On the velvet of the yielding turf his footsteps made no sound, his figure cast no shadow, and it was not until he was almost upon Carleton that the latter glanced up. Deep in thought he must have been, for to Vaughan it seemed that it was for a full half minute, at the least, that Carleton continued to gaze, hardly at him, but rather beyond, as if for all that time he was unable to call his thoughts back to the present. And even when he had done so, his greeting sounded scarcely cordial, as if he would greatly have preferred being left alone without interruption of any kind, however well intended.
“Hello, Arthur,” he said, “you’ve heard about it, I suppose.”
Vaughan nodded. “Yes, I’ve just heard.” For a moment he faltered, uncertain how to proceed; then, lamely enough, he added, “How was he killed, Jack?”
Carleton looked at him strangely; and, almost roughly, he answered, “Killed? How should he have been killed? Fell off that rock, of course.” He paused for a moment in his turn; then, with a singular distortion of the muscles of his mouth that gave to his expression a look almost ghastly, he added, with a kind of savage emphasis, “He took one drink too many, I suppose; poor devil; it’s an ugly rock.”
Tone and words alike sounded utterly foreign to him. He stood staring at Vaughan, as he spoke, but still as if he scarcely saw or heeded him, as if he strove to map out for himself a path in the tangled net of circumstance which threatened him. Vaughan, regarding him, drew a long breath, and grasped his courage in both his hands. “Look here, Jack,” he said, forcing the words with effort, “Mr. Carleton and I were on the piazza last night about half past ten. I told him I was going to turn in, and he said he was going to do the same after he’d taken a little walk around the place. I started for bed, and then I changed my mind.—I went for a walk too.”
At once Carleton seemed to catch an unusual meaning in the other’s tone, and yet for a moment the real import of the words did not dawn on his brain. Then suddenly he started, half drawing away. “You went for a walk?” he echoed, and then, apparently throwing aside all caution, “What do you mean, Arthur?” he cried, “What do you mean?”
Vaughan, hesitating still, dreading the effect his words might have, almost regretting that he had spoken at all, looked his friend squarely in the face. “I saw it all, Jack,” he said.
Carleton’s look was one of utter amazement. For an instant he stood silent, staring at Vaughan as if doubtful of his senses. Then, “You saw him run out of the house?” he cried.
Vaughan nodded. “I saw it all,” he repeated, “and afterward, by the rock—”
But to everything beyond his mere assent Carleton seemed to pay scant heed. He stared at Vaughan still, but now with a strange mingling of emotions showing in his face. And curiously enough, there seemed to predominate, above all the rest, a look almost of savage relief.