This settled the matter, then, I assured myself. There was nothing left for me to do but rejoice in Farnham's safety, curse my own idiocy for harbouring fantastic suspicions, despite all evidence which should long ago have overthrown them, and proceed to retrace my six thousand mile journey across the continent and the Atlantic.
I should at all events have the satisfaction, I bitterly reflected, that I had done my best to serve Karine's interests and my own, and I should arrive in England in plenty of time to see her married to the man I had vainly attempted to prove a murderer.
I became for the first moment conscious that I was desperately weary, that I had eaten little during the past few days, and slept less. I had not troubled myself to breakfast that morning–devouring food had seemed so utterly irrelevant–and now for an instant, as Mr. Bennett's words rang in my ears, a curious sudden dizziness overpowered me. I felt sick and faint, and realised that life was a failure, with nothing worth living for in future, since Karine Cunningham would soon be Karine Wildred.
"You look ill, Mr. Stanton," remarked Bennett. "I guess you've had a tiresome journey. I know what a bad run that is between Chicago and Denver."
A nasty run, indeed! But it would be much worse going back again, leaving the house of cards, which I had come so far to see, lying in ruins behind me. Still, I continued to beat into my brains the fact that I rejoiced in poor old Farnham's safety.
"I believe I am a bit knocked out," I said, "though I ought to be able to stand a trifle like that and think nothing of it. I should be glad to see Mr. Farnham. I suppose such an old friend as I might venture to call in on him, even though he isn't feeling as fit as I should like to think him. If he's not likely to turn up here presently I might drive to the house, and he'd give me breakfast, I daresay."
I saw before I had finished my second sentence that Bennett was slightly disturbed. He flushed to the roots of his flaxen hair, and his face wore an expression which betrayed a suppressed desire to whistle.
"You can bet he would give you breakfast, or anything else he had, Mr. Stanton," the trusted man of business said heartily, yet with a certain irresolution. "But the fact is, he ain't at the house this morning. He's gone away again."
"I thought he was unwell," I interpolated, in surprise.
"That's so. He's a sick man, not hardly fit to be about, but for all that he's off. He ought to be back again in–well, in a few days, however."