Part 41 (1/2)

”I think,” said Ashton-Kirk, ”that you began to prostrate yourself before your idol; and when a man takes to that, he always gets to thinking meanly of himself. The att.i.tude has much to do with the state of mind, I imagine. Miss Vale is a courageous, capable girl; but you can never tell what sort of a man a woman will select for a husband.

Girls have fancies upon the subject, and give voice to them sometimes; but it is the man they choose and not the one they picture to whom you must give your attention.”

”I suppose that is true enough,” said Pendleton.

”Miss Vale's evident strength awed you,” went on the other. ”And then your timidity began to magnify her qualities. No woman is what she seems to be to the man who loves her. Miss Vale is not so difficult to please as you thought. I fancy that her engagement to young Morris proves that.”

”There you have it,” cried Pendleton. ”That's it, Kirk! I've stood aside, considering myself unworthy, and allowed a fellow to slip by me who is as colorless as water. Allan Morris is no more fit to be her husband than--” at loss for a simile he halted for a moment, and then burst out: ”Oh, he's impossible!”

”So far as we have tested him, certainly,” agreed Ashton-Kirk, ”he has shown no great strength of character.”

”He's acted like a frightened child all through this affair. He's mixed up in it, and through his weakness allowed Edyth to also entangle herself. Again and again he's run to her, or called to her, to tell her of some fresh complication that he'd gotten his frightened self into; and to protect him, she has dared and done what would have frightened an ordinary woman into fits.”

”I think,” observed Ashton-Kirk, ”that she has realized his position, to some extent, at least. The fact that he is weak has, I think, dawned upon her already; she may also see his evident selfishness before long. If she does--why, might there not still be some hope for you, Pen?”

Pendleton shook his head in the gloom.

”I'm afraid not,” said he, hopelessly. ”Somehow a weak man makes a great appeal to the woman who has grown to care for him. He arouses her mother instinct. And Edyth is so strong that her pity--”

”May induce her to do her utmost to see him through this trouble,”

interrupted Ashton-Kirk. ”But it may not carry her much further. When once the thing is over, a reaction may set in. Who knows?”

But Pendleton refused to be comforted. For a long time they talked of Edyth Vale, Morris, and the killing of Hume. Finally Pendleton said:

”I suppose we can't smoke here to-night, can we?”

”No; the lights might be seen; and we can't tell what sharp eyes are watching the place.”

Pendleton sighed drearily.

There were many clocks in the rooms; the policemen must have amused themselves by winding and setting them; for at the end of each hour they began to strike, singly and in pairs. The brisk strokes of the nervous little modern clock mingled with the solemn sonorous beat of an old New England timepiece whose wooden works creaked and labored complainingly. Elaborate Swiss chimes pealed from others; through the darkness, a persistent cuckoo could be heard throwing open a small shutter and stridently announcing his version of the time.

It was some time after midnight that Pendleton began to yawn. Then Ashton-Kirk said:

”Open some of those blankets, Pen, and lie down. There is no need of two of us watching to-night; I scarcely expect anything to happen.”

Pendleton did not expect anything, either, but he said:

”All right, I will, if you'll wake me in a few hours and let me take a turn at it.”

Ashton-Kirk agreed. Pendleton stretched himself upon the sofa, and soon his deep breathing told that he was asleep. As the night drew on, the solitary watcher grew chilled in the unheated rooms and huddled himself into another blanket; but he sat near the door leading to the hall, which was slightly ajar; and though his eyes closed sometimes in weariness, he never lost a sound in the street or a tick of one of the clocks. Through the entire night he watched and waited almost without moving; it was not until the dawn of a gray, dirty day began to somewhat lighten the room that he aroused Pendleton. The latter expostulated sleepily when he noted the time; but with scarcely a word the investigator took his place upon the sofa and dropped off to sleep.

About nine o'clock he awoke and found his friend arranging their breakfast upon a small table.

”I say, Kirk,” said Pendleton, admiringly, ”you did this thing rather thoroughly. There's quite a tasty little snack here; and the thermos bottles have kept the coffee steaming.”

At the water tap in the rear the investigator bathed his hands and face; then he sat down with his friend and did complete justice to the breakfast. Afterwards, with their cigars going nicely and a feeling of comfort stealing over them in spite of the rather uncomfortable night, Pendleton said: