Owen Oliver

“ You are not the only one who pays scores. Do you remember what we swore when we were in hell, as you called it? When we could only whisper a word in passing, it was ‘Craig.’ Why am I not a rich man? Because I’ve given these last five years to looking for them, instead of looking for money—because I wouldn’t risk prison, to delay my revenge. ”

“ Bannerman assured me. “I inquired as soon as I came out. Oh, yes! He’s as dead as his son.”
“Then there’s only the daughter,” I reflected. “She’s the one with the big score to pay, I’ve been looking for her ever since I came out of that prison. Any trace, old man?”
He nodded fiercely.
“Killing’s too good for her,” he told me. “It was she who did us in. They were only her tools. No brains, father or son. Yes, I’ve traced her.”
He moistened his lips, and shook with that awful silent laugh of his.
“Tell me.” I laid my hand on his arm in my eagerness. “It is my turn. Let me deal with her.” ”

“ I thought I’d find you round here when I read about Craig. Suicide, eh?” I rubbed my hands and laughed. “One old score wiped out!”
“One old score paid,” he agreed. “It was suicide, as a matter of fact. Did you read what he wrote? It was in all the papers. Fear of exposure hanging over him night and-day. Temporary insanity, the verdict was. Fear of exposure a delusion. Highly respected citizen with nothing to expose.”
Bannerman’s huge body shook silently. It was the way he always laughed.
“One score paid,” he repeated. ”

“ For the matter of that, so have the police, if they knew that Mrs.—a certain highly esteemed and much admired lady of position, was Maggie Craig—Dancing Margaret! But this would involve the confession that Mr. Alec Mortlock—not quite unprosperous—was once Tom Bannerman.”
“I’ll sacrifice my prosperity for the sake of jailing the hussy!” I cried. “Leave her to me!”
“You were always headstrong,” he commented. “We can jail our charming friend without sending her to prison. Our Maggie was always affectionate, you know. Little Uncle Davey! Why swear? ”

“ I'd like to think that I’d have turned the car and driven her back again; but I wouldn’t have, if she had betrayed me.
“The last motor-ride you'll get for some time, my grand lady,” he taunted, with one eye on my muff and the other on the road. I moved my hands violently in the muff. “Don’t be a fool!” he advised. “If you could kill me,—and you can’t,—your dear husband would be disgraced still worse. .... Dancing Margaret! Doesn’t it make you laugh to think how you've taken him in?” I bent my head almost on the muff, as if I cried. ”

“ He put me in prison. I will put him in.”
“But he has served his sentence,” she objected.
“Ah! This is a different affair, quite a different affair! He is going to drive you to town, he thinks. He shall drive me! I want you to lend me your cloak and veil and gloves. You must lend me a wrap to make a bunch under my hood, like your hair. You always had a lot of hair, my dear. Such beautiful hair! You were a great delight to your old Uncle Davey. .... I’m glad you’ve grown into a good woman, my child. It was always in you. I—I liked you, Maggie. .... ”

“ I’ll put the bag inside, and you shall ride with me in front. Do you care where you go?”
I shook my head.
“Then I’ll take you to Landham Junction,” he said. “It’s a mere matter of sixty miles—something over two hours. You can get an early train to London from there. London’s a good place to disappear from. If I were you, I should disappear pretty completely.” ”