“He has heard it, honey.”
He had expected her to look alarmed, but instead she
showed relief.
“I’ll tell you the truth, Les,”
she said. “I was worrying. I’m
terribly fond of him. It just came all at once,
and I couldn’t help it. And I thought
he liked me, too, that way.” She stopped
and looked up at him to see if he understood, and
he nodded gravely. “Then to-day, when he
came to see Nina, he avoided me. He—I
was waiting in the hall upstairs, and he just said
a word or two and went on down.”
“Poor devil!” Leslie said. “You
see, he’s in an unpleasant position, to say
the least. But here’s a thought to go to
sleep on. If you ask me, he’s keeping
out of your way, not because he cares too little,
but because he cares too much.”
Long after a repentant and chastened Leslie had gone
to sleep, his arm over Nina’s unconscious shoulder,
Elizabeth stood wide-eyed on the tiny balcony outside
her room. From it in daylight she could see
the Livingstone house. Now it was invisible,
but an upper window was outlined in the light.
Very shyly she kissed her finger tips to it.
“Good-night, dear,” she whispered.
Louis Bassett had left for Norada the day after David’s
sudden illness, but ten days later found him only
as far as Chicago, and laid up in his hotel with a
sprained knee. It was not until the day Nina
went back to the little house in the Ridgely Road,
having learned the first lesson of married life, that
men must not only be captured but also held, that
he was able to resume his journey.
He had chafed wretchedly under the delay. It
was true that nothing in the way of a story had broken
yet. The Tribune had carried a photograph of
the cabin where Clark had according to the Donaldson
woman spent the winter following the murder, and there
were the usual reports that he had been seen recently
in spots as diverse as Seattle and New Orleans.
But when the following Sunday brought nothing further
he surmised that the pack, having lost the scent,
had been called off.
He confirmed this before starting West by visiting
some of the offices of the leading papers and looking
up old friends. The Clark story was dead for
the time. They had run a lot of pictures of
him, however, and some one might turn him up eventually,
but a scent was pretty cold in ten years. The
place had changed, too. Oil had been discovered
five years ago, and the old settlers had, a good many
of them, cashed in and moved away. The town had
grown like all oil towns.
Bassett was fairly content. He took the night
train out of Chicago and spent the next day crossing
Nebraska, fertile, rich and interesting. On
the afternoon of the second day he left the train
and took a branch line toward the mountains and Norada,
and from that time on he became an urbane, interested
and generally cigar-smoking interrogation point.
