The solution of the mystery, so indubitably the true one, was accepted by the police.
The matter was given as little publicity as possible, for Anita and Mrs. Bates, the two most deeply concerned both wished it so. No stigma of cowardice rested on John Waring’s name, for all who knew him knew that his act was the deed of a martyr to circumstances and was prompted by a spirit of loyalty to his College and unwillingness to let his own misfortunes in any way redound to its disparagement.
He trusted, they felt sure, that the truth would never be discovered and that the tragedy of his death would preclude blame or censure.
Himself, he never thought of, in his unselfish life or equally unselfish death.
Trask, perforce, resigned all claim to the estate, and Anita and her mother arranged matters between themselves.
The assumption was that John Waring’s will, which he burned, had been made in Mrs. Bates’ favor, but on learning of his nearer heirs, he destroyed it.
“Anita Waring,” Lockwood murmured softly when at last they were alone together.
“I love the name,” she said, “and it is really mine.”
“But it will be yours so short a time, it’s scarcely worth while to use it,” Gordon returned. “It will be a short time, won’t it, sweetheart?”
“Yes, indeed! I want to go away from Corinth forever. I love my father’s memory, but I can’t stand these scenes. I am tired of mystery in name and in deed. I just want to be—Anita Lockwood.”