She went straight down to the big living room and drew Vance away,
mindless of her guests. He came humming until he was past the door and in
the shadowy hall. Then he touched her arm, suddenly grown serious.
"What's wrong, Elizabeth?"
Her voice was low, vibrating with fierceness. And Vance blessed the
dimness of the hall, for he could feel the blood recede from his face and
the sweat stand on his forehead.
"Vance, if you've done what I think you've done, you're lower than a
snake, and more poisonous and more treacherous. And I'll cut you out of
my heart and my life. You know what I mean?"
It was really the first important crisis that he had ever faced. And now
his heart grew small, cold. He knew, miserably, his own cowardice. And
like all cowards, he fell back on bold lying to carry him through. It was
a triumph that he could make his voice steady--more than steady. He could
even throw the right shade of disgust into it.
"Is this another one of your tantrums, Elizabeth? By heavens, I'm growing
tired of 'em. You continually throw in my face that you hold the strings
of the purse. Well, tie them up as far as I'm concerned. I won't whine.
I'd rather have that happen than be tyrannized over any longer."
She was much shaken. And there was a sting in this reproach that carried
home to her; there was just a sufficient edge of truth to wound her. Had
there been much light, she could have read his face; the dimness of the
hall was saving Vance, and he knew it.
"God knows I'd like to believe that you haven't had anything to do with
it. But you and I are the only two people in the world who know the
secret of it--"
He pretended to guess. "It's something about Terence? Something about his
father?"
Again she was disarmed. If he were guilty, it was strange that he should
approach the subject so openly. And she began to doubt.
"Vance, he knows everything! Everything except the real name of Black
Jack!"
"Good heavens!"
She strained her eyes through the shadows to make out his real
expression; but there seemed to be a real horror in his restrained
whisper.
"It isn't possible, Elizabeth!"
"It came in that letter. That letter I wanted to open, and which you
persuaded me not to!" She mustered all her damning facts one after
another. "And it was postmarked from Craterville. Vance, you have been in
Craterville lately!"
He seemed to consider.
"Could I have told anyone? Could I, possibly? No, Elizabeth, I'll give
you my word of honor that I've never spoken a syllable about that subject
to anyone!"
"Ah, but what have you written?"
"I've never put pen to paper. But--how did it happen?"
He had control of himself now. His voice was steadier. He could feel her
recede from her aggressiveness.
"It was dated after you left Craterville, of course. And--I can't stand
imagining that you could be so low. Only, who else would have a motive?"
"But how was it done?"
"They sent him an article about his father and a picture of Black Jack
that happens to look as much like Terry as two peas."
"Then I have it! If the picture looks like Terry, someone took it for
granted that he'd be interested in the similarity. That's why it was
sent. Unless they told him that he was really Black Jack's son. Did the
person who sent the letter do that?"
"There was no letter. Only a magazine clipping and the photograph of the
painting."
They were both silent. Plainly she had dismissed all idea of her
brother's guilt.
"But what are we going to do, Elizabeth? And how has he taken it?"
"Like poison, Vance. He--he burned all the Colby pictures. Oh, Vance,
twenty-four years of work are thrown away!"
"Nonsense! This will all straighten out. I'm glad he's found out. Sooner
or later he was pretty sure to. Such things will come to light."
"Vance, you'll help me? You'll forgive me for accusing you, and you'll
help me to keep Terry in hand for the next few days? You see, he declared
that he will not be ashamed of his father."
"You can't blame him for that."
"God knows I blame no one but myself."
"I'll help you with every ounce of strength in my mind and body, my
dear."
She pressed his hand in silence.
"I'm going up to talk with him now," he said. "I'm going to do what I can
with him. You go in and talk. And don't let them see that anything is
wrong."
The door had not been locked again. He entered at the call of Terry and
found him leaning over the hearth stirring up the pile of charred paper
to make it burn more freely. A shadow crossed the face of Terry as he saw
his visitor, but he banished it at once and rose to greet him. In his
heart Vance was a little moved. He went straight to the younger man and
took his hand.
"Elizabeth has told me," he said gently, and he looked with a moist eye
into the face of the man who, if his plans worked out, would be either
murderer or murdered before the close of the next day. "I am very sorry,
Terence."
"I thought you came to congratulate me," said Terry, withdrawing his
hand.
"Congratulate you?" echoed Vance, with unaffected astonishment.
"For having learned the truth," said Terry. "Also, for having a father
who was a strong man."
Vance could not resist the opening.
"In a way, I suppose he was," he said dryly. "And if you look at it in
that way, I do congratulate you, Terence!"
"You've always hated me, Uncle Vance," Terry declared. "I've known it all
these years. And I'll do without your congratulations."
"You're wrong, Terry," said Vance. He kept his voice mild. "You're very
wrong. But I'm old enough not to take offense at what a young spitfire
says."
"I suppose you are," retorted Terry, in a tone which implied that he
himself would never reach that age.
"And when a few years run by," went on Vance, "you'll change your
viewpoint. In the meantime, my boy, let me give you this warning. No
matter what you think about me, it is Elizabeth who counts."
"Thanks. You need have no fear about my attitude to Aunt Elizabeth. You
ought to know that I love her, and respect her."
"Exactly. But you're headstrong, Terry. Very headstrong. And so is
Elizabeth. Take your own case. She took you into the family for the sake
of a theory. Did you know that?"
The boy stiffened. "A theory?"
"Quite so. She wished to prove that blood, after all, was more talk than
a vital influence. So she took you in and gave you an imaginary line of
ancestors with which you were entirely contented. But, after all, it has
been twenty-four years of theory rather than twenty-four years of Terry.
You understand?"
"It's a rather nasty thing to hear," said Terence huskily. "Perhaps
you're right. I don't know. Perhaps you're right."
"And if her theory is proved wrong--look out, Terry! She'll throw you out
of her life without a second thought."
"Is that a threat?"
"My dear boy, not by any means. You think I have hated you? Not at all. I
have simply been indifferent. Now that you are in more or less trouble,
you see that I come to you. And hereafter if there should be a crisis,
you will see who is your true friend. Now, good night!"
He had saved his most gracious speech until the very end, and after it he
retired at once to leave Terence with the pleasant memory in his mind.
For he had in his mind the idea of a perfect crime for which he would not
be punished. He would turn Terry into a corpse or a killer, and in either
case the youngster would never dream who had dealt the blow.
No wonder, then, as he went downstairs, that he stepped onto the veranda
for a few moments. The moon was just up beyond Mount Discovery; the
valley unfolded like a dream. Never had the estate seemed so charming to
Vance Cornish, for he felt that his hand was closing slowly around his
inheritance.