The Seventh Noon Part 45

"As long as I remember anything, I shall remember that."

"You remember the walk straight through things?"

"Yes--you at my side."

"I have just taken it again--alone. I have pressed straight through."

There was a pause of a few seconds. Then,

"That is a hard thing for a woman to do."

There was a longer silence. Then she said tenderly,

"You look very tired. This day has been heavy to you. Go up-stairs to your room and rest. Then in the morning--why, in the morning we may both see clearer."

"I can rest nowhere. There is no rest left to me."

"Ah, you look so tired," she repeated.

He seized her hand and pressed it. Then he turned abruptly towards the hall. She watched him with a new fright. He paused at the door, his eyes drawn back to her against his will. She was standing there quite helpless, a growing pallor sweeping over her cheeks that so lately had been as richly red as rose leaves.

"G.o.d help me hard now," he moaned.

She stood before him like a marble statue. There were no tears.

"I have been very bold," she murmured. "I can never forgive myself that."

"You have been wonderful!" he cried.

"Perhaps you had better go at once, Peter Donaldson," she said.

He saw her in a blinding white light.

"G.o.d keep you," he managed to say. "G.o.d keep you forever and ever."

He stumbled to the hall, found his hat, and staggered through the door.

At the hedge a shadow stole out to meet him. It was an ambitious young reporter.

"Is this Mr. Donaldson?" he asked.

"d.a.m.n you, no!" shouted Donaldson. "Donaldson is dead!"

CHAPTER XXV

_The Shadow on the Floor_

Donaldson toiled up the dark staircase leading to Barstow's laboratory.

To him it was as though he were fighting his way through deep water reaching twenty fathoms above his head. The air was just as cold as green water; it contained scarcely more life. He felt the same sense of clammy, lurking things, unknown things, such as crawl along the slimy bottoms where rotting hulks lie. He was impelled here by the same sort of fascination which is said to lead murderers back to their victims, yet it seemed to be the only place where he would be able to think at all. It was getting back to the beginning--to the source--where he could start fresh. It was here, and here alone, that he could write his letter to her. Perhaps here he could make something out of the chaos of his thoughts.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused before the closed door. He did not expect Barstow to be in. He hoped that he was not.

He did not wish to face him to-day. To-morrow perhaps--but he realized that if Barstow had gone on his proposed vacation he would not be back even then. That did not matter either. The single thing remaining for him to do was to make Elaine understand something of what his life had meant, what she had meant in it, what he hoped to mean to her in the silent future. That must be done alone, and this of all places was where he could best do it. The mere thought of his room at the hotel was repulsive to him.

He listened at the door. There was no sound--no sound save the interminable "tick-tock, tick-tock" which still haunted him through the pulse beats in his wrists. He reached forward and touched the k.n.o.b; listened again, and then turned it and pressed. The door was locked.

But it was a feeble affair. Barstow had made his experimental laboratory in this old building to get away from the inquisitive, and half of the time did not take the trouble to turn the key when he left, for there was little of value here.

He knocked on the chance that Barstow might have lain down upon the sofa for a nap. Again he waited until he heard the "tick-tock, tick-tock" at his wrists. Then, pressing his body close to the lock, he turned the k.n.o.b and pushed steadily. It weakened. He drew back a little and threw his weight more heavily against it. The lock gave and the door swung open.

The sight of the threadbare sofa was as rea.s.suring as the face of an old friend. Yet what an eternity it seemed since he had sat there and discussed his barren life with Barstow. The phrases he had used came back to mock him. He had talked of the things that lay beyond his reach, while even then they were at his hand, had he been but hardy enough to seize them; he had spoken of what money could buy for him, with love eagerly pressing greater gifts upon him without price; he had hungered for freedom with freedom his for the taking. Sailors have died of thirst at the broad mouth of the Amazon, thinking it to be the open salt sea; so he was dying in the midst of clean, sweet life.

He sat down on the sofa, with his head between his hands and stared at the glittering rows of bottles which caught the sun. Each one of them was a laughing demon. They danced and winked their eyes--yellow, blue, and blood-red. There were a hundred of them keeping step to the bobbing shadows upon the floor. Row upon row of them--purple, brown, and blood-red--all dancing, all laughing.

"You come out wrong every time," Barstow had said.

And he--he had laughed back even as the bottles were doing.

He was not cringing even now. He was asking no pity, no mercy. When he had stepped across the room and had taken down that bottle, he had been clear-headed; he had been clear-headed when he had swallowed its contents. The only relief he craved for himself was to be allowed to remain clear-headed until he should have written his letter. Coming up the stairs he feared lest this might not be. Now he seemed to be steadying once more.

He thought of Sandy. Poor pup, he had gone out easily enough. He had curled up on a friendly knee and gone to sleep. That was all there had been to it. It would be an odd thing, he mused, if the dog was where he could look down on this man-struggle. This braced him up; he would not have even this dog see him die other than bravely.

As far as he himself was concerned, he knew that he would go unflinchingly to meet his final creditor, but there were the Others--with Sandy there had been no Others. It was easy enough to die alone, but when in addition to one's own death throes one had to bear those of others,--that was harder. When he died, it would be as when several died. There would be that mother in Vermont--part of her would die with him; there would be Saul--even part of him would die with him; there was Ben--some of him would die, too; and there was Elaine--good G.o.d, how much of her would die with him?

He sprang to his feet and began to pace the stained wooden floor. As he did so, a shadow crawled, from beneath the sofa and stole across the room like a rat. But unlike a rat, it did not disappear into a hole; it came back again towards Donaldson. He stopped. Close to the ground the shadow crept nearer until he saw that it was a dog. Then he saw that it was a black terrier. Then he saw that in size, color, and general appearance it was the living double of Sandy.

He stooped and extended his hand. He tried to p.r.o.nounce the name, but his lips were too dry. The dog crouched, frightened, some three feet distant. Donaldson, squatting there, watched him with straining eyes.

Once again he tried to utter the name. It stuck in his throat, but at the inarticulate cry he made, the dog wagged his tail so feebly that it scarcely moved its shadow. Donaldson ventured nearer. The dog rolled over to its back and held up its trembling forefeet on guard, studying Donaldson through half closed eyes with its head turned sideways.

Donaldson put forward his trembling fingers and touched its side. The dog was warm, even as Sandy had been when he first picked him up. The dog feebly waved his padded paws and finally rested them upon Donaldson's hand.

"Sandy! Sandy!" he murmured, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

The dumb mouth moved nearer to lick the man's fingers, but his movements were negative as far as any recognition of the name went. It was just the friendly overture of any dog to any man.

If he could get him to answer to the name! It meant life--a chance for life! It meant, perhaps, that there had been some mistake--that, perhaps, after all, the poison was not so deadly as Barstow had thought it.

He threw himself upon the floor beside the dog. In the body of this black terrier centred everything in life that a man holds most dear.

If he could speak--if the dumb tongue could wag an answer to that one question!

The dog turned over and crawled nearer. Donaldson fixed his burning eyes upon the blinking brute.

"Sandy," he cried, "is this you, Sandy?"

The moist tongue reached for his fingers.

He took a deep breath. He said,