Everything whizzed about Britton for a few seconds. In the red glow of
light from the demolished pavilion, the floor throbbed and rocked like
the deck of a yacht, and the glass walls of the conservatory tilted up
sharply. Rex put a hand on the wire which had held the curtains and
steadied himself.
"So it was design," he said harshly, accusingly.
One glance at his face told Maud Morris that honeyed words could not
subjugate him. Appeal was rendered useless for her purpose; there
remained compulsion. She stepped back a little at his grim anger till
she leaned against some flowering vine in the corner window-box. Between
them stood a small table on which rested the adjuncts of her pretended
art.
"Yes," she corroborated, with a flicker of satire, "it was design. You
know, Rex, that I have no faith whatever in coincidence. You believed
me to be thousands of miles away in Dawson City?"
"Why have you dogged me?" demanded Britton, bluntly. "To impersonate
Mrs. Grundy as you did last winter in that same place?"
"Was it so illy done?" she questioned in turn, with a cruel intonation.
Her fingers broke a bloom from the vine, and she caressed it with her
lips.
"It was art-fine art," Rex bitterly declared, "and it accomplished the
intended purpose of involving me in an intricacy of despair. Your
appearance here hints at a repetition of that trouble. Is that your
object? Have you trailed me in order to work fresh mischief?" He spoke
with the air of a man driven to bay, one whose impulse is to face and
have done with a difficulty once for all.
"The question of mischief-making rests with yourself," Maud Morris
temporized. "I admit that I followed you, faked connections with the
Mahatma Institute in order to be present to-night--"
"Why to-night?" Britton interrupted, regarding the soulless thing
searchingly.
"I wished to see you before tomorrow," the woman answered, "before you
accept that nomination." She turned away a little to the open window
and looked indifferently out upon the long, shadowed gardens, as if
placing no weight upon her observation.
The action vindicated a former power of command, and a momentary triumph
was obtained. Rex dropped his uplifted hand from the wire so swiftly
that the tautened metal sang in a high-pitched crescendo, and he took
two quick steps to her side.
"You are deeper than any Mahatma witch," he said tersely, "and there is
something behind your words. Why did you wish to see me before the
Convention tomorrow?"
There was a short pause while she picked reflectively at the sleeve of
the loose Oriental gown which enveloped her supple body. Then she faced
Britton squarely, her blue-green eyes glowing into his.
"Because you will never accept that nomination," she answered
dramatically.
The unexpected shot told. Rex started, but the necessity of the moment
recalled his sang-froid, and he showed no sign of inward perturbation.
"I surprise you?" She was feeling for the effect with both voice and
eye.
"Surprise?" Rex parleyed. "Why should I be surprised at anything you do
or say? My experience with and observation of you has been infinitely
varied and valuably instructive. No, I am not at all astonished, only
mystified. You will, of course, explain!"
She bit her lip in obvious displeasure at her failure to move him and at
his cool criticism of her fickle, spiteful disposition, which had been
revealed all too fully in times that were dead to Britton. She made a
slight, almost imperceptible motion that brought her nearer to him.
"You will, of course, explain," Rex repeated, coldly attentive.
"Willingly!" she abruptly exclaimed. "The man who came alone out of
Five Mountain Gulch can never represent New Shoreham when New Shoreham
knows the facts connected with that great Five Mountain strike!" She
met Britton's intense gaze with a level glance full of a subtle
confidence and waited for his utter confusion, the anticipated result of
her significant explanation.
But the anticipated result was not realized in that way! The perturbing
effect she expected did not follow her pointed words. That they had any
influence on Britton was shown only by the stiffening of his shoulders
and the squaring of his stern jaw. The absence of fear, the presence of
which had been exultingly foreseen by Maud Morris, tended to vaguely
disconcert her.
"Your impression does not coincide with mine?" she asked at last,
indecision being noticeable in her tone.
Britton reached out both arms, resting his palms heavily on the
window-sill, and looked at her with head turned sidewise. His profile
in the subdued red light was grim and powerful as granite sculpturing.
"Suppose," he began brusquely, "that New Shoreham knows. What is left
for the man?"
Maud Morris smiled. "Your intuition is almost womanly," she said with
returning assurance. "For the man? I should surely suggest some
far-away, far-away part where no one knows or cares. There the man
would easily find respite, especially if he had the companionship of,
say, a very old friend, a-a friend whom perhaps he once regarded
highly." Her meaning was flagrantly vivid. The night breeze stirred
her garments, wafting a faint, enervating perfume to Britten's nostrils.
The fountain water plashed timidly now, and the spectral shadows
crouched on the clipped lawns. Over the thick woodland copse the angry
lightning clawed the black horizon into a million red-edged fragments.
Rex found himself in a position singularly difficult and unpleasant. It
bordered even on the dangerous. Mingled irresolution and indignation
handicapped him in a measure, but he decided to persevere in sounding
this woman's intentions to the very bottom.
"Granted that the oblivion you speak of and the escape from consequence
could be so found," Britton said, "there is a thing which you persist in
overlooking, the possibility of the man having a wife."
A warning note of wrath accompanied Britton's last word. Any keen ear
might have recognized it, but Maud Morris was so engrossed with the
working out of the systematic project upon which she had embarked that
she missed the voiced danger signal.
"I do not overlook that," she remarked with an inconsequent shrug. "I
ignore it!"
All Britton's suppressed anger broke bounds and flamed to the surface.
He whirled suddenly and struck his clenched right hand in the open palm
of his left.
"Look here," he cried, coming to the point with a graphic directness
which was a most creditable trait of his character, "I think I have
grasped your meaning and your proposition. I must refuse this
nomination, desert my wife, and disappear in a foreign country or you
will tell what you know of Five Mountain Gulch. Am I right?"
"On the whole, yes," she replied, maintaining her brazen serenity in the
face of his wrath. "I swore I would separate you from that little saint,
and, before heaven, I will!"
"Why did you not act before, in Dawson?"
"I learned what I know at Samson Creek when Morris died," she said
impetuously. "You had started for England when I got back to Dawson. I
came on your heels, and I am to have my revenge."
"So your informant was Morris," Rex commented with a certain relief.
"Do you expect to intimidate me by the use of a dying man's delirium, by
means of some irrational tale? Let me tell you, Maud Morris, that I
have walked too close to real danger to be frightened by a phantom!"
"Morris knew everything," she cried vehemently. "He followed you all the
way up the Klondike to Five Mountain Gulch and saw you shoot Lessari."
Britton reeled, self-control shocked out of him.
"Morris did?" he stammered-"but it was self-defence-"
"Was it?" she interrupted, leering into his face with supercilious
smiles. "Would the public believe it? Have you an atom of proof? You
may say that the lack of proof, of substantiation, works both ways.
That may be, but proof is not necessary for my purpose. The simple
statement, the all-pervading rumor, the unpreventable scandal, will do
far better. Do you see where you are now, Rex,-the old, proud Rex? Do
you know where you are? Yes, you do-in my hand!" She slowly closed her
outstretched fingers.
Egotistical triumph gleamed in her every lineament. Britton, wrestling
with his deep problem, did not mark her expression, for he had made a
vital discovery which filled him with mental disgust.
"I know now the mysteries of the poisoned dogs and the sled plunging
into the abyss," he announced in a horrified way, "and I can tell you
where your husband is at this moment. Morris is in hell, suffering
torment for a double murder! Twice in that frozen wilderness he
apparently compassed our destruction with the most diabolical intent.
He is as guilty as if Lessari and myself had both died at his hand."
Britton's awful earnestness embarrassed her, but she made a pretence of
laughing sceptically. Distant thunder echoed with her laugh in low
growlings and mutterings, and the far-off rising downs were nakedly
etched by vivid, incessant streaks of lightning as if the mountain
spirits were working themselves up to a climax of passion that must
culminate in a ruthless and pathetic tragedy.
The strains of the orchestra in the drawing-rooms were drowned by the
threatenings of the storm, and Rex could hear people hurrying in from
the gardens and lawns and from the river to reach cover and escape the
expected deluge. An unconscious wonderment as to whether young Guy
Rossland had lost himself in searching for the next man whose name was
on the theosophist's list passed through Britton's mind. The false
theosophist herself interrupted his pondering.
"If Morris is guilty through intent," she said, "what of your own deed?"
The shallow mockery of her glance belied the sense of judicious
importance she tried to attach to her utterance. Rex commenced to see at
last that the woman was but playing for a stake and holding all the
trumps.
"I feel no guilt, nothing but remorse," he replied, "for I stand clear
of any deliberate act."
"But you cannot prove it," she cautioned. "Picture public condemnation
and horror when they know!"
"Go and tell them," Rex fiercely returned, accepting with his accustomed
thrill the combat which could not be averted.
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Then with such permission I shall tell your wife
first."
Britton winced visibly, and his face was bereft of its ruddy color. He
caught the woman's wrists with the motion of crushing a venomous thing.
"Good God, you vampire!" he cried.
She had used some weapon known only to themselves, and, judging by its
effect on the two standing thus, the weapon was one of incalculable
cruelty.