Part 56 (1/2)
”I can't realize anything fully,” he says, slowly. ”It's as well that Burrill did not live to know this.”
”Well! It's providential! We should not have a chance; as it is, we have one. Do you know where Burrill kept his papers?”
”No.”
”Who removed his personal effects? Were you present?”
”a.s.suredly. There were no papers of value to us upon the body.”
”Well, those papers must be found. Once in our hands, we are safe enough for the present; but until we find them, we are not so secure. However, I have no doubt but that they are secreted somewhere about his room.
Have you seen Belknap to-day?”
”Only at the inquest. Curse that fellow; I wish we were rid of him entirely.”
”I wish we were rid of his claim; but it must be paid somehow.”
”Somehow!” echoing the word, mockingly.
”That is the word I used. I must borrow the money.”
”Indeed! Of whom?”
”Of Constance Wardour.”
”What!”
”Why not, pray? Am I to withdraw because you have been discarded? Why should I not borrow from this tricky young lady? Curse her!”
”Well!” rising slowly, ”she is under your roof at this moment. Strike while the iron is hot. Have you anything more to say to-night?”
”No. You are too idiotic. Get some of the cobwebs out of your brain, and that scared look out of your face. One would think that _you_, and not Heath, were the murderer of Burrill.”
A strange look darts from the eyes of Frank Lamotte.
”It won't be so decided by a jury,” he says, between his shut teeth.
”Curse Heath, he is the man who, all along, has stood in my way.”
”Well, there's a strong likelihood that he will be removed from your path. There, go, and don't look so abjectly hopeless. We have nothing to do at present, but to quiet Belknap. Good night.”
With lagging steps, Frank Lamotte ascends the stairs, and enters his own room. He locks the door with a nervous hand, and then hurriedly lowers the curtains. He goes to the mirror, and gazes at his reflected self,--hollow, burning eyes, haggard cheeks, blanched lips, that twitch convulsively, a mingled expression of desperation, horror, and despair,--that is what he sees, and the sight does not serve to steady his nerves. He turns away, with a curse upon the white lips.
He flings himself down in a huge easy chair, and dropping his chin upon his breast, tries to think; but thought only deepens the despairing horror and fear upon his countenance. Where his father sees one foe, Francis Lamotte sees ten.
He sees before him Jerry Belknap, private detective, angry, implacable, menacing, not to be quieted. He sees Clifford Heath, pale, stern, accusing. Constance Wardour, scornful, menacing, condemning and consigning him to dreadful punishment. The dead face of John Burrill rises before him, jeering, jibing, odious, seeming to share with him some ugly secret. He pa.s.ses his hand across his brow, and starts up suddenly.
”Bah!” he mutters, ”this is no time to dally; on every side I see a pitfall. Let every man look to himself. If I must play in my last trump, let me be prepared.”