The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 18
CHAPTER XVIII.
The End of the Story.
Joy is a great restorer, and a week of happiness in Paris had wrought wonders in our junior and his betrothed. It was good to look at them. The past was put aside, forgotten; they lived only for the future.
And a near future, too. There was no reason why it should be deferred; we had all agreed that they were better married at once. The red tape of French administration was successfully unknotted, and at noon they were wedded, with only we three for witnesses, at the pretty chapel of St. Luke's, near the Boulevard Montparnasse.
There was a little breakfast afterward at Mrs. Kemball's apartmant. Her daughter and I drove with them across Paris to the Gare de Lyon, where they were to take train for a fortnight on the Riviera. We waved them off and turned back together.
“It is a desecration to use a carriage on such a day,” said my companion. We sauntered afoot down the Boulevard Diderot toward the river.
“So that is the end of the story,” she said musingly.
“Of their story, yes,” I interjected.
“But there are still certain things I do not quite understand.”
“Yes?”
“For instance—why did they trouble to keep her prisoner?”
“Family affection?”
“Nonsense! There could be none. Besides the man dominated them; and I believe him to have been capable of any crime.”
“Perhaps he meant the hundred thousand to be only the first payment. With her at hand he might hope to get more indefinitely.”
“But Frances did not see them again?”
“Oh, no; she preferred not.”
“And the money?”
“Was left in the box. I sent back the key. She wished it so. After all it was her mother.”
We had come out upon the Bridge of Austerlitz, and paused involuntarily. Below us was the busy river, with its bridges, its boats, its crowds along the quays; far ahead, dominating the scene, the towers of the cathedral; and the warm sun of June was over it all. We leaned upon the balustrade and gazed at all this beauty.
“And now the mystery is cleared away,” she said, “and the prince and the princess are wedded, just as they were in the fairy tales of our childhood. It's a good ending.”
“For all stories,” I added.
She turned and looked at me
“There are other stories,” I explained. “Theirs is not the only one.”
“No?”
The spirit of Paris—or perhaps the June sunshine—was not to be repressed,
“Certainly not. There might be another, for instance, with you and me as the principals.”
I dared not look at her; I could only stare ahead of me down at the water,
She made no sign; the moments passed.
“Might be,” I said desperately. “But there's a wide abyss between the possible and the actual.”
Still no sign; I had offended her—I might have known!
But I mustered courage to steal a sidelong glance at her.
She was smiling down at the water, and her eyes were very bright.
“Not always,” she whispered. “Not always.”