IX
Thither came Woncefell, the Wanderer.
“Magdalene Virey, why do you dwell in this horrible place?” he asked.
“Woncefell, the Wanderer,” she answered, “I love the silence, the loneliness, the mystery of the great open spaces and, besides, dear Elliott finds his rock-golf so amusing. He is so ambitious to make the chimney in one.
“I can endure it only because I am sustained by my faith in G—d and by the hope that some night he’ll break his dod-gasted neck or pinch his fingers or something.”
“Magdalene Virey,” he said, “why does he do it?”
“Woncefell, the Wanderer,” she said, “because my daughter Ruth is not Elliott Virey’s daughter.”
“Magdalene Virey, who is Elliott Virey’s daughter, then?” he asked.
“Woncefell, the Wanderer, I do not know,” she answered.
“Magdalene Virey, my G—d!” he exclaimed.
Who was Elliott Virey’s daughter? The mystery was insoluble. It was plain to him now that he must kill Elliott Virey with his bare hands, like he had killed Baldy McKue, breaking his arms, one at a time, then his legs, then his ribs seriatim, then his neck—and that was about all.