Part 49 (1/2)

”In the--cave--rum.”

The whisper was just loud enough for him to hear. Leaning the head once more against the stone, Durham staggered to the cave. A dark heap lay on the ground in the shadow. He struck a match.

Numbed as his brain was by the revelation that had come to him, he shrank back at what he saw.

A pile of woman's clothes; the skirt and jacket which had been impressed upon his memory only a few hours before under circ.u.mstances which form, perhaps, the one occasion when a man heeds and remembers what a woman wears; the jaunty hat which had exerted so great a spell upon the masculine population of the district, and beside it, the most horrible of all, a wig of luxuriant coal-black hair from which the subtle perfume that had so often charmed him still floated.

With hands which shook so that he could scarcely hold it, he took the bottle of rum, bearing Soden's label, from the ground beside the clothes, and hastened to the mouth of the cave.

In the cold moonlight the figure lay to all appearances dead.

Durham tore open the front of the s.h.i.+rt and pushed in his hand to feel if the heart still beat.

With the moaning cry of a heart-broken man he reeled back. Then, in a wild fervour born of his soul's despair, he fell on his knees beside the prostrate form and tenderly drew the lolling head to his breast and moistened the blue lips with the spirit.

”Oh, speak! Speak to me! Nora, speak to me and tell me,” he wailed.

He reached to take her hands and remembered how he had bound the arms.

Quickly he set them free and chafed the limp fingers.

”Rum--quick--drink,” came in a wavering whisper, and he poured some of the potent spirit between the lips.

Holding her in his arms, with her head resting on his shoulder, he waited, listening to her faint breathing.

”A little more and--I----”

She was able to raise her hand to steady the bottle which he held. Then her head fell over again and she lay inert.

He turned his face to watch her. In a momentary fit of remorse and grief he pressed his lips to hers.

One of her arms stole round his neck and held him to her.

”Oh, my darling, my darling, how I have loved you,” he heard her whisper. ”Why did you come to me so late?”

Like a chill of death the words went through his brain.

”Tell me--everything,” he whispered.

”Yes--before I die--if I can.”

”Who are you?” he said. ”What is your real name?”

”Nora O'Guire. I am Kitty Lambton's youngest daughter. I told you her story.”

”And Patsy?”

”He was my father.”

”Was?”

”Yes. He is at the house--dead--Dudgeon--shot him.”