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During the dinner that followed Kendale longed to introduce the subject of "Faynie," but found no opening. His eagerness to know what they thought and what they had to say concerning her disappearance was intense, but he had to bide his time to find out. Meanwhile he paid the most flattering attention to Claire.
Between gasps, his voice growing fainter and fainter with each word, poor Lester told his story, of his love, his wooing and the climax which was to have taken place in two hours' time. Kendale listened with bated breath. To say that he was amazed, dumfounded, scarcely expressed his intense surprise. Armstrong, his poor plodding cousin, to strike such luck as to be about to marry an heiress!
"Your bell rang so imperatively that " "I didn't ring any bell, my dear," he exclaimed, "but still I am uncommonly glad to see you. Sit down and we'll have a little chat." "There is a customer awaiting my return as soon as you " "Oh, hang the customer," cut in Kendale. "Sit down, pretty one, and we'll make each other's acquaintance." Margery looked at him in helpless bewilderment.
For an instant Kendale was horror-stricken when he realized what was occurring. "God Almighty!" he gasped, "I am ruined, disgraced! A thousand furies take that girl; but she shall pay dearly for this. The police will be here to quell the riot and disperse the crowd outside, and turn out the people who are still inside!"
"No one dares interfere between man and wife," replied Kendale, mockingly. He did not see three dark forms spring over the threshold, thrusting the servants hastily aside.
Those who knew Lester Armstrong said the great fortune which had come to him would not spoil him. There was one who read this account with amazed eyes, and that was Halloran. "Great God!" he muttered, his hands shaking, his teeth chattering. "Kendale told me that Armstrong was taken to the hospital in a precarious condition and died there." He made all haste to Kendale's lodgings.
"You will carry it through all right," declared Halloran, confidently. "My nerve has never failed me so far, and I'm depending on that," said Kendale, mechanically. Two hours later Kendale was breakfasting in a fashionable downtown restaurant, endeavoring to fortify himself with courage for the trying ordeal which he was about to face.
Every one prophesied, however, that this reckless extravagance must have an ending some time. Meanwhile society held out its arms to the young millionaire, welcoming him with its sweetest smiles. The date which he had set to dine with the Fairfaxes, of Beechwood, rolled around at last, and for once in his life Kendale, or rather the bogus Lester Armstrong, was punctual in his appointment.
"I could do it; yes, I am sure I could do it," he muttered, drawing his breath hard. At that moment the ambulance wagon rattled up to the door. In another instant the two attachés entered the room. "What is the difficulty?" queried the man, and briefly Kendale explained. "It seems hardly worth while to take him to the hospital," said one of the men; "he would hardly last until we reach there.
Suddenly he came across a large square envelope, the words on which seemed to arrest his attention at once. And in a whispered, yet distinctly audible voice, he read the words: "Horace Fairfax, last message to his wife dated March 22, 18 ." "Why that is the very date upon which he died," muttered Kendale. "This must have been written just before he committed suicide.
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