The person who spoke first was Edna Hill. She had seen Turl less often than the other two had, and Davenport never at all. Hence there was no great stupidity in her remark to Turl:
“But I don't understand. I know Mr. Larcher met a man coming through that hallway one night, but it turned out to be you.”
“Yes, it was I,” was the quiet answer. “The name of the new man, you see, was Francis Turl.”
As light flashed over Edna's face, Larcher found his tongue to express a certain doubt: “But how could that be? Davenport had a letter from you before he—before any transformation could have begun. I saw it the night before he disappeared—it was signed Francis Turl.”
Turl smiled. “Yes, and he asked if you could infer the writer's character. He wondered if you would hit on anything like the character he had constructed out of his imagination. He had already begun practical experiments in the matter of handwriting alone. Naturally some of that practice took the shape of imaginary correspondence. What could better mark the entire separateness of the new man from the old than letters between the two? Such letters would imply a certain brief acquaintance, which might serve a turn if some knowledge of Murray Davenport's affairs ever became necessary to the new man's conduct. This has already happened in the matter of the money, for example. The name, too, was selected long before the disappearance. That explains the letter you saw. I didn't dare tell this earlier in the story,—I feared to reveal too suddenly what had become of Murray Davenport. It was best to break it as I have, was it not?”
He looked at Florence wistfully, as if awaiting judgment. She made an involuntary movement of drawing away, and regarded him with something almost like repulsion.
“It's so strange,” she said, in a hushed voice. “I can't believe it. I don't know what to think.”
Turl sighed patiently. “You can understand now why I didn't want to tell. Perhaps you can appreciate what it was to me to revive the past,—to interrupt the illusion, to throw it back. So much had been done to perfect it; my dearest thought was to preserve it. I shall preserve it, of course. I know you will keep the secret, all of you; and that you'll support the illusion.”
“Of course,” replied Larcher. Edna, for once glad to have somebody's lead to follow, perfunctorily followed it. But Florence said nothing. Her mind was yet in a whirl. She continued to gaze at Turl, a touch of bewildered aversion in her look.
“I had meant to leave New York,” he went on, watching her with cautious anxiety, “in a very short time, and certainly not to seek any of the friends or haunts of the old cast-off self. But when I got into the street that night, after you and Mr. Bud had passed me, Larcher, I fell into a strong curiosity as to what you and he might have to say about Davenport. This was Mr. Bud's first visit to town since the disappearance, so I was pretty sure your talk would be mainly about that. Also, I wondered whether he would detect any trace of my long occupancy of his room. I found I'd forgot to bring out the cover taken from the bankbills. Suppose that were seen, and you recognized it, what theories would you form? For the sake of my purpose I ought to have put curiosity aside, but it was too keen; I resolved to gratify it this one time only. The hallway was perfectly dark, and all I had to do was to wait there till you and Mr. Bud should come out. I knew he would accompany you down-stairs for a good-night drink in the saloon when you left. The slightest remark would give me some insight into your general views of the affair. I waited accordingly. You soon came down together. I stood well out of your way in the darkness as you passed. And you can imagine what a revelation it was to me when I heard your talk. Do you remember? Davenport—it couldn't be anybody else—had disappeared just too soon to learn that 'the young lady'—so Mr. Bud called her—had been true, after all! And it broke your heart to have nothing to report when you saw her!”