“It is silly! It is ridiculous.”
“Um-hum. All right. I’m glad to hear you think so. I shall try to pin the yarn down, of course, and when I locate the liar I’ll shut him—or her—up.... Well, haven’t changed your mind? You won’t tell me any more?”
“No.”
“Sorry. Good-by.”
He put on his hat and left the building. Bob stared after him for one miserable moment. Then he sat down in the chair his inquisitor had vacated and, with his head in his hands, tried again to look the situation in the face. It had been sufficiently complex before. Now it was quite hopeless. Why—oh, why, had he lost his temper? Why had he not told the story he had meant to tell and then stuck to it, through thick and thin? His word would have been as good as any one else’s. Now he had let Foster Townsend see that he was hiding something. Townsend would not be satisfied until he learned the whole truth. Lies, no matter how stubbornly persistent, would not help now. This other story was already in circulation. This man—and who was he?—had recognized him and Covell. He must have heard a part, at least, of their quarrel.
And Esther—had Townsend intimated that her name had been mentioned? He could not remember that he had, but it made little difference. All Harniss would assume they were fighting over her. And if, by any chance, the name of the Campton girl was dragged into the affair, that would only make matters worse. They would say that he—Griffin—had followed Covell to the Campton house, had played the spy, hoping thereby to injure his rival in Esther’s eyes, and—and—what wouldn’t they say? Why, they might even go so far as to disbelieve the entire story of the accident, to say that it was not an accident at all, but that he, Bob Griffin, had inflicted the injury upon Seymour Covell. They might. And if Covell never regained consciousness, if he died without speaking, who could prove that the accusation was not true? Even Esther, herself, might believe it.
His imagination formed a picture of the court room at Ostable, himself in the prisoner’s dock, Esther in the witness stand and a sharp lawyer cross-examining her, dragging forth every detail of their relations with each other; asking—
No, she should not be subjected to that. It made little difference what they thought of him. And the reputation of the Campton girl no longer counted. If Esther Townsend’s name could be left out, he would tell the whole truth and face the music. But to tell that whole truth was unthinkable. She had been the cause of the quarrel.
He thought and thought, pacing the floor, racking his brains for a satisfactory solution and finding none. The sole ray of light in the darkness centered upon his going away, going far away where he could not be questioned. The problem as to whether or not he should go abroad was settled then and there. He would go at once, on the very next ship, if possible. They would talk about him, of course, but no matter for that. They could only guess and, after a time, they might get tired of guessing. Or Covell might recover and tell whatever he pleased. The chances were that he, too, would leave Esther’s name unmentioned.
Bob drove back to Denboro with his mind made up. He and his grandfather had a protracted and stormy session that evening. In spite of charges of ingratitude and selfishness in being in such a hurry to leave “the only relation you’ve got on earth”; in spite of a guilty conscience which partially confirmed those accusations, Bob’s determination was not shaken. At last Elisha Cook ordered him to go and be hanged. “Though why you are in such a tearin’ rush all at once I’ll be blessed if I can see,” he added. “What is the matter? Come now! why not tell me?”