The numbers upon them seemed to dance diabolically before him, and wild thoughts of the possibility of erasing them flashed through his mind, but he realized the futility of such a hope. He knew nothing of the use of acids or chemicals in such a procedure, and to take anyone into his confidence was unthinkable even had he known where or how to find a man for the task.
Then a quick revulsion of feeling came, and his mercurial spirits rebounded. The money those bills represented was not lost to him forever! In spite of Millard’s boast that their numbers were known, there would be plenty of places in far-away corners of the globe where they would be accepted without question. As long as they were genuine, the money changers of Japan and Egypt and even the cosmopolitan continental centers would not look for the numbers upon them, and he had more than sufficient gold to get him out of the country and to some haven where he might safely begin to turn this paper into coin of the realm.
Had his fortune been in gold it would have been impossible, through its sheer weight, for him to have transported even a quarter of it. The greenbacks in any event were far safer. No bag for him! He could fasten those packets beneath his coat over his heart where he could feel them with each beat!
He laughed aloud at Millard’s cocksure statement. He would show them all!
George’s attitude worried him, however. The former had all the obstinacy of the man of few ideas, and Storm knew that he would cling to his theory of Horton’s death through any amount of argument and ridicule. The fact that that theory was dangerously near the truth—was, in so far as it went, the truth itself—did not tend to allay his anxiety. If once the merest inkling of the real identity of the murderer came to George, it would mean the end. That coincidence of the newspapers would have been sufficient to arouse his suspicion if he had noticed the fact of the missing parts the other night. It was sheer luck that he had not done so; but would that luck hold in other respects?
Storm lay for long hours staring into the darkness and grappled with the new problem which confronted him. Dense as he was, George had felt that there was something deeper than mere grief back of Storm’s determination to leave the country. Suppose, after he had gone, George’s eyes were opened to the truth? Storm well knew that no corner of the globe could hide him from the authorities and the agents of the Mid-Eastern, and George had a queer, old-fashioned sense of justice. If he suspected, he would speak! Perhaps it would be as well to defer his departure and stick to George until the affair had completely blown over; but Great Heavens, what a bore!
He was not yet free! The bonds which held him were invisible, intangible, yet he felt their pressure and writhed beneath it. God! Would he ever succeed in breaking them? Must he be forever a prisoner in these chains of his own forging?
Chapter XXII.
At the Club
On the following day, to George’s surprise and gratification Storm appeared at his office at noon and dragged him unceremoniously off for lunch. In the course of their long friendship he had been almost invariably the one to seek out his more brilliant companion, and he was touched at this evidence of a need of him.
“I must say you look pretty bad, Norman,” he began with tactless solicitude. “And you were as nervous as a woman last night; I could see it. You are not taking care of yourself——”