He flushed and glowered at her in somber silence, but she moved about
the room calmly, giving it a housekeeper's critical inspection, and
apparently unconscious of his anger.
"I don't believe you ever cared for any one in all your life," he said
roughly. "If you had, you would know."
She was straightening a picture over the mantel, and she completed her
work before she turned.
"I care for you."
"That's different."
"Very well, then. I cared for your father. I cared terribly. And he
killed my love."
She padded out of the room, her heavy square body in its blazing kimono
a trifle rigid, but her face still and calm. He remained staring at
the door when she had closed it, and for some time after. He knew what
message for him had lain behind that emotionless speech of hers, not
only understanding, but a warning. She had cared terribly, and his
father had killed that love. He had drunk and played through his gay
young life, and then he had died, and no one had greatly mourned him.
She had left the decanter on its stand, and he made a movement toward
it. Then, with a half smile, he picked it up and walked to the window
with it. He was still smiling, half boyishly, as he put out his light
and got into bed. It had occurred to him that the milkman's flivver,
driving in at the break of dawn, would encounter considerable glass.
By morning, after a bad night, he had made a sort of double-headed
resolution, that he was through with booze, as he termed it, and that
he would find out how he stood with Elizabeth. But for a day or two no
opportunity presented itself. When he called there was always present
some grave-faced sympathizing visitor, dark clad and low of voice, and
over the drawing-room would hang the indescribable hush of a house
in mourning. It seemed to touch Elizabeth, too, making her remote and
beyond earthly things. He would go in, burning with impatience, hungry
for the mere sight of her, fairly overcharged with emotion, only to face
that strange new spirituality that made him ashamed of the fleshly urge
in him.
Once he found Clare Rossiter there, and was aware of something electric
in the air. After a time he identified it. Behind the Rossiter girl's
soft voice and sympathetic words, there was a veiled hostility. She
was watching Elizabeth, was overconscious of her. And she was, for some
reason, playing up to himself. He thought he saw a faint look of relief
on Elizabeth's face when Clare at last rose to go.
"I'm on my way to see the man Dick Livingstone left in his place,"
Clare said, adjusting her veil at the mirror. "I've got a cold. Isn't it
queer, the way the whole Livingstone connection is broken up?"
"Hardly queer. And it's only temporary."
"Possibly. But if you ask me, I don't believe Dick will come back. Mind,
I don't defend the town, but it doesn't like to be fooled. And he's
fooled it for years. I know a lot of people who'd quit going to him."
She turned to Wallie.
"He isn't David's nephew, you know. The question is, who is he? Of
course I don't say it, but a good many are saying that when a man takes
a false identity he has something to hide."
She gave them no chance to reply, but sauntered out with her
sex-conscious, half-sensuous walk. Outside the door her smile faded,
and her face was hard and bitter. She might forget Dick Livingstone,
but never would she forgive herself for her confession to Elizabeth, nor
Elizabeth for having heard it.
Wallie turned to Elizabeth when she had gone, slightly bewildered.
"What's got into her?" he inquired. And then, seeing Elizabeth's white
face, rather shrewdly: "That was one for him and two for you, was it?"
"I don't know. Probably."
"I wonder if you would look like that if any one attacked me!"
"No one attacks you, Wallie."
"That's not an answer. You wouldn't, would you? It's different, isn't
it?"
"Yes. A little."
He straightened, and looked past her, unseeing, at the wall. "I guess
I've known it for quite a while," he said at last. "I didn't want to
believe it, so I wouldn't. Are you engaged to him?"
"Yes. It's not to be known just yet, Wallie."
"He's a good fellow," he said, after rather a long silence. "Not that
that makes it easier," he added with a twisted smile. Then, boyishly and
unexpectedly he said, "Oh, my God!"
He sat down, and when the dog came and placed a head on his knee he
patted it absently. He wanted to go, but he had a queer feeling that
when he went he went for good.
"I've cared for you for years," he said. "I've been a poor lot, but I'd
have been a good bit worse, except for you."
And again:
"Only last night I made up my mind that if you'd have me, I'd make
something out of myself. I suppose a man's pretty weak when he puts a
responsibility like that on a girl."
She yearned over him, rather. She made little tentative overtures of
friendship and affection. But he scarcely seemed to hear them, wrapped
as he was in the selfish absorption of his disappointment. When she
heard the postman outside and went to the door for the mail, she thought
he had not noticed her going. But when she returned he was watching her
with jealous, almost tragic eyes.
"I suppose you hear from him by every mail."
"There has been nothing to-day."
Something in her voice or her face made him look at her closely.
"Has he written at all?"
"The first day he got there. Not since."
He went away soon, and not after all with the feeling of going for
good. In his sceptical young mind, fed by Clare's malice, was growing a
comforting doubt of Dick's good faith.
When Wilkins had disappeared around the angle of the staircase
Bassett went to a chair and sat down. He felt sick, and his knees were
trembling. Something had happened, a search for Clark room by room
perhaps, and the discovery had been made.
He was totally unable to think or to plan. With Dick well they could
perhaps have made a run for it. The fire-escape stood ready. But as
things were—The murmuring among the crowd at the foot of the stairs
ceased, and he looked up. Wilkins was on the staircase, searching
the lobby with his eyes. When he saw Bassett he came quickly down and
confronted him, his face angry and suspicious.
"You're mixed up in this somehow," he said sharply. "You might as well
come over with the story. We'll get him. He can't get out of this town."
With the words, and the knowledge that in some incredible fashion Dick
had made his escape, Bassett's mind reacted instantly.
"What's eating you, Wilkins?" he demanded. "Who got away? I couldn't get
that tongue-tied bell-hop to tell me. Thought it was a fire."
"Don't stall, Bassett. You've had Jud Clark hidden upstairs in
three-twenty all day."
Bassett got up and towered angrily over the sheriff. The crowd had
turned and was watching.
"In three-twenty?" he said. "You're crazy. Jud Clark! Let me tell you
something. I don't know what you've got in your head, but three-twenty
is a Doctor Livingstone from near my home town. Well known and highly
respected, too. What's more, he's a sick man, and if he's got away, as
you say, it's because he is delirious. I had a doctor in to see him an
hour ago. I've just arranged for a room at the hospital for him. Does
that look as though I've been hiding him?"
The positiveness of his identification and his indignation resulted in a
change in Wilkins' manner.
"I'll ask you to stay here until I come back." His tone was official,
but less suspicious. "We'll have him in a half hour. It's Clark all
right. I'm not saying you knew it was Clark, but I want to ask you some
questions."
He went out, and Bassett heard him shouting an order in the street. He
went to the street door, and realized that a search was going on, both
by the police and by unofficial volunteers. Men on horseback clattered
by to guard the borders of the town, and in the vicinity of the hotel
searchers were investigating yards and alleyways.
Bassett himself was helpless. He stood by, watching the fire of his own
igniting, conscious of the curious scrutiny of the few hotel loungers
who remained, and expecting momentarily to hear of Dick's capture. It
must come eventually, he felt sure. As to how Dick had been identified,
or by what means he had escaped, he was in complete ignorance; and an
endeavor to learn by establishing the former entente cordiale between
the room clerk and himself was met by a suspicious glance and what
amounted to a snub. He went back to his chair against the wall and sat
there, waiting for the end.
It was an hour before the sheriff returned, and he came in scowling.
"I'll see you now," he said briefly, and led the way back to the hotel
office behind the desk. Bassett's last hope died when he saw sitting
there, pale but composed, the elderly maid. The sheriff lost no time.
"Now I'll tell you what we know about your connection with this case,
Bassett," he said. "You engaged a car to take you both to the main line
to-night. You paid off Clark's room as well as your own this afternoon.
When you found he was sick you canceled your going. That's true, isn't
it?"
"It is. I've told you I knew him at home, but not as Clark."
"I'll let that go. You intended to take the midnight on the main line,
but you ordered a car instead of using the branch road."
"Livingstone was sick. I thought it would be easier. That's all." His
voice sharpened. "You can't drag me into this, Sheriff. In the first
place I don't believe it was Clark, or he wouldn't have come here, of
all places on the earth. I didn't even know he was here, until he came
into my room this morning."
"Why did he come into your room?"
"He had seen that I was registered. He said he felt sick. I took him
back and put him to bed. To-night I got a doctor."
The sheriff felt in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. Bassett's
morale was almost destroyed when he saw that it was Gregory's letter to
David.
"I'll ask you to explain this. It was on Clark's bed."
Bassett took it and read it slowly. He was thinking hard.
"I see," he said. "Well, that explains why he came here. He was too sick
to talk when I saw him. You see, this is not addressed to him, but to
his uncle, David Livingstone. David Livingstone is a brother of Henry
Livingstone, who died some years ago at Dry River. This refers to a
personal matter connected with the Livingstone estate."
The sheriff took the letter and reread it. He was puzzled.
"You're a good talker," he acknowledged grudgingly. He turned to the
maid.
"All right, Hattie," he said. "We'll have that story again. But just
a minute." He turned to the reporter. "Mrs. Thorwald here hasn't seen
Lizzie Lazarus, the squaw. Lizzie has been sitting in my office ever
since noon. Now, Hattie."
Hattie moistened her dry lips.
"It was Jud Clark, all right," she said. "I knew him all his life, off
and on. But I wish I hadn't screamed. I don't believe he killed Lucas,
and I never will. I hope he gets away."
She eyed the sheriff vindictively, but he only smiled grimly.
"What did I tell you?" he said to Bassett. "Hell with the women—that
was Jud Clark. And we'll get him, Hattie. Don't worry. Go on."
She looked at Bassett.
"When you left me, I sat outside the door, as you said. Then I heard him
moving, and I went in. The room was not very light, and I didn't know
him at first. He sat up in bed and looked at me, and he said, 'Why,
hello, Hattie Thorwald.' That's my name. I married a Swede. Then
he looked again, and he said, 'Excuse me, I thought you were a Mrs.
Thorwald, but I see now you're older.' I recognized him then, and I
thought I was going to faint. I knew he'd be arrested the moment it was
known he was here. I said, 'Lie down, Mr. Jud. You're not very well.'
And I closed the door and locked it. I was scared."
Her voice broke; she fumbled for a handkerchief. The sheriff glanced at
Bassett.
"Now where's your Livingstone story?" he demanded. "All right, Hattie.
Let's have it."
"I said, 'For God's sake, Mr. Jud, lie still, until I think what to
do. The sheriff's likely downstairs this very minute.' And then he went
queer and wild. He jumped off the bed and stood listening and staring,
and shaking all over. 'I've got to get away,' he said, very loud. 'I
won't let them take me. I'll kill myself first!' When I put my hand on
his arm he threw it off, and he made for the door. I saw then that he
was delirious with fever, and I stood in front of the door and begged
him not to go out. But he threw me away so hard that that I fell, and I
screamed."
"And then what?"
"That's all. If I hadn't been almost out of my mind I'd never have told
that it was Jud Clark. That'll hang on me dying day."
An hour or so later Bassett went back to his room in a state of mental
and nervous exhaustion. He knew that from that time on he would be under
suspicion and probably under espionage, and he proceeded methodically,
his door locked, to go over his papers. His notebook and the cuttings
from old files relative to the Clark case he burned in his wash basin
and then carefully washed the basin. That done, his attendance on a sick
man, and the letter found on the bed was all the positive evidence they
had to connect him with the case. He had had some thought of slipping
out by the fire-escape and making a search for Dick on his own account,
but his lack of familiarity with his surroundings made that practically
useless.
At midnight he stretched out on his bed without undressing, and went
over the situation carefully. He knew nothing of the various neuroses
which affect the human mind, but he had a vague impression that
memory when lost did eventually return, and Dick's recognition of the
chambermaid pointed to such a return. He wondered what a man would
feel under such conditions, what he would think. He could not do it. He
abandoned the effort finally, and lay frowning at the ceiling while he
considered his own part in the catastrophe. He saw himself, following
his training and his instinct, leading the inevitable march toward this
night's tragedy, planning, scheming, searching, and now that it had
come, lying helpless on his bed while the procession of events went on
past him and beyond his control.