CHAPTER VIII
SPECTRES OF THE PAST
Restless was the night that followed for Alexander Bancroft; his sleep was troubled by many a dream in which one friend after another moved swiftly on to violent death. With the coming of dawn he arose to look out from the eastern windows of his room. The sky was a dome of rosy light and below lay the vast plain, dim but colorful, its gray-green mottled with vague bands and patches of opalescent lights and shadows and dotted with little islands of vivid green. His eyes clung to these darker spots, which he knew to be thickets of mesquite; piercing their shade his inner vision showed him the still body of his friend. So real was the mental picture that he turned pale about the lips and abruptly left the window.
If anything had happened, he kept reassuring himself, it had been at Dellmey Baxter’s instigation. He himself had had nothing to do with it. If Baxter had decided that his affairs would go more smoothly with Conrad out of the way, why should he, Alexander Bancroft, trouble himself further? And if—anything had happened—again he felt the loosening of mental strain and his spirits rose in exultation at the prospect of freedom and safety. Life was more attractive than ever with that menacing figure no longer threatening him with disclosure, disgrace, and death. He could go on with his plans for the accumulation of fortune and the enjoyment of life. He could still hold Lucy’s love and honor, travel with her, marry again, work his way to a commanding place in the world of business. The future opened before him as easy and inviting as the stairs down which he went to breakfast.
Lucy ran to meet him with a good-morning kiss and a rose for his buttonhole. “It’s the prettiest I could find in my conservatory,” she smiled at him; “but it isn’t half nice enough for my daddy dear. You don’t look well this morning, daddy,” she went on anxiously. “Is anything the matter?”
His hand slipped caressingly down over her curls and drew her to his breast in a quick embrace, instinct with the native impulse of the animal to protect its offspring. “She shall never know,” was the thought in his mind.
“Daddy! What a bear hug that was!” she laughed, “like those you used to give me when I was a little girl. It didn’t feel as if you were ill.”
“I’m not,” he answered lightly, kissing her pink cheek. “I guess I smoked too much yesterday, and so didn’t sleep very well. Yes; I promise; I’ll be more careful to-day.”