“They will have orders to forward letters home,” said Darke. “If you get into trouble, or if you make any important discoveries write to me. Bear in mind that I am deeply interested in your success.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darke.”
“Now, good-by, Tom, and God bless you.”
Leaving Tom till the next chapter, we devote a few additional lines to Darius Darke and John Simpson.
The shoe manufacturer was thoroughly persuaded that his dreaded enemy was safely and finally disposed of. He entertained not a doubt that he had perished in the flames that consumed the old barn. True, he had not been able to discover any bones among the ruins, and this puzzled him considerably.
“I suppose,” he concluded, “that the fire must have been so intense that the bones as well as the flesh were entirely consumed. It must have been so. The man had no chance to escape, or, if he had, I should have heard from him before now. I have seen the last of him.”
This thought gave John Simpson no little satisfaction. It might have been supposed that he would feel some compunction in reflecting upon the awful fate to which he had consigned a fellow-creature; but a cowardly man becomes easily cruel, and the feeling of relief outweighed the horror of the crime.
It was during the last week of Darius Darke’s stay in New York that John Simpson came up to transact a little business. It was on Wednesday, and, having time to spare, he dropped into a matinee performance at one of the theaters.
In the interval between the second and third acts he chanced to look around him, and his heart gave a painful bound as his eyes rested on a man of about his own age seated not far from him.
“Do the dead live?” he asked himself, in dismay. “That looks like the man who I thought was burned in my barn.”