It
was impossible to believe that either Celeste La Rue or Ned
Beaton--chorus girl or gunman--could have ever figured out such a
scheme. They were nothing but pawns, moved by the hand of the chief
player. Aye! and John Cavendish was another!
The whole foul thing lay before Westcott's imagination in its
diabolical ingenuity--Enright's legal mind had left no loophole. He
intended to play the game absolutely safe, so far, at least, as he was
personally concerned.
The money was to go legally to John without the shadow of a suspicion
resting upon it; and then--well, he knew how to do the rest; already he
had a firm grip on a large portion. Yes, all this was reasonably
clear; what remained obscure was the fate of Frederick Cavendish.
Had they originally intended to take his life, and been compelled to
change the plan? Had his sudden, unexpected departure from New York,
on the very eve possibly of their contemplated action, driven them to
the substitution of another body? It hardly seemed probable--for a man
bearing so close a resemblance could not have been discovered in so
short a time.
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