“Just some old clothes, some account books and a—a packet of letters that I brought up with me myself.” Storm deposited the bag carefully on the floor of the taxi between his feet and then sank back with his face in the shadow.
“I thought I might like to look them over but I—I can’t, just yet.”
George’s hand gripped his shoulder for a minute in silent sympathy, and Storm suppressed a smile. What a sentimental, gullible fool! One reference to Leila, however vague, and he became the conventional mourner at once. He was really too easy!
When they reached the station Storm left the other to pay the taxi and holding his valise so that his arm would not betray the strain upon it too obviously, went ahead through the gates.
There was no one on the train whom they knew, and during the brief ride out to Greenlea they discussed the fishing trip in desultory fashion. George was evidently apprehensive of the effect upon his friend’s spirits of this return to old scenes saddened with tragic memories, but Storm himself felt no depression.
The money was there at his feet! The money to take him away from all this forever! When he cabled George later to sell the house, let him come out here and weep over the relics if he felt like it! This was just another final test of his own nerve, that was all, and he defied the house or its memories to break him down. The past was dead, and this was just a visit to its grave, nothing more.
They found a jitney at the Greenlea station, and this time George stooped for the valise, but Storm forestalled him.
“No, thanks, old man. I don’t mind carrying it.”
“But you are tired. Let me——”
“For heaven’s sake go on!” Storm exclaimed irritably. “I want to carry it myself, I tell you!”