"I'm afraid it's too late for them, Gordon," he said slowly. "I don't really believe—"
The sentence was left unfinished. With a motion quick as thought, Gordon threw the sixteen-gage to his shoulder, pressed the barrel to Palmer's back just below the left shoulder blade, and pressed the trigger.
At the muffled report the murdered man's arms flew out and up as if grasping for support, his head twitched back sharply, and like a log he fell. A horrible choking sound issued from his distorted lips, his body twitched convulsively once or twice, and he lay still, his head twisted to one side, the bared teeth grinning upward from the mouth contorted into the ghostly semblance of a smile.
Mechanically Gordon leaned his gun against a tree; then looked fearfully about him. Still, calm, motionless, the lake lay before him. No wind stirred the pines. The silence was the silence of death. A sickening faintness crept over him. He stifled an impulse to shout for help, and set his teeth sharply together. "God!" he muttered, "God!" Then, with averted face, he picked up the ghastly, inert thing that had been Harry Palmer, and, staggering with it to the very edge of the quicksand, cast it from him with all his strength. A moment, and it had disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER XI
[IN THE FIRELIGHT]
Before the fire in the big library May Sinclair sat gazing into the leaping flames, the book she had taken from its shelf lying unopened in her lap, her thoughts far away. Pleasant, indeed, must have been the land through which they were journeying, for a smile played about her lips, and the little sigh that escaped her as she nestled more closely in the big arm-chair was but of content.
"Everything in the world," so ran her thoughts, "everything to make a girl happy." Her bluff, soldierly father, masterful enough with others, but tenderness itself to her; her mother, kind, loving, watchful, ever apprehensive lest some harm might befall her; her home; her friends; her work at the settlement; her wealth, prized not for itself, but for the use she could make of it for others; last of all—and she smiled at her own self-deceit, knowing that she had purposely kept it to the last that she might be free to dream on and on without interruption—last of all, her lover and the thought of their wedding-day, now distant but one short month.
The clock struck nine. Momentarily she wondered what might be keeping him, and then the spell of the future, insistent, not to be denied, drew her on and on, and again she was lost in fancy's realm. She could picture the wedding ceremony in the big church on the avenue, and at the thought of the ordeal she shivered a little, half in pleasure and half in fear. Then the honeymoon—and here she gave a sigh of utter rapture—for with all her dreams of working and doing for others, she was but human. To think of it! Six months abroad! England, France, Italy, Switzerland, and all with Harry alone to herself. To think of it; and she blushed and laughed as she found herself wishing that the month would hasten swiftly by. Then the return, to find herself mistress of Harry's mansion, hostess to all of his friends, sole ruler over all the vast domain of housewifery. So much they had to do! How could they find time for it all, for it was not to be all entertainment and fun? She must keep on with her reading and her studying, and she must make Harry more interested in such things, so that they could feel that they were doing everything together. Then there was the settlement work. Her clubs and classes—those must be kept up—for of what use were learning and culture and refinement if they could not in some manner be used for those less favored by fortune than herself? Here was the only real difference of opinion between them. Strive as she would, she could not manage to interest Harry in her cases at the Settlement House. He would escort her there, and call for her again, but to get him inside the door, for that even her skill would not suffice. That, however, would doubtless be somehow arranged. There could be no disagreement between people who loved each other as she and Harry did. What a busy life they were going to have. And then, some day, she supposed, she hoped, and her pure heart leaped with joy at the thought, there would be babies to love and care for,— she closed her eyes and for one rapt instant strove to pierce the veil, to gaze upon the deep, strong, mighty current of life, flowing steadily, swiftly, resistlessly—who knew whither? Face to face in that one tense moment she looked upon all the mystery of existence, the Sphinx's riddle, the problem of the ages, huge, illimitable, vast,—birth, life, death, so real and yet so unreal, actualities and yet but fancies, and only fixed and certain Fate, God, Eternity—
She gasped suddenly for breath and opened her eyes with a little start of fear. The clock on the mantel struck ten. With a quick gesture of disappointment she rose. "I'm sure he said to-night," she murmured, "well, he'll explain about it to-morrow." Then she snatched Palmer's picture from its place and pressed it to her lips. "Life is so beautiful, dear," she whispered softly, "and all because I love you and you love me."