The Moving Finger

Then he saw its bitter irony. It had done its work by bringing Joan into contact with Buck, and, with cruel derision, had shown him how unnecessary his sacrifice had been. Then had come all those other things, moving so swiftly that it was almost impossible to count each step in the iron progress of the moving finger. It had come with an overwhelming rush which swept him upon its tide like a feather upon the bosom of the torrent. And now, caught in the whirling rapids below the mighty falls, he could only await the completion of the sentence so long since pronounced.

The smile broadened, spreading gently across his face. He realized he was admitting all he had denied to Joan. But the thought brought him no weakening. The wisdom of years had taught him much that must not be communicated to a younger generation. Life would teach them in their turn; they must not learn the truths which lay before them before their time. It was better to lie than to destroy the hope of youth.

His conscience was clear, his resolve perfect in its steadiness. The happiness of two people was at stake. For Buck he would give up all. There was no sacrifice too great. For Joan--she was the fair daughter of his oldest friend. His duty was clear by her. There was one course, and one course only that he could see for himself. To remove the last shadow from these young lives he must face the ordeal which lay before him. What its outcome might be he could not quite see, but he was not without hope. There were certain details surrounding the death of his friend which did not fit in with his guilt. He had no weapon upon him in that house. Nor was there the least reason for the crime. He knew he would be confronted by the evidence of a woman who hated him, a woman capable of manufacturing evidence to suit her own ends. But, whatever else she might do, she could not produce a weapon belonging to him, nor could she invent a reason for the crime that could not be disproved. At least this was the hope he clung to.