It was soon over. The ritual for the dead, the slow journey to the city of silence, a few moments about the open grave, the sound of dirt falling upon the coffin, a prayer—and Gerald, living and dead, was no longer a part of their lives.
The Montjoys were to go home from the cemetery. Edward said farewell to them separately and to Mary last. Strange paradox, this human life. He came from that new-made grave almost happy.
The time for action was approaching rapidly. He went with Dabney and the general to see Slippery Dick for the last time before the trial. There was now but one serious doubt that suggested itself. They took the man at night to the grave of Rita and made him go over every detail of his experience there. Under the influence of the scene he began with the incident of the voodoo's "conjure bag" and in reply to queries showed where it had been inserted in the cedar. Edward took his knife and began to work at the plug, but this action plunged Dick into such terror that Dabney cautioned Edward in a low voice to desist.
"Dick," said the young man finally, with sudden decision, "if you fail us in this matter not only shall I remove that plug but I shall put you in jail and touch you with the bag." Dick was at once voluble with promises. Edward, his memory stirred by the incident, was searching his pockets. He had carried the little charm obtained for him by Mary because of the tender memories of the night before their journey abroad. He drew it out now and held it up. Dick had not forgotten it; he drew back, begging piteously. Dabney was greatly interested.
"That little charm has proved to be your protector, Mr. Morgan," he said aloud for the negro's benefit. "You have not been in any danger. Neither Dick nor anyone else could have harmed you. You should have told me before. See how it has worked. The woman who gave you the bag came to you in the night out on the ocean and showed you the face of this man; you knew him even in the night, although he had never before met you nor you him."
A sound like the hiss of a snake came from the negro; he had never been able to guess why this stranger had known him so quickly. He now gazed upon his captor with mingled fear and awe.
"Befo' Gawd, boss," he said, "I ain't goin' back on you, boss!"
"Going back on him!" said Dabney, laughing. "I should think not. I did not know that Mr. Morgan had you conjured. Let us return; Dick cannot escape that woman in this world or the next. Give me the little bag, Mr. Morgan—no, keep it yourself. As long as you have it you are safe."
Edward was a prisoner, but in name only. Barksdale had not come again, for more reasons than one, the main reason being extra precaution on account of the watchful and suspicious Royson. But he acted quietly upon the public mind. The day following the interview he caused to be inserted in the morning paper an announcement of Edward's return and arrest, and the additional fact that although his business in Paris had not been finished, he had left upon the first steamer sailing from Havre. At the club, he was outspoken in his denunciation of the newspaper attacks and his confidence in the innocence of the man. There was no hint in any quarter that it had been suspected that Rita Morgan was really not murdered. It was generally understood that the defense would rely upon the State's inability to make out a case.
But Edward did not suffer greatly from loneliness. The day after the funeral Mrs. Montjoy and Mary, together with the colonel, paid a formal call and stayed for some hours; and the general came frequently with Dabney and Eldridge, who had also been employed, and consulted over their plans for the defense. Arrangements had been made with the solicitor for a speedy trial and the momentous day dawned.