Again, he was reflecting upon old Sam’s appeal to him to save him.
“Suppose he knew,” he murmured again. “Suppose—” and his eyes were fixed upon the painted ceiling of the lounge.
A moment later he sighed impatiently, saying, “Phew! how stifling it is here!” and, rising, took up his hat and went down the stairs and out into the broad street to cool his fevered brain. He was haunted by a recollection—the tragic recollection of that night when the Doctor and his daughter had so mysteriously disappeared.
“I wonder,” he said aloud, at last, “I wonder if Max ever dreams the extraordinary truth? Yet how can he?—what impressions can he have? He must be puzzled—terribly puzzled, but he can have no clue to what has actually happened!” and then he was again silent, still walking mechanically along the dark half-deserted business street. “But suppose the truth was really known!—suppose it were discovered? What then? Ah!” he gasped, staring straight before him, “what then?”
For a full hour he wandered the half-deserted streets of central Glasgow, till he found himself down by the Clyde bank, and then re-traced his steps to the hotel, hardly knowing whither he went, so full was he of the terror which daily, nay, hourly, obsessed him. Whether Max Barclay had actually discovered him or not meant to him his whole future—nay his very life.
“I wonder if I could possibly get at the truth through Marion?” he thought to himself. “If he really suspects me he might possibly question her with a view of discovering my actual movements on that night. Would it be safe to approach her? Or would it be safer to boldly face Max, and if he makes any remark, to deny it?”
Usually he was no coward. He believed in facing the music when there was any to face. One of the greatest misfortunes of honest folks is that they are cowards.
As he walked on he still muttered to himself—
“Hasn’t Boileau said that all men are fools, and, spite of all their pains, they differ from each other only more or less, I’m a fool—a silly, cowardly ass, scenting danger where there is none. What could Max prove after all? No! When I return to London I’ll go and face him. The reason I didn’t go to Servia is proved by Statham himself. Of excuses I’m never at a loss. It’s an awkward position, I admit, but I must wriggle out of it, as I’ve wriggled before. Statham’s peril seems to me even greater than my own, and, moreover, he asks me to do something that is impossible. He doesn’t know—he never dreams the truth; and, what’s more, he must never know. Otherwise, I—I must—”
And instinctively his hand passed over his hip-pocket, where reposed the handy plated revolver which he always carried.