The very tone in his voice had belied his guilt. The lawyer’s thunderous denouncement still rang in her ears. “You sold my client stock that you knew at the time wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.... We’ve got a case of embezzlement against you that’s as plain as daylight.” Embezzlement! No man would have dared say that to another unless he had proof. Her money—their money—Jane’s—half of all they possessed in the world.
She fell to weeping, her flushed, drawn cheeks buried in her hands—a sense of utter helplessness and loneliness swept over her. “Oh, Jane!” she moaned. She thanked God she was out, that she had not heard—and in the next breath prayed for her return. Could she tell her? Was it wise to tell her? And yet she felt she must. It was their money. She must know the truth, ill as she was. Why had she been weak enough, fool enough to have believed him? Why had she not waited, thought the matter over, gone to some one for advice? There were moments when she thought she would go mad, and during these she paced up and down the room, wringing her poor, weak hands. Once or twice she felt like rushing frantically to Ebner Ford and demanding an explanation—of appealing to his sense of pity—of begging him to give her back her money. Twice she rushed to her door, but fear held her back—a dread now of him whom she had believed in. True, there have been some magnanimous and tender-hearted thieves in the world who have been known to restore certain cherished keepsakes to their victims—a watch, a ring. Ebner Ford was not one of these. He lacked even the “honor” of the professional. He belonged to that class of suave scoundrels who dare not rob men, but who confine their talent to preying upon the confidence and ignorance of helpless women, of inveigling them into their confidence, bullying them, if needs be, and railroading them to disaster.
A healthy, determined girl would have gone down and had it out with him, and failing to get satisfaction would have gone in search of a lawyer, a detective bureau, or even a policeman. Miss Ann was too timid for that. Like the cat, she had even been afraid to descend the stairs during its occupation by the enemy. There was also something else that had checked her. Eavesdropping to a woman of Miss Ann’s delicate sensibilities was dishonest, ill-bred, and vulgar. To be obliged to confess to Ebner Ford she had been listening to words not intended for her ears—a common eavesdropper—she shrank from the thought.
Neither anger nor the craving for revenge had ever entered her heart. She was capable of neither; all she was capable of was bravely living through her daily share of anxiety and patient suffering. She thought of wiring her brother to come at once; then she reasoned how undependable and useless he was; how he had mismanaged most of her affairs; how time and time again it was she who had helped him when in trouble—and Jim Moulton was always in trouble, having an inordinate distaste for real work. He still preserved, however, the remnants of a gentleman, both in his manners and his pleasant voice, though his dress was somewhat seedy; even to-day his language bespoke a man who had once been a scholar. He reduced his plain rye with plain water, which reduced him in turn to the society of the men who sold it. Out in his small Western town he dabbled along lazily in piano, real estate, and sewing-machine rentals, all under the same ceiling, next door to the best saloon in town. He was one of those who, convinced he was stronger than the rest of humanity, have tried to make a boon companion of alcohol, and survive—a feat of strength which no man yet has accomplished. Any old bartender could have told him that. No; there was no use in wiring Jim.
Now that the first effects of her shock were over, Miss Ann grew visibly calmer. At least she ceased wringing her hands, and returned wearily to the armchair, where she tried to decide what must be done, what could be done. Her sister had not returned, and not a sound had broken the stillness of the house since Ebner Ford had slammed his door shut.
Suddenly a firm, rapid step on the stairs made her start. It was Enoch’s. He passed her door and ascended to his own, stopping to stroke the sleepy cat on his landing, a caress which awakened her and started her purring. She had never been afraid of Enoch.
During that swift moment when Mr. Crane had passed her door, a desire had seized Miss Ann to intercept him, to pour out to him the whole story of her misery and despair, and ask his advice; and yet from sheer timidity she hesitated. She had let him pass. She felt all the more keenly this lost opportunity as she heard his door close above. He was in his room now, and if she would see him, she must go up and rap, a thing she had never done unbidden in her life. She thought of ringing for Moses, of telling him to “ask Mr. Crane if he would mind calling on Miss Moulton over a matter of immediate importance,” but a haggard glance at herself in the old-fashioned mirror above her mantel wisely checked her. Had Moses seen her, he would more likely have rushed down for Matilda, telling her that Miss Ann was ill.
For another long moment she struggled with herself; then mustering up all her courage, she quickly opened her door and climbed Enoch’s stairs.
“Mr. Crane,” she called feebly, and knocked; at that instant she felt like running away. In reply to his sharp “Come in,” she tried to turn the knob, but her courage failed her. Enoch flung open his door wide and stood staring at her haggard face.
“My dear Miss Moulton,” he exclaimed, “what has happened?”