"I don't understand you," I replied coldly. "There are no traces to cover up, beyond those we know already. Murray Olivant is in hiding——"
"That's it—in hiding," he whispered, nodding his head many times, and sucking in his lips, and rubbing his long bony hands together. "In hiding's the word. And he'll sleep soundly to-night—won't he, Charlie?"
"I imagine so," I replied, looking at him steadily. "Why do you insist upon that point?"
"Do I insist upon it, Charlie?" he asked innocently. "Not at all—not at all. Only I like to think of him in those snug rooms of his in Lincoln's Inn Fields—sleeping well—sleeping as long as he likes, Charlie—eh?"
There was that between us which seemed to make it necessary that my eyes should seek his, and that his should be fastened on mine. Even when I moved round the room, I saw that his eyes followed me. And I knew what was in his mind. I would not trust him; I would never trust him again; for the sake of the boy who had done this thing in a moment of madness, I must let Fanshawe think what he would.
"We'd better sleep," I said, as I turned the key in the door. "And, as for Murray Olivant—let him sleep."
"Quite right, Charlie—we can leave him—to sleep soundly," he said, nodding his head at me. "He's safe enough."
He stretched himself on the bed, and seemed to fall asleep at once. I had curled myself up in a corner, and was slowly nodding to slumber, when I thought he moved; I asked sleepily if he wanted anything. There was no reply, and the only sound in the room was his steady breathing. I decided sleepily that everything might well wait until the morrow; my head dropped forward on my breast, and I slept heavily.
I had no recollection of anything during the night, save that it seemed to me once that some one touched me, and that I fretfully begged to be left alone. But I awoke in the morning to find the bed unoccupied, and only myself in the room. Fanshawe was gone. I wondered about it a little, and yet was relieved to be rid of him.
I had got clearly in my mind what I was to do. I wanted to know that Barbara and the girl were safe at Hammerstone Market; I wanted to be certain that the girl was back again in her father's house. Always when I got to that point I stopped, and my thoughts refused to travel further. For while Murray Olivant was safely out of the way, never to trouble the child's peace again, there always came on top of that the shuddering remembrance that the boy had killed him, and that only afterwards, if he was the boy I knew him to be, would there come upon him the knowledge that with that knife thrust he had killed not only Murray Olivant, but all hope of any love story with Barbara. That was one of the problems I had to solve; to know what the boy would do.