"YOU don't believe I did--that?" Anthony asked, in a strained voice.

"I--I think I do." There was a miserable silence, and then: "It isn't the thing itself, you know, so much as the rotten-- underhanded advantage you took. If he'd been a stranger, now-- Honestly, isn't it true?"

Kirk shook his head, listlessly. "I wouldn't lie to you."

Runnels drew a deep breath.. "Oh, come, now, the man MUST have known what he was saying. Do you realize what it means--if--well, if he were mistaken? It would be bad enough if he were not, but this would be ten times worse. Don't you see?"

"I don't see much of anything yet. I'm stunned."

"Ugh! To make it public that way, he must be made of iron."

Runnels shuddered; then, with cold eyes on Kirk, continued: "He must have known, Anthony. Men don't do things like that on suspicion."

"He misunderstood our friendship," said Kirk, heavily, then roused himself for a last plea. "Look here!" he cried. "You know Cortlandt and you know me. The man was insanely jealous! I know it sounds weak, but it's the truth, and it's all I can say. I'll go mad if you doubt me."

Runnels' face showed the pain he felt, but his eyes looked incredulous.

"Another thing," Kirk went on, desperately: "do you suppose that if what you believe were true I could have the inhuman nerve to come here to-night? That would make me a fool or a monster!"

"I don't know," said Runnels.

"You do know. You know ME. If we weren't such friends I wouldn't argue with you like this, but--I can't bear it. And to-night of all--" He broke off sharply. "My G.o.d! I'd forgotten that I'm married! Suppose Gertrudis hears of this! If it ever gets to her-- I--believe I could kill him."

"Don't talk like that."

"I never really thought I could take a person's life, but if she heard she might believe; everybody else seems to believe.

Understand, she hardly knows me. She might--she might--" Anthony seized his temples in despair.

Runnels took a sudden illogical decision. He never knew exactly what had influenced him, but his whole past knowledge of Anthony surged up in him with a force that he could not resist. He found that he could not really believe him capable of this abomination any more than he could believe it of himself. Little of our life is ruled by reason, and it is something else than logic that produces the last feeling of conviction. Here, this something was present where logic was lacking.

He laid his hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Take it easy, old man," he said. "I believe you. I've always known that they didn't get along together, although--well, I won't try to understand it. He may not do anything further, and these fellows won't mention what happened here; they can't."

"You know we're only half married," moaned Kirk, hardly heeding him. "Women are apt to be jealous, aren't they, Runnels? What do you suppose she'd do?"

"Don't worry about that. I'm thinking about Cortlandt. If he finds out he's mistaken, what will HE do?"

"He'll have to find out. I'm going to tell him. His wife will tell him. Good G.o.d! Do you see what an awful light it puts me in? You don't doubt me, do you, really, old man?"

"No--but what a night this has been! It seems a year old. Come along, now, you must get out of here. You must turn in."

"Oh, I don't feel as if I'd ever sleep again until this thing is cleared up." His anguish swept over him in a fresh tide. "Those boys think I did that trick to the man who befriended me!"

"Well, don't let's talk about it any more; we can't stay here all night, anyhow. The waiters are wondering what this row is about. I think we'd better take a walk." Runnels dragged his companion out, trying to calm him as best he could.

In pa.s.sing through the deserted lobby of the hotel, they saw Clifford idling about; but they were too much absorbed to wonder what had kept him up so late. By the clock across the Plaza they saw it was two hours after midnight as they stepped into the street; then, finding no coaches in sight, they set out to walk toward Ancon, both badly in need of the open air.

A moment later Clifford followed them, taking pains to keep at a distance.

Now that the full import of Cortlandt's accusation had sunk into his mind, Kirk lapsed into a mood of sullen bitterness. He said little, but his set face worried his companion, who was loath to bid him goodnight even when they were close to the Tivoli. After they had parted Runnels was upon the point of going back and offering to spend the night with him, but thought better of it.

After all, he reflected, his apprehensions were probably quite unfounded. Anthony was too sensible a chap to do anything he might repent of, now that his gust of pa.s.sion had died down. So he went on homeward wondering vaguely how Cortlandt would dare to meet his wife, or, if he really found himself mistaken, how he could ever summon courage to look his hosts in the face.

Instead of pa.s.sing through the office, Kirk mounted to the porch of the Tivoli and entered his room from the outside, as he and Chiquita had done earlier that evening. He found Allan waiting, and bursting with a desire to gossip, but cut him short.

"Get my street-clothes, I'm going out." He tore the white tie from his throat as if it were choking him.

"It is too late, sar. You will be h'exposing yourself to a fever in the mist," expostulated the boy; but Kirk would not hear argument.

"Come along if you want to, I can't sleep. I want to walk--walk until I'm tired."

Mystified and frightened at this behavior, Allan obeyed. "Never have I h'observed you so h'angry, boss," he observed. "Is it Ramon Alfarez?" His eyes began to roll in excitement, for the spectacle of his master's agitation never failed to work upon him powerfully.

"No, not Ramon; another. I've been hurt, Allan. I can't explain, for you wouldn't understand, but I've been hurt."

The negro's lips drew apart in an expression of ape-like ferocity, and he began to chatter threats of vengeance, to which Kirk paid little heed. A few moments later they went out quietly, and together took the rock road down toward the city, the one silent and desperate, the other whining like a hound nearing a scent.

XXVII

A QUESTION

Edith Cortlandt did not retire immediately upon her return from the ball. Her anger at Anthony's behavior kept her wakeful, and the night had turned off so dead and humid that sleep was in any case a doubtful possibility. It was the lifeless period between seasons when the trades had died out, or, at best, veered about bafflingly, too faint to offer relief. The cooling rains had not set in as yet, and a great blanket of heat wrapped the city in its smothering folds. The air was still and tainted, like that of a sick-room. Through Mrs. Cortlandt's open windows came hardly a sound; even from the sea below rose only a faint hissing, as if the rocks at the water's edge were superheated. Earlier in the evening the temperature had been bearable, but now it had reached an intensity to strain tired nerves to the snapping-point. It was the sort of night in which ailing children die and strong minds feel the burden of living. No relief was to be had, and the slightest physical effort was a misery.

She was still sitting there at a late hour when she heard the outside door close and Cortlandt's footsteps mounting the stairs.

She was glad he had his own room and never entered hers at such an hour, for even to talk with him in her present state of mind and body would have been more than she could bear.

She was unreasonably annoyed, therefore, when he came boldly into her chamber without even knocking, for all the world like a welcome lover. To conceal her irritation, she kept her face turned from him and continued fanning herself listlessly. She was reclining in a wicker chair, lightly clad in a filmy silk negligee, which she mechanically drew closer.

"Rather late for good-nights," she said, coldly.

"I've just come from Anthony's supper-party."

His voice made her look round sharply. She saw that his linen, ordinarily stiff and immaculate, was sodden and crumpled, his collar limp, his forehead glistening with drops of moisture. She could not remember ever having seen him in such a state. His appearance affected her queerly. In him this dishevelment was shocking.

"What ails you, Stephen?" she cried. "Have you been drinking?"

"No. I didn't drink much. I brought you something."

He took the loving-cup from its flannel bag and set it upon the table. "They gave me this."

"It is very pretty, though I don't care for such things."

"And this too." He tossed the watch with its enamelled monogram into her lap.

"Ah! That's very handsome."

"Yes, I thought you'd like it; it's from Anthony." He laughed, then shuddered, as though a cold wind had bitten through his sodden garments.