John Keith, he repeated, would be officially dead, and
being dead, the law would have no further interest in him.
He prodded himself on with this thought as he fumbled his way through
darkness down into town. Miriam Kirkstone in her golden way was
alluring; the mystery that shadowed the big house on the hill was
fascinating to his hunting instincts; he had the desire, growing fast,
to come at grips with Shan Tung. But he had not foreseen these things,
and neither had Conniston foreseen them. They had planned only for the
salvation of John Keith's precious neck, and tonight he had almost
forgotten the existence of that unpleasant reality, the hangman. Truth
settled upon him with depressing effect, and an infinite loneliness
turned his mind again to the mountains of his dreams.
The town was empty of life. Lights glowed here and there through the
mist; now and then a door opened; down near the river a dog howled
forlornly. Everything was shut against him. There were no longer homes
where he might call and be greeted with a cheery "Good evening, Keith.
Glad to see you. Come in out of the wet." He could not even go to
Duggan, his old river friend. He realized now that his old friends were
the very ones he must avoid most carefully to escape self-betrayal.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100