Once more Mrs. Satterlee broke the silence. “And then,” she said, “you went to Henry Carleton, and told him what you thought you knew. And he sat there, and listened to you telling him that Jack did the murder. He came to the cottage that night. He was furious. He’d have killed you, I truly believe, if he’d dared. He threatened me, even. He told me I must stick to the story that Jack was in my rooms, and murdered Tom; and that he’d see that no harm came to Jack; that money could do anything; that he’d get Jack out of the country; and that it would be better for every one; and I was frightened—and promised. And then—”
Gradually, as she talked, the whole sequence of events had been shaping in Vaughan’s brain. And now, all at once, and more to himself than to the others, he voiced his thoughts in words. “I see; I see;” he cried; “that was why I could never seem to believe it. Poor Jack! Poor Jack! Oh, what a fool I’ve been!”
Again he was silent, and she concluded. “And then Jack came to me—I did all this for him—don’t think it was easy for me. And I told Henry to-night, before I came here. He was going in town, and came to the cottage first. And I told him—with a loaded pistol in my hand. He wouldn’t believe me at first. He never knew that I—that I was fond of Jack—and when he realized I was in earnest, I thought he was going out of his mind. I never saw a man so changed. He said I’d ruined him—ruined his whole life—and then, all at once, he put his hand to his head, and stopped right in the middle of what he was saying, and turned, and went away. And I came here, to keep my promise. I told Jack to come here at eight; he ought to be here now.”
Vaughan pulled out his watch. “Quarter past,” he said, “I suppose he’ll be here soon.”
Marjory Graham turned to him. “Mr. Carleton lied to me, Arthur,” she said, “tried to make me believe awful things of Jack. And I knew—I knew all the time that he lied. Think of it. Think how Jack—”
Vaughan nodded, yet even on the instant another thought flashed through his mind. “But, Rose!” he cried, “I never thought. Rose! Good God!”
“I know; I know;” cried the girl, “I’ve been thinking about her. You mustn’t speak now, Arthur. Jack didn’t, even before he knew. And you mustn’t. It would kill Rose.”
Vaughan drew a long breath. “Marjory—” he began, but the sentence was never finished. A quick step sounded in the hall outside, and Jack Carleton came hastily into the room. In an instant, as if unmindful of all else, Marjory Graham had risen, and crossed the room, her face transfigured—“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “Jack!”
For a moment he drew her to him; then, without speaking, his arm still around her, came forward to meet the others. Vaughan, too, had risen, and stood with outstretched hand. “Jack,” he said, “I never knew—I never dreamed—can you forgive me?”
In answer Carleton took his friend’s hand in his, yet without uttering a word. His face was haggard, his eyes wild. Jeanne Satterlee started to her feet. “What is it, Jack?” she cried, “something’s wrong.”