But perhaps he was not; perhaps we were wide of the mark—looking for truth at the bottom of a well instead of on the mountain-top.
The next day was Saturday. Tremaine was to leave in the afternoon for his week’s absence, and he came in before I left in the morning to say goodbye. He seemed strangely elated and triumphant; his eyes were even brighter than usual, the colour came and went in his cheeks—he presented, altogether, a most fascinating appearance. He lingered only a moment to shake hands and thank me again.
“Cecily is jealous of these last moments,” he said, with a laugh. “She’s a spoilt child—and like a child, her moods are only of the moment—she’ll be gay as a lark tomorrow. Well, au revoir, my friend,” and he waved his hand to me and closed the door behind him.
With the vision of him yet in my eyes, I saw clearly for the first time how weak and puny and ineffective was the chain of evidence which we were endeavouring to forge about him. He rose superior to it, shattered it, cast it aside, trampled on it contemptuously—emerged unstained. I had permitted myself to be blinded by Godfrey’s prejudices—no unbiassed person would ever believe Tremaine guilty. Then I remembered that sudden, infernal smile he had cast at me two nights before, and some of the glory fell from him.
At the office, I found awaiting me a note from Godfrey, scribbled hastily in the station of the Pennsylvania road.
