A Desperate Remedy
I took the envelopes from the man and told him he might go. Now for it!
I thought. Now to see whether the edifice I had builded had but a
foundation of sand, or whether Wildred had merely been clever enough to
pull wool over the eyes of the police.
My heart was thumping with excitement as I opened the first envelope.
"_St. Paul_ in to-night. First-class passenger on board named
Harvey Farnham."
I laid the bit of paper down dazedly and took up the other. It was from
the manager of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, in New York. "Mr. Farnham
telegraphed to keep room for him. Is spending day or two with friends."
I did not know what to think. It all sounded straightforward enough, and
it was not credible that either the official in the office of the
American liners, or the manager of an hotel, could be in collusion with
Carson Wildred. Still, I was far from being satisfied.
For the moment I had done all that I could do. If Farnham was stopping
with a friend, whose address was unknown to me, I could not at present
expect to receive an answer either to my New York or Denver cable. In a
day or two the police would hear something from the other side, and
meanwhile I must possess my soul in patience.
This was a thing easier said than done, especially as, when aimlessly
glancing at a weekly paper in the club next day, I came across a
paragraph which gushed in the conventionally nauseous manner over the
forthcoming marriage of the beautiful young heiress, Miss Karine
Cunningham, and Mr. Carson Wildred, the "well-known millionaire and
popular man of Society."
Days never dragged as they did with me until I received the promised
intimation from my friend the inspector that tidings had arrived from
the police in New York. It was all right, so far as my friend was
concerned, and I need have no further fears regarding his safety. The
body found in the Thames was certainly not that of Mr. Harvey Farnham,
as he was in New York, and had actually been interviewed there. He had
been very ill in crossing, and had had the misfortune to fall down the
companionway on shipboard, in a heavy gale, spraining his ankle. He
would not be able to resume his journey and proceed to Denver for some
time to come, but had laughed at the idea of any foul play. When
questioned on the subject of the ring, he said that he had given it to
his friend, Mr. Wildred, at parting, and jokingly added that he had
experienced great difficulty in getting it off.
In these circumstances, as there could be no further doubt of Mr.
Farnham's living presence in New York, no possible shadow of suspicion
need any longer rest upon Mr. Carson Wildred, who had throughout done
all in his power to further the investigations. The search for the man
from the camp near the backwater would therefore be carried on upon the
same lines as before.
A hot sense of injustice burned within me. I had been thwarted on every
side, not, I believed, by the revelation of truth, but by Carson
Wildred's superior cunning. He had boasted to me that, in the
_role_ of villain, he would have been more successful than I; and I
was quite ready to agree with this statement. All things seemed against
me, and yet something which I took to be instinct cried aloud that my
dream had not deceived. I could not understand how it was that the New
York police had been made to believe in the identity of a man falsely
representing himself to be Harvey Farnham, yet I was convinced that in
some devilish way even they had been cozened. No other man living,
perhaps, could have undertaken so huge a scheme, with so many different
strings to pull at one and the same time, and successfully carry it
through, save Carson Wildred. But Carson Wildred _had_ attempted
it, I concluded, and having gone so far, there was every reason to
suppose he would triumph if I--who alone of all men seemed personally
interested--did not set myself to the finding of a new method for
blocking his game.
I could, I thought, understand what his motive for so foul a murder
might have been. He had just purchased a valuable gold mine from
Farnham. Should Farnham be made to vanish without fear of suspicion
falling upon Wildred, the latter might not only be the owner of the
mine, but repossess himself of the purchase-money, which must have
comprised a very large sum.
There was no further hope from the police. They had done their duty, had
satisfied themselves on every point, and it would have been unjust to
expect that they should continue to exert themselves in favouring my
apparently wild view of the situation.
In the midst of the cogitations which followed upon the receipt of the
inspector's letter another cablegram was handed in to me. This time it
purported to be from Farnham himself, merely saying, "Many thanks for
kind enquiries. Have turned up here smiling, but too seedy to write at
present. Glad to hear from you.--Fifth Avenue Hotel."
One more blow aimed at my theory! But I refused to be knocked down by
it. For Karine's sake, for my own sake, I would follow my convictions
across the sea, and never rest until I had settled all doubts for
myself.
It was then Friday. In five minutes after reading this third and
apparently conclusive cablegram I had resolved that on the following
day, Saturday, I would sail for New York.
It was only by a severe mental wrench that I arrived at this almost
desperate decision, for I stood between two fires, either one of which
might reduce my hopes to ashes.
Going to America meant leaving Karine Cunningham, at this critical
juncture, to the mercy of the enemy. I had offered her friendship, and
such protection as I could give, against those who were bent on forcing
her inclinations; and with a look in her sweet eyes, and a soft quiver
in her voice which I could never forget, she had asked me "not to go
away." If I went, and any harm should come to her during my absence, I
could never forgive myself, never again know a moment's peace of mind.
And yet--if I stayed, what was there to hope for either of us? I had
shot all my arrows, and they had glanced off, blunted, from Wildred's
apparently invulnerable armour. I had lost the chance of gaining
assistance from the police, so far as I could see, and unless some
miracle should suddenly come to pass, I should be obliged to stand by
while Karine Cunningham gave her unwilling self to Wildred.
Whatever her secret reason for consenting to do so might be, she had
plainly let me understand that she meant to marry the man, unless Fate
especially intervened in her behalf.
There was no hope that she would let me save her by carrying her away. I
had not even the slightest reason to suppose that she cared for me, save
as a friend, in the midst of what otherwise she had said would be
friendlessness.
My hands were bound, therefore, so long as Carson Wildred was able to
hold up his guilty head before the world, and pass himself off as a
blameless member of society.
Between the horns of this dilemma--and heaven knows they were both sharp
enough--I could only choose the one on which Karine and I seemed less
likely to be torn; and therefore it was that I elected to go to America.
I did not feel that I could bear to leave without a word to her. How
could I tell in what light my absence might be made to appear? From the
vague hints she had dropped as to her relations with Sir Walter and Lady
Tressidy, I hardly considered that it would be safe to write to her.
Such a letter as I must send, should I write at all, if read by eyes for
which it was not intended, might bring Karine into serious trouble. It
was true that Lady Tressidy had appeared to be inclined towards
friendliness with me, but she had then no suspicions of my attitude to
Karine.
I would go down into the country and call upon Lady Tressidy and Miss
Cunningham, I resolved; and if I had no opportunity of speaking with my
beautiful girl in private, I would contrive to slip into her own hand a
note previously prepared.
My decisions, when made, are usually soon acted upon. Within a couple of
hours after receiving the inspector's letter and the message from New
York my passage was engaged for the following day. A curious mood was
upon me as I began my preparations. Hardly more than a fortnight ago I
had been congratulating myself on the prospect of a considerable stay in
London. My ideal existence had for the moment been an utterly aimless
one. I was sated with excitement and what is popularly called
"adventure," and had only wanted to rest and amuse myself. I had meant
to be a man about town until I should again tire of the life, drifting
agreeably here and there, taking pleasure as it came, troubling myself
little either about other people's affairs or my own.
And this was the result of my plan. There seemed a certain unreality
about it all. I felt like the puppet of circumstances, or one who moved
through strange mazes, half conscious that he merely dreams.
By two o'clock everything was arranged for my departure on Saturday, and
I was at Waterloo, taking my ticket for Haslemere, which was the station
nearest to Sir Walter Tressidy's country place.