Chapter XXV.The Final TestWhen Storm arose in the morning his head still ached in a dull, insistent way; but his energy had returned, and the thought which had been his last before sleep had crystallized into a definite decision. He must study George’s every move during that fishing trip, probe him on every point of the case, weigh with a clear, unprejudiced mind every slightest possibility of his learning the truth and then act as his final judgment dictated.The midnight shower had cooled the air, and Storm reached his office early, determined to conclude the formalities there in as short order as possible. He found Sherwood awaiting him, and they put in a busy morning over the transfer of the books and files. He listened in a sort of grim apathy to the kindly expressions of good-wishes for the pleasure and benefit which his vacation might bring to him, took leave of his associates, shook the flabby hand of Nicholas Langhorne and made his escape.At last! He was through! Through forever with the dull grind, the hypocritical sympathy of his colleagues, the maddening patronage of that pompous old millionaire, who hadn’t one-tenth of the brains, the genius that was his! How little they had known him through all those years; how little they suspected that this brief vacation would be extended for a lifetime, that he had shaken the sanctimonious dust of that most aristocratic institution from his feet forever!He had laid his plans in that long hour before sleep came to him, and now he hurried to the nearest telegraph office, sent off several despatches and then called up George.“Say!” that individual expostulated over the wire. “How on earth are we going to start on Monday if you don’t make up your mind where you want to go? I expected to hear from you all day yesterday——”“That’s all right; I’ve fixed it!” Storm responded. “Come up to my rooms to-night. I’ll have Homachi give us a little dinner and we can talk over the final arrangements then.”“Did you get those bass flies?” demanded George.“No. I will, this afternoon.”“Well, have you sent word out to MacWhirter to have your fishing gear brought in? How about your clothes? Will he know what to pack?” George’s tone was filled with an anxious solicitude that was almost ludicrously maternal. “You needn’t bother about mourning up there, you know; you’ll want the oldest clothes you’ve got, and your hip boots, and don’t forget about that rod——”“I know, I—I’ll attend to it,” stammered Storm. “Come up about seven, will you?”He rang off, his mind in a quandary. George had known nothing of MacWhirter’s defection, but his words had reminded the other that the house at Greenlea was locked up and there was no one to pack up his fishing gear unless he went out and did it for himself. He could not send Homachi, who would not know where to find anything, and the thought of telephoning to one of the neighbors of the Greenlea colony and enlisting their aid was out of the question; they, male or female, would like nothing better than a chance to go through the house unmolested and pry into every detail of the home which had been so tragically broken up.He must go himself; that was plain. He thought of MacWhirter’s manner on the previous day and shivered involuntarily; then the episode of the night recurred to him and he smiled. He had tested himself and in the test had encountered the unforseen, but it had not daunted him. His strength, his nerve, his ingenuity had been equal to the situation, would be equal to any exigency of the future! What was there now in all the world for him to fear?He would go back to Greenlea, and George should go with him! They would spend the night there, and then whatever ghosts of memory the old house held for him would be laid forever.His decision made, he stopped at a sporting goods shop, purchased the flies, lines and a new reel, and then returned to his rooms to await the replies to his telegrams of the morning.Here a new difficulty confronted him. The money! Those packets of greenbacks and tiny roulades of gold which he had taken life itself to gain! He could not go away for a week or more and leave them reposing there in that flimsy safe! There were duplicates of it in every apartment in the house. It was even conceivable that Potter himself might have missed something of value and thinking that he had left it in the safe, return unexpectedly and open it. There might be a fire! Any of a hundred possibilities could happen which would betray his secret to the world.Yet it was out of the question for him to take it with him. He could not carry it about him, for in the enforced intimacy of camp life he would be unable to conceal it from George; and he well knew that the latter would rummage at will in every article of hand-baggage. Moreover, the packets of bills were too bulky, and the ten thousand dollars in gold alone must weigh approximately forty pounds.But where could he secrete it during his absence?Storm sat with his head upon his hands, wrestling with the problem. The fishing trip could not be given up now. He must go with George, must try him out and then if he were likely to prove a menace, must destroy him. But the money! There was no hiding place in the world where it would be safe. . . .Then the solution burst full grown into being, and he sprang from his chair.Greenlea! There was a place in the cellar of the house where the concrete floor had been removed to lay some pipes and had never been replaced. Sand and soft loam filled the space, and it would be easy enough to bury a tin despatch box there. Several such boxes were in the attic, he knew, and packed carefully in one of them the bills and gold would be safe from discovery for the brief time he would be away.But if George accompanied him, how could he——? Bah! He had nothing now to fear from George or anyone! He could pack the money into a bag and carry it down under George’s very nose and he would suspect nothing! It would take nerve, of course, but was he not master of himself, invincible?He would keep the bag close beside him throughout the night, and in the morning, at the last moment, he would contrive an excuse to remain behind George. There would be so much to do in town that the latter would be compelled to take an early train back, and after his departure it would not be the work of half an hour to stuff the money into the despatch box and bury it in that open space in the cellar. The thing was as good as done now!Sending Homachi out to purchase supplies for the dinner, Storm waited only until the door had closed after him, and then, rushing to the storeroom, he dragged out a huge, battered old valise. Into this he transferred the money, packing it carefully between layers of old clothing, lest the cylinders of gold become unrolled and clink together. When it was all safely stowed away he filled the top of the valise with discarded linen and closing it, lifted it experimentally from the floor.Its weight seemed prodigious, and he was badly out of condition, he knew. Would his flabby muscles stand the strain of carrying it? Storm set his lips resolutely. He must force himself to do it; there was no other way. He had whipped his faltering strength into obeying his will before, and his will was absolutely supreme!When George arrived promptly at seven he found his host in a more genial mood than he had exhibited for weeks, with a hint of eager anticipation in his manner which recalled the old, high-spirited Norman of days long gone.“You look better already!” George beamed at him. “Where are we going, anyway? You said over the ’phone that you’d fixed it, but I don’t——”Storm gathered up a sheaf of telegrams from the desk and seizing his guest by the arm dragged him off to the dining-room.“Come on and let us have dinner. We can talk while we eat; we haven’t any too much time.”“Time!” repeated George. “We’re not going anywhere this evening!”“Aren’t we?” Storm laughed. “Homachi has a chicken casserole for us to-night and some new asparagus with a sauce which he fondly believes to be Hollandaise. I hope you are good and hungry; I know I am.”“But what’s all this mystery?” George demanded, after Homachi had served them. “Who are all those telegrams from? I hope you haven’t gone and arranged some long trip, Norman, You know we can’t stay away for more than a week, and we’ll get mighty little fishing if we spend most of the time on the cars!”George was a poor traveler and knew it. Storm smiled.“Do you remember that old hunting lodge up on Silver Run where we camped when we went fishing one year a good while ago? I happen to know that it has been unoccupied for several seasons, and I wired to the owners to borrow it. Pierre, my old guide, lives only about twenty miles away, at Three Forks Carry, and I sent a telegram to him to go and get it ready for us. Here are the replies.” Storm produced two of the messages and handed them across the table. “The others were to fellows whose camps I thought we might use if the lodge wasn’t available, but they are all occupied.”“It sounds good,” George said slowly as he passed the telegrams back. “But did you arrange for this Pierre to stay and look out for us? You know you are not much on roughing it, and I—I’m getting confoundedly fat!”“Lazy dub!” Storm jeered. Then his tone grew pleading, although he could feel his face flushing, in spite of himself, beneath the other’s candid, inquiring gaze. “That’s just it! We don’t want Pierre, or anyone. That was the trouble with all those places you suggested; they were too civilized, too popular. I don’t want to go and live at a club or farmhouse and whip up a stream where you are likely to meet a dozen other fishermen in a day! I don’t even want to have a guide fussing around; I want to be just alone with you. I thought if we could get away absolutely by ourselves and tramp and fish and do our own bit of cooking and sleep out in the open on the ground if we felt like it, that it would be immense!”He paused, waiting with keen anxiety for the reply. Would George rise to the bait?“You’ve caught any number of fish, but did you ever clean ’em?” the other asked doubtfully at length. “You know you hate cold water, and the last time we went to the Reel and Rifle Club you kicked like a steer because the beds were so hard——”“Oh, if you want modern plumbing and silver platters, don’t come; that’s all!” Storm interrupted in well simulated disgust. He had detected the signs of yielding in George’s manner and knew that the way was clear. “I tell you I really want to go back to primitive things. I’m sick of the world and everything in it! I wish I had stuck to my original plan and thrown over everything here and gone out to the East——”“All right!” George exclaimed hurriedly. “I was only thinking of you. I would like it first rate, and this Pierre of yours says that the bass are running fine! Only, if you come back with sciatica from this open air sleeping stunt, don’t blame me! I shall take a hammock!”“Good old sport! I was sure you would see it my way. We’ll have the time of our lives!” Storm touched the bell. “Homachi, bring our coffee in a hurry, will you, and whatever else you have? We’ve got to be off!”“Off where?” George betrayed symptoms of anxiety. “I thought we were going to pack!”“Pack what?” demanded Storm coolly. “I haven’t a blessed thing here, old man.”“Norman! I told you——!” George paused. “And to-morrow is Saturday.”“I know, but I forgot to tell you; there is nobody out at Greenlea.” Storm chose his words carefully. “MacWhirter came in yesterday and told me that he had been offered another position with bigger money immediately, and as his month was up I was forced to let him go.”“There’s gratitude for you!” George snorted indignantly. “And all your stuff down there——”“I never thought of that until you mentioned it over the telephone to-day.” Storm sighed, watching his friend furtively. “I’ll have to go myself, of course. I will not have time to-morrow, and if I appeared in Greenlea on Sunday you know how the crowd would all come trooping in to see me and condole with me all over again. It would drive me mad! There is only to-night, George, and the thought of spending it alone in that house—I thought perhaps you would come down with me and see it through——”“Of course I will!” George said warmly. “I wouldn’t think of having you down there all alone in that empty place in your state! What train can we get? I haven’t anything with me——”“We can catch the nine o’clock if we start soon. We will find everything that we may need for the night down there.” Storm’s face was inscrutable. “I’m taking down an old valise with some things in it that I want to leave there; stuff I forgot to put in that trunk we sent down last week. If you have finished your coffee, I’ll ring for a taxi.”When the car came Homachi stood ready to take his employer’s bag out to it, but Storm waved him aside.“I’ll carry it myself,” he said.“It looks deucedly heavy,” George remarked, eying the valise critically as they passed out of the entrance. “What’s in it anyway?”“Just some old clothes, some account books and a—a packet of letters that I brought up with me myself.” Storm deposited the bag carefully on the floor of the taxi between his feet and then sank back with his face in the shadow.“I thought I might like to look them over but I—I can’t, just yet.”George’s hand gripped his shoulder for a minute in silent sympathy, and Storm suppressed a smile. What a sentimental, gullible fool! One reference to Leila, however vague, and he became the conventional mourner at once. He was really too easy!When they reached the station Storm left the other to pay the taxi and holding his valise so that his arm would not betray the strain upon it too obviously, went ahead through the gates.There was no one on the train whom they knew, and during the brief ride out to Greenlea they discussed the fishing trip in desultory fashion. George was evidently apprehensive of the effect upon his friend’s spirits of this return to old scenes saddened with tragic memories, but Storm himself felt no depression.The money was there at his feet! The money to take him away from all this forever! When he cabled George later to sell the house, lethimcome out here and weep over the relics if he felt like it! This was just another final test of his own nerve, that was all, and he defied the house or its memories to break him down. The past was dead, and this was just a visit to its grave, nothing more.They found a jitney at the Greenlea station, and this time George stooped for the valise, but Storm forestalled him.“No, thanks, old man. I don’t mind carrying it.”“But you are tired. Let me——”“For heaven’s sake go on!” Storm exclaimed irritably. “I want to carry it myself, I tell you!”Once in the jitney, however, he essayed swiftly to efface the effect of the outburst.“Don’t mind me, George; I’m not quite myself. It is a little trying, you know, to come out here again, but I didn’t mean to act like a spoiled kid over such a trifle.”“That’s all right, Norman; you’re tired.” George’s tone was affectionately magnanimous. “Go to bed to-night as soon as you feel sleepy and I’ll finish the packing. I know every inch of the house and just what you will need to take with you.”Nothing more was said until they drove up before the veranda. Everything was dark and abysmally silent, and the vines had grown in a tangled riot over the steps. Storm stumbled with his precious burden and almost fell, but he caught himself in time, shaking with sudden fear. God, if he had dropped that old valise and it had split asunder scattering the gold and banknotes in the darkness!
When Storm arose in the morning his head still ached in a dull, insistent way; but his energy had returned, and the thought which had been his last before sleep had crystallized into a definite decision. He must study George’s every move during that fishing trip, probe him on every point of the case, weigh with a clear, unprejudiced mind every slightest possibility of his learning the truth and then act as his final judgment dictated.
The midnight shower had cooled the air, and Storm reached his office early, determined to conclude the formalities there in as short order as possible. He found Sherwood awaiting him, and they put in a busy morning over the transfer of the books and files. He listened in a sort of grim apathy to the kindly expressions of good-wishes for the pleasure and benefit which his vacation might bring to him, took leave of his associates, shook the flabby hand of Nicholas Langhorne and made his escape.
At last! He was through! Through forever with the dull grind, the hypocritical sympathy of his colleagues, the maddening patronage of that pompous old millionaire, who hadn’t one-tenth of the brains, the genius that was his! How little they had known him through all those years; how little they suspected that this brief vacation would be extended for a lifetime, that he had shaken the sanctimonious dust of that most aristocratic institution from his feet forever!
He had laid his plans in that long hour before sleep came to him, and now he hurried to the nearest telegraph office, sent off several despatches and then called up George.
“Say!” that individual expostulated over the wire. “How on earth are we going to start on Monday if you don’t make up your mind where you want to go? I expected to hear from you all day yesterday——”
“That’s all right; I’ve fixed it!” Storm responded. “Come up to my rooms to-night. I’ll have Homachi give us a little dinner and we can talk over the final arrangements then.”
“Did you get those bass flies?” demanded George.
“No. I will, this afternoon.”
“Well, have you sent word out to MacWhirter to have your fishing gear brought in? How about your clothes? Will he know what to pack?” George’s tone was filled with an anxious solicitude that was almost ludicrously maternal. “You needn’t bother about mourning up there, you know; you’ll want the oldest clothes you’ve got, and your hip boots, and don’t forget about that rod——”
“I know, I—I’ll attend to it,” stammered Storm. “Come up about seven, will you?”
He rang off, his mind in a quandary. George had known nothing of MacWhirter’s defection, but his words had reminded the other that the house at Greenlea was locked up and there was no one to pack up his fishing gear unless he went out and did it for himself. He could not send Homachi, who would not know where to find anything, and the thought of telephoning to one of the neighbors of the Greenlea colony and enlisting their aid was out of the question; they, male or female, would like nothing better than a chance to go through the house unmolested and pry into every detail of the home which had been so tragically broken up.
He must go himself; that was plain. He thought of MacWhirter’s manner on the previous day and shivered involuntarily; then the episode of the night recurred to him and he smiled. He had tested himself and in the test had encountered the unforseen, but it had not daunted him. His strength, his nerve, his ingenuity had been equal to the situation, would be equal to any exigency of the future! What was there now in all the world for him to fear?
He would go back to Greenlea, and George should go with him! They would spend the night there, and then whatever ghosts of memory the old house held for him would be laid forever.
His decision made, he stopped at a sporting goods shop, purchased the flies, lines and a new reel, and then returned to his rooms to await the replies to his telegrams of the morning.
Here a new difficulty confronted him. The money! Those packets of greenbacks and tiny roulades of gold which he had taken life itself to gain! He could not go away for a week or more and leave them reposing there in that flimsy safe! There were duplicates of it in every apartment in the house. It was even conceivable that Potter himself might have missed something of value and thinking that he had left it in the safe, return unexpectedly and open it. There might be a fire! Any of a hundred possibilities could happen which would betray his secret to the world.
Yet it was out of the question for him to take it with him. He could not carry it about him, for in the enforced intimacy of camp life he would be unable to conceal it from George; and he well knew that the latter would rummage at will in every article of hand-baggage. Moreover, the packets of bills were too bulky, and the ten thousand dollars in gold alone must weigh approximately forty pounds.
But where could he secrete it during his absence?
Storm sat with his head upon his hands, wrestling with the problem. The fishing trip could not be given up now. He must go with George, must try him out and then if he were likely to prove a menace, must destroy him. But the money! There was no hiding place in the world where it would be safe. . . .
Then the solution burst full grown into being, and he sprang from his chair.
Greenlea! There was a place in the cellar of the house where the concrete floor had been removed to lay some pipes and had never been replaced. Sand and soft loam filled the space, and it would be easy enough to bury a tin despatch box there. Several such boxes were in the attic, he knew, and packed carefully in one of them the bills and gold would be safe from discovery for the brief time he would be away.
But if George accompanied him, how could he——? Bah! He had nothing now to fear from George or anyone! He could pack the money into a bag and carry it down under George’s very nose and he would suspect nothing! It would take nerve, of course, but was he not master of himself, invincible?
He would keep the bag close beside him throughout the night, and in the morning, at the last moment, he would contrive an excuse to remain behind George. There would be so much to do in town that the latter would be compelled to take an early train back, and after his departure it would not be the work of half an hour to stuff the money into the despatch box and bury it in that open space in the cellar. The thing was as good as done now!
Sending Homachi out to purchase supplies for the dinner, Storm waited only until the door had closed after him, and then, rushing to the storeroom, he dragged out a huge, battered old valise. Into this he transferred the money, packing it carefully between layers of old clothing, lest the cylinders of gold become unrolled and clink together. When it was all safely stowed away he filled the top of the valise with discarded linen and closing it, lifted it experimentally from the floor.
Its weight seemed prodigious, and he was badly out of condition, he knew. Would his flabby muscles stand the strain of carrying it? Storm set his lips resolutely. He must force himself to do it; there was no other way. He had whipped his faltering strength into obeying his will before, and his will was absolutely supreme!
When George arrived promptly at seven he found his host in a more genial mood than he had exhibited for weeks, with a hint of eager anticipation in his manner which recalled the old, high-spirited Norman of days long gone.
“You look better already!” George beamed at him. “Where are we going, anyway? You said over the ’phone that you’d fixed it, but I don’t——”
Storm gathered up a sheaf of telegrams from the desk and seizing his guest by the arm dragged him off to the dining-room.
“Come on and let us have dinner. We can talk while we eat; we haven’t any too much time.”
“Time!” repeated George. “We’re not going anywhere this evening!”
“Aren’t we?” Storm laughed. “Homachi has a chicken casserole for us to-night and some new asparagus with a sauce which he fondly believes to be Hollandaise. I hope you are good and hungry; I know I am.”
“But what’s all this mystery?” George demanded, after Homachi had served them. “Who are all those telegrams from? I hope you haven’t gone and arranged some long trip, Norman, You know we can’t stay away for more than a week, and we’ll get mighty little fishing if we spend most of the time on the cars!”
George was a poor traveler and knew it. Storm smiled.
“Do you remember that old hunting lodge up on Silver Run where we camped when we went fishing one year a good while ago? I happen to know that it has been unoccupied for several seasons, and I wired to the owners to borrow it. Pierre, my old guide, lives only about twenty miles away, at Three Forks Carry, and I sent a telegram to him to go and get it ready for us. Here are the replies.” Storm produced two of the messages and handed them across the table. “The others were to fellows whose camps I thought we might use if the lodge wasn’t available, but they are all occupied.”
“It sounds good,” George said slowly as he passed the telegrams back. “But did you arrange for this Pierre to stay and look out for us? You know you are not much on roughing it, and I—I’m getting confoundedly fat!”
“Lazy dub!” Storm jeered. Then his tone grew pleading, although he could feel his face flushing, in spite of himself, beneath the other’s candid, inquiring gaze. “That’s just it! We don’t want Pierre, or anyone. That was the trouble with all those places you suggested; they were too civilized, too popular. I don’t want to go and live at a club or farmhouse and whip up a stream where you are likely to meet a dozen other fishermen in a day! I don’t even want to have a guide fussing around; I want to be just alone with you. I thought if we could get away absolutely by ourselves and tramp and fish and do our own bit of cooking and sleep out in the open on the ground if we felt like it, that it would be immense!”
He paused, waiting with keen anxiety for the reply. Would George rise to the bait?
“You’ve caught any number of fish, but did you ever clean ’em?” the other asked doubtfully at length. “You know you hate cold water, and the last time we went to the Reel and Rifle Club you kicked like a steer because the beds were so hard——”
“Oh, if you want modern plumbing and silver platters, don’t come; that’s all!” Storm interrupted in well simulated disgust. He had detected the signs of yielding in George’s manner and knew that the way was clear. “I tell you I really want to go back to primitive things. I’m sick of the world and everything in it! I wish I had stuck to my original plan and thrown over everything here and gone out to the East——”
“All right!” George exclaimed hurriedly. “I was only thinking of you. I would like it first rate, and this Pierre of yours says that the bass are running fine! Only, if you come back with sciatica from this open air sleeping stunt, don’t blame me! I shall take a hammock!”
“Good old sport! I was sure you would see it my way. We’ll have the time of our lives!” Storm touched the bell. “Homachi, bring our coffee in a hurry, will you, and whatever else you have? We’ve got to be off!”
“Off where?” George betrayed symptoms of anxiety. “I thought we were going to pack!”
“Pack what?” demanded Storm coolly. “I haven’t a blessed thing here, old man.”
“Norman! I told you——!” George paused. “And to-morrow is Saturday.”
“I know, but I forgot to tell you; there is nobody out at Greenlea.” Storm chose his words carefully. “MacWhirter came in yesterday and told me that he had been offered another position with bigger money immediately, and as his month was up I was forced to let him go.”
“There’s gratitude for you!” George snorted indignantly. “And all your stuff down there——”
“I never thought of that until you mentioned it over the telephone to-day.” Storm sighed, watching his friend furtively. “I’ll have to go myself, of course. I will not have time to-morrow, and if I appeared in Greenlea on Sunday you know how the crowd would all come trooping in to see me and condole with me all over again. It would drive me mad! There is only to-night, George, and the thought of spending it alone in that house—I thought perhaps you would come down with me and see it through——”
“Of course I will!” George said warmly. “I wouldn’t think of having you down there all alone in that empty place in your state! What train can we get? I haven’t anything with me——”
“We can catch the nine o’clock if we start soon. We will find everything that we may need for the night down there.” Storm’s face was inscrutable. “I’m taking down an old valise with some things in it that I want to leave there; stuff I forgot to put in that trunk we sent down last week. If you have finished your coffee, I’ll ring for a taxi.”
When the car came Homachi stood ready to take his employer’s bag out to it, but Storm waved him aside.
“I’ll carry it myself,” he said.
“It looks deucedly heavy,” George remarked, eying the valise critically as they passed out of the entrance. “What’s in it anyway?”
“Just some old clothes, some account books and a—a packet of letters that I brought up with me myself.” Storm deposited the bag carefully on the floor of the taxi between his feet and then sank back with his face in the shadow.
“I thought I might like to look them over but I—I can’t, just yet.”
George’s hand gripped his shoulder for a minute in silent sympathy, and Storm suppressed a smile. What a sentimental, gullible fool! One reference to Leila, however vague, and he became the conventional mourner at once. He was really too easy!
When they reached the station Storm left the other to pay the taxi and holding his valise so that his arm would not betray the strain upon it too obviously, went ahead through the gates.
There was no one on the train whom they knew, and during the brief ride out to Greenlea they discussed the fishing trip in desultory fashion. George was evidently apprehensive of the effect upon his friend’s spirits of this return to old scenes saddened with tragic memories, but Storm himself felt no depression.
The money was there at his feet! The money to take him away from all this forever! When he cabled George later to sell the house, lethimcome out here and weep over the relics if he felt like it! This was just another final test of his own nerve, that was all, and he defied the house or its memories to break him down. The past was dead, and this was just a visit to its grave, nothing more.
They found a jitney at the Greenlea station, and this time George stooped for the valise, but Storm forestalled him.
“No, thanks, old man. I don’t mind carrying it.”
“But you are tired. Let me——”
“For heaven’s sake go on!” Storm exclaimed irritably. “I want to carry it myself, I tell you!”
Once in the jitney, however, he essayed swiftly to efface the effect of the outburst.
“Don’t mind me, George; I’m not quite myself. It is a little trying, you know, to come out here again, but I didn’t mean to act like a spoiled kid over such a trifle.”
“That’s all right, Norman; you’re tired.” George’s tone was affectionately magnanimous. “Go to bed to-night as soon as you feel sleepy and I’ll finish the packing. I know every inch of the house and just what you will need to take with you.”
Nothing more was said until they drove up before the veranda. Everything was dark and abysmally silent, and the vines had grown in a tangled riot over the steps. Storm stumbled with his precious burden and almost fell, but he caught himself in time, shaking with sudden fear. God, if he had dropped that old valise and it had split asunder scattering the gold and banknotes in the darkness!