I'll never divorce you, no matter what you do; and I won't let you
divorce me, either. No, no! Take him now, if you want him, but you'll
never be able to marry him until I'm gone. And I won't die soon--I
promise you that, I'm going to live."
"You can't go--"
"There's a boat to-morrow."
"Don't you see you must stay and explain to those men? My God! They'll
think you spoke the truth; they'll BELIEVE what you said."
"Of course they will," he chattered, shrilly. "That's why I did it in
that way. No matter what you or he or I can do or say now, they'll
believe it forever. It came to me like a flash of light, and I saw what
it meant all in a minute. Do YOU understand what it means, eh? Listen!
No matter how you behave, they'll know. They won't say anything, but
they'll know, and you can't stand that, can you? Even if you could fool
me once more against the evidence of my own eyes and ears, and convince
me that your lies are true, it wouldn't do any good with them."
"'Evidence!' You have no evidence."
"No? What about that night at Taboga? You were mad over the fellow
then, but you didn't think I saw. That day I caught you together in the
jungle--have you forgotten that? Didn't you think it strange that I
should be the one to discover you? Oh, I pretended to be blind, but I
followed you everywhere I could, and I kept my eyes open."
"You saw nothing, for there was nothing."
"He's been with you day and night. You have been together constantly,
and I knew what was going on. But I waited, because I wasn't strong
enough to revolt--until to-night. Oh, but to-night I was strong!
Something gave me courage."
In all their married life she had never known him to show such stubborn
force. He was like granite, and the unbelievable change in him,
upsetting all her preconceived notions of the man, appalled her. There
had been times in the past when they had clashed, but he had never
really matched his will with hers, and she had judged him weak and
spiritless. Now, therefore, failing to dominate him as usual, she was
filled with a strange feeling of helplessness and terror.
"You had no right to accept such evidence," she stormed.
"Bah! Why try to fool me? I have your own words for it. The other
afternoon I came home sick--with my head. I was on the gallery outside
when you were pleading with him, and I heard it all. You talked that
night about Taboga, your guilty kisses and other things; you
acknowledged everything. But he was growing tired of you. That, you
know, makes it all the more effective." He smiled in an agonized fury.
"You--cur!" she cried, with the fury of one beating barehanded at a
barred door. "You had no right to do such a thing even if I were
guilty."
"Right? Aren't you my wife?"
The look she gave him was heavy with loathing. "That means nothing with
us. I never loved you, and you know it. You know, too, why I married
you. I made no secret of it at the time. You had what I wanted, and I
had what you wanted; but you were content with the bargain because I
gave you money, position, and power. I never promised anything more
than that. I made you into something like a man. You never could have
succeeded without me. All you have is due to me--even your reputation
in the service. Your success, your influence, it is all mine, and the
only thing you gave me was a name; any other would have done as well."
He shrank a little under this tirade, despite his exaltation.
"Marriage!" she continued, in bitter scorn. "A priest mumbled something
over us, but it meant nothing then or now. I have tolerated you because
you were useful. I have carried you with me as I carry a maid or a
butler. I bought a manikin and dressed it up and put breath into it for
my own convenience, and I owe you nothing, do you understand--nothing!
The debt is all on your side, as you and I and all the world know."
"Who made me a manikin?" he demanded, with womanish fury, a fury that
had been striving for utterance these many years. "I had ambitions and
hopes and ability once--not much, perhaps, but enough--before you
married me. I was nothing great, but I was getting along. I had
confidence, too, but you took it away from me. You--you absorbed me.
You had your father's brain, and it was too big for me; it overshadowed
mine. In a way you were a vampire; for what I had you drained me of. At
first it was terrible to feel that I was inferior, but I loved you, and
although I had some pride--" He choked an instant and threw back her
incredulous stare defiantly. "I let myself be eliminated. You thought
you were doing me a favor when you put me forward as a figurehead, but
to me it was a tragedy. I COULDN'T HELP LETTING YOU DO IT. Do you
realize what that means to a fellow? I quit fighting for my own
individuality, I became colored by you, I took on your ways, your
habits, your mental traits, and--all the time I knew what was
happening. God! How I struggled to remain Stephen Cortlandt, but it
would have taken a BIG man to mould you to his ways, and I was only
average. I began to do your work in your particular style; I forgot my
ambitions and my dreams and took up yours. That's what I fell to, and
all the time I KNEW it, and--and all the time I knew you neither cared
nor understood. My only consolation was the thought that even though
you never had loved me and never could, you at least respected our
relation. I clung to that miserably, for it was all I had left, all
that made me seem like a man. And yet you took away even that. I tried
to rebel, but I had been drugged too long. You saw Anthony, and he had
the things I lack; you found you were not a machine, but a living
woman. He discovered the secret I had wasted away in searching for, and
you rewarded him. Oh, I saw the change in you quickly enough, and if
I'd been a man instead of what I was, I'd have--but I wasn't. I went
spying around like a woman, hating myself for permitting it to go on,
but lacking strength to stop it. But to-night, when he got up before
those other men and dangled my shame before my eyes, I had enough
manhood left in me to strike back. Thank God for that at least! Maybe
it's not too late yet; maybe if I get away from you and try--" His
voice died out weakly; in his face there was a miserable half-gleam of
hope.
"I never knew you felt like that. I never knew you COULD feel that
way," she said, in a colorless voice. "But you made a terrible mistake."
"Do you mean to say you don't love him?"
"No, I have loved him for a long time--I can't remember when it began."
She spoke very listlessly, looking past him as if at a long-familiar
picture which she was tired of contemplating. "I never knew what love
was before; I never even dreamed. I'd give my life right now--to undo
what you have done, just for his sake, for he is innocent. Oh, don't
sneer; it's true. He loves the Garavel girl, and wants to marry her."
"I know all that. I overheard you in the parlor below."
"Listen, please! I don't remember what I said then, and it doesn't
matter; you took too much for granted. We must talk plainly now,
before"--she pressed her palms to her temples as if they were
bursting--"before it becomes impossible. I never lied to you, Stephen.
Is that true?"
"I used to think so."
"I'm going to tell you the whole truth now without sparing myself. It
began, I think, at Taboga, that night when he kissed me. It was the
only time he ever did such a thing. It was dark, we were alone, I was
frightened, and it was purely impulse on his part. But it woke me up,
and all at once I knew how much he meant to me. I would have yielded
utterly to him then if he had let me, but he was panic-stricken. He
spoke of you, he apologized; I never saw a man in more misery. When I
had time to realize the truth I tried to fight it off. But it was no
use, and at last I gave up. After that I put myself in his way
deliberately. I offered him opportunities continually, but he never
seemed to see them. That day in the jungle I was desperate at his
indifference, and I drove the horses away when he wasn't looking. I
struck them with my crop--and I actually threw myself at him as boldly
as I could, regardless of consequences. But he was like ice; he was
speaking of you when you came. It has always been the same. When I
discovered that he cared for that girl--well, if you overheard you must
know. I frightened Garavel into dismissing him, and I set out to break
him, just to show him that he needed me. To-night I offered to divorce
you and make him all and more than I've made you, but he scorned me.
That's the truth, Stephen. If we believed in oaths, I would swear it."
No one who knew the woman could have disbelieved her, and to the
husband who knew her every mental and moral trait this bald, hopeless
confession came as a crushing anti-climax to his great effort. It left
him not the slightest doubt that she was honest. He said, dully, in a
feeble attempt to right himself:
"You are shielding him. You want to make me out wrong." But she knew he
knew.
"Those are the facts. Heaven knows they are bad enough, but they are by
no means so bad as you thought. And I'm your wife, Stephen. That thing
you did was brutal; those men will talk. I was guilty, no doubt, in my
thoughts, but I'm young, and you have no right to blight my life and my
reputation--yes, and yours--by a thing like that. We will have to meet
those men. What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," he said. "In all my life I never felt but one moment of
power, and that, it seems, was false. For years I have longed to show
myself a man, and now--what have I done? What have I done? I am no
monster." He moaned and sank limply into a chair, folding together in
an attitude of dejection that was pitiful. He raised his head and broke
out at her in a last spasm of desperation, as a dying ember flares even
while it crumbles. "My God! why couldn't you be consistent? Why did you
go half-way? Why couldn't you be all good or all bad and save me this?"
"All women are half good and half bad."
"I can't blame you for not loving me, I suppose," he mumbled. "No woman
of your kind could love a man like me."
"Those men!" she said, in a way that made him writhe.
"Wait until I--think. I must think."
"You can't think now, and neither can I."
"We must." He wrung his hands. "They'll never believe me--" There was a
long silence.
"Perhaps in the morning we can see a way out."
"That's it." He nodded. "You go to bed and I'll think. I'm trying to
think now, but this heat is suffocating me and my head is tired." He
brushed a hand feebly across his brow. "If it would only rain I--could
think better."
"Yes, and we must think of Anthony, too. No matter how you blame me,
you must realize that he was innocent, and perhaps, after all, he is
the one that you wronged deepest. He will have to meet those men, and
they were his friends."
Despite the breathless oppression of the night, she shivered. "_I_
never can meet them now, and I don't see how you will dare to, knowing
that you were wrong."
"Don't!" he pleaded. "The other was bad enough, but this--Tell me what
to do!"
"I can't. I don't know myself. All I can see is that those men will
never cease to believe, no matter what you tell them." She groped her
way to the window, but there was no relief even in the open air.
By-and-by she heard him sigh, then rise and say "Good-night."
As she prepared for bed an hour later she heard him still stirring
about in his quarters, but afterward, as she lay staring into the black
night, she was so busied with the frightful fancies that swarmed about
her that she did not detect his cautious footsteps when he stole out of
his chamber, closing the door softly behind him.
XXVIII
THE ANSWER
Kirk was roused from a heavy, senseless slumber the next morning by a
vigorous rapping at his door. He lay still for a time, vaguely
resentful of the noise, then glanced at his watch, and found, with a
shock, that it was quite late. Realizing only that he was due at the
office, he leaped out of bed. He opened the door and Runnels rushed in.
"Have you heard?"
"I heard your infernal pounding; that's what woke me up."
Runnels calmed his excitement, which Kirk now observed was intense.
"Where did you go after I left you last night?"
"I came here, of course." As the memory of the previous night swept
over him he scowled.
"Did you stay here?"
"No. I went out again, and was out nearly all night trying to walk it
off."
Runnels' face blanched, and he drew back.
"Then of course you know?"
"What?"
"About Cortlandt. He's dead!"
It was Kirk's turn to start and grow pale. The last cobweb was swept
from his brain, and he gasped:
"DEAD! When? Where? How did it happen?"
"Nobody knows just how. He was found on the sea-wall near Alfarez'
house, shot."
"Shot! Good Lord!"
"It happened some time early this morning, and the whole city is
talking about it. I came to you the first thing."
"We'd better hurry down there. Mrs. Cortlandt must be all broken up."
Kirk began to dress hastily, but paused as his friend stammered:
"Wait! I--I--let's understand each other first. I met Wade just now.
The news has rattled him, and he's been talking."
"What do you mean?"
"Did you see Cortlandt again after I left you?" Runnels swallowed hard.
Kirk whirled about and faced him. "Great heavens! No! See here, that
idea is ridiculous."
Runnels sank weakly into a chair and mopped his face. "I'm glad to hear
you say that. It frightened me just the same, for I remembered you
acted so queerly when I left you, and Wade seemed to think,
perhaps--When you said you'd gone out again, it knocked me flat,
understand?"
"I can prove where I was, for Allan was with me. I couldn't sleep, so I
tried to walk off my excitement. No, no. I couldn't do a thing like
that. I thought last night that I could, but--I couldn't, really."
"I'm afraid Wade will tell all about the party if we don't stop him."
"Then we'd better hunt him up." Kirk resumed his dressing, while
Runnels consulted his watch.
"No. 5 is due in twenty minutes. We'll probably find him at the office."
Together they hastened to the railroad building, Runnels telling all he
knew of the tragedy as they went along. Cortlandt's body, it seemed,
had been found about daylight by a Spiggoty policeman, who had
identified it. Becoming panic-stricken at the importance of his
discovery, he had sounded the alarm, then reported directly to the
Governor, whose house was close by. It was General Alfarez himself who
had informed Mrs. Cortlandt over the telephone of her husband's death.
The whole city was alive with the news, the police were buzzing like
bees. Rumors of suicide, murder, robbery were about, but no one seemed
to know anything definite. Colonel Jolson in his motor-car had just
come from Culebra, and Colonel Bland was on No. 5 from Gatun, hence
Runnels' desire to be at the station.
"It was suicide," Kirk averred, with conviction. "The man was insane
last night, and that accounts for what he said about me. He's been sick
for a long time."
"If those boys will only keep their mouths shut!" Runnels said,
anxiously. "There's no telling what these Spiggoties might do if they
heard about that row."
"Cortlandt was an American."
"But it happened in Panama, and it would be their affair."
Although it was Sunday, the four young fellows who had taken part in
the entertainment on the night before had gathered in the office, and
at the appearance of Runnels greeted him eagerly. Toward Kirk, however,
they maintained a disheartening constraint.
The Acting Superintendent began to caution them tersely.
"Boys, there's no use to tell you that we must keep still about what
happened last night. Kirk thinks Cortlandt's mind was unbalanced; but
whether it was or not, he left a widow, and what went on at that supper
must never leak out."
"Why do you think he was crazy?" Wade inquired.
"His actions last night would show it," Kirk answered. "The man must
have been out of his mind to believe or to say such a thing."
"You mean, then, that he shot himself?"
Kirk nodded.
"I don't agree with you. I've seen crazy people, but he was as sane as
any of us. And I don't believe in secrecy, either. I think we ought to
be entirely frank about the matter. The truth never hurt anybody."
"It's a bad business," said Runnels, "and it's something I for one
don't want to be mixed up in. I've heard rumors already about some sort
of a quarrel at our party, so I'm afraid you fellows have been talking."
Wade acknowledged it recklessly. "Yes, I'll answer for my part, and I'm
not going to make any promise of secrecy, either. If that affair had
anything to do with Steve Cortlandt's death, it ought to be known, so
the man who did it can be made to answer."
Into the office behind them came Ramon Alfarez and two Panamanian
policemen, one evidently a sergeant.
"Eh, there you are!" Alfarez cried, as he caught sight of Kirk. Then he
said something in Spanish to the sergeant, who advanced and laid hands
upon the American. "You are arrest'."
"What for?"
"Gentlemen, you will be so kind as to geeve the names, yes? The jodge
will desire to make inquiries regarding those sopper to Senor Cortlan'
las' night."
"What am I arrested for?" Kirk demanded.
"Come! You are arrest'. That is enough."
At that moment the building began to shake and reverberate, as No. 5
rolled in from Colon, bearing John Weeks, American Consul, and Mr.
Williams, of St. Louis, in one of the forward coaches. As the two
hurried out through the turnstiles, they found the street blocked by a
considerable crowd, evidently interested in something quite apart from
the arrival of the morning train. But before they could learn the
cause, out from the near-by building came Ramon Alfarez, accompanied by
several policemen and a group of railroad employes, among whom was Kirk
Anthony.
"There he is!" wheezed the consul, clutching at his companion's arm.
"Get him now, before his friends." But Williams had been even quicker
of eye than his fat guide, and was plunging through the crowd toward
his quarry. He thrust the policemen and the curious onlookers aside
and, laying hold of Anthony, cried in triumph:
"Well, Mr. Jefferson Locke, I want you."
"Hello, Williams! You got around finally, didn't you?" Kirk smiled at
him.
A little man in blue uniform was attempting to take the prisoner in
charge, but the detective disregarded him.
"It won't do you any good to resist," he went on. "I've come to get
you."
Runnels elbowed his way forward with a question.
"Oh, I've got a warrant for him," Williams declared. "What for? Well,
for one thing he embezzled eighty thousand dollars, and I'm going to
take him back."
"Eh? W'at is this?" Alfarez bustled into the conversation. "Embezzle?
He is then a t'ief?"
"Exactly. If you're the inspector I'll ask you to make this arrest for
me. I believe we're on foreign ground."
"That's right, Alfarez," came the voice of John Weeks, anxious to have
a word in the affair. "I'll vouch for Mr. Williams. This chap is a
smooth one, but his name isn't Anthony at all, nor Locke, either; it's
Wellar; and he's wanted for other things besides embezzlement." Turning
his triumphant little red eyes upon the prisoner, he puffed, "Got you,
didn't we?"
"I regret you 'ave arrive' so late," smirked Alfarez. "The gentleman is
already arrest' for the murder of Senor Cortlan'. He will first answer
to that, I assure you."
Kirk nodded. "Too bad, Williams! I'm sorry you didn't come last night."
They went on down the street, leaving the detective staring and Weeks
open-mouthed.
"Cortlandt murdered!" the consul gasped. "Lord! And to think I
nourished that viper at my breast."
Williams wheeled and cursed the fat man furiously. It was during the
lunch-hour that Ramon Alfarez called at the Garavel home, finding the
banker and his daughter still loitering over their midday meal and
discussing the topic that had electrified the whole city.
"Ah, Ramon!" the old gentleman began, eagerly. "Be seated and tell us
quickly the latest news. A terrible thing, was it not, this death of
our good friend? I have been to see his unfortunate widow, but even yet
I cannot believe it to be true."
"Yes. A terrible thing! It was only last night that we saw him well and
happy."
Although Alfarez was trembling with eagerness to tell his news, he also
meant to extract the greatest possible satisfaction from it, and now
bent an inquiring glance upon Gertrudis. His look turned to one of
malicious triumph as he saw that he was, indeed, the first to bring the
tidings of Anthony's arrest; for the girl's acceptance of his suit had
by no means wiped out the memory of her momentary preference for his
rival, and he had hastened hither straight from the police barracks,
delighting in the chance to make her suffer.
"So fine a man," the father was saying. "He was, indeed, my good
friend. It is shocking."
"Yes, and to think he should have been killed in this cowardly manner!"
"Killed! Is it believed that he was murdered? Caramba! I supposed he
had shot himself. That was the gossip an hour ago." Garavel was deeply
affected, and motioned for the dishes in front of him to be removed.
Ramon nodded. "There are suspicious circumstances, it seems. Last
night, after the ball, he had a serious quarrel--one of those American
fights, almost. That much is known."
Gertrudis, who had remained silent until now, her dark eyes clouded
with distress, said, sympathetically:
"And the poor lady! She must suffer terribly."
"Ah, perhaps! One cannot always tell!" Ramon shrugged and smiled.
"What do you mean?" cried Garavel. "This quarrel you speak of?
Continue, Ramon, I am consumed with eagerness."
"Upon leaving the Tivoli last night, Senor Cortlan' dined with six of
his friends at the Central. There was drinking. The waiters have been
questioned; also, one of the men who was present has recounted to me
what occurred. It seems that for a long time Senor Cortlan' has been
jealous of his wife."
"Impossible! Jealous? My dear Ramon, an admirable lady."
"I--I shall leave you, perhaps?" questioned Gertrudis, modestly, as she
rose, but Ramon exclaimed:
"No, no! By all means remain. I have remarkable things to disclose,
amazing news that will interest you. There was a serious altercation,
and Senor Cortlan' openly accused his enemy before all the others. It
was most dramatic, it was terrible! There was a scene of violence, the
other man made threats."
Garavel breathed an incredulous exclamation.
"Ah, but wait! It was Senor Cortlan's best friend, too, the man for
whom he had accomplished many favors whom he accused." He noted with
mingled anger and satisfaction the pallor that was creeping into the
girl's cheeks. "You would never guess. It was--I hesitate, and yet you
are bound to learn, my dear friends, it was this Ant'ony."
His moment had indeed been worth waiting for. It even went far to atone
for the sense of injury under which he smarted; for the banker was
stricken speechless, and his daughter went deathly white. Her eyes
began to fill with horror.
Garavel was the first to recover himself. "Infamous! It is
unbelievable! The wretch, then, had betrayed his friend."
"He is indeed a villain. That much I have always known."
"It is a lie!" said the girl, quietly. She had risen and was standing
straight, a tragic little figure.
"Gertrudis!" her father admonished. "You hear what Ramon has said."
"Yes!" said Ramon. "He deceived Senor Cortlan' very nicely; it had been
going on for months."
"It is a lie!" she repeated. "He loved no one but me."
"Gertrudis!" The banker was shocked beyond measure at what he
considered his daughter's jealousy. "Those are not nice words. He told
you so, yes; but if he would betray his best friend, he would deceive
you also. It was our great good-fortune to be done with him in time.
You will see now that I did well in sending him off--eh, Chiquita?"
"No! I do not believe you."
Ramon had not counted upon such a spirit, and, his anger getting the
better of him, he sneered: "I should not have spoken. I did not know
you still care."
"She does not care," Garavel declared, loudly.
"Ah, but I do. I love him very dearly."
The two men were upon their feet in an instant, staring at her, the
elder in amazement, the younger with rage and resentment blazing from
his countenance.
"Silence!" thundered the banker. "Yonder stands your affianced husband."
"It is a mistake--" she persisted, gently.
"No, no, no! There is no mistake," chattered Ramon. "Those other men
have told all, and your Ant'ony is now in the Carcel under guard. It
was I who saw to his arrest." The slender figure swayed, a tiny olive
hand fluttered to her breast.