Scarcely a moment elapsed, but the agony of an hour may have thrilled
through Wayne's consciousness before he spoke. Then all the blood of his
body rushed to his face with his first lie as he stammered, "No! Yes! Of
course. I have made a mistake--it WAS I."

"I see--you thought I was riled?" said McGee quietly.

"No; I was thinking it was NIGHT BEFORE LAST! Of course it was last
night. I must be getting silly." He essayed a laugh--rare at any
time with him--and so forced now that it affected McGee more than his
embarrassment. He looked at Wayne thoughtfully, and then said slowly: "I
reckon I did come upon you a little too sudden last night, but, you see,
I was thinkin' of suthin' else and disremembered you might be there. But
I wasn't mad--no! no! and I only spoke about it now that you might be
more keerful before folks. You follow me? You understand what I mean?"

He turned and walked to the door, when he halted. "You follow me, don't
you? It ain't no cussedness o' mine, or want o' trustin', don't you see?
Mebbe I oughtened have spoken. I oughter remembered that times this
sort o' thing must be rather rough on you and her. You follow me? You
understand what I mean? Good-night."

He walked slowly down the path towards the river. Had Madison Wayne been
watching him, he would have noticed that his head was bent and his step
less free. But Madison Wayne was at that moment sitting rigidly in his
chair, nursing, with all the gloomy concentration of a monastic nature,
a single terrible suspicion.