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The Street Of The Blank Wall
by
Michael saw his brother off as a second-class passenger on a ship bound for the Cape. Of course, there was little chance of his keeping his word, but there was always the chance of his getting himself knocked on the head in some brawl. Anyhow, he would be out of the way for a season, and the girl, Lola, would be left. A month later he married her, and four months after that received a letter from his brother containing messages to Mrs. Martin, “from her loving husband, Charlie,” who hoped before long to have the pleasure of seeing her again.
Inquiries through the English Consul in Rotterdam proved that the threat was no mere bluff. The marriage had been legal and binding.
What happened on the night of the murder, was very much as my friend had reconstructed it. Ellenby, reaching the office at his usual time the next morning, had found Hepworth waiting for him. There he had remained in hiding until one morning, with dyed hair and a slight moustache, he had ventured forth.
Had the man’s death been brought about by any other means, Ellenby would have counselled his coming forward and facing his trial, as he himself was anxious to do; but, viewed in conjunction with the relief the man’s death must have been to both of them, that loaded revolver was too suggestive of premeditation. The isolation of the house, that conveniently near pond, would look as if thought of beforehand. Even if pleading extreme provocation, Michael escaped the rope, a long term of penal servitude would be inevitable.
Nor was it certain that even then the woman would go free. The murdered man would still, by a strange freak, be her husband; the murderer–in the eye of the law–her lover.
Her passionate will had prevailed. Young Hepworth had sailed for America. There he had no difficulty in obtaining employment–of course, under another name–in an architects office; and later had set up for himself. Since the night of the murder they had not seen each other till some three weeks ago.
* * *
I never saw the woman again. My friend, I believe, called on her. Hepworth had already returned to America, and my friend had succeeded in obtaining for her some sort of a police permit that practically left her free.
Sometimes of an evening I find myself passing through the street. And always I have the feeling of having blundered into an empty theatre–where the play is ended.