A premeditated killing wherein the murderer makes no provision to
protect himself from the sure consequences of his act, requires a
certain amount of perverted courage. Neither Mrs. Collins nor her
brother credited Collins with the possession of even this low
courage--at least not in sufficient degree to induce him to relinquish
the comforts of freedom for the inconveniences of a prison. So they
offered no objection to his departure, permitting him to leave without a
word, as though they were entirely unconcerned in what he did.
Knowing Collins intimately as they did, it was impossible to take his
assumption of the rôle of an outraged husband seriously. They saw, only
too clearly, the ridiculous figure he made in the false light with which
he had invested himself. But when he was gone, with his threat still
echoing through their brains, they began to doubt their first impression
of his cowardice.
"That's a fine mess you've made of it," said Ward, who had grown
palpably uneasy.
"I made the mess when I married him," replied the sister. "I shall now
proceed to disentangle myself from it. Until I start for Reno I shall
live at your house."
"You don't think, really, that he would shoot?" The brother's face
expressed incredulity, mixed with worry.
Her forehead contracted in thought.
"As he is now, I feel certain he would not dare. But should he start
drinking--"
Ward was on his feet, his pale face grown paler.
"That's just it!" he exclaimed. "We must forestall him."
The same thought had flashed through her brain and she was already on
the way to the telephone. She called up Whitmore's house and asked for
the merchant.
"He didn't come home last night," the butler informed her.
Although burning with anxiety she made no further inquiries of the
servant. Instead, she rang up Whitmore's office.
"No ma'am, he hasn't been here this morning," the office boy said.
"Then give me Mr. Beard, his secretary."
"He hasn't been here, either."
She hung up the receiver and turned a bewildered countenance to her
brother.
"There is something singular about Herbert's absence from home and his
failure to appear at the office," she said. "I don't know why I should
think so--but I do."
"It's impossible for your husband to have reached the city," Ward
answered reassuringly. "He won't get there for twenty-five minutes and
the chances are he'll stop in various saloons before he tries to find
Whitmore. I'll have my car here in ten minutes and we'll proceed at once
to Whitmore's office and wait for him. Now hurry and get dressed."
Ward paced the drawing-room while waiting for his sister to finish her
toilet. He had telephoned for his automobile and heard the car draw up
at the gate. In the presence of Mrs. Collins and her husband, Ward had
maintained an unruffled demeanor; now that he was alone his face assumed
a tense, rigid look, as though he were staring at an apparition.
Something weighed heavily on his mind and it was plain that he was beset
by uncertainty. He continued to walk up and down the room with short,
nervous strides, until the swish of skirts at the head of the stairs
brought him to an abrupt halt at the doorway. The arm which he extended
to his sister, as he escorted her to the waiting automobile trembled
violently. A cold sweat moistened his face.
"Sis," he said, when the machine had started, "I'm going to tell you
something. Things are headed for a great crisis and it is necessary that
you should know. It's going to shock you--"
He paused, eyeing her quizzically. But her mind, occupied with the
safety of the man she loved, understood but vaguely what he was saying.
The brother took advantage of her preoccupation to gather additional
courage for the communication which he had to impart. He saw clearly
that she was resolved to discard her husband, that it would be futile to
combat her determination. Other occasions there had been, many of them,
when he had averted a final parting between them. But there had never
been another man involved.
"Grace, listen to me!" He placed one hand on her wrist. "We are both in
a terrible predicament, out of which my marriage may lift us. If you do
anything that endangers the marriage, if my engagement should be
broken,--we are both ruined."
"What do you mean?" A puzzled look appeared in her face.
"I didn't tell you before, because I thought it would never be necessary
to do so," he went on, growing more nervous and uneasy. "But little by
little I put all our money into the South American Developing Company
which I promoted, and the enterprise is a failure. Moreover, I induced
most of the clients of the bank to invest--I grow sick every time I
contemplate what's going to happen when they learn that their money is
lost. But there was nothing dishonest, sis--nothing dishonest!"
The news appeared to have no visible effect upon her. Something more
important than money, more alarming than the ruin which his words
implied, distracted her with a vague foreboding of impending evil. She
made no reply to her brother, but sat rigid, eyes staring vacantly
ahead, her hands tightly clasped beneath the heavy fur rug that
protected the lower part of her body.
The automobile sped on, smoothly as though running on steel rails. A
brisk wind beat against the glass shield and was deflected, leaving only
light currents of air to brush the faces of the occupants of the car.
Between Ward and his sister a long silence ensued.
It was broken by the brother.
"Don't you understand the position we're in?" he inquired.
"I understand," she replied absently.
"And don't you care?"
"Nothing matters now, except Herbert."
For weeks the brother had dreaded the moment when he should be compelled
to confess the loss of their fortune. Now, finding that she took it
coolly, even indifferently, he decided to go through with it.
"But I haven't finished--you don't know all," he pursued desperately.
"The situation is aggravated by your resolve to leave your husband. All
his money, save the small income from the trust fund established by his
mother, is likewise sunk in the enterprise. I induced him to invest, I'm
really responsible for the predicament in which he'll find himself.
Don't you see," he added pleadingly, "if you leave him now it will take
on the aspect of desertion. People will say that your brother ruined him
and then you threw him over. While if you wait until after my marriage,
I shall be in a position to settle with him in full and still have
enough to look after you."
For several minutes she remained mute, evidently digesting his words.
"And would you marry without letting her know that you are ruined?" she
inquired in quivering tones. "Would you try to rehabilitate yourself
with her fortune? Do you think it fair?"
The words cut like saber thrusts. But when a man finds the walls of his
house about to fall on him he is apt to clutch blindly at anything which
promises to prop the tottering structure.
"It is cowardly, I confess," he said. "But what am I to do? Besides, I
love her. You know I would not marry without love, even to avert
financial ruin."
"I shall not interfere between you and your intended," she answered
icily. "Neither shall I permit the circumstances which you have
described to alter my determination."
The car now threaded its way through the maze of traffic in the city.
Presently it drew up before a huge, ugly factory that covered a square
block on the upper west side, near the river. Ward and his sister jumped
out of the tonneau and entered the building. They found themselves in a
busy office, consisting of a single room down the length of which a
wooden rail interposed between visitors and employés.
"I wish to see Mr. Whitmore," Mrs. Collins informed one of the office
boys.
"Hasn't come down yet," the boy replied.
"Is he often away as late as this?"
"No ma'am," said the boy. "He's usually here at nine o'clock."
"Has Mr. Beard been here this morning?"
"Not yet. But he telephoned he'll be here at twelve o'clock."
Ward consulted his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He questioned the
boy but was unable to obtain any information as to the possible
whereabouts of his employer or his secretary. So he and his sister
decided to await them at the office.
The visitors looked sufficiently important to warrant the office boy
ushering them into Whitmore's private office. As they passed down the
railed corridor they elicited the further information that no one
answering Collins's description had called that morning.
"He's probably patronizing a bar somewhere between here and the Grand
Central Station just now," commented Ward in an undertone.
They did not enter into further discussion of their impending financial
ruin while awaiting Whitmore. Immediately on dropping into a chair Mrs.
Collins seemed to draw within herself, surrendering to the harrowing
thoughts that filled her mind. Ward also became deeply preoccupied with
his own tangled affairs, his brain striving furiously to find some
solution of the dilemma into which he was plunged.
They took no note of the passing time; but the minutes sped swiftly
while they wrestled silently with the problems that had entered their
lives and when Ward suddenly looked up the hands of the little brass
clock on top of Whitmore's desk pointed to a quarter of twelve. An
instant later the door of the office was flung open and a tall figure,
clean-shaven, with clearly defined features, burst into the room.
On seeing the visitors the man paused, perplexed. It was plain that he
was under great stress of mind. His face was haggard, his eyes were
sunken, his mouth drawn, as if he had not yet recovered from some great
shock.
"Ward--Mrs. Collins!" he stammered.
The voice recalled the woman out of the dreamy state into which she had
lapsed. She scrutinized the man with eyes in which terror and suspense
mingled.
"Mr. Beard--why!--something has happened!" she gave voice to her fear.
"Yes, something dreadful has occurred," he said, trying to avert his
face.
A great fear shook the woman's frame. For an instant she raised her eyes
imploringly, then lowered them.
"Then he has killed him--murdered him?" The words came as though each
syllable wrenched her heart.
"Killed him?" repeated Beard with rising inflection. "Why, what do you
mean?"
"My husband--Mr. Collins--he set out this morning to do it. For God's
sake," she implored, "don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what happened."
By a violent effort Beard recovered sufficient calm to note the
agitation of the woman.
"Why, no," he said reassuringly, "Mr. Whitmore hasn't been killed."
"But what has happened?" demanded Mrs. Collins with a gesture of
impatience.
"I cannot tell you," answered the secretary. "But something has
occurred--a grave crisis has arisen in Mr. Whitmore's life. He will not
be at his office for some time--perhaps not for weeks, or months, or
years. But he asked me to communicate with you, to let you know that he
will notify you the moment he returns. Meanwhile, he asks you to believe
in him, even though he cannot write to you. More than that I cannot tell
you."
Ward and his sister exchanged bewildered glances. The unexpected turn of
events left them speechless. And, before they were able to recover their
dazed senses, Beard slipped out of the office and lost himself among the
small army of clerks and bookkeepers in the outer room.
Ward, finally observing that he was alone with his sister, bestowed on
her a bitter smile.
"What a muddle!" he exclaimed. "Domestic trouble ... financial
difficulties!... Whitmore vanished! What next?"
She stared at him through swimming eyes. Her lips moved but no sound
came from them.
"Take the car home, Grace," he said in milder voice. "I'll go to the
office and try to puzzle this thing out."