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Page 43
"Why, where you always keep it, dear, in the table drawer in the
office."
"I don't seem to see it. I guess I will take your little pistol."
"Oh, Tom, I am sorry, but I know that won't go off. Clemency tried it
the other day. You remember that time Emma dropped it. I think something
or other got bent. You know it was a delicate little thing."
"Oh, well," said Gordon carelessly, "I dare say I can find my revolver."
"I don't see who could have taken it away." said Mrs. Ewing. "I am sorry
about my pistol, because you gave it to me too, dear."
"I'll get another for you," said Gordon, "Those little dainty,
lady-like, pearl-mounted weapons don't stand much."
"I am feeling very comfortable, dear," Mrs. Ewing said in her anxious,
sweet voice. "You will be careful, won't you, with your revolver, with
that dog jumping about?"
"Yes, dear. I dare say I shall not use the revolver anyway, but don't be
frightened if you should hear a little commotion."
"No, Tom."
"Go to sleep."
"Yes, I think I can. I do feel rather sleepy."
Gordon closed the door carefully and retraced his steps to the office,
the dog at his heels. He slipped the curtain again and looked out. The
man still stood watching in the driveway. Gordon had never been at such
a loss as to his best course of action. He was absolutely courageous,
but here he was unarmed, and he could have no reasonable doubt that if
he should go out, he would be immediately shot. In such a case, what of
the woman upstairs? And, moreover, what of James and Clemency? He
thought of any available weapon, but there was nothing except his own
stick. That was stout, it was true, but could he be quick enough with
it? His mad impulse to rush out unarmed except with that paltry thing
could hardly be restrained, but he had to think of other lives beside
his own.
He began to think that the only solution of the matter was the return of
Aaron alone. The watching man would immediately realize that he had made
some mistake, that he, Gordon, was in the house, or had been left at the
home of a patient. He could have no possible reason for molesting the
man. He would probably slip aside into a shadow, then make his way back
to the road. In such a case Gordon determined that he and Aaron would
follow him to make sure that no harm came to James and Clemency. So
Gordon stood motionless waiting, in absolute silence, except for the
frequently recurring mutter of fear and rage of the dog. As time went on
he became more and more uneasy. It seemed to him finally that Aaron
should have been back long before. He moved stealthily across the room,
and consulted his watch by the low light of the hearth fire. Aaron had
been gone an hour. He should have returned, for the mare was a good
roadster when she did not balk. Gordon shook his head. He began to be
almost sure that the mare had balked. He returned to the window. His
every nerve was on the alert. The moment that James and Clemency should
drive into the yard, he made ready to spring, but the horrible fear lest
it should be entirely unavailing haunted him. If only Aaron would come.
Then the man would slip into cover of the shadows, and steal out into
the road, and Gordon would jump into the buggy, and he and Aaron would
follow him. He knew the man well enough to be sure that he would never
venture an attack upon James and Clemency with witnesses. If only Aaron
would come! Gordon became surer that the mare had balked. He vowed
within himself that she should be shot the next day if she had. Every
moment he thought he heard the sound of wheels and horse's hoofs. His
nervous tension became something terrible. Once he thought of stealing
through the house, and out by the front door, and walking to meet James
and Clemency so as to warn them. But that would leave the helpless woman
upstairs alone. He dared not do that.
He thought then of going to the front of the house, and watching there,
and endeavoring to intercept James and Clemency before they turned into
the driveway. But he felt that he could not for one second relax his
watch upon the watching man, and he had no guarantee whatever that, at
the first sound of wheels, the man himself would not make for the front
of the house. Then he thought, as always, of not disturbing the sick
woman whose room faced the road. It seemed to him that his only course
was to remain where he was and wait for the return of Aaron before James
and Clemency. He knew now that the horse must have balked. His only hope
was that James and Clemency, since it was such a fine night, and time
is so short for lovers, might take such a long drive that even the balky
mare might relent. Always he heard at intervals the trot of a horse,
which only existed in his imagination. He began to wonder if he should
know when Aaron, or Clemency and James, actually did drive into the
yard, if he should be quick enough. Suddenly he thought of the dog: that
he would follow him, and of what might happen. The dog's chain-leash was
on the table. He stole across, got it, fastened it to the animal's
collar, and made the end secure to a staple which he had had fixed in
the wall for that purpose. As yet no intention of injury to the man
except in self-defense was in his mind. If actually attacked, he must
defend himself, of course, but he wished more than anything to drive the
intruder away with no collision. That was what he hoped for. The time
went on, and the strain upon the doctor's nerves was nearly driving him
mad. Sometimes the mare balked for hours. He began to hope that Aaron
would leave her, and return home on foot. That would settle the matter.
But he remembered a strange trait of obstinacy in Aaron. He remembered
how he had once actually sat all night in the buggy while the mare
balked. The man balked as well as the horse. "The damned fool," he
muttered to himself in an agony. The dog growled in response. Then it
was that first the thought came to Gordon of what might be done to save
them all. He stood aghast with the horror of it. He was essentially a
man of peace himself, unless driven to the wall. He was a good fighter
at bay, but there was in his heart, along with strength, utter good-will
and gentleness toward all his kind. He only wished to go his way in
peace, and for those whom he loved to go in peace, but that had been
denied him. He began considering the nature of the man whose dark figure
remained motionless on the driveway. He knew him from the first. It
sounded sensational, his recapitulation of his knowledge, but it was
entirely true. It was that awful truth, which is past human belief,
which no man dares put into fiction. That man out there had been from
his birth a distinct power for evil upon the face of the earth. He had
menaced all creation, so far as one personality may menace it. He was a
force of ill, a moral and spiritual monster, and the more dangerous,
because of a subtlety and resource which had kept him immune from the
law. He outstripped the law, whose blood-hounds had no scent keen enough
for him. He had broken the law, but always in such a way that there was
not, and never could be, any proof. There had not been even suspicion.
There had been knowledge on Gordon's part, and Mrs. Swing's, but
knowledge without proof is more helpless than suspicion with it. The man
was unassailable, free to go his way, working evil.
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