"I thought so from the first. A fellow as clever
as Silva would be certain to keep his line of retreat open. He's far
away by this time."
He walked on thoughtfully, a little smile on his lips.
"I'm not altogether sorry," he continued. "It adds an interest to life
to know that he's running around the world, and that we may encounter
him again some day. He's a remarkable fellow, Lester; one of the most
remarkable I ever met. He comes close to being a genius. I'd give
something to hear the story of his life."
That wish was destined to be gratified, for, three years later, we
heard that story, or a part of it, from Silva's lips, as he lay calmly
smoking a cigarette, looking in the face of death,--and without
flinching. Perhaps, some day, I shall tell that story.
"But, Godfrey," I said, as we turned in at his gate, "all this scheme
of lies--the star, the murder, the finger-prints--what was it all
about? I can't see through it, even yet."
"There are still a few dark places," he agreed; "but the outlines are
pretty clear, aren't they?"
"Not to me--it's all a jumble."
"Suppose we wait till we hear Miss Vaughan's story," he suggested.
Pages:
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304