Barksdale's blood ran cold during the recital, the scene so vividly pictured, the uncanny face before him. It was horrible. But over all came the realization that some hidden hand was deliberately striking at the life of Edward Morgan through the grave of the woman. The cowardliness, the infamy, the cruelty was overpowering. He turned away his face.
But the next instant he was cool. It was a frail and doubtful barrier between Edward and ruin, this mind unfolding its secret. If it failed there was no other witness.
"I do not know. I wanted his face; I got it."
"On the street." Barksdale arose deliberately.
"I suppose I walked. I want you to help me find the man who struck the blow."
"You are right, we must find the man. Now, I have a request to make. Edward trusted to my judgment in the other affair, and it came out right, did it not?"
"Trust me again. Go home now and take that picture. Preserve it as you would your life, for on it may hang the life of Edward Morgan. You understand? And do not open your lips on this subject to any one until I see you again."
Gerald rolled up the paper and turned away abruptly. Barksdale followed him down the steps and called a hack.
"Your health," he said to Gerald, as he gently forced him into the carriage, "must not be risked." And to the driver, slipping a fee in his hand: "Take Mr. Morgan to Ilexhurst. Remember, Mr. Morgan," he called out.
"I remember," was the reply. "I never forget. Would to God I could."
Barksdale walked rapidly to the livery stable.
Edward Morgan gave himself up to the dream. The flying train sped onward, out of the pine forest, into the hills and the shadow of mountains, into the broad world of life and great cities.
They had the car almost to themselves, for the northward travel is small at that season.
Before him was the little woman of the motherly face and smooth, soft hand, and behind her, lost in the contemplation of the light literature with which he had surrounded her, was the girl about whom all the tendrils of his hungry life were twining. He could see her half-profile, the contour of the smooth cheek, the droop of eyelid, the fluff of curly hair over her brow, and the shapely little head. He was content.
It was a novel and suggestive situation. And yet--only a dream. No matter how far he wandered, how real seemed the vision, it always ended there--it was but a dream, a waking dream. He had at last no part in her life; he would never have.