Of Doctor Walker’s sensational escape that night to South America, of the recovery of over a million dollars in cash and securities in the safe from the chimney room—­the papers have kept the public well informed.  Of my share in discovering the secret chamber they have been singularly silent.  The inner history has never been told.  Mr. Jamieson got all kinds of credit, and some of it he deserved, but if Jack Bailey, as Alex, had not traced Halsey and insisted on the disinterring of Paul Armstrong’s casket, if he had not suspected the truth from the start, where would the detective have been?

When Halsey learned the truth, he insisted on going the next morning, weak as he was, to Louise, and by night she was at Sunnyside, under Gertrude’s particular care, while her mother had gone to Barbara Fitzhugh’s.

What Halsey said to Mrs. Armstrong I never knew, but that he was considerate and chivalrous I feel confident.  It was Halsey’s way always with women.

He and Louise had no conversation together until that night.  Gertrude and Alex—­I mean Jack—­had gone for a walk, although it was nine o’clock, and anybody but a pair of young geese would have known that dew was falling, and that it is next to impossible to get rid of a summer cold.

At half after nine, growing weary of my own company, I went down-stairs to find the young people.  At the door of the living-room I paused.  Gertrude and Jack had returned and were there, sitting together on a divan, with only one lamp lighted.  They did not see or hear me, and I beat a hasty retreat to the library.  But here again I was driven back.  Louise was sitting in a deep chair, looking the happiest I had ever seen her, with Halsey on the arm of the chair, holding her close.

It was no place for an elderly spinster.  I retired to my up-stairs sitting-room and got out Eliza Klinefelter’s lavender slippers.  Ah, well, the foster motherhood would soon have to be put away in camphor again.

The next day, by degrees, I got the whole story.

Paul Armstrong had a besetting evil—­the love of money.  Common enough, but he loved money, not for what it would buy, but for its own sake.  An examination of the books showed no irregularities in the past year since John had been cashier, but before that, in the time of Anderson, the old cashier, who had died, much strange juggling had been done with the records.  The railroad in New Mexico had apparently drained the banker’s private fortune, and he determined to retrieve it by one stroke.  This was nothing less than the looting of the bank’s securities, turning them into money, and making his escape.

But the law has long arms.  Paul Armstrong evidently studied the situation carefully.  Just as the only good Indian is a dead Indian, so the only safe defaulter is a dead defaulter.  He decided to die, to all appearances, and when the hue and cry subsided, he would be able to enjoy his money almost anywhere he wished.