19000 Pound Part 57

Papers--he crammed them into the grate, and, applying a match, set them burning. He destroyed everything which would link him with the name of Loide.

Then he started to resume the disguise which had been so successful on the boat. He would be safe in it, he thought.

He would wait for the police, and give another name and--and then there flashed to his memory the recollection of the register! He had signed there his full name, Richard Loide. His signature would convict him.

He sank with a groan on the bed. What should--what could he do?

The police were on his track without doubt, or why the call at the money changer's? What a fool he had been to set foot in America--how could he set foot out of it?

If he was to escape, there was no time to be lost. He took his bag in his hand and pa.s.sed out into the pa.s.sage.

Looking over the staircase, he saw on the ground floor two policemen talking to the hotel clerk. Was he too late?

One of the officers stepped into the ever moving elevator. Slowly he was being borne upwards.

What should he do? The thought occurred to him that they would find his room empty, and think him gone.

He would hide--on the floor above. They would not think of searching there.

He sprang into the elevator--he should have waited for the next up coming car--the floor was nearly level with his knees when he jumped.

The result was that he slipped, staggered, and fell p.r.o.ne on the floor of the lift, his head projecting.

Before he could move, the floor of the compartment reached the next floor of the building.

There was a scream of agony, a sudden wrenching jerk which shook the lift and halted the powerful machinery for half a moment, and then the cars went on in their old automatic way.

But when the policeman alighted on the floor on which room No. 14 was situate, he was horrified to see a bleeding human head staring him in the face, and marked the trail of blood across the floor leading to it, while the policeman below was equally shocked when the lift reached the ground to see the headless trunk of a human body lying on the floor.

The coroner's jury brought in the usual verdict.

Loide had at one time feared death by hanging, English fas.h.i.+on; later by electrocution, American fas.h.i.+on; he had never feared a French performance--the guillotine--and yet, after all, decapitation was his end.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

MRS. DEPEW HOLDS THE REINS

At the farm bells jangled. The usual harmony was not prevailing.

No one struck the right key in conversation. After the manner of mothers, Mrs. Depew sympathized with her daughter, with a result that things were not running smoothly with the farmer.

A wife has facilities for disturbing a husband's tranquillity.

Apart from the displeasure of his wife and daughter, George Depew was not that pleased with himself.

Gerald's behavior when leaving had certainly not been that of a guilty man. And when the farmer came to think things over quietly, he came to the conclusion that he had been a large sized fool to lose his temper as he had done.

He realized Gerald's story must have been true--what would have been the sense of trying to pa.s.s off that folded piece of newspaper as bank notes? The trick would necessarily be found out at once.

The midday meal was under way, and was being disposed of in unusual silence.

Mrs. Depew did not like the red eyed appearance of her daughter, and her husband did not like the glances his wife occasionally favored him with as a result thereof.

A messenger came to the door with a letter for the farmer. He took it and tried to read it, but could only make out a word here and there.

"Here, Tess, just read this out, will you?"

His daughter took it and read.

The farmer said "Jerusalem!" His wife--after the manner of wives--said, "There! I told you so," and the daughter said tearfully, "And you called him a thief, father!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Depew, rubbing it in, after the manner of her s.e.x, "an almost stranger goes out of his way to bring you more money than you have ever dreamed of, and you call him a thief! I've no patience with the man."

"No, old woman, you haven't," replied the farmer. "Mebbe it would be better for all of us if you had. Give me my store coat and hat. I'm going right away to N'York by the next train."

"And what good's that, I should like to know? Sakes alive! Can't the man understand that the money's to his credit here in Oakville?"

"Yes, the man's got gumption enough for that," answered the farmer grimly. "Just now, it ain't the money that's agitating me--that's all right."

"Then, what on earth do you want to go to N'York for?"

"To make about the most humble apology lips ever vented. I'm going to find Gerald Danvers, and tell him that a bigger old fool don't prowl about this airth than I am; and I'm going to beg him--d'ye hear--beg him to forgive me for insulting him."

"Dear father!"

"That's it, Tess. Because your old dad's a bit of a fool, you don't want to rub it in, do you? You leave that to your mother. Come here, girlie, and gimme a kiss."

"Lawd sakes, now! Just listen to the man! As if I'd said anything!"

"No, mother," said the farmer, over Tessie's shoulder--he was holding her to him--"it wouldn't be you to say anything. Silence is the kind of thing you s.h.i.+ne in. Now, Tessie, gimme your sweetheart's address, and I'll get there slick away."

"Father, I don't know it."

"You--don't--know--it?"

"No, father. He will come back here now the money is found."

"Not if I know him, he won't," interposed the farmer's wife. "People that are turned out of doors and called 'thief' and threatened with whips ain't likely to come groveling around."

"Mother!"

"Oh, yes, 'mother.' But 'mother' won't find that boy, will it? Lawd sakes! When I was a gal, sweethearts didn't behave like that. When your father was courting me, I should ha' liked to see him stalk away to N'York without telling me where he was going to put up. My--yes!"

"Hullo!" said the farmer, "here's a special delivery letter!"