Finally he turned to the miserable, shaking figure, and said sternly:
"You have committed one murder, and, perhaps, two. But I will not kill you now, or put out your eyes, unless you get troublesome. Have you any money? I thought not. You are going with me to the railroad station, where I shall buy you a ticket."
He unlocked the door and motioned to the woman. She followed him to the station without protest, fascinated by his strong will. Sommers bought a ticket to St. Louis and handed it to her with a dollar.
"Remember, if I see or hear of you again,"—he put his finger in his waistcoat pocket, significantly. "And there are other powders," he added grimly.
"Ducharme has gone back to Peory. I s'pose I can stop off there?" she asked timidly, as the express arrived.
"You can stop off anywhere on your way to hell," the doctor replied indifferently. "But keep away from Chicago. There is no quicker way of making that journey to hell than to come back here."
Mrs. Ducharme trembled afresh and bundled herself on board the train.
Sommers returned to the temple, feeling assured that the next few hours would not be disturbed by the ill-omened creature. This vulgar, brutal act had to be performed; he had been preparing himself for it since daylight, when his mind had resumed the round of cause and effect that answers for life. It was over now, and he could return to Alves. There were other petty things to be done, but not yet. As he came across the park he noticed that the door of the temple was open. Some one had entered while he was away. At his step on the portico a figure rose from the inner room and came to meet him. It was Louise Hitchcock. The traces of tears lay on her face.
"I knew this morning," she said gently. "I thought you might be alone—and so I came."
"Sit down," Sommers replied wearily. In a few moments he added, "I suppose you saw it in the papers—the guard must have told. Strange! that even in death the world must meddle with her, the world that cared nothing for her."