Gerald Waring was buried. He had lived in small things, and his life was of little value to any human being, except Margaret. She, poor girl, mourned him greatly; and as the days passed into weeks, and it became necessary for her to think of another home, her loneliness and desolation increased into absolute dejection.
When Hinchley recovered from his wound sufficiently to go out, he visited Margaret several times; but was quite unable to throw any light upon the mystery which surrounded them, save the bare facts of the quarrel and separation.
Sybil Chase had settled herself in comfortable lodgings in New York, and there Laurence visited her daily. With each day his wounded pride grew more sensitive, and his condemnation of Margaret increased. Sybil knew how to strengthen the infatuation which bound him within the spell of her influence, and thus her control became supreme.
Hinchley could not meet Laurence—he knew the utter folly of any attempt at reconciliation. His own feelings toward the unhappy man were those of profound pity. He was certain that Edward loved Margaret—that the only hope of happiness for either in this world lay in a cordial understanding of the truth. Thus he determined to spare no pains in clearing up the utter darkness which enveloped their lives, and in restoring them to the brightness of that early dream which had made life so beautiful to both while it lasted.
Still, though the weeks passed and the beautiful spring deepened into summer, nothing occurred which could give Hinchley the least clue. In his own mind he fairly believed Sybil Chase the author of all that terrible unhappiness, and with these thoughts there came back a recollection of that night in California, when his life was so nearly sacrificed. He reproached himself for connecting her with those images, but could not drive the fearful thought away. Always, when he recalled that awful struggle, the chamber in the old house, and the quick retribution dealt to his assailant, there rose before him the dim figure of that woman in the distance, and always behind the shrouding shadows he saw the features of Sybil Chase.
Watching and waiting, he neglected all business and every personal interest. He walked the streets, meditating upon those inexplicable occurrences, haunted every spot that Sybil Chase frequented, but all without result; when the day was over he could only return to Margaret, and find her pale, ill, and heart-broken as he had left her.
Some errand connected with that all-engrossing affair carried him, one day, into a street which led to the Battery; he had obtained a clue to the residence of Mrs. Brown, and was following it up with a hope that she might be bribed or frightened into some revelation which would tend to make his course more clear.
A California steamer had just arrived at its wharf, and the eager crowd came surging up the street along which Hinchley was slowly sauntering in a painful revery. He looked with idle curiosity from face to face of the motley throng, glad of any event which would for a moment take his thoughts from the mournful subject which had so long engrossed him.
Suddenly he beheld upon the other side of the way a face which brought him to an abrupt pause, while an exclamation, almost of terror, broke from his lips. After the first glance of uncertainty, the firm, severe look natural to his features passed over them.
The man who had disturbed him so walked by, unconscious of his scrutiny. The face was pale from sickness or confinement, the long beard had been shaven, the dress was altered, but through all the change Hinchley recognized him. That image was too closely connected with the most fearful era in his life ever to be forgotten.