Chapter 14

THE CONFESSION

I caught the wicked, snaky gleam of the Creole's eyes. All his early suspicion of me had revived instantly.

"At the landing," he hastened to explain. "How could I tell? He said he knew you, M'sieur."

"Oh, he did, hey! Well, all I know about him is that he blew in here last night with a woman; claimed to be young Henley, and took possession of the place. I reckon it 's about time I saw some papers to prove what yer are, young feller, 'for yer go snoopin' round at daylight. What's yer game enyhow?"

The man's bluster gave me my clew. The thought suddenly occurred to me that, for some reason, he was more afraid of me than I of him. And if I met him on the same ground he was of the disposition to give way first.

"You can see my authority, Coombs, any time you are ready to exhibit your own," I returned coolly, leaning back against the side of the cabin, and staring him straight in the eyes. "I 've got more occasion to question you, you big brute, than you have me. Who is going to prevent my walking about these grounds? You? Just try the experiment, and see how it comes out. If you are the overseer here, then it is my money that is paying your wages, and from the look of things," and I swept my hand toward the surrounding weeds, "you 'll not hold the job long at that."

Coombs did not cringe, but my tone brought him uneasiness.

"The niggers won't work," he returned gruffly. "Thar ain't a nigger on the place."

"Apparently white men enough hanging around. What 's the matter with the negroes?"

"Ghosts," and the fellow laughed. "Maybe yer've seen sum?"

I straightened up, stung by the sneer in his voice.

"No; but I 've seen something more to the point--a murdered man."

"What?"

"Just what I said. There was a man killed last night in that back room upstairs. Shot in the head through the window. I heard the shot and investigated. His body lies there now."

I saw Broussard's snaky eyes flash across toward Coombs' face, but the latter remained motionless.

"It's a damn lie!" he ejaculated roughly. "There is no body there."

"Easily settled. Come with me, and I 'll show you."

Rather to my surprise neither objected to the test, and we tramped in single file toward the house. Some precaution kept me at the rear, and I followed silently when Coombs entered the open door of the kitchen. Unknown to me there was a narrow back stairway, and we mounted this without exchanging a word. In the upper hall Coombs threw open the rear door, and, stood aside, not even looking within.

I glanced past him. There was the furniture as I remembered it, the dirty walls, the opened window. But the overturned chair stood against the wall, the cards were stacked on the table, and there was no body lying on the floor. So startled was I by this discovery that I could scarcely credit my eyesight, but was brought to a realization of the truth by Coombs' harsh laugh.

"Well, where 's yer dead man? I reckon ye don't see none, hey!"

"No," I insisted, "but I did see one--twice. The body lay there where the stain shows on the floor. It has been carried away within half an hour."

"A likely story. Who could do the job? Nobody round this shebang but Sallie an' me. I sure ain't been in yere, an' I reckon it wan't Sallie. So cut it out, young feller. After breakfast you an' I 'll hav' a talk, an' find out a few things. Come on, Broussard, an' let 's talk over that matter o' ours."

The two went down the stairs together, and I closed the door of the rear room, and stepped out into the hall. Sallie was in the kitchen, for I heard her voice questioning the men as they passed through. Out of the window I caught a glimpse of them both disappearing through the weeds toward the bayou. As to myself I was more at sea than ever. The sudden disappearance of the body had left me bewildered, yet more strongly convinced than before that this was no ordinary affair. Evidences of a plan, of cooperation, rendered the situation serious. That dead body had not moved itself; human hands had accomplished the deed during the brief period of my absence outside. Whose hands could have done it? Not those of Coombs, surely, for he could not have passed me and attained the house while I was in the garden unseen. Nor Sally, for she possessed no strength to more than drag the dead man to some near-by covert. With the possibility of this in mind I searched the vacant rooms of that floor, closets and all, thoroughly, but to no result. There was, therefore, but one conclusion possible--unknown parties were involved. We were not alone in the house in spite of its apparent desertion.

I paused in doubt before Mrs. Bernard's door, convinced this was the truth. Should I tell her frankly the story of the night, my vague discoveries, my suspicion? I surely had no right to deceive the woman, or keep her with me. I had determined myself to face it out, to risk life if need be, to learn the truth. But I had no right to further involve her. She had accompanied me thus far innocently enough, accepting my explanation, driven to acquiescing by the desperate situation in which she found herself. Already she regretted her hasty action. To involve her still deeper would be heartless. I could not do it, at least not without full confession.

I rapped at the door twice before there was any movement within. Then her voice asked who was there, and at my answer she came out fully dressed, fronting me with questioning eyes.

"The night has rested you," I said smilingly, my heart beating in swift appreciation of her beauty. "Are you ready for breakfast?"

"For anything to escape the loneliness of that room," she replied seriously. "If I really look rested, it is not from sleep for I have passed the night in terror." She held out her hands as though seeking to assure herself of my real presence. "Tell me what is wrong with this house? What occurred last night?"

"I am not altogether sure myself," I said, striving to speak quietly, and holding her hands tight, "But I will tell you all I know, after you have explained. Were you disturbed?"

"Yes, but I hardly comprehend what was reality, and what dream. I slept some, I am sure, lying pressed upon the bed. At first I thought that was impossible, I was so frightened, and I had so much to think about, but found myself too utterly exhausted to keep awake. Yet my slumber was fitful, and filled with dreams. But I am sure of some things--my door was tried twice, and I heard someone prowling about the hall--"

"That might have been me," I interrupted, "as I was out there during the night, but I certainly never tried your door."

"You had a light?"

"Yes."

"I saw that shining over the transom; it was much later when my door was tried; not long before daylight I think. Whoever it was, passed out the front hall window onto the porch roof. My light was burning, although turned low, and no doubt he saw me sitting up, wide awake on the edge of the bed, for he had disappeared by the time I gained sufficient courage to approach the window and look out."

"Climbed down the trellis, probably," I said, deeply interested. "It appears strong enough to support a man. I wish you had got sight of the fellow."

She lifted her hands to her head.

"But I was so frightened. My head throbs now with pain. I cannot explain, but--but I had begun to hate this mission of ours before we ever reached here, and then this awful house, and that man and woman. I almost begged you not to leave me alone, yet I conquered that weakness, and said good night, and locked my door. You never realized how I felt."

"No, not entirely, although I did comprehend you were sorry you had consented to come."

"Not that altogether," and her eyes uplifting met mine, "I was frightened last night in the darkness. I confess I completely lost my nerve, and would have run away if I could. Perhaps I even said things which made you believe I regretted my action in coming with you. But I am more myself now, and I mean to remain, and discover what it all means. Can you guess why?"

"No; I would naturally suppose the night would have added to your terror, your desire to get away."

"Then you do not suspect even now who I am?"

"Who you are? Only as you have told me."

"And I told you only a half truth. I am the wife of Philip Henley." Her cheeks flushed, a touch of passion in her voice as she faced me. "That is the truth. Do you suppose that I would ever have come here with you otherwise? No matter how desperate my condition was that would have been impossible. I should have despised myself. Even as it was I have been thoroughly shamed to have permitted you to think of me as you must. Now I tell you the truth--I consented to come because I am Philip Henley's wife."

My surprise at this swift avowal kept me silent, yet I could not conceal the admiration from revealment in my eyes. She must have read aright, for she drew back a step, grasping the knob of the door.

"I--I wanted to tell you yesterday--all the way coming down here. I felt that I could live the deceit no longer. I do not blame you, Mr. Craig, for you are a man, and you had every reason to believe that you were doing nothing really wrong. I wanted to learn all I could before I confessed my identity, and--and I wanted to discover just what you were like."

"You mean whether I could be trusted?"

"Yes; I--I could not tell at first. We met so strangely, and merely because I liked you from the beginning was not enough. You understand?"

"Yes, and now?"

She looked at me frankly.

"Now I am simply going to trust you fully. I must; there is no other way. I thought it all over and over again last night, and determined to confess everything as soon as we met this morning. I am Viola Henley, Mr. Craig, and I need you."