“I will.”
Atwood’s face assumed the hue of death. A bright light shone out from the hall of the cottage. The man stood right before the opening and his features were fully revealed. He presented a pitiable sight, for he was a good fellow and very fond of his wife, and a weird suspicion had penetrated his mind.
Again he addressed Murray saying:
“You would not deceive me?”
“On my honor I wouldn’t, Tom.”
“And my wife did not come down here with you?”
“She did not.”
“And you do not know that she is really here?”
“I do not.”
“Boys, I am going to New York,” said Atwood. “Going if I walk every step of the way.”