“You—you—” he muttered, but could find no words.
“Come, Elsie,” said Webb, without a further glance at Whiting; “may we go, officer?”
“Yes, Mr. Webb, and all joy go with you.”
Whiting found his voice, and called out, “Small joy to marry a poor girl when you hoped for a fortune!”
Webb’s face flushed darkly, and but for Elsie’s restraining hand he would have turned on his tormentor.
“And you must hand it to me for cleverness!” Whiting went on. “I had that connection between the houses made four years ago. I meant to get you sooner or later, you stuck-up aristocrat. You won’t be quite so proud when you find you’ve married a penniless bride. Oh, yes, I had the thing built that I might go in and kill you! Yes, that’s what I planned to do,—kill you! Then, I saw better game than that! I kidnapped you, meaning to marry the girl and get all that money myself!”
A chattering laugh broke from the speaker, and Elsie shuddered. Without doubt the wicked brain had snapped its tension and Whiting was demented!
But he wasn’t,—except momentarily.
“Or,” he resumed, “I thought I’d scare you to death with ghosts and things,—but I didn’t—I waited and I had the best scheme after all,—it all worked perfectly,—only scratched the gilt so badly, had to regild it—just a little—just a little—” he babbled on like a veritable idiot, and fearing lest his next phase might be one of violence the policeman urged Webb and Elsie to go at once.
Coe and Allison went too, for they all wanted to be at the jubilee of reunion.