WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD
"Ask your husband. Ask Mr. Alexander Hendrie where he is."
The words beat into Monica's brain. They hammered upon her ear-drums.
They rose before her eyes, mocking her.
She was back in her own home. She had gone straight to her bedroom and
locked herself in. She was due at a luncheon party, and, on her return,
Margaret had hurried to wait upon her. But the girl was promptly
dismissed, and the luncheon forgotten. It was a matter of no importance
now. Monica would go nowhere; she would receive no one. She was ill,
she said, and refused to be disturbed.
So Margaret was left wondering and frightened.
Monica paced her room for hours. She was vainly endeavoring to think
connectedly. She was trying desperately to fathom the meaning of the
man Verdant's challenge. It was useless. All continuity of thought was
gone. Her ideas, her thoughts just tumbled pell-mell through her
harassed brain, eluded her grasp, and vanished in the darkness whence
they had leaped.
"Ask your husband. Ask Mr. Alexander Hendrie where he is."
It was maddening; and fever coursed through her veins. Her head grew
hot with her effort. It ached, as did her eyes. Things about her began
to seem unreal. Even the familiar objects in the room seemed to belong
to some long-past, almost forgotten period in her life. She pulled
herself together, and even began to question herself. Where was she?
Ah, yes, this was her husband's house----
"Ask your husband."
For a moment the fever left her cold. Then it was on her again. She
must ask her husband!
A hundred times the words came back, but she could proceed no further.
Instinctively she understood something of the ugliness lying beyond
them.
The distraught woman endured this torture for hours. It seemed ages;
and at times she believed she was struggling to keep her reason.
If her husband knew of Frank's whereabouts, then--but she dared go no
further. Once she paused in her restless pacing and stood before the
mirror on her dressing-table. She stared at it as though reading the
man's words written there. Suddenly she became aware of her own
reflection, which seemed to be mocking her. She fled precipitately and
flung herself into a chair, burying her face in her hands.
But such a state of mind could not endure and sanity remain. It was the
result of shock, and the worst of shocks must give way before the
recuperative powers of healthy nature. So it was now.
The late afternoon sun had just fallen athwart the great bay window,
when the troubled woman, with a sigh as of utter exhaustion, flung
herself upon her bed in a flood of hysterical tears. For a while the
storm remained unabating. It almost seemed that the flood-gates of a
broken heart had been opened; as though life had no longer any joy
remaining; as though all the most treasured possessions of her woman's
heart had been ruthlessly torn from her bosom, so hopeless, so dreadful
were her tears.
But it was the saving reaction. Within half an hour the storm had
lessened. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased altogether.
Monica sat up.
For one painful moment she gazed stupidly about her. Then one by one
the details of her room grew upon her, and, slowly, a subtle change
crept into her eyes. For a moment they hardened, as though she were
spurring herself to some painful resolve. Then, at last, they softened
again to their natural expression. She left her bed, and passed through
the doorway which led into her private bathroom.
Presently she emerged. A cold douche had done its work. She was quite
calm now, and all her movements became deliberate. She walked up to her
mirror, and gazed at the reflection of her swollen eyes. Then, with a
weary sigh, she finally turned away and pushed the electric bell at her
bedside.
Margaret obeyed the summons with suspicious alacrity. Truth to tell the
devoted girl had been near by, waiting for the summons. Her mistress's
unusual attitude had seriously troubled her. Now she came, hoping but
anxious, and, after one glance at Monica's swollen eyes she gave vent
to her distress.
"Oh, but, madam----" she cried.
She was silenced with a look.
"I'll begin to dress--now," Monica said coldly.
But the girl's anxiety was too sincere.
"But, madam, it is only half-past five! Dinner--dinner is at eight."
Monica turned away coldly, and seated herself upon the ottoman, which
stood in the center of the room.
"I will dress now," she said finally.
Margaret understood her charge. It was useless to protest when Monica's
mind was made up. So she set about her work at once.
Monica watched her as she threw open the wardrobes. Her eyes followed
her as she vanished to prepare the bath. But it was not with any
interest. The girl's movements simply conveyed a sense of activity to
her. That was all. But it helped her. It helped her, in the midst of
her teeming thought, as nothing else could have done.
She endured the process of her toilet like one in a dream. Nor was it
until it came to the necessary selection of a gown that she displayed
any real interest. Then she roused herself and startled Margaret with
her peevish indecision. Nothing seemed to please her. Several new
gowns, just home from the extravagant costumer, who poured "creations"
upon her, were flung ruthlessly aside before the girl's dismayed eyes.
She would have none of them, and Margaret was at her wit's end.
There were only a few simple black gowns left, and Margaret hated
black. But what was she to do? She produced them, being careful, at the
same time, to display her own disapproval. Promptly selection was made.
Monica knew the value of soft black chiffon against her beautiful fair
hair and fairer skin. No one knew it better.
Another uncomfortable half hour was spent while the girl dressed her
mistress's hair. Never had Monica been so difficult to please. But even
this was finally satisfactorily achieved, and Margaret sighed her
relief.
However, her surprises were not yet done with. There was still another
forthcoming. Monica surveyed herself in the mirror. She gazed at
herself from every point of view. She beheld a perfectly molded figure,
unusually tall, with the delicious tint of flesh like alabaster glowing
warmly through the gauzy folds of the simple black chiffon of which her
gown was composed. She saw a face that was slightly pale, but of
exquisite, mature beauty. She saw eyes of a deep blue, full of warmth,
full of that precious suggestion of passionate possibilities which no
man can witness unmoved. And even in those moments of trouble she knew
that she had done well in her choice of gowns. She knew that she was
very beautiful.
She turned at last to the waiting girl, who was gazing at her in open
admiration.
"Go and find out if Mr. Hendrie has come in yet. If he hasn't, leave
word I am to be told the moment he arrives. Also, let him be told that
I wish to see him in the library before he goes to dress."
The girl moved toward the door.
"One moment." Monica spoke over her shoulder. "Put the rouge out for
me, and--an eye pencil."
This final order was too much for the girl's sense of the beautiful.
"But, madam," she cried. "Oh, madam is too beautiful for----"
"Do as I tell you!"
The order came sharply, almost harshly, and Margaret hastened to obey.
For once Monica was stirred out of her customary kindliness. Her nerves
were on edge. She had yet to face an ordeal, which, with each passing
moment, was slowly sapping her courage. She knew she had none to spare,
and dreaded lest her strength should fail her at the last.
*****
Monica was standing in the archway beyond which two great French
windows looked out over the street. One beautiful, rounded arm was
upraised, and its bejeweled hand was nervously clutching the edge of
the heavy crimson curtain. It was no pose. She was clinging to the
curtain for support.
It was still daylight. The setting sun still lit the street outside.
The room was lined from its polished floor to the ceiling with dark
mahogany bookcases, which, with the crimson hangings, and the
deep-toned Turkey carpet, helped to soften the light to a suggestion of
evening.
The sound of a step in the hall beyond startled her. She clutched the
curtain still more tightly. She knew that firm tread. The handle of the
door turned. Instantly she yielded her hold upon the curtain. Her
husband must witness no sign of her fear. The next moment a deep,
familiar voice greeted her.
"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, Mon. I----"
Hendrie broke off in astonishment. Just for a moment his eyes surveyed
the wonderful picture she made. And, in that moment, Monica realized
that her efforts had not been in vain. His eyes were drinking in her
beauty, and she understood that never, in their brief married life, had
she appealed to him more.
"Why, Mon," he cried. Then in a sudden burst of admiration. "You--you
look just splendid." And after a pause. "Splendid!"
Monica smiled up at him.
"You haven't kept me waiting. I--I was anxious to see you at once, so
I--I dressed early."
Hendrie had drawn nearer, as though about to embrace her. But her
halting fashion of explanation checked him. All unconsciously he leaned
against the edge of a table instead. It was as though something had
warned him to--wait.
"I'm glad I didn't keep you waiting," he said, and something of the
warmth had gone out of his tone. "Something--important?"
The woman was seized with a mad longing to flee from the room. The
ordeal she was about to go through was almost more than she could bear.
"Yes--I'm afraid it is," she said, in a low, unsteady voice, while she
turned away toward the window.
"Afraid?"
Monica turned again and looked up into his eyes. A sudden weakness left
her knees shaking.
"Yes," she said, and stammered on. "I--I--hardly know where--to--begin."
Hendrie left the table and drew a step nearer.
"You're in some trouble, my Mon," he said kindly. "I can see it in your
face. Tell me, dear."
His words had their effect. Monica's fears lessened, and something of
her courage returned. Suddenly she threw up her head.
"No, no! You tell me, Alec!" she cried. "Tell me truly, as though you
were answering your own soul, is there--is there a condition, a moment,
a situation in life when it become wrong to keep a solemn vow given--to
the dead? I hold that a vow to the dead is the most sacred thing
in--life. Am I right--or wrong?"
The man's gray eyes expressed neither surprise nor curiosity. They were
calmly considering, and in their calm they were painfully cold.
He shook his head.
"You are wrong," he said simply. "The most sacred thing in life
is--Truth. When Truth demands, no vow to dead or living can bind."
Monica sighed.
"You are sure?"
"Sure. Quite sure."
The man was deliberate. As no answer was forthcoming, he went on--
"Come, Mon, tell me. Guess there's something behind all this. Well--I
am here to listen."
The woman stirred. She clenched her hands. Then her answer came.
"And I am here to tell you," she cried, with a sharp intake of breath.
"I have lost something. I have lost something which is almost as
precious to me as--as your love. I have been told that you can tell me
where to find--him."
"Him?" The word rang through the quiet room.
It was the man's only comment, and a dreadful inflection was laid upon
the word.
There are moments in life when acts are performed, when words are
spoken without thought, even without actual impulse of our own. They
are, perhaps, moments when Fate steps in to guide us into the path she
would have us tread. Perhaps it was such a moment in Monica's life, in
Hendrie's.
Certainly the woman had spoken without thought. She had no
understanding of what her words could possibly mean to her husband. And
Hendrie, surely he was unaware that murder looked out of his furious
gray eyes at what he believed to be the mention of the man for whose
downfall he had perjured his own soul.
"Yes--him, him!" cried Monica, becoming hysterical. "My--my dead
sister's child."
Hendrie recovered himself at once. He smoothed back his hair like a man
at a loss.
"I--don't think I quite--get it," he said slowly. Then his bushy brows
lifted questioningly. "Your sister's child? I didn't know you had a
sister. You never told me. Say--how should I know where this child is?"
He was puzzled. Yet he was not without some doubts.
Monica swallowed with difficulty. Her throat and tongue were parched.
"No," she said, struggling for calmness. "I never told you
because--because I had vowed to keep the secret. Questions would have
followed the telling, which I could not have answered. I was
bound--bound, and I could not break my promise."
"You best tell me all there is to tell," the man said coldly. "This
secrecy, this promise. I don't understand--any of it."
Never had his wife's beauty appealed to Hendrie more than it did at
that moment. A great depth of passionate feeling was stirring within
him, but he permitted it no display. He was growing apprehensive,
troubled. His doubt, too, was increasing.
Monica suddenly thrust out her hands in appeal.
"Oh, Alec, it is so hard, even now, to--to break my faith with the
dead. And yet I know you are right. It--it is more than time for the
truth. I think--yes, I believe if poor Elsie knew all, she would
forgive me."
"Elsie?" The man's voice was sharply questioning.
"Yes, Elsie--my poor, dead sister."
"Go on."
"Yes, yes. I must go on." Monica drew a deep breath. "I can't
understand. I don't seem to---- Oh, tell me where he is. My Frank, my
poor Frank, Elsie's boy. The boy I have brought up to manhood, the boy
I have cared for all these years, the boy I have struggled and fought
for. He--he is--lost. He has been spirited away as though he had never
existed. And--I am told by the detectives to ask you where he is."
Hendrie's eyes were upon the carpet. He was no longer looking into the
troubled face before him.
"Tell me," he said sharply; "when did you see him last?"
Monica no longer hesitated. Her husband's manner had become suddenly
compelling.
"It was the last night I spent at Deep Willows," she said at once.
"Just before you came home."
Hendrie raised his eyes. They were full of a dawning horror.
"The truth does demand," he cried almost fiercely. "Tell me! Tell
me--as quickly as you can."
Monica was caught in the man's sudden excitement.
"Yes, yes, I will," she cried. "Oh, but it is a long story and--and a
sordid one. It all happened when I was a young girl. I was only
seventeen. Poor Elsie. She had been away a long time from home. Then
she came home to me, her only relative. She came home to die, and dying
gave birth to her son. You see, she was never married."
She paused, but went on at once at the man's prompt urging.
"She was never married, and the man left her in the hour of her direst
need. Poor girl, even in her extremity she did not blame him. She loved
him almost as much as she loved his little baby boy. She knew she was
dying, nor did she seem to mind, except for her baby. He was her great
anxiety. But even in that, her anxiety was chiefly that the child
should never know of his mother's shame. So, almost with her last
breath, she made me swear that I would bring him up as my own child.
That I would keep her secret from him, and account for his father as
being dead, with any story I chose to tell him. And I--I, a girl of
seventeen, promised."
She paused. Then she hurried on as the questioning eyes of the man were
again raised to her face.
"But what does it matter?" she cried suddenly. "She was my only sister
and I loved her. From that day Frank became my own son, and, for nearly
twenty years, I battled with the world for him. Nor in our worst trials
did I feel anything but the greatest joy in our mutual love. Oh, yes,
when he grew up, I had to lie to him. I have had to lie, lie, lie all
through. And when you came into my life I had to lie harder than ever.
It was either that, or betray my sister's secret. That I could not
do--even for your love. I chose the easier path. I lied so that I
should not have to give you up."
"It is not quite clear--the necessity?" The man again raised his eyes
to her face, but, almost at once, they turned back to the carpet.
"It is simple enough," Monica went on dully. "If I married you, to keep
my sister's secret I must keep Frank in the background. Otherwise I
should have to give explanations. To keep him in the background I must
tell him a story that made it necessary. I did so. So that he should
know nothing of Elsie's shame, and as I had brought him up to call me
'mother,' I did the only thing that seemed to me possible. I took the
whole responsibility upon myself. I told him that though he was my son
I had never been married. You see, I knew his love for me. I knew his
chivalrous spirit. He wanted me to be happy in my newly found love,
so--he accepted the situation."
Hendrie shook his head.
"You kept the letter of your promise to your sister, and--betrayed the
spirit of it."
Monica hung her head.
"I know. I did it because--I could not give you up."
Hendrie looked up with something like anguish in his eyes.
"Oh, woman, woman," he cried. "Why didn't you take me into your
confidence? These lies could have been saved, and--and all these other,
and even more, terrible consequences. Listen to me, and I will tell you
all the rest. I can see it now. I can see it more clearly than you can
tell me. He called himself Frank--Smith?"
Monica started.
"Yes. Whenever he visited me at Deep Willows. His real name was Frank
Burton."
Hendrie's gaze wandered toward the window. The street lamps had just
been lit. Never in his life had he known what it was to humble himself
before another. Never had he known what it was to excuse himself for
any act of his. Now he knew he must do both of these things.
Monica stepped eagerly forward from the shadow of the curtains.
"You--you know where he is?" she demanded.
Hendrie nodded. Then a strange thing happened. A harsh, mirthless laugh
rang through the darkening room. Monica stared at the man's unsmiling
face, horrified, and at a loss to understand.
"Then where is he?" she cried blankly.
"He is in the penitentiary, serving five years for breaking into Deep
Willows, and robbing my safe of a bunch of money that belonged to you."
"Oh, God have mercy!"
The cry rang through the room. Monica reeled and would have fallen. In
a moment her husband's arms were about her. But she flung him off, and
her action was one of something like loathing. She stood up facing him,
and pointing at him, while her agonized eyes challenged his.
"You--you!" she cried fiercely. Then: "Go on! Tell me--tell me quickly!
It is you--you who have done this!"
Hendrie drew himself up. There was no hesitation about him, no
shrinking before the story he had to tell.
"Yes, I did it," he said. "I--I! I have listened to your story. Now
listen to mine, and when you blame me, you must blame yourself as well.
I have loved you desperately. I love you now. God knows how I love you.
If I did not I could never have endured what I have endured in the past
and kept my reason. That is my excuse for what I have done.
"I saw that picture in your rooms and took the man to be an old lover.
I hated him, and--I tore it up. I told you then there could only be one
man in your life. I destroyed that pasteboard as I would destroy any
one who came between us."
Monica remained silent while the man choked down his rising emotion.
"After we were married I became aware of the clandestine visits of a
handsome man, to you, at Deep Willows. You were known to have embraced
him."
"You--you spied!"
"I did not spy--then. I learned these things, nor does it matter how. I
determined to crush this man I believed to be your lover. I determined
to be rid of him once and for all. My love for you was so great that
what I believed to be your guilt left me quite untouched. It was men I
understood; men with whom I was accustomed to deal. I meant to deal
with this man. So I set to work. I need not tell you how I tracked him
down and kept him watched. It is sufficient that I knew of his visit to
Deep Willows on the night in question. My plans were carefully laid. I
left very little to chance. You were in the library with him, and Angus
summoned you, to give you some important news he had received from me.
I had arranged that. At the time the telephone bell rang I was beyond
the window with the sheriff of Everton. The moment you left the room I
entered it. I found this man with a bunch of money in his hand, and the
safe open behind him. I had not hoped for such luck. I charged him then
and there with the theft. Oh, I knew he had not stolen it. You had
given it him, and it made me the more furious. I could have shot him
where he stood. But it could not have been sufficient punishment. I
meant to crush him.
"Then I did the crudest thing I could think of. I told him that I knew
he had not stolen the money. I told him that he could clear himself of
the charge by calling you into the witness box. In that way I knew that
what I believed to be your shame would reach the whole world. But soon
I was to see the stuff he was made of. He would not drag your name into
the matter. He submitted to the charge with a simple declaration of his
innocence, and I was well enough satisfied. The rest was sheriff's
work. Within certain limits I knew I could buy the law, and I bought
it. The case was kept out of the papers, and you were sent well away
from any possibility of hearing of it. The name he was tried under, and
which he clung to, helped further to disguise his identity. That night
when you returned to the library, as I knew you would, you found the
place in order, and the boy gone. You had no possible suspicion of what
had occurred. You could have none. You remember I drove up later, as
from Everton, in my automobile."
Hendrie ceased speaking. Monica remained silent. She stood quite still
looking into his face as though she were striving to read all that lay
behind it, trying to fathom to the very limits the primitive motives
which had driven this man to the dreadful cruelty he had so readily
inflicted. He had sent Frank, her boy, to a felon's prison. Sent him
without one single scruple, without mercy. He had committed, besides,
every base action he could have been guilty of to achieve his purpose,
and all--for love of her.
She tried to think it all out clearly. She tried to see it through his
eyes, but she could not. The hideousness of it all was too terrible. It
was unforgivable.
At last she spoke. Her voice was hard and cold. In it Hendrie detected,
he believed, the sentence her woman's heart had passed upon him.
"He must be released at once," she said, in a tone that warned him of
all he had lost. "If you do not contrive this at once the world shall
know the whole story--yours as well as mine."
The man made a slight movement. It was as though he had flinched before
a blow in the face.
"He shall be released," he said.
"He must be released--at once." Monica's icy tone was final.
She turned away, moving toward the door. Then suddenly she paused, and
a moan of despair broke from her.
"Oh, Alec," she cried, "how--how could you? How could you do it?"
The man was at her side in a moment.
"I love you, Mon," he cried, in deep tones. "You are more precious to
me than all the world--than life itself. Can't you understand? Can't
you see just something of what my eyes saw? Where you are concerned it
is all so different. I could not, dared not lose you. I hated this man,
who I believed had robbed me of your love."
Monica's agonized eyes were raised to his for a moment.
"But where was your faith? Where your trust?" she cried. "Why, why did
you not openly accuse me?"
"Accuse you? Mon, you have yet to learn all that my love means. You
think me, the world thinks me, a strong, even ruthless man. There is
truth enough in the latter--God knows. But for the rest, where you are
concerned, I am weak--so weak. I am more than that. I am an utter
coward, too. While my heart might break at the knowledge of your
infidelity, it would be incomparable to losing you out of my life. Why
did I not accuse you openly? Because I was afraid to hear the truth
from your lips. Do you know what would have happened had you confessed
to me that you loved this man? It would have meant--murder. Oh, not
your death," as Monica drew away horrified at the terrible sincerity of
the threat. "That man would have died. Now can you understand? Won't
you understand?"
There was a dreadful moment of doubt, of anxiety, while the man waited
an answer to his appeal. No prisoner could have awaited sentence with
more desperate hope. His eyes devoured the woman's averted face, while
his heart hungered for the faintest gleam of hope it might hold out.
And waiting he wondered. Was there anything in a woman's love at all,
or was he to be condemned to a life with the doors of her soul closed
and barred against him for ever?
It seemed an endless waiting. Then she gave a sign. She turned to him,
and raised a pair of eyes, whose sadness and distress smote him to the
heart, and looked up into his face. Then he knew, however undeserved,
her love was still his.
"Perhaps I can understand, Alec, but--but give me time." Monica spoke
in a deep, tender voice that was full of pain, full of suffering. "I am
beginning to understand many things I did not comprehend before. You,
perhaps, are not so much to blame as I thought. I have been so weak,
too. A little candor and honesty on my part might have saved it all. We
are both terribly to blame, and perhaps most of it lies at my door. Let
us try to forget ourselves. Let us forget everything but that which we
owe to Frank. We both owe him so much. Oh, when I think of the way I
have fulfilled poor Elsie's trust I feel as though my heart would
break."
"If ever a trust was carried out truly, yours has been, Mon."
The man's arms were about her, and he gently drew her to him. He gazed
tenderly down upon her now tear-stained face.
"No woman could have done more than you have," he went on. "If things
have gone awry it is no fault of yours." He smoothed her beautiful hair
with one tender hand. "I give you my sacred word your Frank shall be
released. I swear it by the memory of your poor dead sister. I can
still undo the mischief which my mad jealousy has wrought, and
your--Elsie will forgive."
He bent and kissed her upturned face, while she clung to him for
support.
"Yes, yes, she will forgive. It was her nature to forgive," Monica
said, in a wave of tender memory. "To the last she would not hear one
word against the wretched father of her boy. Do you know, Alec, I
sometimes wonder that Heaven allows such men to go about working their
cruel mischief upon trusting women."
Hendrie stirred uneasily, and his arms gently released her.
"Tell me of her--of him," he said, his eyes turned upon the streaming
light from the street lamps.
Monica became thoughtful.
"I know so little about him," she said, after a slight pause. "You see,
I never saw him; and Elsie--she would say so little. It seems she met
him in New York. I forgot to tell you Elsie was an actress. She acted
under the name of Audie Thorne."
The man started. Then, slowly, his eyes came back to her face.
Fortunately their expression was lost upon her, and, before she could
turn in his direction, he was once more gazing out at the brilliant
light which, somehow, he was no longer aware of. He was listening to
his wife's voice, but her words conveyed little enough to him now. His
mind was far back in a dim, almost forgotten past.
"I don't know how it all happened," Monica went on. "She was doing so
well on the stage. Then she met this man, Leo. The next thing she was
up in the Yukon with him. He was prospecting. Then they were traveling
down country--overland--with an Indian scout. That's when he deserted
her. She only managed to reach me, in San Sabatano, through the aid of
the scout. He gave her money. Money paid him for the trip." Then a
world of contempt crept into her voice. "I suppose it was the coming of
Elsie's baby which frightened him--the cowardly brute."
Hendrie nodded, his face studiously averted.
"Perhaps," he murmured. "But one can never be sure of such a man's
motives."
"Motives?" There was unutterable scorn in the woman's voice. "And while
he goes free, she, poor soul, is left to suffer and die--in
the--gutter!"
"But--you sheltered her? You cared for her?"
The man's voice was almost pleading.
"Thank God, I could at least do that--but it was not through any doing
of his. Oh, if only I had the punishing of such--as he."
"Perhaps he will get his punishment, even as you could desire it.
Perhaps he has got it."
"I pray God it may be so."
Quite suddenly Hendrie turned about and faced her. His face was thrown
into the shadow by the light of the window, which was now behind him.
"These are past days, Mon," he said, in his decided fashion. "We have
to do with errors, faults of the present. I must get to work at once to
repair something of the damage I have done. You employed detectives.
Who?"
"The Redtown Agency."
"Good. I will see them at once. You must dine alone tonight. I will
report later."
The man moved suddenly across to his desk, and one hand fell heavily
upon the carved mahogany of it. He looked across into the face of the
woman he loved, and the fire of a great purpose shone in his eyes.
"Thank God I am the rich man I am!" he cried. "Thank God for the power
of wealth. You shall see, Mon, you shall see! Leave me now, for I
must--work. Hark!"
The deep note of the dinner gong rang out its opulent song in the hall.
"Dinner!" Hendrie remained standing. "You had better go--now."
Monica reluctantly moved toward the door and opened it.
"Very well, dear," she said. "You will tell me all you have
done--later. Thank God, there is no more need for secrecy between us."
The brilliant light of the hall silhouetted her figure as she stood.
But for once, though his eyes took in every detail of the picture she
made, Alexander Hendrie remained wholly unappreciative.
His mind was already far away, moving swiftly over other, long past
scenes. He was not even thinking of the innocent victim of his
jealousy. He was traveling again the long, lean, cruel winter trail. He
was once more toiling amid the snows of the bitter north.
"You are sure, sure--it can be done?"
The spell was broken.
"Sure," the man replied, with a heavy sigh.
The door closed. The darkened room was still and silent. For some
moments the man remained standing where he was. Then he slowly moved
over the soft rugs to the light switch on the wall, and his hand rested
upon it. He hesitated. Then, with an impatient movement, he pressed the
brass knob, and the room was flooded with light.
He stared out across the sumptuous furnishings, but did not attempt to
move. His face was ghastly in the glare of light. His eyes were full of
horror and straining.
Presently he moved a step toward the desk. It was only one step. He
halted. Slowly his look of horror deepened. He raised one great hand
and passed the fingers of it through his mane of tawny hair. It was the
movement of a man half dazed. Then his lips moved.
"Audie!" he murmured, in a hoarse whisper. "Audie!"