THE DECISION
I had had time to think, swiftly to be sure, yet clearly enough.
Surprised as I was by her statement, yet the truth as thus revealed
failed to startle me seriously. Vaguely I had suspicioned the
possibility before, not really believing it could be so, and yet struck
by the similarity in circumstances of the two women. Consequently the
shock of final discovery was somewhat deadened, and I retained the pose
of thought. Moreover, to know her identity was an actual relief.
Before, I had half doubted the righteousness of my cause, at times
almost felt myself a criminal. Now that I could openly associate
myself with Philip Henley's wife, in a struggle to retain for her what
was justly her own, all feeling of doubt vanished, and I became grimly
confident of the final result. Perhaps the relief I felt found
expression in my face, for the woman exclaimed:
"I believe you are actually glad; that it pleases you to know this."
"It certainly does," I replied swiftly, "for now I can work openly,
knowing exactly what I ought to do. I have felt like a rat skulking in
a hole. I believed what those men told me; they convinced me with
proofs I could not ignore, but they must have lied. In some details,
at least, they must have deceived. How would it be possible for Philip
Henley to be in a penitentiary convicted of crime?"
"It would not be," she returned firmly. "There was no time after I
left him for an arrest and conviction. That alone is sufficient to
convince me of fraud and conspiracy. More than that, Philip Henley was
not one to commit a crime of that nature, and there was no reason why
he should. His remittances were amply sufficient. Under the influence
of liquor he might commit assault, or even murder, but never forgery."
"Then what do you think has occurred?"
"Either one of two things," she said soberly. "He is dead, or
helplessly in the power of those men who sent you here. There is no
other conclusion possible. They had possession of his papers--even his
private memoranda. They knew more of conditions here than I had ever
been told. In my judgment, he is dead. Otherwise I cannot conceive it
possible they would dare attempt to carry out such a conspiracy. The
very boldness of their plan convinces me they believed no one lived to
expose them. They knew he was dead, and believed, if I still lived,
that I knew nothing of this inheritance. The telegram announcing the
Judge's death I never saw. It must have arrived while Philip was too
intoxicated to grasp its meaning."
"You know nothing then of the two men, Neale and Vail?"
"No; there is a Justus C. Vail, a lawyer in the city. I found the name
in the directory, and called at his office. He was away making
political speeches; had been gone two weeks."
"Then the fellow assumed that name, thinking I might be familiar with
it, and thus be impressed with the legality of the transaction. As to
Neale, I will go to the courthouse in this county, and find out about
him. Only first of all we must understand and trust each other. We
have got some shrewd villains to fight, men capable of resorting to
desperate measures. You have told me the whole truth about yourself
now?"
"Absolutely, yes. I told you the truth before, except only my real
name. I was married to Philip Henley. Wait, here is my marriage
certificate; I have always kept it with me, for I have been afraid of
him almost from the first. I gave you the name Bernard unthinkingly,
as that was the name he insisted upon living under. He explained his
father required this, or else would stop his remittances. I had to
humor him, although I thought it most strange. Is that all you wish to
know?"
"All now, yes. I must have time to think, and plan what is best for us
to do. I can already see my duty sufficiently clear, but not how to go
at it. The fact is, Mrs. Henley--"
"Would it not be better for you to call me Viola?" she interrupted.
"Someone might overhear, and we must continue to carry out the
deception, I suppose."
"It will be safer, if you do not object."
"I? Oh, no; I shall not care in the least. You were saying?"
"This, Viola," and her eyes suddenly flashed into mine, "the conditions
I have already discovered here--in this house--are no less strange, and
dangerous than the mission which brought us here. Everything looks
bad. You ought to know it, and you are strong enough to be told. I do
not know who tried your door last night, and later escaped down the
trellis. If I did I could determine what action to take. But one
thing I do know--there was murder committed in this house."
"Murder!" her face went white, her fingers clasping my sleeve, "Who was
killed? Coombs? That woman?"
"Neither. A man I never saw before. I heard the same shot which
frightened you; took my lamp and investigated. I found him lying dead
on the floor of the rear room. He had been shot in the back of the
head through an open window."
"Merciful God! and the body still there."
"No, but its disappearance only adds to the mystery. I dared not
create an alarm at once, as we were in a strange house, and I had no
means of knowing where to find either Coombs or the housekeeper. Nor
did I venture to leave you alone unguarded. As soon as daylight came I
went in there again to convince myself the murder was not a dream. The
man's body lay there undisturbed. I turned him over, and examined the
wound. Then I went out and found Coombs, who sleeps in one of the
negro cabins. He sneered at my discovery, but finally accompanied me
back to the house. I could not have been absent to exceed thirty
minutes, and yet, when we opened the door of that rear room, the body
had disappeared--vanished completely. Not a thing remained to tell of
any tragedy."
"It had been dragged into some other room; hidden away in some closet.
The woman did it."
"That was my thought at first. As soon as I got free from Coombs I
searched this floor, every inch of it, and found nothing, not even so
much as a stain of blood. The dead man was heavily built, and Sallie
could never have lifted him alone. There were others--men--concerned
in the affair."
"And you saw none?"
"Only a Creole who came down the bayou by boat just as I reached the
bank. He had some message for Coombs--a snaky-eyed little devil--but
he had nothing to do with the removal of the body, for he was not out
of my sight after he landed."
Bewildered consternation was clearly manifested in the girl's white
face, and yet there was a firmness to the lips that promised anything
but surrender. I was sufficiently a fighting man to comprehend the
symptoms, and my own heart throbbed in quick response to her
anticipated decision. For an instant she seemed to struggle to regain
her breath.
"Oh, how terrible! I can scarcely realize that all you have told me
can be fact. It sounds incredible, monstrous. Why, it is as if we
lived in a wild land, and another century. No novelist could conceive
of such a horrible condition. There were pirates along this coast
once--I have read of them--but now, in our age of the world, to even
dream of such a state of affairs would be madness. What can it mean?
Have you any theory?"
"Absolutely none; I am groping in the dark, without a single clew. All
I know is that Coombs is a big ruffian, but too cowardly to commit
murder. The Creole might, and I would n't trust Sallie with a knife on
a dark night, but, in my judgment, there are others involved about whom
we know nothing."
"You mean there is a band? that we have stumbled into a rendezvous of
outlaws?"
"I suspicion so. This plantation has been practically abandoned for
years. Even when the Judge was alive he lived in town, and could get
no negroes to work out here because they believed the place was
haunted. A bayou comes within a hundred yards of the rear of the
house, so concealed by trees and weeds as to be almost invisible until
you stand on the banks. We are only a little over twenty miles from
the Gulf. Altogether this would make an ideal hiding place for Mobile
or New Orleans thieves. I don't say this is the solution, but it may
be. More likely they will prove to be a local gang, smugglers, or
moonshiners with a touch of modern piracy on the side."
"What do you mean to do?"
The question was asked quietly, and I glanced at her, noting the color
had returned to her cheeks.
"I? Why remain and ferret it out, I suppose," and I laughed. "I was
never very good at running away, and really I must get at the bottom of
this affair. Coombs is going to have a talk with me later--intends to
make sure who I am, no doubt--and I may learn something from him during
the interview. Anyhow, I am just obstinate enough to stay it out."
"What about me?"
"You better return to town; a traveling man on the train said there was
a good hotel. Probably Coombs has some kind of a rig we can drive down
in. I 'll ask him after breakfast."
"Is it because you do not wish me with you?"
I hesitated slightly, confused by such direct questioning.
"I shall feel more free alone," I replied at last, "for I shall have
only myself to guard. I am used to taking care of myself. Besides,
this is likely to prove a rather unpleasant situation for a lady. You
must remember I propose to fight this thing out now in the open. I am
going to be Gordon Craig, and not a make-believe Philip Henley. The
scene has changed, and I 'm glad of it. I feel more like a man
already."
"And you conclude I can be of no help, no assistance--"
The cracked voice of Sallie came to us up the stairs, the unexpected
sound startling both.
"I reckon you all better com' down an' eat."
She stood in the light of the front door watching us, and we descended
the flight of steps without exchanging a word. The woman turned and
walked in advance into the dining-room.
"Where is Coombs?" I asked, looking about curiously.
"He done eat already, but I reckon he 'll be 'round 'gain after a
while. You all just help yerselves."
We endeavored to talk as we sampled the meal, directing our
conversation into safe channels, both obsessed with a feeling that
whatever we said would be overheard. The woman vanished into the dark
passage leading toward the kitchen, but no sound of labor reached us
from that direction, which made me suspicious that she lingered not far
from where we sat. I caught Mrs. Henley's eyes occasionally straying
in that direction uneasily. Yet she managed to keep up a sprightly
conversation, largely relating to the country we had traveled over.
Neither of us ate heartily, merely toying with the rather unpalatable
food, and, as soon as we dared, pushed back our chairs. It was a
relief to get out of the room, but as we stood a moment in the front
doorway, breathing in the fresh air, I noticed a giant form approaching
the house through the weeds.
"Coombs is coming already for his interview," I said hastily. "As it
may be stormy perhaps you had better retreat upstairs."
She glanced in the direction of his approach, and drew slightly back
into the shadow of the hall. There was a flush on her cheeks, and her
eyes met mine almost defiantly.
"I will go," she said quickly, "but I shall not leave this house while
you remain."