Ross could not understand why that notion came as a shock to him.
Naturally, the man under the sofa had a name; every one had. Yet,
directly he thought of that figure as “Martin Ives,” instead of “the
man,” the whole affair grew ten times more tragic and horrible—and ten
times more dangerous.
“A man” might disappear, but not Martin Ives. Martin Ives was real, he
had friends; he must have lived somewhere. He would be sought for—and
found.
“This Donnelly—” thought Ross. “He’s got this far already. And he’ll
keep on.”
In his mind he envisaged the inexorable progress of the search. Step
by step, hour by hour. If this man went away, another would come. The
awful march of retribution had begun. Nothing could stop it.
“Murder will out.”
His anger, his impatience, had quite vanished now. He could not resent
Donnelly’s presence, because he was inevitable. He seemed to Ross the
very personification of destiny, not to be eluded, not to be
mollified. He looked at him and, as he had expected, found the cold
blue eyes regarding him.
“Do you think you can help me?” asked Donnelly.
“I don’t see how,” said Ross. “I don’t know the fellow you’re looking
for. I’ll have to get along, now. Got to drive down to the station.”
“Well,” said Donnelly, blandly, “I can wait.”
“Not here!” said Ross, with energy. “They wouldn’t like—”
“Oh, no, not here!” said the other. “See you later. So long!” And off
he went.
Ross watched his burly figure tramping along the driveway until he was
out of sight; then he made haste to get himself ready, took out the
car, locked the garage, and drove up to the house.
It was much too early. There he sat, shut up in the snug little sedan,
with the snow falling outside, as if he were some unfortunate victim
of an enchantment, shut up in a glass cage. And he began to think,
now, of what lay immediately before him.
“I’ll have to make some sort of excuse to Mr. Solway for going away,”
he thought. “A lie, of course. I wish to Heaven I didn’t have to lie
to _him_. Then I’ll get the child, and clear out. I’ll find some sort
of home for her. Phyllis Barron will help me.”
The idea dazzled him, the magnificent simplicity of it, the
unspeakable relief of just picking up the child and walking off. No
explanations, no more lies. He contemplated it in detail. How he would
walk into the Hotel Miston, into his comfortable room, and unpack his
bags. How he would take the child to Phyllis Barron, and tell her that
here was a poor little kid who had nobody in the world. She would know
what to do; she would help him; the nightmare would end.