The shriek of the railway whistle recalled George Montgomery to a sense
of his desperate situation, and, at the same time, suggested a means of
escape. The 8.45 fast up-train was arriving. It was due in New York an
hour later. There was the barest possibility that he might be arrested
on his arrival in New York, but, on the other hand, the general
ignorance as to his having been at the scene of the murder, the distance
from the telegraph station, and the infinite advantages presented by the
great metropolis for concealing his identity, far out-balanced the
possible risk, and the fugitive hesitatingly entered the train.
For the first time in his life he anathemized the long, well-lit cars
common to all, and remembered with regret the narrow and private
first-class carriages which he had seen on the English railroads. How he
would have liked to bury himself between their sheltering cushions, and
by means of a handsome fee to the guard have secured the compartment to
himself.
Who shall describe what the murderer feels during the first hour of his
criminal life, when the crime has been unpremeditated, and there has
been no previous process of hardening up? An hour ago this man was one
who rightly claimed the respect of all his fellow-men, and had his claim
abundantly allowed. _Now_ he had fallen, sheer and at a single plunge,
through civilization’s whole strata of respectability, to find himself
jarred and stupefied by the fall on the bed-rock of crime, below which
nothing human goes. He picked up a paper lying in the adjoining seat,
and his eye caught the heading of a flagrant defalcation unearthed that
day. Two hours previous he had read the same news and had felt only
contempt for the miserable delinquent; _now_ the mere swindler seemed as
far removed from him in the category of crime as Lazarus in Heaven
seemed removed from Dives in torment.
As the train sped on, the remembrance of his wife’s infidelity finally
drove all thought of his crime from his mind. As memory, ruthless and
unsparing, pictured to his gaze all that they had been to each other,
and recalled every incident of their courtship and marriage, when he had
so blindly and foolishly thought that they were all the world to each
other, the limits of the carriage in which he traveled seemed impossible
to hold him, and the old lust of murder crept up on his brain like a
returning springtide.
When the fresh paroxysm had spent itself the train entered New York.
Within twenty minutes a carriage stopped at a certain number in Nassau
Street, and the fugitive, with the aid of his private key, entered his
office. As he did so, the janitor handed him some letters which had
arrived since he had left. These he carelessly cast aside, reserving
one, the handwriting of which seemed familiar. This he laid on one side.
There was no lack of decision in George Montgomery’s actions. First of
all, he wrote a letter to his partner, saying that circumstances beyond
his control compelled his temporary absence, and requesting that until
further advised, a certain sum be paid monthly to his wife. He also
intimated that he had taken with him a copy of the firm’s telegraphic
code which he would use if necessary.
After concluding such arrangements as he deemed advisable for the
proper conduct of the business during his absence, he withdrew from the
safe a considerable sum of money, substituting his check on a leading
bank for the same. Then, after ringing for a messenger boy, he ran his
fingers through his address-book and having consulted the shipping list
to see as to the outgoing vessels, a sudden inspiration seemed to seize
him, and he ordered a cab and drove to the private residence of Isamord
Hadley, principal owner of the New York & Spanish Steamship Company.
“The tide serves at 3 A.M.,” he muttered, as he took his seat in a cab,
“and I believe Spain has no extradition treaty with this country, and if
she has, no American detective could find me there, so long as I have
plenty of money.”
To the majority of criminals such a reflection would have been like a
reprieve from death, but the brooding brow and leaden eye of this man
told that there was no balm in Gilead for his tortured soul, and that
wherever he went, and to the last breath of his life, he must carry with
him, like an incurable, malignant cancer, the knowledge of a crime,
horrifying beyond conception to his mind, and yet unrepented of,
because amply justified by the monstrous circumstance of his bride’s
infidelity. His unbalanced mind inveighed against Heaven for loading him
with a trial so far beyond mortal strength or endurance. Like stormy
gusts of passion these wild, rebellious thoughts swept across his mind,
wrecking and devastating the training of a lifetime as they went, and
leaving him faint and breathless with their fury.
During the mental lull which followed one of these outbursts he
bethought him of the letter of which the handwriting was familiar. This
letter, which he had selected from the others which the janitor had
given him, he had placed in his pocket, and he now essayed to open it.
The jolting of the cab and the uncertain light of the street, however,
made him change his mind, and he returned the letter to his pocket
unopened.
Presently the cab stopped and the fugitive alighted. Upon inquiry, he
found that his friend was at home and ready to see him. These two men
had been bosom friends from their boyhood, and their friendship had in
maturer years become intensified and solidified by the fact that they
were brother Masons in the same lodge.
Isamord Hadley’s face grew white and grave as his friend told him of the
events of that terrible evening.
“You surely must be dreaming, George,” he said at length, “I have not
seen much of your wife, but from what I did see I would pledge my life
unhesitatingly on her innocence. For Heaven’s sake, man, go back to
her.”
“Never while I live will I willingly look on her face again.” This was
said fiercely and with an air of great determination, but with a quiver
in the brusqueness of his voice, and then the poor tortured soul turned
his head to hide the great sobs which now shook his frame. The kindly
voice and the sympathetic eye of his old friend had, for the time being,
exorcised the demon of jealousy, and now poor George Montgomery stood
revealed a most miserable, broken-hearted man.
“You forget the murder,” at length he faltered; “how could I ever go
back?”
Two hours later Mr. Hadley left his house in company with George
Montgomery in disguise. A cab took them to the docks, and when they
stepped on board the “City of Seville” Montgomery was introduced to the
Captain as Mr. Angus Forman, a citizen of Chicago bound for Cadiz. As
owner of the vessel, Mr. Hadley bespoke for his friend every kind
attention and assistance which the captain and officers could render
him. Before leaving he took an opportunity of explaining to the captain
that his friend’s journey was partly undertaken on account of his
health, which had become impaired through over-work, and partly through
a recent family trouble, the details of which he did not enter into.
At 3.15 A.M. the “City of Seville” raised her anchor and left her
moorings, and when the early summer’s morning dawned, she was fast
leaving the land behind her.
As the outline of the shore grew dim, the solitary passenger on board
the “City of Seville” strained his gaze to catch the latest glimpse of
land, and the summons of the steward to breakfast fell unheeded on his
ears. At length, when the haze hid the land from view, and only the
heaving billows met his eye on every side, he turned away.
Half an hour later the captain on the bridge saw the figure of a man
fall prone on deck. The occurrence was unusual, and the captain left his
post to ascertain what it meant. He found his guest, Mr. Angus Forman,
lying insensible with an open letter tightly grasped in his hand. By the
captain’s orders, the passenger was removed to his cabin, where he
shortly afterwards regained consciousness. As sensibility returned, his
first gaze was directed to the letter, which was still clenched, all
crumpled, in his stiffened grasp.
“Oh, unhappy wretch that I am, and more than murderer,” he moaned. “My
poor, faithful darling, I have killed your brother and now you must
loathe me forevermore. Oh, why did I leave that cursed ring there to
establish my guilt!” As the wailing died from his lips, he turned from
the light as a creature stricken to death retreats to the darkest corner
of its lair to die in.
That night the strange passenger of the “City of Seville” was raving in
delirium, and for weeks, while the sailing vessel ploughed on its
monotonous way, he lay between life and death.
At length there came a day when the watchers by the invalid’s side
surrendered all hope, and it was then that, for the first time, the
captain felt it incumbent upon him to read the letter which had
apparently precipitated the catastrophe.
In itself the letter gave little clue to the secret of his passenger,
but coupled with the latter’s incoherent ravings, the captain was able
to arrive at a fairly accurate knowledge of what the secret was.
The letter was addressed to George Montgomery and was evidently from his
wife’s grandmother. In it the writer intimated that her grand-daughter,
through dread that it might lessen her husband’s love for her, had
concealed from him the fact that she had a scapegrace brother. The old
lady thought that _any_ secret between husband and wife was harmful, and
in that belief she had thought it best to make him acquainted with the
fact, so that he might find some opportunity to pave the way towards
inviting his wife’s full confidence, and so remove what might be a
future cause of grave misunderstanding. “I am the more anxious to set
you two right on this matter,” she continued, “because I feel that
sooner or later you will yourself hear of my wretched grandson from
outside sources, and if the indications are correct, sooner rather than
later, as he is again in some trouble or other, and likely to come for
help to his sister, as he has been in the habit of doing. It seemed to
me that I saw him lurking about our house to-day, but my eyesight is
very indifferent and I cannot speak positively as to this.” The letter
concluded with an urgent appeal to him to remember his wife’s
sensitiveness of mind as well as her delicacy of constitution, and to
invite and not force her confidence.
After he had finished the letter, the captain looked at the name on the
envelope. He was a self-contained, trustworthy man, and beyond a
prolonged “Ah--h,” as he noted the discrepancy between the names of
Montgomery and Forman, he gave no utterance to his feelings, as he
passed to his cabin, where he again sealed up the passenger’s letter and
addressed it (Mr. Angus Forman).
At midnight the captain was summoned to the sick man’s side.
“He is sinking fast,” explained the first officer in a low tone, “but he
is conscious at last, and wishes to see you.”