Just as the faint respirations had become almost imperceptible, Whitcomb
opened his eyes, looking straight into Darrell's eyes with eager
intensity, his face lighted with the winning smile which Darrell had
already learned to love. His lips moved; Darrell bent his head still
lower to listen.
"Kate,--you will see her," he whispered. "Tell her----" but the sentence
was never finished.
Deftly and gently as a woman Darrell did the little which remained to be
done for his young friend, closing the eyes in which the love-light
kindled by his dying words still lingered, smoothing the dishevelled
golden hair, wondering within himself at his own unwonted tenderness.
"An awful pity for a bright young life to go out like that!" said a
voice at his side, and, turning, he saw Parkinson.
"How did it happen?" the latter inquired, recognizing Darrell for the
first time in the dim light.
Briefly Darrell gave the main facts as he had witnessed them, saying
nothing, however, of his having seen the face of the murderer.
"Too bad!" said Parkinson. "He ought never to have made a bluff of that
sort; there were too many odds against him."
"He was impulsive and acted on the spur of the moment," Darrell replied;
adding, in lower tones, "the mistake was in giving one so young and
inexperienced a commission involving so much responsibility and danger."
"You knew of the money, then? Yes, that was bad business for him, poor
fellow! I wonder, by the way, if it was all taken."
At Darrell's suggestion a thorough search was made, which resulted in
the finding of a package containing fifteen thousand dollars which the
thief in his haste had evidently overlooked. This, it was agreed, should
be placed in Darrell's keeping until the arrival of the train at Ophir.
Gradually the crowd dispersed, most of the passengers returning to their
berths. Darrell, knowing that sleep for himself was out of the question,
sought an empty section in another part of the car, and, seating
himself, bowed his head upon his hands. The veins in his temples seemed
near bursting and his usually strong nerves quivered from the shock he
had undergone, but of this he was scarcely conscious. His mind,
abnormally active, for the time held his physical sufferings in
abeyance. He was living over again the events of the past few
hours--events which had awakened within him susceptibilities he had not
known he possessed, which had struck a new chord in his being whose
vibrations thrilled him with strange, undefinable pain. As he recalled
Whitcomb's affectionate familiarity, he seemed to hear again the low,
musical cadences of the boyish tones, to see the sunny radiance of his
smile, to feel the irresistible magnetism of his presence, and it seemed
as though something inexpressibly sweet, of whose sweetness he had
barely tasted, had suddenly dropped out of his life.