Storm pocketed the check, shook his head and turning hurried from the station in the throng which surged out upon the sidewalk once more. It was done! No link remained to connect him with the dead paymaster except the money securely locked away in his safe, and that bit of numbered cardboard in his pocket. His apprehensions of the early morning fell from him, and he felt as though he were treading on air. Now he had only to wait until the news came out and the nine-days wonder over the murder and the missing money had subsided, and then he could start upon his journey.
On arrival at the Mammoth Trust Building he went at once to a washroom downstairs and locked himself in. Then, secure from observation, he took the parcel check from his pocket. It bore the number “39”, and as he tore it in strips he wondered whether in the near future those numerals would stare out at him in scare-head type from the newspapers. Twisting the strips of thin cardboard together, he touched a match to them and watched them blaze down to a pinch of smoldering ashes in the hand-basin. He washed these away carefully, leaving no slightest smudge behind and then hurried out and up to his office. More ashes! Ashes now of the last menacing bit of evidence against himself!
A tiresome conference awaited him, and more than once during its course Storm had to take a fresh grip on himself to keep from allowing the secret elation within him to show upon his face. What would they think, what would they do—these smug-faced, pompous, eminently conventional members of society who surrounded the table—if they knew what he had done? Two murders in the space of a few short weeks, two lives wiped out in the very heart of civilization, and not a question raised against him, not a breath of suspicion! By God, he was immune, invincible! He could commit any crime on the calendar and get away with it! There wasn’t a living soul clever enough to hunt him down! He was the greatest murderer of the age, the cleverest man in the world!
The madness of exultation had passed when the noon hour came, but his spirits were still dangerously high. The sedate luncheon club did not appeal to his mood and he turned into Peppini’s where he had lunched with Millard only a few days before.
A voice hailed him from the corner table, and Millard himself rose with extended hand.
“Hello, old chap! I say, if you’re alone won’t you join me?”
To his surprise Storm found himself responding almost jovially.
“If you’ll lunch with me; I see you are just starting. How is everything out at Greenlea?”
“Fine! We’ve got a new pro. out at the club and he’s running things in fine shape; but there isn’t much that he can teach us old boys, eh?” Millard lowered his voice. “I say, you have seen the papers?”
Storm started. Could it be that already——? Then he checked himself half angrily. What did Millard know of Horton?