"She has not been to Silverton," Wilford said. "The case then is very clear."
Indeed, it had been growing clear to the suspicious man ever since Tom Tubbs' unfortunate remark. There are no glasses as perfect as those which jealousy wears, no magnifying lens as powerful, and Wilford was "fully convinced." Had he been asked of what he was convinced he could hardly have told unless it were that in some way he had been deceived, that Morris had spoken falsely when he said his love for Katy was not returned or even suspected, that Katy had acted the hypocrite, and that both had been guilty of a great indiscretion, at least, by being seen as they were in the New Haven train, and then keeping the occurrences of that night a secret from him. Wilford did not believe Katy had fallen, but she had surely stepped upon forbidden ground, and it was not in his nature to forgive the error—at least, not then, when he was so sore with past remembrances which had come so fast upon him. First, the baby's death, just when he was learning to love it so much, then the Genevra affair about which Katy had acted so foolishly, then the talk with Dr. Grant, and then his last offense, so much worse than all the rest.
It was a sad catalogue of grievances, and Wilford made it sadder by brooding over and magnifying it until he reached a point from which he would not swerve.
"I shall do it," he said, and his lips were pressed firmly together, as before his lonely fire he sat that chill March night, revolving the past and then turning to the future opening so darkly before him, and making him shudder as he thought of what it might bring. "I will spare Katy as much as possible," he said, "for hers is a different nature from Genevra's. She cannot bear as well," and a bitter groan broke the silence of the room as Katy came up before him just as she had looked that very morning standing by the window, with tears in her eyes, and a wistful, sorry look on her white face.
Could she be false to him and wear that look? The question staggered Wilford for a moment, but when he remembered the proof, he steeled his heart against her and prepared to act.
CHAPTER XLII.
DISAPPEARED.
All the next day Wilford was very busy arranging his affairs, and a casual looker-on would have seen nothing unusual in the face always so grave and cold. But to Tom Tubbs, casting furtive glances over his book and wondering at his employer's sudden activity, it was terrible in its dark, hard, unrelenting expression, while even his mother, upon whom he called that evening, looked at him anxiously, asking what was the matter, but not mentioning the conversation held with her the previous day respecting Katy.
She was still at Yonkers, Wilford said, and his voice was very natural as he added: "I am expected to go out there to-morrow night with Beverley and Lincoln, whose wives are also at Mrs. Mills'; quite a gay party we shall make," and he tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort and made his face look still more ghastly and strange.