As the days went by, Greyhurst, somewhat relieved by the prospect of a long absence, arranged his affairs, and prepared himself for his journey to California. Constance Trescot, well aware of his plans, was deep in thought of the man who was, for a time, to be out of her reach. Her increasing abstraction, her lessening interest in books,—and she had never been an eager reader,—her still silent piano, all alike contributed to increase the anxiety in which the elder sister lived. In fact, Constance had exhausted her resources; but now an accident came to her aid, and, doing for her that which she never would have done, inflicted on her enemy a torture beyond the dream of malice, and far-reaching in its consequences.
An errand of charity to one of the families now residing on the bluff had occupied her afternoon. It was dusk and the shadows were deepening as Constance walked slowly along a wood path which led into the road on which she lived. As she came out of the forest in the dusk she quickened her steps, and, deep in thought, moved on, until of a sudden she became aware of being on the same side of the way and in front of the house in which Greyhurst resided. She stopped short, recalling that just here she and her husband had first met him. As she turned quickly to cross the street, she stumbled on the rough sidewalk, recovered her balance, and crossed over to her own side of the way. At her garden gate she suddenly missed a little velvet bag which usually hung from her belt. Instantly she remembered that it held, besides her cards, a small morocco case in which was a photograph of her husband in his major’s uniform. Realizing the fact that she had stumbled and might then have lost it, and much troubled, she was about to return and look for it, when she saw Greyhurst, who had just come out of his garden. As she hesitated, he picked up something which she knew must be her bag. She had a moment of indecision. To seek him, or to send for it, she felt to be impossible. She had a larger copy, a duplicate of the photograph. What effect would this picture of the man he had killed have on the murderer? With a singular smile on her face, she turned and went into her own house. She had a wild desire to see that meeting of the slayer and the slain.
Without the least idea of the ownership of the bag, Greyhurst carelessly laid it on the table of his library. He then lighted a lamp, and, mildly curious, began to look at the contents of the bag. He came first on the small case, and drew out the photograph. As he turned it over he saw the face of George Trescot.
The suddenness of this pictured revival of a face he had of late seen with less painful clearness gave to it the terrible power of an apparition. He let it fall. The face lay uppermost. He made a great effort, and seizing it, threw it from him.
“My God!” he said, “I shall end by killing that woman!”
For a moment he entertained the idea that she had meant him to find it. Then, as he saw the cards and some memoranda, he knew that she must have accidentally dropped the bag; and still, the horror of the thing was increased for him rather than lessened by his certainty that he was the victim of a chance loss. Was everything against him?
He picked up the photograph, and, resolute not to yield to what he felt was weakness, he set it before him, and with his head in his hands stared at the strong, well-bred, kindly face. It was too much for him. The tears began to gather, and as they rolled down his face he slowly replaced the portrait in the case, laid it in the bag, and closed the clasp. The test of endurance had been beyond his powers, and had produced on his nervous system an effect such as could never have been anticipated.
“My God!” he cried, as he fell back in his chair, “am I not punished enough!”
As he spoke, he looked up and saw, as if some ten feet away and a little to the left, the face of the man he had killed. For a moment he was simply astonished. It was larger than life and smiling, and not like the photograph. He rubbed his eyes, closed and opened them, and moved about. The phantom kept its place; and at last he observed that if he looked down he lost it. He was, as I have said, intelligent, and recognized in this vision the effect of long strain and sudden shock. And still it meant even to his knowledge something sinister, but about which it was possible to reason. It affected him at the moment less than had done the letters or telegram, or the presence of the woman who had sent them. His fear was not so much of what was as of what might follow. What did it mean? Was he about to be ill? He resolved to see Dr. Eskridge and to talk to him frankly. He awakened the next day still seeing the face, at times dimly, at others clearly. Its persistency troubled him. Was it a symptom of some impending mental disaster? Had his head been clear of late—his memory unimpaired? When the mind of the sensitive becomes critical concerning the health of its own processes, there is peril in the way. He found himself caught in machinery not readily arrested by the will which set it in motion. He had always been in vigorous health and had rarely had occasion to consult a physician. He had, however, lacked power to dismiss unpleasant thoughts, and now the terror of decay of reason haunted him unceasingly. And it was a woman who had brought this fear upon him, a woman against whom he was absolutely defenseless.
Early in the morning he gave the bag to a maid and asked her, much to her amazement, to leave it at Mrs. Trescot’s. When it was laid on the breakfast table beside Constance, her sister asked a question in regard to it. Constance replied: “I lost it yesterday. I suppose that some one, finding my cards, has returned it.”
“You are fortunate, dear.”
“Yes, am I not?”