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"And Felix O'Day's wife," came the echo, and, with the last word, her last vestige of strength seemed to leave her. The priest rose to his full height. "I was sure of it when I first saw you," he said, a note of triumph in his voice. "And now, one last question. Are you guilty of this theft?" "GUILTY! I guilty! How could I be?"
Had you asked his former associates why a man of O'Day's intelligence should have cultivated the acquaintance of an undertaker like Digwell, for instance, whose face was a tombstone, his movements when on duty those of a crow stepping across wet places in a cornfield, they would have shaken their heads in disparaging wonder.
Kling, bewildered, followed the play of O'Day's fingers in the air as if he were already placing the ornaments and hangings with which his mind was filled. "Vell, vot ve do vid de stuff dot's comin' all dem sideboards and chairs and de pig tables? Ve ain't got de space." "Half of them will go here, and the balance we will pile away on the top floor.
In her agony she shrank against the wall, her arms outstretched. How did this man know all the secrets of her life? Then there arose a calming thought. He was a priest a man who listened and did not betray. Perhaps, after all, he could help her. He wanted the truth. He should have it. "Yes," she answered, her voice sinking. "I am Lord Carnavon's daughter." "And Felix O'Day's wife?"
Kitty, who had been listening, her heart throbbing with pride over Felix, who had held his own with her beloved priest, and still fearing that the talk would lead away from what was uppermost in her mind O'Day's welfare now sprang from her chair before Felix could reply. "Of course he'll come, Father, once he's seen ye." "Yes, I will," answered Felix cordially.
Mary Wilson could come or stay away just as she chose. Mary should decide that matter for herself. When once Elizabeth made a decision, there was no dilly-dallying, no going back and wondering if she had done the right thing. Taking up her pencil, she began to jot down the names of those to be invited. Nora O'Day's name headed the list with Azzie Hogan's tagged on at the last.
He gave no reason for the delay of the attack, but his words suggested much. Gerani, in the background, in low tones was urging a group of Slavs to answer O'Day, and declare that they would go on. O'Day's eyes were on the big Slav. He understood the conditions. Nothing would please Gerani better than to have the miners rush upon the speaker and kill him. O'Day understood.
Indeed, before they trailed their confrère away from the spot the sun was nearly down; and at scores of supper tables all over town the tale of poor old Peep O'Day's latest exhibition of freakishness was being retailed, with elaborations, to interested auditors. Estimates of the sum probably expended by him in this crowning extravagance ranged well up into the hundreds of dollars.
Will you come, Elizabeth?" "Yes; wait one minute until I get a wrap. That window-seat is full of drafts, I know. I have sat there before." Taking down a golf cape, she wrapped it about her. "Come," she added, drawing Miss O'Day's arm through her own. "We will be night-hawks until Mrs. Schuyler finds us. Don't lock the door, Mary. I'll slip in later."
Affairs at Bitumen were assuming a serious aspect. O'Day's acquittal had taught him one lesson to be prepared for any emergency. For that reason, he handed the register to Ellis. "Look closely at that," he said. "There's evidence enough there to free you from blame. But I wish you and Joe to see this for yourselves and not take my word for it." Ellis, too, whistled when he examined the register.
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