Storm realized later when the dawn brought coherency of thought that it was blind instinct alone, not conscious will, which had enabled him to shield the death blow that had been given him from George Holworthy’s peering eyes. The crumbling of his air castles had left him stunned, and he remembered nothing of the rest of the interview save that George had moralized interminably and in leaving at last had harked back to the Millard boy. Surely he would not have droned on of trivialities had he gleaned an inkling of the tumult in his host’s brain!
Until the morning light stole in at the windows Storm paced the floor in a frenzy of consternation. He had one slender hope: that the false Du Chainat would be apprehended. If he appeared against the scoundrel or entered a complaint the resultant revelation of how easily he had been fleeced would be a bitter pill to swallow. Old Langhorne would recall that conversation of the previous day, and it would be his turn to smile, while Foulkes and George would descend upon him with galling criticism and reproach.
He could endure it all, however, if only it would mean the recovery of his money or even a portion of it! As his hope of getting away vanished, the absolute need of such escape grew in his thoughts until it assumed the proportions of an obsession. He felt as if something he could not name were tightening about him slowly but inexorably and he struggled wildly to free himself from the invisible fetters.
If he had to stay on at the trust company, suffer George’s continual presence, run the daily gauntlet of mingled sympathy and curiosity of his friends, he should go mad! Other men lived down tragedies, went on in the same old rut until the end of time, but he could not.
And then all at once the truth burst upon him! If Leila had died a natural death as the world supposed; if she had been taken from him in the high tide of their love and happiness, he might have gone on with existence again in time with no thought of cutting himself adrift from the past. It was the secret knowledge of his guilt which was driving him forth, which rendered unendurable all the familiar things of his every-day life!
Yet he must endure them! Unless the bogus Du Chainat were caught there was no way out for him.
Unconscious of irony, his breast swelled with virtuous indignation at thought of the swindler and dire were the anathemas he heaped upon the departed one. He searched the papers feverishly, made what inquiries he dared without drawing undue attention to himself and haunted the Belterre grill for news, but all to no avail; and as day succeeded day he developed a savage moroseness which rebuffed even George’s overtures. He would take no one into his confidence; there would be time enough for admitting that he had played the fool when the miscreant was caught. If he were not, Storm determined to accept the inevitable in silence; but day by day the obsession of flight increased. Somehow, at any price, he must get away!
The papers still played up the pseudo Du Chainat as further exploits of that wily adventurer were brought to light, and the press gleefully baited the police for their inability to discover whither he had flown. The flickering hope that he would be apprehended died slowly in Storm’s breast, and the blankness of despair settled upon him.
One morning Nicholas Langhorne sent for him, and before the president spoke Storm sensed a subtle difference in his manner. The pompous official attitude seemed to have been laid aside, for once a warmly personal note crept into his voice.
“Sit down, Storm; I want to have a little talk with you.” The other seated himself and waited, but Langhorne seemed in no hurry to begin. He took off his glasses, wiped them, replaced them and then sat meditatively fingering a pen. At last he threw it aside and turned abruptly to face his subordinate.