Clifford, still dazed by the swift manner in which his plan had leaped beyond itself, breathlessly held his gaze on Mary. Her dark eyes were wild, her lips loosely parted—the figure of one bewildered beyond realization of what had happened. Then she caught a sharp breath and high excitement came into her face. At that same instant Clifford saw the magnitude of what had suddenly been opened to her—and he saw that she was seeing it, too. At last, by a strange twist of circumstances and of Clifford’s attempt to guide events, she had won! Won all that was included in her original plan! And most amazing of all, what she had thought to get as the reward of scheming, she was now being begged to accept as a favor—wealth, worldly position, and all that each could bring!
And Clifford, in this high moment, realized another thing. All these months of her big dreams, of her indomitable and skillful scheming, she had had one great, ever-present fear—that some one might expose her identity and her past, and bring to instant nothingness her magnificent dreams. How she had fought exposure—desperately and daringly, with her all of cleverness! And now, if she were only moderately careful, she need no longer fear exposure—and when exposure came, if it did, she would have so established herself that it could no longer injure her.
Events, Clifford’s efforts, the working-out of conflicting human impulses, the operations of that erratic thing which we call chance or fate or destiny—all these could not have combined more perfectly to be her friend—could not have combined better to bring her the worldly substance of her daring dreams.
“You’ll do it, won’t you?” prompted Mr. Morton.
Mary did not speak at once. She was even more pale than before; she was breathing rapidly, almost panting, and her eyes were even more staringly wide. Clifford, his heart pounding, wondered at her prolonged silence—wondered feverishly just what was passing in that bold, daring, worldly mind, which he had found to be so many different minds.
She turned and gave Clifford a long, direct look—a bewildered, almost startled look. Then she sharply caught her breath, and slowly wheeling she moved a step nearer Mr. Morton.
“Mr. Morton,” she began in a low, strained voice, “I want to tell you something—I want to tell you everything—”
“Stop!” came a frantic cry from Loveman—and Clifford again saw fear in Loveman’s large, protuberant eyes.
In an instant what had been a bewildered tableau became a whirl of activity. Bradley’s right hand darted for the electric-light switch, and before Clifford could move there was a click and the room was in darkness. A shrill two notes, which Clifford knew to be a signal, sounded from Bradley’s lips. Clifford sprang toward where he had last seen Bradley, and collided with that burly figure with so great an impact that both went crashing to the floor, Clifford on top.
Clifford had not drawn his automatic; he wanted no shooting affray—not in this darkness where bullets would be impartial and irresponsible. But instinct told him Bradley’s probable first tactic; and he reached for Bradley’s right hand, and fortunately caught the wrist. Sure enough, the right hand was jerking out a heavy pistol. With both hands Clifford seized the weapon, and tried to twist it from the other’s hand; and grunting, twisting, the two old enemies fought in the darkness.