“She died, I fear, because she befriended me.” And then I told her the story of Mother Borton's end.
“Poor creature!” said Mrs. Knapp sadly. “Yet perhaps it is better so. She has died in doing a good act.”
“She was a good friend to me,” I said. “I should have been in the morgue before her, I fear, but for her good will.”
Mrs. Knapp was silent for a minute.
“I hope we are at the end of the tale of death,” she said at last. “It is dreadful that insane greed and malice should spread their evil so far about. Two lives have been sacrificed already, and perhaps it is only the beginning. Yet I believe—I am sure—I have done right.”
“I am sure of that,” I said, and then was silent as her words called up the image of the Wolf, dark, forbidding, glowing with the fires of hate—the Wolf of the lantern-flash in the alley and the dens of Chinatown—and the mystery seemed deeper than ever. The carriage had been rolling along swiftly. Despite the rain the streets were smooth and hard, and we made rapid progress. We had crossed a bridge, and with many turns made a course toward the southeast. Now the ground became softer, and progress was slow. An interminable array of trees lined the way on both sides, and to my impatient imagination stretched for miles before us. Then the road became better, and the horses trotted briskly forward again, their hoofs pattering dully on the softened ground.
“All the better,” I thought. “It's as good as a muffler if any one is listening for us.”
“Here's the place,” came the voice of Dicky, giving directions to the driver; and the carriage slackened pace and stopped. Looking out I saw that we were at a division of the road where a two-story house faced both of the branching ways.
“You'd better come out,” said Dicky at the door, addressing his remark to me. “He was to meet us here.”
“Be careful,” cautioned Mrs. Knapp.