“You plotted once and overthrew my aunt,” he said. “It’s my turn now.”
“Are you going to plot?”
“I’m going to try.”
“I’ll pray for your success,” she whispered.
“Pray for me,” he answered, and shortly after they had achieved the feat of saying good-night and parting once more, and the result of it all had been that Jack found himself tipping back and forth on the small chair, in the big room, at half-past midnight, puzzled, perturbed, and very much perplexed as to what to do first when the next morning should have become a settled fact. He was not used to conspiring, and being only a man, he had not those curious instinctive gifts of inspiration and luminous conception which fairly radiate around the brain of clever womankind.
It was some time—a very long time indeed—before any light stole in upon his Stygian darkness, and then, when the light did come, it came in skyrocket guise, and had its share of cons attached to its very evident pros.
“But I don’t care,” he declared viciously, as he rose and began to undress; “something’s got to be done,—some chances have got to be taken,—as well that as anything else. Perhaps better—very likely better.”
Then he laughed over his unconscious imitation of his aunt’s phraseology, and made short work of finishing his disrobing and getting to bed.
It was when Lucinda crept forth to begin to unlock the house at 6.30 upon the morning after, that the fact of the nephew’s arrival was first known to anyone except Janice.
Lucinda saw the coat and hat,—recognized the initial on the handkerchief in the inside pocket, threw out her arms and gave a faint squeak in utter bewilderment, and then tore off at once to the barn to tell Joshua.