Thank heaven he had mentioned his proposed trip to George long before Horton crossed his path once more! Now his suddenly announced decision would call forth no surprise from that devoted friend, and George could be depended upon in the depths of his innocence to explain the situation to any curious acquaintances.
“Poor old Norman!” he would say, shaking his head sadly. “Went all to pieces over the loss of his wife. Health gave out completely, you know; couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, racked with nerves! Sea voyage is the best thing for him, and he’ll come back a new man.”
Storm laughed at his own conceit, but by morning his resolve had strengthened and definite plans began to form themselves in his mind. When he was safely away—in Japan, perhaps,—he would change some of the banknotes at a foreign branch of one of the banking houses and send back a draft to old Foulkes to take up that mortgage on the Greenlea house with Langhorne; he could get a far better price for the property unencumbered.
Still later he could write to old George and deputize him to sell it. George would be pained, of course, but what did that matter? He could explain that he meant to extend his trip and could never, in any event, bring himself to a return to Greenlea. He could tell George also to dispose of what personal belongings still remained of Leila’s among her friends there and to sell the house as it stood.
The morning papers threw no further light on the subject of Horton’s murder, yet Storm knew that no stone would be left unturned in the search for the bag, and he felt that its discovery might be imminent. A week or two at most after that took place and the whole affair would vanish from the public mind.
He would be prepared to sail at once, but in cutting absolutely adrift from the old life he meant in no sense to become a pariah. When he was satiated with travel he would settle down in some Continental city and enjoy life untrammeled by memories.
That night he took stock of his own belongings. He had left the details of his removal from Greenlea in George’s hands, and the latter had made a free selection. When Storm had weeded them out from Potter’s effects he looked at the conglomeration in despair. He meant to travel light, taking only his fresh mourning attire with him, which could be discarded readily enough as soon as he was away from his circle of condoling friends; and his old clothes could be given to Homachi.
But George had added a collection of junk which could not be so easily disposed of without opening even that credulous individual’s eyes to the real state of Storm’s mind. His glance swept in exasperation over the room; that reading lamp, for instance, his favorite edition of Balzac, the antique clock, the bronze desk set! George’s infernal sentiment must have directed his choice, for these had all been gifts from Leila; they couldn’t very well be given or thrown away!
The impulse came to Storm to tumble them all into an old trunk and ship them back to Greenlea, and his mood demanded instant action. He might as well get them out of the way now and have done with it! There would be plenty to do in the days ahead, and at least he would have the cursed things out of his sight.
Whistling cheerily he took off his coat, dragged the trunk out from the storeroom and opened it. He had scarcely started upon his task, however, when there came an insistent double ring at the bell.