"
He dropped back upon the pillow without waiting for any reply, and fell
into a string of low incoherent talk, with closed eyes.
The laundress was a long time gone, and Gilbert sat alone in the dismal
little bedroom, where there had never been the smallest attempt at
comfort since John Saltram had occupied it. He sat alone, or with that
awful companionship of one whose mind was far away, which was so much
more dreary than actual loneliness--sat brooding over the history of his
friend's treachery.
What had he done with Marian? Was her disappearance any work of his,
after all? Had he hidden her away for some secret reason of his own, and
then acted out the play by pretending to search for her? Knowing him for
the traitor he was, could Gilbert Fenton draw any positive line of
demarcation between the amount of guilt which was possible and that which
was not possible to him?
What had he done with Marian? How soon would he be able to answer that
question? or would he ever be able to answer it? The thought of this
delay was torture to Gilbert Fenton. He had come here to-day thinking to
make an end of all his doubts, to force an avowal of the truth from those
false lips. And behold, a hand stronger than his held him back. His
interrogation must await the answer to that awful question--life or
death.
Pages:
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434