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The Indian silently entered the Du Plessy hotel after dusk, crestfallen and suspicious. He brought nothing but a letter, left in Doctor Chantry's room; and no other trace remained of Doctor Chantry. "What has he done with himself, Skenedonk?" I exclaimed. The Oneida begged me to read that we might trail him.
"I hope I may be able to do something that will square our accounts." "That's Doctor Chantry's work. He is full of benevolent intentions and never empties himself. When you have learned all your master knows, what are you going to do with it?" "I am going to teach our Indians." "Good. You have a full day's work before you. Founding an estate in the wilderness is nothing compared to that.
Half the jewels, at least, I considered the property of the princess in Mittau; but his precaution influenced me to leave three bags of coin in Doctor Chantry's care; for Doctor Chantry was the soul of thrift with his own; and to send Skenedonk with the jewel-case to the marquis' bank. The cautious Oneida took counsel of himself and hid it in the chaise. He told me when we were three days out.
Turner dearly loved his friends, and the story of Chantry's death, illustrates it. He was in his room when the sculptor breathed his last, and just as he died, the artist turned to another friend, George Jones, and with tears streaming down his face, wrung Jones's hand and rushed from the room, unable to speak.
Each seemed to be trying to find out with his eyes something that words had not helped him to. Finally Chantry protested once more. "But Ferguson couldn't love like that." Havelock the Dane laid one hand on the arm of Chantry's chair and spoke sternly. "He not only could, but did. And there I am a better authority than you. Think what you please, but I will not have that fact challenged.
"I never like people who think so well of themselves as all that." "No opinion about his death?" "Accidental, as they said, I suppose." "Oh, 'they said'! It was suicide, I tell you." "Suicide? Really?" Chantry's brown eyes lighted for an instant. "Oh, poor chap; I'm sorry." It did not occur to him immediately to ask how Havelock knew. He trusted a plain statement from Havelock. "I'm not.
"I mean the murder of Ferguson by the girl he loved." "You said 'suicide' a little while ago," panted Chantry. "Technically, yes. She was a hundred miles away when it happened. But she did it just the same. Oh, I suppose I've got to tell you, as Ferguson told me." "Did he tell you he was going to kill himself?" Chantry's voice was sharp. "He did not. Ferguson wasn't a fool.
"What were you looking for?" Chantry's wonder was not feigned. "For your hydra-headed prejudice. Makes me want to play Hercules." "Oh, drop your metaphors, Havelock. Get into the game. What is it?" "It's this: that you don't think or affect not to think that it's decent for a man to recognize his own worth." Chantry did not retort. He dropped his chin on his chest and thought for a moment.
"Ferguson loved her too much. He wouldn't like that not as you'd put it to her." Havelock thought a moment. "No," he said in turn; but his "no" was very humble. "He wouldn't. I shall never do it. But, my God, how I wanted to!" "And I'll tell you another thing, too." Chantry's tone was curious.
"Oh, get off that ridiculous animal you're riding, Chantry, and come to the point. You mean you don't think Ferguson should have admitted it?" Chantry's tone changed. "Well, one doesn't." The huge hand, clenched into a fist, came down on the table. The crystal bottle was too heavy to rock, but the glasses jingled and a spoon slid over the edge of its saucer. "There it is what I was looking for."
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