Old Mr.
Trevlyn, travel-stained and wet, strode into the room.
"I've killed him!" he said, in a cracked voice of intense satisfaction.
"He didn't catch old Trevlyn napping. I knew well enough they'd be after
my diamonds, and I gave up the journey. Margie, child, are the jewels
safe?"
She had fallen back on the pillows, pale as death, her white night-dress
spattered with the blood of the dead robber.
Arch lifted a tiny glove from the carpet, thrust it into his bosom, and,
before old Trevlyn could raise a hand to stop him, he had got clear of
the premises.
Such a relief as he felt when the cool, fresh air struck his face. He had
been saved from overt criminality. God had not permitted him to thus
debase himself. Now that his excitement was gone, he saw the heinousness
of the sin he had been about to commit in all its deformity.
Let old Trevlyn go! Let him gloat over his diamonds while yet he had
opportunity. He would not despoil him of his treasures, but he could not
give up his scheme of vengeance. It should be brought about some other
way.
A large reward was offered by Mr. Trevlyn for the apprehension of Sharp's
accomplice, but, as no description of his person could be given by any
one except Margie, who could not or would not be explicit on that point,
he was not secured.
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