After a time, having decided nothing, he hurried across town to the Dexter Smith place.
It was dark, upstairs and down.
He slipped in among the trees; drew near the great house. All the time the little box from Welding's was gripped in his burning hand.
He stood by a large soft maple. He loved the trees of Sunbury; every year he budded, flowered, and died with them. He looked up; the great straight branches were bending before the wind. Leaves were falling about him; the bright yellow leaves of October. He caught at one; missed it. Caught at another. And another.
He laid a hand on the bark; then rested his cheek against it. It was cool to the touch. He stood thus, his arm about the tree, looking up at the dark house. Tears came; blinded him.
'They've shut her up,' he said. 'They're going to take her away. Because she loves me. They're breaking her heart—and mine. Martha'll be back to-morrow. And Mary'n' her mother. It'll be out then—what—what I did. Everybody'll be talking. I'll have to go away too. I can't live here—not after that.'
A new and fascinating thought came.
'The watchman'll be coming around. Pretty soon, maybe. He'll find me here. I s'pose he'll shoot me. I don't care. Let him. In the morning they'll find my body. And the ring'll be in my pocket. And Mr Galbraith's cheque. And in the morning Mr Merchant'll have that letter. Maybe they'll discover I was some good after all. Maybe they'll be sorry then.'
But on second thought this notion lost something of its appealing quality. He went away; after hours more appeared in the rooms and kept his long-suffering partner awake during much of the night.
At half-past eight the next morning he mounted the front steps of the Smith place and rang the bell. A mildly surprised butler showed him into the spacious parlour.