# Greater Love Hath No Man/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V
"VARGE, IS IT TRUE?"
THE battle had begun. During the short drive through the town, the cynosure of hastily attracted eyes; during the longer drive on the country road, meeting only now and then a passing team, Varge had sat quietly between the sheriff and the district attorney, giving by no slightest sign an inkling of the suspicion aroused within him that there was an ulterior motive for this visit to the Merton homestead.
"Varge," the district attorney had said bluffly, when they started, "we are taking you out there to have you show us exactly what you did and what happened. You understand though, of course, that you are perfectly within your rights to refuse to say a word."
And Varge had answered him quietly: "I have already said I am guilty. What have I to conceal? I am perfectly willing to go."
And then, without logical, tangible reason for it, he had sensed some trap being laid for him by these two, and had set his mind to discovering it. His first thought had been the fender bar—it was there, a final, absolute point should it be needed; he had seen to that, but he had slurred it over in his story, deliberately, intentionally, through a sensitive, innate diffidence that had been his all his life, a modesty that shrank from notoriety that prompted him—rather than to thrust it forward vauntingly—to keep the knowledge of his own ​strength, that was beyond the strength of other men, to himself. But a moment's thought had dismissed that as being their object—on the surface it did not appear important; the chances were they would overlook the crux of it, and, besides, they would have questioned him first about it at the jail. And then from one possibility to another his mind had flown, but it was not until they had neared the house that, in an intuitive flash, the answer had come, perplexing, disturbing him—they were going to confront him with Harold Merton. Logic then had come instantly, buttressing intuition. Robson's story had not been without effect—his own explanation of the motive, the only possible one available that would lend itself to unalterable conditions, was, as he had appreciated from the first, not over-strong or convincing. Yes, undoubtedly, that was the trap, he had decided—and one that, he had realised, would tax him to the utmost to counteract. The danger lay with Harold Merton—a wrong word or act, a misdirected look, a falter in the other's voice, then a collapse and the man would be like putty, a pygmy, in the hands of the cleverest criminal lawyer in the State, and this was almost certain to ensue if he were exposed to the shock of a sudden, unexpected meeting—but that, Varge had determined, somehow and at all hazards, to prevent.
And now, as they stood within the storm door on the porch of the Merton home, Lee turned to Varge while his hand reached out for the knocker.
"You quite understand, Varge," he said again, gravely now, "that anything you say or do is entirely voluntary?"
Varge faced him slowly—and answered him with a ​smile, at once patient and appreciative, that barely moved the firm, closed lips and found its greater expression in the deep, clear, brown eyes.
"Very well," said the district attorney—and rapped softly.
They stood there for a moment waiting, a silent group. Marston, big, burly, six feet in height, fumbling a little uneasily with the collar of his coon-skin over-coat as he turned it down; Lee, of medium height, slim, nervously-active, engaged in pulling off his glove; Varge, perfectly proportioned, straight of figure, almost up to the sheriff's height, stood motionless, quiet, calm, composed, a sober expression on his strong, clean-shaven face that seemed to enhance the power and vigour that lived dominant in every separate feature—the steady eyes, deep-set beneath the broad, high forehead; the large, straight nose, wide-nostrilled, sensitive; the chin and jaw, square and determined, but without hint of aggressiveness; the mouth, perhaps a little wide, at once reliant and tender, that charmed with the kindly smile which constantly hovered upon it seeking expression.
The door opened a little way—then wide, as Anna, her eyes riveted on Varge, fell back before them. The next moment she had covered her face with her apron and was sobbing bitterly.
Varge's eyes dropped instantly to the ground—Marston's glance, keen, searching, was upon him. He stepped obediently inside at a slight pressure on his arm from the sheriff.
Marston turned at once to the library door on the right, and motioned Varge to enter.
​Lee, bringing up the rear, stopped for an instant beside the old maid-servant and patted her soothingly on the shoulder.
"There, there," he said gently. "You mustn't give way." Then, dropping his voice so that Varge, now in the library, would not catch the words: "Listen. I want you to tell Mr. Harold Merton that the district attorney would like to speak to him for a moment. You need say nothing about any one else being here. You quite understand?—just the district attorney."
Anna lowered her apron and cast a frightened glance at him, as she nodded her head—the district attorney, to her simple mind, inspired much the same terror that is accredited to the inquisitors of old.
"Very good, then," said Lee. "I will be in there"—he motioned toward the library door. "Please go at once."
He turned from her, stepped briskly into the library and closed the door.
"Now, Varge," he said quietly, "everything here is as it was last night, I believe, except that, the coroner having viewed the remains early this morning, the body of Doctor Merton has, of course, been removed. But before you describe what took place, I want to ask you a question or two. You told Marston here that the cause of the murder was through Doctor Merton catching you in the act of stealing his cash-box, and that your reason for taking the cash-box was because you were tired of your hum-drum, aimless life here and wanted money to get away. Now, let's see—er—I suppose the Doctor has paid you something for a ​number of years past—didn't you have any money of your own?"
"Yes," said Varge. "But once I'd made up my mind to go, I wanted all I could get to make a new start on."
"How much of your own money did you have?"
"About six hundred dollars."
"Where?"—sharply.
"In the bank," Varge answered quietly.
"Hum!" commented the district attorney drily. "And it's there now, isn't it?"
A wan smile, tolerant, tinged Varge's lips—but while his eyes held Lee's steadily and his wits were pitted warily against the other, his ears were strained to catch the first sound of an approaching footfall.
"I didn't expect that what did happen would happen," he countered instantly. "I didn't expect to be caught taking the cash-box. I didn't expect that suspicion would be directed against me when it was found to have been taken. I didn't intend to leave here for perhaps weeks yet, not until it had all blown over. That's why I hadn't drawn the money out of the bank."
"Well," said Lee, frowning, "the cash-box, I understand, was always kept in the same place, always there—how did you come to hit on last night for the robbery?"
"Because," Varge answered, "I knew there was more in the cash-box than usual. I saw Doctor Merton open it yesterday afternoon."
Lee turned to the sheriff.
"How much was in it when you opened it, Marston, after Varge gave it to you?"
​"Three hundred odd," Marston replied tersely. Things were not going quite as the big-hearted sheriff liked them. He wheeled after giving his reply, and, with his back to the interior of the room, gazed out of the front window.
Varge had moved quietly in front of the fireplace where, with a side view of the door, he could both see and be seen the instant that it was opened a crack.
Lee stood by the wall directly opposite the door, and between Varge and the sheriff.
"Tell the rest of the story your own way, Varge," said the district attorney, after an instant's pause.
"It was one o'clock"— Varge spoke slowly and distinctly—"I had heard the kitchen clock strike twelve and then the half-hour and then one. I thought all of the family were in bed and asleep. I came downstairs and along the hall to this room. It was dark, all except the fire in the grate which only made the rest of the room seem darker a little distance away from it. The possibility of any one still being here never occurred to me, of course. I stole across to the fireplace, picked up the fender bar and pried that cupboard there in the wall open. And then the lights went on in a flash and Doctor Merton jumped at me. He had been lying down on the couch over there and had fallen asleep, I suppose. I don't know what he said. He spoke several times and I answered him. He was surprised and horror-stricken, I think—and I was beside myself. I tried then to get away and he tried to stop me and we struggled. The fender bar was still in my hand. I struck him with it across the head and he fell. Then I snatched up the cash-box, crept out of the room, went down the hall and ​cut the telephone wires on my way out—I wanted as long a start as I could get before the alarm was given, and I knew that sooner or later some one of the family, wondering why the Doctor hadn't gone up to bed, would come down to investigate and that the first thing they would do would be to telephone the town and notify the police. I went into the kitchen, snatched up my overcoat and hat from the peg, got out the back door, ran with all my might through the garden and then for the woods on the hill." Varge's voice, without perceptible change, had been gradually rising louder. The door of the parlour across the hall opposite the library had opened and closed softly, and the sound of a step, scarcely audible, muffled by the heavy carpet in the hall, had come to him. He glanced at the other two. Lee was intent on the story; Marston was tapping fretfully with his fingers on the window pane. Neither of them had noticed the sound. Varge had not paused; there had been no break in his words—but his voice in subtle warning was carrying easily to the hall without. "It all came over me then—what I'd done. There's no use telling you what I went through, the remorse and horror of it all. I didn't know how long it was then, but it must have been an hour, judging by the time I reached the town, that I fought it out with myself there in the woods. And then, well then, you know the rest; I walked—"
The words seemed to die in Varge's throat, and slowly a grey pallor crept into his face. The door had opened enough for Varge to see who was on the other side, not far enough for either Lee or Marston to do so.
Marston, at the click of the doorhandle, had swung ​quickly around from the window; and now both his and Lee's eyes were fixed sharply, critically on Varge—the next instant, like Varge's, they were strained on the doorway.
It was Mrs. Merton.
She stood there, a frail, pathetic figure in black, the sweet, patient face worn and haggard with grief—and, swaying a little, caught at the door jamb for support. Then steadying herself with an effort, she stepped into the room and shut the door.
"Good God!" Marston muttered in dismay under his breath, and mopped helplessly at his forehead with his hand.
She moved slowly toward Varge. Lee stepped forward as though to interpose, but she waved him away.
"I was in the other room with him," she said dully, "and I saw you drive up. It seemed almost an answer to prayer. I have asked on my knees through the night that it might not be so, that this at least might be some horrible mistake—and I have not believed it and I will never believe it unless I hear it from your own lips"—she had stopped before Varge, and was talking to Varge, to Varge alone, with a strange concentration that seemed to make her oblivious of all else, of the others, of her surroundings even—"why, you are just like another son, Varge, and, of course, I couldn't believe it any more than I could believe it of Harold. Why, I've brought you up and taken care of you and loved you ever since you were a little boy. Don't you remember, Varge, I taught you your letters? Of course, it isn't true. It's like an answer to prayer and ​you've come to tell me so yourself, haven't you? Tell me, Varge, that it isn't true."
A silence as of death fell upon the room. His hands tight-clasped at his sides, the skin over the knuckles as white as the marble in his face, Varge neither moved nor spoke. The veins in his temple swelled, and, throbbing, seemed to stand out like great blue welts raised from the blows of a whip-lash.
For a moment she stared at him, standing as one numbed, robbed of all power of movement; then heavily, as though drawn back by some invisible power, she retreated from him—and her hands clasping her face, elongating it as she pressed against her cheeks, seemed to accentuate the dawning horror that was creeping into it.
"Varge! Varge, is it true?" she cried wildly.
Varge's hands brushed back the clustered brown hair from the forehead, damp now with beads of agony.
"It is true," he said hoarsely.
She was swaying now again and seemed about to fall.
Lee reached out his hand to her and took her arm.
"Come, Mrs. Merton," he pleaded gently. "Come; let me take you from here."
"IT IS TRUE," HE SAID HOARSELY.
Lee and Marston sprang together and caught her in their arms as she fell—Mrs. Merton had fainted.
They carried her from the room, and, as they passed out of the door, Varge turned and buried his face in his hands on the mantelpiece. A man's step, descending the stairway, came to him, and Anna's steps running along the hall as well; then Lee's voice:
"The matter can wait, Mr. Merton. Another time will do. Your mother needs your attention now."
Presently some one touched his arm. Varge raised his head. It was Marston.
There was a new ring, gruff and hard, in the sheriff's voice as he spoke.
"We'll go back now," he said tersely.
"Yes," said Varge, and followed the other quietly from the room. But that night in the darkness of his cell, alone, where none might see, he turned upon his face on the prison cot, his great shoulders shook—and he sobbed as a little soul-torn child sobs out its heart.