the rover boys in the jungle or stirring adventures in africa by arthur m. winfield (edward stratemeyer) introduction my dear boys: this volume, "the rover boys in the jungle," is the third story of the "rover boys series," and while a complete tale in itself, forms a companion story to "the rover boys at school" and "the rover boys on the ocean," which preceded it. in the former volumes i told you much of the doings of dick, tom, and sam at putnam hall and during a remarkable chase on the atlantic ocean. in the present story the scene is shifted from the military academy, where the boys are cadets, to the wilds of africa, whither the lads with their uncle have gone to look for anderson rover, the boys' father, who had disappeared many years before. a remarkable message from the sea causes the party to leave this country, and they journey to africa, little dreaming of all the stirring adventures which await them in the heart of the dark continent. how they battle against their many perils, and what the outcome of their remarkable search is, i will leave for the pages that follow to explain. in conclusion, let me state that i am extremely grateful for the kind favor given the previous volumes of this series, and i sincerely trust that the present tale merits a continuance of your support. affectionately and sincerely yours, edward stratemeyer november 10, 1899 the rover boys in the jungle chapter i unpleasant news "back to putnam hall again, boys! hurrah!" "yes, back again, tom, and glad of it," returned dick rover. "i can tell you, the academy is getting to be a regular second home." "right you are, dick," came from sam rover, the youngest of the three brothers. "i'd rather be here than up to the farm, even if uncle randolph and aunt martha are kind and considerate. the farm is so slow--" "while here we have our full share of adventures and more," finished tom. "i wonder what will happen to us this term? the other terms kept us mighty busy, didn't they?" "i'm not looking for any more outside adventures," said dick, with a serious shake of his head. "our enemies have been disposed of, and i don't want, to hear of or see them again." "nor i--but we'll hear of them, nevertheless, mark my words. the baxters won't leave us rest. they are a hard crowd, and buddy girk is just as bad," finished tom. it was the opening of the spring term at putnam hall military academy, and the three rover boys had just come up from cedarville in the carryall, driven by peleg snuggers, the general-utility man of the place. their old chums, frank harrington, fred garrison, larry colby, and a number of others, had already arrived, so the boys did not lack for company. as they entered the spacious building genial captain putnam greeted each with a hearty handshake, and a pleasant word also came to them from george strong, the head assistant. for the benefit of those who have not read the other books of this series, entitled "the rover boys at school" and "the rover boys on the ocean," i would state that the rover boys were three in number, dick being the oldest, tom next, and sam the youngest, as already mentioned. whether the boys were orphans or not was a question which could not be answered. upon the death of their mother, their father, a rich mine owner and geological expert, had left the boys in the care of his brother, randolph rover, an eccentric gentleman who devoted his entire time to scientific farming. mr. anderson rover had then journeyed to the western coast of africa, hoping to locate some valuable gold mines in the heart of the dark continent. he had plunged into the interior with a number of natives, and that was the last heard of him, although mr. randolph rover had made diligent inquiries concerning his whereabouts. all of the boys were bright, fun-loving fellows, and to keep them out of mischief randolph rover had sent them off to putnam hall, a first class school, located some distance from cedarville, a pretty town on lake cayuga, in new york state. here the lads had made numerous friends and incidentally a number of enemies. of the friends several have already been named, and others will come to the front as our story proceeds. of the enemies the principal ones were arnold baxter, a man who had tried, years before, to defraud the boys' father out of a gold mine in the west, and his son dan, who had once been the bully of putnam hall. arnold baxter's tool was a good-for-nothing scamp named buddy girk, who had once robbed dick of his watch. both of these men were now in jail charged with an important robbery in albany, and the rover boys had aided in bringing the men to justice. dan, the bully, was also under arrest, charged with the abduction of dora stanhope. dora, who was dick rover's dearest friend, had been carried off by the directions of josiah crabtree, a former teacher of putnam hall, who wished to marry mrs. stanhope and thus get his hands on the money the widow held in trust for her daughter, but the abduction had been nipped in the bud and josiah crabtree had fled, leaving dan baxter to shoulder the blame of the transaction. how dora was restored to her mother and what happened afterward, old readers already know. a winter had passed since the events narrated above, and before and after the holidays the rover boys had studied diligently, to make up for the time lost on that never-to-be-forgotten ocean chase. their efforts had not been in vain, and each lad had been promoted to the next higher class, much to randolph rover's satisfaction and the joy of their tender-hearted aunt martha. "the boys are all right, even if they do love to play pranks," was randolph rover's comment, when he heard of the promotions. "i trust they improve their time during the term to come." "they are good boys, randolph," returned mr. rover. "they would not be real boys if they did not cut up once in a while. as to their daring--why, they simply take after their father. poor man. if only we knew, what had become of him." "yes, a great weight would be lifted from our shoulders, martha, if we knew that. but we do not know, and there seems to be no way of finding out. i have written to the authorities at various places in africa until i know not whom to address next." "he must be dead, otherwise he would write or come home, randolph. he was not one to keep us in the dark so long." "i cannot believe my brother dead, and the boys will not believe it either. do you know what dick said to me before he left for school? he said, that if we didn't get word he was going to africa some day to hunt his father up." "to africa! what will that boy do in such a jungle, and among such fierce natives? he will be killed!" "perhaps not. the boy is uncommonly shrewd, when it comes to dealing with his enemies. just look how nicely he and tom and sam served arnold baxter and those others. it was wonderful doings--for boys." "yes, but they may not be so successful always, randolph. i should hate to see them run into any more, danger." "so should i, my dear. but they will take care of themselves, i feel that more and more every day," concluded randolph rover; and there, for the time being, the subject was dropped. "i wonder what has become of old josiah crabtree?" remarked dick rover, as he and his brothers walked around the parade ground to inspect several improvement which captain putnam had caused to be made. "i'm sure i can't guess," answered tom. "like as not he became scared to death. i suppose you'll be satisfied if he keeps away from dora and her mother in the future?" "yes; i never want to set eyes on him again, tom. he worried the widow half to death with his strange ways." "i wonder how the baxters feel to be locked up?" put in sam. "i know arnold baxter is used to it, but it's a new experience for dan." "dan is as bad as his father," broke in larry colby, who had joined the brothers. "i was glad to hear that mumps had turned over a new leaf and cut the bully dead." "oh, so were all of us!" said tom. "by the way, do you know where mumps is now? in the mining business, out west, acting as some sort of a clerk." "a spell in the west will take the nonsense out of him," came from dick. "it was a great pity he ever got under dan baxter's influence i wonder how arnold baxter is getting along? he was quite severely wounded, you know, during that tussle on the yachts." "he's about over that, so frank harrington says," replied larry. "i'll wager he is mighty bitter against you fellows for having put him where he is." "it was his own, fault, larry. if a person is going to do wrong he must take the consequences. mr. baxter might today be a fairly well-to-do mine owner of the west and dan might be a leading cadet here. but instead they both threw themselves away--and now they must take what comes." "my father used to say it took all kind of people to make a world," went on larry. "but i reckon we could do without the baxter and the buddy girk kind." "and the josiah crabtree kind," added sam. "don't forget that miserable sneak." "perhaps crabtree has reformed, like mumps." "it wasn't in him to reform, larry," came from tom. "oh, how i detested him, with his slick, oily tongue! i wish they had caught him and placed him where he deserved to be, with the baxters." "yes, and then we could--" began sam, when he stopped. "hullo, frank, what are, you running so fast about?" he cried. "just got a letter from my father!" burst out frank harrington, as he came up out of breath. "i knew you would want to hear the news. dan baxter has escaped from jail and the authorities don't know where to look for him." chapter ii newcomers at the academy "dan baxter has escaped!" repeated dick. "that is news indeed. does your father give my particulars?" "he says it is reported that the jailer was sick and unable to stop dan." "humph! then they must have had some sort of a row," put in tom. "well, it does beat the nation how the baxters do it. don't you remember how arnold baxter escaped from the hospital authorities last year?" "those baxters are as slick as you can make them," said frank. "i've been thinking if dan would dare to show himself around putnam hall." "not he!" cried larry. "he'll travel as far can and as fast as he can." "perhaps not," mused dick. "i rather he will hang around and try to help his father out of prison." "that won't help him, for the authorities will be on strict guard now. you know the stable door is always locked after the horse is stolen." at this there was a general laugh, and when it ended a loud roll of a drum made the young cadets hurry to the front of the parade ground. "fall in, companies a and b!" came the command from the major of the battalion, and the boys fell in. dick was now a first lieutenant, while tom and sam were first and second sergeants respectively. as soon as the companies were formed they were marched around the hall and to the messroom. here they were kept standing in a long fine while george strong came to the front with half a dozen new pupils. "young gentlemen, i will introduce to you several who will join your ranks for this season," said the head assistant. then he began to name the half dozen. among others they included a round-faced german youth named hans mueller, and a tall, lank, red-haired boy, of irish descent who rejoiced in the name of jim caven. "i'll wager the dutch boy is full of fun," whispered sam to tom. "you can see it in his eyes." "i don't like the looks of that jim caven," returned tom. "he looks like a worse sneak than mumps ever was." "i agree there. perhaps we had better keep, our eyes open for him." despite this talk, however, the newcomers were welcomed cordially, and to the credit of the students be it said that each old cadet did all in his power to make the new boys feel perfectly at home. "mine fadder vos von soldier py der cherman army," said hans mueller. "dot's vy he sent me py a military academy ven we come py dis country." "glad to know you intend to help us fight the indians," answered tom innocently. "me fight der indians? vot you means py dot?" demanded hans, his light-blue eyes wide open with interest. "why, don't you know that we are here to learn how to fight indians?" went on tom, with a side wink at those around him. "no; i dink me dis vos von school only." "so it is--a school to learn how to shoot and scalp." "schalp! vot's dot?" "cut an indian's top-knot off with a knife, this way," and tom made an imaginary slash at hans' golden locks. "ton't do dot!" stammered the german boy, falling back. "no, i ton't vant to learn to schalp, noputty." "but you are willing to fight the indians, are you not?" put in sam. "we are all going to do that, you know." "i ton't like dem indians," sighed hans. "i see me some of dem vonde by a show in chermany, und i vos afraid." at this a laugh went up. how much further the joke would have been carried it is impossible to say, but just then a bell rang and the boys had to go into the classroom. but tom remembered about the indians, as the others found out about a week later. as the majority of the scholars had been to the hall before, it did not take long for matters to become settled, and in a few days all of the boys felt thoroughly at home, that is, all but jim caven, who went around with that same sneaking look on his face that tom had first noticed. he made but few friends, and those only among the smaller boys who had plenty of pocket money to spend. caven rarely showed any money of his own. with the coming of spring the cadets formed, as of old, several football teams, and played several notches, including one with their old rivals, the pupils of pornell academy. this game they lost, by a score of four to five, which made the pornellites feel much better, they having lost every game in the past. (for the doings of the putnam hall students previous to the arrival at that institution of the rover boys see, "the putnam hall series," the first volume of which is entitled, "the putnam hall cadets."--publisher) "well, we can't expect to beat always," said tom, who played quarterback on the putnam team. "we gave them a close brush." "yes, and we might have won if larry hadn't slipped and sprained his ankle," put in sam. "well, never mind; better luck next time. we'll play them again next fall." sam was right so far as a game between the rival academies was concerned, but none of the rover boys were on hand to take part in the contest--for reasons which the chapter to follow will disclose. with the football came kite-flying, and wonderful indeed were some of the kites which the boys manufactured. "i can tell you, if a fellow had time he could reduce kite-flying to a regular science," said dick. "oh, dick, don't give us any more science!" cried sam. "we get enough of science from, uncle randolph, with his scientific farming, fowl-raising, and the like. i would just as lief fly an old-fashioned kite as anything." "dick is right, though," put in fred garrison. "now you have a big flat-kite there, three times larger than mine. yet i'll wager my little box kite will fly higher than your kite." "done!" cried sam. "what shall the wager be?" "ice cream for the boys of our dormitory," answered fred. "all right, but how is a fellow to get the cream if he loses?" "that's for him to find out, sam. if i lose i'll sneak off to cedarville, as dick did once, and buy what i need." "ice cream for our room it is," said. frank. "and mum's the word about the wager, or captain putnam will spoil the whole affair if he gets wind of it." "make me stakeholder," grinned tom. "i'd just like to lay hands on about two quarts of chocolate cream." "there won't be any stakeholder," said dick. "but when is this kite-flying contest to come off?" the matter was talked over, and it was decided to wait until the next saturday, which would be, as usual, a half-holiday. in the meantime some of the other boys heard there was going to be a contest, although they knew nothing of the wager made, and half a dozen other matches were arranged. saturday proved to be cool and clear with a stiff breeze blowing directly from the west. this being so, it was decided, in order to get clear of the woods in front of the hall, to hold the contests on baker's plain, a level patch of ground some distance to the westward. the cadets were soon on the way, shouting and laughing merrily over the sport promised. only a few remained behind, including jim caven, who gave as his excuse that he had a headache. "i'm glad he is not with us," said dick. "i declare, for some reason, i can't bear to have him around." "nor i," returned frank. "it's queer, but he gives me the shivers whenever he comes near me." "it's a wonder he came here at all. he doesn't belong in our style of a crowd." to reach baker's plain the cadets had to make a detour around a high cliff which overlooked a rocky watercourse which flowed into cayuga lake. they moved slowly, as nobody wished to damage his kite, and it was after two o'clock before all hands were ready for the first trial at kite-flying. "gracious, but it is blowing!" cried tom. "sam, have you a good strong cord on your kite?" "the strongest i could get," answered the youngest rover. "i guess it is stronger than what fred has." "my kite won't pull like yours," said fred garrison. "all ready?" "yes." "then up they go--and may the best kite win!" soon a dozen kites of various kinds were soaring in the air, some quite steadily and others darting angrily from side to side. one went up with a swoop, to come down with a bang on the rocks, thus knocking itself into a hundred pieces. "mine cracious, look at dot!" burst out hans mueller. "mine gretchen kite vos busted up--und i spent me feefteen cents on him alreety!" and a roar went up. "never mind, hans," said dick. "you can help sail the katydid. she will pull strong enough for two, i am sure." the katydid was a wonderful affair of silver and gold which dick had constructed on ideas entirely his own. it went up slowly but surely and proved to be as good a kite as the majority. a number of girls living in the neighborhood, bad heard of the kite-flying contests, and now they came up, dora stanhope with the rest, accompanied by her two cousins, grace and nellie laning. as my old readers may guess, dick was very attentive to dora, and his brothers were scarcely less so to the two laning sisters. "and how is your mother?" dick asked of dora, during the course of their conversation. "she is much better," replied dora, "although she is still weak from her sickness." "does she ever mention josiah crabtree?" "she mentioned him once. she said that she had dreamed of him and of you, nick." "me? and what was the dream?" "oh--it was only a silly affair, dick, not worth mentioning." "but i would like to know what it was." "well, then, she dreamed that both of you were in a big forest and he was about to attack you with a gun or a club, she couldn't tell which. she awoke screaming and i ran to her side, and that is how she told me of the dream." chapter iii an old enemy turns up "that was certainly an odd dream," said dick, after a short pause. "i am sure i never want to meet josiah crabtree under such circumstances." "it was silly, dick--i'd forget it if i was you." "and she never mentioned the man at any other time?" "no. but i am certain she is glad he has left for parts unknown. i never, never, want to see him again," and the girl shivered. "don't be alarmed, dora; i don't think he will dare to show himself," answered dick, and on the sly gave her hand a tight squeeze. they were warmer friends than ever since dick had rescued her from those who had abducted her. the kite-flying was now in "full blast," as sam expressed it, and the boys had all they could do to keep the various lines from becoming tangled up. his own kite and fred's were side by side and for a long time it looked as if neither would mount above the other. "run her up, fred! you can win if you try!" cried several of the cadets. "play out a bit more, sam; you haven't given your kite all the slack she wants," said others. so the talk ran on, while each contestant did the best to make his kite mount higher. in the meantime the wind kept increasing in violence, making each kite pull harder than ever. "it's a dandy for flying," panted tom, who was holding his kite with all the strength he possessed. "something must give way soon," and something did give way. it was the string he was holding, and as it snapped he went over on his back in such a comical fashion that all, even to the girls, had to laugh. "torn! tom! what a sight!" burst out nellie laning. "you should have brought a stronger cord." "if i had i'd a-gone up in the clouds," answered tom ruefully. "that's the last of that kite, i suppose; if i--" "the string has caught on sam's kite!" interrupted grace laning. "oh, my! see both of them going up!" "now you can win, sam!" laughed dora. "fred, your flying is nowhere now." "he didn't calculate to fly one kite against two," answered fred. "hold on, sam, where are you going? the cliff is over in that direction!" he yelled suddenly. "i--i know it!" came back the alarming answer. "but i can't stop myself!" "he can't stop himself!" repeated dora. "oh, stop him somebody, before he goes over the cliff!" "let go of the line!" shouted dick. "don't go any closer to the cliff!" "i--i can't let go! the line is fast around my wrist!" gasped poor sam. "oh, dear, it's cutting me like a knife!" "he's in a mess," came from frank. "if he isn't careful he'll go over the cliff, as sure as he's born!" "throw yourself down!" went on dick, and, leaving his kite in hans mueller's care, he ran after his brother. by this time sam had gained a few bushes which grew but a dozen feet away from the edge of the cliff, that at this point was nearly forty feet in height. with his right hand held a painful prisoner, he clutched at the bushes with his left. "i've got the bushes, but i can't hold on long!" he panted, as dick came close. "help me, quick!" scarcely had the words left his mouth when the bushes came up by the roots and poor sam fell over on his side. then came another strong puff of wind, and he was dragged to the very edge of the rocky ledge! "i'm going!" he screamed, when, making a mighty leap, dick caught him by the foot. "catch the rock--anything!" cried the older brother. "if you don't you'll be killed!" "save me!" was all poor sam could say. "oh, dick, don't let me go over!" "i'll do my best, sam," was dick's answer, and he held on like grim death. by this time half a dozen boys were running to the scene. dora stanhope followed, and as she came up she pulled a tiny penknife from her pocket. "can't i cut the line with this?" she asked, timidly, as she pushed her way to dick's side. "yes, yes; cut it!" moaned sam. "oh, my wrist is almost cut in two!" stooping low, dora sawed away at the kite line, which was as taut as a string on a bass fiddle. suddenly there was a loud snap and the cord parted. sam and dick fell back from the edge of the cliff, while the entangled kites soared away for parts unknown. "thank heaven you cut the line, dora!" said dick, who was the first to recover from the excitement of the situation. he saw that dora was trembling like a leaf, and he hastened to her support, but she pushed him away and pointed to sam. "don't mind me--i am all right, dick," she said. "go care for poor sam. see how his wrist is bleeding! oh, how dreadful!" "here is my handkerchief; he had better bind it up with that," said grace laning, as she offered the article. "we'll wash the wound first," put in frank, and raced off for some water. soon he returned with his stiff hat full, and the cut on sam's wrist was tenderly washed by the laning girls, who then bound it up with the skill of a hospital surgeon. the kite-flying continued for the balance of the afternoon. but sam and dick had had enough of it, and, along with tom, they took a stroll along the lake front with dora stanhope and grace and nellie. of course both boys and girls talked a whole lot of nonsense, yet all enjoyed the walk very much. "this is the spot where they abducted me," shivered dora, as they came to the old boathouse. "oh, what a dreadful time that was, to be sure!" "i don't believe our enemies will bother you any more, dora," said dick. "it's not likely that old crabtree will try the same game twice; and mumps has really turned over a new leaf and gone to work for a living." "yes, i was glad to hear that, for i don't believe he was such a bad fellow at heart. he was under dan baxter's influence, just as--as--" "as josiah crabtree tried to influence your mother," whispered dick, and dora nodded slowly. "well, let us forget it, and--my gracious!" dick stopped short, to stare in open-mouthed wonder at a small boat shooting down the lake at a distance of several hundred yards from the shore. "what's up?" came simultaneously from tom and sam. "don't you see that fellow in the boat?" demanded dick, in increased wonder. "of course we see him," answered tom. "don't you recognize him?" "no; he's too far off," came from sam.. "it's dan baxter!" "baxter!" cried dora. "oh, dick!" "nonsense!" said tom. "how could he be am here?" "it does look a little like baxter," was sam's slow comment. "yet it seems impossible that he could be here, as tom says." "i say it's baxter," affirmed dick stoutly, "i'll hail him and make sure." "oh, don't bring him over here!" interposed dora, becoming alarmed. "don't be alarmed--he shan't hurt anybody, dora." dick raised his voice. "hi there, baxter! what are you doing here?" at first there was no reply, and the boy in the rowboat kept on pulling. but as dick repeated his call, the rower threw up his oars. "you mind your own business," he growled. "guess i can row on the lake if i want to." "it is baxter, sure enough!" ejaculated tom. "the rascal! we ought to recapture him." "that's the talk," added sam. "i wish my wrist wasn't so sore--i'd go after him." "there's a boat below here," said dick. "let's put out in that." "he may--may shoot at you," faltered dora. "you know how wicked he can be at times." "indeed i do know," answered dick. "but he ought to be handed over to the authorities. it is a crime to let him go free." "hi, baxter. come over here; we want to talk to you!" yelled tom. "not much!" growled the former bully of putnam hall. "you had better come," said sam. "if you don't come we'll bring you." "hush, sam, or you'll make a mess of things!" cried dick softly, but the warning came too late. "will you bring me back?" roared the bully. "just try it on and see how i'll fix you." "come on for the boat," said tom. "we'll show him he can't scare us." he started off and dick came after him. sam was also about to follow, when his elder brother stopped him. "you can't do much with that sore wrist, sam," he said. "better stay with the girls until we come back. you can watch events from the shore, and run for assistance, if it's necessary." sam demurred at first, but soon saw the wisdom of dick's reasoning and consented to remain behind. by this time tom had shoved out the rowboat dick had mentioned--a neat craft belonging to a farmer living near. a pair of oars lay in a locker on the lake bank; and, securing these, tom leaped on board of the craft, and soon dick came after. dan baxter had watched their movement with interest, which speedily gave way to arm when he saw the other boat come out, and beheld dick and tom each take up an oar and begin to pull for all they could. "i was a clam to come up here, when there is no real need for it," he muttered. "two to one, eh? well, i reckon i can put up a pretty stiff fight if it comes to the worst." then he caught up his oars once more, and began to row down cayuga lake with all possible speed. chapter iv the chase on the lake "he means to give us as much of a chase as possible," remarked tom, as he glanced over his shoulder. "if i remember rightly, baxter was always a pretty fair oarsman." "yes, that was the one thing he could do well," returned dick. "but we ought to be able to catch him, tom." "we could if we had two pairs of oars. one pair can do just about so much and no more." "nonsense! now, both together, and put all your muscle into it," and dick set a stiff stroke that his brother followed with difficulty. baxter had been rowing down the lake, but as soon as he saw that he was being pursued he changed his course for the east shore. he was settled to his work, and for several minutes it was hard to tell whether he was holding his own or losing. "hurrah! we are catching up!" cried dick, after pulling for five minutes. "keep at it, tom, and we'll have him before he is half over." "gosh, but it's hot work!" came with a pant from tom rover. "he must be almost exhausted to row like that." "he knows what he has at stake. he sees the prison cell staring him in the face again. you'd do your best, too, if you were in his place." "i'm doing my best now, dick. on we go!" and tom renewed his exertions. dick set a faster stroke than ever, having caught his second wind, and the rowboat flew over the calm surface of the lake like a thing of life. "keep off!" the cry came from baxter, while he was still a hundred yards from the eastern shore. "keep off, or it will be the worse for you!" "we are not afraid of you, baxter, and you ought to know it by this time," answered dick. "you may as well give in now as later on." "give in! you must be crazy!" "we are two to one, and you know what we have been able to do in the past." "humph! i don't intend to go to jug again, and that is all there is to it." "maybe you can't help yourself." "we'll see about that. are you--going to keep off or not? "don't ask foolish a question." "you won't keep off?" "no." "if you don't i--i'll shoot you." as dan baxter spoke he stopped rowing and brought from a hip pocket a highly polished nickel-plated revolver. "do you see this?" he demanded, as he pointed the weapon toward the rover boys. both dick and tom were taken aback at the sight of the weapon. but they had seen such arms before, and had faced them, consequently they were not as greatly alarmed as they right otherwise have been. they knew, too, that dan baxter was a notoriously bad shot. "put that up, baxter," said dick calmly. "it may only get you into deeper trouble." "i don't care!" said the bully recklessly. "i'm not going back to jail and that is all there, is to it!" "you won't dare to shoot at us, and you know it," put in tom, as the two boats drifted closer together. "i will, and don't you fool yourself on it." "drop those oars or i'll fire, as sure as my name is dan baxter," and the revolver, which had been partly lowered, was raised a second time. it must be confessed that dick and tom were much disconcerted. the two rowboats were now less than fifty feet apart, and any kind of a shot from the weapon was likely to prove more or less dangerous. baxter's eyes gleamed with the hatred of an angry snake ready to strike. "you think you are smart, you rover boys," said the bully, after an awkward pause all around. "you think you did a big thing in rescuing dora stanhope and in putting me and my father and buddy girk in prison. but let me tell you that this game hasn't come to an end yet, and some day we intend to square accounts." "there is no use in wasting breath in this fashion, baxter," returned dick, as calmly as he could. "we are two to one, and the best thing to do is for you to submit. if you fire on us, we may do a little shooting on our own account." "humph! do you imagine you can scare me in that fashion? you haven't any pistol, and i know it. if you had you would have drawn the weapon long ago." at this dick bit his lip. "don't be too sure," he said steadily, as the boats drifted still closer together. "the minute i heard you had escaped from jail i went and bought a pistol in cedarville." this was the strict truth, but dick did not add that the weapon lay at that moment safe in the bottom of his trunk at the hall. "got afraid i'd come around, eh?" "i knew there was nothing like becoming prepared. now will you--" dick did not have time to finish, for, lowering the front end of the pistol, dan baxter pulled the trigger twice and two reports rang out in quick succession. one bullet buried itself in the seat beside tom, while the second plowed its way through the bottom, near the stern. "you villain!" cried dick, and in his excitement hurled his oar at dan baxter, hitting the fellow across the fact with such force that the bully's nose began to bleed. the shock made baxter lose his hold on the pistol and it went over the side of his craft and sank immediately to the bottom of the lake. "my, but that was a close shave!" muttered tom, as he gazed at the hole through the seat. "a little closer and i would have got it in the stomach." a yell now came from sam, and a shriek from the girls, all of whom had heard the pistol shots. they were too far away to see the result of the shooting and feared both tom and dick had been killed or wounded. as quickly as he could recover from the blow of the oar, dan baxter picked up his own blades, and without paying attention to the blood which was flowing from his nose, began once again to pull for the shore. "come on, his pistol is gone!" shouted dick, and then his face fell. "confound it, i've thrown away my oar! there it goes!" and he pointed some distance to their left. "that isn't the worst of it!" groaned tom. "look at that hole in the bottom, made by that pistol shot. the water is coming in just as fast as it can." there was small need to call attention to it, for the water in the bottom of the boat was already an inch deep. dick started in perplexity, then, struck by a sudden idea, drew a lead pencil from his pocket and rammed it into the opening. it fitted very well, and the water ceased, to come in. "now we'll have to bail out and pick up that other oar," said tom. "it was foolish to throw it away, dick." "i don't know about that. it deprived baxter of his pistol. paddle over, and i'll pick it up." tom did so, and the blade was speedily recovered. but dan baxter had made good use of the precious moments lost by the rover boys, and hardly were the latter into shape for rowing once more than they saw the bully beach his craft and leap out on the shore. "good-by to you!" he cried mockingly. "i told you that you couldn't catch me. the next time we meet i'll make you sorry that you ever followed me," and he started to run off with all possible speed. tom and dick were too chagrined to answer him, and pulled forward to the shore in silence. they ran the craft into some bushes and tied up, and then started after baxter, who was now making for the woods south of the village of nelson. when the highway skirting this portion of cayuga lake was gained dan baxter was a good five hundred feet ahead of them. a turn in the road soon hid him from view. gaining the bend they discovered that he had disappeared from view altogether. "he has taken to the woods," sighed dick. "if that is so we may as well give the hunt up," answered his brother. "it would be worse than looking for a pin in a haystack, for we wouldn't know what direction he had taken." "i wish i had a bloodhound with which to trail him. he ought to be run down, tom." "well, let us notify some of the people living near and see what can be done." they ran on to the spot where they supposed baxter had left the highway. on both sides were dense thickets of cedars with heavy underbrush. all in all, the locality formed an ideal hiding place. night was coming on by the time they gained the nearest farmhouse. here they found three men, to whom they explained the situation. all of the men smiled grimly. "if he went into the woods it would be a hard job to trail him," was the comment from farmer mason. "if he ain't careful he'll lose himself so completely he'll never git out, b'gosh!" "well, i don't know but what that would suit me," responded tom dryly. the search was begun, and several others joined in. it lasted until night was fairly upon the party and was then given up in disgust. "it's no use," said dick. "he has slipped us!" "but we ought to notify the authorities," said tom. "they will probably put a detective on his track." "yes; but a detective can't do any more than we can, up in this wild locality." "he won't remain in the woods forever. he'll starve to death." "well, we can send the police a telegram from cedarville." this was done, and the rover boys returned to putnam hall by way of the side road leaving past the homes of the stanhopes and the lanings. they found sam and the girls very anxious concerning their welfare. "we were afraid you had been shot," said dora. "i am thankful that you escaped." "so am i," put in sam. "but it's too bad that baxter got away. i wonder where he will turn up next." they all wondered, but could not even venture an answer. soon the boys left the girls and hurried to the academy, where their story, had to be told over again. captain putnam looked exceedingly grave over the narrative. "you must be careful in the future, lads," he said. "remember, you are in my care here. i do not know what your uncle would say if anything should happen to you." "we will be on our guard in the future," answered dick. "but i am awfully sorry we didn't catch him." "so am i. but perhaps the authorities will have better luck," and there the talk came to an end, and the boys retired for the night. chapter v fun and an explosion several days slipped by, and the boys waited anxiously for some news from the authorities. but none came, and they rightfully surmised that, for the time being, dan baxter had made good his escape. on account of the disastrous ending to the kite-flying match, many had supposed that the feast in dormitory no. 6 was not to come off, but sam, tom, frank, and several others got their heads together and prepared for a "layout" for the following wednesday, which would be dick's birthday. "we'll give him a surprise," said sam, and so it was agreed. passing around the hat netted exactly three dollars and a quarter, and tom, sam, and fred garrison were delegated to purchase the candies, cake, and ice cream which were to constitute the spread. "we'll do the thing up brown," said sam. "we must strike higher than that feast we had, last year." "right you are!" came from tom, "oh dear, do you remember how we served mumps that night!" and he set up a roar over the remembrance of the scene. hans mueller had become one of the occupants of the dormitory, and he was as much, interested as anybody in the preparations for the spread. "dot vill pe fine!" he said. "i like to have von feast twist a veek, ha i ha! "he's a jolly dog," said tom to frank. "but, say, i've been thinking of having some fun with him before this spread comes off." "let me in on the ground floor," pleaded frank, who always wok a great interest in tom's jokes. "i will, on one condition, frank." "and what is that?" "that you loan me that masquerade suit you have in your trunk. the one you used at that new year's dance at home." "you mean that indian rig?" "yes." "hullo, i reckon i smell a mouse!" laughed the senator's son. "i heard you giving hans that yarn about us training to fight indians."' "did you indeed." "i did indeed; and i heard hans say that he wanted nothing to do with the indians." "well, he's going to have something to do with at least one indian," grinned tom. "what do you say i get the suit?" "yes; if you'll fix it so that i can see the sport." "all of the crowd can see it, if they don't leak about it," returned the fun-loving rover. tom soon had the masquerade suit in his possession and also, some face paints which frank had saved from the new year's dance mentioned. shortly afterward tom joined the crowd in the gymnasium, where hans mueller was trying to do some vaulting over the bars. "i dink i could chump dem sticks of i vos taller," the german youth was saying. "or the sticks were lower," replied tom, with a wink at the crowd. "that's right, hans, you had better learn how to jump now, and to run, too." "the indians have come," put in frank. "indians?" repeated hans mueller. "vere is da?" "they say a band of them are in the woods around here," answered tom. "if you go out you want to be careful or they may scalp you." "cracious, rofer, ton't say dot!" cried mueller in alarm. "vot is dem indians doing here annavay?" "they came in east to hunt up some buffalo that got away. they had something like half a million in a corral, and about two thousand got away from them." this preposterous announcement was taken by hans mueller in all seriousness, and he asked tom all sorts of ridiculous questions about the savage red men, whom he supposed as wild and wily as those of generations ago. "no, i ton't vonts to meet any of dem," he said at last. "da vos von pad lot alretty!" "that's right, hans, you give them a wide berth," said tom, and walked away. later on tom persuaded dick to ask hans if he would not walk down to cedarville for him, to buy him a baseball. eager to be accommodating, the german youth received the necessary permission to leave the academy acres and hurried off at the full speed of his sturdy legs. "now for some fun!" cried tom, and ran off for the indian suit and the face paints. these he took down to the bam and set to work to transform himself into a wild-looking red man. "you're a lively one!" grinned peleg snuggers, who stood watching him. "we never had such a lad as you before master thomas." "thanks, peleg, and perhaps you'll never have one like me again--and then you'll be dreadfully sorry." "or glad," murmured peleg. "mum's the word, old man." "oh, i never say nuthin, master thomas; you know that," returned the man-of-all-work. a number of the other pupils had been let into the secret, and, led by dick, they ran off to the woods lining the cedarville road. tom came after them, skulking along that nobody driving by might catch sight of him. not quite an hour later hans mueller was heard coming back. the german boy was humming to himself and at the same time throwing up the new ball he had purchased for dick. "burra! burra!" thundered out tom, as he leaped from behind a big tree. "dutcha boy heap big scalp-me take um! burra!" and he danced up to hans, flourishing a big tin knife as he did so. the masquerade was a perfect one, and he looked like an indian who had just stepped forth from some wild west show. "ach du!" screamed hans, as he stopped short and grew white. "it's dem indians come to take mine hair! oh, please, mister indian, ton't vos touch me!" "dutcha boy heap nice hair," continued tom, drawing nearer. "maka nice door-mat for big wolf. burra!" "no, no; ton't vos touch mine hair-it vos all der hair i vos got!" howled hans. "please, mister indian mans, let me go!" and then he started to back away. "white bay stop or big wolf shoot!" bellowed tom, drawing forth a rusty pistol he had picked up in the barn. this rusty pistol had done lots of duty at fun-making before. "no, no; ton't shoot!" screamed hans. then he fell on his knees in despair. tom could scarcely keep from laughing at the sight, and a snicker or two could be heard coming from where frank, dick, and the others were concealed behind the bushes. but the german youth was too terrorized to notice anything but that awful red man before him, with his hideous war-paint of blue and yellow. "dutcha boy dance for big wolf," went on tom. "dance! dance or big wolf shoot!" and the fun-loving rover set the pace in a mad, caper that would have done credit to a zulu. "i can't vos dance!" faltered hans, and then, thinking he might appease the wrath of his unexpected enemy he began to caper about in a clumsy fashion which was comical in the extreme. "hoopla! keep it up!" roared tom. "dutcha boy take the cake for flingin' hees boots. faster, faster, or big wolf shoot, bang!" "no, no; i vos dance so hard as i can!" panted hans, and renewed his exertions until tom could keep in no longer, and set up such a laugh as had not been heard around the hall for many a day. it is needless to add that the other boys joined in, still, however, keeping out of sight. "you're a corker, hans!" cried tom in his natural voice. "you ought to join the buck-and-wing dancers in a minstrel company." "vot--vot--?" began the german boy in bewilderment. "ain't you no indian?" "to be sure i am; i'm big wolf, the head dancing master of the tuscaroras, hans, dear boy. don't you think i'm a stunner." "you vos tom rofer, made up," growled hans in sudden and deep disgust. "vot for you vos blay me such a drick as dis, hey?" "just to wake you up, hans." "i ton't vos been asleep, not me!" "i mean to stir up your ideas--put something new into your head." "mine head vos all right, tom." "to be sure it is." "den vot you say you vos put somedings new py him, hey?" "i mean to make you sharper-put you on your mettle." "i ton't understand," stammered the german youth hopelessly. "that's so, and you won't in a thousand years, hans. but you are the right sort, any way." "i dink i blay me indian mineselluf some tay," mused hans. "dot vos lots of fun to make me tance, vosn't it? vere you got dot bistol?" "down in the barn. look out, or it may go off," added tom, as he held out the weapons, thinking hans would draw back in alarm. instead, however, the german boy took the pistol and of a sudden pointed it at tom's head. "now you tance!" he cried abruptly. "tance, or i vos shoot you full of holes!" "hi, tom; he's got the best of you now!" cried frank from behind the bushes. "you can't make me dance, hans," returned tom. "that old rusty iron hasn't been loaded for years." "it ton't vos no goot? no. maybe you vos only fool me." "pull the trigger and see," answered tom coolly. he had scarcely spoken when hans mueller did as advised. a tremendous report followed, and when the smoke cleared away the boys in the bushes were horrified to see that the rusty pistol had been shattered into a thousand pieces and that both tom and hans lay on their backs in the road, their faces covered with blood. chapter vi the strange figure in the hallway at the fearful outcome of the joke tom had been perpetrating the boys concealed in the bushes were almost struck dumb, and for several seconds nobody could speak or move. "oh, heavens, tom is killed!" burst out dick, who was the first to find his voice. he ran forth as speedily as possible, and one after another the other cadets followed. tom lay as quiet as death, with his eyes closed and the blood trickling over his temple and left cheek. quickly dick knelt by his side and felt of his heart. "tom, tom, speak to me! tell me you are not seriously hurt!" he faltered. but no answer came back, and sam raced off to get some water, which he brought in a tin can he had discovered lying handy. the water was dashed over toni's face, and presently he gave a little gasp. "oh my! what struck me?" he murmured, and then tried to sit up, but for the minute the effort was a failure. "the pistol exploded," said frank. "a piece must have hit you on the head," and he pointed at a nasty scalp wound from which the flow of blood emanated. as well as it could be done, frank and dick bound up tom's head with a handkerchief, and presently the fun-loving lad declared himself about as well as ever, "only a bit light-headed," as he added. in the meantime the others had given their attention to hans, who had been struck both in the scalp and in the shoulder. it was a good quarter of an hour before the german youth came around, and then he felt so weak that the boys had to assist him back to the academy. "honestly, i thought the pistol was empty," said tom, on the return to the hall. "why, i think i've pulled that trigger a dozen times." "don't mention it," said frank with a shiver. "why, only last week i pointed the thing at peleg snuggers and played at firing it. supposing it had gone off and killed somebody?" and he shivered again. "dot vos almost as pad as von indian's schalping," put in hans faintly. "i dink, tom, you vos play no more such dricks, hey?" "no, i've had enough," replied tom very soberly. "if you had been killed or seriously hurt i would never have forgiven myself." and it may be added here that for some time after this event fun-making and tom were strangers to each other. at the proper time the feast which had been planned came off, and proved to be an event not readily forgotten. it was no easy matter to obtain the good things required, and the boys ran the risk of being discovered by george strong and punished; but by midnight everything was ready, and soon eating was "in full blast," to use sam's way of expressing it. a few of the boys from the other dormitories had been invited, and the boys took turns in standing out in the hall on guard. "you see," explained tom, "mr. strong may come in, and i won't be able to play nightmare again, as i did last year." "say, but that was a prime joke," laughed frank. "and mumps!" cried larry. "i'll never forget the orange flavored with kerosene," and a general laugh followed. somebody had spoken of inviting jim caven to the feast, but no one cared particularly for the fellow, and he had been left out. "perhaps he'll tell on us," suggested larry, but frank shook his head. "he hasn't got backbone enough to do it. he's a worse coward than mumps was." soon it came time for sam to do his turn at guarding, and stuffing a big bit of candy in his mouth, the youngest rover stepped out into the dimly lit hallway and sat down on a low stool which one of the guards had placed there. for ten or fifteen minutes nothing occurred to disturb sam, and he was just beginning to think that watching was all nonsense when he saw a dark figure creeping along the wall at the extreme lower end of the hallway, where it made a turn toward the back stairs. "hullo, who's that?" he muttered. "it doesn't look much like mr. strong." he continued to watch the figure, and now saw that it was dressed in a black suit and had what looked like a shawl over its head. "that's queer," went on the boy. "what can that man or boy be up to?" presently the figure turned and entered one of the lower dormitories, closing the door gently behind it. then it came out again and made swiftly for the rear of the upper hallway. by this time sam was more curious than ever, and as the figure disappeared around the bend by the back stairs he followed on tiptoes. but as what light there was came from the front, the rear was very dark, and the youth could see little or nothing. he heard a door close and the lock click, but whether or not it was upstairs or down he could not tell. for several minutes he remained in the rear hallway, and then he went back to his post. soon tom came out to relieve him, and sam re-entered the dormitory and told his story to the others. "that's certainly odd," was dick's comment "was it a man or a boy, sam?" "i can't say exactly. if it wasn't a man it was a pretty big boy." "perhaps we ought to report the matter to captain putnam," suggested frank. "that person may have been around the hallways for no good purpose." "oh, pshaw! perhaps it was somebody who was trying to spy on us," put in fred. "if we tell the captain we will only be exposing ourselves, and i guess you all know what that means." "it means half-holidays cut off for a month," said dick. "besser you vait und see vot comes of dis," said hans, and after a little more talk this idea prevailed, and then the boys went in to clear up what was left of the feast. everything was gone but a little ice-cream, and it did not take long to dispose of this. sam was bound to have some fun, and instead of eating his last mouthful of cream he awaited a favorable opportunity and dropped it down inside of fred's collar. "great scott!" roared fred garrison. "whow!" and he began to dance around. "oh, my backbone! that's worse than a chunk of ice! oh, but i'll be frozen stiff!" "go down and sit on the kitchen stove," suggested dick. "sit on the stove? i'll sit on sam's head if i get the chance!" roared fred, and made a rush for sam. a scuffle ensued, which came to a sudden end as both sent a washstand over with a loud crash. "wow you've done it!" cried frank. "that's noise enough to wake the dead." "great caesar, stop that row!" burst out torn, opening the door. "do you want to bring the captain down on us at the last minute?" "clear up that muss, both of you," said dick to sam and fred. but the latter demurred. it was sam's fault--he started the racket. "i won't touch it." and fred proceeded to go to bed. "i reckon we had best dust," said one of the boys from another dormitory. "so you had!" burst out tom. "i hear somebody coming already," and in a twinkle the outsiders ran for their various quarters, leaving the occupants of dormitory no. 6 to fix up matters as best they could. it was no easy job to straighten out the washstand, clear up the general muss, and disrobe. but the boys were on their mettle, and in less than two minutes the light was out and all were under the covers, although, to be sure, sam had his shoes still on and tom was entirely clothed. "boys, what is the row up here?" the call came from captain putnam himself. he was ascending the front stairs, lamp in hand, and attired in a long dressing gown. as no one answered, he paused in the upper hallway and asked the question again. then he looked into one dormitory after another. "all asleep, eh? well, see that you don't wake up again as soon as my back is turned," he went on, and soon after walked below again, a faint smile on his features. he knew that boys were bound to be more or less mischievous, no matter how strict his regulations. "i'll tell you what, the captain's a brick!" whispered tom, as he began to disrobe noiselessly. "so he is," answered frank. "you wouldn't catch old crabtree acting that way. he'd have bad every cadet out of bed and sent half a dozen of us down to the guard-room." "i guess the captain remembers when he was a cadet himself," remarked dick. "i've heard that they cut up some high pranks at west point." "george strong would be just as kind," came from tom. "but say, i am growing awfully tired." "so am i," came from several others, then the good-night word was passed, and soon all of the cadets were sound asleep, never dreaming of the surprise which awaited them in the morning. chapter vii who was guilty? "boys, i've had my trunk looted!" "and i've had my trousers' pockets picked!" "and the half-dollar i left on the bureau is gone!" such were some of the excited exclamations which the rover boys heard when they went downstairs the next morning. the speakers were the youths who occupied dormitories numbers 3 and 4, at the rear of the main upper hall. an inquiry among the lads elicited the information that everybody had suffered excepting one boy, who said he had not had any money on hand. "i spent my last cent for the spread," he grinned. "i guess i'm the lucky one." the news of the robberies created a profound sensation throughout putnam hall, and both captain putnam and george strong were very much disturbed. "we never had such a thing occur before," said the captain, and he ordered a strict investigation. all told, something like thirty-two dollars were missing, and also a gold watch, a silver watch, and several shirt-studs of more or less value. among the shirt-studs was one set with a ruby belonging to a cadet named weeks. the investigation revealed nothing of importance. the robbery had been committed during the night, while the owners of the money and the various articles slept. "i must get at the bottom of this affair," said captain putnam. "the honor of the academy is at stake." he talked to all of those who had lost anything and promised to make the matter good. then he asked each if he had any suspicions regarding the thief or thieves. no one had, and for the time being it looked as if the case must fall to the ground. those who had been at the feast hardly knew what to say or to do. should they tell the captain of the strange figure sam had seen in the hallway? "i'll tell him, and shoulder the blame, if you fellows are willing," said sam, after a long discussion. "fun is one thing, and shielding a thief is another." "but what can you tell?" asked fred. "you do not know that that person, was the thief." "more than likely he was," came from dick. "and if he was, who was he?" went on fred. "if you tell captain putnam you'll simply get us all into trouble." "i vote that sam makes a clean breast of it," said frank, and larry said the same. this was just before dinner, and immediately after the midday meal had been finished the youngest rover went up to the master of the hall and touched him on the arm. "i would like to speak to you in private and at once, captain putnam," he said. "very well, rover; come with me," was the reply, and captain putnam led the way to his private office. "i suppose i should have spoken of this before," said sam, when the two were seated. "but i didn't want to get the others into trouble. as it is, captain putnam, i want to take the entire blame on my own shoulders." "the blame of what, samuel?" "of what i am going to tell you about. we voted to tell you, but i don't want to be a tattle-tale and get the others into trouble along with me." "i will hear what you have to say," returned the master of the hall briefly. "well, sir, you know it was dick's birthday yesterday, and we boys thought we would celebrate a bit. so we had a little blow-out in our room." "was that the noise i heard last night?" "the noise you heard was from our room, yes. but that isn't what i was getting at," stammered sam. "we set a guard out in the hallway to keep watch." "well?" "i was out in the hall part of the time, and i saw a dark figure in the rear hallway prowling around in a most suspicious manner. it went into dormitory no. 3 and then came out and disappeared toward the back stairs." "this is interesting. who was the party?" "i couldn't make out." "was it a man or a woman? "a man, sir, or else a big boy. he had something like a shawl over his shoulders and was dressed in black or dark-brown." "you saw him go in and come out of one of the sleeping rooms?" "yes, sir." "and then he went down the back stairs?" "he either went down the stairs or else into one of the back rooms. i walked back after a minute or two, but i didn't see anything more of him, although i heard a door close and heard a key turn in a lock." "was this before i came up or after?" "before, sir. we went to sleep right after you came up." "who was present at the feast?" and now captain putnam prepared to write down the names. "oh, sir; i hope you won't--won't--" "i'll have to ask you for the names, samuel. i want to know who was on foot last night as well as who was robbed." "surely you don't think any of us was guilty?" cried sam in sudden horror. "i don't know what to think. the names, please." "i--i think i'll have to refuse to give them, captain putnam." "of course all the boys who sleep in your dormitory were present?" "i said i would take this all on my own shoulders, captain putnam. of course, you know i wouldn't have confessed at all; but i don't wish to give that thief any advantage." "perhaps the person wasn't a thief at all, only some other cadet spying upon you." "we thought of that." "you may as well give me the names. i shall find them out anyway." hardly knowing whether or not he was doing right, sam mentioned all of the cadets who had taken part in the feast. this list captain putnam compared with another containing the names of those who had been robbed. "thirty-two pupils," he mused. "i'll have the whole, school in this before i finish." he looked at sam curiously. the youth wondered what was coming next, when there was a sudden knock on the door. "come in," said captain putnam, and one of the little boys entered with a letter in his hand. "mr. strong sent me with this," said the young cadet. "he just found it on the desk in the main recitation room." "all right, powers; thank you," answered the captain, and took the letter. "you can go," and powers retired again. the letter was encased in a dirty, envelope on which was printed in a big hand, in lead pencil: "capt. victor putnam. very important. deliver at once." taking up a steel blade, the master of the hall cut open the envelope and took out the slip of paper it contained. as he read the communication he started. then he crushed the paper in his hand and looked sharply at sam. "samuel, was the party you saw in the hall-way tall and slim?" "rather tall, yes, sir." "and slim?" "well, he wasn't fat." "did you see his face?" "no; it was too dark for that, and, besides, he had that shawl, or whatever it was, pretty well up around him." "did you notice how he walked?" "he moved on tiptoes." "and you cannot imagine who it was?" "no, sir." "by the way, you of course know alexander pop, our colored waiter." "why, to be sure! everybody knows aleck, and we have had lots of fun with him, at one time or another. but you surely don't suspect him, do you?" "this letter says pop is guilty." "that letter? and who wrote it?" "i do not know. it contains but two lines, and you can read it for yourself," and the captain handed over the communication, which ran as follows: "alexander pop stole that money and the other things. one who knows all." "that's a mighty queer letter for anybody to write," murmured sam, as he handed it back. "why didn't the writer come to you, as i have done?" "perhaps he wanted to keep out of trouble." "i don't believe the letter tells the truth, sir." "and why not?" "because aleck is too good-hearted a fellow to turn thief." "hum! that hardly covers the ground, samuel." "well, why don't you have him searched?" "i will." without further ado sam was dismissed, and captain putnam called george strong to him and showed the strange letter. "why not look among pop's effects?" suggested the assistant. "he may have hidden the money and jewelry in his trunk." "we will go up to his apartment," replied captain putnam, and a few minutes later the pair ascended to the attic room which the colored waiter had used for several terms. they found pop just fixing up for a trip to cedarville. he nodded pleasantly, and then looked at both questioningly. "pop, i am afraid i have a very unpleasant duty to perform," began captain putnam. "wot's dat, sah?" asked aleck in surprise. "you have heard of the robberies that have been committed?" "'deed i has, sah. but--but yo' don't go fo' to distrust me, do yo', cap'n?" went on the colored man anxiously. "i would like to search your trunk and your clothing, pop. if you are innocent you will not object." "but, sah, i didn't steal nuffin, sah." "then you shouldn't object." "it aint right nohow to 'spect an honest colored pusson, sah," said aleck, growing angry. "do you object to the search?" "i do, sah. i am not guilty, sah, an' dis am not treatin' me jest right, sah, 'deed it aint, sah." "if you object, pop, i will be under the painful necessity of having snuggers place you under arrest. you know he is a special officer for the hall." at this announcement aleck fell back completely dumfounded. "well, dat's de wust yet!" he muttered, and sank back on a chair, not knowing what to do next. chapter viii in which alexander pop runs away "will you submit to having your trunk examined or not?" demanded captain putnam, after a painful pause, during which alexander pop's eyes rolled wildly from one teacher to the other. "yo' kin examine it if yo' desire," said aleck. "but it's an outrage, cap'n putnam, an' outrage, sah!" without more ado captain putnam approached the waiter's trunk, to find it locked. "where is the key, pop?" "dare, sah, on de nail alongside ob yo' sah." soon the trunk was unlocked and the lid thrown back. the box contained a miscellaneous collection of wearing apparel, which the captain pushed to one side. then he brought out a cigar box containing some cheap jewelry and other odds and ends, as well as two five dollar bills. "dat money am mine, sah," said aleck. "yo paid me dat las' saturday, sall." "that is true, but how did this get here, pop?" as captain putnam paused he held up a stud set with a ruby-the very stud the cadet weeks had lost! "dat--dat stud--i never seen dat shirt-stud before, cap'n, 'deed i didn't," stammered the waiter. "that is certainly weeks' stud; i remember it well," put in george strong. "he showed it to me one day, stating it was a gift from his aunt." "and here is a cheap watch," added captain putnam, bringing forth the article. "pop, is this your watch?" "no, sah--i--i never seen dat watch before," answered aleck nervously. "i dun reckon sumbuddy put up a job on dis poah coon, sah," he continued ruefully. "i believe the job was put up by yourself," answered captain putnam sternly. "if you are guilty you had better confess." a stormy war of words followed. alexander pop stoutly declared himself innocent, but in the face of the proofs discovered the master of the hall would not listen to him. "peleg snuggers shall take you in charge and drive down to the cedarville lock-up," said the captain. the news that some of the things had been found in pop's trunk spread with great rapidity. many were astonished to learn that he was thought guilty, but a few declared that "a coon wasn't to be trusted anyway." "niggers are all thieves," said jim caven, "never yet saw an honest one." "i don't believe you!" burst out tom. "pop's a first-rate fellow, and the captain has got to have more proof against him before i'll believe him guilty." "oh, he's a bad egg!" growled the irish boy. "you only say that because he called you down last week," put in frank. he referred to a tilt between the new pupil and the colored man. jim caven had tried to be "smart" and had gotten the worst of the encounter. "yes, i think he's as honest as you are!" burst out tom, before he had stopped to think twice. "what! do you call me a thief!" roared jim caven, and leaped upon tom, with his face as white as the wall. "i'll make you smart for that!" one blow landed on tom's cheek and another was about to follow, when tom dodged and came up under caven's left arm. then the two boys faced each other angrily. "a fight! fight!" cried a number of the cadets, and in a twinkle a ring was formed around the two contestants. "i'm going to give you the worst thrashing you ever had," said caven, but in rather a nervous tone. "all right, caven, go ahead and do it," cried tom. "i will stand up for aleck pop, and there you are!" tom launched forth and caught caven on the right cheek. the irish lad also struck out, but the blow fell short. then the two boys clinched. "break away there!" cried frank. "break away!" "i'll break his head!" panted caven. "how do you like that?" and he held tom with one hand and hit him in the neck with the other. the blow was a telling one, and for a brief instant tom was dazed. but then he caught his second wind and threw caven backward. before the irish lad could recover his balance, tom struck him in the nose, and over rolled his opponent. a shout went up. "good for tom rover! that was a telling blow! i keep it up!" "i'll fix you!" gasped jim caven, as soon as he could speak. "i'll fix you!" and staggering to his feet, he glanced around for some weapon. nothing met his view but a garden spade which peleg snuggers had been using, and catching this up he ran for tom as if to lay him low forever. "caven, none of that! fight fair!" "he shan't call me a thief!" growled the irish boy. "i'll show him!" and he aimed a tremendous blow for tom's head. had the spade fallen as intended tom's cranium might have been split in twain. but now both dick and frank caught the unreasonable youth and held him while sam and several others took the spade away. "stop it--here comes mr. strong!" came the unexpected cry from some outsiders. "yes, give it up, tom," whispered sam. "we're in hot water enough, on account of that feast." "i'll give it up if caven is willing," muttered "i'll meet you another time," answered caven, and walked rapidly away. "what is the row here?" demanded george strong, as he strode up. "nothing, sir," said one of the boy. "some of the fellows were wrestling for possession of that spade." "oh, i was afraid there was a fight," and mr. strong sauntered off. he was on his way to the barn, and presently the cadets saw him come forth with the man-of-fall-work and the light spring wagon. "they are going to take poor aleck to the cedarville lock-up," announced fred. "poor chap, i never thought this of him!" "nor i," answered dick. "to me this affair isn't very clear." "i don't believe they will be able to convict him of the crime," put in sam. an hour later peleg snuggers started away from putnam hall with his prisoner. aleck looked the picture of misery as he sat on a rear seat, his wrists bound together and one leg tied to the wagon seat with a rope. "dis am a mistake," he groaned. "i aint guilty nohow!" some of the boys wished to speak to him, but this was not permitted. soon the turnout was out of sight. "you may think i am hard with him," said captain putnam, later on, "but to tell the truth he does not come from a very good family and he has a step-brother already in prison." "aleck can't be held responsible for his stepbrother's doings," murmured tom, but not loud enough for the master to hear him. a diligent search had been made for the other stolen articles, but nothing more was brought to light. if pop had taken the things he had either hidden them well or else disposed of them. it was nearly nightfall when peleg snuggers drove back to the hall. dick and tom met him just outside the gates and saw that the man-of-all-work looked much dejected. "well, peleg, is he safe in jail?" called out tom. "no, he ain't," was the snappy reply. "why, what did you do with him?" questioned dick quickly. "do? i didn't do nuthin--not me. it was him as did it all--cut that blessed rope and shoved me over the dashboard on to the hosses!" growled snuggers. "do you mean to say he got away from you?" asked tom. "yes, he did--got away like a streak o' fightnin', thet's wot he did, consarn him!" and without another word peleg drove to the rear of the hall, put his team in the barn, and went in to report to captain putnam. another row resulted, and this nearly cost the utility man his position. but it appeared that he was not so much to blame that alexander pop had taken him unawares and finally he was sent away to his work with the caution to be more careful in the future. before night and during the next day a hunt was made for the colored man, but he had left the vicinity entirely, gone to new york, and shipped on one of the outward-bound ocean vessels. the rover boys fancied that they would never see him again, but in this they were mistaken. chapter ix the rover boys on wheels "say, fellows, but this is the greatest sport yet!" "i feel like flying, tom," said dick rover. "i never thought wheeling was so grand." "nor i," came from sam rover. "where shall we go this afternoon?" it was several weeks later, and the scholars were having a half-holiday. just six days before, randolph rover had surprised his three nephews by sending each a handsome bicycle, and it had taken them hardly any time to learn how to handle the machines. "let us take a ride over to chardale," said dick. "i understand that the roads are very good in that direction." "all right, i'm willing," answered sam, and tom said the same. soon the three brothers were on the way, dick leading and tom and sam coming behind, side by side. it was an ideal day for cycling, cool and clear, and the road they had elected to take was inviting to the last degree, with its broad curves, its beautiful trees, and the mountainous views far to the north and west. "it's a wonder we didn't get wheels before," observed dick. "this beats skating or riding a to bits." "just you look out that you don't take a header!" warned tom. "this road is all right, but a loose stone might do a pile of damage." "i've got my eye on the road," answered his big brother. "for the matter of that, we'll all have to keep our eyes open." to reach chardale they had to cross several bridges and then descend a long hill, at the foot of which ran the railroad to several towns north and south. "come on!" cried tom, and spurted ahead. with a laugh, sam tried to catch up to him, but could not. "now for a coast!" went on the fun-loving rover, as the hill was gained, and on he started, his wheel flying faster and faster as yard after yard was covered. "my gracious, tom! look out or you'll be smashed up!" yelled dick. "put on your brake!" "can't," came back the answer. "i took it off entirely this morning." this reply had scarcely reached dick's ears when another sound came to him which disturbed him greatly. far away he heard the whistle of a locomotive as it came around the bottom of the hill. looking in the direction, he saw the puff of smoke over the treetops. he tried to cry out, but now the road was rather rough, and he had to pay strict attention 'to where he was riding. "tom's going to get into trouble," gasped sam, as he ranged up alongside of his elder brother. "the road crosses the railroad tracks just below here." "i know it, sam. i wish we could make him come back." as dick finished he saw a chance to stop and at once dismounted. then he yelled at the top of his lungs: "tom, stop! stop, or you'll run into the railroad train!" sam also came to a halt and set up a shout. but tom was now speeding along like the wind and did not hear them. nearer and nearer he shot to the railroad tracks. then the whistle of the locomotive broke upon his ears and he turned pale. "i don't want to run into that train," he muttered, and tried to bring his bicycle to a halt. but the movement did not avail without a brake, and so he was compelled to seek for some side path into which he might guide his machine. but, alas! the road was hemmed in with a heavy woods on one side and a field of rocks on the other. a sudden stop, therefore, would mean a bad spill, and tom had no desire to break his bones by any such proceeding. nearer and nearer he drew to the railroad crossing. he could now hear the puffing of the engine quite plainly and caught a glimpse of the long train over the rocks to his left. on he bounded until the crossing itself came into view. he was less than a hundred yards from it--and the oncoming engine was about the same distance away! there are some moments in one's life that seem hours, and the present fraction of time was of that sort to poor tom. he had a vision of a terrific smash-up, and of dick and sam picking up his lifeless remains from the railroad tracks. "i'm a goner!" he muttered, and then, just before the tracks were reached, he made one wild, desperate leap in the direction of a number of bushes skirting the woods. he turned over and over, hit hard--and for several seconds knew no more. when dick and sam came up they found tom sitting in the very midst of the bushes. the bicycle lay among the rocks with the handle-bars and the spokes of the front wheel badly twisted. "are you much hurt, tom?" asked his big brother sympathetically, yet glad to learn that tom had not been ground to death under the train, which had now passed the crossing. "i don't know if i'm hurt or not," was the 'slow answer, as tom held his handkerchief to his nose, which was bleeding. "i tried to plow up these bushes with my head, that's all. i guess my ankle is sprained, too." "you can't ride that wheel any further," announced sam. "i don't want to ride. i've had enough, for a few days at least." it was a good quarter of an hour before tom felt like standing up. then he found his ankle pained him so much that walking was out of the question. "i'm sure i don't know what i am going to do," he said ruefully. "i can't walk and i can't ride, and i don't know as i can stay here." "perhaps dick and i can carry you to hopeton," said sam, mentioning a small town just beyond the railroad tracks. "it will be a big job. if you-here comes a wagon. perhaps the driver of that will give me a lift." as tom finished a large farm wagon rattled into sight, drawn by a pair of bony horses and driven by a tall, lank farmer. "hullo, wot's the matter?" asked the farmer, as he drew rein. "had a breakdown?" "no, i've had a smash-up," answered tom. "my brother's ankle is sprained, and we would like to know if you can give him a lift to the next town," put in dick. "we'll pay you for your trouble." "that's all right--seth dickerson is allers ready to aid a fellow-bein' in distress," answered the farmer. "can ye git in the wagon alone?" tom could not, and the farmer and dick carried him forward and placed him on the seat. then the damaged bicycle was placed in the rear of the turnout, and seth dickerson drove off, while sam and dick followed on their steeds of steel. "i see you air dressed in cadet uniforms," remarked the farmer, as the party proceeded on its way. "be you fellers from pornell school?" "no; we come from putnam hall," answered tom. "oh, yes--'bout the same thing, i take it. how is matters up to the school--larnin' a heap?" "we are trying to learn all we have to." "had some trouble up thar, didn't ye? my wife's brother was a-tellin' me about it. a darkey stole some money an' watches, an' that like." "they think he stole them," said tom. "we can hardly believe it." "why don't captain putnam hunt around them air pawnshops fer the watches?" went on seth dickerson, after a pause. "the thief would most likely pawn 'em, to my way of thinkin'." "he hasn't much of a chance to do that. but i presume the police will keep their eyes open." "i was over to auburn yesterday--had to go to see about a mortgage on our farm--and i stopped into one of them pawnbrokin' shops to buy a shot-gun, if i could git one cheap. while i was in there a big boy came in and pawned a gold watch an' two shirt studs." "is that so," returned tom, with much interest. "what kind of a looking boy was it?" "a tall, slim feller, with reddish hair. he had sech shifty eyes i couldn't help but think that maybe he had stolen them things jest to raise some spending money." "did he give his name?" "he said jack smith, but i don't think thet vas correct, for he hesitated afore he gave it." "a tall, slim fellow, with reddish hair and shifty eyes," mused tom. "do you remember how he was dressed?" "he had on a rough suit of brownish-green and a derby hat with a hole knocked in one side." "my gracious me!" burst out the boy. "can it be possible!" "can wot be possible, lad?" "that description fits one of our students exactly." tom called to dick and sam. "come up here, both of you!" "what's up, tom; do you feel worse?" asked dick, as he wheeled as closely to the seat of the wagon as possible. "no, i feel better. but i've made a big discovery--at least, i feel pretty certain that i have?" "what discovery?" questioned sam. "i've discovered who stole that money and other stuff." "and who was it?" came quickly from both brothers. "jim caven." chapter x a strange message from the sea "jim caven!" repeated dick slowly, "what makes you believe that he is guilty?" "from what mr. dickerson here says," answered tom, and repeated what the farmer had told him. "gracious, that does look black for caven!" said dick, when he had finished. he turned to the farmer. "would you recognize that boy again if you saw him?" "i allow as how i would. his eyes was wot got me--never saw sech unsteady ones afore in my life." "yes, those eyes put me down on caven the minute i saw him," answered tom. "more than half of the boys at the hall have put him down as a first-class sneak, although we can't exactly tell why." "see here," said dick. "i think it would be best if mr. dickerson would drive back to the hall with us and tell captain putnam of what he knows." "and see if he can identify caven," finished sam. "are you willing to do that, mr. dickerson?" "well, to tell the truth, i've got some business to attend to now," was the slow reply. "i am sure captain putnam will pay you for your trouble," went on sam. "if he won't, we will." "you seem mighty anxious to bring this caven to justice," smiled the farmer. "we are, for two reasons," said tom. "the first is, because he isn't the nice sort to have around, and the second is, because one of the men working at the school, a colored waiter, whom we all liked, has been suspected of this crime and had to run away to avoid arrest." "i see. well--" the farmer mused for a moment. "all right, i'll go back with ye--and at once." the team was turned around as well as the narrow confines of the hilly road permitted, and soon the rover boys were on their way back to putnam hall, a proceeding which pleased tom in more ways than one, since he would not have now to put up at a strange resort to have his ankle and his wheel cared for. they bowled along at a rapid gait, the horses having more speed in them than their appearance indicated. they were just turning into the road leading to putnam hall grounds when dick espied several cadets approaching, bound for the lake shore. "here come caven, willets, and several others!" he cried. "mr. dickerson, do you recognize any of those boys?" the farmer gave a searching glance, which lasted until the approaching cadets were beside the wagon. then he pointed his hand at jim caven. "thet's the boy i seed over to auburn, a-pawning thet watch an' them studs," he announced. "he's got his sodger uniform on, but i know him jest the same." jim caven looked at the farmer in astonishment. then when he heard seth dickerson's words he fell back and his face grew deathly white. "i--i don't know you," he stammered. "i seed you over to auburn, in a pawnshop," repeated dickerson. "it--it isn't true!" gasped caven. "i was never over to auburn in my life. why should i go there to a pawnshop?" "i guess you know well enough, caven," said tom. "you bad better come back to the hall with us and have a talk with captain putnam." "i won't go with you. this is--is a--a plot against me," stammered the slim youth. "you will go back!" cried dick, and caught caven by the arm. but with a jerk the seared boy freed himself and ran down the road at the top of his speed. sam and dick pursued him on their bicycles, while some of the others came after on foot. seeing this, jim caven took to the woods just as dan baxter had done, and the boys found it impossible to track him any further. "i wonder if he'll come back tonight?" said dick, as the party returned to where they had left seth dickerson and tom. "i don't think he will," answered sam. "i declare, he must be almost as bad as the baxters!" the farm wagon soon reached the hall, and dick ushered seth dickerson into captain putnam's office. the captain looked surprised at the unexpected visitor, but listened with deep concern to all the farmer and the rover boys had to say. "this certainly looks black for caven," he said at last. "i did not think i had such a bad boy here. and you say he got away from you?" "yes, sir." "it is a question if he will come back--providing he is really guilty. i will have his trunk and bag searched without delay. but if he is guilty how did that ruby stud and the watch come into alexander pop's possession?" "he was down on aleck," replied tom, who had hobbled in after the others. "and, besides, he thought if aleck was arrested the search for the criminal would go no further." "perhaps you are right, thomas. it is a sad state of affairs at the best." the party ascended to the dormitory which jim caven occupied with several smaller boy. his trunk was found locked, but captain putnam took upon himself the responsibility of hunting up a key to fit the box. once open the trunk was found to contain, among other things, a bit of heavy cloth tied with a piece of strong cord. "here we are, sure enough!" cried the captain, as he undid the package and brought to light several of the missing watches and also some of the jewelry. "i guess it is a clear case against caven, and pop is innocent." "i wish we could tell pop of it," put in dick. "he must feel awfully bad." "i will do what i can for the negro, rover. i am very sorry indeed, now, that i suspected him," said captain putnam, with a slow shake of his head. at the bottom of the trunk was a pocketbook containing nearly all of the money which had been stolen. a footing-up revealed the fact that two watches and three gold shirt studs were still missing. "and those were pawned in auburn," said sam. "just wait and see if i am not right." a party was organized to hunt for caven, and the captain himself went to auburn that very evening. the hunt for the missing boy proved unsuccessful, and it may be added here that he never turned up at putnam hall again nor at his home in middletown, having run away to the west. when captain putnam came back he announced that he had recovered all but one watch. the various goods and the money were distributed among their rightful owners, and it must be confessed that a big sigh of relief went up from the cadets who had suffered. the single missing timepiece was made good to the boy who had lost it, by the captain buying a similar watch for the youth. after this several weeks passed without anything of special interest occurring outside of a stirring baseball match with a club from ithaca, which putnam hall won by a score of six to three. in this game dick made a much-needed home run, thus covering himself with glory. "the rovers are out of sight!" was larry's comment. "whatever they do they do well." "and they hang together like links of a chain," added fred. "the friend of one is the friend of all, and the same can be said of an enemy." one morning a telegraph messenger from cedarville was seen approaching the hall, just as the boys were forming for the roll-call. "here's a telegram for somebody," said sam. "i hope it's not bad news." "a message for richard rover," announced george strong, after receiving it, and handed over the yellow envelope. wondering what the message could contain and who had sent it, dick tore open the envelope and read the brief communication. as his eyes met the words his head seemed to swim around, so bewildered was he by what was written there. "what is it, dick?" came from tom and sam. "it's from uncle randolph. he wants us to come home at once. he says--but read it for yourselves," and the elder rover handed over the message, which ran as follows: "have just received a strange message from the sea, supposed to be written by your father. come home at once. randolph rover." "my gracious! news from father!" gasped tom. "is he really alive?" burst out sam. "oh, i pray heaven the news is true!" "a strange message from the sea," repeated dick. "i wonder what he can mean?" "perhaps it's a message that was picked up by some steamer," suggested sam. "anyway, uncle wants us to come home at once." "he doesn't say all of us. the message is addressed to me." "but of course he wanted all of us to come," put in tom. "anyway, four horses couldn't hold me back!" he continued determinedly. "nor me," chimed in sam. he drew a long breath. "if we hurry up we can catch the noon boat at cedarville for ithaca." "yes, and the evening train for oak run," finished tom. "hurry up, dick!" dick was willing. to tell the truth, that message had fired him as he had never been fired before. he burst into the captain's office pell-mell, with tom and sam on his heels, to explain the situation. ten minutes later--and even this time seemed an age to the brothers--they were hurrying into their ordinary clothing and packing, their satchels, while peleg snuggers was hitching up to take them to the landing at cedarville. "good-by to you, and good luck!" shouted frank, as they clambered into the wagon, and many other cadets set up a shout. then the wagon rattled off. the rover boys had turned their backs on dear old putnam hall for a long while to come. chapter xi the rovers reach a conclusion for the three rover boys the golden star could not make the trip from cedarville to ithaca fast enough. they fretted over every delay, and continually wondered if there was any likelihood of their missing the train which was to take them to oak run, the nearest railroad station to valley brook farm, their uncle's home. but the train was not missed; instead, they had to wait half an hour for it. during this time they procured dinner, although dick felt so strange he could scarcely eat a mouthful. "uncle randolph doesn't say much," he murmured to tom. "he might have said more." "we'll know everything before we go to bed, dick," answered his brother. "i don't believe uncle randolph would telegraph unless the news was good." they indulged in all sorts of speculation, as the train sped on its way to oak run. when the latter place was reached it was dark, and they found jack ness, the hired man, waiting for them with the carriage. "there, i knowed it," grinned jack. "mr. rover calculated that only dick would come, but i said we'd have 'em all." "and what is this news of my father?" questioned dick. "it's a message as was picked up off the coast of africky," replied ness. "mr. rover didn't explain very clearly to me. he's a good deal excited, and so is the missus." "and so are we," remarked sam. "can it be that father is on his way home?" "i calculate not, master sam. leas'wise, your uncle didn't say so," concluded the hired man. never had the horses made better time than they did now, and yet the boys urged ness continually to drive faster. swift river was soon crossed--that stream where sam had once had such a stirring adventure--and they bowled along past the fox and other farms. "here we are!" shouted dick at last. "there is uncle randolph out on the porch to greet us!" "and there is aunt martha!" added sam. "i do believe they look happy, don't you, tom?" "they certainly don't look sad," was the noncommittal answer; and then the carriage swept up to the horse-block and the three boys alighted. "all of you, eh?" were randolph rover's first words. "well, perhaps it is just as well so." "we simply couldn't stay behind, uncle," said sam. "and we are dying to know what it all means." "but you must have supper first," put in aunt martha, as she gave one and another a motherly kiss. "i know riding on the cars usually makes tom tremendously hungry." "well eat after we have had the news," said tom. "we're dying to know all, as sam says." "the news is rather perplexing, to tell the truth," said randolph rover, as he led the way into the library of the spacious home. "i hardly know what to make of it." "who brought it?" questioned dick. "it came by mail--a bulky letter all the way from cape town, africa." "from father?" "no, from a captain townsend, who, it seems, commands the clipper ship rosabel. he sent me one letter inclosing another. the first letter is from himself." "and is the second letter from father?" burst out tom. "yes, my boy." "oh, let us see it!" came in a shout from all three of the rover boys. "you had better read the captain's communication first," answered randolph rover. "then you will be more apt to understand the other. or shall i read it for the benefit of all?" "yes, yes, you read it, uncle randolph," was the answer. "the letter is dated at cape town, and was written a little over a month ago. it is addressed to 'randolph rover, or to richard, thomas, or samuel rover, new york city,' and is further marked 'highly important-do not lose or destroy.'" "and what is in it?" asked the impatient tom. "do hurry and tell us, uncle randolph." and then his uncle read as follows: "to the rover family, new york: "i am a stranger to you, but i deem it my duty to write to you on account of something which occurred on the 12th day of april last, while my clipper ship rosabel, bound from boston, u. s. a., to cape town, africa, was sailing along the coast of congo but a few miles due west from the mouth of the congo river. "our ship had been sent in by a heavy gale but the wind had gone down, and we were doing more drifting than sailing to the southward when the lookout espied a man on a small raft which was drifting toward us. "on coming closer, we discovered that the man was white and that he looked half starved. we put out a boat and rescued the poor creature but he had suffered so much from spear wounds and starvation that, on being taken on board of our ship, he immediately relapsed into insensibility, and out of this we failed to arouse him. he died at sundown, and we failed, even to learn him name or home address. "on searching the dead man's pockets we came across the enclosed letter, addressed to you, and much soiled from water. as you will see, it is dated more than a year back and was evidently in the possession of the man who died for some time. probably he started out to deliver it, or to reach some point from which it could be mailed. "i trust that the message becomes the means of rescuing the anderson rover mentioned in the letter, and i will be pleased to learn if this letter of mine is received. the rosabel sails from cape town to brazil as soon as her cargo can be discharged and another taken on. "very truly yours, "john v. townsend, captain." as randolph rover ceased reading there was a brief silence, broken by tom. "so the man who died held a letter. and what is in that, uncle randolph?" "i will read it to you, boys, although that is a difficult matter, for the writing is uneven and much blurred. on one part of the sheet there is a blot of blood--the blood, i presume--of the poor fellow who was trying to deliver the communication." unfolding the stained document, randolph rover bent closer to the table lamp that he might read the more easily. as for the boys, they fairly held their breaths, that no spoken word might escape them. "the letter is addressed to me," said the uncle. "but the envelope is, as you can see, very much torn. i will read," and he did so. "niwili camp, on the congo, "july the 18th, 189--. "dear brother randolph: "if, by the goodness of god, this reaches you, i trust that you will set out without delay to my assistance. "i write under great difficulties, as a prisoner, of the bumwo tribe of natives, ruled by king susko. "i have discovered the secret of a gold mine here, and the king will not let me go, fearing that i will tell the outside world of my discovery and bring the english or french here to slay him and his followers. they know nothing here of americans. "i entrust this to the care of an english sailor who is going to try to make his escape. i cannot go myself, having had my leg broken by a blow from one of my jailers. "i am sick and weak in body, and it may be that i will soon die. yet i beg of you to do what you can for me. if i die, i trust you to be a father to my dear boys, dick, tom, and sam, and ask martha for me to be a mother to them. "the king expects soon to remove to another camp at a place called rhunda konoka (the water well). perhaps he will take me along, or else he may slay me. "all those who were with me are dead excepting several natives who have joined the burnwo tribe. "good-by, and do what you can until you are certain that i am dead. "your loving brother, "anderson rover" when randolph rover ceased reading he saw that there were tears in the eyes of all of the boys, and that his wife was also crying. his own voice had had to be cleared continually. to all the letter was like a message from the grave. "and that is all?" questioned dick, breaking the silence. "that is all, my boy--and the letter was written about a year ago!" "but we'll go in search of him!" put in tom, quickly. "he may be alive yet." "i thought i would go," answered randolph rover, "and i thought, possibly, that i might take dick with me." "oh, you must take me too!" burst out tom. "i could never bear to be left behind." "and you must take me," interrupted sam. "we always go together, you know." at this talk randolph rover was somewhat taken aback. "all!" he cried. "why, what would three boys do in the heart of africa?" "look for father!" cried tom. "i shan't stay behind--you can't make me!" he went on half defiantly. "we have been through lots of adventures, uncle, you know that," came from sam. "we are not afraid." "but the danger, boys--" began the uncle. "what danger wouldn't we face for father's sake!" said tom. "i'd go through fire and water for him." "you had better let us all go," said dick. "if you don't let tom and sam go, why, the chances are they'll--" "run away and go anyway," finished sam. "oh, uncle randolph, say we can go; please do!" at this enthusiasm the uncle smiled sadly. "all-right, boys; as you are bound to have it so, you shall all go. but don't blame me if the perils are greater than you anticipate, and if the undertaking costs one or more of you your lives." chapter xii. off for africa it was long after midnight before the conversation in relation to the proposed trip to africa came to an end. mrs. rover insisted that the boys should eat something, and they sat around the table discussing the viands and the two letters at the same time. "have you any idea where this niwili camp is?" asked dick of his uncle. "it is on the congo, but how far froth the mouth of that stream is a question, lad. probably we can learn all about it when we reach boma, the capital of the congo free state." "the congo is a pretty big stream, isn't it?" questioned sam. "very large indeed. at its mouth it is about ten miles wide, and it is from twelve to fourteen hundred miles long. stanley traced its course after an expedition in which he fought over thirty battles with the natives." "they must be fearfully savage." "those in the interior are. the natives that live close to the ocean are peaceable enough, so i have been told." "and how are we going to get there?" asked tom. "i don't suppose there are any regular steamers running to the congo." "no, indeed, tom. i have written to a shipping firm in new york for information, and they will probably send word by morning," was the answer. it can well be imagined that the boys slept but little that night. in the morning they telegraphed to putnam hall for their trunks, and also let captain putnam and their chums know how matters stood. then began preparations for such a tour as none of them had ever before anticipated. word came from new york in the early afternoon mail, and the information sent was highly satisfactory to randolph rover. the french steamer republique was in port, loading for boma and other african ports, and would set sail on the coming saturday. the firm had taken upon itself the responsibility to speak of passage for mr. rover and one or two others. "hurrah!" cried tom. "uncle randolph, you had better telegraph to them at once for passage for the four of us." "i will," answered, mr. rover, and the telegram was sent within the hour. the next day was a busy one. as but little in the way of outfits could be procured in oak run or the adjoining villages, it was decided that they should go down to new york on thursday afternoon and spend all of friday in purchasing in the metropolis whatever was needed. the only person who was really sober was mrs. rover, for she hated to see her husband start on such a journey, which was bound to, be full of grave perils. "i am afraid you will never come back," she said, with tears in her eyes. "and if you and anderson are both dead to me, what will i do?" "be brave, martha," said mr. rover tenderly. "i feel certain that a kind providence will watch over us and bring us all back in safety." at last the party was ready to set off. a fond good-by was said, and away they rattled in the carryall for the railroad station at oak run. "good-by to home!" shouted tom, as he waved his cap to his aunt, who stood beside the gateway. "and when we come back may we bring father with us," added dick, and sam muttered an amen. the journey down to new york was without incident, and as the rovers had lived in the metropolis for years they felt thoroughly at home and knew exactly where to go for their outfit and suitable clothing for use in such a warm country was procured, and in addition each was armed with a revolver. mr. rover also purchased a shot-gun and a rifle, and likewise a number of cheap gold and silver trinkets. "the natives are becoming civilized," he explained. "but, for all that, i am certain a small gift now and then will go a long way toward making friends." the found that the republique was a stanch-built steamer of eight thousand tons burden. her captain, jules cambion, spoke english quite fluently and soon made them feel at home. he was much interested in the story randolph rover had to tell concerning his missing brother. "'tis a strange happening, truly," he remarked. "i sincerely trust that your search for him proves successful and that he returns to the arms of his family unharmed. but it is a fierce country. i have visited it twice, and i know." "i am glad to learn that you have been up the congo," replied randolph rover. "perhaps during your leisure hours on the trip you will not mind giving me such information as conics to your mind." "i will tell you all i know willingly," answered captain cambion. exactly at noon on saturday the republique was ready to sail, and with a shout from those on the wharf who had come to see the few passengers off, she sheered away and started down the bay, past bedloe island and the statue of liberty. before night the shore line had faded from view, and they were standing out boldly into the atlantic ocean. "off for africa at last," murmured sam, who had been standing at the rail watching the last speck of land as it disappeared. "what a big trip this is going to be!" "never mind how big it is, sam," came from tom, "if only it is successful." the first few days on board were spent in settling themselves. the party had two connecting staterooms, and mr. rover and sam occupied one, while dick and tom had settled themselves in the other. the passengers were mostly french people, who were going to try their fortunes in french congo. there was, however, one englishman, a man named mortimer blaze, who was bound out simply for adventure. "i'm tired of england, and tired of america too," he explained. "i've hunted through the rocky mountains and up in canada, as well as at home, and now i'm going to try for a lion or a tiger in africa." "perhaps the lion or tiger will try for you," smiled tom. "what then?" "it will be a pitched battle, that's all," drawled mortimer blaze. he was rather a sleepy looking man, but quick to act when the occasion demanded. the weather was all that could be wished, and during the first week out the republique made good progress. on a steamer there was but little for the boys to do, and they spent all of their spare time in reading the books on africa which captain cambion had in his library, and which were printed in english. often they persuaded the genial captain to tell them of his adventures in that far-away country. "you have many strange sights before you," he said to them one day. "the strange vegetation, the immense trees, the wonderful waterfalls, some larger than your own niagara, and then the odd people. some of the natives are little better than dwarfs, while others are six feet and more in height and as straight as arrows. "did you ever hear of this king susko?" questioned tom. "yes; i have heard of him several times. he is known as the wanderer, because he and his tribe wander from place to place, making war on the other tribes." the captain knew nothing of niwili camp and expressed the opinion that it had been, like many other camps, only a temporary affair. he said that the best the party could do was to strike straight up the congo, along the south shore, and question the different natives met concerning king susko's present whereabouts. on the beginning of the second week a storm was encountered which lasted for three days. at first the wind blew at a lively rate, and this was followed by thunder and lightning and a regular deluge of rain, which made all of the boys stay below. the steamer pitched from side to side and more than one wave broke over her decks. "this is the worse storm i ever saw," remarked dick, as he held fast to a chair in the cabin. "they won't be able to set any table for dinner today." "dinner!" came from sam, with a groan. "who wants any dinner, when a fellow feels as if he was going to be turned inside out!" so far none of the boys had suffered from seasickness, but now poor sam was catching it, and the youngest rover felt thoroughly miserable. "never mind, the storm won't last forever," said dick sympathetically. "perhaps you had better lie down, sam." "how can i, with the ship tossing like a cork? i've got to hold on, same as the rest, and be glad, i suppose, that i am alive," and poor sam looked utterly miserable. it was very close in the cabin, but neither door nor port-hole could be opened for fear of the water coming in. dinner was a farce, to use tom's way of expressing it, for everything was cold and had to be eaten out of hand or from a tin cup. yet what was served tasted very good to those who were hungry. "i believe we'll go to the bottom before we are done," began sam, when a loud shout from the deck reached the ears of all of the rovers and made tom and dick leap to their feet. "what's that?" cried dick. "they are calling to somebody!" above the wind they could hear a yell from a distance, and then came more cries from the deck, followed by a bump on the side of the steamer. "we've struck something!" ejaculated tom. "but i guess it wasn't hard enough to do much damage." "that remains to be seen," answered dick. "storm or no storm, i'm gong on deck to learn what it means," and he hurried up the companionway. chapter xiii a rescue in mid-ocean dick found that he could remain on the deck only with the greatest of difficulty. several life lines had been stretched around and he clung to one of these. "what has happened?" he asked of one of the sailors. "what did we strike?" "struck a small boat," was the answer. "it had a colored man in it. we've just hauled the fellow on deck." "is he all right?" "no; he's about half dead. but the captain thinks he may get over it, with care," and the sailor hurried away. dick now saw several men approaching, carrying the form of the rescued one between them. he looked at the unconscious man and gave a cry of amazement. "alexander pop! what a strange happening!" "do you know the man?" questioned captain cambion. "i know him very well," answered dick. "he used to work at the military academy where my brothers and i were cadets." and the boy told captain cambion the particulars of alexander pop's disappearance from putnam hall. "i am glad that i will be able to tell him that his innocence is established," he concluded. "all providing we are able to bring him around to himself, master rover," returned the captain gravely. "you think, then, that he is in bad shape?" "i hardly know what to think. we will take him below and do all we can for him." it was no easy matter to transfer pop to one of the lower staterooms, but once placed on a soft berth the rovers did all they could for him. "it is like a romance," said sam, while randolph rover was administering some medicine to the unconscious man. "how thin he looks." "he's been suffering from starvation," put in dick. "i suppose he gave that yell we heard with his last breath." all of the party watched over the colored man with tender care, and feeling that he could be in no better hands the captain left him entirely in his friends' charge. "when he comes to his senses you can let me know," he said. dick was watching by pop's side, and tom was at the foot of the berth, when the colored man opened his eyes. as they rested on first one rover and then the other he stared in utter astonishment. "my gracious sakes alive!" he gasped. "am i dreamin', or am i back to putnam hall again?" "neither, aleck," replied dick. "you are safe on board an ocean steamer." "an' yo'--whar yo' dun come from?" "we are passengers on the steamer," said tom. "you were picked up several hours ago." "yes, but--but i can't undersand dis nohow!" persisted the colored man, and tried to sit up, only to fall back exhausted. "don't try to understand it, aleck, until you are stronger," said dick. "would you like some hot soup?" "anyt'ing, sah, anyt'ing! why, i aint had, no reg'lar meal in most a week!" moaned the sufferer. "glory to heaben dat i am sabed!" and then he said no more for quite a long, while. the soup was already at hand, and it was dick who fed it slowly and carefully, seeing to it that pop should have no more than his enfeebled stomach could take care of, for overfeeding, so mr. rover had said, might kill the man. the next day pop was able to sit up, although still too weak to stand on his legs. he was continually praising heaven for his safety. "i dun vink i was a goner more dan once," he said. "i was on de ocean all alone about a week, i reckon, although i lost time ob days after i'd been out two or vree nights. i vink i was most crazy." "perhaps you were, aleck," said sam. "but tell us how you got in that position." "dat am de queerest part ob it, master rober--de queerest part of it. i got into de small boat fo' a sleep, and de fust ving i knowed i was miles an' miles away from eberyt'ing; yes, sah-miles an' miles away on de boundless ocean, an' not so much as a fishin' smack sail in sight. golly, but wasn't i scared--i reckon i dun most turn white!" and aleck rolled his eyes around impressively. "you were in a small boat attached to some steamer?" "dat's it. da had been usin' de small boat fo' surnt'ing, and left her overboard." "were you cut adrift?" "i don't tink i was--but i aint shuah nohow." "what boat was it?" "de harrison, from brooklyn, bound to cuba." "did you ship on her after you left putnam hall in such a hurry? "i did, cos i didn't want de police to coted me. but, say, as true as i stand heah--mean sit heah--i aint guilty of stealin' dem watches an' t'ings, no i aint!" and aleck raised both hands earnestly. "captain putnam made a great mistake when he dun suspect me." "we know it," answered dick quietly. "we thought you innocent all along, aleck." "t'ank yo' fo' dat, master rober--i'se glad to see dat i'se got one friend--" "three friends, aleck--we all stood up for you," interrupted tom. "t'ank yo', t'ank yo'!" "and we discovered who the real thief was," added sam. "wot, yo' dun found, dat out!" burst out pop. "an' who was de black-hearted rascal?" "jim caven." "dat cadet wot tried to be funny wid me an' i had to show him his place? hol' on--i dun see him comin' from de attic one day." "when he must have put those stolen articles in your trunk," said tom. "yes, he was guilty, captain putnam was going to have him arrested, but he got away." nothing would do for alexander pop after this but that the boys give him the full particulars of the affair, to which he listened with the closest attention. but at the conclusion his face fell. "ise mighty glad i am cleared," he said. "but i'd give a good deal to face de cap'n--jest to see wot he would say, eh?" "he said he was sorry he had suspected you," said dick. "what a big fool dis darkey was to run away!" murmured aleck meditatively. "i wasn't cut out fo' no sailer man. ise been sick most ebery day since i left shoah. by de way, whar is dis ship bound?" he went on. "to africa." "africa! shuah yo' is foolin', massah dick?" "no, i am not. we and our uncle are bound for the congo river." "de congo! dat's whar my great gran' fadder dun come from--so i heard my mammy tell, years ago. i don't want to go dar, not me!" "i don't see how you are going to help yourself, aleck. the first stop this steamer will make will be at boma on the congo river." "'wot am i to do when i gits dar? answer me dat, chile." "i'm sure i don't know. perhaps the captain will let you remain on the republique." "what wid dern frenchmen? i don't t'ink i could stand dat. an' what am yo' going to do in africa?" "we are going on a hunt for my father, who has been missing for years." again aleck had to be told the particulars and again he was tremendously interested. when the boys had finished he sat in silence for several minutes. "i've got it-jest de t'ing!" he cried suddenly. "got what?" asked tom. "de right idea, massah tom. foah gen'men like yo' don't want to go to africa widout a valet nohow. let me be de workin' man fe de crowd. i'll take de job, cheap,--an' glad ob de chance." "hullo, that's an idea!" mused dick. "will yo' do it, massah dick?" "we'll have to speak to my uncle about it first." "well, yo' put in a good word fo' me. yo know i always stood by yo' in de school," pleaded the colored man. "i don't want to be driftin' around jess nowhar, wid nuffin to do, an' no money comin' in--not but what i'll work cheap, as i dun said i would," he added hastily. a little later randolph rover joined the group and aleck's proposition was laid before him. strange to say he accepted the colored man's offer immediately, greatly to the wonder of the boys, and from that minute on pop be came a member of the searching party. "i will tell you why i did it," explained randolph rover to the boys in private. "when we get into the jungle we will need a man we can trust and one who is used to american ways. moreover, if there is any spying to be done among the natives the chances are that a black man can do it better than a white man." "uncle randolph, you've got a long head," remarked tom. "no doubt aleck will prove just the fellow desired." and tom was right, as later events proved. chapter xiv a strange meeting in boma the storm delayed the passage of the republique nearly a week, in a manner that was totally unexpected by the captain. the fierce waves, running mountain high, wrenched the screw and it was found next to impossible to repair the accident. consequently the steamer had to proceed under a decreased rate of speed. this was tantalizing to the boys, and also to randolph rover, for everyone wished to get ashore, to start up the congo as early as possible. but all the chafing in the world could not help matters, and they were forced to take things as they came. a place was found among the sailors for aleck, and soon he began to feel like himself once more. but the sea did not suit the colored man, and he was as anxious as his masters to reach shore once more. "it's a pity da can't build a mighty bridge over de ocean, an' run kyars," he said. "den nobody would git seasick." "perhaps they'll have a bridge some day resting on boats, aleck," answered tom. "but i don't expect to live to see it." "yo' don't know about dat, chile. look at uddert'ings. did yo'gran'fadder expect to ride at de rate ob sixty miles an hour? did he expect to send a telegram to san francisco in a couple ob minutes? did he eber dream ob talkin' to sumboddy in chicago froo a telephone? did he knew anyt'ing about electric lights, or movin' pictures, or carriages wot aint got no bosses, but run wid gasoline or sumfing like dat? i tell yo, massah tom, we don't know wot we is comin' to!" "you are quite right, alexander," said mr. rover, who had overheard the talk. "science is making wonderful strides. some day i expect to grow com and wheat, yes, potatoes and other vegetables, by electricity," and then randolph rover branched off into a long discourse on scientific farming that almost took away poor aleck's breath. "he's a most wonderful man, yo' uncle!" whispered the colored man to sam afterward. "fust t'ing yo' know he'll be growin' corn in de com crib already shucked!" and he laughed softly to himself. on and on over the mighty atlantic bounded the steamer. one day was very much like another, excepting that on sundays there was a religious service, which nearly everybody attended. the boys had become quite attached to mortimer blaze and listened eagerly to the many hunting tales he had to tell. "i wish you were going with us," said tom to him. "i like your style, as you englishman put it." "thanks, rover, and i must say i cotton to you, as the americans put it," laughed the hunter. "well, perhaps we'll meet in the interior, who knows?" "are you going up the congo?" "i haven't decided yet. i am hoping to meet some friends at boma. otherwise i may go further down the coast." the steamer bad now struck the equator, and as it was midsummer the weather was extremely warm, and the smell of the oozing tar, pouring from every joint, was sickening. but the weather suited alexander pop perfectly. "dis am jest right," he said. "i could sleep eall de time, 'ceptin' when de meal gong rings." "blood will tell," laughed randolph rover. "when you land, alexander, you ought to feel perfectly at home." "perhaps, sah; but i dun reckon de united states am good enough for any man, sah, white or colored." "right you are," put in dick. "it's the greatest country on the globe." it was a clear day a week later when the lookout announced land dead ahead. it proved to be a point fifteen miles above the mouth of the congo, and at once the course was altered to the southward, and they made the immense mouth of the river before nightfall. it was a beautiful scene. far away dashed the waves against an immense golden strand, backed up by gigantic forests of tropical growth and distant mountains veiled in a bluish mist: the river was so broad that they were scarcely aware that they were entering its mouth until the captain told them. when night came the lights of boma could be distinctly seen, twinkling silently over the bay of the town. they dropped anchor among a score of other vessels; and the long ocean trip became a thing of the past. "i'm all ready to go ashore," said tom. "my, but won't it feel good to put foot on land again!" "indeed it will!" cried dick. "the ocean is all well enough, but a fellow doesn't want too much of it." "and yet i heard one of the french sailors say that he hated the land," put in sam. "he hadn't set foot on shore for three years. when they reach port he always remains on deck duty until they leave again." mortimer blaze went ashore at once, after bidding all of the party a hearty good-by. "hope we meet again," he said. "and, anyway, good luck to you!" "and good luck to you!" cried tom. "hope you bag all of the lions and tigers you wish," and so they parted, not to meet again for many a day. it was decided that the rovers should not leave the ship until morning. it can well be imagined that none of the boys slept soundly that night. all wondered what was before them, and if they should succeed or fail in their hunt. "dis aint much ob a town," remarked aleck, as they landed, a little before noon, in a hot, gentle shower of rain. "nuffin like new york." "there is only one new york, as there is but one london," answered randolph rover. "our architecture would never do for such a hot climate." along the river front was a long line of squatty warehouses, backed up by narrow and far from clean streets, where the places of business were huddled together, and where a good share of the trading was done on the sidewalk. the population was a very much mixed one, but of the europeans the english and french predominated. the natives were short, fat, and exceedingly greasy appearing. hardly a one of them could speak english. "i don't see any americans," remarked dick. "i suppose--" "there is an american store!" burst out sam, pointing across the way. he had discovered a general trading store, the dilapidated sign of which read: simon hook, dealer in everything. english spoken by an american. horn of all kinds bought. yankee boots are the best! "he believes in advertising," laughed dick. "i'd like to go in and see simon hook. perhaps he'll remember something about father!" he added suddenly. "that's an idea!" returned tom. "let us go in, uncle randolph." mr. rover was willing, and they entered the low and dingy-looking establishment, which was filled with boxes, barrels, and bags of goods. they found the proprietor sitting in an easy chair, his feet on a desk, and a pipe in his mouth. "is this mr. hook?" asked randolph rover. "that's me," was the answer; but mr. hook did not offer to rise, nor indeed to even shift his position. "we saw your sign and as we are americans we thought we would drop in," went on mr. rover. "that's right; glad to see you," came from the man in the chair; but still he did not offer to shift his position. "been here many years?" asked dick. "about twenty." "how is business?" put in tom, bound to say something. "aint none, sonny." "you don't look very busy." "it's a fool's place to come to, sonny. when these goods are sold i'm going to quit." mr. simon hook paused long enough to take an extra whiff from his pipe. "what brought you here?" "we are on a hunt for a missing man," answered randolph rover. "did you ever meet him? his name is anderson rover, and he is my brother." "anderson rover?" simon hook thought for a moment. "i remember him. he was a gold hunter from californy, or somethin' like that." "yes; he was a mine owner." "went up the congo four or five years ago--maybe longer?" "yes." "i remember him. he had lots of money, and took several guides and a number of other, natives along." "have you seen or heard of him since?" questioned dick eagerly. simon hook shook his head. "no, sonny. 'twasn't to be expected." "and why not?" put in tom. "because them as goes up the congo never, comes back. it's a fool's trip among those wild people of the interior. stanley went up, but look at the big party he took with him and the many fights he had to get back alive." at this announcement the hearts of the rover boys fell. "you never heard one word of him?" persisted sam. "nary a word, sonny. i reckon he's either lost in the jungle or among the mountains, or else the natives have taken care of him." "did he say anything about the trail he was going to take?" asked randolph rover. "i understand there are several." "he was going to take the rumbobo trail, most all of 'em do." simon hook drew a long breath. "say, can i sell you any of these old things of mine cheap?" "perhaps you can," said randolph rover. "we are bound for the hotel now. we will come in later." "glad to see you," and as they left the shopkeeper waved them a pleasant adieu with his hand. but he never stirred from his chair. "i guess he has grown tired of trying to sell goods," observed tom. "perhaps he knows that if folks want the things he has to sell they are bound to come to him," said dick. "his store seems to be the only one of its sort around." the hotel for which they were bound was several squares away, located in something of a park, with pretty flowers and a fountain. it was a two-story affair, with spacious verandas and large rooms, and frequented mostly by english and french people. they had just entered the office; and randolph rover was writing his name in the register, when dick caught sight of somebody in the reading room that nearly took away his breath. "well, i never!" "what is it, dick?" asked tom quickly. "look at that boy reading a newspaper. it is dan baxter--dan baxter, just as sure as you are born!" chapter xv captain villaire's little plot dick was right: the boy in the reading-room' was indeed dan baxter, but so changed in appearance that for the minute neither tom nor sam recognized him. in the past baxter had always been used to fine clothing, which he had taken care should be in good repair. now his clothing was dilapidated and his shoes looked as if they were about ready to fall apart. more than this, his face was hollow and careworn, and one eye looked as if it had suffered severe blow of some sort. altogether he was most wretched-looking specimen of humanity, and it was a wonder that he was allowed at the hotel. but the truth of the matter was that he had told the proprietor a long tale of sufferings in the interior and of a delayed remittance from home, and the hotel keeper was keeping him solely on this account. "how he is changed!" muttered tom. "he looks like a regular tramp!" "he's been in hard luck, that's certain," came from sam. "i wonder how he drifted out here?" while sam was speaking dan baxter raised his eyes from the newspaper and glanced around. as his gaze fell upon the three rover boys he started and the paper fell to the floor, then he got up and strode toward them. "dick rover!" he cried. "where did you fellows come from?" "from putnam hall, baxter," answered dick quietly. "and what brought you here?" ordinarily dan baxter would have retorted that that was none of dick's business, but now he was in thoroughly low spirits, and he answered meekly: "i've been playing in hard luck. i went down to new york and one night when i was in a sailors' boarding house i drank more than was good for me, and when i woke up in the morning i found myself on a vessel bound for africa." "you were shanghaied as a sailor?" asked tom. "that's it, and while i was on board the costelk the captain and mate treated me worse than a dog. see that eye? the captain did that, and when i struck back he put me in irons and fed me nothing but stale biscuits and water." "and the ship left you here?" "no; she was bound for cape town, but stopped here for supplies, and i jumped overboard at night and swam ashore, and here i am, and sorry for it," and dan baxter drew a long breath. the rovers were astonished at his meek manner. was this really the domineering baxter, who had always insisted on having his own way, and who had done so many wrong deeds in the past? "you've had a hard time of it, i suppose? said dick, hardly knowing how to go on. "hard, dick, aint no word," came from the former bully of putnam hall. "i've run up against the worst luck that anybody could ever imagine. but i reckon you don't care about that?" "do you think we ought to care, baxter?" "well, it aint fair to take advantage of a chap when he's down on his luck," grumbled the former bully. "i guess i've learnt my lesson all right enough." "do you mean to say you are going to turn over a new leaf?" queried sam with interest. "yes, if i ever get the chance." randolph rover now joined the group, and dick explained the situation. mr. rover questioned baxter closely and found that he was without a cent in his pocket and that the hotel keeper had threatened to put him out if he was not able to pay up inside of the next twenty-four hours. "see here, baxter, you never were my friend, and you never deserved any good from me, but i don't like to see a dog suffer," said dick. "i'll give you thirty shillings, and that will help you along a little," and he drew out his purse. "and i'll give you the same," came from tom. "ditto from me," said sam. "but don't forget that what dick says is true, nevertheless." ninety english shillings--about twenty-two dollars of our money--was more cash than dan baxter had seen in some time, his other money having been spent before he had taken his unexpected ocean trip, and his eyes brightened up wonderfully. "i'll be much obliged to you for the--the loan," he stammered. "i'll pay you back some time, remember." "never mind about that," replied dick. "my advice to you is, to take the first ship you can for home." "and what brought you out here--going on a hunt for your father?" "yes." "you'll have a big job finding him. i understand the natives of the congo are going on the warpath before long. they have had some difficulty with the settlers." "i guess we'll manage to take care of ourselves," answered tom, and then he and his brothers followed their uncle up to the rooms which had been engaged for them during their stay in the town. "he's, down in the mouth, and no mistake," was tom's comment, when the boys were left to themselves. "i never saw him so humble before." "perhaps knocking around has taught him a lesson," said dick. "i hope he really does turn over a new leaf." the day proved to be a busy one. randolph rover gathered all the information he could concerning the trail along the congo, and also tried to locate niwili camp. he likewise purchased several additions to his outfits from simon hook, and engaged the services of several natives, the leader of whom was a brawny black named cujo, a fellow who declared that he knew every foot of the territory to be covered and who said he was certain that he could locate king susko sooner or later. "him bad man," he said soberly. "no et him catch you, or you suffer big lot!" cujo took to aleck from the start, and the pair soon became warm friends. the african inspected their outfits with interest and offered several suggestions regarding additional purchases. three days were spent in boma, and during that time the rovers saw a good deal of dan baxter, who, having nothing better to do, hung around them continually. he remained as meek as before, but our friends did not know that this was merely the meekness of a savage cur while under the whip. baxter was naturally a brute, and lacked the backbone necessary far genuine reformation. "say, why can't you take me with you?" he asked, on the day that the rover expedition was to start out. "i'm willing to do my share of the work and the fighting, and i won't charge you a cent for my service." "i don't know as my uncle wants anybody along," said sam, to whom baxter addressed his remarks. "well, won't you speak to him about it, sam? i can't find anything to do here, and the captains to whom i've applied don't want me on their ships," pleaded the former bully of putnam hall. sam was easily touched at all times, and he knew that baxter must feel lonely and wretched so far from home and without friends or capital. he at once went to his brothers and his uncle and laid the big youth's proposition before them. "we don't want him," said dick promptly. "i don't believe he would be of any use to us." "i would rather give him some more money just for him to stay behind," added tom. mr. rover was thoughtful for a moment. "and what do you say, sam?" he asked at length. "well, i don't like baxter any more than the others do. but it seems awfully hard on him. i don't believe he knows how to turn." "we might give him enough money to get back to the united states with." "i'd rather have you do that, uncle randolph," said dick. "i don't want him with me." "i will have a talk with the misguided boy," was the conclusion reached by randolph rover; but he got no chance to speak to dan baxter until late in the afternoon, and then, to his astonishment, baxter's manner had changed entirely, he intimating that he wanted nothing more to do with them. for in the meantime something which was bound to be of great importance to the rovers had occurred. in boma were a number of persons of mixed french and native blood who were little better than the old-time brigands of italy. they were led by a wicked wretch who went by the name of captain villaire. villaire had been watching the rovers for two days when he noticed the coldness which seemed to exist between, our friends and baxter. at once he threw himself in baxter's way and began to it pump the youth regarding the americans. "zay are going into the interior, you have remarked," he said in very bad english. "are zay verra rich people?" "yes, they are well fixed," answered the tall youth. "and zay do carry zare money wid zem?" "i guess not--at least, not much of it." "you are zare friend, eh?" "hardly. out in america we were enemies." "so? you hata zem?" "yes, i hate them," muttered dan, and his eyes shone wickedly. "i'm only treating them in a friendly way now because i'm out of money and must do something." "i see. it ees a good head you have--verra good," murmured captain villaire. "do you know, i heara dem talk about you?" "did you? what did they say?" "de one boy say you should be in ze jail; didn't you robba somebody." "he had better keep his mouth shut." "you lika do somet'ing wid me?" continued the french native, closing one eye suggestively. he was a close reader of human nature and had read baxter's character as if it was an open book. "what do you mean?" "we gitta dem people into trouble--maka big lot of money." "all right--i'll do anything," answered baxter savagely. "so they said i ought to be in jail, eh? i'll fix 'em yet!" "you helpa me, i helpa you," went on the wily french native. he had his plan all ready, and, after sounding baxter some more, revealed what was in his mind, which was simply to follow the rovers into the interior and then make them prisoners. once this was done, they would hold the prisoners for a handsome ransom. "that's a big job," answered the big youth. "but i like your plan, first-rate if you can carry it out." "trust me," replied captain villaire. "i have half a dozen of ze best of killowers-za, nevair fail me. but as you knowa dem you will have to do ze lettair writing for us, so zat we git ze money from zare people at home." "trust me for that," responded baxter quickly. the plot pleased him immensely. "you do the capturing and i'll make mrs. rover or somebody else pay up handsomely, never fear." and so a compact was formed which was to give the rovers a good deal of trouble in the near future. chapter xvi the start up the congo "it was queer dan baxter should act so," said sam to his uncle, when mr. rover came back from his interview with the bully. "i thought he wanted to, go the worst way." "he acted as if he had struck something else," answered randolph rover. "he didn't even want the money i offered. perhaps he has received a remittance from home." "who would send it to him?" put in dick. "his father is still in jail." "perhaps he got mumps to send it to him," said sam. "but i forgot, mumps is away." there was no time to discuss the situation further, for they were to start early on the following morning, and there were yet a dozen small matters which must be given attention. all were busy, and it was not until after eleven that evening that they turned in. the day for the departure from boma dawned bright and clear, and cujo appeared with his assistants while they were still eating breakfast. "werry good day for um journey," he said, with a grin. "make good many miles if nothing go wrong." "you can't do any too well for me," answered dick. "i hope our expedition into the interior is both short and successful." at eight o'clock they were off. at first they had thought to go on horseback; but this was abandoned by the advice of the native, who declared that horses would prove more of a drag than a help in many places. "horse canno' climb tree bridge," he explained. "no climb high rock, no go around bad hill. we go on foot an' make better time." the town was soon left behind and they struck a highway which for several miles afforded easy traveling. on all sides were dense groves of tropical growth, palms, mangoes, and the like, with enormous vines festooned from one tree to the next. underneath were a great variety, of ferns and mosses, the homes of countless insects and small animals. the ground was black and wherever turned up gave forth a sickly odor of decayed vegetation. "that is regular fever territory," explained randolph rover. "boys, do not sleep on the ground if you can possibly avoid it. i sincerely trust that none of us take the tropical fever." "if i feel it coming on i'll take a good dose of quinine," declared tom. fortunately they had brought along a good supply of that valuable drug. two days traveling passed without special incident. on one side of the highway was the broad river, which glinted like molten lead in the sunshine. they could not travel very close to its bank, for here the ground was uncertain. once sam left the highway to get a better view of the stream, and, before cujo noticed it, found himself up to his knees in a muck which stuck to him like so much glue. "hi! help me out!" roared the youngest rover, and all of the party turned, to behold him waving his hand frantically toward them. "he dun got stuck in de mud!" exclaimed aleck, and started to go to sam's assistance, when cujo called him back. "must be werry careful," said the native. "ground bad over dare--lose life if urn don't have a care. wait fo' me." and he approached sam by a circuitous route over the tufts of grass which grew like so many dots amid the swamp. soon he was close enough to throw the youth the end of a rope he carried. the pull that, followed nearly took sam's arms out by the sockets; but the boy was saved, to return to the others of the party with an experience which was destined to be very useful to him in, the future. "it will teach me to be careful of where i am going after this," he declared. "why, that bog looked almost as safe as the ground over here!" "tropical places are all full of just such treacherous swamps," returned randolph rover. "it will be wise for all of us to remember that we are now in a strange territory and that we must have our eyes and ears wide open." at half-past eleven they came to a halt for dinner. the sun was now almost overhead, and they were glad enough to seek the shelter of a number of palms standing in front of a--native hostelry. "we will rest here until two o'clock," said mr. rover. "it is all out of the question to travel in the heat of the day, as we did yesterday, in such a climate as this. even the natives cannot stand that." they found the hostelry presided over by a short, fat native who scarcely spoke a word of english. but he could speak french, and mr. rover spoke to him in that language, while cujo carried on a talk in the native tongue. the midday repast was cooked over a fire built between several stones. the boys watched the cooking process with interest and were surprised to find, when it came to eating, that the food prepared tasted so good. they had antelope steak and a generous supply of native bread, and pure cocoa, which tom declared as good as chocolate. after the meal they took it easy in a number of grass hammocks stretched beneath the wide spreading palms surrounding the wayside inn, if such it might be called. aleck and cujo fell to smoking and telling each other stories, while the rovers dozed away, lulled to sleep by the warm, gentle breeze which was blowing. "i don't wonder the natives are lazy," remarked dick, when his uncle aroused him. "i rarely slept in the daytime at home, and here i fell off without half trying." "the climate is very enervating, dick. that is why this section of the globe makes little or no progress toward civilization. energetic men come here, with the best intention in the world of hustling, as it is termed, but soon their ambition oozes out of them like--well, like molasses out of a barrel lying on a hot dock in the sun. "a good comparison," laughed dick. "come, tom; come, sam!" he called out, and soon the party was on its way again. the highway was still broad, but now it was not as even as before, and here and there they had to leap over just such a treacherous swamp as had caused sam so much trouble. "it's a good thing we didn't bring the horses," said mr. rover. "i didn't think so before, but i do now." the jungle was filled with countless birds, of all sorts, sizes, and colors. some of these sang in a fairly tuneful fashion, but the majority uttered only sounds which were as painful to the hearing as they were tiresome. "the sound is enough to drive a nervous fellow crazy," declared tom. "it's a good thing nature fixed it so that a man can't grow up nervous here." "perhaps those outrageous cries are meant to wake a chap up," suggested dick. "i've a good mind to shoot some of the little pests." "you may take a few shots later on and see what you can bring down for supper," answered his uncle. "but just now let us push on as fast as we can." "yes," put in tom. "remember we are out here to find father, not to hunt." "as if i would ever forget that," answered dick, with a reproachful glance. they were now traveling a bit of a hill which took them, temporarily, out of sight of the congo. cujo declared this was a short route and much better to travel than the other. the way was through a forest of african teak wood, immense trees which seemed to tower to the very skies. "they are as large as the immense trees of california of which you have all heard," remarked randolph rover. "it is a very useful wood, used extensively in ship building." "after all, i think a boat on the congo would have been better to use than shoe leather," said sam, who was beginning to grow tired. "no use a boat when come to falls," grinned cujo. "soon come to dem, too." aleck had been dragging behind, carrying a heavy load, to which he was unaccustomed. now he rejoined the others with the announcement that another party was in their rear. "they are on foot, too," he said. "cujo whar you dun t'ink da be gwine?" "to the next settlement, maybe," was randolph rover's comment, and cujo nodded. they waited a bit for the other party to come up, but it did not, and, after walking back, cujo returned with the announcement that they were nowhere in sight. "perhaps they turned off on a side road," said tom, and there the matter was dropped, to be brought to their notice very forcibly that night. evening found them at another hostelry, presided over by a frenchman who had a giant negress for a wife. the pair were a crafty looking couple, and did not at all please the rovers. "perhaps we may as well sleep with one eye open tonight," said randolph rover, upon retiring. "we are in a strange country, and it's good advice to consider every man an enemy until he proves himself a friend." the hostelry was divided into half a dozen rooms, all on the ground floor. the rovers were placed in two adjoining apartments, while the natives and aleck were quartered in an addition of bamboo in the rear. "keep your eyes and ears open, aleck," whispered dick, on separating from the faithful colored man. "and if you find anything wrong let us know at once." "do you suspect anyt'ing, massah rober?" was pop's anxious question. "i do and i don't. something in the air seems to tell me that everything is not as it should be." "dat frenchman don't look like no angel, sah," and aleck shook his head doubtfully. "you're right, aleck, and his wife is a terror, or else i miss my guess." "dat's right, massah rober; nebber saw sech sharp eyes. yes, i'll look out-fo' my own sake as well as fo' de sake ob ye and de rest," concluded aleck. chapter xvii the attack at the hostelry the night was exceptionally cool for that locality; and, utterly worn out by their tiresome journey, all of the rovers slept more soundly than they had anticipated. but not for long. dick had scarcely dropped off when he heard a noise at the doorway, which was covered with a rough grass curtain. "who is there?" he demanded, sitting up. "dat's all right," came in a whisper from aleck. "is dat yo', massah dick?" "yes, aleck. what brings you?" "i dun discovered somet'ing, sah." "what?" "dat udder party dun come up an' is in de woods back ob dis, house." "in camp?" "no; dare is a frenchman wot is talkin' to dah chap wot runs dis shebang, sah." "perhaps he wants accommodations," mused dick. "can't say about dat, sah. but de fellers who come up hab a lot ob ropes wid 'em." "that's certainly queer." "what's the row?" came sleepily from tom, and presently randolph rover and sam likewise awoke. in a few words the colored man explained the situation. he had just finished when the wife of the proprietor of the resort came up to the doorway. "the gentleman is wanted outside by my husband," she said in broken french. "what does he want?" asked mr. rover. "i can't say. but he says please to step out for a moment." mr. rover repeated the woman's words to the boys. "what do you make of this?" he asked. "i tell you something is wrong," declared dick. "i have felt it all along." "but what can be wrong, my lad?" "if you go outside i'll go with you, uncle randolph." "well, you can do that if you wish." the pair arose and speedily slipped on the few garments which they had taken off. then dick pulled out his pistol. "do you think it is as bad as that?" asked sam. "i don't know what to think. but i'm going to take uncle's advice and count every man an enemy until he proves himself a friend." soon mr. rover and dick were ready to go out, and they did so, followed by aleck and preceded by the native woman. as it was dark the rovers easily concealed their weapons in the bosoms of their coats. they walked past the bamboo addition and to the grove of trees aleck had mentioned. there they found the frenchman in conversation with captain villaire. "you wish to see me?" demanded randolph rover. "very much," answered villaire in french. "if you are mr. randolph rover, are you not?" "i am." "and this is one of your nephews?" "yes." "i believe you are hunting for the young man's father?" went on villaire. "we are. do you know anything of him?" demanded randolph rover eagerly. "i do. he sent me to you." "he sent you!" cried randolph rover in amazement. "he is, then, alive?" "yes; but a prisoner, and very sick. he heard of your being in boma by accident through a native of king susko's tribe who was sent to the town for some supplies. i heard the story and i have been employed to lead you to him, and at once." "but--but this is marvelous," stammered randolph rover. "i must say i do not understand it." "it is a very queer turn of affairs, i admit. the other mr. rover must explain to you when you meet. he wishes you to come to him alone. it will not be safe for more." as well as he was able randolph rover explained matters to dick. in the meantime, however, the youth had been looking around sharply and had noted several forms gliding back and forth in the gloom under the trees. dick was more suspicious than ever. "uncle randolph, i don't believe this man," he said briefly. "the story he tells is too unnatural." "i think so myself, dick; but still--" "why didn't this man come straight to the house to tell us this?" "i'm sure i don't know." "ask him." randolph rover put the question to captain villaire. the frenchman scowled deeply and shrugged his shoulders. "i had my reason," he said briefly. "will you come with me?" before randolph rover could answer there came a shout from behind several trees. "look out fo' yourselves!" came in aleck's voice. "dis am a trap!" "a trap!" repeated dick, when of a sudden a half dozen men rushed at him and randolph rover and surrounded the pair. in a twinkle, before either could use his pistol, he was hurled flat and made a prisoner. "bind them, men," ordered villaire sternly. "and bind them well, so that escape is impossible." "run for the house, aleck!" yelled, out dick, before those on top of him could choke him off. "save tom and sam! "i will!" came from the faithful black. and off he sped at top speed, with three or four of captain villaire's party after him. cujo also went to the house, bewildered by what was going on and hardly knowing how to turn. randolph rover fought desperately and so did dick. but the two were no match for the six men who had attacked them, and ere they knew it the rovers were close prisoners, with their hands bound behind them and each with a dirty gag of grass stuffed in his mouth. "now march, or you will be shot," came in bad english from one of the villaire party. and as there seemed nothing better to do they marched, wondering why they had been attacked and where they were to be taken. their arms had been confiscated, so further resistance was useless. when dick lagged behind he received a cruel blow on the back which nearly sent him headlong. a journey of several hours brought the party to a small clearing overlooking the congo at a point where the bank was fully fifty feet above the surface of the stream. here, in years gone by, a rough log hut had been built, which the african international association had once used as a fort during a war with the natives. the log hut was in a state of decay, but still fit for use and almost hidden from view by the dense growth of vines which covered it. the men who had brought randolph rover and dick hither evidently knew all about the hut, for they proceeded to make themselves at home without delay. taking the rovers into one of the apartments of the dilapidated building they tied each to the logs of the walls, one several yards from the other. "now you must wait until captain villaire returns," said the leader of the party in french. "he will be here before daylight." "but what does this mean?" demanded randolph rover. "he will tell you what it means," grinned the brigand, and walked away to another part of the hut, which was built in a long, rambling fashion, and contained a dozen or more divisions. "we are in a pickle," remarked dick dismally. "this is hunting up father with a vengeance." "we won't despair yet, dick. but i would like to know what this means." "it probably means robbery, for one thing, uncle randolph. and it may mean death." and the youth, shuddered. "if i am not mistaken i saw some of these rascals hanging around the hotel in boma." "that is more than likely. they have been watching their chance to attack us ever since we left the town." slowly the hours wore away until morning dawned. the positions of both dick and his uncle were most uncomfortable ones, and the youth was ready to groan aloud at the strain put upon his shoulders through having his arms tied behind him. at last they heard footsteps approaching from the opposite end of the rambling building. "somebody at last!" cried dick. he had scarcely spoken when captain villaire appeared, followed by--dan baxter! chapter xviii a demand of importance dick could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyesight as he gazed at the former bully of putnam hall and the frenchman who stood beside him. "baxter! is it possible!" he gasped. "what brought you here?" "are you a prisoner, too?" put in randolph rover. "a prisoner!" laughed baxter. "well, that's a good one, i must say. no, i am not a prisoner." "and what brought you here?" went on mr. rover. "can't you imagine?" "he is in with these rascals who have captured us," came quickly from dick. "this is how you repay our kindness, baxter?" "your kindness? bah! i want none of it. didn't i refuse your offer, made just before you went away?" "but you didn't refuse the first money we gave you, baxter." at this the bully bit his lip. "we won't talk about that, dick rover. do you realize that you are absolutely in my power? how do you like it?" "it was not you who captured us, baxter." "well, it amounts to the same thing, eh, capitan villaire?" and the big boy turned to the french brigand, who nodded. "we collared you nicely." "what of sam and tom?" asked randolph rover anxiously. "ve will not speak of zem udders," broke in captain villaire. "ve vill speak apout you." "did baxter put up this plot against us? queried dick. "to be sure i did," answered baxter, who loved to brag just as much as ever. "and before i let you go i'm going to make you pay up dearly for all that i have suffered. captain villaire, have you had them searched?" he asked, turning again to his companion. "yees, baxter, but za had not mooch monish wid zem." "how much?" "only about a hundred pounds." "then they left it behind at binoto's place," was the quick answer. "now if those others aren't captured--" "hush, ve vill not speak of zat," put in the brigand hastily. "tell zeni what i haf tole you." "all right, i will." dan baxter turned once more to the prisoners. "do you know why you were brought here?" "to be robbed, i presume," answered randolph rover. "or that and worse," said dick significantly, "i reckon i have a right to all of your money, dick rover." "i don't see how you make that out, baxter." "years ago your father robbed mine out of the rights to a rich gold mine in the united states." "that's your side of the story. i claim, and so did my father, that the mine was ours." "it's a falsehood. the mine was discovered by my fattier, and if everything had gone right he would have had the income from it." "this is ancient history, baxter. come to business. what do you intend to do with us?" "we intend to make money out of you," was the answer, given with a rude laugh. "in what manner?" "first you will have to answer a few questions." "zat ees it," put in captain villaire. "how mooch morlish you bring wid you from america?" "we didn't bring much," answered randolph rover, who began to smell a mouse. "how mooch?" "about two hundred pounds." "humph, a thousand dollars!" sneered baxter. "that won't do at all." "you must haf brought more!" cried the french brigand angrily. "not much more." "you leave zat in boma, wid ze bankers, eh?" "yes." "but you haf von big lettair of credit, not so?" "yes, we have a letter of credit," answered randolph rover. "but that won't do you any good, nor the money at the banker's neither." "ve see about zat, monsieur. proceed," and captain villaire waved his hand toward dan baxter. "this is the situation in a nutshell, to come right down to business," said the former bully of putnam hall coolly. "you are our prisoners, and you can't get away, no matter how hard you try. captain villaire and his men, as well as myself, are in this affair to make money. the question is, what is your liberty worth to you?" "so you intend to work such a game?" demanded dick. "that's the game, yes." "well, i shan't pay you a cent." "don't be a fool, dick rover. we are not to be trifled with." "well, i haven't any money, and that ends it. you already have all i had." "then you will have to foot the bill," continued dan baxter, turning to randolph rover. "if you value your liberty you will pay us what we demand." "and what do you demand?" questioned mr. rover. "we demand twenty thousand dollars--ten thousand for the liberty of each." this demand nearly took away randolph rover's breath. "twenty thousand dollars!" he gasped. "it is--is preposterous!" "is it? you are worth a good deal more than that, mr. rover. and i am demanding only what is fair." "you shall never get the money." "won't we?" "never!" "perhaps you'll sing a different tune in a few, days--after your stomachs get empty," responded dan baxter, with a malicious gleam in his fishy eyes. "so you mean to starve us into acceding to your demands," said dick. "baxter, i always did put you down as a first-class rascal. if you keep, on, you'll be more of a one than your father." in high rage the former bully of putnam hall strode forward and without warning struck the defenseless dick a heavy blow on the cheek. "that, for your impudence," he snarled. "you keep a civil tongue in your head. if you don't--" he finished with a shake of his fist. "you had bettair make up your mind to pay ze monish," said captain villaire, after a painful pause. "it will be ze easiest way out of ze situation for you." "don't you pay a cent, uncle randolph," interrupted dick quickly. then baxter hit him again, such a stinging blow that he almost lost consciousness. "for shame!" ejaculated mr. rover. "he is tied up, otherwise you would never have the courage to attack him. baxter, have you no spirit of fairness at all in your composition?" "don't preach--i won't listen to it!" fumed the bully. "you have got to pay that money. if you don't--well, i don't believe you'll ever reach america alive, that's all." with these words dan baxter withdrew, followed by captain villaire. "you think za will pay?" queried the french brigand anxiously. "to be sure they will pay. they value their lives too much to refuse. just wait until they have suffered the pangs of hunger and thirst, and you'll see how they change their tune." "you are certain za have ze monish?" "yes; they are rich. it will only be a question of waiting for the money after they send for it." "i vill not mind zat." "neither will i--if we are safe here. you don't think anybody will follow us?" "not unless za find ze way up from ze rivair. za cannot come here by land, because of ze swamps," answered the frenchman. "and ze way from ze rivair shall be well guarded from now on," he added. chapter xix what happened to tom and sam let us return to tom and sam, at the time they were left alone at binoto's hostelry. "i wish we had gone with dick and uncle randolph," said tom, as he slipped into his coat and shoes. "i don't like this thing at all." "oh, don't get scared before you are hurt, tom!" laughed his younger brother. "these people out here may be peculiar, but--" sam did not finish. a loud call from the woods had reached his ears, and in alarm he too began to dress, at the same time reaching for his pistol and the money belt which randolph rover had left behind. "i--i guess something is wrong," he went on, after a pause. "if we--" "tom! sam! look out fo' yourselves!" came from aleck, and in a second more the negro, burst on their view. "come, if yo' is dressed!" he added. "where to?" asked tom hurriedly. "anywhar, massah tom. de others is took prisoners! come!" and aleck almost dragged the boy along. the rover boys could readily surmise that aleck would not act in this highly excited manner unless there was good cause for it. consequently, as sam said afterward, "they didn't stand on the order of their going, but just flew." pell-mell out of the hostelry they tumbled, and ran up the highway as rapidly as their nimble limbs would permit. they heard several men coming after them, and heard the command "halt!" yelled after them in both french and bad english. but they did not halt until a sudden tumble on tom's part made the others pause in dismay. "oh, great caesar!" groaned the fun-loving rover, and tried to stand up. "i guess i've twisted my ankle." "can't you even walk?" asked sam. "we ain't got no time ter lose!" panted aleck, who was almost winded. "if we stay here we'll be gobbled up--in no time, dat's shuah!" "let us try to carry tom," said sam, and attempted to lift his brother up. but the load made him stagger. "de trees--let us dun hide in, de trees!" went on the negro, struck by a certain idea. "come on, quick!" "yes--yes--anything!" groaned tom, and then shut his teeth hard to keep himself from screaming with pain. together they carried the suffering youth away from the highway to where there was a thick jungle of trees and tropical vines. the vines, made convenient ladders by which to get up into the trees, and soon sam and aleck were up and pulling poor tom after them. "now we must be still," said aleck, when they were safe for the time being. "hear dem a-conun' dis way." the three listened and soon made out the footsteps of the approaching party. they soon passed on up the road. "we've fooled them," whispered sam. "but, oh, aleck, what does it all mean?" "it means dat yo' uncle an' dick am prisoners--took by a lot of rascals under a tall, frenchman." "yes, but i don't understand--" "no more do i, massah sam, but it war best to git out, dat's as shuah as yo' is born," added the colored man solemnly. poor torn was having a wretched time of it with his ankle, which hurt as badly as ever and had begun to swell. as he steadied himself on one of the limbs of the tree sam removed his shoe, which gave him a little relief. from a distance came a shouting, and they made out through the trees the gleam of a torch. but soon the sounds died out and the light disappeared. what should they do next? this was a question impossible to answer. "one thing is certain, i can't walk just yet," said tom. "when i put my foot down it's like a thousand needles darting through my leg." "let us go below and hunt up some water," said sam; and after waiting a while longer they descended into the small brush. aleck soon found a pool not far distant, and to this they carried tom, and after all had had a drink, the swollen ankle was bathed, much to the sufferer's relief. slowly the time dragged by until morning. as soon as the sun was up aleck announced that he was going back to the hostelry to see how the land lay. "but don't expose yourself," said tom. "i am certain now that is a regular robbers' resort, or worse." aleck was gone the best part of three hours. when he returned he was accompanied by cujo. the latter announced that all of the other natives had fled for parts unknown. "the inn is deserted," announced aleck. even that colored wife of the proprietor is gone. "and did you find any trace of dick and my uncle?" asked sam. "we found out where dat struggle took place," answered, aleck. "and cujo reckons as how he can follow de trail if we don't wait too long to do it." "must go soon," put in cujo for himself. "maybe tomorrow come big storm--den track all washed away." tom sighed and shook his head. "you can go on, but you'll have to leave me behind. i couldn't walk a hundred yards for a barrel of gold." "oh, we can't think of leaving you behind!" cried sam. "i'll tell you wot--ise dun carry him, at least fe a spell," said aleck, and so it was arranged. under the new order of things cujo insisted on making a scouting tour first, that he might strike the trail before carrying them off on a circuitous route, thus tiring aleck out before the real tracking began. the african departed, to be gone the best part of an hour. when he came back there was a broad grin of satisfaction on his homely features. "cujo got a chicken," he announced, producing the fowl. "and here am some werry good roots, too. now va dinner befo' we start out." "right yo' am, cujo!" cried pop, and began to start up a fire without delay, while cujo cleaned the fowl and mashed up the roots, which, when baked on a hot stone, tasted very much like sweet potatoes. the meal was enjoyed by all, even tom eating his full share in spite of his swollen ankle, which was now gradually resuming its normal condition. cujo had found the trail at a distance of an eighth of a mile above the wayside hostelry. "him don't lead to de ribber dare," he said. "but i dun think somet'ing of him." "and what do you think?" asked tom, from his seat on aleck's back. "i t'ink he go to de kolobo." "and what is the kolobo?" asked sam with interest. "de kolobo old place on ribber-place where de white soldiers shoot from big fort-house." "a fort!" cried tom. "but would the authorities allow, them to go there?" "no soldiers dare now--leave kolobo years ago. place most tumble down now. but good place fo' robbers." "i see. well, follow the trail as best you can--and we'll see what we will see." "and let us get along just as fast as we can," added sam. on they went through a forest that in spots was so thick they could scarcely pass. the jungle contained every kind of tropical growth, including ferns, which were beautiful beyond description, and tiny vines so wiry that they cut like a knife. "this is tough," remarked sam. "but i suppose it doesn't hold a candle to what is beyond." "werry bad further on," answered cujo. "see, here am de trail," and he pointed it out. several miles were covered, when they came to a halt in order to rest and to give aleck a let up in carrying tom. the youth now declared his foot felt much better and hobbled along for some distance by leaning on sam's shoulder. presently they were startled by hearing a cry from a distance. they listened intently, then cujo held up his hand. "me go an' see about dat," he said. "keep out ob sight, all ob you!" and he glided into the bushes with the skill and silence of a snake. another wait ensued, and tom improved the time by again bathing his foot in a pool which was discovered not far from where cujo had left them. the water seemed to do much good, and the youth declared that by the morrow he reckoned he would be able to do a fair amount of walking if they did not progress too rapidly. "but what a country this is!" he murmured. "i declare they could burn wood night and day for a century and never miss a stick." "i thought i heard some monkeys chattering a while ago," answered sam. "i suppose the interior is alive with them." "i dun see a monkey lookin' at us now, from dat tree," observed aleck. "see dem shinin' eyes back ob de leaves?" he pointed with his long forefinger, and both, boys gazed in the direction. then tom gave a yell. "a monkey? that's a snake! look out for yourselves!" he started back and the others did the same. and they were none too soon, for an instant later the leaves were thrust apart and a serpent's form appeared, swaying slowly to and fro, as if contemplating a drop upon their very heads! chapter xx the fight at the old fort for the instant after the serpent appeared nobody spoke or moved. the waving motion of the reptile was fascinating to the last degree, as was also that beady stare from its glittering eyes. the stare was fixed upon poor tom, and having retreated but a few feet, he now stood as though rooted to the spot. slowly the form of the snake was lowered, until only the end of its tail kept it up on the tree branch. then the head and neck began to swing back and forth, in a straight line with tom's face. the horrible fascination held the poor, boy as by a spell, and he could do nothing but look at those eyes, which seemed to bum themselves upon his very brain. closer and closer, and still closer, they came to his face, until at last the reptile prepared to strike. crack! it was sam's pistol that spoke up, at just the right instant, and those beady eyes were ruined forever, and the wounded head twisted in every direction, while the body of the serpent, dropping from the tree, lashed and dashed hither and thither in its agony. then the spell was broken, and tom let out such a yell of terror as had never before issued from his lips. crack! came a second shot from sam's pistol. but the serpent was moving around too rapidly for a good aim to be taken, and only the tip of the tail was struck. then, in a mad, blind fashion, the snake coiled itself upon aleck's foot, and began, with lightning-like rapidity, to encircle the colored man's body. "help!" shrieked aleck, trying to pull the snake off with his hands. "help! or ise a dead man, shuah!" "catch him by the neck, aleck!" ejaculated tom, and brought out his own pistol. watching his chance, he pulled the trigger twice, sending both bullets straight through the reptile's body. then sam fired again, and the mangled head fell to the ground. but dead or alive the body still encircled aleck, and the contraction threatened to cave in the colored man's ribs. "pull him off somehow!" he gasped. "pull him off!" crack! went tom's pistol once more, and now the snake had evidently had enough of it, for it uncoiled slowly and fell to the ground in a heap, where it slowly shifted from one spot to another until life was extinct. but neither the boys nor the colored man waited to see if it was really dead. instead, they took to their heels and kept on running until the locality was left a considerable distance behind. "that was a close shave," said tom, as he dropped on the ground and began to nurse his lame ankle once more. "ugh! but that snake was enough to give one the nightmare!" "don't say a word," groaned aleck, who had actually turned pale. "i vought shuah i was a goner, i did fo' a fac'! i don't want to meet no mo' snakes!" the two boys reloaded their pistols with all rapidity, and this was scarcely accomplished when they heard cujo calling to them. soon the native put in an appearance. when told of what had happened he would not believe the tale until he had gone back to look at the dead snake. "you werry lucky," he said. "him big wonder um snake didn't kill all of yo'!" cujo had made an important discovery. he had located captain villaire's party at the old fort, and said that several french brigands were on guard, by the trail leading from the swamp and at the cliff overlooking the river. "i see white boy dare too," he added. "same boy wot yo' give money to in boma." "dan baxter!" ejaculated sam. "can it be possible that he is mixed up in this affair?" "i can't understand it at all," returned tom. "but the question is, now we have tracked the rascals, what is to be done next?" after a long talk it was resolved to get as close to the old fort as possible. cujo said they need not hurry, for it would be best to wait until nightfall before making any demonstration against their enemies. the african was very angry to think that the other natives had deserted the party, but this anger availed them nothing. four o'clock in the afternoon found them on the edge of the swamp and not far from the bank of the congo. beyond was the cliff, overgrown in every part with rank vegetation, and the ever-present vines, which hung down like so many ropes of green. "if we want to get up the wall we won't want any scaling ladders," remarked tom grimly. "oh, if only we knew that dick and uncle randolph were safe!" "i'm going to find out pretty soon," replied sam. "i'll tell you what i think. i think they are being held for ransom." "i was thinking of that, too. but i didn't dream of such a thing being done down here although, i know it is done further north in africa among the moors and algerians." cujo now went off on another scout and did not return until the sun was setting. again he was full of smiles. "i can show you a way up de rocks," he said. "we can get to the walls of um fort, as you call um, without being seen." soon night was upon them, for in the tropics there is rarely any twilight. tom now declared himself able to walk once more, and they moved off silently, like so many shadows, beside the swamp and then over a fallen palm to where a series of rocks, led up to the cliff proper. "sh-ah!" came presently from cujo. "man ahead!" they came to a halt, and through the gloom saw a solitary figure sitting on a rock. the sentinel held a gun over his knees and was smoking a cigarette. "if he sees us he will give the alarm," whispered tom. "can't we capture him without making a noise?" "dat's de talk," returned aleck. "cujo, let us dun try dat trick." cujo nodded. "urn boys stay here," he said. "cujo fix dat feller!" and off he crawled through the wet grass, taking a circuitous route which brought him up on the sentinel's left. presently the sentinel started to rise. as he did so cujo leaped from the grass and threw him to the earth. then a long knife flashed in the air. "no speak, or um diet" came softly; but, the frenchman realized that the african meant what he said. "i will be silent!" he growled, in the language of the african. "don't--don't choke me." cujo let out a low whistle, which the others rightly guessed was a signal for them to come up. finding himself surrounded, the frenchman gave up his gun and other weapons without a struggle. he could talk no english, so what followed had to be translated by cujo. "yes, de man an' boy are dare," explained cujo, pointing to the fort. "da chained up, so dis rascal say. de captain ob de band want heap money to let um go." "ask him how many of the band there are," asked sam. but at this question the frenchman shook his head. either he did not know or would not tell. after a consultation the rascal was made to march back to safer ground. then he was strapped to a tree and gagged. the straps were not fastened very tightly, so that the man was sure to gain his liberty sooner or later. "if we didn't come back and he was too tight he might starve to death," said tom. "not but wot he deserves to starve," said aleck, with a scowl at the crestfallen prisoner. at the foot of the cliff all was as dark and silent as a tomb. "we go slow now, or maybe take a big tumble," cautioned cujo. "perhaps him better if me climb up first," and he began the dangerous ascent of the cliff by means of the numerous vines already mentioned. he was halfway up when the others started after him, sam first, tom next, and aleck bringing up in the rear. slowly they arose until the surface of the stream was a score or more of feet below them. then came the sounds of footsteps from above and suddenly a torch shone down into their upturned faces. "hullo, who's this?" came in english and the rover boys recognized dan baxter. "silence, on your life!" cried tom. "tom rover!" gasped the bully. "how came you--" "silence, baxter! i have a pistol and you know i am a good shot. stand where you an and put both hands over your head." "will i stand? not much!" yelled the bully, and flung his torch straight at tom. then he turned and ran for the fort, giving the alarm at the top of his lungs. the torch struck tom on the neck, and for the moment the youth was in danger of losing his hold on the vines and tumbling to the jagged rocks below. but then the torch slipped away, past sam and aleck, and went hissing into the dark waters of the congo. by this time cujo had reached the top of the cliff and was making after baxter. both gained the end of the fort at the same time and one mighty blow from cujo's club laid baxter senseless near the doorway. "help! help!" the cry came in dick's voice, and was plainly heard by sam and tom. then captain villaire appeared, and a rough and tumble battle ensued, which the rovers well remember to this day. but tom was equal to the occasion, and after the first onslaught he turned, as if summoning help from the cliff. "this way!" he cried. "tell the company to come up here and the other company can surround the swamp!" several pistol shots rang out, and the boys saw a frenchman go down with a broken arm. then captain villaire shouted: "we have been betrayed--we must flee!" the cry came in french, and as if by magic the brigands disappeared into the woods behind the old fort; and victory was upon the side of our friends. chapter xxi into the heart of africa "well, i sincerely trust we have no more such adventures." the speaker was randolph rover. he was seated on an old bench in one of the rooms of the fort, binding up a finger which had been bruised in the fray. it was two hours later, and the fight had come to an end some time previous. nobody was seriously hurt, although sam, dick, and aleck were suffering from several small wounds. aleck had had his ear clipped by a bullet from captain villaire's pistol and was thankful that he had not been killed. baxter, the picture of misery, was a prisoner. the bully's face was much swollen and one eye was in deep mourning. he sat huddled up in a heap in a corner and wondering what punishment would be dealt out to him. "i suppose they'll kill me," he groaned, and it may be added that he thought he almost deserved that fate. "you came just in time," said dick. "captain villaire was about to torture us into writing letters home asking for the money he wanted as a ransom. baxter put it into his head that we were very rich." "oh, please don't say anything more about it!" groaned the unfortunate bully. "i--that frenchman put up this job all on his own hook." "i don't believe it," came promptly from randolph rover. "you met him, at boma; you cannot deny it." "so i did; but he didn't say he was going to capture you, and i--" "we don't care to listen to your falsehoods, baxter," interrupted dick sternly. "you are fully as guilty as anybody. you admitted it before." cujo had gone off to watch captain villaire and his party. he now came back, bringing word that the brigand had taken a fallen tree and put out on the congo and was drifting down the stream along with several of his companions in crime. "him won't come back," said the tall african. "him had enough of urn fight." nevertheless the whole party remained on guard until morning, their weapons ready for instant use. but no alarm came, and when day, dawned they soon made sure that they had the entire locality around the old fort to themselves, the frenchman with a broken arm having managed to crawl off and reach his friends. what to do with dan baxter was a conundrum. "we can't take him with us, and if we leave him behind he will only be up to more evil," said dick. "we ought to turn him over to the british authorities." "no, no, don't do that," pleaded the tall youth. "let me go and i'll promise never to interfere with you again." "your promises are not worth the breath used in uttering them," replied tom. "baxter, a worse rascal than you could not be imagined. why don't you try to turn over a new leaf?" "i will--if you'll only give me one more chance," pleaded the former bully of putnam hall. the matter was discussed in private and it was at last decided to let baxter go, providing he would, promise to return straight to the coast. "and remember," said dick, "if we catch you following us again we will shoot you on sight." "i won't follow--don't be alarmed," was the low answer, and then baxter was released and conducted to the road running down to boma. he was given the knife he had carried, but the rovers kept his pistol, that he might not be able to take a long-range shot at them. soon he was out of their sight, not to turn up again for a long while to come. it was not until the heat of the day had been spent that the expedition resumed its journey, after, an excellent meal made from the supplies captain villaire's party had left behind in their hurried flight. some of the remaining supplies were done up into bundles by cujo, to replace those which had been lost when the natives hired by randolph rover had deserted. "it's queer we didn't see anything of that man and woman from the inn," remarked dick, as they set off. "i reckon they got scared at the very start." they journeyed until long after nightfall, "to make up for lost time," as mr. rover expressed it, and so steadily did cujo push on that when a halt was called the boys were glad enough to rest. they had reached a native village called rowimu. here cujo was well known and he readily procured good accommodations for all hands. the next week passed without special incident, excepting that one afternoon the whole party went hunting, bringing down a large quantity of birds, and several small animals, including an antelope, which to the boys looked like a maine deer excepting for the peculiar formation of its horns. "i wonder how mr. blaze is making out?" said tom, when they were returning to camp from the hunt. "oh, i reckon he is blasting away at game," laughed sam, and tom at once groaned over the attempted joke. "perhaps we will meet him some day--if he's in this territory," put in dick. "but just now i am looking for nobody but father." "and so are all of us," said tom and sam promptly. they were getting deeper and deeper into the jungle and had to take good care that they did not become separated. yet cujo said he understood the way perfectly and often proved his words by mentioning something which they would soon reach, a stream, a little lake, or a series of rocks with a tiny waterfall. "been ober dis ground many times," said the guide. "i suppose this is the ground stanley covered in his famous expedition along the congo," remarked dick, as they journeyed along. "but who really discovered the country, uncle randolph?" "that is a difficult question to answer, dick. the portuguese, the spanish, and the french all claim that honor, along with the english. i fancy different sections, were discovered by different nationalities. this free state, you know, is controlled by half a dozen nations." "i wonder if the country will ever be thoroughly civilized?" "it will take a long while, i am afraid. christianity will have to come first. many of the tribes in africa are, you must remember, without any form of religion whatever, being even worse than what we call heathens, who worship some sort of a god." "don't they believe in anything?" asked sam. "nothing, sam. and their morality is of the lowest grade in consequence. they murder and steal whenever the chance offers, and when they think the little children too much care for them they pitch them into the rivers for the crocodiles to feed upon." "the beasts!" murmured tom. "well, i reckon at that rate, civilization can't come too quick, even if it has to advance behind bayonets and cannon." chapter xxii a hurricane in the jungle on and on went the expedition. in the past many small towns and villages had been visited where there were more or less white people; but now they reached a territory where the blacks held full sway, with--but this was rarely--a christian missionary among them. at all of the places which were visited cujo inquired about king susko and his people, and at last learned that the african had passed to the southeast along the kassai river, driving before him several hundred head of cattle which he had picked up here and there. "him steal dat cattle," explained cujo, "but him don't say dat stealin', him say um--um--" "a tax on the people?" suggested dick. "yes, um tax. but him big vief." "he must be, unless he gives the people some benefit for the tax they are forced to pay," said tom. at one of the villages they leaned that there was another american party in that territory, one sent out by an eastern college to collect specimens of the flora of central africa. it was said that the party consisted of an elderly man and half a dozen young fellows. "i wouldn't mind meeting that crowd," said sam. "they might brighten up things a bit." "never mind; things will pick up when once we meet king susko," said dick. "but i would like to know where the crowd is from and who is in it." "it's not likely we would know them if they are from the east," said sam. "probably they hail from yale or harvard." two days later the storm which cujo had predicted for some time caught them while they were in the midst of an immense forest of teak and rosewood. it was the middle of the afternoon, yet the sky became as black as night, while from a distance came the low rumble of thunder. there was a wind rushing high up in the air, but as yet this had not come down any further than the treetops. the birds of the jungle took up the alarm and filled the forest with their discordant cries, and even the monkeys, which were now numerous, sit up a jabber which would have been highly trying to the nerves of a nervous person. "yes, we catch um," said cujo, in reply to dick's question. "me look for safe place too stay." "you think the storm will be a heavy one?" asked randolph rover anxiously. "werry heavy, massah; werry heavy," returned cujo. "come wid me, all ob you," and he set off on a run. all followed as quickly as they could, and soon found themselves under a high mass of rocks overlooking the kassai river. they had hardly gained the shelter when the storm burst over their heads in all of its wild fury. "my, but this beats anything that i ever saw before!" cried sam, as the wind began to rush by them with ever-increasing velocity. "him blow big by-me-by," said cujo with a sober face. "him big storm, dis." "the air was full of a moanin' sound," to use aleck's way of expressing it. it came from a great distance and caused the monkeys and birds to set up more of a noise than ever. the trees were now swaying violently, and presently from a distance came a crack like that of a big pistol. "was that a tree went down?" asked randolph rover, and cujo nodded. "it is a good thing, then, that we got out of the forest." "big woods werry dangerous in heap storm like dis," answered the african. "tree come down, maybe kill um. hark! now um comin'!" he crouched down between two of the largest rocks and instinctively the others followed suit. the "moanin" increased until, with a roar and a rush, a regular tropical hurricane was upon them. the blackness of the atmosphere was filled with flying tree branches and scattered vines, while the birds, large and small, swept past like chips on a swiftly flowing river, powerless to save themselves in those fierce gusts. "keep down, for your lives!" shouted randolph rover; but the roar of the elements drowned out his voice completely. however, nobody thought of rising, and the tree limbs and vines passed harmlessly over their heads. the first rush of wind over, the rain began, to fall, at first in drops as big as a quarter-dollar and then in a deluge which speedily converted the hollows among the rocks into deep pools and soaked everybody to his very skin. soon the water was up to their knees and pouring down into the river like a regular cataract. "this is a soaker and no mistake," said sam, during a brief lull in the downpour. "why, i never saw so much water come down in my life." "it's a hurricane," answered randolph rover, "it may keep on--" he got no further, for at that instant a blinding flash of lightning caused everybody to jump in alarm. then came an ear-splitting crack of thunder and up the river they saw a magnificent baobab tree, which had reared its stately head over a hundred feet high from the ground, come crashing down, split in twain as by a titan's ax. the blackened stump was left standing, and soon--this burst into flames, to blaze away until another downpour of rain put out the conflagration. "my, but that dun been awful!" murmured aleck with a shiver. "ise glad we didn't take no shelter under dat tree." "amen," said tom. he had been on the point of making some joke about the storm, but now the fun was knocked completely out of him. it rained for the rest of the day and all of the night, and for once all hands felt thoroughly, miserable. several times they essayed to start a fire, by which to dry themselves and make something hot to drink, but each time the rain put out the blaze. what they had to eat was not only cold, but more or less water-soaked, and it was not until the next noon that they managed to cook a meal. when at last the sun did come out, however, it shone, so sam put it, "with a vengeance." there was not a cloud left, and the direct rays of the great orb of day caused a rapid evaporation of the rain, so that the ground seemed to be covered with a sort of mist. on every side could be seen the effects of the hurricane-broken trees, washed-out places along the river, and dead birds and small animals, including countless monkeys. the monkeys made the boys' hearts ache, especially one big female, that was found tightly clasping two little baby monkeys to her breast. the storm had swollen the river to such an extent that they were forced to leave the beaten track cujo had been pursuing and take to another trail which reached out to the southward. here they passed a small village occupied entirely by negroes, and cujo learned from them that king susko had passed that way but five days before. he had had no cattle with him, the majority of his followers having taken another route. it was thought by some of the natives that king susko was bound for a mountain known as the hakiwaupi--or ghost-of-gold. "the ghost-of-gold!" repeated dick. "can that be the mountain father was searching for when he came to africa?" inquiries from cujo elicited the information that the mountain mentioned was located about one hundred miles away, in the center of an immense plain. it was said to be full of gold, but likewise haunted by the ghost of a departed warrior known to the natives as gnu-ho-mumoli--man-of-the-gnu-eye. "i reckon that ghost story, was started, by somebody who wanted, to keep the wealth of che mountain to himself," observed tom. "i don't believe in ghosts, do you, cujo?" the tall african shrugged his ebony shoulders, "maybe no ghost--but if dare is, no want to see 'um," he said laconically. nevertheless he did not object to leading them in the direction of the supposedly haunted mountain. so far the natives had been more or less friendly, but now those that were met said but little to cujo, while scowls at the whites were frequent. it was learned that the college party from the east was in the vicinity. "perhaps they did something to offend the natives," observed randolph rover. "as you can see, they are simple and childlike in their ways, and as quickly offended on one hand as they are pleased on the other. all of you must be careful in your treatment of them, otherwise we may get into serious trouble." chapter xxiii dick meets an old enemy one afternoon dick found himself alone near the edge of a tiny lake situated on the southern border of the jungle through which the party had passed. the others had gone up the lake shore, leaving him to see what he could catch for supper. he had just hooked a magnificent fish of a reddish-brown color, when, on looking up, he espied an elderly man gazing at him intently from a knoll of water-grass a short distance away. "richard rover, is it--ahem--possible?" came slowly from the man's thin lips. "surely i must be dreaming!" "josiah crabtree!" ejaculated dick, so surprised that he let the fish fall into the water again. "how on earth did you get out here?" "i presume i might--er--ask that same question," returned the former teacher of putnam hall. "did you follow me to africa?" "do you imagine i would be fool enough to do that, mr. crabtree? no, the stanhopes and i were content to let you go--so long as you minded your own business in the future." "do not grow saucy, boy; i will not stand it." "i am not saucy, as you see fit to term it, josiah crabtree. you know as well as i do that you ought to be in prison this minute for plotting the abduction of dora." "i know nothing of the kind, and will not waste words on you. but if you did not follow me why are you here?" "i am here on business, and not ashamed to own it." "indeed. and you--did you come in search of your missing father?" "i did." "you once said he was missing. it is a long journey for one so young." "it's a queer place for you to come to." "i am with an exploring party from yale college. we are studying the fauna and flora of central africa--at least, they are doing so under my guidance." "they must be learning a heap--under you." "do you mean to say i am not capable of teaching them!" cried josiah crabtree, wrathfully. "well, if i was in their place i would want somebody else besides the man who was discharged by captain putnam and who failed to get the appointment he wanted at columbia college because he could not stand the examination." "boy! boy! you know nothing of my ability!" fumed crabtree, coming closer and shaking, his fist in dick's face. "well, i know something of your lack of ability." "you are doing your best to insult me!" "such an old fraud as you cannot be insulted, josiah crabtree. i read your real character the first time i met you, and you have never done anything since which has caused me to alter my opinion of you. you have a small smattering of learning and you can put on a very wise look when occasion requires. but that is all there is to it, except that behind it all you are a thorough-paced scoundrel and only lack a certain courage to do some daring bit of rascality." this statement of plain truths fairly set josiah crabtree to boiling with rage. he shook his fist in dick's face again. "don't dare to talk that way, rover; don't dare--or--i'll--i'll--" "what will you do?" "never mind; i'll show you when the proper time comes." "i told you once before that i was not afraid of you--and i am not afraid of you now." "you did not come to africa alone, did you?" "to be sure i did not. i have a large party with me." "in this vicinity?" "yes, within calling distance. i tell you that--and it's the truth--so that you won't try any underhand game on me." "you--you--" josiah crabtree broke off and suddenly grew nervous. "see here, rover, let us be friends," he said abruptly. "let us drop the past and be friends-at least, so long as we are so far away from home and in the country of the enemy." this sudden change in manner astonished dick. was crabtree serious? certainly the man's manner would indicate as much. "well, i'm willing to let past matters, drop--just for the present," he answered, hardly knowing what to say. "i wish to pay all my attention to finding my father." "exactly, richard--and--er--you--who is with you? anybody i know?" "sam and dick and alexander pop." "is it possible! and that black, how is it he came along?" "he joined us by accident. but what of your party?" "they are a set of rich young students from yale in their senior year who engaged me to bring them hither for study and--er--recreation. and that puts me in mind. you will not--ahem--say anything about the past to them, will you?" chapter xxiv josiah crabtree makes a move as quick as a flash of lightning dick saw through josiah crabtree's scheme for, letting matters of the past drop. the former teacher of putnam hall was afraid the youth would hunt up the college students from yale and expose him to them. as a matter of fact, crabtree was already "on the outs" with two of the students, and he was afraid that if the truth regarding his character became known his present position would be lost to him and he would be cast off to shift for himself. "you don't want me to speak to the students under your charge?" said dick slowly. "oh, of course you can speak to them, if you wish. but i--ahem--i would not care to--er--er--" "to let them know what a rascal you are," finished dick. "crabtree, let me tell you once for all, that you can expect no friendship, from me. you are not worthy of it. when i meet those students i will tell them whatever i see fit." at these words josiah crabtree grew as white as a sheet. then, setting his teeth, he suddenly recovered. "are those your friends?" he demanded, pointing up the lake shore. as was perfectly natural, dick turned to gaze in the direction. as he did so, crabtree swung a stick that he carried into the air and brought it down with all force on the youth's head. dick felt a terrific pain, saw a million or more dancing lights flash through his brain--and then he knew no more. "i guess i've fixed him," muttered the former teacher of putnam hall grimly. he knelt beside the fallen boy and felt of his heart. "not dead, but pretty well knocked out. now what had i best do with him?" he thought for a moment, then remembered a deep hollow which he had encountered but a short while before. gazing around, to make certain that nobody was watching him, he picked up the unconscious lad and stalked off with the form, back into the jungle and up a small hill. at the top there was a split between the rocks and dirt, and into this he dropped poor dick, a distance of twenty or more feet. then he threw down some loose leaves and dead tree branches. "now i reckon i am getting square with those rovers," he muttered, as he hurried away. the others of the rover party wondered why dick did not join them when they gathered around the camp-fire that night. "he must be done fishing by this time," said tom. "i wonder if anything has happened to him?" "let us take a walk up de lake an' see," put in aleck, and the pair started off without delay. they soon found the spot where dick had been fishing. his rod and line lay on the bank, just as he had dropped it upon josiah crabtree's approach. "dick! dick! where are you?" called out tom. no answer came back at first. then, to tom's astonishment, a strange voice answered from the woods: "here i am! where are you?" "dat aint dick," muttered aleck. "dat's sumbuddy else, massah tom." "so it is," replied tom, and presently saw a tall and well-built young man struggling forth from the tall grass of the jungle. "hullo, what are you?" demanded the newcomer, as he stalked toward them. "i guess i can ask the same question," laughed tom. "are you the dick who just answered me?" "i am dick chester. and who are you?" "tom rover. i am looking for my brother dick, who was fishing here a while ago. are you one of that party of college students we have heard about?" "yes, i'm a college student from yale. may i ask where you come from?" in a brief manner tom told dick chester. "we can't imagine what has become of my brother dick," he went on. "perhaps a lion ate him up," answered the yale student. "no, you needn't smile. we saw a lion only yesterday. it nearly scared mr. crabtree into a fit." "mr. crabtree!" burst torn. "josiah crabtree?" "the same. do you know him?" "indeed i do--to my sorrow. he used to be a teacher at the academy i and my brothers attend. but he was discharged. he's a regular rascal." "you are sure of that?" queried dick chester. "i have thought so all along, but the others, would hardly believe it." "i am telling the truth, and can prove all i say. but just now i am anxious about my brother. you say you saw a lion?" "yes. he was across the lake; but mr. crabtree was scared to death and ran away. frank rand and i took shots at the beast, but i can't say if we hit him." "it would be too bad if dick dunh fell into dat lion's clutches," put in aleck. "i reckon de lion would chaw him up in no time." "go back and call cujo," said tom. "he may be able to track my brother's footsteps." at once aleck loped off. while he was gone tom told dick chester much concerning himself, and the college student related several facts in connection with the party to which he belonged. "there are six of us students," he said. "we were going to have a professor from yale with us, but he got sick at the last moment and we hired josiah crabtree. i wish we hadn't done it now, for he has proved more of a hindrance than a help, and his real knowledge of fauna and flora could be put in a peanut shell, with room to spare." "he's a big brag," answered tom. "take my advice and never trust him too far--or you may be sorry for it." presently aleck came back, with cujo following. the brawny african began at once to examine the footprints along the lake shore. "him been here," he said. "him came up dis way. but him no walk away." "didn't walk away!" ejaculated tom. "no. udder footprints walk away, but not um massah dick." "i don't understand, cujo. do you think he--fell into the lake?" "perhaps, massah tom--or maybe he get into boat." tom shook his head. "i don't know of any boats around here--do you?" he asked of dick chester. "no," returned the young man from yale. "but the natives living in the vicinity may have them." "perhaps a native dun carry him off," said aleck. "he must be sumwhar, dat am certain." "yes, he must be somewhere," repeated tom sadly. by this time sam and randolph rover were coming up, and also one of dick chester's friends. the college students were introduced to the others by tom, and then a general hunt began for dick, which lasted until the shades of night had fallen. but poor dick was not found, and all wondered greatly what had, become of him. tom and the others retired at ten o'clock. but not to sleep, for with dick missing none of the rovers could close an eye. "we must find him in the morning," said sam. "we simply must!" and the others agreed with him. chapter xxv dick and the lion when poor dick came to his senses he was lying in a heap on the decayed leaves at the bottom of the hollow between the rocks. the stuff josiah crabtree had thrown down still lay on top, of him, and it was a wonder that he had not been smothered. "where in the world am i?" was the first thought which crossed his confused mind. he tried to sit up, but found this impossible until he had scattered the dead leaves and tree branches. even then he was so bewildered that he hardly knew what to do, excepting to stare around at his strange surroundings. slowly the truth dawned upon him--how josiah crabtree had struck him down on the lake shore. "he must have brought me here," he murmured. "perhaps he thought i was dead!" although dick did not know it, he had been at the bottom of the hollow all evening and all night. the sun was now up once more, but it was a day later than he imagined. the hollow was damp and full of ants and other insects, and as soon as he felt able the youth got up. there was a big lump behind his left ear where the stick had descended, and this hurt not a little. "i'll get square with him some day," he muttered, as he tried to crawl out of the hollow. "he has more courage to play the villain than i gave him credit for. sometime i'll face him again, and then things will be different." it was no easy matter to get out of the hollow. the sides were steep and slippery, and four times poor dick tried, only to slip back to the bottom. he was about to try a fifth time, when a sound broke upon his ears which caused him great alarm. from only a short distance away came the muffled roar of a lion. dick had never heard, this sound out in the open before, but he had heard it a number of times at the circus and at the menagerie in central park, new york, and he recognized the roar only too well. "a lion!" he thought. "my gracious! i trust he isn't coming this way!" but he was coming that way, as dick soon discovered. a few seconds of silence were followed by another roar which to, the alarmed youth appeared to come from almost over his head. then came a low whine, which was kept up for fully a minute, followed by another roar. dick hardly knew what was best--to remain at the bottom of the hollow or try to escape to some tree at the top of the opening. "if i go up now he may nab me on sight," he thought dismally. "oh, if only i had my--thank heaven, i have!" dick had felt for his pistol before, to find it gone. but now he spotted the glint of the shiny barrel among the leaves. the weapon had fallen from his person at the time crabtree had pitched him into the hollow. he reached for it, and to his joy found that it was fully loaded and ready for use. presently he heard the bushes overhead thrust aside, and then came a half roar, half whine that made him jump. looking up, he saw a lion standing on the edge of the hollow facing him. the monarch of the forest was holding one of his forepaws up and now he sat down on his haunches to lick the limb. then he set up another whine and shook the limb painfully. "he has hurt that paw," thought dick. "wonder if he sees me?" yes, he did see, just at that instant, and started back in astonishment. then his face took on a fierce look and he gave a roar which could be heard for miles around. crack! it was the report of dick's pistol, but the youth was nervous, and the bullet merely glanced along the lion's body, doing little or no damage. the beast roared again, then crouched down and prepared to leap upon the youth. but the wounded forepaw was a hindrance to the lion's movements, and he began to crawl along the hollow's edge, seeking a better point from which to make a leap. then dick's pistol spoke up a second time. this shot was a far better one, and the bullet passed directly through the knee-joint of the lion's left forepaw. he was now wounded in both fore limbs, and set up a roar which seemed to fairly make the jungle tremble. twice he started to leap down into the hollow, but each time retreated to shake one wounded limb after another into the air with whines of pain and distress. as soon as the great beast reappeared once more dick continued his firing. soon his pistol was empty, but the lion had not been hit again. in nervous haste the lad started to re-load only to find that his cartridge box was empty. "get out!" he yelled at the lion, and threw a stone at the beast. but the lion was now determined to descend into the hollow, and paused only to calculate a sure leap to the boy's head. but that pause, brief as it was, was fatal to the calculations of the monarch of the jungle. from his rear came two shots in rapid succession, each hitting him in a vulnerable portion of his body. he leaped up into the air, rolled over on the edge of the hollow, and then came down, head first, just grazing dick's arm, and landing at the boy's feet, stone dead. "hurrah! i reckon i hit him!" came in tom rover's voice. "and so did i," came from randolph rover. "but he has disappeared." "this way, tom!" cried dick, with all the strength he could command. he was shaking like a reed in the wind and all of the color had deserted his face. "it's dick!" ejaculated tom. "i told you that i had heard several pistol shots." soon tom and mr. rover presented themselves at the top of the hollow, followed by aleck and cujo. the latter procured a rope made of twisted vines, and by this dick was raised up without much difficulty. chapter xxvi the last of josiah crabtree all listened intently to the story dick had to tell, and he had not yet finished when dick chester presented himself, having been attracted to the vicinity by the roars of the lion and the various pistol and gun shots. "this crabtree must certainly be as bad as you represent," he said. "i will have a talk with him when i get back to our camp." "it won't be necessary for you to talk to him," answered dick grimly. "if you'll allow me, i'll do the talking." "all right," grinned the yale student. "do, as you please. we are a getting tired of him." chester and cujo descended into the hollow to examine the lion. there was a bullet in his right foreleg which chester proved had come from his rifle. "he must be the beast frank rand and i fired at from across the lake. probably he had his home in the hollow and limped over to it during the night." "in that case you are entitled to your fair share of the meat--if you wish any," said randolph rover with a smile. "but i think the pelt goes to tom, for he fired the shot that was really fatal." and that skin did go to tom, and lies on his parlor floor at home today. "several of the students from yale had been out on a long tour the afternoon before, in the direction, of the mountain, and they had reported meeting several natives who had seen king susko. he was reported to have but half a dozen of his tribe with him, including a fellow known as poison eye. "that's a bad enough title for anybody," said sam with a shudder. "i suppose his job is to poison their enemies if they can't overcome them in regular battle." "um tell de thruf," put in cujo. "once de mimi tribe fight king susko, and whip him. den susko send poison eye to de mimi camp. next day all drink-water get bad, an' men, women, an' children die off like um flies." "that's cheerful information," said tom. "and why didn't they slay the poisoner?" "eberybody 'fraid to touch him--'fraid he be poisoned." "i'd run my chances--providing i had a knife or a club," muttered tom. "or a pistol," finished sam. "such rascals are not fit to live." dick, as can readily be imagined, was hungry, and before the party started back for the lake, the youth was provided with some food which aleck had very thoughtfully carried with him. it was learned that the two parties were encamped not far apart, and dick chester said he would bring his friends to, see them before the noon hour was passed. "i don't believe he will bring josiah crabtree," said tom. "i reckon crabtree will take good care to keep out of sight." tom was right. when chester came over with his friends he said that the former teacher of putnam hall was missing, having left word that he was going around the lake to look for a certain species of flower which so far they had been unable to add to their specimens. "but he will have to come back," said the vale student. "he has no outfit with which to go it alone." he was right. crabtree put in an appearance just before the sun set over the jungle to the westward. he presented a most woebegone appearance, having fallen into a muddy swamp on his face. "i--i met with an--an unfortunate accident," he said to chester. "i fell into the--ahem--mud, and it was only with great difficulty that i managed to--er--to extricate myself." "josiah crabtree, you didn't expect to see me here, did you?" said dick sternly, as he stepped forward. and then the others of his party also came out from where they had been hiding in the brush. the former teacher of putnam hall started as if confronted by a ghost. "why--er--where did you come from, rover?" he faltered. "you know well enough where i came from, josiah crabtree," cried dick wrathfully. "you dropped me into the hollow for dead, didn't you!" "why, i--er--that--is--" stammered crabtree; but could actually go no further. "don't waste words on him, dick," put in tom. "give him the thrashing he deserves." "thrashing!" gasped crabtree. "yes, thrashing," replied dick. "if we were in america i would have you locked up. but out here we must take the law into our own hands. i am going to thrash you to the very best of my ability, and after that, if i meet you again i'll--i'll--" "dun shoot him on sight," suggested aleck. "you shall not touch me!" said the former teacher with a shiver. "chester--rand--will you not aid me against this--er--savage young brute?" "don't you call dick a brute," put in sam. "if there is any brute here it is you, and everyone in our party will back up what i say." "mr. crabtree, i have nothing to say in this matter," said dick chester. "it would seem that your attack on rover was a most atrocious one, and out here you will have to take what punishment comes." "but you will help me, won't you, rand?" pleaded the former teacher, nervously. "no, i shall stand by chester," answered rand. "and will you, too, see me humiliated?" asked crabtree, turning to the other yale students. "i, the head of your expedition into equatorial africa!" "mr. crabtree, we may as well come to an understanding," said one of the students, a heavyset young man named sanders. "we hired you to do certain work for us, and we paid you well for that work. since we left america you have found fault with nearly everything, and in a good many instances which i need not recall just now you have not done as you agreed. you are not the learned scientist you represented yourself to be--instead, if we are to believe our newly made friends here, you are a pretender, a big sham, and a brute in the bargain. this being so, we intend to dispense with your services from this day forth. we will pay you what is coming to you, give you your share of our outfit, and then you can go your way and we will go ours. we absolutely want nothing more to do with you." this long speech on sanders' part was delivered amid a deathlike silence. as the student went on, josiah crabtree bit his lip until the blood came. once his baneful eyes fairly flashed fire at sanders and then at dick rover, but then they fell to the ground. "and so you--ahem--throw me off," he said, drawing a long breath. "very well. but i demand all that is coming to me." "you shall have every cent." "and a complete outfit, so that i can make my way back to the coast." "all that is coming to you--no more and no less," said sanders firmly. "but he shan't go without that thrashing!" cried dick, and catching up a long whip he had had cujo cut for him he leaped upon josiah crabtree and brought down the lash with stinging effect across the former teacher's face, leaving a livid mark that crabtree was doomed to wear to the day of his death. "there you are! and there is another for the way you treated stanhope, and another for what you did to dora, and one for tom, and another for sam, and another--" "oh! oh! let up! the boy will kill me!" shrieked crabtree, trying to run away. "don't--i will be cut to pieces! don't! don't!" and as the lash came down over his head, neck, and shoulders, he danced madly around in pain. at last he broke for cover and disappeared, not to show himself again until morning, when he called chester to him, asked for and received, what was coming to him, and departed, vowing vengeance on the rovers and all of the others. "he will remember you for that, dick," said sam, when the affair was over. "he will be your enemy for life." "let him be--i am not afraid of him," responded the elder brother. chapter xxvii the journey to the mountain by noon of the day following the rover expedition was on its way to the mountain said to be so rich in gold. the students from yale went with them. "it's like a romance, this search after your father," said chester to dick. "i hope you find him. you can rest assured that our party will do all we can for you. specimen hunting is all well enough, but man hunting is far more interesting." "i would like to go on a regular hunt for big game some day," said tom. he had already mentioned mortimer blaze to the yale students. "yes, that's nice--if you are a crack shot, like sanders. he can knock the spots from a playing card at a hundred yards." "maybe he's a western boy," laughed sam. "he is. his father owns a big cattle ranch there, and sanders learned to shoot while rounding up cattle. he's a tip-top fellow." they had passed over a small plain and were now working along a series of rough rocks overgrown with scrub brush and creeping vines full of thorns. the thorns stuck everybody but cujo, who knew exactly how to avoid them. "ise dun got scratched in 'steen thousand places," groaned aleck. "dis am worse dan a bramble bush twice ober, by golly!" for two days the united expeditions kept on their way up the mountain side, which sloped gradually at its base, the steeper portion still being several days' journey distant. during these days they shot several wild animals including a beautiful antelope, while sam caught a monkey. but the monkey bit the boy in the shoulder, and sam was glad enough to get rid of the mischievous creature. on the afternoon of the second day cujo, who was slightly in advance of the others, called a halt. "two men ahead ob us, up um mountain," he said. "cujo vink one of dern king susko." "i hope it is!" cried dick quickly. the discovery was talked over for a few minutes, and it was decided that cujo should go ahead, accompanied by randolph rover and dick. the others were to remain on guard for anything which might turn up. dick felt his heart beat rapidly as he advanced with his uncle and the african guide through the tangle of thorns and over the rough rocks. he felt that by getting closer to king susko, he was also getting closer to the mystery which surrounded his father's disappearance. "dar him am!" whispered cujo, presently. "see, da is gwine up into a big hole in de side ob de mountain?" "can you make out if it is susko or not?" "not fo' certain, massah dick. but him belong to de burnwo tribe, an' de udder man too." "if they are all alone it will be an easy matter to capture them," said randolph rover. "all told, we are twelve to two." "they have disappeared into the cave." cried dick a minute later. "come on, and we'll soon know something worth knowing, i feel certain of it." cujo now asked that he be allowed to proceed alone, to make certain that no others of the burnwo tribe were in the vicinity. "we must be werry careful," he said. "burnwos kill eberybody wot da find around here if not dare people." "evidently they want to keep the whole mountain of gold to themselves," observed dick. "all right, cujo, do as you think best--i know we can rely upon you." after this they proceeded with more care than ever-along a rocky edge covered with loose stones. to one side was the mountain, to the other a sheer descent of several hundred feet, and the footpath was not over a yard wide. "a tumble here would be a serious matter," said randolph rover. "take good care, dick, that you don't step on a rolling stone." but the ledge was passed in safety, and in fifteen minutes more they were close to the opening is the side of the mountain. it was an irregular hole about ten feet wide and twice as high. the a rocks overhead stuck out for several yards, and from these hung numerous vines, forming a sort of japanese curtain over the opening. while the two rovers waited behind a convenient rock, cujo crawled forward on his hand and knees into the cave. they waited for ten minutes, just then it seemed an hour, but he did not reappear. "he is taking his time," whispered dick. "perhaps something has happened to him," returned randolph rover. "i do not like this oppressive silence. have your pistol ready for use. we may need our weapons." "i've had my pistol ready all along," answered the boy, exhibiting the weapon. "that encounter with the lion taught me a lesson. if cujo--what's that?" dick broke off short, for a sound on the rocks above the cave entrance had reached his ears. both gazed in the direction, but could see nothing. "what alarmed you?" asked randolph rover hurriedly. "i heard a rustling in the bushes up there perhaps, though, it was only a bird or some small animal." "i can see nothing, dick." "neither can i; but i am certain--out of sight, uncle randolph, quick!" dick caught his uncle by the arm, and both threw themselves flat behind the rocks. scarcely had they gone down than two spears came whizzing forward, one hitting the rocks and the other sailing over their heads and burying itself in a tree trunk several yards away. they caught a glance of two natives on the rocks over them, but with the launching of the spears the africans disappeared. chapter xxviii king susko "my gracious, this is getting at close range!" burst out dick, when he could catch his breath again. "uncle randolph, they meant to kill us!" "indeed they did, dick. and this is no safe place for stopping. we must retreat." "but cujo--?" "he must be cautioned." randolph rover raised his voice. "cujo! cujo! they have discovered us! take care that they do not spear you." no reply came back to this call, which was several times repeated. then came a crash, as a big stone was hurled down, to split into a score of pieces on the rock which sheltered them. "they mean to dislodge us," said dick. "if they would only show themselves--" he stopped, for he had seen one of the bumwos peering over a mass of short brush directly over the cave entrance. taking hasty aim with his pistol be fired. a yell of pain followed, proving that the african had been hit. but the bumwo was not seriously wounded, and soon he sent another stone at them, this time hitting randolph rover on the leg. "oh!" gasped dick's uncle, and drew up that member with a wry face. "did he hurt you much, uncle randolph?" "he hurt me enough. you villain, take that!" and now the man fired, but the bullet flew wide of its mark, for randolph rover had practiced but little with firearms. they now thought it time to retreat, and, watching their chance, they ran from the rocks to the trees beyond. while they were exposed another spear was sent after them, cutting its way through mr. rover's hat brim and causing that gentleman to turn as pale as a sheet. "a few inches closer and it would have been my head!" he ejaculated. "this is growing too warm for comfort. perhaps we had better rejoin the others, dick." "cujo! cujo! where are you?" cried the boy once more. but as before no answer came back. the shots had alarmed the others of the expedition, and all were hurrying along the rocky ledge when randolph rover and dick met them. "we must turn back!" exclaimed randolph rover. "if you go ahead we may be caught in an ambush. the bumwos have discovered our presence and mean to kill us if they can!" suddenly a loud, deep voice broke upon them, coming from the rocks over the cave entrance. "white men must leave this mountain!" cried the voice. "this country belongs to the bumwos. white man has no right here! go! go before it is too late!" "who is that who speaks?" demanded randolph rover. "i am king susko, chief of the bumwos." "will you come and have a talk with us?" "no want to talk. want the white man to leave," answered the african chief, talking in fairly good english. "we do not wish to quarrel with you, king susko; but you will find it best for you if you will grant us an interview," went on randolph rover. "the white man must go away from this mountain. i will not talk with him," replied the african angrily. "do you know why we are here?" "to rob the bumwos of their gold." "no; we are looking for a lost man, one who came to this country years ago and one who was your prisoner--" "the white man is no longer here--he went home long time ago." "we do not believe you!" cried tom. "you have him a prisoner, and unless you deliver him up you shall suffer dearly for it." this threat evidently angered the african chief greatly, for suddenly a spear was launched at the boy, which pierced tom's shoulder. as tom went down, a shout went up from the rocks, and suddenly a dozen or more bumwos appeared, shaking their spears and acting as if they meant to rush down on the party below without further warning. chapter xxix the village on the mountain "tom is wounded!" shouted sam. he ran to his brother, to find the blood flowing freely over tom's shoulder. "is it bad?" he asked. "i--i guess not," answered tom with a gasp of pain. then, as full of pluck as usual, tom raised his pistol and fired, hitting one of the bumwos in the breast and sending him to the rear, seriously wounded. it was evident that cujo had been mistaken and that there were far more of their enemies around the mountain than they had anticipated. from behind the rover expedition a cry arose, telling that more of the natives were coming from that direction. "we are being hemmed in," said dick chester nervously. "perhaps we had better retreat." "no, let us make a stand," came from rand. "i think a concerted volley from our pistols and guns will check their movements." "dat's de talk!" cried aleck. "give it to 'em hot!" it was decided to await the closer approach of the bumwos, and each of the party improved the next minute in seeing to it that his weapon was ready for use. suddenly a blood-curdling yell arose on the sultry air, and the bumwos were seen to be approaching from two directions, at right angles to each other. "now then, stand firm!" cried dick rover, and began to fire at one of the approaching forces. the fight that followed was, however, short and full of consternation to the africans. one of the parties was led by king susko himself, and the chief had covered less than half the distance to where the americans stood when a bullet from tom rover's pistol reached him, wounding him in the thigh and causing him to pitch headlong on the grass. the fall of the leader made the africans set up a howl of dismay, and instead of keeping up the fight they gathered around their leader. then, as the americans continued to fire, they picked king susko up and ran off with him. a few spears were hurled at our friends, but the whole battle, to use sam's way of summing up afterward, was a regular "two-for-a-cent affair." soon the bumwos were out of sight down the mountain side. the first work of our friends after they had made certain that the africans had really retreated, was to attend to tom's wound and the bruise randolph rover had received from the stone. fortunately neither man nor boy was seriously hurt, although tom carries the mark of the spear's thrust to this day. "but i don't care," said tom. "i hit old king susko, and that was worth a good deal, for it stopped the battle. if the fight had kept on there is no telling how many of us might have been killed." while the party was deliberating about what to do next, cujo reappeared. "i go deep into de cabe when foah bumwos come on me from behind," he explained. "da fight an' fight an' knock me down an' tie me wid vines, an' den run away. but i broke loose from de vines an' cum just as quick as could run. werry big cabe dat, an' strange waterfall in de back." "let us explore the cave," said dick. "somebody can remain on guard outside." some demurred to this, but the rover boys could, not be held back, and on they went, with aleck with them. soon randolph rover hobbled after them, leaving cujo and the college students to remain on the watch. the cave proved to be a large affair, running all of half a mile under the mountain. there were numerous holes in the roof, through which the sun shone down, making the use of torches unnecessary. to one side was a deep and swiftly flowing stream, coming from the waterfall cujo had mentioned, and disappearing under the rocks near the entrance to the cavern. "gold, true enough!" shouted dick, as he gazed on the walls of the cave. "am i not right, uncle randolph?" "you are, dick; this is a regular cave of gold, and no mistake. no wonder king susko wanted to keep us away!" soon the waterfall was gained. it was a fascinating scene to watch the sparkling sheet as it thundered downward a distance of fully a hundred feet. at the bottom was a pool where the water was lashed into a milky foam which went swirling round and round. "look! look! the ghost!" suddenly cried sam, and pointed into the falling water. "oh, uncle randolph, did you ever see anything like it?" and he gave a shiver. "there are no such things as ghosts, sam," replied his uncle. "i see nothing." "stand here and look," answered sam, and his uncle did as requested. presently from out of the mist came the form of a man--the likeness of randolph rover himself! "it is nothing but an optical illusion, sam, such as are produced by some magicians on the theater stage. the sun comes down through yonder hole and reflects your image on the wet rock, which in turn reflects the form on the sheet of water." "gracious! and that must be the ghost the natives believe in," answered sam. "i'm glad you explained it. i can tell you i was startled." "here is a path leading up past the waterfall," said dick, who had been making an investigation. "let us see what is beyond." "take care of where you go," warned randolph rover. "there may be some nasty pitfall there." "i'll keep my eyes open," responded dick. he ascended the rocks, followed by sam, while the others brought up in the rear. up over the waterfall was another cave, long and narrow. there was now but little light from overhead, but far in the distance could be seen a long, narrow opening, as if the mountain top had been, by some convulsion of nature, split in half. "we are coming into the outer world again!" cried dick, and ran forward. "well, i never!" he ejaculated. for beyond the opening was a small plain, covered with short grass and surrounded on every side by jagged rocks which arose to the height of fifty or sixty feet. in the center of the plain were a number of native huts, of logs thatched with palm. chapter xxx finding the long-lost "a village!" said randolph rover. "and not a soul in sight." "there are several women and children," returned tom, pointing to one of the huts. "i guess the men went away to fight us." "probably you are right, tom. let us investigate, but with caution." as they advanced, the women and children set up a cry of alarm, which was quickly taken up in several of the other huts. "go away, white men; don't touch us!" cried one old woman. "have the white men come at last?" cried a voice in the purest english. "thank god! help me! help!" "it is my brother's voice!" gasped randolph rover. "anderson! anderson! we have come to save you!" "father!" came from the three rover boys, and they rushed off in all haste toward the nut from which the welcome cry had proceeded. anderson rover was found in the center of the hut, bound fast by a heavy iron chain to a post set deeply into the ground. his face was haggard and thin and his beard was all of a foot and a half long, while his hair fell thickly over his shoulders. he was dressed in the merest rags, and had evidently suffered much from starvation and from other cruel treatment. "my sons!" he gasped, as the boys appeared. "do i see aright, or is it only another of those wild dreams that have entered my brain lately?" "father; poor father!" burst out dick, and hugged his parent around the neck. "it's no dream, father; we are really here," put in tom, as he caught one of the slender hands, while sam caught the other. "how thin you are!" said sam. and then he added tenderly: "but we'll take good care of you, now we have found you." "and randolph!" murmured anderson rover, as the brother came up. "oh, thank god! thank god, for this!" and the tears began to flow down his cheeks. "how long i have waited! many a time i thought to give up in despair!" "we came as soon as we got that message you sent," answered dick. "but that was long after you had sent it." "and is the sailor, converse, safe?" "no; the sailor is dead." "too bad--he was the one friend i had here." "and king susko has kept you a prisoner all this while?" asked randolph rover. "yes; and he has treated me shamefully in the bargain. he imagined i knew all of the secrets of this mountain, of a gold mine of great riches, and he would not let me go; but, instead, tried to wring the supposed secret from me by torture." "we will settle accounts with him some day," muttered dick. "it's a pity tom didn't kill him." the native women and children were looking in at the doorway curiously, not knowing what to say or do. turning swiftly, dick caught one by the arm. "the key to the lock," he demanded, pointing to the lock on the iron chain which bound anderson rover. "give it to me." but the woman shook her head, and pointed off in the distance. "king susko has the key," explained anderson rover. "you will have to break the chain," and this was at last done, although not without great difficulty. in the meantime the natives were ordered to prepare a meal for anderson rover and all of the others, and cujo was called that he might question the africans in their own language. the meal was soon forthcoming, the bumwo women fearing that they would be slaughtered if they did not comply with the demands of the whites. to make sure that the food had not been poisoned, dick made several of the natives eat portions of each dish. this made cujo grin. "um know a good deal," he remarked. "cujo was goin' to tell dick to do dat." "i am glad the women and children are here," said randolph rover. "we can take them with us when we leave and warn king susko that if he attacks us we will kill them. i think he will rather let us go than see all of the women and children slaughtered." while they ate, anderson rover told his story, which is far too long to insert here. he had found a gold mine further up the country and also this mountain of gold, but had been unable to do anything since king susko had made him and the sailor prisoners. during his captivity he had suffered untold cruelties, but all this was now forgotten in the joy of the reunion with his brother and his three sons. it was decided that the party should leave the mountain without delay, and cujo told the female natives to get ready to move. at this they set up a loud protest, but it availed them nothing, and they soon quieted down when assured that no harm would befall them if they behaved. chapter xxxi home again--conclusion nightfall found the entire expedition, including the women and children, on the mountain side below the caves. as the party went down the mountain a strict watch was kept for the bumwo warriors, and just as the sun was setting, they were discovered in camp on the trail to the northwest. "we will send out a flag of truce," said randolph rover. "cujo can talk to them." this was done, and presently a tall bumwo under chief came out in a plain to hold a mujobo, or "law talk." in a few words cujo explained the situation, stating that they now held in bondage eighteen women and children, including king susko's favorite wife afgona. if the whites were allowed to pass through the country unharmed until they, reached the village of kwa, where the kassai river joins the congo, they would release all of the women and children at that point and they could go back to rejoin their husbands and fathers. if, on the other hand, the expedition was attacked the whites would put all of those in bondage to instant death. it is not likely that this horrible threat would have been put into execution. as dick said when relating the particulars of the affair afterward. "we couldn't have done such a terrible thing, for it would not have been human." but the threat had the desired effect, and in the morning king susko, who was now on a sick bed, sent word that they should go through unmolested. and go through they did, through jungles and over plains, across rivers and lakes and treacherous swamps, watching continually for their enemies, and bringing down many a savage beast that showed itself. on the return they fell in with mortimer blaze, and he, being a crack shot, added much to the strength of their command. at last kwa was reached, and here they found themselves under the protection of several european military organizations. the native women and children were released, much to their joy, and my readers can rest assured that these africans lost no time in getting back to that portion of the dark continent which they called home. from kwa to boma the journey was comparatively easy. at stanley pool they rested for a week, and all in the party felt the better for it. "some day i will go back and open up the mines i have discovered," said anderson rover. "but not now. i want to see my own dear native land first." at boma news awaited them. josiah crabtree had turned up and been joined by dan baxter, and both had left for parts unknown. "i hope we never see them again," said dick, and his brothers said the same. an american ship was in port, bound for baltimore, and all of our party, including the yale students, succeeded in obtaining passage on her for home. the trip was a most delightful one, and no days could have been happier than those which the rover boys spent grouped around their lather listening to all he had to tell of the numerous adventures which had befallen him since he had left home. a long letter was written to captain townsend, telling of the finding of anderson rover, and the master of the rosabel was, later on, sent a gift of one hundred dollars for his goodness to the rovers. of course anderson rover was greatly interested in what his sons had been doing and was glad to learn that they were progressing so finely at putnam hall. "we will let arnold baxter drop," he said. "he is our enemy, i know; but just now we will let the law take its course for the rascality he practiced in albany." "all right, father," answered dick. "we can afford to let him drop, seeing how well things have terminated for ourselves." "and how happy we are going to be," chimed in sam. "and how rich--when father settles up that mining claim in the west," put in tom. here i must bring to a finish the story of the rover boys' adventures in the jungles of africa. they had started out to find their father, and they had found him, and for the time being all went well. the home-coming of the rovers was the occasion of a regular celebration at valley brook farm. the neighbors came in from far and wide and with them several people from the city who in former years had known anderson rover well. it was a time never to be forgotten, and the celebration was kept up for several days. captain putnam was there, and with him came frank, fred, larry, and several others. the captain apologized handsomely to aleck for the way he had treated the colored man. "i wish i had been with you," said fred. "you rover boys are wonders for getting around. where will you go next?" "i think we'll go west next," answered dick. "father wants to look up his mining interests, you know. we are going to ask him to take us along." they did go west, and what adventures they had will be related in a new volume, entitled "the rover boys out west; or, the search for a lost mine." "but we are coming back to putnam hall first," added tom. "dear old putnam hall! i thought of it even in the heart of africa!" "and so did i," put in sam. "i'll tell you, fellows, it's good enough to roam around, but, after all, there is no place like home." and with this truthful remark from the youngest rover, let us close this volume, kind reader, hoping that all of us may meet again in the next book of the series, to be entitled, "the rover boys out west; or, the search for a lost mine." in this story all of our friends will once more play important parts, and we will learn what the baxters, father and son, did toward wresting the rover boys' valuable mining property from them. but for the time being all went well, and so good-by. the end grace harlowe's golden summer by jessie graham flower, a. m. author of the grace harlowe high school girls series, the grace harlowe college girls series, etc. philadelphia henry altemus company copyright, 1917 [illustration: grace's embroidery dropped from her hands.] contents i. a song of golden summer ii. the house behind the world iii. for auld lang syne iv. "to thine own self be true" v. flying in the face of superstition vi. the shadow vii. the veiled prophetess of destiny viii. unveiling the prophetess ix. the meaning of semper fidelis x. the shadow deepens xi. postponing happiness xii. the better part xiii. an innocent meddler xiv. the beginning of the end xv. merely a looker-on xvi. j. elfreda's master stroke xvii. fate xviii. a gleam of hope xix. the letter xx. the last chance xxi. the call of the elf's horn xxii. out of the valley xxiii. the strange story xxiv. the noon of golden summer list of illustrations grace's embroidery dropped from her hands. devoted love shone in her clear gray eyes. "here you are, weary wanderer," she said gayly. "when you have found tom, give him this letter." grace harlowe's golden summer chapter i a song of golden summer "now, david, you know that i know that you don't know what i know. therefore, if i know that you don't know what i _know_ you don't know, it's very plain to be seen that either you or i know very little. now, which of us is a know-nothing? don't be afraid to confess. remember, we are your friends." hippy wingate beamed benevolently upon his victim, bland expectation written on his plump face. "no real friend of mine would ever take such cowardly advantage of the english language," was david nesbit's scathing retort. "i'll leave it to grace if i'm not right." "there, grace. at last you have an opportunity to strike for the right. i believe in striking a valiant blow for the right----" "so do i," cut in reddy brooks decisively. "there is no time like the present. there couldn't be a better place. away out here in this sequestered spot no one will hear your frenzied yells for help." reddy rose determinedly from the steps of the old omnibus house and made a nimble spring toward the loquacious prattler. "never touched me," was wafted defiantly back, as hippy wingate skilfully eluded reddy's avenging hand and disappeared around the protecting corner of the one-time hostelry. the old omnibus house had ever been his refuge when put to flight by his long-suffering companions. "you might have known it," shrugged nora wingate with an indifference which marked long association with the verbose refugee. "in about three minutes you'll hear a frantic voice calling on me for protection. don't say a word, any of you, but just listen." a sudden silence, broken only by a soft chuckle from the abused david, descended on the seven young people occupying the worn stone steps. "no-ra!" from the rear of the old house a plaintive voice sent up this anguished plea for succor. "what did i tell you?" nora's elaborate air of indifference vanished in a dimpling smile that was reflected on the faces of the group. no one said a word; neither did nora rise to the noble duty of rescuer. "all alone, all alone! by the wayside she has left me, and no other's love i'll be; for to-night i am deserted; nora has forgotten me!" intoned a mournful voice, flagrantly off the key. "for to-night you are a nuisance, you mean," was reddy brooks' shouted correction. "i'll rescue you." "oh, my!" came hippy's horrified accents, as reddy brooks leaped to his feet and dived toward the sheltering shadow that concealed the self-made outcast. "isn't it a lovely evening, david? have you noticed it?" a fat, beaming face was cautiously thrust forth round a corner opposite to that from which the call for help had so recently emanated. a plump body still more cautiously followed the face. it was evident that hippy considered david the lesser of two evils. "may i sit by you, anne? i have always had a great deal of faith in you." hippy became ingratiating. "i'm sorry i can't say as much for certain other persons whose names i courteously refrain from bringing into the discussion." without waiting for the requested permission, hippy crowded himself onto the small space which anne, seated at one end of the top step, obligingly made for him, and calmly awaited the return of his pursuer. "oh, what's the use!" jibed the disgruntled avenger, when, strolling back to the steps, he beheld the nimble object of his pursuit waiting for him with a wide grin. "thus one is always brought to recognize the futility of revenge," murmured hippy with sad gentleness. "let us agree to forget the bitter past, reddy, and turn our faces toward the glorious future. i might also add that it doesn't pay to take up another's grievances. after all i didn't actually accuse david of being a know-nothing. i merely asked him about it. however, i take it all back. david may know a great deal more than appears on the surface." "i decline to rise to the bait," laughed david. "i came out here to enjoy myself; not to squabble. it's our last evening together until we all gather home again to see grace and tom take the highway of matrimony. let's make the most of it." those who have faithfully followed grace harlowe through the eventful phases of her high school and college life are equally well acquainted with the other seven members of the eight originals. in "grace harlowe's plebe year at high school," "grace harlowe's sophomore year at high school," "grace harlowe's junior year at high school," and "grace harlowe's senior year at high school," were recorded the countless interesting sayings and doings of these eight highly congenial friends. later, when grace had been graduated from oakdale high school to continue her education at overton college, accompanied by her friends, anne pierson and miriam nesbit, the devoted little band had remained unswerving in their allegiance to one another. once she had become a freshman at overton college, grace's equable disposition and love of fair play had attracted equally loyal allegiance to her standard. in "grace harlowe's first year at overton college," "grace harlowe's second year at overton college," "grace harlowe's third year at overton college," "grace harlowe's fourth year at overton college," "grace harlowe's return to overton campus" and "grace harlowe's problem," will be found a minute record of the principal happenings which made her college years memorable. absorbed in what she had firmly believed to be her destined work, grace had long and obstinately shut love from her life, only to find at last that even her beloved work could not forever crowd it out. seeing clearly, after months of doubt, she had cheerfully resigned her position as manager of harlowe house to prepare for the more important position in life which early september was to bring her. "it doesn't seem possible that we've had the blessed chance to be together for two whole weeks." grace's eyes had grown dreamy. "i can't really believe that i've been back in oakdale that long. it seems not more than two evenings ago that we held a reunion at our fairy godmother's and--" she paused, a little flush rising to her cheeks. "and you and tom told us the good news," supplemented nora mischievously. "i hadn't intended to say _that_, but never mind," laughed grace. "it ceased to be a secret on that night. while i am on the subject i might as well add that until yesterday we couldn't make up our minds regarding our wedding day. but it's all settled now. every one of you must be sure to be with us on the evening of september tenth." "'must' is the word," broke in tom gray, his eyes resting fondly on the slender, radiant-faced girl beside him. "we can't start on the great adventure without the blessing of this happy band." "rest assured, thomas, we'll be there," averred hippy. "having comported myself with dignity at my own and several other weddings, i shall hail yours with the greatest of joy." "which means that i shall be obliged to keep a watchful eye on you every moment," translated nora, her blue eyes twinkling. "i'll help you, nora," volunteered reddy. "i haven't yet forgiven your wayward husband for the unkind remarks he made about my hair on _my_ wedding day." "i don't remember them," retorted hippy, unabashed. "i've made so many remarks at so many different times about those same flaming, crimson locks that it would take a long while to sort out the dates. but there's nothing like trying. let me see. the first occasion on which i chanced to note----" "now see what you've done." david nesbit fixed the unfortunate reddy with a severe eye. "i see," was reddy's grim comment. picking up the idle mandolin that he had hastily deposited on jessica's lap when he made his vengeful dash upon hippy, he strummed it lightly. "why lug a mandolin along if no one intends to sing?" he asked pointedly, ignoring hippy's disrespectful reminiscences. "oh, very well." promptly foregoing the will to gather data concerning reddy's too-oft maligned titian locks, hippy began a lively warbling which had nothing in common with the tinkling melody of the mandolin. as a result the patient instrument immediately ceased its complaining tinkle. hippy, however, lilted on, undisturbed, for a matter of five seconds, when a chorus of threatening protests warned him to cease. "do be good," admonished nora, laughing in spite of herself. "either sing prettily or don't try to sing at all." "madam, it is not necessary for me to _try_ to sing. song and i are one. let me give you an illustration. name a ditty best suited to my voice and i will prove myself." "i can't recall one," discouraged nora. "silent singing would suit _you_ best," grumbled reddy. "you could make your lips do the deed without damaging any one else's ear drums." "i'll try it," amiably agreed the noisy soloist. "just watch me." he proceeded to indulge in a series of labial contortions that a dumb man would have envied, and which had a most hilarious effect upon those whom he had lately persecuted with raucous sound. rudely requested to desist from even this newly discovered pastime, he subsided with a frantic signalling to the effect that he had actually been stricken dumb. "it's too good to be true," exclaimed the relieved reddy, laying fresh hold on the mandolin. "while we have peace, sing for us, nora. we ought to make the most of this unexpected opportunity." "give us that song you used to sing about golden summer," begged jessica. "don't you remember, that was one of the first pieces reddy learned to play on the mandolin? i haven't heard it in ages. i'd love to hear nora sing it again." "yes, sing it, nora." grace added her plea. "i don't believe i've ever heard it. it will be very appropriate to the occasion." "wait a minute until i think how it goes." reddy began a reflective strumming, bringing back, bit by bit, a plaintive little air that carried a subdued heart throb. "i've got it," he nodded. "go ahead, nora." her hands loosely clasped, nora's clear, high voice, which grace always declared "had tears in it," took up the song of jessica's fancy to the subdued accompaniment of the mandolin. "golden summer's in the land! hark! her call soars high and sweet. hedge-rows flow'r at her command; roses spring beneath her feet. skies grow azure; life beats strong; nature listens to adore; thrilling at the siren's song, yields her wond'rous treasured store. precious fabrics of her loom clothe her darling of the year; wealth of sunshine; breath of bloom; cloudless days, so fair, so dear. "golden summer's voice is stilled- autumn chants a requiem low. gone the days with rapture filled. life's a-throbbing, sad and slow. skies grow hazy; sunshine wanes, vivid green fast turns to brown; here and there along the lanes, flames the sumac's lonely crown. sings the voice of mem'ry now, 'cleave to love--lest it depart; bind remembrance on thy brow, cherish summer in thy heart.'" "i don't like that song at all." as the last haunting cadence died away, the dumb man came into energetic speech. "why not, hippy? i think it is beautiful." grace turned surprised eyes on the stout protestant. "it gives me the creeps," he declared shortly and with unmistakable earnestness. "the first verse is all very nice. summer is a golden time, etc. but why remind us that fall is coming?" he had now resumed his old, bantering tone. "i prefer to have summer three hundred and sixty-five days in the year. i don't like murky skies, worn-out grass, skeleton hedge-rows, muddy lanes, lonesome sumacs and cold winds. as for winter, lead me away from it. i absolutely refuse to carry summer about in so useful an organ as my heart, when it's ten below zero and the water pipes are all frozen up." "that is because you have no sentiment," challenged reddy. whereupon the divine power of song was at once swallowed up in a fresh burst of argument as futile as it was laughable. it was ended by tactful anne, who was always supremely useful when called upon to arbitrate such important matters. the relative merits of "golden summer" having been successfully decided and laid to rest, nora again lifted up her voice in a selection infinitely more to her liege lord's liking. then followed an old-fashioned song in which every one took part, filling the quiet moonlit night with sweetest harmony. "it's half-past ten, children," reminded david, as striking a match he consulted his watch. "anne, jessica, reddy, and i are due to catch early trains to-morrow morning. anne and i mustn't miss ours. we promised miriam we'd surely be with her to-morrow night." "anne, don't forget to tell miriam not to dare do any shopping until mother and i arrive in new york," reminded grace. "she promised to wait for me, so that we could do our shopping together. i've written her about it, but i wish you'd emphasize the fact for me." "i will," promised anne. "i know she will wait for you, though. she told me she intended to." with knowledge of the coming parting so near, the little company grew a trifle less merry as they strolled home across the familiar fields in the moonlight. though hippy had been the only one to confess it, the plaintive melody of nora's song of golden summer haunted them. with summer at high tide in each heart, it was, as hippy had remarked, not quite pleasant to be reminded even tunefully that life holds the inevitable autumn. "i really believe hippy meant what he said about that song," tom remarked meditatively to grace. "were you thinking of that, too?" a faint, almost melancholy smile flickered about grace's lips as she asked the question. "it seemed to me he was in earnest." "i almost wish nora hadn't sung it," returned tom with unexpected bluntness. "i went through such a long, dreary winter before _my_ golden summer came. now i wish it to stay with me forever. i'd like our lives from this moment on always to be one long, continued golden summer like the last two weeks. i can't bear to think that it might ever be otherwise." "'perfect love casteth out fear,'" quoted grace softly. "it's the only true safeguard against the ills of life. after all, there's a note of triumph in the ending of that song. with love to light us on our way, it can't help but be always golden summer in our hearts." chapter ii the house behind the world "how many letters for me, bridget?" trilled grace harlowe as she raced across the lawn to the front steps with the reckless enthusiasm of a small boy. a glimpse of the postman's retreating back had brought her scurrying from the garden to collect her own. "sure and it's a deal of mail ye be always gettin', miss grace," commented bridget proudly, as she handed the eager-faced questioner a small stack of letters that brought a sparkle of pleasant anticipation to grace's gray eyes. "more than i deserve, i am sorry to say. i'm by no means a perfect correspondent. thank you, bridget." with a bright little nod, grace skipped joyfully up the steps and made harbor in the big porch swing. "i'll read them as they come," she decided, "then each one will be a fresh surprise. hello! here's miriam first of all. that means anne delivered my message." hastily tearing open the envelope, grace drew forth a single sheet of thick white paper and read: "dear grace: "how i wish i could suddenly drop in on you this morning for a long talk. there is so much i should like to tell you which i haven't time to write. anne, the faithful, delivered your message. don't worry about my not waiting for you. i won't buy even a paper of pins without your august sanction and approval. i am anxiously looking forward to seeing you. so are kathleen, anne, arline and mabel ashe. "elfreda is with me. she is a never-failing joy, and to quote her pet phrase, 'i can see' that there will be a vast amount of celebrating done when you arrive. please forgive me for not writing much this time. i am expecting everett and his sister at any moment. we are going to motor down to their home on long island for the day. i have decided to put in the time usefully until they have arrived. hence this fragmentary epistle. kindly note my laudable promptness as a correspondent and fall in line. with much love, "as always, "miriam." "i'll reply this very morning," nobly resolved grace. "oh!" she gave a gleeful chuckle as she recognized a dear, familiar script. "it's from emma, good old friend." the chuckle continued as she perused the flowery salutation: "most gracious and estimable grace: "having made a triumphal return to the humble habitation of the deans, of whom i am which, i now derive a most excruciating pleasure in taking up my sadly neglected pen to inform you that i am well and hope you are the same. by this time you are no doubt mourning me as hopelessly lost in the wilds of darkest deanery. such is not the case. though i have wandered disconsolately about my childhood haunts and camped out despondently under the fruitful pear-tree in our back yard, which, so far as i can remember, has never boasted of a single solitary pear, i am by no means lost. in fact, i am really beginning to feel quite at home. but how i miss you! living in a 'graceless' world is a cross even to a person of my excellent and amiable qualities. "there's a grain of comfort in store, thank goodness. before many weeks the sempers will congregate together somewhere for a glorious reunion. elfreda has written me that you are soon to be in new york city. i suppose the momentous question of 'where shall we reunite?' will be decided then." grace read on through page after page of the long letter, written in emma's most humorous vein. finishing it at last, she gathered the closely written sheets together with a happy little sigh. good-natured, fun-loving emma dean occupied a foremost place in her affections. grace wondered sometimes if the bond between them did not stretch as tightly even as that between herself and anne. emma had been and always would be the perfect comrade. "you're next, mabel," she murmured as she scanned the third envelope on the scarcely depleted pile. "i suppose you are going to tell me that----" the loud purr of an automobile stopping before the house left mabel's message still unread. depositing her wealth of correspondence on the seat of the swing, grace tripped down the steps and on down the walk. "good morning, dear fairy godmother," she greeted hospitably. "good morning, tom. something nice is going to happen. i can read it in your faces." "that depends on whatever your conception of 'nice' may be," returned tom mysteriously. slipping from the driver's seat, he caught her outstretched hand in both his own, his gray eyes alive with the light of a joyful anticipation which grace had been quick to catch. "good morning, my dear," called mrs. gray from the car. "run in the house and get your hat. we are bound on a most mysterious mission. you are the third person needed to carry it out." "i'll be with you in a moment." turning, grace hastened up the walk to the house, wondering mightily what lay in store for her. "mrs. gray and tom are waiting outside for me in the automobile, mother," she announced, appearing suddenly on the shady back porch, where her mother sat quietly hemstitching a table cloth for grace's hope chest. "come out and see them." smiling to herself, mrs. harlowe laid aside her labor of love and followed her daughter's impetuous lead. catching up her broad-brimmed panama hat from the hall rack, grace placed it on her head without stopping to consult the hall mirror. linking her arm in her mother's, she towed her gently along toward the automobile to meet the unexpected arrivals. "won't you come with us, mrs. harlowe?" invited mrs. gray. the two women exchanged not only greetings but significant smiles as well. "thank you; not this morning. i prefer to leave grace to you and tom." again her eyes met those of the older woman with the same enigmatic smile. "there is mystery in the very air," declared grace gayly. "i can tell by the way you two are exchanging eye-signals. whatever the great secret is, mother knows it. now don't you?" she challenged, her affectionate gaze resting on mrs. harlowe. "i'll answer that question when you come back," parried her mother. "i'll hold you to your word," came the retort. dropping a soft kiss on her mother's pink cheek, grace accepted tom's hand and stepped into the tonneau of the waiting automobile. "whither away, good prince?" she called mischievously to tom as the machine glided down the street. "that's a secret, curious princess. wait and you will see," flung back tom teasingly. "of course i'm curious," calmly admitted grace, as she settled back in her seat. "who wouldn't be? i wouldn't have let you tell me, though, if you had tried. i am quite ready to wait and see what happens." nevertheless, as they spun along the smooth road in the summer sunshine, grace cast more than one speculative glance about her, trying to glean some faint hint of their destination. although conversation went on briskly between herself and her fairy godmother, her keen eyes lost no detail that might possibly furnish her with a clue. "we'll have to leave the car here and walk a little way," announced tom, when half an hour later, after traveling the highway that skirted upton wood, he slowed down in a shady spot on the other side of the short stretch of forest. "very well," came mrs. gray's placid voice from the tonneau. "i shall not leave the car, tom. you may do the honors." "come on, grace." leaving the driver's seat, tom opened the door of the tonneau and stretched forth an inviting hand. "i know where we are going," she cried triumphantly, as she accepted the proffered assistance. "we are going to take a look at upton heights. how nice! i haven't seen the quaint old place since i came home from college. you know i've always loved it and wished i owned it. it's such a wonderful forest retreat. when i was a little girl, i used to love to play that the world ended there. i always called it the house behind the world." further mysterious and affectionate eye-signals were flashed between mrs. gray and tom as grace made this fervent speech. "come and look at it again," said tom briefly. there was a touch of exultation in his even tones. hand in hand, like two children, the youthful pair swung gayly along the narrow path that led from the highway to picturesque upton heights. nearing it, they became suddenly silent in the face of its undeniable claim to beauty. dazzlingly white against the magnificent trees which surrounded it, it stood in the middle of a grassy plateau that rolled gently down to the woodland path in long sloping green terraces. "how beautiful it looks!" grace gazed almost reverently at the rambling old house with its wide, high-pillared verandas. it was like some gracious, stately person whose very watchword was hospitality, she thought. built more than a century before, by a long-since departed upton, it had not been used as a residence by his descendants. due to a clause of command in the original owner's will, it had ever afterward been sedulously kept in repair. to her beauty-loving soul, it now seemed to have taken on a new lease of life. the house itself rejoiced in a fresh white luster and the grounds showed recent care. "it was nice in you to bring me here, tom," she again said. "you knew i loved this old place, didn't you?" "yes. suppose we go closer to it," suggested tom, drawing her gently forward. her hand still in his, grace allowed him to conduct her to the flight of white stone steps set in the terrace. they led upward to the wide flagstone walk which in turn stretched levelly up to meet the spacious veranda. "shut your eyes," directed tom, when they had mounted the steps to the veranda floor. his terse direction contained a touch of repressed excitement which informed grace that the surprise was at hand. but what it might be she had not the remotest suspicion. obediently her long lashes swept her cheeks in compliance with love's command. dropping her hand, tom approached the massive front door. there was a curious clicking sound, like the turn of a key in a lock, then tom was back at her side. his hand again caught one of her own. again he drew her forward. there was a slight tremor in his voice as he said: "open your eyes, princess, and enter your castle." her veiling eye-lids lifting, grace found herself on the threshold of upton heights, peering wonderingly into the dim reception hall with its huge fireplace, beam ceiling and curving colonial staircase. "it's a splendid surprise, tom!" she exclaimed warmly. "i've always wished to see the inside of this wonderful place. how in the world did you ever manage to get the key to it?" tom smiled very tenderly into the eager face so near his own. "you've missed the biggest part of the surprise, grace," he answered. "don't you understand yet why we came out here? do you think i would invite a royal princess to enter her castle if it weren't really her very own?" "you don't mean--you can't mean--oh, tom!" grace drew a quick, ecstatic breath that was half sob. a vagrant breeze set the leaves of the sentinel trees to sighing their approval as they looked down on the little tableau of human happiness. "it is your very own house behind the world, dear," tom assured her. "our future home. it is the gift of our fairy godmother to both of us. she purchased it of robert upton the day after we came from overton. she had spoken of it to mr. upton long ago and was only waiting for the good news of our engagement. she knew how much you had always cared about it." "we must go straight down to the automobile and make her come back with us," was grace's happy cry. "i am so anxious to explore our marvelous new possession. but we must have our fairy godmother with us. i can't really believe yet that anything so glorious has happened to ordinary me. it's more than a surprise. it's a positive miracle. my own beautiful house behind the world! but i know an even better name for it. it's not one i thought of myself. that glory belongs to kathleen west. you know, tom, she once wrote an allegorical play. we produced it when i was in my senior year at overton. i played the part of loyalheart who leaves haven home to go into the land of college. when first it began to dawn upon me that you meant this wonder to be my very own, it came to me like a flash that it was more than the house behind the world. don't you see, tom? it's really and truly, haven home!" chapter iii for auld lang syne "and so, having ended her pilgrimage through the land of college, loyalheart is going back to haven home," said kathleen west softly. "you're a very lucky loyalheart," was j. elfreda briggs' brisk comment. "not every one who goes adventuring into strange lands finds the home of her chee-ildhood an interesting place to settle down in. now take fairview, for instance. i wouldn't go trotting back there on a cut-rate excursion, let alone making a pilgrimage to the sacred, i mean scared, spot. that's the way it looks, you know; as though it had once tried to grow and then been frightened out of it. i never was so glad in all my life as when pa said we'd kiss that town good-bye. i could see that i'd never make my everlasting fortune there as a lawyer." "you mean lawyeress, according to the dean vocabulary," reminded arline thayer with a giggle. "what is life without emma dean?" smiled anne nesbit. "i wish she were here to-night." "i wrote her, asking her to pay me a visit while you girls were here," stated arline, "but she wrote back voluminous and ridiculous thanks and said the reunion was about as much as she could manage." "that reminds me," broke in elfreda, in business-like tones, "where are we going to hold the reunion this year and at what time? not much of july is left us. august will scud by like a flash and then--well, grace can tell you why september won't be a strictly popular time for a reunion. sara and julia emerson want us to have it at their camp in the adirondacks. that's rather a long distance for emma to come. you know she lives farther away than the rest of us. why can't you come down to wildwood again? i am nothing if not hospitable." "but it's my turn, now, j. elfreda," protested arline. "why can't you come here?" "what's the use in taking turns?" propounded elfreda sturdily. "i am an extremely selfish person who never bothers about such little things as mere 'taking turns.' now that four of you girls have your faces set toward wedding rings, it's high time something was done to console me. there! resist that argument if you can. am i a credit to my profession, or am i not?" "you are," chorused five laughing voices. several days had elapsed since grace harlowe had accompanied tom gray and his aunt on the mysterious mission that had brought her haven home. following that memorable morning, the delightful events of which had offered such signal proof of the adoration of her dear ones, grace had moved about as one lost in a maze of quiet happiness. every now and then her mind would halt suddenly in the perusal of the blessings that were hers to wonder almost wistfully if it were not all too beautiful, too dear, to last. sometimes she marveled that, after so long and persistently keeping love out of her busy life, she should have at length come into its purest realization. once the very thought of it had irked and distressed her. now she experienced a sense of deep surprise that she had been so blind. her golden summer had indeed descended upon her in all its radiant glory. she rejoiced in the long peaceful mornings spent with her mother on the vine-clad veranda, or in the clematis-wreathed summer house at the end of the garden. they were busy mornings, too, filled with the joy of preparing the countless dainty odds and ends, so necessary to her trousseau. their hands never idle, they talked long and earnestly of the things which lay nearest their hearts, and a strange peace, which grace's naturally restless temperament had never before known, enveloped her like a mantle. though anxious to meet her friends again in new york city, grace had sighed with genuine regret at leaving this new-found peace and departing from oakdale on the most momentous shopping tour she had ever before set out to make. she and her mother had gone directly to the home of the nesbits, where a most cordial welcome awaited them. two days had passed since their arrival. it was now the evening of the second day and the five girls whose fortunes had been so firmly linked together at overton college, by a series of happenings grave and gay, were paying a brief, overnight visit to arline thayer at her home in east orange. "thank you." elfreda bowed at the unanimous response. "as an esteemed representative of the law and a forlorn bachelor girl, i really think my plea deserves some small consideration. i might also add that i could see you were all anxious to come to wildwood. i appreciate your delicate opposition." elfreda grinned boyishly. "now that we've decided where, we'd better decide when the reunion is to be." "we didn't decide where, did we?" tantalized miriam. "we only decided that you were a distinguished lawyeress." "having once admired me, can you refuse my humble request?" retorted elfreda, with a sentimental rolling of her round blue eyes. "let's put her out of her misery," proposed miriam. "wildwood for me, elfreda, provided the rest are pleased. how about you, arline? as an almost-wed are you willing to sacrifice your reunion claim to elfreda?" "of course." arline made genial response. a peculiar look shot into her pretty eyes, however, as she nervously began to turn the jeweled pledge of engagement that decked her ring finger. she seemed about to break into further speech, then set her red lips with decision and remained silent. seated beside her on a willow settee, which they had occupied together since repairing to the veranda after dinner, grace alone noticed arline's sharply drawn brows and the sudden ominous tightening of her baby mouth. she wondered vaguely what it might mean. surely arline was not angry because elfreda had begged for the privilege of holding the reunion at wildwood. she was of too sunny a disposition to become thus disturbed by such trifles. she had always been far more ready to give than take. grace now recalled that even in the midst of arline's joy at seeing her, there had been a hauntingly wistful look in the dainty little girl's blue eyes. under cover of kathleen west's lively account of a big story which she had run to earth after a week's assiduous pursuit, grace's kindly hand found arline's. "what is the matter, daffydowndilly?" she asked just above a whisper. "you don't appear to be quite your usual cheerful self." "you noticed, then?" counter-questioned arline in an equally guarded tone. "i'm glad you did. still, i was going to tell you, anyway. wait until later. i have arranged for you to room with me to-night. then i'll tell you all. but not now. no one else must know." with a soft pressure that betokened loyal sympathy, grace released arline's little hand and turned her attention to kathleen, who was holding her small audience spellbound by a recital of the very audacity of her deeds as a star reporter. "won't you miss all that when winter comes and you cease to be kathleen west?" questioned anne, a trifle anxiously. she too had had to decide between publicity and love. "you've lived in a whirl of exciting happenings so long that settling down for good will seem rather tame." "i shall love it." kathleen's sharp black eyes glowed with intensity. "trailing news is all right for a few years, but i'd hate to go on with it forever. there are so many things i'd like to do that i've never had the time to dream of doing. i'm going to keep on writing, just the same as ever. neither gerald nor i care to begin making a home just yet. we shall board and write in the evenings together. you see he is the literary editor of _crawford's magazine_ now. that means that we can spend our evenings together. we are going to collaborate on a play and, oh, we have planned to do lots of things. i imagine we shall carry out some of our plans in time. we have already collaborated on several magazine stories and worked them out beautifully. you see, neither of us is jealous of the other's work. if we were, then i'd prefer to stay kathleen west." "you are fortunate," remarked arline almost bitterly. again a shadow crossed her face which grace alone noted. "i decline to share my successes with any mere man," asserted elfreda grandly. "not that i have been what you might call entirely slighted. wait until i tell you the sad story of my one love affair." "_this_ is vastly interesting," mused miriam. "tell us about it this minute." arline brightened visibly. elfreda's promised tale of tragedy was sure to turn out comedy. "let me see," began elfreda with a fine air of reminiscence. "we met last year in a corridor of the law school, i was making a wild rush down and he was making an equally wild rush up. result, we collided. just like that," elfreda brought her hands smartly together to illustrate the force of that momentous collision. "i wasn't overcome with joy at this slam-bang introduction. i had seen him often from afar and never admired him. he was at least three inches shorter than yours truly, had a snub nose and freckles. all of which was not romantic. "that was the beginning; but not the ending. the next time i met him, he claimed beaming acquaintance. after that he pursued me madly. he was always bobbing up in the most unexpected places. it gave me a feeling of being haunted. at first i bore it like a martyr. i hated to hurt his feelings. after a while it began to get on my nerves. about that time he began to make sentimental remarks. i carefully explained that i did not believe in love. that only made matters worse. he rolled his eyes and vowed that he would convince me. then he began sending me letters and love lyrics. the lyrics were so original they were positively weird. "but in my darkest hour of oppression i stumbled upon a remedy. i happened to remember a girl who was an art student. i also remembered that she was terribly sentimental. so i dragged my pursuer along with me to a water-color exhibition that i knew she expected to attend. they met. i perpetrated the introduction. it turned out even better than i had dared to hope. the funny part of it was that both of them were afraid i'd be angry. the deeper they fell in love, the harder they tried to keep it from me. after a while charles, that was my perfidious idol's name, came to me with a long face and confessed. i suppose his conscience troubled him. he told me that he had made a terrible mistake in thinking himself in love with me. i humbly agreed with him that he had. he assured me that he now knew that he could never have been happy with me. before he got through explaining, it struck me as being so funny that i laughed in his face. now he doesn't speak to me. neither does the girl. she evidently believes that she snatched away my last chance." the cheerful smile elfreda turned on her amused listeners as she ended her recital was hardly an indication of deep sorrow for her double loss. "that reminds me of emma dean's one romance," smiled grace. "i shan't tell you about it. wait until we have the reunion and i'll ask her to dig up her sentimental past for your benefit." "i hope i can arrange my vacation so that i can attend the reunion, too," sighed kathleen. "as patience eliot and i have been invited to be the sempers' guests of honor, naturally i don't care to miss it." "can you get away from the paper at any time during august?" asked anne thoughtfully. "yes; but only for a week," kathleen spoke regretfully. "then let us decide upon the time now," proposed miriam. "i am sorry to be a kill-joy, but one week will have to be my limit this year. i wish i could spare two, but it's impossible." "i intended to speak of that," nodded elfreda. "i'd love to have you girls with me longer but i know that most of you are cramped for time. so i'll be magnanimous and say, 'thank you for small favors.'" the subject of the reunion thus renewed, it was decided to hold it during the second week in august, and the six friends began an avid planning for it. from that the conversation drifted back to overton college, always a fruitful topic for discussion. it was truly a heart-to-heart talk. because of the perfect fellowship that existed among them, they could look back and speak frankly not only of their lighter hours, but also of the graver moments when the struggle to reach their aims had seemed well-nigh impossible. half-past eleven o'clock found them still lingering on the veranda, the incessant murmur of their busy voices proclaiming their mutual satisfaction in being together once more. when at last a voluble procession wended its way upstairs to bed, the usual amount of visiting between rooms was carried on with the old-time fervor of college days. "it's exactly like old times," declared elfreda to miriam. "here we are, you and i, rooming together again just as we did at overton. sometimes when i stop to think that those days are gone for good and all, it gives me the blues. i can't realize that you, miriam nesbit, and grace harlowe, too, are actually grown-up and getting ready to be married. why it seems only yesterday since i was the verdant freshman who invited herself to room with you and kept you in hot water for a whole year because she didn't know enough to behave like a human being." "what about the elfreda briggs who proved herself the most loyal friend and roommate one could ever hope to have?" demanded miriam, laying a friendly hand on elfreda's shoulder. "oh, i had to get in line," returned elfreda with a flashing affectionate glance that belied her brusque words. "i could see that the way i had started out wouldn't take me far. you and grace made me over." "yet, if it hadn't been for grace i would have stayed a hateful, conceited snob all my days," returned miriam soberly. "there isn't one of us who doesn't owe her a debt of gratitude that we can never hope to repay. if happiness is the certain reward of good works, then grace harlowe ought never to know an unhappy moment." miriam spoke with a certainty born of her deep regard for grace. to her it seemed that naught save the brightest of futures could come to her friend. yet happiness is at best a fragile, evanescent thing. chapter iv "to thine own self be true" "well, daffydowndilly, what is on your mind?" began grace when the last gay good-night had sounded and arline had closed the door of her dainty blue and white room. "let's get comfy first. i can talk a great deal better." arline began a listless unfastening of her fluffy lingerie frock, her eyes fixed moodily on grace. "all right." grace had already divested herself of her gown of soft white china silk and was now seated before the dressing table energetically brushing her wealth of golden brown hair. nothing more was said until, with a little fluttering sigh, arline had curled up like a kitten at grace's feet, her golden head resting against her friend's knee. smiling tenderly down on her, grace could not help noting how utterly like a tired child she looked in her baby-blue negligee. "now is the time for all good sempers and true to come to the aid of their comrades," she encouraged with a smile. "grace," arline lifted solemn blue eyes, "have you ever for one minute been sorry that you gave up your work for--for--the sake of--love?" "no." grace shook a decided head. inwardly she wondered a little at the question. "it took me a long time to come to a decision, though," she added frankly. "would you mind telling me about it?" arline flushed as she made the request. "please don't think me prying, but--" she hesitated. "well, i have a strong reason for asking. it would help me, i think, if you cared to give me your confidence." for a moment grace made no response. aside from her most intimate oakdale friends and emma dean she had never divulged to any one else the story of that last year of struggle against love which had ended in her unconditional surrender to it. to her it was as something bitter-sweet, to be locked in her memory for all time. yet the wistfulness of arline's appeal touched her deeply. "i am willing to tell you about it," she said slowly. "you know, of course, that tom gray and i had known each other almost from childhood. we grew up together as good comrades. we were always together during vacations with our six other friends. his aunt, mrs. gray, whom you know, was fond of having us with her. it never entered my head that tom cared for me in more than a friendly way, until i came home from overton at the end of my junior year. when i began to understand that he really loved me, i didn't like it at all. as i grew older i liked the idea still less. i wanted to work; not marry tom. he asked me to marry him the next winter, but i said 'no,' after that i kept on saying 'no,' and last winter we threshed the matter out soon after anne's wedding. "i felt very well pleased with myself for a while. then things went wrong at overton and tom joined a naturalist on an expedition to south america. right then it came to me that i had suddenly met with a dreadful loss. i tried to make myself believe that i didn't care. while i was at home during the easter vacation i woke up. but it was too late. i went back to overton, but i wasn't happy. he had often told me that there would come a time when not even my work could crowd out love. i knew that the time had come. i had had some trouble with miss wharton, the dean, and expecting to be asked to resign my position at harlowe house. i resigned of my own accord. it was kathleen west who straightened out that tangle for me. she sent for miss wilder, who happened to be coming home just at that time. my resignation wasn't accepted, and i would perhaps have gone on for another year at overton, but--" grace paused, her fine face grew tender. "tom came back," she continued, a faint tremor in her even tones, "and so i gladly gave up my work for love. that's the whole story. i never expected to tell it to any one. somehow it has always been sacred to me. i couldn't bear to talk of it, even to mother." "it's a wonderful story. when i asked you about giving up work for love, i never dreamed that you had gone through with any such struggle. i feel as though i've intruded on very private property. but just knowing about it _has_ comforted me." arline raised her head from grace's knee with sudden energy. "it's this way, grace. i have almost decided to break my engagement." "why, arline thayer!" amazement was written on grace's features. "i am sorry to hear that. until to-night i had thought of you as being absolutely happy." "i'm not. i'm dreadfully unhappy." arline drew a quick, almost sobbing breath. "you've never met stanley forde, my fiancã©, so you don't know how handsome he is and how nice he can be--if he chooses. but he's turning out a--a--well, a kind of tyrant. he doesn't like me to do settlement work. i've always thought he wasn't very highly pleased over it, but he never said a word until the other night. even then he didn't say much. but, as elfreda says, 'i can see' that if i marry him he's going to say more about it afterward. then we'll quarrel and that would be dreadful. i could never endure it. you know how i hate quarrels. at college i never had anything to say to or do with the girls who were trouble-makers. what am i to do, grace? break my engagement while there is still time or--or--" arline subsided with a little sob. "poor daffydowndilly." bending, grace wound her arms about the dainty, child-like figure. "it's a hard problem--hard because i suppose you must care a great deal for him." "i think i must love him, or i wouldn't wish to marry him," came the muffled reply. "still i won't give up my work. those poor settlement children need me. he can't understand that. he knows nothing of what it means to be terribly poor. he doesn't like the idea of my coming into such close contact with them. it doesn't hurt me and it helps them," ended arline piteously. "one who knows you well should understand that you are doing worthy work," returned grace gravely. "still if i were you i would not act too hastily. it seems to me that you ought to come to a frank understanding of the matter with your fiancã© at once." "and if he refuses to allow me--" broke in arline quickly. "then you must decide within yourself whether he is worth the sacrifice," grace answered with deep positiveness. privately she did not consider that a young man, who took it upon himself to interfere with an enterprise which benefited many and harmed none, was quite worthy of her generous little comrade. "it's like this, arline. you must be true to yourself, no matter what it may cost you. even your fiancã©'s love won't make up for having failed some one else in order to keep it. what does your father think of it?" "oh, he doesn't know," came the quick response. "he is very fond of stanley. he is pleased with our engagement. still he has always been interested in my work. but i'd rather fight it out alone. if i were some day to go to him and say, 'i have broken my engagement,' he would be dreadfully disappointed, but not angry. that's just the trouble. i've always done exactly as i pleased. it's hard now to think of doing what some one else dictates. sometimes i feel that i love stanley a great deal; then again i feel differently about it. i'm really in a terrible muddle. i wish i were just daffydowndilly back at good old overton again." "i wouldn't stay in a muddle then," advised practical grace. "i'd settle matters once and for all, and whichever way i might decide, i'd make myself believe that it was for the best. but first of all i'd be very sure that love was love." she had reached the wise conclusion that true love and arline were as yet strangers. "i can't say anything to stanley just now. he's in oregon and won't be back until the last of august. i don't care to write him. i must wait until i see him. but i shall think over all you've said and try very hard to be true to myself." arline rose and standing beside grace slid a loving arm about her neck. "i knew you could help me," she said. "i feel ever so much better. now i mustn't keep you any longer. thank you, loyalheart. you've been very sweet to poor, muddled daffydowndilly." "you are a dear child and deserve the best that life can give you." grace returned the gentle embrace with a tenderness that bespoke unutterable regard. it hurt her to know that gay, light-hearted arline thayer who had always appeared to slip through life so smoothly, should have run against an ugly snag. long after they had said good-night, grace lay looking out at the calm moonlight and pondering over the great changes that less than a year had brought her. her own happiness so complete, she longed for the whole world to be happy with her. her ever-ready sympathy went out to all those in it whose difficult love-problems tended toward renunciation. she wished whole-heartedly that she might waken to the sunlight of a day when she could say joyfully and with supreme truth: "all's right with the world." chapter v flying in the face of superstition "oh, mother, isn't it nice to be home again?" grace harlowe dropped into her favorite chair and surveyed the familiar living-room with the same glad appreciation she would have bestowed upon a long-lost friend. "i've loved being with the girls; but, after all, home is best. i'm fortunate in that i am going to live so near to you. if tom goes back to the forestry department this winter, i'm afraid i shall leave haven home more than once to take care of itself and come trotting back to you. it will be dreadfully lonely there with tom away. not that it isn't the most beautiful place in the world, but then, you are you, and i can't do without you." "i have been obliged to give you up the greater part of the last six years. i suppose i ought to feel resigned to it by this time." mrs. harlowe's smile hinted at wistfulness. "i am glad to be home again, too. i hope we haven't forgotten to buy every single thing you need. i imagine your wedding gown will come to-day. let me see. it was to have been finished the day we left new york. we've been home two days. yes, i think we may expect it to-day, or not later than to-morrow. there's the doorbell ringing now. perhaps it's the expressman." springing to her feet, grace hurried to the door. "here's your expressman," she laughed, as she reappeared, her arm linked in that of nora wingate. "good morning, nora," greeted mrs. harlowe. rising, she advanced to nora, kissing her with evident affection. "we were wondering what had become of you. we haven't seen you since we came home." "hippy and i went away for the week end. we returned only this morning. i was anxious to see you both, also grace's wedding finery, so i came over bright and early." "we brought it all back with us, except my wedding gown, nora. i'm expecting that at almost any moment. i'm anxious to try on the whole outfit. then i'll know how i'm going to look as a bride." "oh, you mustn't do that!" exclaimed nora in horrified tones. "it's dreadfully unlucky. didn't you know it?" "i am not superstitious," laughed grace. "i fail to see why trying on one's wedding gown beforehand should bring bad luck. i am surely going to do it when it comes, just to prove the fallacy of the superstition." "i wish you wouldn't." nora's dark brows met in a troubled frown. "perhaps it _is_ foolish in me to feel like that about it. but i do. i suppose it's because i'm irish. the daughters of erin have always been a superstitious lot. don't ever tell hippy that i admitted even that much. he would tease me for a week about it." "it shall remain a dark secret," gayly assured grace. "as it is, i may continue to consider myself as lucky till the gown puts in an appearance. after that, look out for trouble. you'd better stay to luncheon to-day, nora, so as to be here when the great trying-on moment dawns." "thank you. i will." nora's lately-clouded face brightened. "i'll leave hippy to lunch in solitary state. i'll telephone him to that effect. it will teach him to appreciate his blessings." nora dimpled roguishly as she tripped to the hall to acquaint hippy with the fell prospect in store for him. she returned to the living-room with the mirthful information: "he says he resigns himself to his fate, but that he will prepare for my triumphal home-coming this evening. that means he will do something ridiculous. the last time i left him to his own folly, he decorated the dining-room with all sorts of absurd signs--'what is home without the irish?' 'in memory of my late lamented guardian,' and 'not gone for good, but merely gadding.'" nora giggled as she recounted these pleasant tokens of welcome. "you and hippy will never grow up," mrs. harlowe declared indulgently. "you play at keeping house like two children." "i think it's lovely," nodded grace. "when i start on my pilgrimage i'm not going to think that i shall ever grow into a staid, stately married person. i'm going to keep the spirit of youth alive until i'm old and gray-headed. did i dream it, nora, or did i see you lay your work bag on the hall settee? i hope it's a reality. these are busy times, you know. i'm a hard-working individual. so is mother. if i see someone else blissfully idle it has a bad effect upon me." "don't worry, i brought my work. i am still in the throes of that lunch cloth i'm embroidering for miriam. i've a lot to do to it yet before it's finished, so i can't afford to be idle, either." repairing to the summer house, the three women fell to work with commendable energy on their self-imposed tasks. it was a glorious midsummer morning and the picturesque pagoda at the foot of the garden proved an ideal retreat. despite her sturdy declaration that she could not afford to be idle, more than once grace's embroidery dropped from her hands as her gray eyes dreamily drank in the beauty of the riotously-blooming garden of old-fashioned flowers, the close-clipped, tree-decked lawn and the thousand and one details that made her childhood's home seem daily dearer now that she was so soon to leave it. "wake up, grace," playfully admonished her mother, her eyes chancing to rest on her daughter's rapt face. "if my ears do not deceive me, i think i heard the doorbell. perhaps it is the expressman." "i hope it is." hastily dropping her embroidery to the rustic bench on which she was seated, grace rose and set off in a hurry toward the not-far-distant house. it was several minutes before she returned, her radiant face registered the news that the long-looked-for express package had materialized. "at last!" was her jubilant cry when half way across the lawn. "no more work for me until after luncheon. come up to the house, both of you. the grand try-on is about to begin. we'll just have time for it before luncheon. kindly go to the living-room and obtain front seats for the performance." having delivered this merry injunction, grace turned and went back to the house. laying aside their work in obedience to the prospective bride's command, mrs. harlowe and nora proceeded in leisurely fashion to the house, there to await grace's pleasure. "go on into the living-room, nora," said mrs. harlowe as they stepped into the hall. "i must see bridget about luncheon. i'll return directly." left to herself, nora went over to the piano. her fingers wandering lightly over the keys, almost unconsciously she dropped into the plaintive prelude of tosti's "good-bye." why that particularly pathetic farewell to summer and love should have occurred to her at such a time she did not know. whether it had been superinduced by her rooted superstition against grace's determination to try on her wedding gown beforehand, or whether her emotional temperament had sensed the stirring of far-off things, nora could not explain. very softly she sang the mournful words of the first verse. she was about to go on with the second when, mrs. harlowe appearing in the living-room, nora swung about on the piano stool. "finish your song, nora," begged mrs. harlowe. "i am very fond of the 'good-bye.' it is distinctly melancholy, but beautiful. to me, all tosti's songs are wonderful. the 'venetian song' and the 'serenata' are both exquisite. it seems a pity that the more modern composers have given us so little that is really worth while." "i know it. still we have chaminade and nevin and de bussy. some of de bussy's tone poems are marvels. i love '_la lettre_' and '_la muette_.'" "i don't think i have ever heard either of them," returned mrs. harlowe. "i know very little of the modern music of the french school." "i'll sing '_la lettre_' for you." nora faced the piano to render the exquisite inspiration of the noted french composer. "before i sing it," she added, turning her head toward mrs. harlowe, "i had better try to tell you something about it. it is about a letter somebody writes to a loved one, late in the night when everything is absolutely silent in the house. roughly translated it begins, 'i write to you, and the lamp listens.' both the words and the music make one feel as though the bond between the two persons was so strong that they could almost communicate one with the other by thought. that is really the idea de bussy has tried to convey in his music and one can't help but understand it. he brings it out strongly in the last part of the song where the writer of the letter says: 'half dreaming, i wonder: is it i who write to thee, or thou to me?' then it ends with a distant clock striking the hour. listen and you'll hear it." listener and singer both intent on the song, neither heard the bride-to-be descending the stairs. not wishing to interrupt them, grace paused behind the portieres that draped the wide doorway into the living-room until nora should finish. with her, "_la lettre_" had always been a favorite song. long afterward, when the shadow of the unexpected hung darkly over her, she recalled that significant moment of waiting. "it is undeniably perfect," was mrs. harlowe's appreciative comment when the last note, representing the striking of the distant clock, had died away. "i had no idea----" "oh, grace!" nora's glance had suddenly strayed to the slender, white-robed figure that was making a sedate advance into the living-room. whirling mischievously she played a few bars of "mendelsohn's wedding march," then sprang from the piano stool and ran forward with outstretched hands. "you are truly magnificent!" she breathed impulsively. mrs. harlowe had also risen. was this radiant young woman in lustrous white satin, whose changeful face looked out so sweetly from the softly flowing bridal veil, the same little grace harlowe who had not so very long ago romped her tom-boyish way through childhood? a mist rose to her eyes, soft with brooding mother love, as she walked forward and took grace gently in her arms. for an instant the three women remained wrapped in a kind of triangular embrace. then mrs. harlowe released her daughter with a fond, "walk across the room, grace, so that we can get the full effect of your grandeur." "it's a darling gown," praised nora. "i like it ever so much better than jessica's, anne's or mine. i can't blame you for wanting to dress up in it beforehand. i take back all my croaking. here's hoping good luck will roost permanently on your doorstep." "it ought to," was grace's fervent response, "with everyone so perfectly sweet to me and with all the trouble that mother is taking to give me pleasure. i feel as though----" the reverberating peal of the door bell cut grace's words short. "don't answer it until i am out of sight!" she exclaimed, scurrying nimbly toward the hall. a flash of white on the stairs and she was gone. "good morning, mother mine. is grace here?" tom gray's impetuous inquiry betokened strong excitement. "good morning, tom. come in. grace has just vanished up the stairs. i'll let her tell you why she left us in such a hurry." mrs. harlowe smilingly ushered tom into the living-room. "nora, you can play hostess. i will go and tell grace that tom is here." "thank you." tom cast a grateful look after mrs. harlowe's retreating back. following nora into the living-room he seated himself nervously on the davenport, his eyes fixed on the doorway. nora eyed him in sober speculation. she would have liked to inquire into the nature of his excitement. courtesy forbidding her to do so, she indulged only in commonplaces to which tom replied almost absently. it was evident that something remarkable must have happened to thus upset tom's equanimity. the sound of grace's light feet on the stairs was a matter of relief to her. excusing herself to the impatient lover, she left the room, wondering if, after all, there could be a remote possibility that her prediction of ill luck was about to be fulfilled. chapter vi the shadow "but why must _you_ go, tom?" grace's tones rang with nervous dread. "can't some one else adjust matters satisfactorily?" "no." tom's reply was freighted with gloom. "i understand those men up there and can get along better with them than a new superintendent could. it wouldn't be worth while hiring one. mr. mackenzie isn't dangerously ill. he'll be about again in two or three weeks. but it needs some one who understands aunt rose's affairs to look after them properly, even for that short period of time. if it weren't almost tragic, it would be funny. here i am bound heart and soul to the work of preserving forests. now duty calls me to handle a crowd of men whose business it is to cut down forests. it isn't very pleasant to contemplate. to me trees are almost as much alive as human beings. worse still, i hate to leave you, grace. it's not so very long until the tenth of september, either, and we've so many plans to carry out yet at haven home." "i know it." grace's admission contained resignation. with duty thus obstinately confronting tom, she felt that she had no right to discourage the performance of it. "i don't wish you to go," she faltered, "but i can't help knowing that you are right. you owe it to your aunt. she comes first. she's been both father and mother to you, and i'm glad you are the one to help her now." "aunt rose doesn't want me to go," returned tom quickly. "she's afraid something dreadful may happen to me. i don't anticipate any such thing. i'm too good a woodsman to feel concerned about myself. after that strenuous expedition to south america, this will be child's play. it's leaving you that i don't like." grace did not reply for a moment. secretly she, too, was echoing mrs. gray's fears. with the day of their marriage so near, she could not bear even to dwell on the dire possibility of any occurrence which might wreck her golden summer. bravely thrusting aside such a contingency she said with grave sweetness: "i should be a pretty poor sort of comrade if i were to fly in the face of your duty. it's hard, of course, tom, but i can say truthfully that i wish you to go. i shall try not to be sad over it, or worry. after all, it's only for two or three weeks. one week of that time i shall be at elfreda's attending the semper's reunion. as for haven home, you attended to the really important things to be done there while i was in new york city. most of the furniture is there now. ever so many of the smaller things yet to be done, i can do or have done. my trousseau is attended to, so i'll have time to make daily pilgrimages to our forest retreat." "i've thought of all that, too. i knew you'd wish to finish the work at haven home. the touring car or my roadster are always at your service to take you there. you know you love to drive the roadster. it's already as much yours as mine. you can always take one of your girl friends with you. it's bully in you to be so brave about it. it helps me more than i can say." tom caught grace's hands in a loving, steadfast clasp. for an hour or more they sat side by side on the davenport, each sturdily trying to conceal the blow which the unlooked-for swing in mrs. gray's business affairs had dealt them. tom's chief cause for sorrow was in the fact that he must leave the girl he adored, even for so brief an interval of time. grace's sadness, which she sternly concealed from him, lay far deeper. though tom was scarcely concerned for his own welfare, she was filled with a thousand vague alarms as to the disasters which might perhaps overtake him. not so long since, in speaking of the vast lumber region in a northern state where his aunt possessed important holdings, he had told her of the troubles that frequently ensued by reason of lawless timber thieves. then, too, the camp for which he was bound was large and comprised a rough element of men. from tom himself she had learned that the scotch superintendent, alec mackenzie, was obliged to rule them with an iron hand. during his enforced absence from them, discipline was sure to grow lax. she wondered whether even resolute tom gray could ably contend with the difficult situation. yet she kept all this to herself. it was her place to encourage, not discourage. if unbounded faith in tom could help work the wonder of carrying him safely through his mission and home again to her, then she would bestow that faith ungrudgingly. hers was too fine and steadfast a nature to quail at the first obstacle that rose to impede her highway of happiness. "loyalheart" she had been christened and "loyalheart" she would remain to the end of her days. "when must you go, tom?" she questioned at last. both had thus far been sedulously side-stepping direct reference to their moment of parting. "i ought to go this afternoon." tom's voice registered his hearty regret as he made this response. "i can wait until to-morrow if _you_ say so, grace. i'd rather you'd decide it. of course, you know i'd prefer to put over going until to-morrow. it's only----" "i understand," came faintly from grace. "you'd better go to-day. tom. it will be even harder for both of us to wait another day before saying good-bye. besides," she added, making a valiant effort to be cheerful, "the sooner you go, the sooner you will return. you may find that you won't have to stay there as long as you imagine." "you're a true comrade, loyalheart." since the day when grace had named their future residence haven home, at the same time telling tom of the college play in which she had taken part, he had fallen into the habit of calling her loyalheart. "that miss west had the right idea about you," had been his tender criticism. "there isn't another name in the whole world that could possibly suit you so well." "i hope always to be a good comrade," returned grace, a faint color stealing into her lately-paling cheeks. "it's a pretty hard contract always to live up to, though. while everything is lovely, it's not hard. when things go wrong, it is. it reminds me of a poem i once read that began, 'it's easy enough to be pleasant when life flows by like a song.' i can't remember any more of it, except that it conveyed the thought that the only persons who are really worth while are the ones who can keep on being pleasant even when everything in their lives goes wrong. so we ought to try to smile over this little hardship and look at it as being just one of the vicissitudes that life is bound to bring us." "but i don't like to see hardship and vicissitudes creeping into our golden summer," protested tom, not quite satisfied to adjust himself to grace's more optimistic view of the situation. "i'm selfish about it, i'm afraid. when, after a long dark winter, a man is suddenly turned loose in the sunshine, he is naturally anxious to stay there. just because i'm saying that, i don't mean that i would dream of failing aunt rose. i'd go even if it meant we'd have to put off our marriage a few weeks longer." "and i would wish you to go," agreed grace earnestly. "i am glad you said that. if, when you get to the camp, you find that you will have to stay quite a while, we can put off our wedding until the last of september. only a few of our closest friends know that we have set the date for the tenth of september, so we needn't feel in the least embarrassed if we find it necessary to change it." "oh, i'll be back before the last of august," was tom's confident prediction. "that will give us plenty of time to make all our arrangements. and now i must go, grace. i have a good deal to do before train time. i'll leave oakdale on that 4.30 express. i'll drive over here for you in the roadster. i'd like just you to see me off on my journey. aunt rose will understand when i tell her. then if you will, you can drive the roadster back to our garage." [illustration: devoted love shone in her clear gray eyes.] "i will," acquiesced grace briefly. a swift rush of unbidden emotion brought her very near to tears. accompanying tom to the door, she watched him wistfully down the walk. she was forcibly reminded of a day, belonging to the past, when she had seen him go down that same walk, and, as she then believed, out of her life. on that dark rainy afternoon of the long ago she had felt only pity as she gazed after his retreating form. she had gone into the house and cried bitterly, out of sheer sorrow of the hurt which she had inflicted upon her childhood's friend. now all was changed. devoted love shone through the windows of the clear gray eyes that followed tom gray's tall, broad-shouldered figure, as he swung through the gate and down the street. and, as she stood there in the doorway, the triumphant knowledge that she loved and was loved in return swept away her inclination to tears. even the shadow of separation could not dim the glory of the summer that lived in her heart. chapter vii the veiled prophetess of destiny "but is emma really coming, elfreda?" questioned sara emerson anxiously. "she wrote us that she would surely be here." seven eager faces reflected the anxiety in sara's tones as she made this inquiry. the first day of the semper fidelis week of reunion was well on its way toward sunset. of the original members, six had descended upon the briggs' spacious cottage to keep elfreda company. with them had come kathleen west and patience eliot, the guests of honor. five members were still among the missing. marian cummings, gertrude wells, elsie wilton and ruth denton had been unable to grace the occasion with their presence. ruth's inability to attend lay in the fact that she was with her father in nevada. this had been a great cross to her chum, arline thayer. the others had also mourned the distance that separated her from them. but even the absence of these four paled almost into insignificance beside the disappointing knowledge that the fifth missing member, jovial emma dean, had not yet appeared. "she will be here," announced elfreda positively. "i know she will. don't worry about it. she will no doubt come to the surface when you least expect it. she wouldn't miss the reunion for a good deal." "but she'll miss having dinner on the lawn this evening and seeing that wonderful gypsy fortune teller you have hunted up for the occasion," was julia emerson's regretful cry. "where did you find her, elfreda? can she really tell fortunes?" "she can," elfreda asserted with solemn positiveness. "wait and see. where i found her is a secret for to-night. perhaps if you are good, i'll tell you all about her to-morrow." "but to-morrow never comes," reminded patience eliot. "you'd better tell us now." "can't do it." elfreda beamed mysteriously on the emerson twins. "curb your curiosity, twins. wait patiently and the future shall unfold itself to you as an open book. i wouldn't make a bad fortune teller myself," she added humorously. "that's the way they usually talk." "i am so disappointed at not seeing emma here, too," sighed grace harlowe. "it seems ages since we said good-bye to each other at overton. you don't suppose anything has happened to her, do you, elfreda?" "of course not. take my word for it, she'll be here before we are a day older. there, that finishes the decorations." elfreda triumphantly fastened into place the last of a quantity of chinese lanterns that she and her friends had been stringing about the grounds, viewing the work with a sigh of satisfaction. "these won't give much light, but they'll look pretty. the electric light will have to do the real illuminating act. the table looks sweet, doesn't it?" several voices sent up laudatory affirmations. though the sempers had arrived only that morning they had entered heart and soul soul into elfreda's plan for a dinner on the lawn that evening, with the added treat of communing with a real fortune-teller afterward. in order to give the mysterious sooth-sayer a proper setting, a veritable grotto had been arranged for her inside a small summer house at one end of the lawn, on which the light would shine only faintly, thereby according her the eerie environment so necessary to one whose business it is to foretell the future. luncheon over, the sempers had wandered in and out of one another's rooms, exchanging confidences and reminiscences, while a wholesale unpacking of their effects went on. later elfreda had marshalled them to the lawn, where their tongues continued to wag busily as they strung the many-colored lanterns on every available bush, or between such trees as could be easily put into use. "we'd better be thinking about getting dressed for the evening," reminded miriam nesbit, consulting her wrist watch. "it is after six o'clock." "i hope it gets dark early," commented elfreda, with a reflective squint at the sky. "it will be more fun to have dinner then. still i don't care to let the august sempers starve while we are waiting for night to come." "oh, have dinner late," chorused several voices. "it will be ever so much more fun." "i think so, too," nodded grace. "we'll be good and hungry then and enjoy it even better for the waiting." "you hear the counsel of honorable semper harlowe," stated elfreda automatically. "those in favor please respond in the usual manner by saying 'aye.' contrary 'no.' i am delighted to find you of one mind," she added, with a beaming smile, as no dissenting voice arose. "you shall be amply rewarded for such noble self-sacrifice." "elfreda has something special on her mind," remarked miriam nesbit to anne, as they strolled toward the house to don evening gowns. "she's planning some sort of ridiculous surprise. i can see it in her eye. i wonder--" miriam stopped short and laughed. "what?" asked anne quickly. "i hadn't noticed anything specially mysterious in her manner. she always did love to be mystifying." "i won't say what i think is going to happen. if it happens, though, i'll tell you if i guessed right." miriam continued to smile to herself. encountering elfreda on the veranda, her black eyes flashed the stout girl a mischievous message which the latter immediately caught. "i can see that you know a few things," challenged elfreda, drawing her aside. "on your honor as my benefactor and roommate, keep them to yourself," she charged, just above a whisper. "i am a safe receptacle for dark secrets," miriam laughingly assured her in equally guarded fashion. "i'm afraid i made a serious mistake in rooming with you so long. you know altogether too much about me," retorted elfreda waggishly. "i might have known you'd guess. never mind. some others won't." owing to the fact that the sun had obligingly finished his daily pilgrimage behind a flock of gray clouds that banked themselves in the west, a fairly early twilight descended. a timid new moon, that was scheduled in the almanac to rise early, also covered itself with glory by not appearing at all, thereby signally helping along elfreda's cause. when at eight o'clock the nine representatives of semper fidelis seated themselves at the tastefully decorated festal board, which occupied a position of central importance on the grassy lawn, they had no reason to complain of too much natural light. through the dense summer darkness that had now closed in about them, softly-glowing lanterns winked their many-colored eyes. the main illumination, however, was due to two good-sized electric lights, each suspended from its own particular post at opposite sides of the grounds. these elfreda had thoughtfully swathed in thin flowered silk, which modifying their glare, gave them the same oriental effect as that of the lanterns. the nine young women made a pretty picture as they gathered about the table, the delicate hues of their evening frocks lending additional beauty to the scene. from out each young face shone the joy of reunion. whatever the future might ordain for them in the way of trials, for one week at least they had laid strong hold on happiness. having nobly postponed dinner for purely artistic reasons, they were now decidedly hungry. they, therefore, devoted themselves whole-heartedly to the substantial meal, comprising several delectable courses which were deftly served to them by two maids who had long been fixtures in the briggs' household, and whose smiling faces indicated their pleasure in ministering to elfreda's guests. it was a signally merry repast, eaten to an accompaniment of gay badinage and rippling laughter. their college days now but a memory, it partook of the nature of a rollicking spread, rather than of that of a formal dinner party, and they reveled in thus being able to call forth once more a fleeting repetition of their former jollifications. "you are a truly hospitable lawyeress, j. elfreda," lauded kathleen west, as, dessert removed, they lingered at the table over their coffee, served in quaint japanese cups that were the pride of j. elfreda's heart. "i can see that you haven't lost the will to garner things japanese. these cups are exquisite." "i am inordinately proud of them," returned elfreda, looking gratified. "laura atkins' father presented me with a real japanese tea-set that he bought especially for me the last time he was in japan. they are old enough to have a history, too. i couldn't resist parading them to-night in honor of the sempers." "tell us about them, elfreda," begged patience eliot. "i love to hear----" patience never finished stating what she loved to hear. a sharp little exclamation of "look!" from arline thayer set all eyes gazing in the direction of her indexing finger. out of the darkness and into the swaying gleam of the lanterns a black-robed figure, bent double with the weight of years, hobbled its weird way toward the diners. from a voluminous sable sleeve, a long thin hand projected itself, the wiry fingers clutching a tall staff. the shifting glow of the lanterns played fantastically upon the apparition's veiled head as, step by step, it drew slowly nearer. an audible sigh of amazement, mingled with dread of the unknown, swept the little company. added to the unexpected materialization of the seeress was the surprise of her costume. fancy had pictured her to them as the usual gypsy, garbed in a rainbow of lively colors. this sinister vision, the cast of whose features a long black veil entirely concealed, seemed to be a creation of the very darkness itself. if pure uncanniness indicated occult power, then this veiled prophetess of destiny must surely be an adept in her art. chapter viii unveiling the prophetess "'tis the veiled prophetess of destiny," declaimed elfreda with dramatic intensity. "excuse me, girls. i must conduct her to her grotto. if she is not received with respectful ceremony, she is likely to hobble off to other fields and leave us in the lurch. after all the pains i've taken to insure her presence, i should hate to disappoint you at the last minute." "where on earth did j. elfreda manage to find her?" questioned julia emerson. distinct awe pervaded her tones. their gaze fixed upon the distinguished seeress, whom elfreda was solicitously piloting across the lawn to the grotto, no one answered julia's question. in fact, only one of their number was prepared to reply to the query. having taken the vow of silence, miriam nesbit's tranquilly-composed features offered no sign of the significant knowledge that lay behind them. "who will be the first to consult amarna, the seeress of the seven veils?" intoned the now-returning elfreda in solemn, sing-song accents. very practically she added: "i just now took the trouble to find out her name." "can she tell the past?" quizzed sara emerson skeptically. "she can. to amarna the past is a freshly written page. from her occult vision nothing lies hidden. let me lead you to her." elfreda crooked an inviting arm. with a joyful giggle sara rose. accepting the proffered guidance to the seat of the all-wise amarna, she proceeded to hustle her amiable conductor over the grass toward the grotto at a most indecorous rate of speed, born of her ardent determination to test the mettle of the seeress of the seven veils. "go ahead." releasing sara's arm, elfreda gave her a gentle shove toward the grotto and retired into a discreet patch of darkness to chuckle unobserved. "stand where you are. i am amarna," piped a thin, reedy voice. sara obediently came to a halt in the opening to the grotto and faced a black-draped dais on which the illustrious prophetess reposed. in the chastened yellow glow, cast by an enormous lantern hung directly over where she now paused, sara was plainly visible to the uncanny figure on its perch. on the contrary, as amarna sat well in the shadow, her face still hidden behind her veil, she greatly resembled a huge black blot. "you are not the only child in your father's house," continued the high voice. "you have a sister who is your very counterpart. both saw the light on the same day, march the seventh." the seeress went on with a detailed narration of various past events in sara's life which caused her eyes to grow round with wonder. the subsequent prediction of a most remarkable future, in which fate had apparently decreed that she should never marry but end her days as a successful conductor of an art needle-work emporium, sent her scurrying back to her friends divided between wonder of the mysterious being's power to depict the past and disgust at the prospect of such a hum-drum future. "do let me interview her next," pleaded julia emerson. "but first i shall run up to my room and get my scarf. if amarna can swathe her distinguished features, so can i. then she won't know i'm a twin. i must say she seems better at reading the past than predicting the future. i don't see how she could tell a single thing about you, sara, when you just stood still there. fortune-tellers generally ask to look at one's palm." having delivered herself of this wise opinion, julia flitted off to the house to secure the disguising scarf. "i defy you to pick me out as a twin," was her merry challenge, when returning to the group on the lawn she wound her long chiffon scarf twice about her head. "thank goodness, sarah and i never dress alike. you'll have to lead me, j. elfreda briggs. i can see, of course; but rather dimly." elfreda again performed the kindly office of conductor, leaving julia in precisely the same spot where sara had lately stood. "the eyes of amarna cannot be deceived," calmly reproved the black shape on the dais. "they see behind the flimsy veil and deep into your thoughts. your face is as the face of her who so lately sought me. the bond of sisterhood stretches between you. that which is invisible to the naked eye is visible to me. the road of the past winds clear and white before me. now i perceive that you----" the result of amarna's mystic meanderings down the road of the past were never revealed. tardily gifted with a most remarkable power of second sight, julia suddenly swooped down upon the weird seeress of the seven veils, emitting a gleeful shout. "you villain!" she chuckled, as she caught the unfortunate sooth-sayer by the shoulders and administered a playful shaking. still firmly clutching her victim, she raised her voice in a clear call of, "girls, come here this instant!" having heard julia's first wild shout, an investigating committee of curious girls was already bearing down upon the grotto. "here's your seeress!" laughed julia. with a triumphant sweep of the arm, she pulled aside the swathing black veil, to disclose the mirthful features of emma dean, minus her glasses. "emma dean!" went up the lusty cry from at least six surprised sempers. elfreda and miriam, however, had guessed the import of julia's shrill summons before running to the scene with the others. "you ridiculous fraud!" exclaimed sara emerson, hugging emma with bearish enthusiasm. "no wonder you knew so much about my past and so little of my future. and i never even suspected you." "i'm next," declared grace as she wrapped fond arms about the recently age-bent figure which had miraculously recovered youth within a space of three minutes. emma was lovingly embraced by each girl in turn amid much voluble greeting and accompanying laughter. "the way of the seeress is hard," she commented humorously as she finished the removal of her veil, which the astute julia had begun. "no more gloomy, ghostly grottos for emily elizabeth. let the past and the future take care care of itself. hurrah for the glorious present! i hope you giddy, gorgeous creatures can appreciate my noble, self-sacrificing spirit. while you have been engaged in wearing your costliest raiment and eating up a delectable dinner, i've been obliged to lurk like a criminal in j. elfreda's room, attired in somber, sable weeds." "but when did you arrive, emma?" asked arline. "of course we know now that you and elfreda perpetrated this dark but delightful plot. how you managed to slip into the cottage without any of us seeing you is a greater mystery than the seeress of the seven veils could ever hope to be." "oh, it was all planned beforehand," explained emma cheerfully. "while you loyal sempers were out on the lawn this afternoon, stringing lanterns, i was shut up in a third-story room peering owlishly down at you through the shutters. i arrived here this morning, about an hour before the rest of you. kind and hospitable hostess that she seems to be, i grieve to relate that i had hardly paid my respects to mrs. briggs when j. elfreda shut me up in that same third-story chamber with my breakfast and left me to pine while she went gayly gallivanting down to the train to meet you. when i have a little time i shall write a book and entitle it, 'locked up for the day; or all in the name of friendship.'" emma beamed languishingly upon her listeners in order better to impress them with her unfaltering loyalty to their interests. "in order to clear my jailer of any unjust aspersions which unkind persons may cast upon her, i might also add that she brought me some luncheon. as for my dinner, i had finished it before you began yours. so you see, she at least kept me in a well-nourished condition." "now we can be perfectly happy!" exulted grace. "you are the last touch needed to complete the reunion." "i am always a blessing," returned emma modestly. "to-night i happened to be one in disguise. but i yearn to cast aside my sable robes of prophesy and emerge from my room in gala garments. lead me to my trunk, j. elfreda. the night is yet young and i'm anxious to make the most of it." "i never once thought of emma dean in connection with elfreda's fortune-teller," confessed kathleen west ruefully. "i am afraid i'm losing my nose for news." "neither did i," admitted anne. "but you guessed it, didn't you, miriam?" recalling the latter's inspiration of that afternoon, anne turned to her sister-in-law. "yes. it flashed across me all of a sudden. you know elfreda said emma might descend upon us when we least expected her. that's what set me to thinking." "i ought to have guessed," mourned sara emerson. "all the glory of the discovery goes to my twin sister. how did you find her out, julia?" "it was what she said. you know how funny emma is. when we were at overton she was forever saying 'now i perceive.' the minute i heard it to-night i began to perceive, too." when presently emma joined her friends on the lawn, all traces of the fabled seeress of the seven veils had vanished. in a simple white evening frock, eye-glasses firmly astride her nose, she was her usual jolly self. although grace harlowe was undoubtedly the best-loved member of semper fidelis, emma held an individual place in their hearts. wherever she walked, fun and laughter followed at her heels. grace was their inspiration to noble deeds; emma their spirit of good cheer. one and all they gathered about her and marshalled her to the veranda where a hilarious hour ensued, followed by a concerted invasion on the living-room, where they proceeded to entertain mr. and mrs. briggs, who had tactfully declined to intrude upon the dinner party, with an evening of the old, familiar stunts with which they had so often lightened their student days at overton college. it was well after midnight when, by common consent, the will to retire for the night claimed them. knowing the deep regard that existed between grace and emma, elfreda had arranged matters so that they might room together. although anne was grace's oldest friend, she had cheerfully resigned her claim on grace to emma for the week. "well, gracious, how is everything?" were emma's first words when at last they had shut themselves in their room for the night. "i can't begin to tell you how dreadfully i've missed you. it gives me the blues every time i think of overton next year without you. but i know you are happy, and that's at least one consolation." "it's a mutual miss, emma," assured grace. "i have thought of you a great deal and wished you were with me at home. aside from not being able to have my dearest friends with me all the time, my happiness has been so complete this summer that i feel as though i ought to walk very softly, for fear of losing some part of it." "i understand. it's always so. one wonders if it's even wise to mention it for fear of breaking the spell," mused emma. "i suppose the best way to do is to plod steadily along and not think much about anything but the day's events. by the way, are you very sleepy?" grace shook her head. "not a bit. on the contrary, i'm wide awake." "then let's doff our festival garb, clothe our magnificent selves in kimonos and have a talking-bee," proposed emma joyfully. "i'll give you a faithful account of affairs in darkest deanery, if you will agree to furnish me with an equally detailed account of harloweville doings. is it a go?" "it is," acceded grace with equal heartiness. a little later, seated turk fashion on grace's bed, the two tried comrades indulged in one of the protracted talks that had invariably ended their day's work when together at harlowe house. it was an extremely confidential session, yet there was one bit of information which grace could not find it in her heart to divulge. though it had been over a week since she had said good-bye to tom gray, aside from a brief letter written to her on the train just before his arrival at a little town some miles from the lumber camp, she had received no further communication from him. within herself she argued that she had really no cause for alarm. no doubt tom had been too busy to write. perhaps he had written her, but, due to the isolation of the camp, had encountered difficulty in mailing a letter to her. she would have liked to put the situation before emma, yet loyalty to love forbade her to speak of it even to this trusted friend. chapter ix the meaning of semper fidelis father time has an unfortunate habit of scudding along at a tremendously rapid pace over the delightful roads of life. it is only when the ways are rough and stony that he is prone to lag and linger. to the reunionists the prospect of a week spent together had offered limitless possibilities. once that coveted period of time had become theirs, it proceeded to vanish in an alarming fashion. on monday they had congratulated themselves and one another that six glorious days were still theirs. by wednesday they had begun to mourn that only four were left them. life at the briggs' cottage offered a ceaseless succession of wholesome pleasures. early morning invariably found the reunionists strengthening their acquaintance with the ocean. breakfast over, a bathing suit procession to the nearby beach became the usual order of things. they spent long sunny hours playing about in the surf, or stretched at ease on the white sand, exchanging an apparently exhaustless flow of light-hearted conversation relating to almost everything under the sun. imbued with tireless energy, their afternoons brought them fresh entertainment in the way of long automobile rides to various points of interest, followed by jolly little teas or dinners along the way. the annual excursion to picnic hollow, which claimed the greater part of a whole day, was also a memorable occasion. evening, however, usually overtook them at the cottage. by common consent they tabooed the more formal social entertainment which the various hostelries at wildwood offered. only on one occasion did they diverge from their clannish programme in order to attend an informal hop given by elfreda's friend, madge morton, at her father's cottage. during their stay at the briggs' cottage the previous summer, they had been given the opportunity of meeting this charming young girl. shortly after their arrival she had come over from the morton cottage to pay them a friendly call. greatly attracted to her, on first meeting they had greeted her warmly and invited her to share their good times. madge and grace had a bond in common in that while grace was preparing to be married to tom gray, madge was trying to decide whether or not she should pledge herself to marry tom curtis. before the week ended she had confided her problem to grace and the two girls discussed the subject long and earnestly. yet despite such friendly counsel as grace felt privileged to give, madge could come to no definite decision. though five days of smiling sunshine had added immeasurably to the welfare of the devoted company, saturday morning dawned gray and threatening. before breakfast was over the ominous prediction of storm was fulfilled. amid reverberating peals of thunder, heavy raindrops began to fall. they were merely the prelude to a furious downpour which descended in silvery sheets, and fairly overflowed the discouraged landscape. a strong wind rose, lashing the leaden expanse of sea into a white-capped fury quite foreign to its hitherto deceitfully dimpled aspect. "it's a horrible day," conceded elfreda briggs gloomily. "we can't do any of the things we've planned. no bathing, no motor trip, either, unless this deluge stops, which doesn't seem likely." "oh, it may clear up," comforted emma dean. "i've seen worse days than this suddenly brace up and smile. let's possess our souls in patience. incidental to the process we might restore the shattered faith of some of our deluded correspondents. during the past six days it has pained me to observe the postman arrive, full-handed, to turn away, alas, empty-handed. i ask you as man to man--why this thusness? now that we are about to depart, it might be well to apprise our neglected families of the fact." "emma, you are a noble woman," declared miriam with deep conviction. "i may not have noticed it before, but better late than never. i move that we organize a writing school in the living-room for the purpose of squaring ourselves with our too-trusting families and friends." "what's the use in writing home now?" demanded julia emerson. "sara and i would get there almost as soon as our letters. we have to go to-morrow, you know." "i know." emma held her handkerchief ostentatiously to her eyes. "never mind. you may write to _me_. you know i have always admired your nice vertical handwriting. it takes me back to my first-reader days." "sorry i can't oblige you," giggled julia, "but i'm not in the mood for letter writing. i'm going to pack my trunk and send it to the station before sara has a chance to stuff half of her belongings into it." "such sisterly devotion," murmured emma. "oh, i don't mind," was sara's cheerful comment. "i've already packed my sweater and two dresses in julia's trunk. you'd better leave them there, julia, i haven't an inch of room left in my trunk to squeeze them into. it is already jammed so full that you'll have to sit on the lid when i get ready to lock it." "stung!" was julia's inelegant comment. "this is what comes of being a twin. i think i'd better hurry and gobble up the small trunk space that is left me; otherwise i may have to carry a large part of my wardrobe home in a bundle." dread of such a contingency sent her fleeing up the stairs in hot pursuit of her own welfare, oblivious to the pleasantries which emma and sara called after her as she ran. seated around the long library table in the living-room, the correspondence party made an attractive picture as, with earnest faces, they bent themselves to the arduous task of letter-writing. with the exception of grace, all present were soon hard at work. one hand resting lightly on a sheet of the monogrammed paper which elfreda had provided in profusion, with her other hand grace nervously gripped her fountain pen. should she or should she not write to tom? although she owed the usual amount of letters to various correspondents, she now thought only of writing to the man for whose strange silence she could not account. it was tom's place to write her. she had answered his first letter. yet she could not believe that carelessness was responsible for his silence. something must have happened to him. but what? she knitted her brows in an agony of indecision, then giving her pen an energetic shake that betokened definite purpose, she began: "dear tom: "it is now over a week since last i heard from you. what----" the loud ring of the doorbell caused her to break off abruptly the sentence she had begun. with that curious intuition which sometimes manifests itself unbidden, she was seized with the startled conviction that the bell had conveyed the news of an arrival important to herself. listening with an anxiety she could not yet understand, she heard a man's deep tones raised in inquiry. then came the lighter voice of the maid who had answered the door. then---"miss harlowe," the maid had entered the living-room and addressed her, "there's a special delivery letter come for you. will you please sign for it?" "thank you, alice." grace sprang to her feet and hurried into the hall. the messenger handed her a letter and shoved his book toward her, indicating the place for her signature. hastily signing and returning the book, grace dismissed the man, and sank to the oak settee in the hall, her heart thumping wildly. she had already recognized the handwriting on the envelope, not as tom's familiar flowing hand, but as the spidery, wavering script of mrs. gray. with trembling fingers she tore open the envelope and read: "dear grace: "have you heard from tom? i am dreadfully worried. i have only received the one letter from him of which you already know. it is not in the least like him to thus put off writing me. he knew before he went that i should be uneasy about him, and promised faithfully to write me every other day. for the sake of your anxious and bewildered fairy godmother, will you come to me as soon as possible, if you have not heard from him? if so, then telegraph me to that effect and i shall rest easier. i have put off writing you from day to day, in the hope that i might receive news of my boy, and also because i could not bear to spoil your pleasure. but as it is now friday and you will receive this on saturday, i know that if you have received no word from him, you will not mind coming home a day earlier than you had planned. once we are together again, we can decide on some method of action. thus far i have done nothing. believe me, my dear, only my great anxiety compels me to ask you to make this sacrifice. "yours lovingly, "rose gray." the letter sliding from her nerveless fingers, grace saw her surroundings through a swirling mist. for a moment or two she yielded to the terror that clutched at her heart. her sturdy nature reasserting itself, she rose, recovered the letter and walked slowly into the living-room. "girls," she said, her voice a trifle unsteady, "i must leave you at once. i--mrs. gray needs me and has sent for me. i am sorry i can't tell you the reason. i am sure you will understand that i am giving you as much of my confidence as i can." she paused, her gray eyes looking utter affection on the startled group about the table. "i want you to promise to finish the reunion just as happily as though i were with you. later, perhaps i can tell you what i mayn't tell you now. it is not yet eleven o'clock, so i am sure i can catch the noon express." grace's remarkable announcement drove the business of letter-writing to the winds. a bevy of sympathetic girls gathered about her, sending up a concerted lament. yet none ventured to inquire into the cause of her departure, or to ask her to reconsider her decision to depart at once. loyal to the core, her wish was their law. each eagerly offered her services in behalf of the love they bore her. torn though she was by the shock of this new sorrow, grace could not help thinking as she stood there, how gloriously worthy were these staunch comrades to bear the name semper fidelis. chapter x the shadow deepens "oh, fairy godmother, what does it mean?" the tall, slender girl, who had been obsequiously ushered into mrs. gray's stately, old-fashioned house on chapel hill, darted down the hall and straight into a pair of arms outstretched to receive her. "i--don't--know--my dear. i wish i--" mrs. gray's broken utterance ended in a sob, as she laid her silvery head on grace's breast. until that moment she had remained calm. the sight of one who was equally enveloped in the shadow that had dropped down upon her, proved too much for her. clinging to grace, she sobbed heart-brokenly. "there, there, dear fairy godmother. you mustn't cry so!" grace's own voice was husky with emotion. "you have me with you now to comfort you. cheer up. i am sure that everything will turn out all right. it's--dreadful--of course--not--to hear from tom," grace faltered briefly, "but i--we must keep thinking he is safe and well and that we may receive a letter from him at any minute. i didn't wait to go home. i knew you needed me, so i came straight from the train here. mother doesn't even know yet that i am in town. come into the library and sit down in your own favorite chair." bravely stifling her own heavy anxiety, grace wrapped an affectionate arm about the dainty little old lady and drew her into the long room which had been the scene of so many of their confidential talks. "there you are!" she nodded, striving to smile. "just a moment until i get rid of my hat and coat and i'll curl up on the floor at your feet. then we can talk things over and find out what's to be done." "you are a dear good child," quavered mrs. gray. under the white glow of the electric lamp, her dresden-shepherdess face looked pinched and wan. fear and uncertainty had robbed her small features of that look of perennial youth which so individualized her. "it was thoughtful in you to telegraph me that you were coming. i knew then that you hadn't heard from tom, but i knew, too, that you would soon be here." "i hated to telegraph you, knowing you'd worry even more. still it seemed best." now ensconced at mrs. gray's feet, grace possessed herself of the older woman's hand. "please feel that whatever you may ask of me, i will cheerfully try to perform it." "i don't know which way to turn," was the distracted answer. "i had so hoped that you would be able to tell me that tom was safe in camp. it's a rather delicate matter, my child. coming as it does so near your wedding day, it is very necessary that tom should be located at once. i've already written mr. mackenzie about tom, but as yet he has not answered my letter. something dreadful has happened to my poor boy. i feel it." grace privately agreed with her, yet she would not say so. she knew as well as did mrs. gray that only actual mishap would have caused tom to fail in his duty to his aunt and to herself. "i think we had better telegraph mr. mackenzie," she suggested, her voice ringing with new-born purpose. "then--if he knows nothing of tom's whereabouts we had better organize a search. first of all we must know if he reached the camp. if not--" grace stopped, overmastered for an instant by a silent spasm of dread that cut lines of pain in her fine face. "i don't like to send a telegram from oakdale," demurred mrs. gray. "these small town operators are not always to be trusted. if the story were to creep about that tom gray had disappeared, so shortly before his wedding day, it would be very painful for both you and me. i could, of course, consult a private investigator in new york, yet i shrink from doing so until i know definitely that tom has disappeared. it is such an intimate, personal matter. i don't fancy turning it over even to my lawyer. you can understand that." "yes." grace had grown very pale at the possibility of the tender romance of her golden summer being held up even to the little world of oakdale as a subject for gossip and possibly harsh criticism. seized with a blessed thought she said: "there is one person at least whom i think we ought to take into our confidence. that person is david nesbit. he and tom have always been like brothers. he will help us. i'll write him now, before i go home, and ask _him_ to telegraph mr. mackenzie. a telegram sent from new york will never give cause for gossip here." rising to seek her traveling bag which she had deposited in the hall, she hastily rummaged in it for her fountain pen. the sight of mrs. gray's pitiful face had completely aroused her to the need for prompt action. re-entering the library she approached the massive writing table with the quick assured step, so characteristic of the brave spirit with which she had always faced adversity. from a drawer of the table she selected note paper and an envelope to match and seating herself, prepared to plunge intrepidly into the writing of the most difficult letter she had ever been called upon to pen. "dear david:" she wrote, then groped about in her mind for the words which would best convey to tom's chum the sorry message she was fated to deliver. it was not a long letter, yet she knew that the recipient would read between the lines and fully comprehend the serious situation which confronted herself and mrs. gray. when she had finished writing it and signed her name, she next devoted her attention to the wording of a telegram to mr. mackenzie, setting it down on a separate sheet of paper. "please read them, fairy godmother," she requested, tendering the fruits of her painful effort to mrs. gray. "you are right in believing david to be the best possible confidant," sighed the old lady as she returned the letter and telegraphic message to grace. "we can rely on him absolutely." "i must go now. it is after nine o'clock. i will hurry to the nearest drug store for a special delivery stamp and mail the letter at once. i wish i might stay with you longer, but i feel as though i ought to go home. you don't mind if i tell mother and father? it is within their right to know." "of course it is," readily agreed mrs. gray. "i only deferred telling them until i had talked with you, grace. i can't begin to tell you how much having you here has comforted me. i feel a trifle more cheerful already. perhaps, after all, we have been running out to meet calamity. to-morrow may bring us word that tom is safe and well." rising from her chair, mrs. gray embraced grace tenderly. "i hope so." forcing herself to smile encouragingly down at the wan little figure beside her, grace bent and kissed the old lady's cheek. for a moment the two clung together, their mutual devotion deepened by their common sorrow. gently disengaging herself from mrs. gray's arms, grace donned her hat and coat and, with a last fond word of cheer, soberly sought the door and stepped out into the starlit night. alone with her sorrow, her late attempt at cheerfulness fell away from her like a cloak. deep dejection settled down upon her as she walked down chapel hill toward home. the very beauty of the fragrant, starry night hurt her. she wondered if those some far-off stars, twinkling so remotely aloft, held the knowledge of tom gray for which she mournfully yearned. why had this dreadful uncertainty intruded itself into the very heart of her golden summer? had she boasted of her happiness only to see it snatched rudely from her life? suppose tom were never to return? suppose even the knowledge of his fate were to be denied her? over and over again she had read in the newspapers of the strange disappearances of persons, the mystery of which defied solution. the horror of her gloomy apprehensions sent a chill to her heart that caused it for an instant to stand still, or so it seemed to her. "i mustn't think of such frightful things," she breathed. "tom is all right. i must make myself believe it. now is the time to be brave; to go on steadily without faltering. tom will come back to me. wherever he is or whatever has happened to him, he will come back. i know it." chapter xi postponing happiness but tom gray did not come back. neither by word nor sign did those who feverishly awaited news of him receive even the faintest intimation of his whereabouts. added to the heavy strain that mrs. gray and grace were laboring under, they were destined to grapple with the question: why had david nesbit not responded to their plea for assistance? after three weary days of waiting, grace wrote to miriam nesbit asking if david were in new york city. miriam's prompt reply stated that business had called david to chicago. she expected that he would return to new york that very day. the information brought the comforting assurance that once the letter had come into his possession david would not fail them. on the evening following the receipt of miriam's letter, an anxious-eyed young man swung off the eight o'clock train into oakdale, and hailing a taxicab was whirled away from the station toward the harlowe's home. "david!" was all grace could find words for, when, entering the living-room, her girlhood friend sprang forward to meet her with outstretched hand of sympathy. "i'm more sorry than i can say, grace," david burst forth, as, motioning him to a chair, grace sat down opposite him. "i was delayed in chicago and didn't reach new york until this morning. my mail wasn't forwarded to me, so i didn't get your letter until then. i sent your telegram to mr. mackenzie, then caught the first train for oakdale. did you get my wire?" "yes. i've been anxiously watching for you. it's dreadful--david." grace's voice trailed away into a stifled sob. brave as she had tried to be, david's belated presence was almost too much for her composure. "i should say it was." david looked utter concern over the sad errand that had brought him to grace. "tell me everything, grace. i must know the facts if i am to be of real service to you." fighting for self-control, grace narrated briefly the little she knew concerning tom's strange disappearance. "mrs. gray had written mr. mackenzie about tom before i wrote you. i explained to you in my letter that he was ill. that was tom's reason for going away up there to that dreadful camp. mr. mackenzie writes that tom never arrived. he was very much upset over it as he had been depending upon tom to look after things until he was well again. poor aunt rose is nearly distracted. she has put the matter in the hands of a private investigator. he hasn't had time to reach the camp yet so, of course, we haven't heard from him. fairy godmother has forbidden him to telegraph her at oakdale. she is afraid some one may find out about tom and gossip." the sickness of hope deferred lay in grace's eyes as she finished speaking. "i'm going up to that camp, grace," announced david with strong determination. "i'll catch the next train for new york and arrange my business to-morrow morning. by afternoon i'll be on the way to tom. if he is to be found, i shall find him. who is the man mrs. gray has engaged to clear up the mystery?" grace named a man whose professional standing in his particular field ranked high. "a very clever man," commented david. "he ought to do something toward straightening out this snarl." "we can only hope that he will," was grace's sad response. "excuse me, david, until i call mother. she is so anxious to see you. then we had better go to aunt rose. you will find her greatly changed. this trouble has aged her. she looks 'years old,' rather than 'years young.' that wonderful spirit of youth has deserted her. it could hardly be otherwise." "poor little fairy godmother!" sympathized david. "it's a shame that trouble like this had to come when all three of you were so happy. i can't make myself believe that it is good old tom who's among the missing. a sturdy, fearless fellow like him can usually be trusted to take care of himself anywhere. why, he's tramped all over this country and never met with any accident that i can remember. you and i know that something serious has happened this time, though. tom would never neglect those he cares for, even in the most trifling matters." "i am sure of that. still it's good to hear you say what i know to be true. nothing could shake my faith in tom. it is absolute." grace spoke with the frank simplicity of perfect love and trust. during the short walk that lay between the harlowe's residence and that of mrs. gray, david cast more than one covert but admiring glance at the tall, slender girl at his side who bore her difficulties with such signal sweetness and courage. "what a splendid girl grace is," was his thought. looking back on their earlier days of comradeship, he recalled gratefully what a power for good she had always been. she had valiantly steered anne through the breakers that more than once had threatened engulfment. through grace, his own sister, miriam had been shown the way to sincerity and well-doing. mabel allison, ruth denton, eleanor savelli and countless other girls owed the greatest joys that had come to them to this high-principled, impulsive, kindly girl who had lavishly scattered the flowers of generosity and good-will along the pathway of life. now, at last, there was something which he could do for grace. david vowed within himself to leave no stone unturned which might be the means of restoring to her the happiness which she so richly merited. the visit to mrs. gray proved a severe trial to both young people. her usual optimistic viewpoint had long since deserted her, leaving her a wan little ghost of the vivacious fairy godmother who had once entered so merrily into the doings of her christmas children. a fixed air of melancholy had dropped down on her which even david's hearty assurances that tom would soon be found failed to lift. "if any one can find tom it will be you, david," was the nearest approach toward hopefulness which she could muster. "i'll find him, never fear," predicted david with an air of cheerful certainty that brought faint smiles to both women's somber faces. "i must leave you soon, though, in order to make that late train for new york. before i go, i'll devise a secret code so that i can telegraph you here at oakdale if anything good comes to pass." grace supplying him with pencil and paper, david jotted down several sentences which he was most likely to need in sending messages, then substituted different words to be used in place of the originals. this bit of thoughtfulness on his part was eminently cheering, and when soon afterward he took hasty leave of grace and mrs. gray the latter appeared to be in a less lugubrious frame of mind. after he had gone, grace followed mrs. gray into the library, the old lady's favorite room in the big house, and, drawing a chair opposite to that of her near-aunt, began rather hesitatingly, "now that david has left us, there are several things, dear fairy godmother, that i must say to you. they are mainly about--our wedding day. only the eight originals and a few of the 'sempers' know that the time was actually set for the tenth of september. they are all intimate friends, tried and true. i think it is only right that i should explain matters to them. not one of them would break a confidence. "if i am not married to tom on the tenth, naturally they will wonder. it would be dreadful for me to have to say to any one of them, 'i can't explain why the wedding must be postponed.' they love me and i love them. we've always shared our joys and sorrows. it doesn't seem fair to leave them in the dark. naturally it will hurt me a great deal to explain, but it will hurt me far more not to. i have talked with mother and father about it. they both feel that the decision must rest with you. it's too bad to bother you with this new perplexity, but i must know one way or the other. i can't endure the suspense." at the beginning of grace's earnest plea that her closest friends be put into possession of the knowledge that tom gray was among the missing, his aunt's delicate face showed unmistakable signs of disapproval. swept along by the girl's fervent earnest words, mrs. gray felt her brief abhorrence of the idea vanish in an overwhelming flood of admiration for the dauntless spirit in which grace bore the torturing dread that had been thrust upon her. "you make me feel ashamed of myself, grace," she faltered. "while i've been nursing my own selfish grief you have been putting aside your sorrow to think of others. after all, you have more at stake than i. my life has been practically lived, while yours is only at its dawn. i have known the bitterness of losing those i loved. it should have taught me to face the future more courageously. when you spoke just now of letting others know of our trouble, it seemed for a moment as though i could never consent to it. but i have changed my mind. it would not be fair either to you or my poor boy, wherever he may be, to place you in a false position. i have only one stipulation. wait a little longer before telling your friends of this dreadful disruption of our plans. if within the next three days we have not heard from mr. blaisdell, the investigator, then write to your friends and let them know the exact circumstances." "it breaks my heart to hear you say such things of yourself," was grace's passionate cry. springing to her feet she knelt before the older woman and wrapped two shielding arms about her. "you've always thought of others. i won't let you say that you are selfish, or that your life has been almost lived. you've been as brave as a lion ever since this terrible trouble came to us. you have just as much at stake as i. we must stand together, even more firmly than before, waiting and hoping that all will be well. before tom went away he often said that he hoped our life together would always be one long golden summer. i'm not going to let winter overtake me now when my golden summer's hardly begun. this is just a brief cloud that hides the sun. it will pass and we'll all be happy together again. just because our plans have all gone awry is no sign that they always will. postponing our wedding day doesn't mean saying good-bye to happiness. it's only a brief postponement of happiness, too." chapter xii the better part although grace had so sturdily asserted her claim on happiness, nevertheless she quailed secretly before the ordeal of writing to her friends regarding the change in her plans. long she pondered before committing the gloomy information to paper. more than one anguished tear fell from her eyes as she relentlessly pursued her difficult task. not so very long ago she had fondly dreamed of the time when she should happily send to those she loved the summons to come to her on her wedding day. but the pile of envelopes which eventually found their way to the nearest mail-box contained news of a vastly different character. true to her promise she had conscientiously waited for the word from mr. blaisdell which mrs. gray had anticipated. at the end of three days of suspense she had sought her fairy godmother only to meet with a letter from the investigator which sent hope to the winds. in it he stated that aside from the station master at the lonely little railway station, he had encountered no one who recalled seeing a young man of the description of tom gray. he had learned from the former that tom had halted him to inquire the way to the camp and to ascertain if he could obtain any means of conveyance on that day. as it was then four o'clock in the afternoon and no one from the camp had met the train, the station master had warned him that a storm was coming and advised him to wait over until the following morning, offering tom the hospitality of his own home. the young man had politely declined his offer, saying that he must reach the camp that night and would walk. he had said good-bye and swung off toward the dense growth of forest that rose behind the straggling hamlet, and nothing further had been seen or heard of him. further inquiry at the camp, which mr. blaisdell had experienced considerable difficulty in reaching, had developed the alarming news that no such person as tom gray had been seen in that vicinity. he had gleaned, however, that the station master's prediction of bad weather had been verified and that a particularly heavy windstorm had swept that region early in the evening of the day on which he had talked with the young man. torrents of rain had fallen and trees had been broken down and uprooted. it was possible that tom had lost his way and been killed by a falling tree. blaisdell did not believe this, however, as neither a dead nor injured man had been found by the various search parties of lumber men who had been sent out to cover the surrounding territory. so far as possible the search had been conducted with the utmost secrecy. he had not divulged tom's name. as the camp was in an out of the way place, peopled by a taciturn set of men who asked few questions, it was not likely that any news would travel farther than its limits. the day following the receipt of this letter brought a telegraphic notification from david nesbit to the effect that he had reached the lumber camp and was about to start on his search for his chum. with this small consolation, the patient, tortured souls who awaited news of their lost one were forced to be content. hard as it had been to write to her trusty comrades, it was infinitely harder for grace to receive the messages of sympathy and love which poured in upon her. yet on the heels of her distress came one letter which, despite the gravity of her present situation, moved grace to half-hearted laughter. on opening an envelope addressed to herself in arline thayer's unmistakable script, grace was mildly astonished to read: "dear stanley: "after our talk last evening i am quite certain that i could never be happy as your wife. it has shown me clearly that our aims and viewpoints are so entirely different that it would be useless even to dream of spending the remainder of our lives together. it is hard to write this, but i feel that no matter what it may cost me i must be true to myself. i am therefore returning your ring and letters by express. you may do as you think best in regard to returning the letters i have written you. "with a sincere wish for your future happiness, "yours sincerely, "arline thayer." tardily realizing that she had unwittingly perused a communication not intended for her eyes, grace lost no time in writing an apologetic letter to arline in which she enclosed the fateful missive of rejection. how arline had come to mail it to her was a matter for speculation. but she had only set eyes on the beginning of a drama as she was soon destined to learn. late the next afternoon, while seated on the front veranda with her mother, she viewed with mingled emotions a taxicab which had come to a full stop before the house. out of it stepped a small, golden-haired young woman whose smart pongee traveling coat and bulging leather bag proclaimed that she had come from afar. "arline thayer!" cried grace, running down the steps to meet the newcomer as she passed through the gateway. "why, daffydowndilly! this _is_ a surprise! you are the last person i had dreamed of seeing." grace caught the dainty little girl in a warm embrace. "i know i should have telegraphed you," apologized arline, "but--well--i didn't. i made up my mind all in an instant to come to you, and here i am. ever since i received your letter you've been constantly in my thoughts. i replied at once. of course you received it?" "let me take your luggage, daffydowndilly." grace evaded arline's implied interrogation for the moment. "come and pay your respects to mother, then we'll go upstairs to your room and you can rest a little before dinner. you must be very tired after your long ride. then, too, we can exchange confidences. i have something to say to you about the letter you just mentioned." grace could not refrain from smiling a little. she suspected that arline had made a mistake, the precise result of which was yet to be revealed. "what is the matter, grace?" was arline's quick question. she had instantly detected the unusual in her friend's enigmatic smile and evasive speech. their progress to the veranda, where mrs. harlowe waited to greet the unexpected but heartily-welcome arrival, prevented grace's reply. it was not until arline had been ushered into one of the large, airy upper chambers which grace took so much pleasure in reserving for the use of her frequent guests, that the former again repeated her question in tones of deepening anxiety. "i will tell you when you have made yourself comfortable," stipulated grace. assisting arline in removing her hat and coat, she applied herself assiduously to the comfort of her friend. "you are a truly ideal hostess, grace," was arline's tribute as she finally settled herself in a deep willow chair. "now i am ready to hear what you have been keeping from me." "you asked me if i had received your letter," began grace as she dropped into a nearby chair. "yesterday morning i _did_ receive a letter you wrote, but it was not for me. the envelope was addressed to me, but the letter--i read it before i realized that i hadn't that right--was written to mr. stanley forde. i wrote you an apology, enclosed the other letter with it and mailed them to you." "oh!" arline gave a horrified gasp. "how perfectly dreadful! how in the world did i happen to make such a mistake! this is awful!" "then you wrote to me at the same time and confused the two letters? i was afraid of that. but it doesn't matter to me if it doesn't to you." grace tried to put on an air of kindly unconcern. secretly it saddened her a trifle to know that a stranger had received even an inkling of her private affairs. undoubtedly arline's letter to herself had contained an expression of sympathy which could not fail to put mr. stanley forde in possession of certain painful facts relating to her own trouble. "but it matters a great deal!" exclaimed arline, flushing deeply. "in that letter to you i said that i could never be thankful enough that i had had such a wonderful talk with you. i said, too, that you had made me see things in a different light and that i knew now that what i had believed was love wasn't love at all. worse still, i said that if it had not been for you i would never have had the courage to break my engagement, but would have failed to be true to myself. now, stanley has that letter!" arline made a despairing gesture. "i don't care what he thinks about _me_, but what will he think about _you_?" grace was not prepared to answer this pertinent question from the jilted stanley's viewpoint. personally she had a disagreeably clear idea of what he was quite likely to think. yet she was too sturdily honest by nature to regret the advice she had given arline in good faith. "i am sorry this has happened," she returned slowly, "but i am not sorry for what i said to you. i meant it. i would have said as much to mr. forde had an occasion risen which demanded plain speaking." "you are loyalheart, through and through," came impulsively from arline. "you would stand by your colors to the death. i couldn't blame you if you were terribly angry with me for mixing you up so miserably in my affairs. i should have been more careful, but i was dreadfully upset when i wrote those letters. you see, stanley came to my home on the evening of the day he returned from oregon. as you know, i had decided to have a plain talk with him. it began pleasantly enough, but before it ended we were both very angry. he declared point-blank that after we were married i would positively _have_ to give up my settlement work. he said a great many hateful, sneering things about the poor people i've been trying to help. i was going to give him back his ring then, but i remembered what you advised about not being too hasty. so i told him i wouldn't discuss the subject with him any more that evening. "after that he was very pleasant. i suppose he thought he had won me over to his point of view. when he had gone i sat for a long time on the veranda thinking hard. then i went upstairs to my room and wrote him, breaking our engagement. of course i cried a little. i was so unhappy. then i thought of you and felt like writing you about it. after i had written both letters, i read them over; first the one to him, then yours. it was after midnight and i was so tired. i suppose that is how i happened to make the mistake of putting your address on his letter and vice versa. he will be simply furious. i only hope that he doesn't write you a hateful letter. if he writes to me, i'll send the letter back unopened. you'd better do the same." "no; i couldn't do that. it is perfectly proper for you to do so, but it would appear cowardly on my part. let us hope he doesn't bother to write me. does he know my surname and where i live?" "yes; i've told him of you a great many times. i wish now that i hadn't. i am sure he will write you. it's a shame. i came to oakdale to comfort you and be comforted. now i've landed both of us in a nice muddle." arline lifted a pair of mournful blue eyes to grace. in the presence of impending tragedy a sudden sense of the ridiculous swept the two girls. their eyes meeting, they began to laugh. it was the first genuine mirth that had stirred grace harlowe since the day on which she had left the briggs' cottage to return to oakdale. "one ought not laugh over such a serious matter," apologized arline, with a half hysterical chuckle. "but i can't help thinking how surprised you must have been to receive that letter to stanley, and how wrathful he must be by this time." "i'd rather laugh over it than cry," smiled grace. "don't worry, daffydowndilly. i'm not afraid of any letter that mr. stanley forde may choose to send me. you had better write him another letter at once, though, and explain matters. you owe him that, at least." "i will," sighed arline. "there's just one thing more i have to say. i shall _never, never_ fall in love again. it's fatal to one's peace of mind. now that i've fallen out of love, i feel about a hundred years younger. i'm going to be a nice, kind, spinster and found a home for poor children." grace smiled at this naã¯ve announcement. she was unselfishly glad that arline could thus lightly cast her burden from her dainty shoulders. perhaps she, too, would have known greater content, had love not entered her heart. yet in the same instant she put away the thought as unworthy of herself. come what might she was intensely sure that she had chosen the better part. chapter xiii an innocent meddler arline thayer had entered grace's home life at a moment when the latter most needed the inspiring companionship of an intimate friend. quickly recovering from her own woes, it was borne upon arline that she must exert herself to the utmost to cheer up the girl who had never failed her. the blithsome joy of living which, formerly, grace had seemed to radiate had entirely disappeared. although she went about the house, feigning desperately to maintain a cheerful attitude, a subdued air of wistfulness clung to her that filled arline with a fierce resentment against the circumstances that had risen so unexpectedly to rob grace of her happiness. she frequently wondered how it was possible for grace to keep up so bravely in the face of such crushing adversity. given the same sinister conditions, arline admitted inwardly that she could never have maintained the remarkable composure which grace daily exhibited. she was thinking of this when, on the afternoon of her third day's sojourn with the harlowes, the two young women had just left haven home behind them, grace having asked arline to accompany her on one of her frequent pilgrimages to her beautiful house behind the world. usually it was nora wingate who went with her. occasionally mrs. harlowe bore her daughter company. grace never visited haven home empty-handed. always she carried some new treasure designed by herself or her friends to adorn the stately habitation in which she felt sure that some day would indeed mean haven home to herself and tom. before he had left her to make the journey that had resulted in his complete disappearance, she had promised him that the finishing labors at haven home should go steadily forward. those who knew her most intimately could readily testify that she was unfalteringly keeping her word. in moments of darkest depression she wondered from whence came the strength that enabled her to go on with these visits, each in itself a separate agony. she had been plunged for a moment in one of these painful reveries when arline asked with an inflection of wonderment, "how can you be so brave, grace?" "i'm not very brave," she answered, her eyes wistful. "not so brave as i wish i were. i have to struggle continually to make myself believe that whatever happens must be for the best. i often feel bitter and resentful and wonder why this sorrow should have been visited upon me rather than on some one else. of course, that is wrong. no one ought to wish their troubles shifted to other folks' shoulders. thousands of persons have greater griefs than i. take aunt rose, for instance, who lost her husband and daughter so many years ago. tom was the light of her life; her greatest pride. think what she is suffering! we had such high hopes that david nesbit would find tom. yet, thus far, he hasn't met with even a clue. poor little fairy godmother says she has only one thing for which to be thankful. no one in oakdale knows about tom, barring a few trusted friends. she had been in constant fear lest the newspaper reporters should get hold of it. of course it would be a severe shock to her to pick up some day a paper and read, 'mysterious disappearance of tom gray,' or 'young man mysteriously disappears on the eve of his wedding day,' or some cruel scarehead of the kind. i don't quite know how i should feel about it." "but suppose he never came back," cut in arline, her usual tact deserting her. "forgive me, grace," she added penitently. "i should not have said that." "why not?" only the sudden tightening of her lips betrayed that arline's thoughtless inquiry had struck home. "i faced that long ago. if we continue to be without news of him, sooner or later his disappearance _must_ become known. but aunt rose prefers to keep it secret as long as possible. her constant prayer is that he will return before any such thing comes to pass. sometimes i think it would be better if it were generally known. i hate secrecy." during the drive to mrs. gray's, both girls were unusually silent. after leaving the roadster in the gray garage, they went up to the house to spend an hour with the lonely old lady, whose pitiful efforts to be cheerfully hospitable cut them both to the heart. promising to come again on the following day they left her, the forlorn little chatelaine of a big house, grown oppresively empty since robbed of tom's genial presence. as they neared grace's home, both glimpsed in the same instant a taxicab standing in the street directly opposite to the house. "that taxicab is from the station!" exclaimed grace. "hurry, arline, it may be--" she broke off short, her heart thumping madly. she dared not voice the hope that perhaps her weary waiting was over. arriving on the veranda, grace made a hasty entrance through the open hall door. pausing in the hall, deep masculine tones, issuing from the drawing room, caused her to speed toward the sound, arline at her heels. the voice was not tom's, yet her first wild conjecture as she viewed the stranger seated in a chair near the door, was that he might be mr. blaisdell, the investigator, with news of tom. a faint cry of, "stanley forde!" from arline sent over her a sickening wave of disappointment. as they entered, the young man rose, looking the reverse of amiable as he stepped forward, grim purpose in every feature. ignoring grace he addressed himself to arline with the stiff rebuke: "i have been waiting for you for some time." "i did not expect you." arline's blue eyes flashed forth her displeasure. merely touching the hand he offered her, she said, "mr. forde, this is my _friend_, grace harlowe." the young man acknowledged the introduction with an ironical smile in which grace read trouble ahead for herself. she met him with a frank, kindly courtesy that betrayed nothing of her inner mind. personally, she was not impressed in his favor. "you will pardon my leaving you, mr. forde?" mrs. harlowe had also risen. she now addressed the young man with a distant politeness which grace recognized as disapproval. from arline she had learned of the broken engagement. it seemed evident that she also had not been favorably impressed with her guest's ex-fiancã©. "certainly. very pleased to have met you," bowed the unwelcome caller. again grace caught faint sarcasm in the speech. hardly had mrs. harlowe disappeared when he turned to grace, his heavy brows meeting in a decided frown. "i believe i am indebted to you, miss harlowe, for a great disappointment which has recently come to me. your unkind interference has caused arline to reconsider her promise to become my wife. it is fortunate that she made the mistake of sending the letter she wrote you to me. it has put me in complete possession of the facts of the case. i----" "you have no right to come here uninvited and insult grace harlowe in her own house," cut in arline in a low, furious voice. "you shall not accuse her of interfering. i won't allow it. it is----" "please allow mr. forde to say whatever he wishes, arline." grace's interruption came with gentle dignity. her gaze resting untroubled on the angry man, she said: "i had no wish to interfere in your affairs, mr. forde." "then why did you do it?" came the bitter retort. "what grudge could you possibly have against a man you had never even met?" "none whatever," was the soft answer. "but you interfered. this letter proves as much." triumphantly he jerked the misdirected letter from a coat pocket. grace was silent. she did not wish to say that arline had appealed to her for advice, neither was she anxious to remain in the room as a third party. "i'll tell you the reason," volunteered arline sharply. "i asked grace's advice." her pretty face pale with resentment, arline poured forth a rapid outline of her talk with grace. "that's the reason," she ended. "if you had met me fairly when i tried to talk to you about my work this would never have happened. i am glad now that it has. i don't love you and never have truly loved you. i am glad to be free. i shall never marry any one. all men are hateful! now i wish you to go away, and never, never speak to me again as long as you live!" but the unpleasant interview continued for another ten minutes despite arline's pointed dismissal. mr. stanley forde could not forgive grace for what he rudely termed her "meddling." the idolized son of a too-adoring, snobbish mother, he had nothing in common with grace's high ideals. though she explained to him gently that she had only advised arline to choose whichever course seemed wisest, remembering only that nothing counted so much as being true to herself, her lofty precepts merely tended further to infuriate him. "you are one of those empty-headed idealists who go about creating disturbances for sensible persons," was the scathing criticism he delivered the moment she ceased speaking. "you will regret this interference in my affairs. now that you know my opinion of you, will you kindly leave us? i wish to talk privately with arline." "i don't wish to talk to you at all," flared arline hotly. "please don't leave me, grace. whatever mr. forde has to say he must say in your presence." "i am sorry, arline, but i must ask you to excuse me from remaining longer in the room. mr. forde has come a long way to see you. i think you should grant his request for a private talk with you. good afternoon, mr. forde. i regret that you should have so entirely misunderstood my motives." the finality of her words robbed the disagreeable caller of a ready reply. before he could rally a further relay of rude sarcasm to his aid, grace had left the room. if it is indeed true that actions speak louder than words, the distinctly belligerent manner in which, ten minutes later, mr. stanley forde stormed down the walk to the waiting taxicab, gave glaring proof of the dire result of his untimely call. from the garden, where grace had fled to recover from the irritation of having been so grossly misunderstood, she saw the boorish young man depart. privately she marveled that arline should have so deceived herself in regard to her feelings for him. he was undoubtedly handsome, yet his regular features indicated a certain lack of strength and nobility which she thought totally marred his claim to good looks. his large black eyes had a trick of narrowing unpleasantly, and the set of his mouth betokened tyranny. her sympathy going out to arline, she passed slowly among the winding garden paths, lined with colorful summer flowers, and entered the house. the sight of a pathetic little figure crumpled in a disconsolate heap on a broad settee aroused her pity afresh. "don't cry, daffydowndilly," she soothed, sitting down beside her. "he isn't worth it. you were wise in breaking your engagement. some day real love will come knocking at your door. you were never intended to be a sedate spinster and live out your days in single blessedness. i'm sorry for mr. forde. he loves you, i think. but not in the unselfish way you deserve to be adored." grace paused, her hand straying gently over the curly head against her shoulder. all of a sudden she felt very aged and very tired. the unpleasant scene with arline's disgruntled suitor had shaken her severely. she was living out the golden summer, that had promised so much, in a fashion far different from the glorious realization of it for which she and tom had hoped and planned. yet she had been mercifully spared the pain of beholding a cherished ideal shatter itself at her feet. god had granted her the priceless boon of a true man's true love. though she and tom had but briefly glimpsed their golden summer, the remembrance of his unselfish devotion would keep it alive forever. chapter xiv the beginning of the end two days elapsed, following the call of the belligerent stanley forde, before arline ended her visit to grace. once she had departed, grace missed her sorely. her coming had been a timely break in the now sad routine which grace daily pursued. many of her oakdale acquaintances and friends were still vacationing at the seashore or in the mountains. had they been at home, she would not have sought them for companionship. aside from the many hours she spent with mrs. gray, she clung desperately to nora and hippy wingate. even jovial hippy was considerably less lively than of yore. his affection for tom gray was only second to his devoted friendship for reddy brooks, who had been his childhood's chum. among the four young men, tom, david, hippy and reddy, an ideal comradeship had ever existed, unfaltering and unchangeable. tom's sudden and still unexplained removal had cast a pall over the remaining trio that was likely to linger indefinitely. on the afternoon of the next day after arline's departure, a highly-excited young man, whose plump, genial face wore an expression of angry concern, hurried up the walk to the harlowe's veranda. "why, hippy wingate, what are you doing here so early?" demanded nora, from the porch swing. "you can't have your dinner yet. it's only four o'clock. when you're invited to six o'clock dinner you mustn't arrive two hours beforehand. didn't you know that?" this wifely counsel was accompanied by a teasing smile that belied its harshness. "don't pay any attention to her, hippy," called grace mischievously. "come up on the veranda where it's nice and cool. i give you permission to sit in the porch swing beside the haughty mrs. wingate. better still, i'll bring you some fruit lemonade and a whole plate of those fat little chocolate cakes you like so much." "now i hope you understand at last how much other people appreciate me," rebuked hippy, as he plumped himself down in the swing with an energy that set it swaying wildly. "i shan't give you a single cake." "i don't want any. i've had four already. i hope _you_ understand that you've made me prick my finger," retorted nora, dropping her embroidery to hold up the injured member for inspection. "too bad," mourned hippy, applying the familiar remedy of the devoted. "did you really lacerate your itty bitty finger? i don't see any signs of it." "only the blind can't see," flung back nora. "all joking aside, what brought you here so early?" hippy cast an uneasy glance toward the doorway through which grace had just vanished. "this," he returned soberly. unfolding a new york city newspaper, he pointed to a black headline which read, "young man mysteriously disappears." nora drew a sharp breath of dismay as her startled glance traveled down the column. "where--how--" she stammered. "i don't know." hippy glared savagely at the offending newspaper. "i've got to show it to grace," he deplored. "i'd rather be shot. some one broke a confidence. it's outrageous in who ever broke it." "i should say so," agreed nora. "you'd better--here she comes now." grace stepped into view, carrying a quaint japanese tray laden with delectable cheer. in her crisp dotted swiss gown of white, her sensitive face a trifle thinner than of yore, she looked hardly older than in her freshman days at high school. "here you are, weary wanderer," she said gayly. "eat, drink and be merry." [illustration: "here you are, weary wanderer," she said gayly.] hippy groaned inwardly as he sprang from the swing to relieve her of the tray. "grace," he began with grave affection, "i have something not in the least pleasant to tell you. i don't----" "about tom?" grace's question rang out sharply on the drowsy air. "it's not bad news of him," hippy hastily assured, "but it's about him." "then tell me quickly." grace braced herself for the shock, her gray eyes riveted on hippy. "here it is." hippy handed her the fateful newspaper. "i wanted to be the first to let you know it," he added in sympathetic apology. "i am afraid some one has played you false." grace focused her gaze on the flaring headline. sinking into the nearest porch chair she read on, apparently lost to her surroundings. raising her eyes at last from the printed sheet she astonished both hippy and nora with a quiet, "i am glad of this." "glad?" rose the inquiring chorus. "yes; glad. during the last two weeks i've felt very queer about keeping tom's disappearance a secret. at first i dreaded to have any one know, on account of fairy godmother's horror of gossip and on my own account, too. she was afraid that some malicious person might start the story that he had purposely dropped out of sight. we know that could not be so, yet others might not share our belief in him. but lately i've been seeing matters differently. so long as the affair is kept a secret, he will never be found. with the news of his disappearance spread abroad by the newspapers, some one may come to light who has seen him or heard of him in some way. i am going to try to regard the public as friends who would like to help us all they can." "i think you are right about that," emphasized hippy. "you are true blue, grace. you have carried yourself through this nightmare summer like a soldier and a gentleman. that's the highest praise i can offer. no wonder you annexed the name 'loyalheart' at college." "grace, have you any idea who furnished the copy for this?" nora pointed a disapproving finger at the newspaper. "do you--that is--do you suppose one of the girls--i thought--perhaps----" "no, kathleen west would never break her word." grace smiled whimsically. "you were thinking of her?" "yes; i knew she was connected with a newspaper," admitted nora, coloring. "none of the girls to whom i wrote about tom had anything to do with this. i trust them as fully as i trust you. this information found its way into the newspapers through a different channel." "then you know who--" began nora. "yes, i know," across grace's brain flashed the vision of an angry face, lighted by two narrowing black eyes. she mentally heard a threatening voice predict vindictively, "you will regret this interference in my affairs." the misdirected letter had again created trouble. she recalled having feared this when arline had explained her blunder in confusing the two letters. undoubtedly in writing to grace, daffydowndilly had mentioned tom gray's name and, in expressing her sympathy, had practically gone over the information contained in grace's letter to her regarding the postponement of her marriage. "i should like to tell you, children," she continued, "but i can't, because the telling would involve a certain person whose confidence i hold. i will say this much. it was petty spite which prompted the deed." grace's lips curved in faint scorn. stanley forde was truly a person of small soul and less honor. such despicable retaliation against a woman was the last touch needed to prove his unfitness to protect the welfare of loyal little daffydowndilly. "oh, don't think of us," hastily assured hippy. "we wouldn't listen to you if you tried to tell us. we understand. all the more credit to you for behaving like a clam. that's a compliment. perhaps i had better explain. you notice i didn't say you _looked_ like a clam." hippy tried to infuse a little humor into the situation. grace flashed him an amused smile. "'i thank the gods for a saving sense of humor,'" she quoted. her face instantly sobering she said: "we ought to see aunt rose at once about this newspaper affair. perhaps the three of us ought to go up to her house before dinner. we shall have time." "are you sure you would rather not go alone?" nora put the question in her usual direct fashion. "no; i wish you and hippy to go with me. but first, hippy, you must eat your cakes and drink your lemonade." grace picked up the well-filled tray which hippy had temporarily set aside and held it out to him. "don't let this queer new turn in my affairs drive away your desire for cakes." "you are the eighth wonder, grace. if the universe were to turn upside down i believe you'd forget your own jolts and fly to the rescue of the other human nine-pins." hippy looked his admiration of grace's sturdy stand under the buffets of misfortune. "i will eat every last one of these alluring tidbits and drink two glasses of lemonade just to show you that i know hospitality when i meet it on a veranda." "see that you do. now excuse me. i must show this newspaper to mother. when i come back we'd better go to see fairy godmother." the confidential session between mother and daughter lasted not more than ten minutes, yet before it ended grace crept silently into the shelter of her mother's arms to shed a few tears on her all-comforting shoulder. it was not the printed article relating to tom which prompted them. it was poignant sorrow for his long unexplained absence from her that brought brief faltering. when she returned to the veranda, where hippy was busy with the last of the cakes and his second glass of lemonade, her sensitive features bore no sign of her moment of weakness. "i have kept my vow." hippy pointed significantly to the empty plate. "nothing remains but a few discouraged crumbs." suddenly changing his light tone, he raised his glass of lemonade and said with solemn intensity: "here's to tom gray; a speedy and safe return. i can't help feeling that it will be so." "thank you, hippy." the faint color in grace's cheeks deepened. a gleam of new hope kindled in her eyes. "you said a while ago that you wondered at my being so calm about tom. i can't be anything else, because i never allow myself to think that he won't come back. if i did, i'd be utterly miserable. you thought this article in the newspaper might hurt me. two weeks ago it would have done so. but now! somehow it seems to me to be the first definite link in the chain that stretches between him and me. it's the beginning of the end, and just as surely as i stand here i believe something good will come of it." chapter xv merely a looker-on the three bearers of the news, which they had reason to believe would prove so disturbing to mrs. gray, were doomed to disappointment. they reached her home on chapel hill only to find that she had been summoned early that afternoon to the bedside of an old friend who was very ill, and would not return until late in the evening. grace was relieved at being thus able to postpone the detailing of the disagreeable news. she was in a quandary regarding loyalty to arline and loyalty to her fairy godmother. she was of the opinion, however, that it was the latter's right to know all, even at the expense of breaking the confidence arline had reposed in her. she had little doubt that arline would not object to such an action on her part, yet such was her nature that she found it difficult to accept this view of the subject. after hippy and nora had gone home that evening she wrote a long letter to arline, setting the matter frankly before her. she knew that before the letter reached her friend, she would have already told all to mrs. gray. still she reflected that she had at least behaved fairly. but the following morning brought with it the knowledge that arline had already taken the initiative. special delivery was responsible for a letter from an incensed daffydowndilly, which fairly sputtered with indignation. grace was obliged to smile as seeking its contents she saw: "dearest grace: "that horrible, hateful old stanley forde is the most despicable person in the whole world. i was simply furious when i read that article about your fiancã©, tom gray. i called stanley on the telephone and accused him of giving the story to the newspapers. of course i knew in a minute it was he. i remembered all i had said in that letter to you which i sent him by mistake. he actually laughed and said that he did it to pay you for meddling. i told him he would be held responsible for giving the story to that newspaper, but he said that as long as it was true, as he could prove by my letter, that the editor of the newspaper had a perfect right to use it if he wished. he pointed out that it was nothing against mr. gray's character and therefore legitimate news. "then he had the unspeakable temerity to ask me if he might call on me. you can imagine what i said. thank goodness and you that i found him out in time. i would be happier with a blind, deaf and dumb man who couldn't walk than to be married to such a person. i am _so_ angry. i have written another letter to dear mrs. gray explaining the whole thing. she was so sweet to me when in oakdale that i felt it my duty to tell her everything. will you go to her and explain even more fully? you can fill in any gaps which my letter to her may contain. tell her every single thing about me. i wish her to know it. i am sending her letter by special delivery also. must hurry and post both letters, so i will close. write to me soon. "faithfully, "daffydowndilly thayer ("to the end of the chapter.") grace laid down this energetic communication with a faintly glad sigh. this snarl at least had righted itself. suppose it were an omen? "the beginning of the end," she had said. it was a little thing, but in some indefinable fashion her heart grew lighter. as arline's letter had come to her in time of need, perhaps out of the vast unknown would come some sign of or from the lost one. her straight brows arched themselves in surprise as she devoted herself to the reading of a letter from miriam nesbit. "beloved loyalheart: "can you, your father and mother come to new york city at once? everett and i are to be married on friday evening at eight o'clock, then take a night train for california. so my well-laid plans for a grand wedding the last of october will have to end in mere announcement cards. but i'll explain. you know i told you of those wonderful open-air performances of greek plays that have been going on at a spot not far from ravenwood, the motion picture studio where everett and anne filmed hamlet and macbeth. to go back to the greek plays--they will end next week. they have proved so successful that the management wishes to follow them with a series of shakesperian performances, as they have had requests for them from all sides. to come directly to the point, the stellar honors have been offered everett, therefore i am about to sacrifice pomp and ceremony on the altar of true love. "we are to be married in the little church around the corner where so many professionals have taken their sacred vows. only my nearest and dearest are to be there. there will be neither a best man nor a bridesmaid and i shall be married in a traveling gown and turn my cherished trousseau into prosaic wardrobe. even my wedding gown will have to be used afterward, minus the veil, of course, as an evening frock. i have telegraphed david and hope he can come. if he does, he will go back to his search the day after my marriage. poor loyalheart, i cannot write you all i feel for you. i'll try to tell you when i see you. don't disappoint me. i cannot bear to think of going on this new pilgrimage without your being present to wish me godspeed. with my dearest love and sympathy, "miriam." "p. s. i hope fairy godmother will come, too. i have written her." as grace read the signature, the letter fluttered to the floor unheeded. her generous soul rejoiced at miriam's happiness, yet never before had the gloom of her own situation struck her so sharply. one by one her trusted comrades were placing their lives in the care of the chosen men of their hearts. only a little while before she had been of them all perhaps the most buoyant. her engagement to tom, after months of harrowing indecision, had always been a matter of reverent wonder to her. she had looked eagerly forward to attending miriam's wedding. now she dreaded the thought. she felt that she could have better borne with attending an elaborate and formal wedding than to mingle with the intimate few who would be present at the little church around the corner. yet she had no choice in the matter. seeking her mother, grace gave her miriam's letter. a short consultation in which it was decided that grace must represent her family at miriam's wedding, and she was speeding upstairs to pack a steamer trunk. the mere glance at a huge cedar chest in which reposed her own wedding gown sent a chill to her heart. listlessly she made her preparations for the flitting. she would take the noon train which would reach new york at nine o'clock that evening, provided her fairy godmother should decide not to go to the wedding. should she do so, then they would probably wait until the following morning. at all events she would be ready. her labor of packing accomplished, grace set off for her interview with mrs. gray. she found the lonely old lady raised to the nth power of indignation over the deplorable newspaper notice. anger at that "detestable forde person" had electrified her into a semblance of her formerly vivacious self. grace was delighted at the change, but had considerable difficulty in reconciling her wrathful fairy godmother to her own point of view. "i dare say you may be right, child," she reluctantly conceded, after grace had held forth at length. "that villainous young man may possibly have done us a good turn, unawares. it was sweet in little arline to write me so beautifully. what a narrow escape she has had, to be sure! if tom were anything like this miserable man, forde, i should not care whether or not he ever came back. the publicity of this has upset my nerves completely. we shall have to weather it, i suppose, now that the mischief is done." "i am glad you can look at it in that light," was grace's earnest response. "are you going to new york to see miriam married, dear?" "bless me, i had quite forgotten miriam's wedding. when is it to be?" "then you haven't received her letter!" grace cried out in dismay. "i haven't looked at any of my mail, except this letter from arline. it was first on the pile. jane gave me the newspaper when i returned last night. she had already seen the article about tom. would you mind sorting the mail? miriam's letter is probably among the others. i have tried to pay special attention to my mail since my poor boy vanished, for fear of missing something i ought to know. but this morning my mind was on arline's letter and that newspaper. i think i shall have to engage a secretary. you know i've never had one since anne gave up the position." grace, whose fingers and eyes had been busy while mrs. gray talked, held up a square white envelope. "here is miriam's letter." "i think we had better go to-day," decided mrs. gray, when at her request grace had read her miriam's letter. "this is wednesday. that will give us two days with the nesbits. as it is only half-past ten we can catch that 12.30 train, provided you are ready. ring for jane. she can quickly pack whatever i need to take with me. it is lucky that i bought miriam's wedding gift some time ago. i really think this little trip will benefit me, though the very idea of attending a wedding gives me the horrors. still miriam is one of my adopted children. i hope david can come. i am anxious to talk with him. strange that he can find out nothing about tom." roused from the listless apathy which had so persistently preyed upon her, mrs. gray rattled on with a new and surprising cheerfulness which delighted grace. perhaps this was another link in the invisible chain. the sudden upheaval of miriam's plans for a magnificent wedding had at least benefited one person. then, too, they would perhaps see david and learn more definitely of the territory which tom had invaded to his sorrow. waiting only long enough to see mrs. gray deep in her preparations for the coming journey, grace hurried home to don a traveling gown, say a fond farewell to her mother and leave a loving good-bye message for her father. a telephone call left with her mother for her during her absence informed her that nora had heard from miriam, too. she and hippy would take the evening train for new york. "we are rallying to miriam's standard," grace declared with a flash of her former enthusiasm, when her mother had repeated nora's message. "if jessica and reddy can manage the trip, then--" she stopped, the smile faded from her face. she had been about to say that the eight originals would all be there. turning abruptly she walked from the living-room, the sentence unfinished. for a brief instant she had forgotten that unless the unknown suddenly yielded up its prey, one loved face would be missing from the eight originals. chapter xvi j. elfreda's master stroke as the twilight of a perfect september day deepened into purple night, a little company of persons crossed the threshold of the quaint little church around the corner. though few in number it was a gathering strongly fortified by warm affection. the several passers-by who chanced to see this small procession enter the unpretentious sanctuary had no difficulty in divining their purpose or singling out the chief participants in the affair. the face of the beautiful, dark-eyed girl, gowned in a smart tailored coat suit of brown, wore the shy radiance of a bride. the tall, distinguished-looking man who accompanied her was easily identified as the happy party of the second part. though destiny had taken an unexpected hand in miriam nesbit's wedding plans, she was perhaps better satisfied to make her vows of life-long devotion in the presence of only those she had known best. miss southard, mrs. nesbit, david, anne, grace, hippy, nora and mrs. gray were present, as miriam's nearest, and undoubtedly her dearest. second in her regard were j. elfreda briggs, arline thayer, kathleen west and mabel ashe, whose residence in or near new york made their attendance possible. greatly to the regret of all concerned, jessica and reddy had been unable to come to the wedding. though a decided air of informality permeated the little assemblage, the always impressive ceremony of marriage had never seemed more sacred to the chosen few. at miriam's earnest request they grouped themselves about her, a fond guard, while the minister, everett southard's comrade of long standing, spoke the simple, beautiful words that linked two lives together, "for better or for worse, through good and evil report." from the moment she entered the little church until, the ceremony over, she found herself being helped into the nesbits' automobile, grace was as one in a dream. she had noted in absent wonder the play of more than one handkerchief as her friends wiped away the furtive tears that are always as sure to fall in the presence of a great happiness, as when the occasion is one of grief. but she had no tears to shed. weeks of silent suffering had bereft her of that relief. her sensitive face grew a trifle more wistful as she listened to the sonorous voice intoning the sacred words, but her brooding gray eyes remained dry. she alone knew the agony of dull pain which clutched persistently at her heart. during the ceremony more than one pair of sympathetic eyes strayed from miriam and everett southard to the slender, white-clad girly whose grave, sweet mouth and unfaltering glance told of a strength that came from within. in the thick of the congratulations which followed, there was not one of those who adored grace who did not yearn to turn to her and comfort her. yet her very composure made consolation impossible. they realized that she was sufficient unto herself. on the way to the station, where the southards were to entrain almost immediately for the west, she talked in her usual cheerful strain to mrs. nesbit, mrs. gray and elfreda briggs, who shared an automobile with her. david and anne were in the southards' limousine with miss southard and the newly wedded pair, while the other members of the party had followed in a larger automobile. secretly, grace and mrs. gray were longing to talk with david nesbit. he had arrived from the north only an hour before the wedding, thus giving them no chance for an interview. both were imbued with but one thought and that thought centered on tom gray. when the last hearty words of good will and farewell had been said and the train bearing the southards westward had chugged out of the station, grace was still obliged to possess her soul in patience while the remainder of the wedding party, minus the chief participants, repaired to the nesbits' home for an informal supper in honor of the occasion. during its progress, however, she and david managed to exchange a few words regarding tom. david had canvassed the region of the camp as thoroughly as was possible during the time he had been north, but thus far he had met with no clue to tom's whereabouts. it was after eleven o'clock when hippy, nora, anne, david, mrs. gray, mrs. nesbit, grace and elfreda briggs, whom grace had begged to remain with her, settled themselves in the library to hear david's account of his northern explorations. "i am all broken up because i have no news for you," he began. "good old tom's disappearance is the most baffling problem i've ever dealt with. blaisdell is completely discouraged. he and i have tramped through those woods for days from daylight until dark. so far as we know, no one saw tom after he left the village. i found one little boy who insists that he saw tom that day, but he saw him just before he entered the woods, so that doesn't help much. but i won't give up. i shall have to remain in new york for a day, then i am going back to stay until i find him." "mr. blaisdell has written me that he must go to cincinnati for a week or two," sighed mrs. gray. "a case he was working on, before he took up mine, needs his immediate attention." "yes; he told me," nodded david. "he is a splendid man, but he's handicapped in tom's case by not being a thorough-going woodsman. his work has lain a great deal in large cities. if one of us had disappeared in such a wild region, instead of tom, i'd say the very man to do the trailing would be tom gray himself. what i can't understand is how an expert woodsman like tom could come to grief in the wilds." "tom was always venturesome and reckless of danger," replied mrs. gray with an ominous shake of her head. "i wish he had gone into some commercial enterprise rather than to have become interested in forestry. you know that the station master told him a storm was brewing, but he paid no attention to the warning." "that storm was the cause of tom's vanishing," broke in grace almost dramatically. "i've always felt it. it made him lose his way, then----who knows what happened then?" "i wish i could go with you, david," declared hippy earnestly. "i would, too, if i weren't tied up with a law suit which an irate traction company is waging against the city of oakdale. although i am not a woodsman, still i know the difference between a tree and a stump, and during my long and useful career i have killed numbers of slimy, slithery snakes." "at least, that's something to be proud of," lauded elfreda briggs, favoring hippy with an amused smile. the stout young man's remarks were quite in accord with her own distinct sense of humor. hitherto she had listened without comment, absorbing all she heard and mentally appraising it in her shrewd fashion. she had chosen to break into the conversation at that moment because of an idea that was slowly taking shape in her fertile brain. "i suppose," she continued nonchalantly, "that as david has just said, it takes a woodsman to trail a woodsman." her round eyes fastened themselves on grace. knowing elfreda as she did, grace flashed the speaker a curiously startled glance. something of signal import to her was about to fall from elfreda's lips. "i was just thinking of the story of ruth denton's father and old jean, the hunter, who used to live in upton wood. don't you remember, you told me about how he was hurt and mr. denton nursed him back to health! you told me, too, that this same jean had hunted all over the united states and canada. there's a woodsman for you! if he's still in oakdale, why don't you ask him to go and look for tom?" elfreda leaned back in her chair, well pleased with herself. the expressions mirrored on her friends' faces told her that she had scored. "why did we never think of jean before?" wondered grace in a hushed voice. "good old jean!" hippy sprang to his feet and performed a joyful dance about the room. "why, of course he's the very man!" "it was unforgivably stupid in me never to have thought of jean," admitted david, looking deep disgust at his own defection. "the reason none of us thought of jean was because i made such a point of keeping tom's disappearance a secret," acknowledged mrs. gray ruefully. "did grace tell you that a new york newspaper had published an account of it?" "miriam sent me a copy of the newspaper," returned david. "who gave out the news?" mrs. gray cast an interrogatory glance toward grace, who met it with an assuring smile. "it's all right, aunt rose," she nodded. "i have arline's permission to answer. she wishes me to tell anyone whom i think ought to know it. she said so to-day." with this explanation grace continued: "i wrote arline about the postponement of my marriage to tom. she answered, but confused her letter with another which she had written to someone else. that person proved unfriendly to both of us, and so the mystery of poor tom came into print." "so that's the way it happened," mused david. delicacy forbade him to ask further questions. he understood, as did the others, that grace's explanation had been purposely sketchy. "personally, i'm not sorry it's now generally known. it may be the means of bringing tom into the land of the living again. i don't mean that i think he's dead. i can't and won't think that." "nor i," grace cried out sharply. "i've never let myself believe that for an instant. we ought to give elfreda special vote of grateful thanks for suggesting jean. that was a master stroke." grace's suggestion brought out a volley of acclamation in elfreda's direction. "oh, forget it," she muttered, unconsciously relapsing into her old-time use of slang. "old jean just happened to pop into my head. that's all." "just the same, it takes an outsider to show the oakdalites a few things," warmly accorded hippy. "i am proud to claim you as a colleague, elfreda. some day we may yet grapple together with the intricacies of the law. 'wingate and briggs, lawyer and lawyeress. daring deeds perpetrated while you wait,' would look nice on a sign." "i can see that you are making fun of a poor defenseless lawyeress," retorted elfreda good-humoredly. "don't you think so, mrs. nesbit? you've been listening to all of us without saying a word. now we'd like to hear your views on whether or not wingate and briggs, etc., would set the world on fire as a law firm." "i have little doubt of the glorious future of such a combination," agreed mrs. nesbit, smiling. there was an absent look in her eyes, however. her thoughts had been traveling persistently into the past as she sat listening to the interesting discussion over the missing tom. was it possible that miriam, her little girl of yesterday, had actually stepped out on the highway of married life? and grace harlowe, the care-free torn-boy who had run races and flown kites with david, was now a tragic-eyed young woman from whose hand fate had roughly snatched the cup of happiness. there were nora and hippy, too, a veritable darby and joan, despite their love for playful squabbling. could it be that these alert, self-reliant young men and women were once the children who had romped and frisked about on her lawn, or played house under the tall hollyhocks in the garden? "you are tired out, mrs. nesbit," suggested grace with concern. she had noted the brooding light in the older woman's gentle face and quickly attributed the cause. "i think it is time to sound taps. we can continue our session in the morning, can't we, fairy godmother?" "yes. i am not nearly as young as i wish i were. this trouble about tom has made me realize it," returned mrs. gray somberly. "but elfreda has given us a valuable piece of advice. i am inclined to hope with grace that we have reached the beginning of the end of our weary waiting." "i've a favor to ask of you," stated elfreda mysteriously, when, a little later, she and grace entered the sleeping room which they were to occupy together. "it is granted." grace passed an affectionate arm about elfreda's plump shoulders. "all right. i don't need to ask, then. i'll just remark that i'm going home with you to oakdale." "elfreda!" grace brought both arms into play in an energetic hug of the stout girl. "will you truly come home with me!" "i will," asserted elfreda. "but what about your work?" "let the law take its course--without me," was the unconcerned response. "i wouldn't miss seeing old jean for anything. but that's not my reason for inviting myself to go home with you. i can see that you need a comforter. do i get the job?" "you do," laughed grace, but the laugh ended in a sob against elfreda's shoulder. it had been a trying day for poor loyalheart and the inevitable reaction had set in. "you--understand--don't--you?" she murmured brokenly. "yes; i know how brave you've been to-day." elfreda's soothing tones were a trifle unsteady, as she added in tender whimsicality, "i could see." chapter xvii fate returned to oakdale, grace's first step was toward finding jean, whose long residence in the snug cabin in upton wood had made him seem like a part of the forest itself. greatly to her dismay, old jean was not to be found. nora, hippy, elfreda and herself made a trip to the cabin only to find it locked. on a bit of paper tacked to the door, appeared the laboriously written notice: "gone way june 2. come back som day." it was a tragic downfall to the new hope that grace had been confidently nursing, and it took all the fortitude she could summon to recover even in a measure from her bitter disappointment. where to look for jean she had not the remotest notion. she knew only too well that "som day" was quite likely to mean next winter. jean was one of those rare persons who can follow the dictates of his own pleasure. the whole woodland universe was his to roam at will. his life-long communion with nature had taught him to supply his simple wants with the ease with which the prehistoric denizens of the forest had attended to theirs, and life was to him one glorious succession of light-hearted wayfaring. every now and then, however, he would descend upon his lonely cabin, laden with the spoils of the chase, which found a ready market in oakdale. after one of these jaunts he was always sure to find plenty of work awaiting him, for aside from his prowess as a hunter, he was a veritable jack of all trades whose services were always in keen demand. j. elfreda briggs was also downcast over the fact that her suggestion could not be immediately carried out. determined not to be balked, she asked grace's permission to mail "personals" addressed to jean to a number of newspapers published in various large cities of the united states. but these notices brought no reply from the old hunter, who, it seemed, had vanished from the busy world as completely as had tom gray. in the meantime the wingates, elfreda and grace made it a point to institute a vigorous inquiry throughout oakdale, in the hope of finding someone who could give them some definite information regarding where jean had gone. from several persons who had talked with the old hunter before his departure, they learned only that he had announced his intention to go away on a long expedition, but had neglected to state what part of the country he intended to traverse. contrary to mrs. gray's and her own expectation that the news of tom's unexplained dropping-out of his own particular world of friends and acquaintances would create disturbing gossip, grace was supremely touched by the sympathetic loyalty of her townspeople. until visited by adversity, she had never even suspected that she ranked so high in their esteem. each day brought her some fresh proof of consideration and sympathy from the good-hearted residents of the little city of her birth. not one slighting or detrimental comment against either herself or tom came to her ears. it was as though the entire populace had risen to her standard in the name of friendship. she was now wholly content that the sad affair was no longer a secret. yet even the undivided consideration of her townspeople could not serve to throw a ray of light on the mystery. it was now the latter part of september and not a word of encouragement had come from david nesbit, who had returned to the lumber country to pursue his lonely search until mr. blaisdell should again join him. true, david kept the anxious watchers fully informed of his movements, but the burden of his messages was always, "nothing new about poor tom has come to light." during these days of dreary uncertainty, elfreda proved herself a comforter indeed. although a week had elapsed since she had taken up her residence under the harlowe's hospitable roof, she calmly announced her intention to stay on and await developments. her repeated cheery assertion, "everything will come out all right yet," did much to help grace maintain the hopeful stand she had forced herself to take. she could hardly bear to have elfreda out of her sight, so greatly had she come to rely on her. on the other hand, elfreda was supremely satisfied with her rã´le of guardian angel. she regarded grace as the direct inspiration to every good deed she had ever performed, and humbly congratulated herself on being for once granted an opportunity to make some small return for the countless favors she had received at grace's hands. to elfreda herself, however, it appeared that she had been able to do very little. this thought was troubling her one hazy autumn afternoon as the two girls silently ascended the steps to haven home, whither they had walked through upton wood, to spend an hour or two. elfreda was not fond of these frequent visits to the house behind the world. they were invariably fraught with melancholy. grace was always fairly cheerful at the start, yet the moment her gray eyes glimpsed haven home the old, wistful shadow crept into them. once inside the stately old house, her depression became even more apparent. haven home was now in complete order, even to the little personal touches which greatly enhanced the beauty of the tasteful furnishings. the color schemes for the various rooms had been decided upon by tom and grace during those first happy hours of possession. how energetically they had entered into even the smallest details, and how enthusiastically they had engrossed themselves with the joyful labor of planning the arrangement of the furniture and the countless appointments. both had agreed that everything in the house should signify comfort rather than elegance, in order that, when the last triumphant touch had been given to it, haven home should be a home indeed. to carry on bravely the work which she and tom had begun had been an excruciating torture to grace, made endurable only by the thought that at least she was fulfilling tom's wishes. she was ever urged on to her sorrowful task by the one consolation that when the blessed day of tom's return dawned, and she believed that it must, he would find that she had been loyal to his interests. she had not sat down to mourn, her hands idle. she had faithfully labored to make their dream of home come true. though the winter of sorrow held her in its icy grip, the golden summer of love still bloomed fresh and fragrant in her heart. "i don't think you ought to come here so much, grace." elfreda's matter-of-fact tones roused grace from the somber reverie which had obsessed her as she stood in the center of the living-room, her absent gaze on a painting which tom had especially fancied. it represented a young man in the dress of a cavalier and a beautiful girl in a simple high-waisted gown of white, strolling through a field of starry daisies. on both faces was the rapt expression of complete absorption that betokened the knowledge of their great love for each other. looming up, a trifle in their rear, a gigantic black-robed figure, with a terrifying face, was hurrying, with great strides, across the blossoming meadow to overtake the absorbed pair. one had only to glance at the painting to realize that in simply naming it "fate" the artist had rightly suited the legend to his conception. "why not?" asked grace, her attention still on the painting. "because it's not good for you," protested elfreda sturdily. "it isn't as though the house needed your attention. it's in perfect order and the prettiest, most comfortable place i ever set foot in. you've done everything here that can be done. now if i were you i'd hold up my right hand and swear not to come here again until i stepped over the threshold with tom gray. every time, after we pay our respects to haven home, you go away from it with the expression in your eyes of an early christian martyr going to the stake. not that you ever complain. if you went around weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth, i'd be better satisfied. but you don't. your face simply takes on a hurt, despairing look that makes me sick at heart." "i know it isn't good for me to come here," was grace's frank admission. "each time i say, 'this must be the last,' and yet somehow i can't stay away. my whole heart is bound up in haven home. it's the most wonderful and at the same time the saddest place in the world to me. and this picture! it fascinates me. when tom and i chose it, we didn't dream that fate was hurrying to overtake us." "i'd turn it toward the wall," counseled elfreda gruffly. "it's beautiful, but it gives me the creeps. it upsets you more than anything else in this house. every time you come here, i've noticed you go straight to it. i can see that it's a jonah. do you give me leave to do the reversing act?" elfreda grinned boyishly, yet her round blue eyes were purposeful. it would have given her infinite pleasure to summarily bundle the offending painting into upton wood, leaving it to the mercy of the elements. "you may turn it toward the wall if you like." grace sighed as she tore her gaze from the painting. "it's rather heavy, though, and you will have a hard time reaching up to it." "oh, that's nothing. there's a step ladder on the back porch. i noticed it the last time we were over here." elfreda hurried from the room to wrest the ladder from its lowly haunt. returning she set it in place before the painting and climbed the four steps to the top with joyful alacrity. grace followed the movements of her energetic companion with moody interest. she was glad yet sorry to watch the change elfreda was about to make. "i can't reverse it up here," grumbled elfreda. "i'm afraid of dropping it. i'll have to get down from the ladder with it, then turn it around." carefully descending, she laid the so-called jonah face down on the top step of the ladder, paused for an instant before completing her task. "oh, look!" grace cried out, staring hard at the back of the picture. standing out on it in letters of blue a single sentence had been pencilled. elfreda peered curiously at the writing. "true love laughs at fate," she read. "that's odd! who in the world wrote that?" "it was tom." grace drew a long breath. "seeing his writing gave me a queer thrill for a minute. it was just as though out of the silence he had suddenly spoken. then i remembered. when the painting was unwrapped we stood looking at it. tom had a blue pencil in one hand. he had been checking off a list of our belongings. i said that the painting was beautiful but sinister, and that i hoped that no such terrible figure of fate would ever overtake us. tom laughed and said he would put a spell on the picture. so he took the blue pencil and scribbled that sentence on the back of it. then he hung it on the wall. i never recalled the incident until this moment. i'm glad you suggested reversing 'fate,' elfreda. i'd rather have it so. the very sight of his handwriting is a comfort." "it's an omen," elfreda declared solemnly, her plump face alive with superstition. "yes, sir; it's an omen. i can see that it's a fore-runner of good luck." chapter xviii a gleam of hope inspirited by elfreda's emphatic prediction of good fortune, grace left haven home in a livelier frame of mind than she had exhibited when entering the house. as they strolled down the walk she was further cheered by the sight of a single, half-opened rose, flaunting its crimson but lonely glory from a late-blooming bush. elfreda, who was bent on lightening grace's mood, soberly assured her that it was merely another lucky sign. carefully plucking the fragrant token of good fortune, grace breathed a prayer that this might indeed be true. tackling her rã´le of comforter with a will, elfreda enlivened the walk home with numerous accounts of signs and wonders which had visited friends and acquaintances of hers as heralds of great good fortune. "of course, i'm only telling you what i've heard," she said humorously. "i can't say that i've ever had any direct manifestations that good luck was signaling to me. once i went to a bazaar and paid a dollar for the privilege of drawing a number from a hat. i had a hunch that i'd win something. i also had my eye on a hand-painted chocolate pot, but my lucky number drew a toy velocipede instead. still i was lucky to draw anything. then another time i found a horseshoe in the road. i hung it over the front door and next day it fell down on pa's head when he was coming into the house. that was a very unlucky day for me." elfreda giggled reminiscently. "pa raged like a lion. he declared i did it purposely and pitched the horseshoe into the street. i let it stay there. i wasn't much impressed with its lucky qualities. just the same it didn't cure me of my belief in signs." grace's ready laughter held a merry note that was intensely gratifying to the narrator of the tragic horseshoe episode. she had succeeded even better than she had expected, was elfreda's reflection. then, too, the unexpected sight of tom gray's handwriting on the back of the painting, coupled with the finding of the rose, had brought a look of new animation to grace's too-calm features. "i am afraid i shall have to take back my promise not to go to haven home again soon," was grace's half apologetic comment as the two emerged from upton wood upon the highway that wound its way from the outskirts of oakdale through the open country beyond the town. "i feel now as though i wanted to go there often, just to read tom's message. i like to think of it as a message. strange that i never recalled the incident until to-day." "it was not intended that you should," maintained elfreda. "as for taking back your promise, you never really made one. if i were you, though, i'd stay away from that house as long as i could. but if i found that i was determined to go there, then i'd go." "that is very wise and elastic counsel," asserted grace. "it can be stretched to cover all my moods and yearnings." arm in arm, the two friends swung briskly along the highway, following it until they reached the wide tree-lined street in which the harlowe residence stood. when within a short distance of the house, their glance became simultaneously fixed on two childish forms racing toward them at full speed. "here come elizabeth and anna may angerell." an indulgent smile curved grace's lips. "they have spied us from afar. they are the dearest little girls. i can't begin to tell you what a comfort they've been to me this summer. they're such joyous youngsters. they fairly bubble with happiness. what a wonderful estate childhood is, elfreda. yet we never realize it until long after it has passed away. i've often wished i could go back and live it over, even for one day." "i'd rather be grown up," disagreed elfreda. "i never had a very good time when i was little, because i was always grieving over being a prize fat child. the way of the baby elephant is pretty thorny. well, well!" she exclaimed playfully as the two little girls, laughing gleefully, ended their run by flinging themselves ecstatically upon herself and grace. "what's the meaning of this onslaught? if we hadn't been very large, sturdy persons we might have tumbled over like nine-pins." "we saw you coming away up the street," joyfully announced anna may. "we just had to run. we've been watching at our gate for you quite a while." "there's company come to see you, miss harlowe," burst forth elizabeth excitedly. "you can never guess who. it's somebody you've known for a long time, but it's somebody you don't see very often. we aren't going to tell you who's on the porch. we want you to be surprised. do hurry as fast as ever you can, for the person is anxious to see you." "we thought we'd tell you the minute we saw you, and then we thought it would be more fun not to," explained anna may wriggling with enjoyment of the great secret. elfreda and grace exchanged lightning glances as they quickened their pace, a devoted worshipper hanging to an arm of each. could elfreda's prophesy of good fortune have been thus so quickly fulfilled? "it's not mr. gray." elizabeth had remembered that long ago grace had answered her eager inquiry for "nice mr. tom" by saying that he had gone on a journey from which he might return at any time. she had remembered, too, how sad her dear miss grace had looked when she told her. when the two children had posted themselves at the gate to watch for grace, elizabeth had remarked confidentially to anna may, "if mr. gray was sitting on the porch waiting for miss harlowe, we couldn't surprise her. we'd just tell her straight out. we wouldn't want to make her guess that, would we?" and anna may had replied: "no, siree. we ought to tell her the first thing that it's not him, so that she won't look disappointed when she sees who the company is." the startled light that had leaped into grace's eyes died as elizabeth frankly excluded tom's name from the guessing contest. she inwardly rebuked herself for thus clutching at every straw which the wind blew in her direction. on catching a first glimpse of the veranda, she cried out sharply. relaxing her light hold on elfreda's arm and dropping elizabeth's hand, she darted to the gate, slammed it behind her and raced up the walk to the steps, an animated flash of blue on the autumn landscape. "jean!" she almost shouted. "where, oh, where did you come from?" the next instant she held one of the hunter's rough hands in both hers, half laughing, half crying. "mam'selle grace, it is of a truth the great 'appiness to see you," was the old man's sincere greeting, his small black eyes shining with feeling. "jean has come far. long way," he waved a comprehensive hand toward the west. "i come because i hav' learn that you hav' the trouble." "but how long have you been in oakdale and who told you about tom?" questioned grace anxiously. "we have gone to your cabin in upton wood several times, in the hope that you had returned. the first time we went we saw the sign on the door." "i put him there," nodded jean, "because i go 'way for long time. many weeks i stay in canada. only to-day i come back. then----" "did some one in oakdale tell you tom was missing?" interrogated grace, cutting almost impatiently into jean's narrative. "no, mam'selle. only i hav' speak the _bon jour_ to my frien's as i come through the town. some days have pass since firs' i see this." jean pulled a newspaper from a pocket of his weather-stained coat. spreading it open and laboriously perusing the first page, he tendered it to grace, pointing out a column in it. grace needed but to glance at it to recognize it as a copy of the newspaper recording tom gray's disappearance, which hippy had brought her. "how did you ever happen to come across this, jean?" her query held a note of positive awe. "it is of a truth strange," admitted jean. "w'en i stay long time in canada i come back to this country to minnesota. i go to duluth, w'ere i hav' ol' frien'. i spen' two days by him an' talk about many t'ings w'ich 'appen to us long ago w'en we hunt together. he tell me about a young man who come up north an' get los'. nobody can fin'. he show me this paper an' say, 'w'en i read this i t'ink you, jean, can fin' this young man, because you great hunter.' then i look an' see the young man is m'sieu' tom, an' the paper is ol' one. so i leave my pack skins wit' my frien' and come here quick on the train, because i know mam'selle grace will tell all. then i go fin' m'sieu' tom," ended jean, wagging his gray head with deep determination. "talk about miracles!" burst forth elfreda briggs. "it's the most remarkable thing i ever knew to happen." elfreda had lost no time in overtaking grace on the veranda. the angerell children had not followed, however. they had trotted on home, well satisfied with the result of their mission. "it is truly marvelous. and to think that mother isn't at home this afternoon to hear it. it was splendid in you to wait here for me, jean." grace turned a glowing face toward the old hunter. "as for your going to find tom, i am _sure_ that you _will_ find him. i was so amazed at seeing you, i forgot to introduce you to my friend miss briggs. she knows all about you, already." elfreda extended a prompt hand of welcome to the intrepid old trapper, who grasped it warmly, saying: "the frien's of mam'selle grace are also the frien's of ol' jean." "jean, before i tell you all i know about tom's disappearance, i think it would be better for the three of us to go on to mrs. gray's home and talk things over. she will be so glad to see you. she has suffered dreadfully. we have all suffered. but i feel now as though at last the light had begun to break." chapter xix the letter "and that is all the information that we can give you about tom, jean." grace sighed as she ended the recital of barren facts relating to the vanishing of the man she loved. "it is very scant information on which to proceed," deplored mrs. gray. "i confess that i made a mistake in keeping our trouble a secret. since that newspaper spread the news abroad i have done my best to amend the error. i have seen to it that the sheriff of the county in which the camp is located took up the matter. i have also offered a large reward for the finding of tom, or the positive proof that he is dead." her voice dropped despairingly on the last word. "be of the brav' heart," responded jean confidently. "i hav' the feeling that it is for me to find the los' m'sieu' tom. i hav' travel many times over the country w'ere he get los' an' i know it, every tree an' stone. it is a wil' place, an' the men up there know not'ing but cut down trees. very t'ick in the 'aid." jean tapped his gray head significantly, better to demonstrate the vast stupidity of lumbermen in general. "m'sieu' david is one fine young man, but he not know the big woods lak' ol' jean. the ot'er man, he also not know." jean shrugged his broad shoulders. "if all jean's life he stay in cities, it would be so wit' him." "but jean, have you any idea of what might have happened to tom?" entreated mrs. gray. again jean shrugged. "many t'ings might 'appen. p'r'aps he lose the way in storm an' get hurt; mebbe he die. p'r'aps timber t'ieves get him an' shut him up somew'ere way off hid. of a truth, jean cannot tell. but i go hunt for m'sieu' tom an' fin' out. then i tell." jean seemed determined to impress upon his hearers that he would "fin'" tom gray. "when can you start north, jean?" grace waited breathlessly for the answer. "soon; to-morrow," came the quick assurance. "first i go to my cabin to mak' ready. in the morning i come here early an' say the _au revoir_. then i go an' fin' m'sieu' tom. you are satisfy?" his shrewd black eyes sought the approval of the trio of tense faces bent earnestly upon him. "we are more than satisfied." impulsively mrs. gray stretched forth a little blue-veined hand. somewhat to that estimable woman's astonishment old jean bent and with true gallic chivalry raised it lightly to his lips. "i am honor that you trust," he said simply. looking on, grace was immeasurably touched by the woodsman's quaintly respectful act of deference toward her fairy godmother. her romantic fancy transformed rugged old jean into a gallant knight about to fare forth on a dangerous errand. "you are a true frenchman, jean," smiled the pleased old lady. "a lifetime spent in roughing it hasn't robbed you of inherent chivalry. did you know that miss briggs remembered you from hearsay and was the first one to suggest that you would be the very person to hunt for tom?" "mam'selle grace has said," affirmed jean. turning to elfreda he continued almost humbly, "mam'selle, i hav' only to be grateful to you that you hav' remember me. of a certainty, i shall not forget." jean lingered for a little further talk, then departed for his cabin, with many quaint bobbing bows. but he left behind him an atmosphere of revivified hope. "we must go, too, j. elfreda," reminded grace, a distinct ring of cheerfulness in her accents. "this is bridget's afternoon out and i promised mother that i'd see that neither you or i starved. father won't be home for dinner to-night, either, so we shall dine in lonely state. mother went to spend the day with friends in carrollton, and father is to go to their house to dinner to-night and bring mother home," grace explained to mrs. gray. "then you had better stay with me," advised mrs. gray. "left to yourselves i haven't the slightest doubt that you will talk much and eat little. besides, i know that the mere mention of hot waffles and honey will make elfreda linger. stay, and we'll have an old-fashioned supper." "i couldn't be so cruel as to tear elfreda away from such bliss," laughed grace. the stout girl's predeliction for waffles was known to all her intimate friends. "how did you know my pet weakness?" elfreda's round eyes grew rounder with well-simulated surprise. "did grace tell you? grace, i'm amazed to think you would thus betray my fatal waffle hunger, even to mrs. gray." noting the old lady's increasing rise of good spirits, elfreda purposely pretended ignorance with a view of keeping up the sudden access of cheer which jean's visit had diffused. "don't you remember that morning you came to wayne hall for breakfast and asked anxiously if there would be waffles?" teased mrs. gray. "it was at the time grace and i went to overton to set harlowe house to rights." "oh, yes! so it was." elfreda looked owlishly innocent. "that was the time you got my waffle number. it seems a long while since then, doesn't it, grace?" "yes." an absent gleam flickered in grace's eyes, causing elfreda to wish she had not asked the question. it was replaced almost instantly by a glint of pure amusement. memories of overton invariably brought back emma dean. merely to think of emma meant to smile. "i wonder what emma's doing to-night," she said irrelevantly. "she must be back at overton by this time, wrestling with the management of harlowe house." "we ought to make her a flying visit," proposed elfreda, well pleased with this sudden turn in the conversation. "i'd love to see her," agreed grace, "but----" she hesitated. "i shouldn't care to go away from home now. after jean goes north we are likely to hear news almost any day. you see, i have pinned my faith on his ability to accomplish miracles." "well, we can wait a week or so and see," declared elfreda. "if things stay just the same and we hear nothing of interest from him, we can leave overton on saturday, spend sunday with emma and come back to oakdale on monday." "i think it would do you good to see emma, grace," approved mrs. gray with a touch of her old decision. "we can do nothing but hope, pray and wait. your trip to new york to see miriam married was on the whole depressing. emma will put new life into you. she's such a comical, delightful girl. now that our case is at last in competent hands, we must make a special effort to be cheerful. i've failed sadly this summer in practicing what i am preaching. now i intend to try to make up for it. but if i am to make good my promise to elfreda to feed her on waffles, i must tell margaret to make them." left to themselves, the two girls conversed softly together regarding the change the advent of old jean had wrought in their hostess. when an hour later the trio gathered in the morning room, unanimously chosen as a supper room by reason of its cosiness, the sense of oppression which had formerly held them captive had been marvelously lightened by hope. later the three spent a quiet evening together in the library, and it was eleven o'clock when grace and elfreda turned their steps homeward. to her father and mother, who had reached home ahead of her, grace recounted the details of jean's visit. they received the glad tidings with a joy second only to her own. another hour slipped swiftly by before the household retired, and it was half-past twelve o'clock before grace bade elfreda good-night and softly closed the door of her room. alone with her own thoughts, she curled up on a cushioned window seat and gazed meditatively out upon the still autumn night. through the open window a soft wind caressingly touched her rapt face. it sighed through the trees, sending an occasional leaf to earth with a faint protesting rustle. overhead the stars twinkled serenely down upon her, as though in tantalizing possession of the answer to the question that lay behind her musing eyes. in close communion with the night, grace lived over again those first rare days of her golden summer. the present swept aside, the past confronted her in sharpest outline. her mind dwelt on the evening when the eight originals had strolled to the old omnibus house and nora had sung the song of golden summer. she could almost hear tom say, "i'd like our lives, from this moment on, always to be one long, continued golden summer." she wondered if the very utterance of the wish had broken the spell. then came the remembrance of those dear hours of preparation at haven home. again she could fancy herself coming down the stairs in her wedding gown and pausing to listen as nora sang "la lettre." here her musings broke off abruptly. with the memory of "the letter," a sudden tender resolve took possession of her. to-morrow jean would start on his search. very well, he should not go empty-handed. she would write a letter to tom. when jean found him, her letter should bridge the gap of distance between them. rising from the window seat she sought her desk. seated before it, she took up her pen and laid a sheet of paper in place. once she had begun to write it was as though an unseen power guided her to inspiration. she wondered if somewhere under the stars tom gray was seeking, at the same time, to send her a message. never before had she been so thoroughly imbued with the mystical impression of his nearness to her. it was not a long letter, yet somehow she had managed exactly to convey the meaning she had intended. as she was finishing it, she heard the distant chime of the grandfather's clock downstairs, striking the half hour, and she smiled tenderly as the words of nora's song returned to her. "i wonder: 'is it i who write to thee, or thou to me?'" chapter xx the last chance despite her midnight vigil, grace rose before seven o'clock the next morning. on the previous afternoon jean had stated that he would come early to mrs. gray's the following morning to bid them farewell before starting on his search for tom. eight o'clock found herself and elfreda briggs walking rapidly up chapel hill. they found the old hunter had stolen a march on them, however. when they entered the library he was already there, in earnest conversation with mrs. gray. "i hav' wait for you," he said, after bidding them a quaint _bon jour_. "but now the time grow short. the train, she run at nine o'clock. it is now that we must say the _au revoir_. not long an' i see the camp and m'sieu' david. it is good that you hav' telegraph the young man. ol' jean will do his best. _le bon dieu_ will do the rest." the hunter reverently crossed himself. "i have a letter for you, jean, to give to tom." grace was wearing her most hopeful face as she gave the cherished letter into the old man's keeping. "when you have found tom, and i know that you will, tell him that i am waiting for him and give--him--this--letter." [illustration: "when you have found tom, give him this letter."] "it shall be of a sacred trust," jean assured, crossing himself again. "be of the brav' heart, mam'selle. for you and m'sieu' tom the 'appiness is near. now it is time to go." warmly shaking hands with the two for whom he was about to "do his best," jean turned to elfreda and offered his hand with: "i am the lucky man to hav' meet such good frien' to mam'selle grace." "thank you, jean." elfreda colored with pleasure at the sincere tribute. "some day, when tom gray has been found and you are back again in oakdale, we'll pay a visit to your cabin. then i'll tell you what a splendid friend grace harlowe has been to me." "it shall be as mam'selle says," responded jean gallantly. accompanied as far as the veranda by the three women, jean made his final adieus and strode down the pebbled drive to the gate, a sturdy, purposeful figure, despite his years. to the three who watched him almost out of sight, the determined set of his broad shoulders in itself seemed to presage the success of his mission. "it was certainly nice in jean to say what he did to me about my being your friend," was elfreda's abrupt comment when, after saying good-bye to mrs. gray, the two young women started down chapel hill toward home. "it was the highest compliment that he could pay me. if there had been time i'd have liked to tell him a few of the reasons for it. i guess he would have understood then that i had special cause to be loyal to you. i don't mean by that that anybody would have to have special cause to be _your_ friend. one would only have to meet you once, grace harlowe, to know that your friendship would be the kind worth having. that is, if one had any sense. that time i plumped myself down in your seat when we were bound for overton college to begin our freshman year, i was too much wrapped up in myself to know how lucky i was. isn't it queer, though, how things like that are often the means by which we begin the staunchest friendships?" "yes, it _is_ strange. if we hadn't met on the train that day in that way, you might have decided to go to another boarding place instead of taking up with mrs. elwood's offer to you to share miriam's room. then, very likely, we might never have become well acquainted. there were ever so many girls at overton college during the six years that i spent there, whom i never came to know really well." grace looked regretful. "but they all knew you," was the staunch retort. "you are as much of an institution there now as harlowe house is. your name has become a household word at overton college. emma and i were speaking of that very thing at the reunion. she said that if she were manager of harlowe house for the next twenty years she'd never come to be known as well there as you were in the time you spent at overton." "emma is a wily old flatterer and so are you," laughed grace. "just because you girls like me you think the whole world ought to fall in line and worship me." her bantering tone changing to seriousness she continued, "not that i don't appreciate your affection, and love you with all my heart for it. neither of you ever stops to think how much credit you both deserve. sometimes i wonder what i ever did to bring me so many true friends. i never properly realized their worth until this summer. living in the shadow has taught me a great deal. "the very fact that all my friends have stood by me so firmly has made me see that i owe it to them to be strong and steadfast through all. it has taught me, too, that i can't afford to be selfish. when tom first went away i used to think that, if he never came back, there wouldn't be anything worth living for, ever again. but it came to me by degrees that such a viewpoint was utterly selfish; that i had a great deal to live for. father and mother, first of all; then mrs. gray and my friends. so i made up my mind that if worse came to worst, i would devote myself to them more than ever and thus try to make up for my own loss." "of course you would," agreed elfreda, with a ready tenderness that arose from the emotion that had welled up within her at grace's unconscious revelation of unselfishness. "no one knows that better than i know it." "i wonder what the postman has brought us this morning?" grace had decided that it was high time to lead the talk away from herself. she had spoken to elfreda with utter frankness of her inner resolve, yet she could not bear to continue longer on the subject. it presented too vividly the possibility of tom's non-return, and she had schooled herself not to dwell upon such a contingency. "we'll soon know." they were now within a short distance of the harlowe's home. "i hope ma hasn't decided that i ought to go back to law school and written me to that effect," grumbled elfreda. "now i am here, i'd like to keep on being here until----" she paused. "until we hear good news," finished grace softly. "i wish you would stay with me as long as you can, elfreda. when the good news comes, i'd like you to be here to share it." "oh, i'll stay," assured elfreda, "provided i can win ma over to my views. it will be the same as using my powers of eloquence to convince a doubtful jury that the prisoner is innocent. there is nothing like practice," she reminded, her wide, boyish grin in mischievous evidence. "have we a heavy mail this morning, mother?" was grace's eager inquiry as she and elfreda came up the front steps to the veranda. established in a wide-armed rocking chair, her eyes busy with the reading of her own mail, mrs. harlowe looked up smilingly as she said, "heavy enough to keep you both busy for a while. i didn't count your letters. they are on the library table in the living-room. i sorted them into two piles. elfreda's was the highest." "thank you, dear." blowing a gay little kiss to her mother, grace made for the living-room, with elfreda close behind her. "i ought to receive a few dozen letters," commented elfreda. "nearly every one of my correspondents have been lagging and languishing." running hastily over the stack of letters bearing her name, she separated one of them from the rest. "here's the letter from ma. now we'll see whether its back to law school for j. elfreda." "oh, here's one from miriam." having been equally busy with her own mail, grace drew up a chair before the table. slipping into it she soon became absorbed in what miriam had written her. seated opposite her, elfreda perused the letter from her mother with the anxious eye of one about to receive sentence. in the middle of it she uttered a cluck of satisfaction. "excuse me for interrupting you, but i just wanted to tell you that ma is a wingless angel. i don't have to do the convincing act at all. she says i may stay with you until i either wear out my welcome or get ready to come home. isn't that a glorious message? hooray!" elfreda waved her maternal parent's unexpected missive of leniency on high. "glorious indeed." finishing the short but interesting letter from miriam, grace shoved it across the table to elfreda. "read it," she commanded. "i know miriam would be willing that you should. as her roommate of long standing you are entitled to special privileges." "thank you." elfreda pounced upon the proffered letter with avidity, while grace continued with her own correspondence. counting her letters over, she found she had received nine. as was her usual custom, she had begun with the top one, which was from miriam, and read them in the order in which they were stacked. elfreda on the contrary, scattered broadcast on the table the whole ten letters she had received. she picked and chose with the air of a connoisseur, keeping up a running fire of ridiculous remarks between letters, that moved grace to frequent laughter, but did not distract her attention to any degree from her own affairs. she had become too familiar with elfreda's always entertaining methods of doing things to be other than amused by them. the contents of her own mail filled her with a quiet joy. one and all, so far as she had read, her friends breathed undying friendship and deep devotion to herself. there was a long letter from eleanor savelli, who was summering in colorado with her father and aunt. it held the glad tidings that miss nevin and herself intended to come to oakdale for the winter. her father's concert tour would soon begin. she did not expect to travel with him that winter. she was anxious to come back to "heartsease" for a long rest. much in the letter was of a deeply sympathetic nature, relating to grace's misfortune. she begged grace to inform her at once should matters take a happier turn and hoped before long to be with her. there was also a letter from mabel allison confiding the news of her engagement to arnold evans. she was very happy, she declared. formal announcement of her betrothal to arnold had not yet been made, but grace would soon receive a card to that effect. mabel ashe wrote much sympathy, her letter fairly bristling with her lovable, vivid personality. she ended with the jubilant news that she had sold the novel on which she had worked so long and patiently to complete, to a well-known book publishing firm. she had named it, "the guardian of the flame." she styled it as "the story of a woman's heart," and her publishers believed it would be very successful. the emerson twins sent her a funny little epistle, in which they had taken turns in the writing of its many paragraphs. it had evidently been gotten up with a view to cheering her and she read between the lines the kindliness which had prompted the joint authors to the deed. jessica and anne came next with loving letters that proved how completely one they were with her in spirit. a colorful account of the doings of the harlowe house girls at overton college as set down by evelyn ward brought a smile of pleasure to grace's face. one of the two remaining envelopes bore arline's mark. grace's smile deepened as she opened it and saw: "dearest loyalheart: "you owe me a letter, but never mind. i am of a patient and forgiving disposition, so i'll overlook it. i have a very funny bit of news to write. stanley forde, the hateful old tyrant, has gone and engaged himself to be married again. just like that! don't think this is a case of sour grapes. i am de-lighted. i am sorry for the poor party of the second part, though. i know her well. she is a pretty but foolish young person who was in love with stanley ages before he became betrothed to me. of course he did it to spite daffydowndilly, but i'm not a bit 'spited.' i feel as though i ought to go to the girl in the case and tell her what i know about him. but it's useless to think of doing so." arline devoted further space to affectionate inquiry regarding grace's troubles and ended with the naã¯ve announcement: "the other day i met a perfectly delightful young man at a dinner dance. he is as much interested in settlement work as i am, and is as nice as stanley forde is horrid. to-morrow he and father and i are going to motor out to the fresh air home father founded. he is anxious to see what we have done. isn't that sweet in him? i do hope appearances aren't deceitful. i'll tell you more about him after i have met him a few more times. it's not wise, you know, to rush into friendships. "with much love. you owe me two letters. "cautiously, "daffydowndilly." the last letter on the pile was from emma dean. hastily running over the first page, grace laughed outright. "listen to this, elfreda," she commanded, her eyes dancing. "dearest and best-loved gracious: "hark to the lamentations of a dean from darkest deanery, now transported to the grace-haunted region of overton! when first i set foot in this desolate waste, my primary impulse was to lift my venerable voice in a piercing wail of anguish. only my overwhelming respect for the powers which sit sternly in overton hall, and a well-founded fear that i might be bundled off the campus to some fell institution for the demented, prompted me to refrain from howling. but the desire to howl still lingers, and some fine day i shall meander moodily to hunter's rock and there, upon its lonely height, startle the murmuring river below with my frantic cries. i shall stand well back from the edge of that perilous platform, however, as i have no malicious desire to deprive overton of the best teacher in english overton ever had, known to the english-speaking world as emily elizabeth dean, who has now become a manageress (see dean vocabulary). "confidentially speaking, i should not have minded so much leaving darkest deanery for this grace-less wilderness if it had not been for the thought that your dear face would be missing in the picture. do not rashly misjudge me by jumping to the conclusion that i parted with joy from the estimable deans of whom i am which. bitterly did i regret leaving my sorrowing parents. it was not lack of filial devotion to them that made me yearn for overton. a terrible shadow, or rather several shadows, had hovered over hapless deanery for a week before i packed my belongings and fled. our humble home had been turned over to an aggregation of ruthless individuals who paint houses for a living. darkest deanery was once a timid shade of brown that grew even more retiring with years. now it is a dazzling white, with still more dazzling gray trimmings. i can never forget that harmonious combination of gray and white, as i have annexed copious samples of it to most of my meager wardrobe. "if only i had had the forethought to design a simple burlap costume with bag-like lines, and putting away false pride, worn it on all occasions during that last sad week at home, i should not now be spending my leisure hours experimenting to discover the most efficacious paint eradicator on the market. every time i hopefully remove a prized garment from my trunk, i am confronted by the unhappy recollection that darkest deanery has been freshly painted. it's positively maddening! "knowing my fatal leaning toward the absent-minded, you can put two and two together. they don't make four. they make 'paint.' oh, the supreme tragedy of that week! how well i remember the afternoon when i sat down confidingly on the freshly-furbished porch rail in my best pongee dress. i was about to go to a luncheon. i went, but was late. there was a reason. by the time the front porch became a sticky, glistening wonder, i thoughtfully dropped my nice seal handbag in the middle of it. the irate painter remonstrated. not because i had ruined my cherished possession, but because of the horrifying blank left where paint had lately flaunted itself. by the time it had dawned upon me that the back entrance to the house was the entrance for me, it had also become a trap for the unwary. there were frequent other accidental collisions with the aforesaid paint, all equally disastrous to poor me. some of them were known to me at the time; some were among the things that were revealed thereafter. i began to feel that the whole vast universe was chiefly composed of paint. so i fled to the greater ill of an overton without grace harlowe. "as i have suffered deeply and shall continue to suffer until i can look my modest wardrobe in the face and say, 'presentable at last,' i am certain that i deserve a special boon of consolation. in plain english, to which i still cling, despite the fact that i dream of some day establishing a marvelous vocabulary of my own, won't you and elfreda come to overton to see me, if only for a day? i have thought things over carefully before asking you. it is not entirely selfishness that prompts the request. i think it would cheer you to come again for a visit to harlowe house. though i have replaced you as manager, i can never replace you in the hearts of the girls here. i understand why you may not wish to come. as always, my heart goes out to you. if you write 'no' as an answer, i shall accept it in the best possible spirit. but if you feel that you can drop in on me, even for a day, then i shall surely shriek with joy, right here at harlowe house, and abide by the consequences. i have written elfreda, too. if both letters reach you at the same time, and i shall mail them together, then you can shake hands and congratulate yourselves that you have both been invited. "yours hopefully, "emma." "i'd love to go." grace hesitated. "do you think it would be disloyal in me to leave oakdale now, even for a day? i thought it over seriously before i went to miriam's wedding. that was really a duty, you know. but since jean has taken up tom's case, it seems as though i am likely to hear something important within a few days." "you mustn't be too sure," counseled elfreda wisely. "you might be disappointed. it may take even jean a long time to find out anything. i'm not saying that to be cruel." "you don't need to tell me that. i know i mustn't expect too much, even of jean. yet i can't help thinking that if _he_ doesn't find tom, no one else ever will." chapter xxi the call of the elf's horn jean, however, had no intention of failing those who so strongly relied upon him. he approached his difficult task with a confidence in his own powers which long years of the free, independent life of the great outdoors had given him. he knew the secrets of the wilderness as few men knew them. he had little doubt that much which had remained obscure to those already engaged in the search for tom gray would be made clear to him. alone in the world, jean had long since come to regard the eight originals as "his folks." of the four girls, grace harlowe had always been his favorite. of the four boys, tom gray had held first place in his heart. the young man's frank, delightful personality, coupled with his intense love of nature, had served signally to endear him to the old hunter. as jean had reverently assured grace, it was indeed, to him, a sacred mission on which he was now setting forth, and he longed impatiently for the moment to come when he might leave the narrow confines of the railway train and set foot in the little village nearest to the lumber camp. mrs. gray had insisted on providing him liberally with the funds she deemed necessary for the continuance of the search. jean had stoutly protested against this liberality. overruled, he had given in somewhat reluctantly, consoling himself with the thought that when m'sieu' tom was found he would give back the greater part of the money which had been thus thrust upon him. his sturdy soul rose in revolt at the very idea of tucking himself away in a pullman berth, even for a night. such cubby-holes were not for him, he disdainfully reflected. he preferred to sit up all night and amuse himself by watching the fleeting, indistinct landscape through which the train was pursuing its steady run toward the vast northern region that jealously concealed the mystery of tom gray's fate. as he had already informed grace and mrs. gray, the territory for which he was bound was to him a fairly familiar one. true he had not hunted in it for several years, although once or twice he had skirted it in making his slow, deliberate marches to and from canada. he assured himself that naturally he would discover some changes in the heavy forest growth, stretching for many miles north and west of the lumber camp for which tom gray had headed. yet jean was not in the least dismayed by the magnitude of his task. more than once he had served as tracer of persons lost in the trackless wildernesses. more than once he had wandered about in the dense, pathless forests, a lost man. while the train sped through the moonless night, jean's sharp eyes were trained on the weird, shadowy outlines into which darkness turns the most commonplace objects. his nimble brain, however, was busily sorting out the scant details that had been furnished him regarding tom gray, with a view toward evolving a theory on which he might proceed. his own good sense informed him that he could not even make a guess regarding what had befallen his young friend until he had reached the lumber camp and himself surveyed the situation. seven o'clock the next evening saw the intrepid old man hurriedly collecting his few belongings, preparatory to making a welcome end to the long, tiresome ride in the train. mrs. gray had already telegraphed david nesbit to be on hand at the dingy little station to meet him. the train rolled into it, puffing and clanging a noisy protest against the indignity of being obliged to stay its flight, even momentarily, before the scattered collection of frame dwellings dignified by the name of village. hardly had it jolted itself to a reluctant stop before jean made a hurried exit, to peer searchingly about the station platform for david nesbit. "just the man i'm looking for," sounded a hearty voice behind him. whirling, he uttered a glad cry as he reached for david's outstretched hand. "i'm certainly glad to see you, jean." "it is of a 'appiness to see you, m'sieu' david." jean's weather-beaten face registered his joy. "come with me, jean. there's an apology for a hotel not far from the station. we'd better stay there to-night, then start for the lumber camp early to-morrow morning. it's a long hike, but i know you'd rather walk than ride. once we've had some supper, i can tell you what little i know of this part of the country. have you ever been up here before?" "yep; 'bout five year ago, mebbe. i hunt up here a long winter. i know him." jean indicated the forest beyond the village with a wide sweep of his arm. "once, twice, after, i pass by him w'en i go an' come from canada." "then you _do_ know something about it? i'm mighty glad to hear that. but tell me about oakdale and how you happened to pop up there just when we needed you most. grace wrote me that she had tried to find you, but that you'd gone away." on the way to the hotel which david had mentioned, jean recounted in his broken phraseology all that had happened to him since his return to oakdale, while david listened and commented on the strange manner in which the news of tom's misfortune had been brought before the old hunter. over a plain but palatable supper jean continued his narrative to the point where he had landed on the station platform. "an' now the hunt begin," he nodded. "to-morrow we get up 'fore it is light, then we go to camp. all 'long way i look an' remember w'at i see. after that you show me w'ere you go hunt. after that we fin' new places far away. we hunt till we fin' m'sieu' tom." "that's the idea," applauded david. "i think we'd better turn in early at that. you must be dead tired. i know you don't like railway traveling. did you take a sleeper here?" "i don't lak' him," shrugged jean. "i sit up all night. in the woods never i am tired, but in the train, yes. it will be good to rest." after supper the two lingered for a while in the little room. anxious to get the benefit of a good night's rest preparatory to their long tramp of the morning, it was not long before they climbed the narrow stairs to their rooms. five o'clock the next morning saw them eating a hasty breakfast, served by a drowsy-eyed girl. after david had stowed into a knapsack an ample luncheon for the two, and slung the knapsack across one shoulder, the little search party went forth and soon left the village behind them for the rough road that marked the beginning of their long jaunt through the forest. having traversed it many times since his advent into that territory, david was well posted, yet he knew it no better than did jean. the sturdy old man seemed familiar with every phase of that section. now and again as they progressed he retailed some interesting bit of history relative to his own wanderings therein. noon found them more than half way to their destination, and by four o'clock they reached the camp, where jean was introduced to mr. mackenzie, who had recovered from his illness and returned to his duties as overseer. jean discovered in the rugged scotchman a person quite after his own heart. previous to meeting the overseer, he had confided to david that he intended to make use of the tent which his young friend had stored with mr. mackenzie, and sleep out of doors. by the time supper was over, however, he was quite willing to accept the sleeping accommodations which david had made for him at the scotchman's house. seated around a deep, open fireplace, in which a fire burned cheerfully, the three men gravely discussed the details of the proposed search. mr. mackenzie was of the opinion that it would be better to blaze new trails rather than to waste time in traveling over the ground which david and his men had so thoroughly covered. but jean obstinately stuck to his own viewpoint and insisted on re-traveling that territory. for three days the old hunter led the young man on strenuous hikes that began with dawn and ended long after dark. during that time jean conducted david into all sorts of forest nooks and crannies that the latter had not even glimpsed when searching about with the men of the camp. yet never did they observe the slightest sign of the object of their search. at the end of the week, jean announced his resolve to invade an especially wild and lonely stretch of forest to the west. "to-morrow morning we start," he declared. "we go mebbe twenty-five, mebbe fifty mile, mebbe more. mebbe gone a week." "but tom could never have gone so far away in so short a time," reminded david. "besides, when last seen he was headed directly north." jean shrugged. "mebbe he lose his way. mebbe travel all night in storm in wrong direction. then----" again jean's square shoulders went into eloquent play. "anyway we go wes'," he stubbornly maintained. the evening of another day saw them wending their difficult way westward, according to jean's plan. surrounded by a particularly dense and rugged stretch of forest growth they rolled up in their blankets and slept under a great tree. jean assured david that they had come not more than fifteen miles, due to the difficulty they had encountered in forcing their way through the endless undergrowth, though the young man felt sure they had traveled fifty. "i couldn't get those fellows from the camp to come over here for love nor money," remarked david the next morning, as he and jean fried their bacon and made coffee over the fire. "they say that a wild man was once seen somewhere in this range of forest. i guess it's all talk, though. mr. mackenzie never saw him. he says it's a story made up by timber thieves to keep people away." old jean looked reflective. "once i know wil' man," he remarked. "first time i see him, jus' lak' any man. he great, big man; long black hair, an' strong; very strong. 'bout six foot, three inch. he live in little cabin, 'bout hundred mile from here, wit' his son. every year they go canada an' hunt. then come back and sell skins. my, how that man love that son! one day storm come an' tree fall on son. kill him dead. then the father go wil'; crazy in the 'aid. all his black hair turn white. after that i never see him again. mebbe dead, too." "i hope nothing like that happened to good old tom." david shuddered. "jean, honestly, do you think we'll ever find the boy?" "_le bon dieu_ know," jean crossed himself reverently. "i don't think much of the sheriff up here," continued david. "he simply laid down on his job after the first week or two. after mrs. gray had offered a reward he made quite a lot of fuss. but it all died out quickly. blaisdell's done his best, but this isn't his kind of a job. half a dozen so-called woodsmen up here have tried their hand at it, too. i spoke to the sheriff about this very piece of woods that we've invaded, but he claimed he'd gone all over the ground. i don't believe it, though. he gave me to understand that he thought the whole affair was very queer. he even asked me if mrs. gray wasn't holding back something. he hinted that she and tom might have quarreled over family matters and that tom was keeping out of sight on purpose to worry her. i reminded him that tom had come up here to help mr. mackenzie out and told him a few things about tom that ought to have changed his opinion. but i don't think he believed me. he's a bull-headed kind of fellow that would never admit himself in the wrong," ended david in disgust. "i hav' seen many such," commented jean soberly. "anyhow we are here. w'en we hav' finish the breakfast then we start again. mebbe some good come to-day." "i hope so." david's voice sounded a trifle weary. it was hard indeed to meet with such continued discouragement. breakfast finished, the seekers again took up their quest. noon found them not more than three miles away from the spot where they had breakfasted. the necessity of halting frequently to inspect some especially tangled bit of undergrowth or suspicious looking covert large enough to conceal the body of a man, made their progress painfully slow. toward the middle of the afternoon, a cold rain set in, thereby adding to the discomforts of their march. although it was early october, the great trees above their heads were partially stripped of their foliage, thus offering them little protection from the unceasing drizzle. "this is awful, jean!" exclaimed david nesbit, as two hours later, drenched to the skin, the wayfarers huddled together under a giant oak tree to consider the situation. "we ought to try to find some sort of shelter for the night. it will soon be dark and we can't go on then. have you any idea where we are?" "yep; this place 'bout eighteen mile from camp," jean nodded confidently. "'bout mile mebbe little more to little valley. in valley is the little cabin. i know him. somebody say this cabin hav' haunt. somebody kill 'nother man once who liv' there. then nobody ever go near because dead man walk aroun' there at night. cabin mebbe not there now. anyhow we see, because we know dead man can't walk aroun'." "lead me to the cabin. the dead man may walk around there all he likes, provided he doesn't object to our sheltering with him," declared david with grim humor. floundering through dense growths of impeding bushes and crackling underbrush, their feet sinking into a thick carpet of soggy, fallen leaves, the two at last reached the top of a steep, rocky elevation. from there, in the fast fading light, they could look down into a narrow valley, formed by the precipitous slant of two hills. "i see him." jean pointed triumphantly to a tiny hut, seemingly wedged into the upper end of the valley. in the october twilight the outlines of the shack were just visible. "it's going to be some work to get down there," observed david, doubtfully eyeing the uninviting prospect before them. "up there, not very far, it is easy," assured jean. "you follow me, then wait. i go ahead an' fin' the way." the indefatigable old hunter took the lead, plodding along with the same energy that had characterized the beginning of his day's tramp. sturdy though he was, david soon found himself well in the rear of the tireless old man, and it was not long until he lost sight of him in the fast falling darkness. peering anxiously ahead, david flashed the small electric searchlight he carried in an effort to discern jean. fearing lest he might become lost from jean entirely, he returned it to a coat pocket, cupped his hands to his mouth and emitted a peculiar trumpet-like call, known as the elf's horn, which tom gray himself had taught him. twice he sounded it, before he had the satisfaction of hearing jean answer him, repeating it several times. guided by the sound, and with the aid of his searchlight, david stumbled his hurried way toward jean, who had now halted to wait for his young friend. "jean, you old rascal, i thought i'd lost you for good and all," laughed david as he brought up at the hunter's side. "you mustn't expect too much of a tenderfoot, you know. i'm ashamed to admit it, but----" david's laughing admission was never finished. over the monotonous complaint of the rain rose a sound which made their hearts stand still. from the very depths of the narrow valley floated up to them that unmistakable trumpet call, the elf's horn. chapter xxii out of the valley "did you hear that, jean?" david's voice sunk to a sibilant whisper. he was trembling violently as he asked the question. for answer, jean raised shaking hands to his mouth. again the call of the elf's horn shrilled above the murmuring rain, and again, this time clearer and louder, came the answer. "_le bon dieu_ hav' hear!" came the hunter's reverent exclamation. stopping only to make the sign of the cross, the old man plunged down the perilous steep, david nesbit at his heels. how they had come safely into the valley, neither was afterward able to explain, nor did they stop to remark it, once they had descended. both men were intent only on reaching the spot from whence had emanated that blessed call. "there's only one person up here who could answer that call, jean." david's tones were vibrant with emotion. "it's tom gray! i know it, and he's in that hut." stumbling desperately on in the greater darkness of the valley, they reached the hut at last. "tom!" shouted david at the top of his lungs. "tom gray! are you there?" "yes," sounded the unbelievable reply from within the hut. "is that you, david! i was sure of it when i heard the elf's horn and answered the call. i knew you'd come for me some day." "yes, old fellow; it's david," rang out the triumphant cry. "thank god, you are alive! jean is with me." "_le bon dieu_ hav' hear," was jean's muttered repetition, as the two men made a concerted dash upon the shack, in a wild effort to locate the door. finding it by the aid of their flashlights, they made a determined onslaught upon it, but it stubbornly resisted their importuning hands. "hello, jean! it's too good to be true. i might have known i could count on you, though," came the welcome salutation from within. more anxiously tom gray added: "you'll have to break the door down, if you can. it's locked from the outside. _he_ carries the key. hurry or he may come back." tom's voice quivered with dread. david groaned. his mind on this unexpected obstacle, which now confronted them, he did not stop to consider who the mysterious "he" in the problem might be. tom's very tones indicated the hovering near of some great danger. "isn't there a window in the cabin? can't you climb out of it?" he shouted desperately. inwardly he marveled that stalwart tom gray should be caught in such a trap. "there are two windows, or rather holes in the cabin, but they are too high up. i can't reach them. my leg was broken and it's not strong enough yet to risk such a climb." this response was made in despairing tones. at the mention of windows, jean had begun to circle the cabin. turning his flashlight on the strong-timbered walls of the hut, he soon made out one of those windows. "m'sieu' david," he called, "come. you will lif' me an' i will clim' in this hole. then we 'urry an' get m'sieu' tom out, mebbe." jean's "mebbe" indicated uncertainty. the situation did not look hopeful and there was evidently no time for questions regarding the how, when and why of the affair. helped by david, jean's sinewy fingers soon clutched the lower part of the primitive window. being thin and wiry, he had no difficulty in drawing himself up to it. with the skill of an acrobat he swung one leg over the opening. the task of drawing himself through was much harder to accomplish. but the will to do so was paramount. emitting a jubilant shout of accomplishment, he dropped, landing lightly on the cabin floor. before he could bring his searchlight into play, an indistinct form had seized him in a feeble but affectionate grip. "jean--good--old jean!" tom's broken utterance held a sob of relief and thankfulness. "oh, m'sieu' tom," jean's own voice overran with emotion, "is it of a truth that we hav' fin' you at las'?" tears of joy were rolling down his weather-beaten cheeks, as he added with sublime faith, "_le bon dieu_ hav' hear!" in the overwhelming joy of reunion all else was for the moment forgotten. david's stentorian tones asking, "are you all right, jean?" brought back swift realization of the situation. "can't you manage between the two of you to do something to that door? i'll help all i can from this side." "yes; all right," returned jean. then to tom: "hav' you not then the axe, to chop him into splinter'? this very queer way to fin' you, m'sieu' tom. but now we not stop to ask question, we 'urry, get you out. go 'way an' then talk. it is to see that you are the prisoner." "prisoner!" tom's exclamation vibrated with bitterness. "you can't believe what i've been through. you're right about hurrying to get me out. there's no time to be lost. no, there's neither an axe or a hatchet here. he's too cunning for that. but in one corner of the room is a heavy iron bar. it hasn't done me any good. i've been too weak to use it. is your rifle outside, jean? if he should come back before we can get away, you'll need it. two sturdy men and one poor excuse like myself couldn't handle him. he's the strongest fellow i ever saw." his voice rising he called warning to david. "keep a sharp watch, old man. if you see or hear anyone coming, give us the signal." "i'm on the job," floated back david's reassuring response. "show to me the bar," ordered jean with the brevity of one whose mind is set on swift action. without replying, tom limped a straight course in the dark to a corner of the one-room shack. "i've looked at that bar so often and so longingly i could find my way to it if i were blind," he commented with grim wistfulness. "there's not much else in the room, except a bench and a bough bed." following at his heels, jean used one hand to train his light on the bar. soon the other hand had fastened itself firmly around it. "he very strong," was his terse observation. "if you will 'old the light, i try him." raising his voice he shouted, "m'sieu' david, we hav' foun' very strong piec' iron. now we try smash open the door. you stan' by, ready. then soon we go 'way from here with m'sieu' tom." limping ahead of the old hunter, tom flashed the searchlight directly on the heavy door. "there's the door, jean," he said, his tones thrilling with new hope. "wait a minute until i limp out of your way. i'm not going to risk further accident. now; go ahead and strike hard!" jean needed no second bidding. resolutely gripping the bar, he raised it on high and dealt the stubborn obstruction to tom's freedom a reverberating blow. three times he brought it down upon the opposing portal. half a dozen more swings of the bar and splinters began to fly from it. outside the shack, david nesbit's eyes and ears were busy obeying tom's warning instructions. whom tom feared and why he was afraid, his chum had not the remotest idea. every crashing blow which jean dealt the door, sent a thrill of joy to david's heart. he would have liked to shout his jubilation, but refrained for fear his friends within the shack would misinterpret his loud rejoicing as a danger signal. for at least fifteen minutes jean continued to batter the door, resting briefly at intervals. at the end of that time, he had demolished it sufficiently to make room for a man to crawl through. to break it down completely would have taken too much precious time. "it--is--don'!" he panted at length. "now we go 'way soon. first i try him. if still you hav' the coat an' 'at, m'sieu' tom, put him on; but 'urry." "i've already done so," assured tom with fervor. "it's lucky for me that lunatic didn't see fit to hide my clothes." jean pricked up his ears at the word "lunatic," but said nothing. "careful," he cautioned solicitously, as tom, essaying to make his exit from the hut, drew back, uttering a faint moan of pain. "it is for me to 'elp you." secretly marveling at tom's light weight, jean lifted him in his arms. bidding him straighten his legs, jean called to david to stand by to receive his burden. then the old hunter passed him through the opening to david as though tom had been a bag of meal. hastily scrambling through after him, jean was just in time to witness the affecting meeting which took place between the two young men. tom's first words after greeting david were: "tell me quickly, how are grace and aunt rose?" and in the darkness no one saw the flood of emotion that mastered tom gray as he learned the deep, abiding belief of his loved ones that he would return. though the night lay black around them, the rain had ceased falling. directing the rays of his searchlight on tom, david gave a horrified gasp at the sight of his chum's pale, emaciated features. "i don't look much like myself, do i?" asked the prisoner with a short laugh. "the fact is, i don't know just how i do look, but i guess it's pretty bad." "but how in the world did you ever come to be----" began david. "no time for talk now," broke in jean. "we mus' 'urry, an' get way off from here. you can walk a little, m'sieu' tom? not far? we 'elp you. there is easy way out of valley." yet it was not an easy matter, even with the combined force of the two men, to conduct tom gray out of the valley in which he had spent so many weary, hopeless weeks. his left leg, which had been broken above the knee, was far from strong. it was only within the past week that he had been able to limp painfully about the narrow confines of his jail. once outdoors, the darkness of the night and the roughness of treacherous, rock-strewn ground made progress barely possible. neither did jean nor david dare to undertake carrying him. burdened with tom, a single misstep on the part of either was likely to prove disastrous to all three. "we mus' tak' the chance," declared jean gravely to david, when at last the arduous ascent from the valley had been stumblingly accomplished. "'bout four mile 'way we cachã© the t'ings. only i hav' the rifle an' the blanket of us two, an' m'sieu' david hav' the knapsack. in that we hav' the supper. we go little furder. w'en we fin' the big rock, we lie on it the blanket, an' on him we lie m'sieu' tom. then, you an' me, we stay up an' watch. w'en morning com', then we mak' litter an' carry m'sieu' tom. i hav' hear him speak of wil' man. if wil' man com', jean will be ready to shoot at him the rifle. you are satisfy?" "i don't see that we can very well do differently," was david's rueful reply. "at least we shall have a chance to find out from tom just what has happened to him." "no; m'sieu' david." jean shook a respectful but decided head. "for to-night we mus' say no much. m'sieu' tom is too tire' to talk. also we mus' keep the quiet. no much nois'; no fire to cook the supper. the ear of a wil' man hear far off. it is good if we miss him. you hav' hear m'sieu' tom say the wil' man is very strong. jean is not 'fraid. but many year he hunt, an' never shoot the rifle at any man. now he pray _le bon dieu_ that he never may hav' it to do." chapter xxiii the strange story jean's fervent declaration that he prayed never to be obliged to use his rifle against a human being may have acted as a potent charm against evil. at any rate, the welcome light of a gray october morning saw the little company still undisturbed by any unpleasant intruder. it had been a strenuous night for the three men, yet daylight found them signally cheerful and alert. the long weary vigil that david and jean had kept, the greater part of it standing on their feet, was a watch of pure affection. the object of their solicitude had been hardly more comfortable. the cold, rain-beaten rock on which jean had spread his own and david's blankets was a poor couch at best. but to tom it represented the freedom he had despaired of ever again attaining, and he was more than satisfied with his makeshift bed. worn out by his recent exertion, he had fallen asleep directly after they had eaten supper. he awakened at daybreak declaring that he felt refreshed and much stronger. as soon as the first indications of dawn appeared in the still-cloudy sky, jean was about and stirring. as they devoured the few sandwiches they had left, he gravely urged the necessity of starting at once for the spot where he had cachã©d their supplies. among these supplies was a coil of thin, tough rope which jean proposed should serve in the construction of a litter on which to carry tom. once that important detail had been attended to, they would be able to proceed much faster toward mr. mackenzie's camp. again old jean had insisted that tom must postpone the telling of his story until they were well on the way to camp. "you talk now, you get tire', m'sieu' tom," he said with a solemn wagging of his gray head. "we know wil' man have shut you up an' keep you hid for long time. it is enough to know. we are satisfy." privately jean was alive with curiosity regarding the mysterious "wil' man," yet his duty to tom came first and he did not intend to slight it in any particular. the hike to the cachã©d supplies was painful for tom gray, yet he limped along uncomplainingly, part of the time supported by jean's ready arm; then again helped over the rough spots by david. though they had set forth with the dawn, it was after mid-day when they reached their goal. almost immediately after they arrived, jean scoured the vicinity for enough dry wood to build a fire. once a blaze was well started david prepared the simple meal, while the intrepid old man turned his attention to the construction of the litter. armed with a hatchet he hacked sufficient boughs from the trees with which to make it, and went at his task with a will. he left his task only long enough to snatch a hasty bite, then returned to it, his wiry fingers fairly flying as he worked. when completed, the litter would be a rude affair at best, made somewhat more comfortable by the folded blankets which covered it. tom, meanwhile, was rejoicing openly over his coffee and crisp fried bacon. "it's the first square meal i've had for over a week," he declared. "if you only knew--but i'll have to wait to tell you. won't i, jean?" he called this last to jean, who was putting the finishing touches to the litter. "it is for m'sieu' tom's own good that i mak' the reques'," replied jean. "but for this, that you min' what ol' jean tell you, i will give you the rewar'." his shrewd black eyes very tender, jean fumbled in an inner pocket of his rough coat. drawing forth grace's letter he rose and tendered it to the astonished young man. "now him is done," jean referred, not to tom, but to the finished means for tom's transportation. "i go, put 'way the t'ings till we com' after, som' day." with this pointed assertion, jean promptly made good his word. david followed him with alacrity, leaving tom alone with his unexpected treasure. despite jean's frequent admonitions that they "mus' 'urry," it was fully fifteen minutes before either he or david returned to the wan, but happy-faced figure by the fire. man-like, not one of the three made any allusion to the letter which was now tucked away in one of tom's coat pockets. jean and david had seen the light of a great joy flame up in their comrade's gray eyes, and in the old hunter's vernacular, they were "satisfy." having again cachã©d their few effects, with the exception of jean's trusty rifle, tom was soon established on the litter and the hike was again renewed. difficult as it had been for david and jean to make their way to the point in the woods which they had just left, the return was a trebly laborious journey. the approach of night found them not yet halfway to the lumber camp. they had calculated that the increased supplies in david's knapsack would furnish them with supper, leaving a comfortable allowance for breakfast the next day. by starting again at daylight the following morning they hoped to reach camp before the middle of the next afternoon. as they drew nearer to the camp they knew they would find the road less difficult. "we hav' not done bad," congratulated jean when, at twilight, they halted to prepare supper. "we hav' meet no one that hav' the wish to 'arm us. m'sieu' tom he get better all the time. mebbe now because he get better an' we so near camp, after supper he tell about wil' man. then we turn in; go to sleep quick, an' to-morrow we are safe." "you are right, jean. i am getting better every minute, thanks to you fellows. since i have your permission at last to talk about myself, i'll tell you what i've been crazy to say ever since i heard the call of the elf's horn and you found me." tom gave an involuntary sigh as the events of the past few weeks came to his mind. supper was somewhat hastily disposed of. both david and jean were as anxious to hear tom gray's story, as the latter was to tell it. self-denial in this respect had been hard to practice. yet all three had acquitted themselves with credit. seated on a log, with his friends on either side of him, tom started his strange narrative with: "at the very beginning i'll say that i'm primarily to blame for my own troubles. the afternoon i landed in that little village nearest to the camp, i had made up my mind to get to camp that same day. when i found i couldn't get any kind of conveyance to take me there, i decided to walk. the station master warned me that a big storm was coming, but i thought i could make the trip before it came. the sky didn't look very threatening to me. "he was a better weather prophet than i, for i hadn't gone two miles when the storm broke. and such a storm! it was a terror! at first it was a gale of wind, and maybe it didn't hit the trees, though. the way they came crashing down made me sick at heart. you know how i feel about trees. that i might get hurt didn't bother me half so much as to see the way those magnificent old wonders were being demolished. "though it was summer it grew pretty dark in the woods and, for the first time i ever remember, i lost my way, i didn't know it just then. i thought i was going north, when all the time i must have been going west. i didn't want to stop. i thought i would be courting just as much chance of getting hit by a falling tree if i stood still as if i kept on going. besides i was anxious to reach the camp. i had been following a narrow trail, as well as i could under the circumstances, and i supposed i was still on it. it was not until long afterward that i realized that i had made a mistake. "well, i plodded along for hours thinking i'd soon reach the camp. it was then pitch dark and raining hard. i was beginning to tire, too. i wasn't in the least worried about not finding the camp. i knew, of course, by that time that i was lost, but i knew, too, i'd be all right when morning came. what bothered me was to hunt some place where i could get out of the rain and spend the night. but i couldn't find even an overhanging rock, though i kept my pocket searchlight going constantly. "the last time i turned it on my watch i saw it was ten o 'clock. after that--well here comes the queerest story you ever heard. i was stumbling along in the dark, when all of a sudden the ground seemed to disappear under my very feet. i felt myself falling. i don't suppose it was more than ten feet, but it seemed a mile. i struck something hard, all in a heap. after that i didn't remember anything until i opened my eyes, groaning terribly. it was just getting daylight. i was lying at the bottom of a gorge. bending over me was the most terrifying person i had ever seen in all my forest wanderings. it was a man and he was a regular giant. he had a head of long snow-white hair and a long white beard that made him look like father time. but his face was young, almost child-like, except his eyes. they were big and black and wild. when he saw my eyes were open he gave a kind of leap into the air and shouted at the top of his lungs: 'he is alive again! my son has come back!' "before i could say a word he stooped and grabbed me up in his arms. as my left leg hurt me terribly, i knew it must be broken. i groaned and tried to tell him, but he hung me over his shoulder as though i were a feather and went crashing through the woods. i fainted with pain and didn't come to myself again for quite a while. we were still traveling along as though the fellow had on seven league boots. the pain in my leg became even worse and i fainted again. when i came to myself the second time, the sun was shining down through the trees. i was lying on the ground and this crazy fellow--i was sure by that time that he _was_ crazy--was circling around me, muttering and laughing to himself. "i tried again to talk to him, but i was suffering too much to do more than mumble. i don't know how long we'd been there. i suppose he'd only stopped to rest, for before long he hoisted me over his shoulder again and away we went. quite a while after that we struck that little valley where the hut stands. he carried me into the shack and laid me on the floor. i hadn't the least idea of what he was going to do, and i was too sick to care. i knew he was crazy and that i could expect almost anything to happen. what really happened was the biggest kind of a surprise. he undressed me with the greatest gentleness and then examined my broken leg, and afterward set it and fixed it up with the skill of a doctor, in spite of the fact that he had no conveniences to help him. you can imagine how i suffered during the process. i groaned a good deal and he must have really sympathized with me, for he crooned and lamented over me all the time he was doing it. he kept calling me his dear son and said over and over, 'god has given you back to me at last.' "then he went out of the hut and came back after a while with a forest of balsam boughs. he made me a bough bed in one corner of the room, spread a blanket over it and laid me on it. after that he rummaged around the place and fished out an iron kettle from a heap of stuff in a corner. then he took it and went out of the shack, and i heard him lock the door after him. he was gone a long time, several hours, i presume. when he returned he hunted up a battered tin dish and went out again. pretty soon he came back with part of a cooked rabbit and some broth. and i was glad to get it. "matters ran along in about that way for some days. i tried at first to keep track of them, but i was in so much pain that i soon lost count. it wasn't physical pain alone, either. i went almost crazy myself wondering what grace and aunt rose would think at not hearing from me. i knew that as soon as they realized that i had disappeared, they would send some one to find me. i hadn't the least idea of where i was. i still supposed that i wasn't far from the lumber camp and expected any moment to see a search party descend on the hut. i soon found that i couldn't expect any help from my host. he was crazy as a loon and besides he had a fixed idea that i was a son of his who had evidently been supposed to be dead for several years and had now come to life again in the woods. i tried once to explain to him that i wasn't his son, but it made him so angry that i was afraid to say anything more about it for fear he'd finish me. he wouldn't talk much. when he did say anything it was absolutely without sense. but he'd sit on the floor beside my bed by the hour, and stare at me out of his wild black eyes. he was good to me, though. he fed me and took care of me in a way that surprised me. "twice he left me for a whole day and a night. when he came back he brought a lot of provisions with him. he had quite a bit of money in notes in the shack. he kept it in a box under a board in the floor and almost every day he'd go there to look at it. he never counted it. he'd lift the board, haul out the box, pat the roll of bills, croon over it, and stuff it back again. one thing kept me thinking we were near to the camp was the provisions he brought in. how he managed to get them without getting himself locked up was a mystery to me. "as my leg began to get better, he began to grow less careful of me. knowing that i couldn't possibly get away, he would set food and water beside my bed, lock me in the cabin--he never failed to do that--and go away for three or four days at a stretch, sometimes longer. often i used to be faint with hunger before he'd come back. on one of those jaunts somebody must have seen him, for he came tearing into the hut late one night saying, 'i am afraid they saw me! i hid in the woods until dark for fear they would follow me. they must not see me nor find out where i live. if they do, they will try to take you away again and then tell me you are dead. they would not believe that you have come to life again. if they ever come i will kill them.' "after that he stayed in or near the shack for days. he was so upset for fear someone would find me that instead of going around as usual without saying much, he would talk all the time. he was cunning enough not to talk loudly, though. he had a glimmer of sense even if he was crazy, for he kept his voice down to a mutter. i dare say my broken leg would have healed a good deal faster, if he had gone on giving me as good care as he gave me at first. he wasn't anxious for me to get well. he used to say, 'when you can walk again, you will have to stay shut up just the same. if you go into the woods, they will see you and take you away.' "privately i made up my mind that as soon as i was well enough i wouldn't wait for 'them' to 'take me away'; i'd go of my own accord. but i had to be careful. as i've already told you he was a giant. he was at least six feet three and strong as a gorilla. i often used to wonder who he was and all about him. one day, about a week before you came, i thought i'd try my damaged leg to see if i could use it. he was off on one of his jaunts or i wouldn't have dared to try it. i found i could hobble about a little and just for curiosity i lifted up the board in the floor, not because i wanted to count his money, but to see what else he kept in the little old-fashioned box he always took it from. all i found besides the money was a battered photograph of a little boy. on the back of it was written in a round, childish hand: 'to my father. you little son, wallace lindsey, twelve years old.' i suppose it must have been----" old jean interrupted tom's recital with a sudden ringing cry of, "it is the wil' man! he hav' the name lindsey. you remember, m'sieu' david, i hav' tell you 'bout him!" in his excitement jean leaped from the log, tom and david viewing him in amazement. "but w'en i hav' see his son, he big man lak' his father." "what do you know of him, jean!" tom's question was freighted with eagerness. "it's evident you must know something." "do you mean, jean, that you think this fellow is the one you were telling me of?" demanded david skeptically. "it is the sam'," almost shouted the hunter. "i hav' know the name when i hear it, but never could i remember. but i think he dead long time, because after his son who he hav' love much get kill by tree, he turn to wil' man an' run 'way to canada, an' no one know after where he hav' gone. of a truth we hav' done well not to meet him. no wonder you say 'urry an' get away, m'sieu' tom." "yes, i knew the danger if you didn't," returned tom. "he had been gone three days when you came and i was expecting him back at almost any minute. now i understand why he called me his dear son. how we managed to dodge him is a miracle." "finding you was a miracle!" was david's reverent exclamation. "i feel as though i'd been living in a nightmare and just awakened from it." "_le bon dieu_ never forget the one' he lov'," nodded jean positively. "an' he hav' lov' mam'selle grace an' m'sieu' tom much or we never fin' the m'sieu'." jean made his usual sign of reverence for the supreme being in which his faith was firmly grounded. "now we mak' ready to spen' another night outdoors. jean will watch while his frien's sleep. to-morrow an' we see the camp. then, m'sieu' david, it is for you to go to the village an' sen' the message that we hav' not fail, to those who watch an' wait." late the following afternoon the overseer of the lumber camp received the surprise of his life. the sight of two exhausted, weather-beaten men who toiled painfully into his front yard, bearing a rude litter on which reclined a third man, sent the amazed scotchman racing joyfully to meet them. a little later tom gray was surrounded by the comforts which had so long been denied him. after a hearty meal and a brief rest, david nesbit set off for the village on the overseer's horse to telegraph to grace harlowe and mrs. gray the glorious news that tom gray had been found and would soon be restored to them. but david had also another equally important commission to execute which directly concerned jean's "wil' man." after sending the two telegrams he went at once to the home of the county sheriff, who lived in the village. completely disgusted with the lax manner in which the sheriff had conducted the search, david reported to him the finding of tom, with a scathing arraignment which the inefficient official accepted in scowling silence. convinced by david's rebuke that it was high time to redeem himself, he agreed to send out a posse of men the very next day to cover the western stretch of forest in which the demented man had managed to keep himself so cleverly concealed. it may be said here that the sheriff kept his word. for two weeks the hunters of the unfortunate man scoured the forest to find him. due to the wildness of the region they had great difficulty in locating the place of tom gray's imprisonment. once discovered, they found the hut empty. a guard was posted around it, but the fearsome tenant never returned. it was not until almost a year afterward that those whose lives fate had briefly linked with his, read in a newspaper a lengthy account of his capture in a town a long distance from the territory surrounding the lumber camp. the news that he had been placed in an asylum for the insane was a matter of relief to all concerned. * * * * * on the very afternoon that tom gray was carried into the overseer's yard grace harlowe and j. elfreda briggs were making arrangements to leave oakdale for a brief visit to emma dean at overton college. they had planned to depart for overton on the nine o'clock train the next morning, little dreaming of the remarkable upheaval that was soon to take place in their plans. having waited long and patiently for news from the north grace was feeling the suspense most keenly. she had expected so much from jean that with each day's dawn the struggle to maintain a hopeful aspect grew more difficult. it was now over two weeks since jean had departed from oakdale, and aside from two brief letters from david, written during the first week of the renewed search for tom gray, she had heard nothing further from him. from jean she had not expected to receive a letter. it had been agreed beforehand that david should do the letter-writing. despite her efforts at concealment, her deep depression now began to stamp itself so strongly upon her sensitive features, that elfreda briggs had again pleaded with her to consider paying a brief visit to emma dean. fond as she was of emma, grace's heart was not in the proposed trip to overton. she finally made reluctant consent, merely to please the girl who had stood by her so staunchly. it was therefore a most mournful loyalheart who listlessly packed a traveling bag, preparatory to the next morning's journey. long after the house was quiet for the night, she lay awake, debating with herself whether or not it were wise to go to overton. morning found her still undecided. when at half-past eight o'clock she and elfreda descended the stairs, luggage in hand, she experienced a wild desire to refuse flatly to go. the thought that the taxicab ordered to convey them to the station was probably on its way to the house, brought her a remorseful reflection that she had no right to back out at the last moment, thus disappointing elfreda. "what's the matter with that taxicab, i wonder?" grumbled the latter. standing beside grace on the veranda, she was engaged in peering frowningly down the street. "when i make up my mind to go, i want to go. if that driver loiters along the way until he makes us miss our train, he'll hear what i have to say about it. the idea of him being so late----" "oh!" a sharp cry from grace, whose gray eyes had been pensively staring up the street, put an abrupt end to elfreda's remark. coming down the street toward the house a bicycle appeared ridden by a youngster in the uniform of a messenger from a world-known telegraph company. where was he going? was the telegraphic communication he bore for her? grace cried out again as she saw him stop before the gate and dismount. before he was fairly through the gate a lithe figure had darted down the steps toward him. halfway up the walk they met. "telegram for you, miss harlowe," announced the boy cheerily. "sign here, please." handing her a stub of a pencil, he held the book. with a shaking hand she managed to trace her name. as he turned and went down the walk whistling shrilly, grace stared at the yellow envelope, hardly daring to open it. in the same instant she felt elfreda briggs' reassuring arm about her. from the veranda the stout girl "could see" and had acted accordingly. with a quick gasping breath grace tore open the envelope, her trembling fingers fumbling at its contents. then the world seemed suddenly to recede, leaving her alone with the unbelievable information: "tom found. o.k. sends love. coming home tuesday. will wire train. david." chapter xxiv the noon of golden summer it was high noon on a gloriously sunshiny indian summer day in november; one of the last fond concessions of mother nature to those who still mourn her departed "darling of the year." in a stately church on chapel hill, golden summer was at high noon in two hearts. to tom gray and grace harlowe, as they knelt for a moment before the altar, preparatory to taking their vows of eternal constancy and devotion, the world held but those two. in the sweet silence that pervaded the overflowing church, the two young voices rang out clearly as they repeated their solemn pledges. unflinchingly they had weathered their winter of despair. it was eminently fitting that happiness should now flood their loyal souls. among the large assemblage that had gathered to witness the welding of that holy bond, there was not one person who did not rejoice with grace and tom. over a month had passed since that memorable october evening when tom gray, looking but a shadow of his formerly robust self, had set foot on the platform of the oakdale station to receive the fervent welcome of those whose lives and interests were centered in his own. as his arrival had been kept a secret, few by-standers were at the station when he arrived. after the first rush of greeting had spent itself, he was affectionately conducted to mrs. gray's limousine with herself, the wingates, grace, david and jean as a bodyguard. though still weak, three days of rest had done much for him. whatever he still lacked in mere physical strength, he was the same buoyant, cheerful tom, with only a slight limp in his walk, and a touch of haunting wistfulness in his gray eyes as a reminder of his terrible experience. at home once more and surrounded by every luxury and with every consideration that those who loved him could offer, health came back with a rush. his rugged constitution had stood him in good stead during those dark days in the sequestered hut, and by the first of november he was quite himself again. during the days of his rapid convalescence, the earlier-interrupted wedding plans went steadily forward. the bitterness of loss had doubly endeared grace and tom to each other. out of the ashes of suffering, affection had put forth a new growth which to them seemed completely to dwarf their love of previous days. in proportion to the sorrow which had been hers when she wrote to her comrades regarding the postponement of her marriage was the supreme joy she experienced in writing them of tom's return. with tom at home and entirely well again, she felt that she could this time defy fate in setting her wedding day for the sixteenth of november. and now the day had dawned, perfect in its autumnal beauty. though the trees were bare of leaves, the oakdale gardens and lawns still flaunted a few late-blooming, rich-hued chrysanthemums. perhaps it was because of the dark season of suspense through which she and tom had passed that grace declared herself for the cheerful daintiness of a pink and white wedding. in contradistinction to the weddings of her chums, who with the exception of miriam nesbit had each been accompanied to the altar by a bevy of bridesmaids, grace announced that she wished the services of only a maid of honor and two flower girls. nor did any one complain when her choice of bridal attendant fell upon j. elfreda briggs. as for the latter, she was in the seventh heaven of delight and wondered humbly how it had all happened. anna may and elizabeth angerell felt equally proud and delighted to have been chosen by dear miss harlowe as flower girls. as the greater part of the townspeople of oakdale were desirous of seeing grace harlowe and tom gray married, grace rather reluctantly decided in favor of a church wedding. privately she would have preferred being married in her own home, but this she kept strictly to herself. there was also another secret which she and tom sedulously guarded. it related to where they intended to go on their honeymoon. only mr. and mrs. harlowe and mrs. gray had shared their confidence regarding their purposed destination, and their elders proved themselves to be good secret-keepers. withholding this bit of information was in the nature of a whim on grace's part, and though she and tom were daily besieged with questions by their friends, no one had any serious thought of spoiling grace's little surprise by endeavoring to pry it from her smiling lips. apart from the six originals and her many intimate oakdale friends of school and later days, countless others gathered from far and near to be on hand for the great day. the semper fidelis girls had journeyed to oakdale to a member. judge putnam and his sister, mrs. gibson, mrs. allison and mabel, arnold evans, the southards, eleanor savelli, her father and her aunt, miss nevin, had all congregated to do her honor. even professor morton and miss wilder were among those present. mrs. gray insisted on making herself responsible for the appearance of the harlowe house girls, who received special permission from professor morton to attend the great event in a body. kathleen west, laura atkins, mabel ashe and patience eliot came to the wedding, as did madge morton and the meadow-brook girls. in fact, oakdale had the air of a town holding a convention, and it would not have been surprising to many had the streets of the little city suddenly burst forth in gay decorations. as for wedding gifts, their name was legion, and grace laughingly declared herself to be hopelessly embarrassed by the number of beautiful and costly offerings which poured in upon her. perhaps she was most deeply touched, however, by the arrival of a wonderful set of martin furs, sent her by jean. the old hunter occupied a front seat in the church, at tom's and grace's earnest request, his rugged face glowing with proud happiness as he watched the two young people united in marriage. the ceremony over, tom's first act after saluting his bride, embracing his aunt and newly acquired mother-in-law and grasping the hand of mr. harlowe, was to beckon jean to him. "you come next, jean. you gave me my happiness," were words which the old hunter treasured to the end of his life. "for once i hav' the honor to salut' mam'selle grace," smiled the old man as he gripped tom's hand. then he kissed the radiant girl lightly on both cheeks, after the fashion of his nation. to him she would always be mam'selle grace. due to the flood of congratulations which constantly poured in upon the newly-weds, it was some time before they left the church to enter a waiting automobile which was to convey them to the harlowes' home. in order not to slight anyone, an elaborate reception had been arranged to take place there after the performance of the ceremony. the reception began shortly after the bridal pair reached the house, yet it was past five o'clock when the numerous guests had departed with the exception of a few of grace's close friends, who stayed to see herself and tom depart on their honeymoon. "at last the mystery of 'where lies honeymoon land?' is about to be solved," proclaimed hippy, in a loud, jubilant voice. occupying the center of the spacious flower-decked living-room he beamed benevolently on the company of young folks who had tarried at the harlowes' to learn that very thing. gathered there were six of the eight originals, miriam, everett southard and miss southard, the savellis and miss nevin, mrs. gray, mrs. nesbit, old jean, kathleen west and patience eliot, mabel ashe, laura atkins and the semper fidelis girls. despite the goodly size of the room it was a trifle more than well-filled by those who waited till grace and tom should reappear to say good-bye before starting on their trip. the latter had briefly absented himself to go on a mysterious errand to his aunt's home, which they guessed had something to do with the secret. they had been waiting together perhaps twenty minutes, when hippy launched his loud, cheerful remark, for which he was laughingly taken to task by nora. "why should i not announce that the momentous time is at hand?" he demanded in a purposely grieved voice. "i am merely voicing the sentiments of the multitude. look at their eager, wistful faces and dare to say i am not right." "for once i'll stand by you," conceded reddy graciously. "i never expected to do it, but the unexpected sometimes happens." he sidled nearer to hippy as he spoke. "is that a threat?" flung back hippy, taking several cautious steps away from the approaching reddy. "it depends----" began reddy. he did not finish his speech. the sound of approaching feet on the stairs turned the eyes of every one toward the wide doorway. a ripple of fond surprise circled the room, as grace descended the last step to be met by tom gray. into the room, hand in hand, stepped two veritable foresters. in his suit of brown corduroy, with his high-laced tan boots, tom looked as though he were about to start on one of the long hikes in which he so delighted. attired in a trim suit of hunter's green that reached a trifle below a pair of high-laced boots, the counterpart of tom's, except that they were small and dainty, a hat of soft green velour upon her golden brown hair, grace was a true forest maid. an instant and they were surrounded by an eager, buzzing throng. their very appearance told its own story. knowing them so well, those present understood the meaning of their unusual attire. for half an hour the two lingered among these friends who were so loth to part with them. then the grandfather's clock in the hall sent out its ringing chime of six o'clock. tom and grace exchanged affectionate glances. "it is time to say good-bye." grace's clear voice wavered a little on the last word. "but when the last good-bye has been said, won't you please all of you see us as far as the gate?" a unanimous assent went up from every throat as their dear ones hemmed in the two foresters to offer them heartfelt good wishes and exchange final good-byes. heading a smiling procession to the gate, tom and grace paused to say a last word of farewell to mrs. gray and mr. and mrs. harlowe, who had followed directly behind them. grace's final caress was reserved for her mother. for an instant the two clung fondly to each other, then, accepting tom's hand, grace harlowe passed through the gateway of her first home to begin her pilgrimage to a second that awaited her beyond upton wood. the brooding tenderness that lighted mrs. harlowe's eyes was reflected in those of the silent group that stood watching the two figures as, side by side, they swung bravely up the quiet street in the last warm rays of the setting sun. an eloquent silence reigned as the intent watchers followed the progress of the foresters up the street to the point of disappearance. it was broken by kathleen west. out of the love she bore grace harlowe she had christened grace, "loyalheart." it seemed only natural that she should be the one to speak the epilogue to this little drama of human love and happiness. clearly and sweetly it fell on the still evening air: "having ended her pilgrimage in the land of college, loyalheart has gone to haven home." the end * * * * * henry altemus company's catalogue of the best and least expensive books for real boys and girls really good and new stories for boys and girls are not plentiful. many stories, too, are so highly improbable as to bring a grin of derision to the young reader's face before he has gone far. the name of altemus is a distinctive brand on the cover of a book, always ensuring the buyer of having a book that is up-to-date and fine throughout. no buyer of an altemus book is ever disappointed. many are the claims made as to the inexpensiveness of books. go into any bookstore and ask for an altemus book. compare the price charged you for altemus books with the price demanded for other juvenile books. you will at once discover that a given outlay of money will buy more of the altemus books than of those published by other houses. every dealer in books carries the altemus books. sold by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price henry altemus company 1326-1336 vine street, philadelphia the motor boat club series by h. irving hancock the keynote of these books is manliness. the stories are wonderfully entertaining, and they are at the same time sound and wholesome. no boy will willingly lay down an unfinished book in this series. the motor boat club of the kennebec; or, the secret of smugglers' island. the motor boat club at nantucket; or, the mystery of the dunstan heir. the motor boat club off long island; or, a daring marine game at racing speed. the motor boat club and the wireless; or, the dot, dash and dare cruise. the motor boat club in florida; or, laying the ghost of alligator swamp. the motor boat club at the golden gate; or, a thrilling capture in the great fog. the motor boat club on the great lakes; or, the flying dutchman of the big fresh water. the range and grange hustlers by frank gee patchin have you any idea of the excitements, the glories of life on great ranches in the west? any bright boy will "devour" the books of this series, once he has made a start with the first volume. the range and grange hustlers on the ranch; or, the boy shepherds of the great divide. the range and grange hustlers' greatest round-up; or, pitting their wits against a packers' combine. the range and grange hustlers on the plains; or, following the steam plows across the prairie. the range and grange hustlers at chicago; or, the conspiracy of the wheat pit. submarine boys series by victor g. durham the submarine boys on duty; or, life on a diving torpedo boat. the submarine boys' trial trip; or, "making good" as young experts. the submarine boys and the middies; or, the prize detail at annapolis. the submarine boys and the spies; or, dodging the sharks of the deep. the submarine boys' lightning cruise; or, the young kings of the deep. the submarine boys for the flag; or, deeding their lives to uncle sam. the submarine boys and the smugglers; or, breaking up the new jersey customs frauds. the square dollar boys series by h. irving hancock the square dollar boys wake up; or, fighting the trolley franchise steal. the square dollar boys smash the ring; or, in the lists against the crooked land deal. the college girls series by jessie graham flower, a.m. grace harlowe's first year at overton college. grace harlowe's second year at overton college. grace harlowe's third year at overton college. grace harlowe's fourth year at overton college. grace harlowe's return to overton campus. dave darrin series by h. irving hancock dave darrin at vera cruz; or, fighting with the u. s. navy in mexico. pony rider boys series by frank gee patchin these tales may be aptly described the best books for boys and girls. the pony rider boys in the rockies; or, the secret of the lost claim. the pony rider boys in texas; or, the veiled riddle of the plains. the pony rider boys in montana; or, the mystery of the old custer trail. the pony rider boys in the ozarks; or, the secret of ruby mountain. the pony rider boys in the alkali; or, finding a key to the desert maze. the pony rider boys in new mexico; or, the end of the silver trail. the pony rider boys in the grand canyon; or, the mystery of bright angel gulch. the boys of steel series by james r. mears each book presents vivid picture of this great industry. each story is full of adventure and fascination. the iron boys in the mines; or, starting at the bottom of the shaft. the iron boys as foremen; or, heading the diamond drill shift. the iron boys on the ore boats; or, roughing it on the great lakes. the iron boys in the steel mills; or, beginning anew in the cinder pits. the madge morton books by amy d. v. chalmers madge morton--captain of the merry maid. madge morton's secret. madge morton's trust. madge morton's victory. west point series by h. irving hancock the principal characters in these narratives are manly, young americans whose doings will inspire all boy readers. dick prescott's first year at west point; or, two chums in the cadet gray. dick prescott's second year at west point; or, finding the glory of the soldier's life. dick prescott's third year at west point; or, standing firm for flag and honor. dick prescott's fourth year at west point; or, ready to drop the gray for shoulder straps. annapolis series by h. irving hancock the spirit of the new navy is delightfully and truthfully depicted in these volumes. dave darrin's first year at annapolis; or, two plebe midshipmen at the u. s. naval academy. dave darrin's second year at annapolis; or, two midshipmen as naval academy "youngsters." dave darrin's third year at annapolis; or, leaders of the second class midshipmen. dave darrin's fourth year at annapolis; or, headed for graduation and the big cruise. the young engineers series by h. irving hancock the heroes of these stories are known to readers of the high school boys series. in this new series tom reade and harry hazelton prove worthy of all the traditions of dick & co. the young engineers in colorado; or, at railroad building in earnest. the young engineers in arizona; or, laying tracks on the "man-killer" quicksand. the young engineers in nevada; or, seeking fortune on the turn of a pick. the young engineers in mexico; or, fighting the mine swindlers. boys of the army series by h. irving hancock these books breathe the life and spirit of the united states army of to-day, and the life, just as it is, is described by a master pen. uncle sam's boys in the ranks; or, two recruits in the united states army. uncle sam's boys on field duty; or, winning corporal's chevrons. uncle sam's boys as sergeants; or, handling their first real commands. uncle sam's boys in the philippines; or, following the flag against the moros. battleship boys series by frank gee patchin these stories throb with the life of young americans on to-day's huge drab dreadnaughts. the battleship boys at sea; or, two apprentices in uncle sam's navy. the battleship boys first step upward; or, winning their grades as petty officers. the battleship boys in foreign service; or, earning new ratings in european seas. the battleship boys in the tropics; or, upholding the american flag in a honduras revolution. the meadow-brook girls series by janet aldridge real live stories pulsing with the vibrant atmosphere of outdoor life. the meadow-brook girls under canvas. the meadow-brook girls across country. the meadow-brook girls afloat. the meadow-brook girls in the hills. the meadow-brook girls by the sea. the meadow-brook girls on the tennis courts. high school boys series by h. irving hancock in this series of bright, crisp books a new note has been struck. boys of every age under sixty will be interested in these fascinating volumes. the high school freshmen; or, dick & co.'s first year pranks and sports. the high school pitcher; or, dick & co. on the gridley diamond. the high school left end; or, dick & co. grilling on the football gridiron. the high school captain of the team; or, dick & co. leading the athletic vanguard. grammar school boys series by h. irving hancock this series of stories, based on the actual doings of grammar school boys, comes near to the heart of the average american boy. the grammar school boys of gridley; or, dick & co. start things moving. the grammar school boys snowbound; or, dick & co. at winter sports. the grammar school boys in the woods; or, dick & co. trail fun and knowledge. the grammar school boys in summer athletics; or, dick & co. make their fame secure. high school boys' vacation series by h. irving hancock "give us more dick prescott books!" this has been the burden of the cry from young readers of the country over. almost numberless letters have been received by the publishers, making this eager demand; for dick prescott, dave darrin, tom reade, and the other members of dick & co. are the most popular high school boys in the land. boys will alternately thrill and chuckle when reading these splendid narratives. the high school boys' canoe club; or, dick & co.'s rivals on lake pleasant. the high school boys in summer camp; or, the dick prescott six training for the gridley eleven. the high school boys' fishing trip; or, dick & co. in the wilderness. the high school boys' training hike; or, dick & co. making themselves "hard as nails." the circus boys series by edgar b. p. darlington mr. darlington's books breathe forth every phase of an intensely interesting and exciting life. the circus boys on the flying rings; or, making the start in the sawdust life. the circus boys across the continent; or, winning new laurels on the tanbark. the circus boys in dixie land; or, winning the plaudits of the sunny south. the circus boys on the mississippi; or, afloat with the big show on the big river. the high school girls series by jessie graham flower, a. m. these breezy stories of the american high school girl take the reader fairly by storm. grace harlowe's plebe year at high school; or, the merry doings of the oakdale freshman girls. grace harlowe's sophomore year at high school; or, the record of the girl chums in work and athletics. grace harlowe's junior year at high school; or, fast friends in the sororities. grace harlowe's senior year at high school; or, the parting of the ways. the automobile girls series by laura dent crane no girl's library--no family book-case can be considered at all complete unless it contains these sparkling twentieth-century books. the automobile girls at newport; or, watching the summer parade. the automobile girls in the berkshires; or, the ghost of lost man's trail. the automobile girls along the hudson; or, fighting fire in sleepy hollow. the automobile girls at chicago; or, winning out against heavy odds. the automobile girls at palm beach: or, proving their mettle under southern skies. the automobile girls at washington; or, checkmating the plots of foreign spies. brave and bold or the fortunes of robert rushton by horatio alger jr. chapter i. the young rivals. the main schoolroom in the millville academy was brilliantly lighted, and the various desks were occupied by boys and girls of different ages from ten to eighteen, all busily writing under the general direction of professor george w. granville, instructor in plain and ornamental penmanship. professor granville, as he styled himself, was a traveling teacher, and generally had two or three evening schools in progress in different places at the same time. he was really a very good penman, and in a course of twelve lessons, for which he charged the very moderate price of a dollar, not, of course, including stationery, he contrived to impart considerable instruction, and such pupils as chose to learn were likely to profit by his instructions. his venture in millville had been unusually successful. there were a hundred pupils on his list, and there had been no disturbance during the course of lessons. at nine precisely, professor granville struck a small bell, and said, in rather a nasal voice: "you will now stop writing." there was a little confusion as the books were closed and the pens were wiped. "ladies and gentlemen," said the professor, placing one arm under his coat tails and extending the other in an oratorical attitude, "this evening completes the course of lessons which i have had the honor and pleasure of giving you. i have endeavored to impart to you an easy and graceful penmanship, such as may be a recommendation to you in after life. it gives me pleasure to state that many of you have made great proficiency, and equaled my highest expectations. there are others, perhaps, who have not been fully sensible of the privileges which they enjoyed. i would say to you all that perfection is not yet attained. you will need practice to reap the full benefit of my instructions. should my life be spared, i shall hope next winter to give another course of writing lessons in this place, and i hope i may then have the pleasure of meeting you again as pupils. let me say, in conclusion, that i thank you for your patronage and for your good behavior during this course of lessons, and at the same time i bid you good-by." with the closing words, professor granville made a low bow, and placed his hand on his heart, as he had done probably fifty times before, on delivering the same speech, which was the stereotyped form in which he closed his evening schools. there was a thumping of feet, mingled with a clapping of hands, as the professor closed his speech, and a moment later a boy of sixteen, occupying one of the front seats, rose, and, advancing with easy self-possession, drew from his pocket a gold pencil case, containing a pencil and pen, and spoke as follows: "professor granville, the members of your writing class, desirous of testifying their appreciation of your services as teacher, have contributed to buy this gold pencil case, which, in their name, i have great pleasure in presenting to you. will you receive it with our best wishes for your continued success as a teacher of penmanship?" with these words, he handed the pencil to the professor and returned to his seat. the applause that ensued was terrific, causing the dust to rise from the floor where it had lain undisturbed till the violent attack of two hundred feet raised it in clouds, through which the figure of the professor was still visible, with his right arm again extended. "ladies and gentlemen," he commenced, "i cannot give fitting utterance to the emotions that fill my heart at this most unexpected tribute of regard and mark of appreciation of my humble services. believe me, i shall always cherish it as a most valued possession, and the sight of it will recall the pleasant, and, i hope, profitable hours which we have passed together this winter. to you, in particular, mr. rushton, i express my thanks for the touching and eloquent manner in which you have made the presentation, and, in parting with you all, i echo your own good wishes, and shall hope that you may be favored with an abundant measure of health and prosperity." this speech was also vociferously applauded. it was generally considered impromptu, but was, in truth, as stereotyped as the other. professor granville had on previous occasions been the recipient of similar testimonials, and he had found it convenient to have a set form of acknowledgment. he was wise in this, for it is a hard thing on the spur of the moment suitably to offer thanks for an unexpected gift. "the professor made a bully speech," said more than one after the exercises were over. "so did bob rushton," said edward kent. "i didn't see anything extraordinary in what he said," sneered halbert davis. "it seemed to me very commonplace." "perhaps you could do better yourself, halbert," said kent. "probably i could," said halbert, haughtily. "why didn't you volunteer, then?" "i didn't care to have anything to do with it," returned halbert, scornfully. "that's lucky," remarked edward, "as there was no chance of your getting appointed." "do you mean to insult me?" demanded halbert, angrily. "no, i was only telling the truth." halbert turned away, too disgusted to make any reply. he was a boy of sixteen, of slender form and sallow complexion, dressed with more pretension than taste. probably there was no boy present whose suit was of such fine material as his. but something more than fine clothes is needed to give a fine appearance, and halbert's mean and insignificant features were far from rendering him attractive, and despite the testimony of his glass, halbert considered himself a young man of distinguished appearance, and was utterly blind to his personal defects. what contributed to feed his vanity was his position as the son of the richest man in millville. indeed, his father was superintendent, and part owner, of the great brick factory on the banks of the river, in which hundreds found employment. halbert found plenty to fawn upon him, and was in the habit of strutting about the village, swinging a light cane, neither a useful nor an ornamental member of the community. after his brief altercation with edward kent, he drew on a pair of kid gloves, and looked about the room for hester paine, the lawyer's daughter, the reigning belle among the girls of her age in millville. the fact was, that halbert was rather smitten with hester, and had made up his mind to escort her home on this particular evening, never doubting that his escort would be thankfully accepted. but he was not quick enough, robert rushton had already approached hester, and said, "miss hester, will you allow me to see you home?" "i shall be very glad to have your company, robert," said hester. robert was a general favorite. he had a bright, attractive face, strong and resolute, when there was occasion, frank and earnest at all times. his clothes were neat and clean, but of a coarse, mixed cloth, evidently of low price, suiting his circumstances, for he was poor, and his mother and himself depended mainly upon his earnings in the factory for the necessaries of life. hester paine, being the daughter of a well-to-do lawyer, belonged to the village aristocracy, and so far as worldly wealth was concerned, was far above robert rushton. but such considerations never entered her mind, as she frankly, and with real pleasure, accepted the escort of the poor factory boy. scarcely had she done so when halbert davis approached, smoothing his kid gloves, and pulling at his necktie. "miss hester," he said, consequentially, "i shall have great pleasure in escorting you home." "thank you," said hester, "but i am engaged." "engaged!" repeated halbert, "and to whom?" "robert rushton has kindly offered to take me home." "robert rushton!" said halbert, disdainfully. "never mind. i will relieve him of his duty." "thank you, halbert," said robert, who was standing by, "i won't trouble you. i will see miss paine home." "your escort was accepted because you were the first to offer it," said halbert. "miss hester," said robert, "i will resign in favor of halbert, if you desire it." "i don't desire it," said the young girl, promptly. "come, robert, i am ready if you are." with a careless nod to halbert, she took robert's arm, and left the schoolhouse. mortified and angry, halbert looked after them, muttering, "i'll teach the factory boy a lesson. he'll be sorry for his impudence yet." chapter ii. punishing a coward mrs. rushton and her son occupied a little cottage, not far from the factory. behind it were a few square rods of garden, in which robert raised a few vegetables, working generally before or after his labor in the factory. they lived in a very plain way, but mrs. rushton was an excellent manager, and they had never lacked the common comforts of life. the husband and father had followed the sea. two years before, he left the port of boston as captain of the ship _norman_, bound for calcutta. not a word had reached his wife and son since then, and it was generally believed that it had gone to the bottom of the sea. mrs. rushton regarded herself as a widow, and robert, entering the factory, took upon himself the support of the family. he was now able to earn six dollars a week, and this, with his mother's earnings in braiding straw for a hat manufacturer in a neighboring town, supported them, though they were unable to lay up anything. the price of a term at the writing school was so small that robert thought he could indulge himself in it, feeling that a good handwriting was a valuable acquisition, and might hereafter procure him employment in some business house. for the present, he could not do better than to retain his place in the factory. robert was up at six the next morning. he spent half an hour in sawing and splitting wood enough to last his mother through the day, and then entered the kitchen, where breakfast was ready. "i am a little late this morning, mother," he said. "i must hurry down my breakfast, or i shall be late at the factory, and that will bring twenty-five cents fine." "it would be a pity to get fined, but you mustn't eat too fast. it is not healthful." "i've got a pretty good digestion, mother," said robert, laughing. "nothing troubles me." "still, you mustn't trifle with it. do you remember, robert," added his mother, soberly, "it is just two years to-day since your poor father left us for boston to take command of his ship?" "so it is, mother; i had forgotten it." "i little thought then that i should never see him again!" and mrs. rushton sighed. "it is strange we have never heard anything of the ship." "not so strange, robert. it must have gone down when no other vessel was in sight." "i wish we knew the particulars, mother. sometimes i think father may have escaped from the ship in a boat, and may be still alive." "i used to think it possible, robert; but i have given up all hopes of it. two years have passed, and if your father were alive, we should have seen him or heard from him ere this." "i am afraid you are right. there's one thing i can't help thinking of, mother," said robert, thoughtfully. "how is it that father left no property? he received a good salary, did he not?" "yes; he had received a good salary for several years." "he did not spend the whole of it, did he?" "no, i am sure he did not. your father was never extravagant." "didn't he ever speak to you on the subject?" "he was not in the habit of speaking of his business; but just before he went away, i remember him telling me that he had some money invested, and hoped to add more to it during the voyage which proved so fatal to him." "he didn't tell you how much it was, nor how it was invested?" "no; that was all he said. since his death, i have looked everywhere in the house for some papers which would throw light upon it; but i have been able to find nothing. i do not care so much for myself, but i should be glad if you did not have to work so hard." "never mind me, mother; i'm young and strong, i can stand work--but it's hard on you." "i am rich in having a good son, robert." "and i in a good mother," said robert, affectionately. "and, now, to change the subject. i suspect i have incurred the enmity of halbert davis." "how is that?" asked mrs. rushton. "i went home with hester paine, last evening, from writing school. just as she had accepted my escort, halbert came up, and in a condescending way, informed her that he would see her home." "what did she say?" "she told him she was engaged to me. he said, coolly, that he would relieve me of the duty, but i declined his obliging offer. he looked mad enough, i can tell you. he's full of self-conceit, and i suppose he wondered how any one could prefer me to him." "i am sorry you have incurred his enmity." "i didn't lose any sleep by it." "you know his father is the superintendent of the factory." "halbert isn't." "but he may prejudice his father against you, and get you discharged." "i don't think he would be quite so mean as that. we won't borrow trouble, mother. but time's up, and i must go." robert seized his hat and hurried to the mill. he was in his place when the great factory bell stopped ringing on the stroke of seven, and so escaped the fine, which would have cut off one-quarter of a day's pay. meanwhile, halbert davis had passed an uncomfortable and restless night. he had taken a fancy to hester paine, and he had fully determined to escort her home on the previous evening. as she was much sought after among her young companions, it would have gratified his pride to have it known that she had accepted his company. but he had been cut out, and by robert rushton--one of his father's factory hands. this made his jealousy more intolerable, and humiliated his pride, and set him to work devising schemes for punishing robert's presumption. he felt that it was robert's duty, even though he had been accepted, to retire from the field as soon as his, halbert's, desire was known. this robert had expressly declined to do, and halbert felt very indignant. he made up his mind that he would give robert a chance to apologize, and if he declined to do so he would do what he could to get him turned out of the factory. at twelve o'clock the factory bell pealed forth a welcome sound to the hundreds who were busily at work within the great building. it was the dinner hour, and a throng of men, women and children poured out of the great portals and hastened to their homes or boarding houses to dine. among them was robert rushton. as he was walking homeward with his usual quick, alert step, he came upon halbert davis, at the corner of the street. halbert was dressed carefully, and, as usual, was swinging his cane in his gloved hand. robert would have passed him with a nod, but halbert, who was waiting for him, called out: "i say, you fellow, stop a minute. i want to speak to you." "are you addressing me?" asked robert, with a pride as great as his own. "yes." "then you had better mend your manners." "what do you mean?" demanded halbert, his sallow face slightly flushing. "my name is robert rushton. call me by either of these names when you speak to me, and don't say 'you fellow.'" "it seems to me," sneered halbert, "that you are putting on airs for a factory boy." "i am a factory boy, i acknowledge, and am not ashamed to acknowledge it. is this all you have to say to me? if so, i will pass on, as i am in haste." "i have something else to say to you. you were impudent to me last evening." "was i? tell me how." "did you not insist on going home with hester paine, when i had offered my escort?" "what of that?" "you forget your place." "my place was at hester paine's side, since she had accepted my escort." "it was very presumptuous in a factory boy like you offering your escort to a young lady like miss paine." "i don't see it," said robert, independently; "and i don't think it struck hester in that light. we had a very agreeable walk." halbert was provoked and inflamed with jealousy, and the look with which he regarded our hero was by no means friendly. "you mustn't regard yourself as miss paine's equal because she condescended to walk with you," he said. "you had better associate with those of your own class hereafter, and not push yourself in where your company is not agreeable." "keep your advice to yourself, halbert davis," said robert, hotly, for he felt the insult conveyed in these words. "if i am a factory boy i don't intend to submit to your impertinence; and i advise you to be careful what you say. as to miss hester paine, i shall not ask your permission to walk with her, but shall do so whenever she chooses to accept my escort. has she authorized you to speak for her?" "no; but----" "then wait till she does." halbert was so incensed that, forgetting robert's superior strength, evident enough to any one who saw the two, one with his well-knit, vigorous figure, the other slender and small of frame, he raised his cane and struck our hero smartly upon the arm. in a moment the cane was wrested from his grasp and applied to his own person with a sharp, stinging blow which broke the fragile stick in two. casting the pieces upon the ground at his feet, robert said, coolly: "two can play at that game, halbert davis. when you want another lesson come to me." he passed his discomfited antagonist and hastened to the little cottage, where his mother was wondering what made him so much behind time. chapter iii. the special deposit. stung with mortification and more incensed against robert than ever, halbert hastened home. the house in which he lived was the largest and most pretentious in millville--a large, square house, built in modern style, and with modern improvements, accessible from the street by a semi-circular driveway terminating in two gates, one at each end of the spacious lawn that lay in front. the house had been built only three years, and was the show-place of the village. halbert entered the house, and throwing his hat down on a chair in the hall, entered the dining-room, his face still betraying his angry feelings. "what's the matter, halbert?" asked his mother, looking up as he entered. "do you see this?" said halbert, displaying the pieces of his cane. "how did you break it?" "i didn't break it." "how came it broken, then?" "robert rushton broke it." "the widow rushton's son?" "yes; he's a low scoundrel," said halbert bitterly. "what made him break it?" "he struck me with it hard enough to break it, and then threw the pieces on the ground. i wouldn't mind it so much if he were not a low factory boy, unworthy of a gentleman's attention." "how dared he touch you?" asked mrs. davis, angrily. "oh, he's impudent enough for anything. he walked home with hester paine last evening from the writing school. i suppose she didn't know how to refuse him. i met him just now and told him he ought to know his place better than to offer his escort to a young lady like hester. he got mad and struck me." "it was very proper advice," said mrs. davis, who resembled her son in character and disposition, and usually sided with him in his quarrels. "i should think hester would have more sense than to encourage a boy in his position." "i have no doubt she was bored by his company," said halbert, who feared on the contrary that hester was only too well pleased with his rival, and hated him accordingly; "only she was too good-natured to say so." "the boy must be a young brute to turn upon you so violently." "that's just what he is." "he ought to be punished for it." "i'll tell you how it can be done," said halbert. "just you speak to father about it, and get him dismissed from the factory." "then he is employed in the factory?" "yes. he and his mother are as poor as poverty, and that's about all they have to live upon; yet he goes round with his head up as if he were a prince, and thinks himself good enough to walk home with hester paine." "i never heard of anything so ridiculous." "then you'll speak to father about it, won't you?" "yes; i'll speak to him to-night. he's gone away for the day." "that'll pay me for my broken cane," said halbert, adding, in a tone of satisfaction: "i shall be glad to see him walking round the streets in rags. perhaps he'll be a little more respectful then." meanwhile robert decided not to mention to his mother his encounter with the young aristocrat. he knew that it would do no good, and would only make her feel troubled. he caught the malignant glance of halbert on parting, and he knew him well enough to suspect that he would do what he could to have him turned out of the factory. this would certainly be a serious misfortune. probably the entire income upon which his mother and himself had to depend did not exceed eight dollars a week, and of this he himself earned six. they had not more than ten dollars laid by for contingencies, and if he were deprived of work, that would soon melt away. the factory furnished about the only avenue of employment open in millville, and if he were discharged it would be hard to find any other remunerative labor. at one o'clock robert went back to the factory rather thoughtful. he thought it possible that he might hear something before evening of the dismission which probably awaited him, but the afternoon passed and he heard nothing. on leaving the factory, he chanced to see halbert again on the sidewalk a little distance in front and advancing toward him. this time, however, the young aristocrat did not desire a meeting, for, with a dark scowl, he crossed the street in time to avoid it. "is he going to pass it over, i wonder?" thought robert. "well, i won't borrow trouble. if i am discharged i think i can manage to pick up a living somehow. i've got two strong arms, and if i don't find something to do, it won't be for the want of trying." two years before, captain rushton, on the eve of sailing upon what proved to be his last voyage, called in the evening at the house of mr. davis, the superintendent of the millville factory. he found the superintendent alone, his wife and halbert having gone out for the evening. he was seated at a table with a variety of papers spread out before him. these papers gave him considerable annoyance. he was preparing his semi-annual statement of account, and found himself indebted to the corporation in a sum three thousand dollars in excess of the funds at his command. he had been drawn into the whirlpool of speculation, and, through a new york broker, had invested considerable amounts in stocks, which had depreciated in value. in doing this he had made use, to some extent, of the funds of the corporation, which he was now at a loss how to replace. he was considering where he could apply for a temporary loan of three thousand dollars when the captain entered. under the circumstances he was sorry for the intrusion. "good-evening, captain rushton," he said, with a forced smile. "sit down. i am glad to see you." "thank you, mr. davis. it will be the last call i shall make upon you for a considerable time." "indeed--how is that?" "i sail to-morrow for calcutta." "indeed--that is a long voyage." "yes, it takes considerable time. i don't like to leave my wife and boy for so long, but we sailors have to suffer a good many privations." "true; i hardly think i should enjoy such a life." "still," said the captain, "it has its compensations. i like the free, wild life of the sea. the ocean, even in its stormiest aspects, has a charm for me." "it hasn't much for me," said the superintendent, shrugging his shoulders. "seasickness takes away all the romance that poets have invested it with." captain rushton laughed. "seasickness!" he repeated. "yes, that is truly a disagreeable malady. i remember once having a lady of rank as passenger on board my ship--a lady alice graham. she was prostrated by seasickness, which is no respecter of persons, and a more forlorn, unhappy mortal i never expect to see. she would have been glad, i am convinced, to exchange places with her maid, who seemed to thrive upon the sea air." "i wish you a prosperous voyage, captain." "thank you. if things go well, i expect to come home with quite an addition to my little savings. and that brings me to the object of my visit this evening. you must know, mr. davis, i have saved up in the last ten years a matter of five thousand dollars." "five thousand dollars!" repeated the superintendent, pricking up his ears. "yes, it has been saved by economy and self-denial. wouldn't my wife be surprised if she knew her husband were so rich?" "your wife doesn't know of it?" asked the superintendent, surprised. "not at all. i have told her i have something, and she may suppose i have a few hundred dollars, but i have never told her how much. i want to surprise her some day." "just so." "now, mr. davis, for the object of my errand. i am no financier, and know nothing of investments. i suppose you do. i want you to take this money, and take care of it, while i am gone on my present voyage. i meant to make inquiries myself for a suitable investment, but i have been summoned by my owners to leave at a day's notice, and have no time for it. can you oblige me by taking care of the money?" "certainly, captain," said the superintendent, briskly. "i shall have great pleasure in obliging an old friend." "i am much obliged to you." "don't mention it. i have large sums of my own to invest, and it is no extra trouble to look after your money. am i to pay the interest to your wife?" "no. i have left a separate fund in a savings bank for her to draw upon. as i told you, i want to surprise her by and by. so not a word, if you please, about this deposit." "your wishes shall be regarded," said the superintendent. "have you brought the money with you?" "yes," said the captain, drawing from his pocket a large wallet. "i have got the whole amount here in large bills. count it, if you please, and see that it is all right." the superintendent took the roll of bills from the hands of his neighbor, and counted them over twice. "it is quite right," he said. "here are five thousand dollars. now let me write you a receipt for them." he drew before him a sheet of paper, and dipping his pen in the inkstand, wrote a receipt in the usual form, which he handed back to the captain, who received it and put it back in his wallet. "now," said the captain, in a tone of satisfaction, "my most important business is transacted. you will keep this money, investing it according to your best judgment. if anything should happen to me," he added, his voice faltering a little, "you will pay it over to my wife and child." "assuredly," said the superintendent; "but don't let us think of such a sad contingency. i fully expect to pay it back into your own hands with handsome interest." "let us hope so," said the captain, recovering his cheerfulness. "our destinies are in the hands of a kind providence. and now good-by! i leave early to-morrow morning, and i must pass the rest of the evening with my own family." "good-night, captain," said the superintendent, accompanying him to the door. "i renew my wish that you have a prosperous and profitable voyage, and be restored in good time to your family and friends." "amen!" said the captain. the superintendent went back to his study, his heart lightened of its anxiety. "could anything be more fortunate?" he ejaculated, "this help comes to me just when it is most needed. thanks to my special deposit, i can make my semi-annual settlement, and have two thousand dollars over. it's lucky the captain knows nothing of my wall street speculations. he might not have been quite so ready to leave his money in my hands. it's not a bad thing to be a banker," and he rubbed his hands together with hilarity. chapter iv. the voice of conscience. when the superintendent accepted captain rushton's money, he did not intend to act dishonestly. he hailed it as a present relief, though he supposed he should have to repay it some time. his accounts being found correct, he went on with his speculations. in these he met with varying success. but on the whole he found himself no richer, while he was kept in a constant fever of anxiety. after some months, he met mrs. rushton in the street one day. "have you heard from your husband, mrs. rushton?" he inquired. "no, mr. davis, not yet. i am beginning to feel anxious." "how long has he been gone?" "between seven and eight months." "the voyage is a long one. there are many ways of accounting for his silence." "he would send by some passing ship. he has been to calcutta before, but i have never had to wait so long for a letter." the superintendent uttered some commonplace phrases of assurance, but in his own heart there sprang up a wicked hope that the _norman_ would never reach port, and that he might never set eyes on captain rushton again. for in that case, he reflected, it would be perfectly safe for him to retain possession of the money with which he had been intrusted. the captain had assured him that neither his wife nor son knew aught of his savings. who then could detect his crime? however, it was not yet certain that the _norman_ was lost. he might yet have to repay the money. six months more passed, and still no tidings of the ship or its commander. even the most sanguine now gave her up for lost, including the owners. the superintendent called upon them, ostensibly in behalf of mrs. rushton, and learned that they had but slender hopes of her safety. it was a wicked thing to rejoice over such a calamity, but his affairs were now so entangled that a sudden demand for the five thousand dollars would have ruined him. he made up his mind to say nothing of the special deposit, though he knew the loss of it would leave the captain's family in the deepest poverty. to soothe his conscience--for he was wholly destitute of one--he received robert into the factory, and the boy's wages, as we already know, constituted their main support. such was the state of things at the commencement of our story. when the superintendent reached home in the evening, he was at once assailed by his wife and son, who gave a highly colored account of the insult which halbert had received from robert rushton. "did he have any reason for striking you, halbert?" asked the superintendent. "no," answered halbert, unblushingly. "he's an impudent young scoundrel, and puts on as many airs as if he were a prince instead of a beggar." "he is not a beggar." "he is a low factory boy, and that is about the same." "by no means. he earns his living by honest industry." "it appears to me," put in mrs. davis, "that you are taking the part of this boy who has insulted your son in such an outrageous manner." "how am i doing it? i am only saying he is not a beggar." "he is far below halbert in position, and that is the principal thing." it occurred to the superintendent that should he make restitution robert rushton would be quite as well off as his own son, but of course he could not venture to breathe a hint of this to his wife. it was the secret knowledge of the deep wrong which he had done to the rushtons that now made him unwilling to oppress him further. "it seems to me," he said, "you are making too much of this matter. it is only a boyish quarrel." "a boyish quarrel!" retorted mrs. davis, indignantly. "you have a singular way of standing by your son, mr. davis. a low fellow insults and abuses him, and you exert yourself to mate excuses for him." "you misapprehend me, my dear." "don't 'my dear' me," said the exasperated lady. "i thought you would be as angry as i am, but you seem to take the whole thing very coolly, upon my word!" mrs. davis had a sharp temper and a sharp tongue, and her husband stood considerably in awe of both. he had more than once been compelled to yield to them, and he saw that he must make some concession to order to keep the peace. "well, what do you want me to do?" he asked. "want you to do! i should think that was plain enough." "i will send for the boy and reprimand him." "reprimand him!" repeated the lady, contemptuously. "and what do you think he will care for that?" "more than you think, perhaps." "stuff and nonsense! he'll be insulting halbert again to-morrow." "i am not so sure that halbert is not in fault in some way." "of course, you are ready to side with a stranger against your own son." "what do you want me to do?" asked the superintendent, submissively. "discharge the boy from your employment," said his wife, promptly. "but how can he and his mother live?--they depend on his wages." "that is their affair. he ought to have thought of that before he raised his hand against halbert." "i cannot do what you wish," said the superintendent, with some firmness, for he felt that it would indeed be a piece of meanness to eject from the factory the boy whom he had already so deeply wronged; "but i will send for young rushton and require him to apologize to halbert." "and if he won't do it?" demanded halbert. "then i will send him away." "will you promise that, father?" asked halbert, eagerly. "yes," said mr. davis, rather reluctantly. "all right!" thought halbert; "i am satisfied; for i know he never will consent to apologize." halbert had good reason for this opinion, knowing, as he did, that he had struck the first blow, a circumstance he had carefully concealed from his father. under the circumstances he knew very well that his father would be called upon to redeem his promise. the next morning, at the regular hour, our hero went to the factory, and taking his usual place, set to work. an hour passed, and nothing was said to him. he began to think that halbert, feeling that he was the aggressor, had resolved to let the matter drop. but he was speedily undeceived. at a quarter after eight the superintendent made his appearance, and after a brief inspection of the work, retired to his private office. ten minutes later, the foreman of the room in which he was employed came up to robert and touched him on the shoulder. "mr. davis wishes to see you in his office," he said. "now for it!" thought robert, as he left his work and made his way, through the deafening clamor of the machinery, to the superintendent's room. chapter v. discharged. the superintendent sat at an office table writing a letter. he did not at first look up, but kept on with his employment. he had some remnants of conscience left, and he shrank from the task his wife had thrust upon him. "mr. baker tells me you wish to see me, mr. davis," said robert, who had advanced into the office, by way of calling his attention. "yes," said the superintendent, laying down his pen, and turning half round; "i hear a bad account of you, rushton." "in what way, sir?" asked our hero, returning his look fearlessly. "i hear that you have been behaving like a young ruffian," said mr. davis, who felt that he must make out a strong case to justify him in dismissing robert from the factory. "this is a serious charge, mr. davis," said robert, gravely, "and i hope you will be kind enough to let me know what i have done, and the name of my accuser." "i mean to do so. probably it will be enough to say that your accuser is my son, halbert." "i supposed so. i had a difficulty with halbert yesterday, but i consider he was in fault." "he says you insulted and struck him." "i did not insult him. the insult came from him." "did you strike him?" "yes, but not until he had struck me first." "he didn't mention this, but even if he had you should not have struck him back." "why not?" asked robert. "you should have reported the affair to me." "and allowed him to keep on striking me?" "you must have said something to provoke him," continued the superintendent, finding it a little difficult to answer this question, "or he would not have done it." "if you will allow me," said robert, "i will give you an account of the whole affair." "go on," said the superintendent, rather unwillingly, for he strongly suspected that our hero would be able to justify himself, and so render dismissal more difficult. "halbert took offense because i accompanied hester paine home from the writing school, evening before last, though i did with the young lady's permission, as he knew. he met me yesterday at twelve o'clock, as i was going home to dinner, and undertook to lecture me on my presumption in offering my escort to one so much above me. he also taunted me with being a factory boy. i told him to keep his advice to himself, as i should not ask his permission when i wanted to walk, with hester paine. then he became enraged, and struck me with his cane. i took it from him and returned the blow, breaking the cane in doing it." "ahem!" said the superintendent, clearing his throat; "you must have been very violent." "i don't think i was, sir. i struck him a smart blow, but the cane was very light and easily broken." "you were certainly very violent," continued mr. davis, resolved to make a point of this. "halbert did not break the cane when he struck you." "he struck the first blow." "that does not alter the question of the amount of violence, which was evidently without justification. you must have been in a great passion." "i don't think i was in any greater passion than halbert." "in view of the violence you made use of, i consider that you owe my son an apology." "an apology!" repeated robert, whose astonishment was apparent in his tone. "i believe i spoke plainly," said the superintendent, irritably. "if any apology is to be made," said our hero, firmly, "it ought to come from halbert to me." "how do you make that out?" "he gave me some impertinent advice, and, because i did not care to take it, he struck me." "and you seized his cane in a fury, and broke it in returning the blow." "i acknowledge that i broke the cane," said robert; "and i suppose it is only right that i should pay for it. i am willing to do that, but not to apologize." "that will not be sufficient," said the superintendent, who knew that payment for the cane would fall far short of satisfying his wife or halbert. "the cost of the cane was a trifle, and i am willing to buy him another, but i cannot consent that my son should be subjected to such rude violence, without an apology from the offender. if i passed this over, you might attack him again to-morrow." "i am not in the habit of attacking others without cause," said robert, proudly. "if halbert will let me alone, or treat me with civility, he may be sure that i shall not trouble him." "you are evading the main point, rushton," said the superintendent. "i have required you to apologize to my son, and i ask you for the last time whether you propose to comply with my wishes." "no, sir," said robert, boldly. "do you know to whom you are speaking, boy?" "yes, sir." "i am not only the father of the boy you have assaulted, but i am also the superintendent of this factory, and your employer.". "i am aware of that, sir." "i can discharge you from the factory." "i know you can," said robert. "of course, i should be sorry to resort to such an extreme measure, but, if you defy my authority, i may be compelled to do so." so the crisis had come. robert saw that he must choose between losing his place and a humiliating apology. between the two he did not for a moment hesitate. "mr. davis," he said, boldly and firmly, "it will be a serious thing for me if i lose my place here, for my mother and i are poor, and my wages make the greatest part of our income. but i cannot make this apology you require. i will sooner lose my place." the bold and manly bearing of our hero, and his resolute tone, impressed the superintendent with an involuntary admiration. he felt that robert was a boy to be proud of, but none the less he meant to carry out his purpose. "is this your final decision?" he asked. "yes, sir." "then you are discharged from the factory. you will report your discharge to mr. baker, and he will pay you what you have earned this week." "very well, sir." robert left the office, with a bold bearing, but a heart full of trouble. if only himself had been involved in the calamity, he could have borne it better, but he knew that his loss of place meant privation and want for his mother, unless he could find something to do that would bring in an equal income, and this he did not expect. "mr. baker," he said, addressing the foreman of his room, on his return from the superintendent's office, "i am discharged." "discharged?" repeated the foreman, in surprise. "there must be some mistake about this. you are one of our best hands--for your age, i mean." "there is no dissatisfaction with my work that i know of, but i got into a quarrel with halbert davis yesterday, and his father wants me to apologize to him." "which you won't do?" "i would if i felt that i were in fault. i am not too proud for that. but the fact is, halbert ought to apologize to me." "halbert is a mean boy. i don't blame you in the least." "so i am to report my discharge to you, and ask you for my wages." this account was soon settled, and robert left the factory his own master. but it is poor consolation to be one's own master under such circumstances. he dreaded to break the news to his mother, for he knew that it would distress her. he was slowly walking along, when he once more encountered halbert davis. halbert was out for the express purpose of meeting and exulting over him, for he rightly concluded that robert would decline to apologize to him. robert saw his enemy, and guessed his object, but resolved to say nothing to him, unless actually obliged to do so. "where are you going?" demanded halbert. "home." "i thought you worked in the factory?" "did you?" asked robert, looking full in his face, and reading the exultation he did not attempt to conceal. "perhaps you have got turned out?" suggested halbert, with a malicious smile. "you would be glad of that, i suppose," said our hero. "i don't think i should cry much," said halbert. "it's true then, is it?" "yes; it's true." "you won't put on so many airs when you go round begging for cold victuals. it'll be some time before you walk with hester paine again." "i shall probably walk with her sooner than you will." "she won't notice a beggar." "there is not much chance of my becoming a beggar, halbert davis; but i would rather be one than be as mean as you. i will drop you a slight hint, which you had better bear in mind. it won't be any safer to insult me now than it was yesterday. i can't lose my place a second time." halbert instinctively moved aside, while our hero passed on, without taking farther notice of him. "i hate him!" he muttered to himself. "i hope he won't find anything to do. if he wasn't so strong, i'd give him a thrashing." chapter vi. halbert's discomfiture. great was the dismay of mrs. rushton when she heard from robert that he was discharged from the factory. she was a timid woman, and rather apt to take desponding views of the future. "oh, robert, what is going to become of us?" she exclaimed, nervously. "we have only ten dollars in the house, and you know how little i can earn by braiding straw. i really think you were too hasty and impetuous." "don't be alarmed, my dear mother," said robert, soothingly. "i am sorry i have lost my place, but there are other things i can do besides working in the factory. we are not going to starve yet." "but, suppose you can't find any work?" said his mother. "then i'll help you braid straw," said robert, laughing. "don't you think i might learn after a while?" "i don't know but you might," said mrs. rushton, dubiously; "but the pay is very poor." "that's so, mother. i shan't, take to braiding straw except as a last resort." "wouldn't mr. davis take you back into the factory if i went to him and told him how much we needed the money?" "don't think of such a thing, mother," said robert, hastily, his brown cheek flushing. "i am too proud to beg to be taken back." "but it wouldn't be you." "i would sooner ask myself than have you do it, mother. no; the superintendent sent me away for no good reason, and he must come and ask me to return before i'll do it." "i am afraid you are proud, robert." "so i am, mother; but it is an honest pride. have faith in me for a week, mother, and see if i don't earn something in that time. i don't expect to make as much as i earned at the factory; but i'll earn something, you may depend upon that. now, how would you like to have some fish for supper?" "i think i should like it. it is a good while since we had any." "then, i'll tell you what--i'll borrow will paine's boat, if he'll let me have it, and see if i can't catch something." "when will you be home, robert?" "it will depend on my success in fishing. it'll be half-past nine, very likely, before i get fairly started, so i think i'd better take my dinner with me. i'll be home some time in the afternoon." "i hope you'll be careful, robert. you might get upset." "i'll take care of that, mother. besides, i can swim like a duck." robert went out into the garden, and dug some worms for bait. meanwhile, his mother made a couple of sandwiches, and wrapped them in a paper for his lunch. provided thus, he walked quickly to the house of squire paine, and rang the bell. "is will home?" he asked. "here i am, old fellow!" was heard from the head of the stairs; and william paine, a boy of our hero's size and age, appeared. "come right up." "how did you happen to be at leisure?" he asked. "i supposed you were at the factory." "i'm turned off." "turned off! how's that?" "through the influence of halbert davis." "halbert is a disgusting sneak. i always despised him, and, if he's done such a mean thing, i'll never speak to him again. tell me all about it." this robert did, necessarily bringing in hester's name. "he needn't think my sister will walk with him," said will. "if she does, i'll cut her off with a shilling. she'd rather walk with you, any day." robert blushed a little; for, though he was too young to be in love, he thought his friend's sister the most attractive girl he had even seen, and, knowing how she was regarded in the village, he naturally felt proud of her preference for himself over a boy who was much richer. "what are you going to do now?" asked will, with interest. "the first thing i am going to do is to catch some fish, if you'll lend me your boat." "lend you my boat? of course i will! i'll lend it to you for the next three months." "but you want it yourself?" "no. haven't you heard the news? i'm going to boarding school." "you are?" "it's a fact. i'm packing my trunk now. come upstairs, and superintend the operation." "i can't stay long. but, will, are you in earnest about the boat?" "to be sure i am. i was meaning to ask you if you'd take care of it for me. you see, i can't carry it with me, and you are the only fellow i am willing to lend it to." "i shall be very glad of the chance, will. i've been wanting a boat for a long time, but there wasn't much chance of my getting one. now i shall feel rich. but isn't this a sudden idea, your going to school?" "rather. there was a college classmate of father's here last week, who's at the head of such a school, and he made father promise to send me. so i'm to start to-morrow morning. if it wasn't for that, and being up to my ears in getting ready, i'd go out fishing with you." "i wish you could." "i must wait till vacation. here is the boat key." robert took the key with satisfaction. the boat owned by his friend was a stanch, round-bottomed boat, of considerable size, bought only two months before, quite the best boat on the river. it was to be at his free disposal, and this was nearly the same thing as owning it. he might find it very useful, for it occurred to him that, if he could find nothing better to do, he could catch fish every day, and sell at the village store such as his mother could not use. in this way he would be earning something, and it would be better than being idle. he knew where the boat was usually kept, just at the foot of a large tree, whose branches drooped over the river. he made his way thither, and, fitting the key in the padlock which confined the boat, soon set it free. the oars he had brought with him from his friend's house. throwing in the oars, he jumped in, and began to push off, when he heard himself called, and, looking up, saw halbert davis standing on the bank. "get out of that boat!" said halbert. "what do you mean?" demanded robert. "you have no business in that boat! it doesn't belong to you!" "you'd better mind your own business, halbert davis. you have nothing to do with the boat." "it's william paine's boat." "thank you for the information. i supposed it was yours, from the interest you seem to take in it." "it will be. he's going to let me have it while he's away at school." "indeed! did he tell you so?" "i haven't asked ma yet; but i know he will let me have it." "i don't think he will." "why not?" "if you ever want to borrow this boat, you'll have to apply to me." "you haven't bought it?" asked halbert, in surprise. "you're too poor." "i'm to have charge of the boat while will paine is away." "did he say you might?" asked halbert, in a tone of disappointment and mortification. "of course he did." "i don't believe it," said halbert, suspiciously. "i don't care what you believe. go and ask him yourself, if you are not satisfied; and don't meddle with what is none of your business;" "you're an impudent rascal." "have you got another cane you'd like to have broken?" asked robert, significantly. halbert looked after him, enviously, as he rowed the boat out into the stream. he had asked his father to buy him a boat, but the superintendent's speculations had not turned out very well of late, and he had been deaf to his son's persuasions, backed, though they were, by his mother's influence. when halbert heard that william paine was going to boarding school, he decided to ask him for the loan of his boat during his absence, as the next best thing. now, it seemed that he had been forestalled, and by the boy he hated. he resolved to see young paine himself, and offer him two dollars for the use of his boat during the coming term. then he would have the double satisfaction of using the boat and disappointing robert. he made his way to the house of squire paine, and, after a brief pause, was admitted. he was shown into the parlor, and will paine came down to see him. "how are you, davis?" he said, nodding, coolly, but not offering his hand. "i hear you are going to boarding school?" "yes; i go to-morrow." "i suppose you won't take your boat with you?" "no." "i'll give you two dollars for the use of it; the next three months?" "i can't accept your offer. robert rushton is to have it." "but he doesn't pay you anything for it. i'll give you three dollars, if you say so?" "you can't have it for three dollars, or ten. i have promised it to my friend, robert rushton, and i shall not take it back." "you may not know," said halbert, maliciously, "that your friend was discharged from the factory this morning for misconduct." "i know very well that he was discharged, and through whose influence, halbert davis," said will, pointedly. "i like him all the better for his misfortune, and so i am sure will my sister." halbert's face betrayed the anger and jealousy he felt, but he didn't dare to speak to the lawyer's son as he had to the factory boy. "good-morning!" he said, rising to go. "good-morning!" said young paine, formally. halbert felt, as he walked homeward, that his triumph over robert was by no means complete. chapter vii. the strange passenger. robert, though not a professional fisherman, was not wholly inexperienced. this morning he was quite lucky, catching quite a fine lot of fish--as much, indeed, as his mother and himself would require a week to dispose of. however, he did not intend to carry them all home. it occurred to him that he could sell them at a market store in the village. otherwise, he would not have cared to go on destroying life for no useful end. accordingly, on reaching the shore, he strung the fish and walked homeward, by way of the market. it was rather a heavy tug, for the fish he had caught weighed at least fifty pounds. stepping into the store, he attracted the attention of the proprietor. "that's a fine lot of fish you have there, robert. what are you going to do with them?" "i'm going to sell most of them to you, if i can." "are they just out of the water?" "yes; i have just brought them in." "what do you want for them?" "i don't know what is a fair price?" "i'll give you two cents a pound for as many as you want to sell." "all right," said our hero, with satisfaction. "i'll carry this one home, and you can weigh the rest." the rest proved to weigh forty-five pounds. the marketman handed robert ninety cents, which he pocketed with satisfaction. "shall you want some more to-morrow?" he asked. "yes, if you can let me have them earlier. but how is it you are not at the factory?" "i've lost my place." "that's a pity." "so i have plenty of time to work for you." "i may be able to take considerable from you. i'm thinking of running a cart to brampton every morning, but i must have the fish by eight o'clock, or it'll be too late." "i'll go out early in the morning, then." "very well; bring me what you have at that hour, and we'll strike a trade." "i've got something to do pretty quick," thought robert, with satisfaction. "it was a lucky thought asking will paine for his boat. i'm sorry he's going away, but it happens just right for me." mrs. rushton was sitting at her work, in rather a disconsolate frame of mind. the more she thought of robert's losing his place, the more unfortunate it seemed. she could not be expected to be as sanguine and hopeful as our hero, who was blessed with strong hands and a fund of energy and self-reliance which he inherited from his father. his mother, on the other hand, was delicate and nervous, and apt to look on the dark side of things. but, notwithstanding this, she was a good mother, and robert loved her. nothing had been heard for some time but the drowsy ticking of the clock, when a noise was heard at the door, and robert entered the room, bringing the fish he had reserved. "you see, mother, we are not likely to starve," he said. "that's a fine, large fish," said his mother. "yes; it'll be enough for two meals. didn't i tell you, mother, i would find something to do?" "true, robert," said his mother, dubiously; "but we shall get tired of fish if we have it every day." robert laughed. "six days in the week will do for fish, mother," he said. "i think we shall be able to afford something else sunday." "of course, fish is better than nothing," said his mother, who understood him literally; "and i suppose we ought to be thankful to get that." "you don't look very much pleased at the prospect of fish six times a week," said robert, laughing again. "on the whole, i think it will be better to say twice." "but what will we do other days, robert?" "what we have always done, mother--eat something else. but i won't keep you longer in suspense. did you think this was the only fish i caught?" "yes, i thought so." "i sold forty-five pounds on the way to minturn, at his market store--forty-five pounds, at two cents a pound. what do you think of that?" "do you mean that you have earned ninety cents to-day, robert?" "yes; and here's the money." "that's much better than i expected," said mrs. rushton, looking several degrees more i cheerful. "i don't expect to do as well as that every day, mother, but i don't believe we'll starve. minturn has engaged me to supply him with fish every day, only some days the fishes won't feel like coming out of the water. then, i forgot to tell you, i'm to have will paine's boat for nothing. he's going to boarding school, and has asked me to take care of it for him." "you are fortunate, robert." "i am hungry, too, mother. those two sandwiches didn't go a great ways. so, if you can just as well as not have supper earlier, it would suit me." "i'll put on the teakettle at once, robert," said his mother, rising. "would you like some of the fish for supper?" "if it wouldn't be too much trouble." "surely not, robert." the usual supper hour was at five in this country household, but a little after four the table was set, and mother and son sat down to a meal which both enjoyed. the fish proved to be excellent, and robert enjoyed it the more, first, because he had caught it himself, and next because he felt that his independent stand at the factory, though it had lost him his place, was not likely to subject his mother to the privations he had feared. "i'll take another piece of fish, mother," said robert, passing his plate. "i think, on the whole, i shan't be obliged to learn to braid straw." "no; you can do better at fishing." "only," added robert, with mock seriousness, "we might change work sometimes, mother; i will stay at home and braid straw, and you can go out fishing." "i am afraid i should make a poor hand at it," said mrs. rushton, smiling. "if halbert davis could look in upon us just now, he would be disappointed to find us so cheerful after my losing my place at factory. however, i've disappointed him in another way." "how is that?" "he expected will paine would lend him his boat while he was gone, but, instead of that, he finds it promised to me." "i am afraid he is not a very kind-hearted boy." "that's drawing it altogether too mild, mother. he's the meanest fellow i ever met. however, i won't talk about him any more, or it'll spoil my appetite." on the next two mornings robert went out at five o'clock, in order to get home in time for the market-wagon. he met with fair luck, but not as good as on the first day. taking the two mornings together, he captured and sold seventy pounds of fish, which, as the price remained the same, brought him in a dollar and forty cents. this was not equal to his wages at the factory; still, he had the greater part of the day to himself, only, unfortunately, he had no way of turning his time profitably to account, or, at least, none had thus far occurred to him. on the morning succeeding he was out of luck. he caught but two fish, and they were so small that he decided not to offer them for sale. "if i don't do better than this," he reflected, "i shan't make very good wages. the fish seem to be getting afraid of me." he paddled about, idly, a few rods from the shore, having drawn up his line and hook. all at once, he heard a voice hailing him from the river bank: "boat ahoy!" "hallo!" answered robert, lifting his eyes, and seeing who called him. "can you set me across the river?" "yes, sir." "bring in your boat, then, and i'll jump aboard. i'll pay you for your trouble." robert did as requested, with alacrity. he was very glad to earn money in this way, since it seemed he was to have no fish to dispose of. he quickly turned the boat to the shore, and the stranger jumped on board. he was a man of rather more than the average height, with a slight limp in his gait, in a rough suit of clothes, his head being surmounted by a felt hat considerably the worse for wear. there was a scar on one cheek, and, altogether, he was not very prepossessing in his appearance. robert noted all this in a rapid glance, but it made no particular impression upon him at the moment. he cared very little how the stranger looked, as long as he had money enough to pay his fare. "it's about a mile across the river, isn't it?" asked the stranger. "about that here. where do you want to go?" "straight across. there's an old man named nichols lives on the other side, isn't there?" "yes; he lives by himself." "somebody told me so. he's rich, isn't he?" asked the stranger, carelessly. "so people say; but he doesn't show it in his dress or way of living." "a miser, i suppose?" "yes." "what does he do with his money?" "i only know what people say." "and what do they say?" "that he is afraid to trust banks, and hides his money in the earth." "that kind of bank don't pay very good interest," said the stranger, laughing. "no; but it isn't likely to break." "here? boy, give me one of the oars. i'm used to rowing, and i'll help you a little." robert yielded one of the oars to his companion, who evidently understood rowing quite as well as he professed to. our hero, though strong-armed, had hard work to keep up with him. "look out, boy, or i'll turn you round," he said. "you are stronger than i am." "and more used to rowing; but i'll suit myself to you." a few minutes brought them to the other shore. the passenger jumped ashore, first handing a silver half-dollar to our hero, who was well satisfied with his fee. robert sat idly in his boat, and watched his late fare as with rapid steps he left the river bank behind him. "he's going to the old man's house," decided robert. "i wonder whether he has any business with him?" chapter viii. the old farmhouse. the stranger walked, with hasty strides, in the direction of an old farmhouse, which could be seen a quarter of a mile away. whether it had ever been painted, was a question not easily solved. at present it was dark and weather-beaten, and in a general state of neglect. the owner, paul nichols, was a man advanced in years, living quite alone, and himself providing for his simple wants. robert was right in calling him a miser, but he had not always deserved the name. the time was when he had been happily married to a good wife, and was blessed with two young children. but they were all taken from him in one week by an epidemic, and his life was made solitary and cheerless. this bereavement completely revolutionized his life. up to this time he had been a good and respected citizen, with an interest in public affairs. now he became morose and misanthropic, and his heart, bereaved of its legitimate objects of affection, henceforth was fixed upon gold, which he began to love with a passionate energy. he repulsed the advances of neighbors, and became what robert called him--a miser. how much he was worth, no one knew. the town assessors sought in vain for stocks and bonds. he did not appear to possess any. probably popular opinion was correct in asserting that he secreted his money in one or many out-of-the-way places, which, from time to time, he was wont to visit and gloat over his treasures. there was reason also to believe that it was mostly in gold, for he had a habit of asking specie payments from those indebted to him, or, if he could not obtain specie, he used to go to a neighboring town with his bank notes and get the change effected. such was the man about whom robert's unknown passenger exhibited so much curiosity, and whom it seemed that he was intending to visit. "i wonder whether the old man is at home!" he said to himself, as he entered the front yard through a gateway, from which the gate had long since disappeared. "he don't keep things looking very neat and trim, that's a fact," he continued, noticing the rank weeds and indiscriminate litter which filled the yard. "just give me this place, and his money to keep it, and i'd make a change in the looks of things pretty quick." he stepped up to the front door, and, lifting the old-fashioned knocker, sounded a loud summons. "he'll hear that, if he isn't very deaf," he thought. but the summons appeared to be without effect. at all events, he was left standing on the doorstone, and no one came to bid him enter. "he can't be at home, or else he won't come," thought the visitor. "i'll try him again," and another knock, still louder than before, sounded through the farmhouse. but still no one came to the door. the fact was, that the old farmer had gone away early, with a load of hay, which he had sold; to a stable-keeper living some five miles distant. "i'll reconnoiter a little," said the stranger. he stepped to the front window, and looked in. all that met his gaze was a bare, dismantled room. "not very cheerful, that's a fact," commented the outsider. "well, he don't appear to be here; i'll go round to the back part of the house." he went round to the back door, where he thought it best, in the first place, to knock. no answer coming, he peered through the window, but saw no one. "the coast is clear," he concluded. "so much the better, if i can get in." the door proved to be locked, but the windows were easily raised. through one of these he clambered into the kitchen, which was the only room occupied by the old farmer, with the exception of a room above, which he used as a bedchamber. here he cooked and ate his meals, and here he spent his solitary evenings. jumping over the window sill, the visitor found himself in this room. he looked around him, with some curiosity. "it is eighteen years since i was last in this room," he said. "time hasn't improved it, nor me, either, very likely," he added, with a short laugh. "i've roamed pretty much all over the world in that time, and i've come back as poor as i went away. what's that copy i used to write?--'a rolling stone gathers no moss.' well, i'm the rolling stone. in all that time my uncle paul has been moored fast to his hearthstone, and been piling up gold, which he don't seem to have much use for. as far as i know, i'm his nearest relation, there's no reason why he shouldn't launch out a little for the benefit of the family." it will be gathered from the foregoing soliloquy that the newcomer was a nephew of paul nichols. after a not very creditable youth, he had gone to sea, and for eighteen years this was his first reappearance in his native town. he sat down in a chair, and stretched out his legs, with an air of being at home. "i wonder what the old man will say when he sees me," he soliloquized. "ten to one he won't know me. when we saw each other last i was a smooth-faced youth. now i've got hair enough on my face, and the years have made, their mark upon me, i suspect. where is he, i wonder, and how long have i got to wait for him? while i'm waiting, i'll take the liberty of looking in the closet, and seeing if he hasn't something to refresh the inner man. i didn't make much of a breakfast, and something hearty wouldn't come amiss." he rose from his chair, and opened the closet door. a small collection of crockery was visible, most of it cracked, but there was nothing eatable to be seen, except half a loaf of bread. this was from the baker, for the old man, after ineffectual efforts to make his own bread, had been compelled to abandon the attempt, and patronize the baker. "nothing but a half loaf, and that's dry enough," muttered the stranger. "that isn't very tempting. i can't say much for my uncle's fare, unless he has got something more attractive somewhere." but, search as carefully as he might, nothing better could be found, and his appetite was not sufficiently great to encourage an attack upon the stale loaf. he sat down, rather discontented, and resumed the current of his reflections. "my uncle must be more of a miser than i thought, if he stints himself to such fare as this. it's rather a bad lookout for me. he won't be very apt to look with favor on my application for a small loan from his treasure. what's that the boy said? he don't trust any banks, but keeps his money concealed in the earth. by jove! it would be a stroke of luck if i could stumble on one of his hiding places! if i could do that while he was away, i would forego the pleasure of seeing him, and make off with what i could find. i'll look about me, and see if i can't find some of his hidden hoards." no sooner did the thought occur to him than he acted upon it. "let me see," he reflected, "where is he most likely to hide his treasure? old stockings are the favorites with old maids and widows, but i don't believe uncle paul has got any without holes in them. he's more likely to hide his gold under the hearth. that's a good idea, i'll try the hearth first." he kneeled down, and began to examine the bricks, critically, with a view of ascertaining whether any bore the marks of having been removed recently, for he judged correctly that a miser would wish, from time to time, to unearth his treasure for the pleasure of looking at it. but there was no indication of disturbance. the hearth bore a uniform appearance, and did not seem to have been tampered with. "that isn't the right spot," reflected the visitor. "perhaps there's a plank in the floor that raises, or, still more likely, the gold is buried in the cellar. i've a great mind to go down there." he lit a candle, and went cautiously down the rickety staircase. but he had hardly reached the bottom of the stairs, when he caught the sound of a wagon entering the yard. "that must be my uncle," he said. "i'd better go up, and not let him catch me down here." he ascended the stairs, and re-entered the room just as the farmer opened the door and entered. on seeing a tall, bearded stranger, whom he did not recognize, standing before him in his own kitchen, with a lighted candle in his hand, paul nichols uttered a shrill cry of alarm, and ejaculated: "thieves! murder! robbers!" in a quavering voice. chapter ix. the unwelcome guest. the stranger was in rather an awkward predicament. however, he betrayed neither embarrassment nor alarm. blowing out the candle, he advanced to the table and set it down. this movement brought him nearer paul nichols, who, with the timidity natural to an old man, anticipated an immediate attack. "don't kill me! spare my life!" he exclaimed, hastily stepping back. "i see you don't know me, uncle paul?" said the intruder, familiarly. "who are you that call me uncle paul?" asked the old man, somewhat reassured. "benjamin haley, your sister's son. do you know me now?" "you ben haley!" exclaimed the old man, betraying surprise. "why, you are old enough to be his father." "remember, uncle paul, i am eighteen years older than when you saw me last. time brings changes, you know. when i saw you last, you were a man in the prime of life, now you are a feeble old man." "are you really ben haley?" asked the old man, doubtfully. "to be sure i am. i suppose i look to you more like a bearded savage. well, i'm not responsible for my looks. not finding you at home, i took the liberty of coming in on the score of relationship." "what, were you doing with that candle?" asked paul, suspiciously. "i went down cellar with it." "down cellar!" repeated his uncle, with a look of alarm which didn't escape his nephew. "what for?" "in search of something to eat. all i could find in the closet was a dry loaf, which doesn't look very appetizing." "there's nothing down cellar. don't go there again," said the old man, still uneasy. his nephew looked at him shrewdly. "ha, uncle paul! i've guessed your secret so quick," he said to himself. "some of your money is hidden away in the cellar, i'm thinking." "where do you keep your provisions, then?" he said aloud. "the loaf is all i have." "come, uncle paul, you don't mean that. that's a scurvy welcome to give a nephew you haven't seen for eighteen years. i'm going to stay to dinner with you, and you must give me something better than that. haven't you got any meat in the house?" "no." just then ben haley, looking from the window, saw some chickens in the yard. his eye lighted up at the discovery. "ah, there is a nice fat chicken," he said. "we'll have a chicken dinner. shall it be roast or boiled?" "no, no," said the old farmer, hastily. "i can't spare them. they'll bring a good price in the market by and by." "can't help it, uncle paul. charity begins at home. excuse me a minute, i'll be back directly." he strode to the door and out into the yard. then, after a little maneuvering, he caught a chicken, and going to the block, seized the ax, and soon decapitated it. "what have you done?" said paul, ruefully, for the old man had followed his nephew, and was looking on in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. "taken the first step toward a good dinner," said the other, coolly. "i am not sure but we shall want two." "no, no!" said paul, hastily. "i haven't got much appetite." "then perhaps we can make it do. i'll just get it ready, and cook it myself. i've knocked about in all sorts of places, and it won't be the first time i've served as cook. i've traveled some since i saw you last." "have you?" said the old man, who seemed more interested in the untimely death of the pullet than in his nephew's adventures. "yes, i've been everywhere. i spent a year in australia at the gold diggings." "did you find any?" asked his uncle, for the first time betraying interest. "some, but i didn't bring away any." ben haley meanwhile was rapidly stripping the chicken of its feathers. when he finished, he said, "now tell me where you keep your vegetables, uncle paul?" "they're in the corn barn. you can't get in. it's locked." "where's the key?" "lost." "i'll get in, never fear," said the intruder, and he led the way to the corn barn, his uncle unwillingly following and protesting that it would be quite impossible to enter. reaching the building, he stepped back and was about to kick open the door, when old paul hurriedly interposed, saying, "no, no, i've found the key." his nephew took it from his hand, and unlocking the door, brought out a liberal supply of potatoes, beets and squashes. "we'll have a good dinner, after all," he said. "you don't half know how to live, uncle paul. you need me here. you've got plenty around you, but you don't know how to use it." the free and easy manner in which his nephew conducted himself was peculiarly annoying and exasperating to the old man, but as often as he was impelled to speak, the sight of his nephew's resolute face and vigorous frame, which he found it difficult to connect with his recollections of young ben, terrified him into silence, and he contented himself with following his nephew around uneasily with looks of suspicion. when the dinner was prepared both sat down to partake of it, but ben quietly, and, as a matter of course, assumed the place of host and carved the fowl. notwithstanding the shock which his economical notions had received, the farmer ate with appetite the best meal of which he had partaken for a long time. ben had not vaunted too highly his skill as a cook. wherever he had acquired it, he evidently understood the preparation of such a dinner as now lay before them. "now, uncle paul, if we only had a mug of cider to wash down the dinner. haven't you got some somewhere?" "not a drop." "don't you think i might find some stored away in the cellar, for instance?" asked ben, fixing his glance upon his uncle's face. "no, no; didn't i tell you i hadn't got any?" returned paul nichols, with petulance and alarm. "i mean to see what else you have in the cellar," said ben, to himself, "before i leave this place. there's a reason for that pale face of yours." but he only said aloud, "well, if you haven't got any we must do without it. there's a little more of the chicken left. as you don't want it i'll appropriate it. nothing like clearing up things. come, this is rather better than dry bread, isn't it?" "it's very expensive," said the miser, ruefully. "well, you can afford it, uncle paul--there's a comfort in that. i suppose you are pretty rich, eh?" "rich!" repeated paul, in dismay. "what put such a thing into your head?" "not your style of living, you may be sure of that." "i am poor, benjamin. you mustn't think otherwise. i live as well as i can afford." "then what have you been doing with your savings all these years?" "my savings! it has taken all i had to live. there isn't any money to be made in farming. it's hard work and poor pay." "you used to support your family comfortably when you had one." "don't--don't speak of them. i can't bear it," said paul, his countenance changing. "when i had them i was happy." "and now you're not. well, i don't wonder at it. it must be dismal enough living alone. you need somebody with you. i am your nephew and nearest relation. i feel that it is my duty to stay with you." the expression of dismay which overspread the old man's face at this declaration was ludicrous. "you stay with me?" he repeated, in a tone of alarm. "yes, for a time at least. we'll be company for each other, won't we, uncle paul?" "no, no; there's no room." "no room? you don't mean to say that you need the whole house?" "i mean i cannot afford to have you here. besides i'm used to being alone. i prefer it." "that's complimentary, at any rate. you prefer to be alone rather than to have me with you?" "don't be offended, benjamin. i've been alone so many years. besides you'd feel dull here. you wouldn't like it." "i'll try it and see. what room are you going to give me?" "you'd better go away." "well, uncle, we'll talk about that to-morrow. you're very considerate in fearing it will be dull for me, but i've roamed about the world so much that i shall be glad of a little dullness. so it's all settled. and now, uncle paul, if you don't object i'll take out my pipe and have a smoke. i always smoke after dinner." he lit his pipe, and throwing himself back in a chair, began to puff away leisurely, his uncle surveying him with fear and embarrassment. why should his graceless nephew turn up, after so many years, in the form of this big, broad-shouldered, heavy-bearded stranger, only to annoy him, and thrust his unwelcome company upon him? chapter x. uncle and nephew. paul nichols looked forward with dismay to the prospect of having his nephew remain with him as a guest. like all misers, he had a distrust of every one, and the present appearance of his nephew only confirmed the impressions he still retained of his earlier bad conduct. he had all the will to turn him out of his house, but ben was vastly his superior in size and strength, and he did not dare to attempt it. "he wants to rob, perhaps to murder me," thought paul, surveying his big nephew with a troubled gaze. his apprehensions were such that he even meditated offering to pay the intruder's board for a week at the tavern, if he would leave him in peace by himself. but the reluctance to part with his money finally prevented such a proposal being made. in the afternoon the old man stayed around home. he did not dare to leave it lest ben should take a fancy to search the house, and come upon some of his secret hoards, for people were right in reporting that he hid his money. at last evening came. with visible discomposure the old man showed ben to a room. "you can sleep there," he said, pointing to a cot bed in the corner of the room. "all right, uncle. good-night!" "good-night!" said paul nichols. he went out and closed the door behind him. he not only closed it, but locked it, having secretly hidden the key in his pocket. he chuckled softly to himself as he went downstairs. his nephew was securely disposed of for the night, being fastened in his chamber. but if he expected ben haley quietly to submit to this incarceration he was entirely mistaken in that individual. the latter heard the key turn in the lock, and comprehended at once his uncle's stratagem. instead of being angry, he was amused. "so my simple-minded uncle thinks he has drawn my teeth, does he? i'll give him a scare." he began to jump up and down on the chamber floor in his heavy boots, which, as the floor was uncarpeted, made a terrible noise. the old man in the room below, just congratulating himself on his cunning move, grew pale as he listened. he supposed his nephew to be in a furious passion, and apprehensions of personal violence disturbed him. still he reflected that he would be unable to get out, and in the morning he could go for the constable. but he was interrupted by a different noise. ben had drawn off his boots, and was firing them one after the other at the door. the noise became so intolerable, that paul was compelled to ascend the stairs, trembling with fear. "what's the matter?" he inquired at the door, in a quavering voice. "open the door," returned ben. his uncle reluctantly inserted the key in the lock and opening it presented a pale, scared face in the doorway. his nephew, with his coat stripped off, was sitting on the side of the bed. "what's the matter?" asked paul. "nothing, only you locked the door by mistake," said ben, coolly. "what made you make such a noise?" demanded paul. "to call you up. there was no bell in the room, so that was the only way i had of doing it. what made you lock me in?" "i didn't think," stammered the old man. "just what i supposed. to guard against your making that mistake again, let me have the key." "i'd rather keep it, if it's the same to you," said paul, in alarm. "but it isn't the same to me. you see, uncle paul, you are growing old and forgetful, and might lock me in again. that would not be pleasant, you know, especially if the house should catch fire in the night." "what!" exclaimed paul, terror-stricken, half suspecting his nephew contemplated turning incendiary. "i don't think it will, mind, but it's best to be prepared, so give me the key." the old man feebly protested, but ended in giving up the key to his nephew. "there, that's all right. now i'll turn in. good-night." "good-night," responded paul nichols, and left the chamber, feeling more alarmed than ever. he was beginning to be more afraid and more distrustful of his nephew than ever. what if the latter should light on some of his various hiding places for money? why, in that very chamber he had a hundred dollars in gold hidden behind the plastering. he groaned in spirit as he thought of it, and determined to tell his nephew the next morning that he must find another home, as he couldn't and wouldn't consent to his remaining longer. but when the morning came he found the task a difficult one to enter upon. finally, after breakfast, which consisted of eggs and toast, ben haley having ransacked the premises for eggs, which the old man intended for the market, paul said, "benjamin, you must not be offended, but i have lived alone for years, and i cannot invite you to stay longer." "where shall i go, uncle?" demanded ben, taking out his pipe coolly, and lighting it. "there's a tavern in the village." "is there? that won't do me any good." "you'll be better off there than here. they set a very good table, and----" "you don't," said ben, finishing the sentence. "i know that, but then, uncle, i have two reasons for preferring to stay here. the first is, that i may enjoy the society of my only living relation; the second is, that i have not money enough to pay my board at the hotel." he leaned back, and began to puff leisurely at his pipe, as if this settled the matter. "if you have no money, why do you come to me?" demanded paul, angrily. "do you expect me to support you?" "you wouldn't turn out your sister's son, would you, uncle paul?" "you must earn your own living. i can't support you in idleness." "you needn't; i'll work for you. let me see, i'll do the cooking." "i don't want you here," said the old man, desperately. "why do you come to disturb me, after so many years?" "i'll go away on one condition," said ben haley. "what's that?" "give me, or lend me--i don't care which--a hundred dollars." "do you think i'm made of money?" asked paul, fear and anger struggling for the mastery. "i think you can spare me a hundred dollars." "go away! you are a bad man. you were a wild, bad boy, and you are no better now." "now, uncle paul, i think you're rather too hard upon me. just consider that i am your nephew. what will people say if you turn me out of doors?" "i don't care what they say. i can't have you here." "i'm sorry i can't oblige you by going, uncle paul, but i've got a headache this morning, and don't feel like stirring. let me stay with you a day or two, and then i may go." vain were all the old man's expostulations. his nephew sat obstinately smoking, and refused to move. "come out to the barn with me while i milk," said paul, at length, not daring to leave his nephew by himself. "thank you, but i'm well off as i am. i've got a headache, and i'd rather stay here." milking couldn't longer be deferred. but for the stranger's presence it would have been attended to two hours earlier. groaning in spirit, and with many forebodings, paul went out to the barn, and in due time returned with his foaming pails. there sat his nephew in the old place, apparently not having stirred. possibly he didn't mean mischief after all, paul reflected. at any rate, he must leave him again, while he released the cows from their stalls, and drove them to pasture. he tried to obtain his nephew's companionship, but in vain. "i'm not interested in cows, uncle," he said. "i'll be here when you come back." with a sigh his uncle left the house, only half reassured. that he had reason for his distrust was proved by ben haley's movements. he lighted a candle, and going down to the cellar, first securing a pickax, struck into the earthen flooring, and began to work energetically. "i am sure some of the old man's money is here," he said to himself. "i must work fast, or he'll catch me at it." half an hour later paul nichols re-entered the house. he looked for his nephew, but his seat was vacant. he thought he heard a dull thud in the cellar beneath. he hurried to the staircase, and tottered down. ben had come upon a tin quart-measure partly filled with gold coins, and was stooping over, transferring them to his pocket. with a hoarse cry like that of an animal deprived of its young, his uncle sprang upon him, and fastened his claw-like nails in the face of his burly nephew. chapter xi. robert comes to the rescue. the attack was so sudden, and the old man's desperation so reinforced his feeble strength, that ben haley was thrown forward, and the measure of gold coins fell from his hand. but he quickly recovered himself. "let me alone," he said, sternly, forcibly removing his uncle's hands from his face, but not before the claw-like nails had drawn blood. "let me alone, if you know what is best for yourself." "you're a thief!" screamed paul. "you shall go to jail for this." "shall i?" asked ben, his face darkening and his tone full of menace. "who is going to send me there?" "i am," answered paul. "i'll have you arrested." "look here, uncle paul," said ben, confining the old man's arms to his side, "it's time we had a little talk together. you'd better not do as you say." "you're a thief! the jail is the place for thieves." "it isn't the place for me, and i'm not going there. now let us come to an understanding. you are rich and i am poor." "rich!" repeated paul. "yes; at any rate, you have got this farm, and more money hidden away than you will ever use. i am poor. you can spare me this money here as well as not." "it is all i have." "i know better than that. you have plenty more, but i will be satisfied with this. remember, i am your sister's son." "i don't care if you are," said the old man, doggedly. "and you owe me some help. you'll never miss it. now make up your mind to give me this money, and i'll go away and leave you in peace." "never!" exclaimed paul, struggling hard to free himself. "you won't!" his uncle repeated the emphatic refusal. "then i shall have to put it out of your power to carry out your threat." he took his uncle up in his strong arms, and moved toward the stairs. "are you going to murder me?" asked paul, in mortal fear. "you will find out what i am going to do," said ben, grimly. he carried his uncle upstairs, and, possessing himself of a clothesline in one corner of the kitchen, proceeded to tie him hand and foot, despite his feeble opposition. "there," said he, when his uncle lay before him utterly helpless, "i think that disposes of you for a while. now for the gold." leaving him on the floor, he again descended the cellar stairs, and began to gather up the gold coins, which had been scattered about the floor at the time of paul's unexpected attack. the old man groaned in spirit as he found himself about to be robbed, and utterly helpless to resist the outrage. but help was near at hand, though he knew it not. robert rushton had thought more than once of his unknown passenger of the day before, and the particular inquiries he made concerning paul nichols and his money. ben haley had impressed him far from favorably, and the more he called to mind his appearance, the more he feared that he meditated some dishonest designs upon paul. so the next morning, in order to satisfy his mind that all was right, he rowed across to the same place where he had landed ben, and fastening his boat, went up to the farmhouse. he reached it just as ben, having secured the old man, had gone back into the cellar to gather up the gold. robert looked into the window, and, to his surprise, saw the old farmer lying bound hand and foot. he quickly leaped in, and asked: "what is the matter? who has done this?" "hush!" said the old man, "he'll hear you." "who do you mean?" "my nephew." "where is he?" "down cellar. he's tied me here, and is stealing all my gold." "what shall i do? can i help you?" "cut the ropes first." robert drew a jackknife from his pocket, and did as he was bidden. "now," said paul, rising with a sigh of relief from his constrained position, "while i bolt the cellar door, you go upstairs, and in the closet of the room over this you will find a gun. it is loaded. bring it down." robert hurried upstairs, and quickly returned with the weapon. "do you know how to fire a gun?" asked paul. "yes," said robert. "then keep it. for i am nervous, and my hand trembles. if he breaks through the door, fire." ben haley would have been up before this, but it occurred to him to explore other parts of the cellar, that he might carry away as much booty as possible. he had rendered himself amenable to the law already, and he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so he argued. he was so busily occupied that he did not hear the noise of robert's entrance into the room above, or he would at once have gone upstairs. in consequence of the delay his uncle and robert had time to concert measures for opposing him. finally, not succeeding in finding more gold, he pocketed what he had found, and went up the cellar stairs. he attempted to open the door, when, to his great surprise, he found that it resisted his efforts. "what makes the door stick so?" he muttered, not suspecting the true state of the case. but he was quickly enlightened. "you can't come up!" exclaimed the old man, in triumph. "i've bolted the door." "how did he get free? he must have untied the knots," thought ben. "does the old fool think he is going to keep me down here?" "unlock the door," he shouted, in a loud, stern voice, "or it will be the worse for you." "have you got the gold with you?" "yes." "then go down and leave it where you found it, and i will let you come up." "you're a fool," was the reply. "do you think i am a child? open the door, or i will burst it open with my foot." "you'd better not," said paul, whose courage had returned with the presence of robert and the possession of the gun. "why not? what are you going to do about it?" asked ben, derisively. "i've got help. you have more than one to contend with." "i wonder if he has any one with him?" thought ben. "i believe the old fool is only trying to deceive me. at any rate, help or no help, it is time i were out of this hole." "if you don't open the door before i count three," he said, aloud, "i'll burst it open." "what shall i do," asked robert, in a low voice, "if he comes out?" "if he tries to get away with the gold, fire!" said the old man. robert determined only to inflict a wound. the idea of taking a human life, even under such circumstances, was one that made him shudder. he felt that gold was not to be set against life. "one--two--three!" counted ben, deliberately. the door remaining locked, he drew back and kicked the door powerfully. had he been on even ground, it would have yielded to the blow, but kicking from the stair beneath, placed him at a disadvantage. nevertheless the door shook and trembled beneath the force of the attack made upon it. "well, will you unlock it now?" he demanded, pausing. "no," said the old man, "not unless you carry back the gold." "i won't do that. i have had too much trouble to get it. but if you don't unlock the door at once i may be tempted to forget that you are my uncle." "i should like to forget that you are my nephew," said the old man. "the old fool has mustered up some courage," thought ben. "i'll soon have him whining for mercy." he made a fresh attack upon the door. this time he did not desist until he had broken through the panel. then with the whole force he could command he threw himself against the upper part of the door, and it came crashing into the kitchen. ben haley leaped through the opening and confronted his uncle, who receded in alarm. the sight of the burly form of his nephew, and his stern and menacing countenance, once more made him quail. ben haley looked around him, and his eyes lighted upon robert rushton standing beside the door with the gun in his hand. he burst into a derisive laugh, and turning to his uncle, said: "so this is the help you were talking about. he's only a baby. i could twist him around my finger. just lay down that gun, boy! it isn't meant for children like you." chapter xii. escape. though he had a weapon in his hand, many boys in robert's situation would have been unnerved. he was a mere boy, though strong of his age. opposed to him was a tall, strong man, of desperate character, fully resolved to carry out his dishonest purpose, and not likely to shrink from violence, to which he was probably only too well accustomed. from the old man he was not likely to obtain assistance, for already paul's courage had begun to dwindle, and he regarded his nephew with a scared look. "lay down that gun, boy!" repeated ben haley. "i know you. you're the boy that rowed me across the river. you can row pretty well, but you're not quite a match for me even at that." "this gun makes me even with you," said robert, returning his look unflinchingly. "does it? then all i can say is, that when you lose it you'll be in a bad pickle. lay it down instantly." "then lay down the gold you have in your pockets," said our hero, still pointing his gun at haley. "good boy! brave boy!" said the old man, approvingly. "look here, boy," said haley, in quick, stern tones, "i've had enough of this nonsense. if you don't put down that gun in double quick time, you'll repent it. one word--yes or no!" "no," said robert, resolutely. no sooner had he uttered the monosyllable than haley sprang toward him with the design of wresting the gun from him. but robert had his finger upon the trigger, and fired. the bullet entered the shoulder of the ruffian, but in the excitement of the moment he only knew that he was hit, but this incensed him. in spite of the wound he seized the musket and forcibly wrested it from our hero. he raised it in both hands and would probably in his blind fury have killed him on the spot, but for the sudden opening of the outer door, and entrance of a neighboring farmer, who felt sufficiently intimate to enter without knocking. this changed haley's intention. feeling that the odds were against him, he sprang through the window, gun in hand, and ran with rapid strides towards the river. "what's the matter?" demanded the new arrival, surveying the scene before him in astonishment. "he's gone off with my gold," exclaimed paul nichols, recovering from his stupefaction. "run after him, catch him!" "who is it?" "ben haley." "what, your nephew! i thought he was dead long ago." "i wish he had been," said paul, wringing his hands. "he's taken all my money--i shall die in the poorhouse." "i can't understand how it all happened," said the neighbor, looking to robert for an explanation. "who fired the gun?" "i did," said our hero. "did you hit him?" "i think so. i saw blood on his shirt. i must have hit him in the shoulder." "don't stop to talk," said paul, impatiently. "go after him and get back the gold." "we can't do much," said the neighbor, evidently not very anxious to come into conflict with such a bold ruffian. "he has the gun with him." "what made you let him have it?" asked paul. "i couldn't help it," said robert. "but he can't fire it. it is unloaded, and i don't think he has any ammunition with him." "to be sure," said paul, eagerly. "you see there's no danger. go after him, both of you, he can't hurt ye." somewhat reassured the neighbor followed robert, who at once started in pursuit of the escaped burglar. he was still in sight, though he had improved the time consumed in the foregoing colloquy, and was already near the river bank. on he sped, bent on making good his escape with the money he had dishonestly acquired. one doubt was in his mind. should he find a boat? if not, the river would prove an insuperable obstacle, and he would be compelled to turn and change the direction of his flight. looking over his shoulder he saw robert and the farmer on his track, and he clutched his gun the more firmly. "they'd better not touch me," he said to himself. "if i can't fire the gun i can brain either or both with it." thoughts of crossing the stream by swimming occurred to him. a sailor by profession, he was an expert swimmer, and the river was not wide enough to daunt him. but his pockets were filled with the gold he had stolen, and gold is well known to be the heaviest of all the metals. but nevertheless he could not leave it behind since it was for this he had incurred his present peril. in this uncertainty he reached the bank of the river, when to his surprise and joy his eye rested upon robert's boat. "the boy's boat!" he exclaimed, in exultation, "by all that's lucky! i will take the liberty of borrowing it without leave." he sprang in, and seizing one of the oars, pushed out into the stream, first drawing up the anchor. when robert and his companion reached the shore he was already floating at a safe distance. "he's got my boat!" exclaimed our hero, in disappointment. "so he has!" ejaculated the other. "you're a little too late!" shouted ben haley, with a sneer. "just carry back my compliments to the old fool yonder and tell him i left in too great a hurry to give him my note for the gold he kindly lent me. i'll attend to it when i get ready." he had hitherto sculled the boat. now he took the other oar and commenced rowing. but here the wound, of which he had at first been scarcely conscious, began to be felt, and the first vigorous stroke brought a sharp twinge, besides increasing the flow of blood. his natural ferocity was stimulated by his unpleasant discovery, and he shook his fist menacingly at robert, from whom he had received the wound. "there's a reckoning coming betwixt you and me, young one!" he cried, "and it'll be a heavy one. ben haley don't forget that sort of debt. the time'll come when he'll pay it back with interest. it mayn't come for years, but it'll come at last, you may be sure of that." finding that he could not row on account of his wound, he rose to his feet, and sculled the boat across as well as he could with one hand. "i wish i had another boat," said robert. "we could soon overtake him." "better let him go," said the neighbor. "he was always a bad one, that ben haley. i couldn't begin to tell you all the bad things he did when he was a boy. he was a regular dare-devil. you must look out for him, or he'll do you a mischief some time, to pay for that wound." "he brought it on himself," said robert "i gave him warning." he went back to the farmhouse to tell paul of his nephew's escape. he was brave and bold, but the malignant glance with which ben haley uttered his menace, gave him a vague sense of discomfort. chapter xiii. revenge. in spite of his wounded arm ben haley succeeded in propelling the boat to the opposite shore. the blood was steadily, though slowly, flowing from his wound, and had already stained his shirt red for a considerable space. in the excitement of first receiving it he had not felt the pain; now, however, the wound began to pain him, and, as might be expected, his feeling of animosity toward our hero was not diminished. "that cursed boy!" he muttered, between his teeth. "i wish i had had time to give him one blow--he wouldn't have wanted another. i hope the wound isn't serious--if it is, i may have paid dear for the gold." still, the thought of the gold in his pockets afforded some satisfaction. he had been penniless; now he was the possessor of--as near as he could estimate, for he had not had time to count--five hundred dollars in gold. that was more than he had ever possessed before at one time, and would enable him to live at ease for a while. on reaching the shore he was about to leave the boat to its fate, when he espied a boy standing at a little distance, with a hatchet in his hand. this gave him an idea. "come here, boy," he said. the boy came forward, and examined the stranger with curiosity. "is that your hatchet?" he asked. "no, sir. it belongs to my father." "would you mind selling it to me if i will give you money enough to buy a new one?" "this is an old hatchet." "it will suit me just as well, and i haven't time to buy another. would your father sell it?" "yes, sir; i guess so." "very well. what will a new one cost you?" the boy named the price. "here is the money, and twenty-five cents more to pay you for your trouble in going to the store." the boy pocketed the money with satisfaction. he was a farmer's son, and seldom had any money in his possession. he already had twenty-five cents saved up toward the purchase of a junior ball, and the stranger's gratuity would just make up the sum necessary to secure it. he was in a hurry to make the purchase, and, accordingly, no sooner had he received the money than he started at once for the village store. his departure was satisfactory to ben haley, who now had nothing to prevent his carrying out his plans. "i wanted to be revenged on the boy, and now i know how," he said. "i'll make some trouble for him with this hatchet." he drew the boat up and fastened it. then he deliberately proceeded to cut away at the bottom with his newly-acquired hatchet. he had a strong arm, and his blows were made more effective by triumphant malice. the boat he supposed to belong to robert, and he was determined to spoil it. he hacked away with such energy that soon there was a large hole in the bottom of the boat. not content with inflicting this damage, he cut it in various other places, until it presented an appearance very different from the neat, stanch boat of which will paine had been so proud. at length ben stopped, and contemplated the ruin he had wrought with malicious satisfaction. "that's the first instalment in my revenge," he said. "i should like to see my young ferryman's face when he sees his boat again. it'll cost him more than he'll ever get from my miserly uncle to repair it. it serves him right for meddling with matters that don't concern him. and now i must be getting away, for my affectionate uncle will soon be raising a hue and cry after me if i'm not very much mistaken." he would like to have gone at once to obtain medical assistance for his wound, but to go to the village doctor would be dangerous. he must wait till he had got out of the town limits, and the farther away the better. he knew when the train would start, and made his way across the fields to the station, arriving just in time to catch it. first, however, he bound a handkerchief round his shoulder to arrest the flow of blood. when he reached the station, and was purchasing his ticket, the station-master noticed the blood upon his shirt. "are you hurt, sir?" he asked. "yes, a little," said ben haley. "how did it happen?" inquired the other, with yankee inquisitiveness. "i was out hunting," said ben, carelessly, "with a friend who wasn't much used to firearms. in swinging his gun round, it accidentally went off, and i got shot through the shoulder." "that's bad," said the station-master, in a tone of sympathy. "you'd better go round to the doctor's, and have it attended to." "i would," said ben, "but i am called away by business of the greatest importance. i can get along for a few hours, and then i'll have a doctor look at it. how soon will the train be here?" "it's coming now. don't you hear it?" "that's the train i must take. you see i couldn't wait long enough for the doctor," added ben, anxious to account satisfactorily for his inattention to the medical assistance of which he stood in need. when he was fairly on board the cars, and the train was under way, he felt considerably relieved. he was speeding fast away from the man he had robbed, and who was interested in his capture, and in a few days he might be at sea, able to snap his fingers at his miserly uncle and the boy whom he determined some day to meet and settle scores with. from one enemy of robert the transition is brief and natural to another. at this very moment halbert davis was sauntering idly and discontentedly through the streets of the village. he was the son of a rich man, or of one whom most persons, his own family included, supposed to be rich; but this consciousness, though it made him proud, by no means made him happy. he had that morning at the breakfast table asked his father to give him a boat like will paine's, but mr. davis had answered by a decided refusal. "you don't need any boat," he said, sharply. "it wouldn't cost very much," pleaded halbert. "how much do you suppose?" "will paine told me his father paid fifty dollars for his." "why don't you borrow it sometimes?" "i can't borrow it. will started a day or two since for boarding school." "better still. i will hire it for you while he is away." "i thought of it myself," said halbert, "but just before he went away will lent it to the factory boy," sneering as he uttered the last two words. "do you mean robert rushton?" "yes." "that's only a boy's arrangement. i will see mr. paine, and propose to pay him for the use of the boat, and i presume he will be willing to accede to my terms." "when will you see him?" asked halbert, hopefully. "i will try to see him in the course of the day." it turned out, however, that there was no need of calling on mr. paine, for five minutes later, having some business with mr. davis, he rang the bell, and was ushered into the breakfast-room. "excuse my calling early," he said, "but i wished to see you about----" and here he stated his business, in which my readers will feel no interest. when that was over, mr. davis introduced the subject of the boat, and made the offer referred to. "i am sorry to refuse," said mr. paine, "but my son, before going away, passed his promise to robert rushton that he should have it during his absence." "do you hold yourself bound by such a promise?" inquired mrs. davis, with a disagreeable smile. "certainly," said the lawyer, gravely. "robert is a valued friend of my son's, and i respect boyish friendship. i remember very well my own boyhood, and i had some strong friendships at that time." "i don't see what your son can find to like in robert rushton," said mrs. davis, with something of halbert's manner. "i think him a very disagreeable and impertinent boy." mr. paine did not admire mrs. davis, and was not likely to be influenced by her prejudices. without inquiry, therefore, into the cause of her unfavorable opinion, he said, "i have formed quite a different opinion of robert. i am persuaded that you do him injustice." "he attacked halbert ferociously the other day," said mrs. davis, determined to impart the information whether asked or not. "he has an ungovernable temper." mr. paine glanced shrewdly at halbert, of whose arrogant and quarrelsome disposition he had heard from his own son, and replied, "i make it a point not to interfere in boys' quarrels. william speaks very highly of robert, and it affords him great satisfaction, i know, to leave the boat in his charge." mrs. davis saw that there was no use in pursuing the subject, and it dropped. after the lawyer had gone halbert made his petition anew, but without satisfactory results. the fact was, mr. davis had heard unfavorable reports from new york the day previous respecting a stock in which he had an interest, and it was not a favorable moment to prefer a request involving the outlay of money. it was this refusal which made halbert discontented and unhappy. the factory boy, as he sneeringly called him, could have a boat, while he, a gentleman's son, was forced to go without one. of course, he would not stoop to ask the loan of the boat, however much he wanted it, from a boy he disliked so much as robert. he wondered whether robert were out this morning. so, unconsciously, his steps led him to the shore of the river, where he knew the boat was generally kept. he cast his eye toward it, when what was his surprise to find the object of his desire half full of water, with a large hole in the bottom and defaced in other respects. chapter xiv. two unsatisfactory interviews. halbert's first emotion was surprise, his second was gratification. his rival could no longer enjoy the boat which he had envied him. not only that, but he would get into trouble with mr. paine on account of the damage which it had received. being under his care, it was his duty to keep it in good condition. "i wonder how it happened?" thought halbert. "won't the young beggar be in a precious scrape when it's found out? most likely he won't let mr. paine know." in this thought he judged robert by himself. straightway the plan suggested itself of going to the lawyer himself and informing him of robert's delinquency. it would be a very agreeable way of taking revenge him. the plan so pleased him that he at once directed his steps toward mr. paine's office. on the way he overtook hester paine, the young lady on whose account he was chiefly incensed against robert. being as desirous as ever of standing in the young lady's good graces, he hurriedly advanced to her side, and lifting his hat with an air of ceremonious politeness, he said: "good-morning, hester." hester paine was not particularly well pleased with the meeting. she had been made acquainted by her brother with the quarrel between halbert and robert, and the mean revenge which the former had taken in procuring the dismissal of the latter from the factory. having a partiality for robert, this was not likely to recommend his enemy in her eyes. "good-morning, mr. davis," she said, with cool politeness. "you are very ceremonious this morning, miss hester," said halbert, who liked well enough to be called "mr." by others, but not by hester. "am i?" asked hester, indifferently. "how so?" "you called me mr. davis." "that's your name, isn't it?" "i am not called so by my intimate friends." "no, i suppose not," said hester, thus disclaiming the title. halbert bit his lips. he was not in love, not because he was too young, but because he was too selfish to be in love with anybody except himself. but he admired hester, and the more she slighted him the more he was determined to force her to like him. he did, however, feel a little piqued at her behavior, and that influenced his next words. "perhaps you'd rather have the factory boy walking beside you," he said, with not very good judgment, if he wanted to recommend himself to her. "there are a good many factory boys in town," she said. "i can't tell unless you tell me whom you mean." "i mean robert rushton." "perhaps i might," said hester. "he's a low fellow," said halbert, bitterly. "no one thinks so but you," retorted hester, indignantly. "my father was obliged to dismiss him from the factory." "i know all about that, and who was the means of having him sent away." "i suppose you mean me." "yes, halbert davis, i mean you, and i consider it a very mean thing to do," said hester, her cheeks flushed with the indignation she felt. "he attacked me like the low ruffian that he is," pleaded halbert, in extenuation. "if he hadn't insulted me, he wouldn't have got into trouble." "you struck him first, you know you did. my brother told me all about it. you were angry because he walked home with me. i would rather go home alone any time than have your escort." "you're very polite, miss hester," said halbert, angrily. "i can tell you some news about your favorite." "if it's anything bad, i won't believe it." "you'll have to believe it." "well, what is it?" demanded hester, who was not altogether unlike girls in general, and so felt curious to learn what it was that halbert had to reveal. "your brother was foolish enough to leave his boat in rushton's care." "that is no news. will was very glad to do robert a favor." "he'll be sorry enough now." "why will he?" "because the boat is completely ruined." "i don't believe it," said hester, hastily. "it's true, though. i was down at the river just now, and saw it with my own eyes. there is a great hole in the bottom, and it is hacked with a hatchet, so that it wouldn't bring half price." "do you know who did it?" asked hester, with the momentary thought that halbert himself might have been tempted by his hatred into the commission of the outrage. "no, i don't. it was only accidentally i saw it." "was robert at the boat?" "no." "have you asked him about it?" "no, i have not seen him." "then i am sure some enemy has done it. i am sure it is no fault of his." "if your brother had let me have the boat, it wouldn't have happened. i offered him a fair price for its use." "he won't be sorry he refused, whatever has happened. but i must bid you good-morning, mr. davis," and the young lady, who was now at her own gate, opened it, and entered. "she might have been polite enough to invite me in," said halbert, with chagrin. "i don't see how she can be so taken up with that low fellow." he waited till hester had entered the house, and then bent his steps to mr. paine's office, which was a small one-story building in one corner of the yard. the lawyer was sitting at a table covered with papers, from which he looked up as halbert entered the office. "sit down, halbert," he said. "any message from your father?" "no, sir." "no legal business of your own?" he inquired, with a smile. "no, sir, no legal business." "well, if you have any business, you may state it at once, as i am quite busy." "it is about the boat which your son lent to robert rushton." "i shall not interfere with that arrangement," said the lawyer, misunderstanding his object. "i told your father that this morning," and he resumed his writing. "i did not come to say anything about that. the boat wouldn't be of any use to me now." "why not?" asked the lawyer, detecting something significant in the boy's tone. "because," said halbert, in a tone which he could not divest of the satisfaction he felt at his rival's misfortune, "the boat's completely ruined." mr. paine laid down his pen in genuine surprise. "explain yourself," he said. so halbert told the story once more, taking good care to make the damage quite as great as it was. "that is very strange," said the lawyer, thoughtfully. "i can't conceive how such damage could have happened to the boat." "robert rushton don't know how to manage a boat." "you are mistaken. he understands it very well. i am sure the injury you speak of could not have happened when he was in charge. you say there was not only a hole in the bottom, but it was otherwise defaced and injured?" "yes, sir, it looked as if it had been hacked by a hatchet." "then it is quite clear that robert could have had nothing to do with it. it must have been done by some malicious person or persons." knowing something of halbert, mr. paine looked hard at him, his suspicions taking the same direction as his daughter's. but, as we know, halbert was entirely innocent, and bore the gaze without confusion. "i don't see why robert hasn't been and let me know of this," said mr. paine, musing. "he was probably afraid to tell you," said halbert, with a slight sneer. "i know him better than that. you can testify," added the lawyer, significantly, "that he is not deficient in bravery." "i thought i would come and tell you," said halbert, coloring a little. "i thought you would like to know." "you are very kind to take so much trouble," said mr. paine, but there was neither gratitude nor cordiality in his tone. halbert thought it was time to be going, and accordingly got up and took his leave. as he opened the office door to go out, he found himself face to face with robert rushton, who passed him with a slight nod, and with an air of trouble entered the presence of his friend's father. chapter xv. halbert's malice. robert was forced, by ben haley's, taking possession of his boat to give up for the present his design of recrossing the river. he felt bound to go back and inform paul of ben's escape. "he has carried off my gold," exclaimed paul, in anguish. "why didn't you catch him?" "he had too much start of us," said robert's companion. "but even if we had come up with him, i am afraid he would have proved more than a match for us. he is a desperate man. how much money did he take away with him?" "more than five hundred dollars," wailed the old man. "i am completely ruined!" "not quite so bad as that, mr. nichols. you have your farm left." but the old man was not to be comforted. he had become so wedded to his gold that to lose it was like losing his heart's blood. but was these no hope of recovery? "why don't you go after him?" he exclaimed, suddenly. "raise the neighbors. it isn't too late yet." "he's across the river before this," said robert. "get a boat and go after him." "i am willing," said our hero, promptly. "where can we find a boat, mr. dunham?" "there's one about a quarter of a mile down the stream--stetson's boat." "let's go, then." "very well, robert. i've no idea we can do anything, but we will try." "go, go. don't waste a moment," implored the old man, in feverish impatience. robert and mr. dunham started, and were soon rowing across the river in stetson's boat. "whereabout would he be likely to land?" asked the farmer. "there's my boat now," said robert, pointing it out. "he has left it where i usually keep it." quickly they rowed alongside. then to his great sorrow robert perceived the malicious injury which his enemy had wrought. "oh, mr. dunham, look at that!" he said, struck with grief. "the boat is spoiled!" "not so bad as that. it can be mended." "what will will paine say? what will his father say?" "then it isn't your boat?" "no, that is the worst of it. it was lent me by will paine, and i promised to take such good care of it." "it isn't your fault, robert?" "no, i couldn't help it, but still it wouldn't have happened if it had not been in my charge." "you can get it repaired, so that it will look almost as well as new." if robert had had plenty of money, this suggestion would have comforted him, but it will be remembered that he was almost penniless, dependent on the fish he caught for the means of supporting his mother and himself. now this resource was cut off. the boat couldn't be used until it was repaired. he felt morally bound to get it repaired, though he was guiltless of the damage. but how could he even do this? one thing was clear--mr. paine must at once be informed of the injury suffered by the boat. robert shrank from informing him, but he knew it to be his duty, and he was too brave to put it off. but first he must try to find some clew to ben haley. he had now a personal interest in bringing to justice the man who had made him so much trouble. he had scarcely got on shore than the boy who had sold ben haley the hatchet, strolled up. "who was that man who came across in your boat?" he asked. "did you see him?" asked robert, eagerly. "to be sure i did," said tom green, with satisfaction. "i sold him my old hatchet for money enough to buy a new one, and he give me a quarter besides for my trouble." "i wish you hadn't done it, tom," said robert, gravely. "see what he's done with it." tom green opened his eyes wide with astonishment. "what did he do that for?" he asked. "to be revenged on me. i'll tell you what for another time. now i want to find him. can you tell me where he went?" "no; i left him here, while i went to the store for a new hatchet." the old hatchet was found under a clump of bushes. robert took possession of it, feeling that he had a right to it, as part compensation for the mischief it had done. "we'd better go to the railroad depot, mr. dunham," he said. "he'd be most likely to go there." "you're right. we'll go." they walked rapidly to the station, but too late, of course, for the train. the station-master was standing on the platform, superintending the removal of a trunk. "mr. cross," said robert, "i want to find out if a particular man left by the last train. i'll describe him." "yes," said the station-master, "that's the man i was wondering about. he had a wound in the shoulder." "he got that from me," said robert. "sho! you don't say so," returned the station-master, in surprise. "he said he was out hunting with a friend, and his friend's gun went off accidentally." "i don't believe he feels very friendly to me," said robert, smiling. "he's stolen five or six hundred dollars in gold from old paul nichols." "it'll about kill the old man, won't it?" "he feels pretty bad about it. for what place did he buy a ticket?" "for cranston; but that ain't no guide. when he gets there, he'll buy a ticket for further on." had there been a telegraph station, robert would have telegraphed on to have ben haley stopped, but there was none nearer than the next town. he determined to give information to a justice of the peace, and leave the matter in his hands. but justice in a country town is slow, and it may as well be stated here, before anything was done ben haley was out of danger. but robert was destined to fall in with him at a future day. this business attended to, robert bent his steps to mr. paine's office. this brings us to his meeting with halbert davis at the door. he was slightly surprised at the encounter, but was far from guessing the object of halbert's call. mr. paine looked up as he entered, and had no difficulty in guessing his errand. "what can i do for you, robert?" he asked, kindly. "i bring bad news, mr. paine," said our hero, boldly plunging into the subject which had brought him to the office. "it's about the boat, isn't it?" said the lawyer. "what, do you know about it?" asked robert, in surprise. "yes; a disinterested friend brought the news." "halbert davis?" "the same. he takes a strong interest in your affairs," added the lawyer, dryly. "now tell me how it happened." robert gave a full explanation, the lawyer occasionally asking a question. "it seems, then," he said, "that you incurred this man's enmity by your defense of mr. nichols' money." "yes, sir." "it was incurred in a good cause. i can't blame you, nor will my son. i will get mr. plane, the carpenter, to look at the boat and see what he can do to repair it." "some time i will pay you the cost of the repairs, mr. paine. i would now if i had any money; but you know how i am situated." "i shall not call upon you to do that," said the lawyer, kindly. "it was not your fault." "but the damage would not have happened if will had not lent the boat to me." "that is true; but in undertaking the defense of mr. nichols you showed a pluck and courage which most boys would not have exhibited. i am interested, like all good citizens, in the prevention of theft, and in this instance i am willing to assume the cost." "you are very kind, mr. paine. i was afraid you would blame me." "no, my boy; i am not so unreasonable. it will save me some trouble if you will yourself see mr. plane and obtain from him an estimate of the probable expense of putting the boat in order." robert left the office, feeling quite relieved by the manner in which his communication had been received. a little way up the road he overtook halbert davis. in fact, halbert was waiting for him, expressly to get an opportunity of enjoying his discomfiture at the ruin of the boat. "hallo, rushton!" he said. "good-morning, halbert!" "are you going out in your boat this afternoon?" asked halbert, maliciously. "you know why i can't." "i wonder what will paine will say when he sees the good care you take of it." "i don't believe he will blame me when he knows the circumstances." "you ain't fit to have the charge of a boat. i suppose you ran it on a rock." "then you suppose wrong." "you won't be able to go out fishing any more. how will you make a living?" "without your help," said robert, coldly. "you will probably see me out again in a few days, if you take the trouble to look." "how can you go?" "mr. paine has asked me to see mr. plane about repairing the boat." "is he going to pay the expenses?" "yes." "then he's a fool." "you'd better not tell him so, or he might give you a lesson in politeness." "you're a low fellow," said halbert, angrily. "you are welcome to your opinion," returned robert, indifferently. chapter xvi. on the railroad track. robert saw the carpenter, according to mr. paine's instructions, but found him so busy that he would not engage to give his attention to the boat under a week. the delay was regretted by our hero, since it cut him off from the employment by which he hoped to provide for his mother. again mrs. rushton was in low spirits. "i am sorry you couldn't agree with halbert davis, robert," she said, with a sigh. "then you could have stayed in the factory, and got your wages regularly every week." "i know that, mother, but i am not willing to have halbert 'boss me round,' even for a place in the factory." "then, robert, you quarreled with the man you took across the river." "i think i did right, mother," said robert. "don't get out of spirits. i don't expect to succeed always. but i think i shall come out right in the end." "i am sure i hope so." mrs. rushton was one of those who look on the dark side. she was distrustful of the future, and apt to anticipate bad fortune. robert was very different. he inherited from his father an unusual amount of courage and self-reliance, and if one avenue was closed to him, he at once set out to find another. it is of this class that successful men are made, and we have hopes that robert will develop into a prosperous and successful man. "i am sure i don't see what you can do," said mrs. rushton, "and we can't live on what i make by braiding straw." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said robert, "i'll go on sligo hill and pick blueberries; i was passing a day or two ago, and saw the bushes quite covered. just give me a couple of tin pails, and i'll see what i can do." the pails were provided, and robert started on his expedition. the hill was not very high, nor was its soil very good. the lower part was used only to pasture a few cows. but this part was thickly covered with blueberry bushes, which this season were fuller than usual of large-sized berries. robert soon settled to work, and picked steadily and rapidly. at the end of three hours he had filled both pails, containing, as near as he could estimate, eight quarts. "that's a pretty good afternoon's work," he said to himself. "now i suppose i must turn peddler, and dispose of them." he decided to ask ten cents a quart. later in the season the price would be reduced, but at that time the berries ought to command that price. the first house at which he called was mr. paine's. he was about to pass, when he saw hester at the window. pride suggested, "she may despise me for being a berry peddler," but robert had no false shame. "at any rate, i won't be coward enough to try to hide it from her." accordingly he walked up boldly to the door, and rang the bell. hester had seen him from the window, and she answered the bell herself. "i am glad to see you, robert," she said, frankly. "won't you come in?" "thank you," said our hero, "but i called on business." "you will find my father in his office," she said, looking a little disappointed. robert smiled. "my business is not of a legal character," he said. "i've turned peddler, and would like to sell you some blueberries." "oh, what nice berries! where did you pick them?" "on sligo." "i am sure mother will buy some. will you wait a minute while i go and ask her?" "i will wait as long as you like." hester soon returned with authority to buy four quarts. i suspect that she was the means of influencing so large a purchase. "they are ten cents a quart," said robert, "but i don't think i ought to charge your father anything." "why not?" "because i shall owe him, or rather will, a good deal of money." "i know what you mean--it's about the boat." "did your father tell you?" "yes, but i knew it before. halbert davis told me." "he takes a great interest in my affairs." "he's a mean boy. you mustn't mind what he says against you." robert laughed. "i don't care what he thinks or says of me, unless he persuades others to think ill of me." "i shall never think ill of you, robert," said hester, warmly. "thank you, hester," said robert, looking up into her glowing face with more gratification than he could express. "i hope i shall deserve your good opinion." "i am sure you will, robert, but won't you come in?" "no, thank you. i must sell the rest of my berries." robert left the house with forty cents in his pocket, the first fruits of his afternoon's work. besides, he had four quarts left, for which he expected to find a ready sale. he had not gone far when he met halbert. the latter was dressed with his usual care, with carefully polished shoes, neatly fitting gloves, and swinging a light cane, the successor of that which had been broken in his conflict with robert. our hero, on the other hand, i am obliged to confess, was by no means fashionably attired. his shoes were dusty, and his bare hands were stained with berry juice. he wore a coarse straw hat with a broad brim to shield him from the hot sun. those of my readers who judge by dress alone would certainly have preferred halbert davis, who looked as if he had just stepped out of a band-box. but those who compared the two faces, the one bright, frank and resolute, the other supercilious and insincere, could hardly fail to prefer robert in spite of his coarse attire and unfashionable air. halbert scanned his rival with scornful eyes. he would have taken no notice of him, but concluded to speak in the hope of saying something disagreeable. "you have found a new business, i see," he said, with a sneer. "yes," said robert, quietly. "when one business gives out, i try another." "you've made a good choice," said halbert. "it's what you are adapted for." "thank you for the compliment, but i don't expect to stick to it all my life." "how do you sell your berries?" "ten cents a quart." "you'd better call on your friend, miss hester paine, and see if she won't buy some." "thank you for the advice, but it comes too late. she bought four quarts of me." "she did!" returned halbert, surprised. "i didn't think you'd go there." "why not?" "she won't think much of a boy that has to pick berries for a living." "i don't think that will change her opinion of me. why should it?" "it's a low business." "i don't see it." "excuse my delaying you. i am afraid i may have interfered with your business. i say," he called out, as robert was going on, "if you will call at our house, perhaps my mother may patronize you." "very well," said robert, "if i don't sell elsewhere, i'll call there. it makes no difference to me who buys my berries." "he's the proudest beggar i ever met," thought halbert, looking after him. "hester paine must be hard up for an escort if she walks with a boy who peddles berries for a living. if i were her father, i would put a stop to it." the same evening there was a concert in the town hall. a free ticket was given to robert in return for some slight service. mr. paine and his daughter were present, and halbert davis also. to the disgust of the latter, robert actually had the presumption to walk home with hester. hester laughed and chatted gayly, and appeared to be quite unconscious that she was lowering herself by accepting the escort of a boy "who picked berries for a living." the next day robert again repaired to sligo. he had realized eighty cents from his sales the previous day, and he felt that picking berries was much better than remaining idle. halbert's sneers did not for a moment discompose him. he had pride, but it was an honorable pride, and not of a kind that would prevent his engaging in any respectable employment necessary for the support of his mother and himself. returning home with well-filled pails, he walked a part of the way on the railroad, as this shortened the distance. he had not walked far when he discovered on the track a huge rock, large enough to throw the train off the track. how it got there was a mystery. just in front there was a steep descent on either side, the road crossing a valley, so that an accident would probably cause the entire train to be thrown down the embankment. robert saw the danger at a glance, and it flashed upon him at the same moment that the train was nearly due. he sprang to the rock, and exerted his utmost strength to dislodge it. he could move it slightly, but it was too heavy to remove. he was still exerting his strength to the utmost when the whistle of the locomotive was heard. robert was filled with horror, as he realized the peril of the approaching train, and his powerlessness to avert it. chapter xvii. the young capitalist. the cars swept on at the rate of twenty miles an hour, the engineer wholly unconscious of the peril in front. robert saw the fated train with its freight of human lives, and his heart grew sick within him as he thought of the terrible tragedy which was about to be enacted. was there any possibility of his averting it? he threw himself against the rock and pushed with all the strength he could command. but, nerved as he was by desperation, he found the task greater than he could compass. and still the train came thundering on. he must withdraw to a place of safety, or he would himself be involved in the destruction which threatened the train. there was one thing more he could do, and he did it. he took his station on the rock which was just in the path of the advancing train, and waved his handkerchief frantically. it was a position to test the courage of the bravest. robert was fully aware that he was exposing himself to a horrible death. should he not be seen by the engineer it would be doubtful whether he could get out of the way in time to escape death--and that of the most frightful nature. but unless he did something a hundred lives perhaps might be lost. so he resolutely took his stand, waving, as we have said, his handkerchief and shouting, though the last was not likely to be of any avail. at first he was not seen. when the engineer at last caught sight of him it was with a feeling of anger at what he regarded as the foolhardiness of the boy. he slackened his speed, thinking he would leave his place, but robert still maintained his position, his nerves strung to their highest tension, not alone at his own danger, but at the peril which he began to fear he could not avert. reluctantly the engineer gave the signal to stop the train. he was only just in time. when it came to a stop there was an interval of only thirty-five feet between it and robert rushton, who, now that he had accomplished his object, withdrew to one side, a little paler than usual, but resolute and manly in his bearing. "what is the meaning of this foolery?" the engineer demanded, angrily. robert pointed in silence to the huge rock which lay on the track. "how came that rock there?" asked the engineer, in a startled tone, as he took in the extent of the peril from which they had been saved. "i don't know," said robert. "i tried to move it, but i couldn't." "you are a brave boy," said the engineer. "you have in all probability saved the train from destruction. but you ran a narrow risk yourself." "i know it," was the reply; "but it was the only thing i could do to catch your attention." "i will speak to you about it again. the first to be done is to move the rock." he left the engine and advanced toward the rock. by this time many of the passengers had got out, and were inquiring why the train was stopped at this point. the sight of the rock made a sensation. though the peril was over, the thought that the train might have been precipitated down the embankment, and the majority of the passengers killed or seriously injured, impressed them not a little. they pressed forward, and several lending a hand, the rock was ousted from its its position, and rolled crashing over the bank. among the passengers was a stout, good-looking man, a new york merchant. he had a large family at home waiting his return from a western journey. he shuddered as he thought how near he had been to never meeting them again on earth. "it was providential, your seeing the rock," he said to the engineer. "we owe our lives to you." "you do me more than justice," replied the engineer. "it was not i who saved the train, but that boy." all eyes were turned upon robert, who, unused to being the center of so many glances, blushed and seemed disposed to withdraw. "how is that?" inquired the merchant. "he saw the obstruction, and tried to remove it, but, not being able to do so, took his station on the rock, and, at the risk of his own life, drew my attention, and saved the train." "it was a noble act, my boy; what is your name?" "robert rushton." "it is a name that we shall all have cause to remember. gentlemen," continued the merchant, turning to the group around him, "you see before you the preserver of your lives. shall his act go unrewarded?" "no, no!" was the general exclamation. "i don't want any reward," said robert, modestly. "any boy would have done as much." "i don't know about that, my young friend. there are not many boys, or men, i think, that would have had the courage to act as you did. you may not ask or want any reward, but we should be forever disgraced if we failed to acknowledge our great indebtedness to you. i contribute one hundred dollars as my share of the testimonial to our young friend." "i follow with fifty!" said his next neighbor, "and shall ask for the privilege of taking him by the hand." robert had won honors at school, but he had never before been in a position so trying to his modesty. the passengers, following the example of the last speaker, crowded around him, and took him by the hand, expressing their individual acknowledgments for the service he had rendered them. our hero, whom we now designate thus appropriately, bore the ordeal with a self-possession which won the favor of all. while this was going on, the collection was rapidly being made by the merchant who had proposed it. the amounts contributed varied widely, but no one refused to give. in ten minutes the fund had reached over six hundred dollars. "master robert rushton," said the merchant, "i have great pleasure in handing you this money, freely contributed by the passengers on this train, as a slight acknowledgment of the great service which you have rendered them at the risk of your own life. it does not often fall to the lot of a boy to perform a deed so heroic. we are all your debtors, and if the time ever comes that you need a friend, i for one shall be glad to show my sense of indebtedness." "all aboard!" shouted the conductor. the passengers hurried into the cars, leaving our hero standing by the track, with one hand full of bank notes and in the other the card of the new york merchant. it was only about fifteen minutes since robert had first signaled the train, yet how in this brief time had his fortunes changed! from the cars now rapidly receding he looked to the roll of bills, and he could hardly realize that all this money was his own. he sat down and counted it over. "six hundred and thirty-five dollars!" he exclaimed. "i must have made a mistake." but a second count turned out precisely the same. "how happy mother will be!" he thought, joyfully. "i must go and tell her the good news." he was so occupied with the thoughts of his wonderful good fortune that he nearly forgot to take the berries which he had picked. "i shan't need to sell them now," he said. "we'll use a part of them ourselves, and what we can't use i will give away." he carefully stored away the money in his coat pocket, and for the sake of security buttoned it tight. it was a new thing for him to be the custodian of so much treasure. as halbert davis usually spent the latter part of the afternoon in promenading the streets, sporting his kids and swinging his jaunty cane, it was not surprising that robert encountered him again. "so, you've been berrying again?" he said, stopping short. "yes," said robert, briefly. "you haven't got the boat repaired, i suppose." "not yet." "it's lucky for you this is berrying season." "why?" "because you'd probably have to go to the poorhouse," said halbert, insolently. "i don't know about that," said robert, coolly. "i rather think i could buy you out, halbert davis, watch, gloves, cane and all." "what do you mean?" demanded halbert, haughtily. "you seem to forget that you are a beggar, or next to it." robert set down his pails, and, opening his coat, drew out a handful of bills. "does that look like going to the almshouse?" he said. "they're not yours," returned halbert, considerably astonished, for, though he did not know the denomination of the bills, it was evident that there was a considerable amount of money. "it belongs to me, every dollar of it," returned robert. "i don't believe it. where did you get it? picking berries, i suppose," he added, with a sneer. "it makes no difference to you where i got it," said our hero, returning the money to his pocket. "i shan't go to the almshouse till this i is all gone." "he must have stolen it," muttered halbert, looking after robert with disappointment and chagrin. it was certainly very vexatious that, in spite of all his attempts to humble and ruin our hero, he seemed more prosperous than ever. chapter xviii. a visit to the lawyer. mrs. rushton was braiding straw when robert entered with his berries. "couldn't you sell your berries, robert?" she asked. "i haven't tried yet, mother." "the berrying season won't last much longer," said his mother, despondently. "don't borrow trouble, mother. i am sure we shall get along well." "you feel more confidence than i do." "i just met halbert davis in the street." "have you made up with him?" "it is for him to make up with me." "i am afraid you are too high-spirited, robert. did halbert speak to you?" "oh, yes," said robert, laughing. "he takes a great interest in my affairs. he predicts that we shall come to the poorhouse yet." "he may be right." "now, mother, don't be so desponding. we've got enough money to pay our expenses for more than a year, even if we both stop work." "what can you mean, robert?" said his mother, looking up in surprise. "you must be crazy." "does that look like going to the poorhouse?" asked robert, drawing out his money. mrs. rushton uttered an exclamation of surprise. "whose money is that, robert?" "mine!" "you haven't done anything wrong?" "no, mother; i thought you knew me too well for that. i see you are anxious to hear how i obtained it, so i'll tell you all about it." he sat down, and in brief words told his mother the story of the train and its peril, how he had rescued it, and, lastly, of the generous gift which he had so unexpectedly received. the mother's heart was touched, and she forgot all her forebodings. "my son, i am proud of you," she said, her eyes moist. "you have done a noble deed, and you deserve the reward. but what a risk you ran!" "i know it, mother, but we won't think of that, now that it is over. how much, money do you think i have here?" "two or three hundred dollars." "six hundred and thirty-five! so you see, mother, we needn't go to the poorhouse just yet. now, how much better off should i have been if i had kept my place in the factory? it would have taken me more than two years to earn as much money as this. but that isn't all. i have been the means of saving a great many lives, for the train was sure to be thrown down the embankment. i shall remember that all my life." "we have reason to be grateful to heaven that you have been the means of doing so much good, robert, while, at the same time, you have benefited yourself." "that is true, mother." "i shall be afraid to have so much money in the house. if it were known, we might be robbed." "i will leave it with mr. paine until i get a chance to put it in a savings bank. he has a safe in his office. at the same time i will carry him some berries as a present. it won't be much, but i should like to do it on account of his kindness about the boat. i will offer now to bear the expense of its repair." after washing his hands and adjusting his clothes a little, for robert, though no fop like halbert, was not regardless of appearances, especially as he thought hester might see him, he set out for the lawyer's office. "excuse my bringing in my berries," said robert, as he entered the office, "but i want to ask your acceptance of them." many persons, under the supposition that robert was too poor to afford a gift, would have declined it, or offered to pay for it, thinking they were acting kindly and considerately. but mr. paine knew that robert would be mortified by such an offer, and he answered: "thank you, robert; i will accept your gift with thanks on one condition." "what is it, mr. paine?" inquired our hero, a little puzzled. "that you will take tea with us to-morrow evening, and help us do justice to them." "thank you," said robert, not a little pleased at the invitation, "but i shouldn't like to leave my mother at home alone." "oh, we must have your mother, too. hester will call this evening, and invite her." "then," said robert, "i can answer for myself, and i think for her, that we should both be very happy to come." the lawyer's social position made such an invitation particularly gratifying to robert. besides, he was led to value it more on account of the persistent efforts of halbert to injure him in the general estimation. then, too, it was pleasant to think that he was to sit down to the same table with hester, as her father's guest, and to receive a call from her at his own house. nothing that mr. paine could have done would have afforded him an equal amount of gratification. "there is one other matter i wanted to speak to you about, mr. paine," he said. "will you take care of some money for me until i get a chance to deposit it in the savings bank?" "certainly, robert," was the reply, but the lawyer's manner showed some surprise. he knew the circumstances of the rushtons, and he had not supposed they had any money on hand. "how much is it?" "six hundred and thirty-five dollars," answered robert, producing it. "will you count it, and see if it is all right?" "is this your money?" asked the lawyer, laying down his pen and gazing at robert in astonishment. "yes, sir," said robert, enjoying his surprise. "i will tell you how i got it." so the story was told, with a modest reserve as to his own courage, but still showing, without his intending it, how nobly he had behaved. "give me your hand, robert," said mr. paine, cordially. "you have shown yourself a hero. we shall be proud of your company to tea to-morrow evening." robert flushed with gratification at the high compliment conveyed in these words. what did he care then for halbert davis and his petty malice! he had the approval of his own conscience, the good opinion of those whom he most respected and a provision against want sufficient to avert all present anxiety. "there is one thing more, mr. paine," he added. "it's about the boat will was kind enough to lend me." "have you seen the carpenter about repairing it?" "yes, sir, and he will attend to it as soon as he can spare the time. but that was not what i wanted to say. i think i ought to bear the expense of repairing it. i would have spoken about it at first, but then i had no money, and didn't know when i should have any. will you be kind enough to take as much of my money as will be needed to pay mr. plane's bill when it comes in?" "certainly not, robert. it was not your fault that the boat was injured." "it wouldn't have happened if i had not borrowed it. it isn't right that the expense should fall on you." "don't trouble yourself about that, robert. i am able and willing to pay it. it is very honorable in you to make the offer, and i like you the better for having made it. won't you need any of this money for present expenses?" "perhaps i had better take the thirty-five dollars. mother may be in want of something." robert received back the sum named, and returned home, much pleased with his interview. about seven o'clock, sitting at the window of the little cottage, he saw hester paine opening the front gate. he sprang to his feet and opened the door. "good-evening, robert," she said. "is your mother at home?" "yes, hester. won't you come in?" "thank you, robert. father has been telling me what a hero you were, and it made me feel proud that you were a friend of mine." robert's face lighted with pleasure. "you compliment me more than i deserve," he answered, modestly; "but it gives me great pleasure to know that you think well of me." "i am sure that there is no boy in millville that would have dared to do such a thing. good-evening, mrs. rushton. are you not proud of your son?" "he is a good son to me," said mrs. rushton, with a glance of affection. "it is such a splendid thing he did. he will be quite a hero. indeed, he is one already. i've got a new york paper giving an account of the whole thing. i brought it over, thinking you might like to read it." she displayed a copy of a great city daily, in which full justice was done to robert's bravery. our hero listened with modest pleasure while it was being read. "i don't deserve all that," he said. "you must let us judge of that," said hester. "but i have come this evening, mrs. rushton, to ask you to take tea with us to-morrow evening, you and robert. you will come, won't you?" mrs. rushton was pleased with this mark of attention, and after a slight demur, accepted. i do not intend to give an account of the next evening, and how robert, in particular, enjoyed it. that can be imagined, as well as halbert's chagrin when he heard of the attention his rival was receiving in a quarter where he himself so earnestly desired to stand well. i must pass on to a communication received by mrs. rushton, a communication of a very unexpected character, which had an important effect upon the fortunes of our hero. chapter xix. the message from the sea. it was not often that mrs. rushton received a letter. neither she nor her husband had possessed many relatives, and such as either had were occupied with their own families, and little communication passed between them and captain rushton's family. robert, therefore, seldom called at the post office. one day, however, as he stepped in by a neighbor's request to inquire for letters for the latter, the postmaster said, "there's a letter for your mother, robert." "is there?" said our hero, surprised, "when did it come?" "yesterday. i was going to ask some one to carry it round to her, as you don't often call here." he handed the letter to robert, who surveyed it with curiosity. it was postmarked "boston," and addressed in a bold business hand to "mrs. captain rushton, millville." "who can be writing to mother from boston?" thought robert. the size of the letter also excited his curiosity. there were two stamps upon it, and it appeared bulky. robert hurried home, and rushed into the kitchen where his mother was at work. "here's a letter for you, mother," he said. "a letter for me!" repeated mrs. rushton. "from boston." "i don't know who would be likely to write me from there. open it for me, robert." he tore open the envelope. it contained two inclosures--one a letter in the same handwriting as the address; the other a large sheet of foolscap rumpled up, and appearing once to have been rolled up, was written in pencil. mrs. rushton had no sooner looked at the latter than she exclaimed, in agitation: "robert, it is your father's handwriting. read it to me, i am too agitated to make it out." robert was equally excited. was his father still alive, or was this letter a communication from the dead? "first let me read the other," he said. "it will explain about this." his mother sank back into a chair too weak with agitation to stand, while her son rapidly read the following letter: "boston, august 15, 1853. mrs. rushton, dear madam: the fate of our ship _norman_, which left this port now more than two years since, under the command of your husband, has until now been veiled in uncertainty. we had given up all hopes of obtaining any light upon the circumstances of its loss, when by a singular chance information was brought us yesterday. the ship _argo_, while in the south pacific, picked up a bottle floating upon the surface of the water. on opening it, it was found to contain two communications, one addressed to us, the other to you, the latter to be forwarded to you by us. ours contains the particulars of the loss of the _norman_, and doubtless your own letter also contains the same particulars. there is a bare possibility that your husband is still alive, but as so long a period has passed since the letters were written it would not be well to place too much confidence in such a hope. but even if captain rushton is dead, it will be a sad satisfaction to you to receive from him this last communication, and learn the particulars of his loss. we lose no time in forwarding to you the letter referred to, and remain, with much sympathy, yours respectfully, winslow & co." mrs. rushton listened to this letter with eager and painful interest, her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon robert. "now read your father's letter," she said, in a low tone. robert unfolded the sheet, and his eyes filled with tears as he gazed upon the well-known handwriting of the father whose loss he had so long lamented. this letter, too, we transcribe: "november 7, 1851. my dear wife and son: whether these lines will ever meet your eyes i know not. whether i will be permitted again to look upon your dear faces, i also am ignorant. the good ship _norman_, in which i sailed from boston not quite three months ago, is burned to the water's edge, and i find myself, with five of the sailors, afloat on the vast sea at the mercy of the elements, and with a limited supply of food. the chances are against our ever seeing land. hundreds of miles away from any known shores, our only hope of safety is in attracting the attention of some vessel. in the broad pathways of the ocean such a chance is doubtful. fortunately i have a few sheets of paper and a pencil with me, and i write these lines, knowing well how improbable it is that you will ever read them. yet it is a satisfaction to do what i can to let you know the position in which i stand. but for the revengeful and malignant disposition of one man i should still be walking the deck of the _norman_ as its captain. but to my story: my first mate was a man named haley--benjamin haley--whose name you will perhaps remember. he was born in our neighborhood, or, at all events, once lived there, being the nephew of old paul nichols. he was a wild young man, and bore a bad reputation. finally he disappeared, and, as it seems, embraced the profession of a sailor. i was not prepossessed in his favor, and was not very well pleased to find him my second in command. however, he was regularly engaged, and it was of no use for me to say anything against him. i think, however, that he suspected the state of my feelings, as, while studiously polite, i did not make an effort to be cordial. at any rate, he must have taken a dislike to me early in the voyage, though whether at that time he meditated evil, i cannot say. after a time i found that he was disposed to encroach upon my prerogatives as captain of the vessel, and issue commands which he knew to be in defiance of my wishes. you can imagine that i would not pass over such conduct unnoticed. i summoned him to an interview, and informed him in decided terms that i must be master in my own ship. he said little, but i saw from his expression that there could thereafter be no amicable relations between us. i pass over the days that succeeded--days in which haley went to the furthest verge of insolence that he felt would be safe. at length, carried away by impatience, i reprimanded him publicly. he grew pale with passion, turned on his heel, and strode away. that night i was roused from my sleep by the cry of 'fire!' i sprang to my feet and took immediate measures to extinguish the flames. but the incendiary had taken care to do his work so well that it was already impossible. i did not at first miss haley, until, inquiring for him, i learned that he was missing, and one of the ship's boats. it was evident that he had deliberately fired the ship in order to revenge himself upon me. his hatred must have been extreme, or he would not have been willing to incur so great a risk. though he escaped from the ship, his position in an open boat must be extremely perilous. when all hope of saving the ship was abandoned, we manned the remaining boats hastily, putting in each such a stock of provisions as we could carry without overloading the boats. twenty-four hours have now passed, and we are still tossing about on the ocean. a storm would be our destruction. at this solemn time, my dear wife, my thoughts turn to you and my dear son, whom i am likely never to see again. there is one thing most of all which i wish you to know, but can hardly hope that these few lines will reach you. just before i left home, on my present voyage, i deposited five thousand dollars with mr. davis, the superintendent of the factory, in trust for you, in case i should not return. you will be surprised to learn that i have so much money. it has been the accumulation of years, and was intended as a provision for you and robert. i have no reason to doubt the integrity of mr. davis, yet i wish i had acquainted you with the fact of this deposit, and placed his written acknowledgment in your hands. my reason for concealment was, that i might surprise you at the end of this voyage. when this letter comes to hand (if it ever should come to hand), in case the superintendent has not accounted to you for the money placed in his hands, let robert go to him and claim the money in my name. but i can hardly believe this to be necessary. should i never return, i am persuaded that mr. davis will be true to the trust i have reposed in him, and come forward like an honest man to your relief. and now, my dear wife and son, farewell! my hope is weak that i shall ever again see you, yet it is possible. may heaven bless you, and permit us to meet again in another world, if not in this! i shall inclose this letter, and one to my owners, in a bottle, which i have by me, and commit it to the sea, trusting that the merciful waves may waft it to the shore." here captain rushton signed his name. the feelings with which robert read and his mother listened to this letter, were varied. love and pity for the husband and father, now doubtless long dead, were blended with surprise at the revelation of the deposit made in the hands of the superintendent of the mill. "mother," said robert, "did you know anything of this money father speaks of?" "no," said mrs. rushton, "he never told me. it is strange that mr. davis has never informed us of it. two years have passed, and we have long given him up as lost." "mother," said robert, "it is my opinion that he never intends to let us know." "i cannot believe he would be so dishonorable." "but why should he keep back the knowledge? he knows that we are poor and need the money." "but he has the reputation of an honorable man." "many have had that reputation who do not deserve it," said robert. "the temptation must have proved too strong for him." "what shall we do?" "i know what i am going to do," said robert, resolutely. "i am going to his house, and shall claim restitution of the money which father intrusted to him. he has had it two years, and, with the interest, it will amount to nearer six than five thousand dollars. it will be a fortune, mother." "don't be hasty or impetuous, robert," said his mother. "speak to him respectfully." "i shall be civil if he is," said robert. he took his cap, and putting it on, left the cottage and walked with a quick pace to the house of the superintendent. chapter xx. a disagreeable surprise. mr. davis was seated in his office, but it was his own personal affairs rather than the business of the factory that engaged his attention. he was just in receipt of a letter from his broker in new york, stating that there were but slender chances of a rise in the price of some securities in which he had invested heavily. he was advised to sell out at once, in order to guard against a probable further depreciation. this was far from satisfactory, since an immediate sale would involve a loss of nearly a thousand dollars. mr. davis felt despondent, and, in consequence, irritable. it was at this moment that one of the factory hands came in and told him that robert rushton wished to see him. the superintendent would have refused an interview but for one consideration. he thought that our hero was about to beg to be taken back into his employ. this request he intended to refuse, and enjoyed in advance the humiliation of young rushton. "good-morning, sir," said robert, removing his hat on entering. "i suppose you want to be taken back," said the superintendent, abruptly. "no, sir," said robert. "i have come on quite a different errand." mr. davis was disappointed. he was cheated of his expected triumph. moreover, looking into our young hero's face, he saw that he was entirely self-possessed, and had by no means the air of one about to ask a favor. "then state your business at once," he said, roughly. "my time is too valuable to be taken up by trifles." "my business is important to both of us," said robert. "we have just received a letter from my father." the superintendent started and turned pale. this was the most unwelcome intelligence he could have received. he supposed, of course, that captain rushton was alive, and likely to reclaim the sum, which he was in no position to surrender. "your father!" he stammered. "where is he? i thought he was dead." "i am afraid he is," said robert, soberly. "then how can you just have received a letter from him?" demanded mr. davis, recovering from his momentary dismay. "the letter was inclosed in a bottle, which was picked up in the south pacific, and brought to the owners of the vessel. my father's ship was burned to the water's edge, and at the time of writing the letter he was afloat on the ocean with five of his sailors in a small boat." "how long ago was this? i mean when was the letter dated." "nearly two years ago--in the november after he sailed." "then, of course, he must have perished," said the superintendent, with a feeling of satisfaction. "however, i suppose your mother is glad to have heard from him. is that all you have to tell me?" "no, sir," said robert, looking boldly in the face of his former employer. "my father added in his letter, that just before sailing he deposited with you the sum of five thousand dollars, to be given to my mother in case he never returned." so the worst had come! the dead had revealed the secret which the superintendent hoped would never be known. he was threatened with ruin. he had no means of paying the deposit unless by sacrificing all his property, and it was doubtful whether even then he would be able wholly to make it up. if robert possessed his acknowledgment he would have no defense to make. this he must ascertain before committing himself. "supposing this story to be true," he said, in a half-sneering tone, "you are, of course, prepared to show me my receipt for the money?" "that my father carried away with him. he did not send it with the letter." all the superintendent's confidence returned. he no longer felt afraid, since all evidence of the deposit was doubtless at the bottom of the sea with the ill-fated captain. he resolved to deny the trust altogether. "rushton," he said, "i have listened patiently to what you had to say, and in return i answer that in the whole course of my life i have never known of a more barefaced attempt at fraud. in this case you have selected the wrong customer." "what!" exclaimed robert, hardly crediting the testimony of his ears; "do you mean to deny that my father deposited five thousand dollars with you just before sailing on his last voyage?" "i certainly do, and in the most unqualified terms. had such been the case, do you think i would have kept the knowledge of it from your mother so long after your father's supposed death?" "there might be reasons for that," said robert, significantly. "none of your impertinent insinuations, you young rascal," said mr. davis, hotly. "the best advice i can give you is, to say nothing to any one about this extraordinary claim. it will only injure you, and i shall be compelled to resort to legal measures to punish you for circulating stories calculated to injure my reputation." if the superintendent expected to intimidate robert by this menace he was entirely mistaken in the character of our young hero. he bore the angry words and threatening glances of his enemy without quailing, as resolute and determined as ever. "mr. davis," he said, "if there is no truth in this story, do you think my father, with death before his eyes, would have written it to my mother?" "i have no evidence, except your word, that any such letter has been received." "i can show it to you, if you desire it, in my father's handwriting." "we will suppose, then, for a moment, that such a letter has been received, and was written by your father. i can understand how, being about to die, and feeling that his family were without provision, he should have written such a letter with the intention of giving you a claim upon me, whom he no doubt selected supposing me to be a rich man. it was not justifiable, but something can be excused to a man finding himself in such a position." robert was filled with indignation as he listened to this aspersion upon his father's memory. he would not have cared half so much for any insult to himself. "mr. davis," he said, boldly, "it is enough for you to cheat my mother out of the money which my father left her, but when you accuse my father of fraud you go too far. you know better than any one that everything which he wrote is true." the superintendent flushed under the boy's honest scorn, and, unable to defend himself truthfully, he worked himself into a rage. "what! do you dare insult me in my own office?" he exclaimed, half rising from his desk, and glaring at our hero. "out of my sight at once, or i may be tempted to strike you!" "before i leave you, mr. davis," said robert, undauntedly, "i wish you to tell me finally whether you deny the deposit referred to in my father's letter?" "and i tell you, once for all," exclaimed the superintendent, angrily, "if you don't get out of my office i will kick you out." "i will leave you now," said our hero, not intimidated; "but you have not heard the last of me. i will not rest until i see justice done to my mother." so saying, he walked deliberately from the office, leaving mr. davis in a state of mind no means comfortable. true, the receipt had doubtless gone to the bottom of the sea with the ill-fated captain, and, as no one was cognizant of the transaction, probably no claim could be enforced against his denial. but if the letter should be shown, as robert would doubtless be inclined to do, he was aware that, however the law might decide, popular opinion would be against him, and his reputation would be ruined. this was an unpleasant prospect, as the superintendent valued his character. besides, the five thousand dollars were gone and not likely to be recovered. had they still been in his possession, that would have been some compensation. chapter xxi. a denial. robert left the superintendent's office in deep thought. he understood very well that it would be impossible to enforce his claim without more satisfactory testimony than his father's letter. if any one had been cognizant of the transaction between mr. davis and his father it would have helped matters, but no one, so far as he knew, was even aware that his father had possessed so large a sum as five thousand dollars. had captain rushton inclosed the receipt, that would have been sufficient, but it had probably gone to the bottom with him. but, after all, was it certain that his father was dead? it was not certain, but our hero was forced to admit that the chances of his father's being alive were extremely slender. finding himself utterly at a loss, he resolved to call upon his firm friend, squire paine, the lawyer. going to his office, he was fortunate enough to find him in, and unengaged. "good-morning, robert," said the lawyer, pleasantly. "good-morning, sir. you find me a frequent visitor." "always welcome," was the pleasant reply. "you know i am your banker, and it is only natural for you to call upon me." "yes, sir," said robert, smiling; "but it is on different business that i have come to consult you this morning." "go on. i will give you the best advice in my power." the lawyer listened with surprise to the story robert had to tell. "this is certainly a strange tale," he said, after a pause. "but a true one," said robert, hastily. "i do not question that. it affords another illustration of the old saying that truth is stranger than fiction. that a letter committed to the deep so many thousand miles away should have finally reached its destination is very remarkable, i may say providential." "do you think there is any chance of my father being yet alive?" "there is a bare chance, but i cannot encourage you to place much reliance upon it." "if he had been picked up by any vessel i suppose he would have written." "you would doubtless have seen him at home before this time in that case. still there might be circumstances," added the lawyer, slowly, "that would prevent his communicating with friends at home. for instance, his boat might have drifted to some uninhabited island out of the course of ordinary navigation. i don't say it is at all probable, but there is such a probability." "is there any chance of making mr. davis return the money my father deposited with him?" "there again there are difficulties. he may demand the return of his receipt, or he may continue to deny the trust altogether." "won't the letter prove anything?" "it may produce a general conviction that such a deposit was made, since, admitting the letter to be genuine, no one, considering especially the character of your father, can readily believe that in the immediate presence of death he would make any such statement unless thoroughly reliable. but moral conviction and legal proof are quite different things. unless that receipt is produced i don't see that anything can be done." "perhaps my father might have put that in a bottle also at a later date." "he might have done so when he became satisfied that there was no chance of a rescue. but even supposing him to have done it, the chances are ten to one that it will never find its way to your mother. the reception of the first letter was almost a miracle." "i have no doubt you are right, mr. paine," said robert; "but it seems very hard that my poor father's hard earnings should go to such an unprincipled man, and my mother be left destitute." "that is true, robert, but i am obliged to say that your only hope is in awakening mr. davis to a sense of justice." "there isn't much chance of that," said robert, shaking his head. "if you will leave the matter in my hands, i will call upon him to-night, and see what i can do." "i shall feel very glad if you will do so, squire paine. i don't want to leave anything undone." "then i will do so. i don't imagine it will do any good, but we can but try." robert left the office, making up his mind to await the report of the lawyer's visit before moving further. that evening, the lawyer called at the house of the superintendent. mrs. davis and halbert were in the room. after a little unimportant conversation, he said: "mr. davis, may i ask the favor of a few minutes' conversation with you in private?" "certainly," said the superintendent, quite in the dark as to the business which had called his guest to the house. he led the way into another room, and both took seats. "i may as well say to begin with," commenced the lawyer, "that i call in behalf of the family of the late captain rushton." the superintendent started nervously. "that boy has lost no time," he muttered to himself. "i suppose you understand what i have to say?" "i presume i can guess," said the superintendent, coldly. "the boy came into my office this morning, and made a most extraordinary claim, which i treated with contempt. finding him persistent i ordered him out of my office. i need not say that no sane man would for a moment put confidence in such an incredible story or claim." "i can't quite agree with you there," said the lawyer, quietly. "there is nothing incredible about the story. it is remarkable, i grant, but such things have happened before, and will again." "i suppose you refer to the picking up of the bottle at sea." "yes; i fail to see what there is incredible about it. if the handwriting can be identified as that of the late captain rushton, and robert says both his mother and himself recognized it, the story becomes credible and will meet with general belief." "i thought you were too sensible and practical a man," said the superintendent, sneering, "to be taken in by so palpable a humbug. why, it reads like a romance." "in spite of all that, it may be true enough," returned the lawyer, composedly. "you may believe it, if you please. it seems to me quite unworthy of belief." "waiving that point, robert, doubtless, acquainted you with the statement made in the letter that captain rushton, just before sailing on his last voyage, deposited with you five thousand dollars. what have you to say to that?" "what have i to say?" returned the superintendent. "that captain rushton never possessed five thousand dollars in his life. i don't believe he possessed one quarter of the sum." "what authority have you for saying that? did he make you his confidant?" asked the lawyer, keenly. "yes," said the superintendent, promptly. "when last at home, he called at my house one day, and in the course of conversation remarked that sailors seldom saved any money. 'for instance,' said he, 'i have followed the sea for many years, and have many times resolved to accumulate a provision for my wife and child, but as yet i have scarcely done more than to begin.' he then told me that he had little more than a thousand dollars, but meant to increase that, if possible, during his coming voyage." to this statement squire paine listened attentively, fully believing it to be an impromptu fabrication, as it really was. "did he say anything about what he had done with this thousand dollars or more?" he asked. "a part he left for his wife to draw from time to time for expenses; the rest, i suppose, he took with him." mr. paine sat silent for a moment. things looked unpromising, he couldn't but acknowledge, for his young client. in the absence of legal proof, and with an adroit and unscrupulous antagonist, whose interests were so strongly enlisted in defeating justice, it was difficult to see what was to be done. "i understand then, mr. davis," he said, finally, "that you deny the justice of this claim?" "certainly i do," said the superintendent. "it is a palpable fraud. this boy is a precocious young swindler, and will come to a bad end." "i have a different opinion of him." "you are deceived in him, then. i have no doubt he got up the letter himself." "i don't agree with you. i have seen the letter; it is in captain rushton's handwriting. moreover, i have seen the letter of the owners, which accompanied it." the superintendent was in a tight place, and he knew it. but there was nothing to do but to persist in his denial. "then i can only say that captain rushton was a party to the fraud," he said. "you must be aware, mr. davis, that when the public learns the facts in the case, the general belief will be the other way." "i can't help that," said the other, doggedly. "whatever the public chooses to think, i won't admit the justice of this outrageous claim." "then i have only to bid you good-evening," said the lawyer, coldly, affecting not to see the hand which the superintendent extended. the latter felt the slight, and foresaw that from others he must expect similar coldness, but there was no help for it. to restore the money would be ruin. he had entered into the path of dishonesty, and he was forced to keep on in it. chapter xxii. robert's new project. mr. paine called at mrs. rushton's cottage, and communicated the particulars of his interview with the superintendent. "it is evident," he said, "that mr. davis is swayed by his interests, and feeling legally secure, prefers to defraud you rather than to surrender the five thousand dollars." "i wouldn't have believed it of mr. davis," said mrs. rushton; "he is considered such a respectable man." "i have heard rumors that he is dabbling in speculations, and i suspect he may find it inconvenient to pay away so large a sum of money." "he had no right to speculate with my mother's money," said robert, indignantly. "you are right there. he should have invested it securely." "mr. paine," said robert, after a pause, "i have an idea that father is still living, and that some day i shall find him." the lawyer shook his head. "there is not one chance in ten that he is living," he said. "it is only a fancy of yours." "it may be, but i can't get it out of my head." "i hope you will prove correct, but i need not tell you of the many arguments against such a theory." "i know them all, but still i believe he is living. mr. paine," continued robert, earnestly, "i feel so strongly on the subject that, with my mother's permission, i, mean to go out into the world in search of him." "i must say, robert," said mr. paine, "i did not expect such a visionary scheme from a boy of your good sense. you must see yourself how wild it is." "i know it," said our hero; "but i want to take a year, at any rate, to see the world. if, at the end of that time, i discover no trace of my father, i will come home content." "but what will become of your mother during that time?" "i will leave four hundred dollars in your hands for her. the rest i will draw for my own uses." "but you don't expect to travel round the world on two hundred dollars, surely?" said the lawyer. "i shall work my way as far as i can," said robert. "i can't afford to travel as a gentleman." "suppose you find yourself without money in a foreign land?" "i am not afraid. i am willing to work, and i can make my way." "surely, mrs. rushton, you do not approve robert's scheme?" said mr. paine. but to his surprise he found that mrs. rushton was inclined to regard it favorably. she seemed to share robert's belief that her husband was still living, and that robert could find him. she was not a woman in the habit of reasoning, and had no conception of the difficulties in his way. the money left behind in the hands of mr. paine, supplemented by her own earnings, would be enough to maintain her for two years, and this thought made her easy, for she had a great dread of poverty and destitution. when the lawyer found how mrs. rushton felt on the subject, he ceased his objections to the plan; for, though he had no confidence in our young hero's success in the object he had in view, he thought that a year's tour might benefit him by extending his knowledge of the world and increasing his self-reliance. "how soon do you wish to start, robert?" he asked. "it will take me a week to get your clothes ready," said mrs. rushton. "then by a week from monday i will start," said robert. "have you formed any definite plans about the manner of going?" "i will go to new york first, and call on the gentleman who got up the subscription for me. i will tell him my story, and ask his advice." "the most sensible thing you could do. as to the money, i will have that ready for you. of course, you will call on me before you go." the superintendent had made up his mind that robert would spread the report of the deposit, and nervously awaited the result. but to his relief he observed no change in the demeanor of his fellow-townsmen. he could only conclude that, for reasons of his own, the boy he had wronged had concluded to defer the exposure. next he heard with a feeling of satisfaction that robert had decided to go abroad in quest of his father. he had no doubt that captain rushton was dead, and regarded the plan as utterly quixotic and foolish, but still he felt glad that it had been undertaken. "if the boy never comes back, i shan't mourn much," he said to himself. "his mother is a weak woman, who will never give me any trouble, but this young rascal has a strong and resolute will, and i shall feel more comfortable to have him out of the way." when robert got ready to leave he made a farewell call on the lawyer, and drew two hundred dollars of his money. "i don't know but one hundred will do," he said. "perhaps i ought to leave five hundred for my mother." "you carry little enough, robert. don't have any anxiety about your mother. i will not see her suffer." robert grasped his hand in earnest gratitude. "how can i thank you?" he said. "you need not thank me. i had a warm regard for your father, and shall be glad to help your mother if there is any occasion. not only this, but if in your wanderings you find yourself in a tight place, and in want of help, write to me, and i will help you." "you are a true friend," said robert, gratefully. "i wish my father had intrusted his money to you instead of to the superintendent." "i wish he had as matters have turned out, i should have taken care that your interests did not suffer." "oh," exclaimed robert, fervently, "if i could only find my father, and bring him home to confront this false friend, and convict him of his base fraud, i believe i would willingly give ten years of my life." "that question can only be solved by time. i, too, should earnestly rejoice if such an event could be brought about. and now, robert, good-by, and heaven bless you. don't forget that you can count always on my friendship and assistance." on the way home robert fell in with halbert davis. halbert, of course, knew nothing of the claim made upon his father, but he had heard that robert proposed to leave home. he was both sorry and glad on account of this--sorry because he had hoped to see our hero fall into poverty and destitution, and enjoy the spectacle of his humiliation. now he was afraid robert would succeed and deprive him of the enjoyment he had counted upon. on the other hand, robert's departure would leave the field free so far as concerned hester paine, and he hoped to win the favor of that young lady in the absence of any competitor. of this there was not the slightest chance, but halbert was blinded by his own vanity to the obvious dislike which hester entertained for him. now when he saw robert approaching he couldn't forego the pleasure of a final taunt. "so you're going to leave town, rushton?'" he commenced. "yes, davis," answered robert, in the same tone. "shall you miss me much?" "i guess i shall live through it," said halbert. "i suppose you are going because you can't make a living here!" "not exactly. however, i hope to do better elsewhere." "if you're going to try for a place, you'd better not mention that you got turned out of the factory. you needn't apply to my father for a recommendation." "i shan't need any recommendation from your father," said robert. "he is about the last man that i would apply to." "that's where you are right," said halbert. "what sort of a place are you going to try for?" he knew nothing of robert's intention to seek his father, but supposed he meant to obtain a situation in new york. "you seem particularly interested in my movements, davis." "call me mr. davis, if you please," said halbert, haughtily. "when you call me mr. rushton, i will return the compliment." "you are impertinent." "not more so than you are." "you don't seem to realize the difference in our positions." "no, i don't, except that i prefer my own." disgusted with robert's evident determination to withhold the respect which he considered his due, halbert tried him on another tack. "have you bidden farewell to hester paine?" he asked, with a sneer. "yes," said robert. "i suppose she was very much affected!" continued halbert. "she said she was very sorry to part with me." "i admire her taste." "you would admire it more if she had a higher appreciation of you." "i shall be good friends with her, when you are no longer here to slander me to her." "i am not quite so mean as that," said robert. "if she chooses to like you, i shan't try to prevent it." "i ought to be very much obliged to you, i am sure." "you needn't trouble yourself to be grateful," returned robert, coolly. "but i must bid you good-by, as i have considerable to do." "don't let me detain you," said halbert, with an elaborate share of politeness. "i wonder why halbert hates me so much!" he thought. "i don't like him, but i don't wish him any harm." he looked with satisfaction upon a little cornelian ring which he wore upon one of his fingers. it was of very trifling value, but it was a parting gift from hester, and as such he valued it far above its cost. chapter xxiii. a dishonest baggage-smasher. on the next monday morning robert started for the city. at the moment of parting he began to realize that he had undertaken a difficult task. his life hitherto had been quiet and free from excitement. now he was about to go out into the great world, and fight his own way. with only two hundred dollars in his pocket he was going in search of a father, who, when last heard from was floating in an open boat on the south pacific. the probabilities were all against that father's being still alive. if he were, he had no clew to his present whereabouts. all this robert thought over as he was riding in the cars to the city. he acknowledged that the chances were all against his success, but in spite of all, he had a feeling, for which he could not account, that his father was still living, and that he should find him some day. at any rate, there was something attractive in the idea of going out to unknown lands to meet unknown adventures, and so his momentary depression was succeeded by a return of his old confidence. arrived in the city, he took his carpetbag in his hand, and crossing the street, walked at random, not being familiar with the streets, as he had not been in new york but twice before, and that some time since. "i don't know where to go," thought robert. "i wish i knew where to find some cheap hotel." just then a boy, in well-ventilated garments and a rimless straw hat, with a blacking box over his shoulder, approached. "shine your boots, mister?" he asked. robert glanced at his shoes, which were rather deficient in polish, and finding that the expense would be only five cents, told him to go ahead. "i'll give you the bulliest shine you ever had," said the ragamuffin. "that's right! go ahead!" said robert. when the boy got through, he cast a speculative glance at the carpetbag. "smash yer baggage?" he asked. "what's that?" "carry yer bag." "do you know of any good, cheap hotel where i can put up?" asked robert. "eu-ro-pean hotel?" said the urchin, accenting the second syllable. "what kind of a hotel is that?" "you take a room, and get your grub where you like." "yes, that will suit me." "i'll show you one and take yer bag along for two shillings." "all right," said our hero. "go ahead." the boy shouldered the carpetbag and started in advance, robert following. he found a considerable difference between the crowded streets of new york and the quiet roads of millville. his spirits rose, and he felt that life was just beginning for him. brave and bold by temperament, he did not shrink from trying his luck on a broader arena than was afforded by the little village whence he came. such confidence is felt by many who eventually fail, but robert was one who combined ability and willingness to work with confidence, and the chances were in favor of his succeeding. unused to the city streets, robert was a little more cautious about crossing than the young arab who carried his bag. so, at one broad thoroughfare, the latter got safely across, while robert was still on the other side waiting for a good opportunity to cross in turn. the bootblack, seeing that communication was for the present cut off by a long line of vehicles, was assailed by a sudden temptation. for his services as porter he would receive but twenty-five cents, while here was an opportunity to appropriate the entire bag, which must be far more valuable. he was not naturally a bad boy, but his street education had given him rather loose ideas on the subject of property. obeying his impulse, then, he started rapidly, bag in hand, up a side street. "hold on, there! where are you going?" called out robert. he received no answer, but saw the baggage-smasher quickening his pace and dodging round the corner. he attempted to dash across the street, but was compelled to turn back, after being nearly run over. "i wish i could get hold of the young rascal!" he exclaimed indignantly. "who do you mane, johnny?" asked a boy at his side. "a boy has run off with my carpetbag," said robert. "i know him. it's jim malone." "do you know where i can find him?" asked robert, eagerly. "if you'll help me get back my bag, i'll give you a dollar." "i'll do it then. come along of me. here's a chance to cross." following his new guide, robert dashed across the street at some risk, and found himself safe on the other side. "now where do you think he's gone?" demanded robert. "it's likely he'll go home." "do you know where he lives?" "no.--mulberry street." "has he got any father and mother?" "he's got a mother, but the ould woman's drunk most all the time." "then she won't care about his stealing?" "no, she'll think he's smart." "then we'll go there. is it far?" "not more than twenty minutes." the boy was right. jim steered for home, not being able to open the bag in the street without suspicion. his intention was to appropriate a part of the clothing to his own use, and dispose of the rest to a pawnbroker or second-hand dealer, who, as long as he got a good bargain, would not be too particular about inquiring into the customer's right to the property. he did not, however, wholly escape suspicion. he was stopped by a policeman, who demanded, "whose bag is that, johnny?" "it belongs to a gentleman that wants it carried to the st. nicholas," answered jim, promptly. "where is the gentleman?" "he's took a car to wall street on business." "how came he to trust you with the bag? wasn't he afraid you'd steal it?" "oh, he knows me. i've smashed baggage for him more'n once." this might be true. at any rate, it was plausible, and the policeman, having no ground of detention, suffered him to go on. congratulating himself on getting off so well, jim sped on his way, and arrived in quick time at the miserable room in mulberry street, which he called home. his mother lay on a wretched bed in the corner, half stupefied with drink. she lifted up her head as her son entered. "what have you there, jimmy?" she asked. "it's a bag, mother." "whose is it?" "it's mine now." "and where did ye get it?" "a boy gave it to me to carry to a chape hotel, so i brought it home. this is a chape hotel, isn't it?" "you're a smart boy, an' i always said it, jimmy. let me open it," and the old woman, with considerable alacrity, rose to her feet and came to jim's side. "i'll open it myself, mother, that is, i if i had a kay. haven't you got one?" "i have that same. i picked up a bunch of kays in the strate last week." she fumbled in her pocket, and drew out half a dozen keys of different sizes, attached to a steel ring. "bully for you, old woman!" said jim. "give 'em here." "let me open the bag," said mrs. malone, persuasively. "no, you don't," said her dutiful son. "'tain't none of yours. it's mine." "the kays is mine," said his mother, "and i'll kape 'em." "give 'em here," said jim, finding a compromise necessary, "and i'll give you fifty cents out of what i get." "that's the way to talk, darlint," said his mother, approvingly. "you wouldn't have the heart to chate your ould mother out of her share?" "it's better i did," said jim; "you'll only get drunk on the money." "shure a little drink will do me no harm," said mrs. malone. meanwhile the young arab had tried key after key until he found one that fitted--the bag flew open, and robert's humble stock of clothing lay exposed to view. there was a woolen suit, four shirts, half a dozen collars, some stockings and handkerchiefs. besides these there was the little bible which robert had had given him by his father just before he went on his last voyage. it was the only book our hero had room for, but in the adventurous career upon which he had entered, exposed to perils of the sea and land, he felt that he would need this as his constant guide. "them shirts'll fit me," said jim. "i guess i'll kape 'em, and the close besides." "then where'll you git the money for me?" asked his mother. "i'll sell the handkerchiefs and stockings. i don't nade them," said jim, whose ideas of full dress fell considerably short of the ordinary standard. "i won't nade the collars either." "you don't nade all the shirts," said his mother. "i'll kape two," said jim. "it'll make me look respectable. maybe i'll kape two collars, so i can sit up for a gentleman of fashion." "you'll be too proud to walk with your ould mother," said mrs. malone. "maybe i will," said jim, surveying his mother critically. "you aint much of a beauty, ould woman." "i was a purty gal, once," said mrs. malone, "but hard work and bad luck has wore on me." "the whisky's had something to do with it," said jim. "hard work didn't make your face so red." "is it my own boy talks to me like that?" said the old woman, wiping her eyes on her dress. but her sorrow was quickly succeeded by a different emotion, as the door opened suddenly, and robert rushton entered the room. chapter xxiv. a good beginning. jim started to his feet at the sight of the equally unwelcome and unexpected visitor. his mother, ignorant that she saw before her the owner of the bag, supposed it might be a customer wanting some washing done. "good-morning, sir," said she, "and have yez business with me?" "no," said robert, "i have business with your son, if that's he." "shure he's my son, and a smart bye he is too." "he's a little too smart sometimes," returned our hero. "i gave him my carpetbag to carry this morning, and he ran away with it." mrs. malone's face fell at this unexpected intelligence. "shur an' it was a mistake of his," she said. "he's too honest entirely to stale the value of a pin, let alone a carpetbag." meanwhile jim was rapidly reviewing the situation. he was not naturally bad, but he had fallen a victim to sudden temptation. he was ashamed, and determined to make amends by a frank confession. "my mother is wrong," he said; "i meant to kape it, and i'm sorry. here's the bag, wid nothing taken out of it." "that's right, to own up," said robert, favorably impressed with his frank confession. "give me the bag and it'll be all right. i suppose you were poor, and that tempted you. i am poor, too, and couldn't afford to lose it. but i'd rather starve than steal, and i hope you will not be dishonest again." "i won't!" said jim, stoutly. "i'll go with you now to a chape hotel, and won't charge you nothin'." "i've got a boy downstairs who will take it. don't forget what you said just now." "no, i won't," said jim. "shure if i'd known what a bully young gentleman you was, i wouldn't have took it on no account." so robert descended the stairs, having by his forbearance probably effected a moral reformation in jim, and confirmed in him the good principles, which, in spite of his mother's bad example, had already taken root in his heart. if the community, while keeping vigilant watch over the young outcasts that throng our streets, plying their petty avocations, would not always condemn, but encourage them sometimes to a better life, the results would soon appear in the diminution of the offenses for which they are most frequently arrested. his new guide shouldered robert's carpetbag, and conducted him to a hotel of good standing, managed on the european system. dismissing the boy with the promised reward, robert went up to his room on the fifth floor, and after attending to his toilet, sallied out into the street and made his way to the warehouse of the merchant who had been instrumental in raising the fund for him. "mr. morgan is engaged," said a clerk to whom he spoke. "i will wait for him, if you please," said robert. "is it any business that i can attend to?" asked the clerk. "no, i wish to see mr. morgan himself." mr. morgan was engaged with two gentlemen, and our hero was obliged to wait nearly half an hour. at the end of that time, the merchant consented to see him. he did not at first recognize him, but said, inquiringly, "well, my young friend, from whom do you come?" "i come from no one, sir." "have you business with me?" "you do not remember me, mr. morgan. do you remember when the cars came so near running off the track a short time since at millville?" "certainly i do," said mr. morgan, heartily; "and i now remember you as the brave boy who saved all our lives." "you gave me your card and told me i might call on you." "to be sure, i did, and i am very glad to see you. you must go home and dine with me to-day." "thank you, sir, for your kind invitation." "this is my address," said the merchant, writing it in pencil, and handing it to robert. "we dine at half-past six. you had better be at the door at six. we will then talk over your plans, for i suppose you have some, and i will do what i can to promote them. at present i am busy, and am afraid i must ask you to excuse me." "thank you, sir," said robert, gratefully. he left the office, not a little elated at his favorable reception. mr. morgan, judging from his place of business, must be a man of great wealth, and could no doubt be of essential service to him. what was quite as important, he seemed disposed to help him. "that's a good beginning," thought robert. "i wish mother knew how well i have succeeded so far. i'll just write and let her know that i have arrived safe. to-morrow perhaps i shall have better news to tell." he went back to his hotel, and feeling hungry, made a substantial meal. he found the restaurants moderate in price, and within his means. six o'clock found him ringing the bell of a handsome brownstone house on fifth avenue. though not disposed to be shy, he felt a little embarrassed as the door opened and a servant in livery stood before him. "is mr. morgan at home?" inquired robert. "yes, sir," said the servant, glancing speculatively at the neat but coarse garments of our hero. "he invited me to dine with him," said robert. "won't you walk in, sir?" said the servant, with another glance of mild surprise at the dress of the dinner guest. "if you'll walk in here," opening the door of a sumptuously furnished parlor, "i will announce you. what name shall i say?" "robert rushton." robert entered the parlor, and sat down on a sofa. he looked around him with a little, pardonable curiosity, for he had never before been in an elegant city mansion. "i wonder whether i shall ever be rich enough to live like this!" he thought. the room, though elegant, was dark, and to our hero, who was used to bright, sunny rooms, it seemed a little gloomy. he mentally decided that he would prefer a plain country house; not so plain, indeed, as the little cottage where his mother lived, but as nice, perhaps, as the superintendent's house, which was the finest in the village, and the most magnificent he had until this time known. its glories were wholly eclipsed by the house he was in, but robert thought he would prefer it. while he was looking about him, mr. morgan entered, and his warm and cordial manner made his boy guest feel quite at his ease. "i must make you acquainted with my wife and children," he said. "they have heard of you, and are anxious to see you." mrs. morgan gave robert a reception as warm as her husband had done. "so this is the young hero of whom i have heard!" she said. "i am afraid you give me too much credit," said robert, modestly. this modest disclaimer produced a still more favorable impression upon both mr. and mrs. morgan. i do not propose to speak in detail of the dinner that followed. the merchant and his wife succeeded in making robert feel entirely at home, and he displayed an ease and self-possession wholly free from boldness that won their good opinion. when the dinner was over, mr. morgan commenced: "now, robert, dinner being over, let us come to business. tell me your plans, and i will consider how i can promote them." in reply, robert communicated the particulars, already known to the reader, of his father's letter, his own conviction of his still living, and his desire to go in search of him. "i am afraid you will be disappointed," said the merchant, "in the object of your expedition. it may, however, be pleasant for you to see something of the world, and luckily it is in my power to help you. i have a vessel which sails for calcutta early next week. you shall go as a passenger." "couldn't i go as cabin-boy?" asked robert. "i am afraid the price of a ticket will be beyond my means." "i think not," said the merchant, smiling, "since you will go free. as you do not propose to follow the sea, it will not be worth while to go as cabin-boy. besides, it would interfere with your liberty to leave the vessel whenever you deemed it desirable in order to carry on your search for your father." "you are very kind, mr. morgan," said robert, gratefully. "so i ought to be and mean to be," said the merchant. "you know i am in your debt." we pass over the few and simple preparations which robert made for his long voyage. in these he was aided by mrs. morgan, who sent on board, without his knowledge, a trunk containing a complete outfit, considerably better than the contents of the humble carpetbag he had brought from home. he didn't go on board till the morning on which the ship was to sail. he went down into the cabin, and did not come up until the ship had actually started. coming on deck, he saw a figure which seemed familiar to him. from his dress, and the commands he appeared to be issuing, robert judged that it was the mate. he tried to think where he could have met him, when the mate turned full around, and, alike to his surprise and dismay, he recognized ben haley, whom he had wounded in his successful attempt to rob his uncle. chapter xxv. a declaration of war. if robert was surprised, ben haley had even more reason for astonishment. he had supposed his young enemy, as he chose to consider him, quietly living at home in the small village of millville. he was far from expecting to meet him on shipboard bound to india. there was one difference, however, between the surprise felt by the two. robert was disagreeably surprised, but a flash of satisfaction lit up the face of the mate, as he realized that the boy who had wounded him was on the same ship, and consequently, as he supposed, in his power. "how came you here?" he exclaimed, hastily advancing toward robert. resenting the tone of authority in which these words were spoken, robert answered, composedly: "i walked on board." "you'd better not be impudent, young one," said ben, roughly. "when you tell me what right you have to question me in that style," said robert, coolly, "i will apologize." "i am the mate of this vessel, as you will soon find out." "so i supposed," said robert. "and you, i suppose, are the cabin-boy. change your clothes at once, and report for duty." robert felt sincerely thankful at that moment that he was not the cabin-boy, for he foresaw that in that case he would be subjected to brutal treatment from the mate--treatment which his subordinate position would make him powerless to resent. now, as a passenger, he felt independent, and though it was disagreeable to have the mate for an enemy, he did not feel afraid. "you've made a mistake, mr. haley," said our hero. "i am not the cabin-boy." "what are you, then?" "i am a passenger." "you are telling a lie. we don't take passengers," said ben haley, determined not to believe that the boy was out of his power. "if you will consult the captain, you may learn your mistake," said robert. ben haley couldn't help crediting this statement, since it would have done robert no good to misrepresent the facts of the case. he resolved, however, to ask the captain about it, and inquire how it happened that he had been received as a passenger, contrary to the usual custom. "you will hear from me again," he said, in a tone of menace. robert turned away indifferently, so far as appearance went, but he couldn't help feeling a degree of apprehension as he thought of the long voyage he was to take in company with his enemy, who doubtless would have it in his power to annoy him, even if he abstained from positive injury. "he is a bad man, and will injure me if he can," he reflected; "but i think i can take care of myself. if i can't i will appeal to the captain." meanwhile the mate went up to the captain. "captain evans," said he, "is that boy a passenger?" "yes, mr. haley." "it is something unusual to take passengers, is it not?" "yes; but this lad is a friend of the owner; and mr. morgan has given me directions to treat him with particular consideration." ben haley was puzzled. how did it happen that mr. morgan, one of the merchant princes of new york, had become interested in an obscure country boy? "i don't understand it," he said, perplexed. "i suppose the boy is a relation of mr. morgan." "nothing of the kind. he is of poor family, from a small country town." "then you know him?" "i know something of him and his family. he is one of the most impudent young rascals i ever met." "indeed!" returned the captain, surprised. "from what i have seen of him, i have come to quite a different conclusion. he has been very gentlemanly and polite to me." "he can appear so, but you will find out, sooner or later. he has not the slightest regard for truth, and will tell the most unblushing falsehoods with the coolest and most matter-of-fact air." "i shouldn't have supposed it," said captain evans, looking over at our hero, at the other extremity of the deck. "appearances are deceitful, certainly." "they are in this case." this terminated the colloquy for the time. the mate had done what he could to prejudice the captain against the boy he hated. not, however, with entire success. captain evans had a mind of his own, and did not choose to adopt any man's judgment or prejudices blindly. he resolved to watch robert a little more closely than he had done, in order to see whether his own observation confirmed the opinion expressed by the mate. of the latter he did not know much, since this was the first voyage on which they had sailed together; but captain evans was obliged to confess that he did not wholly like his first officer. he appeared to be a capable seaman, and, doubtless, understood his duties, but there was a bold and reckless expression which impressed him unfavorably. ben haley, on his part, had learned something, but not much. he had ascertained that robert was a _protege_ of the owner, and was recommended to the special care of the captain; but what could be his object in undertaking the present voyage, he did not understand. he was a little afraid that robert would divulge the not very creditable part he had played at millville; and that he might not be believed in that case, he had represented him to the captain as an habitual liar. after some consideration, he decided to change his tactics, and induce our hero to believe he was his friend, or, at least, not hostile to him. to this he was impelled by two motives. first, to secure his silence respecting the robbery; and, next, to so far get into his confidence as to draw out of him the object of his present expedition. thus, he would lull his suspicions to sleep, and might thereafter gratify his malice the more securely. he accordingly approached our hero, and tapped him on the shoulder. robert drew away slightly. haley saw the movement, and hated the boy the more for it. "well, my lad," he said, "i find your story is correct." "those who know me don't generally doubt my word," said robert, coldly. "well, i don't know you, or, at least, not intimately," said haley, "and you must confess that i haven't the best reasons to like you." "did you suffer much inconvenience from your wound?" asked robert. "not much. it proved to be slight. you were a bold boy to wing me. i could have crushed you easily." "i suppose you could, but you know how i was situated. i couldn't run away, and desert your uncle." "i don't know about that. you don't understand that little affair. i suppose you think i had no right to the gold i took." "i certainly do think so." "then you are mistaken. my uncle got his money from my grandfather. a part should have gone to my mother, and, consequently, to me, but he didn't choose to act honestly. my object in calling upon him was to induce him to do me justice at last. but you know the old man has become a miser, and makes money his idol. the long and short of it was, that, as he wouldn't listen to reason, i determined to take the law into my own hands, and carry off what i thought ought to come to me." robert listened to this explanation without putting much faith in it. it was not at all according to the story given by mr. nichols, and he knew, moreover, that the man before him had passed a wild and dissolute youth. "i suppose what i did was not strictly legal," continued ben haley, lightly; "but we sailors are not much versed in the quips of the law. to my thinking, law defeats justice about as often as it aids it." "i don't know very much about law," said robert, perceiving that some reply was expected. "that's just my case," said ben, "and the less i have to do with it the better it will suit me. i suppose my uncle made a great fuss about the money i carried off." "yes," said robert. "it was quite a blow to him, and he has been nervous ever since for fear you would come back again." ben haley shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "he needn't be afraid. i don't want to trouble him, but i was bound he shouldn't keep from me what was rightly my due. i haven't got all i ought to have, but i am not a lover of money, and i shall let it go." "i hope you won't go near him again, for he got a severe shock the last time." "when you get back, if you get a chance to see him privately, you may tell him there is no danger of that." "i shall be glad to do so," said robert. "i thought i would explain the matter to you," continued the mate, in an off-hand manner, "for i didn't want you to remain under a false impression. so you are going to see a little of the world?" "yes, sir." "i suppose that is your only object?" "no. i have another object in view." the mate waited to learn what this object was, but robert stopped, and did not seem inclined to go on. "well," said haley, after a slight pause, "as we are to be together on a long voyage, we may as well be friends. here's my hand." to his surprise, robert made no motion to take it. "mr. haley," said he, "i don't like to refuse your hand, but when i tell you that i am the son of captain rushton, of the ship, _norman_, you will understand why i cannot accept your hand." ben haley started back in dismay. how could robert have learned anything of his treachery to his father? had the dead come back from the bottom of the sea to expose him? was captain rushton still alive? he did not venture to ask, but he felt his hatred for robert growing more intense. "boy," he said, in a tone of concentrated passion, "you have done a bold thing in rejecting my hand. i might have been your friend. think of me henceforth as your relentless enemy." he walked away, his face dark with the evil passions which robert's slight had aroused in his breast. chapter xxvi. out on the ocean. we must now go back nearly two years. five men were floating about in a boat in the southern ocean. they looked gaunt and famished. for a week they had lived on short allowance, and now for two days they had been entirely without food. there was in their faces that look, well-nigh hopeless, which their wretched situation naturally produced. for one day, also, they had been without water, and the torments of thirst were worse than the cravings of hunger. these men were captain rushton and four sailors of the ship _norman_, whose burning has already been described. one of the sailors, bunsby, was better educated and more intelligent than the rest, and the captain spoke to him as a friend and an equal, for all the distinctions of rank were broken down by the immediate prospect of a terrible death. "how is all this going to end, bunsby?" said the captain, in a low voice, turning from a vain search for some sail; in sight, and addressing his subordinate. "i am afraid there is only one way," answered bunsby. "there is not much prospect of our meeting a ship." "and, if we do, it is doubtful if we can attract their attention." "i should like the chance to try." "i never knew before how much worse thirst is than hunger." "do you know, captain, if this lasts much longer, i shall be tempted to swallow some of this sea water." "it will only make matters worse." "i know it, but, at least, it will moisten my throat." the other sailors sat stupid and silent, apparently incapable of motion, "i wish i had a plug of tobacco," said one, at last. "if there were any use in wishing, i'd wish myself on shore," said the second. "we'll never see land again," said the third, gloomily. "we're bound for davy jones' locker." "i'd like to see my old mother before i go down," said the first. "i've got a mother, too," said the third. "if i could only have a drop of the warm tea such as she used to make! she's sitting down to dinner now, most likely, little thinking that her jack is dying of hunger out here." there was a pause, and the captain spoke again. "i wish i knew whether that bottle will ever reach shore. when was it we launched it?" "four days since." "i've got something here i wish i could get to my wife." he drew from his pocketbook a small, folded paper. "what is that, captain?" asked bunsby. "it is my wife's fortune." "how is that, captain?" "that paper is good for five thousand dollars." "five thousand dollars wouldn't do us much good here. it wouldn't buy a pound of bread, or a pint of water." "no; but it would--i hope it will--save my wife and son from suffering. just before i sailed on this voyage i took five thousand dollars--nearly all my savings--to a man in our village to keep till i returned, or, if i did not return, to keep in trust for my wife and child. this is the paper he gave me in acknowledgment." "is he a man you can trust, captain?" "i think so. it is the superintendent of the factory in our village--a man rich, or, at any rate, well-to-do. he has a good reputation for integrity." "your wife knew you had left the money in his hands?" "no; i meant it as a surprise to her." "it is a pity you did not leave that paper in her hands." "what do you mean, bunsby?" asked the captain, nervously. "you don't think this man will betray his trust?" "i can't say, captain, for i don't know the man; but i don't like to trust any man too far." captain rushton was silent for a moment. there was a look of trouble on his face. "you make me feel anxious, bunsby. it is hard enough to feel that i shall probably never again see my wife and child--on earth, i mean--but to think that they may possibly suffer want makes it more bitter." "the man may be honest, captain: don't trouble yourself too much." "i see that i made a mistake. i should have left this paper with my wife. davis can keep this money, and no one will be the wiser. it is a terrible temptation." "particularly if the man is pressed for money." "i don't think that. he is considered a rich man. he ought to be one, and my money would be only a trifle to him." "let us hope it is so, captain," said bunsby, who felt that further discussion would do no good, and only embitter the last moments of his commander. but anxiety did not so readily leave the captain. added to the pangs of hunger and the cravings of thirst was the haunting fear that by his imprudence his wife and child would suffer. "do you think it would do any good, bunsby," he said, after a pause, "to put this receipt in a bottle, as i did the letter?" "no, captain, it is too great a risk. there is not more than one chance in a hundred of its reaching its destination. besides, suppose you should be picked up, and go home without the receipt; he might refuse to pay you." "he would do so at the peril of his life, then," said the captain, fiercely. "do you think, if i were alive, i would let any man rob me of the savings of my life?" "other men have done so." "it would not be safe to try it on me, bunsby." "well, captain?" "it is possible that i may perish, but you may be saved." "not much chance of it." "yet it is possible. now, if that happens, i have a favor to ask of you." "name it, captain." "i want you, if i die first, to take this paper, and guard it carefully; and, if you live to get back, to take it to millville, and see that justice is done to my wife and child." "i promise that, captain; but i think we shall die together." twenty-four hours passed. the little boat still rocked hither and thither on the ocean billows. the five faces looked more haggard, and there was a wild, eager look upon them, as they scanned the horizon, hoping to see a ship. their lips and throats were dry and parched. "i can't stand it no longer," said one--it was the sailor i have called jack--"i shall drink some of the sea water." "don't do it, jack," said bunsby. "you'll suffer more than ever." "i can't," said jack, desperately; and, scooping up some water in the hollow of his hand, he drank it eagerly. again and again he drank with feverish eagerness. "how is it?" said the second sailor, "i feel better," said jack; "my throat so dry." "then i'll take some, too." the other two sailors, unheeding the remonstrances of bunsby and the captain, followed the example of jack. they felt relief for the moment, but soon their torments became unendurable. with parched throats, gasping for breath, they lay back in agony. suffering themselves, captain rushton and bunsby regarded with pity the greater sufferings of their wretched companions. "this is horrible," said the captain. "yes," said bunsby, sadly. "it can't last much longer now." his words were truer than he thought. unable to endure his suffering, the sailor named jack suddenly staggered to his feet. "i can't stand it any longer," he said, wildly; "good-by, boys," and before his companions well knew what he intended to do, he had leaped over the side of the boat, and sunk in the ocean waves. there was a thrilling silence, as the waters closed over his body. then the second sailor also rose to his feet. "i'm going after jack," he said, and he, too, plunged into the waves. the captain rose as if to hinder him, but bunsby placed his hand upon his arm. "it's just as well, captain. we must all come to that, and the sooner, the more suffering is saved." "that's so," said the other sailor, tormented like the other two by thirst, aggravated by his draughts of seawater. "good-by, bunsby! good-by, captain! i'm going!" he, too, plunged into the sea, and bunsby and the captain were left alone. "you won't desert me, bunsby?" said the captain. "no, captain. i haven't swallowed seawater like those poor fellows. i can stand it better." "there is no hope of life," said the captain, quietly; "but i don't like to go unbidden into my maker's presence." "nor i. i'll stand by you, captain." "this is a fearful thing, bunsby. if it would only rain." "that would be some relief." as if in answer to his wish, the drops began to fall--slowly at first, then more copiously, till at last their clothing was saturated, and the boat partly filled with water. eagerly they squeezed out the welcome dregs from their clothing, and felt a blessed relief. they filled two bottles they had remaining with the precious fluid. "if those poor fellows had only waited," said the captain. "they are out of suffering now," said bunsby. the relief was only temporary, and they felt it to be so. they were without food, and the two bottles of water would not last them long. still, there was a slight return of hope, which survives under the most discouraging circumstances. chapter xxvii. frank price. the ship _argonaut_, bound for calcutta, was speeding along with a fair wind, when the man at the lookout called: "boat in sight!" "where away?" the sailor pointed, out a small boat a mile distant, nearly in the ship's track, rising and falling with the billows. "is there any one in it?" "i see two men lying in the bottom. they are motionless. they may be dead." the boat was soon overtaken. it was the boat from the ill-fated _norman_, captain rushton and bunsby were lying stretched out in the bottom, both motionless and apparently without life. bunsby was really dead. but there was still some life left in the captain, which, under the care of the surgeon of the ship, was carefully husbanded until he was out of immediate danger. but his system, from the long privation of food, had received such a shock, that his mind, sympathizing with it, he fell into a kind of stupor, mental and physical, and though strength and vigor came slowly back, captain rushton was in mind a child. oblivion of the past seemed to have come over him. he did not remember who he was, or that he had a wife and child. "poor man!" said the surgeon; "i greatly fear his mind has completely given way." "it is a pity some of his friends were not here," said the captain of the ship that had rescued him. "the sight of a familiar face might restore him." "it is possible, but i am not sure of even that." "is there any clew to his identity?" "i have found none." it will at once occur to the reader that the receipt would have supplied the necessary information, since it was dated millville, and contained the captain's name. but this was concealed in an inner pocket in captain rushton's vest, and escaped the attention of the surgeon. so, nameless and unknown, he was carried to calcutta, which he reached without any perceptible improvement in his mental condition. arrived at calcutta, the question arose: "what shall we do with him?" it was a perplexing question, since if carried back to new york, it might be difficult to identify him there, or send him back to his friends. besides, the care of a man in his condition would be a greater responsibility than most shipmasters would care to undertake. it was at this crisis that a large-hearted and princely american merchant, resident in calcutta, who had learned the particulars of the captain's condition, came forward, saying: "leave him here. i will find him a home in some suitable boarding-house, and defray such expenses as may be required. god has blessed me with abundant means. it is only right that i should employ a portion in his service. i hope, under good treatment, he may recover wholly, and be able to tell me who he is, and where is his home. when that is ascertained, if his health is sufficiently good, i will send him home at my own expense." the offer was thankfully accepted, and the generous merchant was as good as his word. a home was found for captain rushton in the boarding-house of mrs. start, a widow, who, thrown upon her own exertions for support, had, by the help of the merchant already referred to, opened a boarding-house, which was now quite remunerative. "he will require considerable care, mrs. start," said mr. perkins, the merchant, "but i am ready and willing to compensate you for all the trouble to which you are put. will you take him?" "certainly i will," said the warm-hearted widow, "if only because you ask it. but for you, i should not be earning a comfortable living, with a little money laid up in the bank, besides." "thank you, mrs. start," said the merchant. "i know the poor man could be in no better hands. but you mustn't let any considerations of gratitude interfere with your charging a fair price for your trouble. i am able and willing to pay whatever is suitable." "i don't believe we shall quarrel on that point," said the widow, smiling. "i will do all i can for your friend. what is his name?" "that i don't know." "we shall have to call him something." "call him smith, then. that will answer till we find out his real name, as we may some day, when his mind comes back, as i hope it may." from that time, therefore, captain rushton was known as mr. smith. he recovered in a considerable degree his bodily health, but mentally he remained in the same condition. sometimes he fixed his eyes upon mrs. start, and seemed struggling to remember something of the past; but after a few moments his face would assume a baffled look, and he would give up the attempt as fruitless. one day when mrs. start addressed him as mr. smith, he asked: "why do you call me by that name?" "is not that your name?" she asked. "no." "what, then, is it?" he put his hand to his brow, and seemed to be thinking. at length he turned to the widow, and said, abruptly: "do you not know my name?" "no." "nor do i," he answered, and left the room hastily. she continued, therefore, to address him as mr. smith, and he gradually became accustomed to it, and answered to it. leaving captain rushton at calcutta, with the assurance that, though separated from home and family, he will receive all the care that his condition requires, we will return to our hero, shut up on shipboard with his worst enemy. i say this advisedly, for though halbert davis disliked him, it was only the feeling of a boy, and was free from the intensity of ben haley's hatred. no doubt, it was imprudent for him to reject the mate's hand, but robert felt that he could not grasp in friendship the hand which had deprived him of a father. he was bold enough to brave the consequences of this act, which he foresaw clearly. ben haley, however, was in no hurry to take the vengeance which he was fully resolved sooner or later to wreak upon our young hero. he was content to bide his time. had robert been less watchful, indeed, he might have supposed that the mate's feelings toward him had changed. when they met, as in the narrow limits of the ship they must do every day, the forms of courtesy passed between them. robert always saluted the mate, and haley responded by a nod, or a cool good-morning, but did not indulge in any conversation. sometimes, however, turning suddenly, robert would catch a malignant glance from the mate, but haley's expression immediately changed, when thus surprised, and he assumed an air of indifference. with captain evans, on the other hand, robert was on excellent terms. the captain liked the bold, manly boy, and talked much with him of the different countries he had visited, and seemed glad to answer the questions which our hero asked. "robert," said the captain, one day, "how is it that you and mr. haley seem to have nothing to say to each other?" "i don't think he likes me, captain evans," said robert. "is there any reason for it, or is it merely a prejudice?" "there is a reason for it, but i don't care to mention it. not that it is anything i have reason to regret, or to be ashamed of," he added, hastily. "it is on mr. haley's account that i prefer to keep it secret." "is there no chance of your being on better terms?" asked the captain, good-naturedly, desirous of effecting a reconciliation. robert shook his head. "i don't wish to be reconciled, captain," he said. "i will tell you this much, that mr. haley has done me and my family an injury which, perhaps, can never be repaired. i cannot forget it, and though i am willing to be civil to him, since we are thrown together, i do not want his friendship, even if he desired mine, as i am sure he does not." captain evans was puzzled by this explanation, which threw very little light upon the subject, and made no further efforts to bring the two together. time passed, and whatever might be ben haley's feelings, he abstained from any attempt to injure him. robert's suspicions were lulled to sleep, and he ceased to be as vigilant and watchful as he had been. his frank, familiar manner made him a favorite on shipboard. he had a friendly word for all the sailors, which was appreciated, for it was known that he was the _protege_ of the owner. he was supposed by some to be a relation, or, at any rate, a near connection, and so was treated with unusual respect. all the sailors had a kind word for him, and many were the praises which he received in the forecastle. among those most devoted to him was a boy of fourteen, frank price, who had sailed in the capacity of cabin-boy. the poor boy was very seasick at first, and captain evans had been indulgent, and excused him from duty until he got better. he was not sturdy enough for the life upon which he had entered, and would gladly have found himself again in the comfortable home which a mistaken impulse had led him to exchange for the sea. with this boy, robert, who was of about the same age, struck up a friendship, which was returned twofold by frank, whose heart, naturally warm, was easily won by kindness. chapter xxviii. the new captain. the voyage was more than half completed, and nothing of importance had occurred to mark it. but at this time, captain evans fell sick. his sickness proved to be a fever, and was very severe. the surgeon was in constant attendance, but the malady baffled all his skill. at the end of seven days, it terminated fatally, to the great grief of all on board, with whom the good-natured captain was very popular. there was one exception, however, to the general grief. it is an ill wind that blows good to no one, and ben haley did not lament much for an event which promoted him to the command of the vessel. of course, he did not show this feeling publicly, but in secret his heart bounded with exultation at the thought that he was, for the time, master of the ship and all on board. he was not slow in asserting his new position. five minutes after the captain breathed his last, one of the sailors approached him, and asked for orders, addressing him as "mr. haley." "captain haley!" roared the new commander. "if you don't know my position on board this ship, it's time you found it out!" "ay, ay, sir," stammered the sailor, taken aback at his unexpected violence. robert mourned sincerely at the death of captain evans, by whom he had always been treated with the utmost kindness. even had he not been influenced by such a feeling, he would have regarded with apprehension the elevation to the command of one whom he well knew to be actuated by a feeling of enmity to himself. he resolved to be as prudent as possible, and avoid, as far as he could, any altercation with haley. but the latter was determined, now that he had reached the command, to pick a quarrel with our hero, and began to cast about for a fitting occasion. now that captain evans was dead, robert spent as much time as the latter's duties would permit with frank price. the boys held long and confidential conversations together, imparting to each other their respective hopes and wishes. haley observed their intimacy and mutual attachment, and, unable to assert his authority over robert, who was a passenger, determined to strike at him through his friend. his determination was strengthened by a conversation which he overheard between the boys when they supposed him beyond earshot. "i wish captain evans were alive," said frank. "i liked him, and i don't like captain haley." "captain evans was an excellent man," said robert. "he knew how to treat a fellow," said frank. "as long as he saw us doing our best, he was easy with us. captain haley is a tyrant." "be careful what you say, frank," said robert. "it isn't safe to say much about the officers." "i wouldn't say anything, except to you. you are my friend." "i am your true friend, frank, and i don't want you to get into any trouble." "i am sure you don't like the captain any better than i do." "i don't like the captain, for more reasons than i can tell you; but i shall keep quiet, as long as i am on board this ship." "are you going back with us?" "i don't know. it will depend upon circumstances. i don't think i shall, though i might have done so had captain evans remained in command." "i wish i could leave it, and stay with you." "i wish you could, frank. perhaps you can." "i will try." haley overheard the last part of this conversation. he took particular notice of robert's remark that he would keep quiet as long as he remained on board the ship, and inferred that on arrival at the destined port our hero would expose all he knew about him. this made him uneasy, for it would injure, if not destroy, his prospect of remaining in command of the _argonaut_. he resented also the dislike which robert had cautiously expressed, and the similar feeling cherished by the cabin-boy. he had half a mind to break in upon their conversation on the spot; but, after a moment's thought, walked away, his neighborhood unsuspected by the two boys. "they shall both rue their impudence," he muttered. "they shall find out that they cannot insult me with impunity." the next day, when both boys were on deck, captain haley harshly ordered frank to attend to a certain duty which he had already performed. "i have done so, sir," said frank, in a respectful tone. "none of your impudence, you young rascal!" roared the captain, lashing himself into a rage. frank looked up into his face in astonishment, unable to account for so violent an outbreak. "what do you mean by looking me in the face in that impudent manner?" demanded captain haley, furiously. "i didn't mean to be impudent, captain haley," said frank. "what have i done?" "what have you done? you, a cabin-boy, have dared to insult your captain, and, by heavens, you shall rue it! strip off your jacket." frank turned pale. he knew what this order meant. public floggings were sometimes administered on shipboard, but, under the command of captain evans, nothing of the kind had taken place. robert, who had heard the whole, listened, with unmeasured indignation, to this wanton abuse on the part of captain haley. his eyes flashed, and his youthful form dilated with righteous indignation. robert was not the only one who witnessed with indignation the captain's brutality. such of the sailors as happened to be on deck shared his feelings. haley, looking about him, caught the look with which robert regarded him, and triumphed inwardly that he had found a way to chafe him. "what have you got to say about it?" he demanded, addressing our hero, with a sneer. "since you have asked my opinion," said robert, boldly, "i will express it. frank price has not been guilty of any impudence, and deserves no punishment." this was a bold speech to be made by a boy to a captain on his own deck, and the sailors who heard it inwardly applauded the pluck of the boy who uttered it. "what do you mean by that, sir?" exclaimed haley, his eyes lighting up fiercely, as he strode to the spot where robert stood, and frowned upon him, menacingly. "you asked my opinion, and i gave it," said robert, not flinching. "i have a great mind to have you flogged, too!" said haley. "i am not one of your crew, captain haley," said robert, coolly; "and you have no right to lay a hand on me." "what is to prevent me, i should like to know?" "i am here as a passenger, and a friend of the owner of this vessel. if i receive any ill-treatment, it shall be reported to him." if the sailors had dared, they would have applauded the stripling who, undaunted by the menacing attitude of the captain, faced him boldly and fearlessly. haley would gladly have knocked him down, but there was something in the resolute mien of his young passenger that made him pause. he knew that he would keep his word, and that, with such representations as he might make, he would stand no further chance of being employed by mr. morgan. "i have an account to settle with you, boy," he said; "and the settlement will not long be delayed. when a passenger tries to incite mutiny, he forfeits his privileges as a passenger." "who has done this, captain haley?" "you have done it." "i deny it," said robert. "your denial is worth nothing. i have a right to throw you into irons, and may yet do it. at present i have other business in hand." he left robert, and walked back to frank price, who, not having robert's courage, had been a terrified listener to the colloquy between him and the captain. "now, boy," he said, harshly, "i will give you a lesson that you shall remember to the latest day of your life. bring me the cat." the barbarous cat, as it was called, once in use on our ships, was brought, and captain haley signaled to one of the sailors to approach. "bates," he said, in a tone of authority, "give that boy a dozen lashes." bates was a stout sailor, rough in appearance, but with a warm and kindly heart. he had a boy of his own at home, about the age of frank price, and his heart had warmed to the boy whose position he felt to be far from an enviable one. the task now imposed upon him was a most distasteful and unwelcome one. he was a good sailor, and aimed on all occasions to show proper obedience to the commands of his officers, but now he could not. "captain haley," he said, not stirring from his position, "i hope you will excuse me." "is this mutiny?" roared the captain. "no, captain haley. i always mean to do my duty on board ship." "i have told you to flog this boy!" "i can't do it, captain haley. i have a boy of my own about the size of that lad there, and, if i struck him, i'd think it was my own boy that stood in his place." this unexpected opposition excited the fierce resentment of the captain. he felt that a crisis had come, and he was determined to be obeyed. "unless you do as i bid you, i will keep you in irons for the rest of the voyage!" "you are the captain of this ship, and can throw me in irons, if you like," said bates, with an air of dignity despite his tarred hands and sailor jacket. "i have refused to do no duty that belongs to me. when i signed my name to the ship's papers, i did not agree to flog boys." "put him in irons!" roared the captain, incensed. "we will see who is captain of this ship!" the mandate was obeyed, and bates was lodged in the forecastle, securely ironed. the captain himself seized the cat, and was about to apply it to the luckless cabin-boy, when a terrible blast, springing up in an instant, as it were, struck the ship, almost throwing it upon its side. there was no time for punishment now. the safety of the ship required instant action, and frank price was permitted to replace his jacket without having received a blow. chapter xxix. the captain's revenge. the storm which commenced so suddenly was one of great violence. it required all the captain's seamanship, and the efforts of all the crew, to withstand it. however reluctant to do it, captain haley was forced to release bates from his irons, and order him to duty. the latter worked energetically, and showed that he did not intend to shirk any part of his duties as seaman. but the result of the storm was that the vessel was driven out of her course, and her rigging suffered considerable injury. the wind blew all night. toward morning it abated, and, as the morning light broke, the lookout described a small island distant about a league. the captain looked at it through his glass, and then examined the chart. "i can't make out what island that is," he said. "it is not large enough," suggested the mate, "to find a place on the map." "perhaps it is as you say," said captain haley, thoughtfully. "i have a mind to go on shore and explore it. there may be some fresh fruits that will vary our diet." this plan was carried out. a boat was got ready, and the captain got in, with four sailors to row. just as he was about to descend into the boat, he turned to robert, who was looking curiously toward land, and said: "rushton, would you like to go with us?" it was precisely what robert wanted. he had a boy's love of adventure, and the thought of exploring an island, perhaps hitherto unknown, struck his fancy, and he eagerly accepted the invitation. "jump in, then," said haley, striving to appear indifferent; but there was a gleam of exultation in his eye, which he took care to conceal from the unsuspecting boy. swiftly the boat sped through the waters, pulled by the strong arms of four stout sailors, and, reaching the island, was drawn into a little cove, which seemed made for it. "now for an exploring expedition," said the captain. "boys," addressing the sailors, "remain near the boat. i will soon be back. rushton," he said, turning to our hero, "go where you like, but be back in an hour." "yes, sir," answered robert. had it been captain evans, instead of captain haley, he would have proposed to join him; but, knowing what he did of the latter, he preferred his own company. the island was about five miles in circumference. near the shore, it was bare of vegetation, but further inland there were numerous trees, some producing fruit. after some weeks of the monotonous life on shipboard, robert enjoyed pressing the solid earth once more. besides, this was the first foreign shore his foot had ever trodden. the thought that he was thousands of miles away from home, and that, possibly, the land upon which he now walked had never before been trodden by a civilized foot, filled him with a sense of excitement and exhilaration. "what would mother say if she should see me now?" he thought. "what a wonderful chance it would be if my father had been wafted in his boat to this island, and i should come upon him unexpectedly!" it was very improbable, but robert thought enough of it to look about him carefully. but everywhere the land seemed to be virgin, without other inhabitants than the birds of strange plumage and note, which sang in the branches of the trees. "i don't believe any one ever lived here," thought robert. it struck him that he should like to live upon the island a week, if he could be sure of being taken off at the end of that time. the cool breezes from the ocean swept over the little island, and made it delightfully cool at morning and evening, though hot in the middle of the day. robert sauntered along till he came to a little valley. he descended the slope, and sat down in the shade of a broad-leaved tree. the grass beneath him made a soft couch, and he felt that he should enjoy lying there the rest of the day. but his time was limited. the captain had told him to be back in an hour, and he felt that it was time for him to be stirring. "i shall not have time to go any further," he reflected. "i must be getting back to the boat." as this occurred to him, he rose to his feet, and, looking up, he started a little at seeing the captain himself descending the slope. "well, robert," said captain haley, "how do you like the island?" "very much, indeed," said our hero. "it seems pleasant to be on land after being on shipboard so many weeks." "quite true. this is a beautiful place you have found." "i was resting under this tree, listening to the birds, but i felt afraid i should not be back to the boat in time, and was just starting to return." "i think we can overstay our time a little," said haley. "they won't go back without me, i reckon," he added, with a laugh. robert was nothing loth to stay, and resumed his place on the grass. the captain threw himself on the grass beside him. "i suppose you have read 'robinson crusoe?'" he said. "oh, yes; more than once." "i wonder how it would seem to live on such an island as this?" "i should like it very well," said robert; "that is, if i could go off at any time. i was just thinking of it when you come up." "were you?" asked the captain, showing his teeth in an unpleasant smile, which, however, robert did not see. "you think you would like it?" "yes, sir." "i am glad of that." "why?" asked robert, turning round and looking his companion in the face. "because," said haley, changing his tone, "i am going to give you a chance to try it." robert sprang to his feet in instant alarm, but too late. haley had grasped him by the shoulder, and in his grasp the boy's strength was nothing. "what are you going to do?" asked robert, with fearful foreboding. "wait a minute and you will see!" the captain had drawn a stout cord, brought for the purpose, from his pocket, and, dragging robert to a tree, tied him securely to the trunk. the terrible fate destined for him was presented vividly to the imagination of our hero; and, brave as he was, it almost unmanned him. finding his struggles useless, he resorted to expostulation. "i am sure you cannot mean this, captain haley!" he said. "you won't leave me to perish miserably on this island?" "won't i?" returned the captain, with an evil light in his eyes. "why won't i?" "surely, you will not be so inhuman?" "look here, boy," said the captain, "you needn't try to come any of your high-flown notions about humanity over me. i owe you a debt, and, by heaven! i'm going to pay it! you didn't think much of humanity when you wounded me." "i couldn't help it," said robert. "i didn't want to hurt you. i only wanted to protect your uncle." "that's all very well; but, when you interfered in a family quarrel, you meddled with what did not concern you. besides, you have been inciting my crew to mutiny." "i have not done so," said robert. "i overheard you the other night giving some of your precious advice to my cabin-boy. besides, you had the impudence to interfere with me in a matter of discipline." "frank price deserved no punishment." "that is for me to decide. when you dared to be impudent to me on my own deck, i swore to be revenged, and the time has come sooner than i anticipated." "captain haley," said robert, "in all that i have done i have tried to do right. if i have done wrong, it was because i erred in judgment. if you will let me go, i will promise to say nothing of the attempt you make to keep me here." "you are very kind," sneered the captain; "but i mean to take care of that myself. you may make all the complaints you like after i have left you here." "there is one who will hear me," said robert. "i shall not be wholly without friends." "who do you mean?" "god!" said robert, solemnly. "rubbish!" retorted haley, contemptuously. "i shall not despair while i have him to appeal to." "just as you like," said the captain, shrugging his shoulders. "you are welcome to all the comfort you can find in your present situation." by this time, robert was bound to the trunk of the tree by a cord, which passed around his waist. in addition to this haley tied his wrists together, fearing that otherwise he might be able to unfasten the knot. he now rose to his feet, and looked down upon the young captive, with an air of triumph. "have you any messages to send by me, rushton?" he said, with a sneer. "are you quite determined to leave me here?" asked robert, in anguish. "quite so." "what will the sailors say when i do not return?" "don't trouble yourself about them. i will take care of that. if you have got anything to say, say it quick, for i must be going." "captain haley," said robert, his courage rising, and looking the captain firmly in the face, "i may die here, and so gratify your enmity; but the time will come when you will repent what you are doing." "i'll risk that," said haley, coolly. "good-by." he walked up the slope, and disappeared from view, leaving robert bound to the tree, a helpless prisoner. chapter xxx. a friend in need. captain haley kept on his way to the shore. the four sailors were all within hail, and on the captain's approach got the boat in readiness to return. "where is the boy?" asked haley. "hasn't he got back?" "no, sir." "that is strange. i told him to be back in an hour, and it is already past that time." "perhaps he hasn't a watch," suggested one of the sailors. "i will wait ten minutes for him," said haley, taking out his watch. "if he is not back in that time, i must go without him." the sailors did not reply, but looked anxiously inland, hoping to catch sight of robert returning. but, bound as he was, we can understand why they looked in vain. "shall i go and look for him?" asked one. "no," said haley, decidedly; "i cannot spare you." the ten minutes were soon up. "into the boat with you," commanded the captain. "i shall wait no longer." slowly and reluctantly, the sailors took their places, for robert was a favorite with them. "now, men, give way," said haley. "if the boy is lost, it is his own fault." they reached the vessel in due time. there was a murmur among the crew, when it was found that robert had been left behind; but, knowing the captain's disposition, no one except bates dared to expostulate. "captain haley," said he, approaching and touching his hat, "will you give me leave to go on shore for the young gentleman that was left?" "no," said the captain. "he had fair warning to be back in time, and chose to disregard it. my duty to the owners will not permit me to delay the ship on his account." "he was a relation of the owner," suggested bates. "no, he was not; and, if he said so, he lied. go about your duty, and take care i have no more fault to find with you, or you go back in irons!" bates ventured upon no further expostulation. he saw through the captain's subterfuge, and felt persuaded that it had been his deliberate intention from the first to abandon robert to his fate. he began to think busily, and finally resolved to go to the island and search for him. for this purpose, a boat would be needful, since the distance, nearly a league, was too far to swim. now, to appropriate one of the ship's boats when the captain was on deck would be impossible, but haley, within five minutes, went below. bates now proceeded to carry out his plan. "what are you going to do?" demanded one of the sailors. "i'm going after the boy." "you'll be left along with him." "i'll take the risk. he shan't say he didn't have one friend." by the connivance of his fellow-sailors, bates got safely off with the boat, and began to pull toward shore. he was already a mile distant from the vessel when captain haley came on deck. "who is that in the boat?" he demanded, abruptly. "i don't know, sir." he pointed the glass toward the boat, and, though he could not fairly distinguish the stout sailor who was pulling the boat through the water, he suspected that it was bates. "where is bates?" he asked. no one had seen him. "the fool has gone to destruction," said captain haley. "i shall not go after him. he is welcome to live on the island if he chooses." his reason for not pursuing the fugitive may be readily understood. he feared that robert would be found bound to the tree, and the story the boy would tell would go heavily against him. he hurried preparation for the vessel's departure, and in a short time it was speeding away from the island with two less on board. i must now go back to robert, whom we left bound to a tree. after the captain left him, he struggled hard to unloose the cords which bound him. the love of life was strong within him, and the thought of dying under such circumstances was appalling. he struggled manfully, but, though he was strong for a boy, the cord was strong, also, and the captain knew how to tie a knot. robert ceased at last, tired with his efforts. a feeling of despair came over him, and the tears started, unbidden, to his eyes, as he thought how his mother would watch and wait for him in vain--how lonely she would feel, with husband and son both taken from her. could it be that he was to die, when life had only just commenced, thousands of miles away from home, in utter solitude? had he come so far for this? then, again, he feared that his mother would suffer want and privation when the money which he had left behind was exhausted. in his pocket there were nearly two hundred dollars, not likely to be of any service to him. he wished that they were in her possession. "if only he had left me free and unbound," thought robert, "i might pick up a living on the island, and perhaps some day attract the attention of some vessel." with this thought, and the hope it brought, he made renewed efforts to release himself, striving to untie the cord which fastened his wrists with his teeth. he made some progress, and felt encouraged, but it was hard work, and he was compelled to stop, from time to time, to rest. it was in one of these intervals that he heard his name called. feeling sure that there was no one on the island but himself, he thought he was deceived. but the sound came nearer, and he distinctly heard "robert!" "here i am!" he shouted, in return, his heart filled with sudden thanksgiving. "captain haley only meant to frighten me," he thought. "he has sent some men back for me." in his gratitude, he thanked heaven fervently for so changing the heart of his enemy, and once more life looked bright. "robert!" he heard again. "here!" he shouted, with all the strength of his lungs. this time the sound reached bates, who, running up his boat on shore, and securing it, was exploring the island in search of our hero. looking around him, he at length, from the edge of the valley, descried robert. "is that you, lad?" he asked. "yes, bates; come and untie me!" bates saw his situation with surprise and indignation. "that's some of the captain's work!" he at once decided. "he must be a cursed scoundrel to leave that poor lad there to die!" he quickened his steps, and was soon at the side of our hero. "who tied you to the tree, lad?" he asked. "did captain haley send you for me?" asked robert first, for he had made up his mind in that case not to expose him. "no; i stole one of the ship's boats, and came for you without leave." "the captain didn't know of your coming?" "no; i asked his leave, and he wouldn't give it." "it was captain haley that tied me here," said robert, his scruples removed. "what did he do that for, lad?" "it's a long story, bates. it's because he hates me, and wishes me harm. untie these cords, and i'll tell you all about it." "that i'll do in a jiffy, my lad. i'm an old sailor and i can untie knots as well as tie them." in five minutes robert was free. he stretched his limbs, with a feeling of great relief, and then turned to bates, whose hand he grasped. "i owe my life to you, bates!" he said. "maybe not, lad. we're in a tight place yet." "has the ship gone?" "most likely. the captain won't send back for either of us in a hurry." "and you have made yourself a prisoner here for my sake?" asked robert, moved by the noble conduct of the rough sailor. "i couldn't abide to leave you alone. there's more chance for two than for one." "heaven bless you, bates! i won't soon forget what you have done for me. do you think there is any chance for us?" "of course there is, lad. we've got a boat, and we can live here till some vessel comes within sight." "let us go down to the shore, and see if we can see anything of the ship." the two bent their steps to the shore, and looked out to sea. they could still see the ship, but it was already becoming a speck in the distant waters. "they have left us," said robert, turning to his companion. "ay, lad, the false-hearted villain has done his worst!" "i didn't think any man would be so inhuman." "you're young, lad, and you don't know what a sight of villainy there is in the world. we've got to live here a while, likely. have you seen anything in the line of grub here-abouts?" "there is fruit on some of the trees." "that's something. maybe we shall find some roots, besides. we'll draw the boat farther upon shore, and go on an exploring expedition." the boat was drawn completely up, and placed, bottom upward, at a safe distance from the sea. then robert and his companion started to explore the island which had so unexpectedly become their home. chapter xxxi. the island realm. but for the knowledge that he was a prisoner, robert would have enjoyed his present situation. the island, though small, was covered with a luxuriant vegetation, and was swept by cooling breezes, which tempered the ardor of the sun's rays. and, of this island realm, he and his companion were the undisputed sovereigns. there was no one to dispute their sway. all that it yielded was at their absolute disposal. "i wonder what is the name of this island?" said robert. "perhaps it has no name. mayhap we are the first that ever visited it." "i have a great mind to declare myself the king," said our young hero, smiling, "unless you want the office." "you shall be captain, and i will be mate," said bates, to whom the distinctions of sea life were more familiar than those of courts. "how long do you think we shall have to stay here?" asked robert, anxiously. "there's no telling, lad. we'll have to stick up a pole on the seashore, and run up a flag when any vessel comes near." "we have no flag." "have you a handkerchief?" "only one," said robert. "that's one more than i have. we'll rig that up when it's wanted." "where shall we sleep?" "that's what i have been thinking. we must build a house." "a brownstone front?" said robert. "the governor ought to live in a good house." "so he shall," said bates. "he shall have the first on the island." "i wonder if it rains often?" "not much at this season. in the winter a good deal of rain falls, but i hope we won't be here then." "where shall we build our house?" "it would be pleasanter inland, but we must be near the shore, so as to be in sight of ships." "that's true, bates. that is the most important consideration." they set to work at once, and built a hut, something like an indian's wigwam, about a hundred yards from the shore. it was composed, for the most part, of branches of trees and inclosed an inner space of about fifteen feet in diameter. they gathered large quantities of leaves, which were spread upon the ground for beds. "that's softer than our bunks aboard ship," said bates. "yes," said robert. "i wouldn't wish any better bed. it is easy to build and furnish a house of your own here." "the next thing is dinner," said his companion. "shall we go to market?" asked robert, with a smile. "we'll find a market just outside." "you mean the trees?" "yes; we'll find our dinner already cooked on them." the fruit of which they partook freely was quite sweet and palatable. still, one kind of food cloys after a time, and so our new settlers found it. besides, it was not very substantial, and failed to keep up their wonted strength. this set them to looking up some other article which might impart variety to their fare. at last they succeeded in finding an esculent root, which they partook of at first with some caution, fearing that it might be unwholesome. finding, however, that eating it produced no unpleasant effects, they continued the use of it. even this, however, failed to afford them as much variety as they wished. "i feel as if i should like some fish for breakfast," said robert one morning, on waking up. "so should i, lad," returned bates. "why shouldn't we have some?" "you mean that we shall go fishing?" "yes; we've got a boat, and i have some cord. we'll rig up fishing lines, and go out on a fishing cruise." robert adopted the idea with alacrity. it promised variety and excitement. "i wonder we hadn't thought of it before. i used to be a fisherman, bates." "did you?" "yes; i supplied the market at home for a short time, till captain haley smashed my boat." "the mean lubber! i wish we had him here." "i don't; i prefer his room to his company." "i'd try how he'd like being tied to a tree." "i don't think you'd untie him again in a hurry." "you may bet high on that, lad." they rigged their fishing lines--cutting poles from the trees--and armed them with hooks, of which, by good luck, bates happened to have a supply with him. then they launched the ship's boat, in which bates had come to the island, and put out to sea. robert enjoyed the row in the early morning, and wondered they had not thought of taking out the boat before. at last they came to the business which brought them out, and in about half an hour had succeeded in catching four fishes, weighing perhaps fifteen pounds altogether. "that'll be enough for us, unless you are very hungry," said robert. "now, suppose we land and cook them." "ay, ay, lad!" of course, their cooking arrangements were very primitive. in the first place, they were compelled to make a fire by the method in use among the savages, of rubbing two sticks smartly together, and catching the flame in a little prepared tinder. the fish were baked over the fire thus kindled. though the outside was smoked, the inside was sweet and palatable, and neither was disposed to be fastidious. the preparation of the meal took considerable time, but they had abundance of that, and occupation prevented their brooding over their solitary situation. "i wish i had 'robinson crusoe' here," said robert--"we might get some hints from his adventures. i didn't imagine, when i used to read them, that i should ever be in a similar position." "i've heard about him," said bates; "but i never was much of a reader, and i never read his yarn. you might maybe tell me something of it." "i will tell you all i can remember, but that isn't very much," said robert. he rehearsed to the attentive sailor such portions as he could call to mind of the wonderful story which for centuries to come is destined to enchain the attention of adventurous boys. "that's a pretty good yarn," said bates, approvingly. "did he ever get off the island?" "yes, he got off, and became quite rich before he died." "maybe it'll be so with us, lad." "i hope so. i don't know what i should do if i were alone as he was. it's selfish in me, bates, to be glad that you are shut up here with me, but i cannot help it." "you needn't try, lad. it would be mighty dull being alone here, 'specially if you was tied to a tree." "but suppose we should never get off!" "we won't suppose that, lad. we are sure to get off some time." this confident assurance always cheered up robert, and for the time inspired him with equal confidence. but when day after day passed away and the promised ship did not come in sight, he used to ponder thoughtfully over his situation, and the possibility that he might have to spend years at least on this lonely island. what in the meantime would become of his mother? she might die, and if he ever returned it would be to realize the loss he had sustained. the island, pleasant as it was, began to lose its charm. if his sailor companion ever shared his feelings, he never manifested them, unwilling to let the boy see that he was becoming discouraged. at length--about six weeks after their arrival upon the island--they were returning from an excursion to the other side of the island, when, on arriving in sight of the shore, an unexpected sight greeted their eyes. a pole had been planted in the sand, and from it waved the familiar flag, dear to the heart of every american--the star-spangled banner. they no sooner caught sight of it, than, in joyful excitement, they ran to the shore with all the speed they could muster. chapter xxxii. a successful mission. there was no one in sight, but it was evident that a party from an american ship had visited the island. had they departed? that was a momentous question. instinctively the eyes of both sought the sea. they saw an american ship riding at anchor a mile or more from shore. "give me your handkerchief, robert," said bates; "i'll signal them." "it isn't very clean," said our hero. "it'll do. see, they are looking at us." "your eyes must be good." "i'm used to looking out to sea, lad." he waved the handkerchief aloft, and felt sure that he had attracted the attention of those on board. but there was no motion to put off a boat. "do they see it?" asked robert, eagerly. "i think so." "do you think they will come for us? if not, we can put off in our boat." "i think the party that planted that flagstaff hasn't got back. it is exploring the island, and will be back soon." "of course it is," said robert, suddenly. "don't you see their boat?" "ay, ay, lad; it's all right. all we've got to do is to stay here till they come." they had not long to wait. a party of sailors, headed by an officer, came out of the woods, and headed for the shore. they stopped short in surprise at the sight of robert and bates. "who are you?" asked the leader, approaching. bates touched his hat, for he judged this was the captain of the vessel he had seen. "i am a sailor from the ship _argonaut_, bound from new york to calcutta, and this young gentleman is robert rushton, passenger aboard the same ship." "where is your ship?" "i don't know, captain." "how came you here?" "we were left here. the vessel went without us." "how long have you been here?" "six weeks." "there is something about this which i do not understand. are you here of your own accord?" "we are anxious to get away, captain," said robert. "will you take us?" "to be sure i will. there's room enough on my ship for both of you. but i can't understand how you were left here." "it's a long yarn, captain," said bates. "if you haven't time to hear it now, i will tell you aboard ship." "you look like a good seaman," said the captain, addressing bates. "i'm short-handed just now. if you will engage with me, i will enroll you among my crew." "that i'll do," said bates, with satisfaction. "i wasn't made for a passenger." "my ship is the _superior_, bound from boston to calcutta; so your destination will be the same. my name is smith. do you know the name of this island?" "i never heard of it before." "i have taken possession of it in the name of the united states, supposing myself the first discoverer." "that's all right. to my mind, the star-spangled banner is the best that can wave over it." "we might offer the captain our boat," suggested robert. the offer was made and accepted; and, while the captain and his party returned in one boat, robert and bates rowed to the ship in their own, and were soon on the deck of the _superior_ to their unbounded satisfaction. "this is something like," said bates. "the island is well enough, but there's nothing like the deck of a good ship." "i don't think i wholly agree with you," said robert, smiling; "but just at present i do. i am glad enough to be here. we may meet captain haley at calcutta," he added, after a pause. "likely he'll have got away before we get there." "i hope not. i should like to meet him face to face, and charge him with his treachery. i don't think he'll be over glad to see me." "that's so, lad. he don't expect ever to set eyes on you again." robert soon felt at home on the new vessel. captain smith he found to be a very different man from captain haley. when he heard the story told him by our hero, he said: "i like your pluck, robert. you've had contrary winds so far, but you've borne up against them. the wind's changed now, and you are likely to have a prosperous voyage. this captain haley is a disgrace to the service. he'll be overhauled some time." "when i get back to new york i shall tell mr. morgan how he treated me." "that will put a spoke in his wheel." "there's one thing i want to speak to you about, captain smith. how much will my passage be?" "nothing at all." "but i have some money with me. i am willing to pay." "keep your money, my lad. you will need it all before you get through. i was once a poor boy myself, obliged to struggle for my living. i haven't forgotten that time, and it makes me willing to lend a helping hand to others in the same position." "you are very kind, captain smith," said robert, gratefully. "i ought to be. how long do you want to stay in calcutta?" "only long enough to look about for my father." "then you can return to new york in my ship. it shall cost you nothing." this offer was gratefully accepted--the more so that our hero had begun to realize that two hundred dollars was a small sum to carry on a journey of such length. at last they reached calcutta. robert surveyed with much interest the great city of india, so different in its external appearance from new york, the only great city besides that he knew anything about. "well, robert," said captain smith, on their arrival, "what are your plans? will you make your home on board the ship, or board in the city, during our stay in port?" "i think," said robert, "i should prefer to live in the city, if you would recommend me to a good boarding place." "that i can do. i am in the habit of boarding at a quiet house kept by a widow. her terms are reasonable, and you can do no better than go there with me." "thank you, captain smith. i shall be glad to follow your advice." so it happened that captain smith and robert engaged board at the house of mrs. start, where, it will be remembered, that captain rushton was also a boarder, passing still under the name of smith. physically he had considerably improved, but mentally he was not yet recovered. his mind had received a shock, which, as it proved, a shock equally great was needed to bring it back to its proper balance. "by the way," said mrs. start to captain smith, "we have another gentleman of your name here." "indeed?" "you will see him at dinner. poor gentleman, his mind is affected, and we only gave him this name because we didn't know his real name." robert little dreamed who it was of whom mrs. start was speaking, nor did he look forward with any particular curiosity to seeing the other mr. smith. when dinner was announced, robert and the captain were early in their seats, and were introduced to the other boarders as they came in. finally captain rushton entered, and moved forward to a seat beside the landlady. robert chanced to look up as he entered, and his heart made a mighty bound when in the new mr. smith he recognized his father. "father!" he exclaimed, eagerly, springing from his seat, and overturning his chair in his haste. captain rushton looked at him for a moment in bewilderment. then all at once the mists that had obscured his faculties were dispelled, and he cried, "robert! my dear son, how came you here?" "i came in search of you, father. thank heaven i have found you alive and well." "i think i have been in a dream, robert. they call me smith. that surely is not my name." "rushton, father! you have not forgotten?" "yes, that is it. often it has been on the tip of my tongue, and then it slipped away from me. but, tell me, how came you here?" "i am indebted to the kindness of this gentleman--captain smith, father--who rescued me from great peril." this scene, of course, excited great astonishment among the boarders, and the worthy landlady who had been uniformly kind to captain rushton, was rejoiced at his sudden recovery. feeling that mutual explanations in public would be unpleasant, she proposed to send dinner for both to captain rushton's room, and this offer was gladly accepted. "and how did you leave your mother, robert?" asked the captain. "she was well, father, but mourning for your loss." "i wish i could fly to her." "you shall go back with me in captain smith's vessel. i am sure he will take us as passengers." "so we will. you are sure your mother is well provided for? but mr. davis has, no doubt, supplied her with money?" "not a cent, father." "not a cent! i deposited five thousand dollars with him for her benefit, just before sailing!" "so you wrote in the letter which you sent in the bottle." "was that letter received?" "yes; it was that which led me to come in search of you." "and did you go to mr. davis?" "he denied the deposit, and demanded to see the receipt." "the villain! he thought i was at the bottom of the sea, and the receipt with me. he shall find his mistake!" "then you have the receipt still, father?" "to be sure i have," and captain rushton drew it from the pocket where it had laid concealed for two years and more. robert regarded it with satisfaction. "he won't dare to deny it after this. i wish we were going back at once." "now, robert, tell me all that has happened in my absence, and how you raised money enough to come out here." so father and son exchanged narrations. captain rushton was astonished to find that the same man, ben haley, who had been the cause of his misfortunes, had also come so near compassing the destruction of his son. "thanks to a kind providence," he said, "his wicked machinations have failed, and we are alive to defeat his evil schemes." chapter xxxiii. defeated. in due time the _superior_ cleared for new york, and among the passengers were robert and his father. since the meeting with his son captain rushton's mental malady had completely disappeared, and his mental recovery affected his physical health favorably. his step became firm and elastic, his eye was bright, and robert thought he had never looked better. leaving the two to pursue their voyage home, we return to captain haley. after leaving robert to his fate, he kept on his way, rejoicing with a wicked satisfaction that he had got rid of an enemy who had it in his power to do him harm, for what robert might suffer in his island prison, he cared little. he took it for granted that he would never get away, but would pass his life, be it longer or shorter, in dreary exile. though the crew did not know all, they knew that the captain had heartlessly left robert to his fate, and all were animated by a common feeling of dislike to their commander, who never under any circumstances would have been popular. but there was no one among them bold enough to come forward and charge haley with his crime, even when they reached calcutta. the captain moved among them, and his orders were obeyed, but not with alacrity. this satisfied him, for he cared nothing for the attachment of those under his command. one day in calcutta he had a surprise. he met captain rushton one day when out walking. it seemed like one risen from the dead, for he supposed him lying at the bottom of the sea. could his eyes deceive him, or was this really the man whom he had so grossly injured? captain rushton did not see haley, for he was partly turned away from him, and was busily conversing with a gentleman of his acquaintance. haley drew near, and heard captain rushton addressed as mr. smith. he at once decided that, in spite of the wonderful resemblance, it was not the man he supposed, and breathed more freely in consequence. but he could not help looking back to wonder at the surprising likeness. "they are as near alike as if they were brothers," he said to himself. he did not again catch sight of captain rushton while in calcutta. before robert arrived, captain haley had sailed for home. but he met with storms, and his vessel received injuries that delayed her, so that his ship only reached new york on the same day with the _superior_, bearing as passengers robert and his father. our hero lost no time in calling upon his friend, mr. morgan, and actually reached the office an hour before haley, the _superior_ having reached her pier a little in advance of the other vessel. when robert walked into the office, mr. morgan, who was at his desk, looked up, and recognized him at once. "welcome back, my young friend," he said, cordially, rising to meet him. "i am glad to see you, but i didn't expect you quite so soon. how did you happen to come in advance of the captain?" "then you have not heard what happened at sea?" said robert. "yes," said the merchant. "i heard, much to my regret, of captain evans' death. he was a worthy man, and i am truly sorry to lose him. what do you think of his successor, captain haley? he has never before sailed for me." "after i have told my story, you can judge of him for yourself. i did not return on your vessel, mr. morgan, but on the _superior_, captain smith." "how is that?" asked the merchant, surprised. "because captain haley left me on an island in the southern ocean, bound to a tree, and probably supposes that i am dead." "your story seems incredible, robert. give me a full account of all that led to this action on the part of the captain." my readers shall not be wearied with a repetition of details with which they are already familiar. robert related what had happened to him in a straightforward manner, and mr. morgan never thought of doubting his statements. "this haley must be a villain," he said. "you are, indeed, fortunate in having escaped from the snare he laid for you." "i have been fortunate in another way also," said robert. "i have succeeded in the object of my voyage." "you have not found your father?" "i found him in calcutta, and i have brought him home with me." "you must have been born under a lucky star, robert," said the merchant. "were your father's adventures as remarkable as yours?" "it was the same man who nearly succeeded in accomplishing the ruin of both--captain haley was my father's mate, and was he who, in revenge for some fancied slight, set fire to the vessel in mid-ocean, and then escaped." scarcely had this revelation been made, when a clerk entered, and approaching mr. morgan, said, "captain haley would like to see you." mr. morgan glanced at robert significantly. "i wish to know what explanation mr. haley has to give of your disappearance. there is a closet. go in, and close the door partially, so that you may hear what passes without yourself being seen." robert was hardly established in his place of concealment when haley entered the office. "good-morning, mr. morgan," he said, deferentially, for he wished to keep in his employer's good graces. "good-morning, sir," said the merchant, formally. "captain haley, i believe?" "yes, sir i succeeded to the command of the _argonaut_ upon the lamented death of my friend, captain evans. his death happened on our passage out. i proceeded at once to calcutta, and after disposing of the cargo sailed for home." "your voyage has been a long one." "yes, we have had stress of weather, which has delayed us materially. i regret this, but did the best i could under the circumstances. i hope to have discharged my duties in a manner satisfactory to you." "i cannot, of course, blame you for delay, since the weather was quite beyond your control," said the merchant, but his tone was marked by coldness, for which haley found it difficult to account. he was anxious to remain in command of the _argonaut_, but the want of cordiality evinced by his employer made him doubtful of his success. he was not timid, however, and resolved to broach the subject. "i hope, mr. morgan," he said, "that you have sufficient confidence in me to intrust me i with the command of the _argonaut_ on her next voyage?" "he certainly is not lacking in audacity," thought mr. morgan. "we will speak of that matter hereafter," he said. "did my young friend, robert rushton, return with you?" now was the critical moment. in spite of his audacity, haley felt embarrassed. "no, sir," he replied. "indeed! i expected that you would bring him back." "may i ask if the boy is a relative of yours?" "no, he is not." "so much the better." "why do you say that? i am particularly interested in him." "then, sir, my task becomes more painful and embarrassing." "you speak in enigmas, captain haley." "i hesitate to speak plainly. i know you will be pained by what i have to tell you." "don't consider my feelings, captain haley, but say what you have to say." "then i regret to say that the boy, robert rushton, is unworthy of your friendship." "this is a grievous charge. of course, i expect you to substantiate it." "i will do so. shortly after the death of captain evans and my accession to the command i found that this boy was trying to undermine my influence with the men, from what motives i cannot guess. i remonstrated with him mildly but firmly, but only received insolence in return. nevertheless i continued to treat him well on account of the interest you felt in him. so things went on till we reached calcutta. he left me at that time, and to my surprise did not return to the ship. i was able to account for his disappearance, however, when i missed one hundred and fifty dollars, of which i have not the slightest doubt that he robbed me. i should have taken measures to have him arrested, but since you felt an interest in him i preferred to suffer the loss in silence. i fear, mr. morgan, that you have been greatly deceived in him." "i suspect that i have been deceived," said mr. morgan, gravely. "it is only fair, however, captain haley, to hear both sides, and i will therefore summon the boy himself to answer your charge. robert!" at the summons, to captain haley's equal surprise and dismay, robert stepped from the closet in which he had been concealed. "what have you to say, robert?" asked the merchant. "captain haley knows very well the falsehood of what he says," said our hero, calmly. "it was not at calcutta i left the _argonaut_, nor was it of my own accord. captain haley, with his own hands, tied me to a tree on a small island in the southern ocean, and there left me, as he supposed, to a solitary death. but heaven did not forsake me, and sent first a brave sailor and afterward a ship to my assistance. the charge that i stole money from him i shall not answer, for i know mr. morgan will not believe it." captain haley was not a fool, and he knew that it would be useless to press the charge further. he rose from his seat; his face was dark with anger and smarting under a sense of defeat. "you have not done with me yet," he said to robert, and without another word left the office. chapter xxxiv. the cup and the lip. affairs in millville had gone on much as usual. mrs. rushton had not yet exhausted the supply of money left by robert in the hands of his friend the lawyer. her expenses were small, and were eked out by her earnings; for she continued to braid straw, and was able in this way to earn two dollars a week. indeed, she made it a point to be as economical as possible, for she thought it likely robert would spend all his money, and return penniless. she had received no letter from him since the one announcing his being about to sail for calcutta, and this made her naturally anxious. but mr. paine assured her that letters were likely to be irregular, and there was no ground for alarm. so she waited with what patience she could till robert should return, hoping that by some strange chance he might succeed in his quest, and bring his father back with him. meanwhile, fortune had improved with mr. davis, the superintendent of the factory. he had lost largely by speculation, but had blundered at last into the purchase of a stock in which some interested parties had effected a corner. it went up rapidly, and on the morning when we introduce him again to the reader he was in high good spirits, having just received intelligence from his broker that he had cleared seven thousand dollars by selling at the top of the market. "another cup of coffee, mrs. davis," he said, passing his cup across the table. seeing that his father appeared in good humor, halbert ventured to prefer a request, which, however, he had little hope of having granted. "have you seen will paine's pony?" he said, paving the way for the request. "yes," said his father; "i saw him on it yesterday." "it's a regular beauty--i wish i had one." "how much did it cost?" "two hundred dollars." "that is rather a high price." "but it will increase in value every year. i wish you would buy me one, father." "i think i will," said the superintendent, helping himself to a fresh slice of toast. "do you mean it?" asked halbert, in the utmost astonishment. "certainly i do. i can afford you a pony as well as mr. paine can afford to buy william one." "thank you!" said halbert, his selfish nature more nearly affected by gratitude than ever before. "you are very kind. when will you see about it?" "i am busy. you may go yourself and ask mr. paine where he got william's pony, and if he knows of any other equally good." "that i will," said halbert, leaving the table in haste. "halbert, you have eaten scarcely anything," said his mother. "i am not hungry," said the excited boy, seizing his hat, and dashing off in the direction of mr. paine's office. "by the way, mrs. davis," said the husband, "i think you mentioned last week that the parlor needed a new carpet." "so it does. the old one is looking very shabby." "how much will a new one cost?" "i can get a nice brussels for a hundred dollars." "well, you may order one." it was the wife's turn to be astonished, for on broaching the subject the week previous, her husband had given her a lecture on extravagance, and absolutely refused to consider her request. this was before the tidings of his good fortune. she was not slow to accept the present concession, and assumed an unusually affectionate manner, in the excess of her delight. meanwhile, halbert, in opening the front door, came in collision with a boy taller and stouter than himself, brown and sunburned. but, changed as he was, he was not slow in recognizing his old enemy, robert rushton. "what, are you back again?" he said, ungraciously. "so it appears. is your father at home?" "yes; but he is at breakfast. i don't think you can see him." "i'll make the attempt, at any rate," said robert. "where have you been all this time?" asked halbert, more from curiosity than interest. "i went to calcutta." "common sailor, i suppose," said halbert, contemptuously. "no, i was a passenger." "where did you get your money to pay the passage?" "i'm sorry that i can't stop to gratify your curiosity just at present, but i have important business with your father." "you're getting mighty important," sneered halbert. "am i?" "i wouldn't advise you to put on so many airs, just because you've been to calcutta." "i never thought of putting on any. i see you haven't changed much since i went away. you have the same agreeable, gentlemanly manners." "do you mean to say that i am not a gentleman?" blustered halbert. "not at all. you may be one, but you don't show it." "i have a great mind to put you out of the yard." robert glanced at halbert's figure, slight compared with his own, and laughed. "i think you would find it a difficult undertaking," he said. halbert privately came to the same conclusion, and decided to war only with words. "i have got something better to do than to stand here listening to your impudence. i won't soil my fingers by touching you." "that's a sensible conclusion. good-morning." halbert did not deign to respond, but walked off, holding his nose very high in the air. then, as he thought of the pony, he quickened his pace, and bent his steps to mr. paine's office. "a young man to see you, mr. davis," said bridget, entering the breakfast-room. "who is it?" "i think it's young robert rushton, but he's much grown entirely." "that boy home again!" exclaimed the superintendent, in displeased surprise. "well, you may ask him into the next room." "good-morning, mr. davis," said robert, as the superintendent entered. "good-morning. when did you get home?" was the cold reply. "last evening." "where have you been?" "to calcutta." "on a fool's errand." "i felt it my duty to search for my father." "i could have told you beforehand you would not succeed. did you go as a sailor?" "no." "where did you raise money to pay your expenses?" "i found friends who helped me." "it is a poor policy for a boy to live on charity." "i never intend to do it," said robert, firmly. "but i would rather do it than live on money that did not belong to me." "what do you mean by that, sir?" said the superintendent, suspiciously. "it was a general remark," said robert. "may i ask what is your motive in calling upon me?" asked mr. davis. "i suppose you have some object." "i have, and i think you can guess it." "i am not good at guessing," said davis, haughtily. "then i will not put you to that trouble. you remember, before i sailed for calcutta, i called here and asked you to restore the sum of five thousand dollars deposited with you by my father?" "i remember it, and at the time i stigmatized the claim as a fraudulent one. no such sum was ever deposited with me by your father." "how can you say that, when my father expressly stated it in the letter, written by him, from the boat in which he was drifting about on the ocean?" "i have no proof that the letter was genuine, and even if it were, i deny the claim. i am not responsible for money i never received." "i understand you then refuse to pay the money?" "you would have understood it long ago, if you had not been uncommonly thick-headed," sneered the superintendent. "let this be the end of it. when you present my note of acknowledgment for the amount, i will pay it and not before." "that is all i ask," said robert. "what?" demanded the superintendent. "i mean that this assurance is all i want. the note shall be presented to you in the course of the day." "what do you mean?" asked davis, startled. "i mean this, mr. davis: that i found my father in calcutta. he came home with me, and, far from having perished at sea, is now alive and well. he has with him your note for five thousand dollars, and will present it in person." "you are deceiving me!" exclaimed davis, in consternation. "you will soon learn whether i am deceiving you or not," said robert. "i will now bid you good-morning. my father will call upon you in the course of the day." he rose to go, leaving the superintendent thunderstruck at the intelligence of captain rushton's return. the five thousand dollars, with arrears of interest, would take the greater part of the money whose sudden acquisition had so elated him. while he was considering the situation, his wife entered. "i think, mr. davis," she said, "i will go to new york to-day to buy carpeting, if you can spare the money." "neither now nor at any other time," he roared, savagely; "the old carpet must do." "why, then, did you tell me fifteen minutes since that i might buy one? what do you mean by such trifling, mr. davis?" said his wife, her eyes flashing. "i mean what i say. i've changed my mind. i can't afford to buy a new carpet." there was a stormy scene between man and wife, which may be passed over in silence. it ended with a fit of hysterics on the part of mrs. davis, while her husband put on his hat and walked gloomily over to the factory. here he soon received a call from halbert, who informed him, with great elation, that mr. paine knew of a desirable pony which could be had on the same terms as his son's. "i've changed my mind," said his father. "a pony will cost too much money." all halbert's entreaties were unavailing, and he finally left his father's presence in a very unfilial frame of mind. chapter xxxv. conclusion. the arrival of captain rushton, confidently supposed to be dead, produced a great sensation in millville, and many were the congratulatory visits received at the little cottage. mrs. rushton was doubly happy at the unexpected return of her husband and son, and felt for the first time in her life perfectly happy. she cared little for poverty or riches, as long as she had regained her chief treasures. when captain rushton called upon the superintendent, the latter received him with embarrassment, knowing that the captain was aware of his intended dishonesty. he tried to evade immediate payment, but on this point his creditor was peremptory. he had no further confidence in mr. davis, and felt that the sooner he got his money back into his hands the better. it was fortunate for him that the superintendent had been at last successful in speculation, or restitution would have been impossible. as is was, he received his money in full, nearly six thousand dollars, which he at once invested in bank stock of reliable city banks, yielding a good annual income. only the day after the payment of this sum, a committee of investigation appointed by the directors, whose suspicions had been excited, visited the factory, and subjected the superintendent's books to a thorough scrutiny. the result showed that mr. davis, in whom hitherto perfect confidence had been felt, had for years pursued a system of embezzlement, which he had covered up by false entries in his books, and had appropriated to his own use from fifteen to twenty thousand dollars belonging to the corporation. while this investigation was pending, the superintendent disappeared, leaving his wife and son unprovided for. his estate was seized in part satisfaction of the amounts he had appropriated, and halbert's pride was brought low. the wealth and position upon which he had based his aristocratic pretensions vanished, and in bitter mortification he found himself reduced to poverty. he could no longer flaunt his cane and promenade the streets in kid gloves, but was glad to accept a position in the factory store, where he was compelled to dress according to his work. in fact, he had exchanged positions with robert, who was now, owing to a circumstance which will at once be mentioned, possessed of a considerable inheritance. the old farmer, paul nichols, whom robert tried to defend from his unprincipled nephew, ben haley, died suddenly of heart disease. speculation was rife as to who would inherit the estate which he left behind him. he had no near relation except ben haley, and so great was the dislike he entertained toward him that no one anticipated that the estate would go to him, unless through paul's dying intestate. but shortly after haley's visit, his uncle made a will, which he deposited in the hands of lawyer paine. on the day after the funeral, the latter met captain rushton and robert, and said: "will you come to my office this afternoon at three o'clock?" "certainly," said the captain. "i suppose you don't want me, mr. paine?" said robert. "i do want you, particularly," said the lawyer. our hero wondered a little why his presence was required, but dismissed the matter from his mind, until three o'clock found him in the lawyer's office. "gentlemen," said the lawyer, "i am about to read the last will and testament of our neighbor, paul nichols, recently deceased." this preamble created surprise, for this was the first intimation that such a will was in existence. the document was brief, and the substance of it was contained in the following paragraph: "having no near relatives, except benjamin haley, for whom i have neither regard nor affection, and who, moreover, has recently stolen a considerable sum of money from me, i leave all of which i may die possessed, whether in land or money, to my brave young friend, robert rushton, who courageously defended me from my said nephew, at his own bodily risk, and i hope he may live long to enjoy the property i bequeath him." no one was more surprised than robert at the unexpected inheritance. he could hardly realize that he was now possessed of a considerable property in his own right. it may be said here that, including the value of the farm, and the gold concealed, his inheritance amounted to quite ten thousand dollars. paul had considerately supplied the lawyer with a list of the hiding places where he had secreted his money on the strictest injunctions of secrecy, and this made the task of finding it quite easy. congratulations poured in upon our hero, who received them with modest satisfaction. "it is a good thing to have a rich son," said captain rushton, humorously. "robert, i hope you won't look down upon me on account of my comparative poverty." "father," said robert, "i wish you would take this money--i don't want it." "i shall do nothing of the kind, robert. it is fairly and deservedly yours, though i confess you may attribute it partly to good luck, for virtue is not always so well rewarded in this world. i will take care of it for you, and if you choose to pay your own expenses out of your income, i shall allow you to do so, since you are now rich and prosperous." "you must take all the income, father. then it will not be necessary for you to go to sea again." "i have already made up my mind to stay on land hereafter," said captain rushton. "my cruise in an open boat without provisions has cured me of my love for the sea. with the little money i have saved, and the help of a rich son, i think i can afford to stay on shore." the cottage was enlarged by the erection of another story, as well as by the addition of a wing and the throwing out of two bay windows, and was otherwise refitted and so metamorphosed by fresh paint and new furniture, that it became one of the most attractive houses in millville. captain rushton, who knew something of agriculture, decided to carry on robert's farm himself, and found the employment both pleasant and profitable. "my only trouble," he used to say, jocosely, "is that i have a very exacting landlord. unless the rent were punctually paid, he would be sure to resort to legal means to recover it." when ben haley heard that his uncle's estate had been bequeathed to the boy whom he had persecuted, and whom for that reason he hated, his rage and disappointment were unbounded. if he had not been within two hours of sailing in command of a ship bound to south america, he would at once have gone down to millville, and in his fury he might have done serious injury to the boy who had superseded him. but he could not delay the day of sailing, and so, much against his will, he was forced to forego his vengeance until his return. but this was destined to be his last voyage. while at rio janeiro he became engaged in a fracas with the keeper of a low grogshop, when the latter, who was a desperate ruffian, snatched a knife from his girdle, and drove it into the heart of the unhappy captain, who fell back on the floor and expired without a groan. thus terminated a misguided and ill-spent life. i should have been glad to report ben haley's reformation instead of his death, but for the sake of robert, whom he hated so intensely, i am relieved that thin source of peril is closed. robert, being now in easy circumstances, decided to pursue his studies for two years longer, and accordingly placed himself in a school of high reputation, where he made rapid improvement. he then entered upon a business life under the auspices of his friend, mr. morgan, and promises in time to become a prominent and wealthy merchant. he passes every sunday at home in the little cottage occupied by his father, who, however, has ceased to be a farmer, having been promoted to the post of superintendent of the factory, formerly occupied by mr. davis. for the first twelve months the post was filled by a new man, who proved to be incompetent, and then was offered to captain rushton, whose excellent executive talents were well known. he soon made himself familiar with his duties, and the post is likely to be his as long as he cares to hold it. hester paine, as a young lady, fulfills the promise of her girlhood. the mutual attachment which existed between her and robert, when boy and girl, still continues, and there is some ground for the report which comes from millville--that they are engaged. the alliance will be in the highest degree pleasing to both families, for if hester is fair and attractive, robert is energetic and of excellent principles, and possessed of precisely those qualities which, with fair good fortune will, under the favor of providence, insure his success in life. the end. the inn at the red oak by latta griswold 1917 [illustration: "it's a treasure right enough!" cried dan.] contents part i the old marquis i the marquis arrives at the inn ii the lion's eye iii the marquis at night iv the oak parlour v the walk through the woods part ii the torn scrap of paper vi the half of an old scrap of paper vii a disappearance viii green lights ix recollections of a french exile x midnight vigils part iii the schooner in the cove xi the southern cross xii tom turns the tables xiii madame de la fontaine xiv in the fog xv nancy xvi madame at the inn xvii the marquis leaves the inn part iv the attack on the inn xviii the avenue of maples xix the attack xx the oak parlour xxi the treasure the inn at the red oak part i the old marquis chapter i the marquis arrives at the inn by the end of the second decade of the last century monday port had passed the height of prosperity as one of the principal depots for the west indian trade. the shipping was rapidly being transferred to new york and boston, and the old families of the port, having made their fortunes, in rum and tobacco as often as not, were either moving away to follow the trade or had acquiesced in the changed conditions and were settling down to enjoy the fruit of their labours. the harbour now was frequently deserted, except for an occasional coastwise trader; the streets began to wear that melancholy aspect of a town whose good days are more a memory than a present reality; and the old stage roads to coventry and perth anhault were no longer the arteries of travel they once had been. to the east of monday port, across deal great water, an estuary of the sea that expanded almost to the dignity of a lake, lay a pleasant rolling wooded country known in caesarea as deal. it boasted no village, scarcely a hamlet. dr. jeremiah watson, a famous pedagogue and a graduate of kingsbridge, had started his modest establishment for "the education of the sons of gentlemen" on deal hill; there were half-a-dozen prospering farms, squire pembroke's red farm and judge meath's curiously lonely but beautiful house on the dunes among them; a little episcopalian chapel on the shores of the strathsey river, a group of houses at the cross roads north of level's woods, and the inn at the red oak,--and that was all. in its day this inn had been a famous hostelry, much more popular with travellers than the ill-kept provincial hotels in monday port; but now for a long time it had scarcely provided a livelihood for old mrs. frost, widow of the famous peter who for so many years had been its popular host. no one knew when the house had been built; though there was an old corner stone on which local antiquarians professed to decipher the figures "1693," and that year was assigned by tradition as the date of its foundation. it was a long crazy building, with a great sloping roof, a wide porch running its entire length, and attached to its sides and rear in all sorts of unexpected ways and places were numerous out houses and offices. behind its high brick chimneys rose the thick growth of lovel's woods, crowning the ridge that ran between beaver pond and the strathsey river to the sea. the house faced southwards, and from the cobbled court before it meadow and woodland sloped to the beaches and the long line of sand dunes that straggled out and lost themselves in strathsey neck. to the east lay marshes and the dunes and beyond them the strathsey, two miles wide where its waters met those of the atlantic; west lay the great curve, known as the second beach, the blue surface of deal bay, and a line of rocky shore, three miles in length, terminated by rough point, near which began the out-lying houses of monday port. the old hostelry took its name from a giant oak which grew at its doorstep just to one side of the maple-lined driveway that led down to the port road, a hundred yards or so beyond. this enormous tree spread its branches over the entire width and half the length of the roof. ordinarily, of course, its foliage was as green as the leaves on the maples of the avenue or on the neighbouring elms, and the name of the inn might have seemed to the summer or winter traveller an odd misnomer; but in autumn when the frost came early and the great mass of green flushed to a deep crimson it could not have been known more appropriately than as the inn at the red oak. it was a solidly-built house, such as even in the early part of the nineteenth century men were complaining they could no longer obtain; built to weather centuries of biting southeasters, and--the legend ran--to afford protection in its early days against indians. at the time of the revolution it had been barricaded, pierced with portholes, and had served, like innumerable other houses from virginia to massachusetts, as washington's headquarters. when tom pembroke knew it best, its old age and decay had well set in. pembroke was the son of the neighbouring squire, whose house, known as the red farm, lay in the little valley on the other side of the woods at the head of beaver pond. from the time he had been able to thread his way across the woodland by its devious paths--tom had been at the inn almost every day to play with dan frost, the landlord's son. they had played in the stables, then stocked with a score of horses, where now there were only two or three; in the great haymows of the old barn in the clearing back of the inn; in the ramshackle garret under that amazing roof; or, best of all, in the abandoned bowling-alley, where they rolled dilapidated balls at rickety ten-pins. when tom and dan were eighteen--they were born within a day of each other one bitter february--old peter died, leaving the inn to his wife. mrs. frost pretended to carry on the business, but the actual task of doing so soon devolved upon her son. and in this he was subjected to little interference; for the poor lady, kindly inefficient soul that she was, became almost helpless with rheumatism. but indeed it was rather on the farm than to the inn that more and more they depended for their living. in the social hierarchy of caesarea the pembrokes held themselves as vastly superior to the frosts; but thanks to the easy-going democratic customs of the young republic, more was made of this by the women than the men. the two boys loved each other devotedly, though love is doubtless the last word they would have chosen to express their relation. dan was tall, dark, muscular; he had a well-shaped head on his square shoulders; strong well-cut features; a face that the sun had deeply tanned and dark hair that it had burnished with gold. altogether he was a prepossessing lad, though he looked several years older than he was, and he was commonly treated by his neighbours with a consideration that his years did not merit. tom pembroke was fairer; more attractive, perhaps, on first acquaintance; certainly more boyish in appearance and behaviour. he was quicker in his movements and in his mental processes; more aristocratic in his bearing. his blue eyes were more intelligent than dan's, but no less frank and kindly. young frost admired his friend almost as much as he cared for him; for dan, deprived of schooling, had a reverence for learning, of which tom had got a smattering at dr. watson's establishment for "the sons of gentlemen" on the nearby hill. one stormy night in early january, the eve of dan frost's twenty-second birthday, the two young men had their supper together at the inn, and afterwards sat for half-an-hour in the hot, stove-heated parlour until mrs. frost began to nod over her knitting. "off with you, boys," she said at length; "you will be wanting to smoke your dreadful pipes. nancy will keep me company." they took instant advantage of this permission and went into the deserted bar, where they made a roaring fire on the great hearth, drew their chairs near, filled their long clay pipes with virginia tobacco, and fell to talking. "think of it!" exclaimed young frost, as he took a great whiff at his pipe; "here we are--the middle of the winter--and not a guest in the house. why we used to have a dozen travellers round the bar here, and the whole house bustling. i've known my father to serve a hundred and more with rum on a night like this. now we do a fine business if we serve as many in a winter. times have changed since we were boys." "aye," tom agreed, "and it isn't so long ago, either. it seemed to me as if the whole county used to be here on a saturday night." "i'm thinking," resumed dan musingly, "of throwing up the business, what's the use of pretending to keep an inn? if it wasn't for mother and for nancy, i'd clear out, boy; go off and hunt my fortune. as it is, with what i make on the farm and lose on the house, i just pull through the year." "by gad," exclaimed tom, "i'd go with you, dan. i'm tired to my soul with reading law in father's office. why, you and i haven't been farther than coventry to the county fair, or to perth anhault to make a horse trade. i'd like to see the world, go to london and paris. i've wanted to go to france ever since that queer frenchman was here--remember?--and told us those jolly tales about the revolution and the great napoleon. we were hardly more than seven or eight then, i guess." "i would like to go, hanged if i wouldn't," said dan. "i'm getting more and more discontented. but there's not much use crying for the moon, and france might as well be the moon, for all of me." he relapsed then into a brooding silence. it was hard for an inn-keeper to be cheerful in midwinter with an empty house. tom too was silent, dreaming vividly, if vaguely, of the france he longed to see. "hark!" exclaimed dan presently. "how it blows! there must be a big sea outside to-night." he strode to the window, pushed back the curtains of faded chintz, and stared out into the darkness. the wind was howling in the trees and about the eaves of the old inn, the harsh roar of the surf mingled with the noise of the storm, and the sleet lashed the window-panes in fury. "you will not be thinking of going home tonight, tom?" "not i," pembroke answered, for he was as much at home in dan's enormous chamber as he was in his own little room under the roof at the red farm. as he turned from the window, the door into the parlour opened, and a young girl quietly slipped in and seated herself in the chimney-corner. "hello, nance," dan exclaimed, as she entered; "come close, child; you need to be near the fire on a night like this." "mother is asleep," the girl answered briefly, and then, resting her chin upon her hands, she fixed her great dark eyes upon the glowing logs. she was dan's foster-sister, eighteen years of age, though she looked hardly more than sixteen; a shy, slender, girl, lovely with a wild, unusual charm. to tom she had always been a silent elfin creature, delightful as their playmate when a child, but now though still so familiar, she seemed in an odd way, to grow more remote. apparently she liked to sit with them on these winter evenings in the deserted bar, when mrs. frost had gone to bed; and to listen to their conversation, though she took little part in it. as dan resumed his seat, he looked at her with evident concern, for she was shivering as she sat so quietly by the fireside. "are you cold, nance?" he asked. "a little," she replied. "i was afraid in the parlour with mother asleep, and the wind and the waves roaring so horribly." "afraid?" exclaimed tom, with an incredulous laugh. "i never knew you to be really afraid of anything in the world, nancy." she turned her dark eyes upon him for the moment, with a sharp inquisitive glance which caused him to flush unaccountably. an answering crimson showed in her cheeks, and she turned back to the fire. the colour fled almost as quickly as it had come, and left her pale, despite the glow of firelight. "i was afraid--to-night," she said, after a moment's silence. suddenly there came the sound of a tremendous knocking on the door which opened from the bar into the outer porch, and all three started in momentary alarm. dan jumped to his feet. "who's that?" he cried. again came the vigorous knocking. he ran across the room, let down the great oaken beam, and opened the door to the night and storm. "come in, travellers." a gust of wind and sleet rushed through the opening and stung their faces. with the gust there seemed to blow in the figure of a little old man wrapped in a great black coat, bouncing into their midst as if he were an india rubber ball thrown by a gigantic hand. behind him strode in manners, the liveryman of monday port. "here's a guest for you, mr. frost. i confess i did my best to keep him in town till morning, but nothing 'd do; he must get to the inn at the red oak to-night. we had a hellish time getting here too, begging the lady's pardon; but here we are." good-naturedly he had taken hold of his fare and, as he spoke, was helping the stranger unwrap himself from the enveloping cloak. "he's welcome," said dan. "here, sir, let me help you." he put out his hand to steady the curious old gentleman, who, at last, gasping for breath and blinking the sleet out of his eyes, had been unrolled by manners from the dripping cloak. he was a strange figure of a man, they thought, as dan led him to the fire to thaw himself out. he was scarcely more than five and a half feet in height, with tiny hands and feet almost out of proportion even to his diminutive size. he was an old man, they would have said, though his movements were quick and agile as if he were set up on springs. his face, small, sharp-featured and weazened, was seamed with a thousand wrinkles. his wig was awry, its powder, washed out by the melting sleet, was dripping on his face in pasty streaks; and from beneath it had fallen wisps of thin grey hair, which plastered themselves against his temples and forehead. this last feature was also out of proportion to the rest of his physiognomy, for it was of extraordinary height, and of a polished smoothness, in strange contrast to his wrinkled cheeks. beneath shone two flashing black eyes, with the fire of youth in them, for all he seemed so old. the lower part of his face was less distinctive. he had a small, suddenly there came the sound of a tremendous knocking on the door which opened from the bar into the outer porch, and all three started in momentary alarm. dan jumped to his feet. "who's that?" he cried. again came the vigorous knocking. he ran across the room, let down the great oaken beam, and opened the door to the night and storm. "come in, travellers." a gust of wind and sleet rushed through the opening and stung their faces. with the gust there seemed to blow in the figure of a little old man wrapped in a great black coat, bouncing into their midst as if he were an india rubber ball thrown by a gigantic hand. behind him strode in manners, the liveryman of monday port. "here's a guest for you, mr. frost. i confess i did my best to keep him in town till morning, but nothing'd do; he must get to the inn at the red oak to-night. we had a hellish time getting here too, begging the lady's pardon; but here we are." good-naturedly he had taken hold of his fare and, as he spoke, was helping the stranger unwrap himself from the enveloping cloak. "he's welcome," said dan. "here, sir, let me sharply-pointed nose; a weak mouth, half-hidden by drooping white moustaches; and a small sharp chin, accentuated by a white beard nattily trimmed to a point. he was dressed entirely in black; a flowing coat of french cut, black small clothes, black stockings and boots that reached to the calves of his little legs. these boots were ornamented with great silver buckles, and about his neck and wrists showed bedraggled bits of yellowed lace." he stood before the fire, speechless still; standing first on one foot then on the other; rubbing his hands the while as he held them to the grateful warmth. nancy had in the meanwhile drawn a glass of rum, and now advancing held it toward him a little gingerly. he took it eagerly and drained it at a gulp. "_merci, ma petite ange; merci, messieurs_" he exclaimed at last; and then added in distinct, though somewhat strongly accented english, "i ask your pardon. i forget you may not know my language. but now that this good liquor has put new life in my poor old bones, i explain myself. i am arrived, i infer, at the inn at the red oak; and you, monsieur, though so young, i take to be my host. i have your description, you perceive, from the good postilion. you will do me the kindness to provide me with supper and a bed?" "certainly, sir," said dan. "it is late and we are unprepared, but we will put you up somehow. you too, manners, had best let me bunk you till morning; you'll not be going back to the port tonight? nancy a fresh bumper for mr. manners." "thankee, sir; i managed to get out with the gentleman yonder, and i guess i'll manage to get back. but it's a rare night, masters. just a minute, sir, and i'll be getting his honour's bags.... thank ye kindly, miss nancy." he drained the tumbler of raw spirit that nancy held out. then he opened the door again and went out into the storm, returning almost at once with the stranger's bags. dan turned to his sister. "nancy dear, go stir up susan and deborah. we must have a fire made in the south chamber and some hot supper got ready. tell susan to rout out jesse to help her. say nothing to mother; no need to disturb her. and now, sir," he continued, turning again to the stranger, "may i ask your name?" the old gentleman ceased his springing seesaw for a moment, and fixed his keen black eyes on the questioner. "_certainment, monsieur_--certainly, i should say," he replied in a high, but not unpleasant, voice. "i am the marquis de boisdhyver, at your service. i am to travel in the united states--oh! for a long time. i stay here, if you are so good as to accommodate me, perhaps till you are weary and wish me to go elsewhere. you have been greatly recommended to me by my friend,--quiet, remote, secluded, an _auberge_--what you call it?--an inn, well-suited to my habits, my tastes, my desire for rest. i am very _fatiguã©_, monsieur." "yes," said dan, with a grim smile, "we are remote and quiet and secluded. you are welcome, sir, to what we have. tom, see that manners has another drink before he goes, will you? and do the honours for our guest, while nance and i get things ready." as he disappeared into the kitchen, following nancy, the marquis looking after him with a comical expression of gratitude upon his face. tom drew another glass of rum, which manners eagerly, if rashly, devoured. then the liveryman wrapped himself in his furs, bade them good-night, and started out again into the storm for his drive back to monday port. all this time the old gentleman stood warming his feet and hands at the fire, watching his two companions with quickly-shifting eyes, or glancing curiously over the great bar which the light of the fire and the few candles but faintly illuminated. having barred the door, tom turned back to the hearth. "it is a bad night, sir." "but yes," exclaimed the marquis. "i think i perish. oh! that dreary tavern at your monday port. i think when i arrive there i prefer to perish. but this, this is the old inn at the red oak, is it not? and it dates, yes,--from the year 1693? the old inn, eh, by the great tree?" "yes, certainly," pembroke answered; "at least, that is the date that some people claim is on the old cornerstone. you have been here before then, sir?" "i?" exclaimed monsieur de boisdhyver. "oh, no! not i. i have heard from my friend who was here some years ago." "oh, i see. and you have come far to-day?" "from coventry, monsieur--monsieur--?" "pembroke," tom replied, with a little start. "ah! yes, monsieur pembroke. a member of the household?" "no--a friend." "i make a mistake," quickly interposed the traveller, "pardon. i am come from coventry, monsieur pembroke, in an everlasting an eternal stage, a monster of a carriage, monsieur. it is only a few days since that i arrive from france." "ah, france!" exclaimed tom, recalling that only a little while before he and dan had been dreaming of that magic country. and here was a person who actually lived in france, who had just come from there, who extraordinarily chose to leave that delightful land for the inn at the red oak in mid-winter. "france," he repeated; "all my life, sir, i have been longing to go there." "so?" said the marquis, raising his white eyebrows with interest. "you love _ma belle patrie_, eh? _qui sait_?--you will perhaps some day go there. you have interests, friends in my country?" "no, none," tom answered. "i wish i had. you come from paris, sir?" "_mais oui_." for some time they chatted in such fashion, the marquis answering tom's many questions with characteristic french politeness, but turning ever and anon a pathetic glance toward the door through which dan and nancy had disappeared. it was with undisguised satisfaction that he greeted young frost when he returned to announce that supper was ready. "i famish!" the old gentleman exclaimed. "i have dined to-day on a biscuit and a glass of water." they found the kitchen table amply spread with food,--cold meats, hot eggs and coffee, and a bottle of port. monsieur de boisdhyver ate heartily and drank his wine with relish, gracefully toasting nancy as he did so. when his meal was finished, he begged with many excuses to be shown to his bedroom; and indeed his fatigue was evident. dan saw him to the great south chamber, carrying a pair of lighted candles before. he made sure that all had been done that sulky sleepy maids could be induced to do, and then left him to make ready for the night. lights were extinguished in the parlour and the bar, the fires were banked, and the two young men went up to dan's own room. there on either side of the warm hearth, had been drawn two great four-posted beds, and it took the lads but a moment to tumble into them. "it's queer," said dan, as he pulled the comfort snugly about his shoulders, calling to tom across the way; "it's queer--the old chap evidently means to stay awhile. what does a french marquis want in a deserted hole like this, i'd like to know? but if he pays, why the longer he stays the better." "i hope he does," said tom sleepily. "he has a reason, i fancy, for he asked questions enough while you were out seeing to his supper. he seems to know the place almost as well as if he had been here before, though he said he hadn't. but, by gad, i wish you and i were snug in a little hotel on the banks of the seine to-night and not bothering our heads about a doddering old marquis who hadn't sense enough to stay there." "wish we were," dan replied. "good-night," he called, realizing that his friend was too sleepy to lie awake and discuss any longer their unexpected guest. "good-night," murmured tom, and promptly drifted away into dreams of the wonderful land he had never seen. as for dan he lay awake a long time, wondering what could possibly have brought the old marquis to the deserted inn at such a time of the year and on such a night. chapter ii the lions eye toward daylight the storm blew itself out, the wind swung round to the northwest, and the morning dawned clear and cold, with a sharp breeze blowing and a bright sun shining upon a snow-clad, ice-crusted world and a sparkling sapphire sea. dan had risen early and had set jesse to clear a way across the court and down the avenue to the road. the maids, astir by dawn, were no longer sulky but bustled about at the preparation of an unusually good breakfast in honour of the new guest. mrs. frost, who habitually lay till nine or ten o'clock behind the crimson curtains of her great bed, had caught wind of something out of the ordinary, demanded nancy's early assistance, and announced her intention of breakfasting with the household. she was fretful during the complicated process of her toilette and so hurt the feelings of her foster-daughter, that when dan came to take her into the breakfast room, nancy found an excuse for not accompanying them. the marquis was awaiting their appearance. he stood with his back-to the fire, a spruce and carefully-dressed little figure, passing remarks upon the weather with young pembroke, who leaned his graceful length against the mantelpiece. the noble traveller was presented with due ceremony to mrs. frost, who greeted him with old-world courtesy. she had had, indeed, considerably more association with distinguished personages than had most of the dames of the neighbouring farms who considered themselves her social superiors. she welcomed monsieur de boisdhyver graciously, enquiring with interest of his journey and with solicitude as to his rest during the night. she received with satisfaction his rapturous compliments on the comforts that had been provided him, on the beauty of the surrounding country upon which he had looked from the windows of his chamber, and on her own condescension in vouchsafing to breakfast with them. she was delighted that he should find the inn at the red oak so much to his taste that he proposed to stay with them indefinitely. they were soon seated at the breakfast-table and had addressed themselves to the various good things that black deborah had provided. the native johnny cakes, made of meal ground by their own windmill, the marquis professed to find particularly tempting. despite mrs. frost's questions, despite his own voluble replies, monsieur de boisdhyver gave no hint, that there was any deeper reason for his seeking exile at the inn of the red oak than that he desired rest and quiet and had been assured that he would find them there. and who had so complimented their simple abode of hospitality? "ah, madame," he murmured, lifting his tiny hands, "so many!" "but i fear, monsieur," replied his hostess, "that you, who are accustomed to the luxuries of a splendid city like paris, to so many things of which we read, will find little to interest and amuse you in our remote countryside." "as for interest, madame," the marquis protested, "there are the beauties of nature, your so delightful household, my few books, my writing; and for amusement, i have my violin;--i so love to play. you will not mind?--perhaps, enjoy it?" "indeed yes," said mrs. frost. "dan, too, is a fiddler after a fashion; and as for nancy, she has a passion for music, and dreams away many an evening while my son plays his old tunes." "ah, yes," said the marquis, "mademoiselle nancy, i have not the pleasure to see her this morning?" "no," replied mrs. frost, flushing a trifle at the recollection of why nancy was not present, "she is somewhat indisposed--a mere trifle. you will see her later in the day. but, monsieur, you should have come to us in the spring or the summer, for then the country is truly beautiful; now, with these snow-bound roads, when not even the stagecoach passes, we are indeed lonely and remote." "it is that," insisted the marquis, "which so charms me. when one is old and when one has lived a life too occupied, it is this peace, this quiet, this remoteness one desires. to walk a little, to sit by your so marvellously warm fires, to look upon your beautiful country, _cest bou_!" he held her for a moment with his piercing little eyes, a faint smile upon his lips, as though to say that it was impossible he should be convinced that he had not found precisely what he was seeking, and insisting, as it were, that his hostess take his words as the compliment they were designed to be. before she had time to reply, he had turned to dan. "what a fine harbour you have, monsieur frost," he said, pointing through the window toward the cove, separated from the river and the sea by the great curve of strathsey neck, its blue waters sparkling now in the light of the morning sun. "yes," replied dan, glancing out upon the well-known shoreline, "it is a good harbour, though nothing, of course, to compare with a port. but it's seldom that we see a ship at anchor here, now." "there is, however," inquired the marquis with interest, "anchorage for a vessel, a large vessel?" "yes, indeed," tom interrupted, "in the old days when my father had his ships plying between havana and the port, he would often have them anchor in the cove for convenience in lading them with corn from the farm." "and they were large ships?" "full-rigged, sir; many of 'em, and drawing eight feet at least." "_eh bien_! and the old inn, madame, it dates, your son tells me, from 1693?" "we think so, sir, though i have no positive knowledge of its existence before 1750. my husband purchased the place in '94, and it had then been a hostelry for some years, certainly from the middle of the century. but we have made many additions. danny dear, perhaps it will interest the marquis if you should take him over the house. we are proud of our old inn, sir." "and with reason, madame. if monsieur will, i shall be charmed." "i will leave you then with my son. give me your arm, dan, to the parlour. unfortunately, monsieur le marquis, affliction has crippled me and i spend the day in my chair in the blue parlour. i shall be so pleased, if you will come and chat with me. tommy, you will be staying to dinner with us?" "thank you, mrs. frost, but i must get to the port for the day. mother and father are leaving by the afternoon stage, if it gets through. they are going to spend the winter in coventry. but i shall be back to-night as i have promised dan to spend that time with him." "we shall be glad to have you, as you know." soon after mrs. frost had left the breakfast-room and tom had started forth with horse and sleigh, dan returned. the marquis promptly reminded him of the suggestion that he should be taken over the inn. it seemed to dan an uninteresting way to entertain his guest and the morning was a busy one. however, he promised to be ready at eleven o'clock to show the marquis all there was in the old house. as dan went about the offices and stables, performing himself much of the work that in prosperous times fell to grooms and hostlers, he found himself thinking about his new guest. dan knew enough of french history to be aware there were frequent occasions in france when partisans of the various factions, royalist, imperialist, or republican, found it best to expatriate themselves. he knew that in times past many of the most distinguished exiles had found asylum in america. but at the present, he understood, king louis philippe, was reigning quietly at the tuileries and, moreover, the marquis de boisdhyver, mysterious as he was, did not suggest the political adventurer of whom dan as a boy had heard his parents tell such extraordinary tales. in the few years immediately after the final fall of the great bonaparte there had been an influx of imperialistic supporters in america, some of whom had even found their way to monday port and deal. one of these, dan remembered, had stayed for some months in '14 or '15 at the inn at the red oak, and it was he whom tom had recalled the night before as having told them stories of his adventurous exploits in the wars of the little corporal. but it was too long after napoleon's fall to connect his present guest with the imperial exiles. he could imagine no ulterior reason for the marquis's coming and was inclined to put it down as the caprice of an old restless gentleman who had a genuine mania for solitude. of solitude, certainly, he was apt to get his fill at the inn at the red oak. at eleven o'clock he returned to keep his appointment. he found the marquis established at a small table in the bar by an east window, from which was obtained a view of the cove, of the sand-dunes along the neck, and of the open sea beyond. a writing-desk was on the table, ink and quills had been provided, a number of books and papers were strewn about, and monsieur de boisdhyver was apparently busy with his correspondence. "enchanted" he exclaimed, as he pulled out a great gold watch. "punctual. i find another virtue, monsieur, in a character to which i have already had so much reason to pay my compliments. i trust i do not trespass upon your more important duties." as he spoke, he rapidly swept the papers into the writing-desk, closed and locked it, and carefully placed the tiny golden key into the pocket of his gayly-embroidered waistcoat. "not at all," dan replied courteously, "i shall be glad to show you about. but i fear you will find it cold and dismal, for the greater part of the house is seldom used or even entered." "i bring my cloak," said the marquis. "interest will give me warmth. what i have already seen of the inn at the red oak is so charming, that i doubt not there is much more to delight one. i imagine, monsieur, how gay must have been this place once." he took his great cloak from the peg near the fire where it had been hung the night before to dry wrapped himself snugly in it; and then, with a little bow, preceded dan into the cold and draughty corridor that opened from the bar into the older part of the house. this hallway extended fifty or sixty feet to the north wall of the main part of the inn whence a large window at the turn of a flight of stairs gave light. on the right, extending the same distance as the hall itself, was a great room known as the red drawing-room, into which dan first showed the marquis. this room had not been used since father's death four or five years before, and for a long time previous to that only on the rare occasions when a county gathering of some sort was held at the inn. it had been furnished in good taste and style in colonial days, but was now dilapidated and musty. the heavy red damask curtains were drawn before the windows, and the room was dark and cheerless. dan admitted the dazzling light of the sun; but the marquis only shivered and seemed anxious to pass quickly on. "you see, sir," observed the young landlord, "it is dismal enough." "_mais oui_--_mais oui_," exclaimed the marquis. at the foot of the stairway the corridor turned at right angles and ran north. on either side opened a number of chambers in like conditions of disrepair, which had been used as bedrooms in the palmy days of the hostelry. this corridor ended at the bowling-alley, where as children tom and dan had loved to play. half-way to the entrance to the bowling-alley a third hallway branched off to the right, leading to a similar set of chambers. into all these they entered, the marquis examining each with quick glances, dismissing them with the briefest interest and the most obvious comment. dan saved the _piã©ce-de-resistance_ till last. this was a little room entered from the second corridor just at the turn--the only room indeed, as he truthfully said, that merited a visit. "this," he explained, "we call the oak parlour. it is the only room on this floor worth showing you. my father brought the wainscoting from an old english country-house in dorsetshire. my father's people were torries, sir, and kept up their connection with the old country." it was a delightful room into which dan now admitted the light of day, drawing aside the heavy green curtains from the eastern windows. it was wainscoted from floor to cornice in old black english oak, curiously and elaborately carved, and divided into long narrow panels. the ceiling, of similar materials and alike elaborately decorated, was supported by heavy transverse beams that seemed solid and strong enough to support the roof of a cathedral. on one side two windows opened upon the gallery and court and looked out upon the cove, on the other side stood a cabinet. it was the most striking piece of furniture in the room, of enormous dimensions and beautifully carved on the doors of the cupboards below and on the top-pieces between the mirrors were lion's heads of almost life-size. opposite the heavy door, by which they had entered, was a large fireplace, containing a pair of elaborately ornamented brass and irons. there was not otherwise a great deal of furniture,--two or three tables, some chairs, a deep window-seat, a writing-desk of french design; but all, except this last, in keeping with the character of the room, and all brought across the seas from the old dorsetshire mansion, from which peter frost had obtained the interior. "_charmant_!" exclaimed the marquis. "you have a jewel, _mon ami_; a bit of old england or of old france in the heart of america; a room one finds not elsewhere in the states. it is a _creation superbe_." with enthusiastic interest he moved about, touching each article of furniture, examining with care the two of three old english landscapes that had been let into panels on the west side of the room, pausing in ecstacies before the great cabinet and standing before the fireplace as if he were warming his hands at that generous hearth. "ah, monsieur frost, could i but write, read, dream here...!" "i fear that would be impossible, sir," replied dan. "it is difficult to heat this portion of the house; and in fact, we never use it." "_hã©las_!" exclaimed the marquis, "those things which allure us in this world are so often impossible. perhaps in the spring, in the summer, when there is no longer the necessity of the fire, you will permit me." "it may be, monsieur," dan replied, "that long before the summer comes you will have left us." "_mais non_!" cried m. de boisdhyver. "every hour that i stay but proves to me how long you will have to endure my company." somewhat ungraciously, it seemed, young frost made no reply to this pleasantry; for already he was impatient to be gone. although the room was intensely cold and uncomfortable, still his guest lingered, standing before the massive cabinet, exclaiming upon the exquisiteness of the workmanship, and every now and then running his dainty fingers along the carving of its front. as dan stood waiting for the marquis to leave, he chanced to glance through the window to the court without, and saw jesse starting out in the sleigh. as he had given him no such order he ran quickly to the window, rapped vigourously and then, excusing himself to the marquis, hurried out to ask jesse to explain his errand. the marquis de boisdhyver stood for a moment, as dan left him, motionless in front of the cabinet. his face was bright with surprise and delight, his eyes alert with interest and cunning. after a moment's hesitation he stole cautiously to the window, and seeing frost was engaged in conversation with jesse, he sprang back with quick steps to the cabinet. he hastily ran the tips of his fingers along the beveled edges of the wide shelf from end to end several times, each time the expression of alertness deepening into one of disappointment. he stopped for a moment and listened. all was quiet. again with quick motions he felt beneath the edges. suddenly his eyes brightened and he breathed quickly; his sensitive fingers had detected a slight unevenness in the smooth woodwork. again he paused and listened, and then pressed heavily until he heard a slight click. he glanced up, as directly in front of him the eye of one of the carved wooden lion's heads on the front of the board winked and slowly raised, revealing a small aperture. with a look of satisfaction, the marquis thrust his fingers into the tiny opening and drew forth a bit of tightly folded yellow paper; he glanced at it for an instant and thrust it quickly into the pocket of his waistcoat. then he lowered the lid of the lion's eye. there was a slight click again; and he turned, just as dan reappeared in the doorway. "excuse my leaving you so abruptly," said frost, "but i saw jesse going off with the sleigh, and as i had given him no orders, i wanted to know where he was going. but it was all right. are you ready, sir? i am afraid if we stay much longer you will catch cold." this last remark was added as the marquis politely smothered a sneeze with his flimsy lace handkerchief. "_c'est bien_, monsieur. i fear i have taken a little cold. perhaps it would be just as well if we explore no further to-day." "if you prefer, sir," answered dan, holding the door open for his guest to go out. monsieur de boisdhyver turned and surveyed the oak parlour once more before he left it. "ah!" he exclaimed, "this so charming room--it is of a perfection! dorsetshire, you say? ... to me it would seem french." they walked back rapidly along the dark cold corridors to the bar. all the way the marquis, wrapped tightly in his great cloak, kept the thumb of his left hand in his waistcoat pocket, pressing securely against the paper he had taken from the old cabinet in the oak parlour. chapter iii the marquis at night the household of the inn at the red oak soon became accustomed to the presence of their new member; indeed, he seemed to them during those bleak winter months a most welcome addition. except for an occasional traveller who spent a night or a sunday at the inn, he was the only guest. he was gregarious and talkative, and would frequently keep them for an hour or so at table as he talked to them of his life in france, and of his adventures in the exciting times through which his country had passed during the last fifty years. he was the cadet, he told them, of a noble family of the vendã©e, the head of which, though long faithful to the exiled bourbons, had gone over to napoleon upon the establishment of the empire. but as for himself--marie-anne-timã©lon-armand de boisdhyver--he still clung to the imperial cause, and though now for many years his age and infirmities had forced him to withdraw from any part in intrigues aiming at the restoration of the empire, his sympathies were still keen. when he talked in this strain, of his thrilling memories of the terror and of the extraordinary days when bonaparte was emperor, dan and tom would listen to him by the hour. but mrs. frost preferred to hear the marquis's reminiscences of the _ancien rã©gime_ and of the old court life at versailles. he had been a page, he said, to the unfortunate marie antoinette; he would cross himself piously at the mention of the magic name, and digress rapturously upon her beauty and grace, and bemoan, with tears, her unhappy fate. she liked also to hear of the court of napoleon and of the life of the _faubourgs_ in the paris of the day. on these occasions the young men were apt to slip away and leave the marquis alone with mrs. frost and nancy. for nancy monsieur de boisdhyver seemed to have a fascination. she would listen absorbed to his voluble tales, her bright eyes fixed on his fantastic countenance, her head usually resting upon her hand, and her body bent forward in an attitude of eager attention. she rarely spoke even to ask a question; indeed, her only words would be an occasional exclamation of interest, or the briefest reply. during the day their noble guest would potter about the house or, when the weather was fine, stroll down to the shore, where he would walk up and down the strip of sandy beach in the lee of the wind hour after hour. now and then he wandered out upon the dunes that stretched along the neck; and once, dan afterwards learned, he paid a call upon old mrs. meath who lived by herself in the lonely farmhouse on strathsey neck, that was known as the house of the dunes. after supper they were wont to gather in mrs. frost's parlour or in the old bar before the great hearth on which a splendid fire always blazed; and when the marquis had had his special cup of black coffee, he would get out his violin and play to them the long evening through. he played well, with the skill of a master of the art, and with feeling. he seemed at such times to forget himself and his surroundings; his bright eyes would grow soft, a dreamy look would steal into them, and a happy little smile play about the corners of his thin pale lips. obligingly he gave dan lessons, and often the young man would accompany him, in the songs his mother had known and loved in her youth, when old peter had come wooing with fiddle in hand. but best of all were the evenings when the marquis chose to improvise. plaintive, tender melodies for the most part; prolonged trembling, faintly-expiring airs; and sometimes harsh, strident notes that evoked weird echoes from the bare wainscoted walls. mrs. frost would sit, tears of sadness and of pleasure in her eyes, the kindly homely features of her face moving with interest and delight. nancy was usually by the table, her sharp little chin propped up on the palms of her hands, never taking her fascinated gaze from the musician. sometimes tom would look at her and wonder of what she could be thinking. for certainly her spirit seemed to be far away wandering in a world of dreams and of strange inexpressible emotions. for tom the music stirred delicate thoughts bright dreams of beauty and of love; the vivid intangible dreams of awakening youth. he had not had much experience with emotion; the story of his love affairs contained no more dramatic moments than the stealing of occasional kisses from the glowing cheeks of maria stonywell, the beauty of the tinterton road, as he had walked back to the old farm with her on moonlight evenings. they would all be sorry when monsieur pleaded weariness and bade them good-night. sometimes his music so moved the old frenchman that the tears would gather in his faded blue eyes and steal down his powdered cheeks; and then, like as not, he was apt to break off suddenly, drop violin and bow upon his knees, and exclaim, "_ah! la musique! mon dieu, mon dieu! elle me rappelle ma jeunesse. et maintenant--et maintenant_!" and then, brushing away the tears he would rise, make them a courtly bow, and hurry out of the room. dan alone did not fall under his spell. he and tom would often talk of their strange guest after they were gone to bed in the great chamber over the dining-room. "i don't know what it is," dan said one night, "but i am sorry he ever came to the inn; i wish he would go away." "how absurd, old boy!" protested tom. "he has saved our lives this frightful winter. i never knew your mother to be so cheerful and contented; nancy seems to adore him, and you yourself are making the most of his fiddle lessons." "i know," dan replied, "all that is true, but it is only half the truth. mother's cheerfulness is costing me a pretty penny, for i can't keep her from ordering the most expensive things,--wines, and the like,--that we can't afford. maybe nance adores him, as you say,--she is such a strange wild child; but i have never known her to be so unlike herself. we used to have good times together--nance and i. but this winter i see nothing of her at all." for the moment dan forgot his complaint in the tender thought of his foster-sister. "it probably is absurd," he added presently, "but i don't like it; i don't like him, tom! he plays the fiddle well, i admit but he is so queer and shifty, nosing about, looking this way and that, never meeting your eyes. it's just as though he were waiting, biding his time, for--i don't know what." "nonsense, dan; you're not an old woman." "it may be, tom, but i feel so anyway. the place hasn't seemed the same to me since that frenchman came. i wish he would go away; and apparently he means to stay on forever." "i think you would miss him, if he were to go," insisted pembroke, "for my part i'm glad he is here. to tell the truth, dan, he's been the life of the house." "he has fascinated you as he has fascinated mother and nance," dan replied. "but it stands to reason, boy, that he can't be quite all right. what does he want poking about in a deserted old hole like deal?" "what he has said a thousand times; just what he so beautifully gets--quiet and seclusion." "perhaps you are right and i am wrong; but all the same i shall be glad to see the last of him." the night was one of bright moonlight at the end of february. the bedroom windows were open to the cold clear air. tom was not sleepy, and he lay for a long time recalling the dreams and emotions that had so stirred him earlier in the evening, as he had listened to the marquis's playing. he kept whistling softly to himself such bars of the music as he could remember. dan's chamber faced west, and tom's bed was so placed that he could look out, without raising his head from the pillow, over the court in the rear of the inn and into the misty depths of lovel's woods beyond the offices and stables. as he lay half-consciously musing--it must have been near midnight--his attention was suddenly riveted upon the court below. it seemed to him that he heard footsteps. he was instantly wide awake, and jumped from the bed to the window, whence he peered from behind the curtain into the courtyard. close to the wall of the inn, directly beneath the window, a shadow flitted on the moonlight-flooded pavement, and he could hear the crumbling of the snow. cautiously he thrust his head out of the window. moving rapidly along near to the house, was a little figure wrapped in a dark cloak, which looked to tom for all the world like the marquis de boisdhyver. for the moment he had the impulse to call to him by name, but the conversation he had so recently had with dan flashed into his mind, and he decided to keep still and watch. the figure moved rapidly along the west wall of the inn almost the entire length of the building, until it arrived at the entrance of the bowling-alley which abutted from the old northern wing. reaching this it paused for a moment, glancing about; then inserted a key, fumbled for a moment with the latch, opened the door, and disappeared within. tom was perplexed. he could not be sure that it was the marquis; but whether it were or not, he knew that there was no reason for any one entering the old portion of the inn at midnight. his first thought was to go down alone and investigate; his second was to waken dan. he lowered the window gently, drew the curtains across it, and bending over his friend, shook him gently by the shoulder. "dan, dan, i say; wake up!" "what's the matter?" exclaimed dan with a start of alarm, as he sat up in bed. "nothing, nothing; don't make a noise. i happened to be awake, and hearing footsteps under the window, i got up and looked out. i saw some one moving along close to the wall until he got to the bowling alley. he opened the door and disappeared." "the door's locked," exclaimed dan. "who was it?" "he had a key, whoever he was then. to tell the truth, dan, it looked like the marquis; though i couldn't swear to him. i certainly saw some one." "you have not been asleep and dreaming, have you?" asked his friend, rubbing his eyes. "i should say not. i'm going down to investigate; thought you'd like to come along." "so i shall," said dan, jumping out of bed and beginning to dress. "if you really have seen any one, i'll wager you are right in thinking it's the old marquis. that is just the sort of thing i have imagined him being up to. what he wants though in the old part of the house is more than i can think. he has pestered me to get back there ever since i showed him over the place the day he arrived. are you ready? bring a candle, and some matches. ill just take my gun along on general principles. i don't care how soon we get rid of the marquis de boisdhyver, but i shouldn't exactly like to shoot him out with a load of buckshot in his hide." tom stood waiting with his boots in hand. dan went to his bureau and took out his father's old pistol, that had done duty in the west india trade years ago, when pirates were not romantic memories but genuine menaces. "sh!" whispered dan as he opened the door. "let's blow out the candle. it's moonlight, and we will be safer without it. be careful as you go down stairs not to wake mother and nancy." tom blew out the candle and slipped the end into his pocket, as he tiptoed after dan down the stairs. at every step the old boards seemed to creak as though in pain. as they paused breathless half-way down on the landing, they heard no sound save the loud ticking of the clock in the hall below and the gentle whispering of the breeze without. the moon gave light enough had they needed it, but each of them could have found his way through every nook and corner of the inn in darkness as well as in broad day-light. they crept down the short flight from the landing, paused and listened at the doors of mrs. frost's and nancy's chambers, and then slipped noiselessly into the bar where the logs still glowed on the hearth. "shall we," asked tom in a low tone, "go down the corridor or around outside?" "best outside," dan whispered. "if we go down the corridor we are like to frighten him if he is the marquis, or get a bullet in our gizzards if he is not. should he be inside, he'll have a light and we can find just where he is. i have a notion that it's the marquis and that he'll be in the oak parlour. we'd better creep along the porch." very softly he unlocked the door, and stepped outside. tom was close behind him. they crept stealthily along next the wall well within the shadow of the roof, pausing at every window to peer through the cracks of the shutters. but all were dark. as they turned the corner of the porch at the end of the main portion of the inn from which the north wing extended, dan suddenly put his hand back and stopped tom. "wait," he breathed, "there's a light in the oak parlour. stay here, while i peek in." with gun in hand he crept up to the nearest window of the oak parlour. the heavy shutters were closed, but between the crack made by the warping of the wood, he could distinguish a streak of golden light. he waited a moment; and, then at the risk of alarming the intruder within, carefully tried the shutter. to his great satisfaction it yielded and swung slowly, almost noiselessly, back upon its hinges; the inside curtains were drawn; but a slight gap had been left. peering in through this, dan found he could get a view of a small section of the interior,--the end of the great dorsetshire cabinet on the farther side of the room and a part of the wall. before the cabinet, bending over its shelf, stood the familiar form of the marquis de boisdhyver, apparently absorbed in a minute examination of the carving. but dan's attention was quickly diverted from the figure of the old frenchman, for by his side, also engaged in a similar examination of the cabinet, stood nancy. for a moment he watched them with intent interest, but as he could not discover what so absorbed them he slipped back to tom, who was waiting at the turn of the porch. "it's the marquis," he whispered in his friend's ear. "what is he up to?" "i don't know. apparently he is examining the old cabinet. but, tom, nancy is with him and as absorbed in the thing as he is. look!" he exclaimed suddenly. "they've blown out the light." as he spoke, he pointed to the window, now dark. "come," he said, making an instant decision, "let's hide ourselves in the hall and see if they come back." "but nancy--?" "no time for talk now. come along." they ran back along the porch, slipped into the bar, and thence into the hall. dan motioned to tom to conceal himself in a closet beneath the stairway, and he himself slipped behind the clock. hardly were they safely hidden thus, than they heard a fumble at the latch of the door into the bar. then the door was pushed open, and the marquis stepped cautiously in the hall. he paused for a moment, listening intently. then he held open the door a little wider; and another figure, quite enveloped by a long black coat, entered after him. they silently crossed the hall to the door of nancy's chamber. this the marquis opened; then bowed low, as his companion passed within. they were so close to him that dan could have reached out his hand and touched them. as nancy entered her room, dan distinctly heard monsieur de boisdhyver whisper, "more success next time, mademoiselle!" there was no reply. the marquis turned, stole softly up the stairs, and in a moment dan heard the click of the latch as he closed his door. he slipped out from his hiding place, and whispered to tom. in a few moments they were back again in their bedroom. "heavens! man, what do you make of it?" asked tom. "make of it!" exclaimed dan, "i don't know what to make of it. it's incomprehensible. what the devil is that old rascal after, and how has he bewitched nance?" "perhaps," suggested tom, more for nancy's sake than because he believed what he was saying, "it is simply that he is curious, and knowing that you don't want him in the old part of the inn, he has persuaded nancy to take him there at night." "nonsense! that couldn't possibly account for such secrecy and caution. no, tom, he has some deviltry on foot, and we must find out what it is." "that should be simple enough. ask nance." "ah!" exclaimed his friend, "you don't know nance as well as i. you may be sure he has sworn her to secrecy, and nance would never betray a promise whether she had been wise in making it or not." "then go to the old man himself and demand an explanation." "he'd lie ..." "turn him out." "i could do that, of course. but i think i would rather find out what he is up to. it has something to do with the old cabinet in the oak parlour. i'll find out the mystery of that if i have to hack the thing into a thousand pieces. what i hate, is nance's being mixed up in it." "we can watch again." "yes; we'll do that. in the meanwhile, i am going to investigate that old ark myself. there's something about, something concealed in it, that he wants to get. when i took him in there the day after he came, he couldn't keep his eyes off it. if you can get nance out of the way tomorrow afternoon, i'll send the marquis off with jesse for that long-talked-of visit to mondy port; and i'll give jesse instructions not to get him back before dark. and while they are away, i'll investigate the oak parlour myself. can you get nance off?" "i might ask her to go and look over the red farm with me. she might like the walk through the woods. i could easily manage to be away for three or four hours." "good! you may think it odd, tom, that i should seem to distrust nance. i don't distrust her, but there has always been a mystery about her. mother knows a good deal more than she has even been willing to tell to me, or even to nance, i guess. i know nothing except that she is of french extraction, and i have sometimes wondered since she has been so often with the old marquis this winter, if he didn't know something about her. it flashed over me to-night as i saw them in that deserted room. whatever is a-foot, i am going to get at the bottom of it. we will watch again to-morrow night. i heard him whisper as he left nance, 'more success next time!' this sort of thing may have been going on for a month." they undressed again, and dan put his gun away in his bureau. "we may have use for that yet, tommy," he said. "it would do me good, after what i have seen to-night, to put a bit of lead into the marquis de boisdhyver as a memento of his so delightful sojourn at _l'auberge au chene rouge_." chapter iv the oak parlour the two young men felt self-conscious and ill-at-ease the next morning at the breakfast table, but apparently their embarrassment was neither shared nor observed. mrs. frost had kept her room, but nancy and the marquis were in their accustomed places; the old gentleman, chattering away in a fashion that demanded few answers and no attention; nancy, speaking only to ask necessary questions as to their wants at table and meeting the occasional glances of dan and tom without suspicion. tom could scarcely realize in that bright morning light, that only seven or eight hours earlier he and his friend had spied upon their companions prowling about in the abandoned wing of the inn. monsieur de boisdhyver assented readily enough when dan proposed that jesse should take him that day to monday port. he was curious to see the old town, he said, having heard much of it from his friend; much also from his celebrated compatriot, the marquis de lafayette. tom took occasion during the discussion to ask nancy if she would walk across the woods with him after dinner, that he might pay a visit to the red farm and see that all was going well in the absence of his parents. he felt that the tones of his voice were charged with unwonted significance; but nancy accepted the invitation with a simple expression of pleasure. when mrs. frost was informed of the plans for the day, she came near thwarting dan's carefully laid schemes. she had counted upon jesse to do her bidding and had, she declared, arranged that nancy should help her put together the silken patches of the quilt upon which she was perennially engaged. her foster-daughter's glance of displeasure at this was tinder to the old lady's temper, and dan entered most opportunely. "so!" she was exclaiming, "i am always the one to be sacrificed when it is a question of some one's else pleasure." "mother, mother," dan protested good-naturedly, as he bent over to kiss her good-morning, "aren't you ever willing to spend a day alone with me?" "danny dear," cried the old lady, as she began to smile again, "you know i'm always willing. of course, if tom wants nancy to go, the quilt can wait; it has waited long enough, in all conscience. there, my dear," she added, turning to the girl, "order an early dinner, and since you are going to the red farm, you might as well come back by the dunes and enquire for old mrs. meath. we have neglected that poor woman shamefully this winter." "yes, mother,--if we have time." "take the time, my dear," added mrs. frost sharply. "yes, mother." the marquis started off with jesse at eleven o'clock, as eager for the excursion as a boy; and by half-past twelve nancy and tom had set out across the woods for the red farm. dan was impatient for them to be gone. as soon as he saw them disappear in the woods back of the inn, he made excuses to his mother, and hurried to the north wing. he found the door of the bowling alley securely locked, which convinced him that either the marquis or nancy had taken the key from the closet of his chamber. having satisfied himself, he went directly to the oak parlour. it was cold and dark there. he opened the shutters and drew back the curtains, letting in the cheerful midday sun, which revealed all the antique, sombre beauty of the room, of the soft landscapes and the exquisite carving of the dorsetshire cabinet. but dan was in no mood to appreciate the old-world beauty of the oak parlour. in that cabinet he felt sure there was something concealed which would reveal the mystery of the marquis's stay at the inn and possibly the nature of his influence over nancy. whatever had been the object of the marquis's search, it had not been found: his parting words to nancy the night before showed that. dan took a long look at the cabinet first, estimating the possibility of its containing secret drawers. hidden compartments in old cabinets, secret chambers in old houses, subterranean passageways leading to dungeons in romantic castles, had been the material of many a tale that dan and tom had told each other as boys. for years their dearest possession had been a forbidden copy of "_the mysteries of udolpho_" which they read in the mow of the barn lying in the dusty hay. however unusual, the situation was real; and he felt himself confronted by as hard a problem as he had ever tried to solve in fiction. he knew something about carpentry, so that his first step, after examining the drawers and cupboards and finding them empty, was to take careful measurements of the entire cabinet, particularly of the thicknesses of its sides, back, and partitions. it proved a piece of furniture of absolutely simple and straightforward construction. after long examination and careful soundings he came to the conclusion that a secret drawer was an impossibility. suddenly an idea occurred to him and he returned to the sitting-room. "mother," he said, "i have been looking over the old cabinet in the oak parlour, thinking perhaps that i would have it brought into the dining-room. i wonder, if by chance, there are any secret drawers in it. "secret drawers? what an idea!" exclaimed mrs. frost. "you never knew of any did you?" "no.... stop, let me think. upon my word, i think there was something of the sort, but it has been so long ago i have almost forgotten." "try to remember, do!" urged dan, striving to repress his excitement. "it was not a secret drawer, but there were little hidden cubby-holes--three or four of them. i remember, now, your father once showed me how they opened. they were little places where the roman catholics used to hide the pages of their mass-books and such like in the days of persecution in england." "yes, yes," said dan, "that makes it awfully interesting. did father ever find anything in them?" "no, i think not; but, dear me, it was over thirty years ago we brought that old cabinet from england,--long before you were born, dan." "can you remember how to open the secret places? i have been looking it over, but i can't see where they can be, much less how to get into them." "there were four of them, i think; all in the carving on the front, in the eyes of the lions it seems to me, and in the lion's mouth, or in the leaves somewhere. one spring that opened them i recollect, was under the ledge of the shelf, another at the back of the cabinet and,--but no, i really can't remember where the others were." dan was impatient to try his luck at finding them, and hurried back to the oak parlour. he ran his fingers many times under the ledge of the shelf before he heard the click of a tiny spring, and, looking up, saw the lion's eyelid wink and slowly open. with an exclamation of satisfaction, he thrust his fingers into the tiny aperture, felt carefully about, and was chagrined to find it empty. "more success next time, _monsieur le marquis_!" he muttered. at length he found the spring that released the eyelid on the carved lion on the other side of the panel. he glanced into the little opening and, to his delight, saw the end of a bit of paper tucked away there. he dug it out with the blade of his pocket knife and unfolded it. it was yellow and brittle with age, covered with writing in a fine clear hand. but he was annoyed to discover, as he bent closely over to read it, that it was written in french, still worse, part of the paper was missing, for one side of it was ragged as if it had been torn in two. remembering with relief, that pembroke had acquired a smattering of french at dr. watson's school for the sons of gentlemen, he put the paper carefully away in his pocket to wait for tom's assistance in deciphering it. then he set to work to find the missing half. he fumbled about at the back of the cabinet for a spring that would release another secret cubby-hole, and was rewarded at last by an unexpected click, and the seemingly solid jaws of the lion fell apart about half-an-inch. but the little aperture which they revealed was empty. further experiment at last discovered the fourth hiding place, but this also contained nothing. it occurred to him then that the marquis had already discovered the other half of the paper, and like himself was searching for a missing portion. as he stood thinking over the problem, he suddenly noticed that the room was in deep shadow, and realized that the sun had set over the ridge of lovel's woods. the marquis would soon be returning. carefully closing the four openings in the carving he pushed the old cabinet back against the wall, closed the shutters and drew the curtains. then with a last glance to see that all was as he found it, he went out and closed the door the precious bit of paper in his inside pocket. he went directly to mrs. frost's parlour. "mother," he said, "please don't tell anyone that i have been in the north wing today. i have good reasons which i will explain to you before long. now, i shall be deeply offended if you give the slightest hint." "gracious! dan, what is all this mystery about?" "you will never know, mother, unless you trust me absolutely. mind! not a word to tom, nancy or the marquis." "very well, danny. you know i am as safe with a secret as though it had been breathed into the grave." dan did not quite share his mother's confidence in her own discretion, but he knew he could count on her devotion to him to keep her silent even where curiosity and the love of talk would render her indiscreet. he also knew, and had often deplored it, that fond as she was of nancy she was not inclined to take the girl into her confidence. having said all he dared to his mother, dan went to his room and carefully locked up the mysterious paper. he returned to the first floor just as the marquis and jesse drove up in the sleigh to the door of the inn. monsieur de boisdhyver was enthusiastic about all that he had seen--the headquarters of general washington, the house in which the marquis de lafayette had slept, the old mill in the parade, the fort at the narrows, the shipping, the quaint old streets.... "but, o monsieur frost," he exclaimed, "the weariness that is now so delightful! how soundly shall i sleep to-night!" dan smiled grimly as he assured his guest of his sympathy for a good night and a sound sleep; thinking to himself, however, that if the marquis walked, he would not walk unattended. he had no intention of trusting too implicitly to that loudly proclaimed fatigue. chapter v the walk through the woods while dan frost was hunting for the secret places of the old cabinet, tom and nancy were picking their way across the snowcovered paths of lovel's woods to the red farm. these woods were a striking feature in the landscape of the open coast country around deal. rising somewhat precipitously almost out of the sea, three ridges extended far back into the country, with deep ravines between. they were thickly wooded, for the most part with juniper and pine. in some places the descent to the ravines was sheer and massed with rocks heaped there by a primeval glacier; in other parts they dipped more gently to the little valleys, which were threaded with many a path worn smooth by the dwellers on the eastern shore. nearly two miles might be saved in a walk from the inn to squire pembroke's farm by going across the woods rather than by the encircling road. as they were used to the frozen country tom and nancy preferred the shorter if more difficult route. they had often found their way together through the tangled thickets of the woods or along the shores of the strathsey river, in season accompanied by dog and gun hunting fox and rabbit or partridge and wild duck. in tom's company nancy seemed to forget her shyness and would talk freely enough of her interests and her doings. he had always been fond of her, though until lately she had seemed to him hardly more than a child. this winter, as so frequently he had watched her sitting in the firelight listening to the old marquis's playing and dreaming perhaps as he also dreamed, he realized that she was growing up. a new beauty had come into her face and slender form, her great dark eyes seemed to hold deeper interests, she was no longer in the world of childhood. the mystery enveloping her origin, which for some reason mrs. frost had never chosen to dispel, gave a certain piquancy to the interest and affection tom felt for her. in the imaginative tales he had been fond of weaving for his own amusement, nancy would frequently figure, revealed at last as the child of noble parents, as a princess doomed by some strange fate to exile. he thought of these things as from time to time he glanced back at her, holding aside some branch that crossed the path or giving her his hand to help her over a boulder in the way. the red scarf about her neck, red cap on her dark hair, flashing in and out of the tangled pathway against the background of the snow-clad woods, gave a bright note of colour to the scene. they were obliged for the most part to walk in single file until the last ridge descended over a mass of rocks to the marshes along beaver pond. then having given her his hand to help her down, he kept hold of it as they went along the free path to the open meadows. the feeling of nancy's cool little hand in his gave tom an odd and conscious sense of pleasure. "you have been uncommonly silent, nance, even for you," he said at last. "oh, i'm always silent, tom," she replied. "it is because i am stupid and have nothing to say." "nonsense, my dear, you always have a lot to say to me. but you are forever reading, thinking ... what's it all about?" "oh, i think, tom, because i have little else to do; but my thoughts aren't often worth the telling. in truth there is no one, not even you, who particularly cares to hear them. tom," she said, "i am restless and discontented. sometimes i wish i were far away from the inn at the red oak and deal, from all that i know,--even from you and dan." pembroke suddenly realized that he could not laugh at these fancies, as he had so often done, and dismiss as if they were the vagaries of a child. "why are you restless and discontented, nancy?" he asked seriously. "aren't you ever?" she questioned for reply. "don't you ever get weary with the emptiness of it all, the everlasting round, the dullness? don't you ever want to get away from deal, and know people and see things and be somebody?" "i do that, nance. i mean to go as soon as i am a lawyer. i won't poke about deal long after that, nor monday port either. i mean to set up in coventry." "coventry!" exclaimed the girl with an accent of disdain. "that is just a provincial town like the port, only a little more important because it is the capital of the state." "being the capital means a lot," protested tom in defense of his ambitions of which for the first time he felt ashamed. "men are sent to congress from there. nance, girl, ours is a wonderful country; we are making a great nation." "some people may be. none of us are, tom. i wonder at you more than i do at dan, for you have had more advantages. as for me, i am only a girl; there's nothing for girls but to sit and sew, and prepare meals for men to eat, and wait until some one comes and chooses to marry them. then they go off and do the same thing some place else." "but what have you to complain of, nancy? you have the kindest brother, a good mother, a comfortable home...." "the kindest brother, yes. but you know mrs. frost is not my mother. she doesn't care for me and i can't care for her as if she were. i have never loved any one but dan." "you can't help loving dan," said tom, thinking of his good friend. "but then, little girl, you love me too." and he pressed the hand in his warmly. nancy quickly withdrew her hand. "i am not a little girl. i have been grown up in lots of ways ever so long." "but you love me?" "i like you. oh, tom, the life we all lead is so futile. if i weren't a girl, i should go away." they had reached the stile by now that led into the meadow which sloped down from the clump of poplars a hundred rods or so above, in the midst of which the red farmhouse stood. instead of helping his companion over the steps in the wall, tom stopped and stood with his back to them. "let's stay here a minute, nance, and have it out." "have what out?" she asked a trifle sharply. "you haven't any queer wild plan in your head to go away, have you?" "i don't know--sometimes i think i have. i dare say there are things somewhere a girl could find to do." "but mrs. frost--?" "oh, mother would not miss me long--she'd have dan." "but dan would miss you." "yes, dan might. i couldn't go, if dan really needed me here. i think sometimes he doesn't. but, tom, if you were in my position, if you didn't know who your parents were, if all your life you had been living on the charity of others--good and kind as they are, wonderful even as dan has always been--you couldn't be happy. i'm not happy." "but, nance, what has come over you?" "no--nothing in particular; i have often felt this way." "but, dear, i couldn't let you go. i'd mind a lot, nance." she looked at him with a sudden smile of incredulity. "you, tommy?" "you can't go--you musn't go," tom repeated, as he drew nearer to her. suddenly he reached out and seized her hands. "don't you realize it?--i love you, nance; i've always loved you!" he drew her close to him. she did not resist nor did she yield, but still with her eyes she questioned him. "kiss me, nancy," he whispered. she let him press his lips to hers but without responding to the pressure, as though she still were wondering of the meaning of this sudden unforeseen passion. but at last, caught up in its intensity, she gave him back his kisses. he took her face then between his hands and looked into it with a gaze that in itself was a caress. "oh my sweetheart!" he said softly. slowly she disengaged herself. "tom, tom," she said, "this is foolishness. we musn't do this." "why not?" demanded pembroke. "i tell you i love you!" "no--not that way, not that way. i didn't mean that. why, you foolish boy, haven't we kissed each other hundreds of times before?" "no, nancy, not like that--not like this," he added, as again he put his arm around her and drew her face to his. and again she yielded. "say it--say it, nance--you love me." she drew back from him. "i think i must, tom. i don't think i could let you kiss me that way if i didn't. but now come ... tom ... dear tom ... do come ... don't kiss me again." "but say it," he insisted, "say you love me." "please help me over the stile." he gave her his hand and she sprang lightly to the top of the steps. in a second he was by her side, both of them balancing somewhat uncertainly on the top of the stone wall. "i won't let you down till you say it." "please--". "no--you love me?" "yes--there--i love you--now--". "no, kiss me again." "tom--no." but the negative was weak and pembroke took it so. "now," he said, as they began to cross the meadow, "we must tell mrs. frost and dan." "tell them what?" "why, that we are in love with each other, and that you are going to marry me. what else?" "no, no," exclaimed nancy, "you must say nothing. i am not in love. i don't mean to marry you." "but why not? you are. you do." "are--do--?" "in love--you do mean to marry me." "no--tom, listen--you know your father and mother would hate it. you have at least two years before you can practice. we couldn't marry--we can't marry. oh, there are things i must do, before i can think of that." "not marry me? good lord, what does it mean when people are in love with each other, what does it mean when a girl kisses a fellow like that?" "i don't know! what it means--madness, i guess. do you think i could marry as i am, not knowing who i am?" "oh, what do i care who your parents were! we'll find out. i swear we will. good lord, i love you, nancy; i love you!" "please, please don't make me talk about it now." "but soon--?" "yes, soon--only promise you'll say nothing to dan or to mother till we have talked again. i must think; it is all so queer and unexpected; i never dreamed that you cared for me except as a little girl." "i didn't know i did. but come to think of it, nance, it has been you as much as dan that has brought me to the inn at the red oak. why it was you i wanted to walk and talk and play with." "please,--dear tom--g--ive me time to think what it all means. now be careful, there's the farmer. you have a lot to do, and we have been lingering too long. mother wants us to go back by the dunes and enquire for old mrs. meath; so we must hurry." the sun had set before they started on the homeward journey in one of the squire's sleighs. as they turned the bend at the beach and started across the dune road close to the sea, a great yellow moon rose over strathsey neck. tom had been so preoccupied with his own emotions and the unexpected and absorbing relation in which he found himself with nancy, that he had altogether forgotten why he had asked her to go off with him that afternoon. as they skimmed along over the snow-packed road across the sands, tom spied another sleigh on the port road, the occupants of which he recognized as jesse and the marquis. suddenly the memory of the night before flashed over him. he pointed with his whip in their direction. "there's the old marquis coming back from monday port," he said. nancy looked without comment, but tom thought the colour deepened in her cheeks. "see here, nance," he exclaimed impulsively; "has the marquis anything to do with the mood you were in this afternoon? has he said anything to make you discontented?" he was sure that now she paled. "what makes you ask?" "oh--a number of things. i've seen you with him more or less; felt he had some influence over you."--tom was blundering now and knew it.-she looked at him coldly. "i have been with the marquis very little save when others have been about. he has no influence over me. i don't care to discuss such queer ideas." "oh, all right ... i dare say i'm mistaken ... i only thought..." he hesitated... "if you care for me, i don't mind what you think of the marquis." "remember, tom--you promised to say nothing until i gave you leave. you're not fair..." "but you do love me?" nancy was silent. "there is nothing between you and the old frenchman--no mystery?" there was no reply. nancy sat with compressed lips and drawn brows, gazing fixedly at the distant house on the dunes at the end of their road. for a long while they drove on in silence. at the house on the dunes they chatted for a while with old mrs. meath, who lived there alone with a maid-of-all-work. she was a source of much anxiety to mrs. frost, who sent several times each week to learn if all was going well. but mrs. meath was a quaker and apparently never gave a thought to loneliness or fear. "they will never guess," she said to nancy and tom as they sat in the tiled kitchen talking with her, "what i am going to do." "not going to leave the house on the dunes, mrs. meath?" "deary me! no; but i am going to take a boarder." "really?--you are setting up to rival the inn, eh?" said tom. "no", tommy, nothing of the sort. but i am offered good pay for my front room, and as jane frost is always nagging me about living here alone, i thought i'd take her." "and who pray is your new boarder?" asked nancy. "that is the funny part of it," replied mrs. meath, "i know nothing but her name--mrs. fountain. everything has been arranged by a lawyer man from coventry, and she is coming in a few days. tell thy mother, nancy dear, that she need worry about me no longer." "i will, mrs. meath. i think it is a splendid idea, and i hope you will like the lady. mother will be so glad that you have some one with you." soon they were on their way across the dunes and marshes to tinterton road and home. dan was preoccupied, not with the news that was so exciting to mrs. meath, but with the recollection of his conversation with nancy as they had driven toward the house. despite her implicit denial he knew there was a secret between the marquis de boisdhyver and herself. he could not imagine what it might be, and it was evident that she did not mean to tell him at present. but his anxieties on this or kindred subjects were not relieved by his companion during the remainder of the drive. moreover his attempts to speak again of his newly discovered passion were received coldly--so coldly indeed that he had no heart for pleading for such proofs as she had given him earlier in the afternoon that she shared his emotion. so despite the splendid moon, the bright cold night, the merry jangle of the sleigh bells, the drive back was not the unmixed joy tom had promised himself; and he felt his role of a declared and practically-accepted lover anything but a satisfactory one. finally they reached the inn and entered the bar where they found the marquis sitting alone before a cheerful fire. all of tom's suspicious jealousies returned with fresh force, for nancy rapidly crossed the room, spoke a few words to the old gentleman in an inaudible tone of voice, and passed quickly on to her own apartments. part ii the torn scrap of paper chapter vi the half of an old paper that evening mrs. frost made a particular request for music. poor dan, impatient to be alone with tom and show him the torn scrap of paper that he had found that afternoon was forced to bring out his fiddle and accompany the marquis. tom, for first part, was more concerned with his own relations with nancy than with the mysterious possibilities of the previous night. the poignant notes of the violin set his pulses to beating in tune with the throbbing of the music and transported him again into the realms of youthful dreams. they were quaint plaintive songs of old france that the marquis chose to play that evening, folk tunes of the vendã©e, love songs of olden time. from where he sat in the shadow tom got a full view of nancy seated on the oaken setlle near the fire. her brows were drawn a little in deep thought, her lips for the most part compressed, though ever and anon relaxing at some gentler thought. her hands were clasped, her head was bent a little, but her body was held straight and tense. her eyes, dark and lustrous in the light of the flaming logs, always fixed upon the musician, not once wandering in his direction. what was the influence, the fascination that strange old frenchman seemed to exert? it seemed to tom impossible that there could be a secret which she felt necessary to hide from them, her lifelong friends. but apart from what he knew had taken place the night before as he looked back over the past month, he was conscious that there had been a change in nancy, a change that mystified him. it was the danger in this change, he told himself, that had awakened in him the knowledge of his love. but then as he looked across at her so lovely, in the firelight, he felt again the thrill as when first he had taken her hand that afternoon. in that moment all the dreams, the vague longings of his boyhood had found their reality. suddenly, while he was thinking thus, the marquis laid his violin upon his knees. "ah, _ma jeunnesse_!" he exclaimed in a dramatic whisper, "_et maintenant_--_et maintenant_!" for a moment no one spoke or stirred. they looked at him curiously as they always did when he brought his playing to an end in such fashion. then he rose. "_bon soir, madame; bon soir, messieurs; bon soir, mademoiselle_" tom saw his little faded blue eyes meet nancy's with a look of swift significance. then he bowed with a flourish that included them all. "a thousand thanks, monsieur le marquis," murmured mrs. frost, "how much pleasure you give us!" they all rose then, as the marquis smiled his appreciation and withdrew. "give me your arm, dan," the old lady said. "it must be past my bedtime. come, nancy." "yes, mother." the girl rose wearily, stopping a moment at the mantelpiece to snuff the candles there. tom seized his opportunity, and was by her side. she started, as she realized him near her. "nance, nance, i must have a word with you," he exclaimed in a tense whisper, "don't go!" "nance, come," called mrs. frost from the hall. "yes, mother, i am coming ... i must go, tom. don't delay me. you know how mother is ..." "what difference will it make if you wait a moment? good lord! nance, i have been trying all evening to get a word with you, and you have not so much as given me a glance. don't go--please don't go! oh, nancy dear,--i love you so!" he seized her hands and kissed them passionately. "nance, nance ... please ..." his arms were about her. "tom, you make it so hard ... remember, you promised me ... no word of love until i can think, until i have time to know ... please, tom, let me go." "i can't let you go. oh sweetheart dear." "tom, we musn't--dan, mother! ..." unheeding her protest, he put his arms around her. an instant he felt her yield, then quickly thrusting him aside, she ran from the room, leaving him standing alone there, trembling with excitement, chagrin, happiness, alarm. in a moment his friend returned and tom pulled himself together. "come on," said dan, "i have a lot to tell you." "did you find anything this afternoon?" exclaimed pembroke. "sh! for heaven's sake be careful. don't talk here. let's go upstairs." a few minutes later they were closeted in dan's chamber. the curtains were tightly drawn and a heavy quilt was hung over the door. good lord! thought tom, could it be possible that these precautions in part at least were taken against nancy. the world seemed to have turned upside down for him in the last twenty-four hours. "aren't we going to keep watch to-night?" he asked. "yes, but later. they are just getting to bed--or pretending to. look here, this may throw light on the mystery. i found this paper in a secret cubby-hole in the old cabinet in the oak parlour. draw a chair up to the table so that you can see." "the cabinet," he continued, as he took the paper out of his strong-box and began to unfold it, "was brought from some old manor house in england. it has four little secret cubby-holes, opened by hidden springs, that mother says were probably used by the roman catholics to hide pages of their mass-books during the days of persecution. she remembered fortunately a little about them. they were all empty but one, and in that i found this torn scrap of paper." he handed the yellowed bit of writing to tom, who flattened it out on the table before him. "why it's written in french," pembroke exclaimed, as he bent over to examine it. "yes, i know it is," said dan. "i can't make head or tail of it. besides it seems to be only a part of a note or letter. i could hardly wait to give you a chance at it. you can make something of it, can't you?" "i don't know--i guess i can. it's hard to read the handwriting. the thing's torn in two--haven't you the rest of it?" "no, i tell you; that's all i could find; that's all, i am sure, that can be in the cabinet now. my theory is that the old marquis has somehow come across the other half and is still looking for this. god only knows who hid it there. "how the deuce could the marquis know about it. ah! look--it's signed somebody, something _de boisdhyver_--'_anã§ois_--that's short for franã§ois, i guess. evidently 't wasn't the marquis himself. wonder what it means?" for goodness' sake, try to read it." "wait. get that old french dictionary out of the bookcase downstairs, will you? i'll see if i can translate." dan crept softly out, leaving tom bent over the paper. again he smoothed it out carefully on the table, bringing the two candles nearer, and tried to puzzle out the faint fine handwriting. "i can make out some of it," he remarked to dan, when his friend returned with the dictionary. "let me have that thing; there are a few words i don't know at all, but i'll write out as good a translation as i can." while tom was busy with the dictionary, dan placed writing materials to his hand, and sat down to wait as patiently as he could. his curiosity was intensified by pembroke's occasional exclamations and the absorption with which he bent over the task. "there!" tom exclaimed after half-an-hour's labour, "that's the best i can do with it. you see the original note was evidently torn into two or three strips and we have only got the righthand one, so we don't get a single complete sentence--, but what we have is mighty suggestive. listen--this is what it says: make great efforts ... gap ... glorious, i am about to leave' ... gap ... 'to offer my' ... gap ... 'that i should not return' ... gap ... 'directions' ... gap ... 'this paper which i tear' ... gap ... 'the explanation' ... something missing ... 'to discover' ... that's the end of a sentence. the next one begins, 'this treasure' ... than another gap ... 'jewels and money' ... 'secret chamber' ... 'one can enter' ... something gone here ... 'by the _salon de chene_'--that's the oak parlour, i suppose ... something missing again ... 'by a spring' ... 'hand of the lady in the picture' ... 'chimney on the north side of the' ... 'side a panel which reveals' ... 'one will find the directions' ... more missing ... 'of the treasure in a golden chest' ... that's the end of it. and, as i said before it is signed,--'anã§ois de boisdhyver.' there, you can read it. that's the best i can make of it." dan bent over his friend's translation. "whoever wrote it was about to leave here to offer something to somebody, and if he did not return, apparently he is giving directions, in this paper, which he tears in to two or three parts, how to discover--a treasure?--jewels and money, i guess,--that he is about to hide or has hidden in a secret chamber, which is entered in some way from the oak parlour--? ... pushes a spring,--something to do with the hand of the lady in the picture, near the chimney on the north side of the room ... then a panel which reveals ...where? ... the directions will be found, for getting the treasure, in a golden chest in the secret chamber? how's that for a version? i reckon the other half doesn't tell as much ...'anã§ois de boisdhyver!--that can't be the marquis, for none of his names end 'anã§ois; do they? let's see, what are they?--marie, anne, timã©lon, armand ... tom,"--and dan faced his friend excitedly,--"that old devil is after treasure! who the deuce is 'anã§ois de boisdhyver, and how did he come to leave money in the oak parlour? hanged if i believe there's any secret chamber! by gad, man, if i didn't hurt when i pinch myself, i'd think i was asleep and dreaming. what do you make of it?" "pretty much what you do. somebody sometime,--a good many years ago, concealed some valuables here in the inn. it must be some one who is connected with our marquis, for the last names are the same. these are directions, or half the directions, for finding it. the marquis knows enough about it to have been hunting for this paper. who the devil is the marquis?" "the lord knows. but how does nance come in?" "blamed if i can see; wish i could! this accounts for the marquis's mysterious investigations, anyway. probably he's no right to the paper. maybe he isn't a boisdhyver at all. i'll be damned if i can understand how he has got nance to league with him." "and now what the deuce are we going to do about it?" asked dan. "hunt for the treasure ourselves, eh?" "well, why not? but to do that we've got to get rid of the marquis. he'll be suspicious if we begin to poke about the north wing. hanged if i wouldn't like to have it all out with him!" "yes, but we'd better think and talk it over before we decide to do anything. we can watch them. we'll watch to-night any way, and plan something definite to-morrow." "i tell you one thing, tom, i am going to make mother tell me all she knows about nancy. perhaps she is mixed up in some way with all this. but it's time to keep watch now. we'll put out the candles and i'll watch for the first two hours. if you go to sleep, i'll wake you up to take the next turn. how about it?" "hang sleep!" tom replied. "all right, but we must blow out the light. lucky it's clear. let's whisper after this." tom threw himself on the bed, while dan sat near the window and kept his eyes fixed on the door of the bowling-alley. they talked for some time in low tones, but eventually tom fell asleep. dan waked him at twelve for his vigil, and he in turn was wakened at two. during the third watch they both succumbed to weariness. tow awoke with a start about four, and sprang to the window. the moon was sinking low in the western sky, but its light still flooded the deserted courtyard beneath. he heard the patter of a horse's hoofs on the road beyond and the crunching of the snow beneath the runners of a sleigh. well, he thought, as he rubbed his eyes, it was too near morning for anything to happen, so he turned in and was soon asleep, as though no difficult problems were puzzling his mind and heart and no mysteries were being enacted around him. chapter vii a disappearance when dan came downstairs in the morning mrs. frost called him to the door of her bedroom. "what on earth is the matter with nancy?" she exclaimed; "i have been waiting for her the past hour. no one has been near me since deborah came in to lay the fire. call the girl danny; i want to get up." "all right, mother. she has probably overslept; she had a long walk yesterday." "but that is no excuse for sleeping till this time of day. tell her to hurry." "it is only seven, mother." "yes, danny, dear, but i mean to breakfast with you all this morning if i ever succeed in getting dressed." dan crossed the hall and knocked at nancy's door. there was no response. he knocked again, then opened the door and looked within. nancy was not there, and her bed had not been slept in. he went back to his mother. "nancy is not in her room," he said. "she has probably gone out for a walk. i'll go and look for her." he went to the kitchens to enquire of the maids, but they had not seen their young mistress since the night before. "spec she's taken dem dogs a walkin'," said black deborah unconcernedly. "miss nance she like de early morn' 'fore de sun come up." dan went out to the stables. the setters came rushing out, bounding and barking joyously about him. "have you seen miss nancy this morning, jess?" he asked. "no, mister dan, ain't seen her this mornin'. be n't she in the house?" "she doesn't seem to be. take a look down the road, and call after her, will you? down, boy; down, girl!" he cried to the dogs. dan began to be thoroughly alarmed. if nancy had gone out, the dogs would certainly have followed her. she must be within! he went back into the house, and searched room after room, but no trace of her was to be found. he returned at last to his mother's chamber. "i can't find nancy," he said. "she must have gone off somewhere." "gone off! why, she must have left very early then. i have been awake these two hours--since daylight--; i would have heard every sound." "well, she isn't about now, mother. she will be back by breakfast time, i don't doubt. just stay abed this morning, i will send her to you as soon as she comes." "i shall have to, i suppose. really, dan, it is extraordinary how neglectful of me that child can sometimes be. she knew--" "mother, don't find fault with her. she is devoted to you, and you know it." "i daresay she is. of course she is, and i am devoted to her. where would she be, i wonder, if it hadn't been for me? good heavens! dan, can anything have happened to her?" "no, no--of course not,--nothing." "search the house, boy; she may be lying some place in a faint. she isn't strong--i have always been worried--" "don't get excited, mother. we will wait until breakfast time. if she doesn't turn up then, you may be sure i shall find her." he looked at his watch. it was already nearly eight o'clock, so he decided to say nothing to pembroke until after breakfast. he found the marquis and tom chatting before the fire in the bar. "shall we have breakfast?" said dan. "mother will not be in this morning." "ah!" exclaimed the marquis, as they took their seats at table, "that is a disappointment. and shall we not wait for mademoiselle nancy?" "my sister has stepped out, monsieur; she may be late. shall i give you some coffee?" "if you please--. we have another of these so beautiful days, eh? this so glorious weather, these moonlight nights, this snow--_c'est merveilleux_. last night i sat myself for a long time in my window. ah _la nuit_--the moon past its full, say you not?--the sea superbly dark, superbly blue, the wonderful white country! as i sat there, messieurs, a sight too beautiful greeted my eyes. a ship, with three great sails, appeared out on the sea and sailed as a bird up the river to our little cove, _voila, mes amis_"--he waved his hand toward the eastern windows--"she is anchored at our feet." the two young men looked in the direction in which the marquis pointed, and to their astonishment they saw, riding securely at her moorings in the cove, a large sailing vessel. she was a three-masted schooner of perhaps fifteen hundred tons, a larger ship than they had seen at anchor in the strathsey for many a year. "by all that's good!" exclaimed tom, "that is exactly the sort of ship my father used to have in the west indie trade, a dozen or fifteen years ago. what is she? i wonder; and why is she anchored here instead of in the port?" the marquis shrugged his shoulders. "that i can tell you not, my friend; but i am happy that she is anchored there for the hours of beauty she has already given to me. on this strange coast of yours one so rarely sees a sail." "no, they go too far to the south... but what is she?" asked dan. "we must find out." he went to the cupboard, and got out his marine glass and took a long look at the stranger. "what do you make her out?" asked tom. "there are men on deck, some swabbing out the roundhouse. one of them is lolling at the wheel. she flies the british flag." "do you, perhaps, make out the name?" asked the marquis. "i don't know--yes," dan replied, twisting the lens to suit his eyes better and spelling out the letters, "s,o,u,t,h,e,r,n,c,r--the _southern cross_. by jingo, tom, we'll have to go down to the beach and have a look at her." tom took the glasses; turning them over presently to the marquis. "she is a good fine boat, eh?" exclaimed m. de boisdhyver, as he applied his eye to the end of the glass. "she certainly is," said dan. they sat down at length and resumed their breakfast. the ship had diverted tom's attention for the moment from the fact that nancy had not appeared. "where is nance, dan?" he asked at length, striving to conceal his impatience. "i don't know," dan replied. "i think she has gone over to see mrs. meath and stayed for breakfast." "madame meath--?" enquired the marquis. "at the house on the dunes," dan answered, a trifle sharply. "a long walk for mademoiselle on a cold morning," commented monsieur boisdhyver, as he sipped his coffee. in a few moments dan rose. "going to the port to-day, tom?" "not till later, any way; i am going down to the beach to have a look at that ship." "wait a little, and i'll go with you," he turned to the door and motioned tom to follow him. outside he took his friend's arm and drew him close. "tom, something's up; nancy's not here." "nancy's not here;" exclaimed pembroke. "what do you mean? where is she?" "to tell the truth, i don't know where she is; her bed has not been slept in. i thought at first she had gone for a walk with the dogs as she does sometimes, but boy and girl are both in the barn. it's half-past eight now, and she ought to be back," "good lord! man, have you searched the house?" "i've been over it from garret to cellar." "and you can't find her?" "not a sign of her." "have you been through the north wing?" "yes, all over it. i have been in every room in the house, boy. nance isn't there. you heard nothing in the night, did you?" "nothing." "when did you go to sleep?" "perhaps about half-past three. come to think of it, i awoke at four with a start, for i heard a sleigh on the port road. after that i went to bed." "the sleigh hadn't been at the inn?" "it couldn't have been--i'd have heard of it if it had; you see it woke me up just going along the road." "i don't suppose we need worry. but it is queer--none of the servants have seen her since last night." "my god, what can have happened to her?" cried tom. "sh, boy! we have nothing to go on, but i wager that old french devil knows more than he will tell." "then, we'll choke it out of him." "no, no, don't be a fool! she may be back any minute. i'll get the sleigh and go over to the house on the dunes. in the meanwhile don't show that you are anxious! i'll be back inside of an hour, and we can have a look at the ship. if nance isn't with mrs. meath, why i am sure i'll find her here. let's not worry till we have to." tom assented to this proposition somewhat unwillingly. despite his friend's reassuring words, he did not feel that nancy would be found at the house on the dunes or that she would immediately return. he remembered her telling him of her desire to go away. he remembered how strangely she had received the declaration of his love, and he feared almost as much that she had fled from him, as that the marquis, weird and evil as he began to think him, had any hand in her disappearance. after dan's departure in the sleigh, tom wandered about restlessly. when half an hour passed and frost did not return, he went out to look down the road and see if he were coming. the white open country was still and empty, and the only sign of life was the great three-masted ship riding at anchor in the cove, with seamen lolling about her deck. as tom stood under the red oak, the marquis stepped out of the front door. he was wrapped in his great coat, about to take his morning walk up and down the gallery. "why so pensive, monsieur pembroke? is it that you are moved by the beauty of the scene--, the land so white, the sea so blue, and the _southern cross_ shining as it were in a northern sky!" tom grunted a scarcely civil reply, and turning away to avoid further conversation, strolled down the avenue of maples toward the road. monsieur de boisdhyver raised his eyebrows slightly, and began his walk. by and by, still more impatient, pembroke walked back toward the house. if dan did not return soon, he determined he would go after him. as he came up to the gallery again the marquis paused and spoke to him. "and mademoiselle, she has not returned?" he asked. "no!" pembroke replied sharply. "she has gone to the house on the dunes and her brother has driven over to fetch her." "ah! pardon," exclaimed monsieur de boisdhyver; "i did not know... but it is cold for me, monsieur pembroke; i seek the fire." tom did not reply. the marquis went inside, and presently tom could see him standing at the window, the marine glass in his hands, sweeping the countryside. pembroke passed an anxious morning. ten o'clock came; half-past; eleven struck. nancy had not appeared, or was there a sign of dan. unable to be patient longer, he set out on the port road to meet his friend. chapter viii green lights the smoke was curling from the chimneys of the house on the dunes as dan drove up the long marsh road from the beach. he had half convinced himself that nancy would be there, and he hoped that she herself would answer his knock. when at length the door was opened it was not by nancy nor by mrs. meath, but by a stranger whom he had never seen before. "yes?" a pleasant voice questioned, but giving an accent to the monosyllable that made dan think instantly of france. he found himself facing a charming woman, her bright blue eyes looking into his with a smile that instantly attracted him. she was well-dressed, with a different air from the women he knew. and she was undeniably pretty--of that dan was convinced, and the conviction overwhelmed him with shyness. he stood awkward and ill-at-ease; for the moment forgetting his errand. "i suppose," he stammered, "--i beg your pardon--but i suppose you are mrs. heath's new boarder,--mrs. fountain?" "yes," replied the strange lady with an amused smile, "that is what i imagine that i am called. my name is madame de la fontaine. and you--?" "i?--oh, yes--of course--i am dan frost from the inn over yonder. i came to see mrs. meath to ask if my sister nancy is here." "alas!" replied madame de la fontaine, "poor mrs. meath she this morning is quite unwell. she is in her room, so that i am afraid you cannot see her. but, i may tell you, there is no one else here, just myself and my servants." "you have not seen or heard anything then of my sister, nancy frost?" repeated dan. "nancy frost?--your sister?--no, monsieur. i am arrived only last night and have seen no one." "i had hoped my sister would be here. i am sorry about mrs. meath; perhaps i can be of some service. if you should need me at any time, i can almost always be found at the inn at the red oak." "the inn at the red oak?" repeated madame de la fontaine, "and is that near by?" "it is about a mile and a half by the road," frost replied, "but you can see it plainly from the doorstep here." the foreign lady stepped out in the crisp february air. "can you point it out to me? i may need your assistance some time." "you see the woods and the oak at the edge of them," said dan, pointing across the dunes. "that great tree is the red oak, the rambling old building beneath it is the inn." "ah! one can see quite plainly from one house to the other, is it not so?" "quite," dan replied. "thank you, monsieur. i trust there will be no need for assistance. but it makes one glad to know where are neighbours, especially--" she added, "while poor mrs. meath is ill." as she spoke she turned to the door with the air of dismissing him, but on second thoughts she faced him again. "i wonder, mr. frost, will you do me a favour?" "i shall be delighted," dan exclaimed. "my luggage arrived last night," said madame de la fontaine, "upon the ship that is at anchor in the bay. they are to bring my boxes ashore. but before that i desire to give directions to the captain at the beach, and i cannot well do so by my servant. will you be kind enough to walk with me and show me the way?" dan forgot about nancy in his eagerness to assure this unusually attractive lady that he was at her disposal. she disappeared within, and he heard her give some quick, sharp directions in french to a maid. then in a moment she reappeared on the little porch, bonneted and wrapped for a walk in the cold. as they set out across the dunes, she kept up a rapid fire of questions that might have seemed inquisitive to one more accustomed to the world than dan. he found himself in the course of that quarter of an hour talking quite freely with the charming stranger. "no, i did not make the journey from france in the _southern cross_," she replied to one of his interrogations, "that would have been uncomfortable, i fear. but she brings over my boxes. she is arrived somewhat sooner than i was promised." "do you expect to signal her from the beach?" "but yes." "how will they know who you are?" "oh, they have instructions. you must think all this curious!" she commented with a smile. "you must think me an odd person." the possible oddness of madame de la fontaine made less impression upon dan than did her charm. he was conversing easily with a very lovely woman, and all else was forgotten in that agreeable sensation. as they emerged from the dunes upon the little beach of the cove, dan observed on the deck of the _southern cross_ a sailor watching them through a glass. madame de la fontaine drew her handkerchief from beneath her cloak and waved it toward the ship. "this is the signal," she explained, "that they were instructed to look out for. if i am not mistaken captain bonhomme will come to the shore for my directions. you speak french, monsieur?" "not at all," dan replied. "ah!" sighed the lady, "you lose a great deal." "i might have learned some this winter," said dan; "for we have had a french gentleman as our guest at the inn." "indeed! and who, may i ask, is your french gentleman?" "his name is the marquis de boisdhyver. do you, by any chance, know him?" "the marquis de boisdhyver?" repeated madame de la fontaine. "i know the name certainly; it is an old family with us, monsieur. but i do not recall that i have ever had the pleasure of meeting any one who bore it... but see! they are lowering the boat." they were now at the edge of the surf. madame de la fontaine again waved a hand in the direction of the clipper. dan saw a small boat alongside her, into which several sailors and an officer, as it seemed, were clambering over the rail. they pushed off, and began to row vigorously for the shore. the french lady stood watching them intently. within a few moments the little boat was beached, the officer sprang out, advanced to madame de la fontaine, and saluted. she exchanged sentences with him in french of which dan understood nothing. then the seaman touched his cap, got into his small boat, and gave orders to push off. "he understands no english," remarked madame de la fontaine. "i gave directions about my boxes. we may return now, monsieur; or doubtless i am able to find my way back alone." "oh no," exclaimed dan gallantly, "i will go with you." the lady smiled graciously. as they walked back across the dunes, she kept up a lively conversation, no longer asking him questions, nor, he observed, giving him the opportunity to ask any. at the door of the house on the dunes she dismissed him finally. "i am but too grateful, monsieur, for your kindness. i hope that we shall meet again while i dwell in your beautiful country. in the meantime, i trust you will find your sister." dan flushed, how could he have forgotten nancy! taking the hand that his new acquaintance offered, he hurried away. he met tom on the port road about half a mile from the inn and was truly worried to find that nancy had not returned; he explained briefly his own delay in his expedition with the strange lady to the beach. "it is certainly odd, though perhaps not so odd as stupid, that they should have anchored in the cove just to disembark one woman's boxes. it would have been much simpler to go to the port, as every well-bred skipper does, and had the french woman's stuff carted out. at any rate, we'll go down this afternoon and have a look at her." by the time they reached the inn it was noon, and still there was no word of nancy. the dinner was a silent one, as the marquis tactfully did not disturb his companions' preoccupation, and mrs. frost, who was unusually nervous, did not appear. after the meal the two young men started for the beach. at tom's suggestion they got a little dory from the boathouse and rowed out to the clipper. the wind had shifted to the southeast, but still there was not enough of a sea to give them any trouble; and in a few minutes they were under the bows of _the southern cross_. dan hailed a seaman who was leaning over the gunwale and watching them with idle curiosity. if the man replied in french, it was in a variety of that tongue that tom's limited attainments did not understand, and, annoyed by the incomprehensible replies, he asked for "le captaine". at length,--possibly attracted by the altercation at the bows,--the authoritative-looking person who had come ashore in the morning in response to madame de la fontaine's signal, now appeared at the gunwale and glanced below at the two young men in the dory. his expression betrayed no sign that he recognized frost. indeed he vouchsafed no syllable of reply to the questions dan asked in english or to those that tom ventured to phrase in dr. watson's french. he was not, they thought, an attractive person; his countenance was swarthy, his eyes were black his hair was black, his heavy jaw was shadowed by an enormous black mustachio. a kerchief of brilliant red tied about his throat gave him the appearance of the matador in a spanish bullfight rather than the officer of an english merchantman. he glanced at the dory occasionally, shook his head silently in response to the requests to go aboard, and at length when that did not serve to put an end to them, he shrugged his shoulders and disappeared. the seaman continued to lean over the gunwale and spat nonchalantly as though that were the measure of their appreciation of this unasked-for visit. "i move we skip up the rope," said tom, "and explain ourselves at close quarters." "thanks, no," replied dan. "either of those two amiable gentlemen looks capable and willing of pitching us overboard. the water is too cold for bathing." "very well," said tom, "i will yield to your sober judgment for the moment; but i propose to see the inside of that ship sooner or later unless she weighs anchor in the hour and sails away. but we ought to be getting to town to make enquiries about nancy. for heavens' sake, dan, where do you suppose she can be?" they rowed back to the beach, stowed the dory in the boathouse, and set out in the sleigh for monday port. diligent enquiry there, in likely and unlikely places, proved fruitless. it was nightfall when they returned to the inn. they were greeted by the marquis in the bar. "mademoiselle nancy, she has not been found?" "no," said dan. "i take it from your question that she has not come home yet either." "she is not come, no. perhaps she stays at the house on the dunes?" "i do not know," dan answered tartly. "i expect her every moment, but it is idle to conceal from you, monsieur, that we are much concerned as to her absence." the marquis grew sympathetic,--optimistically sympathetic. tom clutched at his re-assuring words, but dan was even more irritated by the silence that monsieur de boisdhyver had maintained throughout the day. directly after supper dan went into his mother's parlour, leaving the others to their own devices. the marquis settled himself near the fire and was soon absorbed in reading an old folio; tom wandered restlessly about, now up and down the long bar, now in the corridors, now on the gallery and in the court without. the night, after the bright day, had set in raw and cold; a damp breeze blew from the southwest, and gave promise both of wind and rain. from his position under the red oak, tom could see the red and green lights of _the southern cross_ at her moorings in the cove below, and across the neck the lighted windows of the house on the dunes. over all else the night had cast its black damp mantle. as he stood watching, deeply anxious for the welfare of the girl he loved, he noticed a new light appear in one of the upper windows of the house on the dunes--not yellow as is the light of candles, but green like the light on the port side of the clipper in the cove. had he not seen the lights from the other windows he could have thought it was another ship on the ocean side of the neck. he looked for a long time at the tiny spark in the distance, wondering what whim had induced mrs. meath to shade her candles with so deep a green. as he strolled back toward the inn, he glanced through the windows of the bar where the marquis still read by the fireside. suddenly the old gentleman, as tom curiously watched him, laid his book down on the table and rose from his chair. he looked about the room and then advanced to the window. tom instinctively slipped behind the trunk of the great oak. monsieur de boisdhyver stood for several moments peering into the darkness. then he turned away and crossed the room to the door into the front hall. it flashed through tom's mind that possibly the marquis had started on another of his mysterious tours. he ran down again into the court far enough from the house to command a view of the entire facade, and watched curiously, particularly the north wing. all was dark, save for the lights below. suddenly he saw the flicker of a candle in one of the windows, not of the north wing, but of the south. a moment's glance, and he made sure that it was the room occupied as a sleeping apartment by monsieur de boisdhyver. the marquis was standing by the window, with his face pressed close to the pane, peering out into the night. he still held the candle in his hand. to dan's surprise, he placed it carefully on the broad window-sill, and drew down the dark shade to within a foot of the sill, blotting out all save a narrow band of light. then the marquis disappeared for several moments into the interior of the room. dan was about to turn back into the house, when again monsieur de boisdhyver came to the window. he did not raise the shade, but inserted between the windowpane and the candle a strip of dark green paper. it was translucent and had the effect of sending a beam of green light southward, across the meadows and the dunes, to meet--tom suddenly realized--the rays of the green light from the house on the dunes. was it a signal being exchanged, and between whom? the coincidence of green lights from the inn and the house on the dunes, at the same moment, was too marked to be without significance. to what end was the marquis de boisdhyver exchanging mysterious signals with some one in that lonely farmhouse, and what did they mean? tom repressed his agitation and remained for some time watching the two green lights that glowed toward one another over the dark landscape. suddenly the light in the house on the dunes was extinguished; then, momentarily it shone again, but quickly went out and left the great sweep of dunes in darkness. two minutes later the same thing took place in the window of the south chamber of the inn. the light flashed and was gone, flashed again and shone no more. tom went in, by a rear entrance, to the bar. the marquis was seated by a table, absorbed in reading. he started as tom entered. "still no word of mademoiselle?" he piped. "still no word, monsieur," pembroke answered laconically. he also seated himself in the candle light and took up the last issue of the _port news_. "do you know what has become of dan?" pembroke asked presently. "monsieur frost he has been closeted with madame his mother for the past half-hour. you have no further plans for seeking mademoiselle? for myself, i grow alarmed." "i know nothing but what you know, monsieur. nancy has not returned. there has been no word of her. we shall have to wait." with tremendous effort to conceal his agitation and annoyance, tom resumed his reading. monsieur de boisdhyver glanced at him for a moment with a little air of interrogation, then shrugged his shoulders slightly and turned again to his french paper. chapter ix mrs. frost's recollections of a french exile after the long day of fruitless search and enquiry for the vanished nancy, supper being over and tom having gone outside, dan joined his mother in the blue parlour. mrs. frost was weary with waiting and anxiety, but as dan threw himself on a couch near her chair, she watched him patiently. "there is no clue, dan?" she ventured at last. "no clue, mother, not the slightest. nancy seems to have vanished as completely as if she had dissolved into air. as you know, the house has been thoroughly searched; the servants carefully questioned; and enquiries have been made at every conceivable place in monday port. i have been to the house on the dunes, and to the farmhouses on every road round about. no one has seen or heard of her. she has taken french leave, but for what reason i can't imagine." "nancy has not been happy for some time, dan," said mrs. frost. "no, i have fancied that she was not. but why? do you suppose she has left us deliberately? or--". he paused uncertain whether or not to give voice to his suspicions. "or what?" asked his mother. "or she has been forced away against her will." "against her will!" the old lady exclaimed. "who could have forced her? and for what reason? do you think she may have been kidnapped?" "either kidnapped or decoyed away." "but who could have designs upon nancy? it is more reasonable to suppose that she left of her own accord. i confess that would not altogether surprise me." "i don't know, mother, but i have my fears and suspicions. there may be some one who has a deep interest in nancy, who for reasons of his own, which i don't yet understand, may wish to control her movements. i wish you would tell me all you know of nancy's origin. you have never told me;--you have never told her, i fancy,--who she really is and how you came to adopt her as your own child. i have never been curious to know, in fact i have not wanted to know, for she has always been to me precisely what a sister of my own blood would be. but now, it may help me to understand certain strange things that have happened in the last few days." for a moment mrs. frost was silent. "no, i have never spoken to you or to nancy of her early history, dan; simply because, to all intent she has been our own. i have always wished that she should feel absolutely one with us; and i think she always has, until this winter. but of late i have noticed her discontent, her growing restlessness, and i have sometimes wondered if she could be brooding over the mystery of her early years. but she has never asked me a direct question; and i have kept silent." "i think now, mother," dan replied, "it is your duty to tell me all you know." "i have no reason, my dear, to keep anything from you. i should have told you years ago, if you had asked me. there is not much to tell. you may remember when you were a boy about six or seven years old, a french exile came to the inn, a military gentleman, who had left france in consequence of the fall of the great napoleon." "yes, i remember him distinctly," said dan. "he used to tell stories to tom and me of his adventures in the wars. tom was speaking of him only the other day." "well," continued mrs. frost, "this gentleman called himself general pointelle. i learned afterwards it was not his real name. who he actually was, i have not the slightest idea. he brought with him a little girl two years old, a sweet little black-eyed girl, to whom i, having lost your only sister at about that age, took a great fancy. the general also had two servants with him, a valet, and a maid. the maid, a pretty young thing, took care of the child. they arrived in mid-summer, on a merchantman that plied between marseilles and monday port. i do not know why general pointelle came to this part of the country, or why he chose to stay at the inn; at any rate he came, and he engaged for an indefinite period the best suite of apartments in the old north wing. he had the oak parlour--" "the oak parlour!" exclaimed dan. "yes," replied mrs. frost, "that was part of the suite reserved usually for our most distinguished guests. the general used that for a sitting-room and the adjoining chamber as a bed-room. the maid and child occupied connecting rooms across the hall. the valet, i believe, was in some other part of the house. general pointelle proved himself a fascinating guest, and his little daughter eloise was a favourite with all the household. the maid, pretty as she certainly was and apparently above her station, i somehow never trusted. i have always believed that the relations between the general and herself were not what they should have been. but frenchmen look at such things differently, i am told; and it was not to our interests to be over-curious. "they had been with us about two months when one fine morning we awoke to find that general pointelle, his valet, and the charming marie had disappeared, and little eloise was crying alone in her big room. you have probably guessed the child was nancy." "yes," dan agreed, "but do you mean that the father actually abandoned her?" "practically. he left a note for me and a little bag of gold amounting to two thousand dollars to be used for the child. if you will hand me that old secretary there, i will show you the letter." dan placed the old-fashioned writing-desk on the table beside her, and waited anxiously while she fumbled in her pocket for the key. she unlocked the desk, and after searching a few moments amongst innumerable papers, drew out an old letter. this she unfolded carefully and handed to dan. it was written in english, in a fine running hand. he read it attentively. "_the inn at the red oak, deal_: "14 october, '814. "madame: "political circumstances over which i have no control, patriotic considerations which i cannot withstand, demand my immediate return to france. in the conditions into which i am about to be plunged the care of my dear little daughter becomes an impossibility. inhuman as it must seem to you, lacking in all sense of christian duty as it must appear to you, i entrust, without the formality of consulting you, my beautiful little eloise to your humane and tender care. with this letter i deposit with you the sum of two thousand dollars in gold, which will go a little way at least to compensate you for the burden i thus unceremoniously, but of necessity, thrust upon you. i appeal to and confide in the goodness of your heart, of which already i have such abundant testimony, that will take pity upon the misfortune of a helpless infant and an equally helpless parent. may you be a mother to the motherless, and may the heavenly father bless you for what you shall do. "i embark, madame, upon a dangerous and uncertain mission. should that mission prove successful and restore the fortunes of my house, i will return and claim my daughter. should fate overwhelm me with disaster, i must beg that you will continue to regard her and love her as your own. the issue will have been decided within five years. permit me to add but one thing more,--in the event that i fall in the cause i have embraced, i have made arrangements whereby communications shall be established with you, madame, that will redound to your own good fortune and that of the little eloise. "all effort to thwart my plans or to establish my identity in the meantime, will, i must warn you, be fruitless. "adieu, madame: accept the assurance of my gratitude for all that you have already done to sweeten exile and of my earnest prayer for the blessing of god upon your great good heart. "i remain, madame, for the present, but always, under whatever name, "your grateful and sincere servant, "gaston pointelle," as dan, with gathering brows, concluded the reading of this extraordinary letter, mrs. frost resumed her story. "we always imagined that the general and his companions had sailed in a french vessel that lay at that time in the passage and left that morning at dawn. there was nothing to do but adopt little eloise pointelle for my own. i changed her name, at your father's suggestion, to nancy frost; knowing that pointelle was not the general's real name. for five years we looked to see our guest return; and afterwards for years, we hoped to receive some communication that would prove, as he promised, of advantage to nancy and ourselves. but from the night general pointelle left our house to this day, i have not heard one word to show that he still existed or, indeed, that he ever had existed. we brought nancy up as our own daughter, though, never concealing from her the fact that she was not of our blood. indeed, dan, i have loved her dearly." "certainly, you have always treated her with the greatest kindness. but this is quite extraordinary, mother. i think it will throw light on nancy's present disappearance." "do you think the father is alive, dan? that he has communicated with her?" "not that, mother; i am really in the dark. but i believe that the marquis de boisdhyver has some connection with your general pointelle, and that his stay with us this winter has something to do with nancy." in response to mrs. frost's questions, he told of the meetings of nancy and the marquis, but decided to say nothing about the paper that he had found in the oak parlour. "i want you to be careful, mother, to give no hint to the marquis that we suspect him in any way. tom and i are trying to solve the mystery, and secrecy is of the greatest importance. it is a more complicated business than we imagined. i must go now and find tom. may i keep this letter?" "yes, but keep it under lock and key. i have guarded it for sixteen years; and it is the only evidence i possess of nancy's origin." dan returned to the bar, where he found the marquis and tom still reading their papers. "ah!" exclaimed monsieur de boisdhyver, "i trust, monsieur frost, you bring us the good news at last of the return of mademoiselle." "unfortunately, i do not, monsieur," dan replied. "our efforts to find out what has become of her have been entirely unsuccessful. i am very anxious, as you may imagine." "and to what mishap do you attribute mademoiselle's so unceremonious departure?" "i do not attribute it to any mishap," replied dan. "i think that my sister has gone off on a visit to some friends, and that her messages to us have been miscarried. i feel certain that to-morrow we will be completely reassured." "ah! i hope so with all my heart," exclaimed the marquis fervently. "it is a matter of deep distress to me--monsieur. but if--to-morrow passes and still you do not hear--?" "god knows, sir. we must do everything to find her." "we shall find her," cried tom, as he sprang to his feet, unable longer to repress his anxiety or his irritation. "and if we do not find her safe and well, woe to the man who has harmed her." "bravo!" cried the marquis. "permit me to adopt those words to express my own sentiments. i applaud this determination, monsieur, _de tout mon coeur_." tom glared at the little old man with an expression of illconcealed rage. he was about to blurt out some angry reply, when a warning gesture from dan checked him. without speaking, he flung himself out of the room. "poor tom!" said dan quickly, to cover pembroke's attitude toward the marquis, "this takes him especially hard. he is in love with nancy." "_eh bien_! i sympathize with his good taste. it is that that accounts for his vigour of his expressions, so much more _emphatique_ than our good host." "more emphatic, perhaps," said dan, "though i do not feel less strongly." the marquis made a little bow, as he rose to retire. "if, chance, monsieur could require my assistance--" "thank you," said dan quickly. "in that case, sir, i shall be only too happy to call upon you." he rose also, and courteously held the candle till the marquis had reached the top of the stairs. tom waited his friend impatiently in their common chamber. and when at last, having closed the house for the night, dan joined him, he told at once of the signals which he supposed had been exchanged between the marquis at the inn and someone at the house on the dunes. in return dan repeated what he had learned about nancy from mrs. frost. "there is no doubt in my mind," said dan, "that the marquis knows all about nancy's disappearance and where she is, and further i believe that nancy's disappearance is part of a plot with the marquis here, madame de la fontaine at the house on the dunes, and that schooner riding at anchor in the cove. i have a plan, tom." "go ahead for heaven's sake. if we don't do something, i'll go in and choke the truth out of that old reprobate. he applauds my sentiments, eh! good god! if he knew them!" "yes, yes," said dan. "but the time for choking has not come. you nearly gave yourself away to-night, you will ruin our plans, and involve nancy in some harm. she is probably in that old villain's power. now listen to me. the first thing to do is to discover nancy's whereabouts. the second is to get at the bottom of the marquis's plot and the secret of the torn scrap of paper. we will find the clew to both, i think, if we can discover the meaning of the signals between the marquis and the lady in the house on the dunes." "right!" cried tom. "but how?" "one of us must stay at the inn and watch the marquis to-night, and the other investigate the house on the dunes. i have already been there and made the acquaintance of the lady, so i had better do that, and you stay here. do you agree?" "yes, of course; though i envy you the chance to be out and doing." "you will be doing something here. i want you to hide yourself in the hallway near the marquis's door and watch all night--till dawn anyway. he cannot get out of his room without coming into the hall, and we must know what he does to-night. if the marquis can spend a sleepless night, we can afford to do so. i don't know what i can do at the house on the dunes but i shall take the pistol, and you can keep my gun. to-morrow i will get more arms, for i shouldn't be surprised if we needed them. is everything clear?" "perfectly," said tom. "i'll watch as soon as you are off." "good-night, old boy, good luck." "good-night," and dan slipped out of the room and down the dark stairs. chapter x midnight vigils as soon as dan had gone tom blew out his light and slipped into the hallway. this portion of the inn was simple in design. a long corridor ran through the middle of the house to meet a similar passage at the southern end extending at right angles to the main hall. the south chamber, occupied by the marquis de boisdhyver, opened into the southwest passage, but the door was well beyond the juncture of the two corridors. it was pembroke's intention to conceal himself in the bedroom next the marquis's chamber, from the door of which he could look down the entire length of the main hall, and by stepping outside get a view of the branch hallway into which the door of this room and that of the marquis actually opened. a further advantage was that the windows of this room, like those of the south chamber, looked out upon the dunes and the cove. as tom stepped from his chamber, the house seemed utterly deserted; save for the roaring of the wind without and an occasional creak or crack in the time-worn boards, there were no sounds. the night was not a dark one, although the wind was rising and rain was threatening; for a full moon lurked behind the thick veil of cloud and something of its weird weak light relieved the darkness even of the great corridor of the inn. tom stole softly down the hallway and gained the room next the marquis's. he took his position in a great chair, which he drew near the open door, and laid his gun on the floor near at hand. no one could enter the hall without his seeing him. every few moments he would tiptoe to the doorway, thrust his head into the corridor, and listen intently for any sound in the south chamber. it was a lonely and unpleasant vigil. the night was wild, the storm was rising, the old inn was moaning as though in distress; and, despite his natural courage, fantastic terrors and dangers thrust themselves upon his excited imagination. he would much have preferred, he felt, to be out in the open as dan was, even facing real dangers and greater difficulties. deeper than by these imaginary fears of the night, he was racked with anxiety to know what had become of the girl he loved. had she been decoyed away by the evil genius of the place; was she in danger? had she disappeared of her own free will; and didn't she really love him? he was not in the least sleepy; but after a while the vigil began to tell upon his nerves. he found it almost impossible to sit still and wait, perhaps in vain. he made innumerable trips across the room to the windows to look out into the bleak night. the landscape was blotted out. not a light showed from the house on the dunes; only the two lamps on the schooner at anchor in the cove gleamed across the night. eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock struck solemnly from the old clock on the stairs. once as he was looking out of the window, it seemed to him that the green light on the _southern cross_ was moving. but it was impossible that she should weigh anchor in the teeth of the rising storm. he was mistaken. nay, he was sure. but it was rising, slowly, steadily, as though drawn by an invisible hand, to about the height of the masthead. there at last it stopped, and swung to the wind, to and fro, to and fro; high above its red companion, high above the deck. and then, suddenly, as if to answer this mysterious manoeuvre, the green light, that earlier in the evening had glowed from a north window of the house on the dunes, now flashed from an east window of the old farmhouse; flashed, then gleamed steadily. the light on the _southern cross_ was lowered slowly, then raised again. the light in the house on the dunes vanished; soon flashed again and then vanished once more. slowly the light in the schooner descended to its normal position. a moment later the green light appeared on the north side of the house on the dunes, where it had been earlier, and shone there steadily. was it a signal to the marquis de boisdhyver? tom tiptoed to the partition between his room and the south chamber, and put his ear to the wall to listen. not a sound reached him. he turned to the door to go into the corridor, and stood suddenly motionless. for there, advancing ever so cautiously down the hall, carrying a lighted candle in his hand, was the old marquis. he was clad in night dress and cap, with a gayly-coloured dressing-gown worn over the white shirt. slowly, silently, pausing every instant to listen; he stole on, gun in hand, and tom followed him as cautiously and as quietly. instead of turning to the right at the partition that divides the north and south wings of the inn and going down stairs, the marquis turned to the left, into the short hall that led directly to the great chamber occupied by tom and dan. by the time pembroke in pursuit had reached the turn and dared to peep around the corner of the wall, the marquis was at the door of dan's room. he stood there, ear bent close to the panel, intently listening. tom waited breathless. not satisfied, monsieur de boisdhyver turned about and went into an adjoining chamber, the door of which stood open. pembroke was about to advance, when the marquis emerged again into the corridor, having left his lighted candle in the empty room. this manoeuvre, whatever advantage it had for the marquis, was fortunate for pembroke, for it left the end of the little hall, where he stood watching, in deep shadow. he could now step boldly from behind the concealing wall without fear of immediate detection. again the marquis stood and listened at the door of dan's room, then cautiously turned the knob. the door yielded and opened an inch or so. monsieur de boisdhyver put his ear to the crack. dissatisfied with the absolute silence that must have met him, he pushed open the door a little further and thrust his head inside. in a moment he disappeared within. tom realized that the marquis would soon discover the fact that the room was empty. he looked about quickly for a place of concealment that would command a view of all the halls. fortunately the partition that divided the long corridor between the north and south wings was hung with heavy curtains. deciding instantly, pembroke slipped behind them, and ruthlessly slit an opening in the thick green stuff, through which he could peek out. he was just in time, as the marquis came out of their bedroom and softly closed the door. he stood irresolute; then, with even greater caution, re-entered the room in which he had left his candle. to tom's chagrin, the candle was suddenly extinguished and the inn left in darkness. for some moments, there was absolute silence. then tom could hear faintly,--or feel rather than hear--the marquis cautiously finding his way back. luckily, the old frenchman was groping his way next the other wall. pembroke slipped from behind the curtains and stole softly in pursuit. as he reached the south end of the corridor, he heard the latch of the marquis's door click softly. alarmed by discovering that they were not in bed, thought tom, he had abandoned whatever purpose he had in mind for his midnight prowl. after waiting a little and hearing no more, tom went again to the window. the rain had begun now and the wind was blowing a gale. suddenly pembroke discerned a light shining from the window next the very one from which he was peering into the darkness,--the steady glow of a deep red light. "another signal!" he murmured; then waited to see if it would be answered by the house on the dunes. perhaps fifteen minutes passed, and then, suddenly, there gleamed through the rain and dark, a tiny bit of red flame, just where the house on the dunes must be. a little later the red lamp on the _southern cross_ performed a fantastic ascension to what pembroke took to be the masthead. the red light in the neighbouring window was extinguished. almost instantly the red spark on the dunes disappeared, and in a few moments the schooner's lamp began its descent. simultaneously they glowed again and the ship's light danced upward; then the two red lights on shore vanished and the lamp on the _southern cross_ sank to its proper place and stayed there. of one thing tom was sure: the marquis, the lady at the house on the dunes, and the skipper of the schooner in the cove, were in collusion. of another thing he felt almost equally certain: the red light was a signal of danger, and the message of danger flashed across the night was the fact that he and dan were not safe asleep in bed. for a long time he watched, keen with excitement; listened patiently; started at every sound. but nothing more unusual did he hear that night than the roar of the wind, the dash of the brawling southeaster against the panes, and the groans of the old house, shaken by the storm. toward morning he crept back to bed and fell instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep. while tom was thus watching and sleeping a somewhat different experience had fallen to the lot of dan frost. he had no definite plan in making a midnight visit to the vicinity of the house on the dunes, but he hoped to discover some clue to the surrounding mysteries. from time to time during the day he had taken his field glasses to one of the upper rooms of the inn, and scanned the countryside but nothing unusual seemed astir in the white world without. the _southern cross_ had lain on the surface of the little cove all day, swaying with wind and tide, no sign of activity upon her decks. it was after ten when he started forth. the night was not quite dark, for the full moon was shining somewhere behind the thick veil of clouds. earlier in the evening dan had intended to go boldly to the house itself and demand an interview with old mrs. meath; but he reflected that he would probably be met with the excuse that mrs. meath was ill, and he did not know how he could force himself in, particularly past the barrier of madame de la fontaine's charming manner. it was an unpleasant walk with the wind in his face, and it was nearly eleven before he turned into the long dune road, which branched from the port road near the rocking stone and led directly to the old farmhouse on strathsey neck. to his chagrin it appeared that all lights had been extinguished as if the inmates of the house had gone to bed. the old farmhouse loomed before him, dark and forbidding. on either side there were outhouses, and in the rear quite near the house a barn. there was not a tree on the place; indeed, there was little vegetation upon the entire neck, save the grass of the middle meadows which in summer furnished scant nourishment for the cattle and a flock of sheep. now all was bleak and covered with snow, and a freshening gale swept out of the great maw of the atlantic. keeping close to the fence, frost began to make a complete circuit of the farmhouse. as he turned a corner of the south end, or rear of the house, he was relieved to see a light burning in the kitchen. he stole cautiously to a position within the shadow of the barn from which he could get a glimpse of the interior. in the kitchen standing before a deal table, he saw a young woman--not jane, mrs. heath's maid-of-all-work, but a stranger,--with her hands deep in a bowl of dough. her back was toward him, but he guessed that she was madame de la fontaine's maid, whom he had seen in the morning. the door into the dining-room beyond stood open, and by craning his neck, dan could see that the room was lighter, but he could not discover whether or not it were occupied. the shutters of the dining-room were so closely barred and the curtains so tightly drawn that not a ray of light penetrated to the outside. the girl in the kitchen proceeded busily about her work. she was evidently engaged, despite the lateness of the hour, in mixing bread. once while he waited patiently, to what end he hardly knew, madame de la fontaine entered the kitchen. she was clad in black and held in her hands what dan took to be a ship's lamp. she stood for a moment in the doorway and spoke to the servant maid. the girl stopped her work, and taking a strip of paper, ignited it at a candle and lighted the lamp, which madame de la fontaine held up for her. it glowed instantly with a deep green flame, such as tom had described as shining from a window of the house on the dunes in the early evening. as soon as her lamp was lighted madame de la fontaine left the room. supposing that she was about to give a signal, dan's heart leaped at the prospect of some result to his eavesdropping, and he stole carefully around to the front of the house. presently from an upper window in the east side of the house, not the north as he had expected, he saw the green light sending forth its message across the dunes--to whom? probably the signal could be seen from the inn, but it more likely was intended for the schooner in the cove. sure enough, as he watched, dan saw the phenomenon of the ascending lamp on the _southern cross_, which at that identical moment tom pembroke was watching from his post of vantage in one of the south windows of the inn. a little later the signal was removed from the east window of the farmhouse and placed in a north window. dan looked to see the answering gleam from the inn at the red oak. but none came. crouched in a corner of the fence, he waited perhaps for half-an-hour. suddenly a signal gleamed from the inn, but this time it was not green as he expected, but red. in a few moments a form appeared in the window of the farmhouse, and a white hand, which he supposed was that of madame de la fontaine, took hold of the lamp and reversed it, so that now it showed red. the light in the inn vanished, reappeared, vanished again. the same thing happened to the light in the house on the dunes. and looking eastward, dan saw the ship's red lamp perform its fantastic ascent and descent. soon all was left in darkness. frost slipped back to his post near the barn and looked again into the kitchen. madame de la fontaine was standing in the doorway as before. the maid, turning away from the table, came at that moment to the window, and raised the sash, as though she were overheated. presently, leaving the window open, she turned to her mistress, and dan could hear the sharp staccato of her voice as she said something in what seemed to him her barbarous french. impelled by curiosity, he crept closer to the house. he was within six feet of the window, standing on the tip of his toes. suddenly he felt himself pinioned from behind; his arms were gripped as in a vise, a hand grasped his throat and began to choke him, and a sharp knee was planted with terrific force in the small of his back. he made a gurgling sound as he went backward, but there was no opportunity for struggling. he recovered from the shock to find himself stretched at full length in the wet snow. some one was sitting upon him, struggling to thrust a gag into his mouth; some one else was binding his hands and feet. he could just distinguish, in the sickly moonlight and the dim rays of the candle from the kitchen, the faces of his assailants. one was the murderous looking frenchman, the skipper of the _southern cross_, the other he took to be a common seaman. attracted by the scuffle, the french maid had thrust her head out of the window and was addressing the combatants in vigorous french. neither then nor later did madame de la fontaine appear. when frost was safely bound and gagged, captain bonhomme arose, said a few words to his companion, and disappeared into the farmhouse. dan's guard searched him rapidly, confiscated his revolver and knife, and then resumed his seat upon his legs. inside the kitchen dan could hear the sounds of an animated french dialogue, in which he imagined from time to time that he detected the silvery tones of madame de la fontaine's voice. perhaps fifteen minutes elapsed. captain bonhomme came out of the house, strode to the spot where dan was lying, and addressed him in excellent english. "monsieur; for purposes which it is superfluous to explain, it is decided to extend to you for a while the hospitality of my good ship the _southern cross_--a hospitality, i may say, that your unceremonious eavesdropping has thrust upon you. i will release your feet; and then, monsieur, you follow my good jean across the sands. if you are quiet, no harm shall come to you. if you resist, _cher monsieur_, it will be of painful duty that i entrust the contents of this revolver into--_mais non! vous comprenez, n'est-ce pas?--bien_!" he gave a sharp order to the seaman. the handkerchief about dan's ankles was untied, and he was roughly assisted to his feet. "the snow is wet, eh! yes, for the good wind is moist. now, _allons_!" jean led the way, and dan, deciding that he had no choice in the matter, followed obediently. the captain brought up the rear. as they went out through the gate, dan turned for a moment and looked back at the house. he could see the french maid still at the kitchen window. at the same moment captain bonhomme glanced back and ceremoniously raised his hat. "_bonsoir, mam'zelle_." "_bonsoir, monsieur_," was the sharp reply, and the window was lowered with a bang. they went on in silence across the dunes to the beach. there, drawn up above high water line, they found a skiff. the captain and jean shoved off, sprang in, and the little boat plunged into the combing waves. they reached the _southern cross_ without misadventure. the captain blew a call upon a boatswain's whistle. a rope was lowered and jean made the skiff fast to the ladder at the schooner's side. the captain took out his revolver and held it in his hand, while jean unloosed the cords that bound dan's wrists. "now up, _mon ami_." for a moment dan thought of risking a scuffle in the unsteady skiff, but discretion proved the better part of valour, and he climbed obediently on to the deck. the seaman stood close by till the captain and jean had clambered up after him. a few words in french to his men, then captain bonhomme, beckoning to dan to follow, led the way down the companion. he opened the door of a little cabin amidships and bade frost enter. "you will find everything required for your comfort, monsieur," he said, "and i trust you will make yourself at home, as you say; and enjoy a good night and a sound sleep. we can discuss our affairs in the morning." and with the words, he closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and left dan to his reflections. part iii the schooner in the cove chapter xi the southern cross dan spent a miserable night. he had soon satisfied himself that escape was impossible. a child could not have squeezed through the port hole, and the stoutness of the door--barred, he fancied, as well as locked on the outside,--seemed to indicate that this particular cabin had been constructed for the purpose of keeping an enemy out of mischief. young frost's reflections, as at length he stretched himself upon the bunk, were anything but agreeable. the reconnoitre at the house on the dunes had established nothing but what they already practically knew--that the marquis, the lady, and the captain of the schooner were working together. if they were responsible for nancy's disappearance, as dan was convinced, he had not succeeded in getting a scrap of evidence against them. and to cap the climax, he had stupidly allowed himself to be captured. the method of his capture seemed to him quite as ignominious as the fact. he was not particularly alarmed for his own safety. he did not doubt that eventually he would escape, though at the moment he could not imagine how; or, failing in that, he supposed he would be released,--honorably discharged, as it were,--when it was too late for him to interfere with the designs of the conspirators. and this was the bitterest reflection of all: that a carefully-planned conspiracy was on foot, and no sooner had he and tom realized it than through sheer stupidity he must not only make it clear to the marquis and his colleagues that they were being watched, but must let himself fall into their power. poor tom! thought dan ruefully as he tossed upon the little bunk, there must fall upon him now the brunt of whatever was to be done for nancy's rescue, for the thwarting of whatever nefarious designs this gang of french desperados were concocting. escape! a dozen times and more he sprang from his bed to press his face against the thick glass of the little port and to rage futilely that he could not elongate his six feet of anatomy, and slip through. in vain he would throw his weight against the door, without so much as shaking it. and then he would sink back upon the bunk and determine to conserve his strength by snatching a bit of sleep. and he would wait--since he must wait--till morning. the gale had lashed itself into a fury; the rain was pouring in torrents; and the ship rolled distressingly in the rising sea. it was near dawn before dan succeeded in getting to sleep at all, but from then on for several hours he slept heavily. when he awoke the storm, like many storms that come out of the south, had exhausted itself. the rain had ceased, the wind had fallen, and it was evident from the motion of the ship, that the sea was going down. dan sprang to the port hole and peered out, and was thankful to realize that the peep hole of his prison gave upon the shore. though it had stopped raining, the clouds were still grey and lowering, and the morning light was weak and pale. the dunes, beyond the disturbed waters of the little cove, looked dirty and bedraggled. the snow had been washed off the hillocks, the little streams that here and there emptied into the cove had swollen to the size of respectable brooks, and the high water of the night had strewn the beach with brown tangled seaweed. there was no sign of human life in evidence. dan could just see the upper story of the house on the dunes, but no other habitation save the deserted fisherman's huts that straggled along the beach. his watch showed half-past seven when the evil-visaged jean unbarred the door, opened it about a foot, and thrust in upon the floor a tray of food. dan sprang forward and succeeded in getting his foot into the opening, so that jean could not close the door. he was prepared to fight for his liberty. despite jean's superior strength, dan had the advantage in that his own body acted as a lever, and for a moment it seemed that he was to be successful; but the frenchman, with a violent execration, suddenly let go his hold on the knob, the door swung in, and dan fell back on all fours upon the floor. by the time he had recovered himself for another dash, he was confronted by jean, a disagreeable leer upon his unpleasant countenance and a cocked pistol in his hand. dan stood in his tracks. "i want to see captain bonhomme!" he demanded, making up in the tone of his voice for the vigor his movements suddenly lacked. "_je ne parle pas englais_," was the irritating reply, as jean, menacing the prisoner with the pistol, reached for the door and closed it with a snap. dan had the chagrin of hearing the key turn in the lock and the heavy bar fall into place across the panels. he sat down ruefully, but after a moment or so took up the tray and placed it on the bunk before him. he made a bad breakfast off thick gruel, black bread and villainous coffee, and then kicked his heels impatiently for an hour or more. eventually jean reappeared, this time pistol in hand, and behind him, to dan's relief, captain bonhomme. the captain entered the little cabin, leaving the door open behind him while jean stood in the passage on duty as guard. the swarthy unattractive face of captain bonhomme wore this morning an expression of sarcastic levity that was more irritating to frost than its ferocious anger had been the night before. "_bon jour, monsieur_," said the captain in a tone of obnoxious pleasantry. "i trust the night has gone well with you." "you will oblige me," snapped dan for reply, "by omitting your hypocritical courtesy. i demand to know what you mean by this proceeding,--capturing me like a common thief and imprisoning me on this confounded ship?" captain bonhomme's countenance quickly lost its factitious cheerfulness. "monsieur," he replied sharply, "i did not come to you to bandy words. if you will reflect on the occupation you were indulging last night at the moment we surprised you, you will comprehend that it was certainly to be inferred that, if you were not a thief, you were an eavesdropper; which, to my way of thinking, is as bad. if you address me again in that insulting tone, i shall leave you till such a time as you may be willing to listen at least with common courtesy to what i have to say. you are, young gentleman, a prisoner on my ship and very much in my power. you have grossly offended a distinguished countrywoman who is under my protection in your barbarous country. madame de la fontaine, however, has been good enough to interest herself in your behalf and to beg that i shall not unceremoniously pitch you overboard to feed the fishes as you so richly deserve." dan bit his lips, but for the moment kept silent. "i am come this morning," continued captain bonhomme, "not for the pleasure of entering upon a discussion, but to inform you that a little later in the morning, when this infernal wind of yours has blown itself out, madame de la fontaine proposes to come aboard. for reasons of her own, she does you the honor to desire a conversation with you. i have to ask that you will meet my distinguished patroness as the gentleman you doubtless profess to be, and that you will give me your word not to attempt to escape while madame is on board the ship." "i shall not give my word," protested dan, "under any circumstances to a pirate such as i take you to be." "_eh bien, monsieur_; in that case, you will appear before madame in irons. from your window, so admirably small, you will see at what hour madame comes aboard. if in the meantime you have decided to give us your word of honour, well and good; if you continue to display your freedom of choice by the exercise of your stupidity, also, well and good. and now, _an revoir_." captain bonhomme smiled grimly, bowed again with insulting politeness, and left dan alone in the cabin. an hour, two hours passed. the wind had abated, the sun was struggling to dissipate the murky bank of cloud that hung from zenith to the eastern horizon. from his coign of vantage at the little port hole dan saw madame de la fontaine pick her way across the dunes and come upon the little beach. a small boat had put off from the schooner and was being rowed to shore by two seamen. the french lady gathered her skirts about her ankles, and stepped lightly into the skiff, as the men held it at the edge of the surf. the little boat was then pushed off and rowed briskly toward the _southern cross_. half-an-hour passed before the door of dan's cabin was opened again, and captain bonhomme, attended by the faithful jean, reappeared. in the skipper's hand was a pair of irons. "monsieur," said the captain, holding up the irons, "madame de la fontaine does you the honour of desiring an interview in the saloon. may i venture to enquire your pleasure?" the ignominy of appearing before his charming acquaintance of the day before manacled like a criminal, was too much for dan's vanity. "i give you my word of honour," he said gruffly. "ah, monsieur," murmured the captain, "permit me to applaud your good taste. but let us be exact: until you are returned to this cabin and are again under lock and key, that is to say until madame is safely upon shore again,--you give me your word of honour as a gentleman to make no attempt to escape?" "yes, yes," said dan, striving to conceal his irritation. "but spare me, i beg, your explanations. as you know, i am practically helpless. we understand each other. i trust that madame de la fontaine will give me an explanation of the outrage that you have refused." "_sans doute, sane doute_!" exclaimed the captain. he waved his hand toward the door. "_aprã©s vous, monsieur_. our worthy jean will lead the way." without more ado they left the little cabin that had served as dan's prison and traversed a narrow passageway aft to the door of a little saloon. in the saloon, seated in a deep arm chair by the side of the table, was madame de la fontaine. she was clad in some soft green gown, with furs about her neck and wrists, and a little bonnet, adorned by the gay plumage of a tropical bird, worn close upon her head. at first glance she was as bewitchingly beautiful, as entirely charming, as she had seemed to dan the day before. he blushed to the roots of his hair and for the moment quite forgot the extraordinary predicament in which he was placed. madame de la fontaine rose, a bright smile beaming from her soft blue eyes, and waited for dan to approach. "good morning, mr. frost. this is charming of you. and now, captain bonhomme, if you will be so kind,--" she turned with her delightful smile to the skipper. "_eh bien_, jean!" this last remark was uttered in a sharp tone of command, very different from the silvery accents in which she had spoken to frost and the captain. dan wondered at it. the disagreeable impression was but momentary, for the lady turned again to dan, engaged him with her frank and pleasant glance, and young frost forgot everything in the presence of the most charming woman he had ever met. captain bonhomme and his watchdog had disappeared, closing the saloon door behind them. dan and madame de la fontaine were alone. "will you not seat yourself, monsieur?" she said. "we shall then talk so much more at our ease." "thank you," dan murmured vaguely, and advancing a step or two nearer, seated himself in the first chair within reach. "ah, not there, mr. frost," the lady protested with a little laugh of amusement. "it will never be that we are able to talk at so great a distance." she indicated a more comfortable chair at much closer quarters. dan obediently changed his seat, and waited for madame de la fontaine to begin the conversation. but she continued for a moment silently to regard him with a naive air of interest and of unconcealed admiration. "may i ask," said dan at length, disturbed by this scrutiny, and rising to a courtesy that was in reality beyond him, "for what reason you have done me the honour to wish to speak with me?" "_vraiment_," replied madame de la fontaine; "after the events of last night there is need that we should have some conversation. you are very young and i have reason to be grateful to you for courtesy and kindness, so i have yielded to impulse, against my judgment, to interfere with captain bonhomme who has great anger with you." "you are very kind, madame," dan replied with dignity. "i am to infer then that my liberty or my further unwarranted imprisonment on this ship is to be determined by you?" "_mais non, monsieur_. it is true only that i have a little influence with captain bonhomme. last night you were watching me, so it interests me to know why." "i was watching mrs. heath's house," dan answered. "ah! but i and my maid were alone in the room into which you so unceremoniously looked, monsieur!" "yes, madame, but why should you infer that my motive in looking into that room was interest in your affairs?" "i do not altogether assume that, mr. frost," the lady protested. "i infer simply--but, pardon! you were to say--?" "merely to ask you, madame, what captain bonhomme proposes to do with me, should you not be so good as to use your influence in my behalf?" for reply the lady shrugged her shoulders a trifle. "i have fear, monsieur," she said after a moment, "that captain bonhomme will take you for a sail, perhaps a long sail, on the _southern cross_." "then," said dan, "since there is no doubt in my mind of your influence with the captain, i beg that you will have him release me." "it is that that i desire, monsieur; and yet--?" madame de la fontaine paused and glanced at her companion with a charming little air of interrogation. "and yet?" repeated dan, flushing a little as he looked into the lovely blue eyes that met his so frankly. "i confess, monsieur, i must first discover if you are really deserving of my efforts. i care to know very much why you watched me last night at the house on the dunes. for what reason do you watch me at midnight? a stranger, a woman? why is it that my affairs give you interest? i would know." her voice, her countenance expressed now only her sense of injury, an injury which, as it were, she was striving not to regard also as an insult. under the persistent searching of her soft glance, dan felt himself very small indeed. "answer me, if you please," she said. this time dan detected just a trace of the sharpness with which she had dismissed the obsequious jean. it gave him courage and a sense of protection from the fascination he knew that this strange woman was successfully exerting over him. as he replied, his glance encountered hers with frankness. "madame de la fontaine, i told you yesterday morning, my sister, nancy frost, has disappeared. we searched for her all day in vain. not a trace of her has been found. but certain strange events have led me to suspect that certain persons have had something to do with her disappearance and must know her whereabouts. i will be frank madame. one of the persons whom i so suspect is yourself." "i!--_mon dieu_! and why is it that you believe this, monsieur?" "i suspect you, madame, because i suspect the marquis de boisdhyver." "ah! the french gentleman who is staying with you at the inn at the red oak, is it not so?" "yes." "but--why me?" "because, madame, i discovered that you and the marquis de boisdhyver have been in secret communication with each other." "_c'est impossible. te me comprende pas, monsieur_. will you tell me why it is that you can think that this marquis de bois--what is the name?" "de boisdhyver." "_merci_. why is it that you can think that the marquis de boisdhyver and i have been in secret communication?" "lights, green and red lights, have been used as signals; by the marquis at the inn; by you, madame, from the house on the dunes; and by some one,--captain bonhomme, i suppose,--from this ship." "lights, you have seen lights?" "several times last night, madame. my suspicions were aroused. i was determined to find my sister. i resolved to learn the meaning of those mysterious signals. my method was stupid: i blundered, and as you have several times so gently hinted, i am in your power." for a moment madame de la fontaine was silent, then she looked quickly up; a half-vexed, half-amused expression curling her pretty lips. "look at me, monsieur," she said. "do you know what you tell me? that i am an adventuress?" dan flushed suddenly as he met her steadfast gaze. "i have stated only a suspicion, madame, to account for my own stupid blundering. but if you think that my suspicions are extraordinary, don't you think that our present situation and conversation are also extraordinary, and that they might rather confirm my suspicions?" madame de la fontaine dropped her eyes with a perceptible frown of displeasure; but again she looked up, smiling. "_c'est drole_, monsieur, but i find you very attractive? you are at once so naive and so clever?" dan, finding nothing to reply to this unexpected remark, bit his lips. "will you not trust me?" she asked him suddenly, and putting out her hand she touched his own with the tips of her fingers. poor frost tingled at this unaccustomed contact. "i--i--" he stammered awkwardly. "i have certainly no desire to distrust you, madame." "and yet it is that you do distrust me." "but what would you have me do?" "ah!" her hand spontaneously closed upon his with a clasp that delighted and yet disconcerted him. "i hope that we shall make each other to understand." "what would you have me do?" dan repeated. "monsieur, let me make to you a confession. i understand your suspicions; i understand your desire to find if they are true. you have reason; monsieur le marquis de boisdhyver and i have exchanged the mysterious signals that you have witnessed. why should i deny that which already you know? monsieur de boisdhyver and i are occupied with affairs of great importance, and it is necessary that all is kept secret. but i believe, that it is that i can trust you, monsieur." "and nancy--?" exclaimed dan. "_pas si vite, pas si vite_!" said the lady, laughing gayly, dan's hand still in her friendly pressure. "all in good time, _mon ami_. it is necessary before i confide in you our little secret that i consult monsieur le marquis." dan's face betrayed his disappointment. "but you do know about nancy," he insisted; "you will assure me--" "of nothing, dear boy,"--and she withdrew her hand. "but it had been so much better for us all if only monsieur le marquis had at the first confided in you." madame de la fontaine had risen now and was holding out her hand to say good-bye. "it is necessary that i return to the shore. i will see monsieur le marquis this afternoon, and immediately afterward--" "but, madame, surely," dan exclaimed, "i am to accompany you?" "ah! monsieur," she replied with a charming little smile, "for the present you must rest content to be _mon captif_. we must quite clearly understand each other before--well. but you are too impetuous, monsieur dan. for the moment i leave you here." "but madame de la fontaine," cried dan, "i cannot consent--" "no! no!" she said, as with a gay laugh, she placed a cool little hand across his mouth to prevent his finishing his sentence. what absurd impulse fired his blood at this sudden familiarity, dan did not know; but, quite spontaneously, as though all his life he had been in the habit of paying such gallantries to charming ladies, he kissed the soft fingers upon his lips. madame de la fontaine quickly withdrew them. "ah, _mon ami_;" she said, "i expected not to find here _une telle galanterie_." "i have offended you," murmured dan, blushing furiously. "ah, _pas du tout_!" said madame de la fontaine. "you are a dear boy, monsieur dan, and i--well, i find you charming." as she said this, to dan's complete confusion, madame de la fontaine lightly brushed his cheeks with her lips, and passing him rapidly, went out of the door of the saloon. chapter xii tom turns the tables owing to his long watch during the greater part of the night, pembroke slept heavily until late the next morning. indeed, he did not waken until jesse, alarmed that neither dan nor he had appeared, knocked on their door. he sprang up quickly then, and began to dress hastily. dan's bed had not been slept in, and tom wondered how the night had gone with him. in a few moments he was down stairs and in the breakfast-room. he found the marquis de boisdhyver already at table, pouring out his coffee, which deborah had just placed before him. mrs. frost had not appeared. tom murmured an apology for being late, and delayed the black woman, who was on the point of leaving the room, by a question. "where is mr. dan?" "sure an, mass' tom, i ain't seen him dis mornin' yet. ain't he done over-slept hisself like you?" "no; but i dare say he is about the place somewheres. all right, deb; bring my breakfast quickly, please." "you will pardon me," said monsieur de boisdhyver, "for having begun without you?" "oh, certainly," said tom; "don't know what was the matter, but i slept unusually soundly last night; that is, after i got to sleep, for the storm kept me awake for hours." "_et moi aussi_," said the marquis. "what wind! i am but thankful it has exhausted itself at last. and monsieur frost, he has also over-slept, you say?" "no. he got up early without disturbing me. i guess he will be in any minute now." the marquis stirred his coffee and slowly sipped it. tom made a hasty breakfast, and then went outside to reconnoitre. he discovered no trace of his friend. there was but one inference in his uneasy mind: dan had met with some misadventure at the house on the dunes. at last, after wandering about aimlessly for some time, he decided to tell jesse of his uneasiness. "if mr. dan is not back by dinner time, i shall go over to the house on the dunes and try to find out what has become of him. heaven knows what has become of miss nancy. i don't like that schooner, jess, and its ugly crew, lying there in the cove. it's all a darn queer business." "they're certainly a rough-looking lot, mr. tom, as i saw when i was on the beach yesterday. and she don't appear to have any particular business anchoring there. i hope they've nothing to do with miss nancy's and mr. dan's being away." "i don't know, jess, what to think. but listen here i want you to go into the port this morning and engage ezra manners to come out here and stay with us for a week or so. don't tell him too much, but i guess ezra won't balk at the notion of a scrap. bring him out with you, and offer to pay him enough to make sure of his coming. and i want you to go to breeze's on the parade and get some guns and powder, enough to arm every blessed soul of us in the inn. charge the stuff to me. and be careful how you bring it back, for i don't want any one here to know about it, particularly the old frenchman. understand? you ought to get back by dinner-time, if you start at once. i'll stay here till you return." "i'll start right off, sir. guess i'll have to drive, for the rain'll have washed the snow off the roads. i'll be back by halfpast twelve, mr. tom." "all right," said pembroke. "be sure not to let any one know what you are doing." "sure i won't, sir. i've been pretty much worried myself about miss nancy. didn't seem a bit like miss nance to go off without sayin' a word to anybody. "well, hurry along now, jesse." "yes, sir." tom's next task was to try to explain to mrs. frost without alarming her. she happily jumped to the idea that dan had gotten trace of nancy, had gone to fetch her, and would return with her before nightfall. so tom left her quite cheerfully knitting in her room for the day. from time to time during the morning tom wandered into the bar always to find monsieur de boisdhyver absorbed in his writing before the fire. the morning passed--a long restless morning for pembroke--and nothing had happened. dan had not returned. he tried to think out a plan of action. he went into the north wing of the inn and barricaded the door leading from the bowling alley into the hallway. he made sure that all other doors and windows were fastened, and he put the key of the door that opened from the bar into the old wing into his pocket. then he looked at the doors and windows in the south wing. about noon, as he was standing at an upper window anxiously scanning the landscape for any sign of his friend, tom saw the marquis, wrapped in his great black cloak, emerge from the gallery, go down the steps by the red oak, and walk rapidly down the avenue of maples. he went along the port road, to the point where a little road branched off and led to the beach of the cove; here he turned and walked in the direction of the beach. with the field glass tom could follow him quite easily as he picked his way through the slush. beyond, on the waters of the cove, the _southern cross_ rode at anchor. a small boat had put off from the schooner, two seamen at the oars, and a woman seated in the stern. the boat reached the shore, the lady was lifted out upon the sands, the men jumped in again, pushed off and rowed briskly back to the schooner. tom could not distinguish the lady's features, but from the style of her dress, cut in so different a fashion than that the ladies of caesarea were wont to display, and from the character of her easy graceful walk, he judged that that was the madame de la fontaine, of whom dan had told him the day before. the lady, whoever she might be, advanced along the beach and turned into the road down which the marquis de boisdhyver was going to meet her. tom could see her extend her hand, and the old gentleman, bending ceremoniously, lift it to his lips. then leaning against a stone wall beside a meadow of bedraggled snow, they engaged in animated conversation. the lady talked, the marquis talked. they shrugged their shoulders, they nodded their heads, they pointed this way and then that. poor tom felt he must know what was being said. at last, their conference ended, they parted as ceremoniously as they had met, the lady starting across the dunes and the marquis retracing his steps toward the inn. in the meantime, fortunately before the marquis reached the port road, jesse had returned, accompanied by the able-bodied ezra manners, and laden with the supply of arms and ammunition that pembroke had ordered. within half-an-hour tom and monsieur de boisdhyver were seated together in the dining-room. "ah, and where is monsieur dan?" asked the marquis, with an affectation of cheerfulness. "is he not returned?" "not yet, monsieur," tom replied grimly. "but you have heard from him?" "oh, yes," was tom's answer; "i have heard from him of course." "and from mademoiselle nancy, i trust, also?" "yes, from nancy also." "ah, i am so relieved, monsieur pembroke. i was most anxious for their safety. one knows not what may happen. we shall have a charming little reunion at supper, _n'est-ce pas_?" "delightful," said tom, but in a tone of voice that did not encourage the marquis to ask further questions or to continue his comments. after dinner, tom slipped the field glass beneath his jacket, and ran upstairs to take another view of the countryside. to his great satisfaction he saw a dark spot moving across the snowy dunes and recognized the lady of the morning. apparently she was on her way to the cove again. he took a loaded pistol, ran down stairs, gave jesse strict orders to keep his eye on the marquis, saddled his horse, and galloped off madly for mrs. meath's house. when he reached the gate of the farmhouse, tom hitched his horse to the fence, went rapidly up the little walk, and knocked boldly and loudly on the front door. repeated and prolonged knocking brought no response. he tried the door and found it fastened. he walked about the house. every window on the ground floor was tightly closed and barred. there was no sign of life. he knocked at the door of the kitchen, but with no result. he tried it, and found it also locked. determined not to be thwarted in his effort to see mrs. meath, he kicked vigourously against the door with his great hob-nailed boots. unsuccessful in this, he detached a rail from the top of the fence and used it against the door as a battering-ram. at the first crash of timbers, the sash of a window in the second story, directly above the kitchen, was thrown open, and a dark-eyed, dark-haired, excessively angry-looking, young woman thrust her head out. "_qui va la_?" she exclaimed. "well," said tom, smiling a little in spite of himself, for the young woman was in a state of great indignation. "i want to see mrs. meath. i may say, i am determined to see mrs. meath." "_peste! je ne parle pas anglais_!" snapped the damsel. "very well then, mademoiselle, i'll try you in french," said tom. and in very bad french indeed, scarcely even the french of dr. watson's school for the sons of gentlemen, pembroke repeated his remarks. "_je ne comprend pas_," said the young woman. tom essayed his explanation again, but whether the youthful female in the window could or would not understand, she kept repeating in the midst of his every sentence "_je ne parle pas anglais_," till tom lost his temper. "_bien_, my fine girl," he exclaimed at last; "i am going to enter this house. if you won't open the door, i will batter it down. understand? _comprenez-vous_?" "_je ne parle pas anglais_." "as you will." he raised the fence-rail again and made as if to ram the door. "_ouvrez la porte_! do you understand that?" "_bete_!" cried the girl, withdrawing her head and slamming down the window. tom waited a moment to see if his threats had been effective, and was relieved by hearing the bar within removed and the key turned in the lock. the door was opened, and the young woman stood on the sill and volleyed forth a series of french execrations that made tom wince, though he did not understand a word she was saying. despite her protests, he brushed her aside and stalked into the house. he went rapidly from room to room, upstairs and down, from garret to cellar, the girl following him with her chorus of abusive reproach. she might have held her peace, thought tom, for within half-an-hour he was convinced that there was not a person in the house on the dunes save himself and his excited companion. all he discovered for his pains was that old mrs. meath was also among the missing. "_ou est madame meath_?" "_madame meath! que voulez vous? je ne connais pas madame meath_...." and infinitely more of which tom could gather neither head nor tail. satisfied at last that there was nothing to be gained by further search or parley with the woman, he thanked her civilly enough and went out. he unhitched his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and dashed back, as fast as his beast could be urged to carry him, to the inn. he was certain now that the schooner held the secret of his vanished friends, and it occurred to him to play their own game and turn the tables on monsieur the marquis de boisdhyver. arrived at the inn, tom turned his horse, white with lather, over to jesse; made sure that the marquis was in the bar; and then, with the help of manners, rapidly made a few preparations. it was about five o'clock when, his arrangements completed, he returned to the bar, where monsieur de boisdhyver was quietly taking his tea. tom bowed to the old gentleman, seated himself in a great chair about five feet away, and somewhat ostentatiously took from his pocket a pistol, laid it on the arm of his chair, and let his fingers lightly play upon the handle. the old marquis watched pembroke's movements out of the corner of his eye, still somewhat deliberately sipping his tea. manners, meanwhile, had entered, and stood respectfully in the doorway, oddly enough also with a pistol in his hand. suddenly monsieur de boisdhyver placed his teacup on the table, and leaning back in his chair, surveyed tom with an air of indignant astonishment. "monsieur pembroke," he said, "to what am i to attribute these so unusual attentions? is it that you are mad?" "you may attribute these unusual attentions, marquis, to the fact that from now on, you are not a guest of the inn at the red oak, but a prisoner." "ah!" exclaimed the marquis with a start, as he made a spasmodic motion toward the pocket of his coat. but if his intention had been to draw a weapon, tom was too quick for him. the marquis found himself staring into the barrel of a pistol and heard the unpleasant click of the trigger as it was cocked. the old gentleman paled, whether with fright or indignation, tom was not concerned to know. "you will please keep perfectly still, marquis." "monsieur pembroke," exclaimed the old gentleman, "_c'est_ abominable, outrageous, _mon dieu_, what insult!" "manners," said tom, "kindly search that gentleman and put his firearms out of his reach." "monsieur, _c'est extraordinaire_. i protest." "quick, ezra," replied tom, "or one of us is likely to know how it feels to have a bullet in his skin. up with your hands, marquis." monsieur de boisdhyver obeyed perforce, while manners quickly searched him, removed a small pistol from his coat pocket and a stiletto from his waistcoat, and handed them to tom. "i thought as much," said pembroke, slipping them into his pocket. "now, sir, you will oblige me by dropping that attitude of surprised indignation." "monsieur," said the marquis, "what is it that you do? why is it that you so insult me?" "monsieur, i will explain. you are my prisoner. i intend to lock you up safely and securely until my friend and his sister return, unharmed, to the inn. when they are safe at home, when madame de la fontaine has taken her departure from the house on the dunes, and when the _southern cross_ has sailed out of the strathsey, we shall release you and see you also safely out of this country. is that clear?" "_mais, monsieur_--" "i am quite convinced that you know where nancy is and what has happened to dan. as my friends are probably in your power or in the power of your friends, so, dear marquis, you are in mine. if you wish to regain your own liberty, you will have to see that they have theirs. now kindly follow manners; it will give him pleasure to show you to your apartment. there you may burn either red or green lights, and i am sure the snowbirds and rabbits of lovel's woods will enjoy them. after you, monsieur." "sir, i refuse." "my dear marquis, do not make me add force to discourtesy. after you." the marquis bowed ironically, shrugged his shoulders, and followed manners up the stairs. he was ushered into a chamber on the west side of the inn, whose windows, had they not been heavily barred, would have given him a view but of the thick tangles of the woods. "i trust you will be able to make yourself comfortable here," said tom. "your meals will be served at the accustomed hours. i shall return myself in a short time, and perhaps by then you will have reconciled yourself to the insult i have offered you and be prepared to talk with me." with that tom bowed as ironically as the marquis had done, went out and closed the door, and securely locked and barred it outside. monsieur de boisdhyver was left to his reflections. chapter xiii madame de la fontaine for several hours after his return to the little cabin dan had ample leisure in which to think over his extraordinary interview. there could be no doubt that the conspirators, for such he had come to call them to himself, were determined and desperate enough to go to any lengths in accomplishing their designs. whether his suspicions and activity in seeking nancy had precipitated their plans, his unexpected capture seemed to embarrass his captors as much as it did himself. at least, he gathered this from madame de la fontaine's conversation. whatever might be the motive of the lady's proposed confidence, poor frost could see nothing for it but to await their disclosure and then seize whatever advantage they might open to him. notwithstanding the fact that dan had cautioned himself against trusting the flattery of his charming visitor, notwithstanding that he told himself to be forewarned, even by his own suspicions, was to be forearmed, he was in reality unconscious of the degree to which he had proved susceptible to the lady's blandishments, if indeed she had employed blandishments and had not merely given him the evidence of a good heart upon which his youth and naivetã© had made a genuine impression. dan's experiences with girls up to this time had been limited. his emotional nature had never, as yet, been deeply stirred. but no one could be insensible to madame de la fontaine's beauty and charm, and her delightfully natural familiarity; and, finally, her fleeting kiss had seemed to dan but evidence of a warm impulsive heart. to be sure, with all the good will in the world, he could not acquit her of being concerned in a mysterious plot--indeed, had she not admitted so much?--though, also, he must in justice remember that he knew very little of the nature of the plot in question. as he paced restlessly back and forth the length of his prison, he tried to think clearly of the accumulating mystery. was there a hidden treasure and how did the marquis know about it? what part had the _southern cross_ to play with its diabolical looking captain, and what could have become of nancy? then why had madame de la fontaine--but again his cheek would burn and remembrance of the bewitching frenchwoman blotted out all else. at half-past twelve captain bonhomme appeared again. this time he invited dan to partake of luncheon with him on the condition once more of a parole. and dan accepted. he and the captain made their luncheon together, attended by the faithful jean; and, though no mention was made to their anomalous position, the meal was not altogether a comfortable one. captain bonhomme asked a great many questions about the country, to which frost was inclined to give but the briefest replies; nor, on his part, did he show more disposition to be communicative in response to dan's questions about france. jean regarded the situation with obviously surly disapproval. when the meal was finished, frost was conducted back to his little cabin. about two o'clock he saw the small boat put off for shore, and glancing in that direction, he was relieved to see madame de la fontaine already waiting upon the beach. within half-an-hour he was again in her presence in the captain's saloon, where their conversation had taken place in the morning. the lady received him graciously. "ah! monsieur dan, i fear you have had a weary day of it; but it was impossible for me to return sooner." "it is very kind of you to return at all," replied dan, gallantly enough. "now, monsieur, you are anxious, i know, that i keep my promise of the morning." "most anxious," said dan. "without doubt. come here, my friend, sit near me and listen attentively to a long story." "you have consulted with the marquis?" "_mais oui_. it was difficult, but i have brought him to my way of thinking. i am certain that it was an error in the first place not taking you into our confidence. _eh bien_! tell me, do you know how your foster-sister came to be in the charge of your mother at the inn at the red oak?" "yes, i know what my mother has told me. the child was abandoned to her rather than left in her charge." "_mais non_" said madame de la fontaine; "general pointelle was impelled to act as he did by the strongest motives,--nothing less than the tremendous task, undertaken for his country, to liberate the emperor napoleon from elba. general pointelle was a soldier,--more, he was a marã©chal of the empire; the greatest responsibilities devolved upon him. it was impossible for him to be burdened with a child." "but why, madame, did he not take my mother into his confidence?" "secrecy was imperative, monsieur. even to this day, you do not know who general pointelle actually was. his was a name well-known in france, glorious in the annals of the empire; a name, too, familiar to you in a somewhat different connection. 'general pointelle' was the _nom-de-guerre_, as it were, of franã§ois, marquis de boisdhyver, marã©chal de france." "franã§ois! you say, _franã§ois_!" exclaimed dan. "_mais oui_, monsieur; but that should hardly astonish you so much as the fact that he was a boisdhyver. why are you surprised?" "simply, madame," exclaimed dan hastily, "by the fact that it is the same name as that of our marquis." "not quite," corrected the lady; "our marquis--as you say--is marie-anne-timã©lon-armand de boisdhyver, the general's younger brother." "ah! and therefore nancy's uncle?" "yes, the uncle of nancy frost, or of eloise de boisdhyver." "i see," said dan. "i begin to see." "_eh bien_, monsieur. general pointelle--the marã©chal de boisdhyver,--left the inn at the red oak upon a mission for the emperor, then at elba. _hã©las_! that mission ended with disaster after the hundred days; for, as you know, the emperor was sent in exile to st. helena; and, as you may not know, the marã©chal de boisdhyver was killed on the plains of waterloo. _allons_; when he left deal, he concealed in a hidden chamber, which one enters, i believe, from a room you call the oak parlour, a large treasure, of jewels and gold. this treasure, saved from the _debacle_ in france, he had brought with him to america, and he hid it in the inn, for the future of his little daughter eloise. you remember that your mother was to hear something of advantage to her and the child, did not the general return. it was the secret of the treasure and the directions to find it. well, monsieur, at waterloo, you must know, the marã©chal and his brother, the present marquis, fought side by side. franã§ois de boisdhyver fell, nobly fighting for the glory of france; marie-anne had the good fortune to preserve his life, but was taken prisoner by the english. before the marã©chal received his death wound, the two brothers spoke with each other for the last time. in that moment, monsieur, the marquis franã§ois revealed to the marquis marie-anne that he had abandoned his daughter in america and that he had concealed in your old inn a treasure sufficient to provide for her future. he charged his brother to go to america, if he survived the battle; claim the little eloise; rescue the treasure, and return with her to france and restore the fallen fortunes of the house of boisdhyver. "it took the marquis marie-anne a long time to carry out his brother's dying injunctions," said dan. "ah! but yes. you do not realize that the marquis marie-anne, after the fall of napoleon, spent many years in a military prison in england, for i have already told you that he fell into the hands of the enemy on the field of waterloo. when at last he was released, he was aged, broken, and in poverty. his brother, in those dreadful moments on the battlefield, had been able to give him but the briefest description of the inn at the red oak and the hidden treasure. he did not tell him where the treasure was, but only how he might obtain the paper of instructions which the marã©chal had concealed in a curiously-carved old cabinet in the oak parlour. the marã©chal, monsieur, loved the mysterious, and chose the device of tearing into two parts this paper of directions and concealing them in different hiding-places of the cabinet. those directions, after many years, grew vague in the younger brother's memory. "_eh bien_, the marquis was at last able to make the journey to this country. you must remember he had nothing wherewith to prove his story, if he gave you his confidence at once; and so, he decided, to investigate quietly alone. but he won the confidence of mademoiselle nancy,--that is, of his niece, eloise de boisdhyver,--and revealed to her the secret of her identity and the mysterious story of the treasure. you follow me in all this, monsieur dan?" "perfectly, madame," frost replied. "but as yet you have told me nothing of your own connection with this strange history." "pardon, dear boy," rejoined madame de la fontaine; "i was about to do so, but there is so much to tell. my own connection with the affair is quite simple. i am an old friend, one of the oldest, of monsieur le marquis de boisdhyver, and, when i was a very young girl, i knew the marã©chal himself. it has been my happiness to be able to prove my friendship for a noble and a fallen family. one day last summer, monsieur de boisdhyver told me his brother's dying words, and it was i, monsieur dan, who was able to give the money for this strange expedition. the poor marquis had lost quite all his fortune." "i understand," said frost. "but, yet, madame, i do not see the necessity for the secrecy, the mystery, for these strange signals at night, for these midnight investigations, for this schooner and its rough crew, for nancy's disappearance, for my own imprisonment here." "please, please," murmured madame de la fontaine, as she held up her hands in smiling protest. "you go too fast for me. _un moment, mon ami, un moment_. it was sixteen years ago that the marã©chal de boisdhyver was a guest at the inn at the red oak. you forget that the marquis de boisdhyver had no proof of his right to the treasure, save his own story, save his account of his brother's instructions on the field of waterloo. by telling all he might have awakened deeper suspicions than by secrecy." "that, i must say," dan interrupted, "would hardly be possible." "so!" exclaimed madame de la fontaine, with an accent of displeasure. "_ecoutez_! monsieur le marquis was to come a month in advance, as he did come; take up his quarters at the inn; reconnoitre the ground; and win, if possible, the confidence and aid of mademoiselle. he fortunately succeeded in this last, for he found it otherwise impossible to enter into the old wing of the inn and examine the oak parlour. with the assistance of eloise, this was accomplished at last, and the paper of directions was found; at least, found in part. "then i, having impressed the services of captain bonhomme and his ship the _southern cross_, set sail and arrived at the house on the dunes only a few days ago, as you already know. the signals that you saw flashing at night were to indicate that all was well." "the green light, i suppose," commented dan, "was to indicate that; and the red--" "was the signal of danger. because the marquis discovered last night that you were not in the house; he flashed the warning that made captain bonhomme go to the house on the dunes. quite recently the manners of your friend, mr.--eh--?" "pembroke?" "yes, mr. pembroke--led the marquis to believe that he was being watched. "i understand," said dan, "but nothing you have told me so far, madame, accounts for nancy's disappearance, and i am as anxious as ever to know where she is." "mademoiselle is perfectly safe, monsieur dan; i assure you. she left the inn because she had fear of betraying our plans, particularly as she loved your friend, mr. pembroke." "it is still strange to me, madame, that nancy should distrust her oldest and best friends. but now you will let me see her?" "of course i shall soon, very soon, my dear boy. i have told you all, and now you will aid me to find the treasure that is your foster-sister's heritage, will you not?" "why certainly i want nancy to have what is hers," replied dan. "bravo, my friend. we are to count you one of us, i am sure." "just a moment," said dan, resisting the temptation to touch the little hand that had been placed impulsively upon his arm. "may i ask one more question?" "a thousand, my dear, if you desire." "why then, since until last night everything has gone as you planned it, why has not the treasure already been discovered?" "because, _mon ami_; the marquis has only been able to visit the oak parlour at night. and also it was decided to wait until i arrived." "with the schooner?" suggested dan. "with the schooner, if you will. and you may remember that it was only the day before yesterday that i reached your so hospitable countryside." "ah! i understand; so then all that you desire of me, madame, is that i shall permit the marquis or anyone else whom you may select for the purpose, to make such investigation of the oak parlour as is desired." "yes, my friend; and also there is yet another thing that we desire." "but suppose, madame, that i cannot agree to that?" "ah! _cher ami_, but you will. i confess--you must remember that the marquis de boisdhyver has been a soldier--that my friends have not agreed with me entirely. it has seemed to them simpler that we should keep you a prisoner on this ship, as we could so easily do, until our mission is accomplished. but,--i like you too much to agree to that." dan flushed a trifle, but he was not yet quite sure enough to fall in entirely with his charming gaoler's suggestions. "madame de la fontaine," he said after a moment's reflection, "i am greatly obliged to you for explaining the situation to me so fully. i shall be only too happy to help you, particularly in anything that is for the benefit of nancy." "i was sure of it. now, my friend, there is a service that you can immediately render." "and that is?" asked dan. "to entrust to me the other half of the paper of directions written by franã§ois de boisdhyver, which you found in a secret cubby-hole in the old cabinet." "what makes you think that i was successful in finding that, when the marquis failed?" "because, at first having forgotten his precise directions after so many years, the marquis could not find the fourth and last hiding-place in the cabinet, in which he knew the marã©chal had placed the other half of the torn scrap of paper. another time he did find the cubby-hole, and it was empty. so knowing he was watched by you and mr. pembroke, he decided that you must have found it. is it not so, that you have it?" "it is certainly not in my possession at this moment," said dan. "no, but you have it?" "and if i have?" "it is necessary for our success." "then, my first service, is to put you into complete possession of the secret?" "if you will so express it." "very well, madame, i will do so; but, on one condition." "and what is that, my friend?" "that i be allowed to see nancy, and that she herself shall ask me to do as you desire." for a moment madame de la fontaine was silent. "_eh bien_," she said at last, "you do not trust me?" "but, dear madame, think of my situation, it is hard for me." "ah! i know it, believe me. _c'est difficile_. but i hoped you would trust me as i have you." "indeed, madame," exclaimed dan, "i must try to think of everything, the mystery, this extraordinary mission upon which you are engaged, the fact that i am quite literally your prisoner. when i think about you, i know only you are beautiful, that you are lovely, and that i am happy near you." she looked at him for a moment with a glance of anxious interrogation, as if to ask were it safe for her to believe these protestations. "you say, my friend," she asked at length, "that you care a little for me, for just me? _c'est impossible_. if claire de la fontaine could believe that, understand me, monsieur, it would be very sweet and very precious to her." "i do care," cried dan. "ah!" she exclaimed. "you have touched my heart. i am not a young girl, _mon ami_, but i confess that you have made me to know again the dreams of youth." "only let me prove that i care," cried dan, considering but little now to what he committed himself. "let me prove," cried she, "that i too believe in you. i must first see the marquis, and then, tonight, if it can be arranged, you shall receive from eloise de boisdhyver's own lips the request i have made of you. but if, for any reason, this cannot be arranged for to-night, you must be patient till morning; you must trust me to the extent of remaining on this ship. i cannot act entirely on my own judgment, but i assure you that in the end my judgment will prevail. and now, _au revoir_." she placed her hand in his, and responded to the impulsive pressure with which he clasped it. their eyes met; in dan's the frankest expression of her conquest of his emotions; in her's a glance at once tender and sad, above all a glance that seemed to search his spirit for assurance that he was in earnest. suddenly fired by her alluring beauty, dan drew her to him and bent his head to hers. "ah! my friend," she murmured, "you are taking an unfair advantage of the fact that this morning i too rashly yielded to an impulse." "i cannot help it," dan stammered. "you bewitch me." he bent lower to kiss her cheek, when he suddenly thrilled to the realization that his lips had met hers. a moment later madame de la fontaine was gone and captain bonhomme had reappeared in the doorway. chapter xiv in the fog tom pembroke was as good as his word. he returned to the little room, in which he had confined the marquis, within an hour after he had left him. it was then nearly supper-time and dusk was fast settling upon the gloomy countryside. an unwonted calm had fallen upon land and sea after the sharp blow of the previous night, but the sky was still gray and there was promise of more rain, if not of wind. to tom's indignation and alarm, though scarcely to his surprise, there had been no sign or word from dan or nancy. shortly after he had left the marquis, he saw, by aid of the field-glass, madame de la fontaine, attended by two seamen, leave the schooner and return to the house on the dunes. he smiled a little as he thought of the account the lively young maid-servant would give of his recent visit. but withal, he felt very much as if he were playing a game of blind man's buff and that he was "it." he was impatient for his interview with the marquis, though he was but little hopeful that an hour's confinement would have been sufficient to bring the old gentleman to terms. nor was he to be surprised. he found monsieur de boisdhyver huddled in a great arm chair near the fire that that been kindled on the hearth of his prison. the marquis glanced up, as tom entered, but dropped his eyes at once and offered him no greeting. tom placed his candle on the table and, drawing up a chair, seated himself between the marquis and the door. "well, sir," he said at last, "as i promised you, i have returned within an hour. have you anything to say to me?" "have i anything to say to you!" exclaimed the marquis. "for why, monsieur? if i venture to express my astonishment and indignation at the way i am treated, you subject me to a barbarity that could be matched no where else in the civilized world than in this extraordinary country. my life is menaced with firearms. my protests are sneered at. i have left but one inference--you have gone mad." "no, marquis," said pembroke, "i am not mad. i am simply determined that the mysteries by which we have been surrounded and of which you are the center, shall cease. you have a free choice: put me in the way of getting my friend and his sister back to the inn, or resign yourself to a prolonged confinement in this room." "but monsieur i have nothing to communicate to you concerning the disappearance of your friends." "pardon me, marquis," returned pembroke; "you have much to communicate to me. perhaps you are not aware that i know the motive of your coming to the inn at the red oak; that i know the reason for your prolonged stay here; that i know of the influence that you have acquired over nancy frost; and that i have been a witness of your midnight prowlings about the inn. nor am i in ignorance of your connection with the rascally-looking captain of the schooner at anchor in the cove and with the mysterious woman, who has taken possession of the house on the dunes. i am convinced that you know what has become of dan as well as what has happened to nancy. and, believe me, i am determined to find out." "_bien_!" exclaimed monsieur de boisdhyver, "permit me to wish you good luck in your undertaking. i repeat, monsieur pembroke, i have no information to give to you. i do not know to what extent i have been watched, but i may say with truth that my actions do not in the least concern you." "they concern my friends," said tom. "dan, as you know, is more to me than a brother; and as for his sister nancy, i hope and expect to make her my wife." "in that case," rejoined the marquis with ill-concealed irony, "i may be permitted to offer to you my congratulations. but even so, monsieur, there is nothing that i can do to facilitate your matrimonial plans." "you refuse then to come to terms?" asked pembroke. the marquis raised his hands with a gesture of despair. "what shall i say, monsieur? if you insisted upon my flying from here to yonder beach, i might have all the desire in the world to oblige you, but the fact would remain that i was without the means of doing so. since you are so little disposed to accept my protestations, i will no longer make them, but simply decline your proposal. and, pardon me, but so long as i am submitted to the indignity of this confinement, it would be a courtesy that i should appreciate if you would spare me your company." "very good," said tom. "your meals will be served regularly; and you may ask the servant for anything necessary. i shall not visit you again until you request me to do so." "_merci_," said the marquis drily. he rose from his seat as dan turned toward the door, and bowed ironically. pembroke went downstairs to have his supper with mrs. frost. he said what he could to pacify her, not altogether with success, for as darkness fell the old lady became increasingly apprehensive. "i know you are anxious, mrs. frost," said tom, "but you must not worry. try to believe that all will come out right. i am going out after supper, but i shall leave jesse and ezra on guard, and you may be sure everything will be safe." it was some time before mrs. frost would consent to his leaving the inn. if she had yielded to her inclinations, she would have spent the evening in hysterics with tom at hand to administer comfort. pembroke, however, deputed that office to black deborah, and immediately after supper set about his business. he gave the necessary instructions to jesse, ezra and the maids, saw that everything was closely locked and barred, supplied himself with arms and ammunition, and slipped out into the night. having saddled fleetwing, he swung himself on the young hunter's back, and trotted down the avenue to the port road. the night was intensely dark and still. the moon had not yet risen, and a thick fog rolled in from the sea, shrouding the countryside with its impenetrable veil. at the beach road pembroke dismounted, tied his horse to a fence rail, and proceeded thence on foot toward the cove. stumbling along through the heavy sand, he made his way to the boathouse at the northern end of the little beach. there he ventured to light his lantern, unlocked the door and stepped within. on either side of the entrance were the two sailboats that he and dan used in summer and to the rear was the old-fashioned whaleboat with which they did their deep fishing. over it, in a rudely constructed rack, was the indian birch-bark canoe which dan had purchased in the mountains a few years before. as the sea had fallen to a dead calm, he decided to use this canoe, which he could paddle quite noiselessly, and pulling down the little craft from its winter resting-place, he carried it to the water's edge. the sea, so angry the night before, now scarcely murmured; only a low lazy swell, at regularly recurring intervals, slapped the shore and hissed upon the sands. tom pushed the nose of the canoe into the water, leaped lightly over the rail, and with his paddle thrust it off the beach. he was launched without mishap. not the faintest gleam of light showed the position of the _southern cross_, but estimating as well as he could the general direction, he paddled out through the enshrouding fog. for ten minutes or so, he pushed on into the strange, misty night. then suddenly he found himself alongside an old fisherman's yawl that had been rotting all winter at her moorings, and he knew from her position that he could not be far from the _southern cross_. a few more strokes to leeward, and a spot of dull light broke through the darkness. he headed directly for it. to his relief it grew brighter; when suddenly, too late to stop the progress of his canoe, he shot under it, and the bow of his craft bumped with a dull thud against the timber side of the schooner. its dark outlines were just perceptible above him; and at one or two points there gleamed rays of light in the fog, green and red from the night lamps on the masthead, and dull yellow from the port holes in the rear. a second after the contact the canoe receded, then the wash of the sea drew her toward the stern. another moment and pembroke felt his prow scrape gently against the rudder, which prevented further drifting. apparently, since he heard nothing from the deck above, he had reached his goal without attracting attention. he kept perfectly still, however, for some little time, until satisfied that there was no one at the wheel above, he pushed the canoe softly back to the rope ladder, that a day or so before he had seen hanging over the side. it was the work of a moment to make his little boat fast to the lower rung. then slipping over the rail, he climbed stealthily up till his head protruded above the gunwhale. the immediate deck seemed deserted; but he was sure that some one was keeping the watch, and probably near the point where he was, that is to say, where access to the deck was easiest. but the fog and the darkness afforded him protection, as he climbed over the gunwhale and, without making a sound, moved toward the stern, crossed the after-deck and found the wheel. as he had surmised, it was deserted. the watch evidently was forward. beneath him, sending its ineffectual rays obliquely into the fog, shone the light from the little cabin below. determined to get a look through the port, he climbed over the gunwhale again, fastened a stern-sheet about his waist and to a staple, and at the risk, if he slipped or if the rope gave way, of plunging head foremost into the icy waters of the cove, he let himself down until his head was on a level of the port. through the blurred glass he peered into a tiny cabin. there with back toward him, just a few feet away stood nancy frost. he steadied himself with an effort, and looking again saw that she was alone. a moment's hesitation, and he tapped resolutely on the pane with his finger tips. at first nancy did not hear, but presently, aroused by the slight tapping, she glanced with a frightened expression toward the door, and stood anxiously listening. tom continued to knock on the window, not daring to make it louder for fear of being heard above. the alarm deepened on nancy's face, and in sheer pity tom was tempted to desist; but at that instant her attention was riveted upon the spot whence the tapping came. at last, still with the expression of alarm on her face, she came slowly toward the port. she hesitated, then pressed her face against the pane over which tom had spread his fingers. at whatever risk, of frightening her or of danger to himself, as she drew back, he pressed his own face against the outside of the little window glass. she stared at him as if she were looking at a ghost. he moved his lips to form the word "open." at length, in obedience to this direction, nancy cautiously unloosened the window of the port and drew it back. "good heavens, tom!" she whispered. "is it you?" "yes, yes," pembroke whispered back. "but for god's sake, speak softly. i'm in a devilishly unpleasant position, and can hang here but a minute. tell me quickly--are you here of your own free will or are you a prisoner?" "how can you ask?" she exclaimed. "for the love of heaven, help me to escape." "that's what i'm here for," was toms reply. "now, quick; are you only locked in or barred as well? i've brought some keys along." "only locked, i think." "where does that door lead?" "into a little passage off the companion-way. give me your keys. they have but one man on watch. the captain is on shore to-night, apt to return at any moment. and you?" "i have a canoe tied to the ladder on the shore side. if the captain returns, i'm caught. try those keys." he slipped into her the bunch of keys that he had brought along. "i was sure you were here, and against your will." "dan, too, is locked up on board." "i thought as much; but you first. hurry." nancy sprang to the door, trying one key after another in feverish haste. at last, to tom's infinite relief, he saw the key turn in the lock, and the door open. "on deck," she whispered; "at the ladder. i'm not likely to be caught." then she waved her hand and disappeared into the passage. tom pulled himself up, unloosed the rope, and stole along the rail toward the ladder. for a few moments, which seemed like a thousand years, he stood in anguished suspense waiting for nancy. then suddenly she came out of the mist and was at his side. they stood for a moment like disembodied spirits, creatures of the night and the fog. the next instant a hand shot out and grasped the girl's shoulder. "_peste! mam'zelle_," a rough voice hissed, "_ou allez-vous_?" as the man spoke tom swung at him with the butt of his revolver, and without a murmur the figure fell to the deck. "quick now," pembroke whispered, "down the ladder." instantly nancy was over the rail and tom was climbing down after her. as he knelt in the bow and fumbled with the painter, the plash of oars sounded a dozen yards away. "_ho! croix du midi_!" came a hail through the fog. "curse it!" muttered tom; "the painter's caught." he drew out his knife, slashed the rope that bound them to the schooner, got to his place amidships, and pushed the canoe free. the lights of a small boat were just emerging from the dark a dozen feet away. but the canoe slid by unobserved, in the fog. they heard the nose of the small boat bump against the schooner; then an oath, and a man's voice calling the watch. "they've found my painter," whispered tom, "and in a second they'll find the sailor on their deck." the lights of the _southern cross_ grew dim; vanished; the sound of angry voices became muffled. they were half-way to shore when they heard the noise of oars again. evidently some one had started in pursuit. for a moment tom rested, listening intently; but the sound was still some distance away. probably, he thought, they were heading directly for the shore, whereas he, at a considerable angle, was making for the boathouse at the north end of the beach. in ten minutes he had beached the canoe within a rod of the point from where he embarked. "i can't hear them," whispered tom, after a moment's listening. "they've made for shore down the beach. they can't find us in the dark. i've got fleetwing tied to a fence in the meadow yonder. come." it was the work of a moment to stow the canoe, lock the boathouse, run across the sands, and mount nancy in front of him on the back of his trusty hunter. a second later fleetwing's hoofs were striking fire on the stones that the high tides had washed into the beach road. in the distance there was a cry, the sharp ring of a pistol shot; but they were safe on their way, racing wildly for the inn. the escape, the adventure had thrilled nancy. tom's arms were around her, and her hands on his that grasped the bridle. at last they were in the avenue, and tom pulled in under the great branches of the red oak. he slipped from the back of the horse and held out his arms to nance. "we are safe, girl," he whispered. "you are sure? oh, thank god, thank god! quick, let us in! can they be following?" "no, no. they won't follow. it's all right. easy,--before we go in--please, dear--once--kiss me." "oh, tom, tom," she whispered, as she lifted her face to his. "i have you at last, sweetheart," he murmured. "you love me?" "ah!" she cried, "with my whole heart and soul." chapter xv nancy it was after eleven before nancy rejoined tom in the bar. she seemed more like herself as she slipped in and took her accustomed seat beside the blazing logs. "oh, i am all right, thank you," she insisted, declining the glass of wine that pembroke poured out for her. "i wonder, tom, if you killed that poor wretch on the deck?" "don't know," tom answered. "i hope so. but what the deuce, nance, has been happening? i can wait till to-morrow to hear, if you are too tired to tell me; but i do want awfully to know." "i am not tired," nancy replied, "and i shan't sleep a wink anyway. if i close my eyes i'll feel that hand on my shoulder and hear the thud of that man's fall on the deck. i can't bear to think that this miserable business will bring bloodshed." "but tell me, nance, who is the marquis--what happened--how did they get you away?" "ah! the marquis," exclaimed nancy with a shudder. "i am glad you have him locked up. i can't bear to think of him, but i'll tell you what i know. you remember, tom, he tried to be friends with me from the first; and he seemed to fascinate me in some unaccountable way. then he questioned me about my identity, and began to drop hints that he knew more than he cared to let appear to the others, and my curiosity was excited. i have always known of course that there was some mystery about my being left to mrs. frost's care. she has been kind, good, all that she should be; but she wasn't my mother. well, the marquis stirred all the old wonder that i had as a child, and before long quite won my confidence. he told me after a time that i was the daughter of his elder brother, the marquis franã§ois de boisdhyver, who in 1814 stayed here at the inn at the red oak under the name of general pointelle. i was not altogether surprised, for i have always believed that i was french by birth, and his assertion that i was his niece seemed to account for his interest in me. my father, if this marquis de boisdhyver was my father, was one of the emperor napoleon's marshals and was a party to the plot to rescue the emperor from elba. he was obliged to return to france, and since it was impossible for him to take me with him--i was a little girl of two at the time--he left me with mrs. frost. thinking of my future, he hid a large treasure in some secret chamber off the oak parlour." "i know," tom interrupted. "what? you mean there is a treasure?" "i think there is; but go on. i will tell you afterwards." "then he set sail for france, took part in the great events of the hundred days, and fell at waterloo. it was on the field of waterloo that he met his younger brother--our marquis--and told him about the child left in america and about the treasure hidden in the inn at the red oak." "well," nancy continued, having answered a volley of questions from tom, "the marquis--i mean our old marquis--was held for many years in a military prison in england. upon his release he was poor and unable to come to america to seek his little niece and the fortune that he believed to be hidden in the inn. tom, at first i didn't believe this strange story about a treasure; but gradually i became convinced; for the marquis believed in it thoroughly, and for proof of it he showed me a torn scrap of paper that he found in the cabinet in the oak parlour the day after he arrived at the inn. it seems the old marshal had torn the paper in two and hidden the parts in different cubby-holes of that old dorsetshire cabinet. he couldn't find an opportunity to hunt for the other half, so at last he persuaded me to help him in the search. of course, he swore me to secrecy, and i was foolish enough to give him my promise. i got the key to the bowling alley from the ring in dan's closet, and two or three times went with him at night after you all were asleep." "i know you did," said tom. "how could you know it--has the marquis--?" "no, dan and i saw you. i woke one night, happened to look out of the window and saw the marquis going into the bowling alley. it was moonlight, you know. i woke dan, we slipped down stairs, saw a light in the oak parlour, peeped through the shutters and saw you and the old marquis at the cabinet." "when was this?" asked nancy. "the night--before our walk in the woods." "and you did not tell me! what could you think i was doing?" "i didn't know. how could i know? it was that which first made me suspicious of the marquis. we made up our minds to watch. but that day in the woods--well, i forgot everything in the world but just that i was in love with you." "ah!" exclaimed nancy, flushing. "but tell me," asked tom, "what did you find in the cabinet?" "we found nothing. i began to think that the marquis had deceived me. i didn't know what to believe. i didn't know what to do. i threatened each day to tell dan. and then came our walk. when we came in that night--do you recall?--we found the marquis sitting in the bar before the fire, and i went over and spoke to him." "yes, i remember," tom answered. "i had made up my mind that i must take you all,--mother and you and dan,--into my confidence. i told him so. he begged me to wait until the next day and promised that he would tell you then himself. i was beginning to think he might be a little crazy, that there was no hidden treasure." "i'm sure there is," said tom. "there was another half of that torn scrap of paper, hidden in one of the cubby-holes of the old cabinet. dan found it. it's the directions, sure enough, for finding the treasure." "ah! but what has it all to do with me?" "i don't know; something i fancy, or the marquis would not have told you as much as he did. but here is the other half. you can tell whether it is part of the paper he showed you." he drew from his pocket the yellowed bit of paper and spread it on the table before them. nance bent over and examined it closely. "i believe it is the other half. see, it is signed ...'anã§ois de boisdhyver'. i remember perfectly that the signature of the other was missing, except for the letters 'f-r-' it is, it must be, franã§ois de boisdhyver, who, the marquis says, was my father. then look! here are the words '_trã©sor', 'bijoux et monaie_'. i remember in the other there were phrases that seemed to go with these--'_trã©sor cachã©' 'lingots d'or_'. ah! do you suppose there really is a fortune hidden away in the inn all these years?" "yes, i think so," said tom. "and i feel certain you have some claim to it, or they wouldn't have made such an effort to involve you in their plot. but, please, nance, tell me the rest. you got to the night of your disappearance." "it was a horror--that night!" exclaimed nancy. "it must have been about twelve that the marquis came and tapped at my door. for some reason i was restless and had not gone to bed. i slipped out into the hall with him and we came in here to talk. he begged me to make one more expedition with him to the oak parlour. but i refused--i insisted that i must tell dan. suddenly, tom, without the slightest warning, i felt my arms pinioned from behind, and before i could scream, the marquis himself had thrust a handkerchief in my mouth, and i was gagged and bound. everything was done so quickly, so noiselessly, that not a soul in the house could have heard. they carried me out of the inn and into the avenue of maples. from there on i was forced to walk. we went to the beach. i was put into a small boat and rowed out to the schooner, and there they locked me up in the little cabin in which you found me." "what time did you say it was?" asked tom. "about twelve--after midnight, perhaps; i don't know for sure. the marquis went to the beach with us and pretended to assure me that i was in no danger; that i would be released in good time, and that he would see me again. as a matter of fact for three days i have seen no one but captain bonhomme. he brought my meals, and was inclined to talk about anything that come into his head. last night he told me that dan was also a prisoner on the _southern cross_, if that would be of any consolation to me. then he said he had to go ashore and locked me up. several times i was taken on deck for exercise, but the captain kept close by my side." "and you haven't seen or heard from the marquis again?" "no! nor do i want to see him. but, tom, what is the meaning of it all? how are we going to rescue dan? what are we going to do? we can't keep the marquis a prisoner indefinitely." tom gave her his own version of the last few days. he told her of what he and dan had suspected, of dan's proposal to visit the house on the dunes and his disappearance, of his own investigations there, and his determination to play the same game with the marquis as hostage. "but what to do next, i confess i don't know," he continued. "at present it seems to be stale mate. for to-night, any way, we are safe, i think, for i shall take turns in keeping guard with jesse and ezra. i have the idea that to-morrow, when they realize something has happened to the marquis we shall hear from madame de la fontaine or from the schooner. in the morning i am going to take you and mrs. frost to the red farm for safety. i intend to fight this thing out with that gang, whatever happens. if there is treasure, according to their own story, it belongs to you. if i don't get a proposal from them, i shall make the offer, through madame de la fontaine, of exchanging the marquis for dan.... but i must go now, nance, and relieve one of the men. we must all get some sleep to-night, and it's already after twelve. go to bed, sweetheart, and try to get some rest. one of us will be within call all night, watching right there in the hall; so don't be afraid." "it was my wretched curiosity that got us into all this trouble." "not a bit of it! the trouble was all arranged by the marquis; he was simply waiting for the schooner. now that i have you back again, my heart is fairly light. we shall get dan to-morrow, i am sure." chapter xvi madame at the inn in the morning the fog lifted, a bright sun shone from a cloudless sky, the marshes sparkled with pools of melted snow and the long-promised thaw seemed definitely to have set in. soon after breakfast tom sent jesse to the red farm with directions for the people there to make preparations for mrs. frost and nancy, whom he proposed to drive over himself in the course of the afternoon. about the middle of the morning as tom and nancy stood on the gallery discussing the situation, tom drew her attention to a small boat putting off from _the southern cross_. they examined it through the glass, and nancy recognized the figure of captain bonhomme sitting amongst the stern-sheets. "you may depend upon it," said tom, "he is going to the house on the dunes to report your disappearance to madame de la fontaine. the most curious thing about this whole business to me is the mixing-up in it of such a woman as dan described madame de la fontaine to be." "it is strange," nancy agreed, "but from the bits of talk i've overheard, i should say that she was the prime mover in it all." "in a way i am rather glad of that," said tom, "for with a woman at the head of things there is less chance of their resorting to force to gain their ends. but the stake they are playing for must be a big one, and already they have done enough to make me sure that we should be prepared for anything. i shall be surprised if we don't get some communication from them to-day. the old marquis counts on it, or he would not keep so still. at any cost, we must get dan back." they talked for some time longer and were about to go in, when nancy pointed to a horse and rider coming down the avenue of maples. a glance sufficed to show that the rider was a woman. nancy slipped inside to escape observation, while tom waited on the gallery to receive the visitor. as the lady drew rein under the red oak, he ran down the steps, and helped her to dismount. her grace, her beauty, her manner as of the great world, made him sure that he was in the presence of madame de la fontaine. "good morning, sir," said the lady, with a charming smile, "if i mistake not, i have the pleasure of addressing mr. pembroke?" "yes, madam,--at you service," replied tom. "i am come on a strange errand, monsieur; as an ambassadress, so to say, of those whom i fear you take to be your enemies." "you are frank, madam. i believe that i am speaking with--?" "madame de la fontaine," the lady instantly supplied. "events have so precipitated themselves, monsieur, that pretense and conventionality were an affectation. i am informed, you understand, of your brilliant rescue of mademoiselle eloise de boisdhyver." "if you mean nancy frost by mademoiselle eloise de boisdhyver, madam, your information is correct. i gathered that you had been told of this, when i saw captain bonhomme make his way to the house on the dunes this morning." "ah! what eyes, monsieur!" exclaimed the lady. "but i have grown accustomed to having my privacy examined over-curiously during the few days i have spent on your hospitable shores. _mais pardon_--my purpose in coming to the inn at the red oak this morning was but to request that my name be conveyed to monsieur the marquis de boisdhyver." "you mean, madam, that you wish to see the marquis?" "yes, monsieur, if you will be so good as to allow me to do so." "i am sorry," tom rejoined, "that i must disappoint you. circumstances over which the marquis has no control will deprive him of the pleasure of seeing you this morning." "ah!" exclaimed madame de la fontaine, "i was right then. monsieur le marquis is, shall we say, in confinement?" "as you please, madam; as safe, for the time, as is my friend dan frost." "_eh bien_, monsieur! it is that you have--do you not say?--turned the tables upon us?" "precisely, madam," assented tom. "and you will not permit me even a word--ever so little a word--with my poor friend?" murmured madame de la fontaine plaintively. "again i am sorry to refuse you, madam; but--not even a little word." "so! _mais oui_, i am not greatly surprised. i was assured last night...." "when you did not see the signals?" suggested tom quickly. "when i did not see the signals," repeated the lady, with a glance of the briefest enquiry, "i was assured that something had befallen monsieur le marquis. _mais vraiment_, monsieur, you do us much dishonour in assuming a wicked conspiracy on our parts. the marquis is my friend; he is also the friend of the charming mademoiselle. all that we wish, all that we would do is as much in her interest as in his own. but it is impossible that my old friend shall remain in confinement. on what condition, monsieur, will you release the marquis de boisdhyver?" "on the condition, naturally, that my friend dan frost is released from the _southern cross_." "ah! is it that you are quite sure that monsieur frost is confined on the ship?" "quite sure, madame de la fontaine. i was on board _the southern cross_ last night." "yes, i know it; and i congratulate you upon your extraordinary success. very well, then, i accept your condition. monsieur dan frost returns; monsieur le marquis is released. and now you will perhaps have the kindness--" "no, madame; in this affair the marquis and his friends have been the aggressors. i cannot consent that you should hold any communication with the marquis till dan returns free and unharmed to the inn." "and what assurance then shall i have that the marquis will be released?" "none, madame, but my word of honour." "_pardon, monsieur_. i accept your terms. monsieur frost shall return. the instant he enters the inn at the red oak, you promise that the marquis de boisdhyver be released and that he be given this note from me?" "certainly, madam." the lady took a sealed note from the pocket of her habit and handed it to tom. "there remains, monsieur," she murmured, "but to bid you good-day. if you will be so kind--" she ran lightly down the steps, and held up her foot for tom to assist her into the saddle. "your friend will return _tout de suite_, monsieur," she cried gayly, as she drew in the rein. "and we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again?" asked tom. "ah! who can tell?" she touched the horse lightly with her whip, inclined her head, and soon disappeared down the avenue of maples. some time later nancy and tom watched her cantering across the beach. she waved her handkerchief as a signal to the schooner; a small boat put ashore, and she was rowed out to _the southern cross_. "once dan is back, and we get rid of the old marquis," said tom, "i shall breathe considerably easier." "i can't believe they will give the game up so easily," was nancy's reply. "seizing the marquis, tom, was a check, not a mate." out on the schooner in the cove, madame de la fontaine and dan frost were once more talking together. "dear boy," said the lady. "i cannot do that which i promised. it is impossible that your sister shall make to you the request to give me the torn scrap of paper, for the reason that mademoiselle nancy has chosen to disappear. have no fear, monsieur, for i have good reason to believe she has returned to the inn at the red oak. our schemes, _mon ami_, have failed. you are no longer a prisoner, you are free. and this is good-bye. i abandon our mission. i leave the house on the dunes to-day; to-morrow i return to france." "but, madame, you bewilder me," exclaimed dan. "why should you go; why should we not all join forces, hunt for the treasure together, if there is a treasure; why this division of interests?" "_c'est impossible_!" she exclaimed impetuously. "monsieur le marquis will not consent. he is treated with intolerable rudeness by your friend mr. pembroke. he will not accept that which i propose. and i--_vraiment, i_ desire no longer to work against you. no, monsieur dan, _tout est fini_, we must say good-bye." she held out her hands and dan impetuously seized them. then, suddenly, she was in his arms and his lips were seeking hers. "i cannot let you go," he cried hoarsely. "i cannot say good-bye." for a moment he held her, but soon, almost brusquely, she repulsed him. "_c'est folie, mon ami, folie_! we lose our heads, we lose our hearts." "but i love you," cried dan. "you must believe it; will you believe it if i give you the paper?" "no, no!--what!--you wish to give to me the secret of the oak parlour?--" "aye, to entrust to you my life, my soul, my honour." "ah, but you must go," she murmured tensely. "captain bonhomme is returning. it is better that he knows of your release after you are gone. _c'est vrai_, my friend, that i risk not a little in your behalf. go now, quickly ... no! no!" she protested, as she drew away from him. "i tell you, _c'est folie_,--madness and folly. you do not know me. go now, while there is time!" "but you will see me again?" insisted dan. "promise me that; or, on my honour, i refuse to leave. do with me what you will, but--" "listen!" she whispered hurriedly. "i shall meet you to-night at ten o'clock, at the end of the avenue of maples near to your inn; you know the place? _bien_! bring me the paper there, to prove that you trust me. and i--_mais non_, i implore you--go quickly!" dan turned at last and opened the door. madame de la fontaine called sharply to the waiting jean, and he, motioning to dan to follow him, led the way on deck. in a moment they were in a little boat heading for the shore. the afternoon sun was bright in the western sky. the _southern cross_ rode serenely at anchor, and from her deck, madame de la fontaine was waving him good-bye. chapter xvii the marquis leaves the inn by the time dan was put ashore on the beach of the cove it was afternoon. during the short row from the schooner he had been unable to exchange remarks with the surly jean, for that individual's only response to his repeated efforts, was a surly "_je ne parle pas anglais_," which seemed to answer as a general formula to the conspirators. he gave up at last in disgust, and waited impatiently for the small boat to be beached, distrustful lest at the last moment some fresh trick be played upon him. not that his ingenuous faith in the beautiful french lady failed him, but he was suspicious lest, having acted independently of the marquis and captain bonhomme in releasing him, she should not have the power to make that release genuinely effective. but his apprehensions were groundless. the seaman rowed straight for the shore, beached the boat with a last sturdy pull at the oars, and leaping out into the curling surf, held the skiff steady. "thank you very much," said dan, shaking the spray from his coat. "eh?" grunted jean. "oh!--beg pardon!--_merci_," he explained, exaggerating the pronunciation of the french word. "huh!" was the gutteral reply, as the man jumped back into the skiff, and pushed off. dan looked once more towards the distant schooner and the slight figure in the stern. then he started at a rapid pace for the inn. as he turned into the avenue of maples, he was surprised to see jesse standing on the gallery, musket in hand, as though he were a sentinel on guard. "bless my soul, mister dan! i thought the frenchies had made way with you. you're a blessed sight to lay eyes on. but mister tom was right, he said you'd be coming back this afternoon." "well, here i am, jesse," dan replied grasping his hand, "as large as life and twice as natural, i guess. i feel as if i'd been away for a year and a day. but tell me, what's the news? where is tom? has nancy come back? how is mother? have you been having trouble, that you are guarding the door like a soldier on duty?" "well, now, mister dan, one at a time, _if_ you please. can't say exactly as we've been havin' trouble; but we've sort of been lookin' for it. and mister tom--" "where is tom? i must see him at once.' "he ain't here, sir; he left about an hour ago, driving the old miss and miss nancy to the red farm, sir; so as to be out of harm's way. he'll be back before night, sir." "ah, good! then nance is back? when did she come?" "she come back last night, sir; leastways mister tom brought her back. mister tom, he got the idea that they'd cooped miss nance up on that there schooner laying in the cove, and sure enough, he found her there and got her off somehows last night." "good for tom! how did he work it?" "i ain't heard no particulars, mister dan. we've been too busy watching things to talk much. we got ezra manners out from the port to help do guard duty." "guard?--what?" "why, the inn, sir. mister tom he's been sort of expectin' some kind of attack. that's the reason he took the women folks over to the red farm." "i see--and where's the old marquis?" jesse chuckled. "the old marquis's where he hasn't been doin' any harm for the last twenty-four hours, sir. mister tom he locked him up last night in one of the south bedrooms. that reminds me, i was to let him out just as soon as you come back." "why lock him up, and then let him out? things have been moving at the inn, jess, since i've been gone!" "moving--yes, sir. but them's my orders--first thing i was to do soon as you come back was to let the old frenchy out and do as he pleased. mister tom was to arrange everything else with you, sir." "seems as if tom had a whole campaign planned out. all right--we'll obey orders, jess. let the marquis out, and tell him he can find me in the bar if he wants to see me. what time will tom be back?" "before dark, sir, i'm sure. he's been gone over an hour." dan ran up to his bedroom, made a quick toilet, took the torn scrap of paper from his strong-box, and put it in his wallet. then he went down stairs into the bar. the marquis, released from his confinement, was awaiting him. "ah, monsieur frost!" the old gentleman exclaimed, coming forward with outstretched hands, "i rejoice at your return. now this so horrible nightmare will end... ah!" this last exclamation was uttered in a tone of surprise and indignation, for dan faced him with folded arms, deliberately refusing the handclasp. "yes, marquis," he said, "i have returned; but i cannot say that i am particularly pleased to see you." "monsieur, _te me comprends pas_; this abuse, this insult--it is impossible that i understand." "pray, monsieur de boisdhyver," replied dan, with dignity, "let us have done with make-believe and sham. for two days i have been in prison on that confounded ship yonder, whose villainous crew are in your pay." "you in prison--the ship--the villainous crew!" repeated the marquis. "what is it that you say?" "come, marquis, your protests are useless," dan interrupted. "i know of the conspiracy in which you are engaged, of your deceit and trickery here, of your part in my poor sister's disappearance. you know that madame de la fontaine has told me much. do you expect me to meet you as though nothing had happened?" "but, _mon cher, monsieur_," continued the marquis, "if it is that you have been told anything by madame de la fontaine, my so good friend, the bright angel of an old age too-cruelly shattered by misfortune, you well know how innocent are my designs, how sincere my efforts for your foster-sister, for her who is my niece." "marquis, i do not understand all that has taken place. i may say further that i do not care to discuss the situation with you until i have talked with my sister and mr. pembroke." "ah! then eloise--then mademoiselle nancy, is returned?" exclaimed the old gentleman. "i believe so. but i have not seen her. i must decline, marquis, to continue this conversation. i must first learn what has taken place in my absence. when tom returns--he is out just now--i am perfectly willing to talk matters over with you and him together." the marquis's eyes flashed. "but, monsieur," he protested, "you must understand that i cannot submit to meet with monsieur pembroke again. a marquis de boisdhyver does not twice put himself in the position to be insulted with impunity." "i should hardly imagine," dan replied, "that it would be more difficult for you to meet pembroke again than it has been difficult for me to meet you." "how--me?--_je ne comprends pas_. but i have been insulted, imprisoned, i have suffered much that is terrible." "i found myself in an identical situation," said dan. "but, monsieur, _un moment_" protested the old gentleman, as dan made as if to leave the room, "give me the time to explain to you this misunderstanding.--" "no, marquis. i will not talk until i have seen tom." the black eyes of monsieur de boisdhyver gleamed unpleasantly. "i have said to you, monsieur frost, that i refuse to meet monsieur tom pembroke once more. it would be intolerable. _impossible, absolutment_! i must insist that you will be kind enough to facilitate my departure at once." "certainly, as you wish, marquis." the old gentleman hesitated. for once indecision was shown by the agitation of his features and the shifting of his eyes, but he gave no other expression to the quandaries in his mind. after a moment's silence he drew himself up with exaggerated dignity. with one hand upon his breast and the other extended, in a fashion at once absurd and a little pathetic, he addressed dan for the last time, as might an ambassador taking leave of a sovereign upon his declaration of war. "monsieur, i renew my gratitude for the hospitality of the inn at the red oak, so long enjoyed, so discourteously withdrawn. i require but the presentation of my account for the time, i have trespassed upon your good will, and i request the assistance of a servant to facilitate my departure. but i do not take my farewell without protesting, _avec tout mon coeur_, at the misunderstanding to which i am persistently subjected. the inevitable bitterness in my soul does not prevent me even now to forget the sweet hours of rest that i have enjoyed here. the unwillingness on your part, monsieur, to comprehend my position, does not interfere to stifle in my breast the consciousness but of honourable purpose. i make my compliments to mesdames." "very good, marquis--and at what time shall i have a carriage ready for you?" the marquis glanced nonchalantly at his watch, "in fifteen minutes, monsieur." "it will be ready, marquis." "your very obedient servant; monsieur frost." "your obedient servant, marquis de boisdhyver." the old gentleman bowed again with elaborate courtesy and, turning sharply on his heel, left the room. somewhat disturbed by the turn affairs had taken, dan stood for a moment lost in thought. there was nothing for it, he supposed: tom, who had been in command, had given orders, and they should be obeyed; besides there was no reason that he could see why the marquis should be detained at the inn if he chose to leave it. so he sat down at a table, made out the old gentleman's bill for the month, and then stepped to the door to call for jesse. "take this," he said when the man appeared in response to his summons, "to the old marquis. it is the bill for his board. if he pays you, well and good; if not--in any case, treat him courteously, and do not interfere with his movements. he is leaving the inn for good. i want you to have the buggy ready within half-an-hour and drive him where he wishes to go. i fancy he will want his stuff put on the schooner in the cove." "all right, sir," replied jesse. "now that you and miss nance are back, sir, i guess the sooner we get rid of the marquis the better." jesse carried the bill to the marquis, then came down and went to the barn to harness the horse. a little later he drove round to the courtyard, hitched the horse to a ring in the red oak, and ran upstairs to fetch the marquis's boxes. perhaps half-an-hour had passed when he returned to dan in the bar. "the old gentleman's gone, sir," he said. "gone!--where?" cried dan. "don't know, sir," jesse replied. "to the schooner, i guess. he left this money on his dressing-bureau." dan took the gold which jesse held out to him. "well, well," he murmured, "quite on his dignity, eh? all right, jess, take his stuff to the beach and hail the schooner. he will probably have given directions. i hope we've seen the last of him." part iv the attack on the inn chapter xviii the avenue of maples the marquis's belongings were sent after him to the schooner, where, however, it appeared that they had not been expected, for it was some time before jesse could obtain an answer to his hail from the shore, and still longer before he could make the men on the ship understand what it was he wanted with them. eventually captain bonhomme had rowed ashore, and the marquis's bags, boxes, writing-desk, and fiddle were loaded into the small boat and taken off to _the southern cross_. it appeared from jesse's report that the captain had been sufficiently polite, and had attributed the misunderstanding of his men to their inability to speak english. they had not gotten their orders for the marquis. he had asked no further questions about monsieur de boisdhyver or about his recent prisoners, but had feed jesse liberally, and dismissed him, with his own and the marquis's thanks. "well," said tom, who had returned an hour before and had been exchanging experiences with dan, "that seems to be the end of him for the present. i don't know that i did right in promising your french lady that i should release him, but there seemed no other way to make sure of getting you back." "i am glad you promised," replied dan. "it is a relief not to have him under our roof. for the last week i've felt as if the place were haunted by an evil spirit." "so it has been, and so it still will be, i am afraid," was tom's reply. "if there is treasure here, you may be sure that gang won't sail away without making a desperate effort to get it. i move that we beat them out by hunting for it ourselves. why not begin to-night?" "not to-night," protested dan. "i am tired to death. you can imagine that i didn't get much sleep cooped up on that confounded ship." "no more have i, old boy. but i believe in striking while the iron is hot. every day's delay gives them a better chance for their plans, if they mean to attack the inn." "i doubt if they'll do that. i don't think force is precisely their line. you know, i believe that the story madame de la fontaine told isn't altogether a fiction." "pshaw!" exclaimed tom. "i don't believe a word of it. naturally they wouldn't use force, if they could help it. but their plans have all been upset, and a gang like that won't stop at anything." "but we live in a civilized community, my boy. this isn't the middle ages." "we live in a civilized community, perhaps; but if you can find a more isolated spot, a place more remote from help, in any other part of the civilized world, i'd be glad to see it. we might as well be in the middle of the sahara desert. find the treasure and get it out of harm's way--that's my idea." "all right, but to-morrow; i swear i'm not up to it to-night." "to-morrow! well, then to-morrow. though for the life of me, i don't see why you want to delay things. jesse and ezra can keep watch tonight." "but we must get some sleep, tom." "the devil with sleep! however, you're the boss now. it's your inn, your treasure, your sister, that are involved. i'll take a back seat." "come, come, tom--don't let's quarrel. give me to-night to--to get myself together, and tomorrow i'll pull the inn down with you, if you wish." perhaps dan was right, he did need rest and sleep and a few hours would restore him. they had their supper, then, apportioned the night into watches, and dan went upstairs for his first period of sleep. his brain was a-whirl. all through the afternoon, during his talk with the marquis, and later during his talk with tom, one idea had been dominating his thought, dictating his plan of action, colouring his judgment. the fascination which madame de la fontaine exerted over his senses was too strong for him even to contemplate resisting it. she was confessedly in league with a gang of adventurers upon a quest for treasure. she had lied to him at first about the marquis, she had lied to him about nancy, she had lied to him about his release; and when she had left him under the pretext of arranging his return to the inn, she had in fact gone to tom to bargain an exchange of him for the old marquis. her lies, her subterfuges, her flatteries, had been evidently designed but to get possession of the torn scrap of paper which was so necessary to their finding the hidden treasure. all this dan told himself a hundred times, and then, quickly dispelling the witness of these cold hard facts, there would flash before him the vision of her wonderful eyes, of her strange appealing beauty, of her stirring personality; he would feel once more the touch of her cheek and her lips pressing his, intoxicating as wine; and delicious fires flamed through his veins, and set his heart to beating, and made havoc of his honour and his conscience. whatever were the consequences, he would meet her again that night as he had promised. it was his first experience of passion and it was sweeping him off his feet. alone in his room dan sat down at the table. he drew from his pocket the torn paper, and as an act of justice to the friends he felt that he was about to betray, he labourously made a copy of the difficult french handwriting. this done, he locked the copy in his strong box and put the original back in his pocket. then, like the criminal he thought himself to be, he crept cautiously down the stairs. the door into the bar was open, and he stood for a moment, shoes in hand, peering into the dimly-lit room. tom sat by the hearth, reading, a pipe in his mouth and a cocked pistol on the table by his side. a pang went through dan's breast, but he checked the impulse to speak, and stole softly across the hall and into his mother's parlour. ever so cautiously he closed the door behind him, crossed the room, and raised the sash of one of the windows. it was dark, but starlight; the moon had not yet risen. in a moment he had slipped over the sill and stood upon the porch. lowering the sash, he crept across the band of light that shone from the windows of the bar, and into the shadow of the red oak. there he buttoned his great coat tightly about him, put on his shoes, and started softly down the avenue of maples. scarcely a sound disturbed the silence of the night, save the lazy creaking of the windmill as it turned now and then to the puff of a gentle breeze. at every few steps, he paused to listen, fearful lest his absence had been detected and he were followed by some one from the inn. then he would start on again, peering eagerly into the darkness ahead for any sign of her whom he sought. at last he reached the end of the avenue. his heart was beating wildly, in a very terror that she might not come. nothing--no catastrophe, no danger, no disgrace,--could be so terrible to him as that the woman he loved so recklessly and madly should not come. she must not fail! he looked at his watch; it was already three minutes past ten. if in five--then minutes she did not come, he would go to seek her--to the house on the dunes, aye, if must be to _the southern cross_ itself. suddenly a dark figure slipped out of the gloom, and claire de la fontaine was in his arms. for a moment she let him clasp her, let his lips again meet hers; then quickly she disengaged herself. "are we safe?" she asked in a whisper. "is it that we can talk here." "we are perfectly safe," he answered. "nothing can be heard from the inn. no one is about." "you escaped without notice? are you certain that no one follows you?" "absolutely. i am sure. and you?" "i?--oh, no, no--. there is no one to question me. i have been at the house on the dunes all the evening. marie, my maid,--she thinks that i am gone to the schooner. _mon dieu! cher ami_, what terrors i have suffered for you. it had not seemed possible that claire de la fontaine would ride and walk two so long miles in a desolate country to meet a lover--it must be that we are gone mad." "madness then is the sweetest experience of life," said dan, seizing her hand again and carrying it to his lips. "ah _peut-etre, mon ami_. but now there are many affairs to discuss. tell me--the marquis, he was released, as your friend has promised me he should be?" "of course, didn't you know it?" "i know nothing. why then is it he has not left the inn?" "but he did leave--in the middle of the afternoon, half an hour after i returned." "and where is it that he has gone?" "to the schooner, i suppose. he left alone, giving directions for his things to be sent after him." "ah! to the schooner, you say? you are certain?" "yes--that is, i think he went there. jesse took his boxes and bags down to the shore, and captain bonhomme received them, and thanked him in the marquis's name,'' "_mais non! est-ce possible_?" for a moment she was silent, considering deeply. "_bien_!" she exclaimed presently. "it is as you say, of course. and you, my friend?" she stopped suddenly, for they had been walking slowly forward, and withdrawing her hand from his arm, she held it out before him. "the paper?" she demanded. "here it is," murmured dan, fumbling in his pocket, and pulling out the scrap of paper. she took it eagerly from his hand and held it up before her eyes as though trying to see it in the dark. "this is it, really?" she asked. "i swear it," he answered. "it is the piece of writing that i found in the hidden cubby-hole of the old cabinet in the oak parlour. it is written in french, you know." "yes, i know, i know," she assented absently. for a moment she was quite still, and then, with a strange exclamation, she put the paper to her lips. "_quels souvenirs, d'autrefois_!" she murmured. "_ah, mon dieu, mon dieu_!" "dearest, what is it?" asked dan. "nothing, nothing," she replied, withdrawing a little from his touch. "i was unwell for the moment,--_ce ne fait rien_. no, no, you are not to kiss me, please." again she unloosed his arm from about her neck, slipped the paper into her muff, and pressed a little forward. for a space they walked slowly, silently, toward the inn. "but, dearest one," murmured dan, "this proves to you my love, doesn't it? you no longer doubt me. for your sake, i give my honour; it may be, the safety of my friends. you must see how i love you with all my heart and soul. won't you,--" suddenly she stopped again quite still and faced him. "my poor boy," she said gently, "you really love me?" "love you! my god, have i not proved it! what more would you have me do?" "_mais oui_," she answered quickly. "you have proved it, but i have thought that it was not possible." "and you--you do care--oh, tell me--" "_hã©las, mon paurve ami_. i love as tenderly as it remains in me to love. ah, dear, dear boy, so sincerely, that i cannot have you to sell your honour for the futile kisses of claire de la fontaine." "what do you mean? have i--" "no, no, no! this--take the paper. you must not again give it me, i desire that you will not." she drew the paper from her muff with an impulsive movement and thrust it toward him. "take it, i implore you." "but why--?" "because that you shall not give your honour to a woman such as i am. _mai vraiment_, i love you. that is why you must take back the paper." "but you must explain--" "_mon dieu_! is it that i have not explained? there is time for nothing more. i have fear, _mon ami_; a kiss, and it is necessary that i go. it is good-bye." "but you love me, you have said so. i cannot, i will not let you go." "listen to me, my friend," she said, her voice rising for the moment above the whisper in which she had cautiously spoken heretofore. "from the first i have deceived you, betrayed you, played upon your affection but to betray you afresh. and now i find that i love you. i am not that which you call good, but it is impossible that i injure you. go back to your friends." "never! i love you. what matters now anything that you have said or done? and you love me. ah dearest one, what can that mean but good?" "_bien-aimã©_, what will you that i say?" she interrupted speaking rapidly, "i am what you americans call 'a bad woman',--the sort of woman that you know nothing of. i was the woman who sixteen years ago stayed at the inn at the red oak with franã§ois de boisdhyver, the woman your mother called nurse, who cared for his little daughter. and now i have told you all. will you know from now that i am a thousand times unworthy? _pour l'amour de dieu_, give it to me to do this one act of honour and of generosity." chapter xix the attack with these words she thrust the scrap of paper into his hands and turning swiftly, started forward as though to escape his further importunities by flight. but dan was instantly by her side, trying to catch her hand in the darkness. again she faced him passionately. "_c'est folie_," she cried hoarsely, "have i not told you that we are in great danger? go, go back to the inn. it is there only that you will be safe.--o, _mon dieu!"_ a figure had sprung suddenly from the blackness of the trees. dan felt a sharp blow on his shoulder, and then he was grappling with a wiry antagonist, striving to keep at safe distance a hand that clutched an open knife. locked in a close embrace, swaying from side to side of the road, they fought desperately. dan striving to get at the pistol which he carried, his assailant trying to use his knife. it seemed as if dan could no longer hold the man off when two small hands closed over the fist that held the gleaming knife and a clear voice rang out in french. dan felt his antagonist's grip loosen and he wrenched himself free. madame de la fontaine had come to his rescue. "quick, quick--to the inn. i am safe. you have but one chance for your life," she cried. already his assailant had put a boatswain's whistle to his lips and was sounding a shrill blast. as dan hesitated, uncertain what to do, he heard a number of men come crashing through the underbrush of the neighbouring field. again madame de la fontaine cried, "_mon dieu_! will you not run?" then she turned and disappeared in the darkness. simultaneously came the crack of a pistol shot, and a bullet whizzed by his ear. there was nothing for it but to run; and run he did, shouting at the top of his voice the while to tom in the inn. he probably owed his start to the fact that for the moment his attacker, who had been held at bay by madame de la fontaine, was uncertain whether to follow her or dan. that moment's delay saved dan's life, for though, with a curse, the man started after him now, he had a poor chance of catching him in the darkness. but on he came only a dozen yards or so behind, and after him the thundering steps and harsh cries of those who had responded to the call of the whistle. at last dan was at the door of the inn, beating wildly upon it, and calling, "open, tom; quick, for god's sake! it's dan." as the door was flung back, he sprang in and slammed it shut. already the attackers were in the courtyard, a volley of shots rang against the stout oak, followed almost at once, by the flinging against it of half-a-dozen men. but the great oaken beam had been slipped into place and held firmly. dan was none the worse for his experience, save for a graze on the cheek where the knife had glanced, and a slit on his shoulder from a bullet. "they're here!" he cried. "no time for explanations, tom. i went out--fool that i was!--was attacked. they're here in force." by this time jesse had rushed into the bar, attracted by the firing, and soon ezra manners came running down from the floor above. after the first impact against the door those without had withdrawn, evidently taking up a position in the courtyard again, for almost at once there was a fusilade of shots against door and windows, which luckily the heavy oak was proof against. "they're welcome to keep that up all night," said tom. "only a waste of ammunition. how many are there?" he would liked to have asked dan why he had gone out, but there was no time for discussion. "i don't know--half-a-dozen at least, i should guess," was dan's reply. "bonhomme is at their head, i'm sure. it was he who tackled me in the avenue. they may have the whole crew of the schooner here. that would mean a dozen or more." "well," said tom, "we're in for it now, i guess. we'll have to watch in different parts of the house, for we don't know where they will attack. unless they are all fools, it won't be here." "you're right. i'll stay and look out for the south wing. you go to the north wing, tom; jesse to the kitchen, and ezra to the end of the south passage. that'll cover the house as well as we can cover it. they'll try to force an entrance somewheres. have you all got guns? good. leave the doors open so that we can hear each other call." evidently the attacking party had concluded that they were wasting their lead and their time in shooting at doors and window-shutters, for as tom had said, all was now quiet outside. fifteen minutes, half-an-hour passed, and nothing occurred to alarm or to relieve the tension on the anxious watchers within. at length dan stole upstairs to reconnoitre. it was fortunate that he chose the precise moment he did, for as his head emerged above the last stair, he saw that the great shutters at the end of the south corridor were open, and a man stood before the window, evidently on the top rung of a ladder, trying the sash. it was locked to be sure, but at the instant dan saw him, he raised his fist and smashed it. he was about to leap through the opening, fringed though it was with jagged glass, when dan aimed his pistol carefully, and fired. there was a cry, and the form at the window fell crashing to the ground below. dan rushed to the casement, and could hear in the court beneath him the curses and exclamations of the surprised assailants. quickly he thrust the end of the ladder from the wall, then seizing a fresh pistol from his belt, fired at random into the darkness below. another cry of pain attested to the fact that his chance shot had taken effect. by this time tom had rushed to his assistance, and together they barred the window again. dan gave a brief account of the incident. "but, for heaven's sake, tom," he concluded, "get back to the north wing. we are in danger there every moment. i'll watch out here." as tom returned to his post in the cold corridor of the north wing, he heard heavy crashes, as of a battering-ram, against the great door that opened into the gallery. a shrill whistle brought ezra manners to his assistance. "watch here!" he commanded. "if the door crashes in, shoot, and shoot to kill; then run into the bar and barricade the door between. i've a plan." he himself ran into the bar, blew out the candles, and risking perhaps too much on the chance of success, cautiously opened the front door. he could scarcely make out the group at the farther end of the gallery, as he stepped out; but he could hear the resounding crashes against the door into the north hall, each one of which seemed to be the last that even that massive frame could hold out against. leveling his pistol at the group; he took aim, and fired; snatched another from his pocket, and fired a second time. again, by good luck, the defender's shots had told. there was a thud on the gallery floor, and the besiegers scurried to cover beyond the courtyard fence. tom dashed safely back into the house, and slipped the great beam into place. upstairs dan's attention had been attracted by the commotion in front of the inn. he opened a window on to the roof of the gallery, climbed out, and crawled along on his belly till his head just abutted over the eaves. for a few moments, after the firing, he could hear the attackers moving about behind the fence across the courtyard. at length, a couple of them stole across the court and up on to the gallery beneath him. in a moment they returned carrying the dead or wounded comrade; then all of them seemed to go off together up the dark avenue of maples. he waited till they could be heard no more, then crept back into the house and ran down to tell dan of their temporary withdrawal. for an hour or more the four defenders of the inn kept themselves occupied parading the corridors and rooms, on the watch for a fresh attack. but nothing happened. they felt no security, however, and would feel none till daylight. in the silent watching of that night dan had ample opportunity to reflect upon his extraordinary interview with madame de la fontaine. he loved her. good heavens how he loved her, but--had she been sincere in her refusal at the last to keep the scrap of paper for the possession of which she had so desperately intrigued? had she decoyed him to the rendezvous in the dark but to betray him to the bandits with whom she was in league? at first it would seem so. and yet the paper was in his possession; and, she it was who had rescued him from the assassin's knife. where was she now? what had become of her? what was to be the end of this mad night's work? that she was the woman who had accompanied general pointelle--or the marã©chal de boisdhyver--somehow did not surprise him. and for the time the full import of what that implied did not dawn upon him. but what mattered anything now that he loved her? he determined at last to reconnoitre again from the roof of the gallery. it still lay in shadow, but it would not be long before the moon, now rising over the eastern hills beyond the strathsey flooded it with light. in a moment, he had opened the window, was over the sill, and, creeping cautiously along the roof to the ledge, he worked his way toward the great oak at the farther end. all was still and deserted below as the inn courtyard would have been in the middle of any winter's night. while he stood peering into the darkness, listening intently, the moon, just showing above the distant tree tops, cast the first rays of its light into the courtyard beneath him. at the instant the figure of a woman stole across the flagged pavement and crept fearfully to the red oak. with a strange thrill he recognized claire de la fontaine. reaching the shelter of the great tree, she stooped, gathered a handful of gravel from the road bed, and then cast it boldly at the shutters of the bar, calling softly, "dan, dan." instantly he replied. "claire! is that you? what is it? i am here, above you, on the roof." "ah, _mon dieu_!" she exclaimed, as she looked up startled, and discerned his form leaning over the eaves, "for the love of heaven, my friend, open to me. i am in danger and i must tell you that which is of great importance to you. _mais vite, mon ami_. in ten minutes they will return again." it did not occur to dan to doubt her. careless of the risk, he rushed back to the window, climbed in, and in a few seconds had opened the door to the anxious woman without. she seemed physically exhausted as she stepped into the warm bar. taking her in his arms, he carried her to a chair, and poured out a glass of wine, which she eagerly drank. "it matters not what i have been doing," she murmured in reply to his questions, "i have but little time to give you my warning. _ecoute_. bonhomme and his men are gone only to carry back their dead and wounded, and to bring cutlasses, and the two or three sailors who were left on the schooner. i have followed them--god knows how--and heard something of their plans. they will make an attack--now, in a moment--in two different places. but these attacks will be shams,--is not that the word?--they will mean nothing. it is the oak parlour that they desire to enter. at the window of that so horrible room bonhomme will try to make an entrance without alarm while the others hold your attention at the front and back of the inn. is it that you understand? it is necessary that you are prepared for these sham attacks, but the great danger is bonhomme. the window in the oak parlour is not strong. they have information--recent information--from the marquis probably,--that it will not be difficult to break in. one of you must conceal himself in the dark and shoot bonhomme when he enters; you must shoot and shoot to kill, then we will be safe. i have no fear of monsieur le marquis. the others--they are brutes--but they will flee. and they know nothing, they do this for money,--ah, _mon dieu_, for money which i have furnished!" for a moment, torn between his love and his deep distrust of this woman, poor dan stood uncertainly. suddenly he knelt at her side and clasped his arms about her. "claire, you are on our side? you swear it." "ah, _mon dieu_! is it that i deserve this?" she exclaimed bitterly. "ah! i tell you truth," she cried. "you must believe me--listen! are they come already?" "no, no, there is nothing. but i trust you, i will go." suddenly she sprang to her feet. "let me go with you. it is terrible to me to enter again that room; but i desire to prove myself of honour. _allous, allous_!" "tom is there." "ah! send him here to the bar. but do you come, _mon ami_. see, i go with you." she rose and forcing herself to the effort, led the way across the bar and into the corridor of the north wing, as if to show him that in sixteen years she had not forgotten. chapter xx in the oak parlour "you know the way?" dan exclaimed as he caught up with her, and held open the door that led into the old north wing. "but so well," she replied, catching her breath. "would to god that i did not!" "ah!" he murmured, "i forgot that you have been here before." they pressed on silently. at the turn of the corridor upon which the oak parlour gave, they discerned tom pembroke, a weird figure, in the dim light of the tallow dip upon the table, that cast fantastic shadows upon the whitewashed walls. as he recognized them, he sprang forward in astonishment. "madame de la fontaine! dan! what does this mean?" he cried. "you know madame?" dan replied hastily and in evident confusion. "at great risk she has come to warn us--she is our friend, understand.--she has come to tell us how bonhomme and his men will attack the inn." tom listened to his explanation with unconcealed dismay. "good heavens, dan!" he protested, "you trust this woman? you know she is in league with these ruffians. do you want us to fall into a trap?" "no, no, monsieur pembroke," interrupted madame de la fontaine, "you must listen to me. i understand your fear. but at last you can trust me. i repent that which i have done. ah, _mon dieu_, with what bitterness! and now i desire to do all that is possible to save you. you must trust me." "i do not--i can not trust you," tom cried sternly. "don't go in there, dan. don't i beg of you, trust this woman's word. it is a trick." "perhaps," said dan grimly, "but go back. i take the responsibility. i do trust her, i shall trust her--to death. there is no time to lose, man. go back!" "what deviltry has bewitched you?" cried tom passionately. "already once to-night you have risked our lives by your fool-hardiness,--for the sake of this woman, eh? by gad, man, i begin to see. but i tell you now, i refuse to be a victim to your madness." "_mais non_, monsieur pembroke," claire cried again. "by all that is good and holy, i swear to you, that that which i have said is true. you must go. they will attack the bar and the kitchen. if those places are not defended, there will be danger." "at any rate," said dan, "i am going into the oak parlour. if you refuse to act with me, barricade the door between the bar and the north wing. if need be, i shall fight alone. only now we lose time, precious time." pembroke looked at him as if he had gone mad, then shrugging his shoulders he turned back into the bar, whistling for jesse and ezra as he did so. for a moment, glancing after tom's retreating figure, shaken to his soul by conflicting emotions, dan stood irresolute. "but come," said madame de la fontaine, touching his arm. again like the weird genius of this strange night she led the way on down the shadowy hall, and paused only when her hand rested upon the knob of the door into the oak parlour. "it is here," she said simply. as dan reached her side, she opened the door. the light of the candle down the hallway did not penetrate the gloom of the disused room. a musty smell as of cold stagnant air came strong to their nostrils, and dan felt, as they crossed the threshold together, that he was entering a place where no life had been for a long long time, a place full of dead nameless horrors. the woman by his side was trembling violently. he put his arm about her to reassure her, and there shot through him a sensation of strange and terrible joy to be with her alone in this darkness and danger. for the moment he was exulting that for her sake he had risked his honour, that for her sake now he was risking life itself. he bent his head to hers. "no! no!--not here!" she whispered hoarsely, but yet clinging to him with shaking hands. "it is so cold, so dark. i have fear," she murmured. "it is like a tomb," he said. "the tomb of my hopes, of my youth," she breathed softly. "shall i strike a light?" "no, no,--no light, i implore you. _ecoute_! what is it that i hear?" "i hear nothing. it is the wind in the red oak outside." "but listen!" "it is an owl hooting." suddenly she drew her hand from his, and he could hear her moving swiftly about. "all is as it used to be?" she asked. "precisely," he answered; "nothing has been changed." "here is the cabinet," she said, from across the room. "i can feel the lion's head. it is opposite to the window and the moonlight will stream in when the casement is opened, but if i crouch low i shall not be seen. _bien_! and you, _mon ami_? tell me, is the old _escritoire_ still to the left of the door?" now she was back at his side once again. "the _escritoire_?" he repeated. "the little table where one writes. ah! yes, it is here. see, behind this, _mon ami_, shall you hide yourself. the moonlight will not reach here--and it is so arranged that you will see plainly any one that appears at the window. when the casement is opened, you will shoot, will you not, and shoot to kill?" "yes, i will shoot," said dan, his voice trembling. "you promise me?" she cried in a tense whisper, as she grasped his arm and held it tight in her grip. "i tell you, yes." "you must not fail." "no. shall i shoot at any one who opens?" "any one?--it will be bonhomme,--no other." suddenly there came, from the front and the rear of the inn, at the same instant it seemed, the sharp staccato of a fusilade of pistol shots, and the lumbering blows as of beams being thrust at distant doors. "they are come!" she whispered, "hide." dan could hear the swish of her garments as she rapidly glided across the room to the old cabinet, then he turned and crouched low behind the writing desk that she had chosen for his place of concealment. he knelt there motionless, a cocked pistol clenched in his right hand. his breath seemed to have stopped, but his heart was pounding as though it must burst through his breast. how could he shoot down in cold blood a fellow man? the horror of it crowded out all other impressions, sensations fears. he could fight, risk his life, but to pull the trigger of that pistol when the casement should open seemed to him an impossibility. he would wait, grapple with him, fight as men should. suddenly a ray of moonlight fell across the dark floor. dan, looking up, seemed frozen by horror. the shutters had opened, the casement swung back noiselessly, and there in the opening, sharply outlined against the moonlight-flooded night, was the great black hulk of captain bonhomme. for a moment he stood there irresolute, listening intently. dan was fascinated, motionless, held as in a vice by the horror of the thing. suddenly bonhomme moved his head to one side as if to listen more acutely. as he did so, the ray of moonlight fell upon the cabinet, fell upon claire de la fontaine, upon something that she held in an outstretched hand that gleamed. "_nom de dieu_!" there was the flash and crack of a pistol, a sharp cry, and the great figure fell back and sank out of sight. with that dan sprang forward, reckless of danger, and ran to the window. he heard without the confused sounds as of persons scurrying to cover, saw their forms dash across the moonlit courtyard, into the shadows of the trees and outhouses. beneath him on the floor of the gallery was something horrible and still. almost instantly claire de la fontaine was by his side, and as regardless of danger as he, she was calling sharply, calling men by their names. her hair had been loosened and fell over her shoulders in black waves, her dark eyes flashed with excitement and passion, and her face, strangely pale, in the silver moonlight, was set in stern harsh lines. even then this vision of her tragic beauty thrilled the man at her side. but she was as unconscious of him as she was of her danger. with hand uplifted she called by name the desperados, who had taken shelter in the darkness and to those who now came running from front and rear where their attacks had been unsuccessful. appalled, spell-bound by the vision, even as dan was, they stopped, and stood listening mutely to the torrent of words that she poured forth,--vehement french of which dan had no understanding. at last, ending the frightful tension of the scene, two of the men came forward, crept up to the lifeless body of bonhomme, and grasping it by head and feet, carried it away, across the courtyard, into the darkness of the avenue of maples. one by one, still mysteriously silent, the others of the gang followed, till at length the last one had disappeared into the gloom. weird silence fell once more upon the inn. it was only then that madame de la fontaine turned to dan. "they will come no more," she said in a strained unnatural voice. "we are saved, safe.... i have proved, is it not so?--my honour, my love." with the words she sank at his feet, just as tom, candle in hand, appeared in the doorway. chapter xxi the treasure owing doubtless to the death of bonhomme and to the orders given in no uncertain tones by madame de la fontaine, the bandits from the schooner in the cove did not make a further effort to attack the inn that night. there was no rest, however, for madame de la fontaine, after her heroic exploit in the oak parlour, had swooned completely away. they carried her to the couch in mrs. frost's parlour, and, awkwardly enough, did what could be done for her by men. it was over an hour before they succeeded in restoring her to consciousness, and when they did so, she awoke to delirium and fever. distracted by anxiety and by their helplessness, at the first streak of dawn, dan started for town to get a doctor, and ezra manners volunteered to go to the red farm and bring back mrs. frost, nancy, and the maids. about six o'clock in the morning the women folk returned to the inn. but the briefest account of the attack was given them, though they were told in no uncertain terms of madame de la fontaine's heroic action in coming to warn them and of her courageous shot at the leader. then mrs. frost and nancy turned all their attention to the sick woman, caring for her as tenderly and devotedly as if she were their own. half-an-hour later dan returned from monday port with the family doctor, a grave silent old gentleman, in whose skill and discretion they trusted. after making an examination of his patient, he nodded his head encouragingly; gave a few directions to mrs. frost, and then left, promising to return later in the morning with medicines and supplies. at last, utterly worn out, the four men threw themselves on their beds and slept from sheer exhaustion. the sun was high in the sky when they came down stairs again and found nancy waiting for them, and a smoking breakfast ready on the table. after greeting them, she pointed to the window, across the fields, almost bare of snow now and gleaming in the morning sunlight, to the bright waters of the cove. "see!" she cried, "the schooner has disappeared." they both looked. "by jove, it has!" exclaimed tom, rushing to the other side of the room, and peering out at the shipless sea. "heigho! that's a relief. pray god we've seen the last of her. the marquis gone, the schooner gone,--we three together once more! perhaps we shall begin to live again. ah!" he added more softly, glancing with sudden sympathy at dan's white drawn face, "i forgot the poor woman across the hall." dan turned aside to hide his emotion, for though a load of anxiety had been lifted from his heart by the vanishing of _the southern cross_, he was sick with fear for the issue of the illness that had stricken down the woman he loved,--the woman who had proved her love for him by so terrible and so tragic a deed. as though aware that for the moment they were best left together alone, nancy slipped away into the kitchen. "you love her, dan?" asked tom simply. "yes, tom, with all my heart and soul. i staked my honour, my life, on her sincerity. and how she has proved that we were right to trust her! it can't be--she mustn't die--i couldn't bear it!" "she'll be all right, old fellow, don't worry; trust to your mother and nance. it is only the shock of the terrible things she went through last night. come on, we must take something to eat. here is nancy back again." there was no doubt of the fact, _the southern cross_ had sailed away, vanished in the night as mysteriously as a week before she had appeared in the strathsey and found moorings in the cove. they did not count on the certainty of her not reappearing, however; and that night and for many nights thereafter the inn was securely barricaded and a watch was kept, but neither then nor ever did _the southern cross_ spread her sails in those waters again. she and her crew disappeared from their lives as completely as from the seas that stretched around the coast of deal. tom at once was for making a search in the oak parlour for the hidden treasure, but for the time dan had no heart for the undertaking. he urged delay at least until madame de la fontaine had recovered; and as for nancy she would not hear of it. "i can't bear to think of it,--of the trouble, the crime, the suffering of which it has been the cause. when our poor lady recovers, she will tell us all we need to know. i dread the oak parlour. i would not go into that room for anything in the world. nor, believe me, tom, could dan do so now. you have guessed, haven't you, that he loves madame de la fontaine?" "of course, dearest; poor fellow! he betrays his love by every word and act. but good heaven, nance, he couldn't marry her!" "no--i don't know. i suppose not. but dan will do as he will. to oppose him now would only make him the more wretched." "does your mother know?" "no, and it is best she should not. i don't think she has the faintest suspicion." "well, i suppose we had better let things rest awhile;" tom assented, "but i swear i would like to get at the oak parlour and tear the secret out of it." "we must wait a bit, tom dear. let's just be glad now of what we have and are." and with that he drew her toward him and pressed for a definite answer to the question which so deeply concerned their future. "when madame has recovered, when we know all and the mystery is solved," she replied; then she added inconsequently, "i wonder if we shall ever hear of the old marquis again." "i wonder too," tom exclaimed. "though he has sailed away on _the southern cross_, i doubt if he will willingly leave the treasure behind him." "that dreadful treasure, tom," cried nancy. "i wish to goodness that the marquis had it and might keep it always. we have each other." the evening of the second day after the terrible night of the attack, as dan was entering the inn from his work outside, he saw madame de la fontaine standing on the gallery under the red oak. it was the dusk of a mild pleasant day. she was clad still in her soft grey gown with furs about her waists and neck, and a grey scarf over her head. but there was something infinitely pathetic to him in the listlessness of her attitude, in the expression of a deep and melancholy that had come into her face. he stole swiftly to her side, and taking her hand in his pressed it to his lips, with a gesture that was as reverent as it was tender. for a moment something of the old brightness returned to her face as she bent her clear gaze upon his bowed head. "you love me, dan?" she murmured. "you know i love you," he whispered passionately. "yes, i believe that you do," she said simply. "i shall always be thankful that i have won a good man's love." but suddenly she withdrew her hand, as the door of the bar opened. "see, here is mademoiselle nancy. she is coming for me: she is to be with me to-night. there is much for me to do." his heart surged within him; for he knew that in her simple words there was the tragic note of farewell; but he could not speak, he could not plead from that sad and broken woman for a passion that he knew but too well she could never give. he knew that she would leave him on the morrow, that his protests would be vain;--nay,--he would not even utter them! with the gathering of the darkness about the old inn, he felt that the light in his heart was being obscured forever. the evening passed, the night. morning came, and madame de la fontaine, accompanied by nancy, left the inn at the red oak for coventry. there remained to dan of his brief and tragic passion but one letter, which tom handed to him that morning, and which, with despairing heart, he read and re-read a hundred times. "_mon cher ami_: "you would forgive that i do not know well how to express myself as i desire, if you could read my heart. i bade you good-bye to-night under the red oak, tree for me of such tragic and such beautiful memories. i could not say farewell otherwise, dear friend, nor could you. we have loved sincerely, have we not? we will remember that in days to come; you will remember it even in the happier days to come that i pray god to grant you. i know all that you would say, my friend, but it cannot be. i must vanish from your life, be gone as completely as though i had never entered it. i love you deeply, tenderly, but i could not be to you what i know that now you wish. all the past forbids. the very tragedy that proved to you that i was worthy of your trust forbids. it is my only justification that i saved your lives, dear friend; but oh how bitterly i ask pardon of god for what has been done! then also, dearest friend, my heart is no longer capable to bear passion, but only to feel great tenderness. i could not say these things, and yet they must be written. i cannot go with them unsaid. certain other things must be told you in justice to all. "the story i told you on the schooner that day was largely truth. the general pointelle, who was at the inn at the red oak in 1814, was in reality the marã©chal de boisdhyver, the father of your foster-sister nancy. she is truly eloise de boisdhyver. the marã©chal returned to france to support the emperor, as he wrote to madame your good mother; and he fell, as i told you, on the field of waterloo. admitting the importance of his mission, admitting my ambiguous relation to him (indefensible as it was), to have left the child as he did was an act of kindness. in truth the treasure concealed in the oak parlour is considerable, and it was always my purpose to return, but the necessary directions for finding it were not entrusted to me, but to the marquis marie-anne, whom i didn't meet until many years after waterloo. then i was induced by the marquis,--your old marquis--to provide the money for the miserable enterprise, of which we know the tragic result. from the first i was uncertain about the method we adopted; and then soon after our arrival here, from a hundred little indications, i became convinced that bonhomme was prepared to betray us, once we secured the treasure. as for the marquis, i suppose that he sailed away on the schooner. you need fear him no longer. it was he, i am convinced, that conveyed to them the information of the loosened casement in the oak parlour, and unwittingly arranged for his own undoing and our salvation. at all events he will have realized now that he has hopelessly lost the fight. as for the treasure, by right it belongs to eloise, who should not disdain to use it. i enclose a transcription of the other half of the torn scrap of paper, which will supplement the directions in your possession. "and as for me, my friend, i shall seek a shelter in my own country apart from the world in which i have lived so to little purpose and for the most part so unhappily. believe me, so it is best. my heart is too full for me to express all that i feel for you. "dear, dear friend, do not render me the more unhappy to know that my brief friendship with you shall have harmed your life. your place is in the world, to take part in the life of your own country, not, dear dan, to waste youth and energy in the fruitless desolation of this beautiful deal, not above all to grieve for a woman who was unworthy. "i commend you to god, and i shall never forget you. "claire de la fontaine." it was with a heavy heart that dan consented later in the morning to tom's proposal that they force at last the secret of the oak parlour. he got the torn scrap of paper which he had found,--such ages ago it seemed, though it was scarcely a week,--in the old cabinet, and gave it to tom, with the copy of the other half which madame de la fontaine had enclosed in her letter of farewell. the copy in madame de la fontaine's handwriting did not dovetail exactly into the jagged edges of the original portion, so that it was some time before they could get it into position for reading. but at last it was pasted together on a large bit of cardboard, and tom, with the aid of a dictionary, succeeded in making a translation, which dan took down. "learning of the attempt of my emperor to regain his glorious throne, i leave these hospitable shores to offer my sword to his cause. in case i do not return, the person having instructions for the discovery of this paper, which i tear in two parts, will find herein the necessary directions for the finding of my hidden treasure. this treasure, bullion, jewels, and coins, is concealed in a secret chamber in this inn at the red oak. this secret chamber will be entered from the oak parlour. the hidden door is released by a spring beneath the hand of the lady in the picture nearest the fireplace on the north side of the room. a panel slides back revealing the entrance. instructions as to the deposition of the treasure will be found in the golden casket therewith. "franã�ois de boisdhyver." "well?" said tom, "the instructions are definite enough. now we can put them to the test. let's get to work at once. wait a second till i get some wood, and well make a fire in the oak parlour." he filled his arms with logs from the bin under the settle in the bar, while dan got the key for the north wing. soon they were at the end of the old hall. it was with an effort that dan brought himself to enter the room, for there flashed into his mind the vision of the last time he was there,--the cold silver moonlight, the dark burly form at the casement, the white drawn face of claire de la fontaine, and then the sharp flash and crack of the pistol. but with an impatient gesture, as if to thrust aside these tragic memories, he stepped across the threshold, and kneeling at the hearth, took the wood from tom's arms and began to lay a fire. in the meantime his friend fumbled at the window casements, opened them, and let in the light of day and the pure air of out-of-doors. soon the fire was crackling cheerily on the great andirons and casting its bright reflection on the dark oak panelling of the walls. nothing had been disturbed--the old cabinet with the lions' heads stood opposite the window; the little _escritoire_, behind which he had crouched on the fatal night, was pushed back against the wall; the chairs, the tables, thick with dust, stood just as they had been standing for many years. "do you realize, tom," dan said, as they stood side by side watching the blazing logs, "that it is sixteen years since general pointelle stayed at the inn and used this room? and the treasure, if there is any treasure, has been mouldering here all that time." "let's get at it," said tom. "i confess this place gives me the creeps. have you got my translation of the directions?" "yes, here it is." dan spread out the bit of paper on one of the tables. "'the hidden door is released by a spring beneath the hand of the lady in the picture nearest the fireplace on the north side of the room.' ah! that must be it--that old landscape let into the panel there." he walked nearer and examined it closely. it was a simple landscape, a garden in the foreground, forest and hills in the distance; and in the midst a lady in eighteenth century costume caressing the head of a greyhound. it was beautifully mellow in tone, and might well have been a production of gainsborough, though the frosts had preserved no such tradition. dan began to fumble, according to the directions, beneath the hand of the stately lady, pressing vigourously here and there with thumb and forefinger. "what's that?" he cried suddenly. a faint click, as of a spring in action, had sounded sharp in the stillness, but apparently with no other effect. "by jove!" he exclaimed, "i believe there is something behind it. you heard the click? see there! the panel's opened a bit at the side." surely enough, there was a long crack on the right--the length of the picture. "here, let's push." careless of the landscape, they put their hands upon the panel and pressed with all their force to the left. it yielded slowly, slipping back side-wise into the wall, and revealed a narrow opening, beyond which was a little circular stairway, leading apparently to some chamber above. "here's the entrance to the secret chamber all right," dan exclaimed. "let's see where it goes to." he climbed in and started up the winding flight of stairs, tom close behind him. about half way up the height of the oak parlour he came to a door. "can't go any farther," he called to tom. "what's the matter?" "there's a door here; it leads, evidently, into some little room between the oak parlour and the bedroom next. who would ever have guessed it?" "can't you open the door; is it locked?" dan fumbled about till he found and turned the knob. "no," he answered. "i've opened it. but it's pitch dark inside. get a candle." he waited anxiously while tom went below again to get a candle, a strange feeling of dread creeping over him now that at last he was about to penetrate the secret which had been of such tragic purport in his life. in a moment tom had returned, a candle in either hand, one of which he handed to dan, and together they entered the secret chamber. it was a little room scarcely six feet square, without light, and so far as they could see without ventilation. as they stood looking about the candle flickered strangely casting weird shadows over the walls. suddenly they saw at their feet a tiny golden casket, and then, in a corner of the room a row of small cloth bags, several of which had been ripped open, so that a stream of golden coin flowed out upon the floor. nearby stood another little golden chest; and tom, lifting the lid, started back astonished. for there sparkling and glowing in the candle light as though they were living moving things, lay a heap of precious gems--diamonds, rubies, opals, sapphires, amethysts, that might have been the ransom of a princess. "it's a treasure right enough!" cried dan. "but what's this?" he turned to the opposite corner where there lay a heap of something covered with a great black cloth. they approached gingerly, and dan stooped and picked up an edge of the covering. "it's a cloak," he exclaimed. startled, he paused for a moment; then quickly pulled the cloak away, uncovering, to their horror, a lifeless body. "tom!" dan cried in a ghastly whisper. "a man has died here." tom held the candle over the gruesome heap. "but who?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. for reply dan pointed significantly to the cloak which he had dropped on the floor. "what!" cried tom. "good god! the old marquis! but how? i don't understand--" he added, staring blankly. "he must have come here the afternoon he pretended to leave the inn, must have learned the secret passage somehow. it was he who loosened the casement in the oak parlour that night, and got his message to bonhomme. he was waiting here for him. can't you see it all--the panel slipped back; he couldn't open it again; bonhomme didn't come; he was caught like a rat in a trap." "my god, what a fate!" "we can't leave his body here. we must give it decent burial, you and i, tom, for we can't let this be known." "and the treasure?" "ah! there was treasure, wasn't there? wait, let's see what is in the little casket." he picked up the golden casket that they had stepped over as they entered, and raised the lid. a single scrap of paper was inside on the little velvet cushion, inscribed in the same handwriting as the paper of directions, "_pour eloise de boisdhyver_." "but come," tom whispered, holding back the door, "i can't stand this any longer. we'll come back again, and do what must be done. come, dan." dan gave a last look into the strange horrible little room, then he followed his friend. they closed the door behind them and crept slowly down the narrow winding stairs to the oak parlour, leaving the treasure in the secret chamber and the marquis guarding it in the silence and darkness of death. what had been so basely striven for was sorrily won at last. the end. edward stratemeyer's books old glory series _cloth. illustrated. net $1.50 per volume._ under dewey at manila. a young volunteer in cuba. fighting in cuban waters. under otis in the philippines. the campaign of the jungle. under macarthur in luzon. soldiers of fortune series _cloth. illustrated. net $1.50 per volume._ on to pekin. under the mikado's flag. at the fall of port arthur. with togo for japan. colonial series _cloth. illustrated. net $1.50 per volume._ with washington in the west. marching on niagara. at the fall of montreal. on the trail of pontiac. the fort in the wilderness. trail and trading post. mexican war series _cloth. illustrated. price per volume $1.00._ for the liberty of texas. with taylor on the rio grande. under scott in mexico. pan-american series _cloth. illustrated. price per volume $1.00._ lost on the orinoco. the young volcano explorers. young explorers of the isthmus. young explorers of the amazon. treasure seekers of the andes. chased across the pampas. dave porter series _cloth. illustrated. net $1.50 per volume._ dave porter at oak hall. dave porter in the south seas. dave porter's return to school. dave porter in the far north. dave porter and his classmates. dave porter at star ranch. dave porter and his rivals. dave porter on cave island. dave porter and the runaways. dave porter in the gold fields. dave porter at bear camp. dave porter and his double. dave porter's great search. dave porter under fire. dave porter's war honors. lakeport series _cloth. illustrated. net $1.50 per volume._ the gun club boys of lakeport. the baseball boys of lakeport. the boat club boys of lakeport. the football boys of lakeport. the automobile boys of lakeport. the aircraft boys of lakeport. american boys' biographical series _cloth. illustrated. net $1.50 per volume._ american boys' life of william mckinley. american boys' life of theodore roosevelt. defending his flag. _price $1.50._ [illustration: the canoe was sent closer and finally beached.--_page 258._] dave porter series dave porter in the south seas or the strange cruise of the stormy petrel by edward stratemeyer author of "under togo for japan," "under the mikado's flag," "at the fall of port arthur," "old glory series," "pan-american series," "colonial series," "american boys' biographical series," etc. _illustrated by i. b. hazelton_ boston lothrop, lee & shepard co. published, august, 1906 copyright, 1906, by lothrop, lee and shepard co. _all rights reserved_ dave porter in the south seas norwood press berwick and smith co. norwood, mass. u. s. a. preface "dave porter in the south seas" is a complete story in itself, but forms the second volume in a line issued under the general title of "dave porter series." in the first volume of this series, called "dave porter at oak hall," i introduced a typical american boy, and gave something of his haps and mishaps at an american boarding school of to-day. at this school dave made a number of warm friends, and also a few enemies, and was the means of bringing one weak and misguided youth to a realization of his better self. dave was poor and had to fight his way to the front, and this was not accomplished until he had shown those around him what a truly straightforward and manly fellow he was. the one great cloud over dave's life was the question of his parentage. he had been raised by those who knew practically nothing of his past, and when he thought that he saw a chance to learn something about himself, he embraced that opportunity eagerly, even though it necessitated a long trip to the south seas and a search among strange islands and still stranger natives. dave makes the trip in a vessel belonging to the father of one of his school chums, and is accompanied by several of his friends. not a few perils are encountered, and what the boys do under such circumstances i leave for the pages that follow to tell. in penning this tale, i have had a twofold object in view: first, to give my young readers a view of a long ocean trip and let them learn something of the numerous islands which dot the south seas, and, in the second place, to aid in teaching that old truth--that what is worth having is worth working for. again i thank the many thousands of boys and girls, and older persons, too, who have shown their appreciation of my efforts to amuse and instruct them. i can only add, as i have done before, that i sincerely trust that this volume fulfills their every reasonable expectation. edward stratemeyer. april 10, 1906. contents chapter page i. the boys of oak hall 1 ii. a glimpse of the past 10 iii. three chums on the river 19 iv. a plot to "square up" 28 v. what the plot led to 37 vi. the fun of a night 46 vii. gus plum's mysterious offer 55 viii. shadow hamilton's confession 64 ix. about athletic contests 72 x. how a race was won 81 xi. a fight and its result 90 xii. shadow as a somnambulist 100 xiii. a photograph of importance 110 xiv. a gleam of light 119 xv. winding up the school term 128 xvi. preparing for a long trip 137 xvii. the trip to the far west 146 xviii. sailing of the "stormy petrel" 155 xix. days on the ocean 164 xx. caught in a storm 174 xxi. cavasa island at last 183 xxii. about some missing men 192 xxiii. in which the supercargo is cornered 201 xxiv. the cargo mystery explained 210 xxv. swept onward by a tidal wave 219 xxvi. exploring a tropical island 228 xxvii. a map and a plot 237 xxviii. marooned 245 xxix. the coming of the natives 254 xxx. the retaking of the "stormy petrel" 262 xxxi. lifting the curtain 270 xxxii. homeward bound--conclusion 278 illustrations the canoe was sent closer and finally beached (page 258) _frontispiece_ page dave cleared the last hurdle, and came in a winner 87 "tell me his name, at once!" 121 "good-by to oak hall!" 137 another flash lit up the scene 179 the former supercargo was washed off the steps and came down flat on his back 225 billy dill managed to catch the last one and turn him over 233 "i have come about seven thousand miles to see you" 274 dave porter in the south seas chapter i the boys of oak hall "hello, dave; where are you bound?" "for the river, phil. i am going out for a row. want to come along?" "that suits me," answered phil lawrence, throwing down the astronomy he had been studying. "but i can't stay out late," he added, reaching for his cap. "got two examples in algebra to do. have you finished up?" "yes," answered dave porter. "they are not so hard." "and your latin?" "that's done, too." phil lawrence eyed the boy before him admiringly. "dave, i don't see how you manage it. you're always on deck for fun, and yet you scarcely miss a lesson. let me into the secret, won't you?" "that's right, dave; pull the cover off clean and clear," came from a youth who had just entered the school dormitory. "if i can get lessons without studying----" "oh, roger, you know better than that," burst out dave porter, with a smile. "of course i have to study--just the same as anybody. but when i study, i study, and when i play, i play. i've found out that it doesn't pay to mix the two up--it is best to buckle your mind down to the thing on hand and to nothing else." "that's the talk," came from a boy resting on one of the beds. "it puts me in mind of a story i once heard about a fellow who fell from the roof of a house to the ground----" "there goes shadow again!" cried roger morr. "shadow, will you ever get done telling chestnuts?" "this isn't a chestnut, and i haven't told it over twice in my life. the man fell to the ground past an open window. as he was going down, he grabbed another man at the window by the hair. the hair--it was a wig--came off. 'say,' yells the man at the window. 'leave me alone. if you want to fall, 'tend to business, and fall!'" and a smile passed around among the assembled schoolboys. "perhaps roger would like to come along," continued dave. "i was going out for a row, and phil said he would go, too," he explained. "that suits me," answered roger morr. "it will give us an appetite for supper." "what about you, shadow?" and dave turned to the youth on the bed. maurice hamilton shook his head slightly. "not to-day. i am going to take a nap, if i can get it. remember, i was up half the night." "so he was," affirmed phil lawrence. "but he hasn't said what it was about." "not much," growled the boy called shadow. he was very tall and very thin, hence the nickname. turning over, he pretended to go to sleep. "there is something wrong about shadow," said dave as he and his two companions left the school building and hurried for the river at the back of the grounds. "he has not been himself at all to-day." "i think he has had something to do with that bully, gus plum," said phil. "i saw them together two days ago, and both were talking earnestly. i don't know exactly what it was about. but i know shadow has been very much disturbed ever since." "well, the best he can do is to leave plum alone," returned dave, decidedly. "i can tell you, fellows, that chap is not to be trusted; you know that as well as i do." "of course we know it," said roger morr. "didn't i warn you against gus plum before you ever came to oak hall? and now that chip macklin has turned over a new leaf and refused to be plum's toady any longer, the bully is worse than ever. only yesterday buster beggs caught him back of the gym., abusing one of the little fellows. buster is generally too lazy to rouse up, but he said it made him mad, and he told plum to stop, or it would be the worse for him, and plum went off grumbling." "it's a great pity plum can't reform, like macklin. i declare, chip is getting to be quite a decent sort, now." "it's not in plum to reform," exclaimed phil lawrence. "if i were doctor clay, i'd get rid of him. why, such a chap can keep a whole school in hot water." "somebody said that plum's father had lost a good bit of his money," observed roger morr. "if that is so, it must be a bitter pill for gus to swallow." "well, i wouldn't taunt him with it, if it's true," replied dave, quickly. "oh, i shan't say a word--although he deserves to have it rubbed in, for the way he treated you, dave." "yes, that was a jolly shame," commented phil. "it makes me angry every time i think of it." "i am willing to let bygones be bygones," said dave, with a little smile. "as it was, it only showed me who my true friends were, and are. i can afford to get along without the others." "and especially after we waxed plum and his crowd at baseball, and then won our great victory over the rockville boys," said roger. "oh, but wasn't that a dandy victory! and didn't we have a dandy celebration afterwards!" "and do you remember the big cannon cracker we set off in the courtyard?" dave's eyes began to twinkle. "i heard afterwards that pop swingly, the janitor, was scared almost to death. he thought somebody was trying to blow up the building." "yes, and job haskers said if he could catch the fellow who----" phil broke off short. "here comes gus plum, now," he whispered. the others looked up, and saw coming toward them across the school grounds a tall, broad-shouldered individual, loudly dressed, and with a shock of uncombed hair and a cap set over on one ear. "hello, plum," said dave, pleasantly, while his two companions nodded to the newcomer. "hello, yourself," came shortly from gus plum. "hold up a minute," he went on, planting himself in front of the three. "what's wanted?" questioned phil, in a little surprise. "i want to know if shadow hamilton has been saying anything about me to you," growled the bully of oak hall. "i haven't heard anything," answered phil, while dave and roger shook their heads. "humph! he had better not!" muttered plum, with a scowl. "if he does----" the bully did not finish. "i hope there is no more trouble in the air," was dave's comment. "there will be trouble, if hamilton opens his trap. i won't allow anybody in this school to talk about me, and all of you had better understand it," and the bully glared at the others defiantly. "i am sure i don't know what you are talking about," said dave. "i haven't said anything about you." "and you haven't heard anything?" inquired gus plum, with a look of keen anxiety showing on his coarse face. "i've heard some roundabout story about your father losing money," said roger, before dave could answer. "if it is true, i am sorry for you, gus." "bah! i don't want your sympathy. did hamilton tell you that story?" "no." "i suppose you are spreading it right and left, eh? making me out to be a pauper, like your friend porter, eh?" continued gus plum, working himself up into a magnificent condition of ill-humor. "i am not spreading it right and left," answered roger, quietly. "and i am not a pauper, plum!" exclaimed dave, with flashing eyes. "i thought we had settled that difference of opinion long ago. if you are going to open it up again----" "oh, don't mind what he says, dave," broke in phil, catching his chum by the arm. "you know nobody in the school pays attention to him." "i won't let any of you run me down!" roared gus plum. "now, just you remember that! if any of you say a word about me or my father, i'll make it so hot for you that you'll wish you had never been born. my father has lost a little money, but it ain't a flea-bite to what he is worth, and i want everybody in this school to know it." "and i want you to know that you cannot continue to insult me," blazed out dave. "i am not as rich as most of the boys here, but----" "he is just as good as any of us, plum, remember that," finished phil. "it is an outrage for you to refer to dave as a pauper." "well, didn't he come from the poorhouse, and ain't he a nobody?" sneered the bully. "he is a better fellow than you will ever be, plum," said roger, warmly. he and phil were both holding dave back. "don't listen to him, dave." "yes, but, fellows----" dave's face was white, and he trembled all over. "i know it cuts you," whispered roger. "but plum is a--a brute. don't waste your breath on him." "ho! so i am a brute, am i?" blustered the big bully, clenching his fists. "yes, you are," answered roger, boldly. "any fellow with a spark of goodness and honor in him would not speak to dave as you have done. it simply shows up your own low-mindedness, plum." "don't you preach!" shouted the bully. "say another word, and i'll--i'll----" "we are not afraid of you," said phil, firmly. "we've told you that before. we intend to leave you alone, and the best thing you can do is to leave us alone." "bah! i know you, and you can't fool me! you say one thing to my face and another behind my back. but don't you dare to say too much; and you can tell shadow hamilton not to say too much, either. if you do--well, there will be war, that's all--and all of you will get what you don't want!" and with this threat, gus plum hurried around a corner of the school building and out of sight. "what a cad!" murmured phil. "he is worked up; no disputing that," was roger's comment. "he acts as if he was afraid something was being told that he wished to keep a secret." the hot blood had rushed to dave's face, and he was still trembling. "i wish i had knocked him down," he said in a low tone. "what good would it have done?" returned roger. "it would only get you into trouble with the doctor, and that is just what plum would like. when it comes to a standing in the class, he knows he hasn't as much to lose as you have. he is almost at the bottom already, while you are close to the top." "but, roger, he said--oh, i can't bear to think about it! i suppose he blabs it to everybody, too, and they will think----" "don't give it another thought, dave," said phil, soothingly, and he turned his chum toward the river again. "dismiss plum and all his meanness from your mind." "i wish i could," answered dave, and his voice had a great deal of seriousness in it. chapter ii a glimpse of the past as the three boys hurried to the river, dave porter felt that all his anticipated sport for that afternoon had been spoiled. he had been brought face to face once more with the one dark spot in his history, and his heart was filled with a bitterness which his two loyal chums could scarcely comprehend. dave was indeed a poorhouse boy, and of unknown parentage. when but a few years of age, he had been found one evening in the summer wandering close to the railroad tracks just outside of the village of crumville. how he was found by some farm hands and taken to a house and fed and cared for otherwise, has already been related in the first volume of this series, entitled "dave porter at oak hall." at first, every effort to learn his identity was made, but, this failing, he was turned over to the poorhouse authorities. he said his name was dave, or davy, and sometimes added porter, and then dun-dun, and from this he was called dave porter--a name which suited him very well. dave remained at the poorhouse until he was about nine years old, when he was taken out of that institution by a broken-down college professor named caspar potts, who had turned farmer. he remained with the old professor for several years, and a warm friendship sprang up between the pair. caspar potts gave dave a fair education, and, in return, the boy did all he could for the old man, who was not in the best of health, and rather eccentric at times. unfortunately for professor potts, there was in the neighborhood a hard-hearted money-lender named aaron poole, who had a mortgage on the old educator's farm. the money-lender had a son named nat, who was a flippant youth, and this boy had trouble with dave. then the money-lender would have sold out the old professor, had not aid come opportunely from a most unexpected quarter. in this volume it is unnecessary to go into the details of how dave became acquainted with mr. oliver wadsworth, a rich manufacturer of the neighborhood, and how the boy saved jessie wadsworth from being burned to death when the gasoline tank of an automobile exploded and enveloped the young miss in flames. for this service the wadsworths were all more than grateful, and when dave told his story oliver wadsworth made the discovery that caspar potts was one of the professors under whom he had studied in his college days. "i must meet him and talk this over," said the rich manufacturer, and the upshot of the matter was that the professor and dave were invited to dine at the wadsworth mansion. this dinner proved a turning point in the life of the poorhouse youth. mr. wadsworth had lost a son by death, and dave reminded him strongly of his boy. it was arranged that caspar potts should come to live at the wadsworth mansion, and that dave should be sent to some first-class boarding school, the manufacturer agreeing to pay all bills, because of the boy's bravery in behalf of jessie. oak hall was the school selected, a fine institution, located not far from the village of oakdale. the school was surrounded by oaks, which partly shaded a beautiful campus, and the grounds, which were on a slight hill, sloped down in the rear to the leming river. dave's heart beat high when he started off for oak hall, and he had a curious experience before he reached that institution. the house of a senator morr was robbed, and the boy met the robber on the train, and, after a good deal of trouble, managed to recover a valise containing a large share of the stolen goods. this threw dave into the company of roger morr, the senator's son, and the two became warm friends. roger was on his way to oak hall, and it was through him that dave became acquainted with phil lawrence--reckoned by many the leader of the academy; maurice hamilton, generally called shadow; sam day, joseph beggs,--who always went by the name of buster, because he was so fat,--and a number of others. in crumville dave had had one boy friend, ben basswood, and ben also came to oak hall, and so did nat poole, as flippant and loud-mouthed as ever. but dave soon found out that nat poole was not half so hard to get along with as was gus plum, the big bully of the hall. there was a difference of opinion almost from the start, and plum did all he could to annoy dave and his friends. plum wanted to be a leader in baseball and in athletics generally, and when he found himself outclassed, he was savagely bitter. "i'll get square!" he told his toady, chip macklin, more than once; but his plans to injure dave and his chums fell through, and, in the end, macklin became disgusted with the bully and left him. most of the boys wanted nothing to do with the boy who had been the bully's toady, but dave put in a good word for him, and, in the end, macklin was voted a pretty fair fellow, after all. with the toady gone, gus plum and nat poole became very thick, and poole lost no opportunity of telling how dave had been raised at the poorhouse. gus plum took the matter up, and for a while poor dave was made miserable by those who turned their backs on him. but doctor clay, who presided over the academy, sided with dave, and so did all of the better class of students, and soon the affair blew over, at least for the time being. but now the bully was agitating it again, as we have just seen. during the winter term at oak hall one thing of importance had occurred, of which some particulars must be given, for it has much to do with our present tale. some of the boys, including dave, had skated up the river to what was locally called the old castle--a deserted stone dwelling standing in a wilderness of trees. they had arrived at this structure just in time to view a quarrel between two men--one a sleek-looking fellow and the other an elderly man, dressed in the garb of a sailor. the sleek-looking individual was the man who had robbed senator morr's house, and just as he knocked the old sailor senseless to the ground, the boys rushed in and made him a prisoner. when the old sailor came to his senses, he stared at dave as if the boy were a ghost. he said his name was billy dill and that he had sailed the south seas and many other portions of the briny deep. he insisted that he knew dave well, and wanted to know why the youth had shaved off his mustache. the boys imagined that the tar was out of his head, and he was removed to a hospital. later on, as dave was so interested in the man, mr. wadsworth had him taken to a private sanitarium. here he lingered for awhile between life and death, but at last grew better physically, although his mind was sadly unbalanced, and he could recall the past only in a hazy way. yet he insisted upon it, over and over again, that he had met dave before, or, if not the youth, then somebody who looked exactly like him, although older. pressed to tell his story, he said he had met this man on cavasa island, in the south seas. he also mentioned a crazy nurse and a lost child, but could give no details, going off immediately into a wild flight about the roaring of the sea in his ears and the dancing of the lighthouse beacon in his eyes. "he must know something of my past," dave said, when he came away from visiting the old tar. "oh, if only his mind were perfectly clear!" "we must wait," answered oliver wadsworth, who was along. "i think his mind will clear after awhile. it is certainly clearer now than it was some months ago." "the man he knows may be my father, or some close relative." "that may be true, dave. but don't raise any false hopes. i should not like to see you disappointed for the world." dave knew that phil lawrence's father was a shipping merchant of considerable standing, owning an interest in a great number of vessels. he went to phil and learned that the boy was going to take a trip to the south seas that very summer, and was going to stop at cavasa island. "i am going on business for my father," explained phil. "it is something special, of which he wishes the supercargo to know nothing." and then he told dave all he knew of cavasa island and its two towns and their inhabitants. after that, dave sent a letter to both of the towns, asking if there were any persons there by the name of porter, or if any english-speaking person had lost a child years ago, but so far no answer had been received. of course, phil wanted to know why dave was so anxious to learn about his proposed trip, and, in the end, the poorhouse boy told his story, to which his chum listened with interest. "phil, what would you say if i wanted to go with you on that trip to cavasa island?" dave had said, after his story was finished. "do you really mean it, dave?" had been the return question, and phil's face had shown his astonishment. "i do--if matters turn out as i think they may." "that is, if that old sailor gets around so that he can tell a pretty straight story?" "yes." "well, i'd like your company, first-rate. but--" phil drew a deep breath--"i'd hate to see you go on a wild-goose chase. think of traveling thousands of miles and then being disappointed at the end of the trip. that old sailor may simply be crazy." "i don't think so. why should he mention a lost child--a boy?" "well, that is the only thing that makes it look as if there was something in the story. but couldn't i do the looking for you?" "no, i'd prefer to do that myself. besides, you must remember, that sailor did not come directly from cavasa island to this country. so, whoever was on the island--i mean the person i may be interested in--may have gone elsewhere--in which case i should want to follow him." "i see. well, dave, do what you think is best, and may good luck go with you!" phil had said; and there the conversation on the subject had come to a close. it was not until a week later that dave had called on billy dill again--to find the old tar sitting on a porch of the sanitarium, smoking his pipe contentedly. "on deck again, my hearty!" had been the greeting. "give us your flipper," and a warm handshake had followed. but the visit had been productive of little good. billy dill could remember nothing clearly, excepting that he knew a man who looked very much like dave, and that that man had been his friend while he was stranded on cavasa island and looking for a chance to ship. he said he could recall a bark named the _mary sacord_ and a crazy nurse called polly, but that was all. "i had a picter o' that man once--the feller that looks like you," he said. "but i dunno what's become o' it," and then he had scratched his head and gone off into a rambling mumble that meant nothing at all. and dave had gone back to oak hall more mystified than ever. chapter iii three chums on the river down at the boathouse the three boys procured a round-bottomed rowboat, and were soon on the river. roger took one pair of oars and motioned to phil to let dave take the other. "let him do the most of the rowing--it will help him to forget his troubles," he whispered, and phil understood. it was a beautiful afternoon in the early summer, with just the faintest breeze stirring the trees which lined the river bank on either side. the boys pulled a good stroke, and roger purposely kept dave at it, until both were thoroughly warmed up. "you're improving in your stroke," remarked dave, as they came to a bend in the watercourse and rested on their oars for a minute. "perhaps you are training for the boat races." "well, i shouldn't mind going into a race," returned the senator's son. "it would be lots of sport, even if i didn't win." "i am going into some of the field contests this summer," said phil. "that is, if they come off before i go away." "when do you expect to start?" "i don't know yet. it depends upon when one of my father's vessels gets back to san francisco and ships her cargo." "i've heard a rumor that the hall is to be shut up early this summer," said dave. "the doctor is thinking of building an addition before the fall term begins, and he wants to give the masons and carpenters as much of a show as possible." "do you remember that day we were on the river, and gus plum ran into us with that gasoline launch?" observed phil. "my, what a mess we were in!" "i've had trouble with him ever since i clapped eyes on him," answered dave. "oh, let's talk about something else!" cried roger. "no matter where we start from, we always end up with gus plum. and, by the way, do you notice how thick he is with nat poole since macklin has refused to toady to him?" "they are almost of a stripe, roger," answered dave. "i know nat poole thoroughly. the only difference is that poole is more of a dandy when it comes to dress." "poole says he is going in for athletics this summer," said phil. "i overheard him telling luke watson so." "is luke going into training?" "i don't think so. he loves his banjo and guitar too much." "well, i'd love them, too, if i could play as he does," returned dave. "luke told me he had noticed something strange about shadow," put in roger. "he asked me if i knew what made shadow so worried. he said he hadn't heard a funny story out of him for a week, and that's unusual, for shadow is generally telling about a dozen a day." "it is possible that he may be fixing for a regular spell of sickness," was dave's comment. "that's the way some things come on, you know." the boys resumed their rowing, and roger put on a burst of speed that made dave work with a will in order to keep up with him. then, of a sudden, there came a sharp click and the senator's son tumbled over backwards, splashing the water in every direction. "whoop! look out!" yelled phil. "i don't want any shower-bath! did you catch a crab, roger?" "n--no, i didn't," spluttered the senator's son, when he had regained a sitting position. "there's the trouble," and he pointed to a broken oarlock. "that's too bad," declared dave. "boys, we shall have to have that fixed before we take the boat back to the boathouse--or else we'll have to tell mr. dale." the man he mentioned was the first assistant instructor at the hall. "let us row down to ike rasmer's boathouse and see if he will sell us an oarlock," suggested roger. "he ought to have plenty on hand." "all right," said phil; "and, as both of you must be tired now, i'll take my turn," and he motioned to dave to change seats with him, while roger drew in his remaining oar. the man whom roger had mentioned was a boatman who rented out craft of various kinds. his boathouse was about half a mile away, but phil covered the distance with ease. they found rasmer out on his little dock, painting a tiny sloop a dark green. "how do you do, boys?" he called out, pleasantly. "out for an airing?" "no, we came down to see if you needed any painters," answered dave. "well, i dunno. what do you think of this job of mine? ain't it pretty slick?" and ike rasmer surveyed his work with evident satisfaction. "it's all right, ike," answered roger. "when you give up boating, take to house-painting, by all means." "house-painting?" snorted the man. "not fer me! i ain't goin' to fall off no slippery ladder an' break my neck. i'd rather paint signs. what's that you've got, a broken oarlock?" "yes, and i want to know if you'll sell me one to match?" "sure i will," answered ike rasmer, with a twinkle in his eye. he threw down his paint brush and walked into his boathouse. "here you be, my boy!" and he held up the parts of a broken oarlock. "well--i--i didn't want a broken one," stammered the senator's son. "didn't ye say you wanted one to match? ho, ho! i reckon i cotched you that trip, didn't i?" and the man continued to laugh, and dave and phil joined in. "ike must have swallowed a whetstone this morning," observed dave. "a whetstone?" queried the old boatman. "why?" "you're so awfully sharp." "ho, ho! that's one on me, sure enough." the man slapped dave on the shoulder. "you hall boys are the cute ones, ain't ye? well, if you want a good oarlock, you shall have it," and he brought forth a number, that roger might make his selection. the senator's son did so, and paid for it out of his pocket-money. "we ought to pay for part of that," said dave, always ready to do what was fair. "oh, don't bother, dave; it's only a trifle," answered his chum. "say, some of you boys are out pretty late nights," observed ike rasmer, as he resumed his painting, and while roger was adjusting the new oarlock to the gunwale of the hall boat. "out late?" queried phil. "yes, mighty late." "i haven't been out for a month." "nor i," added dave and roger. "i see that young hamilton not long ago--the fellow that tells stories whenever he can get the chance. and i saw gus plum, too." "together?" asked dave, with sudden interest. "oh, no. but they were out the same night." "late?" "i should say so--after twelve o'clock." "what were they doing, ike?" asked phil. "rowing along the river. each had a small boat--i guess one from the school. it was bright moonlight, and i saw them quite plainly when they passed robbin's point, where i was fishing." "and each was alone?" "yes. hamilton was right ahead of plum, and both rowing along at good speed, too. i thought it was mighty strange, and made up my mind i'd ask you boys about it. but, say, i don't want you to get them into trouble," added the old boatman, suddenly. "they are both customers of mine, sometimes." "i shan't say anything," answered roger. "but this puzzles me," he continued, turning to his friends. "each boy was alone in a boat?" queried dave. "yes." "and plum was following hamilton?" "he seemed to be. anyway, his boat was behind the other." "was anybody else around?" asked phil. "i didn't see a soul, and the river was almost as bright as day." "did you see them a second time?" asked dave. "no, for i was getting ready to go home when they came along. i don't know where they went, or when they got back." ike rasmer could tell no more than this, and as it was getting late the three boys lost no time in shoving off once more and pulling for the hall boathouse. "this stumps me," declared the senator's son. "what do you make of it? do you think shadow and plum are up to something between them?" "no, i don't," answered dave, decidedly. "shadow is not the fellow to train with gus plum. he doesn't like the bully any more than we do." "no wonder shadow feels sleepy, if he spends his nights on the river," said phil. "but i can't make out what he is up to, i must confess. if it was some fun, he would surely take somebody with him." the boys pulled with all their strength, yet when they arrived at the hall boathouse, they found that they were exactly twelve minutes behind the supper hour. "no time to wash up," said roger. "we'll be lucky if we can slip into the dining room without being observed." with all speed they tied up their craft and ran for the school building. they were just entering the side door when they were brought face to face with job haskers, the second assistant teacher and a man who was very dictatorial in his manner. "stop!" cried job haskers, catching dave by the shoulder. "what do you mean by coming in at this hour?" "we were out on the river and broke an oarlock, mr. haskers," replied dave. "humph! an old excuse." "it is the truth, sir," and dave's face flushed. "i broke the oarlock," said roger. "we got back as soon as we could--as soon as we got a new lock at ike rasmer's boathouse." "we cannot allow pupils to come in half an hour late," went on job haskers, loftily. "directly after supper, report to me in classroom 7," and he passed on. "we are in for it now," grumbled phil. "it's a shame! it wasn't our fault that the oarlock broke." "wonder what he will make us do?" came from the senator's son. "something not very pleasant," answered dave. he had encountered the second assistant many times before and knew the harsh instructor well. they were soon in their seats at the table. some of the other students looked at them inquiringly, but nothing was said. not far from dave sat gus plum and nat poole, and both favored the poor boy with a scowl, to which dave paid no attention. the meal finished, dave, phil, and the senator's son brushed up a bit, and then hurried to classroom 7, located in an angle of the building. they were soon joined by job haskers. "the three of you may remain here and each write the word 'oarlock' two hundred times," said the second assistant. "as soon as all of you have finished, ring the bell, and i will come and inspect the work. it must be neatly done, or i shall make you do it over again." and then he left them to themselves, going out and closing the door tightly after him. chapter iv a plot to "square up" "phew! but this is a real picnic!" came softly from phil. "he's as kind as they make 'em, isn't he?" "it's a jolly shame," grumbled the senator's son. "to make us stay in this stuffy classroom on such a fine evening as this." "i am glad i finished with my lessons," was dave's comment. "but i am sorry for you two. but, as there is no help for it, we might as well get to work. the sooner begun, the sooner done, you know." and he began to write away vigorously on one of the pads the teacher had pointed out to them. "i wish old haskers had to write it himself," growled roger, as he, too, went at the task. "oh, but isn't he the mean one! i don't see why the doctor keeps him." "he's smart, that's why," answered phil. "i wish we could get square for this. i'm sure doctor clay would have excused us, had he known the facts. i've a good mind to go to him about it." "don't you do it, phil," cried dave. "it's not worth it. get to work--and we'll think about squaring up afterwards." in a minute more all three of the boys were writing as rapidly as their fingers could travel over the paper. roger was the best penman of the three and finished several minutes before the others. he began to walk up and down the room, whistling softly to himself. "yes, i go in for squaring up with old haskers," he said, rather loudly. "he's about as mean----" and then he stopped short, as the door swung open and the second assistant appeared. "huh!" he snorted. "were you alluding to me, master morr?" he demanded. roger stammered, and his face turned red. "her--here are the words," he stammered. "two hundred, eh? well, you may write a hundred more, and after this be careful of what you say." and then job haskers turned to dave and phil. "that is all right, you two can go." "can i stay with roger?" asked dave. "no, i shall remain here myself," was the cold answer, and then dave and phil had to leave. "i'll wager roger feels like hugging him," was phil's comment. "he will want to get square now, sure." the two boys went out on the campus for awhile and then up to their dormitory, where they found a small crowd assembled, some talking, and a few studying. the door to the adjoining dormitory was open, and there luke watson was playing on a banjo, while another student was singing a negro song in a subdued voice. "i say, dave, will you explain something to me?" said a voice from a corner. the question came from chip macklin, gus plum's former toady. the small boy was working over a sheet of algebra sums. "certainly," said dave, readily, and sat down by the other's side. "now, what is it? oh, i see. i got twisted on that myself once. this is the proper equation, and you can reduce it this way," and he was soon deep in the problem, with chip looking on admiringly. when the problem had been worked out and explained in detail, the small boy was very grateful. "and, dave," he went on, in a low tone, "i--i want to tell you something. be on your guard against plum and nat poole." "why?" "because they are plotting mischief. i heard them talking in the gym. i don't know what it is about, but they are surely up to something." "i'll remember, chip, and much obliged," answered dave, and then he turned to the other boys, leaving the small youth to finish his examples. "hello, where have you been?" came from stout and lazy buster beggs. he was sprawled out on the end of a couch. "i noticed you didn't get to supper till late, and went right off, directly you had finished." "had a special session with haskers," answered dave. "he wants me to improve my handwriting." there was a smile at this, for all the boys knew what it meant. "oh, that fellow is a big peach, he is!" came from sam day, who sat in one of the windows. "yesterday, he made me stay in just because i asked tolliver for a lead pencil." "he was mad because polly vane caught him in an error in grammar," added another youth. "didn't you, polly?" he added, addressing a rather girlish-looking boy who sat near chip macklin. "i did," was the soft answer. "it was rather a complicated sentence, but perfectly clear to me," explained the boy. "i don't wonder, for polly fairly lives on grammar and language," put in phil. "i don't believe anybody could trip him up," and this compliment made bertram vane blush like a girl. he was in reality one of the best scholars in the academy. "which puts me in mind of a story," came from one of the cots. "an----" "hello, are you awake, shadow?" cried sam day. "i thought you were snoozing." "so i was, but i am slept out, and feel better now. as i was saying, an old farmer and a college professor went out rowing together. says the college professor, 'can you do sums in algebra?' 'no,' answers the farmer. 'then you have missed a great opportunity,' says the professor. just then the boat struck a rock and went over. 'save me!' yells the professor. 'can't you swim?' asked the farmer. 'no.' 'then you have lost the chance of your life!' says the farmer, and strikes out and leaves the professor to take care of himself." "two hundredth time!" came in a solemn voice from the doorway to the next room. "wha--what do you mean? i never told any story two hundred times," cried shadow hamilton. "and that puts me in mind----" "shadow, if you tell another as bad as that, i'll heave you out of the window," came from sam day. "that has moss on it three inches th----" "oh, i know you, lazy; you're jealous, that's all. you couldn't tell a story if you stood on your head." "can you, shadow?" and then a general laugh went up, in the midst of which the door opened, and job haskers entered. on catching sight of the unpopular teacher, sam day lost no time in sliding from the window-sill to a chair. "boys, we cannot permit so much noise up here!" cried job haskers. "and that constant strumming on a banjo must be stopped. master day, were you sitting in the window?" "i--er--i think i was," stammered sam. "you are aware that is against the rules. if you fell out, the hall management would be held responsible. after school to-morrow you can write the words, 'window-sill,' two hundred times. hamilton, get up, and straighten out that cot properly. i am ashamed of you." and then the hated teacher passed on to the next dormitory. "i told you to get out of the window," said macklin, as soon as they were alone. "i was caught that way myself once, and so was gus plum." "lazy is going to learn how to write a little better, too," said dave, with a grin. at that moment roger came in, looking thoroughly disgusted. "made me write half of it over again," he explained. "oh, it's simply unbearable! say, i am going to do something to get square, as sure as eggs is eggs." "eggs are eggs," corrected polly vane, sweetly. "oh, thanks, polly. what about a tailor's goose?" "eh?" "if one tailor's goose is a goose, what are half a dozen?" "tailor's geese, i suppose--but, no, you'd not say that. let me see," and the girlish youth dove into his books. "that's a serious question, truly!" he murmured. "well, i am willing to get square, too," put in sam day. "so am i," grunted shadow hamilton. "there was no need to call me down as he did, simply because the cot was mussed up a bit. the question is, what's to be done?" the boys paused and looked at each other. then a sudden twinkle came into dave's clear eyes. "if we could do it, it would be great," he murmured. "do what, dave?" asked several at once. "i don't care to say, unless i am certain we are all going to stand together." "we are!" came in a chorus from all but polly vane, who was still deep in his books. "what about you, polly?" called out roger. "me? why--er--if a tailor's goose is a real goose, not a flatiron goose----" "oh, drop the goose business. we are talking about getting square with haskers. will you stand with the crowd?" "you see, we don't want to make gooses of ourselves," said phil, with a wink at polly vane. "i'll stand by you," said polly. "but please don't ask me to do something ridiculous, as when we dumped that feather bed down from the third-story landing, and caught those visitors, instead of pop swingly." "i was only thinking of farmer cadmore's ram," said dave, innocently. "he is now tied up in a field below here. i don't think he likes to be out over night. he'd rather be under shelter--say in mr. haskers' room." "whoop!" cried roger. "just the thing! we will store him away in old haskers' closet." this plan met with instant approval, and the boys drew straws as to which of them should endeavor to execute the rather difficult undertaking. three were to go, and the choice fell upon dave, phil, and sam day. the others promised to remain on guard and issue a warning at the first intimation of danger. "i think the coast will be fairly clear," said sam day. "i heard haskers tell doctor clay he was going out to-night and would not be back until eleven, or after. that ought to give us plenty of time in which to do the trick." the three boys could not leave the dormitory until the monitor, jim murphy, had made the rounds and seen to it that all was right for the night and the lights put out. then they stole out into the hallway and down a back stairs. soon they were out of the building and making for farmer cadmore's place. as they left the hall they did not see that they were being watched, yet such was a fact. nat poole had been out on a special errand and had seen them depart. at once that student hurried to tell his friend, gus plum. "going out, eh?" said the big bully. "yes, and i heard them say something about making it warm when they got back," returned nat poole. "humph! nat, we must put a spoke in their wheel." "i'm willing. what shall we do?" "i'll think something up--before they get back," replied the bully of oak hall. "they haven't any right to be out, and i guess we've got 'em just where we want 'em." chapter v what the plot led to it was a clear night, with no moon, but with countless stars bespangling the heavens. all was quiet around oak hall, and the three boys found it an easy matter to steal across the campus, gain the shade of a row of oaks, and get out on the side road leading to the cadmore farm. "we don't want to get nabbed at this," was phil's comment. "if farmer cadmore caught us, he would make it mighty warm. he's as irritable as old farmer brown, and you'll remember what a time we had with him and his calf." "does he keep a dog?" asked dave. "i haven't any use for that sort of an animal, if he is savage." "no, he hasn't any dog," answered phil. "i was asking about it last week." but phil was mistaken; jabez cadmore did have a dog--one he had purchased a few days before. he was a good-sized mastiff, and far from gentle. walking rapidly, it did not take the three boys long to reach the first of farmer cadmore's fields. this was of corn, and passing through it and over a potato patch, they came to an orchard, wherein they knew the ram was tied to one of the trees. "now, be careful!" whispered dave, as he leaped the rail-fence of the orchard. "somebody may be stirring around the farmhouse"--pointing to the structure some distance away. "oh, they must be in bed by this time," said phil. "farmers usually retire early. cadmore is a close-fisted chap, and he won't want to burn up his oil or his candles." with hearts which beat rather rapidly, the boys stole along from one tree to another. then they saw a form rise out of the orchard grass, and all gave a jump. but it was only the ram, and the animal was more frightened than themselves. "look out that he doesn't butt you," warned dave. "some of 'em are pretty _ram_bunctious." they approached the ram with caution, and untied him. then phil started to lead him out of the orchard, with dave and sam following. at first he would not go, but then began to run, so that phil kept up with difficulty. "stop!" cried the boy. "not so fast! don't you hear?" but the ram paid no attention, and now turned to the very end of the orchard. here the ground was rough, and in a twinkling all three of the boys went down in a hollow and rolled over and over, while the ram, finding himself free, plunged on, and was hidden from view in the darkness. "he got away!" gasped phil, scrambling up. "we must--hark!" he stopped short, and all of the boys listened. from a distance came the deep baying of the mastiff. the sounds drew closer rapidly. "a dog--and he is after us!" cried dave. "fellows, we have got to get out of this!" "if we can!" replied sam day. "which is the way out? i am all turned around." so were the others, and they stared into the darkness under the apple trees in perplexity. the dog was coming closer, and to get away by running appeared to be out of the question. "jump into a tree!" cried dave, and showed the way. the others followed, clutching at some low-hanging branches and pulling themselves up as rapidly as possible. dave and sam were soon safe, but the mastiff, making a bound, caught phil by the sole of his shoe. "hi!" roared phil. "let go!" and he kicked out with the other foot. this made the mastiff make another snap, but his aim was poor, and he dropped back to the ground, while phil hauled himself up beside his companions. "phew! but that was a narrow escape and no mistake," was the comment of the big youth, after he could catch his breath. "i thought sure he had me by the foot!" "we are in a pickle," groaned sam. "i suppose that dog will camp right at the foot of this tree till farmer cadmore comes." "yes, he is camping now," announced dave, peering down into the gloom. the moment the mastiff saw him, the canine set up a loud barking. for a full minute after that none of the boys spoke, each being busy with his thoughts. "we are treed, that is certain," said phil, soberly. "and i must say i don't see any way to escape." "yes, and don't forget about the ram," added sam. "old jabez cadmore will want to know about him, too." "i've got an idea," said dave, presently. "perhaps it won't work, but it won't do any harm to try it." "give it to us, by all means!" "the trees are pretty thick in this orchard. let us try to work our way from one tree to another until we can reach the fence. then, perhaps, we can drop outside and get out of the way of that animal." this was considered a good plan, and they proceeded to put it into execution at once. it was no easy matter to climb from tree to tree, and each got a small rent in his clothing, and sam came near falling to the ground. the mastiff watched them curiously, barking but little, much to their satisfaction. at last, they came to the final row of apple trees. a long limb hung over a barbed-wire fence, and the boys paused, wondering if it would be safe to drop to the ground. "if that mastiff should come through the fence, it would go hard with us," was phil's comment. "i'd rather stay up here and take what comes." "i am going to risk it," answered dave. "i see a stick down there, and i'll grab that as soon as i land," and down he dropped, and caught up the stick with alacrity. the dog pounced forward, struck the sharp barbs of the fence, and retreated, howling dismally with pain. then he made another advance, with like results. "hurrah! he can't get through!" ejaculated dave. "come on, fellows, it's perfectly safe." and down his chums dropped, and all hurried away from the vicinity of the orchard. "we had better be getting back," said sam, after the orchard and potato patch had been left behind. "that farmer may be coming after us before we know it. he must have heard the dog." but in this he was mistaken, the distance from the house was too great, and the farmer and his family slept too soundly to be disturbed. "it's too bad we must go back without the ram," observed dave. "the other fellows will think we got scared and threw up the job." "well, it can't be helped," began phil, when he caught sight of something moving along the road ahead of them. "look! is that the ram?" "it is!" exclaimed dave. "wait! if you are not careful, he'll run away again. stay here, and i'll catch him. i was brought up on a farm, and i know all about sheep." the others came to a halt, and dave advanced with caution until he was within a few feet of the ram. then he held out his hand and made a peculiar sound. the ram grew curious and remained quiet, while the youth picked up the end of the rope which was around the animal's neck. "i've got him," he said, in a low, even tone. "now, keep to the rear and i'll manage him." and on they went. once in a while the ram showed a disposition to butt and to stop short, but dave coaxed him, and the trouble was not great. when they came in sight of the school building, they realized that the most difficult part of the task lay before them. it was decided that dave should keep the ram behind the gymnasium building until sam and phil ascertained that the coast was clear. left to himself, dave tied the ram to a post and crawled into the gymnasium by one of the windows. he procured several broad straps, and also a small blanket. just as he came out with the things, sam and phil came hurrying back, each with a look of deep concern on his face. "the jig is up!" groaned sam. "plum and poole are on to our racket, and they won't let us in!" "plum and poole!" exclaimed dave. "are they at that back door?" "yes, and when we came up, they jeered us," said phil. "oh, but wasn't i mad! they said if we tried to force our way in, they'd ring up the doctor, or mr. dale." "does our crowd know about this?" "i don't think they do." "plum and poole intend to keep us out all night, eh?" "it looks that way. they said we could ask haskers to let us in when he came." "i am not going to haskers," said dave, firmly. "sam, you look after this ram for a few minutes. i'll make them let us in, and not give us away, either. phil, you come along." "but i don't see how you are going to do it," expostulated the big boy. "never mind; just come on, that's all. plum isn't going to have a walk-over to-night." somewhat mystified, phil accompanied dave across the campus and to the rear door of the hall. here the barrier was open only a few inches, with plum peering out, and poole behind him. the face of the bully wore a look of triumph. "how do you like staying out?" he whispered, hoarsely. "fine night for a ramble, eh? you can tell old haskers what a fine walk you have had! he'll be sure to reward you handsomely!" "see here, plum, i am not going to waste words with you to-night," said dave, in a low, but intense, tone. "you let us in, and at once, or you'll regret it." "will i?" "you will. and what is more: don't you dare to say a word to anybody about what is happening now." "oh, dear, but you can talk big! maybe you want me to get down on my knees as you pass in," added the bully, mockingly. "if you don't let us in, do you know what i shall do?" continued dave, in a whisper. "i shall go to doctor clay and tell him that you are in the habit of going out after midnight to row on the river." if dave had expected this statement to have an effect upon the bully, his anticipations were more than realized. gus plum uttered a cry of dismay and fell back on nat poole's shoulder. his face lost its color, and he shook from head to foot. "yo-you----" he began. "wha-what do you know about my--my rowing on the river?" "i know a good deal." "yo-you've been--following--me?" for once the bully could scarcely speak. "i shan't say any more," said dave, giving his chum a pinch in the arm to keep quiet. "only, are you going to let us in or not?" "n-no--i mean, yes," stammered gus plum. he could scarcely collect himself, he seemed so upset. "you can come in. poole, we'll have to let them in this time." "and you will keep still about this?" demanded dave. "yes, yes! i won't say a word, porter, not a word! and--and i'll see you to-morrow after school. i--that is--i want to talk to you. until then, mum's the word on both sides." and then, to the astonishment of both dave and phil, gus plum hurried away, dragging nat poole with him. chapter vi the fun of a night "my gracious, plum acts as if he was scared to death," observed phil, after the bully and his companion had departed, leaving the others a clear field. "he certainly was worked up," returned dave. "i wonder what he'll have to say to-morrow?" there was no answering that question, and the two boys hurried to where they had left sam without attempting to reach a conclusion. they found their chum watching out anxiously. "well?" came from his lips as soon as he saw them. "it's all right," answered dave, and told as much as he deemed necessary. "come, we must hurry, or job haskers will get back before we can fix things." "this ram is going to be something to handle," observed phil. "no 'meek as a lamb' about him." "i'll show you how to do the trick," answered the boy from the country, and with a dexterous turn of the horns, threw the ram over on one side. "now sit on him, until i tie his legs with the straps." in a few minutes dave had the animal secured, and the blanket was placed over the ram's head, that he might not make too much noise. then they hoisted their burden up between them and started toward the hall. it was no easy matter to get the ram upstairs and into job haskers' room. on the upper landing they were met by roger and buster beggs, who declared the coast clear. once in the room of the assistant teacher, they cleared out the bottom of the closet and then, releasing the animal from his bonds, thrust him inside and shut and locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. "now, skip!" cried dave, in a low voice. "he may cut up high-jinks in another minute." "here is an apple he can have--that will keep him quiet for awhile," said roger, and put it in the closet, locking the door as before. the ram was hungry, and began to munch the fruit with satisfaction. a few minutes more found the boys safe in their dormitory, where they waited impatiently for the second assistant teacher to get back to oak hall. at last they heard him unlock the front door and come up the broad stairs. then they heard his room door open and shut. "now for the main act in the drama," whispered roger. "come on, but don't dare to make any noise." all of the boys, including little macklin and polly vane, were soon outside of dormitories nos. 11 and 12--the two rooms the "crowd" occupied. they went forth on tiptoe, scarcely daring to breathe. arriving at job haskers' door, they listened and heard the teacher preparing to go to bed. one shoe after another dropped to the floor, and then came a creaking of the bed, which told that he had lain down. "that ram isn't going to do anything," began sam, in disgust, when there came a bang on the closet door that caused everybody to jump. "wha-what's that?" cried job haskers, sitting up in bed. he fancied somebody had knocked on the door to the hall. another bang resounded on the closet door. the ram had finished the apple, and wanted his freedom. the teacher leaped to the middle of the bedroom floor. "who is in there?" he demanded, walking toward the closet. "who is there, i say?" getting no answer, he paused in perplexity. then a grin overspread his crafty face, and he slipped on some of his clothing. "so i've caught you, eh?" he observed. "going to play some trick on me, were you? i am half of a mind to make you stay there all night, no matter who you are. i suppose you thought i wouldn't get back quite so early. in the morning, i'll----" another bang on the door cut his speculations short. he struck a match and lit the light, and then unlocking the closet door, threw it wide open. what happened next came with such suddenness that job haskers was taken completely by surprise. as soon as the door was opened, the ram leaped out. he caught one glimpse of the teacher, and, lowering his head, he made a plunge and caught job haskers fairly and squarely in the stomach, doubling up the man like a jack-knife. haskers went down in a heap, and, turning, the ram gave him a second prod in the side. "hi! stop! murder! help!" came in terror. "stop it, you beast! hi! call him off, somebody! oh, my!" and then job haskers tried to arise and place a table between himself and the ram. but the animal was now thoroughly aroused, and went at the table with vigor, upsetting it on the teacher and hurling both over into a corner. by this time the noise had aroused nearly the entire school, and pupils and teachers came hurrying from all directions. "what is the trouble here?" demanded andrew dale, as he came up to where dave was standing. "sounds like a bombardment in mr. haskers' room, sir," was the answer. "mr. haskers is trying some new gymnastic exercises," came from a student in the rear of the crowd. "maybe he has got a fit," suggested another. "he didn't look well at supper time." the racket in the room continued, and now doctor clay, arrayed in a dressing-gown and slippers, came upon the scene, followed by pop swingly, the janitor. "has mr. haskers caught a burglar?" asked the janitor. "that's it!" shouted phil, with a wink at his friends. "look out, swingly, that you don't get shot!" "shot?" gasped the janitor, who was far from being a brave man. "i don't want to get shot, not me!" and he edged behind some of the boys. doctor clay hurried to the door of the room, only to find it locked from the inside. "mr. haskers, what is the trouble?" he demanded. another bang and a thump was the only reply, accompanied by several yells. then, of a sudden, came a crash of glass and an exclamation of wonder. "something has gone through the window, as sure as you are born!" whispered dave to roger. "oh, dave, you don't suppose it was haskers? if he fell to the ground, he'd be killed!" "open the door, or i shall break in!" thundered doctor clay, and then the door was thrown open and job haskers stood there, a look of misery on his face and trembling from head to foot. "what is the trouble?" asked the doctor. "the ram--he butted me--knocked me down--nearly killed me!" spluttered the assistant teacher. "the ram--what ram?" "he's gone now--hit the window and jumped out." "mr. haskers, have you lost your senses?" "no, sir. there was a ram in this room--in the closet. i heard him, and opened the door--i--oh! i can feel the blow yet. he was a--a terror!" "do you mean a real, live ram?" questioned andrew dale, with a slight smile on his face--that smile which made all the boys his friends. "i should say he was alive! oh, it's no laughing matter!" growled job haskers. "he nearly killed me!" "an' did he go through the winder?" asked pop swingly, as he stepped to the broken sash. "he did--went out like a rocket. look at the wreck of the table! i am thankful i wasn't killed!" "how did the ram get here?" asked doctor clay. "how should i know? he was in the closet when i came in. some of those villainous boys--" "gently, mr. haskers. the boys are not villains." "well, they put the ram there, i am sure of it." the doctor turned to the janitor. "swingly, go below and see if you can see anything of the ram. he may be lying on the ground with a broken leg, or something like that. if so, we'll have to kill him, to put him out of his misery." the janitor armed himself with a stout cane and went downstairs, and after him trooped andrew dale and fully a score of boys. but not a sign of the ram was to be seen, only some sharp footprints where he had landed. "must have struck fair an' square, an' run off," observed the janitor. "rams is powerful tough critters. i knowed one as fell over a stone cliff, an' never minded it at all." "let us take a look around," said the first assistant. "boys, get to bed, you'll take cold in this night air." and then the students trooped back into the hall. upstairs they found that job haskers and doctor clay had gotten into a wrangle. the assistant wanted an examination of the boys at once, regardless of the hour of the night, but doctor clay demurred. "we'll investigate in the morning," said he. "and, as the window is broken out, mr. haskers, you may take the room next to mine, which is just now vacant." "somebody ought to be punished----" "we'll investigate, do not fear." "it's getting worse and worse. by and by there won't be any managing these rascals at all," grumbled the assistant teacher. "some of them ought to have their necks wrung!" "there, that is enough," returned the doctor, sternly. "i think we can manage them, even at such a time as this. now, boys," he continued, "go to bed, and do not let me hear any more disturbances." and he waved the students to their various dormitories. "say, but isn't old haskers mad!" exclaimed roger, when he and his chums were in their dormitory. "he'd give a good bit to find out who played the joke on him." "i hope that ram got away all right," came from dave. "i didn't want to see the animal injured." "i think pop swingly is right, animals like that are tough," was buster beggs' comment. "more than likely he is on his way back to farmer cadmore's farm." "we'll find out later on," put in sam day. "there is another thing to consider," continued dave. "it wouldn't be right to let doctor clay stand for the expense of that broken window. i think i'll send him the price of the glass out of my pocket money." "not a bit of it!" exclaimed phil. "let us pass around the hat. we are all in this as deep as you." and so it was decided that all of the students of dormitories nos. 11 and 12 should contribute to the fund for mending the broken sash. then, as andrew dale came around on a tour of inspection, all hopped into bed and were soon sound asleep. chapter vii gus plum's mysterious offer when doctor clay came to his desk on the following morning, he found an envelope lying there, on which was inscribed the following: "to pay for the broken window. if it costs more, please let the school know, and we'll settle the bill." three dollars was inclosed. this caused the worthy doctor to smile quietly to himself. it took him back to his college days, when he had aided in several such scrapes. "boys will be boys," he murmured. "they are not villains, only real flesh-and-blood youngsters." "you are going to punish those boys?" demanded job haskers, coming up. "if we can locate them." "humph! i'd catch them, if it took all day." "you may do as you think best, mr. haskers; only remember you have young gentlemen to deal with. i presume they thought it only a harmless prank." "i'll prank them, if i catch them," growled the assistant to himself, as he walked away. word had been passed around among the boys, and when the roll was called all were ready to "face the music." "who knows anything about the proceedings of last night?" began job haskers, gazing around fiercely. there was a pause, and then a rather dull boy named carson arose. "great cã¦sar! is he going to blab on us?" murmured phil. "what have you got to say, carson?" asked the teacher. "i--i--i kn-know wh-what happened," stuttered carson. "very well, tell me what you know?" "a ra-ra-ra-ram got into your ro-ro-ro-room, and he kno-kno-kno-knocked you d-d-d-down!" went on the boy, who was the worst stutterer at oak hall. "ahem! i know that. who put the ram in my room?" "i d-d-d-d----" "you did!" thundered the teacher. "how dare you do such a thing!" "i d-d-d-d----" "carson, i am--er--amazed. what made you do it?" "i d-d-d-didn't say i d-d-d-did it," spluttered poor carson. "i said i d-d-d-didn't know." "oh!" job haskers' face fell, and he looked as sour as he could. "sit down. now, then, whoever knows who put that ram in my room last night, stand up." not a boy arose. "will anybody answer?" stormed the teacher. there was utter silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. dave looked at gus plum and nat poole, but neither budged. "i shall call the roll, and each boy must answer for himself," went on job haskers. "ansberry!" "i can tell you nothing, mr. haskers," was the reply, and the pupil dropped back into his seat. "humph! aspinwell!" "i can tell you nothing, mr. haskers." "babcock!" "i can tell you nothing, mr. haskers." "this is--er--outrageous! beggs!" "sorry, but i can tell you nothing, mr. haskers," drawled the fat youth. after that, one name after another was called, and every pupil said practically the same thing, even plum and poole stating that they could tell nothing. when the roll-call was finished, the teacher was fairly purple with suppressed rage. "i shall inquire into this at some future time!" he snapped out. "you are dismissed to your classes." and he turned away to hide his chagrin. "do you think we are safe?" whispered phil to dave, as they hurried to their room. "i think so," was the country boy's reply. and dave was right--the truth concerning the night's escapade did not come out until long after, when it was too late to do anything in the matter. dave was anxious to make a record for himself in his studies, and, with the end of the term so close at hand, he did his best over his books and in the classroom. he was close to the top of his class, and he was already certain of winning a special prize given for mathematics. roger was just behind him in the general average, and phil was but five points below, with a special prize for language to his credit. the best scholar of all was polly vane, who, so far, had a percentage of ninety-seven, out of a possible hundred. dave had not forgotten what gus plum had said, and just before the session for the day was ended received a note from the bully, asking him to come down to a point on the lake known as the three rocks, and located at the extreme limit of the academy grounds. plum asked him particularly to come alone. "aren't you afraid plum will play some trick on you?" asked phil, who saw the note delivered, and read it. "i'll be on my guard," answered dave. "i am not afraid of him, if it should come to an encounter between us." having put away his books, dave sauntered down to the spot mentioned, which was behind a thick fringe of bushes. plum was not yet there, but soon came up at a quick walk. "i couldn't get away from poole," explained the bully. "are you alone?" and he gazed around anxiously. "yes, i am alone," answered dave, coolly. there was a silence, and each boy looked at the other. dave's eyes were clear, but the bully's had something of the haunted in them. "you said something about me last night," began plum, lamely, "something about my being on the river." "i did." "did you see me on the river?" "i am not going to answer that question just yet, plum." "huh! maybe you are only joking?" "very well, you can think as you please. if you want to talk to me, very well; if not, i'll go back to the school," and dave started to walk away. "hold on!" the bully caught the country boy by the arm. "if you saw me on the river, what else did you see?" "you were following shadow hamilton in a boat." "i wasn't--i didn't have anything to do with hamilton. i--i didn't know he was out till afterwards," went on the bully, fiercely. "don't you say such a thing--don't you dare!" his face was very white. "you are not going to get me into trouble!" "is that all you have to say, plum?" "n-no. i want to talk this over, porter. i--that is--let us come to terms--that's the best way. it won't do you any good to try to get me into trouble. i--i haven't done anything wrong. i was out on the river by--by accident, that's all--got it into my head to have a lark that night, just as you went out for a lark last night." "well, what do you want to see me about, then?" questioned dave. he could readily see that the bully had something on his mind which troubled him greatly. "i think we might as well come to terms--you keep still and i'll keep still." "i haven't said anything, plum." "yes, but you might, later on, you know. i--that is, let us make a sure thing of this," stammered the bully. "what are you driving at, plum? talk out straight." "i will." the bully looked around, to make certain that nobody was within hearing distance. "you're a poor boy, porter, aren't you?" "i admit it." "just so. and, being poor, some pocket money comes in mighty handy at times, doesn't it?" "i have some spending money." "but not as much as you'd like; ain't that so?" "oh, i could spend more--if i had it," answered dave, trying to find out what the other was driving at. "well, supposing i promised to give you some money to spend, porter, how would that strike you?" dave was astonished, the suggestion was so entirely unexpected. but he tried not to show his feelings. "would you give me money, gus?" he asked, calmly. "yes, i would--if you'd only promise to keep quiet." "how much?" "well--i--er--i'd do the right thing. did phil lawrence see me on the river?" "no." "any of the other boys?" "not that i know of." "then you were alone." gus plum drew a sigh of relief. "now, let us come to terms, by all means. i'll do the square thing, and you'll have all the pocket money you want." "but how much are you willing to give me?" queried dave, his curiosity aroused to its highest pitch. "i'll give you"--the bully paused, to add impressiveness to his words--"i'll give you fifty dollars." "fifty dollars!" ejaculated dave. he was bewildered by the answer. he had expected plum to name a dollar or two at the most. "ain't that enough?" "do you think it is enough?" asked the country boy. he scarcely knew what to say. he was trying to study the bully's face. "well--er--if you'll give me your solemn word not to whisper a word--not a word, remember--i'll make it a--a hundred dollars." "you'll give me a hundred dollars? when?" "before the end of the week. i haven't the money now, but, if you want it, i can give you ten dollars on account--just to bind the bargain," and the bully drew two five-dollar bills from his vest pocket. "but, remember, mum's the word--no matter what comes." he thrust the bills at dave, who merely looked at them. then the country boy drew himself up. "i don't want a cent of your money, gus plum," he said, in a low, but firm, voice. "you can't bribe me, no matter what you offer." the bully dropped back and his face fell. he put his money back into his pocket. then he glared savagely at dave. "then you won't come to terms!" he fairly hissed between his teeth. "no." "you had better. if you dare to tell on me--breathe a word of what you saw that night--i'll--i'll make it so hot for you that you'll wish you had never been born! i am not going to let a country jay like you ruin me! not much! you think twice before you make a move! i can hurt you in a way you least expect, and if i have to leave this school, you'll have to go, too!" and shaking his fist at dave, gus plum strode off, leaving dave more mystified than ever before. chapter viii shadow hamilton's confession "i simply can't understand it, phil. gus plum was frightened very much, or he would never have offered me a hundred dollars to keep quiet." dave and his chum were strolling along the edge of the campus, an hour after the conversation recorded in the last chapter. the boy from the poorhouse had told phil all that had occurred. "it is certainly the most mysterious thing i ever heard of, outside of this mystery about billy dill," answered phil. "plum has been up to something wrong, but just what, remains to be found out." "and what about shadow hamilton?" "i can't say anything about shadow. i never thought he would do anything that wasn't right." "nor i. what would you advise?" "keep quiet and await developments. something is bound to come to the surface, sooner or later." "hello, you fellows, where are you bound?" came in a cry, and looking up they saw a well-known form approaching. "ben!" cried dave, rushing up to the newcomer and shaking hands warmly. "when did you come in? and how are all the folks at crumville? did you happen to see professor potts and the wadsworths?" "one question at a time, please," answered ben basswood, as he shook hands with phil. "yes, i saw them all, and everybody wants to be remembered to you. jessie sends her very sweetest regards----" "oh, come now, no fooling," interrupted dave, blushing furiously. "tell us the plain truth." "well, she sent her best regard, anyway. and all the others did the same. the professor is getting along finely. you'd hardly know him now, he looks so hale and hearty. it did him a world of good to go to live with the wadsworths." "you must have had a pretty nice vacation," observed phil. "yes, although it was rather short. but, say, have you fellows heard about plum's father?" went on ben basswood, earnestly. "we've heard that he lost some money." "yes, and he has tied himself up in some sort of underhanded get-rich-quick concern, and i understand some folks are going to sue him for all he is worth. that will be rather rough on gus--if his father loses all his money." "true enough," said dave. "but tell us all the news," he continued, and then ben related the particulars of affairs at crumville, and of a legal fight between his father and mr. aaron poole, in which mr. basswood had won. "that will make nat more sour on you than ever," observed phil. "maybe; but i can't help it. if he leaves me alone i'll leave him alone." the following day passed quietly at oak hall. gus plum and nat poole kept by themselves. shadow hamilton appeared to brighten a little, but dave observed that the youth was by no means himself. he did not care to play baseball or "do a turn" at the gym., and kept for the most part by himself. saturday passed, and on sunday a large number of the students marched off to three of the town churches. dave, roger, and phil attended the same church and ben went with them, and all listened to a strong sermon on christian brotherhood, which was destined to do each of them good. "it makes a fellow feel as if he's got to help somebody else," said roger. "well, it is our duty to help others," answered dave. "the fellow who isn't willing to do that is selfish." "you've certainly helped macklin, dave," said ben. "i never saw such a change in a fellow. i'll wager he is more than happy to be out of gus plum's influence." "i'd help plum, too, if he'd let me," said dave, and then gave a long sigh. two days later there was a sensation at the school. doctor clay came into the main classroom in the middle of the forenoon, looking much worried. "young gentlemen, i wish to talk to you for a few minutes," he said. "as some of you may know, i am the proud possessor of a stamp collection which i value at not less than three thousand dollars. the stamps are arranged in three books, and i have spent eight years in collecting them. these books of stamps are missing, and i wish to know if anybody here knows anything about them. if they were taken away in a spirit of fun, let me say that such a joke is a poor one, and i trust the books will be speedily returned, and without damage to a single stamp." all of the boys listened with interest, for many of them had inspected the collection, and they knew that stamp-gathering was one of the kind doctor's hobbies. "doctor, i am sorry to hear of this," said one boy, named bert dalgart, a youth who had a small collection of his own. "i looked at the collection about ten days ago, as you know. i haven't seen it since." "nor have i seen it," said roger, who also collected stamps. "is there any boy here who knows anything at all about my collection?" demanded the doctor, sharply. "if so, let him stand up." there was a pause, but nobody arose. the master of oak hall drew a long breath. "if this is a joke, i want the collection returned by to-morrow morning," he went on. "if this is not done, and i learn who is guilty, i shall expel that student from this school." he then passed on to the next classroom, and so on through the whole academy. but nothing was learned concerning the missing stamp collection, and the end of the inquiry left the worthy doctor much perplexed and worried. "that is too bad," was dave's comment, after school was dismissed. "that was a nice collection. i'd hate to have it mussed up, if it was mine." "the fellow who played that joke went too far," said the senator's son. "he ought to put the collection back at once." the matter was talked over by all the students for several days. in the meantime doctor clay went on a vigorous hunt for the stamp collection, but without success. "do you think it possible that somebody stole that collection?" questioned dave of phil one afternoon, as he and his chum strolled in the direction of farmer cadmore's place, to see if they could learn anything about the ram. "oh, it's possible; but who would be so mean?" "maybe some outsider got the stamps." "i don't think so. an outside thief would have taken some silverware, or something like that. no, i think those stamps were taken by somebody in the school." "then maybe the chap is afraid to return them--for fear of being found out." so the talk ran on until the edge of the cadmore farm was gained. looking into a field, they saw the ram grazing peacefully on the fresh, green grass. "he's as right as a button!" cried phil. "i guess he wasn't hurt at all, and after jumping from the window he came straight home," and in this surmise the youth was correct. as the boys walked back to the school they separated, phil going to the gymnasium to practice on the bars and dave to stroll along the river. the boy from crumville wanted to be by himself, to think over the past and try to reason out what the sailor had told him. many a time had dave tried to reason this out, but always failed, yet he could not bear to think of giving up. "some time or another i've got to find out who i am and where i came from," he murmured. "i am not going to remain a nobody all my life!" he came to a halt in a particularly picturesque spot, and was about to sit down, when he heard a noise close at hand. looking through the bushes, he saw shadow hamilton on his knees and with his clasped hands raised to heaven. the boy was praying, and remained on his knees for several minutes. when he arose, he turned around and discovered dave, who had just started to leave the spot. "dave porter!" came in a low cry, and hamilton's face grew red. "hello, shadow! taking a walk along the river? if you are, i'll go along." "i--i was walking," stammered the other boy. his eyes searched dave's face. "you--were you watching me?" he asked, lamely. "not exactly." "but you saw me--er----" "i saw you, shadow, i couldn't help it. it was nothing for you to be ashamed of, though." "i--i--oh, i can't tell you!" and hamilton's face took on a look of keen misery. "shadow, you are in some deep trouble, i know it," came bluntly from dave. "don't you want to tell me about it? i'll do what i can for you. we've been chums ever since i came here and i hate to see you so downcast." "it wouldn't do any good--you couldn't help me." "are you sure of that? sometimes an outsider looks at a thing in a different light than that person himself. of course, i don't want to pry into your secrets, if you don't want me to." shadow hamilton bit his lip and hesitated. "if i tell you something, will you promise to keep it to yourself?" "if it is best, yes." "i don't know if it is best or not, but i don't want you to say anything." "well, what is it?" "you know all about the doctor losing that collection of stamps?" "certainly." "and you know about the loss of some of the class stick-pins about three weeks ago?" "yes, i know mr. dale lost just a dozen of them." "the stick-pins are worth two dollars each." "yes." "and that stamp collection was worth over three thousand dollars." "i know that, too." "well, i stole the stick-pins, and i stole the stamp collection, too!" chapter ix about athletic contests "you stole those things, you!" gasped dave. he could scarcely utter the words. he shrank back a step or two, and his face was filled with horror. "yes, i did it," came from shadow hamilton. "but--but--oh, shadow, you must be fooling! surely, you didn't really go to work and--and----" try his best, dave could not finish. "i stole the things; or, rather, i think i had better say i took them, although it amounts to the same thing. but i don't think i am quite as bad as you suppose." "but, if you took them, why didn't you return them? you have had plenty of time." "i would return them, only i don't know where the things are." "you don't know? what do you mean?" "i'll have to tell you my whole story, dave. will you listen until i have finished?" "certainly." "well, to start on, i am a great dreamer and, what is more, i occasionally walk in my sleep." "yes, you told me that before." "one morning i got up, and i found my clothes all covered with dirt and cobwebs and my shoes very muddy. i couldn't explain this, and i thought some of the fellows had been putting up a job on me. but i didn't want to play the calf, so i said nothing. "some days after that i found my clothing in the same condition, and i likewise found that my hands were blistered, as if from some hard work. i couldn't understand it, but suddenly it flashed on me that i must have been sleep-walking. i was ashamed of myself, so i told nobody." "well, but this robbery----" began dave. "i am coming to that. when doctor clay spoke about his stamp collection, i remembered that i had dreamed of that collection one night. it seemed to me that i must run away with the collection and put it in a safe place. then i remembered that i had dreamed of the stick-pins at another time, and had dreamed of going to the boathouse to put them in my locker there. that made me curious, and i went down to the locker, and there i found--what do you think? one of the stick-pins stuck in the wood." "a new one?" "exactly. that made me hunt around thoroughly, and after a while i discovered this, under my rowing sweater." as shadow finished, he drew from his pocket a doubled-up sheet of paper. dave unfolded it, and saw it was a large sheet of rare american postage stamps. "did you find any more than this?" the other youth shook his head. "did you hunt all around the boathouse?" "yes, i hunted high and low, in the building and out. i have spent all my spare time hunting; that is why i have had such poor lessons lately." "don't you remember going out to row during the night, shadow?" at this question, shadow hamilton started. "what do you know about that?" he demanded. "not much--only i know you were out." "do you know where i went to?" "i do not." "well, neither do i. i dreamed about rowing, but i can't, for the life of me, remember where i went. i must have gone a good way, for i blistered my hands with the oars." "and yet you can't remember?" "oh, i know it sounds like a fairy tale, and i know nobody will believe it, yet it is true, dave, i'll give you my word on it." "i believe you, shadow. your being out is what has made you so tired lately. now you have told me a secret, i am going to tell you one. ike rasmer saw you out on the river at night, passing robbin's point. and there is something stranger to tell." "what is that?" "are you dead certain you were asleep on the river?" "i must have been. i remember nothing more than my dream." "do you know that you were followed?" "by rasmer?" "no, by gus plum." "plum!" gasped shadow hamilton, and his face turned pale. "are--are you certain of this?" "that is what ike rasmer told me," and then dave related all that the old boatman had said. "that makes the mystery deeper," muttered shadow. "it puts me in mind of a story i once--but i can't tell stories now!" he gave a sigh. "oh, dave, i am so wretched over this! i don't know what to do." "i know what i'd do." "what?" "go and tell doctor clay everything." "i--i can't do it. he thought so much of that stamp collection--he'll surely send me home--and make my father pay for the collection, too." "i don't think he'll send you home. about pay, that's another question. in one sense, you didn't really steal the stamps. a fellow isn't responsible for what he does in his sleep. i'd certainly go to him. if you wish, i'll go with you." the two talked the matter over for half an hour, and, on dave's continual urging, shadow hamilton at last consented to go to doctor clay and make a clean breast of the matter. they found the master of oak hall in his private office, writing a letter. he greeted them pleasantly and told them to sit down until he had finished. then he turned around to them inquiringly. it was no easy matter for shadow hamilton to break the ice, and dave had to help him do it. but, once the plunge was taken, the youth given to sleep-walking told him his story in all of its details, and turned over to the doctor the stick-pin and the sheet of stamps he had found. during the recital, doctor clay's eyes scarcely once left the face of the boy who was making the confession. as he proceeded, shadow hamilton grew paler and paler, and his voice grew husky until he could scarcely speak. "i know i am to blame, sir," he said, at last. "but i--i--oh, doctor clay, please forgive me!" he burst out. "my boy, there is nothing to forgive," was the kindly answer, that took even dave by surprise. "it would seem that you have been as much of a victim as i have been. i cannot blame you for doing these things in your sleep. i take it for granted that you have told me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" "i have, sir, i have!" "then there is nothing to do but to investigate this as far as we can. of course, i realize that it would cut you to have everybody in the school know of your sleep-walking habit." "yes, sir. but i shouldn't care, if only you could get back the stamps and the pins." "is rasmer sure he saw plum following hamilton on the river?" asked the doctor, turning to dave. "that is what he told morr, lawrence, and myself the day we stopped at his boathouse for a new oarlock." "then i must see him and have a talk with him," said the master of oak hall; and after a few words more the boys were dismissed. on the following morning, doctor clay drove down to ike rasmer's place. the boatman was pleasant enough, but he remembered that gus plum was one of his customers, and when questioned closely, said he could not testify absolutely to the fact that it had been plum who had followed hamilton on the river. "you see, my eyesight ain't of the best, doctor," said rasmer, lamely. "i saw hamilton full in the face, but the other feller had his face turned away from me. i ain't gittin' nobody into trouble, 'less i am sure of what i am doin'--that's nateral, ain't it?" "very," answered doctor clay, coldly, and returned to the academy in deep thought. he realized that ike rasmer was now on his guard, and would tell no more than was absolutely required of him. the next movement of the worthy doctor was to call gus plum into his office. the bully was anxious, but had evidently nerved himself for the ordeal. "no, sir, i have not been out on the river at night this season," said he, blandly, in reply to the doctor's question. "i have not dared to go out so late, for i take cold too easily." and he coughed slightly. this was all doctor clay could get from plum, and he dismissed the bully without mentioning hamilton or the missing pins and stamps. then the doctor called in andrew dale, and the two consulted together for the best part of an hour; but what the outcome of that discussion was the boys were not told. a day later, however, shadow hamilton was told to change his sleeping quarters to a small room next to that occupied by andrew dale. "hello! shadow is going to get high-toned and have a sleeping-room all to himself!" cried roger, and would have asked some questions, only dave cut him short. "there is a good reason, roger," whispered the country boy. "but don't ask me to explain now. if you question shadow, you'll only hurt his feelings." this "tip" spread, and none of the boys after that said a word before hamilton about the change. but later all came to dave and asked what it meant. "i wish i could tell you, but i can't, fellows. some day, perhaps, you'll know; until then, you'll have to forget it." and that is all dave would say. the boys were too busy to give the mystery much attention. a series of athletic contests had been arranged, and all of the students who were to take part had gone into training in the gymnasium, and on the cinder-track which was laid out in the field beyond the last-named building. the contests were to come off on the following saturday, and, to make matters more interesting, doctor clay had put up several prizes of books and silver medals, to be presented to the winners. dave had entered for a hurdle race, and roger, phil, and ben were in various other contests. dave felt that he would stand a good chance at the hurdles, for on caspar potts' farm he had frequently practiced at leaping over the rail fences while on the run. he did not know surely who would be pitted against him until ben basswood brought him the news. "gus plum, fanning, and saultz are in the hurdle race," said ben. "plum says he feels certain he will win." "plum," repeated the country boy. "i knew the others were in it, but i didn't think gus would take part." "he went in right after he heard that you had entered. he says he is going to beat you out of your boots. he wanted to bet with me, but i told him i didn't bet." "is nat poole in the race?" "no, he is in the quarter-mile dash, against me and six others. he thinks he will win, too." "i don't think he will, ben. you can outrun him." "anyway, i am going to try," answered ben basswood. chapter x how a race was won it was a bright, clear day in early summer when the athletic contests of oak hall came off. all the academy boys assembled for the affair, and with them were a number of folks from the town, and also some students from the rockville military academy, a rival institution of learning, as my old readers already know. the contests began with pole vaulting and putting the shot, and, much to the surprise of all, chip macklin won out over half a dozen boys slightly larger than himself. luke watson also won one of the contests, and the banjo player and macklin were roundly applauded by their friends. "dave porter coached macklin," said one small boy to another. "i saw him doing it. i can tell you, chip is picking up." "yes," was the answer. "and he doesn't seem to be afraid of that bully of a plum any more, either." after the shot-putting and vaulting came the quarter-mile dash, for which ben had entered. "go in and win, ben!" cried dave, to his old chum. "i know you can do it if you'll only try." "nat poole will win that race!" came roughly from gus plum, who stood near. "hi, catch the ball, gus!" sang out nat poole, from across the field, and threw a ball in ben's direction. plum leaped for the sphere, bumped up against ben, and both went down, with the bully on top. "plum, you did that on purpose!" cried roger, who was close by. "shame on you!" "shut up! i didn't do it on purpose!" howled the bully, arising. "say that again and i'll knock you down!" "you certainly did do it on purpose," said phil, stepping up quickly. "you ought to be reported for it." "aw, dry up!" muttered plum, and walked away. when ben arose he could scarcely get his breath. he was not hurt, but the wind had been knocked completely out of him. "i--i don't know if i can ru-run or not!" he gasped. "he came--came down on me like a ton of bricks!" "wait, i'll speak to mr. dale about this," said dave, and ran off. as a result of the interview the contest was delayed ten minutes--another taking its place--much to the disgust of gus plum and nat poole, both of whom had reckoned on putting ben out of the contest. at the start of the quarter-mile dash nat poole and two others forged ahead, but ben was on his mettle, and, setting his teeth, soon began to close up the gap. "go it, ben!" yelled dave. "you can win, i know it!" "sail right past 'em!" came from the senator's son. "hump yourself, old man!" "make 'em take the dust!" added phil. ben hardly heard the words, for he was now running with all his strength. he passed first one boy and then another, and then came abreast of nat poole. so they moved on to within a dozen paces of the finish. then ben made a leap ahead, and so did one of the other contestants, and ben came in the winner, with the other boy second, and nat poole third. a roar went right across the field. "ben basswood wins!" "jake tatmon is second!" "nat poole came in only third, and he boasted he was going to win, sure!" as soon as the race was over, nat poole sneaked out of sight, behind some friends. he was bitterly disappointed, and could scarcely keep from running away altogether. "you didn't fix him at all," he whispered to gus plum, when he got the chance. "he was in prime condition." "i did the best i could--you saw him go down, with me on top of him," retorted the bully. "now, don't you forget what you promised," he added, sharply. "oh, i'll keep my word, don't fear," growled nat poole. "i hate dave porter too much to let him win!" there were some standing and running jumps, in which roger and phil won second and third places, and then came the hurdle race, in which dave was to participate. in the meantime nat poole had shed his track outfit and donned his regular clothes and a rather heavy pair of walking shoes. "please let me pass," said he to the crowd in which dave was standing, and, without warning, brought one of his heavy shoes down smartly on dave's light, canvas foot-covering. "ouch!" cried the country boy, and gave poole a quick shove. "what do you mean by stepping on my foot in that fashion, nat poole?" "oh, excuse me," said the crumville aristocrat, coolly. "didn't know it was your foot, porter, or i shouldn't have stepped on it for anything." "you've just about lamed me!" gasped dave. the pain was still intense. "dave, i believe this is a put-up job!" said ben, quickly. "plum agreed to lame me so that poole could win, and now poole is trying the same trick on you for plum's benefit." "no such thing!" roared nat poole, but his face grew fiery red. "it was a pure accident. i don't have to lame porter. plum will win, anyhow." "it certainly looks suspicious," said shadow hamilton. "he hadn't any business to force his way through our crowd." "oh, don't you put in your oar, you old sleep-walker!" growled nat poole, and then hurried off and out of sight behind the gymnasium. at the parting shot shadow became pale, but nobody seemed to notice the remark. "can you go ahead?" asked phil, of dave. "i think so," was the answer. "but that was a mean thing to do. he came near crushing my little toe." fortunately, several of the hurdles had not been properly placed, and it took some little time to arrange them properly. during that interval roger dressed the injured foot for his chum, which made it feel much better. "are you all ready?" was the question put to the contestants, as they lined up. then came a pause, followed by the crack of a revolver, and they were off. the encounter with nat poole had nerved dave as he had seldom been nerved before. ben had won, and he made up his mind to do the same, regardless of the fact that gus plum and one of the other boys in the race were bigger than himself. he took the first and second hurdles with ease, and then found himself in a bunch, with plum on one side and a lad named cashod on the other. "whoop her up, cashod!" he yelled out. "come on, and show the others what we can do!" "right you are, porter!" was the answering cry. "not much!" puffed out gus plum. "i'm the winner here!" "rats!" answered dave. "you'll come in fifth, plum. you're winded already!" and then, with a mighty effort, he leaped to the front, with cashod on his heels. "poole didn't do your dirty work well enough," he flung back over his shoulder as he took his fourth hurdle. the taunts angered gus plum, and this made him lose ground, until, almost before he knew it, the third pupil in the race dashed past him. then he found himself neck-and-neck with the fifth contestant. "here they come!" "dave porter is ahead, with cashod second!" "collins has taken third place!" "plum and higgins are tied for fourth place!" "not much! higgins is ahead!" "and there goes sanderson ahead of plum, too! phew! wonder if that is what plum calls winning? he had better study his dictionary!" [illustration: dave cleared the last hurdle and came in a winner.--_page 87._] with a mighty leap dave cleared the last hurdle, and came in a winner. then the others finished in the order named, excepting that gus plum was so disgusted that he refused to take the last hurdle, for which some of the boys hissed him, considering it unsportsmanlike, which it was. "my shoe got loose," said the bully, lamely. "if it hadn't been for that, i should have won." but nobody believed him. "dave, the way you went ahead was simply great," cried phil. "it was as fine a hurdle race as i ever saw." "yes, and he helped me, too," said cashod. "i was thinking plum would go ahead, until porter laughed at him. it was all right," and cashod bobbed his head to show how satisfied he was. if nat poole had been disgusted gus plum was more so, and he lost no time in disappearing from public gaze. the two cronies met back of the gymnasium. "you hurt porter about as much as i hurt basswood," plum grumbled. "if you can't do better than that next time, you had better give up trying." "oh, 'the pot needn't call the kettle black,'" retorted poole. "you made just as much of a mess of it as i did. we'll be the laughing stock of the porter crowd now." "if they laugh at me, i'll punch somebody's nose. as it is, i've got an account to settle with porter, and i am going to settle it pretty quick, too." "what do you mean?" "he jeered me while we were in the race. he has got to take it back, or there is going to be trouble," muttered the bully, clenching his fists. in his usual bragging way gus plum let several students know that he "had it in" for dave, and this reached the country boy's ears the next day directly after school. "i am not afraid of him," said dave, coolly. "if he wants to find me, he knows where to look for me." shortly after this dave and some of his chums took a walk down to the boathouse dock. there they ran into plum, poole, and several of their admirers. "here is porter now!" said one boy, in a low voice. "now is your chance, gus." "yes, let us see you do what you said," came from another. plum had not expected an encounter so soon, but there seemed to be no way of backing out, so he advanced quickly upon dave, and clenched his fists. "you can fight, or apologize," he said, loudly. "apologize, to _you_?" queried dave, coolly. "yes, to me, and at once," blustered the bully. "i am not apologizing to you, plum." "then you'll fight." "if you hit me, i shall defend myself." "hit you? if i sail into you, you'll think a cyclone struck you. if you know where you are wise, you'll apologize." "on the contrary, plum, i want to let you and all here know what i think of you. you are a bully, a braggart--and a coward!" dave's eyes were flashing dangerously, and as he gazed steadily at plum, the latter backed away a step. "you--you dare to talk to me like that?" "why not? nobody ought to be afraid to tell the truth." "oh, don't stand gassing!" burst out nat poole. "give it to him, gus--give it to him good and hard." "i will!" cried the bully, and making a quick leap, he delivered a blow straight for dave's face. had the blow landed as intended, the country boy would undoubtedly have sustained a black eye. but dave ducked slightly, and the bully's fist shot past his ear. then dave drew off and hit plum a stinging blow on the chin. "a fight! a fight!" was the rallying cry from all sides, and in a twinkling a crowd assembled to see the impromptu contest. chapter xi a fight and its result "dave, if you fight, and doctor clay hears of it, you'll get into trouble," whispered roger. "you know what his rules are." "i am not going to fight, but i'll defend myself," was the calm answer. "maybe you're afraid to fight," sneered nat poole, who stood close by. before the country youth could answer, gus plum sprang forward and aimed another blow at dave's face. dave ducked, but was not quite quick enough, and the fist of his enemy landed on his ear. this aroused the boy from crumville as never before. the look on the bully's face was such as to nerve him to do his best, and, casting prudence to the winds, he "sailed in" with a vigor that astonished all who beheld it. one fist landed on plum's nose and the other on the bully's chin, and down he went in a heap against the boathouse. "have you had enough?" demanded dave, his eyes fairly flashing. "no!" roared the bully, and scrambling up, he rushed at dave, and the pair clenched. around and around the little dock they wrestled, first one getting a slight advantage and then the other. "break away!" cried some of the students. "break away!" "i'll break, if he'll break!" panted dave. plum said nothing, for he was doing his best to get the country boy's head in chancery, as it is termed; that is, under his arm, where he might pummel it to his satisfaction. but dave was on his guard, and was not to be easily caught. he knew a trick or two, and, watching his opportunity, led plum to believe that he was getting the better of the contest. then, with remarkable swiftness, he made a half-turn, ducked and came up, and sent the bully flying clean and clear over his shoulder. when this happened both were close to the edge of the dock, and, with a cry and a splash, gus plum went over into the river. "gracious! did you see that fling!" "threw him right over his head into the river!" "the fellow who tackles dave porter has his hands full every time!" so the comments ran on. in the meantime dave stood quietly on the edge of the dock, watching for the bully, and trying to regain his breath. plum had disappeared close to the edge of the dock, and all the bystanders expected him to reappear almost immediately. but, to their surprise, he did not show himself. "where is he? why doesn't he come up?" "he must be playing a trick on porter. maybe he is under the dock." "no, he can't get under the dock. it is all boarded up." "he must have struck his head on something, or got a cramp, being so heated up." dave continued to wait, and as his enemy did not come to light, a cold chill ran over him. what if plum was really hurt, or in trouble under water? he knew that the bully was not the best of swimmers. "there he is!" came in a shout from one of the boys, and he pointed out into the stream, to where gus plum's body was floating along, face downward. dave gave one look and his heart seemed to leap into his throat. by the side of the dock was a rowboat, with the oars across the seats. he made a bound for it. "come," he said, motioning to roger, and the senator's son followed him into the craft. they shoved off with vigor, and dave took up the oars. then another boat put off, containing poole and two other students. a few strokes sufficed to bring the first rowboat up alongside of the form of the bully. plum had turned partly over and was on the point of sinking again, when roger reached out and caught him by the foot. then dave swung the rowboat around, and after a little trouble the two got the soaked one aboard. gus plum was partly unconscious, and a bruise on his left temple showed where his head had struck some portion of the dock in falling. as they placed him across the seats of the rowboat, he gasped, spluttered, and attempted to sit up. "better keep still," said dave, kindly. "we don't want the boat to go over." "where am i? oh, i know now! you knocked me over." "don't talk, plum; wait till we get back to shore," warned roger. a few strokes took the boat back to the dock, and dave and roger assisted the dripping youth to land. gus plum was so weak he had to sit down on a bench to recover. "you played me a mean trick," he spluttered, at last. "a mean trick!" "that's what he did," put in nat poole, who had also returned to the dock. "i guess he was afraid to fight fair." "i suppose you wanted to drown me," went on the bully of oak hall. "i didn't want to drown you, plum--i didn't even want to push you overboard. i didn't think we were so close to the dock's edge." "humph! it's easy enough to talk!" gus plum gazed ruefully at his somewhat loud summer suit. "look at my clothes. they are just about ruined!" "nonsense," came from roger. "they need drying, cleaning, and pressing, that's all. you can get the job done down in oakdale for a dollar and a half." "and who is going to pay the bill?" "well, if you are too poor to do it, i'll do so," answered roger. this reply made the bully grow very red, and he shook his fist at the senator's son. "none of your insinuations!" he roared. "i am not poor, and i want you to know it. my father may have lost some money, but he can still buy and sell your father. and as for such a poorhouse nobody as your intimate friend there, porter----" "for shame, plum!" cried several. "oh, go ahead and toady to him, if you want to. i shan't stop you. but i'd rather pick my company." "and so would i," added nat poole. "i once heard of a poorhouse boy who was the son of a thief. i'd not want to train with a fellow of that sort." dave listened to the words, and they seemed to burn into his very heart. he came forward with a face as white as death itself. "nat poole, do you mean to insinuate that i am the son of a thief?" he demanded. "oh, a fellow don't know what to think," replied the crumville aristocrat, with a sneer. "then take that for your opinion." it was a telling blow, delivered with a passion that dave could not control. it took nat poole squarely in the mouth, and the aristocrat went down with a thud, flat on his back. his lip was cut and two of his teeth were loosened, while the country's boy's fist showed a skinned knuckle. "whoop! did you see that!" "my! what a sledge-hammer blow!" "poole is knocked out clean!" such were some of the comments, in the midst of which nat poole sat up, dazed and bewildered. then he gasped, and ejected some blood from his mouth. "you--you----" he began. "stay where you are, nat poole," said dave, in a voice that was as cold as ice. "don't you dare to budge!" "wha-what?" "don't you dare to budge until you have begged my pardon." "me? beg your pardon! i'd like to see myself!" "well, that is just what you are going to do! if you don't, do you know what i'll do? i'll throw you into the river and keep you there until you do as i say." "here, you let him alone!" blustered plum, starting to rise. "keep out of this, plum, or, as sure as i'm standing here, i'll throw you in again, too!" said dave. "dave----" whispered roger. he could see that his friend was almost beside himself with passion. "no, roger, don't try to interfere. this is my battle. they have been talking behind my back long enough. poole has got to apologize, or take the consequences, and so has plum. i'll make them do it, if i have to fight them both!" and the eyes of the country boy blazed with a fire that the senator's son had never before seen in them. "i don't deny that i came from the poorhouse, and i don't deny that i know nothing of my past," went on dave, speaking to the crowd. "but i am trying to do the fair thing, every boy here knows it, and--and----" "we are with you, dave!" came from the rear of the crowd, and luke watson pushed his way to the front, followed by phil, shadow, and buster beggs. "dave porter is one of the best fellows in this school," cried phil. "and plum and poole are a couple of codfish," added buster. "i--i--am a codfish, am i?" roared plum. "you are, gus plum. you say things behind folks' backs and try to bully the little boys, and in reality you are no better than anybody else, if as good. you make me sick." "i'll--i'll hammer you good for that!" "all right, send me word when you are ready," retorted buster. in the meantime dave was still standing over nat poole. suddenly he caught the aristocratic youth by the ear and gave that member a twist. "ouch! let go!" yelled nat poole. "let go! don't wring my ear off!" "will you apologize?" demanded dave, and gave the ear a jerk that brought tears to poole's eyes. "i--i--oh, you'll have my ear off next! oh, you wait--oh! oh! if i ever get--_ouch_!" "say you are sorry you said what you did to me," went on dave, "or into the river you go!" and despite poole's efforts, he dragged the aristocrat toward the edge of the dock. "no! no! oh, i say, porter! oh, my ear! i don't want to go into the river! i--i--i take it back--i guess i made a mistake. oh, let me go!" "you apologize, then?" "yes." "then get out, and after this behave yourself," said dave, and gave nat poole a fling that sent him up against the boathouse with a bang. in another instant he was by gus plum's side. "now it's your turn, you overgrown bully," he continued. "wha-what do you mean?" stammered plum, who had looked on the scene just enacted with a sinking heart. "i mean you must apologize, just as poole has done." "and if i won't?" "i'll thrash you till you do--no matter what the consequences are," and dave hauled off his jacket and threw off his cap. "would you hit a fellow when he is--er--half drowned?" whined the bully. "you're not half drowned--you're only scared, plum. now, then, will you apologize or not?" and dave doubled up his fists. "i--i don't have to. i--i--_oh_!" the words on plum's lips came to a sudden end, for at that instant the country boy caught him by the throat and banged his head up against the boathouse side. "now apologize, and be quick about it," said dave, determinedly. "oh, my head! you have cracked my skull! i'll--i'll have the law on you!" "very well, i'm willing. but you must apologize first!" and plum's head came into contact with the boathouse side again, and he saw stars. "oh! let up--stop, porter! don't kill me! i--i--take it back! i--i apologize! i--i didn't mean anything! let up, please do!" shrieked gus plum, and then dave let go his hold and stepped back. "now, gus plum, listen to me," said the country boy. "let this end it between us. if you don't, let me tell you right now that you will get the worst of it. after this, keep your distance and don't open your mouth about me. i shan't say anything to doctor clay about this, but if you say anything, i'll tell him all, and i know, from what he has already said, that he will stand by me." "maybe he doesn't know----" "he knows everything about my past, and he has asked me to stay here, regardless of what some mean fellows like you might say about it. but i am not going to take anything from you and poole in the future; remember that!" added dave, and then he picked up his cap and jacket, put them on, and, followed by phil, roger, and a number of his other friends, walked slowly away. chapter xii shadow as a somnambulist the manner in which dave had brought gus plum and nat poole to terms was the talk of oak hall for some time, and many of the pupils looked upon the country boy as a veritable leader and conqueror. "i wish i had been there," said chip macklin to roger. "it must have been great to see plum and poole eat humble pie. what do you think they'll do about it?" "they won't do anything, just at present," answered the senator's son. "they are too scared." and in this surmise, roger was correct. but, though the majority of the students sided with dave, there was a small class, made up of those who were wealthy, who passed him by and snubbed him, not wishing to associate with anybody who had come from a poorhouse. they said nothing, but their manners were enough to hurt dave greatly, and more than once the country boy felt like packing his trunk and bidding good-by to oak hall forever. but then he would think of his many friends and of what kind-hearted doctor clay had said, and grit his teeth and declare to himself that he would fight the battle to the end, no matter what the cost. if the story of the encounter came to the ears of the master of the school or the teachers, nothing was said about it, and, in the multitude of other events coming up, the incident was forgotten by the majority. but dave did not forget, and neither did plum and poole. "oh, how i detest that chap!" grumbled poole to plum, one night when they were alone. "gus, we must get square." "that's right," returned the bully. "but not now. wait till he is off his guard, then we can fix him, and do it for keeps, too!" on the following saturday evening chip macklin called dave to one side. the young student was evidently excited over something. "what is it, chip?" asked dave. "hurry up, i can't wait long, for i want to join the fellows in the gym." "i want to tell you something about gus plum," was the answer. "i think i've discovered something, but i am not sure." "well, out with it." "this afternoon i got permission to ride over to rockville on my bicycle, to get some shirts at the furnishing store there. well, when i came out of the store, i saw gus plum coming out of the post-office on the opposite side of the street. he had some letters in his hand, and he turned into the little public park near by, sat down on a bench, and began to read them." "well, what is remarkable about that, outside of the fact that he is supposed to get all his letters in the hall mail?" remarked dave. "that's just it. i made up my mind something was wrong, or else he'd have his mail come here. i saw him tear three of the envelopes to pieces and scatter the bits in the grass. when he went away, i walked over to the spot and picked up such bits of paper as i could find. of course, you may say i was a sneak for doing it, but just look at what i found." "i have no desire, chip, to pry into plum's private affairs." "yes, but this is not his private affair--to my way of thinking. it concerns the whole school," returned chip macklin, eagerly. dave glanced at the bits of paper, and at once became interested. one piece contained the words, "stamp dealer"; another, "rare sta-w york," and another, "stamps bought and sold by isaac dem---nett street, sa----" "these must have come from dealers in stamps," said dave, slowly. "that is what i thought." "did you ever know gus plum to be interested in stamps?" "no." "were the letters addressed to him?" "i don't know. strange as it may seem, i couldn't find any of the written-on portions of the envelopes." "did plum see you?" "not until later--when i was on my way back to the hall." "what did he say?" "nothing. he acted as if he wanted to avoid me." after this the pair talked the matter over for several minutes, but could reach no satisfactory conclusion regarding the bits of paper. "do as you think best, chip," said dave, at last. "if you want to go to doctor clay, i fancy he will be glad to hear what you have to say." "well, if plum has those lost stamps, don't you think he should be made to return them?" "by all means. but you've got to prove he has them first, and the doctor won't dare to say anything to plum until he is sure of what he is doing. otherwise, plum's father could raise a big row, and he might even sue the doctor for defamation of character, or something like that." a little later found chip macklin in the doctor's office. the small boy was rather scared, but told a fairly straight story, and turned over the bits of paper to the master of the hall. doctor clay was all attention. "i will look into this," he said. "in the meantime, macklin, i wish you would keep it to yourself." "i have already told dave porter about it. i wanted his advice." "then request porter to remain quiet, also," and chip said that he would do as asked, and later on did so. the end of the school term was now close at hand, and dave turned to his studies with renewed vigor, resolved to come out as near to the head of the class as possible. he received several letters from professor potts, mr. wadsworth, and a delicately scented note from jessie, and answered them all without delay. the letter from jessie he prized highly, and read it half a dozen times before he stowed it carefully away among his few valued possessions. on wednesday evening dave partook rather freely of some hash that was served up. on the sly, sam day salted his portion, and, as a consequence, the country boy went to bed feeling remarkably thirsty. he drank one glass of water, and an hour later got up to drink another, only to find the water pitcher empty. "it's no use, i've got to have a drink," he told himself. "and if i catch the fellow who salted my hash----" he slipped into part of his clothing, and, taking the water pitcher, made his way through the hallway to the nearest of the bathrooms. here he obtained the coldest drink possible, and then, filling the pitcher, started to return to dormitory no. 12. as he neared the dormitory, he saw somebody pass along the other end of the hallway. it was a boy, fully dressed, and with a cap set back on his head. "shadow hamilton!" he murmured, as the boy passed close to a dimly burning hall light. "now, what is he up to?" he put down his pitcher and stole forward, until he was directly behind shadow. then, of a sudden, he beheld the boy swing around and put out his hands, feeling for the rail of a rear stairs. shadow hamilton was fast asleep. "he is doing some more of his sleep-walking!" thought dave. "now, what had i best do?" there was no time to think long, for the sleep-walker was already descending the back stairs slowly and noiselessly. dave hurried into the dormitory, set down the pitcher, and aroused roger, who was nearest to him. "come, quick!" he whispered. "slip on your clothes, and don't make any noise." "oh, i'm too sleepy for fun!" murmured roger. "this isn't fun, it's important. come, i say!" thus aroused, the senator's son rolled from his couch and hurried into his clothing. in a few minutes both boys had their shoes and caps on, and along the hallway they sped, and down the back stairs. the door below was unlocked, but closed. soon they were out in the rear yard of the hall, and there they beheld shadow hamilton walking slowly in the direction of the boathouse. "who is it?" whispered roger. "it is shadow. he is walking in his sleep. i want to find out where he is going and what he'll do." "humph! this certainly is interesting," answered the senator's son. "whatever you do, roger, don't arouse him, or there may be an accident," cautioned dave. "let him go his own way." "but he may hurt himself, anyway." "no, he won't. a sleep-walker can walk a slack wire, if he tries it, and never tumble. haven't you heard of them walking on the ridge pole of a house? i have." "i've read about such things. and i know they say you mustn't arouse them. he is going into the boathouse!" the chums ran forward and reached the doorway of the boathouse just as shadow hamilton was coming out. the somnambulist had a pair of oars, and he stepped to the edge of the dock and untied one of the boats and leaped in. "i must find them!" they heard the youth mutter to himself. "i must find them and bring them back!" "did you hear that?" asked roger. "what is he talking about?" "that remains to be found out. come, let us follow him," returned dave. they procured two pairs of oars, and were soon in another boat and pulling behind shadow hamilton. the boy who was asleep seemed to possess supernatural strength, and they had no easy time of it keeping up with him. his course was up the leming river, past robbin's point, and then into a side stream that was rather narrow, but almost straight for a distance of two miles. "do you know where this stream leads to?" questioned roger. "i do not." "almost to the old castle that we visited last winter on our skates, the day we caught that robber and saved billy dill. the river makes half a dozen twists and turns before the castle is reached, but this is a direct route and much shorter." "can it be possible that shadow is going to the old castle?" queried the country boy. "i'm sure i don't know. we'll learn pretty soon." as my old readers know, the place referred to was a dilapidated structure of brick and stone which had been erected about the time of the revolutionary war. it set back in a wilderness of trees, and was given over largely to the owls and to tramps. it belonged to an unsettled estate that had gone into litigation, and there was no telling if it would ever be rebuilt and occupied in a regular way. it was dark under the trees, but by pulling close to the boat ahead, dave and roger managed to keep shadow hamilton in sight. as soon as the somnambulist came near to the castle he ran his boat up the bank, leaped ashore, and stalked toward the building. "he has disappeared!" cried roger, softly. "i see him," answered dave. "come!" and he led the way into the old structure and to the very rooms where the encounter with the robber and with billy dill had occurred. scarcely daring to breathe, they watched shadow move around in an uncertain way, touching this object and that, and opening and shutting several closet doors, and even poking into the chimney-place. "gone! gone! gone!" they heard him mutter. "what shall i do? what shall i do?" and he gave a groan. five minutes passed and the sleep-walker left the castle and hurried to his boat. his course was now down the stream toward the hall, and dave and roger followed, as before. at the dock the boats were tied up, the oars put away, and shadow hamilton went back to the room from which he had come. peering in, dave and roger saw him undress and go to bed, just as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. chapter xiii a photograph of importance "i should not believe it, had i not seen it with my own eyes." it was in this fashion that roger expressed himself on the following day, when discussing the affair of the night previous with dave. shadow was around, as usual. he looked sleepy, but otherwise acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "it certainly is remarkable," was dave's comment. "the question is, what made him go to the castle? i think i know, but i cannot speak about it. but i'll tell you what i should like to do, roger: go up to the castle while it is daylight and take a thorough look around." roger was willing to do this, and the upshot of the talk was that dave and the senator's son paid the old brick-and-stone structure a visit on the following saturday half-holiday, taking phil and ben with them. they went up in a boat by the short route, arriving there about half-past three o'clock. there was not a soul about the deserted mansion, and the few birds flew away at their approach. it was a clear, sunny day, and they lost no time in throwing every door and window wide open, so that they might have the full benefit of the light and fresh air. "here is the room in which he moved around the most," remarked roger, gazing around earnestly. "but i can't say that i see anything unusual, do you?" they were all searching around, and after a few minutes had passed ben uttered a low cry and held up a small object, almost covered with dust and dirt. "a class pin!" cried dave. "we must see if we can find any more of them." it was not long before phil came upon two pins sticking on a board of a closet. then roger ran into the next room and, after a short hunt, uncovered a flat pasteboard box with several more of the class pins, each a bit tarnished by the dampness, but otherwise uninjured. "he must have come for the pins," said ben. "that solves the mystery of how they disappeared from mr. dale's possession." "here is a postage stamp!" ejaculated phil, and held it up. "it's an old german issue," he added. "and here are half a dozen others, all evidently torn from a sheet. boys, shadow must have taken the doctor's collection!" dave said nothing to this, for he had discovered a cupboard in a corner, tightly closed and with the wooden button of the door missing. he now opened the door of the cupboard with a knife. "hello, what's in there?" asked roger, who was behind him. "seems to be some clothing," answered dave, and hauled forth some loose garments and also an old satchel. the garments formed part of a sailor's garb, and the satchel was marked on the bottom with the name, "william dill." "it's billy dill's missing outfit!" cried dave, eagerly. "oh, roger, how glad i am that i have found this! it's the best yet!" all the boys were interested, for they knew dave's story and the tale of the strange sailor. as dave ran to the light with the satchel, they crowded around him. "i think i am fully justified in opening this grip," said the country boy. he was so agitated he could scarcely speak. "why, certainly," cried phil. "open it, by all means. it may throw light on some things which billy dill has been unable to explain." the satchel was not locked and came open with ease. inside was a bag containing some loose silver and a roll of forty-six dollars in bankbills. there was also a locket, containing the picture of a motherly old lady, probably the sailor's parent. under the locket were a small bible and a work on ocean navigation, and at the bottom a thick, brown envelope containing a photograph. "let us see whose picture that is," said phil, and dave opened the envelope and drew the photograph forth. as he held it up there was a general cry, in which he was forced to join. "that's the man who looks like you, dave!" cried roger. "what a striking resemblance!" exclaimed phil. "and he has the mustache, just as the sailor said," added ben. "dave, that man looks enough like you to be your older brother, or your father!" dave said nothing, for he was too much overcome to speak. as he gazed at the picture, he began to tremble from head to foot. taking away the mustache, the face was exactly like his own, only older and more careworn. he did not wonder that billy dill had become confused because of the resemblance. he turned the picture over. there was not a scrap of printing or writing on it anywhere. what was the meaning of this mystery? what was this man to him? was he the man who had once lost a child through a crazy nurse? in his perplexed state of mind, the questions were maddening ones to the boy. "what do you think of it, dave?" asked phil, after a pause, and the eyes of all the others were turned on the poorhouse boy. "what do i think of it?" he repeated, slowly. "i think this: i am going to find this man, if he is alive, even if i have to go around the world to do it. he must know something of my past--most likely he is a relative of mine. i am going to be a poorhouse nobody no longer. i am going to establish my identity--and i am going to do that before i do anything else." dave spoke deliberately, weighing every word. it was almost as if he was registering a vow. the others saw a look of determination settle on his face, and knew that he would do as he said. the boy from the country had suddenly lost interest in clearing up the mystery surrounding shadow hamilton, and allowed the others to finish the search for class pins and postage stamps. one more pin was found and three rare stamps from brazil, and then the search was abandoned, and they returned to oak hall, dave carrying the sailor's possessions. that evening there was an interesting interview in doctor clay's office, in which dave and his friends took an active part. the worthy master of oak hall listened to all the boys had to tell with keen attention, and smiled quietly when told how dave and roger had first followed shadow in his somnambulistic feat. he took possession of the class pins and the stamps, and said the latter were undoubtedly from his collection. "we now have nearly all of the class pins," he said. "but fully nine-tenths of the postage stamps are still missing and they represent a value of at least twenty-five hundred dollars. i am tolerably sure that maurice hamilton took them in his sleep, but the question is, did he destroy the others, or did somebody else come along and take them?" "i believe chip macklin came to see you, sir," said dave, significantly. "he did, porter, and i am going to follow that clew up--if it is a clew," answered doctor clay, gravely. after the others had departed, dave showed the things he had found belonging to billy dill. the master of the hall was as much astonished as anybody over the resemblance between his pupil and the photograph, and examined the picture with care. "i do not wonder that you wish to investigate this," said he. "i should wish to do so, were i in your position." "i have simply got to do it, doctor!" cried dave. "i shall not be able to settle my mind on a thing until it's done. would you go home and see mr. wadsworth and professor potts first, or go direct to that sailor?" "why not send a long letter to your friends, telling them what you have told me? you can add that i agree that the photograph resembles you closely, and that you wish to talk the matter over once again with this william dill." as impatient as he was, dave concluded to follow this advice, and a letter of ten pages was sent to mr. wadsworth and to caspar potts the next morning. in the meantime, it may be added here, doctor clay had a closer watch than ever set on shadow hamilton's movements, and he also began a quiet investigation of gus plum's doings. the letter that dave sent to crumville created a sensation in the wadsworth household, and was read and re-read several times by the members of the manufacturer's family and by professor potts. "there is undoubtedly something in this," said the professor. "it certainly is entitled to a strict investigation. if you will permit me, i will run up to oak hall to see dave, and then take him to see this billy dill." "i will go with you," answered the rich manufacturer. "the outing will do us both good, and i am greatly interested in dave's welfare. i only trust that there is a happy future in store for him." "and i say the same, sir, for no boy deserves it more," answered professor potts. a telegram was sent to dave, and on the following day oliver wadsworth and caspar potts journeyed to oakdale. dave met them at the depot with the hall carriage. "there he is!" exclaimed old caspar potts, rushing up and shaking hands. "my boy! my boy! i am glad to see you again!" and he fairly quivered with emotion. "and i am glad to see you," cried dave, in return. he shook hands with both men. "mr. wadsworth, it was kind of you to answer my letter so quickly," he added. "i knew you would be anxious, dave. my, how well and strong you look! the air up here must do you good." "it is a very healthful spot," answered the youth, "and i like it better than i can tell." "a fine school--a fine school!" murmured professor potts. "you could not go to a better." on the way to the hall, dave told his story in detail, and exhibited the photograph, which he had brought with him, scarcely daring to leave it out of his sight. "it is just as you have said," remarked oliver wadsworth. "a most remarkable resemblance, truly!" "that man must be some relative to dave," added caspar potts. "there could not be such a resemblance otherwise. it is undoubtedly the same strain of blood. he may be a father, uncle, cousin, elder brother--there is no telling what; but he is a relative, i will stake my reputation on it." the visitors were cordially greeted at oak hall by doctor clay and made to feel perfectly at home. they were given rooms for the night, and in the morning the doctor and his visitors and dave had breakfast together. it had been decided that a visit should be paid to billy dill that very afternoon, and by nine o'clock mr. wadsworth, professor potts, and dave were on the way to the town where was located the sanitarium to which the sailor had been taken. dave had the tar's satchel and clothing with him, and the precious photograph was stowed away in his pocket. just then he would not have parted with that picture for all the money in the world. chapter xiv a gleam of light "i would advise that you keep that satchel and the picture out of sight at first," said professor potts, as he rang the bell of the sanitarium. "talk to the old sailor and try to draw him out. then show him his belongings when you think the time ripe." mr. wadsworth and dave thought this good advice, and when they were ushered into the old sailor's presence, the boy kept the satchel behind him. "well, douse my toplights, but i'm glad to see ye all!" cried billy dill, as he shook hands. "it's kind o' you to pay a visit to such an old wreck as i am." "oh, you're no wreck, mr. dill," answered oliver wadsworth. "we'll soon have you as right and tight as any craft afloat," he added, falling into the tar's manner of speaking. "bless the day when i can float once more, sir. do you know, i've been thinkin' that a whiff o' salt air would do me a sight o' good. might fix my steerin' apparatus," and the tar tapped his forehead. "then you must have a trip to the ocean, by all means," said caspar potts. he turned to the rich manufacturer. "it might be easily arranged." "dill, i want to talk to you about the time you were out in the south seas," said dave, who could bear the suspense no longer. "now, please follow me closely, will you?" "will if i can, my hearty." the sailor's forehead began to wrinkle. "you know my memory box has got its cargo badly shifted." "don't you remember when you were down there--at cavasa island, and elsewhere--how hard times were, and how somebody helped you." "seems to me i do." "don't you remember traveling around with your bundle and your satchel? you had some money in bankbills and some loose silver, and a work on navigation, and a bible----" "yes! yes! i remember the bible--it was the one my aunt gave me--god bless her! she, aunt lizzie--took care o' me when my mother died, an' she told me to read it every day--an' i did, most o' the time." "well, you had the bible and your satchel and your bundle of clothes," went on dave, impressively. "and at that time you fell in with a man who afterwards gave you his photograph." "so i did--the man who looks like you. but i----" "wait a minute. don't you remember his telling you a story about a crazy nurse and a lost child?" "i certainly do, but----" dave drew the photograph from his pocket and thrust it forward, directly before the tar's eyes. "there is the man!" he cried. "now, what is his name? tell me his name, at once!" [illustration: "tell me his name, at once!"--_page 121._] "dunston porter!" fairly shouted the sailor. "dunston porter! that's it! i knew i would remember it sometime! dunston porter, of course it was! funny how i forgot it. better write it down, afore it slips my cable again." "dunston porter!" murmured dave, and the others likewise repeated the name. "ha! this is remarkable!" ejaculated caspar potts. "dave, do you remember what you called yourself when you were first found and taken to the poorhouse." "i do, sir. i called myself davy, and porter, and dun-dun." "exactly, and dun-dun meant dunston. you were trying to repeat the name, 'dunston porter'!" "that would seem to be the fact," came from oliver wadsworth. "and if so----" he paused significantly. "you think my real name is dunston porter?" "either that, or else that is the name of some relative of yours." dave's heart beat fast. he felt that he was getting at least a faint glimpse of his past. he turned again to billy dill. "then this dunston porter was your friend?" he observed. "he was, and he helped me when i was stranded," was the answer. "i can't give ye all the particulars, cos some o' 'em is more like a dream than anything to me. when i try to think, my head begins to swim," and the sailor wrinkled his forehead as before and twitched his eyes. "tell me one thing," said the rich manufacturer, "do you think this dunston porter is still at cavasa island, or in that locality?" "i suppose so--i don't know." "when did you come away from there?" asked professor potts. "it must be nigh on to a year ago. i came straight to 'frisco, went up the coast on a lumber boat to puget sound, and then took passage to new york. next, i drifted up here to look up some friends, and you know what happened after that." "was dunston porter alone out there?" questioned oliver wadsworth. "why--er--i can't say as to that. he didn't say much about himself, that i can remember. once he told me about that child, but--but it's hazy--i can't think! oh, it drives me crazy when i try to think! the roar of the sea gets in my ears, and the light from the lighthouse fires my brain!" and the old tar began to pace the floor in a rolling gait. "he is growing excited!" whispered caspar potts. "it is too bad! were he in his right mind, he might be able to tell us a great deal." "supposing we go out and have lunch together," suggested oliver wadsworth. "and then we can go for a ride on the lake." he spoke to the sanitarium manager, and the upshot of the matter was that the whole party went out to a hotel for dinner. previous to going, dave gave billy dill the satchel and money and the bundle, which seemed to tickle the tar immensely. "douse my toplight, but i feel like old times again!" he cried, when they had had a good dinner and were seated on the forward deck of one of the lake boats, used to take out pleasure parties. "oh, but i love the water!" "i suppose this doesn't look anything like around cavasa island," remarked dave, trying to draw the sailor out. "not much, my boy. cavasa island has a volcano in the middle of it, and once in a while that volcano gets busy, and folks run for their lives. an' they have earthquakes, too. once i was out with dunston porter, and along came an earthquake, and the other fellow, mr. lemington, almost had his leg broken." "who was mr. lemington?" asked caspar potts, quickly. "why, he was dunston porter's partner in the treasure-hunting scheme. oh, i didn't tell you about that, did i? funny, how it slipped my mind, eh? they went to the volcano for the treasure. i guess that was when the baby disappeared--and that other man--i don't remember much of him, he was wild. it was misty, misty. but they didn't get any treasure, i know that. and then mr. lemington got disgusted and sailed for australia." "did you ever see the baby?" asked dave. "did i? why--i think so. i don't remember." this was all they could get out of the sailor, try their best, and, upon oliver wadsworth's advice, they did not bother him any further. before returning to the sanitarium, the rich manufacturer called dave to one side. "dave, do you want to go to cavasa island?" he asked, with a quiet smile. "i do," was the prompt answer. "i was going to speak to you about it. you know i told you that phil lawrence is going--on one of his father's ships this summer. i'd like very much to go with phil." "then you shall go, if we can make the necessary arrangements. now, what i want to know is: do you not think it would be an excellent thing to take this billy dill along? the trip might cure him entirely, and he might aid you greatly in clearing up this mystery." "why, mr. wadsworth, you must have been reading my thoughts!" exclaimed the country boy. "i was going to suggest that very thing." "then we will speak to dill about it before we leave him. do you know when your friend lawrence is to join his father's ship?" "no, sir; but i can soon find out. and here is mr. lawrence's address, if you want it," added dave, and wrote it on a card. when the idea of sailing on the pacific once more was broached to billy dill, his eyes lit up with pleasure. "i'd like nothing better!" he cried. "i've been a-thinkin' i might ship again. i can't stay an' be spongin' on you folks any longer, it wouldn't be proper. i want to pay up, now dave has found my money for me." "keep your money, dill," returned oliver wadsworth. "you may need it later." and then he explained what dave wished to do, and how the tar might accompany the youth on his long trip. "i'll go--an' glad o' the chance," said billy dill, readily. "just draw up your articles, an' i'll sign 'em any time ye want." and so the matter was settled. dave returned to oak hall late that night in a very thoughtful mood. so much had been done and said that he wanted time in which to think it over. it was not until the next day that he got a chance to talk matters over with phil and roger, both of whom listened attentively to his tale. "it seems to me you are learning something, dave," said roger. "i hope the whole matter is cleared up before long. then plum and poole will have to stop casting slurs on you." "and now, phil, i want to go out to the south seas with you," continued dave. "and, what is more, i am going to ask your father to find a place on the vessel for billy dill." "i fancy he'll do that, if i ask him," answered phil. "i'll write and tell the whole story, and i know he will be as much interested as i am." "i wish i was going on that trip with you," said roger. "such an outing would suit me to a t." "i guess there will be room enough for another passenger," answered phil. "why don't you ask your folks about it?" "i will!" burst out the senator's son. "they are going to europe, you know. i was to go along, but i'll see if i can't go with you two instead." after that there was a good deal of letter-writing, and the boys waited anxiously for replies. in the meanwhile, the final examinations for the term began. dave did his best to keep his mind on his lessons, and succeeded so well that he came out second from the top, studious polly vane heading the list. roger came next to dave, with ben basswood fourth, phil sixth, and sam day seventh. gus plum was almost at the end of the list, and nat poole was but little better. in a lower class, luke watson stood second, buster beggs fourth, and chip macklin fifth. shadow hamilton, although generally a good student, dropped to tenth place in his class. "i am more than gratified at this showing," said doctor clay, when the examinations were over. "the general average is higher than usual. you have done well, and i shall award the prizes with much pleasure." after that there was an entertainment lasting the best part of the afternoon, and in the evening the students celebrated by a bonfire on the campus and a general merrymaking. they sang the school song over and over again, and gave the hall cry: "baseball! football! oak hall has the call! biff! boom! bang! whoop!" "to-night's the night!" whispered phil, as he entered the school with his chums. "just wait and see!" chapter xv winding up the school term "i must say, i don't feel much like fun to-night," observed dave, as he hurried up the stairs to dormitory no. 12. "i am anxious to get started on that trip to the pacific." "oh, that will hold for one day longer," said ben. "i wish i was going, too. roger, have you got word yet?" "no, but i expect a letter to-morrow. if it doesn't come, i'll have to wait till i get home." dave was in advance and was the first to throw open the dormitory door. as he did so, a powerful smell of onions greeted him. "great cã¦sar!" he ejaculated. "smells like an onion factory up here. somebody must have been eating a dozen or two. open the window, phil, while i make a light." "hello, what's this!" spluttered ben, and fell headlong over something. "a decayed cabbage! who put that on the floor?" "look out, everybody!" shouted roger. "i just stepped on something soft. phew! some decayed sweet potatoes!" by this time dave made a light, and all of the boys who had come up gazed around the dormitory. then a cry of amazement and anger arose. "this is a rough-house, and no mistake!" "somebody has been heaving decayed vegetables all over the room!" "yes, and ancient eggs, too! this is an outrage!" "here is a rotten cabbage in my trunk!" called out roger. he held the object at arm's length. "i'd like to soak the fellow who did it!" he added, savagely. with caution, all made an investigation. they found their clothing and other belongings disarranged, and decayed vegetables, stale eggs, and sour milk were everywhere in evidence. it was a mess bad enough to make them weep. "we ought to report this," was phil's comment. "i don't mind real fun, but this is going too far." "this stuff must have come from the cellar," put in buster beggs. "i heard the head cook telling pop swingly that the place must be cleaned out, or he would report it to the doctor. swingly said he didn't know the bad stuff was there." "well, swingly didn't put the stuff here," put in dave. "it's the work of some of the other fellows." "i know where the janitor is!" cried ben. "shall i go down and question him? maybe he can give us a pointer." "yes, go ahead," said dave. "and i'll go along," added the senator's son, and a moment later the two boys were off. while the pair were gone, the others surveyed the damage done. the most of the decayed vegetables were swept into a corner, and then the boys did what they could toward straightening out their things. "here's a stale egg in my hat-box!" groaned sam. "i'd like to throw it at some fellow's head!" dave had found his trunk open, and was searching the box with care. suddenly he gave a loud cry: "it's gone! it's gone!" "what's gone?" queried phil. "the photograph! i had it among my books and papers, and the whole bunch is missing!" "you mean the photo of the man who looks like you?" asked sam, quickly. "yes." dave gave a groan that came straight from his heart. "oh, boys, i must get that back! i can't afford to lose it! i must get it back! it is worth more to me than anything in the world!" he was so agitated that he could scarcely control himself. "let us hunt for the picture," came from buster beggs, who knew about the photograph, and all started a search, which lasted until ben and roger returned. "we've discovered the chaps who are responsible," said ben, in triumph. "they are gus plum and nat poole," asserted the senator's son. "pop swingly was throwing this stuff away in a hole back of the campus, when plum and poole came up. he heard them talking about playing a trick, but he didn't think they'd lower themselves by touching the mess. i suppose they thought that they were doing something quite smart." "dave's photo is gone," said phil. "we have been hunting for it everywhere." "you don't say! dave, that is too bad." "we ought to make plum and poole clean up this mess," came from buster. "let us try to capture them." the suggestion met with instant approval, and the boys started to locate the bully and his crony. plum and poole were still below, but shadow hamilton announced that they were preparing to come up by a side stairs. "we must get them, sure!" cried dave. "i want that picture back, if nothing else." soon one boy, who was acting as a spy, announced the coming of plum and poole. the pair were allowed to reach the door of their dormitory, when they were pounced on from behind and made prisoners. they tried to escape, but the crowd was too many for them, and towels pulled down over their mouths kept them from raising an outcry. "what's the meaning of this?" spluttered nat poole, when he found himself and his crony in dormitory no. 12, and with the door closed and locked. "it means, in the first place, that i want my things back," said dave, "and especially a photograph that was between my books." "humph! that photo is burned up," growled gus plum. "gus plum!" gasped dave. he could say no more. "plum, do you mean to say you burned that picture up?" demanded roger. "if you did, you ought to be tarred and feathered for it!" "he wouldn't dare to do it!" came boldly from phil. "if he did, i know what dave will do--have him sent to jail for it." "bah! you can't send me to jail for a little fun," blustered the bully. "that is no fun, plum," put in ben. "that photo was of great importance. if you burned it up, you will surely suffer." "is it really burned or not?" muttered dave, hoarsely. "answer me, you--you cur!" and he caught the bully by the throat. "le-let go--don't strangle me! n-no--it's all right. i was only fooling." "then, where is it?" "in the--the closet--on the top shelf." dave dropped his hold and ran to the closet pointed out. true enough, on the top shelf, in a back corner, were the books, with the precious photograph between them. dave lost no time in placing the picture in an inside pocket. "you're a fine fellow, not to take a bit of fun without getting mad," grumbled gus plum. he did not dare to say too much in such a crowd. "so you call this fun?" remarked phil, sarcastically. "fun! to play the scavenger and bring this stuff up here? well, i must say, i don't like your preference for a calling." "look here, you needn't call us scavengers!" howled nat poole. "i am a gentleman, i am!" "well, you brought this up here, you and plum." "it was only a--re--a joke. everybody has got to put up with jokes to-night." "well, you are going to put up with a little hard work," came from roger. "work?" "yes. you and plum are going to clean up the muss and put this room in apple-pie order." "huh! i see myself doing it!" stormed the aristocratic youth. "you will do it," observed ben. "isn't that so, fellows?" there was a chorus of approvals. "so take off your coats and get to work," said dave, who felt easier, now that he had the picture back. "i guess you both need a little exercise." "i'll be hanged if i do a stroke!" roared gus plum. hardly had he spoken, when ben caught up a pitcher of ice-water and held it over the bully's head. "take your choice, plum!" he cried, and allowed a little of the ice-water to trickle down the bully's backbone. there was a roar of fright and a shiver. "oh! don't do that! do you want to freeze me to death!" "now, poole, maybe you want some," added ben, advancing. poole tried to retreat, stumbled, and sat down heavily on a decayed cabbage, which squashed beneath him. he set up a roar. "now see what you've done, ben basswood! my best gray suit, too! i'll fix you for this!" "both of you must get to work!" declared dave. "we'll give you two minutes in which to get started. if you don't start----" "we'll roll you in the decayed vegetables and kick you out," finished buster beggs. with the term so nearly ended, he was growing reckless. "i'll play timekeeper," and he drew out his watch. plum and poole begged and protested, but all to no purpose, and, badly scared, took off their coats and cuffs, rolled up their sleeves, and began to clean up the muss they had made. while this was under way, the other boys of the dormitory came up and viewed the scene with amazement and satisfaction. at last the dirty job was at an end, at least so far as plum and poole could go. they had worked hard and were bathed in perspiration, and their hands were in anything but a clean condition. both were "boiling mad," but neither dared to say a word, for fear the others would make them do more. "now you have learned your trade," said phil, finally, "you can graduate as full-fledged scavengers. when you go out, don't fail to place that bag of nasty stuff in a corner of your own room. the smell will give you both pleasant dreams." "phil lawrence----" began the bully. "just wait till i----" came from nat poole. "silence!" cried dave. "not a word, or you'll be sorry. take up the bag. now, march!" the door was flung open, and with the bag of messy stuff between them, plum and poole marched forth into the corridor and to the stairs leading to the back yard. the boys of dormitory no. 12 watched them out of sight, then returned to their room. "i'll wager they are the maddest boys in the hall," said dave, when the door had been locked once more. "will they come back, do you think?" questioned roger. "i don't think so. but we can be on our guard." they remained on guard for half an hour, but plum and poole did not reappear. they had had enough of their so-called fun, and they sneaked out of sight at the first opportunity. but, without this, there was fun galore that night in the various dormitories. two crowds of boys held feasts, to which even the monitors were invited, and dormitories nos. 3 and 4 got into a pillow fight, in the midst of which job haskers appeared. the teacher was knocked over by a pillow, and then some other pillows were piled on top of him. after that he was hustled out of the room, and, completely bewildered, he rolled down the broad stairs, bumping on every step. then pop swingly came up, followed by "horsehair," the carriage driver, to quell the disturbance, and each received a pitcher of ice-water over his head, which made both beat a hasty retreat. but by one o'clock the school quieted down, and all of the pupils went to sleep as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. chapter xvi preparing for a long trip [illustration: "good-by to oak hall!"--_page 137._] "whoop! hurrah! off we go! good-by to oak hall!" the carryall belonging to the school was moving away from the campus. it was loaded with students and behind it came two wagons, full of trunks and dress-suit cases. back on the campus a crowd was assembled to bid the departing ones good-by. "write to me often!" "don't forget, tom! atlantic city, middle of august!" "be sure and ask him to join the team!" "yes, we are going to casco bay. come up, if you can." "tell jack----say, get off my toes, will you? tell jack to come up to lake titus, back of malone. we'll give him a dandy----" "_toot! toot! toot!_ now then, horsehair, start 'em up, and be lively, or i'll miss that connection for albany!" "i'll start 'em up, all right, if you young gents will give me a show," responded the driver. "say, buster, don't use the whip. give me the reins, master porter." "don't you want me to drive, horsehair?" "no, i want----say, you in the back, give me my hat, will you?" shouted the driver, turning around. "i ain't a-going a step till i git that hat!" "all right, horsehair, darling!" replied sam day. "i thought i'd keep it to remember you by, but if you want----" "which puts me in mind of a story," said shadow hamilton. he had caught the humor of the occasion. "a lady once----" "no stories allowed," broke in phil. "i can't tell a story unless i speak it aloud," answered shadow, tartly. "phew, what a pun!" came from roger. "somebody please dump him off for that." "hold tight, all of you!" called out the anxious driver, and with a lurch the carryall made a turn and started out of the academy grounds and along the broad highway leading to oakdale. all of the boys shouted themselves hoarse, and horns and rattles added to the din. such a thing as holding the students in was out of the question, and doctor clay and his assistants did not attempt it. the doctor and andrew dale smiled broadly and waved their hands, and only job haskers looked bored. the other teachers were busy in the building and did not show themselves. this was the first load to leave, and another was ready to depart directly after dinner. nearly all of the boys were in high spirits, and sang and "cut up" all the way to the town, much to the terror of jackson lemond, known only to the lads as horsehair, because he carried the signs of his calling continually. if there was one boy in the crowd particularly sober at times, it was shadow hamilton. doctor clay had communicated with his parents, and mr. hamilton and the master of the school had had a long conference regarding the pins and stamps that had been taken. shadow's father had agreed to pay for the missing articles, if they could not be recovered inside of the next few months. in the meantime, a private detective was to be called in to watch the movements of gus plum. at oakdale the party split into three parts, one to go up the railroad line, another to go down, and the third to take the connection for albany. phil, roger, ben, and dave took the same train, and managed to get seats together. "i wish i had heard from my folks," remarked roger. "but i think it is all right," he added, hopefully. "don't be too sure, roger," said dave. "i don't want you to be disappointed." "i shall write to you as soon as i get home and can talk to my father," said phil to dave. "we'll be able to arrange everything without much trouble, i am sure." near the end of their journey dave and ben found themselves alone, roger and phil having said good-by at places further up the road. as they neared crumville, the heart of the country boy beat quicker. how many things had happened since he had left that town to go to oak hall! "i see the old white church steeple!" cried ben, as they came out of a patch of timber. "looks natural, doesn't it?" "i feel as if i had been away a year, instead of a few months," answered dave. he was peering anxiously out of the window. "here we come to the station, and, yes, there is mr. wadsworth's automobile, and mr. wadsworth himself and jessie!" soon the train came to a halt, and they piled out, dress-suit cases in hand, and walked over to the automobile. "how do you do?" cried jessie wadsworth, a beautiful miss of thirteen, with soft eyes and golden curls. "i told papa you would be on this train." "how do you do?" returned dave, dropping his suit case to lift his cap and shake hands. "i hope you are well." "oh, i am," replied the miss, shaking back her curls. "how do you do, ben?" and then there was more handshaking. both of the boys were invited to enter the automobile, and did so, and in a few minutes ben found himself at his own door. then the machine was turned toward the wadsworth mansion. "i like to go riding with papa," explained jessie. "i never go out with our man, though. not since--you know!" and she turned a pair of grateful eyes upon dave that made the boy color up. "the machine appears to be perfectly safe, since we have had it repaired," put in mr. wadsworth. "but our man is better with the horses." at the mansion mrs. wadsworth, an aristocratic but motherly lady, came out to greet dave, followed by caspar potts, whose face was wreathed in smiles. all told, it was a homecoming that would have warmed the heart of any lad, and it made dave forget completely that he was a "poorhouse nobody." "you must tell me all about everything," said jessie, after a somewhat elaborate supper had been served. "i don't want to miss a single thing!" "seems to me you are cutting out a big job for dave," laughed her father. "well, i guess i can tell all she'll wish to hear," answered the youth, and seated at one end of a couch, with jessie at the other, he told much of his life at oak hall, with its studies, its pranks, and its athletic sports. dave could see the humorous side of a thing as well as anybody, and some stories he told made mr. and mrs. wadsworth laugh as well as jessie. on his trials he touched but lightly, for he could not dream of giving his little lady friend pain. on the following day nat poole came home, and dave met the aristocratic youth in one of the stores of crumville. poole gave him a glassy stare and did not speak. a few minutes later dave met ben. "just ran into poole," said the latter, "and what do you think, he made out that he didn't see me." "he was in parsons' store, but he wouldn't speak to me, either," answered dave. "he must feel awfully sore. but i shan't mind." "nor i, dave. i never did like that fellow, and i don't like his father, either. by the way, have you heard anything more about the farm that belongs to professor potts?" "yes, and i am glad, and so is he, that we didn't let nat's father get hold of it. the new trolley company is going to put a line past it, and mr. wadsworth says it will be quite valuable in time." two days passed, and then dave got long letters from phil and roger. senator morr had been to see mr. lawrence and had arranged to have his son go on the long trip to the south seas. roger was almost wild with joy, and said he was going to prepare for the trip immediately. the letter from phil told dave that the start for san francisco was to be made on the following monday morning. all the boys were to meet at the grand central depot, in new york city, and take the limited express which left for chicago at noon. "i will go with you as far as new york," announced mr. wadsworth. "i wish to see that your journey is safely begun." the last days of the week were busy ones for dave. a steamer trunk was procured for him, and into this was packed his outfit, including a semi-nautical suit that fitted him to perfection and gave him quite a sailor look. "i suppose you'll be a regular sailor by the time you come back," said jessie. "i don't know about that," answered dave. "i am not going for that purpose," and his tone grew serious. "oh, i know that, dave. i hope you find what you are going for. but--but----" "but what, jessie?" "oh, i--i don't want you to leave us, dave. if you find a father, or an uncle, or brother, or somebody like that, i suppose you won't stay with us any more." and the young miss pouted engagingly. "i'll certainly not care to leave you, jessie," he answered, gently. "but you cannot blame me for wanting to find out who i am, i am sure." "oh, no, dave!" "i don't want to remain a nobody and have folks shun me on that account." "who would do such a thing?" she asked, her eyes opening widely. "oh, a good many folks." "it is very mean of them," came from the little miss, firmly. "but, never mind, dave, i'll not shun you," she went on, catching his hand and squeezing it as hard as she could. "we're going to be just like a brother and sister always, aren't we?" "if you say so." "don't you say so, dave?" "yes, jessie." "then that is settled, and we won't talk about it any more. shun you! i just want to see them do it! i won't speak to anybody that does such a thing!" and jessie looked as tragic as a miss of thirteen can look. among the things provided by thoughtful mr. wadsworth for dave was a money belt, and in this was placed a fair amount of bankbills, and also a letter of credit. "mr. wadsworth, you are more than kind!" cried the country boy, and something like tears stood in his honest eyes. "how can i ever repay you?" "in one way only, dave. by making a real man of yourself." "i shall do my best, sir." "then that is all i ask." billy dill had been communicated with, and caspar potts went after the tar and brought him to crumville, where oliver wadsworth procured the sailor a new outfit. billy dill's health was now restored completely, and the only thing he suffered from was a slight loss of memory, and even that defect seemed to be gradually wearing away. "i'll be the happiest tar afloat when i have the rolling ocean under me once more," said he to dave. "cables an' capstans! but i do love the salt breeze!" "well, you'll soon get enough of it," answered the boy. "we have a long trip before us." chapter xvii the trip to the far west "my stars! what a very busy place!" this was dave's exclamation as he and oliver wadsworth hurried along one of the streets of new york city, on the way to buy some small thing which had been forgotten. they had arrived in the metropolis an hour ahead of time, and the country boy had stared at the many sights in wonder. "it is one of the busiest cities in the world," answered the manufacturer, with a smile. "a fortune can be made or lost here in no time." "i believe you. and the people! why, there is a regular crowd, no matter where you turn." "don't you think you'd like the city, dave?" "i don't know--perhaps i should, after i got used to it." roger and phil had not yet come in, and they had left billy dill at the depot to watch out for them. on returning to the station, dave and mr. wadsworth met the three at the doors. "here we are again!" cried roger, shaking hands. "and not very much time to spare, either." "is the train in?" asked the manufacturer. "will be in a few minutes, so the gateman said," answered phil. they saw to it that their trunks were properly cared for, and a short while after the cars came in and they climbed aboard. seats had been engaged beforehand, so there was no trouble on that score. "now remember to write whenever you get the chance," said oliver wadsworth to dave. "and if you run short of funds, don't hesitate to let me know." "i'll remember, and thank you very much," replied dave, and then the long train moved off, slowly at first, and then at a good rate of speed. dave's long journey to solve the mystery of his identity had begun. "say, what mountain is this we're goin' under, anyway?" came presently from the sailor. "i noticed it when i came to new york." "this isn't a mountain," laughed roger. "it is new york city itself. we are under the streets." "great whales! wonder they don't knock down the wall o' somebuddy's cellar!" it was not long before they came out into the open, and then both dave and the sailor looked out of the windows with interest. phil and roger were more used to traveling, and spent the time in pointing out objects of interest and in answering questions. the fine coach was a revelation to billy dill, who, in the past, had traveled exclusively in the ordinary day cars. "these here seats are better nor them in a barber shop," he observed. "an' thet little smoking-room is the handiest i ever see. but, boys, we made one big mistake," he added, suddenly. "what's that?" asked phil. "unless we tie up to an eatin' house on the way, we'll be starved. nobody brung any grub along." "don't worry about that," said roger, with a wink at the others. "i think i can scrape up some crackers and cheese somewhere." "well, that's better--although i allow as how we could have brought some ham sandwiches as well as not." they had all had dinner, so nobody was hungry until about six o'clock, when a waiter from the dining-car came through in his white apron. "first call to supper!" "wot's thet?" queried billy dill. "come and see," answered dave, and led the way to the dining-car. when the old sailor saw the tables, and saw some folks eating as if at home, he stared in amazement. "well, keelhaul me, if this don't beat the dutch!" he ejaculated, dropping into a chair pointed out to him. "reg'lar hotel dinin'-room on wheels, ain't it? never heard o' such a thing in my life, never! say, roger, better keep that crackers an' cheese out o' sight, or they'll laugh at ye!" he added, with a chuckle. "you never saw anything like this, then?" asked dave. "never. i allers traveled in one o' them, plain, every-day kind o' trains, an' took my grub along in a pasteboard box." though amazed, billy dill was not slow about eating what was set before him, and he declared the repast the finest he had ever tasted. after the meal he went into the smoking compartment for a smoke, and then came back to the boys. "feelin' a bit sleepy," he announced. "i suppose there ain't no objections to my going to sleep." "not at all," said phil. "do you want your berth made up right away?" "humph! that's a good one!" laughed the tar. "they may have an eatin' room, but they ain't got no bedrooms, an' i know it. i'll do my best in the seat, though i allow a reg'lar long sofy would be better." "just you wait until i call the porter," said roger, and touched the push-button. "this gentleman will have his berth made up," he went on, as the porter appeared. "yes, sah." "make it up with real sheets, messmate," put in billy dill, thinking it was a joke. "an' you might add a real feather piller, while ye are at it." "yes, sah," answered the porter, with a grin. "please step to another seat, sah." "come," said dave, and arose and took billy dill to the opposite side of the sleeping-coach. the old tar dropped into a vacant seat and watched the porter as he began to make up the berths. from a smile his face changed to a look of wonder, and when he saw the clean sheets, blankets, and pillows brought forth he could scarcely control himself. "cables, capstans, an' codfish!" he murmured. "thet beats the dinin'-room, don't it? say, maybe they hev got a ballroom on board, an' a church, an' a--a--farm, an' a few more things." "not quite," answered roger, with a laugh. "but there is a library, if you want any books to read." "beats all! why, this here train is equipped like a regular ship, ain't she?" "almost," said dave. "here are two berths; you can take one and i'll take the other." "good enough, dave. which will ye have?" the boy said he preferred the lower berth, and billy dill swung himself up in true sailor fashion to that above. "makes me think o' a ship!" he declared. "i know i'll sleep like a rock!" and half an hour later he was in the land of dreams, and then the boys also retired. morning found them well on their way to chicago, and just before noon they rolled into the great city by the lakes. here they had two hours to wait, and spent the time in getting dinner and taking a short ride around to see the sights. "this is as far west as i have been," said roger. "the rest of the journey will be new to me." "i once took a journey to los angeles," said phil. "but i went and returned by the southern route, so this is new to me also." "i have never traveled anywhere--that is, since i can remember," put in dave. "but i am sure i am going to like it--that is, if i don't get seasick when i am on the ocean." "oh, i suppose we'll all get our dose of that," responded the senator's son. "maybe not," said billy dill. "some gits it, an' some don't." nightfall found them well on the second portion of their journey to san francisco. there was an observation car on the train, and the whole party spent hours seated on camp-chairs, viewing scenery as it rushed past them. now and then, for a change, they would read, and billy dill would smoke, and the boys often talked over what was before them. "my father said i might tell you the object of my trip," said phil to his chums. "but he does not want anybody else to know of it, unless it becomes necessary for me to say something to the captain. the supercargo of the ship is a man named jasper van blott. he has worked for my father for some years, and my father always thought him honest. but lately things have happened which have caused my father to suspect this supercargo. he sometimes disposes of certain portions of a cargo, and his returns are not what they should be." "then you are to act as a sort of spy," said roger. "i am to watch everything he does without letting him know exactly what i am doing. and when he makes a deal of any kind, i am to do my best to ascertain if his returns are correct. if i find he is honest, my father is going to retain him and increase his salary; if he is dishonest, my father will discharge him, and possibly prosecute him." "have you ever met this van blott?" asked dave. "once, when he called on my father two years ago. he is a smooth talker, but i did not fancy his general style. he is supposed to be a first-class business man, and that is why my father has retained him. i do not believe captain marshall likes him much, by the way he writes to father." "have you ever met captain marshall?" "oh, yes, twice. you'll like him, i know, he is so bluff and hearty. my father has known him for many years, and he thinks the captain one of the best skippers afloat. he has sailed the pacific for ten years and never suffered a serious accident." "in that case, we'll be pretty safe in sailing under him," observed roger. "it will certainly be a long trip--four thousand miles, or more!" "do you know anybody else on the ship?" asked dave. "i do not, and i don't know much about the ship herself, excepting that she is named the _stormy petrel_. father bought her about a year ago. she is said to be a very swift bark, and yet she has great carrying capacity." "will you please explain to me just what a bark is?" said roger. "i must confess i am rather dumb on nautical matters." "a bark is a vessel with three masts. the front mast, or foremast, as sailors call it, and the main, or middle, mast are rigged as a ship, that is, with regular yardarms and sails. the back mast, called the mizzen mast, is rigged schooner fashion, that is, with a swinging boom." "that's plain enough. hurrah for the _stormy petrel_! dave, we'll be full-fledged sailors before we know it." "we must get billy dill to teach us a thing or two before we go aboard," said the country boy. "then we won't appear so green." this all thought good advice, and for the remainder of the journey they frequently talked nautical matters over with the old tar. billy dill had his book on navigation with him, and also a general work on seamanship, and he explained to them how a ship, and especially a bark, was constructed, and taught them the names of the ropes and sails, and many other things. "you'll soon get the swing on it," he declared. "it ain't so much to learn fer a feller as is bright an' willin' to learn. it's only the blockheads as can't master it. but i allow as how none o' you expect to work afore the mast, do ye?" "not exactly," answered phil. "but there is no harm in learning to do a sailor's work, in case we are ever called on to take hold. somebody might get sick, you know." "thet's true, lad--an' i can tell ye one thing: a ship in a storm on the pacific, an' short-handed, ain't no plaything to deal with," concluded the old tar. chapter xviii sailing of the "stormy petrel" as soon as the party arrived at san francisco, phil set out to learn if the _stormy petrel_ was in port. this was easy, for the firm of which mr. lawrence was the head had a regular shipping office near the docks. "yes, she is in and almost loaded," said the clerk at the office, as soon as he learned phil's identity. "i'll take you down to her, if you wish." "very well," answered the youth, and soon he and his chums and billy dill were on board of the bark. a gang of stevedores were on hand, bringing aboard boxes, crates, and barrels, and in the midst of the crowd were captain frank marshall and van blott, the supercargo, both directing operations. "well! well!" ejaculated the captain, on catching sight of phil. "got here at last, eh? glad to see you. so these are the young gentlemen to go along? well, i reckon you'll find the trip long enough. glad to know you, porter, and the same to you, morr. yes, we are mighty busy just now. got a little of the cargo in the wrong way--tell you about it later"--the last words to phil. "i shall be glad of your company. go down into the cabin and make yourselves at home, and i'll be with you presently." "thank you," answered phil. "but is that mr. van blott over yonder?" "it is. want to see him? trot along, if you do." and the captain turned to his work once more. by his general manner captain marshall showed that he did not wish to come into contact with the supercargo just then, and phil walked over to that personage alone. the supercargo was a tall, thin individual with a sallow face and a thin, yellowish mustache. "this is mr. van blott, i believe," said phil. "yes," was the short and crusty answer, and the supercargo gave the boy a sharp look. "i am phil lawrence. i guess you do not remember me?" "oh!" cried the supercargo, and his manner changed instantly. "how do you do? i didn't think you'd be here quite so soon. i hope your father is well?" "yes, sir. then you got his letter, mr. van blott?" "yes, this morning. i haven't read it very carefully yet. he said something about you helping me, if i needed help. well, i won't bother you much. i have done the work alone in the past, and i can do it now." "i am willing to do all i can to assist you," said phil, politely. "i don't doubt it. but i won't trouble you--so you and your friends can just lie back and enjoy yourselves," returned jasper van blott, smoothly. "no use in working, when you are on a vacation." "oh, i shan't call it work. i want to learn a little about the business. some day, you know, i am to go into my father's office." at this a slight frown crossed the supercargo's face, but he quickly smiled it off. "as you please," he said. "but excuse me now, i'm very busy. we are trying to get ready to sail to-morrow by noon, and there is still a great deal to do." in some way phil felt himself dismissed, and he rejoined dave and roger, who were standing by the companionway. all went below, to find the cabin of the _stormy petrel_ deserted. "this is a fine cabin," remarked dave, gazing around. "it's as cozy as can be." "where is billy dill?" asked phil. "he said he'd go forward and await orders." "did he say anything about the vessel?" "said she looked to be a first-class sailer and in prime condition," answered the senator's son. "he was delighted with her." "what do you think of the captain?" "i think i shall like him," returned dave. "roger thinks the same." "i don't like that supercargo," went on phil, lowering his voice. "i am afraid i shall have trouble with him before the trip is over. he doesn't want me to know a thing about what he is doing." a little later captain marshall came in and showed them the staterooms they were to occupy--one fair-sized one for dave and roger and a smaller one adjoining for phil. then he introduced the boys to his first mate, paul shepley, and to several others. when he got phil by himself he asked the youth if the supercargo had said anything about the loading of the bark. "not a word," answered phil. "why do you ask that question?" "we had some trouble just before you came on board. mr. van blott wanted some things done one way and i wanted them another. he thinks he can run things, but i am going to let him understand that i am master here. i tell you this, because i want you to understand how matters are going." "from what you say, i don't think you like mr. van blott," said phil. "if so, let me say, i don't think i shall like him myself." "oh, i can get along with him, if he will mind his own business and do what is right," answered the captain of the _stormy petrel_. "but he must not attempt to dictate to me, even if he is the supercargo." "well, i trust we have no trouble," answered phil, with a sigh. but the trouble, he felt, was already in the air. late that afternoon their baggage came on board, and the boys set to work to establish themselves on the ship which was to be their home for so many weeks to come. in the meantime billy dill reported to the captain, and was assigned to his place in the forecastle as an extra hand at full pay. the old tar was pleased mightily, and the smell of oakum and bilge water appeared to act on him like a tonic. he was one to make friends readily, and soon established himself as a favorite among the foremast hands. in the morning the boys took a final run ashore, purchasing a few things they thought they needed and mailing some long letters home. coming back to the bark, they caught sight of the supercargo coming, with another man, from a drinking place on a corner. "humph! that shows he drinks," muttered phil. "i think most seafaring men do," answered roger. "captain marshall does not." they had to pass the supercargo, who stood on the corner with his back to them, talking to the other man. just as they went by, they heard van blott remark: "don't worry; this trip is going to pay me big, bangor, and when i come back you shall have all that is coming to you." this was all the three boys heard, but it set phil to thinking. "i'd like to know how this trip is going to pay him big," said the shipowner's son. "father says he gets his regular salary and a small commission." "perhaps he has some private deal he wishes to put through," suggested dave. "no; by his agreement he has no right to do any outside work. his time belongs exclusively to the _stormy petrel_ and her cargo." they returned to the bark, and quarter of an hour later the supercargo followed, with a flushed face that showed he had been imbibing more liquor than was good for him. "are you ready to sail?" demanded captain marshall, striding up. "all ready," was the surly response, and the supercargo walked down to his stateroom and disappeared. orders were given to cast off, and in a very few minutes the bark was on her way from san francisco bay toward the golden gate. it was a perfect day, and by nightfall the harbor was left behind and land became a mere speck in the distance. the first night on the bark passed pleasantly enough for the three chums. at first the quarters on the vessel appeared small to them, but they soon grew accustomed to the change. all slept soundly and they were out on deck very shortly after sunrise. "well, how do you like life on _mother carey's chicken_?" asked phil, when they were gazing at the rolling ocean. "_mother carey's chicken_?" repeated dave, with a puzzled look. "oh, i know what he means!" cried roger, with a laugh. "a stormy petrel is a bird that the sailors call a mother carey's chicken." "what a name! i think i like _stormy petrel_ better," observed dave. "but, i say, isn't this just grand! a fellow can open his lungs and drink in ozone by the barrel!" "and hardly a cloud in the sky," added roger. "if this is any criterion, we'll have the finest kind of a trip." "well, boys, i see you are up on time," came from a little behind them, and now captain marshall strode up. "fine sea this, and a fine breeze, too." "how long will this nice weather last?" asked roger. "humph!" the captain humped his shoulders. "no man alive can tell that. a few days, at least, maybe a week or more. but, sooner or later, we'll pay up for it. the finer the weather, the bigger the storm to follow." "i shouldn't mind an ordinary storm," observed dave. "but i don't want to be wrecked." "no danger of that, lad. the _stormy petrel_ can outride any storm likely to blow in these parts. she is one of the best vessels i ever sailed in--a man couldn't ask for a better." "how much of a crew have you, captain marshall?" asked phil. "i have sixteen men, all told, besides the tar you brought along." the brow of the shipmaster wrinkled slightly. "they are all pretty fair men, too, excepting four, and those four mr. van blott brought in." "what's the trouble with the four?" "they drink, and they don't mind as they should." captain marshall turned to phil. "after breakfast, i'd like to talk to you on business in the cabin," he added. this was a hint that dave and roger were not desired, and, accordingly, after the meal they left phil and the captain alone. "i've been studying your father's instructions to me," said captain marshall to phil. "as i view it, you are to be a sort of assistant to mr. van blott." "if he will allow it." "and if he won't?" the captain gazed at phil sharply. "then, perhaps, i'll do something on my own account." "are you going to keep your eye on him?" "yes, but you need not tell him so." "don't worry--i shan't open my mouth, philip. i am glad to hear of this, for, i tell you privately, van blott needs watching. he is a sly dog, and i am satisfied in my own mind that he has something up his sleeve." "do you know a man named bangor in san francisco? he was with mr. van blott just before we sailed." "ah! i thought so! yes, i know him, and his reputation among shippers is none of the best. he used to be a supercargo for the donaldson-munroe company, but they discharged him for some crooked work. what were he and van blott doing?" phil told of what he had overheard. "that confirms my idea exactly!" cried the captain of the _stormy petrel_. "there is something in the wind. you must watch out, by all means, and i'll do the same. this man must not be allowed to do anything wrong, if we can possibly prevent it." chapter xix days on the ocean the weather remained fine for a full week, and with favoring winds the _stormy petrel_ bowled along merrily on her course. the ocean rolled lazily in the warm sunshine, a few birds circled about the ship, and once they passed a steamer coming from the hawaiian islands, and a schooner from manila, and that was all. "shall we stop at honolulu?" asked roger, of the captain. "no. i thought of doing so at first, but now i shall make no stops until we get to christmas island, and from there we will go direct to cavasa and then to sobago. what we do after that will depend largely on what is done about a cargo." so far none of the boys had experienced any seasickness, and they congratulated themselves on their escape, but billy dill put a little damper on their ardor. "this ain't no weather to judge by," was his comment. "wait till we get some cross-winds and the ships starts to roll. maybe then ye won't be so settled in the stomach." the few days on the ocean had done the old tar a world of good. his eyes were brighter and he was physically in the best of health once more. his mind, too, was clearer, and one day he announced to dave that he had something to tell. "i ain't quite sure as i have the exact straight on 't," he began. "a little on 't is still like a dream. but i know enough to make a putty straight story," and then he told his tale. a good portion of it was not unlike the story of many sailors. when very young, he had had a strong desire to go to sea, and at his first opportunity had shipped as a cabin boy. from cabin boy he had become a foremast hand, and had been in such service more years than he could count. he had visited nearly every portion of the globe, and had been wrecked twice, once off the coast of africa and once while trying to round cape horn. three years before had found him at sydney, australia, looking for a chance to ship. while down among the wharves, he had discovered a tramp vessel, the _mary sacord_, bound for cavasa and other islands in the south seas, and had signed articles for a year's cruise. the captain proved to be a brute, and there was fighting on the vessel from the time she left sydney until cavasa was reached. there, at the main seaport, billy dill went ashore and refused to go aboard again. the captain of the _mary sacord_ was very angry over the refusal of the seaman to continue on the trip, and threatened dill with imprisonment, and even had the old tar arrested. but, at this juncture, two men came forward and aided the sailor in his trouble, and, as a consequence, billy dill was set free and the vessel went on her way without him. one of the men who had helped billy dill was dunston porter and the other was samuel lemington. they were both americans and fairly well-to-do. at first, they did not tell the old sailor much about their business, but they asked him if he wished to work for them, and he said he was willing, and they offered him thirty dollars a month and all his expenses. the two americans, so the tar discovered later, were after a treasure of precious stones, said upon good authority to have been hidden years before in the mountains by a former cannibal king of cavasa and some other south sea islands. the three journeyed into the interior of the island and spent months in looking for the treasure, but without success. then came an earthquake and the volcano in the center of the island began to grow active, and all three had to flee to the coast in order to escape destruction. it was on this treasure hunt that billy dill heard, through dunston porter, about the lost child that had been carried off by a nurse who was not mentally sound, although usually good-hearted. dunston porter had not said very much about the matter, for it seemed to hurt him a great deal--so much, in fact, that the old sailor did not think it best to ask for the particulars. but he knew one thing, that, try his best, dunston porter could not learn what had become of the woman and the little one, and he was half inclined to believe that both were dead. "well, did he say that the child was his son?" asked dave, with deep interest. "no, it was some relative of his, i think. i don't believe dunston porter was married." "when you came back to the coast, what did this mr. porter do?" "he and mr. lemington stayed in the town, trying to make up their minds as to what they'd do next. i got a chance to ship, and, as they didn't seem to want me any more, i sailed away, and then i did as i've told you before." this was practically all the information billy dill could give concerning dunston porter and the missing child, although he told much more concerning the treasure hunt, and of several fights with the natives of the interior. he said the natives were a bad lot, and he wanted no more to do with them than was absolutely necessary. "how old should you judge this dunston porter to be?" asked dave. "forty to forty-five years old, my lad." "did he ever tell you where he came from?" "not exactly. but he was an american, and he knew a good bit about san francisco, chicago, and new york, and i remember he once told about hunting in the maine woods and in the adirondacks." "he didn't say a word about coming back to the united states?" "not that i can remember." with this information dave had to be content. the story had been a strain on billy dill, and afterward he complained of a headache and of feeling dizzy. but a good night's rest restored him completely. the sailor was at all times delighted to instruct the boys in the art of seamanship, and under his tutelage they learned rapidly, so that any of them could go aloft and make or take in sail whenever required. he also taught them how to make knots of various kinds, and many other things useful on board a ship. in the meantime captain marshall allowed them to read his works on navigation, and gave them a few lessons in steering, and in the use of the compass, sextant, and other nautical instruments. "we'll be full-fledged sailors before this voyage is over," remarked roger to his chums. "i declare, i almost feel as if i could handle a small ship already." "maybe you could, on the leming river," rejoined phil. "but when it came to a big storm on the pacific, i rather believe you'd find it a different story." so far, phil had had but little to do with the supercargo, but now he asked the man if he could look over the books. jasper van blott agreed, but the scowl on his face showed plainly that the move was not to his liking. phil went over the accounts at his leisure, but could find nothing wrong in them. there were a few entries that looked odd, but the supercargo was ready with explanations concerning them. "well, have you found anything wrong?" questioned dave, after phil had spent three days over the books. "nothing much, dave," was the answer from the shipowner's son. "the supercargo isn't very friendly, i notice." "oh, he hates it, that i am going on this trip," answered phil. there seemed to be but one man on the ship with whom the supercargo was thoroughly friendly, and that was paul shepley, the first mate. the pair were together a large part of the time, and their conversation was frequently an animated one. "i can't get it out of my head that those two are working together over something," said dave. "why, they are as thick as bees in a sugar barrel." "i've noticed that, too," came from roger. "perhaps they are hatching up some mischief." on the following day the weather became more unsettled, and occasionally the clouds showed themselves above the horizon. captain marshall gave orders to his mate that a strict watch should be kept for a blow. "i guess we are in for it, now!" cried dave, that afternoon. "it is much rougher than it has yet been." "i know i am in for it," answered roger. his face was white, and wore a troubled look. "what's the matter, seasick?" "i--i fancy so. my head spins like a top and my stomach is starting to do the same." "better go below, lad," said captain marshall, coming up. "it won't do you any good to remain on deck." roger shuffled off to the companionway, and dave went after him. the senator's son was growing worse every minute, and it was not long before phil announced that he also felt sick. both went to their staterooms, and dave did what he could to relieve their distress. "if the old tub would only stop for a minute--just one minute!" groaned roger. "that's what i say," responded phil. "oh, dear! i'd give a hundred dollars to be on shore again!" "i think i'd make it a thousand," groaned the senator's son. "why, dave, don't you feel it at all?" "well, i feel a little strange," answered the country boy, but he did not add that it was because he had to stand by and assist his friends. he made them as comfortable as possible, and then rushed to the deck, to get some fresh air and to get the matter off his mind. a storm was certainly brewing, and dave wondered how soon it would strike the _stormy petrel_ and how long it would last. the black clouds were piling up in the sky and the wind came in unsteady puffs. below, the clear, blue water had turned to a dark green. the first mate was in charge of the deck and, so far, he had given no orders to shorten sail. ever and anon a sail would crack in the wind and the bark would give a plunge in the sea. dave walked forward to where billy dill stood by the rail, watching the sky anxiously. "this looks stormy, doesn't it?" questioned the youth. "stormy? great dogfish! i should allow as how it did, lad. we're in for a blow, an' a big one, too." "then isn't it about time to take in sail?" "i should say it was." "then why doesn't the mate do so?" at this question the old tar shrugged his shoulders. "reckon he wants to take the benefit o' all the breeze he can," he answered. "but it ain't the best thing to do--not to my way o' reasonin'. if he ain't keerful, we may lose a topmast, or more." "i suppose you don't dare to say anything to him?" "no. he's in charge, an' thet's all there is to it." the storm continued to approach, and now several of the sailors looked anxiously at the first mate. he was evidently in a savage mood, and paid no attention to them. "unless he does sumthin' soon, we'll lose a stick, sure," said billy dill to dave, in a low tone. "i never saw sech a contrary mate in my life!" "perhaps i had better speak to captain marshall," suggested the country youth. "i wish ye would--it would be safer. but don't let shepley know it--or he'll be as mad as a hornet at ye," added the old tar. leaving the bow, dave hurried to the stern and toward the companionway. here he almost ran headlong into the first mate. "hi! look where you are going!" ejaculated the man, roughly. "have you no manners?" "excuse me," returned dave. "don't you think we are having a pretty big blow, sir?" he added. "oh, this won't amount to much," grumbled paul shepley. "nothing to get scared about." dave said nothing to this. he hurried below, and a moment later stood in front of captain marshall's stateroom door. the master of the _stormy petrel_ was taking a nap, but at the boy's knock roused up instantly. chapter xx caught in a storm "who is there?" "captain marshall, can i speak to you a moment?" "oh, so it is you, porter! what do you want?" "there seems to be a big storm coming up, and i thought i had better tell you about it." "why--er--isn't mr. shepley on deck?" "yes, sir--but i thought i had better tell you, anyway," went on dave. "mr. shepley knows what to do," answered the captain, rather shortly. he did not fancy having his much-needed nap disturbed. "i suppose that is true, sir--but some of the sailors are getting very anxious. i don't care to mention their names, but they think some sail ought to be taken in." the master of the _stormy petrel_ arose and stretched himself. then he put on the shoes he had dropped on lying down, and came out into the cabin. he gave one look at the barometer and his sleepiness vanished. "i should say there was a storm coming!" he exclaimed, and ran for the companionway. he was soon on deck, and cast an anxious eye around. "mr. shepley, why haven't you shortened sail?" he demanded, in a low but sharp voice. "i didn't think it necessary, just yet," was the cool response. "i don't agree with you," returned the master of the bark, shortly, and then, without delay, gave orders to take in fully half the sails, while the crew were ordered to remain in readiness to stow away still more of the canvas at a moment's notice. the sailors, for the most part, worked with a will, although there were several laggards, for laziness among certain classes of men is not confined to the land alone. captain marshall was angry, and he did not hesitate to let the first mate know it. "there is no sense in taking too many risks," he remarked, after his orders had been obeyed. "that storm is coming, as sure as fate." "i wanted to make as much headway as possible before it struck us," grumbled shepley. "we haven't suffered any." "no, but we might have lost a topmast or a topsail. after this, you will please be a little more careful." there was no time to argue the matter, for a little later the storm began in earnest. all of the sails were taken in but the fore sheet, and this was reefed down, allowing just enough canvas to fly to keep the bark before the wind. the breeze was turning to half a gale, and from a distance came the rumble of thunder. then the sky grew still blacker and a flash of lightning illuminated the angry waters. dave had followed captain marshall on deck, but now he went below once more, to learn how phil and roger were faring. he found them both out in the cabin, having come from their staterooms in alarm. "is it very bad outside?" questioned the senator's son. "not yet, but i am afraid it is going to be," was dave's reply. "phew, that certainly means business!" burst out roger, as another flash of lightning was followed by a heavy peal of thunder. "i hope the ship weathers it all right." "captain marshall is on deck, and he knows what he is doing," answered dave. "i am glad i called him up," he added. "oh, so you called him up, did you?" came in a voice from the cabin doorway, and, turning, dave beheld paul shepley there. the mate had come below to get his raincoat. "yes, i did," answered the country boy, boldly. now that the truth was out, he did not mean to mince matters. "thought you knew more about running a ship than i did, eh?" "i thought it was time to take in sail--and so did the captain." "humph! this blow isn't going to kill anybody, and we want to take all the advantage of the wind that we can. we are expected to make a quick trip, but we can't do it if we are going to haul down sail all the time." "i am sure captain marshall will do what is right," said phil. "really?" sneered the mate. "i didn't ask you to put in your oar." "i know you didn't--but my father owns the vessel, and i shall stand by captain marshall and by my friend, dave porter." "oh, so it's something of a plot against me, eh?" snorted the mate, more angry than ever. "well, don't let it go too far." and he turned into his own room, banging the door after him. a minute later he came out, wearing his raincoat, and hurried out on deck once more. "he's a real nice man, i don't think," was roger's comment. "my, how he would lord it over us, if he dared!" "he is certainly sore," said phil. "i must say, in a way, he and the supercargo are a team. when i get a chance, i am going to write to father and let him know exactly the sort of fellows they are." the boys felt little like discussing the subject further just then, for the storm had now burst over the vessel in all of its mad fury. the wind was whistling through the rigging, making the masts and yards creak and groan, and the rain came down in sheets, sweeping the decks by the bucketful. it was with difficulty that the _stormy petrel_ could be kept before the wind. the waves were running like so many big hills, with the bark first on a crest and then down in a valley between. the sky was almost black, lit up occasionally by flashes of lightning that were blinding. "we'll go to the bottom, sure!" groaned roger, for at least the tenth time. "i'd rather be at oak hall any day than in such a storm as this." he was still seasick, but the storm made him forget the ailment for the time being; and what was true of the senator's son in this regard was likewise true of phil. "i think i'll take another look on deck," said dave, as the bark gave a pitch that sent them all against a partition. "take care that you don't fall overboard," returned phil. "i'll be on my guard, never fear." putting on his raincoat, the country boy made his way cautiously up the companionway. the moment he stuck his head into the open he realized that it was blowing "great guns," and more. the rain dashed violently into his face, drenching him completely. "this is no place for you, lad!" bellowed captain marshall, trying to make himself heard above the wind. "better go below again." "i'll be careful," pleaded dave. "i love to watch a storm--i always did, when i was on the farm. i never thought of hiding, no matter how hard it thundered or lightened." the master of the bark gazed for a second at him in admiration. "well, i was the same," he said. "but be careful, and don't go close to the rail." [illustration: another flash lit up the scene.--_page 179._] dave remained in the vicinity of the cabin. when another flash lit up the scene, he saw billy dill near the bow, stowing away some rope in the most unconcerned fashion possible. the old tar was in his element, and said afterward that the storm had done him more good than gallons of medicine would have accomplished. "saterated me with salt brine, an' thet's wot i needed," were his words. "how do you like it, now?" asked captain marshall, coming up a little later, while there was something of a lull. "i don't mind it," answered dave, smiling. "it's a little excitement, and that is what i like." "i am thankful that you called me when you did." "i did what i thought was best, sir. but i reckon it has put me into a hole with your first mate." "why, did you tell him anything?" "no, but he overheard me telling the other boys that i had called you. he didn't say much, but he showed that he was angry." "humph! well, don't you mind, porter. it was the right thing to do. shepley is a good sailor, but once in a while he takes risks that i don't like. if he troubles you about this, let me know, do you hear?" "yes, sir; but i am willing to fight my own battles." "i don't doubt it, for you are gritty, i can see that. nevertheless, you let me know." "how long do you suppose this storm will last?" "there is no telling, perhaps twenty-four hours and maybe two or three days. we are paying up for that nice weather we had," concluded the captain. finding he could do nothing on deck, and that he was getting wet through, dave went below and to his stateroom. he found roger and phil lying down as before, and as miserable as ever. a little later supper was announced, but dave had to eat alone, for neither the captain nor the mate came to join in the repast. it was a meal under difficulties, and dave did not remain at the table long. he asked roger and phil if they wanted anything, but both declined. "why, the very idea of anything to eat makes me sicker than ever," declared the senator's son. the storm did not abate during the evening, and the three boys spent rather a dismal time of it in the cabin and the staterooms. as night came on, none of them felt like going to bed, although advised to do so by captain marshall. "we have seen the worst of the blow," said the master of the _stormy petrel_, coming down about ten o'clock. it was not until morning that dave fell into a troubled doze, from which he did not awaken until roger shook him. "hello! i went to sleep, after all!" cried the country boy. "what time is it?" "about seven o'clock, dave. there is something unusual going on on deck," continued the senator's son. "what is it?" "i don't know, but i am going up to see, and so is phil." the three were soon ready, and crawled up the companionway and out on the rain-drenched and slippery deck. "we must man the pumps," they heard captain marshall cry. "and, scader, report as soon as you can." "aye, aye, sir!" came from scader, who was the ship's carpenter. "but i am afraid, sir, it's a bad leak to get at," he added. "have we sprung a leak?" cried phil. "we have," answered the captain. his face wore a serious look, and the boys saw that he was much troubled. the sailors were at the pumps, and worked away with a will. roger and phil still felt too weak to take part, but dave leaped to billy dill's side and worked as hard as any of the foremast hands. leaving the ship in charge of the first mate, captain marshall went below, to learn what the ship's carpenter might have to say about the condition of affairs. "we are bringing up a good deal of water, are we not?" asked dave of billy dill. "you have it right, lad; more water nor i care to see," answered the old tar. "that means the leak is a bad one, eh?" "yes, some of the ship's seams must be wide open." "will it sink us?" "i can't tell anything more about that than you, dave. we must hope for the best," replied billy dill. chapter xxi cavasa island at last phil and roger heard the conversation between dave and the old sailor, and it worried them so much that they hurried below, to learn what might be going on. "we must shift that part of the cargo first," came from the ship's carpenter. "then, i think, i can do something, but i am not sure." captain marshall at once ordered the cargo shifted as desired. this did not please the supercargo, but the master of the vessel paid no attention to van blott's objections. "it is a question of keeping the ship afloat, mr. van blott," said he, coldly. "if necessary, i'll have the whole cargo heaved overboard." "but, sir----" commenced the supercargo. "i can't talk about it now. my duty is to save the ship. do you want to go to the bottom of the ocean?" and captain marshall spoke in such a decided way that jasper van blott sneaked off and said no more for the time being. a portion of the crew came below, and not without difficulty a number of heavy boxes and casks were shifted. then the ship's carpenter and an assistant went to work to tighten up the seams, through which the water of the ocean was spurting furiously. it was a difficult and dangerous task, and it lasted the best part of three hours. but, at last, the workers got the better of the elements, and then the water went down steadily in the ship's well, as the men at the pumps continued their labors. "will the ship pull through?" asked phil, of the captain. "yes, my lad, i think we are safe now--unless the blow makes us open some more seams." after the repairs below had been made and the alarm had passed, captain marshall called the first mate to his side. "i thought you said those seams were all right when we were at the dock at san francisco," he began. "they looked all right," mumbled paul shepley. "you couldn't have examined them very closely." "i did." "humph! after this i had better look to things myself," was the captain's comment, and he moved away. a little later the supercargo and the first mate met in the waist. the storm was now dying down rapidly, and it looked as if the sun would soon break through the clouds. "well, i see you had another run-in with the old man," remarked van blott. "so did you." "you mean about the cargo?" "of course." "well, i didn't want him to nose around too much," and the supercargo grinned. "afraid he might run across some of that private stuff?" "hush! somebody might hear you, shepley. what was your row about?" "he laid the opening of the seams on my shoulders--said i didn't inspect things properly at san francisco." "he seems to be getting harder than ever on us." "that's it, and i am done, after this trip," growled the first mate. "so am i--if i can make my little pile." "that's what i mean. van blott, we must do it, too." "i expect to, but it isn't going to be so easy as we thought. the owner of the ship has sent his son to watch me, and he and those other lads are rather clever." "pooh! you are not afraid of those boys, are you?" "it isn't that. i'm afraid they'll discover something and take the news to the old man." here the talk had to come to an end, and the two men separated, promising to meet in the evening. that they had some scheme they wished to work, there could not be the slightest doubt. by nightfall the storm was at an end, and the sun set in a perfect blaze of glory. of the gale only a stiff breeze remained, and captain marshall lost no time in setting his sails as before. all the loose seams had been mended and the _stormy petrel_ now took in no more water than was usual with her, and is usual with ordinary sea-going craft. "i am glad that is over," remarked phil, the next day, after a fair night's sleep. "so am i, and i never want to experience another such storm," came from roger. "how do you both feel?" asked dave. "my seasickness is gone, thank goodness," answered phil. "ditto here," said the senator's son. "dave, you are a lucky dog, to keep so well," he added, a bit enviously. "perhaps it will be my turn next time, roger." after that the _stormy petrel_ continued on her course for many days with but little out of the ordinary happening. once or twice the boys had some sharp words with the first mate, and phil had a "tiff" with the supercargo, but nothing like an open quarrel ensued. yet the flames were smoldering, ready to break out at the first opportunity. "those two men hate us worse than poison," said dave, one day. "i can see it plainly." "that supercargo has it in for me," replied phil. "i wish i could let my father know just how he is acting. he'd soon lose his situation." they were now near the equator, and the weather was very warm, and would have been unendurably hot, had it not been for the constant breeze that was blowing. nobody cared to do much in such an atmosphere, and the three boys were content to sit around or loll in hammocks suspended in shady portions of the deck. the broiling sun started the tar from the seams, and the odor therefrom was almost overpowering. "i wish we had an ice-making machine on board," said roger, as he fanned himself. they had taken ice along, but the supply was running low, and he could not get quite as much as he desired. "never mind, we'll have a run ashore soon," said dave. "that will be something of a change." he had in mind the stop at christmas island, a small body of land belonging to england and lying in the pacific, close to the equator. the island was sighted the next day, and they made a landing and roamed around for three hours, while some fresh water and other things were taken on board. then, by nightfall, the bow of the _stormy petrel_ was once more headed for the southwestward. "now we are in southern seas," cried dave, one day, after the equator had been left behind. "i suppose we'll begin to sight some of the numerous islands before long." "i shan't mind sighting the islands, but i don't want to run on some hidden reef," returned roger. "the charts show a great number of reefs in this portion of the ocean." once more the days slipped by. it was fearfully hot, and the boys did not move, excepting when it was absolutely necessary. occasionally they would sit at the bow and billy dill would tell them stories of the sea and of sights in foreign lands. he now said that he felt as of old. "i was born for the sea," he observed. "it was a mistake for me to travel all the way across land to oakdale, an' i reckon i got punished fer it." "i am sorry you suffered, but i am glad i had the chance to meet you," answered dave. "it may mean a great deal to me, you know." "thet's true, dave. but take my advice an' don't depend upon it too much. i'd hate awfully to see ye disapp'inted." "yes--but i wish we were at cavasa island," said the country boy, wistfully. the nearer the ship drew to the island mentioned, the more anxious did he become, although he did his best to conceal his feelings. but phil and roger understood. "i sincerely hope dave isn't disappointed," said the senator's son, when he and phil chanced to be alone. "think of coming such a distance as this on a wild-goose chase!" "well, it was the only thing to do," answered the son of the bark owner. "you and i would have done the same." "i don't doubt it. but, look at it from every point of view, it is an odd situation. i only hope this dunston porter is still at cavasa island, or in that vicinity." at last came the day when captain marshall called the boys to him and said they might sight cavasa island inside of the next twenty-four hours. "you'll know the island at a glance," said he. "approaching it from this side, it looks exactly like a long loaf of bread with a hump in the middle. the hump is the old volcano. the town at which we are to stop is located at the western extremity of the island. there is where the real shipping is done. there is a town at the eastern end, but the harbor is poor, and most of the inhabitants are natives." "and what of the people where we are to stop?" asked dave. "about one-half are natives and the others a mixture of americans and europeans. the harbor there is a very good one indeed, and that is why it is so popular." as they neared cavasa island, both the supercargo and the first mate appeared to grow more than ordinarily anxious, and talked together by the half-hour. dave noticed this and so did the others. "they have something in mind," said the country boy to phil. "you'll surely have to be on guard when the cargo for tolao is taken ashore." the next day the boys kept on the lookout, having borrowed captain marshall's best glass. about noon roger uttered a loud cry: "i see something! it must be the island!" "let me look!" exclaimed dave, and took the glass. "yes, it is cavasa island!" he went on, "for it looks exactly as the captain said." inside of an hour they could see cavasa island quite plainly, and by nightfall they were ready to enter the harbor. but this was not to be accomplished in the dark, and so they had to remain outside until daybreak, impatient as dave was to get ashore. "what an odd collection of ships!" said phil, as the _stormy petrel_ made her way into the harbor. "they must have come from all parts of the world!" and this remark was largely true. it had been arranged that dave and billy dill should go ashore at the first opportunity, and roger was to go with them. "i am sorry i can't go," said phil, to dave. "but, you understand how it is," and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the supercargo, who was writing in one of his books. "yes, i understand, phil," answered dave. "i hope you don't have any trouble." the shipping of tolao was very much huddled together, and the boys had to depend upon billy dill to pilot them to the main thoroughfare of the town. the old sailor declared that the place had changed but little since his last visit, and said he would take them directly to the hotel at which dunston porter had been in the habit of stopping. "all right," said dave. "you can't get there any too quick for me," and they walked on, with the heart of the country boy beating as it had seldom beat before. to him, his whole future seemed to rest upon what he might learn in the next few hours. chapter xxii about some missing men the hotel proved to be a one-story building of spanish architecture, with numerous small windows and a rather low door. it was presided over by a round-faced englishman, who stared at billy dill curiously when the old tar presented himself. "do you remember me, mr. chadsey?" asked the sailor. "i do," was the answer. "you were here some years ago. but i cannot recall your name." "billy dill." "oh, yes, yes; you were with mr. porter and mr. lemington," returned the hotel-keeper. "that's it. i am looking for mr. porter now." "sorry, but he isn't here." "isn't here?" cried dave, and his heart sank. "isn't he in town at all?" "no, he left the island a couple of months ago." "and where did he go to?" "i don't know. he said something about going to sobago island and something about going to australia, but where he really did go to, i have not learned." "this young man is very much interested in meeting mr. porter," explained billy dill. "his name is porter, too, and i reckon they are related. have you any idea where we can find out where dunston porter went?" "might find out at the shipping offices." "why, of course!" exclaimed dave. "let us go to the different offices at once." billy dill was willing, and without loss of time led the way to the street upon which the majority of the shipping of cavasa island was booked. the offices were mostly small and rather dirty, and around them hung sailors and other men, of various nationalities, and some of them far from prepossessing in their general appearance. they visited two offices without success, and then came to a place located on a corner, with doors on both streets. "hello!" cried roger. "there is mr. van blott just ahead of us! is this the shipping firm with which mr. lawrence does business?" "i don't think it is," answered billy dill. "then what is he doing here?" "must have a little business of his own," said dave. "but i don't care. come along." just then he was thinking only of his personal affairs. they entered the office, which reeked of tobacco smoke and the smell of rum. in the rear was another office, and they were just in time to see the supercargo go into this, shutting a partition door behind him. looking around, dave saw a clerk at a corner desk looking over some papers with an elderly german. "i will be at liberty in a few minutes," said the clerk, in broken english. "please to take seats," and he pointed to a couple of low benches set against the wall and the partition. billy dill sat down on the bench along the wall and dave and roger upon that next to the partition, which was not over seven feet in height. save for the rattling of the papers at the corner desk the office was very quiet, and the boys readily heard the talk going on behind the partition. "so you really have some goots on board?" came in a somewhat german voice. "i vos afraid you vould not bring any." "didn't i say i'd bring them, baumann?" returned jasper van blott. "i've got them, and the only question is, how am i to get them here, and when are you going to pay me?" "i pay so soon as de goots is here," said the german shipping agent. "i not pay a dollar before." "but you will send your men down to the dock?" "oh, yes, i do dot. vot dime you vonts dem, hey?" "to-morrow morning at eight o'clock, sharp. tell them to watch me, and when i wave my handkerchief they can come forward and get the goods." "how many poxes vos dere?" "sixteen, all told. you want to be careful and caution your men. i don't want captain marshall to learn what i am----" the boys heard no more, for at this juncture the clerk came forward, having finished his work at the corner desk. "what can i do for you?" he asked, blandly. "i am looking for a man who is supposed to have left cavasa island by steamer, or sailboat, about two months ago," said dave. "his name is dunston porter. can you tell me if he shipped from here?" the clerk looked over a book he drew from a desk. "i see nothing of the name," he said, after a pause. "you would have the name, if he had taken passage from here?" questioned roger. the clerk nodded. then, when he found that he could do nothing more for them, he dropped into an easy chair, lit a black-looking cigar and took up a newspaper. "there is one more shipping office," said billy dill, as he led the way to the street. "we'll go there." "dave, did you hear that talk in the back room?" questioned the senator's son, as they were hurrying down the street. "i did." "what do you think of it?" "i think the supercargo is up to some game, and we must tell phil and captain marshall." "that's just my idea, too, dave. let me see, the name of the firm was baumann & feltmuller, wasn't it?" "yes." they were soon at the last of the shipping offices. here the clerk could scarcely talk english, and they had to call in the services of a gentleman who chanced to be present and who could speak the native tongue. a booking list was consulted, and it was announced that dunston porter had taken passage for nanpi, on sobago island, just six weeks before. "six weeks!" cried dave. "i hope he is there still. now, how can i communicate with him, roger?" "you can send him a letter," answered roger. "but you must remember that the _stormy petrel_ is going to nanpi as soon as her cargo for this town is unloaded." from the shipping clerk they learned that dunston porter had gone to sobago alone--that is, without his partner, mr. lemington. a further searching into the shipping lists revealed the fact that the partner had sailed for australia seven weeks past. "i reckon they dissolved partnership," observed billy dill, "an' one went his way, an' tudder the other way. an' i likewise guess they didn't git thet treasure." there was now nothing to do but to return to the bark, and this they did without delay. the boys found that captain marshall had gone ashore on business, and so called phil aside and related to him what had been heard in the office of baumann & feltmuller. "you are right--there is something in the wind," said the shipowner's son. "i wish the captain was here, so i could consult with him." "he'll be back soon, won't he?" questioned roger. "he said he might not be back until late this evening." phil was interested in what dave had to tell about dunston porter, and said he would urge the captain of the _stormy petrel_ to set sail for nanpi at the earliest possible moment. it was not until ten o'clock that jasper van blott came back to the bark. he immediately walked up to the first mate and the pair engaged in conversation for some time. then the supercargo went to bed, and roger and dave did the same. phil sat up, reading and awaiting the captain's return. it was almost seven o'clock when the country boy sprang up and awakened the senator's son. both hurried into their clothes and then into the cabin, where they met phil, whose face was full of worry. "what's the matter?" asked both. "captain marshall hasn't come back yet." "hasn't come back?" ejaculated dave. "do you mean to say he stayed away all night?" "exactly; and i don't know what to make of it." "did he say he might remain away?" came from roger. "no." "where did he go?" "i don't know, and neither does mr. shepley." "what will you do about----" began dave, and cut himself short, as jasper van blott came into the cabin. "mr. van blott, do you know anything about the captain?" questioned phil. "i do not," was the short reply. "it is queer that he should stay away all night." "oh, captains like to have good times occasionally," continued the supercargo, with a sickly grin. "if you mean by that, that captain marshall went off to have a good time, as you put it, i do not think so," returned phil, coldly. "he is not that sort." "perhaps you know him better than i do," flared up the supercargo. "i know that he is a man who sticks to his duty, mr. van blott. something has gone wrong, or he would be back." "as you please." the supercargo paused. "well, it doesn't matter much," he continued. "i know what to do, and i am going ahead without waiting for him." "you mean about unloading?" "yes." "would it not be better to wait until captain marshall returns?" "no, it would only be a waste of time." no more was said just then, and a few minutes later breakfast was announced. as soon as it was over, phil called his chums aside. "i wish you'd do me a favor," he whispered. "go ashore and try to hunt up the captain. he must be around somewhere. i will try to hold the supercargo back as much as i can." dave and the senator's son were willing, and in less than ten minutes were on the dock and moving for the streets beyond. "where are those boys going?" asked jasper van blott, coming up to phil. "they are going to look for captain marshall." "humph!" muttered the supercargo, and said no more. "i think we had better wait until the captain returns," went on phil. "i am not going to wait," snapped van blott. "i am going to get that cargo ashore as quickly as it can be done." and fifteen minutes later the hatches were opened and the work of getting out the boxes, barrels, and casks began. chapter xxiii in which the supercargo is cornered from one street corner dave and roger hurried to another, looking in every direction for some sign of captain marshall. this hunt they kept up for the best part of half an hour, but without success. "he is certainly nowhere in this vicinity," said the senator's son. "i wonder where he can be keeping himself." they walked on more slowly, and at the entrance to a lane came to another halt. then, chancing to look into the lane, dave uttered a short cry: "there he is!" coming along the lane was captain marshall. his step was an uncertain one, and he pitched from side to side. as the two boys ran forward, the master of the _stormy petrel_ gave a lurch and landed on some old boxes with a crash. "oh, dave, can this be possible!" murmured roger. "i did not think the captain would do it." "let us help him to the ship," answered dave. he was as much shocked as his companion, and he could not help but think of what the supercargo had said. "oh, is it you, boys?" mumbled the captain, as he espied them. "i want to--to get back to the ship." "we'll help you," said dave. "i've had an awful night--my mind is in a perfect whirl," went on the master of the _stormy petrel_. "we'll soon have you safe on the bark," put in roger. the two assisted the captain to his feet. his eyes had a peculiar stare in them. suddenly he clapped his hand to his pocket. "funny!" he muttered. "very funny! i've got my watch! and i've got my money, too!" "did you think they were gone?" queried dave. "well, i shouldn't be--be surprised. i thought they did it to rob me. what time is it? oh, but i am weak in the legs, boys!" "it is about eight o'clock." "in the morning?" "yes." "then i must get back to the _stormy petrel_ by all means. i--how did you come to find me?" "we were out looking for you," answered roger. "we were alarmed, and so was phil, because you didn't come back last night." "i--i meant to come back. oh, how my head spins! i wish i had a drink of water! that coffee they dosed me with was vile." "coffee they dosed you with?" queried dave. "were you drugged?" "i must have been, lad. i met some men, and they wanted me to drink with them. i refused. then they offered me some coffee and native cakes, and, to be sociable, i took the stuff. directly afterward i began to grow sleepy, and then i didn't know a thing until i woke up at the end of that lane awhile ago." "did you know the men?" asked roger. "i did not, but they pretended to know me. it's queer they didn't rob me. i wonder why they drugged me?" "i don't know," answered dave, "unless----" "unless what?" "i shouldn't like to say, captain marshall. but i'll tell you one thing, you are wanted on board of the _stormy petrel_ at once." "who wants me?" "phil lawrence. we have learned something about mr. van blott which we think you ought to know. but you must get your head cleared up, first of all." they walked the captain back to the bark, and, by accident more than design, managed to get the skipper on board without the supercargo seeing the party. then they called phil into the cabin, and in the meantime got the captain some fresh water and some other things they fancied might do him good. they were glad to note that his dizziness was fast leaving him. "this looks suspicious to me," said captain marshall, after he had heard what the boys had to relate. "but i cannot accuse van blott of having me drugged, as i have no proof of it. i do not know who those men were, and, more than likely, they will keep themselves out of sight." "that is true," returned phil. "but you can help me regarding this stuff to be taken away by baumann & feltmuller, can't you?" "certainly, phil. i want to know all about that stuff before it leaves this ship. have you the records of the goods?" "no, sir; mr. van blott has locked the books in the safe." "then, if i were you, as your father's representative, i should demand to see the records. i will back you up." "if you will back me up, i'll go to him at once. he is already getting the goods out of the hold." "i'll put a stop to that," answered the captain. he was still feeble in the legs, but managed to climb to the deck, and walked to where the supercargo and the first mate were directing the unloading of a portion of the cargo. "hello, so you are back!" exclaimed the supercargo, and his face paled a little. "i am," returned the captain, coldly. "mr. shepley, did you give orders to unload?" he went on, turning to the mate. "i--i--er--did," stammered the mate. "you said yesterday we were to start first thing this morning." "i did--but i expected to be here when we began. mr. van blott, philip lawrence wishes to see you in your office." "i haven't time to bother with him now," growled the supercargo. "go ahead with those cases!" he shouted to some stevedores who were nearby, and pulling out his handkerchief he gave it a flourish toward the dock. "drop those cases!" roared captain marshall, his face growing red. "drop them, i say!" and the natives who were carrying the cases stopped short. "captain marshall----" began jasper van blott. "i--what do you mean by this--er--by this----" "i told you that philip lawrence wanted to see you in your office. you had better see him before we move any more of this cargo." "yes, but----" "i won't argue the matter, mr. van blott. i was drugged last night. do you understand? drugged! but my mind is clear now, and i want everything on this bark to run smoothly. you had better go to your office, and i'll go with you." the supercargo glared at the captain, and the latter glared in return. then van blott shrugged his shoulders. "as you please," he said. "but it is a strange proceeding." and he walked to that part of the ship where was located his little office. as he passed the first mate, he gave the man a wink and turned his eyes toward the cases on the deck. paul shepley nodded slightly. in the office they found phil awaiting them. roger followed the pair, but dave had seen the wink that was passed, and remained on deck, and a moment later seated himself on one of the very cases the stevedores had been in the act of removing from the ship. "ain't you going with them?" asked the first mate, coming up with a dark frown on his face. "no, i think i'll stay here until they come back," answered dave, lightly. "then please get off of that box." "i am not hurting the box, mr. shepley." "get off, i say!" the boy from the country did so. "i believe captain marshall wanted nothing moved until he came back," said dave, gazing boldly into the mate's angry face. "perhaps i had better call him, if you are going to work again." "who said i was going to move anything?" growled paul shepley, his manner showing that that was just what he had had in mind to do. "don't you get too fresh around me, or there will be trouble!" "well, if there is trouble, i'll do my best to stand up against it." "aw! you make me tired!" grumbled the first mate, and strode away in deep disgust, leaving dave master of the field. in the meantime a stormy meeting was being held in the supercargo's office. at first van blott flatly refused to allow phil to look at his books, but at last brought forth several, which the shipowner's son knew were of little importance. "i want the books that relate to the goods to be landed here," said phil. "i want to know all about each piece before it is put ashore." "humph! you are getting very particular, young man!" observed the supercargo. "i do not deny it." "did your father send you on this trip to spy on me?" "you may put it that way, if you wish, mr. van blott. i am here simply to learn this business and to see that everything is o. k." "if everything is all right, what have you to fear from an inspection like this?" came suggestively from captain marshall. "i am not going to work here and be watched like a criminal!" stormed jasper van blott. "if old man lawrence can't trust me, it is time we parted company!" "i agree with you," returned the captain. "do you?" came with a sneer. "very well. i'll close up my accounts and quit." "you'll not do it just yet," put in phil. he was pale, but determined. "i won't?" "no. before you quit you must make an accounting to me of goods and money, and satisfy me, and also captain marshall, that everything is o. k. in every particular." "bah! boy, who gave you authority to talk to me in this fashion?" "my father." "i don't believe it. why, you are a mere boy--you don't know what you are saying. i'll close up this business to suit myself and leave my keys with captain marshall, and that will end it." "mr. van blott, you must remember that philip lawrence is the shipowner's son," said the captain, sternly. "i don't care if he is. he has no legal authority, and i don't propose to let him drive me." "just wait a minute, until i come back," said phil, starting for the door. "where are you going?" asked roger. "to my stateroom. i'll be back in a few minutes." "what is he going to do?" questioned the supercargo, uneasily. "i don't know," answered captain marshall, shortly. "but, if i were you, mr. van blott, i should listen to him. in a certain sense, he represents his father on this vessel." "he doesn't represent him with me!" muttered the supercargo. his anger had made him lose a good portion of his common sense. there was a minute of silence, during which jasper van blott strode up and down the narrow office. then a step was heard outside, and phil reappeared, carrying a large envelope in his hand. "my father said i was not to use this unless it was necessary," he said, drawing a paper from the envelope. at the appearance of a legal-looking document the supercargo started back. "what's that?" he demanded, hoarsely. "this is a document authorizing captain marshall to take charge of your affairs, mr. van blott. he is to investigate everything, under my supervision, and is to hold you strictly accountable for everything you have done since starting on this voyage." chapter xxiv the cargo mystery explained there was a death-like silence for several seconds after phil made his announcement. even captain marshall was astonished, for he had not anticipated such a turn of affairs. "let me see that paper!" demanded jasper van blott, wildly. "i will not believe a word of what you have said until i read that paper." "then read it," answered the shipowner's son, and passed it over. with compressed lips, the supercargo perused the document. then he gritted his teeth. "so this is the game you have been playing on me, eh?" he snarled. "well, it doesn't work." "doesn't work?" came from roger, who was as much interested as any one. "no, it doesn't work. that paper isn't worth the ink it's written with. it was drawn up in the united states, and we are not in the united states now." "perhaps not, but we are sailing under the united states flag, mr. van blott," said captain marshall, quickly. "besides that, i think the authorities here will respect a legal document drawn up in uncle sam's country." "it's not worth a pinch of snuff!" roared the supercargo, and would have torn the paper to bits, had not phil and roger leaped forward and prevented him. "none of that!" cried phil. "let that alone, or i'll have captain marshall place you under arrest." "arrest? me under arrest? i'd like to see you do it!" fumed the supercargo. "i'll do it, unless you do what is right," said the master of the _stormy petrel_, quickly. "mr. van blott, your actions do you no credit. trying to destroy that document proves to me beyond a doubt that you have something to conceal. i shall begin an investigation at once, and the boys shall aid me." "i don't care!" roared jasper van blott. "but i am done with the ship and the whole crowd." "please hand over the keys to your safe boxes." with bad grace, the supercargo did so. "now you will please sit down and let us go through the accounts," continued the captain. the supercargo squirmed and argued, and did his best to get away, but it was all to no purpose, and, in the end, he had to remain in the office until the captain, phil, and roger had examined all the shipping accounts. some of the entries were mixed up, and they could not obtain any satisfactory explanation regarding them. "now we will go on deck and examine that stuff that was to go ashore," said captain marshall. "especially the goods for baumann & feltmuller," put in the senator's son. "ha! what do you know about that firm?" gasped jasper van blott. "not much." "you--you have been spying on me--you must have followed me on shore," gasped the supercargo. "but you are mistaken, you will find nothing wrong," he added, suddenly, and then appeared to calm down. they went on deck, where they found dave still on guard. the first mate was sulking near the rail. as soon as the captain appeared dave walked up to him. "i am glad you are here," he whispered. "mr. shepley wanted to send the goods ashore, but i told him that, if he did so, i would call you." "is that so? thank you, dave, i am glad you went on watch," replied the master of the _stormy petrel_. the inspection of the goods began, and in the midst of the work jasper van blott gave an exclamation. "did anybody bring that brown book up?" he queried. nobody knew anything about a brown book, and all looked puzzled. "that has this transaction in it in full," went on the supercargo. "i remember now, i put the book in my stateroom. i will go below and get it. that will prove everything is as straight as a string. then i am going to sue somebody for heavy damages," he added. he walked to the companionway and disappeared. captain marshall continued to inspect the goods to go ashore, and the boys aided him. that something was wrong they did not doubt, and they waited impatiently for the supercargo to reappear with his brown book. "the first mate has gone below, too," announced roger, presently. "maybe the pair are talking it over between them. they are certainly hand-in-glove with each other, according to what dave says." "go below and tell mr. van blott i want him to come up at once," returned captain marshall. the senator's son disappeared down the companionway and was gone for several minutes. he came up with a worried look on his face. "i can't find mr. van blott anywhere!" he cried. "what!" roared the master of the _stormy petrel_. "he must be down there." "unless he has sneaked ashore!" came quickly from dave. "could he do that?" questioned phil. "he might." "i will go below and look around," went on captain marshall. "you boys scatter on the deck and watch for him. he must not be allowed to get away!" the boys did as requested, and the captain went below, to be gone quarter of an hour and more. when he came up, his face was much downcast. "he has certainly gotten away," he declared. "his valise and some of his clothing are gone, and his money box is wide open and empty." "where is the mate?" asked phil. "there he is!" exclaimed dave, pointing to the bow. the captain ran forward. "mr. shepley, have you seen mr. van blott?" "when?" inquired the mate, slowly. "within the last ten or twenty minutes." "why, yes." "where is he?" "i think he walked ashore. i didn't notice, particularly." "humph! did he have his valise?" "i don't know but what he did. i wasn't paying any particular attention. are we to unload, or not?" went on the first mate. "we are to do nothing until mr. van blott is found," answered the captain, shortly. "all right; in that case, you'll wait a long time," murmured the mate to himself. after that a regular hunt was instituted, and the boys went ashore, along with billy dill. they even visited the offices of baumann & feltmuller, but not a trace of the missing supercargo could be found anywhere. when the boys got back to the bark, they found that captain marshall had begun on an examination of the goods taken from the hold. he found a number of cases mismarked--those which were to have been sent to baumann & feltmuller. "this stuff seems to have been meant for some firm in australia--featherstone & harmsworth," said the captain. "how it came on my ship is a mystery to me." "wait!" shouted dave. "i know something about that. just before we left san francisco i heard some dock officials speaking about some costly cases of goods which had disappeared from a neighboring dock. the goods were for the firm of featherstone & harmsworth, i remember the name well. the stuff was to go to sydney. they said they had tried their best, but could get no trace of the stolen cases." "that explains it!" exclaimed phil. "van blott took the cases and had them stowed away in the hold of this ship. he was going to sell the stuff to baumann & feltmuller, in part or in whole." "i believe you have struck the truth," returned captain marshall. "and now, fearing exposure, he has fled." "what can you do with the goods?" questioned roger. "i don't know, yet. either return them to their owners, or sell them and forward the money. i'll have to think the matter over." "what a rascal van blott has proved himself to be!" was phil's comment. "yes, and i reckon that man in san francisco, bangor, was in with him," said dave, and he was correct in his surmise. it may be added here, though, that bangor never suffered for this crime, for he was caught, shortly after the sailing of the _stormy petrel_, and tried for something equally unlawful, and sentenced to prison for several years. the stolen goods were placed in another part of the ship, and then the work of unloading a part of the regular cargo began. paul shepley had to superintend this work, and did so in a thoughtful mood. "i wish i knew the truth about the mate," said phil to dave. "i am going to watch him pretty closely after this." "he certainly had something in common with the supercargo," replied the country boy. from baumann & feltmuller, captain marshall could learn but little. the merchants said that the supercargo had offered to sell them some goods which, he declared, had not been accepted by other parties because of delay in shipment. they had agreed to take the same and pay on delivery, and when convinced that all was fair and above board. "they are a tricky firm," said the captain to the boys. "but, as i have no proof against them, i'll have to let them go." in spite of the excitement over the exposure of the supercargo, dave was anxious to sail from cavasa island and be on the way to sobago. it was with great satisfaction that he heard captain marshall say they would set sail on the following monday morning. "and how long will it take us to reach nanpi?" he asked of the master of the _stormy petrel_. "that will depend upon the wind, lad. if we have luck, we ought to get there in four or five days. but sometimes the wind is mighty contrary around these parts." while at cavasa the boys spent one whole day ashore, and went out riding in the direction of the volcano in company with billy dill. the old tar showed them where he and dunston porter and mr. lemington had camped out, and where they had hunted for the treasure. "i'd like to feel an earthquake once, just for fun," remarked roger. "it must be a queer sensation." "it is," answered billy dill. "an' one ye ain't apt to forgit in a hurry." "if it was bad, i think i'd be scared out of my wits," said phil. "what do you think about it, dave?" "i don't want any in mine." "oh, what's a little earthquake!" cried the senator's son. "it would be an experience worth talking about, that's all." "well, maybe you'll have your wish gratified before we leave this region of the globe," said dave. "i understand that earthquakes are common for thousands of miles around. sometimes the quakes make new islands, while other islands sink out of sight." "excuse me from being on an island when it sinks out of sight," cried phil. "i'd rather be on solid ground any time." and in this statement the others agreed with him. chapter xxv swept onward by a tidal wave "off at last, and i am glad of it!" "i suppose you are anxious to get to nanpi, dave?" "i am, roger. can you blame me?" "not at all. in fact, if i were in your place, i think i'd be even more anxious. meeting this dunston porter means so much to you," went on the senator's son. the two chums were on the forward deck of the _stormy petrel_ and the bark was just leaving the harbor of tolao. it was a clear day, with a bright sun high overhead, and the boys felt in excellent spirits. nothing had been seen or heard of jasper van blott, and, with the sailing of the bark, he was practically forgotten by dave and roger. but phil and the captain remembered him and were sorry that they had not been able to bring the wicked supercargo to justice. although he was in nominal authority, captain marshall turned over the cargo books to phil, and the shipowner's son did very well when it came to straightening out the tangle left by van blott. phil wished to make a clean report to his father and worked with a will, until he "knew where he was at," as he declared. "i rather think it will open my father's eyes," said phil. "he has suspected van blott for some time, but he didn't think of anything like this." on the second day out the wind died down utterly, and this state of affairs continued for several days. the sails flapped idly against the masts, and scarcely any progress was made. "we are not going to make such a quick passage, after all," remarked roger. "my! but this is slow work, i must declare!" "and haven't you noticed the heat?" added phil. "it seems to me to be unusually hot." "it is," said dave, who had been consulting a thermometer. "this is our warmest day, by four degrees. if it gets much warmer, we'll certainly melt." that afternoon the sea appeared to be strangely agitated, and toward night the sailors noticed a large number of dead fish rising to the surface. dave discovered a large shark, and this proved to be dead, also. "there has been some disturbance under the ocean's surface," said captain marshall. "more than likely an earthquake." "an earthquake! and we never knew it!" ejaculated roger, and his tone showed his disappointment. in the morning the sea was more agitated than ever. one minute it would appear to flatten out, the next, two waves would come together with a clash that sent the spray flying upward for many feet. more dead fish were in evidence on every hand. "i have never witnessed anything like this," commented captain marshall. "i trust it gets no worse." when the breeze sprang up, it came from the wrong direction, and the _stormy petrel_ had to tack as best she could. the breeze kept growing stiffer and stiffer, until it was little short of a gale. then a thick mist settled down on the ocean, shutting out the view upon all sides. "i must say i don't like this," observed the senator's son. "supposing we should run into something?" "there isn't much to run into," replied dave. "i just asked the captain, and he told me we were a good many miles from land of any sort." "we might run into some other ship." "there seem to be very few ships in this locality." morning found the _stormy petrel_ still surrounded by the mist, and there was now little or no wind. the barometer had gone down, and the captain ordered some sail taken in, in anticipation of a storm. at noon the mist appeared to lift a little, and once more the wind sprang up. this continued for several hours, when, of a sudden, a strange humming filled the air. "what can that be?" cried dave, who was on the forward deck. "it's wind!" cried billy dill. "a reg'lar tornado, too." captain marshall was on deck, no longer disposed to trust his first mate. he at once ordered all of the sails taken in and stowed away securely. this was just accomplished, when the hurricane--for it was nothing less--struck the _stormy petrel_, almost sending the bark on her beam ends. "better go below!" shrieked the captain to the three boys. "it's not safe for you on deck." "i'll be careful," answered phil, but the master of the bark shook his head, and then the three lads started for the companionway, holding on to first one thing and then another as they moved along. phil had just reached the bottom of the steps, roger was half-way down, and dave still at the top, when a wild cry from the bow reached their ears. "hold tight, all of ye!" came in the voice of billy dill. "hold on, or ye'll be swept overboard, sure!" everybody on board the _stormy petrel_ realized that this could be no idle warning, and all held on like grim death to anything that was handy. the next moment there was a strange hissing and pounding of the ocean, and, in a twinkling, the _stormy petrel_ was caught on what seemed to be the top of a giant wave and carried along as if in the grip of a demon of the deep! the upward and forward movement came with such a force that nearly everybody was taken clean and clear off his feet, and had not each one clung fast, as directed by billy dill, somebody must surely have been flung overboard. the bark turned around and around on the top of the wave, and then lurched forward and went on and on, the spray flying so thickly that scarcely a thing of what was beyond could be seen. "my gracious!" gasped roger, who had been flung down on top of phil. "what is this?" "don't ask me!" returned dave, who was sitting on the upper step with his arms entwined around the companionway rail. "i guess it's an earthquake and a hurricane rolled into one." "has anybody gone overboard?" asked phil, as he tried to stand up. "i don't know. billy dill gave the warning." the door to the cabin was open, and the three lads fairly tumbled into the compartment. the bark was rocking to such an extent that to stand upright was out of the question. everything that was loose was on the floor, shifting from one side to the other. the boys waited with bated breath, and a few minutes later heard a crash on the deck, which told that a topmast, or one of the yards, had come down. then came a yell of alarm from one of the sailors. "we are going to sink! we are going to sink!" "did you hear that?" ejaculated roger. "he said the _stormy petrel_ was going to sink!" "what shall we do?" put in phil. "i don't want to drown!" phil had scarcely spoken when a side door to one of the staterooms burst open and a man came forth, wild with terror, his face scratched and bleeding. much to their amazement, they saw it was jasper van blott. "is the ship really going down?" cried the former supercargo, in a trembling voice. "where did you come from?" cried dave. "i--er--i've been in hiding. but, tell me, are we going down?" "i don't know." "i--er--i must go on deck and see. it nearly killed me, the bark bounced around so," went on van blott. he started for the companionway, but had not yet reached the top when a big wave hit the _stormy petrel_ broadside, sweeping the deck from end to end and sending some of the water into the cabin. the former supercargo was washed off the steps and came down flat on his back, screaming with terror. [illustration: the former supercargo was washed off the steps and came down flat on his back.--_page 225._] the boys were nearly as much alarmed, and, as soon as it was possible to do so, all three crawled up to where they could get a view of the deck and the sea beyond. the outlook was truly startling. the ocean was whipped up into a milk-white foam and was dashing and churning in all directions. one tremendous wave was rolling straight to the southward, and on this the bark was riding, like a monkey on a runaway race horse. the wind was whistling through the rigging, and the sky was filled with dark clouds and a strange, whitish dust. "what is this?" called dave to the captain, as the latter passed. "it's a tidal wave!" yelled back captain marshall. "there has been another earthquake, and, most likely, some of the volcanoes in this vicinity have become active." "are we going down, as that sailor said?" "not yet. i will warn you, if there is any danger of our sinking." "you can't put out any small boats, can you?" asked phil. "no, a small boat would not live a minute in such a sea as is now running." "has anybody been washed overboard?" asked roger. "i believe not--but i am not sure. it came on so sudden, we had no time to prepare for it," said captain marshall. "mr. van blott is below," said dave. "van blott! you must be dreaming!" "no. he had been in hiding, and the alarm scared him." "humph! well, we'll take care of him later--if we get out of this with a whole skin." the boys could do nothing on deck, and so went below again, to find that the former supercargo had disappeared. "it doesn't matter," observed phil. "we know he is on board, and he can't get away until we land, and i guess we can root him out before that time." the _stormy petrel_ was still being carried forward, but now the motion was a bit more steady than before. it was true that she had encountered a tidal wave, due to a submarine earthquake, and also true that a volcano on the island of cholomu had become active. the fine volcanic dust floated for miles over the ocean, covering the bark from stem to stern as with flour. half an hour later came another alarm. somebody roared out: "breakers ahead!" and in a moment more the _stormy petrel_ was in the midst of a choppy sea, and staggered from side to side, as if ready to go over. then came a scraping at the bottom. "we have struck a reef!" cried the first mate. "we are done for now!" but, even as he spoke, the bark went on, over the reef and into what seemed to be a large harbor. far in the distance could be seen a palm-fringed shore, with the waves dashing high up on the sands. it took captain marshall but an instant to consider the situation, and he immediately gave orders to cast an anchor. the _stormy petrel_ continued to rush onward, but quarter of a mile from the shore the forward progress was checked. then another anchor was dropped, and it was seen that this had secured a good hold. in the meantime the waters of the tidal wave began to recede, and by sunset the ocean was almost as calm as ever. "thank fortune, that peril is a thing of the past!" said dave, fervently; and the other boys and captain marshall echoed his sentiments. chapter xxvi exploring a tropical island the night to follow was an anxious one for all on board the _stormy petrel_. the sea was still too rough to think of venturing ashore, and so it was impossible to learn to what harbor they had floated and what was the prospect of continuing their voyage to sobago island. "we must be at least two hundred miles out of our reckoning," said captain marshall, in reply to a question from phil. "this may be tapley island, but i am not sure." "is tapley island inhabited?" "i am not sure about that, either. there was once a colony there, but i think it died out. the natives on the other islands around here are very fierce." "then i hope we haven't landed on one of the other islands," remarked dave. "if we came over a reef, how are we to get out of this harbor?" questioned roger. "that remains to be learned, roger," answered the master of the _stormy petrel_, gravely. during the night the sea went down a great deal, and in the morning the harbor could be plainly distinguished. a boat was lowered, and captain marshall went ashore, taking dave and phil with him. it was an easy matter to beach the rowboat on the sands, and the boys leaped ashore quickly and ran up to the nearest of the palm trees. a look around showed all how the gigantic tidal wave had torn and twisted everything growing near the water's edge. in some spots the sand lay a foot thick on beds of grass and moss and small brushwood. "we can be thankful that our ship was not cast up high and dry on the shore," remarked captain marshall, as he gazed around. "that wave must have done the shipping for hundreds of miles around great damage." the party walked up and down the beach for almost a mile, but without seeing the first sign of inhabitants of any sort. the shore was full of dead fish and overturned turtles, and the sailors took some back to the ship with them for eating purposes. it was nearly midday when they returned to the ship, and the boys were so hungry that a mess of fried fish was particularly appetizing to them. at noon the captain made some observations and got out his charts, and finally announced that they must be at a small island, one hundred and sixty miles to the southward of sobago. "the island is not of great importance," said he. "it is shaped a good deal like the letter b, and this harbor is formed by the double curve on one side. the interior of each of the two portions is mostly marsh land--a good place for tropical fevers. the reef outside of the harbor is well defined on the chart, and extends in a semicircle for many miles." "isn't there any opening at all?" queried dave. "for small vessels, yes." "but not for a bark the size of ours?" "that remains to be found out. i shall go this afternoon and make some soundings." "if there isn't any opening in the reef, what are we to do?" asked phil, blankly. "why, the _stormy petrel_ will have to remain here forever!" "which puts me in mind of a story, as shadow hamilton would say," came from dave. "i once heard of a fellow who built a rowboat in the garret of his house. after the boat was done, it was so large he couldn't get it out of the door or window, and he had to take the boat apart again." "if the boys at oak hall could see us now!" cried roger. "but about our ship. we didn't build it here--the tidal wave sent it in, over yonder reef. now the question arises, how are we to get over the reef again?" "if there is no opening in the reef, maybe we can blow one out with dynamite," suggested phil. after dinner captain marshall went out in the largest of the rowboats, taking with him his pick of the sailors. they took a lead line along, and remained away until dark, taking as many soundings as they possibly could. it was dangerous work, and those on the bark were glad when the rowboat returned. "well, did you find a channel?" asked the first mate. "no," was the short answer. "there are several openings, but none, that i discovered, wide enough for the _stormy petrel_." "of course, you didn't cover the whole reef?" "by no means. i will go out again to-morrow--or you may do so." the news the captain brought was very disheartening, and it was a gloomy party that assembled in the cabin of the bark that evening. "we shall be perfectly safe in this harbor, so long as the weather remains fair," said captain marshall. "but a heavy blow might cause us to drag our anchors and either run ashore or on the reef. we must get away in the near future, if it can possibly be accomplished." "you can't get away and to sobago any too quick for me," replied dave. that evening jasper van blott came out of hiding and attempted to take his place at the cabin table. but captain marshall would have none of this and sent the former supercargo forward, where the sailors made room for him in the forecastle. this angered van blott intensely, and he gritted his teeth with rage. "wait until i get the chance," he said to himself. "i'll get square for this insult!" "he can't run away for the present," the captain explained to the boys. "when we get to a regular stopping place, i'll put him in irons." on the following morning it was so fair all the boys begged to be allowed to go ashore and do a little exploring. the captain was willing, but told them to be careful. billy dill was to go with them, and they took along a pistol, a shotgun, and some provisions. "if you get into trouble, fire two shots in quick succession," said captain marshall. "if i want you to return, i'll fire two shots." the boys got into the boat, and billy dill took one pair of oars and dave the others. they were soon at the beach and landed in true nautical style. then the rowboat was drawn up out of the water and into the shade of some palms, that the sun might not crack open the seams. "we must be extremely careful," observed phil. "remember, we do not know what is on this island." "sure, there might be lions," suggested roger, with a wink and a glance at billy dill. "you boys know better nor thet," rejoined the old tar. "none o' these south sea islands have much in the way o' wild beasts. but you may strike a big snake." "excuse me, but i don't want to be introduced to his snakeship," cried the senator's son. after a little look around, they determined to start up the shore, and did so, with their provisions on their backs and dave carrying the shotgun and phil the pistol. roger and the old tar armed themselves with big sticks. a half-mile was covered, when they came to a hollow, in which were basking a number of turtles, all of great size. phil gave a shout, and on the instant the turtles all headed for the ocean with clumsy, but swift, strides. billy dill made after them and managed to catch the last one and turn him over. [illustration: billy dill managed to catch the last one and turn him over. _page 233._] "he will make fine turtle soup," said the tar. "so he will!" cried dave. "i suppose i might have shot at them." "not worth while, lad; one is enough." they soon came to a portion of the shore where the undergrowth was exceedingly close, and they had to journey a short distance inland. the palms were thick, and they saw numerous cocoanuts and great varieties of beautiful ferns and gigantic creeping vines. billy dill also pointed out three varieties of bread-fruit trees. "well, a fellow wouldn't starve here, in spite of the scarcity of meat," observed dave. "and meat isn't especially good in hot weather," added roger. "natives down here eat very little meat," said the old tar. "they use lots of yams and such stuff, besides bananas and plantains. everything grows of itself, and they have a lazy man's life of it." "excepting when they fight each other," observed phil. an hour later they came out on the shore again. they were now away from the harbor and could look straight out on the ocean. "look! look!" cried roger, pointing seaward. "am i mistaken, or do i see a long canoe filled with men?" "it certainly is a canoe," declared dave, after a look. "and it is filled with natives," added phil. "what do you make of this?" he added, turning to billy dill. "are they coming here?" "i don't think they are, phil. they seem to be headed away from this island." the canoe was certainly a large one, and they counted at least twelve natives at the paddles, or sweeps. other natives were in the bow and stern of the craft. in quarter of an hour the canoe was but a speck in the distance, and then it was lost to sight altogether. "we'll have to tell the captain about this," declared dave. "if there are natives around, he will want to know it." "perhaps they can tell us of a way out of the harbor," suggested roger. "like as not, if there is a way out," spoke up billy dill. "they generally know the coasts putty well--bein' out so much in their canoes." the little party continued on its exploring tour, but soon came to a portion of the marsh land the captain had mentioned. not wishing to get stuck, they began to retrace their steps, until they were in the midst of the thickets again. then a strange rushing sound through the trees broke upon their ears. "wait!" whispered billy dill, "i know what that is. don't make any noise." "is there any danger?" queried roger. the old tar shook his head. then he pointed upward, and the boys saw a large flock of beautiful tropical birds settling down on all sides of them. "what a sight!" murmured dave. "how pretty they are!" "they get birds for ladies' hats from places like this," whispered billy dill. "i know it. what a shame to shoot them down, too!" "it is a shame, lad; and ladies ought to stop wearin' sech finery," said the old tar, soberly. they watched the beautiful birds for some time. then the creatures discovered the strangers, and off they went in a mad flight, and were lost to sight. an hour later found the party passing down the shore once more. here they walked on the sand until they came to something of a cove, surrounded by stately palms. "might as well rest a bit----" began roger, when dave uttered a cry: "see, the remains of a campfire!" "yes, and the remains of a feast, too!" added phil. "those natives must have been here!" chapter xxvii a map and a plot the boys and billy dill viewed the surroundings with interest. some bones lay on the ground, and they kicked them over. "these can't be human bones, can they?" whispered the senator's son to dave. "no, roger, they are nothing but the bones of some small animal." "i was afraid the natives might be cannibals!" to one side of the camp lay a fantastically carved stick, evidently cut by somebody during his leisure. dave picked this up and saw that it contained a heart, an anchor, a cross, several links of a chain, and some stars. at the big end of the stick was an american flag. "hello, look here!" exclaimed the country boy. "this is strange, to say the least. i don't believe any native would cut a stick in this fashion." "neither do i," declared phil. "that must have been carved by an american, and with his jack-knife. perhaps some sailors were camping out here." "to me this campfire, or what's left o' it, looks to be about a week old," said billy dill. "the question is, where did the crowd go to from here?" "maybe there were some americans with those natives in that canoe," suggested roger. "in that case, the natives must be friendly," returned phil. they walked around the locality and down the shore half a mile further, but could find nothing more of interest. then they sat down to enjoy the lunch they had brought, washing the meal down at a spring, close by where the campfire had been. "it is wonderful that fresh water should be so close to the salt," observed the senator's son. "you'd think it would all get salt." "nature knew man wanted fresh water, and so it was placed there," replied billy dill. "trust a kind providence to take care on us every time." after the meal the party set off for the opposite shore of the island, over a small hill which divided one end from the other. here the jungle was so thick they had to literally force their way through, and each of the boys got his clothing torn more or less. once the old tar became so completely fastened that the lads had to go to his assistance and cut him loose with their pocket-knives. "i'm jest about anchored!" remarked billy dill. "this is worse nor the sargasso sea, ain't it?" by the middle of the afternoon they gained the opposite shore of the island. here the ground was very rough, but at one spot they found the remains of a village--two houses of logs and half a dozen thatched huts. the houses and huts were bare, and nothing of interest was to be found around the remains of half a dozen campfires. "this shows that somebody lived here once upon a time," observed phil. "but it couldn't have been much of a population." "can't tell as to thet," came from the old sailor. "these natives live pretty thick sometimes, ten or a dozen in one hut--and a good many live right out under the trees." dave and roger had passed into one of the deserted log houses, and the country youth struck a match, that they might see around a little better. somewhat to their astonishment, they saw pinned up on a wall a sheet of water-stained brown wrapping paper, upon which was drawn something of a map, with a heavy cross where two lines met. "here's a discovery!" cried dave. "wonder what this map was for?" the others came in, and a minute later a torch was lit, and all examined the map with care. then roger uttered a cry: "dave, look there!" and the senator's son pointed to one corner of the map. in faint letters was the written name: _dunston a. porter._ "the very man i am looking for!" ejaculated dave, and his heart gave a bound. "oh, boys, what can it mean?" "it means that mr. porter has been here," answered roger. "he must have been hunting for that treasure," said phil. "this may be one of his maps." "that's a fact," said billy dill. "he was always drawing jest such things when i was with him. he said he was bound to find that treasure some day." "this map looks to be quite old," went on dave, in disappointed tones. "i wish it was fresh and he was here." "he must have come here after sailing to sobago island," said the senator's son, "and that can't be so very long ago." after that they made a closer hunt than before in and around the camp, but found nothing, outside of two buttons, a bit of lead pencil, and the broken handle of a spade. "that spade proves there was some digging done," said phil. "undoubtedly he came here looking for that treasure." "did you ever get any of the particulars of that treasure?" asked dave, of the old sailor. "not much, exceptin' that it was a treasure of pearls and precious stones once hidden by some native king. mr. porter didn't want to tell much about it, and i didn't feel as i had the right to ask him." it was now growing late, and all felt that it was time to return to the ship. before leaving the hut, dave pinned a slip of paper over the map, writing upon it as follows: "to dunston a. porter: "i am very anxious to meet you. i am on board the bark _stormy petrel_, in the harbor of this island, and bound for sobago island. please see me, by all means. david porter." to this the youth added the date, and also his home address, in case he should fail to meet dunston porter and the man should wish to write to him. "that certainly ought to interest him--especially if he is interested in a lost boy," was roger's comment. dave was in a sober mood when he returned to the ship and did not feel much like talking. he allowed the others to relate the day's experience, to which captain marshall listened closely. "it is certainly a pity we didn't get a chance to talk to those natives," said the master of the _stormy petrel_. "they might have shown me some way out of this harbor." "then you haven't found any passage through the reef?" "not yet. the first mate was out with four of the crew, but they could find nothing wide enough," answered captain marshall. the master of the bark thought he spoke the truth, but he was mistaken. unknown to the captain, the first mate had found a passage, rather twisting in shape, but perfectly safe. it was near the northern end of the reef--a locality captain marshall had not visited. one of the sailors who had been out with the mate also knew of the passage, but paul shepley had pledged him to secrecy for the time being. while the boys and billy dill were in the cabin of the _stormy petrel_ relating their experiences, an interesting conversation was going on in another part of the ship, between the first mate and jasper van blott. "i have made an important discovery," said shepley, in a low tone, so that no others might hear. "i have found a safe passageway out of this harbor." "did you tell the old man?" demanded the former supercargo, quickly. "no; i told him that there wasn't any opening wide enough for the bark." "good! now, if we can only arrange this other matter, shepley, we'll make a fine thing of this," went on jasper van blott. "i don't know about this other thing, as you call it," grumbled the first mate. "i'll be running a tremendous risk." "oh, it will be perfectly safe." "don't you know that mutiny on the high seas is punishable by death?" "i do--if you get caught. but you won't get caught. besides that, please to remember that i am not going to suffer for this cargo affair alone. if i have to stand trial, you'll have to do the same." "then you really mean to drag me into it, eh?" said the first mate, sourly. "unless you consent to my plan. why, man, it's dead easy," continued the former supercargo, earnestly. "i know that at least four of the sailors will stand in with us from the start, and we can easily win over the others by the promise of a big reward. all we have got to do is to get captain marshall, billy dill, and those three boys ashore, and then sail away for some distant port. on the way we can change the name of the bark and i'll fix up the clearance papers, and there you are. you and i can become equal owners, and we can go into the regular australian-new zealand trade and make a barrel of money in a few years." "but supposing some of the men raise a row?" "we won't give them a chance, until we are out on the ocean. we can tell them--after the captain's crowd is gone--that you have orders to try to clear the reef. when we are on the ocean, i don't think it will be so hard to manage things. we can arm ourselves and lock up all the other weapons, and tell the men they shall have big money if they ask no questions and stick to their duty," added jasper van blott. "well, how do you propose to get that crowd ashore? they may not happen to go of their own free will." "i think i can manage that, sooner or later. the main thing is, we must watch our chances and strike as soon as the right moment arrives. now then, what do you say, shepley?" the first mate hesitated, and an argument lasting a full hour ensued, during which the former supercargo's plot was discussed from every possible point of view. at last the first mate agreed to do as jasper van blott wanted, and then the two separated, to await the time for making their first move. chapter xxviii marooned on the following morning captain marshall went out once more to look for a passageway through the reef. dave accompanied him, and so did billy dill. in the meantime roger and phil rowed ashore, to see if they could find any more traces of the natives. the captain and dave had been out about an hour, when they noticed a small boat coming toward them, containing two sailors and the first mate. "captain marshall, you are wanted on shore at once!" cried paul shepley, when within hearing distance. "those two boys just sent word to the ship by a native. they said to bring young porter and dill along." "they must have discovered something!" cried dave, quickly. "oh, let us go, by all means!" "i will," answered the master of the _stormy petrel_. "did they say where they were?" "near the interior of the island, i believe," answered the mate. no more was said, and, winding up his lead line, the captain had the rowboat turned around and headed for the island. in the meantime the first mate returned to the bark. once on the deck of the ship he was quickly joined by the former supercargo. "what did he say?" asked jasper van blott, anxiously. "said he'd go." "then we must lose no time in getting up the anchors. luckily the breeze is just right." "wait until they are ashore and have disappeared," answered the first mate, nervously. he was really a coward at heart, and now fairly under the thumb of van blott. it took but a few minutes for the captain, dave, and billy dill to gain the stretch of sand. then those on the _stormy petrel_ saw them draw the small craft up to a safe place and disappear in among the trees. "now then, act as quickly as you can," said jasper van blott. an order was issued for the sailors to come on deck, and all did so, and the second mate, a young man named bob sanders, also appeared. then paul shepley issued orders to hoist the anchors and raise some of the sails. "what does this mean, mr. shepley?" asked the second mate, in surprise. "the captain has found a passageway and wants me to take the ship out and around to the other side of the island," replied the first mate. "he wants us to be lively, too." bob sanders was mystified, but, as he was not on particularly good terms with the first mate, he asked no more questions. soon the sails were up, and paul shepley himself steered the bark toward the passageway he had discovered. "you are sure of what you are doing?" asked jasper van blott, coming to the wheel. "we don't want to strike and go to the bottom." "i wish i was as sure of the future as i am of the passageway," answered the first mate, somewhat grimly. "oh, don't worry about the future," answered the former supercargo, lightly. "in a few days we'll have everything in apple-pie order." there was a good breeze, and the bark cleared the reef with but little difficulty. then paul shepley had all the sails set, and soon the _stormy petrel_ was leaving the island far behind. in the meantime captain marshall, dave, and the old tar were looking everywhere for phil and roger. they dove straight into the jungle and called out as loudly as they could. but no answer came back. "it is queer that we can't locate them," was dave's comment. "if they wanted us, i should think they would be watching out, wouldn't you?" "perhaps they are in trouble," answered the captain, gravely. he fired his pistol as a signal, and at last came an answering shot from the lower end of the island. at once they hurried in that direction, only to find themselves cut off by a stretch of impassable marsh land. "reckon as how we'll have to go around," observed billy dill. "if we try to go through thet we'll git stuck, fer sartin!" going around was not so easy, and it took them nearly half an hour to cover a mile. then the captain discharged his pistol once more, and a minute later came an answering shot but a short distance away. "i see them--at the top of the hill!" cried dave, and, looking ahead, the others discovered phil and roger at the top of the slight rise of ground, waving their handkerchiefs to attract attention. soon the two parties were together. "what's the news?" cried captain marshall, looking around to see if anybody else was present. "no news," answered phil. he gazed at them curiously. "what's up? you look rather excited!" "didn't you send for us?" gasped dave. "send for you? what do you mean?" queried roger. "the first mate said you sent a native to the bark, asking us to come to you," said captain marshall. "we sent nobody--we have seen no natives to-day." there was a pause, during which each looked blankly at the others. "i can't understand this," said dave, slowly. "mr. shepley certainly delivered that message." "it is a trick of some sort!" burst out captain marshall. "the very best thing we can do is to get back to the vessel without delay." the others thought so, too, and in a moment more all were on their way to the shore, hurrying through the undergrowth as rapidly as the bushes and vines would permit. phil and roger had managed to shoot two small animals that looked like hares, but that was all. at last they came out on the sands, and a shout of dismay went up. "the ship is gone!" "the _stormy petrel_ has sailed away and left us!" the boys and the old sailor turned to captain marshall, whose face had turned white. now it grew dark and stern. "how could they get out of the harbor?" questioned dave. "shepley must have found a passageway," answered the captain. "but where has the ship gone to?" queried phil. "i can't see her anywhere." instead of replying, the captain of the _stormy petrel_ clenched his hands and compressed his lips. he was doing some deep thinking. "i must say, this looks to me as if somebody had run off with the ship!" declared the senator's son. "and that is just what they have done!" cried the captain. "oh, the rascals! the scoundrels! if i ever catch them----" he could not finish, so great was his rage. "run off with the ship!" burst out dave. "how could they do that? do you think there was a regular mutiny?" "there may have been--anyway, the bark is gone--and we are left to shift for ourselves." "i think i see through it," said phil. "the first mate and van blott have hatched this up between them. i know they were as thick as peas--in fact, i suspect shepley helped the supercargo to hide away on board. they must have bought over the crew and mr. sanders." "i don't think they could buy over bob sanders," declared the captain. "i know him too well. he is very quiet, but i'd trust him with almost anything. but i can't say as much for all the crew. shepley got some of the men to ship, and he most likely knew whom he was getting." "what are you going to do about it?" asked roger. "i don't exactly know what to do, yet, lad. we are marooned, that is all there is to it. and it doesn't look as if they had left us anything to live on, either," added the captain, casting his eyes along the shore. "do you mean to say they have deserted us?" cried dave. "doesn't it look like it?" "and stolen the bark?" "yes." dave drew a long breath. here was another set-back, of which he had not dreamed. if the _stormy petrel_ had really sailed away, not to return, what were they to do, and when would they get a chance to leave the lonely island? "this is positively the worst yet!" groaned roger. "the fellows who would do such a thing ought to be--be hanged! and they haven't left us a thing!" "let us separate and see if we can sight the bark," said the captain, and this was done, one party going to the upper end of the island and the other to the lower. but not a trace of the missing vessel was to be seen. it was a decidedly sober party that gathered on the sands two hours later to discuss the situation and decide upon what was to be done. here they were, marooned on a deserted island, with no food and but little shelter, and with only two pistols and a shotgun between them. it was certainly not a situation to be envied. "i used to think, when i was a small boy, that i'd like to play robinson crusoe," remarked roger. "but i've changed my mind, and i'd much rather be back on the ship." "humph! if you are going to talk that way, what will you say if we have to stay here weeks, or months, or maybe years?" asked phil. "gracious!" burst out dave. "you don't think we'll have to stay here years, do you?" "we'll have to stay until we can git away," was the sage remark of billy dill. "captain, are we in the track o' any ships?" captain marshall shook his head slowly. "i don't think we are. that storm blew us far out of our course. i doubt if a ship comes this way once in three months." "there, what did i tell you!" cried phil. "but don't think i want to stay," he added, quickly. "i am just as anxious to get away as any one, and anxious to regain my father's ship, too. why, to lose her would mean a serious loss to my father!" they talked the matter over until nightfall, but without reaching any satisfactory conclusion. not one of the party could bring himself to think that he would really have to stay on the island for any great length of time. "if we do have to stay, we'll have to rassle around fer somethin' to eat," remarked billy dill. "the mean sharks! they might at least have left us a barrel o' salt horse an' some canned goods--an' a little tobacco," he added, dolefully. his pipe was empty and so was his pouch, and this added the last drop to his misery. as night came on they gathered some driftwood and lit a campfire, not because they were cold, but because it looked more cheerful, and because it also helped to keep away some obnoxious insects that had appeared. over the fire they cooked the game roger and phil had shot, and made a supper of this and some crackers the boys had been carrying in their pockets. then they sat down to talk the matter over once more. as the night advanced, the bright stars bespangled the heavens and all became perfectly calm and quiet. tired out by what had passed, one after another sought a comfortable resting-place, and soon all were sound asleep. chapter xxix the coming of the natives when dave awoke, it was with a start. the wind was blowing half a gale and the rain was falling. "what a change since last night," he murmured to himself, as he sat up. "hello, are you up already?" "i am," answered billy dill. "thought as how i'd better keep the fire a-goin', if it's goin' to storm. this ain't so nice, is it?" "i should say not, indeed. my, now the wind is rising!" the others soon roused up, and all gathered under the shelter of some dense tropical trees and vines. soon the rain was pouring down in torrents, shutting out the landscape on all sides. "well, in one way, it's a good thing the _stormy petrel_ got out of the harbor," remarked captain marshall. "this wind might make her shift, and either throw her up on the island or on to the reef." they could do nothing with the fire, and so allowed it to die out, and crawled still further into the jungle in an endeavor to keep dry. but the rain followed them, until each one of the party was about soaked. "this is another one of the comforts of a robinson crusoe life," remarked phil. "soaking wet, and nothing to eat. oh, don't i wish i was on the bark again and had hold of those mutineers!" the rain and wind kept up for the best part of that day. there was but little thunder and lightning, and at nightfall the storm died away, although the wind still kept up at a lively rate. during the afternoon they managed to find a turtle in a hollow, and, after turning the creature over, killed it and cooked it in its own shell. the meal was not particularly appetizing, but all were exceedingly hungry and partook of it without a murmur. "to-morrow we must gather some yams and some plantains, and also do some fishing," said the captain. "we might go hunting, too, but i would rather save our ammunition for emergencies." to keep from taking cold in their wet clothing, all slept close to the campfire that night, and early in the morning they hung most of their garments out in the bright sunshine to dry. fishing proved good, and the boys and billy dill caught over a score of good-sized fish, and also discovered a bed of oysters, which, as roger declared, "were not half bad, even if they weren't particularly good." in the meantime the captain, who knew not a little about tropical life, tramped around and found some bread-fruit and some luscious berries, which he declared were perfectly good to eat. "this solves the question of food, at least for the present," said dave. "not a very extensive list of things to eat, but much better than nothing at all." "what would the boys of oak hall say if they could see us?" asked roger. "we'll certainly have a tale to tell--if we ever get back to tell it," returned phil. having nothing in particular to do, they took their time about preparing the next meal, and, when it was done, it proved to be a regular spread. some of the fish made particularly good eating, and the berries topped the repast off in good style. "i do not believe that the _stormy petrel_ will come back to this harbor," said captain marshall. "and that being so, i think we had best take ourselves to the other side of the island, to those log huts and shacks you mentioned. that is, most likely, the spot where the natives land and where ships may stop. we can put up a flag of distress, and, after that, there will be nothing to do but to wait and make the best of it." "shall you leave the rowboats here?" asked dave. "we can leave one boat here and row around the island in the other. we can carry the craft to some point beyond the reef." this advice was followed, and beyond the reef line the ocean was found to be comparatively quiet, despite the storm of the day before. all entered the rowboat, and the captain and billy dill took the oars, and the voyage to the other side of the island was begun. by the end of the day they had reached the log houses, and they cleaned out the larger of the two and gave to it as much of a homelike appearance as possible. then they set to work to gather all the driftwood possible, for they had nothing with which to cut firewood. the boys fell to fishing once more, and phil began to manufacture a snare, with which he hoped to trap some small animals that had been discovered at a distance. another whole day passed by slowly, and they began to feel a little more settled, when, in the middle of the afternoon, billy dill, who was out in the rowboat trying to catch some big fish, set up a loud shout. "what is it?" demanded captain marshall, who was busily at work breaking up some of the driftwood. "i see a big canoe comin', loaded with niggers!" announced the old sailor. this news brought all to the shore immediately, and they watched the approach of the canoe with much interest. it was all of twenty-five feet in length and manned by twelve dark-colored men, six on each side. the natives in the craft numbered, all told, nineteen, and some of them had guns, while others had bows and arrows and long spears. each man had also a long and sharp knife stuck in his girdle. "do you think they will be friendly?" asked dave, in a low tone. "i hope so," answered the captain. "they have nothing to gain by being otherwise." when the natives discovered the whites, they stopped rowing and set up an animated jabbering among themselves. they looked around, thinking a ship must be close by, and, finding none, were much astonished. "hello!" called out captain marshall, waving a welcome. "glad to see you!" to this the natives did not answer. but the canoe was sent closer and finally beached, and the majority of the black men leaped ashore, each carrying his weapons with him. "how do you do?" went on the captain, extending his hand and smiling. "glad to see you. can anybody speak english?" at the question, one of the natives, a short, thickset fellow with a peculiarly flat nose, came to the front and shook hands. "soko speak inglees," he said, and grinned. "soko once on inglees ship." "i am glad to know you, soko," replied the captain. "i am captain marshall, of the ship _stormy petrel_. what island is this?" "dis yam-kolo island," answered soko, still grinning. "how you come dis way? where he ship?" "some rascals have stolen my ship. she is a fine-looking bark. she was here a few days ago. have you seen her?" "no see ship, no--no ship, so many days," and the native held up four fingers, all stumpy and not overly clean. "steal ship on you? big thief, yes!" "you are right. where do you come from?" "come from waponu. dat on sobago island." "yes, i have heard of the place." the captain turned to the others. "it is a native village some ten miles from the town for which the _stormy petrel_ was bound," he explained. "then perhaps they can take us to sobago," said dave, eagerly. "perhaps they can," answered the captain. "but it must be a long trip in such a canoe as that." "tell me," said dave, to the native. "do you come here often?" "sometime, not many time," answered soko, still grinning. he was evidently of a sunny disposition. "did you ever come here with a man named dunston porter?" at this question the native shrugged his shoulders and looked perplexed. "i mean this man," went on the youth, and, taking the native by the hand, led him into the hut and up to the map on the wall. instantly the face of soko brightened. "yes, soko know," he said. "dat man come, so many time here----" he held up three fingers. "look in ground, dig, not can find much, no. go back to sobago, so." and he made a dejected face, at which roger and phil had to laugh. "he means mr. porter didn't locate the treasure," said the senator's son. "is that man in sobago now?" went on dave, paying no attention to his chum's remark. "yes, him at big town, nanpi!" "good i then i would like to get to nanpi just as soon as i can," cried dave, enthusiastically. "will you take me there? i can pay you well," he added, for he still had his money belt and cash with him. "yes, can take to nanpi," answered the native. after that he explained that he and his companions had come to the island to hunt for some rare birds and for turtles. they were quite willing to return to sobago island immediately, if paid for so doing. a bargain was struck, and it was decided that the voyage should be begun in the morning. in the meantime all hands were to catch some fish and cook them, and also gather in a supply of other eatables. the natives had a number of hollow reeds with them, and these were filled with fresh water, just previous to setting out. it was calculated that, weather permitting, the distance would be covered in three days. "these fellows know how to handle their big canoes very well," explained captain marshall. "they go out hundreds of miles, and sometimes weather the worst of storms. occasionally, of course, they get swept away, but not often. they sail altogether by the sun and stars, and can strike almost as straight a course as if they were using a compass." dave questioned soko further about dunston porter, but could learn little, outside of the fact that the man was a treasure hunter and had paid very well for what was done for him. soko added, however, that he thought the man expected to remain at sobago for some time. the boys could sleep but little that night, so anxious were they concerning the trip before them. they were up at dawn, but, early as it was, found the natives ahead of them. a hasty breakfast was had by all, the things to be taken along were packed in the bow and stern of the canoe, and shortly after sunrise the craft was pushed from the shore, whites and natives scrambled in, and the start from the lonely island was made. chapter xxx the retaking of the "stormy petrel" for the whole of that day the natives kept at the sweeps of the long canoe, one set of rowers relieving the other. the whites were willing to assist, but soko said the natives could get along best alone, they having their own peculiar manner of handling the craft. the weather remained fair, with only a bit of a breeze blowing, and the bosom of the ocean was as calm as they could wish. they were soon out of sight of the island, and then all they could behold was the sky above and the sparkling waters on every side. "it must be terrible to be lost on the ocean," remarked phil, as he gazed around. "i don't wonder that men go mad, after they have been out days and days." "and think of having nothing to eat or to drink," said dave. "ugh! it gives a fellow the shivers to think of it!" at noon the whole party partook of a lunch, and toward nightfall had supper. then the whites went to sleep, and so did half of the natives, the remaining blacks keeping at the sweeps, guiding themselves by the stars, now that the sun had gone down. when the boys awoke they were dismayed to see that a mist covered the sea. "hello! i didn't expect this!" cried the senator's son. "why, a fellow can't see a hundred feet in any direction." "what are the natives going to do now?" asked dave of captain marshall, who had been awake for some time. "soko says they must rest and wait," answered the captain. "he cannot go ahead, for he knows not in what direction to steer." "i've got a pocket compass!" cried phil, bringing it forth. "how odd that i didn't think of it before." the captain took the compass and showed it to the native who could speak english. he had seen such things before, and, after a short talk with the master of the _stormy petrel_, set the others to using the sweeps as before. it was about ten o'clock of the forenoon that one of the natives, who was watching in the bow, uttered a short cry. at once those at the sweeps stopped pulling. "what is it?" asked captain marshall, quickly. "big ship over dare!" announced soko, a moment later. all of the whites looked in the direction pointed out, and through the mist saw a large vessel drifting along, the sails flapping idly against the masts. the wheel was lashed fast, and nobody was in sight on the deck. "the _stormy petrel_!" ejaculated captain marshall. "are you sure?" asked dave and phil, in a breath. "sure it's the bark," cried billy dill. "say, but this is great luck, ain't it?" and his face brightened up. "now we can teach them dirty mutineers a lesson." "dat you ship?" asked soko. "it is," answered captain marshall. "see here, soko," he went on, "can i depend upon your helping me? i will pay you and your men for whatever you do." the native shugged his ebony shoulders and then consulted with his fellow-tribesmen. all decided that they would aid the captain, providing he would give them each a piece of silver "so big," pointing out the size of a trade dollar. captain marshall agreed on the spot, and preparations were made for boarding the bark. "it is queer that nobody is in sight!" remarked phil, as the canoe drew closer. "somebody is coming on deck now!" cried dave, in a low tone, and paul shepley appeared, followed by jasper van blott and, close behind him, one of the sailors. "hello! what's this?" sang out the first mate, on catching sight of the canoe. "captain marshall and the others!" muttered the former supercargo. "hi! keep away from here!" he roared. "surrender, you villains!" called out the captain. "what do you mean by running off with my ship in this fashion?" "you keep off!" warned paul shepley, without answering the question. "keep off, i tell you!" "we'll fire on you, if you don't keep off," called the former supercargo, and he brought forth a big pistol. "be careful, cap'n, or somebody will git shot!" whispered billy dill. "those fellers look like they was des'prit!" "don't you dare to shoot!" called out captain marshall. "the first man who fires shall swing from the yardarm!" the loud talking had brought several sailors to the deck, and they were followed by the second mate, who stared at the canoe and its occupants as if he could not believe his eyes. "hello, captain marshall!" sang out bob sanders. "i am mighty glad you have come." "then you are not in this mutiny, sanders?" "not by a jugful! they tried to buy me up, but i wouldn't consent. podders, diski, and mcnabb are not in it, either." "i am glad to hear it. sanders, take control of the ship until i get aboard." "he will do nothing of the kind!" yelled jasper van blott, and was about to turn on the second mate, when the latter hit him a blow in the ear, sending him headlong to the deck. "mcnabb! podders!" called the second mate. "grab mr. shepley!" the sailors called upon understood, and before the first mate could turn, one tar had him from behind, so that he could not raise his arms. then the other seized a pistol and, turning, faced the crew with the weapon. the turn of affairs had been so sudden that shepley and van blott were taken completely by surprise, as were likewise the sailors who had sided with the rascals, and, for the moment, none of them knew exactly what to do. in the meantime the canoe bumped alongside of the _stormy petrel_, and, catching hold of a trailing rope thrown overboard by the sailor named diski, captain marshall hauled himself to the deck, followed by billy dill and the boys. "do you surrender?" demanded the captain, striding up to the first mate, revolver in hand. "ye-yes!" burst out shepley. "it's--it's all a mistake, captain marshall--all a mistake!" "i reckon it was!" answered the captain, grimly. "what about you, van blott?" and he turned on the former supercargo, who was struggling to his feet. "i suppose i've got to give in," muttered jasper van blott. "and what about you men?" demanded captain marshall, turning his stern eyes on the portion of the crew that had mutinied. "we're with you, cap'n," said one, humbly. "mr. shepley led us into this, without us knowin' what we was a-doin'. ain't that so, mates?" "that's so," said the others, humbly. "are you willing to obey me, after this?" "yes! yes!" came in an eager chorus. after this a long talk took place, and jasper van blott and paul shepley were placed in irons and conducted to a closet in the bow of the ship, used for the storage of oil and lanterns. the place was given a rough cleaning, and then the pair were locked inside, captain marshall putting the key in his pocket. both of the prisoners wanted to protest, but the master of the _stormy petrel_ would not listen. "you can do your talking later, when i have time to listen," said he. "just now i have other matters to attend to." from bob sanders and the three loyal sailors captain marshall got a fairly accurate account of the mutiny. he was told that jasper van blott had done his best to get all hands to join in the plot. the former supercargo was the prime mover in the affair, and the first mate was a coward and had been little more than his tool. the sailors who had gone in had done so rather unwillingly, and, after thinking the matter over, captain marshall decided to read them a stern lecture and then forgive them. it was now no longer necessary for the natives to take the whites to sobago island, and, after a brief consultation, soko and his men were paid off and given some presents, and then, the mists rising, the canoe was headed back for yam-kolo island. it was the last that dave and his friends saw of these black men, who had proven so friendly. with the first mate in irons, bob sanders was advanced to fill his place. this left the position of second mate vacant, and, after a consultation with the boys, the master of the _stormy petrel_ offered billy dill the position, and he accepted gladly. "i always kind o' wanted to be a mate," said the old tar. "i'm tickled to death!" and his face showed it. with the lifting of the mist a stiff breeze came up, and preparations were made for continuing the voyage to nanpi. it was found that the last storm had slightly disabled the rudder, which accounted for the fact that the bark had not made greater headway on her trip. but additional parts were on board, and by nightfall the damage was made good, and then the _stormy petrel_ answered her helm as well as ever. "and now for sobago island!" cried dave, to his chums. "i hope i have no more trouble in finding mr. dunston porter!" chapter xxxi lifting the curtain the second mate told the truth when he said paul shepley was a coward and under the thumb of the former supercargo. that very evening shepley begged to see captain marshall alone, and, when given the opportunity, actually fell on his knees before the master of the _stormy petrel_. "i am willing to do anything, captain!" he groaned. "only don't--don't swing me from the--the yardarm!" he had it firmly fixed in his mind that he was to be executed. "you deserve to be hanged!" answered the captain. "i don't see why i should spare you." "it was all van blott's fault--he fixed the whole thing from beginning to end. he got the stolen cases on board and made me promise to help in getting rid of them. and he got up the plan to run away with the ship." after that paul shepley told his story in detail, and the captain became convinced that the first mate was more of a sneak than a villain. "i will let you off, upon two conditions," said captain marshall, at last. "the first is, that you serve as a common sailor for the rest of this trip. will you do it?" "yes, but it's pretty hard on me," whined shepley. "the second condition is, that you promise to appear against van blott, whenever called upon to do so." "yes, i'll do that." "then go forward and take billy dill's place in the forecastle." "where is dill to go?" "i have made him second mate and sanders first mate." "oh!" murmured paul shepley, and said no more. it cut him deeply to take up quarters in the forecastle, where the men treated him any way but kindly, yet he was glad to get off so cheaply. the next day was an anxious one for dave, who was on the constant lookout for land. toward nightfall a speck was seen in the distance, and in the morning, when he came on deck, the country youth saw before him sobago in all of its tropical beauty, with its cozy harbor, its long stretch of white sand, and its waving palms. in the harbor were ships of several nationalities, and also numerous native canoes, and the scene was an animated one. the boys had no difficulty in getting ashore, but once on the streets of nanpi, they scarcely knew how to turn. they walked along slowly until they came to a shipping office, in the window of which was a sign: _english spoken here._ "i am going in here to ask a few questions," said dave, and entered, followed by phil and roger. they found in the office a very stout and very bald old gentleman, wearing big spectacles. "you speak english, i believe," said dave, politely. "i speak english, and a dozen other languages, too," said the bald-headed gentleman, peering at them curiously. "why--er--how's this?" he added, to dave. "is this some joke? why did you shave so clean?" "shave?" repeated dave. his heart gave a sudden bound. "why do you ask that question?" "why, i--er--this is most extraordinary!" ejaculated the man, still staring at the country youth. "i don't understand it." "don't understand what?" "you look so much like a man i know--a mr. dunston porter. maybe he is some relative of yours?" "the very man i am looking for!" cried dave. "can you tell me where i can find him?" his heart was almost in his throat as he asked the question. supposing mr. dunston porter had left sobago island for parts unknown? "find him? i think so. he was here yesterday and said he was going out to the ruins of the old temple on the pokali road. he expected to be gone all day on the trip. he'll be back to town by night." "then you'll have to wait, dave," came from phil. "oh, i can't wait!" burst out dave. "how far is that old temple from here?" "about three miles." "can i hire somebody to take me there? i want to see mr. porter as soon as possible." "certainly; you can get a boy for a few pennies," answered the bald-headed man. "there is a boy now who wants a job." and he beckoned to an urchin who sat on an empty box, eating a banana. when the lad came up the man explained in the native tongue, and soon the party set off, dave first thanking the bald-headed man for his kindness. to phil and roger the walk on the tropical road was long, hot, and dusty. but dave was so busy with his thoughts that he did not notice he was walking at all. how much the next hour or two might reveal! presently they came in sight of a ruined pile, which the native boy pointed out as the old temple. dave forged ahead and hurried into the ruins, and then around to the back. here, from under some palms, could be had a fine view of the surrounding country. a hasty glance around revealed to dave the form of a man, lying on the grass half asleep. the country youth hurried forward, gave a good look, and uttered a little cry, at which the man sat up suddenly. "who are you?" asked the man, and then he began to stare at dave very hard. "is this mr. dunston porter?" asked dave, in a voice he tried in vain to steady. "yes, that's my name. but you----" the man paused expectantly. "i am dave porter. i have come about seven thousand miles to see you." [illustration: "i have come about seven thousand miles to see you."--_page 274._] "dave porter! seven thousand miles to see me! i must be dreaming!" the man leaped to his feet and came up to dave. "how is this? won't you explain?" "i will try, mr. porter." "they do look exactly alike!" said phil to roger, in a whisper. "what an extraordinary likeness!" "no wonder billy dill was startled when he first met dave," added the senator's son. dunston porter heard the talk and looked at the others. at this phil took a step forward. "we are dave porter's school chums," he explained. "my name is phil lawrence, and this is roger morr." "glad to know you. did you travel seven thousand miles to see me, too?" went on the man. "hardly that, but we took the trip with dave," answered roger. "he wanted to find the man who looked like him," continued phil, for he saw dave could hardly speak for his emotion. "and he has found him. you two look exactly alike--that is, you would, if your mustache was shaved off." "yes?" dunston porter paused. "is that all?" "no! no!" cried dave, struggling to keep calm. "i came to--to find out something about myself, if i could. it's a long story, and i'll have to start at the beginning. when i was a youngster about three years old, i was picked up alongside a railroad track by some farming people. they supposed i had been put off a train by somebody who wanted to get rid of me. they asked me my name, and i said something that sounded to them like davy and dun-dun and porter, and so they called me dave porter." "ah!" cried dunston porter, and he was all attention. "go on." "i was taken to the poorhouse, and then went to live with some other folks who were very kind to me, and one rich gentleman sent me to a boarding school. while there i helped an old sailor named billy dill----" "billy dill! well, i never! go on, please." "he was struck when he saw me--said i was somebody else with my mustache shaved off, and a lot more. he finally told me about you, and said you had told him about a crazy nurse and a lost child, and so i made up my mind to find you, if i could, and see if you knew anything about my past." dave's lips began to quiver again. "can you tell me anything?" "i--i--perhaps so." dunston porter's voice was also quivering. "can you prove this story about being found near a railroad?" "yes." "about thirteen years ago?" "yes." "in the eastern part of the united states?" "yes, near a village called crumville. they say i said something about a bad man who wouldn't buy some candy for me. it may be that that man put me off the train." "he did!" almost shouted dunston porter. "it was sandy margot, the worthless husband of the crazy nurse, polly margot, you just mentioned. she took the child and turned the boy over to her husband. margot wanted to make money out of the abduction, but, during his travels with the little one, he learned that detectives were after him, and, when the train stopped one day, he put the child off and promised it some candy to keep it from crying. he got away, and we never heard of him for about six years. then he was rounded up in a burglary and badly wounded. he confessed at the hospital, but he could not tell the name of the place where the child had been dropped. we made a search, but could discover nothing. margot died, and so did his crazy wife; and there the whole matter has been resting." "but who am i?" cried dave, unable to restrain the question any longer. "oh, you don't know that? i thought billy dill knew. if what you have told me is true, you are the son of my twin brother, david breslow porter." chapter xxxii homeward bound--conclusion "i am the son of your twin brother?" repeated dave, while roger and phil listened with intense interest. "yes," answered dunston porter. "he lost his son exactly as described, and the baby was said to resemble me very strongly." "and where is your brother now?" "he is traveling for his health. the last i heard of him he was in europe, at one of the well-known watering places." "is his wife alive?" "no, she died years ago. but he has a daughter with him, laura--about a year younger than you." dunston porter took dave's hand. "this is simply marvelous! i can hardly believe it! my nephew dave! why, it sounds like a fairy tale." "it is marvelous, mr. por----" "hold on! if we are relatives, you'll have to call me uncle dunston," and the man smiled pleasantly. "well, then, uncle dunston, are my father and my sister alone in the world?" "they are, excepting for me. we used to have other brothers, and a sister, but all of them are dead. i am alone here--an old bachelor." "but you used to live with my father, is that it?" "yes, we were once in business together--owned a chemical works in new york and another in chicago, and we also had some patents for manufacturing gas by a new process. but both of us liked to travel around, and so we sold out, and since that time we have been roaming around the world, sometimes together, and then again alone, although he always takes laura with him, no matter where he goes. he is afraid to leave her behind, for fear she will be lost to him just as you were." "do you know his exact address now?" "no; but i think a letter sent to a certain address in paris will be forwarded to him. to tell the truth, i have been out here so long i have partly lost track of him. he will be amazed to hear from you, i am sure, and laura will be surprised, too." "i shall write to him as soon as possible," answered dave. "of course! of course! and i will write too," rejoined dunston porter. after that, sitting in the shade of the old temple and the palm trees, dave and his chums told their story from beginning to end, and then dunston porter related some of his own experiences and told much more concerning dave's father and sister laura. he said that he and his twin brother looked somewhat alike, which accounted for dave's resemblance to himself. he was glad to add that both he and his brother were well-to-do, so they could come and go as they pleased. "as you know, i am hunting for a treasure of pearls and precious stones," said dunston porter. "so far, i have been unsuccessful, but i feel sure that i shall find them some day. and, even if i don't, the task of looking for the treasure pleases me and gives me the chance to visit many of these beautiful islands of the south seas." the boy who had brought dave and his chums to the old temple had been dismissed, and dunston porter took them back to nanpi, where he had accommodations in the best public house the place afforded. here billy dill visited him. "does my heart good to see ye again!" cried the old tar. "an' ain't it jest wonderful about dave? now stand up, side by side, an' look into thet glass. as like as two beans, say i!" and dunston porter agreed with him. of course the old sailor had to tell all he knew, and dave brought out pictures of caspar potts and the wadsworths which he had brought along. in return, dunston porter gave dave pictures of his father and his sister laura. the boy gazed at the photographs a long while, and the tears filled his eyes as he did so. "well, there is one thing sure!" he murmured to roger. "at any rate, i am no longer a poorhouse nobody!" "that's right, dave," returned the senator's son, warmly. "let me congratulate you. by that picture, your father must be a nice man, and your sister is handsome." "and to think that they are rich," added phil. "that's the best of all." "no, the best of all is to find that i belong somewhere in this world--that i am not a nobody," answered dave, earnestly. "won't nat poole and gus plum stare when they hear of this!" went on roger. "i believe it will really make them feel sore." "ben and sam and the others will be glad," said phil. "and i am sure doctor clay will want to congratulate you. dave, it paid to take this trip to the south seas, after all, didn't it?" "i should say it did!" cried dave. "i shouldn't have wanted to miss it for the world!" for several days dave felt as if he was dreaming and walking on air, his heart was so light. the more the boy saw of his uncle dunston the more he liked the man, and dunston porter was equally pleased. both had long talks regarding the past and the future, and it was agreed that the man should return to the united states for the time being and, instead of hunting for the treasure, trace up the present address of david porter, senior, and dave's sister laura. "i wish to meet this caspar potts, and also the wadsworths," said dunston porter. "if i can, i wish to repay them for all they have done for you." "i am sure they will not take any money," answered the boy. "but they will be glad to meet you." later on dave took his uncle on board the _stormy petrel_, where captain marshall gave the newly found relative a very enthusiastic welcome. the captain of the bark had thought to bring jasper van blott before the authorities at nanpi, but was prevented by an accident, which came close to terminating fatally and sending the bark up into smoke and flames. jasper van blott attempted to break out of the oil closet in the bow of the _stormy petrel_, and, in so doing, lit a match. this fell on some oily waste in a corner and, before an alarm could be given, the former supercargo was seriously burned, and the whole bow of the bark was on fire. jasper van blott had to be taken to a hospital, where it was said he would lose the sight of one eye and be disfigured for life. under such circumstances, it was decided to let the case against him drop. the damage to the _stormy petrel_ was so serious that the bark had to be laid up for repairs, and, in such an out-of-the-way place, it was said these would take a month or six weeks. "this has certainly proved to be a strange voyage," said roger. "i must say, i don't like the idea of staying here six weeks. i'd like to get back home." "just what i say," answered dave. in the port was what is known as a "tramp" steamer, that is, one picking up any cargo to be found, from one port to the next. this steamer had secured a cargo for san francisco, and was to sail on the following saturday. "we might secure passage on her," suggested dunston porter, and inside of twenty-four hours it was arranged that he, with dave and roger, should sail on the steamer. phil was to remain with captain marshall, to straighten out the mess left by jasper van blott. "but never mind," said the shipowner's son, when the chums came to separate, "i'll see you again, sooner or later--and then we'll talk over all the many adventures we have had." dave and roger found the accommodations on the steamer fully as good as those on the bark, and the voyage to san francisco passed pleasantly enough. as soon as the boys went ashore, they hurried to the post-office, where they found half a dozen letters awaiting them. one, from ben basswood to dave, interested them greatly: "you will be glad to learn that shadow hamilton is cleared of the trouble that was laid at his door," so ran the communication. "doctor clay had somebody set a watch, and, as a consequence, it has been proved beyond a doubt that gus plum took the stamps from where shadow placed them in his sleep. when plum was accused, he said he didn't know they were the doctor's stamps. it seems he needed money, as his father is down in the world and has cut off gus' spending allowance. there was a big row, but the plum family is hushing the matter up, and i understand doctor clay has agreed to give gus one more chance at oak hall." "it is just like doctor clay to give him another chance," was roger's comment. "he is as kind-hearted as any man in the world." "if i ever go back to school, i hope i have no more trouble with gus plum," said dave. but he did have trouble, of a most peculiar kind, and what it was will be told in another volume of this series, to be entitled: "dave porter's return to school; or, winning the medal of honor." in this new volume we shall meet all our old friends once more, and learn something further of dave's father and sister laura. dave did not depend on the mails, but, as soon as he could, had telegrams flashed to crumville and to doctor clay, stating he had found an uncle and soon expected to meet his father and sister. then the party of three took a pullman train for the east. "i can tell you it feels good to get back to the united states once more," said the senator's son, as the boys sat by the car window, looking at the scenery as it glided by. "do you know, it seems an age to me since we went away," declared dave. "and yet, it is only a little over two months!" "that is because so much has happened in the meantime, dave. it was certainly a remarkable trip!" "and the trip brought remarkable results," said dunston porter, with a quiet smile. when dave arrived at crumville there was quite a gathering to receive him and the others. all the wadsworths were there, including jessie, who rushed straight into his arms, and caspar potts and ben basswood. "oh, i am so glad you are back!" cried jessie. "we are all glad," added ben. "we cannot bear to think of losing you, dave," said mrs. wadsworth, anxiously. "you have become very dear to us all." "you are not going to lose me; that is, not altogether," answered the boy. "no matter what happens, i shall never forget all my old friends!" and all shook hands warmly. and here, kind reader, let us take our departure. the end dave porter series by edward stratemeyer 12mo cloth illustrated $1.50 net, each "mr. stratemeyer has seldom introduced a more popular hero than dave porter. he is a typical boy, manly, brave, always ready for a good time if it can be obtained in an honorable way."--_wisconsin, milwaukee, wis._ "edward stratemeyer's 'dave porter' has become exceedingly popular."--_boston globe._ "dave and his friends are nice, manly chaps."--_times-democrat, new orleans._ dave porter at oak hall or the school days of an american boy dave porter in the south seas or the strange cruise of the _stormy petrel_ dave porter's return to school or winning the medal of honor dave porter in the far north or the pluck of an american schoolboy dave porter and his classmates or for the honor of oak hall dave porter at star ranch or the cowboy's secret dave porter and his rivals or the chums and foes of oak hall dave porter on cave island or a schoolboy's mysterious mission dave porter and the runaways or last days at oak hall dave porter in the gold fields or the search for the landslide mine dave porter at bear camp or the wild man of mirror lake dave porter and his double or the disappearance of the basswood fortune dave porter's great search or the perils of a young civil engineer dave porter under fire or a young army engineer in france dave porter's war honors or at the front with the fighting engineers for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers lothrop, lee & shepard co. boston the lakeport series by edward stratemeyer 12mo cloth illustrated $1.50 net, each "the author of the lakeport series, mr. edward stratemeyer, is well known for his delightful boys' stories."--_philadelphia ledger._ "the lakeport series, by edward stratemeyer, is the lineal descendant of the better class of boys' books of a generation ago."--_christian advocate, new york._ "the lakeport series will be fully as popular as the author's dave porter series."--_san francisco call._ the gun club boys of lakeport or the island camp the baseball boys of lakeport or the winning run the boat club boys of lakeport or the water champions the football boys of lakeport or more goals than one the automobile boys of lakeport or a run for fun and fame the aircraft boys of lakeport or rivals of the clouds lothrop, lee & shepard co., publishers, boston * * * * * transcriber's notes: table of contents, "278" changed to "288" page 193, "preposessing" changed to "prepossessing" (far from prepossessing) page 271, "forcastle" changed to "forecastle" (place in the forecastle) by the internet archive (http://www.archive.org) robert coverdale's struggle by horatio alger, jr. author of "tom temple's career," "tom thatcher's fortune," "tom turner's legacy," "the train boy," etc. a. l. burt company, publishers new york robert coverdale's struggle chapter i a fisherman's cabin "robert, have you seen anything of your uncle?" "no, aunt." "i suppose he's over at the tavern as usual," said the woman despondently. "he drinks up about all he earns, and there's little enough left for us. i hope you won't follow in his steps, robert." "you may be sure i won't, aunt jane," said the boy, nodding emphatically. "i wouldn't drink a glass of rum for a hundred dollars." "god keep you in that resolution, my dear boy! i don't want my sister's son to go to destruction as my husband is doing." my story opens in a small fishing village on the coast of one of the new england states. robert coverdale, whom i have briefly introduced, is the young hero whose fortunes i propose to record. he is a strong, well-made boy, with a frank, honest face, embrowned by exposure to the sun and wind, with bright and fearless eyes and a manly look. i am afraid his dress would not qualify him to appear to advantage in a drawing-room. he wore a calico shirt and well-patched trousers of great antiquity and stockings and cowhide shoes sadly in need of repairs. some of my well-dressed boy readers, living in cities and large towns, may be disposed to turn up their noses at this ragged boy and wonder at my taste in choosing such a hero. but robert had manly traits, and, in spite of his poor clothes, possessed energy, talent, honesty and a resolute will, and a boy so endowed cannot be considered poor, though he does not own a dollar, which was precisely robert's case. indeed, i may go further and say that never in the course of his life of fifteen years had he been able to boast the ownership of a hundred cents. john trafton, his uncle, was a fisherman. his small house, or cabin, was picturesquely situated on the summit of a cliff, at the foot of which rolled the ocean waves, and commanded a fine sea view. that was perhaps its only recommendation, for it was not only small, but furnished in the plainest and scantiest style. the entire furniture of the house would not have brought twenty-five dollars at auction, yet for twenty-five years it had been the home of john and jane trafton and for twelve years of their nephew, robert. my readers will naturally ask if the fisherman had no children of his own. there was a son who, if living, would be twenty-three years old, but years before he had left home, and whether ben trafton was living or dead, who could tell? nothing had been heard of him for five years. mrs. trafton's affections had only robert for their object, and to her sister's son she was warmly attached--nearly as much so as if he had been her own son. her husband's love of drink had gradually alienated her from him, and she leaned upon robert, who was always ready to serve her with boyish devotion and to protect her, if need be, from the threats of her husband, made surly by drink. many days she would have gone to bed supperless but for robert. he would push out to sea in his uncle's boat, catch a supply of fish, selling a part if he could or trade a portion for groceries. indeed he did more for the support of the family than john trafton did himself. "it's about time for supper, robert," said his aunt; "but i've only got a little boiled fish to offer you." "fish is good for the brains. aunt jane," said robert, smiling. "well, i suppose it's no use waiting for your uncle. if he's at the tavern, he will stay there until he is full of liquor and then he will reel home. come in and sit down to the table." robert entered the cabin and sat down at a side table. his aunt brought him a plate of boiled fish and a potato. "i found just one potato in the cupboard, robert," she said. "then eat it yourself, aunt. don't give it to me." "no, robert; i've got a little toast for myself. there was a slice of bread too dry to eat as it was, so i toasted it and soaked it in hot water. that suits me better than the potato." "haven't you any tea, aunt--for yourself, i mean?" robert added quickly. "i don't care for it, but i know you do." "i wish i had some. tea always goes to the right spot," said mrs. trafton; "but i couldn't find a single leaf." "what a pity!" said robert regretfully. "yes," sighed mrs. trafton; "we have to do without almost everything. it might be so different if mr. trafton wouldn't drink." "did he always drink?" "he's drank, more or less, for ten years, but the habit seems to have grown upon him. till five years ago two-thirds of his earnings came to me to spend for the house, but now i don't average a dollar a week." "it's too bad, aunt jane!" said robert energetically. "so it is, but it does no good to say so. it won't mend matters." "i wish i was a man." "i am glad you are not, robert." "why are you glad that i am a boy?" asked robert in surprise. "because when you are a man you won't stay here. you will go out into the world to better yourself, and i shan't blame you. then i shall be left alone with your uncle, and heaven only knows how i shall get along. i shall starve very likely." robert pushed back his chair from the table and looked straight at his aunt. "do you think. aunt jane," he demanded indignantly, "that i will desert you and leave you to shift for yourself?" "i said, robert, that i shouldn't blame you if you did. there isn't much to stay here for." "i am sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, aunt jane," said the boy gravely. "i am not quite so selfish as all that. i certainly should like to go out into the world, but i won't go unless i can leave you comfortable." "i should miss you, robert, i can't tell how much, but i don't want to tie you down here when you can do better. there isn't much for me to live for--i'm an old woman already--but better times may be in store for you." "you are not an old woman, aunt jane. you are not more than fifty." "i am just fifty, robert, but i feel sometimes as if i were seventy." "do you know, aunt jane, i sometimes think that brighter days are coming to both of us? sometimes, when i sit out there on the cliff and look out to sea, i almost fancy i can see a ship coming in laden with good things for us." mrs. trafton smiled faintly. "i have waited a long time for my ship to come in, robert," she said. "i've waited year after year, but it hasn't come yet." "it may come for all that." "you are young and hopeful. yours may come in some day, but i don't think mine ever will." "have you anything for me to do, aunt?" "not at present, robert." "then i'll study a little." there was an unpainted wooden shelf which robert had made himself and on it were half a dozen books--his sole library. from this shelf he took down a tattered arithmetic and a slate and pencil, and, going out of doors, flung himself down on the cliff and opened the arithmetic well toward the end. "i'll try this sum in cube root," he said to himself. "i got it wrong the last time i tried." he worked for fifteen minutes and a smile of triumph lit up his face. "it comes right," he said. "i think i understand cube root pretty well now. it was a good idea working by myself. when i left school i had only got through fractions. that's seventy-five pages back and i understand all that i have tried since. i won't be satisfied till i have gone to the end of the very last page." here his aunt came to the door of the cabin and called "robert." "all right, aunt; i'm coming." the boy rose to his feet and answered the summons. chapter ii robert and mrs. jones "are you willing to go to the village for me, robert?" asked his aunt. "to be sure i am, aunt," answered the boy promptly. "i hope you don't doubt it?" "i thought you might be tired, as you were out all the forenoon in the boat." "that's sport, aunt jane. that doesn't tire me." "it would if you were not very strong for a boy." "yes, i am pretty strong," said robert complacently, extending his muscular arms. "i can row the boat when the tide is very strong. what errand have you got for me to the village, aunt?" "i have been doing a little sewing for mrs. jones." "you mean the landlord's wife?" questioned robert. "yes; i don't feel very friendly toward her husband, for it's he that sells strong drink to my husband and keeps his earnings from me, but i couldn't refuse work from her when she offered it to me." mrs. trafton spoke half apologetically, for it had cost her a pang to work for her enemy's family, but robert took a practical view of the matter. "her money is as good as anybody's," he said. "i don't see why you shouldn't take it. she has enough of our money." "that's true, robert," said his aunt, her doubts removed by her young nephew's logic. "is the bundle ready. aunt jane?" "here it is, robert," and the fisherman's wife handed him a small parcel, wrapped in a fragment of newspaper. "how much is she to pay for the work?" "i hardly know what to ask. i guess twenty-five cents will be about right." "very well, aunt jane. any other errands?" "if you get the money, robert, you may stop at the store and buy a quarter of a pound of their cheapest tea. i am afraid it's extravagant in me to buy tea when there's so little coming in, but it cheers me up when i get low-spirited and helps me to bear what i have to bear." "of course you must have some tea, aunt jane," said robert quickly. "nobody can charge you with extravagance. anything more?" "you may stop at the baker's and buy a loaf of bread. then to-morrow--please god--we'll have a good breakfast." "all right, aunt!" and robert began to walk rapidly toward the village, about a mile inland. poor woman! her idea of a good breakfast was a cup of tea, without milk or sugar, and bread, without butter. it had not always been so, but her husband's intemperance had changed her ideas and made her accept thankfully what once she would have disdained. it must be said of robert that, though he had the hearty appetite of a growing boy, he never increased his aunt's sorrow by complaining of their meager fare, but always preserved a cheerful demeanor in the midst of their privations. i have said that the settlement, which was known as cook's harbor, was a fishing village, but this is not wholly correct. a mile inland was a village of fair size, which included the houses of several summer residents from the city, and these were more or less pretentious. several comfortable houses belonged to sea captains who had retired from active duties and anchored in the village where they first saw the light. the cabins of the fishermen were nearer the sea, and of these there were some twenty, but they were not grouped together. i have said that the main village was a mile away. here was the tavern, the grocery store and the shops of the tailor and shoemaker. here was centered the social life of cook's harbor. here, unfortunately, the steps of john trafton too often tended, for he always brought up at the tavern and seldom came home with a cent in his pocket. robert was no laggard, and it did not take him long to reach the village. just in the center stood the tavern, a rambling building of two stories, with an l, which had been added within a few years. during the summer there were generally boarders from the city, who considered that the invigorating sea air, with its healthful influences, counterbalanced the rather primitive accommodations and homely fare with which they must perforce be content. by hook or crook nahum jones--or nick jones as he was called--had managed to accumulate a snug competence, but much of it was gained by his profit on liquor. he was a thrifty man, whose thrift extended to meanness, and his wife was thoroughly selfish. they had but one child--a daughter--who bade fair to be an old maid. though robert had made no objection to carry the work to the tavern, he didn't enjoy his visit in anticipation. he disliked both mr. and mrs. jones, but felt that this must not interfere with his aunt's business. he went round to a side door and knocked. the door was opened by the daughter--selina jones. "well, robert," she said abruptly, "what's wanted?" "is your mother at home?" "i suppose she is." "can i see her?" "i don't know--i guess she's busy. won't i do as well?" "i would rather see your mother." upon this selina summoned her mother, not thinking it necessary to invite our hero into the house. "oh, i see!" said mrs. jones as she glanced at the bundle in robert's hand. "you've brought back the work i gave your aunt." "yes, ma'am." "let me look at it." she took the bundle, opened it and ran her eye rapidly over it. "it'll do," she said. "might have been better done, but it'll answer." she was about to close the door, as if her business with robert was at an end, but this did not suit our hero. "it will be twenty-five cents," he said in a business-like tone. "were you afraid i would forget to pay you?" asked mrs. jones rather sourly. "no, ma'am, but i supposed you would like to know how much it would be." "very well; now i know." if robert had been easily abashed he would have dropped the matter there and suffered her to take her time about paying, but he knew that his aunt's intended purchasing must be made with ready money and he persisted. "i would like the money now," he said, "for i am going to the store to buy something." "it seems to me you are in a great hurry," said mrs. jones unpleasantly. "so would you be, mrs. jones," said robert bluntly, "if you were as poor as my aunt." "folks needn't be poor if they are smart," said the landlord's wife. "i suppose you know where my uncle's money goes?" said robert pointedly. mrs. jones did know, and, though she had not much of a conscience, she felt the thrust and it made her uncomfortable and therefore angry. but it also gave her an idea. "wait a minute," she said and left robert standing in the doorway. when she returned, which was in a short time, her thin lips were wreathed with satisfaction. "you can tell your aunt there won't be any money coming to her," she said. "why not?" demanded robert in great surprise. "mr. jones tells me that your uncle is indebted to him, and he will credit him with twenty-five cents on account." "what does my uncle owe him for?" demanded the boy with flashing eyes. "for drink, i suppose," said mrs. jones rather reluctantly. "for drink!" repeated our hero. "are you not satisfied with taking all my uncle's earnings, but you must get my aunt to work her fingers to the bone and then keep back her money in payment for your rum?" "upon my word, robert coverdale," said mrs. jones sharply, "you are very impudent! how dare you speak to me in that way?" "how dare you treat my aunt so meanly?" retorted robert with righteous indignation. "i won't stand your impudence--so there! your aunt needn't expect any more sewing to do," said the angry landlady. "she wouldn't take any more of your work if that is the way you mean to pay her." "i won't stand here talking with you. i'll get mr. jones to give you a horsewhipping--see if i don't!" "he'd better not try it," said robert with flashing eyes. the door was slammed in his face, and, angry and disappointed, he walked slowly out of the tavern yard. chapter iii the wind brought good luck john trafton was sitting out on the porch of the tavern when his nephew came out of the side gate. "there's your nephew, trafton," said old ben brandon, who, like john trafton, frequented the barroom too much for his good. "hasn't come here for his dram, has he?" added the old man, chuckling. john trafton's curiosity was excited, for he had no idea of any errand that could bring robert to the tavern. a suspicion crossed his mind, the very thought of which kindled his indignation. his wife might have sent to request mr. jones not to sell him any more liquor. he did not think she would dare to do it, but she might. at any rate he determined to find out. he hastily left the porch and followed robert. presently the boy heard his uncle call him and he turned round. "what's wanted, uncle?" he inquired. "where have you been, robert?" "i called to see mrs. jones." "what did you want of mrs. jones?" "it was an errand for aunt jane." "will you answer my question?" said trafton angrily. "what business has your aunt got with mrs. jones?" he still thought that his wife had sent a message to mr. jones through the wife of the latter. "she had been doing a little sewing for mrs. jones and asked me to carry the work back." "oh, that's it, is it?" said john trafton, relieved. "and how much did the work come to?" "twenty-five cents." "you may give me the money, robert," said the fisherman. "you might lose it, you know." could robert be blamed for regarding his uncle with contempt? his intention evidently was to appropriate his wife's scanty earnings to his own use, spending them, of course, for drink. certainly a man must be debased who will stoop to anything so mean, and robert felt deeply ashamed of the man he was forced to call uncle. "i can't give you the money, uncle," said robert coldly. "can't, hey? what do you mean by that, i want to know?" demanded the fisherman suspiciously. "my aunt wanted me to buy a little tea and a loaf of bread with the money." "what if she did? can't i buy them just as well as you? hand over that money, robert coverdale, or it will be the worse for you." "i have no money to hand you." "why haven't you? you haven't had a chance to spend it yet. you needn't lie about it or i will give you a flogging!" "i never lie," said robert proudly. "i told you i haven't got the money and i haven't." "then what have you done with it--lost it, eh?" "i have done nothing with it. mrs. jones wouldn't pay me." "and why wouldn't she pay you?" "because she said that you were owing her husband money for drink and she would credit it on your account." as robert said this he looked his uncle full in the eye and his uncle flushed a little with transient shame. "so aunt must go without her tea and bread," continued robert. john trafton had the grace to be ashamed and said: "i'll fix this with jones. you can go to the store and get the tea and tell sands to charge it to me." "he won't do it," said robert. "he's refused more than once." "if he won't that isn't my fault. i've done all i could." trafton turned back and resumed his seat on the porch, where he remained till about ten o'clock. it was his usual evening resort, for he did not think it necessary to go home until it was time to go to bed. though robert had no money to spend, he kept on his way slowly toward the village store. he felt mortified and angry. "poor aunt jane!" he said to himself. "it's a shame that she should have to go without her tea. she hasn't much to cheer her up. mrs. jones is about the meanest woman i ever saw, and i hope aunt jane won't do any more work for her." it occurred to robert to follow his uncle's direction and ask for credit at the store. but he knew very well that there would be little prospect of paying the debt, and, though a boy, he had strict notions on the subject of debt and could not bring his mind, even for his aunt's sake, to buy what he could not pay for. when we are sad and discouraged relief often comes in some unexpected form and from an unexpected quarter. so it happened now to our young hero. walking before him was an elderly gentleman who had on his head a panama straw hat with a broad brim. he was a boston merchant who was spending a part of the season at cook's harbor. as his custom was, he was indulging in an evening walk after supper. there was a brisk east wind blowing, which suddenly increased in force, and, being no respecter of persons, whisked off mr. lawrence tudor's expensive panama and whirled it away. mr. tudor looked after his hat in dismay. he was an elderly gentleman, of ample proportions, who was accustomed to walk at a slow, dignified pace and who would have found it physically uncomfortable to run, even if he could be brought to think it comported with his personal dignity. "bless my soul, how annoying!" exclaimed the merchant. he looked about him helplessly, as if to consider what course it would be best to pursue under the circumstances, and as he looked he was relieved to see a boy in energetic pursuit of the lost hat. this boy was robert, who grasped the situation at once, and, being fleet of foot, thought it very good fun to have a race with the wind. he had a good chase, for the wind in this case proved to be no mean competitor, but at last he succeeded and put his hand on the hat, which he carried in triumph to its owner. "really, my boy, i am exceedingly indebted to you," said mr. tudor, made happy by the recovery of his hat. "you are quite welcome, sir," said robert politely. "you had a good run after it," said mr. tudor. "yes, sir; the wind is very strong." "i don't know what i should have done without you. i am afraid i couldn't have overtaken it myself." "i am afraid not," said robert, smiling at the thought of a man of the merchant's figure engaging in a race for a hat. "i could run when i was a boy like you," said mr. tudor pleasantly, "but there's rather too much of me now. do you live in the village?" "out on the cliff, sir. my uncle is a fisherman." "and do you ever fish?" "sometimes--a little, sir." "but you don't expect to be a fisherman when you grow up?" "not if i can find anything better." "a bright-looking lad like you ought to find something better. please accept this." he drew from his vest pocket a two-dollar bill, which he placed in robert's hand. "what!" exclaimed our young hero in astonishment. "all this for saving your hat? it is quite too much, sir." mr. tudor smiled. "you will no doubt be surprised," he said, "when i tell you that my hat cost me fifty dollars. it is a very fine panama." "fifty dollars!" ejaculated robert. he had not supposed it worth two. "so you see it is worth something to save it, and i should undoubtedly have lost it but for you." "i am very much obliged to you, sir," said robert. "i wouldn't accept the money if it were for myself, but it will be very acceptable to my aunt." "i suppose your uncle does not find fishing very remunerative?" "it isn't that, sir; but he spends nearly all of his money at the tavern, and----" "i understand, my boy. it is a very great pity. i, too, had an uncle who was intemperate, and i can understand your position. what is your name?" "robert coverdale." "there is my business card. if you ever come to boston, come and see me." robert took the card, from which he learned that his new acquaintance was lawrence tudor. chapter iv robert's purchases when robert parted from mr. tudor he felt as if he had unexpectedly fallen heir to a fortune. two dollars is not a very large sum, but to robert, nurtured amid privation, it assumed large proportions. he began at once to consider what he could do with it, and it is to his credit that he thought rather of his aunt than himself. he would buy a whole pound of tea, he decided, and a pound of sugar to make it more palatable. this would last a considerable time and take less than half his money. as to the disposal of the remainder, he would consider how to expend that. in a long, low building, with brooms, brushes and a variety of nondescript articles displayed in the windows and outside, abner sands kept the village store. it was a dark, gloomy place, crowded with articles for family use. the proprietor enjoyed a monopoly of the village trade, and, in spite of occasional bad debts, did a snug business and was able every year to make an addition to his store of savings in the county savings bank. he was a cautious man, and, by being well acquainted with the circumstances and habits of every man in the village, knew whom to trust and to whom to refuse credit. john trafton belonged to the latter class. mr. sands knew, as everybody else knew, that all his money was invested in liquor and that the chance of paying a bill for articles needful for the household was very small indeed. when, therefore, robert entered the store he took it for granted that he meant to ask credit, and he was all ready for a refusal. "what do you charge for your tea, mr. sands?" the boy asked. "different prices, according to quality," answered the storekeeper, not thinking it necessary to go into details. "how much is the cheapest?" "fifty cents a pound." "do you call it a pretty good article?" continued our hero. "very fair; i use it in my own family," answered abner, looking over his spectacles at his young customer. "i guess i'll take a pound," said robert with the air of one who had plenty of money. "a pound?" ejaculated abner sands in surprise. "yes, sir." a pound of tea for one in john trafton's circumstances seemed to mr. sands an extraordinary order. considering that it was probably to be charged, it seemed to the cautious trader an impudent attempt to impose upon him, and he looked sternly at our young hero. "we don't trust," he said coldly. "i haven't asked you to trust me, mr. sands," said robert independently. "you don't mean to say you're ready to pay for it cash down, do you?" asked abner, his countenance expressing amazement. "yes, i do." "show me the money." "i'll show you the money when i get my tea," said robert, provoked at mr. sands' resolute incredulity. "i've told you i will pay you before i leave the store. if you don't want to sell your goods, say so!" "come, come! there ain't no use in gettin' angry," said the trader in a conciliatory tone. "your trade's as good as anybody's if you've got money to pay for the goods." "i've already told you i have, mr. sands." "all right, robert. you shall have the tea." he weighed out the tea and then asked: "is there anything more?" "yes, sir. how do you sell your sugar?" "brown sugar--eight cents." "i guess that will do. i will take a pound of brown sugar." "your folks don't generally buy sugar. i didn't know you used it." "we are going to use a pound," said robert, who did not fancy the trader's interference. "well, i'd jest as soon sell you a pound as anybody as long as you've got the money to pay for it." robert said nothing, although this remark was made in an interrogative tone, as if mr. sands still doubted whether our hero would be able to pay for his purchases. there was nothing to do, therefore, but to weigh out the sugar. the two bundles lay on the counter, but mr. sands watched them as a cat watches a mouse, with a vague apprehension that our hero might seize them and carry them off without payment. but robert was better prepared than he supposed. from his vest pocket he drew the two-dollar bill, and, passing it across the counter, he said: "you may take your pay out of this." abner sands took the bill and stared at it as if some mystery attached to it. he scrutinized it carefully through his spectacles, as if there was a possibility that it might be bad, but it had an unmistakably genuine look. "it seems to be good," he remarked cautiously. "of course it's good!" said robert. "you don't take me for a counterfeiter, do you, mr. sands?" "it's a good deal of money for you to have, robert. where did you get it?" "why do you ask that question?" asked our hero, provoked. "i was a leetle surprised at your having so much money--that's all. did your uncle give it to you?" "i don't see what that is to you, mr. sands. if you don't want to sell your tea and sugar, you can keep them." if there had been another grocery store in the village robert would have gone thither, but it has already been said that abner sands had the monopoly of the village trade. "you're kind of touchy this evenin', robert," said abner placidly, for he was so given to interesting himself in the affairs of his neighbors that he did not realize that his curiosity was displayed in an impertinent manner. "of course i want to sell all i can. you've got considerable money comin' back to you. don't you want to buy something else?" "i guess not to-night." "as long as you've got the cash to pay, i'm perfectly ready to sell you goods. lemme see. fifty-eight from two dollars leaves a dollar'n thirty-two cents." "forty-two," corrected robert. "i declare, so it does! you are a good hand at subtraction." robert felt that he could not truthfully return the compliment and prudently remained silent. "there is your money," continued the trader, putting in robert's hand a dollar bill and forty-two cents in change. "your uncle must have been quite lucky." he looked questioningly at our hero, but robert did not choose to gratify his curiosity. "is it so very lucky to make two dollars?" he asked, and with these words he left the store. "that's a cur'us boy!" soliloquized mr. sands, looking after him. "i can't get nothin' out of him. looks as if john trafton must have turned over a new leaf to give him so much money to buy groceries. i hope he has. it's better that i should get his money than the tavern keeper." mr. sands did not have to wait long before his curiosity was partially gratified, for the very man of whom he was thinking just then entered the store. "has my nephew been here?" he inquired. "just went out." "i thought you might be willing to let him have what little he wanted on credit. i'll see that it's paid for." "why, he paid for the goods himself--fifty-eight cents." _"what!"_ exclaimed the fisherman, astonished. "he bought a pound of tea, at fifty cents, and a pound of sugar, at eight cents, and paid for 'em." "where'd he get the money?" asked trafton. "i am sure i don't know. i supposed you gave it to him. he's got more left. he paid for the articles with a two-dollar bill and he's got a dollar and forty-two cents left!" "the young hypocrite!" ejaculated john trafton indignantly. "all the while he had this money he was worryin' me for a quarter to buy some tea and a loaf of bread." "looks rather mysterious--doesn't it?" said the grocer. "mr. sands," said the fisherman, "i've took care of that boy ever since he was three year old, and that's the way he treats me. he's a young viper!" "jes so!" said mr. sands, who was a politic man and seldom contradicted his neighbors. "the rest of that money belongs to me by rights," continued the fisherman, "and he's got to give it to me. how much did you say it was?" "a dollar and forty-two cents, john; but, seems to me, you'd better let him keep it to buy groceries with." "i must have the money!" muttered trafton, not heeding this advice, which was good, though selfish. "i guess i'll go home and make the boy give it to me!" and he staggered out of the store, and, as well as he could, steered for home. chapter v "give me that money" from the village store robert went to the baker's and bought a loaf of bread for six cents, making his entire expenditures sixty-four cents. he was now ready to go home. he walked rapidly and soon reached the humble cabin, where he found his aunt waiting for him. she looked with surprise at the three bundles he brought in and asked: "what have you got there, robert?" "first of all, here is a pound of tea," said the boy, laying it down on the kitchen table. "here is a pound of sugar and here is a loaf of bread." "but i didn't order all those, robert," said his aunt. "i know you didn't," answered her nephew, "but i thought you'd be able to make use of them." "no doubt i shall, but surely you did not buy them all for twenty-five cents?" "i should say not. why, the tea alone cost fifty cents! then the sugar came to eight cents and the loaf cost six cents." "mrs. jones didn't pay you enough to buy all those, did she?" "mrs. jones is about as mean a woman as you can find anywhere," robert said warmly. "she didn't pay me a cent." "why? didn't she like the work?" "she said uncle owed her husband money for drink and the work would part pay up the debt." but for the presence of the groceries, this would have had a discouraging effect upon mrs. trafton, but her mind was diverted by her curiosity, and she said apprehensively: "i hope you didn't buy on credit, robert? i never can pay so much money!" "mr. sands isn't the man to sell on credit. aunt jane. no, i paid cash. and the best of it is," continued our hero, "i have some money left." here he produced and spread on the table before his aunt's astonished eyes the balance of the money. mrs. trafton was startled. the possession of so much money seemed to her incomprehensible. "i hope you came by the money honestly, robert?" "what have i ever done, aunt jane, that you should think me a thief?" asked robert, half amused, half annoyed. "nothing, my dear boy; but i can't understand how you came to have so much money." "i see i must explain, aunt. a strong wind blew it to me." "then somebody must have lost it. you shouldn't have spent it till you had tried to find the owner." "i'll explain to you." and he told her the story of the lost hat and the liberal reward he obtained for chasing and recovering it. "think of a straw hat costing fifty dollars, aunt!" he said wonderingly. "it does seem strange, but i am glad it was worth so much or you wouldn't have been so well paid." "this mr. tudor is a gentleman, aunt. why, plenty of people would have given me only ten cents. i would have thought myself well paid if he had even given me that, but i couldn't have brought you home so much tea. aunt jane, do me a favor." "what is it, robert?" "make yourself a good strong cup of tea tonight. you'll feel ever so much better, and there's plenty of it. a pound will last a long time, won't it?" "oh, yes, a good while. i shall get a good deal of comfort out of that tea. but i don't know about making any to-night. if you would like some----" "if you'll make some, i'll drink a little, aunt jane." robert said this because he feared otherwise his aunt would not make any till the next morning. "very well, robert." "don't let uncle know i've brought so much money home," said robert with a sudden thought. "why not?" "because i don't want him to know i have any money. if he knew, he would want me to give it to him." "i don't think he would claim it. it was given to you." "i'll tell you why i am sure he would." and robert told how his uncle demanded the scanty pittance which he supposed mrs. jones had paid for the sewing. mrs. trafton blushed with shame for her husband's meanness. "drink changes a man's nature completely," she said. "the time was when john would have scorned such a thing." "that time has gone by, aunt. for fear he will find out that i have the money, i believe i will go and hide it somewhere." "shall i take care of it for you, robert?" asked mrs. trafton. "no, aunt jane; he would find it out, and i don't want to get you into any trouble. i know of a good place to put it--a place where he will never find it. i will put it there till we need to use it." "you must buy something for yourself with it. the money is yours." robert shook his head decidedly. "i don't need anything--that is, i don't need anything but what i can do without. we will keep it to buy bread and tea and anything else that we need. now, aunt, while you are steeping the tea, i will go out and dispose of the money." here it is necessary to explain that though john trafton started for home when he heard from mr. sands about robert's unexpected wealth, he changed his mind as he passed the tavern. he thought he must have one more drink. he entered and preferred his request. "trafton," said the landlord, "don't you think you've had enough?" "not quite. i want one more glass and then i'll go home." "but you are owing me several dollars. clear off that score and then you may have as much as you will." "i'll pay you a dollar on account to-morrow." "do you mean it?" "yes. bob's got some money of mine--over a dollar. i'll get it to-night and bring it round tomorrow." "of course, trafton, if you'll keep your credit good, i won't mind trusting you. well, what shall it be?" john trafton gave his order and sat down again in the barroom. he felt so comfortable that he easily persuaded himself that there was no hurry about collecting the money in his nephew's hands. robert was at home by this time and would have no way of spending the balance of his cash. "it's all right," said the fisherman; "i'll wait till ten o'clock and then i'll go home." meanwhile robert went out on the cliff and looked about him. he looked down upon the waves as they rolled in on the beach and he enjoyed the sight, familiar as it was, for he had a love of the grand and beautiful in nature. "i think if i were a rich man," thought the poor fisherman's boy, "i would like to build a fine house on the cliff, with an observatory right here, where i could always see the ocean. it's something to live here, if i do have to live in a poor cabin. but i must consider where i will hide my money." at his feet was a small tin box, which had been thrown away by somebody, and it struck robert that this would make a good depository for his money. fortunately the cover of the box was attached to it. he took the money from his vest pocket and dropped it into the box. then he covered it, and, finding a good place, he scooped out the dirt and carefully deposited the box in the hole. he carefully covered it up, replacing the dirt, and took particular notice of the spot, so that there would be no difficulty in finding it again whenever he had occasion. having attended to this duty, he retraced his steps to the cabin and found that the tea had been steeped and the table was covered with a neat cloth and two cups and saucers were set upon it. "tea's all ready, robert," said his aunt cheerfully. "the smell of it does me good. it's better than all the liquor in the world!" robert did not like tea as well as his aunt, but still he relished the warm drink, for the night was cool, and more than ever he rejoiced to see how much his aunt enjoyed what had latterly been rather a rare luxury. about nine o'clock robert went to bed and very soon fell asleep. he had not been asleep long before he was conscious of being rudely shaken. opening his eyes, he saw his uncle with inflamed face and thickened utterance. "what's wanted, uncle?" he asked. "where's that money, you young rascal? give me the dollar and forty-two cents you're hiding from me!" chapter vi man against boy as robert, scarcely awake, looked into the threatening face of his uncle he felt that the crisis had come and that all his firmness and manliness were demanded. our hero was not disposed to rebel against just authority. he recognized that his uncle, poor as his guardianship was, had some claim to his obedience. in any ordinary matter he would have unhesitatingly obeyed him. but, in the present instance, he felt that his aunt's comfort depended, in a measure, upon his retention of the small amount of money which he was fortunate enough to possess. of course he had thought of all this before he went to sleep, and he had decided, in case his uncle heard of his good luck, to keep the money at all hazards. for a minute he remained silent, meeting calmly the angry and impatient glance of his uncle. "give me that money, i tell you!" demanded the fisherman with thickened utterance. "i haven't got any money of yours, uncle john," said robert, now forced to say something. "you lie, boy! you've got a dollar and forty-two cents." "i haven't got as much as that, but i have nearly as much." "have you been spending any more money?" "i bought a loaf of bread for six cents." "then you've got a dollar and thirty-six cents left." "yes, i have." "give it to me!" "you want to spend it for rum, i suppose, uncle." "curse your impudence! what difference does it make to you what i do with it?" robert rose to a sitting posture, and, carried away by just indignation, he said: "i mean to keep that money and spend it for my aunt. there ought to be no need of it. you ought to support her yourself and supply her with all she needs; but, instead of that, you selfishly spend all your money on drink and leave her to get along the best way she can!" "you young rascal!" exclaimed his uncle, half ashamed and wholly angry. "is that the way you repay me for keeping you out of the poorhouse?" "i can support myself, uncle john, and for the last two years i've done it and helped aunt jane besides. there isn't any danger of my going to the poorhouse. i would leave cook's harbor tomorrow if i thought aunt jane were sure of a comfortable support, but i am afraid you would let her starve." robert had never spoken so plainly before and his uncle was almost struck dumb by the boy's bold words. he knew they were deserved, but he was angry nevertheless and he was as firm as ever in his determination to have the money. "boy," he said, "you are too young to lecture a grown man like me. i know what's best to do. where did you get the money?" he demanded with sudden curiosity. "did you find it in any of my pockets?" "there wouldn't be much use in searching your pockets for money. you never leave any behind." "where did you get it then?" "mr. tudor, who boards at the hotel, gave it to me." "that's a likely story." "he gave it to me because i ran after his hat, which was blown off by the wind, and brought it back to him. it was a very expensive hat, so he said." "i know; it is a panama hat." "that's what he called it." "did you have that money when i saw you coming out of the tavern yard?" "no." "when you got it, why didn't you come and bring it to me?" "because it was my own money. you had no right to claim it," said robert firmly. "he is right, john," said mrs. trafton, who had listened uneasily to the conversation, but had not yet seen an opportunity to put in a word in robert's favor. "shut up, old woman!" said the fisherman roughly. "well," said he, turning to robert, "i've heard what you've got to say and it don't make a bit of difference. i must have the money." "i refuse to give it to you," robert said, pale but firm. "then," said john trafton with a curse, "i'll take it." he snatched robert's pants from the chair on which they were lying and thrust his hand into one pocket after the other, but he found nothing. he next searched the vest in the same manner, but the search was equally unavailing. "you needn't search, for i haven't got the money," said robert. "then where is it?" "it is safe." "did he give it to you, jane?" demanded the fisherman, turning to his wife. "no." "do you know where it is?" "no." "boy, where is that money?" demanded trafton, his face flushed. "go and get it directly!" "i can't. it isn't in the house." "where is it then?" "i hid it." "where did you hide it?" "i dug a hole and put it in." "what made you do that?" "because i was afraid you would get hold of it." "you were right enough there," said john trafton grimly, "for i will get hold of it. get right up and find it and bring it to me." here mrs. trafton again interposed. "how can you ask such a thing, john?" she said. "the night is as dark as a pocket. how do you expect robert is going to find the money in the dark?" though john trafton was a good deal under the influence of liquor, he was not wholly deaf to reason and he saw the force of his wife's remark. in fact, he had himself found sorry trouble in getting home from the tavern, familiar as the path was to him, on account of the intense darkness. "well, i guess it'll do to-morrow morning," he said. "i must have it then, for i've promised to pay jones a dollar on account. i said i would, and i've got to keep my promise. do you hear that, you young rascal?" "yes, i hear it." "then mind you don't forget it. that's all i've got to say." and the fisherman staggered into the adjoining room, and, without taking the trouble of removing his garments, threw himself on the bed and in five minutes was breathing loud in a drunken stupor. mrs. trafton did not immediately go to bed. she was troubled in mind, for she foresaw that there was only a truce and not a cessation of hostilities. in the morning her husband would renew his demand upon robert, and, should the latter continue to refuse to comply, she was afraid there would be violence. when her husband's heavy breathing showed that he was insensible to anything that was said, she began. "i don't know but you'd better give up that money to your uncle," she said. "how can you advise me to do that, aunt?" asked robert in surprise. "because i'm afraid you'll make him angry if you refuse." "i can't help it if he is angry," answered robert. "he has no right to be. don't you know what he said--that he wanted to pay a dollar to the tavern keeper?" "yes." "mr. jones shall never get a cent of that money," said robert firmly. "but, robert," said his aunt nervously, "your uncle may beat you." "then i'll keep my distance from him." "i would rather he would have the money than that you should get hurt, robert." "aunt jane, i am going to take the risk of that. though he is my uncle and your husband, there's one thing i can't help saying: it is a contemptibly mean thing not only to use all his own earnings for drink, but to try to get hold of what little i get for the same purpose." "i don't deny it, robert. i don't pretend to defend my husband. once he was different, but drink has changed his whole nature. i never had any reason to complain before he took to drink." "no doubt of it, aunt, but that don't alter present circumstances. i have no respect for my uncle when he acts as he has to-night. come what may, there's one thing i am determined upon--he shan't have the money." "you'll be prudent, robert, for my sake?" entreated mrs. trafton. "yes, i'll be prudent. to-morrow morning i will get up early and be out of the way till after uncle is gone. there is no chance of his getting up early and going a-fishing." the deep and noisy breathing made it probable that the fisherman would awaken at a late hour, as both robert and his aunt knew. she was reassured by his promise and prepared to go to bed. soon all three inmates of the little cabin were sleeping soundly. chapter vii the next morning robert rose at six the next morning and half an hour later took his breakfast. it consisted of fish, bread and a cup of tea, and though most of my young readers might not be satisfied with it--especially as there was no butter--robert thought himself lucky to be so well provided for. when his breakfast was finished he rose from the table. "now i'm off, aunt jane," he said. "where are you going, robert?" "i'll earn some money if i can. we've got a little, but it won't last long." "it won't be very easy to find work, i am afraid." "i shall be ready for anything that turns up, aunt. something turned up yesterday when i didn't expect it." "that's true." just then the fisherman was heard to stir in the adjoining room, and robert, not wishing to be near when he awakened, hastily left the cabin to avoid a repetition of the scene of the previous night. mrs. trafton breathed a sigh of relief when her nephew was fairly out of the way. about an hour later her husband rose and without needing to dress--for he had thrown himself on the bed in his ordinary clothes--walked into the room where his wife was at work. "where's robert?" he asked. "he had his breakfast and went out." "how long ago?" "about an hour ago." john trafton scowled with disappointment. "is he round about home?" "i don't think he is." "did he say where he was going?" "he said he would try to find a job." "why didn't you keep him? didn't you know i wanted to see him?" "you didn't ask me to keep him," said mrs. trafton nervously. "i see how it is," said the fisherman; "you're in league with him." "what do you mean by that, john?" "you know well enough what i mean. you don't want him to give me that money." mrs. trafton plucked up courage enough to say: "you ought not to ask for it, john." "why shouldn't i ask for it?" he demanded, pounding forcibly on the table. "because he means to spend it for things we need and you want it to spend at the tavern." "there you are again--always twitting me because, after exposing myself to storm and the dangers of the sea, i take a little something to warm me up and make me comfortable." to hear john trafton's tone one might think him a grievously injured man. "for two years, john trafton, you have spent three-fourths of your earnings at the tavern," said his wife quietly. "you have left me to suffer want and privation that you might indulge your appetite for drink." "you seem to be alive still," he said with an ugly sneer. "you don't seem to have starved." "i might have done so but for robert. he has brought me fish and bought groceries with what little money he could earn in various ways." "oh, it's robert always!" sneered trafton. "he is an angel, is he? he's only done his duty. haven't i given him the shelter of my roof?" "you haven't given him much else," retorted his wife. "i've heard enough of that; now shut up," said the fisherman roughly. "what have you got for breakfast?" mrs. trafton pointed to the table, on which, while her husband had been speaking, she had placed his breakfast. "humph!" said he discontentedly, "that's a pretty poor breakfast!" "it is the best i can give you," said his wife coldly. "i don't care for tea. i'd as soon drink slops." "what do you prefer?" "i prefer coffee." "i have none in the house. if you will bring me home some from the store, i will make you a cup every morning, but i don't think you would like it without milk." "do you think i am made of money? how do you expect me to buy coffee?" "with the money you would otherwise spend for drink." "stop that, will you?" said trafton angrily. "i'm tired of it." a moment later he said in a milder tone: "when i get that money of robert's i will buy a pound of coffee." mrs. trafton said nothing. "do you know where he has hidden it?" asked her husband after drinking a cup of the tea which he had so decried. "no." "didn't he tell you where he was going to put it?" "no." "you are sure he didn't give it to you to keep?" "i am very glad he didn't." "why are you glad?" "because you would have teased me till you got it." "and i'll have it yet, mrs. trafton--do you hear that?" said the fisherman fiercely. "yes, i hear you." "you may as well make up your mind that i am in earnest. what! am i to be defied by a weak woman and a half-grown boy? you don't know me, mrs. t." "i do know you only too well, mr. trafton. it was an unlucky day when i married you." "humph! there may be two sides to that story. well, i'm going." "where are you going? shall you go out in the boat this morning?" "oh, you expect me to spend all my time working for my support, do you? no, i am not going out in the boat. i am going to the village." "to the tavern, i suppose?" "and suppose i am going to the tavern," repeated the fisherman in a defiant tone, "have you got anything to say against it?" "i have a great deal to say, but it won't do any good." "that's where you are right." john trafton left the cabin, but he did not immediately take the road to the village. first of all he thought he would look round a little and see if he could not discover the hiding place of the little sum which his nephew had concealed. he walked about the cabin in various directions, examining carefully to see if anywhere the ground had been disturbed. in one or two places he thought he detected signs of disturbance, and, bending over, scooped up the loose dirt, but, fortunately for our hero, he was on a false scent and discovered nothing. he was not a very patient man, and the fresh disappointment--for his hopes had been raised in each case--made him still more angry. "the young rascal!" he muttered. "he deserves to be flogged for giving me so much trouble." from the window of the cabin mrs. trafton saw what her husband was about and she was very much afraid he would succeed. she could not help--painful as it was--regarding with contempt a man who would stoop to such pitiful means to obtain money to gratify his diseased appetite. "if i thought my wife knew where this money is i'd have it out of her," muttered the fisherman with a dark look at the cabin, "but likely the boy didn't tell her. i'll have to have some dealings with him shortly. he shall learn that he cannot defy me." john trafton, giving up the search, took his way to the village, and, as a matter of course, started directly for the tavern. he entered the barroom and called for a drink. mr. jones did not show his usual alacrity in waiting upon him. "trafton," said he, "where is that dollar you promised to pay me this morning?" "haven't got it," answered the fisherman, rather embarrassed. "i'll bring it to-morrow morning." "then to-morrow morning you may call for a drink." "you ain't going back on me, mr. jones?" asked john trafton in alarm. "you are going back on me, as i look at it. you promised to bring me a dollar and you haven't done it." "i'll tell you how it is, mr. jones. my nephew, robert, has the money, but he was gone when i woke up this morning. i shall see him to-night and give you the money." "you needn't wait till then. i saw robert pass here only half an hour ago. he's somewhere in the village. find him and get the money and then i'll talk with you." there was no appeal from this decision and trafton, angry and sullen, left the tavern to look for robert. chapter viii robert becomes a prisoner one of the most tasteful houses in cook's harbor was occupied in summer by the family of theodore irving, a boston lawyer, who liked to have his wife and children in the country, though his business required him to spend a part of the hot season in the city. the oldest son, herbert, was about a year younger than robert, a lively boy, fond of manly sports and thoroughly democratic in his tastes. he had scraped acquaintance with our hero, making the first advances, for robert was not disposed to intrude his company where he was not sure it would be acceptable. when robert came to the village to avoid meeting his uncle. in passing by the house of mr. irving he attracted the attention of herbert, who was sitting on the edge of the piazza. with him was another boy of about his own age, a cousin named george randolph. he had come to cook's harbor to spend a fortnight with his cousin, but the latter soon found that george was very hard to entertain. he was seldom willing to engage in any amusement selected by his cousin, but always had some plan of his own to propose. moreover, he was proud of his social position and always looked down upon boys whose dress indicated a humbler rank than his own. the two cousins were sitting on the piazza doing nothing. herbert had proposed croquet, but george pronounced it too warm. he also declined ball for a similar reason. "it seems to me you are very much afraid of the sun," said herbert. "i don't care to get tanned up. it looks vulgar," said george. "i like to have a good time, even if i do get browned up," said his cousin. "then i don't agree with you," said george in a superior tone. just then robert was seen approaching. "there's a boy that will play with me," said herbert, brightening up. "what boy?" "there--the one that is just coming along." "that boy? why, he isn't dressed as well as our coachman's son!" "i can't help that; he's a nice fellow. bob, come here; i want you." "you surely are not going to invite that common boy into the yard?" protested george hastily. "why not? he has been here more than once." by this time robert had reached the gate. herbert jumped up and ran to open it. "i am glad to see you, robert," said herbert cordially. "are you in a hurry?" "no, herbert." "then come in and have a game of croquet." "all right, but you'll easily beat me." "never mind; you'll learn fast. bob, this is my cousin, george randolph. george, this is my friend, robert coverdale." george made the slightest possible inclination of the head and did not stir from where he was sitting. "he doesn't look very social," thought robert, greeting his friend's visitor politely. "here, bob, select a mallet and ball. shall i start first?" "if you please. won't your cousin play?" "i'm very much obliged, i'm sure, for the invitation," said george, "but i'd rather not." "george is afraid of being tanned by exposure to the sun," explained herbert. "i hope you are not." "i don't think the sun will make me any browner than i am already," said robert, laughing. "i agree with you," said george in a sneering tone. robert looked at him quickly, struck by his tone, and decided that he had no particular desire to become any better acquainted. the game of croquet proceeded and herbert was an easy victor. "i told you i should be beaten, herbert," said robert. "of course; i am much more used to the game than you. i will give you odds of half the game. you shall start from the other stake on the return course and i will try to overtake you." he came near succeeding, but robert beat him by two wickets. after three games herbert proposed ball, and robert, who felt more at home in this game, agreed to it. "you'd better join us, george," said his cousin. "no, i thank you. i have no inclination, i assure you." "i don't see what fun there can be in sitting on the piazza." "you forget that i have an opportunity of witnessing your friend's superior playing." his tone made it clear to robert that this was a sneer, but he had too much self-respect and too much regard for herbert to take offense at it. "you mean my awkwardness," he said. "you are quite welcome to the amusement it must afford you." george arched his brows in surprise. "really this ragged boy is talking to me as if he considered me his equal," he thought. "it is herbert's fault. he should not treat him so familiarly. i really don't care to be in such company." "you must excuse me, herbert," said george, rising with suitable dignity. "as you are provided with company, you can spare me. i will go into the house and read for a while." "very well, george." "i hope i haven't driven your cousin away, herbert," said robert. "i don't care whether you have or not, bob," said herbert, "i'm awfully disappointed in him. papa invited him to visit us, thinking he would be company for me, but, instead of that, he objects to everything i propose. i find it very hard to entertain him." "he doesn't appear to fancy me," said robert. "don't mind him, bob. he's a mean, stuck-up fellow, if he is my cousin." "perhaps he is not to blame. i am only a poor boy, belonging to a fisherman's family. i am afraid i am not a suitable associate for you or him," said robert with proud humility. "no more of that talk, bob," said herbert. "you're suitable for me, anyhow, and i like you twice as much as my cousin. i don't care how you are dressed, as long as you are a good fellow." "at any rate, you are a good fellow, herbert," said robert warmly. "i liked you the very first day i saw you." "and i can say the same for you. bob. well, never mind about george. leave him to his book. we'll amuse ourselves better." as robert was playing he caught sight of his uncle on his way to the tavern. he knew, therefore, that he could return home without danger of annoyance, and he excused himself to herbert. as it was doubtful whether he could get anything to do in the village and as the boat would not be in use, he concluded to go out and see if he could not catch a few fish for his aunt's dinner. "well, come and play with me again very soon, bob," said his friend. "i will, herbert. thank you for inviting me." "oh, i do that on my own account! i like your company." "thank you!" robert went home and spent a short time with his aunt before setting out on his fishing trip. he only meant to go out a short distance and there was plenty of time before noon. he was just getting out the boat when, to his dismay, he heard a familiar but unwelcome voice hailing him. "where are you going?" "i am going a-fishing. i thought you were not going to use the boat." "well, i am," said the fisherman shortly. "are you ready to give me that money?" "no, uncle," said robert firmly. "i have a right to it." "you don't need it and aunt does," answered our hero. "well, never mind about that now. you can go out with me." considerably surprised at getting off so easily, robert jumped into the boat with his uncle and they pushed off. "pull for egg island," said john trafton. egg island, so called from its oval shape, was situated about three miles from the cliff on which the fisherman's cabin stood and probably did not comprise more than an acre of surface. it was rocky, partly covered with bushes and quite unoccupied. robert was puzzled, but did not venture to ask his uncle why they were going to this island. in due time they reached the rocky isle and the boat was rounded to shore. "you may jump out and get me a good-sized stick," said the fisherman. robert obeyed, though he feared the stick was to be used on his back. he had scarcely scrambled up the bank than he heard the sound of oars, and, looking back hastily, he saw his uncle pushing off from the island. "i'm going to leave you here, you young rascal, till you agree to give me that money," said john trafton triumphantly. "i'll let you know that i won't be defied by a boy." already the boat was several rods distant. robert sat down on a rocky ledge and tried to realize his position. he was a prisoner on egg island and there he must stay till his uncle chose to release him. chapter ix alone on an island of course our hero's position was not to be compared with that of one left on a lonely island in the pacific, but it was not agreeable. he was only three miles from the mainland, but there was no chance to cross this brief distance. he had no boat, and though he could swim a little, he would inevitably have been drowned had he undertaken to swim to shore. robert had read "robinson crusoe," and he naturally thought of that famous mariner on finding himself in a similar position. he had never been on egg island before and he knew it only as he had seen it from the mainland or from a boat. "that's a mean trick of uncle john," said robert to himself. "if i had suspected what he was after i wouldn't have got out of the boat." just then he saw the boat turn, the fisherman pulling for the island. robert felt relieved. he was not to be left on the island after all. he sat still and waited for the boat to approach. "well, how do you like it?" asked trafton when he was within a few rods. "not very well," answered our hero. "you wouldn't care to stay here, i suppose?" "no." "i will take you back into the boat if you will promise to give me that money." it was a tempting proposal, and robert was half inclined to yield. but, he reflected, his uncle had no claim to the money, and, if he secured it, would spend it for drink, while his aunt would lose the benefit of it. he summoned all his courage and answered: "you have no right to the money, uncle. i can't give it to you." "if you don't, i will row away and leave you." "then you will be doing a very mean thing," said robert with spirit. "that's my lookout. just understand that i am in earnest. now, what do you say?" "i say no," answered our hero firmly. "then you may take the consequences," said his uncle, with a muttered curse, as he turned the head of the boat and rowed rapidly away. robert watched the receding boat, and for an instant he regretted his determination. but it was only for an instant. "i have done what i thought to be right," he said, "and i don't believe i shall have cause to repent it. i must see what is best to be done." he got up and set about exploring his small island kingdom. it was very rocky, the only vegetation being some scant grass and some whortleberry bushes. luckily it was the height of the berry season and there was a good supply on the bushes. "i shan't starve just yet," he said cheerfully. "these berries will keep me alive for a day or two, if i am compelled to remain as long." there was this advantage about the berries, that, in a measure, they satisfied his thirst as well as his hunger. robert did not immediately begin to gather berries, for it was yet early, and too short a time had elapsed since breakfast for him to have gained an appetite. he wandered at random over his small kingdom and from the highest portion looked out to sea. far away he saw several sails, but there was little chance of being rescued by any. if he were seen, it would not be supposed that he was confined a prisoner on an island so near the mainland. still robert did not feel that he was likely to be a prisoner for a long time. there were other fishermen, besides his uncle, at cook's harbor, and by next morning, at the farthest, he would be able to attract the attention of some one of them as he cruised near the island. but it would not be very pleasant to pass a night alone in such an exposed spot. not long before a sloop had been wrecked upon the southwest corner of the island, and though no lives were lost, the vessel itself had been so injured that there had been no attempt to repair or remove it. in coasting near the island robert had often thought he would like to examine the wreck, but he never had done so. it struck him now that he had a capital opportunity to view it at his leisure. of leisure, unfortunately, he had too much on his hands. there was a patch of sand at the corner where the sloop had run ashore and the frame of the vessel had imbedded in it. a portion had been swept away, but a considerable part still remained. robert clambered down and began to make an examination of the stranded vessel. "i suppose it belongs to me if i choose to claim it," he said to himself. "at any rate, no one else is likely to dispute my claim. wouldn't it be jolly if i could find a keg of gold pieces hidden somewhere about the old wreck? that would keep aunt and me for years and we wouldn't feel any anxiety about support." this was very pleasant to think about certainly, but kegs of gold pieces are not often carried on sloops nowadays, as robert very well knew. the chief use the old wreck was likely to be to him was in affording materials for a raft by which he might find his way to the mainland. our hero made a critical survey of the wreck and tried to pull it apart. this was not easy, but finally he was enabled to detach a few planks. "if i only had a saw, a hammer and some nails," he thought, "i could build a raft without much difficulty. but i don't see how i am going to get along without these." for the hammer he soon found a substitute in a hard rock of moderate size. there were nails, but they were not easy to extricate from the planks. as to a saw, there was no hope of getting one or anything that would answer the purpose of one. robert worked hard for a couple of hours and in that time he had accomplished something. he had extricated half a dozen planks of unequal length, secured a supply of nails, more or less rusty, and thus had already provided the materials of a raft. the grand difficulty remained--to fashion them into a raft which would convey him in safety to the shore of the mainland. i have said that he had no saw. he had a jackknife, however, and this was of some use to him, particularly in extricating the nails. it was slow work, but he had all day before him. when the two hours were over he began to feel hungry. it was not far from the time when he was accustomed to take dinner, and he set about satisfying his hunger. he went from bush to bush, plucking the ripe berries and eating them. they were very good, but not quite so hearty as a plate of meat and potatoes. however, he would have had no meat if he had been able to sit down at home. after dinner--if his repast of berries can be dignified by such a name--robert sat down to rest a while before resuming his labors on the raft. he finally lay down with his head in the shadow of an unusually large bush, and, before he was fully aware of the danger, he had fallen asleep. when he awoke he saw by the position of the sun that it must be about the middle of the afternoon. he jumped up hastily, and, first of all, took a hasty glance around to see if he could anywhere descry a boat. but none was to be seen. "i must set about making my raft," he decided. "it is getting late and i don't know how long it may take me." it proved to be slow and rather difficult work. robert was pounding away with his stone hammer when, to his great joy, he descried a boat rounding the corner of the island. it was rowed by a single boy. when he came near robert recognized him as george randolph--the cousin of his friend herbert. it happened that george was very fond of rowing and had a boat of his own, which he rowed a good deal in boston harbor. he had long had an ambition to row to egg island and had selected this day for the trip. he had not asked herbert to accompany him, being desirous of saying that he had accomplished the entire trip alone. though george had not seemed very friendly, robert did not for a moment doubt that he would be willing to help him in his strait, and he was almost as delighted to see him as he would have been to see herbert himself. there would be no need now of the raft, and he gladly suspended work upon it. rising to his feet, he called out: "hello, there!" george paused in his rowing and asked--for he had not yet caught sight of robert: "who calls?" "i--robert coverdale!" then george, turning his glance in the right direction, caught sight of the boy he had tried to snub in the morning. chapter x robert completes the raft "what do you want of me?" asked george superciliously. "will you come to shore and take me into your boat?" asked robert eagerly. "why should i? you have no claims on me," said george. "indeed, i don't know you." "i was at mr. irving's this morning, playing croquet with herbert." "i am aware of that, but that is no reason why i should take you into my boat. i prefer to be alone." if robert had not been in such a strait he would not have pressed the request, but he was not sure when there would be another chance to leave the island, and he persisted. "you don't understand how i am situated," he said. "i wouldn't ask such a favor if i were not obliged to, but i have no other way of getting back. if you don't take me in, i shall probably be obliged to stay here all night." "how did you come here?" asked george, his curiosity aroused. "i came in a boat with my uncle." "then you can go back with him." "he has gone back already. he is offended with me because i won't do something which he has no right to ask, and he has left me here purposely." "isn't your uncle a fisherman?" "yes." "i don't care to associate with a fisherman's boy," said george. robert had never before met a boy so disagreeable as george, and his face flushed with anger and mortified pride. "i don't think you are any better than herbert," he said, "and he is willing to associate with me, though i am a fisherman's boy." "i don't think much of his taste, and so i told him," said george. "my father is richer than mr. irving," he added proudly. "do you refuse to take me in your boat then?" asked robert. "i certainly do." "although i may be compelled to stay here all night?" "that's nothing to me." robert was silent a moment. he didn't like to have any quarrel with herbert's cousin, but he was a boy of spirit, and he could not let george leave without giving vent to his feeling. "george randolph," he broke out, "i don't care whether your father is worth a million; it doesn't make you a gentleman. you are a mean, contemptible fellow!" "how dare you talk to me in that way, you young fisherman?" gasped george in astonishment and wrath. "because i think it will do you good to hear the truth," said robert hotly. "you are the meanest fellow i ever met, and if i were herbert irving i'd pack you back to the city by the first train." "you impudent rascal!" exclaimed george. "i've a good mind to come on shore and give you a flogging!" "i wish you'd try it," said robert significantly. "you might find yourself no match for a fisherman's boy." "i suppose you'd like to get me on shore so that you might run off with my boat?" sneered george. "i wouldn't leave you on the island, at any rate, if i did secure the boat," said robert. "well, i won't gratify you," returned george, "i don't care to have my boat soiled by such a passenger." "you'll get paid for your meanness some time, george randolph." "i've taken too much notice of you already, you low fisherman," said george. "i hope you'll have a good time staying here all night." he began to row away, and as his boat receded robert saw departing with it the best chance he had yet had of escape from his irksome captivity. "i didn't suppose any boy could be so contemptibly mean," he reflected as his glance followed the boat, which gradually grew smaller and smaller as it drew near the mainland. "i don't think i'm fond of quarreling, but i wish i could get hold of that boy for five minutes." robert's indignation was natural, but it was ineffective. he might breathe out threats, but while he was a prisoner his aristocratic foe was riding quickly over the waves. "he rows well," thought our hero, willing to do george justice in that respect. "i didn't think a city boy could row so well. i don't believe i could row any better myself, though i've been used to a boat ever since i was six years old." but it would not do to spend all the afternoon in watching george and his boat or he would lose all chance of getting away himself before nightfall. with a sigh he resumed work on the raft which he had hoped he could afford to dispense with and finally got it so far completed that he thought he might trust himself on it. robert was a little solicitous about the strength of his raft. it must be admitted that, though he had done the best he could, it was rather a rickety concern. if the nails had been all whole and new and he had had a good hammer and strong boards he could easily have made a satisfactory raft. but the materials at his command were by no means of the best. the nails were nearly all rusty, some were snapped off in the middle and his stone did not work with the precision of a regular hammer. "if it will only hold together till i can get to shore," he thought, "i won't care if it goes to pieces the next minute. it seems a little shaky, though. i must try to find a few more nails. it may increase the strength of it." there was an end of a beam projecting from the sand, just at his feet. robert expected that probably he might by unearthing it find somewhere about it a few nails, and he accordingly commenced operations. if he had had a shovel or a spade, he could have worked to better advantage, but as it was he was forced to content himself with a large shell which he picked up near the shore. soon he had excavated a considerable amount of sand and brought to the surface a considerable part of the buried beam. it was at this point that he felt the shell strike something hard. "i suppose it is a stone," thought robert. and he continued his work with the object of getting it out of the way. it was not long before the object was exposed to view. what was robert's surprise and excitement to find it an ivory portemonnaie, very much soiled and discolored by sea water! now, i suppose no one can find a purse or pocketbook without feeling his pulse a little quickened, especially where, as in robert's case, money is so much needed. he immediately opened the portemonnaie, and to his great delight found that it contained several gold pieces. as my readers will feel curious to know the extent of his good luck, i will state definitely the amount of his discovery. there were two gold ten-dollar pieces, two of five, one two-dollar-and-a-half piece and fifty cents in silver. in all there were thirty-three dollars in gold and silver. robert's delight may be imagined. if he had felt in luck the day before, when he had been paid two dollars, how much more was he elated by a sum which to him seemed almost a fortune! "i am glad george didn't take me on board his boat," he reflected. "if he had, i should never have found this money. now, i don't care if i do stay here all night. uncle had little idea what service he was doing me when he left me alone on egg island." though robert expressed his willingness to spend the night on egg island, he soon became eager to get home so that he could exhibit to his aunt the evidence of his extraordinary luck. he anticipated the joy of the poor woman as she saw assured to her for weeks to come a degree of comfort to which for a long time she had been unaccustomed. robert examined his raft once more and resolved to proceed to make it ready for service. it took longer than he anticipated, and it was nearly two hours later before he ventured to launch it. he used a board for a paddle, and on his frail craft he embarked, with a bold heart, for the mainland. chapter xi a friend goes to the rescue leaving robert for a time, we will accompany george randolph on his homeward trip. george did not at all enjoy the plain speaking he had heard from robert. the more he thought of it the more his pride was outraged and the more deeply he was incensed. "the low-lived fellow!" he exclaimed as he was rowing home. "i never heard of such impudence before. he actually seemed to think that i would take as a passenger a common fisherman's boy. i haven't sunk as low as that." george was brought up to have a high opinion of himself and his position. he really thought that he was made of a different sort of clay than the poor boys with whom he was brought in contact, and his foolish parents encouraged him in this foolish belief. probably he would have been very much shocked if it had become known that his own grandfather was an honest mechanic, who was compelled to live in a very humble way. george chose to forget this or to keep it out of sight, as it might have embarrassed him when he was making his high social pretensions. falsely trained as he had been, and with a strong tendency to selfishness, george had no difficulty in persuading himself that he had done exactly right in rebuking the forwardness of his humble acquaintance. "he isn't fit to associate with a gentleman," he said to himself. "what business is it of mine that he has to stay on the island all night? if his uncle left him there, i dare say he deserved it." george did not immediately land when he reached the beach, but floated here and there at will, enjoying the delightful sea breeze which set in from seaward. at length, however, he became tired and landed. the boat did not belong to him, but was hired of a fisherman living near by, who had an extra boat. the owner of the boat was on hand when george landed. he was, though a fisherman, a man of good, sound common sense, who read a good deal in his leisure moments and was therefore well informed. like many other new england men of low position, he was superior to his humble station and was capable of acquitting himself creditably in a much higher sphere. it is from persons of his class that our prominent men are often recruited. it may be mentioned here that, though george's father, as he liked to boast, was a rich man, the boy himself was very mean in money matters and seldom willing to pay a fair price for anything. he was not above driving a close bargain, and to save five cents would dispute for half an hour. "so you've got back young man?" said ben bence, the fisherman. "did you have a pleasant trip?" "quite fair," answered george in a patronizing tone. "i rowed over to egg island and back." "that's doing very well for a city boy," said the fisherman. "i should think it was good for any boy or man either," said george, annoyed at this depreciation of his great achievement. bence laughed. "why," said he, "i'm out for four or five hours sometimes. i don't think anything of rowing from fifteen to twenty miles, while you have rowed only six." "i don't expect to row as far as a man," said george, rather taken down. "the best rower round here among the boys is bob coverdaie," said the fisherman. "what can he do?" asked george with a sneer. "he can row ten miles without feeling it," said bence. "does he say so?" asked george in a meaning tone. "no, but i have seen him do it. he's been out with me more than once. he's a muscular boy, bob is. do you know him?" "i have seen him," answered george distantly. "he's a great chum of your cousin, herbert irving," said bence, "and so i thought you might have met him." this subject was not to george's taste, and he proceeded to change it. "well, my good man," he said patronizingly, "how much do i owe you?" "so i am your good man?" repeated ben bence with an amused smile. "i am much obliged to you, i am sure. well, you were gone about two hours, i reckon." "i don't think it was quite as much as that," said george. "i guess twenty-five cents will about pay me." "twenty-five cents!" repeated george, all his meanness asserting itself. "i think that is a very high price!" "did you expect to get the boat for nothing?" asked the fisherman, surprised. "of course not. i wouldn't be beholden to a fisherman," george said haughtily. "indeed! how much did you calculate to pay?" "i think twenty cents is enough." "then the only difference between us is five cents?" "yes." "then you can pay me twenty cents. i can live without the extra five cents." george, pleased at gaining his point, put two ten-cent pieces in the hands of the owner of the boat, saying: "i don't care about the five cents, of course, but i don't like to pay too much." "i understand, master randolph," said the fisherman with a quizzical smile. "in your position, of course, you need to be economical." "what do you mean?" asked george with a flushed face. "oh, nothing!" answered ben bence, smiling. the smile made george uncomfortable. was it possible that this common fisherman was laughing at him? but, of course, that did not matter, and he had saved his five cents. george got home in time for supper, but it was not till after supper that he mentioned to herbert: "i saw that young fisherman this afternoon." "what young fisherman?" "the one you played croquet with this morning." "oh, bob coverdale! where did you see him?" asked herbert with interest. "on egg island." "how came he there?" inquired herbert, rather surprised. "he went there in a boat with his uncle. i expect he's there now." "why should he stay over there so long?" "it's a rich joke," said george, laughing. "it seems his uncle was mad with him and landed him there as a punishment. he's got to stay there all night." "i don't see anything so very amusing in that," said herbert, who was now thoroughly interested. "he wanted me to take him off," proceeded george. "he was trying to build a raft. i told him he'd better keep at it." if george had watched the countenance of his cousin he would have seen that herbert was very angry, but he was so amused by the thought of robert's perplexity that he did not notice. "do you mean to say that you refused to take him off?" demanded herbert in a quick, stern tone that arrested george's attention. "of course i did! what claim had he on me?" "and you deliberately left him there, when it would have been no trouble to give him a passage back?" "really, herbert, i don't like your way of speaking. it was my boat--or, at least, i was paying for the use of it--and i didn't choose to take him as a passenger." "george randolph, do you want to know my opinion of you?" asked herbert hotly. "what do you mean?" stammered george. "i mean this, that i am ashamed of you. you are the most contemptibly mean fellow i ever met, and i am heartily sorry there is any relationship between us." "i consider that an insult!" exclaimed george, pale with anger. "i am glad you do. i mean it as such. just tell my mother i won't be back till late in the evening." "where are you going?" "i am going to get a boat and row to egg island for bob coverdale," and herbert dashed up the street in the direction of the beach. "he must be crazy!" muttered george, looking after his cousin. herbert irving reached the beach and sought out ben bence. "mr. bence," he said, "i want to go to egg island. if you can spare the time, come with me and i'll pay you for your time." "what are you going for, master herbert?" upon this herbert explained the object of his trip. "now, will you go?" he asked. "yes," answered the fisherman heartily, "i'll go and won't charge you a cent for the boat or my time. bob coverdale's a favorite of mine, and i'm sorry his uncle treats him so badly." strong, sturdy strokes soon brought them to the island. "bob! where are you. bob?" called herbert. there was no answer. the island was so small that he would have been seen if he had been there. "he must have got off," said herbert. "george said he was building a raft." "then i mistrust something's happened to the poor boy," said bence gravely. "he couldn't build a raft here that would hold together till he reached the mainland." herbert turned pale. "i hope it isn't so bad as that," he said. "let us row back as quick as we can!" chapter xii a mysterious disappearance as they were rowing back they scanned the sea in every direction, but nowhere did they discover any signs of robert or his raft. "perhaps," suggested herbert, breaking a long silence, "bob is already at home." he looked inquiringly in the face of his companion to see what he thought of the chances. "mayhap he is," said ben bence slowly, "but i mistrust he found it too rough for the raft." "in that case----" said herbert anxiously and stopped without answering the question. "in that case the poor boy's at the bottom of the sea, it's likely." "he could swim, mr. bence." "yes, but the tide would be too strong for him. just about now there's a fearful undertow. i couldn't swim against it myself, let alone a boy." "if anything has happened to him it's his uncle's fault," said herbert. "john trafton will have to answer for it," said the fisherman sternly. "there ain't one of us that don't love bob. he's a downright good boy, bob coverdale is, and a smart boy, too." "if he's lost i will never have anything more to do with george randolph. i will ask mother to pack him back to boston to-morrow." "george ain't a mite like you," said ben bence. "i hope not," returned herbert hastily. "he's one of the meanest boys i ever met. he might just as well have taken poor bob off the island this afternoon, if he hadn't been so spiteful and ugly." "it would serve him right to leave him there a while himself," suggested bence. "i agree with you." there was another pause. each was troubled by anxious thoughts about the missing boy. when they reached the shore herbert said: "i'm going to mr. trafton's to see if bob has got home." "i'll go with you," said the fisherman briefly. they reached the humble cabin of the traftons and knocked at the door. mrs. trafton opened it. "good evening, mr. bence," she said. "i believe this young gentleman is master herbert irving? i have often heard robert speak of him." "is robert at home?" asked herbert eagerly. "no, he has been away all day," answered his aunt. "do you know where he is?" inquired ben bence soberly. "mr. trafton wouldn't tell me. he said he had sent him away on some errand, but i don't see where he could have gone, to stay so long." it was clear mrs. trafton knew nothing of the trick which had been played upon her nephew. "tell her, mr. bence," said herbert, turning to his companion. "has anything happened to robert?" asked mrs. trafton, turning pale. they told her how her husband had conveyed robert to egg island and then treacherously left him there, to get off as he might. "was there any difficulty between bob and his uncle?" asked ben bence. "yes; the boy had a little money which had been given him and my husband ordered him to give it up to him. he'd have done it, if he hadn't wanted to spend it for me. he was always a considerate boy, and i don't know what i should have done without him. mr. bence, i know it's a good deal to ask, but i can't bear to think of robert staying on the island all night. would you mind rowing over and bringing him back?" as yet mrs. trafton did not understand that any greater peril menaced her nephew. "mrs. trafton, we have just been over to egg island," said the fisherman. "and didn't you find him?" "no; he was not there." "but how could he get off?" "he was seen this afternoon making a raft from the old timbers he found in the wreck. he must have put to sea on it." "then why is he not here?" "the sea was rough, and----" mrs. trafton, who had been standing, sank into a chair with a startled look. "you don't think my boy is lost?" "i hate to think so, mrs. trafton, but it may be." from grief there was a quick transition to righteous indignation. "if the poor boy is drowned, i charge john trafton with his death!" said the grief-stricken woman with an energy startling for one of her usually calm temperament. "what's this about john trafton?" demanded a rough voice. it was john trafton himself, who, unobserved, had reached the door of the cabin. ben bence and herbert shrank from him with natural aversion. "so you're talking against me behind my back, are you?" asked trafton, looking from one to the other with a scowl. his wife rose to her feet and turned upon him a glance such as he had never met before. "what have you done with robert, john trafton?" she demanded sternly. "oh! that's it, is it?" he said, laughing shortly. "i've served him as he deserved." "what have you done with him?" she continued in a slow, measured voice. "you needn't come any tragedy over me, old woman!" he answered with annoyance. "i left him on egg island to punish him for disobeying me!" "i charge you with his murder!" she continued, confronting him with a courage quite new to her. "murder!" he repeated, starting. "come, now, that's a little too strong! leaving him on egg island isn't murdering him. you talk like a fool!" "trafton," said ben bence gravely, "there is reason to think that your nephew put off from the island on a raft, which he made himself, and that the raft went to pieces." for the first time john trafton's brown face lost its color. "you don't mean to say bob's drowned?" he ejaculated. "there is reason to fear that he may be." "i'll bet he's on the island now." "we have just been there and he is not there." at length trafton began to see that the situation was a grave one, and he began to exculpate himself. "if he was such a fool as to put to sea on a crazy raft it ain't my fault," he said. "i couldn't help it, could i?" "if you hadn't left him there he would still be alive and well." john trafton pulled out his red cotton handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his forehead, on which the beads of perspiration were gathering. "of course i wouldn't have left him there if i'd known what he would do," he muttered. "did you mean to leave him there all night?" asked bence. "yes, i meant it as a lesson to him," said the fisherman. "a lesson to him? you are a fine man to give a lesson to him! you, who spend all your earnings for drink and leave me to starve! john trafton, i charge you with the death of poor robert!" exclaimed mrs. trafton with startling emphasis. perhaps nothing more contributed to overwhelm john trafton than the wonderful change which had taken place in his usually gentle and submissive wife. he returned her accusing glance with a look of deprecation. "come now, jane, be a little reasonable," he said. "you're very much mistaken. it was only in fun i left him. i thought it would be a good joke to leave him on the island all night. say something for me, ben--there's a good fellow." but ben bence was not disposed to waste any sympathy on john trafton. he was glad to see trafton brought to judgment and felt like deepening his sense of guilt rather than lightening it. "your wife is right," he said gravely. "if poor bob is dead, you are guilty of his death in the sight of god." "but he isn't dead! it's all a false alarm. i'll get my boat and row over to the island myself. very likely he had gone to sleep among the bushes and that prevented your seeing him." there was a bare possibility of this, but ben bence had little faith in it. "go, if you like," he said. "if you find him, it will lift a great weight from your conscience." john trafton dashed to the shore, flung himself into his boat, and, with feverish haste, began to row toward the island. he bitterly repented now the act which had involved him in such grave responsibility. he was perfectly sober, for his credit at the tavern was temporarily exhausted. of course those who remained behind in the cabin had no hope of robert being found. they were forced to believe that the raft had gone to pieces and the poor boy, in his efforts to reach the shore, had been swept back into the ocean by the treacherous undertow and was now lying stiff and stark at the bottom of the sea. "what shall i ever do without robert?" said mrs. trafton, her defiant mood changing, at her husband's departure, to an outburst of grief. "he was all i had to live for." "you have your husband," suggested ben bence doubtfully. "my husband!" she repeated drearily. "you know how little company he is for me and how little he does to make me comfortable and happy. i will never forgive him for this day's work." ben bence, who was a just man, ventured to represent that trafton did not foresee the result of his action; but, in the sharpness of her bereavement, mrs. trafton would find no excuse for him. herbert, too, looked pale and distressed. he had a genuine attachment for robert, whose good qualities he was able to recognize and appreciate, even if he was a fisherman's nephew. he, too, thought sorrowfully of his poor friend, snatched from life and swept by the cruel and remorseless sea to an ocean grave. he, too, had his object of resentment. but for george randolph, he reflected, robert would now be alive and well, and he resolved to visit george with his severest reproaches. while all were plunged in a similar grief a strange thing happened. the door of the cabin was closed by john trafton as he went out. suddenly there was heard a scratching at the door, and a sound was heard as of a dog trying to excite attention. "it must be my dog dash," said herbert. "i wonder how he found me out?" he advanced to the door and opened it. before him stood a dog, but it was not dash. it was a large black dog, with an expression of intelligence almost human. he had in his mouth what appeared to be a scrap of writing paper. this he dropped on the ground when he saw that he had attracted herbert's attention. "what does this mean?" thought herbert in great surprise, "and where does this dog come from?" he stooped and picked up the paper, greatly to the dog's apparent satisfaction. it was folded in the middle and contained, written in pencil, the following message, which, not being directed to any one in particular, herbert felt at liberty to read: "feel no anxiety about robert coverdale. he is safe!" herbert read the message, the dog uttered a quick bark of satisfaction, and, turning, ran down the cliff to the beach. herbert was so excited and delighted at the news of his friend's safety that he gave no further attention to the strange messenger, but hurried into the cabin. "mrs. trafton--mr. bence!" he exclaimed, "bob is safe!" "what do you mean? what have you heard?" they asked quickly. "read this!" answered herbert, giving mrs. trafton the scrap of paper. "who brought it?" she asked, bewildered. "a dog." ben bence quickly asked: "what do you mean?" "i know nothing more than that a large black dog came to the door with this in his mouth, which he dropped at my feet." "that is very strange," said bence. he opened the door and looked out, but no dog was to be seen. "do you believe this? can it be true?" asked mrs. trafton. "i believe it is true, though i can't explain it," answered ben. "some dogs are wonderfully trained. i don't know whom this dog belongs to, but whoever it is he doubtless has robert under his care. let us be thankful that he has been saved." "but why don't he come home?" asked mrs. trafton. "where can he be?" "he was probably rescued in an exhausted condition. cheer up, mrs. trafton. you will no doubt see your boy to-morrow." "i feel like giving three cheers, mr. bence," said herbert. "then give 'em, boy, and i'll help you!" said old ben. the three cheers were given with a will, and herbert went home, his heart much lighter than it had been ten minutes before. chapter xiii the cruise of the raft it is time we carried the reader back to the time when robert, after launching his rude raft, set out from the island of his captivity. notwithstanding his rather critical situation, he was in excellent spirits. the treasure which he had unearthed from the wreck very much elated him. it meant comfort and independence for a time at least, and in his new joy he was even ready to forgive his uncle for leaving him on the island and randolph for not taking him off. "i've heard of things turning out for the best," was the thought that passed through his mind, "but i never understood it so well before." robert possessed a large measure of courage and he had been used to the sea from the age of six, or as far back as he could remember, but when he had rounded the island and paddled a few rods out to sea he began to feel serious. there was a strong wind blowing, and this had roughened the sea and made it difficult for him to guide his extemporized raft in the direction he desired. had it been his uncle's fishing boat and had he but possessed a good pair of stout oars, he would have experienced no particular difficulty. he would perhaps have found it rather hard pulling, but he was unusually strong for his age, and, in the end, he would have reached the shore. but with a frail raft, loosely put together, and only a board to row or paddle with, his progress was very slow. he did make a little progress, however, but it was so little that, at the end of fifteen minutes, he seemed as far off from the little cabin on the cliff as ever. "it's hard work," said robert to himself. "i wish i had a boat. if it were smooth water, i could get along with a raft, but now----" he stopped short, as the raft was lifted on the crest of a wave, and he nearly slid off into the water. he looked back to the island and began to consider whether it would not be best, after all, to paddle back and trust to being taken off the next morning by some fisherman's boat. no doubt that would have been the most sensible thing to do, but robert was very reluctant to relinquish his project. had he not devoted several hours to constructing the raft he was trying to navigate and should he allow this time to be thrown away? again, the prospect of passing a night upon egg island was not very inviting. there was nothing to fear, of course, for the island was too small to be infested by wild animals or even snakes. he could no doubt sleep some, even if his bed were not very comfortable. robert looked back. by this time he was half a mile, at a rough guess, from egg island, and between his raft and the mainland there intervened probably two miles and a half of rough sea. "if i can get within half a mile of shore," thought our young hero, "i won't care for the raft any longer. i will plunge into the waves and swim to the shore." he looked toward the shore. there, in plain view, was the humble cabin which he called home. inside doubtless was his aunt, worrying perhaps about his absence. "how delighted she will be when i tell her of the money i have found!" thought robert joyfully. "come, bob, brace up now and push out boldly for home." with his eyes fixed on the cabin, our young hero used his paddle with such energy that, in the course of half an hour or thereabouts, he was about a mile farther on his way. he had gone half way, and though he was somewhat fatigued, he was strong and muscular, and the chances were that he would be able to hold out till he reached the boat landing. but now a new danger threatened itself. the assaults of the sea had strained heavily the raft, which he had not been able, for want of nails, to make strong and secure. robert's heart beat with quiet alarm as he realized that there was small chance of his frail craft holding together till he reached shore. the danger was hardly realized before it came. a strong wave wrenched apart the timbers, and robert coverdale found himself, without warning, spilled into the sea, a mile and a half from land. instinctively he struck out and began to swim, but the distance was great and he was impeded by his clothes. looking neither to the right nor to the left, but only straight ahead, he swam with all the strength there was left to him, but he found himself weakening after a while and gave himself up for lost. chapter xiv the hermit of the cliff the last thing that robert could remember was the singing of the waters in his ears and a weight as of lead that bore him downward with a force which he felt unable to resist. but at the critical moment, when the doors of death seemed to be swinging open to admit him, he was firmly seized by a slender, muscular arm, extended from a boat shaped somewhat like an indian canoe and rowed by a tall, thin man with white hair and a long white beard. in the dusk our hero had not seen the boat nor known that help was so near at hand. but the occupant of the boat had, from a distance, seen the going to pieces of the raft, and appreciated the peril of the brave swimmer, and paddled his boat energetically toward him just in time to rescue him when already insensible. pale and with closed eyes lay robert in the bottom of the boat. the old man--for so he appeared--rather anxiously opened the boy's shirt and placed his hand over his heart. an expression of relief appeared on his face. "he will do," he said sententiously and turned his attention to the boat. half a mile from the cliff on which stood the fisherman's cabin was another, rising to a greater height. to this the stranger directed his boat. he fastened it and then, raising our hero in his arms, walked toward the cliff. there was a cavity as wide as a door, but less in height, through which he passed, lowering his head as he entered. inside the opening steadily widened and became higher. this cavity was about ten feet above the sandy beach and was reached by a ladder. on he passed, guided amid the darkness by a light from a lantern hanging from the roof. the front portion of the cavern seemed like a hall, through which a narrow doorway led into a larger room, which was furnished like the interior of a house. upon a walnut table stood a lamp, which the stranger lighted. he took the boy, already beginning to breathe more freely, and laid him on a lounge, covered with a buffalo skin, at the opposite side of the apartment. from a shelf he took a bottle and administered a cordial to robert, who, though not yet sensible, mechanically swallowed it. the effect was almost instantaneous. the boy opened his eyes and looked about him in bewilderment. "where am i?" he inquired. "what can you remember?" asked the old man. robert shuddered. "i was struggling in the water," he answered. "i thought i was drowning." then, gazing at the strange apartment and the majestic face of the venerable stranger, he said hesitatingly: "am i still living or was i drowned?" he was not certain whether he had made the mysterious passage from this world to the next, so strange and unfamiliar seemed everything about him. "you are still in life," answered the stranger, smiling gravely. "god has spared you, and a long life is yet before you if he wills." "and you saved me?" "yes." "how can i thank you? i owe you my life," said robert gratefully. "i am indebted to you for the opportunity once more to be of use to one of my race." "i don't understand how you could have saved me. when i went down i could see no one near." "on account of the dusk. i was not far away in my boat. i saw your peril and hastened to your assistance. fortunately i was not too late. do you know who it is that has saved you?" "yes," answered robert. "you have seen me before?" "yes, but not often." "how do people call me?" "they call you 'the hermit of the cliff.'" "as well that as anything else," said the old man. "what more do they say of me?" robert seemed reluctant to tell, but there was something imperative in the old man's tone. "some say you are crazy," he answered. "i am not surprised to hear it. the world is apt to say that of one who behaves differently from his fellows. but i must not talk too much of myself. how do you feel?" "i feel weak," answered robert. "doubtless. swimming against such a current was a severe strain upon your strength. let me feel your pulse." he pressed his finger upon robert's pulse and reported that the action was slow. "it means exhaustion," he said. "you must sleep well, and to-morrow morning you will feel as well as usual." "but i ought to go home," said robert, trying to rise. "my aunt will feel anxious about me." "who is your aunt?" "i am the nephew of john trafton, who has a small house on the cliff." "i know. he is a fisherman." "yes, sir." "don't disturb yourself. word shall be sent to your aunt that you are safe. i will give you a sleeping draught, and tomorrow morning we will speak further." somehow robert did not dream of resisting the will of his host. the old man had an air of command to which it seemed natural to submit. moreover, he knew that to this mysterious stranger--the hermit of the cliff, as the fishermen called him--he was indebted for his life, and such a man must necessarily be his friend. robert was, besides, in that condition of physical languor when, if he had felt disposed, he would have found it very difficult to make resistance to the will of another. "first of all," said the old man, "you must take off your wet clothes. i will place them where they can dry, so that you may put them on in the morning." with assistance robert divested himself of his wet garments. as we know, he had little to take off. the stranger brought out a nightgown and then placed our hero in his own bed, wrapping him up in blankets. "now for the sleeping draught," he said. from a bottle he poured out a few drops, which robert swallowed. in less than three minutes he had closed his eyes and was in a profound slumber. the old man regarded him with satisfaction as he lay breathing tranquilly upon the bed. "he is young and strong. nature has been kind to him and given him an excellent constitution. sleep will repair the ill effects of exposure. i must remember my promise to the boy," he said. turning to the table, he drew from a drawer writing materials and wrote the brief message which, as we have already seen, was duly delivered, and then walked to the entrance of the cavern. he placed a whistle to his lips, and in response to his summons a black dog came bounding to him from the recesses of the grotto and fawned upon him. "come with me, carlo; i have work for you," he said. the dog, as if he understood, followed his master out upon the beach. they walked far enough to bring into clear distinctness the cabin on the cliff. "do you see that house. carlo?" asked his master, directing the dog's attention with his outstretched finger. carlo answered by a short, quick bark, which apparently meant "yes." "carry this note there. do you understand?" the dog opened his mouth to receive the missive and trotted contentedly away. the hermit turned and retraced his steps to the cavern. he stood beside the bed and saw, to his satisfaction, that robert was still sleeping peacefully. "it is strange," said he musingly, "that i should feel such an interest in this boy. i had forsworn all intercourse with my kind, save to provide myself with the necessaries of life. for two years i have lived here alone with my dog and i fancied that i felt no further interest in the affairs of my fellow men. yet here is a poor boy thrown on my hands, and i feel positive pleasure in having him with me. yet he is nothing to me. he belongs to a poor fisherman's family, and probably he is uneducated, and has no tastes in common with me. yet he is an attractive boy. he has a well-shaped head and a bright eye. there must be a capacity for something better and higher. i will speak with him in the morning." he opened a volume from his bookcase, to which reference has not as yet been made, and for two hours he seemed to be absorbed by it. closing it at length, he threw himself upon the couch on which robert had at first been placed and finally fell asleep. chapter xv the home of the hermit when robert awoke the next morning he found himself alone. his strange host was absent, on some errand perhaps. after a brief glance of bewilderment, robert remembered where he was, and with the recovery of his strength, which had been repaired by sleep, he felt a natural curiosity about his host and his strange home. so far as he knew, he was the first inhabitant of the village who had been admitted to a sight of its mystery. for two years the hermit of the cliff had made his home there, but he had shunned all intercourse with his neighbors and had coldly repelled all advances and checked all curiosity by his persistent taciturnity. from time to time he went to the village for supplies, and when they were too bulky to admit of his carrying them, he had had them delivered on the beach in front of the entrance to his cave dwelling and at his leisure carried them in himself. he always attracted attention, as with his tall, slender, majestic figure he moved through the village, or paced the beach, or impelled his frail boat. but speculation as to who he was or what had induced him to become a recluse had about ceased from the despair of obtaining any light upon these points. no wonder then that robert, admitted by chance to his dwelling, looked about him in curious wonder. cavern as it was, the room was fitted up with due regard to comfort and even luxury. the bed on which our hero reposed was soft and inviting. the rough stone floor was not carpeted, but was spread with turkish rugs. there was a bookcase, containing perhaps two hundred books; there was a table and writing desk, an easy-chair and a rocking-chair, and the necessarily dark interior was lighted by an astral lamp, diffusing a soft and pleasant light. on a shelf ticked a french clock and underneath it was a bureau provided with toilet necessaries. no one in the village knew how these articles had been spirited into the cavern. no one of the villagers had assisted. indeed, no one, except robert, knew that the hermit was so well provided with comforts. our hero found his clothes on a chair at his bedside. they were drier and suitable for wearing. "i may as well dress," thought robert. "i won't go away till i've seen the hermit. i want to thank him again for taking such good care of me." he did not have to wait long, however. he had scarcely completed his toilet when the hermit appeared. "so, my young friend, you arc quite recovered from your bath?" "yes, sir." "that is well." "i think, sir, i had better go home now, for my aunt will be anxious about me." "i sent a message to your aunt last evening. she knew before she went to bed that you were safe." "thank you, sir!" "i am not apt to be curious, but i wish, before you leave me, to ask you a few questions. sit down, if you please." robert seated himself. he felt that the hermit had a right to ask some questions of one whom he had saved. "how came you so far out at sea on a frail raft? if you had been shipwrecked, that would explain it, but as you have not been to sea, i cannot understand it." "i found myself on egg island, without any means of getting off. so i made a raft from the timbers of the wreck and launched it. i thought it would last long enough for me to reach land." "it was a hazardous enterprise. but how came you on the island? surely you did not swim there?" "no, sir. my uncle carried me there in his boat. he refused to take me off unless i would give up some money which i wanted to spend for my aunt." "was the money yours?" "yes, sir. it was given me by a gentleman living at the hotel." "your uncle--john trafton--is not a temperate man?" "no, sir. he spends all the money he earns on drink, and my aunt and i have to live as we can." "what a fool is man!" said the hermit musingly. "he alone of created beings allows himself to be controlled by his appetites, while professing to stand at the head of the universe!" robert felt that he was not expected to answer this speech and remained respectfully silent till his host resumed his questioning. "and you," said the old man abruptly, "what do you do?" "sometimes i go out with my uncle's boat and catch fish for use at home. sometimes i find jobs to do in the village which bring in a little money. i am always glad of that, for we can't buy groceries without money, and my uncle never gives us any. my aunt is very fond of tea, but once for three weeks she had to do without it." "that was a pity. there are some who find great comfort in tea." "it is so with aunt jane. she says it puts new life in her." "have you any money now?" "oh, i forgot to tell you of my good luck!" said robert eagerly. "just before i left the wreck i dug up this," and he displayed the purse with the gold pieces in it. "it would have been a pity if i had been drowned with all this in my pocket." "my poor boy, your young life would have outweighed a thousandfold the value of these paltry coins. still i do not depreciate them, for they may be exchanged for comforts. but will not your uncle seek to take them from you?" "he will not know that i have this money. i shall not tell him." "it will be better." for a brief time the hermit gazed at robert in thoughtful silence and then said: "how old are you?" "fifteen, sir." "have you ever thought of life and its uses--i mean of the uses of your own life? have you ever formed plans for the future?" "no, sir. it did not seem of much use. i have had to consider how to get enough for my aunt and myself to live upon." "so your uncle's burdens have been laid on your young shoulders? have you no aspirations? are you willing to follow in his steps and grow up a fisherman, like your neighbors?" "no, sir. i should be very sorry if i thought i must always live here at cook's harbor and go out fishing. i should like to see something of the world, as i suppose you have." "yes, i have seen much of the world--too much for my happiness--or i would not have come to this quiet spot to end my days. but for a young and guileless boy, whose life is but beginning, the world has its charms. do you care for books?" "i have never looked into many, sir, but that is not my fault. i have half a dozen tattered books at home and i study in some of them every day. i have been nearly through the arithmetic and i know something of geography. sometimes i get hold of a paper, but not often, for my uncle takes none and does not care for reading." "look among my books. see if there is any one you would like to read." robert had already cast wistful glances at the rows of books in the handsome bookcase. he had never before seen so many books together, for cook's harbor was not noted for its literary men and book lovers. he gladly accepted the hermit's invitation. his attention was quickly drawn to a set of the waverley novels. he had often heard of them, and an extract which he had seen in his school reader from "rob roy" had given him a strong desire to read the story from which it was taken. "i should like to borrow 'rob roy,'" he said. "you may take it. when you have read it, you may, upon returning it, have another." "then i may call to see you, sir?" "i shall be glad to have you do so. it is an invitation i never expected to give, but you have interested me, and i may be able to serve you at some time." "thank you, sir. if you should ever want any one to run errands for you, i hope you will call upon me. i should like to make some return for your great kindness." "that is well thought of. you may come to me every tuesday and friday mornings, at nine o'clock, and carry my orders to the village. i do not care to go there, but have had no messenger i could trust. for this service i will pay you two dollars a week." robert was astonished at the mention of such liberal payment. "but, sir, that is rather too much," he began. "let it be so," said the hermit. "i have money in plenty and it does not bring me happiness. in your hands it may do good." "it will be a great help to me, sir." "it is understood then. i will not detain you longer. go home and gladden the heart of your aunt." robert left the cavern, more than ever puzzled by his brief acquaintance with the mysterious recluse. chapter xvi the fisherman's temptation it is needless to say that robert received a joyful welcome from his aunt. her joy was increased when her nephew showed her the gold which he had found upon the island. "you see, aunt," he said, "it wasn't such bad luck, after all, to be left on the island." "god has so shaped events as to bring good out of evil," answered mrs. trafton, who was a religious woman and went regularly to church, though her husband never accompanied her. "but i am afraid your uncle will try to get the money away from you." "i don't want him to know it, aunt." "i shall not tell him, robert, but he may find out." "that is not all. i have got regular work to do which will bring me in two dollars a week." then robert told his surprised aunt the story of his engagement by the hermit, who for two years had been the mystery of the village. "it never rains but it pours, you see, aunt," he said cheerfully. he wondered how his uncle would receive him and whether he would make a fresh demand for the small sum of money which had been the cause of the original trouble. but john trafton had been thoroughly alarmed by the consequences of his former act and he had, besides, such experience of robert's firmness that he concluded it would not be worth while to carry the matter any further. he greeted robert sullenly. "so you are back?" he said gruffly. "yes," answered the boy. "who took you off?" "i put off on a raft and should have been drowned but for the hermit. he saved me." "you deserved to be drowned for putting off on a raft." "did you think i was going to stay on the island?" asked robert with spirit. "if i had been drowned it would have been your fault." "none of your impudence, boy!" said john trafton. and then he dropped the subject without referring to the money. during the day robert called on herbert irving to thank him for his interest in his behalf. george was in the yard, but his valise was in his hand and he seemed on the point of departure. he scowled at robert, but didn't speak. "i'm glad to see you back, bob," said herbert warmly. "what an old rascal your uncle is! now tell me all about how you escaped." while robert was telling the story the stage drove up and george got on board. "good-by, george!" said herbert. george did not deign a reply and rode sullenly away. "he doesn't find that the climate of cook's harbor suits him," said herbert significantly. "he doesn't seem very happy about going," said robert. "i didn't expect he would notice me, but he did not bid you good-by." "the fact is george and i have had a flare-up," said herbert. "i was disgusted with his heartlessness in refusing to take you from egg island, and i told him so pretty plainly. he accused me of insulting him and threatened to lay a complaint before my mother. i requested him to do so. considerably to his surprise, she took my part and reproved him for his selfish and disagreeable pride. this was too much for the young gentleman, and he gave notice that he should return to the city. no one attempted to keep him, and he has felt compelled to carry out his threat, a good deal to his disappointment." "i am sorry you are losing your visitor on my account, herbert." "you needn't. though he is my cousin, i am glad to have him go." "but you will feel lonely." "not if you come to see me every day, bob." "if we didn't live in a poor cabin, i would ask you to visit me." "never mind about how you live; i will come. it isn't the house i shall come to see, but you. some time when you are going out fishing i wish you would take me along." "with all my heart, if you will come." to herbert alone robert confided his discovery of the purse of gold. it was about a week before robert had occasion to use any of his gold. by that time he had spent the balance of the money given him by mr. lawrence tudor and was forced to fall back upon his gold, having as yet received nothing from the hermit, who knew that he was not in immediate want of money. abner sands was standing behind the counter in his grocery when robert entered. "what can i do for ye, robert?" asked the trader. "you may give me two pounds of tea and six pounds of flour." "i s'pose ye've got the money," said sands cautiously. "of course i have." "you're doin' well now, robert, i take it?" said the trader. "better than i used to," answered robert. he did not choose to make a confidant of mr. sands, who was a man of great curiosity and an inveterate gossip. when the goods were done up in separate parcels robert took out the two-dollar-and-a-half gold piece and passed it to the grocer. "why, i declare, it's gold!" exclaimed mr. sands wonderingly. "yes, it is gold." "of all things, i didn't expect to get gold from you, robert coverdale. i reckon you've found a gold mine!" "perhaps i have," said robert, smiling. as he put his hand in his pocket another gold piece dropped to the floor and he picked it up hastily, provoked at his carelessness, not, however, before the astonished trader had seen it. he was sorely puzzled to know how a poor boy like robert could have so much money in his possession and put one or two questions, which our hero evaded. "the tea and flour came to a dollar and a quarter," said the shrewd trader, "and that leaves a dollar and a quarter to come to you." he tendered robert a one-dollar bill and twenty-five cents. after robert went home mr. sands searched his brain in trying to guess where he could have obtained his gold, but the more he thought the darker and more mysterious it seemed. while in this state of perplexity john trafton entered the store. he had seen robert going out with two large parcels, and he came in to learn what he could about them. "how d'ye do, sands?" he said. "has bob been in here?" "yes." "did he buy anything?" "two pounds of tea and half a dozen pounds of flour. seems to have considerable money." "does he?" inquired trafton eagerly. "i thought you knew. why, he paid me in gold!" "in gold?" ejaculated trafton. "to be sure! he give me a two-and-a-half gold piece, and that wasn't all. he dropped a ten-dollar gold piece by accident, but picked it right up." "you don't mean it?" said the fisherman, astounded. "yes, i do. but i s'posed you knew all about it." "i only know what you've told me. the fact is that boy hasn't a spark of gratitude. it seems he's rolling in wealth and leaves me to get along as i can." "nephews ain't generally expected to provide for their uncles," said abner sands dryly. but john trafton did not hear him. as he left the store an idea entered his mind. he knew that robert had found a friend in the hermit, and he decided that the gold came from him. if that was the case, the hermit must be rich. who knows but he might have thousands of dollars in the cave? the fisherman's eyes sparkled with greed and he was assailed by a powerful temptation. his credit at the tavern was about exhausted. what a pity he could not get some of the gold, which appeared to do its possessor so little good! chapter xvii john trafton's new plan with the new but unlawful purpose which he had begun to entertain john trafton resolved to find out all he could about the hermit, and he rightly judged that robert could give him more information than anybody else. he decided to go home early and question his nephew cautiously. if he could find out something about the hermit's habits and peculiarities it would help him in his plan, for there was no beating about the bush now. he acknowledged to himself that he meant to enter the cave, and if he could only find the gold, which he was persuaded the occupant owned in large quantities, to enrich himself at his expense. his imagination was dazzled at the prospect. all his life he had been working for a bare living. probably, in his most prosperous year, not over three hundred dollars in money had come into his hands as the recompense of his toil. probably there are few people who do not, at some time, indulge in dreams of sudden wealth. this time had come to john trafton, and, unfortunately, the temptation which came with it was so powerful as to confuse his notions of right and wrong and almost to persuade him that there was nothing very much out of the way in robbing the recluse of his hoards. "it don't do him any good," argued the fisherman, "while it would make me comfortable for life. if i had ten thousand dollars, or even five, i'd go away from here and live like a gentleman. my wife should be rigged out from top to toe, and we'd jest settle down and take things easy." john trafton was not very strict in his principles, and his conscience did not trouble him much. even if it had, the dazzling picture which his fancy painted of an easy and luxurious future would probably have carried the day. it was only eight o'clock in the evening when the fisherman lifted the latch of the outer door and entered the cabin. his wife and robert looked up in surprise, for it was about two hours earlier than he generally made his appearance. another surprise--his gait and general appearance showed that he was quite sober. this was gratifying, even if it was the result of his credit being exhausted. during the preceding week it may be mentioned that he had worked more steadily than usual, having made several trips in his boat, and had thus been enabled to pay something on his score at the tavern. john trafton sat down before the fire. his wife was mending stockings by the light of a candle which burned on the table at her side and robert was absorbed by the fascinating pages of scott's "rob roy." a side glance showed the fisherman how his nephew was employed, and, rightly judging where the book came from, he seized upon it as likely to lead to the questions he wanted to ask. "what book have you got there, bob?" he inquired. "it is a story by sir walter scott, uncle." "never heard of him. does he live in boston?" asked trafton. "no, he was a scotchman." "some scotchmen are pretty smart, i've heard tell." "scott was a wonderful genius," said robert, glowing with enthusiasm. "i dare say he was," said the fisherman placidly. "where did you get the book?" "i borrowed it of the hermit." this was the name which robert used, for even now he had no knowledge of his mysterious friend's name. "has he got many books?" "a whole bookcase full." "he must be a rich man," suggested john trafton with apparent carelessness. "i think he is," said robert, wondering a little at his uncle's newborn interest in his new acquaintance, but suspecting nothing of his design in asking the question. "it stands to reason he must be," continued the fisherman. "he doesn't do anything for a living." "no." "then, of course, he's got enough to live on." "besides, all his furniture is very nice," cried robert, falling into the trap. "he seems not to mind money and talks as if he was always used to it." "i s'pose he pays you for running of errands for him," said trafton. "yes," answered robert reluctantly, for he feared that his uncle would ask to have the money transferred to him. but the next words of trafton reassured him. "that's all right," he said. "you can spend the money as you please. i don't ask you for any of it." "thank you, uncle," said robert warmly. mrs. trafton regarded her husband in surprise. he was appearing in a character new to her. what could his sudden unselfishness mean? "i only asked because i didn't want you to work for nothing, bob," said his uncle, not wishing it to appear that he had any other motive, as his plan must, of course, be kept secret from all. "i wouldn't mind working for nothing, uncle. it would be small pay for his saving my life," robert said with perfect sincerity. "he wouldn't want you to do it--a rich man like him," returned the fisherman complacently. "it's the only money he has to spend, except what he pays for victuals. i'm glad you've fallen in with him. you might as well get the benefit of his money as anybody." "uncle seems to think i only think of money," robert said to himself with some annoyance. "i begin to like the hermit. he is very kind to me." he did not give utterance to this thought, rightly deeming that it would not be expedient, but suffered his uncle to think as he might. "does the hermit always stay at home in the evening?" asked the fisherman after a pause. "sometimes he goes out in his boat late at night and rows about half the night. i suppose he gets tired of being alone or else can't sleep." john trafton nodded with an expression of satisfaction. this would suit his plans exactly. if he could only enter the cave in one of these absences, he would find everything easy and might accomplish his purpose without running any risk. it was clear to him now that the gold of which the trader spoke was given to his nephew by the hermit. he was justified in thinking so, as there was no other conceivable way in which robert could have obtained it. he coveted the ten-dollar gold piece, but he was playing for a higher stake and could afford to let that go for the present at least. the fisherman lit his pipe and smoked thoughtfully. his wife was not partial to the odor of strong tobacco, but tobacco, she reflected, was much to be preferred to drink, and if her husband could be beguiled from the use of the latter by his pipe then she would gladly endure it. john trafton smoked about ten minutes in silence and then rose from his chair. "i guess i'll go out on the beach and have my smoke there," he said as he took his hat from the peg on which he had hung it on entering the cabin. "you're not going back to the tavern, john?" said his wife in alarm. "no, i've quit the tavern for to-night. i'll just go out on the beach and have my smoke there. i won't be gone very long." when trafton had descended from the cliff to the beach he took the direction of the hermit's cave. of course he had been in that direction a good many times, but then there was nothing on his mind and he had not taken particular notice of the entrance or its surroundings. it was a calm, pleasant moonlight night and objects were visible for a considerable distance. trafton walked on till he stood at the foot of the cliff containing the cave. there was the rude ladder leading to the entrance. it was short. it could be scaled in a few seconds, and the box or chest of gold, in whose existence trafton had a thorough belief, could be found. but caution must be used. possibly the hermit might be at home, and if he were, he would, of course, be awake at that hour. besides, the cave was dark and he had no light. "when i come i will bring matches and a candle," thought the fisherman. "i can't find the gold unless i can see my way. what a fool this hermit must be to stay in such a place when with his money he could live handsomely in the city! but i don't find fault with him for that. it's so much the better for me." he turned his eyes toward the sea, and by the light of the moon he saw the hermit's slender skiff approaching. the old man was plainly visible, with his long gray hair floating over his shoulders as he bent to the oars. "he mustn't see me," muttered the fisherman. "i had better go home." chapter xviii a desperate conflict about eight o'clock the next evening john trafton sat in the barroom at the tavern enjoying himself in the manner characteristic of the place. all day long his mind had been dwelling upon the plan which he had so recently formed, and he felt a feverish desire to carry it out. "one bold stroke," he said to himself, "and i am a made man. no more hard work for me. i will live like a gentleman." it was rather a strange idea the fisherman had--that he could live like a gentleman on the proceeds of a burglary--but there are many who, like him, consider that nothing is needed but money to make a gentleman. that very night john trafton decided to make the attempt, if circumstances seemed favorable. he shrank from it as the time approached and felt that he needed some artificial courage. for this reason he visited the tavern and patronized the bar more liberally than usual. trafton had prudently resolved to keep his design entirely secret and not to drop even a hint calculated to throw suspicion upon him after the event. but there is an old proverb that when the wine is in the wit is out, and, though the fisherman indulged in whisky rather than wine, the saying will apply just as well to the one as to the other. among the company present in the barroom was one man who had been in the village a day or two, but was a stranger to all present. he was a short, powerfully made man, roughly dressed, with a low brow and quick, furtive eyes that had a look of suspicion in them. he had naturally found his way to the tavern bar and proved himself a liberal patron of the establishment. therefore the landlord--though he did not fancy the looks of his new guest--treated him with politeness. somehow the conversation on that particular evening drifted to the probable wealth of city people who made their homes at cook's harbor during the summer. it was afterward remembered that the roughly dressed stranger had introduced the subject in a casual way. "it's my opinion," said ben barton, "that mr. irving is our richest man." "what makes you think so, ben?" asked the landlord. "the way he lives partly. he's got everything that money can buy. besides, i heard his boy say that his father's watch cost him five hundred dollars. now, it stands to reason that a man don't wear a watch like that unless he's got the money to back it." "there's something in that," the landlord admitted. the stranger seemed interested. "does this irving stay down here himself?" he asked. "no, he only comes down saturday to stay over sunday." "does he have much silver in the house?" "i don't know. why?" inquired ben barton, turning a surprised look upon the stranger. "because a real, tiptop rich man generally has plenty of plate," answered the man after a pause. "i guess he doesn't keep it down here," said barton. "it's likely he's got plenty in the city." the stranger shrugged his shoulders. "does his wife wear diamonds?" he asked. "not down here. there wouldn't be any occasion." "does he get his groceries here or in the city?" "he sends them down here by express." the stranger seemed to lose all interest in the irving family. two or three summer residents were mentioned who were supposed to be rich, but it did not appear that any of them kept valuables at their summer homes. john trafton had not taken any part in the conversation hitherto, and if he had been prudent he would have continued to remain silent, but a man excited by drink is not likely to be discreet. he broke silence when there came a lull in the discussion. "there's one man you haven't mentioned," he said, "who keeps more money on hand than mr. irving or any one else you have spoken of." "a man in the village here?" asked the landlord. "he means you, mr. jones," said ben barton jocosely. "ain't we all of us bringing you money every day? you ought to have a pile by this time." "so i might if all that were owing me would pay up," retorted the landlord. as ben was one of his debtors, this was felt to be a fair hit, and there was a laugh at his expense. "p'r'aps trafton means himself," suggested ben by way of diversion. "i wish i did," said the fisherman. "well, i may be rich some time; stranger things have happened." "i can't think of any stranger thing than that," said ben. and the laugh now was at trafton's expense, but he didn't seem to mind it. by this time the general curiosity was aroused. "who is this rich man you're talkin' about, trafton?" asked sam cummings. "the hermit of the cliff," answered the fisherman. there was a general rustle of surprise. "what reason have you for saying that?" asked mr. jones, the landlord. by this time, however, john trafton began to suspects that he had been imprudent and he answered with a mysterious shake of the head: "i've no call to tell you that, but i've got my reasons." "can't you tell us, john?" asked ben barton. "i might, but i won't; but i stand by what i've said." "doesn't your boy do errands for the hermit?" asked the landlord. "suppose he does?" "and he goes into the hermit's cave?" "perhaps he does and perhaps he doesn't." "i know he does, for i was on the beach a day or two ago and i see him a-climbin' the ladder and goin' in," said ben barton. "you'll have to ask him about that," said the fisherman. "whereabouts is his cave?" asked the stranger, who had listened intently to what had been said. one of the party described its location fully. "then i've seen it," said the other. "i was walking on the beach this morning and i wondered what the ladder was for." he asked various questions about the hermit and his mode of life, which excited no wonder, as the curiosity about the hermit was shared by all. john trafton allowed himself to say one thing more that increased this feeling. "i won't tell all i know," he said, "but i can tell you this hermit lives like a prince. he's got handsomer furniture than there is in any house in cook's harbor." no one had told the fisherman this, but he knew the statement would make a sensation and chose to embellish what he had heard from robert. "that's a strange idea to furnish a cave that way," said the stranger. "it may be strange, but it's true." "do you think he keeps a good deal of money by him?" asked the stranger with evident interest. john trafton nodded significantly. the conversation now drifted into other channels. the stranger ordered another glass of whisky and went out. "where is that man staying?" asked cummings. "not here," answered the landlord. "i don't like his looks and don't care where he stays as long as he don't ask for a room here." "you don't mind selling him drink, landlord?" "not as long as he's got money to pay. that's a different matter." a few minutes later john trafton left the tavern. he had drunk considerable, but not enough to make him incapable of action. the drink excited him and nerved him for the task he had in view, for upon this very evening he had decided to force an entrance into the hermit's mysterious residence, and he hoped to be well paid for his visit. he had to pass his own cabin on the way. he glanced toward it and saw a light shining through the window, but he took care to keep far enough away so that he might not be seen. half a mile farther and he stood opposite the cavern. there was the ladder making access to the cave easy. he looked for the hermit's boat, which was usually kept fastened near the entrance to the cave, and to his joy he saw that it was missing. "the old man must be out in his boat," he said to himself. "all the better for me! if i am quick, i may get through before he gets back." with a confident step he ascended the ladder and entered what might be called the vestibule of the cave. he halted there to light the candle he had brought with him. he was bending over, striking the match against his foot, when he was attacked from behind and almost stunned by a very heavy blow. he recovered himself sufficiently to grasp his assailant, and in an instant the two were grappling in fierce conflict. "i never thought the old man was so strong," passed through the fisherman's mind as he found himself compelled to use his utmost strength against his opponent. chapter xix a tragedy on the beach it is hardly necessary to say that the man with whom the fisherman was engaged in deadly conflict was not the hermit. it was the stranger who, in the tavern, had manifested so much curiosity on the subject of the rich residents of cook's harbor. he was a desperado from new york, who, being too well known to the police of that city, had found it expedient to seek a new field, where he would not excite suspicion. he had arrived at the cave only a few minutes before the fisherman and had already explored the inner room in search of the large sum of money which trafton had given him to understand the hermit kept on hand. he had no candle, but he found a lamp and lighted it. he was in the midst of his search when he heard the entrance of the fisherman. he concluded, very naturally, that it was the hermit, and he prepared himself for an attack. he instantly extinguished the lamp and stole out into the vestibule. it was his first thought to glide by the supposed hermit and escape, but this would cut him off from securing the booty of which he was in quest. he resolved upon a bolder course. he grappled with the newcomer, confident of easily overcoming a feeble old man, but, to his disagreeable surprise, he encountered a vigorous resistance far beyond what he anticipated. neither of the two uttered a word, but silently the fierce conflict continued. "i must be weak if i cannot handle an old man," thought the professional burglar, and he increased his efforts. "if he masters me and finds out who i am, i am lost!" thought john trafton; and he, too, put forth his utmost strength. the fisherman had the disadvantage in one respect. he was wholly unarmed and his opponent had a knife. when he found that trafton--who was of muscular build--was likely to gain the advantage, with a muttered oath he drew his knife and plunged it into his opponent's breast. they were struggling just on the verge of the precipice, and trafton, when he felt the blow, tottered and fell, his antagonist with him. "the old fool's dead, and i must fly," thought the burglar. with hasty step he fled along the sands till he came to a point where he could easily scale the cliff. reaching the top, he walked quickly away from cook's harbor. half an hour later the hermit beached his boat, fastened it and proceeded to his quarters. he was plunged in thought and observed nothing till he stumbled against the fisherman's body. "some drunken fellow probably," he said to himself. he lit a match, and, bending over, was horror-stricken to see the fixed features and the blood upon the garments of the unfortunate fisherman. "there has been murder here! who can it be?" he exclaimed. he lit another match and took a closer look. "as i live, it is trafton, robert's uncle!" he cried. "what mystery is here? how did the unhappy man come to his death?" he was not long left to wonder alone, for robert, as was not unusual with him, had been taking an evening stroll on the beach, and, seeing his employer, came up to speak to him. "good evening, sir," he said, as yet innocent of the sad knowledge which was soon to be his. "is anything the matter?" "robert," said the hermit solemnly, "prepare yourself for a terrible surprise. a man has been killed and that man is----" "my uncle!" exclaimed our hero in dismay. "yes, it is he!" "how did it happen, sir?" asked robert, a frightful suspicion entering his mind. "i know no better than you, my boy. i have just arrived from an evening trip on the water. i was about to enter my quarters when i stumbled over your uncle's body." "what could have brought him here?" "i cannot tell, nor can i conjecture who killed him." "it can't be he," thought robert, dismissing his fleeting suspicion. "what shall i do, sir?" he asked, unprepared, with his boyish inexperience, to decide what to do under such terrible circumstances. "go and summon some of your neighbors to carry the poor man to his home. meanwhile break the news to your aunt as you best can," said the hermit in a tone of quiet decision. "but should i not call the doctor?" "it will be of no avail. your uncle is past the help of any physician. go, and i will stay here till you return." the startling news which robert brought to the fishermen served to bring men, women and children to the spot where john trafton lay, ghastly with blood. well known as he was, the sight startled and agitated them, and, in their ignorance of the real murderer, suspicion fastened upon the hermit, who, tall and dignified, with his white hair falling upon his shoulders, stood among them like a being from another world. trafton's habits were well known, but the manner of his death enlisted public sympathy. "poor john!" said tom scott. "i've known him, man and boy, for a'most fifty years, and i never thought to see him lying like this." "and what will you do with his murderer?" asked his wife in a shrill voice. mrs. scott was somewhat of a virago, but she voiced the popular thought, and all looked to scott for an expression of feeling. "he ought to be strung up when he's found," said scott. "you won't have to look far for him, i'm thinkin'," said mrs. scott. "what do you mean, wife?" asked scott, who was not of a suspicious turn. "there he stands!" said the virago, pointing with her extended finger to the hermit. as this was a thought which had come to others, hostile eyes looked upon the hermit, and two or three moved forward as if to seize him. the old man regarded the fishermen with surprise and said with dignity: "my friends, what manner of man do you think i am that you suspect me of such a deed?" "there's no one could have done it but you," said a young man doggedly. "here lies trafton at the foot of your ladder, with no one near him but you. you was found with him. it's a clear case." "to be sure!" exclaimed two or three of the women. "didn't robert find you here, standin' by the dead body of his uncle?" the hermit turned to our hero, who stood a little in the background, and said quietly: "robert, do you think i killed your uncle?" "i am sure you didn't," said robert, manfully meeting the angry glances which were now cast upon him. "i am glad to have one friend here," said the hermit--"one who judges me better than the rest of my neighbors." "he doesn't know anything about you and he's only a boy!" said mrs. scott, thrusting herself forward with arms akimbo. "i allus said there was something wrong about you or you wouldn't hide yourself away from the sight of men in a cave. like as not you've committed murder before!" "my good woman," said the hermit with a sad smile, "i am sorry you have so poor an opinion of me." "don't you call me good woman!" said mrs. scott, provoked. "i'm no more a good woman than yourself! i tell you, friends and neighbors, you'll do wrong if you let this man go. we may all be murdered in our beds!" she was interrupted by the arrival of mrs. trafton, who had not been apprised of the tragedy from considerations for her feelings, but hearing the stir and excitement, had followed her neighbors to the spot and just ascertain what had happened. "where is my husband?" she cried. all made way for her, feeling that hers was the foremost place, and she stood with startled gaze before her dead husband. ill as he had provided for her and unworthy of her affections as he had proved, at that moment she forgot all but that the husband of her youth lay before her, bereft of life, and she kneeled, sobbing, at his side. the hermit took off his hat and stood reverently by her side. "oh, john!" she sobbed, "i never thought it would come to this! who could have had the heart to kill you?" "that's the man! he murdered him!" said mrs. scott harshly, pointing to the hermit. the widow lifted her eyes to the man of whom she had heard so much from robert with a glance of incredulity. he was too proud to defend himself from the coarse accusation and returned her look with a glance of sympathy and compassion. "i never can believe that!" said the widow in utter incredulity. "he has been kind to my boy. he never would lift his hand against my husband!" the hermit looked deeply gratified. "mrs. trafton," he said, "you are right. i had no cause to harm your husband, nor would i have killed him for robert's sake, whatever wrong he might have done me. but, in truth, i know of no reason why i should seek to injure him." "if you are an innocent man," persisted mrs. scott, "tell us who you are and what brought you here." "yes, tell us who you are!" echoed two others who had always felt curious about the hermit. "i do not choose to declare myself now," said the hermit gravely. "the time may come when i shall do so, but not now." "that's because you're a thief or murderer!" exclaimed mrs. scott, exasperated. "wife, you're goin' too far!" said her husband. "mind your own business, tom scott!" retorted his wife in a tone with which he was only too familiar. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself tryin' to screen the murderer of your next-door neighbor." "i am doing nothing of the kind. there's no proof that the hermit of the cliff murdered john trafton." "you must be a fool if you can't see it," said mrs. scott. robert coverdale was shocked to hear his friend so abused and he said boldly: "mrs. scott, i don't know who murdered my poor uncle, but i know the hermit did not. he has been a good friend to me, and he is no murderer." "go home and go to bed, boy!" said mrs. scott violently. "you take that man's part against your poor uncle." robert was provoked and answered with energy: "i would sooner suspect you than him. i never heard the hermit say a word against my uncle, while only yesterday you called him a drunken vagabond." this so turned the tables on mrs. scott that she was unable to return to the attack. "well, if i ever!" she ejaculated. "tom scott, are you goin' to see your wife sassed by a boy?" "it seems to me, wife, that the boy is in the right in this instance," answered tom, who had a sense of justice. "so you turn against your lawful wife, do you?" exclaimed mrs. scott violently. "i'll come up with you yet. see if i don't." tom scott shrugged his shoulders with resignation. "i've no doubt you will," he answered with a half smile. "my friends," said the hermit with calm dignity, "as it appears that some of you suspect me of this dastardly deed, i am quite willing to submit to any restraint you may desire till the groundlessness of the charge appears. you may leave a guard here in the cave or i will accompany you to any of your own houses. i certainly have no desire to escape while such suspicions are entertained." robert indignantly protested against such a step, but the hermit stayed his words. "robert," he said, "it is better. it will do me no harm, and, under the circumstances, while the matter is involved in mystery, i admit that it is perfectly justifiable and proper. my friends, i am in your hands. what will you do with me?" mrs. scott expressed her opinion that he should be strung up immediately, but no one seconded her. it was decided that two of the fishermen should remain at the cave that night to prevent any attempt at escape on the part of the hermit. the body of the murdered fisherman was carried to his own cabin and properly cared for till the coroner, who must be brought from a neighboring town, should make his appearance. chapter xx mr. jones makes a call when morning dawned a new face was put upon the matter. steps were discovered leading from the scene of the murder along the beach and up the cliff. there were also discovered signs of a struggle in the cave, and it became clear that there had been a conflict and that one of the two concerned had escaped. of course it could not have been the hermit, for he was now in custody. moreover, a fisherman who had been out in his boat in the evening remembered meeting the hermit rowing at about the time the murder must have been committed. these discoveries cleared the hermit, but the question arose: "who was this other man?" there was no difficulty in solving this question. there were plenty who remembered the stranger who had spent a part of the previous evening in the barroom of the tavern, and his evident curiosity as to the wealth of the hermit was also remembered. the real state of the case was now pretty well understood. this stranger had suddenly resolved to rob the hermit and had secretly found his way to the cavern. but how did he happen to find the fisherman there and what was the object of the latter? then it was remembered that trafton also had seemed much interested in the supposed hoards of the hermit, and, when his own want of money was considered, it was suspected that he, too, went on an errand similar to the burglar. but he was dead, and his neighbors, who knew that he must have yielded to the force of a sudden and new temptation, did not care to speculate upon his object. they were disposed to spare their old neighbor and charitably drop a veil over his attempted crime, which had brought upon him such fearful retribution. of course the hermit was released from custody, and there was not a person in the village who did not acquit him of all wrong except mrs. scott, who could not forgive him for proving her suspicions groundless. "you may say what you will," she said perversely, "i know the man's a burglar, or a murderer, or something else bad." "he couldn't have murdered john trafton, for we traced the murderer's steps on the beach. there is no doubt it was that stranger we saw in the barroom." so said her husband. "i don't care whether he murdered john trafton or not," said mrs. scott. "i'm sure he's murdered somebody, and i'm ready to take my bible oath of it." "what makes you so prejudiced against the poor man? he hasn't done you any harm, mrs. scott." "i don't like the airs he puts on. he looks at you jest as if you were dust beneath his feet. what right has he to look down upon honest people, i want to know?" but mrs. scott did not succeed in creating a prejudice against the hermit, whose courageous and dignified bearing had impressed all who observed his manner in this trying crisis. when the funeral was over the hermit called in the evening upon the widow of john trafton. it was the first he had ever made upon any of his neighbors and it excited surprise. robert brought forward the rocking-chair and invited the visitor cordially to sit down. "mrs. trafton," said the hermit, "i want to thank you and robert for the confidence you showed in me at a time when all others suspected me of a terrible deed. you were the ones most affected, yet you acquitted me in your hearts." "just for a moment i suspected you when i saw you standing by the dead body of my uncle," said robert, "but it was only for a moment." "i respect you for your fearless candor, my boy. you were justified in your momentary suspicion." "i am ashamed of it. you had been such a kind friend." "it was only natural. and now, my friends, what are your plans? how will you be able to maintain yourselves?" "i don't think it will make much difference," began robert hesitatingly. "my husband did very little for our support," said mrs. trafton. "not more, certainly, than his own food amounted to. you know, sir, i think robert must have told you the unfortunate habits of my poor husband. he was enslaved by drink, and he spent nearly all he earned in the barroom." "yes, i knew what your husband's habits were," said the hermit gently. "it is a great pity he could not have lived to change them." "i am afraid he never would," said the widow. "they had grown upon him from year to year, and he seemed to get weaker and weaker in purpose." "i had a brother who was equally unfortunate," said the hermit. "there are few families who are wholly free from the evils of intemperance. but have you formed any plans?" "i suppose we can get along as we have," answered mrs. trafton. "with what you kindly pay robert, and what he can pick up elsewhere, and the sewing i do, i think we can get along." "do you own this cottage?" inquired the hermit. "yes, sir." "then you will have no rent to pay." "no, i don't know how we could do that." the hermit looked thoughtful. "i will see you again," he said as he rose to go. on the whole, mrs. trafton and robert were likely to get along as well as before john trafton's death. robert could use his uncle's boat for fishing, selling what they did not require, while regularly every week two dollars came in from the hermit. it was a great source of relief that no rent must be paid. the fisherman's cabin and lot originally cost about five hundred dollars and the household furniture was of little value. the taxes were small and could easily be met. so there seemed nothing to prevent their living on in the same way as before. some time robert hoped and expected to leave cook's harbor. he was a smart, enterprising, ambitious boy, and he felt that he would like a more stirring life in a larger place. he was not ashamed of the fisherman's business, but he felt qualified for something better. it did not escape his notice that most of his neighbors were illiterate men, who had scarcely a thought beyond the success of their fishing trips, and he had already entered so far into the domain of study and books as to feel the charm of another world--the great world of knowledge--which lay spread out before him and beckoned him onward. but he was not impatient. "my duty at present," he reflected, "is to stay in cook's harbor and take care of my aunt. i am young and strong, and i don't mean that she shall want for any comforts which i can get for her." he soon learned, however, that there was one great mistake in his calculations. robert was sitting by the door reading, after his return from a fishing trip, about a week after his uncle's funeral, when he heard the steps of some one approaching. looking up, he saw advancing toward their humble residence the stout, ponderous figure of nahum jones, the landlord of the village inn. it was not often that mr. jones found his way to the beach. usually he kept close to the tavern, unless he rode to some neighboring town. therefore robert was surprised to see him. nahum jones nodded slightly, and, taking off his straw hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "here, you, bob," he said, "is your aunt at home?" "yes, sir!" answered robert, but not cordially, for he felt that mr. jones had been no friend of his uncle. "well, tell her i've come to have a talk with her, do you hear?" "yes, i hear," answered the boy coolly. he rose from his chair and entered the house. "aunt jane," he said, "here is mr. jones come to see you." "what? the tavern keeper?" asked his aunt in great surprise. "yes, aunt." "what can that man want of me?" the question was answered, not by robert but by nahum jones himself. "i want to have a little talk with you, ma'am," said the burly landlord, entering without an invitation and seating himself unceremoniously. "i will listen to what you have to say, mr. jones," said the widow, "but i will not pretend that i am glad to see you. you were an enemy to my poor husband." "i don't know what you mean, mrs. trafton. did he ever tell you that i was his enemy?" "no, but it was you who sold him liquor and took the money which he should have spent on his own family." "all nonsense, ma'am. you women are the most unreasonable creatures. i didn't ask him to drink." "you tempted him to do it." "i deny it!" said the landlord warmly. "i couldn't refuse to sell him what he asked for, could i? you must be a fool to talk so!" said the landlord roughly. "i'll trouble you to speak respectfully to my aunt, mr. jones," said robert with flashing eyes. "mind your own business, you young rascal!" said nahum jones, whose temper was not of the best. "i mean to," retorted robert. "my business is to protect my aunt from being insulted." "wait till you're a little bigger, boy," said jones with a sneer. robert involuntarily doubled up his fist and answered: "i mean to protect her now." "mrs. trafton," said nahum jones, highly irritated, "you'd better silence that young cub or i may kick him out of doors!" "you appear to forget that you are not in your own house, nahum jones," said the widow with dignity. "my nephew has acted perfectly right and only spoke as he should." "so you sustain him in his impudence, do you?" snarled jones, showing his teeth. "if that is all you have come to say to me, mr. jones, you may as well go." "by george, ma'am, you are mighty independent!" "i am not dependent on the man who ruined my poor husband." "no, but you're dependent on me!" exclaimed the landlord, pounding the floor forcibly with his cane. "will you explain yourself, sir?" "i will," said mr. jones emphatically. "you talk about my not being in my own house, but it's just possible you are mistaken." "what do you mean?" asked mrs. trafton, startled. "i mean this, that i hold a mortgage on this house for two hundred dollars, and that's as much as it will fetch at auction. what do you say to that?" robert looked and felt as much troubled as his aunt. on his young shoulders fell this new burden, and he was at an utter loss what could be done. "i thought i'd shut you up, you young cub!" said the landlord, glancing maliciously at robert. "you haven't shut me up!" retorted robert with spirit. "what have you got to say, hey?" "that you ought to be ashamed to take all my uncle's earnings and then steal his home. that's what i've got to say!" "i've a great mind to give you a caning," said mr. jones in a rage. "you'd better not!" said robert. he was as tall as the landlord, and though not as strong, considerably more active, and he did not feel in the least frightened. nahum jones was of a choleric disposition, and his face was purple with rage, but he hadn't yet said all he intended. "i give you warning, mrs. trafton," he said, shaking his cane at our hero, "that i'm going to foreclose this mortgage and turn you into the street. you've got yourself to thank, you and this young rascal. i came here thinking i'd be easy with you, but i don't mean to stand your insulting talk. i'll give you four weeks to raise the money, and if you don't do it, out you go, bag and baggage. perhaps when you're in the poorhouse you may be sorry you didn't treat me better." "oh, robert, what shall we do?" asked the poor woman, her courage failing as she reflected on the possibility that the landlord's prediction might be fulfilled. "don't be alarmed, aunt jane; i'll take care of you," said robert more cheerfully than he felt. "oh, you will, will you?" sneered mr. jones. "anybody'd think to hear you that you were worth a pile of money. if your aunt depends on you to keep her out of the poorhouse, i would not give much for her chance." "you won't have the satisfaction of seeing either of us there," said robert defiantly. "you needn't expect my wife to give you any more sewing," said mr. jones, scowling at the widow. "i don't think my aunt wants any, considering she hasn't been paid for the last work she did," said robert. "what do you mean by that? i credited your uncle with twenty-five cents on his score." "without my aunt's consent." mr. jones was so incensed at the defiant mien of the boy that he rocked violently to and fro--so violently that the chair, whose rockers were short, tipped over backward and the wrathful landlord rolled ignominiously on the floor. "here's you hat, mr. jones," said robert, smiling in spite of himself as he picked it up and restored it to the mortified visitor. "you'll hear from me!" roared the landlord furiously, aiming a blow at robert and leaving the room precipitately. "you'll repent this day, see if you don't!" after he had left the room robert and his aunt looked at each other gravely. they had made an enemy out of a man who could turn them out of doors. the future looked far from bright. chapter xxi the hermit's secret mr. jones, in his anger at robert, regretted that he must wait four weeks before he could turn him and his aunt out of the house. it would be a great satisfaction to him to see the boy without a roof to shelter him, reduced to becoming a tramp or to take refuge in the poorhouse. "by george, i'll humble the young beggar's pride!" exclaimed mr. jones as he hastened homeward from his unsatisfactory interview. it must be admitted that robert had not been exactly respectful, but, on the other hand, it is quite certain that the landlord had been rude and rough in manner and speech. why, then, did not mr. jones foreclose the mortgage instantly and gratify his resentment? because in the instrument there was a proviso requiring a notice of four weeks. however, he felt that it would make little difference. "they can't raise the money in four weeks," he reflected. "there's nobody round here who will lend them the money, and they don't know anybody anywhere else." so, on the whole, he was satisfied. four weeks would soon pass, and then his thirst for revenge would be sated. "what makes you so sober, my boy?" asked the hermit when robert made his regular call upon him the next day. "i feel anxious," answered the boy. "but why need you? you told me your uncle did very little for the family. i think you will be able to take care of your aunt. if not, i will help you more." "thank you, sir; you are very kind. but we thought when you called the other day that we owned the house and would have no rent to pay." "were you mistaken about this?" asked the hermit quickly. "it seems so. mr. jones, the tavern keeper, has a mortgage on the property and threatens to foreclose in four weeks unless the money is paid. of course, we can't pay him, and i suppose we shall be turned out." "how large is this mortgage?" "two hundred dollars." "that is not a very great sum." "it is very large to us. you know how poor we are." "but have you no friend who will lend you the money?" "no, sir." "are you sure of that?" asked the hermit with a peculiar smile, which inspired new hope in robert. then, without waiting for a reply, the man continued: "if you are willing, i will pay this mortgage when the time comes, and i will be your creditor instead of mr. jones." "how can i thank you?" exclaimed robert joyfully. "my aunt will be delighted." "tell her then, but no one else. it will give mr. jones a surprise." "it won't be a pleasant one. he was very rude and impolite and said he hoped to see us in the poorhouse." "i don't believe you will ever go there, robert," said the hermit, looking earnestly at the strong, energetic face of the boy before him. "no, sir, i don't believe we will. but you are doing a great deal for us, sir. how can i ever repay you? if there was anything i could do for you i should be glad." "perhaps you can," said the hermit in a musing tone. "let me know what it is, sir, and i'll be glad to do it." "have you ever wondered," asked the hermit abruptly, "why i have left the haunts of men and retired to this out-of-the-way spot?" "yes, sir. i have thought of that often." "your curiosity is natural. i am not a poor man--in fact i should be called rich. poverty and pecuniary troubles, therefore, have nothing to do with my strange act--as the world considers it. in my life there have been two tragedies. i was married, at the age of thirty, to a very beautiful young lady, whom i tenderly loved. i made my home in a city of considerable size and lived as my means warranted. one evening, as my wife stood before the open grate, dressed for a party, her dress caught fire, and before help could arrive she was fatally injured. of course the blow was a terrible one. but i had a child--a boy of five--on whom my affections centered. a year later he mysteriously disappeared, and from that day i have never heard a word of him. when search proved unavailing, i became moody and a settled melancholy took possession of me. i could not endure the sight of other parents happy in the possession of children, and i doomed myself to a solitary life, wandering here and there till, two years since, i chanced to find this cave and made my home here." "how old would your son be now?" asked robert with interest. "about your own age--perhaps a little older. it was this and a fancied resemblance which attracted me toward you." "had you any suspicion that your son was stolen?" asked robert. "yes. in particular i suspected a cousin who would be my probable heir in case my boy died. but i could never prove anything, and the man expressed so much sympathy that i was ashamed to avow any suspicions. but charles waldo was a covetous man, insatiable in his greed of money and absolutely cold and unsympathetic, though his manner was plausible. he hoped that this second blow would kill me, but he has been disappointed." "if the boy is living, perhaps he knows where he is," said robert. "if he abducted him--yes. he would not kill him, for he is too cautious a man and has too great fear of the law." "where is mr. waldo now living?" "in ohio. he has a large farm and a moderate amount of money invested--some twenty thousand dollars perhaps--so that he is able to live at ease. he was disappointed because i would not give him the charge of my property, but with the lingering suspicion in my mind i could not make up my mind to do it. he also sought a loan of ten thousand dollars, which i refused." "how then does he expect to be your heir?" asked robert. "two-thirds of my property is entailed and must be left to him if my boy is dead." "if he really stole your son, he must be a wicked man," said robert with boyish indignation at the thought. "yes, for he has wrecked two lives--mine and my boy's." "have you no hope of ever again seeing your son?" "only a slight one. i have thought of a plan in which i need your help." "if i can help you, sir," said robert heartily, "i will do so gladly." "i do not doubt it, robert," said the hermit kindly. "i will explain my meaning. if charles waldo knows anything of my lost boy, he must, from time to time, hold communication with him, and if he is watched he may some day reveal his hiding place." "why do you not go out to where he lives and watch him?" "it would do no good. it would only put him on his guard. i intend this office for you." "for me?" exclaimed robert in amazement. "yes, you are young, but you have natural ability, and shrewdness. at any rate, you are the only one i have to send. it is a desperate chance, but i shall feel better satisfied when i have tried it." "i will follow your instructions whenever you wish," said robert, his heart beating at the prospect of seeing something of that world of which he had seen so little and heard so much. "my instructions will be few. i must trust much to your shrewdness. you will need to visit the town where my cousin lives to observe his habits and any unusual visitors he may have--in fact, try to arrive at the knowledge of the secret, if there is one, connected with my boy's disappearance." "what was your son's name?" "julian huet. my own name is gilbert huet, but this information is for your ear alone." "i will not mention it, sir." "you need not feel anxious about leaving your aunt. i will see that her wants are provided for during your absence." "thank you, sir." "and the mortgage shall be paid when it comes due." "i wish i could be here to see mr. jones disappointed." "you can hardly be back so soon. it may take you six months. the task is one that will require time. by the way, i do not wish you to mention to your aunt the nature of your errand. merely tell her that you are traveling on business for me." "very well, sir. how soon do you wish me to start?" "at the beginning of next week." "i am afraid, sir, i have no clothes that are fit to wear," said robert with hesitation. "you will provide yourself in boston with a suitable outfit. you will be supplied with an ample sum of money, and i will instruct my bankers to honor any drafts you may make." "you will be spending a great deal of money for me, mr. huet." "i am rich, and living as i have each year this made me richer. i will not grudge ten, twenty, fifty thousand dollars if you find my boy or bring me a clew which will lead to his discovery." robert was dazzled. it was evident that the hermit must be very rich. he walked home in high spirits. he was on the eve of an exciting journey and he enjoyed the prospect. chapter xxii two persons are surprised "aunt," said robert, his face aglow with excitement, "i am going to make a journey. i hope you won't feel lonely while i am away." "a journey!" exclaimed mrs. trafton in astonishment. "yes, i am going away on business for the hermit." "where are you going?" "to boston first." "to boston? land's sake! how can a boy like you find your way round in such a great city as boston?" "a boy of my age ought to be able to take care of himself." "why, child, you'll lose your way! there's ever so many streets and roads. i went to boston once, and i got so puzzled i didn't know whether i stood on my head or my heels. if there was some older person going with you, now----" "aunt, don't make a baby of me. i guess i can get along as well as anybody." "well, you can try it. when will you be back?" "when i get my business done." "you won't be gone over two days, i calculate." "i may be gone two months or more." "well, i never!" exclaimed the astonished woman, staring at robert as if she thought his mind was wandering. "what sort of business is it that's going to take so long?" "the hermit wants it kept secret, aunt jane." "but how am i going to get along without you?" asked his aunt in dismay. "i can't go out fishing, and the money i earn by sewing is almost nothing." robert smiled, for he knew he could allay his aunt's fears. "the hermit will pay you five dollars a week while i am gone, and here is the first week's pay," he said, drawing from his pocket a bill. "well, i must say your friend the hermit is a gentleman. five dollars a week is more than i can spend." "then save a part of it if you like, aunt." "but what shall i do, robert, if mr. jones comes upon me to pay the mortgage when you arc gone?" said his aunt, with new alarm. "the hermit has agreed to pay off the mortgage and take one himself for the same amount." "he is very kind, robert. don't you think that i ought to call and thank him?" "what! call at the cave?" "yes!" "no, aunt," said robert hastily. "he would not like to have you. you can wait till you see him. but mind you don't tell anybody--least of all, mr. jones--that you will be able to pay the mortgage. as he is so mean, we want to give him a surprise." "just as you say, robert. i am glad we'll be able to disappoint him, for he is certainly a very mean man. now, when do you want to start for boston?" "to-morrow." "but how am i going to get ready your shirts and socks so soon?" "i shall not take any of them." "robert coverdale, you must be crazy. you can't wear one shirt for two months if you're going so long." "i don't expect to, aunt," said the boy, smiling. "i am going to buy a whole outfit of new things when i get to boston. the hermit wants me to." "he must be awful rich!" said the good woman, whose ideas on the subject of wealth were limited. "all the better for us, aunt jane, as he is willing to spend some of his money for us." mrs. trafton was considerably excited by the prospect of robert's journey, and, notwithstanding what he had said, occupied herself in washing his clothes and making a small bundle for him to carry, but robert declined taking them, with a smile. "you see, aunt, my clothes wouldn't be good enough to wear in boston," he said. "just keep them till i get back. perhaps i may need them then." "i'll lay 'em away carefully, robert. when you get a little larger i guess you'll be able to wear some of your uncle's clothes. his best suit might be made over for you. he hadn't had it but six years, and there's a good deal of wear in it yet. i might cut it over myself when you're gone." "better wait till i come back, aunt," said robert hastily. he knew the suit very well. it was snuff-colored and by no means a good fit, even for his uncle, while under his aunt's unpracticed hands it would probably look considerably worse when made over for him. it must be confessed that robert's ideas were expanding and he was rapidly growing more fastidious. he instinctively felt that he was about to turn a new leaf in his book of life and to enter on new scenes, in which he was to play a less obscure part than had been his hitherto in the little village of cook's harbor. but no such change had come to his aunt. she still regarded robert as the same boy that he always had been--born to the humble career of a fisherman--and she examined her husband's best suit with much complacency, mentally resolving that, in spite of robert's objection, she would devote her leisure time to making it over for him. "he can wear it for best for a year or two," she thought, "and then put it on every day. i am sure it will look well on him." in the evening robert went to the cave to have a farewell interview with the hermit--or gilbert huet, to give him the name which was properly his. "you may write to me about once a week if you have anything to say, robert," said the hermit. "how shall i direct you, sir? shall i use your name?" "how am i known in the village?" "they call you 'the hermit of the cliff.'" "then direct your letters to 'the hermit of the cliff.' they are not likely to go astray." mr. huet gave robert his instructions and finally produced a roll of banknotes. "you will find two hundred dollars in this roll, robert," he said. "you can buy a wallet to keep it in when you reach boston." "two hundred dollars!" exclaimed the boy in amazement. "you won't find it so large a sum as you suppose when you are required to pay traveling expenses. you need not try to be over-economical. i prefer that you should stop at good hotels and put on a good appearance. but i warn you to keep your mouth shut and tell your business to no one. i depend upon your discretion not to fall into the hands of knaves or adventurers. i know that i am putting unusual confidence in a boy of your limited experience, but i have no one else to trust, and i feel that you may be relied upon." "i hope i shall not disappoint you, mr. huet." "well, robert, i will bid you good night and god bless you! we don't know what lies before us, but if you succeed, i will take care that your career shall be a fortunate one." robert walked slowly back to his humble home, almost wishing that the night were over and his journey actually begun. there was but one way out of cook's harbor--that is, by land. a stage left the village every morning for kaneville, six miles distant, a small station on a road which terminated many miles away in boston. the stage started at seven o'clock, so robert was forced to get up betimes, take an early breakfast and walk up to the tavern. mr. jones, the landlord, was standing on the piazza when robert made his appearance. he had no proprietary right in the stage line, but the driver generally stopped overnight at the tavern and the horses were kept in his stable, so that he had come to assume a certain air of proprietorship. as robert was climbing up to take a seat by the driver mr. jones, with a frown, called out: "look here, you young rascal, come right down!" "why am i to come down, mr. jones?" said robert independently. "because i tell you to. we can't have any boys stealing rides." "is this stage yours?" asked robert, surveying the landlord with provoking coolness. "no matter whether it is or not," retorted jones, red in the face. "i tell you to come down. do you hear?" "yes, i hear." "then you'd better come down double quick or i'll give you a taste of a horsewhip." "i advise you to mind your own business, mr. jones," said robert hotly, "and not interfere with the passengers by this stage." "you're not a passenger, you young beggar!" "i am a passenger--and now you'd better stop talking." "have you got money to pay your fare?" asked the landlord, beginning to suspect he had made a fool of himself. "when the driver calls for the fare it will be time enough to tell." "luke," said mr. jones to the driver, "you'd better take that boy's fare now. he wants to swindle you out of a ride." "you may take it out of this," said robert, tendering a five-dollar bill. "i guess we'll let it stand till we get to kaneville," said luke, gathering up the reins. robert darted a glance of triumph at the discomfited and bewildered landlord, and his journey was begun. the latter, on luke's return, learned to his further surprise that robert had gone to boston. on reflection, he concluded that mrs. trafton must have some relatives in the city from whom they hoped to borrow enough money to raise the mortgage. "but he won't succeed, and in four weeks i shall turn him and his aunt out of doors," mr. jones complacently reflected. chapter xxiii an unpleasant surprise when robert arrived in boston he was at first bewildered by the noise and bustle to which, in the quiet fishing village, he was quite unaccustomed. all that he knew about the city was the names of the principal streets. it was not necessary, however, that he should go in any particular direction. he decided, therefore, to walk along, keeping a good lookout, and, when he saw a clothing store, to go in and provide a new outfit. he was sensible that he was by no means dressed in city style. his clothes were coarse, and being cut and made by his aunt--who, though an excellent woman, was by no means an excellent tailor--looked countrified and outlandish. the first hint robert had of this was when two well-dressed boys, meeting him, simultaneously burst out laughing. robert was sensitive, but he was by no means bashful or timid. accordingly he stepped up to the boys and demanded with kindling eyes: "are you laughing at me?" "oh, no, of course not," answered one of the boys, rolling his tongue in his cheek. "certainly not, my dear fellow," said the other, winking. "i think you were," said robert firmly. "do you see anything to laugh at in me?" "well, to tell the truth," said the first boy, "we were wondering whether you import your clothes from paris or london." "oh, that's it," said robert good-humoredly, for he was aware that his clothes were of strange cut. "my clothes were made in the country and i don't think much of them myself. if you'd tell me where i can get some better ones i will buy a suit." the boys were not bad-hearted and were won over by robert's good humor. "you're a good fellow," said the first speaker, "and i am sorry i was rude enough to laugh at you. there is a store where i think you can find what you want." he pointed to a clothing store. in front of which was a good display of ready-made clothing. "thank you," said robert. he entered and the boys walked on. if robert had been better dressed he would have received immediate attention. as it was, he looked like a poor boy in want of work and not at all like a customer. so, at all events, decided a dapper-looking clerk whose attention was drawn to the new arrival. "well, boy, what do you want?" he demanded roughly, approaching robert. "civil treatment to begin with," answered robert with spirit. "if you've come for a place, we don't want any scarecrows here." it appears that the firm had advertised for an errand boy that very morning, and it was naturally supposed that robert was an applicant. "are you the owner of this shop?" asked robert coolly. "no," answered the clerk, lowering his tone a little. "i thought so. i'll tell my business to somebody else." "you'd better not put on airs!" said the clerk angrily. "you are the one who is putting on airs," retorted robert. "what's the matter here?" asked a portly gentleman, walking up to the scene of the altercation. "i was telling this boy that he would not do for the place," answered the clerk. "i believe, mr. turner, that you are not commissioned to make a selection," said the gentleman. and turner retired, discomfited. "so you want a place?" he said inquiringly to robert. "no, sir, i don't." "mr. turner said you did." "i never told him so." "here, turner," said the gentleman. "why did you tell me this boy wanted a place?" "i supposed he did. he looked like it, sir." "i don't want a place. i want to buy a suit of clothes," said robert. "if that young man hadn't treated me so rudely, i should have asked him to show me some." "look here, mr. turner," said the gentleman sternly, "if you have no more sense than to insult our customers, we can dispense with your services. mr. conway, will you wait on this young man?" turner was mortified and slunk away, beginning to understand that it is not always safe to judge a man or boy by the clothes he wears. mr. conway was more of a gentleman and civilly asked robert to follow him. "what kind of a suit would you like?" he added. "a pretty good one," answered robert. he was shown several suits and finally selected one of gray mixed cloth of excellent quality. "that is one of our most expensive suits," said conway doubtfully. "will it wear well?" "it will wear like iron." "then i will take it. how much will it cost?" conway named the price. robert would have hesitated about paying so much, but that he was acting under instructions from the hermit. "shall we send it to you anywhere?" asked mr. conway, a little surprised at robert's readiness to pay so high a price. "no, i should like to put it on here." "you can do so--that is, after paying for it." robert drew out a wallet and from his roll of bills took out sufficient to pay for the new suit. mr. conway went to the cashier's desk. the two had a conversation together. then the stout gentleman was called to the desk. robert saw them open a copy of a morning paper and read a paragraph, looking at him after reading it. he wondered what it all meant. presently conway came back and asked him to walk up to the desk. robert did so, wonderingly. "you seem to have a good deal of money with you," commenced the stout gentleman. "yes, sir," answered robert composedly. "a great deal of money for a boy dressed as you are," continued the speaker pointedly. robert began to understand now, and he replied proudly: "do you generally ask your customers how much money they have?" "no, but yours is a peculiar case." "the money is mine--that is, i have a right to spend it. i am acting under orders from the gentleman who employs me." "who is that?" "no one that you would know. he lives at cook's harbor. but i didn't come in here to answer questions. if you don't want to sell me a suit of clothes, i will go somewhere else." "to be plain with you, my boy," said the stout gentleman, not unkindly, "we are afraid that you have no right to this money. the _herald_ of this morning gives an account of a boy who has run away from a town in new hampshire with three hundred dollars belonging to a farmer. you appear to be the age mentioned." "i never stole a dollar in my life," said robert indignantly. "it may be so, but i feel it a duty to put you in charge of the police, who will investigate the matter. james, call an officer." robert realized that he was in an unpleasant situation. it would be hard to prove that the money in his hands was really at his disposal. help came from an unexpected quarter. a young man, fashionably dressed, had listened to the conversation of which robert was the subject. he came forward promptly, saying: "there is no occasion to suspect this boy. he is all right." "do you know him?" asked the proprietor politely. "yes, i know him well. he is in the employ of a gentleman at cook's harbor, as he says. you can safely sell him the clothes." the young man spoke so positively that all suspicion was removed. "i am glad to learn that it is all right," said the clothing merchant. "my young friend, i am sorry to have suspected you. we shall be glad to sell you the suit, and to recompense you for the brief inconvenience we will take off two dollars from the price." "thank you, sir." "it would not do for us to receive stolen money, hence our caution." robert did not bear malice, and he accepted the apology and dressed himself in the suit referred to, which very much changed his appearance for the better. in fact, but for his hat and shoes, he looked like a city boy of a well-to-do family. he felt fortunate in getting off so well, but he was puzzled to understand where he could have met the young man who professed to know him so well. he left the store, but almost immediately was tapped on the shoulder by the young man in question. "i got you off well, didn't i?" said the young man with a wink. "i am much obliged to you, sir," said robert. "you don't seem to remember me," continued the young man, winking again. "no, sir." "good reason why. i never saw you in my life before nor you me." "but i thought you said you had met me at cook's harbor?" said robert in surprise. the young man laughed. "only way to get you off. you'd have been marched off by a policeman if i hadn't." this seemed rather irregular to our hero. still he knew that he was innocent of any wrongdoing, and as the young man appeared to have acted from friendly motives he thanked him again. "that's all very well," said the young man, "but, considering the scrape i've saved you from, i think you ought to give me at least twenty-five dollars." "but the money isn't mine," said robert, opening his eyes, for he could hardly have expected an application for money from a young man so fashionably dressed. "of course it isn't," said the young man, winking again. "it belongs to the man you took it from. i'm fairly entitled to a part. so just give me twenty-five and we'll call it square." "if you mean that i stole the money, you're quite mistaken," said robert indignantly. "it belongs to my employer." "just what i thought," said the other. "but i have a right to spend it. i am doing just as he told me to do." "come, young fellow, that won't go down! it's too thin!" said the young man, his countenance changing. "you don't take me in so easily. just hand over twenty-five dollars or i'll hand you over to the police! there's one coming!" robert certainly did not care to have the threat executed, but he did not choose to yield. "if you do," he said, "i'll tell him that you did it because i would not give you twenty-five dollars." this did not strike his new acquaintance as desirable, since it would be, in effect, charging him with blackmail. moreover, he could bring nothing tangible against our young hero. he changed his tone therefore. "i don't want to harm you," he said, "but i deserve something for getting you out of a scrape. you might spare me five dollars." "i got my suit two dollars cheaper through what you said," said robert. "i'll give you that sum." "well, that will do," said the other, finding the country boy more unmanageable than he expected. "i ought to have more, but i will call it square on that." robert drew a two-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the stranger. "that i can give," he said, "because it was part of the price of my suit." "all right. good morning!" said the young man, and, thrusting the bill into his vest pocket, he walked carelessly away. robert looked after him with a puzzled glance. "i shouldn't think a young man dressed like that could be in want of money," he reflected. "i am afraid he told a lie on my account, but i thought at the time he had really seen me, even if i couldn't remember him." soon robert came to a hat store, where he exchanged his battered old hat for one of fashionable shape, and a little later his cowhide shoes for a pair of neat calfskin. he surveyed himself now with natural satisfaction, for he was as well dressed as his friend herbert irving. he had by this time reached washington street and had just passed milk street when he met george randolph, who looked as consequential and conceited as ever. "good morning, george," said robert. george looked at him doubtfully. how could he suppose that the boy before him, dressed as well as himself, was the poor fisher boy of cook's harbor? "i don't seem to remember you," said george civilly. robert smiled. "you met me at cook's harbor," he explained. "i am robert coverdale." "what! not the young fisherman?" ejaculated george incredulously. "the same." "you haven't come into a fortune, have you? what brings you here?" demanded the city boy in great amazement. "i am in the city on business. no, i haven't come into a fortune, but i am better off than i was. can you recommend me a good hotel?" "i don't know about the cheap hotels." "i don't care for a cheap hotel. i want a good one." more and more surprised, george said: "you might go to young's." "i will go there. thank you for telling me." "i don't understand how a boy like you can afford to go to such a hotel as that," said george, looking very much puzzled. "no, i suppose not," returned robert, smiling. "if you don't mind telling me----" "i am sorry i can't, but my errand is a secret one. "did my uncle send you?" "no, neither he nor herbert knows of my coming. i didn't have time to see herbert before i came away." "are you going to stay long in boston?" "no, i think not. i am going to new york or albany." "it seems queer to me." "very likely. good-by! thank you for directing me." george had been remarkably civil, but in a boy like him that is easily explained. he was civil, not to robert, but to his new suit and his new prosperity. "it's the strangest thing i ever heard of," he muttered as he walked away. "why, the young fisherman is dressed as well as i am!" chapter xxiv on long island sound had he possessed plenty of leisure, robert would have been glad to remain in boston long enough to see the principal objects of interest in the city and its vicinity, but he never for a moment forgot that his time was not his own. he had entered the service of the hermit, and every day's delay was so much additional expense to his employer. true, gilbert huet was a rich man, as he had himself acknowledged, but robert was conscientious, and felt that this would not justify him in gratifying himself at the expense of the man who had so trusted him. robert felt proud of this trust--this very unusual proof of confidence in a boy so young and inexperienced as he was--and he was ambitious to justify it. i am sure, therefore, that he would have had little satisfaction in postponing it out of regard to his own pleasure. there were two ways of going to the west, which, it will be remembered, was his destination--by the way of albany or new york city. finding that it would not matter much how he went, robert decided upon the latter. it would enable him to see the great city of which he had heard so much, and who knows but, in this great metropolis, which swallows up so many, he might hear something of the lost boy? he decided, therefore, to go at once to new york, and, after some inquiry, he fixed upon the fall river route. this includes railroad travel to fall river, a distance of about fifty miles, where the traveler embarks on a great steamer and arrives in new york after a night on long island sound. guided by an advertisement in the daily papers, robert made his way to the old state house, at the head of state street, and, entering the office of the steamboat line, asked for a ticket. "will you take a stateroom also?" asked the clerk. "is that necessary?" asked robert, who was unused to traveling. "no, it's not necessary. your ticket will entitle you to a comfortable berth, but in a stateroom you have greater privacy." "what is a stateroom?" asked our hero. the clerk was rather surprised by this question, but decided that robert was not accustomed to traveling and answered politely enough: "it is very much like a room in a hotel, only much smaller. there is a berth and a washstand, and you can lock yourself in. there is greater security against robbery, for you hold the key and no one can enter it without your knowledge." as robert carried considerable money belonging to mr. huet, he felt that he ought to take this precaution, if it were not too expensive. "how much must i pay for a stateroom?" he asked. "you can get a good one for a dollar." "then i will take one." "number fifty-six," said the clerk, handing him a card with the number penciled on it. "what's your name?" "robert coverdale." so robert walked out of the office with his passage engaged. this was on the morning after his arrival, and as the steamboat train did not start till afternoon, this afforded him a chance to spend several hours in seeing the city. first he went to the common and walked across it, surveying with interest the large and noble trees which add so much beauty to a park which, in size, is insignificant compared with the great parks of new york and philadelphia, but appears older and more finished than either. he rode in various directions in the cars and enjoyed the varied sights that passed under his notice. at half-past four he paid his bill at the hotel and took a car which passed the depot from which the steamboat train for new york starts. the train was an express, and in little more than an hour he boarded the beautiful sound steamer. he was astonished at its magnificence as he went upstairs to the main saloon. as he was looking about him in rather a bewildered way a colored man employed on the boat inquired: "what are you looking for, young man?" "where shall i get a key to my stateroom?" he was told, and, opening the door, he found himself in a comfortable little room with two berths. "i can pass the night here very pleasantly," he thought. "there is some difference between sleeping here and on a sailboat." once, in company with his uncle, he had been compelled to pass the night on the ocean in a small sailboat used for fishing purposes. robert left his valise in the stateroom and went into the saloon. a gong was heard, which he found was the announcement of supper. it was now past seven o'clock and he felt hungry. he accordingly followed the crowd downstairs and ate a hearty meal. when he went upstairs again the band soon began to play and helped to while away the time. some of the passengers read papers, others read books and magazines, while others from the outer decks watched the progress of the large boat as it swiftly coursed over the waves. in this last company was robert. without being aware of it, our hero attracted the notice of one of his fellow passengers, a man possibly of thirty-five, tall and thin and dressed in black. finally he accosted robert. "a fine evening!" he remarked. "yes, sir, very fine." "you are going to new york, i suppose?" "yes, sir." "do you tarry there?" "not long. i am going to ohio." "you seem young to travel alone. perhaps, however, you have company?" "no, sir," robert answered. "i am traveling alone." there was a look of satisfaction on the man's face, which robert did not see. even if he had he would not have known how to interpret it. "it is pleasant to go to new york by boat," said the stranger. "i prefer it to the cars; that is, when i can get a stateroom. did you secure one?" "yes, sir." "you are more fortunate than i. i found they had all been taken. i would not care so much if i were not suffering from fever and ague." "i suppose you have a berth?" said robert. "yes, but the berths are exposed to draughts and are not as desirable as staterooms." robert did not know that, so far from this being the case, the great fault of the ordinary berths was a lack of air. "i suppose your stateroom contains two berths?" said the stranger. "yes, i believe so." "i may be taking a liberty, but i have a proposal to make. if you will allow me to occupy one of them i will pay half the cost of your room. it would oblige me very much, but i would not ask if i were not sick." robert did not entirely like this proposal. he preferred to be alone. still he was naturally obliging, and he hardly knew how to refuse this favor to a sick man. "i see you hesitate," said the stranger. "pray think no more of my request. i would not mind paying the entire cost of the room, if you will take me in. it cost you a dollar, did it not?" "yes, sir." "then," said the man, drawing a dollar bill from his pocketbook, "allow me to pay for it and share it with you." "i ought not to be selfish," thought robert. "i would rather be alone, but if this man is sick i think i will let him come in with me." he so expressed himself, and the other thanked him warmly and pressed the dollar upon him. "no," said robert, "i can't take so much. you may pay for your share--fifty cents." "you are very kind," murmured the other. and, replacing the bill in his pocketbook, he took out a half dollar and tendered it to our hero. half an hour later both repaired to stateroom no. 56. as they entered the room the stranger glanced at the two berths and said: "it is only fair that you should occupy the best berth." "which is the best berth?" asked robert. "the lower one is generally so considered," said the other. "it is a little wider and it is less trouble to get into it. i will take the upper one." "no," said robert generously. "you are sick and ought to have the best. i am perfectly well, and i shan't mind climbing into the upper one." "but it seems so selfish in me," protested the stranger, "to step into your stateroom and take the best accommodations." "not if i am willing," responded robert cheerfully. "so it is all settled." "how kind you are!" murmured the invalid. "though we have met so recently, i cannot help feeling toward you as if you were my younger brother." robert thanked him, but could hardly reciprocate the feeling. in truth, he had taken no fancy to the man whom he had accepted as roommate and was only influenced by compassion for his reported sickness. they undressed and retired to their berths. as the stranger was about to step into his he said: "it is only fair to tell you my name. i am called mortimer fairfax and i am a partner in a business firm in baltimore. are you in business?" "not exactly," answered robert, "though i am traveling on business just now." "i believe you didn't mention your name," said fairfax. "my name is robert coverdale." "an excellent name. i know a family in philadelphia by that name. are you sleepy?" "a little." "then suppose we go to sleep?" "all right. goodnight!" then there was silence in the stateroom. it was not long before robert's eyes closed. he had gone about considerable during the day and was naturally fatigued. generally he had no difficulty in sleeping soundly, but to-night proved an exception. he tossed about in his narrow berth and he was troubled with disagreeable dreams. sometimes it happens that such dreams visit us to warn us of impending danger. robert finally dreamed that a pickpocket had drawn his pocketbook from his pocket and was running away with it, and he awoke with a sudden start, his face bathed in perspiration. it was midnight. the band had ceased playing for two hours and all who had staterooms had retired to them. only here and there in the main saloon a passenger lay asleep in an armchair. there was a scanty light, which entered the stateroom through a small window, and by this light robert, half rising in bed, saw a sight that startled him. mr. mortimer fairfax, his roommate, was out of his berth. he had taken down robert's trousers from the nail on which he had hung them and was in the act of pulling out his wallet, which he had imprudently left in it. this sight fully aroused the lad, and he prepared for action. fairfax was half bent over, and robert, who was deeply incensed, threw himself from the upper berth, landing on the back of his roommate, who was borne to the floor, releasing the garment with a startled cry. "what did you do that for?" he asked nervously. "what business had you with my pocketbook, you thief?" demanded robert sternly. mortimer fairfax, who had supposed robert to be fast asleep, saw that he was in a scrape, but he was a man fertile in expedients, and he instantly decided upon his course. "what do you mean?" he inquired in a tone of innocent bewilderment. "what do i mean?" retorted our hero. "i want to know what business you had with my pocketbook in your hand?" "you don't mean to say that i was meddling with your pocketbook?" said fairfax with an air of surprise. "that is exactly what i do say, mr. fairfax. if i hadn't waked up just as i did, you would have had all my money, and i should have been penniless. that is the sort of fever and ague that troubles you, i suppose." "my young friend," said fairfax, "i am shocked at what you tell me. i do not blame you for accusing me. if i were in your place and you in mine, i should no doubt act in the same way. yet i am entirely innocent, i can assure you." "it don't look much like it," robert said, rather astonished at the man's effrontery. "when i find you examining my pockets and taking out my pocketbook, it looks very much as if you were trying to rob me." "true, it does. i admit it all. but if you knew me, you would see how groundless, nay, how absurd such suspicions are. why, i am a rich man. i am worth fifty thousand dollars." "then why did you try to rob me?" "i did not. it was only in appearance. did you ever hear of a somnambulist?" "no." "it is one who gets up in his sleep and is entirely unconscious of what he does. from early youth--from the days of my innocent boyhood--i have been a victim of this unfortunate malady." "do you often steal in your sleep?" inquired robert sarcastically. "not often, but i have done it before. once, when a boy, i got up and took a purse from the pocket of my uncle, who occupied the same room with me." "what did your uncle say?" robert asked with some curiosity. "he was angry till my mother assured him that i was a somnambulist and not responsible for what i did at such a time. then we had a good laugh, over it." "do you mean to say, mr. fairfax, that when you had your hand in my pocket just now you were asleep?" "sound asleep. i had no idea that i was out of my berth." "you seemed to wake up pretty quick afterward!" "to be sure i did! i rather think you would wake up, too, if i should jump upon your back from the top berth! but i forgive you--don't apologize, i beg. i should have been misled, as you were, if our situations had been changed." certainly mr. mortimer fairfax was cool. in his limited acquaintance with the world robert had never dreamed of the existence of such a character, but he was gifted with shrewd common sense, and he did not for an instant believe the story which the other palmed off upon him. "mr. fairfax," he said, "shall i tell you what i think of your story?" "yes, if you please." "i don't believe it." "what!" exclaimed fairfax sadly. "is it possible you believe that i would rob you, my kind benefactor?" "i don't pretend to be your benefactor, but i haven't a doubt about it." "my dear young friend," said fairfax, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, "you grieve me deeply--indeed you do! i had thought you would understand me better. you do not consider that i am a rich man and can have no object in depriving you of your little store of money. let us go to bed and forget this unpleasant little circumstance." "no, mr. fairfax, you cannot stay here any longer. i insist upon your dressing yourself and leaving the stateroom!" "but, my young friend. it is the middle of the night!" "i can't help it!" said robert resolutely. "and, in my delicate health, it would be dangerous." "i don't believe you are in delicate health, but i can't help it if you are. you must go!" "you forget," said fairfax in a different tone, "that half of the stateroom is mine. i have paid for it." "then i will return the money. here it is." "i prefer to remain here." "if you don't go," said robert energetically, "i will call for help and report that you tried to rob me!" "you will repent this unkind treatment," said fairfax sullenly, but he proceeded to dress nevertheless, and in a few minutes he left the stateroom. robert locked the door after him and then, returning to bed, he said with a sigh of relief: "now i can sleep without fear. i am sure that fellow is a rascal, and i am glad to be rid of him." chapter xxv a baggage smasher's revenge when robert awoke in the morning it was eight o'clock and the steamer lay quietly at its pier. almost all the passengers had landed and he was nearly alone on the great steamer. of course mortimer fairfax had gone with the rest; in fact, fairfax was one of the first to land. he had passed the remainder of the night in the saloon, anxious, as long as he remained on board, lest robert should denounce him for his attempted theft. robert was a stranger in new york. he was instantly impressed by what he could see of the great city from the deck of the steamer. he took his valise in his hand and walked across the gangplank upon the pier. at the entrance he was accosted by a hackman. "carriage, sir?" "no," answered robert. "i will carry you cheap." "what do you call cheap?" "where do you want to go?" "astor house." this hotel had been suggested by the hermit. "all right! jump in!" and the hackman was about to take robert's valise. "wait a moment," said the lad firmly. "i haven't agreed to ride. what do you charge?" "two dollars." "two dollars! how far is it?" "about five miles!" answered the hackman with unblushing falsehood. "is there no stage that goes to that part of the city?" "no; your only way is to take a carriage." though robert had never before been in new york, he felt convinced that this was untrue and said quietly: "then i will walk." "it is too far, young man. nobody walks up there." "then i'll be the first one to try it!" said robert coolly. "wait a minute, youngster! i'll take you for a dollar and a half." robert did not answer, but crossed the street. "carry your bag, sir?" said a boy of about his own age, who seemed to be waiting for a job. "do you know the way to the astor house?" asked robert. "i ought to." "how far is it?" "half a mile." "that hack driver told me it was five miles." the boy grinned. "he thought you were green," he said. "say, boss, shall i carry that v'lise?" "how much do you charge?" "i'll take it to broadway for a quarter." "all right. i'll pay it." "i see," thought robert, "i shall have to look out or i shall be cheated. it seems to cost a good deal of money to travel." as robert walked along he asked various questions of his young partner as to the buildings which they passed. on reaching broadway he said: "i don't care about riding. if you will walk along with me and carry the valise i will pay you a quarter more." "all right. only pay me the first quarter now," said the boy cautiously. "just as you like. are you afraid i won't pay you." "i dunno. i was served that way once." "how was it?" "i was carryin' a bag--a thunderin' big bag it was, too--for a man to this very hotel. i'd carried it about a mile; when we got there he took it and was goin' in without payin' me. "'look here, boss,' i says, 'you haven't paid me.' "'yes, i did,' he says. 'i paid you when you took the bag.' "then i knew he was a beat, and i made a fuss, i tell you, and follered him into the hotel. "'what's the matter?' asked one of the hotel men, comin' forrard. "'this boy wants me to pay him twice,' he says. "of course, the hotel people took up for the man and kicked me out of the hotel. i didn't blame them so much, for who'd think of a gentleman cheatin' a poor boy?" "that was pretty hard on you," said robert in a tone of sympathy. "he must have been a mean man." "mean? i guess he was. but i got even with him, and i didn't wait long neither." "how was that?" "i got an egg and i laid for him. toward night he come out, all dressed up like as if he was goin' to the theayter. i follered him, and when i got a good chance i just hove it at him. i hit him just in his bosom, and the egg was spattered over his face and clothes. he gave a yell and then i dodged round the corner. oh, it was rich to see how he looked! i guess he'd better have paid me." robert could not help laughing, and did not find it in his heart to blame the boy who had chosen this summary way to redress his grievances. "i hope," he said, "you haven't got any eggs with you now." "why, ain't you goin' to pay me?" "oh, yes, i mean to pay you. i wouldn't cheat a poor boy. i'm a poor boy myself." his guide looked at him in surprise. "you a poor boy, with them clo'es?" he repeated. "if you was a poor boy you wouldn't pay me for carryin' your baggage." "but would carry it myself?" "yes." "so i would, but i wanted somebody to guide me to the hotel. i am traveling for a gentleman that pays the bills." "oh, cricky! ain't that jolly? wouldn't he like me to travel for him?" "i guess not," said robert, laughing. "if he should, just give a feller a chance." "i might, if i knew your name and where you live." "i left my cardcase at home on the planner, along with my jewelry, but my name's michael burke. the boys call me mike. i live at the newsboys' lodge, when i'm at home." "all right, mike; i'll remember." the remainder of the walk was enlivened by conversation of a similar kind. though mike was not much of a scholar, he was well informed on local matters, and it was upon such points that robert wished to be posted. when they reached the hotel mike uttered an exclamation of surprise. "say, do you see that man in the doorway?" he asked eagerly. "what of him?" "he's the very man that cheated me out of my pay--the man i hit wid an egg. here he is again." robert surveyed the man with curious interest. he was a man of middle age, well dressed, but with a hard, stern look upon his face. he was by no means one likely to attract strangers. "how do you know it is the same one?" asked robert in a low voice. "he's got the same look. i'd remember him if it was a dozen years, but it's only six months." "but you might be mistaken." "i'll show you whether i am. come along." when they entered the vestibule of the hotel mike paused a moment and, in hearing of the stranger, said: "last night, as i was walkin' along, i seed a man hit wid a rotten egg. he looked mad enough to kill the one that throwed it." the stranger wheeled round and regarded mike intently. "boy," said he, "i think i've seen you before." "maybe you have," answered mike coolly. "lots of people has seen me." "did you ever carry a valise for me?" "maybe i did. i've carried lots of 'em." "i think you once brought a valise for me to this very hotel." "how much did you pay me for doin' it? maybe i could tell by that." "i don't know. i presume i paid you liberally." "then i guess it was some other boy," said mike, grinning. the gentleman looked puzzled, but just then a young man came up and spoke to him, addressing him as "mr. waldo." robert started at the sound of this name. he remembered that this was the name of his employer's cousin, who was suspected of abducting the boy of whom he was in search. bidding good-by to his young guide, he registered his name and then turned over the pages back. in the list of arrivals for the day before he came upon this entry: "charles waldo, sullivan, ohio." "it's the very man!" he said to himself in excitement. chapter xxvi two important discoveries charles waldo was the name of the hermit's cousin, who was suspected of kidnapping the boy who stood between him and the property. it was to find this very man that robert was sent out by gilbert huet. robert felt that he was fortunate in so soon running across this man and decided that as long as mr. waldo remained in the hotel it was his policy to remain also. he did not see how he was to find out anything about the missing boy, but resolved to watch and wait in the hope of obtaining a clew. he did not wish to attract mr. waldo's suspicions, but took care to keep him in view. the next morning he observed mr. waldo in the reading room at the rear of the hotel talking with another person--rather a pretentious-looking man, with black whiskers and a jaunty air. at the news stand he bought a copy of a morning paper and took a seat sufficiently near to hear what was said. though waldo and his companion spoke in low tones, neither was apprehensive of being heard, as it was hardly to be presumed that any one within hearing distance would feel an interest in what they had to say. "as i was saying"--this was the first sentence which robert heard from mr. waldo--"it is entirely uncertain when i shall derive any advantage from my cousin's estate. during his life he holds it." "how is his health?" "i suppose he is well. in fact, i don't know but he is likely to live as long as i do. there can't be more than five years' difference in our ages." "that is a discouraging outlook." "i should say so! but there is one chance for me during his life." "what is that?" "he may be declared insane. in that case the management of the estate would naturally be transferred to me as the direct heir." "but is there any ground for assumption that he is insane?" "yes. ever since his son's death he has acted in an eccentric way--made a hermit of himself and withdrawn from society. you know grief brooded over often terminates in insanity. then there was his wife's terrible death, which had a strange effect upon him. "i did not understand that the boy died." "well, he disappeared. he is undoubtedly dead." "it is his being out of the way that makes you the heir, is it not?" "of course," answered waldo. "then all i can say is that it was mighty fortunate for you," said his companion dryly. "it hasn't done me any good yet and may not. these hermits are likely to live long. their habits are regular and they are not tempted to violate the laws of health. i tell you, mr. thompson, it's a tantalizing thing to be so near a large fortune and yet kept out of it." "i suppose you pray for your cousin's death, then?" "not so bad as that, but, as he don't enjoy the property, it is a pity i can't." "how much does the estate amount to probably?" asked the other with interest. "well, it can't be less than two hundred thousand dollars." "whew! that's a great fortune!" "so it is. if i get it, or when i get it, i won't mind doing as you ask me, and setting you up in a snug business." "you could do it now, mr. waldo. you are a rich man," said thompson. "you are mistaken. i may have a competence, but nothing more." "you've got a fine farm." "that don't support me. farming doesn't pay." "and money in stock and bonds." "enough to make up the deficiency in my income. i assure you i don't lay up a cent. i can't do it." "may i ask what is your errand in new york?" "i want to speak to you about that. i want to find my cousin." "don't his bankers know where he is?" "if they do, they won't tell. i suppose they are acting under orders from him?" "suppose you find him?" "then," said charles waldo significantly, "i shall raise the question of his sanity. it won't be a difficult matter to prove him insane. it only needs a certificate from a couple of doctors. i think i can find two parties who will oblige me." "i say, waldo, you're a cool, calculating fellow!" thompson was about to use another word, but checked himself. "i wouldn't like to stand in your way." "nonsense! i only want to do what is right." "and it very conveniently happens that you consider right what is to your interest. i say, have you any idea how the boy came to disappear?" "of course not! how should i?" answered waldo uneasily. "i don't know, but as he stood in your way, i thought----" "you think too much," said waldo. "oh, i don't mean to censure you. i suppose if i had been in your place i might have been tempted." "i know nothing about the boy's disappearance," said waldo hastily; "but let us drop that. i sent for you because i saw that you could serve me." "go on; if there's money in it, i am your man." "i shall pay you, of course; that is, i will pay you fairly. we will speak of that hereafter." "what do you want me to do? is there anybody you want to disappear?" "hush! you go too far, sir. i want to find out the whereabouts of gilbert huet. it is important for me to know where he is." "can you give me a clew?" "if i could i should not need to employ you. come up to my room and i will communicate further with you." the two left the reading room and robert was left to digest the important information he had received. "what a rascal that man is!" he reflected. "after stealing mr. huet's boy, he wants to put him in a madhouse. i must let him know, so that he may be on his guard. i don't believe they will think of looking for him at cook's harbor." by a curious coincidence the room assigned to robert was next to that occupied by mr. waldo, and when the boy was about entering it, some hours later, he saw the gentleman going in just ahead of him. as the latter placed one hand upon the door he drew his handkerchief from his coat pocket, and in so doing brought out a letter, which fell upon the floor, without his seeing it. passing into his room, he slammed the door, leaving the missive lying in the hall. "it is a mean thing," laughed robert as he stooped down and picked it up, "to examine a letter not intended for me, but he is such a scamp that i'll do it in this case, hoping to learn something that will help me find this poor boy." and so, without any compunctions, robert took the letter--which had been opened--into his room and read, with feelings which may possibly be imagined, the following letter: "dear sir: i feel oblidged to rite to you about the boy i took from you. you told me he would work enough to pay for his keep, and did not want to pay me anything for my trubble. now, mr. waldo, you are mistaken. the boy ain't tuff nor strong, and i can't got more'n half as much work out of him as i ought. he don't eat much, i kno, but the fact is i need a good strong boy, and i shall have to git another, and have two to feed, if things go on so. "you told me i might be strict and harsh with him, and i am. he says he has the headache about half the time, but i don't pay no attenshun to that. if i did, i wouldn't git any work done. one day he fainted away in the feald, but it's my opinyun he brought it on a-purpose by not eatin' much breakfast. "i tell you, mr. waldo, it is very aggravatin' to have such a shifless boy. now, what i want to ask you is, if you can't allow me a dollar, or a dollar and a half a week to make it square. i'm willin' to take care of the boy, but i don't want to lose money by it. i kno you give him his clo'es, but that don't cost you much. he ain't had a suit for a year, and he needs one bad. "i'm sure you will see the thing the way i do, if you are a reasonable man, as i have no reason to doubt you are; and so i remain yours to command, nathan badger. "to mr. charles waldo." robert could hardly express his excitement and indignation when he was reading this letter. he felt sure that this poor boy, who was so cruelly treated, was the unfortunate son of his friend, the hermit, who ought to be enjoying the comforts of a luxurious home. as it was, he was the victim of a cruel and unscrupulous relative, influenced by the most mercenary motives. "i will be his friend," robert resolved, "and if i can i will restore him to his father." he looked for the date of the letter and found it. it had been written in the town of dexter, in ohio. where this town was robert did not know, but he could find out. "i won't wait for mr. waldo," he said to himself. "i know all i need to. i will start for ohio to-morrow." as for the letter, he resolved to keep it, as it might turn out to be important evidence in case of need. he could not understand how mr. waldo could be careless enough to mislay so important a document, but this did not concern him. it was his business to profit by it. chapter xxvii the bound boy the town of dexter was almost entirely agricultural. its population was small and scattered. there were no large shops or manufactories to draw people to the place. many of the farmers were well to do, carrying on agricultural operations on a considerable scale. among the smaller farmers was nathan badger. he was fond of money, but knew no better way to get it than to live meanly, drive hard bargains and spend as little as possible. in this way, though not a very good farmer, he was able to lay by a couple of hundred dollars a year, which he put away in the county savings bank. mrs. badger was a fitting wife for such a man. she was about as mean as he was, with scarcely any of the traits that make women attractive. she had one, however--an indulgent love of her only child, andrew jackson badger, who was about as disagreeable a cub as can well be imagined. yet i am not sure that andrew was wholly responsible for his ugliness, as most of his bad traits came to him by inheritance from the admirable pair whom he called father and mother. andrew jackson badger was by no means a youthful apollo. to speak more plainly, he was no beauty. a tow head and freckled face often belong to a prepossessing boy of popular manners, but in andrew's case they were joined to insignificant features, small ferret eyes, a retreating chin and thin lips, set off by a repulsive expression. there was another member of the family--a bound boy--the same one referred to in mr. nathan badger's letter. this boy was, five years previous, placed in mr. badger's charge by charles waldo. i do not want my young readers to remain under any uncertainty as to this boy, and i state at once that he was the abducted son of gilbert huet, the hermit of cook's harbor, and the rightful heir to a large estate. at the time of our introduction to bill benton--for this is the name by which he was known--he had a hoe in his hand and he was about starting for the field to hoe potatoes. he was a slender boy, with delicate features and a face which indicated a sensitive temperament. his hair was dark brown, his features were refined, his eyes were blue and he looked like a boy of affectionate temperament, who would feel injustice and harshness keenly. this was indeed the case. he lacked the strong, sturdy character, the energy and self-reliance which made robert coverdale successful. robert was not a boy to submit to injustice or wrong. he was not easily intimidated and could resist imposition with all his might. but bill--to call him by the name given him by mr. waldo--was of a more gentle, yielding disposition, and so he was doomed to suffer. he was certainly unfortunately situated. mr. badger required him to work beyond his strength and seldom, or never, gave him a kind word. the same may be said of mrs. badger. it was perhaps fortunate for him that he had a small appetite, for in the badger household he would have been unable to gratify the hearty appetite of an average boy. the table was very mean and the only one who lived well was andrew jackson, whom his mother petted and indulged. there was always something extra on the table for andrew, which it was well understood that no one else in the family was to eat. mr. badger did not interfere with his wife's petting. if he had a soft place in his heart, it was for andrew, who seemed to his partial parents a remarkably smart and interesting boy. to bill benton he was a cruel tyrant. he delighted in making the life of his father's bound boy intolerable, and succeeded only too well. he was stronger than bill, and, backed by the authority of his father and mother, he dared do anything, while bill knew that it was useless to resist. still, gentle as he was, sometimes his spirit rose and made a feeble resistance. "where are you going, bill?" asked andrew as the bound boy started off after breakfast. "i am going to hoe potatoes, andrew." "no, you're not; i want you to go and dig some worms for bait. i am going a-fishing." "but your father told me to go to the field at once." "i can't help that. he didn't know i wanted you." "he will scold me if i don't go to work." "that is my business. i tell you to go and dig some worms." poor bill! he knew very well that if andrew got him into a scrape, he would not help him out, but leave his father to suppose that bill disobeyed of his own accord--if necessary, stoutly asserting it, for andrew was by no means a boy of truth. "i would rather not go, andrew," said bill uneasily. "then take that!" and andrew brutally struck him with a whip he had in his hand. the bound boy flushed at this indignity. gentle as he was, he resented a blow. "don't you do that again, andrew!" he said. "i won't stand it!" "you won't stand it?" repeated andrew tauntingly. "what will you do about it, i'd like to know?" "you have no right to hit me, and i won't submit to it," said bill with a spirit which quite astonished the young tyrant. he laughed scornfully and repeated the blow, but with more emphasis. even the most gentle and long-suffering turn sometimes, and this was the case now. the bound boy lifted the hoe and with the handle struck andrew so forcibly that he dropped upon the ground, bellowing like a calf. like most bullies he was cowardly, and the unexpected resistance and the pain of the blow quite overcame his fortitude, and he cried like a baby. it must be confessed that the bound boy was frightened by what he had done. too well he knew that he would suffer for his temerity. besides, his compassion was aroused for andrew, whom he thought to be worse hurt than he was. he threw down the hoe and kneeled by the prostrate boy. "oh, andrew, i hope i didn't hurt you!" he cried. "i ought not to have struck you." "you'll catch it when father comes home!" screamed andrew furiously. "you almost killed me!" "oh, andrew, i'm so sorry. i hope you'll forgive me." by this time mrs. badger had come to the door, and andrew, catching a glimpse of her, gave a yell as if in extreme anguish. his mother came flying out of the house. "what's the matter, my darling?" she cried in alarm. "bill knocked me down with a hoe, and i think i'm going to die!" answered andrew with a fresh burst of anguish. mrs. badger was almost paralyzed with astonishment and wrath. she could hardly believe her ears. what! her andrew assaulted by a beggarly bound boy! "bill knocked you down with a hoe?" she repeated. "you don't mean it?" "yes, i do. ask him if he didn't." "bill benton," said mrs. badger in an awful voice, "did you strike andrew with a hoe?" "yes, ma'am, and i'm sorry for it, but he struck me with a whip first." "no doubt he had a good reason for doing it. and so you tried to murder him, you young ruffian?" "no, i didn't, mrs. badger. he had no right to whip me, and i defended myself. but i'm sorry----" andrew set up another howl, though he no longer felt any pain, and his mother's wrath increased. "you'll end your life on the gallows, you young brute!" she exclaimed, glaring wrathfully at the poor boy. "some night you'll try to murder us all in our beds. the only place for you is in jail! when mr. badger comes home, i will report the case to him. now, go to work." poor bill was glad to get away from the infuriated woman. andrew was taken into the house and fed on preserves and sweetmeats by his doting mother, while the poor bound boy was toiling in the hot sun, dreading the return of his stern master. nathan badger was not far away. he had driven to the village in the buggy, not that he had any particular business there, but at present there was no farm work of a pressing nature except what the bound boy could do, and mr. badger did not love work for its own sake. in spite of his parsimony, he generally indulged himself in a glass of bitters, of which he was very fond, whenever he went to the village. his parsimony stood him in good stead in one respect, at least, for it prevented his becoming a drunkard. i have said that mr. badger had no particular business at the village, but this is not strictly true. he had business at the post office. some time since he had written to mr. waldo, asking for a money allowance for the care of bill benton. he knew very well that he was not entitled to it. he was at no expense for the boy's clothes, and certainly bill richly earned the very frugal fare, of which he partook sparingly, and the privilege of a hard bed in the attic. but it had struck him as possible that mr. waldo, not knowing the falsehood of his representations, would comply with his request. "if i can get a dollar or a dollar 'n' a half for the boy's keep," mr. badger soliloquized, "i can make a good thing out'n him. a dollar a week will come to fifty-two dollars a year, and i can't put a cent into the savings bank. a dollar 'n' a half will come to--lemme see--to seventy-eight dollars a year! that, in five years, would be three hundred and ninety dollars, without counting the interest." mr. badger's eyes glistened and his heart was elated as he took in the magnificent idea. but, alas! he was counting chickens that were not likely to be hatched. when sufficient time had elapsed for an answer to be due, he went to the post office every day, but there had been unusual delay. at last an answer had been received that very morning. mr. badger tore open the envelope in eager haste, but there was no remittance, as he had fondly hoped. the contents of the letter also threw cold water on his aspiring hopes, as may be seen from the following transcript of it: "mr. nathan badger: your letter is received asking me to pay you a weekly sum for the boy whom i bound out to you some years ago. i can hardly express the surprise i felt at this application. you certainly cannot forget that i furnish the boy's clothes, and that all you are required to do is to provide him board and lodging in return for his work. this is certainly a very good bargain for you. i need not say that the work of a boy of fifteen or sixteen years will amply repay you for his board, especially if, as i infer from your letter, he is a small eater. generally farmers are willing to provide clothes also, and i think i am dealing very liberally with you in exempting you from this additional expense. "you seem to forget one thing more: for three years, on account of the boy's being young, and so unable to work much, i allowed you fifty dollars a year, though i could readily have found another man to take him without this allowance. under the circumstances i consider it very extraordinary that you should apply to me at this late day for an extra allowance. i am not made of money, and whatever i do for this boy is out of pure benevolence, for he has no claim upon me; but i assure you that i will not be imposed upon, therefore i say 'no' most emphatically. "one other thing. you say the boy doesn't work as much as he ought to. i can only say this is no business of mine. you have full authority over him, and you can make him work. i don't believe in pampering boys and indulging them in laziness. i recommend you to be strict with william--to let him understand that you are not to be trifled with. such would be my course. yours, etc., "charles waldo." nathan badger was deeply disappointed. he had made up his mind that mr. waldo would allow him at least a dollar a week and had complacently calculated how much this would enable him to lay aside. now this dream was over. of course he could have given up the boy, for he was not formally bound to him. but this he did not care to do. the fact was that bill earned his board twice over, and mr. badger knew it, though he would not have admitted it. it was for his interest to keep him. he went home deeply disappointed and angry and disposed to vent his spite on the poor victim of his tyranny, even had there been no plausible excuse for doing so. when he reached home he was met by mrs. badger with a frowning brow. "well, mr. badger, there's been a pretty scene since you went away." "what do you mean, cornelia?" "bill has nearly killed andrew jackson." "are you crazy, wife?" "no, i am in earnest. the young rascal attacked poor andrew with a hoe and nearly killed him." "then he must be crazy!" ejaculated mr. badger. "where is andrew? i want his account of it. if it is as you say, the boy shall suffer." chapter xxviii the victim of tyranny andrew jackson made his appearance with a piece of brown paper over an imaginary bruise on his head and eye and the carefully assumed expression of a suffering victim. "what is this i hear?" asked his father. "have you had a difficulty with bill?" "yes," answered andrew in the tone of a martyr. "he knocked me down with a hoe, and if mother had not come out just as she did i think he would have killed me." "what made him attack you?" asked mr. badger, exceedingly surprised. "i asked him if he would dig some fish-worms for me." "couldn't you dig some yourself?" "i s'pose i could, but he knew better than i where to find them." "what next?" "he said he wouldn't. i told him that i would tell you about his impertinence. then he hit me with the hoe as hard as he could." "was that all that passed?" "yes." "i don't quite understand it. you are surely stronger than bill. how did it happen that you allowed him to strike you?" "he had a hoe and i hadn't anything," answered andrew meekly. "he was so furious that he wouldn't have made anything of killing me." "i always thought he was rather mild and milk-and-watery," said nathan badger thoughtfully. "you wouldn't have thought so if you'd seen him, mr. badger," said his wife, drawing upon her imagination. "he looked like a young fiend. dear andrew is right. the boy is positively dangerous! i don't know but we shall be murdered in our beds some night if we let him go on this way." mr. badger shrugged his shoulders, for he was not quite a fool, and answered dryly: "that thought won't keep me awake. he isn't that kind of a boy." "oh, well, mr. badger, if you are going to take his part against your own flesh and blood, i've got no more to say." "who's taking his part?" retorted mr. badger sharply. "i'm not going to uphold him in attacking andrew, but i'm rather surprised at his mustering spunk enough to do it. as for his doing us any harm, that's all nonsense." "you may change your mind when it's too late, mr. badger." "are you afraid of him?" asked her husband contemptuously as he regarded the tall, muscular figure of his wife, who probably would have been a match for himself in physical strength. "i can defend myself if i am awake," said mrs. badger. "but what's to hinder his attacking me when i'm asleep?" "you can fasten your door if you are afraid. but that isn't my trouble with him. there's something more serious, mrs. b." "what is it? what's he been doin'?" "it isn't he. it's charles waldo. i'm free to say that mr. waldo is the meanest man i ever had dealings with. you know i wrote to him to see if he wouldn't allow me something extra toward the boy's keep." "yes." "well, read that letter. or, stay, i'll read it to you." mr. badger took the letter from his pocket and read it aloud to his wife and son. mrs. badger was as much disappointed as her husband, for she was quite as fond of money as he. "what are you goin' to do?" she asked. "i can't do anything," answered mr. badger in deep disgust. "will you keep the boy?" "of course i will. between ourselves, he more than earns his victuals; but, all the same, mr. waldo is perfectly able to allow us a little profit." "you must make him work harder," suggested mrs. badger. "i mean to. now, we will settle about this little affair. where is bill?" "out in the field, digging potatoes," said andrew glibly. "go and call him." "all right, sir." and the boy prepared to obey the command with uncommon alacrity. poor bill, nervous and unhappy, had been hard at work in the potato field through the long forenoon, meditating bitterly on his sad position. so far as he knew, there was no one that loved him, no one that cared for him. he was a friendless boy. from mr. and mrs. badger and andrew he never received a kind nor encouraging word, but, instead, taunts and reproaches, and the heart of the poor boy, hungering for kindness, found none. "will it always be so?" he asked himself. "if andrew would only be kind to me i would do anything for him, but he seems to hate me, and so does mrs. badger. mr. badger isn't quite so bad, but he only cares for the work i do." the poor boy sighed heavily as he leaned for a moment upon his hoe. "he was roused by a sharp voice. "shirking your work, are you?" said andrew. "i've caught you this time. what'll my father say to that?" "i have been working hard, andrew," said bill. "i can show you what i have done this forenoon." "that's too thin. you're lazy, and that's all about it. well, my father's got home, and now you're going to catch it. maybe you'll knock him down with a hoe," said andrew tauntingly. "i'm sorry i hit you, andrew, as i told you; but you shouldn't have struck me with a whip." "i had a perfect right to do it. i'm your master." "no, you're not!" returned bill with spirit. "we'll see whether i am or not. come right up to the house." "who says so?" "my father told me to call you." "very well, i will come," and the bound boy shouldered his hoe and followed andrew wearily to the farmhouse yard, where mr. and mrs. badger were standing. one look at the stern faces of the pair satisfied bill that trouble awaited him. he knew very well that he could not hope for justice and that one word from andrew in the mind of his parents would outweigh all he could say. "here comes the young ruffian!" said mrs. badger as soon as he came within hearing distance. "here comes the wicked boy who tried to kill my poor andrew." "that is not true, mrs. badger," said bill earnestly. "i was only defending myself." "you hear, mr. badger. he as much as tells me i lie! do you hear that?" demanded the incensed woman. "bill benton," said mr. badger sternly, "i hear you have made a savage and brutal attack on andrew jackson. now, what have you to say for yourself, sir?" "he struck me twice with a whip, mr. badger, and i got mad. i didn't mean to hurt him." "you might have killed him!" broke in mrs. badger. "no, i wouldn't, ma'am." "contradicting me again! if there was ever a boy looked like a young fiend, you did when i came out to save my boy from your brutal temper. oh, you'll swing on the gallows some day, sir! i'm sure of that." to an unprejudiced observer all this would have been very ridiculous. the delicate, refined-looking boy, whose face showed unmistakable gentleness and mildness, almost carried to an extreme, was about the last boy to whom such words could suitably have been addressed. "andrew jackson, did you strike bill with a whip?" asked mr. badger, turning to his son. "no, i didn't," answered andrew without a blush. "how can you tell such a lie?" said bill indignantly. "mr. badger, will you allow this young ruffian to accuse your own son of falsehood?" cried the mother. "did you have a whip in your hand, andrew?" asked his father. andrew hesitated a moment, but finally thought it best to say he did. "did you strike bill with it?" "no." "you see how candid the poor boy is," said his mother. "he tells you that he had a whip in his hand, though many boys would have denied it. but my andrew was always truthful." even andrew felt a little embarrassed at this undeserved tribute to a virtue in which he knew that he was very deficient. "bill benton," said mr. badger sternly, "it appears that you have not only made an atrocious assault on my son, but lied deliberately about it. you shall have neither dinner nor supper, and tonight i will give you a flogging. now, go back to your work!" "ho, ho! you'll hit me again, will you?" said andrew triumphantly as the poor boy slowly retraced his way to the field. as the bound boy walked wearily back to the field he felt that he had little to live for. hard work--too hard for his slender strength--accompanied by poor fare and cruel treatment, constituted his only prospect. but there seemed no alternative. he must keep on working and suffering--so far he could foresee. he worked an hour and then he began to feel faint. he had eaten but little breakfast and he needed a fresh supply of food to restore his strength. how he could hold out till evening he could not tell. already his head began to ache and he felt weary and listless. he was left to work alone, for mr. badger usually indulged himself in the luxury of an after-dinner nap, lasting till at least three o'clock. as he was plodding along suddenly he heard his name called in a cheery voice: "hello, bill!" looking up, he saw dick schmidt, the son of a neighbor, a good-natured boy, whom he looked upon as almost his only friend. "hello, dick!" he responded. "you're looking pale. bill," said his friend. "what's the matter?" "i don't feel very well, dick." "you ought not to be at work. have you had dinner?" "i am not to have any." "why not?" asked dick, opening his eyes. "i knew old badger was mean, but i didn't think he was mean enough for that!" "it's a punishment," bill explained. "what for?" "for hitting andrew jackson with a hoe and knocking him down." "did you do that, bill?" exclaimed dick in great delight, for he disliked mr. badger's petted heir. "i didn't think it was in you! shake hands, old fellow, and tell me all about it." "i am afraid it was wicked, dick, but i couldn't help it. i must have hurt him, for he screamed very loud." "better and better! i know how he treats you, bill, and i tell you it'll do him good--the young tyrant! but you haven't told me about it." bill told the story, to which dick listened with earnest attention. he expressed hearty approval of bill's course and declared that he would have done the same. "so you are in disgrace," he said. "never mind. bill. it'll all come out right. it is worth something to have punished that young bully. but what's the matter, bill? what makes you so pale?" "i think it's going without my dinner. the hard work makes me hungry." "just wait a minute. i'll be back in a jiffy!" dick was off like a shot. when he returned he brought with him two slices of bread and butter, a slice of cold meat and two apples. "eat 'em, bill," he said. "they'll make you feel better." "oh, dick! i didn't want to trouble you so much." "it was no trouble, old fellow." "what will your mother say to your taking all this?" "she'll be glad of it. she isn't so mean as mrs. badger. i say, bill, you must come over and take supper with us some time. there's plenty to eat at our house." "i should like to, dick, if mr. badger would let me." "don't talk any more till you have eaten what i brought you." bill obeyed his friend's directions, and, to dick's great satisfaction, ate all that had been brought him with evident appetite. "i feel a good deal better," he said as he took the hoe once more and set to work. "i feel strong now." "it's lucky i came along. i say. bill, is that your only punishment?" a shadow came over bill's face. "i am to be flogged this evening," he said. "mr. badger told me so, and he always keeps his word." dick set his teeth and clinched his fists. "i'd like to flog old badger," he said energetically. "are you going to stand it?" "i can't help it, dick." "i'd help it!" said his friend, nodding emphatically. bill shook his head despondently. the whipping seemed to him inevitable, and there seemed to be no way of avoiding it. "what time do you expect he will whip you--the old brute?" asked dick. "he waits till nine o'clock, just after i have gone to bed." "then will you follow my advice?" "what is it?" dick whispered in bill's ear the plan he had in view. there was no need to whisper, but he did it to show that the communication was confidential. this was the plan: bill was to go to bed as usual, but in about fifteen minutes he was to get out of the window, slide along the roof of the l and descend to the ground, when dick was to meet him, escort him to his house and allow him to share his room for the night. "then," said he, "when the old man comes up to tackle you he'll have to pound the bed and get his satisfaction out of that. won't that be a splendid joke?" bill smiled faintly. it seemed to him a daring defiance of mr. badger, but, after all, he wouldn't fare any worse than he was sure of doing, and he finally acquiesced, though with serious doubts as to the propriety of the plan. "don't say a word to let 'em know what you're going to do. bill--mind that!" "no, i won't." "you'll be sure to find me waiting for you outside the house, just at the back of the barn. i'll give you some supper when you reach the house." when the bound boy came from work in the evening he met stern, cold looks from mr. and mrs. badger, but andrew jackson wore a look of triumphant malice. he was gloating over the punishment in reserve for the boy whom he so groundlessly hated. "ain't you hungry?" he said tauntingly. bill looked at him, but did not answer. "oh, you needn't answer. i know you are," said the young tyrant. "you didn't like it very much, going without your dinner. you ain't going to have any supper, either. if you're very hungry, though, and will go down on your knees and beg my pardon, i'll get you something to eat. what do you say?" "i won't do what you say," said bill slowly. "i don't care enough for supper to do that." "you don't?" exclaimed andrew angrily. "so you're stubborn, are you? anyhow, you can't say i haven't given you a chance." "you're very kind!" said the bound boy sarcastically, in spite of his gentleness. "of course i am," blustered andrew jackson. "most boys wouldn't be, after the way you treated me." "you want the satisfaction of having me beg your pardon," said bill, looking full in the face of the petty despot. "yes, i do; and i mean to have it." "you can, upon one condition." "what's that?" asked andrew jackson, his curiosity overcoming his indignation. "if you'll beg my pardon for striking me with your whip, i'll beg yours for hitting you with the hoe." andrew fairly gasped for breath at this daring proposal, and he looked for a moment as if he were in danger of having a stroke of apoplexy. "you saucy beggar!" he ejaculated. "how dare you talk to me in that impertinent way? i'll tell father to give you the worst flogging ever you had to-night--see if i don't!" and the boy left to report bill's new insolence to his mother. bill crept up to bed a little earlier than usual. he knew that mr. badger would not ascend to his humble room to administer the threatened punishment till nine o'clock or later. through a refinement of cruelty that humane gentleman chose to let his intended victim lie in an anxious anticipation of the flogging, thus making it assume greater terror. in fact, he probably would not return from the village till nine o'clock or later, and this was an additional reason why he put it off. his absence made it easier for bill to carry out the plan which had been formed for him by his trusty friend, dick schmidt, and escape from the house. he accomplished his escape unnoticed about half-past eight o'clock. dick was waiting for him behind the barn. he had been a little afraid that bill would repent the promise he had made and back out. when he saw him he welcomed him gladly. "i was afraid you wouldn't dare to come, bill," he said. "i shan't be any worse off," said the bound boy. "mr. badger was going to give me a flogging, anyway, and he can't do any more than that as it is." "what an old brute he is!" exclaimed dick. "he isn't as bad as his wife or andrew jackson." "that's so! andrew is a mean boy. i'm glad you hit him." "i am sorry, dick." "don't you think he deserved it?" "yes, but i don't like to be the one to do it." "i wouldn't mind it," said dick, "but he's precious careful not to get into any muss with me." "you're not bound to mr. badger." "if i were, he wouldn't dare to order me round. catch him bulldozing me!" "you're more plucky than i am, dick." "you're too good-natured, bill--that's what's the matter with you." "i hate fighting, dick." "what did andrew say to you when you came home from work?" "he wanted me to go down on my knees and beg his pardon for hitting him." "why didn't you knock him down?" said dick quickly. "i told him i'd do it----" _"what!"_ exclaimed dick schmidt in the deepest disgust. "if he'd beg my pardon first for striking me with a whip." "that's better. i thought you wouldn't be so much of a coward as to beg his pardon." "he didn't accept the offer," said bill, smiling. "no, i suppose not. was he mad?" "he looked as if he was. he called me a saucy beggar and threatened to tell his father." "i've no doubt he will. he's just mean enough to do that. i say. bill, it's a pity you don't work for my father." "i wish i did, dick, but perhaps you'd boss me, too." "not much danger. we'd be like brothers." while this conversation was going on the two boys were walking across the fields to mr. schmidt's farm. the distance was not great, and by this time they were at the back door. as they went in bill's eyes glistened as he saw a nice supper laid on the kitchen table, waiting for him, for dick had told his mother of the guest he expected. he decided to say nothing of the circumstances that led to the invitation. he might safely have done so, however, for mrs. schmidt was a good, motherly woman, who pitied the boy and understood very well that his position in mr. badger's family must be a very disagreeable one. "i am glad to see you, william," she said. "sit right down and eat supper. i've got a hot cup of tea for you." "i'll sit down, too, mother. i only ate a little supper, for i wanted to keep bill company." presently the boys went to bed and had a social chat before going to sleep. "i wish," said dick, "i could be where i could look on when old badger goes up to your room and finds the bird flown." if dick could have been there, he would have witnessed an extraordinary scene. chapter xxix the battle in the attic about ten minutes after bill benton left his little chamber an ill-looking man, whose garb and general appearance made it clear that he was a tramp, came strolling across the fields. he had made some inquiries about the farmers in the neighborhood, and his attention was drawn to nathan badger as a man who was likely to keep money in the house. some tramps are honest men, the victims of misfortune, not of vice, but tom tapley belonged to a less creditable class. he had served two terms in a state penitentiary without deriving any particular moral benefit from his retired life therein. his ideas on the subject of honesty were decidedly loose, and none who knew him well would have trusted him with the value of a dollar. such was the man who approached the badger homestead. now it happened that mrs. badger and andrew jackson had gone to make a call. both intended to be back by nine o'clock, as neither wished to lose the gratification of being near by when bill benton received his flogging. as for mr. badger, he was at the village as usual in the evening. thus it will be seen that as bill also had left the house, no one was left in charge. tom tapley made a careful examination of the house from the outside, and his experienced eyes discovered that it was unprotected. "here's luck!" he said to himself. "now what's to prevent my explorin' this here shanty and makin' off with any valuables i come across?" two objections, however, occurred to the enterprising tramp: first, it was not likely at that time in the evening that he would be left alone long enough to gather in his booty, and, secondly, the absent occupants of the house might have money and articles of value on their persons which at present it would be impossible to secure. the front door was not locked. mr. tapley opened it, and, finding the coast clear, went upstairs. continuing his explorations, he made his way to the little attic chamber usually occupied by the bound boy. "nobody sleeps here, i expect, though the bed is rumpled," he said to himself. "there's two boys, i've heard, but it's likely they sleep together downstairs. i guess i'll slip into bed and get a little rest till it's time to attend to business." the tramp, with a sigh of enjoyment, for he had not lately slept in a bed, lay down on bill's hard couch. it was not long before drowsiness overcame him and he fell asleep. in the meantime the three absent members of the family came home. first mrs. badger and andrew jackson returned from their visit. "your father isn't home yet, andrew," said his mother. "i hope he will come soon, for i'm sleepy," said andrew. "then you had better go to bed, my darling." "no, i won't. i ain't goin' to lose seein' bill's flogging. i hope father'll lay it on well." "no doubt the boy deserves it." "what do you think he had the impudence to say to me, mother?" asked andrew. "i shall not be surprised at any impudence from the young reprobate." "he wanted me to beg his pardon for strikin' him with a whip, as he said i did." "well, i never did!" ejaculated mrs. badger. "to think of my boy apologizing to a low, hired boy like him!" "oh, he's gettin' awful airy, ma! shouldn't wonder if he thought he was my equal!" "there's nothing but a flogging will subdue such a boy as that. i ain't unmerciful, and if the boy showed a proper humility i wouldn't mind doin' all i could for him and overlookin' his faults, but when he insults my andrew, i can't excuse him. but there's one thing i can't understand: he didn't use to be so bold." "i know what has changed him, ma." "what is it, andrew?" "it's that dick schmidt. dick treats him as if he was his equal, and that makes him put on airs." "then dick lowers himself--though, to be sure, i don't hold him to be equal to you! the badgers are a better family than the schmidts, and so are the coneys, which was my name before i was married." "i wonder whether bill's asleep?" said andrew. "you might go to the foot of the stairs and listen," said his mother. andrew followed his mother's advice, and, opening the door at the foot of the attic stairs, was astonished to hear the deep breathing which issued from bill's chamber. "ma," he said, "bill is snoring like a house afire." "reckless boy! does he make so light of the flogging which your father has promised him?" "i don't know. he's gettin' awful sassy lately. i do wish father would come home." "i think i hear him now," said mrs. badger, listening intently. her ears did not deceive her. soon the steps of the master of the house, as he considered himself, were heard upon the doorstep, and mr. nathan badger entered. "i'm glad you've come, pa. are you goin' to flog bill now?" "yes, my son. get me a stout stick from the woodshed." andrew jackson obeyed with alacrity. armed with the stick, mr. badger crept upstairs, rather astonished by his bound boy's noisy breathing, and, entering the darkened chamber, brought the stick down smartly on the astonished sleeper. in about two minutes mrs. badger and andrew, standing at the foot of the stairs, were astonished by the noise of a terrible conflict in the little attic chamber, as if two men were wrestling. there was the sound of a heavy body flung on the floor, and the voice of mr. badger was heard shouting: "help! help! murder!" "the young villain's killing your father!" exclaimed the astonished mrs. badger. "go up and help him!" "i don't dare to," said andrew, pale as a sheet. "then i will!" said his mother, and she hurried upstairs, only to be met by her husband, who was literally tumbled downstairs by the occupant of the attic chamber. husband and wife fell together in a heap, and andrew jackson uttered a yell of dismay. in all the confidence of assured victory, mr. nathan badger, seeing the dim outline of a figure upon the bed, had brought down his stick upon it with emphasis. "i'll l'arn you!" he muttered in audible accents. it was a rude awakening for tom tapley, the tramp, who was sleeping as peacefully as a child. the first blow aroused him, but left him in a state of bewilderment, so that he merely shrank from the descending stick without any particular idea of what had happened to him. "didn't feel it, did yer?" exclaimed mr. badger. "well, i'll see if i can't make yer feel it!" and he brought down the stick for the second time with considerably increased vigor. by this time tom tapley was awake. by this time also he thoroughly understood the situation or thought he did. he had been found out, and the farmer had undertaken to give him a lesson. "that depends on whether you're stronger than i am," thought tom, and he sprang from the bed and threw himself upon the astonished farmer. nathan badger was almost paralyzed by the thought that bill benton, his hired boy, was absolutely daring enough to resist his lawful master. he was even more astounded by bill's extraordinary strength. why, as the boy grappled with him, he actually felt powerless. he was crushed to the floor, and, with the boy's knee upon his breast, struggled in vain to get up. it was so dark that he had not yet discovered that his antagonist was a man and not a boy. nathan badger had heard that insane persons are endowed with extraordinary strength, and it flashed upon him that the boy had become suddenly insane. the horror of being in conflict with a crazy boy so impressed him that he cried for help. then it was that tom tapley, gathering all his strength, lifted up the prostrate farmer and pitched him downstairs just as mrs. badger was mounting them, so that she and her husband fell in a breathless heap on the lower stairs, to the indescribable dismay of andrew jackson. mrs. badger was the first to pick herself up. "what does all this mean, mr. badger?" she asked. "that's what i'd like to know," said mr. badger ruefully. "you don't mean to say you ain't a match for a boy?" she demanded sarcastically. "perhaps you'd like to try him yourself?" said her husband. "this is very absurd, mr. badger. you know very well he's weak for a boy of sixteen, and he hasn't had anything to eat since morning." "if you think he's weak, you'd better tackle him," retorted nathan. "i tell you, wife, he's got the strength of a man and a strong man, too." "i don't understand it. tell me exactly what happened." "well, you saw me go upstairs with the stick andrew jackson gave me," said mr. badger, assuming a sitting position. "i saw the boy lyin' on the bed, snoring and i up with my stick and brought it down pretty hard. he quivered a little, but that was all. so i thought i'd try it again. he jumped out of bed and sprang on me like a tiger, grinding his teeth, but not saying a word. i tell you, wife, he seemed as strong as a horse. i couldn't get up, and he sat and pounded me." "the idea of being pounded by a small boy!" ejaculated mrs. badger. "just what i'd have said a quarter of an hour ago!" "it seems impossible!" "perhaps it does, but it's so." "he never acted so before." "no, and he never hit andrew jackson before, but yesterday he did it. i tell you what, wife, i believe the boy's gone crazy." "crazy!" ejaculated mrs. badger and andrew in a breath. "just so! when folks are crazy they're a good deal stronger than it's nateral for them to be, and that's the way with bill benton." "but what could possibly make him crazy?" demanded mrs. badger incredulously. "it may be the want of vittles. i don't know as we'd orter have kept him without his dinner and supper." "i don't believe a bit in such rubbish," said mrs. badger, whose courage had come back with the absolute silence in the attic chamber. "i believe you're a coward, nathan badger. i'll go upstairs myself and see if i can't succeed better than you did." "you'd better not, wife." "oh, don't go, ma!" said andrew jackson, pale with terror. "i'm going!" said the intrepid woman. "it shan't be said of me that i'm afraid of a little bound boy who's as weak as a rat." "you'll find out how weak he is," said mr. badger. "i warn you not to go." "i'm goin', all the same," said mrs. badger. "you'll see how i'll tame him down. give me the stick." "then go if you're so plaguy obstinate," said her husband, and it must be confessed that he rather hoped his wife, who had ventured to ridicule him, might herself meet with a reception that would make her change her tune somewhat. mrs. badger, stick in hand, marched up to the door of the attic and called out boldly: "open the door, you young villain!" "how does she know i'm young?" thought tom tapley, who was on guard in the room. "well, now, if she wasn't such an old woman i should feel flattered. i guess i'll have to scare her a little. it wouldn't be polite to tumble her downstairs as i did her husband." "have you gone crazy?" demanded mrs. badger behind the door. "not that i know of," muttered the tramp. "perhaps you think you can manage me as well as mr. badger?" she continued. "i should smile if i couldn't," commented tom tapley. "that woman must think she's extra strong to be a match for me!" "i'm coming in to whip you till you cry for mercy!" "really, she's a pretty spunky old woman!" thought the tramp. "if i can't hold my own against her, i'll sell myself for old rags!" mrs. badger pushed open the door, saw dimly the outline of the tramp and struck at it with the stick. but alas! the stick was wrenched from her hand, a pistol, loaded only with powder, was discharged, and the intrepid lady, in a panic, flew out of the room and downstairs, tumbling into her husband's arms. nathan badger was delighted at his wife's discomfiture. she couldn't taunt him any longer. "i told you so!" he chuckled. "how do you like tacklin' him yourself, my dear? wouldn't you like to try it again? ho! ho!" "mr. badger, you're a fool!" exclaimed his wife sharply. "it strikes me you're a little in that way yourself, mrs. badger. did you give him a floggin'? ho, ho! you were in a great hurry to come away!" "mr. badger, he fired at me with a pistol. i tell you he's a dangerous boy to have in the house." "oh, no, mrs. badger, you can manage him just as easy!" "shut up, mr. badger! how did i know he had a pistol? i tell you it's a serious thing! before morning, you, and andrew jackson, and me may be dead corpses!" at this awful statement andrew jackson burst into a terrified howl. "i'll tell you what we'd better do, mr. badger. we'll go into our room and lock ourselves in." "let me come in, too," said andrew. "he'll kill me! he hates me!" "yes, my darling, you may come, too!" said his mother. so the valiant three locked themselves up in a chamber and listened nervously. but tom tapley was already out of the house. he made his escape over the roof, fearing that the neighborhood would be roused and his safety endangered. so passed a night of unparalleled excitement in the badger homestead. chapter xxx attacked in the rear early the next morning the three badgers held a council of war. it was unanimously decided that something must be done, but what that something should be it was not easy to determine. mr. badger suggested that the town constable should be summoned. "the boy has committed assault and battery upon our persons, mrs. badger," he said, "and it is proper that he should be arrested." "shall i go for the constable?" asked andrew jackson. "i should like to have him put in jail. then we should be safe." "the constable would not be up so early, andrew." "besides," said mrs. badger, "we shall be laughed at for not being able to take care of a single small-sized boy." "you know what he is capable of, mrs. badger. at least you did when you came flyin' down the attic stairs into my arms!" "shut up, mr. badger," said his wife, who was ashamed when she remembered her panic. "you'd better not say anything. he got you on the floor and pounded you--you a full-grown man!" "i'd like to pound him!" said badger, setting his teeth hard. "it's a pity if three of us can't manage him without calling in a constable," continued mrs. badger, who, on the whole, had more courage than her husband. "what do you propose, wife?" asked nathan. "i propose that we all go up and seize him. he is probably asleep and can't give any trouble. we can tie him hand and foot before he wakes up." "capital!" said mr. badger, who was wonderfully assured by the thought that his young enemy might be asleep. "we'll go right up." "he may be awake!" suggested andrew jackson. "true. we must go well armed. i'll carry the gun. it will do to knock the pistol out of his hand before he gets a chance to use it." "perhaps so," assented mrs. badger. "and you, andrew jackson, what can you take?" "i'll take the poker," said the heroic andrew. "very good! we had better arm ourselves as soon as possible or he may wake up. by the way, mr. badger, where is the ball of twine? it will be useful to tie the boy's hands." "if his hands are tied he can't work." "no, but i will only keep them tied while i give him a thrashing. you can take possession of his pistol and hide it. when he is thoroughly subdued we will untie him and send him to work." "without his breakfast?" suggested andrew. "no, he has already fasted since yesterday morning, and it may make him desperate. he shall have some breakfast, and that will give him strength to work." andrew jackson was rather disappointed at the decision that bill was to have breakfast, but on this point he did not venture to oppose his father. the plan of campaign having been decided upon, it only remained to carry it out. mr. badger took the old musket and headed the procession. his wife slipped downstairs and returned with the kitchen broom and a poker. the last she put in the hands of her son. "use it, andrew jackson, if occasion requires. you may be called upon to defend your father and mother. should such be the case, do not flinch, but behave like a hero." "i will, ma!" exclaimed andrew, fired perhaps by the example of the great general after whom he was named. "but you and pa must tackle him first." "we will!" exclaimed the intrepid matron. "the disgraceful scenes of last evening must not again be enacted. this time we march to certain victory. mr. badger, go on, and i will follow." the three, in the order arranged, advanced to the foot of the stairs, and mr. badger slowly and cautiously mounted them, pausing before the door of the room that contained, as he supposed, the desperate boy. "shall i speak to him before entering?" he asked in a tone of indecision, turning back to his wife. "certainly not; it will put him on his guard. keep as still as you can. we want to surprise him." to account for what followed it must be stated that dick schmidt awakened his visitor early and the two went down to breakfast. mr. schmidt was going to the market town and found it necessary to breakfast at five o'clock. this happened fortunately for bill, as he was able to obtain a much better breakfast there than at home. when breakfast was over he said soberly: "dick, i must go back." "why do you go back at all?" said dick impulsively. "i must. it is the only home i have." "i wish you could stay with me." "so do i, but mr. badger would come after me." "i suppose he would. do you think he will flog you?" "i am sure he will." "i'd like to flog him--the brute! don't take it too hard, bill. you'll be a man some time, and then no one can punish you." poor bill! as he took his lonely way back to the house of his tyrannical employer in the early morning he could not help wishing that he was already a man and his days of thraldom were over. he was barely sixteen. five long, weary years lay before him. "i'll try to stand it, though it's hard," murmured bill. "i suppose he's very mad because i wasn't home last night. but i'm glad i went. i had two good meals and a quiet night's sleep." it was not long before he came in sight of home. probably no one was up in the badger household. usually bill was the first to get up and mrs. badger next, for andrew jackson and his father were neither of them fond of early rising. the front and back doors were no doubt locked, but bill knew how to get in. he went to the shed, raised a window and clambered in. "perhaps i can get up to my room without anybody hearing me," he reflected. he passed softly through the front room into the entry and up the front stairs. all was quiet. bill concluded that no one was up. he came to the foot of the attic stairs, and his astonished gaze rested on the three badgers, armed respectively with a gun, a broom and a poker, all on their way to his room. "were they going to murder me?" he thought. just then andrew jackson, who led the rear, and was therefore nearest to bill, looked back and saw the terrible foe within three feet of him. he uttered a loud yell, and, scarcely knowing what he was about, brought down the poker with force on his mother's back, at the same time crying: "there he is, ma!" mrs. badger, in her flurry, struck her husband with the broom, while her husband, equally panic-stricken, fired the musket. it was overloaded, and, as a natural result, "kicked," overthrowing mr. badger, who in his downward progress carried with him his wife and son. astonished and terrified, bill turned and fled, leaving the house in the same way he entered it. he struck across the fields and in that moment decided that he would never return to mr. badger unless he was dragged there. he felt sure that if he did he would be murdered. he had no plans except to get away. he saw dick schmidt, bade him a hurried good-by and took the road toward the next town. for three days he traveled, indebted to compassionate farmers for food. but excitement and fatigue finally overcame him, and he sank by the roadside, about fifty miles from the town of dexter, whence he had started on his pilgrimage. chapter xxxi bill benton finds a friend late one afternoon robert coverdale reached columbus on his western trip. the next day he was to push on to the town of dexter, where he had information that the boy of whom he was in search lived. the train, however, did not leave till eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and robert felt justified in devoting his leisure hours to seeing what he could of the city and its surroundings. he took an early breakfast and walked out into the suburbs. as he strolled along a little boy, about seven years old, ran to meet him. "please, mister," he said, "won't you come quick? there's a boy layin' by the road back there, and i guess he's dead!" robert needed no second appeal. his heart was warm and he liked to help others when he could. "show me where, bub," he said. the little fellow turned and ran back, robert keeping pace with him. by the roadside, stretched out, pale and with closed eyes, lay the poor bound boy, known as bill benton. he was never very strong, and the scanty fare to which he had been confined had sapped his physical strength. robert, at first sight, thought he was dead. he bent down and put his hand upon the boy's heart. it was beating, though faintly. "is he dead, mister?" asked the boy. "no, but he has fainted away. is there any water near by?" yes, there was a spring close at hand, the little boy said. robert ran to it, soaked his handkerchief in it, and, returning, laved the boy's face. the result was encouraging. bill opened his eyes and asked in a wondering tone: "where am i?" "you are with a friend," said robert soothingly. "how do you feel?" "i am very tired and weak," murmured bill. "are you traveling?" "yes." "where?" "i don't know." robert thought that the boy's mind might be wandering, but continued: "have you no friends in columbus?" "no. i have no friends anywhere!" answered bill sorrowfully, "except dick schmidt." "i suppose dick is a boy?" "yes." "where have you been living?" "you won't take me back there?" said bill uneasily. "i won't take you anywhere where you don't want to go. i want to be your friend, if you will let me." "i should like a friend," answered bill slowly. then, examining the kind, boyish face that was bent over him, he said, "i like you." "have you had anything to eat to-day?" asked robert. "no." "will you go with me to my hotel?" "i have no money." "poor boy!" thought robert, "it is easy enough to see that." bill's ragged clothes were assurance enough of the truth of what he said. "i must take care of this poor boy," thought robert. "it will delay me, but i can't leave him." he heard the sound of approaching wheels, and, looking up, saw a man approaching in a wagon. robert signaled him to stop. "i want to take this boy to the hotel," he said, "but he has not strength enough to walk. will you take us aboard? i will pay you a fair price." "poor little chap! he looks sick, that's a fact!" said the kind-hearted countryman. "yes, i'll give you both a lift, and i won't ask a cent." there was some surprise felt at the hotel when robert appeared with his new-found friend. some of the servants looked askance at the ragged clothes, but robert said quietly: "i will pay for him," and no objection was made. when bill was undressed and put to bed and had partaken of a refreshing breakfast he looked a great deal brighter and seemed much more cheerful. "you are very kind," he said to robert. "i hope somebody would do as much for me if i needed it," answered robert. "do you mind telling me about yourself?" "i will tell anything you wish," said bill, who now felt perfect confidence in his new friend. "what is your name?" "bill benton; at any rate, that's what they call me." "don't you think it's your real name, then?" "no." "have you any remembrance of your real name?" asked robert, not dreaming of the answer he would receive. "when i was a little boy they called me julian, but----" "julian!" repeated robert eagerly. "yes." "can you tell what was your last name?" asked robert quickly. bill shook his head. "no, i don't remember." "tell me," said robert, "did you live with a man named badger in the town of dexter?" the sick boy started and seemed extremely surprised. "how did you find out?" he asked. "did mr. badger send you for me?" "i never saw mr. badger in my life." bill--er perhaps i ought to say julian--looked less anxious. "yes," he said, "but he treated me badly and i ran away." "did you ever hear of a man named charles waldo?" "yes, he was the man that sent me to mr. badger." "it's a clear case!" thought robert, overjoyed, "i have no doubt now that i have found the hermit's son. poor boy, how he must have suffered!" "julian," said he, "do you know why i am traveling--what brought me here? but of course you don't. i came to find you." "to find me? but you said----" "no, it was not mr. badger nor mr. waldo that sent me. they are your enemies. the one that sent me is your friend. julian, how would you like to have a father?" "my father is dead." "who told you so?" "mr. waldo. he told mr. badger so." "he told a falsehood, then. you have a father, and as soon as you are well enough i'll take you to him." "will he be kind to me?" "do not fear. for years he has grieved for you, supposing you dead. once restored to him, you will have everything to make you happy. your father is a rich man, and you won't be overworked again." "what is my father's name?" asked julian. "his name is gilbert huet." "huet! yes, that's the name!" exclaimed julian eagerly. "i remember it now. my name used to be julian huet, but mr. waldo was always angry whenever any one called me by that name, and so he changed it to bill benton." "he must be a great scoundrel," said robert. "now, julian, i will tell you my plan. i don't believe there is anything the matter with you except the want of rest and good food. you shall have both. you also want some new clothes." "yes," said julian, looking at the ragged suit which now hung over a chair. "i should like some new clothes." a doctor was called, who confirmed robert's opinion. "the youngster will be all right in a week or ten days," he said. "all he wants is rest and good living." "how soon will he be able to travel?" "in a week, at the outside." during this week robert's attention was drawn to the following paragraph in a copy of the dexter times, a small weekly paper, which he found in the reading room of the hotel: "a desperate young ruffian.--we understand that a young boy in the service of mr. nathan badger, one of our most respected citizens, has disappeared under very extraordinary circumstances. the evening previous to his departure he made an unprovoked attack upon mr. and mrs. badger, actually throwing mr. badger downstairs and firing a pistol at mrs. badger. he was a small, slight boy, but the strength he exhibited was remarkable in thus coping successfully with a strong man. mr. badger thinks the boy must have been suddenly attacked by insanity of a violent character." "what does this mean, julian?" asked robert, reading the paragraph to his young protege. "i don't know," answered julian, astonished. "i spent the last night before i came away with my friend dick schmidt." in a few days julian looked quite another boy. his color began to return and his thin form to fill out, while his face wore a peaceful and happy expression. in a new and handsome suit of clothes he looked like a young gentleman and not at all like bill benton, the bound boy. he was devotedly attached to robert, the more so because he had never before--as far as his memory went--received so much kindness from any one as from him. "now," thought robert, "i am ready to go back to cook's harbor and restore julian to his father." chapter xxxii once more in cook's harbor various had been the conjectures in cook's harbor as to what had become of robert coverdale. upon this point the hermit was the only person who could have given authentic information, but no one thought of applying to him. naturally questions were put to mrs. trafton, but she herself had a very vague idea of robert's destination, and, moreover, she had been warned not to be communicative. mr. jones, the landlord, supposed he had gone to try to raise the amount of his mortgage among distant relatives, but on this point he felt no anxiety. "he won't succeed," said he to his wife; "you may depend on that. i don't believe he's got any relations that have money, and, even if he has, they're goin' to think twice before they give a boy two hundred dollars on the security of property they don't know anything about." "what do you intend to do with the cottage, mr. jones?" "it's worth five hundred dollars, and i can get more than the interest of five hundred dollars in the way of rent." "is anybody likely to hire it?" "john shelton's oldest son talks of getting married. he'll be glad to hire it of me." "what's to become of mrs. trafton?" "i don't know and i don't care," answered the landlord carelessly. "the last time i called she was impudent to me; came near ordering me out of the house till i made her understand that i had more right to the house than she had." "she puts on a good many airs for a poor woman," said mrs. jones. "it's too ridiculous for a woman like her to be proud." "if anything, she isn't as bad as that young whelp. bob coverdale. the boy actually told me i wasn't respectful enough to his precious aunt. i wonder if they'll be respectful to her in the poorhouse--where it's likely she'll fetch up?" "i don't see where the boy got money enough to go off," said mrs. jones. "he didn't need much to get to boston or new york. he's probably blackin' boots or sellin' papers in one of the two." "i hope he is. i wonder how that sort of work will suit the young gentleman?" "to-morrow the time's up, and i shall foreclose the mortgage. i'll fix up the place a little and then offer it to young shelton. i guess he'll be willin' to pay me fifty dollars a year rent, and that'll be pretty good interest on my two hundred dollars." "have you given mrs. trafton any warning?" "no, why should i? she knows perfectly well when the time is out, and she's had time to get the money. if she's got it, well and good, but if she hasn't, she can't complain. oh, there's young shelton," said the landlord, looking out of the window. "i'll call him and see if we can make a bargain about renting the cottage." "frank shelton!" called out mr. jones, raising the window. the young fisherman paused. "come in; i want to speak to you." frank shelton turned in from the street and the landlord commenced his attack. "frank, folks say you're thinkin' of gettin' married?" "maybe i shall," said the young man bashfully. "whereabouts do you cal'late to live?" "well, i don't know any place." "what do you say to the widder trafton's house?" "is she goin' to leave?" "i think she'll have to. fact is, frank, i've got a mortgage on the place which she can't pay, and i'll have to foreclose. you can have it as soon as you want it." "how much rent did you cal'late to ask, mr. jones?" "i'd ought to have five dollars a month, but, seein' it's you," said the politic landlord, "you may have it for fifty dollars a year." "i'll speak to nancy about it," said the young fisherman. "i don't want to turn mrs. trafton out, but if she's got to go, i suppose i might as well hire the house as any one else." "just so. i tell you, frank, i'm offerin' you a bargain." just then frank shelton, who was looking out of the window, exclaimed in surprise: "why, there's bob coverdale!" "where?" "he just walked by, with a smaller boy alongside." "you don't say so!" uttered mr. jones, hardly knowing whether to be glad or sorry. "well, he's come in time to bid good-by to his old home. i'll go up to-morrow, first thing, and settle this matter. i s'pose they'll try to beg off, but it won't be any use." robert had written to the hermit from columbus a letter which conveyed the glad tidings of his success. it filled the heart of the recluse with a great and abounding joy. life seemed wholly changed for him. now he felt that he had something to live for, and he determined to change his course of life entirely. he would move to boston or new york and resume the social position which he had abandoned. there he would devote himself to the training and education of his boy. and robert--yes, he would richly reward the boy who had restored to him the son lost so long. he would not yet decide what he would do for him, but he felt that there was no reward too great for such a service. he knew on what day to expect the two boys, for robert had informed him by letter. restless, he waited for the moment which should restore his son to his arms. he took a position on the beach in front of the entrance to the cave and looked anxiously for the approach of the two boys. no longer was he clad in his hermit dress, but from a trunk he had drawn out a long-disused suit, made for him in other days by a fashionable tailor on broadway, and he had carefully trimmed and combed his neglected locks. "my boy must not be ashamed of my appearance," he said proudly. "my hermit life is over. henceforth i will live as a man among men." presently his waiting glance was rewarded. two boys, one of whom he recognized as robert, descended the cliff and walked briskly toward him on the firm sand beach. he did not wait now, but hurried toward them. he fixed his eyes eagerly upon the second boy. julian had much improved in appearance since we first made his acquaintance. it does not take long to restore strength and bloom into a boy of sixteen. he was slender still, but the hue of health mantled his cheeks; he was no longer sad, but hopeful, and in his delicate and refined features his father could see a strong resemblance to the wife he had lost. "julian!" said robert coverdale, "that's your father who is coming. let him see that you are glad to meet him. "mr. huet," he said, "this is your son." "you do not need to tell me. he is too like his mother. julian, my boy, heaven be praised that has restored you to me!" it is hardly to be expected that julian should feel the rapture that swelled the father's heart, for the thought of having a father at all was still new and strange, but it was not long before he learned to love him. the poor boy had received so little kindness that his father's warm affection touched his heart, and he felt glad and happy to have such a protector. "god bless and reward you, robert!" said mr. huet, taking the hand of our hero. "you shall find that i am not ungrateful for this great service. i want to talk to my boy alone for a time, but i will come to your aunt's house to supper with julian. please tell her so, and ask her to let it be a good one." "i will, mr. huet." from julian his father drew the story of his years of hardship and ill treatment, and his heart was stirred with indignation as he thought of the cruelty of the relative who had subjected him and his son to that long period of grief and suffering. "your trials are over now, julian," he said. "you will be content to live with me, will you not?" "will robert live with us?" asked the boy. "do you like robert?" asked his father. "i love him like a brother," said julian impulsively. "you don't know how kind he has been to me, father!" "yes, robert shall live with us, if he will," said mr. huet. "i will speak about it to him tomorrow." "will you live here, father?" "oh, no! you must be educated. i shall take you to boston or new york, and there you shall have every advantage that money can procure. hitherto i have not cared to be rich. now, julian, i value money for your sake." together they went to mrs. trafton's cottage to supper. "what makes you look so sober, robert?" asked mr. huet, observing that the boy looked grave. "i have heard that mr. jones will foreclose his mortgage to-morrow." "not if you pay it," said mr. huet quietly. "come with me after supper, and i will hand you all the money you require." robert was about to express his gratitude, but mr. huet stopped him. "you owe me no thanks," he said. "it is only the first installment of a great debt which i can never wholly repay." chapter xxxiii the landlord's defeat about ten o'clock the next morning mr. nahum jones approached the trafton cottage. sitting on a bench outside was robert coverdale, whittling. he had put on his old clothes, intending it to be for the last time. he wanted to surprise mr. jones. "there's bob coverdale," said mr. jones to himself. "he don't look much as if he was able to pay the mortgage. i guess i've got the place fast enough." "is your aunt at home, young man?" he asked pompously. "yes," answered robert, continuing to whittle. "you might say 'yes, sir.'" "all right. i'll remember next time." "you'd better. tell your aunt i want to see her--on business," emphasizing the last two words. "come right in, sir." mr. jones, with a patronizing air, entered the house of which he already considered himself the proprietor. mrs. trafton was engaged in making a pudding, for she had two boarders now, julian and his father, who were to take their meals in the fisherman's cottage till they got ready to leave cook's harbor. "good mornin', ma'am," said mr. jones. "good morning. will you take a seat?" she said quietly. "i can't stay long, mrs. trafton. i called on a little matter of business." "very well, sir." "i suppose you understand what it is?" "perhaps i do, but you had better explain." "i have made up my mind to foreclose the mortgage i hold on this place, and i should like to have you move out within three days, as i am going to let it." "indeed! to whom do you intend to let it?" "to frank shelton. he's goin' to be married, and this house will suit him." "and what am i to do, mr. jones? you surely do not mean to deprive robert and me of our home?" "it isn't yours any longer, or won't be. of course, you can't expect to stay here. i haven't forgotten how you talked to me when i was here before nor how impudent your boy was." "meaning me?" asked robert with a grave face. "of course i mean you!" said mr. jones sharply. "i haven't said anything impudent to you to-day, have i?" "no, but you'd ought to have thought of that before. it's too late now!" "you won't turn us out on the street, will you, mr. jones?" "haven't i given you three days to stay? if you want my advice, i should say that you'd find a good, comfortable home in the poorhouse. your boy there might be bound out to a farmer." "i don't know any farmer that wants a boy," said robert meekly. "i'd take you myself," said nahum jones, "if you wasn't so impudent. i'm afraid you're a little too airy for me." "wouldn't you let the house to me, mr. jones?" asked the widow. "it's worth a good deal more than the face of the mortgage." "you couldn't get a dollar more, in my opinion," said the landlord. "as to takin' you for a tenant, i haven't any assurance that you could pay the rent." "what rent do you want for it, mr. jones?" "five dollars a month." "five dollars a month, when you say it's only worth two hundred dollars!" "i'm goin' to fix it up a little," said mr. jones, rather nonplussed. "i think, mr. jones, we won't move," said robert. "won't move?" ejaculated the landlord, getting red in the face. "you've got to move." "who says so?" "i say so, you young whelp!" "no hard names, if you please, mr. jones. the fact is, my aunt doesn't fancy going to the poorhouse. to be sure, if she could have your society there it might make a difference." "you'll repent this impudence, bob coverdale!" "how am i impudent?" "to talk of my being in the poorhouse!" "you spoke of aunt jane going to the poorhouse." "that's a different matter." "at any rate, she won't go!" said robert decidedly. "won't? we'll see about that. how are you going to help it?" "by paying the mortgage," answered robert quietly. "you can't do it," said mr. jones, his jaw drooping. "you are mistaken, mr. jones. if you'll write a receipt, i am ready to pay it now--principal and interest." robert drew out a roll of bills from the pocket of his ragged vest and began to count them. "where did you get this money?" ejaculated the landlord. "i must decline telling you, mr. jones. it's good money, as you can see. i think you'll have to tell frank shelton he can't have the house unless he wants to hire of my aunt." nahum jones hated to take the money that was offered him, but there was no loophole to escape. the good bargain was slipping from his grasp. the triumphant look faded from his face, and he looked exceedingly ill at ease. "i'll come up with you for this, bob coverdale!" he muttered angrily. "for what? paying you money, mr. jones?" "you know what i mean." "yes, i do know what you mean," returned the boy gravely. "this money is in payment for liquor furnished to my poor uncle--liquor which broke up the happiness of his home and finally led to his death. you laid a plot to deprive my aunt, whom you had so much injured, of her home, but you have been defeated. we don't care to have anything more to do with you." there is no need of recording the landlord's ill-natured answer. he was angry and humiliated, and, when he got home, snapped up mrs. jones when she began to make inquiries about the new property. he felt the worse because he had been defeated by a boy. chapter xxxiv how it ended "robert," said gilbert huet later in the day, "next week julian and i go to boston, where we shall try to make a home for ourselves." robert looked sober. "i shall feel very lonely without you," he said. "you are to go, too, robert," said julian quickly. "if you will. julian wants your society, and so do i." robert's face flushed with eager delight. "but my aunt?" he said. "i have been speaking to your aunt. in fact, i invited her to accompany us, but she says she is used to cook's harbor and cannot leave it." "i don't like to leave her alone." "then i'll tell you what you can do. i understand that young frank shelton is seeking for a home where he can take his promised wife. i advise you to enlarge the cottage, putting on another story and perhaps an l also. this will give you plenty of room for your aunt and the young couple, who will be company for her." "yes," said mrs. trafton, "i always liked frank shelton and his wife that is to be. the arrangement will be very agreeable to me." "but," objected robert, "how can i build an addition to the house? i have no money." "i beg your pardon," said mr. huet, smiling, "but i don't think a young gentleman worth ten thousand dollars can truthfully say he has no money. i hope, robert, you are not growing mean." "ten thousand dollars!" ejaculated robert, his eyes wide open with amazement. "certainly." "i don't understand you, mr. huet." "then perhaps you will understand this." mr. huet handed robert a slip of paper, which proved to be a check on the merchants' bank, of boston, for the sum of ten thousand dollars, payable to robert coverdale or order. it was signed by gilbert huet. "you see, you are rich, robert," said julian, smiling with joy at his friend's good fortune. "oh, mr. huet, i don't deserve this," said robert, his heart full. "you must let me judge of that, my dear boy. say no more or you will be depreciating julian's value. you have restored him to me, and i consider him worth much more than ten thousand dollars." of course, robert joyfully accepted the munificent gift so cordially offered. by mr. huet's advice, he invested the money in good dividend-paying securities and monthly sent his aunt twenty-five dollars, which, with the rent, made her quite easy in her circumstances. the additions were made to the cottage, and frank shelton and his wife were glad to hire the house, thus providing mrs. trafton with society as well as adding to her income. as for robert, henceforth he shared in all the educational advantages which julian enjoyed. mr. huet took a house, engaged an excellent housekeeper and at length enjoyed a home. one letter he wrote to charles waldo--a scathing letter denouncing him for his infamous conduct and threatening severe punishment if he ever again conspired against his happiness. mr. waldo did not answer the letter for very shame. what excuse or apology could he possibly offer? three years later robert and julian made a vacation journey westward. "i should like to call on my old friend nathan badger," said julian. "so should i," said robert. "i want to see how he looks." the badgers could not at first be convinced that the elegant young gentleman, introduced as julian huet, was no other than the bound boy, bill benton; but he recalled so many incidents of his past life that they credited it at last. "you were always a favorite of mine, bill--i mean mr. julian!" said the farmer, who had a wonderful respect for wealth. "and of mine!" chimed in mrs. badger. "and i'm sure my andrew jackson loved you like a brother." andrew jackson, a gawky youth, no more prepossessing than his boyhood promised, winked hard and looked enviously at julian. when the latter drew from his pocket a silver watch and chain and asked andrew to accept it for old acquaintance sake he was quite overcome and said he liked julian "better than any feller he knew!" "then you forgive me for hitting you with a hoe, andrew?" said julian smilingly. "i don't care for that," said andrew jackson stoutly, "and i guess you more'n got even with us that time you stayed with dick schmidt and father tried to thrash a tramp--thinking it was you--and got thrashed himself!" then andrew jackson fixed an admiring glance on the watch he had coveted so long. "boys will be boys!" said mr. badger with a fatherly smile. "andrew jackson don't have no ill feelings." it was the way of the world. julian was rich now and had plenty of friends. but he had one true friend whom money could not buy, and this was robert coverdale, the young fisherman of coolers harbor, prosperous henceforth and happy, as he well deserved to be. the end a. l. burt's catalogue of books for young people by popular writers, 52-58 duane street, new york books for boys. joe's luck: a boy's adventures in california, by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. the story is chock fall of stirring incidents, while the amusing situations are furnished by joshua bickford, from pumpkin hollow, and the fellow who modestly styles himself the "rip-tail roarer, from pike co., missouri." mr. alger never writes a poor book, and "joe's luck" is certainly one of his best. tom the bootblack; or, the road to success. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. a bright, enterprising lad was tom the bootblack. he was not at all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout to better himself. the lad started for cincinnati to look up his heritage. mr. grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. the plan failed, and gilbert grey, once tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. this is one of mr. alger's best stories. dan the newsboy. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. dan mordaunt and his mother live in a poor tenement, and the lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of new york. a little heiress of six years is confided to the care of the mordaunts. the child is kidnapped and dan tracks the child to the house where she is hidden, and rescues her. the wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so delighted with dan's courage and many good qualities that she adopts him as her heir. tony the hero: a brave boy's adventure with a tramp. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the control of rudolph rugg, a thorough rascal. after much abuse tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel. tony is heir to a large estate. rudolph for a consideration hunts up tony and throws him down a deep well. of course tony escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act, a rich friend secures his rights and tony is prosperous. a very entertaining book. the errand boy; or. how phil brent won success. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth illustrated, price $1.00. the career of "the errand boy" embraces the city adventures of a smart country lad. philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper named brent. the death of mrs. brent paved the way for the hero's subsequent troubles. a retired merchant in new york secures him the situation of errand boy, and thereafter stands as his friend. tom temple's career. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. tom temple is a bright, self-reliant lad. he leaves plympton village to seek work in new york, whence he undertakes an important mission to california. some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. the tale is written in mr. alger's most fascinating style. frank fowler, the cash boy. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. frank fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister grace. going to new york he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. he renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman who takes a fancy to the lad, and thereafter helps the lad to gain success and fortune. tom thatcher's fortune. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. tom thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. he supports his mother and sister on meagre wages earned as a shoe-pegger in john simpson's factory. tom is discharged from the factory and starts overland for california. he meets with many adventures. the story is told in a way which has made mr. alger's name a household word in so many homes. the train boy. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. paul palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his mother and sister by selling books and papers on the chicago and milwaukee railroad. he detects a young man in the act of picking the pocket of a young lady. in a railway accident many passengers are killed, but paul is fortunate enough to assist a chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into his employ. paul succeeds with tact and judgment and is well started on the road to business prominence. mark mason's victory. the trials and triumphs of a telegraph boy. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. mark mason, the telegraph boy, was a sturdy, honest lad, who pluckily won his way to success by his honest manly efforts under many difficulties. this story will please the very large class of boys who regard mr. alger as a favorite author. a debt of honor. the story of gerald lane's success in the far west. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. the story of gerald lane and the account of the many trials and disappointments which he passed through before he attained success, will interest all boys who have read the previous stories of this delightful author. ben bruce. scenes in the life of a bowery newsboy. by horatio alger, jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. ben bruce was a brave, manly, generous boy. the story of his efforts, and many seeming failures and disappointments, and his final success, are most interesting to all readers. the tale is written in mr. alger's most fascinating style. the castaways; or, on the florida reefs. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this tale smacks of the salt sea. from the moment that the sea queen leaves lower new york bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward. the adventures of ben clark, the hero of the story and jake the cook, cannot fail to charm the reader. as a writer for young people mr. otis is a prime favorite. wrecked on spider island; or, how ned rogers found the treasure. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. ned rogers, a "down-east" plucky lad ships as cabin boy to earn a livelihood. ned is marooned on spider island, and while there discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and finds a considerable amount of treasure. the capture of the treasure and the incidents of the voyage serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. the search for the silver city: a tale of adventure in yucatan. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. two lads, teddy wright and neal emery, embark on the steam yacht day dream for a cruise to the tropics. the yacht is destroyed by fire, and then the boat is cast upon the coast of yucatan. they hear of the wonderful silver city, of the chan santa cruz indians, and with the help of a faithful indian ally carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. pursued with relentless vigor at last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. the story is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. a runaway brig; or, an accidental cruise. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this is a sea tale, and the reader can look out upon the wide shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with harry vandyne, walter morse, jim libby and that old shell-back, bob brace, on the brig bonita. the boys discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a buried treasure. they are stranded on an island and at last are rescued with the treasure. the boys are sure to be fascinated with this entertaining story. the treasure finders: a boy's adventures in nicaragua. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. roy and dean coloney, with their guide tongla, leave their father's indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. the boys eagerly explore the temples of an extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden away. they escape with the greatest difficulty. eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. we doubt if there ever was written a more entertaining story than "the treasure finders." jack, the hunchback. a story of the coast of maine. by james otis. price $1.00. this is the story of a little hunchback who lived on cape elizabeth, on the coast of maine. his trials and successes are most interesting. from first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. it bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force. with washington at monmouth: a story of three philadelphia boys. by james otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. three philadelphia lads assist the american spies and make regular and frequent visits to valley forge in the winter while the british occupied the city. the story abounds with pictures of colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of washington's soldiers which are given shown that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. the story is wholesome and patriotic in tone, as are all of mr. otis' works. with lafayette at yorktown: a story of how two boys joined the continental army, by james otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. two lads from portsmouth, n. h., attempt to enlist in the colonial army, and are given employment as spies. there is no lack of exciting incidents which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of ben jaffrays and ned allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from textbooks has been forgotten. the siege of havana. being the experiences of three boys serving under israel putnam in 1762. by james otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. "at the siege of havana" deals with that portion of the island's history when the english king captured the capital, thanks to the assistance given by the troops from new england, led in part by col. israel putnam. the principal characters are darius lunt, the lad who, represented as telling the story, and his comrades, robert clement and nicholas vallet. colonel putnam also figures to considerable extent, necessarily, in the tale, and the whole forms one of the most readable stories founded on historical facts. the defense of fort henry. a story of wheeling creek in 1777. by james otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. nowhere in the history of our country can be found more heroic or thrilling incidents than in the story of those brave men and women who founded the settlement of wheeling in the colony of virginia. the recital of what elizabeth zane did is in itself as heroic a story as can be imagined. the wondrous bravery displayed by major mcculloch and his gallant comrades, the sufferings of the colonists and their sacrifice of blood and life, stir the blood of old as well as young readers. the capture of the laughing mary. a story of three new york boys in 1776. by james otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, price $1.50. "during the british occupancy of new york, at the outbreak of the revolution, a yankee lad hears of the plot to take general washington's person, and calls in two companions to assist the patriot cause. they do some astonishing things, and, incidentally, lay the way for an american navy later, by the exploit which gives its name to the work. mr. otis' books are too well known to require any particular commendation to the young."--evening post. with warren at bunker hill. a story of the siege of boston. by james otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.00. "this is a tale of the siege of boston, which opens on the day after the doings at lexington and concord, with a description of home life in boston, introduces the reader to the british camp at charlestown, shows gen. warren at home, describes what a boy thought of the battle of bunker hill, and closes with the raising of the siege. the three heroes, george wentworth, ben scarlett and an old ropemaker incur the enmity of a young tory, who causes them many adventures the boys will like to read."--detroit free press. with the swamp fox. the story of general marion's spies. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this story deals with general francis marion's heroic struggle in the carolinas. general marion's arrival to take command of these brave men and rough riders is pictured as a boy might have seen it, and although the story is devoted to what the lads did, the swamp fox is ever present in the mind of the reader. on the kentucky frontier. a story of the fighting pioneers of the west. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. in the history of our country there is no more thrilling story than that of the work done on the mississippi river by a handful of frontiersmen. mr. otis takes the reader on that famous expedition from the arrival of major clarke's force at corn island, until kaskaskia was captured. he relates that part of simon kenton's life history which is not usually touched upon either by the historian or the story teller. this is one of the most entertaining books for young people which has been published. sarah dillard's ride. a story of south carolina in 1780. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "this book deals with the carolinas in 1780, giving a wealth of detail of the mountain men who struggled so valiantly against the king's troops. major ferguson is the prominent british officer of the story, which is told as though coming from a youth who experienced these adventures. in this way the famous ride of sarah dillard is brought out as an incident of the plot."--boston journal. a tory plot. a story of the attempt to kill general washington. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "'a tory plot' is the story of two lads who overhear something of the plot originated during the revolution by gov. tryon to capture or murder washington. they communicate their knowledge to gen. putnam and are commissioned by him to play the role of detectives in the matter. they do so, and meet with many adventures and hairbreadth escapes. the boys are, of course, mythical, but they serve to enable the author to put into very attractive shape much valuable knowledge concerning one phase of the revolution."--pittsburgh times. a traitor's escape. a story of the attempt to seize benedict arnold. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "this is a tale with stirring scenes depicted in each chapter, bringing clearly before the mind the glorious deeds of the early settlers in this country. in an historical work dealing with this country's past, no plot can hold the attention closer than this one, which describes the attempt and partial success of benedict arnold's escape to new york, where he remained as the guest of sir henry clinton. all those who actually figured in the arrest of the traitor, as well as gen. washington, are included as characters."--albany union. a cruise with paul jones. a story of naval warfare in 1776. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "this story takes up that portion of paul jones' adventurous life when he was hovering off the british coast, watching for an opportunity to strike the enemy a blow. it deals more particularly with his descent upon whitehaven, the seizure of lady selkirk's plate, and the famous battle with the drake. the boy who figures in the tale is one who was taken from a derelict by paul jones shortly after this particular cruise was begun."--chicago inter-ocean. corporal lige's recruit. a story of crown point and ticonderoga. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1,00. "in 'corporal lige's recruit,' mr. otis tells the amusing story of an old soldier, proud of his record, who had served the king in '58, and who takes the lad, isaac rice, as his 'personal recruit.' the lad acquits himself superbly. col. ethan allen 'in the name of god and the continental congress,' infuses much martial spirit into the narrative, which will arouse the keenest interest as it proceeds. crown point, ticonderoga, benedict arnold and numerous other famous historical names appear in this dramatic tale."--boston globe. morgan, the jersey spy. a story of the siege of yorktown in 1781. by james otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "the two lads who are utilized by the author to emphasize the details of the work done during that memorable time were real boys who lived on the banks of the york river, and who aided the jersey spy in his dangerous occupation. in the guise of fishermen the lads visit yorktown, are suspected of being spies, and put under arrest. morgan risks his life to save them. the final escape, the thrilling encounter with a squad of red coats, when they are exposed equally to the bullets of friends and foes, told in a masterly fashion, makes of this volume one of the most entertaining books of the year."--inter-ocean. the young scout: the story of a west point lieutenant. by edward s. ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. the crafty apache chief geronimo but a few years ago was the most terrible scourge of the southwest border. the author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of geronimo's last raid. the hero is lieutenant james decker, a recent graduate of west point. ambitious to distinguish himself the young man takes many a desperate chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly escapes with his life. in our opinion mr. ellis is the best writer of indian stories now before the public. adrift in the wilds: the adventures of two shipwrecked boys. by edward s. ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. elwood brandon and howard lawrence are en route for san francisco. off the coast of california the steamer takes fire. the two boys reach the shore with several of the passengers. young brandon becomes separated from his party and is captured by hostile indians, but is afterwards rescued. this is a very entertaining narrative of southern california. a young hero; or, fighting to win. by edward s. ellis. 12mo. cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen from the misses perkiupine, two very old and simple minded ladies. fred sheldon, the hero of this story, undertakes to discover the thieves and have them arrested. after much time spent in detective work, he succeeds in discovering the silver plate and winning the reward. the story is told in mr. ellis' most fascinating style. every boy will be glad to read this delightful book. lost in the rockies. a story of adventure in the rocky mountains. by edward s. ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. incident succeeds incident, and adventure is piled upon adventure, and at the end the reader, be he boy or man, will have experienced breathless enjoyment in this romantic story describing many adventures in the rockies and among the indians. a jaunt through java: the story of a journey to the sacred mountain. by edward s. ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. the interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, hermon and eustace hadley, on their trip across the island of java, from samarang to the sacred mountain. in a land where the royal bengal tiger, the rhinoceros, and other fierce beasts are to be met with, it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. there is not a dull page in the book. the boy patriot. a story of jack, the young friend of washington. by edward s. ellis. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. "there are adventures of ail kinds for the hero and his friends, whose pluck and ingenuity in extricating themselves from awkward fixes are always equal to the occasion. it is an excellent story full of honest, manly, patriotic efforts on the part of the hero. a very vivid description of the battle of trenton is also found in this story."--journal of education. a yankee lad's pluck. how bert larkin saved his father's ranch in porto rico. by wm. p. chipman. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "bert larkin, the hero of the story, early excites our admiration, and is altogether a fine character such as boys will delight in, whilst the story of his numerous adventures is very graphically told. this will, we think, prove one of the most popular boys' books this season."--gazette. a brave defense. a story of the massacre at fort griswold in 1781. by william p. chipman. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00 perhaps no more gallant fight against fearful odds took place during the revolutionary war than that at fort griswold, groton heights, conn., in 1781. the boys are real boys who were actually on the muster rolls, either at fort trumbull on the new london side, or of fort griswold on the groton side of the thames. the youthful reader who follows halsey sanford and levi dart and tom malleson, and their equally brave comrades, through their thrilling adventures will be learning something more than historical facts; they will be imbibing lessons of fidelity, of bravery, of heroism, and of manliness, which must prove serviceable in the arena of life. the young minuteman. a story of the capture of general prescott in 1777. by william p. chipman. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this story is based upon actual events which occurred during the british occupation of the waters of narragansett bay. darius wale and william northrop belong to "the coast patrol." the story is a strong one, dealing only with actual events. there is, however, no lack of thrilling adventure, and every lad who is fortunate enough to obtain the book will find not only that his historical knowledge is increased, but that his own patriotism and love of country are deepened. for the temple: a tale of the fall of jerusalem. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by's. j. solomon. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00 "mr. henty's graphic prose picture of the hopeless jewish resistance to roman sway adds another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world. the book is one of mr. henty's cleverest efforts."--graphic. roy gilbert's search: a tale of the great lakes. by wm. p. chipman. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. a deep mystery hangs over the parentage of roy gilbert. he arranges with two schoolmates to make a tour of the great lakes on a steam launch. the three boys visit many points of interest on the lakes. afterwards the lads rescue an elderly gentleman and a lady from a sinking yacht. later on the boys narrowly escape with their lives. the hero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed with interest. the slate picker: the story of a boy's life in the coal mines. by harry prentice. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this is a story of a boy's life in the coal mines of pennsylvania. ben burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy he advanced step by step until he found himself called upon to fill the position of chief engineer of the kohinoor coal company. this is a book of extreme interest to every boy reader. the boy cruisers; or, paddling in florida. by st. george rathborne. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. andrew george and rowland carter start on a canoe trip along the gulf coast, from key west to tampa, florida. their first adventure is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. next they run into a gale in the gulf. after that they have a lively time with alligators and andrew gets into trouble with a band of seminole indians. mr. rathborne knows just how to interest the boys, and lads who are in search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. captured by zulus: a story of trapping in africa. by harry prentice. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this story details the adventures of two lads, dick elsworth and bob harvey, in the wilds of south africa. by stratagem the zulus capture dick and bob and take them to their principal kraal or village. the lads escape death by digging their way out of the prison hut by night. they are pursued, but the zulus finally give up pursuit. mr. prentice tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native stamping grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining reading. tom the ready; or, up from the lowest. by randolph hill. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, ambitious boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder to wealth and the governorship of his native state. tom seacomb begins life with a purpose, and eventually overcomes those who oppose him. how he manages to win the battle is told by mr. hill in a masterful way that thrills the reader and holds his attention and sympathy to the end. captain kidd's gold: the true story of an adventurous sailor boy. by james franklin fitts. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. there is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. a vision arises before his eyes of swarthy portuguese and spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes. there were many famous sea rovers, but none more celebrated than capt. kidd. paul jones garry inherits a document which locates a considerable treasure buried by two of kidd's crew. the hero of this book is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water new england ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. the boy explorers: the adventures of two boys in alaska. by harry prentice. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. two boys, raymond and spencer manning, travel to alaska to join their father in search of their uncle. on their arrival at sitka the boys with an indian guide set off across the mountains. the trip is fraught with perils that test the lads' courage to the utmost. all through their exciting adventures the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by pluck and resolution, and their experience makes one of the most interesting tales ever written. the island treasure; or, harry darrel's fortune. by frank k. converse. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. harry darrel, having received a nautical training on a school-ship, is bent on going to sea. a runaway horse changes his prospects. harry saves dr. gregg from drowning and afterward becomes sailing-master of a sloop yacht. mr. converse's stories possess a charm of their own which is appreciated by lads who delight in good healthy tales that smack of salt water. guy harris: the runaway. by harry castlemon. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. guy harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the great lakes. he is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse of the rough side of life in a sailor's boarding house. he ships on a vessel and for five months leads a hard life. the book will interest boys generally on account of its graphic style. this is one of castlemon's most attractive stories. julian mortimer: a brave boy's struggle for home and fortune. by harry castlemon. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. the scene of the story lies west of the mississippi river, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. there is an attack upon the wagon train by a large party of indians. our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck. befriended by a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. by pike and dyke: a tale of the rise of the dutch republic. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by maynard brown. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--st. james's gazette. st. george for england: a tale of cressy and poitiers. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "a story of very great interest for boys. in his own forcible style the author has endeavored to show that determination and enthusiasm can accomplish marvellous results; and that courage is generally accompanied by magnanimity and gentleness."--pall mall gazette. captain bayley's heir: a tale of the gold fields of california. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by h. m. paget. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "mr. henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of john holl, the westminster dustman, dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--christian leader. budd boyd's triumph; or, the boy firm of fox island. by william p. chipman. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. the scene of this story is laid on the upper part of narragansett bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. the two boys, budd boyd and judd floyd, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. budd's pluck and good sense carry him through many troubles. in following the career of the boy firm of boyd & floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. lost in the canyon: sam willett's adventures on the great colorado. by alfred r. calhoun, 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. this story hinges on a fortune left to sam willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. the story of his father's peril and of sam's desperate trip down the great canyon on a raft, and how the party finally escape from their perils is described in a graphic style that stamps mr. calhoun as a master of his art. captured by apes: the wonderful adventures of a young animal trainer. by harry prentice. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. philip garland, a young animal collector and trainer, sets sail for eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. the vessel is wrecked off the coast of borneo, and young garland is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. mr. prentice is a writer of undoubted skill. under drake's flag: a tale of the spanish main. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "there is not a dull chapter, nor, indeed, a dull page in the book; but the author has so carefully worked up his subject that the exciting deeds of his heroes are never incongruous nor absurd."--observer. by sheer pluck: a tale of the ashanti war. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. the author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. "mr. henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'by sheer pluck' will be eagerly read."--athenaeum. with lee in virginia: a story of the american civil war. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "one of the best stories for lads which mr. henty has yet written. the picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--standard. by england's aid; or, the freeing of the netherlands (1585-1604). by g. a. henty. with illustrations by alfred pearse. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "it is an admirable book for youngsters. it overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. the illustrations add to its attractiveness."--boston gazette. by right of conquest; or, with cortez in mexico. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by w. s. stacey. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.50. "the conquest of mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of cortez is always rightfully ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. 'by right of conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that mr. henty has yet published."--academy. for name and fame; or, through afghan passes. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "not only a rousing story, replete with all the varied forms of excitement of a campaign, but, what is still more useful, an account of a territory and its inhabitants which must for a long time possess a supreme interest for englishmen, as being the key to our indian empire."--glasgow herald. the bravest of the brave; or, with peterborough in spain. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by h. m. paget. 12mo cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "mr. henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth, mercy and loving kindness, as indispensable to the making of a gentleman. boys will read 'the bravest of the brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--daily telegraph. the cat of bubastes: a story of ancient egypt. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "the story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. it is admirably illustrated."--saturday review. bonnie prince charlie: a tale of fontenoy and culloden. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'quentin durward.' the lad's journey across france, and his hairbreadth escapes, makes up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. for freshness of treatment and variety of incident mr. henty has surpassed himself."--spectator. with clive in india; or, the beginnings of an empire. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "he has taken a period of indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--scotsman. in the reign of terror: the adventures of a westminster boy. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by j. schonberg. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "harry sandwith, the westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat mr. henty's record. his adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict. the story is one of mr. henty's best."--saturday review. the lion of the north: a tale of gustavus adolphus and the wars of religion. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by john schonberg. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "a praiseworthy attempt to interest british youth in the great deeds of the scotch brigade in the wars of gustavus adolphus. mackey, hepburn, and munro live again in mr. henty's pages, as those deserve to live whose disciplined bands formed really the germ of the modern british army."--athenaeum. the dragon and the raven; or, the days of king alfred. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by c. j. staniland. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "in this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between saxon and dane for supremacy in england, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. the story is treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--athenaeum. the young carthaginian: a story of the times of hannibal. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by c. j. staniland. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "well constructed and vividly told. from first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. it bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--saturday review. in freedom's cause: a story of wallace and brace. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "it is written in the author's best style. pull of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put one side."--the schoolmaster. with wolfe in canada; or, the winning of a continent. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "a model of what a boys' story-book should be. mr. henty has a great power of infusing into the dead facts of history new life, and as no pains are spared by him to ensure accuracy in historic details, his books supply useful aids to study as well as amusement."--school guardian. true to the old flag: a tale of the american war of independence. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "does justice to the pluck and determination of the british soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against american emancipation. the son of an american loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile red-skins in that very huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of hawkeye and chingachgook."--the times. a final reckoning: a tale of bush life in australia. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by w. b. wollen. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00 "all boys will read this story with eager and unflagging interest. the episodes are in mr. henty's very best vein--graphic, exciting, realistic; and, as in all mr. henty's books, the tendency is to the formation of an honorable, manly, and even heroic character." --birmingham post. the lion of st. mark: a tale of venice in the fourteenth century. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "every boy should read 'the lion of st. mark.' mr. henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--saturday review. facing death; or, the hero of the vaughan pit. a tale of the coal mines. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "the tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. if any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--standard. maori and settler: a story of the new zealand war. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by alfred pearse. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "in the adventures among the maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant new zealand valleys. it is brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--schoolmaster. one of the 25th: a tale of waterloo. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by w. h. overend. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "written with homeric vigor and heroic inspiration. it is graphic, picturesque, and dramatically effective... shows us mr. henty at his best and brightest. the adventures will hold a boy enthralled as he rushes through them with breathless interest 'from cover to cover.'"--observer. orange and green: a tale of the boyne and limerick. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by gordon browne, 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "the narrative is free from the vice of prejudice, and ripples with life as if what is being described were really passing before the eye."--belfast news-letter. through the fray: a story of the luddite riots. by g. a. henty. with illustrations by h. m. paget. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "mr. henty inspires a love and admiration for straightforwardness, truth and courage. this is one of the best of the many good books mr. henty has produced, and deserves to be classed with his 'facing death.'"--standard. the young midshipman: a story of the bombardment of alexandria. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. a coast fishing lad, by an act of heroism, secures the interest of a shipowner, who places him as an apprentice on board one of his ships. in company with two of his fellow-apprentices he is left behind, at alexandria, in the hands of the revolted egyptian troops, and is present through the bombardment and the scenes of riot and bloodshed which accompanied it. in times of peril. a tale of india. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "the hero of the story early excites our admiration, and is altogether a fine character such as boys will delight in, whilst the story of the campaign is very graphically told."--st. james's gazette. the cornet of horse: a tale of marlborough's wars. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. "mr. henty not only concocts a thrilling tale, he weaves fact and fiction together with so skillful a hand that the reader cannot help acquiring a just and clear view of that fierce and terrible struggle known as the crimean war."--athenaeum. the young franc-tireurs: their adventures in the franco-prussian war. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "a capital hook for boys. it is bright and readable, and full of good sense and manliness. it teaches pluck and patience in adversity, and shows that right living leads to success."--observer. the young colonists: a story of life and war in south africa. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. no boy needs to have any story of henty's recommended to him, and parents who do not know and buy them for their boys should be ashamed of themselves. those to whom he is yet unknown could not make a better beginning than with this book. the young buglers. a tale of the peninsular war. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. "mr. henty is a giant among boys' writers, and his books are sufficiently popular to be sure of a welcome anywhere. in stirring interest, this is quite up to the level of mr. henty's former historical tales."--saturday review. sturdy and strong; or, how george andrews made his way. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "the history of a hero of everyday life, whose love of truth, clothing of modesty, and innate pluck, carry him, naturally, from poverty to affluence. george andrews is an example of character with nothing to cavil at, and stands as a good instance of chivalry in domestic life."--the empire. among malay pirates. a story of adventure and peril. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "incident succeeds incident, and adventure is piled upon adventure, and at the end the reader, be he boy or man, will have experienced breathless enjoyment in a romantic story that must have taught him much at its close."--army and navy gazette. jack archer. a tale of the crimea. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "mr. henty not only concocts a thrilling tale, he weaves fact and fiction together with so skillful a hand that the reader cannot help acquiring a just and clear view of that fierce and terrible struggle."--athenaeum. friends, though divided. a tale of the civil war< by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. "it has a good plot; it abounds in action; the scenes are equally spirited and realistic, and we can only say we have read it with much pleasure from first to last."--times. out on the pampas; or, the young settlers. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "a really noble story, which adult readers will find to the full as satisfying as the boys. lucky boys! to have such a caterer as mr. g. a. henty."--black and white. the boy knight: a tale of the crusades. by g. a. henty. with illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. "of stirring episode there is no lack. the book, with its careful accuracy and its descriptions of all the chief battles, will give many a schoolboy his first real understanding of a very important period of history."--st. james's gazette. the wreck of the golden fleece. the story of a north sea fisher boy. by robert leighton. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. a description of life on the wild north sea,--the hero being a parson's son who is appreciated on board a lowestoft fishing lugger. the lad has to suffer many buffets from his shipmates, while the storms and dangers which he braved on board the "north star" are set forth with minute knowledge and intense power. the wreck of the "golden fleece" forms the climax to a thrilling series of desperate mischances. olaf the glorious. a story of the viking age. by robert leighton. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this story of olaf the glorious, king of norway, opens with the incident of his being found by his uncle living as a bond-slave in esthonia; then come his adventures as a viking and his raids upon the coasts of scotland and england, his victorious battle against the english at maldon in essex, his being bought off by ethelred the unready, and his conversion to christianity. he then returns to pagan norway, is accepted as king, and converts his people to the christian faith. to greenland and the pole. a story of adventure in the arctic regions, by gordon stables. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. the unfailing fascination of arctic venturing is presented in this story with new vividness. it deals with skilobning in the north of scotland, deer-hunting in norway, sealing in the arctic seas, bear-stalking on the ice-floes, the hardships of a journey across greenland, and a successful voyage to the back of the north pole. this is, indeed, a real sea-yarn by a real sailor, and the tone is as bright and wholesome as the adventures are numerous. yussuf the guide. a story of adventure in asia minor. by george manville fenn. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. this story deals with the stirring incidents in the career of a lad who has been almost given over by the doctors, but who rapidly recovers health and strength in a journey through asia minor. the adventures are many, and culminate in the travellers being snowed up for the winter in the mountains, from which they escape while their captors are waiting for the ransom that does not come. grettir the outlaw. a story of iceland. by's. barring-gould. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "this is the boys' book of the year. that is, of course, as much as to say that it will do for men grown as well as juniors. it is told in simple, straightforward english, as all stories should be, and it has a freshness and freedom which make it irresistible."--national observer. two thousand years ago. the adventures of a roman boy by a. j. church. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "prof. church has in this story sought to revivify that most interesting period, the last days of the roman republic. the book is extremely entertaining as well as useful; there is a wonderful freshness in the roman scenes and characters."--times. nat the naturalist. a boy's adventure in the eastern seas. by george manville fenn. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. nat and his uncle dick go on a voyage to the remoter islands of the eastern seas, and their adventures are told in a truthful and vastly interesting fashion. the descriptions of mr. ebony, their black comrade, and of the scenes of savage life, are full of genuine humor. the log of the flying fish. a story of peril and adventure. by harry collingwood. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. "this story is full of even more vividly recounted adventures than those which charmed so many boy readers in 'pirate island' and 'congo rovers.'...there is a thrilling adventure on the precipices of mount everest, when the ship floats off and providentially returns by force of 'gravitation.'"--academy. the congo rovers. a story of the slave squadron. by harry collingwood. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "the scene of this tale is laid on the west coast of africa, and in the lower reaches of the congo; the characteristic scenery of the great river being delineated with wonderful accuracy. mr. collingwood carries us off for another cruise at sea, in 'the congo rovers,' and boys will need no pressing to join the daring crew, which seeks adventures and meets with any number of them."--the times. boris the bear hunter. a tale of peter the great and his times. by fred wishaw. 12mo. cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "this is a capital story. the characters are marked and lifelike, and it is full of incident and adventure."--standard. michael strogoff; or, the courier of the czar. by jules verne. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "the story is full of originality and vigor. the characters are lifelike, there is plenty of stirring incident, the interest is sustained throughout, and every boy will enjoy following the fortunes of the hero."--journal of education. mother carey's chicken. her voyage to the unknown isle. by george manville fenn. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. "undoubtedly one of the best mr. fenn has written. the incidents are of thrilling interest, while the characters are drawn with a care and completeness rarely found in a boy's book."--literary world. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publisher, a. l, burt, 52-58 duane street, new york. internet archive (https://archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/missionofpoubalo00burtrich transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). the mission of poubalov by frederick r. burton [illustration] new york street & smith, publishers 29 rose street contents. chapter page i--her wedding morning 7 ii--an explanation suggested 15 iii--an imperfect vision 23 iv--clara's search begins 31 v--the agent of the czar 39 vi--litizki at work 47 vii--a dangerous man 55 viii--in the hands of the enemy 63 ix--litizki's lesson 71 x--corroborative detail 78 xi--strange exit of poubalov 87 xii--litizki breaks his appointment 95 xiii--what became of litizki 103 xiv--a new departure 111 xv--louise receives a caller 119 xvi--lizzie white 127 xvii--how litizki saved miss hilman 135 xviii--the key to ivan's prison 143 xix--the ghost of poubalov 151 xx--the little front room 159 xxi--what paul palovna saw 167 xxii--poubalov's revolution 175 xxiii--at one o'clock a.m. 183 xxiv--the new clew 191 xxv--a stubborn antagonist 199 xxvi--hide and seek 207 xxvii--behind closed doors 216 xxviii--poubalov succeeds 225 a wedding but rather late chapter i. their wedding morning. ivan pulled aside the curtain and looked up at the sky. it was as clear as crystal, as blue as the eyes of his beloved, the promise fulfilled of a perfect day. on a window cornice across the street a tiny bird perked his head toward the sun and chirped noisily. to a lively imagination kindled by fond anticipations the twittering of the bird would have seemed like music. so it was to ivan. his heart responded with unformed melodies, and some of their stray notes found their way humming to his throat as he hastened his toilet. a long process it was in spite of his haste. every outer garment, though but yesterday brought by the tailor, had to be brushed with exquisite care, and when it came to adjusting his tie, what with finding in the light of this beautiful morning that not one of the numerous assortment seemed to be bright enough for the occasion, and having rejected all in turn, and having selected one at last that might be made to do, and having found the knot and loosed it--well, time had passed, and under ordinary circumstances patience might have gone with it. ordinary, the circumstances were not, and if they had been i presume any tie could have, and would have been thrown together in a shape not less pleasing than that which finally caused him to turn from the mirror in cheerful despair and ring for breakfast. mrs. white was prompt in responding to the summons, for she had been expecting it with quivering anxiety for the last half hour. good soul! with eggs at thirty-five cents a dozen she nevertheless plunged two in hot water every four minutes, in order that her lodger might not trace the slightest sense of disappointment, on this eventful day, to her. "i do hope his last breakfast here will be a pleasant one," she said when her daughter protested against the extravagance. there was certainly nothing in the plain breakfast to call for criticism. ivan might not have noticed it if there had been, for his thoughts were elsewhere, and his emotions were stirred by causes at once more delicate and more powerful than appetite; but mrs. white was probably in the right. it would have been a pity to permit any chance of a jarring note however slight in the harmony that pervaded his being. ivan greeted his landlady gayly, and attacked his meal as if there were no such thing as love in the world, love that makes man melancholy, that destroys the delights of good living, that drives him to the production of gloomy wails in more or less eccentric verse. there was no such love for him. out of the storm and stress of an eventful career, in which misfortune had rained its blows upon him with undue severity, love had arisen like the comforting glow of a home hearth fire, and it shone upon his exile with naught in its beams but serenity and peace. ivan was happy. breakfast was hardly begun when mrs. white again appeared. "there's a gentleman to see you, mr. strobel," she said hesitatingly; "i didn't like to disturb you, but he seemed very anxious, and so i said i would see if you were at home." she laid a card upon the breakfast table and waited. ivan glanced at it and frowned. so, there must needs be a cloud upon this day to remind him, as if he needed it! how surely the sun of happiness was shining for him. alexander poubalov! what could he be doing in america, and what could have led him to call at just this juncture? bah! there could be no significance in it, nothing but a memory of troublous experiences could be evoked by his presence, nothing connected with that past could possibly intervene now between him and the new life upon which he was joyously entering. mrs. white was sorely distressed, for she saw that her lodger was disturbed, and in her motherly heart she wished that she had told the stranger below one of those white lies that have come to be regarded as not sinful in that they effect at least a postponement of evil. she might have said that mr. strobel was engaged, or that he had given up his room a week before. both statements would have been true enough for the recording angel's book, goodness knows! "if you had only just gone, or if he had come an hour later," she murmured plaintively. "oh, there's nothing the matter," cried ivan, lightly; "i was simply wondering what in the world he could want with me. i haven't seen him for five years. show him up, please." not half satisfied that nothing was the matter, mrs. white obeyed, and presently alexander poubalov stood upon the threshold. he was a distinguished-looking man, tall, swarthy, middle-aged, a remarkable contrast to his fair-haired fellow countryman, ivan strobel. "i am indeed glad to see you, strobel," he said, his deep tones vibrant as a church bell; "may i come in?" "i received your card and i sent for you," replied ivan, coldly. he had risen and was standing by the breakfast table. "i shall be sorry if i have disturbed you, for i had no such purpose in calling upon you. pray go on with your breakfast," and poubalov took a step or two forward, as if waiting for an invitation to sit down. "to what purpose, then, may i attribute your call?" asked ivan, without stirring. "you are in haste, my friend," replied poubalov, smiling; "you have probably learned the american habit of putting business ahead of all other things; but i see, too, that there may be some especial reason to-day for hurry. you are dressed to go out, and you have packed your trunks----" "it is quite like you," interrupted ivan, "to note every detail and attach some significance of your own to it. you are right, however, on this occasion. time is precious with me to-day. i am to be married at noon." "ah! married! strobel," and poubalov made as if he would extend his hand, "i wish you would permit me to congratulate you." "it is unnecessary," responded ivan, remaining like a statue by his chair. poubalov shrugged his shoulders and looked disappointed. "as you will," he said, "and perhaps it would be as well to postpone my call, as it seems you regard it as an unhappy intrusion." "if you have any business other than that attending to a spy in general," said ivan, "i shall be pleased if you will dispatch it now. if, on the contrary, you still have any interest in my movements, i will give you my itinerary, and you can follow me if you like. i will only suggest that we are not in russia, and that it is not my intention to go outside the jurisdiction of the united states." "you need only tell me, if you have no objection," replied poubalov, "where i may look for you some time after your wedding journey." ivan picked up poubalov's card and wrote an address upon it. "i shall live there," he said, handing the card to his caller. "i expect to return in two weeks." poubalov read the card and thoughtfully placed it in his pocketbook. "if i knew how to, strobel," he remarked gravely, "i would assure you that you need have no anxiety on my account during your honeymoon, or afterward; but i see clearly that now, as heretofore, you will place no reliance whatever upon my words, and that you discredit my motives." "you speak truly," said ivan; "but we will not discuss the reasons for my distrust. you know them even better than i do. you may spare yourself any words. i shall not be disturbed by anxiety." "on another occasion, then, i may hope for a somewhat extended conversation. good-morning. my good wishes would doubtless be repugnant to you." ivan bowed silently and poubalov withdrew. "strange that i should be pursued after all this lapse of time, and to this far country," thought ivan; "but i have done right. i have nothing to fear from poubalov or the government whose paid spy he is." he looked at his watch, and, resuming his place at the table, hastily swallowed a cup of coffee. mrs. white's eggs remained unbroken. a carriage was waiting for him at the door and it was time that he should go, for the wedding was to take place at rev. dr. merrill's little church in roxbury, four miles away. with moderate driving and no accident he would be there in time to meet the bridal party at the door. a happy farewell to his landlady and her daughter, and he was off. he did not notice that as his coupé turned into somerset street from ashburton place, a closed carriage left its position not far from mrs. white's door and followed. if he had observed it he would have thought nothing of it, for in boston other persons besides bridegrooms employ public conveyances, and it is not always that a cabman is employed to drive a fare to a wedding. ivan's coupé rolled gently down park street, and just as it reached the corner of tremont, one of the forward wheels came off. the passenger was precipitated forward, and the driver with difficulty kept his seat. he climbed down in a moment, angry and bewildered. he could discover no break about his vehicle, but there was the wheel upon the ground, there was the body leaning forward, straining upon the shafts, disconcerting the horse---"open the door!" cried ivan, imperatively; "i can't be shut up here!" the driver got the door open after a little trouble and ivan crawled out. "i don't see how it happened," began the driver. "no matter. it can't be helped in a minute, can it? i must have another conveyance." a crowd was quickly gathering, and as ivan looked around him he caught the eye of the driver of the closed carriage. "are you engaged?" called ivan. then, as the driver signified his willingness to take a fare, ivan recoiled. the carriage looked as if it were on the way to a funeral. he hated presentiments and despised himself for the momentary feeling of discomfort. "you can pull down the curtains, sir, after you get in," said the driver as if he had noticed his prospective passenger's discomfort. "where to, sir?" he continued with his hand on the door. ivan told him and with a "hurry, please," bolted into the carriage. the driver sprang to his seat as if his salvation depended on his speed, lashed his horse heavily, and the carriage fairly leaped through the crowd and down tremont street. it was a beautiful june morning and the passenger was on his way to his own wedding, but he did not lower the curtains of the gloomy carriage. * * * * * a gentle quiver of excitement stirred the congregation that filled the little vine-covered church on parker avenue as the clock tolled the noon hour and the organist began to play softly, his fingers weaving scraps of melody into a vague but pleasing harmony like the light that filtered through the stained glass windows. this was but the suggestion of a coming outburst of harmony, for presently, as the joyful procession would be ready to move, he would open all the gates of sound and flood the edifice with the triumphal strains of the wedding march, strains that seem light and music, too, to all listeners and beholders. within the vestibule the bridal party awaited the coming of the groom. there, too, were ivan's two friends, to do him honor by marching with him; one a russian like himself, the other an american. with smiling faces they all endeavored to conceal annoyance that was speedily turning to anxiety over ivan's delay. clara hilman, as lovely a bride as ever donned the orange-decked veil, stood with palpitating heart beside her uncle and guardian, matthew pembroke. with awkward words he was trying to soothe what he felt must be her fears. all about them were pretty children dressed to follow the bride, and clara's dearest girl friends. within the chancel dr. merrill waited, wondering a little, but not permitting himself to attach hasty blame to anybody for this embarrassing hitch in the proceedings. the organist looked inquiringly at the group that had found places in the choir loft and they returned his gaze by shakes of the head. "you are more nervous than i am, uncle," said clara with an attempt at bravery, though her trembling lips betrayed her; "he will be here." "there he is!" cried ralph harmon, one of ivan's friends, as a carriage was seen to turn into the avenue from a street a little way off, and come hurrying toward the church. "be ready to tell the organist," he whispered to a boy who stood near. the waiting procession fell into partial disarray as every one craned his or her neck to see the bridegroom step from the carriage which now halted at the steps. all, nearly all, could see through the open doors as the driver dismounted and opened the door. a shiver of disappointment passed over the wedding party. an old, bent man issued from the carriage, leaning heavily on a cane and hobbled up the steps. "this is stranger than ivan's delay!" exclaimed harmon in a whisper to his russian colleague; "i don't believe old dexter ever went to a wedding before unless it was his own, and i never knew he was married." "who is he?" asked the russian. "old dexter is all i can say. he's a kind of miser and money-lender combined, i think. i don't believe he's any friend of ivan's." "no. he's bowing to mr. pembroke." very ceremoniously but with a halting movement, the old man had taken off his hat to mr. pembroke and passed on into the church. mr. pembroke had bowed stiffly in return and then bent over his niece to speak to her. clara was by this time plainly disturbed. it was a quarter past the hour, and the congregation itself was getting nervous. a few persons came out into the vestibule to learn what caused the delay. the organist's flitting harmonies became monotonous, intolerable, and the rector within the chancel was not so impatient as alarmed. a few minutes later the organist stopped altogether. the rector joined the wedding party in the vestibule. clara had been taken to a room in the vestry by her guardian. "if he should come now," said mr. pembroke, gravely, "i don't believe we could go on. the strain has been too great for clara." dr. merrill spoke to her as only a clergyman can speak to a parishioner, and minutes dragged along. at last when an hour had passed, and there was yet no word from ivan, the rector dismissed the congregation, and the members of the wedding party went homeward, wondering and sorrowful. chapter ii. an explanation suggested. "wait for me a moment, paul," said ralph harmon as the people began to pour out of the church. he went to the room in the vestry where clara hilman sat pale and tearless. with her were mr. pembroke, his daughter louise, and two or three other young ladies who were intimate friends of the unfortunate bride. ralph did not approach the group, but paused at the door and looked significantly at miss pembroke. she went to him at once, and, unseen by the others, he took both her hands in his and said: "i am going to strobel's room and shall take palovna with me. if i find any trace or news, as i undoubtedly shall, i will go directly to your house and report. you may tell miss hilman so if you think it will relieve her." "clara, dear!" exclaimed miss pembroke, impulsively, "ralph is going to find ivan, and will come back as quickly as he can to tell you." for several minutes the bride had been sitting as if petrified, making no answer to the well-meant questions of her friends, unconscious apparently of their tearful sympathy, but at this announcement her eyes were lit by just a gleam of gratitude and she tried to speak to ralph. her lips quivered with unformed words, and she turned appealingly to her uncle. "come," she faltered, "let us go home." ralph bowed and returned immediately to the vestibule, where paul palovna waited for him. both were accosted by many of the outgoing audience, but they shook their heads and hurried down the steps and up the street to the nearest line of cars. they said little to each other on the way to ashburton place, for they were oppressed with forebodings, and the consciousness that they had nothing upon which to base speculation. once ralph exclaimed desperately, "what can have happened!" and paul answered, "he must have fallen violently ill." both hoped that this might be the case, and neither believed it. mrs. white knew them both, for they were frequent callers upon her lodger, and her surprise, therefore, passed all bounds when she met them at the door and heard them ask as with one voice, "where is strobel?" "where?" she repeated, "where should he be? haven't you seen him?" "no," replied ralph, "he did not come to the church, and the rector dismissed the congregation." mrs. white threw up her hands and sank into a chair. "why--why--" she stammered, "he left here all dressed and gay as could be." "did he seem quite well?" asked paul. the good lady remembered her surprise and disappointment at finding ivan's eggs unbroken, his breakfast almost untasted and she told the young men about it. "that signifies nothing," said paul; "i don't wonder he didn't care to eat. did he appear to be troubled about anything?" "not when he went away," answered mrs. white; "i thought he seemed put out when the strange gentleman called." "there we have it!" exclaimed paul, eagerly. "who was the caller and what was his business, if you happen to know?" "i don't know either. i never saw the gentleman before. he was here only a few minutes. he sent up his card, and though i looked at the name, i couldn't remember it, for it had a strange look, something like yours." "may we go to his room? the card may still be there." "i don't think it is," said mrs. white, rising to follow the young men who were already half way up the stairs; "i don't remember seeing it when i cleaned up." when ralph and paul had vainly examined the catch-alls, the vases, and every probable place into which a visitor's card might have been tucked, the russian asked what had been done with the contents of the waste basket. "my daughter lizzie helped me," replied mrs. white, "and took the waste papers downstairs. i'll ask her to find them and look for the card." she left the room, and while she was gone the young men moved about nervously, repeatedly asking who the caller could have been, what possible connection his call could have had with ivan's failure to appear at his wedding, and all manner of questions, vain and irritating, that arise when men are confronted by an emergency that teems with mystery. mrs. white reported that her daughter had gone out and that the waste paper from mr. strobel's room had been burned. "lizzie may have seen that card," she said, "and i'll ask her when she comes in. i can't think where she can have gone." "was she here when the stranger called?" asked ralph. "oh, yes, and until after mr. strobel started away. i didn't know that she had left the house, and i can't imagine what she went out for. perhaps she'll be back soon." "do you know where strobel hired his carriage?" inquired paul. "no, i don't. lizzie might, for i remember he said something to her about it the day before. i wonder where she----" "he probably ordered his carriage from clark & brown," said ralph to paul. he had no intention of ignoring mrs. white's motherly anxiety about her daughter, but he saw no reason for attaching significance to her absence, and his mind was burdened with a growing conviction that something serious had happened to his friend. "suppose we make some inquiries," responded paul. "if you will go to clark & brown's office, i will take a run around all the hotel cab-stands in the vicinity. he might have left his order at the tremont house or in bosworth street, you know." "i'm agreed," said ralph. "we must get hold of the man who drove him. one of us is likely to succeed. suppose, as strobel may after all turn up at any minute, we meet here as soon as we can. i'll take in the revere house as well as clark & brown's." "i wish you would meet here, gentlemen," interposed mrs. white; "lizzie may be back then." "i hope she will be, mrs. white," said ralph. "she may be able to tell us something about strobel. it seems strange that he hasn't sent some word." "i begin to fear that we shall find him at a hospital, badly injured," remarked paul. "oh, i hope not!" exclaimed mrs. white. "i declare! it makes me feel dreadfully about lizzie." the young men departed at once upon their errands. it was paul palovna who came upon a clew. he found where ivan had engaged his carriage, and he went to the livery stable, which was in the south end, to find what had become of the driver and his passenger. he arrived there just after the driver had come in with his damaged carriage. "i started in with the gentleman," said the driver, "but i broke down at the corner of tremont and park streets and he went along with somebody else." "who was it?" asked paul. "i don't know. i never saw the cabman before." "whose rig was it?" "i don't know that, either. i never saw the horse before, and the carriage was like hundreds of others that you might see in boston any day." paul tried to think what ought to be done next. "did mr. strobel have a second accident?" asked one of the stable proprietors. "i fear so," replied paul; "we haven't seen him, and as he was going to his own wedding, his failure to turn up is rather alarming." "going to be married, was he?" the stableman spoke thoughtfully. "then i guess you'll find that he has been made the victim of a practical joke. i suppose he had plenty of friends who were aware of his intentions?" "certainly, but i cannot imagine," said paul with some indignation, "that any of them would have carried a joke to the extent of keeping him away from his wedding." "perhaps not," admitted the stableman, "but it looks as if some one had deliberately tried to delay him. don't you know how the accident happened to our carriage?" "no. what was the matter?" "somebody had loosened the nut of the forward right wheel so that it was bound to come off before they had gone very far. the breakdown was no accident." "you are sure of this, i suppose," exclaimed paul; "but when could it have been done?" "when mike was waiting in front of the door to mr. strobel's place. you'd better tell this gentleman what you told me, mike." "i waited there a good half hour before mr. strobel came out," replied the driver. "and while i was there a fellow crossed the street and spoke to me. he stood in the street kind o' leaning on the wheel. 'go'n' to take mr. strobel to his wedding?' says he. 'i'm go'n' to take a gent of that name,' says i 'but i don't know nothing 'bout his wedding.' 'that's what 'tis,' says he, 'and a very fine man he is, and a fine day it is for the ceremony; and that's a fine horse you have,' and all that kind of palaver, till i thought he'd talk me blind. after a while he said good-morning, and went on, bad luck to him." paul looked at the stableman in surprise. "could the nut have been removed then without the driver knowing it?" he asked. "yes, but it wasn't necessarily removed. it may have been started. you get up on the seat and sit back indifferently, as a driver would be likely to sit. just try it. i want you to be satisfied." paul climbed to the driver's seat on the coupé, and the stableman leaned over the wheel. "you see," said the latter, "unless you bent over and looked down sharply you wouldn't make out what i was up to, and not having any reason to suspect a trick, you'd likely sit still; more likely than not, if you was an ordinary driver, you'd look the other way most of the time; and--but i don't need to talk any longer for here is the nut!" and he held up a small wrench in which was the nut of the wheel by which he was standing. "great scott!" exclaimed paul, smiling, in spite of his anxiety, at the dexterous way in which the stableman had proved that the trick might have been done. "what sort of man was this, mike, who talked to you?" "i dunno, sir. medium sized, young, i should say." "would you know him again?" "i would that!" "by the way, did you see anybody call at the house while you were waiting?" "yes, a gentleman went in. i heard him ask for mr. strobel, and he came out again inside of five minutes." "what was he like and where did he go?" "i couldn't tell you what he was like. i paid no attention to him. he went away toward somerset street. the fellow at the wheel was talking to me as he went along." this was all the information of value that paul could obtain, although he asked many more questions. he found ralph waiting for him in ivan's room, and mrs. white was there, overcome with anxiety on account of the continued absence of her daughter. "i think," said ralph when he had heard his friend's report, "that we'd better speak of this at police headquarters." "are you going to say anything about lizzie?" asked mrs. white. "certainly not, unless you wish it. she will doubtless come in before evening." "i don't know," murmured the landlady, despairingly; "she didn't say a word about going out, and i'm dreadfully afraid! i can't find her little traveling bag----" she stopped suddenly as paul wheeled about and glanced at her with a startled glance. there was a moment of silence, and then the russian said quietly: "i will come back early in the evening, mrs. white, and if your daughter has not appeared, i'll help you to make inquiries. we must look after strobel now." the young men reported the circumstances at police headquarters and then went to roxbury. it was five o'clock when they arrived at mr. pembroke's house, and they cherished a hope that some word from ivan, if not ivan himself, would be found there. they were disappointed. louise pembroke told them that nothing had occurred except that clara had succumbed to the shock and strain, and was under the care of a physician. "about an hour ago she broke down and cried," said louise, "and the physician said it was the best thing that could have happened to her. he would have been afraid to have ivan return before that. now she is not in any immediate danger." "are you going to tell her what we have done?" asked ralph. "yes. i'll do so now." louise found her cousin calm and hopeful. "ralph has come back," said clara. "i heard the bell, and knew it must be he. well?" "ralph says, dear," replied louise, "that ivan started for the church in a carriage, and that there was a breakdown on the way that appears to have been caused by a trick. he then took another carriage, and after that they do not know what became of him." "lou," said the sufferer, "i suppose people would expect that i should feel humiliation most of all, but i don't, and if i did i should no longer feel it now that i know ivan started for the church. don't you see? he meant to come, of course! something dreadful has happened to him--" her eyes filled with tears, and she paused a moment before continuing: "there must be more details, of course, but i am not well enough yet to hear them. ask ralph and paul to come to-morrow morning, will you, please? i must talk with them." "i will," replied louise; "ivan may come before that." ralph went to his home immediately after leaving mr. pembroke's, but paul, who had no other home than a furnished room in a lodging house, returned according to his promise to see mrs. white. he felt that there might be a chance that the daughter, lizzie, could throw some light on ivan's movements, but he had no doubt whatever that she herself had returned. he reached the house just as a postman was leaving it. mrs. white stood in the hall, the door remaining open, nervously opening a letter. when she had read it she screamed, and would have fallen to the floor had not paul sprung forward to catch her. she recovered in a moment sufficiently to sob: "i'm so glad you've come. lizzie has gone! read what she says." paul took the letter which she tremblingly handed him and read: "dear mother: i am going away and shall not come back for a long time. do not be anxious, and do not try to find me. you are not to blame for anything, and i cannot now tell you why i go. some time i may do so, and i may write to you. i don't know yet. do not think unkindly of me. you will know some time that it is best. i love you and----" two words here had been laboriously scratched out. then came the signature, "lizzie." paul made out the erased words to be "i love." in spite of himself a dreadful fear came over him, a fear of something more painful for all of ivan's friends to bear than an accident, no matter how serious. chapter iii. an imperfect vision. ivan strobel had been a lodger in mrs. white's house for more than two years. during the greater part of that period he had been the only lodger, and from the beginning his relations with his landlady had been more as if he were a friend of the family than merely a tenant. his evenings were not infrequently spent in mrs. white's sitting-room, where his strongly domestic nature found some comfort in reading aloud to the old lady and her daughter, or in playing cards, or in telling them stories of european life. sometimes his friends would call, and find him there instead of in his own room, and more than once he had been the target for good-humored chaffing relative to his supposed fondness for the landlady's daughter. on such occasions strobel laughed lightly, as if it were out of the question that anybody should seriously harbor a supposition that he was in love with lizzie. that was in the comparatively early days of his residence there; and one afternoon, about a year before his eventful wedding morning, ralph harmon and paul palovna called together and found him in his own quarters, serving russian tea to mrs. white and her daughter. he was evidently delighted to see his friends, and he promptly set glasses of the fragrant, hot beverage before them. mrs. white was enthusiastic in her praise of the tea, as well she might be, for russians are past-masters in the art of tea-brewing, and ivan was one of the most skillful; and she slyly intimated that the woman who would have the first place in his future household would do well to place him in charge of the kitchen. ivan smiled and blushed as if pleased at the allusion, and while his friends commended the idea with noisy laughter, miss lizzie sat silent, sipping her tea with downcast eyes. shortly afterward the ladies withdrew, and palovna immediately began to tease strobel about lizzie. "on my word, ivan," he cried, "you begin very badly. if you show her what a fine hand you have for kitchen-work, you'll never have any time to yourself after you're married. it's a fine thing to serve tea to your friends when you're a bachelor, but fancy a man setting the kettle to boil for his wife! great scott! what a picture!" both visitors laughed heartily, but strobel, with a grave smile, held up one hand deprecatingly. "i don't mind your raillery in the least," he said, "but it does injustice to the young lady who is the innocent subject of it rather than myself. i'm glad you came in as you did, for i have something to tell you, and, in fact, it was to tell mrs. white and lizzie the same thing that i invited them to take tea with me. i am engaged to miss hilman." "i'm mighty glad to hear it, and i congratulate you," exclaimed ralph, jumping up and grasping ivan by the hand. "and i, too," said paul, not less sincerely; "pardon my joking. i hadn't suspected that the wind blew from that direction. when is it to be?" then strobel told them about his plans, and from that day until this minute, when paul stood by the weeping landlady, with her daughter's incoherent letter in his hand, he had never associated ivan and lizzie in any other way than as ordinary friends. when, earlier in the afternoon, mrs. white had said something that seemed to suggest the possibility that they had gone away together, paul's indignation had been aroused, and it was with an effort that he had mastered his tongue, which fairly burned to deny such an outrageous assumption. he had dismissed the thought later, with the conviction that mrs. white could not have realized the true significance of her words. now, utterly at a loss to account for his friends' absence, he was compelled to face any suggestion that arose and make the best of it. "there is at least some comfort in this, mrs. white," he said, unsteadily; "you know that your daughter is alive, and she says she may write to you. she would not have written this had she meant to hide herself completely from you." the mother's anguish was not to be tempered with this argument. the poignant fact remained that her daughter had gone away, deserted her home, and neglected deliberately to take her mother into her confidence. "how could she?" moaned mrs. white; "why, oh, why has she done this?" paul had hard questions to ask, hard for him as well as for her. "mrs. white," he said, "you have shown me lizzie's letter; will you let me help you if i can?" "yes, yes!" she answered eagerly, raising her tearful eyes. the very proffer of sympathy and assistance helped to restore her to some degree of composure, and she opened the door to the sitting-room. "i forgot where we were," she said apologetically; "please come in and sit down." paul complied, and, still with the letter in his hand, began: "i shall have to ask questions that would be impertinent if you had not said that i might try to help you. do you--was lizzie engaged?" "oh, no!" replied mrs. white, with a little gasp; "what made you think so?" "i don't think so, and what i really tried to ask was whether she were in love with anybody?" mrs. white looked doubtfully at him. her eyes were dry now, and she toyed nervously with her apron. "my daughter didn't tell me she was going away," she answered slowly after a minute; "if she wouldn't tell me that, how should you expect that she would speak to me of her love--if she did love anybody?" paul was somewhat nettled at this apparent effort to juggle with his question. the situation seemed to him too serious to admit of anything but the most complete frankness. "i don't ask how you know, or why you don't, mrs. white," he said as gently as he could; "i simply asked for a statement of fact." the landlady looked down at the floor, evidently trying to frame an answer. paul would have dropped the matter right there, disgusted at her reticence if not her indirection, had he not been determined to learn everything possible that might throw light upon the fate of his friends. so he began on another tack. "weren't you invited to strobel's wedding, mrs. white?" he asked. "yes," she replied promptly, not suspecting the ultimate aim of the question; "both of us received invitations." "why didn't you go?" "lizzie didn't want to go. she said weddings always made her feel solemn, and i didn't want to go without her." "wasn't there a deeper reason, mrs. white, for your daughter's reluctance to go to ivan strobel's wedding?" "i don't know what you mean, mr. palovna," said the landlady, glancing at him and averting her eyes. paul wanted to tell her that she was trying to dodge him, but he controlled himself and said: "i mean that in my opinion your daughter was hopelessly in love with ivan." this statement did not provoke the storm that paul had expected. mrs. white's reserve had prepared him for an outburst of denials, indignant tears and the like, but the old lady sat very still, her hands clasped upon her lap, and after a little silence she spoke dreamily: "lizzie never told me, but i guessed as much long ago, poor, dear girl!" paul's heart sank as he felt his fears growing to conviction that the flight of lizzie white was closely connected with the disappearance of ivan strobel. he was not disloyal to his friend even in his thoughts; he kept insisting to himself that ivan was not the man to play all his friends double, but even as he rebelled against this possible explanation of the matter, reason interposed its stern voice to say that if, after all, strobel had discovered that he loved lizzie and not clara, this was the probable course he would take to avoid facing the comments and criticisms of his friends; and although he repelled the explanation with all his will, he nevertheless felt a dreadful sense of doubt. "mrs. white," he said gravely, "have you any reason to think that strobel and your daughter went away together?" the landlady started as if she had been shot. "of course not!" she cried; "how could you think such a thing? why should you insult my poor child----" and she broke down and sobbed bitterly. palovna was miserable. he saw that he had utterly misinterpreted mrs. white's reluctance in answering his questions; that, far from suspecting that lizzie's departure might be an elopement with ivan, she had instinctively tried to guard her daughter's secret. "i am exceedingly sorry that i have hurt you," said paul, contritely, "i don't think, cannot think that they have gone together; but, you see, i am in such a maze of anxiety about strobel, everything is so strange and uncertain, that i--i hardly knew what i said." he paused, and mrs. white, still sobbing, uttered some words of which the only one he understood was "cruel," and he promptly accepted it as applied to himself. "i can only repeat that i am sorry," he said. "here is your letter. i fear i can be of no help to you unless you want me to take some message for you." "no--you cannot do anything now--i know you didn't mean it. please come again to-morrow--when i can think--please, mr. palovna." so paul left the house, wondering whether mrs. white felt any unhappier than himself. he turned into pemberton square, and went as far as the door to police headquarters, halted abruptly and turned away. he could not be the one to fasten a suspicion of such a character upon his missing friend. if it were true that he had eloped, that ugly fact would be established soon enough without his giving any hints to the police detectives who were assigned to hunt for ivan. the doctor had ordered clara hilman to bed, and under the first prostration of the blow she had willingly obeyed; but as evening came on and her mind cleared, she felt stronger, and at supper time she arose and dressed. she did not go down to the dining-room, and louise brought delicacies to her chamber. she wished that ralph and paul would return, for she felt that she could talk with them now, and she longed intensely for any word, however insignificant, concerning her lover's movements. louise sat with her, making well-intended efforts to distract her attention from the subject that was so terribly engrossing, and offering the comfort of hopeful assurances when it was evident that clara could think of nothing else. the fact was that louise disturbed clara. her thoughts were fixed in their own channel, and so obstinately clung there that it grew wearisome to attend to the interruptions that louise was constantly making. so clara said at last: "i think, dear, if you will forgive me, i would like to be alone a little while. i will call if i want anything." "to be sure, clara," responded louise, rising at once and putting her arms affectionately around her cousin; "i will go to my own room, and will come the minute you need me. shall i get you anything to read?" "no, i cannot do anything but think, and i must think. don't be alarmed. i am not going to let myself become ill." there was a faint, sweet smile upon her sad lips as she spoke, and, left to herself, she sat leaning slightly forward, her chin upon one hand, the other clinched upon her lap, gazing intently at the wall which she saw not. in its place was the carriage in front of mrs. white's house, and as she watched it she saw the house door open and ivan, her ivan, come forth. she saw him turn to say good-by to the kind-hearted landlady, saw the happy smile upon his face, saw him enter the carriage, saw it start slowly away. this much of her lover's wedding journey was as clearly before her as if it were now occurring, and she were at a window in the house across the way from mrs. white's in ashburton place. her nerves strained to their utmost tension, she tried to follow the carriage. she could see that it turned into somerset street, but when it seemed to be at beacon she could not tell which way it went. that it was still moving was apparent, but there was a confusion of vehicles and persons, streets and buildings, there was a pause--somewhere--was ivan getting out? was that he taking another carriage? oh! why was not paul here to tell her just what happened at this point, wherever it was? why had she not heard his report when he was there to make it? suddenly the confusion gave way, and the familiar wall was before her, but still she saw it not. now she was listening. did she hear her lover's name? was it spoken in anger? it must be! it must be! they were speaking of him; who were they? in this house? where else if she heard it? could it be that she had heard nothing? to her ear there was no tangible sound save the ticking of the clock on the mantel. clara arose and crossed the room, staggering with weakness, and placed her hand upon the door. one instant she waited as if in doubt, and then she opened it very softly. yes! there were voices below; they were in the library; that was her uncle speaking. had she a right to listen? she stole to the head of the stairs and looked down. the library door was closed. the voice was an unintelligible murmur, nothing more. down the stairs she crept and came to the library door. "are you money-mad?" it was her uncle who spoke. "don't you know that it hasn't come, that such a thing can't be effected in a moment?" "and i tell you, mat pembroke," said a harsh voice, "that you've got----" the voice suddenly stopped, and the speaker, the infirm old man who had arrived late at the church while the wedding party was waiting in the vestibule, half rose from his big chair and pointed with a bony, trembling hand over mr. pembroke's shoulder. mr. pembroke turned about and saw clara hilman with wide-open eyes and pale face standing just within the doorway. "forgive me, uncle," she said in a voice scarce above a whisper; "i thought you were speaking of ivan, and i--i came down to say that i am going to find him." she swayed slightly as she finished, and mr. pembroke ran forward and took her in his arms. chapter iv. clara's search begins. clara had not fainted in her uncle's arms, but she nestled against him quivering and sobbing; and again it was fortunate for her that the excited, pent-up forces of her brain had broken through in a flood of tears. "you see, dexter!" cried mr. pembroke in broken accents, "how my poor girl suffers. there, there, clara, better get back to your bed and try to sleep. i thought louise was looking after you." "she has been with me," replied clara, "but i sent her away. i wanted to think. has nothing been heard from ivan?" "nothing yet, my dear. you shall know it as soon as we do even if it comes at three in the morning." attracted by her cousin's voice, louise appeared at this moment and led clara upstairs, scolding her gently for having left her room. clara was greatly subdued, and urged no longer to be left alone. through the rest of the evening she sat quietly listening to louise, and feeling no return of that tensity of the nerves that had preceded and accompanied her waking dream. in the morning she was better, stronger in every way. she met her uncle and cousin at breakfast, and although she was very quiet she seemed more like her natural self than they had expected. every newspaper had something to say about the disappearance of ivan strobel, and the reporters, apparently, had interviewed everybody directly interested in him except the unhappy bride herself. the newspapers were in a pile by her uncle's plate when she surprised him by entering the room and taking her place at the table. "i'd like to see the papers, uncle," she said after responding to his greetings. mr. pembroke glanced nervously at his daughter, and laid his hand irresolutely on the pile. "i am afraid you won't find anything of comfort in them, my dear," he said. "no matter," she replied, "i don't expect to. don't try to keep them from me. i shall get them later if i do not read them now." mr. pembroke passed them all to her except one which he opened and pretended to read himself. he had already been through it, and he did not intend, if he could help it, that she should see it. clara intently read the account of the interrupted wedding in the first paper she took up, pausing only once to exclaim, "then the reporters were here last evening!" "yes," said mr. pembroke, "they were coming and going until long after midnight." "i almost wish i could have seen some of them," murmured clara as she continued to read. the report told with fair accuracy about the break-down at park and tremont streets and the explanation of it given by the stableman. mrs. white was quoted, and as much as the reporter could imagine was made of the visit to strobel by the mysterious stranger. then there were interviews with the missing man's employers, state street bankers, and the highly gratifying intelligence was set forth that there was no reason to suppose that strobel had tampered with the funds or in any way betrayed his trust. clara blushed with indignation as she read that the books would be examined in the morning, with a view to discovering whether strobel had been guilty of any irregularities. "the idea that ivan should be suspected of dishonesty!" exclaimed clara, laying the paper down and taking up another. "people will think anything and everything," said her uncle, "and you must be prepared for the worst insinuations and speculations." clara read the next account in silence. it was much longer than the first, and a great deal of attention and imagination had been devoted to the romantic aspect of the situation. clara was described as utterly prostrated by the blow, dangerously ill, refusing to see her most intimate friends; and the intended union of the beautiful orphan with the russian exile was dwelt upon with appropriate grace and picturesqueness. she blushed for herself this time and laid the paper down impatiently. "i shall show them," she said, "if they pay any further attention to the affair, that i am not prostrated by the blow, hard as it is." "what do you mean, clara?" asked mr. pembroke and louise together. "just what i said last evening, uncle. i am going to find ivan." "why! dear, what can you do?" cried louise, pityingly. "do? i don't know yet what the details will be, but i can search for him. what better, what else could i do? if we had been married, and ivan had disappeared, would it not be my duty as well as my inclination to turn the world upside down to find him? should it make any difference just because the formal word had not been spoken that was to make us husband and wife?" her voice trembled a little at the end of this brief speech, and her eyes were moist, but she took up a third paper resolutely and began to read. she had debated her situation thoroughly in the long hours of the previous day and evening, and her determination to devote herself to the search for her lover was not the effect of a temporary hallucination. her uncle and cousin said nothing for the present either to dissuade or encourage her, louise, at least, feeling that in due time clara would see the futility of attempting anything on her own account as long as experienced detectives were in the field. mr. pembroke left the room for a moment, and when he returned the paper he had been reading was folded and hidden in his pocket. there was still another before clara, and when she had read it she pushed them all away, saying: "they're as much alike as if the same man had written them all." mr. pembroke was relieved that she did not notice that one of the morning papers was not included in the lot she had read. hardly had they finished breakfast when the bell rang, and a reporter for an evening paper inquired for news of mr. strobel and miss hilman's health. mr. pembroke frowned with annoyance, but clara was for seeing the young man. "i don't want to be pictured as a useless, waiting, tear-drenched weakling!" she cried when uncle and cousin remonstrated. "publicity? notoriety? what could be worse than the notoriety i have already acquired? let me see him, please, so that he may have no excuse for describing me as a broken-down, useless incumbrance." "i will speak to him first," said mr. pembroke, hastily. "wait here a minute. i'll send for you when i have heard what it is he wants." so clara and louise remained at the breakfast table, and a few minutes later mr. pembroke opened the door and said with an assumption of cheerfulness: "there! you see, sir, the young lady is bearing her trouble more bravely than the morning papers announced. this is miss hilman, mr. shaughnessy, and my daughter, louise." mr. shaughnessy, thus introduced, entered the room bowing with old-fashioned extravagance. his head was bald as an egg, and his face was three-fourths concealed by a grizzly beard. the "young man" could no longer look forward to his sixtieth birthday. he wore gold-bowed eyeglasses, and in one hand he held hat and note-book and in the other a stub of a pencil. "char-r-med, ladies," he said, "to see you looking so fine upon this gr-rievous occasion. may i ask, miss hilman, how you passed the night?" what with surprise at her uncle's maneuver in bringing the reporter to the breakfast room, and amusement at the courtly yet business-like manners of the "young man," clara could not have repressed a smile if she had tried; and before she could reply, mr. shaughnessy had whipped his note-book to the top of his hat and written the significant mnemonic, "smile." "i slept quite as usual, thank you," replied clara. "i am delighted to hear it," said shaughnessy; "health, miss hilman, is the greatest pr-rop in time of trouble. have you any obser-rvation to make upon mr. strobel's absence? any theor-ry to account for it?" "no theory, mr. shaughnessy, though i hope to have one some time later in the day. i should like to have you tell your readers that i have absolute faith in mr. strobel, and that i expect any theory as to his disappearance to accord with honorable conduct on his part." "yes, yes," said the reporter, scribbling away for dear life, that he might not lose a word of this important utterance. "do i understand you to say that you expect to have news of your--mr. strobel before the day is over?" "i shall devote all my time to searching for him." "clara!" exclaimed louise, while mr. pembroke turned away with a despairing shrug. shaughnessy looked doubtingly at mr. pembroke, and then said: "may i have the honor of calling on you later, then?" "i shall be glad at any time," replied clara, "to give you any information in my power." shaughnessy made a note. "i hope you will pardon me seeming imper-rtinence, miss hilman," he continued, "but me city editor commanded me to obtain photographs of yourself and mr. strobel." louise sighed and looked genuinely alarmed; but clara thought a moment, and answered that she would loan the reporter pictures if he would be sure to return them uninjured. "i shall be sure to do so," he answered, "and i commend your decision. it saves me a lot of trouble, for, of course, i must obey me city editor; he's a tyrant, miss hilman, and if you did not give me the pictures, i should have to get them elsewhere." clara smiled as she left the room to get the photographs, and when she had given them to shaughnessy he took his departure, promising to call again. "how could you give him the pictures, clara?" asked louise reproachfully. "mine will do no harm," answered clara, quietly; "didn't you hear him say he was bound to get it anyway? moreover, it may help in discovering ivan, if only they will print a good likeness of him." clara was right in one respect at least. nearly every evening paper published pictures of herself and ivan, and nobody at the pembroke house could have told where the originals were obtained. "now i must keep my word and begin the search," said clara after the reporter had gone. "you're not going to leave the house, i hope?" exclaimed her uncle. "certainly, uncle," she replied; "i feel quite well, and i will not overtax myself. i can stand anything better than staying idle here." "i am strongly disposed to forbid you," said mr. pembroke, anxiously; "you are sure to have a most disagreeable and painful experience." "please don't go!" cried louise, who had read the paper that mr. pembroke had concealed. "i am sorry to displease you both," returned clara, "but if i am forbidden to go i shall have to disobey." "then louise must go with you," said her uncle. "i should like to have her. will you, lou, dear?" louise was only too anxious to accompany her cousin, and accordingly they left the house together just in time to escape a squad of reporters representing the other evening papers. clara had arranged her programme the night before, and left word at the house for ralph and paul, should they come in her absence, to go to ivan's room. mrs. white had seen clara on the few occasions when mr. strobel had served afternoon tea to his intended and other friends, and she fell into a great flurry of agitation when she recognized her at the door. "come in," she stammered as she led the way; "of course i am glad to see you, for i am certain you cannot believe it." louise tried to check the landlady from making the inevitable revelation, but clara laid one hand on her cousin's arm and asked: "believe what, mrs. white?"' "why, what's in the paper," replied the landlady; "you've read the papers, i suppose? i presumed that was why you came." "i read the papers," said clara, "and i came to inquire about ivan. do you refer to the suggested irregularities in his accounts? of course i do not believe anything of that kind." "dear, no! i didn't suppose you did. i meant about my daughter lizzie." "your daughter!" exclaimed clara in a low voice, while louise hid her face in her hands. "what do you mean? let me see the paper." more agitated than ever, mrs. white produced a copy of the paper that mr. pembroke had withheld from his niece. "i must have overlooked this," said clara, wonderingly, as she saw that the account differed in style from those she had read. the reporter of this paper, sharper than his rivals, had somehow discovered that lizzie white had left her home, and he set forth the circumstances with every delicate turn that language would allow to suggest a connection between her flight and ivan's disappearance. "it is shrewdly suspected by the friends of strobel," so the story ran, "that as the time of his marriage approached, he found his fancy for miss white stronger than his love for miss hilman, and that he chose elopement with the former as less dishonorable than marriage with the latter." the writer then proceeded to an elaborate explanation of how strobel might himself have arranged the wheel of his coupé so that it would fall off, and how he might then, by previous understanding with the second cabman, who was also conveniently missing, have been driven to the park square railroad station, where he waited for miss white. it was entirely possible that they might have taken the one o'clock train for new york, if not the noon train. clara was very pale when she laid the paper down, but her faith in ivan was not so much as touched by doubt. "it's an outrage," she said quietly. "i knew you wouldn't believe it!" exclaimed mrs. white. "believe it! of course it isn't true! it's not possible!" there was a ring at the door just then, and mrs. white excused herself to answer it. she opened upon ivan's mysterious visitor, alexander poubalov. chapter v. the agent of the czar. "good-morning," said poubalov, gutturally; "this is madame white, i believe?" "yes, sir," replied the landlady, impressed at once by the stranger's deferential manner, and believing that through him the mystery would be cleared away; "won't you come in?" "thank you, yes. i have called to inquire for my friend strobel." "you are not the first, sir," said mrs. white, opening the door to the sitting-room. "there are two here now who will be glad to see you. miss hilman, this is the gentleman who called on mr. strobel yesterday morning. miss hilman was to have married him, you know, and this is miss pembroke," and having thus awkwardly initiated a new scene, mrs. white took refuge in the nearest chair. poubalov was as near to showing surprise as he ever permitted himself to come, and clara, rising impulsively, went directly to him and said: "then you can tell me something about mr. strobel, can you not?" "i can tell you nothing," he answered gravely; "i came for information myself." clara looked into his eyes searchingly, and went back to her chair feeling that her greatest hope had been dashed to the ground. "i feel the awkwardness of my position, ladies," continued poubalov (i make no attempt to suggest his dialect, which was at times almost unintelligible, as there was nothing of a humorous or trivial character in his conversation). "every newspaper makes me out as a possible foe to mr. strobel, a mysterious ogre going about seeking to destroy young men, and perhaps i should not blame anybody for supposing that i might have been concerned in preventing mr. strobel's marriage, but i assure you that i was not. i did not know of his intentions until yesterday morning, when he told me about it himself. i am as much surprised as anybody to read of his disappearance." poubalov paused and with marked deliberation took out his card case. "it was but natural," said clara, tremulously, "that we should hope that you could throw some light on his movements, for knowing nothing except that somebody had called on him unexpectedly, we could not fail to attribute something significant to the visit." "especially," put in mrs. white, "as the young men and i hunted the house over for your card and couldn't find it." "all very natural," responded poubalov, imperturbably, "and it was a circumstance of the utmost triviality in itself that lent color to my mysterious coming and going. you remember, mrs. white, do you not, that you took my card to mr. strobel?" "yes, indeed, and he--i don't want to give offense--he didn't seem particularly pleased to see it." "so you told the newspaper men. i am not in the least offended. here is the card you took to him. i asked mr. strobel where i might call upon him after his wedding tour, and he wrote that address upon my own card. of course i took it away with me." he handed the card to clara, adding: "i want you to see that i am concealing nothing, and if my voluntary return to this house did not signify anything, your suspicions should certainly be relieved by seeing that strobel himself made a semi-appointment with me at his future home." "i hope, mr. poubalov," said clara, with her eyes upon the card, "that you will forgive us for cherishing any unjust suspicions. at the worst, they were vague, and everything is so confusing." "i feel that there is nothing to forgive," began poubalov, graciously, when mrs. white interrupted, her mind naturally intent upon her own trouble: "and such horrid things as they say, too! you said you had read the papers?" "yes, all of them." "did you read about my daughter?" and the distressed mother rose, and, taking the newspaper from clara's lap, thrust it into his hands. without looking at it, poubalov answered: "i read it." "and what do you think of it?" cried mrs. white, stemming a fresh flood of tears. poubalov's brows contracted slightly as a sign that he disapproved forcing this question forward at the time, and with a grave glance at clara he replied: "i do not think. i watch, ask questions, and listen." clara hardly knew whether to be encouraged or depressed by this answer. unless this man were an intimate friend of ivan, it was perhaps not to be expected that he should see the folly of supposing for an instant that the missing man had eloped with lizzie white. "mr. poubalov," she said, "the reports in the newspapers do not throw the least light on this matter. i have no criticism to make on their statements of fact, but their conjectures of every kind are idle. they do not even disturb me." poubalov bowed as if to signify that he heard and understood. "the cause of his disappearance," she continued after a moment, "it is yet to be found. the newspapers have not even hinted at it." "you have an idea, then," he said, "as to the correct explanation?" "no, not one," she answered; "i can only think of accident; but had there been any accident so serious as to render him unconscious and helpless, the police would have discovered it and reported it by this time, would they not?" "they would if your police are nearly as efficient as those of european cities," said poubalov, "and i have no doubt they are so to the extent of such emergencies as this case presents." "then, don't you see, the whole mystery is confined to two general solutions; either mr. strobel was seized by enemies and carried away; or he had some powerful reason for absenting himself, and disappeared voluntarily." the russian was surprised and deeply impressed by the young lady's clearness of vision, and louise, listening with rapt attention, was simply amazed to hear her cousin reason so calmly when every word she uttered must have cost her pain. "and which of these hypotheses," asked poubalov, guardedly, "do you consider the more probable?" "i have no means of judging between them," replied clara, "for i have no fact except the disappearance to justify either one. it seems as if there must be some other theory, if i could only think what it is." "there is no other," said poubalov, "if you eliminate accident, as i think you properly do." "then i must consider what grounds there might be for supporting both hypotheses. as i discard as utterly worthless all the suggestions in the newspapers, i must suppose that mr. strobel had enemies, and that these enemies were powerful enough either to abduct him in broad day on a crowded thoroughfare, or cause him such sudden fear that he felt obliged to go into hiding." again was poubalov surprised, for he could not himself have reasoned more clearly, or have stated his conclusions more concisely; but he simply nodded gravely, expressing neither convictions or emotions. clara wished that he would speak. she had expressed her thoughts as they came to her there in mrs. white's sitting room. it was thinking aloud rather than a statement of previously formed conclusions. now she saw to just what end her arguments were bringing her, and she almost shrank from it. summoning her utmost resolution she looked straight at the sombre face of the russian and added: "i have no knowledge of ivan's enemies, mr. poubalov; isn't it possible that you can give some information on that phase of the case?" "yes, it is," replied poubalov, without hesitation. then he paused a moment before he continued: "were not the case so serious and for you so distressing, i should feel that i must compliment you on your unusual faculty for analyzing a situation. far from taking offense at your continued suspicion of me, i am really pleased." "i have not said that i suspected you." "you did not need to, miss hilman. your reason tells you that mr. strobel was happy and confident of the future until suddenly one poubalov appears before him like the ghost of past misfortunes and as a prophet of new ones." "i assure you," interrupted clara again, "that i did not know that you were not an intimate friend of mr. strobel's; i spoke simply of natural inferences." "my dear young lady," said the russian, "you were helpless in the hands of your own reason." clara was silent. she felt instinctively that her analysis was correct and that she was facing, if not one of ivan's enemies, at the least a man who represented all that might be hostile to him; and when she had endeavored to withdraw some of the force of her reasoning, he himself had held her to her conclusions and clinched them. "it was my intention," continued poubalov, "to learn from mrs. white who you were, that i might solicit the privilege of calling upon you and laying before you what is in my knowledge concerning mr. strobel, for i fear that i may----" he stopped abruptly and looked from one to another of the wondering ladies. "go on, please," exclaimed clara, now stirred by a growing agitation; "if you can give us the faintest light it would be cruel to withhold it." "may i hope that no offense will be taken," said poubalov, "if i say that i planned to tell these things to you only? i will be pleased to call at your own convenience." "no, no!" replied clara, rising; "i must know now. tell me here. mrs. white, may we step into your dining-room?" louise and the landlady had risen at the same moment, and mrs. white said: "if miss pembroke doesn't object, she and i will go out. only, mr.--sir, if you have anything to say about my daughter, i wish you would let me hear it!" "it was not my intention to mention her, madame," replied poubalov. louise went to clara's side and kissed her. "you are so brave, dear!" she said. clara gave louise a grateful look as she and mrs. white withdrew, and turned expectantly to the russian. "pray sit down, miss hilman," he said; "what i have to say may not be as important and useful to you as you hope, but i preferred, and with good reason, as i think you will see, to discuss the matter with you alone. it was on my tongue to say that i may have been innocently a part of the cause that sent mr. strobel into hiding." "yes," whispered clara, eagerly; "go on!" "miss hilman, i am an agent of the czar." poubalov paused as if he expected this announcement to disturb, or otherwise impress his listener seriously, but she merely looked straight at him, as she did when he began to speak. "strobel knew me in that capacity," he continued, "years ago when we were in russia. has he ever told you about his life there?" "a little," replied clara, very doubtful how much she ought to reveal to this man who represented the autocratic, relentless power that had destroyed the fortune of the strobel family and made ivan himself an exile. "you find it difficult to be frank with me," said poubalov, "and i am not surprised, but you must remember that i am setting the example. it is quite the habit of thoughtless persons to apply an opprobrious epithet to my occupation and call me a spy. well, then, i, alexander poubalov, spy, paid by the government of russia, tell you who i am, and tell you that at one time ivan strobel had reason to fear me." the door bell rang while poubalov was speaking and clara heard mrs. white pattering through the hall to answer it. the man at the door was known to the landlady as strobel's tailor, an undersized, forlorn-looking man who seemed always to be struggling with secret woe. she knew that strobel had been kind to him, and helped him in more ways than mere patronage, and she knew that poor litizki was as grateful and loyal as a dog. it was with sincere welcome, therefore, that she greeted him, and asked him into the house. "i only came," said the tailor, "to ask if there is any news of mr. strobel? the newspapers say he has disappeared." "we know nothing of him here," answered mrs. white; "but come in, do! there's no telling who may say the word that will put us all on the right track. miss hilman is here, the lady he was to marry, you know. she's talking with a gentleman now in the parlor. i presume she may like to see you." "i don't know that i can give her any help," said litizki, following the landlady into the dining-room, "but i'll wait a few minutes, for i wanted to know something that the papers do not make clear." he came to a sudden halt as he stepped into the dining-room, where the voices of the persons in the front room were heard much more distinctly than in the hall. "who is that talking?" he exclaimed in an excited whisper. "it's a gentleman who called on mr. strobel yesterday," replied mrs. white; "i can't think of his name." "i should know that voice," muttered litizki as if speaking to himself. the rooms were separated by folding doors with glazed glass panels. on one of the panels there was a tiny spot where the opaque glaze had been rubbed or knocked off. litizki applied his eye to that spot, and shaded the glass with his hand, straining to get a clear view of the man whose deep voice came to him like the distant rumble of an organ. after a moment he straightened up and turned about, his sallow, depressed features gleaming with savage interest. "i cannot see clearly," he whispered, "but if that is alexander poubalov, then the whole mystery of strobel's disappearance is cleared away!" chapter vi. litizki at work. "it would have been perfectly natural," continued poubalov, "for strobel to suspect me at first blush of evil intentions, and i presume he did so; for, without inquiring what brought me to america and to him, he took pains to remind me that he was within the jurisdiction of the united states, and that it was not his purpose to set foot outside the limits of your country, of which i presume he is by this time a citizen." "he has taken out his first papers," replied clara. "and, therefore, should have felt himself secure from one who, supposing he were hostile, yet acted as the official of a foreign and a friendly government. i give you credit, miss hilman, of drawing a correct conclusion from that statement of relations." poubalov paused, and clara responded slowly: "it ought to mean that he had other enemies than you or those whom you represent." "exactly; but why do you hedge--pardon the term--why do you set forth the conclusion with reservation? 'it ought to mean,' is what you said. why not say it does mean?" "because i do not know whether you are telling me the truth." poubalov leaned back in his chair, and his dark face was momentarily illumined by an amused smile. "may i light a cigarette?" he asked in a tone that seemed to say how patient he was under this continuance of suspicion that not even reason could dissipate. it was as if he had said, "with all your unexpected cleverness as a logician, miss hilman, you are yet a woman, and you cling desperately to woman's reasonless intuitions." "oh, pardon me if i am cruelly unjust," cried clara, as clearly the woman in her quick relenting as she was in following her intuitions; "have patience with me! you must know how distressed i am, and how hard it is to think clearly. your very admission that you are a paid spy suggests deceit and trickery--i suppose i am making the matter worse." "by no means, miss hilman," replied poubalov, holding a cigarette between his fingers; "we shall come to an understanding presently, i am sure. i never take offense, not even when my loyalty to the czar is doubted; and nothing you may say will prevent me from doing what i can to clear away the mystery surrounding mr. strobel." "please light your cigarette," said clara; "if you wouldn't make me talk, we should get on better." poubalov smiled again, and when he had puffed a great cloud of fragrant smoke from his lips, he resumed: "i will proceed as if you cherished no doubts as to my sincerity. it follows, from my analysis, that mr. strobel could have had no fear of harm coming to him from an official of russia. he never had reason to fear me as an individual; in fact, the individuality of alexander poubalov long since disappeared in the person of the official agent. poubalov has no enmities, no friendships; all men are hostile or friendly to him, as they are the enemies or the adherents of the czar, whom god preserve! the next step in the analysis is to suggest the nature of mr. strobel's present enemies. you did not tell me so, but i presume you are aware that when mr. strobel was younger he permitted his generous sympathies to be enlisted in what he would then have called 'the people's party' of russia. without going into details with which every intelligent person is more or less familiar, i will remind you that, incidental to the so-called democratic movement in russia, was the organization of a secret society the avowed purpose of which was the disruption of the empire." poubalov paused, and puffed at his cigarette deliberately. "you want me to say something," cried clara in desperation, "and i don't know what to say." "pardon me," said the spy, suavely, "a woman of your cleverness will not resent it when i tell you that you misstate your difficulty. you could say much, perhaps, but you are afraid to." clara's silence was an admission that poubalov had spoken correctly, and after giving her ample time to deny his accusation, he continued: "you are afraid--and again you will pardon plain language--that you will involve your lover in fresh difficulties. let me point out again that, so far as his offenses against the government of the czar are concerned, they were purely political offenses, and he is therefore in a perfectly secure asylum as long as he is on american soil, whether he be simply a refugee or a naturalized citizen. you must seek for his enemies, miss hilman, elsewhere than among the representatives of russian authority." "you give me too much credit for cleverness," said clara, "for i cannot follow you." "you know that the secret society to which i referred adopted the term nihilism as a definition of its principles, do you not? and you must know, even if mr. strobel never told you so, that the nihilists were bound by the most awful oaths never to betray the secrets of their association." "do you mean to say that mr. strobel was a nihilist?" "certainly; that was what i was driving at from the beginning. it was for that he was compelled to fly from russia, and that is why he cannot return to his native land. the government has done much to stamp out the curse of nihilistic propaganda, and many members of the society have fled. some are in switzerland, some in england, others are here, here in boston. far from the field of their evil machinations, they cherish still their destructive ambitions as applied to russia; and, miss hilman, they still keep watch on one another. it would fare ill with any nihilist in america should he venture to betray his former associates in any way." "i suppose i understand you now" said clara, slowly. "you mean that i must look for ivan's enemies among the russian exiles who live in boston." "or elsewhere in america." "if he really were connected with them in russia, he would be the last man to betray them." "doubtless; but would they credit him with such loyalty? may they not have imagined that, under certain circumstances, he might be induced to betray them? and may they not have conveyed such definite and fearful threats that he found it necessary to disappear?" "do you mean by 'certain circumstances' his intended marriage?" "no. i may not mean anything. we shall see some day whether i do or not." "you speak in a constant succession of riddles. why not continue your frankness, and be strictly open with me?" poubalov lit a fresh cigarette, and after a long scrutiny of the ceiling, responded: "that is not my way, miss hilman. i am sincerely trying to suggest the clew to your difficult problem." clara took her own turn at reflection, and said at last: "if ivan felt obliged to disappear for a time, in order to escape his enemies, he would have managed to let me know." "it would seem so," admitted poubalov, rising; "and that brings you to your last alternative." "wait," exclaimed clara, imperatively; "you bring me to the last alternative as if that were the end of my difficulties. suppose it to be true that some russian exiles, in a mistaken distrust of mr. strobel, have abducted him. can you not suggest how i am to proceed to prove that and to rescue him?" "i hope to be able to do so, miss hilman, in a short time, a few days at most, and i assure you that i shall henceforth give my undivided attention to searching for mr. strobel." clara knitted her brows in painful perplexity. "a woman situated as i am," she said presently, "ought to be stirred by nothing but gratitude; but the one thing i can think to say is, why do you interest yourself so deeply in the matter?" "still distrustful," said poubalov in his deepest tones. "miss hilman, i might resort to sophistry and direct deceit in answering your question. i might point out that the newspapers have placed me, though not as yet by name, in a disagreeable position from which it should be my earnest desire to extricate myself. i might declare that i was moved by friendship or admiration for mr. strobel. but it does not please me to practice arts of trickery with you. public notoriety i care as little for as for the fly that buzzes harmlessly about my head. i never had friendship or admiration for mr. strobel, and i feel neither sentiment now. alexander poubalov's one sentiment is loyalty to his czar." "you haven't answered the question." "because i cannot answer it without either deceit or the betrayal of my trust. but i shall nevertheless use every endeavor to find your lover. will you care to hear from me from time to time?" "yes," replied clara, after a moment's thought; "certainly, yes. i do thank you for speaking to me as you have, and i wish i could trust you. i almost do trust you." "it would be too ungracious in me," responded poubalov, "not to wish that you could trust me, and not to hope that some time in the near future you will find that in this matter you can do so absolutely." "i suppose it would be vain to ask you what you are going to do?" "as vain as for me to ask you to tell me all i would like to know about mr. strobel." "mr. poubalov," exclaimed clara, earnestly, "there can be no reason why i should withhold anything from you. your own argument proves that; and, besides, you know more about ivan's connection with the nihilistic movement than i ever dreamed of. you perceive the distrust that i cannot conquer, but you believe me, do you not?" "implicitly, miss hilman." "then i assure you that, to my knowledge, mr. strobel has not had anything to do with nihilistic propaganda in this country for three years at least. he used to write some on russian topics, but he abandoned that when he went into business, and--i may say, when he became acquainted with me. i think i know all his friends, all his associates, and among them all there is but one russian, a gentleman like himself." "i am very glad to hear this," said poubalov; "and now i will see what i can do. i cannot act as i would in russia, but i can still accomplish something, i think. i hope to have the honor of calling upon you soon. i leave it entirely to you to speak of our conversation as you please, but i will go out without disturbing madame white and your friend. au revoir, miss hilman." the distinguished-looking russian bowed and left the room and immediately afterward clara heard the outside door close upon him. when litizki, the forlorn-looking tailor, mentioned poubalov's name, both mrs. white and louise pembroke exclaimed "that's it!" and both came forward as if their anxiety were about to be dissipated at one stroke. "who is he?" asked mrs. white, eagerly. "he is--" began litizki fiercely; "no! i must not speak. let me go out, that i may watch him. he shall lead me to ivan strobel. do not tell him that i have been here, do not mention my name." "dear me! it makes me more nervous than ever," said mrs. white, laying a hand on litizki's arm to restrain him. "do you think, mr. litizki, that he has done anything to mr. strobel?" "think!" exclaimed the little tailor who seemed on fire with excitement, "it is the next thing to knowing! not a word, remember!" he tip-toed his way through the hall as if it were night and he were a thief, and cautiously opened the outside door. he touched his hand dramatically to his lips as he closed it behind him, leaving mrs. white terrified and miss pembroke bewildered. litizki, even in a tumult of rage and desperation, was not a very impressive man to look at. it would have seemed that his fury could be quelled by a gentle cuff with the open hand, and that his whole being could be snuffed out with a vigorous pinch; but if ever man was terribly in earnest, he was, and a close observer might have noted the danger signals in the formation of his head and in the hang of his lips. this was a man who might be stirred to such depths that his whole shallow nature would be in commotion, when discretion would be cast off like flecks of foam from an on-rushing wave; and then let an enemy be wary, for even a slender arm, like that of the little tailor, may strike a fatal blow! it seemed a long, long time to litizki that poubalov continued his conversation with miss hilman. he dared not linger near the house lest the spy should see him from a window, or emerge suddenly from the doorway and so discover that eager eyes were directed to his movements. litizki slunk into one doorway after another, never staying long in one, lest he be warned away with sufficient outcry to alarm poubalov, whose ear, he believed, was acutely tuned to the slightest sounds, and who found untoward significance even in the vagrant breeze. at last the door opened, and litizki dodged into an open hall, only to flit out again as soon as he saw poubalov turn toward somerset street. arrived there, he turned down the hill, and then litizki ran forward to the corner around which he peered cautiously. it would not have surprised him if his face had touched that of poubalov as he did so, for it would have seemed to him but natural that the spy should think that he was followed and should wait there for the purpose of trapping his adversary. but, no; poubalov was progressing calmly down the street, and at howard he again turned to the left. litizki ran after, fearful of losing his man in the more crowded street, saw him cross bulfinch into bulfinch place, and finally open the door of a lodging house with a latch-key. "so!" thought the tailor, noting the number of the house and turning back, "he chooses his room within a stone's throw of ivan strobel's, and then takes a roundabout way to go from one house to the other. that is like him. alexander poubalov could not be direct in conversation or action even if he were intent upon a good deed--which would be impossible." the suggestion was so grotesquely absurd that litizki laughed and shuddered at once. "now," he reflected, "shall i tell the police where to look for ivan strobel, or shall i consult with his lady? i will go back and see her first." chapter vii. a dangerous man. for some minutes after poubalov left the house clara sat motionless, reviewing the strange discourse of the russian, trying to persuade herself one moment to trust him, and the next impulsively throwing aside the theories so finely spun from his innuendoes and circumlocutions. she shuddered at the thought of ivan in the hands of such fanatics as she knew were included in the most rabid enemies of russian polity, and as promptly felt such a solution of the mystery to be impossible. equally impossible seemed the solution that premised a fear on the part of ivan so great that he dared not let even his intended wife know of his whereabouts. removed from the influence of poubalov's magnetic personality and his subtle arguments, clara felt that it was to him rather than to the nihilists that she must look for implacable hostility to ivan. yet why should ivan, resident in and prospective citizen of the united states, fear him, an "official agent of a friendly government"? fear? that was not like the ivan she knew and loved! was it not again impossible that her lover should have been so stirred by fear of anybody or anything as to take flight and conceal his hiding-place from her? on the other hand, how could she know what influences had been suddenly applied to ivan to make him take a seemingly indefensible if not impossible course? and what was more impossible, in any of the suggested solutions, than his very disappearance, which was a painful fact, although hard to realize even after nearly twenty-four hours had passed since the time set for his wedding? the dining-room door was softly opened, and mrs. white put in her head. "has he gone?" she whispered. "yes," replied clara, starting up as if she had been aroused from sleep. "come in." louise approached her cousin solicitously. "we have had such a fright!" she said taking clara in her arms; "i didn't know whether to be more alarmed when we could hear his deep voice than after the sound of it had ceased altogether." "why should you have feared?" asked clara; "you couldn't suppose that i was in any danger in mrs. white's house, could you?" "no," answered louise, "but the air is full of excitement; and while mr. poubalov was talking, another russian came in who is friendly to ivan. mrs. white says he is a tailor, a very poor man whom ivan befriended, and an exile like himself. he recognized poubalov's voice, and declared positively that his presence here explained ivan's fate. he was terribly agitated and refused to stay, saying that he must follow poubalov. we couldn't tell what to make of it." this little narration came as a new shock to clara. she had told poubalov that among all of ivan's friends there was but one russian, and she had in mind, of course, paul palovna. she had never heard of this tailor, and although it might not follow that ivan would count among his friends a poor man whom he might have befriended, was it not a reasonable inference that this poor man was a nihilist? and that if there were one brought to light, that there might be many others whose identity would ever remain unknown to her? had she not heard how the great body of the nihilistic society was made up of the poor? and this man had recognized poubalov! that was significant, surely; but just what inference of value she should draw from it was anything but clear. while these thoughts and questions were chasing through her brain, litizki and paul palovna arrived at the house, coming from different directions. paul approached clara with marked constraint. "do not be afraid, my friend," she said, extending her hand; "i am quite strong and hopeful. i have read the papers, all of them, and they do not disturb me. i cannot thank you enough for what you did for me yesterday." "i am glad to hear you speak so bravely," responded paul; "you mustn't feel indebted to me, however, for strobel is the best friend i ever had, and it would be strange indeed if i did not try to find him. i suppose it is almost unkind to ask if there is any news?" "there is none exactly, and yet i have heard some things that you can advise me about better than anybody else." "miss hilman," interposed mrs. white, "this is mr. litizki, the man miss pembroke was telling you about." clara, intent upon referring poubalov's suggestions to paul, had not seen the little tailor come in. now she turned and confronted litizki with mingled hope and alarm; hope that this man, whose positive utterance had been reported, might give her a definite clew; alarm lest he be one of the most irreconcilable of revolutionists, a man who would sacrifice friends and family for a cause that he imagined just. her doubts increased as she saw the wild gleam in his small eyes, that lit up his sallow face and made it glow with fierce intensity. ivan had befriended him; must she distrust him, too? "i am glad to see you," she said with a quick resolution to win this man, and she surprised the tailor and made him speechless for the moment by grasping his hand warmly. "you have come to tell me something about mr. poubalov, or mr. strobel, or both?" litizki, embarrassed and awed by this queenly young woman who looked into his eyes so searchingly and withal so graciously, cleared his throat, shifted about on his feet, and a faint tinge of red actually found its way to his sunken cheeks. "yes," he answered after a moment, catching his breath with a gasp and swallowing as if he took oxygen into his system by way of his stomach; "yes, miss hilman, about both, if you please." he paused, excitement and embarrassment making it difficult to say anything coherently. "poubalov?" said paul, whose brows had contracted ominously when he heard the name, and who took advantage of the pause to ask, "what poubalov is that?" "can there be more than one who would hound a poor russian the world over?" rasped litizki, turning upon paul, intense excitement blazing again in his usually dull eyes; "it is none other than alexander poubalov, spy, informer, traitor!" the little tailor trembled visibly as he hissed these words, and he turned to clara as if to make certain that they should impress her deeply. "what, in the name of all that is right, does poubalov do here?" asked paul. "do?" cried litizki; "does he ever do anything but spy upon the poor? ask what has he done here, and i will tell you that he has captured our strobel, and has him bound in chains, waiting only a convenient and safe opportunity to convey him from the country to the presence of the little father[a] and then, siberia, or----" and the tailor drew his hand significantly across his throat. [a] russian familiar name for the czar. clara observed paul, not the tailor, during this extravagant speech. would palovna, an intelligent man, free from excitement, condemn and ridicule litizki's assertions as wild and imaginary? no; he listened gravely and gave no sign that he discredited the tailor in the least. noticing clara's inquiring look, paul said: "we russians, miss hilman, are inclined to credit almost any monstrosity in the way of crime, treachery and violence to men like alexander poubalov. to us he stands as guilty of anything with which he is charged until he incontestably proves himself innocent." clara's heart sank heavily, but she knew that she could trust paul. "may i tell you something?" she asked, and he followed her into the dining-room. there she hurriedly repeated the substance of poubalov's discourse, laying especial stress upon his warning relative to distrustful nihilists. "it's a splendid argument," said paul when she had finished; "i suppose you were attracted by his very frankness in admitting that he is a spy? that was a characteristic move. mind you, i never had trouble with poubalov; i wouldn't know him if i saw him, but i know about him. he is a very prince of spies, a past-master in the art of deceit, and many, many shrewd men have been the victims of his seeming candor. you may be sure he masks some villainy beneath his frankness, for he never was known to do a disinterested act." "he spoke as if he were here upon some mission," suggested clara. "certainly, but he wouldn't tell you what that mission was. that it had to do with strobel is certain. i don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, miss hilman, but poubalov is a most dangerous man. it may be well for us that you have faced him, though we must necessarily have discovered his presence soon, and to see him is to suspect. we at least know where to look. litizki is an impressionable, excitable man, but he may be right, nevertheless. i am sure that you can trust him, whether or not there is anything in poubalov's nihilistic suggestions. and as to that, i don't believe there is--not with him about. plenty of false notions prevail about the russian revolutionists, and it would be to poubalov's interest to arouse dread of them in your mind. anything to distract attention and suspicion from himself." they returned to the front room. litizki had recovered from his excitement, and was more like his customary, depressed self, but though he spoke quietly it was with bitter emphasis and strong conviction. "i believe," he said, "that poubalov instigated if he did not take part in the abduction of mr. strobel. i am convinced that he has him now in hiding, and the question only is whether we are to inform the police or take action ourselves." "the police," responded paul, "would not proceed against poubalov on the strength of our suppositions. he would intrench himself in his official position, and insist on compliance with all forms of law; and during the delay, if, indeed, he has strobel in his power, he would spirit him away." "so i think," said litizki, "and as he won't dare to remove strobel until the interest in his disappearance dies down, unless he were openly attacked in the manner you suggest, i intend, if miss hilman agrees, to hunt for our friend in my own way. i shall do so to-night. i must find him." he looked inquiringly at clara. "i cannot say yes or no," she replied; "you are a friend of mr. strobel's and you will do what you think best. only, let me know what you find." there was a gleam of pleasure in litizki's eyes, followed by an expression of sullen determination as he responded: "you shall hear from me to-morrow." "lou," said clara, "i think we had better go home now. i am feeling very worn. if any of you hear the least word, i wish you would come to see me." as she prepared to leave she took occasion to whisper to paul: "i do not know that i do right in encouraging litizki. my feeling is that the more there are at work and the more various the methods, the greater is the chance of success. may i leave it to you to prevent litizki, if possible, from any act that would be indiscreet, or worse?" "i will do what i can," said paul; "but he is, after all, an irresponsible agent. i am inclined to think that good will come of his investigation, whatever he does." it was the luncheon hour when the young ladies reached home, and mr. pembroke had arrived before them. his face expressed painful anxiety as he greeted his niece. "my poor child," he said, "you have heard everything, i suppose?" "i have heard a great deal, uncle," replied clara, "and appreciate your motives in withholding the paper from me that published the wicked rumor that ivan had eloped, but you should have known me better. do you suppose, uncle dear, that that rumor disturbed me? i dismiss it more lightly than anything that has been said." "poor child! poor child!" sighed mr. pembroke. "why do you say that?" asked clara, sitting down wearily. "of course, i am sorrowful; nobody can realize what i suffer; but i am confident that ivan has done no wrong, and i cannot believe that we shall not find him. i have returned to rest, not to give up the search." "clara, my dear girl," said her uncle, tenderly, "you'd best give it up. you have a great sorrow to bear, but i know how brave you are. there is no occasion for further search." "no occasion! uncle, what do you mean?" "the detective assigned from headquarters to make an investigation has been to see me." "yes, yes! what did he say?" "the worst possible, clara. he is convinced that strobel went to new york, if not with lizzie white, then to join her there. it is the only possible explanation of his disappearance." "no! no! you know nothing about it, and the detective is a fool!" cried clara. mr. pembroke was immensely surprised at this violent outbreak, when he had expected tears, prostration, the deepest grief. it occurred to him that perhaps his niece's mind had been unsettled by her trouble. she sat looking at him with blazing eyes, her face flushed, her foot nervously patting the floor. "you are greatly excited, clara," ventured her uncle, gently. "tell me what the detective said!" retorted clara, imperiously. "he has found that a closed carriage, such as we know strobel took at the corner of park and tremont streets, halted at the park square station shortly after that time. the passenger was a young man who answered the description of strobel. he paid the driver, went into the station, bought a ticket for new york, and immediately took his place in the train. it is further known that lizzie white took a train from the same station at about the same hour." "is that all?" asked clara, scornfully. "my dear girl, is it not enough?" "it is nothing, uncle, absolutely nothing. has your detective seen the driver of the closed carriage?" "i don't know; i suppose so." "i must see the detective then. no, i am not going now. after luncheon. i shall not risk failure by neglecting to care for myself. uncle dear," and she suddenly melted and put her arms around the old gentleman's neck, "forgive me, please, if i am impatient and hasty with you. i know ivan as you do not; i know this accusation is not true. the detective has been mistaken, and i shall show him so, and all the world besides." mr. pembroke sighed sadly. "your loyalty, my dear," he said, "is deserving of a better subject and a better fate." chapter viii. in the hands of the enemy. nothing would deter clara from a trip to police headquarters after luncheon, and, as in the forenoon, her cousin louise accompanied her. as they entered the building in pemberton square, they met the infirm old man, dexter, he who had arrived late at the church, he whom clara had interrupted in conversation with mr. pembroke. he bowed to the young ladies with an attempt at graciousness, and reached for the shapeless, soft cap that covered his head, but he only succeeded in pulling the visor awry, and he passed them, mumbling about the weather. "i am afraid," said clara, "that my trouble is making me harsh toward everybody, but that old man seems to me the most disagreeable and repulsive being i ever saw. who is he?" "i only know that his name is dexter," replied louise; "he has some business with papa, i believe." clara inquired for the detective who had been assigned to the strobel case, and after such delays as are naturally incident to strangers making their first call at the offices of the department, she was confronted by mr. william bowker, a commonplace-looking individual, who said: "well, ladies, what can i do for you?" "i am miss hilman," replied clara. "ah!" and bowker raised his brows regretfully, "i informed your uncle this forenoon, miss hilman, of what i have done and found in the matter." "he told me about it, but i couldn't be satisfied with a report at second hand. won't you tell me just what you told him?" "it will be very unpleasant for you, miss hilman, and if mr. pembroke has told you the result of my investigation, that is really all there is to be said." "i won't trouble you to repeat that a gentleman answering the description of mr. strobel alighted from a closed carriage at the park square station, shortly after the accident on park street and bought a ticket for new york, or that miss white took the same train. i am willing to take it for granted that you have traced miss white's movements correctly. i want to know what makes you so certain that the gentleman who took the train was mr. strobel?" detective bowker stared at the young lady a moment; it was his delicate way of expressing surprise. "the description of the man and the time tallied with strobel and his accident," he answered, "to say nothing of the reasons for his running away." "is that all, mr. bowker?" "no, it ain't; that was what we found at first. don't it look reasonable----" and he proceeded to theorize on the matter until clara checked him. "i could have heard all that from half the people in boston," she said, "if i had paid any attention to the rumor. i supposed professional detectives would base their reports on something better than conjecture." bowker shrugged his shoulders. "what would you say," he asked with a little temper, "if an acquaintance of strobel's was to tell you that he saw the gentleman buy his ticket and go to the train?" "have you such evidence as that? if so, who is it?" "i can't answer the question, miss hilman. i have no right to make public the workings of the department. i expect to get further evidence this afternoon to prove that strobel eloped. it's by no wish of mine, you understand, that i tell you these disagreeable things." "you needn't apologize, mr. bowker. i came for information. i understand, then, that you do not regard your investigation as finished." "well, not exactly. of course we want to clinch it." "have you seen the driver of the closed carriage?" "no. we have no means of identifying him except recognition by the man who drove the coupé. if a man should walk in here and say that he drove the closed carriage, we'd examine him, of course, but we've been unable yet to find that man. the thing being in the papers, it may happen--in fact, it's quite likely--that the missing driver will turn up to-day. cabmen are usually anxious to please the department. i suppose the evidence of the cabman would be satisfactory, wouldn't it?" "quite, if i was satisfied that it was the man, and that he told the truth." "i guess you're hard to satisfy, miss hilman." "mr. bowker," and clara beamed on him with a smile so sweet and radiant that he started with astonishment, "i think you are working hard and as faithfully as you know how to prove a theory which you formed early in your investigations, even before you had lizzie white's flight to base it on. i shouldn't think you'd do that, you know. honestly, wouldn't you rather find out the truth, even if it did upset your first theory?" bowker stared in undisguised discomfort. "if you've got any facts," he said, "you'd ought to let us have them. of course we want to find out the truth. what is it you know, or think of?" "no, thank you, mr. bowker," responded clara, rising, and still bewildering him with her lovely smiles; "you work along in your way and i'll work in mine. when i learn that you've found anything worth considering, i may take you into my confidence; i might even co-operate with you. good-afternoon." no one was more amazed at clara's coolness than her cousin louise. "i don't see how you can do it, clara," she said when they were again in pemberton square. "do you realize," returned clara, "what might happen if i didn't do something of this kind? somebody must stir everybody else up, or else the public will not only come to believe that ivan was false, but we shall never find him. i may be making mistakes, but i don't believe that detective will be content to stop where he is. he'll look further, and the further he looks the more certainly will he find that he has been working at a wrong theory. let's go somewhere and find a business directory." they went to the parlor of a neighboring hotel, where for an hour clara busied herself making a list of all the livery and hack stables in the city. then she hired a cab, and for hours the young ladies went from one to another stable, clara always with the same inquiry, seeking for some trace of him whom for convenience she came to call the "second driver." there is no need to go into the details of her tedious search. it was not concluded when evening came, and she had to desist from sheer fatigue. she had found no clew that promised the discovery of the one witness who could certainly be of use to her. from mrs. white's litizki went to his shop and toiled patiently and methodically for two or three hours. he hardly opened his lips during the whole time, but his brain was busy with projects. that poubalov was responsible for the fate of ivan strobel did not admit of a shadow of doubt; that he had concealed the young man in his lodgings was not so certain, but litizki deemed it altogether probable. the spy would have plenty of money, he could have put up at a hotel; why had he not done so? because, according to litizki's reasoning, he had uses for a lodging to which the public conveniences of a hotel could not safely be bent. distrustful of all men, the spy would keep his prisoner under his own charge, and in a lodging-house it would not be difficult to purchase the discreet silence of a not too scrupulous landlady concerning a mysterious co-tenant. the more he thought about it the more firmly the idea took possession of the tailor that strobel was confined in the bulfinch place lodging-house which poubalov had entered by means of a latch-key. if any one had suggested to him the spy's arguments to the effect that as the agent of a friendly government he could not venture, if he would, to violate american law, litizki would have laughed, and that would have been very significant of his immeasurable contempt for the argument, for it was not in the memory of his associates that the tailor had ever smiled. his nearest approach to it, in fact, was when he manifested pleasure at the idea of being countenanced in an investigation of poubalov's doings in his own way. respect american law, indeed! then would poubalov be other than he was, and the leopard might be expected to change his spots. litizki hated poubalov with all the concentrated venom of his small nature, a nature that had known little of good in the world save in ivan strobel's kindness, that had felt the blows of tyranny and the stabs of treachery at the hands of this same spy. a desire for vengeance had smoldered long in his heart, and he had never expected that any breeze of fortune would fan it into living flame; and now, suddenly, it had burst forth a raging fire, and the possibility of opportunity rose before his dull eyes as the one glad hope of his wretched life. poubalov in america! poubalov at his treacherous work against the one man who had inspired litizki with confidence and stirred his affections! and he, litizki, knew poubalov's secret, knew where he could lay hands upon him! fate must have placed him there in order that litizki's vengeance might be the more complete. the tailor laid down his tools and bent his head upon his hands. poubalov must be checkmated, strobel rescued; and if in accomplishing this end, the spy should be--well, what then? litizki put on a long coat with a high collar that he turned up about his ears, and a soft hat that he pulled down over his eyes. at the foot of the stairs that led to his shop he met paul palovna. "hello, litizki," exclaimed the young man, "where in the world are you going rigged out as if it were winter?" the grotesque little figure looked sourly up at the inquirer and replied: "i am going to begin my work." "see here, litizki," said paul, seriously, "you mustn't do anything rash. i was just coming to see you to give you warning. poubalov is dangerous and very clever. don't get yourself into trouble, and don't spoil all chance of trapping him, if he has really got hold of strobel, by any premature act." the little tailor reflected. "for myself," he answered presently, "nothing matters. i will be careful, paul palovna, as careful as man can be not to compromise any chances. i shall act for myself alone. nobody sends me, nobody influences me. if i succeed, we shall all rejoice; if i fail"--he shrugged his shoulders significantly--"i will be the only loser. i promise you not to be rash, paul palovna, for the sake of noble ivan strobel and his beautiful lady." then he moved away, and palovna knew hardly whether to smile at his ludicrous make-up, or shudder at the purpose that unquestionably lurked in his thoughts. "i hope good may come of it!" sighed palovna. litizki went to bulfinch place, and shrinking as far as possible into his long coat, walked along on the sidewalk opposite poubalov's house. yes, there the villain was, calmly reading a newspaper! one flight from the ground, front room. at the side of the room was a smaller one over the hall. litizki knew the arrangement of the houses in that vicinity, and the blinds of that room were closed. perhaps, though, the prison chamber would be in some more remote part of the house. time and the night would tell. the tailor went to the corner of bowdoin street, and stood there, unmindful of the curious glances of passers until he saw poubalov leave the lodging-house. it was just possible that the spy had his prisoner concealed elsewhere, and was now going to him. litizki followed. it occurred to him that now might be the time to get into the house on some pretext and make a search, but he dismissed the thought as ruinous. if strobel were there, the landlady would be paid to be watchful during poubalov's absence. no; the night was the time when nobody would be watching, and when every corner in the house could be searched from cellar to garret. poubalov went to state street, and entered the bank where strobel had been employed. he brushed past litizki when he emerged, but apparently did not see him. the tailor followed him from one place to another, waited under a hotel window for an hour while the spy was dining, saw him into a theatre and eventually back to his lodgings, where he arrived at about eleven o'clock. it was evident that he went directly to bed, for the light in his room was extinguished very shortly after he went in. litizki then went to a cheap restaurant, where he appeased his appetite and drank several cups of bad tea. it was after midnight before he left the place, and his one wish was that he had a dark lantern. to make up for his lack, he was plentifully supplied with matches. a printer, whom litizki knew by sight, lived in the house adjoining the one where poubalov lodged. the tailor knew that he ordinarily arrived home at one o'clock. he was on time this night, and as he turned into the tiny yard before the building, litizki stepped down from the doorway. "i'm glad you've come," he said, "i left my key in the room and i can't rouse anybody by ringing." "no," responded the printer with a laugh, "they don't get up for anybody. how long you been living here?" "only a few days." the door was opened, and both men went upstairs. the printer, with a cheery "good-night," entered a room on the second landing. litizki continued to the top floor, and thence through a skylight to the roof. fortune was, indeed, favoring him. he had supposed the skylight would be raised for the sake of ventilation. there had been doubt whether the steps leading to it would be in place. he cared little whether the skylight on the adjoining roof would be found open and the steps in place, or not; he would get in in any event. both were in just the condition most favorable to his project, and a moment later litizki had struck a match and was peering about in an empty room on the top floor of poubalov's lodging house. the little tailor exulted more and more as he crept down the stairs after examining every room. not a sleeper had been awakened, not a door had been found locked. he would search the whole house before trying the door to the hall room adjoining poubalov's. that would be found locked. he had no doubt he should pick the lock, for he had skeleton keys in his pocket, and if not--a vigorous shove and he would burst it open. what cared he for details at the very end of his search? he had come to the floor above the spy's room. here, as before, every door was unlocked, most of the rooms empty. he had just extinguished a match preparatory to descending further, when from somewhere out of the darkness heavy hands were laid upon him and he was borne to the floor. another instant and a hand was pressed upon his mouth and there was a dazzling flash of light from a dark lantern held over him. litizki saw the cruel eyes of alexander poubalov glaring down, and then the slide of the lantern was closed again. chapter ix. litizki's lesson. there had been no scuffle and almost no noise as the tailor fell to the floor, but one of the chamber doors opened, nevertheless, and a startled voice asked: "what's that?" "sorry you've been disturbed," said poubalov; "a friend of mine, with a little more of a load than he could manage, has stumbled. that's all. i will look out for him." the inquirer went back to bed grumbling, and as soon as the door closed poubalov whispered in russian: "will you keep quiet, or shall i have to quiet you?" and he removed his hand from litizki's mouth. "it's all one to me, alexander poubalov," muttered the tailor, and, feeling the pressure removed, he rose to his feet. still speaking russian, the spy remarked: "you are so good at finding your way in the dark that i will not pull the slide of my lantern. i should dislike, for your sake, to have you recognized. go down and enter my room." litizki felt for the banister, and, guided by it, walked down the flight and opened the door, as directed, into his captor's room. when poubalov came in he closed and bolted the door, then opened the lantern and let its rays fall on litizki from head to feet, and head again, as if he were curiously studying the make-up. he laughed softly at last and said: "there's a chair just back of you. sit down." the tailor sank into it, and poubalov lit the gas. in the general light litizki saw that the spy was fully dressed save for his coat, and that the folding bed which was a feature of the furniture had not been let down. poubalov noticed litizki's glance and understood: "no, my friend," he said suavely, "i did not go to bed. i expected you, and sat up to receive you." litizki groaned. until then he had hoped desperately that even as a prisoner he would be able to accomplish something; now, convinced that the spy had prepared for his coming, he realized that his effort had been in vain. the awful sense of the unshakable power this man represented and wielded came over him as it did in those gloomy days in russia when he had to choose between voluntary exile and certain banishment. poubalov drew a chair to a little table in the middle of the room, and sat down opposite the tailor. "nicholas litizki," he said, "you have surprised and grieved me! i would not have supposed that even a residence of several years in america could have made you forget that alexander poubalov never takes a step until he is thoroughly prepared for it. i, who hardly know what the word emotion means, am almost hurt. surely it must be that contact with republican institutions deadens a man's sensibilities and affects his memory." litizki's small eyes had been fixed upon those of his adversary from the beginning. they had relapsed to their customary dull expression, but they glowed faintly with new life, for, the first edge of his disappointment dulled, he recalled the two great purposes for which he had invaded the house: vengeance and the rescue of ivan strobel. neither purpose might be lost, and if he must forego or postpone vengeance, he would not prejudice what means others might have at command for saving his benefactor. "poubalov," said the tailor, "i am an american citizen." "i bow to your discretion," responded the spy, "but i knew it. you think to hide behind the generous skirts of your adopted country's goddess. good! i admit the efficacy of the refuge, for the accredited agent of the czar--whom god preserve, nicholas litizki--will do nothing in a friendly country in violation of that country's laws. but see, my friend, what a tower of strength a proper respect for the law becomes: i not only knew you were coming, but i knew what you were coming for, and i need not say that i knew what way you would take. i have kept within the law, and yet i found out all about you and your associates before i had been in boston--no matter how long. poor fellow! did you really think that poubalov's eyes did not penetrate your flimsy disguise? i am sorry, litizki; your patience and devotion would fit you for service in the holy cause of the czar, and it is not at all adapted to pursuing the steps of honest men." "you do not frighten me," interposed litizki; "i know your superlative cunning and your crooked ways. your speech nauseates me. 'honest men!' bah!" "we won't dispute over trifles, then. i simply call to your attention the fact that you unlawfully invade a dwelling-house, prowling about like a common thief and thus place yourself unreservedly in my power. of course, nicholas litizki did not enter here to commit theft. he came to find his friend, ivan strobel." "it is a lie, alexander poubalov! i sought him not." "you know whether it is a lie, or not. so do i. therefore we will not argue the matter. well, what are you going to do now that you are here?" litizki boiled with futile rage. he was trapped not only literally as poubalov's prisoner, but he felt how weak he was in any contest of words with this shrewd master of deceit. he had spoken truly in telling paul palovna that it mattered not what became of him, and although those words were uttered under the influence of a desire for vengeance that constant dwelling upon had turned to conviction that he would succeed, he now felt them to be as true, for he despaired, as he had been despairing for years, of accomplishing anything that would be worth the doing. why had he presumed to undertake the hopeless task of outwitting poubalov? he saw how wildly foolish had been his course, but his conviction remained unshaken. "have it so, then," he hissed; "respect for law is not in your character. you have unlawfully taken possession of ivan strobel." "yes?" responded poubalov quietly; "you are very sure of that?" "i know it, yes; i did come here to find him, to liberate, ay, to kill you if need be!" "indeed! the same, familiar antagonism to the authority of russia, i suppose. the russian agent is to you like the red flag to the bull. yes, very interesting. well, litizki?" "alexander poubalov!" exclaimed the tailor, rising and speaking with all his long-treasured bitterness, "you have ivan strobel, an american citizen, in your power; you restrain him illegally of his liberty, with what purpose it matters not. i, as an american citizen, demand that you release him." poubalov looked with mock admiration at the fierce but grotesque figure before him, and said: "good! very good! i am not certain but that demand is good law. i shall have to think of it. when, nicholas litizki?" "i cannot tolerate your smart language," returned litizki; "give him up now. it will be worse for you if you fool with me. you threw me down in the dark because i was taken unawares. in the light i can make my own fight, alexander poubalov! come! ivan strobel is in that room, behind that door, and if you have not stopped his ears as you have gagged his mouth and bound his limbs, he hears my voice now and knows it. i should be less than man should i not take even a desperate step to rescue him, my friend, my benefactor!" even to the cynical spy the grotesqueness of the little tailor's figure and make-up disappeared in the exaltation up to which his emotions bore him. he took one determined stride toward the door to the little hall room. "nicholas litizki," said poubalov, softly. the tailor turned, such was the compelling power of that deep voice, and for the instant his progress was checked. poubalov had extended one arm upon the table and his hand was toying with a revolver. "i believe you, my friend," remarked the spy, hardly looking toward the tailor at first, but later concentrating his gleaming eyes upon him, "i believe you when you say by actions if not by words that you would die for your friend, and that you do not care what becomes of you. but you have some degree of cleverness, litizki. we learned that years ago. listen, then, just a moment before you lay hand upon that door. it is locked, litizki. before you could open it i could put a bullet through your heart. would i not dare? what should a peaceable lodger not do to a man who stealthily enters his house by night? who would disbelieve me if i should calmly report to the police that you came as a burglar, and that i shot at you in protection of property and life? suppose, however, that i prefer to avoid a disturbance. before you could more than wrench the knob of that door once, i could pierce your heart silently." poubalov rose and stood towering over litizki, a knife glistening in his right hand. "you know something of my resources," he continued, "and whether i would be likely to find difficulty in disposing of your lifeless body. why! you have come so secretly that you and i alone know of your whereabout. we would then have another disappearance to add to the strobel mystery, but one that would not be half as interesting, litizki, not half." "you have killed ivan strobel!" whispered litizki, shrinking away. "in that inference," said poubalov, contemptuously, as he laid his weapons on the table and resumed his seat, "your madness reaches its climax and you will speedily recover. you will not go to that door now. you see how useless it would be. live, and you may yet see your friend, may yet assist in liberating him. understand me, nicholas litizki: i have not come to this country for nothing. i have a mission to perform, and nothing shall prevent me from performing it, and in my own way." "you will then keep strobel a prisoner," muttered litizki, "until you have wrung from him by cruelty what you have come for?" "i shall perform my mission. now it would be perfectly easy for me to remove you, for you are making yourself an obstacle, a slight one, to my plans. it pleases me better, however, that you should live, and you may yet be an assistance to me. i will show you to the street door whenever you feel ready to depart." litizki shot a glance full of evil at his captor, but poubalov ignored it, and calmly lighted the inevitable cigarette. "very well, alexander poubalov," said litizki after a moment, "you may let me go, but expect no gratitude from me. i know only too well that you think to serve your foul purposes by my liberty, but, weak as i am, i shall not rest until strobel is restored to us or his fate made known, and even after that i shall pursue you! you teach me a lesson, poubalov, a hard one, but i shall learn it." "i hope you will. life will be easier if you do. must you go now? permit me," and with a fine pretense at courtesy he unbolted the door and accompanied litizki to the street door, which he also opened. "good-night, nicholas litizki," he whispered as he withdrew again into the house. it was litizki's purpose to go at once to the house where paul palovna lodged, rouse him, and tell him his experience, with all the admissions that poubalov had seemed to make, and all the inferences that were to be drawn from his remarks and innuendoes; but as he hurried along in the cool night air he felt as if something were leaving him. he slackened his pace, halted irresolutely, went on a few steps, and at last leaned heavily against a building and struck his hand angrily against his brow, muttering: "fool, fool!" what was this sense of loss but a relief from the dominating influence of poubalov's stronger personality? there, with all his desperation, even at the height of his exaltation, when he seemed to tread the border lands of heroism, he had halted at a single word from the spy. he had stood and listened to threats and sophistry, and had been moved by the one and convinced by the other. no! he could not tell all this to palovna, or to any other person except strobel; to him, if he should ever return, he would make a full confession of his defeat. for the present he must keep it to himself, and if he would still do something to effect his vengeance and rescue strobel, he must work in secret. and as he reflected that it was just this course that poubalov undoubtedly expected him to take, he groaned and slunk abashed and mortified to his lonely room. in the early morning, without waiting to read newspapers, or submit to interviews from reporters, should they call again at the house, clara and louise set forth to finish their search for the "second driver." again they had a tedious, fruitless experience. now and again it seemed momentarily as if they had come upon a clew to the man, but clara's keen questions invariably brought them to the same disappointing end. by noon they had visited every livery stable in boston. "don't think me unkind, clara," ventured louise, "but i fear we ought to give this up. i don't know that i can say just why, for i sympathize with you as deeply as ever, and, like you, i believe in ivan; but somehow i fear." "there are the stables in cambridge and somerville," responded clara, absently; "we haven't been there. forgive me, dear! i didn't mean to ignore what you said. we are both tired. i had meant to call at mrs. white's before returning, but we will go home and rest, and see if fresh thinking will help us. there may be some word at home by this time." there was, indeed, some word at home. the servant reported that detective bowker had called and would be glad to see miss hilman, should she care to go downtown during this afternoon; and there were many letters from friends who had learned of her trouble. all except one were more or less sympathetic, but in more than one there was a veiled remonstrance against her taking such a vigorous and public part in the case. the exception was unsigned and without date. it read: "if miss hilman insists on being convinced with her own eyes that her 'lover' has been false, if she needs more proof to cause her to withdraw from the ridiculous attitude she has assumed, why doesn't she go to new york and find lizzie white? the writer is certain that she would return fully satisfied." chapter x. corroborative detail. clara had not come sufficiently in contact with the evil side of human nature to ignore an anonymous letter. she felt all the contempt for the writer that he or she deserved, and she spurned the suggestion contained in the letter as utterly unworthy of a moment's attention. yet the sting was there. she might ignore the letter to all appearances, and yet not be able to forget it. the cruelty of the writer was what she felt, not the force of the blow. "i cannot understand," she said, laying the letter down and taking a newspaper, "how a person can go out of his way for the sole purpose of doing an unkind thing." "what is it, dear?" asked louise, stopping on her way out of the room. clara started to show her the letter, but, overcome by a sense of repugnance for it, answered: "let it pass until after luncheon. we shall have a great deal to talk of then." so clara was left alone with the newspapers, and she read them with amazement and consternation. at the very first there was a little relief at finding no flaring headlines on the first page, for she had no enjoyment in the notoriety that the case thrust upon her. she bore it simply as one of the unavoidable features of the situation. as she searched the first paper, the relief vanished, and in its place came a growing wonder. the reports of the abandoned wedding had been set forth in complete detail with every expansion that fertile brains could suggest, as if every city editor had said to his reporter, "we'll stand all you can write." it had been the important news feature of the day, and to clara it had seemed as if every newspaper in the city had undertaken to solve the mystery. where, then, was the long account of the second day's developments? tucked obscurely away in the middle of a page devoted to a miscellaneous assortment of news, she found at last a few paragraphs setting forth the conclusions of the detective bureau, that there was no financial irregularity to be attributed to mr. strobel, and that the missing man had undoubtedly eloped with lizzie white. miss hilman's health was reported to be good, and it was noted that she had taken a personal hand in the investigation with every appearance of confidence in the loyalty of her betrothed. clara found longer reports in the other papers, and the one that had published the first intimation of the elopement, continued to make it the sensation of the hour, but it was a labored effort, devoted quite as much to exploiting its own enterprise in beating the other papers as to setting forth the news. so, then, the community, of which the newspapers were the reflection, had contentedly accepted the first solution that offered, and all her work had gone for nothing, worse than nothing, for she found herself pictured as a pitiable victim to her lover's faithlessness. the very fact that the reporters refrained from bringing out the picture of her misery in strong colors was evidence of the sincerity with which they wrote. they were satisfied that ivan had eloped! to tell how loyally she had clung to him would be to put her in a ridiculous light before all readers. the tears that came to clara's eyes were angrily dashed away at first, but they would flow, and after a moment she gave full vent to them. her experience was one that comes only to those who have to suffer such great calamities that for the time all life seems to be centered upon them, and the awaking to the cold fact that all life runs along just as before, and the great calamity speedily becomes an event of yesterday, is almost as hard to bear as the original shock. this awakening with clara was coincident to a fresh determination to continue her search. the world might laugh if it chose to be so cruel; she believed in her lover and would yet find him. the bell had rung for luncheon, and drying her eyes, clara went into the dining room. her uncle was already at the table. his greeting was constrained but not lacking in affection and sympathy. "don't you think it would be better, clara," he said gently after they had exchanged a few words, "to withdraw for a while from public view? i am afraid you are doing no good, and i will not conceal from you that i regard your loyal search as hopeless. i am getting to be an old man, and i have seen a great deal of the world, as we reckon it by the human beings who populate it. this blow that has fallen upon you has fallen on others before your time, and it will fall again. this that seems to you incredible has been no less incredible in the past----" "stop, please, uncle," interrupted clara; "i cannot draw comparisons, and if i could they would be valueless. i must judge my affair by its own circumstances alone. i believe ivan has done no wrong, and it is nothing less than my duty to him and myself to right the wrong that has been done to him." "but tell me, my dear child, is there anything in the situation that promises a solution other than that found by the detectives and the reporters?" "yes, uncle, there is," replied clara in a low tone, "and i am glad the reporters have not found the clew, and i am not sorry that mr. bowker missed it, too. i will tell you about it." "papa," said louise, coming into the room at this moment, "mr. dexter has called. i was coming downstairs when the bell rang, and i answered it. i showed him into the library." "i wish he would confine his calls to the office," exclaimed mr. pembroke, impatiently. "you will have to excuse me, though, for i am obliged to see him." "i am afraid papa is having a serious time with his business," said louise, after he had gone. "everything comes at once, doesn't it?" responded clara; "i am so sorry! he wants me to give up trying to find ivan, dear. it hurts me to displease uncle, but what would you do? i think he would like to have me go away for a time." "oh, i don't think that! i am sure he feels toward you as if you were his own daughter." "i am sure he does, lou. a father couldn't be more affectionate and kind; but in this matter, how can i yield to his wishes? he does not know." "do you mean about mr. poubalov?" "partly, but i had more in mind that no one could know ivan's character as well as i do." louise thought of her own budding love. if ralph harmon were under suspicion, could she fail to defend him? could she think of him as other than honorable and faithful? a servant passed through the room, and left the door in the hall carelessly ajar. neither of the young ladies noticed it. "clara," said louise, "i should try to do just as you are doing, but i know i could not be so brave. i think if you should tell uncle about mr. poubalov it might make him feel better." "i intend to do so," replied clara, "and would have done so last evening if he had been at home." they were interrupted by mr. pembroke's voice. he had stepped from the library into the hall, and was speaking with ill-suppressed anger. "i won't listen to anything you have to say on the matter," he said, "and i will ask you to confine your talks to me to business matters; and when you must see me, go to the office." "ugh!" grunted old dexter in reply, "she'll make you as ridiculous as she makes herself." "dexter," exclaimed mr. pembroke, "i think you're the worst villain unhung!" "h'm, h'm, h'm," muttered dexter, "you're a fool, mat pembroke. i think you're a fool!" the front door closed loudly and mr. pembroke strode into the dining-room, where the young ladies were looking at each other with astonished eyes. mr. pembroke was flushed, and he bit his lip with added vexation as he noticed that his daughter and niece had heard the last words of his conversation with dexter. "i am sorry----" he began, his voice still shaking with anger. he did not complete his remark, but sat down and tried to eat. after a moment clara rose and put her arms softly about his neck. "i am sorry, too, uncle dear," she said, "that you have so much trouble about me. of course that vile man was speaking of me." mr. pembroke shuddered violently at her first touch. he released her arms abruptly and stood up. "no, don't!" he said with an expression of the deepest pain; "you continue your search in your own way, child. don't mind about me or anybody else, least of all that--that meddlesome dexter." "i was going to tell you some of the information i learned yesterday, uncle." "no, no! no, no! i don't want to hear it--that is, not now. forgive me, child; i am disturbed by business matters and cannot attend to it now. this evening if you like. good-by." he hastened from the room, more agitated than when he had come in. "it's a shame," said clara, bitterly, "that any one who is in trouble has to annoy all those who are near to her." "i wouldn't think of it that way, dear," responded louise; "papa is as sympathetic as can be, and i am sure that when he gets over his anger at this mr. dexter's interference, there will be nothing to regret. he said himself, you know, that he would talk with you this evening." "i hope i shall have something definite to tell him then," said clara. "will you go downtown with me again this afternoon?" of course she would, and in due time, therefore, the young ladies were again at police headquarters. detective bowker was evidently highly pleased with himself, although he manfully tried to suppress any signs of triumph. "i called at your house this forenoon, miss hilman," he said, "to inform you that the driver of the closed carriage has been found." "what does he say?" asked clara eagerly. "he corroborates what i told you yesterday." "does he say that he drove mr. strobel to the park square station?" "yes, just as i told you." "can i see him?" "i have no doubt you will be able to do so. he is not here now. he has gone about his work, but i can have him here at any time, or he will call on you. he suggested that himself when i told him that you would be pretty likely to doubt his story." "i should like to see him," said clara, her voice faint and tremulous in spite of herself. "when did you find him, mr. bowker?" "well, as to that," replied the detective, reluctantly, "billings came in here early this morning. you know i said that might happen." "yes. what stable does he drive for?" "what stable?" echoed bowker with his stare of surprise; "why should you ask that, miss hilman?" "because i have visited every stable in boston to find whether any employee could have been driving a closed carriage along park street at the hour when the wheel of mr. strobel's coupé came off." "whew! you did mean business, didn't you?" exclaimed bowker with evident admiration. "it's a pity you had such a time of it. billings drove his own carriage. he wasn't connected with any of the stables." "i am glad to know that my search did not fail through any lack of thorough inquiry," said clara, and she felt her courage reviving. "will you send word to this mr. billings that i would like to see him?" "certainly. when shall i tell him to call?" "any time this evening. and, mr. bowker, can you not give me the name of the man who said he saw mr. strobel buy a ticket for new york?" "i cannot do so. the fact is, we haven't the name. i expected to get it, honestly i did, for i heard that strobel was recognized in the station by a friend; but that friend hasn't turned up; and, to tell you the plain truth, we don't think it necessary to inquire for him." "it seems to me----" began clara, stopping and reflecting. she was going to protest against the imperfect character of the investigation, but she thought better of it. this detective unquestionably had no interest to find other than the truth, and with his low conceptions of character, due doubtless to his frequent contact with criminals, it would be but natural for him to see no other explanation for ivan's disappearance than the one to substantiate which he had obtained a certain amount of evidence. if even her good uncle were disposed to view the idea of the elopement as a possibility, nay, as a probability, what better could be expected of one to whom ivan was merely a man like other men? and the evidence of the "second driver" which was undoubtedly straightforward---perhaps ivan had gone to new york. how could she tell? not with lizzie white, of course, but---she would talk with the driver. "i shall be greatly obliged," she concluded, "if you will send me word should any new development turn up. i don't suppose i can expect you to pay any further attention to the case." "we may hear from new york at any time," replied bowker; "the police there are on the lookout for strobel, and if we hear anything i will let you know." louise tucked her arm affectionately within clara's, and asked: "where now, dear?" "we will go to mrs. white's," responded clara, drearily. her faith was yet undisturbed, but the mystery seemed the darker, for if the wily russian had had to do with ivan's departure, how much harder it would be to find him in new york than in boston! then, had he gone voluntarily, might it not be possible that he did not wish her to search for him? surely he would write if he could. with that thought, and a renewed conviction that ivan was somehow constrained of his liberty, she arrived at mrs. white's house. "i'm so glad to see you," cried the landlady, "with all this talk in the papers. i have heard from lizzie. see! here is the letter." she handed a sheet of paper to clara. it was not a long letter, but what little there was was rambling in style. it was dated from second avenue, new york, and stated that the writer had found a new home. "i should be happy," she wrote, "if it wasn't for the way i had to go. but there wasn't any other way. after a while i shall tell you all about it." clara's quick perceptions told her that any person with the elopement explanation in his head would see a significance in these words that could not fail to reflect unfavorably upon ivan. "mrs. white," she said tremulously, "you won't show this letter to reporters, or detectives, or anybody else, will you?" chapter xi. strange exit of poubalov. "i had already shown it to mr. bowker," replied mrs. white, anxiously; "i thought it might convince him that lizzie had nothing to do with the disappearance of mr. strobel." "it didn't convince him," said clara, bitterly; "but no matter. may i copy miss lizzie's address?" "of course. are you going to write to her?" "perhaps so. have you written yet?" "i haven't had time, but i shall do so this afternoon. is there something you would like to have me say?" clara was intent with her thoughts. "mrs. white," she said presently, "if you write to-night, could you omit any reference to mr. strobel?" "land sakes!" exclaimed the good lady; "whatever should i write about then? with lizzie's name in the papers, and everybody believing that she ran away with mr. strobel, what should i say?" "i suppose it would be hard to ignore it altogether, but couldn't you omit saying anything of the rumors that have connected their names?" "why, i'll try to, miss hilman, but lizzie will have to know about it some time." "certainly, when you write to-morrow you can say what you please about it. just for to-day i wish you wouldn't. i'll come down early to-morrow morning, and perhaps i will be able to tell you a great deal more than you know now, more than any of us know." "i do hope you will hear something definite," said mrs. white, "for you can't tell how much easier i am to know that lizzie's settled somewhere, that she's alive and in a home. if you only knew that mr. strobel was sick in a hospital, now, it would be better, wouldn't it?" "nothing is so dreadful as uncertainty," replied clara; "you'll be very careful what you write then?" "as for that, miss hilman, i don't see that i need to write at all to-day. it's only a day more, and if you say it won't make any difference to you what i say to-morrow, i'll put it off till then if you like." "i should be so much obliged! have you seen mr. litizki to-day?" "no, nor the dark gentleman, either. mr. litizki's shop is not far from here, if you'd like to see him." clara inquired the way, and soon after the young ladies set out for the little tailor's place of business. litizki was his own master in business, and he employed two or more fellow-countrymen as assistants, the number varying with the demands of his enterprise. on this day there were several men in the shop, but they were not there as workmen. most of them had come to talk with litizki about the strobel case. he was not very communicative, but that was his way. nevertheless he had some things to say, and for this reason his acquaintances found that he talked much more freely than usual. "i tell you," he insisted, his dull eyes glowing with hate, "alexander poubalov is in boston. i am not one to be mistaken in that man, and his presence here means trouble for any, perhaps all of us." "what could he wish to do against poor russians, nicholas litizki, who have no intention of revisiting their native country?" asked one of the group. "better ask what has he done?" retorted the tailor. "here is ivan strobel, more prosperous than we, with more powerful friends, and what has poubalov done to him? would that i knew!" "as soon as poubalov appears," remarked another, "litizki will lay the very next crime that occurs to his hands." "where poubalov goes," said litizki, "you will ever find treachery and oppression. it is not for you, peter, to make light of poubalov. you have felt his hand as well as i." "yes," admitted peter, "but in the strobel matter you do not forget what the police have discovered, do you? well might you suspect the dirty spy, were it not that one does not go far, it seems, to find the woman in the case." "bah!" sneered litizki; "do you forget that there are two women in the case? and have you seen either of them? no. well, i have seen both. i have no unkind word for lizzie white, with whom they say he went away; but i tell you, friends, ivan strobel could not have preferred her to miss hilman." he pronounced the name softly as if it aroused a feeling akin to reverence. "you should see her," he continued; "she is a very angel of beauty and goodness. happy would be the man whose privilege it was simply to worship her; and as for him whom she would permit to love her--bah! talk to me not about the woman in the case until you have seen miss hilman." his friends listened gravely. they found nothing ludicrous in litizki's occasionally extravagant language. when he was stirred to something like eloquence, it was almost always by a memory of the wrongs he had suffered, and then no language could have been too imaginative to express the bitterness with which his sympathetic hearers listened. "where did you see her, litizki?" asked one of them. "never mind now," he replied; "i have seen her since strobel disappeared. she is bearing up bravely, and scorns the suggestion that he eloped with miss white. she is devoting her life to finding him, and it is my opinion that every poor russian in boston ought to do the same." he looked furtively from face to face in the group, to observe the effect of his words. most of them stared at the floor. "strobel was a good man," said one, after a long pause; "but what could any of us do?" "do?" repeated the tailor, and his indignant reply died on his lips as he remembered with sudden distinctness the fiasco of the previous night. "we could at least watch poubalov, and i, for one, intend to do so. i cannot sit, and cut, and sew, and think, while he is in this country and my friend is in his power." "nicholas litizki," said one who had not spoken previously, "if i were in your place, i would let the strobel case take care of itself." the tailor glanced at the speaker. "you speak as if we were still in russia," he said, "and you had authority to command me." "you will do as you please," returned the other; "but if i were in your place, i should keep quiet." "listen then, all of you," exclaimed litizki, with energy; "i shall not keep quiet. i shall pursue poubalov, i shall do everything possible to effect the rescue of ivan strobel, and if i have to sacrifice my business and everything, and every chance i have in the world, i shall do it." the door of the little workshop opened, and alexander poubalov stepped in. "good-day, to you, nicholas litizki, and friends," he said with easy familiarity. "when one is in a foreign land, and has need of something, he will naturally apply to a fellow-countryman, will he not?" he looked around at the group, as if expecting a general assent. the men looked darkly at him and were silent. if all had not seen him in russia, they knew who he was; and if there had been any doubt, they would have but needed to glance at litizki to see that he was facing his arch-enemy. the tailor rose from his bench, and his sallow face was deathly pale. "alexander poubalov," he said determinedly, "this is no place for you. you hear no words of welcome----" "gently, litizki, my friend, gently," interposed the spy; "i call simply on business. i want clothes. will you make them for me?" "not for all the wealth of the czar!" returned the tailor, fiercely. "then we will waste no time discussing material and prices. good-day again," and poubalov walked grandly out. the group exchanged inquiring glances in silence for a moment, and then litizki exclaimed: "you see, friends! you see! i was not mistaken in the man, and he is the same here as in russia--the spy who goes everywhere and does nothing. i don't need to tell you that he wanted no garments. he came here for a purpose, and he accomplished it. it is now my turn, vargovitch, to utter a warning. poubalov's eyes are upon you, and if i were you--bah!" litizki had begun to imitate the serious tone in which his friend had warned him to let the strobel case alone, but it seemed superfluous to suggest a warning to vargovitch after he had himself seen the spy. "yes, i understand," said vargovitch, "and i simply repeat that you'd better keep out of the strobel case." "vargovitch," cried litizki, "you do not talk like a loyal russian. is it you who would stand by and let this spy work his will among us?" "i have no more love for poubalov and his work than you have, litizki," replied vargovitch. "may there not be reasons for my counsel--reasons that you do not understand?" litizki peered at the speaker silently and resumed his work. vargovitch left the room and shortly afterward the other visitors dispersed. "i would do what vargovitch says, nicholas litizki," remarked one of the tailor's assistants. litizki worked away as if he had not heard, and his thoughts were not pleasant or hopeful. it had seemed to him as if every compatriot of his in the city would need but the suggestion to unite in an effort to outwit poubalov and rescue strobel. litizki could not understand it, and he was disappointed. it was while he was meditating thus that clara and louise called. the little tailor almost blushed as he left his bench and went to meet them. "i should almost say," he began hurriedly, after he had awkwardly acknowledged their greetings, "that you ought not to come here. are you aware that poubalov may be, probably is, watching your every step? that man has the eyes of a thousand, and if it were possible to throw him off the track it would be best to do so. but it is impossible. if you did not come here, he would find out that you know me, and he would infer the rest." "you seem troubled, mr. litizki," said clara, kindly; "have you, too, given up mr. strobel?" "i? never! it is because i do not give him up that--well, yes, i am troubled. why disguise the fact that poubalov is a powerful enemy? i am not a coward, miss hilman; my life is not worth enough to me to make me care for it, but i fear that man's power will be too great for the friends of ivan strobel." "you have seen him, then?" "yes, i--" litizki averted his eyes and continued: "he has been here, to-day, not more than half an hour ago." "i hope, mr. litizki," said clara, "that you will not put yourself in his power. if you feel that it is dangerous to help in the search for mr. strobel, you must not do it." "dangerous? it is too late to think of that, if i cared about it. that man has possession of mr. strobel, and will keep him until he has accomplished some purpose. strobel will not yield." litizki paused and looked gloomily away. "you see, it is a question of how to circumvent poubalov," he added. "i am afraid, mr. litizki, that your loyalty to your friend will bring misfortune upon you. i should be very sorry for that." "ah, miss hilman," muttered the tailor, and a sad wistfulness lingered briefly in his eyes, "you are worthy of my benefactor. i could not say more." clara was deeply touched, and her voice trembled as she said: "thank you, mr. litizki. i hope to be worthy of your kind thoughts. i may learn something to-night that will put another light on the case. is it too much to ask you to call at my uncle's house some time during the evening?" "not if you lived in siberia, miss hilman. where is it, and when shall i come?" clara gave him the address and left him, begging him to come early. when they were on the way home, louise said: "i am more and more amazed at your method every day, dear. have i not been good to listen, and ask no questions and volunteer no advice?" "too good, dear. i should often want advice, and ask it, but that i fear hurting you by not following it. i must go my own way." "of course you must, but i was just leading up to this question: what in the world do you want of mr. litizki this evening?" "i hardly know myself, dear; but if that 'second driver' calls, i hope to make mr. litizki useful. will that do?" it had to, for clara fell to thinking, and her cousin saw that questions would be irritating. mr. pembroke sent word from his office that he should not come to dinner, and he had not arrived when the servant announced a caller, and handed a card to clara. it was poubalov. "i suppose," said clara, showing not the least surprise, "that i'd better see him alone. will you wait here" (they were in the dining-room), "in case i should want you?" poubalov smiled and his face looked almost attractive as he rose and bowed when clara entered the drawing-room. at that instant clara felt that but for his self-confessed methods of deceit, she could have trusted him, and this in spite of the black pictures that litizki and paul palovna had drawn of him. "i am delighted, miss hilman," he said, "to observe that you endure your sorrow and your remarkable work so well." "i am told that nothing escapes you," replied clara, "and so i suppose you know all about my search for the driver of mr. strobel's second carriage." "miss clara," said a servant at the hall door, "a man who says his name is billings wishes to see you." "show him into the library, please," answered clara, then to poubalov--"will you pardon me? this is the man of whom i was speaking, and i must see him." "pray do," responded the russian; "my message can well wait until he has gone." clara at once crossed the hall into the library. the minute she was out of the room poubalov went to the door and cautiously opened it a little way. he closed it quickly and reflected. clara had left the door from the hall to the library wide open, and the street door would be easily in view to anybody in the library. poubalov went from one to another of the several windows and looked out. from one at the side of the room he saw a few yards of turf bounded by a low hedge, and beyond that the park-like grounds surrounding a large dwelling. this window was partially open. the spy looked once more toward the hall door. he had given his hat and stick to the servant, and they had been placed somewhere in the hall. he shrugged his shoulders, pushed the window further up and stepped out. a moment later, louise, who was idly gazing out of the dining-room window, was considerably startled to see a man, whom in the gathering dusk she could not recognize, leap over the hedge into the adjoining grounds, and disappear behind the shrubbery. chapter xii. litizki breaks his appointment. in the brief interval that elapsed between the time when she turned from poubalov and the moment she entered the library, clara reflected that while her loyal heart would rebel at the story to be told by billings, she must hear him patiently, and not permit her distrust of him to manifest itself. one can think to good purpose in even so short a time as it takes to walk across a room. clara was fully resolved to be guided by her reason alone in dealing with billings, and not to permit herself to doubt his story if it should prove, as was probable, that what he had to say tended to corroborate the detective's theory. yet, when she looked at him, all her woman's intuition rebelled. she saw a man perhaps twenty-five years old, with nothing whatever remarkable in his appearance; but in his eyes and attitude there seemed to be a consciousness of antagonism, as if he expected to be doubted, sharply cross-examined, and as if he were determined that nothing should shake his story. his sullen, dogged expression was a help to clara in conquering her immediate aversion to him, and she began the critical interview with a move that surprised and embarrassed him. he was sitting, holding his hat on his knees, at the farther side of the room. clara crossed directly to him with outstretched hand, saying: "i am miss hilman. you are mr. billings, i believe. i cannot tell you how glad i am to see you. mr. bowker may have told you how i hunted the city over to find you. sit down, please; let me take your hat." billings had risen awkwardly as he saw that she was coming toward him, and, quite unaware of how she managed it, he found that she had taken one of his hands in her own. in his confusion he let his hat fall, picked it up hastily, and at last sat down again, feeling still the warm clasp of clara's hand, while with bewildered eyes he saw this self-possessed, queenly young woman place his battered hat upon a table and draw up a chair opposite to him. he had not said a word. if he had come with any set phrases for beginning his story, they were completely driven from his mind. clara looked at him for a moment, and he averted his eyes. "were you acquainted with mr. strobel?" she asked presently, speaking in low tones that needed no art to color with the sadness that weighed upon her heart. "no'm, i wasn't," replied billings, with a quick glance at her. "i am sorry for that," said clara, "and yet it shows how kind you are to come here and tell me about this matter. i suppose you had to come a long way." "i live in the north end," said billings, uneasily. "bowker told me to come." "the north end is a long way off," she declared, "and i thank you just the same. i suppose you may have told mr. bowker so carefully about this that you are tired of the matter, but i should like very much to hear you myself. do you mind telling me just what you told him?" "that's what i come for," and billings seemed to be considerably relieved. "i was driving down park street," he began, "when i saw that the coupé just in front of me had got into trouble. i went slow because people got around thick, and, besides, i wanted to see what was the matter. as i was looking, the man in the coupé clumb out and asked me was i engaged. i told him no, and he got in. he seemed to be in a hurry." "one moment," interposed clara, gently. the narration struck her as distinctly parrot-like, and if it were something that he had learned to recite, she preferred to break the thread of his story before he had come to the important part, rather than give him the advantage of establishing a statement in smooth order. if he were telling the truth, no manner of interruption could prevent him from eventually making himself understood; if he were lying, she must involve him in contradictions. so, without premeditation, clara said: "you are going just a little too fast for me, and i hope you will forgive me. every detail, you know, seems important to me. where had you been that morning, mr. billings?" "been to a funeral, miss," he answered promptly. "yes, so i understood; but where?" "out to mount auburn." "that is quite a long way from park street, isn't it? it must be four miles." "yes'm, 'bout that." "it was about eleven o'clock, or a little after, when mr. strobel's coupé broke down, and you had been to mount auburn and had just got back. i see. where did you leave your passengers, the persons you took to the funeral, i mean?" with a glance of sullen resentment billings answered: "at their house." "yes, mr. billings," and clara smiled as if she were not in the least annoyed, "but that isn't telling where. i didn't ask for the street and number. why should i? it was in cambridge, was it not?" after the slightest perceptible hesitation, billings answered: "no; 'twas in the west end." "ah, then you had come over beacon hill on your way somewhere. where were you going, mr. billings?" as billings hesitated more noticeably, she continued: "do you have some regular place where you wait for passengers, or do you drive about picking them up where you find them?" "i was going to the old colony depot," said billings, huskily. "i see. is it customary, mr. billings, for cabmen to leave the curtains of their carriages closely drawn after they leave a funeral party?" "no, 'tain't, not long, but you wouldn't have me stop in front of the house to pull 'em up, would you?" "certainly not. you did quite right, doubtless. when did you first see the coupé?" "at the corner of beacon. it turned into park street just ahead of me." "where did mr. strobel tell you to take him?" "to dr. merrill's church, parker avenue, roxbury." billings didn't know it, but his examiner came very near to breaking down at this point. there was nothing as yet to show that the driver was not telling the truth, although clara had prepared a trap for him that she intended to spring a little later, and the mention of the church where she was to be married brought up such a flood of emotions that it seemed as if she would choke. then, too, whether billings were practicing deceit or not, it was certain that for this moment at least she was following her lover's journey correctly, and she had arrived at that critical point where the change in his intentions, or in his power to act, occurred. so, it was in a very faint voice that she told billings to go on. he immediately resumed his parrot-like narration: "he seemed to be in a hurry, for he spoke quick. i closed the door on him, and got into my seat as fast as i could and whipped up. i wanted to get along myself, you see, 'cause it was quite a long drive, and i had to get back to the depot." this last sentence sounded like a fresh thought interjected on the spur of the moment, for billings spoke it slower than the rest, and glanced inquiringly at clara, as if to see how she took it. she noticed the difference, but simply nodded, and billings went on. "nothing happened till we got to elliot street. then the gentleman opened the door and hollered 'driver!' i pulled up a bit and turned round to see what he wanted. 'driver!' says he, 'i've changed my mind. take me to the park square station.' 'all right, sir,' says i, and he closed the door again. so i druv 'im to the station, and he got out and give me a dollar and went inside, and that's all there is to it." "i am very much obliged to you, mr. billings," said clara; "i suppose you went directly to the old colony depot after that?" "yes'm. that's where i went." he rose as if there could be nothing more for him to say, but clara was not done with him. "just one more question," she said; "sit down again, please. did you see mr. strobel speak or bow to anybody at the station?" "no'm. there wasn't many people about, and he hurried inside like as if his train was just going." "was there anybody there whom you knew?" "yes'm, and you can ask him. a feller named o'brien, who works there, was just at the door as we drew up, and he says 'hello' to me. he'll tell you he saw me land my passenger there, for he came forward, thinking to get the gentleman's bag to carry." "mr. o'brien may have noticed where mr. strobel went after going into the station," mused clara. "yes'm, he might. you might ask him." "thank you; i presume i shall. now, mr. billings, i want to show you in some way that i appreciate your kindness in coming here to tell me this. i have had to drive about a great deal for two days, and shall have to use a carriage to-morrow. i shall be glad to employ you." billings flushed and shifted about uneasily. "i can't, miss," he muttered. "why not, mr. billings?" the driver stole a glance at her earnest face, and saw nothing there but sad surprise. "why not?" clara gave the man no help by suggesting a possible excuse. "my carriage is engaged--that is," he blurted, "i haven't got any carriage that would be fit for you." "what is the matter with the one in which you took mr. strobel?" "it got smashed up and is being repaired. you see," and he mumbled his words so that they were almost unintelligible, "the same day a party of toughs hired it; they were kind o' swell toughs, and they got on a racket, and the carriage was damaged. 'tain't fit to use." "mr. billings!" clara spoke with a sudden energy that startled the driver, "was mr. strobel in the carriage when it was damaged?" "no'm, no'm, he wan't," stammered billings. the explanation suggested an entirely new thought to clara. before her mental vision there came swiftly a picture of her lover struggling with somebody--might it not be poubalov?--in the carriage itself. she seemed to see a violent conflict in which seats and fixtures gave way as men's bodies fell heavily. and ivan was overpowered, his enemies triumphed, he was motionless, unconscious--perhaps fatally injured, and they had hidden him away somewhere lest their crime come to the light! this was wholly unlike the vision she had seen on the evening of what should have been her wedding day; it had none of the aspects of an hallucination; for as the alarming details shaped themselves in her thoughts, she was conscious that billings sat before her, looking frightened, and that he rose again to go. in this instance she was but following the suggestions brought out by her inquiry to what might be their logical, natural conclusion. "i am sorry you cannot drive me to-morrow," she said, recovering and withdrawing her eyes, which had been fixed in a strained stare upon billings for a very brief period. "before you go, tell me the names and addresses of the persons you took to the funeral, please." "i don't remember," replied billings, uneasily. "i shall have to look up my book; 'tain't here." "will you do so?" asked clara, pleasantly, convinced now that the man was lying; "and send the names to me, please. will you do that to-night?" "yes'm," replied billings reaching for his hat. "and what is your address?" billings told her, and she laid her hand gently on his arm. an idea that had occurred to her vaguely when his name was announced as she stood before poubalov, now recurred to her in the shape of a plan. she would have billings confront the russian, and watch their faces narrowly for some sign of recognition, or alarm. "will you come into the next room a moment?" she said, "i have something to show you." there seemed to be a shade of suspicion in his eyes, but he made no objection, and clara conducted him to the drawing-room. it was dark. with a premonition of disappointment, clara found a match on the mantel and lit the gas. after a hasty glance around she opened the door to the dining-room. "lou!" she whispered eagerly, "have you seen mr. poubalov?" "no," replied louise, coming forward and entering the parlor; "has he gone? then it must have been he!" "who? what have you seen? wait, come into the hall. will you sit down just a minute longer, mr. billings? i shall be but a moment." billings complied, and the young ladies passed quickly into the hall, where the first thing that clara saw were poubalov's hat and stick lying upon a table. she turned in the utmost wonderment upon her cousin. "all i can say," said louise, "is that i saw a man leap over the hedge into mr. jordan's grounds a short time after you went into the drawing-room to meet poubalov. i couldn't tell who it was, couldn't even see that he had no hat on. i feared he might be a tramp, but thought then that he had been frightened away, and that there was no danger." "he was frightened away?" murmured clara, feeling her blood run cold; "he dared not face his man billings!" "i supposed," continued louise, in agitation, "that poubalov was with you. i heard no voices, but thought perhaps that you had gone into the library with him, for a door closed once." "yes, when billings came. oh! if litizki were only here!" "why! what could he do?" "i would have him follow billings. oh, i could cry! it is the one opportunity for solving this mystery that we have found, and now we are going to lose it!" louise was greatly distressed. "isn't there some way that you can detain billings," she suggested, "until litizki arrives?" "no. he's been trying to get away for several minutes. it is just possible that litizki may be near. i'll go out with billings, as if to call at a neighbor's, and if i see litizki will put him on the track at once." she went upstairs for her hat, lingering over the preparation in order to give litizki all possible opportunity to keep his appointment, and when she came down again billings was in the hall. "i can't wait no longer," he said gruffly. "very well," replied clara; "i thank you again for calling. i am going as far as the next house, and you can escort me." billings scowled with disagreeable surprise. at the gate he waited to see which way she would turn. "i'm not going that way, miss," he said, and started off at a rapid pace in the opposite direction. chapter xiii. what became of litizki. clara retired before her uncle returned, and when at last he appeared, it was only to pack his bag and hurry away to catch the midnight train for new york. "i may be gone a week," he told louise, "and i may get back in two days. telegraph me at the travelers' hotel, if i am wanted for anything." mr. pembroke's departure was a great disappointment to clara. she reproached herself that she had not made an opportunity to tell him about her conversation with poubalov and litizki; it was his right to know everything that could possibly bear upon the case, and could she have told him, she would have besought him to advise her. she was now in a bewildering maze of doubts and uncertainties. billings had lied to her; she was almost as sure of that as if she had already proved it; but at what part of his story the falsehood began she could only guess. there was no doubt that ivan had taken billings' carriage. did he give the driver orders to go to the park square station? did billings drive to the station? the latter question she could answer with some degree of satisfaction by inquiry of the man o'brien, and that seemed the first thing to do; but what then? poubalov had called to say something, and had not only gone away without saying it, but had gone in such wise as to leave no reasonable doubt that he dared not face the driver of the closed carriage. was it not an inevitable inference that billings had been hired by the russian? it was with evident difficulty that billings had stumbled through the story as it was. would not poubalov, recognizing the driver's mental inferiority, have argued that if they were suddenly brought face to face, billings would have betrayed their complicity by at least a start? and litizki, what had become of him? it was not to be thought of that he had abandoned the case. poubalov had called at his shop during the day, unquestionably with some ulterior design. could anything be more reasonable than to suppose that in some way the spy had frustrated the attempt of litizki to help her? the more she pondered the various puzzling aspects of the case, the more everything seemed to center upon poubalov, and she shuddered with apprehension as litizki's characterization of him recurred to her. he was, indeed, a terrible enemy. having in mind only the known facts in the case, and disregarding utterly all inferences and conjectures, she tried to reason along various lines, in the hope that thus a theory might be set up which should command sufficient respect to justify a new departure in her search. she began with the fact that ivan had made every preparation for marriage--and there a new thought presented itself. he had surrendered his room; he must, therefore, have packed his belongings; had they been disturbed? this might be a matter of infinite significance, and one that she would attend to without delay. "louise," she said (they were at the breakfast table and her cousin was lingering over her coffee while clara was absorbed in thought), "will you go downtown with me again to-day?" "of course, dear," replied louise; "i will be ready in ten minutes." louise was relieved at clara's suggestions. she had been hopelessly wondering what clara could find to do next, and she dreaded for her cousin's health should there prove to be no active work upon which she could concentrate her faculties. she left the room to prepare for the day's jaunt, and clara resumed her thinking. every preparation for marriage, and a start actually made for the church. then an accident that somebody had prepared. who? there must have been somebody who had a great object to attain in preventing the marriage, or in getting possession of ivan. suppose it were poubalov, what then? with the insight he himself had given her into his character, would he not do everything possible to throw her off the right track? if he had abducted ivan, would he hesitate to abduct litizki if he found that the little tailor was in his way? it was vain to speculate for a reason for poubalov's main action; that must lie in his capacity as a paid spy of a government with which ivan, apparently, had been at one time in conflict. his subsequent actions, so far as she knew them, were all explainable on the theory that he had had to do with ivan's disappearance. and so her thoughts revolved around poubalov, finding at every turn a trace of obliquity that was wholly in consonance with his character and his confessed methods. clara felt that her reasoning was bringing her to no definite end, although her brain teemed with courses of action that might have been possible could she have commanded the services of a corps of shrewd, faithful detectives. it is generally so with persons who have a great task to accomplish; they find themselves with more plans than resources, more brains than hands. clara had just come to the sensible conclusion that, compelled to work substantially alone, she would undertake exactly one thing at a time, and, having chosen a line of inquiry, would follow it uninterruptedly to the end, when a servant announced that a man had called to see her. "i couldn't catch his name, miss clara," said the servant, "but i'm afraid he's a beggar, he looks so forlorn and seedy." clara knew who it was and she sprang from her chair with more eagerness and animation than she had manifested at any time since the disastrous wedding day. she fairly ran into the drawing-room, both her hands extended, her face radiant with smiles, and completely overwhelmed poor litizki with the warmth of her greeting. "i was so afraid something dreadful had happened to you!" she exclaimed, "but i knew that you had not deserted me." "deserted you?" said litizki huskily; "no, but i was afraid you would think so. i didn't know what poubalov might have told you, and unless you thoroughly understand that man, that fiend, miss hilman, he is likely to make you believe anything." "then you know that he had been here! you must have recognized his hat in the hall." "i saw it there and his stick, too, but i knew before then that he had been here. i came to tell you." litizki paused, the look of grateful relief that had overspread his features at first giving way to his customary depressed expression, and he fell into his habit of speaking with averted eyes, or with but occasional furtive glances at the person addressed. "do tell me," said clara; "i have been very anxious about you." litizki thought a moment, and then asked: "may i see poubalov's cane?" "to be sure," replied clara, and she brought it to him from the hall. litizki took it, looked it over, felt along the top, and suddenly drew forth the handle, from which a gleaming blade depended. clara started back with a low exclamation of alarm. litizki touched the edge of the blade with his thumb, as a man tests a razor. "alexander poubalov," he murmured gloomily, "held this over my heart once, not so long ago." he thrust it back into its sheath, where it came to rest with an angry click, and handed the cane to clara. "that is the kind of man he is, miss hilman," he said; "i thought you might like to know." if he had wished to impress clara with the horrible gravity of the situation, with its frightful possibilities, he succeeded beyond measure. she held the cane, feeling that it epitomized the spy's career, and a dreadful faintness depressed her which she at length overcame with the utmost difficulty. having returned the concealed weapon to the hall, she sank into a chair and asked litizki to tell her what had happened to him during the previous evening. "you asked me to call early," he began, "and i set out to do so. without going into unnecessary detail, i will say that i came up the street that ends nearly in front of this house, a little after seven o'clock. the exact time doesn't matter, for you will know as nearly as you need to when i tell you that just as i was about to cross the road i saw poubalov in front of me. he had come by another route. i wasn't surprised, for the man seems to read one's thoughts, and it was as if he had known that i was coming, and had determined to prevent me. "i doubted whether it would be wise to call as long as he was in the neighborhood, but all doubts were set at rest when he himself went up the steps and rang. of course it would have been the height of folly for me to enter the house then." "you had the right to," interrupted clara; "i had asked you to come, and i needed you very much." litizki looked so miserable that clara hastened to add: "i didn't mean to reprove or find fault, mr. litizki. i forgot for the moment everything except that eventually, after poubalov had run away, i wished you were at hand!" "i hope i made no mistake, miss hilman," said litizki; "at all events i could see no other course at the time than to do what i did." "i have no doubt you were right. go on, please." "i determined to wait until poubalov went away. if i had been familiar with the house, i might have found my way to the back door and sent word to you by a servant, but i dared not venture, for i knew not from what window poubalov might be looking. the same reason induced me to leave the street, which is clearly in view from some windows, and, moreover, i did not care to risk questions from anybody as to why i was loitering about. so i slipped into the adjoining grounds, where there is a lot of shrubbery, and crawled under a tree whose branches hung low. "from where i lay i could see whether anybody entered or left the house by the front door and i also saw all the windows on one side. i had been there less than a minute when somebody went up the steps and was admitted. i could not see who it was, for the evening was cloudy and it grew dark very quickly." "it was a man named billings," said clara; "he drove the closed carriage which took mr. strobel from park street." "indeed! i wish i had known it. well, events happened pretty quickly just then, for it seemed to me that less than another minute had passed when poubalov appeared at one of the windows on the side of the house. he raised it, stepped out, and leaped over the hedge, not five yards from where i lay. he passed so close to me that i could have reached out from under the tree and tripped him up! i lay very still, wondering what his action could mean, for as you must know, he was bareheaded. if i had dreamed then of going to the house, i could not have done so, for he crouched down by the hedge near the street, and i could see that he had his eyes on the door and that he was waiting. i then determined to follow him wherever he should go, for of course he meditated villainy. i may have prevented him in that---oh! i don't know!" litizki fairly groaned these words, and clara was about to utter an anxious inquiry, when he resumed: "don't let me disturb you, miss hilman; i will tell the whole wretched story. how long we lay there i don't know, but you must, for at last you, i think it was you, came out of the house and walked down to the gate to say good-night to somebody who left you there--billings i suppose--and walked away in a direction opposite to us. you, was it you? yes, you waited a moment, and returned to the house, whereupon poubalov immediately got up, leaped over the hedge, darted across the road as noiselessly as if he were a cat, and disappeared. "i followed as well as i could, and, as luck would have it, i soon overtook him, for he was strolling along slowly, as unconcerned as if he owned a house near by and were out for a breath of fresh air. he rambled on until he came to washington street, when he stopped at the curb and looked idly about for several seconds. there were many people about, and his bareheaded condition attracted attention. all the shops were open, and suddenly he darted into one of them. it was not a hat store, but when he came out, which was almost immediately, he had a hat on. i suppose he bought it for an extravagant sum off the head of some stranger. it would be like him. "he idled about the neighborhood for as much as an hour, miss hilman, and i did all that i could think of to keep him in view without exposing myself. the man is a fiend with a million eyes! but wait, i'll tell you. at last he moved along, and, of course, i followed faithfully, noting every turn, that i might be able to go again by the same way if possible, or at least to the same place, wherever that might be. for in spite of my care i don't know what was his destination, if he had any. it is for this reason that i say i may have prevented him from some fresh villainy. "at last, in a street to which i could readily return, he paused. i was across the way from him, and i slipped into a doorway, where i was wholly in the dark. i could see him, though, and for a long, long time he paced slowly back and forth, never once speaking to anybody, or looking about, or getting out of my sight. it didn't matter to me. i would have stayed on till i starved in my tracks, but eventually he crossed the street directly toward me. he could not see me, of that i am certain, but of course he had seen me--and--i am a helpless, good-for-nothing fool, miss hilman!" "why say that?" asked clara kindly. "because he came straight into the doorway, put his hand lightly on my shoulder and said in that deep, scornful voice of his: 'it is enough, nicholas litizki. let us now go home,' and he laughed disagreeably." litizki stared aside with an expression of utter self-contempt. "i weakly said to myself that it was a ruse to get rid of me, and i followed again as he walked briskly away. he took a street car and went straight to his room in bulfinch place. it was past midnight, and so i came this morning, miss hilman." chapter xiv. a new departure. "what a hard and disagreeable experience," exclaimed clara, "and so strange too! you have no occasion to reproach yourself, mr. litizki, with any neglect. you did all that any man could do, i am sure, and it may not prove to be unfortunate that poubalov saw that you were watching him." "i wish i could think so," responded the tailor, "and it is wonderfully kind of you to be so patient with my failure. isn't there something that i can do now? i can do no work until this matter is settled, and it is torture to remain idle." "i know how true that is," sighed clara; "yes, there is something i think you can do. if poubalov had not called last evening, and so changed all our plans, i should have asked you to follow billings when he left the house. i have little faith in him, mr. litizki, and it seems to me that on leaving here last night he must have gone directly to report to his accomplice, or employer. are you sure that poubalov spoke to nobody?" "if he did, it was no more than a passing word. he seemed to know no one." clara had to stop and think, for litizki's story tended to upset her theories concerning poubalov's exit and his relations with billings. could it be possible, after all, that billings had not been employed by the spy, and that the latter, therefore, had had nothing to do with ivan's disappearance? perhaps poubalov worked through still another accomplice, and, suspecting possible treachery, had been at the pains of secretly following billings, to learn whether he and the unknown other were faithful. this seemed rather a wild supposition, for it would not be like poubalov to admit others into his secret operations. had he followed billings? there was no doubt in clara's mind that this was what he started to do when he leaped over the hedge and ran to the side of the road opposite to where billings was walking. had poubalov lost billings in the darkness, and, observing litizki's pursuit, purposely dodged hither and thither, to discomfit the tailor? from every question clara turned more puzzled than before. it must be that she was on the wrong track, else a reasonable answer could be found, a reasonable explanation suggested for every act. perhaps she was wrong in obstinately connecting poubalov with the first act in the tragedy, the disappearance of ivan; but if so, could his conduct even then be explained? "mr. litizki," said clara, at length, "i want to know all that can possibly be learned about this man billings. he gave me his address. will you undertake to look him up? unless he is very closely in league with poubalov, he will not know who you are, and for that matter it probably won't be necessary for you to meet him. eventually you might have to follow him somewhere, but at the start you might learn a great deal from his neighbors." "i'll do it, miss hilman; but i promise you now that every step i take will be dogged by poubalov." "well, never mind. you will be on your guard against him--and yet, i do not want you to expose yourself to danger," and clara shuddered as she thought of the long dagger concealed in poubalov's cane. "bah!" returned litizki, "i care nothing for the danger. my only fear is that the villain will overreach me in anything i may attempt. i am no match for him in skill and cunning, miss hilman." litizki was woefully dejected. never did man so long to be possessed of genius, or even talent, and the tailor was painfully aware of his own deficiencies. "you underestimate yourself," said clara; "you see that i have confidence in you, else i would not ask you to undertake the investigation. will you begin at once?" "gladly. you cannot imagine how much courage your good words give me. if i dared to cherish a hope of any kind, it would be that i should accomplish something that would justify your good opinion." "you have already done so, and will do more, have no doubt of it! i am going downtown myself. suppose you go to the address billings gave me, make such inquiries there as seem advisable, and, if you see nothing to command your immediate attention, come and tell me what you have found. i shall be at mrs. white's. if you come after i go, you will find some word from me as to where to go next." she gave him billings' address, saw him to the door with a cheering smile, and then turned to louise, who had been ready to start for several minutes. "he had what was to him a dismal story to tell," said clara, "and i knew he would rather tell it to me alone." "i supposed so," returned louise, "and so i took pains not to interrupt you. i wish i could think a quarter as well as you do, dear. i don't feel as if i were the least use." "don't be silly, lou," and clara embraced her cousin affectionately; "if i could think as well as you imagine i do, we should be out of the difficulty in a day. what do you suppose i should do without you?" louise was profoundly convinced that clara would do exactly as she had been doing all along, but she didn't say so. she would have sympathized acutely with litizki's self-abasement had she known how earnestly he had striven to be of use, and how utterly he had seemed to fail. they went first to the park square station, clara, as usual, deeply absorbed in studying the strange problems that confronted her. the impression she had received this morning that poubalov might not have been associated directly with ivan's taking off, grew upon her. how readily he had abandoned the suggestion of elopement! abandon? he had ignored it utterly. not once in her conversation with him had he put that forth as an explanation worthy of investigation. could it have been his subtle purpose to interest her in a line of inquiry that should lead directly away from that? a shiver passed over her frame, and louise inquired anxiously what was the matter? "new theories keep occurring to me," responded clara gravely, "and each one is a shock worse than the one that preceded it. let me tell you this one. suppose that lizzie white," clara spoke with difficulty, every word seemingly dragged forth by a violent effort, "suppose she were in some way poubalov's agent; i will not, cannot think that ivan went away with her, but might it not be possible that this remarkable man, who has such mastery over ordinary minds, had made her an accomplice? don't you see the cleverness of the plan? if ivan was forced to go to new york, lizzie's departure for that city the same day is immediately assumed by everybody to mean that they eloped, and probably all in boston who think of the matter at all, suppose that they have been married. ivan may be a prisoner in new york, and lizzie may be under poubalov's pay, or influence, the latter more likely, to act, not as his jailer, but as a mask for his presence there. "poubalov has some object to attain in keeping him thus guarded, to torture some political secret from him, perhaps. now what better could he do than divert suspicion in my mind from lizzie to those whom he calls nihilists, or even upon himself? he saw at first glance that i would not tolerate the thought of an elopement as among the possibilities, so he had no need to disarm me of suspicion in that direction. has not everything he has done been done with a view to keeping me in boston? what does he care how much poor litizki dogs his steps, so long as the victim of his intrigue and villainy is hundreds of miles away? his one fear in boston is that billings, whom he hired to help in the abduction, may confess something. therefore he tried to dog billings' steps last night, and whether he succeeded i do not know." much of this was greek to louise, and she said so, adding: "what i do understand is that you feel now as if it would be necessary to go to new york." "i think so. we will see." "clara," said louise, "you will not think that i have suspected ivan of faithlessness, i am sure; but it has seemed to me that unless he returned soon, you would have to go to lizzie white. you cannot leave any possible explanation unsought. i could not conjecture that she and poubalov might be concerned together as you have, but i did feel as if you ought to look her up." "i am glad you think so," responded clara, "for i was afraid you would oppose my going." at the station clara readily found the mr. o'brien to whom billings had referred for corroboration of a part of his story. "yes'm," he said in reply to her questions, "i know the billings you speak of. i saw him here last monday. has he been up to anything crooked?" "i don't know," said clara; "it may help to settle that if you will tell me what were the circumstances of his call here." o'brien hesitated. "i don't want to get tangled up in any police business," he declared; "billings was said to be the man who drove the gent that skipped on his wedding day early this week." "yes," said clara; "i am miss hilman, and i was to be married to the gentleman." "sho!" exclaimed o'brien, sympathetically, "that must have been a pretty tough blow," and he scratched his head thoughtfully. "my inquiry," continued clara, "has nothing to do with the police. they have abandoned the investigation, i believe. i am trying simply to satisfy myself, and surely you won't refuse to help." "no, i won't," replied o'brien; "but what i can say won't do you no good. this was how it was. i had to go out to the front of the depot for something, and just as i got there, billings drove up a closed carriage. i thought he nodded as if he wanted me, so i stepped forward. he pulled up further on than where carriages generally stop, and was in a place all by himself. i was the only one near. 'hello,' says i, 'how long you been driving?' 'mind your own business,' says he, and he whipped up and drove off. while i was speaking to him a man had got out of the carriage and gone into the depot. i didn't see him to know him, didn't pay any attention to him, for he went quickly, and i was wondering about billings." "he says you came forward to get his passenger's baggage." "'tain't so. that ain't my line of work." "didn't the passenger pay his fare?" "not there. he went straight into the depot." "why did you ask billings that question?" "'cause i didn't know he'd got into the cab business. he used to be a porter." clara thanked o'brien, said she might call again if any other questions occurred to her, and the young ladies went on to ashburton place. billings had lied, but it might have been ivan, nevertheless, who went into the station from the closed carriage. mrs. white's greeting was marked by constraint, and she sat in distressed silence for a moment after clara and louise entered. at length she said: "people will talk so! i'm sure you've been very good and brave, miss hilman, but what is one to think?" "i don't know what you mean, mrs. white." "well, don't you see, lots of my friends have called, seeing lizzie's name in the papers, and mr. strobel's, and they will have it that they eloped." "do you think so?" asked clara, and in spite of her effort her tone was cold. "i don't know what to think," replied the landlady, plaintively. "you may think what you please," said clara, her pride mastering her diplomacy for the moment; "i am going to new york to see your daughter. i called to say that you might write to her freely so far as any wish of mine is concerned, and to ask if i could take a look at mr. strobel's room." "certainly," answered mrs. white, uncomfortably. she longed to ask the imperious young lady a host of questions, but she was restrained by clara's hauteur. the young ladies went up to ivan's room, and found there his trunk as he had left it, apparently, and everything in just such condition as would be expected if a man were about to move and were going to send for his effects later. when they went down again they found litizki talking with mrs. white. "so you are going to new york to-day?" he said with some appearance of disappointment. "yes," replied clara, "but i don't care to have that information go further. will you be careful, mrs. white? forgive me if i seemed harsh just now. i shall say nothing unkind to your daughter, and i believe less than ever that she eloped with mr. strobel. what have you found?" she asked, turning to litizki. "billings doesn't live at that address," he replied, "although he used to. he hasn't been about there for some time, and no one in the neighborhood knew he was a cab-driver." "very well," said clara. "there is nothing more to do in that direction for the present. i shall return from new york on saturday morning, probably. i should like to see you then, if possible." "yes, miss hilman. what train are you to take? i might have something to report to you at the last minute." clara reflected and answered: "i shall have to go home first. i don't see how i can go earlier than by the three o'clock new england train. will you be there?" litizki said he would, and after some further conversation with mrs. white the young ladies returned to roxbury. louise did not prepare to go to new york, the extra expense this journey involved deterring her, for mr. pembroke was not one who reveled in great wealth. it was decided to apprise him of clara's coming by telegraph, so that she would not be without escort in the city. litizki was at the train as he promised to be, and assisted clara to her seat in the drawing-room car. he lingered until the starting signal had been given and then said "good-by" and jumped off; but instead of remaining in the depot, he ran forward and boarded the ordinary smoking-car. chapter xv. louise receives a caller. mr. pembroke met clara at the train when it arrived in the grand central depot promptly at nine o'clock. he was plainly anxious, almost agitated. "tell me, child," he exclaimed, "why you have come?" "i couldn't be satisfied," she replied, "without setting at rest the rumors that connect ivan's name with lizzie white." "oh," said her uncle, apparently relieved, "is that all?" "all, uncle? why, no, not if i find anything that leads me to believe that ivan is in new york. in that case i shall search for him here. what did you think i had come for?" "i had nothing in mind except anxiety. when i received your telegram, i feared something had happened. i couldn't tell what. i have been so occupied with business matters recently that i haven't been able to keep up with you, you know." "i'm so sorry to give you more trouble and anxiety," said clara, with the sincerest contrition, "but i felt as if i must come on." "let us go straight to the hotel," said mr. pembroke; "i suppose there's nothing you want to do to-night?" they had been standing on a station platform as they talked, and not far away was litizki, watching, trying to listen, and wondering who the gentleman could be whom clara greeted so affectionately. he knew nothing about her relationships, and supposed that mr. pembroke was her father. he followed them and saw them enter a hack, and he managed to get near enough to overhear mr. pembroke say "travelers' hotel" to the driver. not content with knowing the hotel, however, litizki ran along the sidewalk, keeping the vehicle in view all the way, and he did not turn aside content until he saw by the departure of the hack empty that clara and her escort were both in the hotel. then he felt that she would be safe through the night, for he was possessed of the idea that the powerful poubalov would follow her, and he feared that she would come to harm at his hands. mr. pembroke had said little on the way from the depot to the hotel, but when they were in the quiet of clara's room, he remarked: "i suppose, my dear, that this coming to see lizzie white is the last step you will take in this matter, isn't it?" "i cannot tell yet, uncle," she replied; "i do not see why it should be, but, of course, i know so many things connected with the case that i have had no opportunity to tell you--things that i want to tell. i have needed somebody's advice, so much, and i could not intrude on you when you are so busy. i would not even now but that i think you ought to know as much as i do of what has happened." an expression of pain crossed mr. pembroke's features, and he responded uneasily: "of course i want to help you, clara, and i am more regretful than i can possibly express that my business has been in such shape." "are you seriously alarmed about it, uncle?" "i was, but i think we shall pull through all right now. let us talk of your affairs. i would like to suggest, with all sympathy, clara, that the world in general, while it would admire your loyalty if it understood it, would yet do so in a pitying way that would be eminently distasteful to you if on your own part you understood the world. you see, you are regarded, no matter how unjustly, as deserted. you have a remarkably clear head, and you must see what i mean without putting me to the necessity of using disagreeable terms." clara flushed. she felt at that moment the full force of the calamity that had overtaken her. while she was actively at work building up theories, investigating clews, and examining those who might throw light on the matter, her grief had been measurably lightened. the thought that she was working, however doubtfully, toward an end, had enabled her to keep her emotions in control. her uncle's words, which were evidently but the preface to an appeal to give up the struggle, reopened her wounds. it was as if he had torn away the foundations of that structure of the mind by which she had supported her heart. with difficulty she restrained her tears, and responded: "it would be better, uncle, to use plain language. then there would be no possible chance of a misunderstanding. i know how i am looked upon, as deserted by my lover, perhaps not for another woman, but at all events deserted by him. the world will say that it would comport better with womanly dignity to suffer in silence and solitude, and that it is unmaidenly to pursue the man." "you use harsher language than i would have used had i spoken without consideration of your feelings," interposed her uncle, nervously. his niece's faculty for manifesting occasionally an imperious will, and of firmly maintaining her own way without regard to general opinion, had always been a bit of a terror to him. it was difficult for him to reconcile it with her affectionate disposition, her real consideration for the sufferings of others. he could not see that in this matter, without the faintest trace of egotism, she unconsciously measured her own suffering as infinitely greater than that of anybody else who was related to the case, and that she as unconsciously asserted her right to minister to that suffering in the way best calculated to alleviate it. such characters as hers, under the pressure of great trouble, elevate self-interest to the very heights of nobility. "i ask no consideration for my feelings," said clara, almost coldly; "it seems to me that real consideration would credit me not only with dignified motives but with an intelligent basis for my conduct. uncle dear," and she suddenly crossed to him and put her arms about his neck, "let me take that back. i didn't mean it. i wouldn't for the world say an unkind word to you, but you see i feel my lonely position so keenly. i do what i think is right, but there is no one to uphold me." mr. pembroke disengaged her arms, and again the expression of pain flitted across his face. "i am doing as well as i can under the circumstances," he said huskily, "not only to show you my deep sympathy, but to guide you also. for your own interests, i must point out one possibility of your interview to-morrow. i shall place no obstacle in the way of your seeing lizzie white, but i caution you, without knowing more about her than that she left a good home, that she may take a most unfriendly attitude. if there is anything unseemly in the meeting, i know that it will arise from her. no one can tell me that she lacks your native refinement; it must be so; a woman such as she is at heart may make a dreadful scene, whether she be interested in ivan or not. to be concerned in such a scene, my dear child, would be a stigma from which even your goodness could not escape. clara, there is nothing so scandalous as a quarrel between women when a man is in question." "you wish me not to see her," said clara, faintly. mr. pembroke rose and paced up and down in extreme agitation for several minutes, while clara sat with a dreadful weight upon her heart; for she not only loved her uncle, and wished earnestly to be guided by him if possible, but she also realized that his warning was a wise one. she had herself, with all her thought, scarcely considered how she should approach lizzie white. so certain was she that ivan had not eloped with her, that the interview itself had not appealed to her as more than a friendly discussion of facts and rumors as to which both would be in accord. but there was her theory that lizzie might be an accomplice of poubalov's. what attitude might she not take, therefore, in order to carry out her part in the spy's design? "i would say yes," declared mr. pembroke at length, "for that is my wish, but i do not, cannot say it. go to this lizzie white to-morrow, clara. you will know how to speak with her better than i can tell you. i will myself go to the house with you, but you shall have your meeting all alone if you so desire. of course you do." "then, uncle," said clara, "let me tell you of the strange things that have occurred since i began to search for ivan. i am sure you will feel, when you know all, that i am justified in my general course, however much i may have been mistaken in details." mr. pembroke listened with the closest attention to the narrative. he was deeply moved by it, and when she had finished he said brokenly: "there is great villainy at work here." then he leaned his head upon his hand, shielding his eyes from hers as she eagerly sought, not so much commendation of her persistence as suggestion as to what to do, or some theory upon which to explain the many mysteries that centered upon the disappearance of ivan. "i wonder," he mused at last, "if this could have been accident?" "accident, uncle!" exclaimed clara, with just a touch of impatience; "don't you see that if it had been accident, we should have known of it? think: in a busy street of a city no accident could have occurred by which ivan could be incapacitated without some report of it coming to the authorities. even if ivan had not been taken to a hospital in the usual way, but had fallen into the hands of private persons, it is not possible that with all the stir that was made by his disappearance, police or reporters should not have found some trace of him." "true, true," said mr. pembroke, vacantly; "i was thinking--you see it is hard to master all these strange details at once. i marvel at your courage." "courage! what else could i do?" asked clara. "nothing with your character, nothing else. you have done right, clara. i am very tired. let us talk further of this in the morning." mr. pembroke was not disposed to talk in the morning, however, and clara was engrossed with a long letter from louise that had been mailed on the train leaving boston at midnight. "poubalov," she wrote, "was at the house when i returned from seeing you off. if the man were capable of expressing emotion, i should say that he was disappointed at not seeing you; but whatever he felt, he masked it under his grand assumption of dignity and courtesy. he had called, he said, to make his apologies for his extraordinary leave-taking of the evening before, and also, he added with ponderous humor, to recover his property. i got his hat and cane for him, and what do you think! he had brought a lovely basket of flowers for you, to plead his apologies, as he put it. there was no refusing such an offering, dear, and i am enjoying their fragrance and rich colors as i write. i hope this will reach you in time to be of use if poubalov's call can be of use to you in new york. i thought it my duty to report it. i felt how immeasurably superior you are to me intellectually--i won't draw other comparisons lest they be odious to one of us--for i was utterly at a loss to draw him out. he didn't present his excuses to me, and how he managed to evade doing so i can't quite see now as i think it over, for he remained several minutes, talking with apparent candor. the man himself is as great a mystery as anything connected with your trouble. all i can say is that with one hat on his head, and his other hat and his cane in his hand, he eventually took his departure, promising to call again. there is one thing i managed not to do, though it was quite plain, even to me, that he was trying to find out. i didn't tell him where you were. of course i had to say that you were not at home, and in answer to direct questions that i did not expect you before saturday, but i didn't even hint at new york or lizzie white, and he made no allusion to either. did i do right? i hope so, for i have felt so often what a shame it is that i cannot be of more help to you. i believe in ivan as you do, dear, and my heart and thoughts are with you." they were at breakfast in the great dining-room of the hotel when clara read this letter, and she furtively kissed the paper that conveyed such loyal sympathy to her. as she replaced the letter in the envelope, she was surprised to see the old man dexter hobbling across the room. there was an ugly scowl upon his face as he bowed to her, and mr. pembroke rose from his chair with an expression little less than fierce. "another time, dexter," he exclaimed under his breath, taking the old man by the arm and wheeling him around. as mr. pembroke walked him away, clara heard dexter croak: "what is she here for, mat pembroke?" when her uncle returned, his face was still dark and he said: "business necessities, clara, that sometimes compel a man to tolerate disagreeable persons. i wouldn't have him near you, however." "he is disagreeable, surely," responded clara, "but i could have borne with him for your sake, uncle." the subject seemed intensely disagreeable to mr. pembroke, and nothing further was said about it. after breakfast mr. pembroke inquired the number of the house on second avenue from which lizzie white had written, and they set out to find it. "i shall have to leave you, clara," said her uncle, "as soon as i am sure you have found the right place. i will call for you or i will put a carriage at your disposal." "there is no telling how long i shall be," returned clara, "and i don't see why you should need to inconvenience yourself. i have acquired more self-dependence during the last three or four days than i ever had before, and i think you can trust me to take care of myself. but i should think it would be well to have a carriage at command; and, uncle, all the expense i have been to thus far has come from my allowance. you will let me pay for a carriage, won't you?" "if you prefer to," said mr. pembroke, "and we will engage one in the vicinity of the house as we can reach the place readily by a cross-town line of cars." so they proceeded by street-car, and when they alighted in second avenue they were but a short distance from the desired number. mr. pembroke signaled to a passing hack and instructed the driver to wait near the house to which they were going. then they continued their way on foot. just before they came to the steps leading up to the door their attention was attracted by the noise of a man running behind them, and then a voice panting, "miss hilman! miss hilman!" they turned about quickly, and, to her unspeakable surprise, clara saw that it was litizki. his sallow face was flushed with the exertion of his long run, for he had chased them afoot from the hotel. he could hardly speak for lack of breath when he came up to them, but he did manage to gasp: "i've seen him, miss hilman, this morning!" chapter xvi. lizzie white. clara clutched her uncle's arm convulsively and leaned heavily upon him. "you have seen mr. strobel?" she whispered. all the color fled from litizki's face as he realized how woefully he had put his foot in it. in the intensity of his hate for poubalov and his distrust of him, he had forgotten for the moment that the spy was but a secondary figure in the drama they were enacting. clara saw in the little tailor's distressed expression that she had interpreted his words erroneously. the double shock well nigh unnerved her. "let us walk on a little way," she said faintly. stuyvesant square was near by, and mr. pembroke led her within the gates and sat with her upon a bench. litizki followed humbly, suffering miserably from his indiscreet zeal, and clara told her uncle who he was. mr. pembroke asked: "well, my man, who is it you have seen?" "alexander poubalov, sir," he replied with his eyes upon the ground. "strange!" said mr. pembroke, turning to his niece; "did you tell him you were coming to new york?" "no; i didn't mean that he should know it. he called at the house yesterday after i had gone, and louise writes that she withheld any definite information about my whereabout." mr. pembroke looked inquiringly at litizki. "i came on yesterday by the same train that brought miss hilman," he said, "for i didn't know that there was anybody in new york to watch out for her. there was nothing for me to do in boston, and i was afraid for her. neither of you know this man poubalov as i do. i should say that he had the gift of second sight, but i don't believe in the supernatural. he is not only a master of deceit, but he has marvelous powers of discernment. i was certain that he would pursue miss hilman, and i wanted to do what i could to protect her." "mr. litizki has been very kind and faithful, uncle," said clara; "you remember that i told you about him." "yes," replied mr. pembroke, to whom the idea of his beautiful niece under the watchful eye of such an unprepossessing man was distasteful. "how did you come to see poubalov?" "i went to the hotel very early this morning," was the reply, "and hung around where i could keep all the doors in view. poubalov turned up about half-past seven. he was walking very rapidly. he went first into the hotel near yours, and i saw him examining the register at the clerk's desk. presently, with the same hurried strides, he came out and went into the travelers'. there he looked over several pages of the register, and when he had finished he strolled to the door leisurely. all his hurry was gone, and after pausing to light a cigarette, he went slowly down the avenue. i remained to give warning to miss hilman. i didn't know your name, sir, or i would have sent for you, and i couldn't get a chance to say a word until just now. i am very sorry that i gave miss hilman a wrong impression." "don't think of it, mr. litizki," said clara, who was rapidly recovering her accustomed calmness; "it is all over now. you see, uncle, how strangely i am beset. there is no doubt, from poubalov's actions, that he has followed me here. what is his purpose? to put lizzie white on her guard? then he has circumvented me, for he has had nearly two hours in which to act since he found from the register that you were staying at the travelers', and perhaps my name, too, was on the book." "yes, i put it there myself, last night." clara rose and extended her hand to litizki. "you are a faithful friend," she said, "and i am very glad you told me this. i shall be the more satisfied with my talk with miss white now, for i shall be able to ask questions that otherwise might not have occurred to me." litizki mumbled some words of acknowledgment of her kindness, and mr. pembroke asked anxiously whether she felt strong enough to proceed with her programme. "oh, yes," she answered bravely; "you won't need to wait longer. i will take the carriage afterward and mr. litizki, i suppose, won't be far away if i need escort." "i shall not be far from you at any time," said the tailor. "i shall be glad when you are through with it," sighed mr. pembroke. "i will accompany you as far as the house as i at first intended." litizki hung back as they started and remained within the entrance to the park until he saw them mount the steps, and until mr. pembroke had gone down again, leaving clara in the house. the servant who answered the ring had readily admitted that miss white lived there, and had invited the callers to enter. she ushered clara into a small reception-room, and, without asking her name, went to find lizzie. clara sat down to wait, feeling more perturbation than she had experienced at any time since her trouble began. she had not long to pass in painful speculations, for lizzie white promptly responded to the summons. "i supposed it was you," she said with a hard, resentful tone as she entered the room. lizzie would have been a comely girl if her rather sharp features had been softened by a pleasant expression. on the contrary, disappointment and bitterness dwelt in her eyes and drew down the corners of her mouth. she was dressed as a domestic servant, wearing a white cap and apron. she held an open letter in her hand, and sat down in the nearest chair without making the slightest advance to the kindly greeting that was upon clara's lips as she rose. it was as if she expected a disagreeable scene, and was determined not only to see it through, but to contribute her full share to its unpleasantness. clara's greeting was unuttered. "why did you think it was i?" she asked. "this," said lizzie, indicating the letter; "it's from mother." "did she tell you i was coming?" "no, but she tells me how you've hunted for mr. strobel, and how people say he went away with me. i knew well enough you'd come on here to find him." "it is hardly correct," said clara, gently, "to say that i came on to find him, though i would go anywhere to do so." "yes, i guess you would." lizzie was relentless. her tone spoke determination to make miss hilman suffer to the utmost. clara conquered the emotions that lizzie stirred within her, and added: "from the start, lizzie, i have steadfastly denied that mr. strobel went away with you, or that your departure had to do with his disappearance. please understand me: i did not expect to find mr. strobel with you. if i had thought differently, i should not have come." lizzie laughed scornfully. "no," she said, "you would have known that you were too late. you are very brilliant, miss hilman, but i guess you're finding that it takes more than that to hold a man." this was as bad as anything that clara had anticipated as among the possibilities of the conversation; but, holding her great purpose firmly in mind, she persisted in continuing the interview. suffer insult she must, but she would not give up without obtaining some manner of information. "for your own good name, lizzie----" began clara, but the girl interrupted hotly: "my good name! what have you to do with it, i should like to know? i hadn't seen any boston papers, and i didn't know until i got this letter that the whole city had talked about me. they have said that i eloped with mr. strobel, and that settles it, i suppose. why didn't you let mother write to me the day she received my letter?" "i didn't ask her not to write," replied clara, feeling a little guilty at the thrust; perhaps she had gone too far in influencing the communication between mother and daughter, setting her own anxieties and griefs above theirs. "i asked her not to mention mr. strobel's disappearance, and she chose herself not to write at all. i did so because i confidently expected to obtain proofs in the evening that he could not have gone with you." "then you did think so!" cried lizzie triumphantly; "you did fear, at least, that all your education and money and high society ways were not enough to keep him from falling in love with a poor girl who has no position!" "i had no such thought," returned clara, greatly distressed; "i did think that you would be happier to know that such a thought could not occur to me, as you would know if the circumstances were such as to prove that mr. strobel could not have come to new york." "me, happy!" exclaimed lizzie, bitterly, and then in the same breath--"you found it quite possible that he could have come, didn't you?" ignoring the last part of her remark, clara quickly took her cue from the first, and said very gently: "your mother showed me your letter in which you said you could be almost happy." the color rushed to lizzie's cheeks as she replied: "mother ought to have known better." then she shut her lips hard together, and it was plain that she was obstinately determined to say no more on that subject. "i have sincerely tried," said clara, "to think and act in a friendly way, lizzie." "friendly with a rival!" and again lizzie laughed with bitter scorn. "i should not need the evidence of your words," responded clara, "to convince me that there never was any rivalry between us." she rose to go, and lizzie looked at her with startled eyes. was this to be the end of the conversation? clara was the picture of haughty pride, unmoved apparently by any of the thrusts that lizzie had tried to make so cruel. jealously insensible to clara's kindly advances, lizzie was completely overcome by her manifestation of calm superiority. she bit her lip and crumpled her mother's letter in her hand. "mr. strobel is not here," she said, and her voice broke as if the words choked her. "i know it," remarked clara, coolly, with her hand upon the door. "miss hilman! don't go yet!" there was the sign of coming tears in lizzie's eyes, and clara looked down upon her pityingly. lizzie made one last effort to recall her determination to be bitter, and compel her visitor to suffer as she suffered, but hers was not the strength of character to meet emergencies, overcome difficulties, and play a part unswayed by her deeper, genuine devotions. she extended her arms upon the table before her, and, laying her head upon them, burst into passionate crying. clara laid her hand caressingly on lizzie's head and waited until the first storm of sobs had begun to subside. then she said in a quiet but not unkind voice: "lizzie, have you seen alexander poubalov this morning?" the girl half raised her head, choked back the sobs and replied, "who?" clara repeated the name distinctly. "i don't know who he is," answered lizzie, wearily. "do you remember," asked clara, "the gentleman who called on mr. strobel the morning he was to be married?" "i remember somebody called," said lizzie, absently, "mother showed him up. i didn't see him. what has he got to do with it?" clara felt that she must believe the girl, but she made one further move to discover whether in any way she might be allied with poubalov. "has anybody been to see you this morning?" she asked. "no," replied lizzie; "what has this man you mention got to do with it?" "everything, i think," said clara. "it looks as if he had caused mr. strobel's disappearance, abducted him in fact, and i know that he followed me to new york." lizzie was not keen enough to see that clara had inferred a possible collusion between herself and poubalov. "then," she said, "mr. strobel did not desert you at all!" and the tears welled from her eyes afresh. clara knew that she would speak further, and after a moment, with her face in her hand, lizzie moaned: "i am very unhappy, miss hilman." "you must be, lizzie," returned clara, caressing her, "and i don't ask you to tell me anything. i am sorry i had to break in on you; but if you understood how i have been more than puzzled by the strange conduct of mr. strobel's enemy, you would forgive me." "forgive? why, miss hilman, it is my place to ask for forgiveness. i was so brutal when you first came in. don't you see, i," her voice faltered pitiably but she continued desperately, "i loved mr. strobel before he ever met you, i think. he never mentioned love to me, but he was so good and kind that i foolishly thought he was fond of me. i suffered horribly when he told us of his engagement, and i couldn't get over it. i thought of running away many times, but i couldn't bring myself to do so while he was still with us. i thought perhaps i would feel differently after he was gone, but on that morning when he was getting ready for the church, i simply couldn't endure the thought of staying in the house any longer. so i came away. i hadn't made any preparation. i took the first train i could get, and while i was waiting i wrote a note to mother. did you see it? no? i started to tell her why i went, but i couldn't, and i scratched the words out. i knew one friend in new york, and she got me employment here, where i thought i could work hard and forget. i hadn't heard a word of mr. strobel's disappearance until i got mother's letter. then--then i felt somehow as if it was my revenge, and i think i hated you as much for your suffering as i did because you won his love." clara heard this painful confession with an aching heart. her sympathies were deeply touched by the artlessness with which this unhappy girl had developed bitterness and discontent from her love that it might take a lifetime of toil to soften. "we both suffer, lizzie," she said gravely; "i am glad now that i came. shall i tell your mother anything?" "no! no! i will write what's necessary. you can say that i am in a good family, and that some day i shall visit her." lizzie looked appealingly at clara as if she would have her remain longer, but no good end was to be accomplished by prolonging the interview, and clara withdrew. as she stepped into the waiting carriage, she beckoned to litizki who stood near the next corner. "i am going to the hotel," she said, "and as soon as i can i shall take the train for boston. will you get in?" "no, thank you, miss hilman," replied litizki, abashed. "i will return by street-car. if you could let me know what train you intend to take, i should like it." "there's a train at noon. if i can see my uncle i will take that." she was driven away, and litizki, head down, gloomy, more and more impressed with the conviction that poubalov was not only responsible for strobel's disappearance, but that he also plotted evil to clara, slowly left the vicinity. when he was well out of the way, alexander poubalov left the window of a room he had hired two hours earlier, directly across the street from the house where lizzie white lived, and came out upon the sidewalk. after a quick glance up and down the avenue, he went over the way, rang the bell, and asked to see miss white. chapter xvii. how litizki saved miss hilman. the ladies' entrance to the travelers' hotel was upon the same street as the main corridor, almost next door to it. clara glanced in as the carriage slowly passed the open doors and she saw her uncle at the further end, pacing slowly toward her. two men were with him whom she did not at the moment recognize, but so anxious was she to have a word with him that when she alighted, instead of going in at the ladies' entrance, she stepped over to the main doorway and stood there to attract his attention as soon as he should come near. he saw her immediately and quickened his pace. in that instant she saw that one of the other men was dexter, and that he wheeled abruptly about, turning the third man around with him. dexter hobbled back toward the clerk's desk and led his companion out of sight into a passage that terminated in the corridor. clara saw this maneuver but dimly, as her attention was fixed upon her uncle, whose face had the haggard, anxious expression that she had noticed on it several times of late. he was quickly beside her, and attributing his anxiety largely to herself, she smiled bravely and said: "there was no scandal, uncle, and very little of what you could call a scene." "you are back sooner than i thought for," he responded with something of an effort. "did you see anything?" "of poubalov? no." "i mean strobel." "oh, no! i am convinced that lizzie knows nothing of him, poor girl!" "so am i," said mr. pembroke with a deep sigh; "i have had no time, of course, to give the matter much thought, but my impression is, and it grows constantly stronger, that you will eventually find strobel in boston." "and do you think i shall find him, uncle?" asked clara, eager for encouraging words. "i hope so, my child, i hope so. it does not seem possible that this affair will resolve itself into an unfathomable mystery. there are few such things in real life, you know, and if the worst had happened to strobel, we would have heard of it." "it gives me new courage to hear you say so," said clara looking wistfully at her uncle, "i wanted to speak to you simply to let you know that nothing troublesome has happened, and that it is my intention to return to boston as soon as possible, though i don't know what i can do after i get there." "i would rest if i were you, clara." "i cannot think of rest now. we will see. something may happen to give me a fresh start, or i may discover a new clew in something i already know, the significance of which i have overlooked." "don't try to do too much; rest if you can," pleaded mr. pembroke. "i shall return myself to-night." "do you want me to wait and go with you?" "i wouldn't," exclaimed her uncle, hastily; "you'll find the journey nothing by daylight, and it might be fatiguing at night. you are familiar with it, and don't mind traveling alone for so short a time, do you?" "not at all. i merely thought you might want me to wait." "no, dexter will have to be with me. i will be with you at home in time for breakfast. you'll take the noon train i suppose? good-by." haste was evident in mr. pembroke's manner as well as in his words, and clara bade him good-by at once. she went to her room for her traveling bag, and when she returned to the carriage litizki was waiting for her. "is it the noon train, miss hilman?" he asked. "yes," she answered; "won't you ride to the station with me?" "do you wish it?" said the little tailor, hesitatingly. "of course i do. come, there may be things we wish to tell each other." so litizki sat beside her on the way to the station, and after the carriage started he said: "miss hilman, i shrink from asking questions, and yet i think you will admit that i have more than curiosity about the result of your call on miss white." "you have every right to know," she responded; "we talked very frankly after a while, and i came away satisfied that she is not an accomplice of poubalov's." litizki stared out of the window in silence for a time, and finally spoke much as if he were addressing himself: "when miss hilman says she is satisfied, it goes a great way to convince me." "you are still in doubt, then?" asked clara. "i cannot help being so. poubalov grows upon me until he is ever present in my mind, like a horrid nightmare. at every step we take it is poubalov. if ever anything is discovered, you discover poubalov's hand in it. whenever we make an attempt to gain a point, we are frustrated, and it is poubalov who stands over and above, in and through all, moving us with his master-hand, and setting up obstacles when we would move of our own will. we are at the mercy of him who knows no mercy, and so long as poubalov remains--in america, we are without hope, unless he accomplishes his purpose and has no further use for mr. strobel." litizki spoke with profound melancholy and just that touch of extravagance in language that clara had noticed the first time she saw him in mrs. white's. "i don't wonder," she said, "that you estimate poubalov's power for evil so greatly, and it would be folly for the friends of mr. strobel to underestimate him; and yet, with a woman's imperfect reasoning, i feel that we shall some day outreach him." "there is nothing imperfect in your reasoning, miss hilman," and for once litizki addressed her directly, his gloomy eyes fixed upon her own; "but you are speaking from the kindness of your heart rather than from the logic of your brain. this is not my first experience with poubalov. but no matter." he turned away abruptly and again gazed out of the window. "it is nothing short of greatness in you," he continued presently, "in the midst of your sorrow to try to throw a little light into my life. every kind word and every encouragement from you hurts me almost as much as the oppression and injustice from which i have suffered all my life. until i knew mr. strobel i knew not real kindness. i am yet unused to it, and so it seems sometimes as if you had stabbed me. but there is this difference, miss hilman: whereas constant injustice deadens the heart, kindness quickens it, and i shall yet do something, you may be sure, that will not only be evidence of my sincerity and devotion, but that will actually help you." "mr. litizki," returned clara, disturbed by his morbid tone rather than by his words, which were but characteristic of his point of view, "you dwell too much upon these things, not only upon what has been evilly done to you, but upon what seems to you as exceptional goodness. let us not think more about it until the time comes for action. then we shall be the better prepared to think quickly and effectively. see, here we are at the depot. i will let you get my ticket for me, as you will have to go to the window also, and i will avoid the nuisance of having to wait in the line." litizki took her purse without a word, after she had settled with the driver, escorted her to a seat and then went to the ticket window. when he returned he displayed unusual coolness, for him, as he handed her the ticket and said: "poubalov will go by the same train as you. he is even now in this room, and he saw me buy the tickets. of course i pretended not to see him, but he despises me and cares not for all my efforts." clara felt no fear at this information, but it nevertheless aroused a sense of discomfort. a presentiment of misfortune she readily dismissed; this fact of being persistently "shadowed" by a man whom she believed to be her enemy she could not dismiss, and she could not shake off the irritation caused by it. "suppose," suggested litizki, "that you pretend to take this train but really wait for the next one." "no," replied clara, "i will not be interfered with in my movements by poubalov. i suppose it is his right to take the train, if he chooses to do so, as well as it is mine. i will go to my car now, please, and if he ventures to intrude upon me i shall know how to relieve myself of his presence." litizki's eyes sparkled with exultant satisfaction for just an instant, and then the fire that lit them subsided to a steady glow that would have revealed a fixed and awful purpose had anybody seen it and read it correctly. but he kept his eyes averted as he escorted clara to the car, thinking of her words, weighing them, repeating them to himself. they sank deep into his brain, where his perceptions of life, disordered by a rankling sense of injustice, distorted them and threw them back to the surface of his thoughts with an interpretation all his own. "she has the nature of heroes," he said to himself, "and she is capable of it! she is great, grand! how fitting that alexander poubalov should meet at last a foe of infinite spirit, intellect as keen as his own, courage unfaltering, and that foe a woman! but she is a woman, and her place is beside my benefactor. she must be saved for him and for herself. she must be spared this demonstration of her right to rank with heroes. i know what she is, and strobel shall know when, poubalov out of the way, he gains his freedom. she must be saved, and i must save her. it is my fate!" wholly unsuspicious of the raving that was going on in her strange companion's mind, clara proceeded to the car and took the chair that the porter pointed out to her. for just an instant it occurred to her to ask litizki to sit with her, but there was nothing quixotic in her character; she knew that the little tailor would be immeasurably hurt if she should suggest paying his traveling expenses, and, withal, he made her uncomfortable. she thought very kindly of him, but she felt no need of his protection. "we will meet again in boston," she said, pleasantly, "and we may yet do some work together." "perhaps so," responded litizki. "i shall be on the train, and if you like i will watch outside till it starts and let you know whether poubalov gets on board." "it's hardly necessary," said clara; "still, if you would rather do so, i have no objection." litizki, therefore, loitered on the platform beside the train until just before starting time. then he went to clara and told her that poubalov had taken a seat in the car just behind hers. "i have no fear," she assured him, "but you may look for me when we get to boston." she made this arrangement wholly for his sake, realizing the man's devotion and anxiety to serve her. he bowed gravely and made his way to the platform again, but instead of going to an ordinary coach he climbed the steps to the rear platform of the parlor car in which poubalov sat. "can you give me a seat in this car?" he asked of the conductor as the train started. "there's just one left," replied the official as he consulted his slips after a curious glance at the inquirer. litizki paid for the seat immediately. it was at the very back of the car, against the partition of the smoking room wherein poubalov was at the time seeking the comfort he found in cigarettes. the train had been in motion more than an hour when poubalov appeared. he saw litizki, and raised his brows slightly, as if in mild surprise. with no other sign of recognition he took his seat, which was in about the middle of the car. hours passed slowly while the train rushed on as if madly intent upon checking the flight of time. poubalov occupied himself with a book. litizki could not have followed the words on a printed page had he tried to do so. his brain worked over and over the idea that had found its way there days before, and he could not, if he would, have thought of anything else. "the time matters not," he argued with himself; "as well now as at another, but there must be provocation if possible. if there is no provocation, then proceed without it. it must be done at all hazard. and there must be no failure." somewhere between westerly and providence the train came to a stop. there was trouble with the engine--what, it matters not. the train could not proceed until the damage had been repaired. a brakeman was sent forward to the next station to telegraph for assistance, and the engineer busied himself in effecting a temporary adjustment of the machinery, so that some progress could be made even though it were slow. poubalov went forward with many passengers to watch the work, and litizki followed him. altogether nearly two hours were lost by the accident, so that it was dark when the train rushed through the suburbs of boston. poubalov then rose and went into the car forward. litizki went after and saw the spy drop into a chair not far from where clara sat, her back to the window, her profile clearly in view. there were many vacant seats in the car, some unoccupied at the moment because the passengers, weary with the long journey, were standing up, making early preparations for departure. all the men were at the forward end, waiting their turns at the wash-room. the train had just rolled past roxbury crossing, two miles from the terminus, when poubalov rose again and sauntered forward, sinking negligently into the chair back of clara which had just been vacated by a lady who was now submitting to the brush of the porter. litizki saw clara start when poubalov addressed her, and his hand sought his pocket, but he withdrew it empty when he observed that the spy had left his cane leaning against the side of the car near his former seat. "that will do better," muttered the tailor, and he went to poubalov's chair, took the cane in his hands, and, all unobserved by any of the preoccupied passengers, released the catch and drew forth the long blade. concealing it by his side as he took the few remaining steps that lay between him and his victim, he presently raised it high over poubalov's heart, and with the words, "i will do it for you, miss hilman!" brought it down with all his force. poubalov fell into the aisle with a loud gasp, and clara, uttering one scream of terror, bent over him. litizki dashed to the rear platform. there was nobody in his way save one or two frightened women. the brakeman had already opened the doors of the vestibuled platform and before any one could lay hands upon him, the little tailor had swung himself off into the darkness. chapter xviii. the key to ivan's prison. the train was proceeding at such comparatively slow speed that litizki, though he had jumped blindly and though he fell full length on the ground, was not hurt. before the rear car had passed he was on his feet and making across the tracks. a fence too high for him to scale barred his progress, and he hurried in the direction of roxbury, looking for some means of egress from the "yard" through which the railroad ran. he found it at last, a narrow gate in the fence at the end of a short street. the gate was unlocked, and litizki was soon upon columbus avenue. until then he had been conscious of no especial emotion, and his course had been taken instinctively rather than with a definite purpose of effecting his escape; but instead of breathing free now that he was where for a time at least he could mingle with the passers unsuspected, a great fear came upon him. throughout all the long journey he had nursed his awful purpose calmly and steadfastly, never for an instant wavering; now he seemed still to feel the handle of the dagger in his palm, he saw the blade flash as he poised it over poubalov's heart, and he heard again the loud gasp with which the spy fell under the blow. litizki trembled. his throat was parched, his skin hot, but dry as the dust on the pavement. he glanced furtively up and down the avenue, as if to see the policeman who would presently arrest him. litizki had paused, unable to walk without staggering, when he dropped so completely from heroism to trepidation. he grasped a trolley post for support and was dimly conscious that two or three girls who were passing laughed at him for being helplessly drunk. half unconsciously he felt in his pocket and drew forth the revolver with which he had intended to kill the spy. should he not end his misery then and there, and cheat the hangman? he looked down at the tiny barrel, so large in its tragic possibilities, and with the thought that he had but to exercise a steady hand upon himself as he had upon poubalov in order to plunge into oblivion, he began to recover. the grated cover of a sewer basin was at his feet and he dropped the weapon upon it. it rebounded a very little and then slipped through the grating, out of sight and out of reach. litizki instantly wondered why he had done that. "that was unreasonable. the revolver was not evidence," he muttered, and then a wild joy surged in his heart as he reflected that he had accomplished his purpose. "that was no crime in the light of reason," he argued. "the necessities of the situation demanded it, and though the law will say otherwise, i am content." he was almost himself again now, and it flashed upon him that his work, after all, was but half done. there was one other step to be taken before his heroic deed could be of service to her whom he worshiped, and to his benefactor whom he idolized. strobel must be freed, but how? certainly not by standing there at the curb in plain view, waiting to be arrested. no; whatever be his ultimate fate, he must effect at least a temporary escape. once more steadied by a purpose to strive for, litizki crossed the avenue and walked on in the same general direction until he came to washington street. his delay at the curb had been brief as measured by the watch. with every step he took his brain grew clearer. he saw the folly of going to poubalov's lodging-house in bulfinch place for the purpose of releasing strobel. his conviction that strobel was confined there had not been shaken by any of the events since his failure to expose poubalov's secret. news of the murder would undoubtedly be taken to that house before he could get there. the release must be effected by some other hand than his own; but what matter? he had made the release possible. miss hilman would ever give him credit for it, and that was enough, as undoubtedly she would tell strobel how it came to pass. his plan of operation was fully formed when he reached washington street. he boarded the first chelsea ferry car that came along, and set himself to thinking of it. when the conductor touched his shoulder to remind him of his fare, he started violently as if the avenging hand of law had been laid upon him. there was a recurrence of the dreadful fear that had momentarily possessed him, and again he shook as if with an ague. he felt an almost irresistible impulse to jump from the car and run; and when at last he left it, near the far end of hanover street, he had not yet recovered. with great difficulty he dragged his steps through the crowded streets of the north end until he came to the house where vargovitch lived. as he climbed the stairs, he felt his courage return; and when vargovitch bade him enter, he was again the somber, depressed figure with which all his acquaintances were familiar. "vargovitch," he said directly but with averted eyes, "i leave the country to-morrow, never to return. do not ask me why. you will know soon enough after i have gone. see, i have so much money," and he emptied the contents of his purse upon the table. "it is enough for the present, perhaps, but i shall some day need more, and i leave behind me accounts and stock, to say nothing of business good will, that are of value. i want you to help me realize upon them." vargovitch looked sternly at his friend. "that mad head of yours," he responded, "has led you at last to difficulty from which there is no exit. i will ask no questions, litizki, but i will not be concerned in your affair. you should not have come here." litizki was sufficiently master of himself to repress the tremor that threatened him. "do you desert me, vargovitch?" he asked, turning his dull eyes apathetically on his comrade. "i'll accept no responsibility for what you may have done," returned vargovitch, "i will neither harbor you nor inform upon you." "i do not ask the one, and i know you would not do the other. i shall remain but a short time. come! will you take my business and dispose of it for me?" "money cannot be raised among our people to-night." "i know it, but you can send me some when you have collected. let me sit down and write a moment." vargovitch silently placed writing materials before him, and litizki wrote rapidly. when he had done, he handed the paper to his friend. it was a surrender of all his business property to vargovitch, as complete a bill of sale as he could draw. "take it or destroy it," said litizki; "i go now, and by and by i shall send you my address. if you have accepted the trust i impose upon you, you will send me money; if not--" the tailor shrugged his shoulders and went to the door. "it is the last time you look upon me, vargovitch," he concluded. "it is a wild scheme," muttered vargovitch, looking at the document, "but we will see." the noise of the door closing aroused him. litizki had left the room. on the street litizki again had to struggle against the fear that his crime excited. all through the long night it came to him at irregular intervals, and he vibrated between an exaltation when he regarded himself as a hero, and abject cowardice when the rustling of a leaf made his very soul shiver. on this occasion, that is, after leaving vargovitch, he staggered through unfamiliar streets and alleys, hoping that no friend would see him, and at length during a period of self-possession, he crossed the ferry to east boston. there he took a room in an emigrant's hotel near the cunard steamship dock. he knew that some boat of this line would depart on the morrow, the regular sailing day, and he had resolved to take passage in it. in the office of the hotel he found that the boat was the cephalonia, and that she was scheduled to start at half-past eleven. that was a late hour, and he would be in great peril until then, but there was nothing for it but to take his chances. so he gathered up a lot of writing materials and retired to his room. he spent most of the night in writing to clara. "in staying your hand," he began abruptly, without address of any sort, "from exacting from alexander poubalov the penalty of his crime against you, the penalty which your hand alone was worthy to exact, i was impelled not by egotism, or sudden emotion. it was my purpose to save you for a happier career than with all your nobility of character you could have achieved had you yourself done the deed. i shall try to escape the punishment that society would inflict upon me for this act of justice, for i find that at this moment i cling to my miserable life as does the dog whose master starves and maltreats him. if i do not escape, it will matter not at all, and i ask no tears from your beautiful eyes. i know your character so well that i shall die content with the gratitude that i know will warm your heart for your unworthy servant. "the blow that struck away the mighty obstacle to your success and happiness was but the key to the door that is closed upon ivan strobel. the happiness of opening that door with my own hands is not to be for me, and i do not deserve it. i am content to show you the way. "poubalov's rooms are at 32 bulfinch place. he occupies two, possibly three rooms there, and in the sense that he has undoubtedly bought the landlady, the whole house is his. i am convinced that strobel is confined there, and that that has been his prison house since his abduction last monday. there will be no bar now to your going to the house and releasing your lover and my benefactor. i will tell you what room he is in, or at all events was in last thursday night; and that you may thoroughly understand me, i will relate how i came to know this, although in so doing i shall lay bare to you the secrets of my heart and confess to you the weak, good-for-nothing that i am--such as you yourself have found me to be. i hope my action of this evening will redeem me somewhat in your eyes." here followed a detailed account of litizki's attempted rescue of strobel, and he mitigated none of the mortifying occurrences, freely confessing himself a child in the hands of his adversary. "the room where strobel was confined on that night," he continued, "is the little one adjoining poubalov's main room. it is directly over the hall as you enter, one flight up. i doubt very much whether poubalov has transferred his prisoner to any other part of the house, for that would have provoked comment and perhaps suspicion among the lodgers. your happiness, therefore, is now in your own hands, and if i escape i shall never see you again. i could almost wish that i would be taken, for the certainty that you would come to visit me in my cell; but it is my desire to relieve you of everything that might even remind you of sorrow, and i therefore take leave of you in this letter with the hope that you will act upon it without delay, and that no accident will rob you of the reward which your loyalty merits." he signed his name without any formal concluding phrases, and having addressed, stamped and sealed the envelope, he went out to post it. the dawn was just breaking, and he could see with sufficient clearness all about the street and the freight yard in the vicinity of the hotel. no one, apparently, was stirring save himself. believing that clara would get the letter sooner if he took it to a post office instead of a street box, he attempted to find one. he knew there must be a branch office in east boston somewhere, but he knew not where to look for it. he had come to the corner of maverick square when he saw a policeman standing within the shadow of a building. a violent shudder came over him as he suddenly realized that he had taken one step toward the officer with a view to asking the way to the post office! one of his fits of fear attacked him and again he staggered, but if the policeman had any thought of arresting him for drunkenness, he gave no indication of it, and litizki stumbled on undisturbed. when he thought he could do so safely, he turned into a doorway to recover. he saw a street letter-box within twenty feet, but as he started toward it, letter in hand, he heard a bell ringing. "the ferry!" he muttered, and he began to run toward the river. with all his fears the little tailor kept his head faithful to his purpose. it was now in his thoughts that he would cross the river to the mainland and post his letter in the general office on devonshire street, whence he knew it would be taken with the least delay to mr. pembroke's house. he was conscious of the risk in thus showing himself even in the solitary hours of the early morning, but his courage was returning, and he felt again a hero who would brave all for her to whom he owed fealty. the gateman at the ferry heard him running down the street and held the boat for him. litizki sank breathless upon a bench and felt again the triumph of his deed. he reveled in the difficulties he was overcoming and the dangers that beset him. a car was waiting at the city side of the ferry, and litizki rode in it as far as scollay square. then he walked to the post office, and remembering that a stamp window was open all night, he found it and added to his letter a "special delivery." "now," he muttered, dropping the important missive in the box, "it doesn't matter what happens to me." he returned on foot by devious ways to the ferry, more than once evading marketmen and other early pedestrians as he felt the recurrence of terror, and at length came again to his hotel. the employees of the house were astir, steerage passengers were beginning to arrive, and litizki felt a sudden repugnance to the solitude of his chamber. he sat by a window in the office and watched the groups of men and women who gradually gathered at the entrance to the dock, waiting to go on board the cephalonia or to bid good-by to friends and relatives. before very long he heard the strident voice of a newsboy calling his morning wares. he listened for a quotation of startling headlines, expecting that the murder of a passenger in a drawing-room car would be the great news feature of the day. perhaps this boy had not read his papers carefully. at all events, he shouted nothing whatever concerning the event that had crowned litizki's life and made him a hero and a coward at once. after some hesitation the tailor bought a paper, and ran his eyes over the captions of the leading articles. he found no reference to his deed there. he examined the paper, column by column, from first page to last, and not one line set forth so much as a hint of poubalov's tragic end. chapter xix. the ghost of poubalov. litizki laid the newspaper down and tried to reflect. he had not slept at all since he awoke from a very brief nap in new york the morning before; therefore, he had not dreamed the scene in the drawing-room car. with his own hand he had actually struck poubalov to the heart, and his victim had fallen with the gasp and shudder of death. this was so, and no newspaper could make it otherwise; but how should it happen that the reporters had missed the episode? it had happened upon a railroad train; what more probable, then, than that the railroad officials had suppressed the news? he had read many accounts of accidents in which the reporters set forth the reticence of officials and employees. "they imagine," thought litizki, "that it is not for their interest to let the public know that so violent a crime, so they would call it, could be committed in one of their high-toned cars, and that, moreover, the murderer could escape." this thought appeased for a moment the new fear that threatened to unman him for all time, the fear that he had failed! though he openly and emphatically repudiated all superstitions, and boasted over and again that his life and views were ruled by reason alone, he was yet subject to influences that, if they were not superstitions, were remarkably like them. among these were his estimate of poubalov, whose invincibility seemed to surpass human powers and attributes. litizki was conscious of this tendency to surround the spy with a supernatural atmosphere, and he struggled against it, the result of his struggle invariably being his deeper self-abasement as he recognized poubalov's immeasurable superiority. now he felt again this superhuman character of the spy appealing to him, setting his poor brain in a whirl, and blurring his eyes as if a mighty wind had taken up the dust of the street and held it suspended in a dense cloud before him. "bah!" exclaimed litizki, striking his brow angrily, "he cannot"--and he stopped suddenly, conscious that he was speaking aloud. there was nobody in the room but a sleepy clerk, who looked up curiously from his ledger and then bent his head again over his work. litizki tried to force his thoughts away from the topics that absorbed him. it occurred to him that he had eaten nothing since the morning before, and he went to the hotel restaurant. on the table at which he took a seat was a newspaper left by some previous customer. it was the same journal that had beaten its contemporaries in the first publication of the rumor, that was finally accepted as news, concerning the elopement of strobel and lizzie white. litizki recalled the superior enterprise of this paper, and while waiting for his breakfast, he looked it over. yes! there it was, and his heart bounded with joy and fear at once. it was not a long story under a half-column head, but the few lines were double-leaded, and paragraphed at every period. a newspaper man would have seen at a glance that the item had come in late, after the forms were made up, and that the editor had "lifted" a story of minor interest to make room for this. "probable murder," was the caption, and the statement beneath it was as follows: "a passenger in one of the drawing-room cars attached to the new york express due at park square at six p.m., but some hours late last night, was stabbed just before the train reached the station. "it is believed that the wound was mortal. "the assailant took advantage of the excitement and confusion to jump from the train. "no trace of him has been found. "the name of the victim is not known at this writing. "no rumor concerning the tragedy reached this office until long after midnight. "the police, to whom the railroad officials secretly reported the affair, for reasons best known to themselves, withhold information, but they admit that the assault took place as described above. "it is believed that the murderer will be arrested this morning. "an extra edition giving full details of this occurrence will be published at ten o'clock." litizki looked cautiously around the room. a policeman in full uniform was eating at a table near the door. for one instant the tailor meditated flight through an open window. then he pulled himself together and ate his breakfast. "we shall see," he thought, and he hastened, that he might finish ahead of the policeman and pass directly in front of him on the way to the office. "if he is here to arrest me," reflected litizki, "he will obey his instructions when he sees me go out. if he lets me alone, it will mean that there is still a chance for me." the policeman did not stir when litizki passed him. the tailor paid his bill, and, the dock being open, went to the steamship office and bought a steerage ticket for liverpool. he was exultant once more, proud of himself as a hero. "the next edition, and then all the papers," he thought, "will print my name, and everybody will know what i have done. when strobel is released there will be plenty of thinking people who will applaud me in their hearts, whatever they may say aloud." believing that he could sleep now that his mind was relieved of uncertainty, he went down into the men's department of the steerage and crawled into a bunk away forward. a great many passengers were booked for this trip, and a compartment never used except in the event of a crowd had been fitted in the very prow of the ship. litizki knew that the steward would not assign the bunks there until none were left elsewhere, and he hoped, therefore, to be undisturbed until after the boat had started. so he lay down upon the coarse mattress and tried to sleep. he closed his eyes only to view again the scene in the drawing-room car. physical fatigue caused his mind to wander, and he would be conscious that he was dropping into sleep when suddenly his nerves would seem to be on fire with life, and he would start violently and grip the low rail of his bunk as if he were about to fall out. by dint of will power he compelled himself to remain there, although as the time passed he was in momentary expectation of arrest. he began to regret that he had shown himself so freely. once the steamer was under way he would be able to rest undisturbed by phantasies for ten days. after that, what matter? those ten days should be passed in full enjoyment of his one successful act. as the forenoon dragged along the steerage filled with men, and there was a constant hum of voices, and the shuffling of feet as the passengers jostled about in the narrow quarters and stowed their baggage on and under their bunks. several men came into litizki's compartment and took possession in turn of the unoccupied places. some of them remained, scraping acquaintance with one another, and passing about the liquor without copious draughts of which few ocean travelers regard a voyage as properly begun. in the saloon, champagne serves as the exhilarant for a scene that should need no wine to set healthy blood to sparkling; and in the steerage, the whisky flask accomplishes its purpose just as effectively. a fellow-passenger offered his flask to litizki. he was no drinker, and he accepted the friendly offering more to attract no comment to himself than because he craved a stimulant. having mumbled "thanks, friend" and drunk as much as his throat would tolerate of the fiery stuff, he lay down again. a moment or two later he was surprised to find that he felt more composed, distinctly drowsy, in fact. he correctly attributed this to the whisky, and he lay very still in the hope that natural sleep would at last come upon him. this might have been the case, but he was aroused by a rough hand on his foot. "come on there, my man; come on," said a commanding voice. "you want me, then, do you?" responded litizki, sitting up quickly and bumping his head against the deck. "save the ship, man," remarked the voice, jocosely, "and it will be better for your head. that deck's made of iron. let me see your ticket." so it was not a policeman. litizki showed his ticket, and the purser's assistant passed on. it must be approaching the hour of departure. the tailor, fully aroused, wished that his neighbor would offer him more liquor. "do you think," he asked, "that i would have time to go ashore and get a bottle of whisky?" "yes," was the facetious reply, "but you wouldn't have time to get back. never mind, partner. have a drop of this," and again the flask was passed to him. litizki did not lie down again immediately after drinking. he sat crouched over with his hands about his knees, wondering if miss hilman had received his letter. the men in his compartment were chatting and laughing noisily. the single port-hole admitted so little light that he could not have distinguished the features of any of them except by the closest scrutiny. the steerage steward looked in. "there's one place here, sir," he said, "that your man can have." "all right," was the reply, in a wheezy, cracked voice; "take it, billings." the tailor started. was not that the name of the man whom miss hilman had mentioned as the driver of strobel's second carriage? could it be that he was taking flight, too? or was it a mere coincidence of names? a young fellow, preceded by an odor of strong drink, and followed by a decrepit old man, edged into the compartment. he carried a black, shiny portmanteau which he threw upon the vacant bunk. "there!" he growled, "that was heavy. give me another swig, mr. dexter." "you shall have it, my boy, and welcome," croaked the old man, producing a flask from his pocket; "take a good, long drink. that's it! down with it, he! he! pleasant voyage to you, billings, my boy!" he patted the young fellow on the shoulder; and billings, supposing that his hand was extended to take the flask, turned his back, and when he had drunk, corked the flask and remarked thickly: "i'll keep it thish time." "all right, all right," responded dexter; "you may have it now. i'm going on deck. it's too close here." he hobbled away, and billings staggered after him. full of wonder, and almost forgetting his own part in the strobel matter, litizki descended from his bunk and went up to the deck also. to his amazement, he found that the cephalonia was already a hundred yards from the dock. several conceited little tugs were puffing away at stem and stern, to turn the gigantic ship about. a great crowd of people were on the pier, waving hands and handkerchiefs, and the salutes were frantically returned by the hundreds on board who crowded close to the rail. billings had gone to the rail away from the shore, and dexter stood beside him, still talking with forced jocularity, to which the young man listened with only half comprehension. the most that his fuddled brain could recognize was that he was on board a steamer bound for europe, a big enough fact in itself to subdue the ordinary mind. litizki watched the pair with troubled curiosity. could this be the same billings? and could his going away portend any failure for the plan that litizki had executed at such heroic self-sacrifice? it could not be possible! the guilty driver might well flee from punishment, but neither his presence nor his absence could materially affect the outcome. thinking thus, the tailor allowed his eyes to wander from billings and dexter, taking in the sights of the ship with indifferent interest. suddenly he retreated a pace, and grasped a hatchway to prevent himself from sinking prone upon the deck. were all his railings against superstition and the supernatural but empty words? had he gone stark mad, or was that the ghost of poubalov leaning negligently over the rail of the promenade deck and grinning down at him in evident amusement at his consternation? a long cry of terror seemed to struggle for utterance in litizki's throat, but it found vent in a pitiable whine that nobody heard above the joyous cheering of the passengers except his frightened self. he could not take his eyes from that awful face, whose every feature seemed to glow with perfect health. how long he stood there, gasping, powerless under the terrible spell, litizki could not have told, but a complete revulsion of feeling overcame him when the figure on the deck above shrugged its shoulders, sneered, and strode forward out of sight. then litizki knew that he had failed. where now was all the exaltation of heroism that had sustained him? where his devotion to reason, that false goddess whose dictates had seemed to him infallible? even in his agony of humiliation the light broke in upon him, and he saw that the guiding spirit of his miserable career had not been abstract, unimpeachable reason, but a base, weak imitation--the lucubration of a disordered intellect, litizki's reason. the unhappy man tried to think, not so much to explain how it had happened that the dagger had not done its work, but how should he act now? there was no withdrawal from the voyage already begun, and he wished least of all to go ashore. why had he so insanely thrown away his revolver? the breast that had resisted a knife driven by his feeble arm could not withstand the force of a well-directed bullet. what should he do? would fate be once more kind, just once more, and some time during the coming ten days, put poubalov in his way so that he could push the villain overboard? whisky mounted to his brain and told him to hope. he crawled up the steps to the forecastle-top whence he could command a view of the promenade deck throughout its entire length. poubalov was there, idly observing the passing harbor. he hardly stirred until, just after passing boston light, the steamer's engines were stopped, and with several others, ladies and gentlemen, he went to the main deck. a tug came alongside, the visitors and the representatives of the cunard company crossed the plank, and in another moment the great vessel throbbed again with the revolutions of the screw that, barring accident, would not cease its work until it had propelled the steamer to the other side of the world. poubalov stood in front of the wheel-house of the tug and waved his hat to litizki, and by the side of the spy stood the decrepit old man, dexter. chapter xx. the little front room. when poubalov had fallen to the floor of the car and clara was bending over him, his dark eyes shone with savage luster as he said: "i am not hurt, miss hilman, but i would i were, if i could thereby gain your sympathy." "not hurt!" she repeated aghast at the spectacle he presented, and unable to credit his words. he lay flat on his back, and protruding upward from his closely-buttoned coat was the dagger. it looked as if half the length of the blade had been buried in his body. the passengers gathered about, horrified and excited, while the man whom they supposed to be dying, sat up in the aisle and deliberately wrenched the blade from his bosom. "see," he said holding it aloft where nearly everybody could observe it, "the point is badly blunted, and i shall have to grind it down, but there is no blood upon it!" then he laughed quietly, sprang to his feet, and with strong arms helped clara back to her chair. she was horribly shocked by the episode, for litizki's melancholy meditations rushed back upon her, and she seemed again to hear him promising yet to do something for her that should be of great service. and this was it! she did not then realize that it was a remark of her own that had inspired his mad brain to action, and it was well that she did not, for it was enough that she should suffer as she did, accusing herself of failing to foresee what would happen if the little tailor were permitted to go on tormenting himself with the mystery, and indulging his immeasurable hatred of poubalov. how could she have been so selfish, she thought, as to encourage the unfortunate man to devote his life to her purpose, and to arouse such devotion that he was carried by it to the very commission of murder? she shuddered as the word occurred to her, and she looked appealingly at poubalov, as if to seek from him some further assurance that the miracle had occurred to avert the tragedy that litizki had planned. "it is absolutely nothing, miss hilman," said the spy, interpreting her glance correctly, "save a hole in my coat and the probable perforation of some interesting documents. i will show you." having just placed her in the chair, he was bending over her as he spoke, and now he stood erect, and while all the passengers looked on amazed, he unbuttoned his coat and drew from the breast pocket a large leather wallet filled with papers. "i wear no armor," he said, smiling as he laid the dagger on the window ledge, that he might use both hands in showing how he had escaped. one side of the wallet had the mark of the knife, a gash clean cut in the leather, evidence sufficient that the blow had fallen with all the force that litizki could command. opening the wallet, he took out several folded papers, showing without revealing their nature, that the blade had pierced them. at last he drew forth a little copper plate, and held it up to the light. "yes," he said, "that finished it. the wallet itself was almost sufficient to save me, but without this plate i think i should have been scratched a bit. i had this plate engraved a short time ago in new york, as i wished to present my card with my name printed in characters that would be intelligible to english-speaking people. the engraver gave me the plate, of course, when he delivered my cards, and at the moment i put it here for convenience. i had forgotten all about it. you see," handing the plate to a gentleman who stood beside him, "my friend managed to erase my name but he left me my life." "you are to be congratulated," exclaimed the gentleman, returning the plate after a vain attempt to decipher the name. the point of the dagger had completely obliterated several letters and scratched most of the rest. clara sat during this with her handkerchief to her lips, trying to recover her mental poise, and concentrating her mind on the fact that a tragedy had not taken place. the train rolled slowly into the station, and the passengers were speedily occupied with escaping from their confinement. one officious gentleman remarked to poubalov: "you will, of course, report this matter to the police? i shall be pleased to give you my card if you require a witness, although i was in the wash-room at the time you were struck down." "thank you," responded poubalov, with a grave smile, "i shall not require your card, as i have no complaint to make." "what!" blustered the passenger, "you won't have your assailant arrested? such a man ought not to be at large." "the railroad officials may take that view of it if they choose," said the spy, calmly; "i have no desire in the matter." amazed and indignant, the officious passenger hunted up an official of the company, and having insisted on a thorough investigation of the attempted murder, went home complacent in that he had done his duty as a citizen. the train-men, of course, reported what they knew of the occurrence to their chief, but the assailant had leaped from the train, the name of the victim was not known, and the result was a lame account of the episode at the nearest police station late in the evening. the police had nothing to work upon, and, therefore, said nothing of it to the reporters when they made their regular calls at the station; and when at last, very late at night, a reporter to whose ears an exaggerated rumor had come, telephoned for corroboration, the sergeant in charge could only say that something of the kind had occurred; and thus it came about that one enterprising newspaper had an excusably imperfect report of the occurrence. clara would have left the train without poubalov's assistance, but he took her arm in his, caught up her handbag, and helped her to the platform, in spite of herself. still suffering from the shock, she realized by the close contact with him how masterful was his influence, and how by force of character alone he must accomplish quite as much in his unattractive employment as by intrigue and deceit. "i thank you," she said faintly when she stood upon the platform; "i can go alone quite well now. i cannot tell you how glad i am that you escaped. i should have felt guilty if anything serious had happened, and i feel to blame for what has occurred." "you mustn't borrow trouble that way, miss hilman," he responded, gallantly; "the sanest man might well leap to folly if he imagined that you wished him to." "it pains me to have you make light of it," said clara; "i assure you that i have quite recovered." "you will permit me to hand you to a carriage, miss hilman? i will not intrude further, believe me." she nodded assent, and they were about to proceed along the platform when poubalov stepped squarely in front of her. "pardon me," he said earnestly, "if i do not go as far even as the carriage. i have not yet had opportunity to say what i called to tell you about wednesday evening, or to explain why i left your house so abruptly and informally. i shall call to-morrow to complete my errand. i do not ask your permission to call, as what i would say is important, and you will want to hear it. this way, cabby! take care of this lady. till to-morrow, miss hilman." he had moved about slightly as he spoke and now darted away with quick strides. by standing in front of her and moving as he did, he had completely concealed from her view the driver, billings, who was walking rapidly down the platform and who passed close by them. mystified as usual by his strange conduct, but relieved that he was gone, clara followed the cabman and in due time arrived safely at home. she went to bed at once, telling her cousin enough of what had occurred to show that she had endured a strain. louise sat in her room until late at night, but clara slept peacefully to all appearances, and seemed to require no watching. in the early morning litizki's letter arrived, and a servant took it to clara's room. she read it before dressing. while it recalled the shudders with which she had viewed the possibilities of litizki's crime, and made her conscientious soul more sensible of what she deemed her responsibility in the matter, it nevertheless awakened hope afresh in her heart. litizki was so positive in his belief that ivan was confined in poubalov's lodging-house, that she was well nigh convinced by his assurances, crazy though his brain undoubtedly was; but there were poubalov's own utterances on that night when the little tailor had started to open the door to the hall room. they were not direct, but was ever poubalov direct save when telling a straightforward lie? he had prevented litizki from opening that door, and were not his ambiguous words susceptible of the interpretation that ivan was, as litizki had said, confined there, bound and gagged? she read and reread again the parts of the letter that had reference to this clew, and decided that it would be wrong not to act upon litizki's suggestions. she was resolved that nothing she would do should be calculated to precipitate another tragedy, but rescue her lover she must, and she set herself to thinking how it could be done. when she was dressed, she went to her cousin's room, and louise was surprised to be awakened by clara, who looked none the worse for her extraordinary adventures. "i'm not going to ask you how you are this morning," said louise, with mock resentment; "i couldn't look as well as you do if i employed a trained nurse the year round." "perhaps i look better than i feel, dear," responded clara; "but i confess that, in spite of everything, i do feel hopeful. here is a sad letter from poor litizki. read it, and tell me if, underneath all his terrible madness, there is not some ground for hope." louise read with awe-struck attention, and laid the long letter down with a shudder of horror. "how dreadful!" she exclaimed under her breath, "and yet with what perfect clearness he expresses himself! no rambling, few repetitions, everything directly to the point as he sees it." "that is the way it impresses me. litizki was not all mad. would it not be madness in us to ignore his information?" "indeed it would! what will you do?" "do you know paul palovna's address?" "no, but ralph would." "i shall write a note to paul. get right up, please, and write to ralph, telling him to see that my note reaches paul as soon as possible. of course, we cannot follow poor litizki's plan, for he believed that he had killed poubalov. how he must suffer! but we can investigate his theory, at all events, in our own way." the letters they wrote were taken to ralph harmon by a servant, and shortly before noon paul appeared at mr. pembroke's house, in answer to clara's summons. her uncle had returned to boston as he had planned, but he had sent word that he should not be able to come home until some time in the evening. so, again, clara was thrown upon her own resources for guidance and action. clara went over the whole situation with paul, who expressed his regret that she had not sooner called upon him for assistance. "not," he said, "that i could have done anything better than you have, but that i should have liked to help." "events have happened too rapidly," she replied, "to make it possible for me to think of more than each episode as it occurred. i don't want you to take a step in this if it is to be at the cost of the slightest danger to yourself." "there is no danger," said paul; "i do not underrate poubalov's capacity for evil, but he has no reason to work against me. i doubt if he would recognize me, though he probably knows my name as that of strobel's most intimate friend. as i understand it, you wish me to make a thorough investigation of poubalov's house." "yes, it should have been done days ago, and i would have seen to it had litizki told me of his experience there." "it will be very simple. i will go there to look for rooms. even if he should be there, and see me, he cannot well prevent me from going through the house. i will report to you before the day is over." clara had not shown litizki's letter to paul, but she told him enough about it and its contents to convince him that the tailor had been on the right track. he was in feverish haste to get downtown and effect a solution of the mystery at once, and he more than half believed that he should succeed. his hope that poubalov would not be in at the time of his call was realized, of course, for the spy was at that time on his way up the harbor after bidding the cephalonia bon voyage. a scrubwoman answered his ring at 32 bulfinch place and left him standing in the hall while she went for the landlady. paul had observed that the window just over the door was concealed by the blinds, whereas every other window on the front of the house was fully exposed. "i have several rooms vacant," said the landlady as she came jingling a bunch of keys from a back room. she was a stout, good-humored-looking woman whose pleasant face, a little hardened by business dealings, perhaps, did not suggest the duplicity that would be essential to an alliance with such a man as poubalov. "what kind of a room do you want?" paul thought he would look at them all. "i don't mind the price so much," he said, "as the way the room strikes me." "well," responded the landlady with a sigh, "if you want a five-dollar room, i'd like to save climbing stairs to show those at two dollars. come on." "there's a room for five," she said, opening the door of the back room up one flight. it was the room adjoining that occupied by poubalov. "the others on this floor are occupied." "this little front room, too?" asked paul, his hand on the door. he had quietly tried it and found it locked before she answered in the affirmative and started up the next flight. they looked at every room in the house above the second floor. some of them were occupied, but the landlady opened the doors and looked in. paul noticed that the only locked door was the one to the front hall room next to poubalov's. "well," said the landlady at last as they stood on the landing beside poubalov's door, "do you see anything you like?" "yes," answered paul, "i'll take this back room," and he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to her. he said he would occupy the room at once, and the landlady gave him a house key. while this transaction was in progress, a young woman came up the stairs, humming a tune with that nonchalance that indicates familiarity with one's surroundings, opened the door of the little front room with a key she took from her purse, and went in, leaving the door open until she had thrown back the blinds. "she's been with me a year and a half," remarked the landlady, complacently, "and i don't believe you could hire her to occupy any other room." chapter xxi. what paul palovna saw. paul was not disheartened by his discovery, or by the landlady's comment. he believed that she was telling the truth, and that the door that litizki supposed to communicate with the little front room really opened into a huge closet, a convenience with which the old-fashioned house abounded. he had paid a week's rent, and he determined to get some good out of it. accordingly, he returned to his regular quarters, and packed a bag with personal effects, as if he were going upon a journey. this he took down to the room in bulfinch place. he saw the landlady again as he entered. "by the way," he said, "is there any communication between my room and the one in front?" "no," she replied; "there's a door there that was put in years ago when a family occupied the whole of that floor, but it is nailed up. it won't open from either side, so you needn't be afraid. there's a very quiet gentleman in the front room, so you won't be disturbed." "all right, thanks," responded paul, thinking that in due time he might make good use of the landlady's proclivity for gossip. he went to his room and studied the disused door attentively. there was a keyhole, but it was securely plugged. he lay upon the floor and peered under, but the door came close down upon the threshold, and nothing was to be seen. "it's a disagreeable expedient," he muttered, "but the end justifies the means in this case. i won't say anything to miss hilman about it, though." he opened his bag and took out a gimlet that he had bought on the way to his permanent room. then he drew a chair to the door, stood upon it, and began to bore, starting at a level with his eyes, and slanting slightly downward. his notion was that poubalov would not be so likely to observe the tiny hole if it were a foot or two above his head as if it were lower. for the same reason he bored very close to the edge of a panel, and he took great care not to let the gimlet more than pierce the further side of the wood. it would never do to let any fresh dust show on the carpet in poubalov's room. after frequent experiments, to observe how far he had penetrated, he found that he could faintly discern the light from poubalov's windows when he placed his eye close to the door and shaded it with his hands. then he took a rusty nail that he pulled from the wall of his closet, and, working it patiently with his fingers, pushed it through the partially-bored hole until half its length must have protruded into the other room. a little more effort and he could put the nail in place and withdraw it without the slightest noise. among the trifles that had accumulated in his possessions was an untrained lithograph representing cupids throwing flowers as big as themselves at one another. he could hardly remember how he came to have it; some young lady sent it to him, probably, as long ago as last valentine's day; but there it was, with a neat little card attached; and he hung it on the nail to excuse his operation should the landlady happen to notice it. there were plenty of hooks in the room, but he would tell her that it was his fancy to embellish the door. "there," he thought, as he contemplated his finished work, "if our spy is not more observing and suspicious than i think he is, i shall be able to take a look at him occasionally." having carefully cleaned up the slight litter he had made, he locked the door of his room and went to make his report to clara. he told her frankly that he believed litizki had been mistaken about the little front room. "but," he added, "i have taken the back room for a week, and i shall be surprised if i do not make some discovery before my time is up." intent upon being on the ground, where he could watch every movement of poubalov, he hurried back to bulfinch place, and sat himself down to pass time with books until the spy should come in. all day long clara heeded her uncle's injunction to rest, but that was because there was nothing she could do. moreover, she expected poubalov, and she was more than anxious to be at home to receive him. he came about five o'clock. the young ladies were refreshing themselves with tea, and louise, who never ceased to be amazed at her cousin's proceedings, almost gasped when she saw clara greet him cordially and hasten to get a cup for him. one would not have expected poubalov to show fatigue, if he ever felt it, but if he were not weary on this occasion, something had occurred to disturb him. his eyes were heavy, his accent harder to understand than usual, and it was not until several minutes had passed, and he had drank freely of tea, that he spoke with anything like his customary masterful confidence. clara led the conversation at the start. after the first greetings she referred to the episode in the car, saying: "i should have thought you would suffer as i did from the shock of that terrible assault. it was dreadful to look at, and how much more dreadful to be the intended victim." "you are mistaken, miss hilman," responded the spy; "the very shock of the blow convinced me that i was unharmed. there was therefore no more occasion for alarm on my part than as if a book had fallen from the rack upon my head." "but, really, i supposed the worst had happened," insisted clara, "for you not only fell but you gasped----" "naturally. to put it roughly, the fellow knocked the breath out of me." "and have you heard nothing of litizki?" poubalov looked at her gravely as he answered: "i have seen him." "seen him!" echoed both his listeners, and "where?" asked clara. "he was not under arrest," answered poubalov; "he was free, as free as he ever will be with the memory of the recent past to haunt him, as it certainly will. you will never see him again"--he raised his hand deprecatingly; "pardon me, i did not mean to suggest the slightest discomfort. he has not committed suicide, and i do not know that he contemplates it." he turned his attention to his tea, and both young ladies were silent for a moment. then louise found an excuse for withdrawing, and clara was left alone with the inscrutable foe to her happiness. there was a marked pause after louise had gone, clara waiting for poubalov, and the spy--who can tell what was coursing through his mind? at length he set down his cup, and with an attempt at the aggressive self-possession that usually characterized his demeanor, he said: "i owe you an explanation, miss hilman." "only one?" she asked coldly, but there was a strange smile on her face. "many," responded the spy, and there was an expression on his features, in his bearing, in the tones of his voice, that, but for the circumstances, might have been credited to sincerity. he was either not his usual self, or he was playing a much deeper game than any he had yet revealed. "many," he repeated, "and they will all be made in due time. do you see that i honor you in the highest way that is possible for me? i mean by not treating you to the customary forms of courtesy which are the more or less transparent garments of falsehood. i do not come here with a plausible story to account for my conduct, asking you to accept it as an apology whether you believe it, or not. i tell you the truth, so far as i speak at all; and when the nature of the case would compel me to lie if i opened my lips, i am silent." "or you evade the question," interposed clara, and again she smiled provokingly, but there was no invitation to feel at ease in her expression. poubalov did not misinterpret it, and it almost seemed as if he, the master mind, were discomposed. "perhaps i do," he admitted after a moment; "my habits of speech are not such as conduce to absolute candor even with you, whom i respect too highly to consciously deceive. tell me, miss hilman, will you not, can you not believe that i tell you the truth?" "i have thought about it a great deal," replied clara steadily, "and sometimes i almost think you do; but, you know, you have really had very little conversation with me." "true enough, and i must confess that i never found it so hard to take my part in a conversation as i do at this minute. i usually lead it, i may say dominate it," and he smiled a little; "usually, you see, i make people, men and women, believe me. i would beg you to, miss hilman, if only i knew how." "why try to compel me to stand on the same plane as you do?" asked clara; "you confess your habits of deceit. how can i promise to believe you without confessing that, for this moment at least, i accept your own style of intercourse?" "you are an invincible logician, miss hilman," exclaimed poubalov, compressing his lips. "i give up, and will let my words stand or fall on their merits, according as you judge them. i came here on wednesday evening to tell you some things i had discovered. the man billings called before i had begun to speak. i departed unceremoniously, because i did not wish to meet him." "i know that," said clara, simply. "i knew it at the time." "of course you did," responded poubalov, crestfallen; "you could not infer otherwise, and my confession has all the appearance, therefore, of a pitiably weak attempt to bolster up my claim to veracity." "i do not interpret it that way. i can make my own test of your veracity. i shall listen to whatever you have to say, without reference to what you call a confession." "well, then," resumed the spy, speaking rapidly, "this is what i came to say. i had made investigations in my own way along the lines of the theory laid down with respect to the possible operations of nihilists against mr. strobel. i caught litizki shadowing me, and recognized him as one with whom i had come in official contact in russia. it seemed to me child's play to deal with him, for i had no respect for his intellect. i supposed at first that he was tracking me as the agent of a nihilistic society. then i learned that he was devoted to strobel. i knew he would come to see me, but not openly. so i sat up for him, and he crept into the house like a thief. we had a conversation that i will not pause to detail. i did my best to impress him with my power, and then let him go away, for i wanted him to be at large, and i did not want him just then to report to you what i had told him. you see, i purposely allowed him to nurse his suspicions of me. next day i called at his shop, my sole purpose being to learn who his associates were, and to endeavor to fasten upon them the taking off of strobel. among the men in his shop was one boris vargovitch, at one time somewhat of a leader among the nihilists. the rest that i was going to say on that evening i do not need to say now, for i have since become convinced that litizki was acting irresponsibly in pursuing me, and that if nihilists were active, he was not in their confidence. furthermore, i am now convinced that neither vargovitch nor any other former nihilist in boston was concerned in the strobel matter. i was mistaken in supposing that the nihilists continued their close organization in this country. they may send revolutionary literature to russia, but they do not keep up active operations here. i withdraw my innuendoes against them, therefore, and have to confess that you are now just as far along in your painful search as you were five days ago." clara was deeply impressed by this narration. she could see no flaw in it, no evidence of untruthfulness. but there was a touch of evasion in the conclusion, and she remarked with merciless coolness: "you do not say that we are as far along as five days ago. you confine the lack of progress to me." there was a hasty glance from the spy that looked like apprehension. "of course, i catch the significance of your words," he said; "you think i know more than i tell, that i instigated the abduction of strobel." "tell me," she said, looking straight into his eyes, "why did you not wish to meet billings?" he hesitated, and the color rose slowly to his cheeks. "no," he answered, "not now. i have said all i can for the present. i am still pursuing this matter, miss hilman, but i must put off further information. i would ask you to trust me to report faithfully to you but that it is such a farce for two persons like you and me to bandy words." "it is a cruel farce," she exclaimed, rising indignantly; "you pretend to help me and you laboriously tell me things i already know." she walked across the room, and her brain struggled for a plan in the confusion of impulses, hopes and fears. what might paul accomplish? would she not surely lose a possible point by dismissing the spy once and for all, and might she not some day gain much by keeping in some sort of communication with him? this was the policy she had determined upon, and she would adhere to it. so she turned and faced him. he had risen, waiting her word of dismissal or encouragement. "i will give you one more opportunity to tell me the whole truth and make amends," she said sternly; "i believe what you have told me to-night. next time i must have all, and nothing short of it. will you come to-morrow?" "yes, miss hilman, in the evening." he bowed gravely and left the house. paul did not venture to go to dinner when evening came. he read on and on, waiting to hear poubalov enter the adjoining room. it was late in the evening when at last he heard the door open and close, and he knew that the spy was at home. then paul laid down his book and stepped cautiously upon the chair by the door. he carefully drew out the nail and applied his eye to the hole. he commanded a view of the very center of poubalov's room. the spy had thrown himself into a chair, and was sitting as if deeply wrapped in thought. there were wrinkles in his brow and his lips were set close together. after a few moments thus, he took his traveling bag from the bureau and unlocked it. having fumbled over the contents, he drew forth a cabinet photograph that he took directly under the chandelier where the light was strongest. his back was partially turned to paul, and he held the card so that the observer at the nail hole could see it distinctly. with a shock of surprise paul recognized it as a picture of clara hilman. poubalov gazed long and earnestly at it and then touched it reverently to his lips. chapter xxii. poubalov's revolution. paul's heart seemed to stand still as he reflected on poubalov's act. the original purpose of the spy in calling upon strobel and instigating his abduction, was as much a mystery as ever, but it was one that could be explained on the ground of poubalov's confessed relations with the government with which strobel had been in conflict. there was nothing personal in that; but here was an element of personal relationship that might lead to worse than complications. poubalov in love--no! not that sacred word; infatuated, rather, with clara hilman. what hope could there now be that the spy, having some day accomplished the purpose for which he had crossed the ocean to find strobel, would set him free? in the very hopelessness of his passion would he not first murder strobel, and then clara herself? paul felt sick with horror as the possibility of these tragedies occurred to his mind. they were more than possible. with poubalov's character in view, they seemed like certainties. what could be done to avert them? what would clara say? how revolting, more than terrifying, would be the revelation that this subtle, conscienceless foe had dared to love her! at first blush paul felt that he could not tell clara what he had seen. if there were only something that he himself could do to solve the mystery of ivan's disappearance, for only strobel's presence in perfect health could serve to check the spy's villainous course. he held absolute command of the situation as long as he succeeded in keeping strobel in hiding. as the sense of his helplessness grew upon him, like an insidious vine whose twining tendrils choke the growth of a sapling, paul wondered that poor litizki's devotion had not the sooner driven him to madness. he saw that, with all its evils, the situation must be made clear to clara. he would continue his observations during the next forenoon, and then report to her. poubalov had said that he would call in the evening; clara, therefore, in the early afternoon went to see mrs. white. she went with no purpose of accomplishing anything in the mystery, but rather as an act of kindness to report how she had found lizzie; but as she was about to turn into ashburton place, she saw paul at the foot of the hill and she waited for him to come up. he had just started for roxbury. "i have something to tell," he said in answer to her anxious look of inquiry, "but i fear it is nothing that will be helpful, and it will certainly be disagreeable." "i was going to call on mrs. white," responded clara; "suppose you go with me; but you can tell me what you have discovered before we go in." "if you think best," and paul hesitated. "i do. have no fear of me. have i not learned to endure anything that can happen?" "poubalov loves you, miss hilman." clara blushed very faintly, looked straight into paul's eyes for an instant, then off at the house-tops, and answered: "i felt it. how did you find out?" amazed and relieved, paul told her. "i have made myself a spy," he concluded, "but i felt that the circumstances justified me." "so i think, too," rejoined clara. "well, let us go on. i don't know at this moment how to act, but i cannot help thinking that this will bring matters to a crisis, and i hope, in spite of reason and fears, that it will end happily. i wonder where poubalov got my photograph." then she remembered that when the reporter, shaughnessey, had returned her photograph, it had been placed for the moment upon the mantel in the drawing-room. the next day she had looked for it, and, not finding it at once, had supposed that louise or a servant had put it away. in the stress of events she had thought no more about it; but poubalov's call and bareheaded flight had occurred after the return of the photograph, and the natural and satisfactory explanation, therefore, was that he had stolen it. "there is one more thing," added paul as they walked along, "and i suppose it shows that in order to circumvent this man one must have sleepless eyes and untiring vigilance. as soon as poubalov went to bed last night, i hurried out and got supper. it didn't take me long, for i was anxious to get to sleep, so that i might get up early enough this morning to keep track of him. i rose before six, and took a preliminary peep through my nail hole. poubalov had gone, and up to just now, when i left, had not returned." "i think there is nothing lost," said clara; "he is to call on me this evening, and your discovery makes it certain that he will come. if you will come out to the house ahead of him, i should like it ever so much if you would follow him when he goes away." they were at mrs. white's door, and paul preferred not to go in. there was nothing more to be said, and it seemed better that he should return to bulfinch place, to observe poubalov's doings, should he return. mrs. white, comparatively free from anxiety about her daughter, seemed more than desirous of talking about mr. strobel. "i had a letter from lizzie last night," she said, "and she told me how kind you were. i'm real glad you went to see her, 'cause it must make you feel so much more satisfied to know that mr. strobel did not run away with her. and you know, miss hilman, i can't quite think that the dark gentleman, mr. pou--something, has anything to do with it. he seems such a perfect gentleman." "it is very hard to understand it all," responded clara; "but what makes you think poubalov is better than we have thought him?" "two or three things. lizzie wrote me that he called to see her just after you had gone away, and she says he seemed real earnest about trying to find mr. strobel, and was just as polite as could be." "doesn't she say anything more about his call than that?" "no, except that he spoke very kindly, and didn't let her think that he had suspected her of anything wrong." "i should say not," remarked clara, rather bitterly; "no one would know better than he that lizzie was not concerned in the affair." "i don't see why, miss hilman. why shouldn't he think what other people thought? i'm afraid he did, for last thursday evening he called here, and we had a real good talk about it. he seemed----" "did you tell him i had gone to new york?" interrupted clara, sharply, for she was impatient with these ingenuous statements of what poubalov seemed to be. "land sakes, no!" replied mrs. white, "but he told me he was going on, and when he suggested so kindly that he would look up lizzie, and let me know how she was situated, i was glad to give him her address. he hasn't been here since, though. perhaps he hasn't got back yet." clara wondered wearily how stupidity should manage to flourish in a world where people have to struggle so hard against one another, and then she immediately reproached herself for the thought, recalling what a taxing puzzle poubalov's character presented to herself. she made no effort to undeceive mrs. white--how could she with so little as she herself actually knew?--but rather turned the conversation into simple channels until she took her departure. paul arrived at mr. pembroke's about six o'clock, reporting that poubalov had been absent all day until late in the afternoon, and that when he came in he immediately began preparations for going out again. "i came along at once," said paul, "lest he should get here ahead of me." clara asked her uncle if he would like to meet the spy. "no," he answered uneasily; "what good purpose would it serve?" "i thought that perhaps you might read him better than i can," said clara; "i don't see how we can help coming to a crisis this evening, and if you could help, we might bring about the release of ivan all the sooner." mr. pembroke was careworn, and all his utterances and actions had been marked by indecision since his return from new york. "i am afraid i can do no good," he said with a sigh; "handle the situation as best you can, clara. i believe you will find your happiness restored to you shortly." with that he shut himself in his library, and they saw no more of him that night. poubalov acted more like himself than he did the day before, but it was apparent to clara that his confident self-possession was maintained by an effort. "must we begin where we left off yesterday?" he said by way of introduction. "you may begin where you please," responded clara, "but you must tell me the truth. i think you are going to do so, mr. poubalov." "i cannot remember that i have told you a single lie since i met you, miss hilman. it must be a strange admission for you to hear me make, that i am not certain when i have spoken truly and when falsely; but that is the fault of the peculiar work that my emperor has set me to do, and it is not due in the present instance to any purpose of deceiving you. i am going to begin by telling you of a discovery that i have made since i began to work on this case--a discovery that to me, at least, is startling. "my experience throughout all my life has been such as to make me believe that honesty and sincerity did not exist save in the characters of simple-minded people whom it would be too harsh to call fools, and yet who are nothing short of fools when you look at them from the point of view of self-interest and material advancement. what have i found to be the chief requisite of leadership, whether in guiding the state, or seeking to wreck it, or in commerce? craft, miss hilman, craft that suggests and includes indirect methods to attain ends, the holding out of false hopes, the display of the gilded side of things, the concealment of the base material--in short, trickery, which is but another name for treachery. i have believed that keen minds saw the folly of what we call honesty, and to find candor in a person of intelligence would have seemed to me an anomaly. i have discovered that extraordinary combination, miss hilman, and have been stupefied to find that my methods, however subtle, have availed nothing in opposition to this unaffected, unconscious honesty. it is a revelation to my mind that threatens to effect a revolution in my convictions." "one moment, mr. poubalov," interrupted clara; "your habit of circuitous approach to a point is still strong upon you, and according to your own admissions, it is out of place in conversation with me. permit me, then, to help you adjust yourself to your incomplete revolution, and i will do so without any clever turns of phraseology. i am, then, the embodiment of this wonderful candor that you have discovered. it would have taken you a long time to say it. i appreciate the compliment. go on, please." there was a suspicion of a tremor in poubalov's voice as he continued: "yes, you have said it, beating me, as usual, in the one part wherein i thought i was skilled. but i have to add, miss hilman, that having discovered the existence of honesty associated with the highest order of intelligence, i am astounded to find that i not only do not scorn and despise it, i admire it--more than that, i am conquered by it; i yield to it as a serf to the will of his master, and i worship her who--" his voice railed him for an instant and then he concluded, "you, miss hilman." clara sat looking calmly at the spy, much as if she were regarding a play in which he was an actor, or, as it seemed to him, as if she were studying a strange anatomical specimen. "this must be a remarkable experience for you," she said simply. "it is a marvel!" he responded with great emphasis; "i, who knew only loyalty to my czar, find that there is something more potent to stir me than his beck, or his reward. i love, and with all the strength of my being!" "it doesn't seem at all strange to me," she murmured, her voice low and musical; "i have never rated you as less than a human being, though at times you have seemed to fall infinitely below the standard of such men as it has been my good fortune to know." poubalov winced at this merciless thrust at his intense egotism, and clara went on: "what i do not understand is why you should have been to the mortifying pains of telling me about it, for it is a farce for such persons as you and me to bandy words. has your revolution so far progressed as to convince you that it is worth while to waste energy?" "a man must speak out when he loves as i do," said poubalov, desperately. "i will not rave, as i have read that lovers do; i will stick to my logic; but i must confess that when i awakened to this emotion, i could not help a day dream in which i saw you by my side, and the sight was sweet, it was inspiring, for it cannot be often that minds of such caliber as ours are brought together and united for life." "it will be better to return to your logic, mr. poubalov," said clara, gently; his tones were passionate in spite of his evident effort, and she had no desire to lead him on to a freer outburst. "let us dismiss this experience of yours, in which, of course, i share only as a disinterested spectator. what have you done with the man i do love?" poubalov rose, and clara expected to see him pace up and down the room after the manner of her uncle when he was agitated; but the spy stood before her trembling in every limb. "you have asked me the wrong question, miss hilman," he said hoarsely, "and i shall not answer it." "then," exclaimed clara, "either leave me at once, or proceed in your own way to tell me what i wish to know. i have been days in my search, and i can listen to you for the whole of this evening if it is necessary in order to learn what i must know." "suppose i should tell you," said poubalov, slowly, "that i can lay my hands upon strobel at any moment. what would you say?" "i should bid you to bring him to me." poubalov shook his head. "i should not do it," he said. chapter xxiii. at one o'clock a.m. clara rose at this and faced her adversary, speaking with intensity no less than his: "it discredits your boasted intelligence," she said, "to presume so much as to suggest a compromise to me. there can be no middle course. you do not care that i consider you an unspeakable villain, but you must see that you are bound to do one thing or the other. bring my lover to me, or--it would be idle boasting to say what the alternative would be, but you know that i should never cease to pursue you. in my own way i should certainly circumvent you some day." "yes, you would, i believe that; but, miss hilman, i decline to accept your first alternative," and he strode toward the door. "stop!" she cried, running forward and getting in his way. "i told you this would be your last opportunity to tell me the whole truth. you haven't told me anything yet that i want to know. i meant what i said. i will not have you come here again." "nevertheless, we shall meet again, miss hilman." poubalov now appeared imperturbable. he had confessed to a certain weakness and defeat; in the presence of excitement and insistence he was easily the master of himself and the situation. clara realized quickly that she had lost a point by yielding even momentarily to her emotions, and she strove to recover by assuming once more what poubalov called her logical position. "you have said that you love me," she said as calmly as possible; "can you ask me to believe that when you deliberately cause me the most cruel grief? is that consistent? with all your confessed craft, you have a certain half-respectable consistency, for you confess to me at least, how base you are. will you, then, love and torture me, too?" the spy became deathly pale for an instant, and then answered: "we shall see. i have made my confession, and nothing now shall swerve me from accomplishing my purpose in my own way." "is there such a thing as love of fair play in you?" asked clara, her emotions now quelled and every instinct alive once more to fencing with her adversary. "i suppose not, except in an argument. even then it might not seem to be fair play to the party who found himself overmatched." "in your arguments with me you do not treat me with the ordinary fairness of admitting me to a common ground with you. you withhold facts without which i cannot argue as well as i might." "that, miss hilman, is because our contest is over a real issue, not over an abstraction." "i don't wonder that poor litizki regarded you as a fiend!" "therein you manifest yourself a woman. you long for invective, but your refinement cannot teach you how to use epithets effectively." "this is the end of talking," said clara, moving away; "i will not detain you." poubalov promptly bowed ceremoniously, bade her good-evening, and left the house. paul slipped out after him, and tried his ability at playing "shadow." clara was greatly disturbed by her interview with poubalov, although it had added nothing to her knowledge of the circumstances with which she was blindly battling. she felt like retiring at once, for she was exhausted, but there was a fresh call upon her strength within a few minutes of the spy's departure. this time it was the man whom she knew only by his first name, "mike," who had been sent from the livery stable to take ivan to the wedding. he was an uncouth, illiterate young man, the most violent contrast imaginable to her recent visitor, but also the most welcome, for there could be no manner of doubt as to his simple honesty. clara found it a relief to talk with him apart from the fact that his message was one that stirred her with new hope and stimulated her weary brain to new plans for ivan's deliverance. "i was to say to ye," said mike, "how i'd had me eyes an' more, too, last night, on the feller what did the trick to me wheel." "oh, indeed!" exclaimed clara eagerly; "but what do you mean? did somebody send you to tell me?" "yes'm, me boss. i told me boss about it, an' he says you go to miss hilman with that, an' tell her all about it, an', says he, if it's anything that can be useful to her you can do, do it, says he." "you must thank him for me," said clara. "now tell me, please, how and where you saw this man, and what he said. i won't interrupt you." "it's not me as would like to tell you what he said, miss. he wasn't speakin' to a lady, an' i'm thinkin' a lady wouldn't 'a' give him the cause to curse as i did." mike grinned in enjoyment of some retrospect that clara thought she could imagine, and she smiled and waited patiently for him to tell his story in his own way. "it was last evenin', miss, at the corner of dover an' washington streets. i was done with me work for the day, an' was standin' in a saloon by the bar, havin' a drop of beer by myself, when this loafer came in. he stood alongside o' me an' called for something, i don't mind now what, for i was onto him, an' was thinkin' to meself would i thump him, or would i have an argyment. i was lookin' straight at him, me hand on me beer glass, an' i suppose he noticed me for that, for pretty soon he turns around an' with a kind of a start, 'hello!' says he. "now i don't know what would 'a' happened if he hadn't spoke, for i would 'a' spoke to him, an' it might 'a' been all the same, but i was that mad all of a sudden, that i let the beer fly in his face. with that he jumped on me an' we had a fine fight, till the bartenders came round an' chucked us both into the street. they was a policeman near by, so we quit fightin', an' went to another bar where we had a drink an' got friendly. he was already pretty full, miss, an' i was as sober as i am now, an' after three or four more drinks he got to talkin' confidential about that wheel." clara was on the qui vive with anxiety to know just what had occurred between mike and his acquaintance, while at the same time she felt repugnance to basing any serious efforts upon the words of a drunken man, as well as distrust as to the value of a clew from such a source; but she felt, too, that she could stop at nothing in the emergency that confronted her. so she asked, "what did he say, michael?" "first off he was for denyin' that he had anythin' to do with it; but bymeby, seein' as i wasn't mad any more, an' enjoyin' the trick of it himself, he told me he done it, an' i know what became of your man,' says he. 'an' what?' says i. with that, though, he shut up. he winked his eye, an' talked about somethin' else, an' i, not thinkin' or caring very much at the time, didn't ask many questions. but this mornin' i was thinkin' it over, an' wonderin' what became of th' gentleman, an' thinkin' there must be something crooked, or they wouldn't 'a' took me wheel off, an' so i told me boss an' he told me to tell you." "it was very kind of you both," said clara grateful, yet fearful that the point of most importance had been lost. "was his name billings?" "no'm, 'twas patterson. him an' me was together for some time after the fight, an' i walked along home with him." "you know where he lives then?" "not exactly, miss, but i could go pretty near to it. you see, we was goin' along washington street toward roxbury, and had come a long way from dover, when he turns down a side street, an' then another, an' i kep' along for i hadn't anything better to do. he'd been silent for a while, an' suddenly he stops an' says, tryin' hard to brace up. 'you mustn't come any further,' says he. 'why not?' says i, half minded to give him another lickin', only he was too full. ''cause me boss says he will----' but never mind what he said his boss would do. i said i didn't care, an' turned back. he went on, an' then i was minded to see where he went. of course it was dark, an' i couldn't be certain, but i think i could go straight to that building." "will you take me there?" asked clara. "now, miss?" clara reflected. other objections aside, it might be the worst possible policy to move prematurely in the matter. it might be a false clew, she knew nothing about the building, and meantime paul was following poubalov. much as she longed for immediate action, it seemed wiser to postpone it until an investigation could be made. "would your employer spare you to help me to-morrow forenoon?" she asked. "i think he would, miss. he told me to do what you said, says he----" "tell him, please, that i would like to have you go with me to-morrow as soon after nine o'clock as you can get here. i shall want you to show me the building, and identify the man patterson." "that i will, miss, if he's served you any trick." poubalov walked very rapidly after he left mr. pembroke's. he could have saved himself many steps by taking a street-car, but he evidently preferred energetic action. paul, following, took note, as litizki had done on a similar occasion, of the streets through which he passed, and at last he saw him pause and stand for several minutes at the curb, looking across the road at what seemed to be an old-fashioned hotel. after a time he walked slowly on, and soon thereafter was joined by a man with whom he conversed. paul went near enough to see the man's face, but he did not recognize him as anybody he had ever seen before. the conversation finished, poubalov continued on his way, again walking rapidly, but this time, after coming to washington street, he boarded a downtown car. an open car was directly behind it, and paul found a place on its front seat, thus being enabled to keep the spy in view until he alighted at scollay square. the guilty as well as the innocent must eat, and supper was the next thing to engage poubalov's attention. paul improved the opportunity in the same way, but he finished quickly, and waited a long time for the spy to come forth. he had been watching the restaurant entrance from a doorway across the street, and at last he ventured over to see whether possibly his quarry had escaped him. no; there sat poubalov, at a table not far from the door, his head bent down as if he were thinking profoundly. his supper lay almost untouched before him. just as paul looked in, the head waiter touched the customer on the shoulder. poubalov looked up with a start, and the head waiter seemed to be apologizing for his intrusion. it was clear that he had supposed the customer to be asleep, or ill. poubalov paid his check and left the place. he went to his lodging-house, and when paul saw that he had lit the gas, he, too, went inside. he locked the door immediately and applied his eye to the nail hole. poubalov sat with folded arms in an old-fashioned rocking chair, gazing abstractedly before him. on the little center table under the chandelier, paul could just distinguish clara's photograph. paul remained with his eye at the hole until it seemed as if he could stand no longer. in all that time poubalov had not moved perceptibly. the watcher got down and looked at his time-piece. it was half-past ten. he then sat with his head against the door that he might hear the slightest sound from the front room. just what possessed paul to be so vigilant on this occasion, when the spy was doing absolutely nothing but cudgel his inscrutable mind, he could not have told in less vague terms than that he didn't want poubalov to get away from him. if he were to take a nocturnal, or early morning ramble, paul purposed to be on hand to accompany him. something like a half hour passed, and then paul heard a long, heavy sigh, and the creak of the rocker as poubalov rose. quickly mounting his perch, paul saw him pace back and forth, his hands clinched behind him and his brow set in hard wrinkles. he seemed to be in for a night of it, and as his movement promised to be productive of nothing more than his quiescence, paul again dismounted and sat down. so monotonously did the march continue that the listener's head began to droop, lulled by the very sound he had set himself to hear, and had it not been for the extreme anxiety with which he had undertaken his task, paul would have fallen asleep. after twice catching himself nodding, he no longer dared to sit still. so he rose and stepped lightly about the room to start the blood in his drowsy limbs. the sound of marching ceased. poubalov had stopped under the chandelier, and when paul had him in view he was in the act of turning clara's photograph face down upon the table. he took out the leather pocketbook that had checked the dagger thrust by litizki's hand, and examined one of the documents in it attentively. it appeared to be of an official character, for there was a big seal upon it, and it was bound with ribbon. paul could see the holes made by the dagger in passing through the several folds of the paper, or parchment. poubalov laid the document upon the table, sat down, and, drawing fresh paper before him, began to write. his pen traversed the sheets with great rapidity, and as paul could hear the scratching plainly, he again sought relief from his uncomfortable perch. it was nearly one o'clock when the sound of writing ceased. paul saw that poubalov had removed his coat. what he had written was folded and placed in an envelope upon the table. the watcher supposed that the spy was about to retire, but there was so evidently something further upon poubalov's mind, something that he seemed to debate whether it were best done now, or in the morning, that paul kept his place and watched; and as he strained his eye to take in every movement, instinctively shading his face although he stood in the darkness, he saw poubalov draw a revolver from his hip-pocket. placing the hammer at half-cock, he tilted the barrel forward and pushed the cartridge cylinder about with his thumb and finger. every chamber seemed to be as he wished it, and he readjusted the barrel. then he walked to the bureau upon which swung a half-length mirror. his back was thus partially turned to the watcher, and paul could see dimly the reflection of his face looking somberly toward him. he held the revolver in his right hand, the finger on the trigger, the barrel pointed toward the floor. paul was in an agony of doubt and apprehension. what should he do? how long would poubalov stand there and allow him to reflect? would the spy, then, "get away," and by this manner of exit? with his left hand poubalov took his watch from his pocket. he glanced at the face of the busy and faithful little machine, and it was only too evident that he had set the limit of his life at some point that the moving hands would presently reach. chapter xxiv. the new clew. frantic with anxiety and dread, paul followed a sudden impulse and jumped to the floor, ran to the door that opened into the hall, unlocked and opened it and rushed out. he had a wild idea of bursting in the door of poubalov's room and wrestling with him if need be to take away the revolver and prevent suicide. he stopped, startled, just outside his door, for poubalov stood before him, the light from the chandelier streaming out upon him and showing him erect, alert, his revolver pointed directly at the watcher. "what is the matter?" asked poubalov, coolly. paul caught his breath and leaned upon the banister. "i was going out in a hurry and stumbled against a chair," he stammered. "strange time of night to do things in a hurry," remarked poubalov, still aiming his weapon at the young man; "do you belong here?" "yes; i moved in yesterday." poubalov stood a little aside to let the light fall more fully upon paul's face. "humph!" he said, lowering the revolver; then added, in russian, "you are paul palovna, intimate friend of ivan strobel." "yes," admitted paul, in the same language, "i am, and you are his deadly enemy.' "bah!" exclaimed poubalov in profound disgust, "you ought to know better. come in here--but no! you are in a hurry. go, then; i will talk to you another time." "better now, poubalov," returned paul, significantly, "one of us might be missing before another opportunity occurred. i am not so much in a hurry that i cannot listen to you." "no!" said the spy, decidedly, "go your way, and take this comfort with you, palovna, that you have done your friend strobel a service." he shrugged his shoulders and withdrew into his room and closed the door. paul went slowly down the stairs and opened the front door just as the landlady poked her head from her room on the ground floor and inquired in an agitated whisper, "whatever was the trouble?" "it is nothing," said paul, "i stumbled, and the gentleman in the front room mistook me for a burglar, i guess. sorry i disturbed you." "it's all right," whispered the landlady, "but i guess he must have scared you some. your face is as wet as if you'd been out in a rain." paul realized then to what a tense degree his nerves had been strained. perspiration seemed to be oozing from every pore. his knees felt weak and his head dizzy, but he kept in mind the part he was playing and left the house. however certain it was that poubalov would infer that strobel's intimate friend lodged there for the purpose of watching him, it would never do to openly admit the fact by returning immediately to his room. he went to the corner of bowdoin street, and back on the other side to a point directly opposite poubalov's windows. as he walked, one deep-toned stroke rang out from a neighboring church tower. if that was the hour poubalov had set for putting a bullet into his heart, he had let it pass without taking action. paul kept his eyes upon the curtained windows behind which the chandelier light still glowed, and longed to be back at his peephole, watching the spy. yet there was nothing that he could do if he were there. he had seen the one great incident in poubalov's career come to its climax upon the awful verge of tragedy; and he felt that as the spy's life trembled in the balance, the weight had been thrown into the scale for prolonging it by his impulsive jump from the chair on which he had been viewing the scene. not that poubalov was hesitating; his was the nerve to pull the trigger with the precision and steadiness of a marksman when the appointed time came; but the shock of irrelevant circumstances had been just what was needed to release the morbid pressure of gloomy contemplation from the brain, and restore it to its normal activity. thus paul reflected, with his eyes upon the lighted windows. a party of roysterers swung into the place, singing discordantly. one of them fell at the corner of bowdoin street, and his companions helped him up with drunken jeers and laughter. paul had turned his head to watch them, and when he looked again at the lodging-house across the way, all the windows were dark. poubalov had gone to bed. as faithful as the unfortunate litizki to his task, paul sat up all that night. when drowsiness overcame him, he bathed his face and head with water, or walked gently about the room. he smoked all the cigarettes in his possession, for the sake of having something to do, and when his stock was exhausted, he went to a neighboring "all-night" restaurant and bought a handful of cigars. he listened through the hours for any suggestive sound from the front room, but, beyond an occasional deep breath, he heard nothing. poubalov slept well. it was not until the day, reckoning by the light, was well advanced, that the spy rose and dressed. while he was still busy with his toilet, a messenger called and left a note for paul with word to the scrub-woman who was already at work, that it was to be delivered at once. it was from clara. "a new clew," she wrote, "and the most promising one thus far, has been brought to me this evening. i need help in following it to the end. owing to my uncle's indisposition, i do not feel like even telling him about it, much less asking him to give me his time. can you come? i know you are doing much, and quite likely taking time that you ought to devote to work, but i ask some further assistance, nevertheless, knowing that it is not necessary for me to plead. this is so important that i believe you can leave poubalov for a while, no matter what he is doing. please come by nine o'clock if you possibly can." paul had great faith in clara, although he had not known with sufficient detail of her recent work to give her judgment all the credit that it deserved, and so he found himself in an annoying quandary. to him it seemed essential to follow poubalov now that he was well in view. he felt, too, some disappointment at being called away without being able to feel that his night had been spent sleeplessly to some purpose. it could not be that clara had discovered anything of great importance compared to the developments that would probably follow a patient tracking of poubalov's footsteps during the day. why hadn't she mentioned what her clew was? no, she depended upon him to obey her implicitly, as if he had no more discretion than litizki. if paul was a bit unreasonable and restive, let it be charged against his fatigue. few men can keep an even temper when the nerves are unstrung and the whole body cries for rest. poubalov saved him from the error, if so it was, of disregarding clara's wishes. it came about in this way: paul climbed to his observation perch, to see how matters stood in the next room. poubalov had opened the envelope containing the papers he had been at work upon during the midnight hour, and was now destroying them, burning them one sheet at a time over the wash-bowl that he had set upon the center table. he was fully dressed, even to the hat on his head, and paul carefully replaced the nail which protected his peephole. he stood by the chair with clara's letter in his hand, still undecided what course to take, when there was a knock at his door. he opened, and poubalov stood there. "you can spare the time now, i suppose?" he said inquiringly with a grim glance at the valentine hanging from the improvised hook. paul saw that his ruse was discovered, but he followed the spy into the front room, his heart beating high with expectation. "there is never an effect without a cause, young man," remarked poubalov, motioning paul to a chair; "the effect was sufficient for me last night, and so far as your act deserves it, you have my thanks. this morning i sought the cause, and of course, i found it. do not be disturbed. i have no reproaches to make. you imagined yourself at war with me, and you took your own methods to win. there is nothing to complain of in that; but you, as a russian of intelligence, should have known that i could not be as hostile as you think to an american citizen. bah! it's not worth discussing! you've all lost your heads. "what i have to say is this: i am on duty for the czar, and having recovered from my dangerous temptation to be derelict, i shall do what duty demands, without let or hindrance from anybody. i will tolerate no interference, no matter whose fair lips give the command. when that little wretch, litizki, was in that chair where you are now sitting, i sought to influence him by threats against himself. i don't take that method with you, paul palovna. if you choose to do so, you can dog my footsteps from now on, for i presume your american laws will not protect me in my desire to work undisturbed; but bear in mind that i have no more love for ivan strobel now than i ever had, and if i see fit to release him, it must be i, alexander poubalov, who chooses to do so of his own free will. do you understand me?" "sufficiently to see that you would frighten me from my course by threats against the man whom you have in your power, and whom i am trying to rescue." "you do well," continued poubalov; "and if you are in any doubt as to whether i am in earnest, i advise you to report what i have said, and what you saw in this room last night, to miss hilman. she will tell you whether i am likely to be gratuitously merciful. spy upon me, therefore, if you like. i shall know that you defy me, and you will have to bear the consequences. shall we breakfast together, paul palovna?" paul ignored the ironical invitation, which was poubalov's way of saying that he has said his say, and remarked: "i also have a suggestion to make." poubalov raised his brows in contemptuous surprise that anything could be added to his statement of the situation. "you have spoken of american law," said paul, "and i simply suggest that the friends of strobel may to-day resort to law to obtain his freedom. i don't know how much you may have said to litizki and miss hilman, but you have made some damaging admissions to me." "really! is that all you can think of? it's hardly worth a reply, but i will suggest in return that what you call my admissions are your own inferences, nothing more. ask the nearest police captain, or, better, go to the public prosecutor with your imaginings. i will tell you that there isn't a scrap of evidence on which to base my arrest, for that, of course, is what you aim at. you are more of a child than i thought you were, with all your petty contrivances for peeping upon a russian official. au revoir, palovna." paul went downstairs in a rage, impressed, as all were whoever came in contact with this remarkable man, with poubalov's faculty for gaining and keeping a masterful control over the situation. the worst of it was, the spy was probably entirely in the right so far as law was concerned. as well arrest himself, palovna, as this foreigner who had shown his interest in the strobel case in eccentric ways, perhaps, but who could not be charged with criminality, unless possibly by litizki, and the tailor had himself made it impossible that he should be of any further service. there seemed to be no course open to him but to respect clara's wishes, and, accordingly, out to roxbury he went. he arrived at mr. pembroke's house just before nine o'clock, and found clara waiting for him, dressed to go out. they exchanged information while waiting for mike to come, clara telling about the discovery of patterson, and paul giving a guarded account of poubalov's contemplated suicide. he tried to spare clara the horrors of the scene, but he felt that she ought to know how deeply in earnest poubalov was, that she might the more correctly judge him and estimate the value of his threats. "it must have been a dreadful moment," she said when he had finished, "and i am glad that another tragedy has been averted. it is hard to believe that he will go to extreme measures--but what am i saying? what has he not done that is cruel, barbarous and wicked? how can i expect anything but unmixed evil from such a man? i believe it is well that for a time we can appear to withdraw our observations of him." mike was late, but when he did come he came with a coupé. "me boss said, miss," he explained, "that if there was to be any travelin', you was to ride as far an' as long as you liked, with his compliments." "your employer is very kind," said clara. "this gentleman, mr. palovna, will go with me, and if he asks you to do anything, you needn't wait for my consent. we will go straight to the place where you left patterson. stop there, and point out the house you think he went into, but don't drive up to it." when they were in the coupé, clara continued to paul: "i have no definite plan as to patterson. that must develop when we find him. if he can be cajoled, bribed or frightened into telling us the truth, it must be done. i don't see that we are called upon to make nice discriminations in our methods." "any way is fair in dealing with a criminal," returned paul. "humph!" "what is it?" asked clara, observing that he began to take a lively interest in the street through which they were passing. "it may be only a coincidence," said paul, "but it just occurred to me that thus far mike has taken us over exactly the same course that poubalov pursued when i followed him last evening." "i presume it's not a coincidence," responded clara, and she thought of litizki's passionate words: "if ever anything is discovered, you discover poubalov's hand in it." step by step the coupé followed poubalov's line of march, and when it drew up at last, it was at the very corner where paul had seen the spy talking with the stranger. mike got down and opened the door, and as he spoke, clara looked out in the direction in which he pointed. "this was where patterson shook me, miss," he said, "an' i seen him go along down the street an' cross over just below there an' go into a house--that one, i think, with the balcony along the front, the one a gentleman is just comin' out of." clara drew back into the coupé hastily. the gentleman coming from the house in question was poubalov, and he was walking toward them. chapter xxv. a stubborn antagonist. "stay just where you are, michael," exclaimed clara, "and don't let that man see your face." mike did as directed, pushing his head and shoulders far into the coupé and whispering: "it isn't him, is it, miss, who's got anything to do with the case?" "yes," she replied in a low tone, while she and paul kept as far back in the gloom of the carriage as they could; "have you ever seen him before?" "yes'm, he was down to the stables the day this gentleman called, askin' would i know the man who did the trick to me wheel." "it was a ruse," muttered paul; "he pretended to investigate in the same spirit that i did so as to throw suspicion from himself. if he has anything like the perceptions that we think he has, he will recognize this rig. isn't it the same, mike, with which you started to take mr. strobel to his wedding?" "identical, sir, horse an' all." poubalov had passed them during this brief conversation, and as none of them had ventured to look at him, they could not tell whether or not he recognized the turnout. they could hear his rapid steps as he strode along, and there was certainly no pause to indicate that he had seen anything that surprised or interested him. "i must know where he goes," said clara. "get on the box, michael, and drive after him without letting him see, if you can help it, that you are following him. let us know if he enters any house, but do not stop in front of it." "yes'm," replied mike, closing the door. he turned the vehicle about and drove slowly to the corner. poubalov had paused, ostensibly to buy a paper at a news-stand a little way up the street. he glanced back at the approaching vehicle, shrugged his shoulders, and moved on as rapidly as before. mike reported this to clara a few minutes later, when he had seen poubalov board a scollay square car. "he is satisfied that we are following him, then," said clara, and she felt afraid as she recalled the threats that the spy had uttered to paul. would he proceed promptly to put into execution whatever design he might have for injuring ivan? would not the disappointed passion that had led him to all but the commission of suicide now prompt him to murder his prisoner? clara sank back and covered her face with her hands, completely unnerved for the moment by the seeming imminence of catastrophe. "when will the end come!" she moaned. mike looked on in honest and surprised distress, and paul himself, knowing as he did the reasons for her excess of fear, was at his wits' end to suggest comfort. clara uncovered her eyes suddenly. they blazed with new determination. "michael," she cried, "could you overtake the car he is on?" "i could try it, miss, but he's got a pretty good start." "try it, then. don't spare the horse for just this once. if you come near to catching up, and he looks around, then drive more slowly, as if you were not able to keep up the pace, and finally stop altogether, let the car get away, and i'll tell you what to do next. hurry!" mike did hurry. the coupé started with a jolt as he lashed his astonished horse into a gallop. "what's your plan, miss hilman?" asked paul, who was at a loss to account for this projected maneuver. "the man wants us to follow him," she replied, turning upon her companion almost fiercely in the intensity of her excitement. "he would lead us away from the scene of his operations, don't you see? since he has discovered that you have been watching him, he has thought it all over, and he has concluded that it is more than likely that you tracked him to that street, for that was the street, wasn't it? of course! then he would naturally expect me to go there. i don't dream that he foresaw meeting us just now, but what i do believe to be the case is, that finding that house insecure for his purpose, he is now planning to remove his prisoner, and happening upon us as he did, he will do what he can to lead us away from it. don't you see?" "it sounds reasonable; and you plan, then, to make a pretense at a desperate effort to catch up with him, and when he has got away a considerable distance, to return to the house and investigate." "that's it," and clara again sank back, but this time her face expressed energy and confidence in success. "i wonder how we are getting on," she said after a moment. they were dashing along washington street now at a furious rate, attracting attention from all passers. paul tried to look ahead, but he could not do so without leaning far out of the coupé, and that did not seem to be advisable. "never mind," said clara; "i think the driver can be trusted to play his part, if his horse doesn't play it for him by falling down from exhaustion. by the way, i had a letter from o'brien this morning. you don't know who he is, do you? he is the employee at the park square station who saw billings drive up, and who says that a man left the carriage and went into the station. the detectives, you know, supposed that man to be ivan. it's a small point, but o'brien very kindly wrote to me when he discovered it. he says he was talking about the case with a fellow-workman who remembered the occurrence, and who says that shortly after billings was seen by o'brien, a closed carriage stopped at the columbus avenue entrance to the station, near the baggage rooms, you know, and that a man left the station and got in. of course that was the carriage billings drove, and the man was doubtless the same who got out at the front entrance. he had simply walked through the station, mingled with the crowd, perhaps going so far as to buy a ticket for new york, and then had rejoined his driver. doesn't it seem clear?" "it's a perfectly plausible explanation of the point, but it's a pity o'brien's friend didn't turn up with it sooner. you might have been saved your journey to new york." "i'm not sure about that. i am not sorry that i saw lizzie white, although i never felt for an instant that ivan had eloped." the coupé was still rattling onward at the highest speed the horse could attain, but a moment after clara had finished, it came to a sudden halt, and they heard a stern voice saying: "you know better than to drive so fast in the street! i've a great mind to take you in." mike was protesting in characteristic fashion, inventing something about the necessity of catching a train, when clara opened the coupé door and stepped out. a policeman stood at the horse's head, glaring with offended dignity at the driver. "if there is any fault it is mine, officer," she said sweetly; "please scold me, for i told him to drive as fast as he could." "that don't make no difference, ma'am," returned the policeman, instantly mollified, but still feeling it incumbent upon him to assert the majesty of municipal ordinances; "he's a regular, and he knew better. 'tain't allowed to go so fast anywhere in boston 'less it's on a race track." "i'm very sorry," said clara. "go on with you," commanded the policeman to mike, "and be a little more careful. it would be rough on me, you see," he added to clara, "if i wasn't to stop him." mike looked inquiringly down at his passenger. "come to the door a minute, michael," she said, and returned to the coupé. "that cop's too fresh to live," remarked mike as he put his head in to receive instructions. "were we anywhere near the car?" asked clara. "yes'm, we was most onto it, an' i was just goin' to pull up a bit when the cop got in his work." "could you see the man we were after?" "yes'm; he turned round, an' i guess he saw what the cop did, but i lost sight of him tryin' to keep me horse from treadin' on the cop's toes." "it's just as well, then," said clara, satisfied. "i'm rather glad the policeman stopped us, for now poubalov will be certain why it was that we didn't catch up. you needn't hurry so now, michael; drive back to the place where we started from." "where patterson shook me, miss? all right. i'm on," and he clambered back to the box. nothing occurred to disturb their return journey, and when mike again opened the door for instructions, clara and paul got out. "we will go straight to the house and inquire for patterson," said clara, "and if we don't find him there, we'll ask all along the street." "whist, miss!" exclaimed mike, in his eagerness gripping her arm; "there goes patterson now!" "where?" she cried, looking, of course, in the wrong direction. "below there, him on the box of the closed carriage, miss. on my soul, it looks like the same----" "follow it quick, michael," she said excitedly. "come, paul!" and she sprang into the coupé. "i'll sit on the box with mike," answered paul, tremendously aroused; he was already climbing to a place beside the driver; "from here i can act quicker. hit her up, mike!" so off they went on another pursuit, mike treating his horse to more lash than he had ever experienced before. "i don't believe you'll need to go so fast as to risk arrest," said paul; "patterson probably don't suspect that we are after him, and it would be better to go a little slower than to be stopped again by a policeman." "i almost ran down one cop who tried to make me pull up before," responded mike, through set teeth, "an' i wouldn't mind bein' took in myself if it wasn't for spoilin' the game. i'll look sharp, sir, never fear." patterson and his carriage had disappeared around a corner almost before the coupé had started, but they were soon in view again, jogging forward at a rather lively rate several blocks ahead. "will i overhaul him, sir, right away?" asked mike. "i could do it by driving like sin." "don't risk it," answered paul; "as long as he is in sight, i shan't worry if we gain a little at every block. let's not drive fast enough to attract attention, for we may have a row when we catch him, and the less crowd around the better." "if there's to be a fight," said mike, with a hopeful grin, "i can do patterson. i'm not even with him yet for doin' the trick to me wheel." "all right. if it comes to a scrimmage, you look after him, and i'll try to attend to the passengers. i'll tell you just what we suspect, so that you can understand what you are to do. if we're not mistaken, mr. strobel is in that carriage, helplessly bound. there may be another man with him. in any case, we must get strobel away and put him in the coupé. when that is done, you drive straight to mr. pembroke's. don't wait for miss hilman or me if we don't happen to get in. we'll take care of ourselves. you look out for mr. strobel. call the police to help if you need to, for we've nothing to fear from the law." "i'm on," said mike. the chase went on to the perfect satisfaction of palovna, who, with growing excitement, saw the distance between him and patterson's carriage gradually decreasing. his one fear now was that strobel would be found to be seriously injured, and he felt a great dread lest poubalov in his madness had killed him! he would not dwell upon this thought, however, concentrating all his force on the struggle that would probably ensue when the closed carriage was at last overtaken. they were now in washington street, and again going toward the city. patterson was less than a block away. "give it to him now, mike," said paul; "get right alongside and make him pull up." mike nodded and gave his horse a smart cut with the whip. he sprang forward at a gallop. patterson was driving near the curb, and mike took the outside. he drove close beside the closed carriage, in order to "pocket" his adversary and so compel him to pull up. the maneuver succeeded admirably. taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of a rapidly galloping horse very near his wheels, patterson reined his pair nearer to the curb, uttering an impatient curse at the carelessness of the other driver. mike forced him over still further, and patterson was compelled in self-defense to stop. as he did so he turned his head to tell mike what he thought of him, and paul recognized the stranger whom he had seen in conversation with poubalov. the two drivers exchanged angry words that would look rather worse in print, if possible, than they sounded, and paul lost no time in descending to the ground. the vehicles were too close together to admit of going between them, so he ran around to the sidewalk and wrenched open the carriage door. then he stood stock still. the carriage was empty. clara was beside him in an instant, and though her face fell, she exclaimed: "shut the door and stop the quarrel. i must speak to patterson." everything had happened so quickly that the two drivers were still on their respective boxes, making remarks to each other, when paul stopped upon the wheel beside patterson and said: "mike, drive up to the curb just in front of us. get down, patterson. we've something to say to you." patterson looked down in surprise, glanced at clara, shook his head and gathered up the reins for a fresh start. paul sprang from the wheel and caught the horses by the bits before they had taken a step. mike was carrying out instructions and was then just abreast of him. "mike!" said paul in a loud voice, "don't stop, but pick up the first policeman you can find and bring him here in a hurry! we'll talk to this man in a cell if he won't wait here." patterson was unquestionably alarmed at this. "what is it you want?" he asked in a surly tone. "get down, and the lady there will tell you," answered paul. patterson prepared to obey, but just then a south-bound car stopped near them, and poubalov alighted. he came rapidly toward the group, his dark face darker yet with passion. "stay on the box!" he commanded. he took off his hat, bowed stiffly to clara, with one hand on the carriage door, and said: "this is my carriage, miss hilman. drive on, james," and before even quick-witted clara could interpose a restraining word, the door had closed upon poubalov, and the carriage rolled away. chapter xxvi. hide and seek. clara's face was deathly pale, and in her heart anger burned as hotly at poubalov's ceremonious insolence as it ached with this fresh blow to her hopes. paul, blue with despair, feared for her, but she had not yet met the emergency that was too great for her to contend with, however unsuccessful she might be. "we must waste no time here!" she cried stepping quickly forward to the coupé. "return to that house, paul, and search it; do what you think is best, according to developments. i am going to pursue poubalov as i said i would. if i do not hear from you before the day is over, paul, i shall go to that house myself. if you have to go downtown, leave word at mrs. white's. keep that carriage in view, michael, but don't try to overtake it. good-by, paul!" her voice quivered with the desperation that had driven the tears to the brink of her eyes, and she hastily entered the coupé and pulled down the window curtains. thus shut out from view, she gave way freely to her overstrained emotions, her soul seeming to be borne along on a rushing torrent of grief, and she felt that appalling desire, than which there is no more shocking experience of the heart, to throw herself into the arms of the lost loved one and find comfort there. it was a great day for sturdy mike. the regret that he hadn't had time just now to "lambast" his friend patterson, was sweetly assuaged by the fact that he was still pursuing the loafer who did the trick to his wheel, and the hope that another opportunity would soon offer for a fine fight. the chase exhilarated him, and the thought that he was called upon to champion a beautiful woman, made his fists ache to do valiant service upon somebody's head, patterson's preferred, and he thumped his knees gently with his knuckles by way of practice, and kept his horse at a brisk trot a few rods behind poubalov's carriage. he was quite confident that he could "do" both driver and passenger if such a thing were necessary, and he longed heartily for an occasion to demand a trial of his prowess. after having traversed a considerable distance, he pulled up, got down and gently opened the door. "whist, miss," he said, "they've stopped entirely." "where are we, and where are they?" asked clara, now her composed self again. "in scollay square," answered mike, "and they're just foreninst the crawford house. the gentleman's talkin' to patterson. now he's lookin' at me, bad luck to him!" "i don't wish to come up to him," said clara; "if he comes this way i shall be glad. you must have no fear if we talk angrily together." "i'd like to----" began mike, significantly. "yes, i know you would," she interrupted, "but we must have no trouble unless i give the word. i might do so if i thought a policeman would arrest him, and not you." "as to that, miss," said mike, ruefully, "any copper's more likely to pull in the poor cab-driver instead of the fine gentleman. my brother's on the force, an' if we was only on his beat, now!" "tell me what they are doing, please." "the gentleman is going into the hotel. patterson is starting away. shall i follow him?" clara reflected just an instant. "no," she answered. "stay here. i'm not going to pursue another empty carriage." "huh!" chuckled mike, "you're a keen one, sure, for that's just what he's wantin' you to do. patterson has turned down hanover street." "we'll wait until he comes back," said clara, "if we have to spend the rest of the day here; but you watch the hotel--stay! there's a side entrance to the crawford house, isn't there? can you place the coupé where you can see both doors?" "yes, but i don't know how long the police will let me stay there." "try it, please. if they make you move on, drive around the square and come back." mike accordingly drove up to the curb of tremont row, where he could look down brattle street. no policeman had disturbed him before patterson turned from cornhill into the square. he had driven around a few blocks, evidently for the purpose of testing the design of his pursuers. clara wondered why poubalov should permit such a chase to continue. it would have seemed more like him to come to her with some of his characteristic sophistry, and either appear to yield, or adopt an entirely different course. it must be that he had some plan in view to the execution of which patterson and his closed carriage were essential. patterson drove to the front entrance of the hotel and waited, casting ugly glances across the square at mike, who grinned complacently and shook his fist. after a moment poubalov came out, entered the carriage, and patterson promptly drove away. it was plain as day that he had received his instructions while poubalov stood on the side-walk at the time of their arrival there. he was to see whether clara would persist in her pursuit, and if so he was to--and that remained to be seen. mike speedily resumed the reins, and again the chase was in progress. patterson went down hanover street, and, without any apparent effort to distance his pursuer, kept on until he came to fleet street, which leads to one of the east boston ferries. he turned in there, and mike lost a little by reason of a temporary jam of vehicles. as soon as he was out of it, he too went through fleet street, and saw, to his satisfaction, that patterson was still but a short distance ahead. with painful anxiety, however, he saw that patterson was making for the ferry, before which a rapidly increasing line of vehicles stood waiting for a chance to cross. mike whipped up energetically, and managed to beat several drays and express wagons on the way in, and when at last he had to pull up and take his place in line, patterson's was the carriage directly in front of him. "smart, ain't ye, ye loafer!" said mike, disdainfully. patterson did not notice this remark, or any other of the many with which mike assailed him while they waited for an incoming boat to discharge its cargo. when at length the gates were opened for the waiting vehicles, mike was on the alert to take advantage of any opening that might occur to enable him to forge ahead, but none occurred. policemen and ferry officials kept the teams to their places, and if mike had attempted a trick, he would have been compelled to go back, and thus lose more than he could have gained. one by one the carriages and wagons went on board, and just after patterson had passed the barrier the gates were closed. "hold on there!" howled mike, beside himself with disappointment and rage, "don't yees see i've got to get aboard?" the gateman laughed and told him to make himself easy; and patterson, from his place at the very stern of the ferryboat, stood up in his seat and beckoned to mike ironically. the unhappy chap fumed in vain and got down to tell clara about it. "we're shook, miss, shook entirely," he said despondently. when clara understood the unfortunate meaning of his words, and saw that poubalov had won in another skirmish, she herself was in a quandary. "there are two ferries, aren't there?" she asked. "aren't they near enough together on this side to make it possible to watch both for their return? for, of course, they haven't gone to east boston for any other purpose than to come back here again unperceived." "that might possibly be done, miss," said mike, after a look at the jam of vehicles behind him, "but we're in for a trip across anyways, for i couldn't turn 'round now. an' then, d'ye see, there's more ways to get back from east boston. they might go over to chelsea, an' come back by that ferry, or take a run around by road and bridge, so you'd best give 'em up as lost, miss, an' it's sorry i am to tell you so." "well," said clara sighing, "if we have to cross, we can make inquiries on the other side, and possibly come up with them again. we'll try it." inquiries on the east boston side were vain when they landed there ten minutes later. no one to whom they spoke could remember whether a carriage such as they described had been across or not. one man, anxious to parade information that he did not possess, thought vaguely that the carriage might have gone thus and so, and clara instructed mike to drive that way a short distance, and then to return to boston by the other ferry. this was done, and all trace of poubalov having been lost, and but one more hope remaining to her--paul's investigation of the house in roxbury--she directed mike to drive to ashburton place. paul had arrived at mrs. white's a few minutes ahead of her. "i waited for you," he said in a disheartened voice, "because i'm completely at a loss what to do next, not because i have anything of importance to say." "everything is of importance, paul," replied clara, finding herself now called upon to inspire her allies with courage as well as give them ideas. "you went to that quaint-looking house, of course?" "yes, it's an abandoned tavern--that is, it was formerly run as a hotel, but the enterprise was a failure, and it is now closed. i learned that much from a man who was passing while i stood under the balcony, waiting for somebody to answer my ring. he remarked that he didn't believe i'd find anybody at home, as the house had been practically deserted for some time." "but we saw poubalov come out of there this morning," urged clara. "i said as much to my informant, but he answered that it was probably somebody who had been looking it over with a view to purchase. of course we know better, but it goes to show that neither patterson nor anybody else lives there." "except ivan, if he still lives," said clara gravely. "don't think i forgot that possibility," returned paul, earnestly. "i quietly tried the door after my informant had passed on; he didn't know the name of the owner, by the way. of course the door was locked. i went around to the side and back, for there is a driveway there leading to stables that are apparently as little used as the tavern itself. every door and every window was closed. i knocked and shouted, and then neighbors put their heads out of windows and advised me that i was making a noise to no purpose. if it had been night i would have burst open a door or window, and have gone through the house from roof to cellar, but that plan is rather impracticable by daylight." "i wonder," said clara, "if the law would allow a search of that building. i mean something to be done officially. i've heard of search-warrants." "it's barely possible, and you might try it; but my idea, such as it is, would be to go there quietly to-night ourselves, and force an entrance." "and in either case poubalov might return during the day, and effect a change in the situation that would make the search useless." "yes," said paul, gloomily, "i had thought of that." "the house must be watched this afternoon," said clara, decidedly, "but it is my very distinct impression that poubalov will go to his lodging before he returns to roxbury. it seems to me he must have been on his way there when he was compelled to make a long detour to elude us. and that means that i think his lodging should be watched as carefully as the abandoned tavern. will you pass the afternoon in your room, paul?" "certainly, unless there is a better way of watching there. you must remember that poubalov has discovered my peephole." "then," said clara, "we will borrow the little front hall room occupied by the young lady. let us go down at once." on this occasion mrs. white had left them to themselves, much to clara's relief, for she would not have cared again to discuss her plans in the good lady's presence. it was not that she distrusted mrs. white's intentions, but she had proven before that she was exceedingly pliable in poubalov's hands. as they were ready to go, clara sought mrs. white to say good-by. "i'm sorry you are going so soon," said the landlady; "i thought you and mr. palovna would want a long talk, and so i busied myself in the kitchen, for fear i couldn't help interrupting to tell you my own good news. i expect lizzie home to-night." "do you, indeed?" exclaimed clara; "i am really very glad for you." "it seems better, doesn't it?" continued mrs. white, anxious to talk to somebody, and eager for sympathy; "she hasn't told me a word in her letters about why she went away, but, of course, i suspected; and i think from the way she writes in the letter i got this morning that she feels better, poor thing! at any rate, she's coming, and i feel very happy, and i should be perfectly content if only you could be happy, too, miss hilman." "that seems almost an impossible boon for me now," replied clara, gently; "i shall come to see you and your daughter if she would like to have me." "i am sure she would, miss hilman. must you hurry?" every minute seemed so precious to clara that she almost begrudged the brief interval spent in this exchange of courtesies. on the way to bulfinch place she told paul again that she should manage to watch the tavern during the afternoon, "but," she added, "you are most likely to meet important developments, and you will know where to find me, either near the tavern, or at my uncle's. i shall try to watch the tavern in such a way as not to frighten off poubalov should he wish to go in, but once he should enter, i shall follow him, you may be sure." at the lodging-house clara made herself known to the occupant of the front hall room, who was at the time home for luncheon. clara talked with her apart at length, telling her in a general way of her troubles, but not indicating her plans in detail. the young woman had not come in contact with poubalov at all, it seemed. she hardly knew that he was a lodger in the house, and the upshot of it was that her sympathies were aroused, and paul was installed in her room, where he could keep watch upon the roadway through the slats of the closed blinds. so once more clara bade him good-by, and set forth on her own task. paul did not venture to keep himself awake by smoking in the young lady's room, and he therefore had a dreadfully hard time of it, for the entire afternoon passed without an event of any kind to break the monotony of his watch. the young lady returned at six o'clock, and looked in for a moment before going to dinner. after that she sat gossiping with the landlady. the sun set and twilight gathered, and paul began to fear that poubalov had changed his quarters without giving notice; but just before it was too dark to distinguish faces in the street below, a carriage stopped before the door and paul saw that patterson sat on the box. chapter xxvii. behind closed doors. "about this hour, one week ago to-day," thought clara as she took her place again in the coupé, "i should have been getting into a carriage at the church door, with ivan, as his wife! what an eternity seems to have passed since then! will the search and the waiting never end?" there were no tears now, no disposition to give way. the dull ache at her heart was there, and it seemed as if it would stay forever, but all emotion now was held in check by her determination not to let the day pass without a decisive investigation of this latest clew that had so far led to so much racing about, and thus far, too, to the utter defeat of her every plan. "where to, miss?" asked mike who had been standing at the coupé door. clara had forgotten him for the moment, forgotten even where she was. aroused to the work in hand, she debated for about one second whether to appeal to a lawyer to get a search-warrant for her. she dismissed the suggestion as likely to involve too much delay. she had never had any experience in law suits, but she had that general conviction due to the accepted phrase "the law's delay," that no one should resort to the courts unless there were ample time and to spare. "we will go first to my uncle's house," she said, "and i would like to have you take such a route that you will pass the house where we saw poubalov and patterson this forenoon." "an' i s'pose i'm to let you know if i see what's-his-name or patterson on the way?" "by all means! do not stop unless you do." the half hour's drive to roxbury was without adventure. clara now had the curtains of the coupé up, and she glanced from side to side through the windows as they rolled along, ever alert to catch any sign of her adversaries. the old tavern looked, indeed, deserted. it needed but a touch of moss or ivy, to suggest a ruin, for it was not only an ancient building, but sadly out of repair as well. after they had passed beyond it a little way, clara signaled to mike to stop. "i dare not leave this place unguarded a moment," she said; "there is no telling when poubalov will return, but i must go home for a very short time, or there will be anxiety and perhaps search for me. suppose you stay here till i come back. it won't take me long if i go by car. please, michael, don't do anything rash. there was another good fellow, not so sensible as you, poor man! who tried to help me, and he got himself into dreadful trouble over it. this man, poubalov, is a terrible enemy, michael." "is he the sort that carries a gun in one pocket and a razor in another?" asked mike with perfect seriousness. "he goes well armed," replied clara, earnestly, "and he has neither conscience nor fear. you know what i want to accomplish, michael, but if any life is risked to save another's, it must be mine. i shall be very much displeased if anything serious happens while i am gone. wait for me, sure." "all right, miss," said mike, resignedly; "if anything happens after you get back, though, you bet i'll take a hand in!" and if there had been any temptation for a scrimmage during clara's absence, there is no manner of doubt that mike would have taken part in it in spite of her injunctions. clara found louise in a very nervous condition. "i have not been so much worried about you, dear," she said, "for i have learned to feel confidence that you can take care of yourself. still i am relieved to see you safe again. my chief anxiety is about papa. i am afraid there is something very troublesome in his business, and that he is breaking down under the strain." "i know that his business has been troubling him very much of late," responded clara, "for he told me so, and any one could see that he is much disturbed; but how has he shown it to-day? i didn't see him at breakfast, you know." "no, he hurried to his office, as he told me later, to get some important mail. i didn't notice anything beyond his usual nervous manner--that is, his recent manner, at breakfast time, but about half an hour after you had gone he returned in great haste and inquired for you. i told him you had gone with paul and another man who had given you a clew, and that i couldn't tell when you would return. he seemed very much disappointed, and walked up and down the room several times. i asked him if he had any news about ivan. he answered abruptly: 'i think so. i must see clara.'" startled by hope and fear at once, clara sank into a chair. "oh, dear!" exclaimed louise in dismay, "don't please break down now, for that isn't all, and i am so afraid you'll need all your strength to-day." "i am strong," said clara, resolutely, but it was all she could do to keep her voice steady; "this day will see the end one way or another, and i am prepared for it." "i begged papa to tell me what he had heard, but he refused to do so, almost roughly, too. 'tell her to wait when she comes in,' he said, and he went out again. he came back at luncheon time looking dreadfully excited. his first words were an inquiry for you. the perspiration rolled down his face as he tried to be calm. he couldn't eat or keep still. i tried to soothe him, but he wouldn't let me. then i insisted that he tell me what he had heard. 'i haven't heard anything,' he answered excitedly; 'who said i had? i only surmise. i must see clara.' we both supposed you would come home to luncheon, and he waited for you as long as his impatience would let him. he went away about fifteen minutes ago, telling me again to have you wait for him. i am dreadfully alarmed." "so am i," said clara in a low voice. she was beginning to feel a sense of confusion, and she had to think hard to convince herself that she had really left paul on guard at bulfinch place and michael in the street near the old tavern. it seemed to her essential that she should be in both places, and here at home also. she had intended to seek her uncle's assistance in any event, and now he was vainly looking for her with some manner of important and, it seemed likely, bad news. "i am faint," she added after a moment; "perhaps i can think better if i have a cup of tea." louise hastened to give the orders to the servant, and a few minutes later clara ate and drank. it was well that she thought of luncheon, well that she could eat, for her vital energies had been severely drawn on, and there was much more ahead of her to do. after she had refreshed herself she said: "i cannot wait for uncle. i don't know what is the most important thing to do, but i feel that i must not wait here. i will send michael, the cabman, back. please see that he has luncheon, and keep him here until uncle returns. then send him for me. he will know where to find me, and i promise to come home at once unless--well, send him to me, and i will return if i can." louise was tearful at clara's departure, but she did not try to detain her. it would have done no good, and she knew it. when clara found mike faithfully on guard just where she had left him, she told him her programme, and together they hunted for a place from which she could keep her eyes on the old tavern, unobserved by poubalov, should he return. they found it in the sitting-room of a house across the way, the mistress of which, a plain, practical woman who knew the woes of economy, was not averse to renting for a few hours the apartment she seldom had time to use, and never on a monday. this done, mike drove to mr. pembroke's and hitched his horse at the gate, with its nose in a feed-bag. the young man made short work of the luncheon louise had prepared for him, and then promptly fell asleep over the book she gave him to while away time with. no good end will be served by reviewing the lonely hours of clara's vigil. it was with her, as with paul, a monotonous period, far harder to endure, in some senses, than the exciting and exacting experiences of the forenoon. it will be enough, then, to say that when mike came in the edge of the evening to tell her that her uncle was at home, she had seen no sign of poubalov or patterson, or of life in the ancient tavern. reluctantly she quitted her post, because nothing had happened, willingly because she hoped for definite information of some kind from her uncle. the coupé was at the door. "will you want me longer, miss?" asked mike as she came out, prepared to go home. "i suppose you ought to go," answered clara, doubtfully. "i dunno," said mike, in the same manner; "me boss will be wonderin' what's become of the rig." the long day, spent so far as he could see to no purpose, had tried him, and yet, had clara said the word he would have remained in one spot through the night. clara did not say it. she, too, was fatigued, not more with the exertion of the first half of the day than with the tedious watching of she second. "you may drive me home," she said wearily; "and if your employer will let you, you might come back in an hour or two to see if i need you." mike, therefore, drove away, when he had left clara at mr. pembroke's gate. she went up to the house, and louise met her at the door with a white, frightened face. "papa is worse than ever," she whispered; "go to him at once. he is in the library." clara opened the door and went in. her uncle sat at the table, with his arms and head upon it, and he did not look up until she touched him and spoke to him. "i am sorry, uncle dear," she said, "that i was not at home when you wanted me." he raised his head with a groan. "it doesn't matter," he responded; "you could have done nothing, as it has happened." "didn't you have some news for me, uncle? tell me; i can endure anything." he tried to look at her, but a violent fit of trembling seized him and he averted his eyes. "i thought there was going to be news, good news," he stammered, "but----" and he shook his head sorrowfully. "do you mean that you have been disappointed, uncle?" "disappointed!" he repeated excitedly; "worse! all is lost, clara, lost! oh! that wily russian!" "what russian, uncle? in mercy's name, tell me!" "your man poubalov! he is----" mr. pembroke's words stuck in his throat and he looked at clara with watery eyes. "you have seen him then," she whispered faintly. mr. pembroke nodded. "and you have nothing to tell me?" her uncle opened his lips, tried to speak, and failing, grasped the table with both hands while his eyes fixed themselves in a stare and his face grew livid. clara ran to the sideboard in the dining-room and brought him a glass of brandy. she poured a quantity down his throat till he gasped with pain. the spasm passed, but left him weak, well-nigh helpless, and clara summoned the servant to take him to his room. a neighboring physician was called in, and after half an hour or so he reported that mr. pembroke was in no immediate danger. clara wished to see him, not, however, to torment him with questions, but the physician advised that he be left alone, with merely a servant, or louise at hand to attend to his needs. "i am pretty certain," added the doctor, "that your presence would irritate him." clara withdrew to the drawing-room and tried to collect her thoughts. she had not heard from paul and it was now eight o'clock. it could not be that nothing had happened during the long afternoon. something surely had occurred, and that through poubalov, to prostrate her uncle---ah! she could not sit still. her programme had not been fully performed. she was useless here, in the way, the doctor had said that plainly enough. the tavern must be searched to-night, and if paul were not there to help, she must do without him. she said nothing to louise, or the servants. in the kitchen she found a candle and a box of matches. there and elsewhere about the house were keys of various descriptions. she took every one she could lay her hands on, and thus provided, set forth alone. it was a very quiet, retired street, on which the tavern stood. once it had been a main road, but traffic had long since been diverted into other channels. she saw nobody as she approached the gloomy structure with its overhanging porch, and few lights were in the windows of adjacent houses. under the porch she paused a moment in the effort to still the beating of her heart. then, instead of making any attempt to pass through the front door, she went around to the driveway that paul had described, and came to an entrance at the very back of the tavern. she placed a trembling hand upon the knob and sought to insert a key in the lock--but the door was opening before her! it was not only not locked, it had not been latched, and the pressure of her hand had set it ajar. with unsteady step and with her mind bewildered by grewsome conjectures, clara entered. she closed the door behind her and lit the candle. had poubalov, then, returned when she had weakly given up the watching, and abducted ivan a second time? what did her uncle's words mean? "all is lost!" was ivan---she did not permit herself to frame the thought completely, but gathering all her resolution set forth to accomplish her task. not even indulging in a useless regret that paul was not with her, she looked about the room in which she stood. it had once been a kitchen, and a glance at it was enough. an open door was before her and she passed through it. this was evidently the dining-room, and several doors were in view, only one of which was open. feeling that this indicated the course taken by poubalov in carrying ivan out of the house from the room where he had been confined, she pushed on, and passing through this door, found herself in the front hall. there was a stairway at her right hand, and doors at both right and left. whither should she go? the doors were closed and she chose the stairs. at the top were two corridors as well as the passage leading to another flight of stairs. haphazard she proceeded along the corridor to the left. it was tortuous, like all hotel passages, and the floor was broken here and there by steps, now up, now down. she passed many doors, but all were closed. at the very end were two doors, almost side by side, and as she stood hesitant, her blood chilled and her heart leaped to her throat. was that a groan that she had heard behind one of those doors? utterly unable to move, she listened with painful intentness. yes--again it came, muffled, feeble, inarticulate, but unmistakably the sound of a human voice. in her agony of apprehension clara found herself halting, from a strange inability to decide which door to open. chapter xxviii. poubalov succeeds. her indecision was but momentary. every nerve tingling with apprehension, her arms straining to embrace her lover and allay his suffering, she threw open the door at her right hand. dusty furniture, faded hangings confronted her, nothing else. aroused by the disappointment to a fever of anxiety and energy, she laid her hand upon the other door, and above the rattling of the knob she heard again the faint moan. the door was locked, and it merely creaked complainingly when she exerted all the pressure she could bring to bear against it. she must work quickly. holding the candle parallel to the floor, she allowed several drops of the melted tallow to fall, and on them she fastened her tiny torch upright. then she applied her keys, one after the other, to the lock. it was a commonplace lock, a boot-buttoner would have worked it, and the most commonplace key in her collection at last turned freely and shot back the bolt. she threw the door open and rushed in, and as she passed, her flying skirts whisked out the candle flame and she was in darkness, but in the flashing glance she had had of the room she had seen the figure of a man bound to a chair, a cloth wound about his head and across his mouth. clara did not seek the prisoner in the darkness. all impulse to rush forward and throw her arms about him had vanished; in its place was an icy chill at the heart and an infinite sob that lodged in her throat and would not out. hastily still but with nerveless limbs she stooped and felt for the candle, and, having found it, she again brought its wick to flickering life and raised it from the floor. standing then upon the threshold, one hand clutching the jamb, she made certain that the fleeting vision of surprise and disappointment was bitter and amazing reality. the man bound upon the chair was old dexter. he turned upon her his blinking eyes, rendered sightless for the moment by the mild glare of the candle flame. he could stir no other part of his body by so much as a hair's breadth. a long rope was coiled many times about him, binding his legs to the chair rungs, his arms to his side, and his head to the back of the chair. a pitiful groan gurgled again in his throat as clara held up the candle and looked at him. she stood thus not longer than a second, and then, having placed the candle in a cup that stood on the mantel, she sought to loose him. that he was concerned in some way with ivan's disappearance she could not doubt, but she allowed herself no thought or hesitation on that account. his evident suffering appealed to her, and she plied her fingers hard and fast to undo the rope. the knot was at his back and it had not been drawn extremely taut, the numerous coils in themselves being almost sufficient to hold the prisoner in his place. very shortly, therefore, she had the free ends of the rope in hand, and she unwound them from dexter's arms, still standing behind his back and working above his head. when with his own hands he began to loose the coils from his lower limbs, she untied the handkerchief that held the gag in his mouth, and dexter was free. he arose trembling. his limbs were stiff with long constraint and he steadied himself by grasping the back of the chair and leaning upon it. breathing heavily and muttering unintelligible curses he turned slowly about and peered into clara's eyes. "ha!" he gasped, "it's you, is it!" his eyes, till then glowing with the rage of a baffled will, now flamed with ungovernable hate. clara, all her resolution gone, her very life seeming to depart from her, yet stood ready to do what she could to help him, when with a passionate shriek he suddenly extended his thin quivering hands and seized her violently by the throat. taken by surprise, her nervous energy exhausted by the long strain and its attendant disappointments, clara made but slight resistance. dexter clutched her with the desperate strength of a maniac and pushed her back against the wall. what with the noise they made in moving across the floor, and dexter's snarling curses, she did not hear the sound of rapidly approaching steps along the corridor; but just as the frenzied old man had pressed her against the wall, and when it seemed as if his fingers would lock inextricably upon her throat, poubalov dashed into the room, laid hold of dexter, wrenched him away from her, picked him up bodily, bore him screaming across the chamber and threw him heavily upon a bed. then he placed his hand over the old man's mouth and looked around. clara was now held hard and fast by another man, and although poubalov's eyes glittered with a fierce light, he made no effort to interfere. paul palovna appeared in the doorway, his weary face glowing with joy as he looked upon his friend restored at last to the arms of her who loved him. after a moment strobel raised his head, and clara, still embracing him, followed his eyes with her own, almost unbelieving that this meeting was reality. she turned her gaze with ivan's to where poubalov sat on the bed forcibly quieting the ravings of old dexter. "miss hilman," said the spy in his deepest tones, "you have been the hardest adversary i ever encountered. last evening you gave me two alternatives of action. you told me to take you to your lover, or you would pursue me relentlessly. you have made it a desperately hard task for me, but to some extent at least i have succeeded in evading both alternatives, and have, instead, brought your lover to you." clara turned her wondering eyes to ivan's for confirmation and explanation. "it is true, dearest," he said. "we owe my deliverance to poubalov, and without his efforts i shudder to think what would have happened to me." "is it possible," asked clara in a subdued voice, "that you have really been trying to find ivan all along?" "miss hilman," replied poubalov, "until this monday morning i did not know where mr. strobel was, and i had not the least suspicion of the truth until late last friday night." "let me sit down," said clara faintly, "i cannot grasp it all. tell me, ivan." ivan had conducted her to the chair wherein she had found dexter a prisoner, and at her last words poubalov turned away his head with a bitter smile. not even yet would she trust him to speak the truth! "we owe our separation," said ivan, "to the villain who lies there under poubalov's hand and to him alone. to poubalov we owe the deliverance. this man dexter, clara, is a money lender of the most outrageous type. your uncle, to tide over a business depression, borrowed nearly a hundred thousand dollars from him. this debt was due to dexter two days after what was to have been our wedding. i am telling you what poubalov learned after his suspicions were attracted in the right direction. tell her, my friend! you can do it better than i." "miss hilman will not believe me," replied poubalov. "oh, but i will!" cried clara starting from the chair impulsively as she realized the situation. she went to the bed where the spy still sat with his hand over dexter's mouth, and held out her hand. "won't you forgive me?" she faltered; "i know i have cruelly misjudged you." poubalov raised her hand to his lips and was about to answer when dexter, the pressure removed from his mouth, scrambled to his knees, clinging to the russian for support, and screamed, "pay me! pay me! you're not married yet and you've got to pay me! i'll ruin mat pembroke! pay me! i'll----" the old man choked, pawed with both palsied hands at his collar and would have fallen from the bed if poubalov had not turned hastily from clara and caught him. clara shrank away, not terrified but shocked at dexter's appearance, while palovna hurried across the room to lend a hand. "he is dying!" exclaimed clara faintly. "no, miss hilman, not dying," responded poubalov quickly, "but he is a very sick man. thanks, paul palovna, but i can get on better with him alone. you may go ahead of me, if you please, and try to find a physician----" "i saw a doctor's sign near the street corner," interrupted palovna. "summon him at once, then," said poubalov who was bearing old dexter as tenderly as a nurse might carry a sick child; "i will await you at the door and," addressing clara, "be with you here in a moment if you would hear the hidden history of your troubles." "better here, sweetheart," whispered strobel, "here where i passed my week of death than in any other place!" it was several minutes before poubalov returned. he carried dexter not only to the door but through the street to the physician's house where medical skill was promptly applied with a view to restoring the miser's wreck of a body to something like life. if dexter's course had run tranquilly he might, perhaps, have lingered like a noxious weed, for a long time upon the earth, but after the complex shocks of disappointment, imprisonment and fear, he had thrown the total of his nervous and physical energies into that mad attack upon clara. there remained, then, but the dregs of his vicious vitality, and these sustained him less than the length of the night. he was still alive but the end was plainly in sight when poubalov left him to rejoin the lovers. "miss hilman," he said the moment he came in, "your judgment of me has been marvellously correct. it is true that you have erred in detail and believed me deceiving you when i was doing my utmost to put the truth before you; but it is impossible for me to be straightforward. mr. strobel has said that his deliverance is due to me; that is true, but no credit is due me for generosity or nobility of conduct. what i have done in the way of searching for him and restoring him to liberty, has been done entirely in accordance with my nature. my desire to appear well in your eyes might lead me to vain reflections on what my nature might have been if the circumstances of my life had been other than they were, but past circumstances cannot be changed and nothing can palliate the fact that long practice as a detecter of stealthy criminals has made me habitually devious in my methods." "mr. poubalov," clara began gently, but the russian would not let her utter the deprecating words that were on her lips. "i could not change my methods," he said, "and moreover, there were circumstances connected with this matter that made it impossible for me to take you fully into my confidence. don't you recall how i refused to answer, or evaded your questions? i would not lie to you, and i could not tell you the truth, for i was charged with a message from the czar to mr. strobel and to none other could i give it, and not to him unless i were satisfied of certain things, which, until litizki's attempt upon my life were in doubt." "you must have suffered keenly," said clara softly; "tell me all now if you can." "his imperial majesty, whom god preserve," resumed poubalov, "saw fit to effect a complete restoration of the estates of the strobel family, which had been confiscated on account of supposed treason, and to recall all the members of the family from exile. there was but one doubt in his august mind, and that related to your lover, ivan. if he were engaged in sending pernicious literature to russia, or in any other way fomenting the discontent that affects some of our people, the decree of restoration could not issue. i came to america solely to discover what ivan strobel was doing and thinking. i could not leave the country until i had found him unless i chose to disregard the wishes of my sovereign. therefore, when he disappeared, i bent every energy to finding him. it is the habit of men like litizki to invest me in their imaginations with extraordinary if not superhuman powers, and it is a part of my policy to encourage their delusion. but i am only an ordinary man, miss hilman, and in your hands i have proved to be as weak as the weakest." he paused and looked somberly at the floor. "i have been sadly puzzled by this case," he continued after a moment without raising his eyes; "nothing ever seemed so impenetrable a mystery. i was sincere in thinking the nihilists had had something to do with it. after seeing you i was certain that no other woman could have led strobel away; but i went to new york for much the same reason that you did, i suppose, hoping for some clew. i had about given up the nihilistic theory when litizki's assault and some inquiries i made shortly after, set that at rest completely. when billings called at your house i determined to track him. why not tell you then about it? ask yourself if you would have believed me. you would have said that i was already in league with billings." "i did think so," murmured clara guiltily. "and i presume you thought i was afraid to face him. yes? then you see now that i had to operate alone. i was hiding in the shrubbery when he left your house. it was dark, but you lingered at the gate and so prevented me from leaving my place of concealment until billings had got so far away that i could not find him. but i had seen his face. i readily saw that litizki was following me that night and i purposely gave him a chase in order to mask my real purpose. "when we left the train in the park square station after our return from new york on friday evening, i recognized billings among those upon the station platform. i left you abruptly to follow him. he waited for the next new york train which followed us in directly, for we were late, you remember, and there met the wretch whom you found imprisoned here. i will not enter into the details of my all-night watching and inquiring, but will confine myself to the results. first, to jump over several steps, i found that dexter was going to pack billings off to europe, and i followed to the steamer, hoping for a chance to speak with billings, for i can usually worm or frighten secrets from guilty men. dexter stuck closely to him, however, and i returned from a trip to boston light having seen both billings and litizki in the steerage." "litizki!" exclaimed clara. "yes. by tracking dexter and employing my usual methods, i got acquainted with his man, patterson. it was he who overcame mr. strobel in the closed carriage a week ago to-day, and who left him there bound and stupefied by a drug that he had forced down his throat while he went through the park square station to give color to the theory that dexter gave to the police that strobel had gone to new york. dexter at first declared that he had seen strobel buy his ticket, but later he weakened on that point, saying he might have been mistaken. he had said enough for detective bowker, however, and the police investigation was pursued half heartedly. "well, i looked up dexter's affairs and i found that he had a grip on mr. pembroke." "don't tell me my uncle was guilty of----" "no, miss hilman," interrupted poubalov, "mr. pembroke had nothing to do with the abduction of mr. strobel. dexter is the one villain in the case, and although mr. pembroke's conduct may be open to question in one respect, criticism would be finical for i don't see how he could have acted otherwise. i shall have to go back a long way now, but i will be brief. matthew pembroke had a brother, charles, and a sister, sophie. you, miss hilman, are her daughter. you know, of course, the family difference and the occasion of it. your mother married against the wishes of your uncle charles, her elder brother and her guardian, and when she was left a widow he declined to help her. your uncle matthew was kinder, and when she died he took you into his own home. charles was apparently relentless to the end, and there was never any communication between you and him; but when he died, a short time ago, it was found that he had remembered you in his will. two days before the wedding day mr. pembroke was notified that you were heiress to one hundred thousand dollars if you were unmarried. the will provided that in the event of your being a maiden, the entire sum was to be held by matthew pembroke, and administered by him in your interest. if you were married, twenty-five thousand dollars was to be set aside for you, and the balance was to go to educational institutions specifically named. "mr. pembroke was worrying about his obligation to dexter, which he could not meet, and in his fretting he mentioned this to dexter. he did not tell you at first, because he feared you might think you ought to postpone your wedding, and he did not regard such etiquette as necessary. without saying a word to pembroke, this wretch, dexter, plotted and effected the abduction, thus compelling you to remain a maiden. the bequest was immediately available and he brought all possible pressure to bear upon mr. pembroke to make use of it for wiping out the debt. it was absolute ruin to him if he did not. mr. pembroke suspected dexter, but what could he do? he had nothing but improbable conjecture to work upon, and dexter applied the screws mercilessly. they went to new york to make arrangements for collecting the inheritance. while there they were both in terror lest you discover the truth, for once at least you saw them with the man who could have revealed the financial secret of the situation. you remember looking in at the hotel entrance and seeing dexter, your uncle and a third man walking in the corridor? the third man was the executor of your uncle charles' estate, and dexter walked him out of your sight as quickly as possible, lest troublesome questions should be asked. "it all came down to this, at last, that with your signature to-day to a document that the executors of the estate had prepared, and which you would have signed readily at your uncle's request, the money would have been turned over. the document came in the first mail, but dexter did not turn up, and mr. pembroke could not find him. that was because, shortly after breakfast, i came here and found the villain, at last, giving strobel sufficient nourishment to keep him alive. i bound him to the chair, but didn't release strobel at the moment. after a mental struggle that i will not describe, i had determined to take him to you, miss hilman, and i was too proud to permit my plans to be balked. moreover, i believed your uncle guilty, and i was determined that everybody who had been concerned in making you unhappy, should suffer the most extreme tortures that i could inflict. i had already bought and frightened patterson. it was through him that i discovered this place, a hotel dexter had seized for debt. after i had succeeded in eluding your pursuit this morning, i attacked mr. pembroke. i spent nearly the whole afternoon with him, and, to be brief, i got the story from him and drove him to the verge of insanity. he does not know yet what happened to strobel, although he is aware that he is safe. "having thus punished mr. pembroke, unjustly i will admit, to some extent, i came here and took away strobel. he was very weak and suffering from the drug which had frequently been administered to him with his food. i am familiar with such matters, and i had in my room an antidote. by your attempted pursuit of me you had prevented me from going there to get it, so i had to take strobel with me to bulfinch place before restoring him to you. we had a little scene at the lodging-house----" poubalov paused here and glanced with a smile at palovna. "is it any wonder, alexander poubalov?" cried palovna, flushing; "i regarded you as our enemy, and when i saw you with strobel helpless in your possession, my worst suspicions were confirmed. i----" "you could have shot me with a clear conscience! i understand and i understood then. you are a loyal friend, paul palovna, and i owe you my life, not on this occasion, perhaps, but at that other time--no matter! the past is past and things are as they are! the short of it is, miss hilman, that we satisfied palovna that matters were not as bad as they looked, and, as you see, he came along with us. we went to mr. pembroke's. as you were not there, we came directly here. and that, i think, is the whole story." clara was weeping silently, and ivan stood with his arm around her. there was a moment of silence, and then the party was disturbed by a hubbub in the hall below. it proved to be nothing serious. mike had been ordered by his employer to return. he, too, had called at mr. pembroke's and so found his way to the tavern, and coming upon patterson he had proceeded to thump him. poubalov separated the antagonists, and went back to the chamber with the candle. the others stood under the porch, for the front door had been opened by patterson, until he returned. "if there is anything more to be said," he remarked, "we'd better go to mr. pembroke's." poubalov did not remain long with the lovers whom he had reunited. the supreme will of his imperial majesty, he gravely declared, would not permit of his lingering a moment after the accomplishment of his mission. it would give him profound pleasure to report that mr. strobel was too firmly attached to america to feel, much less commit hostility to the empire of the czar. and so he took his leave, clara alone realizing that all well-meant efforts to detain him were calculated to give him needless pain. mr. pembroke recovered rapidly under the relief occasioned by the reappearance of ivan, for whose absence he felt vaguely accountable. with the death of dexter the business pressure was so far relieved that he could see his way clear from the trouble, for all he had needed was the time to turn in that the wretched miser would not grant. but little time was allowed to elapse before the strange interlude in clara's wedding was brought to an end. a few days after the ceremony ivan read a brief cable dispatch announcing the arrival of the cephalonia at queenstown. "a steerage passenger," it said, "traveling as nicolaievitch, but known to be one litizki, of boston, jumped from the rail and was drowned shortly after the steamer sighted the irish coast." "poor litizki!" thought ivan, "he died for us," and he cut the item out to show to his wife if at some time she should ask whether anything had been heard of the little tailor. 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kanawha and ohio rivers, and penetrates the famous blue grass region of kentucky, noted for producing the greatest race-horses of the world. for maps, folders, descriptive pamphlets, etc., apply to pennsylvania railroad ticket offices in new york, philadelphia, and baltimore, the principal ticket offices throughout the country, or any of the following c. & o. agencies: new york--362 and 1323 broadway. washington--513 and 1421 pennsylvania avenue. cincinnati--corner fifth and walnut streets. louisville--253 fourth avenue. st. louis--corner broadway and chestnut street. chicago--234 clark street. =c. b. ryan=, assistant general passenger agent, cincinnati, o. =h. w. fuller=, general passenger agent, washington, d. c. take [illustration: the m k _and_ t missouri, kansas & texas railway.] for all principal points in missouri, kansas, indian territory, texas, mexico _and_ california. free reclining chair cars on all trains. _through wagner palace buffet sleeping cars from the_ great lakes _to the_ gulf of mexico. for further information call on or address your nearest ticket agent, or =james barker=, g. p. & t. a. st. louis, mo. * * * * * * transcriber's note: this book was published as part of street & smith's criterion series; it appears to be a retitled reprint of the british publication _a wedding, but rather late_. normalized inconsistent accent in "coupé" (was omitted in many places). retained some inconsistent spellings (e.g. sombre vs. somber). retained some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. scrubwoman vs. scrub-woman). replaced some obvious missing punctuation (periods and commas) that may have been omitted from the original edition or may have simply been obscured in scans of this particular copy. the misplaced text "mrs. white was prompt in responding to the summons," was relocated from the end of page 9 to the beginning of page 8. page 9, corrected typographical error "indeeed" in "indeed glad." page 17, corrected typographical error "imagin" in "i can't imagine." page 19, corrected typographical error "keeing" in "keeping him away." page 21, changed '?' to ?" after "what we have done?" page 22, corrected typographical error "to-morow" in "to-morrow morning." page 25, removed superfluous quote after "some degree of composure." page 31, corrected typographical error "disppearance" in "disappearance of ivan strobel." page 32, corrected typographical error "nam's" in "missing man's employers." page 35, corrected typographical error "relpy" in "she could reply" and "memonic" in "significant mnemonic." page 37, changed "his" to "this" in "reporter of this paper." page 38, added missing "s" to "chose elopement." page 40, corrected typographical error "destoy" in "destroy young men." page 43, corrected typographical error "conclusons" in "her conclusions." page 48, corrected typographical error "indivdual" in "as an individual." page 52, changed "sad poubalov" to "said poubalov" after "very glad to hear this." also changed "clara hear the outside door" to "clara heard the outside door." page 55, changed "inuendoes" to "innuendoes," "semed" to "seemed" ("seemed the solution") and "whereabout" to "whereabouts." page 56, corrected typographical error "fulll" in "full of excitement." corrected typographical error "delcared" in "declared positively." page 59, changed "but she that knew that she" to "but she knew that she." page 61, changed "a" to "at" in "looking at him with blazing eyes." page 65, changed "that her cousin" to "than her cousin." also changed "lizzie white's fight" to "lizzie white's flight." page 73, corrected double "enter" in "did not enter here." changed "poubavol to "poubalov" before "i sought him not." page 92, corrected typographical error "woud" in "he would find." page 95, changed "elasped" to "elapsed" in first line of chapter xii. page 105, corrected typographical error "someobdy" in "must have been somebody." corrected typographical error "poublaov" in "revolved around poubalov." page 112, corrected typographical error "darnkess" in "in the darkness." changed "you" to "your" in "on your guard." page 114, added missing "no" to "had no need to disarm me of suspicion." page 115, added missing quote after "i don't know." page 117, removed stray quote after "careful, mrs. white?" corrected typographical error "doubtfuly" in "however doubtfully." page 125, changed "with are you" to "are with you." page 134, changed "prologing" to "prolonging." page 137, corrected typographical error "poulabov" in "so long as poubalov remains." page 140, corrected typographical error "immediatley" in "the seat immediately." page 146, corrected typographical error "mutterd" in "muttered vargovitch." page 152, changed "reache this office" to "reached this office." page 157, corrected typographical error "noobdy" in "nobody heard." page 160, changed "' to " after "ralph would." page 164, changed "asssistance" to "assistance." page 168, corrected typographical error "pouablov's" in "poubalov's windows." page 170, corrected typographical error "pouablov" in "heard poubalov enter." page 182, changed "a swell" to "as well." page 186, removed superfluous apostrophe before "an'" in "he done it, an'." page 191, changed "poubaolv" to "poubalov" before "still aiming." corrected typographical error "returnd" in "returned paul, significantly." page 193, corrected typographical error "unforunate" in "unfortunate litizki." page 197, changed "made it impossble" to "made it impossible." page 203, corrected typographical error "stret" in "all along the street." page 204, added missing comma after "to be a fight." page 205, changed "vehicle," to "vehicles" in "vehicles were too close." page 209, corrected typographical error "entirly" in "entirely different." page 210, changed "cara" to "clara" in "when clara understood." page 212, changed "earnesly" to "earnestly." page 231, changed "could have lead" to "could have led." page 232, changed "weakend" to "weakened." page 233, changed "you uncle matthew" to "your uncle matthew." page 234, changed "discoverd this placee" to "discovered this place." john dene of toronto a comedy of whitehall by herbert jenkins author of "bindle" herbert jenkins limited 3 york street london s.w.1 1920 a herbert jenkins' book _fifth printing_ printed in great britain by butler & tanner ltd., frome and london to my friend and colleague charles askew who has been as strenuous as the times themselves and infinitely more cheerful mcmxv-mcmxix contents chap. i. the coming of john dene ii. john dene's way iii. department z. iv. gingering up the admiralty v. john dene leaves whitehall vi. mr. montagu naylor of streatham vii. mr. naylor receives a visitor viii. dorothy west at home ix. department z. at work x. john dene goes to kew xi. the strangeness of john dene xii. the _destroyer_ ready for sea xiii. the disappearance of john dene xiv. the hue and cry xv. mr. llewellyn john becomes alarmed xvi. finlay's s.o.s. xvii. malcolm sage casts his net xviii. the return of john dene xix. commander john dene goes to bournemouth xx. john dene's proposal xxi. marjorie rogers pays a call what this story is about john dene comes to england with a great invention, and the intention of gingering-up the admiralty. his directness and unconventional methods bewilder and embarrass the officials at whitehall, where, according to him, most of the jobs are held by those "whose great-grandfathers had a pleasant way of saying how-do-you-do to a prince." suddenly john dene disappears, and the whole civilised world is amazed at an offer of £20,000 for news of him. scotland yard is disorganised by tons of letters and thousands of callers. questions are asked in the house, the government becomes anxious, only department z. retains its equanimity. by the way, what did happen to john dene of toronto? for list of books by the same author, see page 319. john dene of toronto chapter i the coming of john dene "straight along, down the steps, bear to the left and you'll find the admiralty on the opposite side of the way." john dene thanked the policeman, gave the cigar in his mouth a twist with his tongue, and walked along lower regent street towards waterloo place. at the bottom of the duke of york's steps, he crossed the road, turned to the left and paused. nowhere could he see an entrance sufficiently impressive to suggest the admiralty. just ahead was a dingy and unpretentious doorway with a policeman standing outside; but that he decided could not be the entrance to the admiralty. as he gazed at it, a fair-haired girl came out of the doorway and walked towards him. "excuse me," said john dene, lifting his hat, "but is that the admiralty you've just come out of?" there was an almost imperceptible stiffening in the girl's demeanour; but a glance at the homely figure of john dene, with its ill-made clothes, reassured her. "yes, that is the admiralty," she replied gravely in a voice that caused john dene momentarily to forget the admiralty and all its works. "much obliged," he said, again lifting his hat as she walked away; but instead of continuing on his way, john dene stood watching the girl until she disappeared up the duke of york's steps. then once more twirling his cigar in his mouth and hunching his shoulders, he walked towards the doorway she had indicated. "this the admiralty?" he enquired of the policeman. "yes, sir," was the reply. "did you want to see any one?" john dene looked at the man in surprise. "why should i be here if i didn't?" he asked. "i want to see the first lord." the man's manner underwent a change. "if you'll step inside, sir, you'll see an attendant." john dene stepped inside and repeated his request, this time to a frock-coated attendant. "have you an appointment?" enquired the man. "no," responded john dene indifferently. the attendant hesitated. it was not customary for unknown callers to demand to see the first lord without an appointment. after a momentary pause the man indicated a desk on which lay some printed slips. "will you please fill in your name, sir, and state your business." "state my business," exclaimed john dene, "not on your life." "i'm afraid----" began the man. "never mind what you're afraid of," said john dene, "just you take my name up to the first lord. here, i'll write it down." seizing a pen he wrote his name, "john dene of toronto," and then underneath, "i've come three thousand miles to tell you something; perhaps it's worth three minutes of your time to listen." "there, take that up and i'll wait," he said. the attendant read the message, then beckoning to another frock-coated servitor, he handed him the paper, at the same time whispering some instructions. john dene looked about him with interest. he was frankly disappointed. he had conceived the administrative buildings of the greatest navy in the world as something grand and impressive; yet here was the british admiralty with an entrance that would compare unfavourably with a second-rate hotel in toronto. he turned suddenly and almost ran into a shifty-eyed little man in a grey tweed suit, who had entered the admiralty a moment after him. the man apologised profusely as john dene eyed him grimly. he had become aware of the man's interest in his colloquy with the attendant, and of the way in which he had endeavoured to catch sight of what was written on the slip of paper. john dene proceeded to stride up and down with short, jerky steps, twirling his unlit cigar round in his mouth. "excuse me, sir," said the attendant, approaching, "but smoking is not permitted." "that so?" remarked john dene without interest, as he continued to roll his cigar in his mouth. "your cigar, sir," continued the man. "it's out." john dene still continued to look about him. the attendant retired nonplussed. the rule specifically referred to smoking, not to carrying unlit cigars in the mouth. at the end of five minutes, the attendant who had taken up john dene's name returned, and whispered to the doorkeeper. "if you will follow the attendant, sir, he will take you to see sir lyster's secretary, mr. blair." "mr.----" began john dene, then breaking off he followed the man up the stairs, and along a corridor, at the end of which another frock-coated man appeared from a room with a small glass door. he in turn took charge of the visitor, having received his whispered instructions from the second attendant. john dene was then shown into a large room with a central table, and requested to take a seat. he was still engaged in gazing about him when a door at the further end of the room opened and there entered a fair man, with an obvious stoop, a monocle, a heavy drooping moustache, and the nose of a duke in a novelette. "mr. john dene?" he asked, looking at the slip of paper in his hand. "sure," was the response, as john dene continued to twirl the cigar in his mouth, with him always a sign either of thought or of irritation. "you wish to see the first lord?" continued the fair man. "i am his secretary. will you give me some idea of your business?" "no, i won't," was the blunt response. mr. blair was momentarily disconcerted by the uncompromising nature of the retort, but quickly recovered himself. "i am afraid sir lyster is very busy this morning," he said, diplomatically. "if you----" "look here," interrupted john dene, "i've come three thousand miles to tell him something; if he hasn't time to listen, then i'll not waste my time; but before you decide to send me about my business, you just ring up the agent-general for can'da and ask who john dene of t'ronto is; maybe you'll learn something." "but will you not give me some idea----" began the secretary. "no, i won't," was the obstinate reply. "here," he cried with sudden inspiration, "give me some paper and a pen, and i'll write a note." mr. blair sighed his relief; he was a man of peace. he quickly supplied the caller's demands. slowly he indited his letter; then, taking a case from his pocket, he extracted an envelope which he enclosed with the letter in another envelope, and finally addressed it to "the first lord of the admiralty." "give him this," he said, turning to mr. blair, "and say i'm in a hurry." nothing but a long line of ancestors prevented mr. blair from gasping. instead he took the note with a diplomatic smile. "you wouldn't do for t'ronto," muttered john dene as the first lord's private secretary left the room. two minutes later he returned. "sir lyster will see you, mr. dene," he said with a smile. "will you come this way? i'm sorry if----" "don't be sorry," said john dene patiently; "you're just doing your job as best you can." whilst john dene was being led by mr. blair to the first lord's private room, sir lyster was re-reading the astonishing note that had been sent in to him, which ran: "dear sir,-"i am john dene of toronto, i have come three thousand miles to tell you how to stop the german u-boats. if i do not succeed, you can give the enclosed £50,000 to the red cross. "yours faithfully, "john dene." sir lyster grayne was a man for whom tradition had its uses; but he never allowed it to dictate to him. the letter that had just been brought in was, he decided, written by a man of strong individuality, and the amazing offer it contained, to forfeit fifty thousand pounds, impressed him. these were strange and strenuous days, when every suggestion or invention must be examined and deliberated upon. sir lyster grayne prided himself upon his open-mindedness; incidentally he had a wholesome fear of questions being asked in the house. as the door opened he rose and held out his hand. sir lyster always assumed a democratic air as a matter of political expediency. "mr. dene," he murmured, as he motioned his visitor to a seat. "pleased to meet you," said john dene as he shook hands, and then took the seat indicated. "sorry to blow in on you like this," he continued, "but my business is important, and i've come three thousand miles about it." "so i understand," said sir lyster quietly. john dene looked at him, and in that look summed him up as he had previously summed up his secretary. "you wouldn't do for t'ronto," was his unuttered verdict. john dene "placed" a man irrevocably by determining whether or no he would do for toronto. "first of all," said sir lyster, "i think i will return this," handing to john dene the envelope containing the cheque for fifty thousand pounds. "i thought it would tickle you some," he remarked grimly as he replaced the cheque in his pocket-book; "but i'll cash in if i don't make good," he added. "you know anything about submarines?" he demanded; directness was john dene's outstanding characteristic. "er----" began the first lord. "you don't," announced john dene with conviction. "i'm afraid----" began sir lyster. "then you'd better send for someone who does," was the uncompromising rejoinder. sir lyster looked at his visitor in surprise, hesitated a moment, then pressing a button said, as mr. blair appeared: "will you ask admiral heyworth to come here immediately?" mr. blair retired. "admiral heyworth," explained sir lyster, "is the admiralty authority on submarines." john dene nodded. there was a pause. "wouldn't you like to ring up the agent-general for can'da and find out who i am?" suggested john dene. "i don't think that is necessary, mr. dene," was the reply. "we will hear what you have to say first. ha, heyworth!" as the admiral entered, "this is mr. john dene of toronto, who has come to tell us something about a discovery of his." admiral heyworth, a little bald-headed man with beetling brows and a humorous mouth, took the hand held out to him. "pleased to meet you," said john dene, then without a pause he continued: "i want your promise that this is all between us three, that you won't go and breeze it about." he looked from sir lyster to admiral heyworth. sir lyster bowed, admiral heyworth said, "certainly." "now," said john dene, turning to the admiral, "what's the greatest difficulty you're up against in submarine warfare?" "well," began admiral heyworth, "there are several. for instance----" "there's only one that matters," broke in john dene; "your boats are blind when submerged beyond the depth of their periscopes. that so?" the admiral nodded. "well," continued john dene, "i want you to understand i'm not asking a red cent from anybody, and i won't accept one. what i'm going to tell you about has already cost me well over a million dollars, and if you look at me you'll see i'm not the man to put a million dollars into patent fly-catchers, or boots guaranteed to button themselves." sir lyster and the admiral exchanged puzzled glances, but said nothing. "suppose the germans were able to sink a ship without even showing their periscopes?" john dene looked directly at the admiral. "it would place us in a very precarious position," was the grave reply. "oh, shucks!" cried john dene in disgust. "it would queer the whole outfit. you soldiers and sailors can never see beyond your own particular backyards. it would mighty soon finish the war." he almost shouted the words in the emphasis he gave them. "it would mean that troops couldn't be brought from america; it would mean that supplies couldn't be brought over here. it would mean good-bye to the whole sunflower-patch. do you get me?" he looked from sir lyster to the admiral. "i think," said sir lyster, "that perhaps you exaggerate a lit----" "i don't," said john dene. "i know what i'm talking about. now, why is the submarine blind? because," he answered his own question, "no one has ever overcome the difficulty of the density of water. i have." admiral heyworth started visibly, and sir lyster bent forward eagerly. "you have!" cried admiral heyworth. "sure," was the self-complacent reply. "i've got a boat fitted with an apparatus that'll sink any ship that comes along, and she needn't show her periscope to do it either. what's more, she can see under water. if i don't deliver the goods"--john dene rummaged in his pocket once more and produced the envelope containing the cheque--"here's fifty thousand pounds you can give to the red cross." sir lyster and admiral heyworth gazed at each other wordless. john dene sat back in his chair and chewed the end of his cigar. sir lyster fumbled for his eye-glass, and when he had found it, stuck it in his eye and gazed at john dene as if he had been some marvellous being from another world. the admiral said nothing and did nothing. he was visualising the possibilities arising out of such a discovery. it was john dene who broke in upon their thoughts. "the huns have got it coming," he remarked grimly. "but----" began admiral heyworth. "listen," said john dene. "i'm an electrical engineer. i'm worth more millions than you've got toes. i saw that under water the submarine is only a blind fish with a sting in its tail. give it eyes and it becomes a real factor--_under water_." he paused, revolving his cigar in his mouth. his listeners nodded eagerly. "well," he continued, "i set to work to give her eyes. on the st. lawrence river, just below quebec, i've got a submarine that can see. her search-lights----" "but how have you done it?" broke in the admiral. "that," remarked john dene drily, "is my funeral." "we must put this before the inventions board," said sir lyster. "let me see, this is friday. can you be here on tuesday, mr. dene?" "no!" sir lyster started at the decision in john dene's tone. "would wednesday----" "look here," broke in john dene, "i come from t'ronto, and in can'da when we've got a good thing we freeze on to it. you've got to decide this thing within twenty-four hours, yes or no. unless i cable to my agent in washin'ton by noon to-morrow, he'll make the same offer i've made you to the states, and they'll be that eager to say 'yep,' that they'll swallow their gum." "but, mr. dene----" began sir lyster. "i've been in this country fourteen hours," proceeded john dene calmly, "and i can see that you all want gingering-up. why the hell can't you decide on a thing at once, when you've got everything before you? if a man offers you a pedigree-pup for nothing, and you want a pedigree-pup, wouldn't you just hold out your hand?" john dene looked from one to the other. "but this is not exactly a matter of a pedigree-pup," suggested admiral heyworth diplomatically. "it's a matter of--er----" "i see you haven't got me," said john dene with the air of a patient schoolmaster with a stupid pupil. "you," he addressed himself in particular to sir lyster, "have said in public that the most difficult spot in connexion with the submarine trouble is between the shetlands and the norwegian coast. you can't help the u-boats slipping through submerged. suppose the _destroyer_--that's the name of my boat--is sort of hanging around there, _with eyes_ and some other little things she's got, what then?" "both sir lyster and i appreciate all you say," said the admiral; "but, well, we are a little old fashioned perhaps in our methods here." he smiled deprecatingly. "well," said john dene, rising, "you lose the odd trick, that's all; and," he added significantly as he took a step towards the door, "when it all comes out, you'll lose your jobs too." "really, mr. dene," protested sir lyster, flushing slightly. john dene swung round on his heel. "if you'd spent three years of your life and over a million dollars on a boat, and come three thousand miles to offer it to someone for nothing, and were told to wait till god knows which day what week, well, you'd be rattled too. in t'ronto we size up a man before he's had time to say he's pleased to meet us, and we'd buy a mountain quicker than you'd ask your neighbour to pass the marmalade at breakfast." whilst john dene was speaking, sir lyster had been revolving the matter swiftly in his mind. he was impressed by his visitor's fearlessness. a self-made man himself, he admired independence and freedom of speech in others. he was not oblivious to the truth of john dene's hint of what would happen if another nation, even an allied nation, were to acquire a valuable invention that had been declined by great britain. he remembered the fokker scandal. he decided to temporise. "if," continued john dene, "i was asking for money, i'd understand; but i won't take a red cent, and more than that i go bail to the tune of a quarter of a million dollars that i deliver the goods." he strode up and down the room, twirling his cigar, and flinging his short, sharp sentences at the two men, who, to his mind, stood as barriers to an allied triumph. "if you will sit down, mr. dene," said sir lyster suavely, "i'll explain." john dene hesitated for a moment, then humped himself into a chair, gazing moodily before him. "we quite appreciate your--er--patriotism and public-spiritedness in----" "here, cut it out," broke in john dene. "do you want the _destroyer_ or don't you?" sir lyster recoiled as if he had been struck. he had been first lord too short a time for the gilt to be worn off his dignity. seeing his chief about to reply in a way that he suspected might end the interview, admiral heyworth interposed. "may i suggest that under the circumstances we consult mr. llewellyn john?" "that's bully," broke in john dene without giving sir lyster a chance of replying. "they say he's got pep." bowing to the inevitable, sir lyster picked up the telephone-receiver. "get me through to the prime minister," he said. the three men waited in silence for the response. as the bell rang, sir lyster swiftly raised the receiver to his ear. "yes, the prime minister. sir lyster grayne speaking." there was a pause. "grayne speaking, yes. can i come round with admiral heyworth and an--er--inventor? it's very important." he listened for a moment, then added, "yes, we'll come at once." "now, mr. dene," said sir lyster, as he rose and picked up his hat, "i hope we shall be able to--er----" he did not finish the sentence; but led the way to the door. the three men walked across the horse guards quadrangle towards downing street. the only words uttered were when sir lyster asked john dene if he had seen the pelicans. john dene looked at him in amazement. he had heard that in british official circles it was considered bad taste to discuss the war except officially, and he decided that he was now discovering what was really the matter with the british empire. as the trio crossed the road to mount the steps leading to downing street, the girl passed of whom john dene had asked the way. her eyes widened slightly as she recognised john dene's two companions; they widened still more when john dene lifted his hat, followed a second later by sir lyster, whilst admiral heyworth saluted. in her surprise she nearly ran into a little shifty-eyed man, in a grey suit, who, with an elaborate flourish of his hat, hastened to apologise for her carelessness. "that's the girl who showed me the way to your back-door," john dene announced nonchalantly. sir lyster exchanged a rapid glance with the admiral. "if i was running this show," continued john dene, "i'd get that door enlarged a bit and splash some paint about;" and for the first time since they had met john dene smiled up at sir lyster, a smile that entirely changed the sombre cast of his features. on arriving at no, downing street, the three callers were conducted straight into mr. llewellyn john's room. as they entered, he rose quickly from his table littered with papers, and with a smile greeted his colleagues. sir lyster then introduced john dene. mr. llewellyn john grasped john dene's hand, and turned on him that bewilderingly sunny smile which mr. chappeldale had once said ought in itself to win the war. "sit down, mr. dene," said mr. llewellyn john, indicating a chair; "it's always a pleasure to meet any one from canada. what should we have done without you canadians?" he murmured half to himself. "mr. dene tells us that he has solved the submarine problem," said sir lyster, as he and admiral heyworth seated themselves. instantly mr. llewellyn john became alert. the social smile vanished from his features, giving place to the look of a keen-witted celt, eager to pounce upon something that would further his schemes. he turned to john dene interrogatingly. "perhaps mr. dene will explain," suggested sir lyster. "sure," said john dene, "your submarine isn't a submarine at all, it's a submersible. under water it's useless, because it can't see. as well call a seal a fish. a submarine must be able to fight under water, and until it can it won't be any more a submarine than i'm a tunny fish." mr. llewellyn john nodded in eager acquiescence. "i've spent over a million dollars, and now i've got a boat that can see under water and fight under water and do a lot of other fancy tricks." mr. llewellyn john sprang to his feet. "you have. tell me, where is it? this is wonderful, wonderful! it takes us a year forward." "it's on the st. lawrence river, just below quebec," explained john dene. "and how long will it take to construct say a hundred?" asked mr. llewellyn john eagerly, dropping back into his chair. "longer than any of us are going to live," replied john dene grimly. mr. llewellyn john looked at his visitor in surprise. sir lyster and the admiral exchanged meaning glances. the prime minister was experiencing what in toronto were known as "john's snags." "but if you've made one----" began mr. llewellyn john. "there's only going to be one," announced john dene grimly. "but----" "you can but like a he-goat," announced john dene, "still there'll be only our _destroyer_." sir lyster smiled inwardly. his bruised dignity was recovering at the sight of the surprised look on the face of the prime minister at john dene's comparison. "perhaps mr. dene will explain to us the difficulties," insinuated sir lyster. "sure," said john dene; then turning to admiral heyworth, "what would happen if germany got a submarine that could see and do fancy stunts?" he demanded. "it might embarrass----" began the admiral. "shucks!" cried john dene, "it would bust us up. what about the american transports, food-ships, munitions and the rest of it. they'd be attacked all along the three thousand miles route, and would go down like neck-oil on a permit night. you get me?" suddenly mr. llewellyn john struck the table with his fist. "you're right, mr. dene," he cried; "they might capture one and copy it. you remember the gothas," he added, turning to sir lyster. "sure," was john dene's laconic reply. "but how can we be sure they will not capture the _destroyer_?" enquired sir lyster. "because there'll be john dene and a hundred-weight of high-explosive on board," said john dene drily as he chewed at the end of his cigar. "then you propose----" began admiral heyworth. "i'll put you wise. this is my offer. i'm willing to send u-boats to merry hell; but only on my own terms. i won't take a cent for my boat or anything else. it's my funeral. the _destroyer_ is now in canada, with german spies buzzing around like flies over a dead rat. if you agree, i'll cable to my boys to bring the _destroyer_, and it won't be done without some fancy shooting, i take it! you," turning to admiral heyworth, "will appoint an officer, two if you like, to come aboard and count the bag. i'll supply the crew, and you'll give me a commander's commission in the navy. now, is it a deal?" "but----" began sir lyster. "you make me tired," said john dene wearily. "is it or is it not a deal?" he enquired of mr. llewellyn john. with an effort the prime minister seemed to gather himself together. he found the pace a little breathless, even for him. "i think it might be arranged, grayne," he said tactfully. "mr. dene knows his own invention and we might enrol his crew in the navy; what do you think?" mr. llewellyn john abounded in tact. "i take it that you understand navigation, mr. dene?" ventured the admiral. "sure," was the reply. "you come a trip with me, and i'll show you navigation that'll make your hair stand on end. sorry," he added a moment after, observing that admiral heyworth was almost aggressively bald. "that's all right," laughed the admiral; "they call me the coot." "well, is it a deal?" demanded john dene, rising. "it is," said mr. llewellyn john, "and a splendid deal for the british empire, mr. dene," he added, holding out his hand. "it's a great privilege to meet a patriot such as you. sir lyster and admiral heyworth will settle all details to your entire satisfaction." "if they do for me, i want you to give the command to blake, then to quinton, and so on, only to my own boys; is that agreed?" "do for you?" queried mr. llewellyn john. "huns, they're after me every hour of the day. there was a little chap even in your own building." "we really must intern these germans----" began mr. llewellyn john. "you're barking up the wrong tree, over here," said john dene with conviction. "you think a german spy's got a square head and says 'ach himmel' and 'ja wohl' on street-cars. it's the neutrals mostly, and sometimes the british," he added under his breath. "in any case you will, i am sure, find that sir lyster will do whatever you want," said mr. llewellyn john as they walked towards the door. for the second time that morning john dene smiled as he left no. 110, downing street, with sir lyster and admiral heyworth, whilst mr. llewellyn john rang up the chief of department z. chapter ii john dene's way as sir lyster entered mr. blair's room, accompanied by john dene and admiral heyworth, he was informed that sir bridgman north, the first sea lord, was anxious to see him. "ask him if he can step over now, blair," said sir lyster, and the three men passed into the first lord's room. two minutes later sir bridgman north entered, and sir lyster introduced john dene. for a moment the two men eyed one another in mutual appraisement; the big, bluff sea lord, with his humorous blue eyes and ready laugh, and the keen, heavy-featured canadian, as suspicious of a gold band as of a pickpocket. "pleased to meet you," said john dene perfunctorily, as they shook hands. "now you'd better give me a chance to work off my music;" and with that he seated himself. sir bridgman exchanged an amused glance with admiral heyworth, as they too found chairs. in a few words sir lyster explained the reason of john dene's visit. sir bridgman listened with the keen interest of one to whom his profession is everything. "now, mr. dene," said sir lyster when he had finished, "perhaps you will continue." in short, jerky sentences john dene outlined his scheme of operations, the others listening intently. from time to time sir bridgman or admiral heyworth would interpolate a question upon some technical point, which was promptly and satisfactorily answered. john dene seemed to have forgotten nothing. for two hours the four sat discussing plans for a campaign that was once and for all to put an end to germany's submarine hopes. during those two hours the three englishmen learned something of the man with whom they had to deal. sir bridgman's tact, cheery personality and understanding of how to handle men did much to improve the atmosphere, and gradually john dene's irritation disappeared. it was nearly three o'clock before all the arrangements were completed. john dene was to receive a temporary commission as commander as soon as the king's signature could be obtained. the _destroyer_ was entered on the navy list as h4, thus taking the place of a submarine that was "missing." john dene had stipulated that she should be rated in some existing class, so that the secret of her existence might be preserved. in short, sharp sentences he had presented his demands, they were nothing less, and the others had acquiesced. by now they were all convinced that he was right, and that the greatest chance of success lay in "giving him his head," as sir bridgman north expressed it in a whisper to sir lyster. a base was to be selected on some island in the north of scotland, and fitted with wireless with aerials a hundred and fifty feet high, "to pick up all that's going," explained john dene, conscious of the surprise of his hearers at a request for such a long-range plant. here the _destroyer_ was to be based, and stores and fuel sufficient for six months accumulated. this was to be proceeded with at once. "i shall want charts of the minefields," he said, "and full particulars as to patrol flotillas and the like." admiral heyworth nodded comprehendingly. "by the way," he said, "there's one thing i do not quite understand." "put a name to it," said john dene tersely. "how do you propose to keep at sea for any length of time without recharging your batteries?" "we shall be lying doggo most of the time," was the reply. "then in all probability the u-boats will pass over you." "we shan't be lying at the bottom of the sea, either," said john dene. "what!" exclaimed admiral heyworth, "but if your motor's cut off, you'll sink to the bed of the sea--the law of gravity." "the _destroyer_ is fitted with buoyancy chambers, and she can generate a gas that will hold her suspended at any depth," he explained. "this gas can be liquefied in a few seconds. her microphone will tell her when the u-boats are about; it's my own invention." sir lyster looked from one to the other, unable to grasp such technicalities; but conscious that admiral heyworth seemed surprised at what he heard. "it's up to you to see that none of your boys start dropping depth-charges around," said john dene. he went on to explain that he proposed a certain restricted area for operations, and that the admiralty should issue instructions that no depth charges were to be dropped on any submarine within that area until further notice. "there's one thing i must leave you to supply," said john dene, as he leaned back in his chair smoking a cigar. john dene chewed the end of a cigar during the period of negotiations, and smoked it when the deal was struck. "and what is that?" asked sir bridgman. "i shall want a 'mother'----" "a mother!" ejaculated sir lyster, looking from john dene to the first sea lord, who laughed loudly. sir lyster always felt that sir bridgman should have left his laugh on the quarter-deck when he relinquished active command. "a 'mother,'" he explained, "is a kangaroo-ship, a dry-dock ship for salvage and repair of submarines. yes, we'll fit you out." sir lyster looked chagrined. he had found some difficulty in mastering naval technicalities. when war broke out he was directing a large dock from which vast numbers of troops were shipped to france. he had shown such administrative genius, that mr. llewellyn john had selected him for the post of first lord of the admiralty, with results that satisfied every one, even the sea lords. john dene then proceeded to indicate the nature of the alterations he would require made in the vessel, showing a remarkable knowledge of the british type of mother-ship. "you ought either to be shot as a spy or made first sea lord," said sir bridgman, looking up from a diagram that john dene had produced. "the hun'll try to do the shooting; and as for my becoming sea lord, i should be sorry for some of the plugs here." john dene's thoroughness impressed his three hearers. everything had been foreseen, even the spot where the _destroyer_ was to be based. the small island of auchinlech possessed a natural harbour of sufficient size for the mother-ship to enter, after which the entrance was to be guarded by a defensive boom as a safeguard against u-boats. john dene explained that a month or five weeks must elapse before the _destroyer_ would be ready for action. in about three weeks she could be at auchinlech, crossing the atlantic under her own power. another week or ten days would be required for refitting and taking in stores. "when you've delivered the goods you can quit, and i shall be pleased to see your boys again in four months." john dene regarded his listeners with the air of a man who had just thrown a bombshell and is conscious of the fact. "four months!" ejaculated sir lyster. "yep!" he uttered the monosyllable in a tone that convinced at least one of his listeners that expostulation would be useless. "but," protested sir lyster, "how shall we know what is happening?" "you won't," was the laconic reply. "but----" began sir lyster again. "if no one knows what is happening," interrupted john dene, "no one can tell anyone else." "surely, mr. dene," said sir lyster with some asperity in his voice, "you do not suspect the war cabinet, for instance, of divulging secrets of national importance." "i don't suspect the war cabinet of anything," was the dry retort, "not even of trying to win the war." john dene looked straight into sir lyster's eyes. there was an awkward pause. "who's going to guarantee that the war cabinet doesn't talk in its sleep?" he continued. "i'm not out to take risks. if this country doesn't want my boat on my terms, then i shan't worry, although you may," he added as an afterthought. "no, sir," he banged his fist on the table vehemently. "this is the biggest thing that's come into the war so far, and i'm not going to have anyone monkeying about with my plans. i'm going to have a written document that i've got a free hand, otherwise i don't deal, that's understood." "but----" began sir lyster once more. "excuse me, grayne," broke in sir bridgman, "may i suggest that, as we are all keenly interested parties, mr. dene might give us his reasons." "sure," said john dene without waiting for sir lyster's reply. "in can'da a man gets a job because he's the man for that job, leastwise if he's not he's fired. here i'll auction that half the big jobs are held by mutts whose granddad's had a pleasant way of saying how d'ye do to a prince. if any of them came around you'd have me skippin' like a scalded cat, and when i'm like that i'm liable to say things. i'm my own man and my own boss, and i take a man's size in most things. i'm too old to feel meek at the sight of gold bands. i want to feel kind to everybody, and i find i can do that in this country better when everybody keeps out of my way." john dene paused, and the others looked at each other, a little nonplussed how to respond to such directness. "it's been in my head-fillin' quite a while to tell you this;" and john dene suddenly smiled, one of those rare smiles that seemed to take the sting out of his words. "i'd be real sorry to hurt anybody's feelings," he added, "but we've got different notions of things in can'da." it was sir bridgman who eased the situation. "if ever you want a second in command, i'm your man," he laughed. "straight talk makes men friends, and if we do wrap things up a bit more here, we aren't so thin-skinned as not to be able to take it from the shoulder. what say you, grayne?" "yes--certainly," said sir lyster with unconvincing hesitation. "you were mentioning spies," said admiral heyworth. "so would you if they'd plagued you as they've plagued me," said john dene. "they've already stolen three sets of plans." "three sets of plans!" cried sir lyster, starting up in alarm. john dene nodded as he proceeded to relight the stump of his cigar. "one set in t'ronto, one on the steamer and the other from my room at the ritzton." "good heavens!" exclaimed sir lyster in alarm, "what is to be done?" "oh! i've got another three sets," said john dene calmly. sir lyster looked at him as if doubtful of his sanity. "don't you worry," said john dene imperturbably, "one set of plans was of the u1, the first boat the germans built, the second set was of the u2, and the third of the u9." sir bridgman's laugh rang out as he thumped the table with his fist. "splendid!" he cried. sir lyster sank back into his chair with a sigh of relief. "by the way, dene," said sir bridgman casually, "suppose the _destroyer_ was--er--lost and you with her." "i've arranged for a set of plans to be delivered to the first lord, whoever he may be at the time," said john dene. "good!" said sir bridgman. "you think of everything. we shall have you commanding the grand fleet before the war's over."' sir lyster said nothing. he did not quite relish the qualification "whoever he may be at the time." "about the spies," he said after a pause. "i think it would be advisable to arrange for your protection." "not on your life!" cried john dene with energy. "i don't want any policemen following me around. i've got my own--well," he added, "i've fixed things up all right, and if the worst comes to the worst, well there aren't many men in this country that can beat john dene with a gun. now it's up to me to make good on this proposition." he looked from one to the other, as if challenging contradiction. finding there was none, he continued: "but there are a few things that i want before i can start in, and then you won't see me for dust. you get me?" he looked suddenly at sir lyster. "we'll do everything in our power to help you, mr. dene," said sir lyster, reaching for a clean sheet of paper from the rack before him. "well, i've got it all figured out here," said john dene, taking a paper from his jacket pocket. "first i want a written undertaking, signed by you," turning to sir lyster, "and mr. llewellyn john that i'm to have four months to run the _destroyer_ with no one butting in." sir lyster nodded and made a note. "next," continued john dene, "i want a mothership fully equipped with stores and fuel sufficient for four months." again sir lyster inclined his head and made a note. "i'll give you a schedule of everything i'm likely to want. then i want an undertaking that if anything happens to me the command goes to blake and then to quinton. if i don't get these things," he announced with decision, "i'll call a halt right here." "i think you can depend upon sir lyster doing all you want, mr. dene," said sir bridgman; "and when you see the way he does it, perhaps you'll have a better opinion of the admiralty." sir lyster smiled slightly. he had already determined to show john dene that nowhere in the world was there an organisation equal to that of the admiralty victualling and stores departments. "you help john dene and he's with you till the cows come to roost," was the response; "and now," he added shrewdly, "you'd better get the cables to work and find out something about me." "something about you!" queried sir lyster. "you're not going to trust a man because he talks big, i'll gamble on that. well, you'll learn a deal about john dene, and now it's time you got a rustle on." "in all probability our intelligence department knows all about you by now, mr. dene," said sir bridgman with a laugh. "it's supposed to be fairly up to date in most things." "well," said john dene, as he leaned back in his chair, puffing vigorously at his cigar, "you've treated me better'n i expected, and you won't regret it. remembering's my long suit. i don't want any honour or glory out of this stunt, i just want to get the job done. if there are any garters, or collars going around, you may have 'em, personally i don't wear 'em,--garters, i mean. a couple of rubber-bands are good enough for me." sir bridgman laughed, sir lyster smiled indulgently, and admiral heyworth rose to go. "there's only one thing more; i want a room here and someone to take down letters." "i will tell my secretary to arrange everything," said sir lyster. "you have only to ask for what you require, mr. dene." "well, that's settled," said john dene, rising. "now it's up to me, and if the _destroyer_ doesn't give those huns merry hell, then i'm green goods;" and with this enigmatical utterance he abruptly left the room, with a nod, and a "see you all in the morning." as the door closed, the three men gazed at each other for a few seconds. "an original character," said sir lyster indulgently. "going, heyworth?" he enquired, as admiral heyworth moved towards the door. "yes, i've hardly touched the day's work yet," was the reply. "never mind," said sir bridgman, "you've done the best day's work you're likely to do during this war." "i think i agree with you," said admiral heyworth as he left the room. "well, grayne, what do you think of our friend, john dene?" inquired sir bridgman as he lighted a cigarette. "he's rather abrupt," said sir lyster hesitatingly, "but i think he's a sterling character." "you're right," said sir bridgman heartily. "i wish we had a dozen john denes in the service. when the colonies do produce a man they do the thing in style, and canada has made no mistake about john dene. he's going nearer to win the war than any other man in the empire." "ah! your incurable enthusiasm," smiled sir lyster. "what i like about him," remarked sir bridgman, "is that he never waits to be contradicted." "he certainly does seem to take everything for granted," said sir lyster, with a note of complaint in his voice. "the man who has all the cards generally does," said sir bridgman drily. "dene will always get there, because he has no axe to grind, and the only thing he respects is brains. that is why he snubs us all so unmercifully," he added with the laugh that always made sir lyster wish he wouldn't. "now i want to consult you about a rather embarrassing question that's on the paper for friday," said sir lyster. unconscious that he was forming the subject of discussion with the heads of the admiralty, john dene, on leaving the first lord's room, turned to the right and walked quickly in the direction of the main staircase. as he reached a point where the corridor was intersected by another running at right angles, the sudden opening of a door on his left caused him to turn his head quickly. a moment later there was a feminine cry and a sound of broken crockery, and john dene found himself gazing down at a broken teapot. "oh!" he looked up from the steaming ruin of newly brewed tea into the violet eyes of the girl who had directed him to the admiralty. he noticed the purity of her skin, the redness of her lips and the rebelliousness of her corn-coloured hair, which seeming to refuse all constraint clung about her head in little wanton tendrils. "that's my fault," said john dene, removing his hat. "i'm sorry." "yes; but our tea," said the girl in genuine consternation; "we're rationed, you know." "rationed?" said john dene. "yes; we only get two ounces a week each," she said with a comical look of despair. "gee!" cried john dene, then he asked suddenly: "what are you?" the girl looked at him in surprise, a little stiffly. "can you type? never mind about the tea." "but i do mind about the tea." she found john dene's manner disarming. "i take it you're a stenographer. now tell me your name. i'll see about the tea." he had whipped out a note-book and pencil. "hurry, i've got a cable to send." seeing that she was reluctant to give her name, he continued: "never mind about your name. be in the first lord's room to-morrow at eleven o'clock; i'll see you there;" and with that he turned quickly, resumed his hat and retraced his steps. without knocking, he pushed open the door of mr. blair's room, walked swiftly across and opened the door leading to that of the first lord. "here!" he cried, "where can i buy a pound of tea?" if john dene had asked where he could borrow an ichthyosaurus, sir lyster and sir bridgman could not have gazed at him with more astonishment. "you can't," said sir bridgman, at length, his eyes twinkling as he watched the expression on sir lyster's face. "can't!" cried john dene. "tea's rationed--two ounces a week," explained sir bridgman. "anyhow i've got to buy a pound of tea. i've just smashed up the teapot of a girl in the corridor." "i'm afraid it's impossible," said sir lyster with quiet dignity. "impossible!" said john dene irritably. "here am i giving more'n a million dollars to the country and i can't get a pound of tea. i'll see about that. she'll be here in this room to-morrow at eleven o'clock," and with that the door closed and john dene disappeared. "i've told a girl to be here at eleven o'clock to-morrow. she's going to be my secretary," he explained to mr. blair as he passed through his office. mr. blair blinked his eyes vigorously. he had seen sir lyster and admiral heyworth leave the admiralty with john dene, he gathered that they had had a long interview with the prime minister, then they had returned again and, for two hours, had sat in consultation with the first sea lord. now the amazing john dene had made an appointment to meet some girl in the first lord's room at eleven o'clock the next morning. as john dene left the admiralty puffing clouds of blue content from his cigar, the shifty-eyed man, in a grey suit, who had been examining the royal marines statue, drew a white handkerchief with a flourish from his pocket and proceeded to blow his nose vigorously. the act seemed to pass unnoticed save by a young girl sitting on a neighbouring seat. she immediately appeared to become greatly interested in the movements of john dene, whilst the man in the grey suit walked away in the direction of birdcage walk. "where's the tea?" was the cry with which dorothy west was greeted as she entered the room she occupied with a number of other girls after her encounter with john dene. "it's in the corridor," she replied. "oh! go and get it, there's a dear; i'm simply parched," cried marjorie rogers, a pretty little brunette at the further corner. "it's all gone," said dorothy west; "a hun just knocked it out of my hand. he smashed the teapot." "smashed the teapot!" cried several girls in chorus. "oh! wessie," wailed the little brunette, "i shall die." "why did you let him do it?" asked a fair girl with white eyelashes and glasses. "i didn't," said dorothy; "he just barged into me and knocked the teapot out of my hand, and then made an assignation for eleven o'clock to-morrow in the first lord's room." "an assignation! the first lord's room!" cried miss cunliffe, who by virtue of a flat chest, a pair of round glasses, and an uncompromising manner made an ideal supervisor. she was known as "old goggles." "what do you mean, miss west?" "exactly what i say, miss cunliffe. he asked me if i was a stenographer, and then said that i was to see him at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning in the first lord's room. what do you think i had better do?" "who is he? what is he? do tell us, wessie, dear," cried marjorie rogers excitedly. "well, i should think he's either a madman or else he's bought the admiralty," said dorothy west, her head on one side as if weighing her words before uttering them. "he's the man i saw this morning with sir lyster grayne and admiral heyworth, going to call on the prime minister--at least, i suppose they were; they went up the steps into downing street. but ought i to go at eleven o'clock, miss cunliffe?" she queried. "i'll make enquiries," said miss cunliffe. "i'll see mr. blair. perhaps he's mad." "but what are we going to do about our tea?" wailed marjorie. "i'd sooner lose my character than my tea." "miss rogers!" said miss cunliffe, whose conception of supervisorship was that she should oversee the decorum as well as the work of the other occupants of the room. "i believe she did it on purpose," said she of the white eyelashes spitefully to a girl in a velvet blouse. "you had better brew to-morrow's tea to-day, miss west," said miss cunliffe. "yes, do, there's a darling," cried marjorie. "i simply can't wait another five minutes. why, i couldn't lick a stamp to save my life. borrow no. 13's pot when they've finished with it, and pinch some of their tea, if you can," she added. and dorothy west went out to interview the guardian of no. 13's teapot. chapter iii department z. i "mr. sage there? very well, ask him to step in and see me as soon as he returns." colonel walton replaced the telephone-receiver and continued to draw diagrams upon the blotting-pad before him, an occupation in which he had been engaged for the last quarter of an hour. since its creation two years before, he had been chief of department z., the most secret section of the british secret service, with malcolm sage as his lieutenant. department z. owed its inception to an inspiration on the part of mr. llewellyn john. he had conceived the idea of creating a secret service department, the working of which should be secret even from the secret service itself. its primary object was that the prime minister and the war cabinet might have a private means of obtaining such special information as it required. department z. was unhampered by rules and regulations, as devoid of conventions as an enterprising flapper. in explaining his scheme to mr. thaw, the chancellor of the exchequer, mr. llewellyn john had said, "suppose i want to know what chappeldale had for lunch yesterday, and don't like to ask him, how am i to find out? i want a department that can tell me anything i want to know, and will be surprised at nothing." with mr. llewellyn john to conceive a thing was to put it into practice. he did not make the mistake of placing department z. under the control of a regular secret service man. "i'm tired of red-tape and traditions," he had remarked to mr. thaw. "if i go to the front, they won't let me speak to a man lower than a brigadier, whereas i want the point-of-view of the drummer-boy." mr. llewellyn john had heard of colonel walton's exploits in india as head of the burmah police, had seen him, and in five minutes the first chief of department z. was appointed. from the ministry of supply, mr. llewellyn john had plucked malcolm sage, whom he later described as "either a ferret turned dreamer, or a dreamer turned ferret," he was not quite sure which. in discovering malcolm sage, mr. llewellyn john had achieved one of his greatest strokes of good fortune. when minister of supply his notice had been attracted to sage, as the man who had been instrumental in bringing to light--that is official light, for the affair was never made public--the greatest contracts-scandal of the war. it was due entirely to his initiative and unobtrusive enquiries that a gigantic fraud, diabolical in its cleverness, had been discovered--a fraud that might have involved the country in the loss of millions. mr. llewellyn john had recognised that this young accountant had done him a great service, perhaps saved him from a serious political set-back. incidentally he discovered that sage was a very uneasy person to have in a government-department. sage cared nothing for tradition, discipline, or bureaucracy. if they interfered with the proper performance of his duties, overboard they went. he was the most transferred man in whitehall. no one seemed to want to keep him for longer than the period necessary for the formalities of his transfer. "uneasy lies the head that has a sage," was a phrase some wag had coined. if a man wanted to condemn another as too zealous, unnecessarily hard-working, or as a breaker of idols, he likened him to sage. the chief of the department from which mr. llewellyn john took malcolm sage when department z. was formed is said to have wept tears of joy at the news. for months he had striven to transfer his unconventional subordinate; but there was none who would have him. this unfortunate chief of department had gone through life like a man wanting to sell a dog of dubious pedigree. in the ministry he was known as henry ii, and sage came to be referred to as beckett. in department z. sage found his proper niche. under colonel walton, a man of few words and great tact, he had found an ideal chief, one who understood how to handle men. as john dene had left 110, downing street, with sir lyster and admiral heyworth, mr. llewellyn john had rung up colonel walton and requested that full enquiries be made at once as to john dene of toronto, and a report submitted to him in the morning. that was all. he had given no indication of why he wanted to know, or what was john dene's business in london. hardly a day of his life passed without mr. llewellyn john having cause to be thankful for the inspiration that had resulted in the founding of department z. nothing seemed to come amiss, either to the department or its officials. they never required an elaborate filling-up of forms, they never asked for further particulars as did other departments. they just got to work. mr. llewellyn john had, once and for all, defined department z. when he said to mr. thaw, "if i were to ask scotland yard if chappeldale had gone over to the bolshevists, or if waytensee had become an orangeman, they would send a man here, his pockets bulging with note-books. department z. would tell me all i wanted to know in a few hours." in his first interview with mr. llewellyn john, previous to being appointed to department z., malcolm sage had bluntly criticised the government's methods of dealing with the spy peril. "you're all wrong, sir," he had said. "if you spot a spy, you arrest, imprison or deport him, according to the degree of his guilt. any fool could do that," he had added quietly. "and what would you do, sage?" inquired mr. llewellyn john, who never took offence at the expression of any man's honest opinion, no matter how emphatically worded. "i should watch him," was the laconic reply. "just as was done before the war. you didn't arrest spies then, you just let them think they were safe." for a few moments mr. llewellyn john had pondered the remark, and then asked for an explanation. "if you arrest, shoot or intern a spy, another generally springs up in his place, and you have to start afresh to find him; he may do a lot of mischief before that comes about." sage gazed meditatively at his finger-nails, a habit of his. "on the other hand," he continued, "if you know your man, you can watch him and generally find out what he's after. better a known than an unknown danger," he had added oracularly. "i'm afraid they wouldn't endorse that doctrine at scotland yard," smiled mr. llewellyn john. "scotland yard is a place of promoted policemen," replied sage, "regulation intellects in regulation boots." mr. llewellyn john smiled. he always appreciated a phrase. "then you would not arrest a burglar, but watch him," he said, glancing keenly at sage. "the cases are entirely different, sir," was the reply; "a burglar invariably works on his own, a spy is more frequently than not a cog of a machine and must be replaced. he seldom works entirely alone." "go on," mr. llewellyn john had said, seeing that sage paused and was intently regarding his finger-nails of his right hand. "even when burglars work in gangs, there is no superior organisation to replace destroyed units," continued sage. "with international secret service it is different; its casualties are made good as promptly as with a field army." "i believe you're right," said mr. llewellyn john. "if you can convince colonel walton, then department z. can be run on those lines." malcolm sage had found no difficulty in convincing his chief, a man of quiet demeanour, but unprejudiced mind. the result had been that department z. had not so far caused a single arrest, although it had countered many clever schemes. its motto was "the day" when it could make a really historical haul. the progress of malcolm sage had been remarkable. colonel walton had quickly seen that his subordinate could work only along his own lines, and in consequence he had given him his head. sage, on his part, had discovered in his chief a man with a sound knowledge of human nature, generously spiced with the devil. as sage entered, colonel walton ceased his diagrams and looked up. sage was as unlike the "sleuth hound" of fiction as it is possible for a man to be. at first glance he looked like the superintendent of a provincial sunday-school. he was about thirty-five years of age, sandy, wore gold-rimmed glasses and possessed a conical head, prematurely bald. he had a sharp nose, steel-coloured eyes and large ears; but there was the set of his jaw which told of determination. seating himself in his customary place, sage proceeded to pull at the inevitable briar, without which he was seldom seen. for a full minute there was silence. colonel walton deliberately lighted a cigar and leaned back to listen. he knew his man and refrained from asking questions. "they're puzzled, chief"--sage knocked the ashes from his pipe into the ash-tray on the table--"and they're getting jumpy," he added. colonel walton nodded. "twice they've ransacked john dene's room at the ritzton and found nothing." "does he know?" enquired colonel walton. sage nodded. "john dene's a dark horse," he remarked with respect in his voice, "and the huns can't make up their minds." "to what?" enquired the chief. "to give up the shadow for the substance," he remarked, as he pressed down the tobacco in his pipe. "they want the plans, and they want to prevent the boat from putting to sea." colonel walton nodded comprehendingly. "they'll probably try to scotch her on the way over; but they won't know her route. they'll be lying in wait, however, in full strength in home waters. he's a bad psychologist," added sage, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "who?" enquired colonel walton. "the hun," replied sage, as he sucked away contentedly at his pipe. "he's never content to go for a single issue, or he'd probably have got the channel ports. he's not content with concentrating on john dene and his boat, he's after the plans. that's where he'll fail. smart chap, john dene." for some moments the two men smoked in silence, which was finally broken by sage. "they'll try to get hold of john dene, unless he's very careful, and hold him to ransom, the price being the plans." "incidentally, sage, where did you get all this from?" enquired walton. sage gazed at his chief through his gold-rimmed spectacles. "about three hundred yards west of the temple station on the underground." colonel walton glanced across at his subordinate; but refrained from asking further questions. "have you warned dene?" he enquired instead. "no use," replied sage with conviction. "might as well warn a fly." colonel walton nodded understandingly. "still," he remarked, "i think he ought to be told." "why not have a try yourself?" sage looked up swiftly from the inevitable contemplation of his finger-nails. for fully a minute colonel walton sat revolving the proposal in his mind. "i think i will," he said later. "he'll treat you like a superannuated policeman," was the grim retort. "the skipper wants to see us at eleven," said colonel walton, looking at his watch and rising. the "skipper" was the name by which mr. llewellyn john was known at department z. names were rarely referred to, and very few documents were ever exchanged. colonel walton picked up his hat from a bookcase and, followed by sage, who extracted a cap from his pocket, left the room and department z. and walked across to downing street. as colonel walton and malcolm sage were shown into mr. llewellyn john's room, the prime minister gave instructions that he was not to be disturbed for a quarter of an hour. "was the john dene report what you wanted, sir?" enquired colonel walton, as he took the seat mr. llewellyn john indicated. "excellent," cried mr. llewellyn john; then with a smile he added, "i was able to tell sir lyster quite a lot of things this morning. the admiralty report was not ready until late last night. it was not nearly so instructive." the main facts of john dene's career had not been difficult to obtain. his father had emigrated to canada in the early eighties; but, possessing only the qualifications of a clerk, he had achieved neither fame nor fortune. he had died when john dene was eight years old, and his wife had followed him within eighteen months. after a varied career john dene had drifted to the states, where as a youth he had entered a large engineering firm, and was instantly singled out as an inventor in embryo. several fortunate speculations had formed the foundation of a small fortune of twenty thousand dollars, with which he returned to toronto. from that point his career had been one continual progression of successes. everything he touched seemed to turn to gold, until "john's luck" became a well-known phrase in financial circles. unlike most successful business-men, he devoted a large portion of his time to his hobby, electrical engineering, and when the war broke out he sought to turn this to practical and patriotic uses. "and when may we expect mr. dene's new submarine over?" enquired malcolm sage casually. "mr. dene's new submarine!" mr. llewellyn john's hands dropped to his sides as he gazed at sage in blank amazement. "his new submarine," he repeated. "yes, sir." "what on earth do you know about it?" demanded mr. llewellyn john, looking at sage with a startled expression. "john dene has invented a submarine," proceeded the literal sage, "with some novel features, including a searchlight that has overcome the opacity of water. the thing is lying on the st. lawrence river just below quebec. yesterday he called to see sir lyster grayne, who brought him here with admiral heyworth." mr. llewellyn john gazed in bewilderment at malcolm sage, his eyes shifted to colonel walton and then back again to sage. "but," he began, "you're watching us, not the enemy. did you know of this?" he turned to the chief of department z. colonel walton shook his head. "i haven't seen sage since you telephoned yesterday until a few minutes ago," he said. "where--how----?" mr. llewellyn john paused. "it's our business to know things, sir," was sage's quiet reply. "and yet you didn't report this to----" began mr. llewellyn john. "it saves time telling you both at once," responded sage, looking at his chief with a smile. "suppose you tell us how you found out," suggested mr. llewellyn john a little irritably. "does that matter, sir?" sage looked up calmly from an earnest examination of the nail of his left forefinger. for some moments mr. llewellyn john gazed across at malcolm sage, frowning heavily. "sage has his own methods," remarked colonel walton tactfully. "methods," cried mr. llewellyn john, his brow clearing, "it's a good job he didn't live in the middle ages, or else he'd have been burned. i'm not so sure that he ought not to be burned now." he turned on sage that smile that never failed in its magical effect. "there are one or two links missing," said sage. "i want to know where and when the _destroyer_ will arrive, and what steps you are taking in regard to john dene." "all arrangements will be left in mr. dene's hands. he is----" mr. lewellyn john paused. "a little self-willed," suggested sage. "self-willed!" exclaimed mr. llewellyn john. "he is a dictator in embryo." "he happens also to be a patriot," said sage quietly. "wait until you meet him," said the prime minister grimly. "i have met him," said sage quietly. "i trod on his toe last night at 'chu chin chow.' we had quite a pleasant little chat about it. i think that is all i need trouble you with, sir," he concluded. "and we are to see the thing through?" interrogated colonel walton, as mr. llewellyn john rose. "there won't be any----" "no one else knows anything about it except sir lyster, sir bridgman and admiral heyworth. by the way," mr. llewellyn john added, "our canadian friend has an idea that our secret service is run by superannuated policemen in regulation boots." "i know," said sage, as he followed his chief towards the door. "good-bye," cried mr. llewellyn john. "i'm sure i shall have to send you to the tower, sage, before i've finished with you." "then i'll spend the time writing the history of department z., sir," was the quiet reply. the two men went out, and mr. llewellyn john rang for his secretary. "you have rather----" began colonel walton, but he stopped short. sage suddenly knocked him roughly with his elbow. "i have never seen the mons star," he said. "can we go round by whitehall? the horse guards sentries, i believe, wear it." the two men had reached the top of the steps leading down into st. james's park. without a moment's pause sage turned quickly, and nearly cannoned into a pretty and stylishly dressed girl, who was walking close behind them. he lifted his hat and apologised, and he and colonel walton passed up downing street into whitehall. for the rest of the walk back to st. james's square, sage chatted about medals. seated once more one on either side of colonel walton's table, sage proceeded to light his pipe. "clever, wasn't it?" he asked. "she's fairly new, too." "who was she?" "vera ellerton, employed as a temporary ministry typist," sage replied drily. "so that was it," remarked colonel walton, cutting the end of a cigar with great deliberation. "she was following us on the chance of catching any odd remarks that might be useful. on the way back here two others picked us up on the relay system." "do you think she knew who we were?" enquired colonel walton. "no, just an off chance. we were callers on the skipper, and might let something drop. it's a regular thing, picking up the callers, generally when they've got some distance away though." "they must have learned quite a deal about numismatics," said colonel walton drily. "a constitutional government is a great obstacle to an efficient secret service, it imposes limitations," remarked sage regretfully. colonel walton looked across in the act of lighting his cigar. "there are six hundred and seventy of them at westminster. in war-time we require a system of the _lettre-de-cachêt_. and now," said sage, rising, "i think i'll get a couple of hours' sleep, i've been pretty busy. by the way," he said, with his hand upon the door-handle, "i think we might get the papers of that fellow on the bergen boat, also a photograph, clothing, and full details of his appearance." colonel walton nodded and malcolm sage took his departure. ii "it's curious." malcolm sage was seated at his table carefully studying several sheets of buff-coloured paper fastened together in the top left-hand corner with thin green cord. in a tray beside him lay a number of similar documents. he glanced across at a small man with a dark moustache and determined chin sitting opposite. the man made a movement as if to speak, then apparently thinking better of it, remained silent. "how many false calls did you say?" enquired sage. "nine in five days, sir," was the response. malcolm sage nodded his head several times, his eyes still fixed on the papers before him. one of his first acts on being appointed to department z. was to give instructions, through the proper channels, that all telephone-operators were to be warned to report to their supervisors anything that struck them as unusual, no matter how trivial the incident might appear, carefully noting the numbers of the subscribers whose messages seemed out of the ordinary. this was quite apart from the special staff detailed to tap conversations, particularly call-box conversations throughout the kingdom. a bright young operator at the streatham exchange, coveting the reward of five pounds offered for any really useful information, had called attention to the curious fact that mr. montagu naylor, of "the cedars," apthorpe road, was constantly receiving wrong calls. this operator's report had been considered of sufficient importance to send to department z. instructions had been given for a complete record to be kept of all mr. montagu naylor's calls, in-coming and out-going. the first thing that struck sage as significant was that all these false calls were made from public call-boxes. he gave instructions that at the streatham exchange they were to enquire of the exchanges from which the calls had come if any complaint had been made by those getting wrong numbers. the result showed that quite a number of people seemed content to pay threepence to be told that they were on to the wrong subscriber. "what do you make of it, thompson?" malcolm sage looked up in that sudden way of his, which many found so disconcerting. thompson shook his head. "i've had enquiries made at all the places given, and they seem quite all right, sir," was his reply. "it's funny," he added after a pause. "it began with short streets and small numbers, and then gradually took in the larger thoroughfares with bigger numbers." "the calls have always come through in the same way?" queried malcolm sage. "first the number and then the street and no mention of the exchange." "yes, sir," was the response. "it's a bit of a puzzle," he added. malcolm sage nodded. for some minutes they sat in silence, sage staring with expressionless face at the papers before him. suddenly with a swift movement he pushed them over towards thompson. "get out a list of the whole range of numbers immediately, and bring it to me as soon as you can. tell them to get me through to smart at the streatham exchange." "very good, sir;" and the man took his departure. a minute later the telephone bell rang. malcolm sage took up the receiver. "that you, smart?" he enquired, "re z.18, in future transcribe figures in words exactly as spoken, thus double-one-three, one-hundred-and-thirteen, or one-one-three, as the case may be." he jammed the receiver back again on to the rest, and proceeded to gaze fixedly at the finger-nails of his left hand. a quarter of an hour later special service officer thompson entered with a long list of figures, which he handed to malcolm sage. "you've hit it, thompson," said sage, glancing swiftly down the list. "have i, sir?" said thompson, not quite sure what it was he was supposed to have hit. "they are----" at that moment the telephone bell rang. malcolm sage put the receiver to his ear. "yes, malcolm sage, speaking," he said. there was a pause. "yes." another pause. "good, continue to record in that manner;" and once more he replaced the receiver. "vanity, thompson, is at the root of all error." "yes, sir, said thompson dutifully. "those figures," continued sage, "are times, not numbers." with a quick indrawing of breath, which with thompson always indicated excitement, he reached across for the list, his eyes glinting. "that was smart on the telephone, another call just come through, three-twenty oxford street, not three-two-o, but three-twenty. make a note of it." thompson produced a note-book and hastily scribbled a memorandum. "at three-twenty this afternoon you will probably find mr. montagu naylor meeting somebody in oxford street. have both followed. if by chance they don't turn up, have someone there at three-twenty every afternoon and morning for a week; it may be the second, third, fourth, or fifth day after the call for all we know, morning or evening." "it's the old story, thompson," said sage, who never lost a chance of pointing the moral, "over confidence. here's a fellow who has worked out a really original means of communication. instead of running it for a few months and then dropping it, he carries on until someone tumbles to his game." "yes, sir," said thompson respectfully. it was an understood thing at department z. that these little homilies should be listened to with deference. "it's like a dog hiding a bone in a hat-box," continued sage. "he's so pleased with himself that he imagines no one else can attain to such mental brilliancy. he makes no allowance for the chapter of accidents." "that is so, sir." "we mustn't get like that in department z., thompson." thompson shook his head. time after time sage had impressed upon the staff of department z. that mentally they must be elastic. "it's only a fool who is blinded by his own vapour," he had said. he had pointed out the folly of endeavouring to fit a fact by an hypothesis. "that's all," and malcolm sage became absorbed in the paper before him. as he closed the door behind him thompson winked gravely at a print upon the wall of the corridor opposite. he was wondering how it was possible for one man to watch the whole of oxford street for a week. chapter iv gingering-up the admiralty "boss in?" mr. blair started violently; he had not heard john dene enter his room. "er--yes, mr. dene," he replied, "i'll tell him." he half rose; but before he could complete the movement john dene had opened the door communicating with sir lyster's private room. mr. blair sank back in his chair. he was a man who assimilated innovation with difficulty. all his life he had been cradled in the lap of "as it was in the beginning." he was a vade-mecum on procedure and the courtesies of life, which made him extremely valuable to sir lyster. he was a gentle zephyr, whereas john dene was something between a sudden draught and a cyclone. mr. blair fixed his rather prominent blue eyes on the door that had closed behind john dene. he disliked colonials. they always said what they meant, and went directly for what they wanted, all of which was in opposition to his standard of good-breeding. as he continued to gaze at the door, it suddenly opened and john dene's head appeared. "say," he cried, "if that yellow-headed girl comes, send her right in," and the door closed with a bang. inwardly mr. blair gasped; it was not customary for yellow-haired girls to be sent in to see the first lord. "the difference between this country and can'da," remarked john dene, as he planted upon sir lyster's table a large, shapeless-looking parcel, from which he proceeded to remove the wrapping, "is that here every one wants to know who your father was; but in can'da they ask what can you do. i got that pound of tea," he added inconsequently. "the pound of tea!" repeated sir lyster uncomprehendingly, as he watched john dene endeavouring to extract a packet from his pocket with one hand, and undo the string of the parcel with the other. "yes, for that yellow-headed girl. i ran into her in the corridor and smashed her teapot yesterday. i promised i'd get her some more tea. here it is;" and john dene laid the package on the first lord's table. "if she comes after i'm gone, you might give it to her. i told her to run in here and fetch it. this is the pot," he added, still struggling with the wrappings. presently he disinterred from a mass of paper wound round it in every conceivable way, a large white, pink and gold teapot. sir lyster gazed from the teapot, terrifying in the crudeness of its shape and design, to john dene and back again to the teapot. "like it?" asked john dene, as he looked admiringly at his purchase. "ought to cheer those girls up some." sir lyster continued to gaze at the teapot as if fascinated. "i told her to run in here and fetch it," continued john dene, indicating the packet of tea. "she doesn't know about the pot," he added with self-satisfaction. "in here," repeated sir lyster, unwilling to believe his ears. "sure," replied john dene, his eyes still fixed admiringly upon the teapot, "at eleven o'clock. it's that now," he added, looking at his watch. as he did so mr. blair entered and closed the door behind him. he was obviously embarrassed. "a young person----" he began. "send her right in," cried john dene. mr. blair glanced uncertainly from sir lyster to john dene, then back again to his chief. seeing no contradiction in his eye, he turned and held open the door to admit dorothy west. "ah! here you are," cried john dene, rising and indicating that the girl should occupy his chair. "there's your pound of tea," pointing to the package lying before sir lyster, "and there's a new teapot for you," he added, indicating that object, which seemed to flaunt its pink and white and gold as if determined to brazen things out. the girl looked at the teapot, at sir lyster and on to john dene, and back to the teapot. then she laughed. she had pretty teeth, john dene decided. "it's very kind of you," she said, "but there wasn't a pound of tea in the teapot you broke yesterday, and--and----" "never mind," said john dene, "you can keep the rest. now see here, i want someone to take down my letters. you're a stenographer?" he asked. the girl nodded her head. "speeds?" enquired john dene. "a hundred and twenty----" was the response. "typing?" "sixty-five words----" "you'll do," said john dene with decision. "in future you'll do my work only. nine o'clock, every morning." the girl looked enquiringly at sir lyster, who coughed slightly. "we will take up your references, miss--er----" "oh! cut it out," said john dene impatiently, "i don't want references." "but," replied sir lyster, "this is work of a confidential nature.". "see here," cried john dene. "i started life selling newspapers in t'ronto. i never had a reference, i never gave a reference and i never asked a reference, and the man who can get ahead of john dene had better stay up all night for fear of missing the buzzer in the morning. that girl's straight, else she wouldn't be asked to do my letters," he added. "now, don't you wait," he said to dorothy, seeing she was embarrassed at his remark; "nine o'clock to-morrow morning." "i think it will be necessary to take up references," began sir lyster as john dene closed the door on dorothy. john dene span round on his heel. "i run my business on canadian lines, not on british," he cried. "if you're always going to be around telling me what to do, then i'll see this country to hell before they get my _destroyer_. the man who deals with john dene does so on his terms," and with that he left the room, closing the door with a bang behind him. for a moment he stood gazing down at mr. blair. "can you tell me," he asked slowly, "why the british empire has not gone to blazes long ago?" mr. blair gazed at him, mild surprise in his prominent eyes. "i am afraid i don't--i cannot----" he began. "neither can i," said john dene. "you're all just about as cute as dead weasels." john dene walked along the corridor and down the staircase in high dudgeon. "ha! mr. dene, what's happened?" enquired sir bridgman, who was mounting the stairs as john dene descended. "i've been wondering how it is the british empire has hung together as long as it has," was the response. "what have we been doing now?" enquired sir bridgman. "it's my belief," remarked john dene, "that in this country you wouldn't engage a janitor without his great-grandmother's birth-certificate." "i'm afraid we are rather a prejudiced nation," said sir bridgman genially. "i don't care a cousin mary what you are," responded john dene, "so long as you don't come up against me. i'm out to win this war; it doesn't matter to me a red cent who's got the most grandmothers, and the sooner you tell the first lord and that prize seal of his, the better we shall get on;" and john dene abruptly continued on his way. sir bridgman smiled as he slowly ascended the stairs. "i suppose," he murmured, "we are in the process of being gingered-up." the rest of the day john dene devoted to sight-seeing and wandering about the streets, keenly interested in and critical of all he saw. the next morning he was at the admiralty a few minutes to nine, and was conducted by an attendant to the room that had been assigned to him. he gave a swift glance round and, apparently satisfied that it would suit his purpose, seated himself at the large pedestal table and took out his watch. as he did so, he noticed an envelope addressed to him lying on the table. picking it up he tore off the end, extracted and read the note. just as he had finished there came a tap at the door. "come," he called out. the door opened and dorothy west entered, looking very pretty and business-like with a note-book and pencil in her hand. "good morning," she said. "mornin', miss west," he replied, gazing at her apparently without seeing her. he was obviously thinking of something else. she seated herself beside his table and looked up, awaiting his signal to begin the day's work. "there are some things in this country that get my goat," he remarked. john dene threw down the letter he was reading, twirled the cigar between his lips and snorted his impatience, as he jumped from his chair and proceeded to stride up and down the room. "there are quite a lot that get mine," she remarked demurely, as she glanced up from her note-book. "a lot that get yours," he repeated, coming to a standstill and looking down at her. "things that get my goat." there was the slightest possible pause between the "my" and the "goat." then john dene smiled. in toronto it was said that when john dene smiled securities could always be trusted to mount at least a point. "well, listen to this." he picked up the letter again and read: "dear mr. dene,-"sir lyster desires me to write and express it as his most urgent wish that you will pay special regard to your personal safety. he fears that you may be inclined to treat the matter too lightly, hence this letter. "yours truly, "reginald blair." "if that chap hadn't such a dandy set of grandmothers and first cousins, he'd be picking up cigarette-stubs instead of wasting his time telling me what i knew a year ago." "but he's only carrying out sir lyster's instructions," suggested dorothy. "there's something in that," he admitted grudgingly, "but if they're going to be always running around warning me of danger i know all about----" he broke off. "why," he continued a moment later, "i was shot at on the steamer, nearly hustled into the docks at liverpool, set on by toughs in manchester and followed around as if i was a bell-mule. i tell you it gets my goat. this country wants gingering-up." john dene continued his pacing of the room. "couldn't you wear a red beard and blue glasses and----" "what's that?" john dene span round and fixed his eyes on the girl. "i mean disguise yourself," said dorothy, dropping her eyes beneath his gaze. "why?" the interrogation was rapped out in such a tone as to cause the girl to shrink back slightly. "they wouldn't know and then it wouldn't----" she hesitated. "wouldn't what?" he demanded. "get your goat," said dorothy after a moment's hesitation. he continued to gaze intently at dorothy, who was absorbed in a blank page of her note-book. "here, take this down;" and he proceeded to dictate. "my dear mr. blair,-"i am in receipt of yours of to-day's date. will you tell sir lyster that i have bought a machine-gun, a blue beard, false eyebrows, and miss west and i are going to do bayonet drill every morning with a pillow. "with kind regards, "yours sincerely." for a few moments dorothy sat regarding her book with knitted brows. "i don't think i should send that, if i were you, mr. dene," she said at length. "why not?" he demanded, unaccustomed to having his orders questioned. "it sounds rather flippant, doesn't it?" john dene smiled grimly, and as he made no further comment, dorothy struck out the letter from her note-book. all through the morning john dene threw off letters. the way in which he did his dictating reminded dorothy of a retriever shaking the water from its coat after a swim. he hurled short, sharp sentences at her, as if anxious to be rid of them. sometimes he would sit hunched up at his table, at others he would spring up and proceed feverishly to pace about the room. as she filled page after page of her note-book, dorothy wondered when she would have an opportunity of transcribing her notes. hour after hour john dene dictated, in short bursts, interspersed with varying pauses, during which he seemed to be deep in thought. once sir bridgman looked in, and dorothy had a space in which to breathe; but with the departure of the first sea lord the torrent jerked forth afresh. at two o'clock dorothy felt that she must either scream or faint. her right hand seemed as if it would drop off. at last she suggested that even admiralty typists required lunch. in a flash john dene seemed to change into a human being, solicitous and self-reproachful. "too bad," he said, as he pulled out his watch. "why, it's a quarter after two. you must be all used up. i'm sorry." "and aren't you hungry as well, mr. dene?" she asked, as she closed her note-book and rose. "hungry!" he repeated as if she had asked him a surprising question. "i've no use for food when i'm hustling. where do you go for lunch?" "i go to a tea-shop," said dorothy after a moment's hesitation. "and what do you eat?" demanded john dene, with the air of a cross-examining counsel. "oh, all sorts of things," she laughed; "buns and eggs and--and----" "that's no good," was the uncompromising rejoinder. "they're really quite nourishing," she said with a smile. at the admiralty it was not customary for the chiefs to enquire what the typists ate. "you'd better come with me and have a good meal," he said bluntly, reaching for his hat. dorothy flushed. the implication was too obvious to be overlooked. drawing herself up slightly, and with her head a little thrown back, she declined. "i'm afraid i have an engagement," she said coldly. john dene looked up, puzzled to account for her sudden hauteur. he watched her leave the room, and then, throwing down his hat, reseated himself at his table and once more became absorbed in his work. dorothy went to the admiralty staff-restaurant and spent a week's lunch allowance upon her meal. it seemed to help her to regain her self-respect. when she returned to john dene's room some forty minutes later, determined to get some of her notes typed before he returned, she found him still sitting at his table. as she entered he took out his watch, looked at it and then up at her. dorothy crimsoned as if discovered in some illicit act. she was angry with herself for her weakness and with john dene--why, she could not have said. "you've been hustling some," he remarked, as he returned the watch to his pocket. "we've both been quick," said dorothy, curious to know if john dene had been to lunch. "oh, i stayed right here," he said, still gazing up at her. dorothy felt rebuked. he had evidently felt snubbed, she told herself, and it was her fault that he had remained at work. "see here," said john dene, "i can't breathe in this place. it's all gold braid and brass buttons. i'm going to rent my own offices, and have lunch sent in and we'll get some work done. you can get a rest or a walk about three. i don't like breaking off in the midst of things," he added, a little lamely, dorothy thought. "very well, mr. dene," she said, as she resumed her seat. "do you mind? say right out if you'd hate it." there was a suspicion of anxiety in his tone. "i'm here to do whatever you wish," she said with dignity. with a sudden movement john dene sprang up and proceeded to pace up and down the room. from time to time he glanced at dorothy, who sat pencil and note-book ready for the flood of staccatoed sentences that usually accompanied these pacings to and fro. at length he came to a standstill in the middle of the room, planted his feet wide apart as if to steady the resolution to which he had apparently come. "say, what's all this worth to you?" he blurted out. dorothy looked up in surprise, not grasping his meaning. "worth to me?" she queried, her head on one side, the tip of her pencil resting on her lower lip. "yes; what do they pay you?" "oh! i see. thirty-five shillings a week and, if i become a permanent, a pension when i'm too old to enjoy it," she laughed. "that is if the hun hasn't taken us over by then." "that'll be about nine dollars a week," mumbled john dene, twisting his cigar round between his lips. "well, you're worth twenty dollars a week to me, so i'll make up the rest." "i'm quite satisfied, thank you," she said, drawing herself up slightly. "well, i'm not," he blurted out. "you're going to work well for me, and you're going to be well paid." "i'm afraid i cannot accept it," she said firmly, "although it's very kind of you," she added with a smile. he regarded her in surprise. it was something new to him to find anyone refusing an increase in salary. his cigar twirled round with remarkable rapidity. "i suppose i'm getting his goat," thought dorothy, as she watched him from beneath lowered lashes. "why won't you take it?" he demanded. "i'm afraid i cannot accept presents," she said with what she thought a disarming smile. "oh, shucks!" john dene was annoyed. "if the admiralty thought i was worth more than thirty-five shillings a week, they would pay me more." "well, i'm not going to have anyone around that doesn't get a living wage," he announced explosively. "does that mean that i had better go?" she inquired calmly. "no, it doesn't. you just stay right here till i get back," was the reply, and he opened the door and disappeared, leaving dorothy with the conviction that someone was to suffer because, in john dene's opinion, she was inadequately paid. as she waited for john dene's return, she could not keep her thoughts from what an extra forty-five shillings a week would mean to her. she could increase the number and quality of the little "surprises" she took home with her to the mother in whose life she bulked so largely. peaches could be bought without the damning prefix "tinned"; salmon without the discouraging modification "canadian"; eggs that had not long since forgotten what hen had laid them and when. she could take her more often to a theatre, or for a run in a taxi when she was tired. in short, a hundred and seventeen pounds a year would buy quite a lot of rose-leaves with which to colour her mother's life. whilst dorothy was building castles in spain upon a foundation of eleven dollars a week, john dene walked briskly along the corridor leading to sir lyster's room. mr. blair was seated at his desk reading with calm deliberation and self-evident satisfaction a letter he had just written for sir lyster to one of his constituents. he had devoted much time and thought to the composition, as it was for publication, and he was determined that no one should find in it flaw or ambiguity. the morning had been one of flawless serenity, and he was looking forward to a pleasant lunch with some friends at the berkeley. "here, what the hell do you mean by giving that girl only nine dollars a week?" suddenly the idyllic peaceful ness of his mood was shattered into a thousand fragments. john dene had burst into the room with the force of a cyclone, and stood before him like an accusing fury. "nine dollars a week! what girl?" he stuttered, looking up weakly into john dene's angry eyes. "i--i----" "miss west," was the retort. "she's getting nine dollars a week, less than i pay an office boy in t'ronto." "but i--it's nothing to do with me," began mr. blair miserably. he had become mortally afraid of john dene, and prayed for the time to come when the hun submarine menace would be ended, and john dene could return to toronto, where no doubt he was understood and appreciated. "well, it ought to be," snapped john dene, just as sir bridgman north came out of sir lyster's room. "good morning, mr. dene," he cried genially. "what are you doing to poor blair?" john dene explained his grievance. "i'd pay the difference myself, just to make you all feel a bit small, only she won't take it from me." "well, i think i can promise that the matter shall be put right, and we'll make blair take her out to lunch by way of apology, shall we?" he laughed. "i'd like to see him ask her," said john dene grimly. "that girl's a high-stepper, sir. nine dollars a week!" he grumbled as he left the room to the manifest relief of mr. blair. "you're being gingered-up, blair," said sir bridgman; "in fact, we're all being gingered-up. it's a bit surprising at first; but it's a great game played slow. you'll get to like it in time, and it's all for the good of the british empire." mr. blair smiled weakly as sir bridgman left the room; but in his heart he wished it were possible to have a sentinel outside his door, with strict injunctions to bayonet john dene without hesitation should he seek admittance. "i've fixed it," announced john dene, as he burst in upon dorothy's day dream. "you'll get twenty dollars in future." she looked up quickly. "you're very kind, mr. dene," she said, "but is it--is it----?" she hesitated. "it's a square deal. i told them you wouldn't take it from me, and that i wasn't going to have my secretary paid less than an office boy in t'ronto. i gingered 'em up some. nine dollars a week for you!" the tone in which the last sentence was uttered brought a slight flush to dorothy's cheeks. "now you can get on," he announced, picking up his hat. "i'm going to find offices;" and he went out like a gust of wind. dorothy typed steadily on. of one thing she had become convinced, that the position of secretary to john dene of toronto was not going to prove a rest-billet. at a little after four marjorie rogers knocked at the door and, recognising dorothy's "come in," entered stealthily as if expecting someone to jump out at her. "where's the bear, wessie?" she enquired, keeping a weather eye on the door in case john dene should return. "gone out to buy bear-biscuits," laughed dorothy, leaning back in her chair to get the kink out of her spine. "do you think he'll marry you?" enquired the little brunette romantically, as she perched herself upon john dene's table and swung a pretty leg. "they don't usually, you know." "he'll probably kill you if he catches you," said dorothy. "oh, if he comes i'm here to ask if you would like some tea," was the airy reply. "you angel!" cried dorothy. "i should love it." "has he tried to kiss you yet?" demanded the girl, looking at dorothy searchingly. "don't be ridiculous," cried dorothy, conscious that she was flushing. "i see he has," she said, regarding dorothy judicially and nodding her head wisely. dorothy re-started typing. it was absurd, she decided, to endeavour to argue with this worldly child of whitehall. "they're all the same," continued marjorie, lifting her skirt slightly and gazing with obvious approval at the symmetry of her leg. "you didn't let him, i hope," continued the girl. "you see, it makes it bad for others." then a moment later she added, "it should be chocs. before kisses, and they've got to learn the ropes." "and you, you little imp, have got to learn morals." dorothy laughed in spite of herself at the quaint air of wisdom with which this girl of eighteen settled the ethics of whitehall. "what's the use of morals?" cried the girl. "i mean morals that get in the way of your having a good time. of course i wouldn't----" she paused. "never mind what you wouldn't do, brynhilda the bold," said dorothy, "but concentrate on the woulds, and bring me the tea you promised." the girl slipped off the table and darted across the room, returning a few minutes later with a cup of tea and a few biscuits. "i can't stop," she panted. "old goggles has been giving me the bird;" and with that she was gone. it was a quarter to seven before john dene returned. without a word he threw his hat on the bookcase and seated himself at his table. for the next quarter of an hour he was absorbed in reading the lists and letters dorothy had typed. at seven o'clock dorothy placed the last list on the table before him. "is there anything more, mr. dene?" she enquired. she was conscious of feeling inexpressibly weary. "yes," said john dene, without looking up. "you're coming out to have some dinner." "i'm afraid i can't, thank you," she said. "my mother is waiting." "oh shucks!" he cried, looking up quickly. "but it isn't!" she said wearily. "isn't what?" demanded john dene. "shucks!" she said; then, seeing the absurdity of the thing, she laughed. "we'll send your mother an express message or a wire. you look dead beat." he smiled and dorothy capitulated. it would be nice, she told herself, not to have to go all the way to chiswick before having anything to eat. "but where are you taking me, mr. dene?" enquired dorothy, as they turned from waterloo place into pall mall. "to the ritzton." "but i'm--i'm----" she stopped dead. "what's wrong?" he demanded, looking at her in surprise. "i--i can't go there," she stammered. "i'm not dressed for----" she broke off lamely. "that'll be all right," he said. "it's my hotel." "it may be your hotel," said dorothy, resuming the walk, "but i don't care to go there in a blouse and a skirt to be stared at." "who'll stare at you?" "not at me, at my clothes," she corrected. "then we'll go to the grill-room," he replied with inspiration. "that might be----" she hesitated. "you're not going home until you have something to eat," he announced with determination. "you look all used up," he added. dorothy submitted to the inevitable, conscious of a feeling of content at having someone to decide things for her. suddenly she remembered marjorie rogers' remarks. what was she doing? if any of the girls saw her they would--- she had done the usual thing, sent a telegram to her mother to say she should be late, and was dining out with her chief on the first day--- oh! it was horrible. "would you--would you?"--she turned to john dene appealingly,--"would you mind if i went home," she faltered. "i'm not feeling--very well." she gulped out the last words conscious of the lie. "why sure," he said solicitously. "i'm sorry." to her infinite relief he hailed a taxi. "i'll come along and see you safe," he announced in a matter-of-fact tone. "oh, please no," she cried, "i'd much sooner----" she broke off distressed. without a word he handed her into the taxi. "where am i to tell him?" he enquired. "douglas mansions, chiswick, please," gasped dorothy, and she sank back in the taxi with a feeling that she had behaved very ridiculously. chapter v john dene leaves whitehall i "come," shouted john dene irritably. the door opened and mr. blair entered. john dene swung round from his table and glared at him angrily. "i tried to telephone," began mr. blair. "well, you can't," snapped john dene, "receiver's off. your boys have been playing dido all morning on my 'phone." "i'm sorry if----" "that don't help any. why don't you stop 'em? seem to think i'm a sort of enquiry bureau." dorothy bent low over her notes to hide the smile she could not restrain at the sight of the obvious wretchedness of mr. blair. "sir lyster would like you to step round----" "well, i won't; tell him that," was the irascible reply. "he wants you to meet sir harold winn, the chief naval constructor," explained mr. blair. "tell him to go to blazes and take his constructions with him. now vamoose." mr. blair hesitated, glanced at john dene, seemed about to speak, then evidently thinking better of it withdrew, closing the door noiselessly behind him. as john dene swung round once more to his table, he caught dorothy's eye. she smiled. with a little grumble in his throat john dene became absorbed in his papers. dorothy decided that he was a little ashamed of his outburst. all the day he had shown marked irritability under the constant interruptions to which he had been subjected. they worked on steadily for a quarter of an hour. presently there was a gentle tap at the door. with one bound john dene was out of his chair and across the room. a second later he threw open the door, ready to annihilate whoever might be there, from the first lord downwards. "oo--er!" marjorie rogers stood there, her pretty eyes dilated with fear as john dene glared at her. his set look relaxed at the sight of the girl. "is--is--miss west here?" she enquired timidly. "sure, come right in," he said. dorothy was surprised at the change produced by the appearance of marjorie rogers. the girl came a few steps into the room, then seeing dorothy tripped over to her and, turning to john dene, said, still a little nervously: "i--i came to ask miss west if she would like some tea." she smiled up at john dene, a picture of guileless innocence. "sorry if i scared you," he said awkwardly. "oh, you didn't frighten me," she said, regaining confidence at the sight of john dene's embarrassment. "perhaps mr. dene would like a cup of tea too, rojjie," suggested dorothy. "oh, would you?" cried the girl eagerly. "why, sure," said john dene and he smiled, for the first time that day, dorothy mentally noted. in a flash marjorie disappeared. "i'm--i'm sorry," said john dene to dorothy. "i didn't know she was a friend of yours." "she's in the room i used to be in, and--she's very sweet and brings me tea." he nodded comprehendingly. "they do a lot of that here, don't they?" "a lot of what?" asked dorothy. "drinking tea." "we only have it in the afternoon, and----" at that moment marjorie entered with a small tray containing three cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. these she placed on john dene's table. dorothy gasped at the sight of the three cups, wondering what john dene would think. "i brought mine in to have with you," said marjorie with perfect self-possession, as she handed dorothy her cup, then turning to john dene she smiled. he nodded, as if she had done a most ordinary thing. perching herself upon the corner of john dene's table, marjorie chatted brightly, having apparently quite overcome her fears. "you know, mr. dene," she said, "we're all dreadfully intrigued about you." john dene looked at her with a puzzled expression. "all the other girls are terribly afraid of you," she continued. "i'm not." "of me?" he looked at her in surprise, as if he regarded himself as the last person in the world to inspire fear. "they say you glare at them." she smiled a wicked little smile that she called "the rouser." as john dene did not reply marjorie continued: "they call you 'the bear.'" "rojjie!" gasped dorothy in horror. "the bear?" repeated john dene. "why?" "oh, but i am going to tell them you're not," said marjorie, nibbling at a biscuit and looking across at john dene appraisingly. "i think you're really rather nice." john dene glanced across at dorothy, as if unable quite to classify the girl before him. "of course they don't know that you can smile like that," added marjorie. john dene was about to make some remark when there came another knock. "come," he cried, and a moment later the door opened and sir lyster entered, followed by a tall, sedate-looking man with a bulging forehead and ragged moustache. for a moment the two regarded the scene, sir lyster having recourse to his monocle. marjorie slipped down from the table, all her self-possession deserting her at the sight of sir lyster's disapproving gaze. dorothy bent over her notes, conscious of her burning cheeks, whilst john dene rose with entire unconcern. "i'm afraid we've interrupted you, mr. dene," said sir lyster. "it's the one thing they do well in this shack," was john dene's uncompromising retort. sir lyster gazed a little anxiously at his companion. taking advantage of the diversion, marjorie slipped out and dorothy, deciding that she would not be wanted for at least a few minutes, followed her. "i want to introduce you to sir harold winn," said sir lyster. "pleased to meet you," said john dene, shaking sir harold vigorously by the hand. "take a seat." john dene and the chief naval constructor were soon deep in the intricacies of submarine-construction. when at length sir harold rose to go, there was something like cordiality in john dene's voice, as he bade him good-bye. sir harold had been able to meet him on common ground, and show an intelligent and comprehensive interest in his work. immediately they had gone, dorothy, who had been waiting in the corridor, slipped back to her chair, first removing the tea tray from john dene's table. soon she was busily taking down notes. while she was thus occupied, sir lyster was narrating to sir bridgman north the latest john dene outrage, first his open flouting of the chief naval constructor by refusing to see him, secondly the interrupted tea, and the girl perched upon john dene's table. sir bridgman laughed loudly, as much at the expression on sir lyster's face as at the occurrence itself. "such incidents," said sir lyster, "are, i think, very undesirable." "it looks as if john dene were a dark horse," suggested sir bridgman. "was the other girl pretty?" "i really didn't notice," said sir lyster stiffly. "i thought perhaps you might"--he hesitated for a fraction of a second--"just drop him a hint," he added. "and be gingered-up as high as our own aerials," laughed sir bridgman. "no, my dear grayne," he added, "i find 'gingering-up' intensely interesting in its application to others. get blair to do it." "but i'm afraid it may create a scandal," said sir lyster. "oh! another little scandal won't do us any harm," laughed sir bridgman. "now i must be off. by the way," he said, as he reached the door, "what time did this little tea-fight take place?" "it was about four o'clock when winn and i----" "right," said sir bridgman, "i'll drop in about that time to-morrow and see what's doing," and the door closed behind him. a moment later he put his head round the door. "one of these days you'll be finding blair with a girl on each knee," he laughed, and with that he was gone. john dene's reason for wishing to have offices somewhere away from the admiralty had been twofold. for one thing he did not desire those he knew were closely watching should see him in close association with whitehall; for another he felt that he could breathe more freely away from gold braid and those long dreary corridors, which seemed so out of keeping with the headquarters of a navy at war. he now determined to get out at once. the constant interruptions to which he found himself subjected, rendered concentration impossible. he therefore informed dorothy that at nine o'clock next morning they would start work in the new offices he had taken in waterloo place. they consisted of two rooms, one leading off the other. the larger room john dene decided to use himself, the smaller he handed over to dorothy. with a celerity that had rather surprised john dene the telephone had been connected and a private wire run through to the admiralty. "the thing about a britisher," he remarked to dorothy, "is that he can hustle, but won't." she allowed the remark to pass unchallenged. "now things will begin to hum," he said, as he settled himself down to his table. throwing aside his coat, he set to work. there was little over three weeks in which to get everything organised and planned. long lists of stores for the _destroyer_ had to be prepared, the details of the structural alterations to the _toronto_, the name given to the mother-ship that was to act as tender to the _destroyer_, instructions to the canadian crew that was coming over, and a thousand and one other things that kept them busily occupied. he arranged to have luncheon sent in from the ritzton. after the first day the ordering of these meals was delegated to dorothy. john dene's ideas on the subject of food proved original, resulting in the ordering of about five times as much as necessary. dorothy came to look forward to these dainty meals, which she could order with unstinted hand, and she liked the tête-à-tête half-hours during their consumption. then john dene would unbend and tell her of canada, about his life there and in america, how he had planned and built the _destroyer_. he seemed to take it for granted that she could be trusted to keep her own counsel. the night after john dene's entry into his new offices the place was burgled. in the morning when he arrived he found papers tossed about in reckless disorder. the fourth set of plans of german u-boats had disappeared. with grim humour he drew a fifth set from his pocket, and placed it in the safe, which he did not keep locked, as it contained nothing of importance. john dene's method was to burn every paper or duplicate that was no longer required, and to have sent over to the admiralty each day before five o'clock such documents as were of importance. for the first time in her life dorothy felt she was doing something of national importance. john dene trusted her, and took her patriotism as a matter of course. sometimes he would enquire if she were tired, and on hearing that she was not he would nod his approval. "you're some worker," he once remarked casually, whereat dorothy had flushed with pleasure. later she remembered that this was the first word of praise she had heard him bestow on anything or anybody british. at first a buttons had called from the ritzton each morning and afternoon for orders; but after the second day he had been superseded by a waiter. one morning, after the order had been given, john dene enquired of dorothy if she had ever tasted lobster à l'americaine. "typists don't eat lobster à l'americaine in england, mr. dene," she had replied. "it's too expensive." whereupon he had told her to ring up the ritzton and order lobster à l'americaine for lunch in place of the order already given. ten minutes later a ring came through from the hotel to the effect that there must be some mistake, as there was no lunch on order for mr. john dene. dorothy protested that they had been supplied with lunch each day for the last four days. the management deprecatingly suggested that there had been a mistake, as after the first two days the order had been cancelled. dorothy repeated the information to john dene, who then took the receiver. "if you didn't supply lunch yesterday, who the blazes did?" he demanded, and a suave voice answered that it did not know who it was that had that honour, but certainly it was not the ritzton. john dene banged back the receiver impatiently. "we'll wait and see what happens at twelve o'clock," he exclaimed, as he turned once more to the papers on his table. "somebody's feeding us," he muttered. "perhaps it's the ravens," murmured dorothy to herself. at twelve o'clock a waiter entered with a tray. at the sound of his knock, john dene revolved round in his chair. "here, where do you come from?" he demanded, glaring as if he suspected the man of being of german parentage. the man started violently and nearly dropped the tray. "i obey orders," he stammered. "yes; but whose orders?" for a moment the man hesitated. "do you come from the ritzton?" demanded john dene aggressively. "i obey orders," repeated the man. john dene looked from the tray to dorothy, and then to the man; but said nothing, contenting himself with waving the man out with an impatient motion of his hand. after the meal he picked up his hat, lighted a cigar and told dorothy he would be back in a quarter of an hour. five minutes later he burst in upon mr. blair. "here, what the hell's all this about my meals?" john dene seemed to take a delight in descending upon sir lyster's secretary. mr. blair turned towards him with that expression he seemed to keep expressly for john dene. "your meals," he stammered. "yes," replied john dene, blowing volumes of acrid smoke towards the sensitive nostrils of mr. blair. "why was my order to the ritzton cancelled? that sort of thing rattles me." "i'm afraid that i know nothing of this," said mr. blair, "but i will enquire." "well, i'd like somebody to put me wise as to why he interferes with my affairs," and john dene stamped out of the room and back to waterloo place. ii "shucks!" cried john dene irritably. "you make me tired." "i doubt if you appreciate the seriousness of the situation," was colonel walton's quiet retort. "i appreciate the seriousness of a situation that turns my 'phone into a sort of elevator-bell, and makes my office like a free-drink saloon at an election." colonel walton smiled indulgently, dorothy kept her eyes upon her note-book. "you get your notion about spies from ten cent thrillers," continued john dene scornfully. "don't you worry about me. if there's a hungry dog i believe in feeding it," he added enigmatically. "i might as well be a lost baggage office. every mutt that has ten minutes to waste seems to blow in on me. you're the tenth this a.m." "at that rate you will soon have exhausted all the government departments," said colonel walton with a smile. "i doubt if any will venture a second visit," he added quietly. john dene glanced across at him quickly. "say, i didn't mean to make you mad," he said in a conciliatory tone; "but all this rattles me. i can't get along with things while they're playing rags on my 'phone. it makes me madder'n a wet hen." "i quite understand, mr. dene," said colonel walton, with that imperturbable good-humour that was the envy of his friends. "you are rather valuable to us, you see, and if we err on the side of over-caution----" he paused. "sure," cried john dene, thawing under the influence of colonel walton's personality, then after a pause he added. "see here, your boys seem to have a notion that i'm particular green goods. you just let one of 'em try and corral me one of these nights, and when you've explained things to the widow, you can just blow in here and tell me how she took it." "it's the insidious rather than the overt act," began colonel walton. "the what?" john dene looked at him with a puzzled expression. instead of replying colonel walton drew from his right-hand pocket something in a paper bag, such as is used by confectioners. this he placed upon the table. he then extracted from his other pocket a small package rolled in newspaper, which he laid beside the paper bag. john dene stared at him as if not quite sure of his sanity. "perhaps you will open those packets." with his eyes still on his visitor john dene picked up the paper bag and, turning it upside down, shook out upon the table a brown and white guinea-pig--dead. dorothy drew back with a little cry. "this some of your funny work?" demanded john dene angrily. "there's still the other parcel," said colonel walton, his eyes upon the small roll done up in newspaper. very gingerly john dene unrolled the paper, dorothy watching from a safe distance with wide-eyed curiosity. "gee!" he muttered, as a large dead grey rat lay exposed, its upper lip drawn back from his teeth, giving it a snarling appearance. he looked interrogatingly at colonel walton. "there; but for the grace of god lies john dene of toronto," he remarked quietly, nodding in the direction of the two rodents. "here, what the hell----!" began john dene, then catching sight of dorothy he stopped suddenly. "two days ago you ordered for lunch ris de veau and apple tart--among other things. the rat is the victim of the one, the guinea-pig of the other." dorothy gave a little cry of horror. john dene looked across at her quickly, then back to colonel walton. "you mean----" he began. "that a certain department has assumed the responsibility of catering for a distinguished visitor," was the quiet reply. "it is but one of the pleasant obligations of empire." john dene sat gazing at the dead animals as if fascinated. with distended eyes and slightly parted lips dorothy looked from the table to colonel walton, and then back to the table again, as if unable to comprehend the full significance of what was taking place. "i would suggest," said colonel walton, "that you never take food regularly at any one hotel or restaurant. avoid being out late at night, particularly raid-nights." "raid-nights!" "you might be knocked on the head and removed as a casualty." john dene nodded, dorothy gasped. "never take food or drink of any sort in your room at the hotel, and don't travel on the tube or underground, at least never stand on the edge of the platform, and don't use taxis." "and what about a nurse?" demanded john dene. "if you observe these points i scarcely think one would be necessary," was the quiet rejoinder. "it would also be advisable," continued colonel walton, "for miss west to be particularly careful about making chance acquaintances." dorothy drew herself up stiffly. "during the last few days," continued colonel walton, "a number of attempts have been made by women as well as men." "how did you know?" she cried in surprise. "we have sources of information," smiled colonel walton. "for instance, the day before yesterday, at lunch, a pleasant-spoken old lady asked you to go with her to the theatre one saturday afternoon." dorothy gasped. "you very rightly declined. a few days ago a man ran after you just as you had left the tube train at piccadilly circus, saying that you had left your umbrella." "how funny that you should know!" cried dorothy. "such a number of people have spoken to me lately. first it was men, and now it's always women." "make no acquaintances at all, miss west," said colonel walton. "i'll remember," she said, nodding her head with decision. "well, mr. dene, i fear i mustn't take up any more of your time," said colonel walton, rising, with that air of indolence which with him invariably meant that something important was coming. "if you will not allow us to be responsible for your own safety, we must at least provide for that of government servants." "what's that?" "we should not like anything to happen to miss west." to colonel walton's "good-day" john dene made no response, he seemed unaware that he had left the room. "gee!" he muttered at length, then swinging round to dorothy with a suddenness that caused her to start, "you had better vamoose," he cried. "vam----" she began. "how do i do it?" "quit, clear out of here." he sprang from his chair and proceeded to pace up and down the room. "does that mean that i'm discharged?" she enquired, smiling. "you heard what he said. they're up to their funny work. they missed us this time and got the rat and guinea-pig. they're always at it. i don't make a fuss; but i know. there'll be a bomb in my bed one of these nights. you'd better call a halt right here." "shall we get on with the letters, mr. dene?" said dorothy quietly. "father was a soldier." for a moment he looked at her with his keen penetrating eyes, then swinging round to his table caught sight of the two dead rodents. "here, what the blazes does he want to leave these things here for," he cried irritably and, seizing a ruler, he swept them into the waste-paper basket. for the rest of the day dorothy was conscious that john dene's heart was not in his work. several times, when happening to look up unexpectedly, she found his eyes on her, and there was in them an anxiety too obvious to be dissimulated. john dene was clearly worried. "it's an extraordinary thing," sage remarked later that afternoon to colonel walton, "that apparently no one has ever thought of encouraging a taste for apple-tart in guinea-pigs." chapter vi mr. montagu naylor of streatham whilst john dene was preparing interminable lists for the victualling and stores departments of the admiralty, department z. was making discreet and searching enquiries regarding mr. montagu naylor of streatham. among other things it discovered that he was essentially english. the atrocities in belgium and northern france rendered him almost speechless with indignation. wherever he went, and to whomsoever he met, he proclaimed the german an enemy to civilisation. it was his one topic of conversation, and in time his friends and acquaintance came to regard the word "hun" as a danger signal. mr. naylor had arrived at streatham towards the end of 1909, coming from no one knew whither; but according to his own account from norwich. he was of independent means, without encumbrances beyond a wife, a deaf servant, registered as a swiss, and a particularly fierce-dispositioned chow, an animal that caused marked irregularity in the delivery of his milk, newspapers and letters. sometimes the animal chose to resent the approach of all comers, and after the postman had lost a portion of his right trouser-leg, he had decided that whatever might happen to his majesty's mails, the postman's calf was sacred. thenceforth he never delivered letters when james was at large. without participating in the postman's mishap, the paper-boy and milkman had adopted his tactics. the dustman point-blank refused to touch the refuse from "the cedars" unless it were placed on the pavement, and the gate securely closed. sometimes the readings of the electric and gas meters were formally noted by officials, whose uniform began and ended with their caps; sometimes they were not. everything depended upon the geographical position of james at the moment of the inspector's call. the baker who supplied mr. naylor had, as a result of a complaint from his man, made a personal call of protest; but he had succeeded only in losing his temper to mr. naylor and the seat of his trousers to james. thenceforth "the cedars" had to seek its bread elsewhere. incidentally the master-baker obtained a new pair of trousers at mr. naylor's expense. why mr. naylor continued to keep james was a puzzle to all the neighbours, who, knowing him as a champion of the rights of man, votes for women, the smaller nations, and many other equally uncomfortable things, were greatly surprised that he should keep a dog that was clearly of a savage and dangerous disposition. about mr. naylor himself there was nothing of the ferocity of his dog. he was suave, with a somewhat deprecating manner, a ready, almost automatic smile, in which his eyes never seemed to join, a sallow complexion, large round glasses, a big nose and ugly teeth. he had a thick voice, thick ears and a thick skin--when it so served his purpose. his love for england was almost alien, and he was never tired of motoring from one part of the country to another, that is before the war. his car had been something unique, as in a few seconds it could be turned into a moderately comfortable sleeping apartment. thus he was independent of hotels, or lodgings. mrs. naylor was a woman of negative personality. she looked after the house, fed james and never asked questions of mr. naylor, thus justifying her existence. susan, the maid, was also negative, from her stupid round, moist face to the shapeless feet that she never seemed to be able to lift from the floor. she had acquired great dexterity in shuffling out of the way just before mr. naylor appeared. this she seemed to have reduced to a fine art. if mr. naylor were going upstairs and susan was about to descend, by the time he was halfway up she would have disappeared as effectively as if snatched away by some spirit agency. susan was dumb; but her sense of sound was extremely acute. it seemed as if, conscious of her inability to hold her own verbally with her employer, she had fallen back upon the one alternative, disappearance. the naylors were possessed of few friends, although mr. naylor had many acquaintances, the result of the way in which he had identified himself with local clubs and institutions. it was largely due to him that the miniature rifle-range had been started. he was one of the governors of the cranberry cottage hospital. he always subscribed to the annual territorial sports, patronised the boy scouts, openly advocated conscription, and the two-power standard for the navy. there were times when streatham found it almost embarrassing to be possessed of a patriot in its midst. never had a breath of scandal tarnished the fair name of mr. montagu naylor. he was what a citizen should be and seldom is. when war broke out his activities became almost bewildering. he joined innumerable committees, helped to form the volunteers, and encouraged every one and everything that was likely to make things uncomfortable for the enemy. later, he became a member of the local exemption tribunal, and earned fame by virtue of his clemency. it was he who was instrumental in obtaining exemption for some of james's most implacable enemies. the baker, who had lost the whole of his temper and a portion of his trousers, probably owed his life to the manner in which mr. naylor championed his claim that bread is mightier than the sword. before the war the naylors received twice each month, once their friends and once their relatives. never were the two allowed to meet. "our friends we make ourselves, our relatives are given to us," mr. naylor had explained with ponderous humour, "i hate to mix the two." it was noticed that the relatives stayed much longer than the friends, and some commiseration was felt for the naylors by their immediate neighbours. there had been one curious circumstance in connection with these social functions. whenever the friends were invited, james was always in the front garden, restrained by a chain that allowed of the guests carrying their calves into the hall with an eighteen inch margin of safety. when, however, it was the turn of the relatives to seek the hospitality of "the cedars," james was never visible. a cynic might have construed this into indicating that from his relatives mr. naylor had expectations. within his own home mr. naylor was a changed man. he ruled mrs. naylor, susan and james with an iron hand. they all fawned upon him, vainly inviting the smiles that when others were present seemed never to fail in the mechanical precision with which they illumined his features at appropriate moments. they gave the impression of being turned on, as if controlled by a tap or switch. never was this smile seen once the hall door was passed. then mr. naylor's jaw squared, and his whole attitude seemed to become more angular. a knock at the door would cause him to look up quickly from whatever he was doing, just as a gamekeeper might look up at the report of a gun. by his orders mrs. naylor and susan between them kept a complete list of all callers, even hawkers, if they were sufficiently courageous to risk an encounter with the redoubtable james. mr. naylor was a tall man of broad build, with a head that would persist in remaining square, in spite of his best endeavours to grow the hair upon it in such a way as to soften its angularity. his eyes were steely, his forehead low, his mouth hard and his manner furtive. that was within doors. the breath of heaven, however, seemed to mitigate all these unamiable characteristics, and it was only on very rare occasions that, once beyond his own threshold, an observer would see the harshness of the man. he smiled down at children, sometimes he patted their heads, he was never lacking in a tip, appropriate or inappropriate, he was the smoother out of discordant situations, he nodded to all the tradespeople, smiled genially at his inferiors, and saluted his superiors and equals. in short he was an ideal citizen. the outbreak of war in august, 1914, was responsible for two changes in the naylor ménage. first the at-home days were discontinued, secondly james was more than ever in evidence. nobody, however, noticed the changes, because in streatham such things are not considered worthy of notice. mr. naylor received few letters, for which the postman was grateful to providence. had streatham been a little more curious, it would have noticed that mr. naylor's comings and goings were fraught with some curious and interesting characteristics. for one thing he appeared constitutionally unable to proceed direct to a given point. for instance, if hampstead were his object, he would in all probability go to charing cross, take a 'bus along strand, the tube to piccadilly circus, a taxi to leicester square, tube to golders green and 'bus to hampstead. another curious circumstance connected with mr. naylor was the number of people who seemed to stop him to enquire their way, obviously people who found it difficult to pronounce the names and addresses of those they sought, for they invariably held in their hands pieces of paper, which mr. naylor would read and then proceed to direct them. this would occur in all parts of london. to the casual observer interested in the details of mr. naylor's life, it would have appeared that london waited for his approach, and then incontinently made a bee-line for him to enquire its way. with smiling geniality mr. naylor would read the paper offered to him, make one or two remarks, then with a wave of his hand and a further genial smile proceed on his way. his courtesy was almost continental. he would take great pains to direct the enquirer, sometimes even proceeding part of the way with him to ensure that he should not go astray. since the war mr. naylor had patriotically given up his car, handing it over to the red cross, and receiving from the local secretary a letter of very genuine thanks and appreciation. there had also been a paragraph in _the streatham herald_ notifying this splendid act of citizenship. in nothing was mr. naylor's sense of christian charity so manifest as in the patience with which he answered the number of false rings he received on the telephone. it was extraordinary the way in which wrong numbers seemed to be put through to him; yet his courtesy never forsook him. his reply was always the same. "no; i am mr. montague naylor of streatham." it frequently happened that shortly after such a call mr. naylor would go out, when james would be left in the front garden. mrs. naylor had particular instructions always to make a note of any rings that came on the telephone during mr. naylor's absence, no matter whether they were for him or for anyone else. she was to take down every word that was said, and always say in response that the subscriber was on to mr. naylor of streatham. one morning whilst john dene was giving down letters to dorothy in his customary jerky manner, mr. naylor sat at breakfast, his attention equally divided between the meal and the morning paper. opposite sat mrs. naylor, watching him as a dog watches a master of uncertain temper. she was a little woman with a colourless face, from which sparse grey hair was drawn with puritan severity. in her weak blue eyes was fear--fear of her lord and master, and in her manner deprecation and apology. the only sound to be heard were the champing of mr. naylor's jaws, and the occasional rustle of the newspaper. mr. naylor was a hearty eater and an omnivorous reader of newspapers. in the front garden james gave occasional tongue, protesting against the existence of some passer-by. after a particularly vigorous bout of barking on james's part, mr. naylor looked up suddenly and, fixing mrs. naylor with astern eye, demanded, "any post?" "i haven't heard the post-woman yet," faltered mrs. naylor apologetically. she was at heart a pacifist in the domestic sense. "go and see," was the gruff retort, as mr. naylor thrust into his mouth a large piece of bread, which he had previously wiped round his plate to absorb the elemental juices of the morning bacon. mrs. naylor rose meekly and left the room. a few moments later she returned, carrying in her hand two envelopes. mr. naylor looked up over his spectacles. "they were on the path," she explained timidly. "james is in the garden." the post-woman had tacitly carried on the tradition of her predecessor, the postman. if james were about, the letters went over the garden gate; if james were not about, they went into the letter-box. with a grunt mr. naylor snatched the letters from mrs. naylor's hand and looked at them keenly. one bore a halfpenny stamp, and was consequently of no particular importance. this he laid beside his plate. the other, however, he subjected to a rigorous and elaborate examination. he scrutinised the handwriting, examined carefully the postmark, turned it over and gazed at the fastening. then taking a letter-opener from his pocket, he slowly slit the top of the envelope, and taking out a sheet of notepaper unfolded it. "gott----" he bit off the phrase savagely, and looked up fiercely at mrs. naylor, as if she was responsible for his lapse. instinctively she shrank back. from the garden james's vigorous barking swelled out into a fortissimo of protest. "stop that dog," he shouted, whereat mrs. naylor rose and left the room. with scowling eyebrows mr. naylor read his letter, and ground his teeth with suppressed fury. "der mann muss verrückt 'sein." he re-read the letter, then placing it in his pocket looked across the table, seeming for the first time to notice that mrs. naylor had left the room. going to the door he opened it and shouted a peremptory "here!" as mrs. naylor entered with obvious trepidation, he fixed her with a stern disapproving eye. "there's somebody coming this afternoon at four," he said. "i'll see him in the study," and with that he once more drew the letter from his pocket and read it for the third time, whilst mrs. naylor withdrew. the letter which was typewritten, even to the signature, ran: 'dear mr. naylor,-"i hope to call upon you on thursday afternoon at four o'clock. i regret that unforseen circumstances have prevented me from giving myself this pleasure before. "yours very truly, "j. van helder." with a grumble in his throat mr. naylor walked out of the dining-room, across the hall and into his study. closing and locking the door he went over to his writing-table, and seemed to collapse into rather than sit on the chair. he was oblivious to everything except the scrap of paper before him. the cloud upon his brow seemed to intensify, his face became more cruel. the mr. naylor of streatham, patriot, philanthropist and good citizen, had vanished, giving place to a man in whose heart was anger and fear. at the end of five minutes he drew towards him a small metal tray. taking a match from a stand, he struck it and deliberately setting light to the paper, held it while it burned. when the flame seared his fingers, he placed the whole upon the metal dish, scowling at the paper as it writhed and crackled in its death agony. he then proceeded to burn the envelope. when both were reduced to twisted shapes of carbon, he opened a drawer, took from it a duster and pressed it down upon the metal plate, reducing the contents to black powder. picking up the tray he carried it over to the grate, emptied the powder into the fireplace, wiped the tray and replaced it upon the table, thrusting the duster back into the drawer. he then sank once more into his chair, conscious that the morning had begun ill. ten minutes later he rose, unlocked the door and went out into the hall. he took his hat from the stand and brushed it carefully. picking up his gloves and umbrella, he gave a final look round, then composing his features for the outside world, he opened the door and passed out into apthorpe road. for such of his neighbours as he encountered he had a cheery word, a lifting of his hat, or a wave of the hand. housewives would sigh enviously as they saw mr. naylor pass genially on his way. he was always the same, they told themselves, remembering with a little pang the vagaries of their own husbands. before his return to "the cedars" for lunch, mr. naylor with unaccustomed emphasis foretold the doom of the government unless it immediately rushed a measure through parliament for the internment of all aliens. he was nothing if not thorough. chapter vii mr. naylor receives a visitor i "height five feet six and a half inches." "five feet eight, sir." "chest thirty-eight." "thirty-eight and a half, sir." "weight eleven stone nine." "twelve stone, sir." "near enough." "yes, sir," replied thompson. "you've got everything?" "down to his under-wear, sir," was the response. "the ring?" "yes, sir." malcolm sage looked up from the buff-coloured paper before him, then picking up a photograph from the table, proceeded to study it with great intentness. "yes," he said, "finlay can do it." at that moment colonel walton strode into the room, smoking the inevitable cigar. thompson straightened himself to attention, malcolm sage nodded, then once more became absorbed in the photograph. "i hear finlay's here," said colonel walton. sage looked up and nodded. "we've just been checking his measurements," he said. "with that bergen fellow's?" sage nodded. "it's a considerable risk," said colonel walton. "finlay likes 'em," retorted sage without looking up. "i'd give a good deal to solve that little mystery." the mystery to which malcolm sage referred was the arrest of a man on a bergen-hull boat some ten days previously. although his passport and papers were in order, his story when he had been interrogated was not altogether satisfactory. it had been decided to deport him; but malcolm sage, who had subjected him to a lengthy cross-examination, had decided that it would be better to detain him for the time being, and the suspect was consequently lodged in the tower. both malcolm sage and colonel walton were convinced that he had been sent over on a special mission. "where's finlay?" asked colonel walton. "he's painting the lily," said sage with a glint in his eye. "in other words?" enquired colonel walton. "seeing how near he can get to this bergen fellow. i took him down to the tower to see the men together." colonel walton nodded. malcolm sage regarded disguise as exclusively the asset of the detective of fiction. a disguise, he maintained, could always be identified, although not necessarily penetrated. few men could disguise their walk or bearing, no matter how clever they might be with the aid of false beards and wigs. "you remember the lost code-book?" sage queried. "i do," said colonel walton. "a remarkable piece of work of finlay's," continued sage. "it wasn't a disguise, it was an alteration; trim of moustache, cut and colour of hair, darkened skin and such trifles." "and the black eye, sir," interpolated thompson. "that was certainly a happy stroke," cried colonel walton. "it takes a good deal of moral courage to black your own eye," said sage quietly. "i tried it once myself." "how do you plan to proceed?" it was colonel walton who spoke. "if naylor is really the man we're after and this bergen fellow is on a secret mission, then it's pretty sure they were intended to get into touch." sage paused for a moment, then added: "anyhow, it's worth trying. it's a risk, of course. naylor may have met him before." "the risk will be mainly finlay's," said colonel walton drily, as he smoked meditatively. "it would be yours or mine, chief, only nature cast us in a different mould." for some moments colonel walton did not reply. "i don't like sending a man on a----" he paused. "there's no question of sending finlay; it's more a matter of holding him back. by the way," he continued casually, "thompson burgled john dene's place last night, got a set of plans, the chit signed by sir lyster and the skipper, and one or two other papers that should be useful." "i don't quite like it, sage." colonel walton knitted his brows. "it's giving the yard something to do," was sage's indifferent retort. "they're buzzing about john dene like flies to-day. he's expressing himself to them in choice canadian too, so thompson tells me." thompson gave an appreciative grin. "i dropped in there this morning, sir, and----" he did not conclude his sentence; but his look was one of keen appreciation. "he's got some words, has inspector bluggers," he added, "but mr. dene left him standing." "we've just been going over the points of finlay and the bergen man," explained sage. "they're pretty well in agreement. personally i believe there's a lot in that ring. we stripped the other fellow of his clothes, finlay insisted on having them baked. fussy sort of chap in things like that," he added, "but that ring. men don't generally wear turquoises set in an eccentric pattern. ha!" he looked up suddenly. colonel walton looked across at him interrogatingly. "you remember the initials inside, chief?" colonel walton nodded. "d.u.a. weren't they?" "what about deutsches über alles?" "a bit obvious," suggested colonel walton. "the hun always is." there was a knock at the door. "come in," called colonel walton. a moment later there entered a man of foreign appearance, with dark well-brushed hair, sallow skin and the deprecating manner of one who is in a country where he is not quite sure either of the customs or of the language. for a moment he stood smiling. malcolm sage caught colonel walton's eye. upon thompson's face there spread a grin of admiration. "wonderful, finlay," said colonel walton. "wonderful." "you think it is like?" enquired he who had been addressed as finlay. "wonderful," repeated colonel walton, "but," he added a moment after, "it's a dangerous game." finlay shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was almost aggressively un-english. he possessed one remarkable characteristic, once he had assumed a personality, he continued to be that man until he finally relinquished the part. "he'll put you to sleep if you make a mistake," said sage with uncompromising candour. again the shrug of the shoulders. "that ring," said sage, pointing to a flat gold band on the third finger of the left hand in which were set three turquoises in the form of a triangle. "what do you make of the inscription?" "i do not know," said finlay with the finnicking inflection of one talking in a strange tongue. "what about deutsches über alles?" suggested walton. "ah! you have discovered." "perfect," said sage, "absolutely perfect. you're a genius, finlay." with a smile and a half-shrug of his shoulders, finlay deprecated the compliment. "where are you going to stay?" enquired colonel walton. "at the ritzton with john dene, same floor if possible," said sage. "he starts from the tower to-morrow. released, you know." colonel walton nodded. "by the way, thompson, you didn't happen to drop any finger prints about in waterloo place?" "rubber gloves, sir," said thompson with a smile. malcolm sage nodded. "it would embarrass us a bit if you got lodged in brixton prison," said colonel walton. "no chance of that, sir," was the confident retort. "the account will be in the papers this afternoon, i understand." malcolm sage nodded. "well, finlay," said walton, "off you go and the best of luck. if you bring this off you ought to get a c.b.e." "gott in himmel!" cried finlay in such tragic consternation, that both colonel walton and sage were forced to smile. "no, sir," said sage drily, "we must guard department z. against the order of the british empire; it deserves well of the country. "when does he go to streatham?" enquired colonel walton. "i go now," responded finlay, "if i find the place. these suburbs!" he rolled his eyes expressively. malcolm sage smiled grimly. ii for some time mr. naylor had sat staring in front of him, immobile but for the movement of his eyes and the compression of his pouch-like lips as he swallowed. irritation or anxiety always caused him to swallow with a noisy gulp-like sound. since lunch he had scowled impartially upon everything. mrs. naylor, susan, james, the paper, his food, all seemed to come under the ban of his displeasure. from time to time he muttered under his breath. he made several efforts to concentrate upon the newspaper before him, but without success. his eyes would wander from the page and scowl into vacancy. the heavy jowls seemed to mould his face into a brutal square, which with his persistent swallowing gave him the appearance of a toad. his original anger at the threatened advent of a visitor seemed to have changed into irritation at his non-arrival. from time to time he looked at his watch. a step echoing in the street brought him to a listening attitude. when at last a ring sounded at the bell, followed by a peremptory "rat-tat," he started violently. he listened intently to the pad of mrs. naylor's footsteps along the passage, to the murmur of voices that followed, and the sound of steps approaching. when the door opened, the scowl had fled from mr. naylor's features, the jowls had lifted, the set frown had passed from his brows. his mouth was pursed up into a smile only one degree less repellent than the look that it had replaced. mr. naylor had assumed his best public-meeting manner. "mr. van helder?" he queried, as he shook hands and motioned his visitor to a seat. "we shall not be overheard, no?" interrogated van helder. mr. naylor shook his head, transferring his eyes from a paper-weight before him to his visitor's face and back again to the paper-weight. "these london suburbs!" exclaimed van helder, as he drew a silk handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe his face. "i seem to have pursued you to everywhere. i crossed from bergen on the 21st," he added with a smile. "the 21st," repeated mr. naylor. "just ten days ago," continued van helder. "i came not before because----" he raised his eyes suddenly and looked straight at mr. naylor, who smiled; but there was guile behind the momentary exposure of his yellow teeth. "the crossing," continued van helder, "three times the alarm of u-boats." he smiled a crafty little smile. "the germans they make the sea unsafe." again he smiled. "so you have been in london since the 21st." mr. naylor's tone was casual; but his eyes glinted. van helder nodded indifferently. "where are you staying?" mr. naylor's eyes never left his visitor's face. "at the ritzton." "you have been comfortable?" the tone was conversational. again van helder shrugged his shoulders. "you have been seeing the sights?" again the tone was casual; but in mr. naylor's eyes there was a crafty look. "it is as i have been told," said van helder with a smile. "always cautious. you are fond of dogs," he added irrelevantly, "i heard one." "james does not like strangers." this with a sinister smile. "no?" continued the other; taking a cigarette-case from his pocket and offering it to mr. naylor who declined. "i may smoke?" mr. naylor nodded. van helder lighted a cigarette and proceeded to blow smoke rings with quiet content. he wanted to think. it was obvious to him that something was wrong, something lacking. there was the suggestion in his host's manner of a cat watching a mouse, watching and waiting. "you are becoming, how do you call it, ungeschickt," he said with a disarming smile, as he blew three rings in rapid succession. "you think so?" mr. naylor smiled amiably. "yes, how do you call it, awkward, clumsy. you have lived long in england," he continued a little contemptuously, as he ejected more smoke-rings. "you find london interesting?" asked mr. naylor, with ominous calm. he was determined to pick up the thread of conversation that had been snatched from his hand. "you are a fool." van helder turned just as he emitted a smoke-ring. at the calm insolence of his tone mr. naylor started slightly, but quickly recovered himself. "what do you mean?" "i have been in the tower." for the fraction of a second van helder's eyes sought those of mr. naylor. was it relief that he saw? the change was only momentary, just a flash. van helder continued to blow smoke-rings as if entirely indifferent alike to his host's presence and emotions. "i was released yesterday morning. they apologised for my detention." "and you came here?" f mr. naylor's voice was even and devoid of inflection. deliberately van helder took from his pocket a gold ring set with three turquoises in the form of a triangle. it was his last card. "ah! i see you look at my ring," he said, seeing mr. naylor's eyes fix greedily upon it. "it was given to me by one whom i serve." deliberately he drew it from his finger again and handed it to mr. naylor, who took it casually and proceeded to examine it. the other watched him closely. yes; he was looking at the inscription on the inside. "they are not my initials," said van helder. mr. naylor looked up quickly. "no," he said, returning the ring. the other shrugged his shoulders without replying. mr. naylor's manner had undergone a change. "and now about john dene. ah!" as one smoke-ring passed through another. "john dene!" "yes, of toronto," continued van helder, smiling and continuing to blow rings with apparent enjoyment. "he is staying at the ritzton, too." "london is full of visitors." "my friend, we waste time. there is such a thing as over-caution. as i say you are ungeschickt. there was that affair of john dene's lunch. such things will not please those----" he shrugged his shoulders. for fully a minute naylor gazed at him quietly, searchingly. "there was then the chocolates and the girl." "i do not understand." mr. naylor looked across at him craftily. "we waste time, i know. i will tell you. the secretary, you make your woman offer her chocolates at a tea-shop, and to go for a ride in a taxi. the chocolates----" he shrugged his shoulders expressively. "she refuses. you are clumsy." the contemptuous insolence of his visitor seemed to impress mr. naylor. the look of suspicion in his eyes became less marked. "how did you know?" he asked, still wary. "we waste time," was the response with a wave of the hand. for a few moments mr. naylor sat watching van helder as he continued to blow rings with manifest content. "listen," continued van helder. "john dene has brought over here an invention, a submarine that is to end the war. he has given it to the admiralty." "given it!" involuntarily repeated mr. naylor. "given it. there are patriots even in england. you think he is trying to sell it, therefore you try to remove him." "not selling it." mr. naylor leaned slightly forward. "he gives it on condition that he commands it with his own men. it makes easy the matter." "then it is true what----" mr. naylor stopped. "how did you learn this?" he slobbered his words slightly as he spoke. "i know things, it is my duty," was the response. "but what proof----?" with great deliberation van helder drew from his pocket a large envelope; extracting a single sheet of paper he handed it across the table. mr. naylor snatched it eagerly and proceeded to devour it with his eyes. "i also got a set of plans of a submarine; but it was one of our own. he is clever, this man." "how did you get it?" van helder smiled. "how did you get the copy?" he enquired. "the copy! how did you know?" mr. naylor stared at him, his jaw a little dropped. he swallowed noisily. "you have been clumsy," repeated van helder. "you try to kill the cock that lays the eggs of gold." he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. mr. naylor flushed angrily. "and you?" he almost snarled. "i am here to watch." he looked across at mr. naylor with a cunning smile. he was at last sure of his ground. "watch who?" van helder shrugged his shoulders, and proceeded to light a new cigarette from the burning end of the old one. "you must not kill--yet," he said, gazing at the end of his cigarette to see that it was well alight. "what then?" demanded mr. naylor. his jowls had returned and the yellow of his teeth was visible between his slightly parted lips. "wait and watch," was the reply. "and let him go north," sneered the other. "if you kill, where are the plans? do as you would," he continued indifferently. "there will be the day for you, too. now i go." he made a movement to rise; but mr. naylor motioned him back into his chair. two hours later mr. naylor himself let out his visitor. closing the front door, he returned to his study, where for an hour he sat at his table gazing straight in front of him. mr. naylor was puzzled. conscious that he was being followed by a small man in a grey suit with shifty eyes, james finlay made his way leisurely to the high road where he took a 'bus bound for piccadilly circus. chapter viii dorothy west at home "mother mine," cried dorothy west, as she withdrew the pins from her hat, "john dene's a dear, and i think his passion for me is developing." "dorothy!" cried mrs. west, a tiny white-haired lady whose face still retained traces of youthful beauty. "you needn't be shocked, lovie; john dene is as worthy as his namesake in _evangeline_." she laughed lightly. "now i must eat. john dene's like sea air, he's so stimulating;" and she began to eat the dinner that mrs. west always prepared with such care. for some minutes she watched with a smile of approval her daughter's healthy appetite. "i think i should like mr. dene, dorothy," she said at length. "i have always heard that canadians are very nice to women. you must ask him to call." "oh, you funny little mother!" she laughed. "you forget that we have come down in the world, and that i'm a typist." "a secretary, dear," corrected mrs. west gently. "well, secretary, then; but even a secretary doesn't invite her employer to tea, even when the tea is as mother makes it. it's not done, so the less that's said of john, i think, the better," she quoted gaily. "oh! by the way," she added, "you might get his goat; sir lyster does." "his goat, dear!" mrs. west looked up with a puzzled expression. dorothy explained the allusion. she went on to tell of some of the doings of john dene, his impatience, his indifference to and contempt for constituted authority. in short she added a few vivid side-lights to the picture she had already given her mother of how john dene had come and carried all before him. "i think," she said in conclusion, screwing up her pretty features, "that john dene is rather a dear." then after a pause she added, "you see, he is also a man." "a man, my dear," questioned mrs. west, looking at her daughter with a smile. "yes, mother, he's so intensely masculine. i get so fed up with----" "dorothy!" expostulated mrs. west. "yes, i know it's trying, mother, but i get so weary of the subaltern and junior naval officer. of course they're splendid and brave; but they don't seem men." "but think of how they have given their lives," began mrs. west. "yes; but we see those who haven't, mother, and very few of them have chevrons on their sleeves. now john dene is quite different. he always seems to be a man; yet he never forgets that you are a woman, although he never appears to be conscious of your being a woman." dorothy caught her mother's eye, and laughed. "of course it sounds utterly ridiculous i know; but there it is, and then think of what----" she suddenly broke off. "yes, dear," said mrs. west gently. "i was nearly letting out official secrets, mother. of course i mustn't do that, must i?" "of course not, dear," said mrs. west. "yes," continued dorothy, her head on one side, "i like john dene. it must be ripping to be able to bully a first lord of the admiralty," she added irrelevantly. "bully a first lord," said mrs. west. mrs. west seemed to be in a perpetual state of repeating in a bewildered manner her daughter's startling statements. "he doesn't care for anybody. he calls mr. blair, that's sir lyster's secretary, the prize seal, and i'm sure he takes a delight in frightening the poor man. that's the best of being a canadian, you see you don't care a damn----" "dorothy!" there was horror in mrs. west's voice. "i'm so sorry, mother dear; but it slipped out, you know, and really it's such an awfully convenient word, isn't it? it's so different from not caring a bother, or not caring a blow. anyway, when you're a canadian you don't care a--well you know, for anybody. if a man happens to be a lord or a duke, you're rude to him just to show that you're as good as he is. sometimes, mother, i wish i were a canadian," said dorothy pensively. "i should so like to 'ginger-up' sir lyster." "your language, my dear," said mrs. west gently. "oh, that's john dene," said dorothy airily. "that's his favourite expression, 'ginger-up.' he came over here to 'ginger-up' the admiralty, and in fact 'ginger-up' anybody who didn't very strongly object to being 'gingered-up,' and those who did, well he gingers them up just the same. you should see poor mr. blair under the process." dorothy laughed as she thought of mr. blair's sufferings. "the girls call him 'oh, reginald!' and he looks it," she added. mrs. west smiled vaguely, finding it a little difficult to follow her daughter along these paths of ultra-modernism. "you see, if sir lyster says to me 'go,' i have to go," continued dorothy, "and if he says to me 'come,' i have to come; but if he says to john dene 'go,' he just says 'shucks.'" "says what, dorothy?" "shucks!" she repeated with a laugh, "it means go to--well, you know, mother." "and does he say that to sir lyster?" enquired mrs. west in awe-struck voice. dorothy nodded vigorously. "the only one that seems to understand him is sir bridgman north, and he never stands on his dignity, you know. if i were in the navy," said dorothy meditatively, "i should like to be under sir bridgman, he's really rather a dear." "but why do----" began mrs. west, "why does sir lyster allow----" "allow," broke in dorothy. "it doesn't matter what you allow with john dene. if you agree with him he just grunts; if you don't he says 'shucks,' or else he questions whether you've got any head-filling." "any what?" asked mrs. west. "head-filling, that means brains. oh, you've got an awful lot to learn," she added, nodding at her mother in mock despair. "i think john dene very clever," she added. "dorothy, you mustn't call him 'john dene." "he's always called 'john dene,'" said dorothy. "you can't think of him as anything but john dene, and do you know, mother, all the other girls are so intrigued. they're always asking me how i get on with 'the bear,' as they call him. that's because he doesn't take any notice of them, except marjorie rogers, and she's as cheeky as a robin." "but he isn't a bear, is he, dorothy?" "a bear? he's the most polite creature that ever existed," said dorothy--"when he remembers it," she added after a moment's pause. "you see they all expect me to marry him." "dorothy!" "i'm not so sure that they're wrong, either," she added naïvely. "you see, he's got plenty of money and----" "i don't like to hear you talk like that, dear," said mrs. west gravely. "oh, i'm horrid, aren't i?" she cried, running over to her mother and putting her arm round her neck. "what a dreadful thing it must be for you, poor mother mine, to have such a daughter! she outrages all the dear old victorian conventions, doesn't she?" "you mustn't talk like that, dorothy dear," said mrs. west. there was in her voice that which told her daughter she was in earnest. "all right, mother dear, i won't; you know my bark is worse than my bite, don't you?" "yes, but dear----" "you see, way down, as john dene would say, in his own heart there is chivalry, and that is very, very rare nowadays among men. he is much nicer to me than he would be to lady grayne, or mrs. llewellyn john, or to the queen herself, i believe. i'm sure he likes me," added dorothy half to herself. "you see," she added, "he broke my teapot, and he owes me something for that, doesn't he?" "dorothy, you are very naughty." there was no rebuke in mrs. west's voice. "and you're wondering how it came about that such a dear, sweet, conventional, lovely, victorian symbol of respectability and convention should have had such a dreadfully outrageous daughter as dorothy west. now confess, mother, aren't you?" mrs. west merely smiled the indulgent smile that dorothy always interpreted into forgiveness for her lapses, past, present and to come. "you see, mother, john dene has got it into his head that we're hopelessly out of date," she said. "he's quite sincere. he thinks we're fools, sir lyster, sir bridgman and the whole lot of us, and as for poor mr. blair, he knows he's a fool. he thinks that mr. llewellyn john is almost a fool, in fact he's sure in his own mind that unless you happen to be born a canadian you're a fool and can't help it. he's quite nice about it, because it really isn't your fault." "i'm afraid he must be very narrow-minded," said mrs. west gently. "no, he isn't, that's where it's so funny, it's just his idea. he looks upon himself as a heaven-sent corrective to the british government. i'm afraid poor john dene is going to have a nasty jar before he's through, as he would say himself." "how do you mean, dorothy?" enquired mrs. west. "i mustn't say any more, because i should be divulging official secrets. the other girls are so curious to know what is happening. bishy, that's miss bishcroft, asked me whether john dene made love to me, and rojjie is sure that he kisses me." dorothy rippled off into laughter. "how impertinent of her!" mrs. west was shocked. "it wasn't impertinence, mother, it was funny. if you could only see john dene, and imagine him making love to anyone. it really is funny. sometimes i sit and wonder if he knows how to kiss a girl." "dorothy, you are----" began mrs. west. "why shouldn't we be frank and open about such matters? every man kisses a girl at some time during his life, except john dene," she added. "in whitehall it's nothing but minutes and kisses. why shouldn't we talk about it? it's helping to win the war. it's so silly to hide everything in that silly victorian way of ours. if a nice girl meets a nice man she wants him to kiss her, and she's disappointed if he doesn't. now isn't she?" challenged dorothy as she perched herself upon the arm of her mother's chair and looked down at her, her eyebrows and mouth screwed up, impertinent and provocative. "i wish you wouldn't talk like that, dear," said mrs. west, as she regarded her daughter's pretty features. "why, mother?" she enquired, bending and brushing a swift kiss upon her mother's white hair. "it--it doesn't seem----" she paused, then added rather weakly, "it doesn't seem quite nice." dorothy jumped up and stood before her mother, smiling mischievously. "and so you don't think i'm quite nice, mrs. west?" she made an elaborate curtsey. "thank you very much indeed. at the admiralty there are quite a lot of young men, and some old ones, too, who don't agree with you," she added, returning to her chair. "but you mustn't say such--such things," protested mrs. west weakly. "but, mother, when you were a girl and knew a nice man, didn't you want him to kiss you?" "we never thought about such things. we----" "didn't you want father to kiss you?" persisted dorothy. "we were engaged, my dear, and your dear father was so----" "but before you were engaged. suppose father had tried to kiss you. what would you have done?" the girl's eyes were on her mother, mischievous and challenging. a faint blush tinged mrs. west's cheeks. "i'll tell you what you'd have done, you dear, naughty little mother. you'd have pretended to be shocked, but in your heart you would have been glad, and you'd have lain awake all night thinking what an awful rip you had been." she nodded her head wisely. "sometimes," said mrs. west after a pause, "i wish it had not been necessary for you to work. girls seem so different nowadays from what they were when i was young." "we are, you dear little mouse," smiled dorothy. "we know a lot more, and to be forewarned is to be forearmed. i'm glad i didn't live when you had to faint at the sight of a mouse, or swoon when you were kissed. it would be such a waste," she added gaily. mrs. west sighed, conscious that a new age of womanhood had dawned with which she was out of touch. "mother," said dorothy presently, "what made you love father?" mrs. west looked up in surprise at her daughter, but continued to fold her napkin and place it in her ring before replying. "because your father, dorothy, was----" she hesitated. "my father," suggested dorothy. mrs. west smiled; but there was a far-away look in her eyes. "everybody loved your father," she went on a moment later. "yes, mother, but everybody didn't marry him," she said practically. "noooo----" hesitated mrs. west. "but you mean to say that everybody would have liked to marry him." "he was very wonderful," said mrs. west, a note of sadness creeping into her voice. "but you haven't answered my question," persisted dorothy. "why is it that we women love men?" mrs. west was not conscious of the quaint phrasing of her daughter's remark. "we don't love men, dorothy," she cried, "we love a man, the right man." "but," persisted dorothy, "why do we do it? they're not pretty and they're not very interesting," she emphasised the "very," "and only a few of them are clever. sometimes in the tube coming home i see a girl and a man holding hands. what is it that makes them want to hold hands?" "it's natural to fall in love," said mrs. west gently. "but that's not falling in love," protested dorothy scornfully. "if i fell in love with a man i shouldn't want to hold his hand in a train. i should hate him if he expected it." "it's a question of class," said mrs. west a little primly. "oh! mother, what an awful snob you are," cried dorothy, jumping up and going round and giving her mother a hug. "let's go into the drawing-room and be comfy and have a chat." when they were seated, mrs. west in an armchair and dorothy on a stool at her feet, the girl continued her interrogations. "now suppose," she continued, "i were to fall in love with a man who was ugly, ill-mannered, badly dressed, with very little to say for himself. why should i do it?" dorothy looked challengingly up at her mother. "but you wouldn't, dear," said mrs. west with gentle conviction. "oh, mother, you're awfully trying you know," she cried in mock despair. "you've got to suppose that i have, or could. why should i do it?" mrs. west gazed at her daughter a little anxiously, then shook her head. "now i can quite understand," went on dorothy, half to herself, "why a man should fall in love with me. i'm pretty and bright, wear nice things, particularly underneath----" "dorothy!" broke in mrs. west in a tone of shocked protest. she laughed. "oh, mother, you're a dreadful prude. why do you think girls wear pretty shoes and stockings, and low cut blouses as thin as a cobweb?" "hush! dorothy, you mustn't say such things." there was pain in mrs. west's voice. "i wish we could face facts," said dorothy with a sigh. "you see, mother dear," she continued, "when you're in a government office, with heaps of other girls and men about, you get to know things, see things, and sometimes you get to hate things." "i have always regretted," began mrs. west sadly. "you mustn't do that, mother dear," cried dorothy; "it has been an education. but what i want to know is, what is it in a man that attracts a girl?" "goodness, honour and----" began mrs. west. "no, it isn't," said dorothy, "at least they don't attract me." mrs. west looked pained but said nothing. "you see," continued dorothy, "there are such a lot of good men about, and honourable men, and--and--they're so dreadfully dull and monotonous. i couldn't marry that sort of man," she added with conviction. "but----" began mrs. west. "you wouldn't----" then she paused. "i can't explain it, mother," she said, "but i should hate to be doing the same thing always." "but we are doing the same things always, dorothy," said mrs. west. "oh! no we're not," protested dorothy. "i never know until i get home on saturday where i'm going to take you. now if i had a husband, a good and honourable husband, he would begin about thursday saying that on saturday afternoon we would go to hampstead, or to richmond, or to--oh! anywhere. then when saturday came i should hate the very name of the place he had chosen. then on sunday we should go to church in the morning, for a walk in the afternoon, pay a call or two, then church or a cinema in the evening. that's good and honourable married life," she concluded with decision. mrs. west looked down with a puzzled expression on her face. "wait a minute, mother," said dorothy. "now we'll imagine the real me married to a good and honourable man. at twelve-thirty on the saturday that he has arranged to lose himself and me at the maze at hampton court, i telephone to say that we're going to brighton, and that he's to meet me at victoria at half-past one, and i'll bring his things. now what do you think he'd do?" with head on one side she gazed challengingly at her mother. "i--i don't know," faltered mrs. west. "i do," said dorothy with conviction. "he'd have a fit. then if i wanted him to come for a 'bus ride just as he was going to bed," went on dorothy, "he'd have another fit; and if one fine morning, just as he was off to the office, i were to ask him not to go, but to take me to richmond instead, he'd have a third fit, and then i should be a widow." "a widow!" questioned mrs. west. "what are you talking about?" "third fits are always fatal, mother," she said wisely. then with a laugh she added, "oh, there's a great time in store for the man who marries dorothy west. he will have to have a strong heart, a robust constitution and above all any amount of stamina," and she gave a mischievous little chuckle of joy. then a moment after, looking gravely at her mother she said, "you must have been very wicked, lovie, or you'd never have had such a daughter to plague you. i'm your cross;" but mrs. west merely smiled. chapter ix department z. at work "naylor isn't satisfied then." colonel walton glanced across at malcolm sage, who was gazing appreciatively at his long, lender fingers. "he's the shyest bird i've ever come across," said sage without looking up. "he gave finlay a rare wigging for that call. now he's having him watched." "i expected that," said colonel walton, engrossed in cutting the end of a cigar. "i think it's jealousy," continued sage. "he's afraid of the special agent getting all the kudos--and the plunder," he added. "it was a happy chance getting that bergen chap." "i'm rather concerned about finlay," said colonel walton. "good man, finlay." there was a note of admiration in sage's voice. "he's quite cut adrift from us. he's nothing if not thorough. i can't get in touch with him." "of course he knows?" "that he's being watched? yes." "who's looking after him?" "hoyle." sage drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to charge it from a chamois-leather tobacco-pouch. "i've had to call thompson off, i think they linked him up with us." "that's a pity," said colonel walton, gazing at the end of his cigar. "he's a better man than hoyle." "it's that little chap they've got," continued sage, "lives at wimbledon, retired commercial-traveller, clever devil." malcolm sage never grudged praise to an opponent. "how about john dene?" "he's not taking any risks," said sage, as he applied a match to his pipe. "but they'll never let him go north." "then we must prevent him." "perhaps you'd like to take on that little job, chief." there was a momentary suspicion of a twinkle in sage's eye before a volume of tobacco smoke blotted it out. "i'm afraid it'll force our hand," said colonel walton. "that burglary business complicated things," said sage, as he sucked in his lips, with him a sign of annoyance. "it was a mistake to keep it dark." "that was sir lyster." "it made naylor suspicious." "has finlay seen him since?" enquired colonel walton. "naylor must have given him the secret-code. they've met several times; but i believe naylor is determined to act on his own. he's a weird creature. i wish i could get in touch with finlay, however." "why not try the taxi?" "i've had rogers following him round all the time; but finlay hasn't once taken a taxi." "i'm afraid he's taking a big risk----" began colonel walton. "that naylor fellow----" he paused. sage nodded. during the previous ten days department z. had learned a great deal about the comings and goings of mr. montagu naylor of streatham. it had become manifest to sage that he had to do with a man who had reduced cunning and caution to a fine art. his every act seemed to have been carefully thought out beforehand, not only in relation to himself, but to what might grow directly out of it. during a walk he would sometimes turn suddenly and proceed swiftly in the direction from which he had come, as if he had forgotten something, looking keenly at every one he passed. at others he would step into a shop, where he could be seen keeping a careful watch through the window. a favourite trick was to walk briskly round a corner, then stop and look in some shop window with a small mirror held in the palm of his hand. from the first malcolm sage had realised that the conventional methods of shadowing a suspect would be useless for his purpose. those in whom department z. were interested would be old hands at the game, and to set a single person to watch them would inevitably result in the discovery of what was afoot. he therefore set at least three men, or women, to dog the footsteps of the suspect. these would follow each other at intervals of from twenty-five to a hundred yards, according to the district in which they were operating. at a signal that the first in the line was dropping out, the trail would be taken up by number two, who in turn would relinquish the work to number three. sometimes as many as six were allocated to one shadowing. this method had the additional advantage of enabling the department to assure itself that the watchers were not in turn being watched. it was no uncommon thing for a suspect to arrange to have himself shadowed in order to ascertain whether or no there were any one on his track. this was a favourite device with mr. naylor. for nearly two years department z. had been endeavouring to solve the problem of a secret organisation, with the offshots of which they were constantly coming into contact. the method this organisation adopted was one of concentration upon a single object. at one time it would be at the sailing of vessels from home ports, at another the munitions output, or again the anti-aircraft defences of london. malcolm sage was convinced that somewhere there was at work a controlling mind, one that weighed every risk and was prepared for all eventualities. individuals had been shadowed, some had been arrested, much to sage's disgust. the efforts of the organisation had frequently been countered and its objects defeated; but department z. had hitherto been unable to penetrate beyond the outer fringe. the most remarkable thing of all was that no document of any description had been discovered, either on the person of those arrested, or through the medium of the post. scotland yard stoutly denied the existence of the organisation. they claimed to have made a clean sweep of all secret service agents in their big round-up on the outbreak of war. whatever remained were a few small fry that had managed to slip through the meshes of their net. malcolm sage merely shrugged his shoulders and worked the harder. when it had been discovered that the famous norvelt aeroplane, which was to give the allies the supremacy of the air, had been copied by the germans, the war cabinet regarded the matter as one of the gravest setbacks the allied cause had received. mr. llewellyn john had openly reproached colonel walton with failure. again when time after time a certain north sea convoy was attacked, the authorities knew that it could be only as a result of information having leaked out to the enemy. a raid into the bight of heligoland had been met in a way that convinced those who had planned it that the enemy had been warned, although the utmost secrecy had been observed. all these things had tended to cause the war cabinet uneasiness, and department z. had been urged to redouble its efforts to find out the means by which information was conveyed to the enemy. "we must watch and wait, just hang about on the outer fringe. when we find the thread it will lead to the centre of things," sage had remarked philosophically. in the meantime he worked untiringly, keeping always at the back of his mind the problem of this secret organisation. day by day the record of mr. montagu naylor's activities enlarged. with him caution seemed to have become an obsession. as malcolm sage went through the daily reports of his agents he was puzzled to account for many of mr. naylor's actions other than by the fact that circumlocution had become with him a habit. among other things that came to light was mr. naylor's fondness for open spaces, and the frequency with which he got into conversation with strangers. he would wander casually into kew gardens, or waterlow park, or in fact anywhere, seat himself somewhere on a bench, and before he had been there ten minutes, someone would inevitably select the same bench on which to rest himself or herself, with the result that they would soon drift into desultory conversation with mr. naylor. the same thing would happen at a restaurant at which mr. naylor might be lunching, dining or taking tea. with strangers his manner seemed irresistible. it would sometimes happen that he would keep one of the telephone appointments, pass through the thoroughfare indicated, and proceed either to a park or a tea-shop, where later he would find himself in casual conversation with someone who, curiously enough, had been in that particular thoroughfare when he passed through it. for some time malcolm sage was greatly puzzled by the fact that even when the name of a long thoroughfare were indicated in one of the telephone messages, such as oxford street, marylebone road, or even the fulham road, mr. naylor never experienced any difficulty in locating the whereabouts of his subordinate. sage gave instructions for the exact position of each thoroughfare to be indicated. as a result he discovered that contact was always established in the neighbourhood of the building numbered 10. "it's the german mind," remarked sage one day to colonel walton. "it leaves nothing to chance, or to the intelligence of the other fellow." as each one of mr. naylor's associates was located, he or she was continuously shadowed. in consequence the strain upon the resources of department z. became increasingly severe. it was like an army advancing into an enemy country, and having to furnish the lines of communication from its striking force. sometimes sage himself was engaged in the shadowing, and once or twice even colonel walton. "by the time we've finished, there won't be even the office cat left," thompson one day remarked to gladys norman, a typist whom malcolm sage had picked out of one of the departments through which he had passed during his non-stop career. she had already shown marked ability by her cleverness and resource, to say nothing of her impudence. "never mind, tommy," she had replied. "it's all experience, and after the war, when i marry you and we start our private inquiry bureau----" she nodded her head knowingly. "why, i've got enough facts from my own department to divorce half the officers on the staff," she added. the work of shadowing mr. naylor was not without its humours. sometimes department z. was led away on false scents. on one occasion a week was spent in tracking a venerable-looking old gentleman, he turned out to be a quite respectable pensioned civil servant, who, out of the kindness of his own heart, had passed the time of day with mr. naylor. the plan decided upon by colonel walton and malcolm sage was carefully to watch all mr. naylor's associates and, at a given time, make a clean sweep of the lot. to achieve this effect a zero hour was to be established on a certain day. each was to be arrested as soon after that time as it was possible. this was mainly due to malcolm sage's suspicion that some scheme of warning existed between the various members of the combination, whereby any danger threatening one was quickly notified to all the others. "in all probability we shall get a few harmless birds into the net," malcolm sage had remarked. "probably the sister of an m.p., or the head of a department in one of the new ministries; but that can't be helped." "still i should prefer that it didn't happen," colonel walton had said drily. "you know the skipper hates questions in the house." "by the way," said malcolm sage to colonel walton one day, "thompson sent in an interesting report this morning." "naylor?" queried colonel walton. malcolm sage nodded. "he's having a sort of small greenhouse arrangement fitted in the window of the front-room of the basement. it may be for flowers or for salad." "or----?" interrogated colonel walton. malcolm sage merely shrugged his shoulders as he proceeded to dig the ashes out of his pipe. the work of department z. continued quietly and unostentatiously. john dene was never permitted out of sight, except when in some private place. this meant the constant changing of those responsible for keeping him under observation. the necessity of this was not more evident to department z. than to john dene himself. in spite of his scornful manner, he was not lacking in caution, as soon became obvious to malcolm sage. at the hotel he was careful, taking neither food nor drink in his room. he never dined two consecutive nights at the same restaurant, and he consistently refused all overtures from strangers. it soon became evident to malcolm sage that john dene realised how great was the danger by which he was threatened. the ransacking of his room at the ritzton left john dene indifferent. the fact that he never locked the small safe he kept at his office at waterloo place was not without its significance for malcolm sage. in the course of the next few weeks malcolm sage learned a great deal about john dene of toronto. although proof against the wiles of confidence men, always on the look-out for the colonials, he fell an easy victim to the plausible beggar. he never refused a request for assistance, and the record of his unostentatious charities formed a no inconsiderable portion of the rapidly increasing dossier at department z. many were the incidents recorded of john dene's kindness of heart. a child smiling up into his eyes would cause him to stop, bend down and ask its name, or where it lived. whilst the little one was sucking an embarrassed finger john dene would be feeling in his pocket for a coin that a moment later would cause the youngster to gaze after him in speechless wonder, clutching in his grimy hand a shilling or a half-a-crown. once he was observed leading a tearful little girl of about five years old up the haymarket. the child had apparently become lost, and john dene was seeking a policeman into whose care to consign her. it became obvious to malcolm sage that john dene's weak points were children and "lame dogs." thompson, who first had charge of the guarding of john dene, reported that one of the most assiduous of those who seemed to interest themselves in the movements of the canadian, was a little man in a grey suit, with a pair of shifty eyes that never remained for more than a second on any one object. "he's clever, sir," thompson had remarked to sage, "clever as a vanload of monkeys, and he takes cover like an alien," he added grinning, at his own joke. "has he linked up with naylor yet?" thompson shook his head. "the old bird's too crafty for that, sir," he said. "he only comes up against the small fry. this little chap in the grey suit is something bigger." the officials at department z. soon discovered that the chiefs of the organisation, against which they were working, never came into contact with each other. communication was established verbally by subordinates. another thing that added to the difficulties of sage's task was that a man, who had for some days been particularly active, would suddenly drop out, apparently being superseded by someone else with whom he had not previously been in contact. later, the man who had dropped out would pick up an entirely different thread. this meant innumerable loose ends, all of which had to be followed up and then held until they began to develop along new lines. "it's a great game played slow, gladys," thompson remarked one day to gladys norman as they sat waiting for malcolm sage. "slow," cried the girl. "if this is slow, what's fast?" "her initials are g. n.," was the reply. malcolm sage entered at the moment when gladys had succeeded in making her colleague's hair look like that of an australian aborigine. chapter x john dene goes to kew "and now we'll go to kew and say how-do-you-do to the rhododendrons," cried dorothy, as she rolled up her napkin and slipped it into the silver ring that lay beside her plate. "i'll go and make myself smart; and mother"--she paused at the door--"mind you put on your new hat that makes you look so wicked." mrs. west smiled what dorothy called her "saturday afternoon smile." half an hour later dorothy was gazing at herself in the looking-glass over the dining-room mantelpiece. with a sigh half of content, half of rebelliousness she turned as mrs. west entered. for a moment she stood looking enquiringly at her daughter. "shall i do?" she demanded impudently. "i've put on my very best, undies and all." "but why, dorothy?" began mrs. west. "oh, i just wanted to feel best to-day. i wonder if john dene notices legs, mother," she added inconsequently. "really, dorothy!" began mrs. west, with widening eyes. "well, i've got rather nice legs, and--oh! but i'm sure he doesn't. we had fillets of sole done up in a most wonderful way the other day, and he asked if it was cod. he's got cod on the brain, poor dear." with a sigh she turned once more to regard herself in the looking-glass. "if he could see me in this hat, it would be all 'u.p.' with honest john;" and she laughed wickedly as she caught her mother's eye. "i wish you wouldn't use such expressions," protested mrs. west gently, "and--and----" she stopped and looked appealingly at her daughter. "i know i'm a horrid little beast," she cried, turning quickly, "and i say outrageous things, don't i?" then with a sudden change of mood she added: "but why shouldn't a girl be pleased because she's got nice legs, mother?" "it's not nice for a young girl to talk about legs," said mrs. west a little primly, making the slightest possible pause before the last words. "but why, mother?" persisted dorothy. "it's--it's not quite nice." "well, mine are, anyway," said dorothy with a little grimace. "now we must be off." mrs. west merely sighed, the sigh of one who fails to understand. "mother dear," said dorothy, observing the sigh, "if i didn't laugh i'm afraid i should cry." all the brightness had left her as she looked down at her mother. "i wonder why it is?" she added musingly. to mrs. west, saturday afternoons were the oases in her desert of loneliness. during the long and solitary days of the week, she looked forward with the eagerness of a child to the excursions dorothy never failed to plan for her entertainment. if it were dull or wet, there would be a matinee or the pictures; if fine they would go to kew, richmond, or the zoo. it was an understood thing that mrs. west should know nothing about the arrangement until the actual day itself. "i think," remarked dorothy, as they walked across kew bridge, "that i must be looking rather nice to-day. that's the third man who has given me the glad-eye since----" "oh, dorothy! i wish you wouldn't say such dreadful things," protested mrs. west in genuine distress. slipping her arm through her mother's, the girl squeezed it to her side. "i know i'm an outrageous little beast," she said, "but i love shocking you, you dear, funny little mother, and--and you know i love you, don't you?" "but suppose anyone heard you, dear, what would they think?" there was genuine concern in mrs. west's voice. "oh, i'm dreadfully respectable with other people. i never talk to john dene about legs or glad-eyes, really." her eyes were dancing with mischief as she looked down at her mother. "now i'll promise to be good for the rest of the day; but how can a girl say prunes and prisms with a mouth like mine. it's too wide for that, and then there are those funny little cuts at the corners; they are what make me wicked," she announced with a wise little nod. mrs. west sighed once more; she had learned that it was useless to protest when her daughter was in her present mood. they entered the gardens, and for an hour walked about absorbing their atmosphere of peace and warmth, sunlight and shadow and the song of birds; the war seemed very far away. presently they seated themselves by the broad walk leading to the large tropical greenhouse, and gazed idly at the stream of passers-by. "i wish i were a girl bird," said dorothy dreamily, as she listened to the outpourings of a blackbird fluting from a neighbouring tree. mrs. west smiled. she was very happy. "it would be lovely to be made love to like that," continued dorothy, "so much nicer than--- mother, darling, look!" she broke off suddenly, clutching mrs. west's arm. "there's john dene." following the direction of her daughter's eyes, mrs. west saw a rather thick-set man with hunched-up shoulders, looking straight in front of him, a cigar gripped aggressively between his teeth. he was walking in the direction that would bring him within a few feet of the seat on which they sat. "he'll never see us," whispered dorothy excitedly. "he never sees anything, not even a joke. oh! i wish he would," she added. "i should so like you to meet him." mrs. west did not speak; she was gazing with interest at the approaching figure. "mother dear, do you think you could faint?" dorothy's eyes were shining with excitement. "faint!" echoed mrs. west. "yes, then i could call for help and john dene would come, and you would get to know him. i'm sure he'll never see us." "hush, dear, he might hear what you are saying," said mrs. west. when john dene was within a few feet of them, dorothy's sunshade fell forward, seeming to bring him back with a start to his surroundings. instinctively he stepped forward, picked up the sunshade and lifting his hat handed it to dorothy. for a moment there was a puzzled expression in his eyes, followed instantly by one of recognition; and then john dene smiled, and mrs. west liked him. "you see, i found my way," he said to dorothy when she had introduced him to her mother, and for some reason she blushed. "we often come here," said dorothy lamely, conscious that her mother's eyes were upon her. "it's fine. i've just been looking around," he remarked, as he took a seat beside mrs. west. "we haven't anything like this in can'da," he added generously. "i suppose you have parks, though," said mrs. west conversationally. "sure," he replied; "but this is way beyond anything we've got." "you don't think it wants gingering-up then, mr. dene," asked dorothy demurely. "dorothy!" expostulated mrs. west in shocked tones; but john dene merely looked at her, at first without understanding and then, seeing the point of her remark, he smiled right into her eyes, and again dorothy blushed and dropped her eyes. "you see," he said, turning to mrs. west, "we're a new country and it doesn't matter a bean to us how a thing was done yesterday, if some one comes along and tells us how we can do it better to-morrow, and we don't mind its getting known. that's what she meant," he added, nodding in dorothy's direction. "you must all feel delightfully free," murmured mrs. west tactfully. "free," echoed john dene in a tone of voice that seemed to suggest that in no place of the world was freedom so well understood as in the dominion. "in can'da we're just about as free as drinks at an election." dorothy giggled; but john dene seemed to see nothing strange in the simile. "you see, mother, mr. dene thinks we're all hopelessly old-fashioned," said dorothy with a mischievous side-glance at john dene; then, as he made no response, she added, "mr. dene can do three or four different things at the same time and--and----" she broke off and began to poke holes in the gravel with the point of her sunshade. "and what?" he demanded peremptorily. "well, we're not all so clever," she concluded, angry to feel herself flushing again. "oh----" suddenly dorothy started forward. a little boy who had been playing about in front of them for some time past, had tripped and fallen on his face. in an instant she was down on her knees striving to soothe the child's frightened cries, and using her dainty lace-edged handkerchief to staunch the blood that oozed from a cut on his cheek. john dene, who had risen also, stood watching her, his usual expression changed to one of deep concern. he looked from the child to dorothy, obviously struck by the change in her. there was knowledge and understanding of children in the way in which she handled the situation, he decided. he also noticed that she seemed quite oblivious of the fact that she was kneeling on the rough gravel to the detriment of her pretty frock. when eventually the mother of the child had led it away pacified by the attentions of dorothy and the largesse of john dene, he turned to the girl. "you like them?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the retreating infant. "i love them," she said softly, with a dreamy look. then catching john dene's eye she blushed, and john dene smiled. for the next half-hour mrs. west and john dene talked, dorothy remaining a listener. the sympathy and gentleness of mrs. west led john dene to talk in a way that surprised dorothy, accustomed to his habitual suspicion of strangers--british strangers. "say, does this bother you any?" he enquired presently of mrs. west, indicating the cigar from which he was puffing clouds of smoke. "not at all," said mrs. west, striving to keep from choking. "i--i like smoke." dorothy tittered in spite of herself at the expression of martyrdom on her mother's face. john dene turned to her enquiringly; she developed her giggle into a cough. "but you like england, mr. dene?" asked mrs. west by way of bridging the slight gulf that dorothy's giggle had caused. "sure," said john dene; "but i don't seem to be able to figure things out here as i did at t'ronto. over there we're just as dead keen on winning this war as we are on keeping alive; but here----" he filled in the hiatus with a volume of cigar smoke. "and don't you think we want to win the war, mr. dene?" asked dorothy. "well, some of those dancing lizards up at the admiralty have a funny way of showing it," was the grim rejoinder. "please, mr. dene, what is a dancing lizard?" asked dorothy demurely, developing a design that she was making in the gravel with the end of her sunshade. "dorothy!" expostulated mrs. west, and then without giving him an opportunity of replying, she continued: "but, mr. dene, i'm sure they are all extremely patriotic and--and----" "perhaps it's because i don't understand englishmen," he conceded. "why, the other day, when sir lyster took me along to see mr. llewellyn john about one of the biggest things that's ever likely to come his way, what do you think he talked about?" mrs. west shook her head, with a smile that seemed to say it was not for her to suggest what first lords talked of. "pelicans!" into that simple and unoffending word john dene managed to precipitate whole dictionaries of contempt and disapproval. "pelicans!" repeated mrs. west in surprise, whilst dorothy turned aside to hide the smile that was in danger of becoming a laugh. "sure," replied john dene. "birds with beaks like paddle-blades," he added, as if to leave no room for misunderstanding. "but didn't nero fiddle while rome burned?" enquired dorothy mischievously. "maybe," was the reply, "but i'll auction it didn't put the fire out." dorothy laughed. "you see, mr. dene," said mrs. west gently, "different countries have different traditions----" "i've no use for traditions," was the uncompromising rejoinder. "it seems to me that in this country every one's out to try and prevent every one else from knowing what they're thinking. i've a rare picnic to find out what sir lyster's thinking when i'm talking to him." he bit savagely into the end of his cigar, when turning suddenly to mrs. west he said, "here, will you and your daughter come and have some tea with me? i suppose we can get tea around here?" he enquired, apparently of the surrounding landscape. "it's very kind of you, mr. dene," said mrs. west sweetly. "we should be delighted, shouldn't we, dorothy?" "yes, mother," said dorothy without enthusiasm. john dene turned suddenly and looked at her. again he smiled. "why, i hadn't thought of that," he said. "thought of what?" she asked. "why, you see enough of me all the week without my butting in on your holidays." "oh, mr. dene!" cried dorothy reproachfully, "how can you be so unkind? now we shall insist upon your taking us to tea, won't we, mother?" mrs. west smiled up at john dene who had risen. "i'm afraid we can't let you off now, mr. dene," she said sweetly. "well, i take it, i shan't be tugging at the halter," he said, as they walked towards where the pagoda reared its slim, un-english body above the trees. having found a table and ordered tea, john dene looked about him appreciatively. "we haven't got anything like this in t'ronto," he repeated, as if anxious to give full justice to the old country for at least one unique feature. "thank you for that tribute," said dorothy demurely. "but it's true," said john dene, turning to her. "but you don't always say a thing just because it's true, do you?" she enquired. "sure," was the uncompromising response. "but," continued dorothy, "suppose one day i was looking very plain and unattractive, would you tell me of it?" "you couldn't." this was said with such an air of conviction that dorothy felt her cheeks burn, and she lowered her eyes. john dene, she decided, could be extremely embarrassing. his conversation seemed to consist of one-pound notes: he had no small change. for some time she remained silent, again leaving the conversation to john dene and her mother. he was telling her something of his early struggles and adventures, first in canada, then in america and finally in canada again. how he had lost both his parents when a child, and had been adopted by an uncle and aunt who, apparently, made no attempt to disguise the fact that they regarded him as an expensive nuisance. at twelve he had run away, determined to carve out his own career, "and i did it," he concluded. "but how did you manage to do it in the time?" asked mrs. west. "i was thirty-seven last fall. i began at twelve. you can do a rare lot in twenty-five years--if you don't happen to have too many ancestors hanging around," he added grimly. "i think you are very wonderful," was mrs. west's comment, and john dene knew she meant it. "if i'd been in this country," he remarked with a return of his old self-assertiveness, "i'd probably be driving a street-car, or picking up cigarette-stubs." "why?" enquired mrs. west, puzzled at the remark. "you can't jump over a wall when you're wearing leaden soles on your boots," was the terse rejoinder. "and haven't you sometimes missed not having a mother?" enquired mrs. west gently, tears in her sympathetic eyes at the thought of this solitary man who had never known the comforts of a home. "she would have been proud of you." "would she?" he enquired simply, as he crumbled his cake and threw it to a flurry of birds that was hopefully fluttering on the fringe of the tables. "a son's success means more to a mother than anything else," said mrs. west. "i seem to have been hustling around most of my time," said john dene. "i'm always working when i'm not asleep. perhaps i haven't felt it as much----" he left the sentence uncompleted; but there was a look in his eyes that was not usually there. mrs. west sighed with all a mother's sympathy for a lonely man. "do you like birds, mr. dene?" asked dorothy. "why, sure," he replied, "i like all animals. that's what i don't understand about you over here," he continued. "but we love animals," said mrs. west. "i mean stag and fox-hunting." there was a hard note in his voice. "if i had a place in this country and anyone came around hunting foxes on my land, there'd be enough trouble to keep the whole place from going to sleep for the next month." "what should you do?" enquired dorothy wickedly. "well, if anything had to be killed that day it wouldn't be the fox." "i'm afraid you wouldn't be very popular with your neighbours," said dorothy. "i don't care a pea-nut whether i'm popular or not," he said grimly; "but they'd have to sort of learn that if they wanted to run foxes, they must go somewhere else than on my land." dorothy decided that the english county that opened its gates to john dene would have an unexpectedly exciting time. mentally she pictured him, a revolver in each hand, holding up a whole fox-hunt, the sudden reining in of horses, the shouting of the huntsman and the master, whilst the dogs streamed across the country after their quarry. perhaps it was as well, she decided, that john dene had no intention of settling in england. "this has been fine," said john dene after a long silence, during which the three seemed content to enjoy the beauty of the afternoon. "i wonder if you----" then he paused, as he looked across at mrs. west. "you wonder if i would what, mr. dene?" she asked with a smile. "i was just going to invite you to dine with me," continued john dene, "only i remembered that your daughter probably has enough of me----" "if you word all your invitations like that," said dorothy, "we shall accept every one, shan't we, mother?" mrs. west smiled. "say, that's bully," he cried. "we'll get a taxi and drive back. i'd hate to spoil a good day by dining alone;" and he called for his bill. "that's the third time i've seen that little man this afternoon," said dorothy, lowering her voice as a man in a blue suit and light boots paused a few yards in front of them to read the label on a tree. "isn't it funny how one runs across the same person time after time?" "sure," said john dene. there was in his voice a note of grimness that neither dorothy nor mrs. west seemed to detect. at the main gates they secured a taxi. as they hummed eastward, dorothy noticed that the heavy preoccupied look, so characteristic of john dene's face had lifted. he smiled more frequently and looked about him, not with that almost fierce penetrating glance to which she had been accustomed; but with a look of genuine interest. "if it wouldn't bother you any," said john dene, suddenly leaning across to mrs. west, "i'd like to get an automobile, and perhaps you'd show me one or two places i ought to see. i'd be glad if----" he looked at her and smiled. "it's very kind of you----" began mrs. west. "of course i don't want to butt-in," he said a little hastily. "am i included in the invitation?" asked dorothy quietly. "sure," he replied, looking at her a little surprised. then, seeing the twitching at the corners of her mouth, he smiled. "then that's fixed up," he said. "i'll have an automobile for next saturday, and you shall arrange where we're to go." "but you mustn't joy-ride," said dorothy, suddenly remembering d.o.r.a. and all her don't's. "mustn't what?" demanded john dene, in the tone of a man who finds his pleasures suddenly threatened from an unexpected angle. "it's forbidden to use petrol for pleasure," she explained. john dene made a noise in his throat that, from her knowledge of him, dorothy recognised as a sign that someone was on the eve of being gingered-up. "i'll get that automobile," he announced; and dorothy knew that there was trouble impending for mr. blair. "and we'll have a picnic-hamper, shall we?" she cried excitedly. "sure," replied john dene, "i'll order one." "oh, won't that be lovely, mother!" she cried, clapping her hands. mrs. west smiled her pleasure. "where are you taking us to dinner?" enquired dorothy of john dene. "the ritzton," he replied. "oh, but we're not dressed for that!" "it's war time and i never dress," he announced, as if that settled the matter. "but--" began mrs. west hesitatingly. "perhaps you'd rather not come?" he began tentatively, his disappointment too obvious to disguise. "oh, but we want to come!" said mrs. west, "only we're not in quite the right clothes for the ritzton, are we?" "don't you worry," he reassured her; then a moment later added, "that's what i'm up against in this country. everybody's putting on the clothes they think other people expect them to wear. if people don't like my clothes, they can look where i'm not sitting. we're not going to win this war by wearing clothes," he announced. then dorothy started to gurgle. the picture of endeavouring to win the war without clothes struck her as comical. "dorothy!" admonished mrs. west. "i--i was just thinking, mother." "thinking of what?" asked john dene. "i was just wondering how sir lyster would look trying to win the war without clothes," and she trailed off into a splutter of laughter. "dorothy!" mrs. west turned to john dene with a comical look of concern. "i'm afraid my daughter is in one of her wilful moods to-day, mr. dene," she explained. "she'll do as she is," he announced with decision and again dorothy felt her cheeks burn. "i like mr. dene," announced mrs. west that night as she and dorothy sat at the open window of the drawing-room before going to bed. "so you approve of your future son-in-law, mother mine, i'm so glad," said dorothy. "you mustn't say such things, my dear," expostulated mrs. west. "i'm afraid i shall have to do the proposing though," dorothy added. "it was very strange, meeting mr. dene to-day," remarked mrs. west half to herself. "very," remarked dorothy, and she hastened to talk of something else. that night john dene dreamed he was a little boy again, and had fallen down and hurt himself, and a beautiful lady had knelt beside him and kissed him. he awakened with a start just as the lady had turned into dorothy, with her note-book, asking if there were any more letters. chapter xi the strangeness of john dene "here, i'm being trailed." mr. blair looked up from his writing-table with a startled expression as john dene burst into his room. in entering a room john dene gave the impression of first endeavouring to break through the panels, and appearing to turn the handle only as an afterthought. "trailed," repeated mr. blair in an uncomprehending manner. john dene stood looking down at him accusingly, as if he were responsible. "yes, trailed, watched, tracked, shadowed, followed, bumped-into, trodden-on," snapped john dene irritably. he was annoyed that a man occupying an important position should not be able to grasp his meaning without repetition. "you know anything about it?" he demanded. mr. blair merely shook his head. "he in?" john dene jerked his head in the direction of sir lyster's room. "he's--he's rather busy," began mr. blair. "oh, shucks!" cried john dene, and striding across to the door he passed into sir lyster's room. "morning," he cried, as sir lyster looked up from his table. "someone's following me around again," he announced, "and i want to know whether it's you or them." "me or who?" queried sir lyster. "whether it's some of your boys, or the other lot." after a moment's reflection sir lyster seemed to grasp john dene's meaning. "i'll make enquiry," he said suavely. "well, you might suggest that it doesn't please me mightily. i don't like being trailed in this fashion, so if it's any of your boys just you whistle 'em off." "i doubt if you would be aware of the fact if we were having you shadowed, mr. dene," said sir lyster quietly, "and in any case it would be for your own safety." "when john dene can't take care of himself," was the reply, "he'd better give up and start a dairy." "how is the _destroyer_ progressing?" enquired sir lyster with the object of changing the conversation. "fine," was the reply. "your man had better be ready on friday. one of my boys'll pick him up, jim grant's his name." "sir goliath maggie has appointed commander ryles," said sir lyster. "well, let him be ready by friday. grant'll pick him up on his way north. your man can't mistake him, little chap with red hair all over him. don't forget to call off your boys;" and with that john dene was gone. ten minutes later sir bridgman north found the first lord sitting at his table, apparently deep in thought. "i can see john dene's been here," laughed sir bridgman. "you and blair both show all the outward visible signs of having been 'gingered-up.'" sir lyster smiled feebly. he felt that sir bridgman was wearing the joke a little threadbare. "he's been here about one of his men picking up ryles on his way to auchinlech," said sir lyster. "a little man with red hair all over him was his description." "that seems pretty comprehensive," remarked sir bridgman. "he'd better go right through and pick up ryles at scapa. they'll probably appreciate him there. it's rather dull for 'em." "i take it that mr. dene will follow in a day or two. it----" sir lyster paused; then, seeing that he was expected to finish his sentence, he added, "it will really be something of a relief. he quite upset rickards a few days ago over some requisitions. i've never known him so annoyed." "profane, you mean," laughed sir bridgman. "what happened?" "apparently he objected to being called a dancing lizard, and told to quit his funny work." sir lyster smiled as if finding consolation in the fact that another had suffered at the hands of john dene. "it's nothing to what he did to poor old rayner," laughed sir bridgman. "a dear old chap, you know, but rather of the old blue-water school." sir lyster nodded. he remembered that admiral rayner seemed to take a delight in reminding him of his civilian status. with sir lyster he was always as technical in his language as a midshipman back from his first cruise. "rayner wanted to fit up the toronto with an archie gun, and john dene told him to cut it out. rayner protested that he was the better judge and all that sort of thing. john dene ended by telling poor old rayner that next time he'd better come in a dressing-gown, as he'd be damned if gold bands went with the colour of his skin. rayner hasn't been civil to anyone since;" and sir bridgman laughed loudly. "i think my sympathies are with rayner," smiled sir lyster, as sir bridgman moved towards the door. "frankly, i don't like john dene." "don't like him! why?" "well," sir lyster hesitated for the fraction of a second, "he will persist in treating us as equals." "now i call that damned nice of him;" and sir bridgman left the first lord gazing at the panels of the door that closed behind him. whilst sir lyster and sir bridgman were discussing his unconventional methods with admirals, john dene had returned to his office and was working at high pressure. sometimes dorothy wondered if his energy were like the widow's cruse. finishing touches had to be put to everything. instructions had to be sent to blake as to where to pick up grant and commander ryles, and a hundred and one things "rounded-off," as john dene phrased it. during his absence, dorothy was to be at the office each day until lunch time to attend to any matters that might crop up. if john dene required anything, it was arranged that he would wireless for it, and dorothy was to see that his instructions were carried out to the letter. the quality about john dene that had most impressed dorothy was his power of concentration. he would become so absorbed in his work that nothing else seemed to have the power of penetrating to his brain. a question addressed to him that was unrelated to what was in hand he would ignore, appearing not to have heard it; on the other hand a remark germane to the trend of his thoughts would produce an instant reply. it appeared as if his mind were so attuned as to throw off all extraneous matter. his quickness of decision and amazing vitality dorothy found bewildering, accustomed as she was to the more methodical procedure of a government department. "when you know all you're likely to know about a thing, then make up your mind," he had said on one occasion. he had "no use for" a man who would wait until to-morrow afternoon to see how things looked then. "i sleep on a bed, not on an idea," was another of his remarks that she remembered, and once when commenting upon the cautiousness of sir lyster grayne he had said, "the man who takes risks makes dollars." gradually dorothy had fallen under the spell of john dene's masterful personality. she found herself becoming critical of others by the simple process of comparing them with the self-centred john dene. she would smile at his eccentricities, his intolerance, his supreme belief in himself, and his almost fanatical determination to "ginger-up" any and every one in the british empire whose misfortune it was to exist outside the dominion of canada. at odd moments he told her much about canada, and how little that country was understood in england. how blind british statesmen were to the fact that the eyes of many canadians were turned anxiously towards the great republic upon their borders; how in the rapid growth of the u.s.a. they saw a convincing argument in favour of a tightening of the bonds that bound the dominion to the old country. when on the subject he would stride restlessly up and down the room, snapping out short, sharp sentences of protest and criticism. his imperialism was that of the enthusiast. to him a canada lost to the british empire meant a british empire lost to itself. his great idea was to see the old country control the world by virtue of its power, its brain and its justice. his memory was amazing. if dorothy found her notes obscure, and to complete a sentence happened to insert a word that was not the one he had dictated, john dene would note it as he read the letter with a little grunt, sometimes of approval, sometimes of doubt or correction. there were times when she felt, as she expressed it to her mother, as if she had been dining off beef essence and oxygen. sometimes she wondered where john dene obtained all his amazing vitality. he was a small eater, seeming to regard meals as a waste of time, and he seldom drank anything but water. at the end of the day dorothy would feel more tired than she had ever felt before; but she had caught something of john dene's enthusiasm, which seemed to carry her along and defy the fatigues of the body. had it not been for the saturday afternoons, and the whole day's rest on sunday, she felt that she would not have been able to continue. in his intolerance john dene was sometimes amusing, sometimes monotonous; but always uncompromising. one day dorothy ventured a word of expostulation. he had just been expressing his unmeasured contempt for mr. blair. "you mustn't judge the whole british navy by mr. blair," she said, looking up from her note-book with a smile. "one fool makes many," he had snapped decisively. "so that if i prove a fool," continued dorothy quietly, "it convicts you of being a fool also." "but that's another transaction," he objected. "is it?" she asked, and became absorbed in her notes. for some time john dene had continued to dictate. presently he stopped in the middle of a letter. "i hadn't figured it out that way," he said. dorothy looked up at him in surprise, then she realised that he was referring to her previous remark, and that he was making the amende honorable. his manner frequently puzzled dorothy. at times he seemed unaware of her existence; at others she would, on looking up from her work, find him regarding her intently. he showed entire confidence in her discretion, allowing her access to documents of a most private and confidential nature. for week after week they worked incessantly. dorothy was astonished at the mass of detail requisite for the commissioning of a ship. indents for stores and equipment had to be prepared for the admiralty, reports from blake read and replied to, requisitions for materials required had to be confirmed, samples obtained, examined, and finally passed, and instructions sent to blake. strange documents they seemed to dorothy, rendered bewildering by their technicalities, and flung at her in short, jerky sentences as john dene strode up and down the room. "if you could only see john dene prancing, mother mine," said dorothy one day to mrs. west, "and the demure dorothy taking down whole dictionaries of funny words she never even knew existed, you'd be a proud woman." mrs. west had smiled at her daughter, as she sat at her favourite place on a stool at her feet. "you see, what john dene wants is managing," continued dorothy sagely, "and no one understands how to do it except sir bridgman and me. with us he'll stand without hitching." "stand without what, dear," asked mrs. west. "without hitching," laughed dorothy. "that's one of his phrases. it means that he's so tame that he'll eat out of your hand;" and she laughed gaily at the puzzled look on her mother's face. "mr. dene has been very kind," said mrs. west presently. "i should miss him very much if he went away." there was regret in her voice. "now, mother, no poaching," cried dorothy. "john dene is mine for keeps, and if i let you come out with us and play gooseberry, you mustn't try and cut me out, because," looking critically at her mother, "you could if you liked. nobody could help loving my little victorian white mouse;" and she hugged her mother's knee, missing the faint flush of pleasure that her words had aroused. finding his welcome assured, john dene had taken to joining dorothy and her mother on their saturday and sunday excursions. the picnic had proved a great success, and dorothy had been surprised at the change in john dene's manner. the hard, keen look of a man who is thinking how he can bring off some deal was entirely absent. he seemed always ready to smile and be amused. once he had almost laughed. she was touched by the way in which he always looked after her mother, his gentleness and solicitude. "wessie, darling," marjorie rogers had said one day, "you're taming the bear. he'll dance soon; but, my dear, his boots," and the comical grimace that had accompanied the remark had caused dorothy to laugh in spite of herself. "if ever i marry a man," continued marjorie, "it will be because of his boots. let him have silk socks and beautiful shoes or boots, and i am as clay in his hands. for such a man i would sin like a 'temporary.'" "marjorie, you're a little idiot," cried dorothy. "i saw john dene a few days ago," continued marjorie. "did you?" "yes, and i stopped him." "you didn't, marjorie." there was incredulity in dorothy's voice. "didn't i, though," was the retort. "i gave him a hint, too." "a hint." dorothy felt uncomfortable. the downrightness of marjorie rogers was both notorious and embarrassing. "well," nonchalantly, "i just said that at the admiralty men always kept their secretaries well-supplied with flowers and chocolates." "you little beast!" cried dorothy, remembering the chocolates and flowers that had recently been reaching her. "i should like to slap you." "why not give me one of the chocolates instead," said marjorie imperturbably. "i saw the box directly i came in," nodding at a large white and gold box that dorothy had unsuccessfully striven to hide beneath a filing-cabinet as marjorie entered. "if it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have had them at all," she added. presently she was munching chocolates contentedly, whilst dorothy found herself hating both the chocolates and flowers. at the end of the fifth week blake wrote that the _destroyer_ would be ready for sea on the following wednesday. the effect of the news upon john dene was curious. instead of appearing elated at the near approach of the fruition of his schemes, he sat at his table for fully half an hour looking straight in front of him. when at last he spoke, it was to enquire of dorothy if she liked men in uniform. that afternoon he worked with unflagging industry. it seemed to dorothy that he was deliberately calling to mind every little detail that had for some reason or other temporarily been put aside. he seemed to be determined to leave no loose ends. such matters as he was unable to clear up himself, he gave elaborate instructions to dorothy that would enable her to act without reference to him. at half-past five, after a final glance round the room, he leaned back in his chair. "i shall sleep some to-night," he remarked. "don't you always sleep?" enquired dorothy. "i sleep better when there are no loose ends tickling my brain," was the reply. as dorothy left the office a few minutes after six he called her back. "if i've forgotten anything you'd best remind me." "mother," she remarked, when she got home that evening, "john dene's the funniest man in all the world." "is he, dear?" said mrs. west non-committally. dorothy nodded her head with decision. "he wastes an awful lot of time, and then he hustles like--like--well, you know." "how do you mean, dear?" queried mrs. west. "well, he'll sit sometimes for an hour looking at nothing. it's not complimentary when i'm there," she added. "perhaps he's thinking," suggested mrs. west. "oh, no!" dorothy shook her head with decision. "he thinks while he's eating. you can see him do it. that's why he thinks salmon is pink cod. no; john dene is a very remarkable man; but he'd be very trying as a husband." dorothy spoke lightly; but during the last few days she had been asking herself what she would do when john dene was gone. sometimes she would sit and ponder over it, then with a movement of impatience she would plunge once more into her work. what was john dene to her that she should miss him? he was just her employer, and in a few months he would go back to canada, and she would never see him again. one morning she awakened crying from a dream in which john dene had just said good-day to her and stepped on a large steamer labelled "to canada." that day she was almost brusque in her manner, so much so that john dene had asked her if she were not well. the next morning when dorothy arrived at the office, she found john dene sitting at his table. as she entered, he looked round, stared at her for a moment and then nodded, and as if as an after-thought added, "good morning." dorothy passed into her own room. she was a little puzzled. this was the first morning that john dene had been there before her. as she came out with her note-book she looked at him closely, conscious of something in his manner that was strange, something she could not altogether define. his voice seemed a little husky, and he lacked the quick bird-like movements so characteristic of him. she made no remark, however, merely seating herself in her customary place and waited for letters. he drew from his pocket some notes and began to dictate. never before had he used notes when dictating. several times she glanced at him, and noted that he appeared to be reading from the manuscript rather than dictating; but she decided that he had probably written out rough drafts in order to assure accuracy. his voice was very strange. "did you sleep well last night, mr. dene?" she enquired during a pause in the dictation. "sleep well," he repeated, looking up at her, "i always sleep well." dorothy was startled. there was something in the glance and the brusque tone that puzzled her. both were so unlike john dene. she had mentally decided that he spoke to her as he spoke to no one else. she had compared his inflection when addressing her with that he adopted to others, even so important a person as sir bridgman north. now he spoke gruffly, as if he were irritated at being spoken to. apparently he sensed what was passing through her mind, for he turned to her again and said: "i'm not feeling very well this morning, miss west, i----" then he hesitated. "perhaps you didn't sleep very well," she suggested mischievously. "no, i'm afraid that's what it was," he acknowledged dorothy's eyes opened just a little in surprise. a minute ago he had stated that he always slept well. either john dene was mad or ill; and dorothy continued to take down, greatly puzzled. had he been drugged? the thought caused her to pause in her work and glance up at him. he certainly seemed vague and uncertain, and then he looked so strange. when he had dictated for about half an hour, john dene handed her a large number of documents to copy, telling her that there would not be any more letters that day. to her surprise he picked up his hat and announced that he would not be back until five o'clock to sign the letters. never before had he missed lunching at his office. dorothy was now convinced that something was wrong. everything about him seemed strange and forced. once or twice she caught him looking at her furtively; but immediately she raised her eyes, he hastily shifted his, as if caught in some doubtful act. at twelve o'clock lunch arrived, and dorothy had to confess to herself that it was a lonely and unsatisfactory meal. at five o'clock john dene returned and signed the letters with a rubber stamp, which he had recently adopted. "when are you going away, mr. dene?" asked dorothy. "i don't know," he responded gruffly. "i merely asked because two people on the telephone enquired when you were going away." "and what did you say?" "oh, i just said what you told me. a man called this afternoon also with the same question." for a moment he looked at her, then turning on his heel said "good evening," and with a nod walked out. dorothy had expected him to make some remark about these enquiries. she knew that john dene had no friends in london, and the questions as to when he was going away had struck her as strange. the next day was a repetition of the first. a few letters were dictated, a sheaf of documents handed to her to copy, and john dene disappeared. again lunch was brought for her, which she ate alone, and at five o'clock he came in and signed the letters. by this time dorothy was convinced that he was ill. the strain of the past few weeks had evidently been telling on him. when he had signed the last letter she bluntly enquired if he felt better. "better?" he interrogated. "i haven't been ill." "i thought you didn't seem quite well," said dorothy hesitatingly; but he brushed aside the enquiry by picking up his hat and bidding her "good evening." dorothy was feeling annoyed and a little hurt; and preserved an attitude of businesslike brevity in all her remarks to john dene. if he chose to adopt the attitude of the uncompromising employer, she on her part would humour him by becoming an ordinary employee. still she had to confess to herself that the old pleasure in her work had departed. hitherto she had looked forward to her arrival at the office, the coming of john dene, their luncheons together and the occasional little chats that were sandwiched in between her work. she had become deeply interested in the _destroyer_ and what it would achieve in the war. she had been flattered by the confidence that john dene had shown hi her discretion, and had felt that she was "doing her bit." again, the sense of being behind the scenes pleased her. she was conscious of knowing secrets that were denied even to cabinet ministers. the members of the war cabinet knew less than she did about the _destroyer_ and what was expected of it. john dene was a man who did everything thoroughly. if he trusted anyone, he did it implicitly; if he distrusted anyone, he did it uncompromisingly. where he liked, he liked to excess; where he disliked, he disliked to the elimination of all good qualities. half measures did not exist for john dene of toronto. when dorothy discovered that all the old intimacy had passed away, and john dene had become merely an employer, treating her as a secretary, she was conscious that the glamour had fallen from her work. somehow or other the _destroyer_ had receded into something impersonal, whereas hitherto it had appeared to her as if she had been in some way or other intimately associated with it. it was all very strange and very puzzling, she told herself. sometimes she wondered if she had done anything to annoy him. then she told herself that there was something more than personal pique in his manner. his whole bearing seemed to have changed, as if he had decided to regard her merely as a piece of mechanism, just as he did the typewriter, or his office chair. it was at this period of her reasoning that dorothy discovered her dignity. from that time her attitude was that of the injured woman, yet perfect secretary. her sense of humour had deserted her, and she arrived at the office and left it very much upon her dignity. even mrs. west noticed the difference in her manner, and at last enquired if anything were wrong, or if she were unwell; but dorothy reassured her with a hug and a kiss, and for the rest of that evening had been particularly bright and vivacious. when mrs. west mentioned the name of john dene, dorothy did not pursue the topic, although mrs. west failed to notice that she was switched off to other subjects. at the end of the week she noticed that john dene handed her the week's salary in notes. hitherto it had been his custom to place the money in an envelope and put it on her table. she concluded that this new method was to impress upon her that she was a dependent, and that the old relationship between them had been severed. that evening, dorothy was always paid on the friday evening, she held her head very high when she left the office. if mr. john dene required decorum, then he should have it in plenty from his secretary. the next morning and the monday following, dorothy was very much on her dignity. she seemed suddenly to have become imbued with all the qualities of the perfect secretary. no hint of a smile was allowed to wanton across her features, she was grave, ceremonial, efficient. she worked harder than ever and, when she had finished the tasks john dene set her, she manufactured others so that her time should be fully occupied. for a day and a half she laboured to show john dene that she was offended; but apparently he was oblivious, not only of having offended her, but of the fact that she was endeavouring to convey to him the change that had come about in their relations. on the monday evening he did not return to sign his letters until nearly six. by that time dorothy was almost desperate in her desire to show this obtuse man that she was annoyed with him. she felt at the point of tears when he bade her good night and left the office, just as big ben was booming out the hour. she would go home and forget all about the stupid creature, dorothy decided, as she hastily put on her coat and dug the hat-pins through her hat. on reaching the street she saw john dene standing at the corner of charles street. for a moment she thrilled. was he waiting for her? no, he was looking in the opposite direction, apparently deep in thought. she saw a taxi draw up beside him. the driver, a little man with a grey moustache, dorothy remembered to have seen him several times "crawling" about on the look-out for fares. the taxi stopped and the man bent towards john dene. dorothy stood and watched. john dene was right in her line of route to the piccadilly tube, and she did not wish him to see her. for a moment john dene seemed to hesitate, then with a word to the driver he opened the door and got in. suddenly dorothy remembered colonel walton's warning. impulsively she started forward, just as the taxi started and a moment later whizzed swiftly past her. john dene was evidently in a hurry. at that moment her attention was distracted by shouts and a smash. a small run-about car had suddenly dashed across regent street from the west side of charles street and crashed into the forepart of another taxi. a crowd gathered, a policeman arrived, and she had a vision of an angry taxi-driver, another man pointing to the roadway, as if the blame lay there, whilst the passenger from the taxi was running towards the florence nightingale statue shouting and waving his arms at the vehicles passing along pall mall. slowly dorothy turned and pursued her way up regent street. she was tired and--and, oh! it was so stupid, going on living. that night as she was undressing she remembered the passenger from the second taxi. why had he been so interested in the taxi that was bearing john dene away, and why had he tried to signal to other vehicles passing along pall mall? he had seemed greatly excited. above all, why had john dene taken a taxi when he had been warned against it? chapter xii the _destroyer_ ready for sea james blake stood in the bows of the _toronto_ gazing down at the long, cigar-shaped object that lay like a huge grey cocoon reposing in her bowels. the morrow would see the _destroyer_ floated out to carry her three hundred odd feet of menace into the blues and greys of the ocean. blake was a man upon whom silence had descended as a blight; heavy of build, slow of thought, ponderous of movement, he absorbed all and apparently gave out nothing. his most acute emotion he expressed by fingering the right-hand side of his ragged beard, whilst his eyes seemed to smoulder as his thoughts slowly took shape. as he gazed down at the grey shape of the _destroyer's_ hull, there was in his eyes a strange look of absorption. for nearly two years he had lived for the _destroyer_. it had been wife and family to him, home and holiday, labour and recreation, food and drink. nothing else mattered, because nothing else was. the war existed only in so far as it was concerned with the _destroyer_. it was the _mise en scêne_ for this wonder-boat. it was to be her setting, just as a stage is the setting for a play. as he gazed down at her, he fumbled in the pocket of his pilot-jacket and drew forth a cigar, one of a box that john dene had sent him. slowly and deliberately he pulled out his jack-knife, cut off the end and, taking a good grip of the cigar with his teeth, lighted it, all without once raising his eyes from the _destroyer_. as he puffed clouds of smoke for the breeze to pick up and scurry off with to the west, he thought lovingly of the work of the last two years, of the last month in particular. never had men worked as had james blake and his "boys." it was not for country or for gain that they slaved and sweated; it was not patriotism or pride of race that caused them to work until forced, by sheer inability to keep awake, to lie down for a few hours' sleep, always within sound of their comrades' hammers, often beside the _destroyer_ herself. it was "the boss" for whom they worked. they were his men, and this was their boat. every time john dene wrote to blake, there was always a message for "the boys." "i know the boys will show these britishers what canada can do," he would write, or, "see that the boys get all they want and plenty to smoke." remembering was john dene's long suit; and his men would do anything for "the boss." blake had not spared himself. when not engaged in the work of overseeing, he had thrown off his coat and worked with the most vigorous. he seemed never to sleep or rest. every detail of the _destroyer's_ construction he carried in his head. plans there had been in his shack; but what were the use of plans to a man who had every line, every bolt and nut engraved upon his brain. he had them merely for reference. and now all was ready. that morning the _destroyer_ had been floated into the _toronto_ to see that everything on the mother-ship was in order. once floated out again, there remained only the taking on board stores and munitions. these lay piled upon the _toronto's_ deck ready at the word of command to be transferred to the _destroyer_. in design the _destroyer_ was very similar to the latest form of submarine: 310 ft. 6 ins. in length, she had a breadth of 26 ft. 6. ins. amidships, tapering to a point fore and aft. she carried two ordinary torpedo tubes and mounted two 3 in. guns; but these were in the nature of an auxiliary armament. her main armament consisted of eight pneumatic-tubes, two in the bows, two in the stern, one on either bow and one on either beam. these fired small arrow-headed missiles, rather like miniature torpedoes fitted with lance-heads for cutting through nets. they had sufficient power to penetrate the plates of a submarine, and were furnished with an automatic detonator, which caused the bursting charge to explode three seconds after impact. the charge was sufficient to blow a hole in the side of a "u"-boat large enough to ensure its immediate destruction. these projectiles were rendered additionally deadly by the fact that their heads became automatically magnetic as they sped through the water. thus the target against which they were launched achieved its own destination. they were fitted with small gyroscopes to keep them straight until the magnetic-heads began to exert a dominating influence. amidships was the conning-tower, with its four searchlights, so arranged as to be capable of being used singly or together. thus it was possible to illuminate the waters for half a mile in every direction. above the conning-tower were two collapsible periscopes, and beneath it the central ballast, beneath which lay the charge of t.n.t. that john dene had boasted would send the _destroyer_ to kingdom come should she ever be in danger of capture. abaft the conning-tower were the engines, a switchboard, and finally the berths of the engine-room staff. for'ard of the conning-tower were the berths of the crew, and still further for'ard were those of john dene and the officers. john dene's invention of a new and lighter storage-battery had enabled him to control the _destroyer_ entirely by electricity. she possessed an endurance of fifteen-hundred miles, and as for the most part she held a watching brief, this would mean that she could remain at sea for a month or more. her speed submerged was fourteen knots, which gave her a superiority over the fastest german craft, and she could remain submerged for two days. she could then recharge her compressed-air chambers without coming to the surface by means of a tube, through which fresh air could be sucked from the surface, and the foul discharged. these were weighted and floated in various parts in such a manner that they could be thrown out in a diagonal direction. the object of this was to protect the _destroyer_ from depth-charges in the event of her whereabouts being discovered by an enemy ship, which would render it dangerous for her to come to the surface. "the _destroyer's_ a submarine," john dene had remarked, "and submarines fight and live under water and not on it." consequently in designing the _destroyer_ he had first considered the special requirements entailed by the novelty of the methods she would employ. she had deck-guns, periscopes and torpedo-tubes; but they were in every sense subsidiary to those qualities that rendered her unique among boats capable of submersion, viz., her searchlights and her magnetic projectiles. under water there were only two dangers capable of threatening her--mines and depth-charges. properly handled and without mishap, there was no reason why she should ever return to the surface except in the neighbourhood of her own harbour. her most remarkable device, however, was the microphone, so sensitive that, with the aid of her searchlights it would enable the _destroyer_ to account for any "u"-boat that came within seven or eight miles of where she was lying. as blake stood surveying his handiwork, he was joined by his second-in-command, jasper quinton, known among his intimates as "spotty," a nickname due to the irregularity of his complexion. quinton was an englishman who had gone to canada to make his fortune as a mining-engineer. soon after war broke out he had successfully applied to john dene for a job, and had acquitted himself so well that john dene had taken him into his confidence in regard to the _destroyer_, and "jasp," as he called him, had proved "a cinch." john dene made few mistakes about men and none about women: the one he understood, the other he avoided. "spotty" quint on spat meditatively upon the hull of the _destroyer_. he was a man to whom words came infrequently and with difficulty; but he could spit a whole gamut of emotions: anger, contempt, approval, indifference, all were represented by salivation. if he were forced to speech, he built up his phrases upon the foundation of a single word, "ruddy"; but apparently with entire unconsciousness that it had its uses as an oath. to "spotty" quinton, john dene was the "ruddy boss," his invention the "ruddy _destroyer_," the enemy the "ruddy hun," the ocean the "ruddy water." he served out his favourite adjective with entire impartiality. he no more meant reproach to the hun than to john dene. he tacitly accepted them both, the one as a power for evil, the other as a power for good. as quinton silently took up a position by his side, blake turned and looked at him interrogatingly. "ruddy masterpiece," exclaimed quinton, spitting his admiration. blake gazed upon the unprepossessing features of his subordinate, and tugging a cigar from his pocket, handed it to him. silently "spotty" took the cigar, bit off the end and spat it together with his thanks into the hold of the _toronto_. he then proceeded to light the cigar. the two men turned and made their way to the cabin allotted to them as a sort of office of works. both were thinking of the morrow when the _destroyer_ would be floated out from the parent ship ready for her first voyage. in addition to john dene and his second-in-command, she would carry commander ryles, who had a distinguished record in submarine warfare. he would represent the admiralty. john dene had experienced some difficulty at the admiralty over the personnel of the _destroyer's_ crew; but he had stood resolutely to his guns, and the authorities had capitulated. this was largely due to sir bridgman north's wise counsels. "when," he remarked, "i have to choose between giving john dene his head and being gingered-up, i prefer the first. it's infinitely less painful." sir lyster had been inclined to expostulate with his colleague upon the manner in which he gave way to john dene's demands. sir lyster felt that the dignity of his office was being undermined by the blunt-spoken canadian. "do you not think," he had remarked in the early days of the descent of john dene upon the admiralty, "that it would be better for us to stand up to mr. dene? i think the effect would be salutary." "for us, undoubtedly," sir bridgman had said drily. "personally i object to being gingered-up. look at poor blair. there you see the results of the process. he ceased to be an imperialist within twenty-four hours of john dene's coming upon the scene. now he goes about with a hunted look in his eyes, and a prayer in his heart that he may get through the day without being gingered-up by the unspeakable john dene." "i really think i shall have to speak to mr. dene about----" sir lyster had begun. "take my advice and don't," was the retort. "blair and john dene represent two epochs: blair is the british empire that was, john dene is the british empire that is to be. it's like one of nelson's old three-deckers against a super-dreadnought, and blair ain't the dreadnought." "he is certainly a remarkable man," sir lyster had admitted conventionally, referring to john dene. "he's more than that, grayne," said sir bridgman, "he's the first genus-patriot produced by the british empire, possibly by the world," he added drily, proceeding to light a cigarette. "think of it," he added half to himself, "he could have got literally millions for his invention from any of the big naval powers; yet he chooses to give it to us for nothing, and what's more he's not out for honours. ginger or no ginger, john dene's a man worth meeting, grayne, on my soul he is." blake and quinton seated themselves one on either side of the little wooden table in the cabin of the _toronto_ that answered as an office of works, blake looking straight in front of him, quinton absorbed in smoking and expectoration. presently blake took from his pocket a large silver watch, gazed at it with deliberation, then raising his eyes nodded to his companion. with a final expectoration, "spotty" rose and left the cabin, walked over to the starboard side and climbed down into the motor-boat that lay there manned by her crew of three men. without a word the man with the boat-hook pushed off, the motor was started and the boat throbbed her way to the entrance to the little harbour. the crew of the _destroyer_ had learned from blake the virtue of silence. for half an hour the motor-boat tore her way over the waters, heading due south. from time to time quinton gazed ahead through a pair of binoculars. "starb'd," he called to the helmsman as he lowered the glass from his eyes for the twentieth time, then by way of explanation added, "the ruddy chaser." "steady," he added a moment later. a few minutes later a cloud of white spray indicated the approach of a small craft travelling at a high rate of speed. quinton continued to watch the approaching boat until the humped shoulders of a submarine-chaser were distinguishable through the spume. as the boats neared each other he gave a quick command to the engineer, and the speed of the motor-boat decreased. at the same moment the curtain of spray that screened the on-coming chaser died down, her fine and sinister lines becoming discernible. dexterously the helmsman brought the motor-boat alongside the larger vessel and, without a word there stepped on board a little man wearing motor-goggles and a red beard of rather truculent shape, and a naval commander whom the stranger introduced to quinton as commander ryles. with a nod to the man with the boathook, and a wave of his arm to those aboard the chaser, james grant took his seat together with commander ryles beside quinton, the motor-boat pushed off and, with a graceful sweep, turned her nose northwards and proceeded to run up her own track. grant and quinton continued to talk in undertones, grant asking questions, quinton answering with great economy of words and prodigious salivation. the chaser, steering a south-westerly course, was soon out of sight. as the motor-boat entered the little harbour, grant's eyes eagerly fixed themselves upon the _toronto_, seeming to take in every detail of her construction. "ready for the trial trip?" he enquired of quinton. "sure," was the reply as he spat over the side. "jim there?" quinton jerked his thumb in the direction of the _toronto_, for which the motor-boat was making. as they reached her the two men nimbly climbed up the side and, quinton leading, dived below to the office of works. as they entered blake was sitting exactly as quinton had left him an hour and a half previously. at the sight of grant his eyes seemed to flash; but he made no movement except to hold out his hand, which grant gripped. "through with everything?" he enquired, as he seated himself, and quinton threw himself on a locker. "sure," replied blake. "i----" began grant, then breaking off cast a swift look over his shoulder. blake nodded his head comprehendingly, whilst quinton spat in the direction of the door as if to defy eavesdroppers. from his pocket grant drew a map, which he proceeded to unfold upon the table. quinton walked across and the three bent over, studying it with absorbed interest. meanwhile commander ryles had been shown to his cabin. chapter xiii the disappearance of john dene "no more saturday afternoons for you and john dene, little mother," cried dorothy with forced gaiety as she rose from the breakfast table. mrs. west looked up quickly. "why?" she asked, a falter in her voice. "he's going away," announced dorothy indifferently, as she pinned on her hat. "to canada?" asked mrs. west anxiously. "no," replied dorothy in a toneless voice, "he's going away on business." "oh!" mrs. west's relief was too obvious for dissimulation. "he won't be back for months," continued dorothy relentlessly, "and i shall spend my time in counting my fingers and flirting with sir bridgman. good-byeeeeee," and brushing a kiss on her mother's cheek she was gone, leaving mrs. west puzzled, more by her manner than the announcement she had made. arrived at the office dorothy cleared up what remained of the previous night's work, ordered luncheon, tidied things generally, and then sat down to wait. from time to time she glanced at the watch upon her wrist, at first mechanically, then curiously, finally anxiously. for the last few days she had been more concerned than she was prepared to admit by john dene's strangeness of manner. she was hurt that he should now treat her as if she were a stranger, whereas hitherto he had been so confidential and friendly. womanlike she ascribed it to illness. he had been over-working. he was a man of such impulsive energy, so full of ideas, so impatient of delays. he seemed always to want to do everything at the moment he thought of it. incidentally he expected others to be imbued with his own vitality. he had worn himself out, she decided, or was it that he was being drugged? time after time the idea had suggested itself to her, only to be dismissed as melodramatic. sometimes there would cross her mind a suspicion so strange, so fantastic that she would brush it aside as utterly ridiculous. luncheon arrived and no john dene. dorothy made an indifferent meal. one o'clock passed, two o'clock came. she had visions of him lying in his room at the hotel too ill to summon assistance. she determined upon action and rang up the ritzton. to her enquiry as to whether or no mr. john dene were in came the reply that he was not. would they find out at what time he left the hotel? it was his secretary speaking. yes, they would if dorothy would hold on. at the end of what seemed an age came the reply: mr. john dene had left the hotel on the previous morning and had not since returned. with a clatter the receiver fell from dorothy's hand. it was something worse than illness then that had kept john dene from his office! this she saw clearly. probably he was lying dead in some out of the way spot, a victim of the hidden hand. she felt physically sick at the thought. he was such a splendid man, she told herself. ready to give everything for nothing. the sort of man that made for victory. suddenly she remembered the episode of the taxi on the previous evening and became galvanised to action. what a fool she had been. seizing the receiver of the private line to the admiralty, she demanded to be put through to mr. blair. presently she heard his mellow, patient voice. no, he had heard nothing of john dene, nor had he seen him for several days. there was a note of plaintive gratitude in mr. blair's voice; but dorothy was too worried to notice it. putting up the receiver, she snatched up her hat, jabbed the pins through it, one of them into her head, and almost throwing herself into her coat, dashed down the stairs and literally ran across waterloo place, down the duke of york's steps into the admiralty. she passed swiftly in and up to mr. blair's room, into which she burst with a lack of ceremony that convinced him she had already imbibed the qualities that made john dene the terror of his existence. "i want to see sir lyster at once," she panted. mr. blair looked up at her in surprise. "he's engaged just now, miss west," he said mildly. "is there anything i can do?" "it doesn't matter whether he's engaged, you must go into him at once, mr. blair, and tell him i must see him." mr. blair still continued to gaze at her with bovine wonder. "oh, you stupid creature!" dorothy stamped her foot in her impatience. then with a sudden movement she made for sir lyster's door, knocked and entered, leaving mr. blair gazing before him, marvelling that so short an association with john dene should have produced such startling results. however, it was for sir lyster to snub her now, and he resumed his work. sir lyster, sir bridgman north and admiral heyworth were bending over a table on which a large plan lay spread out. sir lyster was the first to look up; at the sight of the flushed and excited girl his gaze became fixed. sir bridgman and admiral heyworth followed the direction of his eyes to where dorothy stood with heaving breast and fear in her eyes. "mr. dene has disappeared!" she gasped without any preliminary apology. "the devil!" exclaimed sir bridgman. admiral heyworth jumped to his feet. sir bridgman rose and placed a chair for dorothy into which she sank. then she told her story, concluding with "it's all my fault for not doing something about the taxi." the three men listened without interruption. when she had concluded they looked anxiously from one to the other. it was sir bridgman who broke the silence. "we had better get walton here." sir lyster nodded and going to the door requested mr. blair to ask colonel walton to come round at once on a matter of importance. then it was that sir bridgman seemed to notice dorothy's excited state. with that courtesy that made him a great favourite with women, he poured out a glass of water from a carafe on a side table and handed it to her. with her eyes she thanked him. sir bridgman decided that she was an extremely pretty girl. the water seemed to co-ordinate dorothy's ideas. for the first time she appreciated that she had unceremoniously burst into the private room of the first lord of the admiralty. "i--i'm very sorry," she faltered, "but it seemed so important, and mr. blair wouldn't let me come in." sir lyster nodded his approval of her action. "you did quite right, miss----" "west," said dorothy. "miss west," continued sir lyster. "there are occasions when----" he hesitated for a word. "john dene's methods are best," suggested sir bridgman. sir lyster smiled; but there was no answering smile in dorothy's eyes. "what do you think has happened?" she asked, looking from one to the other. "it's impossible to say," began sir lyster, "it's--it's----" "spies," she said with a catch in her voice. "i'm sure of it. they've drugged him. they tried to poison our food." "poison your food," repeated sir lyster uncomprehendingly. "yes," said dorothy, and she proceeded to tell how it came about that the luncheon and dinners were supplied from an anonymous source. "that's walton," said admiral heyworth, and the other nodded. for a few minutes they sat in silence, all waiting for the arrival of colonel walton. when the telephone bell rang, sir lyster started perceptibly. taking up the receiver from the instrument he listened for a few seconds. "show him in," he said; then, turning to the others, he explained: "walton is out; but sage is here." "good," said sir bridgman, "sometimes jack is better than his master." sir lyster looked at him meaningly, and then at dorothy. with perfect self-possession malcolm sage entered, gave a short, jerky bow, and without invitation drew a chair up opposite to where dorothy was sitting. for a moment he gazed at her and saw the anxiety in her eyes. "don't be alarmed," he said quietly, "the situation is well in hand." there was the ghost of a smile about the corners of his mouth. "is he safe?" enquired dorothy, leaning forward, whilst the three men looked at sage as if not quite sure of his sanity. "i can only repeat what i have said," replied sage, "the situation is well in hand." "but how the devil----" began sir bridgman. "i should like to ask miss west a few questions," said sage. sir bridgman subsided. "why did you come here?" he asked, turning to dorothy. "mr. dene didn't come this morning. i waited until past two, then i rang up the ritzton," she paused. "go on," said sage. "they told me he had not been back since yesterday morning." "and then?" enquired sage. "i rang up mr. blair. he had heard nothing, so i thought i had better come round and--and--i'm afraid i burst in here very rudely. mr. blair----" "you did quite right, miss west," said sir lyster. "why didn't you act before?" dorothy felt sage's eyes were burning through her brain, so intent was his gaze. "i had forgotten about the taxi. i--i--thought he might be unwell," said dorothy. "why?" "well," she began, and then paused. "go on," said sage encouragingly. "he has seemed rather strange for some days," she said, "his memory was very bad. as a rule he has a wonderful memory, and never makes a note." "how was his memory bad?" "he seemed to forget what he had written, and was always having letters turned up." sage nodded. "go on," he said. "then," she continued, "he seemed to want always to put things off. he was undecided; so unlike his normal self. most of the things he asked me to attend to." "and that made you think he was ill," suggested sage. "yes," she said, "that and other things." "what other things?" dorothy screwed up her eyebrows, her head on one side, as if striving to find words to express what was in her mind. "his manner was strange," she began. "it is very difficult to give instances; but previously he had always been so pleasant and--and----" "unconscious of himself, shall we say?" suggested sage. "that's it," she said brightly. "he was just mr. dene. afterwards he seemed to be always watching me, as if not quite sure who i was. it was almost uncanny. i thought perhaps----" she hesitated. "what?" "that he was being drugged," she concluded reluctantly. "when did you first notice this?" "let me see," said dorothy. "this is tuesday. it was on thursday morning that i first noticed it. what struck me then was that he said, 'good morning' when he came in." "and what did he usually say?" enquired sage. "he used to say 'morning,' or what really sounded more like 'morn,'" she said with a smile. "thank you," said sage. "unless these gentlemen have any further questions to put to you, there is nothing more to be done at present." "but is he----" she began, then she paused. "i should not be unnecessarily alarmed, miss west, if i were you," said sage. "above all, keep your own counsel. mr. dene disapproves of people who talk." "i know," said dorothy, rising and drawing herself up with dignity. "i regard your prompt action as highly commendable, miss west," said sir lyster. "you will, of course, continue in attendance at the office until you hear further. if anything unusual transpires, please get into touch with me immediately, even to the extent of----" he paused a moment. "bursting in as you did just now," said sir bridgman with a laugh. "it's the real john dene manner." "exactly," said sir lyster. sir lyster conducted dorothy into mr. blair's room. "mr. blair," he said, "if miss west ever wishes to see me urgently, please tell me, no matter with whom i am engaged. if i do not happen to be in, sir bridgman will see her, or failing that get through to colonel walton, or to mr. sage." sir lyster bowed to dorothy and returned to his room. mr. blair blinked his eyes in bewilderment; the influence of john dene upon the british admiralty was most extraordinary. "i don't understand the drift of all your questions, mr. sage," said sir lyster, resuming his seat. malcolm sage turned his eyes upon the first lord. "i will explain that later, sir," he said, "but for the present i must ask your indulgence." "but----" began sir lyster. "i might advance a hundred theories; but until i am sure it would be better for me to keep silence. i must confer with my chief." sir bridgman nodded approval. "quite so," said sir lyster. "in the meantime what is to be done?" "raise the hue and cry," said sage quietly. "good god, man!" exclaimed sir bridgman. "it would give the whole game away." "i propose," said sage quietly, "that photographs of john dene be inserted in every paper in the kingdom, that every continental paper likewise has full particulars of his disappearance. that you offer a thousand pounds reward for news that will lead to his discovery, and go on increasing it by a thousand every day until it reaches ten thousand." malcolm sage paused; his three listeners stared at him as if he were out of his senses. "you seriously suggest this publicity?" enquired sir lyster in cold and even tones. "i do," said sage. "you know why mr. dene is here." "i do." "and yet you still advise this course?" asked sir lyster. "i do," responded sage. "well, i'm damned!" said sir bridgman. for a moment a flicker of a smile crossed malcolm sage's serious features. "what are your reasons?" demanded sir lyster. "my reasons are closely connected with my conclusions, sir, and at the present time they are too nebulous to express." "we will consider this," said sir lyster with an air of concluding the interview. malcolm sage rose. "the time is not one for consideration, sir," he said, "but for action. if you hesitate in this publicity, i must ask your permission to see the prime minister;" then with a sudden change of tone and speaking with an air of great seriousness he added, "this is a matter of vital importance. the announcement should be made in the late editions of all the evening papers, and the full story must appear in to-morrow's papers. there is not much time. have i your permission to proceed?" "no, sir, you have not," thundered sir lyster. "i shall report this matter to colonel walton." "that, sir, you are quite at liberty to do," said sage calmly. "incidentally you might report that i have resigned from my position at department z. i wish you good afternoon, gentlemen," and with that malcolm sage left the room. "good lord! grayne, you've done it now," said sir bridgman. "l. j. thinks the world of that chap." "he's a most impertinent fellow," said sir lyster with heat. "clever men frequently are," laughed sir bridgman. "it seems to me that everybody's getting under the influence of john dene. i suppose it's bolshevism," he muttered to himself. half an hour later colonel walton was seated in earnest conversation with mr. llewellyn john. "it's very awkward, very awkward," said mr. llewellyn john; "still, you must act along your own lines. it's no good creating a department and then allowing another department to dictate to it; but it's very awkward," he added. "it would be more awkward, sir, if sage were allowed to go," said colonel walton. "of course, of course," said mr. llewellyn john, "that's unthinkable. if i were only told," he muttered, "if i were only told. they keep so much from me." then after a pause he added, "i'm inclined to blame you, though, walton, for not--not----" mr. llewellyn john hesitated. "keeping john dene under proper observation," suggested colonel walton quietly. "exactly." mr. llewellyn john looked at him quickly. "he was always guarded." "then you----" began mr. llewellyn john. "our men were tricked." "tricked!" mr. llewellyn john looked startled. "yes," continued colonel walton. "mclean was on duty that night. immediately he saw john dene hail a taxi, he jumped into his own taxi; but he had hardly started when he was run into by a small runabout, and the other taxi got away." "but the number of----" "fictitious both, the taxi and the run-about. we thought it expedient not to detain the man who ran into mclean," colonel walton added. for nearly a minute mr. llewellyn john sat staring at the chief of department z. "it's most unfortunate, disastrous in fact," he said at length. "we must try and get into touch with auchinlech by wireless." "i'm afraid it will be useless," was the response. "there's the war cabinet to be considered," murmured mr. llewellyn john to himself. "the war does not----" he hesitated. "make men tractable," suggested colonel walton helpfully. "exactly," agreed mr. llewellyn john. "they may not take the same view as sir lyster and myself with regard to that memorandum of ours to dene. it's very awkward happening just now," he added, "with all this trouble about interning aliens." "what am i to do, sir? there is very little time." "do," said mr. llewellyn john, "why run your department in your own way, walton." "i have an absolutely free hand?" enquired colonel walton. "absolutely," said mr. llewellyn john; "but i wish you could tell me more." "to be quite frank, i'm as much in the dark as you are. sage is as obstinate as a pack-mule and as sure-footed. he's no respecter of----" "prime ministers or first lords," suggested mr. llewellyn john with a smile. "exactly." "well, go your own way," said mr. llewellyn john; "but i should like to know what it all means. frankly i'm puzzled. we are cut off entirely from auchinlech, and without john dene the _destroyer_ can't sail. we're losing valuable time. it's very unfortunate; it's a disaster, in fact. but," he burst out excitedly, "why on earth does sage want to advertise our anxiety as to dene's whereabouts? that's what puzzles me." "it puzzles me too, sir," said colonel walton quietly. "it's such a confession of weakness," continued mr. llewellyn john, "such a showing of our hand. what will people think when we offer ten thousand pounds for news of john dene of toronto?" "they'll probably think that he's an extremely valuable man," was the dry retort. "that's it exactly," said mr. llewellyn john, "and berlin will congratulate itself upon a master-stroke." colonel walton felt inclined to suggest that was exactly what malcolm sage seemed most to desire; but he refrained. "very well, walton, carry on," said mr. llewellyn john; "but frankly i don't like it," he added half to himself. colonel walton left no. 110, downing street, and ten minutes later malcolm sage withdrew his resignation. whilst department z. hummed and buzzed with energy, and men and women were coming and going continuously, dorothy sat at the window of john dene's room gazing out at a prospect of white enamelled bricks punctuated by windows. she had nothing to do. everything seemed so different. john dene's impulsive energy had vitalised all about him. now she felt as if all her faculties had suddenly wilted. in her own mind she was convinced that he was ill. she could not blot from her mind the strangeness of his manner during the last few days. his sudden loss of memory proved that he was unwell. for a man to forget where the postage stamps are kept, or the position in the room of the letter files, was, in itself, a proof that something very strange had suddenly come over him, the more so in the case of one who was almost aggressively proud of his memory. then there had been other little details. his movements did not seem the same, that jerkiness and sudden upward glance from his table had disappeared. it was as if he had been drugged. dorothy wondered if that really were the explanation. oh! but she was very miserable and horribly lonely. that night dorothy and her mother sat up long after midnight talking of john dene. to both had come the realisation that he stood to them in the light of an intimate friend. as she said "good night," mrs. west put her arm round dorothy's shoulders, and in a shaky voice said: "i don't think god would let anything happen to a good man like mr. dene;" and dorothy turned and left the room abruptly. chapter xiv the hue and cry the late editions of the evening papers contained no mention of the disappearance of john dene. for one thing much valuable time had been lost owing to the attitude of sir lyster grayne, for another, malcolm sage had decided to make a great display in the morning papers. all that afternoon department z. was feverishly busy. photographs of john dene had to be duplicated, and the story distributed through the press bureau, in order that it might possess an official character. on the morning following the discovery of john dene's disappearance, the british public was startled at its breakfast-table by an offer of £10,000 reward for details that would lead to the discovery of the whereabouts of one john dene, a citizen of toronto, canada, who had last been seen at 6 p.m. on the previous monday outside his offices in waterloo place. the notice drawn up by department z. ran: missing £10,000 reward where is john dene of toronto? "on monday at 6 p.m., mr. john dene, the well-known canadian inventor and engineer of toronto, left his offices in waterloo place, after bidding his secretary good night. since then a shroud of mystery seems to have enveloped his movements. ~his secretary becomes alarmed~ "his secretary, miss dorothy west, arrived at the office at the usual time on tuesday morning. mr. dene was most punctual in his habits, invariably reaching his office a few minutes after nine. miss west waited until two o'clock, then fearing that he might be ill, she rang through to the ritzton hotel, where mr. dene was staying. to her surprise she was informed that he had not returned to his hotel the night before. ~where is john dene of toronto?~ "miss west immediately got into communication with the head of a certain government department with which mr. dene was associated; but nothing was known of his whereabouts. the authorities have reason to believe that mr. dene has been spirited away by some organisation that has a special object in view. ~is it foul play?~ "a reward of £10,000 will be paid to anyone who will give such information as will lead directly to the discovery of mr. john dene's whereabouts. it may be added that mr. dene is a distinguished engineer and inventor, and it is the duty of every citizen of the british empire to endeavour to assist the authorities in tracing the missing man. ~this is what he is like.~ "the following is a description of mr. john dene:--height 5 ft. 5 ins. clean shaven with grey eyes and a determined expression, invariably carried a cigar in his mouth, very frequently unlighted. has a peculiar habit of twisting and twirling the cigar in his mouth. thick set with keen, rather jerky movements, and a habit of looking at people suddenly and piercingly. a square jaw and tightly closed lips. when last seen was wearing a dark grey tweed suit, trilby hat, dark blue tie and brown boots. spoke with a marked canadian accent. "all communications should be addressed to scotland yard, s.w." in addition to the foregoing semi-official particulars, there followed much information that had been gleaned by various reporters. most of the papers gave a leader, and several hinted at the hidden hand, urging that this new outrage obviously pointed to the necessity for the internment of all aliens. great emphasis was laid upon the importance of tracing the present whereabouts of john dene of toronto, and anyone who had seen a man at all answering to his description, was called upon to communicate with scotland yard. the afternoon papers contained practically the same information, but elaborated and adorned. several hinted at the fact that john dene had come to england with a new invention of great importance, and that he had disappeared just on the eve of the fruition of his schemes, with the result that everything was at a stand-still. in support of this theory the writers pointed to the amount of the reward. ten thousand pounds would not have been offered, they argued, unless there were good reasons for it. one paper went so far as to suggest that the government itself was offering the reward, although in its next issue it apologised for and contradicted the statement--this was a little stroke of malcolm sage's. dorothy was besieged by interviewers, until at last she was forced to refrain from answering the succession of knocks at the outer door. her head was in a whirl. the prevailing topic of conversation was the disappearance of john dene. everybody was asking why such a reward had been offered. shoals of letters descended upon scotland yard. hundreds of callers lined up in a queue, waiting their turn to be interviewed. telegrams rained in from the provinces. apparently john dene had been seen in places as far distant as st. andrews and bournemouth, aberystwyth and king's lynn. he had been observed in conversation with men, women and children, some of harmless, some of sinister appearance. he had been seen in trains, 'buses, trams and cars. he had been seen perturbed and calm, hastening and loitering, in uniform and in mufti. scotland yard was almost out of its mind, and the officer in charge of the john dene investigation rang through to malcolm sage, demanding what the funny peter he was to do with the enormous correspondence, and the bewildering queue that already stretched along the embankment halfway to charing cross railway-bridge. "burn the telegrams and letters and tell the queue to write," was sage's laconic response, as he put up the receiver, whereat the officer had sworn heavily into the mouth-piece of the instrument. the chief commissioner was particularly annoyed because all his own correspondence had been engulphed in the epistolary flood, and he was expecting a letter from his wife telling him where to meet her on the following day on her return from a motor tour. those who knew lady wrayle understood the chief commissioner's anxiety. all day long scotland yard worked in a conscientious endeavour to sift the mass of evidence that streamed in upon it from all parts of the kingdom. some of the stories to which weary but patient officials listened were grotesque in the extreme. as the chief expressed it, "half the idiots and all the damned fools in the country are descending upon us." the callers were interesting as studies in obtuseness and optimism; but they were as nothing to the telegrams. one man wired from st. andrews that he was tracking a strange man round the golf course, would scotland yard telegraph a warrant for his arrest? another enquired if the reward would be in cash or war bonds, and if the government guaranteed the money--this man telegraphed from aberdeen. several asked for railway warrants to london that they might lay certain facts before the authorities. scores telegraphed for photographs, as the pictures in the papers were indistinct. one lady telegraphed from suffolk that a man with a beard identical with that worn by john dene in the picture in _the daily photo_ had that day come to her door begging. the telegrams were, however, nothing to the letters that followed them. the lady who had telegraphed about a bearded john dene, wrote to apologise for her mistake, explaining it by saying that the paper boy must have accidentally rubbed the paper before delivering it. she was not to be denied, however, and went on to say that she thought the picture strangely like the man who had begged of her. did scotland yard think that john dene had disguised himself with a false beard? some correspondents wrote bitterly censuring the government for not interning all aliens, for allowing john dene out of its sight, for an imperialistic policy, for plunging the country into war, for offering the reward, and for a thousand and one other irrelevant things. the one thing that no one did was to supply any information that would be remotely useful to the authorities in tracing the missing man. people waited eagerly for the morrow's papers. they contained another surprise, this time in the form of a two column advertisement, offering £20,000 for information that would lead to the discovery of the whereabouts of john dene. clearly somebody was determined that john dene should be found. when mr. llewellyn john opened the first morning paper he picked up from the pile awaiting him he gasped. himself a great believer in the possibilities of the press, he felt, nevertheless, that department z. was overdoing things, and he telephoned for its chief and malcolm sage to call upon him at ten o'clock. at two minutes to ten, the two presented themselves at no. 110, downing street, and were immediately shown into the presence of the prime minister. "has it struck you," asked mr. llewellyn john, indicating one of the advertisements, "that questions will be asked in the house as to whether or no the government is offering these large rewards?" "i should think it highly probable, sir," was sage's response. "and what are we to say?" demanded mr. llewellyn john. he was a keen politician, and saw that the situation might be fraught with considerable difficulties. "acknowledge that they are, sir," was the response. "acknowledge it!" cried mr. llewellyn john. "certainly, sir." "mr. sage," said mr. llewellyn john severely, "you do not appear to appreciate that this may seriously compromise the government." then turning to colonel walton he continued: "hitherto you have been given a free hand, now i must ask you to explain why you are offering these large rewards. you first of all suggested £1,000, rising daily from £1,000 to £10,000. in two days it has amounted to £20,000." "it won't rise any higher, sir. it has reached the limit." "that is not the point," said mr. llewellyn john. "i want to know why it is that you are advertising to germany that we want john dene. it is an obvious confession of weakness." he made a quick nervous movement with his right hand, he was far from easy in his mind. malcolm sage continued to examine his finger-nails with great intentness. seeing that he made no indication of replying, mr. llewellyn john continued: "i'm afraid that this cannot go on." there was a suggestion of irritability in his voice. "then have it stopped, sir," said sage calmly, still intent upon the finger-nails of his right hand. "the mischief is done," said mr. llewellyn john. "what is at the back of your mind, sage?" he demanded. "i'm working on a hypothesis, sir," was the reply. "i think i'm right, in fact i'm convinced of it; but until i know for certain, i must keep my theories to myself. if you wish it, i'll tell you what i actually know; but i make it a rule never to air theories." mr. llewellyn john smiled. "well, tell me what you actually know then," he said. "when mr. dene left his office at three minutes past six on monday evening, he stood for nearly a minute, as if making up his mind in what direction to go. just as he was about to turn and walk up regent street a taxi crawled past him. the driver spoke to him and john dene got in and drove away." "kidnapped!" exclaimed mr. llewellyn john. malcolm sage shrugged his shoulders. "in which direction did he drive?" enquired mr. llewellyn john eagerly. "along pall mall, sir," was the reply. "colonel walton told you what happened?" mr. llewellyn john nodded. "and have you informed the police?" he asked. malcolm sage shook his head. "why?" enquired mr. llewellyn john eagerly. "if my theory is right," said sage, "it's unnecessary. if my theory's wrong, it's useless. believe me, sir, our best course is to continue to boom john dene's disappearance for all we are worth." "but the _destroyer_!" exclaimed mr. llewellyn john excitedly. "you know the conditions, sir, that the island of auchinlech was to be left severely alone for four months." "do you imagine that dene slipped off to the north to trick the germans?" "that wouldn't trick them, sir," said malcolm sage quietly. "john dene would never have been allowed to reach auchinlech alive. that was settled. i may add that i have every reason to believe that the taxi and its occupant did not go fifty miles from london." "and that he is a prisoner?" mr. llewellyn john jumped from his chair. malcolm sage inclined his head in the affirmative. "good heavens!" exclaimed mr. llewellyn john, "we must----" "depend entirely upon the advertisements," said sage, rising. "you will of course regard this as strictly confidential, and to be told to no one. i cannot tell you how important it is." there was an unaccustomed note of seriousness in sage's voice, which did not fail to impress mr. llewellyn john. "but the questions in the house as to why we are offering this reward?" persisted mr. llewellyn john. "what reply are we to make?" "you might fall back on the old cliché, sir: 'wait and see.'" mr. llewellyn john smiled. "that phrase," continued sage, "was a great asset to one party, why should it not be to another?" "look at this." mr. llewellyn john held out a slip of paper, which colonel walton took and read aloud. "has the attention of the home secretary been drawn to a statement in _the tribune_ to the effect that it is the government that is offering the reward of £10,000 for information that will lead to the discovery of the whereabouts of mr. john dene of toronto, and if so can it justify the offer of so large a sum of public money?" "they haven't lost any time," remarked sage quietly. "they never do." there was an unaccustomed note of irascibility in mr. llewellyn john's voice. "these questions are a scandal." "except when one happens to be in opposition, sir," said sage, apparently absorbed in examining the nails of his left hand. mr. llewellyn john made no response, and colonel walton handed back to him the slip, which he tossed upon the table. "well," he demanded, looking from colonel walton to sage, "what are we to reply?" "the answer is in the affirmative, sir," said malcolm sage. for a moment mr. llewellyn john looked at him, frowning, then he broke into a smile. "that's all very well, sage, but it's not sufficient." "if i may venture a suggestion----" began sage. "do--do, that's why i sent for you--both," he added, as if in deference to colonel walton. "i would say that for reasons not unconnected with the prosecution of the war, the discovery of mr. john dene's whereabouts is imperative." "but that would be giving us away more than ever." "i think it would be desirable to temporise," said sage. mr. llewellyn john made a movement of impatience. "you might reply that it is not in the public interest to answer the question," continued sage. "but that would be tantamount to acknowledging that we are offering the reward," said mr. llewellyn john with a suspicion of irritation in his voice. malcolm sage looked at him steadily, but without speaking. "there will inevitably be other questions arising out of this," continued mr. llewellyn john. "i was going to suggest, sir, that if we could arrange for some newspaper to make a definite statement that the government is offering the reward, we could prosecute it under d.o.r.a." for fully a minute mr. llewellyn john gazed at malcolm sage, as if not quite sure of his sanity. "but," he began, and then broke off, looking helplessly across at colonel walton. "of course, sir, i'll relinquish the enquiry if you wish it." "this is not the time to talk of relinquishing anything, sage," said mr. llewellyn john with some asperity in his tone. "what i want to know is what all this means." "that's exactly what i'm endeavouring to discover," said sage evenly. "if i were a stage detective, i should be down on my knees smelling your carpet, or examining pall mall with a strong lens; but i'm not. i never carry a magnifying-glass and i know nothing about finger-prints. the solving of mysteries, like the detection of crime, is invariably due to a mistake on the part of somebody who ought not to have made a mistake." "then tell me how far you have got." mr. llewellyn john glanced across to colonel walton, and was conscious of a slight knitting of his brows, then he looked back again at malcolm sage, who for some moments remained silent. "if you were uncertain of my sanity, sir," said sage quietly, "would you discuss the matter with others, or would you first assure yourself of the accuracy of your suspicions?" he looked up suddenly, straight into mr. llewellyn john's eyes. "we all know you are hopelessly and irretrievably mad, sage," said mr. llewellyn john with a smile. "when i know definitely what has become of john dene, i'll tell you, sir," said sage. "i'm not spectacular, sir. i can't deduce bigamy from a bootlace, or murder from a meringue. i can tell you this, however"--he paused and both his listeners leaned forward eagerly--"that if my hypothesis is correct, the policy to pursue is to magnify the importance of john dene's disappearance. incidentally," he added, "it might result in mr. john dene revising his opinion of the incapacity of british officialdom." "then you refuse to tell me?" "it would be highly injudicious on my part to tell you of a mere suspicion which might----" malcolm sage lifted his eye from the nail of his left thumb, and looked straight at mr. llewellyn john--"which might dictate your policy, sir." "but the time we are wasting," protested mr. llewellyn john, rising and pacing up and down impatiently. "nothing is lost that's wrought with tears, sir," was the enigmatical response. "sage," said mr. llewellyn john, as he shook hands with malcolm sage, "you're the most pig-headed official in the british empire. chappeldale can be tiresome; but you're nothing short of an inconvenience. mind, walton," he continued, turning to the chief of department z., "i shall hold you responsible for sage. if he lets me down over this dene business, i shall lose faith in department z." the smile that accompanied his words, however, robbed them of any sting they might have contained. "why don't you take the skipper into your confidence, sage?" enquired walton, as they walked towards the duke of york's steps. "vanity, chief, sheer vanity," was the response. "we have never failed him yet, and if i started barking up the wrong tree, he'd never again have confidence in department z. i suppose," he added irrelevantly, "that some day we shall be taken over altogether by the colonies. it would not be a bad thing for the british empire, either. john dene might be our first president." there was one man who was deeply thankful for the disappearance of john dene. mr. blair went about as if he had received a new lease of life. he became almost sprightly in his demeanour, and no longer looked up apprehensively when the door of his room opened. sir bridgman north commented on the circumstance to sir lyster grayne and, as he passed through mr. blair's room, openly taxed him with being responsible for the kidnapping of john dene. mr. blair smiled a little wearily; for to him john dene was no matter for joking. when mr. mcshane's question with regard to the disappearance of john dene came up for answer, the home secretary replied that for the present at least it was not in the public interest to give the information required. "that's tantamount to an acknowledgment," cried mr. mcshane, springing to his feet. "it's a scandal that public money----" he got no further, as at this point he was called to order by the speaker. it was clear that the house was not satisfied. in the lobbies mr. mcshane's question and the answer given were discussed to an extent out of all proportion to their apparent importance. the feeling seemed to be that if john dene were of such value to the government, he should have been guarded with a care that would have prevented the possibility of his disappearance. if on the other hand the government had no interest in the enormous reward offered for information concerning him, then a statement to that effect should have been made. whatever the facts, the government was obviously in the wrong. that was the general impression. the next day several newspapers commented very strongly upon the incident. there seemed to be a determination on the part of the press to make an "affaire john dene" out of the canadian's disappearance. the government was attacked for adopting german bureaucratic methods. "a dark age of bureaucracy is settling down upon the country," said _the morning age_. "the real danger of prussianism is not military, but bureaucratic." the government was called upon to lift the curtain of mystery with which it had surrounded itself. if it were responsible for the rewards offered, then let it say so. if, however, these rewards were in no way connected with the government, then a denial should immediately be made. at the moment everybody regarded the government as responsible for the tremendous press campaign resulting from john dene's disappearance. malcolm sage read the newspapers with obvious relish. mr. llewellyn john, on the other hand, frowned heavily at finding his administration attacked. the home secretary rang up the deputy-commissioner at scotland yard, telling him that something must be done, and the deputy-commissioner had replied with some heat that if the home secretary would step across to the yard, he would see what actually was being done. he further intimated that the whole work of the yard had been disorganised. the prime minister sent over for colonel walton. "look here, walton," he cried as the chief of department z. entered the room. "this affair is getting rather out of hand, and it looks dangerous. you've seen the papers?" colonel walton nodded. he was a man to whom words came with difficulty. "well, i don't like the look of it," continued mr. llewellyn john. "sir roger has just rung through that he's been urging scotland yard to greater efforts." "they can do no harm," remarked colonel walton drily. "i want sage to go round and see the deputy-commissioner." "i doubt if he'll do it," was the grim response. "not do it!" cried mr. llewellyn john, with a note of anger in his voice. "in fact, i'm quite sure he won't." "if you tell him that those are my instructions----" began mr. llewellyn john. "it's no use, sir, he'll merely resign. he's as independent as an american boot-boy." mr. llewellyn john flopped down in a chair, and sat gazing at colonel walton. "but he's got us into this muddle," he began. "i've never known sage's judgment at fault yet," replied colonel walton. "then you advise----" began mr. llewellyn john. "i never venture to advise," was the reply. "now look here, walton," said mr. llewellyn john persuasively, "this is a very serious matter. it has already been magnified out of all proportion to its actual importance. i want to know what you would do if you were in my place." "exactly as sage advises," was the terse response. "why, you're as bad as he is," grumbled mr. llewellyn john. "still, i suppose i must do as you suggest. i don't like the look of things, however. it's invariably the neglected trifle that wrecks a government." the mysterious disappearance of john dene was made the subject of special consideration at a meeting of the war cabinet. it was urged that the curious nature of the circumstances exonerated the prime minister and the first lord of the admiralty from the personal pledge they had given to john dene, and that it was a matter of vital national importance that the _destroyer_ should be put into commission with the least possible delay. mr. llewellyn john looked interrogatingly across at sir lyster grayne, who shook his head decisively. "we have given a personal pledge," he said, "under no circumstances whatever to communicate or endeavour to communicate other than by wireless with the island of auchinlech for the period of four months from the date of our undertaking. the words 'under no circumstances whatever' admit of only one interpretation." "but," protested sir roger flynn, the home secretary, "mr. dene could not have foreseen his own disappearance. circumstances surely alter the aspect of the case," he urged. "if you, flynn, were to promise under no circumstances to move from this room, then fire or flood would not justify you in breaking that promise," said sir lyster with decision. he was notorious for his punctiliousness in matters of personal honour. "what was possible to the roman sentry is imperative with responsible ministers," he added. mr. llewellyn john nodded, and made a mental note of the phrase. "besides," continued sir lyster, "mr. dene was particularly emphatic on this point. i recall his saying to the prime minister, 'when i say under no circumstances, i mean under no circumstances,' and he went on to expound his interpretation of the phrase." "but," persisted sir roger, "if the majority of the war cabinet take the opposite view, then you and the prime minister would be absolved from your promise." "nothing can absolve a man from his personal pledge," was sir lyster's calm retort. "he can be outvoted politically; but he has always his alternative, resignation." mr. llewellyn john looked up quickly. "i think," he said, "that grayne is right. nothing can absolve us from our pledge." "the point is," said sir roger, "what is happening at auchinlech?" he fixed an almost accusing eye upon sir lyster grayne, who merely shook his head with the air of one who has been asked an insoluble conundrum. "here we are," continued sir roger indignantly, "with a weapon that would exercise a considerable effect in bringing victory nearer, debarred from using it because-"the prime minister has given his word," interpolated sir lyster quietly. sir roger glared at him. "death nullifies a contract of this description," retorted sir roger. "but the prime minister is not yet dead," said sir lyster drily. mr. llewellyn john started slightly. he did not like these references to death and resignation. "in law----" began sir roger. "this is not a matter of law, but of a private promise." sir lyster was insistent. "i think, gentlemen, you are looking at it from different points of view," interrupted mr. llewellyn john with a tactful smile. "let us hope that mr. john dene will be found. if it can be proved he is dead, then we shall be fully justified in sending to auchinlech, acquainting his second-in-command with what has happened, and instructing him to assume command of the _destroyer_ in accordance with mr. dene's wishes." the matter was then dropped, although it was clear that the members of the war cabinet were not at one on the subject either of john dene or his disappearance. the home secretary promised personally to urge the police to greater efforts. slowly and with infinite labour scotland yard sifted the enormous volume of evidence that poured in upon it, proving conclusively that john dene had been seen in every part of the united kingdom, not to mention a number of places on the continent. police officers swore and perspired as they strove to grapple with this enormous problem. night and day they worked with the frenzy of despair. they cursed the war, they cursed the colonies, they cursed john dene. why had he not stayed in toronto and disappeared there, if he must disappear anywhere. why had he come to london to drive to desperation an already over-worked department? one thing that the police found particularly embarrassing was that constables were constantly being called upon, by enthusiastic and excited members of the public, to arrest inoffensive citizens on the suspicion of their being john dene of toronto. in some instances the constables would point out that no resemblance existed; but the invariable reply was that the object of suspicion was disguised. all these false scents were duly reported to headquarters through the local police-stations, with no other result than to increase the sultriness of the atmosphere at scotland yard. an elaborate description of john dene was sent to every coroner and mortuary-attendant in the country. the river police were advised to keep a sharp look-out for floating bodies. in its heart of hearts scotland yard yearned to discover proof of the death of john dene, whilst all the time it worked steadily through the deluge of correspondence, and listened patiently to the testimonies of the avaricious optimists who were convinced that they, and they alone, could supply the necessary information that would lead to the discovery of the whereabouts of john dene, and transfer to themselves the not inconsiderable sum of £20,000. "if ever another blighter comes from toronto," remarked detective-inspector crabbett, as he mopped his brow, "it would be worth while for the yard to subscribe £20,000 for him to disappear quietly." having thus relieved his feelings he plunged once more into the opening of letters, letters that convinced him that the whole population of great britain and ireland had gone suddenly mad. articles appeared in many of the german newspapers upon the subject of the mysterious disappearance of john dene. a great point was made of the fact that he was an inventor, and was known to be in close touch with the british war chiefs. emphasis was laid upon the extraordinary efforts being made to discover his whereabouts. "it is inconceivable," said the _koelnische zeitung_, "that the anxiety of the relatives of the missing man could have prompted them to offer a reward of 400,000 marks for news of his whereabouts, and that _within two days of his disappearance_. imagine a private citizen in germany being absent from home for two days, and his friends offering this colossal reward for news of him. what would be said?" the writer went on to point out that behind this almost hysterical anxiety of the english to find john dene lay a mystery that, whatever its solution might be, _was certainly not detrimental to german interests_. the _vorwärts_ hinted darkly at something more than john dene having disappeared, a something that was so embarrassing the british authorities, as to be likely to have a very serious influence upon the conduct of the war. the _berliner tageblatt_ openly stated that the british admiralty was offering the reward, and left its readers to draw their own conclusions. "victory," it concluded, "is not always won with machine-guns and high-explosive. fitness to win means something more than well-trained battalions and valiant soldiers; it means a perfect organisation in every department of the great game of war; violence, bluff and intrigue. the country with the best-balanced machinery was the country that would win, because it was _fit_ to win." in germany, where everybody does everything at the top of his voice, italics are very popular. an excitable people think and live italics, and a daily newspaper either reflects its public or ceases to be. with great tact the paris papers limited themselves to the "news" element in john dene's disappearance, reproducing his portrait, with the details translated from the london dailies. the neutral press was frankly puzzled. those favourable to germany saw in this incident a presage of victory for the fatherland; whilst the pro-allies journals hinted at the fact that someone had blundered in giving such publicity to an event that should have been regarded as a subject for the consideration of the war cabinet rather than for the daily press. chapter xv mr. llewellyn john becomes alarmed i mr. llewellyn john was obviously troubled. with the forefinger of his right hand he tapped the table meditatively as he gazed straight in front of him. the disappearance of john dene was proving an even greater source of embarrassment to the war cabinet than the internment of aliens. the member of parliament who translated his duty to his constituents into asking as many awkward questions as possible of the government, found a rich source of inspiration in the affaire john dene. mr. llewellyn john disliked questions; but never had he shown so whole-hearted an antipathy for interrogation as in the case of john dene. the fact of the home secretary being responsible for the answers constituted an additional embarrassment, as sir roger flynn was frankly critical of his chief in regard to the disappearance of john dene. he had not been consulted in the matter of offering a reward, as he should have been, and he was piqued. his answers to the questions that seemed to rain down upon him from all parts of the house were given in anything but a conciliatory tone, and the method he adopted of "dispatching them in batches like rebels," as mr. chappeldale put it, still further alienated from the government the sympathy of the more independent members. in this mr. llewellyn john saw a smouldering menace that might at any time burst into flame. he had come to wish with deep-rooted earnestness that sir roger flynn would take a holiday. he had even gone to the length of suggesting that the home secretary was not looking altogether himself; but sir roger had not risen to the bait. "ah! here you are," cried mr. llewellyn john with a smile, that in no way mirrored the state of his feelings, as sir roger entered, and with a nod dropped into a chair. "eight more questions on the paper," he said grimly. "i suppose you appreciate the seriousness of it all." "what would you suggest doing?" enquired mr. llewellyn john tactfully. "get a new lock for the stable door now the horse is gone," was the uncompromising retort. "i've asked colonel walton to step round," said mr. llewellyn john, ignoring his colleague's remark. "it's all that fellow sage," grumbled sir roger. "i went round to see him yesterday, and he was as urbane as a money-lender." "but surely you wouldn't quarrel----" "i always quarrel with a fool who doesn't see the consequences likely to arise out of his folly," said sir roger. "if he would only play golf," murmured mr. llewellyn john plaintively. "he'd resign at the first green because someone had shouted 'fore.' the man's a freak!" sir roger was very downright this morning. "i wish we had a few more of the same sort," was mr. llewellyn john's smiling rejoinder. sir roger grumbled something in his throat. malcolm sage was too often in antagonism with his department for the home secretary to contemplate with anything but alarm a multiplicity of sages. mr. llewellyn john, who deeply commiserated with those heads of departments who had suffered from malcolm sage's temperament, was always anxious to keep him from coming into direct touch with other ministers: the invariable result was a protest from the minister, and resignation from malcolm sage. once he had been summoned before the war cabinet to expound and explain a certain rather complicated enquiry in connection with a missing code-book. before he had been in the room five minutes he had resigned. at scotland yard he was known as "sage and onions," the feebleness of the _jeu d'esprit_ being to some extent mitigated by the venom with which it was uttered. nothing short of the anti-criminal traditions of the yard had saved malcolm sage from assassination at the hands of its outraged officials. his indifference was to them far more galling than contempt. he seemed sublimely unconscious of the fact that he was not popular with the police officials, a circumstance that merely added to the dislike with which he was regarded. there was much to be said for scotland yard, which was called upon to carry out instructions from "a pack of blinking amachoors," as one of sage's most pronounced antagonists had phrased it. added to which was the fact that they were dealing with a man who seemed entirely unable to discriminate between courtesy and venomous hatred. like the german nation, the officials discovered that there was little virtue in a hymn of hate that was not recognised as such. "it's no good scrapping a man because he doesn't keep to your own time-table," said mr. llewellyn john, mentally making a note of the phrase for future use. sir roger had remarked that the prime minister lay awake half the night coining phrases which would not win the war. "this john dene has caused more trouble at the home office than all the rest of the war put together." sir roger was obviously in a bad temper. "we must learn to think imperially, my dear flynn." the home secretary made a movement of impatience. "there'll be murder at scotland yard one of these days," he announced. "that fellow sage goads the officials there to madness." "and yet he's so popular with his own men," said mr. llewellyn john. "at department z. they would do anything for him." "well, i wish they'd do it and keep him there." whilst mr. llewellyn john and sir roger flynn were discussing department z., colonel walton was seated at his table drawing diagrams upon the blotting paper, and malcolm sage sat opposite, engaged in the never-ending examination of his finger-nails. "the skipper's got the wind up, sage," said colonel walton. "i expected as much." "i've got to go round there in a quarter of an hour. sir roger's trying to force his hand." "let him," said malcolm sage. colonel walton shook his head with a smile. "that's all very well, sage; but it isn't the language of diplomacy." "ours isn't the department of diplomacy, chief. why not promise him something dramatic in a few weeks' time? that's bound to appeal to him." for a moment a fugitive smile flittered across sage's features. "i think," he added, "we shall surprise him." "in the meantime we must be diplomatic," said colonel walton. "that's why i'm not taking you with me this morning." "you think i'd resign," queried sage with an odd movement at the corners of his mouth. "i'm sure of it," was the response, as colonel walton rose. "i suppose you know," he continued, "that scotland yard is absolutely congested. you can have no idea of what sir roger said when i met him in whitehall yesterday." "if it's anything at all like what comes through to me----" and malcolm sage shrugged his shoulders. ten minutes later colonel walton was shown into mr. llewellyn john's room. "ah! here you are," cried mr. llewellyn john, as he motioned colonel walton to a seat. "is there any news?" "none, sir," was the response. "this is getting very serious, walton," said mr. llewellyn john, "something really must be done." "have you tried scotland yard, sir?" asked colonel walton evenly, looking across at sir roger, who made a movement as if to speak, but evidently thought better of it. "i didn't mean that as a rebuke, walton," said mr. llewellyn john diplomatically. "but this john dene business is really most awkward. scotland yard has apparently been entirely disorganised through your advertisements, and sir roger has just been telling me that there are eight more questions down on the paper for to-day. every day the admiralty endeavours to call up auchinlech by wireless," continued mr. llewellyn john, "but they can get no response." "the thing is, where is john dene?" demanded sir roger, speaking for the first time, and looking at colonel walton, as if he suspected him of having the missing man secreted about his person. "i think the popular conception of the detective is responsible for all the trouble," said colonel walton quietly, looking from sir roger to the prime minister. "what do you mean?" demanded sir roger. "i think sage expressed it fairly accurately," continued colonel walton, "when he said that if a man disappears, or a criminal is wanted, the detective is always expected to produce him as a conjurer does a guinea-pig out of a top hat." "it isn't that," said mr. llewellyn john irritably. "it's the reward that's causing all the trouble." "what is the detective for if it's not to solve mysteries?" demanded sir roger aggressively. "i think that is a question for scotland yard, sir," said colonel walton. sir roger flushed angrily, and was about to speak when mr. llewellyn john stepped into the breach. "you know, walton, we have to consider the political aspect," he said. "what is department z.'s conception of the detective then?" demanded sir roger. "to watch for the other side's mistakes and take advantage of them," was the reply, "just as in politics," with a smile at mr. llewellyn john. mr. llewellyn john nodded agreement. "you remember the winthorpe murder case, sir roger?" "i do," said the home secretary. "there scotland yard tracked a man who had been three weeks at large. he made the mistake of calling somewhere for his washing, and the police had been watching the place for three weeks." "that's all very well," said sir roger, obviously annoyed. "but you must remember, colonel walton, that this john dene business has a political significance. it's--it's embarrassing the government." "but while they are worrying about that," remarked colonel walton imperturbably, "they're dropping the 'intern all aliens' cry." mr. llewellyn john smiled. "i'm convinced," he said, "that there's quite a large section of the public that would like me to intern everybody whose name is not smith, brown, jones or robinson." "or sage," suggested colonel walton slyly. "sage!" cried mr. llewellyn john, "he ought to be in the tower. but seriously, walton. what i want to know is how long this will last?" "in all probability until the full four months have expired," was the rejoinder. "good heavens!" cried mr. llewellyn john in consternation. "i should not be alarmed, sir, if i were you," said colonel walton with a smile. "the public will soon get another cry. sage suggests they may possibly hang an ex-minister." mr. llewellyn john laughed. colonel walton's reference was to a previous prime minister who on one occasion had enquired of a distinguished general if he had ever contemplated the effect on the public of the possibility of great britain losing the war. "they'd hang you, sir," the general had replied, leaning forward and tapping the then prime minister on the knee with an impressive forefinger. for a few moments there was silence, broken at length by sir roger. "but that does not relieve my congested department," he said complainingly. "i'm afraid," said colonel walton, turning to mr. llewellyn john, "that it's impossible for department z. to work along any but its own lines. if sage and i do not possess the confidence of the war cabinet, may i suggest that we be relieved of our duties." "good heavens, walton!" cried mr. llewellyn john. "surely you're not going to start resigning." "in the light of sir roger's remark, it's the only course open for me," was the dignified retort, as colonel walton rose. "no, no," murmured mr. llewellyn john, looking across at the home secretary. "you must remember, walton, that sir roger has had a very trying time owing to--to these--advertisements, and--and----" he paused and again he looked expectantly at sir roger, who seemed engrossed in fingering the lower button of his waistcoat. "neither sage nor i have any desire to embarrass you or the home secretary," continued colonel walton, "but----" "i'm sure of it, walton, i'm sure of it, and so is sir roger." again mr. llewellyn john looked across at his colleague who, seeming to lose interest in his lower waistcoat button, suddenly looked up. "the question is, how long is this to continue?" he asked. for some moments colonel walton did not reply. he appeared to be weighing something in his mind. "we're up against the cleverest organisation in the world," he said at length, "and sage believes that a single man controls the lot." "nonsense!" broke in sir roger. "this spy craze is pure imagination." "in any case it causes the war cabinet a great amount of concern," said mr. llewellyn john drily. "i think," proceeded colonel walton, "that before the expiration of the four months stipulated for by john dene, department z. will have justified itself." "how?" demanded sir roger. "i can say nothing more," said colonel walton, moving towards the door, "at present." "well, carry on, walton," said mr. llewellyn john and, with a wave of his hand, "and good luck." "those two men have megalomania in its worst possible form," growled sir roger, as he too rose to take his departure. "well, if they don't make good on this," said mr. llewellyn john, "you can decide whether or not their resignations be accepted." with a nod sir roger left the room, conscious that he had to explain to the permanent officials at the home office why department z. was still in being. ii during the weeks that followed the disappearance of john dene, a careful observer of apthorpe road could not have failed to observe the trouble that it was apparently giving the local authorities. a fatality seemed to brood over this unfortunate thoroughfare. first of all the telephone mains seemed to go wrong. workmen came, and later there arrived a huge roll of lead-covered cable. labour was scarce, and never did labourers work less industriously for their hire. on the morning after the arrival of the men, mr. montagu naylor paused at the spot where they were working, and for a minute or two stood watching them with interest. was there any danger of the telephone system being interrupted? no, the cable was being laid as a precaution. the existing cable was showing faults. mr. naylor passed on his way, and from time to time would exchange greetings with the men. they were extremely civil fellows, he decided. mr. naylor felt very english. the telephone men had not completed their work when the water-main, as if jealous of the care and attention being lavished upon a rival system, developed some strange and dangerous symptoms, involving the picking up of the road. again mr. naylor showed interest, and learned that the water pressure was not all that it should be in the neighbourhood, and it was thought that some foreign substance had got into the pipes. just as the watermen were preparing to pack up and take a leisurely departure, two men, their overalls smeared and spotted with red-lead, arrived at the end of the street with a hand-barrow. in due course a cutting of some fifteen or twenty feet was made in the roadway, and the reek of stale gas assailed the nostrils of the passer-by. obviously some shadow of misfortune brooded over apthorpe road, for no sooner were these men beginning to pack up their tools, than the road-men arrived, with a full-blooded steam-roller, bent upon ploughing up and crushing down apthorpe road to a new and proper symmetry. in short the thoroughfare in which mr. montagu naylor lived seemed never to be without workmen by day, and by night watchmen to protect municipal property from depredation. "i'm not so sure," remarked malcolm sage to thompson who had entered his room soon after colonel walton had gone to pay his call at 110, downing street, "that the ménage naylor isn't a subject for investigation by the food controller." thompson grinned. "eighty pounds of potatoes seems to be a generous week's supply for three people." "and other things to match, sir," said thompson with another grin. "haricot beans, cabbage, they're nuts on cabbage, salad and all sorts of things that are not rationed. i think it must be diabetes," he added with another grin. "possibly, thompson, possibly," said malcolm sage; "but in the meantime we will assume other explanations. some people eat more than others. for instance, the german is a very big eater." "and a dirty one, too, sir," added thompson with disgust. "i've been at hotels with 'em." "seven meals a day is one of the articles of faith of the good german, thompson," continued malcolm sage. "and what's the result, sir?" remarked thompson. "i suppose," remarked sage meditatively, "it's the same as with a bean-fed horse. they go out looking for trouble." "and they're going to get it," was the grim rejoinder. "well, carry on, thompson," said sage by way of dismissal. "you'll learn a great deal about the green-grocery trade in the process." "and waterworks--and gas and things, sir," grinned thompson. as thompson opened the door of malcolm sage's room, he stepped aside to allow colonel walton to enter, and then quietly closed the door behind him. "bad time?" enquired sage as colonel walton dropped into a chair and, taking off his cap, mopped his forehead. "on this occasion i resigned for both of us." for once in his life malcolm sage was surprised. he looked incredulously across at his chief, who gazed back with a comical expression in his eyes. "i thought i was left at home for fear i might resign," said malcolm sage drily when colonel walton had finished telling him of the interview. but colonel walton did not look up from the end of his cigar, which he was examining with great intentness. "i'm not a sceptic," remarked malcolm sage presently, as he gazed at his brilliantly-polished fingernails, "but i would give a great deal for a dumb patriot domiciled in apthorpe road." "dumb?" queried colonel walton. malcolm sage nodded without raising his eyes from his finger-nails. "i have no doubt that apthorpe road is exclusively patriotic; but if we were to ask one of its residents to lend us a front-bedroom and, furthermore, if we spent all our days in the bedroom at the window----" he shrugged his shoulders. "there's always the domestic servant," suggested colonel walton. "not much use in this case, chief," was the reply. "it means that thompson has had to turn road-mender. good man, thompson," he added. "he'd extract facts from a futurist picture." colonel walton nodded. chapter xvi finlay's s.o.s. i "well, i think it's spies," announced marjorie rogers, as she sat perched on the corner of john dene's table, swinging a pretty foot. dorothy looked up quickly. "but----" she began, then paused. "and it's all mr. llewellyn john's fault. he ought to intern all aliens. on raid-nights the tube is simply disgusting." dorothy smiled at the wise air of decision with which marjorie settled political problems. the strain of the past week with its hopes and fears was beginning to tell upon her. there had been interminable interrogations by men in plain clothes, who with large hands and blunt pencils wrote copious notes in fat note-books. the atmosphere with which they surrounded themselves was so vague, so non-committal, that dorothy began to feel that she was suspected of having stolen john dene. "oh, mother!" she had cried on the evening of the first day of her ordeal at the hands of scotland yard, "you should see your poor, defenceless daughter surrounded by men who do nothing but ask questions and look mysterious. they're so different from mr. sage," she had added as an afterthought. "if it isn't the spies," continued marjorie, "then what is it?" dorothy shook her head wearily. she missed john dene. it was just beginning to dawn upon her how much she missed him. the days seemed interminable. there was nothing to do but answer the door to the repeated knocks, either of detectives or of journalists. it was a relief when marjorie ran in to pick her up for lunch--dorothy had felt it only fair to discontinue the elaborate lunches that were sent in--or on her way home in the evening. "a man doesn't get lost like a pawn-ticket," announced marjorie. "what do you know about pawn-tickets, rojjie?" "oh, i often pop things when i'm hard up," she announced nonchalantly. "you don't!" cried dorothy incredulously. "of course. what should i do when i'm stoney if it wasn't for uncle." "you outrageous little creature!" cried dorothy. "i should like to shake you." "he's quite a nice youth, with black hair greased into what i think he would call a 'quiff.'" "what on earth are you talking about?" "uncle, of course. he always gives me more than anyone else," she announced with the air of one conscious of a triumph. "where will you end, rojjie?" cried dorothy. "suburbs probably," she replied practically. "these old wasters take you out to dinner; but marry you--not much." she shook her wise little head so vigorously that her bobbed hair shook like a fringe. "i wish i had a john dene," she said after a pause. "a john dene!" "ummm!" nodded marjorie. "why?" "marry him, of course." "don't be absurd." suddenly marjorie slipped off the table and, going over to dorothy, threw her arms round her impulsively. "i'm so sorry, dollikins," she cried, snuggling up against her. "sorry for what?" asked dorothy in a weak voice. "that he got lost. i--i _know_," she added. "know what?" asked dorothy, her voice still weaker. "that you're keen on him." "i'm not," dorothy sniffed. "i'm not, so there." again she sniffed, and marjorie with the wisdom of her sex was silent, wondering how long she would be able to stand the tickling of dorothy's tears as they coursed down her cheeks. at the end of a fortnight sir lyster grayne decided to close john dene's offices, and dorothy returned to the admiralty, resuming her former position; but, thanks to sir bridgman north's intervention, her salary remained the same as before john dene's disappearance. all the girls were greatly interested in what they called "john dene's vanishing trick." dorothy became weary of answering their questions and parrying their not ill-natured impertinences. sometimes she felt she must scream. everybody she encountered seemed to think it necessary to refer to the very subject she would have wished left unmentioned. one day she had encountered sir bridgman north in one of the corridors. recognising her, he had stopped to enquire if she were still receiving her full salary. then with a cheery "i don't want to be gingered-up when the good john dene returns," he had passed on with a smile and a salute. at home it was the same. a pall of depression seemed to have descended upon the little flat. mrs. west tactfully refrained from asking questions; but dorothy was conscious that john dene was never very far from her thoughts. their week-end excursions had lost their savour, and they both recognised how much john dene had become part of their lives. sometimes when dorothy was in bed, tears would refuse to be forced back, however hard she strove against them. then she would become angry with herself, jump out of bed, dab her eyes with a wet towel, and return to bed and start counting sheep, until the very thought of mutton seemed to drive her mad. mr. blair she hated the sight of, he was so obviously satisfied with the course of events. sometimes she found herself longing for the return of john dene, merely that he might "ginger-up" sir lyster's private secretary. week after week passed and no news. the volume of questions in the house died down and finally disappeared altogether. the state of affairs at scotland yard returned to the normal. newspapers ceased to refer either to john dene, or to his disappearance, and the tide of war flowed on. marshal foch had struck his great blow, and had followed it up with others. the stream of hun invasion had been stemmed, and slowly france and belgium were being cleared. mr. montagu naylor's comings and goings continued to interest department z., and apthorpe road was still in the grip of the workman. day by day dorothy seemed to grow more listless. it was the heat, she explained to mrs. west, whilst marjorie nodded her wise little head, but said nothing. whenever she saw dorothy she always "talked john dene," as she expressed it to herself. she could see that it was a relief. "you see, rojjie darling, i should always be a little afraid of him," said dorothy one day as they sat in john dene's room. "i suppose that is why i----" she paused. marjorie nodded understandingly, and continued to swing a dainty, grey-stockinged leg. "you--you see," continued dorothy a little wistfully, "i've always had to do the taking care of, and he----" again she broke off. then suddenly jumping up she cried, "let's go to the pictures. bother john dene!" and marjorie smiled a little smile that was really her own. finally there came the time when for a fortnight dorothy would have no one to say to her either "come" or "go," and she and mrs. west went to bournemouth, dorothy inwardly dreading two weeks with nothing to do. ii whilst the john dene sensation was slowly fading from the public mind, malcolm sage was continuing with unabated energy the task he had set himself. he was aware that finlay was being watched even more closely than john dene had been watched, and sage realised that it was, in all probability, impossible for him to communicate with headquarters. by an ingenious device, however, finlay had at length succeeded in establishing contact with department z. it had been reported to sage that on two occasions finlay had been seen to leave behind him at restaurants a silver-mounted ebony walking stick. he had, however, always returned for it a few minutes later, as if having discovered his loss. learning that the stick was of an ordinary stock pattern, malcolm sage gave instructions for one exactly like it to be purchased. an endeavour was then to be made to effect an exchange with that carried by finlay. it was not until a week later that this was effected, and the stick handed to thompson. a careful examination disclosed nothing. the silver nob and ferrule were removed; but without bringing to light anything in the nature of a communication. "it's a wash-out, sir," said thompson, as he entered malcolm sage's room, the stick in one hand and the knob and ferrule in the other. sage glanced up from his desk. holding out his hand he took the stick and proceeded to examine it with elaborate care. the wood at the top, just beneath the knob, had been hollowed out. sage glanced up at thompson interrogatingly. "nothing in it, sir," he said, interpreting the question. "there will be when you next make the exchange," was the dry retort and, with a motion of dismissal, malcolm sage returned to the papers before him. "what's the matter, tommy?" enquired gladys norman a few minutes later, as she came across thompson gazing at the hollowed-out end of a stick, and murmuring to himself with suppressed passion. "i'm the biggest fool in london," said thompson without looking up. "only just discovered it?" she asked casually. "poor old tommikins," she added, prepared to dodge at the least sign of an offensive movement on the part of her colleague; but thompson was too engrossed in introspective analysis to be conscious of what was taking place about him. "we're on the eve of developments," said malcolm sage one afternoon some weeks later, as colonel walton entered his room, closing the door behind him. "anything new?" he enquired, dropping into a chair beside sage's table. "i'm afraid there's going to be trouble." "not resigning?" there was a twinkle in colonel walton's eye. in their infinite variety the resignations of malcolm sage would have filled a blue book. "i don't like the look of things," continued sage, pulling steadily at his pipe and ignoring the remark. "naylor's playing his own game, i'm sure and," he added, looking up suddenly, "it's an ugly game." "bluff, that accusing finlay of acting on his own about john dene." malcolm sage nodded his head slowly several times. for some minutes he continued to smoke with a mechanical precision that with him always betokened anxiety. "it's the dug-out business, i don't like," he said at length. colonel walton nodded. "you think?" he queried. sage nodded, his face was unusually grave. during the previous week it had been discovered that mr. naylor was having constructed in his back-garden a dug-out, to which to retire in case of air-raids, and he was himself assisting with the work of excavation. finlay had confirmed malcolm sage's suggestion that naylor was suspicious. there had been a quarrel between the two, which had taken place through intermediaries. naylor had accused finlay of being responsible for the disappearance of john dene. finlay had responded by a like accusation, and the threat of serious consequences to naylor when the facts were known in a certain quarter. "we've got to speed up." malcolm sage addressed the remark apparently to the thumbnail of his left hand. colonel walton nodded. "i don't like that dug-out business at all," continued sage. "the changing of the site too," he added. "had they got far with the first one?" enquired colonel walton "about five feet down; but they haven't filled it in yet." colonel walton looked up quickly. his face was grave. "naylor says they must get the dug-out finished first in case of a raid. he can fill in the old hole at any time." "a dug-out after nearly four years of raids?" "exactly," said sage, "that and the unfilled hole and naylor's own activities----" he broke off significantly. "about the reward? it would be awkward if--- come in." colonel walton broke off at the sound of a knock at the door. thompson entered with an ebony walking stick in one hand, a silver knob and a small piece of paper in the other. he held out the paper to malcolm sage, who, with a motion of his head, indicated colonel walton. he was very punctilious in such matters. colonel walton took the slip of paper and read aloud. "arrest me late to-night and have me taken to tower. slip the dogs to-morrow certain, delay dangerous. j. f." for fully a minute the three men were silent. colonel walton began to draw diagrams upon his blotting pad malcolm sage gazed at his finger-nails, whilst thompson stood stiffly erect, his face pale and his mouth rigid. presently sage looked up. "i'm afraid there'll be no spring-mattress for you to-night, thompson," he said. "i'll ring in a few minutes," and thompson drew a sigh of relief as he turned towards the door, which a moment afterwards closed behind him. "we can't do it to-night," announced sage with decision. colonel walton shook his head. "he must take the risk until the morning," continued sage. "you'll be here until it's all through?" he interrogated. colonel walton nodded. when thoughtful he was more than usually sparing of words. "about the reward?" he interrogated, as sage rose and moved towards the door. "we'll withdraw it in to-morrow evening's papers," was the response, "if you agree." again colonel walton nodded, and malcolm sage went out, bent on reminding scotland yard of his existence. chapter xvii malcolm sage casts his net i "i'm afraid there'll be trouble with the people at the tower," remarked malcolm sage, who, with the aid of his briar pipe, was doing his best to reduce the visibility. "zero is noon," mused colonel walton. sage nodded. "they'll begin to drift in about twelve-thirty," he continued, puffing placidly at his cigar. "well, it's been interesting, and it'll give the skipper a sort of joy day with the war cabinet," said sage quietly. "to-morrow ought to be rather a large breakfast-party," he added drily. "he had the wind up rather badly at one time." "celt," was sage's comment. colonel walton nodded. for some minutes the two smoked in silence. "i hope they won't start any of that o.b.e. business," said sage at length. "sure to. it will be a triumph for the skipper," continued colonel walton. "he deserves it," said sage ungrudgingly. "he's always believed in us. by the way, i told hoyle to bring finlay here after they had got naylor." colonel walton continued to puff contentedly at his cigar. early that morning malcolm sage had given final instructions to the various members of his staff. he and colonel walton had been working all through the night in perfecting their plans. the demands made upon scotland yard for men had at first evoked surprise, which later developed into _sotto voce_ ridicule. "what the devil's up with old sage and onions?" inspector crabbett had muttered, as he cast his eyes down the list of plain-clothes and uniformed officers required. "who the devil's going to issue all these warrants?" department z., however, had its own means of obtaining such warrants as were required without questions being asked. early that morning malcolm sage had got through to inspector crabbett. "that you, inspector?" he enquired. "what's left of me," was the surly retort. "got that little list of mine?" enquired sage. "we're engaging new men as fast as we can so as to have enough," was the grumbling reply. "i've asked the w.o. to demobilise a few divisions to help us," he added with ponderous sarcasm. "thank you," said sage imperturbably, as he replaced the receiver. mr. montagu naylor had been reserved for department z. sage was determined to get him alive; but his knowledge of the man was sufficient to tell him that mr. naylor was equally determined never to be taken alive. he had seen that little corrugated-iron covered building at the tower that had once been a miniature rifle-range and, involuntarily, he had shuddered. ii "was that the telephone?" mr. naylor barked the question down from the first-floor. there was a pad-pad of feet, and mrs. naylor appeared from the basement. "yes," she replied timidly. "shall i go?" "no, i'll go myself;" and mr. naylor descended the stairs heavily. passing into his study, he closed the door behind him and seated himself at the table. "hullo!" he called into the mouthpiece, lifting off the receiver. "is that twelve haymarket?" came the reply. "no," was the suave response. "this is mr. montagu naylor of apthorpe road, streatham. you're on to the wrong number;" and with that he replaced his receiver, pulled out his watch and scowled at the dial. the hands pointed to half-past eleven. with a muttered exclamation and a murmur about a taxi, mr. naylor stamped out of the room, just as mrs. naylor was leaving the dining-room. she shrank back as if expecting to be struck. "back about two," he grunted. "keep that damned dog tied up." "i'll see to it," said mrs. naylor in a voice that seemed to come through cotton-wool. since post time that morning mr. naylor's temper had been bad, even for him. an intimation had come from the local police-station to the effect that several complaints had been made of the savage nature and aggressive disposition of a dog he was alleged to keep on his premises. the officer who had been sent round to call attention to this fact on the previous day, had been prevented from entering the garden by the valiant defence put up by james himself. mr. naylor had been out at the time of the call, and mrs. naylor had not dared to tell him of the constable's visit and discomfiture. department z. was taking no risks where james was concerned. during the whole of breakfast strange sounds had rumbled in mr. naylor's throat, whilst on one occasion, when he happened to catch mrs. naylor's eye, he glared so ferociously at her that she let the lid of the teapot fall with a crash into a fast-filling cup. with this the volcano had burst, and the grumbles in mr. naylor's larynx matured into deep-throated oaths and execrations. three times he had descended to the basement, from whence his voice could be heard in passionate protest against any and every thing he encountered. mrs. naylor had gone about the house with the air of one convinced of disaster. susan, as usual, succeeded in shuffling out of the way just as mr. naylor appeared. as the front door banged behind him, mr. naylor's scowl lifted as by magic, giving place to an expression of benignant geniality befitting a prominent and respected citizen. mr. naylor managed the distance to the haymarket in the time without involving a taxi, thus greatly improving his temper. he was a man who grudged unnecessary expense, and all expense, not directly connected with the delights of the table, was to his way of thinking unnecessary. that morning, just as big ben was booming out the tenth stroke of noon, a commotion was observed to take place outside the pall mall restaurant. suddenly four men precipitated themselves upon a fifth, who was walking calmly and peaceably towards coventry street. in a flash he was handcuffed and thrown, somebody called out "police"; but before anyone had properly realised what was happening, a motor-car had drawn up and the handcuffed man was bundled into it, struggling vainly against the rope with which his legs had been quickly bound. when a policeman arrived, it was to be told by an excited group of spectators that a man had been assaulted and kidnapped in broad daylight. thus was mr. montagu naylor of streatham secured and conducted to the tower, there eventually to make acquaintance with the miniature rifle-range. whilst mr. naylor was rapidly nearing the place of the most remarkable appointment he had ever kept, james was reduced to a state of frenzy by several strange men in the adjoining back-gardens. they were, according to their own account, given to the residents whose houses flanked that of mr. naylor, engaged upon survey work. the instruments they had with them seemed to give colour to their words. the apathy of the workmen who for the last few days had surrendered apthorpe road to others, different from themselves only in that they belonged to another union and brought with them a steam-roller instead of picks and shovels, seemed suddenly to develop into an unusual activity. immediately after the departure of mr. naylor, the asphalt of the footpath just in front of his gate was picked up with an energy that merited rebuke from any self-respecting father of the chapel. a few minutes later a man knocked at mr. naylor's door, and stated that it would be necessary to dig up the path leading to the front door. at this information a look of fear sprang into mrs. naylor's eyes. she was terrified of deciding anything in mr. naylor's absence. when the men announced that it would be necessary to descend to the basement, she shook her head violently. "no, no!" she cried. "mr. naylor is away. come again this afternoon." it was pointed out to her that the afternoon might be too late, something had gone wrong with the gas, and if they waited until the afternoon anything might happen. the man was respectful, but insistent. he so played upon mrs. naylor's fears by hinting darkly at the possibility of there being nothing for mr. naylor to return to by the afternoon, unless the gas meter were immediately seen to, that she consented to allow a man to descend to the basement after being told that it would not be necessary for him to go into any of the rooms. first, however, she insisted that she must go down and see that everything was tidy. after a lapse of five minutes she returned; but when four men presented themselves prepared to descend the stairs, she resolutely refused. "very well, mum," said the foreman, "we'll see what the police can do. just pop round to the police-station, bill, and bring a copper," he said to a mate. "sooner 'ave the 'ole bloomin' street blown up than let us go down and dirty your stairs." there was in his voice all the indignation of the outraged british workman. mrs. naylor wavered. the word "police" had for her a peculiar and terrifying significance. "you--you only want to go in the passage," she said. "that'll do us, mum," said the foreman. "you stay up 'ere, bill," he added, turning to the man he had instructed to go for the police. mrs. naylor led the way to the lower regions, unconscious that not three but seven men were following her, the last four with rubber-soled boots. she had scarcely taken a step along the passage at the foot of the basement stairs, when her arms were gripped from behind and a pad held over her mouth. she struggled against the sweet-smelling sickly fumes; then the relaxing of her limbs told that she had temporarily left for realms where mr. naylor was not. the basement was composed of a kitchen, immediately on the right of the stairs, and a breakfast-room, the entrance to which lay a few paces along the passage. at the end of the passage was a door leading into the area. without a sound the men divided themselves, one went to the area door, two remained by the kitchen door, where susan could be heard clattering crockery, whilst the other four stood outside the door leading to the breakfast-room. one of them gently turned the handle; it was locked. he made a signal to the two men at the kitchen door. one quietly entered. a moment later susan looked up with a start to find herself gazing down the barrel of an automatic pistol, whilst before her eyes was presented a card on which was printed, "come and make the signal to get the door of the breakfast-room open, otherwise you will be shot." for a fraction of a second she hesitated, then a strange light flashed into her eyes, suggestive half of cunning, half of relief, and with an understanding nod she walked to the breakfast-room door. one of the men placed her in such a position that she would not be in the way of the entrance of the others when the door was opened. very deliberately she knocked and paused--knock--knock--knock, pause, knock--knock. they waited breathlessly. the sound of a key being cautiously turned was presently heard. a moment after a line of white appeared beside the green paint of the door, as it was slowly and cautiously opened. then a score of things seemed to happen at once. the waiting men threw themselves into the room, the man at the end of the passage dashed out into the area, he who had been left at the kitchen-door rushed into the back-yard and whistled. the breakfast-room was in total darkness; but for the brilliant electric torches carried by the assailants. for a moment there was wild confusion, a shot was fired and then all was quiet. "got him, thompson?" it was malcolm sage who spoke; but from a physical substance that was not malcolm sage. "got them and it, sir," was the response. "are you hit?" "only in the arm, sir. nothing to write home about," was the cheery response. "here, switch on the light someone," said malcolm sage, and a moment after there was a click and a three-lamp electrolier burst into light. "get a window open, thompson; thrust all that greenery stuff out," cried malcolm sage. "right, sir." with the aid of the fire-irons, mr. montagu naylor's little greenhouse was soon demobilised and lay a heap of ruins in the area. "that's better," murmured malcolm sage. "what a stink!" he then turned to an examination of the room. the window had been blocked up with a sort of glass case, on which shelves had been built and flower-pots placed. this had the effect not only of cutting off all communications from outside except from the door; but of preventing anyone from seeing into the room. the atmosphere of the place was heavy and foetid, as the only means of ventilation was the door. there were three pallet-beds, a table and several chairs. malcolm sage shuddered at the thought of living week after week under such conditions. he turned to his prisoners. on the floor lay two men, handcuffed, each with a member of the staff of department z. sitting contentedly on his chest. one was foaming at the mouth with suppressed fury, the other, a heavily-built fellow, lay apathetic. in a corner upon one of the pallet-beds sat a man looking about him in a dazed fashion. "it's all right, mr. dene," said malcolm sage. "we'll attend to you in a minute." then turning to thompson he said, "get these fellows up into the car. keep the two women here under guard. then we'll see to your arm." "right, sir," said thompson. the arrival of three closed motor-cars outside "the cedars" had aroused some interest among the residents of apthorpe road. the absence of flowers from the lamps and the buttonholes of the chauffeurs negatived the idea of a wedding, and three cars were scarcely necessary to take mr. naylor's small household for a holiday. a group of neighbours and errand boys gathered outside mr. naylor's gate. the windows opposite and on each side were manned in force. presently the onlookers were astonished to see two handcuffed men half carried, half dragged out of the house and hurried into the first car. they were followed by two more of the men who, a few minutes before, had been engaged in picking up mr. naylor's path. as soon as they were in the car, these men proceeded to fetter their two prisoners. apthorpe road gasped its astonishment. in the breakfast-room malcolm sage drew a chair up to the man seated on the bed, seemingly quite unconscious of what was happening. leaning forward he lifted one of his eyelids, then turned to the others who stood round. "dope," was all he said. there was an angry murmur from the others. for a moment malcolm sage sat looking at the wasted form of what once might have been john dene of toronto. then he turned to thompson, quite unrecognisable as the foreman gas-mechanic, whose arm was being bandaged with a field-dressing. "take him in one of the cars to sir bryllith riley, and explain. he's expecting you. do exactly as he orders. take rogers with you, and then get your wound seen to." sir bryllith riley was the great specialist in nervous disorders, who had made a special study of the drug habit. without a word thompson left the room, followed two of the "workmen," who had raised the patient to his feet. then half leading, half carrying they took him from the room. the crowd of spectators, which had been considerably reinforced, received its second thrill that morning at the sight of a short sturdily built man, apparently drunk, being helped into the second car. they noticed that he blinked violently in the sunlight, and those who were near enough saw that his eyes were watering profusely. one or two of the more observant observed that he stumbled as he entered the taxi, and would have fallen but for those supporting him. the second car immediately drove off. a few minutes later two more men left "the cedars" and entered the third car, which with the first then drove off, leaving mr. naylor's residence in the charge of the "survey" men and two of the "workmen." in the back-garden james was having a meal--it was to be his last. "i should like a smoke, chief. i left my pipe behind," said one of the men in the third car, as he took from his pocket a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and proceeded to put them on. "here, try one of these," and a gold-mounted cigar case was passed towards him, a case that seemed strangely out of keeping with the corduroys of the owner. "well, it's been a happy day," said malcolm sage, as he proceeded to light the cigar colonel walton had given him. "i hope the other fellows have got their lot," said the chief of department z., as the car ran into the high road. "trust them," was the answer. "finlay wouldn't let naylor escape him. i should like to know what they're saying at the tower," he added a moment later. from half-past twelve until nearly two that day, the officials at the tower were kept busily occupied in receiving guests. the appetite for lunch of the officer of the guard was entirely spoiled. "where the deuce are we going to put them all," he asked of one of his n.c.o.'s. the man shook his head helplessly. "it might be a rowton's lodging-house," grumbled the officer, as he made the twenty-third entry in what he facetiously called the "goods received book." "damn the war!" iii "well, thompson," remarked colonel walton with a smile, "you have earned----" "a wound stripe," interrupted sage. thompson grinned, as he looked down at his right arm resting in a sling. "it was meant for mr. dene, sir," he said. "i just got there in time. it was that ferret-eyed little blighter," he added without the slightest suggestion of animosity. thompson was a sportsman, taking and giving hard knocks with philosophic good-humour. "plucky little devil," murmured malcolm sage. "he bit and scratched with the utmost impartiality." malcolm sage and thompson were seated in colonel walton's room discussing the events of the morning. "we were only just in time," said sage. "finlay was right." colonel walton nodded. "it was dope, sir." thompson looked from colonel walton to malcolm sage. "sir bryllith said he'll be months in a home." "yes," said sage. "he won't be fit to answer questions for a long time. been doped all the time, nearly three months." "if there's nothing more----" began thompson. "no, thompson, go and get a sleep," said colonel walton. "look after that arm, and take things easy for a few days." "thank you, sir," said thompson; "but i'm afraid i've forgotten the way," and with a grin he went out. "you've wirelessed?" asked colonel walton. "the whole story. they're bound to pick it up at auchinlech." "and the skipper?" "oh! just what we actually know, i should say," responded sage, and colonel walton nodded his agreement. "they're puzzled over those announcements withdrawing the reward," said sage a few minutes later. "we ought to be hearing from the skipper soon." "he's already been through while you were changing. i'm going round at five. you're coming too," added colonel walton, as he lighted a fresh cigar. "what about finlay?" "gone home to see his wife," said sage. "he's as domesticated as a persian kitten," he added with all the superiority of a confirmed bachelor. in another room gladys norman was fussing over a wounded hero. "poor 'ickle tommikins." she crooned, as she sat on the arm of his chair and rumpled the hair of special service officer thompson. "did 'ums hurt 'ums poor 'ickle arm. brave boy!" and then she bent down and kissed him lightly on the cheek, whereat thompson blushed crimson. "department z. makes its traditions as it goes along," malcolm sage had once said. "it's more natural." chapter xviii the return of john dene "it's very strange," murmured sir lyster grayne, as he raised his eyes from an official-looking document. "what are the official figures for the last six weeks, heyworth?" he enquired. "seven certainties and two doubtful," was the reply. "about normal, then?" admiral heyworth nodded. "then why the devil should the hun get the wind up?" demanded sir bridgman, a look of puzzlement taking the place of the usual smile in his eyes. "what does the i.d. say?" "that during the last four weeks thirty-seven u-boats have failed to return to their bases as they should have done," replied admiral heyworth, referring to a buff-coloured paper before him. "that leaves twenty-eight in the air," said sir bridgman, more to himself than to the others. sir lyster nodded thoughtfully. "no wonder they're getting the wind up," mused sir bridgman. "the i.d. says that kiel and wilhelmshaven are in a state of panic," said admiral heyworth. "it's damned funny," remarked sir bridgman thoughtfully. "structural defects won't explain it?" he looked interrogatingly across at admiral heyworth, who shook his head in negation. "it might of course be wangle," murmured sir bridgman. sir lyster shook his head decidedly. "the i.d. says no," he remarked. "they're doing everything they can to keep it dark." "well, it's damned funny," repeated sir bridgman. "what does l. j. say?" "he's as puzzled as the rest of us," said sir lyster in response. "he's making enquiries through department z." there was the merest suggestion of patronage in sir lyster's voice at the mention of department z. sir bridgman lit a cigarette, then after a short silence sir lyster said tentatively: "i suppose it isn't the americans?" "impossible," said sir bridgman. "you can't base ships on ether, and we were bound to know, besides frankness is their strong point. they are almost aggressively open," he added. "i----" began sir lyster, then paused. "it's damned funny," murmured sir bridgman for the third time. "well, i must buzz off," he added, rising. "i shall see you at l.j.'s this afternoon." "it's a conference, i think," said sir lyster. "walton is to tell us what has been discovered." again there was the note of patronage in his voice. "well," said sir bridgman, "i'll try and prevent it spoiling my lunch," and he stretched his big frame lazily. "by the way," he remarked, turning to sir lyster, "did you see about that convoy a hundred miles off its course, bleating like a lost goat to know where it was?" "it might have been very serious," said sir lyster gravely. "oh! the luck of the navy," laughed sir bridgman. "we have to do it all, even teach the other fellows their job. mark it, grayne, we shall take over the whole blessed country before we've finished, then perhaps they'll raise our screws," and with that he left the room. two minutes later his cheery laugh was heard outside again as he enquired of mr. blair if it were true that he was going to double the reward for the discovery of john dene. a moment later he rejoined sir lyster and admiral heyworth. "i forgot about that flying-boat business," he said, and soon the three were engaged in a technical discussion. for more than three months mr. blair had known peace. he had been able to walk leisurely across st. james's park from his chambers in st. mary's mansions, pause for a moment to look at the pelicans, dwell upon the memory of past social engagements and anticipate those to come, receive the salute of the policeman at the door of the admiralty and the respectful bows of the attendants within and walk up the stairs and along the corridors to his room, conscious that in his heart was an abiding peace. it was true that a war raged in various parts of the world, and that mr. blair's work brought him constantly into close touch with the horrors of that war; but it was all so far away, and his was a nature that permitted the contemplation of such matters with philosophical detachment. a scorched shirt-front, an ill-ironed collar, or an omelette that was not all an omelette should be, bulked vastly more in mr. blair's imagination than the fall of kut, the over-running of roumania, or the tragedy of caporetto. national disaster he could bear with a stoical calm befitting in a man of long ancestry; but personal discomfort reduced him to a state of acute nervousness. the hun ravaged belgium, invaded russia, over-ran lombardy; mr. blair was appropriately shocked and, on occasion, expressed his indignation in a restrained and well-bred manner; but john dene crashing in upon the atmosphere of intellectual quiet and material content with which mr. blair was surrounded, ravaged his nerves and produced in him something of a mental palpitation. therefore of the two events the irruptions of john dene were infinitely more disturbing to mr. blair than those of the hordes of the modern attila. mr. blair sat at his table, pen in hand, before him a pad of virgin blotting paper. his thoughts had wandered back to a dinner-party at which he had been present the previous night. his eyes were fixed upon an antique family ring he wore upon the fourth finger of his left-hand. the dinner had been a success, a conspicuous success. he was conscious of having shone by virtue of the tactful way in which he had parried certain direct and rather impertinent questions of a professional nature addressed to him by one of the guests. they related to the disappearance of john dene. mr. blair had experienced an additional gratification from the discovery that he had been able to hear mentioned the name of john dene without experiencing an inward thrill of misgiving. as he sat this morning, pen in hand, he pondered over the subject of john dene in relation to himself, reginald blair. possibly he had been a little weak in not standing more upon his dignity with this rough and uncouth colonial. in such cases a bold and determined front was all that was necessary. of course there would have been one great contest, and mr. blair detested such things; but--yes, he had been weak. in future he---"here, who the hell's shut my offices, and where's miss west?" the pen slipped from mr. blair's limp hand, and his jaw dropped as he found himself gazing up into the angry eyes of john dene, who had entered the room like a tornado. "this ain't a seal tank and it's not feeding time," cried john dene angrily. "who's shut my offices?" then with a sudden look in the direction of the door he called out, "here, come in, jasp." mr. blair looked more than ever like a seal as he gazed stupidly at john dene. his eyes widened at the uncouth appearance of "spotty" quinton. mr. blair started violently as spotty, seeing the fireplace, expectorated towards it with astonishing accuracy. spotty could always be depended upon to observe the rules of good breeding in such matters. when a room possessed a fireplace, the ornaments and carpet were always safe as far as he was concerned. mr. blair gazed stupidly at his visitors. "i--i----" he stammered. without a word john dene turned, strode across the room and, opening sir lyster's door, disappeared, closing the door behind him with a bang. sir lyster was in the act of reaching across the table for a letter that sir bridgman was handing him. both men turned to see the cause of the interruption. sir bridgman dropped the letter, and sir lyster slowly withdrew his arm as he gazed in a dazed manner at john dene. sir bridgman was the first to recover from his surprise. "why, it's john dene!" he cried heartily, as he rose and grasped the interrupter's hand. "where the deuce have you been hiding all this time?" "what the hell have you done with that girl, and who's closed my offices?" demanded john dene, looking from sir bridgman to the first lord. "girl! what girl?" enquired sir lyster. "miss west," snapped john dene. "miss west!" repeated sir lyster vaguely, then memory suddenly coming to his aid he added weakly, "yes, i remember. she became your secretary." john dene regarded him steadily. sir bridgman hid a smile, he always enjoyed a situation that brought sir lyster into antagonism with john dene. "yes; but that don't help any," cried john dene irascibly. "where is she now?" "really, mr. dene," began sir lyster stiffly, when his gaze suddenly became fixed on the door, which had opened slowly, whilst round the corner appeared the unprepossessing features of spotty quinton. following the direction of sir lyster's eyes, john dene saw his henchman. "come right in, jasp," he cried, and spotty sidled round the door cap in hand. catching sight of the fireplace, he expectorated neatly into it. sir lyster stared at him as if he had suddenly appeared from another planet. "this is jasp. quinton, one of my boys," announced john dene, looking from sir lyster to sir bridgman with a "take it or leave it" air. sir bridgman advanced a step and held out his hand, which spotty clasped warmly, first however, wiping his hand on the leg of his trousers with the air of a man unaccustomed to his hands being in a fit condition for the purpose of greeting. "pleased to meet you," said spotty briefly. "how's the _destroyer_?" asked sir bridgman with some eagerness. "ruddy miracle," said spotty, as he once more got the fireplace dead in the centre. sir lyster seemed temporarily to have lost the power of speech. he gazed at quinton as if hypnotised by the inequality of his complexion. when he expectorated sir lyster's eyes wandered from spotty to the fireplace, as if to assure himself that a bull had really been registered. at last by an obvious effort he turned to john dene. "i congratulate you upon your escape," he said, "but i thought you were too ill to----" "my escape!" replied john dene. "yes, from that place--where was it, north?" he turned to sir bridgman. "streatham." "ah! yes, streatham." "i've been up north sending huns to merry hell, where i'd like to send the whole admiralty outfit," was the uncompromising retort. "i've come into contact with some fools----" john dene broke off. "shutting up my offices," he muttered. "but----" began sir lyster, then paused. "i've been over to chiswick and she's not there; flat's shut," continued john dene. "chiswick!" repeated sir lyster. "whose flat?" "mrs. west's, and you've shut my offices," he added, with the air of one unwilling to relinquish an obvious grievance. "but i understood that you had just been released from a house in streatham," persisted sir lyster. "well, there's a good many mutts in this place who've been released too soon. you're talking about jim." "jim!" repeated sir lyster, "jim who?" "my brother. they were all after me good and hard, so jim came along, and i just slipped up north with your man." "then you were the fellow with red hair all over him," laughed sir bridgman. "sure," was the laconic reply. "they were out for me," he continued a moment later, "and i'd never have got away. jim didn't mind." "but where is he now?" asked sir lyster. "he's probably the john dene that they think was released from that place in streatham," suggested sir bridgman. "jim's all right," said john dene, "but where's miss west and my keys?" at that moment the telephone bell rang. sir lyster lifted the receiver from the rest and listened. "yes, that's all right, thank you, blair," he said; then turning to john dene he added, "mr. blair has your keys and he also has miss west's address at bournemouth." "here, come on, jasp.," cried john dene, just as spotty was in the act of letting fly at the fireplace for the sixth time. he turned a reproachful gaze upon his chief. "but the _destroyer_?" broke in admiral bridgman. "she has been doing her bit," said john dene grimly. "she's refitting now. i'm off to bournemouth, and spotty's going north to-night with some indents." "mr. dene," began sir lyster in his most impressive manner, "your patriotism has---"here, forget it," and with that john dene was gone, followed by his lieutenant, leaving sir lyster, sir bridgman and admiral heyworth gazing at the door that closed behind him. as spotty passed mr. blair he turned and, thrusting his face forward, growled, "ruddy tyke." it was his way of indicating loyalty to his chief; but it spoiled mr. blair's lunch. for some moments after john dene had gone, sir lyster and sir bridgman and admiral heyworth gazed at each other without speaking. "do you think it's drink, grayne, or only the heat?" sir bridgman laughed. sir lyster winced and looked across at him as a man might at a boy who has just blown a trumpet in his ear. without replying he lifted the telephone receiver from its rest. "get me through to the prime minister. what's that? yes, sir bridgman's here. very well, we'll come round at once." as he replaced the receiver he rose. "the prime minister would like us to step round," he said. "walton and sage are there. it's about john dene." "seen john dene?" asked sir bridgman of mr. blair, as they passed through the room. "you'd better apply for that twenty thousand pounds, blair." sir lyster wondered why sir bridgman persisted in his jokes, however much they might have become frayed at the edges. when they entered mr. llewellyn john's room it was to find him a veritable aurora borealis of smiles. he was obviously in the best of spirits. "john dene has been found," he cried before his callers had taken the chairs to which he waved them. "we left poor blair with the same conviction," laughed sir bridgman. "then you know?" "i telephoned sir lyster," said colonel walton. "mr. dene has only just left us," explained sir lyster. "he was extremely annoyed at the closing of his office and the disappearance of his secretary." "but----" mr. llewellyn john looked from colonel walton to malcolm sage, and then on to sir lyster in bewilderment. "perhaps, sage----" suggested colonel walton. "you'd better tell the story, sage, as colonel walton suggests," said mr. llewellyn john. "there is an official report in preparation," said colonel walton. mr. llewellyn john nodded. in the course of the next half-hour malcolm sage kept his hearers in a state of breathless interest by the story of the coming and going of john dene, as known to department z. "i gave mr. dene the credit of being possessed of more than the ordinary amount of what he calls 'head-filling,'" began sage, "but i didn't realise at first that he possessed a twin brother; but i'll begin at the beginning." "when you turned over the matter to department z.," continued malcolm sage, "we made exhaustive inquiries and discovered that the huns were determined to prevent the _destroyer_ from putting to sea, and they were prepared at any cost to stop mr. dene from going north. in canada and on the way over they made attempts upon his life; but then, as so frequently happens, they became the victims of divided councils. they wanted the plans. thanks to, er--certain happenings they learned that the _destroyer_ would not sail without mr. dene." "how?" interpolated mr. llewellyn john "they obtained the guarantee." "i remember," said mr. llewellyn john, "it was stolen." "mr. dene used to leave his safe open with such papers in it as he wanted the enemy to see. that's what he meant when on one occasion he said, 'if you've got a hungry dog feed it.'" sir bridgman north laughed, sir lyster turned to him reproachfully. "mr. dene became convinced that an effort would be made to kidnap and hold him to ransom, the price being the plans of the _destroyer_. department z. also became convinced of this, but at a later date. as a precaution john dene sent to england by another ship his twin brother, known as james grant. when everything was ready the two changed places; that accounted for the strangeness of manner that miss west noticed with mr. dene a few days before his disappearance." malcolm sage then went on to explain the method by which the false john dene had been kidnapped, and of department z.'s discovery with relation to mr. montagu naylor. "but all that time what happened to the _destroyer_?" "the _destroyer_ was responsible for the extraordinary increase in the mortality among u-boats." mr. llewellyn john jumped from his chair as if he had been thrown up by a hidden spring. "but--but----" he began. "mr. dene hit upon a clever ruse," continued sage, "and----" "but the advertisements! did you know this at the time?" "it was known at department z., sir, and the advertisements were to convince the hun of our eagerness to find john dene so that we might start operations." "i see, i see," cried mr. llewellyn john; "but how on earth did you ferret all this out?" "we just sat down, sir, and waited for the other side to make mistakes," said malcolm sage quietly, "just as the opposition does in the house of commons," he added slyly. and mr. llewellyn john smiled. "it was better to say nothing about the finlay business," said malcolm sage, as he and colonel walton walked back to st. james's square. "it's results they're concerned with." colonel walton nodded. "we must see john dene, however," he said. "if only for the good of his own soul," said sage, as he knocked his pipe against a railing. chapter xix commander john dene goes to bournemouth i late one afternoon when dorothy and mrs. west were walking along the christchurch road on their way back to the boarding-house for dinner, dorothy suddenly gave vent to an exclamation, and with both hands clutched her mother's arm so fiercely that she winced with the pain. "look, mother," she cried, "it's----" following the direction of her daughter's eyes mrs. west saw walking sturdily towards them on the other side of the road, a man in the uniform of a naval commander. in his mouth was a cigar, from which he was puffing volumes of smoke. with a little cry mrs. west recognised him. it was john dene of toronto. there was no mistaking that truculent, aggressive air of a man who knows his own mind, and is determined that every one else shall know it too. suddenly dorothy released her mother's arm and, running across the road, planted herself directly in john dene's path. "mr. dene!" she cried, when he was within a yard or two of her. several passers-by turned their heads. for a fraction of a moment john dene gazed at the apparition in front of him, not recognising dorothy in the white frock and large hat that shaded her eyes. then with what was to him a super-smile, he held out his hand. "say, this is bully," he cried, giving dorothy a grip that caused her to wince. "i've just been to your apartment-house and found you out." then catching sight of mrs. west, "why, there's your mother," he cried and, gripping dorothy's arm with an enthusiasm that she was convinced would leave bruises, he guided her across the road. a moment later mrs. west was having the greatest difficulty in preserving a straight face under john dene's vigorous greeting. "i've been chasing all over robin hood's barn to find you," he cried, still clasping mrs. west's hand. "and according to the papers other people have been doing the same with you," said dorothy, deciding in her own mind that john dene ought to spend the rest of his life in uniform. it gave him a distinction that hitherto he had lacked in the ill-cut and ill-made clothes he habitually wore. "i found these waiting for me at my hotel," he said, looking down at himself, as if divining her thoughts. "i ordered them way back," he added. "you look very nice, mr. dene," said mrs. west, smiling happily. she had not yet recovered from her surprise. "all the girls are turning and envying mother and me," said dorothy mischievously. "envying you?" john dene turned upon her a look of interrogation. "for being with you," she explained. for some reason john dene's face fell. mrs. west hastened to the rescue. "we've all been so anxious about you," she smiled. "we--we thought----" "and shall i get twenty thousand pounds if i give you up to a policeman?" asked dorothy. she felt she wanted to cry from sheer happiness. "reward's withdrawn. haven't you seen the papers?" he said practically; "but they nearly did for jim," he added inconsequently. "jim!" repeated dorothy. "who is jim?" "my brother," was the reply. "he took my place and i went north." "oooooooh!" gradually light was dawning upon dorothy. "then it wasn't you who forgot where the stamps were kept and," she added wickedly, "seemed to disapprove of me so." "disapprove of _you_!" john dene managed to precipitate such a wealth of meaning into the words that dorothy felt herself blushing furiously. even mrs. west appeared a little embarrassed at his directness. "here, it's about time we had some food," he said, turning his wrist to see the time. "we were just going home to dinner," said mrs. west. "won't you come with us?" "i want you to come right along to my hotel. i've booked a table for you." "that's not very complimentary to our attractiveness, mr. dene," said dorothy. again john dene turned to her with a puzzled look in his eyes. "you should have assumed that two such desirable people as mother and me were dining out every night, shouldn't he, mother?" john dene turned to mrs. west, his brows meeting in a frown of uncertainty. "dorothy will never be serious," she explained with a little sigh. "she's only joking," whereat john dene's face cleared, and without further ado he hailed a taxi. as sir bridgman north had said, john dene never waited to be contradicted. that evening many of the diners at the imperial turned their heads in the direction of a table at which sat a man in the uniform of a naval commander, a fair-haired girl and a little white-haired lady, the happiness of whose face seemed to arouse responsive smiles in those who gazed at her. slowly and haltingly john dene told of what had happened since that wednesday night some three months before when his brother had taken his place. although john dene never hesitated when telling of what he was going to do, he seemed to experience considerable difficulty in narrating what he had actually done. "and aren't you happy?" enquired dorothy, her eyes sparkling with excitement at the story of what the _destroyer_, her _destroyer_, had done. "sure," he replied, looking straight into her eyes, whereat she dropped her gaze to the peach upon her plate. "i feel very proud that i know you, mr. dene," said mrs. west, her eyes moist with happiness. "proud to know me!" he repeated, and then as if mrs. west's statement held some subtle humour that he alone had seen, he smiled. "why do you smile?" asked dorothy, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. "well, it tickled me some." "what did?" she demanded. "that anyone should be proud to know me," he said simply. "perhaps it's because you've never gingered mother up," said dorothy pertly. "dorothy!" mrs. west looked anxiously at john dene, but his eyes were on dorothy. "and are you glad to know me?" he demanded "'proud' was the word," corrected dorothy, playing with her fruit knife. "'glad' will do," he said, watching her keenly. "are you glad i'm back." "'you see i'm your secretary," she said demurely, "and i'm--i'm paid to be glad, aren't i?" john dene's face fell. "when you get to know her better," said mrs. west, "you will see that she only teases her friends." "and her poor mother," put in dorothy. "when do we resume work, mr. dene?" she asked, turning to him. "we'll go back to-morrow a.m.," he said, obviously relieved at the suggestion. "but our holidays!" cried dorothy in mock consternation. "you can have as long a vacation as you like when i'm through," was the answer, and dorothy drew a sigh of relief. she was longing to get back to work. that night she and mrs. west sat up until dawn was fingering the east, talking of the miraculous reappearance of john dene of toronto, as they leisurely packed ready for the morrow. ii for nearly an hour john dene had sat in his chair listening. from time to time he gave to the unlit half-cigar in his mouth a rapid twirl with his tongue; but beyond that he had manifested no sign of emotion. quietly and as succinctly as possible malcolm sage had gone over the happenings of the last few months, telling of the discovery of mr. montagu naylor's secret code, how it had enabled department z. to enlarge the scope of its operations, how finlay had hampered mr. naylor in his murderous intentions with regard to his prisoner by suggesting the displeasure that would be created in high quarters, if anything happened to john dene before the plans of the _destroyer_ had been secured. "i didn't figure on jim getting corralled," said john dene at length. "that was where your reasoning was at fault," was malcolm sage's quiet retort. "i warned him," began john dene; then a moment later he added, "i'd hate to have anything happen to jim. he seems all used up." "he'll be all right in a month or so," said colonel walton reassuringly. "he's always sort of been around when i've wanted things done, has jim," continued john dene with a note of real feeling in his voice. "he's a white man, clean to the bone." malcolm sage had already learned all he wanted to know with regard to james dene. quiet, taciturn, seldom uttering more than a word or two at a time, and then only when absolutely necessary, he was entirely devoid of the brilliant qualities of his brother, for whom, however, he possessed an almost dog-like affection. all their lives it had been john who had planned things, and james who had stood admiringly by. "i was tickled to death about those advertisements," said john dene presently. "you probably thought we were barking up the wrong tree," suggested colonel walton. "sure, until you put me wise." "we were trying to play into your hands and save your brother," said malcolm sage, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe against the heel of his boot, and proceeded to stuff tobacco into the bowl. "if it hadn't been for those advertisements----" began john dene, then he paused. "the first hole dug in mr. naylor's back-garden would have been filled-in again," said sage quietly. "but how did they manage jim after he'd got into that taxi?" "the driver released a multiple curtain that fell over his head. as it dropped chloroform was sprayed over it. quite a simple automatic contrivance." there was a look in john dene's eyes that would have been instructive to mr. naylor could he have seen it. "they took him right out into the country," continued sage, "then brought him to and doped him. he was taken to 'the cedars' between one and two the next morning. that was where we picked up the scent again," he added. as sage ceased speaking, colonel walton offered his cigar-case to john dene, who, taking a cigar proceeded to light it. "by the way, mr. dene," said sage casually, "do you remember some one treading on your toe at king's cross the night you were going north. you were quite annoyed about it." john dene nodded and looked across at sage, as if expecting something further. "that was one of our men." "but----" "i told him to tread on your toe," proceeded malcolm sage, "so that you might remember that department z. was not quite so----" "now it gets me," cried john dene. "it was you who trod on my foot at the theatre." "at 'chu chin chow,'" said malcolm sage, smiling. "seems to be a sort of stunt of yours," said john dene as he rose. "going, mr. dene?" enquired colonel walton. "yep!" he said, as he shook hands with each in turn, then with an air of conviction added: "i take it all back. you'd do well in t'ronto:" and with a nod he went out. "i wonder if that's a testimonial to us, or a reflection upon toronto," murmured malcolm sage, as he polished his nails with a silk handkerchief. "what i like about colonials," remarked colonel walton drily, "is their uncompromising directness." whilst john dene was removing, from the list of things that required gingering-up, department z. and its two chiefs, mr. llewellyn john was engaged in reading commander ryles's report upon the operations of the _destroyer_. it proved to be one of the most remarkable documents of the war. first it described how the _destroyer_ had hung about the danish coast, but had been greatly embarrassed by the density of the water, owing to the shallowness of the north sea. she had carefully to seek out the clear passages where the depth was sufficiently great to prevent the discolouration of water by sand. after the first few weeks the _destroyer_ had been brought south, there to catch u-boats soon after they submerged. that was where the germans suffered their greatest losses. once the _destroyer_ had penetrated right into the heligoland bight, her "eyes" enabling her to avoid submerged mines and entanglements. commander ryles had himself witnessed the destruction of thirty-four u-boats. three times the _destroyer_ had returned to her base to re-victual and recharge her batteries, also to rest her crew. at the termination of the third trip, it had been decided that the boat was badly in need of a thorough overhaul, and in accordance with the instructions received, he had prepared his report and brought it south in order that he might deliver it in person to the first lord. when he had finished the lengthy document, mr. llewellyn john laid it on the table beside him. for some minutes he sat thinking. presently he pressed the knob of the bell. as a secretary appeared he said, "ring through to sir roger flynn, and tell him i shall be delighted if he can breakfast with me to-morrow." and mr. llewellyn john smiled. chapter xx john dene's proposal marjorie rogers had entered the outer office at waterloo place expecting to find dorothy. instead, john dene sat half-turned in her direction, with one arm over the back of the chair. "she's gone home," he said, divining the cause of marjorie's call. the girl slipped into the room, softly closing the door behind her, and walked a hesitating step or two in john dene's direction, a picture of shy maidenhood. marjorie rogers was an instinctive actress. "gone home!" she repeated as a conversational opening. "is she ill?" she gave him a look from beneath her lashes, a look she had found equally deadly with subs and captains. john dene shook his head, but continued to gaze at her. he was a very difficult man to talk to, marjorie decided. she had already come to the conclusion that she had been wrong in her suspicion that he made love to dorothy. "you don't like us, do you, mr. dene?" she made a half-step in his direction, dropping her eyes and drawing in her under lip in a way that had once nearly caused a rear-admiral to strike his colours. "like who?" demanded john dene, wondering why the girl stayed now that he had told her dorothy had gone home. "us girls." marjorie flashed at him the sub-captain look. "may i sit down?" she asked softly. "sure." john dene was regarding her much as he might a blue zebra that had strayed into his office. "thank you, mr. dene." marjorie sat down, crossing her legs in a way that gave him the full benefit of a dainty foot and ankle. she had on her very best silk stockings, silk all the way up, so that there need be no anxiety as to the exact whereabouts of her skirt. "i have been wondering about wessie----" "wessie, who's she, a cat?" marjorie dimpled, then she laughed outright. "you are funny, mr. dene," and again she drew in her lower lip and raked him with her eyes. "who's wessie, anyhow?" he demanded. "wessie's dorothy," she explained. "you see," she went on, "her name's west and----" "i get you." john dene continued to regard her with a look that suggested he was still at a loss to account for her presence. "as i said," she continued, "i've been wondering about dorothy." "wondering what?" john dene was certainly a most difficult man to talk to, she decided. "she's thinner," announced marjorie after a slight pause. "thinner?" "yes, not so fat." how absurd he was with his---"she never was fat." there was decision in john dene's tone. "you know, mr. dene, you're very difficult for a girl to talk to," said marjorie. "i never had time to learn," he said simply. "i think it's through you, mr. dene." she gave him a little fugitive smile she had learned from an american film, and had practised assiduously at home. "what's through me?" he demanded, hopelessly at sea as to her drift. "at first i thought you were working her too hard, mr. dene, but," she added hastily, as if in anticipation of protest, "but--but----" "but what?" john dene rapped out the words with a peremptoriness that startled marjorie. "but when you got lost----" she hesitated. "got what?" "i mean when you disappeared," she added hastily, "then i knew." "knew what?" marjorie no longer had any doubts about john dene's interest in dorothy. he had swung round his chair, and was now seated directly facing her. "you know she worried," continued marjorie, "and she got pale and----" again she paused. john dene continued to stare in a way that made her frightened to look up, although she watched him furtively through her lowered lashes. "is that what you came here to say?" demanded john dene. "i--i came to see dorothy, and now i must run away," she cried, jumping up. "i've got an appointment. good-bye, mr. dene. thank you for asking me in;" and she held out her hand, which john dene took as a man takes a circular thrust upon him. a moment later marjorie had fluttered out, closing the door behind her. "well, that's given him something to think about," she murmured, as she walked down the stairs. "wessie must have me down to stay with her. he's sure to get a title;" and she made for the tube, there to join the westward-rolling tide of patient humanity that cheerfully pays for a seat and hangs on a strap. for nearly an hour john dene sat at his table as marjorie had left him, twirling in his mouth a half-smoked cigar that had not been alight since the early morning. his face was expressionless, but in his eyes there was a strange new light. the next morning when dorothy arrived at the office, she found sir bridgman north with john dene, who was angry. "just because somebody's lost a spanner, or a screw-driver, they're raising cain about it. look at all these," and he waved a bunch of papers in front of sir bridgman. "it's a way they have in the navy. we never lose sight of anything." "except the main issue, winning the war," snapped john dene. "oh, we'll get on with that when we've found the spanner," laughed sir bridgman good humouredly. "i don't want to be worried about a ten cent spanner, and have a couple of letters a day about it," grumbled john dene, "and i won't have it." "what i used to do," said sir bridgman, "was just to tell them that everything possible should be done. then they feel happier and don't worry so much. why i once lost a 12-inch gun, and they were quite nice about it when i told them that somebody must have put it aside for safety, and that it had probably got mislaid in consequence. i never found that gun. you see, dene," he added a moment later, "we indent everything--except an admiral, and it doesn't matter much if he gets lost." john dene grumbled something in his throat. he was still smarting under the demands from the stores department to produce forthwith the missing article. "now i must be off," said sir bridgman, and with a nod to john dene and a smile to dorothy he departed. all the morning john dene was restless. he seemed unable to concentrate upon anything. several times he span round in his revolving chair with a "say, miss west;" but as soon as dorothy raised her eyes from her work, he seemed to lose the thread of his ideas and, with a mumbled incoherence, turned to the mechanical sorting of the papers before him. dorothy was puzzled to account for his strangeness of manner, and after a time determined that he must be ill. presently he jumped up and began restlessly pacing the room. three times he paused beside dorothy as she was engaged in checking inventories. immediately she looked up, he pivoted round on his heel and restarted the pacing, twirling between his lips the cigar that had gone out an hour before. on the fourth occasion that he stood looking down at her, dorothy turned. "if you do that, i shall scream," she cried. he stepped back a pace, obviously disconcerted by her threat. "do what?" he enquired. "why, prance up and down like that, and then come and stand over me. it--it makes me nervous," she added lamely, as she returned to her work. "sorry," said john dene, as he threw himself once more into his chair. suddenly with an air of decision, dorothy put down her pencil and turning, faced him. "aren't you well, mr. dene?" she inquired. "well," he repeated with some asperity. "of course i'm well." "oh!" she said, disconcerted by his manner. then for a moment there was silence. "why shouldn't i be well?" he demanded uncompromisingly. "no reason at all," said dorothy indifferently, "only----" she paused. "only what?" he enquired sharply. "only," she continued calmly, "you seem a little--a little--may i say jumpy?" she looked up at him with a smile. without replying he sprang from his chair, and once more started pacing the room with short, nervous strides, his head thrust forward, his left hand in his jacket pocket, his right hanging loosely at his side. "that's it!" he exclaimed at last. dorothy continued to regard him in wonder. something of vital importance must have happened, she decided, to produce this effect on a man of john dene's character. "it's--it's not the _destroyer_" she cried breathlessly at last. "nothing has happened?" john dene shook his head vigorously, and continued his "prancing." "then what----" began dorothy. "listen," he said. "i've never had any use for women," he began, then stopped suddenly and stood looking straight at her. dorothy groaned inwardly, convinced that she was about to be dismissed. in a flash there surged through her mind all that this would mean. she might be taken on again by the admiralty; but at less than half her present salary. it was really rather bad luck, she told herself, when the extra money meant so much to her, and she really had tried to be worth it. "you see, i don't understand them." the remark broke in upon her thoughts as something almost silly in its irrelevancy. again she looked up at him as he stood before her rather as if expecting rebuke. again he span round and continued his pacing of the room. as he walked he threw staccatoed remarks from him rather than directed them at dorothy. "there's nothing wrong with the _destroyer_. when you're after one thing you don't seem to notice all the other things buzzing around. one day you wake up to find out that you've been missing things. i've been telling myself all the time that some things didn't matter, but they do." he paused in front of dorothy, expressing the last three words with almost savage emphasis. "there's never been anybody except jim--and the boys," he added, "until your mother was----" he stopped dead, then a moment later continued: "i'd like her to know." to dorothy his voice seemed a little husky. "may be it'ud please her to think that she had--you see i'm telling you the whole shooting-match," he blurted out as he resumed his restless pacing up and down. "but that's just what you're not doing," said dorothy. "i don't in the least understand what you mean, and--- oh, i wish you could stand still, if only for a minute." instantly john dene stopped in his walk, and stood in the middle of the room looking over dorothy's head. "i'm trying to ask you to marry me, only i haven't got the sand to do it," he blurted out almost angrily. "oh!" dorothy's hands slipped into her lap, her eyes widened and her lips parted, as she looked up at him utterly dumbfounded. "there, i knew what it would mean," he said, as he continued his pacing. "what have i got to offer? look at me. i'm not good-looking. my clothes are not right. i don't wear them properly. i can't say pretty things. the best i can do is to buy flowers and chocolates and express them. i daren't even hand them to you. oh, i've thought it all over. what use am i to a woman?" then as an after-thought he added, "to a girl?" he turned and paced away from dorothy without looking at her. "oh, shucks!" john dene swung round on his heel as if he had been struck. his jaw dropped, his cigar fell from his mouth, and he looked at her as if she had said the most surprising thing he had ever heard. "i said 'shucks'" she repeated. her eyelids flickered a little and she was unusually pale. "you mean----" his voice was far from steady. "i mean," said dorothy quietly, "that a man who could invent the _destroyer_ ought to be able to learn how to talk to--to--be nice to a girl." the last five words came tumbling over each other, as if she had found great difficulty in uttering them, and then had thrown them all out at one time. "say," he began, hope shining from his eyes. then he stopped abruptly and walked over to his chair, throwing himself into it with a sigh. "you mean." "perhaps," said dorothy, dropping her eyes and playing about with a fastening on her blouse, "i might be able to help you." then after a pause she added, "you know you got me a rise." and then john dene smiled. "say, this is great," he cried. "i--i----" then suddenly he jumped up, dashed for his hat and made for the door. as he opened it he threw over his shoulder: "we'll start right in to-morrow. i'm through with work for to-day. i'll be over to-night." then suddenly dorothy laughed. "was ever maid so wooed?" she murmured. "but----" and she left it at that. as she thrust the pins into her hat, she decided that john dene had been right. it would have been awkward to--to--well, to do anything but go home. just as she was about to lock the outer door of the office, she had an inspiration. returning to her table she removed her gloves and, after a few minutes' thought and reference to the london directory, she sat down to her typewriter and for a few minutes her fingers moved busily over the keys. with a determined air she pulled the sheet from the clips and read:- "john dene of toronto. lesson 1. tailors . . . pond and co., 130 sackville street. hosiers . . . tye brothers, 320 jermyn street. bootmakers . ease & treadwell, 630 bond street. hatters . . . messrs. bincoln and lennet, piccadilly. when a man knows his job, let him do it and don't butt in." with a determined little nod of approval, she folded the sheet of paper, inserted it in an envelope, which she addressed to "john dene, esq., the ritzton hotel, s.w. immediate," and left the office. "i wonder what you would think of that, mother mine," she murmured as she left the hotel, after having given strict injunctions that the note be handed to john dene immediately he returned. chapter xxi marjorie rogers pays a call "well, mother darling," cried dorothy, as she jerked the pins into her hat, "you've lost the odd trick." "the odd trick!" repeated mrs. west, looking up with a smile into her daughter's flushed and happy face. "what odd trick?" "john dene of toronto. whoop! i want to jazz. i wonder if he jazzes;" then, with a sudden change of mood she dropped down beside her mother's chair and buried her face in her lap. when she looked up her eyes were wet with tears. "mother, darling, i'm so happy." she smiled a rainbow smile. "what did you mean about the odd trick, dear?" enquired mrs. west greatly puzzled, accustomed as she was to her daughter's rapid change of mood. "john dene's the odd trick," she repeated, "and i'm going to marry him." again she hid her face. "dorothy!" "i am, mother, really and really." she looked up for a moment, then once more she buried her face in her mother's lap. "dorothy dear, what do you mean?" "oh! he was so funny when he proposed," gurgled dorothy, "and i just said 'shucks.' that seemed to please him." "dorothy dear, are you joking?" "not unless john dene's a joke, mother dear," she replied. "wouldn't it be funny to call him jack?" then she told her mother of the happenings of the afternoon. "please say you're glad," she said a little wistfully. "i'm--i'm so surprised, dear," said mrs. west, stroking her daughter's head gently; "but i'm glad, very glad." "i thought you would be, and i shall be lady dene. everybody at the admiralty says he'll get a title, and you'll have to say to the servants, 'is her ladyship at home?' you won't forget, mother, will you?" she looked up with mock anxiety into her mother's face. mrs. west smiled down at dorothy; her eyes too were wet. "but oh! there's such a lot of spade work to be done," continued dorothy. "i shall begin with his boots." "his boots!" "they're so dreadful, mother. they're all built up in front as if they were made to kick with, and when i marry him, if there's any kicking to be done, i'm going to do it." "of course you realise, dear, that he's much older than you," said mrs. west hesitatingly. "he's a perfect baby-in-arms compared with me," she smiled at her mother, a quaint confident little smile. "but you're sure that--that----" mrs. west hesitated. dorothy nodded her head violently. "when----" began mrs. west. "it--it was when he disappeared," she said with averted face. "i--i seemed to miss him so much. oh! but mother," she cried, clasping her mother's knee, "he's so funny, and really he wants someone to look after him. you see," she continued slowly, gazing away from her mother, "it's always difficult to--- what made you love--care for father?" she corrected. "he was your father, dear." "yes; but he wasn't before you married him." "dear, you----" began mrs. west, a flush of embarrassment mounting to her cheeks. "own up, mother, that you don't know. you can't say it was the shape of his nose, or the way he ate, or his chest measurement." "dorothy! why will you never be serious?" protested mrs. west. "i can't, mother," cried dorothy, jumping up and walking over to the window. "no girl ever really knows why she wants to marry a man," she remarked, gazing out of the window. "it's just a feeling. i've got a feeling that i want to take care of john dene, and--and--oh, mother! see to his boots," she finished with a laugh. "i like mr. dene, dorothy," said mrs. west with a decisiveness that was with her uncommon. "i know you do," said dorothy mischievously. "that's what i'm afraid of." "dorothy dear, you mustn't," began mrs. west. "and," continued dorothy relentlessly, "i won't have any poaching. i don't mind his being nice to you," she continued, leaving the window and planting herself in front of her mother, "because you really are rather nice." she tilted her head on one side, a picture of impudence. "now, mrs. west," she said, "the sooner we understand each other the better." again she was back on the stool at her mother's feet. for some minutes there was silence. "mother!" she looked up with grave and serious eyes. "yes, dear." "i always prayed for--for him to come back. i--i--- oh bother!" as the bell rang. "i wonder who that is. we won't answer it." "but we must, dear," expostulated mrs. west. "it might be a friend." "oh, well," cried dorothy, getting up and going out into the tiny hall. a moment later she re-entered, followed by marjorie rogers. "it's marjorie, mother." mrs. west smiled up at her as the girl bent to kiss her. "i've come to know," began marjorie, then she hesitated. "to know what?" asked dorothy. "if it's all right." "if what's all right?" "j. d." "what do you mean, rojjie?" cried dorothy, blushing. "did he propose? you know i ran in this afternoon and gave him a hint." "you what?" cried dorothy aghast. "oh! i just gave him a sort of hint that he was----" "you wretched little creature!" cried dorothy, seizing marjorie and shaking her vigorously. there was a look in her eyes that half frightened the girl. "help! oh, mrs. west!" cried marjorie, "she's killing me." "what did you say to him?" demanded dorothy fiercely. "i just gave him a hint," repeated marjorie airily. "i knew he was in love with you." "what did you say to him?" again dorothy shook her. "oh, wessie, if you do that you'll shake all my hair off, not to speak of my teeth. all i said was that you had wasted away when he was lost, and mind, you've got to ask me down to your place, wherever it is, because it's all through me. oughtn't she, mrs. west?" she appealed. mrs. west smiled a little uncertainly. "marjorie, you're a pig," cried dorothy, "and i don't believe you did go and see him." "oh! didn't i, then why do you suppose i've got my new stockings on?" she cried, lifting her skirts. "children, children," smiled mrs. west. "my chief says he'll be made a baronet, so that'll be all right for the kids," said marjorie. "rojjie!" cried dorothy in confusion, and a moment later she had rushed from the room. when dorothy returned to the little drawing-room a quarter of an hour later, she found that marjorie had accepted mrs. west's invitation to stay to dinner. "is he going to call this evening?" she asked eagerly. "don't be inquisitive," cried dorothy, conscious that she was blushing. "you're in love with him, dorothy, aren't you?" persisted marjorie. "oh, mother, please tread on this horrid little creature," cried dorothy; but mrs. west merely smiled. "you know," continued marjorie candidly, "he's not much to look at; but he beats all those boys at the admiralty." she shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "it's nothing but chocolates, lunches and dinners, and take it out in kisses." "my dear," said mrs. west with quiet dignity, "you mustn't talk like that." "i'm so sorry," cried marjorie contritely; "but you know i get so fed up, mrs. west. john dene's so different. if it hadn't have been for dorothy, i should have tried to get him for myself. i could," she added, looking from one to the other. "you could probably get anything in the world except what you most wanted, rojjie," said dorothy sweetly. "what i most wanted," repeated the girl. "yes, dear, a good spanking." marjorie made a face at her. suddenly she jumped up from the table, and throwing her arms round dorothy, kissed her impulsively, then a moment later she returned to her seat, a little shamefacedly as dorothy and mrs. west smiled across at her. "i know you think i'm a feather-headed little cat, mrs. west," said marjorie wisely. "no, don't deny it," she persisted, as mrs. west made a movement as if to speak. "but i'm not worldly all through, really, and i do like john dene, and of course i just love dollikins," she said with a quaint little smile in dorothy's direction. "would you sooner i went?" she asked, looking from one to the other. "sooner you went?" "yes, after dinner, i know that john dene's coming to-night, although dorothy won't own up." "we shouldn't let you go, should we, mother?" mrs. west smiled and shook her head. "oh, won't it be lovely," cried marjorie ecstatically, "when i refer to my friend, lady dene. and you will ask me down, wessie darling, won't you, and get a lot of nice boys." dorothy lowered her eyes to her plate and blushed. later in the evening when they were all sitting in the drawing-room and a ring at the bell was heard, marjorie danced about the room with excitement. "oh, please let me open the door," she cried. "i promise i won't kiss him." "no, dear," said mrs. west. "dorothy." with flaming cheeks and reluctant steps dorothy left the room. it seemed to marjorie a long time before she returned, followed by john dene, who, when he had greeted mrs. west, turned to marjorie and shook hands. "his boots, dorothy," whispered marjorie a minute later. dorothy looked down at john dene's feet. the ugly american "footwear" had been replaced by a pair of well-fitting brown boots. "please, mr. dene, may i be a bridesmaid?" "marjorie!" cried dorothy. "i may, mayn't i?" persisted marjorie. "i'm sure dorothy won't ask me unless you insist." "sure," replied john dene genially. he was always a different man when with mrs. west and dorothy. "you hear, dorothy. if you don't make me chief bridesmaid i shall--i shall create a disturbance and say it's bigamy or something, and that mr. dene has already got two wives in toronto, not to speak of salt lake city. and now i must be running away. oh! mrs. west, you said you would give me that pattern," she said suddenly. "that pattern, dear," began mrs. west, whilst dorothy felt her cheeks burn. "yes, don't you remember?" "what pattern?" began mrs. west, then conscious that marjorie was making hideous grimaces at her, she rose and walked towards the door, leaving john dene and dorothy alone. "no one would ever think you were married, mrs. west," said marjorie severely, as they walked into the dining-room. "don't you know that young people want to be alone when they're only just engaged." this with such a serious little air of womanly worldliness that mrs. west's smile almost developed into a laugh. "don't you think, mrs. west, that god must be pleased when two nice people come together?" said marjorie gravely. mrs. west looked at her with slightly widening eyes, then recovering herself, said, "god is always glad because of happiness, dear." and marjorie nodded her head as if in entire agreement with the sentiment. an hour later, when marjorie had gone, mrs. west entered the drawing-room, having been sent in by dorothy to entertain john dene whilst she wrote a letter. after a few commonplaces they sat in silence, john dene smoking lustily, mrs. west happy in her thoughts. it was the good lord, she decided, who had ordained that dorothy and john dene should fall in love with each other, and thus crown with happiness the autumn of her days. "i've been trying to figure out all the afternoon why she said 'shucks,'" john dene suddenly burst in upon her thoughts in a way that startled her. "said 'shucks!'" she repeated. mrs. west had a habit of repeating a phrase when not quite understanding it, or desirous of gaining time before framing her reply. "sure." "but who said 'shucks'?" she asked, lifting her brows in an endeavour to comprehend, "and--what are 'shucks,' mr. dene?" "shucks," repeated john dene in his turn, "shucks are--are----" he paused, then as if determining that this was a side issue he added: "when i told her to-day that i'd never had any use for girls, and--and----" he looked at mrs. west helplessly. she smiled. "she just said 'shucks.'" "i think she must have meant that you were too modest," said mrs. west softly. "me modest!" john dene sat up straight in his surprise. "i think that is what she must have meant." "i take it that down at the admiralty they don't figure it out that way," he said grimly. "me modest," he repeated. "what have i got to give any girl," he continued presently, "and a girl like--dorothy." the name seemed to come with difficulty. "i'm all wrong," he added with conviction. "i can't talk----" "we love you just for yourself, john," said mrs. west gently. for a moment there was a look of surprise in john dene's eye, then with great deliberation he rose and, walking over to mrs. west, bent down and kissed her cheek. "oh!" john dene started up and, turning to the door, saw dorothy standing on the threshold looking from one to the other, her eyes dancing with mischief. mrs. west had flushed rosily, and with downcast eyes gave the impression of one who had been caught in some illicit act. "so this is what you two get up to when i leave the room," said dorothy severely. "sure," said john dene, "and we'll be getting up to it again, won't we, mother?" and john dene smiled. the end. [transcriber's note: underscored text is indicated by tildes (~), e.g. ~this is underscored~.] books by herbert jenkins bindle some chapters in the life of joseph bindle. one of the most popular books ever written. the night club further episodes in the career of bindle. no less than 37,000 copies were called for within a few weeks of publication. adventures of bindle still more about j. b. two editions, completing 60,000 copies, were ordered before the book appeared. mrs. bindle incidents from the life of the bindles. among other things it tells how mrs. bindle met a bull. the bindles on the rocks another volume of stories of the bindle ménage. poor old bindle loses his job and hard times are endured. john dene of toronto a comedy of whitehall which struck a new note and achieved new success. malcolm sage, detective some chapters from the records of the malcolm sage bureau. a book of thrills and mystery. patricia brent, spinster a comedy of the times, that has stirred five continents to laughter. the rain-girl a romance of to-day, telling how richard beresford set out to tramp the roads as a vagabond. the return of alfred a comedy of mis-identification by which a man is proclaimed a returned prodigal. the stiffsons the troubles of mr. and mrs. stiffson, and how mr. stiffson bought a parrot. the book also contains other stories. the herbert jenkins' wireless the herbert jenkins' wireless is published monthly and it is priceless. in other words it will be sent post-free to all book-lovers--and others. it tells all about the latest herbert jenkins' books. it also contains many good stories and interesting personalities--in the best sense of the term. there are facts about authors and fictions about publishers. above all there is real information about books, not just press-opinions and other people's opinions, but what a book is about. one enthusiastic reader of the herbert jenkins' wireless writes that it has enabled him to discontinue his subscriptions to punch and the times literary supplement! the star in big headlines refers to the h. j. wireless as "gingering up the book trade," and goes on to say that "nothing so ingenious has yet been issued in this country." are you going to send for it to herbert jenkins ltd., 3, york street, st. james's, london, s.w.1? highways in hiding george o. smith a lancer book 1967 copyright 1956 by george o. smith _highways in hiding_ is based upon material originally copyrighted by greenleaf publishing co., 1955. all rights reserved library of congress catalog card no.: 56-10457 printed in the u.s.a. _cover painting by roy g. krenkel_ lancer books, inc., 185 madison avenue, new york, n.y. 10016 [transcriber's note: this is a rule 6 clearance. pg has not been able to find a u.s. copyright renewal.] _for my drinking uncle don and, of course marian_ _historical note_ in the founding days of rhine institute the need arose for a new punctuation mark which would indicate on the printed page that the passage was of mental origin, just as the familiar quotation marks indicate that the words between them were of verbal origin. accordingly, the symbol # was chosen, primarily because it appears on every typewriter. up to the present time, the use of the symbol # to indicate directed mental communication has been restricted to technical papers, term theses, and scholarly treatises by professors, scholars, and students of telepathy. here, for the first time in any popular work, the symbol # is used to signify that the passage between the marks was mental communication. steve cornell, _m. ing._ stalemate macklin said, "please put that weapon down, mr. cornell. let's not add attempted murder to your other crimes." "don't force me to it, then," i told him. but i knew i couldn't do it. i hated them all. i wanted the whole highways in hiding rolled up like an old discarded carpet, with every mekstrom on earth rolled up in it. but i couldn't pull the trigger. the survivors would have enough savvy to clean up the mess before our bodies got cold, and the highways crowd would be doing business at the same old stand. without, i might add, the minor nuisance that people call steve cornell. what i really wanted was to find catherine. and then it came to me that what i really wanted second of all was to possess a body of mekstrom flesh, to be a physical superman.... i i came up out of the blackness just enough to know that i was no longer pinned down by a couple of tons of wrecked automobile. i floated on soft sheets with only a light blanket over me. i hurt all over like a hundred and sixty pounds of boil. my right arm was numb and my left thigh was aching. breathing felt like being stabbed with rapiers and the skin of my face felt stretched tight. there was a bandage over my eyes and the place was as quiet as the grave. but i knew that i was not in any grave because my nose was working just barely well enough to register the unmistakable pungent odor that only goes with hospitals. i tried my sense of perception, but like any delicate and critical sense, perception was one of the first to go. i could not dig out beyond a few inches. i could sense the bed and the white sheets and that was all. some brave soul had hauled me out of that crack-up before the fuel tank went up in the fire. i hope that whoever he was, he'd had enough sense to haul catherine out of the mess first. the thought of living without catherine was too dark to bear, and so i just let the blackness close down over me again because it cut out all pain, both physical and mental. the next time i awoke there was light and a pleasant male voice saying, "steve cornell. steve, can you hear me?" i tried to answer but no sound came out. not even a hoarse croak. the voice went on, "don't try to talk, steve. just think it." #catherine?# i thought sharply, because most medicos are telepath, not perceptive. "catherine is all right," he replied. #can i see her?# "lord no!" he said quickly. "you'd scare her half to death the way you look right now." #how bad off am i?# "you're a mess, steve. broken ribs, compound fracture of the left tibia, broken humerus. scars, mars, abrasions, some flashburn and post-accident shock. and if you're interested, not a trace of mekstrom's disease." #mekstrom's disease--?# was my thought of horror. "forget it, steve. i always check for it because it's been my specialty. don't worry." #okay. so how long have i been here?# "eight days." #eight days? couldn't you do the usual job?# "you were pretty badly ground up, steve. that's what took the time. now, suppose you tell me what happened?" #catherine and i were eloping. just like most other couples do since rhine institute made it difficult to find personal privacy. then we cracked up.# "what did it?" asked the doctor. "perceptives like you usually sense danger before you can see it." #catherine called my attention to a peculiar road sign, and i sent my perception back to take another dig. we hit the fallen limb of a tree and went over and over. you know the rest.# "bad," said the doctor. "but what kind of a sign would call your interest so deep that you didn't at least see the limb, even if you were perceiving the sign?" #peculiar sign,# i thought. ornamental wrought iron gizmo with curlicues and a little decorative circle that sort of looks like the boy scout tenderfoot badge suspended on three spokes. one of the spokes were broken away; i got involved because i was trying to guess whether it had been shot away by some vandal who missed the central design. then--blooie!# "it's really too bad, steve. but you'll be all right in a while." #thanks, doctor. doctor? doctor--?# "sorry, steve. i forget that everybody is not telepath like i am. i'm james thorndyke." much later i began to wake up again, and with better clarity of mind, i found that i could extend my esper as far as the wall and through the door by a few inches. it was strictly hospital all right; sere white and stainless steel as far as my esper could reach. in my room was a nurse, rustling in starched white. i tried to speak, croaked once, and then paused to form my voice. "can--i see--how is--? where is?" i stopped again, because the nurse was probably as esper as i was and required a full sentence to get the thought behind it. only a telepath like the doctor could have followed my jumbled ideas. but the nurse was good. she tried: "mr. cornell? you're awake!" "look--nurse--" "take it easy. i'm miss farrow. i'll get the doctor." "no--wait. i've been here eight days--?" "but you were badly hurt, you know." "but the doctor. he said that she was here, too." "don't worry about it, mr. cornell." "but he said that she was not badly hurt." "she wasn't." "then why was--is--she here so long?" miss farrow laughed cheerfully. "your christine is in fine shape. she is still here because she wouldn't leave until you were well out of danger. now stop fretting. you'll see her soon enough." her laugh was light but strained. it sounded off-key because it was as off-key as a ten-yard-strip of baldfaced perjury. she left in a hurry and i was able to esper as far as outside the door, where she leaned back against the wood and began to cry. she was hating herself because she had blown her lines and she knew that i knew it. and catherine had never been in this hospital, because if she had been brought in with me, the nurse would have known the right name. not that it mattered to me now, but miss farrow was no esper or she'd have dug my belongings and found catherine's name on the license. miss farrow was a telepath; i'd not called my girl by name, only by an affectionate mental image. ii i was fighting my body upright when doctor thorndyke came running. "easy, steve," he said with a quiet gesture. he pushed me gently back down in the bed with hands that were as soft as a mother's, but as firm as the kind that tie bow knots in half-inch bars. "easy," he repeated soothingly. "catherine?" i croaked pleadingly. thorndyke fingered the call button in some code or other before he answered me. "steve," he said honestly, "you can't be kept in ignorance forever. we hoped it would be a little longer, when you were stronger--" "stop beating around!" i yelled. at least it felt like i was yelling, but maybe it was only my mind welling. "easy, steve. you've had a rough time. shock--" the door opened and a nurse came in with a hypo all loaded, its needle buried in a fluff of cotton. thorndyke eyed it professionally and took it; the nurse faded quietly from the room. "take it easy, steve. this will--" "no! not until i know--" "easy," he repeated. he held the needle up before my eyes. "steve," he said, "i don't know whether you have enough esper training to dig the contents of this needle, but if you haven't, will you please trust me? this contains a neurohypnotic. it won't put you under. it will leave you as wide awake as you are now, but it will disconnect your running gear and keep you from blowing a fuse." then with swift deftness that amazed me, the doctor slid the needle into my arm and let me have the full load. i was feeling the excitement rise in me because something was wrong, but i could also feel the stuff going to work. within half a minute i was in a chilled-off frame of mind that was capable of recognizing the facts but not caring much one way or the other. when he saw the stuff taking hold, thorndyke asked, "steve, just who is catherine?" the shock almost cut through the drug. my mind whirled with all the things that catherine was to me, and the doctor followed it every bit of the way. "steve, you've been under an accident shock. there was no catherine with you. there was no one with you at all. understand that and accept it. no one. you were alone. do you understand?" i shook my head. i sounded to myself like an actor reading the script of a play for the first time. i wanted to pound on the table and add the vigor of physical violence to my hoarse voice, but all i could do was to reply in a calm voice: "catherine was with me. we were--" i let it trail off because thorndyke knew very well what we were doing. we were eloping in the new definition of the word. rhine institute and its associated studies had changed a lot of customs; a couple intending to commit matrimony today were inclined to take off quietly and disappear from their usual haunts until they'd managed to get intimately acquainted with one another. elopement was a means of finding some personal privacy. we should have stayed at home and faced the crude jokes that haven't changed since pithecanthropus first discovered that sex was funny. but our mutual desire to find some privacy in this modern fish-bowl had put me in the hospital and catherine--where--? "steve, listen to me!" "yeah?" "i know you espers. you're sensitive, maybe more so than telepaths. more imagination--" this was for the birds in my estimation. among the customs that rhine has changed was the old argument as to whether women or men were smarter. now the big argument was whether espers or telepaths could get along better with the rest of the world. thorndyke laughed at my objections and went on: "you're in accident shock. you piled up your car. you begin to imagine how terrible it would have been if your catherine had been with you. next you carefully build up in your subconscious mind a whole and complete story, so well put together that to you it seems to be fact." but, #--how could anyone have taken a look at the scene of the accident and not seen traces of woman? my woman.# "we looked," he said in answer to my unspoken question. "there was not a trace, steve." #fingerprints?# "you'd been dating her." #naturally!# thorndyke nodded quietly. "there were a lot of her prints on the remains of your car. but no one could begin to put a date on them, or tell how recent was the latest, due to the fire. then we made a door to door canvas of the neighborhood to be sure she hadn't wandered off in a daze and shock. not even a footprint. nary a trace." he shook his head unhappily. "i suppose you're going to ask about that travelling bag you claim to have put in the trunk beside your own. there was no trace of any travelling bag." "doctor," i asked pointedly, "if we weren't together, suppose you tell me first why i had a marriage license in my pocket; second, how come i made a date with the reverend towle in midtown; and third, why did i bother to reserve the bridal suite in the reignoir hotel in westlake? or was i nuts a long time before this accident. maybe," i added, "after making reservations, i had to go out and pile myself up as an excuse for not turning up with a bride." "i--all i can say is that there was not a trace of woman in that accident." "you've been digging in my mind. did you dig her telephone number?" he looked at me blankly. "and you found what, when you tried to call her?" "i--er--" "her landlady told you that miss lewis was not in her apartment because miss lewis was on her honeymoon, operating under the name of mrs. steve cornell. that about it?" "all right. so now you know." "then where the hell is she, doc?" the drug was not as all-powerful as it had been and i was beginning to feel excitement again. "we don't know, steve." "how about the guy that hauled me out of that wreck? what does he say?" "he was there when we arrived. the car had been hauled off you by block and tackle. by the time we got there the tackle had been burned and the car was back down again in a crumpled mass. he is a farmer by the name of harrison. he had one of his older sons with him, a man about twenty-four, named phillip. they both swore later that there was no woman in that car nor a trace of one." "oh, he did, did he?" dr. thorndyke shook his head slowly and then said very gently. "steve, there's no predicting what a man's mind will do in a case of shock. i've seen 'em come up with a completely false identity, all the way back to childhood. now, let's take your case once more. among the other incredible items--" "incredible?" i roared. "easy. hear me out. after all, am i to believe your unsubstantiated story or the evidence of a whole raft of witnesses, the police detail, the accident squad, and the guys who hauled you out of a burning car before it blew up? as i was saying, how can we credit much of your tale when you raved about one man lifting the car and the other hauling you out from underneath?" i shrugged. "that's obviously a mistaken impression. no one could--" "so when you admit that one hunk of your story is mistaken--" "that doesn't prove the rest is false!" "the police have been tracking this affair hard," said the doctor slowly. "they've gotten nowhere. tell me, did anyone see you leave that apartment with miss lewis?" "no," i said slowly. "no one that knew us." thorndyke shook his head unhappily. "that's why we have to assume that you are in post-accident shock." i snorted angrily. "then explain the license, the date with the reverend, the hotel reservation?" thorndyke said quietly, "hear me out, steve. this is not my own idea alone, but the combined ideas of a number of people who have studied the human mind--" "in other words, i'm nuts?" "no. shock." "shock?" he nodded very slowly. "let's put it this way. let's assume that you wanted this marriage with miss lewis. you made preparations, furnished an apartment, got a license, made a date with a preacher, reserved a honeymoon suite, and bought flowers for the bride. you take off from work, arrive at her door, only to find that miss lewis has taken off for parts unknown. maybe she left you a letter--" "letter!" "hear me out, steve. you arrive at her apartment and find her gone. you read a letter from her saying that she cannot marry you. this is a rather deep shock to you and you can't face it. know what happens?" "i blow my brains out along a country road at ninety miles per hour." "please, this is serious." "it sounds incredibly stupid to me." "you're rejecting it in the same way you rejected the fact that miss lewis ran away rather than marry you." "do go on, doctor." "you drive along the same road you'd planned to take, but the frustration and shock pile up to put you in an accident-prone frame of mind. you then pile up, not consciously, but as soon as you come upon something like that tree limb which can be used to make an accident authentic." "oh, sure." thorndyke eyed me soberly. "steve," he asked me in a brittle voice, "you won't try to convince me that any esper will let physical danger of that sort get close enough to--" "i've told you how it happened. my attention was on that busted sign!" "fine. more evidence to the fact that miss lewis was with you? now listen to me. in accident-shock you'd not remember anything that your mind didn't want you to recall. failure is a hard thing to take. so now you can blame your misfortune on that accident." "so now you tell me how you justify the fact that catherine told landladies, friends, bosses, and all the rest that she was going to marry me a good long time before i was ready to be verbal about my plans?" "i--" "suppose i've succeeded in bribing everybody to perjure themselves. maybe we all had it in for catherine, and did her in?" thorndyke shrugged. "i don't know," he said. "i really don't know, steve. i wish i did." "that makes two of us," i grunted. "hasn't anybody thought of arresting me for kidnapping, suspicion of murder, reckless driving and cluttering up the highway with junk?" "yes," he said quietly. "the police were most thorough. they had two of their top men look into you." "what did they find?" i asked angrily. no man likes to have his mind turned inside out and laid out flat so that all the little wheels, cables and levers are open to the public gaze. on the other hand, since i was not only innocent of any crime but as baffled as the rest of them, i'd have gone to them willingly to let them dig, to see if they could dig past my conscious mind into the real truth. "they found that your story was substantially an honest one." "then why all this balderdash about shock, rejection, and so on?" he shook his head. "none of us are supermen," he said simply. "your story was honest, you weren't lying. you believe every word of it. you saw it, you went through it. that doesn't prove your story true." "now see here--" "it does prove one thing; that you, steve cornell, did not have any malicious, premeditated plans against catherine lewis. they've checked everything from hell to breakfast, and so far all we can do is make long-distance guesses as to what happened." i snorted in my disgust. "that's a telepath for you. everything so neatly laid out in rows of slats like a snow fence. me--i'm going to consult a scholar and have him really dig me deep." thorndyke shook his head. "they had their top men, steve. scholar redfern and scholar berks. both of them rhine scholars, _magna cum laude_." i blinked as i always do when i am flabbergasted. i've known a lot of doctors of this and that, from medicine to languages. i've even known a scholar or two, but none of them intimately. but when a doctor of psi is invited to take his scholarte at rhine, that's it, brother; i pass. thorndyke smiled. "you weren't too bad yourself, steve. ran twelfth in your class at illinois, didn't you?" i nodded glumly. "i forgot to cover the facts. they'd called all the bright boys out and collected them under one special-study roof. i majored in mechanical ingenuity not psi. hoped to get a d. ing. out of it, at least, but had to stop. partly because i'm not ingenious enough and partly because i ran out of cash." doctor thorndyke nodded. "i know how it is," he said. i realized that he was leading me away from the main subject gently, but i couldn't see how to lead him back without starting another verbal hassle. he had me cold. he could dig my mind and get the best way to lead me away, while i couldn't read his. i gave up. it felt better, too, getting my mind off this completely baffling puzzle even for a moment. he caught my thoughts but his face didn't twitch a bit as he picked up his narrative smoothly: "i didn't make it either," he said unhappily. "i'm psi and good. but i'm telepath and not esper. i weasled my way through pre-med and medical by main force and awkwardness, so to speak." he grinned at me sheepishly. "i'm not much different than you or any other psi. the espers all think that perception is superior to the ability to read minds, and vice versa. i was going to show 'em that a telepath can make scholar of medicine. so i 'pathed my way through med by reading the minds of my fellows, who were all good espers. i got so good that i could read the mind of an esper watching me do a delicate dissecting job, and move my hands according to his perception. i could diagnose the deep ills with the best of them--so long as there was an esper in the place." "so what tripped you up?" "telepaths make out best dealing with people. espers do better with things." "isn't medicine a field that deals with people?" he shook his head. "not when a headache means spinal tumor, or indigestion, or a bad cold. 'doctor,' says the patient, 'i've a bad ache along my left side just below the ribs,' and after you diagnose, it turns out to be acute appendicitis. you see, steve, the patient doesn't know what's wrong with him. only the symptoms. a telepath can follow the patient's symptoms perfectly, but it takes an esper to dig in his guts and perceive the tumor that's pressing on the spine or the striae on his liver." "yeah." "so i flopped on a couple of tests that the rest of the class sailed through, just because i was not fast enough to read their minds and put my own ability to work. it made 'em suspicious and so here i am, a mere doctor instead of a scholar." "there are fields for you, i'm sure." he nodded. "two. psychiatry and psychology, neither of which i have any love for. and medical research, where the ability to grasp another doctor or scholar's plan, ideas and theories is slightly more important than the ability to dig esper into the experiments." "don't see that," i said with a shake of my head. "well, steve, let's take mekstrom's disease, for instance." "let's take something simple. what i know about mekstrom's disease could be carved on the head of a pin with a blunt butter knife." "let's take mekstrom's. that's my chance to make scholar of medicine, steve, if i can come up with an answer to one of the minor questions. i'll be in the clinical laboratory where the only cases present are those rare cases of mekstrom's. the other doctors, espers every one of them, and the scholars over them, will dig the man's body right down to the last cell, looking and combing--you know some of the better espers can actually dig into the constituency of a cell?--but i'll be the doctor who can collect all their information, correlate it, and maybe come up with an answer." "you picked a dilly," i told him. it was a real one, all right. otto mekstrom had been a mechanic-tech at white sands space station during the first flight to venus, mars and moon round-trip with landings. about two weeks after the ship came home, otto mekstrom's left fingertips began to grow hard. the hardening crawled up slowly until his hand was like a rock. they studied him and worked over him and took all sorts of samples and made all sorts of tests until otto's forearm was as hard as his hand. then they amputated at the shoulder. but by that time, otto mekstrom's toes on both feet were getting solid and his other hand was beginning to show signs of the same. on one side of the creepline the flesh was soft and normal, but on the other it was all you could do to poke a sharp needle into the skin. poor otto ended up a basket case, just in time to have the damned stuff start all over again at the stumps of his arms and legs. he died when hardening reached his vitals. since that day, some twenty-odd years ago, there had been about thirty cases a year turn up. all fatal, despite amputations and everything else known to modern medical science. god alone knew how many unfortunate human beings took to suicide without contacting the big medical research center at marion, indiana. well, if thorndyke could uncover something, no one could claim that a telepath had no place in medicine. i wished him luck. i did not see thorndyke again in that hospital. they released me the next day and then i had nothing to do but to chew my fingernails and wonder what had happened to catherine. iii i'd rather not go into the next week and a half in detail. i became known as the bridegroom who lost his bride, and between the veiled accusations and the half-covered snickers, life was pretty miserable. i talked to the police a couple-three times, first as a citizen asking for information and ending up as a complainant against party or parties unknown. the latter got me nowhere. apparently the police had more lines out than the grand bank fishing fleet and were getting no more nibbles than they'd get in the dead sea. they admitted it; the day had gone when the police gave out news reports that an arrest was expected hourly, meaning that they were baffled. the police, with their fine collection of psi boys, were willing to admit when they were really baffled. i talked to telepaths who could tell me what i'd had for breakfast on the day i'd entered pre-school classes, and espers who could sense the color of the clothing i wore yesterday. i've a poor color-esper, primitive so to speak. these guys were good, but no matter how good they were, catherine lewis had vanished as neatly as ambrose bierce. i even read charles fort, although i have no belief in the supernatural, and rather faint faith in the hereafter. and people who enter the hereafter leave their remains behind for evidence. having to face catherine's mother and father, who came east to see me, made me a complete mental wreck. it is harder than you think to face the parents of a woman you loved, and find that all you can tell them is that somehow you fouled your drive, cracked up, and lost their daughter. not even dead-for-sure. death, i think, we all could have faced. but this uncertainty was something that gnawed at the soul's roots and left it rotting. to stand there and watch the tears in the eyes of a woman as she asks you, "but can't you remember, son?" is a little too much, and i don't care to go into details. the upshot of it was, after about ten days of lying awake nights and wondering where she was and why. watching her eyes peer out of a metal casting at me from a position sidewise of my head. nightmares, either the one about us turning over and over and over, or mrs. lewis pleading with me only to tell her the truth. then having the police inform me that they were marking this case down as "unexplained." i gave up. i finally swore that i was going to find her and return with her, or i was going to join her in whatever strange, unknown world she had entered. * * * * * the first thing i did was to go back to the hospital in the hope that dr. thorndyke might be able to add something. in my unconscious ramblings there might be something that fell into a pattern if it could be pieced together. but this was a failure, too. the hospital super was sorry, but dr. thorndyke had left for the medical research center a couple of days before. nor could i get in touch with him because he had a six-week interim vacation and planned a long, slow jaunt through yellowstone, with neither schedule nor forwarding addresses. i was standing there on the steps hoping to wave down a cruising coptercab when the door opened and a woman came out. i turned to look and she recognized me. it was miss farrow, my former nurse. "why, mr. cornell, what are you doing back here?" "mostly looking for thorndyke. he's not here." "i know. isn't it wonderful, though? he'll get his chance to study for his scholarte now." i nodded glumly. "yeah," i said. it probably sounded resentful, but it is hard to show cheer over the good fortune of someone else when your own world has come unglued. "still hoping," she said. it was a statement and not a question. i nodded slowly. "i'm hoping," i said. "someone has the answer to this puzzle. i'll have to find it myself. everyone else has given up." "i wish you luck," said miss farrow with a smile. "you certainly have the determination." i grunted. "it's about all i have. what i need is training. here i am, a mechanical engineer, about to tackle the job of a professional detective and tracer of missing persons. about all i know about the job is what i have read. one gets the idea that these writers must know something of the job, the way they write about it. but once you're faced with it yourself, you realize that the writer has planted his own clues." miss farrow nodded. "one thing," she suggested, "have you talked to the people who got you out from under your car yet?" "no, i haven't. the police talked to them and claimed they knew nothing. i doubt that i can ask them anything that the police have not satisfied themselves about." miss farrow looked up at me sidewise. "you won't find anything by asking people who have never heard of you." "i suppose not." a coptercab came along at that moment, and probably sensing my intention, he gave his horn a tap. i'd have liked to talk longer with miss farrow, but a cab was what i wanted, so with a wave i took it and she went on down the steps to her own business. i had to pause long enough to buy a new car, but a few hours afterward i was rolling along that same highway with my esper extended as far as i could in all directions. i was driving slowly, this time both alert and ready. i went past the scene of the accident slowly and shut my mind off as i saw the black-burned patch. the block was still hanging from an overhead branch, and the rope that had burned off was still dangling, about two feet of it, looped through the pulleys and ending in a tapered, burned end. i turned left into a driveway toward the home of the harrisons and went along a winding dirt road, growing more and more conscious of a dead area ahead of me. it was not a real dead zone, because i could still penetrate some of the region. but as far as really digging any of the details of the rambling harrison house, i could get more from my eyesight than from any sense of perception. but even if they couldn't find a really dead area, the harrisons had done very well in finding one that made my sense of perception ineffective. it was sort of like looking through a light fog, and the closer i got to the house the thicker it became. just about the point where the dead area was first beginning to make its effect tell, i came upon a tall, browned man of about twenty-four who had been probing into the interior of a tractor up to the time he heard my car. he waved, and i stopped. "mr. harrison?" "i'm phillip. and you are mr. cornell." "call me steve like everybody else," i said. "how'd you guess?" "recognized you," he said with a grin. "i'm the guy that pulled you out." "thanks," i said, offering a hand. he chuckled. "steve, consider the hand taken and shook, because i've enough grime to muss up a regiment." "it won't bother me," i said. "thanks, but it's still a gesture, and i appreciate it, but let's be sensible. i know you can wash, but let's shake later. what can i do for you?" "i'd like a first-hand account, phil." "not much to tell. dad and i were pulling stumps over about a thousand feet from the wreck. we heard the racket. i am esper enough to dig that distance with clarity, so we knew we'd better bring along the block and tackle. the tractor wouldn't go through. so we came on the double, dad rigged the tackle and hoisted and i took a running dive, grabbed and hauled you out before the whole thing went _whoosh!_ we were both lucky, steve." i grunted a bit but managed to nod with a smile. "i suppose you know that i'm still trying to find my fiancã©e?" "i'd heard tell," he said. he looked at me sharply. i'm a total blank as a telepath, like all espers, but i could tell what he was thinking. "everybody is convinced that catherine was not with me," i admitted. "but i'm not. i know she was." he shook his head slowly. "as soon as we heard the screech of brakes and rubber we esped the place," he said quietly. "we dug you, of course. but no one else. even if she'd jumped as soon as that tree limb came into view, she could not have run far enough to be out of range. as for removing a bag, she'd have had to wait until the slam-bang was over to get it out, and by the time your car was finished rolling, dad and i were on the way with help. she was not there, steve." #you're a goddam liar!# phillip harrison did not move a muscle. he was blank telepathically. i was esping the muscles in his stomach, under his loose clothing, for that first tensing sign of anger, but nothing showed. he had not been reading my mind. i smiled thinly at phil harrison and shrugged. he smiled back sympathetically, but behind it i could see that he was wishing that i'd stop harping on a dead subject. "i sincerely wish i could be of help," he said. in that he was sincere. but somewhere, someone was not, and i wanted to find out who it was. the impasse looked as though it might go on forever unless i turned away and left. i had no desire to leave. not that phil could help me, but even though this was a dead end, i was loath to leave the place because it was the last place where i had been close to catherine. the silence between us must have been a bit strained at this point, but luckily we had an interruption. i perceived motion, turned and caught sight of a woman coming along the road toward us. "my sister," said phil. "marian." marian harrison was quite a girl; if i'd not been emotionally tied to catherine lewis, i'd have been happy to invite myself in. marian was almost as tall as i am, a dark, brown-haired woman with eyes of a startling, electricity colored blue. she was about twenty-two, young and healthy. her skin was tanned toast brown so that the bright blue eyes fairly sparked out at you. her red mouth made a pleasing blend with the tan of her skin and her teeth gleamed white against the dark when she smiled. insultingly, i made some complimentary but impolite mental observations about her figure, but marion did not appear to notice. she was no telepath. "you're mr. cornell," she said, "i remembered you," she said quietly. "please believe us, mr. cornell, when we extend our sympathy." "thanks," i said glumly. "please understand me, miss harrison. i appreciate your sympathy, but what i need is action and information and answers. once i get those, the sympathy won't be needed." "of course i understand," she replied instantly. "we are all aware that sympathy is a poor substitute. all the world grieving with you doesn't turn a stitch to help you out of your trouble. all we can do is to wish, with you, that it hadn't happened." "that's the point," i said helplessly. "i don't even know what happened." "that makes it even worse," she said softly. marian had a pleasant voice, throaty and low, that sounded intimate even when talking about something pragmatic. "i wish we could help you, steve." "i wish someone could." she nodded. "they asked me about it, too, even though i was not present until afterward. they asked me," she said thoughtfully, "about the mental attitude of a woman running off to get married. i told them that i couldn't speak for your woman, but that i might be able to speak for me, putting myself in the same circumstances." she paused a moment, and her brother turned idly back to his tractor and fitted a small end wrench to a bolt-head and gave it a twist. he seemed to think that as long as marian and i were talking, he could well afford to get along with his work. i agreed with him. i wanted information, but i did not expect the entire world to stop progress to help me. he spun the bolt and started on another, lost in his job while marian went on: "i told them that your story was authentic--the one about the bridal nightgown." a very slight color came under the deep tan. "i told them that i have one, too, still in its wrapper, and that someday i'd be planning marriage and packing a go-away bag with the gown shaken out and then packed neatly. i told them that i'd be doing the same thing no matter whether we were having a formal church wedding with a four-alarm reception and all the trimmings or a quiet elopement such as you were. i told them that it was the essentials that count, not the trimmings and the tinsel. my questioner's remark was to the effect that either you were telling the truth, or that you had esped a woman about to marry and identified her actions with your own wishes." "i know which," i said with a sour smile. "it was both." marian nodded. "then they asked me if it were probable that a woman would take this step completely unprepared and i laughed at them. i told them that long before rhine, women were putting their nuptial affairs in order about the time the gentleman was beginning to view marriage with an attitude slightly less than loathing, and that by the time he popped the question, she'd been practicing writing her name as 'mrs.' and picking out the china-ware and prospective names for the children, and that if any woman had ever been so stunned by a proposal of marriage that she'd take off without so much as a toothbrush, no one in history had ever heard of her." "then you begin to agree with me?" she shrugged. "please," she said in that low voice, "don't ask me my opinion of your veracity. you believe it, but all the evidence lies against you. there was not a shred of woman-trace anywhere along your course, from the point along the road where you first caught sight of the limb that threw you to the place where you piled up. nor was there a trace anywhere in a vast circle--almost a half mile they searched--from the crack-up. they had doctors of psi digging for footprints, shreds of clothing, everything. not a trace." "but where did she go?" i cried, and when i say 'cried' i mean just that. marian shook her head very slowly. "steve," she said in a voice so low that i could hardly hear her over the faint shrill of bolts being unscrewed by her brother, "so far as we know, she was never here. why don't you forget her--" i looked at her. she stood there, poised and a bit tensed as though she were trying to force some feeling of affectionate kinhood across the gap that separated us, as though she wanted to give me both physical and mental comfort despite the fact that we were strangers on a ten-minute first-meeting. there was distress in her face. "forget her--?" i ground out. "i'd rather die!" "oh steve--no!" one hand went to her throat and the other came out to fasten around my forearm. her grip was hard. i stood there wondering what to do next. marian's grip on my arm relaxed and she stepped back. i pulled myself together. "i'm sorry," i told her honestly. "i'm putting you through a set of emotional hurdles by bringing my problems here. i'd better take them away." she nodded very slowly. "please go. but please come back once you get yourself squared away, no matter how. we'd all like to see you when you aren't all tied up inside." phil looked up from the guts of the tractor. "take it easy, steve," he said. "and remember that you do have friends here." blindly i turned from them and stumbled back to my car. they were a pair of very fine people, firm, upright. marian's grip on my arm had been no weaker than her sympathy, and phil's less-emotional approach to my trouble was no less deep, actually. it was as strong as his good right arm, loosening the head bolts of a tractor engine with a small adjustable wrench. i'd be back. i wanted to see them again. i wanted to go back there with catherine and introduce them to her. but i was definitely going to go back. i was quite a way toward home before i realized that i had not met the old man. i bet myself that father harrison was quite the firm, active patriarch. iv the days dragged slowly. i faced each morning hopefully at first, but as the days dragged on and on, i began to feel that each morning was opening another day of futility, to be barely borne until it was time to flop down in weariness. i faced the night in loneliness and in anger at my own inability to do something productive. i pestered the police until they escorted me to the door and told me that if i came again, they'd take me to another kind of door and loose thereafter the key. i shrugged and left disconsolately, because by that time i had been able to esp, page by page, the entire file that dealt with the case of "missing person: lewis, catherine," stamped "inactive, but not closed." i hated the words. but as the days dragged out, one after another, with no respite and no hope, my raw nervous system began to heal. it was probably a case of numbness; you maul your thumb with a hammer and it will hurt just so long before it stops. i was numb for a long time. i remember night after night, lying awake and staring into the darkness at the wall i knew was beside me, and i hated my esper because i wanted to project my mind out across some unknown space to reach for catherine's mind. if we'd both been telepaths we could cross the universe to touch each other with that affectionate tenderness that mated telepaths always claim they have. instead i found myself more aware of a clouded-veil perception of marian harrison as she took my arm and looked into my face on that day when i admitted that i found little worth living for. i knew what that meant--nothing. it was a case of my subconscious mind pointing out that the available present was more desirable than the unavailable not-present. at first i resented my apparent inconstancy in forming an esper projection of marian harrison when i was trying to project my blank telepathic inadequacy to catherine. but as the weeks faded into the past, the shock and the frustration began to pale and i found marian's projective image less and less an unwanted intrusion and more and more pleasant. i had two deeply depressed spells in those six weeks. at the end of the fourth week i received a small carton containing some of my personal junk that had been in catherine's apartment. a man can't date his girl for weeks without dropping a few things like a cigarette lighter, a tie clip, one odd cuff-link, some papers, a few letters, some books, and stuff both valuable and worthless that had turned up as gifts for one reason or another. it was a shock to get this box and its arrival bounced me deep into a doldrum-period of three or four days. then at the end of the sixth week i received a card from dr. thorndyke. it contained a lithograph in stereo of some scene in yellowstone other than old faithful blowing its stack. on the message side was a cryptic note: _steve: i just drove along that road in the right side of the picture. it reminded me of yours, so i'm writing because i want to know how you are making out. i'll be at the med-center in a couple of weeks, you can write me there. jim thorndyke._ i turned the postcard over and eyed it critically. then i got it. along the roadside was a tall ornamental standard of wrought iron. the same design as the road signs along that fatal highway of mine. i sat there with a magnifying glass on the roadsign; its stereo image standing up alongside the road in full color and solidity. it took me back to that moment when catherine had wriggled against my side, thrilling me with her warmth and eagerness. that put me down a few days, too. * * * * * another month passed. i'd come out of my shell quite a bit in the meantime. i now felt that i could walk in a bar and have a drink without wondering whether all the other people in the place were pointing at me. i'd cut myself off from all my previous friends, and i'd made no new friends in the weeks gone by. but i was getting more and more lonely and consequently more and more inclined to speak to people and want friends. the accident had paled from its original horror; the vital scene returned only infrequently. catherine was assuming the position of a lost love rather than a sweetheart expected to return soon. i remembered the warmth of her arms and the eagerness of her kiss in a nostalgic way and my mind, especially when in a doze, would play me tricks. i would recall catherine, but when she came into my arms, i'd be holding marian, brown and tawny, with her electric blue eyes and her vibrant nature. but i did nothing about it. i knew that once i had asked marian harrison for a date i would be emotionally involved. and then if--no, when--catherine turned up i would be torn between desires. i would wake up and call myself all sorts of a fool. i had seen marian for a total of perhaps fifteen minutes--in the company of her brother. but eventually dreaming loses its sting just as futile waiting and searching does, and i awoke one morning in a long and involved debate between my id and my conscience. i decided at that moment that i would take that highway out and pay a visit to the harrison farm. i was salving my slightly rusty conscience by telling myself that it was because i had never paid my respects to father harrison, but not too deep inside i knew that if father were missing and daughter were present i'd enjoy my visit to the farm with more relish. but my id took a licking because the doorbell rang about nine o'clock that morning and when i dug the doorstep i came up with two gentlemen wearing gold badges in leather folders in their jacket pockets. i opened the door because i couldn't have played absent to a team consisting of one esper and one telepath. they both knew i was home. "mr. cornell, we'll waste no time. we want to know how well you know doctor james thorndyke." i didn't blink at the bluntness of it. it is standard technique when an esper-telepath team go investigating. the telepath knew all about me, including the fact that i'd dug their wallets and identification cards, badges and the serial numbers of the nasty little automatics they carried. the idea was to drive the important question hard and first; it being impossible to not-think the several quick answers that pop through your mind. what i knew about thorndyke was sketchy enough but they got it all because i didn't have any reason for covering up. i let them know that, too. finally, #that's about all,# i thought. #now--why?# the telepath half of the team answered. "normally we wouldn't answer, mr. cornell, unless you said it aloud. but we don't mind letting you know which of us is the telepath this time. to answer, you are the last person to have received any message from thorndyke." "i--what?" "that postcard. it was the last contact thorndyke made with anyone. he has disappeared." "but--" "thorndyke was due to arrive at the medical research center in marion, indiana, three weeks ago. we've been tracking him ever since he failed to turn up. we've been able to retrace his meanderings very well up to a certain point in yellowstone. there the trail stops. he had a telephoned reservation to a small hotel; there he dropped out of sight. now, mr. cornell, may i see that postcard?" "certainly." i got it for them. the esper took it over to the window and eyed it in the light, and as he did that i went over to stand beside him and together we espered that postcard until i thought the edges would start to curl. but if there were any codes, concealed writings or any other form of hidden meaning or message in or on that card, i didn't dig any. i gave up. i'm no trained investigator. but i knew that thorndyke was fairly well acquainted with the depth of my perceptive sense, and he would not have concealed anything too deep for me. then the esper shook his head. he handed me the card. "not a trace." the telepath nodded. he looked at me and smiled sort of thin and strained. "we're naturally interested in you, mr. cornell. this seems to be the second disappearance. and you know nothing about either." "i know," i said slowly. the puzzle began to go around and around in my head again, all the way back to that gleaming road and the crack-up. "we'll probably be back, mr. cornell. you don't mind?" "look," i told them rather firmly, "if this puzzle can be unwound, i'll be one of the happiest men on the planet. if i can do anything to help, just say the word." they left after that and so did i. i was still going to pay my visit to the harrison farm. another wild goose chase, but somewhere along this cockeyed row there was an angle. honest people who are healthy and fairly happy with good prospects ahead of them do not just drop out of sight without a trace. * * * * * a couple of hours later i was making a good pace along the highway again. it was getting familiar to me. i could not avoid letting my perceptive sense rest on the sign as i drove past. not long enough to put me in danger, but long enough to discover to my surprise that someone had taken the trouble to repair the broken spoke. someone must have been a perfectionist. the break was so slight that it seemed like calling in a mechanic because the ashtray in the car is full. then i noticed other changes that time had caused. the burned scar was fading in a growth of tall weeds. the limb of the tree that hung out over the scene, from which block and tackle had hung, was beginning to lose its smoke-blackened appearance. the block was gone from the limb. _give us a year_, i thought, _and the only remaining scar will be the one on my mind, and even that will be fading_. i turned into the drive, wound around the homestead road, and pulled up in front of the big, rambling house. it looked bleak. the front lawn was a bit shaggy and there were some wisps of paper on the front porch. the venetian blinds were down and slatted shut behind closed windows. since it was summer by now, the closed windows and the tight door, neither of which had flyscreens installed, quickly gave the fact away. the harrisons were gone. another disappearance? i turned quickly and drove to the nearest town and went to the post office. "i'm looking for the harrison family," i told the man behind the wicket. "why, they moved several weeks ago." "moved?" i asked with a blank-sounding voice. the clerk nodded. then he leaned forward and said in a confidential whisper, "heard a rumor that the girl got a touch of that spacemen's disease." "mekstrom's?" i blurted. the clerk looked at me as if i'd shouted a dirty word. "she was a fine girl," he said softly. "it's a shame." i nodded and he went into the back files. i tried to dig alone behind him, but the files were in a small dead area in the rear of the building. i swore under my breath although i'd expected to find files in dead areas. just as rhine institute was opened, the government combed the countryside for dead or cloudy areas for their secret and confidential files. there had been one mad claim-staking rush with the government about six feet ahead of the rest of the general public, business and the underworld. he came back with a sorrowful look. "they left a concealed address," he said. i felt like flashing a twenty at him like a private eye did in the old tough-books, but i knew it wouldn't work. rhine also made it impossible for a public official to take a bribe. so instead, i tried to look distressed. "this is extremely important. i'd say it was a matter of life and death." "i'm sorry. a concealed forwarding address is still concealed. if you must get in touch with them, you might drop them a letter to be forwarded. then if they care to answer, they'll reply to your home." "later," i told him. "i'll probably be back to mail it direct from here." he waved at the writing desk. i nodded and left. i drove back to the ex-harrison farm slowly, thinking it over. wondering. people did not just go around catching mekstrom's disease, from what little i knew of it. and somehow the idea of marian harrison withering away or becoming a basket case, or maybe taking the painless way out was a thought that my mind kept avoiding except for occasional flashes of horror. i drove in toward the farmhouse again and parked in front of the verandah. i was not sure of why i was there except that i wanted to wander through it to see what i could find before i went back to the post-office to write that card or letter. the back of the house was locked with an old-fashioned slide bolt that was turned with what they used to call an "e" key. i shrugged, oiled my conscience and found a bit of bent wire. probing a lock like that would have been easy for a total blank; with esper i lifted the simple keepers and slid back the bolt almost as swiftly as if i had used a proper key. this was no case of disappearance. in every one of the fourteen rooms were the unmistakable signs of a deliberate removal. discarded stuff was mixed with the odds and ends of packing case materials, a scattered collection of temporary nails, a half-finished but never used box filled with old clothing. i pawed through this but found nothing, even though i separated it from the rest to help my esper dig it without interference. i roamed the house slowly letting my perception wander from point to point. i tried to time-dig the place but that was futile. i didn't have enough perception. i caught only one response. it was in one of the upper bedrooms. but then as i stopped in the room where marian had slept, i began again to doubt my senses. it could have been esper, but it was more likely that i'd caught the dying traces of perfume. then i suddenly realized that the entire premises were clear to me! an esper map of the world looked sort of like a mottled sky, with bright places and cloudy patches strewn in disorder across it. a mottled sky, except that the psi-pattern usually does not change. but this house had been in a murky area, if not dead. now it was clear. i left the house and went to the big combination barn and garage. it was as unsatisfying as the house had been. phillip harrison, or someone, had had a workshop out there. i found the bench and a small table where bolt-holes, oil marks, and other traces said that there had been one of those big combination woodworking machines there, the kind that combines circular saw, drill, lathe, planer, router, dado, and does everything. there had been some metal-working stuff there, too, but nothing as elaborate as the woodshop. mostly things like hacksaws and an electric drill, and a circular scar where a blowtorch had been sitting. i don't know why i kept on standing there esping the abandoned set-up. maybe it was because my esper dug the fact that there was something there that i should know about, but which was so minute or remote that the impression did not come through. i stood there puzzled at my own reluctance to leave until something satisfied that almost imperceptible impression. idly i leaned down and picked up a bit of metal from the floor and fumbled it in my hand nervously. i looked around the place with my eyes and saw nothing. i gave the whole garage a thorough scanning with my esper and got zero for my trouble. finally i snarled at myself for being an imbecile, and left. everyone has done what i did, time and time again. i do not recall anything of my walk back to the car, lost in a whirl of thoughts, ideas, plans and questions. i would probably have driven all the way back to my apartment with my mind in that whirligig, driving by habit and training, but i was shaken out of it because i could not start my car by poking that bit of metal in the lock. it did not fit. i laughed, a bit ashamed of my preoccupation, and flung the bit of metal into the grass, poked my key in the lock-and then i was out pawing the grass for that piece of metal. for the small piece of metal i had found on the floor of the abandoned workshop was the spoke of that road sign that had been missing when catherine and i cracked up! i drove out along the highway and stopped near one of the standards. i esped the sign, compared my impression against my eyesight. i made sure. that bit of metal, a half inch long and a bit under a quarter inch in diameter, with both ends faintly broken-ragged, was identical in size and shape to the unbroken spokes in the sign! then i noticed something else. the trefoil ornament in the middle did not look the same as i recalled them. i took thorndyke's card out of my pocket and looked at the stereo. i compared the picture against the real thing before me and i knew that i was right. the trefoil gizmo was a take-off on the fleur-de-lis or the boy scout tenderfoot badge, or the design they use to signify north on a compass. but the lower flare of the leaves was wider than any of the more familiar emblems; almost as wide as the top. it took a comparison to tell the difference between one of them right-side-up and another one upside-down. one assumes for this design that the larger foils are supposed to be up. if that were so, then the ones along that road out there in or near yellowstone were right-side-up, while the ones along my familiar highway were upside-down. i goaded myself. #memory, have these things been turned or were they always upside-down?# the last thing i did as i turned off the highway was to stop and let my esper dig that design once more. i covered the design itself, let my perception roam along the spokes, and then around the circlet that supported the spokes that held the trefoil emblem. oh, it was not obvious. it was designed in, so to speak. if i were asked even today for my professional opinion i would have to admit that the way the circlet snapped into the rest of the ornamental scrollwork was a matter of good assembly design, and not a design deliberately created so that the emblem could be turned upside down. in fact, if it had not been for that tiny, broken spoke i found on the floor of the harrison garage, never in a million years would i have considered these road signs significant. * * * * * at the post office i wrote a letter to phillip harrison: _dear phil:_ _i was by your old place today and was sorry to find that you had moved. i'd like to get in touch with you again. if i may ask, please send me your forwarding address. i'll keep it concealed if you like, or i'll reply through the post office, concealed forward._ _as an item of interest, did you know that your house has lost its deadness? a medium-equipped esper can dig it with ease. have you ever heard of the psi-pattern changing before?_ _ah, and another item, that road sign with the busted spoke has been replaced. you must be a bum shot, not to hit that curlicue in the middle. i found the spoke you hit on the floor of your garage, if you'd like it for a souvenir of one close miss._ _please write and let me know how things are going. rumor has it that marian contracted mekstrom's and if you will pardon my mentioning a delicate subject, i am doing so because i really want to help if i am able. after all, no matter how lightly you hold it, i still owe you my life. this is a debt i do not intend to forget._ _sincerely,_ _steve cornell._ v i did not go to the police. they were sick of my face and already considering me a candidate for the paranoid ward. all i would have to do is go roaring into the station to tell them that i had uncovered some deep plot where the underground was using ornamental road signs to conceal their own network of roads and directions, and that the disappearance of catherine lewis, dr. thorndyke and the removal of the harrisons were all tied together. instead, i closed my apartment and told everyone that i was going to take a long, rambling tourist jaunt to settle my nerves; that i thought getting away from the scene might finish the job that time and rest had started. then i started to drive. i drove for several days, not attempting to pace off miles, but covering a lot of aimless-direction territory. i was just as likely to spend four hours going north on one highway, and then take the next four coming back south on a parallel highway, and sometimes i even came back to the original starting place. after a week i had come no farther west than across that sliver of west virginia into eastern ohio. and in eastern ohio i saw some more of the now familiar and suspicious road signs. the emblem was right side up, and the signs looked as though they had not been up long. i followed that road for seventy-five miles, and as i went the signs kept getting newer and newer until i finally came to a truck loaded with pipe, hardware, and ornamental ironwork. leading the truck was one of those iron mole things. i watched the automatic gear hoist one of the old pipe and white and black enamel roadsigns up by its roots, and place it on a truck full of discards. i watched the mole drive a corkscrew blade into the ground with a roaring of engine and bucking of the truck. it paused, pulled upward to bring out the screw and its load of dirt, stones and gravel. the crew placed one of the new signs in the cradle and i watched the machine set the sign upright, pour the concrete, tamp down the earth, and then move along down the road. there was little point in asking questions of the crew, so i just took off and drove to columbus as hard as i could make it. * * * * * shined, cleaned, polished, and very conservatively dressed, i presented myself to the state commissioner of roads and highways. i toyed briefly with the idea of representing myself as a minor official from some distant state like alaska or the virgin islands, inquiring about these signs for official reasons. but then i knew that if i bumped into a hot telepath i'd be in the soup. on the other hand, mere curiosity on the part of a citizen, well oiled with compliments, would get me at the very least a polite answer. the commissioner's fifth-under-secretary bucked me down the hall; another office bucked me upstairs. a third buck-around brought me to the department of highways marking and road maps. a sub-secretary finally admitted that he might be able to help me. his name was houghton. but whether he was telepath or esper did not matter because the commission building was constructed right in the middle of a dead area. i still played it straight. i told him i was a citizen of new york, interested in the new road signs, ohio was to be commended, et cetera. "i'm glad you feel that way," he said beaming. "i presume these signs cost quite a bit more than the stark, black and white enamel jobs?" "on the contrary," he said with pride. "they might, but mass-production methods brought the cost down. you see, the enamel jobs, while we buy several thousand of the plates for any highway, must be set up, stamped out, enamelled, and so on. the new signs are all made in one plant as they are needed; i don't suppose you know, but the highway number and any other information is put on the plate from loose, snap-in letters. that means we can buy so many thousand of this or that letter or number, and the necessary base plates and put them together as needed. they admitted that they were still running at a loss, but if they could get enough states interested, they'd eventually come out even, and maybe they could reduce the cost. why, they even have a contingent-clause in the contract stating that if the cost were lowered, they would make a rebate to cover it. that's so the first users will not bide their time instead of buying now." he went on and on and on like any bureaucrat. i was glad we were in a dead area because he'd have thrown me out of his office for what i was thinking. eventually mr. houghton ran down and i left. i toyed around with the idea of barging in on the main office of the company but i figured that might be too much like poking my head into a hornet's nest. i pocketed the card he gave me from the company, and i studied the ink-fresh road map, which he had proudly supplied. it pointed out in a replica panel of the fancy signs, that the state of ohio was beautifying their highways with these new signs at no increased cost to the taxpayer, and that the dates in green on the various highways here and there gave the dates when the new signs would be installed. the bottom of the panel gave the road commissioner's name in boldface with houghton's name below in slightly smaller print. i smiled. usually i get mad at signs that proclaim that such and such a tunnel is being created by mayor so-and-so, as if the good mayor were out there with a shovel and hoe digging the tunnel. but this sort of thing would have been a worthy cause if it hadn't been for the sinister side. i selected a highway that had been completed toward cincinnati and made my way there with no waste of time. * * * * * the road was new and it was another beaut. the signs led me on, mile after mile and sign after sign. i did not know what i was following, and i was not sure i knew what i was looking for. but i was on the trail of something and a bit of activity, both mental and physical, after weeks of blank-wall frustration made my spirits rise and my mental equipment sharper. the radio in the car was yangling with hillbilly songs, the only thing you can pick up in ohio, but i didn't care. i was looking for something significant. i found it late in the afternoon about half-way between dayton and cincinnati. one of the spokes was missing. fifty yards ahead was a crossroad. i hauled in with a whine of rubber and brakes, and sat there trying to reason out my next move by logic. do i turn with the missing spoke, or do i turn with the one that is not missing? memory came to my aid. the "ten o'clock" spoke had been missing back there near the harrison farm. the harrisons had lived on the left side of the highway. one follows the missing spoke. here the "two o'clock" spoke was missing, so i turned to the right along the crossroad until i came to another sign that was complete. then, wondering, i u-turned and drove back across the main highway and drove for about five miles watching the signs as i went. the ones on my right had that trefoil emblem upside down. the ones on my left were right side up. the difference was so small that only someone who knew the significance would distinguish one from the other. so far as i could reason out, it meant that what i sought was in the other direction. when the emblem was upside down i was going away from, and when right side up, i was going toward. away from or toward what? i u-turned again and started following the signs. twenty miles beyond the main highway where i'd seen the sign that announced the turn, i came upon another missing spoke. this indicated a turn to the left, and so i slowed down until i came upon a homestead road leading off toward a farmhouse. i turned, determined to make like a man lost and hoping that i'd not bump into a telepath. a few hundred yards in from the main road i came upon a girl who was walking briskly toward me. i stopped. she looked at me with a quizzical smile and asked me if she could be of any help. brashly, i nodded. "i'm looking for some old friends of mine," i said. "haven't seen them for years. named harrison." she smiled up at me. "i don't know of any harrison around here." her voice had the ohio twang. "no?" "just where do they live?" i eyed her carefully, hoping my glance did not look like a wolf eyeing a lamb. "well, they gave me some crude directions. said i was to turn at the main highway onto this road and come about twenty miles and stop on the left side when i came upon one of those new road signs where someone had shot one of the spokes out." "spokes? left side--" she mumbled the words and was apparently mulling the idea around in her mind. she was not more than about seventeen, sun-tanned and animal-alive from living in the open. i wondered about her. as far as i was concerned, she was part and parcel of this whole mysterious affair. no matter what she said or did, it was an obvious fact that the hidden road sign directions pointed to this farm. and since no one at seventeen can be kept in complete ignorance of the business of the parents, she must be aware of some of the ramifications. after some thought she said, "no, i don't know of any harrisons." i grunted. i was really making the least of this, now that i'd arrived. "your folks at home?" i asked. "yes," she replied. "i think i'll drop in and ask them, too." she shrugged. "go ahead," she said with the noncommittal attitude of youth. "you didn't happen to notice whether the mailbox flag was up, did you?" i hadn't, but i espied back quickly and said, "no, it isn't." "then the mailman hasn't been to deliver," she said. "mind if i ride back to the house with you, mister?" "hop in." she smiled brightly and got in quickly. i took off down the road toward the house at an easy pace. she seemed interested in the car, and finally said, "i've never been in a car like this before. new?" "few weeks," i responded. "fast?" "if you want to make it go fast. she'll take this rocky road at fifty, if anyone wants to be so foolish." "let's see." i laughed. "nobody but an idiot would tackle a road like this at fifty." "i like to go fast. my brother takes it at sixty." that, so far as i was concerned, was youthful exaggeration. i was busy telling her all the perils of fast driving when a rabbit came barrelling out of the bushes along one side and streaked across in front of me. i twitched the wheel. the car went out of the narrow road and up on the shoulder, tilting quite a bit. beyond the rabbit i swung back into the road, but not before the youngster had grabbed my arm to keep from being tossed all over the front seat. her grip was like a hydraulic vise. my arm went numb and my fingers went limp on the wheel. i struggled with my left hand to spin the wheel to keep on the narrow, winding road and my foot hit the brake to bring the car down, but fast. taking a deep breath as we stopped, i shook my right hand by holding it in my left at the wrist. i was a mass of tingling pins and needles because she had grabbed me just above the elbow. it felt as though it would have taken only a trifle more to pinch my arm off and leave me with a bloody stump. "sorry, mister," she said breathlessly, her eyes wide open. her face was white around the corners of the mouth and at the edges of her nose. the whiteness of the flesh under the deep tan gave her a completely frightened look, far more than the shake-up could have produced. i reached over and took her hand. "that's a mighty powerful grip you--" the flesh of her hand was hard and solid. not the meaty solidity of good tone, fine training and excellent health. it was the solidity of a--all i could think of at the time was a green cucumber. i squeezed a bit and the flesh gave way only a trifle. i rubbed my thumb over her palm and found it solid-hard instead of soft and yielding. i wondered. i had never seen a case of mekstrom's disease--before. i looked down at the hand and said, "young lady, do you realize that you have an advanced case of mekstrom's disease?" she eyed me coldly. "now," she said in a hard voice. "i know you'll come in." something in my make-up objects violently to being ordered around by a slip of a girl. i balance off at about one-sixty. i guessed her at about two-thirds of that, say one-ten or thereabouts-"one-eight," she said levelly. #a telepath!# "yes," she replied calmly. "and i don't mind letting you know it, so you'll not try anything stupid." #i'm getting the heck out of here!# "no, you're not. you are coming in with me." "like heck!" i exploded. "don't be silly. you'll come in. or shall i lay one along your jaw and carry you?" i had to try something, anything, to get free. yet-"now you're being un-bright," she told me insolently. "you should know that you can't plan any surprise move with a telepath. and if you try a frontal attack i'll belt you so cold they'll have to put you in the oven for a week." i just let her ramble for a few seconds because when she was rattling this way she couldn't put her entire mental attention on my thoughts. so while she was yaking it off, i had an idea that felt as though it might work. she shut up like a clam when she realized that her mouthing had given me a chance to think, and i went into high gear with my perception: #not bad--for a kid. growing up fast. been playing hookey from momma, leaving off your panties like the big girls do. i can tell by the elastic cord marks you had 'em on not long ago.# seventeeners have a lot more modesty than they like to admit. she was stunned by my cold-blooded catalog of her body just long enough for me to make a quick lunge across her lap to the door handle on her side. i flipped it over and gave her a shove at the same time. she went bottom over appetite in a sprawl that would have jarred the teeth loose in a normal body and might have cracked a few bones. but she landed on the back of her neck, rolled and came to her feet like a cat. i didn't wait to close the door. i just tromped on the go-pedal and the car leaped forward with a jerk that slammed the door for me. i roared forward and left her just as she was making another grab. how i hoped to get out of there i did not know. all i wanted was momentary freedom to think. i turned this way and that to follow the road until i came to the house. i left the road, circled the house with the turbine screaming like a banshee and the car taking the corners on the outside wheels. i skidded into a turn like a racing driver and ironed my wheels out flat on the takeaway, rounded another corner and turned back into the road again going the other way. she was standing there waiting for me as i pelted past at a good sixty, and she reached out one girder-strong arm, latched onto the frame of the open window on my side, and swung onto the half-inch trim along the bottom of the car-body like a switchman hooking a freight car. she reached for the steering wheel with her free hand. i knew what was to happen next. she'd casually haul and i'd go off the road into a tree or pile up in a ditch, and while the smoke was clearing out of my mind, she'd be untangling me from the wreck and carting me over her shoulder, without a scratch to show for her adventure. i yanked the wheel--whip! whap!--cutting an arc. i slammed past a tree, missing it by half an inch. i wiped her off the side of the car like a mailbag is clipped from the fast express by the catch-hook. i heard a cry of "whoof!" as her body hit the trunk of the tree. but as i regained the road and went racing on to safety, i saw in the rear view mirror that she had bounced off the tree, sprawled a bit, caught her balance, and was standing in the middle of the road, shaking her small but very dangerous fist at my tail license plate. i didn't stop driving at one-ten until i was above dayton again. then i paused along the road to take stock. stock? what the hell did i know, really? i'd uncovered and confirmed the fact that there was some secret organization that had a program that included their own highway system, concealed within the confines of the united states. i was almost certain by this time that they had been the prime movers in the disappearance of catherine and dr. thorndyke. they-i suddenly re-lived the big crack-up. willingly now, no longer rejecting the memory, i followed my recollection as catherine and i went along that highway at a happy pace. with care i recalled every detail of catherine, watching the road through my mind and eyes, how she'd mentioned the case of the missing spoke, and how i'd projected back to perceive that which i had not been conscious of. reminding myself that it was past, i went through it again, deliberately. the fallen limb that blocked the road, my own horror as the wheels hit it. the struggle to regain control of the careening car. as a man watching a motion picture, i watched the sky and the earth turn over and over, and i heard my voice mouthing wordless shouts of fear. catherine's cry of pain and fright came, and i listened as my mind reconstructed it this time without wincing. then the final crash, the horrid wave of pain and the sear of the flash-fire. i went through my own horror and self condemnation, and my concern over catherine. i didn't shut if off. i waded through it. now i remembered something else. something that any normal, sensible mind would reject as an hallucination. beyond any shadow of a doubt there had been no time for a man to rig a block and tackle on a tree above a burning automobile in time to get the trapped victims out alive. and even more certain it was that no normal man of fifty would have had enough strength to lift a car by its front bumper while his son made a rush into the flames. that tackle had been rigged and burned afterward. but who would reject a block and tackle in favor of an impossibly strong man? no, with the tackle in sight, the recollection of a man lifting that overturned automobile like a weight lifter pressing up a bar bell would be buried in any mind as a rank hallucination. then one more item came driving home hard. so hard that i almost jumped when the idea crossed my mind. both catherine and dr. thorndyke had been telepaths. a telepath close to any member of his underground outfit would divine their purpose, come to know their organization, and begin to grasp the fundamentals of their program. such a person would be dangerous. on the other hand, an esper such as myself could be turned aside with bland remarks and a convincing attitude. i knew that i had no way of telling lie from truth and that made my problem a lot more difficult. from the facts that i did have, something smelled of overripe seafood. government and charities were pouring scads of dough into a joint called the medical research center. to hear the scholars of medicine tell it, mekstrom's disease was about the last human frailty that hadn't been licked to a standstill. they boasted that if a victim of practically anything had enough life left in him to crawl to a telephone and use it, his life could be saved. they grafted well. i'd heard tales of things like fingers, and i know they were experimenting on hands, arms and legs with some success. but when it came to mekstrom's they were stopped cold. therefore the medical research center received a walloping batch of money for that alone; all the money that used to go to the various heart, lung, spine and cancer funds. it added up well. but the medical research center seemed unaware that some group had solved their basic problem. from the books i've read i am well aware of one of the fundamental principles of running an underground: _keep it underground!_ the commie menace in these united states might have won out in the middle of the century if they'd been able to stay a secret organization. so the highways in hiding could stay underground and be an efficient organization only until someone smoked them out. that one was going to be me. but i needed an aide-de-camp. especially and specifically i needed a trained telepath, one who would listen to my tale and not instantly howl for the nut-hatch attendants. the f.b.i. were all trained investigators and they used esper-telepath teams all the time. one dug the joint while the other dug the inhabitant, which covered the situation to a faretheewell. it would take time to come up with a possible helper. so i spent the next hour driving toward chicago, and by the time i'd crossed the ohio-indiana line and hit richmond, i had a plan laid out. i placed a call to new york and within a few minutes i was talking to nurse farrow. i'll not go into detail because there was a lot of mish-mash that is not particularly interesting and a lot more that covered my tracks since i'd parted company with her on the steps of the hospital. i did not, of course, mention my real purpose over the telephone and miss farrow could not read my mind from new york. the upshot of the deal was that i felt that i needed a nurse for a while, not that i was ill, but that i felt a bit woozy now and then because i hadn't learned to slow down. i worked too fast and too long and my condition was not up to it yet. this miss farrow allowed as being quite possible. i repeated my offer to pay her at the going prices for registered nurses with a one-month guarantee, paid in advance. that softened her quite a bit. then i added that i'd videograph her a check large enough to cover the works plus a round trip ticket. she should come out and have a look, and if she weren't satisfied, she could return without digging into her own pocket. all she'd lose was one day, and it might be a bit of a vacation if she enjoyed flying in a jetliner at sixty thousand feet. the accumulation of offers finally sold her and she agreed to arrange a leave of absence. she'd meet me in the morning of the day-after-tomorrow, at central airport in chicago. i videographed the check and then took off again, confident that i'd be able to sell her on the idea of being the telepath half of my amateur investigation team. then because i needed some direct information, i turned west and crossed the line into indiana, heading toward marion. so far i had a lot of well-placed suspicions, but until i was certain, i could do no more than postulate ideas. i had to know definitely how to identify mekstrom's disease, or at least the infected flesh. i have a fairly good recall; all i needed now was to have someone point to a case and say flatly that this was a case of mekstrom's disease. then i'd know whether what i'd seen in ohio was actually one hundred percent mekstrom. vi i walked into the front office with a lot of self-assurance. the medical center was a big, rambling place with a lot of spread-out oneand two-story buildings that looked so much like "hospital" that no one in the world would have mistaken them for anything else. the main building was by the road, the rest spread out behind as far as i could see; beyond my esper range even though the whole business was set in one of the clearest psi areas that i'd even been in. i was only mildly worried about telepaths. in the first place, the only thing i had to hide was my conviction about a secret organization and how part of it functioned. in the second place, the chances were good that few, if any, telepaths were working there, if the case of dr. thorndyke carried any weight. that there were some telepaths, i did not doubt, but these would not be among the high-powered help. so i sailed in and faced the receptionist, who was a good-looking chemical-type blonde with a pale skin, lovely complexion and figure to match. she greeted me with a glacial calm and asked my business. brazenly i lied. "i'm a freelance writer and i'm looking for material." "have you an assignment?" she asked without a trace of interest in the answer. "not this time. i'm strictly freelance. i like it better this way because i can write whatever i like." her glacial air melted a bit at the inference that my writing had not been in vain. "where have you been published?" she asked. i made a fast stab in the dark, aiming in a direction that looked safe. "last article was one on the latest archeological findings in assyria. got my source material direct from the oriental institute in chicago." "too bad i missed it," she said, looking regretful. i had to grin, i'd carefully avoided giving the name of the publication and the supposed date. she went on, "i suppose you would not be happy with the usual press release?" "handouts contain material, all right, but they're so confounded trite and impersonal. people prefer to read anecdotes about the people rather than a listing of facts and figures." she nodded at that. "just a moment," she said. then she addressed her telephone in a voice that i couldn't hear. when she finished, she smiled in a warmish-type manner as if to indicate that she'd gone all out in my behalf and that i'd be a heel to forget it. i nodded back and tried to match the tooth-paste-ad smile. then the door opened and a man came in briskly. he was a tall man, as straight as a ramrod, with a firm jaw and a close-clipped moustache. he had an air like a thin-man's captain bligh. when he spoke, his voice was as clipped and precise as his moustache; in fact it was so precise that it seemed almost mechanical. "i am dr. lyon sprague," he clipped. "what may i do for you?" "i'm steve cornell," i said. "i'm here after source material for a magazine article about mekstrom's disease. i'd prefer not to take my material from a handout." "do you hope to get more?" he demanded. "i usually do. i've seen your handouts; i could get as much by taking last year's medical encyclopedia. far too dry, too uninteresting, too impersonal." "just exactly what do you have in mind?" i eyed him with speculation. here was not a man who would take kindly to imaginative conjecture. so dr. lyon sprague was not the man i'd like to talk to. with an inward smile, i said, "i have a rather new idea about mekstrom's that i'd like to discuss with the right party." he looked down at me, although our eyes were on the same level. "i doubt that any layman could possibly come up with an idea that has not been most thoroughly discussed here among the research staff." "in cold words you feel that no untrained lunk has a right to have an idea." he froze. "i did not say that." "you implied, at least, that suggestions from outsiders were not welcome. i begin to understand why the medical center has failed to get anywhere with mekstrom's in the past twenty years." "what do you mean?" he snapped. "merely that it is the duty of all scientists to listen to every suggestion and to discard it only after it has been shown wrong." "such as--?" he said coldly, with a curl of his eyebrows. "well, just for instance, suppose some way were found to keep a victim alive during the vital period, so that he would end up a complete mekstrom human." "the idea is utterly fantastic. we have no time for such idle speculation. there is too much foggy thinking in the world already. why, only last week we had a velikovsky adherent tell us that mekstrom's had been predicted in the bible. there are still people reporting flying saucers, you know. we have no time for foolish notions or utter nonsense." "may i quote you?" "of course not," he snapped stiffly. "i'm merely pointing out that non-medical persons cannot have the grasp--" the door opened again and a second man entered. the new arrival had pleasant blue eyes, a van dyke beard, and a good-natured air of self-confidence and competence. "may i cut in?" he said to dr. sprague. "certainly. mr. cornell, this is scholar phelps, director of the center. scholar phelps, this is mr. steve cornell, a gentleman of the press," he added in a tone of voice that made the identification a sort of nasty name. "mr. cornell has an odd theory about mekstrom's disease that he intends to publish unless we can convince him that it is not possible." "odd theory?" asked scholar phelps with some interest. "well, if mr. cornell can come up with something new, i'll be most happy to hear him out." dr. lyon sprague decamped with alacrity. scholar phelps smiled after him, then turned to me and said, "dr. sprague is a diligent worker, businesslike and well-informed, but he lacks the imagination and the sense of humor that makes a man brilliant in research. unfortunately, dr. sprague cannot abide anything that is not laid out as neat as an interlocking tile floor. now, mr. cornell, how about this theory of yours?" "first," i replied, "i'd like to know how come you turn up in the nick of time." he laughed good-naturedly. "we always send dr. sprague out to interview visitors. if the visitor can be turned away easily, all is well and quiet. dr. sprague can do the job with ease. but if the visitor, like yourself, mr. cornell, proposes something that distresses the good dr. sprague and will not be loftily dismissed, dr. sprague's blood pressure goes up. we all keep a bit of esper on his nervous system and when the fuse begins to blow, we come out and effect a double rescue." i laughed with him. apparently the medical center staff enjoyed needling dr. sprague. "scholar phelps, before i get into my theory, i'd like to know more about mekstrom's disease. i may not be able to use it in my article, but any background material works well with writers of fact articles." "you're quite right. what would you like to know?" "i've heard, too many times, that no one knows anything at all about mekstrom's. this is unbelievable, considering that you folks have been working on it for some twenty years." he nodded. "we have some, but it's precious little." "it seems to me that you could analyze the flesh--" he smiled. "we have. the state of analytical chemistry is well advanced. we could, i think, take a dry scraping out of the cauldron used by macbeth's witches, and determine whether shakespeare had reported the formula correctly. now, young man, if you think that something is added to the human flesh to make it mekstrom's flesh, you are wrong. standard analysis shows that the flesh is composed of exactly the same chemicals that normal flesh contains, in the same proportion. nothing is added, as, for instance, in the case of calcification." "then what is the difference?" "the difference lies in the structure. by x-ray crystallographic method, we have determined that mekstrom's flesh is a micro-crystalline formation, interlocked tightly." scholar phelps looked at me thoughtfully. "do you know much about crystallography?" as a mechanical engineer i did, but as a writer of magazine articles i felt i should profess some ignorance, so i merely said that i knew a little about the subject. "well, mr. cornell, you may know that in the field of solid geometry there are only five possible regular polyhedrons. like the laws of topology that state that no more than four colors need be used to print a map on a flat surface, or that no more than seven colors are required to print separate patches on a toroid, the laws of solid geometry prove that no more than five regular polyhedrons are possible. now in crystallography there are only thirty-two possible classes of crystal lattice construction. of these only thirty have ever been discovered in nature. yet we know how the other two would appear if they did emerge in natural formation." i knew it all right but i made scribblings in my notebooks as if the idea were of interest. scholar phelps waited patiently until i'd made the notation. "now, mr. cornell, here comes the shock. mekstrom's flesh is one of the other two classes." this was news to me and i blinked. then his face faded into a solemn expression. "unfortunately," he said in a low voice, "knowing how a crystal should form does not help us much in forming one to that class. we have no real control over the arrangement of atoms in a crystal lattice. we can prevent the crystal formation, we can control the size of the crystal as it forms. but we cannot change the crystal into some other class." "i suppose it's sort of like baking a cake. once the ingredients are mixed, the cake can be big or small or shaped to fit the pan, or you can spoil it complete. but if you mix devil's food, it either comes out devil's food or nothing." "an amusing analogy and rather correct. however i prefer the one used years ago by dr. willy ley, who observed that analysis is fine, but you can't learn how a locomotive is built by melting it down and analyzing the mess." then he went on again. "to get back to mekstrom's disease and what we know about it. we know that the crawl goes at about a sixty-fourth of an inch per hour. if, for instance, you turned up here with a trace on your right middle finger, the entire first joint would be mekstrom's flesh in approximately three days. within two weeks your entire middle finger would be solid. without anesthesia we could take a saw and cut off a bit for our research." "no feeling?" "none whatever. the joints knit together, the arteries become as hard as steel tubing and the heart cannot function properly--not that the heart cares about minor conditions such as the arteries in the extremities, but as the mekstrom infection crawls up the arm toward the shoulder the larger arteries become solid and then the heart cannot drive the blood through them in its accustomed fashion. it gets like an advanced case of arteriosclerosis. eventually the infection reaches and immobilizes the shoulder; this takes about ninety days. by this time, the other extremities have also become infected and the crawl is coming up all four limbs." he looked at me very solemnly at that. "the rest is not pretty. death comes shortly after that. i can almost say that he is blessed who catches mekstrom's in the left hand for them the infection reaches the heart before it reaches other parts. those whose initial infection is in the toes are particularly cursed, because the infection reaches the lower parts of the body. i believe you can imagine the result, elimination is prevented because of the stoppage of peristalsis. death comes of autointoxication, which is slow and painful." i shuddered at the idea. the thought of death has always bothered me. the idea of looking at a hand and knowing that i was going to die by the calendar seemed particularly horrible. taking the bit between my teeth, i said, "scholar phelps, i've been wondering whether you and your center have ever considered treating mekstrom's by helping it?" "helping it?" he asked. "sure. consider what a man might be if he were mekstrom's all the way through." he nodded. "you would have a physical superman," he said. "steel-strong muscles driving steel-hard flesh covered by a near impenetrable skin. perhaps such a man would be free of all minor pains and ills. imagine a normal bacterium trying to bore into flesh as hard as concrete. mekstrom flesh tends to be acid-resistant as well as tough physically. it is not beyond the imagination to believe that your mekstrom superman might live three times our frail four-score and ten. but--" here he paused. "not to pull down your house of cards, this idea is not a new one. some years ago we invited a brilliant young doctor here to study for his scholarate. the unfortunate fellow arrived with the first traces of mekstrom's in his right middle toe. we placed about a hundred of our most brilliant researchers under his guidance, and he decided to take this particular angle of study. he failed; for all his efforts, he did not stay his death by a single hour. from that time to the present we have maintained one group on this part of the problem." it occurred to me at that moment that if i turned up with a trace of mekstrom's i'd be seeking out the highways in hiding rather than the medical center. that fast thought brought a second: suppose that dr. thorndyke learned that he had a trace, or rather, the highways found it out. what better way to augment their medical staff than to approach the victim with a proposition: you help us, work with us, and we will save your life. that, of course, led to the next idea: that if the highways in hiding had any honest motive, they'd not be hidden in the first place and they'd have taken their cure to the medical center in the second. well, i had a bit of something listed against them, so i decided to let my bombshell drop. "scholar phelps," i said quietly, "one of the reasons i am here is that i have fairly good evidence that the cure for mekstrom's disease does exist, and that it produces people of ultrahard bodies and superhuman strength." he smiled at me with the same tolerant air that father uses on the offspring who comes up with one of the standard juvenile plans for perpetual motion. "what do you consider good evidence?" "suppose i claimed to have seen it myself." "then i would say that you had misinterpreted your evidence," he replied calmly. "the flying saucer enthusiasts still insist that the things they see are piloted by little green men from venus, even though we have been there and found venus to be absolutely uninhabited by anything higher than slugs, grubs, and little globby animals like tellurian leeches." "but--" "this, too, is an old story," he told me with a whimsical smile. "it goes with the standard routine about a secret organization that is intending to take over the earth. the outline has been popular ever since charles fort. now--er--just tell me what you saw." i concocted a tale that was about thirty-three percent true and the rest partly distorted. it covered my hitting a girl in ohio with my car, hard enough to clobber her. but when i stopped to help her, she got up and ran away unhurt. she hadn't left a trace of blood although the front fender of the car was badly smashed. he nodded solemnly. "such things happen," he said. "the human body is really quite durable; now and then comes the lucky happenstance when the fearful accident does no more than raise a slight bruise. i've read the story of the man whose parachute did not open and who lived to return it to the factory in person, according to the old joke. but now, mr. cornell, have you ever considered the utter impossibility of running any sort of secret organization in this world of today. even before rhine it was difficult. you'll be adding to your tale next--some sort of secret sign, maybe a form of fraternity grip, or perhaps even a world-wide system of local clubs and hangouts, all aimed at some dire purpose." i squirmed nervously for a bit. scholar phelps was too close to the truth to make me like it, because he was scoffing. he went right on making me nervous. "now before we get too deep, i only want to ask about the probable motives of such an organization. you grant them superhuman strength, perhaps extreme longevity. if they wanted to take over the earth, couldn't they do it by a show of force? or are they mild-mannered supermen, only quietly interested in overrunning the human race and waiting out the inevitable decline of normal homo sapiens? you're not endowing them with extraterrestrial origin, are you?" i shook my head unhappily. "good. that shows some logic, mr. cornell. after all, we know now that while we could live on mars or venus with a lot of home-sent aid, we'd be most uncomfortable there. we could not live a minute on any planet of our solar system without artificial help." "i might point out that our hypothetical superman might be able to stand a lot of rough treatment," i blurted. "oh, this i'll grant if your tale held any water at all. but let's forget this fruitless conjecture and take a look at the utter impossibility of running such an organization. even planting all of their secret hangouts in dead areas and never going into urban centers, they'd still find some telepath or esper on their trail. perhaps a team. let's go back a step and consider, even without psi training, how long such an outfit could function. it would run until the first specimen had an automobile accident on, say times square; or until one of them walked--or ran--out of the fire following a jetliner crash." he then spared me with a cold eye. "write it as fiction, mr. cornell. but leave my name out of it. i thought you were after facts." "i am. but the better fact articles always use a bit of speculation to liven it up." "well," he grunted, "one such fanciful suggestion is the possibility of such an underground outfit being able to develop a 'cure' while we cannot. we, who have had the best of brains and money for twenty years." i nodded, and while i did not agree with phelps, i knew that to insist was to insult him to his face, and get myself tossed out. "you do seem to have quite a set-up here," i said, off-hand. at this point phelps offered to show me around the place, and i accepted. medical center was far larger than i had believed at first; it spread beyond my esper range into the hills beyond the main plant. the buildings were arranged in a haphazard-looking pattern out in the back section; i say "looking" because only a psi-trained person can dig a pattern. the wide-open psi area did not extend for miles. behind the main buildings it closed down into the usual mottled pattern and the medical buildings had been placed in the open areas. dwellings and dormitories were in the dark places. a nice set-up. i did not meet any of the patients, but phelps let me stand in the corridor outside a couple of rooms and use my esper on the flesh. it was both distressing and instructive. he explained, "the usual thing after someone visits this way, is that the visitor goes out itching. in medical circles this is a form of what we call 'sophomore's syndrome.' ever heard of it?" i nodded. "that's during the first years at pre-med. knowing all too little of medicine, every disease they study produces the same symptoms that the student finds in himself. until tomorrow, when they study the next. then the symptoms in the student change." "right. so in order to prevent 'sophomore's syndrome' among visitors we usually let them study the real thing. also," he added seriously, "we'd like to have as many people as possible recognize the real thing as early as possible. even though we can't do anything for them at the present time, someday we will." he stopped before a closed door. "in here is a girl of eighteen, doomed to die in a month." his voice trailed off as he tapped on the door of the room. i froze. a few beads of cold sweat ran down my spine, and i fought myself into a state of nervous calmness. i put the observation away, buried it as deep as i could, tried to think around it, and so far as i knew, succeeded. the tap of scholar phelps' finger against the door panel was the rap-rap-rap sound characteristic of hard-tanned leather tapping wood. scholar phelps was a mekstrom! * * * * * i paid only surface attention to the rest of my visit. i thanked my personal gods that esper training had also given me the ability to dissemble. it was impossible to not think of something but it is possible to keep the mind so busy with surface thoughts that the underlying idea does not come through the interference. eventually i managed to leave the medical center without exciting anyone, and when i left i took off like a skyrocket for chicago. vii nurse gloria farrow waved at me from the ramp of the jetliner, and i ran forward to collect her baggage. she eyed me curiously but said no more than the usual greetings and indication of which bag was hers. i knew that she was reading my mind like a psychologist all the time, and i let her know that i wanted her to. i let my mind merely ramble on with the usual pile of irrelevancies that the mind uses to fill in blank spaces. it came up with a couple of notions here and there but nothing definite. miss farrow followed me to my car without saying a word, and let me install her luggage in the trunk. then, for the first time, she spoke: "steve cornell, you're as healthy as i am." "i admit it." "then what is this all about? you don't need a nurse!" "i need a competent witness, miss farrow." "for what?" she looked puzzled. "suppose you stay right here and start explaining." "you'll listen to the bitter end?" "i've two hours before the next plane goes back. you'll have that time to convince me--or else. okay?" "that's a deal." i fumbled around for a beginning, and then i decided to start right at the beginning, whether it sounded cockeyed or not. giving information to a telepath is the easiest thing in the world. while i started at the beginning, i fumbled and finally ended up by going back and forth in a haphazard manner, but miss farrow managed to insert the trivia in the right chronological order so that when i finished, she nodded with interest. i posed the question: #am i nuts?# "no, steve," she replied solemnly. "i don't think so. you've managed to accept data which is obviously mingled truth and falsehood, and you've managed to question the validity of all of it." i grunted. "how about the crazy man who questions his own sanity, using this personal question as proof of his sanity since real nuts _know_ they're sane?" "no nut can think that deep into complication. what i mean is that they cannot even question their own sanity in the first premise of postulated argument. but forget that, what i wanted to know is where you intend to go from here." i shook my head unhappily. "when i called you i had it all laid out like a roadmap. i was going to show you proof and use you as an impartial observer to convince someone else. then we'd go to the medical center and hand it to them on a platter. since then i've had a shock that i can't get over, or plan beyond. scholar phelps is a mekstrom. that means that the guy knows what gives with mekstrom's disease and yet he is running an outfit that professes to be helpless in the face of this disease. for all we know phelps may be the head of the highways in hiding, an organization strictly for profit of some sort at the expense of the public welfare." "you're certain that phelps is a mekstrom?" "not absolutely positive. i had to close my mind because there might be a telepath on tap. but i can tell you that nobody with normal flesh-type fingers ever made that solid rap." "a fingernail?" i shook my head at her. "that's a click. with an ear at all you'd note the difference." "i'll accept it for the moment. but lacking your original plan, what are you going to do now?" "i'm not sure beyond showing you the facts. maybe i should call up that f.b.i. team that called on me after thorndyke's disappearance and put it in their laps." "good idea. but why would scholar phelps be lying? and beyond your basic suspicions, what can you prove?" "very little. i admit that my evidence is extremely thin. i saw phillip harrison turning head bolts on a tractor engine with a small end wrench. it should require a crossbar socket and a lot of muscle. next is the girl in ohio who should be a bloody mess from the way she was treated. instead she got up and tried to chase me. then answer me a puzzler: did the harrisons move because marian caught mekstrom's, or did they move because they felt that i was too close to discovering their secret? the highway was relocated after that, you'll recall." "it sounds frightfully complicated, steve." "you bet it does," i grunted. "so next i meet a guy who is supposed to know all the answers; a man dedicated to the public welfare, medicine, and the ideal of service. a man sworn to the hippocratic oath. or," i went on bitterly, "is it the hypocritic oath?" "steve, please--" "please, hell!" i stormed. "why is he quietly sitting there in mekstrom hide while he is overtly grieving over the painful death of his fellow man?" "i wouldn't know." "well, i'm tired of being pushed around," i growled. "pushed around?" she asked quietly. with a trace of scorn, i said, "miss farrow, i can see two possible answers. either i am being pushed around for some deliberate reason, or i'm too smart, too cagey and too dangerous for them to handle directly. it takes only about eight weeks for me to reluctantly abandon the second in favor of the first." "but what makes you think you are being pushed?" she wanted to know. "you can't tell me that i am so important that they couldn't erase me as easily as they did catherine and dr. thorndyke. and now that his name comes up, let's ask why any doctor who once met a casual patient would go to the bother of sending a postcard with a message on it that is certain to cause me unhappiness. he's also the guy who nudged me by calling my attention to my so-called 'shock hallucination' about father harrison lifting my car while phillip harrison raced into the fire to make the rescue. add it up," i told her sharply. "next he is invited to medical center to study mekstrom's. only instead of landing there, he sends me a postcard with one of the highways in the picture, after which he disappears." miss farrow nodded thoughtfully. "it is all tied up with your highways and your mekstrom people." "that isn't all," i said. "how come the harrisons moved so abruptly?" "you're posing questions that i can't answer," complained miss farrow. "and i'm not one hundred percent convinced that you are right." "you are here, and if you take a look at what i'll show you, you'll be convinced. we'll put it this way, to start: something cockeyed is going on. now, one more thing i can add, and this is the part that confuses me: everything that has been done seems to point to me. so far as i can see they are operating just as though they want me to start a big hassle that will end up by getting the highways out of their hiding." "why on earth would they be doing that?" she wanted to know. "i don't have the foggiest notion. but i do have that feeling and there is evidence pointing that way. they've let me in on things that normally they'd be able to conceal from a highly trained telepath. so i intend to go along with them, because somewhere at the bottom of it all we'll find the answer." she nodded agreement. now i started up the car, saying, "i'm going to find us one of the highways in hiding, and we'll follow it to one of the way stations. then you'll see for yourself that there is something definitely fishy going on." "this i'd like to see," she replied quietly. almost too quietly. i took a dig at her as i turned the car out through a tight corner of the lot onto the road. she was sitting there with a noncommittal expression on her face and i wondered why. she replied to my thought: "steve, you must face one thing. anything you firmly believe will necessarily pass across your mind as fact. so forgive me if i hold a few small doubts until i have a chance to survey some of the evidence at first hand." "sure," i told her. "the first bit won't be hard." i drove eagerly across illinois into iowa watching for road signs. i knew that once i convinced someone else, it would be easier to convince a third, and a fourth, and a fiftieth until the entire world was out on the warpath. we drove all day, stopping for chow now and then, behaving like a couple out on a vacation tour. we stopped in a small town along about midnight and found a hotel without having come upon any of the hidden highways. we met at breakfast, talked our ideas over mildly, and took off again. we crossed into nebraska about noon and continued to meander until late in the afternoon when we came upon our first giveaway road sign. "there," i told her triumphantly. she nodded. "i see the sign, steve. that much i knew. now all you have to do is to show me the trial-blazes up in that emblem." "unless they've changed their method," i told her, "this one leads west, slightly south of." i stopped the car not many yards from the sign and went over it with my sense of perception. #you'll note the ease with which the emblem could be turned upside down,# i interjected. #note the similar width of the top and bottom trefoil, so that only a trained and interested observer can tell the difference.# i drove along until we saw one on the other side of the road and we stopped again, giving the sign a thorough going over. #note that the signs leading away from the direction are upside down,# i went on. i didn't say a word, i was using every ounce of energy in running my perception over the sign and commenting on its various odds and ends. #now,# i finished, #we'll drive along this highway in hiding until we come to some intersection or hideout. then you'll be convinced.# she was silent. we took off along that road rather fast and we followed it for miles, passing sign after sign with its emblem turned up along the right side of the road and turned upside-down when the sign was on the left. eventually we came to a crossing highway, and at that i pointed triumphantly. "note the missing spoke!" i said with considerable enthusiasm. "now, miss farrow, we shall first turn against it for a few miles and then we shall u-turn and come back along the cross highway with it." "i'm beginning to be convinced, steve." we turned north against the sign and went forty or fifty miles, just to be sure. the signs were all against us. eventually i turned into a gas station and filled the carte up to the scuppers. as we turned back south, i asked her, "any more comment?" she shook her head. "not yet." i nodded. "if you want, we'll take a jaunt along our original course." "by all means." "in other words you are more than willing to be convinced?" "yes," she said simply. she went silent then and i wondered what she was thinking about, but she didn't bother to tell me. eventually we came back to the crossroad, and with a feeling of having been successful, i continued south with a confidence that i had not felt before. we stopped for dinner in a small town, ate hastily but well, and then had a very mild debate. "shall we have a drink and relax for a moment?" "i'd like it," she replied honestly. "but somehow i doubt that i could relax." "i know. but it does seem like a good idea to take it easy for a half hour. it might even be better if we stopped over and took off again in the morning." "steve," she told me, "the only way i could relax or go to sleep would be to take on a roaring load so that i'd pass out cold. i'd rather not because i'd get up tomorrow with a most colossal hangover. frankly, i'm excited and i'd prefer to follow this thing to a finish." "it's a deal," i said. "we'll go until we have to stop." it was about eight o'clock when we hit the road again. * * * * * by nine-forty-five we'd covered something better than two hundred miles, followed another intersection turn according to the missing spoke, and were heading well toward the upper right-hand corner of colorado on the road map. at ten o'clock plus a few minutes we came upon the roadsign that pointed the way to a ranch-type house set prettily on the top of a small knoll several hundred yards back from the main road. i stopped briefly a few hundred feet from the lead-in road and asked miss farrow: "what's your telepath range? you've never told me." she replied instantly, "intense concentration directed at me is about a half mile. superficial thinking that might include me or my personality as a by-thought about five hundred yards. to pick up a thought that has nothing to do with me or my interests, not much more than a couple of hundred feet. things that are definitely none of my business close down to forty or fifty feet." that was about the average for a person with a bit of psi training either in telepathy or in esper; it matched mine fairly well, excepting that part about things that were none of my business. she meant _thoughts_ and not _things_. i had always had a hard time differentiating between things that were none of my damned business, although i do find it more difficult to dig the contents of a letter between two unknown parties at a given distance than it is to dig a letter written or addressed to a person i know. _things_ are, by and large, a lot less personal than thoughts, if i'm saying anything new. "well," i told her, "this is it. we're going to go in close enough for you to take a 'pathic look-around. keep your mind sensitive. if you dig any danger, yell out. i'm going to extend my esper as far as i can and if i suddenly take off like a startled spacecraft, it's because i have uncovered something disagreeable. but keep your mind on them and not me, because i'm relying on you to keep posted on their mental angle." miss farrow nodded. "it's hard to remember that other people haven't the ability to make contact mentally. it's like a normal man talking to a blind man and referring constantly to visible things because he doesn't understand. i'll try to remember." "i'm going to back in," i said. "then if trouble turns up, i'll have an advantage. as soon as they feel our minds coming in at them, they'll know that we're not in there for their health. so here we go!" "i'm a good actor," she said. "no matter what i say, i'm with you all the way!" i yanked the car forward, and angled back. i hit the road easily and started backing along the driveway at a rather fast speed with my eyes half-closed to give my esper sense the full benefit of my concentration along the road. when i was not concentrating on how i was going to turn the wheel at the next curve i thought, #i hope these folks know the best way to get to colorado springs from here. dammit, we're lost!# miss farrow squeezed my arm gently, letting me know that she was thinking the same general thoughts. suddenly she said, "it's a dead area, steve." it was a dead area, all right. my perception came to a barrier that made it fade from full perception to not being able to perceive anything in a matter of yards. it always gives me an eerie feeling when i approach a dead area and find that i can see a building clearly and not be able to cast my perception beyond a few feet. i kept on backing up into the fringe of that dead area until i was deep within the edge and it took all my concentration to perceive the road a few feet ahead of my rear wheels so that i could steer. i was inching now, coming back like a blind man feeling his way. we were within about forty feet of the ranch house when miss farrow yelped: "they're surrounding us, steve!" my hands whipped into action and my heavy right foot came down on the gas-pedal. the car shuddered, howled like a wounded banshee, and then leaped forward with a roar. a man sprang out of the bushes and stood in front of the car like a statue with his hand held up. miss farrow screamed something unintelligible and clutched at my arm frantically. i threw her hand off with a snarl, kept my foot rammed down hard and hit the man dead center. the car bucked and i heard metal crumple angrily. we lurched, bounced viciously twice as my wheels passed over his floundering body, and then we were racing like complete idiots along a road that should not have been covered at more than twenty. the main road came into sight and i sliced the car around with a screech of the rear tires, controlled the deliberate skid with some fancy wheel-work and some fast digging of the surrounding dangers. then we were tearing along the broad and beautifully clear concrete with the speedometer needle running into the one-fifteen region. "steve," said miss farrow breathlessly, "that man you hit--" in a hard voice i said, "he was getting to his feet when i drove out of range." "i know," she said in a whimper. "i was in his mind. he was not hurt! god! steve--what are we up against?" her voice rose to a wail. "i don't know, exactly," i said. "but i know what we're going to do." "but steve--what can we do?" "alone or together, very little. but we can bring one person more out along these highways and then convince a fourth and a fifth and a fiftieth and a thousandth. by then we'll be shoved back off the stage while the big wheels grind painfully slow but exceedingly meticulous." "that'll take time." "certainly. but we've got a start. look how long it took getting a start in the first place." "but what is their purpose?" she asked. "that i can't say. i can't say a lot of things, like how, and why and wherefore. but i know that now we have a front tooth in this affair we're not going to let go." i thought for a moment. "i could use thorndyke; he'd be the next guy to convince if we could find him. or maybe catherine, if we could find her. the next best thing is to get hold of that f.b.i. team that called on me. there's a pair of cold-blooded characters that seem willing to sift through a million tons of ash to find one valuable cinder. they'll listen. i--" miss farrow looked at her watch; i dug it as she made the gesture. #eleven o'clock.# "going to call?" she asked. "no," i said. "it's too late. it's one in new york now and the f.b.i. team wouldn't be ready for a fast job at this hour." "so?" "i have no intention of placing a 'when you are ready' call to a number identified with the federal bureau of investigation. not when a full eight hours must elapse between the call and a reply. too much can happen to us in the meantime. but if i call in the morning, we can probably take care of ourselves well enough until they arrive if we stay in some place that is positively teeming with citizens. sensible?" "sounds reasonable, steve." i let the matter drop at that; i put the go-pedal down to the floor and fractured a lot of speed laws until we came to denver. we made denver just before midnight and drove around until we located a hotel that filled our needs. it was large, which would prevent overt operations on the part of the 'enemy' and it was a dead area, which would prevent one of them from reading our minds while we slept, and so enable them to lay counterplans against us. the bellhop gave us a knowing leer as we registered separately, but i was content to let him think what he wanted. better that he get the wrong idea about us than the right one. he fiddled around in miss farrow's room on the ninth, bucking for a big tip--not for good service, but for leaving us alone, which he did by demonstrating how big a nuisance he could be if not properly rewarded. but finally he got tired of his drawer-opening and lamp-testing and towel-stacking, and escorted me up to the twelfth. i led him out with a five spot clutched in his fist and the leer even stronger. if he expected me to race downstairs as soon as he was out of ear-shot, he was mistaken, for i hit the sack like the proverbial ton of crushed mortar. it had been literally weeks since i'd had a pleasant, restful sleep that was not broken by fitful dreams and worry-insomnia. now that we had something solid to work on, i could look forward to some concrete action instead of merely feeling pushed around. viii i'd put in for an eight o'clock call, but my sleep had been so sound and perfect that i was all slept out by seven-thirty. i was anxious to get going so i dressed and shaved in a hurry and cancelled the eight o'clock call. then i asked the operator to connect me with 913. a gruff, angry male voice snarled out of the earpiece at me. i began to apologize profusely but the other guy slammed the phone down on the hook hard enough to make my ear ring. i jiggled my hook angrily and when the operator answered i told her that she'd miscued. she listened to my complaint and then replied in a pettish tone, "but i did ring 913, sir. i'll try again." i wanted to tell her to just try, that there was no 'again' about it, but i didn't. i tried to dig through the murk to her switchboard but i couldn't dig a foot through this area. i waited impatiently until she re-made the connections at her switchboard and i heard the burring of the phone as the other end rang. then the same mad-bull-rage voice delivered a number of pointed comments about people who ring up honest citizens in the middle of the night; and he hung up again in the middle of my apology. i got irked again and demanded that the operator connect me with the registration clerk. to him i told my troubles. "one moment, sir," he said. a half minute later he returned with, "sorry, sir. there is no farrow registered. could i have mis-heard you?" "no, goddammit," i snarled. "it's farrow. f as in frank; a as in arthur; double r as in robert robert; o as in oliver; and w as in washington. i saw her register, i went with her and the bellhop to her room, number 913, and saw her installed. then the same 'hop took me up to my room in 1224 on the twelfth." there was another moment of silence. then he said, "you're mr. cornell. registered in room 1224 last night approximately four minutes after midnight." "i know all about me. i was there and did it myself. and if i registered at four after midnight, miss farrow must have registered about two after midnight because the ink was still wet on her card when i wrote my name. we came in together, we were travelling together. now, what gives?" "i wouldn't know, sir. we have no guest named farrow." "see here," i snapped, "did you ever have a guest named farrow?" "not in the records i have available at this desk. perhaps in the past there may have been--" "forget the past. what about the character in 913?" the registration clerk returned and informed me coldly, "room 913 has been occupied by a mr. horace westfield for over three months, mr. cornell. there is no mistake." his voice sounded professionally sympathetic, and i knew that he would forget my troubles as soon as his telephone was put back on its hook. "forget it," i snapped and hung up angrily. then i went towards the elevators, walking in a sort of dream-like daze. there was a cold lump of something concrete hard beginning to form in the pit of my stomach. wetness ran down my spine and a drop of sweat dropped from my armpit and hit my body a few inches above my belt like a pellet of icy hail. my face felt cold but when i wiped it with the palm of a shaking hand i found it beaded with an oily sweat. everything seemed unreally horrifying. "nine," i told the elevator operator in a voice that sounded far away and hoarse. i wondered whether this might not be a very vivid dream, and maybe if i went all the way back to my room, took a short nap, and got up to start all over again, i would awaken to honest reality. the elevator stopped at nine and i walked the corridor that was familiar from last night. i rapped on the door of room 913. the door opened and a big stubble-faced gorilla gazed out and snarled at me: "are you the persistent character?" "look," i said patiently, "last night a woman friend of mine registered at this hotel and i accompanied her to this door. number 913. now--" a long apelike arm came out and caught me by the coat lapels. he hauled and i went in fast. his breath was sour and his eyes were bloodshot and he was angry all the way through. his other hand caught me by the seat of the pants and he danced me into the room like a jumping jack. "friend," he ground out, "take a look. there ain't no woman in this room, see?" he whirled, carrying me off my feet. he took a lunging step forward and hurled me onto the bed, where i carried the springs deep down, to bounce up and off and forward to come up flat against the far wall. i landed sort of spread-eagle flat and seemed to hang there before i slid down the wall to the floor with a meaty-sounding whump! then before i could collect my wits or myself, he came over the bed in one long leap and had me hauled upright by the coat lapels again. the other hand was cocked back level with his shoulder it looked the size of a twenty-five pound sack of flour and was probably as hard as set cement. _steve_, i told myself, _this time you're in for it!_ "all right," i said as apologetically as i knew how, "so i've made a bad mistake. i apologize. i'll also admit that you could wipe up the hotel with me. but do you have to prove it?" mr. horace westfield's mental processes were not slow, cumbersome, and crude. he was as fast and hard on his mental feet as he was on his physical feet. he made some remarks about my intelligence, my upbringing, my parentage and its legal status, and my unwillingness to face a superior enemy. during this catalog of my virtueless existence, he gandy-walked me to the door and opened it. he concluded his lecture by suggesting that in the future i accept anything that any registration clerk said as god-stated truth, and if i then held any doubts i should take them to the police. then he hurled me out of the room by just sort of shoving me away. i sailed across the hall on my toes, backward, and slapped my frame flat again, and once more i hung against the wall until the kinetic energy had spent itself. then i landed on wobbly ankles as the door to room 913 came closed with a violent slam. i cursed the habit of building hotels in dead areas, although i admitted that i'd steer clear of any hotel in a clear area myself. but i didn't need a clear area nor a sense of perception to inform me that room 913 was absolutely and totally devoid of any remote sign of female habitation. in fact, i gathered the impression that for all of his brute strength and virile masculinity, mr. horace westfield hadn't entertained a woman in that room since he'd been there. there was one other certainty: it was impossible for any agency short of sheer fairyland magic to have produced overnight a room that displayed its long-term occupancy by a not-too-immaculate character. that distinctive sour smell takes a long time to permeate the furnishings of any decent hotel; i wondered why a joint as well kept as this one would put up with a bird as careless of his person as mr. horace westfield. so i came to the reluctant conclusion that room 913 was not occupied by nurse farrow, but i was not yet convinced that she was totally missing from the premises. instead of taking the elevator, i took to the stairs and tried the eighth. my perception was not too good for much in this murk, but i was mentally sensitive to nurse farrow and if i could get close enough to her, i might be able to perceive some trace of her even through the deadness. i put my forehead against the door of room 813 and drew a blank. i could dig no farther than the inside of the door. if farrow were in 813, i couldn't dig a trace of her. so i went to 713 and tried there. i was determined to try every -13th room on every floor, but as i was standing with my forehead against the door to room 413, someone came up behind me quietly and asked in a rough voice: "just what do you think you're doing, mister?" his dress indicated housedick, but of course i couldn't dig the license in his wallet any more than he could read my mental, #none of your business, flatfoot!# i said, "i'm looking for a friend." "you'd better come with me," he said flatly. "there's been complaints." "yeah?" i growled. "maybe i made one of them myself." "want to start something?" he snapped. i shrugged and he smiled. it was a stony smile, humorless as a crevasse in a rock-face. he kept that professional-type smile on his face until we reached the manager's office. the manager was out, but one of the assistant managers was in his desk. the little sign on the desk said "henry walton. assistant manager." mr. walton said, coldly, "what seems to be the trouble, mr. cornell?" i decided to play it just as though i were back at the beginning again. "last night," i explained very carefully, "i checked into this hotel. i was accompanied by a woman companion. a registered nurse. miss gloria farrow. she registered first, and we were taken by one of your bellboys to rooms 913 and 1224 respectively. i went with miss farrow to 913 and saw her enter. then the bellhop escorted me to 1224 and left me for the night. this morning i can find no trace of miss farrow anywhere in this fleabag." he bristled at the derogatory title but he covered it quickly. "please be assured that no one connected with this hotel has any intention of confusing you, mr. cornell." "i'm tired of playing games," i snapped. "i'll accept your statement so far as the management goes, but someone is guilty of fouling up your registration lists." "that's rather harsh," he replied coldly. "falsifying or tampering with hotel registration lists is illegal. what you've just said amounts to libel or slander, you know." "not if it's true." i half expected henry walton to backwater fast, but instead, he merely eyed me with the same expression of distaste that he might have used upon finding half of a fuzzy caterpillar in his green salad. as cold as a cake of carbon dioxide snow, he said, "can you prove this, mr. cornell?" "your night crew--" "you've given us a bit of trouble this morning," he informed me. "so i've taken the liberty of calling in the night crew for you." he pressed a button and a bunch came in and lined up as if for formal inspection. "boys," said walton quietly, "suppose you tell us what you know about mr. cornell's arrival here last night." they nodded their heads in unison. "wait a minute," i snapped. "i want a reliable witness to listen to this. in fact, if i could, i'd like to have their stories made under oath." "you'd like to register a formal charge? perhaps of kidnapping, or maybe illegal restraint?" "just get me an impartial witness," i told him sourly. "very well." he picked up his telephone and spoke into it. we waited a few minutes, and finally a very prim young woman came in. she was followed by a uniformed policeman. she was carrying one of those sub-miniature silent typewriters which she set up on its little stand with a few efficient motions. "miss mason is our certified public stenographer," he said. "officer, i'll want your signature on her copy when we're finished. this is a simple routine matter, but it must be legal to the satisfaction of mr. cornell. now, boys, go ahead and explain. give your name and position first for miss mason's record." it was then that i noticed that the night crew had arranged themselves in chronological order. the elderly gent spoke first. he'd been the night doorman but now he was stripped of his admiral's gold braid and he looked just like any other sleepy man of middle age. "george comstock," he announced. "doorman. as soon as i saw the car angling out of traffic, i pressed the call-button for a bell boy. peter wright came out and was standing in readiness by the time mr. cornell's car came to a stop by the curb. johnny olson was out next, and after peter had taken mr. cornell's bag, johnny got into mr. cornell's car and took off for the hotel garage--" walton interrupted. "let each man tell what he did himself. no prompting, please." "well, then, you've heard my part in it. johnny olson took off in mr. cornell's car and peter wright took off with mr. cornell's bag, and mr. cornell followed peter." the next man in line, at a nod from the assistant manager, stepped forward about a half a pace and said, "i'm johnny olson. i followed peter wright out of the door and after peter had collected mr. cornell's bag, i got in mr. cornell's car and took it to the hotel garage." the third was peter wright, the bellhop. "i carried his bag to the desk and waited until he registered. then we went up to room 1224. i opened the door, lit the lights, opened the window, and stuff. mr. cornell tipped me five bucks and i left him there. alone." "i'm thomas boothe, the elevator operator. i took mr. cornell and peter wright to the twelfth. peter said i should wait because he wouldn't be long, and so i waited on the twelfth until peter got back. that's all." "i'm doris caspary, the night telephone operator. mr. cornell called me about fifteen minutes after twelve and asked me to put him down for a call at eight o'clock this morning. then he called at about seven thirty and said that he was already awake and not to bother." henry walton said, "that's about it, mr. cornell." "but--" the policeman looked puzzled. "what is the meaning of all this? if i'm to witness any statements like these, i'll have to know what for." walton looked at me. i couldn't afford not to answer. wearily i said, "last night i came in here with a woman companion and we registered in separate rooms. she went into 913 and i waited until she was installed and then went to my own room on the twelfth. this morning there is no trace of her." i went on to tell him a few more details, but the more i told him the more he lifted his eyebrows. "done any drinking?" he asked me curtly. "no." "certain?" "absolutely." walton looked at his crew. they burst into a chorus of, "well, he _was_ steady on his feet," and "he didn't _seem_ under the influence," and a lot of other statements, all generally indicating that for all they knew i could have been gassed to the ears, but one of those rare guys who don't show it. the policeman smiled thinly. "just why was this registered nurse travelling with you?" i gave them the excuse-type statement; the one about the accident and that i felt that i was still a bit on the rocky side and so forth. about all i did for that was to convince the policeman that i was not a stable character. his attitude seemed to indicate that any man travelling with a nurse must either be physically sick or maybe mentally out of tune. then with a sudden thought, i whirled on johnny olson. "will you get my car?" i asked him. he nodded after a nod from walton. i said, "there's plenty of evidence in my car. in the meantime, let's face one thing, officer. i've been accused of spinning a yarn. i'd hardly be demanding witnesses if i weren't telling the truth. i was standing beside miss farrow when she signed the register, complete with the r.n. title. it's too bad that hotels have taken to using card files instead of the old registration book. cards are so easy to misplace--" walton cut in angrily. "if that's an accusation, i'm inclined to see that you make it in a court of law." the policeman looked calm. "i'd take it easy, mr. cornell. your story is not corroborated. but the employees of the hotel bear one another out. and from the record, it would appear that you were under the eyes of at least two of them from the moment your car slowed down in front of the main entrance up to the time that you were escorted to your room." "i object to being accused of complicity in a kidnapping," put in the assistant manager. "i object to being accused of mental incompetence," i snapped. "why do we stand around accusing people back and forth when there's evidence if you'll only uncover it." we stood there glaring at one another. the air grew tense. the only ones in the place who did not have chips on their shoulders were the policeman and the certified stenographer, who was clicking her silent keys in lightning manner, taking down every comment as it was uttered. eventually olson returned, to put an end to the thick silence. "y'car's outside," he told me angrily. "fine," i said. "now we'll go outside and take a look. you'll find plenty of traces of miss farrow's having been there. officer--are you telepath or perceptive?" "perceptive," he said. "but not in here." "how far out does this damned dead area extend?" i asked walton. "about half way across the sidewalk." "okay. so let's all go." we traipsed out to the curb. miss mason brought her little silent along, slipping the stand high up so that she could type from an erect position. we lined up along the curb and i looked into my car with a triumphant feeling. and then that cold chill congealed my spine again. my car was clean and shining. it had been washed and buffed and polished until it looked as new as the day i picked it out on the salesroom floor. walton looked blank, and i whipped a thought at him: #damned telepath!# he nodded perceptibly and said smoothly, "i'm rather sorry we couldn't find any fingerprints. because now, you see," and here he turned to the policeman and went on, "mr. cornell will now accuse us of having washed his car to destroy the evidence. however, you'll find that as a general policy of the hotel, the car-washing is performed as a standard service. in fact, if any guest parks his car in our garage and his car is not rendered spick and span, someone is going to get fired for negligence." so that was that. i took a fast look around, because i knew that i had to get out of there fast. if i remained to carry on any more argument, i'd be tapped for being a nuisance and jugged. i had no doubt at all that the whole hotel staff were all involved in nurse farrow's disappearance. but they'd done their job in such a way that if the question were pushed hard, i would end up answering formal charges, the topmost of which might be murder and concealment of the body. i could do nothing by sitting in jail. this was the time to get out first and worry about farrow later. so i opened the car door and slipped in. i fiddled with the so-called glove compartment and opened it; the maps were all neatly stacked and all the flub had been cleaned out. i fumbled inside and dropped a couple of road maps to the floor, and while i was down picking them up i turned the ignition key which olson had left plugged in the lock. i took off with a jerk and howl of tires. there was the sudden shrill of a police whistle but it was stopped after one brief blast. as i turned the corner, i caught a fast backwards dig at them. they were filing back into the hotel. i did not believe that the policeman was part of the conspiracy, but i was willing to bet that walton was going to slip the policeman a box of fine cigars as a reward for having helped them to get rid of a very embarrassing screwball. ix i put a lot of miles between me and my recent adventure before i stopped to take stock. the answer to the mess was still obscure, but the elimination of nurse farrow fell into the pattern very neatly. alone, i was no problem. so long as my actions were restricted to meandering up and down the highways and byways, peering into nooks and crannies and crying, "catherine," in a plaintive voice, no one cared. but when i teamed up with a telepath, they moved in with the efficiency of a well-run machine and extracted the disturbing element. in fact, their machinations had been so smooth that i was beginning to believe that my 'discoveries' were really an assortment of unimportant facts shown to me deliberately for some reason of their own. the only snag in the latter theory was the fact of our accident. assuming that i had to get involved in the mess, there were easier ways to introduce me than by planning a bad crack-up that could have been fatal, even granting the close proximity of the harrison tribe to come to the rescue. the accident had to be an accident in the dictionary definition of the word itself. under the circumstances, a planned accident could only be accepted under an entirely different set of conditions. for instance, let's assume that catherine was a mekstrom and i was about to disclose the fact. then she or they could plan such an accident, knowing that she could walk out of the wreck with her hair barely mussed, leaving me dead for sure. but catherine was not a mekstrom. i'd been close enough to that satin skin to know that the body beneath it was soft and yielding. yet the facts as they stood did not throw out my theory. it merely had to be revised. catherine was no mekstrom, but if the harrisons had detected the faintest traces of an incipient mekstrom infection, they could very well have taken her in. i fumed at the idea. i could almost visualize them pointing out her infection and then informing her bluntly that she could either swear in with them and be cured or she could die alone and miserably. this could easily explain her disappearance. naturally, being what they were, they cared nothing for me or any other non-mekstrom. i was no menace. not until i teamed up with a telepath, and they knew what to do about that. completely angry, i decided that it was time that i made a noise like an erupting volcano. with plans forming, i took off again towards yellowstone, pausing only long enough at fort collins to buy some armament. colorado is still a part of the united states where a man can go into a store and buy a gun over the counter just like any other tool. i picked out a bonanza .375 because it is small enough to fit the hip pocket, light because of the new alloys so it wouldn't unballast me, and mostly because it packs enough wallop to stop a charging hippo. i did not know whether it would drill all the way through a mekstrom hide, but the impact would at least set any target back on the seat of his pants. then i drove into wyoming and made my way to yellowstone, and one day i was driving along the same road that had been pictured in dr. thorndyke's postcard. i drove along it boldly, loaded for bear, and watching the highway signs that led me nicely toward my goal. eventually i came to the inevitable missing spoke. it pointed to a ranch-type establishment that lay sprawled out in a billow of dead area. i eyed it warily and kept on driving because my plans did not include marching up to the front door like a rug peddler. instead, i went on to the next town, some twenty miles away, which i reached about dark. i stopped for a leisurely dinner, saw a moving picture at the drive-in, killed a few at the bar, and started back to the way station about midnight. the name, dug from the mailbox, was macklin. again i did not turn in. i parked the car down the highway by about three miles, figuring that only a psi of doctor's degree would be able to dig anything at that distance. i counted on there being no such mental giant in this out of the way place. i made my way back toward the ranch house across the fields and among the rolling rock. i extended my perception as far as i could; i made myself sensitive to danger and covered the ground foot by foot, digging for traps, alarm lines, photocell trips, and parties who might be lying in wait for me. i encountered no sign of any trip or trap all the way to the fringe of the dead zone. the possibility that they knew of my presence and were comfortably awaiting me deep within the zone occurred to me, and so i was very cautious as i cased the layout and decided to make my entry at the point where the irregular boundary of the dead area was closest to the house itself. i entered and became completely psi-blind. starlight cast just enough light so that i could see to walk without falling into a chuck hole or stumbling over something, but beyond a few yards everything lost shape and became a murky blob. the night was dead silent except for an occasional hiss of wind through the brush. esperwise i was not covering much more than my eyes could see. i stepped deeper into the zone and lost another yard of perception. i kept probing at the murk, sort of like poking a finger at a hanging blanket. it moved if i dug hard enough in any direction, but as soon as i released the pressure, the murk moved right back where it was before. i crouched and took a few more steps into the zone, got to a place where i could begin to see the outlines of the house itself. dark, silent, it looked uninhabited. i wished that there had been a college course in housebreaking, prowling and second-story operations. i went at it very slowly. i took my sweet time crossing the boards of the back verandah, even though the short hair on the back of my neck was beginning to prickle from nervousness. i was also scared. at any given moment, they had the legal right to open a window, poke out a field-piece, and blow me into bloody ribbons where i stood. the zone was really a dead one. my esper range was no more than about six inches from my forehead; a motion picture of steve cornell sounding out the border of a window with his forehead would have looked funny, it was not funny at the time. but i found that the sash was not locked and that the flyscreen could be unshipped from the outside. i entered a dining room. inside, it was blacker than pitch. i crossed the dining room by sheer feel and instinct and managed to get to the hallway without making any racket. at this point i stopped and asked myself what the heck i thought i was trying to do. i had to admit that i had no plan in definite form. i was just prowling the joint to see what information i might be able to pick up. down the hall i found a library. i'd been told that you tell what kind of people folks are by inspecting their library, and so i conned the book titles by running my head along a row of books. the books in the library indicated to me that this was a family of some size with rather broad tastes. there was everything from science fiction to shakespeare, everything from philosophy to adventure. a short row of kid's books. a bible. encyclopedia brittanica (published in chicago), in fifty-four volumes, but there were no places that were worn that might give me an idea as to any special interest. the living room was also blank of any evidence of anything out or the ordinary. i turned away and stood in the hallway, blocked by indecision. i was a fool, i kept telling myself, because i did not have any experience in casing a joint, and what i knew had been studied out of old-time detective tales. even if the inhabitants of the place were to let me go at it in broad daylight, i'm not too sure that i'd do a good job of finding something of interest except for sheer luck. but on the other hand, i'd gotten nowhere by dodging and ducking. i was in no mood to run quivering in fear. i was more inclined to emit a bellow just to see what would happen next. so instead of sneaking quietly away, i found the stairs and started to go up very slowly. it occurred to me at about the third step that i must be right. anybody with any sense wouldn't keep anything dangerous in their downstairs library. it would be too much like a safe-cracker storing his nitro in the liquor cabinet or the murderer who hangs his weapon over the mantelpiece. yet everybody kept some sort of records, or had things in their homes that were not shown to visiting firemen. and if it weren't on the second floor, then it might be in the cellar. if i weren't caught first, i'd prowl the whole damned place, inch by inch--avoiding if possible those rooms in which people slept. the fifth step squeaked ever so faintly, but it sounded like someone pulling a spike out of a packing case made of green wood. i froze, half aching for some perceptive range so that i could dig any sign of danger, and half remembering that if it weren't for the dead area, i'd not be this far. i'd have been frightened to try it in a clear zone. eventually i went on up, and as my head came above the level of the floor, everything became psi-clear once more. here was as neat a bit of home planning as i have ever seen. just below the level of the second floor, their dead area faded out, so that the top floor was clean, bright, and clear as day. i paused, startled at it, and spent a few moments digging outside. the dead area billowed above the rooftop out of my range; from what little i could survey of the dark psi area, it must have been shaped sort of like an angel-food cake, except that the central hole did not go all the way down. only to the first-floor level. it was a wonderful set-up for a home; privacy was granted on the first floor and from the road and all the surrounding territory, but on the second floor there was plenty of pleasant esperclear space for the close-knit family and friends. their dead area was shaped in the ideal form for any ideal home. then i stopped complimenting the architect and went on about my business, because there, directly in front of my nose, i could dig the familiar impression of a medical office. i went the rest of the way up the stairs and into the medical office. there was no mistake. the usual cabinets full of instruments, a laboratory examination table, shelves of little bottles, and along one wall was a library of medical books. all it needed was a sign on the door: 's. p. macklin, msch' to make it standard. at the end of the library was a set of looseleaf notebooks, and i pulled the more recent of them out and held it up to my face. i did not dare snap on a light, so i had to go it esper. even in the clear area, this told me very little. esper is not like eyesight, any more than you can hear printed words or perhaps carry on a conversation by watching the wiggly green line on an oscilloscope. i wished it was. instead, esper gives you a grasp of materials and shapes and things in position with regard to other things. it is sort of like seeing something simultaneously from all sides, if you can imagine such a sensation. so instead of being able to esper-read the journal, i had to take it letter by letter by digging the shape of the ink on the page with respect to the paper and the other letters, and since the guy's handwriting was atrocious, i could get no more than if the thing were written in latin. if it had been typewritten, or with a stylized hand, it would have been far less difficult; or if it had been any of my damned business i could have dug it easily. but as it was---"looking for something, mr. cornell?" asked a cool voice that dripped with acid sarcasm. at the same instant, the lights went on. i whirled, clutched at my hip pocket, and dropped to my knees at the same time. the sights of my .375 centered in the middle of a silk-covered midriff. she stood there indolently, disdainful of the cannon that was aimed at her. she was not armed; i'd have caught the esper warning of danger if she'd come at me with a weapon of some sort, even though i was preoccupied with the bookful of evidence. i stood up and faced her and let my esper run lightly over her body. she was another mekstrom, which did not surprise me a bit. "i seem to have found what i was looking for," i said. her laugh was scornful but not loud. "you're welcome, mr. cornell." #telepath?# "yes, and a good one." #who else is awake?# "just me, so far," she replied quietly. "but i'll be glad to call out--" #keep it quiet, sister macklin.# "stop thinking like an idiot, mr. cornell. quiet or not, you'll not leave this house until i permit you to go." i let my esper roam quickly through the house. an elderly couple slept in the front bedroom. a man slept alone in the room beside them; a pair of young boys slept in an over-and-under bunk in the room across the hall. the next room must have been hers, the bed was tumbled but empty. the room next to the medical office contained a man trussed in traction splints, white bandages, and literally festooned with those little hanging bottles that contain everything from blood plasma to food and water, right on down to lubrication for the joints. i tried to dig his face under the swath of bandage but i couldn't make out much more than the fact that it was a face and that the face was half mekstrom flesh. "he is a mekstrom patient," said miss macklin quietly. "at this stage, he is unconscious." i sort of sneered at her. "good friend of yours, no doubt." "not particularly," she said. "let's say that he is a poor victim that would die if we hadn't found his infection early." the tone and expression of her voice made me seethe; she sounded as though she felt herself to be a real benefactor to the human race, and that she and her outfit would do the same for any other poor guy that caught mekstrom's--providing they learned about this unfortunate occurrence in time. "we would, mr. cornell." "bah-loney," i grunted. "why dispute my word?" she asked in the same tone of innocent honesty. i eyed her angrily and i felt my hand tighten on the revolver. "i've a reason to become suspicious," i told her in a voice that i hoped was as mild-mannered as her own. "because three people have disappeared in the past half-year without a trace, but under circumstances that put me in the middle. all of them, somehow, seem to be involved with your hidden road sign system and mekstrom's disease." "that's unfortunate," she said quietly. i had to grab myself to keep from yelling, "unfortunate?" and managed to muffle it down to a mere voice-volume sound. "people dying of mekstrom's because you're keeping this cure a secret and i'm batted from pillar to post because--" i gave up on that because i really did not know why. "it's unfortunate that you had to become involved," she said firmly. "because you--" "it's unfortunate for everybody," i snapped, "because i'm going to bust you all wide open!" "i'm afraid not. you see, in order to do that you'll have to get out of here and that i will not permit." i grunted. "miss macklin, you mekstroms have hard bodies, but do you think your hide will stop a slug from this?" "you'll never know. you see, mr. cornell, you do not have the cold, brittle, determined guts that you'd need to pull that trigger." "no?" "pull it," she said. "or do you agree, now that you're of age, that you can't bluff a telepath." i eyed her sourly because she was right. she held that strength that lies in weakness; i could not pull that trigger and fire a .375 inch slug into that slender, silk-covered midriff. and opposite that, miss macklin also had a strength that was strength itself. she could hold me aloft with one hand kicking and squirming while she was twisting my arms and legs off with her other hand. she held all the big cards of her sex, too. i couldn't slug her with my fist, even though i knew that i'd only break my hand without even bruising her. i was in an awkward situation and i knew it. if she'd been a normal woman i could have shrugged my way past her and left, but she was determined not to let me leave without a lot of physical violence. violence committed on a woman gets the man in dutch no matter how justified he is. yet in my own weakness there was a strength; there was another way out and i took it. abruptly and without forethought. x shifting my aim slightly, i pulled the trigger. the .375 bonanza went off with a sound like an atom bomb in a telephone booth, and the slug whiffed between her arm and her body and drilled a crater in the plaster behind her. the roar stunned her stiff. the color drained from her face and she swayed uncertainly. i found time enough to observe that while her body was as hard as chromium, her nervous system was still human and sensitive enough to make her faint from a sudden shock. she caught herself, and stood there stiff and white with one delicate (but steel-hard) hand up against her throat. then i dug the household. they were piling out of the hay like a bunch of trained firemen answering a still alarm. they arrived in all stages of nightdress in the following order: the man, about twenty-two or three, who skidded into the room on dead gallop and put on brakes with a screech as he caught sight of the .375 with its thin wisp of blue vapor still trailing out of the muzzle. the twins, aged about fourteen, who might have turned to run if they'd not been frightened stiff at the sight of the cannon in my fist. father and then mother macklin, who came in briskly but without panic. mr. macklin said, crisply, "may i have an explanation, mr. cornell?" "i'm a cornered rat," i said thickly. "and so i'm scared. i want out of here in one piece. i'm so scared that if i'm intercepted, i may get panicky, and if i do someone is likely to get hurt. understand?" "perfectly," said mr. macklin calmly. "are you going to let him get away with this?" snapped the eldest son. "fred, a nervous man with a revolver is very dangerous. especially one who lacks the rudimentary training in the simpler forms of burglary." i couldn't help but admire the older gentleman's bland self-confidence. "young man," he said to me, "you've made a bad mistake." "no i haven't," i snapped. "i've been on the trail of something concrete for a long time, and now that i've found it i'm not going to let it go easily." i waved the .375 and they all cringed but mr. macklin. he said, "please put that weapon down, mr. cornell. let's not add attempted murder to your other crimes." "don't force me to it, then. get out of my way and let me go." he smiled. "i don't have to be telepath to tell you that you won't pull that trigger until you're sorely driven," he replied calmly. he was so right that it made me mad. he added, "also, you've got four shells left since you carry the firearm on an empty chamber. not used to guns, are you, mr. cornell?" well, i wasn't used to wearing a gun. now that he mentioned it, i remembered that it was impossible to fire the shell under the hammer by any means except by pulling the trigger. what he was telling me meant that even if i made a careful but bloody sweep of it with my four shells, there would be two of them left, and even the twins were more than capable of taking me apart inch by inch once my revolver was empty. "seems to be an impasse, mr. cornell," he said with an amused smile. "you bland-mannered bunch of--" "ah now, please," he said abruptly. "my wife is not accustomed to such language, nor is my daughter, although my son and the twins probably know enough definitions to make them angry. this is an impasse, mr. cornell, and it behooves all of us to be extremely polite to one another. for one wrong move and you'll fire; this will mean complete chaos for all of us. one wrong word from you and someone of us will take offense, which will be equally fatal. now, let's all stand quietly and talk this over." "what's to talk over?" i demanded. "a truce. or call it an armistice." "do go on." he looked at his family, and i followed his gaze. miss macklin was leaning against the wall with a look of concentrated interest. her elder brother fred was standing alert and ready but not quite poised for a leap. mrs. macklin had a motherly-looking smile on her face which for some unknown reason she was aiming at me in a disarming manner. the twins were standing close together, both of them puzzled-looking. i wondered whether they were esper or telepath (twins are always the same when they're identical, and opposite when fraternal). the thing that really bothered me was their attitude they all seemed to look at me as though i were a poor misguided individual who had unwittingly tromped on their toes after having fallen in among bad company. they reminded me of the harrisons, who looked and sounded so sympathetic when i'd gone out there seeking catherine. a fine bunch to trust! first they swipe my girl and erase all traces of her; then when i go looking they offer me help and sympathy for my distress. the right hand giveth and the left hand taketh away, yeah! i hated them all, yet i am not a hero-type. i wanted the whole highways in hiding rolled up like an old discarded corridor carpet, with every mekstrom on earth rolled up in it. but even if i'd been filled to the scuppers with self-abnegation in favor of my fellow man, i could not have pulled the trigger and started the shambles. for instead of blowing the whole thing wide open because of a batch of bodies, the survivors would have enough savvy to clean up the mess before our bodies got cold, and the old highways crowd would be doing business at the same old stand. without, i might add, without the minor nuisance that people call steve cornell. what i really wanted was to find catherine. and then it came to me that what i really wanted second of all was to possess a body of mekstrom flesh, to be a physical superman. "suppose," said miss macklin unexpectedly, "that it is impossible?" "impossible?" i roared. "what have you got that i haven't got?" "mekstrom's disease," replied miss macklin quietly. "fine," i sneered. "so how do i go out and get it?" "you'll get it naturally--or not at all," she said. "now see here--" i started off, but mr. macklin stopped me with an upraised hand. "mr. cornell," he said, "we are in the very awkward position of trying to convince a man that his preconceived notion is incorrect. we can produce no direct evidence to support our statement. all we can do is to tell you that so far as we know, and as much as we know about mekstrom's disease, no one has ever contracted the infection artificially." "and how can i believe you?" "that's our awkward position. we cannot show you anything that will support our statement. we can profess the attitudes of honesty, truth, honor, good-will, altruism, and every other word that means the same thing. we can talk until doomsday and nothing will be said." "so where is all this getting us?" i asked. "i hope it is beginning to cause your mind to doubt the preconceived notion," he said. "ask yourself why any outfit such as ours would deliberately show you evidence." "i have it and it does not make sense." he smiled. "precisely. it does not." fred macklin interrupted, "look, dad, why are we bothering with all this guff?" "because i have hopes that mr. cornell can be made to see our point, to join, as it were, our side." "fat chance," i snapped. "please, i'm your elder and not at all inclined to waste my time. you came here seeking information and you shall have it. you will not believe it, but it will, i hope, fill in some blank spots after you have had a chance to compare, sort, and use your own logic on the problem. as a mechanical engineer, you are familiar with the line of reasoning that we non-engineering people call occam's razor?" "the law of least reaction," i said automatically. "the what?" asked mrs. macklin. miss macklin said, "i'll read it from mr. cornell's mind, mother. the law of least reaction can be demonstrated by the following: if a bucket of mixed wood-shavings and gasoline are heated, there is a calculable probability that the gasoline will catch fire first because the gasoline is easier--least reaction--to set on fire." "right," i said. "but how does this apply to me?" mr. macklin took up the podium again: "for one thing, your assumption regarding catherine is correct. at the time of the accident she was found to have mekstrom's disease in its earliest form. the harrisons did take her in to save her life. now, dropping that side of the long story, we must follow your troubles. the accident, to a certain group of persons, was a fortunate one. it placed under their medical care a man--you--in whose mind could be planted a certain mild curiosity about a peculiar road sign and other evidences. the upshot of this was that you took off on a tour of investigation." that sounded logical, but there were a lot of questions that had open, ragged ends flying loose. mr. macklin went on: "let's diverge for the moment. mr. cornell, what is your reaction to mekstrom's disease at this point?" that was easy. it was a curse to the human race, excepting that some outfit knew how to cure it. once cured, it made a physical superman of the so-called victim. what stuck in my craw was the number of unfortunate people who caught it and died painfully--or by their own hand in horror--without the sign of aid or assistance. he nodded when i'd gone about half-way through my conclusions and before i got mentally violent about them. "mr. cornell, you've expressed your own doom at certain hands. you feel that the human race could benefit by exploitation of mekstrom's disease." "it could, if everybody helped out and worked together." "everybody?" he asked with a sly look. i yearned again for the ability of a telepath, and i knew that the reason why i was running around loose was because i was only an esper and therefore incapable of learning the truth directly. i stood there like a totem pole and tried to think. eventually it occurred to me. just as there are people who cannot stand dictatorships, there are others who cannot abide democracy; in any aggregation like the human race there will be the warped souls who feel superior to the rest of humanity. they welcome dictatorships providing they can be among the dictators and if they are not included, they fight until the other dictatorship is deposed so that they can take over. "true," said mr. macklin, "and yet, if they declared their intentions, how long would they last?" "not very long. not until they had enough power to make it stick," i said. "and above all, not until they have the power to grant this blessing to those whose minds agree with theirs. so now, mr. cornell, i'll make a statement that you can accept as a mere collection of words, to be used in your arguments with yourself: we'll assume two groups, one working to set up a hierarchy of mekstroms in which the rest of the human race will become hewers of wood and drawers of water. contrasting that group is another group who feels that no man or even a congress of men are capable of picking and choosing the individual who is to be granted the body of the physical superman. we cannot hope to watch the watchers, mr. cornell, and we will not have on our conscience the weight of having to select a over b as being more desirable. enough of this! you'll have to argue it out by yourself later." "later?" grunted fred macklin. "you're not going to--" "i certainly am," said his father firmly. "mr. cornell may yet be the agency whereby we succeed in winning out." he spoke to me again. "neither group dares to come into the open, mr. cornell. we cannot accuse the other group of anything nefarious, any more than they dare to accuse us. their mode of attack is to coerce you into exposing us for a group of undercover operators who are making supermen." "look," i asked him, "why not admit it? you've got nothing sinister in mind." "think of all the millions of people who have not had schooling beyond the preparatory grades," he said. "people of latent psi ability instead of trained practice, or those poor souls who have no psi ability worth mentioning. do you know the history of the rhine institute, mr. cornell?" "only vaguely." "in the early days of rhine's work at duke university, there were many scoffers. the scoffers and detractors, naturally enough, were those people who had the least amount of psi ability. admitting that at the time all psi ability was latent, they still had less of it. but after rhine's death, his associates managed to prove his theories and eventually worked out a system of training that would develop the psi ability. then, mr. cornell, those who are blessed with a high ability in telepathy or perception--the common term of esper is a misnomer, you know, because there's nothing extra-sensory about perception--found themselves being suspected and hated by those who had not this delicate sense. it took forty of fifty years before common public acceptance got around to looking at telepathy and perception in the same light as they saw a musician with a trained ear or an artist with a trained eye. psi is a talent that everybody has to some degree, and today this is accepted with very little angry jealousy. "but now," he went on thoughtfully, "consider what would happen if we made a public announcement that we could cure mekstrom's disease by making a physical superman out of the poor victim. our main enemy would then stand up righteously and howl that we are concealing the secret; he would be believed. we would be tracked down and persecuted, eventually wiped out, while he sat behind his position and went on picking and choosing victims whose attitude parallel his own." "and who is the character?" i demanded. i knew. but i wanted him to say it aloud. he shook his head. "i'll not say it," he said. "because i will not accuse him aloud, any more than he dares to tell you flatly that we are an underground organization that must be rooted out. he knows about our highways and our way stations and our cure, because he uses the same cure. he can hide behind his position so long as he makes no direct accusation. you know the law, mr. cornell." yes, i knew the law. so long as the accuser came into court with a completely clean mind, he was safe. but scholar phelps could hardly make the accusation, nor could he supply the tiniest smidgin of direct evidence to me. for in my accusation i'd implicate him as an accessory-accuser and then he would be called upon to supply not only evidence but a clear, clean, and open mind. in shorter words, the old stunt of pointing loudly to someone else as a dodge for covering up your own crime was a lost art in this present-day world of telepathic competence. the law, of course, insisted that no man could be convicted for what he was thinking, but only upon direct evidence of action. but a crooked-thinking witness found himself in deep trouble anyway, even though crooked thinking was in itself no crime. "now for one more time," said mr. macklin. "consider a medical person who cannot qualify because he is a telepath and not a perceptive. his very soul was devoted to being a scholar of medicine like his father and his grandfather, but his telepath ability does not allow him to be the full scholar. a doctor he can be. but he can never achieve the final training, again the ultimate degree. such a man overcompensates and becomes the frustrate; a ripe disciple for the superman theory." "dr. thorndyke!" i blurted. his face was as blank, as noncommittal as a bronze bust; i could neither detect affirmation nor negation in it. he was playing it flat; i'd never get any evidence from him, either. "so now, mr. cornell, i have given you food for thought. i've made no direct statements; nothing that you could point to. i've defended myself as any man will do, but only by protestations of innocence. therefore i suggest that you take your artillery and vacate the premises." i remembered the bonanza .375 that was hanging in my hand. shamefacedly i slipped it back in my hip pocket. "but look, sir--" "please leave, mr. cornell. any more i cannot say without laying us wide open for trouble. i am sorry for you, it is no joy being a pawn. but i hope that your pawn-ship will work for our side, and i hope that you will come through it safely. now, please leave us quietly." i shrugged. i left. and as i was leaving, miss macklin touched my arm and said in a soft voice: "i hope you find your catherine, steve. and i hope that someday you'll be able to join her." i nodded dumbly. it was not until i was all the way back to my car that i remembered that her last statement was something similar to wishing me a case of measles so that i'd be afterward immune from them. xi as the miles separated me from the macklins, my mind kept whirling around in a tight circle. i had a lot of the bits, but none of them seemed to lock together very tight. and unhappily, too many of the bits that fit together were hunks that i did not like. i knew the futility of being non-telepath. had mr. macklin given me the truth or was i being sold another shoddy bill of goods? or had he spun me a yarn just to get me out of his house without a riot? of course, there had been a riot, and he'd been expecting it. if nothing else, it proved that i was a valuable bit of material, for some undisclosed reason. i had to grin. i didn't know the reason, but whatever reason they had, it must gripe the devil out of them to be unable to erase me. then the grin faded. no one had told me about catherine. they'd neatly avoided the subject. well, since i'd taken off on this still hunt to find catherine, i'd continue looking, even though every corner i looked into turned out to be the hiding place for another bunch of mad spooks. my mind took another tack: admitting that neither side could rub me out without losing, why in heck didn't they just collect me and put me in a cage? dammit, if i had an organization as well oiled as either of them, i could collect the president right out of the new white house and put him in a cage along with the king of england, the shah of persia, and the dali lama to make a fourth for bridge. this was one of those questions that cannot be answered by the application of logic, reasoning, or by applying either experience or knowledge. i did not know, nor understand. and the only way i would ever find out was to locate someone who was willing to tell. then it occurred to me that--aside from my one experience in housebreaking--that i'd been playing according to the rules. i'm pretty much a law-abiding citizen. yet it did seem to me that i learned more during those times when the rules, if not broken, at least were bent rather sharply. so i decided to try my hand at busting a couple of rather high-level rules. there was a way to track down catherine. so i gassed up the buggy, turned the nose east, and took off like a man with a purpose in mind. en route, i laid out my course. along that course there turned out to be seven way stations, according to the highway signs. three of them were along u.s. 12 on the way from yellowstone to chicago. one of them was between chicago and hammond, indiana. there was another to the south of sandusky, ohio, one was somewhere south of erie, pa., and the last was in the vicinity of newark. there were a lot of the highways themselves, leading into and out of my main route--as well as along it. but i ignored them all, and nobody gave me a rough time. eventually i walked into my apartment. it was musty, dusty, and lonesome. some of catherine's things were still on the table where i'd dropped them; they looked up at me mutely until i covered them with the walloping pile of mail that had arrived in my long absence. i got a bottle of beer and began to go through the mail, wastebasketing the advertisements, piling the magazines neatly, and filing some offers of jobs (which reminded me that i was still an engineer and that my funds wouldn't last indefinitely) and went on through the mail until i came to a letter--the letter. _dear mr. cornell:_ _we're glad to hear from you. we moved, not because marian caught mekstrom's, but because the dead area shifted and left us sort of living in a fish-bowl, psi-wise._ _everybody is hale and hearty here and we all wish you the best._ _please do not think for a moment that you owe us anything. we'd rather be free of your so-called debt. we regret that catherine was not with you, maybe the accident might not have happened. but we do all think that we stand as an association with a very unhappy period in your life, and that it will be better for you if you try to forget that we exist. this is a hard thing to say, steve, but really, all we can do for you is to remind you of your troubles._ _therefore with love from all of us, we'd like to make this a sincerely sympathetic and final--_ _farewell, philip harrison._ i grunted unhappily. it was a nice-sounding letter, but it did not ring true, somehow. i sat there digging it for hidden meanings, but none came. i didn't care. in fact, i didn't really expect any more than this. if they'd not written me at all, i'd still have done what i did. i sat down and wrote phillip harrison another letter: _dear philip:_ _i received your letter today, as i returned from an extended trip through the west. i'm glad to hear that marian is not suffering from mekstrom's disease. i am told that it is fatal to the--uninitiated._ _however, i hope to see you soon._ _regards, steve cornell._ _that_, i thought, _should do it!_ then to help me and my esper, i located a tiny silk handkerchief of catherine's, one she'd left after one of her visits. i slipped it into the envelope and slapped a stamp and a notation on the envelope that this letter was to be forwarded to phillip harrison. i dropped it in the box about eleven that night, but i didn't bother trying to follow it until the morning. ultimately it was picked up and taken to the local post office, and from there it went to the clearing station at pennsylvania station at 34th st., where i hung around the mail-baggage section until i attracted the attention of a policeman. "looking for something, mr. cornell?" "not particularly," i told the telepath cop. "why?" "you've been digging every mailbag that comes out of there." "am i?" i asked ingeniously. "can it buster, or we'll let you dig your way out of a jail." "you can't arrest a man for thinking." "i'll be happy to make it loitering," he said sharply. "i've a train ticket." "use it, then." "sure. at train time i'll use it." "which train?" he asked me sourly. "you've missed three already." "i'm waiting for a special train, officer." "then please go and wait in the bar, mr. cornell." "okay. i'm sorry i caused you any trouble, but i've a bit of a personal problem. it isn't illegal." "anything that involves taking a perceptive dig at the u.s. mail is illegal," said the policeman. "personal or not, it's out. so either you stop digging or else." i left. there was no sense in arguing with the cop. i'd just end up short. so i went to the bar and i found out why he'd recommended it. it was in a faintly-dead area, hazy enough to prevent me from taking a squint at the baggage section. i had a couple of fast ones, but i couldn't stand the suspense of not knowing when my letter might take off without me. since i'd also pushed my loitering-luck i gave up. the only thing i could hope for was that the sealed forwarding address had been made out at that little town near the harrisons and hadn't been moved. so i went and took a train that carried no mail. it made my life hard. i had to wander around that tank town for hours, keeping a blanket-watch on the post office for either the income or the outgo of my precious hunk of mail. i caught some hard eyes from the local yokels but eventually i discovered that my luck was with me. a fast train whiffled through the town and they baggage-hooked a mailbag off the car at about a hundred and fifty per. i found out that the next stop of that train was albany. i'd have been out of luck if i'd hoped to ride with the bag. then came another period of haunting that dinky post office (i've mentioned before that it was in a dead area, so i couldn't watch the insides, only the exits) until at long last i perceived my favorite bit of mail emerging in another bag. it was carted to the railroad station and hung up on another pick-up hook. i bought a ticket back to new york and sat on a bench near the hook, probing into the bag as hard as my sense of perception could dig. i cursed the whole world. the bag was merely labelled "forwarding mail" in letters that could be seen at ninety feet. my own letter, of course, i could read very well, to every dotted 'i' and crossed 't' and the stitching in catherine's little kerchief. but i could not make out the address printed on the form that was pasted across the front of the letter itself. as i sat there trying to probe that sealed address, a fast train came along and scooped the bag off the hook. i caught the next train. i swore and i squirmed and i groaned because that train stopped at every wide spot in the road, paused to take on milk, swap cars, and generally tried to see how long it could take to make a run of some forty miles. this was fate. naturally, any train that stopped at my rattle burg would also stop at every other point along the road where some pioneer had stopped to toss a beer bottle off of his covered wagon. at long last i returned to pennsylvania station just in time to perceive my letter being loaded on a conveyor for laguardia. then the same damned policeman collared me. "this is it," he said. "now see here, officer. i--" "will you come quietly, mr. cornell? or shall i put the big arm on you?" "for what?" "you've been violating the 'disclosure' section of the federal communications act, and i know it." "now look, officer, i said this was not illegal." "i'm not an idiot, cornell!" i noted uncomfortably that he had dropped the formal address. "you have been trailing a specific piece of mail with the express purpose of finding out where it is going. since its destination is a sealed forwarding address, your attempt to determine this destination is a violation of the act." he eyed me coldly as if to dare me to deny it. "now," he finished, "shall i read you chapter and verse?" he had me cold. the 'disclosure' act was an old ruling that any transmission must not be used for the benefit of any handler. when rhine came along, 'disclosure' act was extended to everything. "look officer, it's my girl," hoping that would make a difference. "i know that," he told me flatly. "which is why i'm not running you in. i'm just telling you to lay off. your girl went away and left you a sealed forwarding address. maybe she doesn't want to see you again." "she's sick," i said. "maybe her family thinks you made her sick. now stop it and go away. and if i ever find you trying to dig the mail again, you'll dig iron bars. now scat!" he urged me towards the outside of the station like a sheep-dog hazing his flock. i took a cab to laguardia, even though it was not as fast as the subway. i was glad to be out of his presence. i connected with my letter again at laguardia. it was being loaded aboard a dc-16 headed for chicago, denver, los angeles, hawaii, and manila. i didn't know how far it was going so i bought a ticket for the route with my travel card and i got aboard just ahead of the closing door. my bit of mail was in the compartment below me, and in the hour travel time to chicago, i found out that chicago was the destination for the mailbag, although the superscript on the letter was still hazy. i followed the bag off the plane at chicago and stopped long enough to cancel the rest of my ticket. there was no use wasting the money for the unused fare from chicago to manila. i rode into the city in a combination bus-truck less than six feet from my little point-of-interest. during the ride i managed to dig the superscript. it forwarded the letter to ladysmith, wisconsin, and from there to a rural route that i couldn't understand although i got the number. then i went back to midway airport and found to my disgust that the chicago airport did not have a bar. i dug into this oddity for a moment until i found out that the chicago airport was built on public school property and that according to law, they couldn't sell anything harder than soda pop within three hundred feet of public school property, no matter who rented it. so i dawdled in the bar across cicero avenue until plane time, and took an old propeller-driven convair to eau claire on a daisy-clipping ride that stopped at every wide spot on the course. from eau claire the mail bag took off in the antediluvian convair but i took off by train because the bag was scheduled to be dropped by guided glider into ladysmith. at ladysmith i rented a car, checked the rural routes, and took off about the same time as my significant hunk of mail. nine miles from ladysmith is a flagstop called bruce, and not far from bruce there is a body of water slightly larger than a duck pond called caley lake. a backroad, decorated with ornamental metal signs, led me from bruce, wisconsin, to caley lake, where the road signs showed a missing spoke. i turned in, feeling like ferdinand magellan must have felt when he finally made his passage through the strait to discover the open sea that lay beyond the new world. i had done a fine job of tailing and i wanted someone to pin a leather medal on me. the side road wound in and out for a few hundred yards, and then i saw phillip harrison. he was poking a long tool into the guts of an automatic pump, built to lift water from a deep well into a water tower about forty feet tall. he did not notice my arrival until i stopped my rented car beside him and said: "being a mechanical engineer and an esper, phil, i can tell you that you have a--" "a worn gasket seal," he said. "it doesn't take an esper engineer to figure it out. how the heck did you find us?" "out in your mailbox there is a letter," i told him. "i came with it." he eyed me humorously. "how much postage did you cost? or did you come second class mail?" i was not sure that i cared for the inference, but phillip was kidding me by the half-smile on his face. i asked, "phil, please tell me--what is going on?" his half-smile faded. he shook his head unhappily as he said, "why can't you leave well-enough alone?" my feelings welled up and i blew my scalp. "let well enough alone?" i roared. "i'm pushed from pillar to post by everybody. you steal my girl. i'm in hokus with the cops, and then you tell me that i'm to stay--" "up the proverbial estuary lacking the customary means of locomotion," he finished with a smile. i couldn't see the humor in it. "yeah," i drawled humorlessly. "you realize that you're probably as big a liability with us as you were trying to find us?" i grunted. "i could always blow my brains out." "that's no solution and you know it." "then give me an alternative." phillip shrugged. "now that you're here, you're here. it's obvious that you know too much, steve. you should have left well enough alone." "i didn't know well enough. besides, i couldn't have been pushed better if someone had slipped me--" i stopped, stunned at the idea and then i went on in a falter, "--a post-hypnotic suggestion." "steve, you'd better come in and meet marian. maybe that's what happened." "marian?" i said hollowly. "she's a high-grade telepath. master of psi, no less." my mind went red as i remembered how i'd catalogued her physical charms on our first meeting in an effort to find out whether she were esper or telepath. marian had fine control; her mind must have positively seethed at my invasion of her privacy. i did not want to meet marian face to face right now, but there wasn't a thing i could do about it. phillip left his pump and waved for me to follow. he took off in his jeep and i trailed him to the farmhouse. we went through a dim area that was almost the ideal shape for a home. the ring was not complete, but the open part faced the fields behind the house so that good privacy was ensured for all practical purposes. on the steps of the verandah stood marian. sight of her was enough to make me forget my self-accusation of a few moments ago. she stood tall and lissome, the picture of slender, robust health. "come in, steve," she said, holding out her hand. i took it. her grip was firm and hard, but it was gentle. i knew that she could have pulped my hand if she squeezed hard. "i'm very happy to see that rumor is wrong and that you're not--suffering--from mekstrom's disease," i told her. "so now you know, steve. too bad." "why?" "because it adds a load to all of us. even you." she looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "well, come on in and relax, steve. we'll talk it out." we all went inside. on a divan in the living room, covered by a light blanket, resting in a very light snooze, was a woman. her face was turned away from me, but the hair and the line of the figure and the-#catherine!# she turned and sat up at once, alive and shocked awake. she rubbed the sleep from her eyes with swift knuckles and then looked over her hands at me. "steve!" she cried, and all the world and the soul of her was in the throb of her voice. xii catherine took one unsteady step towards me and then came forward with a rush. she hurled herself into my arms, pressed herself against me, held me tight. it was like being attacked by a bulldozer. phillip stayed my back against her headlong rush or i would have been thrown back out through the door, across the verandah, and into the middle of the yard. the strength of her crushed my chest and wrenched my spine. her lips crushed mine. i began to black out from the physical hunger of a woman who did not know the extent of her new-found body. all that catherine remembered was that once she held me to the end of her strength and yearned for more. to hold me that way now meant--death. her body was the same slenderness, but the warm softness was gone. it was a flesh-warm waist of flexible steel. i was being held by a statue of bronze, animated by some monster servo-mechanism. this was no woman. phillip and marian pried her away from me before she broke my back. phillip led her away, whispering softly in her ear. marian carried me to the divan and let me down on my face gently. her hands were gentle as she pressed the air back into my lungs and soothed away the awful wrench in my spine. gradually i came alive again, but there was pain left that made me gasp at every breath. then the physical hurt went away, leaving only the mental pain; the horror of knowing that the girl that i loved could never hold me in her arms. i shuddered. all that i wanted out of this life was marriage with catherine, and now that i had found her again, i had to face the fact that the first embrace would kill me. i cursed my fate just as any invalid has cursed the malady that makes him a responsibility and a burden to his partner instead of a joy and helpmeet. like the helpless, i didn't want it; i hadn't asked for it; nor had i earned it. yet all i could do was to rail against the unfairness of the unwarranted punishment. without knowing that i was asking, i cried out, "but why?" in a plaintive voice. in a gentle tone, marian replied: "steve, you cannot blame yourself. catherine was lost to you before you met her at her apartment that evening. what she thought to be a callous on her small toe was really the initial infection of mekstrom's disease. we're all psi-sensitive to mekstrom's disease, steve. so when you cracked up and dad and phil went on the dead run to help, they caught a perception of it. naturally we had to help her." i must have looked bitter. "look, steve," said phillip slowly. "you wouldn't have wanted us not to help? after all, would you want catherine to stay with you? so that you could watch her die at the rate of a sixty-fourth of an inch each hour?" "hell," i snarled, "someone might have let me know." phillip shook his head. "we couldn't steve. you've got to understand our viewpoint." "to heck with your viewpoint!" i roared angrily. "has anybody ever stopped to consider mine?" i did not give a hoot that they could wind me around a doorknob and tuck my feet in the keyhole. sure, i was grateful for their aid to catherine. but why didn't someone stop to think of the poor benighted case who was in the accident ward? the bird that had been traipsing all over hell's footstool trying to get a line on his lost sweetheart. i'd been through the grinder; questioned by the f.b.i., suspected by the police; and i'd been the guy who'd been asked by a grieving, elderly couple, "but can't you remember, son?" them and their stinking point of view! "easy, steve," warned phillip harrison. "easy nothing! what possible justification have you for putting me through my jumps?" "look, steve. we're in a precarious position. we're fighting a battle against an unscrupulous enemy, an undercover battle, steve. if we could get something on phelps, we'd expose him and his medical center like that. conversely, if we slip a millimeter, phelps will clip us so hard that the sky will ring. he--damn him--has the government on his side. we can't afford to look suspicious." "couldn't you have taken me in too?" he shook his head sadly. "no," he said. "there was a bad accident, you know. the authorities have every right to insist that each and every automobile on the highway be occupied by a minimum of one driver. they also believe that for every accident there must be a victim, even though the damage is no more than a bad case of fright." i could hardly argue with that. changing the subject, i asked, "but what about the others who just drop out of sight?" "we see to it that plausible letters of explanation are written." "so who wrote me?" i demanded hotly. he looked at me pointedly. "if we'd known about catherine before, she'd have--disappeared--leaving you a trite letter. but no one could think of a letter to explain her disappearance from an accident, steve." "oh fine." "well, you'd still prefer to find her alive, wouldn't you?" "couldn't someone tell me?" "and have you radiating the fact like a broadcasting station?" "why couldn't i have joined her--you--?" he shook his head in the same way that a man shakes it when he is trying to explain _why_ two plus two are four and not maybe five or three and a half. "steve," he said, "you haven't got mekstroms' disease." "how do i get it?" i demanded hotly. "nobody knows," he said unhappily. "if we did, we'd be providing the rest of the human race with indestructible bodies as fast as we could spread it and take care of them." "but couldn't i have been told _something_?" i pleaded. i must have sounded like a hurt kitten. marian put her hand on my arm. "steve," she said, "you'd have been smoothed over, maybe brought in to work for us in some dead area. but then you turned up acting dangerously for all of us." "who--me?" "by the time you came out for your visit, you were dangerous to us." "what do you mean?" "let me find out. relax, will you steve? i'd like to read you deep. catherine, you come in with me." "what are we looking for?" "traces of post-hypnotic suggestion. it'll be hard to find because there will be only traces of a plan, all put in so that it looks like natural, logical reasoning." catherine looked doubtful. "when would they have the chance?" she asked. "thorndyke. in the hospital." catherine nodded and i relaxed. at the beginning i was very reluctant. i didn't mind catherine digging into the dark and dusty corners of my mind, but marian harrison bothered me. "think of the accident, steve," she said. then i managed to lull my reluctant mind by remembering that she was trying to help me. i relaxed mentally and physically and regressed back to the day of the accident. i found it hard even then to go through the love-play and sweet seriousness that went on between catherine and me, knowing that marian harrison was a sort of mental spectator. but i fought down my reticence and went on with it. i practically re-lived the accident. it was easier now that i'd found catherine again. it was like a cleansing bath. i began to enjoy it. so i went on with my life and adventures right up to the present. having come to the end, i stopped. marian looked at catherine. "did you get it?" silence. more silence. then, "it seems dim. almost incredulous--that it could be--" with a trail-off into thought again. phillip snorted. "make with the chin-music, you two. the rest of us aren't telepaths, you know." "sorry," said marian. "it's sort of complicated and hard to figure, you know. what seems to be the case is sort of like this," she went on in an uncertain tone, "we can't find any direct evidence of anything like hypnotic suggestion. the urge to follow what you call the highways in hiding is rather high for a mere bump of curiosity, but nothing definite. i think you were probably urged very gently. catherine objects, saying that it would take a brilliant psycho-telepath to do a job delicate enough to produce the urge without showing the traces of the operation." "someone of scholar grade in both psychology and telepathy," said catherine. i thought it over for a moment. "it seems to me that whoever did it--if it was done--was well aware that a good part of this urge would be generated by catherine's total and unexplicable disappearance. you'd have saved yourselves a lot of trouble--and saved me a lot of heartache if you'd let me know something. god! haven't you any feelings?" catherine looked at me from hurt eyes. "steve," she said quietly, "a billion girls have sworn that they'd rather die than live without their one and only. i swore it too. but when your life's end is shown to you on a microscope slide, love becomes less important. what should i do? just die? painfully?" that was handing it to me on a platter. it hurt but i am not chuckleheaded enough to insist that she come with me to die instead of leaving me and living. what really hurt was not knowing. "steve," said marian. "you know that we couldn't have told you the truth." "yeah," i agreed disconsolately. "let's suppose that catherine wrote you a letter telling you that she was alive and safe, but that she'd reconsidered the marriage. you were to forget her and all that. what happens next?" unhappily i told him. "i'd not have believed it." phillip nodded. "next would have been a telepath-esper team. maybe a perceptive with a temporal sense who could retrace that letter back to the point of origin, teamed up with a telepath strong enough to drill a hole through the dead area that surrounds new washington. why, even before rhine institute, it was sheer folly for a runaway to write a letter. what would it be now?" i nodded. what he said was true, but it did not ease the hurt. "then on the other hand," he went on in a more cheerful vein, "let's take another look at us and you, steve. tell me, fellow, where are you now?" i looked up at him. phillip was smiling in a knowing-superior sort of manner. i looked at marian. she was half-smiling. catherine looked satisfied. i got it. "yeah. i'm here." "you're here without having any letters, without leaving any broad trail of suspicion upon yourself. you've not disappeared, steve. you've been a-running up and down the country all on your own decision. where you go and what you do is your own business and nobody is going to set up a hue and cry after you. sure, it took a lot longer this way. but it was a lot safer." he grinned wide then as he went on, "and if you'd like to take some comfort out of it, just remember that you've shown yourself to be quite capable, filled with dogged determination, and ultimately successful." he was right. in fact, if i'd tried the letter-following stunt long earlier, i'd have been here a lot sooner. "all right," i said. "so what do we do now?" "we go on and on and on, steve, until we're successful." "successful?" he nodded soberly. "until we can make every man, woman, and child on the face of this earth as much physical superman as we are, our job is not finished." i nodded. "i learned a few of the answers at the macklin place." "then this does not come as a complete shock." "no. not a complete shock. but there are a lot of loose ends still. so the basic theme i'll buy. scholar phelps and his medical center are busy using their public position to create the nucleus of a totalitarian state, or a physical hierarchy. you and the highways in hiding are busy tearing phelps down because you don't want to see any more rule by the divine right of kings, dictators, or family lines." "go on, steve." "well, why in the devil don't you announce yourselves?" "no good, old man. look, you yourself want to be a mekstrom. even with your grasp of the situation, you resent the fact that you cannot." "you're right." phillip nodded slowly. "let's hypothesize for a moment, taking a subject that has nothing to do with mekstrom's disease. let's take one of the old standby science-fiction plots. some cataclysm is threatening the solar system. the future of the earth is threatened, and we have only one spacecraft capable of carrying a hundred people to safety--somewhere else. how would you select them?" i shrugged. "since we're hypothecating, i suppose that i'd select the more healthy, the more intelligent, the more virile, the more--" i struggled for another category and then let it stand right there because i couldn't think of another at that instant. phillip agreed. "health and intelligence and all the rest being pretty much a matter of birth and upbringing, how can you explain to wilbur zilch that oscar hossenpfeiffer has shown himself smarter and healthier and therefore better stock for survival? maybe you can, but the end-result is that wilbur zilch slaughters oscar hossenpfeiffer. this either provides an opening for zilch, or if he is caught at it, it provides zilch with the satisfaction of knowing that he's stopped the other guy from getting what he could not come by honestly." "so what has this to do with mekstrom's disease and supermen?" "the day that we--and i mean either of us--announces that we can 'cure' mekstrom's disease and make physical supermen of the former victims, there will be a large scream from everybody to give them the same treatment. no, we'll tell them, we can't cure anybody who hasn't caught it. then some pedagogue will stand up and declare that we are suppressing information. this will be believed by enough people to do us more harm than good. darn it, we're not absolutely indestructible, steve. we can be killed. we could be wiped out by a mob of angry citizens who saw in us a threat to their security. neither we of the highways nor phelps of the medical center have enough manpower to be safe." "so that i'll accept. the next awkward question comes up: what are we going to do with me?" "you've agreed that we cannot move until we know how to inoculate healthy flesh. we need normal humans, to be our guinea pigs. will you help bring to the earth's people the blessing that is now denied them?" "if you are successful, steve," said marian, "you'll go down in history along with otto mekstrom. you could be the turning point of the human race, you know." "and if i fail?" phillip harrison's face took on a hard and determined look. "steve, there can be no failure. we shall go on and on until we have success." that was a fine prospect. old guinea-pig cornell, celebrating his seventieth birthday as the medical experimentation went on and on. catherine was leaning forward, her eyes bright. "steve," she cried, "you've just _got_ to!" "just call me the unwilling hero," i said in a drab voice. "and put it down that the condemned specimen drank a hearty dinner. i trust that there is a drink in the house." there was enough whiskey in the place to provide the new specimen with a near-total anesthesia. the evening was spent in forced badinage, shallow laughter, and a pointed avoidance of the main subject. the whiskey was good; i took it undiluted and succeeded in getting boiled to the eyebrows before they carted me off to bed. i did not sleep well despite my anesthesia. there was too much on my mind and very little of it was the fault of the harrisons. one of the things that i had to face was the cold fact that part of catherine's lack of communication with me was caused by logic and good sense. both history and fiction are filled with cases where love was set aside because consummation was impossible for any number of good reasons. so i slept fitfully, and my dreams were as unhappy as the thoughts i had during my waking moments. somehow i realized that i'd have been far better off if i'd been able to forget catherine after the accident, if i'd been able to resist the urge to follow the highways in hiding, if i'd never known that those ornamental road signs were something more than the desire of some road commissioner to beautify the countryside. but no, i had to go and poke my big bump of curiosity into the problem. so here i was, resentful as all hell because i was denied the pleasure of living in the strong body of a mekstrom. it was not fair. although life itself is seldom fair, it seemed to me that life was less fair to me than to others. and then to compound my feelings of persecution, i woke up once about three in the morning with a strong urge to take a perceptive dig down below. i should have resisted it, but of course, no one has ever been able to resist the urge of his sense of perception. down in the living room, catherine was crying on phillip harrison's shoulder. he held her gently with one arm around her slender waist and he was stroking her hair softly with his other hand. i couldn't begin to dig what was being said, but the tableau was unmistakable. she leaned back and looked at him as he said something. her head moved in a 'no' motion as she took a deep breath for another bawl. she buried her face in his neck and sobbed. phillip held her close for a moment and then loosed one hand to find a handkerchief for her. he wiped her eyes gently and talked to her until she shook her head in a visible effort to shake away both the tears and the unhappy thoughts. eventually he lit two cigarettes and handed one to her. side by side they walked to the divan and sat down close together. catherine leaned against him gently and he put his arm over her shoulders and hugged her to him. she relaxed, looking unhappy, but obviously taking comfort in the strength and physical presence of him. it was a hell of a thing to dig in my mental condition. i drifted off to a sleep filled with unhappy dreams while they were still downstairs. frankly, i forced myself into fitful sleep because i did not want to stay awake to follow them. as bad as the nightmare quality of my dreams were, they were better for me than the probable reality. * * * * * oh, i'd been infernally brilliant when i uncovered the first secret of the highways in hiding. i found out that i did not know one-tenth of the truth. they had a network of highways that would make the department of roads and highways look like a backwood, second-rate, political organization. i'd believed, for instance, that the highways were spotted only along main arteries to and from their way stations. the truth was that they had a complete system from one end of the country to the other. lanes led from maine and from florida into a central main highway that laid across the breadth of the united states. then from washington and from southern california another branching network met this main highway. lesser lines served canada and mexico. the big main trunk ran from new york to san francisco with only one large major division: a heavy line that led down to a place in texas called _homestead_. homestead, texas, was a big center that made scholar phelps' medical center look like a teeny weeny village by comparison. we drove in marian's car. my rented car, of course, was returned to the agency and my own bus would be ferried out as soon as it could be arranged so that i'd not be without personal transportation in texas. catherine remained in wisconsin because she was too new at being a mekstrom to know how to conduct herself so that the fact of her super-powerful body did not cause a lot of slack jaws and high suspicion. we drove along the highways to homestead, carrying a bag of the mekstrom mail. the trip was uneventful. xiii since this account of my life and adventures is not being written without some plan, it is no mere coincidence that this particular section comes under chapter thirteen. old unlucky thirteen covers ninety days which i consider the most dismal ninety days of my life. things, which had been going along smoothly had, suddenly got worse. we started with enthusiasm. they cut and they dug and they poked needles into me and trimmed out bits of my hide for slides. i helped them by digging my own flesh and letting their better telepaths read my results for their records. they were nice to me. i got the best of everything. but being nice to me was not enough; it sort of made me feel like gulliver in brobdingnag. they were so over-strong that they did not know their own strength. this was especially true of the youngsters of mekstrom parents. i tried to re-diaper a baby one night and got my ring finger gummed for my efforts. it was like wrestling bad cyril in a one-fall match, winner take all. as the days added up into weeks, their hope and enthusiasm began to fade. the long list of proposed experiments dwindled and it became obvious that they were starting to work on brand new ideas. but brand new ideas are neither fast in arriving nor high in quantity, and time began to hang dismally heavy. they began to avoid my eyes. they stopped discussing their attempts on me; i no longer found out what they were doing and how they hoped to accomplish the act. they showed the helplessness that comes of failure, and this feeling of utter futility was transmitted to me. at first i was mentally frantic at the idea of failure, but as the futile days wore on and the fact was practically shoved down my throat, i was forced to admit that there was no future for steve cornell. i began at that time to look forward to my visit to reorientation. reorientation is a form of mental suicide. once reoriented, the problems that make life intolerable are forgotten, your personality is changed, your grasp of everything is revised, your appreciation of all things comes from an entirely new angle. you are a new person. then one morning i faced my image in the mirror and came to the conclusion that if i couldn't be me, i didn't want to be somebody else. it is no good to be alive if i am not me, i told my image, who obediently agreed with me. i didn't even wait to argue with me. i just went out and got into my car and sloped. it was not hard; everybody in homestead trusted me. xiv i left homestead with a half-formed idea that i was going to visit bruce, wisconsin, long enough to say goodbye to catherine and to release her from any matrimonial involvement she may have felt binding. i did not relish this idea, but i felt that getting it out, done, and agreed was only a duty. but as i hit the road and had time to think, i knew that my half-formed intention was a sort of martyrdom; i was going to renounce myself in a fine welter of tears and then go staggering off into the setting sun to die of my mental wounds. i took careful stock of myself and faced the fact that my half-baked idea was a sort of suicide-wish; walking into any mekstrom way station now was just asking for capture and a fast trip to their reorientation rooms. the facts of my failure and my taking-of-leave would be indication enough for catherine that i was bowing out. it would be better for catherine, too, to avoid a fine, high-strung, emotional scene. i remembered the little bawling session in the harrison living room that night; catherine would not die for want of a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. in fact, as she'd said pragmatically, well balanced people never die of broken hearts. having finally convinced myself of the validity of this piece of obvious logic, i suddenly felt a lot better. my morose feeling faded away; my conviction of utter uselessness died; and my half-formed desire to investigate a highly hypothetical hereafter took an abrupt about-face. and in place of this collection of undesirable self-pities came a much nicer emotion. it was a fine feeling, that royal anger that boiled up inside of me. i couldn't lick 'em and i couldn't join 'em, so i was going out to pull something down, even if it all came down around my own ears. i stopped long enough to check the bonanza .375 both visually and perceptively and then loaded it full. i consulted a road map to chart a course. then i took off with the coal wide open and the damper rods all the way out and made the wheels roll towards the east. i especially gave all the highways a very wide berth. i went down several, but always in the wrong direction. and in the meantime, i kept my sense of perception on the alert for any pursuit. i drove with my eyes alone. i could have made it across the mississippi by nightfall if i'd not taken the time to duck highway signs. but when i got good, and sick, and tired of driving, i was not very far from the river. i found a motel in a rather untravelled spot and sacked in for the night. i awoke at the crack of dawn with a feeling of impending _something_. it was not doom, because any close-danger would have nudged me on the bump of perception. nor was it good, because i'd have awakened looking forward to it. something odd was up and doing. i dressed hastily, and as i pulled my clothing on i took a slow dig at the other cabins in the motel. number one contained a salesman type, i decided, after digging through his baggage. number two was occupied by an elderly couple who were loaded with tourist-type junk and four or five cameras. number three harbored a stopover truck driver and number four was almost overflowing with a gang of schoolgirls packed sardine-wise in the single bed. number five was mine. number six was vacant. number seven was also vacant but the bed was tumbled and the water in the washbowl was still running out, and the door was still slamming, and the little front steps were still clicking to the fast clip of high heels, and---i hauled myself out of my cabin on a dead gallop and made a fast line for my car. i hit the car, clawed myself inside, wound up the turbine and let the old heap in gear in one unbroken series of motions. the wheels spun and sent back a hail of gravel, then they took a bite out of the parking lot and the take-off snapped my head back. both esper and eyesight were very busy cross-stitching a crooked course through the parking lot between the parked cars and the trees that were intended to lend the outfit a rustic atmosphere. so i was too busy to take more than a vague notice of a hand that clamped onto the doorframe until the door opened and closed again. by then i was out on the highway and i could relax a bit. "steve," she said, "why do you do these things?" yeah, it was marian harrison. "i didn't ask to get shoved into this mess," i growled. "you didn't ask to be born, either," she said. i didn't think the argument was very logical, and i said so. "life wasn't too hard to bear until i met you people," i told her sourly. "life would be very pleasant if you'd go away. on the other hand, life is all i've got and it's far better than the alternative. so if i'm making your life miserable, that goes double for me." "why not give it up?" she asked me. i stopped the car. i eyed her dead center, eye to eye until she couldn't take it any more. "what would you like me to just give up, marian? shall i please everybody by taking a bite of my hip-pocket artillery sights whilst testing the trigger pull with one forefinger? will it make anybody happy if i walk into the nearest reorientation museum blowing smoke out of my nose and claiming that i am a teakettle that's gotta be taken off the stove before i blow my lid?" marian's eyes dropped. "do you yourself really expect me to seek blessed oblivion?" she shook her head slowly. "then for the love of god, what do you expect of me?" i roared. "as i am, i'm neither flesh nor fish; just foul. i'm not likely to give up, marian. if i'm a menace to you and to your kind, it's just too tough. but if you want me out of your hair, you'll have to wrap me up in something suitable for framing and haul me kicking and screaming to your mind-refurbishing department. because i'm not having any on my own. understand?" "i understand, steve," she said softly. "i know you; we all know you and your type. you can't give up. you're unable to." "not when i've been hypnoed into it," i said. marian's head tossed disdainfully. "thorndyke's hypnotic suggestion was very weak," she explained. "he had to plant the idea in such a way as to remain unidentified afterwards. no, steve, your urge has always been your own personal drive. all that thorndyke did was to point you slightly in our direction and give you a nudge. you did the rest." "well, you're a telepath. maybe you're also capable of planting a post-hypnotic suggestion that i forget the whole idea." "i'm not," she said with a sudden flare. i looked at her. not being a telepath i couldn't read a single thought, but it was certain that she was telling the truth, and telling it in such a manner as to be convincing. finally i said, "marian, if you know that i'm not to be changed by logic or argument, why do you bother?" for a full minute she was silent, then her eyes came up and gave it back to me with their electric blue. "for the same reason that scholar phelps hoped to use you against us," she said. "your fate and your future is tied up with ours whether you turn out to be friend or enemy." i grunted. "sounds like a soap opera, marian," i told her bitterly. "will catherine find solace in phillip's arms? will steve catch mekstrom's disease? will the dastardly scholar phelps--" "stop it!" she cried. "all right. i'll stop as soon as you tell me what you intend to do with me now that you've caught up with me again." she smiled. "steve, i'm going along with you. partly to play the telepath-half of your team. if you'll trust me to deliver the truth. and partly to see that you don't get into trouble that you can't get out of again." my mind curled its lip. pappy had tanned my landing gear until i was out of the habit of using mother for protection against the slings and arrows of outrageous schoolchums. i'd not taken sanctuary behind a woman's skirts since i was eight. so the idea of running under the protection of a woman went against the grain, even though i knew that she was my physical superior by no sensible proportion. being cared for physically by a dame of a hundred-ten-"eighteen." --didn't sit well on me. "do you believe me, steve?" "i've got to. you're here to stay. i'm a sucker for a good-looking woman anyway, it seems. they tell me anything and i'm not hardhearted enough to even indicate that i don't believe them." she took my arm impulsively; then she let me go before she pinched it off at the elbow. "steve," she said earnestly, "believe me and let me be your--" #better half?# i finished sourly. "please don't," she said plaintively. "steve, you've simply _got_ to trust _somebody_!" i looked into her face coldly. "the hardest job in the world for a non-telepath is to locate someone he can trust. the next hardest is to explain that to a telepath; because telepaths can't see any difficulty in weeding out the non-trustworthy. now--" "you still haven't faced the facts." "neither have you, marian. you intend to go along with me, ostensibly to help me in whatever i intend to do. that's fine. i'll accept it. but you know good and well that i intend to carry on and on until something cracks. now, tell me honestly, are you going along to help me crack something wide open, or just to steer me into channels that will not result in a crack-up for your side?" marian harrison looked down for a moment; i didn't need telepathy to know that i'd touched the sore spot. then she looked up and said, "steve, more than anything, i intend to keep you out of trouble. you should know by now that there is very little you can really do to harm either side of our own private little war." #and if i can't harm either side, i can hardly do either side any good.# she nodded. #yet i must be of some importance.# she nodded again. at that point i almost gave up. i'd been around this circle so many times in the past half-year that i knew how the back of my head looked. always, the same old question. #_cherchez le angle_,# i thought in bum french. something i had was important enough to both sides to make them keep me on the loose instead of erasing me and my nuisance value. so far as i could see, i was as useless to either side as a coat of protective paint laid on stainless steel. i was immune to mekstrom's disease; the immunity of one who has had everything tried on him that scholars of the disease could devise. about the only thing that ever took place was the sudden disappearance of everybody that i came in contact with. marian touched my arm gently. "you mustn't think like that, steve," she said gently. "you've done enough useless self-condemnation. can't you stop accusing yourself of some evil factor? something that really is not so?" "not until i know the truth," i replied. "i certainly can't dig it; i'm no telepath. perhaps if i were, i'd not be in this awkward position." again her silence proved to me that i'd hit a touchy spot. "what am i?" i demanded sourly. "am i a great big curse? what have i done, other than to be present just before several people turn up missing? makes me sort of a male typhoid mary, doesn't it?" "now, steve--" "well, maybe that's the way i feel. everything i put my great big clutching hands on turns dark green and starts to rot. regardless of which side they're on, it goes one, two, three, four; catherine, thorndyke, you, nurse farrow." "steve, what on earth are you talking about?" i smiled down at her in a crooked sort of quirk. "you, of course, have not the faintest idea of what i'm thinking." "oh, steve--" "and then again maybe you're doing your best to lead my puzzled little mind away from what you consider a dangerous subject?" "i'd hardly do that--" "sure you would. i'd do it if our positions were reversed. i don't think it un-admirable to defend one's own personal stand, marian. but you'll not divert me this time. i have a hunch that i am a sort of male typhoid mary. let's call me old mekstrom steve. the carrier of mekstrom's disease, who can innocently or maliciously go around handing it out to anybody that i contact. is that it, marian?" "it's probably excellent logic, steve. but it isn't true." i eyed her coldly. "how can i possibly believe you?" "that's the trouble," she said with a plaintive cry. "you can't. you've got to believe me on faith, steve." i smiled crookedly. "marian," i said, "that's just the right angle to take. since i cannot read your mind, i must accept the old appeal to the emotions. i must tell myself that marian harrison just simply could not lie to me for many reasons, among which is that people do not lie to blind men nor cause the cripple any hurt. well, phooey. whatever kind of gambit is being played here, it is bigger than any of its parts or pieces. i'm something between a queen and a pawn, marian; a piece that can be sacrificed at any time to further the progress of the game. slipping me a lie or two to cause me to move in some desired direction should come as a natural." "but why would we lie to you?" she asked, and then she bit her lip; i think that she slipped, that she hadn't intended to urge me into deeper consideration of the problem lest i succeed in making a sharp analysis. after all, the way to keep people from figuring things out is to stop them from thinking about the subject. that's the first rule. next comes the process of feeding them false information if the first law cannot be invoked. "why would you lie to me?" i replied in a sort of sneer. i didn't really want to sneer but it came naturally. "in an earlier age it might not be necessary." "what?" she asked in surprise. "might not be necessary," i said. "let's assume that we are living in the mid-fifties, before rhine. steve cornell turns up being a carrier of a disease that is really a blessing instead of a curse. in such a time, marian, either side could sign me up openly as a sort of missionary; i could go around the country inoculating the right people, those citizens who have the right kind of mind, attitude, or whatever-factor. following me could be a clean-up corps to collect the wights who'd been inoculated by my contact. sounds reasonable, doesn't it?" without waiting for either protest or that downcast look of agreement, i went on: "but now we have perception and telepathy all over the place. so steve cornell, the carrier, must be pushed around from pillar to post, meeting people and inoculating them without ever knowing what he is doing. because once he knows what he is doing, his usefulness is ended in this world of rhine institute." "steve--" she started, but i interrupted again. "about all i have to do now is to walk down any main street radiating my suspicions," i said bitterly. "and it's off to medical center for steve--unless the highways catch me first." very quietly, marian said, "we really dislike to use reorientation on people. it changes them so--" "but that's what i'm headed for, isn't it?" i demanded flatly. "i'm sorry, steve." angrily i went on, not caring that i'd finally caught on and by doing so had sealed my own package. "so after i have my mind ironed out smoothly, i'll still go on and on from pillar to post providing newly inoculated mekstroms for your follow-up squad." she looked up at me and there were tears in her eyes. "we were all hoping--" she started. "were you?" i asked roughly. "were you all working to innoculate me at homestead, or were you really studying me to find out what made me a carrier instead of a victim?" "both, steve," she said, and there was a ring of honesty in her tone. i had to believe her, it made sense. "dismal prospect, isn't it?" i asked. "for a guy that's done nothing wrong." "we're all sorry." "look," i said with a sudden thought, "why can't i still go on? i could start a way station of some sort, on some pretext, and go on innoculating the public as they come past. then i could go on working for you and still keep my right mind." she shook her head. "scholar phelps knows," she said. "above all things we must keep you out of his hands. he'd use you for his own purpose." i grunted sourly. "he has already and he will again," i told her. "not only that, but phelps has had plenty of chance to collect me on or off the hook. so what you fear does not make sense." "it does now," she told me seriously. "so long as you did not suspect your own part in the picture, you could do more good for phelps by running free. now you know and phelps' careful herding of your motions won't work." "don't get it." "watch," she said with a shrug. "they'll try. i don't dare experiment, steve, or i'd leave you right now. you'd find out very shortly that you're with me because i got here first." "and knowing the score makes me also dangerous to your highways? likely to bring 'em out of hiding?" "yes." "so now that i've dumped over the old apple cart, i can assume that you're here to take me in." "what else can i do, steve?" she said unhappily. i couldn't answer that. i just sat there looking at her and trying to remember that her shapely one hundred and eighteen pounds were steel hard and monster strong and that she could probably carry me under one arm all the way to homestead without breathing hard. i couldn't cut and run; she could outrun me. i couldn't slug her on the jaw and get away; i'd break my hand. the bonanza .375 would probably stun her, but i have not the cold blooded viciousness to pull a gun on a woman and drill her. i grunted sourly, that weapon had been about as useful to me as a stuffed bear or an authentic egyptian obelisk. "well, i'm not going," i said stubbornly. she looked at me in surprise. "what are you going to do?" she asked me. i felt a glow of self-confidence. if i could not run loose with guilty knowledge of my being a mekstrom carrier, it was equally impossible for anybody to kidnap me and carry me across the country. i'd radiate like mad; i'd complain about the situation at every crossroad, at every filling station, before every farmer. i'd complain mentally and bitterly, and sooner or later someone would get suspicious. "don't think like an idiot," she told me sharply. "you drove across the country before, remember? how many people did you convince?" "i wasn't trying, then--" "how about the people in the hotel in denver?" she asked me pointedly. "what good did you do there?" #very little, but--# "one of the advantages of a telepath is that we can't be taken by surprise," she informed me. "because no one can possibly work without plans of some kind." "one of the troubles of a telepath," i told her right back, "is that they get so confounded used to knowing what is going to happen next that it takes all the pleasant element of surprise out of their lives. that makes 'em dull and--" the element of surprise came in through the back window, passed between us and went _splat!_ against the wind-shield. there was the sound like someone chipping ice with a spike followed by the distant bark of a rifle. a second slug came through the back window about the time that the first one landed on the floor of the car. the second slug, not slowed by the shatter-proof glass in the rear, went through the shatter-proof glass in the front. a third slug passed through the same tunnel. these were warning shots. he'd missed us intentionally. he'd proved it by firing three times through the same hole, from beyond my esper range. i wound up the machinery and we took off. marian cried something about not being foolish, but her words were swept out through the hole in the rear window, just above the marks on the pavement caused by my tires as we spun the wheels. xv "steve, stop it!" cried marian as soon as she could get her breath. "nuts," i growled. i took a long curve on the outside wheels and ironed out again. "he isn't after our corpse, honey. he's after our hide. i don't care for any." the fourth shot went singing off the pavement to one side. it whined into the distance making that noise that sets the teeth on edge and makes one want to duck. i lowered the boom on the go pedal and tried to make the meter read off the far end of the scale; i had a notion that the guy behind might shoot the tires out if we were going slow enough so that a blowout wouldn't cause a bad wreck; but he probably wouldn't do it once i got the speed up. he was not after marian. marian could walk out of any crack-up without a bruise, but i couldn't. we went roaring around a curve. i fought the wheel into a nasty double 's' curve to swing out and around a truck, then back on my own side of the road again to avoid an oncoming car. i could almost count the front teeth of the guy driving the car as we straightened out with a coat of varnish to spare. i scared everybody in all three vehicles, including me. then i passed a couple of guys standing beside the road; one of them waved me on, the other stood there peering past me down the road. as we roared by, another group on the other side of the highway came running out hauling a big old hay wagon. they set the wagon across the road and then sloped into the ditch on either side of it. i managed to dig the bare glimmer of firearms before i had to yank my perception away from them and slam it back on the road in front. i was none too soon, because dead ahead by a thousand feet or so, they were hauling a second road block out. marian, not possessed of esper, cried out as soon as she read this new menace in my mind. i rode the brakes easily and came to a stop long before we hit it. in back sounded a crackle of rifle fire; in front, three men came out waving their rifles at us. i whipped the car back, spun it in a seesaw, and took off back towards the first road block. half way back i whirled my car into a rough sideroad just as the left hand rear tire went out with a roar. the car sagged and dragged me to a stop with my nose in a little ditch. the heap hadn't stopped rocking yet before i was out and on the run. "steve!" cried marian. "come back!" #to heck with it.# i kept right on running. before me by a couple of hundred yards was a thicket of trees; i headed that way fast. i managed to sling a dig back; marian was joining the others; pointing in my direction. one of them raised the rifle but she knocked it down. i went on running. it looked as though i'd be all right so long as i didn't get in the way of an accidental shot. my life was once more charmed with the fact that no one wanted me dead. the thicket of woods was not as thick as i'd have liked. from a distance they'd seemed almost impenetrable, but when i was running through them towards the center, they looked pitifully thin. i could see light from any direction and the floor of the woods was trimmed, the underbrush cleaned out, and a lot of it was tramped down. ahead of me i perceived a few of them coming towards the woods warily, behind me there was another gang closing in. i began to feel like the caterpillar on the blade of grass in front of the lawn mower. i tried to hide under a deadfall, knowing that it was poor protection against rifle fire. i hauled out the bonanza and checked the cylinder. i didn't know which side i was going to shoot at, but that didn't bother me. i was going to shoot at the first side that got close. a couple of shots whipped by over my head, making noises like someone snapping a bullwhip. i couldn't tell which direction they came from; i was too busy trying to stuff my feet into a gopher hole under my deadfall. i cast around the thicket with my sense of perception and caught the layout. both sides were spread out, stalking forward like infantry advancing through disputed ground. now and then one of them would raise his rifle and fire at some unexpected motion. this, i gathered, was more nervousness than fighting skill because no group of telepaths and/or perceptives would be so jittery on the trigger if they weren't basically nervous. they should, as i did, have the absolute position of both the enemy and their own side. with a growing nervous sweat i dug their advances. they were avoiding my position, trying to encircle me by making long semicircular marches, hoping to get between me and the other side. this was a rough maneuver, sort of like two telepaths playing chess. both sides knew to a minute exactly what the other had in mind, where he was, and what he was going to do about his position. but they kept shifting, feinting and counter-advancing, trying to gain the advantage of number or position so that the other would be forced to retreat. it became a war of nerves; a game of seeing who had the most guts; who could walk closer to the muzzle of an enemy rifle without getting hit. their rifles were mixed; there were a couple of deer guns, a nice 35-70 express that fired a slug slightly smaller than a panetella cigar, a few shotguns, a carbine sports rifle that looked like it might have been a garand with the barrel shortened by a couple of inches, some revolvers, one nasty-looking colt .45 automatic, and so on. i shivered down in my little hideout; as soon as the shooting started in earnest, they were going to clean out this woods but good. it was going to be a fine barrage, with guns going off in all directions, because it is hard to keep your head in a melee. esper and telepathy go by the board when shooting starts. i still didn't know which side was which. the gang behind me were friends of marian harrison; but that did not endear them to me any more than knowing that the gang in front were from scholar phelps medical center or some group affiliated with him. in the midst of it, i managed to bet myself a new hat that old scholar phelps didn't really know what was going on. he would be cagey enough to stay ignorant of any overt strife or any other skullduggery that could be laid at his door. then on one edge of the woodsy section, two guys of equal damfool-factor advanced, came up standing, and faced one another across fifty feet of open woods. their rifles came up and yelled at one another like a string of firecrackers; they wasted a lot of powder and lead by not taking careful aim. one of them emptied his rifle and started to fade back to reload, the other let him have it in the shoulder. it spun the guy around and dumped him on his spine. his outflung hand slammed his rifle against a tree, which broke it. he gave a painful moan and started to crawl back, his arm hanging limp-like but not broken. from behind me came a roar and a peltering of shotgun pellets through the trees; it was answered by the heavy bark of the 35-70 express. i'm sure that in the entire artillery present, the only rifle heavy enough to really damage those mekstroms was that express, which would stop a charging rhino. when you get down to facts, my bonanza .375 packed a terrific wallop but it did not have the shocking power of the heavy big-game rifle. motion caught my perception to one side; two of them had let go shotgun blasts from single-shot guns. they were standing face to face swinging their guns like a pair of axemen; swing, chop! swing, chop! and with each swing their guns were losing shape, splinters from the butts, and bits of machinery. their clothing was in ribbons from the shotgun blasts. but neither of them seemed willing to give up. there was not a sign of blood; only a few places on each belly that looked shiny-like. on the other side of me, one guy let go with a rifle that slugged the other bird in the middle. he folded over the shot and his middle went back and down, which whipped his head over, back, and down where it hit the ground with an audible thump. the first guy leaped forward just as the victim of his attack sat up, rubbed his belly ruefully, and drew a hunting knife with his other hand. the first guy took a running dive at the supine one, who swung the hunting knife in a vicious arc. the point hit the chest of the man coming through the air but it stopped as though the man had been wearing plate armor. you could dig the return shock that stunned the knife-wielder's arm when the point turned. all it did was rip the clothing. then the pair of them were at it in a free-for-all that made the woods ring. this deadly combat did not last long. one of them took aim with a fist and let the other have it. the rifle shot hadn't stopped him but the hard fist of another mekstrom laid him out colder than a mackerel iced for shipment. the deadly 35-70 express roared again, and there started a concentration of troops heading towards the point of origin. i had a hunch that the other side did not like anybody to be playing quite as rough as a big-game gun. someone might really get hurt. by now they were all in close and swinging; now and then someone would stand off and gain a few moments of breathing space by letting go with a shotgun or knocking someone off of his feet with a carbine. there was some bloodshed, too; not all these shots bounced. but from what i could perceive, none of them were fatal. just painful. the guy who'd been stopped first with the rifle slug and then the other mekstrom's fist was still out cold and bleeding lightly from the place in his stomach. a bit horrified, i perceived that the pellet was embedded about a half-inch in. the two birds who'd been hacking at one another with the remains of their shotguns had settled it barehanded, too. the loser was groaning and trying to pull himself together. the shiny spots on his chest were shotgun pellets stuck in the skin. it was one heck of a fight. mekstroms could play with guns and knives and go around taking swings at one another with hunks of tree or clubbed rifles, or they could stand off and hurl boulders. such a battlefield was no place for a guy named steve cornell. by now all good sense and fine management was gone. if i'd been spotted, they'd have taken a swing at me, forgetting that i am no mekstrom. so i decided that it was time for steve to leave. i cast about me with my perception; the gang that marian had joined had advanced until they were almost even with my central position; there were a couple of swinging matches to either side and one in front of me. i wondered about marian; somehow i still don't like seeing a woman tangled up in a free-for-all. marian was out of esper range, which was all right with me. i crawled out of my hideout cautiously, stood up in a low crouch and began to run. a couple of them caught sight of me and put up a howl, but they were too busy with their personal foe to take off after me. one of them was free; i doubled him up and dropped him on his back with a slug from my bonanza .375. somehow it did not seem rough or vicious to shoot since there was nothing lethal in it. it was more like a game of cowboy and indian than deadly earnest warfare. then i was out and free of them all, out of the woods and running like a deer. i cursed the car with its blown out tire; the old crate had been a fine bus, nicely broken in and conveniently fast. but it was as useful to me now as a pair of skids. a couple of them behind me caught on and gave chase. i heard cries for me to stop, which i ignored like any sensible man. someone cut loose with a roar; the big slug from the express whipped past and went _sprang!_ off a rock somewhere ahead. it only added a few more feet per second to my flight. if they were going to play that rough, i didn't care to stay. i fired an unaimed shot over my shoulder, which did no good at all except for lifting my morale. i hoped that it would slow them a bit, but if it did i couldn't tell. then i leaped over a ditch and came upon a cluster of cars. i dug at them as i approached and selected one of the faster models that still had its key dangling from the lock. i was in and off and away as fast as a scared man can move. they were still yelling and fighting in the woods when i raced out of my range. * * * * * the heap i'd jumped was a clinton special with rock-like springs and a low slung frame that hugged the ground like a clam. i was intent upon putting as many miles as i could between me and the late engagement in as short a time as possible, and the clinton seemed especially apt until i remembered that the figure 300 on the dial meant kilometers instead of miles per hour. then i let her out a bit more and tried for the end of the dial. the clinton tried with me, and i had to keep my esper carefully aimed at the road ahead because i was definitely overdriving my eyesight and reaction-time. i was so intent upon making feet that i did not notice the jetcopter that came swooping down over my head until the howl of its vane-jets raised hell with my eardrums. then i slowed the car and lifted my perception at the same time for a quick dig. the jetcopter was painted policeman blue and it sported a large gold-leaf on its side, and inside the cabin were two hard-faced gentlemen wearing uniforms with brass buttons and that old bailey look in their eye. the one on the left was jingling a pair of handcuffs. they passed over my head at about fifteen feet, swooped on past by a thousand, and dropped a road-block bomb. it flared briefly and let out with a billow of thick red smoke. i leaned on the brakes hard enough to stand the clinton up on its nose, because if i shoved my front bumper through that cloud of red smoke it was a signal for them to let me have it. i came to a stop about a foot this side of the bomb, and the jetcopter came down hovering. its vanes blew the smoke away and the 'copter landed in front of my swiped clinton special. the policeman was both curt and angry. "driver's ticket, registration, and maybe your pilot's license," he snapped. well, that was _it_. i had a driver's ticket all right, _but_ it did not permit me to drive a car that i'd selected out of a group willy nilly. the car registration was in the glove compartment where it was supposed to be, but what it said did not match what the driver's license claimed. no matter what i said, there would be the devil to pay. "i'll go quietly, officer," i told him. "darn' white of you, pilot," he said cynically. he was scribbling on a book of tickets and it was piling up deep. speeding, reckless driving, violation of ordinance something-or-other by number. driving a car without proper registration in the absence of the rightful owner (check for stolen car records) and so on and on and on until it looked like a life term in the local jug. "move over, cornell," he said curtly. "i'm taking you in." i moved politely. the only time it pays to be arrogant with the police is long after you've proved them wrong, and then only when you're facing your mirror at home telling yourself what you should have said. i was driven to court; escorted in by the pair of them and seated with one on each side. the sign on the judge's table said: magistrate hollister. magistrate hollister was an elderly gentleman with a cast iron jaw and a glance as cold as a bucket of snow. he dealt justice with a sharp-edged shovel and his attitude seemed to be that everybody was either guilty as charged or was contemplating some form of evil to be committed as soon as he was out of the sight of justice. i sat there squirming while he piled the top on a couple whose only crime was parking overtime; i itched from top to bottom while he slapped one miscreant in gaol for turning left in violation of city ordinance. his next attempt gave a ten dollar fine for failing to come to a full and grinding halt at the sign of the big red light, despite the fact that the criminal was esper to a fine degree and dug the fact that there was no cross-traffic for a half mile. then his honor licked his chops and called my name. he speared me with an icicle-eye and asked sarcastically: "well, mr. cornell, with what form of sophistry are you going to explain your recent violations?" i blinked. he aimed a cold glance at the bailiff, who arose and read off the charges against me in a deep, hollow intonation. "speak up!" he snapped. "are you guilty or not guilty?" "guilty," i admitted. he beamed a sort of self-righteous evil. it was easy to see that never in his tenure of office had he ever encountered a criminal as hardened and as vicious as i. nor one who admitted to his turpitude so blandly. i felt it coming, and it made me itch, and i knew that if i tried to scratch his honor would take the act as a personal affront. i fought down the crazy desire to scratch everything i could reach and it was hard; about the time his honor added a charge of endangering human life on the highway to the rest of my assorted crimes, the itch had localized into the ring finger of my left hand. that i could scratch by rubbing it against the seam of my trousers. then his honor went on, delivering lecture number seven on crime, delinquency, and grand larceny. i was going to be an example, he vowed. i was assumed to be esper since no normal--that's the word he used, which indicated that the old bird was a blank and hated everybody who wasn't--human being would be able to drive as though he had eyes mounted a half mile in front of him. not that my useless life was in danger, or that i was actually not-in-control of my car, but that my actions made for panic among normal--again he used it!--people who were not blessed with either telepathy or perception by a mere accident of birth. the last one proved it; it was not an accident of birth so much as it was proper training, to my way of thinking. magistrate hollister hated psi-trained people and was out to make examples of them. he polished off his lecture by pronouncing sentence: "--and the law provides punishment by a fine not to exceed one thousand dollars, or a sentence of ninety days in jail--_or both_." he rolled the latter off as though he relished the sound of the words. i waited impatiently. the itch on my finger increased; i flung a fast dig at it but there was nothing there but sophomore's syndrome. good old nervous association. it was the finger that little snoodles, the three-month baby supergirl had munched to a faretheewell. darned good thing the kid didn't have teeth! but i was old steve, the immune, the carrier, the-"well, mr. cornell?" i blinked. "yes, your honor?" "which will it be? i am granting you the leniency of selecting which penalty you prefer." i could probably rake up a thousand by selling some stock, personal possessions, and draining my already-weakened bank account. the most valuable of my possessions was parked in a ditch with a blowout and probably a bent frame and even so, i only owned about six monthly payments worth of it. "your honor, i will prefer to pay the fine--if you'll grant me time in which to go and collect--" he rapped his desk with his gavel. "mr. cornell," he boomed angrily. "a thief cannot be trusted. within a matter of minutes you could remove yourself from the jurisdiction of this court unless a binding penalty is placed against your person. you may go on your search for money, but only after posting bond--to the same amount as your fine!" _lenient--?_ "however, unless you are able to pay, i have no recourse but to exact the prison sentence of ninety days. bailiff--!" i gave up. it even felt sort of good to give up, especially when the turn is called by someone too big to be argued with. no matter what, i was going to take ninety days off, during which i could sit and think and plan and wonder and chew my fingernails. the itch in my finger burned again, deep this time, and not at all easy to satisfy by rubbing it against my trousers. i picked at it with the thumbnail and the nail caught something hard. i looked down at the itching finger and sent my perception into it with as much concentration as i could. my thumbnail had lifted a tiny circle no larger than the head of a pin. blood was oozing from beneath the lifted rim, and i nervously picked off the tiny patch of hard, hard flesh and watched the surface blood well out into a tiny droplet. my perception told me the truth: it was mekstrom's disease and not a doubt. the immune had caught it! the bailiff tapped me on the shoulder and said, "come along, cornell!" and i was going to have ninety days to watch that patch grow at the inexorable rate of one sixty-fourth of an inch per hour! xvi the bailiff repeated, "come along, cornell." then he added sourly, "or i'll have to slip the cuffs on you." i turned with a helpless shrug. i'd tried to lick 'em and i'd tried to join 'em and i'd failed both. then, as of this instant when i might have been able to go join 'em, i was headed for the wrong side as soon as i opened my big yap. and if i didn't yelp, i was a dead one anyway. sooner or later someone in the local jug would latch on to my condition and pack me off to scholar phelps' medical center. once more i was in a situation where all i could do was to play it by ear, wait for a break, and see if i could make something out of it. but before i could take more than a step or two toward the big door, someone in the back of the courtroom called out: "your honor, i have some vital information in this case." his honor looked up across the court with a great amount of irritation showing in his face. his voice rasped, "indeed?" i whirled, shocked. suavely, dr. thorndyke strode down the aisle. he faced the judge and explained who he was and why, then he backed it up with a wallet full of credentials, cards, identification, and so forth. the judge looked the shebang over sourly but finally nodded agreement. thorndyke smiled self-confidently and then went on, facing me: "it would be against my duty to permit you to incarcerate this miscreant," he said smoothly. "because mr. cornell has mekstrom's disease!" everybody faded back and away from me as though he'd announced me to be the carrier of plague. they looked at me with horror and disgust on their faces, a couple of them began to wipe their hands with handkerchiefs; one guy who'd been standing where i'd dropped my little patch of mekstrom flesh backed out of that uncharmed circle. some of the spectators left hurriedly. his honor paled. "you're certain?" he demanded of dr. thorndyke. "i'm certain. you'll note the blood on his finger; cornell recently picked off a patch of mekstrom flesh no larger than the head of a pin. it was his first sign." the doctor went on explaining, "normally this early seizure would be difficult to detect, except from a clinical examination. but since i am telepath and cornell has perception, his own mind told me he was aware of his sorry condition. one only need read his mind, or to dig at the tiny bit of mekstrom flesh that he dropped to your floor." the judge eyed me nastily. "maybe i should add a charge of contaminating a courtroom," he muttered. he was running his eyes across the floor from me to wherever i'd been, trying to locate the little patch. i helped him by not looking at it. the rest of the court faded back from me still farther. i could hardly have been less admired if i'd been made of pure cyanide gas. the judge rapped his gavel sharply. "i parole this prisoner in the custody of dr. thorndyke, who as a representative of the medical center will remove the prisoner to that place where the proper treatment awaits him." "now see here--" i started. but his honor cut me off. "you'll go as i say," he snapped. "unfortunately, the law does not permit me to enjoy any cruel or unusual punishments, or i'd insist upon your ninety-day sentence and watch you die painfully. i--bailiff! remove this menace before i forget my position here and find myself in contempt of the law i have sworn to uphold. i cannot be impartial before a man who contaminates my court with the world's most dangerous disease!" i turned to thorndyke. "all right," i grunted. "you win." he smiled again; i wanted to wipe that smile away with a set of knuckles but i knew that all i'd get would be a broken hand against thorndyke's stone-hard flesh. "now, mr. cornell," he said with that clinical smoothness, "let's not get the old standard attitude." "nearly everybody who contracts mekstrom's disease," he said to the judge, "takes on a persecution complex as soon as he finds out that he has it. some of them have even accused me of fomenting some big fantastic plot against them. please, mr. cornell," he went on facing me, "we'll give you the best of treatment that medical science knows." "yeah," i grunted. his honor rapped on the gavel once more. "officer gruenwald," he snapped, "you will accompany the prisoner and dr. thorndyke to the medical center and having done that you will return to report to me that you have accomplished your mission." then the judge glared around, rapped once more, and cried, "case finished. next case!" i felt almost as sorry for the next guy coming in as i felt for myself. his honor was going to be one tough baby for some days to come. as they escorted me out, a janitor came in and began to swab the floor where i'd been standing. he was using something nicely corrosive that made the icy, judicial eyes water, all of which discomfort was likely to be added to the next law-breaker's sorry lot. * * * * * i was in fine company. thorndyke was a telepath and officer gruenwald was perceptive. they went as a team and gave me about as much chance to escape as if i'd been a horned toad sealed in a cornerstone. gruenwald, of course, treated me as though my breath was deadly, my touch foul, and my presence evil. in gruenwald's eyes, the only difference between me and medusa the gorgon was that looking at me did not turn him to stone. he kept at least one eye on me almost constantly. i could almost perceive thorndyke's amusement. with the best of social amenities, he could hardly have spent a full waking day in the company of either a telepath or a perceptive without giving away the fact that he was mekstrom. but with me to watch over, officer gruenwald's mental attention was not to be turned aside to take an impolite dig at his companion. even if he had, thorndyke would have been there quickly to turn his attention aside. i've read the early books that contain predictions of how we are supposed to operate. the old boys seemed to have the quaint notion that a telepath should be able at once to know everything that goes on everywhere, and a perceptive should be aware of everything material about him. there should be no privacy. there was to be no defense against the mental peeping tom. it ain't necessarily so. if gruenwald had taken a dig at thorndyke's hide, the doctor would have speared the policeman with a cold, indignant eye and called him for it. of course, there was no good reason for gruenwald to take a dig at thorndyke and so he didn't. so i went along with the status quo and tried to think of some way to break it up. an hour later i was still thinking, and the bleeding on my finger had stopped. mekstrom flesh had covered the raw spot with a thin, stone-hard plate that could not be separated visually from the rest of my skin. "as a perceptive," observed dr. thorndyke in a professional tone, "you'll notice the patch of infection growing on mr. cornell's finger. the rate of growth seems normal; i'll have to check it accurately once i get him to the clinic. in fifty or sixty hours, mr. cornell's finger will be solid to the first joint. in ninety days his arm will have become as solid as the arm of a marble statue." i interjected, "and what do we do about it?" he moved his head a bit and eyed me in the rear view mirror. "i hope we can help you, cornell," he said in a tone of sympathy that was definitely intended to impress officer gruenwald with his medical appreciation of the doctor's debt to humanity. "i sincerely hope so. for in doing so, we will serve the human race. and," he admitted with an entirely human-sounding selfishness, "i may be able to deliver a thesis on the cure that will qualify me for my scholarate." i took a fast stab: "doctor, how does my flesh differ from yours?" thorndyke parried this attention-getting question: "mine is of no consequence. dig your own above and below the line of infection, cornell. if your sense of perception has been trained fine enough, dig the actual line of infection and watch the molecular structure rearrange. can you dig that fine, officer? cornell, i hate to dwell at length upon your misfortune, but perhaps i can help you face it by bringing the facts to light." #like the devil you hate to dwell, doctor mekstrom!# in the rear view mirror, his lips parted in a bland smile and one eyelid dropped in a knowing wink. i opened my mouth to make another stab in the open but thorndyke got there first. "officer gruenwald," he suggested, "you can help by putting out your perception along the road ahead and seeing how it goes. i'd like to make tracks with this crate." gruenwald nodded. thorndyke put the goose-pedal down and the car took off with a howl of passing wind. he said with a grin, "it isn't very often that i get a chance to drive like this, but as long as i've an officer with me--" he was above one forty by the time he let his voice trail off. i watched the back of their heads for a moment. at this speed, thorndyke would have both his mind and his hands full and the cop would be digging at the road as far ahead as his perception could dig a clear appreciation of the road and its hazards. thorndyke's telepathy would be occupied in taking this perception and using it. that left me free to think. i cast a dig behind me, as far behind me as my perception would reach. nothing. i thought furiously. it resulted in nothing. i needed either a parachute or a full set of mekstrom hide to get out of this car now. with either i might have taken a chance and jumped. but as it was, the only guy who could scramble out of this car was dr. james thorndyke. i caught his dropping eyelid in the rear view mirror again and swore at him under my breath. time, and miles, went past. one after the other, very fast. we hissed through towns where the streets had been opened for us and along broad stretches of highway and between cars and trucks running at normal speeds. one thing i must say for thorndyke: he was almost as good a driver as i. * * * * * my second arrival at the medical center was rather quiet. i went in the service entrance, so to speak, and didn't get a look at the enamelled blonde at the front portal. they whiffed me in at a broad gate that was opened by a flunky and we drove for another mile through the grounds far from the main road. we ended up in front of a small brick building and as we went through the front office into a private place, thorndyke told a secretary that she should prepare a legal receipt for my person. i did not like being bandied about like a hunk of merchandise, but nobody seemed to care what i thought. it was all very fast and efficient. i'd barely seated myself and lit a cigarette when the nurse came in with the document which thorndyke signed, she witnessed, and was subsequently handed to officer gruenwald. "is there any danger of me--er--contracting--" he faltered uncertainly to dr. thorndyke. "you'll notice that--" i started to call attention to thorndyke's calmness at being in my presence and was going to invite gruenwald to take a dig at the doctor's hide, but once more the doctor blocked me. "none of us have ever found any factor of contagion," he said. "and we live among mekstrom cases. you'll notice miss clifton's lack of concern." miss clifton, the nurse, turned a calm face to the policeman and gave him her hand. miss clifton had a face and a figure that was enough to make a man forget anything. she knew her part very well; together, the nurse and the policeman left the office together and i wondered just why a non-mekstrom would have anything to do with an outfit like this. thorndyke smiled and said, "i won't tell you, steve. what you don't know won't hurt anybody." "mind telling me what i'm slated for? the high jump? going to watch me writhing in pain as my infection climbs toward my vitals? going to amputate? or are you going to cut it off inch by inch and watch me suffer?" "steve, some things you know already. one, that you are a carrier. there have been no other carriers. we'd like to know what makes you a carrier." #the laboratory again?# i thought. he nodded. "also whether your final contraction of mekstrom's disease removes the carrier-factor." i said hopefully, "i suppose as a mekstrom i'll eventually be qualified to join you?" thorndyke looked blank. "perhaps," he said flatly. to my mind, that flat _perhaps_ was the same sort of reply that mother used to hand me when i wanted something that she did not want to give. i'd been eleven before i got walloped across the bazoo by pointing out to her that _we'll see_ really meant _no_, because nothing that she said it to ever came to pass. "look, thorndyke, let's take off our shoes and stop dancing," i told him. "i have a pretty good idea of what's been going on. i'd like an honest answer to what's likely to go on from here." "i can't give you that." "who can?" he said nothing, but he began to look at me as though i weren't quite bright. that made two of us, i was looking at him in the same manner. my finger itched a bit, saving the situation. i'd been about to forget that thorndyke was a mekstrom and take a swing at him. he laughed at me cynically. "you're in a very poor position to dictate terms," he said sharply. "all right," i agreed reluctantly. "so i'm a prisoner. i'm also under a sentence of death. don't think me unreasonable if i object to it." "the trouble with your thinking is that you expect all things to be black or white and so defined. you ask me, 'am i going to live or die?' and expect me to answer without qualification. i can only tell you that i don't know which. that it all depends." "depends upon exactly what?" he eyed me with a cold stare. "whether you're worthy of living." "who's to decide?" "we will." i grunted, wishing that i knew more latin. i wanted to quote that latin platitude about who watches the watchers. he watched me narrowly, and i expected him to quote me the phrase after having read my mind. but apparently the implication of the phrase did not appeal to him, and so he remained silent. i broke the silence by saying, "what right has any man or collection of men to decide whether i, or anyone else, has the right to live or die?" "it's done all the time," he replied succinctly. "yeah?" "criminals are--" "i'm not a criminal; i've violated no man-made law. i've not even violated very many of the ten commandments. at least, not the one that is punishable by death." he was silent for a moment again, then he said, "steve, you're the victim of loose propaganda." "who isn't?" i granted. "the entire human race is lambasted by one form of propaganda or another from the time the infant learns to sit up until the elderly lays down and dies. we're all guilty of loose thinking. my own father, for instance, had to quit school before he could take any advanced schooling, had to fight his way up, had to collect his advanced education by study, application, and hard practice. he always swore that this long period of hardship strengthened his will and his character and gave him the guts to go out and do things that he'd never have thought of if he'd had an easy life. then the old duck turns right around and swears that he'll never see any son of his take the bumps as he took them." "that's beside the point, steve. i know what sort of propaganda you've been listening to. it's the old do-good line; the everything for anybody line; the no man must die alone line." "is it bad?" dr. thorndyke shrugged. "you've talked about loose propaganda," he said. "well, in this welter of loose propaganda, every man had at least the opportunity of choosing which line of guff he intends to adhere to. i'm even willing to admit that there is both right and wrong on both sides. are you?" i stifled a sour grin. "i shouldn't, because it is a mistake in any political argument to even let on that the other guy is slightly more than an idiot. but as an engineer, i'll admit it." "now that's a help," he said more cheerfully. "you're objecting, of course, to the fact that we are taking the right to pick, choose, and select those people that we think are more likely to be of good advantage to the human race. you've listened to that old line about the hypothetical cataclysm that threatens the human race, and how would you choose the hundred people who are supposed to carry on. well, have you ever eyed the human race in slightly another manner?" "i wouldn't know," i told him. "maybe." "have you ever watched the proceedings of one of those big trials where some conkpot has blown the brains out of a half-dozen citizens by pointing a gun and emptying it at a crowd? if you have, you've been appalled by the sob sisters and do-gooders who show that the vicious character was momentarily off his toggle. we mustn't execute a nut, no matter how vicious he is. we've got to protect him, feed him, and house him for the next fifty years. now, not only is he doing society absolutely no damned good while he's locked up for fifty years, he's also eating up his share of the standard of living. then to top this off, so long as this nut is alive, there is the danger that some soft-hearted fathead will succeed in getting him turned loose once more." "agreed," i said. "but you're again talking about criminals, which i don't think applies in my case." "no, of course not," he said quickly. "i used it to prove to you that this is one way of looking at a less concrete case. carry this soft headed thinking a couple of steps higher. medical science has made it possible for the human race to dilute its strength. epileptics are saved to breed epileptics; haemophiliacs are preserved, neurotics are ironed out, weaknesses of all kinds are kept alive to breed their strain of weakness." "just what has this to do with me and my future?" i asked. "quite a lot. i'm trying to make you agree that there are quite a lot of undeserving characters here on earth." "did i ever deny it?" i asked him pointedly, but he took it as not including present company. but i could see where thorndyke was heading. first eliminate the lice on the body politic. okay, so i am blind and cannot see the sense of incarcerating a murderer that has to be fed, clothed, and housed at my expense for the rest of his natural life. then for the second step we get rid of weaklings, both physical and mental. i'll call step two passably okay, but--? number three includes grifters, beggars, bums, and guys out for the soft touch and here i begin to wonder. i've known some entertaining grifters, beggars, and bums; a few of them chose their way of life for their own, just as i became a mechanical engineer. the trouble with this sort of philosophy is that it starts off with an appeal to justice and logic (i'm quoting myself), but it quickly gets dangerous. start knocking off the bilge-scum. then when the lowest strata of society is gone, start on the next. carry this line of reasoning out to straight aristotelian logic and you come up with parties like you and me, who may have been quite acceptable when compared to the whole cross-section of humanity, but who now have no one but his betters to compete with. i had never reasoned this out before, but as i did right there and then, i decided that society cannot draw lines nor assume a static pose. society must move constantly, either in one direction or the other. and while i object to paying taxes to support some rattlehead for the rest of his natural life, i'd rather have it that way than to have someone start a trend of bopping off everybody who has not the ability to absorb the educational level of the scholar. because, if the trend turned upward instead of downward, that's where the dividing line would end. anarchy at one end, is as bad as tyranny at the other-"i'm sorry you cannot come to a reasonable conclusion," said dr. thorndyke. "if you cannot see the logic of--" i cut him off short. "look, doc," i snapped, "if you can't see where your line of thinking ends, you're in bad shape." he looked superior. "you're sour because you know you haven't got what it takes." i almost nipped. "you're so damned dumb that you can't see that in any society of supermen, you'd not be qualified to clean out ash trays," i tossed back at him. he smiled self-confidently. "by the time they start looking at my level--if they ever do--you'll have been gone long ago. sorry, cornell. you don't add up." well, that was nothing i didn't know already. in his society, i was a nonentity. yet, somehow, if that's what the human race was coming to under the thorndyke's and the phelps', i didn't care to stay around. "all right," i snapped. "which way do i go from here? the laboratory, or will you dispense with the preliminaries and let me take the high slide right now before this--" i held up my infected finger, "gets to the painful stages." with the air and tone of a man inspecting an interesting specimen impaled on a mounting pin, thorndyke replied: "oh--we have use for the likes of you." xvii it would please me no end to report here that the gang at the medical center were crude, rough, vicious, and that they didn't give a damn about human suffering. unfortunately for my sense of moral balance, i can't. they didn't cut huge slices out of my hide without benefit of anaesthesia. they didn't shove pipe-sized needles into me, or strap me on a board and open me up with dull knives. instead, they treated me as if i'd been going to pay for my treatment and ultimately emerge from the center to go forth and extol its virtues. i ate good food, slept in a clean and comfortable bed, smoked free cigarettes, read the best magazines--and also some of the worst, if i must report the whole truth--and was permitted to mingle with the rest of the patients, guests, victims, personnel, and so forth that were attached to my ward. i was not at any time treated as though i were anything but a willing and happy member of their team. it was known that i was not, but if any emotion was shown, it was sympathy at my plight in not being one of them. this was viewed in the same way as any other accident of birth or upbringing. in my room was another man about my age. he'd arrived a day before me, with an early infection at the tip of his middle toe. he was, if i've got to produce a time-table, about three-eights of an inch ahead of me. he had no worries. he was one of their kind of thinkers. "how'd you connect?" i asked him. "i didn't," he said, scratching his infected toe vigorously. "they connected with me." "oh?" "yeah. i was sleeping tight and not even dreaming. someone rapped on my apartment door and i growled myself out of bed and sort of felt my way. it was three in the morning. guy stood there looking apologetic. 'got a message for you,' he tells me. 'can't it wait until morning?' i snarl back. 'no,' he says. 'it's important!' so i invite him in. he doesn't waste any time at all; his first act is to point at an iron floor lamp in the corner and ask me how much i'd paid for it. i tell him. then this bird drops twice the amount on the coffee table, strides over to the corner, picks up the lamp, and ties the iron pipe into a fancy-looking bowknot. he didn't even grunt. 'mr. mullaney,' he asks me, 'how would you like to be that strong?' i didn't have to think it over. i told him right then and there. then we spent from three ayem to five thirty going through a fast question and answer routine, sort of like a complicated word-association test. at six o'clock i've packed and i'm on my way here with my case of mekstrom's disease." "just like that?" i asked mr. mullaney. "just like that," he repeated. "so now what happens?" "oh, about tomorrow i'll go in for treatment," he said. "seems as how they've got to start treatment before the infection creeps to the first joint or i'll lose the joint." he contemplated me a bit; he was a perceptive and i knew it. "you've got another day or more. that's because your ring finger is longer than my toe." "what's the treatment like?" i asked him. "that i don't know. i've tried to dig the treatment, but it's too far away from here. this is just a sort of preliminary ward; i gather that they know when to start and so on." he veiled his eyes for a moment. he was undoubtedly thinking of my fate. "chess?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly. "why not?" i grinned. my mind wasn't in it. he beat me three out of four. i bedded down about eleven, and to my surprise i slept well. they must have been shoving something into me to make me sleep; i know me very well and i'm sure that i couldn't have closed an eye if they hadn't been slipping me the old closeout powder. for three nights, now, i'd corked off solid until seven ack emma and i'd come alive in the morning fine, fit, and fresh. but on the following morning, mr. mullaney was missing. i never saw him again. at noon, or thereabouts, the end of the ring finger on my left hand was as solid as a rock. i could squeeze it in a door or burn it with a cigarette; i got into a little habit of scratching kitchen matches on it as i tried to dig into the solid flesh with my perception. i growled a bit at my fate, but not much. it was about this time, too, that the slight itch began to change. you know how a deep-felt itch is. it can sometimes be pleasant. like the itch that comes after a fast swim in the salty sea and a dry-out in the bright sun, when the drying salt water makes your skin itch with the vibrant pleasure of just being alive. this is not like the bite of any bug, but the kind that makes you want to take another dive into the ocean instead of trying to scratch it with your claws. well, the itch in my finger had been one of the pleasant kinds. i could sort of scratch it away by taking the steel-hard part of my finger in my other hand and wiggle, briskly. but now the itch turned into a deep burning pain. my perception, never good enough to dig the finer structure clearly, was good enough to tell me that my crawling horror had come to the boundary line of the first joint. it was this pause that was causing the burning pain. according to what i'd been told, if someone didn't do something about me right now, i'd lose the end joint of my finger. nobody came to ease my pain, nor to ease my mind. they left me strictly alone. i spent the time from noon until three o'clock examining my fingertip as i'd not examined it before. it was rock hard, but strangely flexible if i could exert enough pressure on the flesh. it still moved with the flexing of my hands. the fingernail itself was like a chip of chilled steel. i could flex the nail neither with my other hand nor by biting it; between my teeth it had the uncomfortable solidity of a sheet of metal that conveyed to my brain that the old teeth should not try to bite too hard. i tried prying on a bit of metal with the fingernail; inserting the nail in the crack where a metal cylinder had been formed to make a table leg. i might have been able to pry the crack wider, but the rest of my body did not have the power nor the rigidity necessary to drive the tiny lever that was my fingertip. i wondered what kind of tool-grinder they used for a manicure. at three-thirty, the door to my room opened and in came scholar phelps, complete with his benign smile and his hearty air. "well," he boomed over-cheerfully, "we meet again, mr. cornell." "under trying circumstances," i said. "unfortunately so," he nodded. "however, we can't all be fortunate." "i dislike being a vital statistic." "so does everybody. yet, from a philosophical point of view, you have no more right to live at the expense of someone else than someone else has a right to live at your expense. it all comes out even in the final accounting. and, of course, if every man were granted a guaranteed immortality, we'd have one cluttered-up world." i had to admit that he was right, but i still could not accept his statistical attitude. not while i'm the statistic. he followed my thought even though he was esper; it wasn't hard to follow anyway. "all right, i admit that this is no time to sit around discussing philosophy or metaphysics or anything of that nature. what you are interested in is you." "how absolutely correct." "you know, of course, that you are a carrier." "so i've come to believe. at least, everybody i seem to have any contact with either turns up missing or comes down with mekstrom's--or both." scholar phelps nodded. "you might have gone on for quite some time if it hadn't been so obvious." i eyed him. "just what went on?" i asked casually. "did you have a clean-up squad following me all the time, picking up the debris? or did you just pick up the ones you wanted? or did the highways make you indulge in a running competition?" "too many questions at once. most of which answers would be best that you did not know. best for us, that is. maybe even for you." i shrugged. "we seem to be bordering on philosophy again when the important point is what you intend to do to me." he looked unhappy. "mr. cornell, it is hard to remain unphilosophical in a case like this. so many avenues of thought have been opened, so many ideas and angles come to mind. we'll readily admit what you've probably concluded; that you as a carrier have become the one basic factor that we have been seeking for some twenty years and more. you are the dirigible force, the last brick in the building, the final answer. or, and i hate to say it, were." "were?" "for all of our knowledge of mekstrom's we know so very little," he said. "in certain maladies the carrier is himself immune. in some we observe that the carrier results from a low-level, incomplete infection with the disease which immunizes him but does not kill the bugs. in others, we've seen the carrier become normal after he has finally contracted the disease. what we must know now is: is steve cornell, the mekstrom carrier, now a non-carrier because he has contracted the disease?" "how are you going to find out?" i asked him. "that's a problem," he said thoughtfully. "one school feels that we should not treat you, since the treatment itself may destroy whatever unknown factor makes you a carrier. the other claims that if we don't treat you, you'll hardly live long enough to permit comprehensive research anyway. a third school believes that there is time to find out whether you are still a carrier, make some tests, and then treat you, after which these tests are to be repeated." rather bitterly, i said, "i suppose i have absolutely no vote." "hardly," his face was pragmatic. "and to which school do you belong?" i asked sourly. "do you want me to get the cure? or am i to die miserably while you take tabs on my blood pressure, or do i merely lose an arm while you're sitting with folded hands waiting for the laboratory report?" "in any case, we'll learn a lot about mekstrom's from you," he said. "even if you die." as caustically as i could, i said, "it's nice to know that i am not going to die in vain." he eyed me with contempt. "you're not afraid to die, are you, mr. cornell?" that's a dirty question to ask any man. sure, i'm afraid to die. i just don't like the idea of being not-alive. as bad as life is, it's better than nothing. but the way he put the question he was implying that i should be happy to die for the benefit of humanity in general, and that's a question that is unfairly loaded. after all, everybody is slated to kick off. there is no other way of resigning from the universe. so if i have to die, it might as well be for the benefit of something, and if it happens to be humanity, so much the better. but when the case is proffered on a silver tray, i feel, "somebody else, not me!" the next argument phelps would be tossing out would be the one that goes, "two thousand years ago, a man died for humanity--" which always makes me sick. no matter how you look at us, there is no resemblance between him and me. i cut him short before he could say it: "whether or not i'm afraid to die, and for good or evil, now or later, is beside the point. i have, obviously, nothing to say about the time, place, and the reasons." we sat there and glared at one another; he didn't know whether to laugh or snarl and i didn't care which he did. it seemed to me that he was leading up to something that looked like the end. then i'd get the standard funeral and statements would be given out that i'd died because medical research had not been able to save me and blah blah blah complete with lack of funds and the medical center charity drive. the result would mean more moola for phelps and higher efficiency for his operations, and to the devil with the rest of the world. "let's get along with it," i snapped. "i've no opinion, no vote, no right of appeal. why bother to ask me how i feel?" calmly he replied, "because i am not a rough-shod, unhuman monster, mr. cornell. i would prefer that you see my point of view--or at least enough of it to admit that there is a bit of right on my side." "seems to me i went through that with thorndyke." "this is another angle. i'm speaking of my right of discovery." "you're speaking of what?" "my right of discovery. you as an engineer should be familiar with the idea. if i were a poet i could write an ode to my love and no one would forbid me my right to give it to her and to nobody else. if i were a cook with a special recipe no one could demand that i hand it over unless i had a special friend. he who discovers something new should be granted the right to control it. if this mekstrom business were some sort of physical patent or some new process, i could apply for a patent and have it for my exclusive use for a period of seventeen years. am i not right?" "yes, but--" "except that my patent would be infringed upon and i'd have no control--" i stood up suddenly and faced him angrily. he did not cower; after all he was a mekstrom. but he did shut up for a moment. "seems to me," i snarled, "that any process that can be used to save human life should not be held secret, patentable, or under the control of any one man or group." "this is an argument that always comes up. you may, of course, be correct. but happily for me, mr. cornell, i have the process and you have not, and it is my own conviction that i have the right to use it on those people who seem, in my opinion, to hold the most for the future advancement of the human race. however, i do not care to go over this argument again, it is tiresome and it never ends. as one of the ancient greek philosophers observed, you cannot change a man's mind by arguing with him. the other fact remains, however, that you do have something to offer us, despite your contrary mental processes." "do go on? what do i have to do to gain this benefit? who do i have to kill?" i eyed him cynically and then added, "or is it 'whom shall i kill?' i like these things to be proper, you know." "don't be sarcastic. i'm serious," he told me. "then stop pussyfooting and come to the point," i snapped. "you know what the story is. i don't. so if you think i'll be interested, why not tell me instead of letting me find out the hard way." "you, of course, were a carrier. maybe you still are. we can find out. in fact, we'll have to find out, before we--" "for god's sake stop it!" i yelled. "you're meandering." "sorry," he said in a tone of apology that surprised me all the way down to my feet. he shook himself visibly and went on from there: "you, if still a carrier, can be of use to the medical center. now do you understand?" sure i understand, but good. as a normal human type, they held nothing over me and just shoved me here and there and picked up the victims after me. but now that i was a victim myself, they could offer me their "cure" only if i would swear to go around the country deliberately infecting the people they wanted among them. it was that--or lie there and die miserably. this had not come to scholar phelps as a sudden flash of genius. he'd been planning this all along; had been waiting to pop this delicate question after i'd been pushed around, had a chance to torture myself mentally, and was undoubtedly soft for anything that looked like salvation. "there is one awkward point," said scholar phelps suavely. "once we have cured you, we would have no hold on you other than your loyalty and your personal honor to fulfill a promise given. neither of us are naive, mr. cornell. we both know that any honorable promise is only as valid as the basic honor involved. since your personal opinion is that this medical treatment should be used indiscriminately, and that our program to better the human race by competitive selection is foreign to your feelings, you would feel honor-bound to betray us. am i not correct?" what could i say to that? first i'm out, then i'm in, now i'm out again. what was phelps getting at? "if our positions were reversed, mr. cornell, i'm sure that you'd seek some additional binding force against me. i shall continue to seek some such lever against you for the same reason. in the meantime, mr. cornell, we shall make a test to see whether we have any real basis for any agreement at all. you may have ceased to be a carrier, you know." "yeah," i admitted darkly. "in the meantime," he said cheerfully, "the least we can do is to treat your finger. i'd hate to have you hedge a deal because we did not deliver your cured body in the whole." he put his head out of the door and summoned a nurse who came with a black bag. from the bag, scholar phelps took a skin-blast hypo and a small metal box, the top of which held a small slender, jointed platform and some tiny straps. he strapped my finger to this platform and then plugged in a length of line cord to the nearest wall socket. the little platforms moved; the one nearest my wrist vibrated rapidly across a very small excursion that tickled like the devil. the end platform moved in an arc, flexing the finger tip from straight to about seventy degrees. this moved fairly slow but regularly up and down. "i'll not fool you," he said drily. "this is going to hurt." he set the skin-blast hypo on top of the joint and let it go. for a moment the finger felt cold, numb, pleasant. then the shock wore away and the tip of my finger, my whole finger and part of my hand shocked me with the most excruciating agony that the hide of man ever felt. flashes and waves of pain darted up my arm to the elbow and the muscles in my forearm jumped. the sensitive nerve in my elbow sang and sent darting waves of zigzag needles up to my shoulder. my hand was a source of searing heat and freezing cold and the pain of being crushed and twisted and wrenched out of joint all at the same time. phelps wiped my wet face with a towel, loaded another hypo and let me have it in the shoulder. gradually the stuff took hold and the awful pain began to subside. not all the way, it just diminished from absolutely unbearable to merely terrible. i knew at that moment why a trapped animal will bite off its own foreleg to get free of the trap. from the depths of his bag he found a bottle and poured a half-tumbler for me; it went down like a whiskey-flavored soft drink. it had about as much kick as when you pour a drink of water into a highball glass that still holds a dreg of melted ice and diluted liquor. but it burned like fury once it hit my stomach and my mind began to wobble. he'd given me a slug of the pure quill, one hundred proof. as some sort of counter-irritant, it worked. very gradually the awful pain in my hand began to subside. "you can take that manipulator off in an hour or so," he told me. "and in the meantime we'll get along with our testing." i gathered that they could stop this treatment anywhere along the process if i did not measure up. xviii midnight. the manipulator had been off my hand for several hours, and it was obvious that my mekstrom's was past the first joint and creeping up towards the next. i eyed it with some distaste; as much as i wanted to have a fine hard body, i was not too pleased at having agony for a companion every time the infection crossed a joint. i began to wonder about the wrist; this is a nice complicated joint and should, if possible, exceed the pain of the first joint in the ring finger. i'd heard tell, of course, that once you've reached the top, additional torture does not hurt any greater. i'd accepted this statement as it was printed. but now i was not too sure that what i'd just been through was not one of those exceptions that take place every now and then to the best of rules. i was still in a dark and disconsolate mood. but i'd managed to eat, and i'd shaved and showered, and i'd hit the hay because it was as good a place to be as anywhere else. i could lie there and dig the premises with my esper. there were very few patients in this building, and none were done up like the character in the macklin place. they moved the patients to some other part of the grounds when the cure started. there weren't very many nurses, doctors, scholars, or other personnel around, either. outside along one side of a road was a small lighted house that was obviously a sort of guard, but it was casual instead of being formal and military in appearance. the ground, instead of being patrolled by human guards (which might have caused some comment) was carefully laid off into checkerboard squares by a complicated system of photobeams and induction bridges. you've probably read about how the job of casing a joint should be done. i did it the same way. i dug back and forth, collecting the layout from the back door of my building towards the nearest puff of dead area. this coign of safety billowed outward from the pattern towards the building like an arm of cumulus cloud and the top of it rose like a column to a height above my range. it sort of leaned forward but it did not lean far enough to be directly above the building. the far side of the column was just like the rear side; even though i'm well trained, it always startles me when i perceive the far side of a smallish dead area. i'm inclined like everybody else to consider perception on a line-of-sight basis instead of on a sort of all-around grasp. i let my thinker run free. if i could direct a breakout from this joint with a lot of outside help, i'd have a hot jetcopter pilot come down the dead-area column with a dead engine. the medical center did not have any radar, probably on the proposition that too high a degree of security indicated a high degree of top-secret material to hide. so i'd come down dead engine, land, and wait it out. timing would have to be perfect, because i, the prisoner, would have to make a fast gallop across a couple of hundred yards of wide open psi area, scale a tall fence topped with barbed wire, cross another fifty yards into the murk, and then find my rescuer. the take off would be fast once i'd located the 'copter in the murk, and everything would depend upon a hot pilot who felt confident enough in his engine and his rotorjets to let 'em go with a roar and a lift without warmup. during which time, unfortunately for all plans, the people at the medical center would have been reading my mind and would probably have that dead patch well patrolled with big, rough gentlemen armed with stuff heavy enough to stop a tank. lacking any sort of device or doodad that would conceal my mind from prying telepaths, about the only thing i could do was to lay here in my soft bed and daydream of making my escape. eventually i went to sleep and dreamed that i was hunting mallards with a fly-rod baited with a stale doughnut. the only thing that bothered me was a couple of odd-looking guys who thought that the way to hunt mallards was with shotguns, and their dress was just as out of taste as their equipment. who ever hunted ducks from a canoe, dressed in windbreakers and hightopped boots? eventually they bought some ducks from me and went home, leaving me to my slumbers. * * * * * about eight in the morning, there was a tentative tap on my door. while i was growling about why they should bother tapping, the door opened and a woman came in with my breakfast tray. she was not my nurse; she was the enamelled blonde receptionist. she had lost some of her enamelled sophistication. it was not evident in her make-up, her dress, or her hair-do. these were perfection. in fact, she bore that store-window look that made me think of an automaton, triggered to make the right noises and to present the proper expression at the correct time. as though she had never had a thought of her own or an emotion that was above the level of very mild interest. as if the perfection of her dress and the characterless beauty of her face were more important than anything else in her life. but the loss of absolute plate-glass impersonality was gone, and it took me some several moments to dig it out of her appearance. then i saw it. her eyes. they no longer looked glassily out of that clear oval face at a point about three inches above my left shoulder, but they were centered on me from no matter what point in the room she'd be as she went about the business of running open the blinds, checking the this and that and the other like any nurses' helper. finally she placed my tray on the bed-table and stood looking down at me. from my first meeting with her i knew she was no telepath, so i bluntly said, "where's the regular girl? where's my nurse?" "i'm taking over for the time," she told me. her voice was strained; she'd been trying to use that too-deeply cultured tone she used as the professional receptionist but the voice had cracked through the training enough to let some of her natural tone come through. "why?" then she relaxed completely, or maybe it was a matter of coming unglued. her face allowed itself to take on some character and her body ceased being that rigid window-dummy type. "what's your trouble--?" i asked her softly. she had something on her mind that was a bit too big for her, but her training was not broad enough to allow her to get it out. i hoped to help, if i could. i also wanted to know what she was doing here. if scholar phelps was thinking about putting a lever on me of the female type, he'd guessed wrong. she was looking at me and i could see a fragment of fright in her face. "is it terrible?" she asked me in a whisper. "is what terrible?" "me--me--mekstrom's d--disease--" the last word came out with a couple of big tears oozing from closed lids. "why?" i asked. "do i look all shot to bits?" she opened the eyes and looked at me. "does it hurt?" i remembered the agony of my finger and tried to lie. "a little," i told her. "but i'm told that it was because i'd waited too long for my first treatment." i hoped that i was correct; maybe it was wishful thinking, but i claim that right. i didn't want to go through the same agony every time we crossed a joint. i reached over to the bedside table and found my cigarettes. i slipped two up and offered one of them to her. she put a tentative hand forward, slowly, a scared-to-touch reluctance in her motion. this changed as her hand came forward. it was the same sort of reluctance that you feel when you start out to visit the dentist for a roaring tooth. the closer you get to the dentist's office the less inclined you are to finish the job. then at some indeterminate point you cross the place of no return and from that moment you go forward with increased determination. she finally made the cigarette package but she was very careful not to touch my hand as she took out the weed. then, as if she'd reached that point of no return, her hand slipped around the package and caught me by the wrist. we were statue-still for three heartbeats. then i lifted my other hand, took out the cigarette she'd missed, and held it forward for her. she took it. i dropped the pack and let my hand slip back until we were holding hands, practically. she shuddered. i flipped my lighter and let her inhale a big puff before i put the next question: "why are you here and what goes on?" in a flat, dry voice she said, "i'm--supposed--to--" and let it trail away without finishing it. "guinea pig?" i blurted bluntly. she collapsed like a deflated balloon. next, she had her face buried in my shoulder, bawling like a hurt baby. i stroked her shoulder gently, but she shuddered away from my hand as though it were poison. i shoved her upright and shook her a bit. "don't blubber like an idiot. sit there and talk like a human being!" it took her a minute of visible effort before she said, "you're supposed to be a--carrier. i'm supposed to find out--whether you are--a carrier." well, i'd suspected something of that sort. shakily she asked me, "how do i get it, mr. cornell?" i eyed her sympathetically. then i held up my left hand and looked at the infection. this was the finger that had been gummed to bits by the mekstrom infant back in homestead. with a shrug of uncertainty, i lifted her hand to my mouth. i felt with my tongue and dug with my perception until i had a tiny fold of her skin between my front teeth. then sharply, i bit down, drawing blood. she jerked, stiffened, closed her eyes and took a deep breath but she did not cry out. "that, if anything, should do it," i said flatly. "now go out and get some iodine for the cut. human-bite is likely to become infected with something bad. and i don't think antiseptic will hurt the mekstrom infection if it's taken place." they'd given me the antiseptic works in homestead, i recalled. "now, miss nameless, you sit over there and tell me how come this distressing tableau?" "oh--i can't," she cried. then she left in a hurry sucking on her bleeding finger. i didn't need any explanation; i'd just wanted my suspicions confirmed. someone had a lever on her. maybe someone she loved was a mekstrom and her loyalty was extracted because of it. the chances were also high that she'd been given to understand that they'd accept her as a member if she ever caught mekstrom's; and they'd taken my arrival as a fine chance to check me and get her at the same time. i wondered about her; she was no big-brain. i couldn't quite see the stratified society outlined by scholar phelps as holding a position open for her in the top echelon. except she was a woman, attractive if you like your women beautiful and dull-minded, and she probably would be happy to live in a little vacuum-type world bounded on all sides with women's magazines, lace curtains, tv soap opera, and a corral full of little mekstrom kids. i grinned. funny how the proponents of the stratified society always have their comeuppance by the need of women whose minds are bent on mundane things like homes and families. well, i hoped she caught it, if that's what she wanted. i was willing to bet my life that she cared a lot more for being with her man than she did for the cockeyed society he was supporting. i finished my breakfast and went out to watch a couple of telepaths playing chess until lunch time and then gave up. telepathic chess was too much like playing perceptive poker. then after lunch came the afternoon full of laboratory tests, inspections, experiments, and so forth; they didn't do much that hadn't been tried at homestead, and i surprised them again by being able to help in their never-ending blood counts and stuff of that sort. they did not provide me with a new room mate, so i wandered around after dinner hoping that i could avoid both thorndyke and phelps. i didn't want to get into another fool social-structure argument with them and the affair of the little scared receptionist was more than likely to make me say a few words that might well get me cast into the outer darkness for their mere semantic content. once more i hit the sack early. and, once more, there came a tap on my door about eight o'clock. it was not a tentative little frightened tap this time, it was more jovial and eager sounding. my reaction was about the same. since it was their show and their property, i couldn't see any reason why they made this odd lip-service to politeness. it was the receptionist again. she came in with a big wistful smile and dropped my tray on the bed table. "look," she cried. she held up her hand. the bleeding had stopped and there was a thin film over the cut. i dug at it and nodded; it was the first show of mekstrom flesh without a doubt. "that's it, kid." "i know," she said happily. "golly, i could kiss you." then before i could think of all the various ways in which the word "golly" sounded out of character for her, she launched herself into my arms and was busily erasing every attempt at logical thought with one of the warmest, no-holds-barred smoocheroo that i'd enjoyed for what seemed like years. since i'd held catherine in my arms in her apartment just before we'd eloped, i'd spent my time in the company of nurse farrow who held no emotional appeal to me, and the rest of my female company had been mekstroms whose handholding might twist off a wrist if they got a thrill out of it. about the time i began to respond with enthusiasm and vigor, she extricated herself from my clutch and slid back to the foot of the bed out of reach. a little breathlessly she said, "harry will thank you for this." _this_ meant the infection in her finger. then she was gone and i was thinking, _harry should drop dead_! then i grinned at myself like the cheshire cat because i realized that i was so valuable a property that they couldn't afford to let me die. no matter what, i'd be kept alive. and after having things go so sour for so long a time, things were about to take a fast turn and go my way. i discounted the baby-bite affair. even if the baby were another carrier, it would take a long time before the kid was old enough to be trusted in his aim. i discounted it even more because i hadn't been roaring around the countryside biting innocent citizens. mere contact was enough; if the bite did anything, it may have hastened the process. so here i was, a nice valuable property, with a will of my own. i could either throw in with phelps and bite only phelps' chosen aristocrats, or i could go back to the highways and bite everybody in sight. i laughed at my image in the mirror. i am a democratic sort of soul, but when it comes to biting, there's some i'd rather bite than others. i bared my teeth at my image, but it was more of a leering smile of the tooth-paste ad than a fierce snarl. my image looked pensive. it was thinking, _steve, old carnivore, ere you go biting anybody, you've first got to bite your way out of the medical center._ xix one hour later they pulled my fangs without benefit of anaesthesia. thorndyke came in to inspect the progress of my infection and allowed as how i'd be about ready for the full treatment in a few days. "we like to delay the full treatment as long as possible," he told me, "because it immobilizes the patient too long as it is." he pressed a call bell, waited, and soon the door opened to admit a nurses' helper pushing a trundle cart loaded with medical junk. i still don't know what was on the cart because i was too flabbergasted to notice it. i was paying all my attention to catherine, cheerful in her gray lady uniform, being utterly helpful, bright, gay, and relaxed. i was tongue tied, geflummoxed, beaten down, and--well, just speechless. catherine was quite professional about her help. she loaded the skin-blast hypo and slapped it into thorndyke's open hand. her eyes looked into mine and they smiled reassuringly. her hand was firm as she took my arm; she locked her strength on my hand and held it immobile while thorndyke shot me in the second joint. there was a personal touch to her only briefly when she breathed, "steve, i'm so glad!" and then went on about her work. the irony of it escaped me; but later i did recall the oddity of congratulating someone who's just contracted a disease. then that wave of agony hit me, and the only thing i can remember through it was catherine folding a towel so that the hem would be on the inside when she wiped the beads of sweat from my face. she cradled my head between her hands and crooned lightly to me until the depths of the pain was past. then she got efficient again and waved thorndyke aside to see to the little straps on the manipulator herself. she adjusted them delicately. then she poured me a glass of ice water and put it where i could reach it with my other hand. she left after one long searching look into my eyes, and i knew that she would be back later to talk to me alone. this seemed all right with dr. thorndyke, the wily telepath who would be able to dig a reconstruction of our private talk with a little urging on his part. after catherine was gone, thorndyke smiled down at me with cynical self-confidence. "there's your lever, steve," he said. the dope helped to kill all but the worst waves of searing pain; between them i managed to grind out, "how did you sell her that bill of goods, thorndyke?" his reply was scornful. "maybe she likes your hide all in one piece," he grunted. he left me with my mind a-whirl with thoughts and pain. the little manipulator was working my second finger joint up and down rhythmically, and with each move came pain. it also exercised the old joint, which had grown so rigid that my muscles hadn't been able to move it for several hours. that added agony, too. the dope helped, but it also dimmed my ability to concentrate. up to a certain point everything was quite logical and easy to understand. catherine was here because they had contacted her through some channel and said, "throw in with us and we'll see that your lover does not die miserably." so much was reasonable, but after that point the whole thing began to take on a mad puzzle-like quality. given normal circumstances, catherine would have come to me as swiftly as i'd have gone to her if i'd known how. not only that, but i'd probably have sworn eternal fealty to them for their service even though i could not stand their way of thinking. but catherine was smart enough to realize that i, as the only known carrier of mekstrom's disease, was more valuable live than dead. why, then, had catherine come here to place herself in their hands? alone, she might have gone off half-cocked in an emotional tizzy. but the highways had good advisers who should have pointed out that steve cornell was one man alive who could walk with impunity among friend or foe. why, they hadn't even tried to collect me until it became evident that i was in line for the old treatment. then they had to take me in, because the medical center wanted any information they could get above and beyond the fact that i was a carrier. if someone from homestead had been in that courtroom, i'd now be among friends. then the ugly thought hit me and my mind couldn't face it for some time. _reorientation._ catherine's cheerful willingness to help them must be reorientation and nothing else. now, although i've mentioned reorientation before, what i actually know about it is meager. it makes dr. jekylls out of former mr. hydes and the transformation is complete. it can be done swiftly; the rapidity depends upon the strength of the mind of the operator compared to the mind of the subject. it is slightly harder to reorient a defiant mind than a willing one. it sticks unless someone else begins to tinker again. it is easier to make a good man out of a bad one than the reverse, although the latter is eminently possible. this is too difficult a problem to discuss to the satisfaction of everybody, but it seems to go along with the old theory that "good" does benefit the tribe of mankind in the long run, while "bad" things cause trouble. i'll say no more than to point out that no culture based upon theft, murder, piracy, and pillage, has ever survived. the thought of catherine's mind being tampered with made me seethe with anger. i forgot my pain and began to probe around wildly, and as i probed i began to know the real feeling of helpless futility. for here i was, practically immobilized and certainly dependent upon them for help. this was no time to attempt a rescue of my sweetheart--who would only be taken away kicking and screaming all the way from here to the first place where i could find a haven and have her re-reoriented. the latter would not be hard; among the other things i knew about reorientation was that it could be negated by some strong emotional ties and a personal background that included worthy objection to the new personality. for my perceptive digging i came up with nothing but those things that any hospital held. patients, nurses, interns, orderlies; a couple of doctors, a scholar presiding over a sheaf of files. and finally catherine puttering over an autoclave. she was setting out a string of instruments under the tutelage of a superintendent of nurses who was explaining how the job should be done. i took a deep, thankful breath. her mind was occupied enough to keep her from reading the dark thoughts that were going through mine. i did not even want a loved one to know how utterly helpless and angry i felt. and then, because i was preoccupied with catherine and my own thoughts, the door opened without my having taken a dig at the opener beforehand. the arrival was all i needed to crack wide open in a howling fit of hysteria. it was so pat. i couldn't help but let myself go: "well! this looks like old home week!" miss gloria farrow, registered nurse, did not respond to my awkward joviality. her face, if anything, was darker than my thoughts. i doubted that she had her telepathy working; people who get that wound up find it hard to even see and hear straight, let alone think right. and telepathy or perception goes out of kilter first because the psi is a very delicate factor. she eyed me coldly. "you utter imbecile," she snarled. "you--" "whoa, baby!" i roared. "slow down. i'm a bit less than bright, but what have i done now?" i'd have slapped her across the face as an anodyne if she hadn't been mekstrom. farrow cooled visibly, then her face sort of came apart and she sort of flopped forward onto the bed and buried her face in my shoulder. i couldn't help but make comparisons; she was like a hunk of marble, warm and vibrant. like having a statue crying on my shoulder. she sagged against me like a loose bag of cement and her hands clutched at my shoulder blades like a pair of c-clamps. a big juicy tear dropped from her cheek to land on my chest, and i was actually surprised to find that a teardrop from a mekstrom did not land like a drop of mercury. it just splashed like any other drop of water, spread out, and made my chest wet. eventually i held her up from me, tried to shake her gently, and said, "now what's the shooting all about, farrow?" she shook her head as if to clear her thinking gear. "steve," she said in a quietly serious tone, "i've been such an utter fool." "you're not unique, farrow," i told her. "people have been doing damfool stunts since--" "i know," she broke in. then with an effort at light-heartedness, she added, "there must be a different version of that garden of eden story. eve is always blamed as having tempted adam. somewhere, old adam must have been slightly to blame--?" i didn't know what she was driving toward, but i stroked her hair and waited. she was probably right. it still takes two of a kind to make one pair. "steve--get out of here! while you're safe!" "huh?" i blurted. "what cooks, farrow?" "i was a nice patsy," she said. she sat up and wiped her eyes. "i was a fool. steve, if james thorndyke had asked me to jump off the roof, i'd have asked him 'what direction?' that's how fat-headed i am." "yes?" something was beginning to form, now. "i--led you on, steve." that blinkoed me. the phrase didn't jell. the half a minute she'd spent bawling on my shoulder with my arms around her had been the first physical contact i'd ever had with nurse farrow. it didn't seem-"no, steve. not that way. i couldn't see you for thorndyke any more than you could see me for catherine." her telepathy had returned, obviously; she was in better control of herself. "steve," she said, "i led you on; did everything that thorndyke told me to. you fell into it like a rock. oh--it was going to be a big thing. all i had to do was to haul you deeper into this mess, then i'd disappear strangely. then we'd be--tog--ether--we'd be--" she started to come unglued again but stopped the dissolving process just before the wet and gooey stage set in. she seemed to put a set in her shoulders, and then she looked down at me with pity. "poor esper," she said softly, "you couldn't really know--" "know what?" i asked harshly. "he fooled me--too," she said, in what sounded like a complete irrelevancy. "look, farrow, try and make a bit of sense to a poor perceptive who can't read a mind. keep it running in one direction, please?" again, as apparently irrelevant, she said, "he's a top grade telepath; he knows control--" "control--?" i asked blankly. "you don't know," she said. "but a good telepath can think in patterns that prevent lesser telepaths from really digging deep. thorndyke is brilliant, of scholar grade, really. he--" "let's get back to it, farrow. what's cooking?" sternly she tossed her head. it was an angry motion, one that showed her disdain for her own tears and her own weakness. "your own sweet catherine." i eyed her, not coldly but with a growing puzzlement. i tried to formulate my own idea but she went on, briskly, "that accident of yours was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to you, steve." "how long have i been known to be a mekstrom carrier?" i asked bluntly. "no more than three weeks before you met catherine lewis," she told me as bluntly. "it took the medical center that long to work her into a position to meet you, steve." that put the icing on the cake. if nothing else, it explained why catherine was here willingly. i didn't really believe it because no one can turn one hundred and eighty degrees without effort, but i couldn't deny the fact that the evidence fits the claim. if what farrow said were true, my marriage to catherine would have provided them with the same lever as the little blonde receptionist. the pile-up must have really fouled up their plans. "it did, steve," said farrow, who had been following my mental ramblings. "the highways had to step in and help. this fouled things up for both sides." "both sides?" i asked, completely baffled. she nodded. "until the accident, the medical center did not know that the highways existed. but when catherine dropped completely out of sight, thorndyke did a fine job of probing you. that's when he came upon the scant evidence of the highway sign and the mental impression of the elder harrison lifting the car so that phillip could get you out. then he knew, and--" "farrow," i snapped, "there are a lot of holes in your story. for instance--" she held up a hand to stop me. "steve," she said quietly, "you know how difficult it is for a non-telepath to find someone he can trust. but i'm trying to convince you that--" i stopped farrow this time. "how can i believe you now?" i asked her pointedly. "you seem to have a part in this side of the quiet warfare." nurse farrow made a wry face as though she'd just discovered that the stuff she had in her mouth was a ball of wooly centipedes. "i'm a woman," she said simply. "i'm soft and gullible and easily talked into complacency. but i've just learned that their willingness to accept women is based upon the fact that no culture can thrive without women to propagate the race. i find that i am--" she paused, swallowed, and her voice became strained with bitterness, "--useful as a breeding animal. just one of the peasants whose glory lies in carrying their heirs. but i tell you, steve--" and here she became strong and her voice rang out with a vigorous rejection of her future, "i'll be forever damned if i will let my child be raised with the cockeyed notion that he has some god-granted right to rule." my vigilant sense of perception had detected a change in the human-pattern in the building. people were moving--no, it was one person who was moving. down in the laboratory below, and at the other end of the building, catherine was still working over the autoclave and instruments. the waspish-looking superintendent had taken off for somewhere else, and while catherine was alone now, she was about to be joined by dr. thorndyke. half afraid that my perception of them would touch off their own telepathic sense of danger, i watched deliberately. the door opened and thorndyke came in; catherine turned from her work and said something, which of course i could not possibly catch. #what are they saying, farrow?# i snapped mentally. "i don't know. they're too far for my range." i swore, but i didn't really have to have a dialog script. nor did they do the obvious; what they did was far more telling. catherine turned and patted his cheek. they laughed at one another, and then catherine began handing thorndyke the instruments out of the autoclave, which he proceeded to mix in an unholy mess in the surgical tray. catherine saw what he was doing and made some remark; then threatened him with a pair of haemostats big enough to clamp off a three-inch fire hose. it was pleasant enough looking horseplay; the sort of intimacy that people have when they've been together for a long time. thorndyke did not look at all frightened of the haemostats, and catherine did not really look as though she'd follow through with her threat. they finally tangled in a wrestle for the instrument, and thorndyke took it away from her. they leaned against a cabinet side by side, their elbows touching, and went on talking as if they had something important to discuss in the midst of their fun. it could have been reorientation or it could have been catherine's real self. i still couldn't quite believe that she had played me false. my mind spinned from one side to the other until i came up with a blunt question that came to my lips without any mental planning. i snapped, "farrow, what grade of telepath is catherine?" "doctor grade," she replied flatly. "might have taken some pre-scholar training if economics hadn't interfered. i'd not really call her rhine scholar material, but i'm prejudiced against her." if what farrow said was true, catherine was telepath enough to control and marshall her mind to a faretheewell. she could think and plan to herself in the presence of another telepath without giving her plots away. she was certainly smart enough to lead one half-trained perceptive around by a ring in my nose. me? i was as big a fool as farrow. xx nurse farrow caught my hand. "steve," she snapped out in a rapid, flat voice, "think only one thought. think of how catherine is here; that she came here to protect your life and your future!" "huh?" "think it!" she almost cried. "she's coming!" i nearly fumbled it. then i caught on. catherine was coming; to remove the little finger manipulator and to have a chit-chat with me. i didn't want to see her, and i was beginning to wish--then i remembered that one glimmer out of me that i knew the truth and everything would be higher than orbital station one. i shoved my mind into low gear and started to think idle thoughts, letting myself sort of daydream. i was convincing to myself; it's hard to explain exactly, but i was play-thinking like a dramatist. i fell into it; it seemed almost truth to me as i roamed on and on. i'd been trapped and catherine had come here to hand herself over as a hostage against my good behavior. she'd escaped the highways bunch or maybe she just left them quietly. somehow phelps had seen to it that catherine got word--i didn't know how, but that was not important. the important thing was catherine being here as a means of keeping me alive and well. i went on thinking the lie. catherine came in shortly and saw what nurse farrow was doing. "i was supposed to do that," said catherine. nurse farrow straightened up from her work of loosening the straps on the manipulator. "sorry," she said in a cool, crisp voice. "i didn't know that. this is usually my job. it's a rather delicate proposition, you know." there was a chill of professional rebuff in farrow's voice. it was the pert white hat and the gold pin looking down upon the gray uniform with no adornment. catherine looked a bit uncomfortable but she apparently had to take it. catherine tried lamely, "you see, mr. cornell is my fiancã©e." farrow jumped on that one hard. "i'm aware of that. so let's not forget that scholars of medicine do not treat their own loved ones for ethical reasons." catherine took it like a slap across the face with an iced towel. "i'm sure that dr. thorndyke would not have let me take care of him if i'd not been capable," she replied. "perhaps dr. thorndyke did not realize at the time that mr. cornell would be ready for the treatment department. or," she added slyly, "have you been trained to prepare a patient for the full treatment?" "the full treatment--? dr. thorndyke did not seem to think--" "please," said farrow with that cold crispness coming out hard, "as a nurse i must keep my own opinion to myself, as well as keeping the opinions of doctors to myself. i take orders only and i perform them." that was a sharp shot; practically telling catherine that she, as a nurses' helper, had even less right to go shooting off her mouth. catherine started to reply but gave it up. instead she came over and looked down at me. she cooed and stroked my forehead. "ah, steve," she breathed, "so you're going for the treatment. think of me, steve. don't let it hurt too much." i smiled thinly and looked up into her eyes. they were soft and warm, a bit moist. her lips were full and red and they were parted slightly; the lower lip glistened slightly in the light. these were lips i'd kissed and found sweet; a face i'd held between my hands. her hair fluffed forward a trifle; threatened to cascade down over her shoulders. no, it was not at all hard to lie there and go on thinking all the soft-sweet thoughts i'd once hoped might come true-she recoiled, her face changing swiftly from its mask of sweet concern to one of hard calculation. i'd slipped with that last hunk of thinking and given the whole affair away. catherine straightened up and turned to head for the door. she took one step and caved in like a wet towel. over her still-falling body i saw nurse farrow calmly reloading the skin-blast hypo, which she used to fire a second load into the base of catherine's neck, just below the shoulder blades. "that," said farrow succinctly, "should keep her cold for a week. i just wish i'd been born with enough guts to commit murder." "what--?" "get dressed," she snapped. "it's cold outside, remember?" i started to dress as farrow hurled my clothing out of the closet at me. she went on in the meantime: "i knew you couldn't keep it entirely concealed from her. she's too good a telepath. so while you were holding her attention, i let her have a shot in the neck. one of the rather bad things about being a mekstrom is that minor items like the hypo don't register too well." i stopped. "isn't that bad? seems to me that i've heard that pain is a necessary factor for the preservation of the--" "stop yapping and dress," snapped farrow. "pain is useful when it's needed. it isn't needed in the case of a pin pricking the hide of a mekstrom. when a mekstrom gets in the way of something big enough to damage him physically, then it hurts him." "sort of when a locomotive falls on their head?" i grunted. "keep on dressing. we're not out of this jungle yet." "so have you any plans?" she nodded soberly. "yes, steve. once you asked me to be your telepath, to complete your team. i let you down. now i've picked you up again, and from here on--out--i--" i nodded. "sold," i told her. "good. now, steve, dig the hallway." i did. there was no one there. i opened my mouth to tell her so, and then closed it foolishly. "dig the hallway down to the left. farther. to the door down there--three beyond the one you're perceiving now--is there a wheelchair there?" "wheelchair?" i blurted. "steve, this is a hospital. they don't even let a man with an aching tooth walk to the toothache ward. he rides. now, you keep a good esper watch on the hall and if anybody looks out while i'm gone, just cast a deep dig at their face. it's possible that at this close range i can identify them from the perceived image in your mind. although, god knows, no two people ever _see_ anything alike, let alone perceive it." she slipped out, leaving me with the recumbent form of my former sweetheart. her face had fallen into the relaxed expression of sleep, sort of slack and unbuttoned. #tough, baby,# i thought as i closed my eyes so that all my energy could be aimed at the use of my perception. farrow was going down the hall like a professional heading for the wheelchair on a strict order. no one bothered to look out; she reached the locker room and dusted the wheelchair just as if she'd been getting it for a real patient. (the throb in my finger returned for a parthian shot and i remembered that i _was_ a real patient!) she trundled the chair back and into my room. "in," she said. "and keep that perception aimed on the hallway, the elevator, and the center corridor stairs." she packed me with a blanket, tucking it so that my shoes and overclothing would not show, doing the job briskly. then she scooped catherine up from the floor and dropped her into my bed, and then rolled catherine into one of those hospital doodads that hospitals use for male and female alike as bedclothing. "anyone taking a fast dig in here will think she's a patient--unless the digger knows that this room is supposed to be occupied by one steve cornell, obviously male. now, steve, ready to steer?" "steer?" "steer by esper. i'll drive. oh--i know the way," she told me with a chuckle. "you just keep your perception peeled for characters who might be over-nosy. i'll handle the rest." we went along the hallway. i took fast digs at the rooms and hall ahead of us; the whole coast seemed clear. waiting for the two-bit elevator was nerve wracking; hospitals always have such poky elevators. but eventually it came and we trundled aboard. the pilot was no big-dome. he smiled at nurse farrow and nodded genially at me. he was probably a blank, jockeying an elevator is about the top job for a non-psi these days. but as the elevator started down, a doctor came out of one of the rooms on the floor below. he took a fast look at the indicator above the elevator door and made a dash to thumb the button. the elevator came to a grinding halt and he got on. this bothered me, but farrow merely simpered at the guy and melted him down to size. she made some remark to him that i couldn't hear, but from the sudden increase of his pulse rate, i gathered that she'd really put him off guard. he replied in the same unintelligible tone and reached for her hand. she held his hand, and if the guy was thinking of me, my name is sing hoy low and i am a chinese policeman. he held her hand until we hit the first floor, and he debarked with a calf-like glance at nurse farrow. we went on to the ground floor and down the lower corridor to the end, where farrow spent another lifetime and a half filling out a white cardboard form. the superintendent eyed me with a sniff. "i'll call the car," she said. i half-expected farrow to make some objection, but she quietly nodded and we waited for another lifetime until a big car whined to a stop outside. two big guys in white coats came in, tripped the lever on back of the wheelchair and stretched me out flat and low-slung on the same wheels. it was a neat conversion from wheelchair to wheeled stretcher, but as farrow trundled me out feet first into the cold, i felt a sort of nervous chill somewhere south of my navel. she swung me around at the last minute and i was shoved head first into the back of the car. car? this was a full-fledged ambulance, about as long as a city block and as heavy as a battleship. it was completely fitted for everything that anybody could think of, including a great big muscular turbo-electric power plant capable of putting many miles per behind the tail-pipe. the door closed on my feet, and we took off with farrow sitting right behind the two big hospital attendants, one of whom was driving and the other of whom was ogling farrow in a calculating manner. she invited the ogle. heck, she did it in such a way that i couldn't help ogling a bit myself. if i haven't said that farrow was an attractive woman, it was because i hadn't really paid attention to her looks. but now i went along and ogled, realizing in the dimmer and more obscure recesses of my mind that if i ogled in a loudly lewd perceptive manner, i'd not be thinking of what she was doing. so while i was pleasantly occupied in ogling, farrow slipped two more hypos out from under her clothing. she slipped her hands out sidewise on the backs of their seats, put her face between them and said, "anybody got a cigarette, fellows?" the next that took place happened, in order of occurrence, as follows: the driver grunted and turned his head to look at her. the other guy fumbled for a cigarette. driver poked at the lighter on the dash, still dividing his attention between the road and nurse farrow. the man beside him reached for the lighter when it popped out and he held it for her while she puffed it into action. farrow fingered the triggers on the skin-blast hypos. the man beside the driver replaced the lighter in its socket on the dash. the driver slid aside and to the floor, a second before the other hospital orderly flopped down like a deflated balloon. the ambulance took a swoop to the right, nosed down into a shallow ditch and leaped like a shot deer out on the other side. farrow went over the back of the seat in a flurry and i rolled off of my stretcher into the angle of the floor and the sidewall. there was a rumble and then a series of crashes before we came to a shuddering halt. i came up from beneath a pile of assorted medical supplies, braced myself against the canted deck, and looked out the wind-shield. the trunk of a tree split the field of view as close to dead center as it could be. "out, steve," said farrow, untangling herself from the steering wheel and the two attendants. "out!" "what next?" i asked her. "we've made enough racket to wake the statue of lincoln. out and run for it." "which way?" "follow me!" she snapped, and took off. even in nurse's shoes with those semi-heels, farrow made time in a phenomenal way. i lost ground steadily. luckily it was still early in the afternoon, so i used my perception to keep track of her once she got out of sight. she was following the gently rolling ground, keeping to the lower hollows and gradually heading toward a group of buildings off in the near-distance. i caught up with her just as we hit a tiny patch of dead area; just inside the area she stopped and we flopped on the ground and panted our lungs full of nice biting cold air. then she pointed at the collection of buildings and said, "steve, take a few steps out of this deadness and take a fast dig. look for cars." i nodded; in a few steps i could send my esper forward to dig the fact that there were several cars parked in a row near one of the buildings. i wasted no time in digging any deeper, i just retreated into the dead area and told her what i'd seen. "take another dig, steve. take a dig for ignition keys. we've got to steal." "i don't mind stealing." i took another trip into the open section and gandered at ignition locks. i tried to memorize the ones with keys hanging in the locks but failed to remember all of them. "okay, steve. this is where we walk in boldly and walk up to a couple of cars and get in and drive off." "yeah, but why--" "that's the only way we'll ever get out of here," she told me firmly. i shrugged. farrow knew more about the medical center than i did. if that's the way she figured it, that's the way it had to be. we broke out of the dead area, and as we came into the open, farrow linked her arm in mine and hugged it. "make like a couple of fatuous mushbirds," she chuckled. "we've been out walking and communing with nature and getting acquainted." "isn't the fact that you're mekstrom and i'm human likely to cause some rather pointed comment?" "it would if we were to stick around to hear it," she said. "and if they try to read our minds, all we have to do is to think nice mushy thoughts. face it," she said quietly, "it won't be hard." "huh?" "you're a rather nice guy, steve. you're fast on the uptake, you're generally pleasant. you've got an awful lot of grit, guts and determination, steve. you're no pinup boy, steve, but--and this may come as a shock to you--women don't put one-tenth the stock in pulchritude that men do? you--" "hey. whoa," i bubbled. "slow down, before you--" she hugged my arm again. "steve," she said seriously, "i'm not in love with you. it's not possible for a woman to be in love with a man who does not return that love. you don't love me. but you can't help but admit that i am an attractive woman, steve, and perhaps under other circumstances you'd take on a large load of that old feeling. i'll admit that the reverse could easily take place. now, let's forget all the odd angles and start thinking like a pair of people for whom the time, the place, and the opposite sex all turned up opportunely." i couldn't help thinking of nurse farrow as--nurse farrow. the name gloria did not quite come out. i tried to submerge this mental attitude, and so i looked down at her with what i hoped to resemble the expression of a love-struck male. i think it was closer to the expression of a would-be little-theatre actor expressing lust, and not quite making the grade. farrow giggled. but as i sort of leered down at her, i had to admit upon proper examination of her charm that nurse farrow could very easily become gloria, if as she said, we had the time to let the change occur. another idea formed in my mind: if farrow had been kicked in the emotions by thorndyke, i'd equally been pushed in the face by catherine. that made us sort of kindred souls, as they used to call it in the early books of the twentieth century. gloria farrow chuckled. "unlike the old torch-carriers of that day," she said, "we rebound a bit too fast." then she let my arm go and took my hand. we went swinging across the field in a sort of happy comradeship; it must have looked as though we were long-term friends. she was a good egg, hurt and beaten down and shoved off by thorndyke, but she had a lot of the good old bounce. of a sudden impulse i wanted to kiss her. "go ahead, steve," she said. "but it'll be for the probable onlookers. i'm mekstrom, you know." so i didn't try. i just put an arm around her briefly and realized that any attempt at affection would be like trying to strike sparks off flint with a hunk of flannel. we walked hand in hand towards the buildings, strolled up saucily towards two of the parked cars, made the sort of wave that lovers give one another in goodbye when they don't really want to demonstrate their affection before ten thousand people and stepped into two cars and took off. gloria farrow was in the lead. we went howling down the road, farrow in the lead car by a hundred feet and me behind her. we went roaring around a curve, over a hill, and i had my perception out to its range, which was far ahead of her car. the main gate came into range, and we bore down upon that wire and steel portal like a pair of madmen. gloria farrow plowed into the gate without letting up. the gate went whirling in pieces, glass flew and tires howled and bits of metal and plastic sang through the air. her car weaved aside; i forgot the road ahead and put my perception into her car. farrow was fighting the wheel like a racing driver in a spin. her hands wrenched the wheel with the swift strength of the mekstrom flesh she wore, and the wheel bent under her hands. over and around she went, with a tire blown and the lower rail of the big gate hanging onto the fender like a dry-land sea-anchor. she juggled the wheel and made a snaky path off to one side of the road. out of the guardhouse came a uniformed man with a riot gun. he did not have time to raise it. farrow ironed out her course and aimed the careening car dead center. she mowed the guard down and a half-thousandth of a second later she plowed into the guardhouse. the structure erupted like a box of stove-matches hit with a heavy-caliber soft-nosed slug, like a house of cards and an air-jet. there was a roar and a small gout of flame and then out of the flying wreckage on the far side came farrow and her stolen car. out of the mess of brimstone and shingles she came, turning end for end in a crazy, metal-crushing twist and spin. she ground to a broken halt before the last of the debris landed, and then everything was silent. and then for the first and only time in my life i felt the penetrant, forceful impact of an incoming thought; a mental contact from another mind: #steve!# it screamed in my mind, #get out! get going! it's your move now----# i put my foot on the faucet and poured on the oil. xxi my car leaped forward and i headed along the outside road towards the nearby highway. through the busted gate i roared, past the downed guard and the smashed guardhouse, past the wreck of farrow's car. but nurse farrow was not finished with this gambit yet. as i drew even with her, she pried herself out of the messy tangle and came across the field in a dead run--and how that girl could run! as fast as i was going, she caught up; as fast as it all happened i had too little time to slow me down before nurse farrow closed the intervening distance from her wreck to my car and had hooked her arm in through one open window. my car lurched with the impact, but i fought the wheel straight again and farrow snapped, "keep going, steve!" i kept going; farrow snaked herself inside and flopped into the seat beside me. "now," she said, patting the dashboard of our car, "it's up to the both of us now! don't talk, steve. just drive like crazy!" "where--?" she laughed a weak little chuckle. "anywhere--so long as it's a long, long way from here." i nodded and settled down to some fancy mile-getting. farrow relaxed in the seat, opened the glove compartment and took out a first aid kit. it was only then i noticed that she was banged up quite a bit for a mekstrom. i'd not been too surprised when she emerged from the wreck; i'd become used to the idea of the indestructibility of the mekstrom. i was a bit surprised at her being banged up; i'd become so used to their damage-proof hide that the idea of minor cuts, scars, mars, and abrasions hadn't occurred to me. yes, that wreck would have mangled a normal man into an unrecognizable mess of hamburger. yet i'd expected a mekstrom to come through it unscathed. on the other hand, the damage to farrow's body was really minor. she bled from a long gash on her thigh, from a wound on her right arm, and from a myriad of little cuts on her face, neck, and shoulders. so as i drove crazy-fast away from the medical center nurse farrow relaxed in the seat and applied adhesive tape, compresses, and closed the gashes with a batch of little skin clips in lieu of sutures. then she lit two cigarettes and handed one of them to me. "okay now, steve," she said easily. "let's drive a little less crazily." i pulled the car down to a flat hundred and felt the strain go out of me. "as i remember, there's one of the highways not far from here--" she shook her head. "no, steve. we don't want the highways in hiding, either." at a mere hundred per i could let my esper do the road-sighting, so i looked over at her. she was half-smiling, but beneath the little smile was a firm look of self-confidence. "no," she said quietly, "we don't want the highways. if we go there, phelps and his outfit will turn heaven and earth to break it up, now that you've become so important. you forget that the medical center is still being run to look legal and aboveboard; while the highways are still in hiding. phelps could make quite a bitter case out of their reluctance to come out into the open." "well, where do we go?" i asked. "west," she said simply. "west, into new mexico. to my home." this sort of startled me. somehow i'd not connected farrow with any permanent home; as a nurse and later as one of the medical center, i'd come to think of her as having no permanent home of her own. yet like the rest of us, nurse farrow had been brought up in a home with a mother and a father and probably some sisters and brothers. mine were dead and the original home disbanded, but there was no reason why i should think of everybody else in the same terms. after all, catherine had had a mother and a father who'd come to see me after her disappearance. so we went west, across southern illinois and over the big bridge at st. louis into missouri and across missouri and west, west, west. we parked nights in small motels and took turns sleeping with one of us always awake and alert with esper and telepath senses geared high for the first sight of any threat. we gave the highways we came upon a wide berth; at no time did we come close to any of their way stations. it made our path crooked and much longer than it might have been if we'd strung a line and gone. but eventually we ended up in a small town in new mexico and at a small ranch house on the edge of the town. it is nice to have parents; i missed my own deeply when i was reminded of the sweet wonder of having people just plain glad to see their children again, no matter what they'd done under any circumstances. even bringing a semi-invalid into their homes for an extended course of treatment. john farrow was a tall man with gray at the temples and a pair of sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. he was a fair perceptive who might have been quite proficient if he had taken the full psi course at some university. mrs. farrow was the kind of elderly woman that any man would like to have for a mother. she was sweet and gentle but there was neither foolish softness or fatuous nonsense about her. she was a telepath and she knew her way around and let people know that she knew what the score was. farrow had a brother, james, who was not at home; he lived in town with his wife but came out to the old homestead about once every week on some errand or other. they took me in as though i'd come home with their daughter for sentimental reasons; gloria sat with us in their living room and went through the whole story, interrupted now and then by a remark aimed at me. they inspected my hand and agreed that something must be done. they were extremely interested in the mekstrom problem and were amazed at their daughter's feats of strength and endurance. my hand, by this time, was beginning to throb again. the infection was heading on a fine start down the pinky and middle fingers; the ring finger was approaching the second joint to that point where the advance stopped long enough for the infection to become complete before it crossed the joint. the first waves of that particular pain were coming at intervals and i knew that within a few hours the pain would become waves of agony so deep that i would not be able to stand it. ultimately, farrow got her brother james to come out from town with his tools, and between us all we rigged up a small manipulator for my hand. farrow performed the medical operations from the kit in the back of her car we'd stolen from the medical center. then after they'd put my hand through the next phase, nurse farrow looked me over and gave the opinion that it was now approaching the time for me to get the rest of the full treatment. one evening i went to bed, to be in bed for four solid months. * * * * * i'd like to be able to give a blow by blow description of those four solid months. unfortunately, i was under dope so much of the time that i know little about it. it was not pleasant. my arm laid like a log from the petrified forest, strapped into the machine that moved the joints with regular motion, and with each motion starting a dart of fire and mangling pain up to the shoulder. needles entered the veins at the elbow and the armpit, and from bottles suspended almost to the ceiling to provide a pressurehead, plasma and blood-sustenance was trickled in to keep the arm alive. dimly i recall having the other arm strapped down and the waves of pain that blasted at me from both sides. the only way i kept from going out of my mind with the pain was living from hypo to hypo and waiting for the blessed blackness that wiped out the agony; only to come out of it hours later with my infection advanced to another point of pain. when the infection reached my right shoulder, it stopped for a long time; the infection rose up my left arm and also stopped at the shoulder. i came out of the dope to find james and his father fitting one of the manipulators to my right leg and through that i could feel the darting pains in my calf and thigh. at those few times when my mind was clear enough to let me use my perception, i dug the room and found that i was lying in a veritable forest of bottles and rubber tubes and a swathe of bandages. utterly helpless, i vaguely knew that i was being cared for in every way. the periods of clarity were fewer, now, and shorter when they came. i awoke once to find my throat paralyzed, and again to find that my jaw, tongue, and lower face was a solid pincushion of darting needles of fire. later, my ears reported not a sound, and even later still i awoke to find myself strapped into a portable resuscitator that moved my chest up and down with an inexorable force. that's about all i know of it. when the smoke cleared away completely and the veil across my eyes was gone, it was spring outside and i was a mekstrom. * * * * * i sat up in bed. it was morning, the sun was streaming in the window brightly and the fresh morning air of spring stirred the curtains gently. it was quite warm and the smell that came in from the outside was alive with newborn greenery. it felt good just to be alive. the hanging bottles and festoons of rubber hose were gone. the crude manipulators had been stowed somewhere and the bottles of medicine and stuff were missing from the bureau. there wasn't even a thermometer in a glass anywhere within the range of my vision, and frankly i was so glad to be alive again that i did not see any point to digging through the joint with my perception to find the location of the medical junk. instead, i just wanted to get up and run. i did take a swing at the clothes closet and found my stuff. then i took a mild pass at the house, located the bathroom and also assured myself that no one was likely to interrupt me. i was going to shave and shower and dress and go downstairs. i was just shrugging myself up and out of bed when nurse farrow came bustling up the stairs and into the room with no preamble. "hi!" i greeted her. "i was going to--" "surprise us," she said quickly. "i know. so i came up to see that you don't get into trouble." "trouble?" i asked, pausing on the edge of the bed. "you're a mekstrom, steve," she told me unnecessarily. then she caught my thought and went on: "it's necessary to remind you. you have to learn how to control your strength, steve." i flexed my arms. they didn't feel any different. i pinched my muscle with my other hand and it pinched just as it always had. i took a deep breath and the air went in pleasantly and come out again. "i don't feel any different," i told her. she smiled and handed me a common wooden lead pencil. "write your name," she directed. "think i'll have to learn all over?" i grinned. i took the pencil, put my fist down on the top of the bureau above a pad of paper and chuckled at farrow. "now, let's see, my first initial is the letter 's' made by starting at the top and coming around in a sweeping, graceful curve like this--" it didn't come around in any curve. as the lead point hit the paper it bore down in, flicked off the tip, and then crunched down, breaking off the point and splintering the thin, whittled wood for about an eighth of an inch. the fact that i could not control it bothered me inside and i instinctively clutched at the shaft of the pencil. it cracked in three places in my hand; the top end with the eraser fell down over my wrist to the bureau top and rolled in a rapid rattle to the edge where it fell to the floor. "see?" asked farrow softly. "but--?" i blundered uncertainly. "steve, your muscles and your nervous system have been stepped up proportionately. you've got to re-learn the coordination between the muscle-stimulus and the feedback information from the work you are doing." i began to see what she meant. i remembered long years ago at school, when we'd been studying some of the new alloys and there had been a sample of a magnesium-lithium-something alloy that was machined into a smooth cylinder about four inches in diameter and a foot long. it looked like hard steel. people who picked it up for the first time invariably braced their muscles and set both hands on it. but it was so light that their initial effort almost tossed the bar through the ceiling, and even long after we all knew, it was hard not to attack the bar without using the experience of our mind and sense that told us that any bar of metal _that_ big had to be _that_ heavy. i went to a chair. farrow said, "be careful," and i was. but it was no trick at all to take the chair by one leg at the bottom and lift it chin high. "now, go take your shower," she told me. "but steve, please be careful of the plumbing. you can twist off the faucet handles, you know." i nodded and turned to her, holding out a hand. "farrow, you're a brick!" she took my hand. it was not steel hard. it was warm and firm and pleasant. it was--holding hands with a woman. farrow stepped back. "one thing you'll have to remember," she said cheerfully, "is only to mix with your own kind from now on. now go get that shower and shave. i'll be getting breakfast." showering was not hard and i remembered not to twist off the water-tap handles. shaving was easy although i had to change razor blades three times in the process. i broke all the teeth out of the comb because it was never intended to be pulled through a thicket of piano wire. getting dressed was something else. i caught my heel in one trouser leg and shredded the cloth. i broke the buckle on my belt. my shoelaces went like parting a length of wet spaghetti. the button on the top of my shirt pinched off and when i gave that final jerk to my necktie it pulled the knot down into something about the size of a pea. breakfast was very pleasant, although i bent the fork tines spearing a rasher of bacon and removed the handle of my coffee cup without half trying. after breakfast i discovered that i could not remove a cigarette from the package without pinching the end down flat, and after i succeeded in getting one into my mouth by treating both smoke and match as if they were made of tissue paper, my first drag on the smoke lit a howling furnace-fire on the end that consumed half of the cigarette in the first puff. "you're going to take some school before you are fit to walk among normal people, steve," said gloria with amused interest. "you're informing me?" i asked with some dismay, eyeing the wreckage left in my wake. compared to the new steve cornell, the famous bull in the china shop was gentle ferdinand. i picked up the cigarette package again; it squoze down even though i tried to treat it gentle; i felt like lenny, pinching the head off of the mouse. i also felt about as much of a bumbling idiot as lenny, too. my re-education went on before, through, and after breakfast. i manhandled old books from the attic. i shredded newspapers. i ruined some more lead pencils and finally broke the pencil sharpener to boot. i put an elbow through the middle panel of the kitchen door without even feeling it and then managed to twist off the door knob. generally operating like a one-man army of vandals, i laid waste to the farrow home. having thus ruined a nice house, gloria decided to try my strength on her car. i was much too fast and too hard on the brakes, which of course was not too bad because my foot was also too insensitive on the go-pedal. we took off like a rocket being launched and then i tromped on the brakes (bending the pedal) which brought us down sharp like hitting a haystack. this allowed our heads to catch up with the rest of us; i'm sure that if we'd been normal-bodied human beings we'd have had our spines snapped. eventually i learned that everything had to be handled as if it were tissue paper, and gradually re-adjusted my reflexes to take proper cognizance of the feedback data according to my new body. we returned home after a hectic twenty miles of roadwork and i broke the glass as i slammed the car door. "it's going to take time," i admitted with some reluctance. "it always does," smiled farrow as cheerfully as if i hadn't ruined their possessions. "i don't know how i'm going to face your folks." farrow's smile became cryptic. "maybe they won't notice." "now look, farrow----" "steve, don't forget for the moment that you're the only known mekstrom carrier." "in other words your parents are due for the treatment next?" "oh, i was most thorough. both of them are in the final stages right now. i'm sure that anything you did to the joint will only be added to by the time they get to the walking stage. and also anything you did they'll feel well repaid." "i didn't do anything for them." "you provided them with mekstrom bodies," she said simply. "they took to it willingly?" "yes. as soon as they were convinced by watching me and my strength. they knew what it would be like, but they were all for it." "you've been a very busy girl," i told her. she just nodded. then she looked up at me with troubled eyes and asked, "what are you going to do now, steve?" "i'm going to haul the whole shebang down like samson in the temple." "a lot of innocent people are going to get hurt if you do that." "i can't very well find a cave in antarctica and hide," i replied glumly. "think a bit, steve. could either side afford to let you walk into new washington with the living proof of your mekstrom body?" #didn't stop 'em before,# i thought angrily. #and it seems to me that both sides were sort of urging me to go and do something that would uncover the other side.# "not deep enough," said farrow. "that was only during the early phases. go back to the day when you didn't know what was going on." i grunted sourly, "look, farrow, tell me. why must i fumble my way through this as i've fumbled through everything else?" "because only by coming to the conclusion in your own way will you be convinced that someone isn't lying to you. now, think it over, steve." it made sense. even if i came to the wrong conclusion, i'd believe it more than if someone had told me. farrow nodded, following my thoughts. then i plunged in: #first we have a man who is found to be a carrier of mekstrom's disease. he doesn't know anything about the disease. right?# (farrow nodded slowly.) #so now the medical center puts an anchor onto their carrier by sicking an attractive dame on his trail. um--# at this point i went into a bit of a mental whirly-around trying to find an answer to one of the puzzlers. farrow just looked at me with a non-leading expression, waiting. i came out of the merry-go-round after six times around the circuit and went on: #i don't know all the factors. obviously, catherine had to lead me fast because we had to marry before she contracted the disease from me. but there's a discrepancy, farrow. the little blonde receptionist caught it in twenty-four hours--?# "steve," said farrow, "this is one i'll have to explain, since you're not a medical person. the period of incubation depends upon the type of contact. you actually bit the receptionist. that put blood contact into it. you didn't draw any blood from catherine." "we were pretty close," i said with a slight reddening of the ears. "from a medical standpoint, you were not much closer to catherine than you have been to me, or dr. thorndyke. you were closer to thorndyke and me, say, than you've been to many of the incidental parties along the path of our travels." "well, let that angle go for the moment. anyway, catherine and i had to marry before the initial traces were evident. then i'd be in the position of a man whose wife had contracted mekstrom's disease on our honeymoon, whereupon the medical center would step in and cure her, and i'd be in the position of being forever grateful and willing to do anything that the medical center wanted me to do. and as a poor non-telepath, i'd probably never learn the truth. right?" "so far," she said, still in a noncommittal tone. "so now we crack up along the highway near the harrison place. the highways take her in because they take any victim in no matter what. i also presume from what's gone on that catherine is a high enough telepath to conceal her thinking and so to become an undercover agent in the midst of the highways organization. and at this point the long long trail takes a fork, doesn't it? the medical center gang did not know about the highways in hiding until catherine and i barrelled into it end over end." farrow's face softened, and although she said nothing i knew i was on the right track. #so at this point,# i went on silently, #medical center found themselves in a mild quandary. they could hardly put another woman on my trail because i was already emotionally involved with the missing catherine--and so they decided to use me in another way. i was shown enough to keep me busy, i was more or less urged to go track down the highways in hiding for the medical center. after all, as soon as i'd made the initial discovery, phelps and his outfit shouldn't have needed any more help.# "a bit more thinking, steve. you've come up with that answer before." #sure. phelps wanted me to take my tale to the government. about this secret highway outfit. but if neither side can afford to have the secret come out, how come--?# i pondered this for a long time and admitted that it made no sense to me. finally farrow shook her head and said, "steve, i've got to prompt you now and then. but remember that i'm trying to make you think it out yourself. now consider: you are running an organization that must be kept secret. then someone learns the secret and starts heading for the authorities. what is your next move?" "okay," i replied. "so i'm stupid. naturally, i pull in my horns, hide my signs, and make like nothing was going on." "so stopping the advance of your organization, which is all that phelps really can expect." i thought some more. #and the fact that i was carrying a story that would get me popped into the nearest hatch for the incipient paranoid made it all right?# she nodded. "and now?" she asked me. "and now i'm living proof of my story. is that right?" "right. and steve, do not forget for one moment that the only reason that you're still alive is because you are valuable to both sides alive. dead, you're only good for a small quantity of mekstrom inoculation." "don't follow," i grunted. "as you say, i'm no medical person." "alive, your hair grows and must be cut. you shave and trim off beard. your fingernails are pared. now and then you lose a small bit of hide or a few milliliters of blood. these are things that, when injected under the skin of a normal human, makes them mekstrom. dead, your ground up body would not provide much substance." "pleasant prospect," i growled. "so what do i do to avert this future?" "steve, i don't know. i've done what i can for you. i've effected the cure and i've done it in safety; you're still steve cornell." xxii "look," i blurted with a sudden rush of brain to the head, "if i'm so all-fired important to both sides, how come you managed to sequester me for four months?" "we do have the laws of privacy," said farrow simply. "which neither side can afford to flout overtly. furthermore, since neither side really knew where you were, they've been busily prowling one another's camps and locking up the prowlers from one another's camps, and playing spy and counterspy and counter-counterspy, and generally piling it up pyramid-wise," she finished with a chuckle. "you got away with following that letter to catherine because uppermost in your mind was the brain of a lover hunting down his missing sweetheart. no one could go looking for steve cornell, mekstrom carrier, for reasons not intrinsically private." "for four months?" i asked, still incredulous. "well, one of the angles is that both sides knew you were immobilized somewhere, going through this cure. having you a full mekstrom is something that both sides want. so they've been willing to have you cured." "so long as someone does the work, huh?" "right," she said seriously. "well, then," i said with a grim smile, "the obvious thing for me to do is to slink quietly into new washington and to seek out some high official in secrecy. i'll put my story and facts into his hands, make him a mekstrom, have him cured, and then we'll set up an agency to provide the general public with--" "steve, you're an engineer. i presume you've studied mathematics. so let's assume that you can--er--bite one person every ten seconds." "that's six persons per minute; three-sixty per hour; and, ah, eighty-six-forty per day. with one hundred and sixty million americans at the last census--um. sixty years without sleep. i see what you mean." "not only that, steve, but it would create a panic, if not a global war. make an announcement like that, and certain of our not-too-friendly neighbors would demand their shares or else. so now add up your time to take care of about three billion human souls on this earth, steve." "all right. so i'll forget that cockeyed notion. but still, the government should know--" "if we could be absolutely certain that every elected official is a sensible, honest man, we could," said farrow. "the trouble is that we've got enough demagogues, publicity hounds, and rabble-rousers to make the secret impossible to keep." i couldn't argue against that. farrow was right. not only that, but government found it hard enough to function in this world of rhine institute with honest secrets. "okay, then," i said. "the only thing to do is to go back to homestead, texas, throw my aid to the highways in hiding, and see what we can do to provide the earth with some more sensible method of inoculation. i obviously cannot go around biting people for the rest of my life." "i guess that's it, steve." i looked at her. "i'll have to borrow your car." "it's yours." "you'll be all right?" she nodded. "eventually i'll be a way station on the highways, i suppose. can you make it alone, steve? or would you rather wait until my parents are cured? you could still use a telepath, you know." "think it's safe for me to wait?" "it's been four months. another week or two--?" "all right. and in the meantime i'll practice getting along with this new body of mine." we left it there. i roamed the house with farrow, helping her with her parents. i gradually learned how to control the power of my new muscles; learned how to walk among normal people without causing their attention; and one day succeeded in shaking hands with a storekeeper without giving away my secret. eventually nurse farrow's parents came out of their treatment and we spent another couple of days with them. we left them too soon, i'm sure, but they seemed willing that we take off. they'd set up a telephone system for getting supplies so that they'd not have to go into town until they learned how to handle their bodies properly, and farrow admitted that there was little more that we could do. so we took off because we all knew that time was running out. even though both sides had left us alone while i was immobilized, both sides must have a time-table good enough to predict my eventual cure. in fact, as i think about it now, both sides must have been waiting along the outer edges of some theoretical area waiting for me to emerge, since they couldn't come plowing in without giving away their purpose. so we left in farrow's car and once more hit the big broad road. we drove towards texas until we came upon a highway, and then turned along it looking for a way station. i wanted to get in touch with the highways. i wanted close communication with the harrisons and the rest of them, no matter what. eventually we came upon a sign with a missing spoke and turned in. the side road wound in and out, leading us back from the highway towards the conventional dead area. the house was a white structure among a light thicket of trees, and as we came close to it, we met a man busily tilling the soil with a tractor plow. farrow stopped her car. i leaned out and started to call, but something stopped me. "he is no mekstrom, steve," said farrow in a whisper. "but this is a way station, according to the road sign." "i know. but it isn't, according to him. he doesn't know any more about mekstrom's disease than you did before you met catherine." "then what the devil is wrong?" "i don't know. he's perceptive, but not too well trained. name's william carroll. let me do the talking, i'll drop leading remarks for you to pick up." the man came over amiably. "looking for someone?" he asked cheerfully. "why, yes," said gloria. "we're sort of mildly acquainted with the--mannheims who used to live here. sort of friends of friends of theirs, just dropped by to say hello, sort of," she went on, covering up the fact that she'd picked the name of the former occupant out of his mind. "the mannheims moved about two months ago," he said. "sold the place to us--we got a bargain. don't really know, of course, but the story is that one of them had to move for his health." "too bad. know where they went?" "no," said carroll regretfully. "they seem to have a lot of friends. always stopping by, but i can't help 'em any." #so they moved so fast that they couldn't even change their highway sign?# i thought worriedly. farrow nodded at me almost imperceptibly. then she said to carroll, "well, we won't keep you. too bad the mannheims moved, without leaving an address." "yeah," he said with obvious semi-interest. he eyed his half-plowed field and farrow started her car. we started off and he turned to go back to his work. "anything?" i asked. "no," she said, but it was a very puzzled voice. "nothing that i can put a finger on." "but what?" "i don't know much about real estate deals," she said. "i suppose that one family could move out and another family move in just in this short a time." "usually they don't let farmlands lie fallow," i pointed out. "if there's anything off color here, it's the fact that they changed their residence without changing the highway sign." "unless," i suggested brightly, "this is the coincidence. maybe this sign is really one that got busted." farrow turned her car into the main highway and we went along it. i could have been right about the spoke actually being broken instead of removed for its directing purpose. i hoped so. in fact i hoped so hard that i was almost willing to forget the other bits of evidence. but then i had to face the truth because we passed another highway sign and, of course, its directional information pointed to that farm. the signs on our side of the highway were upside down; indicating that we were leaving the way station. the ones that were posted on the left hand side were rightside up, indicating that the drive was approaching a way station. that cinched it. #well,# as i told both farrow and me, #one error doesn't create a trend. let's take another look!# one thing and another, we would either hit another way station before we got to homestead, or we wouldn't. either one could put us wise. so we took off again with determination and finally left that side of erroneous highway signs when we turned onto route 66. we weren't on route 66 very long because the famous u.s. highway sort of trends to the northeast and homestead was in a southern portion of texas. we left route 66 at amarillo and picked up u.s. 87, which leads due south. not many miles out of amarillo we came up another set of highway signs that pointed us on to the south. i tried to remember whether this section led to homestead by a long route, but i hadn't paid too much attention to the maps when i'd had the chance and therefore the facts eluded me. we'd find out, farrow and i agreed, and then before we could think much more about it, we came upon a way station sign that pointed in to another farmhouse. "easy," i said. "you bet," she replied, pointing to the rural-type mailbox alongside the road. i nodded. the box was not new but the lettering on the side was. "still wet," i said with a grunt. farrow slowed her car as we approached the house and i leaned out and gave a cheerful hail. a woman came out of the front door and waved at us. "i'm trying to locate a family named harrison," i called. "lived around here somewhere." the woman looked thoughtful. she was maybe thirty-five or so, clean but not company-dressed. there was a smudge of flour on her cheek and a smile on her face and she looked wholesome and honest. "why, i don't really know," she said. "that name sounds familiar, but it is not an uncommon name." "i know," i said uselessly. farrow nudged me on the ankle with her toe and then made a swift sign for "p" in the hand-sign code. "why don't you come on in?" invited the woman. "we've got an area telephone directory here. maybe--?" farrow nudged me once more and made the sign of "m" with her swift fingers. we had hit it this time; here was a woman perceptive and a mekstrom residing in a way station. i took a mild dig at her hands and there was no doubt of her. a man's head appeared in the doorway above the woman; he had a hard face and he was tall and broad shouldered but there was a smile on his face that spread around the pipe he was biting on. he called, "come on in and take a look." farrow made the sign of "t" and "m" and that told me that he was a telepath. she hadn't needed the "m" sign because i'd taken a fast glimpse of his hide as soon as he appeared. parrying for time and something evidential, i merely said, "no, we'd hate to intrude. we were just asking." the man said, "oh, shucks, mister. come on in and have a cup of coffee, anyway." his invitation was swift enough to set me on edge. i turned my perception away from him and took a fast cast at the surrounding territory. there was a mildly dead area along the lead-in road to the left; it curved around in a large arc and the other horn of this horseshoe shape came up behind the house and stopped abruptly just inside of their front door. the density of this area varied, the end in which the house was built was so total that i couldn't penetrate, while the other end that curved around to end by the road tapered off in deadness until it was hard to define the boundary. if someone were pulling a flanking movement around through that horseshoe to cut off our retreat, it would become evident very soon. a swift thought went through my mind: #farrow, they're mekstroms and he's a telepath and she's a perceptive, and they know we're friendly if they're highways. if they're connected with scholar phelps and his--# the man repeated, "come on in. we've some mail to go to homestead that you can take if you will." farrow made no sound. she just seesawed her car with three rapid back-and-forth jerks that sent showers of stones from her spinning wheels. we whined around in a curve that careened the car up on its outside wheels. then we ironed out and showered the face of the man with stones from the wheels as we took off. the shower of dust and stones blinded him, and kept him from latching onto the tail of the car and climbing in. we left him behind, swearing and rubbing dirt from his eyes. we whipped past the other end of the horseshoe area just as a jeepster came roaring down out of the thickened part into the region where my perception could make out the important things (like three burly gents wearing hunting rifles, for instance.) they jounced over the rough ground and onto the lead-in road just behind us; another few seconds of gab with our friends and they'd have been able to cut us off. "pour it on, farrow!" i knew i was a bit of a cowboy, but farrow made me look like a tenderfoot. we rocketed down the winding road with our wheels riding up on either side like the course in a toboggan run and farrow rode that car like a test pilot in a sudden thunderstorm. i was worried about the hunting rifles, but i need not have been concerned. we were going too fast to make good aim, and their jeepster was not a vehicle known for its smooth riding qualities. they lost one character over a rough bounce and he went tail over scalp into the grass along the way. he scared me by leaping to his feet, grabbing the rifle and throwing it up to aim. but before he could squeeze off a round we were out of the lead-in road and on the broad highway. once on the main road again, farrow put the car hard down by the nose and we outran them. the jeepster was a workhorse and could have either pulled over the house or climbed the wall and run along the roof, but it was not made for chase. "that," i said, "seems to be that." "something is bad," agreed farrow. "well, i doubt that they'll be able to clean out a place as big as homestead. so let's take our careful route to homestead and find out precisely what the devil is cooking." "know the route?" "no, but i know where it is on the map and we can figure it out from--" "steve, stop. take a very careful and delicate view over to the right." "digging for what?" "another car pacing us along a road on the other side of that field." i tried and failed. then i leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes and tried again. on this second try i got a very hazy perception of a large moving mass that could only have been a car. in the car i received a stronger impression of weapons. it was the latter that cinched it. i hauled out my roadmap and turned it to texas. i thumbed the sectional maps of texas until i located the sub-district through which we were passing and then i identified this section of u.s. 87 precisely. there was another road parallel and a half mile to the right, a dirt road according to the map-legend. it intersected our road a few miles ahead. my next was a thorough covering of the road behind; as i expected another car was pacing us just beyond the range of my perception for anything but a rifle aimed at my hide. pacing isn't quite the word, i use it in the sense of their keeping up with us. fact is that all of us were going about as fast as we could go, with safety of tertiary importance. anyway, they were pacing us and closing down from that parallel road on the right. i took a fast and very careful scanning of the landscape to our left but couldn't find anything. i spent some time at it then, but still came up with a blank. #turn left at that feeder road a mile ahead,# i thought at farrow and she nodded. there was one possibility that i did not like to face. we had definitely detected pursuit to our right and behind, but not to our left. this did not mean that the left-side was not covered. it was quite likely that the gang to the rear were in telepathic touch with a network of other telepaths, the end of which mental relay link was far beyond range, but as close in touch with our position and action as if we'd been in sight. the police make stake-out nets that way, but the idea is not exclusive. i recall hazing an eloping couple that way once. but there was nothing to do but to take the feeder road to the left, because the devil we could see was more dangerous than the devil we couldn't. farrow whipped into the side road and we tore along with only a slight slowing of our headlong speed. i ranged ahead, worried, suspicious of everything, scanning very carefully and strictly on the watch for any evidence of attempted interception. i caught a touch of danger converging up from the south on a series of small roads. this i did not consider dangerous after a fast look at my roadmap because this series of roads did not meet our side road for a long time and only after a lot of turning and twisting. so long as we went easterly, we were okay from that angle. the gang behind, of course, followed us, staying at the very edge of my range. "you'll have to fly, farrow," i told her. "if that gang to our south stays there, we'll not be able to turn down homestead way." "steve, i'm holding this crate on the road by main force and awkwardness as it is." but she did step it up a bit, at that. i kept a cautious and suspicious watchout, worrying in the back of my mind that someone among them might turn up with a jetcopter. so long as the sky remained clear-as time went on, i perceived that the converging car to the south was losing ground because of the convolutions of their road. accordingly we turned to the south, making our way around their nose, sort of, and crossing their anticipated course to lead south. we hit u.s. 180 to the west of breckenridge, texas and then farrow really poured on the coal. the idea was to hit fort worth and lose them in the city where fun, games, and telepath-perceptive hare-and-hounds would be viewed dimly by the peaceloving citizens. then we'd slope to the south on u.s. 81, cut over to u.s. 75 somewhere to the south and take 75 like a cannonball until we turned off on the familiar road to homestead. fort worth was a haven and a detriment to both sides. neither of us could afford to run afoul of the law. so we both cut down to sensible speeds and snaked our way through the town, with farrow and me probing the roads to the south in hope of finding a clear lane. there were three cars pacing us, cutting off our retreat southward. they hazed us forward to the east like a dog nosing a bunch of sheep towards pappy's barn. then we were out of forth worth and on u.s. 180. we whipped into dallas and tried the same circumfusion as before and we were as neatly barred. so we went out of dallas on u.s. 67 and as we left the city limits, we poured on the oil again, hoping to get around them so that we could turn back south towards homestead. "boxed," i said. "looks like it," said farrow unhappily. i looked at her. she was showing signs of weariness and i realized that she'd been riding this road for hours. "let me take it," i said. "we need your perception," she objected. "you can't drive and keep a ranging perception, steve." "a lot of good a ranging perception will do once you drop for lack of sleep and we tie us up in a ditch." "but--" "we're boxed," i told her. "we're being hazed. let's face it, farrow. they could have surrounded us and glommed us any time in the past six hours." "why didn't they?" she asked. "you ask that because you're tired," i said with a grim smile. "any bunch that has enough cars to throw a barrier along the streets of cities like forth worth and dallas have enough manpower to catch us if they want to. so long as we drive where they want us to go, they won't cramp us down." "i hate to admit it." "so do i. but let's swap, farrow. then you can use your telepathy on them maybe and find out what their game is." she nodded, pulled the car down to a mere ramble and we swapped seats quickly. as i let the crate out again, i took one last, fast dig of the landscape and located the cars that were blocking out the passageways to the south, west, and north, leaving a nice inviting hole to the easterly-north way. then i had to haul in my perception and slap it along the road ahead, because i was going to ramble far and fast and see if i could speed out of the trailing horseshoe and cut out around the south horn with enough leeway to double back towards homestead. "catch any plans from them?" i asked farrow. there was no answer. i looked at her. gloria farrow was semi-collapsed in her seat, her eyes closed gently and her breath coming in long, pleasant swells. i'd known she was tired, but i hadn't expected this absolute ungluing. a damned good kid, farrow. at that last thought, farrow moved slightly in her sleep and a wisp of a smile crossed her lips briefly. then she turned a bit and snuggled down in the seat and really hit the slumber-path. a car came roaring at me with flashing headlamps and i realized that dusk was coming. i didn't need the lights, but oncoming drivers did, so i snapped them on. the beams made bright tunnels in the light and we went along and on and on and on, hour after hour. now and then i caught a perceptive impression the crescent of cars that were corralling us along u.s. 67 and not letting us off the route. i hauled out my roadmap and eyed the pages as i drove by perception. u.s. 67 led to st. louis and from there due north. i had a hunch that by the time we played hide and seek through st. louis and got ourselves hazed out to their satisfaction, i'd be able to give a strong guess as to our ultimate destination. i settled down in my seat and just drove, still hoping to cut fast and far around them on my way to homestead. xxiii three times during the night i tried to flip around and cut my way through their cordon, and each time i faced interception. it was evident that we were being driven and so long as we went to their satisfaction they weren't going to clobber us. nurse farrow woke up along about dawn, stretched, and remarked that she could use a toothbrush and a tub of hot water and amusedly berated herself for not filling the back seat before we took off. then she became serious again and asked for the details of the night, which i slipped her as fast as i could. we stopped long enough to swap seats, and i stretched out but i couldn't sleep. finally i said, "stop at the next dog wagon, farrow. we're going to eat, comes anything." "won't that be dangerous?" "shucks," i grunted angrily. "they'll probably thank us. they're probably hungry too." "we'll find out." the smell of a roadside diner is usually a bit on the thick and greasy side, but i was so hungry that morning that it smelled like mother's kitchen. we went in, ordered coffee and orange juice, and then disappeared into the rest rooms long enough to clean up. that felt so good we ordered the works and watched the guy behind the fryplate handle the bacon, eggs, and home-fries with a deft efficient manner. we pitched in fast, hoping to beat the flies to our breakfast. we were so intent that we paid no attention to the car that came into the lot until a man came in, ordered coffee and a roll, and then carried it over to our table. "fine day for a ride, isn't it?" i eyed him; farrow bristled and got very tense. i said, "i doubt that i know you, friend." "quite likely. but i know you, cornell." i took a fast dig; there was no sign of anything lethal except the usual collection of tire irons, screwdrivers, and other tools which, oddly enough, seldom come through as being dangerous because they're not weapons-by-design. "i'm not heeled, cornell. i'm just here to save us all some trouble." #telepath?# he nodded imperceptibly. then he said, "we'll all save time, gasoline, and maybe getting into grief with the cops if you take route 40 out of st. louis." "suppose i don't like u.s. 40?" "get used to it," he said with a crooked smile. "because you'll take u.s. 40 out of st. louis whether you like it or not." i returned his crooked smile. i also dug his hide and he was a mekstrom, of course. "friend," i replied, "nothing would convince me, after what you've said, that u.s. 40 is anything but a cowpath; slippery when wet; and impassible in the early spring, late summer, and the third thursday after michelmas." he stood up. "cornell, i can see your point. you don't like u.s. 40. so i'll help you good people. if you don't want to drive along such a lousy slab of concrete, just say the word and we'll arrange for you to take it in style, luxury, and without a trace of pain or strain. i'll be seein' you. and a very pleasant trip to you, miss farrow." then the character got up, went to the cashier and paid for our breakfast as well as his own. he took off in his car and i have never seen him since. farrow looked at me, her face white and her whole attitude one of fright. "u.s. 40," she said in a shaky voice, "runs like a stretched string from st. louis to indianapolis." she didn't have to tell me any more. about sixty miles north of indianapolis on indiana state highway 37 lies the thriving metropolis of marion, indiana, the most important facet of which (to farrow and me) is an establishment called the medical research center. nothing was going to make me drive out of st. louis along u.s. 40. period; end of message; no answer required. nothing, because i was very well aware of their need to collect me alive and kicking. if i could not roar out of st. louis in the direction i selected, i was going to turn my car end for end and have at them. not in any mild manner, but with deadly intent to do deadly damage. if i'd make a mild pass, they'd undoubtedly corral me by main force and carry me off kicking and screaming. but if i went at them to kill or get killed, they'd have to move aside just to prevent me from killing myself. i didn't think i'd get to the last final blow of that self-destruction. i'd win through. so we left the diner after a breakfast on our enemy's expense account and took off again. i was counting on st. louis. the center of the old city is one big shapeless blob of a dead area; so nice and cold that st. louis has reversed the usual city-type blight area growth. ever since rhine, the slum sections have been moving out and the new buildings have been moving in. so with the dead area and the brand-new, wide streets and fancy traffic control, st. louis was the place to go in along one road, get lost in traffic, and come out, roaring along any road desirable. i could not believe that any outfit, hoping to work under cover, could collect enough manpower and cars to block every road, lane, highway and duckrunway that led out of a city as big as st. louis. again they hazed us by pacing along parallel roads and behind us with the open end of their crescent aimed along u.s. 67. we went like hell; without slowing a bit we sort of swooped up to st. louis and took a fast dive into that big blob-shaped dead area. we wound up in traffic and tied boy scout knots in our course. i was concerned about overhead coverage from a 'copter even though i've been told that the st. louis dead area extends upward in some places as high as thirteen thousand feet. the only thing missing was some device or doodad that would let us use our perception or telepathy in this deadness while they couldn't. as it was, we were as psi-blind as they were, so we had to go along the streets with our eyes carefully peeled for cars of questionable ownership. we saw some passenger cars with out-of-state licenses and gave them wide clearances. one of them hung on our tail until i committed a very neat coup by running through a stoplight and sandwiching my car between two whopping big fourteen-wheel moving vans. i'd have enjoyed the expression on the driver's face if i could have seen it. but then we were gone and he was probably cussing. i stayed between the vans as we wound ourselves along the road and turned into a side street. i stayed between them too long. because the guy in front slammed on his air-brakes and the big van came to a stop with a howl of tires on concrete. the guy behind did not even slow down. he closed in on us like an avalanche. i took a fast look around and fought the wheel of my car to turn aside, but he whaled into my tail and we went sliding forward. i was riding my brakes but the mass of that moving van was so great that my tires just wore flats on the pavement-side. we were bearing down on that stopped van and it looked as though we were going to be driving a very tall car with a very short wheelbase in a very short time. then the whole back panel of the front van came tumbling towards me from the top, pivoting on a hinge at the bottom, making a fine ramp. the van behind me nudged us up the ramp and we hurtled forward against a thick, resilient pad that stopped my car without any damage either to the car or to the inhabitants. then the back panel closed up and the van took off. two big birds on each side opened the doors of our car simultaneously and said "out!" the tall guy on my side gave me a cocksure smile and the short guy said, "we're about to leave st. louis on u.s. 40, cornell. i hope you won't find this journey too rough." i started to take a swing, but the tall one caught my elbow and threw me off balance. the short one reached down and picked up a baseball bat. "use this, cornell," he told me. "then no one will get hurt." i looked at the pair of them, and then gave up. there are odd characters in this world who actually enjoy physical combat and don't mind getting hurt if they can hurt the other guy more. these were the type. taking that baseball bat and busting it over the head of either one would be the same sort of act as kids use when they square off in an alley and exchange light blows which they call a "cardy" just to make the fight legal. all it would get me was a sore jaw and a few cracked ribs. so after my determination to take after them with murderous intent, they'd pulled my teeth by scooping me up in this van and disarming me. i relaxed. the short one nodded, although he looked disappointed that i hadn't allowed him the fun of a shindy. "you'll find u.s. 40 less rough than you expected," he said. "after all, it's like life; only rough if you make it rough." "go to hell and stay there," i snapped. that was about as weak a rejoinder as i've ever emitted, but it was all i could get out. the tall one said, "take it easy, cornell. you can't win 'em all." i looked across the nose of our trapped car to farrow. she was leaning against the hood, facing her pair. they were just standing there at ease. one of them was offering a cigarette and the other held a lighter ready. "relax," said the one with the smokes. the other one said, "might as well, miss farrow. fighting won't get nobody nowhere but where you're going anyway. might as well go on your own feet." scornfully, farrow shrugged. "why should i smoke my own?" she asked nobody in particular. mentally i agreed: #take 'em for all they're worth, farrow!# and then i reached for one, too. along the side of the van were benches. i sat down, stretched out on my back and let the smoke trickle up. i finished my cigarette and then found that the excitement of this chase, having died so abruptly, left me with only a desire to catch up on sleep. i dozed off thinking that it wasn't everybody who started off to go to homestead, texas, and ended up in marion, indiana. * * * * * scholar phelps did not have the green carpet out for our arrival, but he was present when our mobile prison cell opened deep inside of the medical center grounds. so was thorndyke. thorndyke and three nurses of amazon build escorted farrow off with the air of captors collecting a traitor. phelps smiled superciliously at me and said, "well, young sir, you've given us quite a chase." "give me another chance and we'll have another chase," i told him grumpily. "not if we can help it," he boomed cheerfully. "we've big plans for you." "have i got a vote? it's 'nay!' if i do." "you're too precipitous," he told me. "it is always an error, mr. cornell, to be opinionated. have an open mind." "to what?" "to everything," he said with an expansive gesture. "the error of all thinking, these days, is that people do not think. they merely follow someone else's thinking." "and i'm to follow yours?" "i'd prefer that, of course. it would indicate that you were possessed of a mind of your own; that you weren't merely taking the lazy man's attitude and following in the footsteps of your father." "skip it," i snapped. "your way isn't--" "now," he warned with a wave of a forefinger like a prohibitionist warning someone not to touch that quart, "one must never form an opinion on such short notice. remember, all ideas are not to be rejected just because they do not happen to agree with your own preconceived notions." "look, phelps," i snapped, deliberately omitting his title which i knew would bite a little, "i don't like your personal politics and i deplore your methods. you can't go on playing this way--" "young man, you err," he said quietly. he did not even look nettled that i'd addressed him in impolite (if not rough) terms. "may i point out that i am far ahead of your game? thoroughly outnumbered, and in ignorance of the counter-movement against me until you so vigorously brought it to my attention; within a year i have fought the counter-movement to a standstill, caused the dispersement of their main forces, ruined their far-flung lines of communication, and have so consolidated my position that i have now made open capture of the main roving factor. the latter is you, young man. a very disturbing influence and so very necessary to the conduct of this private war. you prate of my attitude, mr. cornell. you claim that such an attitude must be defeated. yet as you stand there mouthing platitudes, we are preparing to make a frontal assault upon their main base at homestead. we've waged our war of attrition; a mere spearhead will break them and scatter them to the far winds." "nice lecture," i grunted. "who are your writers?" "let's not attempt sarcasm," he said crisply. "it sits ill upon you, mr. cornell." "i'd like to sit on you," i snapped. "your humor is less tolerable than your sarcasm." "can it!" i snapped. "so you've collected me. i'll still--" "you'll do very little, mr. cornell," he told me. "your determination to attack us tooth and nail was an excellent program, and with another type of person it might have worked. but i happen to know that your will to live is very great, young man, and that in the final blow, you'd not have the will to die great enough to carry your assault to its completion." "know a lot, don't you." "yes, indeed i do. so now if you're through trying to fence at words, we'll go to your quarters." "lead on," i said in a hollow voice. with an air of stage-type politeness, he indicated a door. he showed me out and followed me. he steered me to a big limousine with a chauffeur and offered me cigarettes from a box on the arm rest as the driver started the turbine. the car purred with that muted sound of well-leashed power. "you could be of inestimable value to us," he said in a conversational tone. "i am talking this way to you because you can be of much more value as a willing ally than you would be if unwilling." "no doubt," i replied dryly. "i suggest you set aside your preconceived notions and employ a modicum of practical logic," suggested scholar phelps. "observe your position from a slightly different reign of vantage. be convinced that no matter what you do or say, we intend to make use of you to the best of our ability. you are not entertaining any doubts of that fact, i'm sure." i shrugged. phelps was not asking me these things, the inquisitor was actually telling me. he went right on telling me: "since you will be used no matter what, you might consider the advisability of being sensible, mr. cornell. in blunt words, we are prepared to meet cooperation with certain benefits which will not be proffered otherwise." "in blunter words you are offering to hire me." scholar phelps smiled in a superior manner. "not that blunt, mr. cornell, not that crude. the term 'hire' implies the performance of certain tasks in return for stipulated remuneration. no, my intention is to give you a position in this organization the exact terms of which are not clearly definable. look, young man, i've indicated that your willing cooperation is more valuable to us than otherwise. join us and you will enjoy the freedom of our most valued and trusted members; you will take part in upper level planning; you will enjoy the income and advantages of top executive personnel." he stopped short and eyed me with a peculiar expression. "mr. cornell, you have the most disconcerting way. you've actually caused me to talk as if this organization were some sort of big business instead of a cultural unit." i eyed him with the first bit of humor i'd found in many days. "you seem to talk just as though a cultural unit were set above, beyond, and spiritually divorced from anything so sordid as money, position, and the human equivalent of the barnyard pecking order," i told him. "so now let's stop goofing off, and put it into simple terms. you want me to join you willingly, to do your job for you, to advance your program. in return for which i shall be permitted to ride in the solid gold cadillac, quaff rare champagne, and select my own office furniture. isn't that about it?" scholar phelps smiled, using a benign expression that indicated that he was pleased with himself, but which had absolutely nothing to do with his attitude towards me or any of the rest of the human race. "mr. cornell, i am well aware of the time it may take for a man to effect a change in his attitude. in fact, i would be very suspicious if you were to make an abrupt reversal. however, i have outlined my position and you may have time to think it over. consider, at the very least, the fact that while cooperation will bring you pleasure and non-cooperation will bring you pain, the ultimate result will be that we will make use of your ability in either case. now--i will say no more for the present." the limousine had stopped in front of a four story brick building that was only slightly different in general architecture than others in the medical center. i could sense some slight difference, but when i took a dig at the interior i found to my amazement that this building had been built deliberately in a dead zone. the dead area stood up in the clarity like a little blob of black ink at the bottom of a crystal clear swimming pool, seen just before the ink began to diffuse. scholar phelps saw my look of puzzlement and said, suavely, "we've reversed the usual method of keeping unwilling guests. here we know their frame of mind and attitude; therefore to build the place in a dead area keeps them from plotting among themselves. i trust that your residence herein will be only temporary, mr. cornell." i nodded glumly. i was facing those last and final words: _or else!_ phelps signed a register at a guard's station in the lobby. we took a very fast and efficient elevator to the third floor and phelps escorted me along a hallway that was lined with doors, dormitory style. in the eye-level center of each door was a bull's eye that looked like one-way glass and undoubtedly was. i itched to take a look, but phelps was not having any; he stopped my single step with a hand on my arm. "this way," he said smoothly. i went this way and was finally shown into one of the rooms. my nice clean cell away from home. xxiv as soon as phelps was gone, i took a careful look at my new living quarters. the room itself was about fourteen by eighteen, but the end in which i was confined was only fourteen by ten, the other eight feet of end being barred off by a very efficient-looking set of heavy metal rods and equally strong cross-girdering. there was a sliding door that fit in place as nicely as the door to a bank vault; it was locked by heavy keeper-bars that slid up from the floor and down from the ceiling and they were actuated by hidden motors. in the barrier was a flat horizontal slot wide enough to take a tray and high enough to pass a teacup. the bottom of this slot was flush with a small table that extended through the barrier by a couple of feet on both sides so that a tray could be set down on the outside and slipped in. i tested the bars with my hands, but even my new set of muscles wouldn't flex them more than a few thousandths of an inch. the walls were steel. all i got as i tried them was a set of paint-clogged fingernails. the floor was also steel. the ceiling was a bit too high for me to tackle, but i assumed that it, too, was steel. the window was barred from the inside, undoubtedly so that any visitor from the outside could not catch on to the fact that this building was a private calaboose. the--er--furnishings of this cold storage bin were meager of minimum requirements. a washstand and toilet. a bunk made of metal girders welded to the floor. the bedding rested on wide resilient straps fixed to the cross-bars at top and bottom of the bed. a foam-rubber mattress, sheets, and one blanket finished off the bed. it was a cell designed by mekstroms to contain mekstroms and by wiseacres to contain other wiseacres. the non-metallic parts of the room were, of course, fireproof. anything i could get hold of was totally useless as a weapon or lever or tool; anything that might have been useful to a prisoner was welded down. having given up in the escape department, i sat on my bunk and lit a cigarette. i looked for tell-tales, and found a television lens set above the door of the room eight feet outside of my steel barrier. beside the lens was a speaker grille and a smaller opening that looked like a microphone dust cover. with a grunt, i flipped my cigarette at the television lens. i hit just above the hole, missing it by about an inch. immediately a tinny-sounding voice said, "that is not permitted, mr. cornell. you are expected to maintain some degree of personal cleanliness. since you cannot pick up that cigarette butt, you have placed an unwelcome task upon our personnel. one more infraction of this nature and you will not be permitted the luxury of smoking." "go to the devil!" i snapped. there was no reply. not even a haughty chuckle. the silence was worse than any reply because it pointed out the absolute superiority of their position. eventually i dozed off, there being nothing else to do. when i awoke they'd shoved a tray of food in on my table. i ate unenthusiastically. i dozed again, during which time someone removed the tray. when i woke up the second time it was night and time to go to bed, so i went. i woke up in the morning to see a burly guy enter with a tray of breakfast. i attempted to engage him in light conversation but he did not even let on that i was in the cell. later he removed the tray as silently as he'd brought it, and i was left with another four hours of utter boredom until the same bird returned with a light lunch. six hours after lunch came a slightly more substantial dinner, but no talk. by bedtime the second night i was getting stir-crazy. i hit the sack at about nine thirty, and tossed and turned, unable to drop off because i was not actually tired. i was also wondering when they'd come around with their brain-washing crew, or maybe someone who'd enter with an ultimatum. on the following morning, the tray-bearer was dr. thorndyke, who sat on the chair on the outside of my bars and looked at me silently. i tried giving him stare for stare, but eventually i gave up and said, "so now where do we go?" "cornell, you're in a bad spot of your own making." "could be," i admitted. "and yet, really, you're more of a victim of circumstances." "forgetting all the sideplay, i'm a prisoner," i told him curtly. "let's face a few facts, thorndyke, and stop tossing this guff." "all right," he said shortly, "the facts are these: we would prefer that you help us willingly. we'd further prefer to have you as you are. that is, un-reoriented mentally." "you couldn't afford to trust me," i grunted. "maybe we can. it's no secret that we've latched on to quite a number of your friends. let's assume that they will all be well-treated if you agree to join us willingly." "i'm sure that the attitude of any of my friends is such that they'd prefer me to stand my ground rather than betray their notions of right and wrong." i told him. "that's a foolish premise," he replied. "you could no more prevail against us than you could single-handedly overthrow the government. having faced that fact, it becomes sound and sensible to accept the premise and then see what sort of niche you can carve out of the new order." "i don't like your new order," i grunted. "many people will not," he admitted. "but then, people do not really know what's good for them." i almost laughed at him. "look," i said, "i'd rather make my own ignorant mistakes than to have some great father supervise my life. and speaking of fathers, we've both got to admit that god himself permits us the complete freedom of our wills." thorndyke sneered at me. "if we're to quote the scripture," he said sourly, "i'll point out that 'the lord thy god is a jealous god, visiting his wrath even upon seven generations of those who hate him.'" "granted," i replied calmly, "but whether we love him or hate him is entirely up to our own particular notion. now--" "cornell, stop talking like an idiot. here, too, you can take your choice. i'm not ordering you. i'm just trying to point out that whether you go on suffering or enjoying life is entirely up to your own decision. and also your decision will help or hinder others." "you're entirely too godlike," i told him. "well," he said, "think it over." "go to the devil!" "now, that's a very weak response," he said loftily, "doing nobody any good or harm. just talk. so stop gabbing and think." thorndyke left me with my thoughts. sure, i had bargaining power, but it was no good. i'd be useful only until they discovered some method of inoculating normal flesh with mekstrom's disease, and once that was taken care of, steve cornell would be a burden upon their resources. so that was the morning of my third day of incarceration and nothing more took place all day. they didn't even give me anything to read, and i almost went nuts. you have no idea of how long fourteen hours can be until you've been sitting in a cell with absolutely nothing to do. i exercised by chinning myself on the bars and playing gymnastics. i wanted to run but there was not enough room. the physical thrill i got out of being able to chin myself with one hand wore off after a half hundred pull-ups because it was no great feat for a mekstrom. i did push-ups and bridges and other stunts until i was bored again. and all the while, my thinking section was going around and around. the one main point that i kept coming back to was a very unpleasant future to face: it was certain that no matter what i did, nor how i argued, i was going to help them out. either i would do it willingly or they'd grow tired of the lecture routine and take me in for a mental re-evaluation, after which (being not-steve cornell any more) i'd join their ranks and do their bidding. about the only thing i could look at with self-confidence was my determination to hold out. if i was going to join them, it would be after i were no longer the man i am, but reoriented into whatever design they wanted. and that resolve was weakened by the normal human will to live. you can't make a horse drink water, but you can lead a human being to a well and he will drink it dry if you keep a shotgun pointed in his direction. and so it ended up with my always wondering if, when the cards were all dealt out face up, whether i would have the guts to keep on saying 'no' right up to the point where i walked into their department of brain-washing. in fact, i was rather afraid that in the last moment i'd weaken, just to stay being me. that uncertainty of mine was, of course, just the idea they wanted to nourish in my mind. they were doing it by leaving me alone with my mental merry-go-round. again i hit the sack out of sheer boredom and i turned and tossed for what seemed like hours before i dropped off to sleep, wondering and dreaming about who was to be the next visitor with a bill of goods to sell. the next visitor came in about midnight, or thereabouts. i woke up with the realization that someone had come in through the outer door and was standing there in the semi-dark caused by a bright moon shining in through my barred window. "steve," she said, in a near whisper. "go away," i told her. "haven't you done enough already?" "oh, please, steve. i've got to talk to you." i sat on the edge of my bunk and looked at her. she was fully dressed; her light printed silk was of the same general pattern and fit that she preferred. in fact, catherine looked as i'd always seen her, and as i'd pictured her during the long hopeless weeks of our separation. "you've got something to add?" i asked her coldly. "i've got to make you understand, steve," she pleaded. "understand what?" i snapped. "i know already. you deliberately set out to marry, or else-how tie some emotional cable onto me. god knows that you succeeded. if it hadn't been for that accident, i'd have been nailed down tight." "that part is true," she whispered. "naturally, you've got justification." "well, i have." "so has any burglar." she shook her head at me. "steve, you don't really understand. if only you could read my mind and know the truth--" she let this trail off in a helpless awkwardness. it was one of those statements that are meaningless because it can be said by either friend or foe and cannot be checked. i just looked at her and suddenly remembered something: this was the first time in my life that i was in a position to do some verbal fencing with a telepath on even terms. i could say 'yes' and think 'no' with absolute impunity. in fact, i might even have had an edge, since as a poor non-telepath i did have some training in subterfuge, falsehood, and diplomatic maneuver that the telepath couldn't have. catherine and i, at long last, were in the position of the so-called good old days when boys and girls couldn't really know the truth about one another's real thoughts. "so what's this truth?" i demanded. "steve, answer me truly. have you ever been put on an odious job, only to find that the job is really pleasant?" "yes." "then hear me out. i--in fact, no woman--takes kindly to being directed to do what i did. i was told to meet you, to marry--" her face looked flustered and it might have been a bit flushed for all i knew. i couldn't see color enough in the dim light to be sure. "--and then i met you, steve, and i found out that you were really a very nice sort of guy." "well, thanks." "don't be bitter. hear the truth. if otto mekstrom had not existed, if there were no such thing as mekstrom's disease, and i had met you freely and openly as men and women meet, i'd have come to feel the same, steve. i must make you understand that my emotional attachment to you was not increased nor decreased by the fact that my physical actions were directed at you. if anything, my job was just rendered pleasantly easier." i grunted. "and so you were made happy." "yes," she whispered. "and i was going to marry you and live honestly with you--" "heck of a marriage with the wife in the medical center for mekstrom's disease and our first child--" "steve, you poor fool, don't you understand? if our child came as predicted, the first thing i'd do would be to have the child inoculate the father? then we'd be--" "um," i grunted. "i hadn't thought of that." this was a flat lie. i'd considered it a-plenty since my jailing here. present the medical center with a child, a mekstrom, and a carrier, and good old pappy would be no longer needed. "well, after i found out all about you, steve, that's what i had in mind. but now--" "now what?" i urged her gently. i had a hunch that she was leading up to something, but ducking shy about it until she managed to find out how i thought. it would have been all zero if we'd been in a clear area, but as it was i led her gently on. "but now i've failed," she said with a slight wail. "what do they do with failures?" i asked harshly. "siberia? or a gunny sack weighted down with an anvil? or do they drum you out of the corps?" "i don't know." i eyed her closely. i was forced to admit that no matter how catherine thought, she was a mighty attractive dish from the physical standpoint. and regardless of the trouble she'd put me through, i could not overlook the fact that i had been deep enough in love to plan elopement and marriage. i'd held her slender body close, and either her response had been honestly warm or catherine was an actress of very rare physical ability. scholar phelps could hardly have picked a warmer temptress in the first place; putting her onto me now was a stroke of near-genius. i got up from the edge of my bunk and faced her through my bars. she came close, too, and we looked into each other's faces over a cross-rail of the heavy fence. i managed a wistful grin at her. "you're not really a failure yet, are you, kid?" "i don't quite know how to--to--" she replied. i looked around my little cell with a gruesome gesture. "this isn't my idea of a pleasant home. and yet it will be my home until someone decides that i'm too expensive to keep." "i know," she breathed. taking the bit in my teeth, i said, "catherine even though--well, heck. i'd like to help you." "you mean that?" she asked in almost an eager voice. "it's not impossible to forget that we were eloping when all this started." "it all seems so long ago," she said with a thick voice. "and i wish we were back there--no, steve, i wish mekstrom's disease had never happened--i wish--" "stop wishing and think," i told her half-humorously. "if there were no mekstrom's disease, the chances are that we'd never have met in the first place." "that's the cruel part of it all," she cried. and i mean _cried_. i rapped on the metal bars with a fist. "so here we are," i said unhappily. "i can't help you now, catherine." she put her hands through the bars and held my face between them. she looked searching into my eyes, as if straining to force her blocked telepath sense through the deadness of the area. she leaned against the steel but the barrier was very effective; our lips met through the cold metal. it was a very unsatisfactory kiss because we had to purse our lips like a pair of piccolo players to make them meet. it was like making love through a keyhole. this unsatisfactory lovemaking did not last long. unsteadily, catherine said, "i want you, steve." inwardly i grinned, and then with the same feeling as if i'd laughed out loud at a funeral, i said, "through these steel bars?" she brought out a little cylindrical key. then went to a brass wall plate beside the outer door, inserted the key, and turned. the sliding door to my cell opened on noiseless machined slides. then with a careful look at me, catherine slipped a little shutter over the glass bull's eye in the door. her hand reached up to a hidden toggle above the door and as she snapped it, a thick cover surged out above the speaker, television lens, and microphone grille, curved down and shut off the tell-tales with a cushioned sound. apparently the top management of the joint used these cells for other things than mere containment of unruly prisoners. i almost grinned; the society that scholar phelps proposed was not the kind that flourished in an atmosphere of trust, or privacy--except for the top brass. catherine turned from her switch plate and came across the floor with her face lifted and her lips parted. "hold me, steve." my hand came forward in a short jab that caught her dead center in the plexus below the ribs. her breath caught in one strangled gasp and her eyes went glassy. she swayed stiffly in half-paralysis. my other hand came up, closing as it rose, until it became a fist that connected in a shoulder-jarring wallop on the side of her jaw. her head snapped up and her knees caved in. she folded from the hips and went down bonelessly. from her throat came the bubbly sound of air being forced painfully through a flaccid wet tube. i jumped outside of the cell barrier because i was certain that they had some means of closing the cell from a master control center. i don't know much about penology, but that's the way i'd do it. i was half-surprised that i'd been able to get away with this much. catherine stirred and moaned, and i stopped long enough to take the key out of the wall plate. the cell door closed on its silent slides. i had hardly been able to more than run the zipper up my shirt when the door opened and i had to dance like a fool to get behind it. the door admitted a flood of bright light from the corridor, and dr. james thorndyke. the cell door must have been bugged. thorndyke came in behind a large automatic clutched in one nervous fist. he strained his eyes at the gloom that was not cut by the ribbon of light. and then i cut him down with a solid slice of my right hand to the base of his neck. i remembered to jump off the ground as the blow went home; there was a sickening crunch of bone and muscle as thorndyke caved forward to the floor. he dropped the gun, luckily, as his body began to twitch and kick spasmodically as the life drained out of him. i re-swallowed a mouthful of bitter bile as i reached down to pick up his gun. then the room got hot and unbearably small and i felt a frantic urge to leave, to close the door upon that sight. xxv i was yards away from my door before my panic left me. then i remembered where and who i was and took a fast look around. there was no one else in the corridor, of course, or i would not have been able to cut and run as i had. but i looked around anyway until my reasoning power told me that i had done little to help my position. like the canary, my plans for escape ended once i was outside of my cage. i literally did not know what to do with my new-found freedom. one thing was becoming painfully obvious: i'd be pinned down tight once i put a foot outside of the dead area in which this building was constructed. what i needed was friends, arms, ammunition, and a good, solid plan of escape. i had neither; unless you call my jailed friends such help. and there i could not go; the tell-tales would give me away to the master control center before i could raise my small--and unarmed--army. so i stood there in the brightly lighted corridor and tried to think. i got nowhere, but i was driven to action again by the unmistakable sound of the elevator at the end of the corridor. i eyed the various cell doors with suspicion; opening any but an empty room would cause some comment from the occupant, which again would give me away. nor did i have time to canvass the joint by peeking into the one-way bull's eyes, peering into a semi-gloom to see which room was empty. so instead of hiding in the corridor, i sloped towards the elevator and the stairwell that surrounded it, hoping that i could make it before the elevator rose to my floor. i know that my passage must have sounded like a turbojet in full flight, but i made the stairway and took a headlong leap down the first short flight of stairs just as the elevator door rolled open. i hit the wall with a bumping crash that jarred my senses, but i kept my feet and looked back up the stairs. i caught a flash of motion; a guard sauntering past the top of the well, a cigarette in one hand and a lazy-looking air about him. he was expecting no trouble, and so i gave him none. i crept up the stairs and poked my head out just at the floor level. the guard, obviously confident that nothing, but nothing, could ever happen in this welded metal crib, jauntily peered into a couple of the rooms at random, took a long squint at the room i'd recently vacated, and then went on to the end of the hall where he stuck a key in a signal-box. on his way back he paused again to peer into my room, straining to see if he could peer past the little shutter over the bull's eye. then he shrugged unhappily, and started to return. i loped down the stairs to the second floor and waited. the elevator came down, stopped, and the guard repeated his desultory search, not stopping to pry into any darkened rooms. just above the final, first-floor flight, i stopped and sprawled on the floor with only my head and the nose of my gun over the top step. below was the guard's desk and standing beside the desk with anger in every line of his ugly face was scholar phelps! the elevator came down, stopped, and the guard walked out, to be nailed by phelps. "your job," snapped the good scholar coldly, "says you are to walk." "well, er--sir--it's--" "walk!" stormed phelps angrily. "you can't cover that stairway in the elevator, you fumbling idiot." "but, sir--" "someone could easily come down while you go up." "i know that, sir, but--" "then why do you disobey?" roared phelps. "well, you see, sir, i know how this place is built and no one has ever made it yet. who could?" the guard looked mystified. phelps had to face that fact. he did not accept it gracefully. "my orders are orders," he said stiffly. "you'll follow them. to the last letter." "yes sir. i will." "see that you do. now, i'm going up. i'll ride and you walk. meet me on the fourth and bring the elevator down with you." "yessir." i sloped upstairs like a scared rabbit. up to the third again where i moved down the corridor and slipped into the much-too-thin niche made by a door. stolidly the guard came up the stairs, crossed in front of the elevator with his back to me, turned the far corner and went on up to the fourth. as his feet started up the stairs, i was behind him; by the time he reached the top, i was half way up. phelps said, "now, from this moment on, waldron, you'll follow every order to the absolute letter. and when i ring, don't make the error of bringing the elevator. send it. it'll come up and stop without a pilot." "yes sir. i'm sorry sir. but you understand, sir, there isn't really much to guard, sir." "then guard nothing. but guard it well, because a man in your position is gauged in success by the amount of boredom he creates for himself." the guard started down and i darted up to poke my head out to see where phelps was going. as i neared the floor level, i had a shock like someone hurling twenty gallons of ice water in my face. the top floor was the end of the dead area, and i---pulled my head down into the murk like a diver taking a plunge. so i stood there making like a guppy with my head, sounding out the boundary of that deadness, ducking down as soon as the mental murk gave me a faint perception of the wall and ceiling above me. then i'd move aside and sound it again. eventually i found a little billowing furrow that rose above the floor level and i crawled out along the floor, still sounding and moving cautiously with my body hidden in the deadness that rose and fell like a cloud of murky mental smoke to my sense of perception. i would have looked silly to any witness; wallowing along the floor like a porpoise acting furtive in the bright lights. but then i couldn't go any farther; the deadness sank below the floor level and left me looking along a bare floor that was also bare to my sense of perception. i shoved my head out of the dead zone and took a fast dig, then dropped back in again and lay there re-constructing what i'd perceived mentally. i did it the second time and the third, each time making a rapid scan of some portion of that fourth floor. in three fast swings, i collected a couple of empty offices, a very complete hospital set-up operating room, and a place that looked like a consultation theatre. on my fourth scan, i whipped past scholar phelps, who was apparently deep in some personal interest. i rose at once and strode down the hall and snapped the door open just as phelps' completely unexpecting mind grasped the perceptive fact that someone was coming down his hallway wearing a great big forty five automatic. "freeze!" i snapped. "put that weapon down, mr. cornell. it, nor its use, will get your freedom." "maybe all i want out of life is to see you leave it," i told him. "you'd not be that foolish, i'm sure," he said. "i might." he laughed, with all the self-confidence in the world. "mr. cornell, you have too much will to live. you're not the martyr type." "i might turn out to be the cornered-rat type," i told him seriously. "so play it cagey, phelps." "scholar phelps, please." "i wouldn't disgrace the medical profession," i told him. "so--" "so what do you propose to do about this?" "i'm getting out." "don't be ridiculous. one step out of this building and you'll return within a half minute. how did you get out?" "i was seduced out. now--" "i'd advise you to surrender; to stop this hopeless attempt; to put that weapon down. you cannot escape. there are, in this building, your mental and intellectual superiors whose incarceration bear me witness." i eyed him coldly and quietly. "i'm not convinced. i'm out. and if you could take a dig below you'd see a dead man and an unconscious woman to bear me witness. i broke your dr. thorndyke's neck with a chop of my bare hand, phelps; i knocked catherine cold with a fist. this thing might not kill you, but i'm a mekstrom, too, and so help me i can cool you down but good." "violence will get you nothing." "try my patience. i'll bet my worthless hide on it." then i grinned at him. "oh, it isn't so worthless, is it?" "one cry from me, mr. cornell, and--" "and you'll not live to see what happens. i've killed once tonight. i didn't like it. but the idea is not as new now as it was then. i'll kill you, phelps, if for no other reason than merely to keep my word." with a sneer, phelps turned to his desk and i stabbed my perception behind the papers and stuff to the call button; then i launched myself across the room like a rocket, swinging my gun hand as i soared. the steel caught him on the side of the head and drove him back from his call button before his finger could press it. then i let him have a fist in the belly because the pistol swat hadn't much more than dazed him. the fist did it. he crumpled in a heap and fought for breath unconsciously. i turned to the wall he'd been eyeing with so much attention. there was row upon row of small kine tubes, each showing the dark interior of a cell. below each was a row of pilot lights, all dark. on his desk was a large bank of push buttons, a speaker, and a microphone. and beside the push button set-up was a ledger containing a list of names with their cell numbers. i found marian harrison; pushed her button, and heard her ladylike snore from the speaker. a green lamp winked under one of the kine tubes and i walked over and looked into the darkened cell to see her familiar hair sprawled over a thick pillow. i went to the desk and snapped on the microphone. "marian," i said. "marian! hey! marian harrison!" in the picture tube there was a stir, then she sat up and looked around in a sort of daze. "marian, this is steve cornell, but don't--" "steve!" "--cry out," i finished uselessly. "where are you?" she asked in a whisper. "i'm in the con room." "but how on earth--?" "no time to gab. i'll be down in a rush with the key. get dressed!" "yes, steve." i took off in a headlong rush with the 'hotel register' in one hand. i made the third floor and marian's cell in slightly more than nothing flat, but she was ready when i came barging into her room. she was out of the cell before it hit the backstop and following me down the hall towards her brother's room. "what happened?" she asked breathlessly. "later," i told her. i opened phillip harrison's cell. "you go wake up fred macklin and tell him to come here. then get the macklin girl--alice, it says here--and the pair of you wake up others and start sending 'em up stairs. i'll call you on the telltale as soon as i can." marian took off with the key and the register and i started to shake phillip harrison's shoulder. "wake up!" i cried. "wake up, phillip!" phillip made a noise like a baby seal. "wake up!" "wha--?" "it's steve cornell. wake up!" with a rough shake of his head, phillip groaned and unwound himself out of a tangle of bedclothing. he looked at me through half-closed glassy eyes. then he straightened and made a perilous course to the washstand where he sopped a towel in cold water and applied it to his face, neck, and shoulders. when he dropped the towel in the sink, his expression was fresher and his eyes were mingled curiosity and amazement. "what gives?" he asked, starting to dress in a hurry. "i busted out, slugged scholar phelps, and took over the master control room. i need help. we can't keep it long unless we move fast." "yeah man. any moving will be fast," he said sourly. "got any plans?" "we've--" the door opened to let fred macklin enter. he carried his shirt and had been dressing on the run. "what goes on?" he asked. "look," i said quickly. "if i have to stop and give anybody a rundown, we'll have no time to do what has to be done. there are a couple of sources of danger. one is the guard down at the bottom of the stairway. the other is the possible visitor. you get a couple of other young, ambitious fellows and push that guard post over, but quick." "right. and you?" "i've got to keep our hostage cold," i snapped. "and i'm running the show by virtue of being the guy that managed to bust loose." in the hallway there was movement, but i left it to head back to scholar phelps. i got there in time to hear him groan and make scratching noises on the carpet. i took no chances; i cooled him down with a short jab to the pit of the stomach and doubled him over again. he was sleeping painfully but soundlessly when marian came in. i turned to her. "you're supposed to be waking up--" "i gave the key and the register to jo anne tweedy," she said. "jo anne's the brash young teenager you took a bump with in ohio. she's competent, steve. and she's got the macklin twins to help her. waking up the camp is a job for the junior division." she eyed the recumbent phelps distastefully. "what have you in mind for him?" "he's valuable," i said. "we'll use him to buy our freedom." the door opened again, interrupting marian. it was jonas harrison. he stood there in the frame of the door and looked at us with a sort of grim smile. i had never met the old patriarch of the harrison family before, but he lived up to my every expectation. he stood tall and straight; topped by a wealth of snow white hair, white eyebrows, and the touch of a white moustache. his eyes contrasted with the white; a rich and startling brown. this was a man to whom i could hand the basic problem of engineering our final escape; jonas harrison was capable of plotting an airtight getaway. his voice was rich and resonant; it had a lift in its tone that sounded as though his self-confidence had never been in danger of a set-back: "well, son, you seem to have accomplished quite a job this night. what shall we do next?" "get the devil out of here," i replied---wondering just exactly how i'd known so instantly that this was jonas harrison. the rich and resonant voice had flicked a subsurface recollection on a faint, raw spot and now something important was swimming around in the mire of my mind trying to break loose and come clear. i turned from the sword-sharp brown eyes and looked at marian. she was almost as i had first seen her: not much make-up if any at all, her hair free of fancy dressing but neat, her legs were bare and healthy-tanned. i looked at her, and for a half dozen heartbeats her image faded from my sight, replaced by the well remembered figure of catherine as i had known her first. it was a dizzy-making montage because my perception senses the real figure of marian, superimposed on the visual memory-image of catherine. then the false sight faded and both perception and eyesight focused upon the true person of marian harrison. marian stood there, her face softly proud. her eyes were looking straight into mine, as if she were mentally urging me to fight that hidden memory into full recollection. then i both saw and perceived something that i had never noticed before. a fine golden chain hung around her throat, its pendant hidden from sight beneath the edge of her bodice. but my sense of perception dug a modest diamond, and i could even dig the tiny initials engraved in the metal circlet: sc-mh to dig anything that fine, i knew that it must be of importance to me. and then i knew that it had once been so very personally my own business, for the submerged recollection came bursting up to the top of my mind. marian henderson had been mine once long ago! boldly i stepped forward and took the chain between my fingers. i snapped it, and held the ring. "will you wear it again, my dear?" she held up her left hand for me to slip it on. "steve," she breathed, "i've never stopped wearing it, not really." "but i didn't see it until now--" jonas harrison said, "no, steve, you couldn't see it until you remembered." "but look--" "blame me," he said in his firm determined voice. "the story begins and ends with you, steve. when marian contracted mekstrom's disease, she herself insisted that you be spared the emotional pain that the rest of us could not avoid. so i erased her from your mind, steve, and submerged any former association. then when the highways in hiding came to take us in, i left it that way because marian was still as unattainable to you as if she were dead. if an apology is needed, i'll only ask that you forgive my tampering with your mind and personality." "apologize?" i exploded. "i'm here, we're here, and you've just provided me with a way out of this mousetrap!" "a way out?" he murmured, in that absent way that telepaths have when they're concentrating on another mind. fast comprehension dawned in the sharp brown eyes and he looked even more self-confident and determined. marian leaned back in my arms to look into my eyes. "steve," she cried, "it's simply got to work!" gloria farrow merely said, "he'll have to have medication, of course," and went briskly to a wall cabinet and began to fiddle with medical tools. howard macklin and jonas harrison went into a deep telepathic conference that was interrupted only when jonas harrison turned to phillip to say, "you'll have to provide us with uninterrupted time, somehow." marian disengaged herself reluctantly and started to propel me out of the room. "go help him, steve. what we are going to do is not for any non-telepath to watch." outside, phillip threatened me with the guard's signal-box key. "mind telling a non-telepath what the devil you cooked up?" i smiled. "if your father has the mental power to erase marian from my mind, he also has the power to do a fine reorientation job on scholar phelps. once we get the spiderwebs cleaned out of the top dog, we start down the pyramid, line by line and echelon by echelon, with each reoriented recruit adding to our force. once we get this joint operating on the level, we can all go to work for the rest of the human race!" * * * * * there is little left to tell. the medical center and the highways in hiding are one agency dedicated to the conquest of the last and most puzzling of the diseases and maladies that beset mankind. we are no closer to a solution than we ever were, and so i am still a very busy man. i have written this account and disclosed our secret because we want no more victims of mekstrom's disease to suffer. so i will write finish with one earnest plea and one ray of hope: please do not follow one of our highways unless you are already infected. since i cannot hope to inoculate the entire human race, and will not pick or choose certain worthy types for special attention, i will deal only with those folks who find mekstrom's disease among their immediate family. such people need never be parted from their loved ones. the rest of you will have to wait your turn. but we'll get to it sooner or later. thirty days ago, steve, junior, was born. he's a healthy little mekstrom, and like his pappy, steve junior is a carrier, too. * * * * * [transcriber's note: back cover] quest impossible someone had stolen an important part of steve cornell's life. it was bad enough when his fiancã©e vanished. it was infinitely worse when everyone in the world insisted it couldn't have happened the way he knew it had. in a world where esp and telepathy were normal, it was difficult to keep secrets. but steve's search for his missing sweetheart brought him to the threshold of one of the greatest secrets of all time. and it was obvious that somebody would stop at nothing to keep him from uncovering it. what were the oddly sinister symbols along otherwise ordinary roads? what was behind the spreading plague called mekstrom's disease? why were there "blank" spots where telepathy didn't work? who was the elusive enemy with powers even beyond those esp had bestowed on mankind? and, most important of all ... could steve find that enemy before they made him vanish too? a lancer book â· never before complete in paperback online distributed proofreaders team jason a romance by justus miles forman author of "a stumbling block" "buchanan's wife" "the island of enchantment" with illustrations by w. hatherell, r.i. harper & brothers publishers new york and london mcmix copyright, 1908. * * * * * à paris mère mystérieuse ... soeur consolatrice enchanteresse aux yeux voilés jé dédie ce petit roman en reconnaissance j.m.f. * * * * * contents i. ste. marie hears of a mystery and meets a dark lady ii. the ladder to the stars iii. ste. marie makes a vow, but a pair of eyes haunt him iv. old david stewart v. jason sets forth upon the great adventure vi. a brave gentleman receives a hurt, but volunteers in a good cause vii. captain stewart makes a kindly offer viii. jason meets with a misadventure and dreams a dream ix. jason goes upon a journey, and richard hartley pleads for him x. captain stewart entertains xi. a golden lady enters--the eyes again xii. the name of the lady with the eyes--evidence heaps up swiftly xiii. the voyage to colchis xiv. the walls of aea xv. a conversation at la lierre xvi. the black cat xvii. those who were left behind xviii. a conversation overheard xix. the invalid takes the air xx. the stone bench at the rond point xxi. a mist dims the shining star xxii. a settlement refused xxiii. the last arrow xxiv. the joint in the armor xxv. medea goes over to the enemy xxvi. but the fleece elects to remain xxvii. the night's work xxviii. medea's little hour xxix. the scales of injustice xxx. jason sails back to colchis--journey's end * * * * * i ste. marie hears of a mystery and meets a dark lady from ste. marie's little flat, which overlooked the gardens, they drove down the quiet rue du luxembourg, and at the place st. sulpice turned to the left. they crossed the place st. germain des prés, where lines of home-bound working-people stood waiting for places in the electric trams, and groups of students from the beaux arts or from julien's sat under the awnings of the deux magots, and so, beyond that busy square, they came into the long and peaceful stretch of the boulevard st. germain. the warm, sweet dusk gathered round them as they went, and the evening air was fresh and aromatic in their faces. there had been a little gentle shower in the late afternoon, and roadway and pavement were still damp with it. it had wet the new-grown leaves of the chestnuts and acacias that bordered the street. the scent of that living green blended with the scent of laid dust and the fragrance of the last late-clinging chestnut blossoms; it caught up a fuller, richer burden from the overflowing front of a florist's shop; it stole from open windows a savory whiff of cooking, a salt tang of wood smoke; and the soft little breeze--the breeze of coming summer--mixed all together and tossed them and bore them down the long, quiet street; and it was the breath of paris, and it shall be in your nostrils and mine, a keen agony of sweetness, so long as we may live and so wide as we may wander--because we have known it and loved it--and in the end we shall go back to breathe it when we die. the strong white horse jogged evenly along over the wooden pavement, its head down, the little bell at its neck jingling pleasantly as it went. the cocher, a torpid, purplish lump of gross flesh, pyramidal, pearlike, sat immobile in his place. the protuberant back gave him an extraordinary effect of being buttoned into his fawn-colored coat wrong side before. at intervals he jerked the reins like a large strange toy, and his strident voice said: "hé!" to the stout white horse, which paid no attention whatever. once the beast stumbled and the pearlike lump of flesh insulted it, saying: "hé! veux tu, cochon!" before the war office a little black slip of a milliner's girl dodged under the horse's head, saving herself and the huge box slung to her arm by a miracle of agility, and the cocher called her the most frightful names, without turning his head and in a perfunctory tone quite free from passion. young hartley laughed and turned to look at his companion, but ste. marie sat still in his place, his hat pulled a little down over his brows and his handsome chin buried in the folds of the white silk muffler with which for some obscure reason he had swathed his neck. "this is the first time in many years," said the englishman, "that i have known you to be silent for ten whole minutes. are you ill, or are you making up little epigrams to say at the dinner-party?" ste. marie waved a despondent glove. "i 'ave," said he, "w'at you call ze blue. papillons noirs--clouds in my soul." it was a species of jest with ste. marie--and he seemed never to tire of it--to pretend that he spoke english very brokenly. as a matter of fact, he spoke it quite as well as any englishman and without the slightest trace of accent. he had discovered a long time before this--it may have been while the two were at eton together--that it annoyed hartley very much, particularly when it was done in company and before strangers. in consequence he became on such occasions a sort of comic-paper caricature of his race, and by dint of much practice, added to a naturally alert mind, he became astonishingly ingenious in the torture of that honest but unimaginative gentleman whom he considered his best friend. he achieved the most surprising expressions by the mere literal translation of french idiom, and he could at any time bring hartley to a crimson agony by calling him "my dear "'before other men, whereas at the equivalent "mon cher" the englishman would doubtless never, as the phrase goes, have batted an eye. "ye-es," he continued, sadly, "i 'ave ze blue. i weep. weez ze tears full ze eyes. yes." he descended into english. "i think something's going to happen to me. there's calamity, or something, in the air. perhaps i'm going to die." "oh, i know what you are going to do, right enough," said the other man. "you're going to meet the most beautiful woman--girl--in the world at dinner, and of course you are going to fall in love with her." "ah, the miss benham!" said ste. marie, with a faint show of interest. "i remember now, you said that she was to be there. i had forgotten. yes, i shall be glad to meet her. one hears so much. but why am i of course going to fall in love with her?" "well, in the first place," said hartley, "you always fall in love with all pretty women as a matter of habit, and, in the second place, everybody--well, i suppose you--no one could help falling in love with her, i should think." "that's high praise to come from you," said the other. and hartley said, with a short, not very mirthful laugh: "oh, i don't pretend to be immune. we all--everybody who knows her. you'll understand presently." ste. marie turned his head a little and looked curiously at his friend, for he considered that he knew the not very expressive intonations of that young gentleman's voice rather well, and this was something unusual. he wondered what had been happening during his six months' absence from paris. "i dare say that's what i feel in the air, then," he said, after a little pause. "it's not calamity; it's love. "or maybe," he said, quaintly, "it's both. l'un n'empêche pas i'autre." and he gave an odd little shiver, as if that something in the air had suddenly blown chill upon him. they were passing the corner of the chamber of deputies, which faces the pont de la concorde. ste. marie pulled out his watch and looked at it. "eight-fifteen," said he. "what time are we asked for--eight-thirty? that means nine: it's an english house, and nobody will be on time. it's out of fashion to be prompt nowadays." "i should hardly call the marquis de saulnes english, you know," objected hartley. "well, his wife is," said the other, "and they're altogether english in manner. dinner won't be before nine. shall we get out, and walk across the bridge and up the champs-elysées? i should like to, i think. i like to walk at this time of the evening--between the daylight and the dark." hartley nodded a rather reluctant assent, and ste. marie prodded the pear-shaped cocher in the back with his stick. so they got down at the approach to the bridge, ste. marie gave the cocher a piece of two francs, and they turned away on foot. the pear-shaped one looked at the coin in his fat hand as if it were something unclean and contemptible--something to be despised. he glanced at the dial of his taximeter, which had registered one franc twenty-five, and pulled the flag up. he spat gloomily out into the street, and his purple lips moved in words. he seemed to say something like "sale diable de métier!" which, considering the fact that he had just been overpaid, appears unwarrantably pessimistic in tone. thereafter he spat again, picked up his reins and jerked them, saying: "hè, jean baptiste! uip, uip!" the unemotional white horse turned up the boulevard, trotting evenly at its steady pace, head down, the little bell at its neck jingling pleasantly as it went. it occurs to me that the white horse was probably unique. i doubt that there was another horse in paris rejoicing in that extraordinary name. but the two young men walked slowly on across the pont de la concorde. they went in silence, for hartley was thinking still of miss helen benham, and ste. marie was thinking of heaven knows what. his gloom was unaccountable unless he had really meant what he said about feeling calamity in the air. it was very unlike him to have nothing to say. midway of the bridge he stopped and turned to look out over the river, and the other man halted beside him. the dusk was thickening almost perceptibly, but it was yet far from dark. the swift river ran leaden beneath them, and the river boats, mouches and hirondelles, darted silently under the arches of the bridge, making their last trips for the day. away to the west, where their faces were turned, the sky was still faintly washed with color, lemon and dusky orange and pale thin green. a single long strip of cirrus cloud was touched with pink, a lifeless old rose, such as is popular among decorators for the silk hangings of a woman's boudoir. and black against this pallid wash of colors the tour eiffel stood high and slender and rather ghostly. by day it is an ugly thing, a preposterous iron finger upthrust by man's vanity against god's serene sky; but the haze of evening drapes it in a merciful semi-obscurity and it is beautiful. ste. marie leaned upon the parapet of the bridge, arms folded before him and eyes afar. he began to sing, à demi-voix, a little phrase out of _louise_--an invocation to paris--and the englishman stirred uneasily beside him. it seemed to hartley that to stand on a bridge, in a top-hat and evening clothes, and sing operatic airs while people passed back and forth behind you, was one of the things that are not done. he tried to imagine himself singing in the middle of westminster bridge at half-past eight of an evening, and he felt quite hot all over at the thought. it was not done at all, he said to himself. he looked a little nervously at the people who were passing, and it seemed to him that they stared at him and at the unconscious ste. marie, though in truth they did nothing of the sort. he turned back and touched his friend on the arm, saying: "i think we'd best be getting along, you know." but ste. marie was very far away, and did not hear. so then he fell to watching the man's dark and handsome face, and to thinking how little the years at eton and the year or two at oxford had set any real stamp upon him. he would never be anything but latin, in spite of his irish mother and his public school. hartley thought what a pity that was. as englishmen go, he was not illiberal, but, no more than he could have altered the color of his eyes, could he have believed that anything foreign would not be improved by becoming english. that was born in him, as it is born in most englishmen, and it was a perfectly simple and honest belief. he felt a deeper affection for this handsome and volatile young man whom all women loved, and who bade fair to spend his life at their successive feet--for he certainly had never shown the slightest desire to take up any sterner employment--he felt a deeper affection for ste. marie than for any other man he knew, but he had always wished that ste. marie were an englishman, and he had always felt a slight sense of shame over his friend's un-english ways. after a moment he touched him again on the arm, saying: "come along! we shall be late, you know. you can finish your little concert another time." "eh!" cried ste. marie. "quoi, donc?" he turned with a start. "oh yes!" said he. "yes, come along! i was mooning. allons! allons, my old!" he took hartley's arm and began to shove him along at a rapid walk. "i will moon no more," he said. "instead, you shall tell me about the wonderful miss benham whom everybody is talking about. isn't there something odd connected with the family? i vaguely recall something unusual--some mystery or misfortune or something. but first a moment! one small moment, my old. regard me that!" they had come to the end of the bridge, and the great place de la concorde lay before them. "in all the world," said ste. marie--and he spoke the truth--"there is not another such square. regard it, mon brave! bow yourself before it! it is a miracle." the great bronze lamps were alight, and they cast reflections upon the still damp pavement about them. to either side, the trees of the tuileries gardens and of the cours la reine and the champs-elysées lay in a solid black mass; in the middle, the obelisk rose slender and straight, its pointed top black against the sky; and beneath, the water of the nèreid fountains splashed and gurgled. far beyond, the gay lights of the rue royale shone in a yellow cluster; and beyond these still, the tall columns of the madeleine ended the long vista. pedestrians and cabs crept across that vast space and seemed curiously little, like black insects, and round about it all the eight cities of france sat atop their stone pedestals and looked on. ste. marie gave a little sigh of pleasure, and the two moved forward, bearing to the left, toward the champs-elysées. "and now," said he, "about these benhams. what is the thing i cannot quite recall? what has happened to them?" "i suppose," said the other man, "you mean the disappearance of miss benham's young brother a month ago--before you returned to paris. yes, that was certainly very odd--that is, it was either very odd or very commonplace. and in either case the family is terribly cut up about it. the boy's name was arthur benham, and he was rather a young fool, but not downright vicious, i should think. i never knew him at all well, but i know he spent his time chiefly at the café de paris and at the olympia and at longchamps and at henry's bar. well, he just disappeared, that is all. he dropped completely out of sight between two days, and though the family has had a small army of detectives on his trail they've not discovered the smallest clew. it's deuced odd altogether. you might think it easy to disappear like that, but it's not." "no--no," said ste. marie, thoughtfully. "no, i should fancy not. "this boy," he said, after a pause--"i think i had seen him--had him pointed out to me--before i went away. i think it was at henry's bar, where all the young americans go to drink strange beverages. i am quite sure i remember his face. a weak face, but not quite bad." and after another little pause he asked: "was there any reason why he should have gone away--any quarrel or that sort of thing?" "well," said the other man, "i rather think there was something of the sort. the boy's uncle--captain stewart--middle-aged, rather prim old party--you'll have met him, i dare say--he intimated to me one day that there had been some trivial row. you see, the lad isn't of age yet, though he is to be in a few months, and so he has had to live on an allowance doled out by his grandfather, who's the head of the house. the boy's father is dead. there's a quaint old beggar, if you like--the grandfather. he was rather a swell in the diplomatic, in his day, it seems--rather an important swell. now he's bedridden. he sits all day in bed and plays cards with his granddaughter or with a very superior valet, and talks politics with the men who come to see him. oh yes, he's a quaint old beggar. he has a great quantity of white hair and an enormous square white beard and the fiercest eyes i ever saw, i should think. everybody's frightened out of their wits of him. well, he sits up there and rules his family in good old patriarchal style, and it seems he came down a bit hard on the poor boy one day over some folly or other, and there was a row and the boy went out of the house swearing he'd be even." "ah, well, then," said ste. marie, "the matter seems simple enough. a foolish boy's foolish pique. he is staying in hiding somewhere to frighten his grandfather. when he thinks the time favorable he will come back and be wept over and forgiven." the other man walked a little way in silence. "ye-es," he said, at last. "yes, possibly. possibly you are right. that's what the grandfather thinks. it's the obvious solution. unfortunately there is more or less against it. the boy went away with--so far as can be learned--almost no money, almost none at all. and he has already been gone a month. miss benham, his sister, is sure that something has happened to him, and i'm a bit inclined to think so, too. it's all very odd. i should think he might have been kidnapped but that no demand has been made for money." "he was not," suggested ste. marie--"not the sort of young man to do anything desperate--make away with himself?" hartley laughed. "oh, lord, no!" said he. "not that sort of young man at all. he was a very normal type of rich and spoiled and somewhat foolish american boy." "rich?" inquired the other, quickly. "oh yes; they're beastly rich. young arthur is to come into something very good at his majority, i believe, from his father's estate, and the old grandfather is said to be indecently rich--rolling in it! there's another reason why the young idiot wouldn't be likely to stop away of his own accord. he wouldn't risk anything like a serious break with the old gentleman. it would mean a loss of millions to him, i dare say, for the old beggar is quite capable of cutting him off if he takes the notion. oh, it's a bad business all through." and after they had gone on a bit he said it again, shaking his head: "it's a bad business! that poor girl, you know. it's hard on her. she was fond of the young ass for some reason or other. she's very much broken up over it." "yes," said ste. marie, "it is hard for her--for all the family, of course. a bad business, as you say." he spoke absently, for he was looking ahead at something which seemed to be a motor accident. they had by this time got well up the champs-elysées and were crossing the rond point. a motor-car was drawn up alongside the curb just beyond, and a little knot of people stood about it and seemed to look at something on the ground. "i think some one has been run down," said ste. marie. "shall we have a look?" they quickened their pace and came to where the group of people stood in a circle looking upon the ground, and two gendarmes asked many questions and wrote voluminously in their little books. it appeared that a delivery boy mounted upon a tricycle cart had turned into the wrong side of the avenue and had got himself run into and overturned by a motor-car going at a moderate rate of speed. for once the sentiment of those mysterious birds of prey which flock instantaneously from nowhere round an accident, was against the victim and in favor of the frightened and gesticulating chauffeur. ste. marie turned an amused face from this voluble being to the other occupants of the patently hired car, who stood apart, adding very little to the discussion. he saw a tall and bony man with very bright blue eyes and what is sometimes called a guardsman's mustache--the drooping, walruslike ornament which dates back a good many years now. beyond this gentleman he saw a young woman in a long, gray silk coat and a motoring veil. he was aware that the tall man was staring at him rather fixedly and with a half-puzzled frown, as though he thought that they had met before and was trying to remember when, but ste. marie gave the man but a swift glance. his eyes were upon the dark face of the young woman beyond, and it seemed to him that she called aloud to him in an actual voice that rang in his ears. the young woman's very obvious beauty, he thought, had nothing to do with the matter. it seemed to him that her eyes called him. just that. something strange and very potent seemed to take sudden and almost tangible hold upon him--a charm, a spell, a magic--something unprecedented, new to his experience. he could not take his eyes from hers, and he stood staring. as before, on the pont de la concorde, hartley touched him on the arm, and abruptly the chains that had bound him were loosened. "we must be going on, you know," the englishman said, and ste. marie said, rather hurriedly: "yes, yes, to be sure! come along!" but at a little distance he turned once more to look back. the chauffeur had mounted to his place, the delivery boy was upon his feet again, little the worse for his tumble, and the knot of bystanders had begun to disperse, but it seemed to ste. marie that the young woman in the long silk coat stood quite still where she had been, and that her face was turned toward him, watching. "did you notice that girl?" said hartley, as they walked on at a brisker pace. "did you see her face? she was rather a tremendous beauty, you know, in her gypsyish fashion. yes, by jove, she was!" "did i see her?" repeated ste. marie. "yes. oh yes. she had very strange eyes. at least, i think it was the eyes. i don't know. i've never seen any eyes quite like them. very odd!" he said something more in french which hartley did not hear, and the englishman saw that he was frowning. "oh, well, i shouldn't have said there was anything strange about them," hartley said; "but they certainly were beautiful. there's no denying that. the man with her looked rather irish, i thought." they came to the etoile, and cut across it toward the avenue hoche. ste. marie glanced back once more, but the motor-car and the delivery boy and the gendarmes were gone. "what did you say?" he asked, idly. "i said the man looked irish," repeated his friend. all at once ste. marie gave a loud exclamation. "sacred thousand devils! fool that i am! dolt! why didn't i think of it before?" hartley stared at him, and ste. marie stared down the champs-elysées like one in a trance. "i say," said the englishman, "we really must be getting on, you know; we're late." and as they went along down the avenue hoche, he demanded: "why are you a dolt and whatever else it was? what struck you so suddenly?" "i remembered all at once," said ste. marie, "where i had seen that man before and with whom i last saw him. i'll tell you about it later. probably it's of no importance, though." "you're talking rather like a mild lunatic," said the other. "here we are at the house!" * * * * * ii the ladder to the stars miss benham was talking wearily to a strange, fair youth with an impediment in his speech, and was wondering why the youth had been asked to this house, where in general one was sure of meeting only interesting people, when some one spoke her name, and she turned with a little sigh of relief. it was baron de vries, the belgian first secretary of legation, an old friend of her grandfather's, a man made gentle and sweet by infinite sorrow. he bowed civilly to the fair youth and bent over the girl's hand. "it is very good," he said, "to see you again in the world. we have need of you, nous autres. madame your mother is well, i hope--and the bear?" he called old mr. stewart "the bear" in a sort of grave jest, and that fierce octogenarian rather liked it. "oh yes," the girl said, "we're all fairly well. my mother had one of her headaches to-night and so didn't come here, but she's as well as usual, and 'the bear'--yes, he's well enough physically, i should think, but he has not been quite the same since--during the past month. it has told upon him, you know. he grieves over it much more than he will admit." "yes," said baron de vries, gravely. "yes, i know." he turned about toward the fair young man, but that youth had drifted away and joined himself to another group. miss benham looked after him and gave a little exclamation of relief. "that person was rather terrible," she said. "i can't think why he is here. marian so seldom has dull people." "i believe," said the belgian, "that he is some connection of de saulnes'. that explains his presence." he lowered his voice. "you have heard no--news? they have found no trace?" "no," said she. "nothing. nothing at all. i'm rather in despair. it's all so hideously mysterious. i am sure, you know, that something has happened to him. it's--very, very hard. sometimes i think i can't bear it. but i go on. we all go on." baron de vries nodded his head strongly. "that, my dear child, is just what you must do," said he. "you must go on. that is what needs the real courage, and you have courage. i am not afraid for you. and sooner or later you will hear of him--from him. it is impossible nowadays to disappear for very long. you will hear from him." he smiled at her, his slow, grave smile that was not of mirth but of kindness and sympathy and cheer. "and if i may say so," he said, "you are doing very wisely to come out once more among your friends. you can accomplish no good by brooding at home. it is better to live one's normal life--even when it is not easy to do it. i say so who know." the girl touched baron de vries' arm for an instant with her hand--a little gesture that seemed to express thankfulness and trust and affection. "if all my friends were like you!" she said to him. and after that she drew a quick breath as if to have done with these sad matters, and she turned her eyes once more toward the broad room where the other guests stood in little groups, all talking at once, very rapidly and in loud voices. "what extraordinarily cosmopolitan affairs these dinner-parties in new paris are!" she said. "they're like diplomatic parties, only we have a better time and the men don't wear their orders. how many nationalities should you say there are in this room now?" "without stopping to consider," said baron de vries, "i say ten." they counted, and out of fourteen people there were represented nine races. "i don't see richard hartley," miss benham said. "i had an idea he was to be here. ah!" she broke off, looking toward the doorway. "here he comes now!" she said. "he's rather late. who is the spanish-looking man with him, i wonder? he's rather handsome, isn't he?" baron de vries moved a little forward to look, and exclaimed in his turn. he said: "ah, i did not know he was returned to paris. that is ste. marie." miss benham's eyes followed the spanish-looking young man as he made his way through the joyous greetings of friends toward his hostess. "so that is ste. marie!" she said, still watching him. "the famous ste. marie!" she gave a little laugh. "well, i don't wonder at the reputation he bears for--gallantry and that sort of thing. he looks the part, doesn't he?" "ye-es," admitted her friend. "yes, he is sufficiently beau garçon. but--yes--well, that is not all, by any means. you must not get the idea that ste. marie is nothing but a genial and romantic young squire-of-dames. he is much more than that. he has very fine qualities. to be sure, he appears to possess no ambition in particular, but i should be glad if he were my son. he comes of a very old house, and there is no blot upon the history of that house--nothing but faithfulness and gallantry and honor. and there is, i think, no blot upon ste. marie himself. he is fine gold." the girl turned and stared at baron de vries with some astonishment. "you speak very strongly," said she. "i have never heard you speak so strongly of any one, i think." the belgian made a little deprecatory gesture with his two hands, and he laughed. "oh, well, i like the boy. and i should hate to have you meet him for the first time under a misconception. listen, my child! when a young man is loved equally by both men and women, by both old and young, that young man is worthy of friendship and trust. everybody likes ste. marie. in a sense, that is his misfortune. the way is made too easy for him. his friends stand so thick about him that they shut off his view of the heights. to waken ambition in his soul he has need of solitude or misfortune or grief. or," said the elderly belgian, laughing gently--"or perhaps the other thing might do it best--the more obvious thing?" the girl's raised eyebrows questioned him, and when he did not answer, she said: "what thing, then?" "why, love," said baron de vries. "love, to be sure. love is said to work miracles, and i believe that to be a perfectly true saying. ah, he is coming here!" the marquise de saulnes, who was a very pretty little englishwoman with a deceptively doll-like look, approached, dragging ste. marie in her wake. she said: "my dearest dear, i give you of my best. thank me and cherish him! i believe he is to lead you to the place where food is, isn't he?" she beamed over her shoulder and departed, and miss benham found herself confronted by the spanish-looking man. her first thought was that he was not as handsome as he had seemed at a distance, but something much better. for a young man she thought his face was rather oddly weather-beaten, as if he might have been very much at sea, and it was too dark to be entirely pleasing. but she liked his eyes, which were not brown or black, as she had expected, but a very unusual dark gray--a sort of slate color. and she liked his mouth, too, while disapproving of the fierce little upturned mustache which seemed to her a bit operatic. it was her habit--and it is not an unreliable habit--to judge people by their eyes and mouths. ste. marie's mouth pleased her because the lips were neither thin nor thick, they were not drawn into an unpleasant line by unpleasant habits, they did not pout as so many latin lips do, and they had at one corner a humorous expression which she found curiously agreeable. "you are to cherish me," ste. marie said. "orders from headquarters. how does one cherish people?" the corner of his very expressive mouth twitched, and he grinned at her. miss benham did not approve of young men who began an acquaintance in this very familiar manner. she thought that there was a certain preliminary and more formal stage which ought to be got through with first, but ste, marie's grin was irresistible. in spite of herself, she found that she was laughing. "i don't quite know," she said. "it sounds rather appalling, doesn't it? marian has such an extraordinary fashion of hurling people at each other's heads! she takes my breath away at times." "ah, well," said ste. marie, "perhaps we can settle upon something when i've led you to the place where food is. and, by-the-way, what are we waiting for? are we not all here? there's an even number." he broke off with a sudden exclamation of pleasure; and when miss benham turned to look, she found that baron de vries, who had been talking to some friends, had once more come up to where she stood. she watched the greeting between the two men, and its quiet affection impressed her very much. she knew baron de vries well, and she knew that it was not his habit to show or to feel a strong liking for young and idle men. this young man must be very worth while to have won the regard of that wise old belgian. just then hartley, who had been barricaded behind a cordon of friends, came up to her in an abominable temper over his ill luck, and a few moments later the dinner procession was formed and they went in. at table miss benham found herself between ste. marie and the same strange, fair youth who had afflicted her in the drawing-room. she looked upon him now with a sort of dismayed terror, but it developed that there was nothing to fear from the fair youth. he had no attention to waste upon social amenities. he fell upon his food with a wolfish passion extraordinary to see and also--alas!--to hear. miss benham turned from him to meet ste. marie's delighted eye. "tell him for me," begged that gentleman, "that soup should be seen--not heard." but miss benham gave a little shiver of disgust. "i shall tell him nothing whatever," she said. "he's quite too dreadful, really! people shouldn't be exposed to that sort of thing. it's not only the noises. plenty of very charming and estimable germans, for example, make strange noises at table. but he behaves like a famished dog over a bone. i refuse to have anything to do with him. you must make up the loss to me, m. ste. marie. you must be as amusing as two people." she smiled across at him in her gravely questioning fashion. "i'm wondering," she said, "if i dare ask you a very personal question. i hesitate because i don't like people who presume too much upon a short acquaintance--and our acquaintance has been very, very short, hasn't it? even though we may have heard a great deal about each other beforehand. i wonder--" "oh, i should ask it if i were you!" said ste. marie, at once. "i'm an extremely good-natured person. and, besides, i quite naturally feel flattered at your taking interest enough to ask anything about me." "well," said she, "it's this: why does everybody call you just 'ste. marie'? most people are spoken of as monsieur this or that--if there isn't a more august title; but they all call you ste. marie without any monsieur. it seems rather odd." ste. marie looked puzzled. "why," he said, "i don't believe i know, just. i'd never thought of that. it's quite true, of course. they never do use a monsieur or anything, do they? how cheeky of them! i wonder why it is? i'll ask hartley." he did ask hartley later on, and hartley didn't know, either. miss benham asked some other people, who were vague about it, and in the end she became convinced that it was an odd and quite inexplicable form of something like endearment. but nobody seemed to have formulated it to himself. "the name is really 'de ste. marie,'" he went on, "and there's a title that i don't use, and a string of christian names that one never employs. my people were béarnais, and there's a heap of ruins on top of a hill in the pyrenees where they lived. it used to be ste. marie de mont-les-roses, but afterward, after the revolution, they called it ste. marie de mont perdu. my great-grandfather was killed there, but some old servants smuggled his little son away and saved him." he seemed to miss benham to say that in exactly the right manner, not in the cheap and scoffing fashion which some young men affect in speaking of ancestral fortunes or misfortunes, nor with too much solemnity. and when she allowed a little silence to occur at the end, he did not go on with his family history, but turned at once to another subject. it pleased her curiously. the fair youth at her other side continued to crouch over his food, making fierce and animal-like noises. he never spoke or seemed to wish to be spoken to, and miss benham found it easy to ignore him altogether. it occurred to her once or twice that ste. marie's other neighbor might desire an occasional word from him, but, after all, she said to herself that was his affair and beyond her control. so these two talked together through the entire dinner period, and the girl was aware that she was being much more deeply affected by the simple, magnetic charm of a man than ever before in her life. it made her a little angry, because she was unfamiliar with this sort of thing and distrusted it. she was rather a perfect type of that phenomenon before which the british and continental world stands in mingled delight and exasperation--the american unmarried young woman, the creature of extraordinary beauty and still more extraordinary poise, the virgin with the bearing and savoir-faire of a woman of the world, the fresh-cheeked girl with the calm mind of a savante and the cool judgment, in regard to men and things, of an ambassador. the european world says she is cold, and that may be true; but it is well enough known that she can love very deeply. it says that, like most queens, and for precisely the same set of reasons, she later on makes a bad mother; but it is easy to point to queens who are the best of mothers. in short, she remains an enigma, and, like all other enigmas, forever fascinating. miss benham reflected that she knew almost nothing about ste. marie save for his reputation as a carpet knight, and baron de vries' good opinion, which could not be despised. and that made her the more displeased when she realized how promptly she was surrendering to his charm. in a moment of silence she gave a sudden little laugh which seemed to express a half-angry astonishment. "what was that for?" ste. marie demanded. the girl looked at him for an instant and shook her head. "i can't tell you," said she. "that's rude, isn't it? i'm sorry. perhaps i will tell you one day, when we know each other better." but inwardly she was saying: "why, i suppose this is how they all begin--all these regiments of women who make fools of themselves about him! i suppose this is exactly what he does to them all!" it made her angry, and she tried quite unfairly to shift the anger, as it were, to ste. marie--to put him somehow in the wrong. but she was by nature very just, and she could not quite do that, particularly as it was evident that the man was using no cheap tricks. he did not try to flirt with her, and he did not attempt to pay her veiled compliments, though she was often aware that when her attention was diverted for a few moments his eyes were always upon her, and that is a compliment that few women can find it in their hearts to resent. "you say," said ste. marie, "'when we know each other better.' may one twist that into a permission to come and see you--i mean, really see you--not just leave a card at your door to-morrow by way of observing the formalities?" "yes," she said. "oh yes, one may twist it into something like that without straining it unduly, i think. my mother and i shall be very glad to see you. i'm sorry she is not here to-night to say it herself." then the hostess began to gather together her flock, and so the two had no more speech. but when the women had gone and the men were left about the dismantled table, hartley moved up beside ste. marie and shook a sad head at him. he said: "you're a very lucky being. i was quietly hoping, on the way here, that i should be the fortunate man, but you always have all the luck. i hope you're decently grateful." "mon vieux," said ste. marie, "my feet are upon the stars. no!" he shook his head as if the figure displeased him. "no, my feet are upon the ladder to the stars. grateful? what does a foolish word like grateful mean? don't talk to me. you are not worthy to trample among my magnificent thoughts. i am a god upon olympus." "you said just now," objected the other man, practically, "that your feet were on a ladder. there are no ladders from olympus to the stars." "ho!" said ste. marie. "ho! aren't there, though? there shall be ladders all over olympus, if i like. what do you know about gods and stars? i shall be a god climbing to the heavens, and i shall be an angel of light, and i shall be a miserable worm grovelling in the night here below, and i shall be a poet, and i shall be anything else i happen to think of--all of them at once, if i choose. and you shall be the tongue-tied son of perfidious albion that you are, gaping at my splendors from a fog-bank--a november fog-bank in may. who is the desiccated gentleman bearing down upon us?" * * * * * iii ste. marie makes a vow, but a pair of eyes haunt him hartley looked over his shoulder and gave a little exclamation of distaste. "it's captain stewart, miss benham's uncle," he said, lowering his voice. "i'm off. i shall abandon you to him. he's a good old soul, but he bores me." hartley nodded to the man who was approaching, and then made his way to the end of the table, where their host sat discussing aero-club matters with a group of the other men. captain stewart dropped into the vacant chair, saying: "may i recall myself to you, m. ste. marie? we met, i believe, once or twice, a couple of years ago. my name's stewart." captain stewart--the title was vaguely believed to have been borne some years before in the american service, but no one appeared to know much about it--was not an old man. he could not have been, at this time, much more than fifty, but english-speaking acquaintances often called him "old stewart," and others "ce vieux stewart." indeed, at a first glance he might have passed for anything up to sixty, for his face was a good deal more lined and wrinkled than it should have been at his age. ste. marie's adjective had been rather apt. the man had a desiccated appearance. upon examination, however, one saw that the blood was still red in his cheeks and lips, and, although his neck was thin and withered like an old man's, his brown eyes still held their fire. the hair was almost gone from the top of his large, round head, but it remained at the sides--stiff, colorless hair, with a hint of red in it. and there were red streaks in his gray mustache, which was trained outward in two loose tufts, like shaving-brushes. the mustache and the shallow chin under it gave him an odd, catlike appearance. hartley, who rather disliked the man, used to insist that he had heard him mew. ste. marie said something politely non-committal, though he did not at all remember the alleged meeting two years before, and he looked at captain stewart with a real curiosity and interest in his character as miss benham's uncle. he thought it very civil of the elder man to make these friendly advances when it was in no way incumbent upon him to do so. "i noticed," said captain stewart, "that you were placed next my niece, helen benham, at dinner. this must be the first time you two have met, is it not? i remember speaking of you to her some months ago, and i am quite sure she said that she had not met you. ah, yes, of course, you have been away from paris a great deal since she and her mother--her mother is my sister: that is to say, my half-sister--have come here to live with my father." he gave a little gentle laugh. "i take an elderly uncle's privilege," he said, "of being rather proud of helen. she is called very pretty, and she certainly has great poise." ste. marie drew a quick breath, and his eyes began to flash as they had done a few moments before when he told hartley that his feet were upon the ladder to the stars. "miss benham!" he cried. "miss benham is--" he hung poised so for a moment, searching, as it were, for words of sufficient splendor, but in the end he shook his head and the gleam faded from his eyes. he sank back in his chair, sighing. "miss benham," said he, "is extremely beautiful." and again her uncle emitted his little gentle laugh, which may have deceived hartley into believing that he had heard the man mew. the sound was as much like mewing as it was like anything else. "i am very glad," captain stewart said, "to see her come out once more into the world. she needs distraction. we--you may possibly have heard that the family is in great distress of mind over the disappearance of my young nephew. helen has suffered particularly, because she is convinced that the boy has met with foul play. i myself think it very unlikely--very unlikely indeed. the lack of motive, for one thing, and for another--ah, well, a score of reasons! but helen refuses to be comforted. it seems to me much more like a boy's prank--his idea of revenge for what he considered unjust treatment at his grandfather's hands. he was always a headstrong youngster, and he has been a bit spoiled. still, of course, the uncertainty is very trying for us all--very wearing." "of course," said ste. marie, gravely. "it is most unfortunate. ah, by-the-way!" he looked up with a sudden interest. "a rather odd thing happened," he said, "as hartley and i were coming here this evening. we walked up the champs-elysées from the concorde, and on the way hartley had been telling me of your nephew's disappearance. near the rond point we came upon a motor-car which was drawn up at the side of the street--there had been an accident of no consequence, a boy tumbled over but not hurt. well, one of the two occupants of the motor-car was a man whom i used to see about maxim's and the café de paris and the montmartre places, too, some time ago--a rather shady character whose name i've forgotten. the odd part of it all was that on the last occasion or two on which i saw your nephew he was with this man. i think it was in henry's bar. of course, it means nothing at all. your nephew doubtless knew scores of people, and this man is no more likely to have information about his present whereabouts than any of the others. still, i should have liked to ask him. i didn't remember who he was till he had gone." captain stewart shook his head sadly, frowning down upon the cigarette from which he had knocked the ash. "i am afraid poor arthur did not always choose his friends with the best of judgment," said he. "i am not squeamish, and i would not have boys kept in a glass case, but--yes, i'm afraid arthur was not always too careful." he replaced the cigarette neatly between his lips. "this man, now--this man whom you saw to-night--what sort of looking man will he have been?" "oh, a tall, lean man," said ste. marie. "a tall man with blue eyes and a heavy, old-fashioned mustache. i just can't remember the name." the smoke stood still for an instant over captain stewart's cigarette, and it seemed to ste. marie that a little contortion of anger fled across the man's face and was gone again. he stirred slightly in his chair. after a moment he said: "i fancy, from your description--i fancy i know who the man was. if it is the man i am thinking of, the name is--powers. he is, as you have said, a rather shady character, and i more than once warned my nephew against him. such people are not good companions for a boy. yes, i warned him." "powers," said ste. marie, "doesn't sound right to me, you know. i can't say the fellow's name myself, but i'm sure--that is, i think--it's not powers." "oh yes," said captain stewart, with an elderly man's half-querulous certainty. "yes, the name is powers. i remember it well. and i remember--yes, it was odd, was it not, your meeting him like that, just as you were talking of arthur? you--oh, you didn't speak to him, you say? no, no, to be sure! you didn't recognize him at once. yes, it was odd. of course, the man could have had nothing to do with poor arthur's disappearance. his only interest in the boy at any time would have been for what money arthur might have, and he carried none, or almost none, away with him when he vanished. eh, poor lad! where can he be to-night, i wonder? it's a sad business, m. ste. marie--a sad business." captain stewart fell into a sort of brooding silence, frowning down at the table before him, and twisting with his thin ringers the little liqueur glass and the coffee-cup which were there. once or twice, ste. marie thought, the frown deepened and twisted into a sort of scowl, and the man's fingers twitched on the cloth of the table; but when at last the group at the other end of the board rose and began to move towards the door, captain stewart rose also and followed them. at the door he seemed to think of something, and touched ste. marie upon the arm. "this--ah, powers," he said, in a low tone--"this man whom you saw to-night! you said he was one of two occupants of a motor-car. yes? did you by any chance recognize the other?" "oh, the other was a young woman," said ste. marie. "no, i never saw her before. she was very handsome." captain stewart said something under his breath and turned abruptly away. but an instant later he faced about once more, smiling. he said, in a man-of-the-world manner, which sat rather oddly upon him: "ah, well, we all have our little love-affairs. i dare say this shady fellow has his." and for some obscure reason ste. marie found the speech peculiarly offensive. in the drawing-room he had opportunity for no more than a word with miss benham, for hartley, enraged over his previous ill success, cut in ahead of him and manoeuvred that young lady into a corner, where he sat before her, turning a square and determined back to the world. ste. marie listlessly played bridge for a time, but his attention was not upon it, and he was glad when the others at the table settled their accounts and departed to look in at a dance somewhere. after that he talked for a little with marian de saulnes, whom he liked and who made no secret of adoring him. she complained loudly that he was in a vile temper, which was not true; he was only restless and distrait and wanted to be alone; and so, at last, he took his leave without waiting for hartley. outside, in the street, he stood for a moment, hesitating, and an expectant fiacre drew up before the house, the cocher raising an interrogative whip. in the end ste. marie shook his head and turned away on foot. it was a still, sweet night of soft airs, and a moonless, starlit sky, and the man was very fond of walking in the dark. from the etoile he walked down the champs-elysées, but presently turned toward the river. his eyes were upon the mellow stars, his feet upon the ladder thereunto. he found himself crossing the pont des invalides, and halted midway to rest and look. he laid his arms upon the bridge's parapet and turned his face outward. against it bore a little gentle breeze that smelled of the purifying water below and of the night and of green things growing. beneath him the river ran black as flowing ink, and across its troubled surface the many-colored lights of the many bridges glittered very beautifully, swirling arabesques of gold and crimson. the noises of the city--beat of hoofs upon wooden pavements, horn of train or motor-car, jingle of bell upon cab-horse--came here faintly and as if from a great distance. above the dark trees of the cours la reine the sky glowed, softly golden, reflecting the million lights of paris. ste. marie closed his eyes, and against darkness he saw the beautiful head of helen benham, the clear-cut, exquisite modelling of feature and contour, the perfection of form and color. her eyes met his eyes, and they were very serene and calm and confident. she smiled at him, and the new contours into which her face fell with the smile were more perfect than before. he watched the turn of her head, and the grace of the movement was the uttermost effortless grace one dreams that a queen should have. the heart of ste. marie quickened in him, and he would have gone down upon his knees. he was well aware that with the coming of this girl something unprecedented, wholly new to his experience, had befallen him--an awakening to a new life. he had been in love a very great many times. he was usually in love. and each time his heart had gone through the same sweet and bitter anguish, the same sleepless nights had come and gone upon him, the eternal and ever new miracle had wakened spring in his soul, had passed its summer solstice, had faded through autumnal regrets to winter's death; but through it all something within him had waited asleep. he found himself wondering dully what it was--wherein lay the great difference?--and he could not answer the question he asked. he knew only that whereas before he had loved, he now went down upon prayerful knees to worship. in a sudden poignant thrill the knightly fervor of his forefathers came upon him, and he saw a sweet and golden lady set far above him upon a throne. her clear eyes gazed afar, serene and untroubled. she sat wrapped in a sort of virginal austerity, unaware of the base passions of men. the other women whom ste. marie had--as he was pleased to term it--loved had certainly come at least half-way to meet him, and some of them had come a good deal farther than that. he could not, by the wildest flight of imagination, conceive this girl doing anything of that sort. she was to be won by trial and high endeavor, by prayer and self-purification--not captured by a warm eye-glance, a whispered word, a laughing kiss. in fancy he looked from the crowding cohorts of these others to that still, sweet figure set on high, wrapped in virginal austerity, calm in her serene perfection, and his soul abased itself before her. he knelt in an awed and worshipful adoration. so before quest or tournament or battle must those elder ste. maries--ste. maries de mont-les-roses---have knelt, each knight at the feet of his lady, each knightly soul aglow with the chaste ardor of chivalry. the man's hands tightened upon the parapet of the bridge, he lifted his face again to the shining stars where-among, as his fancy had it, she sat enthroned. exultingly he felt under his feet the rungs of the ladder, and in the darkness he swore a great oath to have done forever with blindness and grovelling, to climb and climb, forever to climb, until at last he should stand where she was--cleansed and made worthy by long endeavor--at last meet her eyes and touch her hand. it was a fine and chivalric frenzy, and ste. marie was passionately in earnest about it, but his guardian angel--indeed, fate herself--must have laughed a little in the dark, knowing what manner of man he was in less exalted hours. it was an odd freak of memory that at last recalled him to earth. every man knows that when a strong and, for the moment, unavailing effort has been made to recall something lost to mind, the memory, in some mysterious fashion, goes on working long after the attention has been elsewhere diverted, and sometimes hours afterward, or even days, produces quite suddenly and inappropriately the lost article. ste. marie had turned, with a little sigh, to take up, once more, his walk across the pont des invalides, when seemingly from nowhere, and certainly by no conscious effort, a name flashed into his mind. he said it aloud: "o'hara! o'hara! that tall, thin chap's name was o'hara, by jove! it wasn't powers at all!" he laughed a little as he remembered how very positive captain stewart had been. and then he frowned, thinking that the mistake was an odd one, since stewart had evidently known a good deal about this adventurer. captain stewart, though, ste. marie reflected, was exactly the sort to be very sure he was right about things. he had just the neat and precise and semi-scholarly personality of the man who always knows. so ste. marie dismissed the matter with another brief laugh, but a cognate matter was less easy to dismiss. the name brought with it a face--a dark and splendid face with tragic eyes that called. he walked a long way thinking about them and wondering. the eyes haunted him. it will have been reasonably evident that ste. marie was a fanciful and imaginative soul. he needed but a chance word, the sight of a face in a crowd, the glance of an eye, to begin story-building, and he would go on for hours about it and work himself up to quite a passion with his imaginings. he should have been a writer of fiction. he began forthwith to construct romances about this lady of the motor-car. he wondered why she should have been with the shady irishman--if irishman he was--o'hara, and with some anxiety he wondered what the two were to each other. captain stewart's little cynical jest came to his mind, and he was conscious of a sudden desire to kick miss benham's middle-aged uncle. the eyes haunted him. what was it they suffered? out of what misery did they call--and for what? he walked all the long way home to his little flat overlooking the luxembourg gardens, haunted by those eyes. as he climbed his stair it suddenly occurred to him that they had quite driven out of his mind the image of his beautiful lady who sat among the stars, and the realization came to him with a shock. * * * * * iv old david stewart it was miss benham's custom, upon returning home at night from dinner-parties or other entertainments, to look in for a few minutes on her grandfather before going to bed. the old gentleman, like most elderly people, slept lightly, and often sat up in bed very late into the night, reading or playing piquet with his valet. he suffered hideously at times from the malady which was killing him by degrees, but when he was free from pain the enormous recuperative power, which he had preserved to his eighty-sixth year, left him almost as vigorous and clear-minded as if he had never been ill at all. hartley's description of him had not been altogether a bad one: "a quaint old beggar... a great quantity of white hair and an enormous square white beard and the fiercest eyes i ever saw..." he was a rather "quaint old beggar," indeed! he had let his thick, white hair grow long, and it hung down over his brows in unparted locks as the ancient greeks wore their hair. he had very shaggy eyebrows, and the deep-set eyes under them gleamed from the shadow with a fierceness which was rather deceptive but none the less intimidating. he had a great beak of a nose, but the mouth below could not be seen. it was hidden by the mustache and the enormous square beard. his face was colorless, almost as white as hair and beard; there seemed to be no shadow or tint anywhere except the cavernous recesses from which the man's eyes gleamed and sparkled. altogether he was certainly "a quaint old beggar." he had, during the day and evening, a good many visitors, for the old gentleman's mind was as alert as it ever had been, and important men thought him worth consulting. the names which the admirable valet peters announced from time to time were names which meant a great deal in the official and diplomatic world of the day. but if old david felt flattered over the unusual fashion in which the great of the earth continued to come to him, he never betrayed it. indeed, it is quite probable that this view of the situation never once occurred to him. he had been thrown with the great of the earth for more than half a century, and he had learned to take it as a matter of course. on her return from the marquise de saulnes' dinner-party, miss benham went at once to her grandfather's wing of the house, which had its own street entrance, and knocked lightly at his door. she asked the admirable peters, who opened to her, "is he awake?" and being assured that he was, went into the vast chamber, dropping her cloak on a chair as she entered. david stewart was sitting up in his monumental bed behind a sort of invalid's table which stretched across his knees without touching them. he wore over his night-clothes a chinese mandarin's jacket of old red satin, wadded with down, and very gorgeously embroidered with the cloud and bat designs, and with large round panels of the imperial five-clawed dragon in gold. he had a number of these jackets--they seemed to be his one vanity in things external--and they were so made that they could be slipped about him without disturbing him in his bed, since they hung down only to the waist or thereabouts. they kept the upper part of his body, which was not covered by the bedclothes, warm, and they certainly made him a very impressive figure. he said: "ah, helen! come in! come in! sit down on the bed there and tell me what you have been doing!" he pushed aside the pack of cards which was spread out on the invalid's table before him, and with great care counted a sum of money in francs and half-francs and nickel twenty-five centime pieces. "i've won seven francs fifty from peters to-night," he said, chuckling gently. "that is a very good evening, indeed. very good! where have you been, and who were there?" "a dinner-party at the de saulnes'," said miss benham, making herself comfortable on the side of the great bed. "it's a very pleasant place. marian is, of course, a dear, and they're quite english and unceremonious. you can talk to your neighbor at dinner instead of addressing the house from a platform, as it were. french dinner-parties make me nervous." old david gave a little growling laugh. "french dinner-parties at least keep people up to the mark in the art of conversation," said he. "but that is a lost art, anyhow, nowadays, so i suppose one might as well be quite informal and have done with it. who were there?" "oh, well"--she considered, "no one, i should think, who would interest you. rather an indifferent set. pleasant people, but not inspiring. the marquis had some young relative or connection who was quite odious and made the most surprising noises over his food. i met a new man whom i think i am going to like very much, indeed. he wouldn't interest you, because he doesn't mean anything in particular, and of course he oughtn't to interest me for the same reason. he's just an idle, pleasant young man, but--he has great charm--very great charm. his name is ste. marie. baron de vries seems very fond of him, which surprised me, rather." "ste. marie!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in obvious astonishment. "ste. marie de mont perdu?" "yes," she said. "yes, that is the name, i believe. you know him, then? i wonder he didn't mention it." "i knew his father," said old david. "and his grandfather, for that matter. they're gascon, i think, or béarnais; but this boy's mother will have been irish, unless his father married again. "so you've been meeting a ste. marie, have you?--and finding that he has great charm?" the old gentleman broke into one of his growling laughs, and reached for a long black cigar, which he lighted, eying his granddaughter the while over the flaring match. "well," he said, when the cigar was drawing, "they all have had charm. i should think there has never been a ste. marie without it. they're a sort of embodiment of romance, that family. this boy's great-grandfather lost his life defending a castle against a horde of peasants in 1799; his grandfather was killed in the french campaign in mexico in '39--at vera cruz it was, i think; and his father died in a filibustering expedition ten years ago. i wonder what will become of the last ste. marie?" old david's eyes suddenly sharpened. "you're not going to fall in love with ste. marie and marry him, are you?" he demanded. miss benham gave a little angry laugh, but her grandfather saw the color rise in her cheeks for all that. "certainly not," she said, with great decision, "what an absurd idea! because i meet a man at a dinner-party and say i like him, must i marry him to-morrow? i meet a great many men at dinners and things, and a few of them i like. heavens!" "'methinks the lady doth protest too much,'" muttered old david into his huge beard. "i beg your pardon?" asked miss benham, politely. but he shook his head, still growling inarticulately, and began to draw enormous clouds of smoke from the long black cigar. after a time he took the cigar once more from his lips and looked thoughtfully at his granddaughter, where she sat on the edge of the vast bed, upright and beautiful, perfect in the most meticulous detail. most women when they return from a long evening out look more or less the worse for it--deadened eyes, pale cheeks, loosened coiffure tell their inevitable tale. miss benham looked as if she had just come from the hands of a very excellent maid. she looked as freshly soignée as she might have looked at eight that evening instead of at one. not a wave of her perfectly undulated hair was loosened or displaced, not a fold of the lace at her breast had departed from its perfect arrangement. "it is odd," said old david stewart, "your taking a fancy to young ste. marie. of course, it's natural, too, in a way, because you are complete opposites, i should think--that is, if this lad is like the rest of his race. what i mean is that merely attractive young men don't, as a rule, attract you." "well, no," she admitted, "they don't usually. men with brains attract me most, i think--men who are making civilization, men who are ruling the world, or at least doing important things for it. that's your fault, you know. you taught me that." the old gentleman laughed. "possibly," said he. "possibly. anyhow, that is the sort of men you like, and they like you. you're by no means a fool, helen; in fact, you're a woman with brains. you could wield great influence married to the proper sort of man." "but not to m. ste. marie," she suggested, smiling across at him. "well, no," he said. "no, not to ste. marie. it would be a mistake to marry ste. marie--if he is what the rest of his house have been. the ste. maries live a life compounded of romance and imagination and emotion. you're not emotional." "no," said miss benham, slowly and thoughtfully. it was as if the idea were new to her. "no, i'm not, i suppose. no. certainly not." "as a matter of fact," said old david, "you're by nature rather cold. i'm not sure it isn't a good thing. emotional people, i observe, are usually in hot water of some sort. when you marry you're very likely to choose with a great deal of care and some wisdom. and you're also likely to have what is called a career. i repeat that you could wield great influence in the proper environment." the girl frowned across at her grandfather reflectively. "do you mean by that," she asked, after a little silence--"do you mean that you think i am likely to be moved by sheer ambition and nothing else in arranging my life? i've never thought of myself as a very ambitious person." "let us substitute for ambition common-sense," said old david. "i think you have a great deal of common-sense for a woman--and so young a woman. how old are you by-the-way? twenty-two? yes, to be sure. i think you have great common-sense and appreciation of values. and i think you're singularly free of the emotionalism that so often plays hob with them all. people with common-sense fall in love in the right places." "i don't quite like the sound of it," said miss benham. "perhaps i am rather ambitious--i don't know. yes, perhaps. i should like to play some part in the world, i don't deny that. but--am i as cold as you say? i doubt it very much. i doubt that." "you're twenty-two," said her grandfather, "and you have seen a good deal of society in several capitals. have you ever fallen in love?" oddly, the face of ste. marie came before miss benham's eyes as if she had summoned it there. but she frowned a little and shook her head, saying: "no, i can't say that i have. but that means nothing. there's plenty of time for that. and you know," she said, after a pause--"you know i'm rather sure i could fall in love--pretty hard. i'm sure of that. perhaps i have been waiting. who knows?" "aye, who knows?" said david. he seemed all at once to lose interest in the subject, as old people often do without apparent reason, for he remained silent for a long time, puffing at the long black cigar or rolling it absently between his fingers. after awhile he laid it down in a metal dish which stood at his elbow, and folded his lean hands before him over the invalid's table. he was still so long that at last his granddaughter thought he had fallen asleep, and she began to rise from her seat, taking care to make no noise; but at that the old man stirred and put out his hand once more for the cigar. "was young richard hartley at your dinner-party?" he asked, and she said: "yes. oh yes, he was there. he and m. ste. marie came together, i believe. they are very close friends." "another idler," growled old david. "the fellow's a man of parts--and a man of family. what's he idling about here for? why isn't he in parliament, where he belongs?" "well," said the girl, "i should think it is because he is too much a man of family--as you put it. you see, he'll succeed his cousin, lord risdale, before very long, and then all his work would have been for nothing, because he'll have to take his seat in the lords. lord risdale is unmarried, you know, and a hopeless invalid. he may die any day. i think i sympathize with poor mr. hartley. it would be a pity to build up a career for one's self in the lower house, and then suddenly, in the midst of it, have to give it all up. the situation is rather paralyzing to endeavor, isn't it?" "yes, i dare say," said old david, absently. he looked up sharply. "young hartley doesn't come here as much as he used to do." "no," said miss benham, "he doesn't." she gave a little laugh. "to avoid cross-examination," she said, "i may as well admit that he asked me to marry him and i had to refuse. i'm sorry, because i like him very much, indeed." old david made an inarticulate sound which may have been meant to express surprise--or almost anything else. he had not a great range of expression. "i don't want," said he, "to seem to have gone daft on the subject of marriage, and i see no reason why you should be in any haste about it. certainly i should hate to lose you, my child, but--hartley as the next lord risdale is undoubtedly a good match. and you say you like him." the girl looked up with a sort of defiance, and her face was a little flushed. "i don't love him," she said. "i like him immensely, but i don't love him, and, after all--well, you say i'm cold, and i admit i'm more or less ambitious, but, after all--well, i just don't quite love him. i want to love the man i marry." old david stewart held up his black cigar and gazed thoughtfully at the smoke which streamed thin and blue and veil-like from its lighted end. "love!" he said, in a reflective tone. "love!" he repeated the word two or three times slowly, and he stirred a little in his bed. "i have forgotten what it is," said he. "i expect i must be very old. i have forgotten what love--that sort of love--is like. it seems very far away to me and rather unimportant. but i remember that i thought it important enough once, a century or two ago. do you know, it strikes me as rather odd that i have forgotten what love is like. it strikes me as rather pathetic." he gave a sort of uncouth grimace and stuck the black cigar once more into his mouth. "egad!" said he, mumbling indistinctly over the cigar, "how foolish love seems when you look back at it across fifty or sixty years!" miss benham rose to her feet smiling, and she came and stood near where the old man lay propped up against his pillows. she touched his cheek with her cool hand, and old david put up one of his own hands and patted it. "i'm going to bed now," said she. "i've sat here talking too long. you ought to be asleep, and so ought i." "perhaps! perhaps!" the old man said. "i don't feel sleepy, though. i dare say i shall read a little." he held her hand in his and looked up at her. "i've been talking a great deal of nonsense about marriage," said he. "put it out of your head! it's all nonsense. i don't want you to marry for a long time. i don't want to lose you." his face twisted a little, quite suddenly. "you're precious near all i have left, now," he said. the girl did not answer at once, for it seemed to her that there was nothing to say. she knew that her grandfather was thinking of the lost boy, and she knew what a bitter blow the thing had been to him. she often thought that it would kill him before his old malady could run its course. but after a moment she said, very gently: "we won't give up hope. we'll never give up hope. think! he might come home to-morrow! who knows?" "if he has stayed away of his own accord," cried out old david stewart, in a loud voice, "i'll never forgive him--not if he comes to me to-morrow on his knees! not even if he comes to me on his knees!" the girl bent over her grandfather, saying: "hush! hush! you mustn't excite yourself." but old david's gray face was working, and his eyes gleamed from their cavernous shadows with a savage fire. "if the boy is staying away out of spite," he repeated, "he need never come back to me. i won't forgive him." he beat his unemployed hand upon the table before him, and the things which lay there jumped and danced. "and if he waits until i'm dead and then comes back," said he, "he'll find he has made a mistake--a great mistake. he'll find a surprise in store for him, i can tell you that. i won't tell you what i have done, but it will be a disagreeable surprise for master arthur, you may be sure." the old gentleman fell to frowning and muttering in his choleric fashion, but the fierce glitter began to go out of his eyes and his hands ceased to tremble and clutch at the things before him. the girl was silent, because again there seemed to her to be nothing that she could say. she longed very much to plead her brother's cause, but she was sure that would only excite her grandfather, and he was growing quieter after his burst of anger. she bent down over him and kissed his cheek. "try to go to sleep," she said. "and don't torture yourself with thinking about all this. i'm as sure that poor arthur is not staying away out of spite as if he were myself. he's foolish and headstrong, but he's not spiteful, dear. try to believe that. and now i'm really going. good-night." she kissed him again and slipped out of the room. and as she closed the door she heard her grandfather pull the bell-cord which hung beside him and summoned the excellent peters from the room beyond. * * * * * v jason sets forth upon the great adventure miss benham stood at one of the long drawing-room windows of the house in the rue de l'université, and looked out between the curtains upon the rather grimy little garden, where a few not very prosperous cypresses and chestnuts stood guard over the rows of lilac shrubs and the box-bordered flower-beds and the usual moss-stained fountain. she was thinking of the events of the past month, the month which had elapsed since the evening of the de saulnes' dinner-party. they were not at all startling events; in a practical sense there were no events at all, only a quiet sequence of affairs which was about as inevitable as the night upon the day--the day upon the night again. in a word, this girl, who had considered herself very strong and very much the mistress of her feelings, found, for the first time in her life, that her strength was as nothing at all against the potent charm and magnetism of a man who had almost none of the qualities she chiefly admired in men. during the month's time she had passed from a phase of angry self-scorn through a period of bewilderment not unmixed with fear, and from that she had come into an unknown world, a land very strange to her, where old standards and judgments seemed to be valueless--a place seemingly ruled altogether by new emotions, sweet and thrilling, or full of vague terrors as her mood veered here or there. that sublimated form of guesswork which is called "woman's intuition" told her that ste. marie would come to her on this afternoon, and that something in the nature of a crisis would have to be faced. it can be proved even by poor masculine mathematics that guesswork, like other gambling ventures, is bound to succeed about half the time, and it succeeded on this occasion. even as miss benham stood at the window looking out through the curtains, m. ste. marie was announced from the doorway. she turned to meet him with a little frown of determination, for in his absence she was often very strong, indeed, and sometimes she made up and rehearsed little speeches of great dignity and decision in which she told him that he was attempting a quite hopeless thing, and, as a well-wishing friend, advised him to go away and attempt it no longer. but as ste. marie came quickly across the room toward her, the little frown wavered and at last fled from her face and another look came there. it was always so. the man's bodily presence exerted an absolute spell over her. "i have been sitting with your grandfather for half an hour," ste. marie said. and she said: "oh, i'm glad! i'm very glad! you always cheer him up. he hasn't been too cheerful or too well of late." she unnecessarily twisted a chair about, and after a moment sat down in it. and she gave a little laugh. "this friendship which has grown up between my grandfather and you," said she--"i don't understand it at all. of course, he knew your father and all that; but you two seem such very different types, i shouldn't think you would amuse each other at all. there's mr. hartley, for example. i should expect my grandfather to like him very much better than you, but he doesn't--though i fancy he approves of him much more." she laughed again, but a different laugh; and when he heard it ste. marie's eyes gleamed a little and his hands moved beside him. "i expect," said she--"i expect, you know, that he just likes you without stopping to think why--as everybody else does. i fancy it's just that. what do you think?" "oh, i?" said the man. "i--how should i know? i know it's a great privilege to be allowed to see him--such a man as that. and i know we get on wonderfully well. he doesn't condescend, as most old men do who have led important lives. we just talk as two men in a club might talk, and i tell him stories and make him laugh. oh yes, we get on wonderfully well." "oh," said she, "i've often wondered what you talk about. what did you talk about to-day?" ste. marie turned abruptly away from her and went across to one of the windows--the window where she had stood earlier, looking out upon the dingy garden. she saw him stand there, with his back turned, the head a little bent, the hands twisting together behind him, and a sudden fit of nervous shivering wrung her. every woman knows when a certain thing is going to be said to her, and usually she is prepared for it, though usually, also, she says she is not. miss benham knew what was coming now, and she was frightened, not of ste. marie, but of herself. it meant so very much to her--more than to most women at such a time. it meant, if she said yes to him, the surrender of almost all the things she had cared for and hoped for. it meant the giving up of that career which old david stewart had dwelt upon a month ago. ste. marie turned back into the room. he came a little way toward where the girl sat, and halted, and she could see that he was very pale. a sort of critical second self noticed that he was pale and was surprised, because, although men's faces often turn red, they seldom turn noticeably pale except in very great nervous crises--or in works of fiction; while women, on the contrary, may turn red and white twenty times a day, and no harm done. he raised his hands a little way from his sides in the beginning of a gesture, but they dropped again as if there was no strength in them. "i told him," said ste. marie, in a flat voice--"i told your grandfather that i--loved you more than anything in this world or in the next. i told him that my love for you had made another being of me--a new being. i told him that i wanted to come to you and to kneel at your feet, and to ask you if you could give me just a little, little hope--something to live for, a light to climb toward. that is what we talked about, your grandfather and i." "ste. marie! ste. marie!" said the girl, in a half whisper. "what did my grandfather say to you?" she asked, after a silence. ste. marie looked away. "i cannot tell you," he said. "he--was not quite sympathetic." the girl gave a little cry. "tell me what he said!" she demanded. "i must know what he said." the man's eyes pleaded with her, but she held him with her gaze, and in the end he gave in. "he said i was a damned fool," said ste. marie. and the girl, after an instant of staring, broke into a little fit of nervous, overwrought laughter, and covered her face with her hands. he threw himself upon his knees before her, and her laughter died away. an englishman or an american cannot do that. richard hartley, for example, would have looked like an idiot upon his knees, and he would have felt it. but it did not seem extravagant with ste. marie. it became him. "listen! listen!" he cried to her, but the girl checked him before he could go on. she dropped her hands from her face, and she bent a little forward over the man as he knelt there. she put out her hands and took his head for a swift instant between them, looking down into his eyes. at the touch a sudden wave of tenderness swept her--almost an engulfing wave; it almost overwhelmed her and bore her away from the land she knew. and so when she spoke her voice was not quite steady. she said: "ah, dear ste. marie! i cannot pretend to be cold toward you. you have laid a spell upon me, ste. marie. you enchant us all, somehow, don't you? i suppose i'm not so different from the others as i thought i was. and yet," she said, "he was right, you know. my grandfather was right. no, let me talk, now. i must talk for a little. i must try to tell you how it is with me--try somehow to find a way. he was right. he meant that you and i were utterly unsuited to each other, and so, in calm moments, i know we are. i know that well enough. when you're not with me, i feel very sure about it. i think of a thousand excellent reasons why you and i ought to be no more to each other than friends. do you know, i think my grandfather is a little uncanny. i think he has prophetic powers. they say very old people often have. he and i talked about you when i came home from that dinner-party at the de saulnes', a month ago--the dinner-party where you and i first met. i told him that i had met a man whom i liked very much--a man with great charm; and though i must have said the same sort of thing to him before about other men, he was quite oddly disturbed, and talked for a long time about it--about the sort of man i ought to marry and the sort i ought not to marry. it was unusual for him. he seldom says anything of that kind. yes, he is right. you see, i'm ambitious in a particular way. if i marry at all i ought to marry a man who is working hard in politics or in something of that kind. i could help him. we could do a great deal together." "i could go into politics!" cried ste. marie; but she shook her head, smiling down upon him. "no, not you, my dear. politics least of all. you could be a soldier, if you chose. you could fight as your father and your grandfather and the others of your house have done. you could lead a forlorn hope in the field. you could suffer and starve and go on fighting. you could die splendidly, but--politics, no! that wants a tougher shell than you have. and a soldier's wife! of what use to him is she?" ste. marie's face was very grave. he looked up to her, smiling. "do you set ambition before love, my queen?" he asked, and she did not answer him at once. she looked into his eyes, and she was as grave as he. "is love all?" she said, at last. "is love all? ought one to think of nothing but love when one is settling one's life forever? i wonder? i look about me, ste. marie," she said, "and in the lives of my friends--the people who seem to me to be most worth while, the people who are making the world's history for good or ill--and it seems to me that in their lives love has the second place--or the third. i wonder if one has the right to set it first. there is, of course," she said, "the merely domestic type of woman--the woman who has no thought and no interest beyond her home. i am not that type of woman. perhaps i wish i were. certainly they are the happiest. but i was brought up among--well, among important people--men of my grandfather's kind. all my training has been toward that life. have i the right, i wonder, to give it all up?" the man stirred at her feet, and she put out her hands to him quickly. "do i seem brutal?" she cried. "oh, i don't want to be! do i seem very ungenerous and wrapped up in my own side of the thing? i don't mean to be that, but--i'm not sure. i expect it's that. i'm not sure, and i think i'm a little frightened." she gave him a brief, anxious smile that was not without its tenderness. "i'm so sure," she said, "when i'm away from you. but when you're here--oh, i forget all i've thought of. you lay your spell upon me." ste. marie gave a little wordless cry of joy. he caught her two hands in his and held them against his lips. again that great wave of tenderness swept her, almost engulfing. but when it had ebbed she sank back once more in her chair, and she withdrew her hands from his clasp. "you make me forget too much," she said. "i think you make me forget everything that i ought to remember. oh, ste. marie, have i any right to think of love and happiness while this terrible mystery is upon us--while we don't know whether poor arthur is alive or dead? you've seen what it has brought my grandfather to! it is killing him. he has been much worse in the past fortnight. and my mother is hardly a ghost of herself in these days. ah, it is brutal of me to think of my own affairs--to dream of happiness at such a time." she smiled across at him very sadly. "you see what you have brought me to!" she said. ste. marie rose to his feet. if miss benham, absorbed in that warfare which raged within her, had momentarily forgotten the cloud of sorrow under which her household lay, so much the more had he, to whom the sorrow was less intimate, forgotten it. but he was ever swift to sympathy, ste. marie--as quick as a woman, and as tender. he could not thrust his love upon the girl at such a time as this. he turned a little away from her, and so remained for a moment. when he faced about again the flush had gone from his cheeks and the fire from his eyes. only tenderness was left there. "there has been no news at all this week?" he asked, and the girl shook her head. "none! none! shall we ever have news of him, i wonder? must we go on always and never know? it seems to me almost incredible that any one could disappear so completely. and yet, i dare say, many people have done it before and have been as carefully sought for. if only i could believe that he is alive! if only i could believe that!" "i believe it," said ste. marie. "ah," she said, "you say that to cheer me. you have no reason to offer." "dead bodies very seldom disappear completely," said he. "if your brother died anywhere there would be a record of the death. if he were accidentally killed there would be a record of that, too; and, of course, you are having all such records constantly searched?" "oh yes," she said. "yes, of course--at least, i suppose so. my uncle has been directing the search. of course, he would take an obvious precaution like that." "naturally," said ste. marie. "your uncle, i should say, is an unusually careful man." he paused a moment to smile. "he makes his little mistakes, though. i told you about that man o'hara, and about how sure captain stewart was that the name was powers. do you know"--ste. marie had been walking up and down the room, but he halted to face her--"do you know, i have a very strong feeling that if one could find this man o'hara, one would learn something about what became of your brother? i have no reason for thinking that, but i feel it." "oh," said the girl, doubtfully, "i hardly think that could be so. what motive could the man have for harming my brother?" "none," said ste. marie; "but he might have an excellent motive for hiding him away--kidnapping him. is that the word? yes, i know, you're going to say that no demand has been made for money, and that is where my argument--if i can call it an argument--is weak. but the fellow may be biding his time. anyhow, i should like to have five minutes alone with him. i'll tell you another thing. it's a trifle, and it may be of no consequence, but i add it to my vague and--if you like--foolish feeling, and make something out of it. i happened, some days ago, to meet at the café de paris a man who i knew used to know this o'hara. he was not, i think, a friend of his at all, but an acquaintance. i asked him what had become of o'hara, saying that i hadn't seen him in some weeks. well, this man said o'hara had gone away somewhere a couple of months ago. he didn't seem at all surprised, for it appears the irishman--if he is an irishman--is decidedly a haphazard sort of person, here to-day, gone to-morrow. no, the man wasn't surprised, but he was rather angry, because he said o'hara owed him some money. i said i thought he must be mistaken about the fellow's absence, because i'd seen him in the street within the month--on the evening of our dinner-party, you remember--but this man was very sure that i had made a mistake. he said that if o'hara had been in town he was sure to have known it. well, the point is here. your brother disappears at a certain time. at the same time this irish adventurer disappears, too, _and_ your brother was known to have frequented the irishman's company. it may be only a coincidence, but i can't help feeling that there's something in it." miss benham was sitting up straight in her chair with a little alert frown. "have you spoken of this to my uncle?" she demanded. "well--no," said ste. marie. "not the latter part of it--that is, not my having heard of o'hara's disappearance. in the first place, i learned of that only three days ago, and i have not seen captain stewart since--i rather expected to find him here to-day; and, in the second place, i was quite sure that he would only laugh. he has laughed at me two or three times for suggesting that this irishman might know something. captain stewart is--not easy to convince, you know." "i know," she said, looking away. "he's always very certain that he's right. well, perhaps he is right. who knows?" she gave a little sob. "oh!" she cried, "shall we ever have my brother back? shall we ever see him again? it is breaking my heart, ste. marie, and it is killing my grandfather and, i think, my mother, too! oh, can nothing be done?" ste. marie was walking up and down the floor before her, his hands clasped behind his back. when she had finished speaking the girl saw him halt beside one of the windows, and after a moment she saw his head go up sharply and she heard him give a sudden cry. she thought he had seen something from the window which had wrung that exclamation from him, and she asked: "what is it?" but abruptly the man turned back into the room and came across to where she sat. it seemed to her that his face had a new look--a very strange exaltation which she had never before seen there. he said: "listen! i do not know if anything can be done that has not been done already, but if there is anything i shall do it, you may be sure." "_you_, ste. marie?" she cried, in a sharp voice. "_you?_" "and why not i?" he demanded. "oh, my friend," said she, "you could do nothing! you wouldn't know where to turn, how to set to work. remember that a score of men who are skilled in this kind of thing have been searching for two months. what could you do that they haven't done?" "i do not know, my queen," said ste. marie, "but i shall do what i can. who knows? sometimes the fool who rushes in where angels have feared to tread succeeds where they have failed. oh, let me do this!" he cried out. "let me do it for both our sakes--for yours and for mine! it is for your sake most. i swear that! it is to set you at peace again, bring back the happiness you have lost. but it is for my sake, too, a little. it will be a test of me, a trial. if i can succeed here where so many have failed, if i bring back your brother to you--or, at least, discover what has become of him--i shall be able to come to you with less shame for my--unworthiness." he looked down upon her with eager, burning eyes, and, after a little, the girl rose to face him. she was very white, and she stared at him silently. "when i came to you to-day," he went on, "i knew that i had nothing to offer you but my faithful love and my life, which has been a life without value. in exchange for that i asked too much. i knew it, and you knew it, too. i know well enough what sort of man you ought to marry, and what a brilliant career you could make for yourself in the proper place--what great influence you could wield. but i asked you to give that all up, and i hadn't anything to offer in its place--nothing but love. my queen, give me a chance now to offer you more! if i can bring back your brother or news of him, i can come to you without shame and ask you to marry me, because if i can succeed in that you will know that i can succeed in other things. you will be able to trust me. you'll know that i can climb. it shall be a sort of symbol. let me go!" the girl broke into a sort of sobbing laughter. "oh, divine madman!" she cried. "are you all mad, you ste. maries, that you must be forever leading forlorn hopes? oh, how you are, after all, a ste. marie! now, at last, i know why one cannot but love you. you're the knight of old. you're chivalry come down to us. you're a ghost out of the past when men rode in armor with pure hearts seeking the great adventure. oh, my friend," she said, "be wise. give this up in time. it is a beautiful thought, and i love you for it, but it is madness--yes, yes, a sweet madness, but mad, nevertheless! what possible chance would you have of success? and think--think how failure would hurt you--and me! you must not do it, ste. marie." "failure will never hurt me, my queen," said he, "because there are no hurts in the grave, and i shall never give over searching until i succeed or until i am dead." his face was uplifted, and there was a sort of splendid fervor upon it. it was as if it shone. the girl stared at him dumbly. she began to realize that the knightly spirit of those gallant, long dead gentlemen was indeed descended upon the last of their house, that he burnt with the same pure fire which had long ago lighted them through quest and adventure, and she was a little afraid with an almost superstitious fear. she put out her hands upon the man's shoulders, and she moved a little closer to him, holding him. "oh, madness, madness!" she said, watching his face. "let me do it!" said ste. marie. and after a silence that seemed to endure for a long time, she sighed, shaking her head, and said she: "oh, my friend, there is no strength in me to stop you. i think we are both a little mad, and i know that you are very mad, but i cannot say no. you seem to have come out of another century to take up this quest. how can i prevent you? but listen to one thing. if i accept this sacrifice, if i let you give your time and your strength to this almost hopeless attempt, it must be understood that it is to be within certain limits. i will not accept any indefinite thing. you may give your efforts to trying to find trace of my brother for a month if you like, or for three months, or six, or even a year, but not for more than that. if he is not found in a year's time we shall know that--we shall know that he is dead, and that--further search is useless. i cannot say how i--oh, ste. marie, ste. marie, this is a proof of you, indeed! and i have called you idle. i have said hard things of you. it is very bitter to me to think that i have said those things." "they were true, my queen," said he, smiling. "they were quite, quite true. it is for me to prove now that they shall be true no longer." he took the girl's hand in his rather ceremoniously, and bent his head and kissed it. as he did so he was aware that she stirred, all at once, uneasily, and when he had raised his head he looked at her in question. "i thought some one was coming into the room," she explained, looking beyond him. "i thought some one started to come in between the portières yonder. it must have been a servant." "then it is understood," said ste. marie. "to bring you back your happiness, and to prove myself in some way worthy of your love, i am to devote myself with all my effort and all my strength to finding your brother or some trace of him, and until i succeed i will not see your face again, my queen." "oh, that!" she cried--"that, too?" "i will not see you," said he, "until i bring you news of him, or until my year is passed and i have failed utterly. i know what risk i run. if i fail, i lose you. that is understood, too. but if i succeed--" "then?" she said, breathing quickly. "then?" "then," said he, "i shall come to you, and i shall feel no shame in asking you to marry me, because then you will know that there is in me some little worthiness, and that in our lives together you need not be buried in obscurity--lost to the world." "i cannot find any words to say," said she. "i am feeling just now very humble and very ashamed. it seems that i haven't known you at all. oh yes, i am ashamed." the girl's face, habitually so cool and composed, was flushed with a beautiful flush, and it had softened, and it seemed to quiver between a smile and a tear. with a swift movement she leaned close to him, holding by his shoulder, and for an instant her cheek was against his. she whispered to him: "oh, find him quickly, my dear! find him quickly, and come back to me!" ste. marie began to tremble, and she stood away from him. once he looked up, but the flush was gone from miss benham's cheeks and she was pale again. she stood with her hands tight clasped over her breast. so he bowed to her very low, and turned and went out of the room and out of the house. so quickly did he move at this last that a man who had been, for some moments, standing just outside the portières of the doorway had barely time to step aside into the shadows of the dim hall. as it was, ste. marie, in a more normal moment, must have seen that the man was there; but his eyes were blind, and he saw nothing. he groped for his hat and stick as if the place were a place of gloom, and, because the footman who should have been at the door was in regions unknown, he let himself out, and so went away. then the man who stood apart in the shadows crossed the hall to a small room which was furnished as a library, but not often used. he closed the door behind him, and went to one of the windows which gave upon the street. and he stood there for a long time, drawing absurd invisible pictures upon the glass with one finger and staring thoughtfully out into the late june afternoon. * * * * * vi a brave gentleman receives a hurt, but volunteers in a good cause when ste. marie had gone, miss benham sat alone in the drawing-room for almost an hour. she had been stirred that afternoon more deeply than she thought she had ever been stirred before, and she needed time to regain that cool poise, that mental equilibrium, which was normal to her and necessary for coherent thought. she was still in a sort of fever of bewilderment and exaltation, still all aglow with the man's own high fervor; but the second self which so often sat apart from her, and looked on with critical, mocking eyes, whispered that to-morrow, the fever past, the fervor cooled, she must see the thing in its true light--a glorious lunacy born of a moment of enthusiasm. it was finely romantic of him, this mocking second self whispered to her--picturesque beyond criticism--but, setting aside the practical folly of it, could even the mood last? the girl rose to her feet with an angry exclamation. she found herself intolerable at such times as this. "if there's a heaven," she cried out, "and by chance i ever go there, i suppose i shall walk sneering through the streets and saying to myself: 'oh yes, it's pretty enough, but how absurd and unpractical!'" she passed before one of the small, narrow mirrors which were let into the walls of the room in gilt louis seize frames with candles beside them, and she turned and stared at her very beautiful reflection with a resentful wonder. "shall i always drag along so far behind him?" she said. "shall i never rise to him, save in the moods of an hour?" she began suddenly to realize what the man's going away meant--that she might not see him again for weeks, months, even a year. for was it at all likely that he could succeed in what he had undertaken? "why did i let him go?" she cried. "oh, fool, fool, to let him go!" but even as she said it she knew that she could not have held him back. she began to be afraid, not for him, but of herself. he had taught her what it might be to love. for the first time love's premonitory thrill--promise of unspeakable, uncomprehended mysteries--had wrung her, and the echo of that thrill stirred in her yet; but what might not happen in his long absence? she was afraid of that critical and analyzing power of mind which she had so long trained to attack all that came to her. what might it not work with the new thing that had come? to what pitiful shreds might it not be rent while he who only could renew it was away? she looked ahead at the weeks and months to come, and she was terribly afraid. she went out of the room and up to her grandfather's chamber and knocked there. the admirable peters, who opened to her, said that his master had not been very well, and was just then asleep, but as they spoke together in low tones the old gentleman cried, testily, from within: "well? well? who's there? who wants to see me? who is it?" miss benham went into the dim, shaded room, and when old david saw who it was he sank back upon his pillows with a pacified growl. he certainly looked ill, and he had grown thinner and whiter within the past month, and the lines in his waxlike face seemed to be deeper scored. the girl went up beside the bed and stood there a moment, after she had bent over and kissed her grandfather's cheek, stroking with her hand the absurdly gorgeous mandarin's jacket--an imperial yellow one this time. "isn't this new?" she asked. "i seem never to have seen this one before. it's quite wonderful." the old gentleman looked down at it with the pride of a little girl over her first party frock. he came as near simpering as a fierce person of eighty-six, with a square white beard, can come. "rather good--what? what?" said he. "yes, it's new. de vries sent it me. it is my best one. imperial yellow. did you notice the little show medallions with the swastika? young ste. marie was here this afternoon." he introduced the name with no pause or change of expression, as if ste. marie were a part of the decoration of the mandarin's jacket. "i told him he was a damned fool." "yes," said miss benham, "i know. he said you did. i suppose," she said, "that in a sort of very informal fashion i am engaged to him. well, no, perhaps not quite that; but he seems to consider himself engaged to me, and when he has finished something very important that he has undertaken to do he is coming to ask me definitely to marry him. no, i suppose we aren't engaged yet; at least, i'm not. but it's almost the same, because i suppose i shall accept him whether he fails or succeeds in what he is doing." "if he fails in it, whatever it may be," said old david, "he won't give you a chance to accept him; he won't come back. i know him well enough for that. he's a romantic fool, but he's a thoroughgoing fool. he plays the game." the old man looked up to his granddaughter, scowling a little. "you two are absurdly unsuited to each other," said he, "and i told ste. marie so. i suppose you think you're in love with him." "yes," said the girl, "i suppose i do." "idleness and all? you were rather severe on idleness at one time." "he isn't idle any more," said she. "he has undertaken--of his own accord--to find arthur. he has some theory about it; and he is not going to see me again until he has succeeded--or until a year is past. if he fails, i fancy he won't come back." old david gave a sudden hoarse exclamation, and his withered hands shook and stirred before him. afterward he fell to half-inarticulate muttering. "the young romantic fool!--don quixote--like all the rest of them--those ste. maries. the fool and the angels. the angels and the fool." the girl distinguished words from time to time. for the most part, he mumbled under his breath. but when he had been silent a long time, he said, suddenly: "it would be ridiculously like him to succeed." the girl gave a little sigh. "i wish i dared hope for it," said she. "i wish i dared hope for it." she had left a book that she wanted in the drawing-room, and, when presently her grandfather fell asleep in his fitful manner, she went down after it. in crossing the hall she came upon captain stewart, who was dressed for the street and had his hat and stick in his hands. he did not live in his father's house, for he had a little flat in the rue du faubourg st. honoré, but he was in and out a good deal. he paused when he saw his niece, and smiled upon her a benignant smile which she rather disliked, because she disliked benignant people. the two really saw very little of each other, though captain stewart often sat for hours together with his sister, up in a little boudoir which she had furnished in the execrable taste which to her meant comfort, while that timid and colorless lady embroidered strange tea cloths with stranger flora, and prattled about the heathen, in whom she had an academic interest. he said: "ah, my dear! it's you?" indisputably it was, and there seemed to be no use of denying it, so miss benham said nothing, but waited for the man to go on if he had more to say. "i dropped in," he continued, "to see my father, but they told me he was asleep, and so i didn't disturb him. i talked a little while with your mother instead." "i have just come from him," said miss benham. "he dozed off again as i left. still, if you had anything in particular to tell him, he'd be glad to be wakened, i fancy. there's no news?" "no," said captain stewart, sadly--"no, nothing. i do not give up hope, but i am, i confess, a little discouraged." "we are all that, i should think," said miss benham, briefly. she gave him a little nod and turned away into the drawing-room. her uncle's peculiar dry manner irritated her at times beyond bearing, and she felt that this was one of the times. she had never had any reason for doubting that he was a good and kindly soul, but she disliked him because he bored her. her mother bored her, too--the poor woman bored everybody--but the sense of filial obligation was strong enough in the girl to prevent her from acknowledging this even to herself. in regard to her uncle she had no sense of obligation whatever, except to be as civil to him as possible, and so she kept out of his way. she heard the heavy front door close, and gave a little sigh of relief. "if he had come in here and tried to talk to me," she said, "i should have screamed." * * * * * meanwhile ste. marie, a man moving in a dream, uplifted, cloud-enwrapped, made his way homeward. he walked all the long distance--that is, looking backward upon it, later, he thought he must have walked, but the half-hour was a blank to him, an indeterminate, a chaotic whirl of things and emotions. in the little flat in the rue d'assas he came upon richard hartley, who, having found the door unlocked and the master of the place absent, had sat comfortably down, with a pipe and a stack of _couriers français_, to wait. ste. marie burst into the doorway of the room where his friend sat at ease. hat, gloves, and stick fell away from him in a sort of shower. he extended his arms high in the air. his face was, as it were, luminous. the englishman regarded him morosely. he said: "you look as if somebody had died and left you money. what the devil you looking like that for?" "hé!" cried ste. marie, in a great voice. "hé, the world is mine! embrace me, my infant! sacred name of a pig, why do you sit there? embrace me!" he began to stride about the room, his head between his hands. speech lofty and ridiculous burst from him in a sort of splutter of fireworks, but the englishman sat still in his chair, and a gray, bleak look came upon him, for he began to understand. he was more or less used to these outbursts, and he bore them as patiently as he could, but though seven times out of the ten they were no more than spasms of pure joy of living, and meant, "it's a fine spring day," or "i've just seen two beautiful princesses of milliners in the street," an inner voice told him that this time it meant another thing. quite suddenly he realized that he had been waiting for this--bracing himself against its onslaught. he had not been altogether blind through the past month. ste. marie seized him and dragged him from his chair. "dance, lump of flesh! dance, sacred english rosbif that you are! sing, gros polisson! sing!" abruptly, as usual, the mania departed from him, but not the glory; his eyes shone bright and triumphant. "ah, my old," said he, "i am near the stars at last. my feet are on the top rungs of the ladder. tell me that you are glad!" the englishman drew a long breath. "i take it," said he, "that means that you're--that she has accepted you, eh?" he held out his hand. he was a brave and honest man. even in pain he was incapable of jealousy. he said: "i ought to want to murder you, but i don't. i congratulate you. you're an undeserving beggar, but so were the rest of us. it was an open field, and you've won quite honestly. my best wishes!" then at last ste. marie understood, and in a flash the glory went out of his face. he cried: "ah, mon cher ami! pig that i am to forget. pig! pig! animal!" the other man saw that tears had sprung to his eyes, and was horribly embarrassed to the very bottom of his good british soul. "yes! yes!" he said, gruffly. "quite so, quite so! no consequence!" he dragged his hands away from ste. marie's grasp, stuck them in his pockets, and turned to the window beside which he had been sitting. it looked out over the sweet green peace of the luxembourg gardens, with their winding paths and their clumps of trees and shrubbery, their flaming flower-beds, their groups of weather-stained sculpture. a youth in laborer's corduroys and an unclean beret strolled along under the high palings; one arm was about the ample waist of a woman somewhat the youth's senior, but, as ever, love was blind. the youth carolled in a high, clear voice, "vous êtes si jolie," a song of abundant sentiment, and the woman put up one hand and patted his cheek. so they strolled on and turned up into the rue vavin. ste. marie, across the room, looked at his friend's square back, and knew that in his silent way the man was suffering. a great sadness, the recoil from his trembling heights of bliss, came upon him and enveloped him. was it true that one man's joy must inevitably be another's pain? he tried to imagine himself in hartley's place, hartley in his, and he gave a little shiver. he knew that if that bouleversement were actually to take place he would be as glad for his friend's sake as poor hartley was now for his, but he knew also that the smile of congratulation would be a grimace of almost intolerable pain, and so he knew what hartley's black hour must be like. "you must forgive me," he said. "i had forgotten. i don't know why. well, yes, happiness is a very selfish state of mind, i suppose. one thinks of nothing but one's self--and one other. i--during this past month i've been in the clouds. you must forgive me." the englishman turned back into the room. ste. marie saw that his face was as completely devoid of expression as it usually was, that his hands, when he chose and lighted a cigarette, were quite steady, and he marvelled. that would have been impossible for him under such circumstances. "she has accepted you, i take it?" said hartley again. "not quite that," said he. "sit down and i'll tell you about it." so he told him about his hour with miss benham, and about what had been agreed upon between them, and about what he had undertaken to do. "apart from wishing to do everything in this world that i can do to make her happy," he said--"and she will never be at peace again until she knows the truth about her brother--apart from that, i'm purely selfish in the thing. i've got to win her respect, as well as--the rest. i want her to respect me, and she has never quite done that. i'm an idler. so are you, but you have a perfectly good excuse. i have not. i've been an idler because it suited me, because nothing turned up, and because i have enough to eat without working for my living. i know how she has felt about all that. well, she shall feel it no longer." "you're taking on a big order," said the other man. "the bigger the better," said ste. marie. "and i shall succeed in it or never see her again. i've sworn that." the odd look of exaltation that miss benham had seen in his face, the look of knightly fervor, came there again, and hartley saw it, and knew that the man was stirred by no transient whim. oddly enough he thought, as had the girl earlier in the day, of those elder ste. maries, who had taken sword and lance and gone out into a strange world--a place of unknown terrors--afire for the great adventure. and this was one of their blood. "i'm afraid you don't realize," he went on, "the difficulties you've got to face. better men than you have failed over this thing, you know." "a worse might nevertheless succeed," said ste. marie. and the other said: "yes. oh yes. and there's always luck to be considered, of course. you might stumble on some trace." he threw away his cigarette and lighted another, and he smoked it down almost to the end before he spoke. at last he said: "i want to tell you something. the reason why i want to tell it comes a little later. a few weeks before you returned to paris i asked miss benham to marry me." ste. marie looked up with a quick sympathy. "ah," said he. "i have sometimes thought--wondered. i have wondered if it went as far as that. of course, i could see that you had known her well, though you seldom go there nowadays." "yes," said hartley, "it went as far as that, but no farther. she--well, she didn't care for me--not in that way. so i stiffened my back and shut my mouth, and got used to the fact that what i'd hoped for was impossible. and now comes the reason for telling you what i've told. i want you to let me help you in what you're going to do--if you think you can, that is. remember, i--cared for her, too. i'd like to do something for her. it would never have occurred to me to do this until you thought of it, but i should like very much to lend a hand--do some of the work. d'you think you could let me in?" ste. marie stared at him in open astonishment, and, for an instant, something like dismay. "yes, yes! i know what you're thinking," said the englishman. "you'd hoped to do it all yourself. it's _your_ game. i know. well, it's your game even if you let me come in. i'm just a helper. some one to run errands. some one, perhaps, to take counsel with now and then. look at it on the practical side. two heads are certainly better than one. certainly i could be of use to you. and besides--well, i want to do something for her. i--cared, too, you see. d'you think you could take me in?" it was the man's love that made his appeal irresistible. no one could appeal to ste. marie on that score in vain. it was true that he had hoped to work alone--to win or lose alone; to stand, in this matter, quite on his own feet; but he could not deny the man who had loved her and lost her. ste. marie thrust out his hand. "you love her, too!" he said. "that is enough. we work together. i have a possibly foolish idea that if we can find a certain man we will learn something about arthur benham. i'll tell you about it." but before he could begin the door-bell jangled. * * * * * vii captain stewart makes a kindly offer ste. marie scowled. "a caller would come singularly malapropos just now," said he. "i've half a mind not to go to the door. i want to talk this thing over with you." "whoever it is," objected hartley, "has been told by the concierge that you're at home. it may not be a caller, anyhow. it may be a parcel or something. you'd best go." so ste. marie went out into the little passage, blaspheming fluently the while. the englishman heard him open the outer door of the flat. he heard him exclaim, in great surprise: "ah, captain stewart! a great pleasure! come in! come in!" and he permitted himself a little blaspheming on his own account, for the visitor, as ste. marie had said, came most malapropos, and, besides, he disliked miss benham's uncle. he heard the american say: "i have been hoping for some weeks to give myself the pleasure of calling here, and to-day such an excellent pretext presented itself that i came straightaway." hartley heard him emit his mewing little laugh, and heard him say, with the elephantine archness affected by certain dry and middle-aged gentlemen: "i come with congratulations. my niece has told me all about it. lucky young man! ah--" he reached the door of the inner room and saw richard hartley standing by the window, and he began to apologize profusely, saying that he had had no idea that ste. marie was not alone. but ste. marie said: "it doesn't in the least matter. i have no secrets from hartley. indeed, i have just been talking with him about this very thing." but for all that he looked curiously at the elder man, and it struck him as very odd that miss benham should have gone straight to her uncle and told him all this. it did not seem in the least like her, especially as he knew the two were on no terms of intimacy. he decided that she must have gone up to her grandfather's room to discuss it with that old gentleman--a reasonable enough hypothesis--and that captain stewart must have come in during the discussion. quite evidently he had wasted no time in setting out upon his errand of congratulation. "then," said captain stewart, "if i am to be good-naturedly forgiven for my stupidity, let me go on and say, in my capacity as a member of the family, that the news pleased me very much. i was glad to hear it." he shook ste. marie's hand, looking very benignant indeed, and ste. marie was quite overcome with pleasure and gratitude; it seemed to him such a very kindly act in the elder man. he produced things to smoke and drink, and captain stewart accepted a cigarette and mixed himself a rather stiff glass of absinthe--it was between five and six o'clock. "and now," said he, when he was at ease in the most comfortable of the low cane chairs, and the glass of opalescent liquor was properly curdled and set at hand--"now, having congratulated you and--ah, welcomed you, if i may put it so, as a probable future member of the family--i turn to the other feature of the affair." he had an odd trick of lowering his head and gazing benevolently upon an auditor as if over the top of spectacles. it was one of his elderly ways. he beamed now upon ste. marie in this manner, and, after a moment, turned and beamed upon richard hartley, who gazed stolidly back at him without expression. "you have determined, i hear," said he, "to join us in our search for poor arthur. good! good! i welcome you there, also." ste. marie stirred uneasily in his chair. "well," said he, "in a sense, yes. that is, i've determined to devote myself to the search, and hartley is good enough to offer to go in with me; but i think, if you don't mind--of course, i know it's very presumptuous and doubtless idiotic of us--but, if you don't mind, i think we'll work independently. you see--well, i can't quite put it into words, but it's our idea to succeed or fail quite by our own efforts. i dare say we shall fail, but it won't be for lack of trying." captain stewart looked disappointed. "oh, i think--" said he. "pardon me for saying it, but i think you're rather foolish to do that." he waved an apologetic hand. "of course, i comprehend your excellent motive. yes, as you say, you want to succeed quite on your own. but look at the practical side! you'll have to go over all the weary weeks of useless labor we have gone over. we could save you that. we have examined and followed up, and at last given over, a hundred clews that on the surface looked quite possible of success. you'll be doing that all over again. in short, my dear friend, you will merely be following along a couple of months behind us. it seems to me a pity. i sha'n't like to see you wasting your time and efforts." he dropped his eyes to the glass of pernod which stood beside him, and he took it in his hand and turned it slowly and watched the light gleam in strange pearl colors upon it. he glanced up again with a little smile which the two younger men found oddly pathetic. "i should like to see you succeed," said captain stewart. "i like to see youth and courage and high hope succeed." he said: "i am past the age of romance, though i am not so very old in years. romance has passed me by, but--i love it still. it still stirs me surprisingly when i see it in other people--young people who are simple and earnest, and who--and who are in love." he laughed gently, still turning the glass in his hand. "i am afraid you will call me a sentimentalist," he said, "and an elderly sentimentalist is, as a rule, a ridiculous person. ridiculous or not, though, i have rather set my heart on your success in this undertaking. who knows? you may succeed where we others have failed. youth has such a way of charging in and carrying all before it by assault--such a way of overleaping barriers that look unsurmountable to older eyes! youth! youth! eh, my god," said he, "to be young again, just for a little while! to feel the blood beat strong and eager! never to be tired! eh, to be like one of you youngsters! you, ste. marie, or you, hartley! there's so little left for people when youth is gone!" he bent his head again, staring down upon the glass before him, and for a while there was a silence which neither of the younger men cared to break. "don't refuse a helping hand," said captain stewart, looking up once more. "don't be over-proud. i may be able to set you upon the right path. not that i have anything definite to work upon--i haven't, alas! but each day new clews turn up. one day we shall find the real one, and that may be one that i have turned over to you to follow out. one never knows." ste. marie looked across at richard hartley, but that gentleman was blowing smoke-rings and to all outward appearance giving them his entire attention. he looked back to captain stewart, and stewart's eyes regarded him, smiling a little wistfully, he thought. ste. marie scowled out of the window at the trees of the luxembourg gardens. "i hardly know," said he. "of course, i sound a braying ass in hesitating even a moment; but, in a way, you understand, i'm so anxious to do this or to fail in it quite on my own. you're--so tremendously kind about it that i don't know what to say. i must seem very ungrateful, i know; but i'm not." "no," said the elder man, "you don't seem ungrateful at all. i understand exactly how you feel about it, and i applaud your feeling--but not your judgment. i am afraid that for the sake of a sentiment you're taking unnecessary risks of failure." for the first time richard hartley spoke. "i've an idea, you know," said he, "that it's going to be a matter chiefly of luck. one day somebody will stumble on the right trail, and that might as well be ste. marie or i as your trained detectives. if you don't mind my saying so, sir--i don't want to seem rude--your trained detectives do not seem to accomplish much in two months, do they?" captain stewart looked thoughtfully at the younger man. "no," he said, at last. "i am sorry to say they don't seem to have accomplished much--except to prove that there are a great many places poor arthur has _not_ been to and a great many people who have _not_ seen him. after all, that is something--the elimination of ground that need not be worked over again." he set down the glass from which he had been drinking. "i cannot agree with your theory," he said. "i cannot agree that such work as this is best left to an accidental solution. accidents are too rare. we have tried to go at it in as scientific a way as could be managed--by covering large areas of territory, by keeping the police everywhere on the alert, by watching the boy's old friends and searching his favorite haunts. personally, i am inclined to think that he managed to slip away to america very early in the course of events, before we began to search for him, and, of course, i am having a careful watch kept there as well as here. but no trace has appeared as yet--nothing at all trustworthy. meanwhile, i continue to hope and to work, but i grow a little discouraged. in any case, though, we shall hear of him in three months more if he is alive." "why three months?" asked ste. marie. "what do you mean by that?" "in three months," said captain stewart, "arthur will be of age, and he can demand the money left him by his father. if he is alive he will turn up for that. i have thought, from the first, that he is merely hiding somewhere until this time should be past. he--you must know that he went away very angry, after a quarrel with his grandfather? my father is not a patient man. he may have been very harsh with the boy." "ah, yes," said hartley; "but no boy, however young or angry, would be foolish enough to risk an absolute break with the man who is going to leave him a large fortune. young benham must know that his grandfather would never forgive him for staying away all this time if he stayed away of his own accord. he must know that he'd be taking tremendous risks of being cut off altogether." "and besides," added ste. marie, "it is quite possible that your father, sir, may die at any time--any hour. and he's very angry at his grandson. he may have cut him off already." captain stewart's eyes sharpened suddenly, but he dropped them to the glass in his hand. "have you any reason for thinking that?" he asked. "no," said ste. marie. "i beg your pardon. i shouldn't have said it. that is a matter which concerns your family alone. i forgot myself. the possibility occurred to me suddenly for the first time." but the elder man looked up at him with a smile. "pray don't apologize," said he. "surely we three can speak frankly together! and, frankly, i know nothing of my father's will. but i don't think he would cut poor arthur off, though he is, of course, very angry about the boy's leaving in the manner he did. no, i am sure he wouldn't cut him off. he was fond of the lad, very fond--as we all were." captain stewart glanced at his watch and rose with a little sigh. "i must be off," said he. "i have to dine out this evening, and i must get home to change. there is a cabstand near you?" he looked out of the window. "ah, yes! just at the corner of the gardens." he turned about to ste. marie, and held out his hand with a smile. he said: "you refuse to join forces with us, then? well, i'm sorry. but, for all that, i wish you luck. go your own way, and i hope you'll succeed. i honestly hope that, even though your success may show me up for an incompetent bungler." he gave a little kindly laugh, and ste. marie tried to protest. "still," said the elder man, "don't throw me over altogether. if i can help you in any way, little or big, let me know. if i can give you any hints, any advice, anything at all, i want to do it. and if you happen upon what seems to be a promising clew come and talk it over with me. oh, don't be afraid! i'll leave it to you to work out. i sha'n't spoil your game." "ah, now, that's very good of you," said ste. marie. "only you make me seem more than ever an ungrateful fool. thanks, i will come to you with my troubles if i may. i have a foolish idea that i want to follow out a little first, but doubtless i shall be running to you soon for information." the elder man's eyes sharpened again with keen interest. "an idea!" he said, quickly. "you have an idea? what--may i ask what sort of an idea?" "oh, it's nothing," declared ste. marie. "you have already laughed at it. i just want to find that man o'hara, that's all. i've a feeling that i should learn something from him." "ah!" said captain stewart, slowly. "yes, the man o'hara. there's nothing in that, i'm afraid. i've made inquiries about o'hara. it seems he left paris six months ago, saying he was off for america. an old friend of his told me that. so you must have been mistaken when you thought you saw him in the champs-elysées; and he couldn't very well have had anything to do with poor arthur. i'm afraid that idea is hardly worth following up." "perhaps not," said ste. marie. "i seem to start badly, don't i? ah, well, i'll have to come to you all the sooner, then." "you'll be welcome," promised captain stewart. "good-bye to you! good-day, hartley. come and see me, both of you. you know where i live." he took his leave then, and hartley, standing beside the window, watched him turn down the street, and at the corner get into one of the fiacres there and drive away. ste. marie laughed aloud. "there's the second time," said he, "that i've had him about o'hara. if he is as careless as that about everything, i don't wonder he hasn't found arthur benham. o'hara disappeared from paris--publicly, that is--at about the time young benham disappeared. as a matter of fact, he remains, or at least for a time remained, in the city without letting his friends know, because i made no mistake about seeing him in the champs-elysées. all that looks to me suspicious enough to be worth investigation. of course," he admitted, doubtfully--"of course, i'm no detective; but that's how it looks to me." "i don't believe stewart is any detective, either," said richard hartley. "he's altogether too cocksure. that sort of man would rather die than admit he is wrong about anything. he's a good old chap, though, isn't he? i liked him to-day better than ever before. i thought he was rather pathetic when he went on about his age." "he has a good heart," said ste. marie. "very few men under the circumstances would come here and be as decent as he was. most men would have thought i was a presumptuous ass, and would have behaved accordingly." ste. marie took a turn about the room, and his face began to light up with its new excitement and exaltation. "and to-morrow!" he cried--"to-morrow we begin! to-morrow we set out into the world and the adventure is on foot! god send it success!" he laughed across at the other man; but it was a laugh of eagerness, not of mirth. "i feel," said he, "like jason. i feel as if we were to set sail to-morrow for colchis and the golden fleece." "y-e-s," said the other man, a little dryly--"yes, perhaps. i don't want to seem critical, but isn't your figure somewhat ill chosen?" "'ill chosen'?" cried ste. marie. "what d'you mean? why ill chosen?" "i was thinking of medea," said richard hartley. * * * * * viii jason meets with a misadventure and dreams a dream so on the next day these two rode forth upon their quest, and no quest was ever undertaken with a stouter courage or with a grimmer determination to succeed. to put it fancifully, they burned their tower behind them, for to one of them, at least--to him who led--there was no going back. but, after all, they set forth under a cloud, and ste. marie took a heavy heart with him. on the evening before an odd and painful incident had befallen--a singularly unfortunate incident. it chanced that neither of the two men had a dinner engagement that evening, and so, after their old habit, they dined together. there was some wrangling over where they should go, hartley insisting upon armenonville or the madrid, in the bois, ste. marie objecting that these would be full of tourists so late in june, and urging the claims of some quiet place in the quarter, where they could talk instead of listening perforce to loud music. in the end, for no particular reason, they compromised on the little spanish restaurant in the rue helder. they went there about eight o'clock, without dressing, for it is a very quiet place which the world does not visit, and they had a sopa de yerbas, and some langostinos, which are shrimps, and a heavenly arroz, with fowl in it, and many tender, succulent strips of red pepper. they had a salad made out of a little of everything that grows green, with the true spanish oil, which has a tang and a bouquet unappreciated by the philistine; and then they had a strange pastry and some cheese and green almonds. and to make then glad, they drank a bottle of old red valdepenas, and afterward a glass each of a special manzanilla, upon which the restaurant very justly prides itself. it was a simple dinner and a little stodgy for that time of the year, but the two men were hungry and sat at table, almost alone in the upper room, for a long time, saying how good everything was, and from time to time despatching the saturnine waiter, a madrileno, for more peppers. when at last they came out into the narrow street, and thence to the thronged boulevard des italiens, it was nearly eleven o'clock. they stood for a little time in the shelter of a kiosk, looking down the boulevard to where the place de l'opéra opened wide and the lights of the café de la paix shone garish in the night. and ste. marie said: "there's a street fête in montmartre. we might drive home that way." "an excellent idea," said the other man. "the fact that montmartre lies in an opposite direction from home makes the plan all the better. and after that we might drive home through the bois. that's much farther in the wrong direction. lead on!" so they sprang into a waiting fiacre, and were dragged up the steep, stone-paved hill to the heights, where la bohême still reigns, though the glory of moulin rouge has departed and the trail of the tourist is over all. they found montmartre very much en fête. in the place blanche were two of the enormous and brilliantly lighted merry-go-rounds, which only paris knows--one furnished with stolid cattle, theatrical-looking horses, and russian sleighs; the other with the ever-popular galloping pigs. when these dreadful machines were in rotation, mechanical organs, concealed somewhere in their bowels, emitted hideous brays and shrieks which mingled with the shrieks of the ladies mounted upon the galloping pigs, and together insulted a peaceful sky. the square was filled with that extremely heterogeneous throng which the parisian street fête gathers together, but it was, for the most part, a well-dressed throng, largely recruited from the boulevards, and it was quite determined to have a very good time in the cheerful, harmless latin fashion. the two men got down from their fiacre and elbowed a way through the good-natured crowd to a place near the more popular of the merry-go-rounds. the machine was in rotation. its garish lights shone and glittered, its hidden mechanical organ blared a german waltz tune, the huge, pink-varnished pigs galloped gravely up and down as the platform upon which they were mounted whirled round and round. a little group of american trippers, sight-seeing with a guide, stood near by, and one of the group, a pretty girl with red hair, demanded plaintively of the friend upon whose arm she hung: "do you think momma would be shocked if we took a ride? wouldn't i love to!" hartley turned, laughing, from this distressed maiden to ste. marie. he was wondering, with mild amusement, why anybody should wish to do such a foolish thing; but ste. marie's eyes were fixed upon the galloping pigs, and the eyes shone with a wistful excitement. to tell the truth, it was impossible for him to look on at any form of active amusement without thirsting to join it. a joyous and carefree lady in a blue hat, who was mounted astride upon one of the pigs, hurled a paper serpentine at him and shrieked with delight when it knocked his hat off. "that's the second time she has hit me with one of those things," he said, groping about his feet for the hat. "here, stop that boy with the basket!" a vendor of the little rolls of paper ribbon was shouting his wares through the crowd. ste. marie filled his pockets with the things, and when the lady with the blue hat came round, on the next turn, lassoed her neatly about the neck and held the end of the ribbon till it broke. then he caught a fat gentleman, who was holding himself on by his steed's neck, in the ear, and the red-haired american girl laughed aloud. "when the thing stops," said ste. marie, "i'm going to take a ride--just one ride. i haven't ridden a pig for many years." hartley jeered at him, calling him an infant, but ste. marie bought more serpentines, and when the platform came to a stop clambered up to it and mounted the only unoccupied pig he could find. his friend still scoffed at him and called him names, but ste. marie tucked his long legs round the pig's neck and smiled back, and presently the machine began again to revolve. at the end of the first revolution hartley gave a shout of delight, for he saw that the lady with the blue hat had left her mount and was making her way along the platform toward where ste. marie sat hurling serpentines in the face of the world. by the next time round she had come to where he was, mounted astride behind him, and was holding herself with one very shapely arm round his neck, while with the other she rifled his pockets for ammunition. ste. marie grinned, and the public, loud in its acclaims, began to pelt the two with serpentines until they were hung with many-colored ribbons like a christmas-tree. even richard hartley was so far moved out of the self-consciousness with which his race is cursed as to buy a handful of the common missiles, and the lady in the blue hat returned his attention with skill and despatch. but as the machine began to slacken its pace, and the hideous wail and blare of the concealed organ died mercifully down, hartley saw that his friend's manner had all at once altered, that he sat leaning forward away from the enthusiastic lady with the blue hat, and that the paper serpentines had dropped from his hands. hartley thought that the rapid motion must have made him a little giddy, but presently, before the merry-go-round had quite stopped, he saw the man leap down and hurry toward him through the crowd. ste. marie's face was grave and pale. he caught hartley's arm in his hand and turned him round, crying, in a low voice: "come out of this as quickly as you can! no, in the other direction. i want to get away at once!" "what's the matter?" hartley demanded. "lady in the blue hat too friendly? well, if you're going to play this kind of game you might as well play it." "helen benham was down there in the crowd," said ste. marie. "on the opposite side from you. she was with a party of people who got out of two motor-cars to look on. they were in evening things, so they had come from dinner somewhere, i suppose. she saw me." "the devil!" said hartley, under his breath. then he gave a shout of laughter, demanding: "well, what of it? you weren't committing any crime, were you? there's no harm in riding a silly pig in a silly merry-go-round. everybody does it in these fête things." but even as he spoke he knew how extremely unfortunate the meeting was, and the laughter went out of his voice. "i'm afraid," said ste. marie, "she won't see the humor of it. good god, what a thing to happen! _you_ know well enough what she'll think of me. at five o'clock this afternoon," he said, bitterly, "i left her with a great many fine, high-sounding words about the quest i was to give my days and nights to--for her sake. i went away from her like a--knight going into battle--consecrated. i tell you, there were tears in her eyes when i went. and _now_--now, at midnight--she sees me riding a galloping pig in a street fête with a girl from the boulevards sitting on the pig with me and holding me round the neck before a thousand people. what will she think of me? what but one thing can she possibly think? oh, i know well enough! i saw her face before she turned away. and," he cried, "i can't even go to her and explain--if there's anything to explain, and i suppose there is not. i can't even go to her. i've sworn not to see her." "oh, i'll do that," said the other man. "i'll explain it to her, if any explanation's necessary. i think you'll find that she will laugh at it." but ste. marie shook his head. "no, she won't," said he. and hartley could say no more; for he knew miss benham, and he was very much afraid that she would not laugh. they found a fiacre at the side of the square and drove home at once. they were almost entirely silent all the long way, for ste. marie was buried in gloom, and the englishman, after trying once or twice to cheer him up, realized that he was best left to himself just then, and so held his tongue. but in the rue d'assas, as ste. marie was getting down--hartley kept the fiacre to go on to his rooms in the avenue de l'observatoire--he made a last attempt to lighten the man's depression. he said: "don't you be a silly ass about this! you're making much too much of it, you know. i'll go to her to-morrow or next day and explain, and she'll laugh---if she hasn't already done so. you know," he said, almost believing it himself, "you are paying her a dashed poor compliment in thinking she's so dull as to misunderstand a little thing of this kind. yes, by jove, you are!" ste. marie looked up at him, and his face, in the light of the cab lamp, showed a first faint gleam of hope. "do you think so?" he demanded. "do you really think that? maybe i am. but--oh, lord, who would understand such an idiocy? sacred imbecile that i am! why was i ever born? i ask you." he turned abruptly, and began to ring at the door, casting a brief "good-night" over his shoulder. and after a moment hartley gave it up and drove away. above, in the long, shallow front room of his flat, with the three windows overlooking the gardens, ste. marie made lights, and after much rummaging unearthed a box of cigarettes of a peculiarly delectable flavor which had been sent him by a friend in the khedivial household. he allowed himself one or two of them now and then, usually in sorrowful moments, as an especial treat; and this seemed to him to be the moment for smoking all that were left. surely his need had never been greater. in england he had, of course, learned to smoke a pipe, but pipe-smoking always remained with him a species of accomplishment; it never brought him the deep and ruminative peace with which it enfolds the anglo-saxon heart. the "vieux jacob" of old-fashioned parisian bohemia inspired in him unconcealed horror, of cigars he was suspicious because, he said, most of the unpleasant people he knew smoked cigars, so he soothed his soul with cigarettes, and he was usually to be found with one between his fingers. he lighted one of the precious egyptians, and after a first ecstatic inhalation went across to one of the long windows, which was open, and stood there with his back to the room, his face to the peaceful, fragrant night. a sudden recollection came to him of that other night a month before when he had stood on the pont des invalides with his eyes upon the stars, his feet upon the ladder thereunto. his heart gave a sudden exultant leap within him when he thought how far and high he had climbed, but after the leap it shivered and stood still when this evening's misadventure came before him. would she ever understand? he had no fear that hartley would not do his best with her. hartley was as honest and as faithful as ever a friend was in this world. he would do his best. but even then--it was the girl's inflexible nature that made the matter so dangerous. he knew that she was inflexible, and he took a curious pride in it. he admired it. so must have been those calm-eyed, ancient ladies for whom other ste. maries went out to do battle. it was well-nigh impossible to imagine them lowering their eyes to silly revelry. they could not stoop to such as that. it was beneath their high dignity. and it was beneath hers also. as for himself, he was a thing of patches. here a patch of exalted chivalry--a noble patch--there a patch of bourgeois, childlike love of fun; here a patch of melancholic asceticism, there one of something quite the reverse. a hopeless patchwork he was. must she not shrink from him when she knew? he could not quite imagine her understanding the wholly trivial and meaningless impulse that had prompted him to ride a galloping pig and cast paper serpentines at the assembled world. apart from her view of the affair, he felt no shame in it. the moment of childish gayety had been but a passing mood. it had in no way slackened his tense enthusiasm, dulled the keenness of his spirit, lowered his high flight. he knew that well enough. but he wondered if she would understand, and he could not believe it possible. the mood of exaltation in which they had parted that afternoon came to him, and then the sight of her shocked face as he had seen it in the laughing crowd in the place blanche. "what must she think of me?" he cried, aloud. "what must she think of me?" so, for an hour or more, he stood in the open window staring into the fragrant night, or tramped up and down the long room, his hands behind his back, kicking out of his way the chairs and things which impeded him, torturing himself with fears and regrets and fancies, until at last, in a calmer moment, he realized that he was working himself up into an absurd state of nerves over something which was done and could not now be helped. the man had an odd streak of fatalism in his nature--that will have come of his southern blood--and it came to him now in his need. for the work upon which he was to enter with the morrow he had need of clear wits, not scattered ones; a calm judgment, not disordered nerves. so he took himself in hand, and it would have been amazing to any one unfamiliar with the abrupt changes of the latin temperament to see how suddenly ste. marie became quiet and cool and master of himself. "it is done," he said, with a little shrug, and if his face was for a moment bitter it quickly enough became impassive. "it is done, and it cannot be undone--unless hartley can undo it. and now, revenons à nos moutons! or, at least," said he, looking at his watch--and it was between one and two--"at least, to our beds!" so he went to bed, and, so well had he recovered from his fit of excitement, he fell asleep almost at once. but for all that the jangled nerves had their revenge. he who commonly slept like the dead, without the slightest disturbance, dreamed a strange dream. it seemed to him that he stood spent and weary in a twilight place--a waste place at the foot of a high hill. at the top of the hill she sat upon a sort of throne, golden in a beam of light from heaven--serene, very beautiful, the end and crown of his weary labors. his feet were set to the ascent of the height whereon she waited, but he was withheld. from the shadows at the hill's foot a voice called to him in distress, anguish of spirit--a voice he knew; but he could not say whose voice. it besought him out of utter need, and he could not turn away from it. then from those shadows eyes looked upon him, very great and dark eyes, and they besought him, too; he did not know what they asked, but they called to him like the low voice, and he could not turn away. he looked to the far height, and with all his power he strove to set his feet toward it--the goal of long labor and desire; but the eyes and the piteous voice held him motionless--for they needed him. from this anguish he awoke trembling. and after a long time, when he was composed, he fell asleep once more, and once more he dreamed the dream. so morning found him pallid and unrefreshed. but by daylight he knew whose eyes had besought him, and he wondered and was a little afraid. * * * * * ix jason goes upon a journey, and richard hartley pleads for him it may as well be admitted at the outset that neither ste. marie nor richard hartley proved themselves to be geniuses, hitherto undeveloped, in the detective science. they entered upon their self-appointed task with a fine fervor, but, as miss benham had suggested, with no other qualifications in particular. ste. marie had a theory that, when engaged in work of this nature, you went into questionable parts of the city, ate and drank cheek by jowl with questionable people--if possible, got them drunk while you remained sober (difficult feat), and sooner or later they said things which put you on the right road to your goal, or else confessed to you that they themselves had committed the particular crime in which you were interested. he argued that this was the way it happened in books, and that surely people didn't write books about things of which they were ignorant. hartley, on the other hand, preferred the newer, or scientific, methods. you sat at home with a pipe and a whiskey-and-water--if possible, in a long dressing-gown with a cord round its middle. you reviewed all the known facts of the case, and you did mathematics about them with xs and ys and many other symbols, and in the end, by a system of elimination, you proved that a certain thing must infallibly be true. the chief difficulty for him in this was, he said, that he had been at oxford instead of at cambridge, and so the mathematics were rather beyond him. in practice, however, they combined the two methods, which was doubtless as well as if they hadn't, because for some time they accomplished nothing whatever, and so neither one was able to sneer at the other's stupidity. this is not to say that they found nothing in the way of clews. they found an embarrassment of them, and for some days went about in a fever of excitement over these; but the fever cooled when clew after clew turned out to be misleading. of course, ste. marie's first efforts were directed toward tracing the movements of the irishman o'hara, but the efforts were altogether unavailing. the man seemed to have disappeared as noiselessly and completely as had young arthur benham himself. he was unable even to settle with any definiteness the time of the man's departure from paris. some of o'hara's old acquaintances maintained that they had seen the last of him two months before, but a shifty-eyed person in rather cheaply smart clothes came up to ste. marie one evening in maxim's and said he had heard that ste. marie was making inquiries about m. o'hara. ste. marie said he was, and that it was an affair of money; whereupon the cheaply smart individual declared that m. o'hara had left paris six months before to go to the united states of america, and that he had had a picture postal-card from him, some weeks since, from new york. the informant accepted an expensive cigar and a dubonnet by way of reward, but presently departed into the night, and ste. marie was left in some discouragement, his theory badly damaged. he spoke of this encounter to richard hartley, who came on later to join him, and hartley, after an interval of silence and smoke, said: "that was a lie! the man lied!" "name of a dog, why?" demanded ste. marie; but the englishman shrugged his shoulders. "i don't know," he said. "but i believe it was a lie. the man came to you--sought you out to tell his story, didn't he? and all the others have given a different date? well, there you are! for some reason, this man or some one behind him--o'hara himself, probably--wants you to believe that o'hara is in america. i dare say he's in paris all the while." "i hope you're right," said the other. "and i mean to make sure, too. it certainly was odd, this strange being hunting me out to tell me that. i wonder, by-the-way, how he knew i'd been making inquiries about o'hara. i've questioned only two or three people, and then in the most casual way. yes, it's odd." it was about a week after this--a fruitless week, full of the alternate brightness of hope and the gloom of disappointment--that he met captain stewart, to whom he had been, more than once, on the point of appealing. he happened upon him quite by chance one morning in the rue royale. captain stewart was coming out of a shop, a very smart-looking shop, devoted, as ste. marie, with some surprise and much amusement, observed, to ladies' hats, and the price of hats must have depressed him, for he looked in an ill humor, and older and more yellow than usual. but his face altered suddenly when he saw the younger man, and he stopped and shook ste. marie's hand with every evidence of pleasure. "well met! well met!" he exclaimed. "if you are not in a hurry, come and sit down somewhere and tell me about yourself." they picked their way across the street to the terrace of the taverne royale, which was almost deserted at that hour, and sat down at one of the little tables, well back from the pavement, in a corner. "is it fair," queried captain stewart--"is it fair, as a rival investigator, to ask you what success you have had?" ste. marie laughed rather ruefully, and confessed that he had as yet no success at all. "i've just come," said he, "from pricking one bubble that promised well, and hartley is up in montmartre destroying another, i fancy. oh, well, we didn't expect it to be child's play." captain stewart raised his little glass of dry vermouth in an old-fashioned salute and drank it. "you," said he--"you were--ah, full of some idea of connecting this man, this irishman o'hara, with poor arthur's disappearance. you've found that not so promising as you went on, i take it." "well, i've been unable to trace o'hara," said ste. marie. "he seems to have disappeared as completely as your nephew. i suppose you have no clews to spare? i confess i'm out of them at the moment." "oh, i have plenty," said the elder man. "a hundred. more than i can possibly look after." he gave a little chuckling laugh. "i've been waiting for you to come to me," he said. "it was a little ungenerous, perhaps, but we all love to say, 'i told you so.' yes, i have a great quantity of clews, and of course they all seem to be of the greatest and most exciting importance. that's a way clews have." he took an envelope from an inner pocket of his coat, and sorted several folded papers which were in it. "i have here," said he, "memoranda of two--chances, shall i call them?--which seem to me very good, though, as i have already said, every clew seems good. that is the maddening, the heart-breaking, part of such an investigation. i have made these brief notes from letters received, one yesterday, one the day before, from an agent of mine who has been searching the bains de mer of the north coast. this agent writes that some one very much resembling poor arthur has been seen at dinard and also at deauville, and he urges me to come there or to send a man there at once to look into the matter. you will ask, of course, why this agent himself does not pursue the clew he has found. unfortunately, he has been called to london upon some pressing family matter of his own; he is an englishman." "why haven't you gone yourself?" asked ste. marie. but the elder man shrugged his shoulders and smiled a tired, deprecatory smile. "oh, my friend," said he, "if i should attempt personally to investigate one-half of these things, i should be compelled to divide myself into twenty parts. no, i must stay here. there must be, alas! the spider at the centre of the web. i cannot go; but if you think it worth while, i will gladly turn over the memoranda of these last clews to you. they may be the true clews, they may not. at any rate, some one must look into them. why not you and your partner--or shall i say assistant?" "why, thank you!" cried ste. marie. "a thousand thanks! of course, i shall be--we shall be glad to try this chance. on the face of it, it sounds very reasonable. your nephew, from what i remember of him, is much more apt to be in some place that is amusing, some place of gayety, than hiding away where it is merely dull, if he has his choice in the matter--that is, if he is free. and yet--" he turned and frowned thoughtfully at the elder man. "what i want to know," said he, "is how the boy is supporting himself all this time? you say he had no money, or very little, when he went away. how is he managing to live if your theory is correct--that he is staying away of his own accord? it costs a lot of money to live as he likes to live." captain stewart nodded. "oh, that," said he--"that is a question i have often proposed to myself. frankly, it's beyond me. i can only surmise that poor arthur, who had scattered a small fortune about in foolish loans, managed, before he actually disappeared (mind you, we didn't begin to look for him until a week had gone by)--managed to collect some of this money, and so went away with something in pocket. that, of course, is only a guess." "it is possible," said ste. marie, doubtfully, "but--i don't know. it is not very easy to raise money from the sort of people i imagine your nephew to have lent it to. they borrow, but they don't repay." he glanced up with a half-laughing, half-defiant air. "i can't," said he, "rid myself of a belief that the boy is here in paris, and that he is not free to come or go. it's only a feeling, but it is very strong in me. of course, i shall follow out these clews you've been so kind as to give me. i shall go to dinard and deauville, and hartley, i imagine, will go with me, but i haven't great confidence in them." captain stewart regarded him reflectively for a time, and in the end he smiled. "if you will pardon my saying it," he said, "your attitude is just a little womanlike. you put away reason for something vaguely intuitive. i always distrust intuition myself." ste. marie frowned a little and looked uncomfortable. he did not relish being called womanlike--few men do; but he was bound to admit that the elder man's criticism was more or less just. "moreover," pursued captain stewart, "you altogether ignore the point of motive--as i may have suggested to you before. there could be no possible motive, so far as i am aware, for kidnapping or detaining, or in any way harming, my nephew except the desire for money; but, as you know, he had no large sum of money with him, and no demand has been made upon us since his disappearance. i'm afraid you can't get round that." "no," said ste. marie, "i'm afraid i can't. indeed, leaving that aside--and it can't be left aside--i still have almost nothing with which to prop up my theory. i told you it was only a feeling." he took up the memoranda which captain stewart had laid upon the marble-topped table between them, and read the notes through. "please," said he, "don't think i am ungrateful for this chance. i am not. i shall do my best with it, and i hope it may turn out to be important." he gave a little wry smile. "i have all sorts of reasons," he said, "for wishing to succeed as soon as possible. you may be sure that there won't be any delays on my part. and now i must be going on. i am to meet hartley for lunch on the other side of the river, and, if we can manage it, i should like to start north this afternoon or evening." "good!" said captain stewart, smiling. "good! that is what i call true promptness. you lose no time at all. go to dinard and deauville, by all means, and look into this thing thoroughly. don't be discouraged if you meet with ill success at first. take mr. hartley with you, and do your best." he paid for the two glasses of apéritif, and ste. marie could not help observing that he left on the table a very small tip. the waiter cursed him audibly as the two walked away. "if you have returned by a week from to-morrow," he said, as they shook hands, "i should like to have you keep that evening--thursday--for me. i am having a very informal little party in my rooms. there will be two or three of the opera people there, and they will sing for us, and the others will be amusing enough. all young--all young. i like young people about me." he gave his odd little mewing chuckle. "and the ladies must be beautiful as well as young. come if you are here! i'll drop a line to mr. hartley also." he shook ste. marie's hand, and went away down the street toward the rue du faubourg st. honoré where he lived. ste. marie met hartley as he expected to do, at lunch, and they talked over the possibilities of the dinard and deauville expedition. in the end they decided that ste. marie should go alone, but that he was to telegraph, later on, if the clew looked promising. hartley had two or three investigations on foot in paris, and stayed on to complete these. also he wished, as soon as possible, to see helen benham and explain ste. marie's ride on the galloping pigs. ten days had elapsed since that evening, but miss benham had gone into the country the next day to make a visit at the de saulnes' château on the oise. so ste. marie packed a portmanteau with clothes and things, and departed by a mid-afternoon train to dinard, and toward five richard hartley walked down to the rue de i'université. he thought it just possible that miss benham might by now have returned to town, but if not he meant to have half an hour's chat with old david stewart, whom he had not seen for some weeks. at the door he learned that mademoiselle was that very day returned and was at home. so he went in to the drawing-room, reserving his visit to old david until later. he found the room divided into two camps. at one side mrs. benham conversed in melancholic monotones with two elderly french ladies who were clad in depressing black of a dowdiness surpassed only in english provincial towns. it was as if the three mourned together over the remains of some dear one who lay dead among them. hartley bowed low, with an uncontrollable shiver, and turned to the tea-table, where miss benham sat in the seat of authority, flanked by a young american lady whom he had met before, and by baron de vries, whom he had not seen since the evening of the de saulnes' dinner-party. miss benham greeted him with evident pleasure, and to his great delight remembered just how he liked his tea--three pieces of sugar and no milk. it always flatters a man when his little tastes of this sort are remembered. the four fell at once into conversation together, and the young american lady asked hartley why ste. marie was not with him. "i thought you two always went about together," she said--"were never seen apart and all that--a sort of modern damon and phidias." hartley caught baron de vries' eye, and looked away again hastily. "my--ah, phidias," said he, resisting an irritable desire to correct the lady, "got mislaid to-day. it sha'n't happen again, i promise you. he's a very busy person just now, though. he hasn't time for social dissipation. i'm the butterfly of the pair." the lady gave a sudden laugh. "he was busy enough the last time i saw him," she said, crinkling her eyelids. she turned to miss benham. "do you remember that evening we were going home from the madrid and motored round by montmartre to see the fête?" "yes," said miss benham, unsmiling, "i remember." "your friend ste. marie," said the american lady to hartley, "was distinctly the lion of the fête--at the moment we arrived, anyhow. he was riding a galloping pig and throwing those paper streamer things--what do you call them?--with both hands, and a genial lady in a blue hat was riding the same pig and helping him out. it was just like the _vie de bohème_ and the other books. i found it charming." baron de vries emitted an amused chuckle. "that was very like ste. marie," he said. "ste. marie is a very exceptional young man. he can be an angel one moment, a child playing with toys the next, and--well, a rather commonplace social favorite the third. it all comes of being romantic--imaginative. ste. marie--i know nothing about this evening of which you speak, but ste. marie is quite capable of stopping on his way to a funeral to ride a galloping pig--or on his way to his own wedding. and the pleasant part of it is," said baron de vries, "that the lad would turn up at either of these two ceremonies not a bit the worse, outside or in, for his ride." "ah, now, that's an oddly close shot," said hartley. he paused a moment, looking toward miss benham, and said: "i beg pardon! were you going to speak?" "no," said miss benham, moving the things about on the tea-table before her, and looking down at them. "no, not at all!" "you came oddly close to the truth," the man went on, turning back to baron de vries. he was speaking for helen benham's ears, and he knew she would understand that, but he did not wish to seem to be watching her. "i was with ste. marie on that evening," he said. "no, i wasn't riding a pig, but i was standing down in the crowd throwing serpentines at the people who were. and i happen to know that he--that ste. marie was on that day, that evening, more deeply concerned about something, more absolutely wrapped up in it, devoted to it, than i have ever known him to be about anything since i first knew him. the galloping pig was an incident that made, except for the moment, no impression whatever upon him." hartley nodded his head. "yes," said he, "ste. marie can be an angel one moment and a child playing with toys the next. when he sees toys he always plays with them, and he plays hard, but when he drops them they go completely out of his mind." the american lady laughed. "gracious me!" she cried. "you two are emphatic enough about him, aren't you?" "we know him," said baron de vries. hartley rose to replace his empty cup on the tea-table. miss benham did not meet his eyes, and as he moved away again she spoke to her friend about something they were going to do on the next day, so hartley went across to where baron de vries sat at a little distance, and took a place beside him on the chaise lounge. the belgian greeted him with raised eyebrows and the little, half-sad, half-humorous smile which was characteristic of him in his gentler moments. "you were defending our friend with a purpose," he said, in a low voice. "good! i am afraid he needs it--here." the younger man hesitated a moment. then he said: "i came on purpose to do that. ste. marie knows that she saw him on that confounded pig. he was half wild with distress over it, because--well, the meeting was singularly unfortunate just then. i can't explain--" "you needn't explain," said the belgian, gravely. "i know. helen told me some days ago, though she did not mention this encounter. yes, defend him with all your power, if you will. stay after we others have gone and--have it out with her. the phidias lady (i must remember that mot, by-the-way) is preparing to take her leave now, and i will follow her at once. she shall believe that i am enamoured, that i sigh for her. eh!" said he, shaking his head--and the lines in the kindly old face seemed to deepen, but in a sort of grave tenderness--"eh, so love has come to the dear lad at last! ah, of course, the hundred other affairs! yes, yes. but they were light. no seriousness in them. the ladies may have loved. he didn't--very much. this time, i'm afraid--" baron de vries paused as if he did not mean to finish his sentence, and hartley said: "you say 'afraid'! why afraid?" the belgian looked up at him reflectively. "did i say 'afraid'?" he asked. "well, perhaps it was the word i wanted. i wonder if these two are fitted for each other. i am fond of them both. i think you know that, but--she's not very flexible, this child. and she hasn't much humor. i love her, but i know those things are true. i wonder if one ought to marry ste. marie without flexibility and without humor." "if they love each other," said richard hartley, "i expect the other things don't count. do they?" baron de vries rose to his feet, for he saw that the phidias lady was going. "perhaps not," said he; "i hope not. in any case, do your best for him with helen. make her comprehend if you can. i am afraid she is unhappy over the affair." he made his adieus, and went away with the american lady, to that young person's obvious excitement. and after a moment the three ladies across the room departed also, mrs. benham explaining that she was taking her two friends up to her own sitting-room, to show them something vaguely related to the heathen. so hartley was left alone with helen benham. it was not his way to beat about the bush, and he gave battle at once. he said, standing, to say it more easily: "you know why i came here to-day? it was the first chance i've had since that--unfortunate evening. i came on ste. marie's account." miss benham said a weak "oh!" and because she was nervous and overwrought, and because the thing meant so much to her, she said, cheaply: "he owes me no apologies. he has a perfect right to act as he pleases, you know." the englishman frowned across at her. "i didn't come to make apologies," said he. "i came to explain. well, i have explained--baron de vries and i together. that's just how it happened. and that's just how ste. marie takes things. the point is that you've got to understand it. i've got to make you." the girl smiled up at him dolefully. "you look," she said, "as if you were going to beat me if necessary. you look very warlike." "i feel warlike," the man said, nodding. he said: "i'm fighting for a friend to whom you are doing, in your mind, an injustice. i know him better than you do, and i tell you you're doing him a grave injustice. you're failing altogether to understand him." "i wonder," the girl said, looking very thoughtfully down at the table before her. "i know," said he. quite suddenly she gave a little overwrought cry, and she put up her hands over her face. "oh, richard!" she said, "that day when he was here! he left me--oh, i cannot tell you at what a height he left me! it was something new and beautiful. he swept me to the clouds with him. and i might--perhaps i might have lived on there. who knows? but then that hideous evening! ah, it was too sickening: the fall back to common earth again!" "i know," said the man, gently--"i know. and _he_ knew, too. directly he'd seen you he knew how you would feel about it. i'm not pretending that it was of no consequence. it was unfortunate, of course. but the point is, it did not mean in him any slackening, any stooping, any letting go. it was a moment's incident. we went to the wretched place by accident after dinner. ste. marie saw those childish lunatics at play, and for about two minutes he played with them. the lady in the blue hat made it appear a little more extreme, and that's all." miss benham rose to her feet and moved restlessly back and forth. "oh, richard," she said, "the golden spell is broken--the enchantment he laid upon me that day. i'm not like him, you know. oh, i wish i were! i wish i were! i can't change from hour to hour. i can't rise to the clouds again after my fall to earth. it has all--become something different. don't misunderstand me!" she cried. "i don't mean that i've ceased to care for him. no, far from that! but i was in such an exalted heaven, and now i'm not there any more. perhaps he can lift me to it again. oh yes, i'm sure he can, when i see him once more; but i wanted to go on living there so happily while he was away! do you understand at all?" "i think i do," the man said, but he looked at her very curiously and a little sadly, for it was the first time he had ever seen her swept from her superb poise by any emotion, and he hardly recognized her. it was very bitter to him to realize that he could never have stirred her to this--never, under any conceivable circumstances. the girl came to him where he stood, and touched his arm with her hand. "he is waiting to hear how i feel about it all, isn't he?" she said. "he is waiting to know that i understand. will you tell him a little lie for me, richard? no, you needn't tell a lie. i will tell it. tell him that i said i understood perfectly. tell him that i was shocked for a moment, but that afterward i understood and thought no more about it. will you tell him i said that? it won't be a lie from you, because i did say it. oh, i will not grieve him or hamper him now while he is working in my cause! i'll tell him a lie rather than have him grieve." "need it be a lie?" said richard hartley. "can't you truly believe what you've said?" she shook her head slowly. "i'll try," said she, "but--my golden spell is broken and i can't mend it alone. i'm sorry." he turned with a little sigh to leave her, but miss benham followed him toward the door of the drawing-room. "you're a good friend, richard," she said, when she had come near--"you're a good friend to him." "he deserves good friends," said the young man, stoutly. "and besides," said he, "we're brothers in arms nowadays. we've enlisted together to fight for the same cause." the girl fell back with a little cry. "do you mean," she said, after a moment--"do you mean that _you_ are working with him--to find arthur?" hartley nodded. "but--" said she, stammering. "but, richard--" the man checked her. "oh, i know what i'm doing," said he. "my eyes are open. i know that i'm not--well, in the running. i work for no reward except a desire to help you and ste. marie. that's all. it pleases me to be useful." he went away with that, not waiting for an answer, and the girl stood where he had left her, staring after him. * * * * * x captain stewart entertains ste. marie returned, after three days, from dinard in a depressed and somewhat puzzled frame of mind. he had found no trace whatever of arthur benham, either at dinard or at deauville, and, what was more, he was unable to discover that any one even remotely resembling that youth had been seen at either place. the matter of identification, it seemed to him, should be a rather simple one. in the first place, the boy's appearance was not at all french, nor, for that matter, english; it was very american. also, he spoke french--so ste. marie had been told--very badly, having for the language that scornful contempt peculiar to anglo-saxons of a certain type. his speech, it seemed, was, like his appearance, ultra-american--full of strange idioms and oddly pronounced. in short, such a youth would be rather sure to be remembered by any hotel management and staff with which he might have come in contact. at first ste. marie pursued his investigations quietly and, as it were, casually; but after his initial failure he went to the managements of the various hotels and lodging-houses, and to the cafés and bathing establishments, and told them, with all frankness, a part of the truth--that he was searching for a young man whose disappearance had caused great distress to his family. he was not long in discovering that no such young man could have been either in dinard or deauville. the thing which puzzled him was that, apart from finding no trace of the missing boy, he also found no trace of captain stewart's agent--the man who had been first on the ground. no one seemed able to recollect that such a person had been making inquiries, and ste. marie began to suspect that his friend was being imposed upon. he determined to warn stewart that his agents were earning their fees too easily. so he returned to paris more than a little dejected, and sore over this waste of time and effort. he arrived by a noon train, and drove across the city in a fiacre to the rue d'assas. but as he was in the midst of unpacking his portmanteau--for he kept no servant; a woman came in once a day to "do" the rooms--the door-bell rang. it was baron de vries, and ste. marie admitted him with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. "you passed me in the street just now," explained the belgian, "and as i was a few minutes early for a lunch engagement i followed you up." he pointed with his stick at the open bag. "ah, you have been on a journey! detective work?" ste. marie pushed his guest into a chair, gave him cigarettes, and told him about the fruitless expedition to dinard. he spoke, also, of his belief that captain stewart's agent had never really found a clew at all; and at that baron de vries nodded his gray head and said, "ah!" in a tone of some significance. afterward he smoked a little while in silence, but presently he said, as if with some hesitation: "may i be permitted to offer a word of advice?" "but surely!" cried ste. marie, kicking away the half-empty portmanteau. "why not?" "do whatever you are going to do in this matter according to your own judgment," said the elder man, "or according to mr. hartley's and your combined judgments. make your investigations without reference to our friend captain stewart." he halted there as if that were all he had meant to say, but when he saw ste. marie's raised eyebrows he frowned and went on, slowly, as if picking his words with some care. "i should be sorry," he said, "to have captain stewart at the head of any investigation of this nature in which i was deeply interested--just now, at any rate. i am afraid--it is difficult to say; i do not wish to say too much--i am afraid he is not quite the man for the position." ste. marie nodded his head with great emphasis. "ah," he cried, "that's just what i have felt, you know, all along! and it's what hartley felt, too, i'm sure. no, stewart is not the sort for a detective. he's too cocksure. he won't admit that he might possibly be wrong now and then. he's too--" "he is too much occupied with other matters," said baron de vries. ste. marie sat down on the edge of a chair. "other matters?" he demanded. "that sounds mysterious. what other matters?" "oh, there is nothing very mysterious about it," said the elder man. he frowned down at his cigarette, and brushed some fallen ash neatly from his knees. "captain stewart," said he, "is badly worried, and has been for the past year or so--badly worried over money matters and other things. he has lost enormous sums at play, as i happen to know, and he has lost still more enormous sums at auteuil and at longchamps. also, the ladies are not without their demands." ste. marie gave a shout of laughter. "comment donc!" he cried. "ce vieillard?" "ah, well," deprecated the other man. "vieillard is putting it rather high. he can't be more than fifty, i should think. to be sure, he looks older; but then, in his day, he lived a great deal in a short time. do you happen to remember olga nilssen?" "i do," said ste. marie. "i remember her very well, indeed. i was a sort of go-between in settling up that affair with morrison. morrison's people asked me to do what i could. yes, i remember her well, and with some pleasure. i felt sorry for her, you know. people didn't quite know the truth of that affair. morrison behaved very badly to her." "yes," said baron de vries, "and captain stewart has behaved very badly to her also. she is furious with rage or jealousy--or both. she goes about, i am told, threatening to kill him, and it would be rather like her to do it one day. well, i have dragged in all this scandal by way of showing you that stewart has his hands full of his own affairs just now, and so cannot give the attention he ought to give to hunting out his nephew. as you suggest, his agents may be deceiving him. i don't know. i suppose they could do it easily enough. if i were you i should set to work quite independently of him." "yes," said ste. marie, in an absent tone. "oh yes, i shall do that, you may be sure." he gave a sudden smile. "he's a queer type, this captain stewart. he begins to interest me very much. i had never suspected this side of him, though i remember now that i once saw him coming out of a milliner's shop. he looks rather an ascetic--rather donnish, don't you think? i remember that he talked to me one day quite pathetically about feeling his age and about liking young people round him. he's an odd character. fancy him mixed up in an affair with olga nilssen! or, rather, fancy her involved in an affair with him! what can she have seen in him? she's not mercenary, you know--at least, she used not to be." "ah! there," said baron de vries, "you enter upon a terra incognita. no one can say what a woman sees in this man or in that. it's beyond our ken." he rose to take his leave, and ste. marie went with him to the door. "i've been asked to a sort of party at stewart's rooms this week," ste. marie said. "i don't know whether i shall go or not. probably not. i suppose i shouldn't find olga nilssen there?" "well, no," said the belgian, laughing. "no, i hardly think so. good-bye! think over what i've told you. good-bye!" he went away down the stair, and ste. marie returned to his unpacking. nothing more of consequence occurred in the next few days. hartley had unearthed a somewhat shabby adventurer who swore to having seen the irishman o'hara in paris within a month, but it was by no means certain that this being did not merely affirm what he believed to be desired of him, and in any case the information was of no especial value, since it was o'hara's present whereabouts that was the point at issue. so it came to thursday evening. ste. marie received a note from captain stewart during the day, reminding him that he was to come to the rue du faubourg st. honoré that evening, and asking him to come early, at ten or thereabouts, so that the two could have a comfortable chat before any one else turned up. ste. marie had about decided not to go at all, but the courtesy of this special invitation from miss benham's uncle made it rather impossible for him to stay away. he tried to persuade hartley to follow him on later in the evening, but that gentleman flatly refused and went away to dine with some english friends at armenonville. so ste. marie, in a vile temper, dined quite alone at lavenue's, beside the gare montparnasse, and toward ten o'clock drove across the river to the rue du faubourg. captain stewart's flat was up five stories, at the top of the building in which it was located, and so, well above the noises of the street. ste. marie went up in the automatic lift, and at the door above his host met him in person, saying that the one servant he kept was busy making preparations in the kitchen beyond. they entered a large room, long but comparatively shallow, in shape not unlike the sitting-room in the rue d'assas, but very much bigger, and ste. marie uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, for he had never before seen an interior anything like this. the room was decorated and furnished entirely in chinese and japanese articles of great age and remarkable beauty. ste. marie knew little of the hieratic art of these two countries, but he fancied that the place must be an endless delight to the expert. the general tone of the room was gold, dulled and softened by great age until it had ceased to glitter, and relieved by the dusty chinese blue and by old red faded to rose and by warm ivory tints. the great expanse of the walls was covered by a brownish-yellow cloth, coarse like burlap, and against it, round the room, hung sixteen large panels representing the sixteen rakan. they were early copies--fifteenth century, captain stewart said--of those famous originals by the chinese sung master ririomin, which have been for six hundred years or more the treasures of japan. they were mounted upon japanese brocade of blue and dull gold, framed in keyaki wood, and out of their brown, time-stained shadows the great rakan scowled or grinned or placidly gazed, grotesquely graceful masterpieces of a perished art. at the far end of the room, under a gilded canopy of intricate wood-carving, stood upon his pedestal of many-petalled lotus a great statue of amida buddha in the yogi attitude of contemplation, and at intervals against the other walls other smaller images stood or sat: buddha, in many incarnations; kwannon, goddess of mercy; jizo bosatzu hotei, pot-bellied, god of contentment; jingo-kano, god of war. in the centre of the place was a buddhist temple table, and priests' chairs, lacquered and inlaid, stood about the room. the floor was covered with chinese rugs, dull yellow with blue flowers, and over a doorway which led into another room was fixed a huge rama of chinese pierced carving, gilded, in which there were trees and rocks and little grouped figures of the hundred immortals. it, was, indeed an extraordinary room. ste. marie looked about its mellow glow with a half-comprehending wonder, and he looked at the man beside him curiously, for here was another side to this many-sided character. captain stewart smiled. "you like my museum?" he asked. "few people care much for it except, of course, those who go in for the oriental arts. most of my friends think it bizarre--too grotesque and unusual. i have tried to satisfy them by including those comfortable low divan-couches (they refuse altogether to sit in the priests' chairs), but still they are unhappy." he called his servant, who came to take ste. marie's hat and coat and returned with smoking things. "it seems entirely wonderful to me," said the younger man. "i'm not an expert at all--i don't know who the gentlemen in those sixteen panels are, for example--but it is very beautiful. i have never seen anything like it at all." he gave a little laugh. "will it sound very impertinent in me, i wonder, if i express surprise--not surprise at finding this magnificent room, but at discovering that this sort of thing is a taste and, very evidently, a serious study of yours? you--i remember your saying once with some feeling that it was youth and beauty and--well, freshness that you liked best to be surrounded by. this," said ste. marie, waving an inclusive hand, "was young so many centuries ago! it fairly breathes antiquity and death." "yes," said captain stewart, thoughtfully. "yes, that is quite true." the two had seated themselves upon one of the broad, low benches which had been built into the place to satisfy the philistine. "i find it hard to explain," he said, "because both things are passions of mine. youth--i could not exist without it. since i have it no longer in my own body, i wish to see it about me. it gives me life. it keeps my heart beating. i must have it near. and then this--antiquity and death, beautiful things made by hands dead centuries ago in an alien country! i love this, too. i didn't speak too strongly; it is a sort of passion with me--something quite beyond the collector's mania--quite beyond that. sometimes, do you know, i stay at home in the evening, and i sit here quite alone, with the lights half on, and for hours together i smoke and watch these things--the quiet, sure, patient smile of that buddha, for example. think how long he has been smiling like that, and waiting! waiting for what? there is something mysterious beyond all words in that smile of his, that fixed, crudely carved wooden smile--no, i'll be hanged if it's crude! it is beyond our modern art. the dead men carved better than we do. we couldn't manage that with such simple means. we can only reproduce what is before us. we can't carve questions--mysteries--everlasting riddles." through the pale-blue, wreathing smoke of his cigarette captain stewart gazed down the room to where eternal buddha stood and smiled eternally. and from there the man's eyes moved with slow enjoyment along the opposite wall over those who sat or stood there, over the panels of the ancient rakan, over carved lotus, and gilt contorted dragon forever in pursuit of the holy pearl. he drew a short breath which seemed to bespeak extreme contentment, the keenest height of pleasure, and he stirred a little where he sat and settled himself among the cushions. ste. marie watched him, and the expression of the man's face began to be oddly revolting. it was the face of a voluptuary in the presence of his desire. he was uncomfortable, and wished to say something to break the silence, but, as often occurs at such a time, he could think of nothing to say. so there was a brief silence between them. but presently captain stewart roused himself with an obvious effort. "here, this won't do!" said he, in a tone of whimsical apology. "this won't do, you know. i'm floating off on my hobby (and there's a mixed metaphor that would do credit to your own milesian blood!). i'm boring you to extinction, and i don't want to do that, for i'm anxious that you should come here again--and often. i should like to have you form the habit. what was it i had in mind to ask you about? ah, yes! the journey to dinard and deauville. i am afraid it turned out to be fruitless or you would have let me know." "entirely fruitless," said ste. marie. he went on to tell the elder man of his investigation, and of his certainty that no one resembling arthur benham had been at either of the two places. "it's no affair of mine, to be sure," he said, "but i rather suspect that your agent was deceiving you--pretending to have accomplished something by way of making you think he was busy." ste. marie was so sure the other would immediately disclaim this that he waited for the word, and gave a little smothered laugh when captain stewart said, promptly: "oh no! no! that is impossible. i have every confidence in that man. he is one of my best. no, you are mistaken there. i am more disappointed than you could possibly be over the failure of your efforts, but i am quite sure my man thought he had something worth working upon. by-the-way, i have received another rather curious communication--from ostend this time. i will show you the letter, and you may try your luck there if you would care to." he felt in his pockets and then rose. "i've left the thing in another coat," said he; "if you will allow me, i'll fetch it." but before he had turned away the door-bell rang and he paused. "ah, well," he said, "another time. here are some of my guests. they have come earlier than i had expected." the new arrivals were three very perfectly dressed ladies, one of them an operatic light, who chanced not to be singing that evening and whom ste. marie had met before. the two others were rather difficult of classification, but probably, he thought, ornaments of that mysterious border-land between the two worlds which seems to give shelter to so many people against whose characters nothing definite is known, but whose antecedents and connections are not made topics of conversation. the three ladies seemed to be on very friendly terms with captain stewart, and greeted him with much noisy delight. one of the unclassified two, when her host, with a glance toward ste. marie, addressed her formally, seemed inordinately amused, and laughed for a long time. within the next hour ten or a dozen other guests had arrived, and they all seemed to know one another very well, and proceeded to make themselves quite at home. ste. marie regarded them with a reflective and not over-enthusiastic eye, and he wondered a good deal why he had been asked here to meet them. he was as far from a prig or a snob as any man could very well be, and he often went to very bohemian parties which were given by his painter or musician friends, but these people seemed to him quite different. the men, with the exception of two eminent opera-singers, who quite obviously had been asked because of their voices, were the sort of men who abound at such places as ostend and monte carlo, and baden-baden in the race week. that is not to say that they were ordinary racing touts or the cheaper kind of adventurers (there was a count among them, and a marquis who had recently been divorced by his american wife), but adventurers of a sort they undoubtedly were. there was not one of them, so far as ste. marie was aware, who was received anywhere in good society, and he resented very much being compelled to meet them. naturally enough, he felt much less concern on the score of the ladies. it is an undoubted and well-nigh universal truth that men who would refuse outright to meet certain classes of their own sex show no reluctance whatever over meeting the women of a corresponding circle--that is, if the women are attractive. it is a depressing fact and inclines one to sighs and head-shakes, and some moral indignation, until the reverse truth is brought to light--namely, that women have identically the same point of view; that, while they cast looks of loathing and horror upon certain of their sisters, they will meet with pleasure any presentable man whatever his crimes or vices. ste. marie was very much puzzled over all this. it seemed to him so unnecessary that a man who really had some footing in the newer society of paris should choose to surround himself with people of this type; but as he looked on and wondered he became aware of a curious and, in the light of a past conversation, significant fact: all of the people in the room were young; all of them in their varying fashions and degrees very attractive to look upon; all full to overflowing of life and spirits and the determination to have a good time. he saw captain stewart moving among them, playing very gracefully his rôle of host, and the man seemed to have dropped twenty years from his shoulders. a miracle of rejuvenation seemed to have come upon him: his eyes were bright and eager, the color was high in his cheeks, and the dry, pedantic tone had gone from his voice. ste. marie watched him, and at last he thought he understood. it was half revolting, half pathetic, he thought, but it certainly was interesting to see. duval, the great basso of the opéra, accompanied at the piano by one of the unclassified ladies, was just finishing mephistopheles' drinking song out of _faust_ when the door-bell rang. * * * * * xi a golden lady enters--the eyes again the music of voice and piano was very loud just then, so that the little, soft, whirring sound of the electric bell reached only one or two pairs of ears in the big room. it did not reach the host certainly, and neither he nor most of the others observed the servant make his way among the groups of seated or standing people and go to the outer door, which opened upon a tiny hallway. the song came to an end, and everybody was cheering and applauding and crying "bravo!" or "bis!" or one of the other things that people shout at such times, when, as if in unexpected answer to the outburst, a lady appeared between the yellow portières and came forward a little way into the room. she was a tall lady of an extraordinary and immediately noticeable grace of movement--a lady with rather fair hair; but her eyebrows and eyelashes had been stained darker than it was their nature to be. she had the classic greek type of face--and figure, too--all but the eyes, which were long and narrow--narrow, perhaps, from a habit of going half closed; and when they were a little more than half closed they made a straight black line that turned up very slightly at the outer end with an oriental effect which went oddly in that classic face. there is a popular piece of sculpture now in the luxembourg gallery for which this lady "sat" as model to a great artist. sculptors from all over the world go there to dream over its perfect line and contour, and little schoolgirls pretend not to see it, and middle-aged maiden tourists, with red baedekers in their hands, regard it furtively and pass on, and after a while come back to look again. the lady was dressed in some very close-clinging material which was not cloth of gold, but something very like it, only much duller--something which gleamed when she stirred, but did not glitter--and over her splendid shoulders was hung an oriental scarf heavily worked with metallic gold. she made an amazing and dramatic picture in that golden room. it was as if she had known just what her surroundings would be and had dressed expressly for them. the applause ceased as suddenly as if it had been trained to break off at a signal, and the lady came forward a little way, smiling a quiet, assured smile. at each step her knee threw out the golden stuff of her gown an inch or two, and it flashed suddenly--a dull, subdued flash in the overhead light--and died and flashed again. a few of the people in the room knew who the lady was, and they looked at one another with raised eyebrows and startled faces; but the others stared at her with an eager admiration, thinking that they had seldom seen anything so beautiful or so effective. ste. marie sat forward on the edge of his chair. his eyes sparkled, and he gave a little quick sigh of pleasurable excitement. this was drama, and very good drama, too, and he suspected that it might at any moment turn into a tragedy. he saw captain stewart, who had been among a group of people half-way across the room, turn his head to look when the cries and the applause ceased so suddenly, and he saw the man's face stiffen by swift degrees, all the joyous, buoyant life gone out of it, until it was yellow and rigid like a dead man's face; and ste. marie, out of his knowledge of the relations between these two people, nodded, en connaisseur, for he knew that the man was very badly frightened. so the host of the evening hung back, staring for what must have seemed to him a long and terrible time, though in reality it was but an instant; then he came forward quickly to greet the new-comer, and if his face was still yellow-white there was nothing in his manner but the courtesy habitual with him. he took the lady's hand, and she smiled at him, but her eyes did not smile--they were hard. ste. marie, who was the nearest of the others, heard captain stewart say: "this is an unexpected pleasure, my dearest olga!" and to that the lady replied, more loudly: "yes, i returned to paris only to-day. you didn't know, of course. i heard you were entertaining this evening, and so i came, knowing that i should be welcome." "always!" said captain stewart--"always more than welcome!" he nodded to one or two of the men who stood near, and when they approached presented them. ste. marie observed that he used the lady's true name--she had, at times, found occasion to employ others--and that he politely called her "madame nilssen" instead of "mademoiselle." but at that moment the lady caught sight of ste. marie, and, crying out his name in a tone of delighted astonishment, turned away from the other men, brushing past them as if they had been furniture, and advanced holding out both her hands in greeting. "dear ste. marie!" she exclaimed. "fancy finding you here! i'm so glad! oh, i'm so very glad! take me away from these people! find a corner where we can talk. ah, there is one with a big seat! allons-y!" she addressed him for the most part in english, which she spoke perfectly--as perfectly as she spoke french and german and, presumably, her native tongue, which must have been swedish. they went to the broad, low seat, a sort of hard-cushioned bench, which stood against one of the walls, and made themselves comfortable there by the only possible means, which, owing to the width of the thing, was to sit far back with their feet stuck straight out before them. captain stewart had followed them across the room and showed a strong tendency to remain. ste. marie observed that his eyes were hard and bright and very alert, and that there were two bright spots of color in his yellow cheeks. it occurred to ste. marie that the man was afraid to leave him alone with olga nilssen, and he smiled to himself, reflecting that the lady, even if indiscreetly inclined, could tell him nothing--save in details--that he did not already know. but after a few rather awkward moments mile. nilssen waved an irritated hand. "go away!" she said to her host. "go away to your other guests! i want to talk to ste. marie. we have old times to talk over." and after hesitating awhile uneasily, captain stewart turned back into the room; but for some time thereafter ste. marie was aware that a vigilant eye was being kept upon them and that their host was by no means at his ease. when they were left alone together the girl turned to him and patted his arm affectionately. she said: "ah, but it is very good to see you again, mon cher ami! it has been so long!" she gave an abrupt frown. "what are you doing here?" she demanded. and she said an unkind thing about her fellow-guests. she called them "canaille." she said: "why are you wasting your time among these canaille? this is not a place for you. why did you come?" "i don't know," said ste. marie. he was still a little resentful, and he said so. he said: "i didn't know it was going to be like this. i came because stewart went rather out of his way to ask me. i'd known him in a very different milieu." "ah, yes!" she said, reflectively. "yes, he does go into the world also, doesn't he? but this is what he likes, you know." her lips drew back for an instant, and she said: "he is a pig-dog!" ste. marie looked at her gravely. she had used that offensive name with a little too much fierceness. her face had turned for an instant quite white, and her eyes had flashed out over the room a look that meant a great deal to any one who knew her as well as ste. marie did. he sat forward and lowered his voice. he said: "look here, olga! i'm going to be very frank for a moment. may i?" for just an instant the girl drew away from him with suspicion in her eyes, and something else, alertly defiant. then she put out her hands to his arm. "you may be what you like, dear ste. marie," she said, "and say what you like. i will take it all--and swallow it alive--good as gold. what are you going to do to me?" "i've always been fair with you, haven't i?" he urged. "i've had disagreeable things to say or do, but--you knew always that i liked you and--where my sympathies were." "always! always, mon cher!" she cried. "i trusted you always in everything. and there is no one else i trust. no one! no one!--ste. marie!" "what then?" he asked. "ste. marie," she said, "why did you never fall in love with me, as the other men did?" "i wonder!" said he. "i don't know. upon my word, i really don't know." he was so serious about it that the girl burst into a shriek of laughter. and in the end he laughed, too. "i expect it was because i liked you too well," he said, at last. "but come! we're forgetting my lecture. listen to your grandpère ste. marie! i have heard--certain things--rumors--what you will. perhaps they are foolish lies, and i hope they are. but if not, if the fear i saw in stewart's face when you came here to-night, was--not without cause, let me beg you to have a care. you're much too savage, my dear child. don't be so foolish as to--well, turn comedy into the other thing. in the first place, it's not worth while, and, in the second place, it recoils always. revenge may be sweet. i don't know. but nowadays, with police courts and all that, it entails much more subsequent annoyance than it is worth. be wise, olga!" "some things, ste. marie," said the golden lady, "are worth all the consequences that may follow them." she watched captain stewart across the room, where he stood chatting with a little group of people, and her beautiful face was as hard as marble and her eyes were as dark as a stormy night, and her mouth, for an instant, was almost like an animal's mouth--cruel and relentless. ste. marie saw, and he began to be a bit alarmed in good earnest. in his warning he had spoken rather more seriously than he felt the occasion demanded, but he began at last to wonder if the occasion was not in reality very serious, indeed. he was sure, of course, that olga nilssen had come here on this evening to annoy captain stewart in some fashion. as he put it to himself, she probably meant to "make a row," and he would not have been in the least surprised if she had made it in the beginning, upon her very dramatic entrance. nothing more calamitous than that had occurred to him. but when he saw the woman's face turned a little away and gazing fixedly at captain stewart, he began to be aware that there was tragedy very near him--or all the makings of it. mlle. nilssen turned back to him. her face was still hard, and her eyes dark and narrowed with their oddly oriental look. she bent her shoulders together for an instant and her hands moved slowly in her lap, stretching out before her in a gesture very like a cat's when it wakes from sleep and yawns and extends its claws, as if to make sure that they are still there and ready for use. "i feel a little like samson to-night," she said. "i am tired of almost everything, and i should like very much to pull the world down on top of me and kill everybody in it--except you, ste. marie, dear; except you!--and be crushed under the ruins!" "i think," said ste. marie, practically--and the speech sounded rather like one of hartley's speeches--"i think it was not quite the world that samson pulled down, but a temple--or a palace--something of that kind." "well," said the golden lady, "this place is rather like a temple--a chinese temple, with the pig-dog for high-priest." ste. marie frowned at her. "what are you going to do?" he demanded, sharply. "what did you come here to do? mischief of some kind--bien entendu--but what?" "do?" she said, looking at him with her narrowed eyes. "i? why, what should i do? nothing, of course! i merely said i should like to pull the place down. of course, i couldn't do that quite literally, now, could i? no. it is merely a mood. i'm not going to do anything." "you're not being honest with me," he said. and at that her expression changed, and she patted his arm again with a gesture that seemed to beg forgiveness. "well, then," she said, "if you must know, maybe i did come here for a purpose. i want to have it out with our friend captain stewart about something. and ste. marie, dear," she pleaded, "please, i think you'd better go home first. i don't care about these other animals, but i don't want you dragged into any row of any sort. please be a sweet ste. marie and go home. yes?" "absolutely, no!" said ste. marie. "i shall stay, and i shall try my utmost to prevent you from doing anything foolish. understand that! if you want to have rows with people, olga, for heaven's sake don't pick an occasion like this for the purpose. have your rows in private!" "i rather think i enjoy an audience," she said, with a reflective air, and ste. marie laughed aloud because he knew that the naïve speech was so very true. this lady, with her many good qualities and her bad ones--not a few, alas!--had an undeniable passion for red fire that had amused him very much on more than one past occasion. "please go home!" she said once more. but when the man only shook his head, she raised her hands a little way and dropped them again in her lap, in an odd gesture which seemed to say that she had done all she could do, and that if anything disagreeable should happen now, and he should be involved in it, it would be entirely his fault because she had warned him. then quite abruptly a mood of irresponsible gayety seemed to come upon her. she refused to have anything more to do with serious topics, and when ste. marie attempted to introduce them she laughed in his face. as she had said in the beginning she wished to do, she harked back to old days (the earlier stages of what might be termed the morrison régime), and it seemed to afford her great delight to recall the happenings of that epoch. the conversation became a dialogue of reminiscence which would have been entirely unintelligible to a third person, and was, indeed, so to captain stewart, who once came across the room, made a feeble effort to attach himself, and presently wandered away again. they unearthed from the past an exceedingly foolish song all about one "little willie" and a purple monkey climbing up a yellow stick. it was set to a well-known air from _don giovanni_, and when duval, the basso, heard them singing it he came up and insisted upon knowing what it was about. he laughed immoderately over the english words when he was told what they meant, and made ste. marie write them down for him on two visiting-cards. so they made a trio out of "little willie," the great duval inventing a bass part quite marvellous in its ingenuity, and they were compelled to sing it over and over again, until ste. marie's falsetto imitation of a tenor voice cracked and gave out altogether, since he was by nature barytone, if anything at all. the other guests had crowded round to hear the extraordinary song, and when the song was at last finished several of them remained, so that ste. marie saw he was to be allowed an uninterrupted tête-à-tête with olga nilssen no longer. he therefore drifted away, after a few moments, and went with duval and one of the other men across the room to look at some small jade objects--snuff-bottles, bracelets, buckles, and the like--which were displayed in a cabinet cleverly reconstructed out of a japanese shrine. it was perhaps ten minutes later when he looked round the place and discovered that neither mlle. nilssen nor captain stewart was to be seen. his first thought was of relief, for he said to himself that the two had sensibly gone into one of the other rooms to "have it out" in peace and quiet. but following that came the recollection of the woman's face when she had watched her host across the room. her words came back to him: "i feel a little like samson to-night.... i should like very much to pull the world down on top of me and kill everybody in it!" ste. marie thought of these things, and he began to be uncomfortable. he found himself watching the yellow-hung doorway beyond, with its intricate chinese carving of trees and rocks and little groups of immortals, and he found that unconsciously he was listening for something--he did not know what--above the chatter and laughter of the people in the room. he endured this for possibly five minutes, and all at once found that he could endure it no longer. he began to make his way quietly through the groups of people toward the curtained doorway. as he went, one of the women near by complained in a loud tone that the servant had disappeared. she wanted, it seemed, a glass of water, having already had many glasses of more interesting things. ste. marie said he would get it for her, and went on his way. he had an excuse now. he found himself in a square, dimly lighted room much smaller than the other. there was a round table in the centre, so he thought it must be stewart's dining-room. at the left a doorway opened into a place where there were lights, and at the other side was another door closed. from the room at the left there came a sound of voices, and though they were not loud, one of them, mlle. olga nilssen's voice, was hard and angry and not altogether under control. the man would seem to have been attempting to pacify her, and he would seem not to have been very successful. the first words that ste. marie was able to distinguish were from the woman. she said, in a low, fierce tone: "that is a lie, my friend! that is a lie! i know all about the road to clamart, so you needn't lie to me any longer. it's no good." she paused for just an instant there, and in the pause st. marie heard stewart give a sort of inarticulate exclamation. it seemed to express anger and it seemed also to express fear. but the woman swept on, and her voice began to be louder. she said: "i've given you your chance. you didn't deserve it, but i've given it you--and you've told me nothing but lies. well, you'll lie no more. this ends it." upon that ste. marie heard a sudden stumbling shuffle of feet and a low, hoarse cry of utter terror--a cry more animal-like than human. he heard the cry break off abruptly in something that was like a cough and a whine together, and he heard the sound of a heavy body falling with a loose rattle upon the floor. with the sound of that falling body he had already reached the doorway and torn aside the heavy portière. it was a sleeping-room he looked into, a room of medium size with two windows and an ornate bed of the empire style set sidewise against the farther wall. there were electric lights upon imitation candles which were grouped in sconces against the wall, and these were turned on, so that the room was brightly illuminated. midway between the door and the ornate empire bed captain stewart lay huddled and writhing upon the floor, and olga nilssen stood upright beside him, gazing down upon him quite calmly. in her right hand, which hung at her side, she held a little flat black automatic pistol of the type known as brownings--and they look like toys, but they are not. ste. marie sprang at her silently and caught her by the arm, twisting the automatic pistol from her grasp, and the woman made no effort whatever to resist him. she looked into his face quite frankly and unmoved, and she shook her head. "i haven't harmed him," she said. "i was going to, yes--and then myself--but he didn't give me a chance. he fell down in a fit." she nodded down toward the man who lay writhing at their feet. "i frightened him," she said, "and he fell in a fit. he's an epileptic, you know. didn't you know that? oh yes." abruptly she turned away shivering, and put up her hands over her face. and she gave an exclamation of uncontrollable repulsion. "ugh!" she cried, "it's horrible! horrible! i can't bear to look. i saw him in a fit once before--long ago--and i couldn't bear even to speak to him for a month. i thought he had been cured. he said--ah, it's horrible!" ste. marie had dropped upon his knees beside the fallen man, and mlle. nilssen said, over her shoulder: "hold his head up from the floor, if you can bear to. he might hurt it." it was not an easy thing to do, for ste. marie had the natural sense of repulsion in such matters that most people have, and this man's appearance, as olga nilssen had said, was horrible. the face was drawn hideously, and in the strong, clear light of the electrics it was a deathly yellow. the eyes were half closed, and the eyeballs turned up so that only the whites of them showed between the lids. there was froth upon the distorted mouth, and it clung to the catlike mustache and to the shallow, sunken chin beneath. but ste. marie exerted all his will power, and took the jerking, trembling head in his hands, holding it clear of the floor. "you'd better call the servant," he said. "there may be something that can be done." but the woman answered, without looking: "no, there's nothing that can be done, i believe, except to keep him from bruising himself. stimulants--that sort of thing--do more harm than good. could you get him on the bed here?" "together we might manage it," said ste. marie. "come and help!" "i can't!" she cried, nervously. "i can't--touch him. please, i can't do it." "come!" said the man, in a sharp tone. "it's no time for nerves. i don't like it, either, but it's got to be done." the woman began a half-hysterical sobbing, but after a moment she turned and came with slow feet to where stewart lay. ste. marie slipped his arms under the man's body and began to raise him from the floor. "you needn't help, after all," he said. "he's not heavy." and, indeed, under his skilfully shaped and padded clothes the man was a mere waif of a man--as unbelievably slight as if he were the victim of a wasting disease. ste. marie held the body in his arms as if it had been a child, and carried it across and laid it on the bed; but it was many months before he forgot the horror of that awful thing shaking and twitching in his hold, the head thumping hideously upon his shoulder, the arms and legs beating against him. it was the most difficult task he had ever had to perform. he laid captain stewart upon the bed and straightened the helpless limbs as best he could. "i suppose," he said, rising again--"i suppose when the man comes out of this he'll be frightfully exhausted and drop off to sleep, won't he? we'll have to--" he halted abruptly there, and for a single swift instant he felt the black and rushing sensation of one who is going to faint away. the wall behind the ornate empire bed was covered with photographs, some in frames, others left, as they had been received, upon the large squares of weird cardboard which are termed "art mounts." "come here a moment, quickly!" said ste. marie, in a sharp voice. mlle. nilssen's sobs had died down to a silent, spasmodic catching of the breath, but she was still much unnerved, and she approached the bed with obvious unwillingness, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ste. marie pointed to an unframed photograph which was fastened to the wall by thumb-tacks, and his outstretched hand shook as he pointed. beneath them the other man still writhed and tumbled in his epileptic fit. "do you know who that woman is?" demanded ste. marie, and his tone was such that olga nilssen turned slowly and stared at him. "that woman," said she, "is the reason why i wished to pull the world down upon charlie stewart and me to-night. that's who she is." ste. marie gave a sort of cry. "who is she?" he insisted. "what is her name? i--have a particularly important reason for wanting to know. i've got to know." mlle. nilssen shook her head, still staring at him. "i can't tell you that," said she. "i don't know the name. i only know that--when he met her, he--i don't know her name, but i know where she lives and where he goes every day to see her--a house with a big garden and walled park on the road to clamart. it's on the edge of the wood, not far from fort d'issy. the clamart-vanves-issy tram runs past the wall of one side of the park. that's all i know." ste. marie clasped his head with his hands. "so near to it!" he groaned, "and yet--ah!" he bent forward suddenly over the bed and spelled out the name of the photographer which was pencilled upon the brown cardboard mount. "there's still a chance," he said, "there's still one chance." he became aware that the woman was watching him curiously, and nodded to her. "it's something you don't know about," he explained. "i've got to find out who this--girl is. perhaps the photographer can help me. i used to know him." all at once his eyes sharpened. "tell me the simple truth about something!" said he. "if ever we have been friends, if you owe me any good office, tell me this: do you know anything about young arthur benham's disappearance two months ago, or about what has become of him?" again the woman shook her head. "no," said she. "nothing at all. i hadn't even heard of it. young arthur benham! i've met him once or twice. i wonder--i wonder stewart never spoke to me about his disappearance! that's very odd." "yes," said ste. marie, absently, "it is." he gave a little sigh. "i wonder about a good many things," said he. he glanced down upon the bed before them, and captain stewart lay still, save for a slight twitching of the hands. once he moved his head restlessly from side to side and said something incoherent in a weak murmur. "he's out of it," said olga nilssen. "he'll sleep now, i think. i suppose we must get rid of those people and then leave him to the care of his man. a doctor couldn't do anything for him." "yes," said ste. marie, nodding, "i'll call the servant and tell the people that stewart has been taken ill." he looked once more toward the photograph on the wall, and under his breath he said, with an odd, defiant fierceness: "i won't believe it!" but he did not explain what he wouldn't believe. he started out of the room, but, half-way, halted and turned back. he looked olga nilssen full in the eyes, saying: "it is safe to leave you here with him while i call the servant? there'll be no more--?" but the woman gave a low cry and a violent shiver with it. "you need have no fear," she said. "i've no desire now to--harm him. the--reason is gone. this has cured me. i feel as if i could never bear to see him again. oh, hurry! please hurry! i want to get away from here!" ste. marie nodded, and went out of the room. * * * * * xii the name of the lady with the eyes--evidence heaps up swiftly ste. marie drove home to the rue d'assas with his head in a whirl, and with a sense of great excitement beating somewhere within him--probably in the place where his heart ought to be. he had a curiously sure feeling that at last his feet were upon the right path. he could not have explained this to himself--indeed, there was nothing to explain, and if there had been he was in far too great an inner turmoil to manage it. it was a mere feeling--the sort of thing which he had once tried to express to captain stewart and had got laughed at for his pains. there was, in sober fact, no reason whatever why captain stewart's possession of a photograph of the beautiful lady whom ste. marie had once seen in company with o'hara should be taken as significant of anything except an appreciation of beauty on the part of miss benham's uncle--not even if, as mlle. nilssen believed, captain stewart was in love with the lady. but to ste. marie, in his whirl of reawakened excitement, the discovery loomed to the skies, and in a series of ingenious but very vague leaps of the imagination he saw himself, with the aid of this new evidence (which was no evidence at all, if he had been calm enough to realize it), victorious in his great quest: leading young arthur benham back to the arms of an ecstatic family, and kneeling at the feet of that youth's sister to claim his reward. all of which seems a rather startling flight of the imagination to have had its beginning in the sight of one photograph of a young woman. but, then, ste. marie was imaginative if he was anything. he fell to thinking of this girl whose eyes, after one sight of them, had so long haunted him. he thought of her between those two men, the hard-faced irish adventurer, and the other, stewart, strange compound of intellectual and voluptuary, and his eyes flashed in the dark and he gripped his hands together upon his knees. he said again: "i won't believe it! i won't believe it!" believe what? one wonders. he slept hardly at all: only, toward morning, falling into an uneasy doze. and in the doze he dreamed once more the dream of the dim, waste place and the hill, and the eyes and voice that called him back--because they needed him. as early as he dared, after his morning coffee, he took a fiacre and drove across the river to the boulevard de la madeleine, where he climbed a certain stair, at the foot of which were two glass cases containing photographs of, for the most part, well-known ladies of the parisian stage. at the top of the stair he entered the reception-room of a young photographer who is famous now the world over, but who, at the beginning of his career, when he had nothing but talent and no acquaintance, owed certain of his most important commissions to m. ste. marie. the man, whose name was bernstein, came forward eagerly from the studio beyond to greet his visitor, and ste. marie complimented him chaffingly upon his very sleek and prosperous appearance, and upon the new decorations of the little salon, which were, in truth, excellently well judged. but after they had talked for a little while of such matters, he said: "i want to know if you keep specimen prints of all the photographs you have made within the past few months, and, if so, i should like to see them." the young jew went to a wooden portfolio-holder which stood in a corner, and dragged it out into the light. "i have them all here," said he--"everything that i have made within the past ten or twelve months. if you will let me draw up a chair you can look them over comfortably." he glanced at his former patron with a little polite curiosity as ste. marie followed his suggestion, and began to turn over the big portfolio's contents; but he did not show any surprise nor ask questions. indeed, he guessed, to a certain extent, rather near the truth of the matter. it had happened before that young gentlemen--and old ones, too--wanted to look over his prints without offering explanations, and they generally picked out all the photographs there were of some particular lady and bought them if they could be bought. so he was by no means astonished on this occasion, and he moved about the room putting things to rights, and even went for a few moments into the studio beyond until he was recalled by a sudden exclamation from his visitor--an exclamation which had a sound of mingled delight and excitement. ste. marie held in his hands a large photograph, and he turned it toward the man who had made it. "i am going to ask you some questions," said he, "that will sound rather indiscreet and irregular, but i beg you to answer them if you can, because the matter is of great importance to a number of people. do you remember this lady?" "oh yes," said the jew, readily, "i remember her very well. i never forget people who are as beautiful as this lady was." his eyes gleamed with retrospective joy. "she was splendid!" he declared. "sumptuous! no, i cannot describe her. i have not the words. and i could not photograph her with any justice, either. she was all color: brown skin, with a dull-red stain under the cheeks, and a great mass of hair that was not black but very nearly black--except in the sun, and then there were red lights in it. she was a goddess, that lady, a queen of goddesses-the young juno before marriage--the--" "yes," interrupted ste. marie--"yes, i see. yes, quite evidently she was beautiful; but what i wanted in particular to know was her name, if you feel that you have a right to give it to me (i remind you again that the matter is very important), and any circumstances that you can remember about her coming here: who came with her, for instance and things of that sort." the photographer looked a little disappointed at being cut off in the middle of his rhapsody, but he began turning over the leaves of an order-book which lay upon a table near by. "here is the entry," he said, after a few moments. "yes, i thought so, the date was nearly three months ago--april 5th. and the lady's name was mlle. coira o'hara." "what!" cried the other man, sharply. "what did you say?" "mlle. coira o'hara was the name," repeated the photographer. "i remember the occasion perfectly. the lady came here with three gentlemen--one tall, thin gentleman with an eyeglass, an englishman, i think, though he spoke very excellent french when he spoke to me. among themselves they spoke, i think, english, though i do not understand it, except a few words, such as ''ow moch?' and 'sank you' and 'rady, pleas', now.'" "yes! yes!" cried ste. marie, impatiently. and the little jew could see that he was laboring under some very strong excitement, and he wondered mildly about it, scenting a love-affair. "then," he pursued, "there was a very young man in strange clothes--a tourist, i should think, like those americans and english who come in the summer with little red books and sit on the terrace of the café de la paix." he heard his visitor draw a swift, sharp breath at that, but he hurried on before he could be interrupted. "this young man seemed to be unable to take his eyes from the lady--and small wonder! he was very much épris--very much épris, indeed. never have i seen a youth more so. ah, it was something to see, that--a thing to touch the heart!" "what did the young man look like?" demanded ste. marie. the photographer described the youth as best he could from memory, and he saw his visitor nod once or twice, and at the end he said: "yes, yes; i thought so. thank you." the jew did not know what it was the other thought, but he went on: "ah, a thing to touch the heart! such devotion as that! alas, that the lady should seem so cold to it! still, a goddess! what would you? a queen among goddesses. one would not have them laugh and make little jokes--make eyes at love-sick boys. no, indeed!" he shook his head rapidly and sighed. m. ste. marie was silent for a little space, but at length he looked up as if he had just remembered something. "and the third man?" he asked. "ah, yes, the third gentleman," said bernstein. "i had forgotten him. the third gentleman i knew well. he had often been here. it was he who brought these friends to me. he was m. le capitaine stewart. everybody knows m. le capitaine stewart--everybody in paris." again he observed that his visitor drew a little, swift, sharp breath, and that he seemed to be laboring under some excitement. however, ste. marie did not question him further, and so he went on to tell the little more he knew of the matter--how the four people had remained for an hour or more, trying many poses; how they had returned, all but the tall gentleman, three days later to see the proofs and to order certain ones to be printed (the young man paying on the spot in advance), and how the finished prints had been sent to m. le capitaine stewart's address. when he had finished, his visitor sat for a long time silent, his head bent a little, frowning upon the floor and chafing his hands together over his knees. but at last he rose rather abruptly. he said: "thank you very much, indeed. you have done me a great service. if ever i can repay it, command me. thank you!" the jew protested, smiling, that he was still too deeply in debt to m. ste. marie, and so, politely wrangling, they reached the door, and with a last expression of gratitude the visitor departed down the stair. a client came in just then for a sitting, and so the little photographer did not have an opportunity to wonder over the rather odd affair as much as he might have done. indeed, in the press of work, it slipped from his mind altogether. but down in the busy boulevard ste. marie stood hesitating on the curb. there were so many things to be done, in the light of these new developments, that he did not know what to do first. "mlle. coira o'hara!--_mademoiselle!_" the thought gave him a sudden sting of inexplicable relief and pleasure. she would be o'hara's daughter, then. and the boy, arthur benham (there was no room for doubt in the photographer's description) had seemed to be badly in love with her. this was a new development, indeed! it wanted thought, reflection, consultation with richard hartley. he signalled to a fiacre, and when it had drawn up before him sprang into it and gave richard hartley's address in the avenue de l'observatoire. but when they had gone a little way he changed his mind and gave another address, one in the boulevard de la tour maubourg. it was where mlle. olga nilssen lived. she had told him when he parted from her the evening before. on the way he fell to thinking of what he had learned from the little photographer bernstein, to setting the facts, as well as he could, in order, endeavoring to make out just how much or how little they signified by themselves or added to what he had known before. but he was in far too keen a state of excitement to review them at all calmly. as on the previous evening, they seemed to him to loom to the skies, and again he saw himself successful in his quest--victorious--triumphant. that this leap to conclusions was but a little less absurd than the first did not occur to him. he was in a fine fever of enthusiasm, and such difficulties as his eye perceived lay in a sort of vague mist to be dissipated later on, when he should sit quietly down with hartley and sift the wheat from the chaff, laying out a definite scheme of action. it occurred to him that in his interview with the photographer he had forgotten one point, and he determined to go back, later on, and ask about it. he had forgotten to inquire as to captain stewart's attitude toward the beautiful lady. young arthur benham's infatuation had filled his mind at the time, and had driven out of it what olga nilssen had told him about stewart. he found himself wondering if this point might not be one of great importance--the rivalry of the two men for o'hara's daughter. assuredly that demanded thought and investigation. he found the prettily furnished apartment in the avenue de la tour maubourg a scene of great disorder, presided over by a maid who seemed to be packing enormous quantities of garments into large trunks. the maid told him that her mistress, after a sleepless night, had departed from paris by an early train, quite alone, leaving the servant to follow on when she had telegraphed or written an address. no, mlle. nilssen had left no address at all--not even for letters or telegrams. in short, the entire proceeding was, so the exasperated woman viewed it, everything that is imbecile. ste. marie sat down on a hamper with his stick between his knees, and wrote a little note to be sent on when mlle. nilssen's whereabouts should be known. it was unfortunate, he reflected, that she should have fled away just now, but not of great importance to him, because he did not believe that he could learn very much more from her than he had learned already. moreover, he sympathized with her desire to get away from paris--as far away as possible from the man whom she had seen in so horrible a state on the evening past. he had kept the fiacre at the door, and he drove at once back to the rue d'assas. as he started to mount the stair the concierge came out of her loge to say that mr. hartley had called soon after monsieur had left the house that morning, had seemed very much disappointed on not finding monsieur, and before going away again had had himself let into monsieur's apartment with the key of the femme de ménage, and had written a note which monsieur would find là haut. ste. marie thanked the woman, and went on up to his rooms, wondering why hartley had bothered to leave a note instead of waiting or returning at lunch-time, as he usually did. he found the communication on his table and read it at once. hartley said: i have to go across the river to the bristol to see some relatives who are turning up there to-day, and who will probably keep me until evening, and then i shall have to go back there to dine. so i'm leaving a word for you about some things i discovered last evening. i met miss benham at armenonville, where i dined, and in a tête-à-tête conversation we had after dinner she let fall two facts which seem to me very important. they concern captain s. in the first place, when he told us that day, some time ago, that he knew nothing about his father's will or any changes that might have been made in it, he lied. it seems that old david, shortly after the boy's disappearance, being very angry at what he considered, and still considers, a bit of spite on the boy's part, cut young arthur benham out of his will and transferred that share to _captain s._ (miss benham learned this from the old man only yesterday). also it appears that he did this after talking the matter over with captain s., who affected unwillingness. so, as the will reads now, miss b. and captain s. stand to share equally the bulk of the old man's money, which is several millions--in dollars, of course. miss b.'s mother is to have the interest of half of both shares as long as she lives. now mark this: prior to this new arrangement, captain s. was to receive only a small legacy, on the ground that he already had a respectable fortune left him by his mother, old david's first wife (i've heard, by-the-way, that he has squandered a good share of this.) miss b. is, of course, much cut up over the injustice to the boy, but she can't protest too much, as it only excites old david. she says the old man is much weaker. you see, of course, the significance of all this. if david stewart dies, as he's likely to do, before young arthur's return, captain s. gets the money. the second fact i learned was that miss benham did not tell her uncle about her semi-engagement to you or about your volunteering to search for the boy. she thinks her grandfather must have told him. i didn't say so to her, but that is hardly possible in view of the fact that stewart came on here to your rooms very soon after you had reached them yourself. so that makes two lies for our gentle friend--and serious lies, both of them. to my mind, they point unmistakably to a certain conclusion. _captain s. has been responsible for putting his nephew out of the way_. he has either hidden him somewhere and is keeping him in confinement, or he has killed him. i wish we could talk it over to-day, but, as you see, i'm helpless. remain in to-night, and i'll come as soon as i can get rid of these confounded people of mine. one word more. be careful! miss b. is, up to this point, merely puzzled over things. she doesn't suspect her uncle of any crookedness, i'm sure. so we shall have to tread softly where she is concerned. i shall see you to-night. r.h. ste. marie read the closely written pages through twice, and he thought how like his friend it was to take the time and trouble to put what he had learned into this clear, concise form. another man would have scribbled, "important facts--tell you all about it to-night," or something of that kind. hartley must have spent a quarter of an hour over his writing. ste. marie walked up and down the room with all his strength forcing his brain to quiet, reasonable action. once he said, aloud: "yes, you're right, of course. stewart has been at the bottom of it all along." he realized that he had been for some days slowly arriving at that conclusion, and that since the night before he had been practically certain of it, though he had not yet found time to put his suspicions into logical order. hartley's letter had driven the truth concretely home to him, but he would have reached the same truth without it--though that matter of the will was of the greatest importance. it gave him a strong weapon to strike with. he halted before one of the front windows, and his eyes gazed unseeing across the street into the green shrubbery of the luxembourg gardens. the lace curtains had been left by the femme de ménage hanging straight down, and not, as usual, looped back to either side, so he could see through them with perfect ease, although he could not be seen from outside. he became aware that a man who was walking slowly up and down a path inside the high iron palings was in some way familiar to him, and his eyes sharpened. the man was inconspicuously dressed, and looked like almost any other man whom one might pass in the streets without taking any notice of him; but ste. marie knew that he had seen him often, and he wondered how and where. there was a row of lilac shrubs against the iron palings just inside and between the palings and the path, but two of the shrubs were dead and leafless, and each time the man passed this spot he came into plain view; each time, also, he directed an oblique glance toward the house opposite. presently he turned aside and sat down upon one of the public benches, where he was almost, but not quite, hidden by the intervening foliage. then at last ste. marie gave a sudden exclamation and smote his hands together. "the fellow's a spy!" he cried, aloud. "he's watching the house to see when i go out." he began to remember how he had seen the man in the street and in cafés and restaurants, and he remembered that he had once or twice thought it odd, but without any second thought of suspicion. so the fellow had been set to spy upon him, watch his goings and comings and report them to--no need of asking to whom. ste. marie stood behind his curtains and looked across into the pleasant expanse of shrubbery and greensward. he was wondering if it would be worth while to do anything. men and women went up and down the path, hurrying or slowly, at ease with the world--laborers, students, bonnes with market-baskets in their hands and long bread loaves under their arms, nurse-maids herding small children, bigger children spinning diabolo spools as they walked. a man with a pointed black beard and a soft hat passed once and returned to seat himself upon the public bench that ste. marie was watching. for some minutes he sat there idle, holding the soft felt hat upon his knees for coolness. then he turned and looked at the other occupant of the bench, and ste. marie thought he saw the other man nod, though he could not be sure whether either one spoke or not. presently the new-comer rose, put on the soft hat again, and disappeared down the path going toward the gate at the head of the rue du luxembourg. five minutes later the door-bell rang. * * * * * xiii the voyage to colchis ste. marie turned away from the window and crossed to the door. the man with the pointed beard removed his soft hat, bowed very politely, and asked if he had the honor to address m. ste. marie. "that is my name," said ste. marie. "entrez, monsieur!" he waved his visitor to a chair and stood waiting. the man with the beard bowed once more. he said: "i have not the great honor of monsieur's acquaintance, but circumstances, which i will explain later, have put it in my power--have made it a sacred duty, if i may be permitted to say the word--to place in monsieur's hands a piece of information." ste. marie smiled slightly and sat down. he said: "i listen with pleasure--and anticipation. pray go on!" "i have information," said the visitor, "of the whereabouts of m. arthur benham." ste. marie waved his hand. "i feared as much," said he. "i mean to say, i hoped so. proceed, monsieur!" "and learning," continued the other, "that m. ste. marie was conducting a search for that young gentleman, i hastened at once to place this information in his hands." "at a price," suggested his host. "at a price, to be sure." the man with the beard spread out his hands in a beautiful and eloquent gesture which well accompanied his marseillais accent. "ah, as to that!" he protested. "my circumstances--i am poor, monsieur. one must gain the livelihood. what would you? a trifle. the merest trifle." "where is arthur benham?" asked ste. marie. "in marseilles, monsieur. i saw him a week ago--six days. and, so far as i could learn, he had no intention of leaving there immediately--though it is, to be sure, hot." ste. marie laughed a laugh of genuine amusement, and the man with the pointed beard stared at him with some wonder. ste. marie rose and crossed the room to a writing-desk which stood against the opposite wall. he fumbled in a drawer of this, and returned holding in his hand a pink-and-blue note of the banque de france. he said: "monsieur--pardon! i have forgotten to ask the name--you have remarked quite truly that one must gain a livelihood. therefore, i do not presume to criticise the way in which you gain yours. sometimes one cannot choose. however, i should like to make a little bargain with you, monsieur. i know, of course, being not altogether imbecile, who sent you here with this story and why you were sent--why, also, your friend who sits upon the bench in the garden across the street follows me about and spies upon me. i know all this, and i laugh at it a little. but, monsieur, to amuse myself further, i have a desire to hear from your own lips the name of the gentleman who is your employer. amusement is almost always expensive, and so i am prepared to pay for this. i have here a note of one hundred francs. it is yours in return for the name--the _right_ name. remember, i know it already." the man with the pointed beard sprang to his feet quivering with righteous indignation. all southern frenchmen, like all other latins, are magnificent actors. he shook one clinched hand in the air, his face was pale, and his fine eyes glittered. richard hartley would have put himself promptly in an attitude of defence, but ste. marie nodded a smiling head in appreciation. he was half a southern frenchman himself. "monsieur!" cried his visitor, in a choked voice, "monsieur, have a care! you insult me! have a care, monsieur! i am dangerous! my anger, when roused, is terrible!" "i am cowed," observed ste. marie, lighting a cigarette. "i quail." "never," declaimed the gentleman from marseilles, "have i received an insult without returning blow for blow! my blood boils!" "the hundred francs, monsieur," said ste. marie, "will doubtless cool it. besides, we stray from our sheep. reflect, my friend! i have not insulted you. i have asked you a simple question. to be sure, i have said that i knew your errand here was not--not altogether sincere, but i protest, monsieur, that no blame attaches to yourself. the blame is your employer's. you have performed your mission with the greatest of honesty--the most delicate and faithful sense of honor. that is understood." the gentleman with the beard strode across to one of the windows and leaned his head upon his hand. his shoulders still heaved with emotion, but he no longer trembled. the terrible crisis bade fair to pass. then, abruptly, in the frank and open latin way, he burst into tears, and wept with copious profusion, while ste. marie smoked his cigarette and waited. when at length the marseillais turned back into the room he was calm once more, but there remained traces of storm and flood. he made a gesture of indescribable and pathetic resignation. "monsieur," he exclaimed, "you have a heart of gold--of gold, monsieur! you understand. behold us, two men of honor! monsieur," he said, "i had no choice. i was poor. i saw myself face to face with the misère. what would you? i fell. we are all weak flesh. i accepted the commission of the pig who sent me here to you." ste. marie smoothed the pink-and-blue bank-note in his hands, and the other man's eye clung to it as though he were starving and the bank-note was food. "the name?" prompted ste. marie. the gentleman from marseilles tossed up his hands. "monsieur already knows it. why should i hesitate? the name is ducrot." "what!" cried ste. marie, sharply. "what is that? ducrot?" "but naturally!" said the other man, with some wonder. "monsieur said he knew. certainly, ducrot. a little, withered man, bald on the top of the head, creases down the cheeks, a mustache like this"--he made a descriptive gesture--"a little chin. a man like an elderly cat. m. ducrot." ste. marie gave a sigh of relief. "yes, yes," said he. "ducrot is as good a name as another. the gentleman has more than one, it appears. monsieur, the hundred-franc note is yours." the gentleman from marseilles took it with a slightly trembling hand, and began to bow himself toward the door as if he feared that his host would experience a change of heart; but ste. marie checked him, saying: "one moment. i was thinking," said he, "that you would perhaps not care to present yourself to your--employer, m. ducrot, immediately--not for a few days, at least, in view of the fact that certain actions of mine will show him your mission has--well, miscarried. it would, perhaps, be well for you not to communicate with m. ducrot. he might be displeased with you." "monsieur," said the gentleman with the beard, "you speak with acumen and wisdom. i shall neglect to report myself to m. ducrot, who, i repeat, is a pig." "and," pursued ste. marie, "the individual on the bench across the street?" "it is not necessary that i meet that individual, either!" said the marseillais, hastily. "monsieur, i bid you adieu!" he bowed again, a profound, a scraping bow, and disappeared through the door. ste. marie crossed to the window and looked down upon the pavement below. he saw his late visitor emerge from the house and slip rapidly down the street toward the rue vavin. he glanced across into the gardens and the spy still sat there on his bench, but his head lay back and he slept--the sleep of the unjust. one imagined that he must be snoring, for an incredibly small urchin in a blue apron stood on the path before him and watched with the open mouth of astonishment. ste. marie turned back into the room, and began to tramp up and down as was his way in a perplexity or in any time of serious thought. he wished very much that richard hartley were there to consult with. he considered hartley to have a judicial mind--a mind to establish, out of confusion, something like logical order, and he was very well aware that he himself had not that sort of mind at all. in action he was sufficiently confident of himself, but to construct a course of action he was afraid, and he knew that a misstep now, at this critical point, might be fatal--turn success into disaster. he fell to thinking of captain stewart (alias m. ducrot) and he longed most passionately to leap into a fiacre at the corner below, to drive at a gallop across the city to the rue du faubourg st. honoré, to fall upon that smiling hypocrite in his beautiful treasure-house, to seize him by the withered throat and say: "tell me what you have done with arthur benham before i tear your head from your miserable body!" indeed, he was far from sure that this was not what it would come to, in the end, for he reflected that he had not only a tremendous accumulation of evidence with which to face captain stewart, but also a very terrible weapon to hold over his head--the threat of exposure to the old man who lay slowly dying in the rue de l'université! a few words in old david's ear, a few proofs of their truth, and the great fortune for which the son had sold his soul--if he had any left to sell--must pass forever out of his reach, like gold seen in a dream. this is what it might well come to, he said to himself. indeed, it seemed to him at that moment far the most feasible plan, for to such accusations, such demands as that, captain stewart could offer no defence. to save himself from a more complete ruin he would have to give up the boy or tell what he knew of him. but ste. marie was unwilling to risk everything on this throw without seeing richard hartley first, and hartley was not to be had until evening. he told himself that, after all, there was no immediate hurry, for he was quite sure the man would be compelled to keep to his bed for a day or two. he did not know much about epilepsy, but he knew that its paroxysms were followed by great exhaustion, and he felt sure that stewart was far too weak in body to recuperate quickly from any severe call upon his strength. he remembered how light that burden had been in his arms the night before, and then an uncontrollable shiver of disgust went over him as he remembered the sight of the horribly twisted and contorted face, felt again the shaking, thumping head as it beat against his shoulder. he wondered how much stewart knew, how much he would be able to remember of the events of the evening before, and he was at a loss there because of his unfamiliarity with epileptic seizures. of one thing, however, he was almost certain, and that was that the man could scarcely have been conscious of who were beside him when the fit was over. if he had come at all to his proper senses before the ensuing slumber of exhaustion, it must have been after mlle. nilssen and himself had gone away. upon that he fell to wondering about the spy and the gentleman from marseilles--he was a little sorry that hartley could not have seen the gentleman from marseilles--but he reflected that the two were, without doubt, acting upon old orders, and that the latter had probably been stalking him for some days before he found him at home. he looked at his watch and it was half-past twelve. there was nothing to be done, he considered, but wait--get through the day somehow; and so, presently, he went out to lunch. he went up the rue vavin to the boulevard montparnasse and down that broad thoroughfare to lavenue's, on the busy place de rennes, where the cooking is the best in all this quarter, and can, indeed, hold up its head without shame in the face of those other more widely famous restaurants across the river, frequented by the smart world and by the travelling gourmet. he went through to the inner room, which is built like a raised loggia round two sides of a little garden, and which is always cool and fresh in summer. he ordered a rather elaborate lunch, and thought that he sat a very long time at it, but when he looked again at his watch only an hour and a half had gone by. it was a quarter-past two. ste. marie was depressed. there remained almost all of the afternoon to be got through, and heaven alone could say how much of the evening, before he could have his consultation with richard hartley. he tried to think of some way of passing the time, but although he was not usually at a loss he found his mind empty of ideas. none of his common occupations recommended themselves to him. he knew that whatever he tried to do he would interrupt it with pulling out his watch every half-hour or so and cursing the time because it lagged so slowly. he went out to the terrace for coffee, very low in his mind. but half an hour later, as he sat behind his little marble-topped table, smoking and sipping a liqueur, his eyes fell upon something across the square which brought him to his feet with a sudden exclamation. one of the big electric trams that ply between the place st. germain des prés and clamart, by way of the porte de versailles and vanves, was dragging its unwieldy bulk round the turn from the rue de rennes into the boulevard. he could see the sign-board along the impériale--"clamart-st. germain des prés," with "issy" and "vanves" in brackets between. ste. marie clinked a franc upon the table and made off across the place at a run. omnibuses from batignolles and menilmontant got in his way, fiacres tried to run him down, and a motor-car in a hurry pulled up just in time to save his life, but ste. marie ran on and caught the tram before it had completed the negotiation of the long curve and gathered speed for its dash down the boulevard. he sprang upon the step, and the conductor reluctantly unfastened the chain to admit him. so he climbed up to the top and seated himself, panting. the dial high on the façade of the gare montparnasse said ten minutes to three. he had no definite plan of action. he had started off in this headlong fashion upon the spur of a moment's impulse, and because he knew where the tram was going. now, embarked, he began to wonder if he was not a fool. he knew every foot of the way to clamart, for it was a favorite half-day's excursion with him to ride there in this fashion, walk thence through the beautiful meudon wood across to the river, and from bellevue or bas-meudon take a suresnes boat back into the city. he knew, or thought he knew, just where lay the house, surrounded by garden and half-wild park, of which olga nilssen had told him; he had often wondered whose place it was as the tram rolled along the length of its high wall. but he knew, also, that he could do nothing there, single-handed and without excuse or preparation. he could not boldly ring the bell, demand speech with mile. coira o'hara, and ask her if she knew anything of the whereabouts of young arthur benham, whom a photographer had suspected of being in love with her. he certainly could not do that. and there seemed to be nothing else that--ste. marie broke off this somewhat despondent course of reasoning with a sudden little voiceless cry. for the first time it occurred to him to connect the house on the clamart road and mlle. coira o'hara and young arthur benham (it will be remembered that the man had not yet had time to arrange his suddenly acquired mass of evidence in logical order and to make deductions from it), for the first time he began to put two and two together. stewart had hidden away his nephew; this nephew was known to have been much enamoured of the girl coira o'hara; coira o'hara was said to be living--with her father, probably--in the house on the outskirts of paris, where she was visited by captain stewart. was not the inference plain enough--sufficiently reasonable? it left, without doubt, many puzzling things to be explained--perhaps too many; but ste. marie sat forward in his seat, his eyes gleaming, his face tense with excitement. "is young arthur benham in the house on the clamart road?" he said the words almost aloud, and he became aware that the fat woman with a live fowl at her feet and the butcher's boy on his other side were looking at him curiously. he realized that he was behaving in an excited manner, and so sat back and lowered his eyes. but over and over within him the words said themselves--over and over, until they made a sort of mad, foolish refrain. "is arthur benham in the house on the clamart road? is arthur benham in the house on the clamart road?" he was afraid that he would say it aloud once more, and, he tried to keep a firm hold upon himself. the tram swung into the rue de sevres, and rolled smoothly out the long, uninteresting stretch of the rue lecourbe, far out to where the houses, became scattered, where mounds and pyramids of red tiles stood alongside the factory where they had been made, where an acre of little glass hemispheres in long, straight rows winked and glistened in the afternoon sun--the forcing-beds of some market gardener; out to the porte de versailles at the city wall, where a group of customs officers sprawled at ease before their little sentry-box or loafed over to inspect an incoming tram. a bugle sounded and a drum beat from the great fosse under the wall, and a company of piou-pious, red-capped, red-trousered, shambled through their evolutions in a manner to break the heart of a british or a german drill-sergeant. then out past level fields to little vanves, with its steep streets and its old gray church, and past the splendid grounds of the lycée beyond. the fat woman got down, her live fowl shrieking protest to the movement, and the butcher's boy got down, too, so that ste. marie was left alone upon the impériale save for a snuffy old gentleman in a pot-hat who sat in a corner buried behind the day's _droits de l'homme_. ste. marie moved forward once more and laid his arms upon the iron rail before him. they were coming near. they ran past plum and apple orchards and past humble little detached villas, each with a bit of garden in front and an acacia or two at the gate-posts. but presently, on the right, the way began to be bordered by a high stone wall, very long, behind which showed the trees of a park, and among them, far back from the wall beyond a little rise of ground, the gables and chimneys of a house could be made out. the wall went on for perhaps a quarter of a mile in a straight sweep, but half-way the road swung apart from it to the left, dipped under a stone railway bridge, and so presently ended at the village of clamart. as the tram approached the beginning of that long stone wall it began to slacken speed, there was a grating noise from underneath, and presently it came to an abrupt halt. ste. marie looked over the guard-rail and saw that the driver had left his place and was kneeling in the dust beside the car peering at its underworks. the conductor strolled round to him after a moment and stood indifferently by, remarking upon the strange vicissitudes to which electrical propulsion is subject. the driver, without looking up, called his colleague a number of the most surprising and, it is to be hoped, unwarranted names, and suddenly began to burrow under the tram, wriggling his way after the manner of a serpent until nothing could be seen of him but two unrestful feet. his voice, though muffled, was still tolerably distinct. it cursed, in an unceasing staccato and with admirable ingenuity, the tram, the conductor, the sacred dog of an impediment which had got itself wedged into one of the trucks, and the world in general. ste. marie, sitting aloft, laughed for a moment, and then turned his eager eyes upon what lay across the road. the halt had taken place almost exactly at the beginning of that long stretch of park wall which ran beside the road and the tramway. from where he sat he could see the other wing which led inward from the road at something like a right angle, but was presently lost to sight because of a sparse and unkempt patch of young trees and shrubs, well-nigh choked with undergrowth, which extended for some distance from the park wall backward along the road-side toward vanves. whoever owned that stretch of land had seemingly not thought it worth while to cultivate it or to build upon it or even to clear it off. ste. marie's first thought, as his eye scanned the two long stretches of wall and looked over their tops to the trees of the park and the far-off gables and chimneys of the house, was to wonder where the entrance to the place could be, and he decided that it must be on the side opposite to the clamart tram-line. he did not know the smaller roads hereabouts, but he guessed that there must be one somewhere beyond, between the route de clamart and fort d'issy, and he was right. there is a little road between the two; it sweeps round in a long curve and ends near the tiny public garden in issy, and it is called the rue barbés. his second thought was that this unkempt patch of tree and brush offered excellent cover for any one who might wish to pass an observant hour alongside that high stone wall; for any one who might desire to cast a glance over the lie of the land, to see at closer range that house of which so little could be seen from the route de clamart, to look over the wall's coping into park and garden. the thought brought him to his feet with a leaping heart, and before he realized that he had moved he found himself in the road beside the halted tram. the conductor brushed past him, mounting to his place, and from the platform beckoned, crying out: "en voiture, monsieur! en voiture!" again something within ste. marie that was not his conscious direction acted for him, and he shook his head. the conductor gave two little blasts upon his horn, the tram wheezed and moved forward. in a moment it was on its way, swinging along at full speed toward the curve in the line that bore to the left and dipped under the railway bridge. ste. marie stood in the middle of that empty road, staring after it until it had disappeared from view. * * * * * xiv the walls of aea ste. marie had acted upon an impulse of which he was scarcely conscious at all, and when he found himself standing alone in the road and watching the clamart tram disappear under the railway bridge he called himself hard names and wondered what he was to do next. he looked before and behind him, and there was no living soul in sight. he bent his eyes again upon that unkempt patch of young trees and undergrowth, and once more the thought forced itself to his brain that it would make excellent cover for one who wished to observe a little--to reconnoitre. he knew that it was the part of wisdom to turn his back upon this place, to walk on to clamart or return to vanves and mount upon a homeward-bound tram. he knew that it was the part of folly, of madness even, to expose himself to possible discovery by some one within the walled enclosure. what though no one there were able to recognize him, still the sight of a man prowling about the walls, seeking to spy over them, might excite an alarm that would lead to all sorts of undesirable complications. dimly ste. marie realized all this, and he tried to turn his back and walk away, but the patch of little trees and shrubbery drew him with an irresistible fascination. "just a little look along that unknown wall," he said to himself, "just the briefest of all brief reconnaissances, the merest glance beyond the masking screen of wood growth, so that in case of sudden future need he might have the lie of the place clear in his mind;" for without any sound reason for it he was somehow confident that this walled house and garden were to play an important part in the rescue of arthur benham. it was once more a matter of feeling. the rather womanlike intuition which had warned him that o'hara was concerned in young benham's disappearance, and that the two were not far from paris, was again at work in him, and he trusted it as he had done before. he gave a little nod of determination, as one who, for good or ill, casts a die, and he crossed the road. there was a deep ditch, and he had to climb down into it and up its farther side, for it was too broad to be jumped. so he came into the shelter of the young poplars and elms and oaks. the underbrush caught at his clothes, and the dead leaves of past seasons crackled underfoot; but after a little space he came to somewhat clearer ground, though the saplings still stood thick about him and hid him securely. he made his way inward along the wall, keeping a short distance back from it, and he saw that after twenty or thirty yards it turned again at a very obtuse angle away from him and once more ran on in a long straight line. just beyond this angle he came upon a little wooden door thickly studded with nails. it was made to open inward, and on the outside there was no knob or handle of any kind, only a large key-hole of the simple, old-fashioned sort. slipping up near to look, ste. marie observed that the edges of the key-hole were rusty, but scratched a little through the rust with recent marks; so the door, it seemed, was sometimes used. he observed another thing. the ground near by was less encumbered with trees than at any other point, and the turf was depressed with many wheel marks--broad marks, such as are made only by the wheels of a motor-car. he followed these tracks for a little distance, and they wound in and out among the trees, and beyond the thin fringe of wood swept away in a curve toward issy, doubtless to join the road which he had already imagined to lie somewhere beyond the enclosure. beyond the more open space about this little door the young trees stood thick together again, and ste. marie pressed cautiously on. he stopped now and then to listen, and once he thought that he heard from within the sound of a woman's laugh, but he could not be sure. the slight change of direction had confused him a little, and he was uncertain as to where the house lay. the wall was twelve or fifteen feet high, and from the level of the ground he could, of course, see nothing over it but tree tops. he went on for what may have been a hundred yards, but it seemed to him very much more than that, and he came to a tall gnarled cedar-tree which stood almost against the high wall. it was half dead, but its twisted limbs were thick and strong, and by force of the tree's cramped position they had grown in strange and grotesque forms. one of them stretched across the very top of the stone wall, and with the wind's action it had scraped away the coping of tiles and bottle-glass and had made a little depression there to rest in. ste. marie looked up along this natural ladder, and temptation smote him sorely. it was so easy and so safe! there was enough foliage left upon the half-dead tree to screen him well, but whether or no it is probable that he would have yielded to the proffered lure. there seems to have been more than chance in ste. marie's movements upon this day; there seems to have been something like the hand of fate in them--as doubtless there is in most things, if one but knew. he left his hat and stick behind him, under a shrub, and he began to make his way up the half-bare branches of the gnarled cedar. they bore him well, without crack or rustle, and the way was very easy. no ladder made by man could have offered a much simpler ascent. so, mounting slowly and with care, his head came level with the top of the wall. he climbed to the next branch, a foot higher, and rested there. the drooping foliage from the upper part of the cedar-tree, which was still alive, hung down over him and cloaked him from view, but through its aromatic screen he could see as freely as through the window curtain in the rue d'assas. the house lay before him, a little to the left and perhaps a hundred yards away. it was a disappointing house to find in that great enclosure, for though it was certainly neither small nor trivial, it was as certainly far from possessing anything like grandeur. it had been in its day a respectable, unpretentious square structure of three stories, entirely without architectural beauty, but also entirely without the ornate hideousness of the modern villas along the route de clamart. now, however, the stucco was gone in great patches from its stone walls, giving them an unpleasantly diseased look, and long neglect of all decent cares had lent the place the air almost of desertion. anciently the grounds before the house had been laid out in the formal fashion with a terrace and geometrical lawns and a pool and a fountain and a rather fine, long vista between clipped larches, but the same neglect which had made shabby the stuccoed house had allowed grass and weeds to grow over the gravel paths, underbrush to spring up and to encroach upon the geometrical turf-plots, the long double row of clipped larches to flourish at will or to die or to fall prostrate and lie where they had fallen. so all the broad enclosure was a scene of heedless neglect, a riot of unrestrained and wanton growth, where should have been decorous and orderly beauty. it was a sight to bring tears to a gardener's eyes, but it had a certain untamed charm of its own, for all that. the very riot of it, the wanton prodigality of untouched natural growth, produced an effect that was by no means all disagreeable. an odd and whimsical thought came into ste. marie's mind that thus must have looked the garden and park round the castle of the sleeping beauty when the prince came to wake her. but sleeping beauties and unkempt grounds went from him in a flash when he became aware of a sound which was like the sound of voices. instinctively he drew farther back into the shelter of his aromatic screen. his eyes swept the space below him from right to left, and could see no one. so he sat very still, save for the thunderous beat of a heart which seemed to him like drum-beats when soldiers are marching, and he listened--"all ears," as the phrase goes. the sound was in truth a sound of voices. he was presently assured of that, but for some time he could not make out from which direction it came. and so he was the more startled when quite suddenly there appeared from behind a row of tall shrubs two young people moving slowly together up the untrimmed turf in the direction of the house. the two young people were mlle. coira o'hara and arthur benham, and upon the brow of this latter youth there was no sign of dungeon pallor, upon his free-moving limbs no ball and chain. there was no apparent reason why he should not hasten back to the eager arms in the rue de l'université if he chose to--unless, indeed, his undissembling attitude toward mlle. coira o'hara might serve as a reason. the young man followed at her heel with much the manner and somewhat the appearance of a small dog humbly conscious of unworthiness, but hopeful nevertheless of an occasional kind word or pat on the head. the world wheeled multi-colored and kaleidoscopic before ste. marie's eyes, and in his ears there was a rushing of great winds, but he set his teeth and clung with all the strength he had to the tree which sheltered him. his first feeling, after that initial giddiness, was anger, sheer anger, a bewildered and astonished fury. he had thought to find this poor youth in captivity, pining through prison bars for the home and the loved ones and the familiar life from which he had been ruthlessly torn. yet here he was strolling in a suburban garden with a lady--free, free as air, or so he seemed. ste. marie thought of the grim and sorrowful old man in paris who was sinking untimely into his grave because his grandson did not return to him; he thought of that timid soul--more shadow than woman--the boy's mother; he thought of helen benham's tragic eyes, and he could have beaten young arthur half to death in that moment in the righteous rage that stormed within him. but he turned his eyes from this wretched youth to the girl who walked beside, a little in advance, and the rage died in him swiftly. after all, was she not one to make any boy--or any man--forget duty, home, friends, everything? rather oddly his mind flashed back to the morning and to the words of the little photographer, bernstein. perhaps the jew had put it as well as any man could: "she was a goddess, that lady, a queen of goddesses ... the young juno before marriage...." ste. marie nodded his head. yes, she was just that. the little jew had spoken well. it could not be more fairly put--though without doubt it could have been expressed at much greater length and with a great deal more eloquence. the photographer's other words came also to his mind, the more detailed description, and again he nodded his head, for this, too, was true. "she was all color--brown skin with a dull-red stain under the cheeks, and a great mass of hair that was not black but very nearly black--except in the sun, and then there were red lights in it." it occurred to ste. marie, whimsically, that the two young people might have stepped out of the door of bernstein's studio straight into this garden, judging from their bearing each to the other. "ah, a thing to touch the heart! such devotion as that! alas, that the lady should seem so cold to it! ... still, a goddess! what would you? a queen among goddesses! ... one would not have them laugh and make little jokes.... make eyes at love-sick boys. no, indeed!" certainly mlle. coira o'hara was not making eyes at the love-sick boy who followed at her heel this afternoon. perhaps it would be going too far to say that she was cold to him, but it was very plain to see that she was bored and weary, and that she wished she might be almost anywhere else than where she was. she turned her beautiful face a little toward the wall where ste. marie lay perdu, and he could see that her eyes had the same dark fire, the same tragic look of appeal that he had seen in them before--once in the champs-elysées and again in his dreams. abruptly he became aware that while he gazed, like a man in a trance, the two young people walked on their way and were on the point of passing beyond reach of eye or ear. he made a sudden involuntary movement as if he would call them back, and for the first time his faithful hiding-place, strained beyond silent endurance, betrayed him with a loud rustle of shaken branches. ste. marie shrank back, his heart in his throat. it was too late to retreat now down the tree. the damage was already done. he saw the two young people halt and turn to look, and after a moment he saw the boy come slowly forward, staring. he heard him say: "what's up in that tree? there's something in the tree." and he heard the girl answer: "it's only birds fighting. don't bother!" but young arthur benham came on, staring up curiously until he was almost under the high wall. then ste. marie's strange madness, or the hand of fate, or whatever power it was which governed him on that day, thrust him on to the ultimate pitch of recklessness. he bent forward from his insecure perch over the wall until his head and shoulders were in plain sight, and he called down to the lad below in a loud whisper: "benham! benham!" the boy gave a sharp cry of alarm and began to back away. and after a moment ste. marie heard the cry echoed from coira o'hara. he heard her say: "be careful! be careful, arthur! come away! oh, come away quickly!" ste. marie raised his own voice to a sort of cry. he said: "wait! i tell you to wait, benham! i must have a word with you. i come from your family--from helen!" to his amazement the lad turned about and began to run toward where the girl stood waiting; and so, without a moment's hesitation, ste. marie threw himself across the top of the wall, hung for an instant by his hands, and dropped upon the soft turf. scarcely waiting to recover his balance, he stumbled forward, shouting: "wait! i tell you, wait! are you mad? wait, i say! listen to me!" vaguely, in the midst of his great excitement, he had heard a whistle sound as he dropped inside the wall. he did not know then whence the shrill call had come, but afterward he knew that coira o' hara had blown it. and now, as he ran forward toward the two who stood at a distance staring at him, he heard other steps and he slackened his pace to look. a man came running down among the black-boled trees, a strange, squat, gnomelike man whose gait was as uncouth as his dwarfish figure. he held something in his two hands as he ran, and when he came near he threw this thing with a swift movement up before him, but he did not pause in his odd, scrambling run. ste. marie felt a violent blow upon his left leg between hip and knee. he thought that somebody had crept up behind him and struck him; but as he whirled about he saw that there was no one there, and then he heard a noise and knew that the gnomelike running man had shot him. he faced about once more toward the two young people. he was very angry and he wished to say so, and very much he wished to explain why he had trespassed there, and why they had no right to shoot him as if he were some wretched thief. but he found that in some quite absurd fashion he was as if fixed to the ground. it was as if he had suddenly become of the most ponderous and incredible weight, like lead--or that other metal, not gold, which is the heaviest of all. only the metal, seemingly, was not only heavy but fiery hot, and his strength was incapable of holding it up any longer. his eyes fixed themselves in a bewildered stare upon the figure of mlle. coira o'hara; he had time to observe that she had put up her two hands over her face, then he fell down forward, his head struck something very hard, and he knew no more. * * * * * xv a conversation at la lierre captain stewart walked nervously up and down the small inner drawing-room at la lierre, his restless hands fumbling together behind him, and his eyes turning every half-minute with a sharp eagerness to the closed door. but at last, as if he were very tired, he threw himself down in a chair which stood near one of the windows, and all his tense body seemed to relax in utter exhaustion. it was not a very comfortable chair that he had sat down in, but there were no comfortable chairs in the room--nor, for that matter, in all the house. when he had taken the place, about two months before this time, he had taken it furnished, but that does not mean very much in france. no french country-houses--or town-houses, either--are in the least comfortable, by anglo-saxon standards, and that is at least one excellent reason why frenchmen spend just as little time in them as they possibly can. half the cafés in paris would promptly put up their shutters if parisian homes could all at once turn themselves into something like english or american ones. as for la lierre, it was even more dreary and bare and tomblike than other country-houses, because it was, after all, a sort of ruin, and had not been lived in for fifteen years, save by an ancient caretaker and his nearly as ancient wife. and that was, perhaps, why it could be taken on a short lease at such a very low price. the room in which captain stewart sat was behind the large drawing-room, which was always kept closed now, and it looked out by one window to the west, and by two windows to the north, over a corner of the kitchen garden and a vista of trees beyond. it was a high-ceiled room with walls bare except for two large mirrors in the empire fashion, which stared at each other across the way with dull and flaking eyes. under each of these stood a heavy gilt and ebony console with a top of chocolate-colored marble, and in the centre of the room there was a table of a like fashion to the consoles. further than this there was nothing save three chairs, upon one of which lay captain stewart's dust-coat and motoring cap and goggles. a shaft of golden light from the low sun slanted into the place through the western window from which the venetians had been pulled back, and fell across the face of the man who lay still and lax in his chair, eyes closed and chin dropped a little so that his mouth hung weakly open. he looked very ill, as, indeed, any one might look after such an attack as he had suffered on the night previous. that one long moment of deathly fear before he had fallen down in a fit had nearly killed him. all through this following day it had continued to recur until he thought he should go mad. and there was worse still. how much did olga nilssen know? and how much had she told? she had astonished and frightened him when she had said that she knew about the house on the road to clamart, for he thought he had hidden his visits to la lierre well. he wondered rather drearily how she had discovered them, and he wondered how much she knew more than she had admitted. he had a half-suspicion of something like the truth, that mlle. nilssen knew only of coira o'hara's presence here, and drew a rather natural inference. if that was all, there was no danger from her--no more, that is, than had already borne its fruit, for stewart knew well enough that ste. marie must have learned of the place from her. in any case olga nilssen had left paris--he had discovered that fact during the day--and so for the present she might be eliminated as a source of peril. the man in the chair gave a little groan and rolled his head wearily to and fro against the uncomfortable chair-back, for now he came to the real and immediate danger, and he was so very tired and ill, and his head ached so sickeningly that it was almost beyond him to bring himself face to face with it. there was the man who lay helpless upon a bed up-stairs! and there were the man's friends, who were not at all helpless or bedridden or in captivity! a wave of almost intolerable pain swept through stewart's aching head, and he gave another groan which was almost like a child's sob. but at just that moment the door which led into the central hall opened, and the irishman o'hara came into the room. captain stewart sprang to his feet to meet him, and he caught the other man by the arm in his eagerness. "how is he?" he cried out. "how is he? how badly was he hurt?" "the patient?" said o'hara. "let go my arm! hang it, man, you're pinching me! oh, he'll do well enough. he'll be fit to hobble about in a week or ten days. the bullet went clean through his leg and out again without cutting an artery. it was a sort of miracle--and a damned lucky miracle for all hands, too! if we'd had a splintered bone or a severed artery to deal with i should have had to call in a doctor. then the fellow would have talked, and there'd have been the devil to pay. as it is, i shall be able to manage well enough with my own small skill. i've dressed worse wounds than that in my time. by jove, it was a miracle, though!" a sudden little gust of rage swept him. he cried out: "that confounded fool of a gardener, that one-eyed michel, ought to be beaten to death. why couldn't he have slipped up behind this fellow and knocked him on the head, instead of shooting him from ten paces away? the benighted idiot! he came near upsetting the whole boat!" "yes," said captain stewart, with a sharp, hard breath, "he should have shot straighter or not at all." the irishman stared at him with his bright blue eyes, and after a moment he gave a short laugh. "jove, you're a bloodthirsty beggar, stewart!" said he. "that would have been a rum go, if you like! killing the fellow! all his friends down on us like hawks, and the police and all that! you can't go about killing people in the outskirts of paris, you know--at least not people with friends. and this chap looks like a gentleman, more or less, so i take it he has friends. as a matter of fact, his face is rather familiar. i think i've seen him before, somewhere. you looked at him just now through the crack of the door; do you know who he is? coira tells me he called out to arthur by name, but arthur says he never saw him before and doesn't know him at all." captain stewart shivered. it had not been a pleasant moment for him, that moment when he had looked through the crack of the door and recognized ste. marie. "yes," he said, half under his breath--"yes, i know who he is. a friend of the family." the irishman's lips puckered to a low whistle. he said: "spying, then, as i thought. he has run us to earth." and the other nodded. o'hara took a turn across the room and back. "in that case," he said, presently--"in that case, then, we must keep him prisoner here so long as we remain. that's certain." he spun round sharply with an exclamation. "look here!" he cried, in a lower tone, "how about this fellow's friends? it isn't likely he's doing his dirty work alone. how about his friends, when he doesn't turn up to-night? if they know he was coming here to spy on us; if they know where the place is; if they know, in short, what he seems to have known, we're done for. we'll have to run, get out, disappear. hang it, man, d'you understand? we're not safe here for an hour." captain stewart's hands shook a little as he gripped them together behind him, and a dew of perspiration stood out suddenly upon his forehead and cheek-bones, but his voice, when he spoke, was well under control. "it's an odd thing," said he--"another miracle, if you like--but i believe we are safe--reasonably safe. i--have reason to think that this fellow learned about la lierre only last evening from some one who left paris to-day to be gone a long time. and i also have reason to believe that the fellow has not seen the one friend who is in his confidence, since he obtained his information. by chance i met the friend, the other man, in the street this afternoon. i asked after this fellow whom we have here, and the friend said he hadn't seen him for twenty-four hours--was going to see him to-night." "by the lord!" cried the irishman, with a great laugh of relief. "what luck! what monumental luck! if all that's true, we're safe. why, man, we're as safe as a fox in his hole. the lad's friends won't have the ghost of an idea of where he's gone to.... wait, though! stop a bit! he won't have left written word behind him, eh? he won't have done that--for safety?" "i think not," said captain stewart, but he breathed hard, for he knew well enough that there lay the gravest danger. "i think not," he said again. he made a rather surprisingly accurate guess at the truth--that ste. marie had started out upon impulse, without intending more than a general reconnaissance, and therefore without leaving any word behind him. still, the shadow of danger uplifted itself before the man and he was afraid. a sudden gust of weak anger shook him like a wind. "in heaven's name," he cried, shrilly, "why didn't that one-eyed fool kill the fellow while he was about it? there's danger for us every moment while he is alive here. why didn't that shambling idiot kill him?" captain stewart's outflung hand jumped and trembled and his face was twisted into a sort of grinning snarl. he looked like an angry and wicked cat, the other man thought. "if i weren't an over-civilized fool," he said, viciously, "i'd go up-stairs and kill him now with my hands while he can't help himself. we're all too scrupulous by half." the irishman stared at him and presently broke into amazed laughter. "scrupulous!" said he. "well, yes, i'm too scrupulous to murder a man in his bed, if you like. i'm not squeamish, but--good lord!" "do you realize," demanded captain stewart, "what risks we run while that fellow is alive--knowing what he knows?" "oh yes, i realize that," said o'hara. "but i don't see why _you_ should have heart failure over it." captain stewart's pale lips drew back again in their catlike fashion. "never mind about me," he said. "but i can't help thinking you're peculiarly indifferent in the face of danger." "no, i'm not!" said the irishman, quickly. "no, i'm not. don't you run away with that idea! i merely said," he went oh--"i merely said that i'd stop short of murder. i don't set any foolish value on life--my own or any other. i've had to take life more than once, but it was in fair fight or in self-defence, and i don't regret it. it was your coldblooded joke about going up-stairs and killing this chap in his bed that put me on edge. naturally i know you didn't mean it. don't you go thinking that i'm lukewarm or that i'm indifferent to danger. i know there's danger from this lad up-stairs, and i mean to be on guard against it. he stays here under strict guard until--what we're after is accomplished--until young arthur comes of age. if there's danger," said he, "why, we know where it lies, and we can guard against it. that kind of danger is not very formidable. the dangerous dangers are the ones that you don't know about--the hidden ones." he came forward a little, and his lean face was as hard and as impassive as ever, and the bright blue eyes shone from it steady and unwinking. stewart looked up to him with a sort of peevish resentment at the man's confidence and cool poise. it was an odd reversal of their ordinary relations. for the hour the duller villain, the man who was wont to take orders and to refrain from overmuch thought or question, seemed to have become master. sheer physical exhaustion and the constant maddening pain had had their will of captain stewart. a sudden shiver wrung him so that his dry fingers rattled against the wood of the chair-arms. "all the same," he cried, "i'm afraid. i've been confident enough until now. now i'm afraid. i wish the fellow had been killed." "kill him, then!" laughed the irishman. "i won't give you up to the police." he crossed the room to the door, but halted short of it and turned about again, and he looked back very curiously at the man who sat crouched in his chair by the window. it had occurred to him several times that stewart was very unlike himself. the man was quite evidently tired and ill, and that might account for some of the nervousness, but this fierce malignity was something a little beyond o'hara's comprehension. it seemed to him that the elder man had the air of one frightened beyond the point the circumstances warranted. "are you going back to town," he asked, "or do you mean to stay the night?" "i shall stay the night," stewart said. "i'm too tired to bear the ride." he glanced up and caught the other's eyes fixed upon him. "well!" he cried, angrily. "what is it? what are you looking at me like that for? what do you want?" "i want nothing," said the irishman, a little sharply. "and i wasn't aware that i'd been looking at you in any unusual way. you're precious jumpy to-day, if you want to know.... look here!" he came back a step, frowning. "look here!" he repeated. "i don't quite make you out. are you keeping back anything? because if you are, for heaven's sake have it out here and now! we're all in this game together, and we can't afford to be anything but frank with one another. we can't afford to make reservations. it's altogether too dangerous for everybody. you're too much frightened. there's no apparent reason for being so frightened as that." captain stewart drew a long breath between closed teeth, and afterward he looked up at the younger man coldly. "we need not discuss my personal feelings, i think," said he. "they have no--no bearing on the point at issue. as you say, we are all in this thing together, and you need not fear that i shall fail to do my part, as i have done it in the past.... that's all, i believe." "oh, _as_ you like! as you like!" said the irishman, in the tone of one rebuffed. he turned again and left the room, closing the door behind him. outside on the stairs it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask the other man what this fellow's name was--the fellow who lay wounded up-stairs. no, he had asked once, but in the interest of the conversation the question had been lost. he determined to inquire again that evening at dinner. but captain stewart, left thus alone, sank deeper in the uncomfortable chair, and his head once more stirred and sought vainly for ease against the chair's high back. the pain swept him in regular throbbing waves that were like the waves of the sea--waves which surge and crash and tear upon a beach. but between the throbs of physical pain there was something else that was always present while the waves came and went. pain and exhaustion, if they are sufficiently extreme, can well nigh paralyze mind as well as body, and for some time captain stewart wondered what this thing might be which lurked at the bottom of him still under the surges of agony. then at last he had the strength to look at it, and it was fear, cold and still and silent. he was afraid to the very depths of his soul. true, as o'hara had said, there did not seem to be any very desperate peril to face, but stewart was afraid with the gambler's unreasoning, half-superstitious fear, and that is the worst fear of all. he realized that he had been afraid of ste. marie from the beginning, and that, of course, was why he had tried to draw him into partnership with himself in his own official and wholly mythical search for arthur benham. he could have had the other man under his eye then. he could have kept him busy for months running down false scents. as it was, ste. marie's uncanny instinct about the irishman o'hara had led him true--that and what he doubtless learned from olga nilssen. if stewart had been in a condition and mood to philosophize, he would doubtless have reflected that seven-tenths of the desperate causes, both good and bad, which fail in this world, fail because they are wrecked by some woman's love or jealousy--or both. but it is unlikely that he was able just at this time to make such a reflection, though certainly he wondered how much olga nilssen had known, and how much ste. marie had had to put together out of her knowledge and any previous suspicions which he may have had. the man would have been amazed if he could have known what a mountain of information and evidence had piled itself up over his head all in twelve hours. he would have been amazed and, if possible, even more frightened than he was, but he was without question sufficiently frightened, for here was ste. marie in the very house, he had seen arthur benham, and quite obviously he knew all there was to know, or at least enough to ruin arthur benham's uncle beyond all recovery or hope of recovery--irretrievably. captain stewart tried to think what it would mean to him--failure in this desperate scheme--but he had not the strength or the courage. he shrank from the picture as one shrinks from something horrible in a bad dream. there could be no question of failure. he had to succeed at any cost, however desperate or fantastic. once more the spasm of childish, futile rage swept over him and shook him like a wind. "why couldn't the fellow have been killed by that one-eyed fool?" he cried, sobbing. "why couldn't he have been killed? he's the only one who knows--the only thing in the way. why couldn't he have keen killed?" quite suddenly captain stewart ceased to sob and shiver, and sat still in his chair, gripping the arms with white and tense fingers. his eyes began to widen, and they became fixed in a long, strange stare. he drew a deep breath. "i wonder!" he said, aloud. "i wonder, now." * * * * * xvi the black cat that providential stone or tree-root, or whatever it may have been, proved a genuine blessing in disguise to ste. marie. it gave him a splitting headache for a few hours, but it saved him a good deal of discomfort the while his bullet wound was being more or less probed and very skilfully cleansed and dressed by o'hara. for he did not regain consciousness until this surgical work was almost at its end, and then he wanted to fight the irishman for tying the bandages too tight. but when o'hara had gone away and left him alone he lay still--or as still as the smarting, burning pain in his leg and the ache in his head would let him--and stared at the wall beyond his bed, and bit by bit the events of the past hour came back to him, and he knew where he was. he cursed himself very bitterly, as he well might do, for a bungling idiot. the whole thing had been in his hands, he said, with perfect truth--arthur benham's whereabouts proved stewart's responsibility or, at the very least, complicity and the sordid motive therefor. remained--had ste. marie been a sane being instead of an impulsive fool--remained but to face stewart down in the presence of witnesses, threaten him with exposure, and so, with perfect ease, bring back the lost boy in triumph to his family. it should all have been so simple, so easy, so effortless! yet now it was ruined by a moment's rash folly, and heaven alone knew what would come of it. he remembered that he had left behind him no indication whatever of where he meant to spend the afternoon. hartley would come hurrying across town that evening to the rue d'assas, and would find no one there to receive him. he would wait and wait, and at last go home. he would come again on the next morning, and then he would begin to be alarmed and would start a second search--but with what to reckon by? nobody knew about the house on the road to clamart but mlle. olga nilssen, and she was far away. he thought of captain stewart, and he wondered if that gentleman was by any chance here in the house, or if he was still in bed in the rue du faubourg st. honoré, recovering from his epileptic fit. after that he fell once more to cursing himself and his incredible stupidity, and he could have wept for sheer bitterness of chagrin. he was still engaged in this unpleasant occupation when the door of the room opened and the irishman o'hara entered, having finished his interview with captain stewart below. he came up beside the bed and looked down not unkindly upon the man who lay there, but ste. marie scowled back at him, for he was in a good deal of pain and a vile humor. "how's the leg--_and_ the head?" asked the amateur surgeon. to do him justice, he was very skilful, indeed, through much experience. "they hurt," said ste. marie, shortly. "my head aches like the devil, and my leg burns." o'hara made a sound which was rather like a gruff laugh, and nodded. "yes, and they'll go on doing it, too," said he. "at least the leg will. your head will be all right again in a day or so. do you want anything to eat? it's near dinner-time. i suppose we can't let you starve--though you deserve it." "thanks; i want nothing," said ste. marie. "pray don't trouble about me." the other man nodded again indifferently and turned to go out of the room, but in the doorway he halted and looked back. "as we're to have the pleasure of your company for some time to come," said he, "you might suggest a name to call you by. of course i don't expect you to tell your own name--though i can learn that easily enough." "easily enough, to be sure," said the man on the bed. "ask stewart. he knows only too well." the irishman scowled. and after a moment he said: "i don't know any stewart." but at that ste. marie gave a laugh, and a tinge of red came over the irishman's cheeks. "and so, to save captain stewart the trouble," continued the wounded man, "i'll tell you my name with pleasure. i don't know why i shouldn't. it's ste. marie." "what?" cried o'hara, hoarsely. "what? say that again!" he came forward a swift step or two into the room, and he stared at the man on the bed as if he were staring at a ghost. "ste. marie?" he cried, in a whisper. "it's impossible! what are you," he demanded, "to gilles, comte de ste. marie de mont-perdu? what are you to him?" "he was my father," said the younger man; "but he is dead. he has been dead for ten years." he raised his head, with a little grimace of pain, to look curiously after the irishman, who had all at once turned away across the room and stood still beside a window with bent head. "why?" he questioned. "what about my father? why did you ask that?" o'hara did not answer at once, and he did not stir from his place by the window, but after a while he said: "i knew him.... that's all." and after another space he came back beside the bed, and once more looked down upon the young man who lay there. his face was veiled, inscrutable. it betrayed nothing. "you have a look of your father," said he. "that was what puzzled me a little. i was just saying to--i was just thinking that there was something familiar about you.... ah, well, we've all come down in the world since then. the ste. marie blood, though. who'd have thought it?" the man shook his head a little sorrowfully, but ste. marie stared up at him in frowning incomprehension. the pain had dulled him somewhat. and presently o'hara again moved toward the door. on the way he said: "i'll bring or send you something to eat--not too much. and later on i'll give you a sleeping-powder. with that head of yours you may have trouble in getting to sleep. understand, i'm doing this for your father's son, and not because you've any right yourself to consideration." ste. marie raised himself with difficulty on one elbow. "wait!" said he. "wait a moment!" and the other halted just inside the door. "you seem to have known my father," said ste. marie, "and to have respected him. for my father's sake, will you listen to me for five minutes?" "no, i won't," said the irishman, sharply. "so you may as well hold your tongue. nothing you can say to me or to any one in this house will have the slightest effect. we know what you came spying here for. we know all about it." "yes," said ste. marie, with a little sigh, and he fell back upon the pillows. "yes, i suppose you do. i was rather a fool to speak. you wouldn't all be doing what you're doing if words could affect you. i was a fool to speak." the irishman stared at him for another moment, and went out of the room, closing the door behind him. so he was left once more alone to his pain and his bitter self-reproaches and his wild and futile plans for escape. but o'hara returned in an hour or thereabout with food for him--a cup of broth and a slice of bread; and when ste. marie had eaten these the irishman looked once more to his wounded leg, and gave him a sleeping-powder dissolved in water. he lay restless and wide-eyed for an hour, and then drifted away through intermediate mists into a sleep full of horrible dreams, but it was at least relief from bodily suffering, and when he awoke in the morning his headache was almost gone. he awoke to sunshine and fresh, sweet odors and the twittering of birds. by good chance o'hara had been the last to enter the room on the evening before, and so no one had come to close the shutters or draw the blinds. the windows were open wide, and the morning breeze, very soft and aromatic, blew in and out and filled the place with sweetness. the room was a corner room, with windows that looked south and east, and the early sun slanted in and lay in golden squares across the floor. ste. marie opened his eyes with none of the dazed bewilderment that he might have expected. the events of the preceding day came back to him instantly and without shock. he put up an experimental hand, and found that his head was still very sore where he had struck it in falling, but the ache was almost gone. he tried to stir his leg, and a protesting pain shot through it. it burned dully, even when it was quiet, but the pain was not at all severe. he realized that he was to get off rather well, considering what might have happened, and he was so grateful for this that he almost forgot to be angry with himself over his monumental folly. a small bird chased by another wheeled in through the southern window and back again into free air. finally, the two settled down upon the parapet of the little shallow balcony which was there to have their disagreement out, and they talked it over with a great deal of noise and many threatening gestures and a complete loss of temper on both sides. ste. marie, from his bed, cheered them on, but there came a commotion in the ivy which draped the wall below, and the two birds fled in ignominious haste, and just in the nick of time, for when the cause of the commotion shot into view it was a large black cat, of great bodily activity and an ardent single-heartedness of aim. the black cat gazed for a moment resentfully after its vanished prey, and then composed its sleek body upon the iron rail, tail and paws tucked neatly under. ste. marie chirruped, and the cat turned yellow eyes upon him in mild astonishment, as one who should say, "who the deuce are you, and what the deuce are you doing here?" he chirruped again, and the cat, after an ostentatious yawn and stretch, came to him--beating up to windward, as it were, and making the bed in three tacks. when o'hara entered the room some time later he found his patient in a very cheerful frame of mind, and the black cat sitting on his chest purring like a dynamo and kneading like an industrious baker. "ho," said the irishman, "you seem to have found a friend!" "well, i need one friend here," argued ste. marie. "i'm in the enemy's stronghold. you needn't be alarmed; the cat can't tell me anything, and it can't help me to escape. it can only sit on me and purr. that's harmless enough." o'hara began one of his gruff laughs, but he seemed to remember himself in the middle of it and assumed an intimidating scowl instead. "how's the leg?" he demanded, shortly. "let me see it." he took off the bandages and cleansed and sprayed the wound with some antiseptic liquid that he had brought in a bottle. "there's a little fever," said he, "but that can't be avoided. you're going on very well--a good deal better than you'd any right to expect." he had to inflict not a little pain in his examination and redressing of the wound. he knew that, and once or twice he glanced up at ste. marie's face with a sort of reluctant admiration for the man who could bear so much without any sign whatever. in the end he put together his things and nodded with professional satisfaction. "you'll do well enough now for the rest of the day," he said. "i'll send up old michel to valet you. he's the gardener who shot you yesterday, and he may take it into his head to finish the job this morning. if he does i sha'n't try to stop him." "nor i," said ste. marie. "thanks very much for your trouble. an excellent surgeon was lost in you." o'hara left the room, and presently the old caretaker, one-eyed, gnomelike, shambling like a bear, sidled in and proceeded to set things to rights. he looked, ste. marie said to himself, like something in an old german drawing, or in those imitations of old drawings that one sometimes sees nowadays in _fliegende blätter_. he tried to make the strange creature talk, but michel went about his task with an air half-frightened, half-stolid, and refused to speak more than an occasional "oui" or a "bien, monsieur," in answer to orders. ste. marie asked if he might have some coffee and bread, and the old michel nodded and slipped from the room as silently as he had entered it. thereafter ste. marie trifled with the cat and got one hand well scratched for his trouble, but in five minutes there came a knocking at the door. he laughed a little. "michel grows ceremonious when it's a question of food," he said. "entrez, mon vieux!" the door opened, and ste. marie caught his breath. "michel is busy," said coira o'hara, "so i have brought your coffee." she came into the sunlit room holding the steaming bowl of café au lait before her in her two hands. over it her eyes went out to the man who lay in his bed, a long and steady and very grave look. "a goddess that lady, a queen among goddesses--" thus the little jew of the boulevard de la madeleine. ste. marie gazed back at her, and his heart was sick within him to think of the contemptible rôle fate had laid upon this girl to play: the candle to the moth, the bait to the eager, unskilled fish, the lure to charm a foolish boy. the girl's splendid beauty seemed to fill all that bright room with, as it were, a richer, subtler light. there could be no doubt of her potency. older and wiser heads than young arthur benham's might well forget the world for her. ste. marie watched, and the heartsickness within him was like a physical pain, keen and bitter. he thought of that first and only previous meeting--the single minute in the champs-elysées, when her eyes had held him, had seemed to beseech him out of some deep agony. he thought of how they had haunted him afterward both by day and by night--calling eyes--and he gave a little groan of sheer bitterness, for he realized that all this while she was laying her snares about the feet of an inexperienced boy, decoying him to his ruin. there was a name for such women, an ugly name. they were called adventuresses. the girl set the bowl which she carried down upon a table not far from the bed. "you will need a tray or something," said she. "i suppose you can sit up against your pillows? i'll bring a tray and you can hold it on your knees and eat from it." she spoke in a tone of very deliberate indifference and detachment. there seemed even to be an edge of scorn in it, but nothing could make that deep and golden voice harsh or unlovely. as the girl's extraordinary beauty had filled all the room with its light, so the sound of her voice seemed to fill it with a sumptuous and hushed resonance like a temple bell muffled in velvet. "i must bring something to eat, too," she said. "would you prefer croissants or brioches or plain bread-and-butter? you might as well have what you like." "thank you!" said ste. marie. "it doesn't matter. anything. you are most kind. you are hebe, mademoiselle, server of feasts." the girl turned her head for a moment and looked at him with some surprise. "if i am not mistaken," she said, "hebe served to gods." then she went out of the room, and ste. marie broke into a sudden delighted laugh behind her. she would seem to be a young woman with a tongue in her head. she had seized the rash opening without an instant's hesitation. the black cat, which had been cruising, after the inquisitive fashion of its kind, in far corners of the room, strolled back and looked up to the table where the bowl of coffee steamed and waited. "get out!" cried ste. marie. "va t'en, sale petit animal! go and eat birds! that's _my_ coffee. va! sauve toi! hé, voleur que tu es!" he sought for something by way of missile, but there was nothing within reach. the black cat turned its calm and yellow eyes toward him, looked back to the aromatic feast, and leaped expertly to the top of the table. ste. marie shouted and made horrible threats. he waved an impotent pillow, not daring to hurl it for fear of smashing the table's entire contents, but the black cat did not even glance toward him. it smelled the coffee, sneezed over it because it was hot, and finally proceeded to lap very daintily, pausing often to take breath or to shake its head, for cats disapprove of hot dishes, though they will partake of them at a pinch. there came a step outside the door, and the thief leaped down with some haste, yet not quite in time to escape observation. mlle. o'hara came in, breathing terrible threats. "has that wretched animal touched your coffee?" she cried. "i hope not." but ste. marie laughed weakly from his bed, and the guilty beast stood in mid-floor, brown drops beading its black chin and hanging upon its whiskers. "i did what i could, mademoiselle," said ste. marie, "but there was nothing to throw. i am sorry to be the cause of so much trouble." "it is nothing," said she. "i will bring some more coffee, only it will take ten minutes, because i shall have to make some fresh." she made as if she would smile a little in answer to him, but her face turned grave once more and she went out of the room with averted eyes. thereafter ste. marie occupied himself with watching idly the movements of the black cat, and, as he watched, something icy cold began to grow within him, a sensation more terrible than he had ever known before. he found himself shivering as if that summer day had all at once turned to january, and he found that his face was wet with a chill perspiration. when the girl at length returned she found him lying still, his face to the wall. the black cat was in her path as she crossed the room, so that she had to thrust it out of the way with her foot, and she called it names for moving with such lethargy. "here is the coffee at last," she said. "i made it fresh. and i have brought some brioches. will you sit up and have the tray on your knees?" "thank you," said ste. marie. "i do not wish anything." "you do not--" she repeated after him. "but i have made the coffee especially for you," she protested. "i thought you wanted it. i don't understand." with a sudden movement the man turned toward her a white and drawn face. "mademoiselle," he cried, "it would have been more merciful to let your gardener shoot again yesterday. much more merciful, mademoiselle." she stared at him under her straight, black brows. "what do you mean?" she demanded. "more merciful? what do you mean by that?" ste. marie stretched out a pointing finger, and the girl followed it. she gave, after a tense instant, a single, sharp scream. and upon that: "no, no! it's not true! it's not possible!" moving stiffly, she set down the bowl she carried, and the hot liquid splashed up round her wrists. for a moment she hung there, drooping, holding herself up by the strength of her hands upon the table. it was as if she had been seized with faintness. then she sprang to where the cat crouched beside a chair. she dropped upon her knees and tried to raise it in her arms, but the beast bit and scratched at her feebly, and crept away to a little distance, where it lay struggling and very unpleasant to see. "poison!" she said, in a choked, gasping whisper. "poison!" she looked once toward the man upon the bed, and she was white and shivering. "it's not true!" she cried again. "i--won't believe it! it's because the cat--was not used to coffee. because it was hot. i won't believe it! i won't believe it!" she began to sob, holding her hands over her white face. ste. marie watched her with puzzled eyes. if this was acting, it was very good acting. a little glimmer of hope began to burn in him--hope that in this last shameful thing, at least, the girl had had no part. "it's impossible," she insisted, piteously. "i tell you it's impossible. i brought the coffee myself from the kitchen. i took it from the pot there--the same pot we had all had ours from. it was never out of my sight--or, that is--i mean--" she halted there, and ste. marie saw her eyes turn slowly toward the door, and he saw a crimson flush come up over her cheeks and die away, leaving her white again. he drew a little breath of relief and gladness, for he was sure of her now. she had had no part in it. "it is nothing, mademoiselle," said he, cheerfully. "think no more of it. it is nothing." "nothing?" she cried, in a loud voice. "do you call poison nothing?" she began to shiver again very violently. "you would have drunk it!" she said, staring at him in a white agony. "but for a miracle you would have drunk it--and died!" abruptly she came beside the bed and threw herself upon her knees there. in her excitement and horror she seemed to have forgotten what they two were to each other. she caught him by the shoulders with her two hands, and the girl's violent trembling shook them both. "will you believe," she cried, "that i had nothing to do with this? will you believe me? you must believe me!" there was no acting in that moment. she was wrung with a frank anguish, an utter horror, and between her words there were hard and terrible sobs. "i believe you, mademoiselle," said the man, gently. "i believe you. pray think no more about it." he smiled up into the girl's beautiful face, though within him he was still cold and a-shiver, as even the bravest man might well be at such an escape, and after a moment she turned away again. with unsteady hands she put the new-made bowl of coffee and the brioches and other things together upon the tray and started to carry it across the room to the bed, but half-way she turned back again and set the tray down. she looked about and found an empty glass, and she poured a little of the coffee into it. ste. marie, who was watching her, gave a sudden cry. "no, no, mademoiselle, i beg you! you must not!" but the girl shook her head at him gravely over the glass. "there is no danger," she said, "but i must be sure." she drank what was in the glass, and afterward went across to one of the windows and stood there with her back to the room for a little time. in the end she returned and once more brought the breakfast-tray to the bed. ste. marie raised himself to a sitting posture and took the thing upon his knees, but his hands were shaking. "if i were not as helpless as a dead man, mademoiselle," said he, "you should not have done that. if i could have stopped you, you should not have done it, mademoiselle." a wave of color spread up under the brown skin of the girl's face, but she did not speak. she stood by for a moment to see if he was supplied with everything he needed, and when ste. marie expressed his gratitude for her pains she only bowed her head. then presently she turned away and left the room. outside the door she met some one who was approaching. ste. marie heard her break into rapid and excited speech, and he heard o'hara's voice in answer. the voice expressed astonishment and indignation and a sort of gruff horror, but the man who listened could hear only the tones, not the words that were spoken. the irishman came quickly into the room. he glanced once toward the bed where ste. marie sat eating his breakfast with apparent unconcern--there may have been a little bravado in this--and then bent over the thing which lay moving feebly beside a chair. when he rose again his face was hard and tense and his blue eyes glittered in a fashion that boded trouble for somebody. "this looks very bad for us," he said, gruffly. "i should--i should like to have you believe that neither my daughter nor i had any part in it. when i fight i fight openly, i don't use poison. not even with spies." "oh, that's all right," said ste. marie, taking an ostentatious sip of coffee. "that's understood. i know well enough who tried to poison me. if you'll just keep your friend stewart out of the kitchen i sha'n't worry about my food." the irishman's cheeks reddened with a quick flush and he dropped his eyes. but in an instant he raised them again and looked full into the eyes of the man who sat in bed. "you seem," said he, "to be laboring under a curious misapprehension. there is no stewart here, and i don't know any man of that name." ste. marie laughed. "oh, don't you?" he said. "that's my mistake then. well, if you don't know him, you ought to. you have interests in common." o'hara favored his patient with a long and frowning stare. but at the end he turned without a word and went out of the room. * * * * * xvii those who were left behind that meeting with richard hartley of which captain stewart, in the small drawing-room at la lierre, spoke to the irishman o'hara, took place at stewart's own door in the rue du faubourg st. honoré, and it must have been at just about the time when ste. marie, concealed among the branches of his cedar, looked over the wall and saw arthur benham walking with mlle. coira o'hara. hartley had lunched at durand's with his friends, whose name--though it does not at all matter here--was reeves-davis, and after lunch the four of them, major and lady reeves-davis, reeves-davis' sister, mrs. carsten, and hartley, spent an hour at a certain picture-dealer's near the madeleine. after that lady reeves-davis wanted to go in search of an antiquary's shop which was somewhere in the rue du faubourg, and she did not know just where. they went in from the rue royale, and amused themselves by looking at the attractive windows on the way. during one of their frequent halts, while the two ladies were passionately absorbed in a display of hats, and reeves-davis was making derisive comments from the rear, hartley, who was too much bored to pay attention, saw a figure which seemed to him familiar emerge from an adjacent doorway and start to cross the pavement to a large touring-car, with the top up, which stood at the curb. the man wore a dust-coat and a cap, and he moved as if he were in a hurry, but as he went he cast a quick look about him and his eye fell upon richard hartley. hartley nodded, and he thought the elder man gave a violent start; but then he looked very white and ill and might have started at anything. for an instant captain stewart made as if he would go on his way without taking notice, but he seemed to change his mind and turned back. he held out his hand with a rather wan and nervous smile, saying: "ah, hartley! it is you, then! i wasn't sure." he glanced over the other's shoulder and said, "is that our friend ste. marie with you?" "no," said richard hartley, "some english friends of mine. i haven't seen ste. marie to-day. i'm to meet him this evening. you've seen him since i have, as a matter of fact. he came to your party last night, didn't he? sorry i couldn't come. they must have tired you out, i should think. you look ill." "yes," said the other man, absently. "yes, i had an attack of--an old malady last night. i am rather stale to-day. you say you haven't seen ste. marie? no, to be sure. if you see him later on you might say that i mean to drop in on him to-morrow to make my apologies. he'll understand. good-day." so he turned away to the motor which was waiting for him, and hartley went back to his friends, wondering a little what it was that stewart had to apologize for. as for captain stewart, he must have gone at once out to la lierre. what he found there has already been set forth. it was about ten that evening when hartley, who had left his people, after dinner was over, at the marigny, reached the rue d'assas. the street door was already closed for the night, and so he had to ring for the cordon. when the door clicked open and he had closed it behind him he called out his name before crossing the court to ste. marie's stair; but as he went on his way the voice of the concierge reached him from the little loge. "m. ste. marie n'est pas là," now, the parisian concierge, as every one knows who has lived under his iron sway, is a being set apart from the rest of mankind. he has, in general, no human attributes, and certainly no human sympathy. his hand is against all the world, and the hand of all the world is against him. still, here and there among this peculiar race are to be found a very few beings who are of softer substance--men and women instead of spies and harpies. the concierge who had charge of the house wherein ste. marie dwelt was an old woman, undeniably severe upon occasion, but for the most part a kindly and even jovial soul. she must have become a concierge through some unfortunate mistake. she snapped open her little square window and stuck out into the moonlit court a dishevelled gray head. "il n'est pas là." she said again, beaming upon richard hartley, whom she liked, and, when he protested that he had a definite and important appointment with her lodger, went on to explain that ste. marie had gone out, doubtless to lunch, before one o'clock and had never returned. "he may have left word for me up-stairs," hartley said; "i'll go up and wait, if i may." so the woman got him her extra key, and he went up, let himself into the flat, and made lights there. naturally he found no word, but his own note of that morning lay spread out upon a table where ste. marie had left it, and so he knew that his friend was in possession of the two facts he had learned about stewart. he made himself comfortable with a book and some cigarettes, and settled down to wait. ste. marie out at la lierre, with a bullet-hole in his leg, was deep in a drugged sleep just then, but hartley waited for him, looking up now and then from his book with a scowl of impatience, until the little clock on the mantel said that it was one o'clock. then he went home in a very bad temper, after writing another note and leaving it on the table, to say that he would return early in the morning. but in the morning he began to be alarmed. he questioned the concierge very closely as to ste. marie's movements on the day previous, but she could tell him little, save to mention the brief visit of a man with an accent of toulouse or marseilles, and there seemed to be no one else to whom he could go. he spent the entire morning in the flat, and returned there after a hasty lunch. but at mid-afternoon he took a fiacre at the corner of the gardens and drove to the rue du faubourg st. honoré. captain stewart was at home. he was in a dressing-gown, and still looked fagged and unwell. he certainly betrayed some surprise at sight of his visitor, but he made hartley welcome at once and insisted upon having cigars and things to drink brought out for him. on the whole he presented an astonishingly normal exterior, for within him he must have been cold with fear, and in his ears a question must have rung and shouted and rung again unceasingly--"what does this fellow know? what does he know?" hartley's very presence there had a perilous look. the younger man shook his head at the servant who asked him what he wished to drink. "thanks, you're very good," he said to captain stewart, and that gentleman eyed him silently. "i can't stay but a moment. i just dropped in to ask if you'd any idea what can have become of ste. marie." "ste. marie?" said captain stewart. "what do you mean--'become of him'?" he moistened his lips to speak, but he said the words without a tremor. "well, what i meant was," said hartley, "that you'd seen him last. he was here thursday evening. did he say anything to you about going anywhere in particular the next day--yesterday? he left his rooms about noon and hasn't turned up since." captain stewart drew a short breath and sat down, abruptly, in a near-by chair, for all at once his knees had begun to tremble under him. he was conscious of a great and blissful wave of relief and well-being, and he wanted to laugh. he wanted so much to laugh that it became a torture to keep his face in repose. so ste. marie had left no word behind him, and the danger was past! with a great effort he looked up from where he sat to richard hartley, who stood anxious and frowning before him. "forgive me for sitting down," he said, "and sit down yourself, i beg. i'm still very shaky from my attack of illness. ste. marie--ste. marie has disappeared? how very extraordinary! it's like poor arthur. still--a single day! he might be anywhere for a single day, might he not? for all that, though, it's very odd. why, no. no, i don't think he said anything about going away. at least i remember nothing about it." the relief and triumph within him burst out in a sudden little chuckle of malicious fun. "i can think of only one thing," said he, "that might be of use to you. ste. marie seemed to take a very great fancy to one of the ladies here the other evening. and, i must confess, the lady seemed to return it. it had all the look of a desperate flirtation--a most desperate flirtation. they spent the evening in a corner together. you don't suppose," he said, still chuckling gently, "that ste. marie is taking a little holiday, do you? you don't suppose that the lady could account for him?" "no," said richard hartley, "i don't. and if you knew ste. marie a little better you wouldn't suppose it, either." but after a pause he said: "could you give me the--lady's name, by any chance? of course, i don't want to leave any stone unturned." and once more the other man emitted his pleased little chuckle that was so like a cat's mew. "i can give you her name," said he. "the name is mlle.---bertrand. elise bertrand. but i regret to say i haven't the address by me. she came with some friends. i will try and get it and send it you. will that be all right?" "yes, thanks!" said richard hartley. "you're very good. and now i must be going on. i'm rather in a hurry." captain stewart protested against this great haste, and pressed the younger man to sit down and tell him more about his friend's disappearance, but hartley excused himself, repeating that he was in a great hurry, and went off. when he had gone captain stewart lay back in his chair and laughed until he was weak and ached from it, the furious, helpless laughter which comes after the sudden release from a terrible strain. he was not, as a rule, a demonstrative man, but he became aware that he would like to dance and sing, and probably he would have done both if it had not been for the servant in the next room. so there was no danger to be feared, and his terrors of the night past--he shivered a little to think of them--had been, after all, useless terrors! as for the prisoner out at la lierre, nothing was to be feared from him so long as a careful watch was kept. later on he might have to be disposed of, since both bullet and poison had failed--he scowled over that, remembering a bad quarter of an hour with o'hara early this morning--but that matter could wait. some way would present itself. he thought of the wholly gratuitous lie he had told hartley, a thing born of a moment's malice, and he laughed again. it struck him that it would be very humorous if hartley should come to suspect his friend of turning aside from his great endeavors to enter upon an affair with a lady. he dimly remembered that ste. marie's name had, from time to time, been a good deal involved in romantic histories, and he said to himself that his lie had been very well chosen, indeed, and might be expected to cause richard hartley much anguish of spirit. after that he lighted a very large cigarette, half as big as a cigar, and he lay back in his low, comfortable chair and began to think of the outcome of all this plotting and planning. as is very apt to be the case when a great danger has been escaped, he was in a mood of extreme hopefulness and confidence. vaguely he felt as if the recent happenings had set him ahead a pace toward his goal, though of course they had done nothing of the kind. the danger that would exist so long as ste. marie, who knew everything, was alive, seemed in some miraculous fashion to have dwindled to insignificance; in this rebound from fear and despair difficulties were swept away and the path was clear. the man's mind leaped to his goal, and a little shiver of prospective joy ran over him. once that goal gained he could defy the world. let eyes look askance, let tongues wag, he would be safe then--safe for all the rest of his life, and rich, rich, rich! for he was playing against a feeble old man's life. day by day he watched the low flame sink lower as the flame of an exhausted lamp sinks and flickers. it was slow, for the old man had still a little strength left, but the will to live--which was the oil in the lamp--was almost gone, and the waiting could not be long now. one day, quite suddenly, the flame would sink down to almost nothing, as at last it does in the spent lamp. it would flicker up and down rapidly for a few moments, and all at once there would be no flame there. old david would be dead, and a servant would be sent across the river in haste to the rue du faubourg st. honoré. stewart lay back in his chair and tried to imagine that it was true, that it had already happened, as happen it must before long, and once more the little shiver, which was like a shiver of voluptuous delight, ran up and down his limbs, and his breath began to come fast and hard. * * * * * but richard hartley drove at once back to the rue d'assas. he was not very much disappointed in having learned nothing from stewart, though he was thoroughly angry at that gentleman's hint about ste. marie and the unknown lady. he had gone to the rue du faubourg because, as he had said, he wished to leave no stone unturned, and, after all, he had thought it quite possible that stewart could give him some information which would be of value. hartley firmly believed the elder man to be a rascal, but of course he knew nothing definite save the two facts which he had accidentally learned from helen benham, and it had occurred to him that captain stewart might have sent ste. marie off upon another wild-goose chase such as the expedition to dinard had been. he would have been sure that the elder man had had something to do with ste. marie's disappearance if the latter had not been seen since stewart's party, but instead of that ste. marie had come home, slept, gone out the next morning, returned again, received a visitor, and gone out to lunch. it was all very puzzling and mysterious. his mind went back to the brief interview with stewart and dwelt upon it. little things which had at the time made no impression upon him began to recur and to take on significance. he remembered the elder man's odd and strained manner at the beginning, his sudden and causeless change to ease and to something that was almost like a triumphant excitement, and then his absurd story about ste. marie's flirtation with a lady. hartley thought of these things; he thought also of the fact that ste. marie had disappeared immediately after hearing grave accusations against stewart. could he have lost his head, rushed across the city at once to confront the middle-aged villain, and then--disappeared from human ken? it would have been very like him to do something rashly impulsive upon reading that note. hartley broke into a sudden laugh of sheer amusement when he realized to what a wild and improbable flight his fancy was soaring. he could not quite rid himself of a feeling that stewart was, in some mysterious fashion, responsible for his friend's vanishing, but he was unlike ste. marie: he did not trust his feelings, either good or bad, unless they were backed by excellent evidence, and he had to admit that there was not a single scrap of evidence in this instance against miss benham's uncle. the girl's name recalled him to another duty. he must tell her about ste. marie. he was by this time half-way up the boulevard st. germain, but he gave a new order, and the fiacre turned back to the rue de l'université. the footman at the door said that mademoiselle was not in the drawing-room, as it was only four o'clock, but that he thought she was in the house. so hartley sent up his name and went in to wait. miss benham came down looking a little pale and anxious. "i've been with grandfather," she explained. "he had some sort of sinking-spell last night and we were very much frightened. he's much better, but--well, he couldn't have many such spells and live. i'm afraid he grows a good deal weaker day by day now. he sees hardly any one outside the family, except baron de vries." she sat down with a little sigh of fatigue and smiled up at her visitor. "i'm glad you've come," said she. "you'll cheer me up, and i rather need it. what are you looking so solemn about, though? you won't cheer me up if you look like that." "well, you see," said hartley, "i came at this impossible hour to bring you some bad news. i'm sorry. perhaps," he modified, "bad news is putting it with too much seriousness. strange news is better. to be brief, ste. marie has disappeared--vanished into thin air. i thought you ought to know." "ste. marie!" cried the girl. "how? what do you mean--vanished? when did he vanish?" she gave a sudden exclamation of relief. "oh, he has come upon some clew or other and has rushed off to follow it. that's all. how dare you frighten me so?" "he went without luggage," said the man, shaking his head, "and he left no word of any kind behind him. he went out to lunch yesterday about noon, and, as i said, simply vanished, leaving no trace whatever behind him. i've just been to see your uncle, thinking that he might know something, but he doesn't." the girl looked up quickly. "my uncle?" she said. "why my uncle?" "well," said hartley, "you see, ste. marie went to a little party at your uncle's flat on the night before he disappeared, and i thought your uncle might have heard him say something that would throw light on his movements the next day." hartley remembered the unfortunate incident of the galloping pigs, and hurried on: "he went to the party more for the purpose of having a talk with your uncle than for any other reason, i think. i was to have gone myself, but gave it up at the eleventh hour for the cains' dinner at armenonville. well, the next morning after captain stewart's party he went out early. i called at his rooms to see him about something important that i thought he ought to know. i missed him, and so left a note for him which he got on his return and read. i found it open on his table later on. at noon he went out again, and that's all. frankly, i'm worried about him." miss benham watched the man with thoughtful eyes, and when he had finished she asked: "could you tell me what was in this note that you left for ste. marie?" hartley was by nature a very open and frank young man, and in consequence an unusually bad liar. he hesitated and looked away, and he began to turn red. "well--no," he said, after a moment--"no, i'm afraid i can't. it was something you wouldn't understand--wouldn't know about." and the girl said, "oh!" and remained for a little while silent. but at the end she looked up and met his eyes, and the man saw that she was very grave. she said: "richard, there is something that you and i have been avoiding and pretending not to see. it has gone too far now, and we've got to face it with perfect frankness. i know what was in your note to ste. marie. it was what you found out the other evening about--my uncle--the matter of the will and the other matter. he knew about the will, but he told you and ste. marie that he didn't. he said to you, also, that i had told him about my engagement and ste. marie's determination to search for arthur, and that was--a lie. i didn't tell him, and grandfather didn't tell him. he listened in the door yonder and heard it himself. i have a good reason for knowing that. and then," she said, "he tried very hard to persuade you and ste. marie to take up your search under his direction, and he partly succeeded. he sent ste. marie upon a foolish expedition to dinard, and he gave him and gave you other clews just as foolish as that one. richard, do you believe that my uncle has hidden poor arthur away somewhere or--worse than that? do you? tell me the truth!" "there is not," said hartley, "one particle of real evidence against him that i'm aware of. there's plenty of motive, if you like, but motive is not evidence." "i asked you a question," the girl said. "do you believe my uncle has been responsible for arthur's disappearance?" "yes," said richard hartley, "i'm afraid i do." "then," she said, "he has been responsible for ste. marie's disappearance also. ste. marie became dangerous to him, and so vanished. what can we do, richard? what can we do?" * * * * * xviii a conversation overheard in the upper chamber at la lierre the days dragged very slowly by, and the man who lay in bed there counted interminable hours and prayed for the coming of night with its merciful oblivion of sleep. his inaction was made bitterer by the fact that the days were days of green and gold, of breeze-stirred tree-tops without his windows, of vagrant sweet airs that stole in upon his solitude, bringing him all the warm fragrance of summer and of green things growing. he suffered little pain. there was, for the first three or four days, a dull and feverish ache in his wounded leg, but presently even that passed, and the leg hurt him only when he moved it. he thought sometimes that he would be grateful for a bit of physical anguish to make the hours pass more quickly. the other inmates of the house held aloof from him. once a day o'hara came in to see to the wound, but he maintained a well-nigh complete silence over his work, and answered questions only with a brief yes or no. sometimes he did not answer them at all. the old michel came twice daily, but this strange being had quite plainly been frightened into dumbness, and there was nothing to be got out of him. he shambled hastily about the place, his one scared eye upon the man in bed, and as soon as possible fled away, closing the door behind him. sometimes michel brought in the meals, sometimes his wife, a creature so like him that the two might well have passed for twin survivors of some unknown race; sometimes--thrice altogether in that first week--coira o'hara brought the tray, and she was as silent as the others. so ste. marie was left alone to get through the interminable days as best he might, and ever afterward the week remained in his memory as a sort of nightmare. lying idle in his bed, he evolved many surprising and fantastic schemes for escape, for getting word to the outside world of his presence here, and one by one he gave them up in disgust as their impossibility forced itself upon him. plans and schemes were useless while he lay bedridden, unfamiliar even with the house wherein he dwelt, with the garden and park that surrounded it. as for aid from any of the inmates of the place, that was to be laughed at. they were engaged together in a scheme so desperate that failure must mean utter ruin to them all. he sometimes wondered if the two servants could be bribed. avarice unmistakable gleamed from their little, glittering, ratlike eyes, but he was sure that they would sell out for no small sum, and in so far as he could remember there had been in his pockets, when he came here, not more than five or six louis. doubtless the old michel had managed to abstract those in his daily offices about the room, for ste. marie knew that the clothes hung in a closet across from his bed. he had seen them there once when the closet-door was open. any help that might come to him must come from outside--and what help was to be expected there? over and over again he reminded himself of how little richard hartley knew. he might suspect stewart of complicity in this new disappearance, but how was he to find out anything definite? how was any one to do so? it was at such times as this, when brain and nerves were strained and worn almost to breaking-point, that ste. marie had occasion to be grateful for the southern blood that was in him, the strong tinge of fatalism which is common alike to latin and to oriental. it rescued him more than once from something like nervous breakdown, calmed him suddenly, lifted his burdens from outwearied shoulders, and left him in peace to wait until some action should be possible. then, in such hours, he would fall to thinking of the girl for whose sake, in whose cause, he lay bedridden, beset with dangers. as long before, she came to him in a sort of waking vision--a being but half earthly, enthroned high above him, calm-browed, very pure, with passionless eyes that gazed into far distance and were unaware of the base things below. what would she think of him, who had sworn to be true knight to her, if she could know how he had bungled and failed? he was glad that she did not know, that if he had blundered into peril the knowledge of it could not reach her to hurt her pride. and sometimes, also, with a great sadness and pity, he thought of poor coira o'hara and of the pathetic wreck her life had fallen into. the girl was so patently fit for better things! her splendid beauty was not a cheap beauty. she was no coarse-blown, gorgeous flower, imperfect at telltale points. it was good blood that had modelled her dark perfection, good blood that had shaped her long and slim and tapering hands. "a queen among goddesses!" the words remained with him, and he knew that they were true. she might have held up her head among the greatest, this adventurer's girl; but what chance had she had? what merest ghost of a chance? he watched her on the rare occasions when she came into the room. he watched the poise of her head, her walk, the movements she made, and he said to himself that there was no woman of his acquaintance whose grace was more perfect--certainly none whose grace was so native. once he complained to her of the desperate idleness of his days, and asked her to lend him a book of some kind, a review, even a daily newspaper, though it be a week old. "i should read the very advertisements with joy," he said. she went out of the room and returned presently with an armful of books, which she laid upon the bed without comment. "in my prayers, mademoiselle," cried ste. marie, "you shall be foremost forever!" he glanced at the row of titles and looked up in sheer astonishment. "may i ask whose books these are?" he said. "they are mine," said the girl. "i caught up the ones that lay first at hand. if you don't care for any of them, i will choose others." the books were: _diana of the crossways, richard feverel,_ henri lavedan's _le duel_, maeterlinck's _pelleas et mélisande, don quixote de la mancha_, in spanish, a volume of virgil's _eclogues_, and the _life of the chevalier bayard_, by the loyal servitor. ste. marie stared at her. "do you read spanish," he demanded, "and latin, as well as french and english?" "my mother was spanish," said she. "and as for latin, i began to read it with my father when i was a child. shall i leave the books here?" ste. marie took up the _bayard_ and held it between his hands. "it is worn from much reading, mademoiselle," he said. "it is the best of all," said she. "the very best of all. i didn't know i had brought you that." she made a step toward him as if she would take the book away, and over it their eyes met and were held. in that moment it may have come to them both who she was, who so loved the knight without fear and without reproach--the daughter of art irish adventurer of ill repute--for their faces began suddenly to flush with red, and after an instant the girl turned away. "it is of no consequence," said she. "you may keep the book if you care to." and ste. marie said, very gently: "thank you, mademoiselle. i will keep it for a little while." so she went out of the room and left him alone. this was at noon on the sixth day, and, after he had swallowed hastily the lunch which had been set before him, ste. marie fell upon the books like a child upon a new box of sweets. like the child again, it was difficult for him to choose among them. he opened one and then another, gloating over them all, but in the end he chose the _bayard_, and for hours lost himself among the high deeds of the preux chevalier and his faithful friends--among whom, by the way, there was a ste. marie who died nobly for france. it was late afternoon when at last he laid the book down with a sigh and settled himself more comfortably among the pillows. the sun was not in the room at that hour, but from where he lay he could see it on the tree-tops, gold upon green. outside his south window the leaves of a chestnut which stood there quivered and rustled gently under a soft breeze. delectable odors floated in to ste. marie's nostrils, and he thought how very pleasant it would be if he were lying on the turf under the trees instead of bedridden in this upper chamber, which he had come to hate with a bitter hatred. he began to wonder if it would be possible to drag himself across the floor to that south window, and so to lie down for a while with his head in the tiny balcony beyond, his eyes turned to the blue sky. astir with the new thought, he sat up in bed and carefully swung his feet out till they hung to the floor. the wound in the left leg smarted and burned, but not too severely, and with slow pains ste. marie stood up. he almost cried out when he discovered that it could be done quite easily. he essayed to walk, and he was a little weak, but by no means helpless. he found that it gave him pain to raise his left leg in the ordinary action of walking or to bend that knee, but he could get about well enough by dragging the injured member beside him, for when it was straight it supported him without protest. he took his pillows across to the window and disposed them there, for it was a french window opening to the floor, and the level of the little balcony outside was but a few inches above the level of the room. then the desire seized him to make a tour of his prison walls. he went first to the closet where he had seen his clothes hanging, and they were still there. he felt in the pockets and withdrew his little english pigskin sovereign-purse. it had not been tampered with, and he gave an exclamation of relief over that, for he might later on have use for money. there were eight louis in it, each in its little separate compartment, and in another pocket he found a fifty-franc note and some silver. he went to the two east windows and looked out. the trees stood thick together on that side of the house, but between two of them he could see the park wall fifty yards away. he glanced down, and the side of the house was covered thick with the ivy which had given the place its name, but there was no water-pipe near, nor any other thing which seemed to offer foot or hand hold, unless, perhaps, the ivy might prove strong enough to bear a man's weight. ste. marie made a mental note to look into that when he was a little stronger, and turned back to the south window where he had disposed his pillows. the unaccustomed activity was making his wound smart and prickle, and he lay down at once with head and shoulders in the open air, and out of the warm and golden sunshine and the emerald shade the breath of summer came to him and wrapped him round with sweetness and pillowed him upon its fragrant breast. he became aware after a long time of voices below, and turned upon his elbows to look. the ivy had clambered upon and partly covered the iron grille of the little balcony, and he could observe without being seen. young arthur benham and coira o'hara had come out of the door of the house, and they stood upon the raised and paved terrace which ran the width of the façade, and seemed to hesitate as to the direction they should take. ste. marie heard the girl say: "it's cooler here in the shade of the house," and after a moment the two came along the shady terrace whose outer margin was set at intervals with stained and discolored marble nymphs upon pedestals, and between the nymphs with moss-grown stone benches. they halted before a bench upon which, earlier in the day, a rug had been spread out to dry in the sun and had been forgotten, and after a moment's further hesitation they sat down upon it. their faces were turned toward the house, and every word that they spoke mounted in that still air clear and distinct to the ears of the man above. ste. marie wriggled back into the room and sat up to consider. the thought of deliberately listening to a conversation not meant for him sent a hot flush to his cheeks. he told himself that it could not be done, and that there was an end to the matter. whatever might hang upon it, it could not be asked of him that he should stoop to dishonor. but at that the heavy and grave responsibility, which really did hang upon him and upon his actions, came before his mind's eye and loomed there mountainous. the fate of this foolish boy who was set round with thieves and adventurers--even though his eyes were open and he knew where he stood--that came to ste. marie and confronted him; and the picture of a bitter old man who was dying of grief came to him; and a mother's face; and _hers_. there could be no dishonor in the face of all this, only a duty very clear and plain. he crept back to his place, his arms folded beneath him as he lay, his eyes at the thin screen of ivy which cloaked the balcony grille. young arthur benham appeared to be giving tongue to a rather sharp attack of homesickness. it may be that long confinement within the walls of la lierre was beginning to try him somewhat. "mind you," he declared, as ste. marie's ears came once more within range--"mind you, i'm not saying that paris hasn't got its points. it has. oh yes! and so has london, and so has ostend, and so has monte carlo. verree much so! i like paris. i like the theatres and the vaudeville shows in the champs-elysées, and i like longchamps. i like the boys who hang around henry's bar. they're good sports all right, all right! but, by golly, i want to go home! put me off at the corner of forty-second street and broadway, and i'll ask no more. set me down at 7 p.m., right there on the corner outside the knickerbocker, for that's where i would live and die." there came into the lad's somewhat strident voice a softness that was almost pathetic. "you don't know broadway, coira, do you? nix! of course not. little girl, it's the one street of all this large world. it's the equator that runs north and south instead of east and west. it's a long, bright, gay, live wire!--that's what broadway is. and i give you my word of honor, like a little man, that it--is--not--slow. no-o, indeed! when i was there last it was being called the 'gay white way.' it is not called the 'gay white way' now. it has had forty other new, good names since then, and i don't know what they are, but i do know that it is forever gay, and that the electric signs are still blazing all along the street, and the street-cars are still killing people in the good old fashion, and the news-boys are still dodging under the automobiles to sell you a _woild_ or a _choinal_ or, if it's after twelve at night, a _morning telegraph_. coira, my girl, standing on that corner after dark you can see the electric signs of fifteen theatres, not one of them more than five minutes' walk away; and just round the corner there are more. i want to go home! i want to take one large, unparalleled leap from here and come down at the corner i told you about. d'you know what i'd do? we'll say it's 7 p.m. and beginning to get dark. i'd dive into the knickerbocker--that's the hotel that the bright and happy people go to for dinner or supper--and i'd engage a table up on the terrace. then i'd telephone to a little friend of mine whose name is doe--john doe--and in about ten minutes he'd have left the crowd he was standing in line with and he'd come galloping up, that glad to see me you'd cry to watch him. we'd go up on the terrace, where the potted palms grow, for our dinner, and the tables all around us would be full of people that would know johnnie doe and me, and they'd all make us drink drinks and tell us how glad they were to see us aboard again. and after dinner," said young arthur benham, with wide and smiling eyes--"after dinner we'd go to see one of the roof-garden shows. let me tell you they've got the marigny or the ambassadeurs or the jardin de paris beaten to a pulp--to--a--pulp! and after the show we'd slip round to the stage-door--you bet we would!--and capture the two most beautiful ladies in the world and take 'em off to supper." he wrinkled his young brow in great perplexity. "now i wonder," said he, anxiously--"i wonder where we'd go for supper. you see," he apologized, "it's two years since i left the real street, and, gee! what a lot can happen on broadway in two years! there's probably half a dozen new supper-places that i don't know anything about, and one of them's the place where the crowd goes. well, anyhow, we'd go to that place, and there'd be a band playing, and the electric fans would go round and round, and johnnie doe and i and the two most beautiful ladies would put it all over the other pikers there." young benham gave a little sigh of pleasure and excitement. "that's what i'd like to do to-night," said he, "and that's what i'll do, you can bet your sh--boots, when all this silly mess is over and i'm a free man. i'll hike back to good old broadway, and if ever you see any one trying to pry me loose from it again you can laugh yourself to death, because he'll never, never succeed. "that's where i'll go," he said, nodding, "when this waiting is over--straight back to liberty land and the bright lights. the rest of the family can stay here till they die, if they want to--and i suppose they do--_i'm_ going home as soon as i've got my money. old charlie'll manage all that for me. he'll get a lawyer to look after it, and i won't have to see anybody in the family at all. "nine more weeks shut in by stone walls!" said the boy, staring about him with a sort of bitterness. "nine weeks more!" "is it so hard as that?" asked the girl. there was no foolish coquetry in her tone. she spoke as if the words involved no personal question at all, but there was a little smile at her lips, and arthur benham turned toward her quickly and caught at her hands. "no, no!" he cried. "i didn't mean that. you know i didn't mean that. you're worth nine years' waiting. you're the best--d'you hear?--the best there is. there's nobody anywhere that can touch you. only--well, this place is getting on my nerves. it's got me worn to a frazzle. i feel like a criminal doing time." "you came very near having to do time somewhere else," said the girl. "if this m. ste. marie hadn't blundered we should have had them all round our ears, and you'd have had to run for it." "yes," the boy said, nodding gravely. "yes, that was great luck." he raised his head and looked up along the windows above him. "which is his room?" he asked, and mlle. o'hara said: "the one just overhead, but he's in bed far back from the window. he couldn't possibly hear us talking." she paused for a moment in frowning hesitation, and in the end said: "tell me about him, this ste. marie! do you know anything about him?" "no," said arthur benham, "i don't--not personally, that is. of course i've heard of him. lots of people have spoken of him to me. and the odd part of it is that they all had a good word to say. everybody seemed to like him. i got the idea that he was the best ever. i wanted to know him. i never thought he'd take on a piece of dirty work like this." "nor i," said the girl, in a low voice. "nor i." the boy looked up. "oh, you've heard of him, too, then?" said he. and she said, still in her low voice, "i--saw him once." "well," declared young benham, "it's beyond me. i give it up. you never can tell about people, can you? i guess they'll all go wrong when there's enough in it to make it worth while. that's what old charlie always says. he says most people are straight enough when there's nothing in it, but make the pot big enough and they'll all go crooked." the young man's face turned suddenly hard and old and bitter. "gee! i ought to know that well enough, oughtn't i?" he said. "i guess nobody knows that better than i do after what happened to me.... come along and take a walk in the garden, maud! i'm sick of sitting still." mlle. coira o'hara looked up with a start, as if she had not been listening, but she rose when the boy held out his hand to her, and the two went down from the terrace and moved off toward the west. ste. marie watched them until they had disappeared among the trees, and then turned on his back, staring up into the softly stirring canopy of green above him and the little rifts of bright blue sky. he did not understand at all. something mysterious had crept in where all had seemed so plain to the eye. certain words that young arthur benham had spoken repeated themselves in his mind, and he could not at once make them out. assuredly there was something mysterious here. in the first place, what did the boy mean by "dirty work"? to be sure, spying, in its usual sense, is not held to be one of the noblest of occupations, but--in such a cause as this! it was absurd, ridiculous, to call it "dirty work." and what did he mean by the words which he had used afterward? ste. marie did not quite follow the idiom about the "big enough pot," but he assumed that it referred to money. did the young fool think he was being paid for his efforts? that was ridiculous, too. the boy's face came before him as it had looked with that sudden hard and bitter expression. what did he mean by saying that no one knew the crookedness of humanity under money temptation better than he knew it after something that had happened to him? in a sense his words were doubtless very true. captain stewart--and he must have been "old charlie"; ste. marie remembered that the name was charles--o'hara, and o'hara's daughter stood excellent examples of that bit of cynicism, but obviously the boy had not spoken in that sense--certainly not before mlle. o'hara! he meant something else, then. but what--what? ste. marie rose with some difficulty to his feet and carried the pillows back to the bed whence he had taken them. he sat down upon the edge of the bed, staring in great perplexity across the room at the open window, but all at once he uttered an exclamation and smote his hands together. "that boy doesn't know!" he cried. "they're tricking him, these others!" the lad's face came once more before him, and it was a foolish and stubborn face, perhaps, but it was neither vicious nor mean. it was the face of an honest, headstrong boy who would be incapable of the cold cruelty to which all circumstances seemed to point. "they're tricking him somehow!" cried ste. marie again. "they're lying to him and making him think--" what was it they were making him think, these three conspirators? what possible thing could they make him think other than the plain truth? ste. marie shook a weary head and lay down among his pillows. he wished that he had "old charlie" in a corner of that room with his fingers round "old charlie's" wicked throat. he would soon get at the truth then; or o'hara, either, that grim and saturnine chevalier d'industrie, though o'hara would be a bad handful to manage; or--ste. marie's head dropped back with a little groan when the face of young arthur's enchantress came between him and the opposite wall of the room and her great and tragic eyes looked into his. it seemed incredible that that queen among goddesses should be what she was! * * * * * xix the invalid takes the air when o'hara, the next morning, went through the formality of looking in upon his patient, and after a taciturn nod was about to go away again, ste. marie called him back. he said, "would you mind waiting a moment?" and the irishman halted inside the door. "i made an experiment yesterday," said ste. marie, "and i find that, after a poor fashion, i can walk--that is to say, i can drag myself about a little without any great pain if i don't bend the left leg." o'hara returned to the bed and made a silent examination of the bullet wound, which, it was plain to see, was doing very well indeed. "you'll be all right in a few days," said he, "but you'll be lame for a week yet--maybe two. as a matter of fact, i've known men to march half a day with a hole in the leg worse than yours, though it probably was not quite pleasant." "i'm afraid i couldn't march very far," said ste. marie, "but i can hobble a bit. the point is, i'm going mad from confinement in this room. do you think i might be allowed to stagger about the garden for an hour, or sit there under one of the trees? i don't like to ask favors, but, so far as i can see, it could do no harm. i couldn't possibly escape, you see. i couldn't climb a fifteen-foot wall even if i had two good legs; as it is, with a leg and a half, i couldn't climb anything." the irishman looked at him sharply, and was silent for a time, as if considering. but at last he said: "of course there is no reason whatever for granting you any favors here. you're on the footing of a spy--a captured spy--and you're very lucky not to have got what you deserved instead of a trumpery flesh wound." the man's face twisted into a heavy scowl. "unfortunately," said he, "an accident has put me--put us in as unpleasant a position toward you as you had put yourself toward us. we seem to stand in the position of having tried to poison you, and--well, we owe you something for that. still, i'd meant to keep you locked up in this room so long as it was necessary to have you at la lierre." he scowled once more in an intimidating fashion at ste. marie, and it was evident that he found himself embarrassed. "and," he said, awkwardly, "i suppose i owe something to your father's son.... look here! if you're to be allowed in the garden, you must understand that it's at fixed hours and not alone. somebody will always be with you, and old michel will be on hand to shoot you down if you try to run for it or if you try to communicate with arthur benham. is that understood?" "quite," said ste. marie, gayly. "quite understood and agreed to. and many thanks for your courtesy. i sha'n't forget it. we differ rather widely on some rather important subjects, you and i, but i must confess that you're very generous, and i thank you. the old michel has my full permission to shoot at me if he sees me trying to fly over a fifteen-foot wall." "he'll shoot without asking your permission," said the irishman, grimly, "if you try that on, but i don't think you'll be apt to try it for the present--not with a crippled leg." he pulled out his watch and looked at it. "nine o'clock," said he. "if you care to begin to-day you can go out at eleven for an hour. i'll see that old michel is ready at that time." "eleven will suit me perfectly," said ste. marie. "you're very good. thanks once more!" the irishman did not seem to hear. he replaced the watch in his pocket and turned away in silence. but before he left the room he stood a moment beside one of the windows, staring out into the morning sunshine, and the other man could see that his face had once more settled into the still and melancholic gloom which was characteristic of it. ste. marie watched, and for the first time the man began to interest him as a human being. he had thought of o'hara before merely as a rather shady adventurer of a not very rare type, but he looked at the adventurer's face now and he saw that it was the face of a man of unspeakable sorrows. when o'hara looked at one, one saw only a pair of singularly keen and hard blue eyes set under a bony brow. when those eyes were turned away, the man's attention relaxed, the face became a battle-ground furrowed and scarred with wrecked pride and with bitterness and with shame and with agony. most soldiers of fortune have faces like that, for the world has used them very ill, and they have lost one precious thing after another until all are gone, and they have tasted everything that there is in life, and the flavor which remains is a very bitter flavor--dry, like ashes. it came to ste. marie, as he lay watching this man, that the story of the man's life, if he could be made to tell it, would doubtless be one of the most interesting stories in the world, as must be the tale of the adventurous career of any one who has slipped down the ladder of respectability, rung by rung, into that shadowy no-man's-land where the furtive birds of prey foregather and hatch their plots. it was plain enough that o'hara had, as the phrase goes, seen better days. without question he was a villain, but, after all, a generous villain. he had been very decent about making amends for that poisoning affair. a cheaper rascal would have behaved otherwise. ste. marie suddenly remembered what a friend of his had once said of this mysterious irishman. the two had been sitting on the terrace of a café, and as o'hara passed by ste. marie's friend pointed after him and said: "there goes some of the best blood that ever came out of ireland. see what it has fallen to!" seemingly it had fallen pretty low. he would have liked very much to know about the downward stages, but he knew that he would never hear anything of them from the man himself, for o'hara was clad, as it were, in an armor of taciturnity. he was incredibly silent. he wore mail that nothing could pierce. the irishman turned abruptly away and left the room, and ste. marie, with all the gay excitement of a little girl preparing for her first nursery party, began to get himself ready to go out. the old michel had already been there to help him bathe and shave, so that he had only to dress himself and attend to his one conspicuous vanity--the painstaking arrangement of his hair, which he wore, according to the fashion of the day, parted a little at one side and brushed almost straight back, so that it looked rather like a close-fitting and incredibly glossy skullcap. richard hartley, who was inclined to joke at his friend's grave interest in the matter, said that it reminded him of patent-leather. when he was dressed--and he found that putting on his left boot was no mean feat--ste. marie sat down in a chair by the window and lighted a cigarette. he had half an hour to wait, and so he picked up the volume of _bayard_, which coira o'hara had not yet taken away from him, and began to read in it at random. he became so absorbed that the old michel, come to summon him, took him by surprise. but it was a pleasant surprise and very welcome. he followed the old man out of the room with a heart that beat fast with eagerness. the descent of the stairs offered difficulties, for the wounded leg protested sharply against being bent more than a very little at the knee. but by the aid of michel's shoulder he made the passage in safety and so came to the lower story. at the foot of the stairs some one opened a door almost in their faces, but closed it again with great haste, and ste. marie gave a chuckle of laughter, for, though it was almost dark there, he thought he had recognized captain stewart. "so old charlie's with us to-day, is he?" he said, aloud, and michel queried: "comment, monsieur?" because ste. marie had spoken in english. they came out upon the terrace before the house, and the fresh, sweet air bore against their faces, and little flecks of live gold danced and shivered about their feet upon the moss-stained tiles. the gardener stepped back for an instant into the doorway, and reappeared bearing across his arms the short carbine with which ste. marie had already made acquaintance. the victim looked at this weapon with a laugh, and the old michel's gnomelike countenance distorted itself suddenly and a weird cackle came from it. "it is my old friend?" demanded ste. marie, and the gardener cackled once more, stroking the barrel of the weapon as if it were a faithful dog. "the same, monsieur," said he. "but she apologizes for not doing better." "beg her for me," said the young man, "to cheer up. she may get another chance." old michel's face froze into an expression of anxious and rather frightened solicitude, but he waved his arm for the prisoner to precede him, and ste. marie began to limp down across the littered and unkempt sweep of turf. behind him, at the distance of a dozen paces, he heard the shambling footfalls of his guard, but he had expected that, and it could not rob him of his swelling and exultant joy at treading once more upon green grass and looking up into blue sky. he was like a man newly released from a dungeon rather than from a sunny and by no means uncomfortable upper chamber. he would have liked to dance and sing, to run at full speed like a child until he was breathless and red in the face. instead of that he had to drag himself with slow pains and some discomfort, but his spirit ran ahead, dancing and singing, and he thought that it even halted now and then to roll on the grass. as he had observed a week before, from the top of the wall, a double row of larches led straight down away from the front of the house, making a wide and long vista interrupted half-way to its end by a rond point, in the centre of which were a pool and a fountain. the double row of trees was sadly broken now, and the trees were untrimmed and uncared for. one of them had fallen, probably in a wind-storm, and lay dead across the way. ste. marie turned aside toward the west and found himself presently among chestnuts, planted in close rows, whose tops grew in so thick a canopy above that but little sunshine came through, and there was no turf under foot, only black earth, hard-trodden, mossy here and there. from beyond, in the direction he had chanced to take, and a little toward the west, a soft morning breeze bore to him the scent of roses so constant and so sweet, despite its delicacy, that to breathe it was like an intoxication. he felt it begin to take hold upon and to sway his senses like an exquisite, an insidious wine. "the flower-gardens, michel?" he asked, over his shoulder. "they are before us?" "ahead and to the left, monsieur," said the old man, and he took up once more his slow and difficult progress. but again, before he had gone many steps, he was halted. there began to reach his ears a rich but slender strain of sound, a golden thread of melody. at first he thought that it was a 'cello or the lower notes of a violin, but presently he became aware that it was a woman singing in a half-voice without thought of what she sang--as women croon to a child, or over their work, or when they are idle and their thoughts are far wandering. the mistake was not as absurd as it may seem, for it is a fact that the voice which is called a contralto, if it is a good and clear and fairly resonant voice, sounds at a distance very much indeed like a 'cello or the lower register of a violin. and that is especially true when the voice is hushed to a half-articulate murmur. indeed, this is but one of the many strange peculiarities of that most beautiful of all human organs. the contralto can rarely express the lighter things, and it is quite impossible for it to express merriment or gayety, but it can thrill the heart as can no other sound emitted by a human throat, and it can shake the soul to its very innermost hidden deeps. it is the soft, yellow gold of singing--the wine of sound; it is mystery; it is shadowy, unknown, beautiful places; it is enchantment. ste. marie stood still and listened. the sound of low singing came from the right. without realizing that he had moved, he began to make his way in that direction, and the old michel, carbine upon arm, followed behind him. he had no doubt of the singer. he knew well who it was, for the girl's speaking voice had thrilled him long before this. he came to the eastern margin of the grove of chestnuts and found that he was beside the open rond point, where the pool lay within its stone circumference, unclean and choked with lily-pads, and the fountain--a naked lady holding aloft a shell--stood above. the rond point was not in reality round; it was an oval with its greater axis at right angles to the long, straight avenue of larches. at the two ends of the oval there were stone benches with backs, and behind these, tall shrubs grew close and overhung, so that even at noonday the spots were shaded. * * * * * xx the stone bench at the rond point mlle. coira o'hara sat alone upon the stone bench at the hither end of the rond point. with a leisurely hand she put fine stitches into a mysterious garment of white, with lace on it, and over her not too arduous toil she sang, à demi voix, a little german song all about the tender passions. ste. marie halted his dragging steps a little way off, but the girl heard him and turned to look. after that she rose hurriedly and stood as if poised for flight, but ste. marie took his hat in his hands and came forward. "if you go away, mademoiselle," said he, "if you let me drive you from your place, i shall limp across to that pool and fall in and drown myself, or i shall try to climb the wall yonder and michel will have to shoot me." he came forward another step. "if it is impossible," he said, "that you and i should stay here together for a few little moments and talk about what a beautiful day it is--if that is impossible, why then i must apologize for intruding upon you and go on my way, inexorably pursued by the would-be murderer who now stands six paces to the rear. is it impossible, mademoiselle?" said ste. marie. the girl's face was flushed with that deep and splendid understain. she looked down upon the white garment in her hand and away across the broad rond point, and in the end she looked up very gravely into the face of the man who stood leaning upon his stick before her. "i don't know," she said, in her deep voice, "what my father would wish. i did not know that you were coming into the garden this morning, or--" "or else," said ste. marie, with a little touch of bitterness in his tone--"or else you would not have been here. you would have remained in the house." he made a bow. "to-morrow, mademoiselle," said he, "and for the remainder of the days that i may be at la lierre, i shall stay in my room. you need have no fear of me." all the man's life he had been spoiled. the girl's bearing hurt him absurdly, and a little of the hurt may have betrayed itself in his face as he turned away, for she came toward him with a swift movement, saying: "no, no! wait!--i have hurt you," she said, with a sort of wondering distress. "you have let me hurt you.... and yet surely you must see,... you must realize on what terms.... do you forget that you are not among your friends... outside?... this is so very different!" "i had forgotten," said he. "incredible as it sounds, i had for a moment forgotten. will you grant me your pardon for that? and yet," he persisted, after a moment's pause--"yet, mademoiselle, consider a little! it is likely that--circumstances have so fallen that it seems i shall be here within your walls for a time, perhaps a long time. i am able to walk a little now. day by day i shall be stronger, better able to get about. is there not some way--are there hot some terms under which we could meet without embarrassment? must we forever glare at each other and pass by warily, just because we--well, hold different views about--something?" it was not a premeditated speech at all. it had never until this moment occurred to him to suggest any such arrangement with any member of the household at la lierre. at another time he would doubtless have considered it undignified, if not downright unwise, to hold intercourse of any friendly sort with this band of contemptible adventurers. the sudden impulse may have been born of his long week of almost intolerable loneliness, or it may have come of the warm exhilaration of this first breath of sweet, outdoor air, or perhaps it needed neither of these things, for the girl was very beautiful--enchantment breathed from her, and, though he knew what she was, in what despicable plot she was engaged, he was too much ste. marie to be quite indifferent to her. though he looked upon her sorrowfully and with pain and vicarious shame, he could not have denied the spell she wielded. after all, he was ste. marie. once more the girl looked up very gravely under her brows, and her eyes met the man's eyes. "i don't know," she said. "truly, i don't know. i think i should have to ask my father about it.--i wish," she said, "that we might do that. i should like it. i should like to be able to talk to some one--about the things i like--and care for. i used to talk with my father about things; but not lately. there is no one now." her eyes searched him. "would it be possible, i wonder," said she. "could we two put everything else aside--forget altogether who we are and why we are here. is that possible?" "we could only try, mademoiselle," said ste. marie. "if we found it a failure we could give it up." he broke into a little laugh. "and besides," he said, "i can't help thinking that two people ought to be with me all the time i am in the garden here--for safety's sake. i might catch the old michel napping one day, you know, throttle him, take his rifle away, and escape. if there were two, i couldn't do it." for an instant she met his laugh with an answering smile, and the smile came upon her sombre beauty like a moment of golden light upon darkness. but afterward she was grave again and thoughtful. "is it not rather foolish," she asked, "to warn us--to warn me of possibilities like that? you might quite easily do what you have said. you are putting us on our guard against you." "i meant to, mademoiselle," said ste. marie. "i meant to. consider my reasons. consider what i was pleading for!" and he gave a little laugh when the color began again to rise in the girl's cheeks. she turned away from him, shaking her head, and he thought that he had said too much and that she was offended, but after a moment the girl looked up, and when she met his eyes she laughed outright. "i cannot forever be scowling and snarling at you," said she. "it is quite too absurd. will you sit down for a little while? i don't know whether or not my father would approve, but we have met here by accident, and there can be no harm, surely, in our exchanging a few civil words. if you try to bring up forbidden topics i can simply go away; and, besides, michel stands ready to murder you if it should become necessary. i think his failure of a week ago is very heavy on his conscience." ste. marie sat down in one corner of the long stone bench, and he was very glad to do it, for his leg was beginning to cause him some discomfort. it felt hot and as if there were a very tight band round it above the knee. the relief must have been apparent in his face, for mlle. o'hara looked at him in silence for a moment, and she gave a little, troubled, anxious frown. men can be quite indifferent to suffering in each other if the suffering is not extreme, and women can be, too, but men are quite miserable in the presence of a woman who is in pain, and women, before a suffering man, while they are not miserable, are always full of a desire to do something that will help. and that might be a small, additional proof--if any more proof were necessary--that they are much the more practical of the two sexes. the girl's sharp glance seemed to assure her that ste. marie was comfortable, now that he was sitting down, for the frown went from her brows, and she began to arrange the mysterious white garment in her lap in preparation to go on with her work. ste. marie watched her for a while in a contented silence. the leaves overhead stirred under a puff of air, and a single yellow beam of sunlight came down and shivered upon the girl's dark head and played about the bundle of white over which her hands were busy. she moved aside to avoid it, but it followed her, and when she moved back it followed again and danced in her lap as if it were a live thing with a malicious sense of humor. it might have been tinker bell out of _peter pan_, only it did not jingle. mlle. o'hara uttered an exclamation of annoyance, and ste. marie laughed at her, but in a moment the leaves overhead were still again, and the sunbeam, with a sense of humor, was gone to torment some one else. still neither of the two spoke, and ste. marie continued to watch the girl bent above her sewing. he was thinking of what she had said to him when he asked her if she read spanish--that her mother had been spanish. that would account, then, for her dark eyes. it would account for the darkness of her skin, too, but not for its extraordinary clearness and delicacy, for spanish women are apt to have dull skins of an opaque texture. this was, he said to himself, an irish skin with a darker stain, and he was quite sure that he had never before seen anything at all like it. apart from coloring, she was all irish, of the type which has become famous the world over, and which in the opinion of men who have seen women in all countries, and have studied them, is the most beautiful type that exists in our time. ste. marie was dark himself, and in the ordinary nature of things he should have preferred a fair type in women. in theory, for that matter, he did prefer it, but it was impossible for him to sit near coira o'hara and watch her bent head and busy, hovering hands, and remain unstirred by her splendid beauty. he found himself wondering why one kind of loveliness more than another should exert a potent and mysterious spell by virtue of mere proximity, and when the woman who bore it was entirely passive. if this girl had been looking at him the matter would have been easy to understand, for an eye-glance is often downright hypnotic; but she was looking at the work in her hands, and, so far as could be judged, she had altogether forgotten his presence; yet the mysterious spell, the potent enchantment, breathed from her like a vapor, and he could not be insensible to it. it was like sorcery. the girl looked up so suddenly that ste. marie jumped. she said: "you are not a very talkative person. are you always as silent as this?" "no," said he, "i am not. i offer my humblest apologies. it seems as if i were not properly grateful for being allowed to sit here with you, but, to tell the truth, i was buried in thought." they had begun to talk in french, but midway of ste. marie's speech the girl glanced toward the old michel, who stood a short distance away, and so he changed to english. "in that case," she said, regarding her work with her head on one side like a bird--"in that case you might at least tell me what your thoughts were. they might be interesting." ste. marie gave a little embarrassed laugh. "i'm sorry," said he, "but i'm afraid they were too personal. i'm afraid if i told you you'd get up and go away and be frigidly polite to me when next we passed each other in the garden here. but there's no harm," he said, "in telling you one thing that occurred to me. it occurred to me that, as far as a young girl can be said to resemble an elderly woman, you bear a most remarkable resemblance to a very dear old friend of mine who lives near dublin--lady margaret craith. she's a widow, and almost all of her family are dead, i believe--i didn't know any of them--and she lives there in a huge old house with a park, quite alone with her army of servants. i go to see her whenever i'm in ireland, because she is one of the sweetest souls i have ever known." he became aware suddenly that mlle. o'hara's head was bent very low over her sewing and that her face, or as much of it as he could see, was crimson. "oh, i--i beg your pardon!" cried ste. marie. "i've done something dreadful. i don't know what it is, but i'm very, very sorry. please forgive me if you can!" "it is nothing," she said, in a low voice, and after a moment she looked up for the swiftest possible glance and down again. "that is my--aunt," she said. "only--please let us talk about something else! of course you couldn't possibly have known." "no," said ste. marie, gravely. "no, of course. you are very good to forgive me." he was silent a little while, for what the girl had told him surprised him very much indeed, and touched him, too. he remembered again the remark of his friend when o'hara had passed them on the boulevard: "there goes some of the best blood that ever came out of ireland. see what it has fallen to!" "it is a curious fact," said he, "that you and i are very close compatriots in the matter of blood--if 'compatriots' is the word. you are irish and spanish. my mother was irish and my people were béarnais, which is about as much spanish as french; and, indeed, there was a great deal of blood from across the mountains in them, for they often married spanish wives." he pulled the _bayard_ out of his pocket. "the ste. marie in here married a spanish lady, didn't he?" the girl looked up to him once more. "yes," she said. "yes, i remember. he was a brave man, monsieur. he had a great soul. and he died nobly." "well, as for that," he said, flushing a little, "the ste. maries have all died rather well." he gave a short laugh. "though i must admit," said he, "that the last of them came precious near falling below the family standard a week ago. i should think that probably none of my respected forefathers was killed in climbing over a garden-wall. autres temps, autres moeurs." he burst out laughing again at what seemed to him rather comic, but mlle. o'hara did not smile. she looked very gravely into his eyes, and there seemed to be something like sorrow in her look. ste. marie wondered at it, but after a moment it occurred to him that he was very near forbidden ground, and that doubtless the girl was trying to give him a silent warning of it. he began to turn over the leaves of the book in his hand. "you have marked a great many pages here," said he. and she said: "it is my best of all books. i read in it very often. i am so thankful for it that there are no words to say how thankful i am--how glad i am that i have such a world as that to--take refuge in sometimes when this world is a little too unbearable. it does for me now what the fairy stories did when i was little. and to think that it's true, true! to think that once there truly were men like that--sans peur et sans reproche! it makes life worth while to think that those men lived even if it was long ago." ste. marie bent his head over the little book, for he could not look at mlle. o'hara just then. it seemed to him well-nigh the most pathetic speech that he had ever heard. his heart bled for her. out of what mean shadows had the girl to turn her weary eyes upward to this sunlight of ancient heroism! "and yet, mademoiselle," said he, gently, "i think there are such men alive to-day, if only one will look for them. remember, they were not common even in bayard's time. oh yes, i think there are preux chevaliers nowadays, only perhaps they don't go about things in quite the same fashion. other times, other manners," he said again. "do you know any such men?" she demanded, facing him with shadowy eyes. and he said: "yes, i know men who are in all ways as honorable and as high-hearted as bayard was. in his place they would have acted as he did, but nowadays one has to practise heroism much less conspicuously--in the little things that few people see and that no one applauds or writes books about. it is much harder to do brave little acts than brave big ones." "yes." she agreed, slowly. "oh yes, of course." but there was no spirit in her tone, rather a sort of apathy. once more the leaves overhead swayed in the breeze, opened a tiny rift, and the little trembling ray of sunshine shot down to her where she sat. she stretched out one hand cup-wise, and the sunbeam, after a circling gyration, darted into it and lay there like a small golden bird panting, as it were, from fright. "if i were a painter," said ste. marie, "i should be in torture and anguish of soul until i had painted you sitting there on a stone bench and holding a sunbeam in your hand. i don't know what i should call the picture, but i think it would be something figurative--symbolic. can you think of a name?" coira o'hara looked up at him with a slight smile, but her eyes were gloomy and full of dark shadows. "it might be called any one of a great number of things, i should think," said she. "happiness--belief--illusion. see! the sunbeam is gone." * * * * * xxi a mist dims the shining star ste. marie remained in his room all the rest of that day, and he did not see mlle. o'hara again, for michel brought him his lunch and the old justine his dinner. for the greater part of the time he sat in bed reading, but rose now and then and moved about the room. his wound seemed to have suffered no great inconvenience from the morning's outing. if he stood or walked too long it burned somewhat, and he had the sensation of a tight band round the leg; but this passed after he had lain down for a little while, or even sat in a chair with the leg straight out before him; so he knew that he was not to be crippled very much longer, and his thoughts began to turn more and more keenly upon the matter of escape. he realized, of course, that now, since he was once more able to walk, he would be guarded with unremitting care every moment of the day, and quite possibly every moment of the night as well, though the simple bolting of his door on the outside would seem to answer the purpose save when he was out-of-doors. once he went to the two east windows and hung out of them, testing as well as he could with his hands the strength and tenacity of the ivy which covered that side of the house. he thought it seemed strong enough to give hand and foot hold without being torn loose, but he was afraid it would make an atrocious amount of noise if he should try to climb down it, and, besides, he would need two very active legs for that. at another time a fresh idea struck him, and he put it at once into action. there might be just a chance, when out one day with michel, of getting near enough to the wall which ran along the clamart road to throw something over it when the old man was not looking. in one of his pockets he had a card-case with a little pencil fitted into a loop at the edge, and in the case it was his custom to carry postage-stamps. he investigated and found pencil and stamps. of course he had nothing but cards to write upon, and they were useless. he looked about the room and went through an empty chest of drawers in vain, but at last, on some shelves in the closet where his clothes had hung, he found several large sheets of coarse white paper. the shelves were covered with it loosely for the sake of cleanliness. he abstracted one of these sheets, and cut it into squares of the ordinary note-paper size, and he sat down and wrote a brief letter to richard hartley, stating where he was, that arthur benham was there, the o'haras, and, he thought, captain stewart. he did not write the names out, but put instead the initial letters of each name, knowing that hartley would understand. he gave careful directions as to how the place was to be reached, and he asked hartley to come as soon as possible by night to that wall where he himself had made his entrance, to climb up by the cedar-tree, and to drop his answer into the thick leaves of the lilac bushes immediately beneath--an answer naming a day and hour, preferably by night, when he could return with three or four to help him, surprise the household at la lierre, and carry off young benham. ste. marie wrote this letter four times, and each of the four copies he enclosed in an awkwardly fashioned envelope, made with infinite pains so that its flaps folded in together, for he had no gum. he addressed and stamped the four envelopes, and put them all in his pocket to await the first opportunity. afterward he lay down for a while, and as, one after another, the books he had in the room failed to interest him, his thoughts began to turn back to mlle. coira o'hara and his hour with her upon the old stone bench in the garden. he realized all at once that he had been putting off this reflection as one puts off a reckoning that one a little dreads to face, and rather vaguely he realized why. the spell that the girl wielded--quite without being conscious of it; he granted her that grace--was too potent. it was dangerous, and he knew it. even imaginative and very unpractical people can be in some things surprisingly matter-of-fact, and ste. marie was matter-of-fact about this. the girl had made a mysterious and unprecedented appeal to him at his very first sight of her, long before, and ever since that time she had continued, intermittently at least, to haunt his dreams. now he was in the very house with her. it was quite possible that he might see her and speak with her every day, and he knew there was peril in that. he closed his eyes and she came to him, dark and beautiful, magnetically vital, spreading enchantment about her like a fragrance. she sat beside him on the moss-stained bench in the garden, holding out her hand cup-wise, and a sunbeam lay in the hand like a little, golden, fluttering bird. his thoughts ran back to that first morning when he had narrowly escaped death by poison. he remembered the girl's agony of fear and horror. he felt her hands once more upon his shoulders, and he was aware that his breath was coming faster and that his heart beat quickly. he got to his feet and went across to one of the windows, and he stood there for a long time frowning out into the summer day. if ever in his life, he said to himself with some deliberation, he was to need a cool and clear head, faculties unclouded and unimpaired by emotion, it was now in these next few days. much more than his own well-being depended upon him now. the fates of a whole family, and quite possibly the lives of some of them, were in his hands. he must not fail, and he must not, in any least way, falter. for enemies he had a band of desperate adventurers, and the very boy himself, the centre and reason for the whole plot, had been, in some incomprehensible way, so played upon that he, too, was against him. the man standing by the window forced himself quite deliberately to look the plain facts in the face. he compelled himself to envisage this beautiful girl with her tragic eyes for just what his reason knew her to be--an adventuress, a decoy, a lure to a callow, impressionable, foolish lad, the tool of that arch-villain stewart and of the lesser villain her father. it was like standing by and watching something lovely and pitiful vilely befouled. it turned his heart sick within him, but he held himself to the task. he brought to aid him the vision of his lady, in whose cause he was pursuing this adventure. for strength and determination he reached eye and hand to her where she sat enthroned, calm-browed, serene. for the first time since the beginning of all things his lady failed him, and ste. marie turned cold with fear. where was that splendid frenzy that had been wont to sweep him all in an instant into upper air--set his feet upon the stars? where was it? the man gave a sudden, voiceless cry of horror. the wings that had such countless times upborne him fluttered weakly near the earth and could not mount. his lady was there; through infinite space he was aware of her, but she was cold and aloof, and her eyes gazed very serenely beyond at something he could not see. he knew well enough that the fault lay somewhere within himself. she was as she had ever been, but he lacked the strength to rise to her. why? why? he searched himself with a desperate earnestness, but he could find no answer to his questioning. in himself, as in her, there had come no change. she was still to him all that she ever had been--the star of his destiny, the pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day, to guide him on his path. where, then, the fine, pure fervor that should, at thought of her, whirl him on high and make a god of him? he stood wrapped in bewilderment and despair, for he could find no answer. in plain words, in commonplace black-and-white, the man's anguish has an over-fanciful, a well-nigh absurd look, but to ste. marie the thing was very real and terrible, as real and as terrible as, to a half-starved monk in his lonely cell, the sudden failure of the customary exaltation of spirit after a night's long prayer. he went, after a time, back to the bed, and lay down there with one upflung arm across his eyes to shut out the light. he was filled with a profound dejection and a sense of hopelessness. through all the long week of his imprisonment he had been cheerful, at times even gay. however evil his case might have looked, his elastic spirits had mounted above all difficulties and cares, confident in the face of apparent defeat. now at last he lay still, bruised, as it were, and battered and weary. the flame of courage burned very low in him. from sheer exhaustion he fell after a time into a troubled sleep, but even there the enemy followed him and would not let him rest. he seemed to himself to be in a place of shadows and fears. he strained his eyes to make out above him the bright, clear star of guidance, for so long as that shone he was safe; but something had come between--cloud or mist--and his star shone dimly in fitful glimpses. * * * * * on the next morning he went out once more with the old michel into the garden. he went with a stronger heart, for the morning had renewed his courage, as bright, fresh mornings do. from the anguish of the day before he held himself carefully aloof. he kept his mind away from all thought of it, and gave his attention to the things about him. it would return, doubtless, in the slow, idle hours; he would have to face it again and yet again; he would have to contend with it; but for the present he put it out of his thoughts, for there were things to do. it was no more than human of him--and certainly it was very characteristic of ste. marie--that he should be half glad and half disappointed at not finding coira o'hara in her place at the rond point. it left him free to do what he wished to do--make a careful reconnaissance of the whole garden enclosure--but it left him empty of something he had, without conscious thought, looked forward to. his wounded leg was stronger and more flexible than on the day before; it burned and prickled less, and could be bent a little at the knee with small distress; so he led the old michel at a good pace down the length of the enclosure, past the rose-gardens, a tangle of unkempt sweetness, and so to the opposite wall. he found the gates there, very formidable-looking, made of vertical iron bars connected by cross-pieces and an ornamental scroll. they were fastened together by a heavy chain and a padlock. the lock was covered with rust, as were the gates themselves, and ste. marie observed that the lane outside upon which they gave was overgrown with turf and moss, and even with seedling shrubs; so he felt sure that this entrance was never used. the lane, he noted, swept away to the right toward issy and not toward the clamart road. he heard, as he stood there, the whir of a tram from far away at the left, a tram bound to or from clamart, and the sound brought to his mind what he wished to do. he turned about and began to make his way round the rose-gardens, which were partly enclosed by a low brick wall some two or three feet high. beyond them the trees and shrubbery were not set out in orderly rows as they were near the house, but grew at will without hindrance or care. it was like a bit of the meudon wood. he found the going more difficult here for his bad leg, but he pressed on, and in a little while saw before him that wall which skirted the clamart road. he felt in his pocket for the four sealed and stamped letters, but just then the old michel spoke behind him: "pardon, monsieur! ce n'est pas permis." "what is not permitted?" demanded ste. marie, wheeling about. "to approach that wall, monsieur," said the old man, with an incredibly gnomelike and apologetic grin. ste. marie gave an exclamation of disgust. "is it believed that i could leap over it?" he asked. "a matter of five metres? merci, non! i am not so agile. you flatter me." the old michel spread out his two gnarled hands. "pas de ma faute. i have orders, monsieur. it will be my painful duty to shoot if monsieur approaches that wall." he turned his strange head on one side and regarded ste. marie with his sharp and beadlike eye. the smile of apology still distorted his face, and he looked exactly like the punchinello in a street show. ste. marie slowly withdrew from his pocket two louis d'or and held them before him in the palm of his hand. he looked down upon them, and michel looked, too, with a gaze so intense that his solitary eye seemed to project a very little from his withered face. he was like a hypnotized old bird. "mon vieux," said ste. marie. "i am a man of honor." "sûrement! sûrement, monsieur!" said the old michel, politely, but his hypnotized gaze did not stir so much as a hair's-breadth. "ça va sans le dire." "a man of honor," repeated ste. marie. "when i give my word i keep it. voilà! i keep it. and," said he, "i have here forty francs. two louis. a large sum. it is yours, my brave michel, for the mere trouble of turning your back just thirty seconds." "monsieur," whispered the old man, "it is impossible. he would kill me--by torture." "he will never know," said ste. marie, "for i do not mean to try to escape. i give you my word of honor that i shall not try to escape. besides, i could not climb over that wall, as you see. two louis, michel! forty francs!" the old man's hands twisted and trembled round the barrel of the carbine, and he swallowed once with some difficulty. he seemed to hesitate, but in the end he shook his head. it was as if he shook it in grief over the grave of his first-born. "it is impossible," he said again. "impossible." he tore the beadlike eye away from those two beautiful, glowing golden things, and ste. marie saw that there was nothing to be done with him just now. he slipped the money back into his pocket with a little sigh and turned away toward the rose-gardens. "ah, well," said he. "another time, perhaps. another time. and there are more louis still, mon vieux. perhaps three or four. who knows?" michel emitted a groan of extreme anguish, and they moved on. but a few moments later ste. marie gave a sudden low exclamation, and then a soundless laugh, for he caught sight of a very familiar figure seated in apparent dejection upon a fallen tree-trunk and staring across the tangled splendor of the roses. * * * * * xxii a settlement refused captain stewart had good reason to look depressed on that fresh and beautiful morning when ste. marie happened upon him beside the rose-gardens. matters had not gone well with him of late. he was ill and he was frightened, and he was much nearer than is agreeable to a complete nervous breakdown. it seemed to him that perils beset him upon every side, perils both seen and unseen. he felt like a man who is hunted in the dark, hard pressed until his strength is gone, and he can flee no farther. he imagined himself to be that man shivering in the gloom in a strange place, hiding eyes and ears lest he see or hear something from which he cannot escape. he imagined the morning light to come, very slow and cold and gray, and in it he saw round about him a silent ring of enemies, the men who had pursued him and run him down. he saw them standing there in the pale dawn, motionless, waiting for the day, and he knew that at last the chase was over and he near done for. crouching alone in the garden, with the scent of roses in his nostrils, he wondered with a great and bitter amazement at that madman--himself of only a few months ago--who had sat down deliberately, in his proper senses, to play at cards with fate, the great winner of all games. he wondered if, after all, he had been in his proper senses, for the deed now loomed before him gigantic and hideous in its criminal folly. his mind went drearily back to the beginning of it all, to the tremendous debts which had hounded him day and night, to his fear to speak of them with his father, who had never had the least mercy upon gamblers. he remembered as if it were yesterday the afternoon upon which he learned of young arthur's quarrel with his grandfather, old david's senile anger, and the boy's tempestuous exit from the house, vowing never to return. he remembered his talk with old david later on about the will, in which he learned that he was now to have arthur's share under certain conditions. he remembered how that very evening, three days after his disappearance, the lad had come secretly to the rue du faubourg st. honoré begging his uncle to take him in for a few days, and how, in a single instant that was like a lightning flash, the great idea had come to him. what gigantic and appalling madness it had all been! and yet for a time how easy of execution! for a time. now.... he gave another quick shiver, for his mind came back to what beset him and compassed him round about--perils seen and hidden. the peril seen was ever before his eyes. against the light of day it loomed a gigantic and portentous shadow, and it threatened him--the figure of ste. marie _who knew_. his reason told him that if due care were used this danger need not be too formidable, and, indeed, in his heart he rather despised ste. marie as an individual; but the man's nerve was broken, and in these days fear swept wavelike over reason and had its way with him. fear looked up to this looming, portentous shadow and saw there youth and health and strength, courage and hopefulness, and, best of all armors, a righteous cause. how was an ill and tired and wicked old man to fight against these? it became an obsession, the figure of this youth; it darkened the sun at noonday, and at night it stood beside captain stewart's bed in the darkness and watched him and waited, and the very air he breathed came chill and dark from its silent presence there. but there were perils unseen as well as seen. he felt invisible threads drawing round him, weaving closer and closer, and he dared not even try how strong they were lest they prove to be cables of steel. he was almost certain that his niece knew something or at the least suspected. as has already been pointed out, the two saw very little of each other, but on the occasions of their last few meetings it had seemed to him that the girl watched him with a strange stare, and tried always to be in her grandfather's chamber when he called to make his inquiries. once, stirred by a moment's bravado, he asked her if m. ste. marie had returned from his mysterious absence, and the girl said: "no. he has not come back yet, but i expect him soon now--with news of arthur. we shall all be very glad to see him, grandfather and richard hartley and i." it was not a very consequential speech, and, to tell the truth, it was what in the girl's own country would be termed pure "bluff," but to captain stewart it rang harsh and loud with evil significance, and he went out of that room cold at heart. what plans were they perfecting among them? what invisible nets for his feet? and there was another thing still. within the past two or three days he had become convinced that his movements were being watched--and that would be richard hartley at work, he said to himself. faces vaguely familiar began to confront him in the street, in restaurants and cafés. once he thought his rooms had been ransacked during his absence at la lierre, though his servant stoutly maintained that they had never been left unoccupied save for a half-hour's marketing. finally, on the day before this morning by the rose-gardens, he was sure that as he came out from the city in his car he was followed at a long distance by another motor. he saw it behind him after he had left the city gate, the porte de versailles, and he saw it again after he had left the main route at issy and entered the little rue barbés which led to la lierre. of course, he promptly did the only possible thing under the circumstances. he dashed on past the long stretch of wall, swung into the main avenue beyond, and continued through clamart to the meudon wood, as if he were going to st. cloud. in the labyrinth of roads and lanes there he came to a halt, and after a half-hour's wait ran slowly back to la lierre. there was no further sign of the other car, the pursuer, if so it had been, but he passed two or three men on bicycles and others walking, and what one of these might not be a spy paid to track him down? it had frightened him badly, that hour of suspense and flight, and he determined to remain at la lierre for at least a few days, and wrote to his servant in the rue du faubourg to forward his letters there under the false name by which he had hired the place. he was thinking very wearily of all these things as he sat on the fallen tree-trunk in the garden and stared unseeing across tangled ranks of roses. and after a while his thoughts, as they were wont to do, returned to ste. marie--that looming shadow which darkened the sunlight, that incubus of fear which clung to him night and day. he was so absorbed that he did not hear sounds which might otherwise have roused him. he heard nothing, saw nothing, save that which his fevered mind projected, until a voice spoke his name. he looked over his shoulder thinking that o'hara had sought him out. he turned a little on the tree-trunk to see more easily, and the image of his dread stood there a living and very literal shadow against the daylight. captain stewart's overstrained nerves were in no state to bear a sudden shock. he gave a voiceless, whispering cry and he began to tremble very violently, so that his teeth chattered. all at once he got to his feet and began to stumble away backward, but a projecting limb of the fallen tree caught him and held him fast. it must be that the man was in a sort of frenzy. he must have seen through a red mist just then, for when he found that he could not escape his hand went swiftly to his coat-pocket, and in his white and contorted face there was murder plain and unmistakable. ste. marie was too lame to spring aside or to dash upon the man across intervening obstacles and defend himself. he stood still in his place and waited. and it was characteristic of him that at that moment he felt no fear, only a fine sense of exhilaration. open danger had no terrors for him. it was secret peril that unnerved him, as in the matter of the poison a week before. captain stewart's hand fell away empty, and ste. marie laughed. "left it at the house?" said he. "you seem to have no luck, stewart. first the cat drinks the poison, and then you leave your pistol at home. dear, dear, i'm afraid you're careless." captain stewart stared at the younger man under his brows. his face was gray and he was still shivering, but the sudden agony of fear, which had been, after all, only a jangle of nerves, was gone away. he looked upon ste. marie's gay and untroubled face with a dull wonder, and he began to feel a grudging admiration for the man who could face death without even turning pale. he pulled out his watch and looked at it. "i did not know," he said, "that this was your hour out-of-doors." as a matter of fact, he had quite forgotten that the arrangement existed. when he had first heard of it he had protested vigorously, but had been overborne by o'hara with the plea that they owed their prisoner something for having come near to poisoning him, and stewart did not care to have any further attention called to that matter; it had already put a severe strain upon the relations at la lierre. "well," observed ste. marie, "i told you you were careless. that proves it. come! can't we sit down for a little chat? i haven't seen you since i was your guest at the other address--the town address. it seems to have become a habit of mine--doesn't it?--being your guest." he laughed cheerfully, but captain stewart continued to regard him without smiling. "if you imagine," said the elder man, "that this place belongs to me you are mistaken. i came here to-day to make a visit." but ste. marie sat down at one end of the tree-trunk and shook his head. "oh, come, come!" said he. "why keep up the pretence? you must know that i know all about the whole affair. why, bless you, i know it all--even to the provisions of the will. did you think i stumbled in here by accident? well, i didn't, though i don't mind admitting to you that i remained by accident." he glanced over his shoulder toward the one-eyed michel, who stood near-by, regarding the two with some alarm. captain stewart looked up sharply at the mention of the will, and he wetted his dry lips with his tongue. but after a moment's hesitation he sat down upon the tree-trunk, and he seemed to shrink a little together, when his limbs and shoulders had relaxed, so that he looked small and feeble, like a very tired old man. he remained silent for a few moments, but at last he spoke without raising his eyes. he said: "and now that you--imagine yourself to know so very much, what do you expect to do about it?" ste. marie laughed again. "ah, that would be telling!" he cried. "you see, in one way i have the advantage, though outwardly all the advantage seems to be with your side--i know all about your game. i may call it a game? yes? but you don't know mine. you don't know what i--what we may do at any moment. that's where we have the better of you." "it would seem to me," said captain stewart, wearily, "that since you are a prisoner here and very unlikely to escape, we know with great accuracy what you will do--and what you will not." "yes," admitted ste. marie, "it would seem so. it certainly would seem so. but you never can tell, can you?" and at that the elder man frowned and looked away. thereafter another brief silence fell between the two, but at its end ste. marie spoke in a new tone, a very serious tone. he said: "stewart, listen a moment!" and the other turned a sharp gaze upon him. "you mustn't forget," said ste. marie, speaking slowly as if to choose his words with care--"you mustn't forget that i am not alone in this matter. you mustn't forget that there's richard hartley--and that there are others, too. i'm a prisoner, yes. i'm helpless here for the present--perhaps, perhaps--but they are not, _and they know, stewart. they know_." captain stewart's face remained gray and still, but his hands twisted and shook upon his knees until he hid them. "i know well enough what you're waiting for," continued ste. marie. "you're waiting--you've got to wait--for arthur benham to come of age, or, better yet, for your father to die." he paused and shook his head. "it's no good. you can't hold out as long as that--not by half. we shall have won the game long before. listen to me! do you know what would occur if your father should take a serious turn for the worse to-night--or at any time? do you? well, i'll tell you. a piece of information would be given him that would make another change in that will just as quickly as a pen could write the words. that's what would happen." "that is a lie!" said captain stewart, in a dry whisper. "a lie!" and ste. marie contented himself with a slight smile by way of answer. he was by no means sure that what he had said was true, but he argued that since hartley suspected, or perhaps by this time knew so much, he would certainly not allow old david to die without doing what he could do in an effort to save young arthur's fortune from a rascal. in any event, true or false, the words had had the desired effect. captain stewart was plainly frightened by them. "may i make a suggestion?" asked the younger man. the other did not answer him, and he made it. "give it up!" said he. "you're riding for a tremendous fall, you know. we shall smash you completely in the end. it'll mean worse than ruin--much worse. give it up, now, before you're too late. help me to send for hartley and we'll take the boy back to his home. some story can be managed that will leave you out of the thing altogether, and those who know will hold their tongues. it's your last chance, stewart. i advise you to take it." captain stewart turned his gray face slowly and looked at the other man with a sort of dull and apathetic wonder. "are you mad?" he asked, in a voice which was altogether without feeling of any kind. "are you quite mad?" "on the contrary," said ste. marie, "i am quite sane, and i'm offering you a chance to save yourself before it's too late. don't misunderstand me!" he continued. "i am not urging this out of any sympathy for you. i urge it because it will bring about what i wish a little more quickly, also because it will save your family from the disgrace of your smash-up. that's why i'm making my suggestion." captain stewart was silent for a little while, but after that he got heavily to his feet. "i think you must be quite mad," said he, as before, in a voice altogether devoid of expression. "i cannot talk with madmen." he beckoned to the old michel, who stood near-by, leaning upon his carbine, and when the gardener had approached he said, "take this--prisoner back to his room!" ste. marie rose with a little sigh. he said: "i'm sorry, but you'll admit i have done my best for you. i've warned you. i sha'n't do it again. we shall smash you now, without mercy." "take him away!" cried captain stewart, in a sudden loud voice, and the old michel touched his charge upon the shoulder. so ste. marie went without further words. from a little distance he looked back, and the other man still stood by the fallen tree-trunk, bent a little, his arms hanging lax beside him, and his face, ste. marie thought, fancifully, was like the face of a man damned. * * * * * xxiii the last arrow the one birdlike eye of the old michel regarded ste. marie with a glance of mingled cunning and humor. it might have been said to twinkle. "to the east, monsieur?" inquired the old michel. "precisely!" said ste. marie. "to the east, mon vieux." it was the morning of the fourth day after that talk with captain stewart beside the rose-gardens. the two bore to the eastward, down among the trees, and presently came to the spot where a certain trespasser had once leaped down from the top of the high wall and had been shot for his pains. the old michel halted and leaned upon the barrel of his carbine. with an air of complete detachment, an air vague and aloof as of one in a revery, he gazed away over the tree-tops of the ragged park; but ste. marie went in under the row of lilac shrubs which stood close against the wall, and a passer-by might have thought the man looking for figs on thistles, for lilacs in late july. he had gone there with eagerness, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes; he emerged after some moments, moving slowly, with downcast head. "there are no lilac blooms now, monsieur," observed the old michel, and his prisoner said, in a low voice: "no, mon vieux. no. there are none." he sighed and drew a long breath. so the two stood for some time silent, ste. marie a little pale, his eyes fixed upon the ground, his hands chafing together behind him, the gardener with his one bright eye upon his charge. but in the end ste. marie sighed again and began to move away, followed by the gardener. they went across the broad park, past the double row of larches, through that space where the chestnut-trees stood in straight, close rows, and so came to the west wall which skirted the road to clamart. ste. marie felt in his pocket and withdrew the last of the four letters--the last there could be, for he had no more stamps. the others he had thrown over the wall, one each morning, beginning with the day after he had made the first attempt to bribe old michel. as he had expected, twenty-four hours of avaricious reflection had proved too much for that gnomelike being. one each day he had thrown over the wall, weighted with a pebble tucked loosely under the flap of the improvised envelope, in such a manner that it would drop but when the letter struck the ground beyond. and each following day he had gone with high hopes to the appointed place under the cedar-tree to pick figs of thistles, lilac blooms in late july. but there had been nothing there. "turn your back, michel!" said ste. marie. and the old man said, from a little distance: "it is turned, monsieur. i see nothing. monsieur throws little stories at the birds to amuse himself. it does not concern me." ste. marie slipped a pebble under the flap of the envelope and threw his letter over the wall. it went like a soaring bird, whirling horizontally, and it must have fallen far out in the middle of the road near the tramway. for the third time that morning the prisoner drew a sigh. he said, "you may turn round now, my friend," and the old michel faced him. "we have shot our last arrow," said he. "if this also fails, i think--well, i think the bon dieu will have to help us then.--michel," he inquired, "do you know how to pray?" "sacred thousand swine, no!" cried the ancient gnome, in something between astonishment and horror. "no, monsieur. 'pas mon métier, ça!" he shook his head rapidly from side to side like one of those toys in a shop-window whose heads oscillate upon a pivot. but all at once a gleam of inspiration sparkled in his lone eye. "there is the old justine!" he suggested. "toujours sur les genoux, cette imbécile là." "in that case," said ste. marie, "you might ask the lady to say one little extra prayer for--the pebble i threw at the birds just now. hein?" he withdrew from his pocket the last two louis d'or, and michel took them in a trembling hand. there remained but the note of fifty francs and some silver. "the prayer shall be said, monsieur," declared the gardener. "it shall be said. she shall pray all night or i will kill her." "thank you," said ste. marie. "you are kindness itself. a gentle soul." they turned away to retrace their steps, and michel rubbed the side of his head with a reflective air. "the old one is a madman," said he. (the "old one" meant captain stewart.) "a madman. each day he is madder, and this morning he struck me--here on the head, because i was too slow. eh! a little more of that, and--who knows? just a little more, a small little! am i a dog, to be beaten? hein? je ne le crois pas. hé!" he called captain stewart two unprintable names, and after a moment's thought he called him an animal, which is not so much of an anti-climax as it may seem, because to call anybody an animal in french is a serious matter. the gardener was working himself up into something of a quiet passion, and ste. marie said: "softly, my friend! softly!" it occurred to him that the man's resentment might be of use later on, and he said: "you speak the truth. the old one is an animal, and he is also a great rascal." but michel betrayed the makings of a philosopher. he said, with profound conviction: "monsieur, all men are great rascals. it is i who say it." and at that ste. marie had to laugh. * * * * * he had not consciously directed his feet, but without direction they led him round the corner of the rose-gardens and toward the rond point. he knew well whom he would find there. she had not failed him during the past three days. each morning he had found her in her place, and for his allotted hour--which more than once stretched itself out to nearly two hours, if he had but known--they had sat together on the stone bench, or, tiring of that, had walked under the trees beyond. long afterward ste. marie looked back upon these hours with, among other emotions, a great wonder--at himself and at her. it seemed to him then one of the strangest relationships--intimacies, for it might well be so called--that ever existed between a man and a woman, and he was amazed at the ease, the unconsciousness, with which it had come about. but during this time he did not allow himself to wonder or to examine, scarcely even to think. the hours were golden hours, unrelated, he told himself, to anything else in his life or in his interests. they were like pleasant dreams, very sweet while they endured, but to be put away and forgotten upon the waking. only in that long afterward he knew that they had not been put away, that they had been with him always, that the morning hour had remained in his thoughts all the rest of the long day, and that he had waked upon the morrow with a keen and exquisite sense of something sweet to come. it was a strange fool's paradise that the man dwelt in, and in some small, vague measure he must, even at the time, have known it, for it is certain that he deliberately held himself away from thought--realization; that he deliberately shut his eyes, held his ears lest he should hear or see. that he was not faithless to his duty has been shown. he did his utmost there, but he was for the time helpless save for efforts to communicate with richard hartley, and those efforts could consume no more than ten minutes out of the weary day. so he drifted, wilfully blind to bearings, wilfully deaf to sound of warning or peril, and he found a companionship sweeter and fuller and more perfect than he had ever before known in all his life, though that is not to say very much, because sympathetic companionships between men and women are very rare indeed, and ste. marie had never experienced anything which could fairly be called by that name. he had had, as has been related, many flirtations, and not a few so-called love-affairs, but neither of these two sorts of intimacies are of necessity true intimacies at all; men often feel varying degrees of love for women without the least true understanding or sympathy or real companionship. he was wondering, as he bore round the corner of the rose-gardens on this day, in just what mood he would find her. it seemed to him that in their brief acquaintance he had seen her in almost all the moods there are, from bitter gloom to the irrepressible gayety of a little child. he had told her once that she was like an organ, and she had laughed at him for being pretentious and high-flown, though she could upon occasion be quite high-flown enough herself for all ordinary purposes. he reached the cleared margin of the rond point, and a little cold fear stirred in him when he did not hear her singing under her breath, as she was wont to do when alone, but he went forward and she was there in her place upon the stone bench. she had been reading, but the book lay forgotten beside her and she sat idle, her head laid back against the thick stems of shrubbery which grew behind, her hands in her lap. it was a warm, still morning, with the promise of a hot afternoon, and the girl was dressed in something very thin and transparent and cool-looking, open in a little square at the throat and with sleeves which came only to her elbows. the material was pale and dull yellow, with very vaguely defined green leaves in it, and against it the girl's dark and clear skin glowed rich and warm and living, as pearls glow and seem to throb against the dead tints of the fabric upon which they are laid. she did not move when he came before her, but looked up to him gravely without stirring her head. "i didn't hear you come," said she. "you don't drag your left leg any more. you walk almost as well as if you had never been wounded." "i'm almost all right again," he answered. "i suppose i couldn't run or jump, but i certainly can walk very much like a human being. may i sit down?" mlle. o'hara put out one hand and drew the book closer to make a place for him on the stone bench, and he settled himself comfortably there, turned a little so that he was facing toward her. it was indicative of the state of intimacy into which the two had grown that they did not make polite conversation with each other, but indeed were silent for some little time after ste. marie had seated himself. it was he who spoke first. he said: "you look vaguely classical to-day. i have been trying to guess why, and i cannot. perhaps it's because your--what does one say: frock, dress, gown?--because it is cut out square at the throat." "if you mean by classical, greek," said she, "it wouldn't be square at the neck at all; it would be pointed--v-shaped. and it would be very different in other ways, too. you are not an observing person, after all." "for all that," insisted ste. marie, "you look classical. you look like some lady one reads about in greek poems--helen or iphigenia or medea or somebody." "helen had yellow hair, hadn't she?" objected mlle. o'hara. "i should think i probably look more like medea--medea in colchis before jason--" she seemed suddenly to realize that she had hit upon an unfortunate example, for she stopped in the middle of her sentence and a wave of color swept up over her throat and face. for a moment ste. marie did not understand, then he gave a low exclamation, for medea certainly had been an unhappy name. he remembered something that richard hartley had said about that lady a long time before. he made another mistake, for to lessen the moment's embarrassment he gave speech to the first thought which entered his mind. he said: "some one once remarked that you look like the young juno--before marriage. i expect it's true, too." she turned upon him swiftly. "who said that?" she demanded. "who has ever talked to you about me?" "i beg your pardon," he said. "i seem to be singularly stupid this morning. a mild lunacy. you must forgive me, if you can. to tell you what you ask would be to enter upon forbidden ground, and i mustn't do that." "still, i should like to know," said the girl, watching him with sombre eyes. "well, then," said he, "it was a little jewish photographer in the boulevard de la madeleine." and she said, "oh!" in a rather disappointed tone and looked away. "we seem to be making conversation chiefly about my personal appearance," she said, presently. "there must be other topics if one should try hard to find them. tell me stories. you told me stories yesterday; tell me more. you seem to be in a classical mood. you shall be odysseus, and i will be nausicaa, the interesting laundress. tell me about wanderings and things. have you any more islands for me?" "yes," said ste. marie, nodding at her slowly. "yes, nausicaa, i have more islands for you. the seas are full of islands. what kind do you want?" "a warm one," said the girl. "even on a hot day like this i choose a warm one, because i hate the cold." she settled herself more comfortably, with a little sigh of content that was exactly like a child's happy sigh when stories are going to be told before the fire. "i know an island," said ste. marie, "that i think you would like because it is warm and beautiful and very far away from troubles of all kinds. as well as i could make out, when i went there, nobody on the island had ever even heard of trouble. oh yes, you'd like it. the people there are brown, and they're as beautiful as their own island. they wear hibiscus flowers stuck in their hair, and they very seldom do any work." "i want to go there!" cried mlle. coira o'hara. "i want to go there now, this afternoon, at once! where is it?" "it's in the south pacific," said he, "not so very far from samoa and fiji and other groups that you will have heard about, and its name is vavau. it's one of the tongans. it's a high, volcanic island, not a flat, coral one like the southern tongans. i came to it, one evening, sailing north from nukualofa and haapai, and it looked to me like a single big mountain jutting up out of the sea, black-green against the sunset. it was very impressive. but it isn't a single mountain, it's a lot of high, broken hills covered with a tangle of vegetation and set round a narrow bay, a sort of fjord, three or four miles long, and at the inner end of this are the village and the stores of the few white traders. i'm afraid," said ste. marie, shaking his head--"i'm afraid i can't tell you about it, after all. i can't seem to find the words. you can't put into language--at least, i can't--those slow, hot, island days that are never too hot because the trades blow fresh and strong, or the island nights that are more like black velvet with pearls sewed on it than anything else. you can't describe the smell of orange groves and the look of palm-trees against the sky. you can't tell about the sweet, simple, natural hospitality of the natives. they're like little, unsuspicious children. in short," said he, "i shall have to give it up, after all, just because it's too big for me. i can only say that it's beautiful and unspeakably remote from the world, and that i think i should like to go back to vavau and stay a long time, and let the rest of the world go hang." mlle. o'hara stared across the park of la lierre with wide and shadowy eyes, and her lips trembled a little. "oh, i want to go there!" she cried again. "i want to go there--and rest--and forget everything!" she turned upon him with a sudden bitter resentment. "why do you tell me things like that?" she cried. "oh yes, i know. i asked you, but--can't you see? to hide one's self away in a place like that!" she said. "to let the sun warm you and the trade-winds blow away--all that had ever tortured you! just to rest and be at peace!" she turned her eyes to him once more. "you needn't be afraid that you have failed to make me see your island! i see it. i feel it. it doesn't need many words. i can shut my eyes and i am there. but it was a little cruel. oh, i know, i asked for it. it's like the garden of the hesperides, isn't it?" "very like it," said ste. marie, "because there are oranges--groves of them. (and they were the golden apples, i take it.) also, it is very far away from the world, and the people live in complete and careless ignorance of how the world goes on. emperors and kings die, wars come and go, but they hear only a little faint echo of it all, long afterward, and even that doesn't interest them." "i know," she said. "i understand. didn't you know i'd understand?" "yes," said he, nodding. "i suppose i did. we--feel things rather alike, i suppose. we don't have to say them all out." "i wonder," she said, in a low voice, "if i'm glad or sorry." she stared under her brows at the man beside her. "for it is very probable that when we have left la lierre you and i will never meet again. i wonder if i'm--" for some obscure reason she broke off there and turned her eyes away, and she remained without speaking for a long time. her mind, as she sat there, seemed to go back to that southern island, and to its peace and loveliness, for ste. marie, who watched her, saw a little smile come to her lips, and he saw her eyes half close and grow soft and tender as if what they saw were very sweet to her. he watched many different expressions come upon the girl's face and go again, but at last he seemed to see the old bitterness return there and struggle with something wistful and eager. "i envy you your wide wanderings," she said, presently. "oh, i envy you more than i can find any words for. your will is the wind's will. you go where your fancy leads you, and you're free--free. we have wandered, you know," said she, "my father and i. i can't remember when we ever had a home to live in. but that is--that is different--a different kind of wandering." "yes," said ste. marie. "yes, perhaps." and within himself he said, with sorrow and pity, "different, indeed!" as if at some sudden thought the girl looked up at him quickly. "did that sound regretful?" she asked. "did what i say sound--disloyal to my father? i didn't mean it to. i don't want you to think that i regret it. i don't. it has meant being with my father. wherever he has gone i have gone with him, and if anything ever has been--unpleasant, i was willing, oh, i was glad, glad to put up with it for his sake and because i could be with him. if i have made his life a little happier by sharing it, i am glad of everything. i don't regret." "and yet," said ste. marie, gently, "it must have been hard sometimes." he pictured to himself that roving existence lived among such people as o'hara must have known, and it sent a hot wave of anger and distress over him from head to foot. but the girl said: "i had my father. the rest of it didn't matter in the face of that." after a little silence she said, "m. ste. marie!" and the man said, "what is it, mademoiselle?" "you spoke the other day," she said, hesitating over her words, "about my aunt, lady margaret craith. i suppose i ought not to ask you more about her, for my father quarrelled with his people very long ago and he broke with them altogether. but--surely, it can do no harm--just for a moment--just a very little! could you tell me a little about her, m. ste. marie--what she is like and--and how she lives--and things like that?" so ste. marie told her all that he could of the old irishwoman who lived alone in her great house, and ruled with a slack irish hand, a sweet irish heart, over tenants and dependants. and when he had come to an end the girl drew a little sigh and said: "thank you. i am so glad to hear of her. i--wish everything were different, so that--i think i should love her very much if i might." "mademoiselle," said ste. marie, "will you promise me something?" she looked at him with her sombre eyes, and after a little she said: "i am afraid you must tell me first what it is. i cannot promise blindly." he said: "i want you to promise me that if anything ever should happen--any difficulty--trouble--anything to put you in the position of needing care or help or sympathy--" but she broke in upon him with a swift alarm, crying: "what do you mean? you're trying to hint at something that i don't know. what difficulty or trouble could happen to me? please tell me just what you mean." "i'm not hinting at any mystery," said ste. marie. "i don't know of anything that is going to happen to you, but--will you forgive me for saying it?--your father is, i take it, often exposed to--danger of various sorts. i'm afraid i can't quite express myself, only, if any trouble should come to you, mademoiselle, will you promise me to go to lady margaret, your aunt, and tell her who you are and let her care for you?" "there was an absolute break," she said. "complete." but the man shook his head, saying: "lady margaret won't think of that. she'll think only of you--that she can mother you, perhaps save you grief--and of herself, that in her old age she has a daughter. it would make a lonely old woman very happy, mademoiselle." the girl bent her head away from him, and ste. marie saw, for the first time since he had known her, tears in her eyes. after a long time she said: "i promise, then. but," she said, "it is very unlikely that it should ever come about--for more than one reason. very unlikely." "still, mademoiselle," said he, "i am glad you have promised. this is an uncertain world. one never can tell what will come with the to-morrows." "i can," the girl said, with a little tired smile that ste. marie did not understand. "i can tell. i can see all the to-morrows--a long, long row of them. i know just what they're going to be like--to the very end." but the man rose to his feet and looked down upon her as she sat before him. and he shook his head. "you are mistaken," he said. "pardon me, but you are mistaken. no one can see to-morrow--or the end of anything. the end may surprise you very much." "i wish it would!" cried mlle. o'hara. "oh, i wish it would!" * * * * * xxiv the joint in the armor ste. marie put down a book as o'hara came into the room and rose to meet his visitor. "i'm compelled," said the irishman, "to put you on your honor to-day if you are to go out as usual. michel has been sent on an errand, and i am busy with letters. i shall have to put you on your honor not to make any effort to escape. is that agreed to? i shall trust you altogether. you could manage to scramble over the wall somehow, i suppose, and get clean away, but i think you won't try it if you give your word." "i give my word gladly," said ste. marie. "and thanks very much. you've been uncommonly kind to me here. i--regret more than i can say that we--that we find ourselves on opposite sides, as it were. i wish we were fighting for the same cause." the irishman looked at the younger man sharply for an instant, and he made as if he would speak, but seemed to think better of it. in the end he said: "yes, quite so. quite so. of course you understand that any consideration i have used toward you has been by way of making amends for--for an unfortunate occurrence." ste. marie laughed. "the poison," said he. "yes, i know. and of course i know who was at the bottom of that. by the way, i met stewart in the garden the other day. did he tell you? he was rather nervous and tried to shoot me, but he had left his revolver at the house--at least it wasn't in his pocket when he reached for it." o'hara's hard face twitched suddenly, as if in anger, and he gave an exclamation under his breath, so the younger man inferred that "old charlie" had not spoken of their encounter. and after that the irishman once more turned a sharp, frowning glance upon his prisoner as if he were puzzled about something. but, as before, he stopped short of speech and at last turned away. "just a moment!" said the younger man. he asked: "is it fair to inquire how long i may expect to be confined here? i don't want to presume upon your good-nature too far, but if you could tell me i should be glad to know." the irishman hesitated a moment and then said:-"i don't know why i shouldn't answer that. it can't help you, so far as i can see, to do anything that would hinder us. you'll stay until arthur benham comes of age, which will be in about two months from now." "yes," said the other. "thanks. i thought so. until young arthur comes of age and receives his patrimony--or until old david stewart dies. of course that might happen at any hour." the irishman said: "i don't quite see what--ah, yes, to be sure! yes, i see. well, i should count upon eight weeks if i were you. in eight weeks the boy will be independent of them all, and we shall go to england for the wedding." "the wedding?" cried ste. marie. "what wedding?--ah!" "arthur benham and my daughter are to be married," said o'hara, "so soon as he reaches his majority. i thought you knew that." in a very vague fashion he realized that he had expected it. and still the definite words came to him with a shock which was like a physical blow, and he turned his back with a man's natural instinct to hide his feeling. certainly that was the logical conclusion to be drawn from known premises. that was to be the o'haras' reward for their labor. to stewart the great fortune, to the o'haras a good marriage for the girl and an assured future. that was reward enough surely for a few weeks of angling and decoying and luring and lying. that was what she had meant, on the day before, by saying that she could see all the to-morrows. he realized that he must have been expecting something like this, but the thought turned him sick, nevertheless. he could not forget the girl as he had come to know her during the past week. he could not face with any calmness the thought of her as the adventuress who had lured poor arthur benham on to destruction. it was an impossible thought. he could have laughed at it in scornful anger, and yet--what else was she? he began to realize that his action in turning his back upon the other man in the middle of a conversation must look very odd, and he faced round again trying to drive from his expression the pain and distress which he knew must be there, plain to see. but he need not have troubled himself, for the other man was standing before the next window and looking out into the morning sunlight, and his hard, bony face had so altered that ste. marie stared at him with open amazement. he thought o'hara must be ill. "i want to see her married!" cried the irishman, suddenly, and it was a new voice, a voice ste. marie did not know. it shook a little with an emotion that sat uncouthly upon this grim, stern man. "i want to see her married and safe!" he said. "i want her to be rid of this damnable, roving, cheap existence. i want her to be rid of me and my rotten friends and my rotten life." he chafed his hands together before him, and his tired eyes fixed themselves upon something that he seemed to see out of the window and glared at it fiercely. "i should like," said he, "to die on the day after her wedding, and so be out of her way forever. i don't want her to have any shadows cast over her from the past. i don't want her to open closet doors and find skeletons there. i want her to be free--free to live the sort of life she was born to and has a right to." he turned sharply upon the younger man. "you've seen her!" he cried. "you've talked to her; you know her! think of that girl dragged about europe with me ever since she was a little child! think of the people she's had to know, the things she's had to see! do you wonder that i want to have her free of it all, married and safe and comfortable and in peace? do you? i tell you it has driven me as nearly mad as a man can be. but i couldn't go mad, because i had to take care of her. i couldn't even die, because she'd have been left alone without any one to look out for her. she wouldn't leave me. i could have settled her somewhere in some quiet place where she'd have been quit at least of shady, rotten people, but she wouldn't have it. she's stuck to me always, through good times and bad. she's kept my heart up when i'd have been ready to cut my throat if i'd been alone. she's been the--bravest and faithfulest--well, i--and look at her! look at her now! think of what she's had to see and know--the people she's had to live with--and look at her! has any of it stuck to her? has it cheapened her in any littlest way? no, by god! she has come through it all like a--like a sister of charity through a city slum--like an angel through the dark." the irishman broke off speaking, for his voice was beyond control, but after a moment he went on again, more calmly: "this boy, this young benham, is a fool, but he's not a mean fool. she'll make a man of him. and, married to him, she'll have the comforts that she ought to have and the care and--freedom. she'll have a chance to live the life that she has a right to, among the sort of people she has a right to know. i'm not afraid for her. she'll do her part and more. she'll hold up her head among duchesses, that girl. i'm not afraid for her." he said this last sentence over several times, standing before the window and staring out at the sun upon the tree-tops. "i'm not afraid for her.... i'm not afraid for her." he seemed to have forgotten that the younger man was in the room, for he did not look toward him again or pay him any attention for a long while. he only gazed out of the window into the fresh morning sunlight, and his face worked and quivered and his lean hands chafed restlessly together before him. but at last he seemed to realize where he was, for he turned with a sudden start and stared at ste. marie, frowning as if the younger man were some one he had never seen before. he said: "ah, yes, yes. you were wanting to go out into the garden. yes, quite so. i--i was thinking of something else. i seem to be absent-minded of late. don't let me keep you here." he seemed a little embarrassed and ill at ease, and ste. marie said: "oh, thanks. there's no hurry. however, i'll go, i think. it's after eleven. i understand that i'm on my honor not to climb over the wall or burrow under it or batter it down. that's understood. i--" he felt that he ought to say something in acknowledgment of o'hara's long speech about his daughter, but he could think of nothing to say, and, besides, the irishman seemed not to expect any comment upon his strange outburst. so, in the end, ste. marie nodded and went out of the room without further ceremony. he had been astonished almost beyond words at that sudden and unlooked-for breakdown of the other man's impregnable reserve, and dimly he realized that it must have come out of some very extraordinary nervous strain, but he himself had been in no state to give the irishman's words the attention and thought that he would have given them at another time. his mind, his whole field of mental vision, had been full of one great fact--_the girl was to be married to young arthur benham_. the thing loomed gigantic before him, and in some strange way terrifying. he could neither see nor think beyond it. o'hara's burst of confidence had reached his ears very faintly, as if from a great distance--poignant but only half-comprehended words to be reflected upon later in their own time. he stumbled down the ill-lighted stair with fixed, wide, unseeing eyes, and he said one sentence over and over aloud, as the irishman standing beside the window had said another. "she is going to be married. she is going to be married." it would seem that he must have forgotten his previous half-suspicion of the fact. it would seem to have remained, as at the first hearing, a great and appalling shock, thunderous out of a blue sky. below, in the open, his feet led him mechanically straight down under the trees, through the tangle of shrubbery beyond, and so to the wall under the cedar. arrived there, he awoke all at once to his task, and with a sort of frowning anger shook off the dream which enveloped him. his eyes sharpened and grew keen and eager. he said: "the last arrow! god send it reached home!" and so went in under the lilac shrubs. he was there longer than usual; unhampered now, he may have made a larger search, but when at last he emerged ste. marie's hands were over his face and his feet dragged slowly like an old man's feet. without knowing that he had stirred he found himself some distance away, standing still beside a chestnut-tree. a great wave of depression and fear and hopelessness swept him, and he shivered under it. he had an instant's wild panic, and mad, desperate thoughts surged upon him. he saw utter failure confronting him. he saw himself as helpless as a little child, his feeble efforts already spent for naught, and, like a little child, he was afraid. he would have rushed at that grim encircling wall and fought his way up and over it, but even as the impulse raced to his feet the momentary madness left him and he turned away. he could not do a dishonorable thing even for all he held dearest. he walked on in the direction which lay before him, but he took no heed of where he went, and mlle. coira o'hara spoke to him twice before he heard or saw her. * * * * * xxv medea goes over to the enemy they were near the east end of the rond point, in a space where fir-trees stood and the ground underfoot was covered with dry needles. "i was just on my way to--our bench beyond the fountain," said she. and ste. marie nodded, looking upon her sombrely. it seemed to him that he looked with new eyes, and after a little time, when he did not speak, but only gazed in that strange manner, the girl said: "what is it? something has happened. please tell me what it is." something like the pale foreshadow of fear came over her beautiful face and shrouded her golden voice as if it had been a veil. "your father," said ste. marie, heavily, "has just been telling me--that you are to marry young arthur benham. he has been telling me." she drew a quick breath, looking at him, but after a moment she said: "yes, it is true. you knew it before, though, didn't you? do you mean that you didn't know it before? i don't quite understand. you must have known that. what, in heaven's name, _did_ you think?" she cried, as if with a sort of anger at his dulness. the man rubbed one hand wearily across his eyes. "i--don't quite know," said he. "yes, i suppose i had thought of it. i don't know. it came to me with such a--shock! yes. oh, i don't know. i expect i didn't think at all. i--just didn't think." abruptly his eyes sharpened upon her, and he moved a step forward. "tell me the truth!" he said. "do you love this boy?" the girl's cheeks burned with a swift crimson and she set her lips together. she was on the verge of extreme anger just then, but after a little the flush died down again and the dark fire went out of her eyes. she made an odd gesture with her two hands. it seemed to express fatigue as much as anything--a great weariness. "i like him," she said. "i like him--enough, i suppose. he is good--and kind--and gentle. he will be good to me. and i shall try very, very hard, to make him happy." quite suddenly and without warning the fire of her anger burned up again. she flamed defiance in the man's face. "how dare you question me?" she cried. "what right have you to ask me questions about such a thing? you--what you are!" ste. marie bent his head. "no right, mademoiselle," said he, in a low voice. "i have no right to ask you anything--not even forgiveness. i think i am a little mad to-day. it--this news came to me suddenly. yes, i think i am a little mad." the girl stared at him and he looked back with sombre eyes. once more he was stabbed with intolerable pain to think what she was. yet in an inexplicable fashion it pleased him that she should carry out her trickery to the end with a high head. it was a little less base, done proudly. he could not have borne it otherwise. "who are you," the girl cried, in a bitter resentment, "that you should understand? what do you know of the sort of life i have led--we have led together, my father and i? oh, i don't mean that i'm ashamed of it! we have nothing to feel shame for, but you simply do not know what such a life is." though he writhed with pain, the man nodded over her. he was so glad that she could carry it through proudly, with a high hand, an erect head. she spread out her arms before him, a splendid and tragic figure. "what chance have i ever had?" she demanded. "no, i am not blaming him. i am not blaming my father. i chose to follow him. i chose it. but what chance have i had? think of the people i have lived among. would you have me marry one of them--one of those men? i'd rather die. and yet i cannot go on--forever. i am twenty now. what if my father--you yourself said yesterday--oh, i am afraid! i tell you i have lain awake at night a hundred times and shivered with cold, terrible fear of what would become of me if--if anything should happen--to my father. and so," she said, "when i met arthur benham last winter, and he--began to--he said--when he begged me to marry him.... ah, can't you see? it meant safety--safety--safety! and i liked him. i like him now--very, very much. he is a sweet boy. i--shall be happy with him--in a peaceful fashion. and my father--oh, i'll be honest with you," said she. "it was my father who decided me. he was--he is--so pathetically pleased with it. he so wants me to be safe. it's all he lives for now. i--couldn't fight against them both, arthur and my father, so i gave in. and then when arthur had to be hidden we came here with him--to wait." she became aware that the man was staring at her with something strange and terrible in his gaze, and she broke off in wonder. the air of that warm summer morning turned all at once keen and sharp about them--charged with moment. "mademoiselle!" cried ste. marie. "mademoiselle, are you telling me the truth?" for some obscure reason she was not angry. again she spread out her hands in that gesture of weariness. she said, "oh, why should i lie to you?" and the man began to tremble exceedingly. he stretched out an unsteady hand. "you--knew arthur benham last winter?" he said. "long before his--before he left his home? before that?" "he asked me to marry him last winter," said the girl. "for a long, long time i--wouldn't. but he never let me alone. he followed me everywhere. and my father--" ste. marie clapped his two hands over his face, and a groan came to her through the straining fingers. he cried, in an agony: "mademoiselle! mademoiselle!" he fell upon his knees at her feet, his head bent in what seemed to be an intolerable anguish, his hands over his hidden face. the girl heard hard-wrung, stumbling, incoherent words wrenched each with an effort out of extreme pain. "fool! fool!" the man cried, groaning. "oh, fool that i have been! worm, animal! oh, fool not to see--not to know! madman, imbecile, thing without a name!" she stood white-faced, smitten with great fear over this abasement. not the least and faintest glimmer reached her of what it meant. she stretched down a hand of protest, and it touched the man's head. as if the touch were a stroke of magic, he sprang upright before her. "now at last, mademoiselle," said he, "we two must speak plainly together. now at last i think i see clear, but i must know beyond doubt or question. oh, mademoiselle, now i think i know you for what you are, and it seems to me that nothing in this world is of consequence beside that. i have been blind, blind, blind!... tell me one thing. why did arthur benham leave his home two months ago?" "he had to leave it," she said, wondering. she did not understand yet, but she was aware that her heart was beating in loud and fast throbs, and she knew that some great mystery was to be made plain before her. her face was very white. "he had to leave it," she said again. "_you_ know as well as i. why do you ask me that? he quarrelled with his grandfather. they had often quarrelled before--over money--always over money. his grandfather is a miser, almost a madman. he tried to make arthur sign a paper releasing his inheritance--the fortune he is to inherit from his father--and when arthur wouldn't he drove him away. arthur went to his uncle--captain stewart--and captain stewart helped him to hide. he didn't dare go back because they're all against him, all his family. they'd make him give in." ste. marie gave a loud exclamation of amazement. the thing was incredible--childish. it was beyond the maddest possibilities. but even as he said the words to himself a face came before him--captain stewart's smiling and benignant face--and he understood everything. as clearly as if he had been present, he saw the angry, bewildered boy, fresh from david stewart's berating, mystified over some commonplace legal matter requiring a signature. he saw him appeal for sympathy and counsel to "old charlie," and he heard "old charlie's" reply. it was easy enough to understand now. it must have been easy enough to bring about. what absurdities could not such a man as captain stewart instil into the already prejudiced mind of that foolish lad? his thoughts turned from arthur benham to the girl before him, and that part of the mystery was clear also. she would believe whatever she was told in the absence of any reason to doubt. what did she know of old david stewart or of the benham family? it seemed to ste. marie all at once incredible that he could ever have believed ill of her--ever have doubted her honesty. it seemed to him so incredible that he could have laughed aloud in bitterness and self-disdain. but as he looked at the girl's white face and her shadowy, wondering eyes, all laughter, all bitterness, all cruel misunderstandings were swallowed up in the golden light of his joy at knowing her, in the end, for what she was. "coira! coira!" he cried, and neither of the two knew that he called her for the first time by her name. "oh, child," said he, "how they have lied to you and tricked you! i might have known, i might have seen it, but i was a blind fool. i thought--intolerable things. i might have known. they have lied to you most damnably, coira." she stared at him in a breathless silence without movement of any sort. only her face seemed to have turned a little whiter and her great eyes darker, so that they looked almost black and enormous in that still face. he told her, briefly, the truth: how young arthur had had frequent quarrels with his grandfather over his waste of money, how after one of them, not at all unlike the others, he had disappeared, and how captain stewart, in desperate need, had set afoot his plot to get the lad's greater inheritance for himself. he described for her old david stewart and the man's bitter grief, and he told her about the will, about how he had begun to suspect captain stewart, and of how he had traced the lost boy to la lierre. he told her all that he knew of the whole matter, and he knew almost all there was to know, and he did not spare himself even his misconception of the part she had played, though he softened that as best he could. midway of his story mlle. o'hara bent her head and covered her face with her hands. she did not cry out or protest or speak at all. she made no more than that one movement, and after it she stood quite still, but the sight of her, bowed and shamed, stripped of pride, as it had been of garments, was more than the man could bear. he cried her name, "coira!" and when she did not look up, he called once more upon her. he said: "coira, i cannot bear to see you stand so. look at me. ah, child, look at me! can you realize," he cried--"can you even begin to think what a great joy it is to me to know at last that you have had no part in all this? can't you see what it means to me? i can think of nothing else. coira, look up!" she raised her white face, and there were no tears upon it, but a still anguish too great to be told. it would seem never to have occurred to her to doubt the truth of his words. she said: "it is i who might have known. knowing what you have told me now, it seems impossible that i could have believed. and captain stewart--i always hated him--loathed him--distrusted him. and yet," she cried, wringing her hands, "how could i know? how could i know?" the girl's face writhed suddenly with her grief, and she stared up at ste. marie with terror in her eyes. she whispered: "my father! oh, ste. marie, my father! it is not possible. i will not believe--he cannot have done this, knowing. my father, ste. marie!" the man turned his eyes away, and she gave a sobbing cry. "has he," she said, slowly, "done even this for me? has he given--his honor, also--when everything else was--gone? has he given me his honor, too? oh," she said, "why could i not have died when i was a little child? why could i not have done that? to think that i should have lived to--bring my father to this! i wish i had died. ste. marie," she said, pleading with him. "ste. marie, do you think--my father--knew?" "let me think," said he. "let me think! is it possible that stewart has lied to you all--to one as to another? let me think!" his mind ran back over the matter, and he began to remember instances which had seemed to him odd, but to which he had attached no importance. he remembered o'hara's puzzled and uncomprehending face when he, ste. marie, had spoken of stewart's villany. he remembered the man's indignation over the affair of the poison, and his fairness in trying to make amends. he remembered other things, and his face grew lighter and he drew a great breath of relief. he said: "coira, i do not believe he knew. stewart has lied equally to you all--tricked each one of you." and at that the girl gave a cry of gladness and began to weep. as long as men and women continue to stand upon opposite sides of a great gulf--and that will be as long as they exist together in this world--just so long will men continue to be unhappy and ill at ease in the face of women's tears, even though they know vaguely that tears may mean just anything at all, and by no means always grief. ste. marie stood first upon one foot and then upon the other. he looked anxiously about him for succor. he said, "there! there!" or words to that effect, and once he touched the shoulder of the girl who stood weeping before him, and he was very miserable indeed. but quite suddenly, in the midst of his discomfort, she looked up to him, and she was smiling and flushed, so that ste. marie stared at her in utter amazement. "so now at last," said she, "i have back my bayard. and i think the rest--doesn't matter very much." "bayard?" said he, wondering. "i don't understand," he said. "then," said she, "you must just go without understanding. for i shall never, never explain." the bright flush went from her face and she turned grave once more. "what is to be done?" she asked. "what must we do now, ste. marie--i mean about arthur benham? i suppose he must be told." "either he must be told," said the man, "or he must be taken back to his home by force." he told her about the four letters which in four days he had thrown over the wall into the clamart road. "it was on the chance," he said, "that some one would pick one of them up and post it, thinking it had been dropped there by accident. what has become of them i don't know. i know only that they never reached hartley." the girl nodded thoughtfully. "yes," said she, "that was the best thing you could have done. it ought to have succeeded. of course--" she paused a moment and then nodded again. "of course," said she, "i can manage to get a letter in the post now. we'll send it to-day if you like. but i was wondering--would it be better or not to tell arthur the truth? it all depends upon how he may take it--whether or not he will believe you. he's very stubborn, and he's frightened about this break with his family, and he is quite sure that he has been badly treated. will he believe you? of course, if he does believe he could escape from here quite easily at any time, and there'd be no necessity for a rescue. what do you think?" "i think he ought to be told," said ste. marie. "if we try to carry him away by force there'll be a fight, of course, and--who knows what might happen? that we must leave for a last resort--a last desperate resort. first we must tell the boy." abruptly he gave a cry of dismay, and the girl looked up to him, staring. "but--but _you_, coira!" said he, stammering. "but _you_! i hadn't realized--i hadn't thought--it never occurred to me what this means to you." the full enormity of the thing came upon him slowly. he was asking this girl to help him in robbing her of her lover. she shook her head with a little wry smile. "do you think," said she, "that knowing what i know now i would go on with that until he has made his peace with his family? before, it was different. i thought him alone and ill-treated and hunted down. i could help him then, comfort him. now i should be--all you ever thought me if i did not send him to his grandfather." she smiled again a little mirthlessly. "if his love for me is worth anything," she said, "he will come back--but openly this time, not in hiding. then i shall know that he is--what i would have him be. otherwise--" ste. marie looked away. "but you must remember, coira," said he, "that the lad is very young and that his family--they may try--it may be hard for him. they may say that he is too young to know--ah, child, i should have thought of this!" "ste. marie," said the girl, and after a moment he turned to face her. "what shall you say to arthur's family, ste. marie," she demanded, very soberly, "when they ask you if i--if arthur should be allowed to--come back to me?" a wave of color flooded the man's face and his eyes shone. he cried: "i shall tell them, coira, that if that wretched, half-baked lad should search this wide world round, from paris on to paris again, and if he should spend a lifetime searching, he would never find the beauty and the sweetness and the tenderness and the true faith that he left behind at la lierre--nor the hundredth part of them. i should say that you are so much above him that he ought to creep to you on his knees from the rue de l'université to this garden, thanking god that you were here at the journey's end, and kissing the ground that he dragged himself over for sheer joy and gratitude. i should tell them--oh, i have no words! i could tell them so pitifully little of you! i think i should only say, 'go to her and see!' i think i should just say that." the girl turned her head away with a little sob. but afterward she faced him once more, and she looked up to him with sweet, half-shut eyes for a long time. at last she said: "for love of whom, ste. marie, did you undertake this quest--this search for arthur benham? it was not in idleness or by way of a whim. it was for love. for love of whom?" for some strange and inexplicable reason the words struck him like a blow and he stared whitely. "i came," he said, at last, and his voice was oddly flat, "for his sister's sake. for love of her." coira o'hara dropped her eyes. but presently she looked up again with a smile. she said, "god make you happy, my friend." and she turned and moved away from him up among the trees. at a little distance she turned, saying: "wait where you are. i will fetch arthur or send him to you. he must be told at once." then she went on and was lost to sight. ste. marie followed a few steps after her and halted. his face was turned by chance toward the east wall, and suddenly he gave a great cry and smothered it with his hands over his mouth. his knees bent under him, and he was weak and trembling. then he began to run. he ran with awkward steps, for his leg was not yet entirely recovered, but he ran fast, and his heart beat within him until he thought it must burst. he was making for that spot which was overhung by the half-dead cedar-tree. * * * * * xxvi but the fleece elects to remain ste. marie came under the wall breathless and shaking. what he had seen there from a distance was no longer visible, but he pressed in close among the lilac shrubs and called out in an unsteady voice. he said: "who is there? who is it?" and after a moment he called again. a hand appeared at the top of the high wall. the drooping screen of foliage was thrust aside, and he saw richard hartley's face looking down. ste. marie held himself by the strong stems of the lilacs, for once more his knees had weakened under him. "there's no one in sight," hartley said. "i can see for a long way. no one can see us or hear us." and he said: "i got your letter this morning--an hour ago. when shall we come to get you out--you and the boy? to-night?" "to-night at two," said ste. marie. he spoke in a loud whisper. "i'm to talk with arthur here in a few minutes. we must be quick. he may come at any time. i shall try to persuade him to go home willingly, but if he refuses we must take him by force. bring a couple of good men with you to-night, and see that they're armed. come in a motor and leave it just outside the wall by that small door that you passed. have you any money in your pockets? i may want to bribe the gardener." hartley searched in his pockets, and while he did so the man beneath asked: "is old david stewart alive?" "just about," hartley said. "he's very low, and he suffers a great deal, but he's quite conscious all the time. if we can fetch the boy to him it may give him a turn for the better. where is captain stewart? i had spies on his trail for some time, but he has disappeared within the past three or four days. once i followed him in his motor-car out past here, but i lost him beyond clamart." "he's here, i think," said ste. marie. "i saw him a few days ago." the man on the wall had found two notes of a hundred francs each, and he dropped them down to ste. marie's hands. also he gave him a small revolver which he had in his pocket, one of the little automatic weapons such as olga nilssen had brought to the rue du faubourg st. honoré. afterward he glanced up and said: "two people are coming out of the house. i shall have to go. at two to-night, then--and at this spot. we shall be on time." he drew back out of sight, and the other man heard the cedar-tree shake slightly as he went down it to the ground. then ste. marie turned and walked quickly back to the place where mlle. o'hara had left him. his heart was leaping with joy and exultation, for now at last he thought that the end was in sight--the end he had so long labored and hoped for. he knew that his face must be flushed and his eyes bright, and he made a strong effort to crush down these tokens of his triumph--to make his bearing seem natural and easy. he might have spared himself the pains. young arthur benham and coira o'hara came together down under the trees from the house. they walked swiftly, and the boy was a step in advance, his face white with excitement and anger. he began to speak while he was still some distance away. he cried out, in his strident young voice: "what the devil is all this silly nonsense about old charlie and lies and misunderstandings and--and all that guff?" he demanded. "what the devil is it? d'you think i'm a fool? d'you think i'm a kid? well, i'm not!" he came close to ste. marie, staring at him with an angry scowl, but his scowl twitched and wavered and his hands shook a little beside him and his breath came irregularly. he was frightened. "there is no nonsense," said ste. marie. "there is no nonsense in all this whole sorry business. but there has been a great deal of misunderstanding and a great many lies and not a little cruelty. it's time you knew the truth at last." he turned his eyes to where coira o'hara stood near-by. "how much have you told him?" he asked. and the girl said: "i told him everything, or almost. but i had to say it very quickly, and--he wouldn't believe me. i think you'd best tell him again." the boy gave a short, contemptuous laugh. "well, i don't want to hear it," said he. he was looking toward the girl. he said: "this fellow may be able to hypnotize you, all right, but not willie. little willie's wise to guys like him." and swinging about to ste. marie, he cried: "forget it! for-get it! i don't want to listen to your little song to-day. ah, you make me sick! you'd try to make me turn on old charlie, would you? why, old charlie's the only real friend i've got in the world. old charlie has always stood up for me against the whole bunch of them. forget it, george! i'm wise to your graft." ste. marie frowned, for his temper was never of the most patient, and the youth's sneering tone annoyed him. truth to tell, the tone was about all he understood, for the strange words were incomprehensible. "look here, benham," he said, sharply, "you and i have never met, i believe, but we have a good many friends in common, and i think we know something about each other. have you ever heard anything about me which would give you the right to suspect me of any dishonesty of any sort? have you?" "oh, slush!" said the boy. "anybody'll be dishonest if it's worth his while." "that happens to be untrue," ste. marie remarked, "and as you grow older you will know it. leaving my honesty out of the question if you like, i have the honor to tell you that i am, perhaps not quite formally, engaged to your sister, and it is on her account, for her sake, that i am here. you will hardly presume, i take it, to question your sister's motive in wanting you to return home? incidentally, your grandfather is so overcome by grief over your absence that he is expected to die at any time. come," said he, "i have said enough to convince you that you must listen to me. believe what you please, but listen to me for five minutes. after that i have small doubt of what you will do." the boy looked nervously from ste. marie to mlle. o'hara and back again. he thrust his unsteady hands into his pockets, but withdrew them after a moment and clasped them together behind him. "i tell you," he burst out, at last--"i tell you, it's no good your trying to knock old charlie to me. i won't stand for it. old charlie's my best friend, and i'd believe him before i'd believe anybody in the world. you've got a knife out for old charlie, that's what's the matter with you." "and your sister?" suggested ste. marie. "your mother? you'd hardly know your mother if you could see her to-day. it has pretty nearly killed her." "ah, they're all--they're all against me!" the lad cried. "they've always stood together against me. helen, too!" "you wouldn't think they were against you if you could just see them once now," said ste. marie. and arthur benham gave a sort of shamefaced sob, saying: "ah, cut it out! cut it out! go on, then, and talk, if you want to, _i_ don't care. i don't have to listen. talk, if you're pining for it." and ste. marie, as briefly as he could, told him the truth of the whole affair from the beginning, as he had told it to coira o'hara. only he laid special stress upon charles stewart's present expectations from the new will, and he assured the boy that no document his grandfather might have asked him to sign could have given away his rights in his father's fortune, since he was a minor and had no legal right to sign away anything at all even if he wished to. "if you will look back as calmly and carefully as you can," he said, "you will find that you didn't begin to suspect your grandfather of anything wrong until you had talked with captain stewart. it was your uncle's explanation of the thing that made you do that. well, remember what he had at stake--i suppose it is a matter of several millions of francs. and he needs them. his affairs are in a bad way." he told also about the pretended search which captain stewart had so long maintained, and of how he had tried to mislead the other searchers whose motives were honest. "it has been a gigantic gamble, my friend," he said, at the last. "a gigantic and desperate gamble to get the money that should be yours. you can end it by the mere trouble of climbing over that wall yonder and taking the clamart tram back to paris. as easily as that you can end it--and, if i am not mistaken, you can at the same time save an old man's life--prolong it at the very least." he took a step forward. "i beg you to go!" he said, very earnestly. "you know the whole truth now. you must see what danger you have been and are in. you must know that i am telling you the truth. i beg you to go back to paris." and from where she stood, a little aside, coira o'hara said: "i beg you, too, arthur. go back to them." the boy dropped down upon a tree-stump which was near and covered his face with his hands. the two who watched him could see that he was trembling violently. over him their eyes met and they questioned each other with a mute and anxious gravity: "what will he do?" for everything was in arthur benham's weak hands now. for a little time, which seemed hours to all who were there, the lad sat still, hiding his face, but suddenly he sprang to his feet, and once more stood staring into ste. marie's quiet eyes. "how do i know you're telling the truth?" he cried, and his voice ran up high and shrill and wavered and broke. "how do i know that? you'd tell just as smooth a story if--if you were lying--if you'd been sent here to get me back to--to what old charlie said they wanted me for." "you have only to go back to them and make sure," said ste. marie. "they can't harm you or take anything from you. if they persuaded you to sign anything--which they will not do--it would be valueless to them, because you're a minor. you know that as well as i do. go and make sure. or wait! wait!" he gave a little sharp laugh of excitement. "is captain stewart in the house?" he demanded. "call him out here. that's better still. bring your uncle here to face me without telling him what it's for, without giving him time to make up a story. then we shall see. send for him." "he's not here," said the boy "he went away an hour ago. i don't know whether he'll be back to-night or not." young arthur stared at the elder man, breathing hard. "good god!" he said, in a whisper, "if--old charlie is rotten, who in this world isn't? i--don't know what to believe." abruptly he turned with a sort of snarl upon coira o'hara. "have you been in this game, too?" he cried out. "i suppose you and your precious father and old charlie cooked it up together. what? you've been having a fine, low-comedy time laughing yourselves to death at me, haven't you? oh, lord, what a gang!" ste. marie caught the boy by the shoulder and spun him round. "that will do!" he said, sternly. "you have been a fool; don't make it worse by being a coward and a cad. mlle. o'hara knew no more of the truth than you knew. your uncle lied to you all." but the girl came and touched his arm. she said: "don't be hard with him. he is bewildered and nervous, and he doesn't know what he is saying. think how sudden it has been for him. don't be hard with him, m. ste. marie." ste. marie dropped his hand, and the lad backed a few steps away. his face was crimson. after a moment he said: "i'm sorry, coira. i didn't mean that. i didn't mean it. i beg your pardon. i'm about half dippy, i guess. i--don't know what to believe or what to think or what to do." he remained staring at her a little while in silence, and presently his eyes sharpened. he cried out: "if i should go back there--mind you, i say 'if'--d'you know what they'd do? well, i'll tell you. they'd begin to talk at me one at a time. they'd get me in a corner and cry over me, and say i was young and didn't know my mind, and that i owed them something for all that's happened, and not to bring their gray hairs in sorrow to the grave--and the long and short of it would be that they'd make me give you up." he wheeled upon ste. marie. "that's what they'd do!" he said, and his voice began to rise again shrilly. "they're three to one, and they know they can talk me into anything. _you_ know it, too!" he shook his head. "i won't go back!" he cried, wildly. "that's what will happen if i do. i don't want granddad's money. he can give it to old charlie or to a gendarme if he wants to. i'm going to have enough of my own. i won't go back, and that's all there is of it. you may be telling the truth or you may not, but i won't go." ste. marie started to speak, but the girl checked him. she moved closer to where arthur benham stood, and she said: "if your love for me, arthur, is worth having, it is worth fighting for. if it is so weak that your family can persuade you out of it, then--i don't want it at all, for it would never last. arthur, you must go back to them. i want you to go." "i won't!" the boy cried. "i won't go! i tell you they could talk me out of anything. you don't know 'em. i do. i can't stand against them. i won't go, and that settles it. besides, i'm not so sure that this fellow's telling the truth. i've known old charlie a lot longer than i have him." coira o'hara turned a despairing face over her shoulder toward ste. marie. "leave me alone with him," she begged. "perhaps i can win him over. leave us alone for a little while." ste. marie hesitated, and in the end went away and left the two together. he went farther down the park to the rond point, and crossed it to the familiar stone bench at the west side. he sat down there to wait. he was anxious and alarmed over this new obstacle, for he had the wit to see that it was a very important one. it was quite conceivable that the boy, but half-convinced, half-yielding before, would balk altogether when he realized, as evidently he did realize, what returning home might mean to him--the loss of the girl he hoped to marry. ste. marie was sufficiently wise in worldly matters to know that the boy's fear was not unfounded. he could imagine the family in the rue de l'université taking exactly the view young arthur said they would take toward an alliance with the daughter of a notorious irish adventurer. ste. marie's cheeks burned hotly with anger when the words said themselves in his brain, but he knew that there could be no doubt of the benhams' and even of old david stewart's view of the affair. they would oppose the marriage with all their strength. he tried to imagine what weight such considerations would have with him if it were he who was to marry coira o'hara, and he laughed aloud with scorn of them and with great pride in her. but the lad yonder was very young--too young; his family would be right to that extent. would he be able to stand against them? ste. marie shook his head with a sigh and gave over unprofitable wonderings, for he was still within the walls of la lierre, and so was arthur benham. and the walls were high and strong. he fell to thinking of the attempt at rescue which was to be made that night, and he began to form plans and think of necessary preparations. to be sure, coira might persuade the boy to escape during the day, and then the night attack would be unnecessary, but in case of her failure it must be prepared for. he rose to his feet and began to walk back and forth under the rows of chestnut-trees, where the earth was firm and black and mossy and there was no growth of shrubbery. he thought of that hasty interview with richard hartley and he laughed a little. it had been rather like an exchange of telegrams--reduced to the bare bones of necessary question and answer. there had been no time for conversation. his eyes caught a far-off glimpse of woman's garments, and he saw that coira o'hara and arthur benham were walking toward the house. so he went a little way after them, and waited at a point where he could see any one returning. he had not long to wait, for it seemed that the girl went only as far as the door with her fiancé and then turned back. ste. marie met her with raised eyebrows, and she shook her head. "i don't know," said she. "he is very stubborn. he is frightened and bewildered. as he said awhile ago, he doesn't know what to think or what to believe. you mustn't blame him. remember how he trusted his uncle! he's going to think it over, and i shall see him again this afternoon. perhaps, when he has had time to reflect--i don't know. i truly don't know." "he won't go to your father and make a scene?" said ste. marie, and the girl shook her head. "i made him promise not to. oh, bayard," she cried--and in his abstraction he did not notice the name she gave him--"i am afraid myself! i am horribly afraid about my father." "i am sure he did not know," said the man. "stewart lied to him." but coira o'hara shook her head, saying: "i didn't mean that. i'm afraid of what will happen when he finds out how he has been--how we have been played upon, tricked, deceived--what a light we have been placed in. you don't know, you can't even imagine, how he has set his heart on--what he wished to occur. i am afraid he will do something terrible when he knows. i am afraid he will kill captain stewart." "which," observed ste. marie, "would be an excellent solution of the problem. but of course we mustn't let it happen. what can be done?" "we mustn't let him know the truth," said the girl, "until arthur is gone and until captain stewart is gone, too. he is terrible when he's angry. we must keep the truth from him until he can do no harm. it will be bad enough even then, for i think it will break his heart." ste. marie remembered that there was something she did not know, and he told her about his interview with richard hartley and about their arrangement for the rescue--if it should be necessary--on that very night. she nodded her head over it, but for a long time after he had finished she did not speak. then she said: "i am glad, i suppose. yes, since it has to be done, i suppose i am glad that it is to come at once." she looked up at ste. marie with shadowy, inscrutable eyes. "and so, monsieur," said she, "it is at an end--all this." she made a little gesture which seemed to sweep the park and gardens. "so we go out of each other's lives as abruptly as we entered them. well--" she had continued to look at him, but she saw the man's face turn white, and she saw something come into his eyes which was like intolerable pain; then she looked away. ste. marie said her name twice, under his breath, in a sort of soundless cry, but he said no more, and after a moment she went on: "even so, i am glad that at last we know each other--for what we are.... i should have been sorry to go on thinking you ... what i thought before.... and i could not have borne it, i'm afraid, to have you think ... what you thought of me ... when i came to know.... i'm glad we understand at last." ste. marie tried to speak, but no words would come to him. he was like a man defeated and crushed, not one on the high-road to victory. but it may have been that the look of him was more eloquent than anything he could have said. and it may have been that the girl saw and understood. so the two remained there for a little while longer in silence, but at last coira o'hara said: "i must go back to the house now. there is nothing more to be done, i suppose--nothing left now but to wait for night to come. i shall see arthur this afternoon and make one last appeal to him. if that fails you must carry him off. do you know where he sleeps? it is the room corresponding to yours on the other side of the house--just across that wide landing at the top of the stairs. i will manage that the front door below shall be left unlocked. the rest you and your friends must do. if i can make any impression upon arthur i'll slip a note under your door this afternoon or this evening. perhaps, even if he decides to go, it would be best for him to wait until night and go with the rest of you. in any case, i'll let you know." she spoke rapidly, as if she were in great haste to be gone, and with averted eyes. and at the end she turned away without any word of farewell, but ste. marie started after her. he cried: "coira! coira!" and when she stopped, he said: "coira, i can't let you go like this! are we to--simply to go our different ways like this, as if we'd never met at all?" "what else?" said the girl. and there was no answer to that. their separate ways were determined for them--marked plain to see. "but afterward!" he cried. "afterward--after we have got the boy back to his home! what then?" "perhaps," she said, "he will return to me." she spoke without any show of feeling. "perhaps he will return. if not--well, i don't know. i expect my father and i will just go on as we've always gone. we're used to it, you know." after that she nodded to him and once more turned away. her face may have been a very little pale, but, as before, it betrayed no feeling of any sort. so she went up under the trees to the house, and ste. marie watched her with strained and burning eyes. when, half an hour later, he followed, he came unexpectedly upon the old michel, who had entered the park through the little wooden door in the wall, and was on his way round to the kitchen with sundry parcels of supplies. he spoke a civil "bon jour, monsieur," and ste. marie stopped him. they were out of sight from the windows. ste. marie withdrew from his pocket one of the hundred-franc notes, and the single, beadlike eye of the ancient gnome fixed upon it and seemed to shiver with a fascinated delight. "a hundred francs!" said ste. marie, unnecessarily, and the old man licked his withered lips. the tempter said: "my good michel, would you care to receive this trifling sum--a hundred francs?" the gnome made a choked, croaking sound in his throat. "it is yours," said ste. marie, "for a small service--for doing nothing at all." the beadlike eye rose to his and sharpened intelligently. "i desire only," said he, "that you should sleep well to-night, very well--without waking." "monsieur," said the old man, "i do not sleep at all. i watch. i watch monsieur's windows. monsieur o'hara watches until midnight, and i watch from then until day." "oh, i know that," said the other. "i've seen you more than once in the moonlight, but to-night, mon vieux, slumber will overcome you. exhaustion will have its way and you will sleep. you will sleep like the dead." "i dare not!" cried the gardener. "monsieur, i dare not! the old one would kill me. you do not know him. he would cut me into pieces and burn the pieces. monsieur, it is impossible." ste. marie withdrew the other hundred-franc note and held the two together in his hand. once more the gnome made his strange, croaking sound and the withered face twisted with anguish. "monsieur! monsieur!" he groaned. "i have an idea," said the tempter. "a little earth rubbed upon one side of the head--perhaps a trifling scratch to show a few drops of blood. you have been assaulted, beaten down, despite a heroic resistance, and left for dead. an hour afterward you stagger into the house a frightful object. hein?" the withered face of the old man expanded slowly into a senile grin. "monsieur," said he, with admiration in his tone, "it is magnificent. it shall be done. i sleep like the good dead--under the trees, not too near the lilacs, eh? bien, monsieur, it is done!" into his trembling claw he took the notes; he made an odd bow and shambled away about his business. ste. marie laughed and went on into the house. he counted, and there were fourteen hours to wait. fourteen hours, and at the end of them--what? his blood began to warm to the night's work. * * * * * xxvii the night's work the fourteen long hours dragged themselves by. they seemed interminable, but somehow they passed and the appointed time drew near. ste. marie spent the greater part of the afternoon reading, but twice he lay down upon the bed and tried to sleep, and once he actually dozed off for a brief space. the old michel brought his meals. he had thought it possible that coira might manage to bring the dinner-tray, as she had already done on several occasions, and so make an opportunity for informing him as to young arthur's state of mind. but she did not come, and no word came from her. so evening drew on and the dusk gathered and deepened to darkness. ste. marie walked his floor and prayed for the hours to pass. he had candles and matches, and there was even a lamp in the room, so that he could have read if he chose, but he knew that the words would have been meaningless to him, that he was incapable of abstracting his thought from the night's stern work. he began to be anxious over not having heard from mlle. o'hara. she had said that she would talk with arthur benham during the afternoon, and then slip a note under ste. marie's door. yet no word had come from her, and to the man pacing his floor in the darkness the fact took on proportions tremendous and fantastic. something had happened. the boy had broken his promise, burst out upon o'hara, or more probably upon his uncle, and the house was by the ears. coira was watched--even locked in her room. stewart had fled. a score of such terrible possibilities rushed through ste. marie's brain and tortured him. he was in a state of nervous tension that was almost unendurable, and the little noises of the night outside, a wind-stirred rustle of leaves, a bird's flutter among the branches, the sound of a cracking twig, made him start violently and catch his breath. then at his utmost need came reassurance and something like ease of mind. he heard a sound of voices at the front of the house, and sprang to his balconied window to listen. captain stewart and o'hara were walking upon the brick-paved terrace and chatting calmly over their cigars. the man above, prone upon the floor, his head pressed against the ivy-masked grille of the balcony, listened, and though he could hear their words only at intervals when they passed beneath him he knew that they spoke of trivial matters in voices free of strain or concern. he drew back with a breath of relief, and at that moment a sound across the room arrested him, a soft scraping sound such as a mouse might make. he went where it was, and a little square of paper gleamed white through the darkness just within the door. ste. marie caught it up and took it to the far side of the room away from the window. he struck a match, opened the folded paper, and a single line of writing was there: "he will go with you. wait by the door in the wall." the man nearly cried out with joy. he struck another match and looked at his watch. it was a quarter to ten. four hours left out of the fourteen. once more he lay down upon the bed and closed his eyes. he knew that he could not sleep, but he was tired from long tramping up and down the room and from the strain of over-tried nerves. from hour to hour he looked at his watch by match-light, but he did not leave the bed until half-past one. then he rose and took a long breath, and the time was at hand. he stood a little while gazing out into the night. an old moon was high overhead in a cloudless sky, and that would make the night's work both easier and more difficult, but on the whole he was glad of it. he looked to the east, toward that wall where was the little wooden door, and the way was under cover of trees and shrubbery for the whole distance save a little space beside the house. he listened, and the night was very still--no sound from the house below him, no sound anywhere save the barking of a dog from far away, and after an instant the whistle of a distant train. ste. marie turned back into the room and pulled the sheets from his bed. he rolled them, corner-wise, into a sort of rope, and knotted them together securely. then he went to one of the east windows. there was no balcony there, but, as in all french upper windows, a wood and iron bar fixed, into the stone casing at both ends, with a little grille below it. it crossed the window space a third of the distance from bottom to top. he bent one end of the improvised rope to this, made it fast, and let the other end hang out. the east side of the house was in shadow, and the rolled sheet, a vague white line, disappeared into the darkness below, but ste. marie knew that it must reach nearly to the ground. he had made use of it because he was afraid there would be too much noise if he tried to climb down the ivy. the room directly underneath was the drawing-room, and he knew that it was closed and shuttered and unoccupied both by day and by night. the only danger, he decided, was from the sleeping-room behind his own, with its windows opening close by; but, though he did not know it, he was safe there also, for the room was coira o'hara's. he felt in his pocket for the pistol, and it was ready to hand. then he buttoned his coat round him and swung himself out of the window. he held his body away from the wall with one knee and went down hand under hand. it was so quietly done that it did not even rouse the birds in the near-by trees. before he realized that he had come to the lower windows his feet touched the earth and he was free. he stood for a moment where he was, and then slipped rapidly across the open, moonlit space into the inky gloom of the trees. he made a half-circle round before the house and looked up at it. it lay gray and black and still in the night. where the moonlight was upon it, it was gray; where there was shadow, black as black velvet, and the windows were like open, dead eyes. he looked toward arthur benham's room, and there was no light, but he knew that the boy was awake and waiting there, shivering probably in the dark. he wondered where coira o'hara was, and he pictured her lying in her bed fronting the gloom with sleepless, open eyes, looking into those to-morrows which she had said she saw so well. he wondered bitterly what the to-morrows were to bring her, but he caught himself up with a stern determination and put her out of his mind. he did not dare think of her in that hour. he turned and began to make his way silently under the trees toward the appointed meeting-place. once he thought of the old michel and wondered where that gnarled and withered watch-dog had betaken himself. somewhere, within or without the house, he was asleep or pretending to sleep, and ste. marie knew that he could be trusted. the man's cupidity and his hatred of captain stewart together would make him faithful, or faithless, as one chose to look upon it. he came to that place where a row of lilac shrubs stood against the wall and a half-dead cedar stretched gnarled branches above. he was a little before his time, and he settled himself to listen and wait, his sharp ears keenly on the alert, his eyes turned toward the dark and quiet house. the little noises of the night broke upon him with exaggerated clamor. a crackling twig was a thunderous crash, a bird's sleepy stir was the sound of pursuit and disaster. a hundred times he heard the cautious approach of richard hartley's motor-car without the wall, and he fell into a panic of fear lest that machine prove unruly, break down, puncture a tire, or burst into a series of ear-splitting explosions. but at last--it seemed to him that he had waited untold hours and that the dawn must be nigh--there came an unmistakable rustling from overhead and the sound of a hard-drawn breath. the top of the wall, just at that point, was in moonlight, and a man's head appeared over it, then an arm and then a leg. hartley called down to him in a whisper, and ste. marie, from the gloom beneath, whispered a reply. he said: "the boy has promised to come with us. we sha'n't have to fight for it." richard hartley said, "thank god!" he spoke to some one outside, and then turning about let himself down to arm's-length and dropped to the ground. "thank god!" he said again. "the two men who were to have come with me didn't show up. i waited as long as i dared, and then came on with only the chauffeur. he's waiting outside by the car ready to crank up when i give the word. the car's just a few yards away, headed out for the road. how are we to get back over the wall?" ste. marie explained that arthur benham was to come out to join them at the wooden door, and doubtless would bring a key. if not, the three of them could scale fifteen feet easily enough in the way soldiers and firemen are trained to do it. he told his friend all that was necessary for the time, and they went together along the wall to the more open space beside the little door. they waited there in silence for five minutes, and once hartley, with his back toward the house, struck a match under his sheltering coat, looked to see what time it was, and found it was three minutes past two. "he ought to be here," the man growled. "i don't like waiting. good lord, you don't think he's funked it, do you? eh?" ste. marie did not answer, but he was breathing very fast and he could not keep his hands still. the dog which he had heard from his window began barking again very far away in the night, and kept it up incessantly. perhaps he was barking at the moon. "i'm going a little way toward the house," said ste. marie, at last. "we can't see the terrace from here." but before he had started they heard the sound of hurrying feet, and richard hartley began to curse under his breath. he said: "does the young idiot want to rouse the whole place? why can't he come quietly?" ste. marie began to run forward, slipping the pistol out of his pocket and holding it ready in his hand, for his quick ears told him that there was more than one pair of feet coming through the night. he went to where he could command the approach from the house and halted there, but all at once he gave a low cry and started forward again, for he saw that arthur benham and coira o'hara were running together, and that they were in desperate haste. he called out to them, and the girl cried: "go to the door in the wall! the door in the wall! oh, be quick!" he fell into step beside her, and as they ran he said, "you're going with him? you're coming with us?" the girl answered him, "no, no!" and she sprang to the little, low door and began to fit the iron key into the lock. the three men stood about her, and young arthur benham drew his breath in great, shivering gasps that were like sobs. "they heard us!" he cried, in a whisper. "they're after us. they heard us on the stairs. i--stumbled and fell. for god's sake, coira, be quick!" the girl fumbled desperately with the clumsy key, and dropped upon her knees to see the better. once she said, in a whisper: "i can't turn it. it won't turn." and at that richard hartley pushed her out of the way and lent his greater strength to the task. a sudden, loud cry came from the house, a hoarse, screeching cry in a voice which might have been either man's or woman's, but was as mad and as desperate and as horrible in that still night as the screech of a tortured animal--or of a maniac. it came again and again, and it was nearer. "oh, hurry, hurry!" said the girl. "can't you be quick? they're coming." and as she spoke the little group about the wall heard the engine of the motor-car outside start up with a staccato roar and knew that the faithful chauffeur was ready for them. "i'm getting it, i think," said richard hartley, between his teeth. "i'm getting it. turn, you beast! turn!" there was a sound of hurrying feet, and ste. marie spun about. he cried: "don't wait for me! jump into the car and go! don't wait anywhere! come back after you've left benham at home!" he began to run forward toward those running feet, and he did not know that the girl followed after him. a short distance away there was a little open space of moonlight, and in its midst, at full career, he met the irishman o'hara, a gaunt and grotesque figure in his sleeping-suit, barefooted, with empty hands. beyond him still, some one else ran, stumbling, and sobbed and uttered mad cries. ste. marie dropped his pistol to the ground and sprang upon the irishman. he caught him about the body and arms, and the two swayed and staggered under the tremendous impact. at just that moment, from behind, came the crash of the opened door and triumphant shouts. ste. marie gave a little gasp of triumph, too, and clung the harder to the man with whom he fought. he drove his head into the irishman's shoulder, and set his muscles with a grip which was like iron. he knew that it could not endure long, for the irishman was stronger than he, but the grip of a nervous man who is keyed up to a high tension is incredibly powerful for a little while. trained strength is nothing beside it. it seemed to ste. marie in this desperate moment--it cannot have been more than a minute or two at the most--that a strange and uncanny miracle befell him. it was as if he became two. soul and body, spirit and straining flesh, seemed to him to separate, to stand apart, each from the other. there was a thing of iron flesh and thews which had locked itself about an enemy and clung there madly with but one purpose, one single thought--to grip and grip, and never loosen until flesh should be torn from bones. but apart the spirit looked on with a complete detachment. it looked beyond--he must have raised his head to glance over o'hara's shoulder--saw a mad figure staggering forward in the moonlight, and knew the figure for captain stewart. it saw an upraised arm and was not afraid, for the work was almost done now. it listened and was glad, hearing the motor-car, without the walls, leap forward into the night and its puffing grow fainter and fainter with distance. it knew that the thing of strained sinews received a crashing blow upon backflung head, and that the iron muscles were slipping away from their grip, but it was still glad, for the work was done. only at the last, before red and whirling lights had obscured the view, before consciousness was dissolved in unconsciousness, came horror and agony, for the eyes saw captain stewart back away and raise the thing he had struck with, a large revolver, saw coira o'hara, a swift and flashing figure in the moonlight, throw herself upon him before he could fire, heard together a woman's scream and the roar of the pistol's explosion, and then knew no more. * * * * * xxviii medea's little hour when coira o'hara came to herself from the moment's swoon into which she had fallen, she rose to her knees and stared wildly about her. she seemed to be alone in the place, and her first thought was to wonder how long she had lain there. captain stewart had disappeared. she remembered her struggle with him to prevent him from firing at ste. marie, and she remembered her desperate agony when she realized that she could not hold him much longer. she remembered the accidental discharge of the revolver into the air; she remembered being thrown violently to the ground--and that was all. where was her father, and where was ste. marie? the first question answered itself, for as she turned her eyes toward the west she saw o'hara's tall, ungainly figure disappearing in the direction of the house. she called his name twice, but it may be that the man did not hear, for he went on without pausing and was lost to sight. the girl became aware of something which lay on the ground near her, half in and half out of the patch of silver moonlight. for some moments she stared at it uncomprehending. then she gave a sharp scream and struggled to her feet. she ran to the thing which lay there motionless and fell upon her knees beside it. it was ste. marie, his face upturned to the sky, one side of his head black and damp. stewart had not shot him, but that crashing blow with the clubbed revolver had struck him full and fair, and he was very still. for an instant the girl's strength went out of her, and she dropped lax across the body, her face upon ste. marie's breast. but after that she tore open coat and waistcoat and felt for a heart-beat. it seemed to her that she found life, and she began to believe that the man had only been stunned. once more she rose to her feet and looked about her. there was no one to lend her aid. she bent over the unconscious man and slipped her arms about him. though ste. marie was tall, he was slightly built, by no means heavy, and the girl was very strong. she found that she could carry him a little way, dragging his feet after her. when she could go no farther she laid him down and crouched over him, waiting until her strength should return. and this she did for a score of times; but each time the distance she went was shorter and her breathing came with deeper gasps and the trembling in her limbs grew more terrible. at the last she moved in a sort of fever, an evil dream of tortured body and reeling brain. but she had got ste. marie up through the park to the terrace and into the house, and with a last desperate effort she had laid him upon a couch in a certain little room which opened from the lower hall. then she fell down before him and lay still for a long time. when she came to herself again the man was stirring feebly and muttering to himself under his breath. with slow and painful steps she got across the room and pulled the bell-cord. she remained there ringing until the old justine, blinking and half-dressed, appeared with a candle in the doorway. coira told the woman to make lights, and then to bring water and a certain little bottle of aromatic salts which was in her room up-stairs. the old justine exclaimed and cried out, but the girl flew at her in a white fury, and she tottered away as fast as old legs could move once she had set alight the row of candles on the mantelshelf. then coira o'hara went back to the man who lay outstretched on the low couch, and knelt beside him, looking into his face. the man stirred, and moved his head slowly. half-articulate words came from his lips, and she made out that he was saying her name in a dull monotone--only her name, over and over again. she gave a little cry of grief and gladness, and hid her face against him as she had done once before, out in the night. the old woman returned with a jug of water, towels, and the bottle of aromatic salts. the two of them washed that stain from ste. marie's head, and found that he had received a severe bruise and that the flesh had been cut before and above the ear. "thank god," the girl said, "it is only a flesh wound! if it were a fracture he would be breathing in that horrible, loud way they always do. he's breathing naturally. he has only been stunned. you may go now," she said. "only bring a glass and some drinking-water--cold." so the old woman went away to do her errand, returned, and went away again, and the two were left together. coira held the salts-bottle to ste. marie's nostrils, and he gasped and sneezed and tried to turn his head away from it, but it brought him to his senses--and doubtless to a good deal of pain. once when he could not escape the thing he broke into a fit of weak cursing, and the girl laughed over him tenderly and let him be. very slowly ste. marie opened his eyes, and in the soft half-light the girl's face was bent above him, dark and sweet and beautiful--near, so near that her breath was warm upon his lips. he said her name again in an incredulous whisper: "coira! coira!" and she said, "i am here." but the man was in a strange border-land of half-consciousness and his ears were deaf. he said, gazing up at her: "is it--another dream?" and he tried to raise one hand from where it lay beside him, but the hand wavered and fell aslant across his body. it had not the strength yet to obey him. he said, still in his weak whisper: "oh, beautiful--and sweet--and true!" the girl gave a little sob and hid her face. "a goddess!" he whispered. "'a queen among goddesses!' that's--what the little jew said. 'a queen among goddesses. the young juno before--'" he stirred restlessly where he lay, and he complained: "my head hurts! what's the matter with my head? it hurts!" she dipped one of the towels in the basin of cold water and held it to the man's brow. the chill of it must have been grateful, for his eyes closed and he breathed a little satisfied "ah!" "it mustn't hurt to-night," said he. "to-night at two--by the little door in the garden wall. and he's coming with us. the young fool is coming with us.... so she and i go out of each other's lives.... coira!" he cried, with a sudden sharpness. "coira, i won't have it! am i going to lose you ... like this? am i going to lose you, after all ... now that we know?" he put up his hand once more, a weak and uncertain hand. it touched the girl's warm cheek and a sudden violent shiver wrung the man on the couch. his eyes sharpened and stared with something like fear. "_real!_" he cried, whispering. "real? ... not a dream?" "oh, very real, my bayard!" said she. a thought came to her, and she drew away from the couch and sat back upon her heels, looking at the man with grave and sombre eyes. in that moment she fought within herself a battle of right and wrong. "he doesn't remember," she said. "he doesn't know. he is like a little child. he knows nothing but that we two--are here together. nothing else. nothing!" his state was plain to see. he dwelt still in that vague border-land between worlds. he had brought with him no memories, and no memories followed him save those her face had wakened. within the girl a great and tender passion of love fought for possession of this little hour. "it will be all i shall ever have!" she cried, piteously. "and it cannot harm him. he won't remember it when he comes to his senses. he'll sleep again and--forget. he'll go back to _her_ and never know. and i shall never even see him again. why can't i have my little sweet hour?" once more the man cried her name, and she knelt forward and bent above him. "oh, at last, coira!" said he. "after so long! ... and i thought it was another dream!" "do you dream of me, bayard?" she asked. and he said: "from the very first. from that evening in the champs-elysées. your eyes, they've haunted me from the very first. there was a dream of you," he said, "that i had so often--but i cannot quite remember, because my head hurts. what is the matter with my head? i was--going somewhere. it was so very important that i should go, but i have forgotten where it was and why i had to go there. i remember only that you called to me--called me back--and i saw your eyes--and i couldn't go. you needed me." "ah, sorely, bayard! sorely!" cried the girl above him. "and now," said he, whispering. "now?" she said. "coira, i love you," said the man on the couch. and coira o'hara gave a single dry sob. she said: "oh, my dear love! now i wish that i might die after hearing you say that. my life, bayard, is full now. it's full of joy and gratefulness and everything that is sweet. i wish i might die before other things come to spoil it." ste. marie--or that part of him which lay at la lierre--laughed with a fine scorn, albeit very weakly. "why not live instead?" said he. "and what can come to spoil our life for us? _our life!_" he said again, in a whisper. a flash of remembrance seemed to come to him, for he smiled and said, "coira, we'll go to vavau." "anywhere!" said she. "anywhere!" "so that we go together." "yes," she said, gently, "so that we two go together." she tried with a desperate fierceness to make herself like the man before her, to put away, by sheer power of will, all memory, the knowledge of everything save what was in this little room, but it was the vainest of all vain efforts. she saw herself for a thief and a cheat--stealing, for love's sake, the mere body of the man she loved while mind and soul were absent. in her agony she almost cried out aloud as the words said themselves within her. and she denied them. she said: "his mind may be absent, but his soul is here. he loves me. it is i, not that other. can i not have my poor little hour of pretence? a little hour out of all a lifetime! shall i have nothing at all?" but the voice which had accused her said, "if he knew, would he say he loves you?" and she hid her face, for she knew that he would not--even if it were true. "coira!" whispered the man on the couch, and she raised her head. in the half darkness he could not have seen how she was suffering. her face was only a warm blur to him, vague and sweet and beautiful, with tender eyes. he said: "i think--i'm falling asleep. my head is so very, very queer! what is the matter with my head? coira, do you think i might be kissed before i go to sleep?" she gave a little cry of intolerable anguish. it seemed to her that she was being tortured beyond all reason or endurance. she felt suddenly very weak, and she was afraid that she was going to faint away. she laid her face down upon the couch where ste. marie's head lay. her cheek was against his and her hair across his eyes. the man gave a contented sigh and fell asleep. later, she rose stiffly and wearily to her feet. she stood for a little while looking down upon him. it was as if she looked upon the dead body of a lover. she seemed to say a still and white and tearless farewell to him. her little hour was done, and it had been, instead of joy, bitterness unspeakable: ashes in the mouth. then she went out of the room and closed the door. in the hall outside she stood a moment considering, and finally mounted the stairs and went to her father's door. she knocked and thought she heard a slight stirring inside, but there was no answer. she knocked twice again and called out her father's name, saying that she wished to speak to him, but still he made no reply, and after waiting a little longer she turned away. she went down-stairs again and out upon the terrace. the terrace and the lawn before it were still checkered with silver and deep black, but the moon was an hour lower in the west. a little cool breeze had sprung up, and it was sweet and grateful to her. she sat down upon one of the stone benches and leaned her head back against the trunk of a tree which stood beside it and she remained there for a long time, still and relaxed, in a sort of bodily and mental languor--an exhaustion of flesh and spirit. there came shambling footsteps upon the turf, and the old michel advanced into the moonlight from the gloom of the trees, emitting mechanical and not very realistic groans. he had been hard put to it to find any one before whom he could pour out his tale of heroism and suffering. coira o'hara looked upon him coldly, and the gnome groaned with renewed and somewhat frightened energy. "what is the matter with you?" she asked. "why are you about at this hour?" the old michel told his piteous tale with tears and passion, protesting that he had succumbed only before the combined attack of twenty armed men, and exhibiting his wounds. but the girl gave a brief and mirthless laugh. "you were bribed to tell that, i suppose," said she. "by m. ste. marie? yes, probably. well, tell it to my father to-morrow! you'd better go to bed now." the old man stared at her with open mouth for a breathless moment, and then shambled hastily away, looking over his shoulder at intervals until he was out of sight. but after that the girl still remained in her place from sheer weariness and lack of impulse to move. she fell to wondering about captain stewart and what had become of him, but she did not greatly care. she had a feeling that her world had come to its end, and she was quite indifferent about those who still peopled its ashes--or about all of them save her father. she heard the distant sound of a motor-car, and at that sat up quickly, for it might be ste. marie's friend, mr. hartley, returning from paris. the sound came nearer and ceased, but she waited for ten minutes before rapid steps approached from the east wall and hartley was before her. he cried at once: "where's ste. marie? where is he? he hasn't tried to walk into the city?" "he is asleep in the house," said the girl. "he was struck on the head and stunned. i got him into the house, and he is asleep now. of course," she said, "we could wake him, but it would probably be better to let him sleep as long as he will if it is possible. it will save him a great deal of pain, i think. he'll have a frightful headache if he's wakened now. could you come for him or send for him to-morrow--toward noon?" "why--yes, i suppose so," said richard hartley. "yes, of course, if you think that's better. could i just see him for a moment?" he stared at the girl a bit suspiciously, and coira looked back at him with a little tired smile, for she read his thought. "you want to make sure," said she. "of course! yes, come in. he's sleeping very soundly." she led the man into that dim room where ste. marie lay, and hartley's quick eye noted the basin of water and the stained towels and the little bottle of aromatic salts. he bent over his friend to see the bruise at the side of the head, and listened to the sleeper's breathing. then the two went out again to the moonlit terrace. "you must forgive me," said he, when they had come there. "you must forgive me for seeming suspicious, but--all this wretched business--and he is my closest friend--i've come to suspect everybody. i was unjust, for you helped us to get away. i beg your pardon!" the girl smiled at him again, her little, white, tired smile, and she said: "there is nothing i would not do to make amends--now that i know--the truth." "yes," said hartley, "i understand. arthur benham told me how stewart lied to you all. was it he who struck ste. marie?" she nodded. "and then tried to shoot him; but he didn't succeed in that. i wonder where he is--captain stewart?" "i have him out in the car," hartley said. "oh, he shall pay, you may be sure!--if he doesn't die and cheat us, that is. i nearly ran the car over him a few minutes ago. if it hadn't been for the moonlight i would have done for him. he was lying on his face in that lane that leads to the issy road. i don't know what is the matter with him. he's only half conscious and he's quite helpless. he looks as if he'd had a stroke of apoplexy or something. i must hurry him back to paris, i suppose, and get him under a doctor's care. i wonder what's wrong with him?" the girl shook her head, for she did not know of stewart's epileptic seizures. she thought it quite possible that he had suffered a stroke of apoplexy as hartley suggested, for she remembered the half-mad state he had been in. richard hartley stood for a time in thought. "i must get stewart back to paris at once," he said, finally. "i must get him under care and in a safe place from which he can't escape. it will want some managing. if i can get away i'll come out here again in the morning, but if not i'll send the car out with orders to wait here until ste. marie is ready to return to the city. are you sure he's all right--that he isn't badly hurt?" "i think he will be all right," she said, "save for the pain. he was only stunned." and hartley nodded. "he seems to be breathing quite naturally," said he. "that's arranged, then. the car will be here in waiting, and i shall come with it if i can. tell him when he wakes." he put out his hand to her, and the girl gave him hers very listlessly but smiling. she wished he would go and leave her alone. then in a moment more he did go, and she heard his quick steps down through the trees, and heard, a little later, the engine of the motor-car start up with a sudden loud volley of explosions. and so she was left to her solitary watch. she noticed, as she turned to go indoors, that the blackness of the night was just beginning to gray toward dawn. * * * * * xxix the scales of injustice ste. marie slept soundly until mid-morning--that it to say, about ten o'clock--and then awoke with a dull pain in his head and a sensation of extreme giddiness which became something like vertigo when he attempted to rise. however, with the aid of the old michel he got somehow up-stairs to his room and made a rather sketchy toilet. coira came to him there, and while he lay still across the bed told him about the happenings of the night after he had received his injury. she told him also that the motor was waiting for him outside the wall, and that richard hartley had sent a message by the chauffeur to say that he was very busy in paris making arrangements about stewart, who had come out of his strange state of half-insensibility only to rave in a delirium. "so," she said, "you can go now whenever you are ready. arthur is with his family, captain stewart is under guard, and your work is done. you ought to be glad--even though you are suffering pain." ste. marie looked up at her. "do i seem glad, coira?" said he. and she said: "you will be glad to-morrow--and always, i hope and pray. always! always!" the man held one hand over his aching eyes. "i have," he said, "queer half-memories. i wish i could remember distinctly." he looked up at her again. "i dropped down by the gate in the wall. when i awoke i was in a room in the house. how did that happen?" "oh," she said, turning her face away, "we got you up to the house almost at once." but ste. marie frowned thoughtfully. "'we'? who do you mean by 'we'?" "well, then, i," the girl said. "it was not difficult." "coira," cried the man, "do you mean that you carried me bodily all that long distance? _you_?" "carried or dragged," she said. "as much one as the other. it was not very difficult. i'm strong for a woman." "oh, child! child!" he cried. and he said: "i remember more. it was you who held stewart and kept him from shooting me. i heard the shot and i heard you scream. the last thought i had was that you had been killed in saving me. that's what i went out into the blank thinking." he covered his eyes again as if the memory were intolerable. but after awhile he said: "you saved my life, you know." and the girl answered him: "i had nearly taken it once before. it was i who called michel that day you came over the wall, the day you were shot. i nearly murdered you once. i owed you something. perhaps we're even now." she saw that he did not at all remember that hour in the little room--her hour of bitterness--and she was glad. she had felt sure that it would be so. for the present she did not greatly suffer, she had come to a state beyond active suffering--a chill state of dulled sensibilities. the old justine knocked at the door to ask if monsieur was going into the city soon or if she should give the chauffeur his déjeuner and tell him to wait. "are you fit to go?" coira asked. and he said, "i suppose as fit as i shall be." he got to his feet, and the things about him swam dangerously, but he could walk by using great care. the girl stood white and still, and she avoided his eyes. "it is not good-bye," said he. "i shall see you soon again--and i hope, often--often, coira." the words had a flat and foolish sound, but he could find no others. it was not easy to speak. "i suppose i must not ask to see your father?" said he. and she told him that her father had locked himself in his own room and would see no one--would not even open his door to take in food. ste. marie went to the stairs leaning upon the shoulder of the stout old justine, but before he had gone coira checked him for an instant. she said: "tell arthur, if he speaks to you about me, that what i said in the note i gave him last night i meant quite seriously. i gave him a note to read after he reached home. tell him for me that it was final. will you do that?" "yes, of course," said ste. marie. he looked at her with some wonder, because her words had been very emphatic. "yes," he said, "i will tell him. is that all?" "all but good-bye," said she. "good-bye, bayard!" she stood at the head of the stairs while he went down them. and she came after him to the landing, half-way, where the stairs turned in the opposite direction for their lower flight. when he went out of the front door he looked back, and she was standing there above him, a straight, still figure, dark against the light of the windows behind her. he went straight to the rue d'assas. he found that while he sat still in the comfortable tonneau of the motor his head was fairly normal, and the world did not swing and whirl about in that sickening fashion. but when the car lurched or bumped over an obstruction it made him giddy, and he would have fallen had he been standing. the familiar streets of the montparnasse and luxembourg quarters had for his eyes all the charm and delight of home things to the returned traveller. he felt as if he had been away for months, and he caught himself looking for changes, and it made him laugh. he was much relieved when he found that his concierge was not on watch, and that he could slip unobserved up the stairs and into his rooms. the rooms were fresh and clean, for they had been aired and tended daily. arrived there, he wrote a little note to a friend of his who was a doctor and lived in the rue notre dame des champs, asking this man to call as soon as it might be convenient. he sent the note by the chauffeur and then lay down, dressed as he was, to wait, for he could not stand or move about without a painful dizziness. the doctor came within a half-hour, examined ste. marie's bruised head, and bound it up. he gave him a dose of something with a vile taste which he said would take away the worst of the pain in a few hours, and he also gave him a sleeping-potion, and made him go to bed. "you'll be fairly fit by evening," he said. "but don't stir until then. i'll leave word below that you're not to be disturbed." so it happened that when richard hartley came dashing up an hour or two later he was not allowed to see his friend, and ste. marie slept a dreamless sleep until dark. he awoke then, refreshed but ravenous with hunger, and found that there was only a dull ache in his battered head. the dizziness and the vertigo were almost completely gone. he made lights and dressed with care. he felt like a little girl making ready for a party, it was so long--or seemed so long;--since he had put on evening clothes. then he went out, leaving at the loge of the concierge a note for hartley, to say where he might be found. he went to lavenue's and dined in solitary pomp, for it was after nine o'clock. again it seemed to him that it was months since he had done the like--sat down to a real table for a real dinner. at ten he got into a fiacre and drove to the rue de l'université. the man who admitted him said that mademoiselle was alone in the drawing-room, and he went there at once. he was dully conscious that something was very wrong, but he had suffered too much within the past few hours to be analytical, and he did not know what it was that was wrong. he should have entered that room with a swift and eager step, with shining eyes, with a high-beating heart. he went into it slowly, wrapped in a mantle of strange apathy. helen benham came forward to meet him, and took both his hands in hers. ste. marie was amazed to see that she seemed not to have altered at all--in spite of this enormous lapse of time, in spite of all that had happened in it. and yet, unaltered, she seemed to him a stranger, a charming and gracious stranger with an icily beautiful face. he wondered at her and at himself, and he was a little alarmed because he thought that he must be ill. that blow upon the head must, after all, have done something terrible to him. "ah, ste. marie!" she said, in her well-remembered voice--and again he wondered that the voice should be so high-pitched and so without color or feeling. "how glad i am," she said, "that you are safely out of it all! how you have suffered for us, ste. marie! you look white and ill. sit down, please! don't stand!" she drew him to a comfortable chair, and he sat down in it obediently. he could not think of anything to say, though he was not, as a rule, tongue-tied; but the girl did not seem to expect any answer, for she went on at once with a rather odd air of haste: "arthur is here with us, safe and sound. richard hartley brought him back from that dreadful place, and he has talked everything over with my grandfather, and it's all right. they both understand now, and there'll be no more trouble. we have had to be careful, very careful, and we have had to--well, to rearrange the facts a little so as to leave--my uncle--to leave captain stewart's name out of it. it would not do to shock my grandfather by telling him the truth. perhaps later; i don't know. that will have to be thought of. for the present we have left my uncle out of it, and put the blame entirely upon this other man. i forget his name." "the blame cannot rest there," said ste. marie, sharply. "it is not deserved, and i shall not allow it to be left so. captain stewart lied to o'hara throughout. you cannot leave the blame with an innocent man." "still," she said, "such a man!" ste. marie looked at her, frowning, and the girl turned her eyes away. she may have had the grace to be a little ashamed. "think of the difficulty we were in!" she urged. "captain stewart is my grandfather's own son. we cannot tell him now, in his weak state, that his own son is--what he is." there was reason if not justice in that, and ste. marie was forced to admit it. he said: "ah, well, for the present, then. that can be arranged later. the main point is that i've found your brother for you. i've brought him back." miss benham looked up at him and away again, and she drew a quick breath. he saw her hands move restlessly in her lap, and he was aware that for some odd reason she was very ill at ease. at last she said: "ah, but--but have you, dear ste. marie? have you?" after a brief silence she stole another swift glance at the man, and he was staring in open and frank bewilderment. she rushed into rapid speech. "ah," she cried, "don't misunderstand me! don't think that i'm brutal or ungrateful for all you've--you've suffered in trying to help us! don't think that! i can--we can never be grateful enough--never! but stop and think! yes, i know this all sounds hideous, but it's so terribly important. i shouldn't dream of saying a word of it if it weren't so important, if so much didn't depend upon it. but stop and think! was it, dear ste. marie, was it, after all, you? was it you who brought arthur to us?" the man fairly blinked at her, owl-like. he was beyond speech. "wasn't it richard?" she hurried on. "wasn't it richard hartley? ah, if i could only say it without seeming so contemptibly heartless! if only i needn't say it at all! but it must be said because of what depends upon it. think! go back to the beginning! wasn't it richard who first began to suspect my uncle? didn't he tell you or write to you what he had discovered, and so set you upon the right track? and after you had--well, just fallen into their hands, with no hope of ever escaping yourself--to say nothing of bringing arthur back--wasn't it richard who came to your rescue and brought it all to victory? oh, ste. marie, i must be just to him as well as to you! don't you see that? however grateful i may be to you for what you have done--suffered--i cannot, in justice, give you what i was to have given you, since it is, after all, richard who has saved my brother. i cannot, can i? surely you must see it. and you must see how it hurts me to have to say it. i had hoped that--you would understand--without my speaking." still the man sat in his trance of astonishment, speechless. for the first time in his life he was brought face to face with the amazing, the appalling injustice of which a woman is capable when her heart is concerned. this girl wished to believe that to richard hartley belonged the credit of rescuing her brother, and lo! she believed it. a score of juries might have decided against her, a hundred proofs controverted her decision, but she would have been deaf and blind. it is only women who accomplish miracles of reasoning like that. ste. marie took a long breath and he started to speak, but in the end shook his head and remained silent. through the whirl and din of falling skies he was yet able to see the utter futility of words. he could have adduced a hundred arguments to prove her absurdity. he could have shown her that before he ever read hartley's note he had decided upon stewart's guilt--and for much better reasons than hartley had. he could have pointed out to her that it was he, not hartley, who discovered young benham's whereabouts, that it was he who summoned hartley there, and that, as a matter of fact, hartley need not have come at all, since the boy had been persuaded to go home in any case. he thought of all these things and more, and in a moment of sheer anger at her injustice he was on the point of stating them, but he shook his head and remained silent. after all, of what use was speech? he knew that it could make no impression upon her, and he knew why. for some reason, in some way, she had turned during his absence to richard hartley, and there was nothing more to be said. there was no treachery on hartley's part. he knew that, and it never even occurred to him to blame his friend. hartley was as faithful as any one who ever lived. it seemed to be nobody's fault. it had just happened. he looked at the girl before him with a new expression, an expression of sheer curiosity. it seemed to him well-nigh incredible that any human being could be so unjust and so blind. yet he knew her to be, in other matters, one of the fairest of all women, just and tender and thoughtful and true. he knew that she prided herself upon her cool impartiality of judgment. he shook his head with a little sigh and ceased to wonder any more. it was beyond him. he became aware that he ought to say something, and he said: "yes. yes, i--see. i see what you mean. yes, hartley did all you say. i hadn't meant to rob hartley of the credit he deserves. i suppose you're right." he was possessed of a sudden longing to get away out of that room, and he rose to his feet. "if you don't mind," he said, "i think i'd better go. this is--well, it's a bit of a facer, you see. i want to think it over. perhaps to-morrow--you don't mind?" he saw a swift relief flash into miss benham's eyes, but she murmured a few words of protest that had a rather perfunctory sound. ste. marie shook his head. "thanks! i won't stay," said he. "not just now. i--think i'd better go." he had a confused realization of platitudinous adieus, of a silly formality of speech, and he found himself in the hall. once he glanced back and miss benham was standing where he had left her, looking after him with a calm and unimpassioned face. he thought that she looked rather like a very beautiful statue. the butler came to him to say that mr. stewart would be glad if he would look in before leaving the house, and so he went up-stairs and knocked at old david's door. he moved like a man in a dream, and the things about him seemed to be curiously unreal and rather far away, as they seem sometimes in a fever. he was admitted at once, and he found the old man sitting up in bed, clad in one of his incredibly gorgeous mandarin's jackets--plum-colored satin this time, with peonies--overflowing with spirits and good-humor. his grandson sat in a chair near at hand. the old man gave a shout of welcome: "ah, here's jason at last, back from colchis! welcome home to--whatever the name of the place was! welcome home!" he shook ste. marie's hand with hospitable violence, and ste. marie was astonished to see upon what a new lease of life and strength the old man seemed to have entered. there was no ingratitude or misconception here, certainly. old david quite overwhelmed his visitor with thanks and with expressions of affection. "you've saved my life among other things!" he said, in his gruff roar. "i was ready to go, but, by the lord, i'm going to stay awhile longer now! this world's a better place than i thought--a much better place." he shook a heavily waggish head. "if i didn't know," said he, "what your reward is to be for what you've done, i should be in despair over it all, because there is nothing else in the world that would be anything like adequate. you've been making sure of the reward down-stairs, i dare say? eh, what? yes?" "you mean--?" asked the younger man. and old david said: "i mean helen, of course. what else?" ste. marie was not quite himself. at another time he might have got out of the room with an evasive answer, but he spoke without thinking. he said: "oh--yes! i suppose--i suppose i ought to tell you that miss benham--well, she has changed her mind. that is to say--" "what!" shouted old david stewart, in his great voice. "what is that?" "why, it seems," said ste. marie--"it seems that i only blundered. it seems that hartley rescued your grandson, not i. and i suppose he did, you know. when you come to think of it, i suppose he did." david stewart's great white beard seemed to bristle like the ruff of an angry dog, and his eyes flashed fiercely under their shaggy brows. "do you mean to tell me that after all you've done and--and gone through, helen has thrown you over? do you mean to tell me that?" "well," argued ste. marie, uncomfortably--"well, you see, she seems to be right. i did bungle it, didn't i? it was hartley who came and pulled us out of the hole." "hartley be damned!" cried the old man, in a towering rage. and he began to pour out the most extraordinary flood of furious invective upon his granddaughter and upon richard hartley, whom he quite unjustly termed a snake-in-the-grass, and finally upon all women, past, contemporary, or still to be born. ste. marie, in fear for old david's health, tried to calm him, and the faithful valet came running from the room beyond with prayers and protestations, but nothing would check that astonishing flow of fury until it had run its full course. then the man fell back upon his pillows, crimson, panting, and exhausted, but the fierce eyes glittered still, and they boded no good for miss helen benham. "you're well rid of her!" said the old gentleman, when at last he was once more able to speak. "you're well rid of her! i congratulate you! i am ashamed and humiliated, and a great burden of obligation is shifted to me--though i assume it with pleasure--but i congratulate you. you might have found out too late what sort of a woman she is." ste. marie began to protest and to explain and to say that miss benham had been quite right in what she said, but the old gentleman only waved an impatient arm to him, and presently, when he saw the valet making signs across the bed, and saw that his host was really in a state of complete exhaustion after the outburst, he made his adieus and got away. young arthur benham, who had been sitting almost silent during the interview, followed him out of the room and closed the door behind them. for the first time ste. marie noted that the boy's face was white and strained. he pulled a crumpled square of folded paper from his pocket and shook it at the other man. "do you know what this is?" he cried. "do you know what's in this?" ste. marie shook his head, but a sudden recollection came to him. "ah," said he, "that must be the note mlle. o'hara spoke of! she asked me to tell you that she meant it--whatever it may be--quite seriously; that it was final. she didn't explain. she just said that--that you were to take it as final." the lad gave a sudden very bitter sob. "she has thrown me over!" he said. "she says i'm not to come back to her." ste. marie gave a wordless cry, and he began to tremble. "you can read it if you want to," the boy said. "perhaps you can explain it. i can't. do you want to read it?" the elder man stood staring at him whitely, and the boy repeated his words. he said, "you can read it if you want to," and at last ste. marie took the paper between stiff hands, and held it to the light. coira o'hara said, briefly, that too much was against their marriage. she mentioned his age, the certain hostility of his family, their different tastes, a number of other things. but in the end she said she had begun to realize that she did not love him as she ought to do if they were to marry. and so, the note said, finally, she gave him up to his family, she released him altogether, and she begged him not to come back to her, or to urge her to change her mind. also she made the trite but very sensible observation that he would be glad of his freedom before the year was out. ste. marie's unsteady fingers opened and the crumpled paper slipped through them to the floor. over it the man and the boy looked at each other in silence. young arthur benham's face was white, and it was strained and contorted with its first grief. but first griefs do not last very long. coira o'hara had told the truth--before the year was out the lad would be glad of his freedom. but the man's face was white also, white and still, and his eyes held a strange expression which the boy could not understand and at which he wondered. the man was trembling a little from head to foot. the boy wondered about that, too, but abruptly he cried out: "what's up? where are you going?" for ste. marie had turned all at once and was running down the stairs as fast as he could run. * * * * * xxx jason sails back to colchis.--journey's end in the hall below, ste. marie came violently into contact with and nearly overturned richard hartley, who was just giving his hat and stick to the man who had admitted him. hartley seized upon him with an exclamation of pleasure, and wheeled him round to face the light. he said: "i've been pursuing you all day. you're almost as difficult of access here in paris as you were at la lierre. how's the head?" ste. marie put up an experimental hand. he had forgotten his injury. "oh, that's all right," said he. "at least, i think so. anderson fixed me up this afternoon. but i haven't time to talk to you. i'm in a hurry. to-morrow we'll have a long chin. oh, how about stewart?" he lowered his voice, and hartley answered him in the same tone. "the man is in a delirium. heaven knows how it'll end. he may die and he may pull through. i hope he pulls through--except for the sake of the family--because then we can make him pay for what he's done. i don't want him to go scot free by dying." "nor i," said ste. marie, fiercely. "nor i. i want him to pay, too--long and slowly and hard; and if he lives i shall see that he does it, family or no family. now i must be off." ste. marie's face was shining and uplifted. the other man looked at it with a little envious sigh. "i see everything is all right," said he, "and i congratulate you. you deserve it if ever any one did." ste. marie stared for an instant, uncomprehending. then he saw. "yes," he said, gently, "everything is all right." it was plain that the englishman did not know of miss benham's decision. he was incapable of deceit. ste. marie threw an arm over his friend's shoulder and went with him a little way toward the drawing-room. "go in there," he said. "you'll find some one glad to see you, i think. and remember that i said everything is all right." he came back after he had turned away, and met hartley's puzzled frown with a smile. "if you've that motor here, may i use it?" he asked. "i want to go somewhere in a hurry." "of course," the other man said. "of course. i'll go home in a cab." so they parted, and ste. marie went out to the waiting car. on the left bank the streets are nearly empty of traffic at night, and one can make excellent time over them. ste. marie reached the porte de versailles, at the city's limits, in twenty minutes and dashed through issy five minutes later. in less than half an hour from the time he had left the rue de l'université he was under the walls of la lierre. he looked at his watch, and it was not quite half-past eleven. he tried the little door in the wall, and it was unlocked, so he passed in and closed the door behind him. inside he found that he was running, and he gave a little laugh, but of eagerness and excitement, not of mirth. there were dim lights in one or two of the upper windows, but none below, and there was no one about. he pulled at the door-bell, and after a few impatient moments pulled again and still again. then he noticed that the heavy door was ajar, and, since no one answered his ringing, he pushed the door open and went in. the lower hall was quite dark, but a very faint light came down from above through the well of the staircase. he heard dragging feet in the upper hall, and then upon one of the upper flights, for the stairs, broad below, divided at a half-way landing and continued upward in an opposite direction in two narrower flights. a voice, very faint and weary, called: "who is there? who is ringing, please?" and coira o'hara, holding a candle in her hand, came upon the stair-landing and stood gazing down into the darkness. she wore a sort of dressing-gown, a heavy white garment which hung in straight, long folds to her feet and fell away from the arm that held the candle on high. the yellow beams of light struck down across her head and face, and even at the distance the man could see how white she was and hollow-eyed and worn--a pale wraith of the splendid beauty that had walked in the garden at la lierre. "who is there, please?" she asked again. "i can't see. what is it?" "it is i, coira!" said ste. marie. and she gave a sharp cry. the arm which was holding the candle overhead shook and fell beside her as if the strength had gone out of it. the candle dropped to the floor, spluttered there for an instant and went out, but there was still a little light from the hall above. ste. marie sprang up the stairs to where the girl stood, and caught her in his arms, for she was on the verge of faintness. her head fell back away from him, and he saw her eyes through half-closed lids, her white teeth through parted lips. she was trembling--but, for that matter, so was he at the touch of her, the heavy and sweet burden in his arms. she tried to speak, and he heard a whisper: "why? why? why?" "because it is my place, coira!" said he. "because i cannot live away from you. because we belong together." the girl struggled weakly and pushed against him. once more he heard whispering words and made out that she tried to say: "go back to her! go back to her! you belong there!" but at that he laughed aloud. "i thought so, too," said he, "but she thinks otherwise. she'll have none of me, coira. it's richard hartley now. coira, can you love a jilted man? i've been jilted--thrown over--dismissed." her head came up in a flash and she stared at him, suddenly rigid and tense in his arms. "is that true?" she demanded. "yes, my love!" said he. and she began to weep, with long, comfortable sobs, her face hidden in the hollow of his shoulder. on one other occasion she had wept before him, and he had been horribly embarrassed, but he bore this present tempest without, as it were, winking. he gloried in it. he tried to say so. he tried to whisper to her, his lips pressed close to the ear that was nearest them, but he found that he had no speech. words would not come to his tongue; it trembled and faltered and was still for sheer inadequacy. rather oddly, in that his thoughts were chaos, swallowed up in the surge of feeling, a memory struck through to him of that other exaltation which had swept him to the stars. he looked upon it and was amazed because now he saw it, in clear light, for the thing it had been. he saw it for a fantasy, a self-evoked wraith of the imagination, a dizzy flight of the spirit through spirit space. he saw that it had not been love at all, and he realized how little a part helen benham had ever really played in it. a cold and still-eyed figure for him to wrap the veil of his imagination round, that was what she had been. there were times when the sweep of his upward flight had stirred her a little, wakened in her some vague response, but for the most part she had stood aside and looked on, wondering. the mist was rent away from that rainbow-painted cobweb, and at last the man saw and understood. he gave an exclamation of wonder, and the girl who loved him raised her head once more, and the two looked each into the other's eyes for a long time. they fell into hushed and broken speech. "i have loved you so long, so long," she said, "and so hopelessly! i never thought--i never believed. to think that in the end you have come to me! i cannot believe it!" "wait and see!" cried the man. "wait and see!" she shivered a little. "if it is not true i should like to die before i find out. i should like to die now, bayard, with your arms holding me up and your eyes close, close." ste. marie's arms tightened round her with a sudden fierceness. he hurt her, and she smiled up at him. their two hearts beat one against the other, and they beat very fast. "don't you understand," he cried, "that life's only just beginning--day's just dawning, coira? we've been lost in the dark. day's coming now. this is only the sunrise." "i can believe it at last," she said, "because you hold me close and you hurt me a little, and i'm glad to be hurt. and i can feel your heart beating. ah, never let me go, bayard! i should be lost in the dark again if you let me go." a sudden thought came to her, and she bent back her head to see the better. "did you speak with arthur?" and he said: "yes. he asked me to read your note, so i read it. that poor lad! i came straight to you then--straight and fast." "you knew why i did it?" she said, and ste. marie said: "now i know." "i could not have married him," said she. "i could not. i never thought i should see you again, but i loved you and i could not have married him. ah, impossible! and he'll be glad later on. you know that. it will save him any more trouble with his family, and besides--he's so very young. already, i think, he was beginning to chafe a little. i thought so more than once. oh, i'm trying to justify myself!" she cried. "i'm trying to find reasons; but you know the true reason. you know it." "i thank god for it," he said. so they stood clinging together in that dim place, and broken, whispering speech passed between them or long silences when speech was done. but at last they went down the stairs and out upon the open terrace, where the moonlight lay. "it was in the open, sweet air," the girl said, "that we came to know each other. let us walk in it now. the house smothers me." she looked up when they had passed the west corner of the façade and drew a little sigh. "i am worried about my father," said she. "he will not answer me when i call to him, and he has eaten nothing all day long. bayard, i think his heart is broken. ah, but to-morrow we shall mend it again! in the morning i shall make him let me in, and i shall tell him--what i have to tell." they turned down under the trees, where the moonlight made silver splashes about their feet, and the sweet night air bore soft against their faces. coira went a half-step in advance, her head laid back upon the shoulder of the man she loved, and his arm held her up from falling. so at last we leave them, walking there in the tender moonlight, with the breath of roses about them and their eyes turned to the coming day. it is still night and there is yet one cloud of sorrow to shadow them somewhat, for up-stairs in his locked room a man lies dead across the floor, with an empty pistol beside him--heart-broken, as the girl had feared. but where a great love is, shadows cannot last very long, not even such shadows as this. the morning must dawn--and joy cometh of a morning. so we leave them walking together in the moonlight, their faces turned toward the coming day. the end wylder's hand a novel by j. sheridan le fanu first published 1864 contents chap. i.--relating how i rode through the village of gylingden with mark wylder's letter in my valise ii.--in which i enter the drawing-room iii.--our dinner-party at brandon iv.--in which we go to the drawing-room and the party breaks up v.--in which my slumber is disturbed vi.--in which dorcas brandon speaks vii.--relating how a london gentleman appeared in redman's dell viii.--in which captain lake takes his hat and stick ix.--i see the ring of the persian magician x.--the ace of hearts xi.--in which lake under the trees of brandon, and i in my chamber, smoke our nocturnal cigars xii.--in which uncle lorne troubles me xiii.--the pony carriage xiv.--in which various persons give their opinions of captain stanley lake xv.--dorcas shows her jewels to miss lake xvi.--"jenny put the kettle on" xvii.--rachel lake sees wonderful things by moonlight from her window xviii.--mark wylder's slave xix.--the tarn in the park xx.--captain lake takes an evening stroll about gylingden xxi.--in which captain lake visits his sister's sick bed xxii.--in which captain lake meets a friend near the white house xxiii.--how rachel slept that night in redman's farm xxiv.--dorcas brandon pays rachel a visit xxv.--captain lake looks in at nightfall xxvi.--captain lake follows to london xxvii.--lawyer larkin's mind begins to work xxviii.--mark wylder's submission xxix.--how mark wylder's disappearance affected his friends xxx.--in brandon park xxxi.--in redman's dell xxxii.--mr. larkin and the vicar xxxiii.--the ladies of gylingden heath xxxiv.--sir julius hockley's letter xxxv.--the hunt ball xxxvi.--the ball room xxxvii.--the supper-room xxxviii.--after the ball xxxix.--in which miss rachel lake comes to brandon, and doctor buddle calls again xl.--the attorney's adventures on the way home xli.--in which sir francis seddley manipulates xlii.--a paragraph in the county paper xliii.--an evil eye looks on the vicar xliv.--in which old tamar lifts up her voice in prophecy xlv.--deep and shallow xlvi.--debate and interruption xlvii.--a threatening notice xlviii.--in which i go to brandon, and see an old acquaintance in the tapestry room xlix.--larcom, the butler, visits the attorney l.--new lights li.--a fracas in the library lii.--an old friend looks into the garden at redman's farm liii.--the vicar's complications, which lively people had better not read liv.--brandon chapel on sunday lv.--the captain and the attorney converse among the tombs lvi.--the brandon conservatory lvii.--concerning a new danger which threatened captain stanley lake lviii.--miss rachel lake becomes violent lix.--an enemy in redman's dell lx.--rachel lake before the accuser lxi.--in which dame dutton is visited lxii.--the captain explains why mark wylder absconded lxiii.--the ace of hearts lxiv.--in the dutch room lxv.--i revisit brandon hall lxvi.--lady macbeth lxvii.--mr. larkin is vis-a-vis with a concealed companion lxviii.--the companion discloses himself lxix.--of a spectre whom old tamar saw lxx.--the meeting in the long pond alley lxxi.--sir harry bracton's invasion of gylingden lxxii.--mark wylder's hand lxxiii.--the mask falls lxxiv.--we take leave of our friends wylder's hand. chapter i. relating how i drove through the village of gylingden with mark wylder's letter in my valise. it was late in the autumn, and i was skimming along, through a rich english county, in a postchaise, among tall hedgerows gilded, like all the landscape, with the slanting beams of sunset. the road makes a long and easy descent into the little town of gylingden, and down this we were going at an exhilarating pace, and the jingle of the vehicle sounded like sledge-bells in my ears, and its swaying and jerking were pleasant and life-like. i fancy i was in one of those moods which, under similar circumstances, i sometimes experience still--a semi-narcotic excitement, silent but delightful. an undulating landscape, with a homely farmstead here and there, and plenty of old english timber scattered grandly over it, extended mistily to my right; on the left the road is overtopped by masses of noble forest. the old park of brandon lies there, more than four miles from end to end. these masses of solemn and discoloured verdure, the faint but splendid lights, and long filmy shadows, the slopes and hollows--my eyes wandered over them all with that strange sense of unreality, and that mingling of sweet and bitter fancy, with which we revisit a scene familiar in very remote and early childhood, and which has haunted a long interval of maturity and absence, like a romantic reverie. as i looked through the chaise-windows, every moment presented some group, or outline, or homely object, for years forgotten; and now, with a strange surprise how vividly remembered and how affectionately greeted! we drove by the small old house at the left, with its double gable and pretty grass garden, and trim yews and modern lilacs and laburnums, backed by the grand timber of the park. it was the parsonage, and old bachelor doctor crewe, the rector, in my nonage, still stood, in memory, at the door, in his black shorts and gaiters, with his hands in his pockets, and a puckered smile on his hard ruddy countenance, as i approached. he smiled little on others i believe, but always kindly upon me. this general liking for children and instinct of smiling on them is one source of the delightful illusions which make the remembrance of early days so like a dream of paradise, and give us, at starting, such false notions of our value. there was a little fair-haired child playing on the ground before the steps as i whirled by. the old rector had long passed away; the shorts, gaiters, and smile--a phantom; and nature, who had gathered in the past, was providing for the future. the pretty mill-road, running up through redman's dell, dank and dark with tall romantic trees, was left behind in another moment; and we were now traversing the homely and antique street of the little town, with its queer shops and solid steep-roofed residences. up church-street i contrived a peep at the old gray tower where the chimes hung; and as we turned the corner a glance at the 'brandon arms.' how very small and low that palatial hostelry of my earlier recollections had grown! there were new faces at the door. it was only two-and-twenty years ago, and i was then but eleven years old. a retrospect of a score of years or so, at three-and-thirty, is a much vaster affair than a much longer one at fifty. the whole thing seemed like yesterday; and as i write, i open my eyes and start and cry, 'can it be twenty, five-and-twenty, aye, by jove! five-and-thirty, years since then?' how my days have flown! and i think when another such yesterday shall have arrived, where shall i be? the first ten years of my life were longer than all the rest put together, and i think would continue to be so were my future extended to an ante-noachian span. it is the first ten that emerge from nothing, and commencing in a point, it is during them that consciousness, memory--all the faculties grow, and the experience of sense is so novel, crowded, and astounding. it is this beginning at a point, and expanding to the immense disk of our present range of sensuous experience, that gives to them so prodigious an illusory perspective, and makes us in childhood, measuring futurity by them, form so wild and exaggerated an estimate of the duration of human life. but, i beg your pardon. my journey was from london. when i had reached my lodgings, after my little excursion up the rhine, upon my table there lay, among the rest, one letter--there generally _is_ in an overdue bundle--which i viewed with suspicion. i could not in the least tell why. it was a broad-faced letter, of bluish complexion, and had made inquisition after me in the country--had asked for me at queen's folkstone; and, _vised_ by my cousin, had presented itself at the friars, in shropshire, and thence proceeded by sir harry's direction (there was the autograph) to nolton hall; thence again to ilchester, whence my fiery and decisive old aunt sent it straight back to my cousin, with a whisk of her pen which seemed to say, 'how the plague can i tell where the puppy is?--'tis your business, sir, not mine, to find him out!' and so my cousin despatched it to my head-quarters in town, where from the table it looked up in my face, with a broad red seal, and a countenance scarred and marred all over with various post-marks, erasures, and transverse directions, the scars and furrows of disappointment and adventure. it had not a good countenance, somehow. the original lines were not prepossessing. the handwriting i knew as one sometimes knows a face, without being able to remember who the plague it belongs to; but, still, with an unpleasant association about it. i examined it carefully, and laid it down unopened. i went through half-a-dozen others, and recurred to it, and puzzled over its exterior again, and again postponed what i fancied would prove a disagreeable discovery; and this happened every now and again, until i had quite exhausted my budget, and then i did open it, and looked straight to the signature. 'pooh! mark wylder,' i exclaimed, a good deal relieved. mark wylder! yes, master mark could not hurt _me_. there was nothing about him to excite the least uneasiness; on the contrary, i believe he liked me as well as he was capable of liking anybody, and it was now seven years since we had met. i have often since thought upon the odd sensation with which i hesitated over his unopened letter; and now, remembering how the breaking of that seal resembled, in my life, the breaking open of a portal through which i entered a labyrinth, or rather a catacomb, where for many days i groped and stumbled, looking for light, and was, in a manner, lost, hearing strange sounds, witnessing imperfectly strange sights, and, at last, arriving at a dreadful chamber--a sad sort of superstition steals over me. i had then been his working junior in the cause of wylder _v._ trustees of brandon, minor--dorcas brandon, his own cousin. there was a complicated cousinship among these brandons, wylders, and lakes--inextricable intermarriages, which, five years ago, before i renounced the bar, i had at my fingers' ends, but which had now relapsed into haze. there must have been some damnable taint in the blood of the common ancestor--a spice of the insane and the diabolical. they were an ill-conditioned race--that is to say, every now and then there emerged a miscreant, with a pretty evident vein of madness. there was sir jonathan brandon, for instance, who ran his own nephew through the lungs in a duel fought in a paroxysm of cencian jealousy; and afterwards shot his coachman dead upon the box through his coach-window, and finally died in vienna, whither he had absconded, of a pike-thrust received from a sentry in a brawl. the wylders had not much to boast of, even in contrast with that wicked line. they had produced their madmen and villains, too; and there had been frequent intermarriages--not very often happy. there had been many lawsuits, frequent disinheritings, and even worse doings. the wylders of brandon appear very early in history; and the wylder arms, with their legend, 'resurgam,' stands in bold relief over the great door of brandon hall. so there were wylders of brandon, and brandons of brandon. in one generation, a wylder ill-using his wife and hating his children, would cut them all off, and send the estate bounding back again to the brandons. the next generation or two would amuse themselves with a lawsuit, until the old brandon type reappeared in some bachelor brother or uncle, with a jezebel on his left hand, and an attorney on his right, and, presto! the estates were back again with the wylders. a 'statement of title' is usually a dry affair. but that of the dynasty of brandon hall was a truculent romance. their very 'wills' were spiced with the devilment of the 'testators,' and abounded in insinuations and even language which were scandalous. here is mark wylder's letter:-'dear charles--of course you have heard of my good luck, and how kind poor dickie--from whom i never expected anything--proved at last. it was a great windfall for a poor devil like me; but, after all, it was only right, for it ought never to have been his at all. i went down and took possession on the 4th, the tenants very glad, and so they might well be; for, between ourselves, dickie, poor fellow, was not always pleasant to deal with. he let the roof all out of repair, and committed waste beside in timber he had no right to in life, as i am told; but that don't signify much, only the house will cost me a pretty penny to get it into order and furnish. the rental is five thousand a-year and some hundreds, and the rents can be got up a bit--so larkin tells me. do you know anything of him? he says he did business for your uncle once. he seems a clever fellow--a bit too clever, perhaps--and was too much master here, i suspect, in poor dickie's reign. tell me all you can make out about him. it is a long time since i saw you, charles; i'm grown brown, and great whiskers. i met poor dominick--what an ass that chap is--but he did not know me till i introduced myself, so i must be a good deal changed. our ship was at malta when i got the letter. i was sick of the service, and no wonder: a lieutenant--and there likely to stick all my days. six months, last year, on the african coast, watching slavers--think of that! i had a long yarn from the viscount--advice, and that sort of thing. i do not think he is a year older than i, but takes airs because he's a trustee. but i only laugh at trifles that would have riled me once. so i wrote him a yarn in return, and drew it uncommon mild. and he has been useful to me; and i think matters are pretty well arranged to disappoint the kind intention of good uncle wylder--the brute; he hated my father, but that was no reason to persecute me, and i but an infant, almost, when he died, d-him. well, you know he left brandon with some charges to my cousin dorcas. she is a superbly fine girl. our ship was at naples when she was there two years ago; and i saw a good deal of her. of course it was not to be thought of then; but matters are quite different, you know, now, and the viscount, who is a very sensible fellow in the main, saw it at once. you see, the old brute meant to leave her a life estate; but it does not amount to that, though it won't benefit me, for he settled that when i die it shall go to his right heirs--that will be to my son, if i ever have one. so miss dorcas must pack, and turn out whenever i die, that is, if i slip my cable first. larkin told me this--and i took an opinion--and found it is so; and the viscount seeing it, agreed the best thing for her as well as me would be, we should marry. she is a wide-awake young lady, and nothing the worse for that: i'm a bit that way myself. and so very little courtship has sufficed. she is a splendid beauty, and when you see her you'll say any fellow might be proud of such a bride; and so i am. and now, dear charlie, you have it all. it will take place somewhere about the twenty-fourth of next month; and you must come down by the first, if you can. don't disappoint. i want you for best man, maybe; and besides, i would like to talk to you about some things they want me to do in the settlements, and you were always a long-headed fellow: so pray don't refuse. 'dear charlie, ever most sincerely, 'your old friend, 'mark wylder. 'p.s.--i stay at the brandon arms in the town, until after the marriage; and then you can have a room at the hall, and capital shooting when we return, which will be in a fortnight after.' i can't say that wylder was an old _friend_. but he was certainly one of the oldest and most intimate acquaintances i had. we had been for nearly three years at school together; and when his ship came to england, met frequently; and twice, when he was on leave, we had been for months together under the same roof; and had for some years kept up a regular correspondence, which first grew desultory, and finally, as manhood supervened, died out. the plain truth is, i did not _very_ much like him. then there was that beautiful apathetic dorcas brandon. where is the laggard so dull as to experience no pleasing flutter at his heart in anticipation of meeting a perfect beauty in a country house. i was romantic, like every other youngish fellow who is not a premature curmudgeon; and there was something indefinitely pleasant in the consciousness that, although a betrothed bride, the young lady still was fancy free: not a bit in love. it was but a marriage of convenience, with mitigations. and so there hovered in my curiosity some little flicker of egotistic romance, which helped to rouse my spirits, and spur me on to action. chapter ii. in which i enter the drawing-room. i was now approaching brandon hall; less than ten minutes more would set me down at its door-steps. the stiff figure of mrs. marston, the old housekeeper, pale and austere, in rustling black silk (she was accounted a miser, and estimated to have saved i dare not say how much money in the wylder family--kind to me with the bread-and-jam and naples-biscuit-kindness of her species, in old times)--stood in fancy at the doorway. she, too, was a dream, and, i dare say, her money spent by this time. and that other dream, to which she often led me, with the large hazel eyes, and clear delicate tints--so sweet, so _riante_, yet so sad; poor lady mary brandon, dying there--so unhappily mated--a young mother, and her baby sleeping in long 'broderie anglaise' attire upon the pillow on the sofa, and whom she used to show me with a peeping mystery, and her finger to her smiling lip, and a gaiety and fondness in her pretty face. that little helpless, groping, wailing creature was now the dorcas brandon, the mistress of the grand old mansion and all its surroundings, who was the heroine of the splendid matrimonial compromise which was about to reconcile a feud, and avert a possible lawsuit, and, for one generation, at least, to tranquillise the troubled annals of the brandons and wylders. and now the ancient gray chapel, with its stained window, and store of old brandon and wylder monuments among its solemn clump of elm-trees, flitted by on my right; and in a moment more we drew up at the great gate on the left; not a hundred yards removed from it, and with an eager recognition, i gazed on the noble front of the old manorial house. up the broad straight avenue with its solemn files of gigantic timber towering at the right and the left hand, the chaise rolled smoothly, and through the fantastic iron gate of the courtyard, and with a fine swinging sweep and a jerk, we drew up handsomely before the door-steps, with the wylder arms in bold and florid projection carved above it. the sun had just gone down. the blue shadows of twilight overcast the landscape, and the mists of night were already stealing like thin smoke among the trunks and roots of the trees. through the stone mullions of the projecting window at the right, a flush of fire-light looked pleasant and hospitable, and on the threshold were standing lord chelford and my old friend mark wylder; a faint perfume of the mildest cheroot declared how they had been employed. so i jumped to the ground and was greeted very kindly by the smokers. 'i'm here, you know, _in loco parentis_;--my mother and i keep watch and ward. we allow wylder, you see, to come every day to his devotions. but you are not to go to the brandon arms--you got my note, didn't you?' i had, and had come direct to the hall in consequence. i looked over the door. yes, my memory had served me right. there were the brandon arms, and the brandon quartered with the wylder; but the wylder coat in the centre, with the grinning griffins for supporters, and flaunting scrolls all round, and the ominous word 'resurgam' underneath, proclaimed itself sadly and vauntingly over the great entrance. i often wonder how the wylder coat came in the centre; who built the old house--a brandon or a wylder; and if a wylder, why was it brandon hall? dusty and seedy somewhat, as men are after a journey, i chatted with mark and the noble peer for a few minutes at the door, while my valise and _et ceteras_ were lifted in and hurried up the stairs to my room, whither i followed them. while i was at my toilet, in came mark wylder laughing, as was his wont, and very unceremoniously he took possession of my easy-chair, and threw his leg over the arm of it. 'i'm glad you're come, charlie; you were always a good fellow, and i really want a hand here confoundedly. i think it will all do very nicely; but, of course, there's a lot of things to be arranged--settlements, you know--and i can't make head or tail of their lingo, and a fellow don't like to sign and seal hand over head--_you_ would not advise that, you know; and chelford is a very good fellow, of course, and all that--but he's taking care of dorcas, you see; and i might be left in the lurch.' 'it is a better way, at all events, mark, than wylder _versus_ trustees of brandon, minor,' said i. 'well, things do turn out very oddly; don't they?' said mark with a sly glance of complacency, and his hands in his pockets. 'but i know you'll hold the tiller till i get through; hang me if i know the soundings, or where i'm going; and you have the chart by heart, charlie.' 'i'm afraid you'll find me by no means so well up now as six years ago in "wylder and brandon;" but surely you have your lawyer, mr. larkin, haven't you?' 'to be sure--that's exactly it--he's dorcas's agent. i don't know anything about him, and i do know you--don't you see? a fellow doesn't want to put himself into the hands of a stranger altogether, especially a lawyer, ha, ha! it wouldn't pay.' i did not half like the equivocal office which my friend mark had prepared for me. if family squabbles were to arise, i had no fancy to mix in them; and i did not want a collision with mr. larkin either; and, on the whole, notwithstanding his modesty, i thought wylder very well able to take care of himself. there was time enough, however, to settle the point. so by this time, being splendid in french boots and white vest, and altogether perfect and refreshed, i emerged from my dressing-room, wylder by my side. we had to get along a dim oak-panelled passage, and into a sort of _oeil-de-boeuf_, with a lantern light above, from which diverged two other solemn corridors, and a short puzzling turn or two brought us to the head of the upper stairs. for i being a bachelor, and treated accordingly, was airily perched on the third storey. to my mind, there is something indescribably satisfactory in the intense solidity of those old stairs and floors--no spring in the planks, not a creak; you walk as over strata of stone. what clumsy grandeur! what cyclopean carpenters! what a prodigality of oak! it was dark by this time, and the drawing-room, a vast and grand chamber, with no light but the fire and a pair of dim soft lamps near the sofas and ottomans, lofty, and glowing with rich tapestry curtains and pictures, and mirrors, and carved oak, and marble--was already tenanted by the ladies. old lady chelford, stiff and rich, a vandyke dowager, with a general effect of deep lace, funereal velvet, and pearls; and pale, with dreary eyes, and thin high nose, sat in a high-backed carved oak throne, with red cushions. to her i was first presented, and cursorily scrutinised with a stately old-fashioned insolence, as if i were a candidate footman, and so dismissed. on a low seat, chatting to her as i came up, was a very handsome and rather singular-looking girl, fair, with a light golden-tinted hair; and a countenance, though then grave enough, instinct with a certain promise of animation and spirit not to be mistaken. could this be the heroine of the pending alliance? no; i was mistaken. a third lady, at what would have been an ordinary room's length away, half reclining on an ottoman, was now approached by wylder, who presented me to miss brandon. 'dorcas, this is my old friend, charles de cresseron. you have often heard me speak of him; and i want you to shake hands and make his acquaintance, and draw him out--do you see; for he's a shy youth, and must be encouraged.' he gave me a cheerful slap on the shoulder as he uttered this agreeable bit of banter, and altogether disconcerted me confoundedly. wylder's dress-coats always smelt of tobacco, and his talk of tar. i was quietly incensed and disgusted; for in those days i _was_ a little shy. the lady rose, in a soft floating way; tall, black-haired--but a blackness with a dull rich shadow through it. i had only a general impression of large dusky eyes and very exquisite features--more delicate than the grecian models, and with a wonderful transparency, like tinted marble; and a superb haughtiness, quite unaffected. she held forth her hand, which i did little more than touch. there was a peculiarity in her greeting, which i felt a little overawing, without exactly discovering in what it consisted; and it was i think that she did not smile. she never took that trouble for form's sake, like other women. so, as wylder had set a chair for me i could not avoid sitting upon it, though i should much have preferred standing, after the manner of men, and retaining my liberty. chapter iii. our dinner party at brandon. i was curious. i had heard a great deal of her beauty; and it had exceeded all i heard; so i talked my sublimest and brightest chit-chat, in my most musical tones, and was rather engaging and amusing, i ventured to hope. but the best man cannot manage a dialogue alone. miss brandon was plainly not a person to make any sort of exertion towards what is termed keeping up a conversation; at all events she did not, and after a while the present one got into a decidedly sinking condition. an acquiescence, a faint expression of surprise, a fainter smile--she contributed little more, after the first few questions of courtesy had been asked, in her low silvery tones, and answered by me. to me the natural demise of a _tãªte-ã -tãªte_ discourse has always seemed a disgrace. but this apathetic beauty had either more moral courage or more stupidity than i, and was plainly terribly indifferent about the catastrophe. i've sometimes thought my struggles and sinkings amused her cruel serenity. bella ma stupida!--i experienced, at last, the sort of pique with which george sand's hero apostrophises _la derniere aldini_. yet i could not think her stupid. the universal instinct honours beauty. it is so difficult to believe it either dull or base. in virtue of some mysterious harmonies it is 'the image of god,' and must, we feel, enclose the god-like; so i suppose i felt, for though i wished to think her stupid, i could not. she was not exactly languid, but a grave and listless beauty, and a splendid beauty for all that. i told her my early recollections of brandon and gylingden, and how i remembered her a baby, and said some graceful trifles on that theme, which i fancied were likely to please. but they were only received, and led to nothing. in a little while in comes lord chelford, always natural and pleasant, and quite unconscious of his peerage--he was above it, i think--and chatted away merrily with that handsome animated blonde--who on earth, could she be?--and did not seem the least chilled in the stiff and frosted presence of his mother, but was genial and playful even with that spirit of the frozen ocean, who received his affectionate trifling with a sort of smiling, though wintry pride and complacency, reflecting back from her icy aspects something of the rosy tints of that kindly sunshine. i thought i heard him call the young lady miss lake, and there rose before me an image of an old general lake, and a dim recollection of some reverse of fortune. he was--i was sure of that--connected with the brandon family; and was, with the usual fatality, a bit of a _mauvais sujet_. he had made away with his children's money, or squandered his own; or somehow or another impoverished his family not creditably. so i glanced at her, and miss brandon divined, it seemed, what was passing in my mind, for she said:-'that is my cousin, miss lake, and i think her very beautiful--don't you?' 'yes, she certainly is very handsome,' and i was going to say something about her animation and spirit, but remembered just in time, that that line of eulogy would hardly have involved a compliment to miss brandon. 'i know her brother, a little--that is, captain lake--stanley lake; he's her brother, i fancy?' '_oh?_' said the young lady, in that tone which is pointed with an unknown accent, between a note of enquiry and of surprise. 'yes; he's her brother.' and she paused; as if something more were expected. but at that moment the bland tones of larcom, the solemn butler, announced the rev. william wylder and mrs. wylder, and i said-'william is an old college friend of mine;' and i observed him, as he entered with an affectionate and sad sort of interest. eight years had passed since we met last, and that is something at any time. it had thinned my simple friend's hair a little, and his face, too, was more careworn than i liked, but his earnest, sweet smile was there still. slight, gentle, with something of a pale and studious refinement in his face. the same gentle voice, with that slight, occasional hesitation, which somehow i liked. there is always a little shock after an absence of some years before identities adjust themselves, and then we find the change is not, after all, so very great. i suspect it is, rather, that something of the old picture is obliterated, in that little interval, to return no more. and so william wylder was vicar now instead of that straight wiry cleric of the mulberry face and black leggings. and who was this little mrs. william wylder who came in, so homely of feature, so radiant of goodhumour, so eager and simple, in a very plain dress--a brandon housemaid would not have been seen in it, leaning so pleasantly on his lean, long, clerical arm--made for reaching books down from high shelves, a lank, scholarlike limb, with a somewhat threadbare cuff--and who looked round with that anticipation of pleasure, and that simple confidence in a real welcome, which are so likely to insure it? was she an helpmeet for a black-letter man, who talked with the fathers in his daily walks, could extemporise latin hexameters, and dream in greek. was she very wise, or at all learned? i think her knowledge lay chiefly in the matters of poultry, and puddings, and latterly, of the nursery, where one treasure lay--that golden-haired little boy, four years old, whom i had seen playing among the roses before the parsonage door, asleep by this time--half-past seven, 'precise,' as old lady chelford loved to write on her summons to dinner. when the vicar, i dare say, in a very odd, quaint way, made his proposal of marriage, moved thereto assuredly, neither by fortune, nor by beauty, to good, merry, little miss dorothy chubley, whom nobody was supposed to be looking after, and the town had, somehow, set down from the first as a natural-born old maid--there was a very general amazement; some disappointment here and there, with customary sneers and compassion, and a good deal of genuine amusement not ill-natured. miss chubley, all the shopkeepers in the town knew and liked, and, in a way, respected her, as 'miss dolly.' old reverend john chubley, d.d., who had been in love with his wife from the period of his boyhood; and yet so grudging was fate, had to undergo an engagement of nigh thirty years before hymen rewarded their constancy; being at length made vicar of huddelston, and master of church revenues to the amount of three hundred pounds a year--had, at forty-five, married his early love, now forty-two. they had never grown old in one another's fond eyes. their fidelity was of the days of chivalry, and their simplicity comical and beautiful. twenty years of happy and loving life were allotted them and one pledge--poor miss dorothy--was left alone, when little more than nineteen years old. this good old couple, having loved early and waited long, and lived together with wonderful tenderness and gaiety of heart their allotted span, bid farewell for a little while--the gentle little lady going first, and, in about two years more, the good rector following. i remembered him, but more dimly than his merry little wife, though she went first. she made raisin-wine, and those curious biscuits that tasted of windsor soap. and this mrs. william wylder just announced by soft-toned larcom, is the daughter (there is no mistaking the jolly smile and lumpy odd little features, and radiance of amiability) of the good doctor and mrs. chubley, so curiously blended in her loving face. and last comes in old major jackson, smiling largely, squaring himself, and doing his courtesies in a firm but florid military style, and plainly pleased to find himself in good company and on the eve of a good dinner. and so our dinner-list is full. the party were just nine--and it is wonderful what a row nine well-behaved people will contrive to make at a dinner-table. the inferior animals--as we see them caged and cared for, and fed at one o'clock, 'precise,' in those public institutions provided for their maintenance--confine their uproar to the period immediately antecedent to their meal, and perform the actual process of deglutition with silent attention, and only such suckings, lappings, and crunchings, as illustrate their industry and content. it is the distinctive privilege of man to exert his voice during his repast, and to indulge also in those specially human cachinnations which no lower creature, except that disreputable australian biped known as the 'laughing jackass,' presumes to imitate; and to these vocal exercises of the feasters respond the endless ring and tinkle of knife and fork on china plate, and the ministering angels in white chokers behind the chairs, those murmured solicitations which hum round and round the ears of the revellers. of course, when great guns are present, and people talk _pro bono publico_, one at a time, with parliamentary regularity, things are different; but at an ordinary symposium, when the garrulous and diffident make merry together, and people break into twos or threes and talk across the table, or into their neighbours' ears, and all together, the noise is not only exhilarating and peculiar, but sometimes perfectly unaccountable. the talk, of course, has its paroxysms and its subsidences. i have once or twice found myself on a sudden in total silence in the middle of a somewhat prolix, though humorous story, commenced in an uproar for the sole recreation of my pretty neighbour, and ended--patched up, _renounced_--a faltering failure, under the converging gaze of a sternly attentive audience. on the other hand, there are moments when the uproar whirls up in a crescendo to a pitch and volume perfectly amazing; and at such times, i believe that anyone might say anything to the reveller at his elbow, without the smallest risk of being overheard by mortal. you may plan with young caesar borgia, on your left, the poisoning of your host; or ask pretty mrs. fusible, on your right, to elope with you from her grinning and gabbling lord, whose bald head flashes red with champagne only at the other side of the table. there is no privacy like it; you may plot your wickedness, or make your confession, or pop the question, and not a soul but your confidant be a bit the wiser--provided only you command your countenance. i don't know how it happened, but wylder sat beside miss lake. i fancied he ought to have been differently placed, but miss brandon did not seem conscious of his absence, and it seemed to me that the handsome blonde would have been as well pleased if he had been anywhere but where he was. there was no look of liking, though some faint glimmerings both of annoyance and embarrassment in her face. but in wylder's i saw a sort of conceited consciousness, and a certain eagerness, too, while he talked; though a shrewd fellow in many ways, he had a secret conviction that no woman could resist him. 'i suppose the world thinks me a very happy fellow, miss lake?' he said, with a rather pensive glance of enquiry into that young lady's eyes, as he set down his hock-glass. 'i'm afraid it's a selfish world, mr. wylder, and thinks very little of what does not concern it.' 'now, _you_, i dare say,' continued wylder, not caring to perceive the _soupã§on_ of sarcasm that modulated her answer so musically, 'look upon me as a very fortunate fellow?' 'you are a very fortunate person, mr. wylder; a gentleman of very moderate abilities, with no prospects, and without fortune, who finds himself, without any deservings of his own, on a sudden, possessed of an estate, and about to be united to the most beautiful heiress in england, _is_, i think, rather a fortunate person.' 'you did not always think me so stupid, miss lake,' said mr. wylder, showing something of the hectic of vexation. 'stupid! did i say? well, you know, we learn by experience, mr. wylder. one's judgment matures, and we are harder to please--don't you think so?--as we grow older.' 'aye, so we are, i dare say; at any rate, some things don't please us as we calculated. i remember when this bit of luck would have made me a devilish happy fellow--_twice_ as happy; but, you see, if a fellow hasn't his liberty, where's the good of money? i don't know how i got into it, but i can't get away now; and the lawyer fellows, and trustees, and all that sort of prudent people, get about one, and persuade, and exhort, and they bully you, by jove! into what they call a marriage of convenience--i forget the french word--you know; and then, you see, your feelings may be very different, and all that; and where's the good of money, i say, if you can't enjoy it?' and mr. wylder looked poetically unhappy, and trundled over a little bit of fricandeau on his plate with his fork, desolately, as though earthly things had lost their relish. 'yes; i think i know the feeling,' said miss lake, quietly. 'that ballad, you know, expresses it very prettily:--"oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my mother?"' it was not then as old a song as it is now. wylder looked sharply at her, but she did not smile, and seemed to speak in good faith; and being somewhat thick in some matters, though a cunning fellow, he said-'yes; that is the sort of thing, you know--of course, with a difference--a girl is supposed to speak there; but men suffer that way, too--though, of course, very likely it's more their own fault.' 'it is very sad,' said miss lake, who was busy with a _pã¢tã©_. 'she has no life in her; she's a mere figurehead; she's awfully slow; i don't like black hair; i'm taken by conversation--and all that. there are some men that can only really love once in their lives, and never forget their first love, i assure you.' wylder murmured all this, and looked as plaintive as he could without exciting the attention of the people over-the-way. mark wylder had, as you perceive, rather vague notions of decency, and not much experience of ladies; and thought he was making just the interesting impression he meditated. he was a good deal surprised, then, when miss lake said, and with quite a cheerful countenance, and very quickly, but so that her words stung his ear like the prick of a bodkin. 'your way of speaking of my cousin, sir, is in the highest degree discreditable to you and offensive to me, and should you venture to repeat it, i will certainly mention it to lady chelford.' and so she turned to old major jackson at her right, who had been expounding a point of the battle of vittoria to lord chelford; and she led him again into action, and acquired during the next ten minutes a great deal of curious lore about spanish muleteers and french prisoners, together with some particulars about the nature of picket duty, and 'that scoundrel, castanos.' chapter iv. in which we go to the drawing-room and the party breaks up. wylder was surprised, puzzled, and a good deal incensed--that saucy craft had fired her shot so unexpectedly across his bows. he looked a little flushed, and darted a stealthy glance across the table, but no one he thought had observed the manoeuvre. he would have talked to ugly mrs. w. wylder, his sister-in-law, at his left, but she was entertaining lord chelford now. he had nothing for it but to perform _cavalier seul_ with his slice of mutton--a sensual sort of isolation, while all the world was chatting so agreeably and noisily around him. he would have liked, at that moment, a walk upon the quarter-deck, with a good head-wind blowing, and liberty to curse and swear a bit over the bulwark. women are so full of caprice and hypocrisy, and 'humbugging impudence!' wylder was rather surly after the ladies had floated away from the scene, and he drank his liquor doggedly. it was his fancy, i suppose, to revive certain sentimental relations which had, it may be, once existed between him and miss lake; and he was a person of that combative temperament that magnifies an object in proportion as its pursuit is thwarted. in the drawing-room he watched miss lake over his cup of coffee, and after a few words to his _fiancã©e_ he lounged toward the table at which she was turning over some prints. 'do come here, dorothy,' she exclaimed, not raising her eyes, 'i have found the very thing.' 'what thing? my dear miss lake,' said that good little woman, skipping to her side. 'the story of "fridolin," and retzch's pretty outlines. sit down beside me, and i'll tell you the story.' 'oh!' said the vicar's wife, taking her seat, and the inspection and exposition began; and mark wylder, who had intended renewing his talk with miss lake, saw that she had foiled him, and stood with a heightened colour and his hands in his pockets, looking confoundedly cross and very like an outcast, in the shadow behind. after a while, in a pet, he walked away. lord chelford had joined the two ladies, and had something to say about german art, and some pleasant lights to throw from foreign travel, and devious reading, and was as usual intelligent and agreeable; and mark was still more sore and angry, and strutted away to another table, a long way off, and tossed over the leaves of a folio of wouverman's works, and did not see one of the plates he stared at so savagely. i don't think mark was very clear as to what he wanted, or, even if he had had a cool half-hour to define his wishes, that he would seriously have modified existing arrangements. but he had a passionate sort of obstinacy, and his whims took a violent character when they were crossed, and he was angry and jealous and unintelligible, reminding one of carlyle's description of philip egalitã©--a chaos. then he joined a conversation going on between dorcas brandon and the vicar, his brother. he assisted at it, but took no part, and in fact was listening to that other conversation which sounded, with its pleasant gabble and laughter, like a little musical tinkle of bells in the distance. his gall rose, and that distant talk rang in his ears like a cool but intangible insult. it was dull work. he looked at his watch--the brougham would be at the door to take miss lake home in a quarter of an hour; so he glided by old lady chelford, who was dozing stiffly through her spectacles on a french novel, and through a second drawing-room, and into the hall, where he saw larcom's expansive white waistcoat, and disregarded his advance and respectful inclination, and strode into the outer hall or vestibule, where were hat-stands, walking-sticks, great coats, umbrellas, and the exuviae of gentlemen. mark clapped on his hat, and rifled the pocket of his paletot of his cigar-case and matches, and spluttered a curse or two, according to old nollekins' receipt for easing the mind, and on the door-steps lighted his cheroot, and became gradually more philosophical. in due time the brougham came round with its lamps lighted, and mark, who was by this time placid, greeted price on the box familiarly, after his wont, and asked him whom he was going to drive, as if he did not know, cunning fellow; and actually went so far as to give price one of those cheap and nasty weeds, of which he kept a supply apart in his case for such occasions of good fellowship. so mark waited to put the lady into the carriage, and he meditated walking a little way by the window and making his peace, and there was perhaps some vague vision of jumping in afterwards; i know not. mark's ideas of ladies and of propriety were low, and he was little better than a sailor ashore, and not a good specimen of that class of monster. he walked about the courtyard smoking, looking sometimes on the solemn front of the old palatial mansion, and sometimes breathing a white film up to the stars, impatient, like the enamoured aladdin, watching in ambuscade for the emergence of the princess badroulbadour. but honest mark forgot that young ladies do not always come out quite alone, and jump unassisted into their vehicles. and in fact not only did lord chelford assist the fair lady, cloaked and hooded, into the carriage, but the vicar's goodhumoured little wife was handed in also, the good vicar looking on, and as the gay good-night and leave-taking took place by the door-steps, mark drew back, like a guilty thing, in silence, and showed no sign but the red top of his cigar, glowing like the eye of a cyclops in the dark; and away rolled the brougham, with the two ladies, and chelford and the vicar went in, and mark hurled the stump of his cheroot at fortune, and delivered a fragmentary soliloquy through his teeth; and so, in a sulk, without making his adieux, he marched off to his crib at the brandon arms. chapter v. in which my slumber is disturbed. the ladies had accomplished their ascension to the upper regions. the good vicar had marched off with the major, who was by this time unbuckling in his lodgings; and chelford and i, _tãªte-ã -tãªte_, had a glass of sherry and water together in the drawing-room before parting. and over this temperate beverage i told him frankly the nature of the service which mark wylder wished me to render him; and he as frankly approved, and said he would ask larkin, the family lawyer, to come up in the morning to assist. the more i saw of this modest, refined, and manly peer, the more i liked him. there was a certain courteous frankness, and a fine old english sense of duty perceptible in all his serious talk. so i felt no longer like a conspirator, and was to offer such advice as might seem expedient, with the clear approbation of miss brandon's trustee. and this point clearly settled, i avowed myself a little tired; and lighting our candles at the foot of the stairs, we scaled that long ascent together, and he conducted me through the intricacies of the devious lobbies up stairs to my chamber-door, where he bid me good-night, shook hands, and descended to his own quarters. my room was large and old-fashioned, but snug; and i, beginning to grow very drowsy, was not long in getting to bed, where i fell asleep indescribably quickly. in all old houses one is, of course, liable to adventures. where is the marvellous to find refuge, if not among the chambers, the intricacies, which have seen the vicissitudes, the crimes, and the deaths of generations of such men as had occupied these? there was a picture in the outer hall--one of those full-length gentlemen of george ii.'s time, with a dark peruke flowing on his shoulders, a cut velvet coat, and lace cravat and ruffles. this picture was pale, and had a long chin, and somehow had impressed my boyhood with a singular sense of fear. the foot of my bed lay towards the window, distant at least five-and-twenty-feet; and before the window stood my dressing-table, and on it a large looking-glass. i dreamed that i was arranging my toilet before this glass--just as i had done that evening--when on a sudden the face of the portrait i have mentioned was presented on its surface, confronting me like a real countenance, and advancing towards me with a look of fury; and at the instant i felt myself seized by the throat and unable to stir or to breathe. after a struggle with this infernal garotter, i succeeded in awaking myself; and as i did so, i felt a rather cold hand really resting on my throat, and quietly passed up over my chin and face. i jumped out of bed with a roar, and challenged the owner of the hand, but received no answer, and heard no sound. i poked up my fire and lighted my candle. everything was as i had left it except the door, which was the least bit open. in my shirt, candle in hand, i looked out into the passage. there was nothing there in human shape, but in the direction of the stairs the green eyes of a large cat were shining. i was so confoundedly nervous that even 'a harmless, necessary cat' appalled me, and i clapped my door, as if against an evil spirit. in about half an hour's time, however, i had quite worked off the effect of this night-mare, and reasoned myself into the natural solution that the creature had got on my bed, and lay, as i have been told they will, upon my throat, and so, all the rest had followed. not being given to the fear of _larvae_ and _lemures_, and also knowing that a mistake is easily committed in a great house like that, and that my visitor might have made one, i grew drowsy in a little while, and soon fell asleep again. but knowing all i now do, i hold a different conclusion--and so, i think, will you. in the morning mark wylder was early upon the ground. he had quite slept off what he would have called the nonsense of last night, and was very keen upon settlements, consols, mortgages, jointures, and all that dry but momentous lore. i find a note in my diary of that day:--'from half-past ten o'clock until two with mark wylder and mr. larkin, the lawyer, in the study--dull work--over papers and title--lord chelford with us now and then to lend a helping hand.' lawyer larkin, though he made our work lighter--for he was clear, quick, and orderly, and could lay his hand on any paper in those tin walls of legal manuscripts that built up two sides of his office--did not make our business, to me at least, any pleasanter. wylder thought him a clever man (and so perhaps, in a certain sense, he was); lord chelford, a most honourable one; yet there came to me by instinct an unpleasant feeling about him. it was not in any defined way--i did not fancy that he was machinating, for instance, any sort of mischief in the business before us--but i had a notion that he was not quite what he pretended. perhaps his _personnel_ prejudiced me--though i could not quite say why. he was a tall, lank man--rather long of limb, long of head, and gaunt of face. he wanted teeth at both sides, and there was rather a skull-like cavity when he smiled--which was pretty often. his eyes were small and reddish, as if accustomed to cry; and when everything went smoothly were dull and dove-like, but when things crossed or excited him, which occurred when his own pocket or plans were concerned, they grew singularly unpleasant, and greatly resembled those of some not amiable animal--was it a rat, or a serpent? it was a peculiar concentrated vigilance and rapine that i have seen there. but that was long afterwards. now, indeed, they were meek, and sad, and pink. he had an ambition, too, to pass for a high-bred gentleman, and thought it might be done by a somewhat lofty and drawling way of talking, and distributing his length of limb in what he fancied were easy attitudes. if the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel, so are the elegances of a vulgar man; and his made me wince. i might be all in the wrong--and was, no doubt, unreasonable--for he bore a high character, and passed for a very gentlemanlike man among the villagers. he was also something of a religious light, and had for a time conformed to methodism, but returned to the church. he had a liking for long sermons, and a sad abhorrence of amusements, and sat out the morning and the evening services regularly--and kept up his dissenting connection too, and gave them money--and appeared in print, in all charitable lists--and mourned over other men's backslidings and calamities in a lofty and christian way, shaking his tall bald head, and turning up his pink eyes mildly. notwithstanding all which he was somehow unlovely in my eyes, and in an indistinct way, formidable. it was not a pleasant misgiving about a gentleman of larkin's species, the family lawyer, who become _viscera magnorum domuum_. my duties were lighter, as adviser, than i at first apprehended. wylder's crotchets were chiefly 'mare's nests.' we had read the draft of the settlement, preparatory to its being sent to senior counsel to be approved. wylder's attorney had done his devoir, and mr. larkin avowed a sort of parental interest in both parties to the indentures, and made, at closing, a little speech, very high in morality, and flavoured in a manly way with religion, and congratulated mark on his honour and plain dealing, which he gave us to understand were the secrets of all success in life, as they had been, in an humble way of his own. chapter vi. in which dorcas brandon speaks. in answer to 'the roaring shiver of the gong' we all trooped away together to luncheon. lady chelford and dorcas and chelford had nearly ended that irregular repast when we entered. my chair was beside miss brandon; she had breakfasted with old lady chelford that morning, and this was my first meeting that day. it was not very encouraging. people complained that acquaintance made little way with her. that you were, perhaps, well satisfied with your first day's progress, but the next made no head-way; you found yourself this morning exactly at the point from which you commenced yesterday, and to-morrow would recommence where you started the day before. this is very disappointing, but may sometimes be accounted for by there being nothing really to discover. it seemed to me, however, that the distance had positively increased since yesterday, and that the oftener she met me the more strange she became. as we went out, wylder enquired, with his usual good taste: 'well, what do you think of her?' then he looked slily at me, laughing, with his hands in his pockets. 'a little bit slow, eh?' he whispered, and laughed again, and lounged into the hall. if dorcas brandon had been a plain woman, i think she would have been voted an impertinent bore; but she was so beautiful that she became an enigma. i looked at her as she stood gravely gazing from the window. is it lady macbeth? no; she never would have had energy to plan her husband's career and manage that affair of duncan. a sultana rather--sublimely egotistical, without reverence--a voluptuous and haughty embodiment of indifference. i paused, looking at a picture, but thinking of her, and was surprised by her voice very near me. 'will you give me just a minute, mr. de cresseron, in the drawing-room, while i show you a miniature? i want your opinion.' so she floated on and i accompanied her. 'i think,' she said, 'you mentioned yesterday, that you remembered me when an infant. you remember my poor mamma, don't you, very well?' this was the first time she had yet shown any tendency, so far as i had seen, to be interested in anything, or to talk to me. i seized the occasion, and gave her, as well as i could, the sad and pretty picture that remained, and always will, in the vacant air, when i think of her, on the mysterious retina of memory. how filmy they are! the moonlight shines through them, as through the phantom dane in retzch's outlines--colour without substance. how they come, wearing for ever the sweetest and pleasantest look of their earthly days. their sweetest and merriest tones hover musically in the distance; how far away, how near to silence, yet how clear! and so it is with our remembrance of the immortal part. it is the loveliest traits that remain with us perennially; all that was noblest and most beautiful is there, in a changeless and celestial shadow; and this is the resurrection of the memory, the foretaste and image which the 'faithful creator' accords us of the resurrection and glory to come--the body redeemed, the spirit made perfect. on a cabinet near to where she stood was a casket of ormolu, which she unlocked, and took out a miniature, opened, and looked at it for a long time. i knew very well whose it was, and watched her countenance; for, as i have said, she interested me strangely. i suppose she knew i was looking at her; but she showed always a queenlike indifference about what people might think or observe. there was no sentimental softening; but her gaze was such as i once saw the same proud and handsome face turn upon the dead--pale, exquisite, perhaps a little stern. what she read there--what procession of thoughts and images passed by--threw neither light nor shadow on her face. its apathy interested me inscrutably. at last she placed the picture in my hand, and asked-'is this really very like her?' 'it is, and it is _not_,' i said, after a little pause. 'the features are true: it is what i call an accurate portrait, but that is all. i dare say, exact as it is, it would give to one who had not seen her a false, as it must an inadequate, idea, of the original. there was something _naã¯ve_ and _spirituel_, and very tender in her face, which he has not caught--perhaps it could hardly be fixed in colours.' 'yes, i always heard her expression and intelligence were very beautiful. it was the beauty of mobility--true beauty.' 'there is a beauty of another stamp, equally exquisite, miss brandon, and perhaps more overpowering.' i said this in nearly a whisper, and in a very marked way, almost tender, and the next moment was amazed at my own audacity. she looked on me for a second or two, with her dark drowsy glance, and then it returned to the picture, which was again in her hand. there was a total want of interest in the careless sort of surprise she vouchsafed my little sally; neither was there the slightest resentment. if a wafer had been stuck upon my forehead, and she had observed it, there might have been just that look and no more. i was ridiculously annoyed with myself. i was betrayed, i don't know how, into this little venture, and it was a flat failure. the position of a shy man, who has just made an unintelligible joke at a dinner-table, was not more pregnant with self-reproach and embarrassment. upon my honour, i don't think there was anything of the _rouã©_ in me. i own i did feel towards this lady, who either was, or seemed to me, so singular, a mysterious interest just beginning--of that peculiar kind which becomes at last terribly absorbing. i was more elated by her trifling notice of me than i can quite account for. it was a distinction. she was so indescribably handsome--so passively disdainful. i think if she had listened to me with even the faintest intimation of caring whether i spoke in this tone or not, with even a flash of momentary resentment, i might have rushed into a most reprehensible and ridiculous rigmarole. in this, the subtlest and most perilous of all intoxications, it needs immense presence of mind to conduct ourselves always with decorum. but she was looking, just as before, at the miniature, as it seemed to me, in fancy infusing some of the spirit i had described into the artist's record, and she said, only in soliloquy, as it were, 'yes, i see--i _think_ i see.' so there was a pause; and then she said, without, however, removing her eyes from the miniature, 'you are, i believe, mr. de cresseron, a very old friend of mr. wylder's. is it not so?' so soon after my little escapade, i did not like the question; but it was answered. there was not the faintest trace of a satirical meaning, however, in her face; and after another very considerable interval, at the end of which she shut the miniature in its case, she said, 'it was a peculiar face, and very beautiful. it is odd how many of our family married for love--wild love-matches. my poor mother was the last. i could point you out many pictures, and tell you stories--my cousin, rachel, knows them all. you know rachel lake?' 'i've not the honour of knowing miss lake. i had not an opportunity of making her acquaintance yesterday; but i know her brother--so does wylder.' 'what's that?' said mark, who had just come in, and was tumbling over a volume of 'punch' at the window. 'i was telling miss brandon that we both know stanley lake.' on hearing which, wylder seemed to discover something uncommonly interesting or clever in the illustration before him; for he approached his face very near to it, in a scrutinising way, and only said, 'oh?' 'that marrying for love was a fatality in our family,' she continued in the same low tone--too faint i think to reach mark. 'they were all the most beautiful who sacrificed themselves so--they were all unhappy marriages. so the beauty of our family never availed it, any more than its talents and its courage; for there were clever and witty men, as well as very brave ones, in it. meaner houses have grown up into dukedoms; ours never prospers. i wonder what it is.' 'many families have disappeared altogether, miss brandon. it is no small thing, through so many centuries, to have retained your ancestral estates, and your pre-eminent position, and even this splendid residence of so many generations of your lineage.' i thought that miss brandon, having broken the ice, was henceforth to be a conversable young lady. but this sudden expansion was not to last. ovid tells us, in his 'fasti,' how statues sometimes surprised people by speaking more frankly and to the purpose even than miss brandon, and straight were cold chiselled marble again; and so it was with that proud, cold _chef d'oeuvre_ of tinted statuary. yet i thought i could, even in that dim glimpse, discern how the silent subterranean current of her thoughts was flowing; like other representatives of a dynasty, she had studied the history of her race to profit by its errors and misfortunes. there was to be no weakness or passion in her reign. the princess by this time was seated on the ottoman, and chose to read a letter, thus intimating, i suppose, that my audience was at an end; so i took up a book, put it down, and then went and looked over wylder's shoulder, and made my criticisms--not very novel, i fear--upon the pages he turned over; and i am sorry to say i don't think he heard much of what i was saying, for he suddenly came out with-'and where is stanley lake now, do you know?' 'i saw him in town--only for a moment though--about a fortnight ago; he was arranging, he said, about selling out.' 'oh! retiring; and what does he propose doing then?' asked wylder, without raising his eyes from his book. he spoke in a sort of undertone, like a man who does not want to be overheard, and the room was quite large enough to make that sort of secrecy easy without the appearance of seeking it. 'i have not an idea. i don't think he's fit for many things. he knows something of horses, i believe, and something of play.' 'but he'll hardly make out a living that way,' said wylder, with a sort of sneer or laugh. i thought he seemed put out, and a little flushed. 'i fancy he has enough to live upon, without adding to it, however,' i said. wylder leaned back in his low chair, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and the air of a man trying to look unconcerned, but both annoyed and disconcerted nevertheless. i tell you what, charlie, between you and me, that fellow, stanley, is a d----d bad lot. i may be mistaken, of course; he's always been very civil to me, but we don't like one another; and i don't think i ever heard him say a good word of any one, i dare say he abuses you and me, as he does everyone else.' 'does he?' i said. 'i was not aware he had that failing.' 'oh, yes. he does not stick at trifles, master stanley. he's about the greatest liar, i think, i ever met with,' and he laughed angrily. i happened at that moment to raise my eyes, and i saw dorcas's face reflected in the mirror; her back was towards us, and she held the letter in her hand as if reading it, but her large eyes were looking over it, and on us, in the glass, with a gaze of strange curiosity. our glances met in the mirror; but hers remained serenely undisturbed, and mine dropped and turned away hastily. i wonder whether she heard us. i do not know. some people are miraculously sharp of hearing. 'i dare say,' said wylder, with a sneer, 'he was asking affectionately for me, eh?' 'no; not that i recollect--in fact there was not time; but i suppose he does not like you less for what has happened; you're worth cultivating now, you know.' wylder was leaning on his elbow, with just the tip of his thumb to his teeth, with a vicious character of biting it, which was peculiar to him when anything vexed him considerably, and glancing sharply this way and that-'you know,' he said, suddenly, 'we are a sort of cousins; his mother was a brandon--a second cousin of dorcas's--no, of her father's--i don't know exactly how. he's a pushing fellow, one of the coolest hands i know; but i don't see that i can be of any use to him, or why the devil i should. i say, old fellow, come out and have a weed, will you?' i raised my eyes. miss brandon had left the room. i don't know that her presence would have prevented his invitation, for wylder's wooing was certainly of the coolest. so forth we sallied, and under the autumnal foliage, in the cool amber light of the declining evening, we enjoyed our cheroots; and with them, wylder his thoughts; and i, the landscape, and the whistling of the birds; for we waxed turkish and taciturn over our tobacco. chapter vii. relating how a london gentleman appeared in redman's dell. i believe the best rule in telling a story is to follow events chronologically. so let me mention that just about the time when wylder and i were filming the trunks of the old trees with wreaths of lingering perfume, miss rachel lake had an unexpected visitor. there is, near the hall, a very pretty glen, called redman's dell, very steep, with a stream running at the bottom of it, but so thickly wooded that in summer time you can only now and then catch a glimpse of the water gliding beneath you. deep in this picturesque ravine, buried among the thick shadows of tall old trees, runs the narrow mill-road, which lower down debouches on the end of the village street. there, in the transparent green shadow, stand the two mills--the old one with a.d. 1679, and the wylder arms, and the eternal 'resurgam' projecting over its door; and higher up, on a sort of platform, the steep bank rising high behind it, with its towering old wood overhanging and surrounding, upon a site where one of king arthur's knights, of an autumn evening, as he rode solitary in quest of adventures, might have seen the peeping, gray gable of an anchorite's chapel dimly through the gilded stems, and heard the drowsy tinkle of his vesper-bell, stands an old and small two-storied brick and timber house; and though the sun does not very often glimmer on its windows, it yet possesses an air of sad, old-world comfort--a little flower-garden lies in front with a paling round it. but not every kind of flowers will grow there, under the lordly shadow of the elms and chestnuts. this sequestered tenement bears the name of redman's farm; and its occupant was that miss lake whom i had met last night at brandon hall, and whose pleasure it was to live here in independent isolation. there she is now, busy in her tiny garden, with the birds twittering about her, and the yellow leaves falling; and her thick gauntlets on her slender hands. how fresh and pretty she looks in that sad, sylvan solitude, with the background of the dull crimson brick and the climbing roses. bars of sunshine fall through the branches above, across the thick tapestry of blue, yellow, and crimson, that glow so richly upon their deep green ground. there is not much to be done just now, i fancy, in the gardening way; but work is found or invented--for sometimes the hour is dull, and that bright, spirited, and at heart, it may be, bitter exile, will make out life somehow. there is music, and drawing. there are flowers, as we see, and two or three correspondents, and walks into the village; and her dark cousin, dorcas, drives down sometimes in the pony-carriage, and is not always silent; and indeed, they are a good deal together. this young lady's little eden, though overshadowed and encompassed with the solemn sylvan cloister of nature's building, and vocal with sounds of innocence--the songs of birds, and sometimes those of its young mistress--was no more proof than the mesopotamian haunt of our first parents against the intrusion of darker spirits. so, as she worked, she lifted up her eyes, and beheld a rather handsome young man standing at the little wicket of her garden, with his gloved hand on the latch. a man of fashion--a town man--his dress bespoke him: smooth cheeks, light brown curling moustache, and eyes very peculiar both in shape and colour, and something of elegance of finish in his other features, and of general grace in the _coup d'oeil_, struck one at a glance. he was smiling silently and slily on rachel, who, with a little cry of surprise, said-'oh, stanley! is it you?' and before he could answer, she had thrown her arms about his neck and kissed him two or three times. laughingly, half-resisting, the young man waited till her enthusiastic salutation was over, and with one gloved hand caressingly on her shoulder, and with the other smoothing his ruffled moustache, he laughed a little more, a quiet low laugh. he was not addicted to stormy greetings, and patted his sister's shoulder gently, his arm a little extended, like a man who tranquillises a frolicsome pony. 'yes, radie, you see i've found you out;' and his eye wandered, still smiling oddly, over the front of her quaint habitation. 'and how have you been, radie?' 'oh, very well. no life like a gardener's--early hours, work, air, and plenty of quiet.' and the young lady laughed. 'you are a wonderful lass, radie.' 'thank you, dear.' 'and what do you call this place?' '"the happy valley," _i_ call it. don't you remember "rasselas?"' 'no,' he said, looking round him; 'i don't think i was ever there.' 'you horrid dunce!--it's a book, but a stupid one--so no matter,' laughed miss rachel, giving him a little slap on the shoulder with her slender fingers. his reading, you see, lay more in circulating library lore, and he was not deep in johnson--as few of us would be, i'm afraid, if it were not for boswell. 'it's a confounded deal more like the "valley of the shadow of death," in "pilgrim's progress"--you remember--that old tamar used to read to us in the nursery,' replied master stanley, who had never enjoyed being quizzed by his sister, not being blessed with a remarkably sweet temper. 'if you don't like my scenery, come in, stanley, and admire my decorations. you must tell me all the news, and i'll show you my house, and amaze you with my housekeeping. dear me, how long it is since i've seen you.' so she led him in by the arm to her tiny drawing-room; and he laid his hat and stick, and gray paletot, on her little marquetrie-table, and sat down, and looked languidly about him, with a sly smile, like a man amused. 'it is an odd fancy, living alone here.' 'an odd necessity, stanley.' 'aren't you afraid of being robbed and murdered, radie?' he said, leaning forward to smell at the pretty bouquet in the little glass, and turning it listlessly round. 'there are lots of those burglar fellows going about, you know.' 'thank you, dear, for reminding me. but, somehow, i'm not the least afraid. there hasn't been a robbery in this neighbourhood, i believe, for eight hundred years. the people never think of shutting their doors here in summer time till they are going to bed, and then only for form's sake; and, beside, there's nothing to rob, and i really don't much mind being murdered.' he looked round, and smiled on, as before, like a man contemptuously amused, but sleepily withal. 'you are very oddly housed, radie.' 'i like it,' she said quietly, also with a glance round her homely drawing-room. 'what do you call this, your boudoir or parlour?' 'i call it my drawing-room, but it's anything you please.' 'what very odd people our ancestors were,' he mused on. 'they lived, i suppose, out of doors like the cows, and only came into their sheds at night, when they could not see the absurd ugliness of the places they inhabited. i could not stand upright in this room with my hat on. lots of rats, i fancy, radie, behind that wainscoting? what's that horrid work of art against the wall?' 'a shell-work cabinet, dear. it is not beautiful, i allow. if i were strong enough, or poor old tamar, i should have put it away; and now that you're here, stanley, i think i'll make you carry it out to the lobby for me.' 'i should not like to touch it, dear radie. and pray how do you amuse yourself here? how on earth do you get over the day, and, worse still, the evenings?' 'very well--well enough. i make a very good sort of a nun, and a capital housemaid. i work in the garden, i mend my dresses, i drink tea, and when i choose to be dissipated, i play and sing for old tamar--why did not you ask how she is? i do believe, stanley, you care for no one, but' (she was going to say yourself, she said instead, however, but) 'perhaps, the least in the world for me, and that not very wisely,' she continued, a little fiercely, 'for from the moment you saw me, you've done little else than try to disgust me more than i am with my penury and solitude. what do you mean? you always have a purpose--will you ever learn to be frank and straightforward, and speak plainly to those whom you ought to trust, if not to love? what are you driving at, stanley?' he looked up with a gentle start, like one recovering from a reverie, and said, with his yellow eyes fixed for a moment on his sister, before they dropped again to the carpet. 'you're miserably poor, rachel: upon my word, i believe you haven't clear two hundred a year. i'll drink some tea, please, if you have got any, and it isn't too much trouble; and it strikes me as very curious you like living in this really very humiliating state.' 'i don't intend to go out for a governess, if that's what you mean; nor is there any privation in living as i do. perhaps you think i ought to go and housekeep for you.' 'why--ha, ha!--i really don't know, radie, where i shall be. i'm not of any regiment now.' 'why, you have not sold out?' she flushed and suddenly grew pale, for she was afraid something worse might have happened, having no great confidence in her brother. but she was relieved. 'i _have_ sold my commission.' she looked straight at him with large eyes and compressed lips, and nodded her head two or three times, just murmuring, 'well! well! well!' 'women never understand these things. the army is awfully expensive--i mean, of course, a regiment like ours; and the interest of the money is better to me than my pay; and see, rachel, there's no use in lecturing _me_--so don't let us quarrel. we're not very rich, you and i; and we each know our own affairs, you yours, and i mine, best.' there was something by no means pleasant in his countenance when his temper was stirred, and a little thing sometimes sufficed to do so. rachel treated him with a sort of deference, a little contemptuous perhaps, such as spoiled children receive from indulgent elders; and she looked at him steadily, with a faint smile and arched brows, for a little while, and an undefinable expression of puzzle and curiosity. 'you are a very amusing brother--if not a very cheery or a very useful one, stanley.' she opened the door, and called across the little hall into the homely kitchen of the mansion. 'tamar, dear, master stanley's here, and wishes to see you.' 'oh! yes, poor dear old tamar; ha, ha!' says the gentleman, with a gentle little laugh, 'i suppose she's as frightful as ever, that worthy woman. certainly she _is_ awfully like a ghost. i wonder, radie, you're not afraid of her at night in this cheerful habitation. _i_ should, i know.' 'a ghost _indeed_, the ghost of old times, an ugly ghost enough for many of us. poor tamar! she was always very kind to _you_, stanley.' and just then old tamar opened the door. i must allow there was something very unpleasant about that worthy old woman; and not being under any personal obligations to her, i confess my acquiescence in the spirit of captain lake's remarks. she was certainly perfectly neat and clean, but white predominated unpleasantly in her costume. her cotton gown had once had a pale pattern over it, but wear and washing had destroyed its tints, till it was no better than white, with a mottling of gray. she had a large white kerchief pinned with a grisly precision across her breast, and a white linen cap tied under her chin, fitting close to her head, like a child's nightcap, such as they wore in my young days, and destitute of border or frilling about the face. it was a dress very odd and unpleasant to behold, and suggested the idea of an hospital, or a madhouse, or death, in an undefined way. she was past sixty, with a mournful puckered and puffy face, tinted all over with a thin gamboge and burnt sienna glazing; and very blue under the eyes, which showed a great deal of their watery whites. this old woman had in her face and air, along with an expression of suspicion and anxiety, a certain character of decency and respectability, which made her altogether a puzzling and unpleasant apparition. being taciturn and undemonstrative, she stood at the door, looking with as pleased a countenance as so sad a portrait could wear upon the young gentleman. he got up at his leisure and greeted 'old tamar,' with his sleepy, amused sort of smile, and a few trite words of kindness. so tamar withdrew to prepare tea; and he said, all at once, with a sudden accession of energy, and an unpleasant momentary glare in his eyes-'you know, rachel, this sort of thing is all nonsense. you cannot go on living like this; you must marry--you shall marry. mark wylder is down here, and he has got an estate and a house, and it is time he should marry you.' 'mark wylder is here to marry my cousin, dorcas; and if he had no such intention, and were as free as you are, and again to urge his foolish suit upon his knees, stanley, i would die rather than accept him.' 'it was not always so foolish a suit, radie,' answered her brother, his eyes once more upon the carpet. 'why should not _he_ do as well as another? you liked him well enough once.' the young lady coloured rather fiercely. 'i am not a girl of seventeen now, stanley; and--and, besides, i _hate_ him.' 'what d--d nonsense! i really beg your pardon, radie, but it _is_ precious stuff. you are quite unreasonable; you've no cause to hate him; he dropped you because you dropped him. it was only prudent; he had not a guinea. but now it is different, and he _must_ marry you.' the young lady stared with a haughty amazement upon her brother. 'i've made up my mind to speak to him; and if he won't i promise you he shall leave the country,' said the young man gently, just lifting his yellow eyes for a second with another unpleasant glare. 'i almost think you're mad, stanley; and if you do anything so insane, sure i am you'll rue it while you live; and wherever he is i'll find him out, and acquit myself, with the scorn i owe him, of any share in a plot so unspeakably mean and absurd.' 'brava, brava! you're a heroine, radie; and why the devil,' he continued, in a changed tone, 'do you apply those insolent terms to what i purpose doing?' 'i wish i could find words strong enough to express my horror of your plot--a plot every way disgusting. you plainly know something to mark wylder's discredit; and you mean, stanley, to coerce him by fear into a marriage with your penniless sister, who _hates_ him. sir, do you pretend to be a gentleman?' 'i rather think so,' he said, with a quiet sneer. 'give up every idea of it this moment. has it not struck you that mark wylder may possibly know something of you, you would not have published?' 'i don't think he does. what do you mean?' 'on my life, stanley, i'll acquaint mr. wylder this evening with what you meditate, and the atrocious liberty you presume--yes, sir, though you are my brother, the _atrocious liberty_ you dare to take with my name--unless you promise, upon your honour, now and here, to dismiss for ever the odious and utterly resultless scheme.' captain lake looked very angry after his fashion, but said nothing. he could not at any time have very well defined his feelings toward his sister, but mingling in them, certainly, was a vein of unacknowledged dread, and, shall i say, respect. he knew she was resolute, fierce of will, and prompt in action, and not to be bullied. 'there's more in this, stanley, than you care to tell me. you have not troubled yourself a great deal about me, you know: and i'm no worse off now than any time for the last three years. you've _not_ come down here on _my_ account--that is, altogether; and be your plans what they may, you sha'n't mix my name in them. what you please--wise or foolish--you'll do in what concerns yourself;--you always _have_--without consulting me; but i tell you again, stanley, unless you promise, upon your honour, to forbear all mention of my name, i will write this evening to lady chelford, apprising her of your plans, and of my own disgust and indignation; and requesting her son's interference. _do_ you promise?' 'there's no such _haste_, radie. i only mentioned it. if you don't like it, of course it can lead to nothing, and there's no use in my speaking to wylder, and so there's an end of it.' 'there _may_ be some use, a purpose in which neither my feelings nor interests have any part. i venture to say, stanley, your plans are all for _yourself_. you want to extort some advantage from wylder; and you think, in his present situation, about to marry dorcas, you can use me for the purpose. thank heaven! sir, you committed for once the rare indiscretion of telling the truth; and unless you make me the promise i require, i will take, before evening, such measures as will completely exculpate me. once again, do you promise?' 'yes, radie; ha, ha! of course i promise.' 'upon your honour?' 'upon my honour--_there_.' 'i believe, you gentlemen dragoons observe that oath--i hope so. if you choose to break it you may give me some trouble, but you sha'n't compromise me. and now, stanley, one word more. i fancy mr. wylder is a resolute man--none of the wylders wanted courage.' captain lake was by this time smiling his sly, sleepy smile upon his french boots. 'if you have formed any plan which depends upon frightening him, it is a desperate one. all i can tell you, stanley, is this, that if i were a man, and an attempt made to extort from me any sort of concession by terror, i would shoot the miscreant who made it through the head, like a highwayman.' 'what the devil are you talking about?' said he. 'about _your danger_,' she answered. 'for once in your life listen to reason. mark wylder is as prompt as you, and has ten times your nerve and sense; you are more likely to have committed yourself than he. take care; he may retaliate your _threat_ by a counter move more dreadful. i know nothing of your doings, stanley--heaven forbid! but be warned, or you'll rue it.' 'why, radie, you know nothing of the world. do you suppose i'm quite demented? ask a gentleman for his estate, or watch, because i know something to his disadvantage! why, ha, ha! dear radie, every man who has ever been on terms of intimacy with another must know things to his disadvantage, but no one thinks of telling them. the world would not tolerate it. it would prejudice the betrayer at least as much as the betrayed. i don't affect to be angry, or talk romance and heroics, because you fancy such stuff; but i assure you--when will that old woman give me a cup of tea?--i assure you, radie, there's nothing in it.' rachel made no reply, but she looked steadfastly and uneasily upon the enigmatical face and downcast eyes of the young man. 'well, i hope so,' she said at last, with a sigh, and a slight sense of relief. chapter viii. in which captain lake takes his hat and stick. so the young people sitting in the little drawing-room of redman's farm pursued their dialogue; rachel lake had spoken last, and it was the captain's turn to speak next. 'do you remember miss beauchamp, radie?' he asked rather suddenly, after a very long pause. 'miss beauchamp? oh! to be sure; you mean little caroline; yes, she must be quite grown up by this time--five years--she promised to be pretty. what of her?' rachel, very flushed and agitated still, was now trying to speak as usual. 'she _is_ good-looking--a little coarse some people think,' resumed the young man; 'but handsome; black eyes--black hair--rather on a large scale, but certainly handsome. a style i admire rather, though it is not very refined, nor at all classic. but i like her, and i wish you'd advise me.' he was talking, after his wont, to the carpet. 'oh?' she exclaimed, with a gentle sort of derision. 'you mean,' he said, looking up for a moment, with a sudden stare, 'she has got money. of course she has; i could not afford to admire her if she had not; but i see you are not just now in a mood to trouble yourself about my nonsense--we can talk about it to-morrow; and tell me now, how do you get on with the brandon people?' rachel was curious, and would, if she could, have recalled that sarcastic 'oh' which had postponed the story; but she was also a little angry, and with anger there was pride, which would not stoop to ask for the revelation which he chose to defer; so she said, 'dorcas and i are very good friends; but i don't know very well what to make of her. only i don't think she's quite so dull and apathetic as i at first supposed; but still i'm puzzled. she is either absolutely uninteresting, or very interesting indeed, and i can't say which.' 'does she like you?' he asked. 'i really don't know. she tolerates me, like everything else; and i don't flatter her; and we see a good deal of one another upon those terms, and i have no complaint to make of her. she has some aversions, but no quarrels; and has a sort of laziness--mental, bodily, and moral--that is sublime, but provoking; and sometimes i admire her, and sometimes i despise her; and i do not yet know which feeling is the juster.' 'surely she is woman enough to be fussed a little about her marriage?' 'oh, dear, no! she takes the whole affair with a queenlike and supernatural indifference. she is either a fool or a very great philosopher, and there is something grand in the serene obscurity that envelopes her,' and rachel laughed a very little. 'i must, i suppose, pay my respects; but to-morrow will be time enough. what pretty little tea-cups, radie--quite charming--old cock china, isn't it? these were aunt jemima's, i think.' 'yes; they used to stand on the little marble table between the windows.' old tamar had glided in while they here talking, and placed the little tea equipage on the table unnoticed, and the captain was sipping his cup of tea, and inspecting the pattern, while his sister amused him. 'this place, i suppose, is confoundedly slow, is not it? do they entertain the neighbours ever at brandon?' 'sometimes, when old lady chelford and her son are staying there.' 'but the neighbours can't entertain them, i fancy, or you. what a dreary thing a dinner party made up of such people must be--like "aesop's fables," where the cows and sheep converse.' 'and sometimes a wolf or a fox,' she said. 'well, radie, i know you mean me; but as you wish it, i'll carry my fangs elsewhere;--and what has become of will wylder?' 'oh! he's in the church!' 'quite right--the only thing he was fit for;' and captain lake laughed like a man who enjoys a joke slily. 'and where is poor billy quartered?' 'not quite half a mile away; he has got the vicarage of naunton friars.' 'oh, then, will is not quite such a fool as we took him for.' 'it is worth just â£180 a year! but he's very far from a fool.' 'yes, of course, he knows greek poets and latin fathers, and all the rest of it. i don't mean he ever was plucked. i dare say he's the kind of fellow _you'd_ like very well, radie.' and his sly eyes had a twinkle in them which seemed to say, 'perhaps i've divined your secret.' 'and so i do, and i like his wife, too, _very_ much.' 'his wife! so william has married on â£180 a year;' and the captain laughed quietly but very pleasantly again. 'on a very little more, at all events; and i think they are about the happiest, and i'm sure they are the best people in this part of the world.' 'well, radie, i'll see you to-morrow again. you preserve your good looks wonderfully. i wonder you haven't become an old woman here.' and he kissed her, and went his way, with a slight wave of his hand, and his odd smile, as he closed the little garden gate after him. he turned to his left, walking down towards the town, and the innocent green trees hid him quickly, and the gush and tinkle of the clear brook rose faint and pleasantly through the leaves, from the depths of the glen, and refreshed her ear after his unpleasant talk. she was flushed, and felt oddly; a little stunned and strange, although she had talked lightly and easily enough. 'i forgot to ask him where he is staying: the brandon arms, i suppose. i don't at all like his coming down here after mark wylder; what _can_ he mean? he certainly never would have taken the trouble for _me_. what _can_ he want of mark wylder? i think _he_ knew old mr. beauchamp. he may be a trustee, but that's not likely; mark wylder was not the person for any such office. i hope stanley does not intend trying to extract money from him; anything rather than that degradation--than that _villainy_. stanley was always impracticable, perverse, deceitful, and so foolish with all his cunning and suspicion--so _very_ foolish. poor stanley. he's so unscrupulous; i don't know what to think. he said he could force mark wylder to leave the country. it must be some bad secret. if he tries and fails, i suppose he will be ruined. i don't know what to think; i never was so uneasy. he will blast himself, and disgrace all connected with him; and it is quite useless speaking to him.' perhaps if rachel lake had been in belgravia, leading a town life, the matter would have taken no such dark colouring and portentous proportions. but living in a small old house, in a dark glen, with no companion, and little to occupy her, it was different. she looked down the silent way he had so lately taken, and repeated, rather bitterly, 'my only brother! my only brother! my only brother!' that young lady was not quite a pauper, though she may have thought so. comparatively, indeed, she was; but not, i venture to think, absolutely. she had just that symmetrical three hundred pounds a year, which the famous dean of st. patrick's tells us he so 'often wished that he had clear.' she had had some money in the funds besides, still more insignificant but this her brother stanley had borrowed and begged piecemeal, and the consols were no more. but though something of a nun in her way of life, there was no germ of the old maid in her, and money was not often in her thoughts. it was not a bad _dot_; and her brother stanley had about twice as much, and therefore was much better off than many a younger son of a duke. but these young people, after the manner of men were spited with fortune; and indeed they had some cause. old general lake had once had more than ten thousand pounds a year, and lived, until the crash came, in the style of a vicious old prince. it was a great break up, and a worse fall for rachel than for her brother, when the plate, coaches, pictures, and all the valuable effects' of old tiberius went to the hammer, and he himself vanished from his clubs and other haunts, and lived only--a thin intermittent rumour--surmised to be in gaol, or in guernsey, and quite forgotten soon, and a little later actually dead and buried. chapter ix. i see the ring of the persian magician. 'that's a devilish fine girl,' said mark wylder. he was sitting at this moment on the billiard table, with his coat off and his cue in his hand, and had lighted a cigar. he and i had just had a game, and were tired of it. 'who?' i asked. he was looking on me from the corners of his eyes, and smiling in a sly, rakish way, that no man likes in another. 'radie lake--she's a splendid girl, by jove! don't you think so? and she liked me once devilish well, i can tell you. she was thin then, but she has plumped out a bit, and improved every way.' whatever else he was, mark was certainly no beauty;--a little short he was, and rather square--one shoulder a thought higher than the other--and a slight, energetic hitch in it when he walked. his features in profile had something of a grecian character, but his face was too broad--very brown, rather a bloodless brown--and he had a pair of great, dense, vulgar, black whiskers. he was very vain of his teeth--his only really good point--for his eyes were a small cunning, gray pair; and this, perhaps, was the reason why he had contracted his habit of laughing and grinning a good deal more than the fun of the dialogue always warranted. this sea-monster smoked here as unceremoniously as he would have done in 'rees's divan,' and i only wonder he did not call for brandy-and-water. he had either grown coarser a great deal, or i more decent, during our separation. he talked of his _fiancã©e_ as he might of an opera-girl almost, and was now discussing miss lake in the same style. 'yes, she is--she's very well; but hang it, wylder, you're a married man now, and must give up talking that way. people won't like it, you know; they'll take it to mean more than it does, and you oughtn't. let us have another game.' 'by-and-by; what do you think of larkin?' asked wylder, with a sly glance from the corners of his eyes. 'i think he prays rather more than is good for his clients; mind i spell it with an 'a,' not with an 'e;' but hang it, for an attorney, you know, and such a sharp chap, it does seem to me rather a--a joke, eh?' 'he bears a good character among the townspeople, doesn't he? and i don't see that it can do him any harm, remembering that he has a soul to be saved.' 'or the other thing, eh?' laughed wylder. 'but i think he comes it a little too strong--two sermons last sunday, and a prayer-meeting at nine o'clock?' 'well, it won't do him any harm,' i repeated. 'harm! o, let jos. larkin alone for that. it gets him all the religious business of the county; and there are nice pickings among the charities, and endowments, and purchases of building sites, and trust deeds; i dare say it brings him in two or three hundred a year, eh?' and wylder laughed again. 'it has broken up his hard, proud heart,' he says; 'but it left him a devilish hard head, i told him, and i think it sharpens his wits.' 'i rather think you'll find him a useful man; and to be so in his line of business he must have his wits about him, i can tell you.' 'he amused me devilishly,' said wylder, 'with a sort of exhortation he treated me to; he's a delightfully impudent chap, and gave me to understand i was a limb of the devil, and he a saint. i told him i was better than he, in my humble opinion, and so i am, by chalks. i know very well i'm a miserable sinner, but there's mercy above, and i don't hide my faults. i don't set up for a light or a saint; i'm just what the prayer-book says--neither more nor less--a miserable sinner. there's only one good thing i can safely say for myself--i am no pharisee; that's all; i air no religious prig, puffing myself, and trusting to forms, making long prayers in the market-place' (mark's quotations were paraphrastic), 'and thinking of nothing but the uppermost seats in the synagogue, and broad borders, and the praise of men--hang them, i hate those fellows.' so mark, like other men we meet with, was proud of being a publican; and his prayer was--'i thank thee that i am not as other men are, spiritually proud, formalists, hypocrites, or even as this pharisee.' 'do you wish another game?' i asked. 'just now,' said wylder, emitting first a thin stream of smoke, and watching its ascent. 'dorcas is the belle of the county; and she likes me, though she's odd, and don't show it the way other girls would. but a fellow knows pretty well when a girl likes him, and you know the marriage is a sensible sort of thing, and i'm determined, of course, to carry it through; but, hang it, a fellow can't help thinking sometimes there are other things besides money, and dorcas is not my style. rachel's more that way; she's a _tremendious_ fine girl, by jove! and a spirited minx, too; and i think,' he added, with an oath, having first taken two puffs at his cigar, 'if i had seen her first, i'd have thought twice before i'd have got myself into this business.' i only smiled and shook my head. i did not believe a word of it. yet, perhaps, i was wrong. he knew very well how to take care of his money; in fact, compared with other young fellows, he was a bit of a screw. but he could do a handsome and generous thing for himself. his selfishness would expand nobly, and rise above his prudential considerations, and drown them sometimes; and he was the sort of person, who, if the fancy were strong enough, might marry in haste, and repent--and make his wife, too, repent--at leisure. 'what do you laugh at, charlie?' said wylder, grinning himself. 'at your confounded grumbling, mark. the luckiest dog in england! will nothing content you?' 'why, i grumble very little, i think, considering how well off i am,' rejoined he, with a laugh. 'grumble! if you had a particle of gratitude, you'd build a temple to fortune--you're pagan enough for it, mark.' 'fortune has nothing to do with it,' says mark, laughing again. 'well, certainly, neither had you.' 'it was all the devil. i'm not joking, charlie, upon my word, though i'm laughing.' (mark swore now and then, but i take leave to soften his oaths). 'it was the persian magician.' 'come, mark, say what you mean.' 'i mean what i say. when we were in the persian gulf, near six years ago, i was in command of the ship. the captain, you see, was below, with a hurt in his leg. we had very rough weather--a gale for two days and a night almost--and a heavy swell after. in the night time we picked up three poor devils in an open boat--. one was a persian merchant, with a grand beard. we called him the magician, he was so like the pictures of aladdin's uncle.' 'why _he_ was an african,' i interposed, my sense of accuracy offended. 'i don't care a curse what he was,' rejoined mark; 'he was exactly like the picture in the story-books. and as we were lying off--i forget the cursed name of it--he begged me to put him ashore. he could not speak a word of english, but one of the fellows with him interpreted, and they were all anxious to get ashore. poor devils, they had a notion, i believe, we were going to sell them for slaves, and he made me a present of a ring, and told me a long yarn about it. it was a talisman, it seems, and no one who wore it could ever be lost. so i took it for a keepsake; here it is,' and he extended his stumpy, brown little finger, and showed a thick, coarsely-made ring of gold, with an uncut red stone, of the size of a large cherry stone, set in it. 'the stone is a humbug,' said wylder. 'it's not real. i showed it to platten and foyle. it's some sort of glass. but i would not part with it. i got a fancy into my head that luck would come with it, and maybe that glass stuff was the thing that had the virtue in it. now look at these persian letters on the inside, for that's the oddest thing about it. hang it, i can't pull it off--i'm growing as fat as a pig--but they are like a queer little string of flowers; and i showed it to a clever fellow at malta--a missionary chap--and he read it off slick, and what do you think it means: "i will come up again;"' and he swore a great oath. 'it's as true as you stand there--_our_ motto. is not it odd? so i got the "resurgam" you see there engraved round it, and by jove! it did bring me up. i was near lost, and did rise again. eh?' well, it certainly was a curious accident. mark had plenty of odd and not unamusing lore. men who beat about the world in ships usually have; and these 'yarns,' furnished, after the pattern of othello's tales of anthropophagites and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders, one of the many varieties of fascination which he practised on the fair sex. only in justice to mark, i must say that he was by no means so shameless a drawer of the long-bow as the venetian gentleman and officer. 'when i got this ring, charlie, three hundred a year and a london life would have been peru and paradise to poor pill garlick, and see what it has done for me.' 'aye, and better than aladdin's, for you need not rub it and bring up that confounded ugly genii; the slave of your ring works unseen.' 'so he does,' laughed wylder, in a state of elation, 'and he's not done working yet, i can tell you. when the estates are joined in one, they'll be good eleven thousand a year; and larkin says, with smart management, i shall have a rental of thirteen thousand before three years! and that's only the beginning, by george! sir henry twisden can't hold his seat--he's all but broke--as poor as job, and the gentry hate him, and he lives abroad. he has had a hint or two already, and he'll never fight the next election. d'ye see--hey?' and wylder winked and grinned, with a wag of his head. 'm.p.--eh? you did not see that before. i look a-head a bit, eh? and can take my turn at the wheel--eh?' and he laughed with cunning exultation. 'miss rachel will find i'm not quite such a lubber as she fancies. but even then it is only begun. come, charlie, you used to like a bet. what do you say? i'll buy you that twenty-five guinea book of pictures--what's its name?--if you give me three hundred guineas one month after i'm a peer of parliament. hey? there's a sporting offer for you. well! what do you say--eh?' 'you mean to come out as an orator, then?' 'orator be diddled! do you take me for a fool? no, charlie; but i'll come out strong as a _voter_--that's the stuff they like--at the right side, of course, and that is the way to manage it. thirteen thousand a year--the oldest family in the county--and a steady thick and thin supporter of the minister. strong points, eh, charlie? well, do you take my offer?' i laughed and declined, to his great elation, and just then the gong sounded and we were away to our toilets. while making my toilet for dinner, i amused myself by conjecturing whether there could be any foundation in fact for mark's boast, that miss brandon liked him. women are so enigmatical--some in everything--all in matters of the heart. don't they sometimes actually admire what is repulsive? does not brutality in our sex, and even rascality, interest them sometimes? don't they often affect indifference, and occasionally even aversion, where there is a different sort of feeling? as i went down i heard miss lake chatting with her queen-like cousin near an open door on the lobby. rachel lake was, indeed, a very constant guest at the hall, and the servants paid her much respect, which i look upon as a sign that the young heiress liked her and treated her with consideration; and indeed there was an insubordinate and fiery spirit in that young lady which would have brooked nothing less and dreamed of nothing but equality. chapter x. the ace of hearts. who should i find in the drawing-room, talking fluently and smiling, after his wont, to old lady chelford, who seemed to receive him very graciously, for her at least, but captain stanley lake! i can't quite describe to you the odd and unpleasant sort of surprise which that very gentlemanlike figure, standing among the brandon household gods at this moment, communicated to me. i thought of the few odd words and looks that had dropped from wylder about him with an ominous pang as i looked, and i felt somehow as if there were some occult relation between that confused prelude of wylder's and the mephistophelean image that had risen up almost upon the spot where it was spoken. i glanced round for wylder, but he was not there. 'you know captain lake?' said lord chelford, addressing me. and lake turned round upon me, a little abruptly, his odd yellowish eyes, a little like those of the sea-eagle, and the ghost of his smile that flickered on his singularly pale face, with a stern and insidious look, confronted me. there was something evil and shrinking in his aspect, which i felt with a sort of chill, like the commencing fascination of a serpent. i often thought since that he had expected to see wylder before him. the church-yard meteor expired, there was nothing in a moment but his ordinary smile of recognition. 'you're surprised to see me here,' he said in his very pleasing low tones. 'i lighted on him in the village; and i knew miss brandon would not forgive me if i allowed him to go away without coming here. (he had his hand upon lake's shoulder.) they are cousins, you know; we are all cousins. i'm bad at genealogies. my mother could tell us all about it--we, brandons, lakes; wylders, and chelfords.' at this moment miss brandon entered, with her brilliant cousin rachel. the blonde and the dark, it was a dazzling contrast. so chelford led stanley lake before the lady of the castle. i thought of the 'fair brunnisende,' with the captive knight in the hands of her seneschal before her, and i fancied he said something of having found him trespassing in her town, and brought him up for judgment. whatever lord chelford said, miss brandon received it very graciously, and even with a momentary smile. i wonder she did not smile oftener, it became her so. but her greeting to captain lake was more than usually haughty and frozen, and her features, i fancied, particularly proud and pale. it seemed to me to indicate a great deal more than mere indifference--something of aversion, and nearer to a positive emotion than anything i had yet seen in that exquisitely apathetic face. how was it that this man with the yellow eyes seemed to gleam from them an influence of pain or disturbance, wherever almost he looked. 'shake hands with your cousin, my dear,' said old lady chelford, peremptorily. the little scene took place close to her chair; and upon this stage direction the little piece of by-play took place, and the young lady coldly touched the captain's hand, and passed on. young as he was, stanley lake was an old man of the world, not to be disconcerted, and never saw more than exactly suited him. waiting in the drawing-room, i had some entertaining talk with miss lake. her conversation was lively, and rather bold, not at all in the coarse sense, but she struck me as having formed a system of ethics and views of life, both good-humoured and sarcastic, and had carried into her rustic sequestration the melancholy and precocious lore of her early london experience. when lord chelford joined us, i perceived that wylder was in the room, and saw a very cordial greeting between him and lake. the captain appeared quite easy and cheerful; but mark, i thought, notwithstanding his laughter and general jollity, was uncomfortable; and i saw him once or twice, when stanley's eye was not upon him, glance sharply on the young man with an uneasy and not very friendly curiosity. at dinner lake was easy and amusing. that meal passed off rather pleasantly; and when we joined the ladies in the drawing-room, the good vicar's enthusiastic little wife came to meet us, in one of her honest little raptures. 'now, here's a thing worth your looking at! did you ever see anything so bee-utiful in your life? it is such a darling little thing; and--look now--is not it magnificent?' she arrested the file of gentlemen just by a large lamp, before whose effulgence she presented the subject of her eulogy--one of those costly trifles which announce the approach of hymen, as flowers spring up before the rosy steps of may. well, it was pretty--french, i dare say--a little set of tablets--a toy--the cover of enamel, studded in small jewels, with a slender border of symbolic flowers, and with a heart in the centre, a mosaic of little carbuncles, rubies, and other red and crimson stones, placed with a view to light and shade. 'exquisite, indeed!' said lord chelford. 'is this yours, mrs. wylder?' 'mine, indeed!' laughed poor little mrs. dorothy. 'well, dear me, no, indeed;'--and in an earnest whisper close in his ear--'a present to miss brandon, and the donor is not a hundred miles away from your elbow, my lord!' and she winked slyly, and laughed, with a little nod at wylder. 'oh! i see--to be sure--really, wylder, it does your taste infinite credit.' 'i'm glad you like it,' says wylder, chuckling benignantly on it, over his shoulder. 'i believe i _have_ a little taste that way; those are all real, you know, those jewels.' 'oh, yes! of course. have you seen it, captain lake?' and he placed it in that gentleman's fingers, who now took his turn at the lamp, and contemplated the little parallelogram with a gleam of sly amusement. 'what are you laughing at?' asked wylder, a little snappishly. 'i was thinking it's very like the ace of hearts,' answered the captain softly, smiling on. 'fie, lake, there's no poetry in you,' said lord chelford, laughing. 'well, now, though, really it is funny; it did not strike me before, but do you know, now, it _is_,' laughs out jolly mrs. dolly, 'isn't it. look at it, do, mr. wylder--isn't it like the ace of hearts?' wylder was laughing rather redly, with the upper part of his face very surly, i thought. 'never mind, wylder, it's the winning card,' said lord chelford, laying his hand on his shoulder. whereupon lake laughed quietly, still looking on the ace of hearts with his sly eyes. and wylder laughed too, more suddenly and noisily than the humour of the joke seemed quite to call for, and glanced a grim look from the corners of his eyes on lake, but the gallant captain did not seem to perceive it; and after a few seconds more he handed it very innocently back to mrs. dorothy, only remarking-'seriously, it _is_ very pretty, and _appropriate_.' and wylder, making no remark, helped himself to a cup of coffee, and then to a glass of curaã§oa, and then looked industriously at a spanish quarto of don quixote, and lastly walked over to me on the hearthrug. 'what the d-has he come down here for? it can't be for money, or balls, or play, and he has no honest business anywhere. do you know?' 'lake? oh! i really can't tell; but he'll soon tire of country life. i don't think he's much of a sportsman.' 'ha, isn't he? i don't know anything about him almost; but i hate him.' 'why should you, though? he's a very gentlemanlike fellow and your cousin.' 'my cousin--the devil's cousin--everyone's cousin. i don't know who's my cousin, or who isn't; nor you don't, who've been for ten years over those d--d papers; but i think he's the nastiest dog i ever met. i took a dislike to him at first sight long ago, and that never happened me but i was right.' wylder looked confoundedly angry and flustered, standing with his heels on the edge of the rug, his hands in his pockets, jingling some silver there, and glancing from under his red forehead sternly and unsteadily across the room. 'he's not a man for country quarters! he'll soon be back in town, or to brighton,' i said. 'if _he_ doesn't, _i_ will. that's all.' just to get him off this unpleasant groove with a little jolt, i said-'by-the-bye, wylder, you know the pictures here; who is the tall man, with the long pale face, and wild phosphoric eyes? i was always afraid of him; in a long peruke, and dark red velvet coat, facing the hall-door. i had a horrid dream about him last night.' 'that? oh, i know--that's lorne brandon. he was one of our family devils, he was. a devil in a family now and then is not such a bad thing, when there's work for him.' (all the time he was talking to me his angry little eyes were following lake.) 'they say he killed his son, a blackguard, who was found shot, with his face in the tarn in the park. he was going to marry the gamekeeper's daughter, it was thought, and he and the old boy, who was for high blood, and all that, were at loggerheads about it. it was not proved, only thought likely, which showed what a nice character he was; but he might have done worse. i suppose miss partridge would have had a precious lot of babbies; and who knows where the estate would have been by this time.' 'i believe, charlie,' he recommenced suddenly, 'there is not such an unnatural family on record as ours; is there? ha, ha, ha! it's well to be distinguished in any line. i forget all the other good things he did; but he ended by shooting himself through the head in his bed-room, and that was not the worst thing ever he did.' and wylder laughed again, and began to whistle very low--not, i fancy, for want of thought, but as a sort of accompaniment thereto, for he suddenly said-'and where is he staying?' 'who?--lake?' 'yes.' 'i don't know; but i think he mentioned larkins's house, didn't he? i'm not quite sure.' 'i suppose he this i'm made of money. by jove! if he wants to borrow any i'll surprise him, the cur; i'll talk to him; ha, ha, ha!' and wylder chuckled angrily, and the small change in his pocket tinkled fiercely, as his eye glanced on the graceful captain, who was entertaining the ladies, no doubt, very agreeably in the distance. chapter xi. in which lake under the trees of brandon, and i in my chamber, smoke our nocturnal cigars. miss lake declined the carriage to-night. her brother was to see her home, and there was a leave-taking, and the young ladies whispered a word or two, and kissed, after the manner of their kind. to captain lake, miss brandon's adieux were as cold and haughty as her greeting. 'did you see that?' said wylder in my ear, with a chuckle; and, wagging his head, he added, rather loftily for him, 'miss brandon, i reckon, has taken your measure, master stanley, as well as i. i wonder what the deuce the old dowager sees in him. old women always like rascals.' and he added something still less complimentary. i suppose the balance of attraction and repulsion was overcome by miss lake, much as he disliked stanley, for wylder followed them out with lord chelford, to help the young lady into her cloak and goloshes, and i found myself near miss brandon for the first time that evening, and much to my surprise she was first to speak, and that rather strangely. 'you seem to be very sensible, mr. de cresseron; pray tell me, frankly, what do you think of all this?' 'i am not quite sure, miss brandon, that i understand your question,' i replied, enquiringly. 'i mean of the--the family arrangements, in which, as mr. wylder's friend, you seem to take an interest?' she said. 'there can hardly be a second opinion, miss brandon; i think it a very wise measure,' i replied, much surprised. 'very wise--exactly. but don't these very wise things sometimes turn out very foolishly? do you really think your friend, mr. wylder, cares about me?' 'i take that for granted: in the nature of things it can hardly be otherwise,' i replied, a good deal startled and perplexed by the curious audacity of her interrogatory. 'it was very foolish of me to expect from mr. wylder's friend any other answer; you are very loyal, mr. de cresseron.' and without awaiting my reply she made some remark which i forget to lady chelford, who sat at a little distance; and, appearing quite absorbed in her new subject, she placed herself close beside the dowager, and continued to chat in a low tone. i was vexed with myself for having managed with so little skill a conversation which, opened so oddly and frankly, might have placed me on relations so nearly confidential, with that singular and beautiful girl. i ought to have rejoiced--but we don't always see what most concerns our peace. in the meantime i had formed a new idea of her. she was so unreserved, it seemed, and yet in this directness there was something almost contemptuous. by this time lord chelford and wylder returned; and, disgusted rather with myself, i ruminated on my want of general-ship. in the meantime, miss lake, with her hand on her brother's arm, was walking swiftly under the trees of the back avenue towards that footpath which, through wild copse and broken clumps near the park, emerges upon the still darker road which passes along the wooded glen by the mills, and skirts the little paling of the recluse lady's garden. they had not walked far, when lake suddenly said-'what do you think of all this, radie--this particular version, i mean, of marriage, _ã -la-mode_, they are preparing up there?' and he made a little dip of his cane towards brandon hall, over his shoulder. 'i really don't think wylder cares twopence about her, or she about him,' and stanley lake laughed gently and sleepily. 'i don't think they pretend to like one another. it is quite understood. it was all, you know, old lady chelford's arrangement: and dorcas is so supine, i believe she would allow herself to be given away by anyone, and to anyone, rather than be at the least trouble. she provokes me.' 'but i thought she liked sir harry bracton: he's a good-looking fellow; and queen's bracton is a very nice thing, you know.' 'yes, so they said; but that would, i think, have been worse. something may be made of mark wylder. he has some sense and caution, has not he?--but sir harry is wickedness itself!' 'why--what has sir harry done? that is the way you women run away with things! if a fellow's been a little bit wild, he's beelzebub at once. bracton's a very good fellow, i can assure you.' the fact is, captain lake, an accomplished player, made a pretty little revenue of sir harry's billiards, which were wild and noisy; and liking his money, thought he liked himself--a confusion not uncommon. 'i don't know, and can't say, how you fine gentlemen define wickedness: only, as an obscure female, i speak according to my lights: and he is generally thought the wickedest man in this county.' 'well, you know, radie, women like wicked fellows: it is contrast, i suppose, but they do; and i'm sure, from what bracton has said to me--i know him intimately--that dorcas likes him, and i can't conceive why they are not married.' 'it is very happy, for her at least, they are not,' said rachel, and a long silence ensued. their walk continued silent for the greater part, neither was quite satisfied with the other. but rachel at last said-'stanley, you meditate some injury to mark wylder.' 'i, radie?' he answered quietly, 'why on earth should you think so?' 'i saw you twice watch him when you thought no one observed you--and i know your face too well, stanley, to mistake.' 'now that's impossible, radie; for i really don't think i once thought of him all this evening--except just while we were talking.' 'you keep your secret as usual, stanley,' said the young lady. 'really, radie, you're quite mistaken. i assure you, upon my honour, i've no secret. you're a very odd girl--why won't you believe me?' miss rachel only glanced across her mufflers on his face. there was a bright moonlight, broken by the shadows of overhanging boughs and withered leaves; and the mottled lights and shadows glided oddly across his pale features. but she saw that he was smiling his sly, sleepy smile, and she said quietly-'well, stanley, i ask no more--but you don't deceive me.' 'i don't try to. if your feelings indeed had been different, and that you had not made such a point--you know--' 'don't insult me, stanley, by talking again as you did this morning. what i say is altogether on your own account. mark my words, you'll find him too strong for you; aye, and too deep. i see very plainly that _he_ suspects you as i do. you saw it, too, for nothing of that kind escapes you. whatever you meditate, he probably anticipates it--you know best--and you will find him prepared. you have given him time enough. you were always the same, close, dark, and crooked, and wise in your own conceit. i am very uneasy about it, whatever it is. _i_ can't help it. it will happen--and most ominously i feel that you are courting a dreadful retaliation, and that you will bring on yourself a great misfortune; but it is quite vain, i know, speaking to you.' 'really, radie, you're enough to frighten a poor fellow; you won't mind a word i say, and go on predicting all manner of mischief between me and wylder, the very nature of which i can't surmise. would you dislike my smoking a cigar, radie?' 'oh, no,' answered the young lady, with a little laugh and a heavy sigh, for she knew it meant silence, and her dark auguries grew darker. to my mind there has always been something inexpressibly awful in family feuds. mortal hatred seems to deepen and dilate into something diabolical in these perverted animosities. the mystery of their origin--their capacity for evolving latent faculties of crime--and the steady vitality with which they survive the hearse, and speak their deep-mouthed malignities in every new-born generation, have associated them somehow in my mind with a spell of life exceeding and distinct from human and a special satanic action. my chamber, as i have mentioned, was upon the third storey. it was one of many, opening upon the long gallery, which had been the scene, four generations back, of that unnatural and bloody midnight duel which had laid one scion of this ancient house in his shroud, and driven another a fugitive to the moral solitudes of a continental banishment. much of the day, as i told you, had been passed among the grisly records of these old family crimes and hatreds. they had been an ill-conditioned and not a happy race. when i heard the servant's step traversing that long gallery, as it seemed to the in haste to be gone, and when all grew quite silent, i began to feel a dismal sort of sensation, and lighted the pair of wax candles which i found upon the small writing table. how wonderful and mysterious is the influence of light! what sort of beings must those be who hate it? the floor, more than anything else, showed the great age of the room. it was warped and arched all along by the wall between the door and the window. the portion of it which the carpet did not cover showed it to be oak, dark and rugged. my bed was unexceptionably comfortable, but, in my then mood, i could have wished it a great deal more modern. its four posts were, like the rest of it, oak, well-nigh black, fantastically turned and carved, with a great urn-like capital and base, and shaped midway, like a gigantic lance-handle. its curtains were of thick and faded tapestry. i was always a lover of such antiquities, but i confess at that moment i would have vastly preferred a sprightly modern chintz and a trumpery little french bed in a corner of the brandon arms. there was a great lowering press of oak, and some shelves, with withered green and gold leather borders. all the furniture belonged to other times. i would have been glad to hear a step stirring, or a cough even, or the gabble of servants at a distance. but there was a silence and desertion in this part of the mansion which, somehow, made me feel that i was myself a solitary intruder on this level of the vast old house. i shan't trouble you about my train of thoughts or fancies; but i began to feel very like a gentleman in a ghost story, watching experimentally in a haunted chamber. my cigar case was a resource. i was not a bit afraid of being found out. i did not even take the precaution of smoking up the chimney. i boldly lighted my cheroot. i peeped through the dense window curtain there were no shutters. a cold, bright moon was shining with clear sharp lights and shadows. everything looked strangely cold and motionless outside. the sombre old trees, like gigantic hearse plumes, black and awful. the chapel lay full in view, where so many of the, strange and equivocal race, under whose ancient roof-tree i then stood, were lying under their tombstones. somehow, i had grown nervous. a little bit of plaster tumbled down the chimney, and startled me confoundedly. then some time after, i fancied i heard a creaking step on the lobby outside, and, candle in hand, opened the door, and looked out with an odd sort of expectation, and a rather agreeable disappointment, upon vacancy. chapter xii. in which uncle lorne troubles me. i was growing most uncomfortably like one of mrs. anne radcliffe's heroes--a nervous race of demigods. i walked like a sentinel up and down my chamber, puffing leisurely the solemn incense, and trying to think of the opera and my essay on 'paradise lost,' and other pleasant subjects. but it would not do. every now and then, as i turned towards the door, i fancied i saw it softly close. i can't the least say whether it was altogether fancy. it was with the corner, or as the italians have it, the 'tail' of my eye that i saw, or imagined that i saw, this trifling but unpleasant movement. i called out once or twice sharply--'come in!' 'who's there?' 'who's that?' and so forth, without any sort of effect, except that unpleasant reaction upon the nerves which follows the sound of one's own voice in a solitude of this kind. the fact is i did not myself believe in that stealthy motion of my door, and set it down to one of those illusions which i have sometimes succeeded in analysing--a half-seen combination of objects which, rightly placed in the due relations of perspective, have no mutual connection whatever. so i ceased to challenge the unearthly inquisitor, and allowed him, after a while, serenely enough, to peep as i turned my back, or to withdraw again as i made my regular right-about face. i had now got half-way in my second cheroot, and the clock clanged 'one.' it was a very still night, and the prolonged boom vibrated strangely in my excited ears and brain. i had never been quite such an ass before; but i do assure you i was now in an extremely unpleasant state. one o'clock was better, however, than twelve. although, by jove! the bell was 'beating one,' as i remember, precisely as that king of ghosts, old hamlet, revisited the glimpses of the moon, upon the famous platform of elsinore. i had pondered too long over the lore of this satanic family, and drunk very strong tea, i suppose. i could not get my nerves into a comfortable state, and cheerful thoughts refused to inhabit the darkened chamber of my brain. as i stood in a sort of reverie, looking straight upon the door, i saw--and this time there could be no mistake whatsoever--the handle--the only modern thing about it--slowly turned, and the door itself as slowly pushed about a quarter open. i do not know what exclamation i made. the door was shut instantly, and i found myself standing at it, and looking out upon the lobby, with a candle in my hand, and actually freezing with foolish horror. i was looking towards the stair-head. the passage was empty and ended in utter darkness. i glanced the other way, and thought i saw--though not distinctly--in the distance a white figure, not gliding in the conventional way, but limping off, with a sort of jerky motion, and, in a second or two, quite lost in darkness. i got into my room again, and shut the door with a clap that sounded loudly and unnaturally through the dismal quiet that surrounded me, and stood with my hand on the handle, with the instinct of resistance. i felt uncomfortable; and i would have secured the door, but there was no sort of fastening within. so i paused. i did not mind looking out again. to tell you the plain truth, i was just a little bit afraid. then i grew angry at having been put into such remote, and, possibly, suspected quarters, and then my comfortable scepticism supervened. i was yet to learn a great deal about this visitation. so, in due course having smoked my cheroot, i jerked the stump into the fire. of course i could not think of depriving myself of candle-light; and being already of a thoughtful, old-bachelor temperament, and averse from burning houses, i placed one of my tall wax-lights in a basin on the table by my bed--in which i soon effected a lodgment, and lay with a comparative sense of security. then i heard two o'clock strike; but shortly after, as i suppose, sleep overtook me, and i have no distinct idea for how long my slumber lasted. the fire was very low when i awoke, and saw a figure--and a very odd one--seated by the embers, and stooping over the grate, with a pair of long hands expanded, as it seemed, to catch the warmth of the sinking fire. it was that of a very tall old man, entirely dressed in white flannel--a very long spencer, and some sort of white swathing about his head. his back was toward me; and he stooped without the slightest motion over the fire-place, in the attitude i have described. as i looked, he suddenly turned toward me, and fixed upon me a cold, and as it seemed, a wrathful gaze, over his shoulder. it was a bleached and a long-chinned face--the countenance of lorne's portrait--only more faded, sinister, and apathetic. and having, as it were, secured its awful command over me by a protracted gaze, he rose, supernaturally lean and tall, and drew near the side of my bed. i continued to stare upon this apparition with the most dreadful fascination i ever experienced in my life. for two or three seconds i literally could not move. when i did, i am not ashamed to confess, it was to plunge my head under the bed-clothes, with the childish instinct of terror; and there i lay breathless, for what seemed to me not far from ten minutes, during which there was no sound, nor other symptom of its presence. on a sudden the bed-clothes were gently lifted at my feet, and i sprang backwards, sitting upright against the back of the bed, and once more under the gaze of that long-chinned old man. a voice, as peculiar as the appearance of the figure, said:-'you are in my bed--i died in it a great many years ago. i am uncle lorne; and when i am not here, a devil goes up and down in the room. see! he had his face to your ear when i came in. i came from dorcas brandon's bed-chamber door, where her evil angel told me a thing;--and mark wylder must not seek to marry her, for he will be buried alive if he does, and he will, maybe, never get up again. say your prayers when i go out, and come here no more.' he paused, as if these incredible words were to sink into my memory; and then, in the same tone, and with the same countenance, he asked-'is the blood on my forehead?' i don't know whether i answered. 'so soon as a calamity is within twelve hours, the blood comes upon my forehead, as they found me in the morning--it is a sign.' the old man then drew back slowly, and disappeared behind the curtains at the foot of the bed, and i saw no more of him during the rest of that odious night. so long as this apparition remained before me, i never doubted its being supernatural. i don't think mortal ever suffered horror more intense. my very hair was dripping with a cold moisture. for some seconds i hardly knew where i was. but soon a reaction came, and i felt convinced that the apparition was a living man. it was no process of reason or philosophy, but simply i became persuaded of it, and something like rage overcame my terrors. chapter xiii. the pony carriage so soon as daylight came, i made a swift cold water toilet, and got out into the open air, with a solemn resolution to see the hated interior of that bed-room no more. when i met lord chelford in his early walk that morning, i'm sure i looked myself like a ghost--at all events, very wild and seedy--for he asked me, more seriously than usual, how i was; and i think i would have told him the story of my adventure, despite the secret ridicule with which, i fancied, he would receive it, had it not been for a certain insurmountable disgust and horror which held me tongue-tied upon the affair. i told him, however, that i had dreamed dreams, and was restless and uncomfortable in my present berth, and begged his interest with the housekeeper to have my quarters changed to the lower storey--quite resolved to remove to the 'brandon arms,' rather than encounter another such night as i had passed. stanley lake did not appear that day; wylder was glowering and abstracted--worse company than usual; and rachel seemed to have quite passed from his recollection. while rachel lake was, as usual, busy in her little garden that day, lord chelford, on his way to the town, by the pretty mill-road, took off his hat to her with a smiling salutation, and leaning on the paling, he said-'i often wonder how you make your flowers grow here--you have so little sun among the trees--and yet, it is so pretty and flowery; it remains in my memory as if the sun were always shining specially on this little garden.' miss lake laughed. 'i am very proud of it. they try not to blow, but i never let them alone till they do. see all my watering-pots, and pruning-scissors, my sticks, and bass-mat, and glass covers. skill and industry conquer churlish nature--and this is my versailles.' 'i don't believe in those sticks, and scissors, and watering-pots. you won't tell your secret; but i'm sure it's an influence--you smile and whisper to them.' she smiled--without raising her eyes--on the flower she was tying up; and, indeed, it was such a smile as must have made it happy--and she said, gaily-'you forget that lord chelford passes this way sometimes, and shines upon them, too.' 'no, he's a dull, earthly dog; and if he shines here, it is only in reflected light' 'margery, child, fetch me the scissors.' and a hobble-de-hoy of a girl, with round eyes, and a long white-apron, and bare arms, came down the little walk, and--eyeing the peer with an awful curiosity--presented the shears to the charming atropos, who clipped off the withered blossoms that had bloomed their hour, and were to cumber the stalk no more. 'now, you see what art may do; how _passã©e_ this creature was till i made her toilet, and how wonderfully the poor old beauty looks now,' and she glanced complacently at the plant she had just trimmed. 'well, it is young again and beautiful; but no--i have no faith in the scissors; i still believe in the influence--from the tips of your fingers, your looks, and tones. flowers, like fairies, have their favourites, whom they smile on and obey; and i think this is a haunted glen--trees, flowers, all have an intelligence and a feeling--and i am sure you see wonderful things, by moonlight, from your window.' with a strange meaning echo, those words returned to her afterwards--'i'm sure you see wonderful things, by moonlight, from your window.' but no matter; the winged words--making pleasant music--flew pleasantly away, now among transparent leaves and glimmering sun; by-and-by, in moonlight, they will return to the casement piping the same tune, in ghostly tones. and as they chatted in this strain, rachel paused on a sudden, with upraised hand, listening pleasantly. 'i hear the pony-carriage; dorcas is coming,' she said. and the tinkle of tiny wheels, coming down the road, was audible. 'there's a pleasant sense of adventure, too, in the midst of your seclusion. sudden arrivals and passing pilgrims, like me, leaning over the paling, and refreshed by the glimpse the rogue steals of this charming oratory. yes; here comes the fair brunnisende.' and he made his salutation. miss brandon smiled from under her gipsy-hat very pleasantly for her. 'will you come with me for a drive, radie?' she asked. 'yes, dear--delighted. margery, bring my gloves and cloak.' and she unpinned the faded silk shawl that did duty in the garden, and drew off her gauntlets, and showed her pretty hands; and margery popped her cloak on her shoulders, and the young lady pulled on her gloves. all ready in a moment, like a young lady of energy; and chatting merrily she sat down beside her cousin, who held the reins. as there were no more gates to open, miss brandon dismissed the servant, who stood at the ponies' heads, and who, touching his hat with his white glove, received his _congã©_, and strode with willing steps up the road. 'will you take me for your footman as far as the town?' asked lord chelford; so, with permission, up he jumped behind, and away they whirled, close over the ground, on toy wheels ringing merrily on the shingle, he leaning over the back and chatting pleasantly with the young ladies as they drove on. they drew up at the brandon arms, and little girls courtesied at doors, and householders peeped from their windows, not standing close to the panes, but respectfully back, at the great lady and the nobleman, who was now taking his leave. and next they pulled up at that official rendezvous, with white-washed front--and 'post-office,' in white letters on a brown board over its door, and its black, hinged window-pane, through which mr. driver--or, in his absence, miss anne driver--answered questions, and transacted affairs officially. in the rear of this establishment were kept some dogs of lawyer larkin's; and just as the ladies arrived, that person emerged, looking overpoweringly gentlemanlike, in a white hat, gray paletot, lavender trowsers, and white riding gloves. he was in a righteous and dignified way pleased to present himself in so becoming a costume, and moreover in good company, for stanley lake was going with him to dutton for a day's sport, which neither of them cared for. but stanley hoped to pump the attorney, and the attorney, i'm afraid, liked being associated with the fashionable captain; and so they were each pleased in the way that suited them. the attorney, being long as well as lank, had to stoop under the doorway, but drew himself up handsomely on coming out, and assumed his easy, high-bred style, which, although he was not aware of it, was very nearly insupportable, and smiled very engagingly, and meant to talk a little about the weather; but miss brandon made him one of her gravest and slightest bows, and suddenly saw mrs. brown at her shop door on the other side, and had a word to say to her. and now stanley lake drew up in the tax-cart, and greeted the ladies, and told them how he meant to pass the day; and the dogs being put in, and the attorney, i'm afraid a little spited at his reception, in possession of the reins, they drove down the little street at a great pace, and disappeared round the corner; and in a minute more the young ladies, in the opposite direction, resumed their drive. the ponies, being grave and trustworthy, and having the road quite to themselves, needed little looking after, and miss brandon was free to converse with her companion. 'i think, rachel, you have a lover,' she said. 'only a bachelor, i'm afraid, as my poor margery calls the young gentleman who takes her out for a walk on a sunday, and i fear means nothing more.' 'this is the second time i've found chelford talking to you, rachel, at the door of your pretty little garden.' rachel laughed. 'suppose, some fine day, he should put his hand over the paling, and take yours, and make you a speech.' 'you romantic darling,' she said, 'don't you know that peers and princes have quite given over marrying simple maidens of low estate for love and liking, and understand match-making better than you or i; though i could give a tolerable account of myself, after the manner of the white cat in the story, which i think is a pattern of frankness and modest dignity. i'd say with a courtesy--"think not, prince, that i have always been a cat, and that my birth is obscure; my father was king of six kingdoms, and loved my mother tenderly," and so forth.' 'rachel, i like you,' interrupted the dark beauty, fixing her large eyes, from which not light, but, as it were, a rich shadow fell softly on her companion. it was the first time she had made any such confession. rachel returned her look as frankly, with an amused smile, and then said, with a comic little toss of her head-'well, dorcas, i don't see why you should not, though i don't know why you say so.' 'you're not like other people; you don't complain, and you're not bitter, although you have had great misfortunes, my poor rachel.' there be ladies, young and old, who, the moment they are pitied, though never so cheerful before, will forthwith dissolve in tears. but that was not rachel's way; she only looked at her with a good-humoured but grave curiosity for a few seconds, and then said, with rather a kindly smile-'and now, dorcas, i like you.' dorcas made no answer, but put her arm round rachel's neck, and kissed her; dorcas made two kisses of it, and rachel one, but it was cousinly and kindly; and rachel laughed a soft little laugh after it, looking amused and very lovingly on her cousin; but she was a bold lass, and not given in anywise to the melting mood, and said gaily, with her open hand still caressingly on dorcas's waist-'i make a very good nun, dorcas, as i told stanley the other day. i sometimes, indeed, receive a male visitor, at the other side of the paling, which is my grille; but to change my way of life is a dream that does not trouble me. happy the girl--and i am one--who cannot like until she is first beloved. don't you remember poor, pale winnie, the maid who used to take us on our walks all the summer at dawling; how she used to pluck the leaves from the flowers, like faust's marguerite, saying, "he loves me a little--passionately, not at all." now if i were loved passionately, i might love a little; and if loved a little--it should be not at all.' they had the road all to themselves, and were going at a walk up an ascent, so the reins lay loosely on the ponies' necks and dorcas looked with an untold meaning in her proud face, on her cousin, and seemed on the point of speaking, but she changed her mind. 'and so dorcas, as swains are seldom passionately in love with so small a pittance as mine, i think i shall mature into a queer old maid, and take all the little wylders, masters and misses, with your leave, for their walks, and help to make their pinafores.' whereupon miss dorcas put her ponies into a very quick trot, and became absorbed in her driving. chapter xiv. in which various persons give their opinions of captain stanley lake. 'stanley is an odd creature,' said rachel, so soon as another slight incline brought them to a walk; 'i can't conceive why he has come down here, or what he can possibly want of that disagreeable lawyer. they have got dogs and guns, and are going, of course, to shoot; but he does not care for shooting, and i don't think mr. larkin's society can amuse him. stanley is clever and cunning, i think, but he is neither wise nor frank. he never tells me his plans, though he must know--he _does_ know--i love him; yes, he's a strange mixture of suspicion and imprudence. he's wonderfully reserved. i am certain he trusts no one on earth, and at the same time, except in his confidences, he's the rashest man living. if he were like lord chelford, or even like our good vicar--not in piety, for poor stanley's training, like my own, was sadly neglected there--i mean in a few manly points of character, i should be quite happy, i think, in my solitary nook.' 'is he so very odd?' said miss brandon, coldly. 'i only know he makes me often very uncomfortable,' answered rachel. 'i never mind what he tells me, for i think he likes to mislead everybody; and i have been two often duped by him to trust what he says. i only know that his visit to gylingden must have been made with some serious purpose, and his ideas are all so rash and violent.' 'he was at donnyston for ten days, i think, when i was there, and seemed clever. they had charades and _proverbes dramatiques_. i'm no judge, but the people who understood it, said he was very good.' 'oh! yes he is clever; i knew he was at donnyston, but he did not mention he had seen you there; he only told me he had met you pretty often when you were at lady alton's last season.' 'yes, in town,' she answered, a little drily. while these young ladies are discussing stanley lake, i may be permitted to mention my own estimate of that agreeable young person. captain lake was a gentleman and an officer, and of course an honourable man; but somehow i should not have liked to buy a horse from him. he was very gentlemanlike in appearance, and even elegant; but i never liked him, although he undoubtedly had a superficial fascination. i always thought, when in his company, of old lord holland's silk stocking with something unpleasant in it. i think, in fact, he was destitute of those fine moral instincts which are born with men, but never acquired; and in his way of estimating his fellow men, and the canons of honour, there was occasionally perceptible a faint flavour of the villainous, and an undefined savour, at times, of brimstone. i know also that when his temper, which was nothing very remarkable, was excited, he could be savage and brutal enough; and i believe he had often been violent and cowardly in his altercations with his sister--so, at least, two or three people, who were versed in the scandals of the family, affirmed. but it is a censorious world, and i can only speak positively of my own sensations in his company. his morality, however, i suppose, was quite good enough for the world, and he had never committed himself in any of those ways of which that respectable tribunal takes cognizance. 'so that d--d fellow lake is down here still; and that stupid, scheming lubber, larkin, driving him about in his tax-cart, instead of minding his business. i could not see him to-day. that sort of thing won't answer me; and he _is_ staying at larkin's house, i find.' wylder was talking to me on the door steps after dinner, having in a rather sulky way swallowed more than his usual modicum of madeira, and his remarks were delivered interruptedly--two or three puffs of his cigar interposed between each sentence. 'i suppose he expects to be asked to the wedding. he _may_ expect--ha, ha, ha! you don't know that lad as i do.' then there came a second cigar, and some little time in lighting, and full twenty enjoyable puffs before he resumed. 'now, you're a moral man, charlie, tell me really what you think of a fellow marrying a girl he does not care that for,' and he snapt his fingers. 'just for the sake of her estate--it's the way of the world, of course, and all that--but, is not it a little bit shabby, don't you think? eh? ha, ha, ha!' 'i'll not debate with you, wylder, on that stupid old question. it's the way of the world, as you say, and there's an end of it.' 'they say she's such a beauty! well, so i believe she is, but i can't fancy her. now you must not be angry. i'm not a poet like you--book-learned, you know; and she's too solemn by half, and grand. i wish she was different. that other girl, rachel--she's a devilish handsome craft. i wish almost she was not here at all, or i wish she was in dorcas's shoes.' 'nonsense, wylder! stop this stuff; and it is growing cold throw away that cigar, and come in.' 'in a minute. no, i assure you, i'm not joking. hang it! i must talk to some one. i'm devilish uncomfortable about this grand match. i wish i had not been led into it i don't think i'd make a good husband to any woman i did not fancy, and where's the good of making a girl unhappy, eh?' 'tut, wylder, you ought to have thought of all that before. i don't like your talking in this strain when you know it is too late to recede; besides, you are the luckiest fellow in creation. upon my word, i don't know why the girl marries you; you can't suppose that she could not marry much better, and if you have not made up your mind to break off, of which the world would form but one opinion, you had better not speak in that way any more.' 'why, it was only to you, charlie, and to tell you the truth, i do believe it is the best thing for me; but i suppose every fellow feels a little queer when he is going to be spliced, a little bit nervous, eh? but you are right--and i'm right, and we are all right--it _is_ the best thing for us both. it will make a deuced fine estate; but hang it! you know a fellow's never satisfied. and i suppose i'm a bit put out by that disreputable dog's being here--i mean lake; not that i need care more than dorcas, or anyone else; but he's no credit to the family, you see, and i never could abide him. i've half a mind, charlie, to tell you a thing; but hang it! you're such a demure old maid of a chap. will you have a cigar?' 'no.' 'well, i believe two's enough for me,' and he looked up at the stars. 'i've a notion of running up to town, only for a day or two, before this business comes off, just on the sly; you'll not mention it, and i'll have a word with lake, quite friendly, of course; but i'll shut him up, and that's all. i wonder he did not dine here to-day. did you ever see so pushing a brute?' so wylder chucked away his cigar, and stood for a minute with his hands in his pockets looking up at the stars, as if reading fortunes there. i had an unpleasant feeling that mark wylder was about some mischief--a suspicion that some game of mine and countermine was going on between him and lake, to which i had no clue whatsoever. mark had the frankness of callosity, and could recount his evil deeds and confess his vices with hilarity and detail, and was prompt to take his part in a lark, and was a remarkably hard hitter, and never shrank from the brunt of the row; and with these fine qualities, and a much superior knowledge of the ways of the flash world, had commanded my boyish reverence and a general popularity among strangers. but, with all this, he could be as secret as the sea with which he was conversant, and as hard as a stonewall, when it answered his purpose. he had no lack of cunning, and a convenient fund of cool cruelty when that stoical attribute was called for. years, i dare say, and a hard life and profligacy, and command, had not made him less selfish or more humane, or abated his craft and resolution. if one could only see it, the manoeuvring and the ultimate collision of two such generals as he and lake would be worth observing. i dare say my last night's adventure tended to make me more nervous and prone to evil anticipation. and although my quarters had been changed to the lower storey, i grew uncomfortable as it waxed late, and half regretted that i had not migrated to the 'brandon arms.' uncle lorne, however, made me no visit that night. once or twice i fancied something, and started up in my bed. it was fancy, merely. what state had i really been in, when i saw that long-chinned apparition of the pale portrait? many a wiser man than i had been mystified by dyspepsia and melancholic vapours. chapter xv. dorcas shows her jewels to miss lake. stanley lake and his sister dined next day at brandon. under the cold shadow of lady chelford, the proprieties flourished, and generally very little else. awful she was, and prompt to lecture young people before their peers, and spoke her mind with fearful directness and precision. but sometimes she would talk, and treat her hearers to her recollections, and recount anecdotes with a sort of grim cleverness, not wholly unamusing. she did not like wylder, i thought, although she had been the inventor and constructor of the family alliance of which he was the hero. i did not venture to cultivate her; and miss brandon had been, from the first, specially cold and repellent to captain lake. there was nothing very genial or promising, therefore, in the relations of our little party, and i did not expect a very agreeable evening. notwithstanding all this, however, our dinner was, on the whole, much pleasanter than i anticipated. stanley lake could be very amusing; but i doubt if our talk would quite stand the test of print. i often thought if one of those artists who photograph language and thought--the quiet, clever 'reporters,' to whom england is obliged for so much of her daily entertainment, of her social knowledge, and her political safety, were, pencil in hand, to ensconce himself behind the arras, and present us, at the close of the agreeable banquet, with a literal transcript of the feast of reason, which we give and take with so much complacency--whether it would quite satisfy us upon reconsideration. when i entered the drawing-room after dinner, lord chelford was plainly arguing a point with the young ladies, and by the time i drew near, it was miss lake's turn to speak. 'flattering of mankind, i am sure, i have no talent for; and without flattering and wheedling you'll never have conjugal obedience. don't you remember robin hood? how- 'the mother of robin said to her husband, my honey, my love, and my dear.' and all this for leave to ride with her son to see her own brother at gamwell.' 'i remember,' said dorcas, with a smile. 'i wonder what has become of that old book, with its odd little woodcuts. 'and he said, i grant thee thy boon, gentle joan! take one of my horses straightway.' 'well, though the book is lost, we retain the moral, you see,' said rachel with a little laugh; 'and it has always seemed to me that if it had not been necessary to say, "my honey, my love, and my dear," that good soul would not have said it, and you may be pretty sure that if she had not, and with the suitable by-play too, she might not have ridden to gamwell that day.' 'and you don't think _you_ could have persuaded yourself to repeat that little charm, which obtained her boon and one of his horses straightway?' said lord chelford. 'well, i don't know what a great temptation and a contumacious husband might bring one to; but i'm afraid i'm a stubborn creature, and have not the feminine gift of flattery. if, indeed, he felt his inferiority and owned his dependence, i think i might, perhaps, have called him "my honey, my love, and my dear," and encouraged and comforted him; but to buy my personal liberty, and the right to visit my brother at gamwell--never!' and yet she looked, lord chelford thought, very goodhumoured and pleasant, and he fancied a smile from her might do more with some men than all gentle joan's honeyed vocabulary. 'i own,' said lord chelford, laughing, 'that, from prejudice, i suppose, i am in favour of the apostolic method, and stand up for the divine right of my sex; but then, don't you see, it is your own fault, if you make it a question of right, when you may make it altogether one of fascination?' 'who, pray, is disputing the husband's right to rule?' demanded old lady chelford unexpectedly. 'i am very timidly defending it against very serious odds,' answered her son. 'tut, tut! my dears, what's all this; you _must_ obey your husbands,' cried the dowager, who put down nonsense with a high hand, and had ruled her lord with a rod of iron. 'that's no tradition of the brandons,' said miss dorcas, quietly. 'the brandons--pooh! my dear--it is time the brandons should grow like other people. hitherto, the brandon men have all, without exception, been the wickedest in all england, and the women the handsomest and the most self-willed. of course the men could not be obeyed in all things, nor the women disobeyed. i'm a brandon myself, dorcas, so i've a right to speak. but the words are precise--honour and obey--and obey you _must_; though, of course you may argue a point, if need be, and let your husband hear reason.' and, having ruled the point, old lady chelford leaned back and resumed her doze. there was no longer anything playful in dorcas's look. on the contrary, something fierce and lurid, which i thought wonderfully becoming; and after a little she said-'i promised, rachel, to show you my jewels. come now--will you?--and see them.' and she placed rachel's hand on her arm, and the two young ladies departed. 'are you well, dear?' asked rachel when they reached her room. dorcas was very pale, and her gaze was stern, and something undefinably wild in her quietude. 'what day of the month is this?' said dorcas. 'the eighth--is not it?--yes, the eighth,' answered rachel. 'and our marriage is fixed for the twenty-second--just a fortnight hence. i am going to tell you, rachel, what i have resolved on.' 'how really beautiful these diamonds are!--quite superb.' 'yes,' said dorcas, opening the jewel-cases, which she had taken from her cabinet, one after the other. 'and these pearls! how very magnificent! i had no idea mark wylder's taste was so exquisite.' 'yes, very magnificent, i suppose.' 'how charming--quite regal--you will look, dorcas!' dorcas smiled strangely, and her bosom heaved a little, rachel thought. was it elation, or was there not something wildly bitter gleaming in that smile? 'i _must_ look a little longer at these diamonds.' 'as long, dear, as you please. you are not likely, rachel, to see them again.' from the blue flash of the brilliants rachel in honest amazement raised her eyes to her cousin's face. the same pale smile was there; the look was oracular and painful. had she overheard a part of that unworthy talk of wylder's at the dinner-table, the day before, and mistaken rachel's share in the dialogue? and dorcas said-'you have heard of the music on the waters that lures mariners to destruction. the pilot leaves the rudder, and leans over the prow, and listens. they steer no more, but drive before the wind; and what care they for wreck or drowning?' i suppose it was the same smile; but in rachel s eyes, as pictures will, it changed its character with her own change of thought, and now it seemed the pale rapt smile of one who hears music far off, or sees a vision. 'rachel, dear, i sometimes think there is an evil genius attendant on our family,' continued dorcas in the same subdued tone, which, in its very sweetness, had so sinister a sound in rachel's ear. 'from mother to child, from child to grandchild, the same influence continues; and, one after another, wrecks the daughters of our family--a wayward family, and full of misery. here i stand, forewarned, with my eyes open, determinedly following in the funereal footsteps of those who have gone their way before me. these jewels all go back to mr. wylder. he never can be anything to me. i was, i thought, to build up our house. i am going, i think, to lay it in the dust. with the spirit of the insane, i feel the spirit of a prophetess, too, and i see the sorrow that awaits me. you will see.' 'dorcas, darling, you are certainly ill. what is the matter?' 'no, dear rachel, not ill, only maybe agitated a little. you must not touch the bell--listen to me; but first promise, so help you heaven, you will keep my secret.' 'i do promise, indeed dorcas, i swear i'll not repeat one word you tell me.' 'it has been a vain struggle. i know he's a bad man, a worthless man--selfish, cruel, maybe. love is not blind with me, but quite insane. he does not know, nor you, nor anyone; and now, rachel, i tell you what was unknown to all but myself and heaven--looking neither for counsel, nor for pity, nor for sympathy, but because i must, and you have sworn to keep my secret. i love your brother. rachel, you must try to like me.' she threw her arms round her cousin's neck, and rachel felt in her embrace the vibration of an agony. she was herself so astonished that for a good while she could hardly collect her thoughts or believe her senses. was it credible? stanley! whom she had received with a coldness, if not aversion, so marked, that, if he had a spark of rachel's spirit, he would never have approached her more! then came the thought--perhaps they understood one another, and that was the meaning of stanley's unexpected visit? 'well, dorcas, dear, i _am_ utterly amazed. but does stanley--he can hardly hope?' dorcas removed her arms from her cousin's neck; her face was pale, and her cheeks wet with tears, which she did not wipe away. 'sit down by me, rachel. no, _he_ does _not_ like _me_--that is--i don't know; but, i am sure, he can't suspect that i like him. it was my determination it should not be. i resolved, rachel, quite to extinguish the madness; but i could not. it was not his doing, nor mine, but something else. there are some families, i think, too wicked for heaven to protect, and they are given over to the arts of those who hated them in life and pursue them after death; and this is the meaning of the curse that has always followed us. no good will ever happen us, and i must go like the rest.' there was a short silence, and rachel gazed on the carpet in troubled reflection, and then, with an anxious look, she took her cousin's hand, and said-'dorcas, you must think of this no more. i am speaking against my brother's interest. but you must not sacrifice yourself, your fortune, and your _happiness_, to a shadow; whatever his means are, they hardly suffice for his personal expenses--indeed, they don't suffice, for i have had to help him. but that is all trifling compared with other considerations. i am his sister, and, though he has shown little love for me, i am not without affection--and strong affection--for him; but i must and will speak frankly. you could not, i don't think anyone could be happy with stanley for her husband. you don't know him: he's profligate; he's ill-tempered; he's cold; he's selfish; he's secret. he was a spoiled boy, totally without moral education; he might, perhaps, have been very different, but he _is what_ he is, and i don't think he'll ever change.' 'he may be what he will. it is vain reasoning with that which is not reason; the battle is over; possibly he may never know, and that might be best for both--but be it how it may, i will never marry anyone else.' 'dorcas, dear, you must not speak to lady chelford, or to mark wylder, to-night. it is too serious a step to be taken in haste.' 'there has been no haste, rachel, and there can be no change.' 'and what reason can you give?' 'none; no reason,' said dorcas, slowly. 'wylder would have been suitable in point of wealth. not so well, i am sure, as you _might_ have married; but neither would _he_ be a good husband, though not so bad as stanley; and i do not think that mark wylder will quietly submit to his disappointment.' 'it was to have been simply a marriage of two estates. it was old lady chelford's plan. i have now formed mine, and all that's over. let him do what he will--i believe a lawsuit is his worst revenge--i'm indifferent.' just then a knock came to the chamber door. 'come in,' said miss brandon: and her maid entered to say that the carriage, please ma'am, was at the door to take miss lake home. 'i had no idea it was so late,' said rachel. 'stay, dear, don't go for a moment. jones, bring miss lake's cloak and bonnet here. and now, dear,' she said, after a little pause, 'you'll remember your solemn promise?' 'i never broke my word, dear dorcas; your secret is safe.' 'and, rachel, try to like me.' 'i love you better, dorcas, than i thought i ever could. good-night, dear.' 'good-night.' and the young ladies parted with a kiss, and then another. chapter xvi. 'jenny, put the kettle on.' old lady chelford, having despatched a sharp and unceremonious message to her young kinswoman, absent without leave, warning her, in effect, that if she returned to the drawing-room it would be to preside, alone, over gentlemen, departed, somewhat to our secret relief. upon this, on lord chelford's motion, in our forlorn condition, we went to the billiard-room, and there, under the bright lights, and the gay influence of that wonderful game, we forgot our cares, and became excellent friends apparently--'cuts,' 'canons,' 'screws,' 'misses,' 'flukes'--lord chelford joked, wylder 'chaffed,' even lake seemed to enjoy himself; and the game proceeded with animation and no lack of laughter, beguiling the watches of the night; and we were all amazed, at length, to find how very late it was. so we laid down our cues, with the customary ejaculations of surprise. we declined wine and water, and all other creature comforts. wylder and lake had a walk before them, and we bid lord chelford 'good-night' in the passage, and i walked with them through the deserted and nearly darkened rooms. our talk grew slow, and our spirits subsided in this changed and tenebrose scenery. the void and the darkness brought back, i suppose, my recollection of the dubious terms on which these young men stood, and a feeling of the hollowness and delusion of the genial hours just passed under the brilliant lights, together with an unpleasant sense of apprehension. on coming out upon the door-steps we all grew silent. the moon was low, and its yellow disk seemed, as it sometimes does, dilated to a wondrous breadth, as its edge touched the black outline of the distant woods. i half believe in presentiments, and i felt one now, in the chill air, the sudden silence, and the watchful gaze of the moon. i suspect that wylder and lake, too, felt something of the same ominous qualm, for i thought their faces looked gloomy in the light, as they stood together buttoning their loose wrappers and lighting their cigars. with a 'good-night, good-night,' we parted, and i heard their retreating steps crunching along the walk that led to redman's hollow, and by miss rachel's quiet habitation. i heard no talking, such as comes between whiffs with friendly smokers, side by side; and, silent as mutes at a funeral, they walked on, and soon the fall of their footsteps was heard no more, and i re-entered the hall and shut the door. the level moonlight was shining through the stained heraldic window, and fell bright on the portrait of uncle lorne, at the other end, throwing a patch of red, like a stain, on one side of its pale forehead. i had forgot, at the moment, that the ill-omened portrait hung there, and a sudden horror smote me. i thought of what my vision said of the 'blood upon my forehead,' and, by jove! there it was! at this moment the large white marseilles waistcoat of grave mr. larcom appeared, followed by a tall powdered footman, and their candles and business-like proceedings frightened away the phantoms. so i withdrew to my chamber, where, i am glad to say, i saw nothing of uncle lorne. miss lake, as she drove that night toward gylingden, said little to the vicar's wife, whose good husband had been away to friars, making a sick-call, and she prattled on very merrily about his frugal little tea awaiting his late return, and asked her twice on the way home whether it was half-past nine, for she did not boast a watch; and in the midst of her prattle was peeping at the landmarks of their progress. 'oh, i'm so glad--here's the finger post, at last!' and then--'well, here we are at the "cat and fiddle;" i thought we'd never pass it.' and, at last, the brougham stopped at the little garden-gate, at the far end of the village; and the good little mamma called to her maid-of-all-work from the window-'has the master come yet, becky?' 'no, ma'am, please.' and i think she offered up a little thanksgiving, she so longed to give him his tea herself; and then she asked-'is our precious mannikin asleep?' which also being answered happily, as it should be, she bid her fussy adieux, with a merry smile, and hurried, gabbling amicably with her handmaid, across the little flower-garden; and miss lake was shut in and drove on alone, under the thick canopy of old trees, and up the mill-road, lighted by the flashing lamps, to her own little precincts, and was, in turn, at home--solitary, triste, but still her home. 'get to your bed, margery, child, you are sleepy,' said the young lady kindly to her queer little maid-of-honour. rachel was one of those persons who, no matter what may be upon their minds, are quickly impressible by the scenes in which they find themselves. she stepped into her little kitchen--always a fairy kitchen, so tiny, so white, so raddled, and shining all over with that pleasantest of all effulgence--burnished tins, pewters, and the homely decorations of the dresser--and she looked all round and smiled pleasantly, and kissed old tamar, and said-'so, my dear old fairy, here's your cinderella home again from the ball, and i've seen nothing so pretty as this since i left redman's farm. how white your table is, how nice your chairs; i wish you'd change with me and let me be cook week about; and, really the fire is quite pleasant to-night. come, make a cup of tea, and tell us a story, and frighten me and margery before we go to our beds. sit down, margery, i'm only here by permission. what do you mean by standing?' and the young lady, with a laugh, sat down, looking so pleased, and good-natured, and merry, that even old tamar was fain to smile a glimmering smile; and little margery actively brought the tea-caddy; and the kettle, being in a skittish singing state, quickly went off in a boil, and tamar actually made tea in her brown tea-pot. 'oh, no; the delf cups and saucers;--it will be twice as good in them;' and as the handsome mistress of the mansion, sitting in the deal chair, loosened her cloak and untied her bonnet, she chatted away, to the edification of margery and the amusement of both. this little extemporised bivouac, as it were, with her domestics, delighted the young belle. vanity of vanities, as mr. thackeray and king solomon cry out in turn. silver trays and powdered footmen, and utrecht, velvet upholstery--miserable comforters! what saloon was ever so cheery as this, or flashed all over in so small a light so splendidly, or yielded such immortal nectar from chased teapot and urn, as this brewed in brown crockery from the roaring kettle? so margery, sitting upon her stool in the background--for the queen had said it, and sit she must--and grinning from ear to ear, in a great halo of glory, partook of tea. 'well, tamar, where's your story?' said the young lady. 'story! la! bless you, dear miss radie, where should i find a story? my old head's a poor one to remember,' whimpered white tamar. 'anything, no matter what--a ghost or a murder.' old tamar shook her head. 'or an elopement?' another shake of the head. 'or a mystery--or even a dream?' 'well--a dream! sometimes i do dream. i dreamed how master stanley was coming, the night before.' 'you did, did you? selfish old thing! and you meant to keep it all to yourself. what was it?' tamar looked anxiously and suspiciously in the kitchen fire, and placed her puckered hand to the side of her white linen cap. 'i dreamed, ma'am, the night before he came, a great fellow was at the hall-door.' 'what! here?' 'yes, ma'am, this hall-door. so muffled up i could not see his face; and he pulls out a letter all over red.' 'red?' 'aye, miss; a red letter.' 'red ink?' 'no, miss, red _paper_, written with black, and directed for you.' 'oh!' 'and so, miss, in my dream, i gave it you in the drawing-room; and you opened it, and leaned your hand upon your head, sick-like, reading it. i never saw you read a letter so serious-like before. and says you to me, miss, "it's all about master stanley; he is coming." and sure enough, here he was quite unexpected, next morning.' 'and was there no more?' asked miss lake. 'no more, miss. i awoke just then.' 'it _is_ odd,' said miss lake, with a little laugh. 'had you been thinking of him lately?' 'not a bit, ma'am. i don't know when.' 'well, it certainly is _very_ odd.' at all events, it had glanced upon a sensitive recollection unexpectedly. the kitchen was only a kitchen now; and the young lady, on a sudden, looked thoughtful--perhaps a little sad. she rose; and old tamar got up before her, with her scared, secret look, clothed in white--the witch, whose word had changed all, and summoned round her those shapes, which threw their indistinct shadows on the walls and faces around. 'light the candles in the drawing-room, margery, and then, child, go to your bed,' said the young lady, awakening from an abstraction. 'i don't mind dreams, tamar, nor fortune-tellers--i've dreamed so many good dreams, and no good ever came of them. but talking of stanley reminds me of trouble and follies that i can't help, or prevent. he has left the army, tamar, and i don't know what his plans are.' 'ah! poor child; he was always foolish and changeable, and a deal too innocent for them wicked officer-gentlemen; and i'm glad he's not among them any longer to learn bad ways--i am.' so, the drawing-room being prepared, rachel bid tamar and little margery good-night, and the sleepy little handmaid stumped off to her bed; and white old tamar, who had not spoken so much for a month before, put on her solemn round spectacles, and by her dipt candle read her chapter in the ponderous bible she had thumbed so well, and her white lips told over the words as she read them in silence. old tamar, i always thought, had seen many untold things in her day, and some of her recollections troubled her, i dare say; and she held her tongue, and knitted her white worsteds when she could sit quiet--which was most hours of the day; and now and then when evil remembrances, maybe, gathered round her solitude, she warned them off with that book of power--so that my recollection of her is always the same white-clad, cadaverous old woman, with a pair of barnacles on her nose, and her look of secrecy and suffering turned on the large print of that worn volume, or else on the fumbling-points of her knitting-needles. it was a small house, this redman's farm, but very silent, for all that, when the day's work was over; and very solemn, too, the look-out from the window among the colonnades of tall old trees, on the overshadowed earth, and through them into deepest darkness; the complaining of the lonely stream far down is the only sound in the air. there was but one imperfect vista, looking down the glen, and this afforded no distant view--only a downward slant in the near woodland, and a denser background of forest rising at the other side, and to-night mistily gilded by the yellow moon-beams, the moon herself unseen. rachel had opened her window-shutters, as was her wont when the moon was up, and with her small white hands on the window-sash, looked into the wooded solitudes, lost in haunted darkness in every direction but one, and there massed in vaporous and discoloured foliage, hardly more distinct, or less solemn. 'poor old tamar says her prayers, and reads her bible; i wish _i_ could. how often i wish it. that good, simple vicar--how unlike his brother--is wiser, perhaps, than all the shrewd people that smile at him. he used to talk to me; but i've lost that--yes--i let him understand i did not care for it, and so that good influence is gone from me--graceless creature. no one seemed to care, except poor old tamar, whether i ever said a prayer, or heard any good thing; and when i was no more than ten years old, i refused to say my prayers for her. my poor father. well, heaven help us all.' so she stood in the same sad attitude, looking out upon the shadowy scene, in a forlorn reverie. her interview with dorcas remained on her memory like an odd, clear, half-horrible dream. what a dazzling prospect it opened for stanley; what a dreadful one might it not prepare for dorcas. what might not arise from such a situation between stanley and mark wylder, each in his way a worthy representative of the ill-conditioned and terrible race whose blood he inherited? was this doomed house of brandon never to know repose or fraternity? was it credible? had it actually occurred, that strange confession of dorcas brandon's? could anything be imagined so mad--so unaccountable? she reviewed stanley in her mind's eye. she was better acquainted, perhaps, with his defects than his fascinations, and too familiar with both to appreciate at all their effect upon a stranger. 'what can she see in him? there's nothing remarkable in stanley, poor fellow, except his faults. there are much handsomer men than he, and many as amusing--and he with no estate.' she had heard of charms and philtres. how could she account for this desperate hallucination? rachel was troubled by a sort of fear to-night, and the low fever of an undefined expectation was upon her. she turned from the window, intending to write two letters, which she had owed too long--young ladies' letters--for miss lake, like many of her sex, as i am told, had several little correspondences on her hands; and as she turned, with a start, she saw old tamar standing in the door-way, looking at her. 'tamar!' 'yes, miss rachel.' 'why do you come so softly, tamar? do you know, you frightened me?' 'i thought i'd look in, miss, before i went to bed, just to see if you wanted anything.' 'no--nothing, thank you, dear tamar.' 'and i don't think, miss rachel, you are quite well to-night, though you are so gay--you're pale, dear; and there's something on your mind. don't be thinking about master stanley; he's out of the army now, and i'm thankful for it; and make your mind easy about him; and would not it be better, dear, you went to your bed, you rise so early.' 'very true, good old tamar, but to-night i must write a letter--not a long one, though--and i assure you, i'm quite well. good-night, tamar.' tamar stood for a moment with her odd weird look upon her, and then bidding her good-night, glided stiffly away, shutting the door. so rachel sat down to her desk and began to write; but she could not get into the spirit of her letter; on the contrary, her mind wandered away, and she found herself listening, every now and then, and at last she fancied that old tamar, about whom that dream, and her unexpected appearance at the door, had given her a sort of spectral feeling that night, was up and watching her; and the idea of this white sentinel outside her door excited her so unpleasantly, that she opened it, but found no tamar there; and then she revisited the kitchen, but that was empty too, and the fire taken down. and, finally, she passed into the old woman's bed-chamber, whom she saw, her white head upon her pillow, dreaming again, perhaps. and so, softly closing her door, she left her to her queer visions and deathlike slumber. chapter xvii. rachel lake sees wonderful things by moonlight from her window. though rachel was unfit for letter-writing, she was still more unfit for slumber. she leaned her temple on her hand, and her rich light hair half covered her fingers, and her amazing interview with dorcas was again present with her, and the same feeling of bewilderment. the suddenness and the nature of the disclosures were dream-like and unreal, and the image of dorcas remained impressed upon her sight; not like dorcas, though the same, but something ghastly, wan, glittering, and terrible, like a priestess at a solitary sacrifice. it was late now, not far from one o'clock, and around her the terrible silence of a still night. all those small sounds lost in the hum of midday life now came into relief--a ticking in the wainscot, a crack now and then in the joining of the furniture, and occasionally the tap of a moth against the window pane from outside, sounds sharp and odd, which made her wish the stillness of the night were not so intense. as from her little table she looked listlessly through the window, she saw against the faint glow of the moonlight, the figure of a man who seized the paling and vaulted into the flower garden, and with a few swift, stumbling strides over the flower-beds, reached the window, and placing his pale face close to the glass, she saw his eyes glittering through it; he tapped--or rather beat on the pane with his fingers--and at the same time he said, repeatedly: 'let me in; let me in.' her first impression, when she saw this person cross the little fence at the road-side was, that mark wylder was the man. but she was mistaken; the face and figure were stanley lake's. she would have screamed in the extremity of her terror, but that her voice for some seconds totally failed her; and recognising her brother, though like rhoda, in holy writ, she doubted whether it was not his angel, she rose up, and with an awful ejaculation, she approached the window. 'let me in, radie; d-you, let me in,' he repeated, drumming incessantly on the glass. there was no trace now of his sleepy jeering way. rachel saw that something was very wrong, and beckoned him toward the porch in silence, and having removed the slender fastenings of the door, it opened, and he entered in a rush of damp night air. she took him by the hand, and he shook hers mechanically, like a man rescued from shipwreck, and plainly not recollecting himself well. 'stanley, dear, what's the matter, in heaven's name?' she whispered, so soon as she had got him into her little drawing-room. 'he has done it; d-him, he has done it,' gasped stanley lake. he looked in her face with a glazed and ashy stare. his hat remained on his head, overshadowing his face; and his boots were soiled with clay, and his wrapping coat marked, here and there, with the green of the stems and branches of trees, through which he had made his way. 'i see, stanley, you've had a scene with mark wylder; i warned you of your danger--you have had the worst of it.' 'i spoke to him. he took a course i did not expect. i'm not well.' 'you've broken your promise. i see you have used _me_. how base; how stupid!' 'how could i tell he was such a _fiend_?' 'i told you how it would be. he has frightened you,' said rachel, herself frightened. 'd-him; i wish i had done as you said. i wish i had never come here. give me a glass of wine. he has ruined me.' 'you cruel, wretched creature!' said rachel, now convinced that he had compromised her as he threatened. 'yes, i was wrong; i'm sorry; things have turned out different. who's that?' said lake, grasping her wrist. 'who--where--mark wylder?' 'no; it's nothing, i believe.' 'where is he? where have you left him?' 'up there, at the pathway, near the stone steps.' 'waiting there?' 'well, yes; and i don't think i'll go back, radie.' 'you _shall_ go back, sir, and carry my message; or, no, i could not trust you. i'll go with you and see him, and disabuse him. how could you--how _could_ you, stanley?' 'it was a mistake, altogether; i'm sorry, but i could not tell there was such a devil on the earth.' 'yes, i told you so. _he_ has frightened _you_' said rachel. 'he _has_, _maybe_. at any rate, i was a fool, and i think i'm ruined; and i'm afraid, rachel, you'll be inconvenienced too.' 'yes, you have made him savage and brutal; and between you, i shall be called in question, you wretched fool!' stanley was taking these hard terms very meekly for a savage young coxcomb like him. perhaps they bore no very distinct meaning just then to his mind. perhaps it was preoccupied with more exciting ideas; or, it may be, his agitation and fear cried 'amen' to the reproach; at all events, he only said, in a pettish but deprecatory sort of way-'well, where's the good of scolding? how can i help it now?' 'what's your quarrel? why does he wait for you there? why has he sent you here? it must concern _me_, sir, and i insist on hearing it all.' 'so you shall, radie; only have patience just a minute--and give me a little wine or water--anything.' 'there is the key. there's some wine in the press, i think.' he tried to open it, but his hand shook. he saw his sister look at him, and he flung the keys on the table rather savagely, with, i dare say, a curse between his teeth. there was running all this time in rachel's mind, and had been almost since the first menacing mention of wylder's name by her brother, an indistinct remembrance of something unpleasant or horrible. it may have been mere fancy, or it may have referred to something long ago imperfectly heard. it was a spectre of mist, that evaporated before she could fix her eyes on it, but was always near her elbow. rachel took the key with a faint gleam of scorn on her face and brought out the wine in silence. he took a tall-stemmed venetian glass that stood upon the cabinet, an antique decoration, and filled it with sherry--a strange revival of old service! how long was it since lips had touched its brim before, and whose? lovers', maybe, and how. how long since that cold crystal had glowed with the ripples of wine? this, at all events, was its last service. it is an old legend of the venetian glass--its shivering at touch of poison; and there are those of whom it is said, 'the poison of asps is under their lips.' 'what's that?' ejaculated rachel, with a sudden shriek--that whispered shriek, so expressive and ghastly, that you, perhaps, have once heard in your life--and her very lips grew white. 'hollo!' cried lake. he was standing with his back to the window, and sprang forward, as pale as she, and grasped her, with a white leer that she never forgot, over his shoulder, and the venice glass was shivered on the ground. 'who's there?' he whispered. and rachel, in a whisper, ejaculated the awful name that must not be taken in vain. she sat down. she was looking at him with a wild, stern stare, straight in the face, and he still holding her arm, and close to her. 'i see it all now,' she whispered. 'who--what--what is it?' said he. 'i could not have fancied _that_,' she whispered with a gasp. stanley looked round him with pale and sharpened features. 'what the devil is it! if that scoundrel had come to kill us you could not cry out louder,' he whispered, with an oath. 'do you want to wake your people up?' 'oh! stanley,' she repeated, in a changed and horror-stricken way. 'what a fool i've been. i see it at last; i see it all now,' and she waved her white hands together very slowly towards him, as mesmerisers move theirs. there was a silence of some seconds, and his yellow ferine gaze met hers strangely. 'you were always a sharp girl, radie, and i think you do see it,' he said at last, very quietly. 'the witness--the witness--the dreadful witness!' she repeated. 'i'll show you, though, it's not so bad as you fancy. i'm sorry i did not take your advice; but how, i say, could i know he was such a devil? i must go back to him. i only came down to tell you, because radie, you know you proposed it yourself; _you_ must come, too--you _must_, radie.' 'oh, stanley, stanley, stanley!' 'why, d-it, it can't be helped now; can it?' said he, with a peevish malignity. but she was right; there was something of the poltroon in him, and he was trembling. 'why could you not leave me in peace, stanley?' 'i can't go without you, rachel. i won't; and if we don't we're both ruined,' he said, with a bleak oath. 'yes, stanley, i knew you were a coward,' she replied, fiercely and wildly. 'you're always calling names, d-you; do as you like. i care less than you think how it goes.' 'no, stanley; you know me too well. ah! no, you sha'n't be lost if i can help it.' rachel shook her head as she spoke, with a bitter smile and a dreadful sigh. then they whispered together for three or four minutes, and rachel clasped her jewelled fingers tight across her forehead, quite wildly, for a minute. 'you'll come then?' said stanley. she made no answer, and he repeated the question. by this time she was standing; and without answering, she began mechanically to get on her cloak and hat. 'you must drink some wine first; he may frighten you, perhaps. you _must_ take it, rachel, or i'll not go.' stanley lake was swearing, in his low tones, like a swell-mobsman to-night. rachel seemed to have made up her mind to submit passively to whatever he required. perhaps, indeed, she thought there was wisdom in his advice. at all events she drank some wine. rachel lake was one of those women who never lose their presence of mind, even under violent agitation, for long, and who generally, even when highly excited, see, and do instinctively, and with decision, what is best to be done; and now, with dilated eyes and white face, she walked noiselessly into the kitchen, listened there for a moment, then stole lightly to the servants' sleeping-room, and listened there at the door, and lastly looked in, and satisfied herself that both were still sleeping. then as cautiously and swiftly she returned to her drawing-room, and closed the window-shutters and drew the curtain, and signalling to her brother they went stealthily forth into the night air, closing the hall-door, and through the little garden, at the outer gate of which they paused. 'i don't know, rachel--i don't like it--i'm not fit for it. go back again--go in and lock your door--we'll not go to him--_you_ need not, you know. he may stay where he is--let him--i'll not return. i say, i'll see him no more. i'll get away. i'll consult larkin--shall i? though that won't do--he's in wylder's interest--curse him. what had i best do? i'm not equal to it.' 'we _must_ go, stanley. you said right just now; be resolute--we are both ruined unless we go. you have brought it to that--you _must_ come.' 'i'm not fit for it, i tell you--i'm not. you were right, radie--i think i'm not equal to a business of this sort, and i won't expose you to such a scene. _you're_ not equal to it either, i think,' and lake leaned on the paling. 'don't mind me--you haven't much hitherto. go or stay, i'm equally ruined now, but not equally disgraced; and go we must, for it is _your only_ chance of escape. come, stanley--for shame!' in a few minutes more they were walking in deep darkness and silence, side by side, along the path, which diverging from the mill-road, penetrates the coppice of that sequestered gorge, along the bottom of which flows a tributary brook that finds its way a little lower down into the mill-stream. this deep gully in character a good deal resembles redman's glen, into which it passes, being fully as deep, and wooded to the summit at both sides, but much steeper and narrower, and therefore many shades darker. they had now reached those rude stone steps, some ten or fifteen in number, which conduct the narrow footpath up a particularly steep acclivity, and here lake lost courage again, for they distinctly heard the footsteps that paced the platform above. chapter xviii. mark wylder's slave. nearly two hours had passed before they returned. as they did so, rachel lake went swiftly and silently before her brother. the moon had gone down, and the glen was darker than ever. noiselessly they re-entered the little hall of redman's farm. the candles were still burning in the sitting-room, and the light was dazzling after the profound darkness in which they had been for so long. captain lake did not look at all like a london dandy now. his dress was confoundedly draggled; the conventional countenance, too, was wanting. there was a very natural savagery and dejection there, and a wild leer in his yellow eyes. rachel sat down. no living woman ever showed a paler face, and she stared with a look that was sharp and stern upon the wainscot before her. for some minutes they were silent; and suddenly, with an exceeding bitter cry, she stood up, close to him, seizing him in her tiny hands by the collar, and with wild eyes gazing into his, she said-'see what you've brought me to--wretch, wretch, wretch!' and she shook him with violence as she spoke. it was wonderful how that fair young face could look so terrible. 'there, radie, there,' said lake, disengaging her fingers. 'you're a little hysterical, that's all. it will be over in a minute; but don't make a row. you're a good girl, radie. for heaven's sake, don't spoil all by folly now.' he was overawed and deprecatory. 'a slave! only think--a slave! oh frightful, frightful! is it a dream? oh frightful, frightful! stanley, stanley, it would be _mercy_ to kill me,' she broke out again. 'now, radie, listen to reason, and don't make a noise; you know we agreed, _you_ must go, and _i can't_ go with you.' lake was cooler by this time, and his sister more excited than before they went out. 'i used to be brave; my courage i think is gone; but who'd have imagined what's before me?' stanley walked to the window and opened the shutter a little. he forgot how dark it was. the moon had gone down. he looked at his watch and then at rachel. she was sitting, and in no calmer state; serene enough in attitude, but the terribly wild look was unchanged. he looked at his watch again, and held it to his ear, and consulted it once more before he placed the tiny gold disk again in his pocket. 'this won't do,' he muttered. with one of the candles in his hand he went out and made a hurried, peeping exploration, and soon, for the rooms were quickly counted in redman's farm, he found her chamber small, neat, _simplex munditiis_. bright and natty were the chintz curtains, and the little toilet set out, not inelegantly, and her pet piping-goldfinch asleep on his perch, with his bit of sugar between the wires of his cage; her pillow so white and unpressed, with its little edging of lace. were slumbers sweet as of old ever to know it more? what dreams were henceforward to haunt it? shadows were standing about that lonely bed already. i don't know whether stanley lake felt anything of this, being very decidedly of the earth earthy. but there are times when men are translated from their natures, and forced to be romantic and superstitious. when he came back to the drawing-room, a toilet bottle of _eau de cologne_ in his hand, with her lace handkerchief he bathed her temples and forehead. there was nothing very brotherly in his look as he peered into her pale, sharp features, during the process. it was the dark and pallid scrutiny of a familiar of the holy office, bringing a victim back to consciousness. she was quickly better. 'there, don't mind me,' she said sharply; and getting up she looked down at her dress and thin shoes, and seeming to recollect herself, she took the candle he had just set down, and went swiftly to her room. gliding without noise from place to place, she packed a small black leather bag with a few necessary articles. then changed her dress quickly, put on her walking boots, a close bonnet and thick veil, and taking her purse, she counted over its contents, and then standing in the midst of the room looked round it with a great sigh, and a strange look, as if it was all new to her. and she threw back her veil, and going hurriedly to the toilet, mechanically surveyed herself in the glass. and she looked fixedly on the pale features presented to her, and said-'rachel lake, rachel lake! what are you now?' and so, with knitted brows and stern lips, a cadaveric gaze was returned on her from the mirror. a few minutes later her brother, who had been busy down stairs, put his head in and asked-'will you come with me now, radie, or do you prefer to wait here?' 'i'll stay here--that is, in the drawing-room,' she answered, and the face was withdrawn. in the little hall stanley looked again at his watch, and getting quietly out, went swiftly through the tiny garden, and once upon the mill-road, ran at a rapid pace down towards the town. the long street of gylingden stretched dim and silent before him. slumber brooded over the little town, and his steps sounded sharp and hollow among the houses. he slackened his pace, and tapped sharply at the little window of that modest post-office, at which the young ladies in the pony carriage had pulled up the day before, and within which luke waggot was wont to sleep in a sort of wooden box that folded up and appeared to be a chest of drawers all day. luke took care of mr. larkin's dogs, and groomed mr. wylder's horse, and 'cleaned up' his dog-cart, for mark being close about money, and finding that the thing was to be done more cheaply that way, put up his horse and dog-cart in the post-office premises, and so evaded the livery charges of the 'brandon arms.' but luke was not there; and captain lake recollecting his habits and his haunt, hurried on to the 'silver lion,' which has its gable towards the common, only about a hundred steps away, for distances are not great in gylingden. here were the flow of soul and of stout, long pipes, long yarns, and tolerably long credits; and the humble scapegraces of the town resorted thither for the pleasures of a club-life, and often revelled deep into the small hours of the morning. so luke came forth. d-it, where's the note?' said the captain, rummaging uneasily in his pockets. 'you know me--eh!' 'captain lake. yes, sir.' 'well--oh! here it is.' it was a scrap pencilled on the back of a letter-'luke waggot, 'put the horse to and drive the dog-cart to the "white house." look out for me there. we must catch the up mail train at dollington. be lively. if captain lake chooses to drive you need not come. 'm. wylder.' 'i'll drive,' said captain lake. 'lose no time and i'll give you half-a-crown.' luke stuck on his greasy wideawake, and in a few minutes more the dog-cart was trundled out into the lane, and the horse harnessed, went between the shafts with that wonderful cheerfulness with which they bear to be called up under startling circumstances at unseasonable hours. 'easily earned, luke,' said captain lake, in his soft tones. the captain had buttoned the collar of his loose coat across his face, and it was dark beside. but luke knew his peculiar smile, and presumed it; so he grinned facetiously as he put the coin in his breeches pocket and thanked him; and in another minute the captain, with a lighted cigar between his lips, mounted to the seat, took the reins, the horse bounded off, and away rattled the light conveyance, sparks flying from the road, at a devil of a pace, down the deserted street of gylingden, and quickly melted in darkness. that night a spectre stood by old tamar's bedside, in shape of her young mistress, and shook her by the shoulder, and stooping, said sternly, close in her face-'tamar, i'm going away--only for a few days; and mind this--i'd rather be _dead_ than any creature living should know it. little margery must not suspect--you'll manage that. here's the key of my bed-room--say i'm sick--and you must go in and out, and bring tea and drinks, and talk and whisper a little, you understand, as you might with a sick person, and keep the shutters closed; and if miss brandon sends to ask me to the hall, say i've a headache, and fear i can't go. you understand me clearly, tamar?' 'yes, miss radie,' answered old tamar, wonder-stricken, with a strange expression of fear in her face. 'and listen,' she continued, 'you must go into my room, and bring the message back, as if from me, with _my love_ to miss brandon; and if she or mrs. william wylder, the vicar's wife, should call to see me, always say i'm asleep and a little better. you see exactly what i mean?' 'yes, miss,' answered tamar, whose eyes were fixed in a sort of fascination, full on those of her mistress. 'if master stanley should call, he is to do just as he pleases. you used to be accurate, tamar; may i depend upon you?' 'yes, ma'am, certainly.' 'if i thought you'd fail me now, tamar, i should _never_ come back. good-night, tamar. there--don't bless me. good-night.' when the light wheels of the dog-cart gritted on the mill-road before the little garden gate of redman's farm, the tall slender figure of rachel lake was dimly visible, standing cloaked and waiting by it. silently she handed her little black leather bag to her brother, and then there was a pause. he stretched his hand to help her up. in a tone that was icy and bitter, she said-'to save myself i would not do it. you deserve no love from me--you've showed me none--_never_, stanley; and yet i'm going to give the most desperate proof of love that ever sister gave--all for your sake; and it's guilt, guilt, but my _fate_, and i'll go, and you'll never thank me; that's all.' in a moment more she sat beside him; and silent as the dead in charon's boat, away they glided toward the 'white house which lay upon the high road to dollington. the sleepy clerk that night in the dollington station stamped two first-class tickets for london, one of which was for a gentleman, and the other for a cloaked lady, with a very thick veil, who stood outside on the platform; and almost immediately after the scream of the engine was heard piercing the deep tatting, the cyclopean red lamps glared nearer and nearer, and the palpitating monster, so stupendous and so docile, came smoothly to a stand-still before the trelliswork and hollyhocks of that pretty station. chapter xix. the tarn in the park. next morning stanley lake, at breakfast with the lawyer, said-'a pretty room this is. that bow window is worth all the pictures in brandon. to my eye there is no scenery so sweet as this, at least to breakfast by. i don't love your crags and peaks and sombre grandeur, nor yet the fat, flat luxuriance of our other counties. these undulations, and all that splendid timber, and the glorious ruins on that hillock over there! how many beautiful ruins that picturesque old fellow cromwell has left us.' 'you don't eat your breakfast, though,' said the attorney, with a charming smile of reproach. 'ah, thank you; i'm a bad breakfaster; that is,' said stanley, recollecting that he had made some very creditable meals at the same table, 'when i smoke so late as i did last night.' 'you drove mr. wylder to dollington?' 'yes; he's gone to town, he says--yes, the mail train--to get some diamonds for miss brandon--a present--that ought to have come the day before yesterday. he says they'll never have them in time unless he goes and blows them up. are you in his secrets at all?' 'something in his confidence, i should hope,' said mr. larkin, in rather a lofty and reserved way. 'oh, yes, of course, in serious matters; but i meant other things. you know he has been a little bit wild; and ladies, you know, ladies will be troublesome sometimes; and to say truth, i don't think the diamonds have much to say to it.' 'oh?--hem!--well, you know, _i_'m not exactly the confidant mr. wylder would choose, i suspect, in a case of that very painful, and, i will say, distressing character--i rather think--indeed, i _hope_ not.' 'no, of course--i dare say--but i just fancied he might want a hint about the law of the matter.' the gracious attorney glanced at his guest with a thoroughly business-like and searching eye. 'you don't think there's any really serious annoyance--you don't know the party?' said he. '_i?_--oh, dear, no. wylder has always been very reserved with me. he told me nothing. if he had, of course i should not have mentioned it. i only conjecture, for he really did seem to have a great deal more on his mind; and he kept me walking back and forward, near the mill-road, a precious long time. and i really think once or twice he was going to tell me.' 'oh! you think then, mr. lake, there _may_ be some serious--a--a--well, i should hope not--i do most earnestly _trust_ not.' this was said with upturned eyes and much unction. 'but do you happen, captain lake, to know of any of those unfortunate, those miserable connections which young gentlemen of fashion--eh? it's very sad. still it often needs, as you say, professional advice to solve such difficulties--it is very sad--oh! is not it sad?' 'pray, don't let it affect your spirits,' said lake, who was leaning back in his chair, and looking on the carpet, about a yard before his lacquered boots, in his usual sly way. 'i may be quite mistaken, you know, but i wished you to understand--having some little experience of the world, i'd be only too happy to be of any use, if you thought my diplomacy could help poor wylder out of his trouble--that is, if there really is any. but _you_ don't know?' '_no_,' said mr. larkin, thoughtfully; and thoughtful he continued for a minute or two, screwing his lips gently, as was his wont, while ruminating, his long head motionless, the nails of his long and somewhat large hand tapping on the arm of his chair, with a sharp glance now and then at the unreadable visage of the cavalry officer. it was evident his mind was working, and nothing was heard in the room for a minute but the tapping of his nails on the chair, like a death-watch. 'no,' said mr. larkin again, 'i'm not suspicious--naturally too much the reverse, i fear; but it certainly does look odd. did he tell the family at brandon?' 'certainly not, that i heard. he may have mentioned it. but i started with him, and we walked together, under the impression that he was going, as usual, to the inn, the--what d'ye call it?--"brandon arms;" and it was a sudden thought--now i think of it--for he took no luggage, though to be sure i dare say he has got clothes and things in town.' 'and when does he return?' 'in a day or two, at furthest,' he said. 'i wonder what they'll think of it at brandon?' said the attorney, with a cavernous grin of sly enquiry at his companion, which, recollecting his character, he softened into a sad sort of smile, and added, 'no harm, i dare say; and, after all, you know, why should there--any man may have business; and, indeed, it is very likely, after all, that he really went about the jewels. men are too hasty to judge one another, my dear sir; charity, let us remember, thinketh no evil.' 'by-the-bye,' said lake, rather briskly for him, rummaging his pockets, 'i'm glad i remembered he gave me a little note to chelford. are any of your people going to brandon this morning?' 'i'll send it,' said the lawyer, eyeing the little pencilled note wistfully, which lake presented between two fingers. 'yes, it is to lord chelford,' said the attorney, with a grand sort of suavity--he liked lords--placing it, after a scrutiny, in his waistcoat pocket. 'don't you think it had best go at once?--there may be something requiring an answer, and your post leaves, doesn't it, at twelve?' 'oh! an answer, is there?' said mr. larkin, drawing it from his pocket, and looking at it again with a perceptible curiosity. 'i really can't say, not having read it, but there _may_,' said captain lake, who was now and then a little impertinent, just to keep mr. larkin in his place, and perhaps to hint that he understood him. '_read_ it! oh, my _dear_ sir, my _dear_ captain lake, how _could_ you--but, oh! no--you _could_ not suppose i meant such an idea--oh, dear--no, no. you and i have our notions about what's gentlemanlike and professional--a--and gentlemanlike, as i say--heaven forbid.' 'quite so!' said captain lake, gently. 'though all the world does not think with us, _i_ can tell you, things come before us in _our_ profession. oh, ho! ho!' and mr. larkin lifted up his pink eyes and long hands, and shook his long head, with a melancholy smile and a sigh like a shudder. when at the later breakfast, up at brandon, that irregular pencilled scroll reached lord chelford's hand, he said, as he glanced on the direction-'this is mark wylder's; what does he say?' 'so mark's gone to town,' he said; 'but he'll be back again on saturday, and in the meantime desires me to lay his heart at your feet, dorcas. will you read the note?' 'no,' said dorcas, quietly. lady chelford extended her long, shrivelled fingers, on which glimmered sundry jewels, and made a little nod to her son, who gave it to her, with a smile. holding her glasses to her eyes, the note at a distance, and her head rather back, she said-'it is not a pretty billet,' and she read in a slow and grim way:-'dear chelford,--i'm called up to london just for a day. no lark, but honest business. i'll return on saturday; and tell dorcas, with dozens of loves, i would write to her, but have not a minute for the train. 'yours, &c. 'm. wylder.' 'no; it is not pretty,' repeated the old lady; and, indeed, in no sense was it. before luncheon captain lake arrived. 'so wylder has run up to town,' i said, so soon as we had shaken hands in the hall. 'yes; _i_ drove him to dollington last night; we just caught the up train.' 'he says he'll be back again on saturday,' i said. 'saturday, is it? he seemed to think--yes--it _would_ be only a day or so. some jewels, i think, for dorcas. he did not say distinctly; i only conjecture. lady chelford and miss brandon, i suppose, in the drawing-room?' so to the drawing-room he passed. 'how is rachel? how is your sister, captain lake, have you seen her to-day?' asked old lady chelford, rather benignantly. she chose to be gracious to the lakes. 'only, for a moment, thank you. she has one of her miserable headaches, poor thing; but she'll be better, she says, in the afternoon, and hopes to come up here to see you, and miss brandon, this evening.' lord chelford and i had a pleasant walk that day to the ruins of willerton castle. i find in my diary a note--'chelford tells me it is written in old surveys, wylderton, and was one of the houses of the wylders. what considerable people those wylders were, and what an antique stock.' after this he wished to make a visit to the vicar, and so we parted company. i got into brandon park by the pretty gate near latham. it was a walk of nearly three miles across the park from this point to the hall, and the slopes and hollows of this noble, undulating plain, came out grandly in the long shadows and slanting beams of evening. that yellow, level light has, in my mind, something undefinably glorious and melancholy, such as to make almost any scenery interesting, and my solitary walk was delightful. people must love and sympathise very thoroughly, i think, to enjoy natural scenery together. generally it is one of the few spectacles best seen alone. the silence that supervenes is indicative of the solitary character of the enjoyment. it is a poem and a reverie. i was quite happy striding in the amber light and soft, long shadows, among the ferns, the copsewood, and the grand old clumps of timber, exploring the undulations, and the wild nooks and hollows which have each their circumscribed and sylvan charm; a wonderful interest those little park-like broken dells have always had for me; dotted with straggling birch and oak, and here and there a hoary ash tree, with a grand and melancholy grace, dreaming among the songs of wild birds, in their native solitudes, and the brown leaves tipped with golden light, all breathing something of old-world romance--the poetry of bygone love and adventure--and stirring undefinable and delightful emotions that mingle unreality with sense, a music of the eye and spirit. after many devious wanderings, i found, under shelter of a wonderful little hollow, in which lay, dim and still, a tarn, reflecting the stems of the trees that rose from its edge, in a way so clear and beautiful, that, with a smile and a sigh, i sat myself down upon a rock among the ferns, and fell into a reverie. the image of dorcas rose before me. there is a strange mystery and power in the apathetic, and in that unaffected carelessness, even defiance of opinion and criticism, which i had seen here for the first time, so beautifully embodied. i was quite sure she both thought and felt, and could talk, too, if she chose it. what tremendous self-reliance and disdain must form the basis of a female character, which accepted misapprehension and depreciation with an indifference so genuine as to scorn even the trifling exertion of disclosing its powers. she could not possibly care for wylder, any more than he cared for her. that odd look i detected in the mirror--what did it mean? and wylder's confusion about captain lake--what was that? i could not comprehend the situation that was forming. i went over wylder's history in my mind, and captain lake's--all i could recollect of it--but could find no clue, and that horrible visitation or vision! what was _it_? this latter image had just glided in and taken its place in my waking dream, when i thought i saw reflected in the pool at my feet, the shape and face which i never could forget, of the white, long-chinned old man. for a second i was unable, i think, to lift my eyes from the water which presented this cadaverous image. but the figure began to move, and i raised my eyes, and saw it retreat, with a limping gait, into the thick copse before me, in the shadow of which it stopped and turned stiffly round, and directed on me a look of horror, and then withdrew. it is all very fine laughing at me and my fancies. i do not think there are many men who in my situation would have felt very differently. i recovered myself; i shouted lustily after him to stay, and then in a sort of half-frightened rage, i pursued him; but i had to get round the pool, a considerable circuit. i could not tell which way he had turned on getting into the thicket; and it was now dusk, the sun having gone down during my reverie. so i stopped a little way in the copsewood, which was growing quite dark, and i shouted there again, peeping under the branches, and felt queer and much relieved that nothing answered or appeared. looking round me, in a sort of dream, i remembered suddenly what wylder had told me of old lorne brandon, to whose portrait this inexplicable phantom bore so powerful a resemblance. he was suspected of having murdered his own son, at the edge of a tarn in the park. _this_ tarn maybe--and with the thought the water looked blacker--and a deeper and colder shadow gathered over the ominous hollow in which i stood, and the rustling in the withered leaves sounded angrily. i got up as quickly as might be to the higher grounds, and waited there for awhile, and watched for the emergence of the old man. but it did not appear; and shade after shade was spreading solemnly over the landscape, and having a good way to walk, i began to stride briskly along the slopes and hollows, in the twilight, now and then looking into vacancy, over my shoulder. the little adventure, and the deepening shades, helped to sadden my homeward walk; and when at last the dusky outline of the hall rose before me, it wore a sort of weird and haunted aspect. chapter xx. captain lake takes an evening stroll about gylingden. again i had serious thoughts of removing my person and effects to the brandon arms. i could not quite believe i had seen a ghost; but neither was i quite satisfied that the thing was altogether canny. the apparition, whatever it was, seemed to persecute me with a mysterious obstinacy; at all events, i was falling into a habit of seeing it; and i felt a natural desire to escape from the house which was plagued with its presence. at the same time i had an odd sort of reluctance to mention the subject to my entertainers. the thing itself was a ghostly slur upon the house, and, to run away, a reproach to my manhood; and besides, writing now at a distance, and in the spirit of history, i suspect the interest which beauty always excites had a great deal to do with my resolve to hold my ground; and, i dare say, notwithstanding my other reasons, had the ladies at the hall been all either old or ugly, i would have made good my retreat to the village hotel. as it was, however, i was resolved to maintain my position. but that evening was streaked with a tinge of horror, and i more silent and _distrait_ than usual. the absence of an accustomed face, even though the owner be nothing very remarkable, is always felt; and wylder was missed, though, sooth to say, not very much regretted. for the first time we were really a small party. miss lake was not there. the gallant captain, her brother, was also absent. the vicar, and his good little wife, were at naunton that evening to hear a missionary recount his adventures and experiences in japan, and none of the neighbours had been called in to fill the empty chairs. dorcas brandon did not contribute much to the talk; neither, in truth, did i. old lady chelford occasionally dozed and nodded sternly after tea, waking up and eyeing people grimly, as though enquiring whether anyone presumed to suspect her ladyship of having had a nap. chelford, i recollect, took a book, and read to us now and then, a snatch of poetry--i forget what. _my_ book--except when i was thinking of the tarn and that old man i so hated--was miss brandon's exquisite and mysterious face. that young lady was leaning back in her great oak chair, in which she looked like the heroine of some sad and gorgeous romance of the old civil wars of england, and directing a gaze of contemplative and haughty curiosity upon the old lady, who was unconscious of the daring profanation. all on a sudden dorcas brandon said-'and pray what do you think of marriage, lady chelford?' 'what do i think of marriage?' repeated the dowager, throwing back her head and eyeing the beautiful heiress through her gold spectacles, with a stony surprise, for she was not accustomed to be catechised by young people. 'marriage?--why 'tis a divine institution. what can the child mean?' 'do you think, lady chelford, it may be safely contracted, solely to join two estates?' pursued the young lady. 'do i think it may safely be contracted, solely to join two estates?' repeated the old lady, with a look and carriage that plainly showed how entirely she appreciated the amazing presumption of her interrogatrix. there was a little pause. '_certainly_,' replied lady chelford; 'that is, of course, under proper conditions, and with a due sense of its sacred character and a--a--obligations.' 'the first of which is _love_,' continued miss brandon; 'the second _honour_--both involuntary; and the third _obedience_, which springs from them.' old lady chelford coughed, and then rallying, said-'very good, miss!' 'and pray, lady chelford, what do you think of mr. mark wylder?' pursued miss dorcas. 'i don't see, miss brandon, that my thoughts upon that subject can concern anyone but myself,' retorted the old lady, severely, and from an awful altitude. 'and i may say, considering who i am--and my years--and the manner in which i am usually treated, i am a little surprised at the tone in which you are pleased to question me.' these last terrible remarks totally failed to overawe the serene temerity of the grave beauty. 'i assumed, lady chelford, as you had interested yourself in me so far as to originate the idea of my engagement to mr. wylder, that you had considered these to me very important questions a little, and could give me satisfactory answers upon points on which my mind has been employed for some days; and, indeed, i think i've a right to ask that assistance of you.' 'you seem to forget, young lady, that there are times and places for such discussions; and that to mr.--a--a--your visitor (a glance at me), it can't be very interesting to listen to this kind of--of--conversation, which is neither very entertaining, nor very _wise_.' 'i am answerable only for _my_ part of it; and i think my questions very much to the purpose,' said the young lady, in her low, silvery tones. 'i don't question your good opinion, miss brandon, of your own discretion; but _i_ can't see any profit in now discussing an engagement of more than two months' standing, or a marriage, which is fixed to take place only ten days hence. and i think, sir (glancing again at me), it must strike _you_ a little oddly, that i should be invited, in your presence, to discuss family matters with miss dorcas brandon?' now, was it fair to call a peaceable inhabitant like me into the thick of a fray like this? i paused long enough to allow miss brandon to speak, but she did not choose to do so, thinking, i suppose, it was my business. 'i believe i ought to have withdrawn a little,' i said, very humbly; and old lady chelford at the word shot a gleam of contemptuous triumph at miss dorcas; but i would not acquiesce in the dowager's abusing my concession to the prejudice of that beautiful and daring young lady--'i mean, lady chelford, in deference to you, who are not aware, as miss brandon is, that i am one of mr. wylder's oldest and most intimate friends; and at his request, and with lord chelford's approval, have been advised with, in detail, upon all the arrangements connected with the approaching marriage.' 'i am not going, at present, to say any more upon these subjects, because lady chelford prefers deferring our conversation,' said this very odd young lady; 'but there is nothing which either she or i may say, which i wish to conceal from any friend of mr. wylder's.' the idea of miss brandon's seriously thinking of withdrawing from her engagement with mark wylder, i confess never entered my mind. lady chelford, perhaps, knew more of the capricious and daring character of the ladies of the brandon line than i, and may have discovered some signs of a coming storm in the oracular questions which had fallen so harmoniously from those beautiful lips. as for me, i was puzzled. the old viscountess was flushed (she did not rouge), and very angry, and, i think, uncomfortable, though she affected her usual supremacy. but the young lady showed no sign of excitement, and lay back in her chair in her usual deep, cold calm. lake's late smoking with wylder must have disagreed with him very much indeed, for he seemed more out of sorts as night approached. he stole away from mr. larkin's trellised porch, in the dusk. he marched into the town rather quickly, like a man who has business on his hands; but he had none--for he walked by the 'brandon arms,' and halted, and stared at the post-office, as if he fancied he had something to say there. but no--there was no need to tap at the wooden window-pane. some idle boys were observing the dandy captain, and he turned down the short lane that opened on the common, and sauntered upon the short grass. two or three groups, and an invalid visitor or two--for gylingden boasts a 'spa'--were lounging away the twilight half-hours there. he seated himself on one of the rustic seats, and his yellow eyes wandered restlessly and vaguely along the outline of the beautiful hills. then for nearly ten minutes he smoked--an odd recreation for a man suffering from the cigars of last night--and after that, for nearly as long again, he seemed lost in deep thought, his eyes upon the misty grass before him, and his small french boot beating time to the music of his thoughts. several groups passed close by him, in their pleasant circuit. some wondered what might be the disease of that pale, peevish-looking gentleman, who sat there so still, languid, and dejected. others set him down as a gentleman in difficulties of some sort, who was using gylingden for a temporary refuge. others, again, supposed he might be that major craddock who had lost thirty thousand pounds on vanderdecken the other day. others knew he was staying with mr. larkin, and supposed he was trying to raise money at disadvantage, and remarked that some of mr. larkin's clients looked always unhappy, though they had so godly an attorney to deal with. when lake, with a little shudder, for it was growing chill, lifted up his yellow eyes suddenly, and recollected where he was, the common had grown dark, and was quite deserted. there were lights in the windows of the reading-room, and in the billiard-room beneath it; and shadowy figures, with cues in their hands, gliding hither and thither, across its uncurtained windows. with a shrug, and a stealthy glance round him, captain lake started up. the instinct of the lonely and gloomy man unconsciously drew him towards the light, and he approached. a bat, attracted thither like himself, was flitting and flickering, this way and that, across the casement. captain lake, waiting, with his hand on the door-handle, for the stroke, heard the smack of the balls, and the score called by the marker, and entered the hot, glaring room. old major jackson, with his glass in his eye, was contending in his shirt-sleeves heroically with a manchester bag-man, who was palpably too much for him. the double-chinned and florid proprietor of the 'brandon arms,' with a brandy-and-water familiarity, offered captain lake two to one on the game in anything he liked, which the captain declined, and took his seat on the bench. he was not interested by the struggle of the gallant major, who smiled like a prize-fighter under his punishment. in fact, he could not have told the score at any point of the game; and, to judge by his face, was translated from the glare of that arena into a dark and splenetic world of his own. when he wakened up, in the buzz and clack of tongues that followed the close of the game, captain lake glared round for a moment, like a man called up from sleep; the noise rattled and roared in his ears, the talk sounded madly, and the faces of the people excited and menaced him undefinably, and he felt as if he was on the point of starting to his feet and stamping and shouting. the fact is, i suppose, he was confoundedly nervous, dyspeptic, or whatever else it might be, and the heat and glare were too much for him. so, out he went into the chill, fresh night-air, and round the corner into the quaint main-street of gylingden, and walked down it in the dark, nearly to the last house by the corner of the redman's dell road, and then back again, and so on, trying to tire himself, i think; and every time he walked down the street, with his face toward london, his yellow eyes gleamed through the dark air, with the fixed gaze of a man looking out for the appearance of a vehicle. it, perhaps, indicated an anxiety and a mental look-out in that direction, for he really expected no such thing. then he dropped into the 'brandon arms,' and had a glass of brandy and water, and a newspaper, in the coffee-room; and then he ordered a 'fly,' and drove in it to lawyer larkin's house--'the lodge,' it was called--and entered mr. larkin's drawing-room very cheerfully. 'how quiet you are here,' said the captain. 'i have been awfully dissipated since i saw you.' 'in an innocent way, my dear captain lake, you mean, of course--in an innocent way.' 'oh! no; billiards, i assure you. do you play?' 'oh! dear no--not that i see any essential harm in the game _as_ a game, for those, i mean, who don't object to that sort of thing; but for a resident here, putting aside other feelings--a resident holding a position--it would not do, i assure you. there are people there whom one could not associate with comfortably. i don't care, i hope, how poor a man may be, but do let him be a gentleman. i own to that prejudice. a man, my dear captain lake, whose father before him has been a gentleman (old larkin, while in the flesh, was an organist, and kept a small day school at dwiddleston, and his grandfather he did not care to enquire after), and who has had the education of one, does not feel himself at home, you know--i'm sure you have felt the same sort of thing yourself.' 'oh! of course; and i had such a nice walk on the common first, and then a turn up and down before the 'brandon arms,' where at last i read a paper, and could not resist a glass of brandy and water, and, growing lazy, came home in a 'fly,' so i think i have had a very gay evening. larkin smiled benignantly, and would have said something no doubt worth hearing, but at that moment the door opened, and his old cook and elderly parlour-maid--no breath of scandal ever troubled the serene fair fame of his household, and everyone allowed that, in the prudential virtues, at least, he was nearly perfect--and sleddon the groom, walked in, with those sad faces which, i suppose, were first learned in the belief that they were acceptable to their master. 'oh!' said mr. larkin, in a low, reverential tone, and the smile vanished; 'prayers!' 'well, then, if you permit me, being a little tired, i'll go to my bed-room.' with a grave and affectionate interest, mr. larkin looked in his face, and sighed a little and said:-'might i, perhaps, venture to beg, just this one night----' that chastened and entreating look it was hard to resist. but somehow the whole thing seemed to lake to say, 'do allow me this once to prescribe; do give your poor soul this one chance,' and lake answered him superciliously and irreverently. 'no, thank you, no--any prayers i require i can manage for myself, thank you. good-night.' and he lighted a bed-room candle and left the room. 'what a beast that fellow is. i don't know why the d-i stay in his house.' one reason was, perhaps, that it saved him nearly a guinea a day, and he may have had some other little reasons just then. 'family prayers indeed! and such a pair of women--witches, by jove!--and that rascally groom, and a hypocritical attorney! and the vulgar brute will be as rich as croesus, i dare say.' here soliloquised stanley lake in that gentleman's ordinary vein. his momentary disgust had restored him for a few seconds to his normal self. but certain anxieties of a rather ghastly kind, and speculations as to what might be going on in london just then, were round him again, like armed giants, in another moment, and the riches or hypocrisy of his host were no more to him than those of overreach or tartuffe. chapter xxi. in which captain lake visits his sister's sick bed. i suspect there are very few mere hypocrites on earth. of course, i do not reckon those who are under compulsion to affect purity of manners and a holy integrity of heart--and there are such--but those who volunteer an extraordinary profession of holiness, being all the while conscious villains. the pharisees, even while devouring widows' houses, believed honestly in their own supreme righteousness. i am afraid our friend jos. larkin wore a mask. i am sure he often wore it when he was quite alone. i don't know indeed, that he ever took it off. he was, perhaps, content to see it, even when he looked in the glass, and had not a very distinct idea what the underlying features might be. it answers with the world; it almost answers with himself. pity it won't do everywhere! 'when moses went to speak with god,' says the admirable hall, 'he pulled off his veil. it was good reason he should present to god that face which he had made. there had been more need of his veil to hide the glorious face of god from him than to hide his from god. hypocrites are contrary to moses. he showed his worst to men, his best to god; they show their best to men, their worst to god; but god sees both their veil and their face, and i know not whether he more hates their veil of dissimulation or their face of wickedness.' captain lake wanted rest--sleep--quiet thoughts at all events. when he was alone he was at once in a state of fever and gloom, and seemed always watching for something. his strange eyes glanced now this way, now that, with a fierce restlessness--now to the window--now to the door--and you would have said he was listening intently to some indistinct and too distant conversation affecting him vitally, there was such a look of fear and conjecture always in his face. he bolted his door and unlocked his dressing case, and from a little silver box in that glittering repository he took, one after the other, two or three little wafers of a dark hue, and placed them successively on his tongue, and suffered them to melt, and so swallowed them. they were not liquorice. i am afraid captain lake dabbled a little in opium. he was not a great adept--yet, at least--like those gentlemen who can swallow five hundred drops of laudanum at a sitting. but he knew the virtues of the drug, and cultivated its acquaintance, and was oftener under its influence than perhaps any mortal, except himself, suspected. the greater part of mankind are, upon the whole, happier and more cheerful than they are always willing to allow. nature subserves the majority. she smiled very brightly next morning. there was a twittering of small birds among the brown leaves and ivy, and a thousand other pleasant sounds and sights stirring in the sharp, sunny air. this sort of inflexible merry-making in nature seems marvellously selfish in the eyes of anxious captain lake. fear hath torment--and fear is the worst ingredient in mental pain. this is the reason why suspense is so intolerable, and the retrospect even of the worst less terrible. stanley lake would have given more than he could well afford that it were that day week, and he no worse off. why did time limp so tediously away with him, prolonging his anguish gratuitously? he felt truculently, and would have murdered that week, if he could, in the midst of its loitering sunshine and gaiety. there was a strange pain at his heart, and the pain of intense and fruitless calculation in his brain; and, as the mahometan prays towards mecca, and the jew towards jerusalem, so captain lake's morning orisons, whatsoever they were, were offered at the window of his bed-room toward london, from whence he looked for his salvation, or it might be the other thing--with a dreadful yearning. he hated the fresh glitter of that morning scene. why should the world be cheerful? it was a repast spread of which he could not partake, and it spited him. yes; it was selfish--and hating selfishness--he would have struck the sun out of the sky that morning with his walking-cane, if he could, and draped the world in black. he saw from his window the good vicar walk smiling by, in white choker and seedy black, his little boy holding by his fingers, and capering and wheeling in front, and smiling up in his face. they were very busy talking. little 'fairy' used to walk, when parochial visits were not very distant, with his 'wapsie;' how that name came about no one remembered, but the vicar answered to it more cheerily than to any other. the little man was solitary, and these rambles were a delight. a beautiful smiling little fellow, very exacting of attention--troublesome, perhaps; he was so sociable, and needed sympathy and companionship, and repaid it with a boundless, sensitive _love_. the vicar told him the stories of david and goliath, and joseph and his brethren, and of the wondrous birth in bethlehem of judea, the star that led the wise men, and the celestial song heard by the shepherds keeping their flocks by night, and snatches of 'pilgrim's progress'; and sometimes, when they made a feast and eat their pennyworth of cherries, sitting on the style, he treated him, i am afraid, to the profane histories of jack the giant-killer and the yellow dwarf; the vicar had theories about imagination, and fancied it was an important faculty, and that the creator had not given children their unextinguishable love of stories to no purpose. i don't envy the man who is superior to the society of children. what can he gain from children's talk? is it witty, or wise, or learned? be frank. is it not, honestly, a mere noise and interruption--a musical cackling of geese, and silvery braying of tiny asses? well, say i, out of my large acquaintance, there are not many men to whom i would go for wisdom; learning is better found in books, and, as for wit, is it always pleasant? the most companionable men are not always the greatest intellects. they laugh, and though they don't converse, they make a cheerful noise, and show a cheerful countenance. there was not a great deal in will honeycomb, for instance; but our dear mr. spectator tells us somewhere that 'he laughed easily,' which i think quite accounts for his acceptance with the club. he was kindly and enjoying. what is it that makes your dog so charming a companion in your walks? simply that he thoroughly likes you and enjoys himself. he appeals imperceptibly to your affections, which cannot be stirred--such is god's will--ever so lightly, without some little thrillings of happiness; and through the subtle absorbents of your sympathy he infuses into you something of his own hilarious and exulting spirit. when stanley lake saw the vicar, the lines of his pale face contracted strangely, and his wild gaze followed him, and i don't think he breathed once until the thin smiling man in black, with the little gambolling bright boy holding by his hand, had passed by. he was thinking, you may be sure, of his brother mark. when lake had ended his toilet and stared in the glass, he still looked so haggard, that on greeting mr. larkin in the parlour, he thought it necessary to mention that he had taken cold in that confounded billiard-room last night, which spoiled his sleep, and made him awfully seedy that morning. of course, his host was properly afflicted and sympathetic. 'by-the-bye, i had a letter this morning from that party--our common friend, mr. w., you know,' said larkin, gracefully. 'well, what is he doing, and when does he come back? you mean wylder, of course?' 'yes; my good client, mr. mark wylder. permit me to assist you to some honey, you'll find it remarkably good, i venture to say; it comes from the gardens of queen's audley. the late marquis, you know, prided himself on his honey--and my friend, thornbury, cousin to sir frederick thornbury--i suppose you know him--an east indian judge, you know--very kindly left it at dollington for me, on his way to the earl of epsom's.' 'thank you--delicious, i'm sure, it has been in such good company. may i see wylder's note--that is, if there's no private business?' 'oh, certainly.' and, with wylder's great red seal on the back of the envelope, the letter ran thus:-'dear larkin,--i write in haste to save post, to say i shall be detained in town a few days longer than i thought. don't wait for me about the parchments; i am satisfied. if anything crosses your mind, a word with mr. de c. at the hall, will clear all up. have all ready to sign and seal when i come back--certainly, within a week. 'yours sincerely, 'm. wylder, 'london.' it was evidently written in great haste, with the broad-nibbed pen he liked; but notwithstanding the sort of swagger with which the writing marched across the page, lake might have seen here and there a little quaver--indicative of something different from haste--the vibrations of another sort of flurry. '"certainly within a week," he writes. does he mean he'll be here in a week or only to have the papers ready in a week?' asked lake. 'the question, certainly, does arise. it struck me on the first perusal,' answered the attorney. 'his address is rather a wide one, too--london! do you know his club, captain lake?' 'the _wanderers_. he has left the _united service_. nothing for me, by-the-way?' 'no letter. no.' '_tant mieux_, i hate them,' said the captain. 'i wonder how my sister is this morning.' 'would you like a messenger? i'll send down with pleasure to enquire.' 'thank you, no; i'll walk down and see her.' and lake yawned at the window, and then took his hat and stick and sauntered toward gylingden. at the post-office window he tapped with the silver tip of his cane, and told miss driver with a sleepy smile-'i'm going down to redman's farm, and any letters for my sister, miss lake, i may as well take with me.' everybody 'in business' in the town of gylingden, by this time, knew captain lake and his belongings--a most respectable party--a high man; and, of course, there was no difficulty. there was only one letter--the address was written--'miss lake, redman's farm, near brandon park, gylingden,' in a stiff hand, rather slanting backwards. captain lake put it in his paletot pocket, looked in her face gently, and smiled, and thanked her in his graceful way--and, in fact, left an enduring impression upon that impressible nature. turning up the dark road at redman's dell, the gallant captain passed the old mill, and, all being quiet up and down the road, he halted under the lordly shadow of a clump of chestnuts, and opened and read the letter he had just taken charge of. it contained only these words:-'wednesday. 'on friday night, next, at half-past twelve.' this he read twice or thrice, pausing between whiles. the envelope bore the london postmark. then he took out his cigar case, selected a promising weed, and wrapping the laconic note prettily round one of his scented matches, lighted it, and the note flamed pale in the daylight, and dropped still blazing, at the root of the old tree he stood by, and sent up a little curl of blue smoke--an incense to the demon of the wood--and turned in a minute more into a black film, overrun by a hundred creeping sparkles; and having completed his mysterious incremation, he, with his yellow eyes, made a stolen glance around, and lighting his cigar, glided gracefully up the steep road, under the solemn canopy of old timber, to the sound of the moaning stream below, and the rustle of withered leaves about him, toward redman's farm. as he entered the flower-garden, the jaundiced face of old tamar, with its thousand small wrinkles and its ominous gleam of suspicion, was looking out from the darkened porch. the white cap, kerchief, and drapery, courtesied to him as he drew near, and the dismal face changed not. 'well, tamar, how do you do?--how are all? where is that girl margery?' 'in the kitchen, master stanley,' said she, courtesying again. 'are you sure?' said captain lake, peeping toward that apartment over the old woman's shoulder. 'certain sure, master stanley.' 'well, come up stairs to your mistress's room,' said lake, mounting the stairs, with his hat in his hand, and on tip-toe, like a man approaching a sick chamber. there was something i think grim and spectral in this ceremonious ascent to the empty chamber. children had once occupied that silent floor for there was a little balustraded gate across the top of the staircase. 'i keep this closed,' said old tamar, 'and forbid her to cross it, lest she should disturb the mistress. heaven forgive me!' 'very good,' he whispered, and he peeped over the banister, and then entered rachel's silent room, darkened with closed shutters, the white curtains and white coverlet so like 'the dark chamber of white death.' he had intended speaking to tamar there, but changed his mind, or rather could not make up his mind; and he loitered silently, and stood with the curtain in his gloved hand, looking upon the cold coverlet, as if rachel lay dead there. 'that will do,' he said, awaking from his wandering thought. 'we'll go down now, tamar.' and in the same stealthy way, walking lightly and slowly, down the stairs they went, and stanley entered the kitchen. 'how do you do, margery? you'll be glad to hear your mistress is better. you must run down to the town, though, and buy some jelly, and you are to bring her back change of this.' and he placed half-a-crown in her hand. 'put on your bonnet and my old shawl, child; and take the basket, and come back by the side door,' croaked old tamar. so the girl dried her hands--she was washing the teacups--and in a twinkling was equipped and on her way to gylingden. chapter xxii. in which captain lake meets a friend near the white house. lake had no very high opinion of men or women, gentle or simple. 'she listens, i dare say, the little spy,' said he. 'no, master stanley! she's a good little girl.' 'she quite believes her mistress is up stairs, eh?' 'yes; the lord forgive me--i'm deceiving her.' he did not like the tone and look which accompanied this. 'now, my good old tamar, you really can't be such an idiot as to fancy there can be any imaginable wrong in keeping that prying little slut in ignorance of that which in no wise concerns her. this is a critical matter, do you see, and if it were known in this place that your young mistress had gone away as she has done--though quite innocently--upon my honour--i think it would blast her. you would not like, for a stupid crotchet, to ruin poor radie, i fancy.' 'i'm doing just what you both bid me,' said the old woman. 'you sit up stairs chiefly?' she nodded sadly. 'and keep the hall door shut and bolted?' again she nodded. 'i'm going up to the hall, and i'll tell them she's much better, and that i've been in her room, and that, perhaps, she may go up to see them in the morning.' old tamar shook her head and groaned. 'how long is all this to go on for, master stanley?' 'why, d-you, tamar, can't you listen?' he said, clutching her wrist in his lavender kid grasp rather roughly. 'how long--a very short time, i tell you. she'll be home immediately. i'll come to-morrow and tell you exactly--maybe to-morrow evening--will that do? and should they call, you must say the same; and if miss dorcas, miss brandon, you know--should wish to go up to see her, tell her she's asleep. stop that hypocritical grimacing, will you. it is no part of your duty to tell the world what can't possibly concern them, and may bring your young mistress to--_perdition_. that does not strike me as any part of your religion.' tamar groaned again, and she said: 'i opened my bible, lord help me, three times to-day, master stanley, and could not go on. it's no use--i can't read it.' 'time enough--i think you've read more than is good for you. i think you are half mad, tamar; but think what you may, it must be done. have not you read of straining at gnats and swallowing camels? you used not, i've heard, to be always so scrupulous, old tamar.' there was a vile sarcasm in his tone and look. 'it is not for the child i nursed to say that,' said tamar. there were scandalous stories of wicked old tiberius--bankrupt, dead, and buried--compromising the fame of tamar--not always a spectacled and cadaverous student of holy writ. these, indeed, were even in stanley's childhood old-world, hazy, traditions of the servants' hall. but boys hear often more than is good, and more than gospel, who live in such houses as old general lake, the old millionaire widower, kept. 'i did not mean anything, upon my honour, tamar, that could annoy you. i only meant you used not to be a fool, and pray don't begin now; for i assure you radie and i would not ask it if it could be avoided. you have miss radie's secret in your hands, i don't think you'd like to injure her, and you used to be trustworthy. i don't think your bible teaches you anywhere to hurt your neighbour and to break faith.' 'don't speak of the bible now; but you needn't fear me, master stanley,' answered the old woman, a little sternly. 'i don't know why she's gone, nor why it's a secret--i don't, and i'd rather not. poor miss radie, she never heard anything but what was good from old tamar, whatever i might ha' bin myself, miserable sinners are we all; and i'll do as you bid me, and i _have_ done, master stanley, howsoever it troubles my mind;' and now old tamar's words spoke--that's all. 'old tamar is a sensible creature, as she always was. i hope i did not vex you, tamar. i did not mean, i assure you; but we get rough ways in the army, i'm afraid, and you won't mind me. you never _did_ mind little stannie when he was naughty, you know.' there was here a little subsidence in his speech. he was thinking of giving her a crown, but there were several reasons against it, so that handsome coin remained in his purse. 'and i forgot to tell you, tamar, i've a ring for you in town--a little souvenir; you'll think it pretty--a gold ring, with a stone in it--it belonged to poor dear aunt jemima, you remember. i left it behind; so stupid!' so he shook hands with old tamar, and patted her affectionately on the shoulder, and he said:-'keep the hall-door bolted. make any excuse you like: only it would not do for anyone to open it, and run up to the room as they might, so don't forget to secure the door when i go. i think that is all. ta-ta, dear tamar. i'll see you in the morning.' as he walked down the mill-road toward the town, he met lord chelford on his way to make enquiry about rachel at redman's farm; and lake, who, as we know, had just seen his sister, gave him all particulars. chelford, like the lawyer, had heard from mark wylder that morning--a few lines, postponing his return. he merely mentioned it, and made no comment; but lake perceived that he was annoyed at his unexplained absence. lake dined at brandon that evening, and though looking ill, was very good company, and promised to bring an early report of rachel's convalescence in the morning. i have little to record of next day, except that larkin received another london letter. wylder plainly wrote in great haste, and merely said:-'i shall have to wait a day or two longer than i yesterday thought, to meet a fellow from whom i am to receive something of importance, rather, as i think, to me. get the deeds ready, as i said in my last. if i am not in gylingden by monday, we must put off the wedding for a week later--there is no help for it. you need not talk of this. i write to chelford to say the same.' this note was as unceremonious, and still shorter. lord chelford would have written at once to remonstrate with mark on the unseemliness of putting off his marriage so capriciously, or, at all events, so mysteriously--miss brandon not being considered, nor her friends consulted. but mark had a decided objection to many letters: he had no fancy to be worried, when he had made up his mind, by prosy remonstrances; and he shut out the whole tribe of letter-writers by simply omitting to give them his address. his cool impertinence, and especially this cunning precaution, incensed old lady chelford. she would have liked to write him one of those terse, courteous, biting notes, for which she was famous; and her fingers, morally, tingled to box his ears. but what was to be done with mere 'london?' wylder was hidden from mortal sight, like a heaven-protected hero in the 'iliad,' and a cloud of invisibility girdled him. like most rustic communities, gylingden and its neighbourhood were early in bed. few lights burned after half-past ten, and the whole vicinity was deep in its slumbers before twelve o'clock. at that dread hour, captain lake, about a mile on the dollington, which was the old london road from gylingden, was pacing backward and forward under the towering files of beech that overarch it at that point. the 'white house' public, with a wide panel over its door, presenting, in tints subdued by time, a stage-coach and four horses in mid career, lay a few hundred yards nearer to gylingden. not a soul was stirring--not a sound but those, sad and soothing, of nature was to be heard. stanley lake did not like waiting any more than did louis xiv. he was really a little tired of acting sentry, and was very peevish by the time the ring of wheels and horse-hoofs approaching from the london direction became audible. even so, he had a longer wait than he expected, sounds are heard so far by night. at last, however, it drew nearer--nearer--quite close--and a sort of nondescript vehicle--one horsed--loomed in the dark, and he calls-'hallo! there--i say--a passenger for the "white house?"' at the same moment, a window of the cab--shall we call it--was let down, and a female voice--rachel lake's--called to the driver to stop. lake addressed the driver-'you come from johnson's hotel--don't you--at dollington?' 'yes, sir.' 'well, i'll pay you half-fare to bring me there.' 'all right, sir. but the 'oss, sir, must 'av 'is oats fust.' 'feed him here, then. they are all asleep in the "white house." i'll be with you in five minutes, and you shall have something for yourself when we get into dollington.' stanley opened the door. she placed her hand on his, and stepped to the ground. it was very dark under those great trees. he held her hand a little harder than was his wont. 'all quite well, ever since. you are not very tired, are you? i'm afraid it will be necessary for you to walk to "redman's farm," dear radie--but it is hardly a mile, i think--for, you see, the fellow must not know who you are; and i must go back with him, for i have not been very well--indeed i've been, i may say, very ill--and i told that fellow, larkin, who has his eyes about him, and would wonder what kept me out so late, that i would run down to some of the places near for a change, and sleep a night there; and that's the reason, dear radie, i can walk only a short way with you; but you are not afraid to walk a part of the way home without me? you are so sensible, and you have been, really, so very kind, i assure you i appreciate it, radie--i do, indeed; and i'm very grateful--i am, upon my word.' rachel answered with a heavy sigh. chapter xxiii. how rachel slept that night in redman's farm. 'allow me--pray do,' and he took her little bag from her hand. 'i hope you are not very tired, darling; you've been so very good; and you're not afraid--you know the place is so quiet--of the little walk by yourself. take my arm; i'll go as far as i can, but it is very late you know--and you are sure you are not afraid?' 'i ought to be afraid of nothing now, stanley, but i think i am afraid of everything.' 'merely a little nervous--it's nothing--i've been wretchedly since, myself; but, i'm so glad you are home again; you shall have no more trouble, i assure you; and not a creature suspects you have been from home. old tamar has behaved admirably.' rachel sighed again and said-'yes--poor tamar.' 'and now, dear, i'm afraid i must leave you--i'm very sorry; but you see how it is; keep to the shady side, close by the hedge, where the trees stop; but i'm certain you will meet no one. tamar will tell you who has called--hardly anyone--i saw them myself every day at brandon, and told them you were ill. you've been very kind, radie; i assure you i'll never forget it. you'll find tamar up and watching for you--i arranged all that; and i need not say you'll be very careful not to let that girl of yours hear anything. you'll be very quiet--she suspects nothing; and i assure you, so far as personal annoyance of any kind is concerned, you may be perfectly at ease. good-night, radie; god bless you, dear. i wish very much i could see you all the way, but there's a risk in it, you know. good-night, dear radie. by-the-bye, here's your bag; i'll take the rug, it's too heavy for you, and i may as well have it to dollington.' he kissed her cheek in his slight way, and left her, and was soon on his way to dollington, where he slept that night--rather more comfortably than he had done since rachel's departure. rachel walked on swiftly. very tired, but not at all sleepy--on the contrary, excited and nervous, and rather relieved, notwithstanding that stanley had left her to walk home alone. it seemed to her that more than a month had passed since she saw the mill-road last. how much had happened! how awful was the change! familiar objects glided past her, the same, yet the fashion of the countenance was altered; there was something estranged and threatening. the pretty parsonage was now close by: in the dews of night the spirit of peace and slumbers smiled over it; but the sight of its steep roof and homely chimney-stacks smote with a shock at her brain and heart--a troubled moan escaped her. she looked up with the instinct of prayer, and clasped her hands on the handle of that little bag which had made the mysterious journey with her; a load which no man could lift lay upon her heart. then she commenced her dark walk up the mill-road--her hands still clasped, her lips moving in broken appeals to heaven. she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but passed on with inflexible gaze and hasty steps, like one who crosses a plank over some awful chasm. in such darkness redman's dell was a solemn, not to say an awful, spot; and at any time, i think, rachel, in a like solitude and darkness, would have been glad to see the red glimmer of old tamar's candle proclaiming under the branches the neighbourhood of human life and sympathy. the old woman, with her shawl over her head, sat listening for her young mistress's approach, on the little side bench in the trellised porch, and tottered hastily forth to meet her at the garden wicket, whispering forlorn welcomes, and thanksgivings, which rachel answered only with a kiss. safe, safe at home! thank heaven at least for that. secluded once more--hidden in redman's dell; but never again to be the same--the careless mind no more. the summer sunshine through the trees, the leafy songs of birds, obscured in the smoke and drowned in the discord of an untold and everlasting trouble. the hall-door was now shut and bolted. wise old tamar had turned the key upon the sleeping girl. there was nothing to be feared from prying eyes and listening ears. 'you are cold, miss radie, and tired--poor thing! i lit a bit of fire in your room, miss; would you like me to go up stairs with you, miss?' 'come.' and so up stairs they went; and the young lady looked round with a strange anxiety, like a person seeking for something, and forgetting what; and, sitting down, she leaned her head on her hand with a moan, the living picture of despair. 'you've a headache, miss radie?' said the old woman, standing by her with that painful enquiry which sat naturally on her face. 'a heartache, tamar.' 'let me help you off with these things, miss radie, dear.' the young lady did not seem to hear, but she allowed tamar to remove her cloak and hat and handkerchief. the old servant had placed the tea-things on the table, and what remained of that wine of which stanley had partaken on the night from which the eclipse of rachel's life dated. so, without troubling her with questions, she made tea, and then some negus, with careful and trembling hands. 'no,' said rachel, a little pettishly, and put it aside. 'see now, miss radie, dear. you look awful sick and tired. you are tired to death and pale, and sorry, my dear child; and to please old tamar, you'll just drink this.' 'thank you, tamar, i believe you are right.' the truth was she needed it; and in the same dejected way she sipped it slowly; and then there was a long silence--the silence of a fatigue, like that of fever, near which sleep refuses to come. but she sat in that waking lethargy in which are sluggish dreams of horror, and neither eyes nor ears for that which is before us. when at last with another great sigh she lifted her head, her eyes rested on old tamar's face, at the other side of the fire-place, with a dark, dull surprise and puzzle for a moment, as if she could not tell why she was there, or where the place was; and then rising up, with piteous look in her old nurse's face, she said, 'oh! tamar, tamar. it is a dreadful world.' 'so it is, miss radie,' answered the old woman, her glittering eyes returning her sad gaze wofully. 'aye, so it is, sure!--and such it was and will be. for so the scripture says--"cursed is the ground for thy sake"--hard to the body--a vale of tears--dark to the spirit. but it is the hand of god that is upon you, and, like me, you will say at last, "it is good for me that i have been in trouble." lie down, dear miss radie, and i'll read to you the blessed words of comfort that have been sealed for me ever since i saw you last. they have--but that's over.' and she turned up her pallid, puckered face, and, with a trembling and knotted pair of hands uplifted, she muttered an awful thanksgiving. rachel said nothing, but her eyes rested on the floor, and, with the quiet obedience of her early childhood, she did as tamar said. and the old woman assisted her to undress, and so she lay down with a sigh in her bed. and tamar, her round spectacles by this time on her nose, sitting at the little table by her pillow, read, in a solemn and somewhat quavering voice, such comfortable passages as came first to memory. rachel cried quietly as she listened, and at last, worn out by many feverish nights, and the fatigues of her journey, she fell into a disturbed slumber, with many startings and sudden wakings, with cries and strange excitement. old tamar would not leave her, but kept her seat in the high-backed arm-chair throughout the night, like a nurse--as indeed she was--in a sick chamber. and so that weary night limped tediously away, and morning dawned, and tipped the discoloured foliage of the glen with its glow, awaking the songs of all the birds, and dispersing the white mists of darkness. and rachel with a start awoke, and sat up with a wild look and a cry-'what is it?' 'nothing, dear miss radie--only poor old tamar.' and a new day had begun. chapter xxiv. dorcas brandon pays rachel a visit. it was not very much past eleven that morning when the pony carriage from brandon drew up before the little garden wicket of redman's farm. the servant held the ponies' heads, and miss dorcas passed through the little garden, and met old tamar in the porch. 'better to-day, tamar?' enquired this grand and beautiful young lady. the sun glimmered through the boughs behind her; her face was in shade, and its delicate chiselling was brought out in soft reflected lights; and old tamar looked on her in a sort of wonder, her beauty seemed so celestial and splendid. well, she _was_ better, though she had had a bad night. she was up and dressed, and this moment coming down, and would be very happy to see miss brandon, if she would step into the drawing-room. miss brandon took old tamar's hand gently and pressed it. i suppose she was glad and took this way of showing it; and tall, beautiful, graceful, in rustling silks, she glided into the tiny drawing-room silently, and sate down softly by the window, looking out upon the flowers and the falling leaves, mottled in light and shadow. we have been accustomed to see another girl--bright and fair-haired rachel lake--in the small rooms of redman's farm; but dorcas only in rich and stately brandon hall--the beautiful 'genius loci' under lofty ceilings, curiously moulded in the first james's style--amid carved oak and richest draperies, tall china vases, paintings, and cold white statues; and somehow in this low-roofed room, so small and homely, she looks like a displaced divinity--an exile under juno's jealousy from the cloudy splendours of olympus--dazzlingly melancholy, and 'humano major' among the meannesses and trumperies of earth. so there came a step and a little rustling of feminine draperies, the small door opened, and rachel entered, with her hand extended, and a pale smile of welcome. women can hide their pain better than we men, and bear it better, too, except when _shame_ drops fire into the dreadful chalice. but poor rachel lake had more than that stoical hypocrisy which enables the tortured spirits of her sex to lift a pale face through the flames and smile. she was sanguine, she was genial and companionable, and her spirits rose at the sight of a friendly face. this transient spring and lighting up are beautiful--a glamour beguiling our senses. it wakens up the frozen spirit of enjoyment, and leads the sad faculties forth on a wild forgetful frolic. 'rachel, dear, i'm so glad to see you,' said dorcas, placing her arms gently about her neck, and kissing her twice or thrice. there was something of sweetness and fondness in her tones and manner, which was new to rachel, and comforting, and she returned the greeting as kindly, and felt more like her former self. 'you have been more ill than i thought, darling, and you are still far from quite recovered.' rachel's pale and sharpened features and dilated eye struck her with a painful surprise. 'i shall soon be as well as i am ever likely to be--that is, quite well,' answered rachel. 'you have been very kind. i've heard of your coming here, and sending, so often.' they sat down side by side, and dorcas held her hand. 'maybe, rachel dear, you would like to drive a little?' 'no, darling, not yet; it is very good of you.' 'you have been so ill, my poor rachel.' 'ill and troubled, dear--troubled in mind, and miserably nervous.' poor rachel! her nature recoiled from deceit, and she told, at all events, as much of the truth as she dared. dorcas's large eyes rested upon her with a grave enquiry, and then miss brandon looked down in silence for a while on the carpet, and was thinking a little sternly, maybe, and with a look of pain, still holding rachel's hand, she said, with a sad sort of reproach in her tone, 'rachel, dear, you have not told my secret?' 'no, indeed, dorcas--never, and never will; and i think, though i have learned to fear death, i would rather die than let stanley even suspect it.' she spoke with a sudden energy, which partook of fear and passion, and flushed her thin cheek, and made her languid eyes flash. 'thank you, rachel, my cousin rachel, my only friend. i ought not to have doubted you,' and she kissed her again. 'chelford had a note from mr. wylder this morning--another note--his coming delayed, and something of his having to see some person who is abroad,' continued dorcas, after a little pause. 'you have heard, of course, of mr. wylder's absence?' 'yes, something--_everything_,' said rachel, hurriedly, looking frowningly at a flower which she was twirling in her fingers. 'he chose an unlucky moment for his departure. i meant to speak to him and end all between us; and i would now write, but there is no address to his letters. i think lady chelford and her son begin to think there is more in this oddly-timed journey of mr. wylder's than first appeared. when i came into the parlour this morning i knew they were speaking of it. if he does not return in a day or two, chelford, i am sure, will speak to me, and then i shall tell him my resolution.' 'yes,' said rachel. 'i don't understand his absence. i think _they_ are puzzled, too. can you conjecture why he is gone?' rachel made no answer, but rose with a dreamy look, as if gazing at some distant object among the dark masses of forest trees, and stood before the window so looking across the tiny garden. 'i don't think, rachel dear, you heard me?' said dorcas. 'can i conjecture why he is gone?' murmured rachel, still gazing with a wild kind of apathy into distance. 'can i? what can it now be to you or me--why? yes, we sometimes conjecture right, and sometimes wrong; there are many things best not conjectured about at all--some interesting, some abominable, some that pass all comprehension: i never mean to conjecture, if i can help it, again.' and the wan oracle having spoken, she sate down in the same sort of abstraction again beside dorcas, and she looked full in her cousin's eyes. 'i made you a voluntary promise, dorcas, and now you will make me one. of mark wylder i say this: his name has been for years hateful to me, and recently it has become frightful; and you will promise me simply this, that you will never ask me to speak again about him. be he near, or be he far, i regard his very name with horror.' dorcas returned her gaze with one of haughty amazement; and rachel said, 'well, dorcas, you promise?' 'you speak truly, rachel, you _have_ a right to my promise: i give it.' 'dorcas, you are changed; have i lost your love for asking so poor a kindness?' 'i'm only disappointed, rachel; i thought you would have trusted me, as i did you.' 'it is an antipathy--an antipathy i cannot get over, dear dorcas; you may think it a madness, but don't blame me. remember i am neither well nor happy, and forgive what you cannot like in me. i have very few to love me now, and i thought you might love me, as i have begun to love you. oh! dorcas, darling, don't forsake me; i am very lonely here and my spirits are gone and i never needed kindness so much before.' and she threw her arms round her cousin's neck, and brave rachel at last burst into tears. dorcas, in her strange way, was moved. 'i like you still, rachel; i'm sure i'll always like you. you resemble me, rachel: you are fearless and inflexible and generous. that spirit belongs to the blood of our strange race; all our women were so. yes, rachel, i do love you. i was wounded to find you had thoughts you would not trust to me; but i have made the promise, and i'll keep it; and i love you all the same.' 'thank you, dorcas, dear. i like to call you cousin--kindred is so pleasant. thank you, from my heart, for your love; you will never know, perhaps, how much it is to me.' the young queen looked on her kindly, but sadly, through her large, strange eyes, clouded with a presage of futurity, and she kissed her again, and said-'rachel, dear, i have a plan for you and me: we shall be old maids, you and i, and live together like the ladies of llangollen, careless and happy recluses. i'll let brandon and abdicate. we will make a little tour together, when all this shall have blown over, in a few weeks, and choose our retreat; and with the winter's snow we'll vanish from brandon, and appear with the early flowers at our cottage among the beautiful woods and hills of wales. will you come, rachel?' at sight of this castle or cottage in the air, rachel lighted up. the little whim had something tranquillising and balmy. it was escape--flight from gylingden--flight from brandon--flight from redman's farm: they and all their hated associations would be far behind, and that awful page in her story, not torn out, indeed, but gummed down as it were, and no longer glaring and glowering in her eyes every moment of her waking life. so she smiled upon the picture painted on the clouds; it was the first thing that had interested her for days. it was a hope. she seized it; she clung to it. she knew, perhaps, it was the merest chimera; but it rested and consoled her imagination, and opened, in the blackness of her sky, one small vista, through whose silvery edge the blue and stars of heaven were visible. chapter xxv. captain lake looks in at nightfall. in the queer little drawing-room of redman's farm it was twilight, so dense were the shadows from the great old chestnuts that surrounded it, before the sun was well beneath the horizon; and you could, from its darkened window, see its red beams still tinting the high grounds of willerston, visible through the stems of the old trees that were massed in the near foreground. a figure which had lost its energy--a face stamped with the lines and pallor of a dejection almost guilty--with something of the fallen grace and beauty of poor margaret, as we see her with her forehead leaning on her slender hand, by the stirless spinning-wheel--the image of a strange and ineffaceable sorrow, sat rachel lake. tamar might glide in and out; her mistress did not speak; the shadows deepened round her, but she did look up, nor call, in the old cheerful accents, for lights. no more roulades and ringing chords from the piano--no more clear spirited tones of the lady's voice sounded through the low ceilings of redman's farm, and thrilled with a haunting melody the deserted glen, wherein the birds had ended their vesper songs and gone to rest. a step was heard at the threshold--it entered the hall; the door of the little chamber opened, and stanley lake entered, saying in a doubtful, almost timid way-'it is i, radie, come to thank you, and just to ask you how you do, and to say i'll never forget your kindness; upon my honour, i never can.' rachel shuddered as the door opened, and there was a ghastly sort of expectation in her look. imperfectly as it was seen, he could understand it. she did not bid him welcome or even speak. there was a silence. 'now, you're not angry with me, radie dear; i venture to say i suffer more than you: and how could i have anticipated the strange turn things have taken? you know how it all came about, and you must see i'm not really to blame, at least in intention, for all this miserable trouble; and even if i were, where's the good in angry feeling or reproaches now, don't you see, when i can't mend it? come, radie, let by-gones be by-gones. there's a good girl; won't you?' 'aye, by-gones are by-gones; the past is, indeed, immutable, and the future is equally fixed, and more dreadful.' 'come, radie; a clever girl like you can make your own future.' 'and what do you want of me now?' she asked, with a fierce cold stare. 'but i did not say i wanted anything.' 'of course you do, or i should not have seen you. mark me though, i'll go no further in the long route of wickedness you seem to have marked out for me. i'm sacrificed, it is true, but i won't renew my hourly horrors, and live under the rule of your diabolical selfishness.' 'say what you will, but keep your temper--will you?' he answered, more like his angry self. but he checked the rising devil within him, and changed his tone; he did not want to quarrel--quite the reverse. 'i don't know really, radie, why you should talk as you do. i don't want you to do anything--upon my honour i don't--only just to exercise your common sense--and you have lots of sense, radie. don't you think people have eyes to see, and ears and tongues in this part of the world? don't you know very well, in a small place like this, they are all alive with curiosity? and if you choose to make such a tragedy figure, and keep moping and crying, and all that sort of thing, and look so _funeste_ and miserable, you'll be sure to fix attention and set the whole d--d place speculating and gossiping? and really, radie, you're making mountains of mole-hills. it is because you live so solitary here, and it _is_ such a gloomy out-o'-the-way spot--so awfully dark and damp, nobody _could_ be well here, and you really must change. it is the very temple of blue-devilry, and i assure you if i lived as you do i'd cut my throat before a month--you _mustn't_. and old tamar, you know, such a figure! the very priestess of despair. she gives me the horrors, i assure you, whenever i look at her; you must not keep her, she's of no earthly use, poor old thing; and, you know, radie, we're not rich enough--you and i--to support other people. you must really place yourself more cheerfully, and i'll speak to chelford about tamar. there's a very nice place--an asylum, or something, for old women--near--(dollington he was going to say, but the associations were not pleasant)--near some of those little towns close to this, and he's a visitor, or governor, or whatever they call it. it is really not fair to expect you or me to keep people like that.' 'she has not cost you much hitherto, stanley, and she will give you very little trouble hereafter. i won't part with tamar.' 'she has not cost me much?' said lake, whose temper was not of a kind to pass by anything. 'no; of course, she has not. _i_ can't afford a guinea. you're poor enough; but in proportion to my expenses--a woman, of course, can live on less than half what a man can--i'm a great deal poorer than you; and i never said i gave her sixpence--did i? i have not got it to give, and i don't think she's fool enough to expect it; and, to say the truth, i don't care. i only advise you. there are some cheerful little cottages near the green, in gylingden, and i venture to think, this is one of the very gloomiest and most uncomfortable places you could have selected to live in.' rachel looked drearily toward the window and sighed--it was almost a groan. 'it was cheerful always till this frightful week changed everything. oh! why, why, why did you ever come?' she threw back her pale face, biting her lip, and even in that deepening gloom her small pearly teeth glimmered white; and then she burst into sobs and an agony of tears. captain lake knew something of feminine paroxysms. rachel was not given to hysterics. he knew this burst of anguish was unaffected. he was rather glad of it. when it was over he expected clearer weather and a calm. so he waited, saying now and then a soothing word or two. 'there--there--there, radie--there's a good girl. never mind--there--there.' and between whiles his mind, which, in truth, had a good deal upon it, would wander and pursue its dismal and perplexed explorations, to the unheard accompaniment of her sobs. he went to the door, but it was not to call for water, or for old tamar. on the contrary, it was to observe whether she or the girl was listening. but the house, though small, was built with thick partition walls, and sounds were well enclosed in the rooms to which they belonged. with rachel this weakness did not last long. it was a gust--violent--soon over; and the 'o'er-charged' heart and brain were relieved. and she pushed open the window, and stood for a moment in the chill air, and sighed, and whispered a word or two over the closing flowers of her little garden toward the darkening glen, and with another great sigh closed the window, and returned. 'can i do anything, radie? you're better now. i knew you would be. shall i get some water from your room?' 'no, stanley; no, thank you. i'm very well now,' she said, gently. 'yes, i think so. i knew you'd be better.' and he patted her shoulder with his soft hand; and then followed a short silence. 'i wish you were more pleasantly lodged, radie; but we can speak of that another time.' 'yes--you're right. this place is dreadful, and its darkness dreadful; but light is still more dreadful now, and i think i'll change; but, as you say, there is time enough to think of all that.' 'quite so--time enough. by-the-bye, radie, you mentioned our old servant, whom my father thought so highly of--jim dutton--the other evening. i've been thinking of him, do you know, and i should like to find him out. he was a very honest fellow, and attached, and a clever fellow, too, my father thought; and _he_ was a good judge. hadn't you a letter from his mother lately? you told me so, i think; and if it is not too much trouble, dear radie, would you allow me to see it?' rachel opened her desk, and silently selected one of those clumsy and original missives, directed in a staggering, round hand, on paper oddly shaped and thick, such as mixes not naturally with the aristocratic fabric, on which crests and ciphers are impressed, and placed it in her brother's hand. 'but you can't read it without light,' said rachel. 'no; but there's no hurry. does she say where she is staying, or her son?' 'both, i think,' answered rachel, languidly; 'but he'll never make a servant for you--he's a rough creature, she says, and was a groom. you can't remember him, nor i either.' 'perhaps--very likely;' and he put the letter in his pocket. 'i was thinking, rachel, you could advise me, if you would, you are so clever, you know.' 'advise!' said rachel, softly; but with a wild and bitter rage ringing under it. 'i did advise when it was yet time to profit by advice. i bound you even by a promise to take it, but you know how it ended. you don't want my advice.' 'but really i do, radie. i quite allow i was wrong--worse than wrong--but where is the use of attacking me now, when i'm in this dreadful fix? i took a wrong step; and what i now have to do is to guard myself, if possible, from what i'm threatened with.' she fancied she saw his pale face grow more bloodless, even in the shadow where he sat. 'i know you too well, stanley. you want _no_ advice. you never took advice--you never will. your desperate and ingrained perversity has ruined us both.' 'i wish you'd let me know my own mind. i say i do--(and he uttered an unpleasant exclamation). do you think i'll leave matters to take their course, and sit down here to be destroyed? i'm no such idiot. i tell you i'll leave no stone unturned to save myself; and, in some measure, _you_ too, radie. you don't seem to comprehend the tremendous misfortune that menaces me--_us_--_you_ and me.' and he cursed mark wylder with a gasp of hatred not easily expressed. she winced at the name, and brushed her hand to her ear. 'don't--don't--_don't_,' she said, vehemently. 'well, what the devil do you mean by refusing to help me, even with a hint? i say--i _know_--all the odds are against us. it is sometimes a long game; but unless i'm sharp, i can't escape what's coming. i _can't_--you can't--sooner or later. it is in motion already--d-him--it's coming, and you expect me to do everything alone.' 'i repeat it, stanley,' said rachel, with a fierce cynicism in her low tones, 'you don't want advice; you have formed your plan, whatever it is, and that plan you will follow, and no other, though men and angels were united to dissuade you.' there was a pause here, and a silence for a good many seconds. 'well, perhaps, i _have_ formed an outline of a plan, and it strikes me as very well i have--for i don't think you are likely to take that trouble. i only want to explain it, and get your advice, and any little assistance you can give me; and surely that is not unreasonable?' 'i have learned one secret, and am exposed to one danger. i have taken--to save you--it may be only a _respite_--one step, the remembrance of which is insupportable. but i was passive. i am fallen from light into darkness. there ends my share in your confidence and your fortunes. i will know no more secrets--no more disgrace; do what you will, you shall never use me again.' 'suppose these heroics of yours, miss radie, should contribute to bring about--to bring about the worst,' said stanley, with a sneer, through which his voice trembled. 'let it come--my resolution is taken.' stanley walked to the window, and in his easy way, as he would across a drawing-room to stand by a piano, and he looked out upon the trees, whose tops stood motionless against the darkened sky, like masses of ruins. then he came back as gently as he had gone, and stood beside his sister; she could not see his yellow eyes now as he stood with his back to the window. 'well, radie, dear--you have put your hand to the plough, and you sha'n't turn back now.' 'what?' 'no--you sha'n't turn back now.' 'you seem, sir, to fancy that i have no right to choose for myself,' said miss rachel, spiritedly. 'now, radie, you must be reasonable--who have i to advise with?' 'not me, stanley--keep your plots and your secrets to yourself. in the guilty path you have opened for me one step more i will never tread.' 'excuse me, radie, but you're talking like a fool.' 'i am not sorry you think so--you can't understand motives higher than your own.' 'you'll see that you must, though. you'll see it in a little while. self-preservation, dear radie, is the first law of nature.' 'for yourself, stanley; and for _me_, self-sacrifice,' she retorted, bitterly. 'well, radie, i may as well tell you one thing that i'm resolved to carry out,' said lake, with a dreamy serenity, looking on the dark carpet. 'i'll hear no secret, stanley.' 'it can't be long a secret, at least from you--you can't help knowing it,' he drawled gently. 'do you recollect, radie, what i said that morning when i first called here, and saw you?' 'perhaps i do, but i don't know what you mean,' answered she. 'i said, mark wylder----' 'don't name him,' she said, rising and approaching him swiftly. 'i said _he_ should go abroad, and so he shall,' said lake, in a very low tone, with a grim oath. 'why do you talk that way? you terrify me,' said rachel, with one hand raised toward his face with a gesture of horror and entreaty, and the other closed upon his wrist. 'i say he _shall_, radie.' 'has he lost his wits? i can't comprehend you--you frighten me, stanley. you're talking wildly on purpose, i believe, to terrify me. you know the state i'm in--sleepless--half wild--all alone here. you're talking like a maniac. it's cruel--it's cowardly.' 'i mean to _do_ it--you'll see.' suddenly she hurried by him, and in a moment was in the little kitchen, with its fire and candle burning cheerily. stanley lake was at her shoulder as she entered, and both were white with agitation. old tamar rose up affrighted, her stiff arms raised, and uttered a blessing. she did not know what to make of it. rachel sat down upon one of the kitchen chairs, scarce knowing what she did, and stanley lake halted near the threshold--gazing for a moment as wildly as she, with the ghost of his sly smile on his smooth, cadaverous face. 'what ails her--is she ill, master stanley?' asked the old woman, returning with her white eyes the young man's strange yellow glare. 'i--i don't know--maybe--give her some water,' said lake. 'glass of water--quick, child,' cried old tamar to margery. 'put it on the table,' said rachel, collected now, but pale and somewhat stern. 'and now, stanley, dear,' said she, for just then she was past caring for the presence of the servants, 'i hope we understand one another--at least, that you do me. if not, it is not for want of distinctness on my part; and i think you had better leave me for the present, for, to say truth, i do not feel very well.' 'good-night, radie--good-night, old tamar. i hope, radie, you'll be better--every way--when next i see you. good-night.' he spoke in his usual clear low tones, and his queer ambiguous smile was there still; and, hat in hand, with his cane in his fingers, he made another glance and a nod over his shoulder, at the threshold, and then glided forth into the little garden, and so to the mill-road, down which, at a swift pace, he walked towards the village. chapter xxvi. captain lake follows to london. wylder's levanting in this way was singularly disconcerting. the time was growing short. he wrote with a stupid good-humour, and an insolent brevity which took no account of miss brandon's position, or that (though secondary in awkwardness) of her noble relatives. lord chelford plainly thought more than he cared to say; and his mother, who never minced matters, said perhaps more than she quite thought. chelford was to give the beautiful heiress away. but the receiver of this rich and peerless gift--like some mysterious knight who, having carried all before him in the tourney, vanishes no one knows whither, when the prize is about to be bestowed, and whom the summons of the herald and the call of the trumpet follow in vain--had escaped them. 'lake has gone up to town this morning--some business with his banker about his commission--and he says he will make wylder out on his arrival, and write to me,' said lord chelford. old lady chelford glanced across her shoulder at dorcas, who leaned back in a great chair by the window, listlessly turning over a book. 'she's a strange girl, she does not seem to feel her situation--a most painful and critical one. that low, coarse creature must be looked up somehow.' 'lake knows where he is likely to be found, and will see him, i dare say, this evening--perhaps in time to write by to-night's post.' so, in a quiet key, miss dorcas being at a distance, though in the same room, the dowager and her son discussed this unpleasant and very nervous topic. that evening captain lake was in london, comfortably quartered in a private hotel, in one of the streets off piccadilly. he went to his club and dined better than he had done for many days. he really enjoyed his three little courses--his pint of claret, his cup of _caf㨠noir_, and his _chasse;_ the great babylon was his jerusalem, and his spirit found rest there. he was renovated and refreshed, his soul was strengthened, and his countenance waxed cheerful, and he began to feel like himself again, under the brown canopy of metropolitan smoke, and among the cabs and gaslights. after dinner he got into a cab, and drove to mark wylder's club. was he there?--no. had he been there to-day?--no. or within the last week?--no; not for two months. he had left his address, and was in the country. the address to which his letters were forwarded was 'the brandon arms, gylingden.' so captain lake informed that functionary that his friend had come up to town, and asked him again whether he was quite certain that he had not called there, or sent for his letters.--no; nothing of the sort. then captain lake asked to see the billiard-marker, who was likely to know something about him. but he knew nothing. he certainly had not been at the 'lark's nest,' which was kept by the marker's venerable parent, and was a favourite haunt of the gay lieutenant. then our friend stanley, having ruminated for a minute, pencilled a little note to mark, telling him that he was staying at muggeridge's hotel, 7, hanover street, piccadilly, and wished _most_ particularly to see him for a few minutes; and this he left with the hall-porter to give him should he call. then lake got into his cab again, having learned that he had lodgings in st. james's street when he did not stay at the club, and to these he drove. there he saw mrs. m'intyre, a caledonian lady, at this hour somewhat mellow and talkative; but she could say nothing to the purpose either. mr. wylder had not been there for nine weeks and three days; and would owe her, on saturday next, twenty-five guineas. so here, too, he left a little note to the same purpose; and re-entering his cab, he drove a long way, and past st. paul's, and came at last to a court, outside which he had to dismount from his vehicle, entering the grimy quadrangle through a narrow passage. he had been there that evening before, shortly after his arrival, with old mother dutton, as he called her, about her son, jim. jim was in london, looking for a situation, all which pleased captain lake; and he desired that she should send him to his hotel to see him in the morning. but being in some matters of a nervous and impatient temperament, he had come again, as we see, hoping to find jim there, and to anticipate his interview of the morning. the windows, however, were dark, and a little research satisfied captain lake that the colony was in bed. in fact, it was by this time half-past eleven o'clock, and working-people don't usually sit up to that hour. but our friend, stanley lake, was one of those persons who think that the course of the world's affairs should bend a good deal to their personal convenience, and he was not pleased with these unreasonable working-people who had gone to their beds, and brought him to this remote and grimy amphitheatre of black windows for nothing. so, wishing them the good-night they merited, he re-entered his cab, and drove rapidly back again towards the west-end. this time he went to a somewhat mysterious and barricadoed place, where in a blaze of light, in various rooms, gentlemen in hats, and some in great coats, were playing roulette or hazard; and i am sorry to say, that our friend, captain lake, played first at one and then at the other, with what success exactly i don't know. but i don't think it was very far from four o'clock in the morning when he let himself into his family hotel with that latchkey, the cock's tail of micyllus, with which good-natured old mrs. muggeridge obliged the good-looking captain. captain lake having given orders the evening before, that anyone who might call in the morning, and ask to see him, should be shown up to his bed-room _sans ceremonie_, was roused from deep slumber at a quarter past ten, by a knock at his door, and a waiter's voice. 'who's that?' drawled captain lake, rising, pale and half awake, on his elbow, and not very clear where he was. 'the man, sir, as you left a note for yesterday, which he desires to see you?' 'tell him to step in.' so out went the waiter in pumps, and the sound of thick shoes was audible on the lobby, and a sturdier knock sounded on the door. 'come in,' said the captain. and jim dutton entered the room, and, closing the door, made, at the side of the bed, his reverence, consisting of a nod and a faint pluck at the lock of hair over his forehead. now stanley lake had, perhaps, expected to see some one else; for though this was a very respectable-looking fellow for his walk in life, the gay young officer stared full at him, with a frightened and rather dreadful countenance, and actually sprung from his bed at the other side, with an ejaculation at once tragic and blasphemous. the man plainly had not expected to produce any such result, and looked very queer. perhaps he thought something had occurred to affect his personal appearance; perhaps some doubt about the captain's state of health, and misgiving as to delirium tremens may have flickered over his brain. they were staring at one another across the bed, the captain in his shirt. at last the gallant officer seemed to discover things as they were, for he said-'jim dutton, by jove!' the oath was not so innocent; but it was delivered quietly; and then the captain drew a long breath, and then, still staring at him, he laughed a ghastly little laugh, also quietly. 'and so it is you, jim,' said the captain. 'and how do you do--quite well, jim--and out of place? you've been hurt in the foot, eh? so old your--mrs. dutton tells me, but that won't signify. i was dreaming when you came in; not quite awake yet, hardly; just wait a bit till i get my slippers on; and this--' so into his red slippers he slid, and got his great shawl dressing-gown, such as fine gentlemen then wore, about his slender person, and knotted the silken cords with depending tassels, and greeted jim dutton again in very friendly fashion, enquiring very particularly how he had been ever since, and what his mother was doing; and i'm afraid not listening to jim's answers as attentively as one might have expected. whatever may have been his intrinsic worth, jim was not polished, and spoke, moreover, an uncouth dialect, which broke out now and then. but he was in a sort of way attached to the lake family, the son of an hereditary tenant on that estate which had made itself wings, and flown away like the island of laputa. it could not be said to be love; it was a sort of traditionary loyalty; a sentiment, however, not altogether unserviceable. when they had talked together for a while, the captain said-'the fact is, it is not quite on me you would have to attend; the situation, perhaps, is better. you have no objection to travel. you _have_ been abroad, you know; and of course wages and all that will be in proportion.' well, jim had not any objection to speak of. 'what's wanted is a trustworthy man, perfectly steady, you see, and a fellow who knows how to hold his tongue.' the last condition, perhaps, struck the man as a little odd; he looked a little confusedly, and he conveyed that he would not like to be in anything that was not quite straight. 'quite straight, sir!' repeated stanley lake, looking round on him sternly; 'neither should i, i fancy. you are to suppose the case of a gentleman who is nursing his estate--you know what that means--and wants to travel, and keep quite quiet, and who requires a steady, trustworthy man to look after him, in such a way as i shall direct, with very little trouble and capital pay. i have a regard for you, dutton; and seeing so good a situation was to be had, and thinking you the fittest man i know, i wished to serve you and my friend at the same time.' dutton became grateful and docile upon this. 'there are reasons, quite honourable i need not tell you, which make it necessary, james dutton, that the whole of this affair should be kept perfectly to ourselves; you are not to repeat one syllable i say to you to your mother, do you mind, or to any other person living. the gentleman is liberal, and if you can just hold your tongue, you will have little trouble in satisfying him upon all other points. but if you can't be quite silent, you had better, i frankly tell you, decline the situation, excellent in all respects as it is.' 'i'm a man, sir, as can be close enough.' 'so much the better. you don't drink?' dutton coloured a little and coughed and said-'no, sir.' 'you have your papers?' 'yes, sir.' 'we must be satisfied as to your sobriety, dutton. come back at half-past eleven and i'll see you, and bring your papers; and, do you see, you are not to talk, you understand; only you may say, if anyone presses, that i am thinking of hiring you to attend on a gentleman, whose name you don't yet know, who's going to travel. that's all.' so jim dutton made his bow, and departed; and captain lake continued to watch the door for some seconds after his departure, as if he could see his retreating figure through it. and, said he, with an oath, and his hand to his forehead, over his eyebrow-'it _is_ the most unaccountable thing in nature!' then, after a reverie of some seconds, the young gentleman applied himself energetically to his toilet; and coming down to his sitting-room, he looked into his morning paper, and then into the street, and told the servant as he sate down to breakfast, that he expected a gentleman named wylder to call that morning, and to be sure to show him up directly. captain lake's few hours' sleep, contrary to popular ideas about gamesters' slumbers, had been the soundest and the most natural which he had enjoyed for a good many nights. he was refreshed. at gylingden and brandon he had been simulating captain stanley lake--being, in truth, something quite different--with a vigilant histrionic effort which was awfully exhausting, and sometimes nearly intolerable. here the captain was perceptibly stealing into his old ways and feelings. his spirit revived; something like confidence in the future, and a possibility even of enjoying the present, was struggling visibly through the cold fog that environed him. reason has, after all, so little to do with our moods. the weather, the scene, the stomach, how pleasantly they deal with facts--how they supersede philosophy, and even arithmetic, and teach us how much of life is intoxication and illusion. still there was the sword of damocles over his pineal gland. d---that sheer, cold blade! d---him that forged it! still there was a great deal of holding in a horse-hair. had not salmon, of i know not how many pounds' weight, been played and brought to land by that slender towage. there is the sword, a burnished piece of cutlery, weighing just so many pounds; and the horsehair has sufficed for an hour, and why not for another--and soon? hang moping and nonsense! waiter, another pint of chian; and let the fun go forward. so the literal waiter knocked at the door. 'a person wanted to see captain lake. no, it was not mr. wylder. it was the man who had been here in the morning--dutton is his name.' 'and so it is really half-past eleven?' said lake, in a sleepy surprise. 'let him come in.' and so in comes jim dutton again, to hear particulars, and have, as he hopes, his engagement ratified. chapter xxvii. lawyer larkin's mind begins to work. that morning lake's first report upon his inquisition into the whereabouts of mark wylder--altogether disappointing and barren--reached lord chelford in a short letter; and a similar one, only shorter, found lawyer larkin in his pleasant breakfast parlour. now this proceeding of mr. wylder's, at this particular time, struck the righteous attorney, and reasonably, as a very serious and unjustifiable step. there was, in fact, no way of accounting for it, that was altogether complimentary to his respected and nutritious client. yes; there was something every way _very_ serious in the affair. it actually threatened the engagement which was so near its accomplishment. some most powerful and mysterious cause must undoubtedly be in operation to induce so sharp a 'party,' so keen after this world's wealth, to risk so huge a prize. whatever eminent qualities mark wylder might be deficient in, the attorney very well knew that cunning was not among the number. 'it is nothing of the nature of debt--plenty of money. it is nothing that money can buy off easily either, though he does not like parting with it. ten--_twenty_ to one--it is the old story--some unfortunate female connection--some ambiguous relation, involving a doubtful marriage.' and josiah larkin turned up his small pink eyes, and shook his tall, bald head gently, and murmured, as he nodded it-'the sins of his youth find him out; the sins of his youth.' and he sighed; and his long palms were raised, and waved, or rather paddled slowly to the rhythm of the sentiment. if the butchers' boy then passing saw that gaunt and good attorney, standing thus in his bow-window, i am sure he thought he was at his devotions and abated his whistling as he went by. after this mr. larkin's ruminations darkened, and grew, perhaps, less distinct. he had no particular objection to a mystery. in fact, he rather liked it, provided he was admitted to confidence. a mystery implied a difficulty of a delicate and formidable sort; and such difficulties were not disadvantageous to a clever and firm person, who might render himself very necessary to an embarrassed principal with plenty of money. mr. larkin had a way of gently compressing his under-lip between his finger and thumb--a mild pinch, a reflective caress--when contemplations of this nature occupied his brain. the silver light of heaven faded from his long face, a deep shadow of earth came thereon, and his small, dove-like eyes grew intense, hungry, and rat-like. oh! lawyer larkin, your eyes, though very small, are very sharp. they can read through the outer skin of ordinary men, as through a parchment against the light, the inner writing, and spell out its meanings. how is it that they fail to see quite through one jos. larkin, a lawyer of gylingden? the layover of gylingden is somehow two opaque for them, i almost think. is he really too deep for you? or is it that you don't care to search him too narrowly, or have not time? or as men in money perplexities love not the scrutiny of their accounts or papers, you don't care to tire your eyes over the documents in that neatly japanned box, the respectable lawyer's conscience? if you have puzzled yourself, you have also puzzled me. i don't quite know what to make of you. i've sometimes thought you were simply an impostor, and sometimes simply the dupe of your own sorceries. the heart of man is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. some men, with a piercing insight into the evil of man's nature, have a blurred vision for their own moralities. for them it is not easy to see where wisdom ends and guile begins--what wiles are justified to honour, and what partake of the genius of the robber, and where lie the delicate boundaries between legitimate diplomacy and damnable lying. i am not sure that lawyer larkin did not often think himself very nearly what he wished the world to think him--an 'eminent christian.' what an awful abyss is self delusion. lawyer larkin was, on the whole, i dare say, tolerably well pleased with the position, as he would have said, of his spiritual interest, and belonged to that complacent congregation who said, 'i am rich and have need of nothing;' and who, no doubt, opened their eyes wide enough, and misdoubted the astounding report of their ears, when the judge thundered, 'thou art wretched and miserable, and poor and blind and naked.' when jos. larkins had speculated thus, and built rich, but sombre, castles in the air, for some time longer, he said quietly to himself-'yes.' and then he ordered his dog-cart, and drove off to dollington, and put up at johnson's hotel, where stanley lake had slept on the night of his sister's return from london. the people there knew the lawyer very well; of course, they quite understood his position. mr. johnson, the proprietor, you may be sure, does not confound him with the great squires, the baronets, and feudal names of the county; but though he was by comparison easy in his company, with even a dash of familiarity, he still respected mr. larkin as a man with money, and a sort of influence, and in whose way, at election and other times, it might lie to do his house a good or an ill turn. mr. larkin got into a little brown room, looking into the inn garden, and called for some luncheon, and pen and ink, and had out a sheaf of law papers he had brought with him, tied up in professional red tape; and asked the waiter, with a grand smile and recognition, how he did; and asked him next for his good friend, mr. johnson; and trusted that business was improving; and would be very happy to see him for two or three minutes, if he could spare time. so, in due time, in came the corpulent proprietor, and lawyer larkin shook hands with him, and begged him to sit down, like a man who confers a distinction; and assured him that lord edward buxleigh, whom he had recommended to stay at the house for the shooting, had been very well pleased with the accommodation--very highly so indeed--and his lordship had so expressed himself when they had last met at sir hugh huxterley's, of hatch court. the good lawyer liked illuminating his little narratives, compliments, and reminiscences with plenty of armorial bearings and heraldic figures, and played out his court-cards in easy and somewhat overpowering profusion. then he enquired after the two heifers that mr. johnson was so good as to feed for him on his little farm; and then he mentioned that his friend, captain lake, who was staying with him at his house at gylingden, was also very well satisfied with his accommodation, when he, too, at lawyer larkin's recommendation, had put up for a night at johnson's hotel; and it was not every house which could satisfy london swells of captain lake's fashion and habits, he could tell him. then followed some conversation which, i dare say, interested the lawyer more than be quite showed in mr. johnson's company. for when that pleased and communicative host had withdrawn, jos. larkin made half-a-dozen little entries in his pocket-book, with 'statement of mr. william johnson,' and the date of their conversation, at the head of the memorandum. so the lawyer, having to run on as far as charteris by the goods-train, upon business, walked down to the station, where, having half-an-hour to wait, he fell into talk with the station-master, whom he also knew, and afterwards with tom christmas, the porter; and in the waiting-room he made some equally business-like memoranda, being certain chips and splinters struck off the clumsy talk of these officials, and laid up in the lawyer's little private museum, for future illustration and analysis. by the time his little book was again in the bottom of his pocket, the train had arrived, and doors swung open and clapt and people got in and out to the porter's accompaniment of 'dollington--dollington--dollington!' and lawyer larkin took his place, and glided away to charteris, where he had a wait of two hours for the return train, and a good deal of barren talk with persons at the station, rewarded by one or two sentences worth noting, and accordingly duly entered in the same little pocket-book. thus was the good man's day consumed; and when he mounted his dog-cart, at dollington, wrapped his rug about his legs, whip and reins in hand, and the ostler buckled the apron across, the sun was setting redly behind the hills; and the air was frosty, and the night dark, as he drew up before his own door-steps, near gylingden. a dozen lines of one of these pages would suffice to contain the fruits of his day's work; and yet the lawyer was satisfied, and even pleased with it, and eat his late dinner very happily; and though dignified, of course, was more than usually mild and gracious with all his servants that evening, and 'expounded at family prayers' in a sense that was liberal and comforting; and went to bed after a calm and pleased review of his memoranda, and slept the sleep of the righteous. chapter xxviii. mark wylder's submission. every day the position grew more critical and embarrassing. the day appointed for the nuptials was now very near, and the bridegroom not only out of sight but wholly untraceable. what was to be done? a long letter from stanley lake told lord chelford, in detail, all the measures adopted by that energetic young gentleman for the discovery of the truant knight:-'i have been at his club repeatedly, as also at his lodgings--still _his_, though he has not appeared there since his arrival in town. the billiard-marker at his club knows his haunts; and i have taken the liberty to employ, through him, several persons who are acquainted with his appearance, and, at my desire, frequent those places with a view to discovering him, and bringing about an interview with me. 'he was seen, i have reason to believe, a day or two before my arrival here, at a low place called the "miller's hall," in the city, where members of the "fancy" resort, at one of their orgies, but not since. i have left notes for him wherever he is likely to call, entreating an interview. 'on my arrival i was sanguine about finding him; but i regret to say my hopes have very much declined, and i begin to think he must have changed his quarters. if you have heard from him within the last few days, perhaps you will be so kind as to send me the envelope of his letter, which, by its postmark, may possibly throw some light or hint some theory as to his possible movements. he is very clever; and having taken this plan of concealing his residence, will conduct it skilfully. if the case were mine i should be much tempted to speak with the detective authorities, and try whether they might not give their assistance, of course without _ã©clat_. but this is, i am aware, open to objection, and, in fact, would not be justifiable, except under the very peculiar urgency of the case. 'will you be so good as to say what you think upon this point; also, to instruct me what you authorise me to say should i be fortunate enough to meet him. at present i am hardly in a position to say more than an acquaintance--never, i fear, very cordial on his part--would allow; which, of course, could hardly exceed a simple mention of your anxiety to be placed in communication with him. 'if i might venture to suggest, i really think a peremptory alternative should be presented to him. writing, however, in ignorance of what may since have passed at brandon, i may be assuming a state of things which, possibly, no longer exists. pray understand that in any way you please to employ me, i am entirely at your command. it is also possible, though i hardly hope it, that i may be able to communicate something definite by this evening's post. 'i do not offer any conjectures as to the cause of this very embarrassing procedure on his part; and indeed i find a great difficulty in rendering myself useful, with any likelihood of really succeeding, without at the same exposing myself to an imputation of impertinence. you will easily see how difficult is my position. 'whatever may be the cause of mark wylder's present line of conduct, it appears to me that if he really did attend that meeting at the "miller's hall," there cannot be anything _very_ serious weighing upon his spirits. my business will detain me here, i rather think, three days longer.' by return of post lord chelford wrote to stanley lake:-'i am so very much obliged to you for all the trouble you have taken. the measures which you have adopted are, i think, most judicious; and i should not wish, on consideration, to speak to any official person. i think it better to trust entirely to the means you have already employed. like you, i do not desire to speculate as to the causes of wylder's extraordinary conduct; but, all the circumstances considered, i cannot avoid concluding, as you do, that there must be some _very_ serious reason for it. i enclose a note, which, perhaps, you will be so good as to give him, should you meet before you leave town.' the note to mark wylder was in these terms:-'dear wylder,--i had hoped to see you before now at brandon. your unexplained absence longer continued, you must see, will impose on me the necessity of offering an explanation to miss brandon's friends, of the relations, under these strange circumstances, in which you and she are to be assumed to stand. you have accounted in no way for your absence. you have not even suggested a postponement of the day fixed for the completion of your engagement to that young lady; and, as her guardian, i cannot avoid telling her, should i fail to hear explicitly from you within three days from this date, that she is at liberty to hold herself acquitted of her engagement to you. i do not represent to you how much reason everyone interested by relationship in that young lady has to feel offended at the disrespect with which you have treated her. still hoping, however, that all may yet be explained, 'i remain, my dear wylder, yours very truly, 'chelford.' lord chelford had not opened the subject to dorcas. neither had old lady chelford, although she harangued her son upon it as volubly and fiercely as if he had been mark wylder in person, whenever he and she were _tãªte-ã -tãªte_. she was extremely provoked, too, at dorcas's evident repose under this astounding treatment, and was enigmatically sarcastic upon her when they sat together in the drawing-room. she and her son were, it seemed, not only to think and act, but to feel also, for this utterly immovable young lady! the brandons, in her young days, were not wanting in spirit. no; they had many faults, but they were not sticks or stones. they were not to be taken up and laid down like wax dolls; they could act and speak. it would not have been safe to trample upon them; and they were not less beautiful for being something more than pictures and statues. this evening, in the drawing-room, there were two very pretty ormolu caskets upon the little marble table. 'a new present from mark wylder,' thought lady chelford, as these objects met her keen glance. 'the unceremonious bridegroom has, i suppose, found his way back with a peace-offering in his hand.' and she actually peered through her spectacles into the now darkened corners of the chamber, half expecting to discover the truant wylder awaiting there the lecture she was well prepared to give him; but the square form and black whiskers of the prodigal son were not discernible there. 'so, so, something new, and very elegant and pretty,' said the old lady aloud, holding her head high, and looking as if she were disposed to be propitiated. 'i think i can risk a conjecture. mr. wylder is about to reappear, and has despatched these heralds of his approach, no doubt suitably freighted, to plead for his reacceptance into favour. you have heard, then, from mr. wylder, my dear dorcas?' 'no, lady chelford,' said the young lady with a grave serenity, turning her head leisurely towards her. 'no? oh, then where is my son? he, perhaps, can explain; and pray, my dear, what are these?' 'these caskets contain the jewels which mr. wylder gave me about six weeks since. i had intended restoring them to him; but as his return is delayed, i mean to place them in chelford's hands; because i have made up my mind, a week ago, to put an end to this odious engagement. it is all over.' lady chelford stared at the audacious young lady with a look of incensed amazement for some seconds, unable to speak. 'upon my word, young lady! vastly fine and independent! you _chasser_ mr. wylder without one moment's notice, and without deigning to consult me, or any other person capable of advising you. you are about to commit as gross and indelicate a breach of faith as i recollect anywhere to have heard of. what will be thought?--what will the world say?--what will your friends say? will you be good enough to explain yourself? _i_'ll not undertake your excuses, i promise you.' 'excuses! i don't think of excuses, lady chelford; no person living has a right to demand one.' 'very tragic, young lady, and quite charming!' sneered the dowager angrily. 'neither one nor the other, i venture to think; but quite true, lady chelford,' answered miss brandon, haughtily. 'i don't believe you are serious, dorcas,' said lady chelford, more anxiously, and also more gently. 'i can't suppose it. i'm an old woman, my dear, and i sha'n't trouble you very long. i can have no object in misleading you, and you have never experienced from me anything but kindness and affection. i think you might trust me a little, dorcas--but that, of course, is for you, you are your own mistress now--but, at least, you may reconsider the question you propose deciding in so extraordinary a way. i allow you might do much better than mark wylder, but also worse. he has not a title, and his estate is not enough to carry the point _ã  force d'argent_; i grant all that. but _together_ the estates are more than most titled men possess; and the real point is the fatal slip in your poor uncle's will, which makes it so highly important that you and mark should be united; bear that in mind, dear dorcas. i look for his return every day--every hour, indeed--and no doubt his absence will turn out to have been unavoidable. you must not act precipitately, and under the influence of mere pique. his absence, i will lay my life, will be satisfactorily accounted for; he has set his heart upon this marriage, and i really think you will almost drive him mad if you act as you threaten.' 'you have, indeed, dear lady chelford, been always very kind to me, and i do trust you,' replied this beautiful heiress, turning her large shadowy eyes upon the dowager, and speaking in slow and silvery accents, somehow very melancholy. 'i dare say it is very imprudent, and i don't deny that mr. wylder may have reason to complain of me, and the world will not spare me either; but i have quite made up my mind, and nothing can ever change me; all is over between me and mr. wylder--quite over--for ever.' 'upon my life, young lady, this is being very sharp, indeed. mr. wylder's business detains him a day or two longer than he expected, and he is punished by a final dismissal!' the old lady's thin cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shot a reddish light, and altogether she made an angry sight. it was hardly reasonable. she had been inveighing against miss brandon's apathy under wylder's disrespect, and now that the young lady spoke and acted too, she was incensed. she had railed upon wylder, in no measured terms, herself, and even threatened, as the proper measure, that very step which dorcas had announced; and now she became all at once the apologist of this insolent truant, and was ready to denounce her unreasonable irritation. 'so far, dear lady chelford, from provoking me to this decision, his absence is, i assure you, the sole reason of my having delayed to inform him of it.' 'and i assure you, miss brandon, _i_ sha'n't undertake to deliver your monstrous message. he will probably be here to-morrow. you have prepared an agreeable surprise for him. you shall have the pleasure of administering it yourself, miss brandon. for my part, i have done my duty, and here and now renounce all responsibility in the future management of your affairs.' saying which, she rose, in a stately and incensed way, and looking with flashing eyes over dorcas's head to a far corner of the apartment, without another word she rustled slowly and majestically from the drawing-room. she was a good deal shocked, and her feelings quite changed, however, when next morning the post brought a letter to chelford from mark wylder, bearing the boulogne postmark. it said-'dear chelford, 'don't get riled; but the fact is i don't see my way out of my present business'--(this last word was substituted for another, crossed out, which looked like 'scrape')--'for a couple of months, maybe. therefore, you see, my liberty and wishes being at present interfered with, it would be very hard lines if poor dorcas should be held to her bargain. therefore, i will say this--_she is quite free_ for me. only, of course, i don't decline to fulfil my part whenever at liberty. in the meantime i return the miniature, with her hair in it, which i constantly wore about me since i got it. but i have no right to it any longer, till i know her decision. don't be too hard on me, dear chelford. it is a very old lark has got me into this present vexation. in the meantime, i wish to make it quite clear what i mean. not being able by any endeavour'--(here a nautical phrase scratched out, and 'endeavour' substituted)--'of mine to be up to time, and as these are p.p. affairs, i must only forfeit. i mean, i am at the lady's disposal, either to fulfil my engagement the earliest day i can, or to be turned adrift. that is all i can say. 'in more trouble than you suppose, i remain, dear chelford, yours, whatever you may think, faithfully, 'mark wylder' chapter xxix. how mark wylder's disappearance affected his friends. lady chelford's wrath was now turned anew upon wylder--and the inconvenience of having no visible object on which to expend it was once more painfully felt. railing at mark wylder was, alas! but beating the air. the most crushing invective was--thanks to his adroit mystification--simply a soliloquy. poor lady chelford, who loved to give the ingenious youngsters of both sexes, when occasion invited, a piece of her mind, was here--in the case of this vulgar and most provoking delinquent--absolutely tongue-tied! if it had been possible to tell wylder what she thought of him it would, perhaps, have made her more tolerable than she was for some days after the arrival of that letter, to other members of the family. the idea of holding miss brandon to this engagement, and proroguing her nuptials from day to day, to convenience the bridegroom--absent without explanation--was of course quite untenable. fortunately, the marriage, considering the antiquity and the territorial position of the two families who were involved, was to have been a very quiet affair indeed--no festivities--no fire-works--nothing of the nature of a county gala--no glare or thunder--no concussion of society--a dignified but secluded marriage. this divested the inevitable dissolution of these high relations of a great deal of its _ã©clat_ and ridicule. of course there was abundance of talk. scarce a man or woman in the shire but had a theory or a story--sometimes bearing hard on the lady, sometimes on the gentleman; still it was an abstract breach of promise, and would have much improved by some outward and visible sign of disruption and disappointment. some concrete pageantries to be abolished and removed; flag-staffs, for instance, and banners, marquees, pyrotechnic machinery, and long tiers of rockets, festoons of evergreens, triumphal arches with appropriate mottoes, to come down and hide themselves away, would have been pleasant to the many who like a joke, and to the few, let us hope, who love a sneer. but there were no such fopperies to hurry off the stage disconcerted. in the autumnal sun, among the embrowned and thinning foliage of the noble trees, brandon hall looked solemn, sad and magnificent, as usual, with a sort of retrospective serenity, buried in old-world glories and sorrows, and heeding little the follies and scandals of the hour. in the same way miss brandon, with lord and lady chelford, was seen next sunday, serene and unchanged, in the great carved oak brandon pew, raised like a dais two feet at least above the level of mere christians, who frequented the family chapel. there, among old wylder and brandon tombs--some painted stone effigies of the period of elizabeth and the first james, and some much older--stone and marble knights praying on their backs with their spurs on, and said to have been removed nearly three hundred years ago from the abbey of naunton friars, when that famous monastery began to lose its roof and turn into a picturesque ruin, and by-gone generations of wylders and brandons had offered up their conspicuous devotions, with--judging from their heathen lives--i fear no very remarkable efficacy. here then, next sunday afternoon, when the good vicar, the rev. william wylder, at three o'clock, performed his holy office in reading-desk and pulpit, the good folk from gylingden assembled in force, saw nothing noticeable in the demeanour or appearance of the great brandon heiress. a goddess in her aerial place, haughty, beautiful, unconscious of human gaze, and seen as it were telescopically by mortals from below. no shadow of trouble on that calm marble beauty, no light of joy, but a serene superb indifference. of course there was some satire in gylingden; but, in the main, it was a loyal town, and true to its princess. mr. wylder's settlements were not satisfactory, it was presumed, or the young lady could not bring herself to like him, or however it came to pass, one way or another, that sprig of willow inevitably to be mounted by hero or heroine upon such equivocal occasions was placed by the honest town by no means in her breast, but altogether in his button-hole. gradually, in a more authentic shape, information traceable to old lady chelford, through some of the old county families who visited at brandon, made it known that mr. wylder's affairs were not at present by any means in so settled a state as was supposed; and that a long betrothal not being desirable on the whole, miss brandon's relatives thought it advisable that the engagement should terminate, and had so decided, mr. wylder having, very properly, placed himself absolutely in their hands. as for mark, it was presumed he had gone into voluntary banishment, and was making the grand tour in the spirit of that lackadaisical gentleman in the then fashionable song, who says:- from sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret, and if they win a smile from me, they think that i forget. it was known to be quite final, and as the lady evinced no chagrin and affected no unusual spirits, but held, swanlike and majestic, the even tenor of her way, there was, on the whole, little doubt anywhere that the gentleman had received his _congã©_, and was hiding his mortification and healing his wounds in paris or vienna, or some other suitable retreat. but though the good folk of gylingden, in general, cared very little how mark wylder might have disposed of himself, there was one inhabitant to whom his absence was fraught with very serious anxiety and inconvenience. this was his brother, william, the vicar. poor william, sound in morals, free from vice, no dandy, a quiet, bookish, self-denying mortal, was yet, when he took holy orders and quitted his chambers at cambridge, as much in debt as many a scamp of his college. he had been, perhaps, a little foolish and fanciful in the article of books, and had committed a serious indiscretion in the matter of a carved oak bookcase; and, worse still, he had published a slender volume of poems, and a bulkier tome of essays, scholastic and theologic, both which ventures, notwithstanding their merits, had turned out unhappily; and worse still, he had lent that costly loan, his sign manual, on two or three occasions, to friends in need, and one way or another found that, on winding up and closing his cambridge life, his assets fell short of his liabilities very seriously. the entire amount it is true was not very great. a pupil or two, and a success with his work 'on the character and inaccuracies of eusebius,' would make matters square in a little time. but his advertisements for a resident pupil had not been answered; they had cost him something, and he had not any more spare bread just then to throw upon the waters. so the advertisements for the present were suspended; and the publishers, somehow, did not take kindly to eusebius, who was making the tour of that fastidious and hard-hearted fraternity. he had staved off some of his troubles by a little loan from an insurance company, but the premium and the instalments were disproportioned to his revenue, and indeed very nearly frightful to contemplate. the cambridge tradesmen were growing minatory; and there was a stern person who held a renewal of one of his old paper subsidies to the necessities of his scampish friend clarkson, who was plainly a difficult and awful character to deal with. dreadful as were the tradesmen's peremptory and wrathful letters, the promptitude and energy of this latter personage were such as to produce a sense of immediate danger so acute that the scared vicar opened his dismal case to his brother mark. mark, sorely against the grain, and with no good grace, at last consented to advance â£300 in this dread emergency, and the vicar blessed his benefactor, and in his closet on his knees, shed tears of thankfulness over his deliverance, and the sky opened and the flowers locked bright, and life grew pleasant once more. but the â£300 were not yet in his pocket, and mark had gone away; and although of course the loan was sure to come, the delay--any delay in his situation--was critical and formidable. here was another would-be correspondent of mark's foiled for want of his address. still he would not believe it possible that he could forget his promise, or shut up his bowels of mercy, or long delay the remittance which he knew to be so urgently needed. in the meantime, however, a writ reached the hand of the poor vicar of naunton friars, who wrote in eager and confused terror to a friend in the middle temple on the dread summons, and learned that he was now 'in court,' and must 'appear,' or suffer judgment by default. the end was that he purchased a respite of three months, by adding thirty pounds to his debt, and so was thankful for another deliverance, and was confident of the promised subsidy within a week, or at all events a fortnight, or, at worst, three months was a long reprieve--and the subsidy must arrive before the emergency. in this there can be no dismay; my ships come home a month before the day. when the 'service' was over, the neighbourly little congregation, with a sprinkling of visitors to gylingden, for sake of its healing waters, broke up, and loitered in the vicinity of the porch, to remark on the sermon or the weather, and ask one another how they did, and to see the brandon family enter their carriage and the tall, powdered footman shut the door upon them, and mount behind, and move off at a brilliant pace, and with a glorious clangour and whirl of dust; and, this incident over, they broke up gradually into little groups, in sunday guise, and many colours, some for a ramble on the common, and some to tea, according to the primitive hours that ruled old gylingden. the vicar, and john hughes, clerk and sexton, were last out; and the reverend gentleman, thin and tall, in white necktie, and black, a little threadbare, stood on the steps of the porch, in a sad abstraction. the red autumnal sun nearing the edge of the distant hills, looked through the horizontal misty air shorn of its beams-and lighted the thin and gentle features of the vicar with a melancholy radiance. the sound of the oak door closing heavily behind him and john hughes, and the key revolving in the lock recalled him, and with a sigh and a smile, and a kindly nod to john, he looked up and round on the familiar and pretty scenery undecided. it was not quite time to go home; his troubles were heavy upon him, too, just then; they have their paroxysms like ague; and the quiet of the road, and the sweet air and sunshine, tempted him to walk off the chill and fever of the fit. as he passed the little cottage where old widow maddock lay sick, rachael lake emerged. he was not glad. he would rather have had his sad walk in his own shy company. but there she was--he could not pass her by; so he stopped, and lifted his hat, and greeted her; and then they shook hands. she was going his way. he looked wistfully on the little hatch of old widow maddock's cottage; for he felt a pang of reproach at passing her door; but there was no comfort then in his thoughts, only a sense of fear and hopeless fatigue. 'how is poor old mrs. maddock?' he asked; 'you have been visiting the sick and afflicted, and i was passing by; but, indeed, if i were capable at this moment i should not fail to see her, poor creature.' there was something apologetic and almost miserable in his look as he said this. 'she is not better; but you have been very good to her, and she is very grateful; and i am glad,' said rachel, 'that i happened to light on you.' and she paused. they were by this time walking side by side; and she glanced at him enquiringly; and he thought that the handsome girl looked rather thin and pale. 'you once said,' miss lake resumed, 'that sooner or later i should be taught the value of religion, and would learn to prize my great privileges; and that for some spirits the only approach to the throne of mercy was through great tribulation. i have often thought since of those words, and they have begun, for me, to take the spirit of a prophecy--sometimes that is--but at others they sound differently--like a dreadful menace--as if my afflictions were only to bring me to the gate of life to find it shut.' 'knock, and it shall be opened,' said the vicar; but the comfort was sadly spoken, and he sighed. 'but is not there a time, mr. wylder, when he shall have shut to the door, and are there not some who, crying to him to open, shall yet remain for ever in outer darkness?' 'i see, dear miss lake, that your mind is at work--it is a good influence--at work upon the great, theme which every mortal spirit ought to be employed upon.' 'my fears are at work; my mind is altogether dark and turbid; i am sometimes at the brink of despair.' 'take comfort from those fears. there is hope in that despair;' and he looked at her with great interest in his gentle eyes. she looked at him, and then away toward the declining sun, and she said despairingly-'i cannot comprehend you.' 'come!' said he, 'miss lake, bethink you; was there not a time--and no very distant one--when futurity caused you no anxiety, and when the subject which has grown so interesting, was altogether distasteful to you. the seed of the word is received at length into good ground; but a grain of wheat will bring forth no fruit unless it die first. the seed dies to outward sense, and despair follows; but the principle of life is working in it, and it will surely grow, and bring forth fruit--thirty, sixty, an hundredfold--be not dismayed. the body dies, and the lord of life compares it to the death of the seed in the earth; and then comes the palingenesis--the rising in glory. in like manner he compares the reception of the principle of eternal life into the soul to the dropping of a seed into the earth; it follows the general law of mortality. it too dies--such a death as the children of heaven die here--only to germinate afresh with celestial power and beauty.' miss lake's way lay by a footpath across a corner of the park to redman's dell. so they crossed the stile, and still conversing, followed the footpath under the hedgerow of the pretty field, and crossing another stile, entered the park. chapter xxx. in brandon park. to me, from association, no doubt, that park has always had a melancholy character. the ground undulates beautifully, and noble timber studs it in all varieties of grouping; and now, as when i had seen the ill-omened form of uncle lorne among its solitudes, the descending sun shone across it with a saddened glory, tipping with gold the blades of grass and the brown antlers of the distant deer. still pursuing her solemn and melancholy discourse, the young lady followed the path, accompanied by the vicar. 'true,' said the vicar, 'your mind is disturbed, but not by doubt. no; it is by _truth_.' he glanced aside at the tarn where i had seen the phantom, and by which their path now led them--'you remember parnell's pretty image? 'so when a smooth expanse receives imprest calm nature's image on its watery breast, down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, and skies beneath with answering colours glow; but if a stone the gentle scene divide, swift ruffling circles curl on every side, and glimmering fragments of a broken sun, banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.' 'but, as i said, it is not a doubt that agitates your mind--that is well represented by the "stone," that subsides and leaves the pool clear, it maybe, but stagnant as before. oh, no; it is an angel who comes down and troubles the water.' 'what a heavenly evening!' said a low, sweet voice, but with something insidious in it, close at his shoulder. with a start, rachel glanced back, and saw the pale, peculiar face of her brother. his yellow eyes for a moment gleamed into hers, and then on the vicar, and, with his accustomed smile, he extended his hand. 'how do you do?--better, i hope, radie? how are you, william?' rachel grew deadly pale, and then flushed, and then was pale again. 'i thought, stanley, you were in london.' 'so i was; but i arrived here this morning; i'm staying for a few days at the lodge--larkin's house; you're going home, i suppose, radie?' 'yes--oh, yes--but i don't know that i'll go this way. you say you must return to gylingden now, mr. wylder; i think i'll turn also, and go home that way.' 'nothing would give me greater pleasure,' said the vicar, truly as well as kindly, for he had grown interested in their conversation; 'but i fear you are tired'--he looked very kindly on her pale face--'and you know it will cost you a walk of more than two miles.' 'i forgot--yes--i believe i _am_ a _little_ tired; i'm afraid i have led _you_, too, farther than you intended.' she fancied that her sudden change of plan on meeting her brother would appear odd. 'i'll see you a little bit on your way home, radie,' said stanley. it was just what she wished to escape. she was more nervous, though not less courageous than formerly. but the old, fierce, defiant spirit awoke. why should she fear stanley, or what could it be to her whether he was beside her in her homeward walk? so the vicar made his adieux there, and began, at a brisker pace, to retrace his steps toward gylingden; and she and stanley, side by side, walked on toward redman's dell. 'what a charming park! and what delightful air, radie; and the weather so very delicious. they talk of italian evenings; but there is a pleasant sharpness in english evenings quite peculiar. is not there just a little suspicion of frost--don't you think so--not actually cold, but crisp and sharp--unspeakably exhilarating; now really, this evening is quite celestial.' 'i've just been listening to a good man's conversation, and i wish to reflect upon it,' said rachel, very coldly. 'quite so; that is, of course, when you are alone,' answered stanley, serenely. 'william was always a very clever fellow to talk--very well read in theology--is not he?--yes, he does talk very sweetly and nobly on religion; it is a pity he is not quite straight, or at least more punctual, in his money affairs.' 'he is distressed for money? william wylder is distressed for money! do you mean _that_?' said rachel, turning a tone of sudden surprise and energy, almost horror, turning full upon him, and stopping short. 'oh, dear! no--not the least distressed that i ever heard of,' laughed stanley coldly--'only just a little bit roguish, maybe.' 'that's so like you, stanley,' said the young lady, with a quiet scorn, resuming her onward walk. 'how very beautiful that clump of birch trees is, near the edge of the slope there; you really can't imagine, who are always here, how very intensely a person who has just escaped from london enjoys all this.' 'i don't think, stanley,' said the young lady coldly, and looking straight before her as she walked, 'you ever cared for natural scenery--or liked the country--and yet you are here. i don't think you ever loved me, or cared whether i was alone or in company; and yet seeing--for you _did_ see it--that i would now rather be alone, you persist in walking with me, and talking of trees and air and celestial evenings, and thinking of something quite different. had not you better turn back to gylingden, or the lodge, or wherever you mean to pass the evening, and leave me to my quiet walk and my solitude?' 'in a few minutes, dear radie--you are so odd. i really believe you think no one can enjoy a ramble like this but yourself.' 'come, stanley, what do you want?' said his sister, stopping short, and speaking with the flush of irritation on her cheek--'do you mean to walk to redman's dell, or have you anything unpleasant to say?' 'neither, i hope,' said the captain, with his sleepy smile, his yellow eyes resting on the innocent grass blades before him. 'i don't understand you, stanley. i am always uncomfortable when you are near me. you stand there like an evil spirit, with some purpose which i cannot divine; but you shall not ensnare me. go your own way, why can't you? pursue your own plots--your wicked plots; but let me rest. i _will_ be released, sir, from your presence.' 'really this is very fine, radie, considering how we are related; i'm mephistopheles, i suppose, and you margaret, or some other simple heroine--rebuking the fiend in the majesty of your purity.' and indeed in the reddish light, and in that lonely and solemn spot, the slim form of the captain, pale, sneering, with his wild eyes, confronting the beautiful light-haired girl, looked not quite unlike a type of the jaunty fiend he was pleased to suppose himself. 'i tell you, stanley, i feel that you design employing me in some of your crooked plans. i have horrible reasons, as you know, for avoiding you, and so i will. i hope i may never desire to see you alone again, but if i do, it shall not be to receive, but to impose commands. you had better return to gylingden, and leave me.' 'so i will, dear radie, by-and-by,' said he, with his amused smile. 'that is, you _won't_ until you have said what you meditate. well, then, as it seems i must hear it, pray speak at once, standing where we are, and quickly, for the sun will soon go down, and one step more i will not walk with you.' 'well, radie, you are pleased to be whimsical; and, to say truth, i _was_ thinking of saying a word or two, just about as idea that has been in my mind some time, and which you half divined--you are so clever--the first day i saw you at redman's farm. you know you fancied i was thinking of marrying.' 'i don't remember that i said so, but i thought it. you mentioned caroline beauchamp, but i don't see how your visit _here_ could have been connected with that plan.' 'but don't you think, radie, i should do well to marry, that is, assuming everything to be suitable?' 'well, perhaps, for _yourself_, stanley; but----' 'yes, of course,' said lake; 'but the unfortunate girl, you were going to say--thank you. she's, of course, very much to be pitied, and you have my leave to pity her as much as you please.' 'i do pity her,' said rachel. 'thank you, again,' said stanley; 'but seriously, radie, you can be, i think, very essentially of use to me in this affair, and you must not refuse.' 'now, stanley, i will cut this matter short. i can't serve you. i won't. i don't know the young lady, and i don't mean to make her acquaintance.' 'but i tell you that you _can_ serve me,' retorted stanley, with a savage glare, and features whitened with passion, 'and you _shall_ serve me; and you _do_ know the young lady intimately.' 'i say, sir, i do _not_,' replied rachel, haughtily and fiercely. 'she is dorcas brandon; you know _her_, i believe. i came down here to marry her. i had made up my mind when i saw you first and i'll carry my point; i always do. she does not like me, maybe; but she _shall_. i never yet resolved to make a woman like me, and failed. you need not look so pale; and put on that damned affected look of horror. i may be wild, and--and what you please, but i'm no worse than that brute, mark wylder, and you never turned up your eyes when he was her choice; and i knew things about him that ought to have damned him, and she's well rid of a branded rascal. and now, rachel, you know her, and you must say a good word for me. i expect your influence, and if you don't use it, and effectually, it will be worse for you. you women understand one another, and how to get a fellow favourably into one another's thoughts. so, listen to me, this is a vital matter; indeed, it is, radie. i have lost a lot of money, like a--fool, i suppose; well, it is gone, and this marriage is indispensable. i must go in for it, it is life or death; and if i fail through your unkindness (here he swore an impious oath) i'll end all with a pistol, and leave a letter to chelford, disclosing everything concerning you, and me, and mark wylder.' i think rachel lake was as near fainting as ever lady was, without actually swooning. it was well they had stopped just by the stem of a great ash tree, against which rachel leaned for some seconds, with darkness before her eyes, and the roar of a whirlpool in her ears. after a while, with two or three gasps, she came to herself. lake had been railing on all this time, and his voice, which, in ill-temper, was singularly bleak and terrible, was again in her ears the moment she recovered her hearing. 'i do not care to quarrel; there are many reasons why we should not,' lake said in his peculiar tones. 'you have some of my secrets, and you must have more; it can't be helped, and, i say, you _must_. i've been very foolish. i'll give up play. it has brought me to this. i've had to sell out. i've paid away all i could, and given bills for the rest; but i can't possibly pay them, don't you see; and if things go to the worst, i tell you i'll not stay. i don't want to make my bow just yet, and i've no wish to injure you; but i'll do as i have said (he swore again), and chelford shall have a distinct statement under my hand of everything that has happened. i don't suppose you wish to be accessory to all this, and therefore it behoves you, rachel, to do what you can to prevent it. one woman can always influence another, and you are constantly with dorcas. you'll do all you can; i'm sure you will; and you can do a great deal. i know it; i'll do as much for you, radie! anything you like.' for the first time her brother stood before her in a really terrible shape; she felt his villainy turning with a cowardly and merciless treason upon her forlorn self. sacrificed for him, and that sacrifice used by him to torture, to extort, perhaps to ruin. she quailed for a minute in the presence of this gigantic depravity and cruelty. but rachel was a brave lass, and rallied quickly. 'after all i have done and suffered!' said she, with a faint smile of unimaginable bitterness; 'i did not think that human wickedness could produce such a brother as you are.' 'well, it is no news what you think of me, and not much matter, either. i don't see that i am a worse brother than you are a sister.' stanley lake was speaking with a livid intensity. 'you see how i'm placed; a ruined man, with a pistol to my head; what you can do to save me may amount to nothing, but it may be everything, and you say you won't try! now i say you _shall_, and with every energy and faculty you possess, or else abide the consequences.' 'and i tell you, sir,' replied rachel, 'i know you; you are capable of anything but of hurting yourself. i'll never be your slave; though, if i pleased, i might make you mine. i scorn your threats--i defy you.' stanley lake looked transported, and the yellow fires of his deep-set eyes glared on her, while his lips moved to speak, but not a word came, and it became a contortion; he grasped the switch in his hand as if to strike her. 'take care, sir, lord chelford's coming,' said the young lady, haughtily, with a contracted glance of horror fixed on lake. lake collected himself. he was a man who could do it pretty quickly; but he had been violently agitated, and the traces of his fury could not disappear in a moment. lord chelford was, indeed, approaching, only a few hundred yards away. 'take my arm,' said lake. and rachel mechanically, as story-tellers say, placed her slender gloved hand upon his arm--the miscreant arm that had been so nearly raised to strike her; and they walked along, brother and sister, in the sabbath sunset light, to meet him. chapter xxxi. in redman's dell. lord chelford raised his hat, smiling: 'i am so very glad i met you, i was beginning to feel so solitary!' he placed himself beside miss lake. 'i've had such a long walk across the park. how do you do, lake? when did you come?' and so on--lake answering and looking wonderfully as usual. i think lord chelford perceived there was something amiss between the young people, for his eye rested on rachel with a momentary look of enquiry, unconscious, no doubt, and quickly averted, and he went on chatting pleasantly; but he looked, once or twice, a little hard at stanley lake. i don't think he had an extraordinarily good opinion of that young gentleman. he seldom expressed an ill one of anybody, and then it was in very measured language. but though he never hinted at an unfavourable estimate of the captain, his intimacies with him were a little reserved; and i think i have seen him, even when he smiled, look the least little bit in the world uncomfortable, as if he did not quite enter into the captain's pleasantries. they had not walked together very far, when stanley recollected that he must take his leave, and walk back to gylingden; and so the young lady and lord chelford were left to pursue their way towards redman's farm together. it would have been a more unaccountable proceeding on the part of stanley lake, and a more romantic situation, if rachel and his lordship had not had before two or three little accidental rambles together in the grounds and gardens of brandon. there was nothing quite new in the situation, therefore; and rachel was for a moment indescribably relieved by stanley's departure. the shock of her brief interview with her brother over, reflection assured her, knowing all she did, that stanley's wooing would prosper, and so this cause of quarrel had really nothing in it; no, nothing but a display of his temper and morals--not very astonishing, after all--and, like an ugly picture or a dreadful dream, in no way to affect her after-life, except as an odious remembrance. therefore, little by little, like a flower that has been bruised, in the tranquillising influences about her, the young lady got up, expanded, and grew like herself again--not like enough, indeed, to say much, but to listen and follow his manly, refined, and pleasant talk, every moment with a pang, that had yet something pleasurable in it, contrasting the quiet and chivalric tone of her present companion, with the ferocious duplicity of the sly, smooth terrorist who had just left her side. it was rather a marked thing--as lean mrs. loyd, of gylingden, who had two thin spinsters with pink noses under her wing, remarked--this long walk of lord chelford and miss lake in the park; and she enjoined upon her girls the propriety of being specially reserved in their intercourse with persons of lord chelford's rank; not that they were much troubled with dangers from any such quarter. miss lake had, she supposed, her own notions, and would act as she pleased; but she owned for her part she preferred the old fashion, and thought the men did also; and was sure, too, that young ladies lost nothing by a little reserve and modesty. now something of this, no doubt, passed in the minds of lord chelford and his pretty companion. but what was to be done? that perverse and utterly selfish brother, stanley lake, had chosen to take his leave. lord chelford could not desert the young lady, and would it have been a very nice delicacy in miss lake to make her courtesy in the middle of the park, and protest against pursuing their walk together any further? lord chelford was a lively and agreeable companion; but there was something unusually gentle, almost resembling tenderness, in his manner. she was so different from her gay, fiery self in this walk--so gentle; so subdued--and he was more interested by her, perhaps, than he had ever been before. the sun just touched the verge of the wooded uplands, as the young people began to descend the slope of redman's dell. 'how very short!' lord chelford paused, with a smile, at these words. 'i was just going to say how short the days have grown, as if it had all happened without notice, and contrary to the almanac; but really the sun sets cruelly early this evening, and i am so _very_ sorry our little walk is so soon to end.' there was not much in this little speech, but it was spoken in a low, sweet voice; and rachel looked down on the ferns before her feet, as they walked on side by side, not with a smile, but with a blush, and that beautiful look of gratification so becoming and indescribable. happy that moment--that enchanted moment of oblivion and illusion! but the fitful evening breeze came up through redman's dell, with a gentle sweep over the autumnal foliage. sudden as a sigh, and cold; in her ear it sounded like a whisper or a shudder, and she lifted up her eyes and saw the darkening dell before her; and with a pang, the dreadful sense of reality returned. she stopped, with something almost wild in her look. but with an effort she smiled, and said, with a little shiver, 'the air has grown quite chill, and the sun nearly set; we loitered, stanley and i, a great deal too long in the park, but i am now at home, and i fear i have brought you much too far out of your way already; good-bye.' and she extended her hand. 'you must not dismiss your escort here. i must see you through the enchanted dell--it is only a step--and then i shall return with a good conscience, like a worthy knight, having done my devoir honestly.' she looked down the dell, with a dark and painful glance, and then she said a few words of hesitating apology and acquiescence, and in a few minutes more they parted at the little wicket of redman's farm. they shook hands. he had a few pleasant, lingering words to say. she paused as he spoke at the other side of that little garden door. she seemed to like those lingering sentences--and hung upon them--and even smiled but in her eyes there was a vague and melancholy pleading--a wandering and unfathomable look that pained him. they shook hands again--it was the third time--and then she walked up the little gravel walk, hardly a dozen steps, and disappeared within the door of redman's farm, without turning another parting look on lord chelford, who remained at the little paling--expecting one, i think--to lift his hat and say one more parting word. she turned into the little drawing-room at the left, and, herself unseen, did take that last look, and saw him go up the road again towards brandon. the shadows and mists of redman's dell anticipated night, and it was already deep twilight there. on the table there lay a letter which margery had brought from the post-office. so rachel lighted her candles and read it with very little interest, for it concerned a world towards which she had few yearnings. there was just one sentence which startled her attention: it said, 'we shall soon be at knowlton--for christmas, i suppose. it is growing too wintry for mamma near the sea, though i like it better in a high wind than in a calm; and a gale is such fun--such a romp. the dulhamptons have arrived: the old marchioness never appears till three o'clock, and only out in the carriage twice since they came. i can't say i very much admire lady constance, though she is to be chelford's wife. she has fine eyes--and i think no other good point--much too dark for my taste--but they say clever;' and not another word was there on this subject. 'lady constance! arranged, i suppose, by lady chelford--no great dot--and an unamiable family--an odious family--nothing to recommend her but her rank.' so ruminated rachel lake as she looked out on her shadowy garden, and tapped a little feverish tattoo with her finger on the window pane; and she meditated a great while, trying to bring back distinctly her recollection of lady constance, and also vaguely conjecturing who had arranged the marriage, and how it had come about. 'chelford cannot like her. it is all lady chelford's doing. can i have mistaken the name?' but no. nothing could be more perfectly distinct than 'chelford,' traced in her fair correspondent's very legible hand. 'he treats the young lady very coolly,' thought rachel, forgetting, perhaps, that his special relations to dorcas brandon had compelled his stay in that part of the world. mingled with this criticism, was a feeling quite unavowed even to herself--a sore feeling that lord chelford had been--and this she never admitted to herself before--more particular--no, not exactly that--but more something or other--not exactly expressible in words, in his approaches to her, than was consistent with his situation. but then she had been very guarded; not stiff or prudish, indeed, but frank and cold enough with him, and that was comforting. still there was a sense of wonder--a great blank, and something of pain in the discovery--yes, pain--though she smiled a faint blushing smile--alone as she was; and then came a deep sigh; and then a sort of start. 'rachel, rachel, is it possible?' murmured the young lady, with the same dubious smile, looking down upon the ground, and shaking her head. 'yes, i do really think you had begun to like lord chelford--only _begun_, the least little insidious bit; but thank you, wild bessie frankleyn, you have quite opened my eyes. rachel, rachel, girl! what a fool you were near becoming!' she looked like her old pleasant self during this little speech--arch and fresh, and still smiling--she looked up and sighed, and then her dark look returned, and she said dismally, 'what utter madness!' and leaned for a while with her fingers upon the window sash; and when she turned to old tamar, who brought in her tiny tea equipage, it seemed as if the shadow of the dell, into which she had been vacantly gazing, still rested on her face. 'not here, tamar; i'll drink tea in my room; and you must bring your tea-cup, too, and we'll take it together. i am--i think i am--a little nervous, darling, and you won't leave me?' so they sat down together in her chamber. it was a cheery little bed-room, when the shutters were closed, and the fire burning brightly in the grate. 'my good tamar will read her chapters aloud. i wish i could enjoy them like you. i can only wish. you must pray for me, tamar. there is a dreadful image--and i sometimes think a dreadful being always near me. though the words you read are sad and awful, they are also sweet, like funeral music a long way off, and they tranquillise me without making me better, as the harping of david did the troubled and forsaken king saul.' so the old nurse mounted her spectacles, glad of the invitation, and began to read. her reading was very, slow, and had other faults too, being in that sing-song style to which some people inexplicably like to read holy writ; but it was reverent and distinct, and i have heard worse even in the reading desk. 'stop,' said rachel suddenly, as she reached about the middle of the chapter. the old woman looked up, with her watery eyes wide open, and there was a short pause. 'i beg your pardon, dear tamar, but you must first tell me that story you used to tell me long ago of lady ringdove, that lived in epping forest, to whom the ghost came and told something she was never to reveal, and who slowly died of the secret, growing all the time more and more like the spectre; and besought the priest when she was dying, that he would have her laid in the abbey vault, with her mouth open, and her eyes and ears sealed, in token that her term of slavery was over, that her lips might now be open, and that her eyes were to see no more the dreadful sight, nor her ears to hear the frightful words that used to scare them in her life-time; and then, you remember, whenever afterwards they opened the door of the vault, the wind entering in, made such moanings in her hollow mouth, and declared things so horrible that they built up the door of the vault, and entered it no more. let me have the entire story, just as you used to tell it.' so old tamar, who knew it was no use disputing a fancy of her young mistress, although on sunday night she would have preferred other talk, recounted her old tale of wonder. 'yes, it is true--a true allegory, i mean, tamar. death will close the eyes and ears against the sights and sounds of earth; but even the tomb secures no secrecy. the dead themselves declare their dreadful secrets, open-mouthed, to the winds. oh, tamar! turn over the pages, and try to find some part which says where safety and peace may be found at any price; for sometimes i think i am almost bereft of--reason.' chapter xxxii. mr. larkin and the vicar. the good vicar was not only dismayed but endangered by his brother's protracted absence. it was now the first week in november. bleak and wintry that ungenial month set in at gylingden; and in accord with the tempestuous and dismal weather the fortunes of the rev. william wylder were darkened and agitated. this morning a letter came at breakfast, by post, and when he had read it, the poor vicar grew a little white, and he folded it very quietly and put it in his waistcoat pocket, and patted little fairy on the head. little fairy was asking him a question all this time, very vehemently, 'how long was jack's sword that he killed the giants with?' and several times to this distinct question he received only the unsatisfactory reply, 'yes, my darling;' and at last, when little fairy mounted his knee, and hugging the abstracted vicar round the neck, urged his question with kisses and lamentations, the parson answered with a look of great perplexity, and only half recalled, said, 'indeed, little man, i don't know. how long, you say, was jack's sword? well, i dare say it was as long as the umbrella.' he got up, with the same perplexed and absent look, as he said this, and threw an anxious glance about the room, as if looking for something he had mislaid. 'you are not going to write now, willie, dear?' expostulated his good little wife, 'you have not tasted your tea yet.' 'i have, indeed, dear; haven't i? well, i will.' and, standing, he drank nearly half the cup she had poured out for him, and set it down, and felt in his pocket, she thought, for his keys. 'are you looking for anything, willie, darling? your keys are in my basket.' 'no, darling; no, darling--nothing. i have everything i want. i think i must go to the lodge and see mr. larkin, for a moment.' 'but you have eaten nothing,' remonstrated his partner; 'you must not go until you have eaten something.' 'time enough, darling; i can't wait--i sha'n't be away twenty minutes--time enough when i come back.' 'have you heard anything of mark, darling?' she enquired eagerly. 'of mark? oh, no!--nothing of mark.' and he added with a deep sigh, 'oh, dear! i wonder he does not write--no, nothing of mark.' she followed him into the hall. 'now, willie darling, you must not go till you have had your breakfast--you will make yourself ill--indeed you will--do come back, just to please me, and eat a little first.' 'no, darling; no, my love--i can't, indeed. i'll be back immediately; but i must catch mr. larkin before he goes out. it is only a little matter--i want to ask his opinion--and--oh! here is my stick--and i'll return immediately.' 'and i'll go with you,' cried little fairy. 'no, no, little man; i can't take you--no, it is business--stay with mamma, and i'll be back again in a few minutes.' so, spite of fairy's clamours and the remonstrances of his fond, clinging little wife, with a hurried kiss or two, away he went alone, at a very quick pace, through the high street of gylingden, and was soon in the audience chamber of the serious, gentleman attorney. the attorney rose with a gaunt and sad smile of welcome--begged mr. wylder, with a wave of his long hand, to be seated--and then seating himself and crossing one long thigh over the other, he threw his arm over the back of his chair, and leaning back with what he conceived to be a graceful and gentlemanly negligence--with his visitor full in the light of the window and his own countenance in shadow, the light coming from behind--a diplomatic arrangement which he affected--he fixed his small, pink eyes observantly upon him, and asked if he could do anything for mr. william wylder. 'have you heard anything since, mr. larkin? can you conjecture where his address may now be?' asked the vicar, a little abruptly. 'oh! mr. mark wylder, perhaps, you refer to?' 'yes; my brother, mark.' mr. larkin smiled a sad and simple smile, and shook his head. 'no, indeed--not a word--it is very sad, and involves quite a world of trouble--and utterly inexplicable; for i need not tell you, in my position, it can't be pleasant to be denied all access to the client who has appointed me to act for him, nor conducive to the apprehension of his wishes upon many points, which i should much prefer not being left to my discretion. it is really, as i say, inexplicable, for mr. mark wylder must thoroughly see all this: he is endowed with eminent talents for business, and must perfectly appreciate the embarrassment in which the mystery with which he surrounds the place of his abode must involve those whom he has appointed to conduct his business.' 'i have heard from him this morning,' resumed the lawyer; 'he was pleased to direct a power of attorney to me to receive his rents and sign receipts; and he proposes making lord viscount chelford and captain lake trustees, to fund his money or otherwise invest it for his use, and'-'has he--i beg pardon--but did he mention a little matter in which i am deeply--indeed, vitally interested?' the vicar paused. 'i don't quite apprehend; perhaps if you were to frame your question a little differently, i might possibly--a--you were saying'-'i mean a matter of very deep interest to me,' said the poor vicar, colouring a little, 'though no very considerable sum, viewed absolutely; but, under my unfortunate circumstances, of the most urgent importance--a loan of three hundred pounds--did he mention it?' again mr. larkin shook his head, with the same sad smile. 'but, though we do not know how to find him, he knows very well where to find us--and, as you are aware, we hear from him constantly--and no doubt he recollects his promise, and will transmit the necessary directions all in good time.' 'i earnestly hope he may,' and the poor cleric lifted up his eyes unconsciously and threw his hope into the form of a prayer. 'for, to speak frankly, mr. larkin, my circumstances are very pressing. i have just heard from cambridge, and find that my good friend, mr. mountain, the bookseller, has been dead two months, and his wife--he was a widower when i knew him, but it would seem has married since--is his sole executrix, and has sold the business, and directed two gentlemen--attorneys--to call in all the debts due to him--peremptorily--and they say i must pay before the 15th; and i have, absolutely, but five pounds in the world, until march, when my half-year will be paid. and indeed, only that the tradespeople here are so very kind, we should often find it very difficult to manage.' 'perhaps,' said mr. larkin, blandly, 'you would permit me to look at the letter you mention having received from the solicitors at cambridge?' 'oh, thank you, certainly; here it is,' said william wylder, eagerly, and he gazed with his kind, truthful eyes upon the attorney's countenance as he glanced over it, trying to read something of futurity therein. 'foukes and mauley,' said mr. larkin. 'i have never had but one transaction with them; they are not always pleasant people to deal with. mind, i don't say anything affecting their integrity--heaven forbid; but they certainly did take rather what i would call a short turn with us on the occasion to which i refer. you must be cautious; indeed, my dear sir, _very_ cautious. the fifteenth--just ten clear days. well, you know you have till then to look about you; and you know we may any day hear from your brother, directing the loan to be paid over to you. and now, my dear and reverend friend, you know me, i hope,' continued mr. larkin, very kindly, as he handed back the letter; 'and you won't attribute what i say to impertinent curiosity; but your brother's intended advance of three hundred pounds can hardly have had relation only to this trifling claim upon you. there are, no doubt--pardon me--several little matters to be arranged; and considerable circumspection will be needed, pending your brother's absence, in dealing with the persons who are in a position to press their claims unpleasantly. you must not trifle with these things. and let me recommend you seeing your legal adviser, whoever he is, immediately.' 'you mean,' said the vicar, who was by this time very much flushed, 'a gentleman of your profession, mr. larkin. do you really think--well, it has frequently crossed my mind--but the expense, you know; and although my affairs are in a most unpleasant and complicated state, i am sure that everything would be perfectly smooth if only i had received the loan my kind brother intends, and which, to be sure, as you say, any day i may receive.' 'but, my dear sir, do you really mean to say that you would pay claims from various quarters--how old is this, for instance?--without examination!' the vicar looked very blank. 'i--this--well, this i certainly do owe; it has increased a little with interest, though good mr. mountain never charged more than six per cent. it was, i think, about fifteen pounds--books--i am ashamed to say how long ago; about a work which i began then, and laid aside--on eusebius; but which is now complete, and will, i hope, eventually repay me.' 'were you of age, my dear sir, when he gave you these books on credit? were you twenty-one years of age?' 'oh! no; not twenty; but then i owe it, and i could not, as s a christian man, you know, evade my debts.' 'of course; but you can't pay it at present, and it may be highly important to enable you to treat this as a debt of honour, you perceive. suppose, my dear sir, they should proceed to arrest you, or to sequestrate the revenue of your vicarage. now, see, my dear sir, i am, i humbly hope, a christian man; but you will meet with men in every profession--and mine is no exception--disposed to extract the last farthing which the law by its extremest process will give them. and i really must tell you, frankly, that if you dream of escaping the most serious consequences, you must at once place yourself and your affairs in the hands of a competent man of business. it will probably be found that you do not in reality owe sixty pounds of every hundred claimed against you.' 'oh, mr. larkin, if i could induce _you_.' mr. larkin smiled a melancholy smile, and shook his head. 'my dear sir, i only wish i could; but my hands are so awfully full,' and he lifted them up and shook them, and shook his tall, bald head at the same time, and smiled a weary smile. 'just look there,' and he waved his fingers in the direction of the cyclopean wall of tin boxes, tier above tier, each bearing, in yellow italics, the name of some country gentleman, and two baronets among the number; 'everyone of them laden with deeds and papers. you can't have a notion--no one has--what it is.' 'i see, indeed,' murmured the honest vicar, in a compassionating tone, and quite entering into the spirit of mr. larkin's mournful appeal, as if the being in large business was the most distressing situation in which an attorney could well find himself. 'it was very unreasonable of me to think of troubling you with my wretched affairs; but really i do not know very well where to turn, or whom to speak to. maybe, my dear sir, you can think of some conscientious and christian practitioner who is not so laden with other people's cares and troubles as you are. i am a very poor client, and indeed more trouble than i could possibly be gain to anyone. but there may be some one; pray think; ten days is so short a time, and i can do nothing.' mr. larkin stood at the window ruminating, with his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his right, with finger and thumb pinching his under lip, after his wont, and the despairing accents of the poor vicar's last sentence still in his ear. 'well,' he said hesitatingly, 'it is not easy, at a moment's notice, to point out a suitable solicitor; there are many, of course, very desirable gentlemen, but i feel it, my dear sir, a very serious responsibility naming one for so peculiar a matter. but you shall not, in the meantime, go to the wall for want of advice. rely upon it, we'll do the best we can for you,' he continued, in a patronising way, with his chin raised, and extending his hand kindly to shake that of the parson. 'yes, i certainly will--you must have advice. can you give me two hours to-morrow evening--say to tea--if you will do me the honour. my friend, captain lake, dines at brandon to-morrow. he's staying here with me, you are aware, on a visit; but we shall be quite by ourselves, say at seven o'clock. bring all your papers, and i'll get at the root of the business, and see, if possible, in each particular case, what line is best to be adopted.' 'how can i thank you, my dear sir,' cried gentle william wylder, his countenance actually beaming with delight and gratitude--a brighter look than it had worn for many weeks. 'oh, don't--_pray_ don't mention it. i assure you, it is a happiness to me to be of any little use; and, really, i don't see how you could possibly hold your own among the parties who are pressing you without professional advice.' 'i feel,' said the poor vicar, and his eyes filled as he smiled, and his lip quivered a little--'i feel as if my prayer for direction and deliverance were answered at last. oh! my dear sir, i have suffered a great deal; but something assures me i am rescued, and shall have a quiet mind once more--i am now in safe and able hands.' and he shook the safe and able, and rather large, hands of the amiable attorney in both his. 'you make too much of it, my dear sir. i should at any time be most happy to advise you,' said mr. larkin, with a lofty and pleased benevolence, 'and with great pleasure, _provisionally_, until we can hit upon a satisfactory solicitor with a little more time at his disposal, i undertake the management of your case.' 'thank heaven!' again said the vicar, who had not let go his hands. 'and it is so delightful to have for my guide a christian man, who, even were i so disposed, would not lend himself to an unworthy or questionable defence; and although at this moment it is not in my power to reward your invaluable assistance----' 'now really, my dear sir, i must insist--no more of this, i beseech you. i do most earnestly insist that you promise me you will never mention the matter of professional remuneration more, until, at least, i press it, which, rely upon it, will not be for a good while.' the attorney's smile plainly said, that his 'good while' meant in fact 'never.' 'this is, indeed, unimaginable kindness. how _have_ i deserved so wonderful a blessing!' 'and i have no doubt,' said the attorney, fondling the vicar's arm in his large hand, 'that these claims will ultimately be reduced fully thirty per cent. i had once a good deal of professional experience in this sort of business; and, oh! my dear sir, it is really _melancholy_!' and up went his small pink eyes in a pure horror, and his hands were lifted at the same time; 'but we will bring them to particulars; and you may rely upon it, you will have a much longer time, at all events, than they are disposed to allow you.' chapter xxxiii. the ladies on gylingden heath. just at this moment they became aware of a timid little tapping which had been going on at the window during the latter part of this conference, and looking up, the attorney and the vicar saw 'little fairy's' violet eyes peering under his light hair, with its mild, golden shadow, and the odd, sensitive smile, at once shy and arch; his cheeks were wet with tears, and his pretty little nose red, though he was smiling; and he drew his face aside among the jessamine, when he saw the gaunt attorney directing his patronising smile upon him. 'i beg pardon,' said the vicar, rising with a sudden smile, and going to the window. 'it is my little man. fairy! fairy! what has brought you here; my little man?' fairy glanced, still smiling, but very shamefacedly at the grand attorney, and in his little fist he held a pair of rather seedy gloves to the window pane. 'so i did. i protest i forgot my gloves. thank you, little man. who is with you? oh! i see. that is right.' the maid ducked a short courtesy. 'indeed, sir, please, master fairy was raising the roof (a nursery phrase, which implied indescribable bellowing), and as naughty as could be, until missis allowed him to come after you.' 'oh! my little man, you must not do that. ask nicely, you know; always quietly, like a little gentleman.' 'but, oh! wapsie, your hands would be cold;' and he held the gloves to him against the glass. 'well, darling, thank you; you are a kind little man, and i'll be with you in a moment,' said the vicar, smiling very lovingly on his naughty little man. 'mr. larkin,' said he, turning very gratefully to the attorney 'you can lay this christian comfort to your kind heart, that you have made mine a hundredfold lighter since i entered this blessed room; indeed, you have lifted a mountain from it by the timely proffer of your invaluable assistance.' again the attorney waved off, with a benignant and humble smile, rather oppressive to see, all idea of obligation, and accompanied his grateful client to the glass door of his little porch, where fairy was already awaiting him with the gloves in his hand. 'i do believe,' said the good vicar, as he walked down what mr. larkin called 'the approach,' and looking up with irrepressible gratitude to the blue sky and the white clouds sailing over his head, 'if it be not presumption, i must believe that i have been directed hither--yes, darling, yes, my hands are warm' (this was addressed to little fairy, who was clamouring for information on the point, and clinging to his arm as he capered by his side). 'what immense relief;' and he murmured another thanksgiving, and then quite hilariously-'if little man would like to come with his wapsie, we'll take such a nice little walk together, and we'll go and see poor widow maddock; and we'll buy three muffins on our way home, for a feast this evening; and we'll look at the pictures in the old french "josephus;" and mamma and i will tell stories; and i have a halfpenny to buy apples for little fairy.' the attorney stood at his window with a shadow on his face, and his small eyes a little contracted and snakelike, following the slim figure of the threadbare vicar and his golden-haired, dancing little comrade; and then he mounted a chair, and took down successively four of his japanned boxes; two of them, in yellow letters, bore respectively the label '_brandon, no. 1_,' and '_no. 2_;' the other '_wylder, no. 1_,' and '_no. 2_.' he opened the 'wylder' box first, and glanced through a neat little 'statement of title,' prepared for counsel when draughting the deed of settlement for the marriage which was never to take place. 'the limitations, let me see, is not there something that one might be safe in advancing a trifle upon--eh?--h'm--yes.' and, with his lip in his finger and thumb, he conned over those remainders and reversions with a skilled and rapid eye. rachel lake was glad to see the slender and slightly-stooped figure of the vicar standing that morning--his bright little boy by the hand--in the wicket of the tiny flower-garden of redman's farm. she went out quickly to greet him. the sick man likes the sound of his kind doctor's step on the stairs; and, be his skill much or little, trusts in him, and will even joke a little asthmatic joke, and smile a feeble hectic smile about his ailments, when he is present. so they fell into discourse among the autumnal flowers and withered leaves; and, as the day was still and genial, they remained standing in the garden; and away went busy little 'fairy,' smiling and chatting with margery, to see the hens and chickens in the yard. the physician, after a while, finds the leading features of most cases pretty much alike. he knows when inflammation may be expected and fever will supervene; he is not surprised if the patient's mind wanders a little at times; expects the period of prostration and the return of appetite; and has his measures and his palliatives ready for each successive phase of sickness and recovery. in like manner, too, the good and skilful parson comes by experience to know the signs and stages of the moral ailments and recoveries which some of them know how so tenderly and so wisely to care for. they, too, have ready--having often proved their consolatory efficacy--their febrifuges and their tonics, culled from that tree of life whose 'leaves are for the healing of the nations.' poor rachel's hours were dark, and life had grown in some sort terrible, and death seemed now so real and near--aye, quite a fact--and, somehow, not unfriendly. but, oh! the immense futurity beyond, that could not be shirked, to which she was certainly going. death, and sleep so welcome! but, oh! that stupendous life everlasting, now first unveiled. she could only close her eyes and wring her hands. oh! for some friendly voice and hand to stay her through the valley of the shadow of death! they talked a long while--rachel chiefly a listener, and often quietly weeping; and, at last, a very kindly parting, and a promise from the simple and gentle vicar that he would often look in at redman's farm. she watched his retreating figure as he and little fairy walked down the tenebrose road to gylingden, following them with a dismal gaze, as a benighted and wounded wayfarer in that 'valley' would the pale lamp's disappearing that had for a few minutes, in a friendly hand, shone over his dreadful darkness. and when, in fitful reveries, fancy turned for a moment to an earthly past and future, all there was a blank--the past saddened, the future bleak. she did not know, or even suspect, that she had been living in an aerial castle, and worshipping an unreal image, until, on a sudden, all was revealed in that chance gleam of cruel lightning, the line in that letter, which she read so often, spelled over, and puzzled over so industriously, though it was clear enough. how noble, how good, how bright and true, was that hero of her unconscious romance. well, no one else suspected that incipient madness--that was something; and brave rachel would quite master it. happy she had discovered it so soon. besides, it was, even if chelford were at her feet, a wild impossibility now; and it was well, though despair were in the pang, that she had, at last, quite explained this to herself. as rachel stood in her little garden, on the spot where she had bidden farewell to the vicar, she was roused from her vague and dismal reverie by the sound of a carriage close at hand. she had just time to see that it was a brougham, and to recognise the brandon liveries, when it drew up at the garden wicket, and dorcas called to her from the open window. 'i'm come, rachel, expressly to take you with me; and i won't be denied.' 'you are very good, dorcas; thank you, dear, very much; but i am not very well, and a very dull companion to-day.' 'you think i am going to bore you with visits. no such thing, i assure you. i have taken a fancy to walk on the common, that is all--a kind of longing; and you must come with me; quite to ourselves, you and i. you won't refuse me, darling; i know you'll come.' well, rachel did go. and away they drove through the quiet town of gylingden together, and through the short street on the right, and so upon the still quieter common. this plain of green turf broke gradually into a heath; and an irregular screen of timber and underwood divided the common of gylingden in sylvan fashion from the moor. the wood passed, dorcas stopped the carriage, and the two young ladies descended. it was a sunny day, and the air still; and the open heath contrasted pleasantly with the sombre and confined scenery of redman's dell; and altogether rachel was glad now that she had made the effort, and come with her cousin. 'it was good of you to come, rachel,' said miss brandon; 'and you look tired; but you sha'n't speak more than you like; and i'll tell you all the news. chelford is just returned from brighton; he arrived this morning; and he and lady chelford will stay for the hunt ball. i made it a point. and he called at hockley, on his way back, to see sir julius. do you know him?' 'sir julius hockley? no--i've heard of him only.' 'well, they say he is wasting his property very fast; and i think him every way very nearly a fool; but chelford wanted to see him about mr. wylder. mark wylder, you know, of course, has turned up again in england. his letter to chelford, six weeks ago, was from boulogne; but his last was from brighton; and sir julius hockley witnessed--i think they call it--that letter of attorney which mark sent about a week since to mr. larkin; and chelford, who is most anxious to trace mark wylder, having to surrender--i think they call it--a "trust" is not it--or something--i really don't understand these things--to him, and not being able to find out his address, mr. larkin wrote to sir julius, whom chelford did not find at home, to ask him for a description of mark, to ascertain whether he had disguised himself; and sir julius wrote to chelford such an absurd description of poor mark, in doggrel rhyme--so like--his odd walk, his great whiskers, and everything. chelford does not like personalities, but he could not help laughing. are you ill, darling?' though she was walking on beside her companion, rachel looked on the point of fainting. 'my darling, you must sit down; you do look very ill. i forgot my promise about mark wylder. how stupid i have been! and perhaps i have distressed you.' 'no, dorcas, i am pretty well; but i have been ill, and i am a little tired; and, dorcas, i don't deny it, i _am_ amazed, you tell me such things. that letter of attorney, or whatever it is, must not be acted upon. it is incredible. it is all horrible wickedness. mark wylder's fate is dreadful, and stanley is the mover of all this. oh! dorcas, darling, i wish i could tell you everything. some day i may be--i am sick and terrified.' they had sat down, by this time, side by side, on the crisp bank. each lady looked down, the one in suffering, the other in thought. 'you are better, darling; are not you better?' said dorcas, laying her hand on rachel's, and looking on her with a melancholy gaze. 'yes, dear, better--very well'--answered rachel, looking up but without an answering glance at her cousin. 'you blame your brother, rachel, in this affair.' 'did i? well--maybe--yes, he _is_ to blame--the miserable man--whom i hate to think of, and yet am always thinking of--stanley well knows is not in a state to do it.' 'don't you think, rachel, remembering what i have confided to you, that you might be franker with me in this?' 'oh, dorcas! don't misunderstand me. if the secret were all my own--heaven knows, hateful as it is, how boldly i would risk all, and throw myself on your fidelity or your mercy--i know not how you might view it; but it is different, dorcas, at least for the present. you know me--you know how i hate secrets; but this _is_ not mine--only in part--that is, i dare not tell it--but may be soon free--and to us all, dear dorcas, a woful, _woful_, day will it be.' 'i made you a promise, rachel,' said her beautiful cousin, gravely, and a little coldly and sadly, too; 'i will never break it again--it was thoughtless. let us each try to forget that there is anything hidden between us.' 'if ever the time comes, dear dorcas, when i may tell it to you, i don't know whether you will bless or hate me for having kept it so well; at all events, i think you'll pity me, and at last understand your miserable cousin.' 'i said before, rachel, that i liked you. you are one of us, rachel. you are beautiful, wayward, and daring, and one way or another, misfortune always waylays us; and i have, i know it, calamity before me. death comes to other women in its accustomed way; but we have a double death. there is not a beautiful portrait in brandon that has not a sad and true story. early death of the frail and fair tenement of clay--but a still earlier death of happiness. come, rachel, shall we escape from the spell and the destiny into solitude? what do you think of my old plan of the valleys and lakes of wales? a pretty foreign tongue spoken round us, and no one but ourselves to commune with, and books, and music. it is not, radie, altogether jest. i sometimes yearn for it, as they say foreign girls do for convent life.' 'poor dorcas,' said rachel, very softly, fixing her eyes upon her with a look of inexpressible sadness and pity. 'rachel,' said dorcas, 'i am a changeable being--violent, self-willed. my fate may be quite a different one from that which _i_ suppose or _you_ imagine. i may yet have to retract _my_ secret.' 'oh! would it were so--would to heaven it were so.' 'suppose, rachel, that i had been deceiving you--perhaps deceiving myself--time will show.' there was a wild smile on beautiful dorcas's face as she said this, which faded soon into the proud serenity that was its usual character. 'oh! dorcas, if your good angel is near, listen to his warnings.' 'we have no good angels, my poor rachel: what modern necromancers, conversing with tables, call "mocking spirits," have always usurped their place with us: singing in our drowsy ears, like ariel--visiting our reveries like angels of light--being really our evil genii--ah, yes!' 'dorcas, dear,' said rachel, after both had been silent for a time, speaking suddenly, and with a look of pale and keen entreaty--'beware of stanley--oh! beware, beware. i think i am beginning to grow afraid of him myself.' dorcas was not given to sighing--but she sighed--gazing sadly across the wide, bleak moor, with her proud, apathetic look, which seemed passively to defy futurity--and then, for awhile, they were silent. she turned, and caressingly smoothed the golden tresses over rachel's frank, white forehead, and kissed them as she did so. 'you are better, darling; you are rested?' she said. 'yes, dear dorcas,' and she kissed the slender hand that smoothed her hair. each understood that the conversation on that theme was ended, and somehow each was relieved. chapter xxxiv. sir julius hockley's letter. jos. larkin mentioned in his conversation with the vicar, just related, that he had received a power of attorney from mark wylder. connected with this document there came to light a circumstance so very odd, that the reader must at once be apprised of it. this legal instrument was attested by two witnesses, and bore date about a week before the interview, just related, between the vicar and mr. larkin. here, then, was a fact established. mark wylder had returned from boulogne, for the power of attorney had been executed at brighton. who were the witnesses? one was thomas tupton, of the travellers' hotel, brighton. this thomas tupton was something of a sporting celebrity, and a likely man enough to be of mark's acquaintance. the other witness was sir julius hockley, of hockley, an unexceptionable evidence, though a good deal on the turf. now our friend jos. larkin had something of the red indian's faculty for tracking his game, by hardly perceptible signs and tokens, through the wilderness; and this mystery of mark wylder's flight and seclusion was the present object of his keen and patient pursuit. on receipt of the 'instrument,' therefore, he wrote by return of post, 'presenting his respectful compliments to sir julius hockley, and deeply regretting that, as solicitor of the wylder family, and the _gentleman_ (_sic_) empowered to act under the letter of attorney, it was imperative upon him to trouble him (sir julius h.) with a few interrogatories, which he trusted he would have no difficulty in answering.' the first was, whether he had been acquainted with mr. mark wylder's personal appearance before seeing him sign, so as to be able to identify him. the second was, whether he (mr. m.w.) was accompanied, at the time of executing the instrument, by any friend; and if so, what were the name and address of such friend. and the third was, whether he could communicate any information whatsoever respecting mr. m.w.'s present place of abode? the same queries were put in a somewhat haughty and peremptory way to the sporting hotel-keeper, who answered that mr. mark wylder had been staying for a week at his house, about five months ago; and that he had seen him twice--once 'backing' jonathan, when he beat the great american billiard-player; and another time, when he lent him his copy of 'bell's life,' in the coffee-room; and thus he was enabled to identify him. for the rest he could say nothing. sir julius's reply was of the hoity-toity and rollicking sort, bordering in parts very nearly on nonsense, and generally impertinent. it reached mr. larkin as he sat at breakfast with his friend, stanley lake. 'pray read your letters, and don't mind me, i entreat. perhaps you will allow me to look at the "times;" and i'll trouble you for the sardines.' the postmark 'hockley,' stared the lawyer in the face; and, longing to break the seal, he availed himself of the captain's permission. so lake opened the 'times;' and, as he studied its columns, i think he stole a glance or two over its margin at the attorney, now deep in the letter of sir julius hockley. he (sir j.h.) 'presented his respects to mr. lark_ens_, or lark_ins_, or lark_me_, or lark_us_--sir j.h. is not able to read _which_ or _what_; but he is happy to observe, at all events, that, end how he may, the gentleman begins with a "lark!" which sir j.h. always does, when he can. not being able to discover his terminal syllable, he will take the liberty of styling him by his sprightly beginning, and calling him shortly "lark." as sir j. never objected to a lark, the gentleman so designated introduces himself with a strong prejudice, in sir j.'s mind, in his favour--so much so, that by way of a lark, sir j. will answer lark's questions, which are not, he thinks, very impertinent. the wildest of all lark's questions refers to wylder's place of abode, which sir j. was never wild enough to think of asking after, and does not know; and so little was he acquainted with the gentleman, that he forgot he was an evangelist doing good under the style and title of mark. lark may, therefore, tell mark, if he sees him, or his friends--matthew, luke, and john--that sir julius saw mark only on two successive days, at the cricket-match, played between paul's eleven--the coincidence is remarkable--and the ishmaelites (these, i am bound to observe, were literally the designations of the opposing sides); and that he had the honour of being presented to mark--saint or sinner, as he may be--on the ground, by his, sir j.h.'s, friend, captain stanley lake, of the guards.' here was an astounding fact. stanley lake had been in mark wylder's company only ten days ago, when that great match was played at brighton! what a deep gentleman was that stanley lake, who sat at the other end of the table with the 'times' before him. what a varnished rascal--what a matchless liar! he had returned to gylingden, direct, in all likelihood, from his conferences with mark wylder, to tell all concerned that it was vain endeavouring to trace him, and still offering his disinterested services in the pursuit. no matter! we must take things coolly and cautiously. all this chicanery will yet break down, and the conspiracy, be it what it may, will be thoroughly exposed. mystery is the shadow of guilt; and, most assuredly, thought mr. larkin, there is some _infernal_ secret, _well worth knowing_, at the bottom of all this. you little think i have you here! and he slid sir julius hockley's piece of rubbishy banter into his waistcoat pocket, and then opened and glanced at half-a-dozen other letters, in a cool, quick official way, endorsing a little note on the back of each with his gold, patent pencil. all mr. jos. larkin's 'properties' were handsome and imposing, and he never played with children without producing his gold repeater, and making it strike, and exhibiting its wonders for their amusement, and the edification of the adults, whose presence, of course, he forgot. 'paul's eleven have challenged the gipsies,' said lake, languidly lifting his eyes from the paper. 'by-the-bye, are you anything of a cricketer? and they are to play at hockley, sir julius hockley's ground. you know sir julius, don't you?' 'very slightly. i may say i _have_ that honour, but we have never been thrown together; a mere--a--the slightest thing in the world.' 'not schoolfellows----you are not an eton man, eh?' said lake. 'oh no! my dear father' (the organist) 'would not send a boy of his to what he called an idle school. but my acquaintance with sir julius was a trifling matter. hockley is a very pretty place, is not it?' 'a sweet place. a great match was played between those fellows at brighton: paul's eleven beat fifteen of the ishmaelites, about a fortnight since; but they have no chance with the gipsies. it will be quite a hollow thing--a one-innings affair.' 'have you ever seen paul's eleven play?' asked the lawyer, carelessly taking up the newspaper which lake had laid down. 'i saw them play that match at brighton, i mentioned just now, a few days ago.' 'ah! did you?' 'did not you _know_ i was there?' said lake, in rather a changed tone. larkin looked up, and lake laughed in his face quietly the most impertinent laugh he had ever seen or heard, with his yellow eyes fixed on the lawyer's pink little optics. 'i was there, and hockley was there, and mark wylder was there--was not he?' and lake stared and laughed, and the attorney stared; and lake added, 'what a d--d cunning fellow you are; ha, ha, ha!' larkin was not easily put out, but he _was_ disconcerted now; and his cheeks and forehead grew suddenly pink, and he coughed a little, and tried to throw a look of mild surprise into his face. 'why, you have this moment had a letter from hockley. don't you think i knew his hand and the post-mark, and your look said quite plainly, "here's news of my friend stanley lake and mark wylder." i had an uncle in the foreign office, and they said he would have been quite a distinguished diplomatist if he had lived; and i was said to have a good deal of his talent; and i really think i have brought my little evidences very prettily together, and jumped to a right conclusion--eh?' a flicker of that sinister shadow i have sometimes mentioned crossed larkin's face, and contracted his eyes, as he said, a little sternly-'i have nothing on earth to conceal, sir; i never had. all _my_ conduct has been as open as the light; there's not a letter, sir, i ever write or receive, that might not, so far as _i_ am concerned, with my good will, lie open on that table for every visitor that comes in to read;--open as the day, sir:' and the attorney waved his hand grandly. 'hear, hear, hear,' said lake, languidly, and tapping a little applause on the table, while he watched the solicitor's rhetoric with his sly, disconcerting smile. 'it was but conscientious, captain lake, that i should make particular enquiry respecting the genuineness of a legal instrument conferring such very considerable powers. how, on earth, sir, could i have the slightest suspicion that _you_ had seen my client, mr. wylder, considering the tenor of your letters and conversation? and i venture to say, captain lake, that lord chelford will be just as much surprised as i, when he hears it.' jos. larkin, esq., delivered this peroration from a moral elevation, all the loftier that he had a peer of the realm on his side. but peers did not in the least overawe stanley lake, who had been all his days familiar with those idols; and the moral altitudes of the attorney amused him vastly. 'but he'll _not_ hear it; _i_ won't tell him, and you sha'n't; because i don't think it would be prudent of us--do you?--to quarrel with mark wylder, and he does not wish our meeting known. it is nothing on earth to me; on the contrary, it rather places me in an awkward position keeping other people's secrets.' the attorney made one of his slight, gentlemanlike bows, and threw back his head with a lofty and reserved look. 'i don't know, captain lake, that i would be quite justified in withholding the substance of sir julius hockley's letter from lord chelford, consulted, as i have had the honour to be, by that nobleman. i shall, however, turn it over in my mind.' 'don't the least mind me. in fact, i would rather tell it than not. and i can explain to chelford why _i_ could not mention the circumstance. wylder, in fact, tied me down by a promise, and he'll be devilish angry with you; but, it seems, you don't very much mind that.' he knew that mr. larkin _did_ very much mind it; and the quick glance of the attorney could read nothing whatever in the captain's pallid face and downcast eyes, smiling on the points of his varnished boots. 'of course, you know, captain lake, in alluding to the possibility of my making any communication to lord chelford, i limit myself strictly to the letter of sir julius hockley, and do not, by any means, my dear captain lake, include the conversation which has just occurred, and the communication which you have volunteered to make me.' 'oh! quite so,' said the captain, looking up suddenly, as was his way, with a momentary glare, like a man newly-waked from a narcotic doze. chapter xxxv. the hunt ball. by this time your humble servant, the chronicler of these gylingden annals, had taken his leave of magnificent old brandon, and of its strangely interesting young mistress and was carrying away with him, as he flew along the london rails, the broken imagery of that grand and shivered dream. he was destined, however, before very long, to revisit these scenes; and in the meantime heard, in rude outline, the tenor of what was happening--the minute incidents and colouring of which were afterwards faithfully communicated. i can, therefore, without break or blur, continue my description; and to say truth, at this distance of time, i have some difficulty--so well acquainted was i with the actors and the scenery--in determining, without consulting my diary, what portions of the narrative i relate from hearsay, and what as a spectator. but that i am so far from understanding myself, i should often be amazed at the sayings and doings of other people. as it is, i behold in myself an abyss, i gaze down and listen, and discover neither light nor harmony, but thunderings and lightnings, and voices and laughter, and a medley that dismays me. there rage the elements which god only can control. forgive us our trespasses; lead us not into temptation; deliver us from the evil one! how helpless and appalled we shut our eyes over that awful chasm. i have long ceased, then, to wonder why any living soul does anything that is incongruous and unanticipated. and therefore i cannot say how miss brandon persuaded her handsome cousin rachel to go with her party, under the wing of old lady chelford, to the hunt ball of gylingden. and knowing now all that then hung heavy at the heart of the fair tenant of redman's farm, i should, indeed, wonder inexpressibly, were it not, as i have just said, that i have long ceased to wonder at any vagaries of myself or my fellow creatures. the hunt ball is the great annual event of gylingden. the critical process of 'coming out' is here consummated by the young ladies of that town and vicinage. it is looked back upon for one-half of the year, and forward to for the other. people date by it. the battle of inkerman was fought immediately before the hunt ball. it was so many weeks after the hunt ball that the czar nicholas died. the carnival of venice was nothing like so grand an event. its solemn and universal importance in gylingden and the country round, gave me, i fancied, some notion of what the feast of unleavened bread must have been to the hebrews and jerusalem. the connubial capabilities of gylingden are positively wretched. when i knew it, there were but three single men, according even to the modest measure of gylingden housekeeping, capable of supporting wives, and these were difficult to please, set a high price on themselves--looked the country round at long ranges, and were only wistfully and meekly glanced after by the frugal vestals of gylingden, as they strutted round the corners, or smoked the pipe of apathy at the reading-room windows. old major jackson kept the young ladies in practice between whiles, with his barren gallantries and graces, and was, just so far, better than nothing. but, as it had been for years well ascertained that he either could not or would not afford to marry, and that his love passages, like the passages in gothic piles that 'lead to nothing,' were not designed to terminate advantageously, he had long ceased to excite, even in that desolate region, the smallest interest. think, then, what it was, when mr. pummice, of copal and pummice, the splendid house-painters at dollington, arrived with his artists and charwomen to give the assembly room its annual touching-up and bedizenment, preparatory to the hunt ball. the gylingden young ladies used to peep in, and from the lobby observe the wenches dry-rubbing and waxing the floor, and the great mr. pummice, with his myrmidons, in aprons and paper caps, retouching the gilding. it was a tremendous crisis for honest mrs. page, the confectioner, over the way, who, in legal phrase, had 'the carriage' of the supper and refreshments, though largely assisted by mr. battersby, of dollington. during the few days' agony of preparation that immediately preceded this notable orgie, the good lady's countenance bespoke the magnitude of her cares. though the weather was usually cold, i don't think she ever was cool during that period--i am sure she never slept--i don't think she ate--and i am afraid her religious exercises were neglected. equally distracting, emaciating, and godless, was the condition to which the mere advent of this festival reduced worthy miss williams, the dressmaker, who had more white muslin and young ladies on her hands than she and her choir of needle-women knew what to do with. during this tremendous period miss williams hardly resembled herself--her eyes dilated, her lips were pale, and her brow corrugated with deep and inflexible lines of fear and perplexity. she lived on bad tea--sat up all night--and every now and then burst into helpless floods of tears. but somehow, generally things came pretty right in the end. one way or another, the gay belles and elderly spinsters, and fat village chaperones, were invested in suitable costume by the appointed hour, and in a few weeks miss williams' mind recovered its wonted tone, and her countenance its natural expression. the great night had now arrived. gylingden was quite in an uproar. rural families of eminence came in. some in old-fashioned coaches; others, the wealthier, more in london style. the stables of the 'brandon arms,' of the 'george inn,' of the 'silver lion,' even of the 'white house,' though a good way off, and generally every vacant standing for horses in or about the town were crowded; and the places of entertainment we have named, and minor houses of refection, were vocal with the talk of flunkeys, patrician with powdered heads, and splendent in variegated liveries. the front of the town hall resounded with the ring of horse-hoofs, the crack of whips, the bawling of coachmen, the clank of carriage steps and clang of coach doors. a promiscuous mob of the plebs and profanum vulgus of gylingden beset the door, to see the ladies--the slim and the young in white muslins and artificial flowers, and their stout guardian angels, of maturer years, in satins and velvets, and jewels--some real, and some, just as good, of paste. in the cloak-room such a fuss, unfurling of fans, and last looks and hurried adjustments. when the crutchleighs, of clay manor, a good, old, formal family, were mounting the stairs in solemn procession--they were always among the early arrivals--they heard a piano and a tenor performing in the supper-room. now, old lady chelford chose to patronise mr. page, the dollington professor, and partly, i fancy, to show that she could turn things topsy-turvy in this town of gylingden, had made a point, with the rulers of the feast, that her client should sing half-a-dozen songs in the supper-room before dancing commenced. mrs. crutchleigh stayed her step upon the stairs abruptly, and turned, with a look of fierce surprise upon her lean, white-headed lord, arresting thereby the upward march of corfe crutchleigh, esq., the hope of his house, who was pulling on his gloves, with his eldest spinster sister on his lank arm. 'there appears to be a concert going on; we came here to a ball. had you not better enquire, mr. crutchleigh; it would seem we have made a mistake?' mrs. crutchleigh was sensitive about the dignity of the family of clay manor; and her cheeks flushed above the rouge, and her eyes flashed severely. 'that's singing--particularly _loud singing_. either we have mistaken the night, or somebody has taken upon him to upset all the arrangements. you'll be good enough to enquire whether there will be dancing to-night; i and anastasia will remain in the cloak-room; and we'll all leave if you please, mr. crutchleigh, if this goes on.' the fact is, mrs. crutchleigh had got an inkling of this performance, and had affected to believe it impossible; and, detesting old lady chelford for sundry slights and small impertinences, and envying brandon and its belongings, was resolved not to be put down by presumption in that quarter. old lady chelford sat in an arm-chair in the supper-room, where a considerable audience was collected. she had a splendid shawl or two about her, and a certain air of demi-toilette, which gave the gylingden people to understand that her ladyship did not look on this gala in the light of a real ball, but only as a sort of rustic imitation--curious, possibly amusing, and, like other rural sports, deserving of encouragement, for the sake of the people who made innocent holiday there. mr. page, the performer, was a plump young man, with black whiskers, and his hair in oily ringlets, such as may be seen in the model wigs presented on smiling, waxen dandies, in mr. rose's front window at dollington. he bowed and smiled in the most unexceptionable of white chokers and the dapperest of dress coats, and drew off the whitest imaginable pair of kid gloves, when he sat down to the piano, subsiding in a sort of bow upon the music-stool, and striking those few, brisk and noisy chords with which such artists proclaim silence and reassure themselves. stanley lake, that eminent london swell, had attached himself as gentleman-in-waiting to lady chelford's household, and was perpetually gliding with little messages between her ladyship and the dapper vocalist of dollington, who varied his programme and submitted to an occasional _encore_ on the private order thus communicated. 'i told you chelford would be here,' said miss brandon to rachel, in a low tone, glancing at the young peer. 'i thought he had returned to brighton. i fancied he might be--you know the dulhamptons are at brighton; and lady constance, of course, has a claim on his time and thoughts.' rachel smiled as she spoke, and was adjusting her bouquet, as dorcas made answer-'lady constance, my dear radie! that, you know, was never more than a mere whisper; it was only lady chelford and the marchioness who talked it over--they would have liked it very well. but chelford won't be managed or scolded into anything of the kind; and will choose, i think, for himself, and i fancy not altogether according to their ideas, when the time comes. and i assure you, dear radie, there is not the least truth in that story about lady constance.' why should dorcas be so earnest to convince her handsome cousin that there was nothing in this rumour? rachel made no remark, and there was a little silence. 'i'm so glad i succeeded in bringing you here,' said dorcas; 'chelford made such a point of it; and he thinks you are losing your spirits among the great trees and shadows of redman's dell; and he made it quite a little cousinly duty that i should succeed.' at this moment mr. page interposed with the energetic prelude of his concluding ditty. it was one of tom moore's melodies. rachel leaned back, and seemed to enjoy it very much. but when it was over, i think she would have found it difficult to say what the song was about. mr. page had now completed his programme, and warned by the disrespectful violins from the gallery of the ball-room, whence a considerable caterwauling was already announcing the approach of the dance, he made his farewell flourish, and bow and, smiling, withdrew. chapter xxxvi. the ball room. rachel lake, standing by the piano, turned over the leaves of the volume of 'moore's melodies' from which the artist in black whiskers and white waistcoat had just entertained his noble patroness and his audience. everyone has experienced, i suppose for a few wonderful moments, now and then, a glow of seemingly causeless happiness, in which the earth and its people are glorified--peace and sunlight rest on everything--the spirit of music and love is in the air, and the heart itself sings for joy. in the light of this celestial illusion she stood now by the piano, turning over the pages of poor tom moore, as i have said, when a low pleasant voice near her said-'i was so glad to see that dorcas had prevailed, and that you were here. we both agreed that you are too much a recluse in that der frieschutz glen--at least, for your friends' pleasure; and owe it to us all to appear now and then in this upper world.' 'excelsior, miss lake,' interposed dapper little mr. buttle, with a smirk; 'i think this little bit of music--it was got up, you know, by that old quiz, dowager lady chelford--was really not so bad--a rather good idea, after all, miss lake. don't you?' poor mr. buttle did not know lord chelford, and thus shooting his 'arrow o'er the house,' he 'hurt his brother.' chelford turned away, and bowed and smiled to one or two friends at the other side of the room. 'yes, the music was very pretty, and some of the songs were quite charmingly sung. i agree with you--we are very much obliged to lady chelford--that is her son, lord chelford.' 'oh!' said buttle, whose smirk vanished on the instant in a very red and dismal vacancy, 'i--i'm afraid he'll think me shockingly rude.' and in a minute more buttle was gone. miss lake again looked down upon the page, and as she did so, lord chelford turned and said-'you are a worshipper of tom moore, miss lake?' 'an admirer, perhaps--certainly no worshipper. yet, i can't say. perhaps i do worship; but if so, it is a worship strangely mixed with contempt.' and she laughed a little. 'a kind of adoring which i fancy belongs properly to the lords of creation, and which we of the weaker sex have no right to practise.' 'miss lake is pleased to be ironical to-night,' he said, with a smile. 'am i? i dare say. all women are. irony is the weapon of cowardice, and cowardice the vice of weakness. yet i think i was naturally bold and true. i hate cowardice and deception even in myself--i hate perfidy--i hate _fraud_.' she tapped a little emphasis upon the floor with her white satin shoe, and her eyes flashed with a dark and angry meaning among the crowd at the other end of the room, as if for a second or two following an object to whom in some way the statement applied. the strange bitterness of her tone, though it was low enough, and something wild, suffering, and revengeful in her look, though but momentary, and hardly definable, did not escape lord chelford, and he followed unconsciously the direction of her glance; but there was nothing there to guide him to a conclusion, and the good people who formed that polite and animated mob were in his eyes, one and all, quite below the level of tragedy, or even of melodrama. 'and yet, miss lake, we are all more or less cowards or deceivers--at least, to the extent of suppression. who would speak the whole truth, or like to hear it?--not i, i know.' 'nor i,' she said, quietly. 'and i do think, if people had no reserves, they would be very uninteresting,' he added. she was looking, with a strange light upon her face--a smile, perhaps--upon the open pages of 'moore's melodies' as he spoke. 'i like a little puzzle and mystery--they surround our future and our past; and the present would be insipid, i think, without them. now, i can't tell, miss lake, as you look on tom moore there, and i try to read your smile, whether you happen at this particular moment to adore or despise him.' 'moore's is a daring morality--what do you think, for instance, of these lines?' she said, touching the verse with her bouquet. lord chelford read- i ask not, i know not, if guilt's in thy heart i but know that i love thee, whatever thou art.' he laughed. 'very passionate, but hardly respectable. i once knew,' he continued a little more gravely, 'a marriage made upon that principle, and not very audaciously either, which turned out very unhappily.' 'so i should conjecture,' she said, rising from her chair, rather drearily and abstractedly, 'and there is good old lady sarah. i must go and ask her how she does.' she paused for a moment, holding her bouquet drooping towards the floor, and looking with her clouded eyes down--down--through it; and then she looked up suddenly, with an odd, fierce smile, and she said bitterly enough--'and yet, if i were a man, and capable of loving, i could love no other way; because i suppose love to be a madness, and the sublimest and the most despicable of states. and i admire moore for that flash of the fallen angelic--it is the sentiment of a hero and a madman--too base and too _noble_ for this cool, wise world.' she was already moving away, nebulous in hovering folds of snowy muslin. and she floated down like a cloud upon the ottoman, beside old lady sarah, and smiled and leaned towards her, and talked in her sweet, low, distinct accents. and lord chelford followed her, with a sad sort of smile, admiring her greatly. of course, _non cuivis contigit_, it was not every man's privilege to dance with the splendid lady of brandon. it was only the demigods who ventured within the circle. her kinsman, lord chelford, did so; and now handsome sir harry bracton, six feet high, so broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, his fine but not very wise face irradiated with indefatigable smiles, stood and conversed with her, with that jaunty swagger of his--his weight now on this side, now on that, squaring his elbows like a crack whip with four-in-hand, and wagging his perfumed tresses--boisterous, rollicking, beaming with immeasurable self-complacency. stanley lake left old lady chelford's side, and glided to that of dorcas brandon. 'will you dance this set--are you engaged, miss brandon?' he said, in low eager tones. 'yes, to both questions,' answered she, with the faintest gleam of the conventional smile, and looking now gravely again at her bouquet. 'well, the next possibly, i hope?' 'i never do that,' said the apathetic beauty, serenely. stanley looked as if he did not quite understand, and there was a little silence. 'i mean, i never engage myself beyond one dance. i hope you do not think it rude--but i never do.' 'miss brandon can make what laws she pleases for all here, and for some of us everywhere,' he replied, with a mortified smile and a bow. at that moment sir harry bracton arrived to claim her, and miss kybes--elderly and sentimental, and in no great request--timidly said, in a gobbling, confidential whisper-'what a handsome couple they do make! does not it quite realise your conception, captain lake, of young lochinvar, you know, and his fair helen- so stately his form and so lovely her face-you remember- 'that never a hall such a galliard did grace. is not it?' 'so it is, really; it did not strike me. and that "one cup of wine"--you recollect--which the hero drank; and, i dare say it made young lochinvar a little noisy and swaggering, when he proposed "treading the measure"--is not that the phrase? yes, really; it is a very pretty poetical parallel.' and miss kybes was pleased to think that captain lake would be sure to report her elegant little compliment in the proper quarters, and that her incense had not missed fire. when miss brandon returned, lake was unfortunately on duty beside old lady chelford, whom it was important to propitiate, and who was in the middle of a story--an extraordinary favour from her ladyship; and he had the vexation to see lord chelford palpably engaging miss brandon for the next dance. when she returned, she was a little tired, and doubtful whether she would dance any more--certainly not the next dance. so he resolved to lie in wait, and anticipate any new suitor who might appear. his eyes, however, happened to wander, in an unlucky moment, to old lady chelford, who instantaneously signalled to him with her fan. '-the woman,' mentally exclaimed lake, telegraphing, at the same time, with a bow and a smile of deferential alacrity, and making his way through the crowd as deftly as he could; what a ---fool i was to go near her.' so the captain had to assist at the dowager lady's supper; and not only so, but in some sort at her digestion also, which she chose should take place for some ten minutes in the chair that she occupied at the supper table. when he escaped, miss brandon _was_ engaged once more--and to sir harry bracton, for a second time. and moreover, when he again essayed his suit, the young lady had peremptorily made up her mind to dance no more that night. 'how _can_ dorcas endure that man,' thought rachel, as she saw sir harry lead her to her seat, after a second dance. 'handsome, but so noisy and foolish, and wicked; and is not he vulgar, too?' but dorcas was not demonstrative. her likings and dislikings were always more or less enigmatical. still rachel lake fancied that she detected signs, not only of tolerance, but of positive liking, in her haughty cousin's demeanour, and wondered, after all, whether dorcas was beginning to like sir harry bracton. dorcas had always puzzled her--not, indeed, so much latterly--but this night the mystery began to darken once more. twice, for a moment, their eyes met; but only for a moment. rachel knew that a tragedy might be--at that instant, and under the influence of that very spectacle--gathering its thunders silently in another part of the room, where she saw stanley's pale, peculiar face; and although he appeared in nowise occupied by what was passing between dorcas brandon and sir harry, she perfectly well knew that nothing of it escaped him. the sight of that pale face was a cold pang at her heart--a face prophetic of evil, at sight of which the dark curtain which hid futurity seemed to sway and tremble, as if a hand from behind was on the point of drawing it. rachel sighed profoundly, and her eyes looked sadly through her bouquet on the floor. 'i'm very glad you came, radie,' said a sweet voice, which somehow made her shiver, close to her ear. 'this kind of thing will do you good; and you really wanted a little fillip. shall i take you to the supper-room?' 'no, stanley, thank you; i prefer remaining.' 'have you observed how dorcas has treated me this evening?' 'no, stanley; nothing unusual, is there?' answered rachel, glancing uneasily round, lest they should be overheard. 'well, i think she has been more than usually repulsive--quite marked; i almost fancy these gylingden people, dull as they are, must observe it. i have a notion i sha'n't trouble gylingden or her after to-morrow.' rachel glanced quickly at him. he was deadly pale, with his faint unpleasant smile; and he returned her glance for a second wildly, and then dropped his eyes to the ground. 'i told you,' he resumed again, after a short pause, and commencing with a gentle laugh, 'that she liked that fellow, bracton.' 'you did say something, i think, of that, some time since,' said rachel; 'but really----' 'but really, radie, dear, you can't need any confirmation more than this evening affords. we both know dorcas very well; she is not like other girls. she does not encourage fellows as they do; but if she did not like bracton very well indeed, she would send him about his business. she has danced with him twice, on the contrary, and has suffered his agreeable conversation all the evening; and that from dorcas brandon means, you know, everything.' 'i don't know that it means anything. i don't see why it should; but i am very certain,' said rachel, who, in the midst of this crowded, gossiping ball-room, was talking much more freely to stanley, and also, strange to say, in more sisterly fashion, than she would have done in the little parlour of redman's farm; 'i am very certain, stanley, that if this supposed preference leads you to abandon your wild pursuit of dorcas, it will prevent more ruin than, perhaps, either of us anticipates; and, stanley,' she added in a whisper, looking full in his eyes, which were raised for a moment to hers, 'it is hardly credible that you dare still to persist in so desperate and cruel a project.' 'thank you,' said stanley quietly, but the yellow lights glared fiercely from their sockets, and were then lowered instantly to the floor. 'she has been very rude to me to-night; and you have not been, or tried to be, of any earthly use to me; and i will take a decided course. i perfectly know what i'm about. you don't seem to be dancing. _i_ have not either; we have both got something more serious, i fancy, to think of.' and stanley lake glided slowly away, and was lost in the crowd. he went into the supper-room, and had a glass of seltzer water and sherry. he loitered at the table. his ruminations were dreary, i fancy, and his temper by no means pleasant; and it needed a good deal of that artificial command of countenance which he cultivated, to prevent his betraying something of the latter, when sir harry bracton, talking loud and volubly as usual, swaggered into the supper-room, with dorcas brandon on his arm. chapter xxxvii. the supper-room. it was rather trying, in this state of things, to receive from the triumphant baronet, with only a parenthetical 'dear lake, i beg your pardon,' a rough knock on the elbow of the hand that held his glass, and to be then summarily hustled out of his place. it was no mitigation of the rudeness, in lake's estimate, that sir harry was so engrossed and elated as to seem hardly conscious of any existence but miss brandon's and his own. lake was subject to transient paroxysms of exasperation; but even in these be knew how to command himself pretty well before witnesses. his smile grew a little stranger, and his face a degree whiter, as he set down his glass, quietly glided a little away, and brushed off with his handkerchief the aspersion which his coat had suffered. in a few minutes more miss brandon had left the supper-room leaning upon lord chelford's arm; and sir harry remained, with a glass of pink champagne, such as young fellows drink with a faith and comfort so wonderful, at balls and _fãªtes champãªtres_. sir harry bracton was already 'chaffing a bit,' as he expressed it, with the young lady who assisted in dispensing the good things across the supper-table, and was just calling up her blushes by a pretty parallel between her eyes and the sparkling quality of his glass, and telling her her mamma must have been sweetly pretty. now, sir harry's rudeness to lake had not been, i am afraid, altogether accidental. the baronet was sudden and vehement in his affairs of the heart; but curable on short absences, and easily transferable. he had been vehemently enamoured of the heiress of brandon a year ago and more; but during an absence mark wylder's suit grew up and prospered, and sir harry bracton acquiesced; and, to say truth, the matter troubled his manly breast but little. he had hardly expected to see her here in this rollicking, rustic gathering. she was, he thought, even more lovely than he remembered her. beauty sometimes seen again does excel our recollections of it. wylder had gone off the scene, as mr. carlyle says, into infinite space. who could tell exactly the cause of his dismissal, and why the young lady had asserted her capricious resolve to be free? there were pleasant theories adaptable to the circumstances; and sir harry cherished an agreeable opinion of himself; and so, all things favouring; the old flame blazed up wildly, and the young gentleman was more in love then, and for some weeks after the ball, than perhaps he had ever been before. now some men--and sir harry was of them--are churlish and ferocious over their loves, as certain brutes are over their victuals. in one of these tender paroxysms, when in the presence of his dulcinea, the young baronet was always hot, short, and saucy with his own sex; and when his jealousy was ever so little touched, positively impertinent. he perceived what other people did not, that miss brandon's eye once on that evening rested for a moment on captain lake with a peculiar expression of interest. this look was but once and momentary; but the young gentleman resented it, and brooded over it, every now and then, when the pale face of the captain crossed his eye; and two or three times, when the beautiful young lady's attention seemed unaccountably to wander from his agreeable conversation, he thought he detected her haughty eye moving in the same direction. so he looked that way too; and although he could see nothing noticeable in stanley's demeanour, he could have felt it in his heart to box his ears. therefore, i don't think he was quite so careful as he might have been to spare lake that jolt upon the elbow, which coming from a rival in a moment of public triumph was not altogether easy to bear like a christian. 'some grapes, please,' said lake, to the young lady behind the table. 'oh, _uncle_! is that you, lake?--beg pardon; but you _are_ so like my poor dear uncle, langton. i wish you'd let me adopt you for an uncle. he was such a pretty fellow, with his fat white cheeks and long nose, and he looked half asleep. do, pray, uncle lake; i should like it so,' and the baronet, who was, i am afraid, what some people would term, perhaps, vulgar, winked over his glass at the blooming confectioner, who turned away and tittered over her shoulder at the handsome baronet's charming banter. the girl having turned away to titter, forgot lake's grapes; so he helped himself, and leaning against the table, looked superciliously upon sir harry, who was not to be deterred by the drowsy gaze of contempt with which the captain retorted his angry 'chaff.' 'poor uncle died of love, or chicken pox, or something, at forty. you're not ailing, nunkie, are you? you do look wofully sick though; too bad to lose a second uncle at the same early age. you're near forty, eh, nunkie? and such a pretty fellow! you'll take care of me in your will, nunkie, won't you? come, what will you leave me; not much tin, i'm afraid.' 'no, not much tin,' answered lake; 'but i'll leave you what you want more, my sense and decency, with a request that you will use them for my sake.' 'you're a devilish witty fellow, lake; take care your wit don't get you into trouble,' said the baronet, chuckling and growing angrier, for he saw the hebe laughing; and not being a ready man, though given to banter, he sometimes descended to menace in his jocularity. 'i was just thinking your dulness might do the same for you,' drawled lake. 'when do you mean to pay dawlings that bet on the derby?' demanded sir harry, his face very red, and only the ghost of his smile grinning there. 'i think you'd better; of course it is quite easy.' the baronet was smiling his best, with a very red face, and that unpleasant uncertainty in his contracted eyes which accompanies suppressed rage. 'as easy as that,' said lake, chucking a little bunch of grapes full into sir harry bracton's handsome face. lake recoiled a step; his face blanched as white as the cloth; his left arm lifted, and his right hand grasping the haft of a table-knife. there was just a second in which the athletic baronet stood, as it were breathless and incredulous, and then his herculean fist whirled in the air with a most unseemly oath: the girl screamed, and a crash of glass and crockery, whisked away by their coats, resounded on the ground. a chair between lake and sir harry impeded the baronet's stride, and his uplifted arm was caught by a gentleman in moustache, who held so fast that there was no chance of shaking it loose. 'd-it, bracton; d-you, what the devil--don't be a--fool' and other soothing expressions escaped this peacemaker, as he clung fast to the young baronet's arm. 'the people--hang it!--you'll have all the people about you. quiet--quiet--can't you, i say. settle it quietly. here i am.' 'well, let me go; that will do,' said he, glowering furiously at lake, who confronted him, in the same attitude, a couple of yards away. 'you'll hear,' and he turned away. 'i am at the "brandon arms" till to-morrow,' said lake, with white lips, very quietly, to the gentleman in moustaches, who bowed slightly, and walked out of the room with sir harry. lake poured out some sherry in a tumbler, and drank it off. he was a little bit stunned, i think, in his new situation. except for the waiters, and the actors in it, it so happened that the supper-room was empty during this sudden fracas. lake stared at the frightened girl, in his fierce abstraction. then, with his wild gaze, he followed the line of his adversary's retreat, and shook his ears slightly, like a man at whose hair a wasp has buzzed. 'thank you,' said he to the maid, suddenly recollecting himself, with a sort of smile; 'that will do. what confounded nonsense! he'll be quite cool again in five minutes. never mind.' and lake pulled on his white glove, glancing down the file of silent waiters-some looking frightened, and some reserved--in white ties and waistcoats, and he glided out of the room--his mind somewhere else--like a somnambulist. it was not perfectly clear to the gentlemen and ladies in charge of the ices, chickens, and champagne, between which of the three swells who had just left the room the quarrel was--it had come so suddenly, and was over so quickly, like a clap of thunder. some had not seen any, and others only a bit of it, being busy with plates and ice-tubs; and the few who had seen it all did not clearly comprehend it--only it was certain that the row had originated in jealousy about miss jones, the pretty apprentice, who was judiciously withdrawn forthwith by mrs. page, the properest of confectioners. chapter xxxviii. after the ball. lake glided from the feast with a sense of a tremendous liability upon him. there was no retreat. the morning--yes, the morning--what then? should he live to see the evening? sir harry bracton was the crack shot of swivel's gallery. he could hit a walking-cane at fifteen yards, at the word. there he was, talking to old lady chelford. very well; and there was that fellow with the twisted moustache--plainly an officer and a gentleman--twisting the end of one of them, and thinking profoundly, with his back to the wall, evidently considering his coming diplomacy with lake's 'friend.' aye, by-the-bye, and lake's eye wandered in bewilderment among village dons and elderly country gentlemen, in search of that inestimable treasure. these thoughts went whisking and whirling round in captain lake's brain, to the roar and clatter of the joinville polka, to which fifty pair of dancing feet were hopping and skimming over the floor. 'monstrous hot, sir--hey? ha, ha, by jove!' said major jackson, who had just returned from the supper-room, where he had heard several narratives of the occurrence. 'don't think i was so hot since the ball at government house, by jove, sir, in 1828--awful summer that!' the major was jerking his handkerchief under his florid nose and chin, by way of ventilation; and eyeing the young man shrewdly the while, to read what he might of the story in his face. 'been in calcutta, lake?' 'no; very hot, indeed. could i say just a word with you--this way a little. so glad i met you.' and they edged into a little nook of the lobby, where they had a few minutes' confidential talk, during which the major looked grave and consequential, and carried his head high, nodding now and then with military decision. major jackson whispered an abrupt word or two in his ear, and threw back his head, eyeing lake with grave and sly defiance. then came another whisper and a wink; and the major shook his hand, briefly but hard, and the gentlemen parted. lake strolled into the ball-room, and on to the upper end, where the 'best' people are, and suddenly he was in miss brandon's presence. 'i've been very presumptuous, i fear, to-night, miss brandon, he said, in his peculiar low tones. 'i've been very importunate--i prized the honour i sought so very much, i forgot how little i deserved it. and i do not think it likely you'll see me for a good while--possibly for a very long time. i've therefore ventured to come, merely to say good-bye--only that, just--good-bye. and--and to beg that flower'--and he plucked it resolutely from her bouquet--'which i will keep while i live. good-bye, miss brandon.' and captain stanley lake, that pale apparition, was gone. i do not know at all how miss brandon felt at this instant; for i never could quite understand that strange lady. but i believe she looked a little pale as she gravely adjusted the flowers so audaciously violated by the touch of the cool young gentleman. i can't say whether miss brandon deigned to follow him with her dark, dreamy gaze. i rather think not. and three minutes afterwards he had left the town hall. the brandon party did not stay very late. and they dropped rachel at her little dwelling. how very silent dorcas was, thought rachel, as they drove from gylingden. perhaps others were thinking the same of rachel. next morning, at half-past seven o'clock, a dozen or so of rustics, under command of major jackson, arrived at the back entrance of brandon hall, bearing stanley lake upon a shutter, with glassy eyes, that did not seem to see, sunken face, and a very blue tinge about his mouth. the major fussed into the house, and saw and talked with larcom, who was solemn and bland upon the subject, and went out, first, to make personal inspection of the captain, who seemed to him to be dying. he was shot somewhere in the shoulder or breast--they could not see exactly where, nor disturb him as he lay. a good deal of blood had flowed from him, upon the arm and side of one of the men who supported his head. lake said nothing--he only whispered rather indistinctly one word, 'water'--and was not able to lift his head when it came; and when they poured it into and over his lips, he sighed and closed his eyes. 'it is not a bad sign, bleeding so freely, but he looks devilish shaky, you see. i've seen lots of our fellows hit, you know, and i don't like his looks--poor fellow. you'd better see lord chelford this minute. he could not stand being brought all the way to the town. i'll run down and send up the doctor, and he'll take him on if he can bear it.' major jackson did not run. though i have seen with an astonishment that has never subsided, fellows just as old and as fat, and braced up, besides, in the inflexibilities of regimentals, keeping up at double quick, at the heads of their companies, for a good quarter of a mile, before the colonel on horseback mercifully called a halt. he walked at his best pace, however, and indeed was confoundedly uneasy about his own personal liabilities. the major surprised doctor buddle shaving. he popped in unceremoniously. the fat little doctor received him in drawers and a very tight web worsted shirt, standing by the window, at which dangled a small looking-glass. 'by george, sir, they've been at mischief,' burst forth the major; and the doctor, razor in hand, listened with wide open eyes and half his face lathered, to the story. before it was over the doctor shaved the unshorn side, and (the major still in the room) completed his toilet in hot haste. honest major jackson was very uncomfortable. of course, buddle could not give any sort of opinion upon a case which he had not seen; but it described uglily, and the major consulted in broken hints, with an uneasy wink or two, about a flight to boulogne. 'well, it will be no harm to be ready; but take no step till i come back,' said the doctor, who had stuffed a great roll of lint and plaister, and some other medicinals, into one pocket, and his leather case of instruments, forceps, probe, scissors, and all the other steel and silver horrors, into the other; so he strutted forth in his great coat, unnaturally broad about the hips; and the major, 'devilish uncomfortable,' accompanied him at a smart pace to the great gate of brandon. he did not care to enter, feeling a little guilty, although he explained on the way all about the matter. how devilish stiff bracton's man was about it. and, by jove, sir! you know, what was to be said? for lake, like a fool, chucked a lot of grapes in his face--for nothing, by george!' the doctor, short and broad, was now stumping up the straight avenue, under the noble trees that roofed it over, and major jackson sauntered about in the vicinity of the gate, more interested in lake's safety than he would have believed possible a day or two before. lord chelford being an early man, was, notwithstanding the ball of the preceding night, dressing, when st. ange, his swiss servant, knocked at his door with a dozen pockethandkerchiefs, a bottle of eau-de-cologne, and some other properties of his mã©tier. st. ange could not wait until he had laid them down, but broke out with-'oh, mi lor!--qu'est-il arrivã©?--le pauvre capitaine! il est tuã©--il se meurt--he dies--d'un coup de pistolet. he comes de se battre from beating himself in duel--il a ã©tã© atteint dans la poitrine--le pauvre gentil-homme! of a blow of the pistol.' and so on, the young nobleman gathering the facts as best he might. 'is larcom there?' 'in the gallery, mi lor.' 'ask him to come in.' so monsieur larcom entered, and bowed ominously. 'you've seen him, larcom. is he very much hurt?' 'he appears, my lord, to me, i regret to say, almost a-dying like.' 'very weak? does he speak to you?' 'not a word, my lord. since he got a little water he's quite quiet.' 'poor fellow. where have you put him?' 'in the housekeeper's lobby, my lord. i rather think he's a-dying. he looks uncommon bad, and i and mrs. esterbroke, the housekeeper, my lord, thought you would not like he should die out of doors.' 'has she got your mistress's directions?' 'miss brandon is not called up, my lord, and mrs. esterbroke is unwillin' to halarm her; so she thought it better i should come for orders to your lordship; which she thinks also the poor young gentleman is certainly a-dying.' 'is there any vacant bed-room near where you have placed him? what does mrs. ---the housekeeper, say?' 'she thinks, my lord, the room hopposit, where mr. sledd, the architeck, slep, when 'ere, would answer very nice. it is roomy and hairy, and no steps. major jackson, who is gone to the town to fetch the doctor, my lord, says mr. lake won't a-bear carriage; and so the room on the level, my lord, would, perhaps, be more convenient.' 'certainly; tell her so. i will speak to miss brandon when she comes down. how soon will the doctor be here?' 'from a quarter to half an hour, my lord.' 'then tell the housekeeper to arrange as she proposes, and don't remove his clothes until the doctor comes. everyone must assist. i know, st. ange, you'll like to assist.' so larcom withdrew ceremoniously, and lord chelford hastened his toilet, and was down stairs, and in the room assigned by the housekeeper to the ill-starred captain lake, before doctor buddle had arrived. it had already the dismal character of a sick chamber. its light was darkened; its talk was in whispers; and its to-ings and fro-ings on tip-toe. an obsolete chambermaid had been already installed as nurse. little mrs. esterbroke, the housekeeper, was fussing hither and thither about the room noiselessly. so this gay, astute man of fashion had fallen into the dungeon of sudden darkness, and the custody of old women; and lay helpless in the stocks, awaiting the judgment of buddle. ridiculous little pudgy buddle--how awful on a sudden are you grown--the interpreter of death in this very case. '_my_ case,' thought that seemingly listless figure on the bed; '_my_ case--i suppose it _is_ fatal--i am to go out of this room in a long cloth-covered box. i am going to try, alone and for ever, the value of those theories of futurity and the unseen which i have quietly scouted all my days. oh, that the prophet buddle were here, to end my tremendous suspense, and to announce a reprieve from heaven.' while the wounded captain lay on the bed, with his clothes on, and the coverlet over him, and that clay-coloured apathetic face, with closed eyes, upon the pillow, without sigh or motion, not a whispered word escaped him; but his brain was appalled, and his heart died within him in the unspeakable horror of death. lord chelford, too, having looked on lake with silent, but awful misgivings, longed for the arrival of the doctor; and was listening and silent when buddle's short step and short respiration were heard in the passage. so larcom came to the door to announce the doctor in a whisper, and buddle fussed into the room, and made his bow to lord chelford, and his brief compliments and condolences. 'not asleep?' he enquired, standing by the bed. the captain's lips moved a disclaimer, i suppose, but no sound came. so the doctor threw open the window-shutters, and clipped stanley lake's exquisite coat ruthlessly through with his scissors, and having cleared the room of all useless hands, he made his examination. it was a long visit. buddle in the hall afterwards declined breakfast--he had a board to attend. he told lord chelford that the case was 'a very nasty one.' in fact, the chances were against the captain, and he, buddle, would wish a consultation with a london surgeon--whoever lord chelford lead most confidence in--sir francis seddley, he thought, would be very desirable--but, of course, it was for the family to decide. if the messenger caught the quarter to eleven up train at dollington, he would be in london at six, and could return with the doctor by the down mail train, and so reach dollington at ten minutes past four next morning, which would answer, as he would not operate sooner. as the doctor toddled towards gylingden, with sympathetic major tackson by his side, before they entered the town they were passed by one of the brandon men riding at a hard canter for dollington. 'london?' shouted the doctor, as the man touched his hat in passing. 'yes, sir.' 'glad o' that,' said the major, looking after him. 'so am i,' said the learned buddle. 'i don't see how we're to get the bullet out of him, without mischief. poor devil, i'm afraid he'll do no good.' the ladies that morning had tea in their rooms. it was near twelve o'clock when lord chelford saw miss brandon. she was in the conservatory amongst her flowers, and on seeing him stepped into the drawing-room. 'i hope, dorcas, you are not angry with me. i've been, i'm afraid, very impertinent; but i was called on to decide for you, in your absence, and they all thought poor lake could not be moved on to gylingden without danger.' 'you did quite rightly, chelford, and i thank you,' said miss brandon, coldly; and she seated herself, and continued-'pray, what does the doctor really say?' 'he speaks very seriously.' 'does he think there is danger?' 'very great danger.' miss brandon looked down, and then, with a pale gaze suddenly in chelford's face-'he thinks he may die?' said she. 'yes,' said lord chelford, in a very low tone, returning her gaze solemnly. 'and nobody to advise but that village doctor, buddle--that's hardly credible, i think.' 'pardon me. at his suggestion i have sent for sir francis seddley, from town, and i hope he may arrive early to-morrow morning.' 'why, stanley lake may die to-day.' 'he does not apprehend that. but it is necessary to remove the bullet, and the operation will be critical, and it is for that specially that sir francis is coming down.' 'it is to take place to-morrow, and he'll die in that operation. you know he'll die,' said dorcas, pale and fierce. 'i assure you, dorcas, i have been perfectly frank. he looks upon poor lake as in very great danger--but that is all.' 'what brutes you men are!' said dorcas, with a wild scorn in her look and accent, and her cheeks flushed with passion. 'you knew quite well last night there was to be this wicked duel in the morning--and you--a magistrate--a lord-lieutenant--what are you?--you connived at this bloody conspiracy--and _he_--your own cousin, chelford--your cousin!' chelford looked at her, very much amazed. 'yes; you are worse than sir harry bracton--for you're no fool; and worse than that wicked old man. major jackson--who shall never enter these doors again--for he was employed--trusted in their brutal plans; but you had no excuse and every opportunity--and you have allowed your cousin stanley to be murdered.' 'you do me great injustice, dorcas. i did not know, or even suspect that a hostile meeting between poor lake and bracton was thought of. i merely heard that there had been some trifling altercation in the supper-room; and when, intending to make peace between them, i alluded to it, just before we left, and bracton said it was really nothing--quite blown over--and that he could not recollect what either had said. i was entirely deceived--you know i speak truth--quite deceived. they think it fair, you know, to dupe other people in such affairs; and i will also say,' he continued, a little haughtily, 'that you might have spared your censure until at least you had heard what i had to say.' 'i do believe you, chelford; you are not vexed with me. won't you shake hands?' he took her hand with a smile. 'and now,' said she, 'chelford, ought not we to send for poor rachel: her only brother? is not it sad?' 'certainly; shall i ask my mother, or will you write?' 'i will write,' she said. chapter xxxix. in which miss rachel lake comes to brandon, and doctor buddle calls again. in about an hour afterwards, rachel lake arrived in the carriage which had been despatched for her with dorcas's note. she was a good deal muffled up, and looked very pale, and asked whether miss brandon was in her room, whither she glided rapidly up stairs. it was a sort of boudoir or dressing-room, with a few pretty old portraits and miniatures, and a number of louis quatorze looking-glasses hung round, and such pretty quaint cabriole gilt and pale green furniture. dorcas met her at the door, and they kissed silently. 'how is he, dorcas?' 'very ill, dear, i'm afraid--sit down, darling.' rachel was relieved, for in her panic she almost feared to ask if he were living. 'is there immediate danger?' 'the doctor says not, but he is very much alarmed for to-morrow.' 'oh! dorcas, darling, he'll die; i know it. oh! merciful heaven! how tremendous.' 'you will not be so frightened in a little time. you have only just heard it, rachel dearest, and you are startled. i was so myself.' 'i'd like to see him, dorcas.' 'sit here a little and rest, dear. the doctor will make his visit immediately, and then we can ask him. he's a good-natured little creature--poor old buddle--and i am certain if it can safely be, he won't prevent it.' 'where is he, darling--where is stanley?' so dorcas described as well as she could. 'oh, poor stanley. oh, stanley--poor stanley,' gasped rachel, with white lips. 'you have no idea, dorcas--no one can--how terrific it is. oh, poor stanley--poor stanley.' 'drink this water, darling; you must not be so excited.' 'dorcas, say what the doctor may, see him i must.' 'there is time to think of that, darling.' 'has he spoken to anyone?' 'very little, i believe. he whispers a few words now and then--that is all.' 'nothing to chelford--nothing particular, i mean?' 'no--nothing--at least that i have heard of.' 'did he wish to see no one?' 'no one, dear.' 'not poor william wylder?' 'no, dear. i don't suppose he cares more for a clergyman than for any other man; none of his family ever did, when they came to lie on a bed of sickness, or of death either.' 'no, no,' said rachel, wildly; 'i did not mean to pray. i was not thinking of that; but william wylder was different; and he did not mention _me_ either?' dorcas shook her head. 'i knew it,' continued rachel, with a kind of shudder. 'and tell me, dorcas, does he know that he is in danger--such imminent danger?' 'that i cannot say, rachel, dear. i don't believe doctors like to tell their patients so.' there was a silence of some minutes, and rachel, clasping her hands in an agony, said-'oh, yes--he's gone--he's certainly gone; and i remain alone under that dreadful burden.' 'please, miss brandon, the doctor's down stairs with captain lake,' said the maid, opening the door. 'is lord chelford with him?' 'yes, miss, please.' 'then tell him i will be so obliged if he will come here for a moment, when the doctor is gone; and ask the doctor now, from me, how he thinks captain lake.' in a little while the maid returned. captain lake was not so low, and rather better than this morning, the doctor said; and rachel raised her eyes, and whispered an agitated thanksgiving. 'was lord chelford coming?' 'his lordship had left the room when she returned, and mr. larcom said he was with lawyer larkin in the library.' 'mr. larkin can wait. tell lord chelford i wish very much to see him here.' so away went the maid again. a message in that great house was a journey; and there was a little space before they heard a knock at the door of dorcas's pretty room, and lord chelford, duly invited, came in. lord chelford was surprised to see rachel, and held her hand, while he congratulated her on the more favourable opinion of the physician this afternoon; and then he gave them, as fully and exactly as he could, all the lights emitted by dr. buddle, and endeavoured to give his narrative as cheerful and confident an air as he could. then, at length, he recollected that mr. larkin was waiting in the study. 'i quite forgot mr. larkin,' said he; 'i left him in the library, and i am so very glad we have had a pleasanter report upon poor lake this evening; and i am sure we shall all feel more comfortable on seeing sir francis seddley. he _is_ such an admirable surgeon; and i feel sure he'll strike out something for our poor patient. i've known him hit upon such original expedients, and make such wonderful successes.' so with a kind smile he left the room. then there was a long pause. 'does he really think that stanley will recover?' said rachel. 'i don't know; i suppose he hopes it. i don't know, rachel, what to think of anyone or anything. what wild beasts they are. how "swift to shed blood," as poor william wylder said last sunday. have you any idea what they quarrelled about?' 'none in the world. it was that odious sir harry bracton--was not it?' 'why so odious, rachel? how can you tell which was in the wrong? i only know he seems to be a better marksman than your poor brother.' rachel looked at her with something of haughty and surprised displeasure, but said nothing. 'you look at me, radie, as if i were a monster--or _monstress_, i should say--whereas i am only a brandon. don't you remember how our great ancestor, who fought for the house of york, changed suddenly to lancaster, and how sir richard left the king and took part with cromwell, not for any particular advantage, i believe, or for any particular reason even, but for wickedness and wounded pride, perhaps.' 'i don't quite see your meaning, dorcas. i can't understand how _your_ pride has been hurt; but if stanley had any, i can well imagine what torture it must have endured; wretched, wicked, punished fool!' 'you suspect what they fought about, radie!' rachel made no answer. 'you do, radie, and why do you dissemble with me?' 'i don't dissemble; i don't care to speak; but if you will have me say so, i _do_ suspect--i think it must have originated in jealousy of you.' 'you look, radie, as if you thought i had managed it--whereas i really did not care.' 'i do not understand you, dorcas; but you appear to me very cruel, and you smile, as i say so.' 'i smile, because i sometimes think so myself.' with a fixed and wrathful stare rachel returned the enigmatical gaze of her beautiful cousin. 'if stanley dies, dorcas, sir harry bracton shall hear of it. i'll lose my life, but he shall pay the forfeit of his crime.' so saying, rachel left the room, and gliding through passages, and down stairs, she knocked at stanley's door. the old woman opened it. 'ah, dorothy! i'm so glad to see _you_ here!' and she put a present in her hard, crumpled hand. so, noiselessly, rachel lake, without more parley, stepped into the room, and closed the door. she was alone with stanley with a beating heart, and a kind of chill stealing over her, by her brother's bed. the room was not so dark that she could not see distinctly enough. there lay her brother, such as he was--still her brother, on the bleak, neutral ground between life and death. his features, peaked and earthy, and that look, so new and peculiar, which does not savour of life upon them. he did not move, but his strange eyes gazed cold and earnest from their deep sockets upon her face in awful silence. perhaps he thought he saw a phantom. 'are you better, dear?' whispered rachel. his lips stirred and his throat, but he did not speak until a second effort brought utterance, and he murmured, 'is that you, radie?' 'yes, dear. are you better?' '_no_. i'm shot. i shall die to-night. is it night yet?' 'don't despair, stanley, dear. the great london doctor, sir francis seddley, will be with you early in the morning, and chelford has great confidence in him. i'm sure he will relieve you.' 'this is brandon?' murmured lake. 'yes, dear.' she thought he was going to say more, but he remained silent, and she recollected that he ought not to speak, and also that she had that to say which must be said. sharp, dark, and strange lay that familiar face upon the white pillow. the faintest indication of something like a peevish sneer; it might be only the lines of pain and fatigue; still it had that unpleasant character remaining fixed on its features. 'oh, stanley! you say you think you are dying. won't you send for william wylder and chelford, and tell all you know of mark?' she saw he was about to say something, and she leaned her head near his lips, and she heard him whisper,-'it won't serve mark.' 'i'm thinking of _you_, stanley--i'm thinking of you.' to which he said either 'yes' or 'so.' she could not distinguish. 'i view it now quite differently. you said, you know, in the park, you would tell chelford; and i resisted, i believe, but i don't now. i had _rather_ you did. yes, stanley, i conjure you to tell it all.' the cold lips, with a livid halo round them, murmured, 'thank you.' it was a sneer, very shocking just then, perhaps; but unquestionably a sneer. 'poor stanley!' she murmured, with a kind of agony, looking down upon that changed face. 'one word more, stanley. remember, it's i, the only one on earth who stands near you in kindred, your sister, stanley, who implores of you to take this step before it is too late; at least, to consider.' he said something. she thought it was 'i'll think;' and then he closed his eyes. it was the only motion she had observed, his face lay just as it had done on the pillow. he had not stirred all the time she was there; and now that his eyelids closed, it seemed to say, our interview is over--the curtain has dropped; and so understanding it, with that one awful look that may be the last, she glided from the bed-side, told old dorothy that he seemed disposed to sleep, and left the room. there is something awful always in the spectacle of such a sick-bed as that beside which rachel had just stood. but not quite so dreadful is the sight as are the imaginings and the despair of absence. so reassuring is the familiar spectacle of life, even in its subsidence, so long as bodily torture and mental aberration are absent. in the meanwhile, on his return to the library, lord chelford found his dowager mother in high chat with the attorney, whom she afterwards pronounced 'a very gentlemanlike man for his line of life.' the conversation, indeed, was chiefly that of lady chelford, the exemplary attorney contributing, for the most part, a polite acquiescence, and those reflections which most appositely pointed the moral of her ladyship's tale, which concerned altogether the vagaries of mark wylder--a subject which piqued her curiosity and irritated her passions. it was a great day for jos. larkin; for by the time lord chelford returned the old lady had asked him to stay for dinner, which he did, notwithstanding his morning dress, to his great inward satisfaction, because he could henceforward mention, 'the other day, when i dined at brandon,' or 'old lady chelford assured me, when last i dined at brandon;' and he could more intimately speak of 'our friends at brandon,' and 'the brandon people,' and, in short, this dinner was very serviceable to the excellent attorney. it was not very amusing this interchange of thought and feeling between larkin and the dowager, upon a theme already so well ventilated as mark wylder's absconding, and therefore i let it pass. after dinner, when the dowager's place knew her no more, lord chelford resumed his talk with larkin. 'i am quite confirmed in the view i took at first,' he said. 'wylder has no claim upon me. there are others on whom much more naturally the care of his money would devolve, and i think that my undertaking the office he proposes, under his present strange circumstances, might appear like an acquiescence in the extraordinary course he has taken, and a sanction generally of his conduct, which i certainly can't approve. so, mr. larkin, i have quite made up my mind. i have no business to undertake this trust, simple as it is.' 'i have only, my lord, to bow to your lordship's decision; at the same time i cannot but feel, my lord, how peculiar and painful is the position in which it places me. there are rents to be received by me, and sums handed over, to a considerable--i may say, indeed, a very large amount: and my friend lake--captain lake--now, unhappily, in so very precarious a state, appears to dislike the office, also, and to anticipate annoyance, in the event of his consenting to act. altogether, your lordship will perceive that the situation is one of considerable, indeed very great embarrassment, as respects me. there is, however, one satisfactory circumstance disclosed in his last letter. his return, he says, cannot be delayed beyond a very few months, perhaps _weeks;_ and he states, in his own rough way, that he will then explain the motives of his conduct to the entire satisfaction of all those who are cognizant of the measures which he has adopted--no more claret, thanks--no more--a delicious wine--and he adds, it will then be quite understood that he has acted neither from caprice, nor from any motive other than self-preservation. i assure you, my lord, that is the identical phrase he employs--self-preservation. i all along suspected, or, rather, i mean, supposed, that mr. wylder had been placed in this matter under coercion--a--a threat.' 'a little more wine?' asked lord chelford, after another interval. 'no--no more, i thank you. your lordship's very good, and the wine, i may say, excellent--delicious claret; indeed, quite so--ninety shillings a dozen, i should venture to say, and hardly to be had at that figure; but it grows late, i rather think, and the trustees of our little wesleyan chapel--we've got a little into debt in that quarter, i am sorry to say--and i promised to advise with them this evening at nine o'clock. they have called me to counsel more than once, poor fellows; and so, with your lordship's permission, i'll withdraw.' lord chelford walked with him to the steps. it was a beautiful night--very little moon, but that and the stars wonderfully clear and bright, and all things looking so soft and airy. 'try one of these,' said the peer, presenting his cigar case. larkin, with a glow of satisfaction, took one of these noble cigars, and rolled it in his fingers, and smelt it. 'fragrant--wonderfully fragrant!' he observed, meekly, with a connoisseur's shake of the head. the night was altogether so charming that lord chelford was tempted. so he took his cap, and lighted his cigar, too, and strolled a little way with the attorney. he walked under the solemn trees--the same under whose airy groyning wylder and lake had walked away together on that noteworthy night on which mark had last turned his back upon the grand old gables and twisted chimneys of brandon hall. this way was rather a round, it must be confessed, to the lodge--jos, larkin's peaceful retreat. but a stroll with a lord was worth more than that sacrifice, and every incident which helped to make a colourable case of confidential relations at brandon--a point in which the good attorney had been rather weak hitherto--was justly prized by that virtuous man. if the trustees, smith the pork-butcher, old captain snoggles, the town clerk, and the rest, had to wait some twenty minutes in the drawing-room at the lodge, so much the better. an apology was, perhaps, the best and most modest shape into which he could throw the advertisement of his dinner at brandon--his confidential talk with the proud old dowager, and his after-dinner ramble with that rising young peer, lord chelford. it would lead him gracefully into detail, and altogether the idea, the situation, the scene and prospect, were so soothing and charming, that the good attorney felt a silent exaltation as he listened to lord chelford's two or three delighted sentences upon the illimitable wonders and mysteries glimmering in the heavens above them. the cigar was delicious, the air balmy and pleasant, his digestion happy, the society unexceptionably aristocratic--a step had just been gained, and his consideration in the town and the country round improved, by the occurrences of the evening, and his whole system, in consequence, in a state so serene, sweet and satisfactory, that i really believe there was genuine moisture in his pink, dove-like eyes, as he lifted them to the heavens, and murmured, 'beautiful, beautiful!' and he mistook his sensations for a holy rapture and silent worship. cigars, like other pleasures, are transitory. lord chelford threw away his stump, tendered his case again to mr. larkin, and then took his leave, walking slowly homewards. chapter xl. the attorney's adventures on the way home. mr. jos. larkin was now moving alone, under the limbs of the brandon trees. he knew the path, as he had boasted to lord chelford, from his boyhood; and, as he pursued his way, his mind got upon the accustomed groove, and amused itself with speculations respecting the vagaries of mark wylder. 'i wonder what his lordship thinks. he was very close--very' ruminated larkin; 'no distinct ideas about it possibly; and did not seem to wish to lead me to the subject. can he _know_ anything? eh, can he possibly? those high fellows are very knowing often--so much on the turf, and all that--very sharp and very deep.' he was thinking of a certain noble lord in difficulties, who had hit a client of his rather hard, and whose affairs did not reflect much credit upon their noble conductor. 'aye, i dare say, deep enough, and intimate with the lakes. he expects to be home in two months' time. _he's_ a deep fellow too; he does not like to let people know what he's about. i should not be surprised if he came to-morrow. lake and lord chelford may both know more than they say. why should they both object merely to receive and fund his money? they think he wants to get them into a fix--hey? if i'm to conduct his business, i ought to know it; if he keeps a secret from me, affecting all his business relations, like this, and driving him about the world like an absconding bankrupt, how can i advise him?' all this drifted slowly through his mind, and each suggestion had its collateral speculations; and so it carried him pleasantly a good way on his walk, and he was now in the shadow of the dense copsewood that mantles the deep ravine which debouches into redman's dell. the road was hardly two yards wide, and the wood walled it in, and overhung it occasionally in thick, irregular masses. as the attorney marched leisurely onward, he saw, or fancied that he saw, now and then, in uncertain glimpses, something white in motion among the trees beside him. at first he did not mind; but it continued, and grew gradually unpleasant. it might be a goat, a white goat; but no, it was too tall for that. had he seen it at all? aye! there it was, no mistake now. a poacher, maybe? but their poachers were not of the dangerous sort, and there had not been a robber about gylingden within the memory of man. besides, why on earth should either show himself in that absurd way? he stopped--he listened--he stared suspiciously into the profound darkness. then he thought he heard a rustling of the leaves near him, and he hallooed, 'who's there?' but no answer came. so, taking heart of grace, he marched on, still zealously peering among the trees, until, coming to an opening in the pathway, he more distinctly saw a tall, white figure, standing in an ape-like attitude, with its arms extended, grasping two boughs, and stooping, as if peeping cautiously, as he approached. the good attorney drew up and stared at this gray phantasm, saying to himself, 'yes,' in a sort of quiet hiss. he stopped in a horror, and as he gazed, the figure suddenly drew back and disappeared. 'very pleasant this!' said the attorney, after a pause, recovering a little. 'what on earth can it be?' jos. larkin could not tell which way it had gone. he had already passed the midway point, where this dark path begins to descend through the ravine into redman's dell. he did not like going forward--but to turn back might bring him again beside the mysterious figure. and though he was not, of course, afraid of ghosts, nor in this part of the world, of robbers, yet somehow he did not know what to make of this gigantic gray monkey. so, not caring to stay longer, and seeing nothing to be gained by turning back, the attorney buttoned the top button of his coat, and holding his head very erect, and placing as much as he could of the path between himself and the side where the figure had disappeared, marched on steadily. it was too dark, and the way not quite regular enough, to render any greater speed practicable. from the thicket, as he proceeded, he heard a voice--he had often shot woodcocks in that cover--calling in a tone that sounded in his ears like banter, 'mark--mark--mark--mark.' he stopped, holding his breath, and the sound ceased. 'well, this certainly is not usual,' murmured mr. larkin, who was a little more perturbed than perhaps he quite cared to acknowledge even to himself. 'some fellow perhaps watching for a friend--or tricks, maybe.' then the attorney, trying his supercilious smile in the dark, listened again for a good while, but nothing was heard except those whisperings of the wind which poets speak of. he looked before him with his eyebrows screwed, in a vain effort to pierce the darkness, and the same behind him; and then after another pause, he began uncomfortably to move down the path once more. in a short time the same voice, with the same uncertain echo among the trees, cried faintly, 'mark--mark,' and then a pause; then again, 'mark--mark--mark,' and then it grew more distant, and sounded among the trees and reverberations of the glen like laughter. 'mark--ha--ha--hark--ha--ha--ha--hark--mark--mark--ha--ha--hark!' 'who's there?' cried the attorney, in a tone rather ferocious from fright, and stamping on the path. but his summons and the provocation died away together in the profoundest silence. mr. jos. larkin did not repeat his challenge. this cry of 'mark!' was beginning to connect itself uncomfortably in his mind with his speculations about his wealthy client, which in that solitude and darkness began to seem not so entirely pure and disinterested as he was in the habit of regarding them, and a sort of wood-demon, such as a queer little schoolfellow used long ago to read a tale about in an old german story-book, was now dogging his darksome steps, and hanging upon his flank with a vindictive design. jos. larkin was not given to fancy, nor troubled with superstition. his religion was of a comfortable, punctual, business-like cast, which according with his genius--denied him, indeed, some things for which, in truth, he had no taste--but in no respect interfered with his main mission upon earth, which was getting money. he had found no difficulty hitherto in serving god and mammon. the joint business prospered. let us suppose it was one of those falterings of faith, which try the best men, that just now made him feel a little queer, and gave his thoughts about mark wylder, now grown habitual, that new and ghastly complexion which made the situation so unpleasant. he wished himself more than once well out of this confounded pass, and listened nervously for a good while, and stared once more, half-frightened, in various directions, into the darkness. 'if i thought there could be anything the least wrong or reprehensible--we are all fallible--in my allowing my mind to turn so much upon my client, i can certainly say i should be very far from allowing it--i shall certainly consider it--and i may promise myself to decide in a christian spirit, and if there be a doubt, to give it against myself.' this resolution, which was, he trusted, that of a righteous man, was, i am afraid, the effect rather of fright than reflection, and employed in that sense somewhat in the manner of an exorcism--whispered rather to the ghost than to his conscience. i am sure larkin did not himself suppose this. on the contrary, he really believed, i am convinced, that he scouted the ghost, and had merely volunteered this salutary self-examination as an exercise of conscience. he could not, however, have doubted that he was very nervous--and that he would have been glad of the companionship even of one of the gylingden shopkeepers, through this infested bit of wood. having again addressed himself to his journey, he was now approaching that part of the path where the trees recede a little, leaving a considerable space unoccupied at either side of his line of march. here there was faint moonlight and starlight, very welcome; but a little in advance of him, where the copsewood closed in again, just above those stone steps which lake and his sister rachel had mounted together upon the night of the memorable rendezvous, he fancied that he again saw the gray figure cowering among the foremost stems of the wood. it was a great shock. he stopped short--and as he stared upon the object, he felt that electric chill and rising of the hair which accompany supernatural panic. as he gazed, however, it was gone. yes. at all events, he could see it no more. had he seen it there at all? he was in such an odd state he could not quite trust himself. he looked back hesitatingly. but he remembered how very long and dark the path that way was, and how unpleasant his adventures there had been. and although there was a chance that the gray monkey was lurking somewhere near the path, still there was now but a short space between him and the broad carriage track down redman's dell, and once upon that he considered himself almost in the street of gylingden. so he made up his mind, and marched resolutely onward, and had nearly reached that point at which the converging screen of thicket again overshadows the pathway, when close at his side he saw the tall, white figure push itself forward among the branches, and in a startling under-tone of enquiry, like a conspirator challenging his brother, a voice--the same which he had so often heard during this walk--cried over his shoulder, 'mark _wylder_!' larkin sprung back a pace or two, turning his face full upon the challenger, who in his turn was perhaps affrighted, for the same voice uttered a sort of strangled shriek, and he heard the branches crack and rustle as he pushed his sudden retreat through them--leaving the attorney more horrified than ever. no other sound but the melancholy soughing of the night-breeze, and the hoarse murmur of the stream rising from the stony channel of redman's dell, were now, or during the remainder of his walk through these haunted grounds, again audible. so, with rapid strides passing the dim gables of redman's farm, he at length found himself, with a sense of indescribable relief, upon the gylingden road, and could see the twinkling lights in the windows of the main street. chapter xli. in which sir francis seddley manipulates. at about two o'clock buddle was called up, and spirited away to brandon in a dog-cart. a haemorrhage, perhaps, a sudden shivering, and inflammation--a sinking, maybe, or delirium--some awful change, probably--for buddle did not return. old major jackson heard of it, in his early walk, at buddle's door. he had begun to grow more hopeful. but hearing this he walked home, and replaced the dress-coat and silk stockings he had ventured to remove, promptly in his valise, which he buckled down and locked--swallowed with agitated voracity some fragments of breakfast--got on his easy boots and gaiters--brushed his best hat, and locked it into its leather case--placed his rug, great-coat, and umbrella, and a rough walking-stick for service, and a gold-tipped, exquisite cane, for duty on promenades of fashion, neatly on top of his valise, and with his old white hat and shooting-coat on, looking and whistling as much as possible as usual, he popped carelessly into john hobbs's stable, where he was glad to see three horses standing, and he mentally chose the black cob for his flight to dollington. 'a bloodthirsty rascal that bracton,' muttered the major. the expenses were likely to be awful, and some allowance was to be made for his state of mind. he was under doctor buddle's porch, and made a flimsy rattle with his thin brass knocker. 'maybe he has returned?' he did not believe it, though. major jackson was very nervous, indeed. the up trains from dollington were 'few and far between,' and that _diddled_ crutchleigh would be down on him the moment the breath was out of poor lake. 'it was plain yesterday at the sessions that infernal woman (his wife) had been at him. she hates bracton like poison, because he likes the brandon people; and, by jove, he'll have up every soul concerned. the devil and his wife i call them. if poor lake goes off anywhere between eleven and four o'clock, i'm nabbed, by george!' the door was opened. the doctor peeped out of his parlour. 'well?' enquired the major, confoundedly frightened. 'pretty well, thank ye, but awfully fagged--up all night, and no use.' 'but how _is_ he?' asked the major, with a dreadful qualm of dismay. 'same as yesterday--no change--only a little bleeding last night--not arterial; venous you know--only venous.' the major thought he spoke of the goddess, and though he did not well comprehend, said he was 'glad of it.' 'think he'll do then?' 'he may--very unlikely though. a nasty case, as you can imagine.' 'he'll certainly not go, poor fellow, before four o'clock p.m. i dare say--eh?' the major's soul was at the dollington station, and was regulating poor lake's departure by 'bradshaw's guide.' 'who knows? we expect sir francis this morning. glad to have a share of the responsibility off my shoulders, i can tell you. come in and have a chop, will you?' 'no, thank you, i've had my breakfast.' 'you have, have you? well, i haven't,' cried the doctor, with an agreeable chuckle, shaking the major's hand, and disappearing again into his parlour. i found in my lodgings in london, on my return from doncaster, some two months later, a copy of the county paper of this date, with a cross scrawled beside the piece of intelligence which follows. i knew that tremulous cross. it was traced by the hand of poor old miss kybes--with her many faults always kind to me. it bore the brandon postmark, and altogether had the impress of authenticity. it said:-'we have much pleasure in stating that the severe injury sustained four days since by captain stanley lake, at the time a visitor at the lodge, the picturesque residence of josiah larkin, esq., in the vicinity of gylingden, is not likely to prove so difficult of treatment or so imminently dangerous as was at first apprehended. the gallant gentleman was removed from the scene of his misadventure to brandon hall, close to which the accident occurred, and at which mansion his noble relatives, lord chelford and the dowager lady chelford, are at present staying on a visit. sir francis seddley came down express from london, and assisted by our skilful county practitioner, humphrey buddle, esq., m.d. of gylingden, operated most successfully on saturday last, and we are happy to say the gallant patient has since been going on as favourably as could possibly have been anticipated. sir francis seddley returned to london on sunday afternoon.' within a week after the operation, buddle began to talk so confidently about his patient, that the funereal cloud that overhung brandon had almost totally disappeared, and major jackson had quite unpacked his portmanteau. about a week after the 'accident' there came one of mr. mark wylder's strange letters to mr. jos. larkin. this time it was from marseilles, and bore date the 27th november. it was much the longest he had yet received, and was in the nature of a despatch, rather than of those short notes in which he had hitherto, for the most part, communicated. like the rest of his letters it was odd, but written, as it seemed, in better spirits. 'dear larkin,--you will be surprised to find me in this port, but i think my secret cruise is nearly over now, and you will say the plan was a master-stroke, and well executed by a poor devil, with nobody to advise him. i am coiling such a web round them, and making it fast, as you may see a spider, first to this point and then to the other, that i won't leave my persecutors one solitary chance of escape. i'll draw it quietly round and round--closer and closer--till they can neither blow nor budge, and then up to the yardarm they go, with what breath is left in them. you don't know yet _how_ i am dodging, or why my measures are taken; but i'll shorten your long face a good inch with a genuine broad grin when you learn how it all was. i may see you to tell the story in four weeks' time; but keep this close. don't mention where i write from, nor even so much as my name. i have reasons for everything, which you may guess, i dare say, being a sharp chap; and it is not for nothing, be very sure, that i am running this queer rig, masquerading, hiding, and dodging, like a runaway forger, which is not pleasant anyway, and if you doubt it, only try; but needs must when the old boy drives. he is a clever fellow, no doubt, but has been sometimes out-witted before now. you must arrange about chelford and lake. i don't know where lake is staying. i don't suppose at brandon; but he won't stay in the country nor spend his money to please you or i. therefore you must have him at your house--be sure--and i will square it with you; i think three pounds a week ought to do it very handsome. don't be a muff and give him expensive wines--a pint of sherry is plenty between you; and when he dines at his club half-a-pint does him. _i_ know; but if he costs you more, i hereby promise to pay it. won't that do? well, about chelford: i have been thinking he takes airs, and maybe he is on his high-horse about that awkward business about miss brandon. but there is no reason why captain lake should object. he has only to hand you a receipt in my name for the amount of cheques you may give him, and to lodge a portion of it where i told him, and the rest to buy consols; and i suppose he will expect payment for his no-trouble. every fellow, particularly these gentlemanlike fellows, they have a pluck at you when they can. if he is at that, give him at the rate of a hundred a-year, or a hundred and fifty if you think he won't do for less; though 100_l_. ought to be a good deal to lake; and tell him i have a promise of the adjutancy of the county militia, if he likes that; and i am sure of a seat in parliament either for the county or for dollington, as you know, and can do better for him then; and i rely on you, one way or another, to make him undertake it. and now for myself: i think my vexation is very near ended. i have not fired a gun yet, and they little think what a raking broadside i'll give them. any of the county people you meet, tell them i'm making a little excursion on the continent; and if they go to particularise, you may say the places i have been at. don't let anyone know more. i wish there was any way of stopping that old she'--(it looked like dragon or devil--but was traced over with a cloud of flourishes, and only 'lady chelford's mouth' was left untouched). 'don't expect to hear from me so long a yarn for some time again; and don't write. i don't stay long anywhere, and don't carry my own name--and never ask for letters at the post. i've a good glass, and can see pretty far, and make a fair guess enough what's going on aboard the enemy. 'i remain always, 'dear larkin, 'ever yours truly, 'mark wylder.' 'he hardly trusts lake more than he does me, i presume,' murmured mr. larkin, elevating his tall bald head with an offended and supercilious air; and letting the thin, open letter fall, or rather throwing it with a slight whisk upon the table. 'no, i take leave to think he certainly does _not_. lake has got private directions about the disposition of a portion of the money. of course, if there are persons to be dealt with who are not pleasantly approachable by respectable professional people--in fact it would not suit me. it is really rather a compliment, and relieves me of the unpleasant necessity of saying--no.' yet mr. larkin was very sore, and curious, and in a measure, hated both lake and wylder for their secret confidences, and was more than ever resolved to get at the heart of mark's mystery. chapter xlii. a paragraph in the county paper. the nature of his injury considered, captain lake recovered with wonderful regularity and rapidity. in four weeks he was out rather pale and languid but still able to walk without difficulty, leaning on a stick, for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. in another fortnight he had made another great advance, had thrown away his crutch handled stick, and recovered flesh and vigour. in a fortnight more he had grown quite like himself again; and in a very few weeks more, i read in the same county paper, transmitted to me by the same fair hands, but this time not with a cross, but three distinct notes of admiration standing tremulously at the margin of the paragraph, the following to me for a time incredible, and very nearly to this day amazing, announcement:- 'marriage in high life. 'the auspicious event so interesting to our county, which we have this day to announce, though for some time upon the _tapis_, has been attended with as little publicity as possible. the contemplated union between captain stanley lake, late of the guards, sole surviving son of the late general williams stanley stanley lake, of plasrhwyn, and the beautiful and accomplished miss brandon, of brandon hall, in this county, was celebrated in the ancestral chapel of brandon, situated within the manorial boundaries, in the immediate vicinity of the town of gylingden, on yesterday. although the marriage was understood to be strictly private--none but the immediate relations of the bride and bridegroom being present--the bells of gylingden rang out merry peals throughout the day, and the town was tastefully decorated with flags, and brilliantly illuminated at night. 'a deputation of the tenantry of the gylingden and the longmoor estates, together with those of the brandon estate, went in procession to brandon hall in the afternoon, and read a well-conceived and affectionate address, which was responded to in appropriate terms by captain lake, who received them, with his beautiful bride at his side, in the great gallery--perhaps the noblest apartment in that noble ancestral mansion. the tenantry were afterwards handsomely entertained under the immediate direction of josiah larkin, esq., of the lodge, the respected manager of the brandon estates, at the "brandon arms," in the town of gylingden. it is understood that the great territorial influence of the brandon family will obtain a considerable accession in the estates of the bridegroom in the south of england.' there was some more which i need not copy, being very like what we usually see on such occasions. i read this piece of intelligence half a dozen times over during breakfast. 'how that beautiful girl has thrown herself away!' i thought. 'surely the chelfords, who have an influence there, ought to have exerted it to prevent her doing anything so mad. his estates in the south of england, indeed! why, he can't have â£300 a year clear from that little property in devon. he _is_ such a liar; and so absurd, as if he could succeed in deceiving anyone upon the subject.' so i read the paragraph over again, and laid down the paper, simply saying, 'well, certainly, that _is_ disgusting!' i had heard of his duel. it was also said that it had in some way had reference to miss brandon. but this was the only rumoured incident which would at all have prepared one for the occurrence. i tried to recollect anything particular in his manner--there was nothing; and she positively seemed to dislike him. i had been utterly mystified, and so, i presume, had all the other lookers-on. well! after all, 'twas no particular business of mine. at the club, i saw it in the 'morning post;' and an hour after, old joe gabloss, that prosy argus who knows everything, recounted the details with patient precision, and in legal phrase, 'put in' letters from two or three country houses proving his statement. so there was no doubting it longer: and captain stanley lake, late of her majesty's ---regiment of guards, idler, scamp, coxcomb, and the beautiful dorcas brandon, heiress of brandon, were man and wife. i wrote to my fair friend, miss kybes, and had an answer confirming, if that were needed, the public announcement, and mentioning enigmatically, that it had caused 'a great deal of conversation.' the posture of affairs in the small world of gylingden, except in the matter of the alliance just referred to, was not much changed. since the voluminous despatch from marseilles, promising his return so soon, not a line had been received from mark wylder. he might arrive any day or night. he might possibly have received some unexpected check--if not checkmate, in that dark and deep game on which he seemed to have staked so awfully. mr. jos. larkin sometimes thought one thing, sometimes another. in the meantime, captain lake accepted the trust. larkin at times thought there was a constant and secret correspondence going on between him and mark wylder, and that he was his agent in adjusting some complicated and villainous piece of diplomacy by means of the fund--secret-service money--which mark had placed at his disposal. he, mr. larkin, was treated like a child in this matter, and his advice never so much as asked, nor his professional honour accredited by the smallest act of confidence. sometimes his suspicions took a different turn, and he thought that lake might be one of those 'persecutors' of whom mark spoke with such mysterious hatred; and that the topic of their correspondence was, perhaps, some compromise, the subject or the terms of which would not bear the light. lake certainly made two visits to london, one of them of a week's duration. the attorney being a sharp, long-headed fellow, who knew very well what business was, knew perfectly well, too, that two or three short letters might have settled any legitimate business which his gallant friend had in the capital. but lake was now married, and under the incantation whistled over him by the toothless archdeacon of mundlebury, had sprung up into a county magnate, and was worth cultivating, and to be treated tenderly. so the attorney's business was to smile and watch--to watch, and of course, to pray as heretofore--but specially to watch. he himself hardly knew all that was passing in his own brain. there are operations of physical nature which go on actively without your being aware of them; and the moral respiration, circulation, insensible perspiration, and all the rest of that peculiar moral system which exhibited its type in jos. larkin, proceeded automatically in the immortal structure of that gentleman. being very gentlemanlike in externals, with a certain grace, amounting very nearly to elegance, and having applied himself diligently to please the county people, that proud fraternity, remembering his father's estates, condoned his poverty, and took captain lake by the hand, and lifted him into their superb, though not very entertaining order. there were solemn festivities at brandon, and festive solemnities at the principal county houses in return. though not much of a sportsman, lake lent himself handsomely to all the sporting proceedings of the county, and subscribed in a way worthy of the old renown of brandon hall to all sorts of charities and galas. so he was getting on very pleasantly with his new neighbours, and was likely to stand very fairly in that dull, but not unfriendly society. about three weeks after this great county marriage, there arrived, this time from frankfort, a sharp letter, addressed to jos. larkin, esq. it said:-'my dear sir,--i think i have reason to complain. i have just seen by accident the announcement of the marriage at brandon. i think as my friend, and a friend to the brandon family, you ought to have done something to delay, if you could not stop it. of course, you had the settlements, and devil's in it if you could not have beat about a while--it was not so quick with me--and not doubled the point in a single tack; and you know the beggar has next to nothing. any way, it was your duty to have printed some notice that the thing was thought of. if you had put it, like a bit of news, in "galignani," i would have seen it, and known what to do. well, that ship's blew up. but i won't let all go. the cur will begin to try for the county or for dollington. you must quietly stop that, mind; and if he persists, just you put an advertisement in "galignani," saying _mr. smith will take notice, that the other party is desirous to purchase, and becoming very pressing_. just you hoist that signal, and _somebody_ will bear down, and blaze into him at all hazards--you'll see how. things have not gone quite smooth with me since; but it won't be long till i run up my flag again, and take the command. be perfectly civil with stanley lake till i come on board--that is indispensable; and keep this letter as close from every eye as sealed orders. you may want a trifle to balk s.l.'s electioneering, and there's an order on lake for 200_l._ don't trifle about the county and borough. he must have no footing in either till i return. 'yours, dear larkin, 'very truly '(but look after my business better), 'm. wylder.' the order on lake, a little note, was enclosed:-'dear lake,--i wish you joy, and all the good wishes going, as i could not make the prize myself. 'be so good to hand my lawyer, mr. jos. larkin, of the lodge, gylingden, 200_l._ sterling, on my account. 'yours, dear lake, 'very faithfully, 'm. wylder. 200_l._) '23rd feb., &c. &c.' when jos. larkin presented this little order, it was in the handsome square room in which captain lake transacted business--a lofty apartment, wainscoted in carved oak, and with a great stone mantelpiece, with the wylder arms, projecting in bold relief, in the centre, and a florid scroll, with 'resurgam' standing forth as sharp as the day it was chiselled nearly three hundred years before. there was some other business--brandon business--to be talked over first; and that exhausted, mr. larkin sat as usual, with one long thigh crossed upon the other--his arm thrown over the back of his chair, and his tall, bald head a little back, and his small mild eyes twinkling through their pink lids on the enigmatical captain, who had entered upon the march of ambition in a spirit so audacious and conquering. 'i had a line from mr. mark wylder yesterday afternoon, as usual without any address but the postmark;' and good mr. larkin laughed a mild, little patient laugh, and lifted his open hand, and shook his head. 'it really is growing too absurd--a mere order upon you to hand me 200_l._ how i'm to dispose of it, i have not the faintest notion.' and he laughed again; at the same time he gracefully poked the little note, between two fingers, to captain lake, who glanced full on him, for a second, as he took it. 'and how is mark?' enquired lake, with his odd, sly smile, as he scrawled a little endorsement on the order. 'does he say anything?' 'no; absolutely nothing--he's a very strange client!' said larkin, laughing again. 'there can be no objection, of course, to your reading it; and he thinks--he thinks--he'll be here soon again--oh, here it is.' mr. larkin had been fumbling, first in his deep waistcoat, and then in his breast-pocket, as if for the letter, which was locked fast into the iron safe, with chubb's patent lock, in his office at the lodge. but it would not have done to have kept a secret from captain lake, of brandon; and therefore his not seeing the note was a mere accident. 'oh! no--stupid!--that's mullett and hock's. i have not got it with me; but it does not signify, for there's nothing in it. i hope i shall soon be favoured with his directions as to what to do with the money.' 'he's an odd fellow; and i don't know how he feels towards me; but on my part there is no feeling, i do assure you, but the natural desire to live on the friendly terms which our ties of family and our position in the county'-stanley lake was writing the cheque for 200_l._ meanwhile, and handed it to larkin; and as that gentleman penned a receipt, the captain continued--his eyes lowered to the little vellum-bound book in which he was now making an entry:-'you have handed me a large sum, mr. larkin--3,276_l._ 11_s._ 4_d._ i undertook this, you know, on the understanding that it was not to go on very long; and i find my own business pretty nearly as much as i can manage. is wylder at all definite as to when we may expect his return?' 'oh, dear no--quite as usual--he expects to be here soon; but that is all. i so wish i had brought his note with me; but i'm positive that is all.' so, this little matter settled, the lawyer took his leave. chapter xliii. an evil eye looks on the vicar. there were influences of a wholly unsuspected kind already gathering round the poor vicar, william wylder; as worlds first begin in thinnest vapour, and whirl themselves in time into consistency and form, so do these dark machinations, which at times gather round unsuspecting mortals as points of revolution, begin nebulously and intangibly, and grow in volume and in density, till a colossal system, with its inexorable tendencies and forces, crushes into eternal darkness the centre it has enveloped. thou shalt not covet; thou shalt not cast an eye of desire; out of the heart proceed _murders_;--these dreadful realities shape themselves from so filmy a medium as thought! ever since his conference with the vicar, good mr. larkin had been dimly thinking of a thing. the good attorney's weakness was money. it was a speck at first; a metaphysical microscope of no conceivable power could have developed its exact shape and colour--a mere speck, floating, as it were, in a transparent kyst, in his soul--a mere germ--by-and-by to be an impish embryo, and ripe for action. when lust hath conceived it bringeth forth sin, and sin when it is finished bringeth forth death. the vicar's troubles grew and gathered, as such troubles will; and the attorney gave him his advice; and the business of the rev. william wylder gradually came to occupy a good deal of his time. here was a new reason for wishing to know really how mark wylder stood. william had undoubtedly the reversion of the estate; but the attorney suspected sometimes--just from a faint phrase which had once escaped stanley lake--as the likeliest solution, that mark wylder had made a left-handed marriage somehow and somewhere, and that a subterranean wife and family would emerge at an unlucky moment, and squat upon that remainder, and defy the world to disturb them. this gave to his plans and dealings in relation to the vicar a character of irresolution and caprice foreign to his character, which was grim and decided enough when his data were clear, and his object in sight. william wylder, meanwhile, was troubled, and his mind clouded by more sorrows than one. poor william wylder had those special troubles which haunt nervous temperaments and speculative minds, when under the solemn influence of religion. what the great luther called, without describing them, his 'tribulations'--those dreadful doubts and apathies which at times menace and darken the radiant fabric of faith, and fill the soul with nameless horrors. the worst of these is, that unlike other troubles, they are not always safely to be communicated to those who love us best. these terrors and dubitations are infectious. other spiritual troubles, too, there are; and i suppose our good vicar was not exempt from them any more than other christians. the best man, the simplest man that ever lived, has his reserves. the conscious frailty of mortality owes that sad reverence to itself, and to the esteem of others. you can't be too frank and humble when you have wronged your neighbour; but keep your offences against god to yourself, and let your battle with your own heart be waged under the eye of him alone. the frankness of the sentimental jean jacques rousseau, and of my coarse friend, mark wylder, is but a damnable form of vicious egotism. a miserable sinner have i been, my friend, but details profit neither thee nor me. the inner man had best be known only to himself and his maker. i like that good and simple welsh parson, of beaumaris, near two hundred years ago, who with a sad sort of humour, placed for motto under his portrait, done in stained glass, _nunc primum transparui_. but the spiritual tribulation which came and went was probably connected with the dreadful and incessant horrors of his money trouble. the gigantic brocken spectre projected from himself upon the wide horizon of his futurity. the poor vicar! he felt his powers forsaking him. hope, the life of action, was gone. despair is fatalism, and can't help itself. the inevitable mountain was always on his shoulders. he could not rise--he could not stir. he could scarcely turn his head and look up beseechingly from the corners of his eyes. why is that fellow so supine? why is his work so ill done, when he ought most to exert himself? he disgusts the world with his hang-dog looks. alas! with the need for action, the power of action is gone. despair--distraction--the furies sit with him. stunned, stupid, and wild--always agitated--it is not easy to compose his sermons as finely as heretofore. he is always jotting down little sums in addition and subtraction. the cares of the world--the miseries of what the world calls 'difficulties' and a 'struggle'--these were for the poor vicar;--the worst torture, for aught we know, which an average soul out of hell can endure. other sorrows bear healing on their wings;--this one is the promethean vulture. it is a falling into the hands of men, not of god. the worst is, that its tendencies are so godless. it makes men bitter; its promptings are blasphemous. wherefore, he who knew all things, in describing the thorns which choke the word, places the _cares_ of this world _first_, and _after_ them the deceitfulness of riches and the lusts of other things. so if money is a root of evil, the want of it, with debt, is root, and stem, and branches. but all human pain has its intervals of relief. the pain is suspended, and the system recruits itself to endure the coming paroxysm. an hour of illusion--an hour of sleep--an hour's respite of any sort, to six hours of pain--and so the soul, in anguish, finds strength for its long labour, abridged by neither death nor madness. the vicar, with his little boy, fairy, by the hand, used twice, at least, in the week to make, sometimes an hour's, sometimes only half an hours, visit at redman's farm. poor rachel lake made old tamar sit at her worsteds in the window of the little drawing-room while these conversations proceeded. the young lady was so intelligent that william wylder was obliged to exert himself in controversy with her eloquent despair; and this combat with the doubts and terrors of a mind of much more than ordinary vigour and resource, though altogether feminine, compelled him to bestir himself, and so, for the time, found him entire occupation; and thus memory and forecast, and suspense, were superseded, for the moment, by absorbing mental action. rachel's position had not been altered by her brother's marriage. dorcas had urged her earnestly to give up redman's farm, and take up her abode permanently at brandon. this kindness, however, she declined. she was grateful, but no, nothing could move her. the truth was, she recoiled from it with a species of horror. the marriage had been, after all, as great a surprise to rachel as to any of the gylingden gossips. dorcas, knowing how rachel thought upon it, had grown reserved and impenetrable upon the subject; indeed, at one time, i think, she had half made up her mind to fight the old battle over again and resolutely exercise this fatal passion. she had certainly mystified rachel, perhaps was mystifying herself. rachel grew more sad and strange than ever after this marriage. i think that stanley was right, and that living in that solitary and darksome dell helped to make her hypochondriac. one evening stanley lake stood at her door. 'i was just thinking, dear radie,' he said in his sweet low tones, which to her ear always bore a suspicion of mockery in them, 'how pretty you contrive to make this bright little garden at all times of the year--you have such lots of those evergreens, and ivy, and those odd flowers.' 'they call them _immortelles_ in france,' said rachel, in a cold strange tone, 'and make chaplets of them to lay upon the coffin-lids and the graves.' 'ah, yes, to be sure, i have seen them there and in pã¨re la chaise--so they do; they have them in all the cemeteries--i forgot that. how cheerful; how very sensible. don't you think it would be a good plan to stick up a death's-head and cross-bones here and there, and to split up old coffin-lids for your setting-sticks, and get old mowlders, the sexton, to bury your roots, and cover them in with a "dust to dust," and so forth, and plant a yew tree in the middle, and stick those bits of painted board, that look so woefully like gravestones, all round it, and then let old tamar prowl about for a ghost? i assure you, radie, i think you, all to nothing, the perversest fool i ever encountered or heard of in the course of my life.' 'well, stanley, suppose you do, i'll not dispute it. perhaps you are right,' said rachel, still standing at the door of her little porch. 'perhaps,' he repeated with a sneer; 'i venture to say, _most positively_, i can't conceive any sane reason for your refusing dorcas's entreaty to live with us at brandon, and leave this triste, and unwholesome, and everyway objectionable place.' 'she was very kind, but i can't do it.' 'yes, you can't do it, simply because it would be precisely the most sensible, prudent, and comfortable arrangement you could possibly make; you _won't_ do it--but you can and will practise all the airs and fooleries of a bad melodrama. you have succeeded already in filling dorcas's mind with surmise and speculation, and do you think the gylingden people are either blind or dumb? you are taking, i've told you again and again, the very way to excite attention and gossip. what good can it possibly do you? you'll not believe until it happens, and when it does, you'd give your eyes you could undo it. it is so like you.' 'i have said how very kind i thought it of dorcas to propose it. i can't explain to her all my reasons for declining; and to you i need not. but i cannot overcome my repugnance--and i won't try.' 'i wonder,' said stanley, with a sly look of enquiry, 'that you who read the bible--and a very good book it is no doubt--and believe in all sorts of things--' 'that will do, stanley. i'm not so weak as you suppose.' 'you know, radie, i'm a sadducee and that sort of thing does not trouble me the least in the world. it is a little cold here. may we go into the drawing-room? you can't think how i hate this--house. we are always unpleasant in it.' this auspicious remark he made taking off his hat, and placing it and his cane on her work-table. but this was not a tempestuous conference by any means. i don't know precisely what they talked about. i think it was probably the pros and cons of that migration to brandon, against which rachel had pronounced so firmly. 'i can't do it, stanley. my motives are unintelligible to you, i know, and you think me obstinate and stupid; but, be i what i may, my objections are insurmountable. and does it not strike you that my staying here, on the contrary, would--would tend to prevent the kind of conversation you speak of?' 'not the least, dear radie--that is, i mean, it could have no possible effect, unless the circumstances were first supposed, and then it could be of no appreciable use. and your way of life and your looks--for both are changed--are likely, in a little prating village, where every human being is watched and discussed incessantly, to excite conjecture; that is all, and that is _every thing_.' it had grown dark while stanley sat in the little drawing-room, and rachel stood on her doorstep, and saw his figure glide away slowly into the thin mist and shadow, and turn upward to return to brandon, by that narrow ravine where they had held rendezvous with mark wylder, on that ill-omened night when trouble began for all. to rachel's eyes, that disappearing form looked like the moping spirit of guilt and regret, haunting the scene of the irrevocable. when stanley took his leave after one of these visits--stolen visits, somehow, they always seemed to her--the solitary mistress of redman's farm invariably experienced the nervous reaction which follows the artificial calm of suppressed excitement. something of panic or horror, relieved sometimes by a gush of tears--sometimes more slowly and painfully subsiding without that hysterical escape. she went in and shut the door, and called tamar. but tamar was out of the way. she hated that little drawing-room in her present mood--its associations were odious and even ghastly; so she sat herself down by the kitchen fire, and placed her pretty feet--cold now--upon the high steel fender, and extended her cold hands towards the embers, leaning back in her rude chair. and so she got the girl to light candles, and asked her a great many questions, and obliged her, in fact, to speak constantly though she seemed to listen but little. and when at last the girl herself, growing interested in her own narrative about a kidnapper, grew voluble and animated, and looked round upon the young lady at the crisis of the tale, she was surprised to remark, on a sudden, that she was gazing vacantly into the bars; and when margery, struck by her fixed and melancholy countenance, stopped in the midst of a sentence, the young lady turned and gazed on her wistfully, with large eyes and pale face, and sighed heavily. chapter xliv. in which old tamar lifts up her voice in prophecy. certainly stanley lake was right about redman's dell. once the sun had gone down behind the distant hills, it was the darkest, the most silent, and the most solitary of nooks. it was not, indeed, quite dark yet. the upper sky had still a faint gray twilight halo, and the stars looked wan and faint. but the narrow walk that turned from redman's dell was always dark in stanley's memory; and sadducees, although they believe neither in the resurrection nor the judgment, are no more proof than other men against the resurrections of memory and the penalties of association and of fear. captain lake had many things to think of. some pleasant enough as he measured pleasure, others troublesome. but as he mounted the stone steps that conducted the passenger up the steep acclivity to the upper level of the dark and narrow walk he was pursuing, one black sorrow met him and blotted out all the rest. captain lake knew very well and gracefully practised the art of not seeing inconvenient acquaintances in the street. but here in this narrow way there met him full a hated shadow whom he would fain have 'cut,' by looking to right or left, or up or down, but which was not to be evaded--would not only have his salutation but his arm, and walked--a horror of great darkness, by his side--through this solitude. committed to a dreadful game, in which the stakes had come to exceed anything his wildest fears could have anticipated, from which he could not, according to his own canons, by any imaginable means recede--_here_ was the spot where the dreadful battle had been joined, and his covenant with futurity sealed. the young captain stood for a moment still on reaching the upper platform. a tiny brook that makes its way among briars and shingle to the more considerable mill-stream of redman's dell, sent up a hoarse babbling from the darkness beneath. why exactly he halted there he could not have said. he glanced over his shoulder down the steps he had just scaled. had there been light his pale face would have shown just then a malign anxiety, such as the face of an ill-conditioned man might wear, who apprehends danger of treading on a snake. he walked on, however, without quickening his pace, waving very slightly from side to side his ebony walking-cane--thin as a pencil--as if it were a wand to beckon away the unseen things that haunt the darkness; and now he came upon the wider plateau, from which, the close copse receding, admitted something more of the light, faint as it was, that lingered in the heavens. a tall gray stone stands in the centre of this space. there had once been a boundary and a stile there. stanley knew it very well, and was not startled as the attorney was the other night when he saw it. as he approached this, some one said close in his ear, 'i beg your pardon, master stanley.' he cowered down with a spring, as i can fancy a man ducking under a round-shot, and glanced speechlessly, and still in his attitude of recoil, upon the speaker. 'it's only me, master stanley--your poor old tamar. don't be afraid, dear.' 'i'm _not_ afraid--woman. tamar to be sure--why, of course, i know you; but what the devil brings you here?' he said. tamar was dressed just as she used to be when sitting in the open air at her knitting, except that over her shoulders she had a thin gray shawl. on her head was the same close linen nightcap, borderless and skull-like, and she laid her shrivelled, freckled hand upon his arm, and looking with an earnest and fearful gaze in his face she said-'it has been on my mind this many a day to speak to you, master stanley; but whenever i meant to, summat came over me, and i couldn't.' 'well, well, well,' said lake, uneasily; 'i mean to call to-morrow, or next day, or some day soon, at redman's farm. i'll hear it then; this is no place, you know, tamar, to talk in; besides i'm pressed for time, and can't stay now to listen.' 'there's no place like this, master stanley; it's so awful secret,' she said, with her hand still upon his arm. 'secret! why one place is as well as another; and what the devil have i to do with secrets? i tell you, tamar, i'm in haste and can't stay. i _won't_ stay. there!' 'master stanley, for the love of heaven--you know what i'm going to speak of; my old bones have carried me here--'tis years since i walked so far. i'd walk till i dropped to reach you--but i'd say what's on my mind, 'tis like a message from heaven--and i _must_ speak--aye, dear, i must.' 'but i say i can't stay. who made you a prophet? you used not to be a fool, tamar; when i tell you i can't, that's enough.' tamar did not move her fingers from the sleeve of his coat, on which they rested, and that thin pressure mysteriously detained him. 'see, master stanley, if i don't say it to _you_, i must to another,' she said. 'you mean to threaten me, woman,' said he with a pale, malevolent look. 'i'm threatening nothing but the wrath of god, who hears us.' 'unless you mean to do me an injury, tamar, i don't know what else you mean,' he answered, in a changed tone. 'old tamar will soon be in her coffin, and this night far in the past, like many another, and 'twill be everything to you, one day, for weal or woe, to hearken to her words _now_, master stanley.' 'why, tamar, haven't i told you i'm ready to listen to you. i'll go and see you--upon my honour i will--to-morrow, or next day, at the dell; what's the good of stopping me here?' 'because, master stanley, something told me 'tis the best place; we're quiet, and you're more like to weigh my words here--and you'll be alone for a while after you leave me, and can ponder my advice as you walk home by the path.' 'well, whatever it is, i suppose it won't take very long to say--let us walk on to the stone there, and then i'll stop and hear it--but you must not keep me all night,' he said, very peevishly. it was only twenty steps further on, and the woods receded round it, so as to leave an irregular amphitheatre of some sixty yards across; and captain lake, glancing from the corners of his eyes, this way and that, without raising or turning his face, stopped listlessly at the time-worn white stone, and turning to the old crone, who was by his side, he said, 'well, then, you have your way; but speak low, please, if you have anything unpleasant to say.' tamar laid her hand upon his arm again; and the old woman's face afforded stanley lake no clue to the coming theme. its expression was quite as usual--not actually discontent or peevishness, but crimped and puckered all over with unchanging lines of anxiety and suffering. neither was there any flurry in her manner--her bony arm and discoloured hand, once her fingers lay upon his sleeve, did not move--only she looked very earnestly in his face as she spoke. 'you'll not be angry, master stanley, dear? though if you be, i can't help it, for i must speak. i've heard it all--i heard you and miss radie speak on the night you first came to see her, after your sickness; and i heard you speak again, by my room door, only a week before your marriage, when you thought i was asleep. so i've heard it all--and though i mayn't understand all the ins and outs on't, i know it well in the main. oh, master stanley, master stanley! how can you go on with it?' 'come, tamar, what do you want of me? what do you mean? what the d-is it all about?' 'oh! well you know, master stanley, what it's about.' 'well, there _is_ something unpleasant, and i suppose you have heard a smattering of it in your muddled way; but it is quite plain you don't in the least understand it, when you fancy i can do anything to serve anyone in the smallest degree connected with that disagreeable business--or that i am personally in the least to blame in it; and i can't conceive what business you had listening at the keyhole to your mistress and me, nor why i am wasting my time talking to an old woman about my affairs, which she can neither understand nor take part in.' 'master stanley, it won't do. i heard it--i could not help hearing. i little thought you had any such matter to speak--and you spoke so sudden like, i could not help it. you were angry, and raised your voice. what could old tamar do? i heard it all before i knew where i was.' 'i really think, tamar, you've taken leave of your wits--you are quite in the clouds. come, tamar, tell me, once for all--only drop your voice a little, if you please--what the plague has got into your old head. come, i say, what is it?' he stooped and leaned his ear to tamar; and when she had done, he laughed. the laugh, though low, sounded wild and hollow in that dark solitude. 'really, dear tamar, you must excuse my laughing. you dear old witch, how the plague could you take any such frightful nonsense into your head? i do assure you, upon my honour, i never heard of so ridiculous a blunder. only that i know you are really fond of us, i should never speak to you again. i forgive you. but listen no more to other people's conversation. i could tell you how it really stands now, only i have not time; but you'll take my word of honour for it, you have made the most absurd mistake that ever an old fool tumbled into. no, tamar, i can't stay any longer now; but i'll tell you the whole truth when next i go down to redman's farm. in the meantime, you must not plague poor miss radie with your nonsense. she has too much already to trouble her, though of quite another sort. good-night, foolish old tamar.' 'oh, master stanley, it will take a deal to shake my mind; and if it be so, as i say, what's to be done next--what's to be done--oh, what _is_ to be done?' 'i say good-night, old tamar; and hold your tongue, do you see?' 'oh, master stanley, master stanley! my poor child--my child that i nursed!--anything would be better than this. sooner or later judgment will overtake you, so sure as you persist in it. i heard what miss radie said; and is not it true--is not it cruel--is not it frightful to go on?' 'you don't seem to be aware, my good tamar, that you have been talking slander all this while, and might be sent to gaol for it. there, i'm not angry--only you're a fool. good-night.' he shook her hand, and jerked it from him with suppressed fury, passing on with a quickened pace. and as he glided through the dark, towards splendid old brandon, he ground his teeth, and uttered two or three sentences which no respectable publisher would like to print. chapter xlv. deep and shallow. lawyer larkin's mind was working more diligently than anyone suspected upon this puzzle of mark wylder. the investigation was a sort of scientific recreation to him, and something more. his sure instinct told him it was a secret well worth mastering. he had a growing belief that lake, and perhaps he _only_--except wylder himself--knew the meaning of all this mysterious marching and counter-marching. of course, all sorts of theories were floating in his mind; but there was none that would quite fit all the circumstances. the attorney, had he asked himself the question, what was his object in these inquisitions, would have answered--'i am doing what few other men would. i am, heaven knows, giving to this affair of my absent client's, gratuitously, as much thought and vigilance as ever i did to any case in which i was duly remunerated. this is self-sacrificing and noble, and just the conscientious conduct i should expect from myself.' but there was also this consideration, which you failed to define. 'yes; my respected client, mr. mark wylder, is suffering under some acute pressure, applied perhaps by my friend captain lake. why should not i share in the profit--if such there be--by getting my hand too upon the instrument of compression? it is worth trying. let us try.' the reverend william wylder was often at the lodge now. larkin had struck out a masterly plan. the vicar's reversion, a very chimerical contingency, he would by no means consent to sell. his little man--little fairy--oh! no, he could not. the attorney only touched on this, remarking in a friendly way-'but then, you know, it is so mere a shadow.' this indeed, poor william knew very well. but though he spoke quite meekly, the attorney looked rather black, and his converse grew somewhat dry and short. this sinister change was sudden, and immediately followed the suggestion about the reversion; and the poor vicar was a little puzzled, and began to consider whether he had said anything _gauche_ or offensive--'it would be so very painful to appear ungrateful.' the attorney had the statement of title in one hand, and leaning back in his chair, read it demurely in silence, with the other tapping the seal-end of his gold pencil-case between his lips. 'yes,' said mr. larkin, mildly, 'it is so _very_ shadowy--and that feeling, too, in the way. i suppose we had better, perhaps, put it aside, and maybe something else may turn up.' and the attorney rose grandly to replace the statement of title in its tin box, intimating thereby that the audience was ended. but the poor vicar was in rather urgent circumstances just then, and his troubles had closed in recently with a noiseless, but tremendous contraction, like that iron shroud in mr. mudford's fine tale; and to have gone away into outer darkness, with no project on the stocks, and the attorney's countenance averted, would have been simply despair. 'to speak frankly,' said the poor vicar, with that hectic in his cheek that came with agitation, 'i never fancied that my reversionary interest could be saleable.' 'neither is it, in all probability,' answered the attorney. 'as you are so seriously pressed, and your brother's return delayed, it merely crossed my mind as a thing worth trying.' 'it was very kind and thoughtful; but that feeling--the--my poor little man! however, i may be only nervous and foolish, and i think i'll speak to lord chelford about it.' the attorney looked down, and took his nether lip gently between his finger and thumb. i rather think he had no particular wish to take lord chelford into council. 'i think before troubling his lordship upon the subject--if, indeed, on reflection, you should not think it would be a little odd to trouble him at all in reference to it--i had better look a little more carefully into the papers, and see whether anything in that direction is really practicable at all.' 'do you think, mr. larkin, you can write that strong letter to stay proceedings which you intended yesterday?' the attorney shook his head, and said, with a sad sort of dryness--'i can't see my way to it.' the vicar's heart sank with a flutter, and then swelled, and sank another bit, and his forehead flushed. there was a silence. 'you see, mr. wylder, i relied, in fact, altogether upon this a--arrangement; and i don't see that any thing is likely to come of it.' the attorney spoke in the same dry and reserved way, and there was a shadow on his long face. 'i have forfeited his good-will somehow--he has ceased to take any interest in my wretched affairs; i am abandoned, and must be ruined.' these dreadful thoughts filled in another silence; and then the vicar said-'i am afraid i have, quite unintentionally, offended you, mr. larkin--perhaps in my ignorance of business; and i feel that i should be quite ruined if i were to forfeit your good offices; and, pray tell me, if i have said anything i ought not.' 'oh, no--nothing, i assure you,' replied mr. larkin, with a lofty and gentle dryness. 'only, i think, i have, perhaps, a little mistaken the relation in which i stood, and fancied, wrongly, it was in the light somewhat of a friend as well as of a professional adviser; and i thought, perhaps, i had rather more of your confidence than i had any right to, and did not at first see the necessity of calling in lord chelford, whose experience of business is necessarily very limited, to direct you. you remember, my dear mr. wylder, that i did not at all invite these relations; and i don't think you will charge me with want of zeal in your business.' 'oh! my dear mr. larkin, my dear sir, you have been my preserver, my benefactor--in fact, under heaven, very nearly my last and only hope.' 'well, i _had_ hoped i was not remiss or wanting in diligence.' and mr. larkin took his seat in his most gentlemanlike fashion, crossing his long legs, and throwing his tall head back, raising his eyebrows, and letting his mouth languidly drop a little open. 'my idea was, that lord chelford would see more clearly what was best for little fairy. i am so very slow and so silly about business, and you so much my friend--i have found you so--that you might think only of me.' 'i should, of course, consider the little boy,' said mr. larkin, condescendingly; 'a most interesting child. i'm very fond of children myself, and should, of course, put the entire case--as respected him as well as yourself--to the best of my humble powers before you. is there any thing else just now you think of, for time presses, and really we have ground to apprehend something unpleasant _to-morrow_. you ought not, my dear sir--pray permit me to say--you really ought _not_ to have allowed it to come to this.' the poor vicar sighed profoundly, and shook his head, a contrite man. they both forgot that it was arithmetically impossible for him to have prevented it, unless he had got some money. 'perhaps,' said the vicar, brightening up suddenly, and looking in the attorney's eyes for answer, 'perhaps something might be done with the reversion, as a security, to borrow a sufficient sum, without selling.' the attorney shook his high head, and whiskers gray and foxy, and meditated with the seal of his pencil case between his lips. 'i don't see it,' said he, with another shake of that long head. 'i don't know that any lender, in fact, would entertain such a security. if you wish it i will write to burlington, smith, and company, about it--they are largely in policies and _post-obits_.' 'it is very sad--very sad, indeed. i wish so much, my dear sir, i could be of use to you; but you know the fact is, we solicitors seldom have the command of our own money; always in advance--always drained to the uttermost shilling, and i am myself in the predicament you will see there.' and he threw a little note from the dollington bank to jos. larkin, esq., the lodge, gylingden, announcing the fact that he had overdrawn his account certain pounds, shillings, and pence, and inviting him forthwith to restore the balance. the vicar read it with a vague comprehension, and in his cold fingers shook the hand of his fellow sufferer. less than fifty pounds would not do! oh, where was he to turn? it was _quite_ hopeless, and poor larkin pressed too! now, there was this consolation in 'poor larkin's case,' that although he was quite run aground, and a defaulter in the dollington bank to the extent of 7_l_. 12_s_. 4_d_., yet in that similar institution, which flourished at naunton, only nine miles away, there stood to his name the satisfactory credit of 564_l_. 11_s_. 7_d_. one advantage which the good attorney derived from his double account with the rival institutions was, that whenever convenient he could throw one of these certificates of destitution and impotence sadly under the eyes of a client in want of money like poor will wylder. the attorney had no pleasure in doing people ill turns. but he had come to hear the distresses of his clients as tranquilly as doctors do the pangs of their patients. as he stood meditating near his window, he saw the poor vicar, with slow limbs and downcast countenance, walk under his laburnums and laurustinuses towards his little gate, and suddenly stop and turn round, and make about a dozen quick steps, like a man who has found a bright idea, towards the house, and then come to a thoughtful halt, and so turn and recommence his slow march of despair homeward. at five o'clock--it was dark now--there was a tread on the door-steps, and a double tattoo at the tiny knocker. it was the 'lawyer.' mr. larkin entered the vicar's study, where he was supposed to be busy about his sermon. 'my dear sir; thinking about you--and i have just heard from an old humble friend, who wants high interest, and of course is content to take security somewhat personal in its nature. i have written already. he's in the hands of burlington, smith, and company. i have got exactly 55_l._ since i saw you, which makes me all right at dollington; and here's my check for 50_l._ which you can send--or perhaps _i_ had better send by this night's post--to those cambridge people. it settles _that_; and you give me a line on this stamp, acknowledging the 50_l._ on account of money to be raised on your reversion. so that's off your mind, my dear sir.' 'oh, mr. larkin--my--my--you don't know, sir, what you have done for me--the agony--oh, thank god! what a friend is raised up.' and he clasped and wrung the long hands of the attorney, and i really think there was a little moisture in that gentleman's pink eyes for a moment or two. when he was gone the vicar returned from the door-step, radiant--not to the study but to the parlour. 'oh, willie, darling, you look so happy--you were uneasy this evening,' said his little ugly wife, with a beautiful smile, jumping up and clasping him. 'yes, darling, i was--_very_ uneasy; but thank god, it is over.' and they cried and smiled together in that delightful embrace, while all the time little fairy, with a paper cap on his head, was telling them half-a-dozen things together, and pulling wapsie by the skirts. then he was lifted up and kissed, and smiled on by that sunshine only remembered in the sad old days--parental love. and there was high festival kept in the parlour that night. i am told six crumpets, and a new egg apiece besides at tea, to make merry with, and stories and little songs for fairy. willie was in his old college spirits. it was quite delightful; and little fairy was up a great deal too late; and the vicar and his wife had quite a cheery chat over the fire, and he and she both agreed he would make a handsome sum by eusebius. thus, if there are afflictions, there are also comforts: great consolations, great chastisements. there is a comforter, and there is a chastener. every man must taste of death: every man must taste of life. it shall not be all bitter nor all sweet for any. it shall be life. the unseen ministers of a stupendous equity have their eyes and their hands about every man's portion; 'as it is written, he that had gathered much had nothing over; and he that had gathered little had no lack.' it is the same earth for all; the same earth for the dead, great and small; dust to dust. the same earth for the living. 'thorns, also, and thistles shall it bring forth,' and god provides the flowers too. chapter xlvi. debate and interruption. rachel beheld the things which were coming to pass like an awful dream. she had begun to think, and not without evidence, that dorcas, for some cause or caprice, had ceased to think of stanley as she once did. and the announcement, without preparation or apparent courtship, that her brother had actually won this great and beautiful heiress, and that, just emerged from the shades of death, he, a half-ruined scapegrace, was about to take his place among the magnates of the county, and, no doubt, to enter himself for the bold and splendid game of ambition, the stakes of which were now in his hand, towered before her like an incredible and disastrous illusion of magic. stanley's uneasiness lest rachel's conduct should compromise them increased. he grew more nervous about the relations between him and mark wylder, in proportion as the world grew more splendid and prosperous for him. where is the woman who will patiently acquiesce in the reserve of her husband who shares his confidence with another? how often had stanley lake sworn to her there was no secret; that he knew nothing of mark wylder beyond the charge of his money, and making a small payment to an old mrs. dutton, in london, by his direction, and that beyond this, he was as absolutely in the dark as she or chelford. what, then, did rachel mean by all that escaped her, when he was in danger? 'how the -could he tell? he really believed she was a little--_ever_ so little--crazed. he supposed she, like dorcas, fancied he knew everything about wylder. she was constantly hinting something of the kind; and begging of him to make a disclosure--disclosure of what? it was enough to drive one mad, and would make a capital farce. rachel has a ridiculous way of talking like an oracle, and treating as settled fact every absurdity she fancies. she is very charming and clever, of course, so long as she speaks of the kind of thing she understands. but when she tries to talk of serious business--poor radie! she certainly does talk such nonsense! she can't reason; she runs away with things. it _is_ the most tiresome thing you can conceive.' 'but you have not said, stanley, that she does not suspect the truth.' 'of course, i say it; i _have_ said it. i swear it, if you like. i've said plainly, and i'm ready to swear it. upon my honour and soul i know no more of his movements, plans, or motives, than you do. if you reflect you must see it. we were never good friends, mark and i. it was no fault of mine, but i never liked him; and he, consequently, i suppose, never liked me. there was no intimacy or confidence between us. i was the last man on earth he would have consulted with. even larkin, his own lawyer, is in the dark. rachel knows all this. i have told her fifty times over, and she seems to give way at the moment. indeed the thing is too plain to be resisted. but as i said, poor radie, she can't reason; and by the time i see her next, her old fancy possesses her. i can't help it; because with more reluctance than i can tell, i at length consent, at larkin's _entreaty_, i may say, to bank and fund his money.' but dorcas's mind retained its first impression. sometimes his plausibilities, his vehemence, and his vows disturbed it for a time; but there it remained like the picture of a camera obscura, into which a momentary light has been admitted, unseen for a second, but the images return with the darkness, and group themselves in their old colours and places again. whatever it was rachel probably knew it. there was a painful confidence between them; and there was growing in dorcas's mind a feeling towards rachel which her pride forbade her to define. she did not like stanley's stealthy visits to redman's farm; she did not like his moods or looks after those visits, of which he thought she knew nothing. she did not know whether to be pleased or sorry that rachel had refused to reside at brandon; neither did she like the stern gloom that overcast rachel's countenance when stanley was in the room, nor those occasional walks together, up and down the short yew walk, in which lake looked so cold and angry, and rachel so earnest. what was this secret? how dared her husband mask from her what he confided to another? how dared rachel confer with him--influence him, perhaps, under her very eye, walking before the windows of brandon--that brandon which was _hers_, and to which she had taken stanley, passing her gate a poor and tired wayfarer of the world, and made him--_what?_ oh, mad caprice! oh, fit retribution! a wild voice was talking this way, to-and-fro, and up and down, in the chambers of memory. but she would not let it speak from her proud lips. she smiled, and to outward seeming, was the same; but rachel felt that the fashion of her countenance towards her was changed. since her marriage she had not hinted to rachel the subject of their old conversations: burning beneath her feeling about it was now a deep-rooted anger and jealousy. still she was stanley's sister, and to be treated accordingly. the whole household greeted her with proper respect, and dorcas met her graciously, and with all the externals of kindness. the change was so little, that i do not think any but she and rachel saw it; and yet it was immense. there was a dark room, a sort of ante-room, to the library, with only two tall and narrow windows, and hung with old dutch tapestries, representing the battles and sieges of men in periwigs, pikemen, dragoons in buff coats, and musketeers with matchlocks--all the grim faces of soldiers, generals, drummers, and the rest, grown pale and dusky by time, like armies of ghosts. rachel had come one morning to see dorcas, and, awaiting her appearance, sat down in this room. the door of the library opened, and she was a little surprised to see stanley enter. 'why, stanley, they told me you were gone to naunton.' 'oh! did they? well, you see, i'm here, radie.' somehow he was not very well pleased to see her. 'i think you'll find dorcas in the drawing-room, or else in the conservatory,' he added. 'i am glad, stanley, i happened to meet you. something _must_ be done in the matter i spoke of immediately. have you considered it?' 'most carefully,' said stanley, quietly. 'but you have done nothing.' 'it is not a thing to be done in a moment.' 'you can, if you please, do a great deal in a moment' 'certainly; but i may repent it afterwards.' 'stanley, you may regret postponing it, much more.' 'you have no idea, rachel, how very tiresome you've grown.' 'yes, stanley, i can quite understand it. it would have been better for you, perhaps for myself, i had died long ago.' 'well, that is another thing; but in the meantime, i assure you, rachel, you are disposed to be very impertinent.' 'very impertinent; yes, indeed, stanley, and so i shall continue to be until----' 'pray how does it concern you? i say it is no business on earth of yours.' stanley lake was growing angry. 'yes, stanley, it _does_ concern me.' 'that is false.' 'true, _true_, sir. oh, stanley, it is a load upon my conscience--a mountain--a mountain between me and my hopes. i can't endure the misery to which you would consign me; you _shall_ do it--immediately, too' (she stamped wildly as she said it), 'and if you hesitate, stanley, i shall be compelled to speak, though the thought of it makes me almost mad with terror.' 'what is he to do, rachel?' said dorcas, standing near the door. it was a very awkward pause. the splendid young bride was the only person on the stage who looked very much as usual. stanley turned his pale glare of fury from rachel to dorcas, and dorcas said again, 'what is it, rachel, darling?' rachel, with a bright blush on her cheeks, stepped quickly up to her, put her arms about her neck and kissed her, and over her shoulder she cried to her brother-'tell her, stanley.' and so she quickly left the room and was gone. 'well, dorkie, love, what's the matter?' said stanley sharply, at last breaking the silence. 'i really don't know--you, perhaps, can tell,' answered she coldly. 'you have frightened rachel out of the room, for one thing,' answered he with a sneer. 'i simply asked her what she urged you to do--i think i have a claim to know. it is strange so reasonable a question from a wife should scare your sister from the room.' 'i don't quite see that--for my part, i don't think _anything_ strange in a woman. rachel has been talking the rankest nonsense, in the most unreasonable temper conceivable; and because she can't persuade me to accept her views of what is christian and sensible, she threatens to go mad--i think that is her phrase.' 'i don't think rachel is a fool,' said dorcas, quietly, her eye still upon stanley. 'neither do i--when she pleases to exert her good sense--but she can, when she pleases, both talk and act like a fool.' 'and pray, what does she want you to do, stanley?' 'the merest nonsense.' 'but what is it?' 'i really can hardly undertake to say i very well understand it myself, and i have half-a-dozen letters to write; and really if i were to stay here and try to explain, i very much doubt whether i could. why don't you ask _her_? if she has any clear ideas on the subject i don't see why she should not tell you. for my part, i doubt if she understands herself--_i_ certainly don't.' dorcas smiled bitterly. 'mystery already--mystery from the first. _i_ am to know nothing of your secrets. you confer and consult in my house--you debate and decide upon matters most nearly concerning, for aught i know, my interests and my happiness--certainly deeply affecting you, and therefore which i have a _right_ to know; and my entering the room is the signal for silence--a guilty silence--for departure and for equivocation. stanley, you are isolating me. beware--i may entrench myself in that isolation. you are choosing your confidant, and excluding me; rest assured you shall have no confidence of mine while you do so.' stanley lake looked at her with a gaze at once peevish and inquisitive. 'you take a wonderfully serious view of rachel's nonsense.' 'i do.' 'certainly, you women have a marvellous talent for making mountains of molehills--you and radie are adepts in the art. never was a poor devil so lectured about nothing as i between you. come now, dorkie, be a good girl--you must not look so vexed.' 'i'm not vexed.' 'what then?' 'i'm only _thinking_.' she said this with the same bitter smile. stanley lake looked for a moment disposed to break into one of his furies, but instead he only laughed his unpleasant laugh. 'well, i'm thinking too, and i find it quite possible to be vexed at the same time. i assure you, dorcas, i really am busy; and it is too bad to have one's time wasted in solemn lectures about stuff and nonsense. do make rachel explain herself, if she can--_i_ have no objection, i assure you; but i must be permitted to decline undertaking to interpret that oracle.' and so saying, stanley lake glided into the library and shut the door with an angry clap. dorcas did not deign to look after him. she had heard his farewell address, looking from the window at the towering and sombre clumps of her ancestral trees--pale, proud, with perhaps a peculiar gleam of resentment--or malignity--in her exquisite features. so she stood, looking forth on her noble possessions--on terraces--'long rows of urns'--noble timber--all seen in slanting sunlight and long shadows--and seeing nothing but the great word fool! in letters of flame in the air before her. chapter xlvii. a threatening notice. stanley lake was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet when an object was to be gained. it was with a sure prescience that mark wylder's letter had inferred that stanley lake would aspire to the representation either of the county or of the borough of dollington. his mind was already full of these projects. electioneering schemes are conducted, particularly at their initiation, like conspiracies--in fact, they _are_ conspiracies, and therefore there was nothing remarkable in the intense caution with which stanley lake set about his. he was not yet 'feeling his way.' he was only preparing to feel his way. all the data, except the muster-roll of electors, were _in nubibus_--who would retire--who would step forward, as yet altogether in the region of conjecture. there are men to whom the business of elections--a life of secrecy, excitement, speculation, and combat--has all but irresistible charms; and tom wealdon, the town clerk, was such a spirit. a bold, frank, good-humoured fellow--he played at elections as he would at cricket. every faculty of eye, hand, and thought--his whole heart and soul in the game. but no ill-will--no malevolence in victory--no sourness in defeat. a successful _coup_ made tom wealdon split with laughing. a ridiculous failure amused him nearly as much. he celebrated his last great defeat with a pic-nic in the romantic scenery of nolton, where he and his comrades in disaster had a roaring evening, and no end of 'chaff' when he and jos. larkin carried the last close contest at dollington, by a majority of two, he kicked the crown out of the grave attorney's chimney-pot, and flung his own wide-awake into the river. he did not show much; his official station precluded prominence. he kept in the background, and did his spiriting gently. but tom wealdon, it was known--as things _are_ known without evidence--was at the bottom of all the clever dodges, and long-headed manoeuvres. when, therefore, mr. larkin heard from the portly and veracious mr. larcom, who was on very happy relations with the proprietor of the lodge, that tom wealdon had been twice quietly to brandon to lunch, and had talked an hour alone with the captain in the library each time; and that they seemed very 'hernest like, and stopped of talking directly he (mr. larcom) entered the room with the post-bag'--the attorney knew very well what was in the wind. now, it was not quite clear what was right--by which the good attorney meant prudent--under the circumstances. he was in confidential--which meant lucrative--relations with mark wylder. ditto, ditto with captain lake, of brandon. he did not wish to lose either. was it possible to hold to both, or must he cleave only to one and despise the other? wylder might return any day, and tom wealdon would probably be one of the first men whom he would see. he must 'hang out the signal' in 'galignani.' lake could never suspect its meaning, even were he to see it. there was but one risk in it, which was in the coarse perfidy of mark welder himself, who would desire no better fun, in some of his moods, than boasting to lake of the whole arrangement in jos. larkin's presence. however, on the whole, it was best to obey mark wylder's orders, and accordingly 'galignani' said: '_mr. smith will take notice that the other party is desirous to purchase, and becoming very pressing._' in the meantime lake was pushing his popularity among the gentry with remarkable industry, and with tolerable success. wealdon's two little visits explained perfectly the active urbanities of captain stanley lake. about three weeks after the appearance of the advertisement in 'galignani,' one of mark wylder's letters reached larkin. it was dated from geneva(!) and said:-'dear larkin,--i saw my friend _smith_ here in the cafã©, who has kept a bright look out, i dare say; and tells me that captain stanley lake is thinking of standing either for the county or for dollington. i will thank you to apprise him that i mean to take my choice first; and please hand him the enclosed notice open as you get it; and, if you please, to let him run his eye also over this note to you, as i have my own reasons for wishing him to know that you have seen it. 'this is all i will probably trouble you about elections for some months to come, or, at least, weeks. it being time enough when i go back, and no squalls a-head just now at home, though foreign politics look muggy enough. 'i have nothing particular at present about tenants or timber, except the three acres of oak behind farmer tanby's--have it took down. thomas jones and me went over it last september, and it ought to bring near 3,000_l_. i must have a good handful of money by may next. 'yours, my dear larkin, 'very truly, 'mark wylder.' folded in this was a thin slip of foreign paper, on which were traced these lines:-'_private._ 'dear larkin,--don't funk the interview with the beast lake--a hyaena has no pluck in him. when he reads what i send him by your hand, he'll be as mild as you please. parkes must act for me as usual--no bluster about giving up. lake's afraid of yours, 'm. w.' within was what he called his 'notice' to stanley lake, and it was thus conceived:-'_private._ 'dear lake--i understand you are trying to make all safe for next election in dollington or the county. now, understand at once, that _i won't permit that_. there is not a country gentleman on the grand jury who is not your superior; and there is no extremity i will not make you feel--and you know what i mean--if you dare despise this first and not unfriendly warning. 'yours truly, 'mark wylder.' now there certainly was need of wylder's assurance that nothing unpleasant should happen to the conscious bearer of such a message to an officer and a gentleman. jos. larkin did not like it. still there was a confidence in his own conciliatory manners and exquisite tact. something, too, might be learned by noting lake's looks, demeanour, and language under this direct communication from the man to whom his relations were so mysterious. larkin looked at his watch; it was about the hour when he was likely to find lake in his study. the attorney withdrew the little private enclosure, and slipt it, with a brief endorsement, into the neat sheaf of wylder's letters, all similarly noted, and so locked it up in the iron safe. he intended being perfectly ingenuous with lake, and showing him that he had 'no secrets--no concealments--all open as the day'--by producing the letter in which the 'notice' was enclosed, and submitting it for captain lake's perusal. when lawyer larkin reached the dim chamber, with the dutch tapestries, where he had for a little while to await captain lake's leisure, he began to anticipate the scene now so immediately impending more uncomfortably than before. the 'notice' was, indeed, so outrageous in its spirit, and so intolerable in its language, that, knowing something of stanley's wild and truculent temper, he began to feel a little nervous about the explosion he was about to provoke. the brandon connection, one way or other, was worth to the attorney in hard cash between five and six hundred a-year. in influence, and what is termed 'position,' it was, of course, worth a great deal more. it would be a very serious blow to lose this. he did not, he hoped, care for money more than a good man ought; but such a loss, he would say, he could not afford. precisely the same, however, was to be said of his connection with mark wylder; and in fact, of late years, mr. jos. larkin, of the lodge, had begun to put by money so fast that he was growing rapidly to be a very considerable man indeed. 'everything,' as he said, 'was doing very nicely;' and it would be a deplorable thing to mar, by any untoward act, this pilgrim's quiet and prosperous progress. in this stage of his reverie he was interrupted by a tall, powdered footman, in the brandon livery, who came respectfully to announce that his master desired to see mr. larkin. larkin's soul sneered at this piece of state. why could he not put his head in at the door and call him? but still i think it impressed him, and that, diplomatically, captain lake was in the right to environ himself with the ceremonial of a lord of brandon. 'well, larkin, how d'ye do? anything about raikes's lease?' said the great captain lake, rising from behind his desk, with his accustomed smile, and extending his gentlemanlike hand. 'no, sir--nothing, captain lake. he has not come, and i don't think we should show any anxiety about it,' replied the attorney, taking the captain's thin hand rather deferentially. 'i've had--a--such a letter from my--my client, mr. mark wylder. he writes in a violent passion, and i'm really placed in a most disagreeable position.' 'won't you sit down?' 'a--thanks--a--well i thought, on the whole, having received the letter and the enclosure, which i must say very much surprises me--very much _indeed_.' and larkin looked reprovingly on an imaginary mark wylder, and shook his head a good deal. 'he has not appointed another man of business?' 'oh, dear, no,' said larkin, quickly, with a faint, supercilious smile. 'no, nothing of that kind. the thing--in fact, there has been some gossiping fellow. do you happen to know a person at all versed in gylingden matters--or, perhaps, a member of your club--named smith?' 'smith? i don't, i think, recollect any particular smith, just at this moment. and what is smith doing or saying?' 'why, he has been talking over election matters. it seems wylder--mr. wylder--has met him in geneva, from whence he dates; and he says--he says--oh, here's the letter, and you'll see it all there.' he handed it to lake, and kept his eye on him while he read it. when he saw that lake, who bit his lip during the perusal, had come to the end, by his glancing up again at the date, larkin murmured-'something, you see, has gone wrong with him. i can't account for the temper otherwise--so violent.' 'quite so,' said lake, quietly; 'and where is the notice he speaks of here?' 'why, really, captain lake, i did not very well know, it _is such_ a production--i could not say whether you would wish it presented; and in any case you will do me the justice to understand that i, for my part--i really don't know how to speak of it. 'quite so,' repeated lake, softly, taking the thin, neatly folded piece of paper which larkin, with a sad inclination of his body, handed to him. lake, under the 'lawyer's' small, vigilant eyes, quietly read mark wylder's awful threatenings through, twice over, and larkin was not quite sure whether there was any change of countenance to speak of as he did so. 'this is dated the 29th,' said lake, in the same quiet tone; 'perhaps you will be so good as to write a line across it, stating the date of your handing it to me.' 'i--of course--i can see no objection. i may mention, i suppose, that i do so at your request.' and larkin made a neat little endorsement to that effect, and he felt relieved. the hyaena certainly was not showing fight. 'and now, mr. larkin, you'll admit, i think, that i've exhibited no ill-temper, much less violence, under the provocation of that note.' 'certainly; none whatever, captain lake.' 'and you will therefore perceive that whatever i now say, speaking in cool blood, i am not likely to recede from.' lawyer larkin bowed. 'and may i particularly ask that you will so attend to what i am about to say, as to be able to make a note of it for mr. welder's consideration?' 'certainly, if you desire; but i wish to say that in this particular matter i beg it may be clearly understood that mr. wylder is in no respect more my client than you, captain lake, and that i merely act as a most reluctant messenger in the matter.' 'just so,' said captain lake. 'now, as to my thinking of representing either county or borough,' he resumed, after a little pause, holding mark wylder's 'notice' between his finger and thumb, and glancing at it from time to time, as a speaker might at his notes, 'i am just as well qualified as he in every respect; and if it lies between him and me, i will undoubtedly offer myself, and accompany my address with the publication of this precious document which he calls his notice--the composition, in all respects, of a ruffian--and which will inspire every gentleman who reads it with disgust, abhorrence, and contempt. his threat i don't understand. i despise his machinations. i defy him utterly; and the time is coming when, in spite of his manoeuvring, i'll drive him into a corner and pin him to the wall. he very well knows that flitting and skulking from place to place, like an escaped convict, he is safe in writing what insults he pleases through the post. i can't tell how or where to find him. he is not only no gentleman, but no man--a coward as well as a ruffian. but his game of hide-and-seek cannot go on for ever; and when next i can lay my hand upon him, i'll make him eat that paper on his knees, and place my heel upon his neck.' the peroration of this peculiar invective was emphasised by an oath, at which the half-dozen short grizzled hairs that surmounted the top of mr. jos. larkin's shining bald head no doubt stood up in silent appeal. the attorney was standing during this sample of lake's parliamentary rhetoric a little flushed, for he did not know the moment when a blue flicker from the rhetorical thunder-storm might splinter his own bald head, and for ever end his connection with brandon. there was a silence, during which pale captain lake locked up mark wylder's warning, and the attorney twice cleared his voice. 'i need hardly say, captain lake, how i feel in this business. i----' 'quite so,' said the captain, in his soft low tones. 'i assure you i altogether acquit you of sympathy with any thing so utterly ruffianly,' and he took the hand of the relieved attorney with a friendly condescension. 'the only compensation i exact for your involuntary part in the matter is that you distinctly convey the tenor of my language to mr. wylder, on the first occasion on which he affords you an opportunity of communicating with him. and as to my ever again acting as his trustee;--though, yes, i forgot'--he made a sudden pause, and was lost for a minute in annoyed reflection--'yes, i must for a while. it can't last very long; he _must_ return soon, and i can't well refuse to act until at least some other arrangement is made. there are quite other persons and i can't allow them to starve.' so saying, he rose, with his peculiar smile, and extended his hand to signify that the conference was at an end. 'and i suppose,' he said, 'we are to regard this little conversation, for the present, as confidential?' 'certainly, captain lake, and permit me to say that i fully appreciate the just and liberal construction which you have placed upon my conduct--a construction which a party less candid and honourably-minded than yourself might have failed to favour me with.' and with this pretty speech larkin took his hat, and gracefully withdrew. chapter xlviii. in which i go to brandon, and see an old acquaintance in the tapestry room. to my surprise, a large letter, bearing the gylingden postmark, and with a seal as large as a florin, showing, had i examined the heraldry, the brandon arms with the lake bearings quartered thereon, and proving to be a very earnest invitation from stanley lake, found me in london just about this time. i paused, i was doubtful about accepting it, for the business of the season was just about to commence in earnest, and the country had not yet assumed its charms. but i now know very well that from the first it was quite settled that down i should go. i was too curious to see the bride in her new relations, and to observe something of the conjugal administration of lake, to allow anything seriously to stand in the way of my proposed trip. there was a postscript to lake's letter which might have opened my eyes as to the motives of this pressing invitation, which i pleased myself by thinking, though penned by captain lake, came in reality from his beautiful young bride. this small appendix was thus conceived:-'p.s.--tom wealdon, as usual, deep in elections, under the rose, begs you kindly to bring down whatever you think to be the best book or books on the subject, and he will remit to your bookseller. order them in his name, but bring them down with you.' so i was a second time going down to brandon as honorary counsel, without knowing it. my invitations, i fear, were obtained, if not under false pretences, at least upon false estimates, and the laity rated my legal lore too highly. i reached brandon rather late. the bride had retired for the night. i had a very late dinner--in fact a supper--in the parlour. lake sat with me chatting, rather cleverly, not pleasantly. wealdon was at brandon about sessions business, and as usual full of election stratagems and calculations. stanley volunteered to assure me he had not the faintest idea of looking for a constituency. i really believe--and at this distance of time i may use strong language in a historical sense--that captain lake was the greatest liar i ever encountered with. he seemed to do it without a purpose--by instinct, or on principle--and would contradict himself solemnly twice or thrice in a week, without seeming to perceive it. i dare say he lied always, and about everything. but it was in matters of some moment that one perceived it. what object could he gain, for instance, by the fib he had just told me? on second thoughts this night he coolly apprised me that he _had_ some idea of sounding the electors. so, my meal ended, we went into the tapestry room where, the night being sharp, a pleasant bit of fire burned in the grate, and wealdon greeted me. my journey, though by rail, and as easy as that of the persian gentleman who skimmed the air, seated on a piece of carpet, predisposed me to sleep. such volumes of fine and various country air, and such an eight hours' procession of all sorts of natural pictures are not traversed without effect. sitting in my well-stuffed chair, my elbows on the cushioned arms, the conversation of lake and the town clerk now and then grew faint, and their faces faded away, and little 'fyttes' and fragments of those light and pleasant dreams, like fairy tales, which visit such stolen naps, superseded with their picturesque and musical illusions the realities and recollections of life. once or twice a nod a little too deep or sudden called me up. but lake was busy about the dollington constituency, and the town clerk's bluff face was serious and thoughtful. it was the old question about rogers, the brewer, and whether lord adleston and sir william could not get him; or else it had gone on to the great railway contractor, dobbs, and the question how many votes his influence was really worth; and, somehow, i never got very far into the pros and cons of these discussions, which soon subsided into the fairy tale i have mentioned, and that sweet perpendicular sleep--all the sweeter, like everything else, for being contraband and irregular. for one bout--i fancy a good deal longer than the others--my nap was much sounder than before, and i opened my eyes at last with the shudder and half horror that accompany an awakening from a general chill--a dismal and frightened sensation. i was facing a door about twenty feet distant, which exactly as i opened my eyes, turned slowly on its hinges, and the figure of uncle lorne, in his loose flannel habiliments, ineffaceably traced upon my memory, like every other detail of that ill-omened apparition, glided into the room, and crossing the thick carpet with long, soft steps, passed near me, looking upon me with a malign sort of curiosity for some two or three seconds, and sat down by the declining fire, with a side-long glance still fixed upon me. i continued gazing on this figure with a dreadful incredulity, and the indistinct feeling that it must be an illusion--and that if i could only wake up completely, it would vanish. the fascination was disturbed by a noise at the other end of the room, and i saw lake standing close to him, and looking both angry and frightened. tom wealdon looking odd, too, was close at his elbow, and had his hand on lake's arm, like a man who would prevent violence. i do not know in the least what had passed before, but lake said-'how the devil did he come in?' 'hush!'was all that tom wealdon said, looking at the gaunt spectre with less of fear than inquisitiveness. 'what are you doing here, sir?' demanded lake, in his most unpleasant tones. 'prophesying,' answered the phantom. 'you had better write your prophecies in your room, sir--had not you?--and give them to the archbishop of canterbury to proclaim, when they are finished; we are busy here just now, and don't require revelations, if you please.' the old man lifted up his long lean finger, and turned on him with a smile which i hate even to remember. 'let him alone,' whispered the town clerk, in a significant whisper, 'don't cross him, and he'll not stay long.' '_you_'re here, a scribe,' murmured uncle lorne, looking upon tom wealdon. 'aye, sir, a scribe and a pharisee, a sadducee and a publican, and a priest, and a levite,' said the functionary, with a wink at lake. 'thomas wealdon, sir; happy to see you, sir, so well and strong, and likely to enlighten the religious world for many a day to come. it's a long time, sir, since i had the honour of seeing you; and i'm always, of course, at your command.' 'pshaw!' said lake, angrily. the town clerk pressed his arm with a significant side nod and a wink, which seemed to say, 'i understand him; can't you let me manage him?' the old man did not seem to hear what they said; but his tall figure rose up, and he extended the fingers of his left hand close to the candle for a few seconds, and then held them up to his eyes, gazing on his finger-tips, with a horrified sort of scrutiny, as if he saw signs and portents gathered there, like thomas aquinas' angels at the needles' points, and then the same cadaverous grin broke out over his features. 'mark wylder is in an evil plight,' said he. 'is he?' said lake, with a sly scoff, though he seemed to me a good deal scared. 'we hear no complaints, however, and fancy he must be tolerably comfortable notwithstanding.' 'you know where he is,' said uncle lorne. 'aye, in italy; everyone knows that,' answered lake. 'in italy,' said the old man, reflectively, as if trying to gather up his ideas, 'italy. oh! yes, vallombrosa--aye, italy, i know it well.' 'so do we, sir; thank you for the information,' said lake, who nevertheless appeared strangely uneasy. 'he has had a great tour to make. it is nearly accomplished now; when it is done, he will be like me, _humano major_. he has seen the places which you are yet to see.' 'nothing i should like better; particularly italy,' said lake. 'yes,' said uncle lorne, lifting up slowly a different finger at each name in his catalogue. 'first, lucus mortis; then terra tenebrosa; next, tartarus; after that, terra oblivionis; then herebus; then barathrum; then gehenna, and then stagium ignis.' 'of course,' acquiesced lake, with an ugly sneer, and a mock bow. 'and to think that all the white citizens were once men and women!' murmured uncle lorne, with a scowl. 'quite so,' whispered lake. 'i know where he is,' resumed the old man, with his finger on his long chin, and looking down upon the carpet. 'it would be very convenient if you would favour us with his address,' said stanley, with a gracious sneer. 'i know what became of him,' continued the oracle. 'you are more in his confidence than we are,' said lake. 'don't be frightened--but he's alive; i think they'll make him mad. it is a frightful plight. two angels buried him alive in vallombrosa by night; i saw it, standing among the lotus and hemlock. a negro came to me, a black clergyman with white eyes, and remained beside me; and the angels imprisoned mark; they put him on duty forty days and forty nights, with his ear to the river listening for voices; and when it was over we blessed them; and the clergyman walked with me a long while, to-and-fro, to-and-fro upon the earth, telling me the wonders of the abyss.' 'and is it from the abyss, sir, he writes his letters?' enquired the town clerk, with a wink at lake. 'yes, yes, very diligent; it behoves him; and his hair is always standing straight on his head for fear. but he'll be sent up again, at last, a thousand, a hundred, ten and one, black marble steps, and then it will be the other one's turn. so it was prophesied by the black magician.' 'i thought, sir, you mentioned just now he was a clergyman,' suggested mr. wealdon, who evidently enjoyed this wonderful yarn. 'clergyman and magician both, and the chief of the lying prophets with thick lips. he'll come here some night and see you,' said uncle lorne, looking with a cadaverous apathy on lake, who was gazing at him in return, with a sinister smile. 'maybe it was a vision, sir,' suggested the town clerk. 'yes, sir; a vision, maybe,' echoed the cavernous tones of the old man; 'but in the flesh or out of the flesh, i saw it.' 'you have had revelations, sir, i've heard,' said stanley's mocking voice. 'many,' said the seer; 'but a prophet is never honoured. we live in solitude and privations--the world hates us--they stone us--they cut us asunder, even when we are dead. feel me--i'm cold and white all over--i died too soon--i'd have had wings now only for that pistol. i'm as white as gehazi, except on my head, when that blood comes.' saying which, he rose abruptly, and with long jerking steps limped to the door, at which, i saw, in the shade, the face of a dark-featured man, looking gloomily in. when he reached the door uncle lorne suddenly stopped and faced us, with a countenance of wrath and fear, and threw up his arms in an attitude of denunciation, but said nothing. i thought for a moment the gigantic spectre was about to rush upon us in an access of frenzy; but whatever the impulse, it subsided--or was diverted by some new idea; his countenance changed, and he beckoned as if to some one in the corner of the room behind us, and smiled his dreadful smile, and so left the apartment. 'that d--d old madman is madder than ever,' said lake, in his fellest tones, looking steadfastly with his peculiar gaze upon the closed door. 'jermyn is with him, but he'll burn the house or murder some one yet. it's all d--d nonsense keeping him here--did you see him at the door?--he was on the point of assailing some of us. he ought to be in a madhouse.' 'he used to be very quiet,' said the town clerk, who knew all about him. 'oh! very quiet--yes, of course, very quiet, and quite harmless to people who don't live in the house with him, and see him but once in half-a-dozen years; but you can't persuade me it is quite so pleasant for those who happen to live under the same roof, and are liable to be intruded upon as we have been to-night every hour of their existence.' 'well, certainly it is not pleasant, especially for ladies,' admitted the town clerk. 'no, not pleasant--and i've quite made up my mind it sha'n't go on. it is too absurd, really, that such a monstrous thing should be enforced; i'll get a private act, next session, and regulate those absurd conditions in the will. the old fellow ought to be under restraint; and i rather think it would be better for himself that he were.' 'who is he?' i asked, speaking for the first time. 'i thought you had seen him before now,' said lake. 'so i have, but quite alone, and without ever learning who he was,' i answered. 'oh! he is the gentleman, julius, for whom in the will, under which we take, those very odd provisions are made--such as i believe no one but a wylder or a brandon would have dreamed of. it is an odd state of things to hold one's estate under condition of letting a madman wander about your house and place, making everybody in it uncomfortable and insecure and exposing him to the imminent risk of making away with himself, either by accident or design. i happen to know what mark wylder would have done--for he spoke very fiercely on the subject--perhaps he consulted you?' 'no.' 'no? well, he intended locking him quietly into the suite of three apartments, you know, at the far end of the old gallery, and giving him full command of the mulberry garden by the little private stair, and putting a good iron door to it; so that "my beloved brother, julius, at present afflicted in mind" (lake quoted the words of the will, with an unpleasant sneer), should have had his apartments and his pleasure grounds quite to himself.' 'and would that arrangement of mr. wylder's have satisfied the conditions of the will?' said the town clerk. 'i rather think, with proper precautions, it would. mark wylder was very shrewd, and would not have run himself into a fix,' answered lake. 'i don't know any man shrewder; he is, certainly.' and lake looked at us, as he added these last words, in turn, with a quick, suspicious glance, as if he had said something rash, and doubted whether we had observed it. after a little more talk, lake and the town clerk resumed their electioneering conference, and the lists of electors were passed under their scrutiny, name by name, like slides under the miscroscope. there is a great deal in nature, physical and moral, that had as well not be ascertained. it is better to take things on trust, with something of distance and indistinctness. what we gain in knowledge by scrutiny is sometimes paid for in a ghastly sort of disgust. it is marvellous in a small constituency of 300 average souls, what a queer moral result one of these business-like and narrow investigations which precede an election will furnish. how you find them rated and classified--what odd notes you make to them in the margin; and after the trenchant and rapid vivisection, what sinister scars and seams remain, and how gaunt and repulsive old acquaintances stand up from it. the town clerk knew the constituency of dollington at his fingers' ends; and stanley lake quietly enjoyed, as certain minds will, the nefarious and shabby metamorphosis which every now and then some familiar and respectable burgess underwent, in the spell of half-a-dozen dry sentences whispered in his ear; and all this minute information is trustworthy and quite without malice. i went to my bed-room, and secured the door, lest uncle lorne, or julius, should make me another midnight visit. so that mystery was cleared up. neither ghost nor spectral illusion, but flesh and blood--though in my mind there has always been a horror of a madman akin to the ghostly or demoniac. i do not know how late tom wealdon and stanley lake sat up over their lists; but i dare say they were in no hurry to leave them, for a dissolution was just then expected, and no time was to be lost. when i saw tom wealdon alone next day in the street of gylingden, he walked a little way with me, and, said tom, with a grave wink-'don't let the captain up there be hard on the poor old gentleman. he's quite harmless--he would not hurt a fly. i know all about him; for jack ford and i spent five weeks in the hall, about twelve years ago, when the family were away and thought the keeper was not kind to him. he's quite gentle, and sometimes he'd make you die o' laughing. he fancies, you know, he's a prophet; and says he's that old sir lorne brandon that shot himself in his bed-room. well, he is a rum one; and we used to draw him out--poor jack and me. i never laughed so much, i don't think, in the same time, before or since. but he's as innocent as a child--and you know them directions in the will is very strong; and they say jos. larkin does not like the captain a bit too well--and he has the will off, every word of it; and i think, if captain lake does not take care, he may get into trouble; and maybe it would not be amiss if you gave him a hint.' tom wealdon, indeed, was a good-natured fellow: and if he had had his way, i think the world would have gone smoothly enough with most people. chapter xlix. larcom, the butler, visits the attorney. now i may as well mention here an occurrence which, seeming very insignificant, has yet a bearing upon the current of this tale, and it is this. about four days after the receipt of the despatches to which the conference of captain lake and the attorney referred, there came a letter from the same prolific correspondent, dated 20th march, from genoa, which altogether puzzled mr. larkin. it commenced thus:-'genoa: 20th march. 'dear larkin,--i hope you did the three commissions all right. wealdon won't refuse, i reckon--but don't let lake guess what the 150_l._ is for. pay martin for the job when finished; it is under 60_l._. mind; and get it looked at first.' there was a great deal more, but these were the passages which perplexed larkin. he unlocked the iron safe, and took out the sheaf of wylder's letters, and conned the last one over very carefully. 'why,' said he, holding the text before his eyes in one hand and with the fingers of the other touching the top of his bald forehead, 'tom wealdon is not once mentioned in this, nor in any of them; and this palpably refers to some direction. and 150_l._?--no such sum has been mentioned. and what is this job of martin's? is it martin of the china kilns, or martin of the bank? that, too, plainly refers to a former letter--not a word of the sort. this is very odd indeed.' larkin's finger-tips descended over his eyebrow, and scratched in a miniature way there for a few seconds, and then his large long hand descended further to his chin, and his under-lip was, as usual in deep thought, fondled and pinched between his finger and thumb. 'there has plainly been a letter lost, manifestly. i never knew anything wrong in this gylingden office. driver has been always correct; but it is hard to know any man for certain in this world. i don't think the captain would venture anything so awfully hazardous. i really can't suspect so monstrous a thing; but, _unquestionably_, a letter _has_ been lost--and who's to _take_ it?' larkin made a fuller endorsement than usual on this particular letter, and ruminated over the correspondence a good while, with his lip between his finger and thumb, and a shadow on his face, before he replaced it in its iron drawer. 'it is not a thing to be passed over,' murmured the attorney, who had come to a decision as to the first step to be taken, and he thought with a qualm of the effect of one of wylder's confidential notes getting into captain lake's hands. while he was buttoning his walking boots, with his foot on the chair before the fire, a tap at his study door surprised him. a hurried glance on the table satisfying him that no secret paper or despatch lay there, he called-'come in.' and mr. larcom, the grave butler of brandon, wearing outside his portly person a black garment then known as a 'zephyr,' a white choker, and black trousers, and well polished, but rather splay shoes, and, on the whole, his fat and serious aspect considered, being capable of being mistaken for a church dignitary, or at least for an eminent undertaker, entered the room with a solemn and gentlemanlike reverence. 'oh, mr. larcom! a message, or business?' said mr. larkin, urbanely. 'not a message, sir; only an enquiry about them few shares,' answered mr. larcom, with another serene reverence, and remaining standing, hat in hand, at the door. 'oh, yes; and how do you do, mr. larcom? quite well, i trust. yes--about the naunton junction. well, i'm happy to tell you--but pray take a chair--that i have succeeded, and the directors have allotted you five shares; and it's your own fault if you don't make two ten-and-six a share. the chowsleys are up to six and a-half, i see here,' and he pointed to the 'times.' mr. larcom's fat face smiled, in spite of his endeavour to keep it under. it was part of his business to look always grave, and he coughed, and recovered his gravity. 'i'm very thankful, sir,' said mr. larcom, 'very.' 'but do sit down, mr. larcom--pray do,' said the attorney, who was very gracious to larcom. 'you'll get the scrip, you know, on executing, but the shares are allotted. they sent the notice for you here. and--and how are the family at brandon--all well, i trust?' mr. larcom blew his nose. 'all, sir, well.' 'and--and let me give you a glass of sherry, mr. larcom, after your walk. i can't compete with the _brandon_ sherry, mr. larcom. wonderful fine wine that!--but still i'm told this is not a _bad_ wine notwithstanding.' larcom received it with grave gratitude, and sipped it, and spoke respectfully of it. 'and--and any news in that quarter of mr. mark wylder--any--any _surmise_? i--you know--i'm interested for all parties.' 'well, sir, of mr. wylder, i can't say as i know no more than he's been a subjek of much unpleasant feelin', which i should say there has been a great deal of angry talk since i last saw you, sir, between miss lake and the capting.' 'ah, yes, you mentioned something of the kind; and your own impression, that captain lake, which i trust may turn out to be so, knows where mr. mark wylder is at present staying.' 'i much misdoubt, sir, it won't turn out to be no good story for no one,' said mr. larcom, in a low and sad tone, and with a long shake of his head. 'no good story--hey? how do you mean, larcom?' 'well, sir, i know you won't mention me, mr. larkin.' 'certainly not--go on.' 'when people gets hot a-talking they won't mind a body comin' in; and that's how the capting and miss rachel lake they carried on their dispute like, though me coming into the room.' 'just so; and what do you found your opinion about mr. mark wylder on?' 'well, sir, i could not hear more than a word now and a sentince again; and pickin' what meaning i could out of what miss lake said, and the capting could not deny, i do suspeck, sir, most serious, as how they have put mr. mark wylder into a mad-house; and that's how i think it's gone with him; an' you'll never see him out again if the capting has his will.' 'do you mean to say you actually think he's shut up in a madhouse at this moment?' demanded the attorney; his little pink eyes opened quite round, and his lank cheeks and tall forehead flushed, at the rush of wild ideas that whirred round him, like a covey of birds at the startling suggestion. the butler nodded gloomily. larkin continued to stare on him in silence, with his round eyes, for some seconds after. 'in a _mad_-house! pooh, pooh! incredible! pooh! impossible--_quite_ impossible. did either miss lake or the captain use the word mad-house?' 'well, no.' or any other word--lunatic asylum, or a--bedlam, or--or _any_ other word meaning the same thing?' 'well, i can't say, sir, as i remember; but i rayther think not. i only know for certain, i took it so; and i do believe as how mr. mark wylder is confined in a mad-house, and the captain knows all about it, and won't do nothing to get him out.' 'h'm--very odd--very strange; but it is only from the general tenor of what passed, by a sort of guess work, you have arrived at that conclusion?' larcom assented. 'well, mr. larcom, i think you have been led into an erroneous conclusion. indeed, i may mention i have reason to think so--in fact, to _know_ that such is the case. what you mention to me, you know, as a friend of the family, and holding, as i do, a confidential position--in fact, a _very_ confidential one--alike in relation to mr. wylder and to the family of brandon hall, is of course sacred; and anything that comes from you, mr. larcom, is never heard in connection with your name beyond these walls. and let me add, it strikes me as highly important, both in the interests of the leading individuals in this unpleasant business, and also as pertaining to your own comfort and security, that you should carefully avoid communicating what you have just mentioned to any other party. you understand?' larcom did understand perfectly, and so this little visit ended. mr. larkin took a turn or two up and down the room thinking. he stopped, with his fingertips to his eyebrow, and thought more. then he took another turn, and stopped again, and threw back his head, and gazed for a while on the ceiling, and then he stood for a time at the window, with his lip between his finger and thumb. no, it was a mistake; it could not be. it was mark wylder's penmanship--he could swear to it. there was no trace of madness in his letters, nor of restraint. it was not possible even that he was wandering from place to place under the coercion of a couple of keepers. no; wylder was an energetic and somewhat violent person, with high animal courage, and would be sure to blow up and break through any such machination. no, no; with mark wylder it was quite out of the question--altogether visionary and impracticable. persons like larcom do make such absurd blunders, and so misapprehend the conversation of educated people. nothwithstanding all which, there remained in his mind an image of mark wylder, in the straw and darkness of a solitary continental mad-house--squalid, neglected, and becoming gradually that which he was said to be. and he always shaped him somehow after the outlines of a grizzly print he remembered in his boyish days, of a maniac chained in a sicilian cell, grovelling under the lash of a half-seen gaoler, and with his teeth buried in his own arm. quite impossible! mark wylder was the last man in the world to submit to physical coercion. the idea, besides, could not be reconciled with the facts of the case. it was all a blundering chimera. mr. larkin walked down direct to gylingden, and paid a rather awful visit to mr. driver, of the post-office. a foreign letter, addressed to him, had most positively been lost. he had called to mention the circumstance, lest mr. driver should be taken by surprise by official investigation. was it possible that the letter had been sent by mistake to brandon--to captain lake? lake and larkin, you know, might be mistaken. at all events, it would be well to make your clerks recollect themselves. (mr. larkin knew that driver's 'clerks' were his daughters.) it is not easy to meet with a young fellow that is quite honest. but if they knew that they would be subjected to a sifting examination on oath, on the arrival of the commissioner, they might possibly prefer finding the letter, in which case there would be no more about it. mr. driver knew him (mr. larkin), and he might tell his young men if they got the letter for him they should hear no more of it. the people of gylingden knew very well that, when the rat-like glitter twinkled in mr. larkin's eyes, and the shadow came over his long face, there was mischief brewing. chapter l. new lights. a few days later 'jos. larkin, esq., the lodge, gylingden,' received from london a printed form, duly filled in, and with the official signature attached, informing him that enquiry having been instituted in consequence of his letter, no result had been obtained. the hiatus in his correspondence caused mr. larkin extreme uneasiness. he had a profound distrust of captain lake. in fact, he thought him capable of everything. and if there should turn out to be anything not quite straight going on at the post-office of gylingden--hitherto an unimpeached institution--he had no doubt whatsoever that that dark and sinuous spirit was at the bottom of it. still it was too prodigious, and too hazardous to be probable; but the captain had no sort of principle, and a desperately strong head. there was not, indeed, when they met yesterday, the least change or consciousness in the captain's manner. that, in another man, would have indicated something; but stanley lake was so deep--such a mask--in him it meant nothing. mr. larkin's next step was to apply for a commissioner to come down and investigate. but before he had time to take this step, an occurrence took place to arrest his proceedings. it was the receipt of a foreign letter, of which the following is an exact copy:-'venice: march 28. 'dear larkin,--i read a rumour of a dissolution during the recess. keep a bright look out. here's three things for you:-'1. try and get tom wealdon. he is a _sina que non_. [mark's latin was sailor-like.] '2. cash the enclosed order for 150_l._ more, for _the same stake_. '3. tell martin the tiles i saw in august last will answer for the cow-house; and let him put them down at once. 'in haste, 'yours truly, 'm. wylder.' enclosed was an order on lake for 150_l._ when larkin got this he was in his study. 'why--why--this--_positively_ this is the letter. _how's_ this?' and mr. larkin looked as much scared and astonished as if a spirit rose up before him. '_this_ is the letter--aye, this _is_ the letter.' he repeated this from time to time as he turned it over and looked at the postmark, and back again at the letter, and looked up at the date, and down at the signature, and read the note through. 'yes, this is it--here it is--this is it. there's no doubt whatever--this is the letter referred to in the last--wealdon, martin, and the 150_l._' and the attorney took out his keys, looking pale and stern, like a man about to open the door upon a horror, and unlocked his safe, and took out the oft-consulted and familiar series--letters tied up and bearing the label, 'mark wylder, esq.' 'aye, here it is, genoa, 20th, and this, venice, 28th. yes, the postmarks correspond; yet the letter from genoa, dated 20th, refers back to the letter from venice, written eight days later! the-well--i can't comprehend--how in the name of--how in the name----' he placed the two letters on his desk, and read them over, and up and down, and pondered darkly over them. 'it is mark wylder's writing--i'll swear to it. what on earth _can_ he mean? he can't possibly want to confuse us upon dates, as well as places, because that would simply render his letters, for purposes of business, nugatory, and there are many things he wishes attended to.' jos. larkin rose from his desk, ruminating, and went to the window, and placed the letter against the pane. i don't think he had any definite motive in doing this, but something struck him that he had not remarked before. there was something different in the quality of the ink that wrote the number of the date, 28th, from that used in the rest of the letter. 'what can that mean?' muttered larkin, with a sort of gasp at his discovery; and shading his eyes with his hand, he scrutinised the numerals--'28th,' again;--'a totally different ink! he took the previous letter, frowned on it fiercely from his rat-like eyes, and then with an ejaculation, as like an oath as so good a man could utter, he exclaimed, 'i have it!' then came a pause, and he said-'both alike!--blanks left when the letters were written, and the dates filled in afterward--_not_ the same hand i _think_--no, _not_ the same--_positively_ a different hand.' then jos. larkin examined these mysterious epistles once more. 'there may be something in what larcom said--a very great deal, possibly. if he was shut up somewhere they could make him write a set of these letters off at a sitting, and send them from place to place to be posted, to make us think he was travelling, and prevent our finding where they keep him. here it is plain there was a slip in posting the wrong one first.' trepanned, kidnapped, hid away in the crypts of some remote mad-house--reduced to submission by privation and misery--a case as desperate as that of a prisoner in the inquisition. what could be the motive for this elaborate and hideous fraud? would it not be a more convenient course, as well as more merciful to put him to death? the crime would hardly be greater. why should he be retained in that ghastly existence? well, if stanley lake were at the bottom of this horrid conspiracy, _he_ certainly had a motive in clearing the field of his rival. and then--for the attorney had all the family settlements present to his mind--there was this clear motive for prolonging his life, that by the slip in the will under which dorcas brandon inherited, the bulk of her estate would terminate with the life of mark wylder; and this other motive too existed for retaining him in the house of bondage, that by preventing his marriage, and his having a family to succeed him, the reversion of his brother william was reduced to a certainty, and would become a magnificent investment for stanley lake whenever he might choose to purchase. upon that purchase, however, the good attorney had cast his eye. he thought he now began to discern the outlines of a gigantic and symmetrical villainy emerging through the fog. if this theory were right, william wylder's reversion was certain to take effect; and it was exasperating that the native craft and daring of this inexperienced captain should forestall so accomplished a man of business as jos. larkin. the attorney began to hate stanley lake as none but a man of that stamp can hate the person who mars a scheme of aggrandisement. but what was he to do exactly? if the captain had his eye on the reversion, it would require nice navigation to carry his plan successfully through. on the other hand, it was quite possible that wylder was a free agent, and yet, for purposes of secrecy, employing another person to post his letters at various continental towns; and this blunder might just as well have happened in this case, as in any other that supposed the same machinery. on the whole, then, it was a difficult question. but there were larcom's conclusions about the mad-house to throw into the balance. and though, as respected mark wylder, they were grisly, the attorney would not have been sorry to be quite sure that they were sound. what he most needed were ascertained data. with these his opportunities were immense. mr. larkin eyed the wylder correspondence now with a sort of reverence that was new to him. there was something supernatural and talismanic in the mystery. the sheaf of letters lay before him on the table, like cornelius agrippa's 'bloody book'--a thing to conjure with. what prodigies might it not accomplish for its happy possessor, if only he could read it aright, and command the spirits which its spells might call up before him? yes, it was a stupendous secret. who knew to what it might conduct? there was a shade of guilt in his tamperings with it, akin to the black art, which he felt without acknowledging. this little parcel of letters was, in its evil way, a holy thing. while it lay on the table, the room became the holy of holies in his dark religion; and the lank attorney, with tall bald head, shaded face, and hungry dangerous eyes, a priest or a magician. the attorney quietly bolted his study door, and stood erect, with his hands in his pockets, looking sternly down on the letters. then he took a little gazetteer off a tiny shelf near the bell-rope, where was a railway guide, an english dictionary, a french ditto, and a bible, and with his sharp penknife he deftly sliced from its place in the work of reference the folded map of europe. it was destined to illustrate the correspondence, and larkin sat down before it and surveyed, with a solemn stare, the wide scene of mark wylder's operations, as a general would the theatre of his rival's strategy. referring to the letters as he proceeded, with a sharp pen in red ink, he made his natty little note upon each town or capital in succession, from which wylder had dated a despatch. boulogne, for instance, a neat little red cross over the town, and beneath, '12th october, 1854;' brighton, ditto, '20th october, 1854;' paris, ditto, '17th november, 1854;' marseilles, ditto, '26th november, 1854;' frankfurt, ditto, '22nd february, 1855;' geneva, ditto, '10th march, 1855;' genoa, ditto, '20th march, 1855;' venice, ditto, '28th march, 1855.' i may here mention that in the preceding notation i have marked the days and months exactly, but the years fancifully. i don't think that mr. larkin had read the 'wandering jew.' he had no great taste for works of fancy. if he had he might have been reminded, as he looked down upon the wild field of tactics just noted by his pen, of that globe similarly starred all over with little red crosses, which m. rodin was wont to consult. now he was going into this business as he did into others, methodically. he, therefore, read what his gazetteer had to say about these towns and cities, standing, for better light, at the window. but though, the type being small, his eyes were more pink than before, he was nothing wiser, the information being of that niggardly historical and statistical kind which availed nothing in his present scrutiny. he would get murray's handbooks, and all sorts of works--he was determined to read it up. he was going into this as into a great speculative case, in which he had a heavy stake, with all his activity, craft, and unscrupulousness. it might be the making of him. his treasure--his oracle--his book of power, the labelled parcel of wylder's letters, with the annotated map folded beside them--he replaced in their red-taped ligature in his iron safe, and with chubb's key in his pocket, took his hat and cane--the day was fine--and walked forth for brandon and the captain's study. a pleasant day, a light air, a frosty sun. on the green the vicar, with his pretty boy by the hand, passed him, not a hundred yards off, like a ship at sea. there was a waving of hands, and smiles, and a shouted 'beautiful day.' 'what a position that poor fellow has got himself into!' good mr. larkin thought, with a shrug of compassion, to himself. 'that reversion! why it's nothing--i really don't know why i think about it at all. if it were offered me this moment, positively i would not have it. anything certain--_any_ thing would be better.' little fairy grew grave, in spite of the attorney's smiles, whenever he saw him. he was now saying--as holding his 'wapsie's' hand, he capered round in front, looking up in his face-'why has mr. larkin no teeth when he laughs? is he ever angry when he laughs--is he, wapsie--oh, wapsie, _is_ he? would you let him whip me, if i was naughty? i don't like him. why does mamma say he is a good man, wapsie?' 'because, little man, he _is_ a good man,' said the vicar, recalled by the impiety of the question. 'the best friend that wapsie ever met with in his life.' 'but you would not give me to him, wapsie?' 'give you, darling! no--to no one but to god, my little man; for richer, for poorer, you're my own--your wapsie's little man.' and he lifted him up, and carried him in his arms against his loving heart, and the water stood in his eyes, as he laughed fondly into that pretty face. but 'little man' by this time was struggling to get down and give chase to a crow grubbing near them for dainties, with a muddy beak, and 'wapsie's' eyes followed, smiling, the wild vagaries of his little fairy. in the mean time mr. larkin had got among the noble trees of brandon, and was approaching the lordly front of the hall. his mind was busy. he had not very much fact to go upon. his theories were built chiefly of vapour, and every changing light or breath, therefore, altered their colouring and outlines. 'maybe mark wylder is mad, and wandering in charge of a keeper; maybe he is in some mad doctor's house, and _not_ mad; maybe in england, and there writes these letters which are sent from one continental town to another to be posted, and thus the appearance of locomotion is kept up. perhaps he has been inveigled into the hands of ruffians, and is living as it were under the vault of an inquisition, and compelled to write what ever his gaolers dictate. maybe he writes not under physical but moral coercion. be the fact how it may, those lakes, brother and sister, have a guilty knowledge of the affair. 'i will be firm--it is my duty to clear this matter up, if i can--we must do as we would be done by.' chapter li. a fracas in the library. it was still early in the day. larcom received him gravely in the hall. captain lake was at home, as usual, up to one o'clock in the library--the most diligent administrator that brandon had perhaps ever known. 'well, larkin--letters, letters perpetually, you see. quite well, i hope? won't you sit down--no bad news? you look rather melancholy. your other client is not ill--nothing sad about mark wylder, i hope?' 'no--nothing sad, captain lake--nothing--but a good deal that is strange.' 'oh, is there?' said lake, in his soft tones, leaning forward in his easy chair, and looking on the shining points of his boots. 'i have found out a thing, captain lake, which will no doubt interest _you_ as much as it does me. it will lead, i think, to a much more exact _guess_ about mr. mark wylder.' there was a sturdy emphasis in the attorney's speech which was far from usual, and indicated something. 'oh! you have? may one hear it?' said lake, in the same silken tone, and looking down, as before, on his boots. 'i've discovered something about his letters,' said the attorney, and paused. 'satisfactory, i hope?' said lake as before. 'foul play, sir.' 'foul play--is there? what is he doing now?' said lake in the same languid way, his elbows on the arms of his chair, stooping forward, and looking serenely on the floor, like a man who is tired of his work, and enjoys his respite. 'why, captain lake, the matter is this--it amounts, in fact, to _fraud_. it is plain that the letters are written in batches--several at a time--and committed to some one to carry from town to town, and post, _having previously filled in dates_ to make them _correspond_ with the exact period of posting them.' the attorney's searching gaze was fixed on the captain, as he said this, with all the significance consistent with civility; but he could not observe the slightest indication of change. i dare say the captain felt his gaze upon him, and he undoubtedly heard his emphasis, but he plainly did not take either to himself. 'indeed! that is very odd,' said captain lake. 'very odd;' echoed the attorney. it struck mr. larkin that his gallant friend was a little overacting, and showing perhaps less interest in the discovery than was strictly natural. 'but how can you show it?' said lake with a slight yawn. 'wylder _is_ such a fellow. i don't the least pretend to understand him. it may be a freak of his.' 'i don't think, captain lake, that is exactly a possible solution here. i don't think, sir, he would write two letters, one referring back to the other, at the same time, and post and date the latter more than a week _before_ the other.' 'oh!' said lake, quietly, for the first time exhibiting a slight change of countenance, and looking peevish and excited; yes, that certainly does look very oddly.' 'and i think, captain lake, it behoves us to leave no stone unturned to sift this matter to the bottom.' 'with what particular purpose, i don't quite see,' said lake. 'don't you think possibly mark wylder might think us very impertinent?' 'i think, captain lake, on the contrary, we might be doing that gentleman the only service he is capable of receiving, and i know we should be doing something toward tracing and exposing the machinations of a conspiracy.' 'a conspiracy! i did not quite see your meaning. then, you really think there is a conspiracy--formed _by_ him or _against_ him, which?' '_against_ him, captain lake. did the same idea never strike you?' 'not, i think, that i can recollect.' 'in none of your conversations upon the subject with--with members of your family?' continued the attorney with a grave significance. 'i say, sir, i don't recollect,' said lake, glaring for an instant in his face very savagely. 'and it seems to me, that sitting here, you fancy yourself examining some vagrant or poacher at gylingden sessions. and pray, sir, have you no evidence in the letters you speak of but the insertion of dates, and the posting them in inverse order, to lead you to that strong conclusion?' 'none, as supplied by the letters themselves,' answered larkin, a little doggedly, 'and i venture to think that is rather strong.' 'quite so, to a mind like yours,' said lake, with a faint gleam of his unpleasant smile thrown upon the floor, 'but other men don't see it; and i hope, at all events, there's a likelihood that mark wylder will soon return and look after his own business--i'm quite tired of it, and of' (he was going to say _you_)--'of everything connected with it.' 'this delay is attended with more serious mischief. the vicar, his brother, had a promise of money from him, and is disappointed--in very great embarrassments; and, in fact, were it not for some temporary assistance, which i may mention--although i don't speak of such things--i afforded him myself, he must have been ruined.' 'it is very sad,' said lake; 'but he ought not to have married without an income.' 'very true, captain lake--there's no defending that--it was wrong, but the retribution is terrible,' and the righteous man shook his tall head. 'don't you think he might take steps to relieve himself considerably?' 'i don't see it, captain lake,' said the attorney, sadly and drily. 'well, you know best; but are not there resources?' 'i don't see, captain lake, what you point at.' 'i'll give him something for his reversion, if he chooses, and make him comfortable for his life.' the attorney, somehow, didn't seem to take kindly to this proposition. we know he had imagined for himself some little flirtation on this behalf, and cherished a secret _tendre_ for the same reversion. perhaps he had other plans, too. at all events it flashed the same suspicion of lake upon his mind again; and he said-'i don't know, sir, that the reverend mr. wylder would entertain anything in the nature of a sale of his reversion. i rather think the contrary. i don't think his friends would advise it.' 'and why not? it was never more than a contingency; and now they say mark wylder is married, and has children; they tell me he was seen at ancona?' said lake tranquilly. '_they_ tell you! who are _they?_' said the attorney, and his dove's eyes were gone again, and the rat's eyes unequivocally looking out of the small pink lids. 'they--they,' repeated captain lake. 'why, of course, sir, i use the word in its usual sense--that is, there was a rumour when i was last in town, and i really forget who told me. some one, two, or three, perhaps.' 'do you think it's true, sir?' persisted mr. larkin. 'no, sir, i don't,' said captain lake, fixing his eyes for a moment with a frank stare on the attorney's face; 'but it is quite possible it _may_ be true.' 'if it _is_, you know, sir,' said jos. larkin, 'the reversion would be a bad purchase at a halfpenny. i don't believe it either, sir,' resumed the attorney, after a little interval; 'and i could not advise the party you named, sir, to sell his remainder for a song.' 'you'll advise as you please, sir, and no doubt not without sufficient reason,' retorted captain lake. there was a suspicion of a sneer--not in his countenance, not in his tone, not necessarily in his words--but somehow a suspicion, which stung the attorney like a certainty, and a pinkish flush tinged his forehead. perhaps mr. larkin had not yet formed any distinct plans, and was really in considerable dubitation. but as we know, perceiving that the situation of affairs, like all uncertain conjunctures, offered manifestly an opportunity for speculation, he was, perhaps, desirous, like our old friend, sindbad, of that gleam of light which might show him the gold and precious stones with which the floor of the catacomb was strewn. 'you see, captain lake, to speak quite frankly--there's nothing like being perfectly frank and open--although you have not treated me with confidence, which, of course, was not called for in this particular instance--i may as well say, in passing, that i have no doubt on my mind you know a great deal more than you care to tell about the fate of mr. mark wylder. i look upon it, sir, that that party has been made away with.' 'old villain!' exclaimed lake, starting up, with a sudden access of energy, and his face looked whiter still than usual--perhaps it was only the light. 'it won't do, sir,' said larkin, with a sinister quietude. 'i say there's been _foul play_. i think, sir, you've got him into some foreign mad-house, or place of confinement, and i won't stop till it's sifted to the bottom. it is my duty, sir.' captain lake's slender hand sprang on the attorney's collar, coat and waistcoat together, and his knuckles, hard and sharp, were screwed against mr. larkin's jaw-bone, as he shook him, and his face was like a drift of snow, with two yellow fires glaring in it. it was ferine and spectral, and so tremendously violent, that the long attorney, expecting nothing of the sort, was thrown out of his balance against the chimneypiece. 'you d--d old miscreant! i'll pitch you out of the window.' 'i--i say, let go. you're mad, sir,' said the attorney, disengaging himself with a sudden and violent effort, and standing, with the back of a tall chair grasped in both hands, and the seat interposed between himself and captain lake. he was twisting his neck uncomfortably in his shirt collar, and for some seconds was more agitated, in a different way, than his patron was. the fact was, that mr. larkin had a little mistaken his man. he had never happened before to see him in one of his violent moods, and fancied that his apathetic manner indicated a person more easily bullied. there was something, too, in the tone and look of captain lake which went a good way to confound and perplex his suspicions, and he half fancied that the masterstroke he had hazarded was a rank and irreparable blunder. something of this, i am sure, appeared in his countenance, and captain lake looked awfully savage, and each gentleman stared the other full in the face, with more frankness than became two such diplomatists. 'allow me to speak a word, captain lake.' 'you d--d old miscreant!' repeated the candescent captain. 'allow me to say, you misapprehend.' 'you infernal old cur!' 'i mean no imputation upon _you_, sir. i thought you might have committed a mistake--any man may; perhaps you have. i have acted, captain lake, with fidelity in all respects to you, and to every client for whom i've been concerned. mr. wylder is my client, and i was bound to say i was not satisfied about his present position, which seems to me unaccountable, except on the supposition that he is under restraint of some sort. i never said you were to blame; but you may be in error respecting mr. wylder. you may have taken steps, captain lake, under a mistake. i never went further than that. on reflection, you'll say so. i didn't upon my honour.' 'then you did not mean to insult me, sir,' said lake. 'upon my honour, and conscience, and soul, captain lake,' said the attorney, stringing together, in his vindication, all the articles he was assumed most to respect, 'i am perfectly frank, i do assure you. i never supposed for an instant more than i say. i could not imagine--i am amazed you have so taken it.' 'but you think i exercise some control or coercion over my cousin, mr. mark wylder. he's not a man, i can tell you, wherever he is, to be bullied, no more than i am. i don't correspond with him. i have nothing to do with him or his affairs; i wash my hands of him.' captain lake turned and walked quickly to the door, but came back as suddenly. 'shake hands, sir. we'll forget it. i accept what you say; but don't talk that way to me again. i can't imagine what the devil put such stuff in your head. i don't care twopence. no one's to blame but wylder himself. i say i don't care a farthing. upon my honour, i quite see--i now acquit you. you could not mean what you seemed to say; and i can't understand how a sensible man like you, knowing mark wylder, and knowing me, sir, could use such--such _ambiguous_ language. i have no more influence with him, and can no more affect his doings, or what you call his _fate_--and, to say the truth, care about them no more than the child unborn. he's his own master, of course. what the devil can you have been dreaming of. i don't even get a letter from him. he's _nothing_ to me.' 'you have misunderstood me; but that's over, sir. i may have spoken with warmth, fearing that you might be acting under some cruel misapprehension--that's all; and you don't think worse of me, i'm very sure, captain lake, for a little indiscreet zeal on behalf of a gentleman who has treated me with such unlimited confidence as mr. wylder. i'd do the same for you, sir; it's my character.' the two gentlemen, you perceive, though still agitated, were becoming reasonable, and more or less complimentary and conciliatory; and the masks which an electric gust had displaced for a moment, revealing gross and somewhat repulsive features, were being readjusted, while each looked over his shoulder. i am sorry to say that when that good man, mr. larkin, left his presence, captain lake indulged in a perfectly blasphemous monologue. his fury was excited to a pitch that was very nearly ungovernable; and after it had exhibited itself in the way i have said, captain lake opened a little despatch-box, and took therefrom a foreign letter, but three days received. he read it through: his ill-omened smile expanded to a grin that was undisguisedly diabolical. with a scissors he clipt his own name where it occurred from the thin sheet, and then, in red ink and roman capitals, he scrawled a line or two across the interior of the letter, enclosed it in an envelope, directed it, and then rang the bell. he ordered the tax-cart and two horses to drive tandem. the captain was rather a good whip, and he drove at a great pace to dollington, took the train on to charteris, there posted his letter, and so returned; his temper continuing savage all that evening, and in a modified degree in the same state for several days after. chapter lii. an old friend looks into the garden at redman's farm. lady chelford, with one of those sudden changes of front which occur in female strategy, on hearing that stanley lake was actually accepted by dorcas, had assailed both him and his sister, whom heretofore she had a good deal petted and distinguished, with a fury that was startling. as respects rachel, we know how unjust was the attack. and when the dowager opened her fire on rachel, the young lady replied with a spirit and dignity to which she was not at all accustomed. so soon as dorcas obtained a hearing, which was not for sometime--for she, 'as a miserable and ridiculous victim and idiot,' was nearly as deep in disgrace as those 'shameless harpies the lakes'--she told the whole truth as respected all parties with her superb and tranquil frankness. lady chelford ordered her horses, and was about to leave brandon next morning. but rheumatism arrested her indignant flight; and during her week's confinement to her room, her son contrived so that she consented to stay for 'the odious ceremony,' and was even sourly civil to miss lake, who received her advances quite as coldly as they were made. to miss lake, lord chelford, though not in set terms, yet in many pleasant ways, apologised for his mother's impertinence. dorcas had told _him_ also the story of rachel's decided opposition to the marriage. he was so particularly respectful to her--he showed her by the very form into which he shaped his good wishes that he knew how frankly she had opposed the marriage--how true she had been to her friend dorcas--and she understood him and was grateful. in fact, lord chelford, whatever might be his opinion of the motives of captain lake and the prudence of dorcas, was clearly disposed to make the best of the inevitable, and to stamp the new brandon alliance with what ever respectability his frank recognition could give it. old lady chelford's bitter and ominous acquiescence also came, and the presence of mother and son at the solemnity averted the family scandal which the old lady's first access of frenzy threatened. this duty discharged, she insisted, in the interest of her rheumatism, upon change of air; and on arriving at duxley, was quite surprised to find lady dulhampton and her daughters there upon a similar quest. about the matrimonial likelihoods of gentlemen with titles and estates fame, that most tuft-hunting of divinities, is always distending her cheeks, and blowing the very finest flourishes her old trumpet affords. lord chelford was not long away when the story of lady constance was again alive and vocal. it reached old jackson through his sister, who was married to the brother of the marquis of dulhampton's solicitor. it reached lake from tom twitters, of his club, who kept the brandon captain _au courant_ of the town-talk; and it came to dorcas in a more authentic fashion, though mysteriously, and rather in the guise of a conundrum than of a distinct bit of family intelligence, from no less a person than the old dowager lady chelford herself. stanley lake, who had begun to entertain hopes for rachel in that direction, went down to redman's farm, and, after his bleak and bitter fashion, rated the young lady for having perversely neglected her opportunities and repulsed that most desirable _parti_. in this he was intensely in earnest, for the connection would have done wonders for captain lake in the county. rachel met this coarse attack with quiet contempt; told him that lord chelford had, she supposed, no idea of marrying out of his own rank; and further, that he, captain lake, must perfectly comprehend, if he could not appreciate, the reasons which would for ever bar any such relation. but rachel, though she treated the subject serenely in this interview, was sadder and more forlorn than ever, and lay awake at night, and, perhaps, if we knew all, shed some secret tears; and then with time came healing of these sorrows. it was a fallacy, a mere chimera, that was gone; an impracticability too. she had smiled at it as such when dorcas used to hint at it; but are there no castles in the clouds which we like to inhabit, although we know them altogether air-built, and whose evaporation desolates us? rachel's talks with the vicar were frequent; and poor little mrs. william wylder, who knew not the reason of his visits, fell slowly, and to the good man's entire bewilderment, into a chronic jealousy. it expressed itself enigmatically; it was circumlocutory, sad, and mysterious. 'little fairy was so pleased with his visit to redman's farm to-day. he told me all about it; did not you, little man? but still you love poor old mamma best of all; you would not like to have a new mamma. ah, no; you'd rather have your poor old, ugly mussie. i wish i was handsome, my little man, and clever; but wishing is vain.' 'ah! willie, there was a time when you could not see how ugly and dull your poor foolish little wife was; but it could not last for ever. how did it happen--oh, how?--you such a scholar, so clever, so handsome, my beautiful willie--how did you ever look down on poor wretched me?' 'i think it will be fine, willie, and miss lake will expect you at redman's farm; and little fairy will go too; yes, you'd like to go, and mamma will stay at home, and try to be useful in her poor miserable way,' and so on. the vicar, thinking of other things, never seeing the reproachful irony in all this, would take it quite literally, assent sadly, and with little fairy by the hand, set forth for redman's farm; and the good little body, to the amazement of her two maids, would be heard passionately weeping in the parlour in her forsaken state. at last there came a great upbraiding, a great _ã©claircissement_, and laughter, and crying, and hugging; and the poor little woman, quite relieved, went off immediately, in her gratitude, to rachel, and paid her quite an affectionate little visit. jealousy is very unreasonable. but have we no compensation in this, that the love which begets it is often as unreasonable? look in the glass, and then into your own heart, and ask your conscience, next, 'am i really quite a hero, or altogether so lovely, as i am beloved?' keep the answer to yourself, but be tender with the vehement follies of your jealous wife. poor mortals! it is but a short time we have to love, and be jealous, and love again. one night, after a long talk in the morning with good william wylder, and great dejection following, all on a sudden, rachel sat up in her bed, and in a pleasant voice, and looking more like herself than she had for many months, she said-'i think i have found the true way out of my troubles, tamar. at every sacrifice to be quite honest; and to that, tamar, i have made up my mind at last, thank god. come, tamar, and kiss me, for i am free once more.' so that night passed peacefully. rachel--a changed rachel still--though more like her early self, was now in the tiny garden of redman's farm. the early spring was already showing its bright green through the brown of winter, and sun and shower alternating, and the gay gossiping of sweet birds among the branches, were calling the young creation from its slumbers. the air was so sharp, so clear, so sunny, the mysterious sense of coming life so invigorating, and the sounds and aspect of nature so rejoicing, that rachel with her gauntlets on, her white basket of flower seeds, her trowel, and all her garden implements beside her, felt her own spring of life return, and rejoiced in the glad hour that shone round her. lifting up her eyes, she saw lord chelford looking over the little gate. 'what a charming day,' said he, with his pleasant smile, raising his hat, 'and how very pleasant to see you at your pretty industry again.' as rachel came forward in her faded gardening costume, an old silk shawl about her shoulders, and hoodwise over her head, somehow very becoming, there was a blush--he could not help seeing it--on her young face, and for a moment her fine eyes dropped, and she looked up, smiling a more thoughtful and a sadder smile than in old days. the picture of that smile so gay and fearless, and yet so feminine, rose up beside the sadder smile that greeted him now, and he thought of ondine without and ondine with a soul. 'i am afraid i am a very impertinent--at least a very inquisitive--wayfarer; but i could not pass by without a word, even at the risk of interrupting you. and the truth is, i believe, if it had not been for that chance of seeing and interrupting you, i should not have passed through redman's dell to-day.' he laughed a little as he said this; and held her hands some seconds longer than is strictly usual in such a greeting. 'you are staying at brandon?' said rachel, not knowing exactly what to say. 'yes; dorcas, who is always very good to me, made me promise to come whenever i was at drackley. i arrived yesterday, and they tell me you stay so much at home, that possibly you might not appear in the upper world for two or three days; so i had not patience, you see.' it was now rachel's turn to laugh a musical little roulade; but somehow her talk was neither so gay, nor so voluble, as it used to be. she liked to listen; she would not for the world their little conversation ended before its time; but there was an unwonted difficulty in finding anything to say. 'it is quite true; i am more a stay-at-home than i used to be. i believe we learn to prize home more the longer we live.' 'what a wise old lady! i did not think of that; i have only learned that whatever is most prized is hardest to find.' 'and spring is come again,' continued rachel, passing by this little speech, 'and my labours recommence. and though the day is longer, there is more to do in it, you see.' 'i don't wonder at your being a stay-at-home, for, to my eyes, it is the prettiest spot of earth in all the world; and if you find it half as hard to leave it as i do, your staying here is quite accounted for.' this little speech, also, rachel understood quite well, though she went on as if she did not. 'and this little garden costs, i assure you, a great deal of wise thought. in sowing my annuals i have so much to forecast and arrange; suitability of climate, for we have sun and shade here, succession of bloom and contrast of colour, and ever so many other important things.' 'i can quite imagine it, though it did not strike me before,' he said, looking on her with a smile of pleasant and peculiar interest, which somehow gave a reality to this playful talk. 'it is quite true; and i should not have thought of it--it is very pretty,' and he laughed a gentle little laugh, glancing over the tiny garden. 'but, after all, there is no picture of flowers, or still life, or even of landscape, that will interest long. you must be very solitary here at times--that is, you must have a great deal more resource than i, or, indeed, almost anyone i know, or this solitude must at times be oppressive. i hope so, at least, for that would force you to appear among us sometimes.' 'no, i am not lonely--that is, not lonelier than is good for me. i have such a treasure of an old nurse--poor old tamar--who tells me stories, and reads to me, and listens to my follies and temper, and sometimes says very wise things, too; and the good vicar comes often--this is one of his days--with his beautiful little boy, and talks so well, and answers my follies and explains all my perplexities, and is really a great help and comfort.' 'yes,' said lord chelford, with the same pleasant smile, 'he told me so; and seems so pleased to have met with so clever a pupil. are you coming to brandon this evening? lake asked william wylder, perhaps he will be with us. i do hope you will come. dorcas says there is no use in writing; but that you know you are always welcome. may i say you'll come?' rachel smiled sadly on the snow-drops at her feet, and shook her head a little. 'no, i must stay at home this evening--i mean i have not spirits to go to brandon. thank dorcas very much from me--that is, if you really mean that she asked me.' 'i am so sorry--i am so disappointed,' said lord chelford, looking gravely and enquiringly at her. he began, i think, to fancy some estrangement there. 'but perhaps to-morrow--perhaps even to-day--you may relent, you know. don't say it is impossible.' rachel smiled on the ground, as before; and then, with a little sigh and a shake of her head, said-'no.' 'well, i must tell dorcas she was right--you are very inexorable and cruel.' 'i am very cruel to keep you here so long--and i, too, am forgetting the vicar, who will be here immediately, and i must meet him in a costume less like the woman of endor.' lord chelford, leaning on the little wicket, put his arm over, and she gave him her hand again. 'good-bye,' said rachel. 'well, i suppose i, too, must say good-bye; and i'll say a great deal more,' said he, in a peculiar, odd tone, that was very firm, and yet indescribably tender. and he held her slender hand, from which she had drawn the gauntlet, in his. 'yes, rachel, i will--i'll say everything. we are old friends now--you'll forgive me calling you rachel--it may be perhaps the last time.' rachel was standing there with such a beautiful blush, and downcast eyes, and her hand in his. 'i liked you always, rachel, from the first moment i saw you--i liked you better and better--indescribably--indeed, i do; and i've grown to like you so, that if i lose you, i think i shall never be the same again.' there was a very little pause, the blush was deeper, her eyes lower still. 'i admire you, rachel--i like your character--i have grown to love you with all my heart and mind--quite desperately, i think. i know there are things against me--there are better-looking fellows than i--and--and a great many things--and i know very well that you will judge for yourself--quite differently from other girls; and i can't say with what fear and hope i await what you may say; but this you may be sure of, you will never find anyone to love you better, rachel--i think so well--and--and now--that is all. do you think you could _ever_ like me?' but rachel's hand, on a sudden, with a slight quiver, was drawn from his. 'lord chelford, i can't describe how grateful i am, and how astonished, but it could never be--no--never.' 'rachel, perhaps you mean my mother--i have told her everything--she will receive you with all the respect you so well deserve; and with all her faults, she loves me, and will love you still more.' 'no, lord chelford, no.' she was pale now, and looking very sadly in his eyes. 'it is not that, but only that you must never, never speak of it again.' 'oh! rachel, darling, you must not say that--i love you so--so _desperately_, you don't know.' 'i can say nothing else, lord chelford. my mind is quite made up--i am inexpressibly grateful--you will never know how grateful--but except as a friend--and won't you still be my friend?--i never can regard you.' rachel was so pale that her very lips were white as she spoke this in a melancholy but very firm way. 'oh, rachel, it is a great blow--maybe if you thought it over!--i'll wait any time.' 'no, lord chelford, i'm quite unworthy of your preference; but time cannot change me--and i am speaking, not from impulse, but conviction. this is our secret--yours and mine--and we'll forget it; and i could not bear to lose your friendship--you'll be my friend still--won't you? good-bye.' 'god bless you, rachel!' and he hurriedly kissed the hand she had placed in his, and without a word more, or looking back, he walked swiftly down the wooded road towards gylingden. so, then, it had come and gone--gone for ever. 'margery, bring the basket in; i think a shower is coming.' and she picked up her trowel and other implements, and placed them in the porch, and glanced up towards the clouds, as if she saw them, and had nothing to think of but her gardening and the weather, and as if her heart was not breaking. chapter liii. the vicar's complications, which lively people had better not read. william wylder's reversion was very tempting. but lawyer larkin knew the value of the precious metals, and waited for more data. the more he thought over his foreign correspondence, and his interview with lake, the more steadily returned upon his mind the old conviction that the gallant captain was deep in the secret, whatever it might be. whatever his motive--and he always had a distinct motive, though sometimes not easily discoverable--he was a good deal addicted now to commenting, in his confidential talk, with religious gossips and others, upon the awful state of the poor vicar's affairs, his inconceivable prodigality, the unaccountable sums he had made away with, and his own anxiety to hand over the direction of such a hopeless complication of debt, and abdicate in favour of any competent skipper the command of the water-logged and foundering ship. 'why, his brother mark could get him cleverly out of it--could not he?' wheezed the pork-butcher. 'more serious than you suppose,' answered larkin, with a shake of his head. 'it can't go beyond five hundred, or say nine hundred--eh, at the outside?' 'nine _hundred_--say double as many _thousand_, and i'm afraid you'll be nearer the mark. you'll not mention, of course, and i'm only feeling my way just now, and speaking conjecturally altogether; but i'm afraid it is enormous. i need not remind you not to mention.' i cannot, of course, say how mr. larkin's conjectures reached so prodigious an elevation, but i can now comprehend why it was desirable that this surprising estimate of the vicar's liabilities should prevail. mr. jos. larkin had a weakness for enveloping much of what he said and wrote in an honourable mystery. he liked writing _private_ or _confidential_ at top of his notes, without apparent right or even reason to impose either privacy or confidence upon the persons to whom he wrote. there was, in fact, often in the good attorney's mode of transacting business just a _soupã§on_ or flavour of an _arriã¨re pensã©e_ of a remote and unseen plan, which was a little unsatisfactory. now, with the vicar he was imperative that the matter of the reversion should be strictly confidential--altogether 'sacred,' in fact. 'you see, the fact is, my dear mr. wylder, i never meddle in speculative things. it is not a class of business that i like or would touch with one of my fingers, so to speak,' and he shook his head gently; 'and i may say, if i were supposed to be ever so slightly engaged in these risky things, it would be the _ruin_ of me. i don t like, however, sending you into the jaws of the city sharks--i use the term, my dear mr. wylder, advisedly--and i make a solitary exception in your case; but the fact is, if i thought you would mention the matter, i could not touch it even for you. there's captain lake, of brandon, for instance--i should not be surprised if i lost the brandon business the day after the matter reached his ears. all men are not like you and me, my dear mr. wylder. the sad experience of my profession has taught me that a suspicious man of the world, without religion, my dear mr. wylder,' and he lifted his pink eyes, and shook his long head and long hands in unison--'without religion--will imagine anything. they can't understand us.' now, the fifty pounds which good mr. larkin had procured for the improvident vicar, bore interest, i am almost ashamed to say, at thirty per cent. per annum, and ten per cent. more the first year. but you are to remember that the security was altogether speculative; and mr. larkin, of course, made the best terms he could. annual premium on a policy for â£100 [double insurance } ⣠_s._ _d._ being insisted upon by lender, to cover contingent ex } 10 0 0 penses, and life not insurable, a delicacy of the lungs } being admitted, on the ordinary scale] } annuity payable to lender, clear of premium, the } 7 10 0 security being unsatisfactory } ------------- â£17 10 0 ten pounds of which (the premium), together with four pounds ten shillings for expenses, &c. were payable in advance. so that thirty-two pounds, out of his borrowed fifty, were forfeit for these items within a year and a month. in the meantime the fifty pounds had gone, as we know, direct to cambridge; and he was called upon to pay forthwith ten pounds for premium, and four pounds ten shillings for 'expenses.' _quod impossibile._ the attorney had nothing for it but to try to induce the lender to let him have another fifty pounds, pending the investigation of title--another fifty, of which he was to get, in fact, eighteen pounds. somehow, the racking off of this bitter vintage from one vessel into another did not seem to improve its quality. on the contrary, things were growing decidedly more awful. now, there came from messrs. burlington and smith a peremptory demand for the fourteen pounds ten shillings, and an equally summary one for twenty-eight pounds fourteen shillings and eight pence, their costs in this matter. when the poor vicar received this latter blow, he laid the palm of his hand on the top of his head, as if to prevent his brain from boiling over. twenty-eight pounds fourteen shillings and eight pence! _quod impossibile._ again. when he saw larkin, that conscientious guardian of his client's interests scrutinised the bill of costs very jealously, and struck out between four and five pounds. he explained to the vicar the folly of borrowing insignificant and insufficient sums--the trouble, and consequently the cost, of which were just as great as of an adequate one. he was determined, if he could, to pull him through this. but he must raise a sufficient sum, for the expense of going into title would be something; and he would write sharply to burlington, smith, and co., and had no doubt the costs would be settled for twenty-three pounds. and mr. jos. larkin's opinion upon the matter was worthy of respect, inasmuch as he was himself, under the rose, the 'co.' of that firm, and ministered its capital. 'the fact is you must, my dear mr. wylder, make an effort. it won't do peddling and tinkering in such a case. you will be in a worse position than ever, unless you boldly raise a thousand pounds--if i can manage such a transaction upon a security of the kind. consolidate all your liabilities, and keep a sum in hand. you are well connected--powerful relatives--your brother has huxton, four hundred, a year, whenever old--the--the present incumbent goes--and there are other things beside--but you must not allow yourself to be ruined through timidity; and if you go to the wall without an effort, and allow yourself to be slurred in public, what becomes of your chance of preferment?' and now 'title' went up to burlington, smith, and co. to examine and approve; and from that firm, i am sorry to say, a bill of costs was coming, when deeds were prepared and all done, exceeding three hundred and fifty pounds; and there was a little reminder from good jos. larkin for two hundred and fifty pounds more. this, of course, was to await mr. wylder's perfect convenience. the vicar knew _him_--_he_ never pressed any man. then there would be insurances in proportion; and interest, as we see, was not trifling. and altogether, i am afraid, our friend the vicar was being extricated in a rather embarrassing fashion. now, i have known cases in which good-natured debauchees have interested themselves charitably in the difficulties of forlorn families; and i think _i_ knew, almost before they suspected it, that their generous interference was altogether due to one fine pair of eyes, and a pretty _tournure_, in the distressed family circle. under a like half-delusion, mr. jos. larkin, in the guise of charity, was prosecuting his designs upon the vicar's reversion, and often most cruelly and most artfully, when he frankly fancied his conduct most praiseworthy. and really i do not myself know, that, considering poor william's liabilities and his means, and how many chances there were against that reversion ever becoming a fact, that i would not myself have advised his selling it, if a reasonable price were obtainable. 'all this power will i give thee,' said the devil, 'and the glory of them; for that is delivered unto me, and to whomsoever i will i give it.' the world belongs to the rascals. it is like 'the turf,' where, everyone admits, an honest man can hardly hold his own. jos. larkin looked down on the seedy and distracted vicar from an immense moral elevation. he heard him talk of religion with disgust. he owed him costs, and, beside, costs also to burlington, smith, and co. was there not talkative in 'pilgrim's progress?' i believe there are few things more provoking than that a man who owes you money, and can't pay the interest, should pretend to religion to your face, except, perhaps, his giving sixpence in charity. the attorney was prosperous. he accounted for it by his attributes, and the blessing that waits on industry and integrity. he did not see that luck and selfishness had anything to do with it. no man ever failed but through his own fault--none ever succeeded but by his deservings. the attorney was in a position to lecture the rev. mr. wylder. in his presence, religion, in the vicar's mouth, was an impertinence. the vicar, on the other hand, was all that we know. perhaps, in comparison, his trial is, in some sort, a blessing; and that there is no greater snare than the state of the man with whom all goes smoothly, and who mistakes his circumstances for his virtues. the poor vicar and his little following were got pretty well into the furcae caudinae. mr. jos. larkin, if he did not march him out, to do him justice, had had no hand in primarily bringing him there. there was no reason, however, why the respectable lawyer should not make whatever was to be fairly made of the situation. the best thing for both was, perhaps, that the one should sell and the other buy the reversion. larkin had no apprehensions about the nature of the dealing. he was furnished with an excellent character--his cheques were always honoured--his 'tots' always unexceptionable--his vouchers never anything but exact. he had twice been publicly complimented in this sense, when managing lord hedgerow's estate. no man had, i believe, a higher reputation in his walk--few men were more formidable. i think it was lawyer larkin's private canon, in his dealings with men, that everything was moral that was not contrary to an act of parliament. chapter liv. brandon chapel on sunday. for a month and three days mr. jos. larkin was left to ruminate without any new light upon the dusky landscape now constantly before his eyes. at the end of that time a foreign letter came for him to the lodge. it was not addressed in mark wylder's hand--not the least like it. mark's was a bold, free hand, and if there was nothing particularly elegant, neither was there anything that could be called vulgar in it. but this was a decidedly villainous scrawl--in fact it was written as a self-educated butcher might pen a bill. there was nothing impressed on the wafer, but a poke of something like the ferrule of a stick. the interior corresponded with the address, and the lines slanted confoundedly. it was, however, on the whole, better spelled and expressed than the penmanship would have led one to expect. it said-'mister larkins,--respeckted sir, i write you, sir, to let you know has how there is no more chance you shud ear of poor mr. mark wylder--of hose orrible death i make bold to acquainte you by this writing--which is secret has yet from all--he bing hid, and made away with in the dark. it is only right is family shud know all, and his sad ending--wich i will tell before you, sir, in full, accorden to my best guess, as bin the family lawyer (and, sir, you will find it usful to tell this in secret to capten lake, of brandon hall--but not on no account to any other). it is orrible, sir, to think a young gentleman, with everything the world can give, shud be made away with so crewel in the dark. though you do not rekelect me, sir, i know you well, mr. larkins, haven seen you hoffen when a boy. i wud not wish, sir, no noise made till i cum--which i am returning hoame, and will then travel to gylingden strateways to see you. sir, your obedient servant, 'james dutton.' this epistle disturbed mr. jos. larkin profoundly. he could recollect no such name as james dutton. he did not know whether to believe this letter or not. he could not decide what present use to make of it, nor whether to mention it to captain lake, nor, if he did so, how it was best to open the matter. captain lake, he was confident, knew james dutton--why, otherwise, should that person have desired his intelligence communicated to him. at least it proved that dutton assumed the captain to be specially interested in what concerned mark wylder's fate; and in so far it confirmed his suspicions of lake. was it better to wait until he had seen dutton, and heard his story, before hinting at his intelligence and his name--or was it wiser to do that at once, and watch its effect upon the gallant captain narrowly, and trust to inspiration and the moment for striking out the right course. if this letter was true there was not a moment to be lost in bringing the purchase of the vicar's reversion to a point. the possibilities were positively dazzling. they were worth risking something. i am not sure that mr. larkin's hand did not shake a little as he took the statement of title again out of the wylder tin box no. 2. now, under the pressure of this enquiry, a thing struck mr. larkin, strangely enough, which he had quite overlooked before. there were certain phrases in the will of the late mr. wylder, which limited a large portion of the great estate in strict settlement. of course an attorney's opinion upon a question of real property is not conclusive. still they can't help knowing something of the barrister's special province; and these words were very distinct--in fact, they stunted down the vicar's reversion in the greater part of the property to a strict life estate. long did the attorney pore over his copy of the will, with his finger and thumb closed on his under lip. the language was quite explicit--there was no way out of it. it was strictly a life estate. how could he have overlooked that? his boy, indeed, would take an estate tail--and could disentail whenever--if ever--he came of age. but that was in the clouds. mackleston-on-the-moor, however, and the great barnford estate, were unaffected by these limitations; and the rental which he now carefully consulted, told him these jointly were in round numbers worth 2,300_l._ a year, and improvable. this letter of dutton's, to be sure, may turn out to be all a lie or a blunder. but it may prove to be strictly true; and in that case it will be _every_ thing that the deeds should be executed and the purchase completed before the arrival of this person, and the public notification of mark wylder's death. 'what a world it is, to be sure!' thought mr. larkin, as he shook his long head over dutton's letter. 'how smoothly and simply everything would go, if only men would stick to truth! here's this letter--how much time and trouble it costs me--how much opportunity possibly sacrificed, simply by reason of the incurable mendacity of men.' and he knocked the back of his finger bitterly on the open page. another thought now struck him for the first time. was there no mode of 'hedging,' so that whether mark wylder were living or dead the attorney should stand to win? down came the brandon boxes. the prudent attorney turned the key in the door, and forth came the voluminous marriage settlement of stanley williams lake, of slobberligh, in the county of devon, late captain, &c., &c. of the second part, and dorcas adderley brandon, of brandon hall, in the county of &c., &c. of the second part, and so forth. and as he read this pleasant composition through, he two or three times murmured approvingly, 'yes--yes--yes.' his recollection had served him quite rightly. there was the five oaks estate, specially excluded from settlement, worth 1,400_l._ a year; but it was conditioned that the said stanley williams lake was not to deal with the said lands, except with the consent in writing of the said dorcas, &c., who was to be a consenting party to the deed. if there was really something 'unsound in the state of lake's relations,' and that he could be got to consider lawyer larkin as a friend worth keeping, that estate might be had a bargain--yes, a _great_ bargain. larkin walked off to brandon, but there he learned that captain _brandon_ lake as he now chose to call himself, had gone that morning to london. 'business, i venture to say, and he went into that electioneering without ever mentioning it either.' so thought larkin, and he did not like this. it looked ominous, and like an incipient sliding away of the brandon business, well, no matter, all things worked together for good. it was probably well that he should not be too much shackled with considerations of that particular kind in the important negotiation about five oaks. that night he posted a note to burlington, smith, and co., and by saturday night's post there came down to the sheriff an execution for 123_l._ and some odd shillings, upon a judgment on a warrant to confess, at the suit of that firm, for costs and money advanced, against the poor vicar, who never dreamed, as he conned over his next day's sermon with his solitary candle, that the blow had virtually descended, and that his homely furniture, the silver spoons his wife had brought him, and the two shelves half full of old books which he had brought her, and all the rest of their little frugal trumpery, together with his own thin person, had passed into the hands of messrs. burlington, smith, and co. the vicar on his way to the chapel passed mr. jos. larkin on the green--not near enough to speak--only to smile and wave his hand kindly, and look after the good attorney with one of those yearning grateful looks, which cling to straws upon the drowning stream of life. the sweet chapel bell was just ceasing to toll as mr. jos. larkin stalked under the antique ribbed arches of the little aisle. slim and tall, he glided, a chastened dignity in his long upturned countenance, and a faint halo of saint-hood round his tall bald head. having whispered his orisons into his well-brushed hat and taken his seat, his dove-like eyes rested for a moment upon the brandon seat. there was but one figure in it--slender, light-haired, with his yellow moustache and pale face, grown of late a little fatter. captain brandon lake was a very punctual church-goer since the idea of trying the county at the next election had entered his mind. dorcas was not very well. lord chelford had taken his departure, and your humble servant, who pens these pages, had gone for a few days to malwich. there was no guest just then at brandon, and the captain sat alone on that devotional dais, the elevated floor of the great oaken brandon seat. there were old brandon and wylder monuments built up against the walls. figures cut in stone, and painted and gilded in tarnished splendour, according to the gorgeous barbarism of elizabeth's and the first james's age; tablets in brass, marble-pillared monuments, and a couple of life-sized knights, armed _cap-ã -pie_, on their backs in the aisle. there is a stained window in the east which connoisseurs in that branch of mediaeval art admire. there is another very fine one over the brandon pew--a freak, perhaps, of some of those old brandons or wylders, who had a strange spirit of cynicism mingling in their profligacy and violence. reader, you have looked on hans holbein's 'dance of death,' that grim, phantasmal pageant, symbolic as a dream of pharaoh; and perhaps you bear in mind that design called 'the elector,' in which the prince, emerging from his palace gate, with a cloud of courtiers behind, is met by a poor woman, her little child by the hand, appealing to his compassion, despising whom, he turns away with a serene disdain. beneath, in black letter, is inscribed the text '_princeps induetur maerore et quiescere faciam superbiam potentium_'--and gigantic death lays his fingers on the great man's ermine tippet. it is a copy of this, which, in very splendid colouring, fills the window that lights the brandon state seat in the chapel. the gules and gold were reflected on the young man's head, and with a vain augury, the attorney read again the solemn words from holy writ, _'princeps induetur maerore.'_ the golden glare rested like a glory on his head; but there was also a gorgeous stain of blood that bathed his ear and temple. his head was busy enough at that moment, though it was quite still, and his sly eyes rested on his prayer-book; for sparks, the millionaire clothier, who had purchased beverley, and was a potent voice in the dollington bank, and whose politics were doubtful, and relations amphibious, was sitting in the pew nearly opposite, and showed his red, fat face and white whiskers over the oak wainscoting. jos. larkin, like the rest of the congregation, was by this time praying, his elbows on the edge of the pew, his hands clasped, his thumbs under his chin, and his long face and pink eyes raised heavenward, with now and then a gentle downward dropping of the latter. he was thinking of captain lake, who was opposite, and, like him, praying. he was thinking how aristocratic he looked and how well, in externals, he became the brandon seat; and there were one or two trifles in the captain's attitude and costume of which the attorney, who, as we know, was not only good, but elegant, made a note. he respected his audacity and his mystery, and he wondered intensely what was going on in that small skull under the light and glossy hair, and anxiously guessed how vitally it might possibly affect him, and wondered what his schemes were after the election--_quiescere faciam superbiam potentium_; and more darkly about his relations with mark wylder--_princeps induetur maerore_. his eye was on the window now and then it dropped, with a vague presage, upon the sleek head of the daring and enigmatical captain, reading the litany, from 'battle, murder, and sudden death, good lord deliver us,' and he almost fancied he saw a yellow skull over his shoulder glowering cynically on the prayer-book. so the good attorney prayed on, to the edification of all who saw, and mothers in the neighbouring seats were specially careful to prevent their children from whispering or fidgeting. when the service was over captain lake went across to mr. sparks, and asked him to come to brandon to lunch. but the clothier could not, and his brougham whirled him away to naunton friars. so stanley lake walked up the little aisle toward the communion table, thinking, and took hold of the railing that surrounded the brass monument of sir william de braundon, and seemed to gaze intently on the effigy, but was really thinking profoundly of other matters and once or twice his sly sidelong glance stole ominously to jos. larkin, who was talking at the church door with the good vicar. in fact, he was then and there fully apprising him of his awful situation; and poor william wylder looking straight at him, with white face and damp forehead, was listening stunned, and hardly understanding a word he said, and only the dreadful questions rising to his mouth, 'can _anything_ be done? will the people come _to-day_?' mr. larkin explained the constitutional respect for the sabbath. 'it would be better, sir--the publicity of an arrest' (it was a hard word to utter) 'in the town would be very painful--it would be better i think, that i should walk over to the prison--it is only six miles--and see the authorities there, and give myself up.' and his lip quivered; he was thinking of the leave-taking--of poor dolly and little fairy. 'i've a great objection to speak of business to-day,' said mr. larkin, holily; 'but i may mention that burlington and smith have written very sternly; and the fact is, my dear sir, we must look the thing straight in the face; they are determined to go through with it; and you know my opinion all along about the fallacy--you _must_ excuse me, seeing all the trouble it has involved you in--the infatuation of hesitating about the sale of that miserable reversion, which they could have disposed of on fair terms. in fact, sir, they look upon it that you don't want to pay them and of course, they are very angry.' 'i'm sure i was wrong. i'm such a fool!' 'i must only go to the sheriff the first thing the morning and beg of him to hold over that thing, you know, until i have heard from burlington and smith; and i suppose i may say to them that you see the necessity of disposing of the reversion, and agree to sell it if it be not too late.' the vicar assented; indeed, he had grown, under this urgent pressure, as nervously anxious to sell as he had been to retain it. 'and they can't come _to-day_?' 'certainly not.' and poor william wylder breathed again in the delightful sense of even momentary escape, and felt he could have embraced his preserver. 'i'll be very happy to see you to-morrow, if you can conveniently look in--say at twelve, or half-past, to report progress.' so that was arranged; and again in the illusive sense of deliverance, the poor vicar's hopes brightened and expanded. hitherto his escapes had not led to safety, and he was only raised from the pit to be sold to the ishmaelites. chapter lv. the captain and the attorney converse among the tombs. i cannot tell whether that slender, silken machinator, captain lake, loitered in the chapel for the purpose of talking to or avoiding jos. larkin, who was standing at the doorway, in sad but gracious converse with the vicar. he was certainly observing him from among the tombs in his sly way. and the attorney, who had a way, like him, of noting things without appearing to see them, was conscious of it, and was perhaps decided by this trifle to accost the gallant captain. so he glided up the short aisle with a sad religious smile, suited to the place, and inclined his lank back and his tall bald head toward the captain in ceremonious greeting as he approached. 'how d'ye do, larkin? the fog makes one cough a little this evening.' larkin's answer, thanks, and enquiries, came gravely in return. and with the same sad smile he looked round on the figures, some marble, some painted stone, of departed brandons and wylders, with garrulous epitaphs, who surrounded them in various costumes, quite a family group, in which the attorney was gratified to mingle. '_ancestry_, captain lake--_your_ ancestry--noble assemblage--monuments and timber. timber like the brandon oaks, and monuments like these--these are things which, whatever else he may acquire, the _novus homo_, captain brandon lake--the _parvenu_--can never command.' mr. jos. larkin had a smattering of school latin, and knew half-a-dozen french words, which he took out on occasion. 'certainly our good people do occupy some space here; more regular attendants in church, than, i fear, they formerly were; and their virtues more remarked, perhaps, than before the stone-cutter was instructed to publish them with his chisel,' answered lake, with one of his quiet sneers. 'beautiful chapel this, captain lake--beautiful chapel, sir,' said the attorney, again looking round with a dreary smile of admiration. but though his accents were engaging and he smiled--of course, a sabbath-day smile--yet captain lake perceived that it was not the dove's but the rat's eyes that were doing duty under that tall bald brow. 'solemn thoughts, sir--solemn thoughts, captain lake--silent mentors, eloquent monitors!' and he waved his long lank hand toward the monumental groups. 'yes,' said lake, in the same mocking tone, that was low and sweet, and easily mistaken for something more amiable. 'you and they go capitally together--so solemn, and eloquent, and godly--capital fellows! _i_'m not half good enough for such company--and the place is growing rather cold--is not it?' 'a great many wylders, sir--a great many _wylders_.' and the attorney dropped his voice, and paused at this emphasis, pointing a long finger toward the surrounding effigies. captain lake, after his custom, glared a single full look upon the attorney, sudden as the flash of a pair of guns from their embrasures in the dark; and he said quietly, with a wave of his cane in the same direction-'yes, a precious lot of wylders.' 'is there a _wylder_ vault here, captain brandon lake?' 'hanged if i know!--what the devil's that to you or me, sir?' answered the captain, with a peevish sullenness. 'i was thinking, captain lake, whether in the event of its turning out that mr. mark wylder was _dead_, it would be thought proper to lay his body here?' 'dead, sir!--and what the plague puts that in your head? you are corresponding with him--aren't you?' 'i'll tell you exactly how that is, captain lake. may i take the liberty to ask you for one moment to look up?' as between these two gentlemen, this, it must be allowed, was an impertinent request. but captain lake did look up, and there was something extraordinarily unpleasant in his yellow eyes, as he fixed them upon the contracted pupils of the attorney, who, nothing daunted, went on-'pray, excuse me--thank you, captain lake--they say one is better heard when looked at than when not seen; and i wish to speak rather low, for reasons.' each looked the other in the eyes, with that uncertain and sinister gaze which has a character both of fear and menace. 'i have received those letters, captain lake, of which i spoke to you when i last had the honour of seeing you, as furnishing, in certain circumstances connected with them, grave matter of suspicion, since when i have _not_ received one with mr. wylder's signature. but i _have_ received, only the other day, a letter from a new correspondent--a person signing himself james dutton--announcing his belief that mr. mark wylder is dead--_is dead_--and has been made away with by foul means; and i have arranged, immediately on his arrival, at his desire, to meet him professionally, and to hear the entire narrative, both of what he knows and of what he suspects.' as jos. larkin delivered this with stern features and emphasis, the captain's countenance underwent such a change as convinced the attorney that some indescribable evil had befallen mark wylder, and that captain brandon lake had a guilty knowledge thereof. with this conviction came a sense of superiority and a pleasant confidence in his position, which betrayed itself in a slight frown and a pallid smile, as he looked steadily in the young man's face, with his small, crafty, hungry eyes. lake knew that his face had betrayed him. he had felt the livid change of colour, and that twitching at his mouth and cheek which he could not control. the mean, tyrannical, triumphant gaze of the attorney was upon him, and his own countenance was his accuser. lake ground his teeth, and returned jos. larkin's intimidating smirk with a look of fury, which--for he now believed he held the winning cards--did not appal him. lake cleared his throat twice, but did not find his voice, and turned away and read half through the epitaph on lady mary brandon, which is a pious and somewhat puritanical composition. i hope it did him good. 'you know, sir,' said captain lake, but a little huskily, turning about and smiling at last, 'that mark wylder is nothing to me. we don't correspond: we have not corresponded. i know--upon my honour and soul, sir--nothing on earth about him--what he's doing, where he is, or what's become of him. but i can't hear a man of business like you assert, upon what he conceives to be reliable information--situated as the brandon title is--depending, i mean, in some measure, upon his life--that mark wylder is no more, without being a good deal shocked.' 'i quite understand, sir--quite, captain lake. it is very serious, sir, very; but i can't believe it has gone that length, quite. i shall know more, of course, when i've seen james dutton. i can't think, i mean, he's been made away with in that sense; nor how that could benefit anyone; and i'd much rather, captain lake, move in this matter--since move i must--in your interest--i mean, as your friend and man of business--than in any way, captain lake, that might possibly involve you in trouble.' 'you _are_ my man of business--aren't you? and have no grounds for ill-will--eh?' said the captain, drily. 'no ill-will certainly--quite the reverse. thank heaven, i think i may truly say, i bear ill-will to no man living; and wish you, captain lake, nothing but good, sir--nothing but good.' 'except a hasty word or two, i know no reason you should _not_,' said the captain, in the same tone. 'quite so. but, captain brandon lake, there is nothing like being completely above-board--it has been my rule through life; and i will say--it would not be frank and candid to say anything else--that i have of late been anything but satisfied with the position which, ostensibly your professional adviser and confidential man of business, i have occupied. have i been consulted?--i put it to you; have i been trusted? has there been any real confidence, captain lake, upon your part? you have certainly had relations with mr. mark wylder--correspondence, for anything i know. you have entertained the project of purchasing the reverend william wylder's reversion; and you have gone into electioneering business, and formed connections of that sort, without once doing me the honour to confer with me on the subject. now, the plain question is, do you wish to retain my services?' 'certainly,' said captain lake, biting his lip, with a sinister little frown. 'then, captain lake, upon the same principle, and speaking quite above-board, you must dismiss at once from your mind the idea that you _can_ do so upon the terms you have of late seen fit to impose. i am speaking frankly when i say there must be a total change. i must _be_ in reality what i am held out to the world as being--your trusted, and responsible, and _sole_ adviser. i don't aspire to the position--i am willing at this moment to retire from it; but i never yet knew a divided direction come to good. it is an office of great responsibility, and i for one will not consent to touch it on any other conditions than those i have taken the liberty to mention.' 'these are easily complied with--in fact i undertake to show you they have never been disturbed,' answered lake, rather sullenly. 'so that being understood--eh?--i suppose we have nothing particular to add?' and captain lake extended his gloved hand to take leave. but the attorney looked down and then up, with a shadow on his face, and his lip in his finger and thumb, and he said-'that's all very well, and a _sine qua non_, so far as it goes! but, my dear captain lake, let us be plain. you must see, my dear sir, with such rumours, possibly about to get afloat, and such persons about to appear, as this james dutton, that matters are really growing critical, and there's no lack of able solicitors who would on speculation, undertake a suit upon less evidence, perhaps, than may be forthcoming, to upset your title, under the will, through mrs. dorcas brandon lake--your joint title--in favour of the reversioner.' lake only bit his lip and shook his head. the attorney knew, however, that the danger was quite appreciated, and went on-'you will, therefore, want a competent man--who has the papers at his fingers' ends, and knows how to deal ably--_ably_, sir, with a fellow of james dutton's stamp--at your elbow. the fact is, to carry you safely through you will need pretty nearly the undivided attention of a well-qualified, able, and confidential practitioner; and i need not say, such a man is not to be had for nothing.' lake nodded a seeming assent, which seemed to say, 'i have found it so.' 'now, my dear captain lake, i just mention this--i put it before you--that is, because you know the county is not to be contested for nothing--and you'll want a very serious sum of money for the purpose, and possibly a petition--and i can, one way or another, make up, with an effort, about â£15,000_l._ now it strikes me that it would be a wise thing for you--the wisest thing, perhaps, my dear captain lake, you ever did--to place me in the same boat with yourself.' 'i don't exactly see.' 'i'll make it quite clear.' the attorney's tall forehead had a little pink flush over it at this moment, and he was looking down a little and poking the base of sir william de braundon's monument with the point of his umbrella. 'i wish, captain lake, to be perfectly frank, and, as i said, above-board. you'll want the money, and you must make up your mind to sell five oaks.' captain lake shifted his foot, as if he had found it on a sudden on a hot flag. 'sell five oaks--that's fourteen hundred a year,' said he. 'hardly so much, but nearly, perhaps.' 'forty-three thousand pounds were offered for it. old chudworth offered that about ten years ago.' 'of course, captain lake, if you are looking for a fancy price from me i must abandon the idea. i was merely supposing a dealing between friends, and in that sense i ventured to name the extreme limit to which i could go. little more than five per cent, for my money, if i insure--and possibly to defend an action before i've been six months in possession. i think my offer will strike you as a _great_ one, considering the posture of affairs. indeed, i apprehend, my friends will hardly think me justified in offering so much.' the sexton was walking back and forward near the door, making the best clatter he decently could, and wondering the captain and lawyer larkin could find no better place to talk in than the church. 'in a moment--in a moment,' said the lawyer, signalling to him to be quiet, as loftily as if chapel, hall, and sexton were his private property. it was one of those moments into which a good deal of talk is fitted, and which seem somewhat of the longest to those who await its expiration. the chapel was growing dark, and its stone and marble company of bygone wylders and brandons were losing themselves in shadow. part of the periwig and cheek of sir marcus brandon still glimmered whitish, as at a little distance did also the dim marble face and arm of the young countess of lydingworth, mourning these hundred and thirty years over her dead baby. sir william wylder, in ruff, rosettes, and full dress of james i.'s fashion, on his back, defunct, with children in cloaks kneeling at head and foot, was hardly distinguishable; and the dusky crimson and tarnished gold had gone out of view till morning. the learned archbishop brandon, a cadet, who filled the see of york in his day, and was the only unexceptionably godly personage of that long line, was praying, as usual, at his desk--perhaps to the saints and virgin, for i believe he was before the reformation--in beard and skull-cap, as was evident from the black profile of head and uplifted hands, against the dim sky seen through the chapel window. a dusky glow from the west still faintly showed hans holbein's proud 'elector,' in the brandon window, fading, with death himself, and the dread inscription, 'princeps induetur maerore,' into utter darkness. the ice once broken, jos. larkin urged his point with all sorts of arguments, always placing the proposed transaction in the most plausible lights and attitudes, and handling his subject in round and flowing sentences. this master of persuasion was not aware that captain lake was arguing the question for himself, on totally different grounds, and that it was fixed in his mind pretty much in these terms:-'that old villain wants an exorbitant bribe--is he worth it?' he knew what the lawyer thought he did _not_ know--that five oaks was held by the lawyers to be possibly _without_ those unfortunate limitations which affected all the rest of the estate. it was only a moot-point; but the doubt had led mr. jos. larkin to the selection. 'i'll look in upon you between eight and nine in the morning, and i'll say yes or no then,' said the captain, as they parted under the old stone porch, the attorney with a graceful inclination, a sad smile, and a wave of his hand--the captain with his hands in the pockets of his loose coat, and a sidelong glance from his yellow eyes. the sky, as he looked toward brandon, was draped in black cloud, intensely black, meeting a black horizon--except for one little rent of deep crimson which showed westward behind those antique gables and lordly trees, like a lake of blood. chapter lvi. the brandon conservatory. captain lake did look in at the lodge in the morning, and remained an hour in conference with mr. jos. larkin. i suppose everything went off pleasantly. for although stanley lake looked very pale and vicious as he walked down to the iron gate of the lodge among the evergreens and bass-mats, the good attorney's countenance shone with a serene and heavenly light, so pure and bright, indeed, that i almost wonder his dazzled servants, sitting along the wall while he read and expounded that morning, did not respectfully petition that a veil, after the manner of moses, might be suspended over the seraphic effulgence. somehow his 'times' did not interest him at breakfast; these parliamentary wrangles, commercial speculations, and foreign disputes, are they not, after all, but melancholy and dreary records of the merest worldliness; and are there not moments when they become almost insipid? jos. larkin tossed the paper upon the sofa. french politics, relations with russia, commercial treaties, party combinations, how men _can_ so wrap themselves up in these things! and he smiled ineffable pity over the crumpled newspaper--on the poor souls in that sort of worldly limbo. in which frame of mind he took from his coat pocket a copy of captain lake's marriage settlement, and read over again a covenant on the captain's part that, with respect to this particular estate of five oaks, he would do no act, and execute no agreement, deed, or other instrument whatsoever, in any wise affecting the same, without the consent in writing of the said dorcas brandon; and a second covenant binding him and the trustees of the settlement against executing any deed, &c., without a similar consent; and especially directing, that in the event of alienating the estate, the said dorcas must be made an assenting party to the deed. he folded the deed, and replaced it in his pocket with a peaceful smile and closed eyes, murmuring-'i'm much mistaken if the gray mare's the better horse in that stud.' he laughed gently, thinking of the captain's formidable and unscrupulous nature, exhibitions of which he could not fail to remember. 'no, no, miss dorkie won't give us much trouble.' he used to call her 'miss dorkie,' playfully to his clerks. it gave him consideration, he fancied. and now with this five oaks to begin with--â£1,400 a year--a great capability, immensely improvable, he would stake half he's worth on making it more than â£2,000 within five years; and with other things at his back, an able man like him might before long look as high as she. and visions of the grand jury rose dim and splendid--an heiress and a seat for the county; perhaps he and lake might go in together, though he'd rather be associated with the hon. james cluttworth, or young lord griddlestone. lake, you see, wanted weight, and, nothwithstanding his connections, was, it could not be denied, a new man in the county. so wylder, lake, and jos. larkin had each projected for himself, pretty much the same career; and probably each saw glimmering in the horizon the golden round of a coronet. and i suppose other modest men are not always proof against similar flatteries of imagination. jos. larkin had also the vicar's business and reversion to attend to. the rev. william wylder had a letter containing three lines from him at eight o'clock, to which he sent an answer, whereupon the solicitor despatched a special messenger, one of his clerks to dollington, with a letter to the sheriff's deputy, from whom he received duly a reply, which necessitated a second letter with a formal undertaking, to which came another reply; whereupon he wrote to burlington, smith, and co., acquainting them respectfully, in diplomatic fashion, with the attitude which affairs had assumed. with this went a private and confidential, non-official, note to smith, desiring him to answer stiffly and press for an immediate settlement, and to charge costs fairly, as mr. william wylder would have ample funds to liquidate them. smith knew what _fairly_ meant, and his entries went down accordingly. by the same post went up to the same firm a proposition--an afterthought--sanctioned by a second miniature correspondence with his client, now sailing before the wind, to guarantee them against loss consequent against staying the execution in the sheriff's hands for a fortnight, which, if they agreed to, they were further requested to send a draft of the proposed undertaking by return, at foot of which, in pencil, he wrote, 'n.b.--_yes_.' this arrangement necessitated his providing himself with a guarantee from the vicar; and so the little account as between the vicar and jos. larkin, solicitor, and the vicar and messrs. burlington, smith, and co., solicitors, grew up and expanded with a tropical luxuriance. about the same time--while mr. jos. larkin, i mean, was thinking over miss dorkie's share in the deed, with a complacent sort of interest, anticipating a struggle, but sure of victory--that beautiful young lady was walking slowly from flower to flower, in the splendid conservatory which projects southward from the house, and rears itself in glacial arches high over the short sward and flowery patterns of the outer garden of brandon. the unspeakable sadness of wounded pride was on her beautiful features, and there was a fondness in the gesture with which she laid her fingers on these exotics and stooped over them, which gave to her solitude a sentiment of the pathetic. from the high glass doorway, communicating with the drawing-rooms, at the far end, among towering ranks of rare and gorgeous flowers, over the encaustic tiles, and through this atmosphere of perfume, did captain stanley lake, in his shooting coat, glide, smiling, toward his beautiful young wife. she heard the door close, and looking half over her shoulder, in a low tone indicating surprise, she merely said: 'oh!' receiving him with a proud sad look. 'yes, dorkie, i'm here at last. i've been for some weeks so insufferably busy,' and he laid his white hand lightly over his eyes, as if they and the brain within were alike weary. 'how charming this place is--the temple of flora, and you the divinity!' and he kissed her cheek. 'i'm now emancipated for, i hope, a week or two. i've been so stupid and inattentive. i'm sure, dorkie, you must think me a brute. i've been shut up so in the library, and keeping such tiresome company--you've no idea; but i think you'll say it was time well spent, at least i'm sure you'll approve the result; and now that i have collected the facts, and can show you, darling, exactly what the chances are, you must consent to hear the long story, and when you have heard, give me your advice.' dorcas smiled, and only plucked a little flowery tendril from a plant that hung in a natural festoon above her. 'i assure you, darling, i am serious; you must not look so incredulous; and it is the more provoking, because i love you so. i think i have a right to your advice, dorkie.' 'why don't you ask rachel, she's cleverer than i, and you are more in the habit of consulting her?' 'now, dorkie is going to talk her wicked nonsense over again, as if i had never answered it. what about radie? i do assure you, so far from taking her advice, and thinking her an oracle, as you suppose, i believe her in some respects very little removed from a fool.' 'i think her very clever, on the contrary,' said dorcas, enigmatically. 'well, she is clever in some respects; she is gay, at least she used to be, before she fell into that transcendental parson's hands--i mean poor dear william wylder; and she can be amusing, and talks very well, but she has no sense--she is utterly quixotic--she is no more capable of advising than a child.' 'i should not have fancied that, although you say so, stanley.' she answered carelessly, adding a geranium to her bouquet. 'you are thinking, i know, because you have seen us once or twice talking together----' stanley paused, not knowing exactly how to construct the remainder of his sentence. dorcas added another blossom. 'i think that blue improves it wonderfully. don't you?' 'the blue? oh yes, certainly.' 'and now that little star of yellow will make it perfect,' said dorcas. 'yes--yellow--quite perfect,' said stanley. 'but when you saw rachel and me talking together, or rather rachel talking to me, i do assure you, dorcas, upon my sacred honour, one half of what she said i do not to this moment comprehend, and the whole was based on the most preposterous blunder; and i will tell you in a little time everything about it. i would this moment--i'd be delighted--only just until i have got a letter which i expect--a letter, i assure you, nothing more--and until i have got it, it would be simply to waste your time and patience to weary you with any such--any such.' '_secret_,' said dorcas. '_secret_, then, if you will have it so,' retorted stanley, suddenly, with one of those glares that lasted for just one fell moment; but he instantly recovered himself. '_secret_--yes--but no secret in the evil sense--a secret only awaiting the evidence which i daily expect, and then to be stated fully and frankly to you, my only darling, and as completely blown to the winds.' dorcas looked in his strange face with her proud, sad gaze, like one guessing at a funereal allegory. he kissed her cheek again, placing one arm round her slender waist, and with his other hand taking hers. 'yes, dorcas, my beloved, my only darling, you will yet know all it has cost me to retain from you even this folly; and when you have heard all--which upon my soul and honour, you shall the moment i am enabled to _prove_ all--you will thank me for having braved your momentary displeasure, to spare you a great deal of useless and miserable suspense. i trust you, dorcas, in everything implicitly. why won't you credit what i say?' 'i don't urge you--i never have--to reveal that which you describe so strangely as a concealment, yet no secret; as an absurdity, and yet fraught with miserable suspense.' 'ah, dorcas, why will you misconstrue me? why will you not believe me? i long to tell you this, which, after all, _is_ an _utter_ absurdity, a thousand times more than you can desire to hear it; but my doing so now, unfortified by the evidence i shall have in a very few days, would be attended with a danger which you will then understand. won't you trust me?' 'and now for my advice,' said dorcas, smiling down in her mysterious way upon a crimson exotic near her feet. 'yes, darling, thank you. in sober earnest, your advice,' answered lake; 'and you must advise me. several of our neighbours--the hillyards, the ledwiches, the wyndermeres, and ever so many more--have spoken to me very strongly about contesting the county, on the old whig principles, at the election which is now imminent. there is not a man with a chance of acceptance to come forward, if i refuse. now, you know what even moderate success in the house, when family and property go together, may accomplish. there are the dodminsters. do you think they would ever have got their title by any other means? there are the forresters----' 'i know it all, stanley; and at once i say, go on. i thought you must have formed some political project, mr. wealdon has been with you so often; but you tell me nothing, stanley.' 'not, darling, till i know it myself. this plan, for instance, until you spoke this moment, was but a question, and one which i could not submit until i had seen wealdon, and heard how matters stood, and what chances of success i should really have. so, darling, you have it all; and i am so glad you advise me to go on. it is five-and-thirty years since anyone connected with brandon came forward. but it will cost a great deal of money, dorkie.' 'yes, i know. i've always heard it cost my uncle and sir william camden fifteen thousand pounds.' 'yes, it will be expensive, wealdon thinks--_very_, this time. the other side will spend a great deal of money. it often struck me as a great mistake, that, where there is a good income, and a position to be maintained, there is not a little put by every year to meet cases like this--what they call a reserve fund in trading companies.' 'i do not think there is much money. _you_ know, stanley.' 'whatever there is, is under settlement, and we cannot apply it, dorkie. the only thing to be done, it strikes me, is to sell a part of five oaks.' 'i'll not sell any property, stanley.' 'and what _do_ you propose, then?' 'i don't know. i don't understand these things. but there are ways of getting money by mortgages and loans, and paying them off, without losing the property.' 'i've the greatest possible objection to raising money in that way. it is, in fact, the first step towards ruin; and nobody has ever done it who has not regretted that he did not sell instead.' 'i won't sell five oaks, stanley,' said the young lady, seriously. 'i only said a part,' replied stanley. 'i won't sell at all.' 'oh? and _i_ won't mortgage,' said stanley. 'then the thing can't go on?' 'i can't help it.' 'but i'm resolved it _shall_,' answered stanley. 'i tell you, stanley, plainly, i will not sell. the brandon estate shall not be diminished in my time.' 'why, you perverse idiot, don't you perceive you impair the estate as much by mortgaging as by selling, with ten times the ultimate danger. i tell you _i_ won't mortgage, and _you shall sell_.' 'this, sir, is the first time i have been spoken to in such terms.' 'and why do you contradict and thwart me upon business of which i know something and you nothing? what object on earth can i have in impairing the estate? i've as deep an interest in it as you. it is perfectly plain we should sell; and i am determined we shall. come now, dorcas--i'm sorry--i'm such a brute, you know, when i'm vexed. you mustn't be angry; and if you'll be a good girl, and trust me in matters of business----' 'stanley, i tell you plainly once more, i never will consent to sell one acre of the brandon estates.' 'then we'll see what i can do without you, dorkie,' he said in a pleasant, musing way. he was now looking down, with his sly, malign smile; and dorcas could almost fancy two yellow lights reflected upon the floor. 'i shall protect the property of my family, sir, from your folly or your machinations; and i shall write to chelford, as my trustee, to come here to advise me.' 'and i snap my fingers at you both, and meet you with _defiance_;' and stanley's singular eyes glared upon her for a few seconds. dorcas turned in her grand way, and walked slowly toward the door. 'stay a moment, i'm going,' said stanley, overtaking and confronting her near the door. 'i've only one word. i don't think you quite know me. it will be an evil day for you, dorkie, when you quarrel with me.' he looked steadily on her, smiling for a second or two more, and then glided from the conservatory. it was the first time dorcas had seen stanley lake's features in that translated state which indicated the action of his evil nature, and the apparition haunted her for many a day and night. chapter lvii. concerning a new danger which threatened captain stanley lake. the ambitious captain walked out, sniffing, white, and incensed. there was an air of immovable resolution in the few words which dorcas had spoken which rather took him by surprise. the captain was a terrorist. he acted instinctively on the theory that any good that was to be got from human beings was to be extracted from their fears. he had so operated on mark wylder; and so sought to coerce his sister rachel. he had hopes, too, of ultimately catching the good attorney napping, and leading him too, bound and docile, into his ergastulum, although he was himself just now in jeopardy from that quarter. james dutton, too. sooner or later he would get master jim into a fix, and hold him also spell-bound in the same sort of nightmare. it was not from malice. the worthy attorney had much more of that leaven than he. stanley lake did not care to smash any man, except such as stood in his way. he had a mercantile genius, and never exercised his craft, violence and ferocity, on men or objects, when no advantage was obtainable by so doing. when, however, fortune so placed them that one or other must go to the wall, captain stanley lake was awfully unscrupulous. but, having disabled, and struck him down, and won the stakes, he would have given what remained of him his cold, white hand to shake, or sipped claret with him at his own table, and told him stories, and entertained him with sly, sarcastic sallies, and thought how he could make use of him in an amicable way. but stanley lake's cold, commercial genius, his craft and egotism, were frustrated occasionally by his temper, which, i am afraid, with all its external varnish, was of the sort which is styled diabolical. people said also, what is true of most terrorists, that he was himself quite capable of being frightened; and also, that he lied with too fertile an audacity: and, like a man with too many bills afloat, forgot his endorsements occasionally, and did not recognise his own acceptances when presented after an interval. such were some of this dangerous fellow's weak points. but on the whole it was by no means a safe thing to cross his path; and few who did so came off altogether scathless. he pursued his way with a vague feeling of danger and rage, having encountered an opposition of so much more alarming a character than he had anticipated, and found his wife not only competent _ferre aspectum_ to endure his maniacal glare and scowl, but serenely to defy his violence and his wrath. he had abundance of matter for thought and perturbation, and felt himself, when the images of larcom, larkin, and jim dutton crossed the retina of his memory, some thrill of the fear which 'hath torment'--the fear of a terrible coercion which he liked so well to practise in the case of others. in this mood he paced, without minding in what direction he went, under those great rows of timber which over-arch the pathway leading toward redman's dell--the path that he and mark wylder had trod in that misty moonlight walk on which i had seen them set out together. before he had walked five minutes in this direction, he was encountered by a little girl in a cloak, who stopped and dropped a courtesy. the captain stopped also, and looked at her with a stare which, i suppose, had something forbidding in it, for the child was frightened. but the wild and menacing look was unconscious, and only the reflection of the dark speculations and passions which were tumbling and breaking in his soul. 'well, child,' said he, gently, 'i think i know your face, but i forget your name.' 'little margery, please sir, from miss lake at redman's farm,' she replied with a courtesy. 'oh! to be sure, yes. and how is miss rachel?' 'very bad with a headache, please, sir.' 'is she at home?' 'yes, sir, please.' 'any message?' 'yes, sir, please--a note for you, sir;' and she produced a note, rather, indeed, a letter. 'she desired me, sir, please, to give it into your own hand, if i could, and not to leave it, please, sir, unless you were at home when i reached.' he read the direction, and dropped it unopened into the pocket of his shooting coat. the peevish glance with which he eyed it betrayed a presentiment of something unpleasant. 'any answer required?' 'no, sir, please--only to leave it.' 'and miss lake is quite well?' 'no, sir, please--a bad headache to-day.' 'oh! i'm very sorry, indeed. tell her so. she is at home, is she?' 'yes, sir.' 'very well; that's all. say i am very sorry to hear she is suffering; and if i can find time, i hope to see her to-day; and remember to say i have not read her letter, but if i find it requires an answer, it shall have one.' he looked round like a man newly awakened, and up among the great boughs and interlacing foliage of the noble trees, and the child made him two courtesies, and departed towards redman's farm. lake sauntered back slowly toward the hall. on his way, a rustic seat under the shadow invited him, and he sat down, drawing rachel's letter from his pocket. what a genius they have for teasing! how women do contrive to waste our time and patience over nonsense! how ingeniously perverse their whimsies are! i do believe beelzebub employs them still, as he did in eden, for the special plague of us, poor devils. here's a lecture or an exhortation from miss radie, and a quantity of infinitely absurd advice, all which i am to read and inwardly digest, and discuss with her whenever she pleases. i've a great mind to burn it quietly.' but he applied his match, instead, to his cigar; and having got it well lighted, he leaned back, and broke the seal, and read this letter, which, i suspect, notwithstanding his preliminary thoughts, he fancied might contain matter of more practical import:-'i write to you, my beloved and only brother, stanley, in an altered state of mind, and with clearer views of duty than, i think, i have ever had before.' 'just as i conjectured,' muttered stanley, with a bitter smile, as he shook the ashes off the top of his cigar--'a woman's homily.' he read on, and a livid frown gradually contracted his forehead as he did so. 'i do not know, stanley, what your feelings may be. mine have been the same ever since that night in which i was taken into a confidence so dreadful. the circumstances are fearful; but far more dreadful to me, the mystery in which i have lived ever since. i sometimes think i have only myself to blame. but you know, my poor brother, why i consented, and with what agony. ever since, i have lived in terror, and worse, in degradation. i did not know, until it was too late, how great was my guilt. heaven knows, when i consented to that journey, i did not comprehend its full purpose, though i knew enough to have warned me of my danger, and undertook it in great fear and anguish of mind. i can never cease to mourn over my madness. oh! stanley, you do not know what it is to feel, as i do, the shame and treachery of my situation; to try to answer the smiles of those who, at least, once loved me, and to take their hands; to kiss dorcas and good dolly; and feel that all the time i am a vile impostor, stained incredibly, from whom, if they knew me, they would turn in horror and disgust. now, stanley, i can bear anything but this baseness--anything but the life-long practice of perfidy--that, i will not and cannot endure. _dorcas must know the truth._ that there is a secret jealously guarded from her, she does know--no woman could fail to perceive that; and there are few, stanley, who would not prefer the certainty of the worst, to the anguish of such relations of mystery and reserve with a _husband_. she is clever, she is generous, and has many noble qualities. she will see what is right, and do it. me she may hate, and must despise; but that were to me more endurable than friendship gained on false pretences. i repeat, therefore, stanley, that _dorcas must know the whole truth_. do not suppose, my poor brother, that i write from impulse--i have deeply thought on the subject.' '_deeply_,' repeated stanley, with a sneer. 'and the more i reflect, the more am i convinced--if _you_ will not tell her, stanley, that _i_ must. but it will be wiser and better, terrible as it may be, that the revelation should come from _you_, whom she has made her husband. the dreadful confidence would be more terrible from any other. be courageous then, stanley; you will be happier when you have disclosed the truth, and released, at all events, one of your victims. 'your sorrowful and only sister, 'rachel.' on finishing the letter, stanley rose quickly to his feet. he had become gradually so absorbed in reading it, that he laid his cigar unconsciously beside him, and suffered it to go out. with downcast look, and an angry contortion, he tore the sheets of note-paper across, and was on the point of reducing them to a thousand little snow flakes, and giving them to the wind, when, on second thoughts, he crumpled them together, and thrust them into his breast pocket. his excitement was too intense for foul terms, or even blasphemy. with the edge of his nether lip nipped in his teeth, and his clenched hands in his pockets, he walked through the forest trees to the park, and in his solitudes hurried onward as if his life depended on his speed. gradually he recovered his self-possession. he sat down under the shade of a knot of beech trees, overlooking that ill-omened tarn, which we have often mentioned, upon a lichen-stained rock, his chin resting on his clenched hand, his elbow on his knee, and the heel of his other foot stamping out bits of the short, green sod. 'that d--d girl deserves to be shot for her treachery,' was the first sentence that broke from his white lips. it certainly was an amazing outrage upon his self-esteem, that the secret which was the weapon of terror by which he meant to rule his sister rachel, should, by her slender hand, be taken so easily from his grasp, and lifted to crush him. the captain's plans were not working by any means so smoothly as he had expected. that sudden stab from jos. larkin, whom he always despised, and now hated--whom he believed to be a fifth-rate, pluckless rogue, without audacity, without invention; whom he was on the point of tripping up, that he should have turned short and garotted the gallant captain, was a provoking turn of fortune. that when a dire necessity subjugated his will, his contempt, his rage, and he inwardly decided that the attorney's extortion must be submitted to, his wife--whom he never made any account of in the transaction, whom he reckoned carelessly on turning about as he pleased, by a few compliments and cajoleries--should have started up, cold and inflexible as marble, in his path, to forbid the payment of the black mail, and expose him to the unascertained and formidable consequences of dutton's story, and the disappointed attorney's vengeance--was another stroke of luck which took him altogether by surprise. and to crown all, miss radie had grown tired of keeping her own secret, and must needs bring to light the buried disgraces which all concerned were equally interested in hiding away for ever. stanley lake's position, if all were known, was at this moment formidable enough. but he had been fifty times over, during his brief career, in scrapes of a very menacing kind; once or twice, indeed, of the most alarming nature. his temper, his craft, his impetus, were always driving him into projects and situations more or less critical. sometimes he won, sometimes he failed; but his audacious energy hitherto had extricated him. the difficulties of his present situation were, however, appalling, and almost daunted his semi-diabolical energies. from rachel to dorcas, from dorcas to the attorney, and from him to dutton, and back again, he rambled in the infernal litany he muttered over the inauspicious tarn, among the enclosing banks and undulations, and solitary and lonely woods. 'lake avernus,' said a hollow voice behind him, and a long grisly hand was laid on his shoulder. a cold breath of horror crept from his brain to his heel, as he turned about and saw the large, blanched features and glassy eyes of uncle lorne bent over him. 'oh, lake avernus, is it?' said lake, with an angry sneer, and raising his hat with a mock reverence. 'ay! it is the window of hell, and the spirits in prison come up to see the light of it. did you see him looking up?' said uncle lorne, with his pallid smile. 'oh! of course--napoleon bonaparte leaning on old dr. simcock's arm,' answered lake. it was odd, in the sort of ghastly banter in which he played off this old man, how much hatred was perceptible. 'no--not he. it is mark wylder,' said uncle lorne; 'his face comes up like a white fish within a fathom of the top--it makes me laugh. that's the way they keep holiday. can you tell by the sky when it is holiday in hell? _i_ can.' and he laughed, and rubbed his long fingers together softly. 'look! ha! ha!--look! ha! ha! ha!--_look!_' he resumed pointing with his cadaverous forefinger towards the middle of the pool. 'i told you this morning it was a holiday,' and he laughed very quietly to himself. 'look how his nostrils go like a fish's gills. it is a funny way for a gentleman, and _he's_ a gentleman. every fool knows the wylders are gentlemen--all gentlemen in misfortune. he has a brother that is walking about in his coffin. mark has no coffin; it is all marble steps; and a wicked seraph received him, and blessed him till his hair stood up. let me whisper you.' 'no, not just at this moment, please,' said lake, drawing away, disgusted, from the maniacal leer and titter of the gigantic old man. 'aye, aye--another time--some night there's aurora borealis in the sky. you know this goes under ground all the way to vallambrosa?' 'thank you; i was not aware: that's very convenient. had you not better go down and speak to your friend in the water?' 'young man, i bless you for remembering,' said uncle lorne, solemnly. 'what was mark wylder's religion, that i may speak to him comfortably?' 'an anabaptist, i conjecture, from his present situation,' replied lake. 'no, that's in the lake of fire, where the wicked seraphim and cherubim baptise, and anabaptise, and hold them under, with a great stone laid across their breasts. i only know two of their clergy--the african vicar, quite a gentleman, and speaks through his nose; and the archbishop with wings; his face is so burnt, he's all eyes and mouth, and on one hand has only one finger, and he tickles me with it till i almost give up the ghost. the ghost of miss baily is a lie, he said, by my soul; and he likes you--he loves you. shall i write it all in a book, and give it you? i meet mark wylder in three places sometimes. don't move, till i go down; he's as easily frightened as a fish.' and uncle lorne crept down the bank, tacking, and dodging, and all the time laughing softly to himself; and sometimes winking with a horrid, wily grimace at stanley, who fervently wished him at the bottom of the tarn. 'i say,' said stanley, addressing the keeper, whom by a beck he had brought to his side, 'you don't allow him, surely, to go alone now?' 'no, sir--since your order, sir,' said the stern, reserved official. 'nor to come into any place but this--the park, i mean?' 'no, sir.' 'and do you mind, try and get him home always before nightfall. it is easy to frighten him. find out what frightens him, and do it or say it. it is dangerous, don't you see? and he might break his d--d neck any time among those rocks and gullies, or get away altogether from you in the dark.' so the keeper, at the water's brink, joined uncle lorne, who was talking, after his fashion, into the dark pool. and stanley lake--a general in difficulties--retraced his steps toward the park gate through which he had come, ruminating on his situation and resources. chapter lviii. miss rachel lake becomes violent. so soon as the letter which had so surprised and incensed stanley lake was despatched, and beyond recall, rachel, who had been indescribably agitated before, grew all at once calm. she knew that she had done right. she was glad the die was cast, and that it was out of her power to retract. she kneeled at her bedside, and wept and prayed, and then went down and talked with old tamar, who was knitting in the shade by the porch. then the young lady put on her bonnet and cloak, and walked down to gylingden, with an anxious, but still a lighter heart, to see her friend, dolly wylder. dolly received her in a glad sort of fuss. 'i'm so glad to see you, miss lake.' 'call me rachel; and won't you let me call you dolly?' 'well, rachel, dear,' replied dolly, laughing, 'i'm delighted you're come; i have such good news--but i can't tell it till i think for a minute--i must begin at the beginning.' 'anywhere, everywhere, only if it is good news, let me hear it at once. i'll be sure to understand.' 'well, miss--i mean rachel, dear--you know--i may tell you now--the vicar--my dear willie--he and i--we've been in great trouble--oh, such trouble--heaven _only_ knows--' and she dried her eyes quickly--'money, my dear--' and she smiled with a bewildered shrug--'some debts at cambridge--no fault of his--you can't imagine what a saving darling he is--but these were a few old things that mounted up with interest, my dear--you understand--and law costs--oh, you can't think--and indeed, dear miss--well, _rachel_--i forgot--i sometimes thought we must be quite ruined.' 'oh, dolly, dear,' said rachel, very pale, 'i feared it. i thought you might be troubled about money. i was not sure, but i was afraid; and, to say truth, it was partly to try your friendship with a question on that very point that i came here, and not indeed, dolly, dear, from impertinent curiosity, but in the hope that maybe you might allow me to be of some use.' 'how wonderfully good you are! how friends are raised up!' and with a smile that shone like an april sun through her tears, she stood on tiptoe, and kissed the tall young lady, who--not smiling, but with a pale and very troubled face--bowed down and returned her kiss. 'you know, dear, before he went, mark promised to lend dear willie a large sum of money. well, he went away in such a hurry, that he never thought of it; and though he constantly wrote to mr. larkin--you have no idea, my dear miss lake, what a blessed angel that man is--oh! _such_ a friend as has been raised up to us in that holy and wise man, words cannot express; but what was i saying?--oh, yes--mark, you know--it was very kind, but he has so many things on his mind it quite escaped him--and he keeps, you know, wandering about on the continent, and never gives his address; so he, can't, you see, be written to; and the delay--but, rachel, darling, are you ill?' she rang the bell, and opened the window, and got some water. 'my darling, you walked too fast here. you were very near fainting.' 'no, dear--nothing--i am quite well now--go on.' but she did not go on immediately, for rachel was trembling in a kind of shivering fit, which did not pass away till after poor dolly, who had no other stimulant at command, made her drink a cup of very hot milk. 'thank you, darling. you are too good to me, dolly. oh! dolly, you are too good to me.' rachel's eyes were looking into hers with a careworn, entreating gaze, and her cold hand was pressed on the back of dolly's. nearly ten minutes passed before the talk was renewed. 'well, now, what do you think--that good man, mr. larkin, just as things were at the worst, found a way to make everything--oh, blessed mercy!--the hand of heaven, my dear--quite right again--and we'll be so happy. like a bird i could sing, and fly almost--a foolish old thing--ha! ha! ha!--such an old goose!' and she wiped her eyes again. 'hush! is that fairy? oh, no, it is only anne singing. little man has not been well yesterday and to-day. he won't eat, and looks pale, but he slept very well, my darling man; and doctor buddle--i met him this morning--so kindly took him into his room, and examined him, and says it may be nothing at all, please heaven,' and she sighed, smiling still. 'dear little fairy--where is he?' asked rachel, her sad eyes looking toward the door. 'in the study with his wapsie. mrs. woolaston, she is such a kind soul, lent him such a beautiful old picture book--"woodward's eccentricities" it is called--and he's quite happy--little fairy, on his little stool at the window.' 'no headache or fever?' asked miss lake cheerfully, though, she knew not why, there seemed something ominous in this little ailment. 'none at all; oh, none, thank you; none in the world. i'd be so frightened if there was. but, thank heaven, doctor buddle says there's nothing to make us at all uneasy. my blessed little man! and he has his canary in the cage in the window, and his kitten to play with in the study. he's quite happy.' 'please heaven, he'll be quite well to-morrow--the darling little man,' said rachel, all the more fondly for that vague omen that seemed to say, 'he's gone.' 'here's mr. larkin!' cried dolly, jumping up, and smiling and nodding at the window to that long and natty apparition, who glided to the hall-door with a sad smile, raising his well-brushed hat as he passed, and with one grim glance beyond mrs. wylder, for his sharp eye half detected another presence in the room. he was followed, not accompanied--for mr. larkin knew what a gentleman he was--by a young and bilious clerk, with black hair and a melancholy countenance, and by old buggs--his conducting man--always grinning, whose red face glared in the little garden like a great bunch of hollyhocks. he was sober as a judge all the morning, and proceeded strictly on the principle of business first, and pleasure afterward. but his orgies, when off duty, were such as to cause the good attorney, when complaints reached him, to shake his head, and sigh profoundly, and sometimes to lift up his mild eyes and long hands; and, indeed, so scandalous an appendage was buggs, that if he had been less useful, i believe the pure attorney, who, in the uncomfortable words of john bunyan, 'had found a cleaner road to hell,' would have cashiered him long ago. 'there is that awful mr. buggs,' said dolly, with a look of honest alarm. 'i often wonder so christian a man as mr. larkin can countenance him. he is hardly ever without a black eye. he has been three nights together without once putting off his clothes--think of that; and, my dear, on friday week he fell through the window of the fancy emporium, at two o'clock in the morning; and doctor buddle says if the cut on his jaw had been half an inch lower, he would have cut some artery, and lost his life--wretched man!' 'they have come about law business, dolly!' enquired the young lady, who had a profound, instinctive dread of mr. larkin. 'yes, my dear; a most important windfall. only for mr. larkin, it never could have been accomplished, and, indeed, i don't think it would ever have been thought of.' 'i hope he has some one to advise him,' said miss lake, anxiously. 'i--i think mr. larkin a very cunning person; and you know your husband does not understand business.' 'is it mr. larkin, my dear? mr. larkin! why, my dear, if you knew him as we do, you'd trust your life in his hands.' 'but there are people who know him still better; and i think they fancy he is a very crafty man. i do not like him myself, and dorcas brandon dislikes him too; and, though i don't think we could either give a reason--i don't know, dolly, but i should not like to trust him.' 'but, my dear, he is an excellent man, and such a friend, and he has managed all this most troublesome business so delightfully. it is what they call a reversion.' 'william wylder is not selling his reversion?' said rachel, fixing a wild and startled look on her companion. 'yes, reversion, i am sure, is the name. and why not, dear? it is most unlikely we should ever get a farthing of it any other way, and it will give us enough to make us quite happy.' 'but, my darling, don't you know the reversion under the will is a great _fortune_? he must not think of it;' and up started rachel, and before dolly could interpose or remonstrate, she had crossed the little hall, and entered the homely study, where the gentlemen were conferring. william wylder was sitting at his desk, and a large sheet of law scrivenery, on thick paper, with a stamp in the corner, was before him. the bald head of the attorney, as he leaned over him, and indicated an imaginary line with his gold pencil-case, was presented toward miss lake as she entered. the attorney had just said '_there_, please,' in reply to the vicar's question, 'where do i write my name?' and red buggs, grinning with his mouth open, like an over-heated dog, and the sad and bilious young gentleman, stood by to witness the execution of the cleric's autograph. tall jos. larkin looked up, smiling with his mouth also a little open, as was his wont when he was particularly affable. but the rat's eyes were looking at her with a hungry suspicion, and smiled not. 'william wylder, i am so glad i'm in time,' said rachel, rustling across the room. '_there_,' said the attorney, very peremptorily, and making a little furrow in the thick paper with the seal end of his pencil. 'stop, william wylder, don't sign; i've a word to say--you _must_ pause.' 'if it affects our business, miss lake, i do request that you address yourself to me; if not, may i beg, miss lake, that you will defer it for a moment.' 'william wylder, lay down that pen; as you love your little boy, lay it _down_, and hear me,' continued miss lake. the vicar looked at her with his eyes wide open, puzzled, like a man who is not quite sure whether he may not be doing something wrong. 'i--really, miss lake--pardon me, but this is very irregular, and, in fact, unprecedented!' said jos. larkin. 'i think--i suppose, you can hardly be aware, ma'am, that i am here as the rev. mr. wylder's confidential solicitor, acting solely for him, in a matter of a strictly private nature.' the attorney stood erect, a little flushed, with that peculiar contraction, mean and dangerous, in his eyes. 'of course, mr. wylder, if you, sir, desire me to leave, i shall instantaneously do so; and, indeed, unless you proceed to sign, i had better go, as my time is generally, i may say, a little pressed upon, and i have, in fact, some business elsewhere to attend to.' 'what _is_ this law-paper?' demanded rachel, laying the tips of her slender fingers upon it. 'am i to conclude that you withdraw from your engagement?' asked mr. larkin. 'i had better, then, communicate with burlington and smith by this post; as also with the sheriff, who has been very kind.' 'oh, no!--oh, no, mr. larkin!--pray, i'm quite ready to sign.' 'now, william wylder, you _sha'n't_ sign until you tell me whether this is a sale of your reversion.' the young lady had her white hand firmly pressed upon the spot where he was to sign, and the ring that glittered on her finger looked like a talisman interposing between the poor vicar and the momentous act he was meditating. 'i think, miss lake, it is pretty plain you are not acting for yourself here--you have been sent, ma'am,' said the attorney, looking very vicious, and speaking a little huskily and hurriedly; 'i quite conceive by whom.' 'i don't know what you mean, sir,' replied miss lake, with grave disdain. 'you have been commissioned, ma'am, i venture to think, to come here to watch the interests of another party.' 'i say, sir, i don't in the least comprehend you.' 'i think it is pretty obvious, ma'am--miss lake, i beg pardon--you have had some conversation with your _brother_,' answered the attorney, with a significant sneer. 'i don't know what you mean, sir, i repeat. i've just heard, in the other room, from your wife, william wylder, that you were about selling your reversion in the estates, and i want to know whether that is so; for if it be, it is the act of a madman, and i'll prevent it, if i possibly can.' 'upon my word! possibly'--said the vicar, his eyes very wide open, and looking with a hesitating gaze from rachel to the attorney--'there may be something in it which neither you nor i know; does it not strike you--had we not better consider?' 'consider _what_, sir?' said the attorney, with a snap, and losing his temper somewhat. 'it is simply, sir, that this young lady represents captain lake, who wishes to get the reversion for himself.' 'that is utterly false, sir!' said miss lake, flashing and blushing with indignation. 'you, william, are a _gentleman_; and such inconceivable meanness cannot enter _your_ mind.' the attorney, with what he meant to be a polished sarcasm, bowed and smiled toward miss lake. pale little fairy, sitting before his 'picture-book,' was watching the scene with round eyes and round mouth, and that mixture of interest, awe, and distress, with which children witness the uncomprehended excitement and collision of their elders. 'my dear miss lake, i respect and esteem you; you quite mistake, i am persuaded, my good friend mr. larkin; and, indeed, i don't quite comprehend; but if it were so, and that your brother really wished--do you think he does, mr. larkin?--to buy the reversion, he might think it more valuable, perhaps.' 'i can say with certainty, sir, that from that quarter you would get nothing like what you have agreed to take; and i must say, once for all, sir, that--quite setting aside every consideration of honour and of conscience, and of the highly prejudicial position in which you would place me as a man of business, by taking the very _short turn_ which this young lady, miss lake, suggests--your letters amount to an equitable agreement to sell, which, on petition, the court would compel you to do.' 'so you see, my dear miss lake, there is no more to be said,' said the vicar, with a careworn smile, looking upon rachel's handsome face. 'now, now, we are all friends, aren't we?' said poor dolly, who could not make anything of the debate, and was staring, with open mouth, from one speaker to another. 'we are all agreed, are not we? you are all so good, and fond of willie, that you are actually ready almost to quarrel for him.' but her little laugh produced no echo, except a very joyless and flushed effort from the attorney, as he looked up from consulting his watch. 'eleven minutes past three,' said he, 'and i've a meeting at my house at half-past: so, unless you complete that instrument _now_, i regret to say i must take it back unfinished, and the result may be to defeat the arrangement altogether, and if the consequences should prove serious, i, at least, am not to blame.' 'don't sign, i entreat, i _implore_ of you. william wylder, you _shan't_.' 'but, my dear miss lake, we have considered everything, and mr. larkin and i agree that my circumstances are such as to make it inevitable.' 'really, this is child's play; _there_, if you please,' said the attorney, once more. rachel lake, during the discussion, had removed her hand. the faintly-traced line on which the vicar was to sign was now fairly presented to him. 'just in your usual way,' murmured mr. larkin. so the vicar's pen was applied, but before he had time to trace the first letter of his name, rachel lake resolutely snatched the thick, bluish sheet of scrivenery, with its handsome margins, and red ink lines, from before him, and tore it across and across, with the quickness of terror, and in fewer seconds than one could fancy, it lay about the floor and grate in pieces little bigger than dominoes. the attorney made a hungry snatch at the paper, over william wylder's shoulder, nearly bearing that gentleman down on his face, but his clutch fell short. 'hallo! miss lake, ma'am--the paper!' but wild words were of no avail. the whole party, except rachel, were aghast. the attorney's small eye glanced over the ground and hearthstone, where the bits were strewn, like ladies' smocks, all silver white, that paint the meadows with delight. he had nothing for it but to submit to fortune with his best air. he stood erect; a slanting beam from the window glimmered on his tall, bald head, and his face was black and menacing as the summit of a thunder-crowned peak. 'you are not aware, miss lake, of the nature of your act, and of the consequences to which you have exposed yourself, madam. but that is a view of the occurrence in which, except as a matter of deep regret, i cannot be supposed to be immediately interested. i will mention, however, that your interference, your _violent_ interference, madam, may be attended with most serious consequences to my reverend client, for which, of course, you constituted yourself fully responsible, when you entered on the course of unauthorised interference, which has resulted in destroying the articles of agreement, prepared with great care and labour, for his protection; and retarding the transmission of the document, by at least four-and-twenty hours, to london. you may, madam, i regret to observe, have ruined my client.' 'saved him, i hope.' 'and run yourself, madam, into a _very_ serious scrape.' 'upon that point you have said quite enough, sir. dolly, william, don't look so frightened; you'll both live to thank me for this.' all this time little fairy, unheeded, was bawling in great anguish of soul, clinging to rachel's dress, and crying--'oh! he'll hurt her--he'll hurt her--he'll hurt her. don't let him--don't let him. wapsie, don't let him. oh! the frightle man!--don't let him--he'll hurt her--the frightle man!' and little man's cheeks were drenched in tears, and his wee feet danced in an agony of terror on the floor, as, bawling, he tried to pull his friend rachel into a corner. 'nonsense, little man,' cried his father, with quick reproof, on hearing this sacrilegious uproar. 'mr. larkin never hurt anyone; tut, tut; sit down, and look at your book.' but rachel, with a smile of love and gratification, lifted the little man up in her arms, and kissed him; and his thin, little legs were clasped about her waist, and his arms round her neck, and he kissed her with his wet face, devouringly, blubbering 'the frightle man--you doatie!--the frightle man!' 'then, mr. wylder, i shall have the document prepared again from the draft. you'll see to that, mr. buggs, please; and perhaps it will be better that you should look in at the lodge.' when he mentioned the lodge, it was in so lofty a way that a stranger would have supposed it something very handsome indeed, and one of the sights of the county. 'say, about nine o'clock to-morrow morning. farewell, mr. wylder, farewell. i regret the enhanced expense--i regret the delay--i regret the risk--i regret, in fact, the whole scene. farewell, mrs. wylder.' and with a silent bow to rachel--perfectly polished, perfectly terrible--he withdrew, followed by the sallow clerk, and by that radiant scamp, old buggs, who made them several obeisances at the door. 'oh, dear miss lake--rachel, i mean--rachel, dear, i hope it won't be all off. oh, you don't know--heaven only knows--the danger we are in. oh, rachel, dear, if this is broken off, i don't know what is to become of us--i don't know.' dolly spoke quite wildly, with her hands on rachel's shoulders. it was the first time she had broken down, the first time, at least, the vicar had seen her anything but cheery, and his head sank, and it seemed as if his last light had gone out, and he was quite benighted. 'do you think,' said he, 'there is much danger of that? do you really think so?' 'now, don't blame me,' said miss lake, 'and don't be frightened till you have heard me. let us sit down here--we shan't be interrupted--and just answer your wretched friend, rachel, two or three questions, and hear what she has to say.' rachel was flushed and excited, and sat with the little boy still in her arms. so, in reply to her questions, the vicar told her frankly how he stood; and rachel said--'well, you must not think of selling your reversion. oh! think of your little boy--think of dolly--if _you_ were taken away from her.' 'but,' said dolly, 'mr. larkin heard from captain lake that mark is privately married, and actually has, he says, a large family; and he, you know, has letters from him, and mr. larkin thinks, knows more than anyone else about him; and if that were so, none of us would ever inherit the property. so'-'_do_ they say that mark is married? nothing can be more _false_. i _know_ it is altogether a falsehood. he neither is nor ever will be married. if my brother _dared_ say that in my presence, i would make him confess, before you, that he _knows_ it cannot be. oh! my poor little fairy--my poor dolly--my poor good friend, william! what shall i say? i am in great distraction of mind.' and she hugged and kissed the pale little boy, she herself paler. 'listen to me, good and kind as you are. you are never to call me your friend, mind that. i am a most unhappy creature forced by circumstances to be your enemy, for a time--not always. you have no conception _how_, and may never even suspect. don't ask me, but listen.' wonder stricken and pained was the countenance with which the vicar gazed upon her, and dolly looked both frightened and perplexed. 'i have a little more than three hundred a-year. there is a little annuity charged on sir hugh landon's estate, and his solicitor has written, offering me six hundred pounds for it. i will write to-night accepting that offer, and you shall have the money to pay those debts which have been pressing so miserably upon you. _don't_ thank--not a word--but listen. i would so like, dolly, to come and live with you. we could unite our incomes. i need only bring poor old tamar with me, and i can give up redman's farm in september next. i should be so much happier; and i think my income and yours joined would enable us to live without any danger of getting into debt. will you agree to this, dolly, dear; and promise me, william wylder, that you will think no more of selling that reversion, which may be the splendid provision of your dear little boy. don't thank me--don't say anything now; and oh! don't reject my poor entreaty. your refusal would almost make me mad. i would try, dolly, to be of use. i think i could. only try me.' she fancied she saw in dolly's face, under all her gratitude, some perplexity and hesitation, and feared to accept a decision then. so she hurried away, with a hasty and kind good-bye. a fortnight before, i think, during dolly's jealous fit, this magnificent offer of rachel's would, notwithstanding the dreadful necessities of the case, have been coldly received by the poor little woman. but that delusion was quite cured now--no reserve, or doubt, or coldness left behind. and dolly and the vicar felt that rachel's noble proposal was the making of them. chapter lix. an enemy in redman's dell. jos. larkin grew more and more uncomfortable about the unexpected interposition of rachel lake as the day wore on. he felt, with an unerring intuition, that the young lady both despised and suspected him. he also knew that she was impetuous and clever, and he feared from that small white hand a fatal mischief--he could not tell exactly how--to his plans. jim dutton's letter had somehow an air of sobriety and earnestness, which made way with his convictions. his doubts and suspicions had subsided, and he now believed, with a profound moral certainty, that mark wylder was actually dead, within the precincts of a mad-house or of some lawless place of detention abroad. what was that to the purpose? dutton might arrive at any moment. low fellows are always talking; and the story might get abroad before the assignment of the vicar's interest. of course there was something speculative in the whole transaction, but he had made his book well, and by his 'arrangement' with captain lake, whichever way the truth lay, he stood to win. so the attorney had no notion of allowing this highly satisfactory arithmetic to be thrown into confusion by the fillip of a small gloved finger. on the whole he was not altogether sorry for the delay. everything worked together he knew. one or two covenants and modifications in the articles had struck him as desirable, on reading the instrument over with william wylder. he also thought a larger consideration should be stated and acknowledged as paid, say 22,000_l._ the vicar would really receive just 2,200_l._ 'costs' would do something to reduce the balance, for jos. larkin was one of those oxen who, when treading out corn, decline to be muzzled. the remainder was--the vicar would clearly understand--one of those ridiculous pedantries of law, upon which our system of crotchets and fictions insisted. and william wylder, whose character, simply and sensitively honourable, mr. larkin appreciated, was to write to burlington and smith a letter, for the satisfaction of their speculative and nervous client, pledging his honour, as a gentleman, and his conscience, as a christian, that in the event of the sale being completed, he would never do, countenance, or permit, any act or proceeding, whatsoever, tending on any ground to impeach or invalidate the transaction. 'i've no objection--have i?--to write such a letter,' asked the vicar of his adviser. 'why, i suppose you have no intention of trying to defeat your own act, and that is all the letter would go to. i look on it as wholly unimportant, and it is really not a point worth standing upon for a second.' so that also was agreed to. now while the improved 'instrument' was in preparation, the attorney strolled down in the evening to look after his clerical client, and keep him 'straight' for the meeting at which he was to sign the articles next day. it was by the drowsy faded light of a late summer's evening that he arrived at the quaint little parsonage. he maintained his character as 'a nice spoken gentleman,' by enquiring of the maid who opened the door how the little boy was. 'not so well--gone to bed--but would be better, everyone was sure, in the morning.' so he went in and saw the vicar, who had just returned with dolly from a little ramble. everything promised fairly--the quiet mind was returning--the good time coming--all the pleasanter for the storms and snows of the night that was over. 'well, my good invaluable friend, you will be glad--you will rejoice with us, i know, to learn that, after all, the sale of our reversion is unnecessary.' the attorney allowed his client to shake him by both hands, and he smiled a sinister congratulation as well as he could, grinning in reply to the vicar's pleasant smile as cheerfully as was feasible, and wofully puzzled in the meantime. had james dutton arrived and announced the death of mark--no; it could hardly be _that_--decency had not yet quite taken leave of the earth; and stupid as the vicar was, he would hardly announce the death of his brother to a christian gentleman in a fashion so outrageous. had lord chelford been invoked, and answered satisfactorily? or dorcas--or had lake, the diabolical sneak, interposed with his long purse, and a plausible hypocrisy of kindness, to spoil larkin's plans? all these fanciful queries flitted through his brain as the vicar's hands shook both his, and he laboured hard to maintain the cheerful grin with which he received the news, and his guileful rapacious little eyes searched narrowly the countenance of his client. so after a while, dolly assisting, and sometimes both talking together, the story was told, rachel blessed and panegyrised, and the attorney's congratulations challenged and yielded once more. but there was something not altogether joyous in jos. larkin's countenance, which struck the vicar, and he said-'you don't see any objection?' and paused. 'objection? why, _objection_, my dear sir, is a strong word; but i fear i do see a difficulty--in fact, several difficulties. perhaps you would take a little turn on the green--i must call for a moment at the reading-room--and i'll explain. you'll forgive me, i hope, mrs. wylder,' he added, with a playful condescension, 'for running away with your husband, but only for a few minutes--ha, ha!' the shadow was upon jos. larkin's face, and he was plainly meditating a little uncomfortably, as they approached the quiet green of gylingden. 'what a charming evening,' said the vicar, making an effort at cheerfulness. 'delicious evening--yes,' said the attorney, throwing back his long head, and letting his mouth drop. but though his face was turned up towards the sky, there was a contraction and a darkness upon it, not altogether heavenly. 'the offer,' said the attorney, beginning rather abruptly, 'is no doubt a handsome offer at the first glance, and it may be well meant. but the fact is, my dear mr. wylder, six hundred pounds would leave little more than a hundred remaining after burlington and smith have had their costs. you have no idea of the expense and trouble of title, and the inevitable costliness, my dear sir, of all conveyancing operations. the deeds, i have little doubt, in consequence of the letter you directed me to write, have been prepared--that is, in draft, of course--and then, my dear sir, i need not remind you, that there remain the costs to me--those, of course, await your entire convenience--but still it would not be either for your or my advantage that they should be forgotten in the general adjustment of your affairs, which i understand you to propose.' the vicar's countenance fell. in fact, it is idle to say that, being unaccustomed to the grand scale on which law costs present themselves on occasion, he was unspeakably shocked and he grew very pale and silent on hearing these impressive sentences. 'and as to miss lake's residing with you--i speak now, you will understand, in the strictest confidence, because the subject is a painful one; as to her residing with you, as she proposes, miss lake is well aware that i am cognizant of circumstances which render any such arrangement absolutely impracticable. i need not, my dear sir, be more particular--at present, at least. in a little time you will probably be made acquainted with them, by the inevitable disclosures of time, which, as the wise man says, "discovers all things."' 'but--but what'--stammered the pale vicar, altogether shocked and giddy. 'you will not press me, my dear sir; you'll understand that, just now, i really _cannot_ satisfy any particular enquiry. miss lake has spoken, in charity i _will_ hope and trust, without thought. but i am much mistaken, or she will herself, on half-an-hour's calm consideration, see the moral impossibilities which interpose between her, to me, most amazing plan and its realisation.' there was a little pause here, during which the tread of their feet on the soft grass alone was audible. 'you will quite understand,' resumed the attorney, 'the degree of confidence with which i make this communication; and you will please, specially not to mention it to any person whatsoever. i do not except, in fact, _any_. you will find, on consideration, that miss lake will not press her residence upon you. no; i've no doubt miss lake is a very intelligent person, and, when not excited, will see it clearly.' the attorney's manner had something of that reserve, and grim sort of dryness, which supervened whenever he fancied a friend or client on whom he had formed designs was becoming impracticable. nothing affected him so much as that kind of unkindness. jos. larkin took his leave a little abruptly. he did not condescend to ask the vicar whether he still entertained miss lake's proposal. he had not naturally a pleasant temper--somewhat short, dark, and dangerous, but by no means noisy. this temper, an intense reluctance ever to say 'thank you,' and a profound and quiet egotism, were the ingredients of that 'pride' on which--a little inconsistently, perhaps, in so eminent a christian--he piqued himself. it must be admitted, however, that his pride was not of that stamp which would prevent him from listening to other men's private talk, or reading their letters, if anything were to be got by it; or from prosecuting his small spites with a patient and virulent industry; or from stripping a man of his possessions, and transferring them to himself by processes from which most men would shrink. 'well,' thought the vicar, 'that munificent offer is unavailing, it seems. the sum insufficient, great as it is; and other difficulties in the way.' he was walking homewards, slowly and dejectedly; and was now beginning to feel alarm lest the purchase of the reversion should fail. the agreement was to have gone up to london by this day's mail, and now could not reach till the day after to-morrow--four-and-twenty hours later than was promised. the attorney had told him it was a 'touch-and-go affair,' and the whole thing might be off in a moment; and if it _should_ miscarry what inevitable ruin yawned before him? oh, the fatigue of these monotonous agitations--this never-ending suspense! oh, the yearning unimaginable for quiet and rest! how awfully he comprehended the reasonableness of the thanksgiving which he had read that day in the churchyard--'we give thee hearty thanks for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world.' with the attorney it was different. making the most of his height, which he fancied added much to the aristocratic effect of his presence, with his head thrown back, and swinging his walking cane easily between his finger and thumb by his side, he strode languidly through the main street of gylingden, in the happy belief that he was making a sensation among the denizens of the town. and so he moved on to the mill-road, on which he entered, and was soon deep in the shadows of redman's dell. he opened the tiny garden-gate of redman's farm, looking about him with a supercilious benevolence, like a man conscious of bestowing a distinction. he was inwardly sensible of a sort of condescension in entering so diminutive and homely a place--a kind of half amusing disproportion between jos. larkin, esq., of the lodge, worth, already, â£27,000, and on the high road to greatness, and the trumpery little place in which he found himself. old tamar was sitting in the porch, with her closed bible upon her knees; there was no longer light to read by. she rose up, like the 'grim, white woman who haunts yon wood,' before him. her young lady had walked up to brandon, taking the little girl with her, and she supposed would be back again early. mr. larkin eyed her for a second to ascertain whether she was telling lies. he always thought everyone might be lying. it was his primary impression here. but there was a recluse and unearthly character in the face of the crone which satisfied him that she would never think of fencing with such weapons with him. very good. mr. larkin would take a short walk, and as his business was pressing, he would take the liberty of looking in again in about half-an-hour, if she thought her mistress would be at home then. so, although the weird white woman who leered after him so strangely as he walked with his most lordly air out of the little garden, and down the darkening road towards gylingden, could not say, he resolved to make trial again. in the meantime rachel had arrived at brandon hall. dorcas--whom, if the truth were spoken, she would rather not have met--encountered her on the steps. she was going out for a lonely, twilight walk upon the terrace, where many a beautiful brandon of other days, the sunshine of whose smile glimmered only on the canvas that hung upon those ancestral walls, and whose sorrows were hid in the grave and forgotten by the world, had walked in other days, in the pride of beauty, or in the sadness of desertion. dorcas paused upon the door-steps, and received her sister-in-law upon that elevation. 'have you really come all this way, rachel, to see _me_ this evening?' she said, and something of sarcasm thrilled in the cold, musical tones. 'no, dorcas,' said rachel, taking her proffered hand in the spirit in which it was given, and with the air rather of a defiance than of a greeting; 'i came to see my brother.' 'you are frank, at all events, rachel, and truth is better than courtesy; but you forget that your brother could not have returned so soon.' 'returned?' said rachel; 'i did not know he had left home.' 'it's strange he should not have consulted you. i, of course, knew nothing of it until he had been more than an hour upon his journey.' rachel lake made no answer but a little laugh. 'he'll return to-morrow; and perhaps your meeting may still be in time. i was thinking of a few minutes' walk upon the terrace, but you are fatigued: you had better come in and rest.' 'no, dorcas, i won't go in.' 'but, rachel, you are tired; you must come in with me, and drink tea, and then you can go home in the brougham,' said dorcas, more kindly. 'no, dorcas, no; i will not drink tea nor go in; but i _am_ tired, and as you are so kind, i will accept your offer of the carriage.' larcom had, that moment, appeared in the vestibule, and received the order. 'i'll sit in the porch, if you will allow me, dorcas; you must not lose your walk.' 'then you won't come into the house, you won't drink tea with me, and you won't join me in my little walk; and why not any of these?' dorcas smiled coldly, and continued, 'well, i shall hear the carriage coming to the door, and i'll return and bid you good-night. it is plain, rachel, you do not like my company.' 'true, dorcas, i do _not_ like your company. you are unjust; you have no confidence in me; you prejudge me without proof; and you have quite ceased to love me. why should i like your company?' dorcas smiled a proud and rather sad smile at this sudden change from the conventional to the passionate; and the direct and fiery charge of her kinswoman was unanswered. she stood meditating for a minute. 'you think i no longer love you, rachel, as i did. perhaps young ladies' friendships are never very enduring; but, if it be so, the fault is not mine.' 'no, dorcas, the fault is not yours, nor mine. the fault is in circumstances. the time is coming, dorcas, when you will know all, and, maybe, judge me mercifully. in the meantime, dorcas, _you_ cannot like _my_ company, because you do not like me; and i do not like yours, just because, in spite of all, i do love you still; and in yours i only see the image of a lost friend. you may be restored to me soon--maybe _never_--but till then, i have lost you.' 'well,' said dorcas, 'it may be there is a wild kind of truth in what you say, rachel, and--no matter--_time_, as you say, and _light_--i don't understand you, rachel; but there is this in you that resembles me--we both hate hypocrisy, and we are both, in our own ways, proud. i'll come back, when i hear the carriage, and see you for a moment, as you won't stay, or come with me, and bid you good-bye.' so dorcas went her way; and alone, on the terrace, looking over the stone balustrade--over the rich and sombre landscape, dim and vaporous in the twilight--she still saw the pale face of rachel--paler than she liked to see it. was she ill?--and she thought how lonely she would be if rachel were to die--how lonely she was now. there was a sting of compunction--a yearning--and then started a few bitter and solitary tears. in one of the great stone vases, that are ranged along the terrace, there flourished a beautiful and rare rose. i forget its name. some of my readers will remember. it is first to bloom--first to wither. its fragrant petals were now strewn upon the terrace underneath. one blossom only remained untarnished, and dorcas plucked it, and with it in her fingers, she returned to the porch where rachel remained. 'you see, i have come back a little before my time,' said dorcas. 'i have just been looking at the plant you used to admire so much, and the leaves are shed already, and it reminded me of our friendship, radie; but i am sure you are right; it will all bloom again, after the winter, you know, and i thought i would come back, and say _that_, and give you this relic of the bloom that is gone--the last token,' and she kissed rachel, as she placed it in her fingers, 'a token of remembrance and of hope.' 'i will keep it, dorkie. it was kind of you,' and their eyes met regretfully. 'and--and, i think, i do trust you, radie,' said the heiress of brandon; 'and i hope you will try to like me on till--till spring comes, you know. and, i wish,' she sighed softly, 'i wish we were as we used to be. i am not very happy; and--here's the carriage.' and it drew up close to the steps, and rachel entered; and her little handmaid of up in the seat behind; and dorcas and rachel kissed their hands, and smiled, and away the carriage glided; and dorcas, standing on the steps, looked after it very sadly. and when it disappeared, she sighed again heavily, still looking in its track; and i think she said 'darling!' chapter lx. rachel lake before the accuser. twilight was darker in redman's dell than anywhere else. but dark as it was, there was still light enough to enable rachel, as she hurried across the little garden, on her return from brandon, to see a long white face, and some dim outline of the figure to which it belonged, looking out upon her from the window of her little drawing-room. but no, it could not be; who was there to call at so odd an hour? she must have left something--a bag, or a white basket upon the window-sash. she was almost startled, however, as she approached the porch, to see it nod, and a hand dimly waved in token of greeting. tamar was in the kitchen. could it be stanley! but faint as the outline was she saw, she fancied that it was a taller person than he. she felt a sort of alarm, in which there was some little mixture of the superstitious, and she pushed open the door, not entering the room, but staring in toward the window, where against the dim, external light, she clearly saw, without recognising it, a tall figure, greeting her with mop and moe. 'who is that?' cried miss lake, a little sharply. 'it is i, miss lake, mr. josiah larkin, of the lodge,' said that gentleman, with what he meant to be an air of dignified firmness, and looking very like a tall constable in possession; 'i have taken the liberty of presenting myself, although, i fear, at a somewhat unseasonable hour, but in reference to a little business, which, unfortunately, will not, i think, bear to be deferred.' 'no bad news, mr. larkin, i hope--nothing has happened. the wylders are all well, i hope?' 'quite well, so far as i am aware,' answered the attorney, with a grim politeness; 'perfectly. nothing has occurred, as yet at least, affecting the interests of that family; but something is--i will not say threatened--but i may say mooted, which, were any attempt seriously made to carry it into execution, would, i regret to say, involve very serious consequences to a party whom for, i may say, many reasons, i should regret being called upon to affect unpleasantly.' 'and pray, mr. larkin, can i be of any use?' '_every_ use, miss lake, and it is precisely for that reason that i have taken the liberty of waiting upon you, at what, i am well aware, is a somewhat unusual hour.' 'perhaps, mr. larkin, you would be so good as to call in the morning--any hour you appoint will answer me,' said the young lady, a little stiffly. she was still standing at the door, with her hand upon the brass handle. 'pardon me, miss lake, the business to which i refer is really urgent.' '_very_ urgent, sir, if it cannot wait till to-morrow morning.' 'very true, quite true, very urgent indeed,' replied the attorney, calmly; 'i presume, miss lake, i may take a chair?' 'certainly, sir, if you insist on my listening to-night, which i should certainly decline if i had the power.' 'thank you, miss lake.' and the attorney took a chair, crossing one leg over the other, and throwing his head back as he reclined in it with his long arm over the back--the 'express image,' as he fancied, of a polished gentleman, conducting a diplomatic interview with a clever and high-bred lady. 'then it is plain, sir, i _must_ hear you to-night,' said miss lake, haughtily. 'not that, exactly, miss lake, but only that _i_ must _speak_ to-night--in fact, i have no choice. the subject of our conference really is, as you will find, an urgent one, and to-morrow morning, which we should each equally prefer, would be possibly too late--too late, at least, to obviate a very painful situation.' 'you will make it, i am sure, as short as you can, sir,' said the young lady, in the same tone. 'exactly my wish, miss lake,' replied mr. jos. larkin. 'bring candles, margery.' and so the little drawing-room was illuminated; and the bald head of the tall attorney, and the gloss on his easy, black frock-coat, and his gold watch-chain, and the long and large gloved hand, depending near the carpet, with the glove of the other in it. and mr. jos. larkin rose with a negligent and lordly case, and placed a chair for miss lake, so that the light might fall full upon her features, in accordance with his usual diplomatic arrangement, which he fancied, complacently, no one had ever detected; he himself resuming his easy _pose_ upon his chair, with his back, as much as was practicable, presented to the candles, and the long, bony fingers of the arm which rested on the table, negligently shading his observing little eyes, and screening off the side light from his expressive features. these arrangements, however, were disconcerted by miss lake's sitting down at the other side of the table, and quietly requesting mr. larkin to open his case. 'why, really, it is hardly a five minutes' matter, miss lake. it refers to the vicar, the rev. william wylder, and his respectable family, and a proposition which he, as my client, mentioned to me this evening. he stated that you had offered to advance a sum of 600_l._ for the liquidation of his liabilities. it will, perhaps, conduce to clearness to dispose of this part of the matter first. may i therefore ask, at this stage, whether the rev. william wylder rightly conceived you, when he so stated your meaning to me?' 'yes, certainly, i am most anxious to assist them with that little sum, which i have now an opportunity of procuring.' 'a--exactly--yes--well, miss lake, that is, of course, very kind of you--very kind, indeed, and creditable to your feelings; but, as mr. william wylder's solicitor, and as i have already demonstrated to him, i must now inform you, that the sum of six hundred pounds would be absolutely _useless_ in his position. no party, miss lake, in his position, ever quite apprehends, even if he could bring himself fully to state, the aggregate amount of his liabilities. i may state, however, to you, without betraying confidence, that ten times that sum would not avail to extricate him, even temporarily, from his difficulties. he sees the thing himself now; but drowning men will grasp, we know, at straws. however, he _does_ see the futility of this; and, thanking you most earnestly, he, through me, begs most gratefully to decline it. in fact, my dear miss lake--it is awful to contemplate--he has been in the hands of sharks, harpies, my dear madam; but i'll beat about for the money, in the way of loan, if possible, and, one way or another, i am resolved, if the thing's to be done, to get him straight.' there was here a little pause, and mr. larkin, finding that miss lake had nothing to say, simply added-'and so, for these reasons, and with these views, my dear miss lake, we beg, most respectfully, and i will say gratefully, to decline the proffered advance, which, i will say, at the same time, does honour to your feelings.' 'i am sorry,' said miss lake, 'you have had so much trouble in explaining so simple a matter. i will call early to-morrow, and see mr. wylder.' 'pardon me,' said the attorney, 'i have to address myself next to the second portion of your offer, as stated to me by mr. w. wylder, that which contemplates a residence in his house, and in the respectable bosom, i may say, of that, in many respects, unblemished family.' miss lake stared with a look of fierce enquiry at the attorney. 'the fact is, miss lake, that that is an arrangement which under existing circumstances i could not think of advising. i think, on reflection, you will see, that mr. wylder--the reverend william wylder and his lady--could not for one moment seriously entertain it, and that i, who am bound to do the best i can for them, could not dream of advising it.' 'i fancy it is a matter of total indifference, sir, what you may and what you may not advise in a matter quite beyond your province--i don't in the least understand, or desire to understand you--and thinking your manner impertinent and offensive, i beg that you will now be so good as to leave my house.' miss rachel was very angry--although nothing but her bright colour and the vexed flash of her eye showed it. 'i were most unfortunate--most unfortunate indeed, miss lake, if my manner could in the least justify the strong and undue language in which you have been pleased to characterise it. but i do not resent--it is not my way--"beareth all things," miss lake, "beareth all things"--i hope i try to practise the precept; but the fact of being misunderstood shall not deter me from the discharge of a simple duty.' 'if it is part of your duty, sir, to make yourself intelligible, may i beg that you will do it without further delay.' 'my principal object in calling here was to inform you, miss lake, that you must quite abandon the idea of residing in the vicar's house, as you proposed, unless you wish me to state explicitly to him and to mrs. wylder the insurmountable objections which exist to any such arrangement. such a task, miss lake, would be most painful to me. i hesitate to discuss the question even with you; and if you give me your word of honour that you quite abandon that idea, i shall on the instant take my leave, and certainly, for the present, trouble you no further upon a most painful subject.' 'and now, sir, as i have no intention whatever of tolerating your incomprehensibly impertinent interference, and don't understand your meaning in the slightest degree, and do not intend to withdraw the offer i have made to good mrs. wylder, you will i hope perceive the uselessness of prolonging your visit, and be so good as to leave me in unmolested possession of my poor residence.' 'if i wished to do you an injury, miss lake, i should take you at your word. i don't--i wish to spare you. your countenance, miss lake--you must pardon my frankness, it is my way--_your countenance_ tells only too plainly that you now comprehend my allusion.' there was a confidence and significance in the attorney's air and accent, and a peculiar look of latent ferocity in his evil countenance, which gradually excited her fears, and fascinated her gaze. 'now, miss lake, we are sitting here in the presence of him who is the searcher of hearts, and before whom nothing is secret--your eye is upon mine and mine on yours--and i ask you, _do you remember the night of the 29th of september last_?' that mean, pale, taunting face! the dreadful accents that vibrated within her! how could that ill-omened man have divined her connection with the incidents--the unknown incidents--of that direful night? the lean figure in the black frock-coat, and black silk waistcoat, with that great gleaming watch-chain, the long, shabby, withered face, and flushed, bald forehead; and those paltry little eyes, in their pink setting, that nevertheless fascinated her like the gaze of a serpent. how had that horrible figure come there--why was this meeting--whence his knowledge? an evil spirit incarnate he seemed to her. she blanched before it--every vestige of colour fled from her features--she stared--she gaped at him with a strange look of imbecility--and the long face seemed to enjoy and protract its triumph. without removing his gaze he was fumbling in his pocket for his note-book, which he displayed with a faint smile, grim and pallid. 'i see you _do_ remember that night--_as well you may_, miss lake,' he ejaculated, in formidable tones, and with a shake of his bald head. 'now, miss lake, you see this book. it contains, madam, the skeleton of a case. the bones and joints, ma'am, of a case. i have it here, noted and prepared. there is not a fact in it without a note of the name and address of the witness who can prove it--the _witness_--observe me.' then there was a pause of a few seconds, during which he still kept her under his steady gaze. 'on that night, miss lake, the 29th september, you drove in mr. mark wylder's tax-cart to the dollington station, where, notwithstanding your veil, and your caution, you were _seen_ and _recognised_. the same occurred at charteris. you accompanied mr. mark wylder in his midnight flight to london, miss lake. of your stay in london i say nothing. it was protracted to the 2nd october, when you arrived in the down train at dollington at twelve o'clock at night, and took a cab to the "white house," where you were met by a gentleman answering the description of your brother, captain lake. now, miss lake, i have stated no particulars, but do you think that knowing all this, and knowing the _fraud_ by which your absence was covered, and perfectly understanding, as every man conversant with this sinful world must do, the full significance of all this, i could dream of permitting you, miss lake, to become domesticated as an inmate in the family of a pure-minded, though simple and unfortunate clergyman?' 'it may become my duty,' he resumed, 'to prosecute a searching enquiry, madam, into the circumstances of mr. mark wylder's disappearance. if you have the slightest regard for your own honour, you will not precipitate that measure, miss lake; and so sure as you persist in your unwarrantable design of residing in that unsuspecting family, i will publish what i shall then feel called upon by my position to make known; for i will be no party to seeing an innocent family compromised by admitting an inmate of whose real character they have not the faintest suspicion, and i shall at once set in motion a public enquiry into the circumstances of mr. mark wylder's disappearance.' looking straight in his face, with the same expression of helplessness, she uttered at last a horrible cry of anguish that almost thrilled that callous christian. 'i think i'm going mad!' and she continued staring at him all the time. 'pray compose yourself, miss lake--there's no need to agitate yourself--nothing of all this need occur if you do not force it upon me--_nothing_. i beg you'll collect yourself--shall i call for water, miss lake?' the fact is the attorney began to apprehend hysterics, or something even worse, and was himself rather frightened. but rachel was never long overwhelmed by any shock--fear was not for her--her brave spirit stood her in stead; and nothing rallied her so surely as the sense that an attempt was being made to intimidate her. 'what have i heard--what have i endured? listen to me, you cowardly libeller. it is true that i was at dollington, and at charteris, on the night you name. also true that i went to london. your hideous slander is garnished with two or three bits of truth, but only the more villainous for that. all that you have dared to insinuate is utterly false. before him who judges all, and knows all things--_utterly_ and _damnably_ false!' the attorney made a bow--it was his best. he did not imitate a gentleman happily, and was never so vulgar as when he was finest. one word of her wild protest he did not believe. his bow was of that grave but mocking sort which was meant to convey it. perhaps if he had accepted what she said it might have led him to new and sounder conclusions. here was light, but it glared and flashed in vain for him. miss lake was naturally perfectly frank. pity it was she had ever had a secret to keep! these frank people are a sore puzzle to gentlemen of lawyer larkin's quaint and sagacious turn of mind. they can't believe that anybody ever speaks quite the truth: when they hear it--they don't recognise it, and they wonder what the speaker is driving at. the best method of hiding your opinion or your motives from such men, is to tell it to them. they are owls. their vision is formed for darkness, and light blinds them. rachel lake rang her bell sharply, and old tamar appeared. 'show mr.--mr.--; show him to the door,' said miss lake. the attorney rose, made another bow, and threw back his head, and moved in a way that was oppressively gentlemanlike to the door, and speedily vanished at the little wicket. old tamar holding her candle to lighten his path, as she stood, white and cadaverous, in the porch. 'she's a little bit noisy to-night,' thought the attorney, as he descended the road to gylingden; 'but she'll be precious sober by to-morrow morning--and i venture to say we shall hear nothing more of that scheme of hers. a reputable inmate, truly, and a pleasant _ã©claircissement_ (this was one of his french words, and pronounced by him with his usual accuracy, precisely as it is spelt)--a pleasant _ã©claircissement_--whenever that london excursion and its creditable circumstances come to light.' chapter lxi. in which dame dutton is visited. duly next morning the rosy-fingered aurora drew the gold and crimson curtains of the east, and the splendid apollo, stepping forth from his chamber, took the reins of his unrivalled team, and driving four-in-hand through the sky, like a great swell as he is, took small note of the staring hucksters and publicans by the road-side, and sublimely overlooked the footsore and ragged pedestrians that crawl below his level. it was, in fact, one of those brisk and bright mornings which proclaim a universal cheerfulness, and mock the miseries of those dismal wayfarers of life, to whom returning light is a renewal of sorrow, who, bowing toward the earth, resume their despairing march, and limp and groan under heavy burdens, until darkness, welcome, comes again, and their eyelids drop, and they lie down with their loads on, looking up a silent supplication, and wishing that death would touch their eyelids in their sleep, and their journey end where they lie. captain lake was in london this morning. we know he came about electioneering matters; but he had not yet seen leverett. perhaps on second thoughts he rightly judged that leverett knew no more than he did of the matter. it depended on the issue of the great debate that was drawing nigh. the minister himself could not tell whether the dissolution was at hand; and could no more postpone it, when the time came, than he could adjourn an eclipse. notwithstanding the late whist party of the previous night, the gallant captain made a very early toilet. with his little bag in his hand, he went down stairs, thinking unpleasantly, i believe, and jumped into the hansom that awaited him at the door, telling the man to go to the ---station. they had hardly turned the corner, however, when he popped his head forward and changed the direction. he looked at his watch. he had quite time to make his visit, and save the down-train after. he did not know the city well. many men who lived two hundred miles away, and made a flying visit only once in three years, knew it a great deal better than the london-bred rake who had lived in the west-end all his days. captain lake looked peevish and dangerous, as he always did, when he was anxious. in fact he did not know what the next ten minutes might bring him. he was thinking what had best be done in any and every contingency. was he still abroad, or had he arrived? was he in shive's court, or, cursed luck! had he crossed him yesterday by the down-train, and was he by this time closeted with larkin in the lodge? lake, so to speak, stood at his wicket, and that accomplished bowler, fortune, ball in hand, at the other end; will it be swift round-hand, or a slow twister, or a shooter, or a lob? eye and hand, foot and bat, he must stand tense, yet flexible, lithe and swift as lightning, ready for everything--cut, block, slip, or hit to leg. it was not altogether pleasant. the stakes were enormous! and the suspense by no means conducive to temper. lake fancied that the man was driving wrong, once or twice, and was on the point of cursing him to that effect, from the window. but at last, with an anxious throb at his heart, he recognised the dingy archway, and the cracked brown marble tablet over the keystone, and he recognised shive's court. so forth jumped the captain, so far relieved, and glided into the dim quadrangle, with its square of smoky sky overhead; and the prattle of children playing on the flags, and the scrape of a violin from a window, were in his ears, but as it were unheard. he was looking up at a window, with a couple of sooty scarlet geraniums in it. this was the court where dame dutton dwelt. he glided up her narrow stair and let himself in by the latch; and with his cane made a smacking like a harlequin's sword upon the old woman's deal table, crying: 'mrs. dutton; mrs. dutton. is mrs. dutton at home?' the old lady, who was a laundress, entered, in a short blue cotton wrapper, wiping the suds from her shrunken but sinewy arms with her apron, and on seeing the captain, her countenance, which was threatening, became very reverential indeed. 'how d'ye do, mrs. dutton? quite well. have you heard lately from jim?' 'no.' 'you'll see him soon, however, and give him this note, d'ye see, and tell him i was here, asking about you and him, and very well, and glad if i can serve him again? don't forget that, _very_ glad. where will you keep that note? oh! your tea-caddy, not a bad safe; and see, give him this, it's ten pounds. you won't forget; and you want a new gown, mrs. dutton. i'd choose it thyself, only i'm such a bad judge; but you'll choose it for me, won't you? and let me see it on you when next i come,' and with a courtesy and a great beaming smile on her hot face, she accepted the five-pound note, which he placed in her hand. in another moment the captain was gone. he had just time to swallow a cup of coffee at the 'terminus hotel,' and was gliding away towards the distant walls of brandon hall. he had a coupã© all to himself. but he did not care for the prospect. he saw lawyer larkin, as it were, reflected in the plate-glass, with his hollow smile and hungry eyes before him, knowing more than he should do, paying him compliments, and plotting his ruin. 'everything would have been quite smooth only for that d---fellow. the devil fixed him precisely there for the express purpose of fleecing and watching, and threatening him--perhaps worse. he hated that sly, double-dealing reptile of prey--the arachnida of social nature--the spiders with which also naturalists place the scorpions. i dare say mr. larkin would have had as little difficulty in referring the gallant captain to the same family. while stanley lake is thus scanning the shabby, but dangerous image of the attorney in the magic mirror before him, that eminent limb of the law was not inactive in the quiet town of gylingden. under ordinary circumstances his 'pride' would have condemned the vicar to a direful term of suspense, and he certainly would not have knocked at the door of the pretty little gabled house at the dollington end of the town for many days to come. the vicar would have had to seek out the attorney, to lie in wait for and to woo him. but jos. larkin's pride, like all his other passions--except his weakness for the precious metals--was under proper regulation. jim dutton might arrive at any moment, and it would not do to risk his publishing the melancholy intelligence of mark wylder's death before the transfer of the vicar's reversion; and to prevent that risk the utmost promptitude was indispensable. at nine o'clock, therefore, he presented himself, attended by his legal henchmen as before. 'another man might not have come here, mr. wylder, until his presence had been specially invited, after the--the----' when he came to define the offence it was not very easy to do so, inasmuch as it consisted in the vicar's having unconsciously very nearly escaped from his fangs; 'but let that pass. i have had, i grieve to say, by this morning's post a most serious letter from london;' the attorney shook his head, while searching his pocket. 'i'll read just a passage or two if you'll permit me; it comes from burlington and smith. i protest i have forgot it at home; however, i may mention, that in consequence of the letter you authorised me to write, and guaranteed by your bond, on which they have entered judgment, they have gone to the entire expense of drawing the deeds, and investigating title, and they say that the purchaser will positively be off, unless the articles are in their office by twelve o'clock to-morrow; and, i grieve to say, they add, that in the event of the thing falling through, they will issue execution for the amount of their costs, which, as i anticipated, a good deal exceeds four hundred pounds. i have, therefore, my dear mr. wylder, casting aside all unpleasant feeling, called to entreat you to end and determine any hesitation you may have felt, and to execute without one moment's delay the articles which are prepared, and which must be in the post-office within half an hour.' then mr. jos. larkin entered pointedly and briefly into miss lake's offer, which he characterised as 'wholly nugatory, illusory, and chimerical;' told him he had spoken on the subject, yesterday evening, to the young lady, who now saw plainly that there really was nothing in it, and that she was not in a position to carry out that part of her proposition, which contemplated a residence in the vicar's family. this portion of his discourse he dismissed rather slightly and mysteriously; but he contrived to leave upon the vicar's mind a very painful and awful sort of uncertainty respecting the young lady of whom he spoke. then he became eloquent on the madness of further indecision in a state of things so fearfully menacing, freely admitting that it would have been incomparably better for the vicar never to have moved in the matter, than, having put his hand to the plough, to look back as he had been doing. if he declined his advice, there was no more to be said, but to bow his head to the storm, and that ponderous execution would descend in wreck and desolation. so the vicar, very much flushed, in panic and perplexity, and trusting wildly to his protesting lawyer's guidance, submitted. buggs and the bilious youngster entered with the deed, and the articles were duly executed, and the vicar signed also a receipt for the fanciful part of the consideration, and upon it and the deed he endorsed a solemn promise, in the terms i have mentioned before, that he would never take any step to question, set aside, or disturb the purchase, or any matter connected therewith. then the attorney, now in his turn flushed and very much elated, congratulated the poor vicar on his emancipation from his difficulties; and 'now that it was all done and over, told him, what he had never told him before, that, considering the nature of the purchase, he had got a _splendid_ price for it.' the good man had also his agreement from lake to sell five oaks. the position of the good attorney, therefore, in a commercial point of view, was eminently healthy and convenient. for less than half the value of five oaks alone, he was getting that estate, and a vastly greater one beside, to be succeeded to on mark wylder's death. no wonder, then, that the good attorney was more than usually bland and happy that day. he saw the pork-butcher in his back-parlour, and had a few words to say about the chapel-trust, and his looks and talk were quite edifying. he met two little children in the street, and stopped and smiled as he stooped down to pat them on the heads, and ask them whose children they were, and gave one of them a halfpenny. and he sat afterwards, for nearly ten minutes, with lean old mrs. mullock, in her little shop, where toffey, toys, and penny books for young people were sold, together with baskets, tea-cups, straw-mats, and other adult ware; and he was so friendly and talked so beautifully, and although, as he admitted in his lofty way, 'there might be differences in fortune and position,' yet were we not all members of one body? and he talked upon this theme till the good lady, marvelling how so great a man could be so humble, was called to the receipt of custom, on the subject of 'paradise' and 'lemon-drops,' and the heavenly-minded attorney, with a celestial condescension, recognised his two little acquaintances of the street, and actually adding another halfpenny to his bounty--escaped, with a hasty farewell and a smile, to the street, as eager to evade the thanks of the little people, and the admiration of mrs. mullock. it is not to be supposed, that having got one momentous matter well off his mind, the good attorney was to be long rid of anxieties. the human mind is fertile in that sort of growth. as well might the gentleman who shaves suppose, as his fingers glide, after the operation, over the polished surface of his chin--_factus ad unguem_--that he may fling his brush and strop into the fire, and bury his razor certain fathoms in the earth. no! one crop of cares will always succeed another--not very oppressive, nor in any wise grand, perhaps--worries, simply, no more; but needing a modicum of lather, the looking glass, the strop, the diligent razor, delicate manipulation, and stealing a portion of our precious time every day we live; and this must go on so long as the state of man is imperfect, and plenty of possible evil in futurity. the attorney must run up to london for a day or two. what if that mysterious, and almost illegible brute, james dutton, should arrive while he was away. very unpleasant, possibly! for the attorney intended to keep that gentleman very quiet. sufficient time must be allowed to intervene to disconnect the purchase of the vicar's remainder from the news of mark wylder's demise. a year and a-half, maybe, or possibly a year might do. for if the good attorney was cautious, he was also greedy, and would take possession as early as was safe. therefore arrangements were carefully adjusted to detain that important person, in the event of his arriving; and a note, in the good attorney's hand, inviting him to remain at the lodge till his return, and particularly requesting that 'he would kindly abstain from mentioning to _anyone_, during his absence, any matter he might intend to communicate to him in his professional capacity or otherwise.' this, of course, was a little critical, and made his to-morrow's journey to london a rather anxious prospect. in the meantime our friend, captain lake, arrived in a hired fly, with his light baggage, at the door of stately brandon. so soon as the dust and ashes of railway travel were removed, the pale captain, in changed attire, snowy cambric, and with perfumed hair and handkerchief, presented himself before dorcas. 'now, dorkie, darling, your poor soldier has come back, resolved to turn over a new leaf, and never more to reserve another semblance of a secret from you,' said he, so soon as his first greeting was over. 'i long to have a good talk with you, dorkie. i have no one on earth to confide in but you. i think,' he said, with a little sigh, 'i would never have been so reserved with you, darling, if i had had anything pleasant to confide; but all i have to say is triste and tiresome--only a story of difficulties and petty vexations. i want to talk to you, dorkie. where shall it be?' they were in the great drawing-room, where i had first seen dorcas brandon and rachel lake, on the evening on which my acquaintance with the princely hall was renewed, after an interval of so many years. 'this room, stanley, dear?' 'yes, this room will answer very well,' he said, looking round. 'we can't be overheard, it is so large. very well, darling, listen.' chapter lxii. the captain explains why mark wylder absconded. 'how delicious these violets are!' said stanley, leaning for a moment over the fragrant purple dome that crowned a china stand on the marble table they were passing. 'you love flowers, dorkie. every perfect woman is, i think, a sister of flora's. you are looking pale--you have not been ill? no! i'm very glad you say so. sit down for a moment and listen, darling. and first i'll tell you, upon my honour, what rachel has been worrying me about.' dorcas sate beside him on the sofa, and he placed his slender arm affectionately round her waist. 'you must know, dorkie, that before his sudden departure, mark wylder promised to lend william, his brother, a sum sufficient to relieve him of all his pressing debts.' 'debts! i never knew before that he had any,' exclaimed dorcas. 'poor william! i am so sorry.' 'well, he has, like other fellows, only he can't get away as easily, and he has been very much pressed since mark went, for he has not yet lent him a guinea, and in fact rachel says she thinks he is in danger of being regularly sold out. she does not say she knows it, but only that she suspects they are in a great fix about money.' 'well, you must know that _i_ was the sole cause of mark wylder's leaving the country.' '_you_, stanley!' 'yes, _i_, dorkie. i believe i thought i was doing a duty; but really i was nearly mad with _jealousy_, and simply doing my utmost to drive a rival from _your_ presence. and yet, without hope for myself, _desperately_ in love.' dorcas looked down and smiled oddly; it was a sad and bitter smile, and seemed to ask whither has that desperate love, in so short a time, flown? 'i know i was right. he was a stained man, and was liable at any moment to be branded. it was villainous in him to seek to marry you. i told him at last that, unless he withdrew, your friends should know all. i expected he would show fight, and that a meeting would follow; and i really did not much care whether i were killed or not. but he went, on the contrary, rather quietly, threatening to pay me off, however, though he did not say how. he's a cunning dog, and not very soft-hearted; and has no more conscience than that,' and he touched his finger to the cold summit of a marble bust. 'he is palpably machinating something to my destruction with an influential attorney on whom i keep a watch, and he has got some fellow named dutton into the conspiracy; and not knowing how they mean to act, and only knowing how utterly wicked, cunning, and bloody-minded he is, and that he hates me as he probably never hated anyone before, i must be prepared to meet him, and, if possible, to blow up that satanic cabal, which without _money_ i can't. it was partly a mystification about the election; of course, it will be expensive, but nothing like the other. are you ill, dorkie?' he might well ask, for she appeared on the point of fainting. dorcas had read and heard stories of men seemingly no worse than their neighbours--nay, highly esteemed, and praised, and liked--who yet were haunted by evil men, who encountered them in lonely places, or by night, and controlled them by the knowledge of some dreadful crime. was stanley--her husband--whose character she had begun to discern, whose habitual mystery was, somehow, tinged in her mind with a shade of horror, one of this two-faced, diabolical order of heroes? why should he dread this cabal, as he called it, even though directed by the malignant energy of the absent and shadowy mark wylder? what could all the world do to harm him in free england, if he were innocent, if he were what he seemed--no worse than his social peers? why should it be necessary to buy off the conspirators whom a guiltless man would defy and punish? the doubt did not come in these defined shapes. as a halo surrounds a saint, a shadow rose suddenly, and enveloped pale, scented, smiling stanley, with the yellow eyes. he stood in the centre of a dreadful medium, through which she saw him, ambiguous and awful; and she sickened. 'are you ill, dorkie, darling?' said the apparition in accents of tenderness. 'yes, you _are_ ill.' and he hastily threw open the window, close to which they were sitting, and she quickly revived in the cooling air. she saw his yellow eyes fixed upon her features, and his face wearing an odd expression--was it interest, or tenderness, or only scrutiny; to her there seemed a light of insincerity and cruelty in its pallor. 'you are better, darling; thank heaven, you are better.' 'yes--yes--a great deal better; it is passing away.' her colour was returning, and with a shivering sigh, she said-'oh? stanley, you must speak truth; i am your wife. do they know anything very bad--are you in their power?' 'why, my dearest, what on earth could put such a wild fancy in your head?' said lake, with a strange laugh, and, as she fancied, growing still paler. 'do you suppose i am a highwayman in disguise, or a murderer, like--what's his name--eugene aram? i must have expressed myself very ill, if i suggested anything so tragical. i protest before heaven, my darling, there is not one word or act of mine i need fear to submit to any court of justice or of honour on earth.' he took her hand, and kissed it affectionately, and still fondling it gently between his, he resumed-'i don't mean to say, of course, that i have always been better than other young fellows; i've been foolish, and wild, and--and--i've done wrong things, occasionally--as all young men will; but for high crimes and misdemeanors, or for melodramatic situations, i never had the slightest taste. there's no man on earth who can tell anything of me, or put me under any sort of pressure, thank heaven; and simply because i have never in the course of my life done a single act unworthy of a gentleman, or in the most trifling way compromised myself. i swear it, my darling, upon my honour and soul, and i will swear it in any terms--the most awful that can be prescribed--in order totally and for ever to remove from your mind so amazing a fancy.' and with a little laugh, and still holding her hand, he passed his arm round her waist, and kissed her affectionately. 'but you are perfectly right, dorkie, in supposing that i _am_ under very considerable apprehension from their machinations. though they cannot slur our fair fame, it is quite possible they may very seriously affect our property. mr. larkin is in possession of all the family papers. i don't like it, but it is too late now. the estates have been back and forward so often between the brandons and wylders, i always fancy there may be a screw loose, or a frangible link somewhere, and he's deeply interested for mark wylder.' 'you are better, darling; i think you are better,' he said, looking in her face, after a little pause. 'yes, dear stanley, much better; but why should you suppose any plot against our title?' 'mark wylder is in constant correspondence with that fellow larkin. i wish we were quietly rid of him, he is such an unscrupulous dog. i assure you, i doubt very much if the deeds are safe in his possession; at all events, he ought to choose between us and mark wylder. it is monstrous his being solicitor for both. the wylders and brandons have always been contesting the right to these estates, and the same thing may arise again any day.' 'but tell me, stanley, how do you want to apply money? what particular good can it do us in this unpleasant uncertainty?' 'well, dorkie, believe me i have a sure instinct in matters of this kind. larkin is plotting treason against us. wylder is inciting him, and will reap the benefit of it. larkin hesitates to strike, but that won't last long. in the meantime, he has made a distinct offer to buy five oaks. his doing so places him in the same interest with us; and, although he does not offer its full value, still i should sleep sounder if it were concluded; and the fact is, i don't think we are safe until that sale _is_ concluded.' dorcas looked for a moment earnestly in his face, and then down, in thought. 'now, dorkie, i have told you all. who is to advise you, if not your husband? trust my sure conviction, and promise me, dorcas, that you will not hesitate to join me in averting, by a sacrifice we shall hardly feel, a really stupendous blow.' he kissed her hand, and then her lips, and he said-'you _will_, dorkie, i _know_ you will. give me your promise.' 'stanley, tell me once more, are you really quite frank when you tell me that you apprehend no personal injury from these people--apart, i mean, from the possibility of mr. larkin's conspiring to impeach our rights in favour of mr. wylder?' 'personal injury? none in life, my darling.' 'and there is really no secret--nothing--_tell_ your wife--nothing you fear coming to light?' 'i swear again, nothing. _won't_ you believe me, darling?' 'then, if it be so, stanley, i think we should hesitate long before selling any part of the estate, upon a mere conjecture of danger. you or i may over-estimate that danger, being so nearly affected by it. we must take advice; and first, we must consult chelford. remember, stanley, how long the estate has been preserved. whatever may have been their crimes and follies, those who have gone before us never impaired the brandon estate; and, without full consideration, without urgent cause, i, stanley, will not begin.' 'why, it is only five oaks, and we shall have the money, you forget,' said stanley. 'five oaks is an estate in itself; and the idea of dismembering the brandon inheritance seems to me like taking a plank from a ship--all will go down when that is done.' 'but you _can't_ dismember it; it is only a life estate.' 'well, perhaps so; but chelford told me that one of the london people said he thought five oaks belonged to me absolutely.' 'in that case the inheritance _is_ dismembered already.' 'i will have no share in selling the old estate, or any part of it, to strangers, stanley, except in a case of necessity; and we must do nothing precipitately; and i must insist, stanley, on consulting chelford before taking any step. he will view the question more calmly than you or i can; and we owe him that respect, stanley, he has been so very kind to us.' 'chelford is the very last man whom i would think of consulting,' answered stanley, with his malign and peevish look. 'and why?' asked dorcas. 'because he is quite sure to advise against it,' answered stanley, sharply. 'he is one of those quixotic fellows who get on very well in fair weather, while living with a duke or duchess, but are sure to run you into mischief when they come to the inns and highways of common life. i know perfectly, he would protest against a compromise. discharge larkin--fight him--and see us valiantly stript of our property by some cursed law-quibble; and think we ought to be much more comfortable so, than in this house, on the terms of a compromise with a traitor like larkin. but _i_ don't think so, nor any man of sense, nor anyone but a hairbrained, conceited knight-errant.' 'i think chelford one of the most sensible as well as honourable men i know; and i will take no step in selling a part of our estate to that odious mr. larkin, without consulting him, and at least hearing what he thinks of it.' stanley's eyes were cast down--and he was nipping the struggling hairs of his light moustache between his lips--but he made no answer. only suddenly he looked up, and said quietly, 'very well. good-bye for a little, dorkie,' and he leaned over her and kissed her cheek, and then passed into the hall, where he took his hat and cane. larcom presented him with a note, in a sealed envelope. as he took it from the salver he recognised larkin's very clear and large hand. i suspect that grave mr. larcom had been making his observations and conjectures thereupon. the captain took it with a little nod, and a peevish side-glance. it said-'my dear captain brandon lake,--imperative business calls me to london by the early train to-morrow. will you therefore favour me, if convenient, _by the bearer_, with the small note of consent, which must accompany the articles agreeing to sell. 'i remain, &c. &c. &c.' larkin's groom was waiting for an answer. 'tell him i shall probably see mr. larkin myself,' said the captain, snappishly; and so he walked down to pretty little gylingden. on the steps of the reading-room stood old tom ruddle, who acted as marker in the billiard-room, treasurer, and book-keeper beside, and swept out the premises every morning, and went to and fro at the proper hours, between that literary and sporting institution and the post-office; and who, though seldom sober, was always well instructed in the news of the town. 'how do you do, old ruddle--quite well?' asked the captain with a smile. 'who have you got in the rooms?' well, jos. larkin was not there. indeed he seldom showed in those premises, which he considered decidedly low, dropping in only now and then, like the great county gentlemen, on sessions days, to glance at the papers, and gossip on their own high affairs. but ruddle had seen mr. jos. larkin on the green, not five minutes since, and thither the gallant captain bent his steps. chapter lxiii. the ace of hearts. 'so you are going to london--_to-morrow_, is not it?' said captain lake, when on the green of gylingden where visitors were promenading, and the militia bands playing lusty polkas, he met mr. jos. larkin, in lavender trousers and kid gloves, new hat, metropolitan black frock-coat, and shining french boots--the most elegant as well as the most christian of provincial attorneys. 'ah, yes--i think--should my engagements permit--of starting early to-morrow. the fact is, captain lake, our poor friend the vicar, you know, the rev. william wylder, has pressing occasion for some money, and i can't leave him absolutely in the hands of burlington and smith.' 'no, of course--quite so,' said lake, with that sly smile which made every fellow on whom it lighted somehow fancy that the captain had divined his secret. 'very honest fellows, with good looking after--eh?' the attorney laughed a little awkwardly, with his pretty pink blush over his long face. 'well, i'm far from saying that, but it is their business, you know, to take care of _their_ client; and it would not do to give them the handling of _mine_. can i do anything, captain lake, for you while in town?' 'nothing on earth, thank you very much. but i am thinking of doing something for you. you've interested yourself a great deal about mark wylder's movements.' 'not more than my duty clearly imposed.' 'yes; but notwithstanding it will operate, i'm afraid, as you will presently see, rather to his prejudice. for to prevent your conjectural interference from doing him a more serious mischief, i will now, and here, if you please, divulge the true and only cause of his absconding. it is fair to mention, however, that your knowing it will make you fully as odious to him as i am--and that, i assure you, is very odious indeed. there were four witnesses beside myself--lieutenant-colonel jermyn, sir james carter, lord george vanbrugh, and ned clinton. '_witnesses_! captain lake. do you allude to a legal matter?' enquired larkin, with his look of insinuating concern and enquiry. 'quite the contrary--a very lawless matter, indeed. these four gentlemen, beside myself, were present at the occurrence. but perhaps you've heard of it?' said the captain, 'though that's not likely.' 'not that i recollect, captain lake,' answered jos. larkin. 'well, it is not a thing you'd forget easily--and indeed it was a very well kept secret, as well as an ugly one,' and lake smiled in his sly quizzical way. 'and _where_, captain lake, did it occur, may i enquire?' said larkin, with his charming insinuation. 'you may, and you shall hear--in fact, i'll tell you the whole thing. it was at gray's club, in pall mall. the whist party were old jermyn, carter, vanbrugh, and wylder. clinton and i were at piquet, and were disturbed by a precious row the old boys kicked up. jermyn and carter were charging mark wylder, in so many words, with not playing fairly--there was an ace of hearts on the table played by him, and before three minutes they brought it home--and in fact it was quite clear that poor dear mark had helped himself to it in quite an irregular way.' 'oh, dear, captain lake, oh, dear, how shocking--how inexpressibly shocking! is not it _melancholy_?' said larkin, in his finest and most pathetic horror. 'yes; but don't cry till i've done,' said lake, tranquilly. 'mark tried to bully, but the cool old heads were too much for him, and he threw himself at last entirely on our mercy--and very abject he became, poor thing.' 'how well the mountains look! i am afraid we shall have rain to-morrow.' larkin uttered a short groan. 'so they sent him into the small card-room, next that we were playing in. i think we were about the last in the club--it was past three o'clock--and so the old boys deliberated on their sentence. to bring the matter before the committee were utter ruin to mark, and they let him off, on these conditions--he was to retire forthwith from the club; he was never to play any game of cards again; and, lastly, he was never more to address any one of the gentlemen who were present at his detection. poor dear devil!--how he did jump at the conditions;--and provided they were each and all strictly observed, it was intimated that the occurrence should be kept secret. well, you know, that was letting poor old mark off in a coach; and i do assure you, though we had never liked one another, i really was very glad they did not move his expulsion--which would have involved his quitting the service--and i positively don't know how he could have lived if that had occurred.' 'i do solemnly assure you, captain lake, what you have told me has beyond expression amazed, and i will say, horrified me,' said the attorney, with a slow and melancholy vehemence. 'better men might have suspected something of it--i do solemnly pledge my honour that nothing of the kind so much as crossed my mind--not naturally suspicious, i believe, but all the more shocked, captain lake, on that account' 'he was poor then, you see, and a few pounds were everything to him, and the temptation immense; but clumsy fellows ought not to try that sort of thing. there's the highway--mark would have made a capital garrotter.' the attorney groaned, and turned up his eyes. the band was playing 'pop goes the weasel,' and old jackson, very well dressed and buckled up, with a splendid smile upon his waggish, military countenance, cried, as he passed, with a wave of his hand, 'how do, lake--how do, mr. larkin--beautiful day!' 'i've no wish to injure mark; but it is better that you should know at once, than go about poking everywhere for information.' 'i do assure you----' 'and having really no wish to hurt him,' pursued the captain, 'and also making it, as i do, a point that you shall repeat this conversation as little as possible, i don't choose to appear singular, as your sole informant, and i've given you here a line to sir james carter--he's member, you know, for huddlesbury. i mention, that mark, having broken his promise, and played for heavy stakes, too, both on board his ship, and at plymouth and naples, which i happen to know; and also by accosting me, whom, as one of the gentlemen agreeing to impose these conditions, he was never to address, i felt myself at liberty to mention it to you, holding the relation you do to me as well as to him, in consequence of the desirableness of placing you in possession of the true cause of his absconding, which was simply my telling him that i would not permit him, slurred as he was, to marry a lady who was totally ignorant of his actual position; and, in fact, that unless he withdrew, i must acquaint the young lady's guardian of the circumstances.' there was quite enough probability in this story to warrant jos. larkin in turning up his eyes and groaning. but in the intervals, his shrewd eyes searched the face of the captain, not knowing whether to believe one syllable of what he related. i may as well mention here, that the attorney did present the note to sir j. carter with which captain lake had furnished him; indeed, he never lost an opportunity of making the acquaintance of a person of rank; and that the worthy baronet, so appealed to, and being a blunt sort of fellow, and an old acquaintance of stanley's, did, in a short and testy sort of way, corroborate captain lake's story, having previously conditioned that he was not to be referred to as the authority from whom mr. larkin had learned it. the attorney and captain brandon lake were now walking side by side over the more sequestered part of the green. 'and so,' said the captain, coming to a stand-still, 'i'll bid you good-bye, larkin; what stay, i forgot to ask, do you make in town?' 'only a day or two.' 'you'll not wait for the division on trawler's motion?' 'oh, dear, no. i calculate i'll be here again, certainly, in three days' time. and, i suppose, captain lake, you received my note?' 'you mean just now? oh, yes; of course it is all right; but one day is as good as another; and you have got my agreement signed.' 'pardon me, captain brandon lake; the fact is, one day, in this case, does _not_ answer as well as another, for i must have drafts of the deeds prepared by my conveyancer in town, and the note is indispensable. perhaps, if there is any difficulty, you will be so good as to say so, and i shall then be in a position to consider the case in its new aspect.' 'what the devil difficulty _can_ there be, sir? i can't see it, any more than what _hurry_ can possibly exist about it,' said lake, stung with a momentary fury. it seemed as though everyone was conspiring to perplex and torment him; and he, like the poor vicar, though for very different reasons, had grown intensely anxious to sell. he had grown to dread the attorney, since the arrival of dutton's letter. he suspected that his journey to london had for its object a meeting with that person. he could not tell what might be going on in the dark. but the possibility of such a conjunction might well dismay him. on the other hand, the more mr. larkin relied upon the truth of dutton's letter, the cooler he became respecting the purchase of five oaks. it was, of course, a very good thing; but not his first object. the vicar's reversion in that case was everything; and of it he was now sure. 'there is no difficulty about the note, sir; it contains but four lines, and i've given you the form. no difficulty can exist but in the one quarter; and the fact is,' he added, steadily, 'unless i have that note before i leave to-morrow-morning, i'll assume that you wish to be off, captain lake, and i will adapt myself to circumstances.' 'you may have it _now_,' said the captain, with a fierce carelessness. 'd--d nonsense! who could have fancied any such stupid hurry? send in the morning, and you shall have it.' and the captain rather savagely turned away, skirting the crowd who hovered about the band, in his leisurely and now solitary ramble. the captain was sullen that evening at home. he was very uncomfortable. his heart was failing him for the things that were coming to pass. one of his maniacal tempers, which had often before thrown him, as it were, 'off the rails,' was at the bottom of his immediate troubles. this proneness to sudden accesses of violence and fury was the compensation which abated the effect of his ordinary craft and self-command. he had done all he could to obviate the consequences of his folly in this case. he hoped the attorney might not succeed in discovering jim dutton's whereabouts. at all events, he had been beforehand, and taken measures to quiet that person's dangerous resentment. but it was momentous in the critical state of things to give this dangerous attorney a handsome share in his stake--to place him, as he had himself said, 'in the same boat,' and enlist all his unscrupulous astuteness in maintaining his title: and if he went to london disappointed, and that things turned out unluckily about dutton, it might be a very awful business indeed. dinner had been a very dull _tãªte-ã -tãªte_. dorcas sat stately and sad--looking from the window toward the distant sunset horizon, piled in dusky gold and crimson clouds, against the faded, green sky--a glory that is always melancholy and dreamy. stanley sipped his claret, his eyes upon the cloth. he raised them and looked out, too; and the ruddy light tinted his pale features. a gleam of good humour seemed to come with it, and he said, 'i was just thinking, dorkie, that for you and me, _alone_, these great rooms are a little dreary. suppose we have tea in the tapestry room.' 'the dutch room, stanley--i think so--i should like it very well. so, i am certain, would rachel. i've written to her to come. i hope she will. i expect her at nine. the brougham will be with her. she wrote such an odd note to-day, addressed to you; but _i opened it_. here it is.' she did not watch his countenance, or look in his direction, as he read it. she addressed herself, on the contrary, altogether to her liliputian white lap-dog, snow, and played with his silken ears; and chatted with him as ladies will. a sealed envelope broken. that scoundrel, larcom, knew perfectly it was meant for _me_. he was on the point of speaking his mind, which would hardly have been pleasant to hear, upon this piece of detective impertinence of his wife's. he could have smashed all the glass upon the table. but he looked serene, and leaned back with the corner of rachel's note between two fingers. it was a case in which he clearly saw he must command himself. chapter lxiv. in the dutch room. his heart misgave him. he felt that a crisis was coming; and he read-'i cannot tell you, my poor brother, how miserable i am. i have just learned that a very dangerous person has discovered more about that dreadful evening than we believed known to anybody in gylingden. i am subjected to the most agonising suspicions and _insults_. would to heaven i were dead! but living, i cannot endure my present state of mind longer. to-morrow morning i will see dorcas--poor dorcas!--and tell her all. i am weary of urging you, _in vain_, to do so. it would have been much better. but although, after that interview, i shall, perhaps, never see her more, i shall yet be happier, and, i think, relieved from suspense, and the torments of mystery. so will she. at all events, it is her _right_ to know all--and she shall. 'your outcast and miserable sister.' on stanley's lips his serene, unpleasant smile was gleaming, as he closed the note carelessly. he intended to speak, but his voice caught. he cleared it, and sipped a little claret. 'for a clever girl she certainly does write the most wonderful rubbish. such an effusion! and she sends it tossing about, from hand to hand, among the servants. i've anticipated her, however, dorkie.' and he took her hand and kissed it. 'she does not know i've told you _all_ myself.' stanley went to the library, and dorcas to the conservatory, neither very happy, each haunted by an evil augury, and a sense of coming danger. the deepening shadow warned dorcas that it was time to repair to the dutch room, where she found lights and tea prepared. in a few minutes more the library door opened and stanley lake peeped in. 'radie not come yet?' said he entering. 'we certainly are much pleasanter in this room, dorkie, more, in proportion, than we two should have been in the drawing-room.' he seated himself beside her, drawing his chair very close to hers, and taking her hand in his. he was more affectionate this evening than usual. what did it portend? she thought. she had already begun to acquiesce in rachel's estimate of stanley, and to fancy that whatever he did it was with an unacknowledged purpose. 'does little dorkie love me?' said lake, in a sweet undertone. there was reproach, but love too, in the deep soft glance she threw upon him. 'you must promise me not to be frightened at what i am going to tell you,' said lake. she heard him with sudden panic, and a sense of cold stole over her. he looked like a ghost--quite white--smiling. she knew something was coming--the secret she had invoked so long--and she was appalled. 'don't be frightened, darling. it is necessary to tell you; but it is really not much when you hear me out. you'll say so when you have quite heard me. so you won't be frightened?' she was gazing straight into his wild yellow eyes, fascinated, with a look of expecting terror. 'you are nervous, darling,' he continued, laying his hand on hers. 'shall we put it off for a little? you are frightened.' 'not much frightened, stanley,' she whispered. 'well, we had better wait. i see, dorcas, you _are_ frightened and nervous. don't keep looking at me; look at something else, can't you? you make yourself nervous that way. i promise, upon my honour, i'll not say a word about it till you bid me.' 'i know, stanley--i know.' 'then, why won't you look down, or look up, or look any way you please, only don't stare at me so.' 'yes--oh, yes,' and she shut her eyes. 'i'm sorry i began,' he said, pettishly. 'you'll make a fuss. you've made yourself quite nervous; and i'll wait a little.' 'oh! no, stanley, _now_--for heaven's sake, _now_. i was only a little startled; but i am quite well again. is it anything about marriage? oh, stanley, in mercy, tell me was there any other engagement?' 'nothing, darling--nothing on earth of the sort;' and he spoke with an icy little laugh. 'your poor soldier is altogether yours, dorkie,' and he kissed her cheek. 'thank god for that!' said dorcas, hardly above her breath. 'what i have to say is quite different, and really nothing that need affect you; but rachel has made such a row about it. fifty fellows, i know, are in much worse fixes; and though it is not of so much consequence, still i think i should not have told you; only, without knowing it, you were thwarting me, and helping to get me into a serious difficulty by your obstinacy--or what you will--about five oaks.' somehow trifling as the matter was, stanley seemed to grow more and more unwilling to disclose it, and rather shrank from it now. 'now, dorcas, mind, there must be no trifling. you must not treat me as rachel has. if you can't keep a secret--for it _is_ a secret--say so. shall i tell you?' 'yes, stanley--yes. i'm your wife.' 'well, dorcas, i told you something of it; but only a part, and some circumstances i _did_ intentionally colour a little; but i could not help it, unless i had told everything; and no matter what you or rachel may say, it was kinder to withhold it as long as i could.' he glanced at the door, and spoke in a lower tone. and so, with his eyes lowered to the table at which he sat, glancing ever and anon sideways at the door, and tracing little figures with the tip of his finger upon the shining rosewood, he went on murmuring his strange and hateful story in the ear of his wife. it was not until he had spoken some three or four minutes that dorcas suddenly uttered a wild scream, and started to her feet. and stanley also rose precipitately, and caught her in his arms, for she was falling. as he supported her in her chair, the library door opened, and the sinister face of uncle lorne looked in, and returned the captain's stare with one just as fixed and horrified. 'hush!' whispered uncle lorne, and he limped softly into the room, and stopped about three yards away, 'she is not dead, but sleepeth.' 'hallo! larcom,' shouted lake. 'i tell you she's dreaming the same dream that i dreamt in the middle of the night.' 'hallo! larcom.' 'mark's on leave to-night, in uniform; his face is flattened against the window. this is his lady, you know.' 'hallo! d-you--are you there?' shouted the captain, very angry. 'i saw mark following you like an ape, on all-fours; such nice white teeth! grinning at your heels. but he can't bite yet--ha, ha, ha! poor mark!' 'will you be so good, sir, as to touch the bell?' said lake, changing his tone. he was afraid to remove his arm from dorcas, and he was splashing water from a glass upon her face and forehead. 'no--no. no bell yet--time enough--ding, dong. you say, dead and gone.' captain lake cursed him and his absent keeper between his teeth; still in a rather flurried way, prosecuting his conjugal attentions. 'there was no bell for poor mark; and he's always listening, and stares so. a cat may look, you know.' 'can't you touch the bell, sir? what are you standing there for?' snarled lake, with a glare at the old man. he looked as if he could have murdered him. 'standing between the living and the dead!' 'here, reuben, here; where the devil have you been--take him away. he has terrified her. by ---he ought to be shot.' the keeper silently slid his arm into uncle lorne's, and, unresisting, the old man talking to himself the while, drew him from the room. larcom, about to announce miss lake, and closely followed by that young lady, passed the grim old phantom on the lobby. 'be quick, you are wanted there,' said the attendant as he passed. dorcas, pale as marble, sighing deeply again and again, her rich black hair drenched in water, which trickled over her cheeks, like the tears and moisture of agony, was recovering. there was water spilt on the table, and the fragments of a broken glass upon the floor. the moment rachel saw her, she divined what had happened, and, gliding over, she placed her arm round her. 'you're better, darling. open the window, stanley. send her maid.' 'aye, send her maid,' cried captain lake to larcom. 'this is your d--d work. a nice mess you have made of it among you.' 'are you better, dorcas?' said rachel. 'yes--much better. i'm glad, darling, i understand you now. radie, kiss me.' next morning, before early family prayers, while mr. jos. larkin was locking the despatch box which was to accompany him to london mr. larcom arrived at the lodge. he had a note for mr. larkin's hand, which he must himself deliver; and so he was shown into that gentleman's official cabinet, and received with the usual lofty kindness. 'well, mr. larcom, pray sit down. and can i do anything for you, mr. larcom?' said the good attorney, waving his long hand toward a vacant chair. 'a note, sir.' 'oh, yes; very well.' and the tall attorney rose, and, facing the rural prospect at his window, with his back to mr. larcom, he read, with a faint smile, the few lines, in a delicate hand, consenting to the sale of five oaks. he had to look for a time at the distant prospect to allow his smile to subside, and to permit the conscious triumph which he knew beamed through his features to discharge itself and evaporate in the light and air before turning to mr. larcom, which he did with an air of sudden recollection. 'ah--all right, i was forgetting; i must give you a line.' so he did, and hid away the note in his despatch-box, and said-'the family all quite well, i hope?' whereat larcom shook his head. 'my mistress'--he always called her so, and lake the capting--'has been takin' on hoffle, last night, whatever come betwixt 'em. she was fainted outright in her chair in the dutch room; and he said it was the old gentleman--old flannels, we calls him, for shortness--but lor' bless you, she's too used to him to be frightened, and that's only a make-belief; and miss dipples, her maid, she says as how she was worse up stairs, and she's made up again with miss lake, which _she_ was very glad, no doubt, of the making friends, i do suppose; but it's a bin a bad row, and i suspeck amost he's used vilins.' 'compulsion, i suppose; you mean constraint?' suggested larkin, very curious. 'well, that may be, sir, but i amost suspeck she's been hurted somehow. she got them crying fits up stairs, you know; and the capting, he's hoffle bad-tempered this morning, and he never looked near her once, after his sister came; and he left them together, talking and crying, and he locked hisself into the library, like one as knowed he'd done something to be ashamed on, half the night.' 'it's not happy, larcom, i'm much afraid; it's _not_ happy,' and the attorney rose, shaking his tall bald head, and his hands in his pockets, and looked down in meditation. 'in the dutch room, after tea, i suppose?' said the attorney. 'before tea, sir, just as miss lake harrived in the brougham.' and so on. but there was no more to be learned, and mr. larcom returned and attended the captain very reverentially at his solitary breakfast. mr. jos. larkin was away for london. and a very serene companion he was, if not very brilliant. everything was going perfectly smoothly with him. a celestial gratitude glowed and expanded within his breast. his angling had been prosperous hitherto, but just now he had made a miraculous draught, and his nets and his heart were bursting. delightful sentiment, the gratitude of a righteous man; a man who knows that his heart is not set upon the things of the world; who has, like king solomon, made wisdom his first object, and who finds riches added thereto! there was no shadow of self-reproach to slur the sunny landscape. he had made a splendid purchase from captain lake it was true. he drew his despatch-box nearer to him affectionately, as he thought on the precious records it contained. but who in this wide-awake world was better able to take care of himself than the gallant captain? if it were not the best thing for the captain, surely it would not have been done. whom have i defrauded? my hands are clean! he had made a still better purchase from the vicar; but what would have become of the vicar if he had not been raised up to purchase? and was it not speculative, and was it not possible that he should lose all that money, and was it not, on the whole, the wisest thing that the vicar, under his difficulties, could have been advised to do? so reasoned the good attorney, as with a languid smile and a sigh of content, his long hand laid across the cover of the despatch-box by his side, he looked forth through the plate-glass window upon the sunny fields and hedgerows that glided by him, and felt the blessed assurance, 'look, whatsoever he doeth it shall prosper,' mingling in the hum of surrounding nature. and as his eyes rested on the flying diorama of trees, and farmsteads, and standing crops, and he felt already the pride of a great landed proprietor, his long fingers fiddled pleasantly with the rough tooling of his morocco leather box; and thinking of the signed articles within, it seemed as though an angelic hand had placed them there while he slept, so wondrous was it all; and he fancied under the red tape a label traced in the neatest scrivenery, with a pencil of light, containing such gratifying testimonials to his deserts, 'as well done good and faithful servant,' 'the saints shall inherit the earth,' and so following; and he sighed again in the delicious luxury of having secured both heaven and mammon. and in this happy state, and volunteering all manner of courtesies, opening and shutting windows, lending his railway guide and his newspapers whenever he had an opportunity, he at length reached the great london terminus, and was rattling over the metropolitan pavement, with his hand on his despatch-box, to his cheap hotel near the strand. chapter lxv. i revisit brandon hall. rachel lake was courageous and energetic; and, when once she had taken a clear view of her duty, wonderfully persistent and impracticable. her dreadful interview with jos. larkin was always in her mind. the bleached face, so meek, so cruel, of that shabby spectre, in the small, low parlour of redman's farm, was always before her. there he had spoken the sentences which made the earth tremble, and showed her distinctly the cracking line beneath her feet, which would gape at his word into the fathomless chasm that was to swallow her. but, come what might, she would not abandon the vicar and his little boy, and good dolly, to the arts of that abominable magician. the more she thought, the clearer her conviction. she had no one to consult with; she knew the risk of exasperating that tall man of god, who lived at the lodge. but, determined to brave all, she went down to see dolly and the vicar at home. poor dolly was tired; she had been sitting up all night with sick little fairy. he was better to-day; but last night he had frightened them so, poor little man! he began to rave about eleven o'clock; and more or less his little mind continued wandering until near six, when he fell into a sound sleep, and seemed better for it; and it was such a blessing there certainly was neither scarlatina nor small-pox, both which enemies had appeared on the northern frontier of gylingden, and were picking down their two or three cases each in that quarter. so rachel first made her visit to little man, sitting up in his bed, very pale and thin, and looking at her, not with his pretty smile, but a languid, earnest wonder, and not speaking. how quickly and strikingly sickness tells upon children. little man's frugal store of toys, chiefly the gifts of pleasant rachel, wild beasts, noah and his sons, and part of a regiment of foot soldiers, with the usual return of broken legs and missing arms, stood peacefully mingled upon the board across his bed which served as a platform. but little man was leaning back; his fingers once so busy, lay motionless on the coverlet, and his tired eyes rested on the toys with a joyless, earnest apathy. 'didn't play with them a minute,' said the maid. 'i'll bring him a new box. i'm going into the town; won't that be pretty?' said rachel, parting his golden locks over the young forehead, and kissing him; and she took his little hand in hers--it was hot and dry. 'he looks better--a little better, don't you think; just a little better?' whispered his mamma, looking, as all the rest were, on that wan, sad little face. but he really looked worse. 'well, he can't look better, you know, dear, till there's a decided change. what does doctor buddle say?' 'he saw him yesterday morning. he thinks it's all from his stomach, and he's feverish; no meat. indeed he won't eat anything, and you see the light hurts his eyes. there was only a chink of the shutter open. 'but it is always so when he is ever so little ill, my precious little man; and i _know_ if he thought it anything the _least_ serious, doctor buddle would have looked in before now, he's so very kind.' 'i wish my darling could get a little sleep. he's very tired, nurse,' said rachel. 'yes'm, very tired'm; would he like his precious head lower a bit? no; very well, darling, we'll leave it so.' 'dolly, darling, you and nurse must be so tired sitting up. i have a little wine at redman's farm. i got it, you remember, more than a year ago, when stanley said he was coming to pay me a visit. i never take any, and a little would be so good for you and poor nurse. i'll send some to you.' so coming down stairs rachel said, 'is the vicar at home?' yes, he was in the study, and there they found him brushing his seedy hat, and making ready for his country calls in the neighbourhood of the town. the hour was dull without little fairy; but he would soon be up and out again, and he would steal up now and see him. he could not go out without his little farewell at the bed-side, and he would bring him in some pretty flowers. 'you've seen little fairy!' asked the good vicar, with a very anxious smile, 'and you think him better, dear miss lake, don't you?' 'why, i can't say that, because you know, so soon as he's better, he'll be quite well; they make their recoveries all in a moment.' 'but he does not look worse?' said the vicar, lifting his eyes eagerly from his boot, which he was buttoning on the chair. 'well, he _does_ look more _tired_, but that must be till his recovery begins, which will be, please heaven, immediately.' 'oh, yes, my little man has had two or three attacks _much_ more serious than this, and always shook them off so easily, i was reminding dolly, always, and good doctor buddle assures us it is none of those horrid complaints.' and so they talked over the case of the little man, who with noah and his sons, and the battered soldiers and animals before him, was fighting, though they only dimly knew it, silently in his little bed, the great battle of life or death. 'mr. larkin came to me the evening before last,' said rachel, '_and told me_ that the little sum i mentioned--now don't say a word till you have heard me--was not sufficient; so i want to tell you what i have quite resolved on. i have been long intending some time or other to change my place of residence, perhaps i shall go to switzerland, and i have made up my mind to sell my rent-charge on the dulchester estate. it will produce, mr. young says, a very large sum, and i wish to lend it to you, either _all_ or as much as will make you _quite_ comfortable--you must not refuse. i had intended leaving it to my dear little man up stairs; and you must promise me solemnly that you will not listen to the advice of that bad, cruel man, mr. larkin.' 'my dear miss lake, you misunderstood him. but what can i say--how can i thank you?' said the vicar, clasping her hand. 'a wicked and merciless man, i say,' repeated miss lake. 'from my observation of him, i am certain of two things--i am sure that he has some reason for thinking that your brother, mark wylder, is dead; and secondly, that he is himself deeply interested in the purchase of your reversion. i feel a little ill; dolly, open the window.' there was a silence for a little while, and rachel resumed:-'now, william wylder, i am convinced, that you and your wife (and she kissed dolly), and your dear little boy, are marked out for plunder--the objects of a conspiracy; and i'll lose my life, but i'll prevent it.' 'now, maybe, willie, upon my word, perhaps, she's quite right; for, you know, if poor mark is dead, then would not _he_ have the estate _now_; is not that it, miss lake, and--and, you know, that would be dreadful, to sell it all for next to nothing, is not that what you mean, miss lake--rachel dear, i mean.' 'yes, dolly, stripping yourselves of a splendid inheritance, and robbing your poor little boy. i protest, in the name of heaven, against it, and you have no excuse now, william, with my offer before you; and, dolly, it will be inexcusable _wickedness_ in you, if you allow it.' 'now, willie dear, do you hear that--do you hear what she says?' 'but, dolly darling--dear miss lake, there is no reason whatever to suppose that poor mark is dead,' said the vicar, very pale. 'i tell you again, i am convinced the attorney _believes_ it. he did not say so, indeed; but, cunning as he is, i think i've quite seen through his plot; and even in what he said to me, there was something that half betrayed him every moment. and, dolly, if you allow this sale, you deserve the ruin you are inviting, and the remorse that will follow you to your grave.' 'do you hear that, willie?' said dolly, with her hand on his arm. 'but, dear, it is too late--i _have_ signed this--this instrument--and it is too late. i hope--god help me--i have not done wrong. indeed, whatever happens, dear miss lake, may heaven for ever bless you. but respecting good mr. larkin, you are, indeed, in error; i am sure you have quite misunderstood him. you don't know how kind--how _disinterestedly_ good he has been; and _now_, my dear miss lake, it is too late--_quite_ too late.' 'no; it is _not_ too late. such wickedness as that cannot be lawful--i won't believe the law allows it,' cried rachel lake. 'it is all a fraud--even if you have signed--all a fraud. you must procure able advice at once. your enemy is that dreadful mr. larkin. write to some good attorney in london. i'll pay everything.' 'but, dear miss lake, i can't,' said the vicar, dejectedly; 'i am bound in honour and conscience not to disturb it--i have written to messrs. burlington and smith to that effect. i assure you, dear miss lake, we have not acted inconsiderately--nothing has been done without careful and deep consideration.' 'you _must_ employ an able attorney immediately. you have been duped. your little boy must not be ruined.' 'but--but i do assure you, i have so pledged myself by the letter i have mentioned, that i _could_ not--no, it is _quite impossible_,' he added, as he recollected the strong and pointed terms in which he had pledged his honour and conscience to the london firm, to guarantee them against any such disturbance as miss lake was urging him to attempt. 'i am going into the town, dolly, and so are you,' said rachel, after a little pause. 'let us go together.' and to this dolly readily assented; and the vicar, evidently much troubled in mind, having run up to the nursery to see his little man, the two ladies set out together. rachel saw that she had made an impression upon dolly, and was resolved to carry her point. so, in earnest terms, again she conjured her, at least, to lay the whole matter before some friend on whom she could rely; and dolly, alarmed and eager, quite agreed with rachel, that the sale must be stopped, and she would do whatever dear rachel bid her. 'but do you think mr. larkin really supposes that poor mark is dead?' 'i do, dear--i suspect he knows it.' 'and what makes you think that, rachel, darling?' 'i can't define--i've no proofs to give you. one knows things, sometimes. i perceived it--and i think i can't be mistaken; and now i've said all, and pray ask me no more upon that point.' rachel spoke with a hurried and fierce impatience, that rather startled her companion. it is wonderful that she showed her state of mind so little. there was, indeed, something feverish, and at times even fierce, in her looks and words. but few would have guessed her agony, as she pleaded with the vicar and his wife; or the awful sense of impending consequences that closed over her like the shadow of night, the moment the excitement of her pleading was over--'rachel, are you mad?--fly, fly, fly!' was always sounding in her ears. the little street of gylingden, through which they were passing, looked strange and dream-like. and as she listened to mrs. crinkle's babble over the counter, and chose his toys for poor little 'fairy,' she felt like one trifling on the way to execution. but her warnings and entreaties, i have said, were not quite thrown away; for, although the vicar was inflexible, she had prevailed with his wife, who, at parting, again promised rachel, that if she could do it, the sale should be stopped. when i returned to brandon, a few mornings later, captain lake received me joyfully at his solitary breakfast. he was in an intense electioneering excitement. the evening papers for the day before lay on the breakfast table. 'a move of some sort suspected--the opposition prints all hinting at tricks and ambuscades. they are whipping their men up awfully. old wattles, not half-recovered, went by the early train yesterday, wealdon tells me. it will probably kill him. stower went up the day before. lee says he saw him at charteris. he never speaks--only a vote--and a fellow that never appears till the minute.' 'brittle, the member for stoney-muckford, was in the next carriage to me yesterday; and he's a slow coach, too,' i threw in. 'it does look as if the division was nearer than they pretend.' 'just so. i heard from gybes last evening--what a hand that fellow writes--only a dozen words--"look out for squalls," and "keep your men in hand." i've sent for wealdon. i wish the morning papers were come. i'm a quarter past eleven--what are you? the post's in at dollington fifty minutes before we get our letters here. d--d nonsense--it's all that heavy 'bus of driver's--i'll change that. they leave london at five, and get to dollington at half-past ten, and driver never has them in sooner than twenty minutes past eleven! d--d humbug! i'd undertake to take a dog-cart over the ground in twenty minutes.' 'is larkin here?' i asked. 'oh, no--run up to town. i'm so glad he's away--the clumsiest dog in england--nothing clever--no invention--only a bully--the people hate him. wealdon's my man. i wish he'd give up that town-clerkship--it can't be worth much, and it's in his way--i'd make it up to him somehow. will you just look at that--it's the 'globe'--only six lines, and tell me what _you_ make of it?' 'it does look like it, certainly.' 'wealdon and i have jotted down a few names here,' said lake, sliding a list of names before me; 'you know some of them, i think--rather a strong committee; don't you think so? those fellows with the red cross before have promised.' 'yes; it's very strong--capital!' i said, crunching my toast. 'is it thought the writs will follow the dissolution unusually quickly?' 'they must, unless they want a very late session. but it is quite possible the government may win--a week ago they reckoned upon eleven.' and as we were talking the post arrived. 'here they are!' cried lake, and grasping the first morning paper he could seize on, he tore it open with a greater display of energy than i had seen that languid gentleman exhibit on any former occasion. chapter lxvi. lady macbeth. 'here it is,' said the captain. 'beaten'--then came an oath--'three votes--how the devil was that?--there it is, by jove--no mistake--majority against ministers, three! is that the "times?" what does _it_ say?' 'a long leader--no resignation--immediate dissolution. that is what i collect from it.' 'how on earth could they have miscalculated so! swivell, i see, voted in the majority; that's very odd; and, by jove, there's surplice, too, and he's good for seven votes. why his own paper was backing the ministers! what a fellow that is! that accounts for it all. a difference of fourteen votes.' and thus we went on, discussing this unexpected turn of luck, and reading to one another snatches of the leading articles in different interests upon the subject. then lake, recollecting his letters, opened a large-sealed envelope, with s.c.g. in the corner. 'this is from gybes--let us see. oh! _before_ the division. "it looks a little fishy," he says--well, so it does--"we may take the division to-night. should it prove adverse, you are to expect an immediate dissolution; this on _the best authority_. i write to mention this, as i may be too much hurried to-morrow."' we were discussing this note when wealdon arrived. 'well, captain; great news, sir. the best thing, i take it, could have happened ministers, ha, ha, ha! a rotten house--down with it--blow it up--three votes only--but as good as three hundred for the purpose--of the three hundred, grant but three, you know--of course, they don't think of resigning.' 'oh, dear, no--an immediate dissolution. read that,' said lake, tossing gybes' note to him. 'ho, then, we'll have the writs down hot and heavy. we must be sharp. the sheriff's all right; that's a point. you must not lose an hour in getting your committee together, and printing your address.' 'who's on the other side?' 'you'll have jennings, of course; but they are talking of four different men, already, to take sir harry twisden's place. _he'll_ resign; that's past a doubt now. he has his retiring address written; lord edward mordun read it; and he told fitzstephen on sunday, after church, that he'd never sit again.' 'here, by jove, is a letter from mowbray,' said lake, opening it. 'all about his brother george. hears i'm up for the county. lord george ready to join and go halves. what shall i say?' 'could not have a better man. tell him you desire no better, and will bring it at once before your committee; and let him know, the moment they meet; and tell him _i_ say he knows wealdon pretty well--he may look on it as settled. that will be a spoke in sir harry's wheel.' 'sir harry who?' said lake. 'bracton. i think it's only to spoil your game, you see,' answered wealdon. 'abundance of malice; but i don't think he's countenanced?' 'he'll try to get the start of you; and if he does, one or other must go to the wall; for lord george is too strong to be shook out. do _you_ get forward at once; that's your plan, captain.' then the captain recurred to his letters, which were a larger pack than usual this morning, chatting all the time with wealdon and me on the tremendous topic, and tossing aside every letter that did not bear on the coming struggle. 'who can this be?' said lake, looking at the address of one of these. 'very like my hand,' and he examined the seal. it was only a large wafer-stamp, so he broke it open, and drew out a shabby, very ill-written scroll. he turned suddenly away, talking the while, but with his eyes upon the note, and then he folded, or rather crumpled it up, and stuffed it into his pocket, and continued his talk; but it was now plain to me there was something more on his mind, and he was thinking of the shabby letter he had just received. but, no matter; the election was the pressing topic, and lake was soon engaged in it again. there was now a grand _coup_ under discussion--the forestalling of all the horses and vehicles along the line of railway, and in all the principal posting establishments throughout the county. 'they'll want to keep it open for a bid from the other side. it is a heavy item any way; and if you want to engage them now, you'll have to give double what they got last time.' but lake was not to be daunted. he wanted the seat, and would stick at nothing to secure it; and so, wealdon got instructions, in his own phrase, to go the whole animal. as i could be of no possible use in local details, i left the council of war sitting, intending a stroll in the grounds. in the hall, i met the mistress of the house, looking very handsome, but with a certain witch-like beauty, very pale, something a little haggard in her great, dark eyes, and a strange, listening look. was it watchfulness? was it suspicion? she was dressed gravely but richly, and received me kindly--and, strange to say, with a smile that, yet, was not joyful. 'i hope she is happy. lake is such a beast; i hope he does not bully her.' in truth, there were in her exquisite features the traces of that mysterious misery and fear which seemed to fall wherever stanley lake's ill-omened confidences were given. i walked down one of the long alleys, with tall, close hedges of beech, as impenetrable as cloister walls to sight, and watched the tench basking and flickering in the clear pond, and the dazzling swans sailing majestically along. what a strange passion is ambition, i thought. is it really the passion of great minds, or of little. here is lake, with a noble old place, inexhaustible in variety; with a beautiful, and i was by this time satisfied, a very singular and interesting woman for his wife, who must have married him for love, pure and simple; a handsome fortune; the power to bring his friends--those whom he liked, or who amused him--about him, and to indulge luxuriously every reasonable fancy, willing to forsake all, and follow the beck of that phantom. had he knowledge, public talents, training? nothing of the sort. had he patriotism, any one noble motive or fine instinct to prompt him to public life? the mere suggestion was a sneer. it seemed to me, simply, that stanley lake was a lively, amusing, and even intelligent man, without any internal resource; vacant, peevish, with an unmeaning passion for corruption and intrigue, and the sort of egotism which craves distinction. so i supposed. yet, with all its weakness, there was a dangerous force in the character which, on the whole, inspired an odd mixture of fear and contempt. i was bitten, however, already, by the interest of the coming contest. it is very hard to escape that subtle and intoxicating poison. i wondered what figure stanley would make as a hustings orator, and what impression in his canvass. the latter, i was pretty confident about. altogether, curiosity, if no deeper sentiment, was highly piqued; and i was glad i happened to drop in at the moment of action, and wished to see the play out. at the door of her boudoir, rachel lake met dorcas. 'i am so glad, radie, dear, you are come. you must take off your things, and stay. you must not leave me to-night. we'll send home for whatever you want; and you won't leave me, radie, i'm certain.' 'i'll stay, dear, as you wish it,' said rachel, kissing her. 'did you see stanley? i have not seen him to-day,' said dorcas. 'no, dear; i peeped into the library, but he was not there; and there are two men writing in the dutch room, very busily,' 'it must be about the election.' 'what election, dear?' asked rachel. 'there is going to be an election for the county, and--only think--he intends coming forward. i sometimes think he is mad, radie.' 'i could not have supposed such a thing. if i were he, i think i should fly to the antipodes. i should change my name, sear my features with vitriol, and learn another language. i should obliterate my past self altogether; but men are so different, so audacious--some men, at least--and stanley, ever since his ill-omened arrival at redman's farm, last autumn, has amazed and terrified me.' 'i think, radie, we have both courage--_you_ have certainly; you have shown it, darling, and you must cease to blame yourself; i think you a _heroine_, radie; but you know _i_ see with the wild eyes of the brandons.' 'i am grateful, dorcas, that you don't hate me. most women i am sure would abhor me--yes, dorcas--_abhor_ me.' 'you and i against the world, radie!' said dorcas, with a wild smile and a dark admiration in her look, and kissing rachel again. 'i used to think myself brave; it belongs to women of our blood; but this is no common strain upon courage, radie. i've grown to fear stanley somehow like a ghost; i fear it is even worse than he says,' and she looked with a horrible enquiry into rachel's eyes. 'so do _i_, dorcas,' said rachel, in a firm low whisper, returning her look as darkly. 'what's done cannot be undone,' said rachel, sadly, after a little pause, unconsciously quoting from a terrible soliloquy of shakespeare. 'i know what you mean, radie; and you warned me, with a strange second-sight, before the evil was known to either of us. it was an irrevocable step, and i took it, not seeing all that has happened, it is true; but forewarned. and this i will say, radie, if i _had_ known the worst, i think even that would not have deterred me. it was madness--it _is_ madness, for i love him still. rachel, though i know him and his wickedness, and am filled with horror--i love him desperately.' 'i am very glad,' said rachel, 'that you do know everything. it is so great a relief to have companionship. i often thought i must go mad in my solitude.' 'poor rachel! i think you wonderful--i think you a heroine--i do, radie; you and i are made for one another--the same blood--something of the same wild nature; i can admire you, and understand you, and will always love you.' 'i've been with william wylder and dolly. that wicked attorney, mr. larkin, is resolved on robbing them. i wish they had anyone able to advise them. stanley i am sure could save them; but he does not choose to do it. he was always so angry when i urged him to help them, that i knew it would be useless asking him; i don't think he knows what mr. larkin has been doing; but, dorcas, i am afraid the very same thought has been in his mind.' 'i hope not, radie,' and dorcas sighed deeply. 'everything is so wonderful and awful in the light that has come.' that morning, poor william wylder had received a letter from jos. larkin, esq., mentioning that he had found messrs. burlington and smith anything but satisfied with him--the vicar. what exactly he had done to disoblige them he could not bring to mind. but jos. larkin told him that he had done all in his power 'to satisfy them of the _bon㢠fide_ character' of his reverend client's dealings from the first. but 'they still express themselves dissatisfied upon the point, and appear to suspect a disposition to shilly-shally.' i have said 'all i could to disabuse them of the unpleasant prejudice; but i think i should hardly be doing my duty if i were not to warn you that you will do wisely to exhibit no hesitation in the arrangements by which your agreement is to be carried out, and that in the event of your showing the slightest disposition to qualify the spirit of your strong note to them, or in anywise disappointing their client, you must be prepared, from what i know of the firm, for very sharp practice indeed.' what could they do to him, or why should they hurt him, or what had he done to excite either the suspicion or the temper of the firm? they expected their client, the purchaser, in a day or two. he was already grumbling at the price, and certainly would stand no trifling. neither would messrs. burlington and smith, who, he must admit, had gone to very great expense in investigating title, preparing deeds, &c., and who were noted as a very expensive house. he was aware that they were in a position to issue an execution on the guarantee for the entire amount of their costs; but he thought so extreme a measure would hardly be contemplated, notwithstanding their threats, unless the purchaser were to withdraw or the vendor to exhibit symptoms of--he would not repeat their phrase--irresolution in his dealing. he had, however, placed the vicar's letter in their hands, and had accompanied it with his own testimony to the honour and character of the rev. william wylder, which he was happy to say seemed to have considerable weight with messrs. burlington and smith. there was also this passage, 'feeling acutely the anxiety into which the withdrawal of the purchaser must throw you--though i trust nothing of that sort may occur--i told them that rather than have you thrown upon your beam-ends by such an occurrence, i would myself step in and purchase on the terms agreed on. this will, i trust, quiet them on the subject of their costs, and also prevent any low _dodging_ on the part of the purchaser.' this letter would almost seem to have been written with a supernatural knowledge of what was passing in gylingden, and was certainly well contrived to prevent the vicar from wavering. but all this time the ladies are conversing in dorcas's boudoir. 'this election frightens me, radie--everything frightens me now--but this is _so_ audacious. if there be powers either in heaven or hell, it seems like a defiance and an invocation. i am glad you are here, radie--i have grown so nervous--so superstitious, i believe; watching always for signs and omens. oh, darling, the world's ghastly for me now.' 'i wish, dorcas, we were away--as you used to say--in some wild and solitary retreat, living together--two recluses--but all that is visionary--quite visionary now.' dorcas sighed. 'you know, rachel, the world must not see this--we will carry our heads high. wicked men, and brave and suffering women--that is the history of our family--and men and women always quite unlike the rest of the world--unlike the human race; and somehow they interest me unspeakably. i wish i knew more about those proud, forlorn beauties, whose portraits are fading on the walls. their spirit, i am sure, is in us, rachel; and their pictures and traditions have always supported me. when i was a little thing, i used to look at them with a feeling of melancholy and mystery. they were in my eyes, reserved prophetesses, who could speak, if they would, of my own future.' 'a poor support, dorcas--a broken reed. i wish we could find another--the true one, in the present, and in the coming time.' dorcas smiled faintly, and i think there was a little gleam of a ghastly satire in it. i am afraid that part of her education which deals with futurity had been neglected. 'i am more likely to turn into a lady macbeth than a _dã©vote_,' said she, coldly, with the same painful smile. 'i found myself last night sitting up in my bed, talking in the dark about it.' there was a silence for a time, and rachel said,-'it is growing late, dorcas.' 'but you must not go, rachel--you _must_ stay and keep me company--you must, _indeed_, radie,' said dorcas. 'so i will,' she answered; 'but i must send a line to old tamar; and i promised dolly to go down to her to-night, if that darling little boy should be worse--i am very unhappy about him.' 'and is he in danger, the handsome little fellow?' said dorcas. 'very great danger, i fear,' said rachel. 'doctor buddle has been very kind--but he is, i am afraid, more desponding than poor william or dolly imagines--heaven help them!' 'but children recover wonderfully. what is his ailment?' 'gastric fever, the doctor says. i had a foreboding of evil the moment i saw him--before the poor little man was put to his bed.' dorcas rang the bell. 'now, radie, if you wish to write, sit down here--or if you prefer a message, thomas can take one very accurately; and he shall call at the vicar's, and see dolly, and bring us word how the dear little boy is. and don't fancy, darling, i have forgotten what you said to me about duty--though i would call it differently--only i feel so wild, i can think of nothing clearly yet. but i am making up my mind to a great and bold step, and when i am better able, i will talk it over with you--my only friend, rachel.' and she kissed her. chapter lxvii. mr. larkin is vis-a-vis with a concealed companion. the time had now arrived when our friend jos. larkin was to refresh the village of gylingden with his presence. he had pushed matters forward with wonderful despatch. the deeds, with their blue and silver stamps, were handsomely engrossed--having been approved in draft by crompton s. kewes, the eminent queen's counsel, on a case furnished by jos. larkin, esq., the lodge, brandon manor, gylingden, on behalf of his client, the reverend william wylder; and in like manner on behalf of stanley williams brandon lake, of brandon hall, in the county of ----, esq. in neither draft did jos. larkin figure as the purchaser by name. he did not care for advice on any difficulty depending on his special relations to the vendors in both these cases. he wished, as was his custom, everything above-board, and such 'an opinion' as might be published by either client in the 'times' next day if he pleased it. besides these matters of wylder and of lake, he had also a clause to insert in a private act, on behalf of the trustees of the baptist chapel, at naunton friars; a short deed to be consulted upon on behalf of his client, pudder swynfen, esq., of swynfen grange, in the same county; and a deed to be executed at shillingsworth, which he would take _en route_ for gylingden, stopping there for that night, and going on by next morning's train. those little trips to town paid very fairly. in this particular case his entire expenses reached exactly â£5 3_s._, and what do you suppose was the good man's profit upon that small item? precisely â£62 7_s._! the process is simple, jos. larkin made his own handsome estimate of his expenses, and the value of his time to and from london, and then he charged this in its entirety--shall we say integrity--to each client separately. in this little excursion he was concerned for no less than _five_. his expenses, i say, reached exactly â£5 3_s_. but he had a right to go to dondale's if he pleased, instead of that cheap hostelry near covent garden. he had a right to a handsome lunch and a handsome dinner, instead of that economical fusion of both meals into one, at a cheap eating-house, in an out-of-the-way quarter. he had a right to his pint of high-priced wine, and to accomplish his wanderings in a cab, instead of, as the italians say, 'partly on foot, and partly walking.' therefore, and on this principle, mr. jos. larkin had 'no difficulty' in acting. his savings, if the good man chose to practise self-denial, were his own--and it was a sort of problem while he stayed, and interested him curiously--keeping down his bill in matters which he would not have dreamed of denying himself at home. the only client among his wealthy supporters, who ever went in a grudging spirit into one of these little bills of jos. larkin's, was old sir mulgrave bracton--the defunct parent of the sir harry, with whom we are acquainted. 'don't you think, mr. larkin, you could perhaps reduce _this_, just a little?' 'ah, the expenses?' 'well, yes.' mr. jos. larkin smiled--the smile said plainly, 'what would he have me live upon, and where?' we do meet persons of this sort, who would fain 'fill our bellies with the husks' that swine digest; what of that--we must remember who we are--_gentlemen_--and answer this sort of shabbiness, and every other endurable annoyance, as lord chesterfield did--with a bow and a smile. 'i think so,' said the baronet, in a bluff, firm way. 'well, the fact is, when i represent a client, sir mulgrave bracton, of a certain rank and position, i make it a principle--and, as a man of business, i find it tells--to present myself in a style that is suitably handsome.' 'oh! an expensive house--_where_ was this, now?' 'oh, sir mulgrave, pray don't think of it--i'm only too happy--pray, draw your pen across the entire thing.' 'i think so,' said the baronet unexpectedly. 'don't you think if we said a pound a-day, and your travelling expenses?' 'certainly--_any_thing--what_ever_ you please, sir.' and the attorney waved his long hand a little, and smiled almost compassionately; and the little alteration was made, and henceforward he spoke of sir mulgrave as not quite a pleasant man to deal with in money matters; and his confidential friends knew that in a transaction in which he had paid money out of his own pocket for sir mulgrave he had never got back more than seven and sixpence in the pound; and, what made it worse, it was a matter connected with the death of poor lady bracton! and he never lost an opportunity of conveying his opinion of sir mulgrave, sometimes in distinct and confidential sentences, and sometimes only by a sad shake of his head, or by awfully declining to speak upon the subject. in the present instance jos. larkin was returning in a heavenly frame of mind to the lodge, brandon manor, gylingden. whenever he was away he interpolated 'brandon manor,' and stuck it on his valise and hat-case; and liked to call aloud to the porters tumbling among the luggage--'jos. larkin, esquire, _brandon manor, if_ you please;' and to see the people read the inscription in the hall of his dingy hostelry. well might the good man glow with a happy consciousness of a blessing. in small things as in great he was prosperous. this little excursion to london would cost him, as i said, exactly â£5 3_s._ it might have cost him â£13 10_s._ and at that sum his expenses figured in his ledger; and as he had five clients on this occasion, the total reached â£67 10_s._, leaving a clear profit, as i have mentioned, of â£62 7_s._ on this item. but what was this little tip from fortune, compared with the splendid pieces of scrivenery in his despatch box. the white parchment--the blue and silver stamps in the corner--the german text and flourishes at the top, and those broad, horizontal lines of recital, `habendum,' and so forth--marshalled like an army in procession behind his march of triumph into five oaks, to take the place of its deposed prince? from the captain's deed to the vicar's his mind glanced fondly. he would yet stand the highest man in his county. he had found time for a visit to the king-at-arms and the heralds' office. he would have his pictures and his pedigree. his grandmother had been a howard. her branch, indeed, was a little under a cloud, keeping a small provision-shop in the town of dwiddleston. but this circumstance need not be in prominence. she was a howard--_that_ was the fact he relied on--no mortal could gainsay it; and he would be, first, j. howard larkin, then howard larkin, simply; then howard larkin howard, and the five gaks' howards would come to be very great people indeed. and the brandons had intermarried with other howards, and five oaks would naturally, therefore, go to howards; and so he and his, with clever management, would be anything but _novi homines_ in the county. 'he shall be like a tree planted by the water-side, that will bring forth his fruit in due season. his leaf also shall not wither. so thought this good man complacently. he liked these fine consolations of the jewish dispensation--actual milk and honey, and a land of promise on which he could set his foot. jos. larkin, esq., was as punctual as the clock at the terminus. he did not come a minute too soon or too late, but precisely at the moment which enabled him, without fuss, and without a tiresome wait, to proceed to the details of ticket, luggage, selection of place, and ultimate ascension thereto. so now having taken all measures, gliding among the portmanteaus, hand-barrows, and porters, and the clangorous bell ringing, he mounted, lithe and lank, into his place. there was a pleasant evening light still, and the gas-lamps made a purplish glow against it. the little butter-cooler of a glass lamp glimmered from the roof. mr. larkin established himself, and adjusted his rug and mufflers about him, for, notwithstanding the season, there had been some cold, rainy weather, and the evening was sharp; and he set his two newspapers, his shilling book, and other triumphs of cheap literature in sundry shapes, in the vacant seat at his left hand, and made everything handsome about him. he glanced to the other end of the carriage, where sat his solitary fellow-passenger. this gentleman was simply a mass of cloaks and capes, culminating in a queer battered felt hat; his shoulders were nestled into the corner, and his face buried among his loose mufflers. they sat at corners diagonally opposed, and were, therefore, as far apart as was practicable--an arrangement, not sociable, to be sure, but on the whole, very comfortable, and which neither seemed disposed to disturb. mr. larkin had a word to say to the porter from the window, and bought one more newspaper; and then looked out on the lamplit platform, and saw the officials loitering off to the clang of the carriage doors; then came the whistle, and then the clank and jerk of the start. and so the brick walls and lamps began to glide backward, and the train was off. jos. larkin tried his newspaper, and read for ten minutes, or so, pretty diligently; and then looked for a while from the window, upon receding hedgerows and farmsteads, and the level and spacious landscape; and then he leaned back luxuriously, his newspaper listlessly on his knees, and began to read, instead, at his ease, the shapeless, wrapt-up figure diagonally opposite. the quietude of the gentleman in the far corner was quite singular. he produced neither tract, nor newspaper, nor volume--not even a pocket-book or a letter. he brought forth no cigar-case, with the stereotyped, 'have you any objection to my smoking a cigar?' he did not even change his attitude ever so little. a burly roll of cloaks, rugs, capes, and loose wrappers, placed in the corner, and _tanquam cadaver_, passive and motionless. i have sometimes in my travels lighted on a strangely shaped mountain, whose huge curves, and sombre colouring have interested me indefinably. in the rude mass at the far angle, mr. jos. larkin, i fancy, found some such subject of contemplation. and the more he looked, the more he felt disposed to look. as they got on there was more night fog, and the little lamp at top shone through a halo. the fellow-passenger at the opposite angle lay back, all cloaks and mufflers, with nothing distinct emerging but the felt hat at top, and the tip--it was only the tip now--of the shining shoe on the floor. the gentleman was absolutely motionless and silent. and mr. larkin, though his mind was pretty universally of the inquisitive order, began in this particular case to feel a special curiosity. it was partly the monotony and their occupying the carriage all to themselves--as the two uncommunicative seamen did the eddystone lighthouse--but there was, beside, an indistinct feeling, that, in spite of all these wrappers and swathings, he knew the outlines of that figure; and yet the likeness must have been of the rudest possible sort. he could not say that he recognised anything distinctly--only he fancied that some one he knew was sitting there, unrevealed, inside that mass of clothing. and he felt, moreover, as if he ought to be able to guess who he was. chapter lxviii. the companion discloses himself. but this sort of musing and wonderment leads to nothing; and mr. jos. larkin being an active-minded man, and practical withal, in a little while shook it off, and from his breast-pocket took a tiny treasure of a pocket-book, in which were some bank-notes, precious memoranda in pencil, and half-a-dozen notes and letters, bearing upon cases and negotiations on which, at this juncture, he was working. into these he got, and now and then brought out a letter bearing on some point of speculation, and read it through, and then closed his eyes for three minutes at a time, and thought. but he had not his tin boxes there; and, with a man of his stamp, speculation, which goes upon guess as to dates and quantities, which are all ascertainable by reference to black and white, soon loses its interest. and the evidence in his pocket being pretty soon exhausted, he glanced again at his companion over the way. he had not moved all this while. he had a high stand-up collar to the cape he wore, which covered his cheeks and nose and outside was loosely swathed a large, cream-coloured, cashmere handkerchief. the battered felt hat covered his forehead and eyebrows, and left, in fact, but a narrow streak of separation between. through this, however, for the first time, jos. larkin now saw the glitter of a pair of eyes gazing at him, he fancied. at all events there was the glitter, and the gentleman was awake. jos. returned the gentleman's gaze. it was his lofty aristocratic stare; and he expected to see the glittering lights that peeped through the dark chink between brim and collar shut up under its rebuke. but nothing of the kind took place, and the ocular exercises of the attorney were totally ineffectual. if the fellow knew that his fixed stare was observed through his narrow embrasure--and larkin thought he could hardly be insensible to the reproof of his return fire--he must be a particularly impertinent person. it would be ridiculous, however, to continue a contest of this kind; so the attorney lowered the window and looked out. then he pulled it up, and took to his newspaper again, and read the police cases, and a very curious letter from a poor-house doctor, describing a boy who was quite blind in daylight, but could see very fairly by gas or candle light, and then he lighted upon a very odd story, and said to be undergoing special sifting at the hands of sir samuel squailes, of a policeman on a certain beat, in fleet street, not far from temple bar, who every night saw, at or about the same hour, a certain suspicious-looking figure walk along the flag-way and enter a passage. night after night he pursued this figure, but always lost it in the same passage. on the last occasion, however, he succeeded in keeping him in view, and came up with him in a court, when he was rewarded with a sight of such a face as caused him to fall to the ground in a fit. this was the clampcourt ghost, and i believe he was left in that debatable state, and never after either exploded or confirmed. so having ended all these studies, the attorney lifted up his eyes again, as he lowered his newspaper, and beheld the same glittering gaze fixed upon him through the same horizontal cranny. he fancied the eyes were laughing. he could not be sure, of course, but at all events the persistent stare was extremely, and perhaps determinedly, impertinent. forgetting the constitutional canon through which breathes the genuine spirit of british liberty, he felt for a moment that he was such a king as that cat had no business to look at; and he might, perhaps, have politely intimated something of the kind, had not the enveloped offender made a slight and lazy turn which, burying his chin still deeper in his breast, altogether concealed his eyes, and so closed the offensive scrutiny. in making this change in his position, slight as it was, the gentleman in the superfluous clothing reminded mr. jos. larkin very sharply for an instant of--_some_body. there was the rub; who could it be? the figure was once more a mere mountain of rug. what was the peculiarity in that slight movement--something in the knee? something in the elbow? something in the general character? why had he not spoken to him? the opportunity, for the present, was past. but he was now sure that his fellow-traveller was an acquaintance, who had probably recognised him. larkin--except when making a mysterious trip at election times, or in an emergency, in a critical case--was a frank, and as he believed could be a fascinating _compagnon de voyage_, such and so great was his urbanity on a journey. he rather liked talking with people; he sometimes heard things not wholly valueless, and once or twice had gathered hints in this way, which saved him trouble, or money, which is much the same thing. therefore upon principle he was not averse from that direst of bores, railway conversation. and now they slackened speed, with a long, piercing whistle, and came to a standstill at 'east had_don_' (with a jerk upon the last syllable), 'east had_don_, east had_don_,' as the herald of the station declared, and lawyer larkin sat straight up, very alert, with a budding smile, ready to blow out into a charming radiance the moment his fellow-traveller rose perpendicular, as was to be expected, and peeped from his window. but he seemed to know intuitively that larkin intended telling him, _apropos_ of the station, that story of the haddon property, and sir james wotton's will, which as told by the good attorney and jumbled by the clatter, was perhaps a little dreary. at all events he did not stir, and carefully abstained from wakening, and in a few seconds more they were again in motion. they were now approaching shillingsworth, where the attorney was to get out, and put up for the night, having a deed with him to be executed in that town, and so sweetening his journey with this small incident of profit. now, therefore, looking at his watch, and consulting his time table, he got his slim valise from under on top of the seat before him, together with his hat-case, despatch-box, stick, and umbrella, and brushed off with his handkerchief some of the gritty railway dust that lay drifted in exterior folds and hollows of his coat, rebuttoned that garment with precision, arranged his shirt-collar, stuffed his muffler into his coat-pocket, and made generally that rude sacrifice to the graces with which natty men precede their exit from the dust and ashes of this sort of sepulture. at this moment he had just eight minutes more to go, and the glitter of the pair of eyes, staring between the muffler and the rim of the hat, met his view once more. mr. larkin's cigar-case was open in his hand in a moment, and with such a smile as a genteel perfumer offers his wares with, he presented it toward the gentleman who was built up in the stack of garments. he merely shook his head with the slightest imaginable nod and a wave of a pudgy hand in a soiled dog-skin glove, which emerged for a second from under a cape, in token that he gratefully declined the favour. mr. larkin smiled and shrugged regretfully, and replaced the case in his coat pocket. hardly five minutes remained now. larkin glanced round for a topic. 'my journey is over for the present, sir, and perhaps you would find these little things entertaining.' and he tendered with the same smile 'punch,' the 'penny gleaner,' and 'gray's magazine,' a religious serial. they were, however, similarly declined in pantomime. 'he's not particularly polite, whoever he is,' thought mr. larkin, with a sniff. however, he tried the effect of a direct observation. so getting one seat nearer, he said:-'wonderful place shillingsworth, sir; one does not really, until one has visited it two or three times over, at all comprehend its wealth and importance; and how justly high it deserves to hold its head amongst the provincial emporia of our productive industry.' the shapeless traveller in the corner touched his ear with his pudgy dogskin fingers, and shook his hand and head a little, in token either that he was deaf, or the noise such as to prevent his hearing, and in the next moment the glittering eyes closed, and the pantomimist appeared to be asleep. and now, again, the train subsided to a stand-still, and shillingsworth resounded through the night air, and larkin scrambled forward to the window, by which sat the enveloped gentleman, and called the porter, and, with many unheeded apologies, pulled out his various properties, close by the knees of the tranquil traveller. so, mr. larkin was on the platform, and his belongings stowed away against the wall of the station-house. he made an enquiry of the guard, with whom he was acquainted, about his companion; but the guard knew nothing of the 'party,' neither did the porter, to whom the guard put a similar question. so, as larkin walked down the platform, the whistle sounded and the train glided forward, and as it passed him, the gentleman in the cloak and queer hat was looking out. a lamp shone full on him. mr. larkin's heart stood still for a moment, and then bounded up as if it would choke him. 'it's him, by ----!' and mr. larkin, forgetting syntax, and propriety, and religion, all together, and making a frantic race to keep up with the train, shouted-'stop it, stop it--hollo!--stop--stop--ho, stop!' but he pleaded with the winds; and before he had reached the end of the platform, the carriage windows were flying by him with the speed of wheel-spokes, and the end of the coupã©, with its red lantern, sailed away through the cutting. 'forgot summat, sir,' said the porter, touching his hat. 'yes--signal--stop him, can you?' the porter only scratched his head, under his cap, and smiled sheepishly after the train. jos. larkin knew, the next moment, he had talked nonsense. 'i--i--yes--i have--have you an engine here:--express--i'll pay anything.' but, no, there was 'no engine--not nearer than the junction, and she might not be spared.' 'how far is the junction?' 'nineteen and a-half.' 'nineteen miles! they'll never bring me there, by horse, under two hours, they are so cursed tedious. why have not you a spare engine at a place like this? shillingsworth! nice management! are you certain? where's the station-master?' all this time he kept staring after the faint pulsations on the air that indicated the flight of the engine. but it would not do. the train--the image upon earth of the irrevocable, the irretrievable--was gone, neither to be overtaken nor recalled. the telegraph was not then, as now, whispering secrets all over england, at the rate of two hundred miles a second, and five shillings per twenty words. larkin would have given large money for an engine, to get up with the train that was now some five miles on its route, at treble, quadruple, the common cost of such a magical appliance; but all was vain. he could only look and mutter after it wildly. vain to conjecture for what station that traveller in the battered hat was bound! idle speculation! mere distraction! only that mr. larkin was altogether the man he was, i think he would have cursed freely. chapter lxix. of a spectre whom old tamar saw. little fairy, all this while, continued, in our church language, 'sick and weak.' the vicar was very sorry, but not afraid. his little man was so bright and merry, that he seemed to him the very spirit of life. he could not dream of his dying. it was sad, to be sure, the little man so many days in his bed, too languid to care for toy or story, quite silent, except when, in the night time, those weird monologues began which showed that the fever had reached his brain. the tones of his pleasant little voice, in those sad flights of memory and fancy, busy with familiar scenes and occupations, sounded wild and plaintive in his ear. and when 'wapsie' was mentioned, sometimes the vicar's eyes filled, but he smiled through this with a kind of gladness at the child's affection. 'it will soon be over, my darling! you will be walking with wapsie in a week again.' the sun could as soon cease from shining as little fairy from living. the thought he would not allow near him. doctor buddle had been six miles away that evening with a patient, and looked in at the vicar's long after the candles were lighted. he was not satisfied with little fairy--not at all satisfied. he put his hand under the clothes and felt his thin, slender limbs--thinner than ever now. dry and very hot they were--and little man babbling his nonsense about little boys, and his 'wapsie,' and toys, and birds, and the mill-stream, and the church-yard--of which, with so strange a fatality, children, not in romance only, but reality, so often prattle in their feverish wanderings. he felt his pulse. he questioned his mamma, and cross-examined the nurse, and looked grave and very much annoyed; and then bethought him of something to be tried; and having given his directions to the maid, he went home in haste, and returned in half an hour with the something in a phial--a few drops in water, and little man sat up, leaning on his wapsie's arm, and 'took it very good,' his nurse said, approvingly; and he looked at them all wonderingly, for two or three moments, and so tired; and they laid him down again, and then his spoken dreams began once more. doctor buddle was dark and short in his answers to voluble little mrs. wylder--though, of course, quite respectful--and the vicar saw him down the narrow stairs, and they turned into the study for a moment, and, said buddle, in an under tone-'he's very ill--i can say nothing else.' and there was a pause. the little colour he had receded from the vicar's face, for the looks and tones of good-natured buddle were not to be mistaken. he was reading little fairy's death warrant. 'i see, doctor--i see; you think he'll die,' said the vicar, staring at him. 'oh doctor, my little fairy!' the doctor knew something of the poor vicar's troubles--of course in a village most things of the kind _are_ known--and often, in his brisk, rough way, he thought as, with a nod and a word, he passed the lank cleric, under the trees or across the common, with his bright, prattling, sunny-haired little boy by the hand--or encountered them telling stories on the stile, near the castle meadow--what a gleam of sunshine was always dancing about his path, in that smiling, wayward, loving little fellow--and now a long icelandic winter was coming, and his path was to know that light no more. 'with children, you know, i--i always say there's a chance--but you are right to look the thing in the face--and i'll be here the first call in the morning; and you know where to find me, in the meantime;' and the doctor shook hands very hard with the vicar at the hall-door, and made his way homeward--the vicar's eyes following him till he was out of sight. then william wylder shut the hall-door, and turned about. little fairy's drum was hanging from a peg on the hat-stand--the drum that was to sound no more in the garden, or up and down the hall, with the bright-haired little drummer's song. there would be no more interruption now--the vicar would write his sermons undisturbed; no more consolations claimed--no more broken toys to be mended--some of the innocent little rubbish lay in the study. it should never move from that--nor his drum--nor that little hat and cape, hanging on their peg, with the tiny boots underneath. no more prattling at unseasonable times--no more crying--no more singing--no more laughing; all these interruptions were quiet now, and altogether gone--'little man! little fairy! oh, was it possible!' but memory would call up the vicar from his half-written sermon. he would miss his troublesome little man, when the sun shone out that he used to welcome--when the birds hopped on the window-stone, to find the crumbs that little man used to strew there; and when his own little canary--'birdie' he used to call him--would sing and twitter in his cage--and the time came to walk out on his lonely visits. he must walk alone by the shop-doors--where the little man was so admired--and up the mill-road, and in the castle meadow and over the stile where they used to sit. poor dolly! her willie would not tell her yet. he kneeled down in the study--'little man's' top, and some cut paper nondescripts, were lying where he had left them, at his elbow--and he tried to pray, and then he remembered that his darling ought to know that he was going into the presence of his maker. yes, he would tell poor dolly first, and then his little man. he would repeat his hymn with him, and pray--and so he went up the nursery stairs. poor dolly, very tired, had gone to lie down for a little. he would not disturb her--no, let her enjoy for an hour more her happy illusion. when he went into the nursery little fairy was sitting up, taking his medicine; the nurse's arm round his thin shoulders. he sat down beside him, weeping gently, his thin face turned a little away, and his hand on the coverlet. little man looked wonderingly from his tired eyes on wapsie, and his thin fingers crept on his hand, and wapsie turned about, drying his eyes, and said-'little man! my darling!' 'he's like himself, sir, while he's sitting up--his little head quite right again.' 'my head's quite right, wapsie,' the little man whispered, sadly. 'thank god, my darling!' said the vicar. the tears were running down his cheeks while he parted little fairy's golden hair with his fingers. 'when i am quite well again,' whispered the little man, 'won't you bring me to the castle meadow, where the wee river is, and we'll float races with daisies and buttercups--the way you did on my birthday.' 'they say that little mannikin----' suddenly the vicar stopped. 'they say that little mannikin won't get well.' 'and am i always to be sick, here in my little bed, wapsie?' whispered little fairy, in his dreamy, earnest way, that was new to him. 'no, darling; not always sick: you'll be happier than ever--but not here; little man will be taken by his saviour, that loves him best of all--and he'll be in heaven--and only have a short time to wait, and maybe his poor wapsie will come to him, please god, and his darling mamma--and we'll all be happy together, for ever, and never be sick or sorry any more, my treasure--my little fairy--my darling.' and little man looked on him with his tired eyes, not quite understanding what it meant, nor why wapsie was crying; and the nurse said-'he'd like to be dozin', sir, he's so tired, please.' so down the poor little fellow lay, his 'wapsie' praying by his bedside. when, in a little time, poor dolly returned, her willie took her round the waist, as on the day when she accepted him, and led her tenderly into the other room, and told her all, and they hugged and wept together. 'oh, dolly, dolly!' 'oh, willie, darling! oh, willie, our precious treasure--our only one.' and so they walked up and down that room, his arm round her waist, and in that sorrowful embrace, murmuring amid their sobs to one another, their thoughts and remembrances of 'little man.' how soon the treasure grows a retrospect! then dolly bethought her of her promise to rachel. 'she made me promise to send for her if he was worse--she loved him so--everyone loved him--they could not help--oh, willie! our bright darling.' 'i think, dolly, we could not live here. i'd like to go on some mission, and maybe come back in a great many years--maybe, dolly, when we are old. i'd like to see the place again--and--and the walks--but not, i think, for a long time. he was such a darling.' perhaps the vicar was thinking of the church-yard, and how he would like, when his time came, to lie beside the golden-haired little comrade of his walks. so dolly despatched the messenger with a lantern, and thus it was there came a knocking at the door of redman's farm at that unseasonable hour. for some time old tamar heard the clatter in her sleep; disturbing and mingling with her dreams. but in a while she wakened quite, and heard the double knocks one after another in quick succession; and huddling on her clothes, and muttering to herself all the way, she got into the hall, and standing a couple of yards away from the door, answered in shrill and querulous tones, and questioning the messenger in the same breath. how could she tell what it might or might not portend? her alarms quickly subsided, however, for she knew the voice well. so the story was soon told. poor little fairy; it was doubtful if he was to see another morning; and the maid being wanted at home, old tamar undertook the message to brandon hall, where her young mistress was, and sallied forth in her cloak and bonnet, under the haunted trees of redman's dell. tamar had passed the age of ghostly terrors. there are a certain sober literality and materialism in old age which abate the illusions of the supernatural as effectually as those of love; and tamar, though not without awe, for darkness and solitude, even were there no associations of a fearful kind in the locality, are suggestive and dismal to the last. her route lay, as by this time my reader is well aware, by that narrow defile reached from redman's farm by a pathway which scales a flight of rude steps, the same which stanley lake and his sister had mounted on the night of mark wylder's disappearance. tamar knew the path very well. it was on the upper level of it that she had held that conference with stanley lake, which obviously referred to that young gentleman's treatment of the vanished mark. as she came to this platform, round which the trees receded a little so as to admit the moonlight, the old woman was tired. she would have gladly chosen another spot to rest in, but fatigue was imperious; and she sat down under the gray stone which stood perpendicularly there, on what had once been the step of a stile, leaning against the rude column behind her. as she sat here she heard the clank of a step approaching measuredly from the brandon side. it was twelve o'clock now; the chimes from the gylingden church-tower had proclaimed that in the distance some minutes before. the honest gylingden folk seldom heard the tower chimes tell eleven, and gentle and simple had, of course, been long in their beds. the old woman had a secret hatred of this place, and the unexpected sounds made her hold her breath. she peeped round the stone, in whose shadow she was sitting. the steps were not those of a man walking briskly with a purpose: they were the desultory strides of a stroller lounging out an hour's watch. the steps approached. the figure was visible--that of a short broadish man, with a mass of cloaks, rugs, and mufflers across his arm. carrying them with a sort of swagger, he came slowly up to the part of the pathway opposite to the pillar, where he dropped those draperies in a heap upon the grass; and availing himself of the clear moonlight, he stopped nearly confronting her. it was the face of mark wylder--she knew it well--but grown fat and broader, and there was--but this she could not see distinctly--a purplish scar across his eyebrow and cheek. she quivered with terror lest he should have seen her, and might be meditating some mischief. but she was seated close to the ground, several yards away, and in the sharp shadow of the old block of stone. he consulted his watch, and she sat fixed and powerless as a portion of the block on which she leaned, staring up at this, to her, terrific apparition. mark wylder's return boded, she believed, something tremendous. she saw the glimmer of the gold watch, and, distinctly, the great black whiskers, and the face pallid in the moonlight. she was afraid for a minute, during which he loitered there, that he was going to seat himself upon the cloaks which he had just thrown upon the ground, and felt that she could not possibly escape detection for many seconds more. but she was relieved; for, after a short pause, leaving these still upon the ground, he turned, and walked slowly, like a policeman on his beat, toward brandon. with a gasp she began to recover herself; but she felt too faint and ill to get up and commence a retreat towards redman's farm. besides, she was sure he would return--she could not tell how soon--and although the clump of alders hid her from view, she could not tell but that the next moment would disclose his figure retracing his leisurely steps, and ready to pursue and overtake, if by a precipitate movement she had betrayed her presence. in due time the same figure, passing at the same rate, did emerge again, and approached just as before, only this time he was carelessly examining some small but clumsy steel instrument which glittered occasionally in the light. from tamar's description of it, i conclude it was a revolver. he passed the pile of cloaks but a few steps, and again turned toward brandon. so soon as he was once more concealed by the screen of underwood, old tamar, now sufficiently recovered, crept hurriedly away in the opposite direction, half dead with terror, until she had descended the steps, and was buried once more in friendly darkness. old tamar did not stop at redman's farm; she passed it and the mills, and never stopped till she reached the vicarage. in the hall, she felt for a moment quite overpowered, and sitting in one of the old chairs that did duty there, she uttered a deep groan, and looked with such a gaze in the face of the maid who had admitted her, that she thought the old woman was dying. sick rooms, even when, palpably, doctors, nurses, friends, have all ceased to hope, are not to those who stand in the _very_ nearest and most tender relations to the patient, altogether chambers of despair. there are those who hover about the bed and note every gleam and glow of subsiding life, and will read in sunset something of the colours of the dawn, and cling wildly to these hallucinations of love; and no one has the heart to tear them from them. just now, dolly fancied that 'little man was better--the darling! the treasure! oh, precious little man! he was coming back!' so, she ran down with this light of hope in her face, and saw old tamar in the hall, and gave her a glass of the wine which rachel had provided, and the old woman's spirit came again. 'she was glad--yes, very glad. she was thankful to hear the dear child was better.' but there was a weight upon her soul, and a dreadful horror on her countenance still. 'will you please, ma'am, write a little note--my old hand shakes so, she could hardly read my writing--to my mistress--miss radie, ma'am. i see pen and ink on the table there. i was not able to go up to the hall, ma'am, with the message. there's something on the road i could not pass.' 'something! what was it?' said dolly, staring with round eyes in the old woman's woeful face, her curiosity aroused for a moment. 'something, ma'am--a person--i can't exactly tell--above the steps, in the blackberry path. it would cost my young mistress her life. for heaven's sake, ma'am, write, and promise, if you send for her, she shall get the note.' so, dolly made the promise, and bringing old tamar with her into the study, penned these odd lines from her dictation, merely adjusting the grammar. 'miss radie, dear,--if coming down to-night from brandon, this is to tell you, it is as much as your life is worth to pass the blackberry walk above the steps. my old eyes have seen him there, walking back and forward, lying at catch for some one, this night--the great enemy of man; you can suppose in what shape. 'your dutiful and loving servant, tamar.' so, old tamar, after a little, took her departure; and it needed a great effort to enable her to take the turn up the dark and lonely mill-road, leading to redman's farm; so much did she dread the possibility of again encountering the person she had just described. chapter lxx. the meeting in the long pond alley. i suppose there were few waking heads at this hour in all the wide parish of gylingden, though many a usually idle one was now busy enough about the great political struggle which was to muster its native forces, both in borough and county, and agitate these rural regions with the roar and commotion of civil strife. but generals must sleep like other men; and even tom wealdon was snoring in the fairy land of dreams. the night was very still--a sharp night, with a thin moon, like a scimitar, hanging bright in the sky, and a myriad of intense stars blinking in the heavens, above the steep roofs and spiral chimneys of brandon hall, and the ancient trees that surrounded it. it was late in the night, as we know. the family, according to their custom, had sought their slumbers early; and the great old house was perfectly still. one pair, at least, of eyes, however, were wide open; one head busy; and one person still in his daily costume. this was mr. larcom--the grave _major domo_, the bland and attached butler. he was not busy about his plate, nor balancing the cellar book, nor even perusing his bible. he was seated in that small room or closet which he had, years ago, appropriated as his private apartment. it is opposite the housekeeper's room--a sequestered, philosophic retreat. he dressed in it, read his newspaper there, and there saw his select acquaintance. his wardrobe stood there. the iron safe in which he kept his keys, filled one of its nooks. he had his two or three shelves of books in the recess; not that he disturbed them much, but they were a grave and gentlemanlike property, and he liked them for their binding, and the impression they produced on his visitors. there was a meditative fragrance of cigars about him, and two or three havannah stumps under the grate. the fact is, he was engaged over a letter, the writing of which, considering how accomplished a gentleman he was, he had found rather laborious and tedious. the penmanship was, i am afraid, clumsy, and the spelling here and there, irregular. it was finished however, and he was now reading it over with care. it was thus expressed:-'respectet sir,--in accordens with your disier, i av took my pen to say a fue words. there has cum a leter for a sertun persen this morning, with a lundun posmark, and i do not now hand nor sele, but bad writting, which i have not seen wot contanes, but i may, for as you told me offen, you are anceus for welfare of our famly, as i now to be no more than trewth, so i am anceus to ascest you sir, wich my conseynce is satesfid, but leter as trubeled a sertun persen oufull, hoo i new was engry, and look oufull put about, wich do not offen apen, and you may sewer there is sumthing in wind, he is alday so oufull peefish, you will not thing worse of me speeken plane as yo disier, there beeing a deel to regret for frends of the old famly i feer in a sertun resent marrege, if i shud lern be chance contense of letter i will sewer rite you.--i remane your humbel servant, 'john larcom.' just as grave mr. larcom had ended the perusal of this bulletin, he heard a light step on the stair, at the end of the passage, which made his manly heart jump unpleasantly within his fat ribs. he thrust the unfolded letter roughly into the very depths of his breeches pocket, and blew out both candles; and then listened, as still as a mouse. what frightened him was the certainty that the step, which he well knew, was stanley lake's. and stanley being a wideawake and violent person, and his measures sharp and reckless, mr. larcom cherished a nervous respect for him. he listened; the captain's step came lightly to the foot of the stairs, and paused. mr. larcom prepared to be fast asleep in the chair, in the event of the captain's making a sudden advance, and entering his sanctum. but this movement was not executed. there was a small door at the foot of the stairs. it shut with a spring lock, of which captain lake had a latch-key. mr. larcom accidentally had another--a cylindrical bit of steel, with a hinge in the end of it, and a few queer wards. now, of this little door he heard the two iron bolts stealthily drawn, and then the handle of the spring lock turned, and the door cautiously opened, and as gently closed. mr. larcom's fears now naturally subsided, and curiosity as naturally supervened. he drew near his window; and it was well he had extinguished his lights, for as he did so, captain lake's light figure, in a gray paletot and cloth cap, glided by like a spirit in the faint moonlight. this phenomenon excited the profoundest interest in the corresponding friend of the family, who, fumbling his letter between his finger and thumb in his breeches' pocket, standing on tip-toe, with mouth agape, and his head against the shutter, followed the receding figure with a greedy stare. mr. larcom had no theory whatsoever to account for this procedure on the part of his master. it must be something very extraordinary, and well worth investigating--of course, for the benefit of the family--which could have evoked the apparition which had just crossed his window. with his eyes close to the window pane, he saw his master glide swiftly along the short terrace which covers this side of the house, and disappear down the steps, like a spectre sinking into the earth. it is a meeting, thought mr. larcom, taking courage, for he already felt something of the confidence and superiority of possessing a secret; and as quickly as might be, the trustworthy man, with his latch-key in his pocket, softly opened the portal through which the object of his anxiety had just emerged, closed the door behind him, and stood listening intently in the recess of the entrance, where he heard the now more careless step of the captain, treading, as he thought, the broad yew-walk, which turns at a right angle at the foot of the terrace step. the black yew hedge was a perfect screen. here was obviously resented a chance of obtaining the command of a secret of greater or less importance. it was a considerable stake to play for, and well worth a trifling risk. he did not hesitate to follow--but with the soft tread of a polite butler, doing his offices over the thick carpet of a drawing-room--and it was in his mind--'suppose he does discover me, what then? _i_'m as much surprised as he! thomas brewen, the footman, who is under notice to leave, has twice, to the captain's knowledge, played me the same trick, and stole out through the gunroom window at night, and denied it afterwards; so i sat up to detect him, and hearing the door open, and a step, i pursued, and find i've made a mistake; and beg pardon with proper humility--supposing the master is on the same errand--what can he say? it will bring me a present, and a hint to say nothing of my having seen him in the yew-walk at this hour.' of course he did not run through all this rigmarole in detail; but the situation, the excuse, and the result, were present to his mind, and filled him with a comfortable assurance. therefore, with decision and caution, he followed captain lake's march, and reaching the yew-walk, he saw the slim figure in the cap and paletot turn the corner, and enter the broad walk between the two wall-like beech hedges, which led direct to the first artificial pond--a long, narrow parallelogram, round which the broad walk passed in two straight lines, fenced with the towering beech hedges, shorn as smooth as the walls of a nunnery. when the butler reached the point at which captain lake had turned, he found himself all at once within fifty steps of that eccentric gentleman, who was talking, but in so low a tone, that not even the sound of the voices reached him, with a rather short, broad-shouldered person, buttoned up in a surtout, and wearing a queer, germanesque, felt hat, battered and crushed a good deal. mr. larcom held his breath. he was profoundly interested. after a while, with an oath, he exclaimed-'that's _him!_' then, after another pause, he gasped another oath:-'it _is_ him!' the square-built man in the surtout had a great pair of black whiskers; and as he stood opposite lake, conversing, with, now and again, an earnest gesture, he showed a profile which mr. larcom knew very well; and now they turned and walked slowly side by side along the broad walk by that perpendicular wall of crisp brown leaves, he recognised also a certain hitch in his shoulder, which made him swear and asseverate again. he would have given something to hear what was passing. he thought uneasily whether there might not be a side-path or orifice anywhere through which he might creep so as to get to the other side of the hedge and listen. but there was no way, and he must rest content with such report as his eyes might furnish. 'they're not quarrelling no ways,' murmured he. and, indeed, they walked together, stopping now and again, as it seemed, very amicably. captain lake seemed to have most to say. 'he's awful cowed, he is; i never did think to see mr. wylder so affeard of lake; he _is_ affeard; yes, he is--_that_ he is. and indeed there was an indescribable air of subservience in the demeanour of the square-built gentleman very different from what mark wylder once showed. he saw the captain take from the pocket of his paletot a square box or packet, it might be jewels or only papers, and hand them to his companion, who popped them into his left-hand surtout pocket, and kept his hand there as if the freightage were specially valuable. then they talked earnestly a little longer, standing together by the pond; and then, side-by-side, they paced down the broad walk by its edge. it was a long walk. honest larcom would have followed if there had been any sort of cover to hide his advance; but there being nothing of the kind he was fain to abide at his corner. thence he beheld them come at last slowly to a stand-still, talk evidently a little more, and finally they shook hands--an indefinable something still of superiority in lake's air--and parted. the captain was now all at once walking at a swift pace, alone, towards larcom's post of observation, and his secret confederate nearly as rapidly in an opposite direction. it would not do for the butler to be taken or even seen by lake, nor yet to be left at the outside of the door and barred out. so the captain had hardly commenced his homeward walk, when larcom, though no great runner, threw himself into an agitated amble, and reached and entered the little door just in time to escape observation. he had not been two minutes in his apartment again when he once more beheld the figure of his master cross the window, and heard the small door softly opened and closed, and the bolts slowly and cautiously drawn again into their places. then there was a pause. lake was listening to ascertain whether anyone was stirring, and being satisfied, re-ascended the stairs, leaving the stout and courteous butler ample matter for romantic speculation. it was now the butler's turn to listen, which he did at the half-opened door of his room. when he was quite assured that all was quiet, he shut and bolted his door, closed the window-shutters, and relighted his pair of wax candles. mr. larcom was a good deal excited. he had seen strange things that night. he was a good deal blown and heated by his run, and a little wild and scared at the closeness of the captain's unconscious pursuit. his head beside was full of amazing conjectures. after a while he took his crumpled letter from his pocket, unfolded and smoothed it, and wrote upon a blank half-page-'respected sir,--since the above i ave a much to tel mos surprisen, the gentleman you wer anceous of tiding mister m. w. is cum privet, and him and master met tonite nere 2 in morning, in the long pond allee, so is near home then we suposed, no more at present sir from your 'humbel servent john 'larcom. 'i shall go to dolington day arter to-morrow by eleven o'clock trane if you ere gong, sir.' when the attorney returned, between eleven and twelve o'clock next morning, this letter awaited him. it did not, of course, surprise him, but it conclusively corroborated all his inferences. here had been mark wylder. he had stopped at dollington, as the attorney suspected he would, and he had kept tryst, in the brandon grounds, with sly captain lake, whose relations with him it became now more difficult than ever clearly to comprehend. wylder was plainly under no physical coercion. he had come and gone unattended. for one reason or other he was, at least, as strongly interested as lake in maintaining secrecy. that mark wylder was living was the grand fact with which he had just then to do. how near he had been to purchasing the vicar's reversion! the engrossed deeds lay in the black box there. and yet it might be all true about mark's secret marriage. at that moment there might be a whole rosary of sons, small and great, to intercept the inheritance; and the reverend william wylder might have no more chance of the estates than he had of the crown. what a deliverance for the good attorney. his money was quite safe. the excellent man's religion was, we know, a little jewish, and rested upon temporal rewards and comforts. he thought, i am sure, that a competent staff of angels were placed specially in charge of the interests of jos. larkin, esq., who attended so many services and sermons on sundays, and led a life of such ascetic propriety. he felt quite grateful to them, in his priggish way--their management in this matter had been so eminently satisfactory. he regretted that he had not an opportunity of telling them so personally. i don't say that he would have expressed it in these literal terms; but it was fixed in his mind that the carriage of his business was supernaturally arranged. perhaps he was right, and he was at once elated and purified, and his looks and manner that afternoon were more than usually meek and celestial. chapter lxxi. sir harry bracton's invasion of gylingden. jim dutton had not turned up since, and his letter was one of those mares' nests of which gentlemen in mr. larkin's line of business have so large an experience. of mark wylder not a trace was discoverable. his enquiries on this point were, of course, conducted with caution and remoteness. gylingden, however, was one of those places which, if it knows anything, is sure to find a way of telling it, and the attorney was soon satisfied that mark's secret visit had been conducted with sufficient caution to baffle the eyes and ears of the good folk of the town. well, one thing was plain. the purchase of the reversion was to wait, and fraudulent as was the price at which he had proposed to buy it, he was now resolved to get it for less than half that sum, and he wrote a short note to the vicar, which he forthwith despatched. in the meantime there was not a moment to be lost in clenching the purchase of five oaks. and mr. jos. larkin, with one of his 'young men' with him in the tax-cart, reached brandon hall in a marvellously short time after his arrival at home. jos. larkin, his clerk, and the despatch-box, had a short wait in the dutch room, before his admission to the library, where an animated debate was audible. the tremendous contest impending over the county was, of course, the theme. in the dutch room, where they waited, there was a large table, with a pyramid of blank envelopes in the middle, and ever so many cubic feet of canvassing circulars, six chairs, and pens and ink. the clerks were in the housekeeper's room at that moment, partaking of refreshment. there was a gig in the court-yard, with a groom at the horse's head, and larkin, as he drew up, saw a chaise driving round to the stable yard. people of all sorts were coming and going, and brandon hall was already growing like an inn. 'how d'ye do, dear larkin?' said captain brandon stanley lake, the hero of all this debate and commotion, smiling his customary sly greeting, and extending his slim hand across the arm of his chair--'i'm so sorry you were away--this thing has come, after all, so suddenly--we are getting on famously though--but i'm awfully fagged.' and, indeed, he looked pale and tired, though smiling. 'i've a lot of fellows with me; they've just run in to luncheon; won't you take something?' but jos. larkin, smiling after his sort, excused himself. he was glad they had a moment to themselves. he had brought the money, which he knew would be acceptable at such a moment, and he thought it would be desirable to sign and seal forthwith, to which the captain, a little anxiously, agreed. so he got in one of the clerks who were directing the canvassing circulars, and gave him the draft, approved by his counsel, to read aloud, while he followed with his eye upon the engrossed deed. the attorney told down the money in bank bills. he fancied that exception might be taken to his cheque for so large a sum, and was eager to avoid delay, and came from london so provided. the captain was not sorry, for in truth he was in rather imminent jeopardy just then. he had spoken truth, strangely enough, when he mentioned his gambling debts as an incentive to his marriage with the heiress of brandon, in that sunday walk with rachel in the park; and hardly ten minutes had passed when melton hervey, trustiest of aide-de-camps, was on his way to dollington to make a large lodgment to the captain's credit in the county bank, and to procure a letter of credit for a stupendous sum in favour of messrs. hiram and jacobs, transmitted under cover to captain lake's town solicitor. the captain had signed, sealed, and delivered, murmuring that formula about hand and seal, and act and deed, and dorcas glided in like a ghost, and merely whispering an enquiry to lake, did likewise, the clerk deferentially putting the query, 'this is your hand and seal, &c.?' and jos. larkin drawing a step or two backward. of course the lady saw that lank and sinister man of god quite distinctly, but she did not choose to do so, and larkin, with a grand sort of prescience, foresaw a county feud between the houses of five oaks and brandon, and now the lady had vanished. the money, carefully counted, was rolled in lake's pocket book, and the bright new deed which made jos. larkin, of the lodge, esq., master of five oaks, was safely locked into the box, under his long arm, and the attorney vanished, bowing very much, and concealing his elation under a solemn sort of _nonchalance_. the note, which by this time the vicar had received, though short, was, on the whole, tremendous. it said:-'(_private._) rev. and dear sir,--i have this moment arrived from london, where i deeply regret to state the negotiation on which we both relied to carry you comfortably over your present difficulties has fallen through, in consequence of what i cannot but regard as the inexcusable caprice of the intending purchaser. he declines stating any reason for his withdrawal. i fear that the articles were so artfully framed by his solicitors, in one particular which it never entered into my mind to refer to anything like trick or design, that we shall find it impossible to compel him to carry out what, in the strongest terms, i have represented to messrs. burlington and smith as a bargain irrevocably concluded in point of honour and morality. the refusal of their own client to make the proposed investment has alarmed those gentlemen, i regret to add, for the safety of their costs, which, as i before apprised you, are, though i cannot say excessive, certainly _very heavy_; and i fear we must be prepared for extreme measures upon their part. i have carefully reconsidered the very handsome proposal which miss lake was so good as to submit; but the result is that, partly on technical, and partly on other grounds, i continue of the clear opinion that the idea is absolutely impracticable, and must be peremptorily laid aside in attempting to arrive at an estimate of any resources which you may be conscious of commanding. if, under these deplorably untoward circumstances, you still think i can be of any use to you, may i beg that you will not hesitate to say how. 'i remain, my dear and reverend sir, with profound regrets and sympathy, yours very sincerely, 'jos. h. larkin.' he had already imported the h. which was to germinate, in a little while, into howard. when jos. larkin wanted to get a man's property a bargain--and he had made two or three excellent hits, though, comparatively, on a very small scale--he liked so to contrive matters as to bring his client to his knees, begging him to purchase on the terms he wished; and then jos. larkin came forward, in the interests of humanity, and unable to resist the importunities of 'a party whom he respected,' he did 'what, at the time, appeared a very risky thing, although it has turned out tolerably safe in the long run.' the screw was now twisted pretty well home upon the poor vicar, who, if he had any sense at all, would, remembering larkin's expressions only a week before, suggest his buying, and so, the correspondence would disclose, in a manner most honourable to the attorney, the history of the purchase. but the clouds had begun to break, and the sky to clear, over the good vicar, just at the point where they had been darkest and most menacing. little fairy, after all, was better. good-natured buddle had been there at nine, quite amazed at his being so well, still reserved and cautious, and afraid of raising hopes. but when he came back, at eleven, and had completed his examination, he told them, frankly, that there was a decided change; in fact, that the little man, with, of course, great care, might do very well, and _ought_ to recover, if nothing went wrong. honest buddle was delighted. he chuckled over the little man's bed. he could not suppress his grins. he was a miracle of a child! a prodigy! by george, it was the most extraordinary case he had ever met with! it was all that bottle, and that miraculous child; they seemed made for one another. from two o'clock, last night, the action of his skin has commenced, and never ceased since. when he was here last night, the little fellow's pulse was a hundred and forty-four, and now down to ninety-seven! the doctor grew jocular; and who can resist a doctor's jokes, when they garnish such tidings as he was telling. was ever so pleasant a doctor! laughter through tears greeted these pleasantries; and oh, such transports of gratitude broke forth when he was gone! it was well for driver, the postmaster, and his daughters, that all the circulars made up that day in brandon hall were not despatched through the gylingden post-office. it was amazing how so many voters could find room to one county. next day, it was resolved, the captain's personal canvass was to commence. the invaluable wealdon had run through the list of his to-morrow's visits, and given him an inkling of the idiosyncrasies, the feuds, and the likings of each elector in the catalogue. 'busy times, sir!' tom wealdon used to remark, with a chuckle, from time to time, in the thick of the fuss and conspiration which was the breath of his nostrils; and, doubtless, so they are, and were, and ever will be, until the time-honoured machinery of our election system has been overhauled, and adapted to the civilisation of these days. captain brandon lake was as much as possible at head quarters in these critical times; and, suddenly, mr. crump; the baker, and john thomas, of the delft, ironmongery, sponge, and umbrella shop, at the corner of church street, in gylingden, were announced by the fatigued servant. they bowed, and stood, grinning, near the door; and the urbane and cordial captain, with all a candidate's good fellowship, shook them both by the hands, and heard their story; and an exciting one it was. sir harry bracton had actually invaded the town of gylingden. there was a rabble of the raff of queen's bracton along with him. he, with two or three young swells by him, had made a speech, from his barouche, outside the 'silver lion,' near the green; and he was now haranguing from the steps of the court house. they had a couple of flags, and some music. it was 'a regular, planned thing;' for the queen's bracton people had been dropping in an hour before. the shop-keepers were shutting their windows. sir harry was 'chaffing the capting,' and hitting him very hard 'for a hupstart'--and, in fact, crump was more particular in reporting the worthy baronet's language than was absolutely necessary. and it was thought that sir harry was going to canvass the town. the captain was very much obliged, indeed, and begged they would go into the parlour, and take luncheon; and, forthwith, wealdon took the command. the gamekeepers, the fifty hay-makers in the great meadow, they were to enter the town from the top of church street, where they were to gather all the boys and blackguards they could. the men from the gas-works, the masons, and blacksmiths, were to be marched in by luke samways. tom wealdon would, himself, in passing, give the men at the coal-works a hint. sir harry's invasion was the most audacious thing on record; and it was incumbent on gylingden to make his defeat memorably disgraceful and disastrous. his barouche was to be smashed, and burnt on the green; his white topcoat and hat were to clothe the effigy, which was to swing over the bonfire. the captured bracton banners were to hang in the coffee-room of the 'silver lion,' to inspire the roughs. what was to become of the human portion of the hostile pageant, tom, being an official person, did not choose to hint. all these, and fifty minor measures, were ordered by the fertile wealdon in a minute, and suitable messengers on the wing to see after them. the captain, accompanied by mr. jekyl, myself, and a couple of the grave scriveners from the next room, were to go by the back approach and redman's dell to the assembly rooms, which crump and thomas, already on their way in the fly, undertook to have open for their reception, and furnished with some serious politicians from the vicinity. from the windows, the captain, thus supported, was to make his maiden speech, one point in which tom wealdon insisted upon, and that was an injunction to the 'men of gylingden' on no account to break the peace. 'take care to say it, and we'll have it well reported in the "chronicle," and our lads won't mind it, nor hear it neither, for that matter.' so, there was mounting in hot haste in the courtyard of old brandon, and a rather ponderous selection of walking-sticks by the politicians--of whom i was one--intended for the windows of the assembly room. lake rode; tom wealdon, myself, and two scriveners, squeezed into the dog-cart, which was driven by jekyl, and away we went. it was a pleasant drive, under the noble old trees. but we were in no mood for the picturesque. a few minutes brought us into the blackberry hollow, which debouches into redman's dell. here, the road being both steep and rugged, our speed abated. the precipitous banks shut out the sunlight, except at noon, and the road through this defile, overhung by towering trees and rocks, was even now in solemn shadow. the cart-road leading down to redman's dell, and passing the mills near redman's farm, diverges from the footpath with which we are so well acquainted, near that perpendicular block of stone which stands a little above the steps which the footpath here descends. chapter lxxii. mark wylder's hand. just at the darkest point of the road, a little above the rude column which i have mentioned, lake's horse, a young one, shied, stopped short, recoiling on its haunches, and snorted fiercely into the air. at the same time, the two dogs which had accompanied us began to bark furiously beneath in the ravine. the tall form of uncle lorne was leaning against a tree at the edge of the ravine, with his left hand extended towards us, and his right pointing down the precipice. perhaps it was this odd apparition that startled lake's horse. 'i told you he was coming up--lend him a hand,' yelled uncle lorne, in great excitement. no one at such a moment minded his maunderings: but many people afterwards thought that the crazed old man, in one of his night-rambles, had seen that which, till now, no one had imagined; and that captain lake himself, whose dislike of him was hardly disguised, suspected him, at times of that alarming knowledge. lake plunged the spurs into his beast, which reared so straight that she toppled backward toward the edge of the ravine. 'strike her on the head; jump off,' shouted wealdon. but he did neither. 'd-it! put her head down; lean forward,' bellowed wealdon again. but it would not do. with a crash among briars, and a heavy thump from beneath that shook the earth, the mare and her rider went over. a shout of horror broke from us all; and jekyl, watching the catastrophe, was very near pulling our horse over the edge, and launching us all together, like the captain, into the defile. in a moment more we were all on the ground, and scrambling down the side of the ravine, among rocks, boughs, brambles, and ferns, in the deep shadows of the gorge, the dogs still yelling furiously from below. 'here he is,' cried jekyl. 'how are you, lake? much hurt, old boy? by jove, he's killed, i think.' lake groaned. he lay about twelve feet below the edge. the mare, now lying near the bottom of the gorge, had, i believe, fallen upon him, and then tumbled over. strange to say, lake was conscious, and in a few seconds, he said, in reply to the horrified questions of his friend-'i'm _all_ smashed. don't move me;' and, in a minute more--'don't mind that d--d brute; she's killed. let her lie.' it appeared very odd, but so it was, he appeared eager upon this point, and, faint as he was, almost savage. 'tell them to let her lie there.' wealdon and i, however, scrambled down the bank. he was right. the mare lay stone dead, on her side, at the bottom. he lifted her head, by the ear, and let it fall back. in the meantime the dogs continued their unaccountable yelling close by. 'what the devil's that?' said wealdon. something like a stunted, blackened branch was sticking out of the peat, ending in a set of short, thickish twigs. this is what it seemed. the dogs were barking at it. it was, really, a human hand and arm, disclosed by the slipping of the bank; undermined by the brook, which was swollen by the recent rains. the dogs were sniffing and yelping about it. 'it's a hand!' cried wealdon, with an oath. 'a hand?' i echoed. we were both peering at it, having drawn near, stooping and hesitating as men do in a curious horror. it was, indeed, a human hand and arm, disclosed from about the elbow, enveloped in a discoloured coat-sleeve, which fell back from the limb, and the fingers, like it black, were extended in the air. nothing more of the body to which it belonged, except the point of a knee, in stained and muddy trousers, protruding from the peat, was visible. it must have lain there a considerable time, for, notwithstanding the antiseptic properties of that sort of soil, mixed with the decayed bark and fibre of trees, a portion of the flesh of the hand was decomposed, and the naked bone disclosed. on the little finger something glimmered dully. in this livid hand, rising from the earth, there was a character both of menace and appeal; and on the finger, as i afterwards saw at the inquest, glimmered the talismanic legend 'resurgam--i will rise again!' it was the corpse of mark wylder, which had lain buried here undiscovered for many months. a horrible odour loaded the air. perhaps it was this smell of carrion, from which horses sometimes recoil with a special terror, that caused the swerving and rearing which had ended so fatally. at that moment we heard a voice calling, and raising our eyes, saw uncle lorne looking down from the rock with an agitated scowl. 'i've done with him now--_emeritus_--he touches me, no more. take him by the hand, merciful lads, or they'll draw him down again.' and with these words uncle lorne receded, and i saw him no more. as yet we had no suspicion whose was the body thus unexpectedly discovered. we beat off the dogs, and on returning to lake, found jekyl trying to raise him a little against a tree. we were not far from redman's farm, and it was agreed, on hasty consultation, that our best course would be to carry lake thither at once by the footpath, and that one of us--wealdon undertook this--should drive the carriage on, and apprising rachel on the way of the accident which had happened, and that her brother was on his way thither, should drive on to buddle's house, sending assistance to us from the town. it was plain that stanley lake's canvass was pretty well over. there was not one of us who looked at him that did not feel convinced that he was mortally hurt. i don't think he believed so himself then; but we could not move him from the place where he lay without inflicting so much pain, that we were obliged to wait for assistance. 'd-the dogs, what are they barking for?' said lake, faintly. he seemed distressed by the noise. 'there's a dead body partly disclosed down there--some one murdered and buried; but one of mr. juke's young men is keeping them off.' lake made an effort to raise himself, but with a grin and a suppressed moan he abandoned it. 'is there no doctor--i'm very much hurt?' said lake, faintly, after a minute's silence. we told him that buddle had been sent for; and that we only awaited help to get him down to redman's farm. when rachel heard the clang of hoofs and the rattle of the tax-cart driving down the mill-road, at a pace so unusual, a vague augury of evil smote her. she was standing in the porch of her tiny house, and old tamar was sitting knitting on the bench close by. 'tamar, they are galloping down the road, i think--what can it mean?' exclaimed the young lady, scared she could not tell why; and old tamar stood up, and shaded her eyes with her shrunken hand. tom wealdon pulled up at the little wicket. he was pale. he had lost his hat, too, among the thickets, and could not take time to recover it. altogether he looked wild. he put his hand to where his hat should have been in token of salutation, and said he-'i beg pardon, miss lake, ma'am, but i'm sorry to say your brother the captain's badly hurt, and maybe you could have a shakedown in the parlour ready for him by the time i come back with the doctor, ma'am?' rachel, she did not know how, was close by the wheel of the vehicle by this time. 'is it sir harry bracton? he's in the town, i know. is stanley shot?' 'not shot; only thrown, miss, into the dell; his mare shied at a dead body that's there. you'd better stay where you are, miss; but if you could send up some water, i think he'd like it. going for the doctor, ma'am; good-bye, miss lake.' and away went wealdon, wild, pale, and hatless, like a man pursued by robbers. 'oh! tamar, he's killed--stanley's killed--i'm sure he's killed, and all's discovered'--and rachel ran wildly up the hill a few steps, but stopped and returned as swiftly. 'thank god, miss,' said old tamar, lifting up her trembling fingers and white eyes to heaven. 'better dead, miss, than living on in sin and sorrow, better discovered than hid by daily falsehood and cruelty. old tamar's tired of life; she's willing to go, and wishin' for death this many a day. oh! master stanley, my child!' rachel went into the parlour and kneeled down, with white upturned face and clasped hands. but she could not pray. she could only look her wild supplication;--deliverance--an issue out of the terrors that beset her; and 'oh! poor miserable lost stanley!' it was just a look and an inarticulate cry for mercy. an hour after captain stanley brandon lake, whose 'election address' was figuring that evening in the 'dollington courier,' and in the 'county chronicle,' lay with his clothes still on, in the little drawing-room of redman's farm, his injuries ascertained, his thigh broken near the hip, and his spine fractured. no hope--no possibility of a physical reascension, this time. meanwhile, in the blackberry dell, doctor buddle was assisting at a different sort of inquisition. the two policemen who constituted the civil force of gylingden, two justices of the peace, the doctor, and a crowd of amateurs, among whom i rank myself, were grouped in the dismal gorge, a little to windward of the dead body, which fate had brought to light, while three men were now employed in cautiously disinterring it. when the operation was completed, there remained no doubt whatever on my mind: discoloured and disfigured as were both clothes and body, i was sure that the dead man was no other than mark wylder. when the clay with which it was clotted was a little removed, it became indubitable. the great whiskers; the teeth so white and even; and oddly enough, one black lock of hair which he wore twisted in a formal curl flat on his forehead, remained undisturbed in its position, as it was fixed there at his last toilet for brandon hall. in the rude and shallow grave in which he lay, his purse was found, and some loose silver mixed in the mould. the left hand, on which was the ring of 'the persian magician,' was bare; the right gloved, with the glove of the other hand clutched firmly in it. the body was got up in a sheet to a sort of spring cart which awaited it, and so conveyed to the 'silver lion,' in gylingden, where it was placed in a disused coach-house to await the inquest. there the examination was continued, and his watch (the chain broken) found in his waistcoat pocket. in his coat-pocket were found (of course, in no very presentable condition) his cigar-case, his initials stamped on it, for mark had, in his day, a keen sense of property; his handkerchief, also marked; a pocket-book with some entries nearly effaced; and a letter unopened, and sealed with lord chelford's seal. the writing was nearly washed away, but the letters 'lwich,' or 'twich,' were still legible near the corner, and it turned out to be a letter to dulwich, which mark wylder had undertaken to put in the gylingden post-office, on the last night on which he appeared at brandon. the whole town was in a ferment that night. great debate and conjecture in the reading-room, and even on the benches of the billiard-room. the 'silver lion' did a great business that night. mine host might have turned a good round sum only by showing the body, were it not that edwards, the chief policeman, had the keys of the coach-house. much to-ing and fro-ing there was between the town and redman's farm, the respectable inhabitants all sending or going up to enquire how the captain was doing. at last doctor buddle officially interfered. the constant bustle was injurious to his patient. an hourly bulletin up to twelve o'clock should be in the hall of the 'brandon arms;' and redman's dell grew quiet once more. when william wylder heard the news, he fainted; not altogether through horror or grief, though he felt both; but the change in his circumstances was so amazing and momentous. it was a strange shock--immense relief--immense horror--quite overwhelming. mark had done some good-natured things for him in a small five-pound way; he had promised him that loan, too, which would have lifted him out of his slough of despond, and he clung with an affectionate gratitude to these exhibitions of brotherly love. besides, he had accustomed himself--the organ of veneration standing prominent on the top of the vicar's head--to regard mark in the light of a great practical genius--'natus rebus agendis;' he knew men so thoroughly--he understood the world so marvellously! the vicar was not in the least surprised when mark came in for a fortune. he had always predicted that mark must become _very_ rich, and that nothing but indolence could prevent his ultimately becoming a very great man. the sudden and total disappearance of so colossal an object was itself amazing. there was another person very strongly, though differently, affected by the news. under pretext of business at naunton, jos. larkin had driven off early to five oaks, to make inspection of his purchase. he dined like a king in disguise, at the humble little hostelry of naunton friars, and returned in the twilight to the lodge, which he would make the dower-house of five oaks, with the howard shield over the door. he was gracious to his domestics, but the distance was increased: he was nearer to the clouds, and they looked smaller. 'well, mrs. smithers,' said he, encouragingly, his long feet on the fender, for the evening was sharp, and mrs. s. knew that he liked a bit of fire at his tea 'any letters--any calls--any news stirring?' 'no letters, nor calls, sir, please, except the butcher's book. i s'pose, sir, you were viewing the body?' 'what body?' 'mr. wylder's, please, sir.' 'the vicar!' exclaimed mr. larkin, his smile of condescension suddenly vanishing. 'no, sir; mr. _mark_ wylder, please; the gentleman, sir, as was to 'av married miss brandon.' 'what the devil do you mean, woman?' ejaculated the attorney, his back to the fire, standing erect, and a black shadow over his amazed and offended countenance. 'the devil,' in such a mouth, was so appalling and so amazing, that the worthy woman gazed, thunder-struck, upon him for a moment. 'beg your pardon, sir; but his body's bin found, sir.' 'you mean mr. _mark_?' 'yes, please, sir; in a hole near the mill road--it's up in the "silver lion" now, sir.' 'it must be the vicar's--it must,' said jos. larkin, getting his hat on, sternly, and thinking how likely he was to throw himself into the mill race, and impossible it was that mark, whom he and larcom had both seen alive and well last night--the latter, indeed, _this morning_--could possibly be the man. and thus comforting himself, he met old major jackson on the green, and that gentleman's statement ended with the words; 'and in an advanced stage of decomposition.' 'that settles the matter,' said larkin, breathing again, and with a toss of his head, and almost a smile of disdain: 'for i saw mr. mark wylder late last night at shillingsworth.' leaving major jackson in considerable surprise, mr. larkin walked off to edwards' dwelling, at the top of church street, and found that active policeman at home. in his cool, grand, official way, mr. larkin requested mr. edwards to accompany him to the 'silver lion,' where in the same calm and commanding way, he desired him to attend him to view the corpse. in virtue of his relation to mark wylder, and of his position as sole resident and legal practitioner, he was obeyed. the odious spectacle occupied him for some minutes. he did not speak while they remained in the room. on coming out there was a black cloud upon the attorney's features, and he said, sulkily, to edwards, who had turned the key in the lock, and now touched his hat as he listened, 'yes, there is a resemblance, but it is all a mistake. i travelled as far as shillingsworth last night with mr. mark wylder: he was perfectly well. this can't be he.' but there was a terrible impression on mr. jos. larkin's mind that this certainly _was_ he, and with a sulky nod to the policeman, he walked darkly down to the vicar's house. the vicar had been sent for to naunton to pray with a dying person; and mr. larkin, disappointed, left a note to state that in writing that morning, as he had done, in reference to the purchase of the reversion, through messrs. burlington and smith, he had simply expressed his own surmises as to the probable withdrawal of the intending purchaser, but had received no formal, nor, indeed, _any_ authentic information, from either the party or the solicitors referred to, to that effect. that he mentioned this lest misapprehension should arise, but not as attaching any importance to the supposed discovery which seemed to imply mr. mark wylder's death. that gentleman, on the contrary, he had seen alive and well at shillingsworth on the night previous; and he had been seen in conference with captain lake at a subsequent hour, at brandon. from all this the reader may suppose that mr. jos. larkin was not quite in a comfortable state, and he resolved to get the deeds, and go down again to the vicar's, and persuade him to execute them. he could make william wylder, of course, do whatever he pleased. there were a good many drunken fellows about the town, but there was an end of election demonstrations in the brandon interest. captain lake was not going in for that race; he would be on another errand by the time the writ came down. chapter lxxiii. the mask falls. there was a 'stop press' that evening in the county paper--'we have just learned that a body has been disinterred, early this afternoon, under very strange circumstances, in the neighbourhood of gylingden; and if the surmises which are afloat prove well-founded, the discovery will set at rest the speculations which have been busy respecting the whereabouts of a certain gentleman of large property and ancient lineage, who, some time since, mysteriously disappeared, and will, no doubt, throw this county into a state of very unusual excitement. we can state, upon authority, that the coroner will hold his inquest on the body, to-morrow at twelve o'clock, in the town of gylingden. there was also an allusion to captain lake's accident--with the expression of a hope that it would 'prove but a trifling one,' and an assurance 'that his canvass would not be prevented by it--although for a few days it might not be a personal one. but his friends might rely on seeing him at the hustings, and hearing him too, when the proper time arrived.' it was quite well known, however, in gylingden, by this time, that captain lake was not to see the hustings--that his spine was smashed--that he was lying on an extemporised bed, still in his clothes, in the little parlour of redman's farm--cursing the dead mare in gasps--railing at everybody--shuddering whenever they attempted to remove his clothes--hoping, in broken sentences, that his people would give bracton and--good licking. bracton's outrage was the cause of the entire thing--and so help him heaven, so soon as he should be on his legs again, he would make him feel it, one way or other. buddle thought he was in so highly excited a state, that his brain must have sustained some injury also. he asked buddle about ten o'clock (having waked up from a sort of stupor)--'what about jim dutton?' and then, whether there was not some talk about a body they had found, and what it was. so buddle told him all that was yet known, and he listened very attentively. 'but larkin has been corresponding with mark wylder up to a very late day, and if this body has been so long buried, how the devil can it be he? and if it be as bodies usually are after such a time, how can anybody pretend to identify it? and i happen to know that mark wylder is living,' he added, suddenly. the doctor told him not to tire himself talking, and offered, if he wished to make a statement before a magistrate, to arrange that one should attend and receive it. 'i rather dislike it, because mark wants to keep it quiet; but if, on public grounds, it is desirable, i will make it, of course. you'll use your discretion in mentioning the subject.' so the captain was now prepared to acknowledge the secret meeting of the night before, and to corroborate the testimony of his attorney and his butler. stanley lake had now no idea that his injuries were dangerous. he said he had a bad bruise under his ribs, and a sprained wrist, and was a little bit shaken; and he talked of his electioneering as only suspended for a day or two. buddle, however, thought the case so imminent, that on his way to the 'brandon arms,' meeting larkin, going, attended by his clerk, again to the vicar's house, he stopped him for a moment, and told him what had passed, adding, that lake was so frightfully injured, that he might begin to sink at any moment, and that by next evening, at all events, he might not be in a condition to make a deposition. 'it is odd enough--very odd,' said larkin. 'it was only an hour since, in conversation with our policeman, edwards, that i mentioned the fact of my having myself travelled from london to shillingsworth last night with mr. mark wylder, who went on by train in this direction, i presume, to meet our unfortunate friend, captain lake, by appointment. thomas sleddon, of wadding hall--at this moment in the "brandon arms"--is just the man; if you mention it to him, he'll go up with you to redman's farm, and take the deposition. let it be a _deposition_, do you mind; a statement is mere hearsay.' comforted somewhat, reassured in a certain way, and in strong hopes that, at all events, such a muddle would be established as to bewilder the jury, mr. jos. larkin, with still an awful foreboding weighing at his heart, knocked at the vicar's door, and was shown into the study. a solitary candle being placed, to make things bright and pleasant for the visitor, who did not look so himself, the vicar, very pale, and appearing to have grown even thinner since he last saw him, entered, and shook his hand with an anxious attempt at a smile, which faded almost instantly. 'i am so delighted that you have come. i have passed a day of such dreadful agitation. poor mark!' 'there is no doubt, sir, whatsoever that he is perfectly well. three different persons--unexceptionable witnesses--can depose to having seen him last night, and he had a long conference with captain lake, who is by this time making his deposition. it is with respect to the other little matter--the execution of the deed of conveyance to messrs. burlington and smith's clients. you know my feeling about the note i wrote this morning a little--i will not say incautiously, because with a client of your known character and honour, no idea of the sort can find place--but i will say thoughtlessly. if there be any hanging back, or appearance of it, it may call down unpleasant--indeed, to be quite frank, ruinous--consequences, which, i think, in the interest of your family, you would hardly be justified in invoking upon the mere speculation of your respected brother's death.' there was a sound of voices at the door. 'do come in--pray do,' was heard in dolly's voice. 'won't you excuse me, but pray do. willie, darling, don't you wish him to come in?' 'most particularly. do _beg_ of him, in my name--and i know mr. larkin would wish it so much.' and so lord chelford, with a look which, at another time, would have been an amused one, quite conscious of the oddity of his introduction, came in and slightly saluted mr. larkin, who was for a few seconds pretty obviously confounded, and with a pink flush all over his bald forehead, tried to smile, while his hungry little eyes searched the viscount with fear and suspicion. larkin's tone was now much moderated. any sort of dealing was good enough for the simple vicar; but here was the quiet, sagacious peer, who had shown himself, on two remarkable committees, so quick and able a man of business, and the picture of the vicar's situation, and of the powers and terrors of messrs. burlington and smith, were to be drawn with an exacter pencil, and far more delicate colouring. lord chelford listened so quietly that the tall attorney felt he was making way with him, and concluded his persuasion by appealing to him for an opinion. 'that is precisely as i said. i knew my friend, mr. larkin, would be only too glad of an opinion in this difficulty from you,' threw in the vicar. the opinion came--very clear, very quiet, very unpleasant--dead against mr. larkin's view, and concluding with the remark that he thought there was more in the affair than had yet come to light. 'i don't see exactly how, my lord,' said mr. larkin, a little loftily, and redder than usual. 'nor do i, mr. larkin, at present; but the sum offered is much too small, and the amount of costs and other drawbacks utterly monstrous, and the result is, after deducting all these claims, including your costs, mr. larkin----' here mr. larkin threw up his chin a little, smiling, and waving his long hand, and saying, 'oh! as to _mine_,' in a way that plainly expressed, 'they are merely put down for form's sake. it is playing at costs. you know jos. larkin--he never so much as dreamed of looking for them.' 'there remain hardly nine hundred and fifty pounds applicable to the payment of the reverend mr. wylder's debts--a sum which would have been ample, before this extraordinary negotiation was commenced, to have extricated him from all his pressing difficulties, and which i would have been only too happy at being permitted to advance, and which, and a great deal more, miss lake, whose conduct has been more than kind--quite noble--wished to place in your client's hands.' '_that_,' said the attorney, flushing a little, 'i believe to have been technically impossible; and it was accompanied by a proposition which was on other grounds untenable.' 'you mean miss lake's proposed residence here--an arrangement, it appears to me, every way most desirable.' 'i objected to it on, i will say, _moral_ grounds, my lord. it is painful to me to disclose what i know, but that young lady accompanied mr. mark wylder, my lord, in his midnight flight from dollington, and remained in london, under, i presume, his protection for some time.' 'that statement, sir, is, i happen to _know_, utterly contrary to fact. the young lady you mention never even saw mr. mark wylder, since she took leave of him in the drawing-room at brandon; and i state this not in vindication of her, but to lend weight to the caution i give you against ever again presuming to connect her name with your surmises.' the peer's countenance was so inexpressibly stern, and his eyes poured such a stream of fire upon the attorney, that he shrank a little, and looked down upon his great fingers which were drumming, let us hope, some sacred music upon the table. 'i am truly rejoiced, my lord, to hear you say so. except to the young party herself, and in this presence, i have never mentioned it; and i can show you the evidence on which my conclusions rested.' 'thank you--no sir; my evidence is conclusive.' i don't know what mr. larkin would have thought of it; it was simply rachel's letter to her friend dolly wylder on the subject of the attorney's conference with her at redman's farm. it was a frank and passionate denial of the slander, breathing undefinably, but irresistibly, the spirit of truth. 'then am i to understand, in conclusion,' said the attorney, that defying all consequences, the rev. mr. wylder refuses to execute the deed of sale?' 'certainly,' said lord chelford, taking this reply upon himself. 'you know, my dear mr. wylder, i told you from the first that messrs. burlington and smith were, in fact, a very sharp house; and i fear they will execute any powers they possess in the most summary manner.' the attorney's eye was upon the vicar as he spoke, but lord chelford answered. 'the powers you speak of are quite without parallel in a negotiation to purchase; and in the event of their hazarding such a measure, the rev. mr. wylder will apply to a court of equity to arrest their proceedings. my own solicitor is retained in the case.' mr. larkin's countenance darkened and lengthened visibly, and his eyes assumed their most unpleasant expression, and there was a little pause, during which, forgetting his lofty ways, he bit his thumb-nail rather viciously. 'then i am to understand, my lord, that i am superseded in the management of this case?' said the attorney at last, in a measured way, which seemed to say, 'you had better think twice on this point.' 'certainly, mr. larkin,' said the viscount. 'i'm not the least surprised, knowing, i am sorry to say, a good deal of the ways of the world, and expecting very little gratitude, for either good will or services.' this was accompanied with a melancholy sneer directed full upon the poor vicar, who did not half understand the situation, and looked rather guilty and frightened. 'the rev. mr. wylder very well knows with what reluctance i touched the case--a nasty case; and i must be permitted to add, that i am very happy to be quite rid of it, and only regret the manner in which my wish has been anticipated, a discourtesy which i attribute, however, to female influence.' the concluding sentence was spoken with a vile sneer and a measured emphasis directed at lord chelford, who coloured with a sudden access of indignation, and stood stern and menacing, as the attorney, with a general bow to the company, and a lofty _nonchalance_, made his exit from the apartment. captain lake was sinking very fast next morning. he made a statement to chelford, who was a magistrate for the county, i suppose to assist the coroner's inquest. he said that on the night of mark wylder's last visit to brandon, he had accompanied him from the hall; that mark had seen some one in the neighbourhood of gylingden, a person pretending to be his wife, or some near relative of hers, as well as he, captain lake, could understand, and was resolved to go to london privately, and have the matter arranged there. he waited near the 'white house,' while he, stanley lake, went to gylingden and got his tax-cart at his desire. he could give particulars as to that. captain lake overtook him, and he got in and was driven to dollington, where he took the up-train. that some weeks afterwards he saw him at brighton; and the night before last, by appointment, in the grounds of brandon; and that he understood larkin had some lights to throw upon the same subject. the jury were not sworn until two o'clock. the circumstances of the discovery of the body were soon established. but the question which next arose was very perplexed--was the body that of mr. mark wylder? there could be no doubt as to a general resemblance; but, though marvellously preserved, in its then state, certainty was hardly attainable. but there was a perfectly satisfactory identification of the dress and properties of the corpse as those of mr. mark wylder. on the other hand there was the testimony of lord chelford, who put captain lake's deposition in evidence, as also the testimony of larkin, and the equally precise evidence of larcom, the butler. the proceedings had reached this point when an occurrence took place which startled lord chelford, larkin, larcom, and every one in the room who was familiar with mark wylder's appearance. a man pushed his way to the front of the crowd, and for a moment it seemed that mark wylder stood living before them. 'who are you?' said lord chelford. 'jim dutton, sir; i come by reason of what i read in the "chronicle" over night, about mr. mark wylder being found.' 'do you know anything of him?' asked the coroner. 'nowt,' answered the man bluffly, 'only i writ to mr. larkin, there, as i wanted to see him. i remember him well when i was a boy. i seed him in the train from lunnon t'other night; and he seed me on the shillingsworth platform, and i think he took me for some one else. i was comin' down to see the captain at brandon--and seed him the same night.' 'why have you come here?' asked the coroner. 'thinkin' i might be mistook,' answered the man. 'i _was_ twice here in england, and three times abroad.' 'for whom?' 'mr. mark wylder,' answered he. 'it is a wonderful likeness,' said lord chelford. larkin stared at him with his worst expression; and larcom, i think, thought he was the devil. i was as much surprised as any for a few seconds. but there were points of difference--jim dutton was rather a taller and every way a larger man than mark wylder. his face, too, was broader and coarser, but in features and limbs the relative proportions were wonderfully preserved. it was such an exaggerated portrait as a rustic genius might have executed upon a sign-board. he had the same black, curly hair, and thick, black whiskers: and the style of his dress being the same, helped the illusion. in fact, it was a rough, but powerful likeness--startling at the moment--unexceptionable at a little distance--but which failed on a nearer and exacter examination. there was, beside, a scar, which, however, was not a very glaring inconsistency, although it was plainly of a much older standing than the date of mark's disappearance. all that could be got from jim dutton was that 'he thought he might be mistook' and so attended. but respecting mr. mark wylder he could say 'nowt.' he knew 'nowt.' lord chelford was called away at this moment by an urgent note. it was to request his immediate attendance at redman's farm, to see captain lake, who was in a most alarming state. the hand was dorcas's--and lord chelford jumped into the little pony carriage which awaited him at the door of the 'silver lion.' when he reached redman's farm, captain lake could not exert himself sufficiently to speak for nearly half-an-hour. at the end of that time he was admitted into the tiny drawing-room in which the captain lay. he was speaking with difficulty. 'did you see buddle, just now?' 'no, not since morning.' 'he seems to have changed--bad opinion--unless he has a _law_ object--those d--d doctors--never can know. dorcas thinks--i'll do no good. don't you think--he may have an object--and not believe i'm in much danger? you don't?' lake's hand, with which he clutched and pulled chelford's, was trembling. 'you must reflect, my dear lake, how very severe are the injuries you have sustained. you certainly _are_ in danger--_great_ danger.' lake became indescribably agitated, and uttered some words, not often on his lips, that sounded like desperate words of supplication. not that seaworthy faith which floats the spirit through the storm, but fragments of its long-buried wreck rolled up from the depths and flung madly on the howling shore. 'i'd like to see rachel,' at last he said, holding chelford's hand in both his, very hard. 'she's clever--and i don't think she gives me up yet, no--a drink!--and they think i'm more hurt than i really am--buddle, you know--only an apothecary--village;' and he groaned. his old friend, sir francis seddley, summoned by the telegraph, was now gliding from london along the rails for dollington station; but another--a pale courier--on the sightless coursers of the air, was speeding with a different message to captain stanley lake, in the small and sombre drawing-room in redman's dell. i had promised chelford to run up to redman's farm, and let him know if the jury arrived at a verdict during his absence. they did so; finding that the body was that of marcus wylder, esquire, of raddiston, and 'that he had come by his death in consequence of two wounds inflicted with a sharp instrument, in the region of the heart, by some person or persons unknown, at a period of four weeks since or upwards.' chelford was engaged in the sick room, as i understood, in conference with the patient. it was well to have heard, without procrastination, what he had to say; for next morning, at a little past four o'clock, he died. a nurse who had been called in from the county infirmary, said he made a very happy ending. he mumbled to himself, in his drowsy state, as she was quite sure, in prayer; and he made a very pretty corpse when he was laid out, and his golden hair looked so nice, and he was all so slim and shapely. rachel and dorcas were sitting in the room with him--not expecting the catastrophe then. both tired; both silent; the nurse dozing a little in her chair, near the bed's head; and lake said, in his clear, low tone, on a sudden, just as he spoke when perfectly well-'quite a mistake, upon my honour.' as a clear-voiced sentence sometimes speaks out in sleep, followed by silence, so no more was heard after this--no more for ever. the nurse was the first to perceive 'the change.' 'there's a change, ma'am'--and there was a pause. 'i'm afraid, ma'am, he's gone,' said the nurse. both ladies, in an instant, were at the bedside, looking at the peaked and white countenance, which was all they were ever again to see of stanley; the yellow eyes and open mouth. rachel's agony broke forth in a loud, wild cry. all was forgotten and forgiven in that tremendous moment. 'oh! stanley, stanley!--brother, brother, oh, brother!' there was the unchanged face, gaping its awful farewell of earth. all over!--never to stir more. 'is he dead?' said dorcas, with the peculiar sternness of agony. there could be no doubt. it was a sight too familiar to deceive the nurse. and dorcas closed those strange, wild eyes that had so fatally fascinated her, and then she trembled, without speaking or shedding a tear. her looks alarmed the nurse, who, with rachel's help, persuaded her to leave the room. and then came one of those wild scenes which close such tragedies--paroxysms of despair and frantic love, over that worthless young man who lay dead below stairs; such as strike us sometimes with a desolate scepticism, and make us fancy that all affection is illusion, and perishable with the deceits and vanities of earth. chapter lxxiv. we take leave of our friends. the story which, in his last interview with lord chelford, stanley lake had related, was, probably, as near the truth as he was capable of telling. on the night when mark wylder had left brandon in his company they had some angry talk; lake's object being to induce mark to abandon his engagement with dorcas brandon. he told stanley that he would not give up dorcas, but that he, lake, must fight him, and go to boulogne for the purpose, and they should arrange matters so that one or other _must_ fall. lake laughed quietly at the proposition, and mark retorted by telling him he would so insult him, if he declined, as to compel a meeting. when they reached that lonely path near the flight of stone steps, stanley distinctly threatened his companion with a disclosure of the scandalous incident in the card-room of the club, which he afterwards related, substantially as it had happened, to jos. larkin. when he took this decisive step, lake's nerves were strung, i dare say, to a high pitch of excitement. mark wylder, he knew, carried pistols, and, all things considered, he thought it just possible he might use them. he did not, but he struck lake with the back of his hand in the face, and lake, who walked by his side, with his fingers on the handle of a dagger in his coat pocket, instantly retorted with a stab, which he repeated as mark fell. he solemnly averred that he never meant to have used the dagger, except to defend his life. that he struck in a state of utter confusion, and when he saw mark dead, with his feet on the path, and his head lying over the edge, he would have given a limb almost to bring him back. the terror of discovery and ruin instantly supervened. he propped the body against the bank, and tried to stanch the bleeding. but there could be no doubt that he was actually dead. he got the body easily down the nearly precipitous declivity. lake was naturally by no means wanting in resource, and a certain sort of coolness, which supervened when the momentary distraction was over. he knew it would not do to leave the body so, among the rocks and brambles. he recollected that only fifty yards back they had passed a spade and pick, lying, with some other tools, by the side of the path, near that bit of old wall which was being removed. like a man doing things in a dream, without thought or trouble, only waiting and listening for a moment before he disturbed them, he took away the implements which he required; and when about to descend, a sort of panic and insurmountable disgust seized him; and in a state of supernatural dismay, he felt for a while disposed to kill himself. in that state it was he reached redman's farm, and his interview with rachel occurred. it was the accidental disclosure of the blood, in which his shirt sleeve was soaked, that first opened rachel's eyes to the frightful truth. after her first shock, all her terrors were concentrated on the one point--stanley's imminent danger. he must be saved. she made him return; she even accompanied him as far as the top of the rude flight of steps i have mentioned so often, and there awaited his return--the condition imposed by his cowardice--and made more dreadful by the circumstance that they had heard retreating footsteps along the walk, and stanley saw the tall figure of uncle julius or lorne, as he called himself, turning the far corner. there was a long wait here, lest he should return; but he did not appear, and stanley--though i now believe observed by this strange being--executed his horrible task, replaced the implements, and returned to rachel, and with her to redman's farm; where--his cool cunning once more ascendant--he penned those forgeries, closing them with mark wylder's seal, which he compelled his sister--quite unconscious of all but that their despatch by post, at the periods pencilled upon them, was essential to her wretched brother's escape. it was the success of this, his first stratagem, which suggested that long series of frauds which, with the aid of jim dutton, selected for his striking points of resemblance to mark wylder, had been carried on for so long with such consummate art in a different field. it was lake's ungoverned fury, when larkin discovered the mistake in posting the letters in wrong succession, which so nearly exploded his ingenious system. he wrote in terms which roused jim dutton's wrath. jim had been spinning theories about the reasons of his mysterious, though very agreeable occupation, and announced them broadly in his letter to larkin. but he had cooled by the time he reached london, and the letter from lake, received at his mother's and appointing the meeting at brandon, quieted that mutiny. i never heard that jim gave any member of the family the least trouble afterward. he handed to lord chelford a parcel of those clever and elaborate forgeries, with which lake had last furnished him, with a pencilled note on each, directing the date and town at which it was to be despatched. years after, when jim was emigrating, i believe lord chelford gave him a handsome present. lord chelford was advised by the friend whom he consulted that he need not make those painful particulars public, affecting only a dead man, and leading to no result. lake admitted that rachel had posted the letters in london, believing them to be genuine, for he pretended that they were wylder's. it is easy to look grave over poor rachel's slight, and partly unconscious, share in the business of the tragedy. but what girl of energy and strong affections would have had the melancholy courage to surrender her brother to public justice under the circumstances? lord chelford, who knew all, says that she 'acted nobly.' 'now, joseph, being a just man, was minded to put her away privily.' the _law_ being what? that she was to be publicly stigmatised and punished. his _justice_ being what? simply that he would have her to be neither--but screened and parted 'with privily.' let the pharisees who would have _summum jus_ against their neighbours, remember that god regards the tender and compassionate, who forbears, on occasion, to put the law in motion, as the _just_ man. the good vicar is a great territorial magnate now; but his pleasures and all his ways are still simple. he never would enter brandon as its master, and never will, during dorcas brandon's lifetime. and although with her friend, rachel lake, she lives abroad, chiefly in italy and switzerland, brandon hall, by the command of its proprietor, lies always at her disposal. i don't know whether rachel lake will ever marry. the tragic shadow of her life has not chilled lord chelford's strong affection. neither does the world know or suspect anything of the matter. old tamar died three years since, and lies in the pretty little churchyard of gylingden. and mark's death is, by this time, a nearly forgotten mystery. jos. larkins's speculations have not turned out luckily. the trustees of wylder, a minor, tried, as they were advised they must, his title to five oaks, by ejectment. a point had been overlooked--as sometimes happens--and jos. larkin was found to have taken but an estate for the life of mark wylder, which terminated at his decease. the point was carried on to the house of lords, but the decision of 'the court below' was ultimately affirmed. the flexible and angry jos. larkin then sought to recoup himself out of the assets of the deceased captain; but here he failed. in his cleverness--lest the inadequate purchase-money should upset his bargain--he omitted the usual covenant guaranteeing the vendor's title to sell the fee-simple, and recited, moreover, that, grave doubts existing on the point, it was agreed that the sum paid should not exceed twelve years' purchase. jos. then could only go upon the point that it was known to lake at the period of the sale that mark wylder was dead. unluckily, however, for jos.'s case, one of his clever letters, written during the negotiation, turned up, and was put in evidence, in which he pressed captain lake with the fact, that he, the purchaser, was actually in possession of information to the effect that mark was dead, and that he was, therefore, buying under a liability of having his title litigated, with a doubtful result, the moment he should enter into possession. this shut up the admirable man, who next tried a rather bold measure, directed against the reverend william wylder. a bill was filed by messrs. burlington and smith, to compel him to execute a conveyance to their client--on the terms of the agreement. the step was evidently taken on the calculation that he would strike, and offer a handsome compromise; but lord chelford was at his elbow--the suit was resisted. messrs. burlington and smith did not care to run the awful risk which mr. larkin, behind the scenes, invited them to accept for his sake. there was first a faltering; then a bold renunciation and exposure of mr. jos. larkin by the firm, who, though rather lamely, exonerated themselves as having been quite taken in by the gylingden attorney. mr. jos. larkin had a holy reliance upon his religious reputation, which had always stood him in stead. but a worldly judge will sometimes disappoint the expectations of the christian suitor; and the language of the court, in commenting upon mr. jos. larkin, was, i am sorry to say, in the highest degree offensive--'flagitious,' 'fraudulent,' and kindred epithets, were launched against that tall, bald head, in a storm that darkened the air and obliterated the halo that usually encircled it. he was dismissed, in a tempest, with costs. he vanished from court, like an evil spirit, into the torture-chamber of taxation. the whole structure of rapine and duplicity had fallen through with a dismal crash. shrewd fellows wondered, as they always do, when a rash game breaks down, at the infatuation of the performer. but the cup of his tribulation was not yet quite full. jos. larkin's name was ultimately struck from the roll of solicitors and attorneys, and there were minute and merciless essays in the papers, surrounding his disgrace with a dreadful glare. people say he has not enough left to go on with. he had lodgings somewhere near richmond, as howard larkin, esq., and is still a religious character. i am told that he shifts his place of residence about once in six months, and that he has never paid one shilling of rent for any, and has sometimes positively received money for vacating his abode. so substantially valuable is a thorough acquaintance with the capabilities of the law. i saw honest tom wealdon about a fortnight ago--grown stouter and somewhat more phlegmatic by time, but still the same in good nature and inquisitiveness. from him i learned that jos. larkin is likely to figure once more in the courts about some very ugly defalcations in the cash of the penningstal mining company, and that this time the persecutions of that eminent christian are likely to take a different turn, and, as tom said, with a gloomy shrewdness, to end in 'ten years penal.' some summers ago, i was, for a few days, in the wondrous city of venice. everyone knows something of the enchantment of the italian moon, the expanse of dark and flashing blue, and the phantasmal city, rising like a beautiful spirit from the waters. gliding near the lido--where so many rings of doges lie lost beneath the waves--i heard the pleasant sound of female voices upon the water--and then, with a sudden glory, rose a sad, wild hymn, like the musical wail of the forsaken sea:- the spouseless adriatic mourns her lord. the song ceased. the gondola which bore the musicians floated by--a slender hand over the gunwale trailed its fingers in the water. unseen i saw rachel and dorcas, beautiful in the sad moonlight, passed so near we could have spoken--passed me like spirits--never more, it may be, to cross my sight in life.