Channing’s head jerked forward.
The impact of Logan’s words caused what little color was left in his withered cheeks to vanish instantly.
“What?” he cried, though his voice was pale and worn. Leaning forward, his thin fingers clutched at the arms of the wicker chair until the bones seemed about to pierce through the skin.
Logan turned back toward him with a confused look. “My mother-in-law . . . she’s not well, you know.”
“What are you saying?” demanded Channing. His face was ghostly white, his red eyes bulging out of his head.
“She will be devastated.”
“Who?”
“My mother-in-law . . . Lady Joanna MacNeil.”
“Why . . . why that’s impossible! What are you talking about?” Channing laughed, but it was a hollow, desperate attempt. “You’ve finally snapped, Macintyre! She’s dead—died four or five weeks ago. I read it in the paper.” As he spoke, Channing began to breathe heavily, and his eyes seemed unable to focus on Logan.
“She was very ill,” said Logan. “Even failed to register a pulse rate at one point. The news hounds grabbed the story prematurely. But in the end she pulled through.”
“Impossible! I don’t believe a word of it!” Channing continued to suck in deep draughts of air as if his lungs were suddenly too small to contain what they needed.
“She was always a strong woman. I suppose they don’t keep abreast of our local news down here,” Logan went on.
“This is madness!” raved Channing. “I read it in the Times! She cannot be alive!” His voice shook with passion and disbelief.
Slowly Logan reached into his pocket and took out a folded newspaper clipping. “I keep this as a reminder of my many blessings.”
He handed it to Channing.
The headline over the two-column article read: LADY JOANNA MACNEIL RECOVERS MIRACULOUSLY FROM NEAR-FATAL HEMORRHAGE.
Channing crumpled the paper into a wad in his fist and threw it on the floor. He glanced around wildly, attempting to make the worn-out circuits in his brain focus this bewildering new information. “But why didn’t . . .” he muttered to himself. “ . . . how could she . . . but, no . . . then why didn’t she notify . . . unless . . . but it could be a fake. . . .”
Again Logan turned to go.
“Wait a minute, Macintyre!” yelled Channing after him. “You can’t go now! You’ve got to . . . got to tell me whether it’s true! I don’t believe it for a second . . . the article’s a sham!”
Once more Logan paused and looked back. “Look, Channing,” he said weakly, “the last thing I would want is for you to know Joanna is alive.” He stopped for a moment and sighed. “But now it is all changed. Suddenly we are on the brink of losing everything. Under the circumstances, I know she would want to see you one last time, talk to you—”
“See me . . . she would want to see me—how . . . ?” he stammered incredulously.
“She is here.”
“What . . . I don’t . . . how . . . ?” As he struggled to find any coherent words, Channing’s tottering body trembled with involuntary emotion.
“She came to Argentina with me. She had to be here to verify the authenticity of the treasure.”
“But we had you under surveillance!”
“I had no idea what kind of people I was about to deal with—we all know the Professor did not gain his reputation by singing in choir. You don’t think I would let her near any danger, do you? I insisted we travel separately, so if it turned rough, she would be well in the clear.”
“She . . . she . . . is here?” Channing’s words were labored as he continued, trying to cope with disbelief and a fierce eagerness.
Logan nodded.
“I must see her! The swine! . . . I will make her pay!”
Logan closed his eyes.
“I must! Do you hear me!”
“I was afraid it would come to this,” Logan whispered in a voice filled with distress.
But Channing was hardly heeding him. His fiery eyes rolled about in his head while he muttered gleefully to himself, rubbing his hands together in sick anticipation, “The impudent hussy . . . she will be the best prize of all! Grovel—that’s what she’ll do! I’ll make her beg . . . beg for her precious Stonewycke! And it will still be mine!”
He laughed cruelly. “The fool . . . to think she could keep it from me! I told her I get what I want. Curse her for not believing me! Curse them all! I will destroy her . . . topple her from that proud perch where she sits with that lout of a farmer looking down on me! I’ll show the little jade what real men are made of! I’ll show—”
“Please,” interrupted Logan, “don’t make her come here. Keep Joanna out of it. I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll sign the deed.”
“Silence, you fool!” screamed Channing. “You think any of that is important now? Only one thing is left . . . the only thing that ever mattered! Oh, you’ll sign the deed! But first I will see her beg in the dust before me! Get her here—now!”
“I will need a vehicle—”
“Not you! I can’t send you!”
He heaved himself up from his chair and began hobbling forward, but his thin cane could hardly support his agitated frame, and his shaking hand did little to steady it.
“I have to think,” he mumbled, “—Joanna . . . here! Unbelievable, yet—yes, it is fitting . . . this is how it should be!”
He turned toward the door. “Mario!” he shouted. “Mario!—where is that fool?” he added to himself. “Order a car immediately!” he yelled again.