The conversation just recorded indicates the pleasant prospect which James Cromwell had of domestic happiness in case his wishes were gratified, and he gained the hand of the young lady. But he had no conception of her real disposition, or he might have hesitated to go farther. She had tact enough to veil her faults from the scrutiny of her lover, and present to him only an amiable and agreeable side.
In the morning, James Cromwell started for New York, going by Wheeling. It so chanced that he arrived in the evening at the same hotel where Robert and Major Woodley had rooms. He was fatigued by his long journey, and retired at nine o'clock, or soon after his arrival. He did not think to look over the books of the hotel, or he might have made the discovery that Robert was still alive, and that his journey was likely to prove fruitless. Neither did he meet Major Woodley or Robert, for they were sitting together in the major's room until half-past ten, chatting cosily.
But James Cromwell was destined to meet with an adventure, which tormented his soul with guilty fear, and gave him a great shock.
It chanced that the room assigned to him was No. 41. The room occupied by Robert was No. 43, just beyond in the same corridor.
As has been said, Cromwell retired to bed at half-past nine; but, though fatigued, he was unable to go to sleep—he was haunted by the thoughts of the pond and the body that lay beneath, deprived of life through his most wicked agency, and as he lay he became nervous and restless, and not even his physical fatigue could induce the coveted slumber to visit him.
When Robert, coming from the room of Major Woodley, sought his own room, he could not at first remember whether it was No. 41 or 43. He had the impression that it was No. 41 that had been assigned him. He accordingly opened the door of the room and stood just within the door.
At the sound of the opening door James Cromwell rose in bed, and gazed with horror at the face and figure of the boy whom he supposed that he had murdered. The moonlight entering through the windows fell upon Robert's face and gave it a ghastly look, or at least seemed to do so to the excited imagination of the guilty Cromwell. He gazed spell-bound, and cowering with fear at the apparition, with difficulty ejaculated:
"Who are you?"
Of course Robert recognized Cromwell and he at once guessed the truth, that he was going to New York to give his own version of his disappearance to his uncle. He saw at once that he was mistaken for a ghost, and the desire seized him to carry out this deception. Certainly, if one were justifiable in frightening another by exciting his superstitious fears Robert was justified in terrifying the man who had so basely sought his life.
When, therefore, with faltering lips, James Cromwell put the question, "Who are you?" Robert answered in a low, guttural voice: