..But if I leave immediately it
will look suspicious. I've got to stick around for a few days. If
I beat it tomorrow morning some one's bound to ask questions. It
will look queer. Tomorrow I'll receive an urgent letter calling me
home. Mother needs me. Her health is bad....I wonder if an autopsy
would reveal anything....Tomorrow sure. I can't stand it here
another day....There's nothing to worry about,--not a thing,--but
what's the sense of my hanging around here any longer? She's on.
Some meddling whelp has been--Good Lord, I wonder if it could be
that fat fool, Webster?...If I skip out tonight, it would set Vick
to thinking....What a fool I was...."
And so on till he came to the woods. There, his face blanched and
his heart began to pound like a hammer. He drew the revolver from
his pocket and plunged desperately into the black tunnel; he was
out of breath when he ran down to the landing.
Through the gloom he distinguished the ferry boat three-quarters of
the way across the river, nearing the opposite bank. His "halloa"
brought an answer from the ferryman. Cursing his luck in missing
the boat by so short a margin of time, he sat down heavily on the
stout wooden wall that guarded the approach. It would be ten or
fifteen minutes before the tortoise-like craft could recross and
pick him up. His gaze instantly went downstream. The faint, rhythmic
sound of oarlocks came to his ears.
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