When John rushed away in the manner that has been described, Montressor and the other were left together looking at each other blankly. They said nothing so long as the sound of voices without betrayed that he was still there. They sat listening, looking at each other, in silence, till the sound of his footsteps had died away upon the stony pavement, and the quiet street had relapsed into its usual stillness. The look which they exchanged was like that of two convicted criminals waiting breathless till the steps of the avenger had died away. Montressor, at least, had done the young fellow no wrong, but he felt that he had somehow unconsciously, involuntarily, been the means of bringing trouble upon him. He felt like a culprit whispering to his fellow-conspirator when he said,
‘May,’ in a low voice, as if he might be overheard, ‘what does it all mean?’
May looked up at him from where he sat by the table, leaning his forehead upon his hands. He shook his head, but he did not make any reply.
‘May, we’re old friends. I never turned me back upon ye, though many did. I’ve always felt an interest in where ye were, and how your time was running on. I hadn’t much in me power, but many didn’t do that.’
‘Nobody did it,’ said May. ‘I’m like a martyr, a saint, in that, if in nothing else, Montressor; everyone forsook me. I had not a soul to inquire whether I was living or dead, but you.’
‘Hush, May, me poor fellow!—your wife and family——’
‘Do you know what they did? They disappeared, and left no sign of themselves anywhere. They must have changed their name; they sent a sum of money for me, but not a word. I came out not knowing if anyone belonging to me was living or dead, or where they were, or what had become of them. My wife may be at the end of the world for anything I know.’
‘May be dead,’ said the other, ‘that’s more likely.’
The convict shook his head.
‘It must have been she who sent me the money. I had a mind not to take it at first. Like a bone to a dog to keep him from following you. I thought for half-an-hour I wouldn’t take it: but after all,’ he said, with a low laugh, ‘money’s not a bad thing in itself. It’s a make-up for many things—when you can get nothing else.’