from the motor and advanced to the rail, Denning had accompanied him and remained at his elbow, discussing future moves in their giant financial game.  Once on board the private car, he had considered disposing of the jewels from the car window or the observation platform, but abandoned that scheme as worse than useless.  The track walkers’ inevitable discovery would only bring suspicion upon someone traveling along the line—­and who but himself must eventually he suspected?

There was nothing for it but to break up the horde piece by piece and lose the compromising gems in unrecognizable fragments.  The impulse was upon him to switch on the electrics and begin the work of destruction here in his stateroom at once.  But he feared Denning; he feared Langley.  Then his thoughts reverted to Mrs. Marteen.  Where was she?  Where was she hiding?  Had she made away with herself after her desperate deed?  His heart ached and yearned toward her while his senses revolted in horror of the crime.  His world was torn asunder.  The awful discovery he had made had once and for all precluded a change of plans.  Sudden resistance on his part would have been enigmatical to Denning—­or he must confess the state of affairs in the silent house he had just left.  At least by his ruse he had gained time for her, perhaps even protection.

Her letter, her frantic record of pain and misery, was in his pocket.  He found it, and feeling that even if he were observed to be absorbed in reading, it could only appear natural in view of his mission, he propped himself with pillows and reread the tear-blistered pages.  His spirit rebelled.  No, no; the woman who had written those searing, bitter lines of awakening could not be guilty of monstrous murder.  He hated himself that his mind had accused her.  He cursed himself that by his intervention he had perhaps thrown investigation upon the wrong scent, while the truth, he assured himself, must exonerate her and bring the real criminal to justice.  What could have made him be such a fool?  The next instant he thanked his stars that he had been cool enough to plan the scene.  As he read the throbbing pages, tears rose to his eyes again and again; he had to lay the letter down and compose himself.  Ah, he was wrong, always at fault.  By his well-intended interference, he had arranged Dorothy’s flight, with results he trembled to foresee.  And Dorothy!  What was he to tell the child?  How was he to prepare her to bear the present strain and the knowledge of what might come?

The fevered hours passed slowly.  It was with a wrenching effort that he forced his mind to concentrate on the business in hand for the coming day.  Yet, for his own honor and the sake of his people, it must be done, and well done.  Moreover, there must be no wavering on his part, nothing to let anyone infer an unusual disturbance of mind.  He must be prepared to play shocked surprise when the tragic news reached him.

Utter exhaustion finally overpowered his fevered brain and he fell into a troubled sleep, from which he was aroused by Denning’s voice.  The car was not in motion, and he divined that it had been shunted to await their pleasure.  He dressed hastily, his heart still aching with dread and uncertainty.