In common with most men whose
lot is cast in climes far removed from civilization, Curtis worshiped
an ideal of womanhood which was rather that of a poet than of the
blase, cynical town-dweller. He had seen death too often to be shocked
by its harsh visage, and, perhaps in protest against the idle belief
that the crime was preventable, his sympathies were absorbed now by the
vision of some fair girl waiting vainly for the bridegroom who would
never come. His analytical mind fastened instantly on the theory that
murder had been done to prevent a marriage. He took it for granted
that the Jean de Courtois of the marriage certificate was dead, and his
heart grieved for the hapless young woman whose aristocratic name was
blazoned on that same document. So, instead of retracing his steps,
and warning the officers of the law, he bent his brows over the
certificate, and, in acting thus, unconsciously committed himself to as
fantastic a course as ever was followed by mortal man.
It is only fair to urge that had he known the truth, had the veil been
lifted ever so slightly on other happenings in the Central Hotel that
night, he would not have hesitated a moment about returning to the
conclave of policemen and detectives. He acted impulsively, absurdly,
almost insanely, it may be held, but he did honestly act in good faith,
and that is the best and the worst that can be said of him, or for him.
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