Witness to the Deed Part 65

"No, no," cried Myra; "it is too horrible. You do not know; you cannot see what he is suffering--what his position is. I must act myself. It cannot, it cannot be true!"

"Myra!" whispered Edie, clinging to her.

"What? And you side against me, too?"

"No, no, dear! How can you speak such cruel words? You know I would do anything for your sake."

Half-mad with mental agony, Myra repulsed her with a bitter laugh.

"Anything but this," she cried. "There it is, plain enough. He speaks, and you cry 'Hearken! is he not wise.' He says, 'Let him be given up to justice for the mob to howl at him and say he must die.' Die? Oh, no, no, no, it is too horrible! He must--he shall be saved!"

In her agony she made a rush for the door, but before she was half-way there, she tottered, and would have fallen but for Guest's ready arm.

He caught her just in time, and bore her to a couch, where she lay back sobbing hysterically for a few moments, but only to master her emotion, draw her cousin to her breast, and kiss her again and again before holding out her hand to Guest.

"Forgive me!" she whispered. "These long months of suffering have made me weak--half-mad. My lips spoke, not my heart. You are both wiser than I am. Help me, and tell me what to do."

"I will help you, and help him, in every way I can," said Guest gently, as he held the thin white hand in his. "Now let me talk coolly to you-- let us look the matter plainly in the face, and see how matters stand.

I am speaking now as the lawyer, not as the friend--yes, as the friend, too; but our feelings must not carry us away."

Myra struggled with her emotion, and pressed the hand which held hers firmly.

Guest was silent for a few moments and stood as if collecting his thoughts and reviewing his position.

"There is no need for taking any immediate steps," he said. "The scene that took place to-night was forced on by my precipitancy, and the danger to Stratton has pa.s.sed away. To-morrow I will see him again, and perhaps he will be more ready to take me into his confidence, for there is a great deal more to learn, I am sure."

"It is not so bad as you imagined."

"After what took place to-night I can't say that," Guest replied sadly; "but there are points I have not yet grasped. An accident--a fit of pa.s.sion--a great deal more than I have yet learned."

"Then go to him to-night," said Myra eagerly. "I will go with you. He shall not think that all who love forsake him in the hour of his need."

"Myra!"

"I cannot help it," she cried, springing up. "Did I not go to him when that suspicion clung to him--that he was treacherous and base? Even then in my heart I felt it could not be true. Yes, I know what you say; he has tacitly confessed to this dreadful crime, but we do not know all.

I saw that Malcolm Stratton could not be base. If he has taken another's life, I know, I feel all the horror; but he has not been false or treacherous to the woman he loved, and it was on account of this horror that he shrank back that day. To insult--to treat me with contempt? No; to spare me, Edie; and my place is at his side."

"No, not now," said Guest firmly. "I will go back to-night. Trust me, please, and have faith in my trying to do what is for the best."

There was a few moments' silence, and then Myra spoke again faintly, but with more composure.

"Yes, we trust you, Mr Guest. Don't think any more about what I said.

Come to me again soon with news. I shall be dying for your tidings.

Yes," she said, with a weary sigh, as she clung to his hand, "dying for your news. Only promise me this; that you will not deceive me in any way. If it is good or bad, you will come."

"You must know," said Guest quietly, "sooner or later. I will come and tell you everything."

"Then go now--go to him."

"Your father? He will think it strange that I have been and gone without seeing him."

"No; you have been to see us. I will tell him everything when we are alone. Good-night."

"Good-night."

Guest hurried back to the inn, but all was dark there; and, on going on to Sarum Street, he knocked at the door in vain.

"I can do no more," he said; and he went slowly back to his own rooms.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

AT FAULT.

It was from no dread of the consequences likely to ensue that Malcolm Stratton paused with the burning paper in his hand. He knew that he had but to drop it into the clear fluid beneath, for this to burst out into a dancing crater of blue and orange flames. He knew, too, that the old woodwork with which the antique place was lined would rapidly catch fire, and that in a short time the chambers would be one roaring, fiery furnace, and the place be doomed before the means of extinction could arrive. He had no fear for self, for he felt that there would be time enough to escape if he wished to save his life. But he did not drop the blazing paper; letting it burn right to his fingers, and then crushing it in his hand.

"There is no reason," he muttered, as he turned slowly back to his room.

"It would be madness now; there is nothing to conceal."

He sank into his chair, and sat back thinking and trying to piece together all that had pa.s.sed since the day when, full of life, joy, and eagerness, he was ready to hurry off to the church. But his long confinement, with neglect of self, and the weary hours he had pa.s.sed full of agony and despair, had impaired his power of arranging matters in a calm, logical sequence, and he had to go twice to his bedroom to bathe his burning head.

There was one point at which he sought to arrive--his present position, and what he should do next. It came to him at last, and then he worked himself up to the grasping of the facts, till a mist came over his brain, and all glided away, leaving his mind blank.

For it was all one terrible confusion, mainly due to the fearful mental strain to which he had been exposed during the past few hours; and at last he sat there holding his throbbing brow, feeling that he could think of everything but the one point to which he strove.

At one moment Guest's horrified face was before him, and in a puzzled way he felt that his friend had left him with the idea that he had slain Brettison, and that he ought to have made that portion of his trouble clear to him; but at that time it was as if he were fettered by the horrors of a nightmare-like dream.

But he waved these thoughts aside. They were as nothing to the terrible perplexity he had to master, and the first step toward that mastery was to find Brettison, whom he had last seen on the morning appointed for the wedding, wishing him happiness and every good thing which could fall to a bridegroom's lot.

And now? What did it all mean? How could he clear up the chaos which bade fair to wreck his brain. Brettison could not have returned; and yet how strange it all was! What could he do?

One thing shone out, however, clearly; and that was the knowledge that he could come back here and stay without being haunted by the presence of a great horror close at hand. He even began to grasp the fact that, for a long time past, he had been needlessly shunning his rooms and living away in a morbid state, always dreading discovery; and opening his doors at every visit, fully expecting to find himself face to face with the police, waiting to trap him in his lair.

How he had suffered! How he had stolen to his chambers at night, creeping up to his door furtively, and, after entering, examining the closet, and making sure that it had not been tampered with and opened in his absence.

It had been a terrible period of agony, such as had turned him old before his time; and now he had discovered that his suffering and dread had been vain and empty; that he had stayed away from the inn for naught, unless all this was imagination; another of the horrible nightmare dreams by which he had been haunted ever since that dreadful day.

At last he grew calmer, and felt able to look matters in the face. The great horror had pa.s.sed away, and in so pa.s.sing it had roused him to action. There was work to do, a strange complication to solve; and he settled in his own mind how that was to be done.

He must find Brettison at once; and the great question was: Where could he be?

Here was a grand difficulty at once. Where would a man like Brettison be likely to sojourn?--a man who ranged through the length and breadth of the country in pursuit of his specimens.

In an ordinary way. But what would he be doing now and what had he done?

Stratton shuddered, and pictured a strange scene, one upon which he dare not dwell; and, leaping up, he took matches and a candle with the intention of going to his friend's room to try and pick up the clue there; but by the time he reached his door he was face to face with the first obstacle. Brettison's door was locked again, and, without re-summoning the help they had had that evening, entrance was impossible.

Taking the lamp he entered the bath-closet to try the old door at the end; but this was firmly screwed up again, and unless he broke through one of the panels, entrance was impossible that way.