“But wait, wait,” broke in Travers. “Who knew of it’s being here? Who could have discovered it? Now don’t be rash. Let us think before we act. How could it have been found? That is, if it ever was here.”
“Oh, there are a thousand ways in which it might have been found,” answered Fair, ignoring his unbelief.
“Did Mrs. Fair know about it?” asked Allyne, and was startled by the effect of his question.
Fair sprang up, thought for a moment, and then exclaimed: “By heaven, Allyne, that’s it. My God! Do you know what that means?” He clenched his hands and glared at them, stupefied with grief.
“It means,” said Travers, “that she has disposed of it. It means that your chances are a thousand-fold better than before.”
“No, no!” shrieked Fair. “It means—but no—she could not be so unspeakably unkind to the children as to try to prove that she killed him. No. I give it up, then. Come, come, I can’t bear this much longer. I must get the relief of surrendering myself. Come.”
“If you attempt to give yourself up, by gad, I’ll have you locked up for a dangerous lunatic,” said Travers, with strange new determination as he noticed how rapidly Fair was breaking. “I tell you, Fair, that— Hark! That was that beastly footstep again. I’m not a coward, but this— Hark!”
They listened with tense faces. Again the sound. And again.
“That was certainly a footstep—upstairs, too,” whispered Travers. “Come Fair, this is no place for you now. Allyne, if he refuses to come with us, help me to force him out of this hole. Hear me? Now come.”
Fair struggled away from their grasp and ran to the door, saying: “I will go with you, but I am going upstairs first—alone.”