news."

"It is evil?"

"Misfortune, certainly. The man reported the death of your husband."

"His death! You are sure?"

I could hear her quick breathing, as she leaned forward, all attention riveted on me.

"Yes."

"You saw the report?"

"I have it with me; as soon as it becomes daylight you can read it yourself."

"Yes, but tell me now what he said; how it happened."

"The report was specific, and would seem to be true. He says that Philip Henley, while intoxicated, was struck and killed by an automobile. The date given was after you left him. His body was found by the police but his pockets had been rifled, and there were no marks of identification on his clothes. He was buried unknown, but the informant claimed to have visited the morgue, viewed the body, and states positively the dead man was Philip."

"And--and you think--tell me what you believe, Gordon Craig."

"There is but one conclusion to my mind. I have no doubt as to the entire truth of the story. The silence and disappearance of your husband is evidence that he is either dead, or, in some other way, helpless. The former explanation is the most probable, and, coupled with this fellow's statement, seems unquestionable. There would be no apparent reason why he should lie."

"No; there is none. I--I--really, I have thought this all the time; but about those others?"

"Vail and Neale, you mean? It seems to me they fit in exactly with the story. Everything had been removed from Philip's pockets, and all ordinary means of identification destroyed. There must have been a purpose in this, and it must have been done by a second party, as there is no suggestion of suicide. My theory is this--the body was either found by others before the police arrived, or else the automobile party which killed him paused long enough to ascertain the extent of his injuries. In either case his pockets were searched, and all contents removed. Do you comprehend what that would mean?"

"I--I think so; but tell me yourself."

"He certainly had papers with him dealing with his inheritance. To a shrewd, criminal mind they would be suggestive. He also, undoubtedly, had keys to his apartments. With these in their possession it would be comparatively easy for unscrupulous persons to ascertain the entire nature of the case, and secure all necessary doc.u.ments. Then there would be nothing more needed except a man capable of pa.s.sing himself off as Philip Henley."

"And Vail was not a lawyer," she asked breathlessly, "nor Neale one of the executors?"

"In my judgment the fellows merely took those names to impose upon me, to help bolster up their story, and make it appear probable. They were simply two crooks, willing to take a chance for a pot of money. I happened to be the one selected to pull their chestnuts out of the fire."

I saw her head sink into the support of her hands, and knew she was sobbing silently.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER

"You think my conclusions must be correct?" I could not refrain from asking.

"Yes; even without seeing the letter, but," and she glanced up quickly, "the ring--Philip's ring--we found?"

"I forgot to mention that. Its presence here alone is convincing. It was sent to Charles Henley by his agent, who claimed to have removed it from the finger of the dead man."

"Then every doubt is removed; the one killed was my hus--husband."

There was a long, painful silence, during which I stared out into the dark, mechanically guiding the boat, although every thought centered on her motionless figure. What should I say? how was I to approach her now? Before there had always been a frank spirit of comrades.h.i.+p between us; no reserve, no hesitancy in the exchange of confidences.

But with this a.s.surance of Philip Henley's death, everything was changed. I longed to go to her and pour out my sympathy, but some instinct held me back, held me wordless. I knew not what to say, or how any effort on my part would be received. Instantly there had been a barrier erected between us which she alone could lower. Those were long minutes I sat there, speechless, gazing straight ahead, my brain inert, my hand hard on the tiller. Suddenly, with a swift thrill which sent my blood leaping, I felt the soft touch of her fingers.

"Are you afraid to speak to me?" she asked, pleadingly. "Surely I have said nothing to anger you."

"No, it is not that," I returned in confusion, not knowing how to express the cause of my hesitancy. "I am sorry, and--and I sympathize with you, but I hardly know how to explain."

She was looking at me through the darkness; I was able to distinguish the white outline of her uplifted face.

"I am sorry--yes," very slowly, "but perhaps not as you suppose. It is hard to think of him as dead--killed so suddenly, without opportunity to think, or make any preparation. He--he was my husband under the law. That was all; he was no more. I do not believe I ever loved him--my marriage was but the adventure of a romantic girl; but if I once did, his subsequent abuse of me, his life of dissipation, obliterated long since every recollection of that love. He is to me scarcely more than a name, an unhappy memory. I told you that frankly when I believed him still alive. We were friends then, you and I, and I cannot conceive why his death should sever our friends.h.i.+p."

"Nor has it," I interposed instantly. "It was not indifference which silenced me. Rather it was the very strength of my feeling toward you.

I was fearful of saying too much, of being too precipitate."

"You imagine I would fail to value your friends.h.i.+p at such a time?"

"Don't," I burst forth impetuously; "you talk of friends.h.i.+p when all my hope centers about another term. Surely you understand. I am a man sorely tempted, and dare not yield to temptation."

She drew her hand away from my clasp, yet the very movement seemed to express regret.

"You speak strangely."

"No, I do not; the words have been wrung from me. I am in no way ashamed, although I realize this is neither the time nor the place.

Remember you have been under my protection ever since that night we met first on the streets; you are alone here with me now, but still under my protection. I cannot take advantage of your helpless condition, your utter loneliness. If I did I should never again be worthy of the name gentleman."

"I regret you should say this."

"No more than I do; the words have been wrung from me."

"And we are to be friends no longer? Is that your meaning?"

"You must answer that question," I replied gravely, "for it is beyond my power to decide."

Her head was again uplifted, and I knew she was endeavoring to see my face through the gloom. There was silence, the only sounds the slash of the boat through the water, and the slight flapping of the canvas.