Our hands grasped silently. I was too choked to speak, and I left her. At that moment she blinded me to all her faults. She was a wonderful woman.
Galt Roscoe had walked slowly along the forest-road towards the valley, his mind in that state of calm which, in some, might be thought numbness of sensation, in others fortitude--the prerogative of despair. He came to the point of land jutting out over the valley, where he had stood with Mrs. Falchion, Justine, and myself, on the morning of Phil Boldrick’s death.
He looked for a long time, and then, slowly descending the hillside, made his way to Mr. Devlin’s office. He found Phil’s pal awaiting him there. After a few preliminaries, the money was paid over, and Kilby said:
“I’ve been to see his camping-ground. It’s right enough. Viking has done it noble.... Now, here’s what I’m goin’ to do: I’m goin’ to open bottles for all that’ll drink success to Viking. A place that’s stood by my pal, I stand by--but not with his money, mind you! No, that goes to you, Padre, for hospital purposes. My gift an’ his.... So, sit down and write a receipt, or whatever it’s called, accordin’ to Hoyle, and you’ll do me proud.”
Roscoe did as he requested, and handed the money over to Mr. Devlin for safe keeping, remarking, at the same time, that the matter should be announced on a bulletin outside the office at once.
As Kilby stood chewing the end of a cigar and listening to the brief conversation between Roscoe and Mr. Devlin, perplexity crossed his face. He said, as Roscoe turned round: “There’s something catchy about your voice, Padre. I don’t know what; but it’s familiar like. You never was on the Panama level, of course?”
Roscoe grew a shade paler, but he was firm and composed. He was determined to answer truthfully any question that was asked him, wherever it might lead.
There was the slightest pause, and then the reply came:
“Not a missionary, by gracious! Not a mickonaree in Samoa?”
“No.” He said nothing further. He did not feel bound to incriminate himself.
“No? Well, you wasn’t a beachcomber, nor trader, I’ll swear. Was you there in the last half of the Seventies? That’s when I was there.”
“By Jingo!” The man’s face was puzzled. He was about to speak again; but at that moment two river-drivers--boon companions, who had been hanging about the door--urged him to come to the tavern. This distracted him. He laughed, and said that he was coming, and then again, though with less persistency, questioned Roscoe.. “You don’t remember me, I suppose?”