14003	----	Proofreading Team Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 14003-h.htm or 14003-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/0/0/14003/14003-h/14003-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/0/0/14003/14003-h.zip) DISPUTED HANDWRITING An Exhaustive, Valuable, and Comprehensive Work upon One of the Most Important Subjects of To-day. With Illustrations and Expositions for the Detection and Study of Forgery by Handwriting of All Kinds by JEROME B. LAVAY The first work of the kind ever published in the United States. For the Protection of America's Banks and Business Houses. 1909 "Handwriting is a gesture of the mind" TO THE AMERICAN BANKERS' ASSOCIATION THAT POWERFUL AGENCY WHICH HAS ELEVATED THE STANDARD OF BANKING IN THE UNITED STATES AND AN INSTITUTION THAT FOLLOWS ALL WRONGDOERS AGAINST MEMBERS OF THE FRATERNITY RELENTLESSLY AND SUCCESSFULLY THIS WORK IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED CONTENTS CHAPTER I HOW TO STUDY FORGED AND DISPUTED SIGNATURES All Titles Depend Upon the Genuineness of Signatures--Comparing Genuine with Disputed Signatures--A Word about Fac-simile Signatures--Process of Evolving a Signature--Evidence of Experience in Handling or Mishandling a Pen--Signature Most Difficult to Read--Simulation of Signature by Expert Penman--Hard to Imitate an Untrained Hand--A Well-Known Banker Presents Some Valuable Points--Perfectly Imitated Writings and Signatures--Bunglingly Executed Forgeries--The Application of Chemical Tests--Rules of Courts on Disputed Signatures--Forgers Giving Appearance of Age to Paper and Ink--Proving the Falsity of Testimony--Determining the Genuineness or Falsity by Anatomy or Skeleton--Making a Magnified Copy of a Signature--Effectiveness of the Photograph Process--Deception the Eye Will Not Detect--When Pen Strokes Cross Each Other--Experimenting With Crossed Lines--Signatures Written With Different Inks--Deciding Order of Sequence in Writing--An Important and Interesting Subject for Bankers--Determining the Genuineness of a Written Document--Ingenuity of Rogues Constantly Takes New Forms--A Systematic Analysis Will Detect Disputed Signatures CHAPTER II FORGERY BY TRACING Forgeries Perpetrated by the Aid of Tracing a Common and Dangerous Method--Using Transparent Tracing Paper--How the Movements are Directed--Formal, Broken and Nervous Lines--Retouched Lines and Shades--Tracing Usually Presents a Close Resemblance to the Genuine--Traced Forgeries Not Exact Duplicates of Their Originals--The Danger of an Exact Duplication--Forgers Usually Unable to Exactly Reproduce Tracing--Using Pencil or Carbon-Guided Lines--Retouching Revealed under the Microscope--Tracing with Pen and Ink Over a Transparency--Making a Practice and Study of Signatures--Forgeries and Tracings Made by Skillful Imitators Most Difficult of Detection--Free-Hand Forgery and Tracing--A Few Important Matters to Observe in Detecting Forgery by Tracing--Photographs a Great Aid in Detecting Tracing--How to Compare Imitated and Traced Writing--Furrows Traced by Pen Nibs--Tracing Made by an Untrained Hand--Tracing with Pen and Ink Over a Transparency--Internal Evidence of Forgery by Tracing--Forgeries Made by Skillful Imitators--How to Determine Evidences of Forgery by Tracing--Remains of Tracings--Examining Paper in Transmitted Light--Freely Written Tracings--A Dangerous Method of Forgery CHAPTER III HOW FORGERS REPRODUCE SIGNATURES Characteristics Appearing in Forged Signatures--Conclusions Reached by Careful Examinations--Signatures Written with Little Effort to Imitate--What a Clever Forger Can Do--Most Common Forgeries of Signatures--Reproducing a Signature over a Plate of Glass--A Window Frame Scheme for Reproducing Signatures--How the Paper is Held and the Ink Applied--How a Genuine Signature is Placed and Used--A Forger's Process of Tracing a Signature--How to Detect Earmarks of Fraud in a Reproduced Signature--Prominent Features of Signatures Reproduced--Method Resorted to by Novices in Forging Signatures--Conditions Appearing in All Traced Signatures--Reproduction of Signatures Adopted by Expert Forgers--Making a Lead-Pencil Copy of a Signature--Erasing Pencil Signatures Always Discoverable by the Aid of a Microscope--Appearances and Conditions in Traced Signatures--How to Tell a Traced Signature--All the Details Employed to Reproduce a Signature Given--Features in Which Forgers are Careless--Handling of the Pen Often Leads to Detection--A Noted Characteristic of Reproduced Signatures--Want of Proportion in Writing Names Should Be Studied--Rules to Be Followed in Examining Signatures--System Employed by Experts in Studying Proof of Reproduced Signatures--Bankers and Business Men Should Avoid Careless Signatures CHAPTER IV ERASURES, ALTERATIONS AND ADDITIONS What Erasure Means--The English Law--What a Fraudulent Alteration Means--Altered or Erased Parts Considered--Memoranda of Alterations Should Always Accompany Paper Changed--How Added Words Should be Treated--How to Erase Words and Lines Without Creating Suspicion--Writing Over an Erasure--How to Determine Whether or Not Erasures or Alterations Have Been Made--Additions and Interlineations--What to Apply to the Suspected Document--The Alcohol Test Absolute--How to Tell which of Crossing Ink Lines Were Made First--Ink and Pencil Alterations and Erasures--Treating Paper to Determine Erasures, Alterations and Additions--Appearance of Paper Treated as Directed--Paper That Does Not Reveal Tampering--How Removal of Characters From a Paper is Affected--Easy Means of Detecting Erasures--Washing with Chemical Reagents--Restoration of Original Marks--What Erasure on Paper Exhibits--Erasure in Parchments--Identifying Typewritten Matter--Immaterial Alterations--Altering Words in an Instrument--Alterations and Additions Are Immaterial When Interests of Parties Are Not Changed or Affected--Erasure of Words in an Instrument CHAPTER V HOW TO WRITE A CHECK TO PREVENT FORGING How a Paying Teller Determines the Amount of a Check--Written Amount and Amount in Figures Conflict--Depositor Protected by Paying Teller--Chief Concern of Drawer of a Check--Transposing Figures--Writing a Check That Cannot Be Raised--Writers who Are Easy Marks for Forgers--Safeguards for Those who Write Checks--An Example of Raised Checks--Payable "To Bearer" Is Always a Menace--Paying Teller and An Endorsement System Must Be Observed in Writing Checks--How a Check Must Be Written to Be Absolutely Safe--A Signature that Cannot Be Tampered with Without Detection--Paying Tellers Always Vigilant CHAPTER VI METHODS OF FORGERS, CHECK AND DRAFT RAISERS Professional Forgers and Their Methods--Using Engravers and Lithographers--Their Knowledge of Chemicals--Patching Perforated Paper--Difficult Matter to Detect Alterations and Forgeries--Selecting Men for the Work--The Middle Man, Presenter, and Shadow--Methods for Detecting Forgery--Detailed Explanation of How Forgers Work--Altering and Raising Checks and Drafts--A Favorite Trick of Forgers--Opening a Bank Account for a Blind--Private Marks on Checks no Safeguard--How a Genuine Signature Is Secured--Bankers Can Protect Themselves--A Forger the Most Dangerous Criminal--Bankers Should Scrutinize Signatures--Sending Photograph with Letter of Advice--How to Secure Protection Against Forgers--Manner in Which Many Banks Have Been Swindled--Points About Raising Checks and Drafts That Should Be Carefully Noted CHAPTER VII THE HANDWRITING EXPERT No Law Regulating Experience and Skill Necessary to Constitute an Expert--Expert Held Competent to Testify in Court--Bank Officials and Employees Favored--An Expert On Signatures--Methods Experts Employ to Identify the Work of the Pen--Where and When an Expert's Services Are Needed--Large Field and Growing Demand for Experts--Qualifications of a Handwriting Expert--How the Work is Done--A Good Expert Continously Employed--The Expert and the Charlatan--Qualifying as An Expert--A System Which Produces Results--Principal Tests Applied by Handwriting Experts to Determine Genuineness--Identification of Individual by His Handwriting--How to Tell Kind of Ink and Process Used to Forge a Writing--Rules Followed by Experts in Determining Cases--The Testimony of a Handwriting Expert--Explaining Methods Employed to Detect Forged Handwriting--The Courts and Experts--What an Expert May Testify to--Trapping a Witness--Proving Handwriting by Experts--General Laws Regulating Experts--The Basework of a HandwritingExpert--Important Facts an Expert Begins Examination With--A Few Words of Advice and Suggestion About "Pen Scope"--Detection of Forgery Easy--Rules Herewith Suggested Should Be Observed--Expert Witnesses, Courts, and Jurors CHAPTER VIII HOW TO DETECT FORGED HANDWRITING Frequency of Litigation Arising over Disputed Handwriting--Forged and Fictitious Claims Against the Estates of Deceased People--Forgery Certain to Be Detected When Subjected to Skilled Expert Examination--A Forger's Tracks Cannot Be Successfully Covered--With Modern Devices Fraudulent, Forged and Simulated Writing Can Be Determined Beyond the Possibility of a Mistake--Bank Officials and Disputed Handwriting--How to Test and Determine Genuine and Forged Signatures--Useful Information About Signature Writing--Guard Against an Illegible Signature--Avoid Gyrations, Whirls and Flourishes--Write Plain, Distinct and Legible--The Signature to Adopt--The People Forgers Pass By--How Many Imitate Successfully--How an Expert Detects Forged Handwriting--Examples of Signatures Forgers Desire to Imitate--Examining and Determining a Forgery--Comparisons of Disputed Handwriting--Microscopic Examinations a Great Help in Detecting Forged Handwriting--Comparison of Forged Handwriting CHAPTER IX GREATEST DANGER TO BANKS Check-Raising Always a Danger--A Scheme Almost Impossible to Prevent--The American Banker's Association the Greatest Foe to Forgers--It Follows Them Relentlessly and Successfully--Chemically Prepared Paper and Watermarks Not Always a Safeguard--Perforating Machines and Check Raisers--How Check Perforations Are Overcome--How an Ordinary Check Is Raised--How an Expert Alters Checks--How Perforations Are Filled--Hasty Examination by Paying Tellers Encourages Forgers--The Way Bogus Checks Creep Through a Bank Unnoticed--A Celebrated Forgery Case--Forgers Successful for a Time Always Caught--Where Forgers Usually Go That Have Made a Big Haul--A Professional Crook Is a Person of Large Acquaintance CHAPTER X THUMB PRINTS NEVER FORGED Thumb-Print Method of Identification Absolute--Now Brought to a High State of Perfection--Will Eventually Be Used in all Banks--Certified Checks and Also Drafts with Thumb-Print Signatures--Absolute Accuracy of a Thumb-Print Identification Assured--A Thumb-Print in Wax on Sealed Packages--Its Use an Advantage on Bankable Paper of All Kinds--How Strangers Are Easily Identified--Bankers, Merchants and Business Men Protected by This System--Full Particulars as to How Thumb-Prints Are Made--Can be Printed by Anyone in a Few Minutes--How and When to Place Your Thumb-Print on Bankable Paper--Finger-Prints as Reliable as Thumb-Prints--Use to Which This System Could Be Put--Thumb and Finger Tips Do Not Change From Birth to Death--Department of Justice at Washington Has Established a Bureau of Criminal Registry Using the Thumb-Print System--Thumb-Print System Said to Be a Chinese Invention--Its Use Spreading Rapidly--How to Secure Thumb-Print Impression Without Knowledge of Party--An Interesting and Valuable Study CHAPTER XI DETECTING FORGERY WITH THE MICROSCOPE Determining Questionable Signatures By the Aid of a Microscope--A Magnifying Glass Not Powerful Enough--Character of Ink Easily Told--The Microscope and a Knowledge of Its Use--Experience and Education of an Examiner of Great Assistance--An Expert's Opinion--The Use of the Microscope Recommended--Illustrating a Method of Forgery--What a Microscopic Examination Reveals--How to Examine Forged Handwriting with a Microscope--Experts and a Jury--What the Best Authorities Recommend CHAPTER XII SIGNATURE EXPERTS THE SAFETY OF THE MODERN BANK A New Departure in Banks--Examining All Signatures a Sure Preventive Against Forgery--The "Filling in" Process--How One Forger Operated--Marvelous Accuracy of a Paying Teller--How He Attained Perfection--How Signature Clerks Work--A Common Dodge of Forgers--Post Dated Checks--A System That Prevents Forged and Raised Checks--Not a Forged or Raised Check Paid in Years CHAPTER XIII HOW TO DETERMINE AGE OF ANY WRITING The Different Kinds of Ink Met With--Inks That Darken by Exposure to Sunlight and Air--Introduction of Aniline Colors to Determine the Age of Writings--An Almost Infallible Rule to Follow--Determining Age of Writing By Ink Used--The Ammonia System a Sure One--A Question of Great Interest to Bankers and Bank Employes--Thick and Thin Inks--So-Called Safety Inks That Are Not Safe--How to Restore Faded Inks--An Infallible Rule--Restoring Faded Writing--Restored By the Silk and Cotton System That Anyone Can Arrange--Danger of Exposing Restored Writing to the Sun CHAPTER XIV DETECTING FRAUD AND FORGERY IN PAPERS AND DOCUMENTS Infallible Rules for the Detection of Same--New Methods of Research--Changing Wills and Books of Accounts--Judgment of the Naked Eye--Using a Microscope or Magnifying Glass--Changeable Effects of Ink--How to Detect the Use of Different Inks--Sized Papers Not Easily Altered--Inks That Produce Chemical Effects--Inks That Destroy Fiber of Paper--How to Test Tampered or Altered Documents--Treating Papers Suspected of Forgery--Using Water to Detect Fraud--Discovering Scratched Paper--Means Forgers Use to Mask Fraudulent Operations--How to Prepare and Handle Test Papers--Detecting Paper That Has Been Washed--Various Other Valuable Tests to Determine Forgery--A Simple Operation That Anyone Can Apply--Iodine Used on Papers and Documents--An Alcohol Test That Is Certain--Bringing Out Telltale Spots--Double Advantage of Certain Tests--Reappearance of Former Letters or Figures--What Genuine Writing Reveals--When an Entire Paper or Document is Forged CHAPTER XV GUIDED HANDWRITING AND METHOD USED The Most Frequent and Dangerous Method of Forgery--How to Detect a Guided Signature--What Guided Handwriting Is and How It Is Done--Character of Such Writing--Writing by a Guided Hand--Difficulty in Writing--Force Exercised by Joint Hands--A Hand More or Less Passive--Work of the Controlling Hand--How Guided Writing Appears--Two Writers Acting in Opposition--Distorted Writing--How a Legitimate Guided Hand is Directed and Supported--Pen Motion Necessary to Produce Same--Influence in Guiding a Stronger Hand--Avoiding an Unnatural and Cramped Position--Effect of the Brain on Guided Hand--Separating Characteristics from Guided Joint Signature--Detecting Writing by a System of Measurement CHAPTER XVI TALES TOLD BY HANDWRITING Telling the Nationality, Sex and Age of Anyone Who Executes Handwriting--Americans and Their Style of Writing--How English, German, and French Write--Gobert, the French Expert, and How He Saved Dreyfus--Miser Paine and His Millions Saved by an Expert--Writing with Invisible Ink--Professor Braylant's Secret Writing Without Ink--Professor Gross Discovers a Simple Secret Writing Method With a Piece of Pointed Hardwood--A System Extensively Used--Studying the Handwriting of Authors--How to Determine a Person's Character and Disposition by Handwriting CHAPTER XVII WORKINGS OF THE GOVERNMENT SECRET SERVICE Officials of This Department Talk About Their Work--How Criminals Are Traced, Caught and Punished--Its Work Extending to All Departments--Secret Service Districts--Reports Made to the Treasury Department--Good Money and Bad--How to Detect the False--System of Numbering United States Notes Explained--Counterfeiting on the Decrease--Counterfeiting Gold Certificates--Bank Tellers and Counterfeits--The Best Secret Service in the World CHAPTER XVIII CHARACTER AND TEMPERAMENT INDICATED BY HANDWRITING A Man's Handwriting a Part of Himself--Handwriting and Personality--Cheap Postage and Typewriters Playing Havoc with Writing by Hand--Old Time Correspondence Vanishing--Two Divisions of Handwriting--Fashion Has Changed Even Writing--Characteristic Writing of Different Professions--One's Handwriting a Sure Index to Character and Temperament--Personality of Handwriting--Handwriting a Voiceless Speaking--A Neglected Science--Interest in Disputed Handwriting Rapidly Coming to the Front--Set Writing Copies no Longer the Rule--Formal Handwriting--Education's Effect on Writing--Handwriting and Personality--The Character and Temperament of Writers Easily Told--Honest, Eccentric, and Weak People--How to Determine Character by Writing--The Marks of Truth and Straightforwardness--How Perseverance and Patience Are Indicated in Writing--Economy, Generosity and Liberality Easily Shown in Writing--The Character and Temperament of Any Writer Easily Shown--Studying Character from Handwriting a Fascinating Work--Rules for Its Study--Links in a Chain That Cannot be Hidden--A Person's Writing a Surer Index to Character Than His Face CHAPTER XIX HANDWRITING EXPERTS AS WITNESSES Who May Testify As An Expert--Bank Officials and Bank Employes Always Desired--Definition of Expert and Opinion Evidence--Both Witness and Advocate--Witness in Cross Examination--Men Who Have Made the Science of Disputed Handwriting a Study--Objections to Appear in Court--Experts Contradicting Each Other--The Truth or Falsity of Handwriting--Sometimes a Mass of Doubtful Speculations--Paid Experts and Veracity--Present Method of Dealing with Disputed Handwriting Experts--How the Bench and Bar Regard the System--Remedies Proposed--Should an Expert Be an Adviser of the Court?--Free from Cross-Examination--Opinions of Eminent Judges on Expert Testimony--Experts Who Testify Without Experience--What a Bank Cashier or Teller Bases His Opinions on--Actions and Deductions of the Trained Handwriting Expert--Admitting Evidence of Handwriting Experts--Occupation and Theories That Make an Expert--Difference Between an Expert and a Witness--Experts and Test Writing--What Constitutes An Expert in Handwriting--Present Practice Regarding Experts--Assuming to Be a Competent Expert--Testing a Witness with Prepared Forged Signatures--Care in Giving Answers--A Writing Teacher As an Expert--Familiarity with Signatures--What a Dash, Blot, or Distortion of a Letter Shows--What a Handwriting Expert Should Confine Himself to--Parts of Writing Which Demand the Closest Attention--American and English Laws on Experts in Handwriting--Examination of Disputed Handwriting CHAPTER XX TAMPERED, ERASED AND MANIPULATED PAPER Sure Rules for the Detection of Forged and Fraudulent Writing of Any Kind--European Professor Gives Rules for Detecting Fraud--How to Tell Alterations Made on Checks, Drafts, and Business Paper--An Infallible System Discovered--Results Always Satisfactory--Can Be Used by Anyone--Vapor of Iodine a Valuable Agent--Paper That Has Been Wet or Moistened--Colors That Tampered Paper Assumes--Tracing Written Characters with Water--Making Writing Legible--How to Tell Paper That Has Been Erased or Rubbed--What a Light Will Disclose--Erasing with Bread Crumbs--Hard to Detect--How to Discover Traces of Manipulation--Erased Surface Made Legible--Treating Partially Erased Paper--Detecting Nature of Substance Used for Erasing--Use of Bread Crumbs Colors Papers--Tracing Writing with a Glass Rod--Tracing Writing Under Paper--Writing With Glass Tubes Instead of Pens--What Physical Examination Reveals--Erasing Substance of Paper--Reproducing Pencil Writing in a Letter Press--Kind of Paper to Use in Making Experiments--Detecting Fraud in Old Papers--The Rubbing and Writing Method CHAPTER XXI FORGERY AS A PROFESSION How Professional Forgers Work--Valuable Points for Bankers and Business Men--Personnel of a Professional Forgery Gang--The Scratcher, Layer-down, Presenter and Middleman--How Banks Are Defrauded by Raised and Forged Paper--Detailed Method of the Work--Dividing the Spoils--Action in Case of Arrest--Employing Attorneys--What "Fall" Money Is--Fixing a Jury--Politicians with a Pull--Protecting Criminals--Full Description of How Checks and Drafts Are Altered--Alterations, Erasures and Chemicals--Raising Any Paper--Alert Cashiers and Tellers--Different Methods of Protection CHAPTER XXII A FAMOUS FORGERY The Morey-Garfield Letter--Attempt to Defeat Mr. Garfield for the Presidency--A Clumsy Forgery--Both Letters Reproduced--Evidences of Forgery Pointed Out--The Work of an Illiterate Man--Crude Imitations Apparent--Undoubtedly the Greatest Forgery of the Age--General Garfield's Quick Disclaimer Kills Effect of the Forgery--The Letters Compared and Evidences of Forgery Made Complete CHAPTER XXIII A WARNING TO BANKS AND BUSINESS HOUSES Information for Those Who Handle Commercial and Legal Documents--Peculiarity of Handwriting--Methods Employed in Forgery--Means Employed for Erasing Writing--Care to Be Used in Writing--Specimens of Originals and Alterations--Means of Discovering and Demonstrating Forgery--Disputed Signatures--Free Hand or Composite Signatures--Important Facts for the Banking and Business Public--How to Use the Microscope and Photography to Detect Forgery--Applying Chemical Tests--How to Handle Documents and Papers to Be Preserved--The Value of Expert Testimony--Using Chemical, Mechanical and Clerical Preventatives CHAPTER XXIV HOW FORGERS ALTER BANK NOTES Bankers Easily Deceived--How Ten One Hundred Dollar Bills Are Made out of Nine--How to Detect Altered Bank Notes--Making a Ten-Dollar Bill out of a Five--A Ten Raised to Fifty--How Two-Dollar Bills are Raised to a Higher Denomination--Bogus Money in Commercial Colleges--Action of the United States Treasury Department--Engraving a Greenback--How They Are Printed--Making a Vignette--Beyond the Reach of Rascals--How Bank Notes Are Printed, Signed and Issued by the Government--Safeguards to Foil Forgers, Counterfeiters and Alterers of Bank Notes--Devices to Raise Genuine Bank Notes--Split Notes--Altering Silver Certificates APPENDIX This follows with many pages of Illustrations and Descriptions of Various Kinds of Genuine, Traced, Forged and Simulated Writings and Autograph Signatures of Bankers, Statesmen, Jurists, Authors, Writers and the Leading Public Characters of the World; Individual Autographs of Every President of the United States; Freak Signatures and Curious and Complicated Writing; and Scores of Other Interesting and Instructive Autographs and Writings of Various Kinds That Will Prove of Great Worth and Value PREFACE But few writers in the United States have expended their genius in the field of disputed, forged, or fraudulent handwriting. In France and Germany the subject has been more studied, and in both languages several valuable books have appeared, while in this country it is only recently that disputed handwriting has been looked upon as one of the sciences. Up to the time of the publication of this work nothing has appeared in the United States on the subject of disputed handwriting, short magazine and newspaper articles sufficing. Interest in disputed handwriting and writing of all kinds is being rapidly developed, and is a study and research with which the banker and business man of the future must and will be perfectly familiar. A place will be made for the science among the permanent, necessary, and most helpful studies of the day. No effort has been spared by the author of this work to make every feature of handwriting accurate. This work is the result of years of practical study in the field of disputed handwriting, and personal application has demonstrated that the facts and suggestions given will be found absolutely correct. The aim has been to make this the standard work on this subject. In conclusion, the author wishes to acknowledge a debt to the leading handwriting experts of the United States and Europe for many suggestions that have materially assisted him in the preparation of this work. We trust it will prove a material aid to the bankers, business men and professional men of the United States. THE AUTHOR. DISPUTED HANDWRITING CHAPTER I HOW TO STUDY FORGED AND DISPUTED SIGNATURES All Titles Depend Upon the Genuineness of Signatures--Comparing Genuine With Disputed Signatures--A Word About Fac-simile Signatures--Conditions Affecting Production of Signatures--Process of Evolving a Signature--Evidence of Experience in Handling or Mishandling a Pen--Signatures Most Difficult to Read--Simulation of Signature by Expert Penman--Hard to Imitate an Untrained Hand--A Well-known Banker Presents Some Valuable Points--Perfectly Imitated Writings and Signatures--Bunglingly Executed Forgeries--The Application of Chemical Tests--Rules of Courts on Disputed Signatures--Forgers Giving Appearance of Age to Paper and Ink--Proving the Falsity of Testimony--Determining the Genuineness or Falsity by Anatomy or Skeleton--Making a Magnified Copy of a Signature--Effectiveness of the Photograph Process--Deception the Eye Will Not Detect--When Pen Strokes Cross Each Other--Experimenting With Crossed Lines--Signatures Written With Different Inks--Deciding Order of Sequence in Writing--An Important and Interesting Subject for Bankers--Determining the Genuineness of a Written Document--Ingenuity of Rogues Constantly Takes New Forms--A Systematic Analysis Will Detect Disputed Signatures.[1] [1] Note illustrations of various kinds of forged, simulated, and genuine handwriting in Appendix, with careful descriptions of same. The title to money and property of all kinds depends so lately upon the genuineness of signatures that no study or inquiry can be more interesting than one relating to the degree of certainty with which genuine writings can be distinguished from those which are counterfeited. When comparing a disputed signature with a series of admittedly genuine signatures of the same person whose signature is being disputed, the general appearance and pictorial effect of the writing will suggest, as the measure of resemblances or differences predominates, an impression upon the mind of the examiner as to the genuine or forged character of the signature in question. When it is understood that to make a forgery available for the purposes of its production it must resemble in general appearance the writing of the person whose signature it purports to represent, it follows as a reasonable conclusion that resemblances in general appearances alone must be secondary factors in establishing the genuineness of a signature by comparison--and the fact that two signatures look alike is not always evidence that they were written by the same person. As an illustration of the uncertainty of an impression produced by the general appearances and close resemblance of signatures, even to an expert observer, is manifested when the fac-simile signatures of the signers of the Declaration of American Independence, as executed by different engravers, are examined. On comparing each individual fac-simile made by one engraver, with the fac-simile of the same signature made by another engraver, they will be found to exactly coincide in general appearance as to form and pictorial effect, and so much so, that the fac-similes of the same signature made by different engravers cannot be told one from the other. On examining them by the use of the microscope they may be easily determined as the work of different persons. While this is likewise true of the resemblances in general appearance which a disputed signature may have when compared with a genuine signature of the same person, it is also true that the measure of difference occurring in the general appearance of a disputed signature, when compared with genuine ones of the same person, are not always evidence of forgery. There are many conditions affecting the production of signatures, habitually and uniformly apart from the causes which prevent a person from writing signatures twice precisely alike, under the influence of normal conditions of execution. The effect of fatigue, excitement, haste, or the use of a different pen from that with which the standards were written, are well known conditions operating to materially affect the general appearance of the writing, and may have been, in one form or another, an attendant cause when the questioned signature was produced, and thus have given to the latter some variation from the signatures of the same person, executed under the influence of normal surroundings. In the process of evolving a signature, which must be again and again repeated from an early age till death, new ideas occur from time to time, are tried, modified, improved, and finally embodied in the design. The idea finally worked out may be merely a short method of writing the necessary sequence of characters, or it may present some novelty to the eye. Signatures consisting almost exclusively of straight up-and-down strokes, looking at a short distance like a row of needles with very light hair-lines to indicate the separate letters; signatures begun at the beginning or the end and written without removing the pen from the paper; signatures which are entirely illegible and whose component parts convey only the mutilated rudiments of letters, are not uncommon. All such signatures strike the eye and arrest the attention, and thus accomplish the object of their authors. The French signature frequently runs upward from left to right, ending with a strong down nourish in the opposite direction. All these, even the most illegible examples, give evidence of experience in handling or mishandling the pen. The signature most difficult to read is frequently the production of the hand which writes most frequently, and it is very much harder to decipher than the worst specimens of an untrained hand. The characteristics of the latter are usually an evident painstaking desire to imitate faulty ideals of the letters one after the other, without any attempt to attain a particular effect by the signature as a whole. In very extreme cases, the separate letters of the words constituting the signature are not even joined together. A simulation of such a signature by an expert penman will usually leave enough traces of his ability in handling the pen to pierce his disguise. Even a short, straight stroke, into which he is likely to relapse against his will, gives evidence against the pretended difficulties of the act which he intends to convey. It is nearly as difficult for a master of the pen to imitate an untrained hand as for the untrained hand to write like an expert penman. The difference between an untrained signature and the trembling tracing of his signature by an experienced writer who is ill or feeble, is that in the former may be seen abundant instances of ill-directed strength, and in the latter equally abundant instances of well-conceived design, with a failure of the power to execute it. Observations such as the preceding are frequently of great value in aiding the expert to understand the phenomena which he meets, and they belong to a class which does not require the application of standards of measure, but only experience and memory of other similar instances of which the history was known, and a sound judgment to discern the significance of what is seen. No general rules other than those referred to above can be given to guide the student of handwriting in such cases, but the differences will become sufficiently apparent with sufficient practice. A well-known banker, writing to the author of this work, makes some points on the subject which are rather disturbing. His fundamental proposition is that the judgment of experts is of no value when based as it ordinarily is, only upon an inspection of an alleged fraudulent signature, either with the naked eye or with the eye aided by magnifying glasses, and upon a comparison of its appearance with that of a writing or signature, admitted or known to the expert, to be genuine, of the same party. He alleges, in fact, that writing and signatures can be so perfectly imitated that ocular inspection cannot determine which is true and which is false, and that the persons whose signatures are in controversy are quite as unable as anybody to decide that question. Nevertheless, the law permits experts to give their opinions to juries, who often have nothing except those opinions to control their decisions, and who naturally give them in favor of the side which is supported by the greatest number of experts, or by experts of the highest repute. Decisions upon such testimony this banker regards as no better than, if quite as good as, the result of drawing lots. Of course he cannot mean to include under these observations, that class of forgeries which are so bunglingly executed as to be readily detected by the eye, even of persons not specially expert. He can only mean to say that imitations are possible and even common, which are so exact that their counterfeit character is not determinable by inspection, even when aided by glasses. At first blush this contention of the banker is extremely a most unsatisfactory view of the case, and the more correct it looks likely to be, the more unsatisfactory. Courts may go beyond inspection and apply chemical on the tests, but such tests cannot be resorted to in the innumerable cases of checks and orders for money and property which are passed upon every day in the business world, and either accepted as genuine or rejected as counterfeit. But the real truth is, in fully ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, that no check or order is paid merely upon confidence in the genuineness of the signature, and without knowledge of the party to whom the payment is made, or some accompanying circumstance or circumstances tending to inspire confidence in the good faith of the transaction. In that aspect, the danger of deception as to the genuineness of signatures loses most of its terrors. It is one of the recognized rules of court to admit as admissible testimony, the opinions of experts, whether the whole or any specified portion of an instrument was, or was not written by the same hand, with the same ink, and at the same time, which question arises when an addition to, or alteration of, an instrument is charged. It must be recollected that at this time It is a very easy matter for experienced forgers and rascals to so prepare ink that it may appear to the eye to be of the age required, and it is next to impossible for any expert to give any information in regard to the age of a certain writing. In many instances experts have easily detected the kind of ink employed, and have also successfully shown the falsity of testimony that the whole of a writing in controversy was executed at the same time, and with the same ink. James D. Peacock, a London barrister, who has given considerable time and study to disputed handwritings, lays great stress upon the ability of determining the genuineness or falsity of a writing by what he calls its "anatomy" or "skeleton." He says that some persons in making successive strokes, make the turn from one to another sharply angular, while others make it rounded or looping. Writings produced in both ways appear the same to the eye, but under a magnifying glass the difference in the mode of executing is shown. As illustrating that point, he makes the following statement in respect to a case involving the genuineness of the alleged signature of an old man whose handwriting was fine and tremulous: "On making a magnified copy of the signature, I found that the tremulous appearance of the letters was due to the fact that they were made up of a series of dashes, standing at varying angles with each other, and further, that these strokes, thus enlarged, were precisely like these constituting the letters in the body of the note, which were acknowledged to have been written by the alleged forger of the note. Upon the introduction of this testimony the criminal withdrew the plea of not guilty and implored the mercy of the court." As one means of determining whether the whole of a writing was executed at the same time, and with the same ink, or at different times, and with different inks, Mr. Peacock further says that the photographic process is very effective because it not only copies the forms of letters but takes notice of differences in the color of two inks which are inappreciable by the eye. He states that: "Where there is the least particle of yellow present in a color, the photograph will take notice of the fact by making the picture blacker, just in proportion as the yellow predominates, so that a very light yellow will take a deep black. So any shade of green, or blue, or red, where there is an imperceptible amount of yellow, will pink by the photographic process more or less black, while either a red or blue varying to a purple, will show more or less paint as the case may be." As to deception which the eye will not detect, in regard to the age of paper, he says: "I have repeatedly examined papers which have been made to appear old by various methods, such as washing with coffee, with tobacco, and by being carried in the pocket, near the person, by being smoked or partially burned, and in various other ways. I have in my possession a paper which has passed the ordeal of many examinations by experts and others, which purports to be two hundred years old, and to have been saved from the Boston fire. The handwriting is a perfect fac-simile of that of Thomas Addington, the town clerk of Boston, two hundred years ago, and yet the paper is not over two years old." The most remarkable case of deception to the eye, even when aided by magnifying glasses, is in determining when two pen strokes cross each other, which stroke was made first. Mr. Peacock does not explain how the deception is possible, but that it occurs as matter of fact, he shows by an account of a very decisive experiment. Taking ten different kinds of ink, most commonly on sale, he drew lines on a piece of paper in such a way as to produce a hundred points of crossing and so that a line drawn with each of ink passed both over and under all the lines drawn with the other inks. He, of course, knew, in respect to each point of crossing, which ink was first applied, but the appearance to the eye corresponded with the fact in only forty-three cases. In thirty-seven cases the appearance was contrary to the fact, and in the remaining cases the eye was unable to come to any decision. By wetting another piece of paper with a liquid compound acting as a solvent of ink, and pressing it upon the paper marked with lines, a thin layer of ink was transferred to the wet paper, and that shown correctly which was the superposed ink at every one of the one hundred points of crossing. Many cases have occurred, in signatures written with different inks, where some letters in one cross, some letters in another, in which it becomes important to decide the order of sequence in writing. It is also frequently important to decide the order of sequence in writing. It is also frequently important when the genuineness of an addition, as of a date, is the thing in dispute. No subject can be more important or interesting to the business public or especially to bankers than that of the reliability of the lists of the genuineness of written papers. While it is true that in most cases there is some ear-mark beside the appearance of a signature, whereby to determine the genuineness of a document, it is also true that in many cases, and frequently in cases of great magnitude, payments are made on no other basis than the appearance of a writing. The most common class of these last cases is where "A" has been long known to be an endorser for "B," and where the connection between the two, which leads to the endorsements, is well known. There is nothing in the appearance in the market of a note of "B" endorsed by "A," that is, in any degree calculated to excite suspicion or to put a prospective purchaser upon his inquiry. If the endorsement of "A" resembles his usual handwriting, it is almost always accepted as genuine and if losses result from its proving to be counterfeit, they are set down to the score, not of imprudence, but of unavoidable misfortune. Thus, as the ingenuity of rogues constantly takes new forms, the ways and means by which they can be baffled in these enterprises are constantly being multiplied. The telegraph and telephone give facilities for promptly verifying a signature where one is in doubt. It happens not infrequently that the desire to get a given number of words into a definite space leads to an entirely unusual and foreign style of writing, in which the accustomed characteristics are so obscured or changed that only a systematic analysis can detect them. If there be no apparent reason for this appearance in lack of space, the cause may be the physical state of the writer or an attempt at simulation. If a sufficient number of genuine signatures are available, it can generally be determined which of these two explanations is the right one. Note illustrations of various kinds of handwriting in Appendix at end of this book. Particular attention is directed to the descriptions and analysis. They should be studied carefully. CHAPTER II FORGERY BY TRACING Forgeries Perpetrated by the Aid of Tracing a Common and Dangerous Method--Using Transparent Tracing Paper--How the Movements are Directed--Formal, Broken and Nervous Lines--Retouched Lines and Shades--Tracing Usually Presents a Close Resemblance to the Genuine--Traced Forgeries Not Exact Duplicates of Their Originals--The Danger of an Exact Duplication--Forgers Usually Unable to Exactly Reproduce Tracing--Using Pencil or Carbon-Guided Lines--Retouching Revealed under the Microscope--Tracing with Pen and Ink Over a Transparency--Making a Practice and Study of Signatures--Forgeries and Tracings Made by Skilful Imitators Most Difficult of Detection--Free-Hand Forgery and Tracing--A Few Important Matters to Observe in Detecting Forgery by Tracing--Photographs a Great Aid in Detecting Tracing--How to Compare Imitated and Traced Writing--Furrows Traced by Pen Nibs--Tracing Made by an Untrained Hand--Tracing with Pen and Ink Over a Transparency--Internal Evidence of Forgery by Tracing--Forgeries Made by Skilful Imitators--How to Determine Evidences of Forgery by Tracing--Remains of Tracings--Examining Paper in Transmitted Light--Freely Written Tracings--A Dangerous Method of Forgery. Forgery by tracing is one of the most common and most dangerous methods of forgery. There are two general methods of perpetrating forgeries, one by the aid of tracing, the other by free-hand writing. These methods differ widely in details, according to the circumstances of each case. Tracing can only be employed when a signature or writing is present in the exact or approximate form of the desired reproduction. It may then be done by placing the writing to be forged upon a transparency over a strong light, and then superimposing the paper upon which the forgery is to be made. The outline of the writing underneath will then appear sufficiently plain to enable it to be traced with pen or pencil, so as to produce a very accurate copy upon the superimposed paper. If the outline is with a pencil, it is afterward marked over with ink. Again, tracings are made by placing transparent tracing-paper over the writing to be copied and then tracing the lines over with a pencil. This tracing is then penciled or blackened upon the obverse side. When it is placed upon the paper on which the forgery is made, the lines upon the tracing are retraced with a stylus or other smooth hard point, which impresses upon the paper underneath a faint outline, which serves as a guide to the forged imitation. In forgeries perpetrated by the aid of tracing, the internal evidence is more or less conclusive according to the skill of the forger. In the perpetration of a forgery the mind, instead of being occupied in the usual function of supplying matter to be recorded, devotes its special attention to superintendence of the hand, directing its movements, so that the hand no longer glides naturally and automatically over the paper, but moves slowly with a halting, vacillating motion, as the eye passes to and from the copy to the pen, moving under the specific control of the will. Evidence of such a forgery is manifest in the formal, broken, nervous lines, the uneven flow of the ink, and the often retouched lines and shades. These evidences are unmistakable when studied with the aid of a microscope. Also, further evidence is adduced by a careful comparison of the disputed writing, noting the pen-pressure or absence of any of the delicate unconscious forms, relations, shades, etc., characteristic of the standard writing. Forgeries by tracings usually present a close resemblance in general form to the genuine, and are therefore most sure to deceive the unfamiliar or casual observer. It sometimes happens that the original writing from which the tracings were made is discovered, in which case the closely duplicated forms will be positive evidence of forgery. The degree to which one signature of writing duplicates another may be readily seen by placing one over the other, and holding them to a window or other strong light, or by close comparative measurements. Traced forgeries, however, are not, as is usually supposed, necessarily exact duplicates of their originals, since it is very easy to move the paper by accident or design while the tracing is being made, or while making the transfer copy from it; so that while it serves as a guide to the general features of the original, it will not, when tested, be an exact duplication. The danger of an exact duplication is quite generally understood by persons having any knowledge of forgery, and is therefore avoided. Another difficulty is that the very delicate features of the original writing are more or less obscured by the opaqueness of two sheets of paper, and are therefore changed or omitted from the forged simulation, and their absence is usually supplied, through force of habit, by equally delicate unconscious characteristics from the writing of the forger. Again, the forger rarely possesses the requisite skill to exactly reproduce his tracing. Much of the minutiae of the original writing is more or less microscopic, and from that reason passes unobserved by the forger. Outlines of writing to be forged are sometimes simply drawn with a pencil, and then worked up in ink. Such outlines will not usually furnish so good an imitation as to form, since they depend wholly upon the imitative skill of the forger. Besides the forementioned evidences of forgery by tracing, where pencil or carbon guide-lines are used which must necessarily be removed by rubber, there are liable to remain some slight fragments of the tracing lines, while the mill finish of the paper will be impaired and its fiber more or less torn out, so as to lie loose upon the surface. Also the ink will be more or less ground off from the paper, thus giving the lines a gray and lifeless appearance. And as retouchings are usually made after the guide-lines have been removed, the ink, wherever they occur, will have a more black and fresh appearance than elsewhere. All these phenomena are plainly manifest under the microscope. Where the tracing is made directly with pen and ink over a transparency, as is often done, no rubbing is necessary, and of course, the phenomena from rubbering does not appear. Where signatures or other writings have been forged by previously making a study and practice of the writing, to be copied until it has been to a greater or less degree idealized, the hand must be trained to its imitation so that it can be written with a more or less approximation as to form and natural freedom. Forgeries and tracings made by skilful imitators are the most difficult of detection, as the internal evidence of forgery by tracing is mostly absent. The evidence of free-hand forgery and tracing is chiefly in the greater liability of the forger to inject into the writing his own unconscious habit and to fail to reproduce with sufficient accuracy that of the original writing, so that when subjected to rigid analysis and microscopic inspection, the spuriousness is made manifest and demonstrable. Specific attention should be given to any hesitancy in form or movement in tracing which is manifest in angularity or change of direction of lines, changed relations and proportions of letters, slant of the writing, its mechanical arrangement, disconnected lines, retouched shades, etc. Photographs, greatly enlarged, of both the signatures in question and the exemplars placed side by side for comparison will greatly aid in making plain any evidence of forgery. If practicable, use for comparison as standards both the imitated writing and that of the imitator's traced writing. These methods, employed by skilled and experienced examiners, will rarely fail of establishing the true relationship between any two disputed handwritings and more especially where the question of a forged or traced signature is under discussion. Under the microscope tracing by the pen-nibs are usually easily visible, and they differ with every variety of pen employed. A stiff, fine-pointed pen makes two comparatively deep lines a short distance apart, which appear blacker in the writing than the space between them, because they fill with ink, which afterwards dries and produces a thicker layer of black sediment than those elsewhere. The variations of pressure upon the pen can be easily noticed by the alternate widening and narrowing of the band between these two furrows. The tracing appears knotty and uneven when made by an untrained hand, while it appears uniformly thin, and generally tremulous or in zigzags when made by a weak but trained hand. Where the tracing is made directly with pen and ink over a transparency, as is often done, no rubbing is necessary, and of course the phenomena from rubbering do not appear. Where signatures or other writings have been forged by previously making a study and practice of the writing to be copied until it has been to a greater or less degree idealized, the hand must be trained to its imitation so that it can be written with a more or less approximation as to form and with natural freedom. Forgeries thus made by skilful imitators are the most difficult of detection, as the internal evidence of forgery by tracing is mostly absent. The evidence of free-hand forgery is chiefly in the greater liability of the forger to inject into the writing his own unconscious habit, and to fail to reproduce with sufficient accuracy that of the original writing, so that when subjected to rigid analysis and microscopic inspection, the spuriousness is made manifest and demonstrable. Specific attention should be given to any hesitancy in form or movement, manifest in angularity or change of direction of lines, changed relations and proportions of letters, slant of the writing, its mechanical arrangement, disconnected lines, retouched shades, etc. Photographs, greatly enlarged, of both the signatures in question and the exemplars placed side by side for comparison will greatly aid in making plain any evidences of forgery by tracing. It sometimes occurs that the forger, fearful that his attempt to imitate another's writing would be too easily detected if made with a free hand, sketches in pencil the characters he intends to make in ink on the document, or traces them by means of blackened paper at the appropriate place. The evidences of this are very likely to appear when the document is examined in transmitted light. It is often asserted in trials that tracings of a genuine signature invariably show hesitation and painting. This is not always the fact. Tracings proven and subsequently admitted to have been such have shown an apparent absence of all constraint, and a careful examination of the result revealed no pause of the pen. But, on the other hand, these freely written tracings have invariably shown either a deviation from some habitual practice of the writer, or, if the model was followed with skill, two or three such tracings, when photographed on a transparent film and superposed, have shown such exact resemblances as to proclaim their character at once. The natural tendency of man is to introduce some elements of symbolism in what he is attempting to trace and to seek some sort of geometrical symmetry in what he designs. Wherever he is not restricted by certain forms which he must introduce, and which may render a balance of parts about a median line unattainable, he tends to evolve symmetrical designs, as in the highest and simplest forms of ancient architecture. When the parts of the design are prescribed, as in the representation of objects in nature, he soon tires of mere mechanical repetition of the same things in a given sequence, and strives to convey some ulterior idea by the manner of joining these parts. This gives life and language to sculpture and painting, and gives character to handwriting. Tracing signatures is one of the most common and dangerous methods of forgery. Some specimens of traced signatures are illustrated and explained in an Appendix at the end of this book. CHAPTER III HOW FORGERS REPRODUCE SIGNATURES Characteristics Appearing in Forged Signatures--Conclusions Reached by Careful Examinations--Signatures Written with Little Effort to Imitate--What a Clever Forger Can Do--Most Common Forgeries of Signatures--Reproducing a Signature over a Plate of Glass--A Window Frame Scheme for Reproducing Signatures--How the Paper is Held and the Ink Applied--How a Genuine Signature is Placed and Used--A Forger's Process of Tracing a Signature--How to Detect Ear Marks of Fraud in a Reproduced Signature--Prominent Features of Signatures Reproduced--Method Resorted to by Novices in Forging Signatures--Conditions Appearing in All Traced Signatures--Reproduction of Signatures Adopted by Expert Forgers--Making a Lead-Pencil Copy of a Signature--Erasing Pencil Signatures Always Discoverable by the Aid of a Microscope--Appearances and Conditions in Traced Signatures--How to Tell a Traced Signature--All the Details Employed to Reproduce a Signature Given--Features in Which Forgers are Careless--Handling of the Pen Often Leads to Detection--A Noted Characteristic of Reproduced Signatures--Want of Proportion in Writing Names Should Be Studied--Rules to Be Followed in Examining Signatures--System Employed by Experts in Studying Proof of Reproduced Signatures--Bankers and Business Men Should Avoid Careless Signatures. In detailing matters which experience suggests as importantly connected with the examination of disputed signatures, there are none more essential to a proper consideration of the subject than an understanding of those characteristics often appearing in forged signatures, and by which they are distinguished as such. When the features occurring as a concomitant of most forgeries are understood, their appearance may suggest a short and easy route to reach a conclusion: yet the careful and conscientious examiner will, even with these indications present in a disputed signature, institute a very careful and detailed study of the latter by comparison with the standard writings; and with as much effort as if the indications of forgery were not present. To make these features positive evidence, each other developed detail must also tend to the same deduction, and each detail must be compatible with every other feature, and all point to the same conclusion. As forgers differ in their capability as to accuracy in simulation, all grades of its proficiency come up in the experience of those who, as experts, are called upon to make such matters a study. At one extreme will be found to occur signatures written with but little effort to imitate the genuine signature they purport to represent; with all the intermediate grades of imitation extending to the other extreme, wherein a skilful forger will, by practice, so simulate the signature of a person and with such close resemblance that the very individual whose name is imitated cannot, independently of attending circumstances, tell the forgery from the signature which he knows he has written. Among the most common forgeries of signatures are those which have been traced from genuine ones, and these are produced in various ways; the most common method being to place the genuine signature over a plate of glass horizontally arranged, with a strong light behind it, or against the window frame, and then to place over the signature so positioned the paper on which the forgery is to be made. When this has been done the papers are held in contact firmly, the pen is dipped-in ink and moved over the paper, guided by the lines of the genuine signature beneath, which show through the superimposed paper, and by means of which the form of the signature is transferred to the paper, which is exteriorly placed. While the process of tracing produces very nearly the proper form of the matter thus copied, and if well done by the forger the copy will in general appearance and to a certain extent resemble in outline the signature thus traced, there are usually apparent in all reproduced signatures thus made, peculiarities and ear marks indicating the manner in which they were produced and by which they can be identified as such. One of the most prominent features of reproduced signatures is the general sameness of the writing as appearing in the uniform width of the lines, and the omission of the usual shading emphasis. The cause of this appearance is the absence of habitual pen pressure, and the necessitated slow movement of the pen held closely in contact with the paper and by which a uniform and steady flow of ink is deposited thereon; thus making what should be the heavier and lighter lines of one width and density as to shading. This method of tracing and reproducing signatures is that usually resorted to by novices but is seldom employed by expert forgers. Another condition appearing in all traced signatures is the absence of all evidence of pen pressure when examined as a transparency; this deficiency occurring as consequent upon the manner of moving the pen over the paper. While signatures thus made may resemble the one from which they are copied, the only likeness they have is that of pictorial resemblance and it will be found to be destitute of all the appearances and indications of habitual writing in other respects. Another method of tracing signatures is frequently resorted to by persons adept in the art, and this consists in making a lead-pencil copy of the genuine signature holding the paper on which the forgery is to be produced; tracing the outline of the signature by means of a pencil, and then with ink to write over the pencil copy. But as the method necessitates the use of an india rubber to remove the surplus black lead where not covered by the ink, evidences of the use of the rubber will be found to occur, and traces of the black lead can be found by the microscope. While the appearances and conditions are common to traced signatures, there are in addition to their presence generally found evidences of pauses made in the writing, the effect of which will appear not as shading of the lines, but as irregularities or excrescences produced thereon by resting the hand in its movement, and by which at intervals more ink flowed from the pen than would occur when the latter was being moved habitually over the paper. Where the signatures of the same person exactly coincide when one is laid over the other in parallel arrangement with a strong light behind them, this condition of their appearance is very positive evidence that one of them was traced from the other and is a forgery, as it is a circumstance which cannot possibly occur in the writing of two signatures produced habitually. In considering reproduced signatures and forged writing and in detailing some of the most common features which are found to occur in it, it must not be understood that all the phenomena attending the production of forged signatures can be given. Inasmuch as each person has a peculiar muscular co-ordination that is manifested in the production of habitually written signatures, so each forger from the same cause has an individual habit that must be used when simulating; hence there will be as many styles of writing manifested in production of forgeries as there are forgers to produce them. No positive rule can be laid down for the classification of their peculiarities excepting the manner of accuracy with which the simulation appearing in them is done. Each case of disputed writing must be examined by itself, and while there are certain process steps to be followed which experience suggests as facilitating the analysis, yet the examiner must wholly depend upon what is seen in the disputed signature that is, or is not, found in the admittedly genuine writing of the person whose signature is questioned, and the comparison of the one with the other. Reproduced signatures often show a copying effort that is manifested in the details of their production. These evidences generally appear, in some instances, as pauses made in the lines connecting the letters of the signature, where the pen rested while the eye of the forger was directed from the writing being done to the copy, that the writer could fix in the mind the form of a succeeding letter. These pauses appear in different measure of prominence in different forgeries, and there is no rule as to their measure or appearance. With some forgers the pen rests with considerable emphasis and with others it is lifted from the paper and returned to the paper while the eye of the writer goes back to the copy. With others there will appear but little hesitancy. Some forgers, well skilled in the art, will, by practicing the simulation until they have the form of the genuine signature well fixed in the mind, become enabled to produce a forged copy of a genuine signature that will show no pauses--hence the absence of pauses is not proof of the genuine character of a signature. Another common characteristic of forged and reproduced signatures and particularly such of them as are not traced and are produced by persons not skilled in the art is found in the studied appearance which they have, as if written under restraint, and without the apparent freedom consequent upon habitual writing. Another characteristic of forged signatures that are not traced from a genuine signature is that they are written with greater length in proportion to the width and height of the letters, than occurs in the genuine signature from which they are copied in imitation. This want of proportion occurs generally from making the lines connecting the letters of the signature longer than those of the copy. At the same time, while these characteristics are common to forged writing, to make them available in formulating an opinion from an analysis they must be substantiated by every other occurring in the writing. It must be clearly kept in view that general impressions derived from a cursory examination of a disputed or reproduced signature should have no weight in the mind of the examiner before proceeding with the analysis, as such an impression is apt to lead the investigation into a particular line of research and it should be understood that the work of the examiner must relate to the comparison of the details in each of the writings as to their correspondence or difference. As before stated in this chapter, and a fact that should be remembered in studying fraudulent signatures, that one of the commonest and easiest means of reproducing a signature is to put the genuine signature on a piece of glass, lay another piece of glass on top of it and fasten the piece of paper that is to receive the forgery on top of that. Then by holding the glass strips to a bright light, the original signature casts a shadow through, which may be traced in pencil. From this tracing the ink forgery is completed. But when a forgery done in this way is put under a strong magnifying lens it will not bear scrutiny. If the original has a strong down stroke on the capital letters the movement will be free and will leave the pen lines with smooth edges. The man who is tracing such letters cannot trust himself to the same free movement of the pen and the result under the glass shows hesitancy and uncertainty. Also if other lines in the signature be lighter than the forger naturally uses the same hesitancy will be shown. When the lines have passed scrutiny, too, there is another "line" test which will show that the impossibility of one's writing two signatures alike has been accomplished. From dotted points made above the genuine signature straight lines are drawn radiating from it to certain portions of certain letters in the signature that is forged. When the forged signature is replaced in the glass and the other on top, as is done in the tracing, these radiating lines will fall one upon the other with the exactness of the lines in the signatures. These radiating lines, too, may be used in the few cases where the forger is an expert penman depending upon an offhand duplication of a signature. This penman will have his inevitable natural slant to his letters. This characteristic slant never is the same in two individuals. In his free and easy forgery of a name written by another person this "Jim, the penman" exposes his acquired slant which disputes the original. This slant of individual writing shows especially in any attempt to write a forged letter or document. When the pen scope of the original has been lined out, proving the characteristic common lengths between the lifting of the pen from the paper, the lines radiating from the points to individual letters in words or groups of words in authentic and bogus specimens, these radiations point at once to the fact that the same person did not write the matter. These are some of the things upon which the handwriting expert works upon and brings to bear in proof of reproduced signatures and handwriting in general. How the more or less inexpert person discovers questionable showing in these duplications are many. His intuitions may suggest his doubts. Material evidences may have come to bear upon him. Likelihood of some one person's having self-interests in the matter may induce him to make sure. In the case of a banker or business man, having large interests and required to affix his signature to many papers of moment, he ordinarily makes it certain that through adapted whorls and freehand sweeps of the pen, the signature will be least careless and inviting to the adventurous forger. In much of his personal correspondence with strangers, however, this adapted and unusual signature frequently becomes a source of loss to himself and irritation to his correspondents. In the case of hundreds of such individuals, the writing to a stranger in expectation of a reply becomes an absurdity for the reason that the person addressed is hopelessly barred from reading the name attached to the letter. A plain signature is always the best. CHAPTER IV ERASURES, ALTERATIONS AND ADDITIONS What Erasure Means--The English Law--What a Fraudulent Alteration Means--Altered or Erased Parts Considered--Memoranda of Alterations Should Always Accompany Paper Changed--How Added Words Should be Treated--How to Erase Words and Lines Without Creating Suspicion--Writing Over an Erasure--How to Determine Whether or Not Erasures or Alterations Have Been Made--Additions and Interlineations--What to Apply to the Suspected Document--The Alcohol Test Absolute--How to Tell which of Crossing Ink Lines were Made First--Ink and Pencil Alterations and Erasures--Treating Paper to Determine Erasures, Alterations and Additions--Appearance of Paper Treated as Directed--Paper That Does Not Reveal Tampering--How Removal of Characters From a Paper is Effected--Easy Means of Detecting Erasures--Washing With Chemical Reagents--Restoration of Original Marks--What Erasure on Paper Exhibits--Erasure in Parchments--Identifying Typewritten Matter--Immaterial Alterations--Altering Words in an Instrument--Alterations and Additions Are Immaterial When Interests of Parties Are Not Changed or Affected--Erasure of Words in an Instrument. Erasure or erazuer, as it is more commonly called in England, from the Latin word "scrape or shave" is the scraping or shaving of a deed, note, signature, amount or of any formal writing. In England, except in the case of a will, the presumption, in the absence of rebutting testimony, is that the erasure was made at or before the execution thereof. If an alteration or erasure has been made in any instrument subsequent to its execution, that fact ought to be mentioned (in the abstract or epitome of the evidence of ownership) together with the circumstances under which it is done. A fraudulent alteration, if made by the person himself, taking under it would vitiate his interest altogether. It was formerly considered that an alteration, erasure or interlineation would void the instrument entirely, even in those cases where it was made by a stranger; but the law is now otherwise, as it is clearly settled that no alterations made by a stranger will prevent the contents of an instrument from retaining its original effect and operation, where it can be plainly shown what that effect and operation actually was. To accomplish this the mutilated instrument may be given in evidence as far as its contents appear and evidence will be admitted to show what portions have been altered or erased, and also the words contained in such altered or erased parts; but if, for want of such evidence or any deficiency or uncertainty arising out of it the original contents of the instruments cannot be ascertained, then the old rule would become applicable or more correctly speaking, the mutilated instrument would become void for uncertainty. If a will contains any alterations or erasures, the attention of the witnesses ought to be directed to the particular parts in which such alterations occur, and they ought to place their initials in the margin opposite, before the will is executed, etc., notice this having been done by a memorandum added to the attestation clause at the end of the will. In Scotland the rule as to erasure is somewhat stricter than in England and the United States, the legal inferences being that such alterations were made after execution. As to necessary or bona-fide alterations which may be desired by the parties, corrections or clerical errors and the like after a paper is written out but before signature, the rule usually followed is that the deed must show that they have been advisedly adopted by the party; and this will be effected by mentioning them in the body of the writing. Thus if some words are erased and others superinduced, you mention that the superinduced words were written over an erasure; if words are simply delite that fact is noticed, if words are added it ought to be on the margin and such additions signed by the party with his Christian name on one side and his surname on the other; and such marginal addition must be noticed in the body of the work so as to specify the page on which it occurs, the writer of it and that it is subscribed by the attesting witness. The Roman rule was that the alterations should be made by the party himself and a formal clause was introduced with their deeds to that effect. As a general rule alterations with the pen are in all cases to be preferred to erasure; and suspicion will be most effectually removed by not obliterating the words altered so completely as to conceal the nature of the correction. The law of the United States follows that of England and Scotland in regard to alterations and erasures. If any one will try the experiment of erasing an ink-mark on ordinary writing paper, and then writing over the erasure, he will notice a striking difference between the letters on the unaltered surface. The latter are broader, and in most cases, to the unaided eye, darker in color, while the erased spot, if not further treated to some substitute for sizing, may be noticed either when the paper is held between a light and the eye, or when viewed obliquely at a certain angle, or in both cases. Very frequently it happens that so much of the size and the superficial layer of fibres must be removed that the mark of the ink can be distinctly seen on the reverse side of the paper, and the lines have a distinct border which makes them broader than in the same writing under normal conditions. If a sharp pen be used there is great likelihood that a hole will be made in the paper, or a sputter thrown over the parts adjacent to the erasure. The latter effect is produced by the entanglement of the point of the pen among the disturbed fibres of the paper and its sudden release when sufficient force is used to carry it along in the direction of the writing. It is often of importance to know, in case of a blot, whether the erasure it may partially mark was there before the blot, or whether it was made with the object of removing the latter. Inasmuch as an attempt to correct such a disfigurement would in all probability not be made until the ink had dried, an inspection of the reverse side of the paper will usually furnish satisfactory evidence on the point. If the color of the ink be not more distinct on the under side of the paper than the color of other writing where there was no erasure, it is probable that the erasure was subsequent to the blot. If the reverse be the case, the opposite conclusion may be drawn. Blots are sometimes used by ignorant persons to conceal the improper manipulation of the paper, but they are not adapted to aid this kind of fraud, and least of all to conceal erasures. The decision as to whether they have been made legitimately and before a paper was executed, or subsequently to its execution, and with fraudulent intent, must be arrived at by a comparison of the handwriting in which the words appear, the ink with which they were written, and the local features of each special case which usually are not wanting. To determine whether or not papers contain erasures the suspected document should be examined by reflected and transmitted light. Examine the surface for rough spots. Forgers after erasures frequently endeavor to hide the scratched and roughened surface by applying a sizing of alum, sandarach powder, etc., rubbing it to restore the finish to the paper. Distilled water applied to the suspected document at the particular points under examination will dissolve the sizing applied by the forger. If held to the light the thinning will show. The water may be applied with a small brush or a medicine dropper. Water slightly warmed may be used with good results at times. Alcohol, if applied as described for water, will act more promptly and show the scratched places. It may be well to use water first and then alcohol. To discover whether or not acids were used to erase, if moistened litmus-paper be applied to the writing, the litmus-paper will become slightly red if there is any acid remaining on the suspected document. If the suspected spots be treated with distilled water, or alcohol, as already described, the doctored place will show, when examined in strong light. Which of two inklines crossing each other was made first, is not always easy of demonstration. To the inexperienced observer the blackest line will always appear to be on top, and unless the examiner has given much intelligent observation to the phenomenon and the proper methods of observing it mistakes are very liable to be made. Owing to the well-known fact that an inked surface presents a stronger chemical affinity for ink than does a paper surface, when one ink-line crosses another, the ink will flow out from the crossing line upon the surface of the line crossed, slightly beyond where it flows upon the paper surface on each side, thus causing the crossing line to appear broadened upon the line crossed. Also an excess of ink will remain in the pen furrows of the crossing line, intensifying them and causing them to appear stronger and blacker than the furrows of the line crossed. It is probable that ink and pencil alterations and erasures are more frequently made with a sharp steel scraper and ink-erasing sand rubber than otherwise. By these methods the evidence--first, the removal of the luster or mill-finish from the surface of the paper; second, the disturbance of the fibre of the paper, manifest under a microscope; third, if written over, the ink will run or spread more or less in the paper, presenting a heavier appearance, and the edges of the lines will be less sharply defined; fourth, if erasure is made on ruled paper, the base line will be broken or destroyed over the scraped or rubbed surface; fifth, the paper, since it has been more or less reduced in thickness where the erasure has been made, when held to the light will show more or less transparency. When erasures have been thus made the surface of the paper may be resized and polished, by applying white glue, and rubbing it over with a burnisher. When thus treated it may be again written over without difficulty. When erasures have been made with acids, there is a removal of the gloss, or mill-finish; and there is also more or less discoloration of the paper, which will vary according to the kind of paper, ink, and acid used, and the skill with which it has been applied. If the acid-treated surface is again written over, the writing will present a more or less ragged and heavy appearance, if the paper has not been first skillfully resized and burnished. It is very seldom that writing can be changed by erasure so as not to leave sufficient traces to lead to detection and demonstration through a skillful examination. Upon hard uncalendered paper erasures by acid when skillfully made are not conspicuously manifest, nor when made upon any hard paper which has been "wet down" for printing, since the luster upon the paper would be thereby removed, and, so far as the surface of the paper is concerned, there would be no further change from the application of the acid. This applies to a wide range of printed blank business and professional forms. A forgery consists either in erasing from a document certain marks which existed upon it, or in adding others not there originally, or in both operations, of which the first mentioned is necessarily antecedent to the last; as where one character or series of characters is substituted for another. The removal of characters from a paper is effected either by erasure (seldom by pasting some opaque objects over the characters, painting over them, or affixing a seal, wafer, etc., to the spot where they existed) or by the use of chemical agents with the object of dissolving the writing fluid and affecting the underlying paper or parchment as little as possible. If the erasure be effected by scratching or rubbing, this removes also the surface of the paper, which consists of some sort of "size" or paste with resin soap, which is pressed into the upper pores to give the paper a smooth appearance, and to prevent the writing fluid from "running," or entering the pores and blurring the edges of the lines. If the paper were left as it exists when the scratching or rubbing is completed, it would be very easy to see that it had been tampered with, for not only would the parts thus abrased show the running of any fluid which was subsequently laid upon them, but the surface would appear rough to the eye in comparison with adjacent parts of the paper, and the place would appear thinner by transmitted light. Even to the touch the surface would reveal differences from the ordinary condition of other parts of the paper. But the forger usually endeavors to overcome these difficulties by applying to the scratched area sandarach, resin, alum, paste, or two or three of these together, the effect being to prevent an unusually large flow of ink from the pen and its abnormal absorption by the paper. The paper should be placed between the observer and a strong light, by which means, either with or without a magnifying-glass, a distinct increase in the brightness of the suspected area may be noticed, indicating a thinning, and even traces of letters, or marks which have escaped the erasing-tool, may be seen. A close scrutiny may show places where the surface has been partially torn, and the fibres of the paper united together into little knobs, and almost invariably a magnifying-glass will clearly show the disturbance of the superficial fibres, as compared with other and normal parts of the paper. If the latter be tinted, the change of appearance may extend to color. The color of the paper should always be attentively observed. A change of color over the part which is the subject of investigation may indicate the mechanical removal of the paper itself, or a washing either with water or with acids, alkalies, or saline solutions. A certain spotted character which follows this latter treatment differs from the changes of color due to age or soiling. When the heavier strokes--usually the down strokes--of a writing are thicker and more blurred than usual a removal of sizing is indicated, or an original imperfect sizing of the paper. On the contrary, where the strokes are thinner and closer together than usual, the cause is generally the application of resin, which has been added, in all probability, to conceal a previous scratching of the surface. The spots produced by washing are more like penumbra, or blurred marks bordering the tracings of the character, and are generally colored. In order to bring out any traces of ink-marks which have been so far removed as not to be observable by the naked eye, Coulier recommended the placing of the document between sheets of white filter paper and passing a hot flatiron over it, allowing the latter to remain on the spotted parts for a short time. Another method is to wet the suspected paper or document with alcohol, wrapped in another piece of paper also saturated with alcohol, for the purpose of bringing out as yellow rusty marks all the pen strokes which had not been entirely removed by erasure. This treatment fixes the appearance of the spread lines and colored spots in the space that has been washed and renders more noticeable the stain caused by a partial sizing. In this manner apparently white paper on which at first no traces of characters could be found showed a yellow tinge, denoting the presence of previous writing, and on the application of gallic acid and an infusion of nut-galls became sufficiently distinct to permit the erasure and forgery to be detected. When an erasure is made on the surface of such a paper, the mineral and organic materials of the sizing and loading are removed, and the fibres of the paper which they unite are deranged in form and position. Such a surface exhibits invariably the teased-up ends of the fibres, and generally shows by the agreement in their direction in what way the scratching was done. Even in cases where a substitute for the sizing has been so successfully added that no change in color or surface is observable, the fibres will show by their unusual positions that they have been disturbed. When an attempt has been made to write over the place without sufficiently restoring the sizing, the effects can be seen in the running of the ink between the fibres and the staining of the body of the paper to a considerable depth from the surface and to a considerable distance from the spot. Erasures in parchments produce prominences on the opposite side of the sheet. The ink placed upon such erasures has a peculiar bluish tinge. It happens at times that a whole page is taken out, either by scratching or rubbing with pumice (which was the practice in the eleventh century, when a parchment became so valuable that it was common to keep up the supply by erasing the writing on old parchments) or by washing. When the latter method was used, the writing as in palimpsests can be made to reappear by warming. The parchment can be either laid on a hot plate or pressed with a hot flatiron between two sheets of paper. Where the supposed writer of a document was a bad or careless penman the interlineations or additions are generally distinguished from his handwriting, which they simulate, by greater clearness and precision, as has been said above; for when a man will risk being sent to jail for forgery it is not likely that he is willing to lose any prospective advantage which his felony will bring him by lack of distinctness in the characters by means of which it is perpetrated. Considering the number of fraudulent additions or interlineations which are constantly made, the number of mistakes in spelling or in following the method employed by the supposed writer in forming the same words is surprisingly great. Several instances are recalled where the name of the supposed writer was not only mispelled but spelled in two different ways in the same instrument. It occasionally seems as if the forger's attention is so earnestly directed to overcoming the difficult parts of his task that he neglects the simpler and more obvious parts. A forger generally leaves some telltale marks to make his detection certain. Since typewriting has come so generally into use, the question often arises as to the identity of typewriting by different operators as well as that done on different machines. This may usually be done with considerable degree of certainty. Different operators have their own peculiar methods, which differ widely in many respects,--in the mechanical arrangement, as to location of date, address, margins, punctuation, spacing, signing, as well as impression from touch, etc. The distinctive character of the writing done on different machines is usually determined with absolute certainty. With most machines there are accidental variations in alignment. Certain letters from use become more or less imperfect, or become filled or fouled with ink. It is highly improbable that any one even of these accidents should occur in precisely the same way upon two machines, and that any two or more should do so is well nigh impossible. It is equally certain that all the habits and mannerisms of the operators would not be precisely the same. A careful comparison of different typewritings in these respects cannot fail to determine whether they are written by the same operator or upon the same machine. It should be remembered that writing upon the same machine will differ in all the respects mentioned at different stages of its use and condition. An immaterial alteration is one which does not change the legal effect or significance of an instrument. If what has been written upon or erased from the instrument has no tendency to mislead any person to the instrument, it will not be an alteration; it is immaterial also where the meaning is in no manner varied or changed. The courts uniformly hold that an immaterial alteration should be treated as no alteration and therefore does not avoid the instrument. Altering words in the instrument without changing the legal sense or altering immaterial words is an immaterial alteration. Retracing a faded name with ink, or tracing a word with ink written with pencil, is immaterial. Alterations and additions in deeds are immaterial where neither the rights or duties, interests or obligations, of either of the parties to the instrument are in any manner changed or affected. A promissory note made payable to a partnership under a certain name was altered by the maker and the payee without the knowledge of the surety so as to be payable to the same parties under another name and the court held it to be immaterial. But the effect of the correction must be that it makes the instrument conform to the intention of the parties concerned, nor must they alter the legal sense of the instrument. Memoranda made on the margin of the note for the convenience of the holder and merely explanatory of some circumstances connected with the note are immaterial. The erasure of words immaterial to the legal sense of the instrument or inserted by mistake, is also immaterial. Where an alteration is in itself immaterial it will not void an instrument even though made with fraudulent intent. In Missouri it has been held that any alteration material or immaterial, made fraudulently or innocently, avoids a note in the hands of one who made the alteration. But in a later Missouri case, it is held, that the addition of the signature of a married woman without a separate estate to a note already issued was a nullity and without legal effect and therefore to be considered as no alteration and not to discharge the original parties. CHAPTER V HOW TO WRITE A CHECK TO PREVENT FORGING How a Paying Teller Determines the Amount of a Check--Written Amount and Amount in Figures Conflict--Depositor Protected by Paying Teller--Chief Concern of Drawer of a Check--Transposing Figures--Writing a Check That Cannot Be Raised--Writers Who Are Easy Marks for Forgers--Safeguards for Those Who Write Checks--An Example of Raised Checks--Payable "To Bearer" is Always a Menace--Paying Teller and an Endorsement System Must Be Observed in Writing Checks--How a Check Must Be Written to Be Absolutely Safe--A Signature that Cannot Be Tampered with Without Detection--Paying Tellers Always Vigilant. Among the casual patrons of the average bank there is a superstition that in presenting a check at a teller's window the amount of the check shall be determined by the amount spelled out in the body of the check, without regard to the figures written at the top or bottom of the slip. Nothing could be farther from the facts as they are accepted at the bank window. As a matter of fact, when a check made out in this erroneous way comes to a teller's window he is most likely to refuse to pay either amount. There is no law, written or unwritten, to justify the paying of the amount spelled out in the body of the check, regardless of the group of figures on its face. This figure group is designed merely to check and justify the written amount, but if there is a discrepancy between the two amounts there is nothing to indicate that it is not the written amount that is wrong and the figure group that is right. Under such circumstances the chief duty of the teller is to protect the depositor who has drawn the check on his bank. The person who presents the check for payment manifestly has been a party to the mistake in not having read over the check carefully before receiving it. If the payee is unknown to the teller and if the discrepancy is at all material, the teller turns the check back with the advice that the payee look up the drawer and have the error corrected. In many cases of discrepancy between the two amounts on the face of a check the sum involved is the fractional part of the dollar at the end of the chief figures. This comes about through the drawer's concern over the main figures in the check. He is likely to write the amount in letters on the center line of the body of the check, affixing the fractional part of a dollar in the form of 100th parts of that unit. In writing the checking group in figures at the upper or lower corner of the slip, his chief concern is with the dollars and in his care he is likely to overlook the odd cents first entered on the face of the paper. Or if he attempts to write the figures "74" cents in repetition it is likely that they may be transposed to "47" cents in the operation. How to write this check in order that it may not be tampered with and "raised" is something that has held the attentions and invited the inventive talents of many people, in and out of business. Even when the best of the chemical papers are used in the bank check the drawer of the paper may have not the slightest protection from "raising" at the hands of an expert. The manner in which the written and figure amounts on the face of the check are placed makes the material alteration of the amount easy beyond question. For instance, the man who writes with a free, flowing, rounded hand and leaves roomy spaces everywhere between words and figures becomes an easy mark for a forger. This man is called upon to draw his check for $4, even. He takes his check book and in the dollar line writes the word "four" in his rounded hand, simply filling the rest of the lined space with the plain flourish of his pen. Then in the upper corner of the check he writes the attesting figure $4, with a dash after it. That makes it a cinch for an expert check raiser to make it $40 or $400 or $4,000. Manifestly the only safeguard for such a check as this, even if it be drawn upon chemical paper, is for the drawer to follow close upon the written "four" with the blocking "No-100th" dollars, using the same fraction as closely after the figure "4" in the corner of the check. To leave no possible room after a final written or figure amount on a check is the best possible precaution against raising it. For with many checks the printed warning "Not good if drawn for more than one hundred dollars," is a worthless precaution. In the above example it is so, for the reason that raised as it is the amount still is within the limit. Had the check been drawn in the same style for "six" dollars, it would have been more easily and profitably raised to "sixty." In the same general manner a slovenly "two" may be raised to "twenty," "three" may be "thirty," "five" is made "fifty," "seven" becomes "seventy," "eight" becomes "eighty," and "nine" is transformed into "ninety"--all without erasures and without leaving telltale marks upon a chemical paper. In this way the average check which is made payable "to bearer" may be a potential menace in a slow course through a dozen hands. While a bank may require the holder of a "bearer" check to indorse his name upon the back, that indorsement means nothing to him. The check is payable to the bearer and the teller must pay it if it appears all right and he is certain of the signature at the bottom. For the average man who may write his checks at a desk, and who may be willing to observe some system in the writing, perhaps the safest and cheapest protection for his paper is to repeat in red-ink figures the amount for which the check is drawn, placing those figures on the signature line at the bottom in such a manner that the black-ink signature will be woven through the red-ink group. Virtually there is no way of getting around this form of duplicated amount. The red figures show plainly through the signature and cannot be changed without affecting the form and character of the signature itself. To affect a signature in this way is to call attention to the fraud instantly. A man may make a shaky mismove of the pen somewhere in the body of the check, and if it is not too prominent a teller may take a chance and pass it; but he will shy at a signature which isn't what it ought to be--that subtle sixth sense of the old teller prompts him to it before he knows why, and a paying teller is always vigilant. CHAPTER VI METHODS OF FORGERS, CHECK AND DRAFT RAISERS Professional Forgers and Their Methods--Using Engravers and Lithographers--Their Knowledge of Chemicals--Patching Perforated Paper--Difficult Matter to Detect Alterations and Forgeries--Selecting Men for the Work--The Middle Man, Presenter, and Shadow--Methods for Detecting Forgery--Detail Explanation of How Forgers Work--Altering and Raising Checks and Drafts--A Favorite Trick of Forgers--Opening a Bank Account for a Blind--Private Marks on Checks no Safeguard--How a Genuine Signature Is Secured--Bankers Can Protect Themselves--A Forger the Most Dangerous Criminal--Bankers Should Scrutinize Signatures--Sending Photograph with Letter of Advice--How to Secure Protection Against Forgers--Manner in Which Many Banks Have Been Swindled--Points About Raising Checks and Drafts That Should Be Carefully Noted. A professional forgery band consists of first, a capitalist or backer; second, the actual forger, known among his associates as the "scratcher"; third, the man who acts as confidential agent for the forger, known as the "middle man"; fourth, the man who presents the forged paper at the bank for payment, known as the "layer down" or presenter. When it is necessary to have a capitalist or backer connected with a band he furnishes the funds for the organization, frequently lays out the plans for work and obtains the genuine paper from which forgeries are made. He will, when necessary, find the engraver, the lithographer and most important of all, the "professional forger," who will do the actual forgery work. The professional forger has, as a rule, considerable knowledge of chemicals, which enables him to alter checks, drafts, bills of exchange, letters of credit, or to change the names on registered bonds. He is something of an artist, too, for with a fine camel's hair brush he can restore the most delicate tints in bank safety paper, which tints have been destroyed by the use of acids. In fact no bank safety paper is a protection against him. When the amount of the genuine draft or check is perforated in the paper, certain forgers have reached such perfection in their work as to enable them to cut out the perforation, put in a patch about the same as a shoemaker does with a shoe and then skilfully color the patch to agree with the original, so that it becomes a very difficult matter to detect the alterations even with the use of a microscope. This done and the writing cleaned off the face of the draft, check, letter of credit, or bill of exchange, with only the genuine signature left and the tints on the paper restored, the forger is prepared to fill up the paper for any amount decided upon. The backer or capitalist is rarely known to any member of the band outside the "go-between," whom he makes use of to find the forger. He very rarely allows himself to become known to the men who "present" the forged paper at the banks. If the forgery scheme is successful, the backer receives back the money paid out for the preparation of the work as well as any amount he may have lent the "band" to enable them to open accounts at banks where they propose placing the forged paper. He is also allowed a certain percentage on all successful forgeries, this percentage running from 20 to 30 per cent; but where the backer and forger are working together, their joint percentage is never less than 50 per cent. It is an invariable rule followed by the backer and forger that in selecting a middle man they select one who not only has the reputation of being a "stanch" man, but he must also be a man who has at least one record of conviction standing against him. This is for the additional protection of the backer and forger, as they know that in law the testimony of an accomplice who is also a former convict must be strongly corroborated to be believed. Out of their first successful forgeries a certain sum from each man's share is held by the middle man to be used in the defense of any member of the band who may be arrested on the trip. This money is called "fall money" and is used to employ counsel for the men under arrest or to do anything for them that may be for their interest. When a "middle man" is exceedingly cautious and not entirely satisfied with the "presenters" he will sometimes have an assistant. This is where the "shadow" comes in. This shadow will under the direction of the "middle man" follow the "presenter" into the bank and report fully on his actions. He sometimes catches the "presenter" in an attempt to swindle his companions by claiming that he did not get the money, but had to get out of the bank in a hurry and leave the check or draft, as the paying teller was suspicious. A "presenter" caught at this trick is sometimes sent into a bank to present a forged check where the bank has been previously warned of his coming by an anonymous letter. This is done as a punishment for his dishonesty and as a warning to others against treachery. That the professional forger eventually profits but little by his ill-gotten gains is well illustrated by the fate of the most of them, who end their days in prison. In the case of a forgery there are a dozen methods for detecting it--in the quality of the ink, in the quality of paper, in microscopic examination of the irregularities in penmanship, in "labored" tracings that show exaggerated tracings, in composite photography, and by a dozen little common-sense observations that scarcely can be controverted. Some forgeries have been detected by the mere water-mark in the paper. Sittl of Munich is quoted as having had referred to him a possible forgery of a document dated 1868. Holding the paper to the light, he found as a water-mark in it the figure of the eagle of the German Empire--a symbol which had not been adopted at all until after the French war of 1870. The magnifying glass is depended upon for many disclosures of forgeries. The unduly serrated edges of the ink lines are quickly marked in a forgery, though under certain circumstances a situation may be such as to force a person into this laborious writing; he may be cramped up in bed, writing on a book held in his lap, or he may be in a mental strain that produces it. There are minds so easily impressed with a sense of responsibility that the writing or signing of any paper important in its bearing on the writer or his property will cause him to disguise his hand to some extent involuntarily, as many persons disguise their features involuntarily when being photographed. As to signatures especially, attention is called to the "tremor of fraud," which is to be detected by the microscope, and stress is laid upon the necessity of observing just where this tremor falls. If it is in a difficult flourish of the signature and not elsewhere it indicates fraud; or if it be tremulous to the eye, in imitation of the signature of an aged person, a smooth, curved line may be the index of "the difficulty experienced by a good penman in feigning to be a bad one." The microscope is useful and valuable in determining whether erasures have been made on paper. Also it will discover which of two crossed lines was last written. It may determine whether the ragged edges of the ink lines are those of fraud, illiteracy, or old age. The practice of forging the names of depositors in banks to checks, drafts, notes, and in fact to all papers representing a money value, has been practiced, probably, since the creation of man. Of course the law recognizes forgery as a serious crime, and everywhere the punishment is severe. In the seventeenth century it was a capital offense in England, and there were more persons executed for that crime than there were for murder. Notwithstanding the rigorous penalty prescribed in every state in the Union, forgery is carried on to an alarming extent, sometimes by trusted employees, as well as professionals. The raising of checks and drafts is the principal method employed by the men who make a business of defrauding the unwary. The simplest way of explaining the operation of raising a draft or check is as follows: Two men are necessary for success at any given point, and hence they are not so liable to detection as if a number of confederates were engaged. It is the business of one of these men to enter a bank, and purchase a draft on New York City, for a certain amount of money, usually about fifteen hundred dollars, and a short time after this another draft would be procured from the same bank for a small amount, seldom over ten dollars. These drafts procured, they are handed to the "raiser," or the man who is to alter the paper for their dishonest purposes. In a short time the small draft is raised to be a perfect duplicate of the large one, in every sense of the word, both as regards number, amount, place of presentation, etc. This work of alteration being fully completed, one of the men would then remove to another city, and forward the "raised" draft to New York, by express, for collection, or else would go to that city himself, and have it cashed through some respectable person. Immediately on receiving the money he would telegraph his companion, in words previously agreed upon, informing him of the successful result of the first move. The other confederate, upon the receipt of this information, would at once go to the bank where the drafts had been procured, and presenting the genuine draft for the large amount of money, would request that the money be refunded, giving as an excuse for not using it, either that he could not be identified in the New York bank, and for that reason could not collect it, or that the business he had procured it for had not been consummated. The bank officials would recognize him as the person who purchased the draft, and would unhesitatingly hand him back the money which he had paid. Of course he would quickly disappear from the locality, never to be seen in it again--and the forgery would not be discovered until, in the due course of ordinary business, when the other draft for the same amount would be returned for payment. A favorite trick of forgers, and check and draft raisers, who operate on an extensive scale, is for one of them to open an office in a city, and represent himself as a cattle dealer, lumber merchant, or one looking about for favorable real-estate investments. His first move is to open a bank account, and then works to get on friendly terms with the cashier. He always keeps a good balance--sometimes way up in the thousands--and deports himself in such a manner as to lead to the belief that he is a highly honorable gentleman, and the bank officials are led to the belief that he will eventually become a very profitable customer. Occasionally he has a note, for a small amount to begin with, always first-class, two-name paper, and he never objects--usually insists--in paying a trifle more than the regular discount. At first the bank officials closely examine the paper offered, and of course find that the endorsers are men of high standing, and then their confidence in the "cattle king" is unbounded. Gradually the notes increase in amount, from a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars, and from fifteen hundred to two or three thousand. The notes are promptly paid at maturity. After the confidence of the bank people has been completely gained, the swindler makes a strike for his greatest effort. He comes in the bank in a hurry, presents a sixty-day note, endorsed by first-class men, for a larger amount than he has ever before requested, and it generally happens that he gets the money without the slightest difficulty. Then he has a sudden call to attend to important business elsewhere. When the note or notes mature, it is discovered to be a clever forgery. This has been done time and again, and it is rare that the forger has been apprehended. The forgery of checks is a common offense. It takes more than one man to successfully perform this operation. The forger himself is known as the "scratcher," or the expert penman of the party. The "middle man" is the fellow who conducts the business negotiations, ostensibly as a merchant, and the "layer-down" is the man who presents the check to the bank and secures the cash. The middle man must have a pleasing address, and be thoroughly posted on the commercial news of the day, and it is requisite that the layer-down be well dressed, quick witted, and possessed of an unlimited amount of polite assurance, a cheek that never pales and an eye that never droops. In selecting a person to fill this important position, the forger prefers to have a man who has, at some time or other, been convicted of crime, so that in case of discovery, and the turning of state's evidence by the layer-down (who is always the man caught) his evidence will not have weight with a jury. The latest mode is for the forger to imitate a private check by the photo-lithographic method, after having obtained a signed check. The signature, after being photographed, is carefully traced over with ink, and the body of the check is filled up for whatever amount is desired. The maker of the check is requested to identify the person who holds it, and as a general thing he does not wait to see the money paid. The moment his back is turned, the layer-down palms the small check and presents the large one. This way of obtaining money is without the assistance of a middle man. Private marks on a check are no safeguards at all, although a great many merchants believe they can prevent forgery by making certain dots, or seeming slips of the pen, which are known only to the paying teller and themselves. This precaution becomes useless when the forger uses the camera. Safe breakers are often called upon by forgers and asked to secure a sheet of checks out of a checkbook. When this is accomplished a few canceled checks are taken at the same time. These are given to the forger and he fills them up for large amounts, after tracing or copying the signature. The safe burglars receive a percentage on the amount realized. If your safe vault or desk is broken open, where your check-book is kept, carefully count the leaves in your check-book, also your canceled checks. If any are missing, notify the banks, and begin using a different style of check immediately. The sneak thief, while plying his trade, often secures unsigned bonds of some corporation which has put the signed bonds in circulation, leaving the rest unsigned until the next meeting of the directors. Frequently unsigned bonds are left in the bank vault for safe keeping. These are stolen and sent to the penman or "scratcher." Then a genuine signed bond is purchased, from which the signatures are copied and then forged. The same trick has been played on unsigned bank notes, but on the bank notes almost any name will do, as no person looks at the signature, as long as the note appears genuine. The ingenuity of a countless army of sharpers is constantly at work in this country, devising plans to obtain funds dishonestly, without work, but, in fact, they often expend more time, skill, and labor in carrying out their nefarious schemes than would serve to earn the sum they finally secure, by honest labor. Every banker must, therefore, be on his guard, and should acquaint himself with the most approved means of detecting and avoiding the most common swindlers. This is just as necessary as it is to lock his books and cash in his safe before going home. Next to the counterfeiter, the forger is the most dangerous criminal in business life. Transactions involving the largest sums of money are completed on the faith in the genuineness of a signature. Hence every effort should be made to acquire the art of detecting an imitation at a glance. This can be done only by considerable practice. It is asserted that every signature has character about it which cannot be perfectly copied, and which can always be detected by an experienced eye. This is problematical, but certainly a skilful bank teller can hardly be deceived by the forgery of a name of a well-known depositor. A banker should accustom himself to scrutinize closely the signatures of those with whom he deals. He should cut off their names from the backs of checks and notes, and paste them in alphabetical order in an autograph book devoted to that purpose, and compare any suspicious signature with the genuine one. In consequence of the numerous frauds committed by forged checks, some of the European bankers have adopted the custom of sending with their letter of advice a photograph of the person in whose favor the credit has been issued, and to stop the payment when the person who presents himself at the bank does not resemble the picture. If this practice were to become universal, the object of preventing frauds could be well attained. Instead of the signature being forged, the amount of a check, etc., may be altered. This is done either by changing the letters and figures, or by the use of an erasive fluid. The perfection with which the latter alteration can be performed is so complete that the most skilful eye cannot detect the imposture. A person may deposit a hundred dollars with a house in New York, and obtain their draft for that amount on Philadelphia; he then alters the one hundred to one thousand by erasing a portion of the letters and figures and cashes the draft at a broker's. The latter recognizes the signature, and has no suspicion of the fraud until too late. The means to secure entire protection against this is by using an ink which cannot be erased by chemicals, or at least such chemicals as are familiarly known to the class of criminals who make this a specialty. Every well-regulated bank now uses a machine for punching or perforating a series of small holes in the check, so that any increase or decrease of the number of letters written is immediately detected. Many banks have been swindled in the following manner: A check, say for ten dollars, is obtained from a depositor of a bank, and a blank check exactly like the filled-in check is secured. The two checks are laid one upon the other, so that the edges are exactly even. Both checks are then torn irregularly across, and in such a way that the signature on the filled check appears on one piece and the amount and name of the payee on the other. The checks having been held together while being torn, of course one piece of blank check will exactly fit the other piece of the filled check. The swindler then fills in one piece of the blank check with the name of the payee and an amount to suit himself, takes it with the piece of the genuine check containing the signature to the bank, and explains that the check was accidently torn. The teller can put the pieces together, and as they will fit exactly, the chances are that he will think that the pieces are parts of the same check, and becomes a victim of the swindle. The trick, of course, suggests its own remedy. It is a well-known fact that there are banks in the country that have paid thousands of dollars on raised checks, and decided that it was cheaper for them to pocket the loss than to have the facts become known. The New York Court of Appeals holds that the maker of a check is obliged to use all due diligence in protecting it, and the omission to use the most effectual protection against alterations is regarded as an evidence of neglect. Here are a few points about raising checks and drafts that should be carefully noted: To successfully raise a check or draft requires so much less skill or art than to accomplish a forgery that it has of late become alarmingly prevalent. Often where a check or draft is printed on ordinary paper the original figures are removed by some chemical process so skilfully that no alteration can be detected, even with a strong magnifying glass. It is not uncommon, when filling up checks or drafts, to take another pen, and with red ink write the amount across the face of the paper, and again make the figures in and through the signature. All these precautions may make tampering with the amount more difficult for a clumsy novice, but it only imposes a few moments' more work upon the accomplished manipulator. He takes his strong solution of chloride of lime and rain water, or other prepared chemicals, and with a pen suited to the purpose, by neutralizing and abstracting the coloring properties of the ink, he carefully obliterates such portions of the lines in the figures and written amounts as suits his purpose, then easily makes the alteration he desires, the red ink coming out as readily as black. And if the tint or coloring of the paper should have been affected by his cautious touch, he takes the proper shade of crayon or water-color, and carefully replaces the original shade. Now, the signature not being touched, but remaining genuine, and the payer not being supposed to know who wrote the check, but only who signed it, he pays the amount specified, and the law holds the "maker of the check responsible when there is nothing in its appearance to excite suspicion, and the signature is proven genuine." CHAPTER VII THE HANDWRITING EXPERT No Law Regulating Experience and Skill Necessary to Constitute An Expert--Experts Held Competent to Testify in Court--Bank Officials and Employes Favored--An Expert On Signatures--Methods Experts Employ to Identify the Work of the Pen--Where and When an Expert's Services Are Needed--Large Field and Growing Demand for Experts--Qualifications of a Handwriting Expert--How the Work Is Done--A Good Expert Continuously Employed--The Expert and the Charlatan--Qualifying as an Expert--A System Which Produces Results--Principal Tests Applied by Handwriting Experts to Determine Genuineness--Identification of Individual by His Handwriting--How to Tell Kind of Ink and Process Used to Forge a Writing--Rules Followed by Experts in Determining Cases--The Testimony of a Handwriting Expert--Explaining Methods Employed to Detect Forged Handwriting--The Courts and Experts--What an Expert May Testify to--Trapping a Witness--Proving Handwriting by Experts--General Laws Regulating Experts--The Base Work of a Handwriting Expert--Important Facts an Expert Begins Examination With--A Few Words of Advice and Suggestion About "Pen Scope"--Detection of Forgery Easy If Rules Suggested Are Observed--Expert Witnesses, Courts, and Jurors. There is no rule of law fixing the precise amount of experience or degree of skill necessary to constitute a handwriting expert. The witness need not be engaged in any particular business or claim to be a professional expert. He must, however, claim to have experience. With that limitation, cashiers, paying tellers, other bank officers, attorneys, bookkeepers, business men, conveyancers, county officials, photographers, treasurers and clerks of railroads, etc., and writing teachers have in various cases been held competent to testify as an expert. And it has been held that experience with handwriting generally or specially will enable the witness to testify specially or generally thereto. Bank officials, and especially cashiers, tellers, and book-keepers, are usually regarded as competent by most courts to pass authoritatively upon handwriting. Generally speaking, the witness must claim to be an expert, or at least show that he had the means of gaining experience. He need not claim to be an expert, but he must claim to have had such experience as will make him feel competent to express an opinion. He may always give the reasons for his opinion, but he must confine his testimony to his opinion based on the handwriting itself, and not as affected by the facts of the case. He cannot state any inferences deduced from the facts. He must also testify himself. Evidence of what an expert has said with reference to a writing is inadmissible for the purpose of bringing that opinion before the court. An expert may be tested with other papers in the case, but not with irrelevant papers, and the whole of the test paper must be shown him. He is entitled to see it all. Letter-press copies and duplicates made by writing machines are not originals and therefore cannot be used as a standard of comparison. An expert cannot give an opinion as to the genuineness of a signature based upon a comparison thereof with signatures not before the court. The standard of comparison used by the expert must be produced in court. Photographic copies are admissible when accompanied by the originals. When original writings are in evidence and the genuineness thereof disputed, magnified photographic copies of the writing and of admitted genuine writings are admissible in evidence, for comparison by jury or expert when accompanied by competent preliminary proof that the copies are accurate in all respects except as to size and color. The services of the expert are required in a wide range of civil and criminal cases. Where handwriting is questioned on notes, checks, drafts, receipts, wills, deeds, mortgages, bonds, anonymous letters, money orders, registered letter receipts, letters, pension papers, and in smuggling, and in short, on any kind of document where it becomes necessary to establish the identity of the writer, the expert is called in. Life, liberty, honor, and property are frequently balanced on a pen point--a few marks of the pen being the determining feature of many a case. The handwriting of the schoolboy and schoolgirl, though crude, is conventional and idealized. It has but few characteristics so long as the school model or copy-book hand is the goal. The pupil gives constant attention to the handwriting as well as to the thought. A number of students of about the same grade, under the same teacher, will write much alike. Fifteen or twenty of these students could each write a line on a page and it might baffle a layman, and perhaps puzzle an expert, to tell whether or not more than one person wrote the page. This constant striving after one ideal, and putting thought on the handwriting, had drawn them all toward that ideal and away from individuality. The employment of professional handwriting experts as witnesses in court cases that often involve enormous sums of money, or the liberty or even the lives of suspected malefactors, has awakened widespread interest in the methods of this class of experts, their resources and capabilities in conserving the ends of justice. Many uninformed people appear to look on the handwriting expert as one who, by intuition or the possession of some mysterious occult power, is enabled to distinguish at a glance the true and the spurious in any questioned handwriting. Nothing could be further from the fact. The secret of his power--as in any other line of scientific research--lies wholly in his intimate familiarity with the innumerable physical details which comprise the written line or word or letter--sometimes so slight a matter as the dotting of an _i_ or the placing of a comma. It is precisely the same specialized sense, born of acute observation and minute scrutiny that enables an expert chemist to take two powders of like weight and color, identical in appearance to the common eye and perhaps in taste to the common palate, and say: This drug is harmless, wholesome; that is a deadly poison--and to specify not only their various individual constituents but the exact proportion of each. The trained eye of the handwriting expert (as in another case could that of the expert chemist) can often detect at a glance certain distinguishing earmarks of submitted writing that enable him to fix the identity of the writer almost off-hand. In the the great majority of cases, however, the cunning of the forger calls for deliberate, painstaking study and investigation before the conscientious expert is willing to announce with absolute surety an opinion so often fraught with tremendous possibilities for good or for evil. Nothing else that a person does is so characteristic as the handwriting, and the identification of the individual can be established by it better than by portraits or almost any other means. As lawyers and laymen and courts are finding this out, the handwriting expert is more and more called upon to untangle snarled questions and to right wrongs. It is only when attention is directed to this interesting science by the wide publicity given to some great case in which handwriting plays an important part that the notice of the general public is drawn to it. The average person would be surprised to know of the great number of cases that find their way to the office of the handwriting expert. The man who has made a success in this line is constantly in demand, and makes frequent trips to distant points to appear as witness in courts. Though nearly every large town has some one who devotes some attention to handwriting, there are but five or six men in this country who give to it practically all of their time, and who have gone very deeply into the subject. To allow any person to qualify as an "expert" and to testify as such is a matter wholly within the discretion of the court. Unfortunately, courts frequently are lax in determining this question. Almost any one who can write is permitted to give alleged "expert" testimony regarding handwriting. In one well-known case, a case, too, involving life and death--the court unwittingly accepted the "expert" testimony of a witness who, it was afterward proven, was unable to write even so much as his own name. In the litigation attending the disposal of large mining interests held at Butte, Montana, the court permitted testimony in regard to the handwriting of the testator from a witness who admitted that he had seen the testator write but once, and that in lead pencil over twenty years before. Any one accustomed to writing is usually allowed to qualify as an "expert." To the lay mind it is natural to confound experts who have studied the subject deeply in all its various phases with those who have had occasion to examine it casually, or who may possess uncommon facility with the pen without ever having had occasion to investigate scientifically just those little illusive points upon which the professional expert places his reliance. Hence, when we read of "experts" being mistaken, or of an equal number of them appearing on opposite sides of the same case, it will nearly always be found upon investigation that they are of the class described above, whose lack of thorough special training and specialized experience really should have disqualified them from giving testimony. Though any one may call himself an "expert," or a "professional expert," for that matter, thus opening the door to charlatanism in exactly the same manner that it is opened more or less in all vocations, yet, as a matter of fact, it is very rare that professional handwriting experts testify to a contrary state of facts, and the cases in which they have been proven mistaken are remarkably few. Experts who have a natural aptitude coupled with experience that produces skill are able, by a system which they have reduced to a science, to detect the spurious from the genuine handwriting with almost unvarying success. But their conclusions are not reached by second sight or sleight-of-hand methods, but rather by painstaking, scientific investigation. Some of the principal tests applied to determine the genuineness of handwriting are these: The actual and relative slant of the letters or the angles between their stems and the base; the constancy and accuracy with which a straight line is followed as a base; the amount of pressure used on the pen and the part of the stroke where it is applied, and the positions of the line as a whole relative to the edges of the paper. The simplest punctuation mark under the microscope has its own individuality. It would be difficult to find two writers whose semicolons and quotation marks cannot be distinguished at a glance. The dotting of the _i_ and crossing of the _t_ afford an infinite number of relations between points and lines, and in both of these the time element and the freedom of muscular movement play important parts. Even the health and self-control of the penman, as well as the physical circumstances, show their influence on these little strokes. The identification of the individual by means of his handwriting is of great value in legal trials and outside of courts. Its use cannot be dispensed with any more than can the knowledge obtained in any other line of science. One often hears a man boast of his ability to successfully duplicate another person's signature or handwriting, and to the casual observer the counterfeit really will bear a striking resemblance to the original. However, let the two be placed in the hands of an expert on disputed handwriting and he will pretty quickly determine which is the original and which the forgery. Furthermore, he will tell you what process was used to make the duplicate, for there are several methods in use among forgers, and can even tell the composition of the ink. In the determination of any handwriting there is no actual rule to guide an expert, as each case must be a law unto itself. The time of day that the signature was made and the condition for the moment of the individual have considerable bearing on the case, as has also the writer's general physical condition. Whether he was standing or sitting when the signature was made is a matter of importance. The quality of the paper and the make of the pen also have to be taken into consideration. In the case of forgery, where the forger has employed a finger movement writing with the muscles and apparently without education, there is scarcely any difficulty in arriving at a conclusion. The long flowing hand is easy to detect. When, however, the writing is finical a large mass of material has to be examined before a decision can be reached. The testimony of an expert is without doubt the most dangerous kind of evidence when not supported by additional testimony; but, on the other hand, if the known facts fit in well, it is the strongest kind of testimony that can be submitted, and is usually known as "opinioned evidence." There probably is no class of professional witnesses which is subjected to such severe cross-examination as experts in handwriting, and, considering the great importance of their testimony, they should be ever ready and willing to explain the methods employed by them in arriving at their decision, which, of course, is the result of a comparison of the analyses of several pieces of writing, taking account of all exaggerations, idiosyncrasies and unusual peculiarities. All evidence of handwriting, except where the witness has seen the writing in question written, is derived from four sources: First, from comparison; second, from the internal evidence of the writing itself; third, from the knowledge of the writing, from having frequently seen a person write; fourth, where one has received letters whose authorship has been subsequently verified by admission, or acted upon in such manner as to receive the approval of the writer. Comparison is made between the writing in question and other writing admitted by the writer to be genuine, or otherwise proved to be so to the satisfaction of the court. The evidence adduced from comparison is more or less certain according to the skill of the expert and the circumstances of the case. Internal evidence is such as is presented by the peculiar quality of lines when drawn or worked up by slowly following traced lines, retouched shades, rubbered surface of the paper, and every indication of an artificial or mechanical process of producing writing. Testimony based upon a knowledge of writing gained from having at some time seen a person write is the most fallacious of all testimony respecting handwriting; it can be only a mental comparison of writing in question with such a vague idea or mental picture as may remain from a casual view of the writing at some time more or less remote; and besides, one may perceive another in the act of writing and yet have little or no opportunity of forming any mental conception of it, even at the time of writing. In some cases where the courts will permit it the expert witness may fully explain upon what he bases his opinion but it oftener occurs that the trial judge will limit the evidence down to the very narrow scope and the mere relation of such facts as the jury can see. Where a forgery is well executed the difference in general appearance between it and the genuine writing of the person whose signature is questioned, when compared, is very small. The limit put upon expert evidence by the trial judge takes from the effect of the testimony all the benefit of an explanation of the facts upon which the opinion is founded. Juries are generally allowed to examine enlarged photographs of the writing, and sometimes to see it under the microscope, but even when so doing what they see unexplained cannot be appreciated intelligently and unless taken for granted as meaning something which the experience of the expert who gives the opinion understands, and which they without such an education, could not be expected to understand that which the photographs show and the microscope makes visible is just as likely to be misleading as otherwise. An expert may testify as to the characteristics of the handwriting in question; as to whether the writing is natural or feigned, or was or was not written at the same time, with the same pen and ink, and by the same person, and as to alterations or erasures therein; and as to the age of the writing and obscurities therein; the result of his examination of the writing under a magnifying glass; and to prove in some cases the standard of comparison. In the United States a witness may be asked to write on cross-examination, but not in direct. Before a paper can be accepted as a standard of comparison it must be proved to be genuine to the satisfaction of the judge. His decision on this question is final if supported by proper evidence. In some states the question of genuineness is for the jury. A party denying his handwriting may be asked on cross-examination, if his signature to another instrument is genuine. This is the test which may be successfully applied to ascertain if the signature is genuine. A plaintiff, on one occasion, denied most positively that a receipt produced was in his handwriting. It was thus worded, "Received the Hole of the above." On being asked to write a sentence in which the word "whole" was introduced, he took evident pains to disguise his handwriting, but he adopted the phonetic style of spelling, and also persisted in using the capital _H_. The practice of thus testing a witness is vindicated by one of the most sagacious of German jurists, Mittermaier, on grounds not only of expediency, but of authority. Comparison of handwriting, either by jury or witness, is uniformly allowed to prove writings which are not old enough to prove themselves, but are too old to admit of direct proof of their genuineness. Handwriting, considered under the law of evidence, includes not only the ordinary writing of one able to write, but also writing done in a disguised hand, or in cipher, and a mark made by one able or unable to write. The principles regulating the proof of handwriting apply equally to civil and criminal cases. The paper the handwriting of which is sought to be proved by experts must ordinarily be produced in court, but such production will be excused when the paper has been lost or destroyed and when it is a public record, which cannot be brought into court. Genuineness may be proved in all cases, except where paper is required to be identified by an official seal, and except as controlled by law applicable to attested instruments. It may be proved by his own admissions; by witnesses who saw the party write; by witnesses who corresponded with the party; by witnesses who had seen papers acknowledged by the party; by witnesses having personal relations with the party. Comparison of handwriting, technically called _presumptio ex scripto nunv viso_, is where a paper or papers are proved or admitted to be in a party's handwriting, and a witness entirely unacquainted with the party's handwriting, or the jury, is allowed to make a comparison by juxtaposition of the writing so proved or admitted, and the writing disputed. All evidence of handwriting, except where the witness sees the documents written, is in its nature comparison. It is the belief which a witness entertains upon comparing the writing in question with an exemplar in his mind derived from some previous writing. In all the states of the Union the laws are uniform on the proposition that experts may testify as to comparisons made and the results based on such comparisons, except that the paper admitted to be genuine shall not contain matter of a frivolous nature, etc. In a broad, general way the element of common sense is the basework of an expert's success in the business. He cannot depend upon anything suggesting intuition. Where two signatures or two specimens of writing are in question and one exhibit is a forgery and the other is genuine, or where both are genuine, yet in question, the expert is in the position of making his proofs and demonstrations convincing to the layman--the hard headed citizen who insists that "you show me." Frequently this citizen is on a jury where he has had to admit that he is not particularly intelligent before he would be accepted for the place. As a first proposition to such a man, however, the expert in chirography may put him to the proof that out of a dozen signatures of his own name no two will be alike in general form. Then he may turn to the authentic and forged signatures in almost any case and show to the layman that the first question of forgery arose from the fact that these two signatures at a first glance are identically alike to almost the minutest detail. With all the skill which the forger has put into his crooked work, he keeps to the old principle of copying the authentic signature which he has in hand, and the more nearly he can reproduce this signature in every proportion the more readily the forgery can be proved. One of the most important facts from which the expert may begin his investigations of possible forgery is that every man using a pen in writing has his "pen scope." This technical term describes the average stretch of paper which a man may cover without lifting the pen from the paper and shifting his hand to continue the line. In even the freest, swinging movements of a pen where the hand follows the pen fingers, there are occasional breaks in the lettering or undue stretch of space between the words which will indicate a characteristic scope of the pen if the specimens under investigation cover an ordinary paragraph in length. As applied to the signatures of the ordinary individual, this pen scope will appear in some form in the signature. The writer may lift his pen before he has spelled out a long Christian or surname, he may indicate it in the placing of a middle initial or in the space which lies between the initial and the last name. In the case of the signature of one's name, too, it should be one of the easiest and lest-studied group of words which he is called on to put upon paper. In writing a letter, for example, the pen scope through it may show an average stretch of one inch for the text of the letter, while in the signature the whole length of the signature twice as long, may be covered. But if the writer covers this full stretch of his name in this way the expert may prove by the necessary short pen scope of the copyist that the studied copy is a forgery on its face. For however free of pen stroke the forger may be naturally, his attempts to produce a facsimile of the signature shortens it beyond the scope of the original signer. If a search be made through a series of undisputedly genuine signatures, it will be found that one characteristic fails in one and another in another. Here is where the handwriting expert makes his service valuable. He studies all these important points, and is not long in arriving at a successful conclusion. The introduction of the experimental method into all modern investigation has led to the hope that in this difficult subject means will be found to introduce simpler forms of determining regular or irregular handwriting. As long as the steps by which experts reach their conclusions are so intricate or recondite that only the results may be stated to the jury, just so long will the character of expert testimony suffer in the opinion of the public, and the insulting charge against it be repeated that any side can hire an expert to support its case. If a single competent expert could be selected by the court to take up questions of this kind and lay his results before it, the present system would be less objectionable than it is. Nevertheless, this solution is probably not the best, because no man is capable of always observing and judging correctly, and the most careful man may be led astray by elements in the problem before him of which he does not suspect the existence. It would seem, therefore, to be fairer and less open to objection if a plan of investigation were followed which can be clearly explained to those who are to decide a case and the resulting data left in their hands to assist them in their decision. In such a manner of presentation, if any important data have been omitted, or if the premises do not warrant the conclusion, the errors can be detected without accusing the expert of lack of good faith or ignorance of his subject. The fact that he has testified in hundreds of cases and in every court in the world should not be allowed to influence the jury against a logical conclusion drawn from uncontroverted facts. CHAPTER VIII HOW TO DETECT FORGED HANDWRITING Frequency of Litigation Arising Over Disputed Handwriting--Forged and Fictitious Claims Against the Estates of Deceased People--Forgery Certain to Be Detected When Subjected to Skilled Expert Examination--A Forger's Tracks Cannot Be Successfully Covered--With Modern Devices Fraudulent, Forged and Simulated Writing Can Be Determined beyond the Possibility of a Mistake--Bank Officials and Disputed Handwriting--How to Test and Determine Genuine and Forged Signatures--Useful Information About Signature Writing--Guard Against An Illegible Signature--Avoid Gyrations, Whirls and Flourishes--Write Plain, Distinct and Legible--The Signature to Adopt--The People Forgers Pass By--How to Imitate Successfully--How an Expert Detects Forged Handwriting--Examples of Signatures Forgers Desire to Imitate--Examining and Determining a Forgery--Comparisons of Disputed Handwriting--Microscopic Examinations a Great Help in Detecting Forged Handwriting--Comparison of Forged Handwriting. Few persons outside of the banking and legal fraternity are aware of the frequency with which litigations arise from one or another of the many phases of disputed handwriting; doubtless most frequently from that of signatures to the various forms of commercial obligations or other instruments conveying title to property, such as notes, checks, drafts, deeds, wills, etc. To a less extent the disputed portions involve alterations of books of account and other writings, by erasure, addition, interlineation, etc., while sometimes the trouble comes in the form of disguised or simulated writings. A disproportionately large number of these cases arise from forged and fictitious claims against the estates of deceased people. This results, first, from the fact that such claims are more easily established, as there is usually no one by whom they can be directly contradicted; and, secondly, for the reason that administrators are less liable to exercise the highest degree of caution than are persons who pay out their own money. In all instances where a forgery extends to the manufacturing of any considerable piece of writing, it is certain of being detected and demonstrated when subjected to a skilled expert examination; but where forgery is confined to a single signature, and that perhaps of such a character as to be easily simulated, detection is ofttimes difficult, and expert demonstrations less certain or convincing. Yet instances are rare in which the forger of even a signature does not leave some unconscious traces that will betray him to the ordinary expert, while in most instances forgery will be at once so apparent to an expert as to admit of a demonstration more trustworthy and convincing to court and jury than is the testimony of witnesses to alleged facts, who may be deceived, or even lie. The unconscious tracks of the forger, however, cannot be bribed or made to lie, and they often speak in a language so unmistakable as to utterly defy controversion. Note illustrations of forged handwriting in Appendix at end of this book. With the present-day knowledge of writing in its various phases, the identity of forged, fraudulent or simulated writing can be determined beyond the possibility of a mistake. Every year sees an increase in the number of important civil and criminal cases that turn on questions of disputed handwriting. There is not a day in the year but what bank officials are at sea over a disputed signature and a knowledge of how to test and determine genuine and forged signatures will prove of inestimable value to the banking and business world. Forgery is easy. Detection is difficult. As the rewards for the successful forgers are great, thousands upon thousands of forged checks, notes, drafts, wills, deeds, receipts and all kinds of commercial papers are produced in the United States every year. Many are litigated, but many more are never discovered. Practical and useful information about signature writing and how to safeguard one's signature against forgery is something that will be welcomed by those who are constantly attaching their names to valuable papers. Every man should guard against an illegible signature--for example, a series of meaningless pen tracks with outlandish flourishes, such as are assumed by many people with the feeling that because no one can read them, they cannot be successfully imitated. Experience has demonstrated that the easiest signatures to successfully forge are those that are illegible, either from design or accident. The banker or business man who sends his pen through a series of gyrations, whirls, flourishes and twists and calls it a signature is making it easy for a forger to reproduce his signature, for it is a jumble of letters and ink absolutely illegible and easy of simulation. Every man should learn to write plain, distinct and legible. The only signature to adopt is one that is perfectly legible, clear and written rapidly with the forearm or muscular movement. One of the best preventatives of forgery is to write the initials of the name--that is, write them in combination--without lifting the pen. It will help if the small letters are all connected with each other and with the capitals. Select a style of capital letters and always use them; study out a plain combination of them; practice writing until it can be written easily and rapidly and stick to it. Don't confuse your banker by changing the form of a letter or adding flourishes. Countless repetitions will give a facility in writing it that will lend a grace and charm and will stamp it with your peculiar characteristics in such a way that the forger will pass you by when looking for an "easy mark." Plain signatures of the character noted above are not the ones usually selected by forgers for simulation. Forgers are always hunting for the illegible as in it they can best hide their identity. It is said to be an utter impossibility for one person to imitate successfully a page of writing of another. The person attempting the forgery should be able to accomplish the following: First, he must know all the characteristics of his own hand; second, he must be able to kill all the characteristics of his own hand; third, he must know all of the characteristics in the hand he is imitating; fourth, he must be able to assume characteristics of the other's hand at will. These four points are insuperable obstacles, and the forger does not live who has surmounted or can surmount them. To understand the principles on which an expert in handwriting bases his work, consider for a moment how a person's style of writing is developed. He begins by copying the forms set for him by a teacher. He approximates more or less closely to these forms. His handwriting is set, formal, and without character. As soon as he leaves off following the copy book, however, his writing begins to take on individual characteristics. These are for the most part unconscious. He thinks of what he is writing, not how. In time these peculiarities, which creep gradually into a man's writing, become fixed habits. By the time he is, say, twenty-five years old, his writing is settled. After that it may vary, may grow better or worse, but is certain to retain those distinguishing marks which, in the man himself, we call personality. This personality remains. He cannot disguise it, except in a superficial way, any more than he can change his own character. It follows that no two persons write exactly the same hands. It is easy to illustrate this. Suppose, for example, that among 10,000 persons there is one hunchback, one minus his right leg, one with an eye missing, one bereft of a left arm, one with a broken nose. To find a person with two of these would require, probably, 100,000 people; three of them, 1,000,000; four of them, 100,000,000. One possessing all of them might not be found in the entire 14,000,000,000 people on earth. Precisely the same with different handwritings--the peculiar and distinguishing characteristics of one would no more be present in others than would the personal counterparts of the authors be found in other individuals. It is more surprising, at first thought, to be told that no person ever signs his name even twice alike. Of course, theoretically, it cannot be said that it is impossible for a person to write his name twice in exactly the same manner. A person casting dice might throw double aces a hundred times consecutively. But who would not act on the practical certainty that the dice were loaded long before the hundredth throw was reached in such a case? The same reasoning applies to the matter of handwriting with added force, because the chance of two signatures being exactly alike is incomparably less than the chance of the supposed throws of the dice. Probably many persons will not believe that it is impossible for them to write their own name twice alike. For them it will be an interesting experiment to repeat their signatures, say, a hundred times, writing them on various occasions and under different circumstances, and then to compare the result. It is safe to say that they will hardly find two of these which do not present some differences, even to their eyes, and under the examination of a trained observer aided by the microscope, these divergencies stand out tenfold more plainly. Many cases of forgery hinge on this point, the forger having copied another person's signature by tracing one in his possession, but such attempts are always more easy to detect than those in which the forger carefully imitates another's hand. The latter is the usual procedure. The forger secures examples of the signature or writing which he desires to imitate. Then he practices on it, trying to reproduce all its striking peculiarities. In this way he sometimes arrives at a resemblance so close as to deceive even his victim. Still there is always present some internal evidence to prove that the writing is not the work of the person to whom it is attributed. Likewise it will reveal the identity of the person who actully wrote it, if specimens of his natural hand are to be had for comparison. It is impossible for a man to carry in his mind and to reproduce on paper all the peculiar characteristics of another man's writing and at the same time to conceal all his own. At some point there is certain to come a slip when the habit of years asserts itself and gives the testimony which may fix the whole production on the forger beyond the shadow of a doubt. The little things are the ones that count most in making examination and determining a forgery for the reason that they are no less characteristic than the more prominent peculiarities and are more likely to be overlooked by the person who tries to disguise his hand. The crossing of _t's_ and the dotting of _i's_ become matters of large moment in making comparisons of disputed handwritings. There is probably no matter in conjunction with a man's ordinary writing to which he gives less thought than the way he makes these crosses and dots. For that reason they are in the highest degree characteristic. And it is precisely because of their apparently slight importance that the person who sets out to imitate another's handwriting or to disguise his own is likely to be careless about these little marks and to make slips which will be sufficient to prove his identity. Imitations of signatures are usually written in a laborious and painstaking manner. They are, therefore, decidedly unlike a man's natural signature, which is usually written in an easy fashion. The imitations show frequent pauses, irregularities in pen pressure and in the distribution of ink, and contain other evidences of hesitation. Not infrequently the forger tries to improve on his work by retouching some of the letters after he has completed a word. Microscopic examination brings out all of these things and makes them tell-tale witnesses. Comparison of handwriting is competent but is not itself conclusive evidence of forgery. Identification of handwriting is, if possible, more difficult than identification of the person which so often forms the chief difficulty in criminal trials. As illness, strange dress, unusual attitude, and the like, cause mistakes in identifying the individual, so a bad pen or rough paper, a shaky hand and many other things change the appearance of a person's handwriting. This kind of evidence ought never, therefore, to be regarded as full proof in trials where a handwriting is in dispute. Generally the best witness in a handwriting case is one who often sees the party write, through whose hands his writing has been continually passing, and whose opinion is not the result of an inspection made on a particular occasion for a special purpose. CHAPTER IX GREATEST DANGER TO BANKS Check-Raising Always a Danger--A Scheme Almost Impossible to Prevent--The American Bankers' Association the Greatest Foe to Forgers--It Follows Them Relentlessly and Successfully--Chemically Prepared Paper and Watermarks Not Always a Safeguard--Perforating Machines and Check Raisers--How Check Perforations Are Overcome--How an Ordinary Check Is Raised--How an Expert Alters Checks--How Perforations Are Filled--Hasty Examination by Paying Tellers Encourages Forgers--The Way Bogus Checks Creep Through a Bank Unnoticed--A Celebrated Forgery Case--Forgers Successful for a Time Always Caught--Where Forgers Usually Go That Have Made a Big Haul--A Professional Crook Is a Person of Large Acquaintance. Raising checks has become the greatest danger to the banks. There is no comparison between raising checks with a genuine signature and forging the signature itself, so far as ease of execution is concerned. After many years of arduous work and after great expenditures of money the banks have to admit sorrowfully that if a man wants to raise a check he can do it; and the detection, while, of course, inevitable when the paid check returns to the depositor, is not immediate enough to prevent the swindler from getting away with the money. That is why the most implacable enemy of the men who dare raise or falsify a check is the American Bankers' Association. This great concern in reality is a protective association, and it relentlessly hunts down all forgers first, last, and all the time. It never lets up, absolutely never, no matter time, money, or trouble. It bitterly pursues defaulters for the sake of justice, but it has still another object in its deadly trailing of forgers and check tampereus. That is because the whole banking structure hangs on signed paper. When it can be altered with impunity, away goes the financial system of to-day. Hence the unrelenting hunting-down of forgers who trifle with men's names. On the books of more than one large detective agency of the country are cases more than ten years old. The forgers never have been found, but the hunt still goes on. Reports of the chase come in regularly and the books will not be closed until the hunt stops at prison doors or beside a grave. Yet with all this remorseless hunting, check-raising flourishes so well all over the United States that the banks fear to give even a hint as to the sums of which they or their depositors are robbed each year. The magnitude of the amount would frighten too many persons. For a time it was thought that the use of chemically prepared paper would prove a safeguard, because any erasure or alteration would show immediately. The chemicals used in its composition would make the ink run if acids were used to change the figures. But among the check-raisers there were chemists just as clever as the chemists who devised the prepared paper. Then paper with watermarks woven through it was used. But it, too, became an easy mark for the chemists who had gone wrong. Finally, and until recently, the banking world thought that it had struck the absolute safeguard by using a machine to stamp on the check the exact amount for which it was drawn, the machine perforating the paper as it stamped it. Certainly it does seem that when the paper is cut right out of the check, leaving nothing but holes, no change is humanly possible. But the completeness of this supposed safeguard has offered a tempting field for the check-raiser. A special detective in the employ of the American Bankers' Association, who has spent half the years of his mature life in running down forgers and check-raisers, said that it was "too easy" to raise checks, and that a good many more men than try it now would do it were it not for the well-known relentlessness of the association in running down offenders against any single one of its constituent members. "Write me a check for any sum you want," said the sleuth, "and I'll show you." A check for $200 was written and passed over to him. In less than two minutes, without an erasure of any kind, the check called for $500, and the work was done so well even in that short time that the writer would have been tempted to believe that he had made an error and really drawn the check for that amount had he not been sure to the contrary. "That kind of raising is easy," said the expert. "You see it demands no interlining or extending of words. The check-raiser simply knows how well certain characters lend themselves to changes that cannot be detected. The capital _T_ in almost every man's handwriting can be changed to a capital _F_ without any trouble by even an unskilled crook." A check for $2,000 was raised to $50,000 almost in the wink of an eye. "This is the easy and safer part of the business," said he. "But when a check is to be raised from a sum like $10 to, say, $10,000, and the drawer has written it so that there is no room between the word 'ten' and 'dollars,' chemicals must be used. There is always more danger of detection in that. In the mere alteration of a check there is little. Look here. I'll change your checks as fast as you can write them, and I bet a lot of my alterations will pass muster." A pad was hauled out and the writer filled the sheets out with carefully written amounts. The expert was as good as his word. He altered them almost as fast as they were written. Some, to be sure, were crude and would have betrayed the fact of alteration to the eye of any careful banker. But many were almost perfect, and all were wonderfully deceptive and showed what could be done by a crook who had plenty of time. "But how about the perforations?" he was asked. "How could a crook change them?" "Nothing easier," was the reply. "The fact that checks stamped with the amount in perforated characters are considered safe aids the swindler. Really, to beat the perforations is so easy that it will make you smile. All the outfit that is needed is a common little punch with assorted small cutting tubes and a bottle of an invisible glue that every crook can make or that he can buy in certain places that every crook knows. Now, here is a check stamped in perforated characters $300$. I take my little punch and fit into it a cutter that will punch holes of the same size as the holes in the perforations. "Now I punch out of the edge of the check a few tiny disks. I moisten the tip of a needle and press them carefully into the holes that make the upper part of the figure 3. See, even in my haste and without glue, they fill the perforations completely and I can shake and pull the check without disturbing them." It was true. The little plugs fitted perfectly, and even with the knowledge that they were there it was almost impossible to see where they had been inserted. "Now," continued the expert, "I merely take my punch and carefully punch enough holes to the right of the upper part of the figure 3 to make it a 5. And there you are. If I wanted to pass this check through the bank I would only have to complete the job by smearing a drop of the invisible glue over the back where I have plugged the original holes. This glue is wonderfully tenacious and will actually hold the edges of paper together. It needs only the smallest surface in order to get hold. After it is on not even the microscope could detect it readily. And no amount of pulling or shaking of the check will disturb it. "You may suppose that a check that is stamped this way, for instance--$600$--would be hard to change into one of four figures. But it is almost equally easy. The crook simply punches out enough disks from the edge to fill up the last dollar mark completely, and after he has plugged it and the glue is dry he punches a cipher into the place and then punches a dollar mark after it. Of course, after punching the little disks out of the edge of the check it is necessary to trim that part of the paper, but that is done readily, for checks always have ample margin. "The check-raiser does not depend on the fact that the scrutiny of checks in a large bank is bound to be hasty, but he knows that he need not fear if his work is at all well done, for the paying teller simply cannot spend much time in examining the many checks that are passed in. "One New York City bank sends through the clearing-house daily an average of 3,100 checks, and as there are about sixty-five such banks in the clearinghouse the total number of checks handled in the few hours of business in a day is something enormous. "It is this haste--which, by the way, is absolutely necessary in order to keep the books posted to date--that is responsible for the passing of one of the most peculiar checks that ever came under the notice of the detectives of America. In this case the check was neither falsified nor was the signature forged, but it was bogus just the same. "It was a check made up of the parts of two checks, and all the implements necessary for falsification were a pair of scissors and that invisible glue. The clever swindler had got hold of two genuine checks from the same bank. One was for $1,000 and the other for $70. Placing these two checks together, one on top of the other, he cut them through neatly with the scissors. Then he pasted that portion bearing the word 'seventy' on the one check to that part bearing the word 'thousand' on the other. So the composite check read to pay to the holder 'seventy thousand' dollars. As the cutting was made through both checks in exactly the same place, the edges fitted perfectly. They were glued together and the check readily passed the bank cashier. The man was caught and made restitution without publicity, but the case gave bankers a shock. Other somewhat similar cases are known, but none involving such a large amount. "A famous case was the celebrated Seaver fraud. He bought a draft for $12 from the Bank of Woodland (Cal.), and, although it was written on chemical 'safety' paper and perforated in two places with a check punch, he raised it to $12,000, and it was passed successfully and paid. "But however successful they may be for a time, it is the fatal hoodoo of this 'most gentlemanly' way of making a living without earning it that a forgery is always discovered and the forger generally caught. That is because the forged check remains in existence and must be paid by some one, and sooner or later there will be an outcry. The best the raiser can hope for is to escape before the crime is discovered. "Once the false check is passed and he has the money, his first idea is as to where he shall hide. Another fatality attaching to his peculiar business is that the same place that he thinks of flying to is the place that suggests itself to the mind of the thief-chaser. In other words, knowing their man, the man-hunters can guess well where to find him. "If a forger wants to bury himself, he thinks of South America, because it is easy to get there, and apparently out of the world. Then, of South America, he probably only thinks of Venezuela, or closer home--of Guatemala or Panama. So the South American hunt is simplicity itself, as there are not so many large ports that strange Americans can pass through unnoticed. "If a forger wants to continue in his crooked business he thinks of London, Paris, Berlin, and maybe Vienna. We guess at his calibre and whether he wants more money, and know where he probably will go to get it, for the professional crook has an international acquaintance, and he only goes among friends. So we follow him. "If a forger is an adventurous spirit and committed the crime on impulse, and we could learn absolutely nothing more about him, we would look in that Mecca of adventurers, South Africa, for him. In fact, our first business is to learn what kind of a man he is, then shut our eyes and guess which one of a few places he will fly to. The guess often is so good that our men await him when the steamer lands there. If not, we don't forget the sailing vessels." CHAPTER X THUMB-PRINTS NEVER FORGED Thumb-Print Method of Identification Absolute--Now Brought to a High State of Perfection--Will Eventually Be Used in All Banks--Certified Checks and Also Drafts with Thumb-Print Signatures--Absolute Accuracy of a Thumb-Print Identification Assured--A Thumb-Print in Wax on Sealed Packages--Its Use an Advantage on Bankable Paper of All Kinds--How Strangers Are Easily Identified--Bankers, Merchants and Business Men Protected by This System--Full Particulars as to How Thumb-Prints Are Made--Can be Printed by Anyone in a Few Minutes--How and When to Place Your Thumb-Print on Bankable Paper--Finger-Prints as Reliable as Thumb-Prints--Use to Which This System Could Be Put--Thumb and Finger Tips Do Not Change From Birth to Death--Department of Justice at Washington Has Established a Bureau of Criminal Registry Using the Thumb-Print System--Thumb-Print System Said to Be a Chinese Invention--Its Use Spreading Rapidly--How to Secure Thumb-Print Impression Without Knowledge of Party--An Interesting and Valuable Study. How to detect the forger as one of the cleverest of operating criminals has been solved by the "thumb-print" method of identification, now spreading throughout the banks, business houses and public offices of the world. It is quite as interesting as the suggestion that through the same thumb-print method in commercial and banking houses the forger is likely to become a creature without occupation and chirographical means of support. R.W. McClaughry, chief of the bureau of identification in the federal prison at Leavenworth, Kan., is one of the most expert in the thumb-print method of identification in this country, having been schooled at Scotland Yards in London, where the method first was brought to its present state of perfection. Mr. McClaughry sees for the system not only a great aid in preventing the forgeries of commercial brigands but the easiest of all means for a person in a strange city to identify himself as the lawful possessor of check, or note, or bank draft which he may wish to turn into cash at a banker's window. Thumb-print signatures will eventually be used in all banks as a means of identification. It will be a sure preventative of forgery. For instance: A maker of a check desiring to take a trip around the world shall draw a check for the needed sum and, in the presence of the cashier of his bank, place one thumb-print in ink somewhere in one spot on the check--perhaps over the amount of the check as written in figures. Thereupon the cashier of the bank will accept the check as certified by his institution. With this paper in his possession the drawer of the check may go from his home in New York to San Francisco, a stranger to every person in the city. But at the window of any bank in that city, presenting his certified check to a teller who has a reading glass at his hand, the stranger may satisfy the most careful of banks by a mere imprint of his thumb somewhere else upon the face of the check. With the ink thumb-print of the cashier of a bank placed on a bank draft over his signature and over the written amount of the draft, chemical papers and the dangers of "raising" or counterfeiting the draft would have no further consideration. The thumb-print of the secretary of the United States treasury, reproduced on the face of greenback, silver certificate and bank note of any series would discourage counterfeiting as nothing else ever has done. But this thumb-print possibility in commercial papers has its greatest future in the positive identification which either thumb or finger print carries with it. Criminologists all over the world have satisfied themselves of the absolute accuracy of the fingerprint identification. At the present time traveling salesmen, who spend much money and who wish to carry as little as possible of cash with them, have an organized system by which their bankable paper may be cashed at hotels and business houses over the country. But with the thumb-print in use, as it might be, such an organization would be unnecessary. As between bank and bank, this use of the fingerprint in bank papers of large face value is especially applicable. A draft for $100,000 or $1,000,000 may be worth more consideration of the banks concerned than the penmanship of signer and countersigner of the paper. In the shipment of currency where there may be question of either honesty or correctness in the persons sealing the package, a thumb-print in wax will determine absolutely whether the wax has been unbroken in transit, as well as establishing the identity of the person putting on the first seal. As to the protective value of such a thumb-seal, a case has been cited in which train robbers, discovering a chance seal of the kind in wax of such a package, left that package untouched when the express safe had been blown open; it was too suggestive of danger to be risked. In the ordinary usage of the thumb-print on bankable paper the city bank having its country correspondents everywhere often is called upon to cash a draft drawn by the country bank in favor of that bank's customer, who may be a stranger in the city. The city bank desires to accommodate the country correspondent as a first proposition. The unidentified bearer of the draft in the city may have no acquaintance able to identify him. If he presents the draft at the windows of the big bank, hoping to satisfy the institution, and is turned away, he feels hurt. By the thumb-print method he might have his money in a moment. In the first place, even the signature of the cashier of the country bank will be enough to satisfy its correspondent in the city of the genuineness of the draft. Before the country purchaser of the draft has left the bank issuing the paper he will be required to make the ink thumb-print in a space for that purpose. Without this imprint the draft will have no value. If the system should be in use, the cashier signing the draft will not affix his signature to the paper until this imprint has been made in his presence. Then, with his attested finger-print on the face of the draft, the stranger in the city may go to the city bank, appearing at the window of the newest teller, if need be. This teller will have at hand his inked pad, faced with a sheet of smooth tin. He never may have seen the customer before. He never may see him again. But under the magnifying influences of an ordinary reading glass he may know past the possibility of doubt that in the hands of the proper person named in the draft the imprint which is made before him has been made by the first purchaser of the draft. In the more important and complicated transactions in bank paper one bank may forward from the bank itself the finger-print proofs of identity. The whole field of such necessities is open to adapted uses of the method. Notes given by one bank to another in high figures may be protected in every way by these imprints. Stock issues and institution bonds would be worthy of the thumb-print precautions, as would be every other form of paper which might tempt either the forger or the counterfeiter. In any case where the authenticity of the paper might be questioned, the finger-print would serve as absolute guarantee. In stenographic correspondence, where there might be inducements to write unauthorized letters on the part of some person with wrong intent, the imprint of finger or thumb would make the possibility of fraud too remote for fears. For, in addition to the security of signatures in real documents, the danger in attempting frauds of this kind is increased. As to the physical necessaries in registering fingerprints, they are simple and inexpensive. A block of wood faced with smooth tin or zinc the size of an octavo volume, a small ink roller, and a tube of black ink are all that are required. For removing the ink on thumb or finger a towel and alcohol cleanser are sufficient. A tip impression or a "rolled" finger signature may be used. Only a few seconds are required for the operation. In giving big checks merchants and bankers would be protected by the thumb-print system. A merchant could place the print of his right index finger to the left of his signature on a check. The bank would have a print, together with the merchant's signature on file. Only a few seconds would be necessary to convince the paying teller as to its genuineness. The merchant, also, if necessary, could place a light print of the index finger over the amount of the check where written in figures. Any attempt to erase the figures would destroy the finger-print. If the figures were raised, the one doing so would be unable to place a finger-print in the same space that would correspond with the one at the bottom of the check beside the signature, and the raising of the check would immediately be discovered in the bank where the check was presented. The finger-prints could be used also in all manner of documents filed for record, such as deeds to lands, mortgages, leases, and the like. Railroads could use it to prevent men once employed and discharged for incompetency obtaining employment on another division, thus doing away with inspectors. Each new employee's finger-prints could be kept in a central office and classified. Any man attempting to obtain employment again with the same railway, who had once been discharged for cause, would immediately be detected, and a high standard of personnel thus obtained. Congress recently passed a law whereby the Bureau of Immigration is permitted to tax each immigrant four dollars; this sum to be used in detecting foreign criminals who come to this country; also to aid in ascertaining whether foreigners who come here commit crimes and get into prisons. If such are found they are to be deported. By the finger-print system the prints of each foreigner could be taken at all ports of entry. These could be kept on file in Washington, and from time to time compared with those sent to the Bureau of Criminal Registry in the Department of Justice building. Any foreigner located in a prison could be ascertained, and upon the termination of his sentence taken to some port and placed on board ship. It has been demonstrated by experts that the ridges of finger tips do not change from birth until death and decomposition. Scars made on the finger tips remain throughout life, and are valuable for identification purposes. Criminals try to evade identification by the system by burning the tips of their digits with acid; but these are classified under the head of disfigured fingers, and a lawbreaker cannot escape detection. Even the removal of two, three, or four fingers or an entire hand does not prevent a criminal being traced if his prints were taken before he lost the five digits. In the case of one hand being amputated, the missing fingers are classified as they appear on the other hand. If a search fails to locate the person, then the missing fingers are classified first as whorls and then as loops, search being made after each classification. In this manner the search may be a little more tedious than it would be if all the fingers were there, but in time he would be identified. The Department of Justice thinks so well of the system that it has recently established in Washington a Bureau of Criminal Registry. There the finger-print sheets, and for the time being Bertillon cards, of all criminals who have been convicted of violating federal laws are to be kept. The prints and Bertillon measurements of new arrivals at government prisons and jails will also be sent there for classification, none of this work being done at prisons as heretofore. The men held in federal jails, charged with crimes, are also to have their finger-prints taken, and these sent to the central bureau. If the expert in charge of this bureau ascertains that a man indicted for crime has served a previous term in prison, this fact is to be communicated to the United States judge and district attorney, and if convicted the criminal is to be given the full limit of sentence. Although the system of identification by fingerprints has been in use in Europe for a number of years, it is not a European invention. As a matter of fact, it is one of those cherished western institutions that the Chinese have calmly claimed for their own, and those who doubt this may be convinced by actual history showing it to have been employed in the police courts of British India for a generation or so back. Just who was responsible for its adoption there is not certain, but Sir John Herschel, at one time connected with the India civil service, is usually mentioned in this regard. The British police experienced a great deal of trouble in keeping track of even the most notorious native criminals and it was a great deal more difficult to arrest a first offender, for the reason that all the natives looked so much alike and were such apt liars. Ordinary methods, even the Bertillon system, were fruitless and finally the finger-print scheme was tried. It worked like a charm. Where more arrests had been the exception, they now became the rule and the power of the law began to merit respect. In case after case the police were enabled to track the crime solely by the chance print of a man's finger or thumb on an odd piece of paper, on the dusty lintel of a doorway or a dirty window pane. Some of the stories told of their accomplishments in this line rival the most thrilling detective stories. In one case, that of the murder of a manager of a tea garden on the Bhupal frontier, half a dozen or more persons were at first suspected, among them the real murderer, who was, however, later regarded as innocent because he was supposed to have been away from the district at the time the crime was committed. Investigations and questionings did no good, and at last the local inspector decided to take the thumb-prints of all concerned and refer them to the central office of the province. After the records had been searched a messenger came with orders to arrest the discharged servant of the manager who had been first suspected and then exonerated, for his finger-prints tallied exactly with those of a bad character just discharged from prison. He was later convicted of burglary by a court of appeal, to which the case was carried, the court refusing to condemn a man for murder on such slight basis when the actual crime had not been observed. At the present time in India the papers taken in the civil-service examinations must be certified to by the thumb-print of the competitor and wills must likewise be sealed in the same way, and all checks and drafts must be certified by a thumb-print in addition to a signature. In India, also deeds of transfer, and records of sale of land in connection with illiterate natives are executed by the impression of a thumb-mark instead of an "X, his mark"; and recently this very superior system of signature has been applied to all kinds of transactions with the natives, such as post-office savings banks, pension certificates, mortgages, etc. The success the plan met with in India led to its trial and speedy adoption by the French and English police. In Paris it is used as an adjunct to the measurement system of M. Bertillon, but at Scotland Yard the Bertillon system has been entirely done away with and full reliance is had on the prints. M. Bertillon claims to have 500,000 prints in his collection, although this is said by the authorities to be an exaggeration, and Inspector McNaughton of the convict supervision office has at least 100,000 criminals' hands catalogued in his office. Finger marks do not change in any way through life, and any injury only temporarily affects the pattern. The pattern becomes larger as the youth develops into a man, but the arrangement of the lines remains absolutely the same. Thumb-marks may be generally classified as loops, arches and ovals, or whorls; the ovals irresistibly remind one of whirlpools as well as the volutions of shells, while the majority of loops or arches resemble in their convolutions the rapid movement of rushing water. Thumb-print identifications have been extended to commercial uses by the postal savings bank on the Philippines at Manila. This bank has recently issued a series of stamp deposit cards, on which are spaces for stamps of different values to be affixed. When the depositor has stamps to the value of 1 peso (50 cents) on the card it is exchanged at the bank for a deposit book, showing the amount to his credit. Opposite the lines for the owner's signature and address is a square ruled off for the reception of his thumb-print, so that even if illiterate, depositors may readily be identified. If any one wishes to get a thumb-print impression without the suspect's knowledge, simply hand him a piece of paper, asking him to identify it or examine it for one reason or another, afterwards sprinkling some special black powder over it which brings out the impressions as clear as life. Another sort of white powder is used for bringing out impressions on glassware. Once the impression is secured, the fingers are classified according to a regular plan. The lines on them are divided into loops, whorls, arches, and composites, the latter class made up of a collection of the first three. Each pair of fingers as the index, little and ring fingers has a special valuation which is used to identify them and facilitate classification. One pair will be classified according to the number of little ridges between the delta, or point where all bifurcate, and the outer ring. If there are more than nine on one finger, it is classed as an over-nine. It is seldom that two similar fingers are alike and the other finger usually would be an under-nine finger, say six. So there is the first pair classified thus, 9-6. The next two fingers may have rotary lines and are merely classified as R, the next two may not have many lines at all that will count, so are marked 0, while perhaps the last pair is unmatched, a point being allowed to one and nothing to the other. Thumb or finger-prints are absolutely serviceable and certain in the detection of crime or in establishing a person's identity. That this system may be most effectively employed as an adjunct to the rogue's gallery for fixing the identity of criminals there can be no doubt, since, from various experiments made it has been demonstrated that impressions made from the dermal furrows of the thumb or finger of no two persons can be sufficiently identical, when inspected under a microscope, to be mistaken one for the other; and that it is a powerful agency for the detection of criminals. Very often, on the scene of a crime, finger marks are found on glossy surfaces (bottles, glasses, window panes, door plates, painted and varnished walls, etc.). By a comparison of such impressions, photographed by a special process, it is easy either to discover the maker of the finger marks observed at the scene of the crime, or to establish the innocence of a suspected person whose digital impressions have nothing in common with those marks. Note and study fac-simile impressions of thumb-prints and finger-prints in Appendix at end of this book. CHAPTER XI DETECTING FORGERY WITH THE MICROSCOPE Determining Questionable Signatures By the Aid of a Microscope--A Magnifying Glass Not Powerful Enough--Character of Ink Easily Told--The Microscope and a Knowledge of Its Use--Experience and Education of an Examiner of Great Assistance--An Expert's Opinion--The Use of the Microscope Recommended--Illustrating a Method of Forgery--What a Microscopic Examination Reveals--How to Examine Forged Handwriting with a Microscope--Experts and a Jury--What the Best Authorities Recommend. In all examinations of questioned signatures to determine the individual habit of the writer the use of the compound microscope is a necessity to obtain the best field for study and analysis for the reason that the most important details are often so minute that they cannot be seen with the naked eye in sufficient size to determine their individual character and accuracy. A magnifying glass has but a limited field in this class of work, for it is not easily held in position steadily for continued observation and study, besides it has not the requisite power for the work. The lower powers of the compound microscope are but available for the examination of signatures for the reason that when the higher powers are used but little of the signature is in the field of vision, although the power of the lens may be increased when some particular point or feature in the writing requires greater enlargement for more perfect definition. The higher powers of the microscope are sometimes used to ascertain the character of inks with which the writing is done, and also to determine the character of the paper on which a signature is written, which at times becomes important. For all practical uses of the microscope in the examination of signatures the range of object enlargement occurring between a three-inch and an inch objective will be found to answer the purpose, as the various powers of the lenses become important in making the analysis. While it is a fact that the microscope and a knowledge of its uses is of the greatest importance in ascertaining the character of the signatures, when the question of their being forged or genuine is the object of the examination, it does not follow that because a person is learned in the use of the microscope in other fields of research that he is therefore qualified to become an expert in handwriting. A peculiar education made practically applicable by experience in this latter field of study is absolutely necessary to determine with accuracy what the microscope reveals, and its importance to give value to any conclusions reached by its use. The connection of effect with cause, and the determination of the latter as a matter of individualism cannot be accomplished merely from what is seen under the microscope. The examiner must by experience and education be fitted to ascertain from personal characteristics manifested in the writing of a signature necessitated their appearance as a matter of individuality. From one of the best-known European experts on handwriting and who has figured conspicuously in important cases some interesting facts relative to this subject recently were learned. To the question, "What is the primary requisite for a conscientious opinion on the genuineness of any submitted handwriting?" this expert unhesitatingly replied, "An utter and entire absence of either feeling or prejudice. In other words, one should be perfectly dispassionate when engaged in such a work and use a first-class compound microscope." To make his analysis the expert uses a microscope of great power, and by a strict and close attention to the subject-matter he can determine the exact means or methods employed in making the individual letters and the formation of the words and also the several inks that were used. Handwriting as defined by this expert is a mechanical operation pure and simple. Its general excellence or the reverse is largely dependent on the education which the hand has received. When a man sits down to write he mechanically reproduces on paper what is in his mind, and this may be said to be his natural handwriting. Should he stop to think even for a moment, not of what he is transferring to the paper but of the writing itself, he instantly ceases to write his natural hand, the transcription becoming only a copy or drawing from memory. In the opinion of the expert, emphatically expressed, a person never writes twice exactly alike. This is stated to be the point around which all his subsequent developments revolve when examining a manuscript. Let several examples of the natural handwriting of an individual be compared. It is true that there will be a general similarity, but, as has been asserted, when placed in juxtaposition or subjected to a careful comparison under a microscope no two words or letters will be found to be alike. Thus it is not the similarity between two pieces of writing that would arouse suspicion with some experts, but rather the natural dissimilarity. Based on this point such experts occupy a distinct position by themselves, since other experts take what is called the positive side. With the first-named class, however, handwriting is a science of negatives. A good microscope will always be found a good detective in determining the genuineness of handwriting. By way of illustrating one method of forgery interesting material which had played an important part in a court case was carefully examined. It consisted of five or six graded photographic enlargements of the duplicate signature which were carefully examined with the aid of a microscope. The original had been made by an elderly person and the forger had used the tracing process. To the naked eye it appeared to be a capital copy; in fact, it seemed to bear every semblance of being genuine. In the first enlargement of several diameters certain inaccuracies of tracing could be discerned, only, however, after attention had been called to them by an expert. In the next enlargement these same errors were more apparent, and so on through the series. The largest photograph was magnified several hundred diameters greater than the original and stretched across quite an area of paper. From an examination of this largest one with a microscope it was evident that the forger first had traced his copy with pencil, afterward going over it with ink, but so irregularly had his pen followed the pencil lines that in certain portions of this enlargement there was room for a man's fist between the first tracing and its inky covering. In trying to detect forged handwriting every letter of the alphabet, wherever written, may be examined with a microscope for the following characteristics: Size, shading, position relative to the horizontal line, inclination relative to the vertical line, sharpness of the curves and angles, proportion and relative position of the different parts, and elaboration or extension of the extremities. In scarcely one of these particulars can a man make two letters so much alike that they cannot be distinguished by microscopical examination. Although a great deal can be determined in a general way by close observation with the naked eye, it is always best to employ some magnifying power--usually an ordinary hand lens or pocket magnifier will suffice--but the writer has found it better to use a microscope objective of low power (four or five diameters), which is provided with an easily slipping sleeve, terminating in a diaphragm which cuts out the light entering the outside rim of the lens. This sleeve may be pushed out for one or two centimeters, and the particular spot under examination isolated from the adjacent parts without undue magnification. It is one of the popular fallacies that a high magnifying power is desirable in all cases of difficulty, but usually the reverse is the case in questions of handwriting. Experts have sometimes impressed the jury with the fact that they had employed on some thick and opaque document, powers of several hundred diameters without the lately applied illumination from the side, reflected by a glass plate, introduced obliquely into the tube of the microscope. Without such aid no microscopist need be told that the light would be wanting to illuminate the field under these circumstances. The best authorities prescribe a magnifying power of not more than ten diameters for ordinary observation. For special purposes higher powers are sometimes useful. An ocular examination of the ink in the various parts of a written paper, document or instrument of any kind will generally decide whether it is the same. CHAPTER XII SIGNATURE EXPERTS THE SAFETY OF THE MODERN BANK A New Departure in Banks--Examining All Signatures a Sure Preventive Against Forgery--The "Filling-in" Process--How One Forger Operated--Marvelous Accuracy of a Paying Teller--How He Attained Perfection--How Signature Clerks Work--A Common Dodge of Forgers--Post Dated Checks--A System That Prevents Forged and Raised Checks--Not a Forged or Raised Check Paid in Years. [The following article has been kindly contributed by the manager of one of the largest English banks, located in London.] One of the most trying positions in our business, is that of signature expert--the man who has to examine daily every draft that comes in through the clearing house and vouch for its genuineness. Our bank, one of the largest in London, employs six clerks who do nothing all day long but examine checks, and when I tell you that it is no uncommon thing for 10,000 drafts to come in during a single day you will understand that the job is not altogether the sinecure it is popularly supposed to be. These clerks have not only to scrutinize the signatures both of drawer and drawee, but also examine the "filling-in," the latter being just as important, perhaps more so from a monetary point of view, as the signatures. As a matter of fact, the commonest forgery with which we have to deal is the "raising" of checks, and a forger of this nature generally chooses a check bearing a genuine signature but having very little "filling-in." For instance, he knows that it would not be difficult to raise a check from £3 to £3000, for all he has to do is to erase the word "pounds," insert the word "thousand," and then add the erased word again. I have seen plenty of this kind of work during the time I have been examining checks. One of the most impudent pieces of forgery, however, that I ever came across was a check raised from £5 to £500. The forger had evidently relied on colossal impudence carrying him through, for he had simply added a couple of ciphers and then between the words "five" and "pounds" had placed an omission mark and written the word "hundred" above, adding the initials of the drawer of the check just to give the thing a look of careless genuineness. It was so astounding a piece of cool audacity that we had bets on the check, two of my assistants declaring it to be O.K., while the other three and myself declared it to be a forgery. Further inquiries, of course, proved that the opinion of the majority was the correct one. It is marvelous what a vast number of signatures some paying tellers will carry in their mind's eye, as it were, and thus be able to pass checks by the thousand without once having to refer to the signature books. We had a paying teller here a few years ago who was little less than a wonder. He knew perfectly the signatures of at least 5000 customers, and could detect the alteration of a stroke in any one of them in an instant. More remarkable still was the fact that he recognized with equal facility the signatures of those customers whose checks only came in once or twice a year. But he made an art of his work, and I afterward discovered that most of his evenings were spent in studying and learning the signatures of the customers, for he was a wonderful hand at copying writing, and whenever a new signature would come in, one with which he was not acquainted, he would at once facsimile it in his pocket-book, and by the next morning would be able to recognize it among 10,000. Signature clerks are not, as a rule, supposed to make copies of customers' autographs, but many of them do, and some men are clever enough at the work to even deceive themselves. Of course, it is understood that when the signature clerks are not examining checks they are studying the autograph books in order to familiarize themselves with the calligraphy of every customer. Each check, you must understand, passes through the hands of each clerk in turn, so that if one should pass a forgery or a "raised" draft it is very unlikely that the entire staff would do so. All these checks, of course, come through the clearing house, and if we should pass a forged draft and not find out our mistake before three o 'clock in the afternoon our bank would be held responsible. One of the commonest dodges adopted by the modern check-forger is to get a customer of some small country bank to introduce him to that institution as a likely depositor. On the recommendation of the friend (who is probably quite unaware that the acquaintance he made some few months ago is a "wrong'un") there is no difficulty in accepting their new client's check for £2000, and the following day, when the same customer calls and withdraws £100 to £500, as the case may be, he is politely handed the cash, and then, of course, loses no time in skipping the town. After the bogus customer's check has passed through the clearing house it is returned to the bank on which it has been drawn and the fraud is at once discovered. Another part of a signature clerk's duties is to see that no checks are post-dated, as of course no drafts must be paid until they fall due. On occasions a careless man will post-date a check, but as a rule the mistake is purposely made. This spotting of post-dated checks, however, is the easiest part of a signature clerk's work, and it is very seldom that a check so dated escapes him. Then, again, we are often notified that payment on certain checks has been stopped, and the clerks have to be on the lookout for these, and it must be a very careless staff indeed that lets them slip by. We are held responsible for all checks passed after we have received notice to stop payment. But it is very seldom now, owing to the cleverness of the experts, that any forged checks, "raised" checks, post-dated checks, or stopped checks pass the vigilant eyes of our staff without being detected, but when one does--well, although the signature clerks are not held monetarily responsible for the loss, it means a bad mark against them in the future, and they feel its effects next time promotions or "rises" are being handed out. Altogether, though the work is interesting, and even fascinating in a way, the responsibilities are so great that the effect on the nerves is often very trying at times. One thing we are particular about, and that is to take no chances. If we have the slightest doubt about the genuineness of a check we at once communicate, either by telegraph, special messenger, or telephone, with the supposed drawer of the check, and in this way turn doubt into certainty. During the last three years not a single wrong check has passed our vigilant optics, and, though I say it who should not, I do not believe there is a cleverer set of experts any where than those who compose my staff. CHAPTER XIII HOW TO DETERMINE AGE OF ANY WRITING The Different Kinds of Ink Met With--Inks That Darken by Exposure to Sunlight and Air--Introduction of Aniline Colors to Determine the Age of Writings--An Almost Infallible Rule to Follow--To Determine Approximate Age of Ink Possible--The Ammonia System a Sure One--A Question of Great Interest to Bankers and Bank Employes--Thick Inks and Thin Inks--So-called Safety Inks That Are Not Safe--How to Restore Faded Inks--An Infallible Rule--Restoring Faded Writing--Restored by the Silk and Cotton System That Anyone Can Arrange--Danger of Exposing Restored Writing to the Sun. The inks in common use over the United States at the present time, and for some years past, are not as numerous as one might be led to conclude. They are probably fifteen or at most twenty in all, including the most popular blue, red, magenta, and green inks. But among these there is a notable difference in character. Some are thick, heavy, and glossy, in character, and flow sluggishly from the pen. Few of these become much darker by standing. In this class will be found the copying inks and those in which a large quantity of gums or similar thickening agents are used. Other inks are pale, limpid, and flow easily from the pen, and this class usually shows a notable darkening by exposure to sunlight and air. It will be unnecessary here to refer more particularly to the intermediate varieties or to discuss their various composition. It should be, remembered here that in the last twenty years, or since the introduction into general commerce of aniline colors, which Hofmann discovered in 1856, these latter have been employed more and more in writing fluids; not only in mixtures of which they are the principal ingredients, but to a greater or less degree in all inks. Their presence, even in small quantity, in the gallo-tannate of iron and logwood inks can be generally detected by an iridescent and semi-metallic luster. To assist in determining the ages of writings by one and the same ink, it is to be observed that the older the writing the less soluble it is in dilute ammonia. If the writing be lightly touched with a brush dipped in ten-per-cent ammonia, the later writing will always give up more or less soluble matter to the ammonia before the earlier. In case of inks of different kinds this test is not serviceable, for characters written in logwood ink, for instance, will always give up their soluble material sooner than nutgall inks, even if the last named be later applied. To estimate the age of writing from the amount of bleaching in a given time by hydrochloric or oxalic acid is very precarious, because the thickness of the ink film in a written character is not always the same, and the acid bleaches the thinner layer sooner than the thicker. The determination of the age of a written paper is a problem difficult of solution. According to F. Carré the age can be approximately determined if the characters written in iron ink are pressed in a copying press and a commercial hydrochloric acid diluted with eleven parts of water is substituted for water; or, if the written characters are treated for some time with this diluted acid. The explanation is that the ink changes in time, its organic substance disappears little by little, and leaves behind an iron compound, which in part is not attacked even by acids. An unsized paper is impregnated with the described diluted acid, copied with the press, and a copy from writing eight or ten years old can be obtained as easily as one by means of water from a writing one day old. A writing thirty years old gives, by this method, a copy hardly legible, and one over sixty years old, a copy hardly visible. In order to protect the paper against the action of the acid, it should be drawn through ammoniacal water. To determine the exact age of writings by the ink is not easy. The approximate age may be determined with some degree of certainty. If ink-writings are but a few days old, it is easy to distinguish them from other writing years old. But to tell by the ink which of two writings is the older, when one is but two months and the other two years, is, as a rule, impossible. Where during the progress of a trial a document purporting to be years old is introduced in evidence, and it can be shown that it is but a few days old, having been prepared for the occasion, ordinarily the age of the writing will be comparatively easy of demonstration by the expert. Oxidization will not have set in to any extent, if the ink is very fresh, and this, with a careful watching of the color for any darkening, will determine whether or not the ink is fresh. This ink study should be a question of the utmost interest to bankers and bank employes. A ten-per-cent solution of ammonia applied to two inks in question will show which is the fresher. The older ink will resist the action of the ammonia longer and give up less soluble matter than the newer writing. Nutgall, and logwood inks, of course, should not be tested comparatively by this method, as the logwood ink will respond to the ammonia sooner than the nutgall ink. F. Carré also gives another method for determining, approximately, the age of ink-writings. If the writing is in iron ink, and is moistened with a solution of one part of hydrochloric acid to eleven parts of water and put in letter-copying press and copy transferred to copy paper it should give a strong copy, if but ten years old; a hardly legible copy, if thirty years old; and if sixty years old, a few marks will be copied, but they will not be legible. If the same solution be used in place of water, as in the ordinary letter-copying process and the copying paper be saturated with it, the result will be the same. To determine the age of writing by applying bleaching acids and watching results and counting the seconds is a dangerous method. Thick inks will respond to the acids slower than thin, and the time comparisons are misleading. Safety inks, so-called, designed to resist the action of acids and alkalies have been repeatedly put upon the market, but no such ink has ever successfully challenged the world and proved its title of safety. Many chemicals are recommended as restorations for faded writing, but these should be avoided as far as possible, as they are liable to stain, disfigure the paper, and in the end make matters materially worse. Familiarity with particular handwritings after some practice will enable the reader to make out otherwise unintelligible words without any other assistant than a powerful magnifying glass. If the ink is very faint, the simplest and most harmless restorative is sulphate of ammonia, but its loathsome smell once encountered is not easily forgotten. The experiment in consequence is very seldom repeated for the result is scarcely good enough to risk a repetition of so horrible a smell. The writing on old and faded documents may be restored, by chemical treatment, turning the iron salt still remaining into ferrous sulphate. A process which will restore the writing temporarily is as follows: A box four or five inches deep and long and broad enough to hold the document, with a glass, is needed. A net of fine white silk or cotton threads is stretched across the box at about one half the depth. Two saucers containing yellow ammonium hydrosulphide are placed in the bottom of the box. By means of a clean sponge or brush, moisten the paper with distilled water; then place it on the net with the writing side down. The action of the vapor of the ammonium hydrosulphide will cause the obliterated writing to slowly turn brown, then black. But within a short time after removal from the box the writing will again disappear. Another method is to wash the document carefully in a solution of hydrochloric acid, one part, and distilled water, one hundred parts. Dry the moistened paper somewhat, leaving it just moist enough to hold a uniform layer of fine yellow prussiate of potash. A plate of glass with a light pressure should be placed on this. In a few hours dry the paper thoroughly, and carefully brush off the yellow prussiate of potash. The writing should come out a Prussian blue. This restored writing will be permanent unless exposed too much to the light. The hydrochloric acid must be thoroughly removed; otherwise, it will destroy the paper. Crystallized soda, two parts, and distilled water, one hundred parts, in solution, will counteract the hydrochloric acid, if the document is allowed to float on it for twenty-four hours. CHAPTER XIV DETECTING FRAUD AND FORGERY IN PAPERS AND DOCUMENTS Infallible Rules for the Detection of Same--New Methods of Research--Changing Wills and Books of Accounts--Judgment of the Naked Eye--Using a Microscope or Magnifying Glass--Changeable Effects of Ink--How to Detect the Use of Different Inks--Sized Papers Not Easily Altered--Inks That Produce Chemical Effects--Inks That Destroy Fiber of Paper--How to Test Tampered or Altered Documents--Treating Papers Suspected of Forgery--Using Water to Detect Fraud--Discovering Scratched Paper--Means Forgers Use to Mask Fraudulent Operations--How to Prepare and Handle Test Papers--Detecting Paper That Has Been Washed--Various Other Valuable Tests to Determine Forgery--A Simple Operation That Anyone Can Apply--Iodine Used On Papers and Documents--An Alcohol Test That is Certain--Bringing Out Telltale Spots--Double Advantage of Certain Tests--Reappearance of Former Letters or Figures--What Genuine Writing Reveals--When an Entire Paper or Document is Forged. The art of detecting forgery or fraud, in checks, drafts, documents, seals, writing materials, or in the characters themselves is a study that has attracted handwriting experts since its study was taken up. There are almost infallible rules for the work and in this chapter is given several new methods of research that will prove of the utmost value to the public. It is not an uncommon occurrence that wills and other public documents are changed by the insertion of extra or substituted pages, thereby changing the character of the instrument. Where this is suspected careful inspection of the paper should be made--first, as to its shade of color and fiber, under a microscope; second, as to its ruling; third, as to its water-mark; fourth, as to any indications that the sheets have been separated since their original attachment; fifth, as to the writing--whether or not it bears the harmonious character of the continuous writing, with the same pen and ink, and coincident circumstances, or if typewritten, whether or not by the same operator or the same machine. It would be a remarkable fact if such change were to be made without betraying some tangible proof in some one or more of the above enumerated respects. Books of accounts are often changed by adding fictitious or fraudulent entries in such spaces as may have been left between the regular entries or at the bottom of the pages where there is a vacant space. Where such entries are suspected, there should be at first a careful inspection of the writing as to its general harmony with that which precedes and follows, as to its size, slope, spacing, ink, and pen used, and if in a book of original entry, the suspected entry should be traced through other books, to see if it is properly entered as to time and place, or vice versa. The judgment by the naked eye as to the colors or shades of two inks in the same paper or document is very likely to be erroneous for the reason that when a lighter ink is more heavily massed than a darker one the effect on the eye is as if it were the darker. Under a microscope or magnifying glass the field is more restricted, the finer lines are broadened, and one has larger areas of ink to compare with less surface of strongly contrasted white paper. Then, again, an ink without noticeable bluish tinge to the naked eye may appear quite blue under the glass where the films of ink are broadened and thinned and their characters better observed. In order to judge whether two marks have been made by the same ink, they should be viewed by reflected light to note the color, luster and thickness of the ink film. Many inks blot or "run" on badly sized paper--i.e., the lines are accompanied by a paler border which renders their edges less well defined. Even on well-sized papers this class of inks usually exhibits only a stained line of no appreciable thickness where the fluid has touched the paper. The copying and glossy inks, which often contain a considerable quantity of gum, do not "run" or blot even on partially sized paper, and show under the glass a convexity on the surface of the line and an appreciable thickness of the film. It does not always follow when an ink has made a blur on one part of the paper and not on another that the paper has been tampered with. A drop of water accidentally let fall on the blank page will frequently affect the sizing in that place, and, besides, all papers are not evenly sized in every part. The inks rich in gum, or those concentrated by evaporation from standing in an open inkstand, give a more lustrous and thicker stroke. Some inks penetrate deeper into the paper than others, and some produce chemical effects upon the sizing and even upon the paper itself, so that the characters can easily be recognized on the underside of the sheet. In some old documents the ink has been known to so far destroy the fiber of the paper that a slight agitation of the sheet would shake out as dust much of the part which it covered, thus leaving an imperfect stencil plate of the original writing. Distilled water is very useful in many cases to ascertain whether paper has been scratched and partially sized or treated with resin. If it has not been altered by chemical agents, the partial sizing and the resinous matter used give to the paper a peculiar appearance. Sizing takes away from the whiteness of the paper, and, thinned by the scratching or washing, it absorbs much more quickly even when it has been partially sized. A simple mode of operation is to place a document or paper suspected of being a forgery, on a sheet of paper or better still, on a piece of glass; then moisten little by little with a paint brush all parts of it, paying close attention to the behavior of the liquid as it comes in contact with the paper. By means of water one can discover what acids, alkalis, or salts the parts of the paper with colored borders or white spots contain. With the aid of a pipette cover these spots with water and let it remain for ten or fifteen minutes; then with the pipette remove the liquid and examine the products it holds in solution. Afterwards make a comparative experiment on another part of the paper which is neither spotted nor whitened. If the original writing has been done with a very acid ink on a paper containing a carbonate, such as calcium carbonate, the ink, in attacking the calcareous salt, stains the paper, so that if the forger has removed the ferruginous salts this removal is denoted by the semi-transparence that water gives to the paper. To study carefully the action of the water it is necessary to repeat the experiment several times, allowing the paper to dry thoroughly before recommencing it. According to Tarry, it is necessary to have recourse to alcohol to discover whether the paper has been scratched in any of the parts and then covered with a resinous matter to prevent the ink from blotting. Place the document on a sheet of white paper and with a paint brush dipped in alcohol of specific gravity 0.86 or 0.87 cover the place supposed to have been tampered with. It may be discovered if the writing thickens and runs when the alcohol has dissolved the resin. Hold the paper moistened with alcohol between the eye and the light; the thinning of the paper shows the work of the forger. Some more skillful forgers use paste and resin at the same time to mask their fraudulent operations; in this case luke-warm water should be first employed and then alcohol; water to dilute the paste, and alcohol to dissolve the resin. The result is that the ink added on the places scratched out spreads, and the forgery is easily seen. Test-papers (litmus, mauve, and Georgina paper) serve to determine whether a paper has been washed either by the help of chemical agents, acids incompletely removed, or the surplus of which has been saturated by an alkali, or by the help of alkaline substances. The change of the color to red indicates an acid substance; an alkali would turn the reddened litmus paper to blue, and the mauve and Georgina test-papers to green. Take a sheet of test-paper of the same dimensions as the document to be examined, moisten it, and cover it underneath with a sheet of Swedish filter-paper. These two sheets together (the filter-paper underneath) are then applied to the document which has been moistened already. The whole is then laid between two quires of paper, covered by a weighted board, and left in this condition for about an hour. At the end of this time examine the test-paper to see if it has partly or altogether changed color. This examination finished, put the test-paper in contact with distilled water, to be afterwards removed and tried by appropriate tests to discover the nature of the alkali or acid present. Silver nitrate is also used to discover whether the paper has been washed with chlorine or chlorites. A paper in that way becomes acid. The chlorine changes to hydrochloric acid, which dissolves in the water with which the suspected document or paper is moistened, and at the contact of silver nitrate little spots of silver chloride appear. There are various other tests such as gallo-tannic acid or infusion of nutgalls prepared a short time before application and may be used with advantage to restore writings that have been removed by washing. Place the document or paper on a sheet of white paper and moisten the whole of its surface with a paint brush dipped in the reagent, taking care not to rub it or strongly press it. When the surface is well impregnated allow the solution to act for an hour, and at the end of this time examine the document again. Then moisten it a second time and the following day, examine the results. Repeat the moistening several times if necessary, for it often takes some time to make the traces of writing reappear. Chevallier and Lassaigne experimented together on the effect produced by the vapor of iodine on the surface of the papers or documents upon which the alteration of writing was suspected. Take a bottle with a wide mouth from ten to eleven centimeters in height, and the opening from five to six centimeters in width. This last is covered by a disk of unpolished glass. Into the bottom of this vessel introduce from twenty to thirty grams of iodine in crystals. Place the portion of paper on which the vapor of iodine is to act at the opening of the bottle, and cover it with the stopper of unpolished glass, on which put a weight so as to exert a slight pressure, and in order that the aperture may be hermetically closed. Then allow the vapor of iodine to act on the dry paper for three or four minutes at the temperature of 15° to 16° C. and examine it attentively. When the surface has not been spotted by any liquid (water, alcohol, salt water, vinegar, saliva, tears, urine acids, acid salts, or alkalis) a uniform pale-yellow or yellowish-brown tinge will be noticed on all parts of the paper exposed to the vapor of iodine. Otherwise a different and easily distinguished tinge shows itself on the surface that has been moistened and then dried in the open air. Machine-made papers with starchy and resinous sizing give such decided reactions that sometimes it is possible to distinguish by the color the portion of the paper treated with alcohol from that moistened with water. The spot produced by alcohol takes a kind of yellow tinge; that formed by water becomes a violet blue, more or less deep, after having dried at an ordinary temperature. As to the spots produced by other aqueous liquids, they approach in appearance, though not in intensity, those occasioned by pure water. Feeble acids, or those diluted by water, act like water; but the concentrated mineral acids, in altering more or less the substance of the sizing, produce spots that present differences. Spots which become apparent by using vapor of iodine are due to chemical agents whose strength has altered either the fibers of the surface, or the paste uniting them. In a word, the test of a document or paper by vapor of iodine has the double advantage of indicating the place of the supposed alteration and operating afterwards with appropriate reagents to bring back the traces of ink. It is only the reappearance of former letters or figures written or effaced that demonstrates forgery. Much time may be profitably spent in merely scanning each letter of a document, and the writing by lines, paragraphs, and pages before a closer scrutiny. Gradually, if the writing be genuine, its character will begin to reveal itself, and unconsciously a hypothesis as to the physical causes of the irregularities or characteristics will be formed. When an entire document or page is forged, the ornamentation, flourishes, or the capitals at its head will often be seen to be out of keeping, either with its nature or with the supposed author's habits in similar cases. In a writing all must agree, place, day, year, handwriting, superscription or heading, signature, and material carrying the writing, especially paper, both as to constitution and color and ink. See illustrations of various kinds of handwriting at end of this book. CHAPTER XV GUIDED HANDWRITING AND METHOD USED The Most Frequent and Dangerous Method of Forgery--How to Detect a Guided Signature--What Guided Handwriting Is and How It Is Done--Character of Such Writing--Writing by a Guided Hand--Difficulty in Writing--Force Exercised by Joint Hands--A Hand More or Less Passive--Work of the Controlling Hand--How Guided Writing Appears--Two Writers Acting in Opposition--Distorted Writing--How a Legitimate Guided Hand is Directed and Supported--Pen Motion Necessary to Produce Same--Influence in Guiding a Stronger Hand--Avoiding an Unnatural and Cramped Position--Effect of the Brain on Guided Hand--Separating Characteristics From Guided Joint Signature--Detecting Writing by a System of Measurement. Guided handwriting is one of the most frequent means of forgery and oftentimes the most difficult to detect. It has been established that with care the elements of each handwriting can be detected and proven in a guided signature. The leading handwriting experts of the world are unanimous in declaring that it is possible for holding another's hand in making a guided signature to infuse the character of the guider's hand into the writing. Guided handwriting is the writing produced by two hands conjointly and is usually erratic, and at first sight, hard to connect with the handwriting of any one person. The character and quality of writing in case of a controlled or assisted hand must depend largely upon the relative force, exercised by the joint hands. The difficulty in writing arises from the antagonizing motion of one hand upon the other, which is likely to produce an unintelligible scrawl, having little or none of the habitual characteristics of either hand. Where one hand is more or less passive, the controlling hand doing the writing, its characteristics may be more or less manifest in the writing. But obviously the controlling hand must be seriously obstructed in its motions by even a passive hand; and since the controlling hand can have no proper or customary rest, the motion must be from the shoulder and with the whole arm. The writing will therefore be upon an enlarged scale, loose, sprawling, and can have little, if any, characteristic resemblance to the natural and habitual style of the controlling writer, and of course none of the person's whose hand is passive. In appearance it changes abruptly from very high or very wide to very low or narrow letters. This is to be explained by the non-agreement in phase of the impulses due to each of the two writers. If both are endeavoring at the same moment to write a given stroke the length of that stroke will be measured by the sum of the impulses given by the two writers. If they act in opposition to one another, one seeking to make a down stroke while the other is trying to make an up stroke, the result will be a line equal to the difference between the stronger and the weaker force. As these coincidences and oppositions occur at irregular but not infrequent intervals, like the interference and amplification phases of light and sound waves, the result traced on the paper might be expected in advance to be--and in fact is--a distorted writing where maxima and minima of effect are connected together by longer or shorter lines of ordinary writing. The only state of things which can justify the guiding of a hand executing a legal instrument is the feebleness or illness of its owner. When such assistance is required it is usually given by passing the arm around the body of the invalid and supporting the writing hand while the necessary characters are being made. Both participants in this action are looking at the writing, and both are thinking of the next letter which must be written, and of the motion of the pen necessary to produce it. Unless the executing hand were absolutely lifeless or entirely devoid of power, it would be impossible for it not to influence the guiding and presumably stronger hand; for the least force exerted cannot fail to deflect a hand, however strong, in an unnatural and cramped position. Nor can the hand of the guider fail to add its contribution to the joint effort, however much the brain which controls it may strive to render the hand entirely passive. Both minds are busy with the same act, and insensibly both hands will write the same letter with the results just described. Can the characteristics of each hand be separated from those of the other and the relative amount of the two contributions to the joint signature be stated? This is a question which is naturally asked during the trial of a case involving the consideration of a guided hand. From the comparatively small number of experiments made in this direction it would be too hazardous to answer it in the affirmative, but it may be said that some of the characteristics of each hand can usually be made apparent by the system of measurement, and the indications seem to point to the probability of being able to increase the number of characteristics elicited in proportion to the number of observations made. If the significance of every part of every stroke could be properly interpreted, it follows that a complete separation of characteristics would be effected, but this would require an indefinitely large number of observations to be made and a quite unattainable skill in explaining them. See specimens of guided signatures in Appendix. CHAPTER XVI TALES TOLD BY HANDWRITING Telling the Nationality, Sex and Age of Anyone Who Executes Handwriting--Americans and Their Style of Writing--How English, German, and French Write--Gobert the French Expert and How He Saved Dreyfus--Miser Paine and His Millions Saved by an Expert--Writing with Invisible Ink--Professor Braylant's Secret Writing Without Ink--Professor Gross Discovers a Simple Secret Writing Method With a Piece of Pointed Hardwood--A System Extensively Used--Studying the Handwriting of Authors--How to Determine a Person's Character and Disposition by Handwriting. It is possible for a trained expert in handwriting to tell with a fair degree of accuracy the nationality, sex, and age of any one who executes writing of any kind. A study of the handwriting of the different nations makes it comparatively easy to recognize in any questioned specimen the nationality of the writer. The aggregate characteristics of a nation are reflected in the style of handwriting adopted as a national standard. The style most in use in the United States is the semi-angular, forward-slant hand, although the vertical round-hand is now being largely taught in the public schools and will affect the appearance of the writing of the next generation quite appreciably. Frequently educational and newspaper critics compare unfavorably American writing with that of other nations. The writer has investigated the subject by collecting from many countries copy-books and specimens of writing from leading teachers of writing, students in various grades of schools, clerks and business men. America is so far in advance of any other country in artistic and business penmanship that there is really no second. Americans as a whole write at a much higher rate of speed and with a freer movement than any other nations, and, consequently, many critics stop when they have criticized form alone, not making allowance for quantity. Nervous, rapid writers (and such the Americans are) produce writing more or less illegible, but it is not the fault of the standard so much as the speed with which the writing is done. The writing of England is either angular (for rapid business style), or the civil-service round-hand--too slow for the every-day rush of business. England's colonies, influenced by her copy-books and teachers, write about as England does. Canada is an exception, as her proximity to the United States causes her to mix the English and American styles, with the American gaining ground. The German and French write two radically different styles. Hence the identity of the nation producing the writer as well as the identity of the writer himself usually can be established. Before the writer is known this frequently is of great benefit to the cause of justice as it narrows down the search. A case such as the Dreyfus affair has a tendency to confuse the public mind and leads to wrong conclusions. In initiating the prosecution of Dreyfus the French government submitted the documents to expert Gobert, of the Bank of France, who is considered the leader in this line in France. Gobert reported that Dreyfus did not write the incriminating documents. The prosecutors then placed the papers in the hands of Bertillon, the inventor of the anthropometric system of measurements (used principally on criminals) which bears his name. It mattered not that Bertillon had never appeared in a handwriting case before, or that his skill in this line was unknown. He was a man of science, of great renown in other lines, and the government relied on these facts to bolster up its claim that Dreyfus wrote the incriminating papers Bertillon reported in favor of the government's contention, and it was an easy matter to get some alleged experts--weak as to will and ability--and one or two honest but misguided men to agree with him. Some of these afterward changed their opinions when better standards of writing were given to them. Dreyfus' friends sent engraved reproductions of standards and disputed documents to the best-known experts all over the world, and without exception these reported that Dreyfus was not the writer of the disputed papers. On the side of the French government were a few so-called "experts," headed and dominated by a man with no experience whatever. The experts of skill and experience in France and the world over were practically unanimous in favor of Dreyfus. A critical examination of the documents in question produced an absolute conviction that they could not possibly have been written by Dreyfus. Unless the individual is fitted by nature and inborn liking for investigations of this character, no amount of education and experience will fit him. But, given natural equipment and inclination, it is necessary first of all that the expert have a good general education. He should have a sufficient command of language to make others see what he sees. He should have a good eye for form and color, and a well-trained hand to enable him to describe graphically as well as orally what his trained eye has detected. A few strokes on a blackboard or large sheet of paper will often make a clouded point appear much plainer to court, jury and lawyers than hours of oral description. The ability to handle the crayon and to simulate well the writings under discussion is a great aid. A very interesting case was involved in the will of Miser Paine in New York in 1889. Here a deliberate attempt to get away with something like $1,500,000 was made, which was frustrated by a handwriting expert. When quite a young man, James H. Paine was a clerk in a Boston business house. He absconded with a lot of money and went to New York, where all trace of him was lost. He speculated with the stolen money, and everything he touched turned to gold. He soon became a millionaire. Then he became a miser. He went around the streets in rags, lodged in a garret with a French family on the West Side, who took him out of pure charity, and lived on the leavings which restaurant-keepers gave him. There was only one thing that he would spend money on; that was music. He was passionately fond of music, and for years was a familiar figure in the lobby of the Academy of Music during the opera season. He would go there early in the evening, and beg people to pay his way in. If he didn't find a philanthropist he would buy a ticket himself, but he never gave up hope until he knew that the curtain had risen. Finally Paine was run over by a cab in New York. He was taken to a hospital, but made such a fuss about staying there that he was finally removed to his garret home. He died there in a few days. Then a man came forward with a power of attorney which he said Paine gave him in 1885 and which authorized him to take charge of Paine's interest in the estate of his brother, Robert Treat Paine. The closing paragraph empowered him to attend to all of Paine's business and to dispose of his property without consulting anybody, in the event of anything happening to him. Nothing was known then of Paine's possessions. Later the French family with whom Paine lived opened an old hair trunk they found in the garret. In this trunk they found nearly half a million dollars in gold, bank notes, and securities. Chickering, the piano man, came forward then and said that some years before Paine gave him a package wrapped up in an old bandana handkerchief for safe keeping. He had opened this package and found that it contained $300,000 in bank notes. Other possessions of Paine's were found. Relatives came forward and employing handwriting experts proved that the power of attorney presented was a forgery and the estate went to the relations of Paine. This was a celebrated case in its day and called attention to the value of experts in this line. Ovid, in his "Art of Love," teaches young women to deceive their guardians by writing their love letters with new milk, and to make the writing appear by rubbing coal dust over the paper. Any thick and viscous fluid, such as the glutinous and colorless juices of plants, aided by any colored powder, will answer the purpose equally well. A quill pen should be used. The most common method is to pen an epistle in ordinary ink, interlined with the invisible words, which doubtless has given rise to the expression, "reading between the lines," in order to discover the true meaning of a communication. Letters written with a solution of gold, silver, copper, tin, or mercury dissolved in aqua fortis, or simpler still of iron or lead in vinegar, with water added until the liquor does not stain white paper, will remain invisible for two or three months if kept in the dark; but on exposure for some hours to the open air will gradually acquire color, or will do so instantly on being held before the fire. Each of these solutions gives its own peculiar color to the writing--gold, a deep violet; silver, slate; and lead and copper, brown. There is a vast number of other solutions that become visible on exposure to heat, or when having a heated iron passed over them; the explanation is that the matter is readily burned to a sort of charcoal. Simplest among these are lemon juice or milk; but the one that produces the best result is made by dissolving a scruple of salammoniac in two ounces of water. Several years ago Professor Braylant of the University of Louvain discovered a method in which no ink at all was required to convey a secret message. He laid several sheets of note paper on each other and wrote on the uppermost with a pencil; then selected one of the under sheets, on which no marks of the writing were visible. On exposing this sheet to the vapor of iodine for a few minutes it turned yellowish and the writing appeared of a violet brown color. On further moistening the paper it turned blue, and the letters showed in violet lines. The explanation is that note paper contains starch, which under pressure becomes "hydramide," and turns blue in the iodine fumes. It is best to write on a hard surface, say a pane of glass. Sulphuric acid gas will make the writing disappear again, and it can be revived a second time. One of the simplest secret writings, however, to which Professor Gross of Germany calls attention is the following: Take a sheet of common writing paper, moisten it well with clear water, and lay it on a hard, smooth surface, such as glass, tin, stone, etc. After removing carefully all air bubbles from the sheet, place upon it another dry sheet of equal size and write upon it your communication with a sharp-pointed pencil or a simple piece of pointed hardwood. Then destroy the dry paper upon which the writing has been done, and allow the wet paper to dry by exposing it to the air (but not to the heat of fire or the flame of a lamp). When dry, not a trace of the writing will be visible. But on moistening the sheet again with clear water and holding it against the light, the writing can be read in a clear transparency. It disappears again after drying in the air, and may be reproduced by moistening a great number of times. Should the sheets be too much heated, however, the writing will disappear, never to reappear again. This system is used extensively in Germany. An interesting study is the handwriting of authors, as it indicates to a greater or less degree their personal temperaments. Longfellow wrote a bold, open back-hand, which was the delight of printers, says the Scientific American. Joaquin Miller wrote such a bad hand that he often becomes puzzled over his own work, and the printer sings the praises of the inventor of the typewriter. Charlotte Bronte's writing seemed to have been traced with a cambric needle, and Thackeray's writing, while marvelously neat and precise, was so small that the best of eyes were needed to read it. Likewise the writing of Captain Marryatt was so microscopic that when he was interrupted in his labors he was obliged to mark the place where he left off by sticking a pin in the paper. Napoleon's was worse than illegible, and it is said that his letters from Germany to the Empress Josephine were at first thought to be rough maps of the seat of war. Carlyle wrote a patient, crabbed and oddly emphasized hand. The penmanship of Bryant was aggressive, well formed and decidedly pleasing to the eye; while the chirography of Scott, Hunt, Moore, and Gray was smooth and easy to read but did not express distinct individuality. Byron's handwriting was nothing more than a scrawl. His additions to proofs frequently exceeded in volume the original copy, and in one of his poems, which contained in the original only four hundred lines, one thousand were added in the proofs. The writing of Dickens was minute, and he had a habit of writing with blue ink on blue paper. Frequent erasures and interlineations made his copy a burden to his publishers. Horace Greeley could not decipher his own writing after it got cold. Mark Twain writes a cramped, plain hand, and writes with haste. For an evening entertainment when a few friends happen to drop in ask each one to write any quotation that pops into his head and carefully sign his name in full. Pen and ink are better than pencil, but the latter will answer in a pinch. If the writing is dark this shows a leaning toward athletics and a love for outdoor life and sports. If the letters are slender and faint the writer is reserved and rarely shows emotion or becomes confidential. Sloping letters indicate a very sensitive disposition, whereas those that are straight up and down evince ability to face the world and throw off the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." Curls and loops are out of fashion nowadays, but any inclination to ornate penmanship is a sure indication of a leaning toward the romantic and sentimental, while the least desire to shade a letter shows imagination and a tendency to idealize common things. If the same letter is formed differently by the same person this shows love of change. Long loops or endings to the letters indicate that the writer "wears his heart upon his sleeve," or in other words, is trusting, non-secretive, and very fond of company. If the "y" has a specially long finish, this shows affectation, but if the same person is also careless about crossing the "t's," the combination is an unhappy one, as it points to fickleness in work and to affectation. A curved cross to the "t," or the incurving of the first letters of a word shows an affectionate and good-natured disposition if taken separately; but if the two are indulged in by the same writer it is a sign of jealousy. Writing that is rather small points to cleverness, quick intuitions, a liking for one's own way, brilliant intellect, and fine powers of penetration. Round, jolly, comfortable-looking letters betoken a disposition to correspond. With these hints in mind it will be surprising to find how many caps may be found to fit ourselves and our friends. CHAPTER XVII WORKINGS OF THE GOVERNMENT SECRET SERVICE Officials of This Department Talk About Their Work--How Criminals Are Traced, Caught and Punished--Its Work Extending to All Departments--Secret Service Districts--Reports Made to the Treasury Department--Good Money and Bad--How to Detect the False--System of Numbering United States Notes Explained--Counterfeiting on the Decrease--Counterfeiting Gold Certificates--Bank Tellers and Counterfeits--The Best Secret Service in the World. The secret service bureau of the Treasury Department is not an old concern. It has not been in operation many years, compared to the existence of other bureaus, but it grows in importance each year. There are now a large number of investigators, by some called detectives, in the field, but the exact number is not known and will not be made public. Counterfeiting money is an old offense. It was done before the United States became a government, but does not seem to have become so widespread until the United States began making its own paper money during the Civil War. Prior to that time the offenses had been dealt with by states and municipalities, with such help as the general government cared to give. The increase in the crime, however, caused recognition by Congress in 1860, when $10,000 was appropriated for its suppression to be expended under the direction of the Secretary of the Treasury. This sum was paid out in rewards to private detectives, municipal officers and others instrumental in bringing to trial and punishment those engaged in making bogus money. With the turning out of greenbacks by the government an increase in the appropriation and a more organized fight against counterfeiting were necessary. In 1864 Congress appropriated $100,000 and placed upon the solicitor of the treasury the responsibility and supervision of keeping down counterfeiting. This really inaugurated a methodical system of hunting and punishing counterfeiters. The solicitor of the treasury gathered about him a corps of men experienced in criminal investigations and set them to work. The plan worked so well that when John Sherman was secretary of the treasury he gave his approval to the organization of a separate bureau for suppressing the output of spurious currency. Under foreign governments the handling of counterfeiters is in control of a centralized police organization, which looks after all kinds of criminal offenses against the general governments. The one bureau has surveillance over criminals of every class. The tendency is in that direction in this government. The secret service bureau is now being used by a number of departments of the government. The operations of the secret service are confined by law to the suppression of counterfeiting and the investigation of back pay and bounty cases. This is all the law permits the officials of the service to work on, but every day they are at work on other matters. That the law may not be openly violated the secret service operators assigned to do other work are practically taken off the secret service rolls and the department employing them is required to pay their salaries and expenses. Nearly all the departments now recognize the efficiency of the service and call upon the bureau at any time for a man. The Department of Justice has used a number of the operators in the last few years. In the course of time this will become so general that this government will probably build up a great criminal bureau, one that will supply officers for investigation of any crime. The Postoffice Department now has its own system of inspectors, who investigate violations of postal laws, and the plan of pitting specialist against specialist is regarded as perfect. This could be continued, though, if all the criminal organizations of the government were centralized. The United States is divided into thirty secret service districts, each in charge of an operative who has under his direction as many assistants as the criminal activity of the section demands. The force is concentrated in one district if there are counterfeiting operations in progress, and then sent to another district as required. A written daily report, covering operations for twenty-four hours, is exacted from each district operative and from each man under him. These daily reports frequently contain many fascinating stories, many details of criminal life and espionage that would make columns. The reports received by the bureau in Washington are carefully filed away in the offices of the Treasury Department. Accompanying the reports are the photographs and measurements of every man arrested for counterfeiting. The Bertillon system of measurements is used by the service, as well as a plain indexed card system. The two are so complete that even without the name of a man his name and record can be obtained if his measurements are forwarded. Hanging on the walls and in racks in the two rooms that are occupied by the chief and his two assistants are the photographs of every known counterfeiter in the country. Among these are the faces of William E. Brockway, the veteran dean of counterfeiters; Emanuel Ninger, the most expert penman the service ever knew, and Taylor and Bredell, who hold the record as the cleverest counterfeiters in history next to Brockway. There are hundreds of others who have at some time or other gotten into the clutches of the service, many of them the most desperate characters. Some of these have taken human life with the same ease they would make a paper dollar or a silver coin. The development of modern processes of photolithography, photogravure, and etching has revolutionized the note counterfeiting industry. So famous a counterfeiter as Brockway realized this. In the old days all counterfeiting plates were hand engraved and it took from eight to fifteen months to complete a set. Now this part of the work may be done in a few hours. Information as to the personnel and operations of the secret service is carefully withheld from the public. The names of the heads of the various districts and the operators are unknown and are seldom published unless in case of the arrest of a counterfeiter and the the facts get into the newspapers. The bureau is managed by John E. Wilkie, chief. He has held the position since 1898, when he succeeded Chief Hazen. Mr. Wilkie is a newspaper man having held responsible positions on many large papers. He began his career as a reporter and worked his way up to city editor of one of the big Chicago papers. He has a great "nose" for criminal investigation, and his work is regarded as brilliant. All the United States notes are printed in sheets of four notes of one denomination on each sheet. Each note is lettered in its respective order, in the upper and lower corners diagonally opposite, A, B, C, and D, and this is the system for numbering notes: All numbers, on being divided by 4 and leaving 1 for a remainder, have the check letter A; 2 remainder, B; 3 remainder, C; even numbers, or with no remainder, D. Any United States note the number upon which can be divided by 4 without showing the above result is a counterfeit, and while this rule is not infallible in all instances it will be found of service in the detection of counterfeits. Compared with a dozen or so years ago, there is nothing like the counterfeiting going on in this country. Shortly after the war the country was practically flooded with it, but so perfect is the machinery of the secret service and so successful have its officers been in recent years in unearthing the big plants and their operators, and placing the latter behind the bars, that counterfeiting has almost ceased. The receipts of subsidiary counterfeit coins at the subtreasury at New York have been in recent times inconsequential. Some time ago an Italian silversmith, who was an expert coin counterfeiter, was captured, and the destruction of his plant and his subsequent conviction had a wholesome effect upon his fellow countrymen, some of whom have come over to the United States for the express purpose of counterfeiting its silver coins. Only five counterfeit issues of notes made their appearance during the year in question, and of these three were new and two were reissues of old counterfeits. This shows how well the counterfeit situation, as it were, is kept in check and under control by the government. By some it is supposed that most of our counterfeiters come from abroad, but this is not strictly accurate, though many of those who attempt to imitate our silver dollar and the subsidiary coin issues hail from Italy and Russia. In order to set up a first-class counterfeit shop for the turning out of good paper counterfeits, there are so many indispensable requisites on the part of the spurious money-makers that they get discouraged or caught in most instances almost at the very outset of their would-be easy money-making careers. All of the good engravers who are capable of turning out good plates are more or less under the constant supervision of the secret service officers, while the paper supply, or its possible supply, is equally well watched. Because gold and silver coins pass current out on the Pacific coast, where notes do not yet circulate freely as in the east, California has more counterfeiting cases than any other state in the Union, with Pennsylvania, with its large foreign population in the mining regions, a close second. A moderately deceptive $5 silver certificate was made in Italy, imported into this country by various gangs of Italians and passed quite extensively in the eastern states, but the secret service officers quickly got on to the source of issue, and made many arrests and secured convictions. So closely did they hit the trail of a fairly good counterfeit note issued in the west that they got the maker and passer arrested and convicted and the plates captured so quickly that it must have caused him acute pain. It was the same with a $10 note of deceptive workmanship which appeared in New York. Only three of these notes were circulated. Of course there are plenty of counterfeit notes and coins in circulation--if there were not the secret-service officers would have an easy time of it--but the output has largely decreased as compared with former years, and, unless all signs fail, it is likely to go still lower, as the secret service officers become each year more expert in detecting this class of crime and putting the criminals away where they will serve the state the best. Gold certificates issued below the denomination of $20, are numbered the same as treasury notes and are check-lettered in their order upon each sheet. The only denominations of the gold certificates which have been counterfeited are the issues for $20 and $100, respectively, as the gold certificates present a pretty tough counterfeiting proposition, though most of the denominations of the various issues of the silver certificates have been more or less extensively counterfeited, perhaps the issues for $5 and $10, respectively, being the most favored at the counterfeiter's hands, by reason of the ready circulation of these two issues. The main deterrents to counterfeiting nowadays are, first, lack of good engravers who will take the risk; second, the difficulty in the making and the assembling of first-class plates, and third, the difficulty in the securing of suitable paper. As to the last, the fiber paper now in use with the two silk threads running through the note lengthwise presents a hard proposition for imitation, and lastly, and an important provision, is the fact the public is now pretty well educated on the question of counterfeits, and know how a spurious bill both looks and feels. As for the bank tellers, they scent counterfeits by instinct. Things have changed for the counterfeiter, too, and they are not for the best from his point of view. The secret service of the United States is without a question the best in the world. CHAPTER XVIII CHARACTER AND TEMPERAMENT INDICATED BY HANDWRITING A Man's Handwriting a Part of Himself--Cheap Postage and Typewriters Playing Havoc with Writing by Hand--Old Time Correspondence Vanishing--Two Divisions of Handwriting--Fashion Has Changed Even Writing--Characteristic Writing of Different Professions--Handwriting a Sure Index to Character and Temperament--Personality of Handwriting--Handwriting a Voiceless Speaking--A Neglected Science--Interest in Disputed Handwriting Rapidly Coming to the Front--Set Writing Copies no Longer the Rule--Formal Handwriting--Education's Effect on Writing--Handwriting and Personality--The Character and Temperament of Writers Easily Told--Honest, Eccentric, and Weak People--How to Determine Character by Writing--The Marks of Truth and Straightforwardness--How Perseverance and Patience Are Indicated in Writing--Economy, Generosity and Liberality Easily Shown in Writing--The Character and Temperament of Any Writer Easily Shown--Studying Character from Handwriting a Fascinating Work--Rules for Its Study--Links in a Chain That Cannot Be Hidden--A Person's Writing a Surer Index to Character Than His Face. A person's handwriting is really a part of himself. It is an expression of his personality and his character and is as characteristic of his general make-up as his gait or his tone of voice. There is always a direct and apparent connection between the style of handwriting and the personality of the writer. Another familiar evidence of this is the fact that no two persons write exactly alike, notwithstanding that hundreds of thousands of people learned to write from the same copy-books and were taught to form their letters in precisely the same way. Thus, it will be seen, if handwriting bore no relationship to personality and temperament and was not influenced by the character of the individual, we would all be writing the beautiful Spencerian copper-plate we were taught in our school days. But, as it is, not one in fifty thousand writes in this manner five years after leaving school. Like speech or gesture, handwriting serves as a means for the expression of thought; and in expressing our thoughts we give expression to ourselves. When once the art of writing is learned we are no longer conscious of the mental and manual effort required to form the letters. It becomes, as it were, a second nature to us. We do it mechanically, just as we form our words when talking, without realizing the complex processes of mind and muscle that it involves. Of course, the style of handwriting does not in every case remain the same throughout the entire life of a man or woman. A man of fifty may not write the same hand that he did when he was eighteen or twenty, and if he lives to be eighty or ninety it will in all probability show further indications of change. This fact only emphasizes the relationship between handwriting, character, and personality; for it will always be found that where there is a change in the style of penmanship there is a corresponding change in the person himself. Very few of us retain the same character, disposition, and nature that we had in youth. Experience and vicissitudes do much to modify our natures, and with such modifications come alterations in our handwriting. In some persons the change is very slight, while in others it is noticeably evident. When a man attempts to change his style of handwriting he simply alters the principal features of it. If his writing normally slopes to the right, he will probably adopt a back-hand. He may also use a different kind of pen; may change the size of the writing, alter the customary formation of certain letters, and add certain unfamiliar flourishes. But knowing nothing about the many minor characteristics of his natural writing he unconsciously repeats them, notwithstanding his best efforts to veil the identity of his chirography. In this respect he resembles the actor, who, while he may assume all the outward characteristics of another individual, still retains certain personal peculiarities of which he is himself unaware and which render it impossible for him to completely disguise his own individuality. The introduction of cheap postage and the immense increase of every-day correspondence has ruined handwriting and banished forever the art of composition. The short, modern, business-like letters of to-day will not bear comparison with the neat, voluminous letters full of graphic scenic descriptions, which our forefathers were wont to compile, and were worth keeping and rereading. Now, when similar correspondence is undertaken, it is dictated to a stenographer, copied on a typewriter, or printed, for few people will take the trouble to read manuscript composition of any kind. Looking backward, we find a marked paucity of ideas and carelessness of writing in correspondence, getting worse the farther back we go. Few letters are preserved these days, except those on business, which is a pity, for a letter is always a unique production, being a correct reflect of a writer and his times. There are always two divisions of handwriting, the formal hand employed for clerk's work, and a freer, less mechanical, less careful style, used for private correspondence. Writing was a profession only understood by a few, and as late as the sixteenth century, when it was necessary to communicate with persons at a distance, a professional scribe was employed to write the letter. But letter-writing was rare and did not become general till after the close of the sixteenth century, and even then it was restricted to the upper classes of society. Fashion changes in everything. Every generation had its own particular type of writing. Compare, for instance, any bundle of letters taken at random, out of an old desk or library. It is quite easy to sort them into bundles in sequence of dates, and also guess accurately the age and position of the writers. The flowing Italian hand, used by educated women early in the nineteenth century, has now developed into a bold, decisive, almost masculine writing. It will be found that most professions have special characteristics in writing and these are all liable to change, according to circumstances and writing is the clearest proof of both bodily and mental condition, for in case of paralysis, or mental aberration, the doctor takes it as a certain guide. The most noticeable movement by which cultured people recognize one another are the play of the features, the gait, talking and writing. Of these evidences the last named is the most infallible, for by a few hasty lines we may recognize again a person whom we neither see nor hear, and enjoy in addition the advantage of being able to compare quietly and at our leisure the traits of one individual thus expressed with the characteristics of another. There are not many men to be found in any walk of life who do not endeavor to conceal to some extent, however slight, their true views and emotions, when brought into close contact with their fellow-beings. But the mind photographs itself unsuspectingly in the movements of the hands, by the use of pen and ink away from all alien observation, and with the rigid unchangeable witness in our possession the character of the author of the manuscript lies open to the gaze of the intelligent reader. In this way handwriting becomes much more individual than any other active sign of personality. It varies more, it is more free, it represents the individual less artificially than voice or gesture. There must exist between the form and arrangements of letters in words and lines, on the one hand, and certain individual peculiarities of the writer, on the other, some kind of connection. It is strange that no scientific writing has ever yet been undertaken, for it seems conclusive that handwriting is a kind of voiceless speaking, consequently a phenomenon, and therefore an operation which lies within the province of physiology. Yet there are no books or studies on the subject of disputed handwriting up to the present time, short newspaper and magazine articles and sketches being the only contributions the public has been favored with up to the publication of this work. There is as yet no physiology of handwriting formulated, and that the further question of the relation of handwriting to the moods of the writer has not ever been touched upon scientifically. The history of science teaches us that in case a fact, which is theoretically and practically important, has been neglected for decades and even centuries by trained scientists; but the subject will now be taken up and a place made for it among the prominent and leading studies of the day. Interest in disputed handwriting and writing of all kinds is rapidly coming to the front in the United States, and is a study and research that the business man of the future will be perfectly familiar with. It is now no longer the rule to teach to write entirely by the aid of set copies, as was the case with our forefathers, who wrote after one approved pattern, which was copied as nearly as possible from the original set for them; therefore characteristics, peculiarities are longer in asserting themselves and what is now considered a "formal" handwriting was not developed till late in life. There were, and still are, two divisions or classes of handwriting, the professional and personal; with the first the action is mechanical and exhibits few, if any, traces of personality. Yet in the oldest manuscripts studied and consulted there are certain defined characteristics plainly shown. The handwritings of historical and celebrated personages coincide to a remarkable degree with their known virtues and vices, as criticized and detailed by their biographers. As the art of writing became general, its form varied more, and more, becoming gradually less formal, and each person wrote as was easiest to himself. Education, as a rule, has a far from beneficial effect upon handwriting; an active brain creates ideas too fast to give the hand time to form the letters clearly, patiently and evenly, the matter, not the material, being to the writer of primary importance. So as study increased among all classes, writing degenerated from its originally clear, regular lettering into every style of penmanship. If the subject of handwriting, as a test of personality is carefully studied, it will be found that immediate circumstances greatly influence it; anxiety or great excitement of any kind, illness or any violent emotion, will for the moment greatly affect the writing. Writing depends upon so many things--a firm grasp of the pen, a pliability of the muscles, clearness of vision and brain power--even the writing materials, pens, ink and paper, all make a difference. It is not strange, then, that with so many causes upon which it depends, writing should be an excellent test of personality, temperament and bodily health. Excitability, hastiness, temperament, personality and impatience are all seen in the handwriting at a glance. A quick brain suggests words and sentences so fast, one upon another, that though the pen races along the page, it cannot write down the ideas quickly enough to satisfy the author. Temper depends upon temperament. The crosses of the letter "t" are the index whereby to judge of it. If those strokes are regular through a whole page of writing, the writer may be assumed to have an even-placed temper; if dashed off at random-quick short strokes somewhat higher than the letter itself, quick outbursts of anger may be expected, but of short duration, unless the stroke is firm and black, in which case great violence may safely be predicted. Uncertainty of character and temperament is shown by the variation of these strokes to the letter "t." Sometimes the cross is firm and black, then next time it is light, sometimes it is omitted altogether, varying with each repetition of the letter like the opinions and sentiments of an undecided person. The up and down strokes of the letters tell of strength or weakness of will; graduations of light and shade, too, may be observed in the strokes. Capital letters tell us many points of interest. By them originality, talent and mental capacity are displayed, as well as any deficiency or want of education. There are two styles of capital letters at present in use. The high-class style employed by persons of education is plain and often eccentric, but without much ornamentation. The other may be called the middle-class, for it is used by servants and tradespeople, having a fair amount of education, mingled with a good deal of conceited ignorance and false pride. With these last, the capital letters are much adorned by loops, hooks and curves, noticeable principally in the heads of the letters, or at their commencements. Therefore to become an expert on handwriting, a careful study must be made of the writings of those whose life and character, together with personal peculiarities, are intimately known and understood, and from this conclusions may be drawn and rules arrived at for future use. Get some friend to write his name and from your knowledge of his character follow rules given in this work and you will find that a correct conclusion will be arrived at. The same correct solution will be found by studying any signature. Affection is marked by open loops and a general slant or slope of the writing. A hard nature, unsympathetic and unimpressionable, has very little artistic feeling or love of the fine arts; therefore the same things which indicate a soft, affectionate disposition will also indicate poetry, music and painting, on one or other kindred subjects. The first of these accompanies a loving, impulsive nature. In painting, four things are absolutely necessary to produce an artist, form, color, light and shade. Success in art implies a certain degree of ambition, and consequently upon its vanity and egotism; hence an artist's signature is generally peculiar and often unreadable from its originality, egotism and exuberance of creative power. Imagination and impulse do not tend to improve handwriting. The strokes are too erratic. Haste is visible in every line. A warm-hearted, impulsive person feels deeply and passionately at the moment of writing and dashes off the words without regard to the effect they will produce upon the reader. Truth and straightforwardness give even lines running across the page and at regular distances from one word to another. Tact is very essential. This quality requires often slight deceptions to be allowed or practiced; hence an unevenness in the writing is observed. Untruthfulness gives greater unevenness still; but do not rush to conclusions on this point for an unformed handwriting shows this peculiarity very often, being due, not to evil qualities, but to an unsteady hand employed in work to which it is unused. Very round, even writing, in which the words are not closed, denotes candor and openness of disposition, with an aptitude for giving advice, whether asked or unasked, and not always of a complimentary kind. Blunt, crabbed writing suggests obstinacy and a selfish love of power, without thought for the feelings of others. True selfishness gives every curve an inward bend, very marked in the commencement of words or capital letters. Perseverance and patience are closely allied. In the former the letter "t" is hooked at the top and also its stroke has a dark, curved end, showing that when once an idea has been entertained no earthly persuasion will alter or eradicate it. Such writers have strongly defined prejudices and are apt to take very strong dislikes without much cause. Carelessness and patience also are frequently linked together, more often in later life, when adversity has blunted the faculties, or the drill routine of an uneventful existence has destroyed all romance. Then the writing has short, up and down strokes, the curves are round, the bars short and straight; there are no loops or flourishes, and the whole writing exhibits great neatness and regularity. Economy of living, curiously enough, is marked by a spare use of ink. The terminals are abrupt and blunt, leaving off short. Where economy is the result of circumstances, not disposition, only some of the words are thus ended, while others have open, free curves and the long letters are looped. Generosity and liberality may be seen likewise in the end curve of every word. Where these characteristics are inconstant and variable, the disposition will be found to be uncertain--liberal in some matters, while needlessly economical and stingy in others. When a bar is placed below the signature, it means tenacity of purpose, compared with extreme caution; also a dread of criticism and adverse opinions. No dots to the letter "i" means negligence and want of attention to details, with but a small faculty of observation. When the dots are placed at random, neither above nor in proximity to the letter to which they belong, impressionability, want of reflection and impulsiveness may be anticipated. Ambition and gratified happiness give to the whole writing an upward tendency, while the rest of the writing is impulsive without much firmness. Sorrow gives every line of the writing a downward inclination. Temporary affliction will at once show in the writing. A preoccupied mind, full of trouble, cares little whether the letter then written is legible or not; hence the writing is erratic, uncertain, and the confusion of mind is clearly exhibited in every line. Irritable and touchy persons slope the nourishes only, such as the cross of the letter "t" and the upper parts of the capital letters. When the capital letters stand alone in front of the words and the final letters also are isolated, it betokens great creative power and ideality, such as would come from an author and clever writer. The most personal part of a letter or document is, of course, the signature, but alone without any other writing it is not always a safe guide to character. In many instances the line placed below or after a signature tell a great deal more than the actual name. A curved bending line below a signature, ending in a hook, indicates coquetry, love of effect, and ideality. An exaggerated, common-like form of line means caprice, tempered by gravity of thought and versatility of ideas. An unyielding will, fiery, and at the same time determined, draws a firm hooked line after the signature. A wavy line shows great variety in mental power, with originality. Resolution is shown in a plain line, and extreme caution, with full power to calculate effect and reason a subject from every point of view, is shown by two straight dashes with dots, thus --:-- The personality of a writer can never be wholly separated from his works. And in any question of date or authenticity of a document being called in dispute, the value of graphology and its theories will be found of the utmost importance, for the various changes in the style of handwriting, or in the spelling of words, although, perhaps, so minute and gradual as seldom to be remarked, are, nevertheless, links in a chain which it would be extremely hard to forge successfully so as to deceive those acquainted with the matter as well as versed in its peculiarities. See specimens of handwriting in Appendix with descriptions thereof. CHAPTER XIX HANDWRITING EXPERTS AS WITNESSES Who May Testify As An Expert--Bank Officials and Bank Employees Always Desired--Definition of Expert and Opinion Evidence--Both Witness and Advocate--Witness in Cross Examination--Men Who Have Made the Science of Disputed Handwriting a Study--Objections to Appear in Court--Experts Contradicting Each Other--The Truth or Falsity of Handwriting--Sometimes a Mass of Doubtful Speculations--Paid Experts and Veracity--Present Method of Dealing with Disputed Handwriting Experts--How the Bench and Bar Regard the System--Remedies Proposed--Should an Expert Be an Adviser of the Court?--Free from Cross-Examination--Opinions of Eminent Judges on Expert Testimony--Experts Who Testify without Experience--What a Bank Cashier or Teller Bases His Opinions on--Actions and Deductions of the Trained Handwriting Expert--Admitting Evidence of Handwriting Experts--Occupation and Theories That Make an Expert--Difference Between an Expert and a Witness--Experts and Test Writing--What Constitutes an Expert in Handwriting--Present Practice Regarding Experts--Assuming to Be a Competent Expert--Testing a Witness with Prepared Forged Signatures--Care in Giving Answers--A Writing Teacher as an Expert--Familiarity with Signatures--What a Dash, Blot, or Distortion of a Letter Shows--What a Handwriting Expert Should Confine Himself to--Parts of Writing Which Demand the Closest Attention--American and English Laws on Experts in Handwriting--Examination of Disputed Handwriting. While the qualification necessary for the permission of a witness to testify in court as an expert is largely discretionary with the judge, such discretion is usually exercised with so great liberality that it is not often that a witness offered as an expert is refused by the court on the ground of deficient qualification. It is usually held that any one possessed of anything more than ordinary opportunity for studying or observing handwriting may give expert testimony, which the jury may receive for what it is deemed to be worth. Bank officials and employees are declared by most courts to be competent witnesses. If on any previous occasion one has given testimony, that fact is usually accepted as a sufficient qualification, or if he has ever seen the person write whose writing is in question, he is deemed competent. With such limited qualification it is no matter of surprise that expert testimony is sometime made to appear at very great disadvantage. Incompetent and mercenary witnesses will seek employment, and since there are always two sides to a case, and on each side lawyers who spare no efforts for victory, there is a chance for every kind of witness, as there is for every kind of attorney. Expert evidence is that given by one especially skilled in the subject to which it is applicable, concerning information beyond the range of ordinary observation and intelligence. Opinion evidence is the conclusions of witnesses concerning certain propositions, drawn from ascertained or supposed facts, by those who have had better opportunities than the ordinary individual or witness to judge of the truth or falsity of such propositions, or who are familiar with the subject under inquiry, and give their conclusions from the facts within their own knowledge concerning certain questions involved. Let us look at the question as it presents itself to the layman, to men of science and experience, to microscopists, to bank officials and others having much to do with writing. An expert in handwriting occupies a totally anomalous position when called before a court as a witness. Technically he is both a witness and an advocate, sharing the responsibilities of both but without the privileges of the latter. He has to instruct counsel and to prompt him during its course. But in cross examination he is more open to insult because the court does not see clearly how he arrives at his conclusions, and suspects whatever it does not understand. Nearly every person who has had to appear in court as an expert has been subjected to more or less humiliation by the judge. It may be, perhaps, cynically hinted that men who have made the science of disputed handwriting a study should be willing to bear all kinds of arrogance for the public good. In the first place, many thoroughly competent experts in any department of science distinctly and peremptorily refuse to be mixed up in any affair which may expose them to cross examination. Many experts will investigate a matter, give a report of their conclusions, but absolutely refuse to appear in court. Another not very edifying spectacle is that of paid handwriting experts standing in court and contradicting each other, or pretending to contradict in the interests of their respective clients, is not exactly right. These men would change places and reverse positions and arguments if necessary. Men of the world are tempted to say that "Science can lay but little claim to certainty in demonstrating the truth or falsity of handwriting and the whole procedure is more a mass of doubtful speculations than a body of demonstrable truths." But it must be remembered that a professional expert must be paid for his services, and always tell the truth as it appears to him. It is clearly seen that our present method of dealing with experts regarding disputed handwriting is found to be on all sides not just exactly satisfactory. Oftentimes the public is skeptical and many honest and thorough experts are scandalized. The bench and bar share this feeling but unfortunately are disposed to blame the individual rather than the system. There is no question but what this unanimity of dissatisfaction will vanish as soon as a remedy is seriously proposed. To that, however, we must come unless we are willing to dispense with expert evidence altogether. It is contended by many that an expert should be the adviser of the court, not acting in the interest of either party in a lawsuit. Above all things an expert ought to be exempt from cross-examination. His evidence, or rather his conclusions, should be given in writing and accepted just as the decisions of the bench on points of law. Opinions of eminent judges have differed widely respecting the reliance to be placed upon testimony founded upon expert comparisons of handwriting, but it should be remembered that those opinions have been no more varied than has been the character and qualifications of the experts by whose testimony they have been called forth. It is too true that very frequently persons have been allowed to give testimony as experts who were utterly without experience in any calling that tends to bestow the proper qualifications for giving expert testimony. The constant professional observation of handwriting in any line of financial or commercial business tends to confer expert skill. It should be said here, however, that the average bank cashier or teller bases his opinions and his identifications generally upon the pictorial effect without recourse to those minuter and more delicate points upon which the skilled expert rightly places the greatest reliance. Such testimony can not be compared for accuracy or value with that of the scientific investigator of handwriting. It follows, then, that one who is endowed with more than ordinary acuteness of observation, and has had an experience so varied and extensive as to cover most of these lines, is likely to be best fitted for critical and reliable expert work. In a word, the trained expert eye, even on so slight a thing as a simple straight line, will detect certain peculiarities of motion, of force, of pressure, of tool-mark, etc., that in normal circumstances the result will stand for its author just as his photograph stands for him. Now, this being undoubtedly true within certain limitations, how more than incontestable must be the proposition to any rational man that if, instead of a simple undeviating pen-stroke, lines that run to curves and angles and slants, and shades and loops and ticks, and enter into all sorts of combinations, such as any specimen of handwriting must, however simple, bear inherent evidences of authorship that yield their secrets to the expert examiner as the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian monument do to a properly educated antiquarian. The propriety of admitting the evidence of handwriting experts in investigating questions of forgery is now recognized by statute in most states. Common sense dictates that in all investigations requiring special skill, or when the common intelligence supposed to be possessed by the jury is not fully adequate to the occasion, we should accept the assistance of persons whose studies or occupations have given them a large and special experience on the subject. Thus such men of experience or experts are admitted to testify that work of a given description is or is not executed with ordinary skill; what is the ordinary price of a described article; whether described medical treatment or other practice was conducted with ordinary skill in a specific case; which of two colliding vessels, their respective movements being given, was in fault; whether one invention was an infringement of another, looking at the models of both; and other cases already mentioned. This is as near to an exact definition of who are admissible as experts as it is possible for us to come. In all these cases it is to be observed that the expert is to speak from no knowledge of the particular facts which he may happen to possess, but is to pronounce the judgment of skill upon the particular facts proved by other witnesses. Of course the court must be first satisfied that the witness offered is a person of such special skill and experience, for if he be not, he can give no proper assistance to the jury; and of course, also, very much must at least be left to the discretion of the court, relative to the need of such assistance in the case; for very often the matter investigated may be so bunglingly done that the most common degree of observation may be sufficient to judge it. Where a witness is called to testify to handwriting, from knowledge of his own, however derived, as to the hand of the party, he is not an expert, but simply a witness to a fact in the only manner in which that fact is capable of proof. Nor is he an expert who is called to compare a test writing, whose genuineness is established by others, with the writing under investigation, if he have knowledge of the handwriting of the party, because his judgment of the comparison will be influenced more or less by his knowledge, and will not be what the testimony of an expert should be, a pure conclusion of skill. But when a witness, skilled in general chirography, but possessing no knowledge of the handwriting under investigation, is called to compare that writing with other genuine writings that have been brought into juxtaposition with it, he is strictly an expert. His conclusions then rest in no degree on particular knowledge of his own, but are the deductions of a trained and experienced judgment, from premises furnished by the testimony of other witnesses. One of the palpable anomalies of the present practice regarding experts on handwriting is that a person who has seen another write, no matter how ignorant the observer may be, is competent to testify as to whether or not certain writing is by the hand of the person he has once seen engaged in the art of writing, while an expert handwriting witness may only testify that the hand appears to be simulated but may not point out the differences between specimens of genuine writing and the instrument in controversy. It is safe to presume that the apparently unreasonable position of the law was assumed with a good object in view, and it is probable that the object was the protection of the court from the swarm of so-called experts which might be hatched by a laxity in the wording of the law. Few things would be easier for a dishonest person than to swear he was a competent expert, and then to swear that a document was, in his opinion, forged or genuine, according to the requirements of his hirer. The framers of the practice in reference to expert testimony on documents seem to have had in mind that the only possible kind of testimony as to documents was that based upon impressions; and that the only method of coming to a conclusion was by giving words to the first mental effect produced on a witness after he has looked at a writing. For this reason the practice has grown up in many trials of preparing carefully forged signatures and producing them before the witness as a test of how far he is able to distinguish genuine from forged signatures. However expert a witness may be, however successful in discriminations of this kind, self-respect and a becoming modesty should induce him to refuse to answer them without distinctly stating that his answer, which gives his best judgment at the time, must be subject to reversal if by longer and more thorough investigation it appear that the opposite view were the true one. When there is presented before a court of law a document, of which it is important to know whether a part or the whole of the body, or the signature, or all, is actually in the handwriting of some person whose writing or signature in other exhibits is admitted to be genuine, the counsel on each side usually seeks the aid of one or more handwriting experts. Usually a teacher of writing is called, but more often the cashier or paying teller of a bank is preferred. There seems to be a good reason for choosing a bank cashier or a paying teller, for the man upon whose immediate judgment as to genuineness of signatures, reinforced by a large and varied knowledge of human nature and quick observation of any suspicious circumstances depends the safety of a bank, has certainly gained much experience and is not apt to be easily deceived in the kind of cases coming daily before him. How much the average cashier and paying-teller depends upon the trifling circumstances attending the presentation of a check, the appearance of the person presenting it, the probability of the drawer inserting such a sum, etc., becomes apparent when one has heard a number of these useful officers testify in cases where they are deprived of all these surroundings, and required to decide whether a certain writing is by the same hand which produced another writing, both being unfamiliar to them. In this case they are obliged to create a familiarity with the signatures of a man whose character and peculiarities they have never known. They miss the aid of some feature, such as a dash, a blot, or the distortion of a letter, which would recall to them the character of the writer. Most of the best experts of this class confess that they cannot tell on what their judgment is based. They simply think that the writing is not by the same hand as that admitted to be genuine. "No," they will tell you, "it is not merely superficial resemblance. I don't know what it is, but I feel sure," etc. These witnesses are more frequently right than the more pretentious professional expert. The former trust to the instantaneous impressions which they receive when papers are handed to them; the latter too often give their attention to the merely superficial features of chirography without getting beyond the more obvious resemblances and differences which are frequently the least important. While the expert in handwriting should confine himself to the concrete examinations of the paper, ink, seals, etc., and leave to the counsel the task of reasoning on the purport of the words added, and all other matters not allied to the materials left as the result of the forgery, yet it would be unreasonable to neglect altogether these means of corroborating a previously formed suspicion, or directing a course of inquiry. That expert would be more or less than human who could shut his eyes to the importance of the fact that certain words containing evidence in the manner of their formation or their position that raised doubts as to their genuineness by their import gave to the person who might have written them benefits which he would not have derived in their absence. The parts of a writing which demand the closest attention are those which have been made unconsciously and which are not easily noted by a superficial view. The height, the spread of the letters, the peculiarities of the endings, the nourishes, and the general shape are things which the forger observes and imitates, often with success; but the curvature of a letter in its different parts is not easily appreciated by the naked eye. There are but few laws in the United States regarding the functions of handwriting experts. Courts in various states have followed decisions made by higher courts where matters affecting expert testimony have been carried to the court of last resort. A code of uniform laws on this question is being agitated and will soon be called to the attention of all state legislatures. England has adopted a simple and concise law on admissibility of testimony of handwriting experts. In the absence of such laws a few extracts from Stephens' Law of Evidence, an English work, will be found interesting and instructive: Article XLIX: "When there is a question as to any point of science or art, the opinions upon that point of persons specially skilled in any such matter are deemed to be relevant facts. "Such persons are hereinafter called experts. "The words 'science or art' include all subjects on which a course of special study or experience is necessary to the formation of an opinion, and amongst others the examination of disputed handwriting. "Illustration: The question is, whether a certain document was written by A. Another document is produced which is proved or admitted to have been written by A. "The opinions of experts on the question whether the two documents were written by the same person, or by different persons, are deemed to be relevant." Article LI: "When there is a question as to the person by whom any document was written or signed, the opinion of any person acquainted with the handwriting of the supposed writer that it was or was not written or signed by him, is deemed to be a relevant fact. "A person is deemed to be acquainted with the handwriting of another person when he has at any time seen that person write, or when he has received documents purporting to be written by that person in answer to documents written by himself or under his authority, and addressed to that person, or when in the ordinary course of business, documents purporting to be written by that person have been habitually submitted to him. "Illustration: The question is, whether a given letter is in the handwriting of A, a merchant in Calcutta. "B is a merchant in London, who has written letters addressed to A, and received in answer letters purporting to be written by him. C is B's clerk, whose duty it was to examine and file B's correspondence. D is B's broker, to whom B habitually submitted the letters purporting to be written by A for the purpose of advising with him thereon. "The opinions of B, C, and D on the question whether the letter is in the handwriting of A are relevant, though neither B, C, or D ever saw A write. "The opinion of E, who saw A write once twenty years ago, is also relevant." Article LI I: "Comparisons of a disputed handwriting with any writing proved to the satisfaction of the judge to be genuine is permitted to be made by witnesses, and such writings, and the evidence of witnesses respecting the same, may be submitted to the court and jury as evidence of the genuineness or otherwise of the writing in dispute. This paragraph applies to all courts of judicature, criminal or civil, and to all persons having by law, or by consent of parties, authority to hear, receive, and examine evidence." CHAPTER XX TAMPERED, ERASED, AND MANIPULATED PAPER Sure Rules for the Detection of Forged and Fraudulent Writing of Any Kind--A European Professor Gives Rules for Detecting Fraud--How to Tell Alterations Made on Checks, Drafts, and Business Paper--An Infallible System Discovered--Results Always Satisfactory--Can Be Used by Anyone--Vapor of Iodine a Valuable Agent--Paper That Has Been Wet or Moistened--Colors That Tampered Paper Assumes--Tracing Written Characters with Water--Making Writing Legible--How to Tell Paper That Has Been Erased or Rubbed--What a Light Will Disclose--Erasing with Bread Crumbs--Hard to Detect--How to Discover Traces of Manipulation--Erased Surface Made Legible--Treating Partially Erased Paper--Detecting Nature of Substance Used for Erasing--Use of Bread Crumbs Colors Paper--Tracing Writing with a Glass Rod--Tracing Writing Under Paper--Writing With Glass Tubes Instead of Pens--What Physical Examination Reveals--Erasing Substance of Paper--Reproducing Pencil Writing in a Letter Press--Kind of Paper to Use in Making Experiments--Detecting Fraud in Old Papers--The Rubbing and Writing Method. Prof. G. Brynlants of the Belgian Academy of Sciences, who has made the detecting of forgery and disputed handwriting a study for twenty years, recently made public an account of the researches he had made and deductions arrived at with a view of making known how frauds and alterations are made on checks, drafts, and business paper generally and how same can easily be detected. The system he recommends is now in use in nearly every bank in Europe and the result of his work and his recommendations should be carefully read and the system applied by the banks and business houses of the United States, when occasion requires. The following article has been specially prepared for this work; and if its recommendations are carefully carried out it will prove a sure rule for the detection of forged and fraudulent handwriting: "Although my experiments were not always carried on under the most favorable circumstances, their results were eminently satisfactory and will prove a boon to the banking and business world. A piece of paper was handed to me for the purpose of determining if part of it had been wet and if another part of it had been manipulated for the purpose of erasing marks upon it; in other words, whether this part had been rubbed. The sample I had to work upon had already gone through several experiments. I had remarked that the tint of the paper exposed to the vapor of iodine differs from that which this same paper assumes when it has been wet first and dried afterwards. In addition to this I realized that when sized and calendered paper, first partially wet and then dried, is subjected to the action of iodine vapor, the parts which have been wet take on a violet tint, while those which had not been moistened became either discolored or brown. The intensity of the coloration naturally varied according to the length of time for which the paper was exposed to the iodine. "There is a very striking difference also when the water is sprinkled on the paper and the drops are left to dry off by themselves in order not to alter the surface of the paper. "Thorough wetting of the paper will cause the sprinkled spots to turn a heavy violet-blue color when exposed to vapor while the parts which are untouched by the water will become blue. "If, after sprinkling upon a piece of paper and evaporating the drops thereon, this piece of paper is thoroughly wet, then dried and subjected to the action of iodine, the traces of the first drops will remain distinguishable whether the paper is dry or not. In the latter case the trace of the first sprinkling will hardly be distinguishable so long as the moisture is not entirely got rid of; but as soon as complete dryness is effected their outlines, although very faint, will show plainly on the darker ground surrounding the spot covered by the first drop. "In this reaction, water plays virtually the part of a sympathetic fluid, and tracing the characters with water on sized and calendered paper, the writing will show perfectly plain when the paper is dried and exposed to action of iodine vapor. The brownish violet shade on a yellowish ground will evolve to a dark blue on a light blue ground after wetting. These characters disappear immediately under the action of sulphurous acid, but will reappear after the first discoloration provided the paper has not been wet and the discoloration has been effected by the use of sulphurous acid gas. "The process, therefore, affords means for tracing characters which become legible and can be caused to disappear, but at will to reappear again, or which can be used for one time only and be canceled forever afterwards. "The usual method of verifying whether paper has been rubbed is to examine it as to its transparency. If the erasure has been so great as to remove a considerable portion of the paper, the erased surface is of greater translucency; but if the erasure has been effected with great care, examining same close to a light will disclose it; the erased part being duller than the surrounding surface because of the partial upheaval of the fibers. "If an erasure is effected by means of bread crumbs instead of India rubber, and care is taken to erase in one direction the change escapes notice; and it is generally impossible to detect it, should the paper thus handled be written upon again. "Iodine vapors, however, show all traces of these manipulations very plainly giving their location with perfect certainty. The erased surfaces assume a yellow brown or brownish tint. If, after being subjected to the action of the iodine, the paper on which an erasure has been made is wet, it becomes of a blue color the intensity of which is commensurate with the length of time to which it has been under the action of the iodine, and when the paper is again dried the erased portions are more or less darker than the remainder of the sheet. On the other hand when the erasure has been so rough as to take off an important part of the material exposure to iodine, wetting, and drying result in less intensity to coloration on the parts erased, because the erasing in its mechanical action of carrying off parts of the paper removes also parts of the substance which in combination with iodine give birth to the blue tint. Consequently the action of the iodine differs according to the extent of the erasure. "When paper is partially erased and wet, as when letters are copied, the same result although not so striking follows upon exposing it to the iodine vapor after letting it dry thoroughly. "Iodine affords in certain cases the means of detecting the nature of the substance used for erasing. Bread crumbs or India rubber turn yellow or brownish yellow tints and these are distinguished by more intense coloration; erasure by means of bread crumbs causing the paper to take a violet shade of great uniformity. These peculiarities are due to the upheaval of the fibers caused by rubbing. In fact this upheaval creates a larger absorbing surface and consequently a larger proportion of iodine can cover the rubbed parts than it would if there had been no friction. "When paper upon which writing has been traced with a glass rod, the tip of which is perfectly round and smooth, is exposed to iodine vapor, the characters appear brown on yellow ground which wetting turns to blue. This change also occurs when the paper written upon has been run through a super-calender. If the paper is not wet the characters can be made to appear or be blotted by the successive action of sulphurous and iodine vapor. "Writing done by means of glass tips instead of pens will show very little, especially when traced between the lines written in ink. The reaction, however, is of such sensitiveness that where characters have been traced on a piece of paper under others they appear very plainly, although physical examination would fail to reveal their existence, but a somewhat lengthy exposure to iodine vapors will suffice to show them. "If the wrong side of the paper is exposed to the iodine vapor the characters are visible; but of course in their inverted position. "If the erasure has been so great as to take off a part of the substance of the paper the reconstruction of the writing, so as to make it legible, may be regarded as impossible. But in this case subjecting the reverse side of the paper to the influence of the iodine will bring out the reverse outlines of the blotted-out characters so plainly that they can be read, especially if the paper is placed before a mirror. In some instances, when pencil writing has been strong enough, its traces can be reproduced in a letter press by wetting a sheet of sized and calendered paper in the usual way that press copies are taken, placing it on paper saturated with iodine and putting the two sheets in a letter book under the press, copies being run off as is usual in copying letters. The operation, however, must be very rapidly carried out to be successful. As a matter of fact the certainty of these reactions depends entirely upon the class of paper used. Paper slightly sized or poorly calendered will not show them. "Another point consists in knowing how long paper will contain these reactive properties. In my own experience the fact has been demonstrated that irregular wetting and rubbing three months old can be plainly shown after this lapse of time. Characters traced with glass rod tips could be made conspicuous. I have noticed that immersing the written paper in a water bath for three to six hours will secure better reactions, but although these reactions are very characteristic they are considerably weaker." CHAPTER XXI FORGERY AS A PROFESSION How Professional Forgers Work--Valuable Points for Bankers and Business Men--Personnel of a Professional Forgery Gang--The Scratcher, Layer-down, Presenter and Middleman--How Banks Are Defrauded by Raised and Forged Paper--Detailed Method of the Work--Dividing the Spoils--Action in Case of Arrest--Employing Attorneys--What "Fall" Money Is--Fixing a Jury--Politicians with a Pull--Protecting Criminals--Full Description of How Checks and Drafts Are Altered--Alterations, Erasures and Chemicals--Raising Any Paper--Alert Cashiers and Tellers--Different Methods of Protection. [This Chapter was written for this work by the manager of one of the largest detective agencies in the United States. They make a specialty of bank work and from the number of forgers apprehended and convicted know just how the work is done. A careful reading of this chapter will put bankers and the public on their guard against the most pestiferous rascals they have to deal with.] Professional forgers usually make their homes in large cities. They are constantly studying schemes and organizing gangs of men to defraud banks, trust companies and money lenders by means of forged checks, notes, drafts, bills of exchange, letters of credit, and in some instances altering registered government and other bonds, and counterfeitering the bonds of corporations. These bonds they dispose of or hypothecate to obtain loans on. A professional forgery gang consists of: First, a capitalist or backer; second, the actual forger, who is known among his associates as the "scratcher"; third, the man who acts as confidential agent for the forger, who is known as the "middleman" or the "go-between"; fourth, the man who presents the forged paper at the bank for payment, who is known as the "layer-down" or "presenter." The duties of the "middleman" or "go-between" are to receive from the forger or his confidential agent the altered or forged paper. He finds the man to "present" the same, accompanies his confederates on their forgery trips throughout the country, acts as the agent of the backer in dealing out money for expenses, sees that their plan of operations is carried out, and, in fact, becomes the general manager of the band. He is in full control of the men who act as "presenters" of the forged paper. If there be more than one man to "present" the paper, the middleman, as a rule, will not allow them to become known to each other. He meets them in secluded places, generally in little out-of-the-way saloons. In summer time a favorite meeting place is some secluded spot in the public parks. At one meeting he makes an appointment for the next meeting. He uses great care in making these appointments, so that the different "presenters" do not come together and thereby become known to each other. The middleman is usually selected for his firmness of character. He must be a man known among criminals as a "staunch" man, one who cannot be easily frightened by detectives when arrested, no matter what pressure may be brought to bear upon him. He must have such an acquaintanceship among criminals as will enable him to select other men who are "staunch" and who are not apt to talk and tell their business, whether sober or under the influence of liquor. It is from among this class of acquaintances that he selects the men to "present" the forged paper. It is an invariable rule followed by the backer and the forger that in selecting a middleman they select one who not only has the reputation of being a "staunch" man, but he must also be a man who has at least one record of conviction standing against him. This is for the additional protection of the backer and forger, as they know that in law the testimony of an accomplice who is also an ex-convict, should he conclude to become a state's witness, would have to be strongly corroborated before a court or jury in order to be believed. As the capitalist and forger, for self-protection, use great care in selecting a "middleman," the middleman to protect himself also uses the same care in the selection of men to "present" the forged paper. He endeavors, like the backer and forger, to throw as much protection around himself as possible, and for the same reasons he also uses ex-convicts as the men to "present" the forged paper at the banks. The "presenters" are of all ages and appearances, from the party who will pass as an errand boy, messenger, porter, or clerk, to the prosperous business man, horse trader, stock buyer, or farmer. When a presenter enters a bank to "lay down" a forged paper, the "go-between" will sometimes enter the bank with him and stand outside the counter, noting carefully if there is any suspicious action on the part of the paying teller when the forged paper is presented to him, and whether the "presenter" carries himself properly and does his part well. But usually the middleman prefers waiting outside the bank for the "presenter," possibly watching him through a window from the street. If the "presenter" is successful and gets the money on the forged paper, the middleman will follow him when he leaves the bank to some convenient spot where, without attracting attention, he receives the money. He then gives the presenter another piece of forged paper, drawn on some neighboring bank. They go from bank to bank, usually victimizing from three to five banks in each city, their work being completed generally in less than an hour's time. All money obtained from the various banks on the forged paper is immediately turned over to the middleman, who furnishes all the money for current expenses. After the work is completed the presenters leave the city by different routes, first having agreed on a meeting point in some neighboring city. The "presenters" frequently walk out of the city to some outlying station on the line of the road they propose to take to their next destination. This precaution is taken to avoid arrest at the depot in case the forgery is discovered before they can leave the city. At the next meeting-point the middleman, having deducted the expenses advanced, pays the "presenters" their percentage of the money obtained on the forged paper. A band of professional forgers before starting out always agree on a basis of division of all moneys obtained on their forged paper. This division might be about as follows: For a presenter where the amount to be drawn does not exceed $2,000, 15 to 25 per cent; but where the amount to be drawn is from $3,000 to $5,000 and upwards, the "presenter" receives from 35 to 45 per cent. The price is raised as the risk increases, and it is generally considered a greater risk to attempt to pass a check or draft of a large denomination than a smaller one. The middleman gets from 15 to 25 per cent. His work is more, and his responsibility is greater, but the risk is less. There are plenty of middlemen to be had, but the "presenters" are scarce. The "shadow," when one accompanies the band, is sometimes paid a salary by the middleman and his expenses, but at other times, he is allowed a small percentage, not to exceed 5 per cent, and his expenses, as with ordinary care his risk is very slight. The backer and forger get the balance, which usually amounts to from 50 to 60 per cent. The expenses that have been advanced the men who go out on the road are usually deducted at the final division. In case of the arrest of one of the "presenters" in the act of "laying down" forged paper, the middleman or shadow immediately notifies other members of the band who may be in the city. All attempts to get money from the other banks are stopped, and the other members of the band leave the city as best they can to meet at some designated point in a near-by city. Out of their first successful forgeries a certain sum from each man's share is held by the "middleman" to be used in the defense of any member of the band who may be arrested on the trip. This money is called "fall money," and is used to employ counsel for the men under arrest, or to do anything for them that may be for their interest. Any part of this money not used is paid back in proportion to the amount advanced to the various members of the band from whose share it has been retained. Sometimes, however, in forming a band of forgers there is an understanding or agreement entered into at the outset that each man "stand on his own bottom"--that is, if arrested, take care of himself. When this is agreed to, the men arrested must get out as best they can. Under these circumstances there is no assessment for "fall money," but usually the men who present the paper insist on "fall money" being put up, as it assures them the aid of some one of the band working earnestly in their behalf and watching their interests, outside of the attorney retained. When one of the party is arrested, an attorney is at once sent to him. As a rule, in selecting an attorney, one is employed who is known as a good criminal lawyer. It is also preferred that he should be a lawyer who has some political weight. The middleman employs the attorney, and pays him out of the "fall money." The arrested man is strictly instructed by the attorney to do no talking, and is usually encouraged by the promise that they will have him out in a short time. In order to keep him quiet, this promise is frequently renewed by the attorney acting for the "middleman." This is done to prevent a confession being made in case the arrested man should show signs of weakening. Finally, when he is forced to stand trial, if the case is one certain of conviction, the attorney will get him to plead guilty, with the promise of a short sentence, and will then bargain to this end with the court or prosecutor. Thus guided by the attorney selected and acting for the "middleman" and his associates, the prisoner pleads guilty, and frequently discovers, when it is too late, that he has been tricked into keeping his mouth shut in the interests of his associates. It is but fair to state, however, that if money can save an arrested party, and if his associates have it, they will use it freely among attorneys or "jury fixers," where the latter can be made use of, and frequently it is paid to politicians who make a pretense of having a "pull" with the prosecuting officers of the court. In most instances when checks are sent out they are not seen again by the maker for a period of days. As business houses of any considerable magnitude always have a comfortable balance with their bankers, ample time and an abundance of cash are thus placed at the disposal of the check-raisers. As to the best methods of raising checks so that the fraud will not be readily detected, much depends upon the way in which they are written. The style of handwriting, the texture and quality of the paper, and the chemical properties of the inks, are points which are necessary to be considered. Many checks may be altered to a larger amount by the mere addition of a stroke of the pen here or the erasure of a line, by means of chemicals, in some other place. For instance, take a check of $100, no matter how it may be written, there are five or six different ways in which it may be altered to a much larger amount, and in such a manner as to defy the scrutiny of the most careful bank teller. It may be made into six hundred by merely adding the "S" loop to the "O," dotting the first part of the "n" to make of it an "i," and crossing the connecting stroke between the "n" and the "e" to form the "x." To complete the change it will be found necessary to erase with chemicals part of the "e." A check for one hundred dollars may also be easily altered to eight hundred dollars, especially when sufficient space has been left between the "one" and the "hundred," as follows: Add to the "O" the top part of an "E," dot part of the "n" to form an "i," connect the remaining part of the "n" with the "e," forming the loop of a "g," and then add "ht." The figure "i" is very easily changed to "8." Sometimes a small capital is used for an "o." In this case an alteration into "Four" hundred is easily accomplished by simply prefixing a capital "F" and transforming the "e" into an "r," the "n" being made to serve as a "u." Another change frequently made is to "Ten" hundred. It is done simply by adding the stem and top part of the "T" to the "O" and changing the first part of the "u" to an "e." Of course, any of the foregoing changes may be made with equal facility whether the amount be "hundred" or "thousand." Two hundred, if anything, is a much easier amount to alter than one hundred. It is done in the following manner: Make an "F" by simply crossing the "T;" dot the first part of the "w" to make an "i." and change the "o" into an "e." The figure "2" can be made into a perfect "5" by simply adding the top part of the "5" to it. Three hundred is not so easily altered; still it may be done by changing the word "hundred" into a "thousand"--an alteration which is by no means rare, and which is quite simple, especially when the word is begun with a small "h." The modus operandi is as follows: Place a capital "T" before the "h"; change the first part of the "u" into an "o," connecting it with the second part, which, with the first part of the "u," will form a "u"; change the second part of the "u" to an "s"; erase the top part of the "d," making of it an "a," and complete the alteration by making an "n" of the "r" and "e." This alteration may appear to be somewhat complicated, but a trial of it according to direction will show how nicely it may be done. "Four" is another easy amount to alter. It is done by extending the second part of the "u" into a "t," and adding the "y" loop to the "r." "Five" is changed into "Fifty" and "Fifteen." "Six," "Seven," "Eight," and "Nine" are changed into "Sixty," "Seventy," "Eighty," and "Ninety" by simply affixing the syllable "ty." "Twenty" is another easily changed amount; all that is necessary to make "Seventy" of it is to make an "S" of the "T," and change the first part of the "w" into an "e." To make the alteration perfect, the top part of the "T" must be erased with chemicals. In regard to the chemicals used to erase ink, much depends upon the ink. For most writing fluids and copying inks which are in daily use, a saturated solution of chloride of lime is the best eraser known, and when properly made is very quick and effective in its work. It may be applied with a glass pointed pen, to avoid corrosion, or with a clean bit of sponge. It acts as a powerful bleach, and with it the face of a check may be washed as white as before it was written upon. When inks have become dry and hard, sometimes carbolic or acetic acid is used effectively with the chlorine. The application of any alkali or acid to the clean polished surface of a check will, of course, destroy the finish and leave a perceptible stain, but the work of covering up these traces is quite as simple as removing the ink in the first place. A favorite trick of forgers and check and draft raisers, who operate on an extensive scale, is for one of them to open an office in a city and represent himself as a cattle dealer, lumber merchant, or one looking about for favorable real-estate investments. His first move is to open a bank account, and then work to get on friendly terms with the cashier. He always keeps a good balance--sometimes way up in the thousands--and deports himself in such a manner as to lead to the belief that he is a highly honorable gentleman, and the bank officials are led to the belief that he will eventually become a very profitable customer. Occasionally he has a note, for a small amount to begin with, always first-class two-name paper, and he never objects--usually insists--on paying a trifle more than the regular discount. At first the bank officials closely examine the paper offered, and of course find that the endorsers are men of high standing, and then their confidence in the "cattle king" is unbounded. Gradually the notes increase in amount, from a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars, and from fifteen hundred to two or three thousand. The notes are promptly paid at maturity. After the confidence of the bank people has been completely gained, the swindler makes a strike for his greatest effort. He comes in the bank in a hurry, presents a sixty-day note, endorsed by first-class men, for a larger amount than he has ever before requested, and it generally happens that he gets the money without the slightest difficulty. Then he has a sudden call to attend to important business elsewhere. When the note or notes mature, it is discovered to be a very clever forgery. This has been done time and again, and it is rare that the forger has been apprehended. The latest mode is for the forger to imitate a private check by the photo-lithographic method, after having obtained a signed check. The signature, after being photographed, is carefully traced over with ink, and the body of the check is filled up for whatever amount is desired. The maker of the check is requested to identify the person who holds it, and as a general thing he does not wait to see the money paid. The moment his back is turned, the layer-down palms the small check and presents the large one. This way of obtaining money is without the assistance of a middleman. Private marks on checks are no safeguards at all, although a great many merchants believe they can prevent forgery by making certain dots, or seeming slips of the pen, which are known only to the paying-teller and themselves. This precaution becomes useless when the forger uses the camera. Safe-breakers are often called upon by forgers and asked to secure a sheet of checks out of a check-book. When this is accomplished a few canceled checks are taken at the same time. These are given to the forger and he fills them up for large amounts, after tracing or copying the signature. The safe burglars receive a percentage on the amount realized. If your safe, vault or desk is broken open where your check-book is kept, carefully count the leaves in your check-book, also your canceled checks. If any are missing notify the banks and begin using a different style of check immediately. The sneak-thief, while plying his trade, often secures unsigned bonds of some corporation which has put the signed bonds in circulation, leaving the rest unsigned until the next meeting of the directors. Frequently unsigned bonds are left in the bank vault for safe keeping. These are stolen and sent to the penman or "scratcher." Then a genuine signed bond is purchased, from which the signatures are copied and then forged. The same trick has been played on unsigned bank notes, but on the bank notes almost any name will do, as no person looks at the signature, as long as the note appears genuine. The ingenuity of a countless army of sharpers is constantly at work in this country, devising plans to obtain funds dishonestly, without work, but, in fact, they often expend more time, skill and labor in carrying out their nefarious schemes, than would serve to earn the sum they finally secure, by honest labor. Every banker must, therefore, be on his guard, and should acquaint himself with the most approved means of detecting and avoiding the most common swindlers. This is just as necessary as it is to lock his books and cash in his safe before going home. Next to the counterfeiter, the forger is the most dangerous criminal in business life. Transactions involving the largest sums of money are completed on the faith in the genuineness of a signature. Hence every effort should be made to acquire the art of detecting an imitation at a glance. This can only be done by considerable practice. It is asserted that every signature has character about it which can not be perfectly copied, and which can always be detected by an experienced eye. This is problematical, but certainly a skillful bank-teller can hardly be deceived by the forgery of a name of a well-known depositor. A banker and business man should accustom himself to scrutinize closely the signatures of those with whom he deals. He should cut off their names from the backs of checks and notes, and paste then in alphabetical order in an autograph book devoted to that purpose, and compare any suspicious signature with the genuine one. In consequence of the numerous frauds committed by forged checks, some of the European bankers have adopted the custom of sending with their letter of advice a photograph of the person in whose favor the credit has been issued, and to stop the payment when the person who presents himself at the bank does not resemble the picture. If this practice were to become universal, the object of preventing frauds could be well attained. It is probably a fair statement to make that any draft issued can be raised, but it is unquestionably true that some can be much more easily altered than others, and as in the last ten years additional safeguards have been thrown around the bills of exchange of banks, so the forger has become more and more expert and proficient, just about keeping the pace. As the question of armor that can not be pierced and projectiles that will pierce anything are first one and then the other a little ahead, so it is with the bank forger and the banks. Admirable as some of the work unquestionably is, if anything so disreputable can be called admirable, there is even yet a something about either the work or the operator that should arouse the suspicions of the teller or cashier who is on the alert; and a teller or cashier without suspicion, and who is not on the alert, may be a comparatively good man, but is certainly in the wrong place. The presenter of a counterfeit bill at the teller's window may have no knowledge of the character of the bill that he is presenting, but he who presents a forged draft, in addition to presenting a bad bill, has a consciousness himself of the fraud that he is attempting, thus giving the teller not only the chance of scrutinizing the bill, but also to judge of the appearance, whether nervous or otherwise, of the man who is laying the trap, and these two facts should inure greatly to the advantage of the teller. As the news of the many successful depredations is scattered, we see banks trying different methods of protection, many of which at first glance are admirable, but which it will be seen on a little careful study simply require but slight change of method on the part of the professional forger to successfully evade. For instance: Many banks are daily advising their correspondents of the number and amounts of drafts issued, either in the course of the mails or otherwise. This at first sight would seem to be almost absolute protection, but it really may prove a trap to the bank so advised, as may readily be seen. Let us suppose that Mr. Forger steps into a bank in Cleveland, buys a draft for $5; a day or two later, or on the same day, he buys another draft for $5,000. The first draft is successfully altered to $5,000, but would not of course be paid by the correspondent bank for this amount, because of the advice they have of this number is that it was issued for $5; but it was a simpler matter to change the number of the draft to correspond with the $5,000 draft, the number of which the forger has, than it is to make the other alterations necessary to raise it from $5 to $5,000. After making these alterations it goes in for payment, and on reference to the advice sheet it is found that this apparent number was issued for $5,000 and paid accordingly. Then the forgers have simply the problem on hand to avail themselves, either directly through the bank of issue or elsewhere of this genuine $5,000 draft, which is certainly not a hard task for the men who have successfully performed the harder one. CHAPTER XXII A FAMOUS FORGERY The Morey-Garfield Letter--Attempt to Defeat Mr. Garfield for the Presidency--A Clumsy Forgery--Both Letters Reproduced--Evidences of Forgery Pointed Out--The Work of an Illiterate Man--Crude Imitations Apparent--Undoubtedly the Greatest Forgery of the Age--General Garfield's Quick Disclaimer Kills Effect of the Forgery--The Letters Compared and Evidences of Forgery Made Complete. Very few cases have arisen in this country in which the genuineness of handwriting was the chief contention, and in which such momentous interests were at stake, as in the case of the forged "Morey-Garfield Letter." It was such as to arouse and alarm every citizen of the republic. A few days prior to the presidential election of 1880, in which James A. Garfield was the Republican nominee, there was published in a New York Democratic daily paper, a letter purporting to have been written to a Mr. H.L. Morey, who was alleged to have been connected with an organization of the cheap-labor movement. The letter, if written by Mr. Garfield, committed him in the broadest and fullest manner to the employment of Chinese cheap labor. It was a cheap political trick, a rank forgery, and the purpose of the letter was to arouse the labor vote in close states against Mr. Garfield. It was also a bungling forgery. We present herewith facsimiles of the forged letter and one written by Mr. Garfield branding the Morey letter a fraud. [Illustration: THE MOREY-GARFIELD FORGERY.] [Illustration: LETTER WRITTEN BY GARFIELD.] The Morey letter was evidently written by an uneducated man. Here are three instances of wrong spelling that a man of Mr. Garfield's education could not possibly make. The words "ecomony" and "Companys" in the eighth line and "religeously" in the twelfth line give evidence of a fraudulent and deceitful letter at once. The misplacing of the dot to the "i" in the signature to the left of the "f" and over the "r" is a mistake quite natural to a hand unaccustomed to making it, but a very improbable and remarkable mistake for one to make in writing his own name. Another noticeable feature in the Morey letter is the conspicuous variations in the sizes and forms of the letters. Notice the three "I's" in the fifth line. Variations so great in such close connection seldom occur in anything like an educated and practiced hand. The "J" in the signature of the Morey letter has a slope inconsistent with the remainder of the signature and the surrounding writing. It is also too angular at the top and too set and stiff throughout to be the result of a natural sweep of a trained hand. The Morey letter was written in January, 1880, and made public in October of the same year. If Mr. Garfield wrote the Morey letter in January there was at that time no motive to write it in any other than his ordinary and natural hand. The letter of denial is in his perfectly natural hand; these two letters should therefore be consistent with each other. The signature of the Morey letter is a clumsy imitation of General Garfield's autograph. Observe the stiff, formal initial line of the "_F_"--its sharp, angular turn at the top, absurd slope and general stiff appearance, while the shade is low down upon the stem, and compare with the free, flowing movement, round turns and consistent slope of the same letter in his genuine autograph. We might extend the comparison, with like result, to all the letters in the signature, and to a multitude of other instances in the writing of the body of the letter. Many persons, and some professed experts, have remarked what appeared to them striking and characteristic resemblances between the Morey letter and General Garfield's writing. It should be borne in mind that if the letter is not in the genuine handwriting of Mr. Garfield it was written by some person whose purpose was to have it appear so to be. That being the case, we should naturally expect to find some, even more, _forms_ than we do, having a resemblance to those used by Mr. Garfield. All these resemblances appear to be either copied or coincidences in the use of forms. There are no coincidences of the unconscious writing habit, which clearly, to our mind, proves the Morey letter, as Mr. Garfield well characterizes it, a very clumsy effort to imitate his writing. Indeed, the effort seems to be little more than an endeavor, on the part of the writer, to disguise his own hand, and copy a few of the general features of Mr. Garfield's writing, adding a tolerable imitation of his autograph. CHAPTER XXIII A WARNING TO BANKS AND BUSINESS HOUSES Information for Those Who Handle Commercial and Legal Documents--Peculiarity of Handwriting--Methods Employed in Forgery--Means Employed for Erasing Writing--Care to be Used in Writing--Specimens of Originals and Alterations--Means of Discovering and Demonstrating Forgery--Disputed Signatures--Free Hand or Composite Signatures--Important Facts for the Banking and Business Public--How to Use the Microscope and Photography to Detect Forgery--Applying Chemical Tests--How to Handle Documents and Papers to Be Preserved--The Value of Expert Testimony--Using Chemical, Mechanical and Clerical Preventatives. The following chapter is written by Mr. William C. Shaw, of Chicago, the well-known handwriting expert and expert on forgery, whose services are called in all important forgery and disputed handwriting cases in the country. It is replete with facts and suggestions of the greatest importance, and will be found not only interesting reading, but an instructive article throughout. The comparative frequency with which checks, drafts, notes, etc., are being raised or altered, as well as deeds, wills, etc., forged and substituted, has naturally created a widespread interest in the subject of "disputed handwriting." The importance of practical knowledge in this direction by those who are continually handling commercial papers and legal documents is at once apparent, but others engaged in any business pursuit may be saved considerable loss, trouble and annoyance by observing the principles and suggestions explained and illustrated in this article. In approaching the subject of detecting forged or fraudulent handwriting let it be understood as a fundamental principle that there are hardly two persons whose writing is similar enough to deceive a careful observer, unless the one is imitating the other. Hands, like faces, have their peculiar features and expression, and the imitator must not alone copy the original, but at the same time disguise his own writing. Even the most skilled forger cannot entirely hide his individuality and is bound to relapse into his habitual ways of forming and connecting letters, words, etc. The employment of extreme care can be detected by signs of hesitancy, the substitution of curves for angles, etc., which appear very plainly when the writing is critically examined with a magnifying glass. When a signature has been forged by means of tracing over the original, the resemblance is often so exact as to deceive even the supposed author. In these cases the microscope is generally effective in detecting the forgery, as well as the methods employed. Perfect identity of two genuine signatures is a practical impossibility; if, therefore, two signatures superposed and held against the light completely coincide it is almost certain that one of them is a forgery. The methods employed in executing forged handwriting are varied and depend largely on the individual skill and inclination of the party attempting it. The most frequent class of forgeries consists of erasures, which means the removing of the genuine writing by mechanical or chemical means. Erasing with knife, rubber, etc., has practically been abandoned by expert forgers, on account of the almost certain detection which must necessarily follow the traces left in evidence. Erasing fluids, ink eradicators, etc., are more generally used for this purpose. These have entered the market for legitimate purposes and can be commercially obtained. Too much confidence should, therefore, not be placed in the careful writing of checks, etc., alone, as with the aid of chemicals the original writing can be entirely removed and forged words and figures substituted. [Illustration: Simple additions to genuine handwriting: ORIGINAL--ALTERATION.] Second in importance and frequency, and perhaps the easiest kind of forgery, consists of simple additions to genuine handwriting. In checks or drafts the changing of "eight" to "eighty" by the addition of a single letter is a striking illustration. The change of "six" to "sixty," "twenty" to "seventy," etc., can also be accomplished by adding a few strokes and without erasure, as per specimens given. The forging of signatures and writing in general is accomplished by means of tracing as above referred to, free-hand copying, with the aid of considerable practice, and copying by mechanical or chemical processes. It is not intended here to give directions, but simply to refer to facts, with a view to preventing losses and detecting forgeries. For this reason one method of reproduction may briefly be described. The carelessness with which blotters are used in public places, bank counters, post, express and hotel offices is to be strongly condemned. The entire signature of an indorser is often clearly copied on the underside of the blotting paper, which only needs to fall into the hands of a designing party to be projected on any paper or document and in any desired position. The means of discovering and demonstrating forged handwriting are as varied as the methods employed in its execution, and it may be some comfort to know that the cunning of the forger is more than matched by the skill and ability of the expert. The ordinary method of identifying handwriting consists in the "comparison of hands." This, however, is only admitted in courts of justice under certain limitations. The genuineness of a disputed writing can be proved by a witness who has seen its execution, or by comparison with correspondence received in the regular course of business, or by comparisons with disputed specimens of the alleged handwriting, which must also be in evidence. Disputed signatures may be compared with other signatures acknowledged to be genuine, or with letters or documents, the genuineness of which is unquestioned. In arriving at conclusions many things are to be considered, the form of the letters, their manner of combination, evidences of habit, etc. Another method of detecting forgery is afforded by the internal evidences of fraud of the writing itself, with or without the aid of comparison with genuine writing. These evidences may consist of alterations, erasures, additions, crowding, etc., as above referred to; tracing a genuine writing by means of ink or pencil, afterwards retraced, etc. The copy of a genuine signature may be free-hand or composite, by which is meant that the writing is produced discontinuously or in parts. Comparison of the separate letters of the doubtful specimen of writing with the separate letters of the genuine writing of the supposed imitator or imitated always exhibits less uniformity if imitation has been attempted, the copyist being frequently led into an approach to his ordinary handwriting or into an oversight of some special characteristics of the writing he is simulating. Even minor points do not escape the expert's critical attention. The dotting of the i's, or crossing of the t's, curls, loops, flourishes, intervals between words and letters, connections, characteristics of up and down strokes are all carefully noticed. A glass of low magnifying power will, as a rule, exhibit erasures, and even bring to view the erased letters. In tracing, the forger frequently fails to cover over the first outlines, which can be plainly distinguished. The places where the pen has been put upon and removed from the paper may sometimes be noticed, which is in itself strong evidence of fraud. With the aid of a microscope the character of the alterations, certain characteristics due to age, emotion, etc., the kind of pen used and how it was held, the nature of ink, order of writing, with regard to time, whether produced by the right or left hand, standing or sitting, can often be determined. Indentations made by heavy strokes or a sharp pen, as well as those employed as guides for the signature subsequently written, will also be brought into prominence. Forged signatures placed under the microscope have generally a patched appearance, which results from the retracing of lines in certain portions not occurring in genuine writing. In case of disputed handwriting photography has also been employed to great advantage. Of course the writing in question should, whenever practicable, be compared with the original, photographic copies being looked upon with disfavor and considered by most courts as secondary evidence. Still, photographic enlargements of genuine and disputed signatures are very useful in illustrating expert testimony. Certain characteristics, differences in ink, attempts to remove writing, etc., may be brought to view, which would be entirely overlooked by direct examination. The wonderful power of the camera has recently been illustrated in a very striking manner. A large ocean steamer was photographed, and on receipt of the proof the owners were surprised to see a hand bill posted on the side of the hull. Examination of the ship disclosed no hand bill there, but another photograph exhibited the same result. A searching inspection revealed the presence of the mysterious paper buried beneath four coats of paint, but defying the superficial scrutiny of the human eye. As a last resort chemical tests may be applied, by which the identity or difference of the inks used may be established, etc. As a means of demonstrating that chemical erasures have been made a certain manipulation and treatment of the paper submitted will almost invariably bring back the original and obliterated writing. A few words regarding papers and documents, intended for preservation, will not be amiss. Improved processes of manufacture have certainly had no beneficial influence on the durability of the products, and while inks and papers have become greatly reduced in price and apparently improved in quality, it is very doubtful if much of our book learning and many of our written instruments will go down to future generations. Even fifty years will suffice to decompose many an attractive volume at present on the shelves of our libraries, or fade the writing of finely engraved and important documents. The quality of the ink and paper selected is therefore of greatest importance. Typewritten copies particularly are subject to the ravages of time, and ought to be avoided when preservation for years to come is the principal consideration, as for instance in the case of wills, etc., which ought to be made in one's own handwriting whenever practicable. Briefly, I may state that all the safeguards employed on commercial papers or legal documents, outside of the actual protection afforded, have the beneficial effect or tendency to make forgeries, erasures or alterations more difficult, at the same time warning prospective forgers to keep a respectful distance. The inks used, the position of the writing, the paper on which it is written, the employment of certain chemical, mechanical and clerical preventatives are all to be thoughtfully considered by those who desire to protect themselves against losses resulting from fraudulent handwriting. With regard to expert testimony it may be said in conclusion that it is most effective if governed solely by the evidence submitted, and not by information otherwise obtained. The microscopic and photographic examination of papers and documents, as well as their mechanical and chemical treatment, require in all cases the trained eye, the skilled hand and the extensive experience of the expert, in order to fully utilize the available material and to arrive at conclusions which are in entire accord with the facts under consideration, thereby aiding in the just and equitable settlement of weighty questions of profit or loss, affluence or poverty, liberty or imprisonment, life or death. Another expert in handwriting says that regarding the methods made use of to determine authorship, specialists are naturally reticent. Some of them have admitted, however, the nature of the leading principles' which guide them. The philosophy of the matter rests mainly on the fact that it is very rare for any two persons to write hands similar enough to deceive a careful observer, unless one is imitating the other. "Fists," like faces, have all some special idiosyncrasy, and the imitator has not merely to copy that of some one else but to disguise his own. By careful and frequent practice he may succeed well enough to deceive the ordinary man, but is rarely successful in baffling the expert. Even the most skilful culprit cannot wholly hide his individuality, as he is sure to relapse into his ordinary method occasionally. Then again, great care has to be used, and this can be detected by the traces of hesitancy, the substitution of curves for angles and _vice versa_, which come out very plainly when the writing is examined under the microscope, as it usually is by the expert. A plan of detection which has been adopted with great success is to cut out each letter in a doubtful piece of writing, and paste all the A's, B's, etc., on separate sheets of paper. The process is also gone through with a genuine bit of caligraphy of the imitator or the imitated, as the case may be. Comparison almost invariably shows that the letters are less uniform if imitation has been attempted, the writer being occasionally betrayed into some approach to his ordinary caligraphy, or into momentary forgetfulness of some special point in the handwriting he is simulating. No point is too small to escape an expert's attention. The dotting of the "i's," the crossing of "t's," the curls and flourishes, the intervals between the words, the thinness of the up-stroke and the thickness of the down-stroke, are all noted and carefully compared. Where only a signature has been forged, and that by means of tracings from the original the resemblance is often so exact as to deceive even the supposed author, but in these cases the microscope is generally effective in determining not merely the forgery but the method by which it was accomplished. It is some comfort to know that the cunning of the forger is overmatched by the scientific skill of the trained expert. CHAPTER XXIV HOW FORGERS ALTER BANK NOTES Bankers Easily Deceived--How Ten One Hundred-Dollar Bills Are Made out of Nine--How to Detect Altered Bank Notes--Making a Ten-Dollar Bill out of a Five--A Ten Raised to Fifty--How Two-Dollar Bills are Raised to a Higher Denomination--Bogus Money in Commercial Colleges--Action of the United States Treasury Department--Engraving a Greenback--How They Are Printed--Making a Vignette--Beyond the Reach of Rascals--How Bank Notes Are Printed, Signed and Issued by the Government--Safeguards to Foil Forgers, Counterfeiters and Alterers of Bank Notes--Devices to Raise Genuine Bank Notes--Split Notes--Altering Silver Certificates. A dangerous game and one too often successfully perpetrated, is the raising of bank bills from a lower to a higher denomination. Counterfeiters and forgers have often been detected making ten bills of nine by the following operation: A counterfeit one hundred-dollar bank note is cut into ten pieces; one of these pieces is pasted into a genuine bill, cutting out a piece of the genuine of the same size. In pasting nine genuine bills in this manner nine pieces are obtained, which, with one piece of counterfeit, will make a tenth bill, which is the profit. This operation is not a very successful one, as the difference between the counterfeit and the genuine will be very evident to any one who examines closely. Every business man should know how to detect altered bank bills, and a close scrutiny of all money offered, bearing in mind the suggestions here made, will prove a safeguard. Bank notes are sometimes altered by raising from lower to higher denominations, or replacing name of broken bank by name of good one. This is done either by erasing words and printing others in their place, or by pasting on the original bill a piece of counterfeit work or a piece taken from some genuine bill. If the former, the new counterfeit piece will always differ from the surrounding genuine work. If the latter, the fraud will be revealed by holding the bill up to the light, when the portion pasted will look darker than the surrounding portions. Another method employed is to cut ten-dollar bills in halves, also five-dollar bills, then join them, and raise the five part to a ten by the blue paper dodge. This bill can be successfully worked off in a roll of other bills, owing to the workmanship, and sometimes a gang will visit a certain locality and flood it with doctored bills. Fifty-dollar bills have been often raised from a ten. This fraud is generally neatly executed, and is well calculated to deceive the unsuspecting, and a banker, in hurriedly counting money, is liable to be taken in on one of these. A recent scheme to defraud with raised bills is to raise a two-dollar bill to a five. In order to accomplish this feat rascals cut out the figure five in the left-hand corner of a "V" and paste it over the figure "2" in the upper right-hand corner of the two-dollar bill. The pasting is done so neatly that not one person in a hundred, or even a thousand, unless an expert, would notice the difference. The very small $2 marks in the scroll-work surrounding the large figure are blotted out with a pencil and are not visible. The figure "2" in the lower right-hand corner is erased with acids, and the bill is in all respects a first-class imitation of the genuine article. Treasury officials say that this is something new in the way of bill-raising, and is very dangerous. Many people who are not used to handling money have been swindled by what is known as "Imitation Money." The United States Treasury Department is making strenuous efforts to break up the practice of issuing imitations of the national currency, to which many commercial colleges and business firms are addicted. This bogus currency has been extensively used by sharpers all over the country to swindle ignorant people and its manufacture is in violation of law. So vague is the general idea as to how a bank note is made that we give an explanation of the various processes it goes through before it is issued as a part of the "money of the realm," saying, by way of introduction, that this country leads the world in bank-note engraving. Unfortunately, the first consideration in making a bank-note is to prevent bad men from making a counterfeit of it, and therefore all the notes of a certain denomination or value must be exact duplicates of each other. If they were engraved by hand this would not be the case; and, another thing, hand engraving is more easily counterfeited than the work done by the processes we herewith describe. Every note is printed from a steel plate, in the preparation of which many persons take part. If you will look at a $5 "greenback" you will see a picture in the center; a small portrait, called a vignette, on the left, and in each of the upper corners a network of fine lines with a dark ground, one of them containing the letter "V" and the other the figure "5." These four parts are made on separate plates. To make a vignette it is necessary, first, to make a large drawing on paper with great care, and a daguerreotype is then taken of the drawing the exact size of the engraving desired. The daguerreotype is then given to the engraver, who uses a steel point to mark on it all the outlines of the picture. The plate is inked and a print taken from it. While the ink is still damp the print is laid face down on a steel plate, which has been softened by heating it red hot and letting it cool slowly. It is then put in a press and an exact copy of the outline is thus made on the steel plate. This the engraver finishes with his graver, a tool with a three-cornered point, which cuts a clean line without leaving a rough edge. Now this is used for making other plates--it is never used to print from. It must be made hard and this is done by heating it and cooling it quickly. A little roller of softened steel is then rolled over it by a powerful machine until its surface has been forced into all the lines cut into the plate. The outlines of the vignette are thus transferred to the roller in raised lines, and after the roller is hardened it is used to roll over plates of softened steel, and thus make in them sunken lines exactly like those in the plate originally engraved. The center picture is engraved and transferred to a roller like the vignette, but the network in the upper corners, and also on the back of the note, is made by the lathe. This machine costs $5,000, a price that puts it beyond the reach of counterfeiters, and its work is so perfect that it can not be imitated by hand. The black parts of the note are printed first, and when the ink is dry the green-black is printed, to be followed by the red stamps and numbers. It is then signed and issued. For greater security one part of the note is engraved and printed at one place and another part at another place, when it is sent to Washington to be finished and signed. But even after all this care and all these safeguards many skillfully executed counterfeits and raised and altered bank notes have been made and issued, some of them so good as to deceive the most expert judges of money. Many devices have been resorted to by counterfeiters to raise genuine bank-notes, as well as to manufacture bogus ones, but one of the most novel has recently come to light. The scheme consists of splitting a $5 and a $1 note, and then pasting the back of the $1 note to the front of the $5 note and the front of the $1 note to the back of the $5 note. The mechanical part of the work was excellently done, but the fraud could be detected the moment the note was turned over. An effort had been made to change the "one" to "five" on the "one" side of the new combined note, but it was done so clumsily that the fraud would have been seen at a glance, and the only hope of passing the notes as fives would have been to pass them over with the $5 side up and trust to the man receiving it not to turn it over before putting it away. The doctored notes came to the notice of the writer through one of the Chicago banks, with the request that they be allowed whatever they were worth. The government always redeems notes at the face value, and as the faces in this case were of a $1 and a $5 note, $6 was allowed. It is not known whether the bank was caught on the split notes or not. Another scheme for altering bank-notes is practiced with more or less success. It is to take a one dollar silver certificate and by means of powerful acids and fine penwork the large figure "one" on the reverse side is split into two "tens," and the intermediate portion transformed into a scroll. On the other side the "one" over the representation of the silver dollar is obliterated and "ten" substituted, but the "s" is left off the dollar. The single "1" figures in the corners are neatly eaten off and the figure "10" substituted. The small "one" is changed to an "X" and a new series number is printed in red upon the face. The bill would pass anywhere. None but an expert would detect the fraud. APPENDIX INTERESTING WRITINGS OF VARIOUS KINDS FOR STUDY AND COMPARISON FOUR ORDINARY SIGNATURES WITH DESCRIPTIONS [Illustration: A mechanical or artificial hand in copy-book style, lightly and delicately traced. Characteristic signature, connected and rapidly traced letters expressing great animation and mental activity. A natural hand, letters vary in size, written with great spontaneity and expression. A restrained hand, letters slowly and deliberately traced, indicating a slow intelligence and perception.] STUDENTS' HANDWRITING--CRIMINALS' HANDWRITING [Illustration: The above is a comparison of the students' and criminals' handwriting, the selections being made from the records of each class.] [Illustration: The tremor of feebleness is shown in this signature. This was written by a gentleman ninety-two years of age. Writing of one who is ill or feeble is usually characterized by a light stroke. The simulated tremor of a skilful penman is rarely successful in deceiving a trained eye.] [Illustration: This signature represents the tremor due to illiteracy. The tremors and angular features shown are by no means indicative of lack of power, but the power is misdirected.] [Illustration: The signature of Ivan Wilson, herewith given, will serve as an illustration of the tremor almost inseparable from forgery. The tremors of a simulating hand are never so numerous nor so fine as real tremors.] GENUINE--FORGED TRACING--FORGED FREE-HAND [Illustration: The first signature is the original. The second is a bungling traced forgery and the third is a forged freehand. Taken apart from one another they are clever enough to deceive, but studied together here the fraud and deception is readily apparent.] ORIGINAL SIZE--GENUINE--FORGED TRACING--FORGED FREE HAND. [Illustration: We give above a genuine signature with a forged tracing and a forged free-hand. You can readily detect the forgeries when these signatures are placed together and explained. It gives one points on how to study forged and disputed signatures.] SOME THUMB AND FINGER-PRINT SUGGESTIONS [Illustration: We show herewith two enlarged finger-prints. These are taken from the index finger and are used in many cases instead of thumb-prints.] [Illustration: The above illustrations are fac-simile impressions of the dermal furrows of the right and left thumbs of four different persons. The left thumbs are in the top row, the right thumb being below. These are enlarged to bring out the distinctive points. You will note that no two are alike and it is absolutely impossible to forge or duplicate the thumb-print of any person. "Thumb-prints Never Forged" on page 115.] [Illustration: Promiscuous thumb-prints taken at random, easily distinguishable in the original impression but not enlarged as in above illustration. A photographic reproduction showing the lines without enlargement almost impossible.] INTERESTING AUTOGRAPH SIGNATURES [Illustration: Kaiser's signature published in book sanctioned by him is the writing of an extremely erratic and nervous man.] [Illustration: This is a facsimile of Capt. Myles Standish's handwriting found on the fly-leaf of one of his books. Capt. Myles Standish, known as the human sword blade, whose valor saved the Pilgrims at Plymouth from utter destruction at the hands of hostile Indians went back to England in 1625 on business for the colony. Before his return, in 1626, he bought this book and carried it back to America with him.] [Illustration: In this signature of the great Liberator of Italy, we have indications of energy in the angular form of the letters, and in the hasty and irregular dot to the small letter "i," and originality in the curious angularly waved line below the signature. It denotes tenacity of purpose.] [Illustration: In this signature of Napoleon Bonaparte, which appears on a letter written by him when only a captain in the French army, we have the "vaulting ambition" which made him all _but_ master of Europe. There is the dominant will in the strongly marked "t," and in the hard, thick line which terminates the flourish; his egotism and self-assertion are evidenced in this flourish, his originality in the peculiar form of the capital letter "B;" but ambition is here "still the lord of all."] GREELEY'S LAST LETTER. [Illustration: This was the last letter ever written by Horace Greeley, America's famous editor and horrible penman.] [Illustration: The signatures of this group are by well-known men, all leaders in a special line of activity. These autographs are original and typical of the men writing them. The general character, temperament and make-up of these gentlemen are well-known to all, and a study of these signatures will be found interesting.] [Illustration: Reduced copy of the signatures and seals of the English and American commissioners who signed the treaty of peace between Great Britain and the United States in 1783.] CHARACTERISTIC WRITING OF SOME OF THE BEST KNOWN MEN IN THE BANKING WORLD OF THE UNITED STATES [Illustration: President American Bankers' Association and President of the Continental National Bank, Chicago.] [Illustration: Mr. Vanderlip, President of the National City Bank, New York.] [Illustration: Lewis E. Pierson, First Vice-president American Bankers' Association and President Irving National Exchange Bank, New York City.] [Illustration: F.O. Watts, Chairman Executive Council American Bankers' Association and President First National Bank, Nashville, Tenn.] [Illustration: Treasurer American Bankers' Association and Second Vice-president Fidelity Trust Co., Tacoma, Wash.] [Illustration: Fred. E. Farnsworth, Secretary American Bankers' Association, New York.] [Illustration: W.G. Fitzwilson, Assistant Secretary American Bankers' Association, New York City.] [Illustration: Assistant Cashier of the National City Bank, Chicago, and formerly President of the American Institute of Banking.] [Illustration: This gentleman is one of the best-known bankers in America. He has also been Secretary of the Treasury.] [Illustration: A rather complicated, though not altogether unreadable signature of John K. Ottley, vice-president of the Fourth National Bank, Atlanta, Ga.] [Illustration: J. Furth, President of the Puget Sound National Bank, Seattle, Wash.] [Illustration: There is no better known gentleman in the country than John Farson, the millionaire banker of Chicago. He dresses attractively, loves legitimate notoriety, is absolutely democratic in his daily life, is charitable and pleasant and believes in making everybody happy, and is a great lover of flowers and children. His signature indicates his character thoroughly.] [Illustration: This is a fair specimen of the writing of a Japanese banker and business man. This was written with great haste, also.] CURIOUS AND FREAKISH SIGNATURES OF WELL-KNOWN BANKERS AND BUSINESS MEN [Illustration: Banker Wm. W. Quigg thinks this is a pretty good signature. He is a banker at Ontario, Calif.] [Illustration: A Michigan bank cashier, E. Newell, writes this signature.] [Illustration: This is the signature of Common Parse.] [Illustration: This is the way H.G. Nolton writes his name.] [Illustration: This was the original freak signature of the country. It will be recognized by every one as F.E. Spinner.] [Illustration: F.S. Watts, teller in an Iowa bank, is not afraid to use ink. He says this signature has never been counterfeited.] [Illustration: This stands for Lloyd Bowers, a well-known Kansas banker.] [Illustration: R.J.B. Crombie, a Canadian banker, has a signature that is certainly freakish.] [Illustration: Tom Randolph, president of a Sherman, Texas, National Bank, thinks he is a good writer.] [Illustration: W.D. Mussenden, an eastern banker, thinks any man ought to readily read his writing.] [Illustration: C.W. Bush, president of the Bank of Yolo, Woodland, California, makes these marks and they are good on any check.] [Illustration: W.O. Cline, editor and publisher of a Chicago paper. This is one of the most unique signatures in the United States.] [Illustration: A B. Ming might write worse but it is doubtful.] [Illustration: W.P. Hazen, a Kansas banker, has written this signature so many years he thinks it ought to be legible to any one.] [Illustration: This is the very complicated signature of Hugh Harbinson, a well-known Connecticut business man.] [Illustration: John Mohr, Jr., thinks this is a plain signature.] [Illustration: Jas. V.D. Westfall, formerly a well-known New York State banker.] [Illustration: F.C. Miller, Kansas banker, wants this to pass current as his name.] [Illustration: Louis Houck, historian, Cape Girardeau, Mo.] [Illustration: Tams Bixby, General Manager The Pioneer Press, St. Paul, Minnesota. This is certainly a unique signature.] [Illustration: J.W. Dunegan, Cashier First National Bank, Marquette, Mich.] [Illustration: This is known as the "Turn Around" signature. This was furnished us by the president of one of the largest banks in New York City. It is one of the most curious of signatures. Turn it around. It reads the same both ways.] [Illustration: P.B. Elder, formerly a Pennsylvania bank president, known as the "upside down" writer. Turn it around.] [Illustration: John R. Dixon, a well-known Chicago business man.] [Illustration: Peter White, President First National Bank, Marquette, Mich.] HOW SOME CELEBRATED WOMEN WRITE [Illustration: In this signature of the "divine Sarah," the flourish peculiar to most actresses, which indicates love of admiration, is very remarkable. We have also, in the return of the curve of the letter "S" the sign typical of egotism; in the peculiar form of the letter "B," we have originality; in the heavy down strokes we have sensuousness; and in the angular forms of all the letters, strong will.] [Illustration: Who has not heard of that eccentric woman in man's garb, Dr. Mary E. Walker. She is egotistical, seeks after notoriety, and her signature is a correct portrayal of a petulant and whimsical nature.] [Illustration: This signature of Marie Antoinette was taken from a letter written while she was in prison under sentence of death. This is a despondent signature. Misfortune, separation from her husband and children, and humiliation had crushed her pride, and the whole of this signature is descendant, the four last letters remarkably so, which indicates a thoroughly despondent condition.] THREE OF AMERICA'S BEST-KNOWN MEN [Illustration: Melville W. Fuller, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, of the United States.] [Illustration: P.S. Grosscup, Chicago, Judge of the Circuit Court of the United States.] [Illustration: John Hay, formerly Secretary of State, is a versatile man. The most remarkable point in this autograph is its extreme clearness, indicative of lucidity of ideas. Cultivation is shown in the form of the capital letters in both Christian and surname. No obstinacy is shown in this nature, only sufficient firmness to hold his own when necessary, the signature showing also a strong literary leaning.] THREE FAMOUS MILITARY MEN [Illustration: We present a group of signatures of famous military men. The autograph of General Grant is plain and simple in its construction, not an unnecessary movement or mark in it--a signature as bare of superfluity and ostentation as was the silent soldier and hero of Appomattox. In the autograph of R.E. Lee we have the same terse, brief manner of construction as in Grant's. It is more antiquated and formal in its style, more stiff and what might be called aristocratic. Its firm upright strokes, with angular horizontal terminal lines, indicate a determined, positive character. In somewhat marked contrast with the two last-mentioned autographs is that of General Beauregard, in that he indulges in a rather elaborate flourish, which is a national characteristic.] CHARACTERISTIC WRITING OF A FEW OF THE WORLD'S BEST-KNOWN LITERARY MEN AND AUTHORS [Illustration: Shakespeare's writing shows a strong, intuitive observation--that quick movement of the mind which seizes character at a glance--is shown by the want of _liason_ between the curiously formed letter "h" and the "a" which follows it. With a poet's disregard of order, Shakespeare puts no dots to either of the small letters "i" in his Christian name, nor is there any full stop at the end of the signature, so suggestive, when seen in an autograph, of caution, and that attention to minutiae which seems almost incompatible with the poetic nature. No flourish of any kind disgraces this thoroughly characteristic signature of England's greatest poet.] [Illustration: His popularity and fame as a novelist may be attributed to the fascinating style and vivid portrayal of his imaginative rather than realistic creations. The flourish after the signature has its significance also. It is lacking in grace or harmony, and evidently the quick, assertive stroke from the pen of one who will brook no opposition.] [Illustration: In this signature of Longfellow we have imagination in the letter "L" in the signature of the surname, lucidity of ideas in the extreme clearness of the writing, ideality in the absence of _liason_ between the "l" and "o," but not as much tenderness as one would have expected in the writing of the author of "Evangeline."] [Illustration: Edgar Allen Poe was an egotistical and imaginative writer. When the flourish takes any very peculiar abnormal form, it is rather a sign of originality than vanity, though there is, perhaps always a slight admixture of egotistical feeling in all flourishes.] [Illustration: Who has not heard of Emile Zola? This signature has the lightning flourishes in the "Z" and "a," and the entire separation of letters indicate an almost wholly intuitive mind, but lacking in logic, reason and judgment.] AUTOGRAPHS OF SOME WELL-KNOWN MEN. THEIR WRITING IS AS DIFFERENT AS THEIR CHARACTERS. [Illustration: Uncle Joe Cannon, Speaker of the House of Representatives, has a careless and rapid signature which indicates a determined and arbitrary will.] [Illustration: Cecil T. Rhodes, the wealthy South Africa diamond king, has a signature denoting secrecy and thrift. The curve of the "C" and "T" denoting love of publicity. His wonderful endowments gave him fame and publicity.] [Illustration: Signature of John Jacob Astor, the founder of that well-known family.] [Illustration: Ingersoll's signature is that of a combative man. This is told by a certain irregularity in writing and at the same time all the signs of ardent courage.] [Illustration: Admiral George Dewey. Extreme straightforwardness is indicated in this signature; the letters are all one height and the line of writing is straight. It denotes precision, discipline and loyalty.] [Illustration: An enlarged signature of one of the most successful merchants in the country. This signature shows intuitive perception of character and the heavy characters denote precision, organization, and care for details.] [Illustration: The signature of H.N. Higinbotham, a former partner of Marshall Field, and an immensely busy man. It shows that an active business man can write a legible hand if he will.] [Illustration: This signature is that of one of America's greatest merchants and financiers. He is as careful in writing as in business and gives the greatest care to all details. Philanthrophy is also shown in his hand.] [Illustration: This is the inventor of the telephone, and one of the most famous characters of the country. This is a most pronounced signature indicating inventive genius and charity, with strong literary proclivities.] [Illustration: Joseph Zeisler, one of the best known physicians in the country. This writing, while difficult to read, indicates a nervous body and active brain.] [Illustration: Thomas A. Edison, the famous inventor.] [Illustration: One of the richest men in America and a well-known philanthropist.] [Illustration: This signature evidences calm and clear judgment; the open "o's," fluency of speech; and the simply formed capitals, the modest, unpretentious nature.] [Illustration: The writing of one of the most famous characters in American politics. His writing indicates firmness, love of notoriety and also a semblance of weakness.] [Illustration: The signature of Emil G. Hirsch, Rabbi of Sinai Congregation, Chicago, one of America's best-known and most-respected Jewish citizens.] [Illustration: "Oom Paul" Kruger, formerly president of the Transvaal Republic. This is the signature of a man that believed the world was flat. He was "sot" in his ways--stubborn, obstinate, unmovable. His rugged character was never brought within the restraints of conventionality, and neither, apparently, was his handwriting.] [Illustration: One of America's best-known educators.] [Illustration: Arthur N. McGeoch, Milwaukee, Wis., a well-known attorney.] [Illustration: Geo. E. Allen, Educational Director, American Institute of Banking.] [Illustration: Characteristic writing of business men in the early days of our country. These autographs appear on the original agreement which formed the first stock exchange in New York City, in 1792. Whirls, flourishes, and other peculiarities are remarkably plenty in the above, which is an indication of correct writing in those days.] [Illustration: One of the few legible signatures to the Declaration of Independence.] [Illustration: P.M. Hanney, a leading Chicago business man, and a director in the great firm of Siegel Cooper & Company.] [Illustration: General counsel for the American Bankers' Association, and authority on American banking law.] [Illustration: Retired Major General of the United States Army.] AUTOGRAPH SIGNATURES OF THE PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES [Illustrations] 
56973	----	[Illustration: Oliver Resents his Step-brother's Interference.] ADRIFT IN THE CITY OR _OLIVER CONRAD'S PLUCKY FIGHT_ BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK" SERIES, "TATTERED TOM" SERIES, "LUCK AND PLUCK" SERIES THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO TORONTO COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY PORTER & COATES. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. TWO YOUNG ENEMIES, 1 II. OPEN REVOLT, 10 III. THE YOUNG RIVALS, 18 IV. MR. KENYON'S SECRET, 28 V. MR. KENYON'S RESOLVE, 37 VI. MR. KENYON'S CHANGE OF BASE, 46 VII. ROLAND'S DISCOMFITURE, 55 VIII. A DANGEROUS LETTER, 64 IX. OLIVER'S MOTHER, 73 X. THE ROYAL LUNATIC, 82 XI. HOW THE LETTER WAS MAILED, 92 XII. OLIVER'S JOURNEY, 97 XIII. MR. KENYON'S PLANS FOR OLIVER, 102 XIV. A STORE IN THE BOWERY, 111 XV. JOHN'S COURTSHIP, 120 XVI. THE CONSPIRACY, 129 XVII. OLIVER LOSES HIS PLACE, 135 XVIII. OLIVER, THE OUTCAST, 143 XIX. A STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE, 147 XX. A TERRIBLE SITUATION, 156 XXI. ROLAND IS SURPRISED, 165 XXII. OLIVER ADOPTS A NEW GUARDIAN, 175 XXIII. MR. BUNDY IS DISAPPOINTED, AND OLIVER MEETS SOME FRIENDS, 184 XXIV. ANOTHER CLUE, 193 XXV. MAKING ARRANGEMENTS, 199 XXVI. WHO RUPERT JONES WAS, 203 XXVII. A STARTLING TELEGRAM, 208 XXVIII. OLD NANCY'S HUT, 213 XXIX. DR. FOX IN PURSUIT, 222 XXX. HOW DR. FOX WAS FOOLED, 231 XXXI. MRS. KENYON FINDS FRIENDS, 240 XXXII. MR. DENTON OF CHICAGO, 249 XXXIII. A MIDNIGHT ATTACK, 258 XXXIV. DENTON SEES HIS VICTIMS ESCAPE, 267 XXXV. ON THE TRACK, 274 XXXVI. DENTON IS CHECKMATED, 280 XXXVII. DENTON'S LITTLE ADVENTURE IN THE CARS, 286 XXXVIII. THE MEETING AT LINCOLN PARK, 296 XXXIX. THE COMMON ENEMY, 305 XL. THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS, 314 ADRIFT IN THE CITY; OR, OLIVER CONRAD'S PLUCKY FIGHT. CHAPTER I. TWO YOUNG ENEMIES. "Oliver, bring me that ball!" said Roland Kenyon, in a tone of command. The speaker, a boy of sixteen, stood on the lawn before a handsome country mansion. He had a bat in his hand, and had sent the ball far down the street. He was fashionably dressed, and evidently felt himself a personage of no small consequence. The boy he addressed, Oliver Conrad, was his junior by a year--not so tall, but broader and more thick-set, with a frank, manly face, and an air of independence and self-reliance. He was returning home from school, and carried two books in his hand. Oliver was naturally obliging, but there was something he did not like in the other's imperious tone, and his pride was touched. "Are you speaking to me?" he demanded quietly. "Of course I am. Is there any other Oliver about?" "When you ask a favor, you had better be polite about it." "Bother politeness! Go after that ball! Do you hear?" exclaimed Roland angrily. Oliver eyed him calmly. "Go for it yourself," he retorted. "I don't intend to run on your errands." "You don't?" exclaimed Roland furiously. "Didn't I speak plainly enough? I meant what I said." "Go after that ball this instant!" shrieked Roland, stamping his foot; "or I'll make you!" "Suppose you make me do it," said Oliver contemptuously, opening the gate, and entering the yard. Roland had worked himself into a passion, and this made him reckless of consequences. He threw the bat in his hand at Oliver, and if the latter had not dodged quickly it would have seriously injured him. At the same time Roland rushed impetuously upon the boy who had offended him by his independence. To say that Oliver kept calm under this aggravated attack would be incorrect. His eyes flashed with anger. He threw his books upon the lawn, and put himself in an instant on guard. A moment, and the two boys were engaged in a close struggle. Roland was taller, and this gave him an advantage; but Oliver was the more sturdy and agile. He clasped Roland around the waist, lifted him off his feet, and laid him, after a brief resistance, on the lawn. "You'd better not attack me again!" he said, looking with flushed face at his fallen foe. Roland was furious. He sprang to his feet and flung himself upon Oliver, but with so little discretion that the latter, by a well-planted blow, immediately felled him to the ground, and, warned by the second attack, planted his knee on Roland's breast, thus preventing him from rising. "Let me up!" shrieked Roland furiously, struggling desperately but ineffectually. "Will you let me alone, then?" "No, I won't!" returned Roland, who in his anger lost sight of prudence. "Then you may lie there till you promise," said Oliver composedly. "Get up, you bully!" screamed Roland. "You are the bully. You attacked me, or I should never have touched you," said Oliver. "I'll tell my father," said Roland. "Tell, if you want to," said Oliver, his lip curling. "He'll have you well beaten." "I don't think he will." "So you defy him, then?" "No; I defy nobody. But I mean to defend myself from violence." "What's the matter with you two boys? Oliver, what are you doing?" The speaker was Mr. Kenyon's gardener, John Bradford, a sensible man and usually intelligent. Oliver often talked with him, and treated him respectfully, as he deserved. Roland was foolish enough to look down upon him because he was a poor man and occupied a subordinate position. Oliver rose from the ground and let up his adversary. "We have had a little difficulty, Mr. Bradford," he said. "Roland may tell you if he likes." "What is the trouble, Roland?" enquired the gardener. "None of your business!" answered Roland insolently. "You are very polite," said the gardener. "I don't feel called upon to be polite to my father's hired man," remarked Roland unpleasantly. "If he won't answer your question, I will," said Oliver. "Roland commanded me to run and get his ball, and I didn't choose to do it. He attacked me, and I defended myself. That is all there is about it." "No, it isn't all there is about it," said Roland passionately. "You have insulted me, and you are going to be flogged. You may just make up your mind to that." "How have I insulted you?" "You threw me down." "Suppose I hadn't. What would have happened to me?" "I would have whipped you if you hadn't taken me by surprise." Oliver shrugged his shoulders. Apparently Roland didn't propose to renew the fight. Oliver watched him warily, suspecting a sudden attack, but it was not made. Roland turned toward the house, merely discharging this last shaft at his young conqueror: "You'll get it when my father gets home." "Your ball is in the road," said the gardener. "It will be lost." "No, it won't. Oliver will have to bring it in yet." "I am afraid he means mischief, Oliver," said the gardener, turning to our hero as Roland slammed the front door upon entering. "I suppose he does," said Oliver quietly. "It isn't the first attempt he has made to order me around." "He is a very disagreeable boy," said Bradford. "He is the most disagreeable boy I know," said Oliver. "I can get along with any of the other boys, except Jim Cameron, his chosen friend. He's pretty much the same sort of fellow as Roland--only, not being rich, he can't put on so many airs." "You talk of Roland being rich," said the gardener. "He has no right to be called so." "His father has property, I suppose?" "Mr. Kenyon was poor enough when he married your mother. All the property he owns came from her." "Is that true, Mr. Bradford?" asked Oliver thoughtfully. "Yes; didn't you know it?" "I have sometimes thought so." "There is no doubt about it. It excited a good deal of talk--your mother's will." "Did she leave all her property to Mr. Kenyon, John?" "So he says, and he shows a will that has been admitted to probate." Oliver was silent for a moment. Then he spoke: "If my mother chose to leave all to him, I have not a word to say. She had a right to do as she pleased." "But it seems singular. She loved you as much as any mother loves her son; yet she disinherited you." "I will not complain of anything she did, Mr. Bradford," said Oliver soberly. "Suppose she didn't do it, Master Oliver?" "What do you mean, Mr. Bradford?" asked the boy, fixing his eyes upon the gardener's face. "I mean that there are some in the village who think there has been foul play--that the will is not genuine." "Do you think so, Mr. Bradford?" "Knowing your mother, and her love for you, I believe there's been some fraud practised, and that Mr. Kenyon is at the bottom of it." "I wish I knew," said Oliver. "It isn't the money I care about so much, but I don't like to think that my mother preferred Mr. Kenyon to me." "Wait patiently, Oliver; it'll all come out some day." Just then Roland appeared at the front door and called out, in a tone of triumphant malice: "Come right in, Oliver; my father wants to see you." Oliver and the gardener exchanged glances. Then the boy answered: "You may tell your father I am coming," and walked quietly toward the front door. "I've told him all about it," said Roland. "Are you sure you have told your father all?" "Yes, I have." "That's all I want. If you have told him all, he must see that I am not to blame." "You'll find out. He's mad enough." Oliver knew enough of his step-father to accept this as probable. "Now, for it," he thought, and followed Roland into his father's presence. CHAPTER II. OPEN REVOLT. Benjamin Kenyon, the father of Roland and Oliver's step-father, was a man of fifty or more. He had a high narrow forehead, small eyes, and a scanty supply of coarse black hair rimming a bald crown with a fringe in the shape of a horse-shoe. His expression was crafty and insincere. A tolerable judge of physiognomy would at once pronounce him as a man not to be trusted. He turned upon Oliver with a frown, and said harshly: "How dared you assault my son Roland!" "It was he who assaulted me, Mr. Kenyon," answered Oliver quietly. "Do you deny that you felled him to the earth twice?" "I threw him over twice, if that is what you mean, sir." "If that is what I mean! Don't be impertinent, sir." "I have not been--thus far." "Do you think I shall allow you to make a brutal assault upon my son, you young reprobate?" "If you call me by that name again I shall refuse to answer you," said Oliver with spirit. "Do you hear that, father?" interrupted Roland, anxious to prejudice his father against his young enemy. "I hear it," said Mr. Kenyon; "and you may rely upon it that I shall take notice of it, too. So you have no defence to make, then?" This last question was, of course, addressed to Oliver. "I will merely state what happened, Mr. Kenyon. Roland had batted his ball far out on the road. He ordered me to go for it, and I refused." "You refused?" "Yes, sir." "And why?" "Because I am not subject to your son's orders." "It is because you are selfish and disobliging." "No, sir. If Roland had asked me, as a favor, to get the ball, I would have done it, being nearer to it than he, but I did not choose to obey his orders." "He has a right to order you about," said Mr. Kenyon, frowning. "I don't admit it," said Oliver. "Is he not older than you?" "Yes, sir." "Then you must obey him?" "I am sorry to differ with you, Mr. Kenyon, but I cannot see it in that light." "It makes very little difference in what light you see it," sneered Mr. Kenyon. "I command you to obey him!" Roland listened with triumphant malice, and nodded his head with satisfaction. "Do you hear that?" he said insolently. Oliver eyed him calmly. "Yes, I hear it," he said. "Then you'd better remember it next time." "Where is the ball now?" asked Mr. Kenyon. "In the street." "Oliver, you may go and get it, and bring it to Roland." Roland laughed--a little low, chuckling laugh that was very exasperating to Oliver. Our hero's naturally pleasant face assumed a firm and determined expression. He was about to make a declaration of independence. "Do you ask me to go for this ball as a favor?" he asked, turning to his step-father. "No," returned the latter harshly. "I command you to do it without question, and at once." "Then, sir, much as I regret it, I must refuse to obey you." Oliver was pale but firm. Mr. Kenyon's face, on the contrary, was flushed and angry. "Do you defy me?" he roared furiously. "I defy no one, sir, but you require me to do what would put me in the power of your son. If I consented, there would be no end to his attempts to tyrannize over me." "Are you aware that I am your natural guardian, sir--that the law delegates to me supreme authority over you, you young reprobate?" demanded Mr. Kenyon, working himself into an ungovernable passion. Oliver did not reply. "Speak, I order you!" exclaimed his step-father, stamping his foot. "I did not speak sooner because you called me a young reprobate, sir. I answer now that I will sooner leave your house and go out into the world to shift for myself than allow Roland to trample upon me and order me about like a dog." "Enough of this! Roland, go downstairs and get my cane." "I'll go," said Roland, with alacrity. It was a welcome commission. Smarting with a sense of his own recent humiliating defeat, nothing could be sweeter than to see his victorious adversary beaten in his own presence. Of course he understood that it was for this purpose his father wanted the cane. There was silence in the room while Roland was gone. Oliver was rapidly making up his mind what he would do. Roland ran upstairs with the cane. "Here it is, father," he said, extending it to Mr. Kenyon. "I will give you one more chance, Oliver," said his step-father. "You have insulted my son and rebelled against my authority, but I do not want to proceed to violence unless I am absolutely obliged to. I command you once more to go and get Roland's ball." "If you command me, sir, I must answer as I did before--I must refuse." Roland looked relieved. He feared that Oliver would yield, and so escape the beating he was anxious to witness. "Aint he impudent!" he ejaculated. "Are you going to stand that, father?" "No, I am not," said Mr. Kenyon grimly. "I will make him repent bitterly his rebellious course. Come here, sir--or no," and a smile lighted up his face, "it is more befitting that your punishment should come from the one whom you have insulted. Roland, take the cane and give Oliver a dozen strokes with it." "You'll back me up, won't you?" asked Roland cautiously. "Yes, I will back you up. There is nothing to fear." "I guess father and I'll be a match for him," thought the brave Roland. He took the cane and advanced toward Oliver with it uplifted. "If you touch me it will be at your peril!" said Oliver, pale but firm. Roland looked at his father, and received a nod of encouragement. He hesitated no longer, but, with a look of triumphant spite, lifted the cane and rushed toward Oliver. It did not fall where it was intended, for, with a spring, Oliver wrested it from his grasp and threw it out of the window. Then, without a word, leaving father and son gazing into each other's faces with mingled wrath and dismay, he left the room. "Are you going to allow this, father?" asked Roland in a tone of disappointment. "Oliver doesn't pay you the least respect." Mr. Kenyon was not a brave or a resolute man. He was a man capable of petty tyranny, but one to be cowed by manly opposition. It occurred to him that in seeking to break Oliver's spirit, he had undertaken a difficult task. So he hardly knew what to say. "Shall I run after him?" asked Roland. "No," said his father. "I will take a little time to consider what is to be done with him. I'll make him rue this day, you may depend upon it." "I hope you will," said Roland. "I don't mind so much about myself," he added artfully, "but I hate to see him treat you so." "I'll break his proud spirit," said Mr. Kenyon, biting his lip. "I'll find a way, you may depend upon it." CHAPTER III. THE YOUNG RIVALS. When Oliver left the house he was uncertain whither to bend his steps. The supper hour was near at hand, but it would hardly be pleasant under the circumstances to meet his step-father and Roland at the tea-table. He preferred to go without his evening meal. As he walked slowly along the main street on which his step-father's house was situated, plunged in thought, he was called to himself by a slap on his shoulder. "What are you thinking about, Oliver?" was asked, in a cheery voice. "Frank Dudley!" said our hero, "you're just the boy I want to see." "Do I owe you any money?" asked Frank, in mock alarm. "Not that I know of." "Then it's all right. I am glad to meet you, too. Where are you going?" "I don't know." "Have you had supper?" "No." "Then come home with me. You haven't taken supper at our house for a long time." "So I will," responded Oliver with alacrity. "I see how it is," said Frank. "They were going to send you to bed without your supper, and my invitation brings you unexpected relief." "You are partly right. But for your invitation I should have had no supper." "What is it all about, Oliver? What's the matter?" "I'll tell you, Frank. Mr. Kenyon and I have had a quarrel." "I am not surprised at that. I don't admire the man, even if he is your step-father." "Oh, you needn't check your feelings on my account. I never could like him." "How did the trouble begin?" "It began with Roland. I'll tell you about it," and Oliver told what had occurred. Frank listened in silence. "I think you did right," he said. "I wouldn't submit to be ordered round by such a popinjay. He's the most disagreeable boy I know, and my sister thinks so, too." "He seems to admire your sister." "She doesn't appreciate his attentions. He's always coming up and wanting to walk with her, though she is cool enough with him." Oliver was glad to hear this. To tell the truth, he had a boyish fancy for Carrie Dudley himself, which was not surprising, for she was the prettiest girl in the village. Though he had not supposed she looked favorably upon Roland, it was pleasant to be assured of this by the young lady's brother. "Poor Roland!" he said, smiling. "Your sister may give him the heartache." "Oh, I guess his heart's pretty tough. But here we are." Frank Dudley's father was a successful physician. His mother was dead, and her place in the household was supplied by his father's sister, Miss Pauline Dudley, who, though an old maid, had a sunny temperament and kindly disposition. The doctor's house, though not as pretentious as Mr. Kenyon's, was unusually pleasant and attractive. "Aunt Pauline," said Frank to his aunt, who was sitting on a rocking chair on the front piazza, "I have brought Oliver home to supper." "I am very glad to see you, Oliver," said Miss Dudley. "I wish you would come oftener." "Thank you, Miss Dudley; I am always glad to come here. It is so pleasant and social compared with----" He paused, thinking it not in good taste to refer unfavorably to his own home. "I understand," said Miss Dudley. "You must be lonely at home." "I am," said Oliver briefly. "Not much company, and that poor," whispered Frank. Oliver nodded assent. Here Carrie Dudley appeared and cordially welcomed Oliver. "Carrie seems glad to see you, Oliver," said Frank; "but you must not feel too much elated. It's only on account of your relationship to Roland. She's perfectly infatuated with that boy." Like most brothers, Frank liked to tease his sister. "Roland!" repeated Carrie, tossing her head. "I hope I have better taste than to like him." "It's all put on, Oliver. You mustn't believe what she says." "Didn't I see Roland walking with you yesterday?" asked Oliver, willing to join in the teasing. "Because I couldn't get rid of him," retorted Carrie. "He thinks you are over head and ears in love with him," said Frank. "I don't believe he thinks anything of the kind. If he does, he is very much mistaken; that is all I can say." "Don't tease your sister any more, Frank," said Oliver. "I don't believe she admires Roland any more than I do." "Thank you, Oliver. I am glad to have you on my side," said the young lady graciously. "I shouldn't mind if I never saw Roland Kenyon." "Stop your quarrelling, young people, and walk in to supper," said Miss Pauline. "Where is your father to-night, Frank?" asked Oliver, as they ranged themselves round the neat supper table. "He has been sent for to Claremont. He won't be back till late, probably. You will please look upon me as the head of the household while he is away." "I will, most learned doctor." The evening meal passed pleasantly. Oliver could not help contrasting it with the dull and formal supper he was accustomed to take at home, and his thoughts found utterance. "I wish I had as pleasant a home as you, Frank." "You had better come and live with us, Oliver." "I should like to." "Suppose you propose it to Mr. Kenyon. I don't believe he prizes your society very much." "Nor I. He wouldn't mind being rid of me, but Roland would probably object to my coming here." "I didn't think of that." "I should like to have you with us, Oliver," said Miss Pauline. "You would be company for Frank, and could help keep him straight." "As if I needed it, Aunt Pauline! All the same, I should enjoy having Oliver here, and so would Carrie." "Yes, I should," said the young lady unhesitatingly. Oliver was well pleased, and expressed his satisfaction. After supper they adjourned to the parlor, and presently Carrie sat down to the piano and played and sang some popular songs, Frank and Oliver joining in the singing. While they were thus engaged a ring was heard at the door-bell. "That's Roland, I'll bet a hat," said Frank. "It's one of his courting evenings." It proved to be Roland. He entered with a stiff bow. "Good-evening, Miss Carrie," he said, a little awkwardly. "Good-evening, Mr. Kenyon," said the young lady distantly. "Will you be seated?" "Thank you. Good-evening, Frank." "Good-evening. May I introduce you to Mr. Oliver Conrad?" "You here?" said Roland, surprised. Being near-sighted, he had not before noticed our hero's presence. "I am here," said Oliver briefly. "We were singing as you entered, Roland," said Frank mischievously. "Won't you favor us with a melody?" "I don't sing," said Roland stiffly. "Indeed! Oliver is quite a singer." "I was not aware he was so accomplished," said Roland, unable to suppress a sneer. "I suppose he doesn't often sing to you." "I shouldn't like to trouble him. I should be very glad to hear you sing, Miss Carrie." "If Frank and Oliver will join in. I don't like to sing alone." A song was selected, and the three sang it through. Sitting at the other end of the room, Roland, who greatly admired Carrie, was tormented with jealousy as he saw Oliver at her side, winning smiles and attention which he had never been able to win. He could not help wishing that he, too, were able to sing. If Oliver had made himself ridiculous, it would have comforted him, but our hero had a strong and musical voice, and acquitted himself very creditably. "It's a pity you don't sing, Roland," said Frank. "I wouldn't try to sing unless I could sing well," said Roland. "Is he hitting you or me, Oliver?" asked Frank. "You sing well," said Roland. "Then it's you, Oliver!" Oliver smiled, but took no notice of the remark. Roland rose to go a little after nine. He had not enjoyed the evening. It was very unsatisfactory to see the favor with which his enemy was regarded by Carrie Dudley. He had not the art to conceal his dislike of our hero. "You'd better come home," he said, turning to Oliver. "Father objects to our being out late." "I know when to come home," said Oliver briefly. "You'd better ask leave before you go out to supper again." "If you have no more to say I will bid you good-evening," said Oliver quietly. "You see what a pleasant brother I have," said Oliver after Roland's departure. "It's a good thing to have somebody to look after you," said Carrie. "I wish Frank had such a guardian and guide." "I shall have, when Roland is my brother-in-law," retorted Frank. "Then you'll have to go without one forever." "Girls never say what they mean, Oliver." "Sometimes they do." Meanwhile Roland was trudging home in no very good humor. "I'd give fifty dollars to see Oliver well thrashed," he muttered. "He is interfering with me in everything." CHAPTER IV. MR. KENYON'S SECRET. While this rivalry was going on between Oliver and Roland, Mr. Kenyon, remaining at home, had had a surprise and a disagreeable one. At half-past seven Roland left the house. At quarter to eight the door-bell rang, and Mr. Kenyon was informed that a gentleman wished to see him. He was looking over some business papers and the interruption did not please him. "Who is it?" he demanded impatiently. "A gentleman." "So I suppose. What is his name?" "He is a stranger, sir, and he didn't give me his name. He said he wanted to see you partic'lar." "Well, you may bring him up," said Mr. Kenyon, folding up his papers with an air of resignation. He looked up impatiently as the visitor entered, and straightway a look of dismay overspread his countenance. The visitor was a dark-complexioned man of about forty-five, with bushy black whiskers. "Dr. Fox!" ejaculated Mr. Kenyon mechanically. The visitor chuckled. "So you know me, Mr.---- ahem! Mr. Kenyon. I feared under the circumstances you might have forgotten me." "How came you here?" demanded Kenyon abruptly. "A little matter of business brought me to New York, and a matter of curiosity brought me to this place." "How did you trace me to--to Brentville?" asked Mr. Kenyon, with evident uneasiness. "I suppose that means you didn't wish to be traced, eh?" "And suppose I did not?" "I am really sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Crandall--I beg pardon, Kenyon; but I thought you might like to hear directly from your wife." "For Heaven's sake, hush!" exclaimed Kenyon, looking round him nervously. He rose, and, walking to the door, shut it, first peering into the hall to see if anyone were listening. Dr. Fox laughed again. "It's well to be cautious," he said. "I quite approve of it--under the circumstances, Mr. Kenyon," he proceeded, leering at him with unpleasant familiarity. "You're a deep one! I give you credit for being deeper than I supposed. You've played your cards well, that's a fact." Mr. Kenyon bit his finger-nails to the quick in his alarm and irritation. He would like to have choked the man who sat before him, if he had dared, and possessed the requisite strength. "You only made one mistake, my dear sir. You shouldn't have tried to deceive me. You should have taken me into your confidence. You might have known I would find out your little game." "Dr. Fox," said Mr. Kenyon, frowning, "your tone is very offensive. You will bear in mind that you are addressing a gentleman." "Ho! ho!" laughed the visitor. "I really beg pardon," he said, marking the dark look on the face of the other. "No offence is intended. In fact, I was rather expressing my admiration for your sharpness. It was an admirable plan, that of yours." "I don't care for compliments. Why have you sought me out?" "A moment's patience, Mr. Kenyon. I was about to say Crandall--force of habit, sir. As I remarked, it was a capital plan to commit your wife to an insane asylum, and then take possession of her property. Did you have any difficulty about that, by the way?" "None of your business!" snapped Mr. Kenyon. "I am naturally a little curious on the subject." "Confound your curiosity!" "And so--ho! ho!--you are popularly regarded as a widower? Perhaps you have reared a monument in the cemetery to the dear departed? Ho! ho!" "This is too much, sir!" exploded Kenyon, in wrath. "Drop this subject, or I may do you a mischief." "You'd better think twice before you permit your feelings to overmaster you," said the stranger significantly. "That's an ugly secret I possess of yours. What would the good people of Brentville say if they knew that your wife, supposed to be dead, is really confined in an insane asylum, while you, without any sanction of law, are living luxuriously on her wealth? I think, Mr. Kenyon, they would be very apt to lynch you." "You have nothing to complain of, at least. You are well paid for the care of--of the person you mention." "I am paid my regular price--that is all, sir." "Is not that enough?" "Under the circumstances, it is not." "Why not?" "Do you need to ask? To begin with, your wife----" "Hush!" said Kenyon nervously. "Call her Mrs. Crandall." "Mrs. Crandall, if you will. Well, Mrs. Crandall is as sane as you are." "Then she is less trouble." "Not at all! She is continually imploring us to release her. It is quite a strain upon our feelings, I do assure you." "Your feelings!" repeated Kenyon disdainfully. Dr. Fox laughed. "Really," he said, "I am quite affected at times by her urgency." "Does she--ever mention me?" asked Mr. Kenyon slowly. "Yes, but it wouldn't flatter you to hear her. She speaks of you as a cruel tyrant, who has separated her from her boy. His name is Oliver, isn't it?" "Yes." "She mourns for him, and prays to see him once more before she dies." "Is her physical health failing?" enquired Kenyon, with sudden hopefulness. "No; that is the strangest part of it. She retains her strength. Apparently she is determined to husband her strength, and resolved to live on in the hope of some day being restored to her son." Mr. Kenyon gnawed his nails more viciously than before. It had been his cherished hope that the wife whom he had so cruelly consigned to a living death would succumb beneath the accumulated weight of woe, and relieve him of all future anxiety by dying in reality. The report just received showed that such hopes were fallacious. "Well, sir," he commenced, after a brief pause. "I do not wish to prolong this interview. Tell me why you have tracked me here? What is it you require?" "The fact is, Mr. Kenyon,--you'll excuse my dropping the name of Crandall,--I want some money." "A month since I paid, through my agent, your last quarterly bill. No more money will be due you till the 1st of December." "I want a thousand dollars," said the visitor quietly. "What!" ejaculated Kenyon. "I want a thousand dollars before I leave Brentville." "You won't get it from me!" "Consider a moment, Mr. Crandall,--I mean Mr. Kenyon,--the result of my publishing this secret of yours. I understand that your wife's property, which you wrongfully hold, amounts to a quarter of a million of dollars. If all were known, your step-son Oliver and his mother would step into it, and you would be left out in the cold. Disagreeable, very! Can't you introduce me to Oliver?" Mr. Kenyon's face was a study. He was like a fly in the meshes of a spider, absolutely helpless. "If I give you a check," he said, "will you leave Brentville at once?" "First thing to-morrow morning." "Can't you go before?" "Not conveniently. The next town is five miles away, and I don't like night travel." Mr. Kenyon opened his desk and hastily dashed off a check. "Now," said he, "leave, and don't come back." "You waive ceremony with a vengeance, Mr. Kenyon," said the visitor, depositing the check in his pocket-book with an air of satisfaction. "Permit me to thank you for your liberality." As he was about to leave the room Roland dashed in. The two looked at each other curiously. "Is this Oliver?" asked Dr. Fox. "No, it is my son Roland. Good-evening." "I am glad to make the young gentleman's acquaintance. Hope he'll inherit his father's virtues, ha, ha!" "Who is that, father?" asked Roland when the visitor had retired. "A mere acquaintance, Roland--a man with whom I have had a little business." "I don't like him." "Nor I. But I must bid you good-night, my son. I am tired and need rest." "I wanted to speak to you about Oliver." "We will defer that till morning." "Good-night, then!" and Roland left his father a prey to anxieties which kept him awake for hours. CHAPTER V. MR. KENYON'S RESOLVE. Mr. Kenyon felt that a sword was impending over his head which might at any time fall and destroy him. Four years before he had married Mrs. Conrad, a wealthy widow, whose acquaintance he had made at a Saratoga boarding-house. Why Mrs. Conrad should have been willing to sacrifice her independence for such a man is one of the mysteries which I do not pretend to solve. I can only record the fact. Oliver was away at the time, or his influence--for he never fancied Mr. Kenyon--might have turned the scale against the marriage. Mr. Kenyon professed to be wealthy, but his new wife never was able to learn in what his property consisted or where it was located. Shortly after marriage he tried to get the management of his wife's property into his own hands; but she was a cautious woman,--a trait she inherited from Scotch ancestry,--and, moreover, she was devotedly attached to her son Oliver. She came to know Mr. Kenyon better after she had assumed his name, and to distrust him more. Three months had not passed when she bitterly repented having accepted him; but she had taken a step which she could not retrace. She allowed Mr. Kenyon a liberal sum for his personal expenses, and gave a home to his son Roland, who was allowed every advantage which her own son enjoyed. Further than this she was not willing to go, and Mr. Kenyon was, in consequence, bitterly disappointed. He had supposed his wife to be of a more yielding temperament. So matters went on for three years. Then Mr. Kenyon all at once fancied himself in very poor health, at any rate he so represented. He induced a physician to recommend travelling, and to urge the importance of his wife accompanying him. She fell into the trap, for it proved to be a trap. The boys were left at home, at a boarding school, and Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon set out on their travels. They sailed for Cuba, where they remained two months; then they embarked for Charleston. In the neighborhood of Charleston Mr. Kenyon was enabled at length to carry out his nefarious design. He made the acquaintance of Dr. Fox, an unprincipled keeper of a private insane asylum, and left Mrs. Kenyon in his charge, under the name of Mrs. Crandall, with the strictest orders that under no circumstances should she be permitted to leave the asylum. Three months from the time of his departure he reappeared in Brentville, wearing deep mourning--a widower. According to his account, Mrs. Kenyon had been attacked by a malignant fever, and died in four days. He also produced a will, made by his wife, conveying to him absolutely her property, all and entire. The only reference to her son Oliver was couched in these terms: "I commend my dear son Oliver to my husband's charge, fully satisfied that he will provide for him in all ways as I would myself, urging him to do all in his power to promote my dear Oliver's welfare, and prepare him for a creditable and useful position in the world." But for this clause doubts would have been expressed as to the genuineness of the will. As it was, it was generally supposed to be authentic, but Mrs. Kenyon was severely criticised for reposing so much confidence in her husband, and leaving Oliver wholly dependent upon him. It was a great blow to Oliver,--his mother's death,--and the world seemed very lonely to him. Besides, he could not fail to notice a great difference in the manner of Mr. Kenyon and Roland toward him. The former laid aside his velvety manner and assumed airs of command. He felt secure in the position he had so wrongfully assumed, and hated Oliver all the more because he knew how much he had wronged him. Roland, too, was quick to understand the new state of things. He was older than Oliver, and tried to exact deference from him on that account. His father had promised to make him his chief heir, and both had a tacit understanding that Oliver was to be treated as a poor relation, with no money and no rights except such as they might be graciously pleased to accord. But Oliver did not fit well into this rôle. He was too spirited and too independent to be browbeaten, and did not choose to flatter or fawn upon his step-father though he did bear the purse. The outbreak recorded in the first chapter would have come sooner had Oliver been steadily at home. But he had spent some weeks in visiting a cousin out of town, and was thus saved from a conflict with Roland. Soon after he came home the scene already described took place. Thus far things had gone to suit Mr. Kenyon. But the arrival of Dr. Fox, and his extortionate demand, with the absolute certainty that it would be followed at frequent intervals by others, was like a clap of thunder in a clear sky. Henceforth peril was imminent. At any time his wife might escape from her asylum, and appear on the scene to convict him of conspiracy and falsehood. This would mean ruin. At any time Dr. Fox, if his exactions were resisted, might reveal the whole plot, and this, again, would be destruction. If not, he might be emboldened, by the possession of a damaging secret, to the most exorbitant demands. These thoughts worried Mr. Kenyon, and robbed him of sleep. What should he, or could he do? Two things seemed desirable--to get rid of Oliver, and to leave Brentville for some place where neither Dr. Fox nor his injured wife could seek him out. The more he thought of this way out of the difficulty the better he liked it. There was nothing to bind him to Brentville except the possession of a handsome place. But this comprised in value not more than a tenth part of his--that is, his wife's--possessions. Why should he not let or, still better, sell it, and at once and forever leave Brentville? There were no friendly ties to sunder. He was not popular in the village, and he knew it. He was popularly regarded as an interloper, who had no business with the property of which he had usurped the charge. Neither was Roland liked, as much on his own account as on his father's, for he strutted about the village, turning up his nose at boys who would have been better off than himself in a worldly point of view but for his father's lucky marriage, and declining to engage in any game in which the first place was not accorded to him. It was very different with Oliver. He was born to be popular. Though he possessed his share of pride, doubtless, he never showed it in an offensive manner. No poor boy ever felt ill at ease in his company. He was the life and soul of the playground, though he obtained an easy pre-eminence in the schoolroom. "Oliver is worth a dozen of Roland!" was the common remark. "What a pity he was left dependent on his step-father!" The last remark was often made to Oliver himself, but it was a subject which he was not willing to discuss. It seemed to him that he would be reproaching his mother, to find fault with the provision she had made for his future. It did seem to him, however, in his secret heart, that his mother had been misled by too blind a confidence in his step-father. "I wish she had left me only one-quarter of the property, and left it independent of him," he thought more than once. "She couldn't know how disagreeable it would be to me to be dependent upon him." Oliver thought this, but he did not say it. The thought came to him again as he walked home from the house of Frank Dudley, twenty minutes after Roland had travelled over the same road. "I wonder whether Mr. Kenyon will be up," he asked himself, as he rang the bell. "If he is, I suppose I must make up my mind for another volley. How different it was when my poor mother was alive!" The door was opened by Maggie, the servant. "Has Roland come home?" he asked. "Yes, Mr. Oliver; he is in bed by this time." "That's good!" thought Oliver. "Is Mr. Kenyon up?" "No, Mr. Oliver. Did you wish to see him?" "Oh, no," said Oliver, feeling relieved. "I only enquired out of curiosity. You'd better shut up the house, Maggie." "I was going to, Mr. Oliver." Oliver took his lamp and went up slowly to bed. His room was just opposite to Roland's, which adjoined the apartment occupied by his father. Remembering the scene of the previous day, Oliver expected it would be renewed when he met his stepfather and Roland at breakfast in the morning. Such, also, was the expectation of Roland. He wanted Oliver to be humiliated, and fully anticipated that he would be. What, then, was the surprise of the two boys when Mr. Kenyon displayed an unusually gracious manner at table! CHAPTER VI. MR. KENYON'S CHANGE OF BASE. "Good-morning, Oliver," he said pleasantly, when our hero entered the room. "Good-morning, sir," returned Oliver in surprise. "We missed you at supper last evening," continued the step-father. "Yes, sir; I took supper at Dr. Dudley's," explained Oliver, not quite certain whether this would be considered satisfactory. "Dr. Dudley is a very worthy man," said Mr. Kenyon. "His son is about your age, is he not?" "Yes, sir." "He has a daughter, also--rather a pretty girl." "I believe Roland thinks so," said Oliver, glancing at his step-brother. "Roland has taste, then," said Mr. Kenyon. "You two boys mustn't quarrel about the young lady." "I shan't quarrel," said Roland stiffly. "There are plenty other girls in this world." "You are a philosopher, I see," said his father. Roland felt that this had gone far enough. Why should his father talk pleasantly to Oliver, who had defied his authority the day before? If this went on, Oliver would be encouraged in his insubordination. He felt that it was necessary to revive the subject. "I expect my ball is lost," he said in an aggrieved tone. "What ball?" asked his father. "The ball I batted out into the road yesterday afternoon." "Probably someone has picked it up," said Mr. Kenyon, proceeding to open an egg. Roland was provoked at his father's coolness and unconcern. "If Oliver had picked it up for me it would not have been lost," he continued, with a scowl at our hero. "If you had picked it up yourself, wouldn't it have answered the same purpose?" Roland stared at his father in anger and dismay. Could he really mean it? Had he been won over to Oliver's side? Oliver, too, was surprised. He began to entertain a much more favorable opinion of his step-father. "Didn't you tell Oliver to pick it up yesterday afternoon?" demanded Roland, making a charge upon his father. "Yes, I believe I did." "Well, he didn't do it." "He was wrong, then," said Mr. Kenyon mildly. "He should have respected my authority." "I'll go and look for it directly breakfast is over," said Oliver, quite won over by Mr. Kenyon's mildness. "It wouldn't be any use," said Roland. "I've been looking for it myself this morning, and it isn't there." "Of course, it wouldn't stay there all night," said Mr. Kenyon. "It has, no doubt, been picked up." "Aint you going to punish Oliver for disobeying you?" burst out the disappointed Roland. Oliver turned to his step-father with interest to hear his answer. "No, Roland. On second thought, I don't think it was his place to go for the ball. You should have gone after it yourself." Oliver smiled to himself with secret satisfaction. He had never thought so well of his step-father before. He even felt better disposed toward Roland. "Why didn't you ask me politely, Roland?" he said. "Then we should have saved all this trouble." "Because I am older than you, and you ought to obey me." "I can't agree with you there," said Oliver composedly. "Come, boys, I can't allow any quarrelling at the table," said Mr. Kenyon, but still pleasantly. "I don't see why we can't live together in peace and quietness." "If he will only be like that all the time," thought Oliver, "there will be some pleasure in living with him. I am only afraid it won't last. What a difference there is between his manner to-day and yesterday." Oliver was destined to be still more astonished when breakfast was over. He had known for some time that Roland was better supplied with money than himself. In fact, he had been pinched for the want of a little ready money more than once, and whenever he applied to Mr. Kenyon, he was either refused or the favor was grudgingly accorded. To-day, as he rose from the table, Mr. Kenyon asked: "How are you off for pocket-money, Oliver?" "I have twenty-five cents in my pocket," said Oliver with a smile. "Then it is about time for a new supply?" "If you please, sir." Mr. Kenyon took a five-dollar bill from his pocket, and passed it over to our hero. "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, with mingled surprise and gratitude. "How much did you give him?" asked Roland crossly. "The same that I give you, my son;" and Mr. Kenyon produced another bill. Roland took the bill discontentedly. He was not satisfied to receive no more than Oliver. "I think," he said to our hero, "you ought to buy me a new ball out of your money." Oliver did not reply, but looked toward Mr. Kenyon. "I will buy you a new ball myself," he said. "There is no call for Oliver to buy one, unless he wants one for his own use." "If you will excuse me, sir," said Oliver respectfully, "I will get ready to go to school." "Certainly, Oliver." Roland and his father were left alone. "It seems to me you've taken a great fancy to Oliver all at once," said Roland. "What makes you think so?" "You take his part against me. Didn't you tell him yesterday to go after my ball?" "Yes." "To-day you blame me for not going myself. You reward him for his impudence besides by giving him five dollars." Mr. Kenyon smiled. "So my conduct puzzles you, does it?" he inquired complacently. "Yes, it does. I should think Oliver was your son instead of me." "Have I not treated you as well as Oliver?" "I think you ought to treat me better, considering I am your own son," grumbled Roland. "I have good reasons for my conduct," said Mr. Kenyon mysteriously. "What are they?" "You are a boy, and it is not fitting I should tell you everything." "You aint afraid of Oliver, are you?" demanded Roland bluntly. Mr. Kenyon smiled pleasantly, showing a set of very white teeth as he did so. "Really, that is amusing," he answered. "What on earth should make me afraid of Oliver?" "I don't see what other reason you can have for backing down as you have." "Listen, Roland. There is more than one way of arriving at a result, but there is always one way that is wiser than any other. Now it would not be wise for me to treat Oliver in such a way as to create unfavorable comment in the village." "What do you care for what people in the village think?" asked Roland bluntly. "Haven't you got the money?" "Yes." "And Oliver hasn't a cent?" "He has nothing except what I choose to give him." "Good!" said Roland with satisfaction. "I hope you don't mean to give him as much as you do me," he added. "Not in the end. Just at present I may." "I don't see why you should." "Then you must be content to take my word for it, and trust to my judgment. In the end you may be assured that I shall look out for your interests, and that you will be far better off than Oliver." With this promise Roland was measurably satisfied. The thing that troubled him was that Oliver seemed to have triumphed over him in their recent little difference. Perhaps, could he have fathomed his step-father's secret designs respecting Oliver, he would have felt less dissatisfied. Mr. Kenyon was never more to be dreaded than when he professed to be friendly. CHAPTER VII. ROLAND'S DISCOMFITURE. On the way to school Oliver overtook Frank Dudley. "Well, Oliver, how's the weather at home?" asked Frank. "Cloudy, eh?" "No; it's all clear and serene." Frank looked astonished. "Didn't Mr. Kenyon blow you up, then?" he asked. "Not a bit of it. He gave me a five-dollar bill without my asking for it." "What's come over him?" asked Frank in amazement. "His mind isn't getting affected, is it?" Oliver laughed. "Not that I know of," he said. "I don't wonder you ask. I never saw such a change come over a man since yesterday. Then he wanted Roland to flog me. Now he is like an indulgent parent." "It's queer, decidedly. I hope, for your sake, it'll hold out." "So do I. Roland doesn't seem to fancy it, though. He tried hard to revive the quarrel of yesterday, but without success." "He's an amiable cub, that Roland." "Do you speak thus of your future brother-in-law?" "Carrie would sooner be an old maid a dozen times over than give any encouragement to such a fellow." All of which was pleasant for Oliver to hear. Mr. Kenyon was not through with his surprises. Two weeks before, Roland had a new suit of clothes. Oliver's envy had been a little excited, because he needed new clothes more than his step-brother, but he was too proud to give expression to his dissatisfaction or to ask for a similar favor. On the way home from school, in company with Frank Dudley, Oliver met Mr. Kenyon. "Are you just coming home from school, Oliver?" asked his step-father pleasantly. "Yes, sir." "I have told Mr. Crimp, the tailor, to measure you for a new suit of clothes. You may as well call in now and be measured." "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, in a tone of satisfaction. What boy ever was indifferent to new clothes? "Have you selected the cloth, sir?" he asked. "No; you may make the selection yourself. You need not regard the price. It is best to get a good article." Mr. Kenyon waved his hand, and smiling pleasantly, walked away. "Look here, Oliver," said Frank, "I begin to think you have misrepresented Mr. Kenyon to me. Such a man as that tyrannical! Why, he looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth." "I don't know what to make of it myself, Frank. I never saw such a change in a man, If he'll keep on treating me like this I shall really begin to like him. Will you come to the tailor's with me?" "Willingly. It'll be the next thing to ordering a suit for myself." The tailor's shop was near by, and the boys entered, with their school-books in their hands. Oliver, with his friend's approval, selected a piece of expensive cloth, and was measured for a suit. As they left the shop they fell in with Roland, who, cane in hand, was walking leisurely down the main street, cherishing the complacent delusion that he was the object of general admiration. "Hallo, Frank!" he said, by way of greeting. To Oliver he did not vouchsafe a word. Frank Dudley nodded. "Are you out for a walk?" he added. "Yes." "Have you been into Crimp's?" "Yes." "Been ordering new clothes?" enquired Roland, with interest, for he was rather a dandy, and was as much interested in clothes as a lady. "I haven't. Oliver has." Roland arched his brows in displeasure. "Have you ordered a suit of clothes?" he enquired. "I have," answered Oliver coldly. "Who authorized you to do it?" "It is none of your business," said Oliver, justly provoked at the other's impertinence. "It is my father's business," said Roland. "I suppose you expect to pay for them." "The bill won't be sent to you, at any rate. You may be assured of that. Come on, Frank." The two boys walked off, leaving Roland in front of the tailor's shop. "I'll go in and see what he's ordered," thought he. "If it's without authority I'll tell my father, and he'll soon put a spoke in his wheel." "Good-evening, Crimp," said he consequentially. Considering the tailor quite beneath him he dispensed with any title. "Good-evening," returned the tailor. "Oliver has ordered a suit here, hasn't he?" "Yes; he just ordered it." "Will you show me the cloth he selected?" "If you wish." Mr. Crimp displayed the cloth. Roland was enough of a judge to see that it was high priced. "It's nice cloth. Is it expensive?" "It's the best I have in stock." Roland frowned. "Is it any better than the suit you made me a short time since?" "It is a little dearer." "Why didn't you show me this, then? I wanted the best." "Because it has come in since." "Look here, Crimp," said Roland, "you'd better wait till you hear from my father before you begin on this suit." "Why should I?" "I don't believe he will allow Oliver to have such a high-priced suit." Mr. Crimp had had orders from Mr. Kenyon that very afternoon to follow Oliver's directions implicitly, but he did not choose to say this to Roland. The truth was, he was provoked at the liberty the ill-bred boy took in addressing him without a title, and he didn't see fit to enlighten him on this point. "You must excuse me," he said. "Oliver has ordered the suit, and I shall not take such a liberty with him as to question his order." "I rather think my father will have something to say about that," said Roland. "I presume you expect him to pay your bill." "The bill will be paid; I am not afraid of that. Why shouldn't it be?" "You may have to depend on Oliver to pay it himself." "Well, he has money enough, or ought to have," said the tailor significantly. "His mother left a large property." Roland did not like the turn the conversation was taking, and stalked out of the shop. "Crimp is getting impudent," he said to himself. "If there was another good tailor in the village I would patronize him." However, Roland had one other resource, and this consoled him. "I'll tell my father, and we'll see if he don't put a stop to it," he thought. "Oliver will find he can't do just as he likes. I wish Crimp would make the suit, and then father refuse to pay for it. It would teach him a lesson." Roland selected the supper-table for the revelation of what he supposed to be Oliver's unauthorized conduct. "I met Oliver coming out of Crimp's this afternoon," he commenced. Oliver did not appear alarmed at this opening. He continued to eat his toast in silence. As no one said anything, Roland continued: "He had just been ordering a new suit of clothes." "Did you find any cloth to suit you, Oliver?" asked Mr. Kenyon. "Yes, sir, I found a very nice piece." "I should think it was nice. It was the dearest in Crimp's stock!" said Roland. "How do you know?" asked Oliver quickly. "Crimp told me so." "Then you went in and enquired," said Oliver, his lip curling. "Yes, I did." "I am glad you selected a good article, Oliver," said Mr. Kenyon quietly. "It will wear longer." Roland stared at his father in open-mouthed amazement. He so fully anticipated getting Oliver into hot water that his father quite disconcerted him. "His suit is going to be better than mine," he grumbled, in a tone of vexation. "That is your own fault. Why didn't you select the same cloth?" asked his father. "It is some new cloth that has just come in." "You can make it up next time," said Mr. Kenyon; "your suit seems to me to be a very nice one." This was all the satisfaction Roland got. The next day he met Mr. Crimp in the street. "Well, does your father object to Oliver's order?" he asked with a smile. Roland was too provoked to notice what he regarded as an impertinent question. CHAPTER VIII. A DANGEROUS LETTER. There are some men who seem to be utterly destitute of principle. These are the men who in cold blood show themselves guilty of the most appalling crimes if their interest requires it. They are more detestable than those who, a prey to strong passion, are hurried into the commission of acts which in their cooler moments they deeply regret. To the first class belonged Mr. Kenyon, who, as we have already seen, had committed his wife to the horrible confinement of a mad-house that he might be free to spend her fortune. Hitherto he had not injured Oliver, though he had made his life uncomfortable; but the time was coming when our hero would be himself in peril. It was because he foresaw that Oliver might need to be removed that he began to treat him with unusual indulgence. "Should anything happen," he said to himself, "this will disarm suspicion." The time came sooner than he anticipated. Action was precipitated by a most unlooked for occurrence, which filled the soul of the guilty husband with terror. One day he stopped at the post-office to enquire for letters. "There is no letter for you, Mr. Kenyon, but here is one for Oliver. Will you take it?" Mr. Kenyon was curious to learn with whom his step-son corresponded, and said: "Yes, I will take it." It was put into his hands. No sooner did he scan the handwriting and the postmark than he turned actually livid. It was in the handwriting of his wife, whom all the world supposed to be dead, and it was postmarked Charleston. "Good Heavens! What a narrow escape!" he ejaculated, the perspiration standing in large drops on his brow. "Suppose Oliver had received this letter, I might have been lynched. I must go home and consider what is to be done. How could Dr. Fox be so criminally--idiotically careless as to suffer such a letter to leave his establishment?" Mr. Kenyon hurried home, much perturbed. On the way he met Roland, who could not help observing his father's agitation. "What is the matter, father?" he enquired carelessly, for he cared very little for anyone but himself. "I have a sick headache," said his father abruptly. "I am going home to lie down." Roland made no further enquiries, and Mr. Kenyon gained the house without any other encounter. He went up to his own room and locked himself in. Then he took out his pocket-knife and cut open the envelope. The letter was as follows: MY DEAR OLIVER: This letter is from your unhappy mother, who is languishing in a private mad-house, the victim of your step-father's detestable machinations. Oh, Oliver, how can I reveal to you the hypocrisy and the baseness of that man, whom in an evil hour I accepted as the successor of your dear father. It was not because I loved him, but rather because of his importunity, that I yielded my assent to his proposals. I did not know his character then. I did not know, as I do now, that he only wanted to secure my property. He professed himself to be wealthy, but I have reason to think that in this, as in other things, he deceived me. When we came South he pretended that it was on account of his health, and I unsuspectingly fell into the snare. I need not dwell upon the details of that journey. Enough that he lured me here and placed me under the charge of a Dr. Fox, a fitting tool of his, under the plea that I was insane. I am given to understand that on his return to the North Mr. Kenyon represented me as dead. Such is his art that I do not doubt his story has been believed. Perhaps you, my dearest son, have mourned for me as dead. If this be so, my letter will be a revelation. I have been trying for a long time to get an opportunity to write you, but this is the first time I have met with success. I do not yet know if I can get it safely to the mail, but that is my hope. When you receive this letter consult with friends whom you can trust, and be guided by their advice. Do what you can to rescue me from this living death. Do not arouse the suspicions of Mr. Kenyon if you can avoid it. He is capable of anything. My dear son, my paper is exhausted, and I dare not write more, at any rate, lest I should be interrupted and detected. Heaven bless you and restore you to my longing sight. Your loving mother, MARGARET CONRAD. Mr. Kenyon's face darkened, especially when his attention was drawn to the signature. "Conrad! So she discards my name!" he muttered. "Fortunately the object of this accursed letter will not be attained, nor will Oliver have an opportunity of making mischief by showing it to the neighbors." Mr. Kenyon lighted a candle and deliberately held the dangerous letter in the flame till it was consumed. "There," he said, breathing a sigh of relief, "that peril is over. But suppose she should write another?" Again his face wore an expression of nervous apprehension. "I must write to Dr. Fox at once," he mused, "and warn him to keep close guard over his patient. Otherwise I may have to dread an explosion at any time." He threw himself into an easy chair and began to think over the situation. The man was alert and watchful. Danger was at hand, and he resolved to head it off at any hazard. Meanwhile Oliver had occasion to pass the post-office on his way home from school. Thinking there might be a letter or paper for his step-father, he entered and made enquiry. "Is there anything for us, Mr. Herman?" he said. "No," said the postmaster, adding jocularly: "Isn't one letter a day enough for you?" "I have received no letter," answered Oliver, rather surprised. "I gave a letter to Mr. Kenyon for you this morning." "Oh, I haven't been home from school yet," said Oliver. "I suppose it is waiting for me there." "Very likely. It looked to be in a lady's handwriting," added the postmaster, disposed to banter Oliver, who was a favorite with him. "I can't think who can have written it, then," said our hero. At first he thought it might be from an intimate boy friend of about his own age, but the postmaster's remark seemed to render that unlikely. We all like to receive letters, however disinclined we may be to answer them. Oliver was no exception in this respect. His desire to see the letter was increased by his being quite unable to conjecture who could have written to him in a feminine handwriting. As soon, therefore, as he reached home, he enquired for Mr. Kenyon. "He's in his room, Mr. Oliver," said the servant. "Did he leave any letter for me, Maggie?" "I didn't hear of any, Mr. Oliver." "Then he's got it upstairs, I suppose." Oliver went up the stairs and knocked at Mr. Kenyon's door. The latter had now recovered his wonted composure, and called out to him to enter. "I heard you had a letter for me, Mr. Kenyon," said Oliver abruptly. Again Mr. Kenyon looked disturbed. He had hoped that Oliver would hear nothing of it, and that no enquiry might be made. "Who told you I had a letter for you?" "The postmaster." Mr. Kenyon saw that it was useless to deny it. "Yes, I believe there was one," he said carelessly. "Where could I have put it?" He began to search his pockets; then he looked into the drawers of his desk. "I don't remember laying it down," he said slowly. "In fact, I don't remember seeing it since I got home. I may have dropped it in the road." "Won't you oblige me by looking again, sir?" asked Oliver, disappointed. Mr. Kenyon looked again, but, of course, in vain. "It may turn up," he said at length. "Not that it was of any importance. It looked like a circular." "Mr. Herman told me it was in feminine handwriting," said Oliver. "Oho! that accounts for your anxiety!" said Mr. Kenyon, with affected jocularity, "Come, I'll look again." But the letter was not found. Oliver did not fail to notice something singular in his step-father's manner. "Has he suppressed my letter?" he asked himself, as he slowly retired from the room. "What does it all mean?" "He suspects me," muttered Mr. Kenyon, "He is in my way, and I must get rid of him." CHAPTER IX. OLIVER'S MOTHER. It is time to introduce Oliver's mother, who was suffering such cruel imprisonment within the walls of a mad-house. It was by a subterfuge she had first been induced to enter the asylum of Dr. Fox. Her husband had spoken of it as a boarding-school under the charge of an old friend of his. "I think, my dear," he said, as they dismounted at the gate, "that you will be interested to look over the institution, and I know it will afford my friend great pleasure to show it to you." "I dare say I shall find it interesting," she answered, and they entered. Dr. Fox met them at the door. He had received previous notice of their arrival, and a bargain had been struck between Mr. Kenyon and the doctor. A meaning look was exchanged between them which Mrs. Kenyon did not notice. "I have brought my wife to look over your establishment, doctor," said Mr. Kenyon. "I don't think it is worth looking at," said the doctor, "but I shall be very glad to show it. Will you come upstairs?" They were moving up the main staircase when a loud scream was heard from above, proceeding from one of the insane inmates. "What is that?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, stopping short and turning pale. Mr. Kenyon bit his lip. He feared that his wife would suspect too soon the character of the institution. But Dr. Fox was prepared for the question. "It is poor Tommy Briggs," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "He is in the sick-ward." "But what is the matter with him?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, shuddering as another wild shriek was borne to her ears. "He has fits," answered the doctor. "Ought he to be here, then?" "He has them only at intervals, say once a month. To-morrow he will be all right again." Mrs. Kenyon accepted this explanation without suspicion. "How old is he?" she asked. "Fifteen." "About the age of Oliver," she remarked, turning to her husband. "Or Roland." "What a misfortune it must be to have a boy so afflicted! How I pity his poor mother!" "Come up another flight, please," said Dr. Fox. "We will begin our examination there." They went up to the next story. Dr. Fox drew a bunch of keys from his pocket, and applying one to the door opened it. "Do you keep them locked in?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, surprised. "This is one of the dormitories," answered the doctor, who never lost his self-possession. "Come in, please." It was a large square room. In one corner was a bed, surrounded by curtains. In the opposite corner was another bed--a cot. "Sit down one moment, Mrs. Kenyon," said the doctor. "I want to call a servant." He left the room, and Mr. Kenyon followed him. The two men regarded each other with a complacent smile. "Well, it's done," said the doctor, rubbing his hands. "She walked into the trap without any suspicion or fuss." "You'd better lock the door," said Mr. Kenyon nervously. The doctor did so. "Now," said he, "if you will follow me downstairs we will attend to the business part of the matter." "Willingly," said Kenyon. The business referred to consisted of the payment of three months' board in advance. "Now, Dr. Fox," said his new patron, "you may rely upon punctual payment of your bills. On your part, I depend on your safe custody of my wife as long as her mind remains unsound." "And that will be a long time, I fancy," said the doctor, laughing. Mr. Kenyon appreciated the joke, and laughed too. "I must leave you now," he said. "I hope you won't have much trouble with her." "Oh, have no anxiety on that score," said the doctor nonchalantly. "I am used to such cases; I know how to manage." The two men shook hands, and Mr. Kenyon left the asylum a free man. "So far, well," he said, when he was in the open air. "At last--at last, I am rich! And I mean to enjoy my wealth!" Mrs. Kenyon remained in the seat assigned her for two or three minutes. Then she began to wonder why her husband and the doctor did not return. "It's strange they leave me here so long," she said to herself. Then she rose and went to the door. She tried to open it, but it resisted her efforts. "What does this mean?" she asked herself, bewildered. She turned, and was startled by seeing a tall woman, in a long calico robe, in the act of emerging from the curtained bed. The woman had long hair, which, unconfined, descended over her shoulders. Her features wore a strange look, which startled and alarmed Mrs. Kenyon. "How did you get into my room?" asked the woman sharply. "Is this your room?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, unable to remove her eyes from the strange apparition. "Yes, it is my audience chamber," was the reply. "Why are you here?" "I hardly know," said Mrs. Kenyon hurriedly. "I think there must be some mistake. I would go out if I could, but the door is locked." "They always lock it," said the other composedly. "Do you live here?" asked Mrs. Kenyon nervously. "Oh, yes, I have lived here for five hundred years, more or less." "What!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenyon, terror-stricken. "I said more or less," repeated the woman sharply. "How can I tell within fifty years? Do you know who I am?" "No." "You have often heard of me," said the other complacently. "The whole world has heard about me. I am Queen Cleopatra." Mrs. Kenyon knew where she was now. She realized it with a heart full of horror. But what could it mean? Could Mr. Kenyon have left her there intentionally? In spite of all she had learned about it she could hardly credit it. "What place is this, tell me?" she implored. "I'll tell you," said the woman, "but you mustn't tell," she added, with a look of cunning. "I've found it all out. It's a place where they send crazy people." "Good Heaven!" "They are all crazy here--all but me," continued Cleopatra, to call her by the name she assumed. "I am only here for my health," she continued. "That's what the doctor tells me, though why they should keep me so long I cannot understand. Sometimes I suspect----" "In Heaven's name, what?" The woman advanced toward Mrs. Kenyon, who shrank from her instinctively, and whispered: "They want to separate me and Mark Antony," she said. "I am convinced of it, though whether it's Cæsar or my ministers who have done it I can't tell. What do you think?" she demanded, fixing her eyes searchingly upon Mrs. Kenyon. "I don't know," answered Mrs. Kenyon, shrinking away from her. "You needn't be afraid of me," said Cleopatra, observing the movement. "I am not crazy, you know. I am perfectly harmless. Are you crazy?" "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenyon with a shudder. "They all say so," said Cleopatra shrewdly, "but they are all crazy except me. Do you hear that?" There was another wild shriek, proceeding from a room on the same floor. "Who is it?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, in alarm. "It's crazy Nancy," answered Cleopatra. "She thinks she's the wife of Henry VIII., and she is always afraid he will have her executed. It's queer what fancies these people have," added Cleopatra, laughing. "How unconscious she is of her infirmity!" thought Mrs. Kenyon. "I hope she's never violent." "Is there a bell here?" she asked. "What for?" "I wish to ring for the doctor and my husband." "Ho! ho! Do you think they would notice your ringing?" "Do you think they mean to leave me here?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, with a gasp of horror. "To be sure they do. The doctor told me this morning he was going to give me a nice, agreeable room-mate." The full horror of her situation was revealed to the unfortunate woman, and she sank upon the floor in a swoon. CHAPTER X. THE ROYAL LUNATIC. When Mrs. Kenyon recovered from her swoon, she saw Dr. Fox bending over her. "You are recovering," he said. "You mustn't give way like this, my good madam." It all came back to her--her desertion, and the terrible imprisonment which awaited her. "Where is my husband--where is Mr. Kenyon?" she demanded imperatively. Dr. Fox shrugged his shoulders. "I wish you to send him here at once, or to take me to him." "Quite impossible, my dear madam. He has gone." "Mr. Kenyon gone, and left me here!" "It is for your own good, my dear madam. I hope soon to restore you to him." It was as she expected, and the first shock being over, she took the announcement calmly. But her soul was stirred with anger and resentment, for she was a woman of spirit. "This is all a base plot," she said scornfully. "Has Mr. Kenyon--have you--the assurance to assert that my mind is disordered?" "Unhappily there is no doubt of it," said the doctor, in a tone of affected regret. "Your present excitement shows it." "My excitement! Who would not be excited at being entrapped in such a way? But I quite comprehend Mr. Kenyon's motives. How much does he pay you for your share in this conspiracy?" "He pays your board on my usual terms," said Dr. Fox composedly. "I have agreed to do my best to cure you of your unhappy malady, but I can do little while you suffer yourself to become so excited." His tone was significant, and contained a menace, but for this Mrs. Kenyon cared little. She had been blind, but she was clear-sighted now. She felt that it was her husband's object to keep her in perpetual imprisonment. Thus only could his ends be attained. She was silent for a moment. She perceived that craft must be met with craft, and that it was best to control her excitement. She would speak her mind, however, to avoid being misunderstood. "I will not judge you, Dr. Fox," she said. "Possibly Mr. Kenyon may have deceived you for his own purposes. If you are really skilled in mental diseases you will soon perceive that I am as sane as you are yourself." "When I make that discovery I will send you back to your husband," said the doctor with oily suavity. "I shall never return to my husband," said Mrs. Kenyon coldly. "I only ask to be released. I hope your promise is made in good faith." "Certainly it is; but, my dear madam, let me beg you to lay aside this prejudice against your husband, who sincerely regrets the necessity of your temporary seclusion from the world." Mrs. Kenyon smiled bitterly. "I understand Mr. Kenyon probably better than you do," she said. "We won't discuss him now. But if I am to remain here, even for a short time, I have a favor to ask." "You may ask it, certainly," said the doctor, who did not, however, couple with the permission any promise to grant the request. "Or, rather, I have two requests to make," said Mrs. Kenyon. "Name them." "The first is, to be supplied with pens, ink, and paper, that I may communicate with my friends." "Meaning your husband?" "He is not my friend, but I shall address one letter to him." "Very well. You shall have what you require. You can hand the letters to me, and I will have them posted." "You will not read them?" "It is our usual rule to read all letters written from this establishment, but in your case we will waive the rule, and allow them to go unread. What is your second request?" "I should like a room alone," said Mrs. Kenyon, glancing at Cleopatra, who was sitting on the side of the bed listening to the conversation. "I am sorry that I can't grant that request," said the doctor. "The fact is, my establishment is too full to give anyone a single room." "But you won't keep me in the same room with a----" "What do you call me?" interrupted Cleopatra angrily. "Do you mean to say I am crazy? You ought to feel proud of having the Queen of Egypt for a room-mate. I will make you the Mistress of the Robes." All this was ludicrous enough, considering the shabby attire of the self-styled queen, but Mrs. Kenyon did not feel in a laughing humor. She did not reply, but glanced meaningly at the door. "I am sure you will like Cleopatra," he said, adding, with a wink unobserved by the Egyptian sovereign, "she is the only sane person in my establishment." Cleopatra nodded in a tone of satisfaction. "You hear what he says?" she said, turning to Mrs. Kenyon. The latter saw that it was not wise to provoke one who would probably be her room-mate. "I don't object to her," she said; "but to anyone. Give me any room, however small, so that I occupy it alone." "Impossible, my dear madam," said her keeper decisively. "I can assure you that Cleopatra, though confined here for political reasons," here he bowed to the royal lunatic, "never gives any trouble, but is quite calm and patient." "Thank you, doctor," said Cleopatra. "You understand me. Did you forward my last letter to Mark Antony?" "Yes, your Majesty. I have no doubt he will answer it as soon as his duties in the field will permit." "Where is he now?" "I think he is heading an expedition somewhere in Asia Minor." "Very well," nodded Cleopatra. "As soon as a letter comes, send it to me." "At once," said the doctor. "You must look after this lady, and cheer her up." "Yes, I will. What is your name?" "My name used to be Conrad. You may call me that." She shrank from wearing the name of the man who had confined her in this terrible asylum. "That isn't classical. I will call you Claudia--may I?" "You may call me anything you like," said Mrs. Kenyon wearily. "When will you send me the paper and ink?" she asked. "They shall be sent up at once." Ten minutes later, writing materials were brought. Anxious to do something which might lead to her release, she sat down and wrote letters to two gentlemen of influence with whom she was acquainted, giving the details of the plot which had been so successfully carried out against her liberty. Cleopatra watched her curiously. Presently she said: "Will you let me have a sheet of your paper? I wish to write a letter to Mark Antony." "Certainly," said Mrs. Kenyon, regarding her with pity and sympathy. The other seated herself and wrote rapidly, in an elegant feminine hand, which surprised Mrs. Kenyon. She did not know that the poor lady had once been classical teacher in a prominent female seminary, and that it was a disappointment in love which had alienated her mind and reduced her to her present condition. "Shall I read you the letter?" she enquired. "If you like." It was a very well written appeal to her imaginary correspondent to hasten to her and restore her to her throne. "I thought," said Mrs. Kenyon cautiously, "that Mark Antony died many centuries ago." "Quite a mistake, I assure you. Who could have told you such nonsense, Claudia?" demanded Cleopatra sharply. "You are quite sure, then?" "Of course. You will begin to say next that Cleopatra is dead." "I thought so." "That is because I have remained here so long in concealment. The world supposes me dead, but the time will come when people will learn their mistake. Have you finished your letters?" "Yes." "When they send us our supper you can send them to the doctor." "Will he be sure to post them?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, with a natural suspicion. "Of course. Doesn't he always send my letters to Mark Antony?" This was not as satisfactory as it might have been. "Have you ever received any answers?" asked Mrs. Kenyon. "Here is a letter from Mark Antony," said Cleopatra, taking a dirty and crumpled note from her pocket. "Read it, Claudia." This was the note: FAIR CLEOPATRA: I have read your letter, my heart's sovereign, and I kiss the hand that wrote it. I am driving the enemy before me, and hope soon to kneel before you, crowned with laurels. Be patient, and soon expect your captive, MARK ANTONY. "Is it not a beautiful letter?" asked Cleopatra proudly. "Yes," said Mrs. Kenyon, feeling it best to humor her delusion. CHAPTER XI. HOW THE LETTER WAS MAILED. Several months passed, and Mrs. Kenyon remained in confinement. She was not badly treated, except in being vigilantly guarded, and prevented from making her escape. Dr. Fox always treated her with suavity, but she felt that though covered with velvet his hand was of iron, and that there was little to hope for from him. He never made any objection to her writing letters, but always insisted on their being handed to him. It was not long before she began seriously to doubt whether the letters thus committed to him were really mailed, since no answers came. One day she asked him abruptly: "Why is it, Dr. Fox, that I get no answers to my letters?" "I suppose," he answered, "that your friends are afraid you may be excited, and your recovery retarded, by hearing from them." "Has my--has Mr. Kenyon reported that I am insane?" "Undoubtedly." "False and treacherous!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Why was I ever mad enough to marry him?" Dr. Fox shrugged his shoulders. "Really," he said, "I couldn't pretend to explain your motives, my dear madam. Women are enigmas." "Are my letters regularly mailed, Dr. Fox?" asked Mrs. Kenyon searchingly. "How can you ask such a question? Do you not commit them to me?" "So does Cleopatra," said Mrs. Kenyon, who had fallen into the habit of addressing her room-mate by the name she assumed. "Do you forward her letters to Mark Antony?" "Does she doubt it?" asked the doctor, bowing to the mad queen. "No, doctor," replied Cleopatra promptly. "I have the utmost faith in your loyalty, and it shall be rewarded. I have long intended to make you Lord High Baron of the Nile. Let this be the emblem." In a dignified manner Cleopatra advanced toward Dr. Fox, and passed a bit of faded ribbon through his button-hole. "Thanks, your Majesty," said the doctor. "Your confidence is not misplaced. I will keep this among my chief treasures." Cleopatra looked pleased, and Mrs. Kenyon impatient and disgusted. "He deceives me as he does her, without doubt. It is useless to question him further." From this time she sedulously watched for an opportunity to write a letter and commit it to other hands than the doctor's. But, that he might not suspect her design, she also wrote regularly, and placed the letters in his hands. One day the opportunity came. A young man, related to Cleopatra, visited the institution. He understood very well the character of his aunt's aberration, but was surprised to be told that the quiet lady who bore her company was also crazy. "What is the nature of her malady?" he enquired of the doctor. "Is she ever violent?" "Oh, no." "She seems rational enough." "So she is on all points except one." "What is that?" "She thinks her husband has confined her here in order to enjoy her property. In point of fact she has no property and no husband." "That is curious. Why, then, does she require to be confined?" "Probably she will soon be released. She has improved very much since she came here." "I am glad my aunt has so quiet a companion." "Yes, they harmonize very well. They have never disagreed." During one of Mr. Arthur Holman's visits Mrs. Kenyon managed to slip into his hands a sealed letter. "Will you have the kindness," she asked quickly, "to put this into the post-office without informing the doctor?" "I will," he answered readily. "Poor woman!" he thought to himself. "It will gratify her, and her letter will do no harm." "I shall have to be indebted to your kindness for a postage-stamp," she said. "I cannot obtain them here." "Oh, don't mention it," he said. "You will be sure not to mention this to the doctor?" said Mrs. Kenyon earnestly. "On my honor as a gentleman." "I believe you," she said quietly. This was the letter, directed to Oliver, which found its way into the hands of Mr. Kenyon, and occasioned him so much uneasiness. CHAPTER XII. OLIVER'S JOURNEY. The more Oliver thought about it, the stranger it seemed to him that the letter intended for him should have been lost. In spite of Mr. Kenyon's plausible explanations, he felt that it had been suppressed. But why? He could conceive of no motive for the deed. He had no secret correspondent, nor had he any secret to conceal. He was quite at sea in his conjectures. He could not help showing by his manner the suspicion he entertained. Mr. Kenyon did not appear to notice it, but it was far from escaping his attention. He knew something about character reading, and he saw that Oliver was very determined, and, once aroused, would make trouble. "There is only one way," he muttered, as he furtively regarded the grave look on the boyish face of his step-son. "There is only one way, and I must try it!" He felt that there was daily peril. Any day another letter might arrive at the post-office, and it might fall this time into Oliver's hands. True, he had received a letter from Dr. Fox, in which he expressed his inability to discover how the letter had been mailed without his knowledge, but assuring Mr. Kenyon that it should not happen again. "I shall not hereafter allow your wife the use of writing materials," he said. "This will remove all danger." Still Mr. Kenyon felt unsettled and ill at ease. In spite of all Dr. Fox's precautions, a letter might be written, and this would be most disastrous to him. "Oliver," said Mr. Kenyon one evening, "I have to go to New York on business to-morrow; would you like to go with me?" "Yes, sir," said Oliver promptly. To a country boy, who had not been in New York more than half a dozen times in the course of his life, such a trip promised great enjoyment, even where the company was uncongenial. "We shall probably remain over night," said his step-father. "I don't think I can get through all my business in one day." "All the better, sir," said Oliver. "I never stopped over night in New York." "Then you will enjoy it. If I have a chance I will take you to the theatre." "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, forgetting for the moment his prejudice against his step-father. "Is Roland going?" he asked. "No," answered Mr. Kenyon. Oliver stared in surprise. It seemed strange to him that he should be offered an enjoyment of which Roland was deprived. "I can't undertake to manage two boys at a time," said Mr. Kenyon decisively. "Roland will have to wait till the next time." "That's queer," thought Oliver, but he did not dwell too much on the thought. He was too well satisfied with having been the favored one, for this time at least. Roland was not present when his father made this proposal, but he soon heard of it. His dissatisfaction may well be imagined. What! Was he, Mr. Kenyon's own son, to be passed over in favor of Oliver? He became alarmed. Was he losing his old place, and was Oliver going to supplant him? To his mind Oliver had of late been treated altogether too well, and he did not like it. He rushed into his father's presence, his cheeks pale with anger. "What is this I hear?" he burst out. "Are you going to take Oliver to New York, and leave me at home?" "Yes, Roland, but----" "Then it's a mean shame. Anyone would think he was your son, and not I." "You don't understand, Roland. I have an object in view." "What is it?" asked Roland, his curiosity overcoming his anger. "It will be better for you in the end, Roland. You don't like Oliver, do you?" "No. I hate him." "You wouldn't mind if he didn't come back, would you?" "Is that what you mean, father?" asked Roland, pricking up his ears. "Yes. I am going to place him in a cheap boarding-school where he will be ruled with a rod of iron. Of course Oliver doesn't understand that. He thinks only that he is going to take a little trip to New York. Your presence would interfere with my plans, don't you see?" "That's good," chuckled Roland with malicious merriment. "Do they flog at the school he's going to?" "With great severity." "Ho! ho! He'll get more than he bargains for. I don't mind staying at home now, father." "Hope you'll have a good time, Oliver," said Roland, with a chuckle, when Oliver and his father were on the point of starting. "How lonely I'll feel without you!" Oliver thought it rather strange that Roland should acquiesce so readily in the plan which left him at home, but it soon passed away from his mind. CHAPTER XIII. MR. KENYON'S PLANS FOR OLIVER. Soon after they were seated in the cars, bound for New York, Mr. Kenyon remarked: "Perhaps you are surprised, Oliver, that I take you with me instead of Roland." Oliver admitted that he was surprised. "The fact is," said Mr. Kenyon candidly, "I don't think Roland treats you as well as he should." Oliver was more and more surprised. "I don't complain of Roland," he said. "I don't think he likes me, but perhaps that is not his fault. We are quite different." "Still he might treat you well." "Don't think of that, Mr. Kenyon; Roland has never done me any serious harm, and if he proposed to do it, I am able to take care of myself." Oliver did not say this in an offensive tone, but with manly independence. "You are quite magnanimous," said Mr. Kenyon. "I am just beginning to appreciate you. I own that I used to have a prejudice against you, and it is possible I may have treated you harshly; but I have learned to know you better. I find you a straightforward, manly young fellow." "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, very much astonished. "I am afraid you do me more than justice. I hope to retain your good opinion." "I have no doubt you will," said Mr. Kenyon, in a quiet and paternal tone. "You have probably noticed that my manner toward you has changed of late?" "Yes, sir, I have noticed the change, and been glad to see it." "Of course, of course. Now, I have got something to tell you." Oliver naturally felt curious. "I want to tell you why I have brought you to New York to-day. You probably thought it was merely for a pleasant excursion." "Yes, sir." "I have another object in view. Noticing as I have the dislike--well, the incompatibility between you and Roland, I have thought it best to make separate arrangements for you." Now Oliver was strangely interested. What plan had Mr. Kenyon formed for him? "I intend you to remain in the city. How does that suit you?" There are not many boys of Oliver's age to whom such a prospect would not be pleasing. He answered promptly: "I should like it very much." "No doubt Roland will envy you," said Mr. Kenyon. "I am sure he would prefer the city to our quiet little country village. But I cannot make up my mind to part with him. He is my own son, and though I endeavor to treat you both alike, of course that makes some difference," said Mr. Kenyon, in rather an apologetic tone. "Of course it does," said Oliver, who did not feel in the least sensitive about his step-father's superior affection for Roland. "Where am I to live in the city?" he asked next. "There are two courses open to you," said Mr. Kenyon. "You might either go to some school in the city or enter some place of business. Which would you prefer?" Had Oliver been an enthusiastic student, he would have decided in favor of school. He was a good scholar for his age, but, like all boys, he fancied a change. It seemed to him that he would like to obtain a business position, and he said so. His step-father anticipated this, and wished it. Had Oliver decided otherwise, he would have exerted his influence to have him change his plan. "Perhaps you are right," said Mr. Kenyon meditatively. "A bright, smart boy like you, is, of course, anxious to get to work and do something for himself. Besides, business men tell me that it is always best to begin young. How old are you?" "Almost sixteen," answered Oliver. "I was only fourteen when I commenced business. Yes, I think you are right." "Is it easy to get a position in the city?" asked Oliver, getting interested. "Not unless you have influence; but I think I have influence enough to secure you one." "Thank you, sir." "In fact, I know of a party who is in want of a boy--an old acquaintance of mine. He will take you to oblige me." "What business is he in?" "He has a gentlemen's furnishing store," answered Mr. Kenyon. "Do you think that business is as good as some other kinds?" said Oliver dubiously. "It is a capital business," said his step-father emphatically. "Pays splendid profits." "Who is the gentleman you refer to?" enquired Oliver, with natural interest. "Well, to be frank with you, it is a nephew of my own. I set him up in business three years ago, and he has paid back every cent of my loan with interest out of the profits of his business. I can assure you it is a paying business." "I would judge so, from what you say," returned Oliver thoughtfully. Somehow he felt disappointed to learn that the employer proposed to him should be a relation of his step-father. This, however, was not an objection he could very well express. "Suppose I should not like business," he suggested, "could I give it up and go to school?" "Certainly," answered Mr. Kenyon. "Bear in mind, Oliver, that I exercise no compulsion over you. I think you are old enough now to be judge of your own affairs." "Thank you, sir." The conversation which we have reported took some time. After it was over Mr. Kenyon devoted his attention to the morning papers, and Oliver was sufficiently amused looking out of the window and examining his fellow-passengers. Presently they reached the city. Leaving the cars, they got into a horse-car, for distances are great in New York. Oliver looked out of the car windows with a lively sense of satisfaction. How much gayer and more agreeable it would be, he thought, to be in business in a great city like New York than to live in a quiet little country village where nothing was going on. This was a natural feeling, but there was another side to the question which Oliver did not consider. How many families in the great, gay city are compelled to live in miserable tenements, amid noise and vicious surroundings, who, on the same income, could live comfortably and independently in the country, breathing God's pure air, and with nothing to repel or disgust them? "New York is rather a lively place, Oliver," said Mr. Kenyon, who read his young companion's thoughts. "I think you will like to live here." "I am sure I shall," said Oliver eagerly. "I should think you would prefer it yourself, Mr. Kenyon." "Perhaps I may remove here some day, Oliver. I own that I have thought of it. Roland would like it better, I am sure." "Yes, sir, I think he would." "Where is the store you spoke of, Mr. Kenyon?" he queried, after a pause. "Are we going there now?" "Yes; we will go there in the first place. We may as well get matters settled as soon as possible. Of course, you won't have to go to work immediately. You can take a little time to see the city--say till next Monday." "Thank, you, sir. I should prefer that." "We get out here," said Mr. Kenyon after a while. They were on the Third Avenue line of cars, and it was to a shop on the Bowery that Mr. Kenyon directed his steps. It was by no means a large shop, but the windows were full of articles, labelled with cheap prices, and some even were displayed on the sidewalk. This is a very common practice with shops on the Bowery and Third Avenue, as visitors to New York need not be reminded. On a sign-board over the door the name of the proprietor was conspicuously displayed thus: EZEKIEL BOND, Cheap Furnishing Store. "This is the place, Oliver," said Mr. Kenyon. "Ezekiel Bond is my nephew." "It seems rather small," commented Oliver, feeling a little disappointed. "You mustn't judge of the amount of business done by the size of the shop. My nephew's plan is to avoid a large rent, and to replenish his stock frequently. He is a very shrewd and successful man of business. He understands how to manage. The great thing is to make money, Oliver, and Ezekiel knows how to do it. There are many men with large stores, heavy stocks, and great expenses who scarcely make both ends meet. Now, my nephew cleared ten thousand dollars last year. What do you say to that?" "I shouldn't think it possible to have such a large trade in such a small place," answered Oliver, surprised. "It is a fact, though. That's a nice income to look forward to, eh, Oliver?" "Yes, sir." While this was going on they were standing in front of the window. "Now," said Mr. Kenyon, "come in and I will introduce you to my nephew." CHAPTER XIV. A STORE IN THE BOWERY. The store was crowded with a miscellaneous collection of cheap articles. That such a business should yield such large profits struck Oliver with surprise, but he reflected that it was possible, and that he was not qualified to judge of the extent of trade in a city store. A tall man, pock-marked, and with reddish hair, stood behind the counter, and, with the exception of a young clerk of nineteen, appeared to be the only salesman. This was Ezekiel Bond. "How are you, Ezekiel?" said Mr. Kenyon affably, advancing to the counter. "Pretty well, thank you, uncle," said the other, twisting his features into the semblance of a smile. "When did you come into town?" "This morning only." "That isn't Roland, is it?" "Oh, no; it is my step-son, Oliver Conrad. Oliver, this is my nephew, Ezekiel Bond." "Glad to see you, Mr. Conrad," said Ezekiel, putting out his hand as if he were a pump-handle. "Do you like New York?" "I haven't seen much of it yet. I think I shall." "Ezekiel," said Mr. Kenyon, "can I see you a few minutes in private?" "Oh, certainly. We'll go into the back room. Will Mr. Conrad come, too?" "No; he can remain with your clerk while we converse." "John, take care of Mr. Conrad," said Ezekiel. "All right, sir." John Meadows was a Bowery boy, and better adapted for the store he was in than for one in a more fashionable thoroughfare. "The boss wants me to entertain you," he remarked, when they were alone. "How shall I do it?" "Don't trouble yourself," said Oliver, smiling. "I'd offer you a cigarette, only the boss don't allow smoking in the store." "I don't smoke," said Oliver. "You don't! Where was you brung up?" asked John. "In the country." "Oh, that accounts for it. Mean ter say you've never puffed a weed?" "I never have." "Then you don't know what 'tis to enjoy yourself. Who's that man you came in with?" "My step-father." "I've seen him here before. He's related to my boss. I don't think any more of him for that." "Why not?" asked Oliver, rather amused. "Don't you like Mr. Bond?" "Come here," said John. Oliver approached the counter, and leaning over, John whispered mysteriously: "He's a file!" "A what?" "A file, and an awful rasping one at that. He's as mean as dirt." "I am sorry to hear that, for Mr. Kenyon wants me to begin business in this store." John whistled. "That's a go," he said. "Are you going to do it?" "I suppose I shall try it. If I don't like it I can give it up at any time." "Then I wish I was you. I don't like it, but I can't give it up, or I might have to live on nothing a week. I don't see what the boss wants an extra hand for. There aint enough trade to keep us busy." "Mr. Kenyon tells me Mr. Bond has made money." "Well, I am glad to hear it. The boss is always a-complainin' that trade is dull, and he must cut me down. If he does I'll sink into a hungry grave, that's all." "How much do you get?" asked Oliver, amused by his companion's tone. "Eight dollars a week; and what's that to support a gentleman on? I tell you what, I haven't had a new necktie for three months." "That is hard." "Hard! I should say it was hard. Look at them shoes!" And John, bounding over the counter, displayed a foot which had successfully struggled out of its encasement on one side. "Isn't it disgraceful that a gentleman should have to wear such foot-cases as them?" "Won't Mr. Bond pay you more?" asked Oliver. "I guess not. I asked him last week, and he lectured me on the dulness of trade. Then he went on for to show that eight dollars was a fortune, and I'd orter keep my carriage on it. He's a regular old file, he is." "From what you say, I don't think I shall get very high pay," said Oliver. "It's different with you. You're a relation. You'll be took care of." "I'm not related to Mr. Bond," said Oliver, sensible of a feeling of repugnance. "If it depends on that, I shall expect no favors." "You'll get 'em, all the same. His uncle's your step-father." "Where do you live?" "Oh, I've got a room round on Bleecker Street. It's about big enough for a good-sized cat to live in. I have to double myself up nights so as not to overflow into the entry." "Why don't you get a better room?" "Why don't I live on Fifth Avenue, and set up my carriage? 'Cause it can't be done on eight dollars a week. I have to live accordin' to my income." "That's where you are right. How much do you have to pay for your room?" "A dollar and a half a week." "I don't ask from curiosity. I suppose I shall have to get a place somewhere." "When you get ready, come to me. I'll find you a place." Here an old lady entered--an old lady from the country evidently, in a bombazine dress and a bonnet which might have been in fashion twenty years before. She was short-sighted, and peered inquisitively at Oliver and John. "Which of you youngsters keeps this store?" she enquired. "I am the gentleman, ma'am," said John, with a flourish. "Oh, you be! Well, I'm from the country." "Never should have thought it, ma'am. You look like an uptown lady I know--Mrs. General Buster." "You don't say," returned the old lady, evidently feeling complimented. "I'm Mrs. Deacon Grimes of Pottsville." "Is the deacon well?" asked John, with a ludicrous assumption of interest. "He's pooty smart," answered Mrs. Grimes, "though he's troubled sometimes with a pain in the back." "So am I," said John; "but I know what to do for it." "What do you do?" "Have somebody rub me down with a brick-bat." "The deacon wouldn't allow no one to do that," said the old lady, accepting the remedy in good faith. "Can I sell you a silk necktie this morning, ma'am?" asked John. "No; I want some handkerchers for the deacon; red silk ones he wants." "We haven't any of that kind. Here's some nice cotton ones, a good deal cheaper." "Will they wash?" asked Mrs. Grimes cautiously. "Of course they will. We import 'em ourselves." "Well, I don't know. If you'll sell 'em real cheap I'll take two." Then ensued a discussion of the price, which Oliver found very amusing. Finally the old lady took two handkerchiefs and retired. "Is that the way you do business?" asked Oliver. "Yes. We have all sorts of customers, and have to please 'em all. The old woman wanted to know if they would wash. The color'll all wash out in one washing." "I am afraid you cheated her, then." "What's the odds? She wasn't willing to pay for a good article." "I don't believe I can do business that way," thought Oliver. Just then Mr. Kenyon returned with Ezekiel Bond from the back room in which they had been conferring. "It's all settled, Oliver," he said. "Mr. Bond has agreed to take you, and you are to begin work next Monday morning." Oliver bowed. The place did not seem quite so desirable to him now. "I will be on hand," he answered. When Mr. Kenyon and he had left the store, the former said: "Every Saturday evening Mr. Bond will hand you twelve dollars, out of which you will be expected to defray all your expenses." "The other clerk told me he only got eight." "Part of this sum comes from me. I don't want you to be pinched. You have been brought up differently from him. I hope you'll like my nephew." "I hope I shall," said Oliver, but his tone implied doubt. CHAPTER XV. JOHN'S COURTSHIP. Oliver didn't go back to his native village. Mr. Kenyon sent on his trunk, and thus obviated the necessity. Our hero took up his quarters at a cheap hotel until, with the help of John Meadows, he obtained a room in St. Mark's Place. The room was a large square one, tolerably well furnished. The price asked was four dollars a week. "That is rather more than I ought to pay just for a room," said Oliver. "I'll tell you how you can get it cheaper," said John Meadows. "How?" "Take me for your room-mate. I'll pay a dollar and a half toward the rent." Oliver hesitated, but finally decided to accept John's offer. Though his fellow-clerk was not altogether to his taste, it would prevent his feeling lonely, and he had no other acquaintances to select from. "All right," he said. "Is it a bargain?" said John, delighted. "I'll give my Bleecker Street landlady notice right off. Why, I shall feel like a prince here!" "Then this is better than your room?" "You bet! That's only big enough for a middling sized cat, while this----" "Is big enough for two large ones," said Oliver, smiling. "Yes, and a whole litter of kittens into the bargain. We'll have a jolly time together." "I hope so." "Of course," said John seriously, "when I get married that'll terminate the contract." "Do you think of getting married soon?" asked Oliver, surprised and amused. "I'll tell you about it," said John, with the utmost gravity. "Last month I had my fortune told." "Well?" "It was told by Mme. Catalina, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter; so, of course, she wasn't a humbug." "Does that make any difference--being the seventh daughter?" "Of course it does. Well, she told me that I should marry a rich widow, and ever after live in luxury," said John, evidently elated by his prospects. "Did you believe her?" "Of course I did. She told things that I knew to be true about the past, and that convinced me she could foretell the future." "Such as what?" "She told me I had lately had a letter from a person who was interested in me. So I had. I got a letter from Charlie Cameron only a week before. Me and Charlie went to school together, so, of course, he feels interested in me." "What else?" "She said a girl with black eyes was in love with me." "Is that true?" John nodded complacently. "Who is it?" "I don't know her name, but I've met her two or three times on the street, and she always looked at me and smiled." "Struck with your looks, I suppose," suggested Oliver. John stroked an incipient mustache and stole a look into the glass. "Looks like it," he said. "If she were only a rich widow you wouldn't mind cultivating her acquaintance?" "I wish she were," said John thoughtfully. "You haven't any widow in view, have you?" "Yes, I have," said John, rather to Oliver's surprise. "Who is it?" "Her husband used to keep a lager-beer saloon on Bleecker Street, and now the widow carries it on. I've enquired about, and I hear she's worth ten thousand dollars. Would you like to see her?" "Very much," answered Oliver, whose curiosity was excited. "Come along, then. We'll drop in and get a couple of glasses of something." Following his guide, or rather side by side, Oliver walked round to the saloon. "Does she know you admire her?" enquired Oliver. "I don't," said John. "I admire her money." "Would you be willing to sell yourself?" "For ten thousand dollars? I guess I would. That's the easiest way of getting rich. It would take me two hundred years, at eight dollars a week, to make such a fortune." They entered the saloon. Behind the counter stood a woman of thirty-five, weighing upward of two hundred pounds. She looked good-natured, but the idea of a marriage between her and John Meadows, a youth of nineteen, seemed too ridiculous. "What will you have?" she asked, in a Teutonic accent. "Sarsaparilla and lager!" answered John. Frau Winterhammer filled two mugs in the most business-like manner. She evidently had no idea that John was an admirer. In the same business-like manner she received the money he laid on the counter. John smacked his lips in affected delight. "It is very good," he said. "Your lager is always good, Mrs. Winterhammer." "So!" replied the good woman. "That's so!" repeated John. "Then perhaps you comes again," said the frau, with an eye to business. "Oh, yes; I'll be sure to come again," said John, with a tender significance which was quite lost upon the matter-of-fact lady. "And you bring your friends, too," she suggested. "Yes; I will bring my friends." "Dat is good," said Mrs. Winterhammer, in a satisfied tone. Having no excuse for stopping longer the two friends went out. "What do you think of her, Oliver?" asked John. "There's a good deal of her," answered Oliver, using a non-committal phrase. "Yes, she's rather plump," said John. "I don't like a skeleton, for my part." "She doesn't look much like one." "She's good-looking; don't you think so?" enquired John, looking anxiously in his companion's face. "She looks pleasant; but, John, she's a good deal older than you." "She's about thirty." "Nearer forty." "Oh, no, she isn't. And she's worth ten thousand dollars! Think, Oliver, how nice it would be to be worth ten thousand dollars! I wouldn't clerk it for old Bond any more, I can tell you that." "Would you keep the saloon?" "No, I'd let her keep that and I'd set up in something else. We'd double the money in a short time and then I'd retire and go to Europe." "That's all very well, John; but suppose she won't have you?" John smiled--a self-satisfied smile. "She wouldn't reject a stylish young fellow like me--do you think she would? She'd feel flattered to get such a young husband." "Perhaps she would," said Oliver, who thought John under a strange hallucination. "You must invite me to the wedding whenever it comes off, John." "You shall be my groomsman," answered John confidently. A week later John said to Oliver after supper: "Oliver, I'm goin' to do it." "To do what?" "I'm goin' to propose to the widder to-night." "So soon!" "Yes; I'm tired of workin' for old Bond; I want to go in for myself." "Well, John, I wish you good luck, but I shall be sorry to lose you for a room-mate." "Lend me a necktie, won't you, Oliver? I want to take her eye, you know." So Oliver lent his most showy necktie to his room-mate, and John departed on his important mission. About half an hour later John rushed into the room in a violent state of excitement, his collar and bosom looking as if they had been soaked in dirty water, and sank into a chair. "What's the matter?" asked Oliver. "I've cast her off!" answered John in a hollow voice. "She is a faithless deceiver." "Tell me all about it, Jack." John told his story. He went to the saloon, ordered a glass of lager, and after drinking it asked the momentous question. Frau Winterhammer seemed surprised, said "So!" and then called "Fritz!" A stout fellow in shirt-sleeves came out of a rear room, and the widow said something to him in German. Then he seized John's arms, and the widow deliberately threw the contents of a pitcher of lager in his face and bosom. Then both laughed rudely, and John was released. "What shall you do about it, John?" asked Oliver, with difficulty refraining from laughing. "I have cast her off!" he said gloomily, "I will never enter the saloon again." "I wouldn't," said Oliver. Oliver would have felt less like laughing had he known that at that very moment Ezekiel Bond, prompted by Mr. Kenyon, was conspiring to get him into trouble. CHAPTER XVI. THE CONSPIRACY. Oliver did not find his work in the store very laborious. During some parts of the day there was little custom, and therefore little to do. At such times he found John Meadows, though not a refined, at any rate an amusing companion. With his friendly help he soon got a general idea of the stock and the prices. He found that the former was generally of an inferior quality, and the customers belonged to the poorer classes. Obtaining a general idea of the receipts, he began to doubt Mr. Kenyon's assurance of the profits of the business. He intimated as much to his fellow-clerk. "The old man sold you," he said. "Bond doesn't take in more than twenty thousand dollars a year, and there isn't more than a tenth profit." "You are sure of that, John?" "Yes." "Then Mr. Kenyon has deceived me. I wonder what for." "Does he love you very much?" "Who?" "Old Kenyon." "Not enough to hurt him," said Oliver, with a smile. "Then he wanted to get rid of you, and made you think this was a splendid opening." "I don't know but you are right," returned Oliver thoughtfully. "He seemed very kind, though." "He's an old fox. I knew it as soon as I set eyes on him." "I didn't enjoy myself much at home. I would just as soon be here. I don't like this store particularly, but I like New York." "Lots goin' on here all the time. Don't you want to go out in a torchlight procession to-night? I can get you the chance." "No, I think not." "I like it. I've been out ever so many times. Sometimes I'm a Democrat and sometimes I'm a Republican. It makes no difference to me so long as I have fun." Three weeks passed without developing anything to affect our hero's fortunes. About this time Ezekiel Bond received the following note from his uncle: I think you may as well carry out, without any further delay, the plan on which you agreed when Oliver entered your employment. I consider it desirable that he should be got rid of at once. As soon as anything happens, apprise me by letter. B. KENYON. Ezekiel Bond shrugged his shoulders when he received this letter. "I can't quite understand what Uncle Benjamin is driving at," he said to himself. "He's got the property, and I can't see how the boy stands in the way. However, I am under obligations to him, and must carry out his wishes." Ten minutes later he entered the store from the back room, and said to Oliver: "Have you any objection to going out for me?" "No, sir," answered Oliver with alacrity. He was glad to escape for a time from the confinement of the store and breathe the outside air. John Meadows would have rebelled against being employed as an errand boy, but Oliver had no such pride. "Here is a sealed letter which I wish carried to the address marked on it. Be careful of it for it contains a twenty-dollar bill. Look out for pick-pockets." "Yes, sir." Oliver put the letter in his coat pocket, put on his hat, and went out into the street. The distance was about a mile, but as trade was dull at that hour, he decided to walk, knowing that he could easily be spared from the store. The note was addressed to a tailor who had been making a business coat for Mr. Bond. Oliver entered the tailor's shop and inquired for James Norcross, the head of the establishment. An elderly man said: "That is my name," and opened the letter. He read it, and then turned to Oliver. "Where is the money!" he demanded. "What money?" asked Oliver, surprised. "Your employer writes me that he encloses twenty dollars--the amount due me--and wishes me to send back a receipt by you." "Well, sir?" "There is no money in the letter," said the tailor, looking sharply at Oliver. "I don't understand it at all, sir," said Oliver, disturbed. "Has the letter gone out of your possession?" "No, sir. I put it in my pocket and it has remained there." "How, then, could the money be lost?" "I think Mr. Bond may have neglected to put it in. Shall I go back and ask him about it?" Again Mr. Norcross looked in Oliver's face. Certainly there was no guilt expressed there, only concerned surprise. "Perhaps you had better," he said. "You saw me open the letter?" "Yes, sir." "Then you can bear witness that there was nothing in it. Report this to Mr. Bond, and ask him to send me up the money to-morrow at latest, as I need it to help meet a note." "I will, sir. I am sorry there has been any mistake about it." "Mr. Bond must certainly have forgotten to put in the bill. I presume he has found out his mistake by this time," thought Oliver. He had no suspicion that there was no mistake at all--that it was a conspiracy against his own reputation, instigated by Mr. Kenyon, and artfully carried out by Ezekiel Bond. CHAPTER XVII. OLIVER LOSES HIS PLACE. Oliver re-entered the store and went up to Mr. Bond, who was standing behind the counter awaiting his return. "Have you brought back the receipt?" asked his employer, before he had a chance to speak. "No, sir." "Why not?" demanded Bond, frowning. "There was some mistake, Mr. Bond. The letter you gave me contained no money." "Contained no money! What do you mean?" exclaimed the storekeeper. Oliver briefly related the circumstances, repeating that the letter contained no money. "Do you mean to tell me such an unblushing falsehood," demanded Ezekiel Bond, "expecting me to believe it?" "Mr. Bond," said Oliver, with dignity, "it is just as I say. There was no money in the letter." "Silence!" roared Bond, working himself up into a premeditated excitement. "I tell you I put the money in myself. I think I ought to know whether there was any money in it." "It is very strange, sir. I saw Mr. Norcross open the letter. If he had taken any bill out, I should have seen it." "I presume you would," sneered Bond. "I dare say he did find the letter empty." Oliver looked puzzled. He was not yet prepared for an accusation. He attributed Mr. Bond's anger to his annoyance at the loss of twenty dollars. He kept silent, but waited to hear what else his employer had to say. "I can understand this strange matter," continued Ezekiel, with another sneer. "I am not altogether a fool, and I can tell you why no bill was found." "Why, sir?" "Because you opened the letter and took the money out before you reached the tailor's." He was about to say more, but Oliver interrupted him by an indignant denial. "That's a lie, sir!" he said hotly. "I don't care who says it." "Do you mean to tell me I lie?" exclaimed Ezekiel Bond, purple with rage. "If you charge me with stealing the money, I do!" said Oliver, his face flaming with just indignation. "You hear that, John Meadows?" said Ezekiel, turning to his other clerk. "Did you ever hear such impudence?" John Meadows was not a coward nor a sneak, and he had not the slightest belief in Oliver's guilt. To his credit, he dared manfully to avow it. "Mr. Bond," he answered, "I don't believe Oliver would do such a thing. I know him well, and I've always found him right side up with care." "Thank you, John," said Oliver gratefully. "I am glad there is one who believes I am not a thief." "You don't believe he is guilty because you are honest yourself, John," said Mr. Bond, willing to gain over his older clerk by a little flattery. "But how can it be otherwise? I put the money very carefully in the envelope. Oliver put it in his pocket, and when he hands the letter to Mr. Norcross it is empty." "Are you sure you put the money in, sir?" asked John. "Am I sure the sun rose this morning?" retorted Mr. Bond. "Of course, I am certain; and I am morally certain that Oliver took the money. Hark, you! I will give you one chance to redeem yourself," he continued, addressing our hero. "Give me back the money and I will forgive you this time." "Mr. Bond," said Oliver indignantly, "you insult me by speaking in that way! Once for all, I tell you that I don't know anything about the money, and no one who knows me will believe your charge. You may search me if you want to." "It would do no great good," said Bond sarcastically. "You have had plenty of chances to dispose of the money. You could easily pass it over to some confederate." "Mr. Bond," said Oliver, "I see that you are determined to have people believe me guilty. I think I understand what it all means. It is a conspiracy to destroy my reputation. You know there was no money in the letter you sent by me." "Say that again, you young rascal, and I will give you a flogging!" shouted Ezekiel Bond, now really angry, for he was conscious that Oliver spoke the truth, and the truth is very distasteful sometimes. "I don't think you will," retorted our hero undauntedly; "there are policemen in the city, and I should give you in charge." "You would, would you? I have a great mind to have you arrested for theft." "Do, if you like. I am willing to have the matter investigated." It was evident that in attempting to frighten Oliver Mr. Bond had undertaken a difficult job. He would really have liked to give Oliver in charge, but he knew very well that he could prove nothing against him. Besides, he would be exceeding the instructions which Mr. Kenyon had given him, and this he did not venture to do. There was, however, one way of revenge open to him, and this was in strict accordance with his orders. "I will spare you the disgrace of arrest," he said, "not for your own sake, but for the sake of my esteemed uncle, who will be deeply grieved when he hears of this occurrence. But I cannot consent any longer to retain you in my employment. I will not ask my faithful clerk, John Meadows, to associate with a thief." "I don't care to remain in your employment, Mr. Bond. I would not consent to, until you retracted your false charge. As to you, John," he continued, turning to John Meadows, with a smile, "I hope you are not afraid to associate with me." "I guess 'twon't hurt me much," said John courageously. "I think Mr. Bond has made a great mistake in suspecting you." "You judge him by yourself," said Mr. Bond, who chose not to fall out with John. "You may do as you please, but I can no longer employ a suspicious character." "Good-morning, Mr. Bond," said Oliver proudly. "I will lose no time in relieving you of my presence. John, I will see you to-night." "One word more," said his employer. "I shall deem it my duty to acquaint my uncle with my reasons for dismissing you. I know it will grieve him deeply." "I think he will manage to live through it," said Oliver sarcastically. "I shall also send him an account of the occurrence, and he may believe whichever of us he pleases." Oliver took his hat and left the store. "I fear he is a hardened young rascal, John," Bond remarked to his remaining clerk, with a hypocritical sigh. "My uncle warned me that I might have trouble with him, when he first placed him here." "I never saw anything bad in him, Mr. Bond," said John. "I am sorry he is gone." "He has deceived you, and I am not surprised. He is very artful--exceedingly artful!" repeated Ezekiel, emphasizing the adverb by prolonging its pronunciation. "I don't mind the loss of the money so much as I do losing my confidence in him. So young, and such a reprobate! It is sad--sad!" "He does it well," thought John. "What a precious old file he is, to be sure! I don't believe old Kenyon is any better, either. They come of the same stock, and it's a bad one." Before the store closed for the day, Ezekiel said: "Shall you see Oliver to-night?" "I expect to, sir." "Then I will trouble you to give him this money--six dollars. I owe him for half a week, and it was at that rate my uncle requested me to pay him. Twelve dollars a week! Why, he might have grown rich on that, if he had remained honest." "I wish you would give me the same chance, Mr. Bond," said John. "I can't rub along very well on eight." "Don't ask me now, just after I have been robbed of twenty dollars. I can't afford it." "I wish I could get another place," thought John. "I should like to work for a man I could respect, even if he didn't pay me any more." CHAPTER XVIII. OLIVER, THE OUTCAST. Without much hope of obtaining sympathy or credence, Oliver wrote to his step-father an account of the charge which Mr. Bond had brought against him, and denied in the most positive terms its truth. "There," he said to himself as he posted the letter, "that is all I can do. Mr. Kenyon must now decide which he will believe." Until he should hear from his step-father he decided not to form any plans for the future. One thing he was decided upon, not to return home. Since his mother's death (for he supposed her dead) it was no home for him. He had been in the city long enough to become fond of city life, and he meant to remain there. If Mr. Kenyon chose to assist him to procure another situation, he would accept his proffered aid, otherwise he would try to earn his own living. Two days later he received a letter, which he at once perceived to be in his step-father's handwriting. He tore it open eagerly and began to read. His lip curled with scorn before he had read far. These were the material portions of the letter: The same mail brought me letters from you and Mr. Bond. I need not say how grieved I am to hear that you have subjected yourself to a criminal charge. The circumstances leave no doubt of your guilt. Unhappy boy! how, with the liberal allowance you received, could you stoop to so mean, so dishonorable a theft? My nephew writes me that with brazen effrontery you denied your guilt, though it was self-evident, and treated his remonstrances with the most outrageous insolence. It is well, indeed, that your poor mother did not live to see this day. "How dare he refer to my mother!" exclaimed Oliver indignantly, when he came to this passage. He went on with the letter: I didn't expect that my well-meant and earnest effort to start you on a business career would terminate in this way. I confess I am puzzled to know what to do with you. I cannot take you home, for I do not wish Roland corrupted by your example. Here Oliver's lip curled again with scorn. Nor can I recommend you to another place. Knowing you to be dishonest, I should feel that I was doing wrong to give you a good character. I will not tell your old acquaintances here of your sad wickedness. I have too much consideration for you. I have only told Roland, hoping that it may be a warning to him, though I am thankful that he at least is incapable of theft. After anxious consideration, I have decided that you have forfeited all claim to any further help from me. I cast you off, and shall leave you henceforth to shift for yourself. You cannot justly complain, for you must be sensible that you have brought this upon yourself. I intended, sooner or later, to buy an interest for you in my nephew's business,--that is, if you behaved properly,--but all this is at an end now. I enclose twenty dollars to help you along until you can get something to do. I advise you to enlist on some ship as cabin-boy. There you will be out of reach of temptation, and may, in time, lead a useful, though humble career. I need not say with how much grief I write these words. It pains me to cast you off, but I cannot own any connection with a thief. Roland is also grieved by the news. Hoping that you may live to see the error of your ways, I subscribe myself, BENJAMIN KENYON. Oliver read this letter with indignation and amazement. Was it possible that Mr. Kenyon, while in the possession of a large property left him by his mother, could thus coolly cast him off, and leave him to support himself? He wrote the following reply: MR. KENYON: I have received your harsh and unjust letter. I am innocent, and you know it. Of the large property which my mother left, you send me twenty dollars, and keep the remainder. I shall keep and use the money, for it is justly mine. Sometime you will repent defrauding an orphan. I don't think I shall starve, but I shall not soon forget your treachery. Some day--I don't know when--I will punish you for it. OLIVER CONRAD. CHAPTER XIX. A STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE. Mr. Kenyon shrugged his shoulders, and smiled, when he read Oliver's letter. "So the young cub is showing his claws, is he?" he said to himself. "I fancy he will find it harder to punish me than he supposes. Where will he get the power? Money is power, and I have the money." "Yes," he continued, his sallow face lighting up with exultation, "I have played boldly for it, and it is mine! Who shall dispute my claim? My wife is in a mad-house, and likely to remain there, and now Oliver is disposed of. I wish he would go to sea, and never be heard of again. But at any rate I am pretty safe so far as he is concerned." Oliver did not expect to terrify Mr. Kenyon with his threats. He, too, felt his present want of power; but he was young, and he could wait. Indeed, the question of punishing his step-father was not the one that first demanded his attention. He had but twenty dollars in the world, and no expectations. He must find work of some kind, and that soon. Now, unluckily for Oliver, the times were hard. There were thousands out of employment, and fifty applications where there was one vacancy. Day after day he answered advertisements without effect. Only once he had a favorable answer. This was in a great dry-goods house. "Yes," said the superintendent, who was pleased with his appearance and manners, "we will take you, if you like to come." Oliver brightened up. His sky seemed to be clearing. "Perhaps you will object to the pay we give," said the superintendent. "I don't expect much," said our hero, who thought he would accept for the present, if he were only offered six dollars. "We will pay you two dollars a week for the first six months." "Two dollars a week!" exclaimed Oliver in dismay. "For the first six months. Then we will raise you to four if you do well." "Then I can't come," said Oliver despondently. "I shall have to live on my salary, and I couldn't possibly live on two dollars a week." "I am sorry," said the superintendent; "but as we can get plenty of boys for two dollars, we cannot break our rule." Oliver went out, rather indignant. "No wonder boys are tempted to steal," he thought, "when employers are so mean." It was getting rather serious for him. His money had been dwindling daily. "John," he said to his room-mate one evening, "I must give up this room at the end of the week." "Are you out of funds?" "I have but fifty cents left in the world." "I can't keep the room alone. When is our week up?" "To-morrow evening." "I will take my old room. I know it is still vacant. What will you do?" "I don't know. I haven't money enough to take any room." "I wish I had some money to lend you; I'd do it in a minute," said John heartily. "I know you would, John, but you have hard work scraping along yourself." "I'll tell you what I can do. Come to my little room, and we'll take turns sleeping in the bed. It is only eighteen inches wide, or we could both occupy it at a time." "I'll come round and sleep on the floor, John. I won't deprive you of your bed. I wish I knew what to do." "Perhaps Mr. Bond would take you back." "No, he wouldn't. I am convinced that there was a conspiracy to get rid of me. I might try my hand at selling papers." "You are too much of a gentleman to go into the street with the ragged street boys." "My gentility won't supply me with board and lodging. I mustn't think of that." "Something may turn up for you to-morrow, Oliver." "It won't do to depend on that. If I can turn up something, that will be more to the purpose. However, this is our last night in this room, and I won't worry myself into a sleepless night. I will get my money's worth out of the bed." Oliver was not given to dismal forebodings or to anticipating trouble, though he certainly might have been excused for feeling depressed under present circumstances. He slept soundly, and went out in the morning, active and alert. He took a cheap breakfast--a cup of coffee and some tea-biscuit--for ten cents. He rose from the table with an appetite, but he didn't dare to spend more money. As it was, he had but forty cents left. About one o'clock, after applying at several stores for employment, but ineffectually, he found himself standing at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. A tall gentleman, with a dignified air, probably seventy years of age, accosted him as he stood there. "My young friend," he said, "will you dine with me?" Oliver looked at him in astonishment to see if he was in earnest. "I do not wish to dine alone," said the other. "Be my guest unless you have dined." "No, sir, I have not dined; but I am a stranger to you." "Very true; we shall get acquainted before dinner is over." "Then I will accept your invitation with pleasure, sir. It is the more acceptable because I am out of a situation and have very little money." "You are well dressed." "Very true, sir. My dress is deceptive, however." "All that is irrelevant. Come, if you please." So Oliver followed his new acquaintance to Delmonico's restaurant. They selected a small table, and a waiter approached to receive orders. "I hope you are hungry," said the old gentleman. "Pray do justice to my invitation." Oliver smiled. "I can easily do that, sir," he said. "I made but a light breakfast." "So much the better. What kind of soup will you have?" Oliver selected turtle soup, which was speedily brought. It is unnecessary to enter into an elaborate description of the dinner. It is enough that Oliver redeemed his promise, and ate heartily; his new acquaintance regarding him with approval. "Will you have some wine?" he asked. "No, sir," replied Oliver. "You had better try some champagne." "No, thank you." "At least you will take some coffee?" "Thank you, sir." The coffee was brought, and at length the dinner was over. "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, preparing to leave his hospitable entertainer. "You have been very kind. I will bid you good-day." "No, no, come home with me. I want to have a talk with you." Oliver reflected that his new acquaintance, who had been so mysteriously kind, might be disposed to furnish him with some employment, and thought it best to accept the invitation, especially as his time was of little value. Twenty minutes' walk brought them to the door of a fine brown-stone house on a street leading out of Fifth Avenue. The old gentleman took out a latch-key, opened the front door, and signed to Oliver to follow him upstairs. He paused before a front room on the third floor. Both entered. The room was in part an ordinary bed-chamber, but not wholly. In one corner was a rosewood case containing a number of steel instruments. The old gentleman's face lighted up with strange triumph, and he locked the door. Oliver thought it singular, but suspected no harm. "Now, my young friend," said the old man, "I will tell you why I brought you here." "If you please, sir." "I am a physician, and am in search of a hidden principle of nature, which I am satisfied can only be arrived at by vivisection." "By what, sir?" exclaimed Oliver, whom the feverish, excited air of the old man began to startle. "I propose to cut you up," said the old man composedly, selecting an ugly looking instrument, "and watch carefully the----" "Are you mad, sir?" exclaimed Oliver, aghast. "Do you wish to murder me?" "You will die in behalf of science," said the old doctor calmly. "Your death, through my observations, will be a blessing to the race. Be good enough to take off your coat." Oliver was horror-struck. The door was locked, and the old man stood between him and escape. It was evident that he was in the power of a maniac. "Is my life to end thus?" he asked himself, in affright. CHAPTER XX. A TERRIBLE SITUATION. "Be good enough to remove your coat," said the old man with a politeness hardly consistent with his fearful purpose. "Sir," said Oliver, hoping that he might be accessible to reason, "you have no right to experiment upon me without my permission." "I should prefer your permission," said the old doctor. "I can't give it," said Oliver hastily. "My young friend," said the old man, with an air of superior wisdom, "you do not appreciate the important part you are invited to take in the progress of scientific discovery. You will lose your life, to be sure, but what is a single life to the discovery of a great truth! Your name will live for ages in connection with the great principle which I shall have the honor of discovering." "I would rather live myself," said Oliver bluntly. "Science may be all very well, but I prefer that somebody else should have the privilege of dying to promote it." "They all say so," said the old man musingly. "No one has the noble courage to sacrifice himself for the truth." "I shouldn't think they would," retorted Oliver. "Why don't you experiment on yourself?" "I would willingly, but there are two impediments. I cannot at once be operator and subject. Besides, I am too old. My natural force is abated, while you are young, strong, and vigorous. Oh, yes," and he looked gloatingly at our hero, "you will be a capital subject." "Look here," said Oliver desperately, "I tell you I won't be a subject." "Then I must proceed without your permission," said the old doctor calmly. "I have already waited too long. I cannot let this opportunity slip." "If you kill me you will be hanged!" exclaimed Oliver, the perspiration starting from every pore. "I will submit cheerfully to an ignominious death, if time is only given me to complete and announce my discovery," said the old man composedly. Evidently he was in earnest. Poor Oliver did not know what to do. He determined, however, to keep the old man in conversation as long as possible, hoping that help might yet arrive, and the struggle--for he meant to fight for his life--be avoided. "Did you have this in view when you invited me to dine with you?" he asked. "Surely I did." "Why did you select me rather than someone else?" "Because you are so young and vigorous. You are in the full flush of health." Now this is a very pleasant assurance in ordinary cases, but under the circumstances Oliver did not enjoy the compliment. A thought struck him. "You are mistaken," he said. "I am not as well as I look. I have--heart disease." "I can hardly believe it," said the old man. "Heart disease does not go with such a physique." "I've got it," said Oliver. "If you want a perfectly healthy subject, you must apply to someone else." "I will test it," said the old man, approaching. "If you really are subject to disease of the heart, you will not answer my purpose." "Put down that knife, then," said Oliver. The doctor put it down. Oliver shuddered while the relentless devotee of science placed his hand over his heart, and waited anxiously his decision. It came. "You are mistaken, my young friend," he said. "The movement of your heart is slightly accelerated, but it is in a perfectly healthy state." "I don't believe you can tell," said Oliver desperately, "just by holding your hand over it a minute." "Science is unerring, my young friend," said the old man calmly. "But we waste time. Take off your coat and prepare yourself for the operation." The crisis had come, the old man approached with his dangerous weapon. At this supreme moment Oliver espied a bell-knob. He sprang to it, and rang a peal that echoed through the house, and was distinctly heard even in the chamber where they were standing. "What did you do that for?" demanded the old man angrily. "I am not going to stay here to be murdered!" exclaimed Oliver. "I give you warning that I will resist you with all my strength." "You would foil me, would you?" exclaimed the maniac, now thoroughly excited. "It must not be." Oliver hurriedly put a chair between himself and the old man. At that moment steps were heard on the staircase, and someone tried the door. "Help!" shouted Oliver, encouraged by what he heard. "What is the matter?" demanded a voice outside. "Father, what are you doing?" The old man looked disgusted and mortified. "Go away!" he said querulously. "Who is there with you?" "No one." "It's a lie!" said Oliver, in a loud voice. "I am a boy who has been lured in here by this old man, who wants to murder me." "Open the door at once, father," said the voice outside sternly. The old man was apparently overawed and afraid to refuse. He advanced sullenly and turned the key. The door was at once opened from outside. A man in middle life entered. He took in the situation at a glance. "You are at your tricks again, sir," he said sternly to the old man. "Put down that knife." The old man obeyed. "Don't be harsh, Samuel," he said, in an apologetic tone. "You know that I am working in the interests of science." "Don't try to impose on me with such nonsense. What were you going to do with that boy?" "I wished to experiment upon him." "You were going to murder him, and the law would have exacted the penalty had I not interfered." "I would have submitted, if I could have only demonstrated the great principle which----" "The great humbug! Promise me that you will never again attempt any such folly, or I shall be compelled to send you back to the hospital." "Don't send me there, Samuel!" said the old man, shuddering. "Then take care you do not make it necessary. Young man, come with me." It may be imagined that Oliver gladly accepted the invitation. He followed his guide downstairs, and into the parlor, which was very handsomely furnished. "What is your name?" enquired the other. "Oliver Conrad." "How came you with my father?" Oliver told the story briefly. "I am very much mortified at the imposition that has been practised upon you, and alarmed at the thought of what might have happened but for my accidental presence at home. Of course you can see for yourself that my father is insane." "Yes, sir, I can see it now; but I did not suspect it when we first met." "I suppose not. In fact, he is not generally insane. He is rather a monomaniac." "It seems a dangerous kind of monomania." "You are right; it is. Unless I can control him at home, I must send him back to the hospital. He has been an eminent physician, and until two years ago was in active practice. His delusion is connected with his profession, and is therefore less likely to be cured. I am surprised that you accepted a stranger's invitation to dine." "I will tell you frankly, sir," said Oliver, "that I am out of employment, and have but forty cents in the world. You could hardly expect me to decline a dinner at Delmonico's under the circumstances." "To be sure," said the other thoughtfully. "Wait here one minute, please." He left the room, but returned in less than five minutes. He handed a sealed envelope to Oliver. "I owe you some reparation for the danger to which you have been exposed. Accept the enclosure, and do me the favor not to mention the events of to-day." Oliver thanked him and made the promise requested. When he was in the street he opened the envelope. To his amazement, it proved to contain one hundred dollars in bills! "Shall I take this!" he asked himself. Necessity answered for him. "It is a strange way of earning money," he thought. "I shouldn't like to go through it again. On the whole, however, this is a lucky day. I have had a dinner at Delmonico's, and I have money enough to last me ten weeks at least." CHAPTER XXI. ROLAND IS SURPRISED. Oliver was walking along Broadway in very good spirits, as he well might, after such an extraordinary piece of good fortune, when all at once he became sensible that his step-brother, Roland, was approaching him. His first impulse was to avoid the meeting by crossing the street; but, after all, why should he avoid Roland? He had done nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly, Roland was not his friend, but he had been his companion so long that there was something homelike in his face. Roland recognized him at the instant of meeting. "Oliver!" he exclaimed in surprise. "How are you, Roland?" said Oliver composedly. Roland colored and looked embarrassed. "Are you still in the city?" he asked. "You see I am." "My father told me you were going to sea." "He advised me to go to sea, but I have not followed his advice." "I should think you would." "Why should you think I would? Do you think of going to sea?" "Of course not." "Then why should I?" "It must be rather awkward for you to stay in New York. Are you not afraid of being arrested?" "Arrested!" repeated Oliver haughtily. "What do you mean?" "You know well enough what I mean. On account of the money you stole from my cousin." "Say that again and I will knock you over!" "You wouldn't dare to--in the public street!" said Roland, startled. "Don't depend on that. If you insult me, I will." "I was only repeating what my father told me." "Your father chose to tell you a lie," said Oliver contemptuously. "Didn't you lose your place? Tell me that." "I did lose my place, or rather left it of my own accord." "Wasn't there a reason for it?" insisted Roland triumphantly. "There was a charge trumped up against me," said Oliver--"a false charge. Probably your father and your cousin were at the bottom of it. But that isn't what I care to talk about. Is there anything new in Brentville?" "Carrie Dudley is very well," said Roland significantly. "I am glad to hear it." "I called there last evening. I had a splendid time," said Roland. If Roland expected to excite Oliver's jealousy, he was not likely to succeed. Our hero knew too well Carrie Dudley's real opinion of his step-brother to feel the least fear on the subject. "I should like to see Frank and Carrie," said Oliver quietly. "They are the only persons I regret in Brentville." "No love lost between us," returned Roland at once, applying the remark to himself. "Probably not," said Oliver, with a smile. "Have you got another place?" enquired Roland curiously. "Not yet." "I suppose you will find it hard, as you can't bring any recommendation." "I wouldn't accept one from Mr. Bond," said Oliver haughtily. "How do you get along then?" "Pretty well, thank you." "I mean, how do you pay your expenses?" persisted Roland. "You have no income, you know." "I ought to have," blazed out Oliver indignantly. "My mother left a hundred thousand dollars, which you and your father have coolly appropriated." "My father has no money that is not his own," retorted Roland, "and that is more than----" "Stop there, Roland, or I may forget myself," interrupted Oliver sternly. There was a menace in his tone which startled Roland, and he thought it best not to complete his sentence. "I must be going," said Roland. "Have you dined?" He asked the question chiefly out of curiosity. "I dined at Delmonico's," replied Oliver, in a matter-of-fact tone, enjoying Roland's amazement. "You did!" exclaimed Roland, well aware how expensive Delmonico's famous restaurant is. "Yes; I had a capital dinner." "I don't believe it. You are joking," said Roland incredulously. "What makes you say that?" "You can't afford to dine at such a place, a boy in your position. I don't believe you have five dollars in the world." Now was the time for Oliver to confound his incredulous enemy. He took out the roll of bills he had recently received and displayed it to Roland, letting him see five, ten, and twenty-dollar bills. "I am not quite reduced to beggary, as you see," he said. "How did you get all that money?" gasped Roland. "I don't choose to tell you. I will only say this, that I have made more money since I left Mr. Bond's than I made while I was in his employment--three times over." "You have?" ejaculated Roland, who was beginning to feel some respect for the boy who could make so much money, even though he disliked him. "I thought you hadn't got a place," he said, after a moment's thought. "No more I have," replied Oliver. "I am my own employer." "In business for yourself, hey?" Oliver nodded. "Well, good-morning. I'll tell Frank Dudley I have seen you." "I wish you would." He looked after Oliver, as he walked away, with the same feeling of wonder. "How can a boy earn so much money?" he thought. "Oliver must be smart. I thought he'd be a beggar by this time." In his secret heart Roland had never credited the charge of theft brought against Oliver. He didn't like him, and was ready enough to join in the charge of dishonesty fabricated by his father and Mr. Bond, but really he knew Oliver too well to believe it. Otherwise he might have suspected that Oliver's supply of money was dishonestly obtained. He concluded that his step-brother must be doing some business of a very profitable character. With a hundred dollars in his pocket, Oliver felt justified in re-engaging the room he had in the morning resolved to leave. He managed to see John Meadows at the time of his leaving the store, and enquired if he had yet hired his old room. "No," said John, "I am just going round there. Will you go with me?" "It won't be necessary," said Oliver. "We had better remain where we are." John stared. "But how will we pay the rent?" he asked. "You have nothing." "Haven't I? I made a hundred dollars to-day." John whistled. "Come, now, you're gassin'," he said. "Does that look like gassing?" said Oliver, displaying a roll of bills. "Good gracious! where did you get it!" Oliver smiled. "I thought you would be surprised," he answered. "I'll tell you the story when we get home," he said. "Now let us go and tell our landlady we have changed our minds and will keep the room." "I'm glad we can," said John Meadows. "I felt bad about going back to my old room, and I felt anxious about you, too." "I think I shall get along," said Oliver hopefully. "Perhaps there is more money to be made where you made your money to-day." "I think not. At any rate, I don't care to earn any more the same way." The same evening Oliver strayed into a prominent hotel on Broadway. He was alone, his room-mate having retired early on account of fatigue. In the smoking-room he saw, sitting by himself, a tall, bronzed, rather roughly dressed man, evidently not a dweller in cities, but having all the outward marks of a frontiersman. Something in Oliver attracted this man's attention, and led him to address our hero. "Young man," he said, "do you live in New York?" "Yes, sir." "Then, perhaps you can recommend me to a quiet house where I can obtain a lodging. I aint used to fine hotels; they don't suit me." "I can recommend the house where I am living," said Oliver. "It is quiet and comfortable, but not stylish." "Style aint for me," said the stranger. "If it's where you live, I'll like it better. I like your looks and would like to get acquainted with you." "Then," said Oliver, "I'll call here to-morrow morning and accompany you to the house. It would be too late to-night to make a change." "That will do," said the stranger. "I will be here at nine o'clock. If you don't see me enquire for Nicholas Bundy." CHAPTER XXII. OLIVER ADOPTS A NEW GUARDIAN. Mrs. Hill, Oliver's landlady, was glad to obtain another lodger. She had a vacant square room which she was willing to let for five dollars a week. Oliver reported this to Nicholas Bundy at the hotel the next morning. "If the price is too high," he added, with an involuntary glance at the stranger's shabby appearance, "perhaps Mrs. Hill will take less." "I am willing to pay five dollars," said Nicholas promptly. "If you recommend it I have no doubt it will suit me." When Mr. Bundy presented himself to the landlady, she, too,--for necessity had made her sharp-sighted and experience had made her suspicious,--evidently felt the same distrust as to his pecuniary status. "Would you mind paying weekly in advance?" she asked doubtfully. A smile lighted up his rough features. "No, ma'am," he said; "that'll suit me just as well." He drew out a large pouch, which appeared to be full of gold pieces, and drew therefrom an eagle. "That'll pay for two weeks," he said, as he placed the coin in her hand. The display of so much gold and his willingness to pay for his room two weeks in advance at once increased the lady's respect for him. "I shall try to make your room comfortable for you," she said. "There's a sofa I can put in, and I've got an extra rocking-chair." The stranger smiled. "I'm afraid you'll spoil me," he said. "I'm used to roughing it, but you may put 'em in. When my young friend here comes to see me, he can sit on either." A shabby-looking trunk and a heavy wooden box were deposited in the room before sunset. "Now I'm at home," said Nicholas Bundy, with satisfaction. "You'll come and see me often, won't you, Oliver?" He had already begun to call our hero by his Christian name, and evidently felt quite an interest in him. "I can promise that," said Oliver, "for I am a gentleman of leisure just now." "How is that?" asked Bundy quickly. "I have lost my situation, and have all my time at my own disposal." "How do you pay your way, then?" enquired Nicholas. "I have money enough on hand to last me about ten weeks, or, with rigid economy, even longer. Before that time passes, I hope to get another situation." "How much does it cost you to live?" "About ten dollars a week." "Suppose I employ you for about a week," proposed Bundy. "Is it any work I am fit for?" asked Oliver. "If so, I say yes, and thank you." "It is something you can do. You must know that it is twenty years since I have set foot in New York, and it's grown beyond my knowledge. I want to go about and see for myself what changes have taken place in it. Will you go with me?" "Yes, Mr. Bundy, I will go with you, and charge nothing for it." "That won't do," said the stranger. "I shall insist on paying you ten dollars a week." "But it seems like robbing you." "Don't you trouble yourself about that. You think I am poor, perhaps?" "You don't look as if you were rich," said Oliver, hesitating. "No, I suppose not," said Mr. Bundy slowly. "I don't look it, but I am worth fifty thousand dollars--in fact, more." Oliver looked surprised. "You wonder that I am so rough-looking--that I don't wear fine clothes, and sport a gold watch and chain. It aint in my way, boy. I've been used to roughing it so long that it wouldn't come nat'ral for me to change--that's all." "I am glad you are so well off, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver heartily. "Thank you, boy. It's well off in a way, I suppose, but it takes more than money to make a man well off." "I suppose it does," assented Oliver, but he privately thought that a man with so much money was "well off" after all. "Suppose, after twenty years' absence, you came back to your old home and found not a friend left,--that you were alone in the world, and had no one to take the least interest in you,--is that being well off?" "That is very nearly my own situation," said Oliver. "I have a step-father, but he has cast me off." "Did you care for him?" "He never gave me cause to." "Then you don't miss him?" "He has all my mother's property,--property that should be mine,--and he cast me off with twenty dollars." "He must be a mean skunk," said Mr. Bundy indignantly. "Tell me more about it." Upon this Oliver told his story. Mr. Bundy listened with sympathizing interest. At one point he smote the table with his hard fist and exclaimed: "The rhinoceros! I'd like to hammer him with my fist!" "I should pity him if you did, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver smiling. When the story was ended Nicholas took the boy's hand in his, while his rough features worked with friendly emotion. "You've been treated bad, Oliver," he said, "but don't mind it, boy. Nicholas Bundy'll be your friend. He won't see you want. You shan't suffer as long as I have an ounce of gold." "Thank you, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver gratefully. "I may need your help, but, remember, I have no claim on you." "You have as much claim as anyone. Look upon me as your guardian, and don't be anxious about the future. I, too, have been wrongly used, and some day I'll tell you the story." Two days later, as they sat on the deck of a Staten Island steamer, Nicholas Bundy told Oliver his story. "Twenty years ago," he said, "I was a clerk in a store in New York. I was a spruce young man then--you wouldn't think it, but I was. I was earning a moderate salary, and spending it nearly all as I went along. About this time I fell in love with a young girl of sweet face and lovely disposition, and she returned my love. I've been battered about since, and the years have used me hard, but I wasn't so then. Well, I had a fellow-clerk, by name Jones,--Rupert Jones,--who took a fancy to the same girl. But he found she liked me better, and would say nothing to him, and he plotted my ruin. He was an artful, scheming villain, but I didn't know it then. I thought him to be my friend. That made it the easier for him to succeed in his fiendish plot. I needn't dwell upon details, but there was a sum of money missing by our employers, and through this man's ingenuity it was made to appear that I took it. It was charged upon me, and my denial was disbelieved. My employers were merciful men, and they wouldn't have me arrested. But I was dismissed in disgrace, and I learned too late that he did it. I charged him with it, and he laughed in my face. 'Addie won't marry you now!' he said. Then I knew his motive. I am glad to say he made nothing by it. I resigned all claim to my betrothed, but though she consented to this, she spurned him. "Well, my career in New York was ended. I had a little money, and, after selling my watch, I secured a cheap passage to California. I made my way direct to the mines, and at once began work. I had varying luck. At times I prospered; at times I suffered privation. I made my home away from the coast in the interior. At last, after twenty years, I found myself rich. Then I became restless. I turned my money into gold and sailed for New York. Here I am, and I have just one purpose in view--to find my old enemy and to punish him if I get the chance." "I can't blame you," said Oliver. "He spoiled your life." "Yes, he robbed me of my dearest hopes. I have suffered for his sin, for I have no doubt he took the money himself." "Do you know where he is now?" "No; he may be in this city. If he is, I will find him. This is the great object of my life, and you must help me in it." "I?" "Yes. I will take care of you. You shall not want for anything. In return, you can be my companion, my assistant, and my friend. Is it a bargain?" "Yes," said Oliver impulsively. "So be it, then. If you ever get tired of your engagement I will release you from it; but I don't think you will." "Do you know, or have you any idea, where this man is--this Rupert Jones?" "I have heard that such a man is living on Staten Island. I saw his name in the New York Directory. That is why I wished to come here to-day." "We are at the first landing," said Oliver. "Shall we land?" "Yes." The two passed over the gang-plank upon the pier, and the boat went on its way to the second landing. CHAPTER XXIII. MR. BUNDY IS DISAPPOINTED, AND OLIVER MEETS SOME FRIENDS. The village lay farther up on the hill. Oliver and his companion followed the road, looking about them enquiringly. "Suppose you find this man, what will you do?" asked Oliver curiously. He had an idea that Nicholas Bundy might pull out a revolver and lay his old enemy dead at his feet. This, in a law-abiding community, might entail uncomfortable consequences, and he might be deprived of his new friend almost as soon as the friendship had begun. "I will punish him," said Nicholas, his brow contracting into a frown. "You won't shoot him?" "No. I shall bide my time, and consider how best to ruin him. If he is rich, I will strip him of his wealth; if he is respected and honored, I will bring a stain upon his name. I will do for him what he has done for me." The provincialisms which at times disfigured his speech were dropped as he spoke of his enemy, and his face grew hard and his expression unrelenting. "How he must hate this man!" thought Oliver. They stepped into a grocery store on the way, and here Mr. Bundy enquired for Rupert Jones. "Do you know any such man?" he asked. "Oh, yes; he trades here." Nicholas Bundy's face lighted up with joy. "Is he a friend of yours?" "No," he replied hastily. "But I want to see him; that is, if he is the man I mean. Will you describe him?" The grocer paused, and then said: "Well, he is about thirty-five years old, and----" "Only thirty-five?" repeated Nicholas in deep disappointment. "I don't think he can be any more. He has a young wife." "Is he tall or short?" "Quite tall." "Then it is not the man I mean," said Bundy. "Oliver, come." As they left the store he said: "I thought it was too good news to be true. I must search for him longer; but I have nothing else to do. There are many Joneses in the world." "Yes, but Rupert Jones is not a common name," said Oliver. "You say right, boy, Rupert is not a common name. That is what encourages me. Well, shall we go back?" "I think as we are over here we may as well stay a while," said Oliver. "The day is pleasant and we can look upon it as an excursion." "Just as you say, Oliver. There is no more to be done to-day. Have you never been here before?" "No." "I used to come over when I was a clerk. I often engaged a boat at the Battery and rowed down here myself." "That must have been pleasant." "If you like rowing we can go back to the ferry pier and engage a boat for an hour." "I should like that very much." "I shall like it also. It is long since I did anything at rowing." They engaged a stout row-boat, and rowed out half a mile from shore. Oliver knew something about rowing, as there was a pond in his native village, where he had obtained some practice, generally with Frank Dudley. What was his surprise when bending over the oar to hear his name called. Looking up, he recognized Frank and Carrie Dudley and their father. "Why, it's Oliver!" exclaimed Frank joyfully. "Where have you come from, Oliver?" "From the shore." "I mean, how do you happen to be here?" "Only an excursion, Frank. What brings you here? And Carrie, too. I hope you are well, Carrie." "All the better for meeting you, Oliver," said Carrie, smiling and blushing. "I have been missing you very much." Oliver was pleased to hear this. What boy would not be pleased to hear such a confession from the lips of a pretty girl? "I thought Roland would make up for my absence," he said slyly. "He told me when we met the other day what pleasant calls he had at your house." "The pleasure is all on his side, then," said Carrie, tossing her head. "I hate the sight of him." "Poor Roland! He is to be pitied!" "You needn't pity him, Oliver," said Frank. "He loses no opportunity of trying to set us against you. But he hasn't succeeded yet." "And he won't!" chimed in Carrie, with emphasis. This conversation scarcely occupied a minute, though it may seem longer. Meanwhile Dr. Dudley and Nicholas Bundy were left out of the conversation. Oliver remembered this, and introduced them. "Dr. Dudley," he said, "permit me to introduce my friend, Mr. Bundy." "I am glad to make the acquaintance of any friend of yours, Oliver. We are just going in. Won't you and Mr. Bundy join us at dinner in the hotel?" Nicholas Bundy did not in general take kindly to new friends, but he saw that Oliver wished the invitation to be accepted, and he assented with a good grace. The boat was turned, and they were soon on land again. "Who is this man, Oliver?" asked Frank in a low tone. "He is a new acquaintance, but he has been very kind to me, and I have needed friends." "Is it true that your step-father has cast you off? Roland has been spreading that report." "It is true enough." "What an outrage!" exclaimed Frank indignantly. "But, at least, he makes you an allowance out of your mother's property?" "He sent me twenty dollars, and let me understand that I was to expect no more of him." "What an old rascal!" "I hate him!" said Carrie. "I would like to pull his hair." "That's a regular girl's wish," said Frank, laughing. "Perhaps you can make it do by pulling Roland's, sis." "I will, when he next says anything against Oliver." "Look here, Oliver," said Frank, lowering his voice, "if you are in want of money, I've got five dollars at home that I can let you have as well as not. I'll send it in a letter." "I've got three dollars, Oliver," said Carrie eagerly. "You'll take that, too, won't you?" Oliver was moved by these offers. "You are true friends, both of you," he said; "but I have been lucky, and I shall not need to accept your kindness just yet. I have nearly a hundred dollars in my pocket-book, and Mr. Bundy is paying me ten dollars a week for going around with him. But, though I don't need it, I thank you all the same." "He looks rough," said Carrie, stealing a look at the tall, slouching figure walking beside her father; "but if he is kind, I shall like him." "He has done more than I have yet told you. He has promised to provide for me as long as I will stay with him." "He's a good man," said Carrie impulsively. "I'm going to thank him." She went up to Nicholas Bundy and took his rough hand in hers. "Mr. Bundy," she said, "Oliver tells me you have been very kind to him. I want to thank you for it." "My little lady," said Nicholas, surprised and pleased, "if I'd been kind, that would pay me; but I've only been kind to myself. I'm alone in the world. I've got no wife nor child, nor a single relation, but I've got enough to keep two on, and as long as Oliver will stay with me he shall want for nothing. He's company to me, and that's what I need." "I wish you were his step-father instead of Mr. Kenyon." "What sort of a man is Mr. Kenyon?" asked Nicholas of Dr. Dudley. "He is a very unprincipled schemer, in my opinion," was the reply. "He has managed to defraud Oliver of his mother's property and cast him penniless on the world." "He is a scoundrel, no doubt; but I am not sorry for what he has done," replied Mr. Bundy. "But for him I should be a solitary man. Now I have a young friend to keep me company. Let the boy's inheritance go? I will provide for him!" They dined together, and then Dr. Dudley and his family were obliged to return. "Shall I give your love to Roland?" asked Frank. "I think you had better keep it yourself, Frank," and Oliver pressed his hand warmly. "You needn't tell Roland that I am prospering, nor his father, either. I prefer, at present, that they should not know it." They parted, with mutual promises to write at regular intervals. CHAPTER XXIV. ANOTHER CLUE. Nicholas Bundy was disappointed by his first failure, but by no means discouraged. "There are many Joneses in the world," he said, "but Rupert is an uncommon name. I didn't think there'd be more than one with that handle to his name. If he's alive I'll find him." "Why don't you enquire of somebody that knew him?" asked Oliver. "The thing is to find such a one," said Bundy. "There's been many changes in twenty years." "Don't you know of some tradesman that he used to patronize, Mr. Bundy?" "The very thing!" exclaimed the miner, for so I shall sometimes designate Mr. Bundy. "There's one man that may tell me about him." "Who is that?" "He kept a drinking-place down near Fulton Ferry. He may be living yet. I'll go and see him." So one morning Nicholas Bundy, accompanied by Oliver, took the Third Avenue cars and went downtown. They got out near the Astor House, and made their way to the old place, which Bundy remembered well. To his great joy he found it--a little shabbier, a little dirtier, but in other respects the same. They entered. Behind the bar stood a man of nearly sixty, whose bloated figure and dull red face indicated that he appreciated what he sold to others. "What will you have, gentlemen?" he asked briskly. Nicholas Bundy surveyed his countenance attentively. "Are you Jacob Spratt?" he asked. "Yes," answered the bartender. "Do you know me?" "I knew you twenty years ago," answered the miner. "I don't remember you." "You once knew me well." "I have seen many faces in my time. I can't remember so many years back." "Do you recall the name of Nicholas Bundy?" "Ay, that I do. You used to come here with a man named Jones." "Yes--Rupert Jones. Can you tell me where he is now?" Jacob shook his head. "He left New York not long after you did," he answered. "He went to Chicago." "Are you sure of that?" "Yes, and I'll tell you why. He came here one evening and says: 'Jacob, I'm going away. You won't see me for a long time--I'm going to Chicago.'" "Did he tell you why he was going there?" "He said he was going there as an agent for a New York house--that he had a good chance." "You have never seen him since?" "No," said Jacob. Then he added meditatively: "Once I thought I saw him. There was a man I met in the street looking as like him as two peas, makin' allowance for the years he was older. I went up to him and called him by name, but he colored up and looked annoyed, and told me I was quite mistaken; that his name wasn't Jones, but something else--I don't remember what now. Of course I axed his pardon and walked on, but he was the very picture of Rupert Jones." "Then you feel sure that he went to Chicago?" "Yes, he told me so, and that was the last time I saw him. If he had stayed in the city he would have kept on comin' to my place, or I should have met him somewhere." Nicholas Bundy thanked the old man for his information, and ordered glasses of lemonade for himself and Oliver. "Won't you have something stronger, Mr. Bundy?" asked the barkeeper insinuatingly. Bundy shook his head. "I've given up liquor," he said. "I'm better off without it, and so will the boy be. What do you say, Oliver?" "I agree with you, sir," said Oliver promptly. "Lucky for me all don't think so," said Spratt. "It 'ould ruin my business." When they left the bar-room Nicholas Bundy turned to his young companion. "Oliver," he said, "will you go with me to Chicago?" "I shall be glad to go," said Oliver promptly. "Then we will start in two or three days, as soon as I have made some business arrangements." "Mr. Bundy," said Oliver honestly, "it will cost you considerable to pay my expenses. I should like very much to go, but do you think it will pay you to take me?" "You're considerate, boy, but don't trouble yourself about that. You are company to me, and I'm willing to pay your expenses for that, let alone the help you may give me." "Thank you, Mr. Bundy. Then I will say no more. What day do you think you will start?" "To-day is Tuesday. We will start on Saturday. Can you be ready?" Oliver laughed. "There won't be much getting ready for me," he said. "All my business arrangements can be made in half an hour." Bundy smiled. Our hero's good spirits seemed to enliven his own. He was not only getting used to Oliver's company, but sincerely attached to him. CHAPTER XXV. MAKING ARRANGEMENTS. Nicholas Bundy went downtown the next morning. Contrary to his usual custom, he did not invite Oliver to accompany him. "Perhaps you have some places to visit," he said. "If so, take the day to yourself. I shall not need you." He proceeded to the office of a well-known broker in the vicinity of Wall Street, and, entering, looked around him. His rusty appearance did not promise a profitable customer, and he had to wait some time before any attention was paid him. Finally a young clerk came to him and enquired carelessly: "Can we do anything for you this morning?" "Are you one of the proprietors?" asked Nicholas. "No," answered the young man, smiling. "I should like to see your employer, then." "I can attend to any little commission you may have," said the young man pertly. "Who told you my commission was a little one, young man?" "It seems large to him, I suppose," thought the clerk, again smiling. "If it's only a few hundred dollars----" he commenced. "I want to consult your employer about the investment of fifty thousand dollars in gold," said Nicholas deliberately. "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," said the young man, his manner entirely altered. "I will speak to Mr. Hamlin at once." Though the broker was engaged with another person he waited upon Nicholas without delay, inviting him to take a seat in his private office. "Are you desirous of obtaining large interest, Mr. Bundy?" he asked. "No, sir; I want something solid, that won't fly away. I've worked for my money and don't want to lose it." "Precisely. Then I can recommend you nothing better than Government bonds. They pay a fair interest and the security is unquestionable." "Government bonds will suit me," said the miner. "You may buy them." The purchase was made and Nicholas enquired: "What shall I do with them? I don't want to carry them around with me. Is there any place of safety where I can leave them while I am absent on a journey?" "Yes, sir; you want to place them with a safe deposit company. I will give you a note to one that I can recommend." This advice seemed good to Mr. Bundy. He presented himself at the office of the company and deposited the bonds, receiving a suitable certificate. "One thing more," he said to himself, "and my arrangements will be made." He visited the office of a lawyer and dictated his will. It was very brief, scarcely ten lines in length. This also he deposited with the safe deposit company. "Oliver," he said, in the evening, "I've got through my business sooner than I expected. Can you start to-morrow?" "Yes, sir." "Then we'll go. We'll pay our landlady to the end of the month, so that she can't complain. One thing more, Oliver, I want to tell you. I've left the bulk of my property, in bonds, and my will with the Safe Deposit Company, No.---- Broadway. If anything happens to me you are to go there and call for the will. Whatever there is in it I want you to see carried out." "All right, sir." The next day they started for Chicago. CHAPTER XXVI. WHO RUPERT JONES WAS. Just before leaving New York Oliver wrote a letter to Frank Dudley, announcing the plan he had in view. My new guardian, Mr. Bundy, goes to Chicago on business [he wrote] and I am to go with him. I don't know how long we shall be away. I shall be well provided for, and expect to have a good time. I may write you from the West. Remember me to Carrie, and believe me to be your affectionate friend, OLIVER CONRAD. "So Oliver is going to Chicago," said Frank Dudley to Roland Kenyon, on the afternoon of the same day. Roland looked surprised. "How do you know?" he asked. Frank showed him the passage quoted above. "He doesn't send his love to you," said Frank mischievously. "I don't care for his love," returned Roland, tossing his head. "I'm glad he is going to a distance." "Why?" "So he needn't disgrace the family." "Are you really afraid of that?" asked Frank, in rather a sarcastic tone. "Yes; he's a bad fellow, and you'll find it out sooner or later." "I don't agree with you; I think Oliver a fine, manly fellow." "Oh, I know you have always stuck up for him!" said Roland, annoyed. "You are deceived--that is all." "Carrie is deceived, too, then," said Frank, knowing that this would tease Roland. "She has just as high an opinion of Oliver as I have." "She'll find him out sometime," said Roland, and walked moodily away. Reaching home, he told his father the news. "Oliver gone to Chicago!" repeated Mr. Kenyon, with evident pleasure. "I am glad of it. I hope he'll never come back to annoy us." "I hope so, too." "But I am afraid he will get out of money and write for help." "He's found some flat who has taken a fancy to him, and is paying his expenses. Very likely he'll get tired of him, though." "Who is it?" asked Mr. Kenyon, with some curiosity. "It's a rough sort of a man. Frank Dudley met him one day at Staten Island. An old miner from California, I believe, named Bundy." "What!" exclaimed his father hastily and in visible agitation. "What is the man's name?" "Bundy." "What is his first name?" "Nicholas, I believe." "Is it possible?" exclaimed Mr. Kenyon, moved in some unaccountable manner. "How strange the boy should have fallen in with him!" "Why, do you know him, father?" asked Roland, whose turn it was now to be surprised. "I have heard of him," answered Mr. Kenyon, in an embarrassed voice; "not lately--years ago." "What sort of a man is he?" asked Roland, who was endowed with a full share of curiosity. "His character was bad," answered his father briefly. "He was discharged from his place for dishonesty. I knew very little of him." "Then he's good company for Oliver," said Roland, shrugging his shoulders. "They are well matched. I'll tell Frank Dudley what sort of a guardian his dear friend has chosen." "I desire you will do nothing of the kind," said his father hastily. "Why not?" asked Roland, in surprise. "I don't care to have it known that I ever heard of the man. Frank Dudley might write to Oliver what I have said, and then it would get to the ears of this man Bundy. I have nothing against him, remember. In fact I am grateful to him for taking the boy off my hands. If we are wise, we shall say nothing to separate them." "I see," said Roland. "I guess you're right, father. I'd like to tell Frank, but I won't." * * * * * "How strange things turn out in this world!" said Kenyon to himself, when Roland had left him. "Of all men in the world Oliver has drifted into the care of the man who hates me most. It is fortunate that I have changed my name. He will never suspect that the step-father of the boy he is befriending is the man he once knew as--Rupert Jones." CHAPTER XXVII. A STARTLING TELEGRAM. Meanwhile, in her Southern prison-house, Mrs. Kenyon languished in hopeless captivity. There was only one thing to add to her unhappiness, and that was supplied by the cruel ingenuity of her unprincipled husband. Tell her [wrote Mr. Kenyon to Dr. Fox] that her son Oliver is dead. He has just died of typhoid fever, after a week's illness. We did all we could to save him, but the disease obtained too great headway to be resisted, and he finally succumbed to it. "If she's not insane already that may make her so," he said to himself cunningly. "I shall not tell even Dr. Fox that the story is false. If he believes it he will be the more likely to persuade her of it." Dr. Fox did believe it. Had it been an invention he supposed Mr. Kenyon would have taken him into his confidence. So he made haste to impart the news to his patient. Essentially a coarse-minded man, he was not withheld, as many would have been, by a feeling of pity or consideration, but imparted it abruptly. "I've got bad news for you, Mrs. Kenyon," he said, entering the room where she was confined. "What is it?" she asked quickly. "Your son Oliver is dead!" She uttered one cry of deep suffering, then fixed her eyes upon the doctor's face. "You say this to torment me," she said. "It is not true." "On my honor, it is true," he answered; and he believed what he said. "When did you learn it? Tell me all you know, in Heaven's name! Would you drive me mad?" Dr. Fox shrugged his shoulders. "I only got the letter this morning," he said. "It was from Mr. Kenyon." "May I see the letter?" Reflecting that it contained nothing of a private nature, Dr. Fox consented, and put the letter into her hands. It carried conviction to the grief-stricken woman. "I have nothing to live for now," she said mournfully. "My poor Oliver! So young to die!" "Who's dead?" enquired Cleopatra, advancing to where they stood. "My boy Oliver." "Is that all? I thought it might be Mark Antony. Dr. Fox, have you received a letter from Antony lately?" "No, your Majesty. If I had I would immediately have informed you." The effect of this news was, for a time, to plunge Mrs. Kenyon into a fit of despondency. Freedom no longer had for her the old attractions. What was life to her now that her boy was dead? Mr. Kenyon heard with pleasure of the effect produced by his cruel message. "Why don't she die, or grow mad?" he said to himself. "I shall never feel safe while she is still alive. What would the world say if it should discover that my wife is not dead, but confined in a mad-house?" Still, he felt moderately secure. All his plans thus far had succeeded. He had won the hand of a wealthy widow, he had put her out of the way; he had cast off her son, appropriated her property, and there seemed to lie before him years of luxury and self-indulgence. In the midst of this pleasant day-dream there came a rude awakening. One day, as he was sitting in dressing-gown and slippers, complacently scanning a schedule of bonds and bank shares, a servant entered. "Please, sir; here's a telegram. Will you sign the book? The boy is waiting." He took the book and signed it calmly. He was expecting a telegram from his broker, and this was doubtless the message looked for. He tore open the envelope and read: Your wife has escaped. We have no clue yet to her whereabouts. FOX. He turned actually livid. "What's the matter, sir?" asked the servant, alarmed by his appearance. "Is it bad news?" He had his wits about him, and realized the importance of assigning a reason for his emotion. "Yes, Betty, I have lost five thousand dollars!" "Shure the master must care a sight about his money!" thought Betty. "He looked just like a ghost." Mr. Kenyon sent a message to Dr. Fox, exhorting him to spare no pains to capture the fugitive. Not content with this, he followed the telegram, taking the next train southward. CHAPTER XXVIII. OLD NANCY'S HUT. Mrs. Kenyon's depression and apparent submission to her fate had relaxed the vigilance of her keepers. Still, it is doubtful if she would have escaped but for the help of her insane room-mate. Late one evening Cleopatra, with a cunning expression, showed her a key. "Do you know what this is?" she asked. "It is a key." "It is the key of this door." "How did you get it?" Upon this point the queen would give no information. But she lowered her voice and whispered: "Mark Antony is waiting for me outside. He is going to carry me away." It was useless to question her delusion, and Mrs. Kenyon contented herself with asking: "Do you mean to leave this house?" "Yes," said Cleopatra. "Antony expects me. Will you go with me? I will make you one of my maids of honor." "Do you think we can get out?" asked Mrs. Kenyon dubiously. "The outer door is locked." "I know where to find the key. Time presses. Will you go?" Believing in the death of her son, Mrs. Kenyon had supposed herself indifferent to liberty, but now that the hope of escape was presented a wild desire to throw off the shackles of confinement came to her. What her future life might be she did not care to ask; but once to breathe the free air, a free woman, excited and exhilarated her. "Yes; I will go," she said quickly. "Come!" The two women dressed themselves hurriedly, softly they opened the door of their room, went downstairs, and from under the mat in the unlighted hall Cleopatra stooped down and drew out the key of the outer door. "See!" she said exultantly. "Quick! Open the door!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenyon nervously. The key turned in the lock with a grating sound which she feared might lead to discovery, but fortunately it did not. A moment and they stood on the outside of their prison-house. Now Mrs. Kenyon assumed the lead. "Come," she said. "Do you know where to find Mark Antony?" asked Cleopatra. "Yes; follow me." They did not venture to take the highway. The chances of discovery were too great. Neither knew much about the country, but Mrs. Kenyon remembered that a colored woman, sometimes employed at the asylum, lived in a lonely hut a mile back from the road. This woman--old Nancy--she had specially employed by permission of Dr. Fox, and to her hut she resolved to go. Cleopatra, no longer self-reliant, followed her confidingly. Just on the verge of a wood, with no other dwelling near at hand, dwelt the old black woman. It was a rude cabin, dark and unpainted. Cleopatra looked doubtfully at it. "Where are you going?" she asked, standing still. "Antony is not here." It was not a time to reason, nor was the assumed queen a person to reason with. There was no choice but to be positive and peremptory. "No," she answered, "Antony is not here, but here he will meet you. It is a poor place, but his enemies lie in wait for him, and he wishes to see you in secret." This explanation suited Cleopatra's humor. She nodded her head in a satisfied way and said: "I know it. Augustus would murder my Antony if he could." "Then you must not expose him to danger. Come with me." Mrs. Kenyon advanced, not without some misgivings, since Nancy was unaware of her visit. She could hear the old woman snoring, and was compelled to knock loudly. At last old Nancy heard, and awoke in a great fright. "Who's there?" she called out, in a quavering voice. "It's I, Nancy. It's Mrs. Kenyon." This only seemed to alarm the old woman the more. She was superstitious, like most of her race, and straightway fancied that it was some evil spirit who had assumed Mrs. Kenyon's voice. "Go away, you debbil!" she answered, in tremulous accents. "I know you. You's an evil sperrit. Go away, and leave old Nancy alone." Had her situation been less critical, Mrs. Kenyon would have been amused at the old woman's alarm, but in the dead of night, a fugitive from the confinement of a mad-house, she was in no mood for amusement. "Don't be frightened, Nancy," she said, "I have escaped from the asylum with Cleopatra, and we want you to hide us for to-night. I will give you ten dollars if you will open your door and help us." Now, avarice was a besetting weakness in old Nancy's character, and though Mrs. Kenyon did not know it, she had unwittingly made the right appeal to the old woman. Ten dollars was an immense sum to Nancy, who counted her savings by the smallest sums. She drew back the bolt, and opened her door, not wholly without fear that her first suspicions might be correct, and her nocturnal visitors turn out to be emissaries of Satan. "Are you sure you aint bad sperrits?" she asked, through a narrow crevice. "Don't be foolish, Nancy. You know me well enough, and Cleopatra, too. Open the door wider, and let us in." Reassured in a degree by the testimony of her eyes, Nancy complied and the two entered. "Laws, missus, it's you shure nuff," she said, "and Clopatry, too." (This was as near as she ever got to the name of the royal Egyptian.) "Who'd a thought to see you this time o' night?" "We've run away, Nancy. You won't let Dr. Fox know?" "I reckon not, missus. He's a drefful mean man, the old doctor is. I won't give you up to him nohow." Luckily for Mrs. Kenyon old Nancy had some months before had a quarrel with Dr. Fox about some money matter in which she felt he had cheated her. So she was glad of this opportunity to do him an ill turn. "Is Antony here, Nancy?" asked Cleopatra, looking about her with an air of expectation. Nancy was about to reply in the negative, when she caught a significant look from Mrs. Kenyon, and altered her intended answer. "He aint here yet, missus, but I expect him in the morning sure." "Likely he's her man," thought Nancy, who was entirely unacquainted with that episode in Roman history in which Cleopatra figured. "Likely he's her man, though she do look old to have one." The cabin consisted of one room on the ground floor, but overhead was a loft covered with straw, and used partly as a lumber-room by the old woman. A pallet filled with straw lay in one corner of the lower room, this being old Nancy's bed, from which she had hastily risen when she heard the knocking at the outer door. "Lie down there, honeys," she said with generous hospitality, proposing to resign her own bed to her unexpected guests. But the position was too exposed for Mrs. Kenyon. Looking up she espied the loft and said: "No, Nancy, we would rather go up there. Then if Dr. Fox comes for us he won't discover us." To this arrangement both Nancy and Cleopatra assented, and a rude ladder was brought into requisition. When they had reached the loft Cleopatra looked around her with discontent. "Am I to lie here?" she asked. "Yes; we will lie down together." "But this is no fit couch for a great queen," she complained. "What will Mark Antony--what will my courtiers say?" "They will praise you for sacrificing your royal state for your lover," answered Mrs. Kenyon, who was quick-witted, and readily understood the warped mind she had to deal with. "Then I will be content," said Cleopatra, evidently pleased with the suggestion, "if you think Antony will approve." "There is no doubt of it. He will love you better than ever." Cleopatra reclined upon the straw, and was soon in a profound slumber. Mrs. Kenyon was longer awake. She was anxious and troubled, but at length she, too, yielded to sleep. She awoke to find old Nancy bending over her. "Don't be frightened, honey," she said; "but the old doctor is ridin' straight to the door. Don't you move or say a word, and I'll send him off as wise as he came." Nancy had scarcely got downstairs and drawn the ladder after her, when the smart tap of a riding-whip was heard on the outer door. Mrs. Kenyon trembled in anxious suspense. CHAPTER XXIX. DR. FOX IN PURSUIT. Opening the outer door, old Nancy counterfeited great surprise at seeing Dr. Fox mounted on horseback, waiting impatiently to have his summons answered. "Lor' bress us!" she exclaimed, holding up both hands, "what bring you on here so airly, Massa Fox?" "Nancy, have you seen anything of Mrs. Kenyon and Cleopatra?" asked the doctor abruptly. "How should I see them?" asked Nancy. "I haven't been to the 'sylum sence las' week." "They have run away," explained Dr. Fox. "Run away! Good Lor'! What they gone and run away for?" "Out of pure cussedness, I expect," returned the doctor in a tone of disgust. "Then you haven't seen them?--they haven't passed this way?" "Not as I knows on. They wouldn't come to old Nancy. She couldn't help 'em." "I was hoping you might have seen them," said Dr. Fox, disappointed. "I don't know where to look for them." "How did they get away?" asked Nancy, fixing her round, bead-like eyes on the doctor, with an appearance of curiosity. "I can't stop to talk," said Dr. Fox impatiently. "I must search for them, though I don't know where." "I hope you'll find 'em, Massa Fox," said Nancy, rolling her eyes. A sudden idea struck Dr. Fox. For a small sum he could enlist Nancy on his side, he thought. "Look here, Nancy," he said, "these foolish woman may yet come this way. If they do, let me know in some way, so that I can catch them, and I'll give you--let me see--I'll give you five silver dollars." "Will you really, Massa Fox?" exclaimed Nancy, in affected delight. "Oh, golly, how rich I'll be!" "Of course you don't get it unless you earn it, Nancy." "Oh, I'll work for it; I will, sure, Massa Fox." "If they come here, manage to lock them up in your cabin, and then come to me." "You may 'pend on me, Massa Doctor. Oh, yes, you may 'pend on me." "That secures her co-operation," thought the deluded doctor. "Five dollars is a fortune to her." He would not have felt quite so confident if he had heard Nancy's soliloquy after his departure. "Mean old hunks!" she exclaimed. "So he thinks he's gwine to buy old Nancy for five dollars! He's mighty mistaken, I reckon, I won't give up the poor darlings for no such money." No doubt the ten dollars she had received from Mrs. Kenyon had its effect; but, to do old Nancy justice, she had a good heart, and, fond as she was of money, would not have sold the secret of those who put confidence in her, even if there had been no money paid her for keeping it. Mrs. Kenyon, hidden in the loft, heard the conversation with anxiety, lest Nancy should yield to the temptation and betray her place of concealment. When the colloquy was over, and Dr. Fox had ridden away, she felt relieved. "Thank you, Nancy," she said gratefully, peering over the edge. "You are indeed a good friend to me." "I sent Massa Fox off with a flea in his ear," said Nancy, her portly form shaken by a broad laugh. "I shall not forget your kindness, Nancy." "Is Clopatry awake?" asked Nancy. "Yes," said a smothered voice from the straw. "Is Antony come?" "Aint seen no gemman of that name, Miss Clopatry." "I hope he hasn't forgotten his appointment," said the queen anxiously. "What does he look like, in case I see him, Miss Clopatry?" "He looks like a prince," said Cleopatra. "He has an air of command. He's a general, you know." "You couldn't tell me what color hair he's got!" said the practical Nancy. "I don't know much about princes." Cleopatra looked perplexed. She had never thought particularly about the personal appearance of her hero. "I expect it's black," she said; "but he'll ask for me. You'll know him by that." "All right, Miss Clopatry. If I see him, I'll send him right along. Now, what'll you have for breakfast?" "Anything you have, Nancy. We don't want to put you to too much trouble." "Oh, Lor', Mis' Kenyon, you needn't be afeared. What do you say, now, to some eggs and hoe-cake?" "I would like some," said Cleopatra, brightening up. "Can I come down, Nancy?" "Just as you please, Miss Clopatry." "I think we may venture," said Mrs. Kenyon. "Dr. Fox will not be likely to come back at present." The two ladies went down the ladder rather awkwardly, not being used to such a staircase. In fact, Cleopatra lost her footing, and fell in a very unqueenly attitude on the earthen floor. She was picked up, however, without having sustained any serious injury. After breakfast Mrs. Kenyon held a consultation with Nancy as to the course she had better pursue. "Better stay here till night, Mis' Kenyon," advised the old woman, "and then I'll take you through the woods to Scranton, where the railroad is. Ef you go now, the doctor'll come cross you and take you back." "Where do the cars go, Nancy? To Charleston?" "No, Miss Kenyon. They go down souf to Georgia." Until then Mrs. Kenyon had had no fixed plan, except it had occurred to her that it would be best to go to Charleston. But a moment's reflection satisfied her that she would be more likely to be sought after there than farther south. Dr. Fox would hardly think of following her to Georgia. "That plan will suit me, Nancy," she said, after a short pause. "I don't much care where I go, as long as I increase the distance between me and that horrible mad-house." "Will Clopatry go with you?" asked Nancy, indicating the queen with a jerk of her finger. "I will ask her." The plan was broached to Cleopatra, but it met with unexpected opposition. "I can't go away from Antony," she said. "He is to meet me here. You said he was." This was true, and it was found impossible to remove the impression from her mind. Mrs. Kenyon looked at Nancy in perplexity. "What shall we do?" she asked. "Let her stay," said Nancy. "You can go with me. You aint goin' to be caught so easy if you are alone." Mrs. Kenyon realized the force of this consideration. Cleopatra was really insane, and her insanity could hardly be concealed from those whom they might encounter in their flight. Dr. Fox would, of course, post notices of their escape, and Cleopatra's appearance and remarks would, in all probability, make the success of their plans very dubious. "You are right, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon; "but it seems selfish to go away and leave Cleopatra here." "The doctor didn't treat her bad, did he?" asked Nancy in a whisper. "No." "Then it won't do her any harm if she does get took back. It's different with you. Jest let her stay here as long as she wants to. When she finds her man don't come, she'll go back likely herself." This was finally agreed to. During the day there were no more visitors, much to the relief of Mrs. Kenyon. At nightfall old Nancy and Mrs. Kenyon set out on their journey. The latter was disguised in an old gown belonging to her hostess, her gown stuffed out to like ample proportions, while a huge bonnet, also belonging to Nancy, effectually concealed her face. "You look like my sister, Mis' Kenyon," she said. "Lor', I'd never know you!" "I'll pass for your sister, Nancy, if any enquiry is made." Nancy nodded acquiescence. "That'll do," she said, in a satisfied tone. "Now, bid good-by to Miss Clopatry, and we'll go." Cleopatra was quite willing to be left. She was quite persuaded that Antony would come for her during the evening, and urged Mrs. Kenyon to hurry him in case they met him. For two miles Nancy and her companion travelled through the woods, until they came to the bank of a river. "We must go 'cross here, Mis' Kenyon," she said. "There is a boat just here. Get in and I'll row you across." Mrs. Kenyon got into the boat, and Nancy was about to put off, when a horseman rode up rapidly. "Halt, there!" he shouted. "Who have you got with you, Nancy?" Mrs. Kenyon's heart stood still with sickening fear, for the voice was that of Dr. Fox. CHAPTER XXX. HOW DR. FOX WAS FOOLED. Nancy was not likely to turn pale, even if she had been frightened. Really, however, she was not frightened, having considerable nerve. "Is that you, Massa Fox?" she replied composedly, pushing the boat off at the same time. "Where did you come from?" "Who have you got with you?" demanded the doctor, in a peremptory tone. "Lor', doctor, what's the matter? It's my sister Chloe from 'cross the river. She cum over to see me yes'day, and I'm agwine to take her home." Dr. Fox surveyed the pretended sister critically, and was inclined to believe the story. The dress, the stuffed form, and general appearance certainly resembled Nancy. But he was not satisfied. "Are you sure that you haven't got one of my runaways in the boat with you?" he asked suspiciously. Nancy's fat sides shook with laughter. "One of them crazy critters!" she exclaimed. "Chloe, he thinks you're a crazy critter run away from his 'sylum. Won't Dinah laugh when you tell her!" Mrs. Kenyon possessed an admirable talent for mimicry, though she had not exercised it much of late years. Now, however, the occasion seemed to call for an effort in that direction, and she did not hesitate. She burst into a laugh, rich and hearty, so like Nancy's that the latter was almost startled, as if she heard the echo of her own amusement. No one who heard it would have doubted that it was the laugh of a negro woman. The laugh convinced Dr. Fox. He no longer entertained any doubt that it was really Nancy's sister. "It's all right, Nancy," he said apologetically. "I see I am mistaken. If you see either of the runaways let me know," and he turned his horse from the bank. Not a word passed between Nancy and her passenger till they had got beyond earshot of the pursuer. Then Nancy began: "You did dat well, Mis' Kenyon. Ef I hadn't knowed I'd have thought it was ole Chloe herself. Where did you learn dat laugh?" "I think I might make a pretty good actress, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon, smiling. "I knew something must be done as Dr. Fox's suspicions were aroused. But I didn't dare to speak. I was not so sure of my voice." "Lor', how we fooled Massa Fox!" exclaimed Nancy, bursting once more into a rollicking laugh. "So we did," said Mrs. Kenyon, echoing the laugh as before. "You almost frighten me, Mis' Kenyon," said Nancy. "I didn't think no one but a nigger could laugh like dat. Are you sure you aint black blood?" "I think not, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon. "I don't look like it, do I?" "No, Mis' Kenyon; you're as white as a lily; but I can't understand dat laugh nohow." Presently they reached the other shore, and Nancy securely fastened the boat. "How far is it to the depot, Nancy?" asked the runaway. "Only 'bout a mile, Mis' Kenyon. Are you tired?" "Oh, no; and if I were, I wouldn't mind, so long as I am escaping from that horrible asylum. I can't help thinking of that poor Cleopatra. I wish she might be as fortunate as I, but I am afraid she will be taken back." "She an' you's different, Mis' Kenyon. She's crazy, an' you aint." "Then you think I can be trusted out of the doctor's hands?" "How came you there, anyway, Mis' Kenyon?" asked Nancy curiously. "It is too long a story to tell, Nancy. It is enough to say that I was put there by a cruel enemy, and that since I have been confined I have met with a great loss." "Did you lose your money, Mis' Kenyon?" asked Nancy sympathetically. "It was worse than that, Nancy. My only boy is dead." "Dat's awful; but brace up, Mis' Kenyon. De Lor' don't let it blow so hard on de sheep dat's lost his fleece." "I feel that I have very little to live for, Nancy," continued Mrs. Kenyon, in a tone of depression. "Don't you take it so much to heart, Mis' Kenyon. I've had three chil'en myself, an' I don't know where they is." "How does that happen, Nancy?" "When we was all slaves dey was sold away from me, down in Alabama, I reckon, and I never expec' to see any of 'em ag'in." "That is very hard, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon, roused to sympathy. "So it is, Mis' Kenyon," said Nancy, wiping her eyes; "but I hope to see 'em in a better land." Then Nancy, pausing in her rowing, began to sing in an untrained but rich voice a rude plantation hymn: "We'se all a-goin', We'se all a-goin', We'se all a-goin', To de Promised Land. "We shall see our faders. We shall see our moders, We shall see our chil'en, Dead an' gone before us, In de Promised Land. "Don't you cry, poor sinner, Don't you cry, poor sinner, We'se all a-goin To de Promised Land." "It makes me feel better to sing them words, Mis' Kenyon," said Nancy; "for it's all true. De Lord will care for us in de Promised Land." "I am glad you have so much faith, Nancy," said her companion. "Your words cheer me, in spite of myself. For the first time, I begin to hope." "Dat's right, Mis' Kenyon," said Nancy, heartily. "Dat's de way to talk." They were walking while this conversation took place, and soon they reached the station--a small rude hut, or little better. A man with a flag stood in front of it, while a gentleman and lady were standing just in the door-way. Mrs. Kenyon had on the way disencumbered herself of the gown and other disguises which she had worn in the boat, and appeared a quiet, lady-like figure, who might readily be taken for a Southern matron, with a colored attendant. "When will the next train start, sir?" she asked, addressing the flagman. "In five or ten minutes." "Going South?" "Yes, ma'am." "Can I get a ticket of you?" "The ticket agent is away. You will have to buy one on board the train." "Very well, sir." They went into the small depot and waited till the train arrived. Then Mrs. Kenyon bade a hurried good-by to Nancy, pressed another piece of gold into her not unwilling hand, and was quickly on her way. As the train started she breathed a sigh of relief. "At last I feel that I am free!" she said to herself. "But where am I going and what is to be my future life?" They were questions which she could not answer. The future must decide. Nancy bent her steps toward her humble home, congratulating herself on the success with which their mutual plans had been carried out. "I wonder how Miss Clopatry is gettin' along," she reflected. We can answer that question. Dr. Fox, on his way back, thought he would again visit Nancy's cottage. The two refugees might possibly be in the neighborhood, although he no longer suspected Nancy's connivance with them. He was destined to be gratified and at the same time disappointed. As he approached the house he caught sight of Cleopatra looking out of the window. "Is that you, Antony?" she called. Dr. Fox's face lighted up with satisfaction. "There they are! I've got them!" he exclaimed, and quickened his horse's pace. "Open the door, Cleopatra!" he ordered. She meekly obeyed. He peered round for her companion, but saw no one else. "Where is Antony?" asked Cleopatra. "Where is Mrs. Kenyon?" he demanded sternly. "Gone away with Nancy," answered Cleopatra simply. Dr. Fox swore fearfully. "Then it was she!" he exclaimed, "after all; and I have been preciously fooled. I'd like to wring Nancy's neck!" "Where is Antony?" asked Cleopatra anxiously. "He is at the asylum, waiting to see you," said the doctor. "Come with me, and don't keep him waiting!" That was enough. Poor Cleopatra put on her bonnet at once, and went back with the doctor, only to weep unavailing tears over the disappointment that awaited her. "I'd rather it was the other one," muttered Dr. Fox. "Who would have thought she was so cunning? Where did she get that laugh? I'd swear it was a nigger!" For three months Nancy was not allowed any work from the asylum, but she contented herself with the fifteen dollars in gold which Mrs. Kenyon had given her. CHAPTER XXXI. MRS. KENYON FINDS FRIENDS. Mrs. Kenyon thought it best to put two hundred miles between herself and Dr. Fox. She left the cars the next morning at a town of about three thousand inhabitants, which we will call Crawford. "Is there a hotel here?" she enquired of the depot-master. "Yes, ma'am." "Is it far off?" "About three-quarters of a mile up in the village." "Can I get a carriage to convey me there?" "Certainly, ma'am," answered the depot-master briskly. My son drives the depot carriage. There it is, near the platform. "Peter!" he called. "Here's a lady to go to the hotel. Have you a check for your trunk, ma'am?" Mrs. Kenyon was rather embarrassed. She had no luggage except a small bundle which she carried in her hand, and this, she feared, might look suspicious. She had a trunk of clothing at the asylum, but of course it was out of the question to send for this. "My luggage has been delayed," she said; "it will be sent me." "Very well, ma'am." Mrs. Kenyon got into the carriage and was soon landed at the hotel. It might be called rather a boarding-house than a hotel, as it could hardly accommodate more than a dozen guests. It was by no means stylish, but looked tolerably comfortable. In Mrs. Kenyon's state of mind she was not likely to care much for luxury, and she said to herself wearily: "This will do as well as any other place." She enquired the terms of board, and found them very reasonable. This was a relief, for she had but two hundred dollars with her, and a part of this must be expended for the replenishing of her wardrobe. This she attended to at once, and, though she studied economy, it consumed about one-half of her scanty supply. Four weeks passed. Mrs. Kenyon found time hanging heavily upon her hands. She appeared to have no object left in life. Her boy was dead, or at least she supposed so. She had a husband, but he had proved himself her bitterest foe. She had abstained from making acquaintances, because acquaintances are apt to be curious, and she did not wish to talk of the past. There was one exception, however. One afternoon when out walking, a pretty little girl, perhaps four years of age, ran up to her, crying: "Take me to mamma. I'm so frightened!" She was always fond of children, and her heart opened to the little girl. "What is the matter, my dear?" she asked soothingly. "I've lost my mamma," sobbed the little girl. "How did it happen, my child?" "I went out with nurse, and I can't find her." By enquiry Mrs. Kenyon ascertained that the little girl had run after some flowers, while the careless nurse, not observing her absence, had gone on, and so lost her. "What is your name, my little dear?" she asked. "Florette." "And what is your mamma's name?" "Her name is mamma," answered the child, rather surprised. "Don't you know my mamma?" Then it occurred to Mrs. Kenyon that the child was the daughter of a Mrs. Graham, a Northern visitor, who was spending some weeks with a family of relatives in the village. She had seen the little girl before, and even recalled the house where her mother was staying. "Don't cry, Florette," she said. "I know where mamma lives. We will go and find mamma." The little girl put her hand confidingly in that of her new friend, and they walked together, chatting pleasantly, till suddenly Florette, espying the house, clapped her tiny hands, and exclaimed joyfully: "There's our house. There's where mamma lives." Mrs. Graham met them at the door. Not having heard of the little girl's loss, she was surprised to see her returning in the care of a stranger. "Mrs. Graham," said Mrs. Kenyon, "I am glad to be the means of restoring your little girl to you." "But where is Susan--where is the nurse?" asked Mrs. Graham, bewildered. "I lost her," said little Florette. "I found the little girl crying," continued Mrs. Kenyon, "and fortunately learned where you were staying. She was very anxious to find her mamma." "I am very much indebted to you," said Mrs. Graham warmly. "Let me know who has been so kind to my little girl." "My name is Conrad, and I am boarding at the hotel," answered Mrs. Kenyon. She had resumed the name of her first husband, not being willing to acknowledge the tie that bound her to a man that she had reason to detest. Mrs. Graham pressed her so strongly to enter the house that she at length yielded. In truth she was longing for human sympathy and companionship. Always fond of children, the little girl attracted her, and for her sake she wished to make acquaintance with the mother. This was the beginning of friendship between them. Afterward Mrs. Kenyon, or Conrad, as we may now call her, called, and, assuming the nurse's place, took Florette to walk. She exerted herself to amuse the child, and was repaid by her attachment. "I wish you'd come and be my nurse," she said one day. "I hope you will excuse Florette," said Mrs. Graham apologetically. "She is attached to you, and is too young to know of social distinctions." "I am very much pleased to think that she cares for me," said Mrs. Conrad, looking the pleasure she felt. "Do you really like me, then, Florette?" The answer was a caress, which was very grateful to the lonely woman. "It does me good," she said to Mrs. Graham. "I am quite alone in the world, and treasure more than you can imagine your little girl's affection." "I am sure she has suffered," thought Mrs. Graham, who was of a kindly, sympathetic nature. "How unhappy I should be if I, too, were alone in the world!" Mr. Graham was a merchant in Chicago, where business detained him and prevented his joining his wife. She was only to stay a few weeks, and the time had nearly expired when little Florette was taken sick with a contagious disease. The mercenary nurse fled. Mrs. Graham's relations, also concerned for their safety, left the sorrow-stricken mother alone in the house, going to a neighboring town to remain till the danger was over. Human nature was unlovely in some of its phases, as Mrs. Graham was to find out. But she was not without a friend in the hour of her need. Mrs. Conrad presented herself, and said: "I have heard of Florette's sickness, and I have come to help you." "But do you know the danger?" asked the poor mother. "Do you know that her disease is contagious, and that you run the risk of taking it?" "I know all, but life is not very precious to me. I love your little daughter, and I am willing to risk my life for her." Mrs. Graham made no further opposition. In truth, she was glad and encouraged to find a friend who was willing to help her--more especially one whom the little girl loved nearly as much as herself. So these two faithful women watched by day and by night at the bedside of little Florette, relieving each other when nature's demand for rest became imperative, and the result was that Florette was saved. The crisis was safely past, and neither contracted the disease. When Florette was well enough, Mrs. Graham prepared to set out for her Northern home. "How lonely I shall feel without you," exclaimed Mrs. Conrad, with a sigh. "Then come with us," said Mrs. Graham. "Florette loves you, and after what has passed I look upon you as a sister. I have a pleasant home in Chicago, and wish you to share it." "But I am a stranger to you, Mrs. Graham. How do you know that I am worthy?" "The woman who has nursed my child back from death is worthy of all honor in my household." "But your husband?" "He knows of you through me, and we both invite you." Mrs. Conrad made no further opposition. She had found friends. Now she had something to live for. By a strange coincidence, she and Oliver reached Chicago the same day. CHAPTER XXXII. MR. DENTON OF CHICAGO. In due time, Nicholas Bundy and Oliver arrived at Chicago. They took up their residence at a small hotel, and Mr. Bundy prepared to search for some trace of Rupert Jones. He couldn't find the name in the directory, but after diligent search ascertained that such a man had been in business in Chicago ten years before. Where he went or what became of him could not immediately be learned. Time was required, and it became necessary to prolong their stay in the city. Mr. Bundy did not care to make acquaintances. With Oliver he was not lonely. But one evening, while sitting in the public room, a stranger entered into conversation with him. "My dear sir," he said to Mr. Bundy, "I perceive that you smoke. Won't you oblige me by accepting one of my cigars? I flatter myself that you will find it superior to the one you are smoking." If there was one thing that Nicholas Bundy enjoyed it was a good cigar. "Thank you, sir," he said. "You are very obliging." "Oh, don't mention it," said the other. "The fact is I am rather an enthusiast on the subject of cigars. I would like your opinion of this one." Nicholas took the proffered cigar and lighted it. He was sufficient of a judge to see that it was really superior, and his manner became almost genial toward the stranger who had procured him this pleasure. "It is capital," he said. "Where can I get more like it?" "Oh, I'll undertake that," said the other. "How many would you like?" "A hundred to begin with." "You shall have them. By the way, do you remain long in the city?" "I can't tell. It depends upon my business." "Why do you stay at a hotel? You would find a boarding-house more comfortable and cheaper." "Do you know of a good one?" "I can recommend the one where I am myself living. There is a chamber next to my own that is vacant, if you would like to look at it." The proposal struck Nicholas favorably and he agreed to accompany his new acquaintance the next morning to look at it. The house was one of fair appearance, with a tolerably good location. The chamber referred to by Denton (this was the stranger's name) was superior to the room in the hotel, while the terms were more reasonable. "What do you say, Oliver?" asked Mr. Bundy. "Shall we remove here?" "Just as you like, sir. It seems a very pleasant room." The landlady was seen, and the arrangement was made for an immediate removal. She was a woman of middle age, bland in her manners, but there was something shifty and evasive in her eyes not calculated to inspire confidence. Neither Nicholas nor Oliver thought much of this at the time, though it occurred to them afterward. "You'll find her a good landlady," said Denton, who seemed pleased at the success of the negotiations. "I have been here over a year, and I have never had anything to complain of. The table is excellent." "I am not likely to find fault with it," said Nicholas. "I've roughed it a good deal in my time, and I aint much used to luxury. If I get a comfortable bed, and good plain victuals, it's enough for me." "So you've been a rolling stone, Mr. Bundy," said the stranger enquiringly. "Yes, I have wandered about the world more or less." "They say 'a rolling stone gathers no moss,'" continued Mr. Denton. "I hope you have gathered enough to retire upon." "I have got enough to see me through," said Nicholas quietly. "So have I," said Denton. "Queer coincidence, isn't it? When I was fifteen years old I hadn't a cent, and being without shoes I had to go barefoot. Now I've got enough to see me through. Do you see that ring?" displaying at the same time a ring with an immense colorless stone. "It's worth a cool thousand,--genuine diamond, in fact,--and I am able to wear it. Whenever I get hard up--though there's no fear of that--I have that to fall back upon." Nicholas examined the ring briefly. "I never took a fancy to such things," he said quietly. "I'd as soon have a piece of glass, as far as looks go." "You're right," said Denton. "But I have a weakness for diamonds. They are a good investment, too. This ring is worth two hundred dollars more than I gave for it." "Is it?" asked Nicholas. "Well, all have their tastes. I'd rather have what the ring cost in gold or Government bonds." Denton laughed. "I see you are a plain man with plain tastes," he said. "Well, it takes all sorts of men to make a world, and I don't mind confessing that I like show." The same day they moved into the boarding-house. It was arranged that Oliver, as before, should occupy the same room with his new guardian, and for his use a small extra bed was put in. "We are next-door neighbors," said Denton, "I hope you won't find me an unpleasant neighbor. The fact is, I sleep like a top all night. Never know anything from the minute I lie down till it's time to get up. Are you gentlemen good sleepers?" "I sleep well," said Nicholas. "It's with me very much as it is with you." "Of course you sleep well, my young friend," said the new acquaintance to Oliver. "Boys of your age ought not to wake up during the night." "I believe I am a pretty good sleeper," said Oliver. "Why is he so particular about enquiring whether we sleep well?" thought our hero. He was not particularly inclined to suspicion, but somehow he had never liked Mr. Denton. The man's manner was hearty and cordial, but there was a sly, searching, crafty look which Oliver had occasionally detected, which set him to thinking. Not so with Nicholas. He had seen much of men's treachery, he had suffered much from it also, but at heart he was disposed to judge favorably of his fellow-men, except where he had special reason to know that they were unreliable. "Our neighbor seems very obliging," he said to Oliver, after Denton had left the room. "Yes, sir," answered Oliver. "I wonder why I don't like him." "Don't like him!" repeated. Nicholas in surprise. "No. I can't seem to trust him." "He appears pleasant enough," said Mr. Bundy. "A little vain, perhaps, or he wouldn't wear a thousand dollars on his finger. There wouldn't be many diamonds sold if all were like me." "I wonder what his business is?" "He has never told me. From what he says he probably lives upon his means." Oliver did not continue the conversation. Very likely his distrust was undeserved by the man who inspired it, and he did not feel justified in trying to prejudice Mr. Bundy against him. Finding Nicholas was tired in the evening, Oliver went out after supper by himself. He was naturally drawn to the more brilliantly lighted streets, which, even at ten o'clock in the evening, were gay with foot passengers. Sauntering along, he found himself walking behind two gentlemen, and could not avoid hearing their conversation. "Do you see that man in front of us?" asked one. "The one with the diamond ring?" for the stone sparkled in the light. "Yes; he is the one I mean." "What of him?" "He is one of the most notorious gamblers and confidence men in Chicago." "Indeed! What is his name?" "He has several--Denton, Forbes, Cranmer, and half a dozen others." Naturally Oliver's curiosity was excited by what he heard. Passing the speakers, he scanned the man of whom they had been conversing. It was Denton--the man who had been so friendly to Nicholas Bundy and himself. "I was right in distrusting him," he thought. "He is a dangerous man. Now, what shall I do?" Oliver decided not to tell Mr. Bundy immediately of what he had heard; but, for his own part, he decided to watch carefully, lest Denton might attempt in any way to injure them. CHAPTER XXXIII. A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. Oliver and his guardian retired about ten o'clock. Mr. Bundy was not long in going to sleep. Unlike Oliver, he had no care or anxiety on his mind. As we have said, he was not a man to harbor suspicion. With our hero it was different. He knew the real character of Denton, and could not help fancying that he must have some personal object in bringing them to this house, and installing them in a room adjoining his own. Oliver carefully locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. There was but one door, and this led into the hall. "Now," thought our hero, "Denton can't get in except through the keyhole." This ought to have quieted him for the night, but it did not. An indefinable suspicion, which he could not explain, made him uneasy. It was this, probably, that prompted him to go to the closet in which he knew that Nicholas Bundy kept a pistol. At times he placed the pistol under his pillow, but he had not done so to-night, considering it quite unnecessary in a quiet boarding-house. "I don't suppose there's any need of it," thought Oliver; "but I'll take it and put it under my own pillow." Nicholas Bundy was already asleep. He was a sound sleeper and did not observe what Oliver was doing, otherwise he would have asked an explanation. This might have been hard to give, except the chance knowledge he had gained of Denton's character. An hour passed and still Oliver remained awake. At about this time he heard a noise in the adjoining room as of someone moving about. "It is Denton come home," he said to himself. Presently the noise ceased, and Oliver concluded that his disreputable neighbor had gone to bed. He began to be rather ashamed of his suspicions. "Of course he can't get in here, since there is but one door, and that locked," he reflected. "It is foolish for me to lie awake all night. I may as well imitate Mr. Bundy's example and go to sleep." Oliver was himself fatigued, having been about the streets all day, and now that his anxiety was relieved he, too, soon fell into a slumber. But his sleep was neither deep nor refreshing; it was troubled by dreams, or rather by one dream, in which Denton figured. It was this, perhaps, that broke the bonds of sleep. At any rate, he found himself almost in an instant broad awake, with his eyes resting on a figure, clearly seen in the moonlight, standing beside Nicholas Bundy's bed examining the pockets of his coat and pantaloons, which rested on a chair close beside. Immediately all his senses were on the alert. In one swift glance he saw all. The figure was that of Denton, and an opening in the panel between the two rooms showed how he had got in. It was clear that this was a decoy house, especially intended to admit of such nefarious deeds. Denton's back was turned to Oliver, and he was quite unaware, therefore, that the boy had awakened. Bundy lay before him in profound sleep, and from a careless glance he had concluded that the boy also was asleep. "Now," thought Oliver, "what shall I do? Shall I shoot at once?" This course was repugnant to him. He had a horror of shedding blood unless it were absolutely necessary, but at the same time he was bold and resolute, and by no means willing to lie quietly and see his guardian robbed. It was certainly a critical moment, and required some courage to face and defy a midnight robber, who might himself be armed. But Oliver was plucky, and didn't shrink. In a clear, distinct voice he asked: "What are you doing there?" Denton wheeled round and saw Oliver sitting up in bed. He had a black mask over his eyes, and thought he was not recognized. "Confusion!" Oliver heard him mutter, under his breath. "Cover up your head, boy, and don't interfere with me, or I'll murder you!" he said in a low, stern voice. "I want to know what you are doing?" demanded our hero, undaunted. "None of your business. Do as I tell you!" answered Denton, in a menacing tone. "It is my business," said Oliver firmly. "You have no business here, Mr. Denton. Go back into your own room." Denton started, and was visibly annoyed to find that he was recognized after all. "Denton is not my name," he said. "You mistake me for somebody else." "Denton is the name by which we know you," said Oliver. "Whether it is your real name or not I don't know or care. I know you have no business here, and you must leave instantly." Denton laughed, a low, mocking laugh. "You crow well, my young bantam," he said; "but you're a fool, or you would know that I am not a man to be trifled with. Cover up your head, and in five minutes you may uncover it again, and I will do you no harm." "No, but you'll rob Mr. Bundy, and I don't intend you shall do it." "You don't!" exclaimed the ruffian, in a tone of suppressed passion. "Come, I must teach you a lesson!" He sprang toward Oliver's bed, with the evident intention of doing him an injury, but our hero was prompt and prepared for the attack which he anticipated. He seized the pistol and presented it full at the approaching burglar, and said coolly: "Don't be in a hurry, Mr. Denton. This pistol is loaded, and if you touch me I will shoot." Denton stopped short, with a feeling bordering on dismay. It was a resistance he had not anticipated. Indeed, he was so far from expecting any interference with his designs that he had come unprovided with any weapon himself. "The boy's fooling me!" it occurred to him. "I don't believe the pistol is loaded. I'll find out. You must be a fool to think I am afraid of an empty pistol," he said, looking searchingly at the boy's face. "You will find out whether it is loaded or not," said Oliver coolly; "but I wouldn't advise you to try. Just go through the same door you came in at, and I won't shoot." If it had been a man, Denton would have seen that there was no further chance for him to carry out his design; but it angered him to give in to a boy. He felt that it was disgraceful to a man, whose strength could outmatch Oliver twice over. Besides, he had felt Bundy's pocket-book, and he hated to leave the room without it. "I'll bribe the boy," he thought. "Look here, boy," said he; "put down that weapon of yours. I want to speak to you." "Go ahead!" said Oliver. "You haven't laid down your pistol." "And I don't intend to," said Oliver firmly. "I am not in the habit of entertaining company in my chamber at midnight, and I prefer to be on my guard." Denton was enraged at the boy's coolness, but he dissembled the feeling. "Oh, well," he said carelessly, "do as you please. Now, I've got a proposal to make to you." "Go ahead." "I'm very hard up, and I want money." "So I supposed." "The man you're with has plenty of it." "How do you know?" "Confound you, why do you interrupt me? You know it as well as I. Now, I want some of that money." "That is what you came in for." "Yes, that is what I came in for. Now, I'll tell you what I will do. I will take the money out of the pocketbook, and give you half, if you won't interfere. You can tell the old man that a burglar took the whole, and he'll believe you fast enough. So you see you will profit by it as well as I." "You don't know me, Mr. Denton," said Oliver. "I am not a thief, and if I were I wouldn't rob the man that has been kind to me. I've heard all I want to, and you have stayed in this room long enough. If you don't disappear through that panel before I count three, I'll shoot you." With a muttered execration, Denton obeyed, and once more Oliver found himself alone. He got up and looked at his watch. It indicated a quarter to one. What should he do? The night was less than half-spent, and Denton might attempt another entrance. "There is no help for it," thought Oliver. "I must remain awake the rest of the night." CHAPTER XXXIV. DENTON SEES HIS INTENDED VICTIMS ESCAPE. Oliver was rejoiced to see the sunshine entering the window. He felt that his long vigil was over, and the danger was passed. He saw Bundy's eyes open, and he spoke to him. "Are you awake, Mr. Bundy?" "Yes, Oliver; I have slept well, though this is a new place." "I have not slept since midnight," said our hero. "Why not? Are you sick?" asked Bundy anxiously. "No, I was afraid to sleep." Then, in a few words, Oliver sketched the events of the night, and added what he had heard about Denton's character. "The skunk!" exclaimed Bundy indignantly. "But why didn't you wake me up, Oliver?" "I would, if there had been any need of it. I was able to manage him alone." "You're a brave boy, Oliver," said Bundy admiringly. "Not many boys would have shown your pluck." "I don't know about that, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver modestly. "You must remember that I had a pistol in my hand and had no need to be afraid." "It needed a brave heart and steady hand for all that. But now you must get some sleep. I am awake and there is no danger. If that skunk tries to get in he'll get a warm reception." Oliver was glad to feel at liberty to sleep. He closed his eyes and did not open them again till nine o'clock. When he opened his eyes he saw Bundy, already dressed, sitting in a chair beside the window. "Hallo! it's late," he exclaimed; "isn't it, Mr. Bundy?" "Nine o'clock." "Haven't you had your breakfast?" "No; I am waiting for you." "Why didn't you wake me up before? I don't like to keep you waiting." "My boy," said Bundy in an affectionate tone, "it is the least I can do when you lay awake for me all night. I shall not soon forget your friendly devotion." "You mustn't flatter me, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver. "You may make me vain." "I'll take the risk." "Have you been out?" "Yes; I went out to get a paper, and I have seen our landlady. I gave her warning--told her I should leave to-day." "What did she say?" "She seemed surprised and wanted to know my reasons. I told her that I wasn't used to midnight interruptions. She colored, but did not ask any explanation. I paid her, and we will move to-day back to our old quarters. Now, when you are dressed, we will go and get some breakfast." "Suppose we meet Denton?" "He will keep out of our way. If he don't, I may take him by the collar and shake him out of his boots." "I guess you could do it, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver, surveying the wiry, muscular form of his companion. "I should not be afraid to try," said Nicholas, with a grim smile. After breakfast they arranged to remove their trunks back to their old quarters. "Our stay here has been short, but it has been long enough," said Nicholas. "Next time we will put less confidence in fair words and a smooth tongue." They did not meet Denton, but that gentleman was quite aware of their movements. From the window of his chamber he saw Oliver and his guardian depart, and later he saw their luggage carried away. "So they've given me the slip, have they?" he soliloquized. "Well, that doesn't end it. The old man is worth plucking, and the boy I am paid to watch. Confound the young bantam! I will see that he don't crow so loud the next time we meet. But why does Kenyon take such an interest in him? That's what I don't understand." Denton took from his pocket a letter signed "Benjamin Kenyon," and read carefully the following passage: When you find the boy--and I think you cannot fail with the full description of himself and his companion which I send you--watch his movements. Note especially whether he appears to have any communication with a woman who may claim to be his mother. Probably they will not meet, but it is possible that they may. If so, it is important that I should be apprised at once, I will send you further instructions hereafter. Denton folded the letter, and gave himself up to reflection. "Why don't he take me into his confidence? Why don't he tell me just what he wants, just what this woman and this boy are to him? I suppose I have made a mistake in showing my hand so soon, and incorporating a little scheme of my own with my principal's. But I was so very hard up I couldn't resist the temptation of trying to obtain a forced loan from the old man. If that cursed boy hadn't been awake I should have succeeded, and could then have given my attention to Kenyon's instructions. I wonder, by the way, why he calls himself Kenyon. When I knew him he was Rupert Jones, and he didn't particularly honor the name, either. Well, time will make things clearer. Now I must keep my clue, and ascertain where my frightened birds are flitting to." He went downstairs just as the expressman was leaving the house, and carelessly enquired where he was carrying the luggage. Suspecting no harm, the expressman answered his question, and Denton thanked him with a smile. "So far, so good," he thought. "That will save me some trouble." * * * * * The explanation of Mr. Kenyon's letter is briefly this. His visit South had done no good. He had had an interview with Dr. Fox, in which he had so severely censured the doctor that the latter finally became angry and defiant, and intimated that if pushed to extremity he would turn against Kenyon, and make public the conspiracy in which he had joined, together with Kenyon's motive in imprisoning his wife. This threat had the effect of cooling Mr. Kenyon's excitement, and a reconciliation was patched up. An attempt was made to trace Mrs. Kenyon through old Nancy, but the faithful old colored woman was proof alike against threats, entreaties, and bribes, and steadily refused to give any information as to the plans of the refugee. Indeed, she would have found it difficult to give any information of value, having heard nothing of Mrs. Kenyon since they parted at the railroad station. Nancy would have been as much surprised as anyone to hear of the subsequent escape of her guest to Chicago. Mr. Kenyon's greatest fear was lest Oliver and his mother should meet. He knew the boy's resolute bravery, and feared the effects of his just resentment when he learned the facts of his mother's ill-treatment at the hands of his step-father. These considerations led to his opening communication with Denton, whom he had known years before, when he was Rupert Jones. CHAPTER XXXV. ON THE TRACK. One day Nicholas Bundy entered the apartment occupied jointly by himself and Oliver, his face wearing an expression of satisfaction. Oliver looked up from the book he was engaged in reading. "I've found a clue, Oliver," he exclaimed. "A clue to what, Mr. Bundy?" "To Rupert Jones. I have ascertained that when he left Chicago he settled down at the town of Kelso, about seventy-five miles from Chicago, in Indiana." "What do you propose to do?" "To go there at once. Pack up your carpet-bag, and we will take the afternoon train." "All right, Mr. Bundy." Oliver was by no means averse to a journey. He had a youthful love of adventure that delighted in new scenes and new experiences. At two o'clock they were at the depot, and bought tickets for Kelso. They did not observe that they were watched narrowly by a red-headed man, whose eyes were concealed by a pair of green glasses. Neither did they notice that he too purchased a ticket for Kelso. This man was Denton, who had so skilfully disguised himself with a red wig and the glasses that Oliver, though his eyes casually fell upon him, never dreamed who he was. Denton bought a paper and seated himself just behind Oliver and his guardian, so that he might, under cover of the paper, listen to their conversation. "What business can they have at Kelso?" he soliloquized. Then partially answering his own question, "Rupert Jones once lived there, and their visit must have some connection with him. There's something behind all this that I don't understand myself. Perhaps I shall find out. Jones was always crafty, and, as far as he could, kept his own counsel." Denton did not glean much information from the conversation between Oliver and Bundy. The latter, though he had no suspicion of being watched, did not care to converse on private matters in a public place. He was a man of prudence and kept his tongue under control. I have said that the three passengers bought tickets to Kelso. Kelso, however, was not on the road, and a stage for that place connected with the station at Conway. Through tickets, however, had been purchased, including stage tickets. It was about half-past five when the cars halted at Conway. There was a small depot, and a covered wagon stood beside the platform. Oliver, Bundy, and Denton alighted. "Any passengers for Kelso?" asked the driver of the wagon. "Here are two," said Oliver, pointing to Bundy. "Anyone else?" Denton came forward, and in a low voice intimated that he was going to Kelso. These three proved to be the only passengers. Now, for the first time, Oliver and his guardian looked with some curiosity at their fellow-traveller. "He's a queer-looking customer," thought Oliver. Bundy thought, "Perhaps he lives at Kelso, and can tell us something about it. I may obtain the information I want on the way there. I'll speak to him." "It's a pity we couldn't go all the way by cars," he said. "Yes," said Denton briefly. "Do you know if our ride is a long one?" "Six miles," answered Denton, who had enquired. "May I ask if you live in Kelso?" "No, sir," answered Denton. "Perhaps you can tell me if there is a hotel there?" "I don't know." By this time the stranger's evident disinclination to talk had attracted Oliver's attention. He looked inquisitively at the man with green glasses. "There's something about that man's voice that sounds familiar," he said to himself. "Where can I have seen him before?" Still, the red wig and the glasses put him off the scent. Denton grew uneasy under the boy's fixed gaze. "Does he suspect me!" he thought. "It wouldn't do for me to speak again." When Bundy asked another question, he said: "I hope you'll excuse me, sir, but I have a severe headache, and find it difficult to converse." "Oh, certainly," apologized Bundy. Denton leaned his head against the back of the carriage in support of his assertion. The road was a bad one, jolting the vehicle without mercy. To Oliver it was fun, but Denton evidently did not relish it. At last one jolt came, nearly overturning the conveyance. It dislodged the green spectacles from Denton's nose, and for a moment his eyes were exposed. He replaced them hurriedly, but not in time. Oliver's sharp eyes detected him. "It's Denton!" he exclaimed internally, but he controlled his surprise so far as not to say a word. "He is on our track," thought our hero. "What can be his purpose?" CHAPTER XXXVI. DENTON IS CHECKMATED. Oliver wished to communicate his discovery to Bundy, but Denton's presence interfered. His guardian was not an observant man, and thus far suspected nothing. Before Oliver obtained any opportunity the stage reached its destination. Kelso was a village of moderate size. A small hotel provided accommodation for passing travellers. Here the three stage passengers descended and sought accommodation. The house was almost empty, and no difficulty was experienced. Denton registered his name as Felix Graham, from Milwaukee. He registered first, and for a special reason, that the false name might divert suspicion, if any was entertained. "Do you know our fellow-passenger, Mr. Bundy?" asked Oliver, when they were in the room assigned them, preparing for supper. Bundy looked surprised. "I only know that he is from Milwaukee," he answered. Oliver laughed. "My eyes are sharper than yours, Mr. Bundy," he said. "He is our old acquaintance, Denton, who tried to rob you in Chicago." Nicholas Bundy was amazed. "How do you know?" he asked. "Surely it cannot be. Denton had black hair." "And this man wears a red wig," said Oliver. "Are you sure of this?" asked Nicholas thoughtfully. "I am certain." "When did you recognize him?" "In the stage, when his glasses came off." "What does this mean?" said Bundy, half to himself. "It means that he is on our track," said Oliver coolly. "But why? What object can he have?" "You have asked me too much. Ask me some other conundrum." "Can he hope to rob me again? It must be that." "We will see that he don't." "Possibly he has some other object in view. I should like to know." "I'll tell you how to do it, Mr. Bundy. Will you authorize me to manage?" "Yes, Oliver." "Then I will take pains to mention in his presence before the landlord that we are going back to Chicago in the morning, and wish to engage seats in the stage. If he is following us he will do the same." "A good idea, Oliver." After supper Denton took out a cigar, and began to smoke in the office of the inn. Oliver enquired of the landlord: "When does the stage start in the morning?" "At eight o'clock." "Can I engage two seats in it?" "Yes, sir. Your stay is short." "True, but our business takes little time to transact. Let us have breakfast in time." Denton listened, but made no movement. The next morning when the stage drew up before the door, not only Oliver and Bundy, but Denton also, were standing on the piazza, with their carpet-bags, ready to depart. All got into the stage, and it set out. It had hardly proceeded half a mile when, by previous arrangement, Bundy said suddenly: "Oliver, I believe we must go back. There is one thing I quite forgot to attend to in Kelso." "All right!" said Oliver. "It makes no difference to me." The driver was signalled, and Oliver and Bundy got out. Oliver glanced at Denton. He looked terribly amazed, and seemed undecided whether to get out also. "Good-morning, Mr. Graham," said Oliver, with a great show of politeness. "I am sorry you will have a lonely ride." "Good-by," muttered Denton, and the stage rolled on. "He wanted to get out and follow us back," said Oliver, "but he couldn't think of any excuse." "We have got rid of him," said Bundy; "and now I must attend to the business that brought me here." On his return to the hotel he interviewed the landlord, and asked if he ever heard of a man named Rupert Jones. "I should think so," answered the landlord. "He cheated me out of a hundred dollars." "He did? How?" "By a forged check upon the Bank of Conway. I wish I could get hold of him!" he ended. Nicholas Bundy's eyes sparkled. "What could you do in that case?" he enquired. "What could I do? I could send him to State prison." "Then you have preserved the forged check?" "Yes, I have taken care of that." "Mr. Ferguson," said Nicholas, "will you sell me that check for a hundred and fifty dollars?" "Will you give it?" asked the landlord eagerly. "I will." "What is your object? Is this man a friend of yours?" "No; he's my enemy. I want to get him into my power!" "Then you shall have it for a hundred, and I hope you may catch him." In five minutes the change was effected. One object more Nicholas had in view. He tried to ascertain what had become of Rupert Jones, but in this he was unsuccessful. No one in Kelso had seen or heard of him for years. CHAPTER XXXVII. DENTON'S LITTLE ADVENTURE IN THE CARS. When Denton, to his infinite disgust, saw his scheme foiled by the return of Oliver and Bundy to the inn at Kelso, he was strongly tempted to go back also. But prudence withheld him. It was by no means certain that he had been recognized. Very probably Bundy really went back on account of some slight matter which he had forgotten. Denton was of opinion that his visit to Kelso was not connected with the interest of his employer. Therefore he decided to return to Chicago and await the reappearance of Oliver and Bundy. Undoubtedly they would return to the same hotel where they had been stopping. By the time he took his seat in the car he was in quite a philosophical frame of mind, and reconciled to the turn that events had taken. It would have been well for Mr. Denton if he had become involved in no new adventures, but his lucky star was not in the ascendant. He took a seat beside a stout, red-haired, coarse-featured man, with a mottled complexion, who might have been a butcher or a returned miner, but would hardly be taken for a "gentleman and a scholar." Yet there was something about this man that charmed and fascinated Denton. Not to keep the reader in suspense, it was an enormous diamond breastpin which he wore conspicuously in his shirt-front. Denton knew something about diamonds, and to his practised eyes it seemed that the pin was worth at least five thousand dollars. He only ventured to glance furtively at it, lest he should excite suspicion. The stout man proved to be sociable. "Fine mornin'," he remarked. "It is, indeed," said Denton, who had no objection to cultivating the acquaintance of the possessor of such a gem. "Pleasant for travelling." "Yes, so 'tis. Speakin' of travelling I've travelled some in my time." "Indeed," commented Denton. "Yes, I've just come from Californy." "Been at the mines?" "Well, not exactly. When I fust went out I mined a little, but it didn't pay; so I set up a liquor saloon in the minin' deestrict, an' that paid." "I suppose it did." "Of course it did. You see, them fellers got dry mighty easy, and they'd pay anything for a drink. When they hadn't silver, I took gold-dust, an' that way I got paid better." "You must have made money," said Denton, getting more and more interested. "You bet I did. Why, they used to call me the Rich Red-head. Hallo! why, you're a red-head, too!" Denton was about to disclaim the imputation, when he chanced to think of his red wig, and answered, with a smile: "Queer, isn't it, that two red-heads should come together?" "Your hair's redder than mine," said the stout man with a critical glance. "Perhaps it is," said Denton, who was not sensitive, since the hair belonged to a wig. "So you became rich?" "I went to California without fifty dollars in my pocket," said the other complacently. "Now I can afford to wear this," and he pointed to the diamond. "Dear me! why, what a splendid diamond!" exclaimed Denton, as if he saw it for the first time. "It's a smasher, isn't it!" said the stout man proudly. "May I ask where you got it?" "I bought it of a poor cuss that drunk hisself to death. Gave a thousand dollars for it!" "Why, it must be worth more!" said Denton almost involuntarily. "Of course 'tis. It's worth three thousand easy." And two thousand on top of that, thought Denton. He doesn't know the value of it. "How long have you had it?" he enquired. "Risin' six months." "It's a beautiful thing," said Denton. "Are you going to stop in Chicago, may I ask?" "Maybe I'll stop a day, but I guess not. I live in Vermont--that is, I was raised there. I'm goin' back to astonish the natives. When I left there I was a poor man, without money or credit. Then nobody noticed me. I guess they will now," and he slapped his pockets significantly. "Money makes the man," said Denton philosophically. "So it does, so it does!" answered the stranger. Then, with a loud laugh at his own wit, he added: "And man makes the money, too, I guess. Ho, ho!" Denton laughed as if he thought the joke a capital one. "By George, I never said a better thing!" said the stout man, apparently amazed at his own wit. "Didn't you? Then I pity you," thought Denton. But he only said: "It's a good joke." "So 'tis, so 'tis. Do you live in Chicago?" "Yes; I reside there for the present." "In business, eh?" "No, I have retired from business. I am living on my income," answered Denton with unblushing effrontery. "Got money, hey?" said the stout man respectfully. "I have some," answered Denton modestly. "I am not as rich as you, of course. I can't afford to wear a breastpin worth thousands of dollars." "Kinder gorgeous, aint it?" said the other complacently. "I like to make a show, I do. That's me. I like to have folks say, 'He's worth money.'" "Only natural," said Denton. "What a consummate ass!" he muttered to himself. There was a little more conversation, and then the stout man gaped and looked sleepy. "I didn't sleep much last night," he said. "I guess I'll get a nap if I can." "You'd better," said Denton, an eager hope rising in his breast. "A man can't do without sleep." "Of course he can't. You jest wake me up when we get to the depot." "Have no trouble about that," said Denton quickly. "I'll be sure to let you know." In less than five minutes the stranger was breathing heavily, his head thrown back and his eyes closed beneath the red handkerchief that covered his face. Denton looked at him with glittering eyes. "If I only had that diamond," he said to himself, "my fortune would be made. I'd realize on it and go to Europe till all was blown over." Everything seemed favorable to his purpose. First, he was in disguise. He would not easily be identified as the thief by anyone who noticed his present appearance, since he would, as soon as he reached Chicago, lay aside the glasses and the wig together. Again, the man was asleep and off his guard. True, it was open day, and there were twenty other passengers in the car at the very least. But Denton had experience. He had begun life as a pickpocket, though later he saw fit to direct his attention to gambling and other arts as, on the whole, a safer and more lucrative business. Denton riveted his eyes covetously on the captivating diamond. His fingers itched to get hold of it. Was it safe? A deep snore from the stout man seemed to answer him. "What a fool he is to leave such a jewel in open sight!" thought Denton. "He deserves to lose it." An adroit movement, quick as a flash, and the pin was in his possession. He timed the movement just as the cars reached a way station, and he instantly rose, with the intention of leaving the car. But he reckoned without his host. As he rose to his feet his companion dashed the handkerchief from his face, rose also, and clutched him by the arm. "Not so fast, Mr. Denton," he said, in a tone different from his former one. "You've made a little mistake." "Let go, then!" said Denton. "I am going to get out." "No, you are not. You are going back to Chicago as my prisoner." "Who are you?" demanded Denton, startled. The red-headed man laughed. "I am Pierce, the detective," he said. "We have long wanted to get hold of you, and I have succeeded at last, thanks to the diamond pin. By the way, the diamond is false--a capital imitation, but not worth over ten dollars. You may as well give it up." "Is this true?" asked Denton, his face showing his mortification. "You can rely upon it." "I'll buy it of you. I'll give you twenty dollars for it." "Too late, my man. You must go back with me as a prisoner. Suppose we take off our wigs. My hair is no more red than yours." He removed his wig, and now, in spite of his skin, which had been stained, Denton recognized in him a well-known detective, whose name was a terror to evil-doers. "It's all up, I suppose," he said bitterly. "I don't mind the arrest so much as the being fooled and duped." "It's diamond cut diamond--ha! ha!" said the detective--"or, we'll say, red-head _versus_ red-head." When Denton reached Chicago he became a guest of the city--an honor he would have been glad to decline. CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE MEETING AT LINCOLN PARK. For weeks Oliver and his mother had lived in the same city, yet never met. Each believed the other to be dead; each had mourned for the other. No subtle instinct led either to doubt the truth of the sad reports which, for base ends, Mr. Kenyon had caused to be circulated. But for her unhappy domestic troubles, Mrs. Conrad (for she had assumed the name of her first husband) was happily situated. Mrs. Graham was bound to her by the devoted care which she had taken of the little Florette. Indeed, the bereaved woman had come to love the little girl almost as if she were her own, and had voluntarily assumed the constant care of her, though regarded as a guest in the house. Mr. Graham was very wealthy, and his house, situated on the Boulevard, was as attractive as elegance and taste, unhampered by a regard for expense, could make it. A spacious, well-appointed chamber was assigned to Mrs. Conrad, and she lived in a style superior to which she had been accustomed. Surely it was a fortunate haven into which her storm-tossed bark had drifted. If happiness could be secured by comfort or luxury, then she would have been happy. But neither comfort nor luxury can satisfy the heart, and it was the heart which, in her case, had suffered a severe wound. One day, as Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Conrad sat together, the little Florette in the arms of the latter, Mrs. Graham said: "I am afraid you let that child burden you, Mrs. Conrad. She never gives you a moment to yourself." Mrs. Conrad smiled sadly. "I don't wish to have a moment to myself. When I am alone, and with nothing to occupy me, I give myself up to sad thoughts of the happiness I once enjoyed." "I understand," said Mrs. Graham gently, for she was familiar with Mrs. Conrad's story. "I can understand what it must be to lose a cherished son." "If he had only been spared to me I believe I could bear without a murmur the loss of fortune, and live contentedly in the deepest poverty." "No doubt; but would that be necessary? Certainly your husband has no claim to the fortune, which he withholds from you." "I suppose not." "If you should make the effort you could doubtless get it back." "Probably I could." "You had better let me ask Mr. Graham to select a reliable lawyer whom you could consult with reference to it." Mrs. Conrad shook her head. "Let him have it," she said. "I care nothing for money. As long as you, my dear friend, are content to give me a home I am happier here than I could be with him." "My dear Mrs. Conrad, it would indeed grieve me if anything should take you from us, even if to your own advantage. You see how selfish I am? But I can't bear to think that that brutal husband of yours is enjoying your money, and thus reaping the benefit of his bad deeds." "Sometimes I feel so," Mrs. Conrad admitted. "If Oliver were alive I should feel more like asserting my rights, but now all ambition has left me. If I should institute proceedings I should be compelled to return to New York, where everything would remind me of my sad loss. No, my dear friend, your advice is no doubt meant for the best, but I prefer to leave Mr. Kenyon in ignorance of my whereabouts and to keep away from his vicinity. You don't want me to go away, Florette, do you?" "Don't doe away," pleaded the little girl, putting her arms round Mrs. Conrad's neck. "You little darling!" said Mrs. Conrad, returning the embrace. "I have something to live for while you love me." "I love you so much," said the child. "I don't know but what I shall become jealous," said Mrs. Graham playfully. "Go and tell your mamma that you love her best," said Mrs. Conrad. She felt that a mother's claim was first, beyond all others. Nothing would have induced her to come between Florette and the affection which she owed to her mother. Little Florette ran to her mother and climbed in her lap. "I love you best, mamma," she said, "but I love my other mamma, too." "And quite right, my dear child," said Mrs. Graham, with a bright smile. "It was but in jest, Mrs. Conrad. No mother who deserves her child's love need fear rivalry. Florette's heart is large enough and warm enough to love us both." Mrs. Conrad rejoiced in the liberty to love Florette and to be loved by her, and if ever she forgot her special cause of sorrow it was when she had the little girl in her arms. "I have a favor to ask of you, Mrs. Conrad," said Mrs. Graham, a little later. "It is granted already." "This afternoon I want to pay some calls. Will you be willing to go out with Florette?" "Most certainly. I shall be glad to do so." "I am sorry I cannot place the carriage at your disposal, as I should like to use it myself." "Oh, we can manage without it. Can't we, Florette?" "Let us yide in the horse-cars," said the little girl. "I like to yide in the cars better than in mamma's carriage." "It shall be as you like, Florette," said Mrs. Conrad. Florette clapped her little hands. Accustomed to ride in the carriage, it was a change and variety to her to ride in the more democratic conveyance, the people's carriage. Mrs. Conrad, intent on amusing her little charge, decided to take her to Lincoln Park, in the northern division of the city. This is a beautiful pleasure-ground, comprising over two hundred acres, with fine trees, miniature lakes and streams, and is a favorite resort for children and their guardians, especially on Saturday afternoons, when there are open-air concerts. It was a bright, sunny day, and even Mrs. Conrad felt her spirits enlivened as she descended from the cars, and, entering the park, mingled with the gay throngs who were giving themselves up to enjoyment. Little Florette wanted to go to the lake, and her companion yielded to her request. It was early autumn. The trees had lost none of their full, rich foliage, and the lawns were covered with soft verdure. Little Florette laughed and clapped her hands with childish hilarity. Mrs. Conrad sat down on the grass, while Florette ran hither and thither as caprice dictated. "Don't go far away, Florette," said Mrs. Conrad. "No, I won't," said the child. But a child's promises are soon forgotten. She ran to the lake, and while standing on the brink managed to tumble in. It was not deep, yet for a little child there was danger. Florette screamed, and Mrs. Conrad, hearing her cry, sprang to her feet in dismay. But Florette found a helper. Oliver had strayed out to Lincoln Park like the rest in search of enjoyment, and was standing close at hand when the little girl fell into the lake. It was the work of an instant to plunge in and rescue the little girl. Then he looked about to find out to whom he should yield her up. His eyes fell upon Mrs. Conrad hastening to her young charge. As yet she had not noticed Oliver. She only saw Florette. Oliver's heart gave a great bound. Could it be his mother--his mother whom he believed dead--or was it only a wonderful resemblance? "Mother!" he exclaimed, almost involuntarily. At that word Mrs. Conrad turned her eyes upon him. She, too, was amazed, and something of awe crept over her as she looked upon one whom she thought a tenant of the tomb. "Oliver!" she said wistfully, and in an instant he was folded in her arms. "Then it is you, mother, and you are not dead!" exclaimed Oliver joyfully, kissing her. "Did you think me dead, then? Mr. Kenyon wrote me that you were dead." "Mr. Kenyon is a scoundrel, mother; but I can forgive him--I can forgive everybody, since you are alive." "God is indeed good to me. I will never murmur again," ejaculated Mrs. Conrad, with heartfelt gratitude. "But, mother, I don't understand. How came you here--in Chicago?" "Come home with me, Oliver, and you shall hear. My little Florette's clothes are wet, and I must take her home immediately." A cab was hired, for delay might be dangerous. On the way Mrs. Conrad and Oliver exchanged confidences. Oliver's anger was deeply stirred by the story of his mother's incarceration in a mad-house. "I take back what I said. I won't forgive Mr. Kenyon after that!" he said. "He shall bitterly repent what he has done!" CHAPTER XXXIX. THE COMMON ENEMY. Mrs. Graham heartily sympathized in the joy of the mother and son, who, parted by death, as each supposed, had come together so strangely. "You look ten years younger, Mrs. Conrad," she declared. "I never saw such a transformation." "It is joy that has done it, my dear friend. I was as one without hope or object in life. Now I have both." "Your husband has your fortune yet." "I care not for that. Oliver is more to me than money." "Thank you, mother," said Oliver; "but we must be practical, too. I have learned that money is a good thing to have. Mr. Kenyon has been led to wrong us, and make us unhappy, by his greed for money. We will punish him by depriving him of it." "I quite agree with you, Oliver," said Mr. Graham, who was present. "Your step-father should be punished in the way he will feel it the most." "What course would you advise me to pursue, Mr. Graham?" asked Oliver. "I am not prepared with an immediate answer. We will speak of it to-morrow." Learning how much kindness Oliver had received from Nicholas Bundy, Mrs. Conrad invited him to bring his friend with him in the evening, and the invitation was cordially seconded by Mr. Graham. Nicholas was overjoyed to hear of the good fortune of Oliver, but hesitated at first to accept the invitation. "I'm a rough backwoodsman, Oliver," he said. "In my early life I was not so much a stranger to society, but now I shan't know how to behave." "You underrate yourself, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver. "I can promise you won't feel awkward in my mother's society, and Mrs. Graham is very much like her." Nicholas looked doubtful. "You judge me by yourself, my boy," he answered. "Boys adapt themselves to ladies' society easy, but I'm an old crooked stick that don't lay straight with the rest of the pile." "I don't care what you are, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver, with playful imperiousness; "my mother wants to see you, and come you must!" Nicholas Bundy laughed. "Well, Oliver," he said, "things seem turned round, and you have become my guardian. Well, if it must be, it must, but I'm afraid you'll be ashamed of me." "If I am, Mr. Bundy, set me down as a conceited puppy," said Oliver warmly. "Haven't you been my kind and constant friend?" Nicholas looked pleased at Oliver's warm-hearted persistence. "I'll go, Oliver," he said. "Come to think of it, I should like to see your mother." When Nicholas and Oliver entered the elegant Graham mansion, the former looked a little uneasy, but his countenance lighted up when Mrs. Conrad, her face genial with smiles, thanked him warmly for his kindness to her boy. "I couldn't help it, ma'am," he said. "I've got nobody to care for except him, and I hope you'll let me look after him a little still." "I shall never wish to come between you, Mr. Bundy. I am glad that he has found in you a kind and faithful friend. His step-father, as you know, has been his worst enemy and mine. I hoped he would prove a kind and faithful guardian to my boy, but I have been bitterly disappointed." "He's a regular scamp, as far as I can learn," said Nicholas bluntly. "You haven't got a picture of him, have you? I should like to know how the villain looks." "I have," said Oliver. "This morning, in looking over my carpet-bag, I found an inner pocket, in which was a photograph of Mr. Kenyon. I believe Roland once used the bag, and in that way probably it got in." "Have you the picture here?" asked Mr. Bundy. "Here it is," answered Oliver, drawing it from his pocket. Nicholas took it, and as he examined it his face wore a look of amazement. "Who did you say this was?" he asked. "Mr. Kenyon." "Your step-father?" "Yes." "It is very singular," he remarked, in an undertone, his face still wearing the same look of wonder. "What is very singular, Mr. Bundy?" Oliver asked curiously. "I'll tell you," answered Nicholas Bundy slowly. "This picture, which you say is the picture of your step-father, is the picture of Rupert Jones, my early enemy." Both Oliver and his mother uttered exclamations of surprise. "Can this be true, Mr. Bundy?" "There is no doubt about it, ma'am. It is a face I can never forget. There is the same foxy look about the eyes--the same treacherous smile. I should know that face anywhere, and I would swear to it in any court in the United States." "But the name! My step-father's name is Kenyon." "Names are easily changed, Oliver, my boy. The man's real name is Rupert Jones. I don't care what he calls himself now. He's misused us all. He's been my worst enemy, as well as yours, ma'am, and yours, Oliver. Now, I move we both join forces and punish him." "There's my hand, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver. "He's your husband, ma'am," said Nicholas, "What do you say?" "I was mad to marry him; I will never live with him again. I am out of patience with myself when I think that through my means I have brought misfortune upon my son." "I don't look upon it just that way, ma'am," said Bundy. "But for that, I might never have met Oliver or you, and that would have been a great misfortune. He's played a desperate game, but we've got the trump cards in our hand, and we'll take his tricks." "I fear that he may harm you," said Mrs. Conrad. "He is a bad man." "That is true enough, but I think I shall prove a match for him. I've got a little document in my pocket which I think will check-mate him." "What is that?" "A note which he has forged. I picked it up at Kelso." The next day a consultation was held, and it was decided that Oliver and his mother and Mr. Bundy should go on to New York at once, and that hostilities should be initiated against Mr. Kenyon. During the day a note was received from the city prison, to this effect: I have a secret of importance to your young friend, to divulge. Come and see me. DENTON. "Shall you go, Mr. Bundy?" asked Oliver. "Certainly. It is worth while to strengthen our evidence as much as possible." "May I go with you?" "I wish you would. You are the most interested, and it is proper that you should be present." There was no opposition made on the part of the authorities, and Oliver and Mr. Bundy were introduced into the presence of the prisoner. Denton smiled. "You see I'm hauled up for moral repairs," he said coolly. "Well, it's my luck." "Did you have a pleasant return from Kelso, Mr. Denton?" asked Oliver. "So you recognized me?" "Yes, in spite of your red wig!" "Someone else recognized me, too--a detective. That is why I am here. But let us proceed to business." "Go on." "I can give you information of importance touching this boy's step-father." "Perhaps we know it already." "It is hardly likely. His name is not Kenyon. I can tell you his real name." "It is Rupert Jones," said Bundy. "Where the deuce did you learn that?" asked Denton, astonished. "I recognized his picture. Is that all you have to tell us?" "No. I have been in his employ. As his agent, I dogged you." "Prove that to us, and we will give you a hundred dollars." "Make it a hundred and fifty." "Done!" Denton placed in the hands of Nicholas Bundy his letters of instruction from Mr. Kenyon. "They will help our case," said Nicholas. "I think we shall be able to bring our common enemy to terms." CHAPTER XL. THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS. Mr. Kenyon returned from the South baffled in his enquiries about his wife. Henceforth his life was one unceasing anxiety. He had pretended that his wife was dead, and she might at any time return alive to the village. This would place him in a very disagreeable position. He might, indeed, say that she was insane, and that he had been compelled to place her in an asylum. But everybody would ask: "Why did you not say this before? Why report that your wife was dead?" and he would be unprepared with an answer. Indeed, he feared that the discovery of his conduct would make him legally liable to an unpleasant extent. We already know that he had employed Denton to dog the steps of Oliver and Bundy. All at once Denton ceased to communicate with him. For five days not a word had come to him from Chicago. He naturally felt disturbed. "What has got into Denton? Why doesn't he write to me? Can he have betrayed me?" This is what he said to himself one morning as he sat at his desk in the house which had once been his wife's. "If I could only sell this place even at a sacrifice, I would go to Europe, taking Roland with me," he muttered. "Even as it is, perhaps it will be as well." Mr. Kenyon looked at the morning paper, searching for the advertisement of the Cunard Line. "A steamer sails on Saturday," he read, "and it is now Tuesday. I will go to the city to-morrow and engage passage. In Europe I shall be safe. Then if my wife turns up I need not fear her." At this point a servant--one recently engaged--came to the door of his room and informed him that a gentleman wished to see him. "Do you know who it is?" he enquired. "No, sir. I never saw him before." "Bring him up, then; or, stay--is he in the parlor?" "Yes, sir." "I will see him there." Mr. Kenyon came downstairs quite unprepared for the visitor who awaited him. He started back when his glance fell on Oliver. "Why do you come here?" he demanded with a frown. "That is a strange question to ask, Mr. Kenyon. This is the house where I was born. It was built by my father. It ought to be mine." "Indeed!" answered Kenyon, with a sneer. "You know it as well as I do, sir." "I know that the place is mine, and that you are an intruder." "Upon what do you rest your claim, Mr. Kenyon?" asked our hero. "Upon your mother's will, as you know very well." "I don't believe that my mother would make a will depriving me of my rightful inheritance." "I care very little what you believe. The will has been admitted to probate and is in force. I don't think it will do you any good to dispute it." "Where did my mother die, Mr. Kenyon?" demanded Oliver, looking fixedly at his step-father. "Can he have met his mother?" thought Kenyon, momentarily disturbed. But he inwardly decided in the negative. Of course they might meet some day, but then he would be in Europe and out of harm's reach. "You know very well where she died." "Do you object to tell me?" "I object to answering foolish questions. What is your motive in reviving this melancholy subject?" "I want to ask you to have my mother's remains brought to this town and laid beside the body of my father in our family tomb." "He is still in the dark!" thought Mr. Kenyon. "Impossible!" he answered. "That's true enough," thought Oliver. "Have you any other business?" asked his step-father. "I wish you to give me a fair portion of the property which my mother left." Mr. Kenyon smiled disagreeably. He felt his power. "Really, your request is very modest," he answered, "but it can't be complied with." "Mr. Kenyon, do you think it right to deprive me of all share in my father's property?" "You have forfeited it by your misconduct," said his step-father decisively. Just then the door opened, and Roland entered. "Has he come back?" he demanded disagreeably. "He has favored us with a call, Roland," said Mr. Kenyon. "He thought we might be glad to see him." "I wonder he has the face to show himself in this house," said Roland. "Why?" asked Oliver. "Oh, you know why well enough. You are a common thief." "Roland Kenyon, you will see the time when you will regret that insult, and that very soon," said Oliver, with honest indignation. "Oh, shall I? I'm not afraid of you," retorted Roland. "I permit no threats here," said Mr. Kenyon angrily. "He is safe for the present," said Oliver. "Thank you for nothing," said Roland. "Father, how long are you going to let him stay in the house?" "That is not for your father to say, Roland," said Oliver coolly. "What do you mean, you young reprobate?" demanded the step-father angrily. "If you have come here to make a disturbance, you have come to the wrong place, and selected the wrong man. Will you oblige me by leaving the house?" Oliver sat near the window. He saw, though neither of the others did, that a carriage stood at the gate, and that Nicholas Bundy and a New York lawyer were descending from it. The time had now come for a change of tone. "Mr. Kenyon," he said, "My answer is briefly that this house is not yours. I have a better right here than you." "This insolence is a little too much!" exclaimed his step-father, pale with passion. "Leave this house instantly or I will have you put out!" Before there could be an answer the bell rang. Mr. Kenyon put a restraint on himself. "Go out at once," he said, "I have other visitors who require my attention." The door opened, and the lawyer and Mr. Bundy were admitted. To Mr. Kenyon's surprise both nodded to Oliver. It was revealed to him that they were his friends. "Gentlemen," he said, with less courtesy than he would otherwise have shown, "I do not know you. I am occupied, and cannot spare you any time this morning." "We cannot excuse you, Mr. Kenyon," said Nicholas Bundy. "We come here as the friends of this boy, your step-son. My companion is Mr. Brief, a lawyer, and my name is Bundy--Nicholas Bundy." Mr. Kenyon winced at this name. "I don't understand you," he said. "We have no business together. I must request you to excuse me." "Plain words are best," said the lawyer. "Mr. Kenyon, I am authorized to demand your instant relinquishment of the property and estates of the late Mr. Conrad." "In whose favor?" asked Mr. Kenyon, whose manner betrayed agitation. "In favor of Oliver Conrad and his mother." "His mother is dead!" said Kenyon nervously; "and by her will the property is mine." "The will is a forgery." "Take care what you say, sir. I require you to prove it." "I shall prove it by Mrs. Conrad herself." As he spoke, Mrs. Conrad, who had been in the carriage, entered the room. She never spoke to her husband, but sat down quietly, while Roland stared at her, open-mouthed, as at one from the grave. "Father," he exclaimed, "didn't you tell me she was dead?" "She never died, but was incarcerated by your father in an insane asylum, while he forged a will bequeathing him the property," said the lawyer. "Well, Mr. Kenyon, what have you to say?" "Gentlemen, the game is up," said Kenyon sullenly. "I played for high stakes, and have lost. That's all." "You have placed yourself in the power of the wife you have wronged. You could be indicted for forgery and conspiracy. Do you admit that?" "I suppose I must." "What have you to say why we should not so proceed?" "Spare me, and I will go away and trouble you no more." "First, you must render an account of the property in your possession, and make an absolute surrender of it all." "Would you leave me a beggar?" asked Kenyon, in a tone of anguish. "If so, we should only treat you as you treated your step-son. But my client is merciful. She is willing to allow you and your son an annuity of five hundred dollars each, on condition that you leave this neighborhood and do not return to it." "It is small, but I accept," said Mr. Kenyon sullenly. "For your own good, I advise you to go to-day, before your treatment of your wife becomes known in the village," said Mr. Brief. "Call at my office in the city, and business arrangements can be made there." "I am willing," said Kenyon. "Wait a minute, Kenyon," said Nicholas Bundy, "I've got a word of advice. Don't go to Kelso, in Indiana." "Why not?" asked Kenyon mechanically. "Because you look so much like a certain Rupert Jones, who once flourished and forged there, that there might be trouble. I used to know Rupert Jones myself, and he did me an injury. You remember that. I have wanted to be revenged for years, but I am satisfied now. Once you were up and I was down. Now it's the other way. I am rich, and when I die, that boy"--pointing to Oliver--"is my heir." Roland looked as if a thunderbolt had fallen. He had never been aware of his father's perfidy before. He had himself acted meanly, but at that moment Oliver pitied him. "Roland," said he, "I once thought I should enjoy this moment, but I don't. I wish you good luck. Will you take my hand?" Roland's thin lips compressed. He hesitated, but hate prevailed. "No," he answered. "I won't take your hand. I hate you!" "I am sorry for it," said Oliver. "I am glad you won't be unprovided for, and won't suffer. If ever you feel differently, come to me." Mr. Kenyon and Roland left the house together, and took the first train for the city. They called at the office of Mr. Brief, and the final arrangements were concluded. Oliver and his mother came back to their own, and Nicholas Bundy came to live with them. Oliver concluded his preparations for college, where in due time he graduated. Three years later Mr. Kenyon died, by a strange coincidence, in an insane asylum. Then Roland, chastened by suffering and privation, for his father had squandered their joint allowance on drink, and many times he had fasted for twenty-four hours together, came back to his old home, and sought a reconciliation with those he had once hated. He was generously received, a mercantile position was found for him, his old allowance was doubled, and he grew to like Oliver as much as he had once detested him. If Mrs. Conrad is ever married again it will be to Mr. Bundy, who is her devoted admirer. Oliver has decided to become a lawyer. If he carries out his purpose, he will always be ready to champion the cause of the poor and the oppressed. He is engaged to Carrie Dudley, and the wedding will take place immediately after he is admitted to the bar. The clouds are dispersed, and henceforth, we may hope, his pathway will be lighted by sunshine to THE END. HORATIO ALGER, JR. The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one of their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true, what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr. Alger's books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear. Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book, "Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York." It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a writer then, and Mr. Alger's treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. "Ragged Dick" first appeared in 1868, and ever since then it has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about 200,000 copies of the series have been sold. --"Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls." A writer for boys should have an abundant sympathy with them. He should be able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He should learn to look upon life as they do. Boys object to be written down to. A boy's heart opens to the man or writer who understands him. --From "Writing Stories for Boys," by Horatio Alger, Jr. RAGGED DICK SERIES. 6 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $6.00 Ragged Dick. Fame and Fortune. Mark the Match Boy. Rough and Ready. Ben the Luggage Boy. Rufus and Rose. TATTERED TOM SERIES--First Series. 4 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $4.00 Tattered Tom. Paul the Peddler. Phil the Fiddler. Slow and Sure. TATTERED TOM SERIES--Second Series. 4 vols. $4.00 Julius. The Young Outlaw. Sam's Chance. The Telegraph Boy. CAMPAIGN SERIES. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Frank's Campaign. Paul Prescott's Charge. Charlie Codman's Cruise. LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES--First Series. 4 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $4.00 Luck and Pluck. Sink or Swim. Strong and Steady. Strive and Succeed. LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES--Second Series. 4 vols. $4.00 Try and Trust. Bound to Rise. Risen from the Ranks. Herbert Carter's Legacy. BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES. 4 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $4.00 Brave and Bold. Jack's Ward. Shifting for Himself. Wait and Hope. VICTORY SERIES. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Only an Irish Boy. Victor Vane, or the Young Secretary. Adrift in the City. FRANK AND FEARLESS SERIES. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Frank Hunter's Peril. The Young Salesman. Frank and Fearless. GOOD FORTUNE LIBRARY. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Walter Sherwood's Probation. The Young Bank Messenger. A Boy's Fortune. HOW TO RISE LIBRARY. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Jed, the Poorhouse Boy. Lester's Luck. Rupert's Ambition. COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. Neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. He stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity. The Jack Hazard series of stories, published in the late _Our Young Folks_, and continued in the first volume of _St. Nicholas_, under the title of "Fast Friends," is no doubt destined to hold a high place in this class of literature. The delight of the boys in them (and of their seniors, too) is well founded. They go to the right spot every time. Trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man, too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful manner. Apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to all young readers, they have great value on account of their portraitures of American country life and character. The drawing is wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. The constable, Sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we find anything better than Miss Wansey, and Mr. P. Pipkin, Esq. The picture of Mr. Dink's school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little Stephen Treadwell, "Step Hen," as he himself pronounced his name in an unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his lesson in school. On the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to do.--_Scribner's Monthly._ JACK HAZARD SERIES. 6 vols. By J. T. TROWBRIDGE $7.25 Jack Hazard and His Fortunes. The Young Surveyor. Fast Friends. Doing His Best. A Chance for Himself. Lawrence's Adventures. CHARLES ASBURY STEPHENS. This author wrote his "Camping Out Series" at the very height of his mental and physical powers. "We do not wonder at the popularity of these books; there is a freshness and variety about them, and an enthusiasm in the description of sport and adventure, which even the older folk can hardly fail to share."--_Worcester Spy._ "The author of the Camping Out Series is entitled to rank as decidedly at the head of what may be called boys' literature."--_Buffalo Courier._ CAMPING OUT SERIES. By C. A. STEPHENS. All books in this series are 12mo. with eight full page illustrations. Cloth, extra, 75 cents. CAMPING OUT. As Recorded by "Kit." "This book is bright, breezy, wholesome, instructive, and stands above the ordinary boys' books of the day by a whole head and shoulders."--_The Christian Register_, Boston. LEFT ON LABRADOR; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE SCHOONER YACHT "CURLEW." As Recorded by "Wash." "The perils of the voyagers, the narrow escapes, their strange expedients, and the fun and jollity when danger had passed, will make boys even unconscious of hunger."--_New Bedford Mercury._ OFF TO THE GEYSERS; OR THE YOUNG YACHTERS IN ICELAND. As Recorded by "Wade." "It is difficult to believe that Wade and Read and Kit and Wash were not live boys, sailing up Hudson Straits, and reigning temporarily over an Esquimaux tribe."--_The Independent_, New York. LYNX HUNTING: From Notes by the Author of "Camping Out." "Of _first quality_ as a boys' book, and fit to take its place beside the best."--_Richmond Enquirer._ FOX HUNTING. As Recorded by "Read." "The most spirited and entertaining book that has as yet appeared. It overflows with incident, and is characterized by dash and brilliancy throughout."--_Boston Gazette._ ON THE AMAZON; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE "RAMBLER." As Recorded by "Wash." "Gives vivid pictures of Brazilian adventure and scenery."--_Buffalo Courier._ THE RENOWNED STANDARD JUVENILES BY EDWARD S. ELLIS Edward S. Ellis is regarded as the later day Cooper. His books will always be read for the accurate pen pictures of pioneer life they portray. LIST OF TITLES DEERFOOT SERIES Hunters of the Ozark. The Last War Trail. Camp in the Mountains. LOG CABIN SERIES Lost Trail. Footprints in the Forest. Camp Fire and Wigwam. BOY PIONEER SERIES Ned in the Block-House. Ned on the River. Ned in the Woods. THE NORTHWEST SERIES Two Boys in Wyoming. Cowmen and Rustlers. A Strange Craft and Its Wonderful Voyage. BOONE AND KENTON SERIES Shod with Silence. In the Days of the Pioneers. Phantom of the River. WAR CHIEF SERIES Red Eagle. Blazing Arrow. Iron Heart, War Chief of the Iroquois. THE NEW DEERFOOT SERIES Deerfoot in the Forest. Deerfoot on the Prairie. Deerfoot in the Mountains. TRUE GRIT SERIES Jim and Joe. Dorsey, the Young Inventor. Secret of Coffin Island. GREAT AMERICAN SERIES Teddy and Towser; or, Early Days in California. Up the Forked River. COLONIAL SERIES An American King. The Cromwell of Virginia. The Last Emperor of the Old Dominion. FOREIGN ADVENTURE SERIES Lost in the Forbidden Land. River and Jungle. The Hunt of the White Elephant. PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE SERIES The Forest Messengers. The Mountain Star. Queen of the Clouds. ARIZONA SERIES Off the Reservation; or, Caught in an Apache Raid. Trailing Geronimo; or, Campaigning with Crook. The Round-Up; or, Geronimo's Last Raid. OTHER TITLES IN PREPARATION PRICE $1.00 PER VOLUME Sold separately and in set Complete Catalogue of Famous Alger Books, Celebrated Castlemon Books and Renowned Ellis Books mailed on application. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PHILADELPHIA, PA. Transcriber's Notes Italics are denoted by _underscore_. Minor punctuation errors corrected: added several periods, removed extraneous quotes. Occasional inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained. A few instances of exclamation points at the end of questions have been retained. P41: "immiment" corrected to "imminent" P93: "loyality" corrected to "loyalty" P187: added "you": "I hope you are well, Carrie" P214: duplicated word removed 'was' P254: "gnardian" replaced with "guardian" P285: "power?": corrected to "power!" P289: "Gave a thousand dollars for it?" corrected to "Gave a thousand dollars for it!" P289: Speech marks removed from "And two thousand..." and "He doesn't know....", retained around "How long have you had it?" 
28123	----	THE SCARLET FEATHER [Illustration: THERE WAS SOMETHING MAGNETIC ABOUT THIS MAN WHOM SHE FEARED AND TRIED TO HATE.--Page 201] THE SCARLET FEATHER BY HOUGHTON TOWNLEY Author of "The Bishop's Emeralds" ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILL GREFÉ NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1909 BY W. J. WATT & COMPANY _Published June, 1909_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I The Sheriff's Writ 9 II The Check 21 III The Dinner at the Club 33 IV Dora Dundas 39 V Debts 50 VI A Kinship Something Less Than Kind 66 VII Good-bye 82 VIII A Tiresome Patient 89 IX Herresford is Told 93 X Hearts Ache and Ache Yet Do Not Break 102 XI A House of Sorrow 117 XII A Difficult Position 125 XIII Dick's Heroism 135 XIV Mrs. Swinton Confesses 147 XV Colonel Dundas Speaks His Mind 168 XVI Mr. Trimmer Comes Home 173 XVII Mrs. Swinton Goes Home 190 XVIII A Second Proposal 195 XIX An Unexpected Telegram 204 XX The Wedding Day Arranged 221 XXI Dick's Return 226 XXII The Blight of Fear 237 XXIII Dora Sees Herresford 249 XXIV Dick Explains to Dora 262 XXV Tracked 280 XXVI Mrs. Swinton Hears the Truth 288 XXVII Ormsby Refuses 297 XXVIII The Will 307 XXIX A Public Confession 320 XXX Flight 333 XXXI Dora Decides 340 XXXII Home Again 348 XXXIII The Scarlet Feather 353 THE SCARLET FEATHER THE SCARLET FEATHER CHAPTER I THE SHERIFF'S WRIT The residence of the Reverend John Swinton was on Riverside Drive, although the parish of which he was the rector lay miles away, down in the heart of the East Side. It was thus that he compromised between his own burning desire to aid in the cleansing of the city's slums and the social aspirations of his wife. The house stood on a corner, within grounds of its own, at the back of which were the stables and the carriage-house. A driveway and a spacious walk led to the front of the mansion; from the side street, a narrow path reached to the rear entrance. A visitor to-night chose this latter humble manner of approach, for the simple reason that this part of the grounds lay unlighted, and he hoped, therefore, to pass unobserved through the shadows. The warm, red light that streamed from an uncurtained French window on the ground floor only deepened the uncertainty of everything. The man stepped warily, closing the gate behind him with stealthy care, and crept forward on tiptoe to lessen the sound of the crunching gravel beneath his heavy shoes. It was an undignified entry for an officer of the law who carried his authorization in his hand; but courage was not this man's strong point. His fear was lest he should meet tall, stalwart Dick Swinton, who, on a previous occasion of a similar character, had forcibly resented what he deemed an unwarrantable intrusion on the part of a shabby rascal. The uncurtained window now attracted the attention of the sheriff's officer, and he peered in. It was the rector's study. The rector himself was seated with his back toward the window, at his desk, upon which were piled account-books and papers in hopeless confusion. A shaded lamp stood upon the centre of the table, and threw a circle of light which included the clergyman's silver-gray hair, his books, and a figure by the fireside--a handsome woman resplendent in jewels and wearing a low-cut, white evening gown--Mary Swinton, the rector's wife. The room was paneled, and the shadows were deep, relieved by the glint of gilt on the bindings of the books that filled the shelves on the three sides. The fireplace was surmounted by a carved mantel, upon which stood two gilt candelabra and a black statuette. The walls were burdened by scarce a single picture, and the red curtains at the windows were only half-drawn. On looking in, the impression given was one of luxury and of artistic refinement, an ideal room for a winter's night, a place for retirement, peace and repose. Mrs. Swinton sat in her own particular chair by the fireside--a most comfortable tub of a chair--and reclined with her feet outstretched upon a stool, smoking a cigarette. Her graceful head was thrown back, and, as she toyed with the cigarette, displaying the arm of a girl and a figure slim and youthful, it was difficult to believe that this woman could be the mother of a grown son and daughter. Her brown hair, which had a glint of gold in it, was carefully dressed, and crowned with a thin circlet of diamonds. Her shapely little head was poised upon a long, white throat rising from queenly shoulders. She looked very tall as she lounged thus with her feet extended and her head thrown back, watching the smoke curl from her full, red lips. Opposite her, deep in an armchair, and scarcely visible behind a large fashion journal, sat Netty Swinton, her daughter, a girl of nineteen, a mere slip of a woman. The pet name for Netty was, "The Persian," because she somewhat resembled a Persian cat in her ways, always choosing the warmest and most comfortable chairs, and curling up on sofas, quite content to be quiet, only asking to be left alone and caressed at rare intervals by highly-esteemed persons. From the ladies' gowns, it was obvious that they were going somewhere; and, by the rector's ruffled hair and shabby smoking-jacket, that he would be staying at home, busy over money affairs--the eternal worry of this household. The rector was even now struggling with his accounts. The clever man seemed to be a fool before the realities of life as set down in numerals. As a young man, he had been a prodigy. People then spoke of him as a future bishop, and he filled fashionable churches of the city with the best in the land. They came to hear his sensational sermons, and they patted him on the back approvingly in their drawing-rooms. He was immensely popular. Perhaps his wonderful masculine beauty was responsible for much of the interest he excited. It certainly captivated Mary Herresford, a girl of nineteen, who was among those bewitched. She adored the young preacher, whom later she married secretly; and the red flame of their passionate love had never died down. The wealthy father of the bride had only forgiven them to the extent of presenting his daughter with the property on Riverside Drive, where they had since made their home, to the considerable inconvenience of the rector himself. Soon after the marriage, John Swinton had taken the rectorship of St. Botolph's, that great church planned for the betterment of the most hopeless slums. The clergyman's admirers believed that this was but the beginning of magnificent achievements. On the contrary, the result threatened disaster to his good-standing before the world. The population of the parish grew in poverty, rather than in grace. The rector was a man of ideals, generous to a fault. His means were small; his bounty was great. The income enjoyed by his wife did not count. Old Herresford allowed his daughter only sufficient for her personal needs, which were, naturally, rather extravagant, for she had been reared and had lived always in the atmosphere of wealth. Matters were further complicated by the fact that Mrs. Swinton, though she adored her husband, hated his parish cordially. She belonged to the aristocracy, and she had no thought of tearing herself from the life with which she was familiar, while her husband, on the contrary, doted on his parish and avoided, so far as he might, the company of the frivolous idlers who were his wife's companions. Husband and wife, therefore, agreed to differ, and to be satisfied with love. After their son was born, the wife drifted back to her old life, and was a most welcome figure in the gayest society. Yet, no scandal was ever associated with her name, and none sneered at her love for her husband. The rector, when he yielded to her persuasions and accompanied her on social excursions, was as welcome as she; and everybody proclaimed Mrs. Swinton a clever woman to be able to live two entirely-different lives at the same time, with neither overlapping. At forty, she was still young and beautiful, with a ripe maturity that only the tender crow's feet about the corners of the eyes betrayed to the inquisitive. She set the pace for many a younger woman, and was far more active than prim little Netty, her daughter. Needless to say, she was adored by her son, to whom she was both mother and chum. Dick Swinton was like his father, the same gentlemanly spirit combined with a somewhat unpractical mind, which turned to the beautiful and the good, and refused to admit the ugliness of unpleasant facts. Indeed, the young man's position was even more awkward than his father's. As grandson and heir of Richard Herresford much was expected of him. Everybody did not know that the rich old man was such a miser that, after paying for his grandson's education, at his daughter's persuasion, he allowed him only a thousand dollars a year, and persistently refused to disburse this sum until it was dragged from him by Mrs. Swinton. The rector turned over the leaves of the account-books, and sighed heavily. "It's no use," he cried, at last. "I can't make them up. They are in a hopeless muddle. I know, though, that I can't raise a thousand cents, much less a thousand dollars, and the builder threatens to make me bankrupt, if I don't pay at once." "Bankrupt, John!" his wife murmured, languidly raising her brows. "You are exaggerating." "No, my dear. The truth must be faced. Pressure is being applied in every direction. I signed a note, making myself security for the building of the Mission-room. And here are other threats of suits. I already have judgments against me, that they may try to satisfy at any moment. Why, even our furniture may be seized! And this man declares that he will make me bankrupt. It's a horrible position--bad enough for any man, fatal for a clergyman. We've staved off the crash for about as long as we can.--And I'm tired of it all!" He flung the account-book from him, and, brushing his gray hair from his forehead in an agitated fashion, started up. His brow was moist, and his hand trembled. "Only a matter of a thousand dollars, John?" cried Mrs. Swinton, after another puff from her cigarette. Then, glancing at the clock, she added: "What a time they are getting the carriage ready! We shall be late. Netty, go and see why they are so long." Netty slipped away. "Mary, you must be late for once," cried the disturbed husband, striding over to her. "We must talk this matter out." She smiled up at him bewitchingly, and he melted, for he adored her still. "Father will have to pay the money," she said, rising lazily and facing him--as tall as he, and wonderfully graceful. She put her hand upon his shoulder. "Yes, John, I'll go to father once more. It's really shameful! He absolutely promised you a thousand dollars for that Mission Hall, and then afterward refused to pay it." "Yes, of course, he did. That was why I became responsible. But you know what his promises are." "His promises should be kept like those of other men. It is wicked to give money with one hand, and then take it away with the other. He allowed you to compromise yourself in the expectation of this unusual lavishness on his part; and now he repudiates the whole thing, like the miser that he is." "Hush, darling! He is a very old man." "Oh, yes, it's all very well for you to find excuses for him. You would find excuses for Satan himself, John. You are far too lenient. Just think what father would say, if you were to be made bankrupt. Can't you hear his delighted, malevolent chuckles? Oh, it is too terrible, too outrageous! You know what everyone would say--that you had been speculating, or gambling, just because you dabbled a little in mines a few years ago." "A thousand dollars would only delay the crash. We owe at least ten times as much as that," groaned the unhappy man, sinking into the chair his wife had just vacated. He rested his elbows on his knees, and his throbbing head in his hands. "They'll have to find another rector for St. Botolph's. I've tried hard to satisfy everybody. I've begged and worked. We've had bazaars, concerts, collections, everything. But people give less and less, and they want more and more. The poor cry louder and louder." "John, you are too generous. It's monstrous that father should cling to his money as he does. He has nobody to leave it to but us--in fact, it is as much ours as his. Yet, he cripples us at every turn. I have almost to go down on my knees for my own allowance--" "And, when you get it, dearest, I have to borrow half. I'm a wretched muddler. I used to think great things of myself once, but now--well, they'd better make me bankrupt, and have done with it. At least, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that, if I have robbed the rich man and the trader, it has been to relieve the poor. Why, my own clothes are so shabby that I am ashamed to face the sunlight." It did not for one moment occur to his generous nature to glance at the costly garments of his beautiful wife, who wanted for nothing, who spent her days in a round of pleasure. He took her hand as she stood beside him, and raised it to his lips. "I have been a miserable failure as a husband for you, Mary," he said. "You remember that they used jestingly to call you the bishop's wife, and said that you would never regret having married a parson. Well, I really thought in those days that I should make up for the disparity in our relative positions, and raise you to an eminence worthy of you." "Poor old John!" laughed his wife, smoothing his gleaming, silvery hair. "It's not your fault. Father ought to have done more. He's a perfect beast. He is a miser, mean, deceitful, avaricious, spiteful, everything that's wicked. He is ruining you, and he will ruin Dick, too. He threatens that, when he dies, we may find all his wealth left to charities. Charities, indeed, when we have to pinch and screw to satisfy insolent tradesmen, and the everlasting hunger of a lot of cringing, crawling loafers and vagabonds who won't work!" "Hush, hush, my darling! Don't let's get on that topic to-night. We never agree as to some things, and we never shall." "There's talk, too, of Dick's going to the front. And that will cost money. Anyway, I shall see father to-morrow. You must write to that wretched builder man, and tell him he will have his money. I'll get it somehow, if I have to pawn my jewels." "Your father has repeatedly informed you, dearest," the rector objected, "that your jewels do not really belong to you--that he has only loaned them to you." "Yes, that's a device of his, although they belonged to my mother. At any rate, write the man a sharp letter." "Very well, my dear," replied the rector, wearily, and he rose, and walked with bowed head toward his desk. "I'll say that I hope to pay him." The two had been through scenes like this before, but never had the situation hitherto been so desperate as to-night. Netty, soft-footed and soft-voiced, returned to announce that the carriage was ready. Mrs. Swinton thereupon threw away her cigarette, and gathered up her train. For one moment, she bent over her husband's shoulder, and pressed her soft, fair cheek to his. "Don't look so worried, dear," she murmured. "What's a thousand dollars! Why, I might win that much at bridge, to-night." "Don't, darling, don't!" the husband groaned, distractedly. Any mention of bridge was as salt upon an open wound to him. He knew that his wife played for high stakes among her own set--indeed, every parishioner of St. Botolph's knew it; it was a whispered scandal. Yet, her touch thrilled him, and he was as wax in her fingers. She spent her life in an exotic atmosphere, but he knew that there was no evil in her nature. There were weaknesses, doubtless; but who was weaker than he, and where is the woman in the world who is at once beautiful and strong? The man without, lurking beside the window, watched the departure of the mother and daughter. He remained within the shadow until the yellow lights of the carriage had disappeared through the gates; then, he came forward, just as Rudd, the manservant, was closing the front door. "What, you again?" gasped the servant. "Yes. It's all right, I suppose? He ain't here?" "The young master?" Rudd inquired, with a grin. "No. And it's lucky for you that he ain't." "Parson in?" came the curt query. "Yes," Rudd answered, reluctantly. "Well, tell him I'm here," the deputy commanded, with a truculent air. "He'll want to see me, I guess. Anyhow, he'd better!" CHAPTER II THE CHECK On the following morning, after breakfasting in her own room, Mrs. Swinton came downstairs, to find the house seemingly empty. She was not sorry to be left alone, for she was feeling out of sorts with all the world. In the bright daylight, she looked a little older; her fair skin showed somewhat faded and wan. She was nervously irritable just now, for last night she had lost three hundred dollars at bridge. The embarrassment over money filled her with wretchedness. There remained no resource save to appeal to her father for the amount needed. She strolled out with the intention of ordering Rudd to bring around the carriage; but, as she stepped upon the porch, she stopped short at sight of a man who was sprawled in a chair there, smoking a pipe. "What is it you want?" she demanded haughtily, annoyed by the fellow's obvious lack of deference, for he had not risen or taken the pipe from his mouth. "I've explained to the gent, ma'am, and he's gone out to get the money," was the prompt answer. "You mean, my husband?" "Yes, the parson, ma'am. I come to levy--execution. You understand, ma'am." Further questions dried up in her throat. The humiliation was too great to allow parley. Such an advent as this had been threatened jestingly many times. But the one actual visit of a like sort in the past had been kept a secret from her. Now, in the face of the catastrophe, she felt herself overwhelmed. Nevertheless, the necessity for instant action was imperative. She went back into the house, and rang for her maid to take the message to Rudd. Then, she dressed hurriedly for the ride to her father's house. Her hands were trembling, and tears streamed down her cheeks. At intervals, she muttered in rage against her father, whom at this moment she positively hated. For that matter, old Herresford, by reason of his unscrupulous operations in augmenting his enormous fortune, was one of the most cordially hated men in the country. Of late years, however, he had abandoned aggressive undertakings, and rested content with the wealth he had already acquired. Invalidism had been the cause of this change. The result of it had been to develop certain miserly instincts in the man until they became the dominant force of his life. By reason of this stinginess, his daughter was made to suffer so much that she abominated her father. It was a long time now since he had ceased to be a familiar figure in the world. For some years, he had been confined to his bedchamber at Asherton Hall, his magnificent estate on the Hudson. There, from a window, he could survey a great part of his gardens, and watch his gardeners at their labors. With a pair of field-glasses, he could search every wooded knoll of the park for a half-mile to the river, in the hope of catching some fellow idling, whom he could dismiss. In his senseless economies, he had discharged servant after servant, until now his stately house was woefully ill-kept, and even his favorite gardens were undermanned. On this morning of his daughter's meeting with the sheriff's officer, he was sitting up in his carved ebony bedstead. A black skull-cap was drawn over his little head, and the long, white hair fell to his shoulders, where it curled up at the ends. His sunken eyes gleamed like a hawk's, and his dry, parchment skin was stretched tightly over the prominent bones. His nose was hooked, and his lips sunken over toothless gums--for he would not afford false teeth. His hands were as small as a woman's, but claw-like. On a round table by his bed stood the field-glasses with which he watched his gardeners, and woe betide man who permitted a single leaf to lie on the perfect lawns, which stretched away on the plateau before the house. The chamber in which the bed was set was lofty and bare. A few costly rugs were scattered on the highly-polished floor, and the general effect was funereal, for the ebony bedstead had a French canopy of black satin embroidered with gold. By the window stood his writing-desk, at which his steward and his secretary sat when they had business with him; and on the table by the window in the bay, was a bowl of flowers, the only bright spot of color in the room. His daughter came unannounced, as she always did. He was warned of her approach by the frou-frou of her silk, an evidence of refined femininity that for a long time past had been absent from Asherton Hall. The old man grunted at the sound, and stared straight ahead out of the window. He did not turn until she stood by his bedside, and placed her gloved hand upon his cold, bony fingers. "Father, I have come to see you." She kissed him on the brow, and his eyes darted an upward look, keen and penetrating as an eagle's. "Then you want something. The usual?" "Yes, father--money." This was an undertaking often embarked upon before, and successfully, but each time with a bitterer spirit and a deeper sense of humiliation. The result of each appeal was worse than the last, the miser's hand tightened upon his gold. She knew that there was no use in beating about the bush with him. During occasional periods of illness, she had acted as his secretary, and was cognizant of his ways and his affairs, and of the immense amount of wealth he was storing up for her son. At least, it seemed impossible that it could be for anyone else, although the old man constantly threatened that not a penny should go to the young scapegrace, as he termed his grandson. He repeatedly prophesied jail and the gallows for the young scamp. "How much is it now?" asked the miser. "A large sum, father," faltered Mrs. Swinton. "A thousand dollars! You know you promised John a thousand dollars toward the building of the Mission Hall." "What!" screamed the old man, in horror. "A thousand dollars! It's a lie." "You did, father. I was here. I heard you promise. John talked to you a long time of what was expected of you, and told you how little you had given--" "Like his insolence." "And you promised a thousand dollars." "A thousand? Nothing of the sort," snarled the miser, scratching the coverlet with hooked fingers--always a sign of irritation with him. "I said one, not one thousand." She knew all his tricks. To avoid payment, he would always promise generously; but, when it came to drawing a check, he whiningly protested that five hundred was five, three hundred three, and so on. "This time, father, it is very urgent. John is in a tight fix. Misfortune has been assailing him right and left, and he is nearly bankrupt." "Ha, ha! Serve him right," chuckled the old man. The words positively rattled in his throat. "I always told you he was a fool. I told you, but you wouldn't listen to me. You insisted upon marrying a sky pilot. Apply up there for help." He pointed to the ceiling. "Father, father, be reasonable. There is a man at our house--a sheriff's officer. Think of it!" "Aha, has it come to that!" laughed the miser. "Now, he will wake up. Now, we shall see!" "Not only that, father. Dick may go away." "What, fleeing from justice?" "No, no, father. He is going to volunteer for service in the war." She commenced to give him details, but he hushed her down. "How much?--How much?" he asked, insultingly. "I told you before that you have no justification for regarding your son as my heir. Who told you that I was going to leave him a penny? He's a pauper, and dependent upon his father, not upon me. I owe him nothing." "Oh, father, father, it is expected of you." "How much?" snapped the old man. "Oh, quite a large sum, father. I want you to advance me some of my allowance, as well. I must have at least two thousand dollars." "What!" he screamed. "Two thousand! Two, you mean. Get me my check-book--get me my check-book." He pointed to the desk. She knew where to find it, and hastened to obey, thinking to rush the matter through. She took the blotting-pad from the desk, and placed it on her father's knees, and brought an inkstand and a pen, which she put into his trembling fingers. "Two thousand, father," she said, gently. "No--two!" he snarled, flashing out at her and positively jabbering in his anger. He filled in the date, and again looked around at her, tauntingly. Then, he wrote the word "Two" on the long line. "Two. Do you understand?" he snarled, thrusting his nose into her face, as she bent over him to hold the blotting-pad. "That's all you'll get out of me." He filled in the figure two below, and straggling noughts for the cents. Then, he paused and addressed her again, emphasizing his remarks with the end of the penholder. "I'll have you understand that this is the last of your borrowing and begging. I am not giving you this money, you understand? I am advancing it on account. Every penny I pay you will be deducted from the little legacy I leave you at my death." She wearily waited for him to sign, to get it over; for there was nothing to be done when he was in a mood like this. Perhaps, on the morrow, he would be more rational. She replaced the blotting-pad, and dried the check in mechanical fashion; but her face was white with anger. She folded the useless slip, and put it in her bag. "Have you no gratitude?" cried the old horror from the bed. "Can't you say, thank you?" "Thank you, father," she answered, coldly; "I am tired of your jests," and, without another word, she swept from the room. "Two!" chuckled the old man in his throat, "two!" On arriving at the rectory, she found the man reading a paper in the hall, and the rector not yet returned. She guessed that her husband had gone on a heart-breaking expedition to raise money. She wished to ask the fellow the amount of the debt for which the execution was granted, but could not bring herself to put the question. She went to her husband's study, guessing that he would come there on his return, and, seating herself in his armchair, leaned her elbows on the account-books and burst into tears. After all, how little John had gained by marrying her! She could do nothing for him; she was powerless even to help her own son, who was compelled to adopt miserable subterfuges and swallow his pride on every occasion. She opened her purse and took out the check, intending to destroy it in her rage, but she was stopped by the miserable thought that, after all, every penny was of vital importance just now. She could not afford the luxury of its destruction. "My own father!" she cried bitterly, as she spread out the check before her. "Two dollars!" Then, she noticed that the word "two" had nothing after it on the long line, and that the "2" below in the square for the numerals was straggling toward the left. It only needed a couple of noughts in her father's hand to put everything right. Two ciphers! They would indeed be ciphers to him, for how could he feel the difference of a few thousands more or less in his immense banking-account? A bedridden old man had no use for money. Indeed, it was impossible that he could know how much he was worth. She had often seen him signing checks by the dozen, groaning over every one. When they were gone, they were out of his mind; and all he troubled about was to ask for the total at the bank, and mumble with satisfaction over the fine, fat figures of the balance. Her face lighted up with a sudden reckless thought. If she added those two ciphers herself with an old, spluttering pen, and added the word "thousand" after the "two," who would be the wiser? Certainly not her father. And the bank would pay without a murmur. She seized a pen, prepared to act upon the impulse, then paused. She knew vaguely that it was a wrong thing to do. But--her own father! Indeed, her own money--for some of his wealth would be hers one day, and that day not very far distant. It was ridiculous to have scruples at such a time. She cleverly filled in the words in a shaky hand, and added the two ciphers. She let the ink dry, and then surveyed her handiwork. How her husband's face would light up when she told him of their good fortune. Two thousand dollars! No, she could not imagine herself facing the rector's gray eyes, and telling him an awful lie. It was bad enough to alter the check. She had heard of people who had been put in prison for altering checks! Dick would take the check to the bank for her, so that she need not face any inquisitive, staring clerks; and, when it was exchanged for notes, she would be able to get rid of the loathly creature sitting in the hall. * * * * * "Who presented this check?" Vivian Ormsby, son of the banker, sat in his private room at Ormsby's Bank, examining a check for two thousand dollars, and a cashier stood at his side. Vivian Ormsby had just looked in at the bank for a few minutes, and he was in a hurry. "Young Mr. Swinton presented it, sir," the cashier explained. Vivian Ormsby's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the check more closely. "Leave it with me," he commanded, "and count out the notes." As soon as he was alone, he went to a cupboard and took out a magnifying glass. "Ye gods! Forgery! Made out to his mother--and yet--the signature seems all right. Of course, the alteration might have been made in Herresford's presence. The simplest thing would be to apply to the old man himself. If the young bounder has altered the figures--well, if he has--then let it go through. It will be a matter for us then, not for Herresford, who wouldn't part with a cent to save his own, much less his daughter's, child." Vivian Ormsby had special reasons for hating Dick Swinton just now, not unconnected with a certain Dora Dundas. Yet, he sent for his cashier, and handed him the check. "Pay it," he directed. Through a glass panel in his room, the banker's son watched the departure of Dick Swinton with considerable satisfaction. Dick was a fine, handsome young fellow, tall, broad-shouldered, and looking twenty-five at least instead of his twenty-two years, with a kindly face, like his father's, brown hair, hazel eyes, and a clean-shaven, sensitive mouth more suited to a girl than to a man. Now, Ormsby smiled sardonically at the unconscious swagger of the young man, and he wondered, too. Indeed, he had more than a suspicion about that check. Everybody knew of his rival's heavy debts, but that he should put his head into the lion's mouth was amazing. Forgery! How easy it would be to discover the fraud presently--when the money was spent, and ere the woman was won. Not now, but presently. CHAPTER III THE DINNER AT THE CLUB Colonel Stone was the possessor of much political and social influence; moreover, he enjoyed considerable wealth; finally, he was flamboyantly and belligerently patriotic. In consequence of his qualities and influence, he conceived the project of raising a company for the war in Cuba, equipping it at his own expense. The War Department accepted his proposition readily enough, for in his years of active service he had acquired an excellent reputation as an officer of ability, and he was still in the prime of life. Rumors of the undertaking spread through his club, although he endeavored to keep the matter secret as long as possible. Unfortunately, he consulted with that military authority, Colonel Dundas, who was unable to restrain his garrulity concerning anything martial. The current report had it that the colonel intended to make his selection of officers from among certain young men of his acquaintance who were serving, or had served, with the National Guard. Among such, now, the interest was keen, for the war spirit was abroad in the land, and the colonel's project seem to offer excellent opportunity to win distinction. And then, at last, Colonel Stone sent invitations to a select few young men to dine with him at his club. The action was regarded as significant, inasmuch as the colonel was not given to this sort of hospitality. Among those to receive the honor of an invitation was Dick Swinton. When the rector's son entered the private dining-room of the club on the night appointed, he found there besides his host five of his acquaintances: Will Ocklebourne, the eldest son of the railway magnate; Vivian Ormsby, who at this time was a captain in the National Guard; Ned Carnaby, the crack polo-player; Jack Lorrimer, a leader in athletics as well as cotillions; and Harry Bent, the owner of the famous racing stud. Without exception, the five, like Dick himself, were splendid specimens of virile youth, and in their appearance amply justified the colonel's choice. Just before the party seated itself at the table, a servant entered with a letter for Dick. He opened it eagerly, and a sprig of forget-me-not fell into his hand. He folded this within the letter, which he had not time at the moment to read. But he understood the message of the flower, for the handwriting on the envelope was that of Dora Dundas. And he sighed a little. The lust of adventure was in his blood, and the war called him. The dinner progressed tamely enough until the dessert was on the table. Then, the colonel arose, and set forth his plans, and called for volunteers to join him in this service to his country. "Some of you--perhaps all--" he concluded, "are willing to go with me. Let such as will stand up." Instantly, Captain Ormsby was on his feet. He stood martially erect, fingering his little, black mustache nervously, his dark eyes gleaming. He was a handsome, slim, dark man of forty, with a slightly Jewish cast of countenance, crimped black hair, parted in the centre, a large, but well-shaped nose, a full, round chin, and a low, white forehead--a face that suggested the Spaniard or the modern Greek Jew.... There came a little outburst of applause from the fellow-guests, a recognition of his promptness in acceptance of the colonel's offer. Then, the others stood up together: Ocklebourne, Carnaby, Lorrimer, Bent--all except Dick Swinton, the rector's son. The group turned expectant eyes on him, awaiting his rising to complete the group. Yet, he sat there with his fellow-officers standing, Captain Ormsby on one side of him, Jack Lorrimer on the other, in the most prominent place in the room, leaning back in his chair, with eyes downcast, and playing with his knife nervously. He seemed ashamed to look up, and was overcome by the unexpected prominence into which he was thrown. He was deathly pale; but his mouth expressed dogged determination. "Not Swinton?" asked the colonel, reproachfully. Dick shook his head smilingly, and was terribly abashed. They waited a few moments longer--moments, during which a girl's face seemed to be looking at Dick with wistful, tender eyes--the same woman that Ormsby loved. And he saw, too, in a blurred mist, a vision of carnage and bloodshed that was horribly unnecessary and unjust. He could not explain all his reasons for evading this opportunity--that he was only just engaged, was in debt, and could not afford the money for his outfit. It needed some courage to sit there and say nothing. "Fill him up a glass of champagne, a stiff one--it will give him some Dutch courage," remarked Captain Ormsby _sotto voce_, but loud enough for the others to hear, and they laughed awkwardly at the implied taunt of cowardice. Burly Jack Lorrimer, who stood by Dick's side and had had quite enough to drink, seized a bottle jocularly; Ormsby took it from him, and, leaning forward, was about to fill Dick's glass, when the young man jumped to his feet. There was the beginning of a luke-warm cheer--arrested instantly, for Dick turned in a fury on Captain Ormsby, and struck him a blow in the face with the flat of his hand that resounded through the room. Then, he kicked his chair back, and strode to the door just behind him. The colonel angrily hushed the murmurs of excitement that ensued, and with considerable tact proceeded to make a short speech to the volunteers as though nothing had happened. The whole scene lasted only fifteen minutes. The ugly incident at the table was with one accord ignored, and the wine was attacked with vigor, everybody drinking everybody else's health. The captain was inwardly satisfied; for had he not succeeded in publicly branding his rival in love as a coward? Dick Swinton went striding home, a prey to the bitterest humiliation. He had allowed his temper to get the better of him, and had disgraced himself in the eyes of his fellows. And the forget-me-not in his pocket! That had had much to do with it, of course. It was a silent appeal from the girl he loved, who had been his own, his very own, for only twenty-four sweet hours. He took out her letter, which he had not yet perused, and read it under a street lamp--the letter of a soldier's daughter, born and reared among soldiers. DEAREST, Of course you must go. Don't consider me. All the others are going. Our secret must remain sacred until your return. Your country calls, and her claim comes even before that of your own darling. Oh, I shall hate the days you are away, but it cannot be helped, can it? Father is already talking about your kit, and he wants you to come and see him that he may advise you what to buy and what to wear.--DORA. He groaned as he realized that this note should have been read earlier. It was too late now. CHAPTER IV DORA DUNDAS Dick Swinton spent a wretched night after his humiliation at the dinner. When he awakened, the sun of spring was shining on the quivering leaves of the trees along the drive. He opened his window and looked out. At the sound of the rattling casement, Rudd, who was at work on the lawn, looked up. Rudd was general factotum--coachman, gardener, footman,--and usually valeted his young master. Now, he hurried upstairs to Mr. Dick's bedroom, where he duly appeared with a pile of letters. "Mrs. Swinton and Miss Netty have breakfasted in their rooms, sir. The rector has gone out. And it's nine o'clock." Dick took the bundle of letters--bills all of them, except two, one of which was addressed in the handwriting of Dora Dundas. Rudd knew the outside of a bill as well as his young master, and had selected the love-letter from the others, and placed it first. When Dick was dressed, he opened the girl's letter, and his face softened: DEAREST, I hear that everything was settled last night, and I must see you this morning. There are many things to be talked of before the dreadful good-bye. I shall be in the Mall, but I can't stay long. Your loving, DORA. "She imagines I'm going," growled Dick, grinding his teeth and thinking of the shameful scene of last night. "Well, I'll show them all that I have the courage of my convictions." But, despite his declarations, his feelings were greatly confused, and, although he would not confess the fact even to himself, he was now consumed with chagrin that he had refused the chance of service. To be branded thus with cowardice was altogether insupportable! And then, while he was in this mood, he opened the other envelope, carelessly. His interest was first aroused by the fact that, as he glanced at it, there was no sign of a letter. A second examination revealed something contained there. Dick put in his fingers, and pulled forth a white feather. For a few seconds, he stared at it in bewilderment, wondering what this thing might mean. But, in the next instant, the significance of it flashed on him. Somewhere, some time, he had read the story of a soldier who was stigmatized by his fellows as a craven in this manner. The presentation of the white feather to him meant that he, Dick Swinton, was a coward. As he realized the truth, the young man was stunned. It seemed to him a monstrous thing that any could so misunderstand. Yet, there was the evidence of his shame before his eyes. He grew white as he tried to imagine what the sender must think of him. And then, presently, in thinking of the sender, he was filled with an overmastering rage against the one who dared thus to impugn his courage. He looked at the envelope, which was addressed in a straggling hand, and was convinced that the writer had disguised the handwriting. But he felt that he had no need of evidence to know who his enemy was. Of his own circle, all were his friends, save only Captain Ormsby. And he had struck Ormsby. This, then, was Ormsby's revenge. After all, it were folly to permit the malevolence of a cad so to distress him. Since he was not a coward, the white feather concerned him not at all. Nevertheless, he was unable to dismiss his annoyance over the incident as completely as he wished, and he breakfasted without appetite. He was still disconsolate when he set out to keep his engagement in Central Park. At five minutes past ten o'clock, there approached the spot where Dick stood waiting in the Mall a very charming girl of scarcely twenty years of age, of medium height, with a pretty, plump form delightfully outlined by the lines of her walking dress. This was of a gray cloth, perfectly cut, but almost military in its severity. Her mouth was small and proud, her eyes gray and solemn, her color high from walking in the chilly air, and her hair of that nondescript brown usually described as fair. Uncommon, yet not sensational; but with a delicate charm that radiated from her like perfume from a flower. At the sight of the lover awaiting her, Dora's placid demeanor departed. Her eyes lighted up and moistened with tenderness. She could not wait for him to join her; she started forward with outstretched hands. "You are not displeased?" she asked, with a blush. "I did so want to see you! Oh, to think that we must part so soon!" "I suppose you've heard all about last night?" asked Dick, hoarsely. "Yes. Mr. Ormsby called to see father for a moment. They talked incessantly about the war, and I overheard a little of their conversation--about last night. How sad for that poor fellow who turned coward, and was shamed before them all. Who was it?" The color fled from Dick's face, and left it white and drawn. "You were wrongly informed. The man was insulted, and there was no question of cowardice about it. He couldn't go, and he wouldn't go." "But who was it? Not Jack Lorrimer or Harry Bent, surely?" "Then, you don't know?" he exclaimed. Something in his face made her heart stand still. Dora could not yet understand that a hideous blunder had been made, that her information came from a tainted source. Ormsby had told her father, in her hearing, of a vulgar scuffle, but her ears had not caught the name of the offender. "Can't you guess who it was they insulted?" cried Dick, bitterly. "It was I. I declined to go. How could I go? You know all about my finances. You know what it costs, the outfit, everything; and, darling, I was only just engaged to the dearest little girl in the world." "Dick!--you?" she cried, looking at him in cold amazement. Then, he knew to his cost what it was to love a soldier's daughter, a girl born in a military camp, and reared among men who regarded the chance of active service as the good fortune of the gods. It had never occurred to her for a moment that Dick would hang back--certainly not on her account--after her loving message. He hastened to explain the circumstances, and was obliged to confess to the girl whom he had only just won a good deal more of the unfortunate state of his family affairs than he had hoped would be necessary. Of course, she was sympathetic, and furiously angry with Vivian Ormsby; but--and there came the rub--of course, he would go now, at all costs. "Well, it was for you I said no," he cried, at last. "But for you I'll say yes. It's not too late. I'll have to swindle somebody to get my outfit, and add another to the long list of debts that are breaking my father's heart; but still--" "But your grandfather, Dick! Surely, only a word to him would be enough. He could not refuse to behave handsomely." "He never behaved handsomely in his life. He's a mean old miser, who will probably fool us all in the end, and leave his money to strangers. But, as it's settled, we need say no more. I suppose I shall see you again before I go--if it matters to you--I suppose you don't care whether I am killed." "Oh, Dick!" "Yes, I'm disappointed. I did hope that you thought the world well lost for love, and that, having braved the inevitable anger of your father in giving yourself to me, you'd show some feeling, and not look forward eagerly to my leaving you. You seem anxious to be rid of me." "Dick! Dick!" cried the girl. "I'm a soldier's daughter. I--" "Oh, pray spare me a repetition of your father's platitudes--I've heard them often enough. I don't know much about the war, but all I've heard has set me against it. But never mind! And now, good-bye, my Spartan sweetheart." He extended his hand, sullenly and coldly. "Hush! And don't be hateful" Dora remonstrated. Then, she added, quickly: "It's more than ever necessary, Dick, now that you are going away, to keep our secret. You mustn't anger your grandfather." "Oh, yes, of course, we'll be discreet. And, if I'm killed--well, nobody will know of our engagement." "Dick, if you died on the field of battle, I should be proud to proclaim to all the world that--" She broke down and sobbed, in spite of some staring passers-by, who saw that there was a lover's quarrel in progress. "There's time enough to talk of my going when I am actually starting," said Dick haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height, and showing an obvious intention to depart in a huff. "Good-bye." "Dick! Don't leave me like that." He was gone; and he left behind him a very wretched girl. As she watched him striding along the walk, she wanted to call him back, and beg him to adhere to his previous decision to stay at home that she might have him always near. When he was out of sight, tears still blurred Dora's vision, and she bowed her head. A strange faintness came over her. She wanted him now. After all, he was her lover, her future husband; his place was by her side. It was folly to send him away into danger. Dora was the daughter of Colonel Dundas, a retired officer of considerable experience. At his club, he was the authority upon everything military. He fairly bristled with patriotism, and his views on the gradual departure of the service "to the dogs, sir," were well advertised, both in print and by word of mouth. "The army is not what it was, sir, and, if we're not careful, we sha'n't have any army at all, sir," was the burden of his platitudes; and his motherless daughter had listened reverently ever since she was born, and believed in him. He had taught her that every self-respecting, manly man should be a soldier. Dick Swinton's equivocal position as the son of a needy clergyman and the very uncertain heir to a great fortune, ruled him out of the reckoning as an eligible bachelor, compared with Jack Lorrimer, Ned Carnaby, Harry Bent, and Vivian Ormsby, all rich men. The miser so frequently advertised the fact that his grandson would not inherit a penny of his money that people had come to believe it, and they looked upon Dick with corresponding coolness. He surely must be a scamp to be spoken of as his own grandfather spoke of him; and, of course, wherever he went, women flung themselves at his head. The usual attraction of a good-looking, soft-eyed Adonis gained favor by the whispered suggestion that he was dangerous. But, in truth, Dick was only bored with women until he fell in love with Dora, and took the girl's heart by storm. Ormsby was laying siege to the citadel cautiously, as was his way. Bluff Jack Lorrimer's courage was paralyzed by his love, and he drank deep to dispel his melancholy. Harry Bent--who was already under the spell of Netty Swinton, Dick's sister's--was indifferent, and Carnaby had been rejected three times, despite his millions. Colonel Dundas saw nothing to alarm him in the admiration of these young men for his daughter until Dick Swinton came along, and Dora changed into a dreamy, solemn young person. She lost all her audacity, and her hot temper was put to rest for ever. Dick worshiped with his eyes in such a manner that only the blind could fail to read the signs. He was not loquacious, and Dora was unaccountably shy. They never spoke of love until one day Dick, with simple audacity, and favored by unusual circumstances--under the light of the moon--clasped the girl to his heart, and kissed her. She cried, and he imprisoned her in his arms for a full minute. For ransom and release, she gave her lips unresistingly, and he uncaged her. "Now, you're mine," he murmured, with a great sigh of relief, "and we're engaged." She smiled and nodded, and came to his heart again of her own accord. And not a word was said to anybody. It was all too precious and wonderful and beautiful. And yet she expected him to go away. At the club, to-day everybody stared to see Ormsby and Dick Swinton meet as though nothing had happened overnight, and the news was soon buzzing around that Swinton was going, after all. Jack Lorrimer explained that Dick had at last procured the consent of his grandfather, without which it would have been impossible for him to go. Everybody wondered why they had not thought of that before, and laughed at the overnight business. On his return to the rectory, Dick met his mother in the porch. "Mother!" he cried, in a voice that was husky with emotion. "I've got to go. I've just given my name in to the colonel, and the money must be found somehow. Ormsby has dared to insinuate that I'm a coward. I--" "It's all right, Dick. You can have your outfit; I've got enough. I suppose five hundred dollars will cover it?" "It'll have to, if that's all I can get, mother." "That is all I can spare." "Out of grandfather's two thousand?" "Most of it has already gone. A thousand to your father for the builder man, a hundred to that wretch who was here yesterday, and the rest to pay some of my own debts. My luck has deserted me lately. I shall have to beg of your grandfather again to get the five hundred you want." Dick groaned. "I know, my boy, that it is very humiliating to have to beg for money which really belongs to one--for it does belong to us, to you and me, I mean--as much as to him, doesn't it? It's maddening to think that the law allows a man to ruin his relations because senility has weakened his intellect." "He's an old brute," growled Dick, as he strode away. CHAPTER V DEBTS Vivian Ormsby smarted under the blow given him by Dick at the dinner, and burned to avenge the affront. He tingled with impatience to get another look at the dubious check which promised such unexceptional possibilities of retaliation if, as he suspected and hoped, it was a forgery. Dick Swinton, publicly denounced as a felon, could not possibly hold up his head again; and as a rival in love he would be remorselessly wiped out. The young upstart should learn the penalty of striking an Ormsby. The captain was a familiar figure at the bank, which belonged almost entirely to his father and himself, and he had his private room there, where he appeared at intervals. Now, Ormsby sat at his desk in the manager's room. He rang the bell and ordered the check to be brought to him once more. Then, he asked for Herresford's pass-book, and any checks in the old man's handwriting that were available. He displayed renewed eagerness in comparing the handwriting in the body of the check with others of a recent date. The result of his scrutiny was evidently interesting, as with his magnifying glass he once more examined every stroke made by Mrs. Swinton's spluttering pen. The color of the ink used by the forger was not the same as that in the signature. It had darkened perceptibly and swiftly. An undoubted forgery! It was beyond imagination that Mrs. Swinton, the wife of the rector, could stoop to a fraud. Surely, only a man would write heavily and thickly like that. It was a clumsy alteration. Dick Swinton had tampered with his grandfather's figures. Well, what then? Would the old man thank his banker for making an accusation of criminality against his grandson? Herresford might be a mean man, but the honor of his name was doubtless dear to him. What would come of a public trial? Obviously, Dick Swinton would be disinherited and disgraced. The banker knew that it was his duty to proceed at once, if he detected a fraud. But it was not the way of Mr. Vivian Ormsby to act in haste--and it was near the hour for luncheon, to which he had been invited by Colonel Dundas. To-morrow, he could, if advisable, openly discover flaws in the check, and it would then be better if action were taken by his manager, and not by himself. Dora had been very sweet and kind to him--before Dick came along. Vivian had gone so far as to consult his father about a proposal of marriage to the rich colonel's daughter. They were cautious people, the Ormsbys, and made calculations in their love-affairs as in their bank-books. The old banker approved, and Vivian had hoped that Dora would accept him before he went away. He knew that Dick Swinton stood in his path; but, if he could drag his rival down, it was surely fair and honorable to do so before Dora could commit herself to any sentimental relationship with a criminal. Ormsby took the chauffeur's seat in his waiting automobile, and drove as fast as the traffic would permit, for he feared lest he might be late. His pace in the upper part of Fifth avenue was far beyond anything the law permitted. As he reached Eighty-eighth street, in which was Colonel Dundas's house, he hardly slackened speed as he swung around the corner. And there, just before him, a group of children playing stretched across the street. Instantly, Ormsby applied the emergency brake. The huge machine jarred abruptly to a standstill--so abruptly that both Ormsby and his chauffeur in the seat beside him were hurled out. The chauffeur scrambled to his feet after a moment, for he had escaped serious injury, but the banker lay white and motionless on the pavement before Colonel Dundas's door. When the physician was asked to give his opinion some time later, he expressed a belief that the patient would live, but he certainly would not go to the war. In the meantime, he could not be moved. He must remain where he was--in Dora's tender care. And Dick was going to the war! * * * * * The bright morning sunlight was streaming in at the window of the rector's study, sunlight which pitilessly showed up patches of obliterated pattern in the carpet and sorry signs of wear in the leather chairs. A glorious morning; one of those rare days which go to make the magic of spring; a day when all the golden notes in the landscape become articulate as they vibrate to the caress of the soft, warm air. The rector was only dimly conscious of its rare beauty; for his face was troubled as he paced his study, with head bent and hands behind his back. Between his fingers was a letter which had sent the blood of shame tingling to the roots of his hair, a letter that would also hurt his wife--and this meant a great deal to John Swinton. He was an emotional, demonstrative man, who loved his wife with all the force of his nature, and he would have gone through fire and water for her dear sake, asking no higher reward than a smile of gratitude. The trouble was once more money--the bitterness of poverty, fresh-edged and keen. He must again, as always, appeal to his wife for help, and she would have to beg again from her father. The knowledge maddened him, for he had endured all that a man may endure at the hands of Herresford. The letter was short and emphatic: SIR, I am requested by my client, Mr. Isaac Russ, to inform you that if your son attempts to leave the state before his obligations to my client ($750.00) are paid in full, he will be arrested. Yours truly, WILLIAM WISE. This was not the only trouble that the post had brought. On the table lay a communication from his bishop, a kindly, earnest letter from man to man, warning him that he must immediately settle with a certain stockbroker, who had lodged a complaint against him, or run the risk of a public prosecution, which would mean ruin. In his various troubles, he had almost forgotten the stockbroker to whom he gave orders to purchase shares weeks ago, orders faithfully carried out. The shares were now his, but a turn of the market had made them quite worthless. Nevertheless, they must be paid for. He sighed heavily as he pocketed the bishop's letter. His affairs were in a more hopeless tangle than he had imagined. Seven hundred and fifty for Dick, and a thousand for the broker--seventeen hundred and fifty dollars more to be raised at once; and the two thousand just received from Herresford all gone. Netty entered the room at the moment. "Ah, here you are, father!" she cried, going over to the hearthrug and dropping down before the fire. "Why didn't you come in to breakfast? Didn't you hear the gong? Dick went off at eight, and I've had to feed all alone. The bacon is cold by now, I expect; but go and have some. I'll wait here for you. I've got something to tell you." "I don't want any breakfast, my child. I want to have a talk with you. It's a long time since we had a chat, Netty. You're getting almost as much a social personage as your mother. Very soon, there'll be no one to keep the house warm, except the old man." "You mustn't call yourself old. You're not even respectably middle-aged. But what do you want to talk to me about?" "Money, my dear, money." "Money! Oh, dear! no--nothing so horrid. This is a red-letter day for me; and, when you talk about money, it turns everything gray." "Yes, yes, I know it's not a pleasant subject; but, you see, we must talk about it, sometimes. You've been attending to the house-keeping lately, and I want you to try and cut down the expenses. I've had bad news this morning, news which I shall have to worry your mother about. By the way, what is she doing now?" "I hope she's asleep. You mustn't worry her, you really mustn't. She's had a dreadful night, and her head's awful--and you mustn't worry me. The house-keeping is all right. It worried me, I hate it so. Jane's doing it, and she's more than careful--she's mean. And, now, my news. Can't you guess it? No, you'll never guess. Look!" the girl held out her hand. "And what am I to look at?" "Can't you see?--the ring! It's been in his family hundreds of years; but it's nothing compared to the other jewels; they are magnificent, worth a king's ransom. Why don't you say something--something nice and pretty and appropriate? You know you can make awfully nice speeches when you like, father--and I'm waiting for congratulations." "Congratulations on having received a present? And who gave it to my Persian?" asked the rector, absently. "Who gave it to me? It's my engagement ring. Harry and I settled everything last night." "Harry?" "I'm going to marry Harry Bent. You surely must have expected it. That's why you are not to talk about anything unpleasant or ugly to-day. If you do, it'll make me wretched, and I don't want to be wretched. I'm going to have a lovely time for always and always." "God grant it," murmured the rector, with fervor; "but don't forget that life has its responsibilities and its dull patches; don't expect too much, my little girl. The rosy dawn doesn't always maintain its promise. But we mustn't begin the Sunday sermon to-day, eh, Persian? And now, run away, for I must be quiet to think over what you have told me. It's a surprise, dear child, but, if it means your happiness, it's a glad surprise. By-the-bye, you're quite sure you're in love, little girl?" "Silly old daddy, of course I am. He's an awfully good boy, and, when his uncle dies, he'll be immensely rich. It's a splendid match, and you ought to be very pleased about it. Ah, here's mother!" she cried, scrambling to her feet as Mrs. Swinton, dressed for driving in a perfect costume of blue, entered the study. "Now, you can both talk about it instead of your horrid money," and, throwing a kiss lightly to her father, she tripped out of the room. "You don't look well, Mary," exclaimed the rector anxiously, as his wife sank down into a chair by the fire. "Another headache?" He rested his hand lovingly on her shoulder. "You are overdoing it, dearest. You must slow down and live the normal, dull life of a clergyman's wife." "Don't, Jack, don't! I'm frightfully worried. What was it you and Netty were talking about?" "Ah, what indeed! The child tells me she is engaged to Harry Bent, and that you know all about it." "Yes. I've seen that he wanted her for months past; and she likes him, after a fashion. She'll never marry for love--never love anybody better than herself, I fear; and, since he's quite willing to give more than he receives, I see nothing against their engagement, except--except our dreadful financial position." Mrs. Swinton spoke wearily. "We will discuss Netty later," she continued, "for I have something of the utmost importance to talk over with you. I must have a thousand dollars by Friday, and, if you haven't sent off that check to the builder of the Mission Hall, you must let it stand over. No, no, don't shake your head like that. I only want the money for a day or so, until I can see father, and get another check from him. But, in the meantime, I must have the money. It means dreadful trouble, if I can't have it." "Mary, Mary, what are you saying! I can't let you have the money. I sent it away two days ago. I was afraid to hold it. Your plight can't be worse than mine, Mary," he groaned. "God help me, I didn't mean to tell you, but perhaps it's best, after all, that you should know everything--for it will make the parting with Dick less hard." "With Dick? What has your trouble got to do with Dick? Tell me quickly--tell me," and her voice dropped to a sobbing whisper. She was terribly overwrought, and ready to expect anything. "I've had a letter threatening his arrest." "Arrest!" she cried, starting up. Her voice was a chord of fear. "A money-lender intends to arrest him, if he attempts to leave the state--that is, unless I'm prepared to pay a debt of seven hundred and fifty dollars. I," added the rector, in a broken voice, "a man without a penny in the world--a spendthrift, a muddler, a borrower, a man dependent upon the bounty of others." "Hush, John, hush!" cried his wife, coming closer to him. "You are not to blame. Your life is one long sacrifice to others. It is I who am wrong--oh! so wrong! But it shall all be different soon. I will stand by you and help you. No one shall be able to say that you work alone in the future. I'll live your life, dear. Only let us get out of this awful tangle, and all will be right. I'll go to father again, and tell him just how things stand; and, if he won't give me the money, he shall lend it to me. It will be ours some day. It is ours--it ought to be ours. He can't refuse--he shall not!" She turned to pace the room feverishly for a few moments, then, going over to her husband again, she linked her arm affectionately in his. "It will be all right. Our luck must surely change, John. I feel it in my bones--not that there is any sign of it to-day. How can they arrest Dick if he goes to the war?" "Oh! It's some legal technicality. I don't understand it. I've heard of it before. Some judgment has been given against him, and the money-lender has power to make him pay with the first cash he gets, or something of that kind. They've found out that he's been paying other people, I suppose." "Arrest him! What insolence! As if we hadn't enough trouble of our own without Dick's affairs crippling us at such a time. He absolutely must go--especially after the things that cad Ormsby insinuated." "But how about your own trouble, darling? Why must you have a thousand dollars?" "Well, it's an awful matter. You see, I have rather a big bill with a dressmaker, and I wanted some more new frocks for the Ocklebournes' parties. She has refused to give me any more credit without security, so I left some jewelry with her--old-fashioned stuff that I never wear." "But, my darling, that was practically raising money on heirlooms. Your father distinctly warned you that the jewels were only lent. They are his, not yours." "John, how can you side with father in that way? They are mine, of course they are. I'm not pawning them. They are just security, that's all." "It is the same thing, dear one. You certainly ought to get them back." "It isn't a question of getting them back, John. The woman threatens to sell them, unless I can let her have a thousand dollars." "Such a sum is out of the question. You must persuade the woman to wait." "That is why I was going up to town to-day. But my debt far exceeds that sum." "By how much?" The rector rarely demanded any details of his wife's money-affairs, or troubled how she spent her private income. But the time for ceremony was past. There was a haggard perplexity in his look, and an expression of fear in his eyes. "Nearly two thousand, John." "For dresses--only dresses?" With a sigh, the rector dropped into his chair. After a moment's despondency, he commenced to make calculations on his blotting-pad, while Mary stood looking out of the window, crying a little and shaping a new resolve. It was useless to go to her dressmaker with empty hands, and the everlasting cry for money could only be silenced by the one person who held it all--her father. Once more, rage against him surged up in her heart, and she relieved her pent-up feelings in the usual way. "Oh, it is shameful, shameful! Father is to blame--father! He's driving us to ruin. There's nothing too bad one can say about him. He deserves to be robbed of his miserly hoard." "Hush, hush, dearest," murmured the rector; "your father's money is his own, not ours. If he were to find out that you had pledged your jewels, there's no knowing what he might not do." "Do! What could he do?" she replied, with a mirthless laugh. "A man can't prosecute his own child." "Some men can, and do. Your father is just the sort to outrage all family sentiment, and defy public opinion." "You don't think that!" she cried, turning around on him very suddenly, with a terrified look in her eyes. They were interrupted by a tap at the door. "A gentleman to see you, sir; at least, sir, to see Mr. Dick." The manservant's manner was halting and embarrassed. "What does he want with Mr. Dick?" "Well, sir, he says--" "Well, what does he say?" The man looked at his master and mistress hesitatingly, as though he would rather not speak. "He says, sir--" "Well?" "That he has come to arrest him--but he would like to see you first." "There must be some mistake. Send him in." A thick-set, burly, bearded man entered, hat in hand, bowed curtly to the rector, and endeavored to bow more ceremoniously to Mrs. Swinton, who stood glaring at him in fear. "Why have you come?" asked the rector. "Well, there's a warrant. It has been reported he was going to skip." "Why have you come so soon? I only received Wise's letter this morning." "It was sent the day before yesterday." The rector picked up the letter, and found that it was dated two days ago. "There was evidently a delay in transmission. What are we to do?" asked the clergyman, turning to his wife despairingly. She stood white and irresolute. It was a most humiliating moment. She longed to call her manservant to turn the fellow out of doors, but she dared not. "My instructions were to give reasonable time, and not to proceed with the arrest if there was any possibility of the money being forthcoming, or a part of it, not less than two hundred and fifty--cash." "Can you wait till this evening?" pleaded the rector, hopelessly, "while I see what can be done. You've taken me at a disadvantage. My son is not here now. He won't be back till after midday." "If there is any likelihood of your being able to do anything by evening, of course--" "He'll wait. He must wait," cried Mrs. Swinton, taking up her muff. "I'll have to see father about it." "You must wait till this evening, my man." "All right, then. Until six o'clock?" "Yes." "Very well, six o'clock," the man agreed, and withdrew. "I can't bear to think of your going to your father again, Mary," sighed the rector, bitterly. "Dick has been a shocking muddler in his affairs--as bad as his father, without his father's excuse. God knows, I've been too busy with parish affairs to attend properly to my own, whereas he--" "He is young, John," pleaded the indulgent mother, "and ought to be in receipt of a handsome allowance from his grandfather. He has only been spending what really should be his." "Sophistry, my darling, sophistry!" "At any rate, I'm going up to my father to get money from him, by hook or by crook. We must have it, or we are irretrievably ruined." CHAPTER VI A KINSHIP SOMETHING LESS THAN KIND "Pull the blinds higher and raise my pillows, do you hear, woman? I want to see what that lazy scamp of a husband of yours is about--loafing for a certainty, if he thinks no one can see him." Herresford addressed his housekeeper, the wife of Ripon, the head-gardener. Mrs. Ripon bit her lip as she tugged at the blind cords savagely, and gave her master a defiant look, which he was quick to see. It apparently amused him, for he smiled grimly. "Oh, yes, yes, I know what you want to say," he snarled: "that I grind you all down, and treat you as slaves. That, my good woman, is where you make a mistake. Yet, you are slaves--slaves, do you hear? And I intend to see that you don't rob me, for to waste the time that I pay for is to rob me." "Well, sir, if we don't suit you, we can go." "My good woman, you'd have gone long ago, if it hadn't suited my convenience to retain you. Ripon is a good gardener; you are a good housekeeper. You both know the value of money. We happen to suit each other. Your husband has more sense than you. He does the work of two men, and he's paid for it. If the positions were reversed, he would be quite as hard a master as I; that's why I like him. He gets quite as much out of those under his control as I get out of him--only he doesn't pay 'em double." The old man looked like a wizened monkey as he screwed up his eyes and chuckled. He was in a good temper this morning--good for him--and he looked well pleased as his eye traveled slowly over the wonderful expanse of garden which lay spread out like a fairy panorama below his window. "Give me those field-glasses," he commanded sharply, "and then you can get about your business. Those maids downstairs will be wasting their time while you're up here." "What will you take for luncheon to-day, sir?" "Woman, I left enough chicken yesterday to feed a family. The chicken curried, and don't forget the chutney." Then, after a mumbling interval, "and, if anybody calls, I won't see 'em--except Notley, who comes at eleven. And, when he comes, send him up at once--no kitchen gossip! I don't pay lawyers to come here and amuse kitchen wenches. Why don't you speak, eh? W-what?" "Because I've nothing to say, sir." "That's right, that's right. Now that you've left off 'speaking your mind,' as you used to call it, you're becoming quite docile and useful. Perhaps, I'll give Ripon another fifty dollars a year. I'm not a hard man, you know, when people understand that I stand no nonsense. But I always have my own way. No one can get over me. You and I understand each other, Mrs. Ripon, eh? Yet, I doubt if you'd have remained so long, if Ripon hadn't married you. He's made a sensible woman of you. Tell him I'm going to give him an extra fifty dollars a year, but--but he must do with a hand less in the gardens." "What, another?" "Yes. It'll pay, won't it, to get fifty dollars a year more, and save me two hundred on the outdoor staff, eh?" The woman made no answer, but crossed the room softly, and closed the door. When she was on the other side of it, she shook her fist at him. "You old wretch! If I had my way, I'd smother you. You spoil your own life, and you're spoiling my man. He won't be fit to live with soon." The sunlight streamed into the bedroom, and Herresford, drawing the curtains of his ebony bedstead, lay blinking in their shadow, looking out over his garden, and noting every beauty with the keen pleasure of an ardent lover of horticulture--his only hobby. As advancing age laid its finger more heavily upon him, he had become increasingly irritable and impossible. Every human instinct seemed to have shriveled up and died--all save the love of money and his passion for flowers. His withered old lips almost smiled as he moved the field-glasses slowly, bringing into range the magnificent stretch of soft turf, with its patchwork of vivid color. The face of the old man on the bed changed as he clutched the field-glasses and brought them in nervous haste to his eyes, and a muttered oath escaped him. A woman had come through one of the archways in the hedge that surrounded the herb garden. She walked slowly, every now and then breaking off a flower. As she tugged at a trail of late roses, sending their petals in a crimson stream upon the turf, Herresford dragged himself higher upon the pillows, his lips working in anger, and his fingers clawing irritably at the coverlet. "Leave them alone, leave them alone!" he cried. "How dare she touch my flowers! I'll have her shut out of the place, daughter or no daughter. What does she want here? Begging again, I suppose. The only bond between us--money. And she sha'n't have any. I'll be firm about it." He was still muttering when Mrs. Swinton came into the room, bringing with her the sheaf of blossoms she had gathered as she came along. "Who gave you permission to pick my flowers?" the old man snarled, taking no notice of her greeting. "I allow no one to rob my garden. You are not to take those flowers home with you--do you understand? They belong to me." The daughter did not reply. She walked across the room very slowly, and rang the bell, waiting until a maid appeared. "Take these flowers to Mrs. Ripon, and tell her to have them arranged and brought to Mr. Herresford's room. And now," she added, as the girl closed the door behind her, "we must have a little talk, my dear father. I want some money--in brief, I must have some. Dick is going, and his kit must be got ready at once. I must have a thousand dollars." "Must, must, must! I don't know the meaning of the word. You come here dunning me for money as though I were made of it. Do you know what you and your husband have cost me? I tell you I have no money for you, and I won't be intruded upon in this way. Your visits are an annoyance, madam, and they'd better cease." "Yes, I know, I know. And I should not have come here to-day unless our need had been great. My dear father, you simply must come to my aid. We haven't a hundred dollars, and Dick's honor is pledged. He must go to the war, and he must have the money to go with. If I could go to anybody else and borrow it, I would; but there is no one. If you will let me have a check for the amount, I will promise that you hear nothing more of me--as long as you like. Come, father, shall I write out a check? You played a jest with me the other day, and only gave me two dollars." Herresford lay with his eyes closed and his lips tightly pressed together. He hated these encounters with his daughter, for she generally succeeded in getting something out of him; but he was determined she should have nothing this morning. He took refuge in silence, his only effectual weapon so far as Mrs. Swinton was concerned. "Well?" she queried, after waiting for some minutes, and turning from the window toward the bed. "Well?" she repeated. "If it's going to be a waiting game, we can both play it. I sha'n't leave this room until you sign Dick's check, and you know quite well that I go through with a thing when my mind is made up. It's perfectly disgusting to have to insist like this, but you see, father, it's the only way." She had spoken very quickly, yet very deliberately. She walked over to a table which stood in one of the windows, carefully selected a volume, and, drawing a chair to the side of her father's bed, sat down. Herresford had watched her from under his screwed-up eyelids, and, as she commenced to read, he sighed irritably. "If you'll come back this evening," he whined, after a long pause, "I'll see what I can do. I'm expecting Notley, my lawyer, this morning, and I don't want to be worried. I've a lot of figures to go through. Now, run away, Mary, and I'll think it over." "My dear father, why waste your time and mine? I told you I should not go from this room until I had the money, and I mean it--quite mean it," she added, very quietly. "It's disgraceful that you should treat me in this way. I'll give orders that you are not to be admitted again, unless by my express instructions. What was the amount you mentioned? Five hundred dollars? Do you realize what five hundred dollars really is?" "Five hundred is next to useless. It is disgracefully little for an outfit and general expenses of your grandson." "The boy is a scamp; an idle, horse-racing young vagabond--a thief, too. Have you forgotten that horse he stole? I haven't." "Rubbish, father. The horse belonged to Dick. You gave it to him, and it was his to sell. But we're wasting time. Shall I write the check? Ah! here's the book," and Mrs. Swinton drew it toward her as she seated herself at the desk. She knew his ways so well that in his increasing petulance she saw the coming surrender. "I am going to draw a check for a thousand, father," she said with assumed indifference, and took up a pen as though the matter were settled. "A thousand!--no, five hundred--no, it's too much. Five hundred dollars for a couple of suits of khaki? Preposterous! Fifty would be too much." "Well, the very lowest is fifty, father," she remarked, with a sudden abandonment of irritation, and a new light in her fine eyes. "Ah! that's more like it." "Then, I'll make it fifty." "Fifty!--no, I never said fifty. I said five--too much," and his fingers began to claw upon the coverlet, while his lips and tongue worked as with a palsy. "Fifty dollars! Do you want to ruin me? Make it five, and I'll sign it at once. That's more than I gave you last time." She had commenced the check. The date was filled in, and the name of her son as the payee. "Five, madam--not a penny more. Five!" The inspiration vibrated in her brain. Why not repeat the successful forgery? He would miss five thousand as little as five. She wrote "five," in letters, and lower down filled in the numeral, putting it very near the dollar-sign. "Father, you are driving me to desperation. It's your fault if--" "Give me the pen--give me the pen," he snarled. "If you keep me waiting too long, I shall change my mind." She brought the blotting-pad and pen, and he scrawled his signature, scarcely looking at the check. She drew it away from him swiftly--for she had known him to tear up a check in a last access of covetous greed. Five thousand dollars! The same process of alteration as before was adopted. This time there was no flaw or suspicious spluttering. The reckless woman, emboldened by her first success, plunged wildly on the second opportunity. The devil's work was better done; but, unfortunately, she made the alteration, as before, with the rectory ink, which was of excellent quality, and in a few hours darkened to an entirely different tint. The color of the writing was uniform at first; but to-morrow there would be a difference. She was running a great risk; but she saw before her peace and prosperity, her husband's debts paid, her own dressmaker's bills for the past two years wiped out, and Dick saved from arrest. This would still leave a small balance in hand. And they would economize in the future. Vain resolves! The spendthrift is always the thriftiest person in intention. The rector had understated when he declared their deficit. Only the most persistent creditors were appeased. But their good fortune--for they considered it such--had become known to every creditor as if by magic. Bills came pouring in. If the aggressive builder of the new Mission Hall could get his money, why not the baker, the butcher, the tailor? The study table was positively white with the shower of "accounts rendered"--polite demands and abusive threats. The rector had innocently and gratefully accepted the story of the gift of two thousand dollars, without question or surprise. His wonderful, beautiful wife always dragged him out of difficulties. He had ceased to do more than bless and thank her. He was glad of the respite, and had already begun to build castles in the air, and formulate a wonderful scheme for alleviating distress by advancing urgently needed money, to be refunded to him out of the proceeds of bazaars and concerts and public subscriptions later on. The poor, too, seemed to have discovered that the rector was paying away money, and the most miserable, tattered, whining specimens of humanity rang his door-bell. They had piteous tales to tell of children dying for want of proper nourishment, of wives lying unburied for lack of funds to pay the undertaker. * * * * * Dick returned, ignorant of his danger of arrest, and almost at the moment when his mother had accomplished her second forgery. "Well, mother what luck with grandfather?" he cried anxiously, as he strode into the study. "I hear you've been up to the Hall. You are a brick to beard the old lion as you do." "Yes, I've been lucky this time. I've screwed out some more for all of us--quite a large sum this time. I put forward unanswerable arguments--the expense of your outfit--our responsibilities--our debts, and all sorts of things, and then got your grandfather to include everything in one check. It's for five thousand." She dropped her eyes nervously, and heard him catch his breath. "Five thousand!" "Not all for you, Dick," she hastened to add, "though your debts must be paid. There was a man here this morning to arrest you. At least, that was what he threatened; but they don't do such things, do they?" "Arrest me?" "Yes. It was an awful blow to your father." "Arrest!" he groaned. "I feared it. But you've got five thousand. It'll save us all!" "The check isn't cashed yet. Here it is." He seized the little slip eagerly, his eyes glistening. It was his respite, and might mean the end of all their troubles. "I really must pay all my smaller debts, mother," said Dick, as he looked down at the forged check. "You don't know what a mean hound I've felt in not being able to pay the smaller tradesmen, for they are more decent than the bigger people. Five thousand! Only think of it. What a brick the old man is, after all." "How much do your debts amount to, Dick?" asked Mrs. Swinton, in some trepidation. "I hardly know; but the ones which must be paid before I go will amount to a good many hundreds, I fear." "Oh, Dick! I'm sorry, but need all be paid now? You see, the money is badly wanted for other things." "Well, mother, I might not come back. I might be killed. And I'd like to feel that I'd left all straight at home." "Don't, Dick, don't!" she sobbed, rising and flinging her arms about him. She was much overwrought, and her tears fell fast. Dick embraced his beautiful mother, and kissed her with an affection that was almost lover-like. "Mother, I really must pay up everyone before I go. You see, some of them look upon it as their last chance. They think that, if I once get out of the country, I shall never come back." "But I was hoping to help your father. He's getting quite white with worry. Have you noticed how he has aged lately?" "I don't wonder at it, mother. Look at the way he works, writing half the night, tearing all over the town during the day, doing the work of six men. If you could manage another fifteen hundred for me, mother, I could go away happy. Don't cry. You see, if I shouldn't come back--you've got Netty." "What! Haven't you heard?" she asked. "Don't you know that Netty is going to leave us? Harry Bent proposed yesterday afternoon at the Ocklebournes'. He's going away, too--and you may neither of you come back." "Hush, hush, mother! We're all leaving somebody behind, and we can't all come back. Don't let us talk of it. I'll run over and pay the check into my account, and then draw a little for everybody--something on account to keep them quiet." He looked at it--the check--lovingly, and sighed with satisfaction. "Since grandfather has turned up trumps, mother," Dick suggested, "it would only be decent of me to go up and thank him, wouldn't it? I've got to go up and say good-bye, anyway." "No, Dick don't go," cried the guilty woman, nervously. "But I must, mother. It won't do to give him any further excuses for fault-finding." "If you go, say nothing about the money." "But--" "Just to please me, Dick. Thank him for the money he has given you, and say nothing about the amount. Don't remind him. He might relent, and--and stop the check or something of that sort." "All right, mother." And Dick went off to the bank with the check, feeling that the world was a much-improved place. On his return, he took a train to Asherton Hall, in order that he might thank his grandfather. There was no one about when he arrived, and he strode indoors, unannounced. As he reached the bedroom door, Mrs. Ripon was coming out, red in the face and spluttering with rage, arguing with Trimmer, the valet; and the old man's voice could be heard, raised to a high treble, querulously storming over the usual domestic trifles. Dick stepped into the strange room, and saluted his relative. "Good-afternoon, grandfather. I've called to see you to say good-bye," he said, cheerily. "I don't want to see you, sir," snapped the old man, raising himself on his hands, and positively spitting the words out. His previous fit of anger flowed into the present interview like a stream temporarily dammed and released. "I am going away to the war, grandfather, and I may never return." "And a good job, too, sir--a good job, too." Dick's teeth were hard set. The insult had to be endured. "Don't come asking me for money, sir, because you won't get it." "No, grandfather, I have enough, thank you. Your generosity has touched me, after your close-fis--your talks about economy, I mean." "Generosity--eh?" snarled the spluttering old man. "No sarcasm, if you please. You insolent rascal!" He positively clawed the air, and his eyes gleamed. "I'll teach you your duty to your elders, sir. I've signed two checks for you. Do you think I'm going to be bled to death like a pig with its wizen slit?" "I want no more money," cried the young man, hotly. "You know that perfectly well, grandfather." "That's good news, then." The old man subsided and collapsed into his pillows. "I merely came to thank you, and to shake you by the hand. I am answering a patriotic call; and, if I fall in the war, you'll have no heir but my mother." "Don't flatter yourself that you're my heir, sir. I'll have you know you're not, sir. No delusions. You need expect nothing from me." Dick gave a despairing sigh, and turned away. "Well, then, good-bye, grandfather. If I get shot--" "Go and get shot, sir--and be damned to you!" cried the old man. "You are in a bad temper, grandfather. I've said my adieu. You have always misunderstood and abused me. Good-bye. I'll offend you no longer." The young man stalked out haughtily, and old Herresford collapsed again; but he tried to rally. His strength failed him. He leaned over the side of his bed, gasping from his outburst, and called faintly: "Dick! Dick! I'm an old man. I never mean what I say. I'll pay--" The last words were choked with a sigh, and he lay back, breathing heavily. CHAPTER VII GOOD-BYE "Go and get shot!" The old man's words rang in Dick's ears as he rode away. Well, perhaps he would be. His eyes traveled over the undulating glens of Asherton Park, where beeches and chestnuts in picturesque clumps intersected the rolling grass land, and wondered if this were the last time he would look upon the place. He wondered what Dora would be doing this time next year--if he were shot. Well, it would be easier to face a rain of bullets than to step into the train that was to carry him away from Dora. To-day, they were to meet and part. To-morrow, he started. At once, on returning to town, Dick hastened to the Mall in Central Park, where he was to meet Dora again, by appointment. There, the elms in the avenue were still a blaze of gold, that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Dora set out from home equipped for walking in a white Empire coat with a deep ermine collar, a granny muff to match, and a little white hat with a tall aigrette. Her skirt was short, and her neat little feet were encased in high-heeled boots, that clicked on the gravel path as she hurried toward the Mall. She looked her best, and she knew it. She wanted Dick to take away an impression vivid and favorable, something to look back upon and remember with pleasure. She was no puling, sentimental girl to hang about his neck, and crush roses into his hand. The tears were in her heart; the roses in her cheeks. Warm kisses from her ruddy lips would linger longer than the perfume of the sweetest flowers. She had wept a great deal--but in secret--and careful bathing and a dusting of powder had removed all traces. As she proceeded down the avenue, her faultless, white teeth many times bit upon the under lip, which trembled provokingly; and the shiver of the golden elms in the Park beside her certainly was not responsible for the extreme haziness of her vision. It was her firm intention not to think of Dick going into the death zone. This might be their last interview; but she would not allow such an idea to intrude. It was a parting for a few months at most. She turned into the Park and, after walking for a minute, caught sight of Dick, moodily awaiting her. She gave a great gulp, and pressed her muff to her mouth to avoid crying out. Oh, the horrid, shooting pain in her breast, and the stinging in her eyes! The tree trunks began to waver, and the ground was as cotton-wool beneath her feet. Tears?--absurd! A soldier's daughter send her lover to the front with hysterical sobs? Never! She controlled herself, and approached him quite close before he saw her, so absorbed was he in meditation. "Dora!" he cried. He opened his arms, and she dropped into them, sobbing shockingly (like any civilian's daughter), and shedding floods of tears. He held her to his heart without a word, till the wild throbbing of her bosom died down into a little flutter. Then, she smiled up at him, like the sun shining through the rain. "I didn't mean to cry, Dick." "Nor I," he replied huskily, looking down upon her with tears almost falling from his long-lashed, tender eyes. "I knew it would be hard to go. Love is like a fever, and makes one faint and weak. Oh! why did I let a little silly pride stand in the way of my happiness? Why did I promise to fight in a cause I disapprove? War always was, and always will be with me, an abomination. I don't know why I ever joined the wretched militia. Yes, I do--I joined for fun--without thinking--because others did. They had a good time, and wanted me to share it." "Dick, that is not the mind of a soldier." "Well, it's my mind, anyway. You see, you've been born and bred in the atmosphere of this sort of thing. I was reared in a rectory, where we were taught to love our enemies, and turn to the smiter the other cheek. I used to regard that as awful rot, too. But I see now that training tells, in spite of yourself." "But you'll go now, and fight for your country and--for me. You'll come back covered with glory, I know you will." "Perhaps--and maybe I sha'n't come back at all." "Then, I shall mourn my hero as a noble patriot, who never showed the white feather." "Oh, it isn't courage that I lack. Give me a good fight, and I'm in it like anybody else. It's the idea of carnage, and gaping wounds, and men shrieking in agony, gouging one another's eyes out, and biting like wild-cats, with cold steel in their vitals--all over a quarrel in which they have no part." "Every man is a part of his nation, and the nation's quarrel is his own." "We won't argue it, darling. It's settled now, and I'm going through with it. I start to-morrow. You'll write to me often?" "Every day." "If you don't often get replies you'll know it's the fault of the army postal service--and perhaps my hatred of writing letters as well." "You certainly are a very bad letter-writer, Dick," she protested, with a laugh. "I've only had two notes from you, but those are very precious--precious as though written on leaves of gold." "You are sure, Dora, that you're not sorry you engaged yourself to a useless person like me?" "You shall not abuse yourself in that way!" "You are quite sure?" he repeated. "Quite sure, my hero." "And you never cared for that cad, Ormsby? not one little bit?" "No. Not one little bit." "It's a confounded nuisance, his being laid up in your house. But he won't go to the front. That's one comfort. He was so stuck-up about it! To hear him talk, you would have thought he was going to run the whole war. Why don't they send him home, instead of letting you have all the bother of an invalid in your house?" "Oh, it's no bother. We have two trained nurses there, who take night and day duty. I only relieve them occasionally." Dick grunted contemptuously. "You'll send him away as soon as he gets well, won't you?" "As soon as he is able to move, of course; but that rests with father. You know how he loves to have someone to talk with about the war." "I've got a bone to pick with Ormsby when I come back. Do you know what the cad said about me at the dinner?" "No." "It was after I struck him in the face and went away--after the gathering broke up. He was naturally very sore and sick about the way he'd behaved, and the others told him it was caddish; but he said he knew a thing or two about the money affairs of my family, and mine in particular, and he wouldn't be surprised to see me in jail one of these fine days." "How infamous!" "The scoundrel went so far as to hint darkly that I almost owed my liberty to him--as much as to say that, if he chose to speak, I'd have to do a term in the penitentiary." "Oh, nonsense! It was just an angry man's idle threat. He is the very essence of conceit and stubborn pride, and was probably smarting under the indignity of the blow you gave him." "I wish I'd made it half-a-dozen instead of one." Then, with sudden tenderness: "Promise me, darling, that you'll never listen to tales and abuse about me, no matter how plausible they may seem. I know I've been going the pace; but I'm going to pull up, for I've come into a fortune now more precious than my grandfather's money-bags. I've won the dearest, sweetest, truest, bravest little girl, and I mean to be worthy of her." "I'll listen to no one and believe nothing, unless it comes from your dear lips." The girl's voice was very earnest as she made the promise. Brave words! How easy to have faith, and swear before high heaven when strong arms are clasped about a yielding form, and eyes look into eyes seeking depths deeper than wells fashioned by the hands of men. They strolled side by side, and exchanged vows, till twilight fell and the cold shadows darkened all the earth about them, and struck a chill to the girl's heart. She clung to her lover, broken-hearted. Gone was the Spartan self-possession, the patriotic self-denial that was ready to offer up the love of a lifetime on the red altar of Mars. As he pressed his lips to her cheek and his hard breathing sounded in her ears, she seemed to hear the roaring of cannon, the clatter of hoofs, the rumble of artillery over bloodstained turf, the cries of men calling to one another in blind anger, shouting, cursing, moaning, and Dick wailing aloud in agony. She recovered herself with a start as a clock in the distance struck the hour, and reminded both of the flight of time. At last, it was good-bye. The very end, the dreadful wrench--the absolute adieu! CHAPTER VIII A TIRESOME PATIENT Vivian Ormsby's illness dragged on from days into weeks. There was little or nothing to be done but nursing, and Dora took her share willingly. He was a very courteous, considerate person when the girl he loved was at his bedside, but very trying to the professional nurses. He insisted upon attending to business matters as soon as he recovered from his long period of unconsciousness, but the physicians strictly forbade visitors of any kind. The patient was not allowed to read newspapers or hear news of the war. All excitement was barred, for it was one of the worst cases of concussion of the brain the specialists had ever known. Ormsby could not help watching Dora's face in the mornings, when the papers arrived; he saw her hand tremble and her eyes grow dim as she read. When the first lists of killed and wounded came to hand, she read with ashen face and quivering lip, but, when the name she sought, and dreaded to find, was not there, the color came back, and she glowed again with the joy and pride of youth. He allowed himself idly to imagine that this was his home, and Dora his wife. It would always be like this--Dora at hand with her gentle, soothing touch upon his brow, her light, quick step, that he knew so well, and could distinguish in a moment from that of any other woman about the house, and her rich, penetrating voice, that never faltered, and carried even in a whisper, no matter how far away from his bedside. She laughed sometimes in talking to the nurses, finding it hard to restrain the natural vivacity of her temperament, and it hurt him when they hushed her down, and playfully ordered her from the room. He loved to lie and watch her, and his great dark eyes at times exerted a kind of fascination. She avoided them, but could feel his gaze when she turned away, and was glad to escape. He loved her--there was no hiding the fact; and, when he was convalescent, and the time came for him to go away, he would declare it--if not before. The nurses discussed it between themselves, and speculated upon the chances. They knew that there was a rival, but he was far away, at the war--and he might never come back. The man on the spot had all the advantages on his side, the other all the love; it was interesting to the feminine mind to watch developments. When there was talk of the patient getting up, he was increasingly irritable if Dora were away. One day, he seized her hand, and carried it to his lips--dry, fevered lips that scorched her. "You have been very good to me," he murmured, in excuse for his presumption. And what could she say in rebuke that would not be churlish and ungracious? At last, he was allowed to see Mr. Barnby, the manager at the bank, who came with a sheaf of letters and arrears of documents needing signature. The patient declared that he was not yet capable of attending to details, but he wanted to see the check signed by Herresford and presented by Dick Swinton. "Which check?" asked Mr. Barnby; "the one for two thousand or the one for five thousand? I have them both." "There are two, then?" Ormsby's eyes glistened. "Yes, with the same strange discoloration of the ink. This is the one; and I have brought the glass with me." Ormsby examined Mrs. Swinton's second forgery under the magnifier, and was puzzled. "The addition has been cleverly made. The writing seems to be the same. Whose handwriting is it--not Herresford's?" "It seems to be Mrs. Swinton's. Compare it with these old checks in his pass-book, and you will see if I am not right. She has drawn many checks for him and frequently altered them, but always with an initial." "Yes, the check was drawn by Mrs. Swinton in her father's presence, no doubt; and young Swinton may have added the extra words and figures. An amazingly clever forgery! You say he had all the money?" "No, not all--but nearly all of it has been withdrawn." "Then, he has robbed us of seven thousand dollars?" "If the checks are forgeries, yes. I hope not, I sincerely hope not. If you doubted the first check--" "The scoundrel! Go at once to Herresford. The old man must refund and make good the loss, or we are in a predicament." "I'll go immediately. I suppose it is the young man's work? It is impossible to conceive that Mrs. Swinton--his own daughter--" "Don't be a fool. Go to Herresford." CHAPTER IX HERRESFORD IS TOLD Herresford was in a more than usually unpleasant frame of mind when the manager of Ormsby's bank came to bring the news that someone had robbed him of seven thousand dollars. The old man was no longer in the usual bedroom, lying on his ebony bed. A sudden impulse had seized him to be moved to another portion of the house, where he could see a fresh section of the grounds. He needed a change, and he wanted to spy out new defects. A sudden removal to a room in the front of the house revealed the fact that everything had been neglected except the portion of the garden which had formerly come within range of his field-glasses. Rage accordingly! Stormy interviews, with violent threats of instant dismissal of the whole outdoor staff, petulant abuse of people who had nothing whatever to do with the neglect of the park, and a display of energy and mental activity surprising in one of such advanced age. He was in the middle of an altercation with his steward--who resigned his position about once a month--when the bank-manager was announced. At the mention of the word bank, the old man lost all interest in things out of doors. "Send him up--send him up--don't keep him waiting," he cried. "Time is money. He may have come to tell me that I must sell something. Nothing is more important in life than money. See that there are pens and paper, in case I have to sign anything." The quiet, urbane bank-manager had never before interviewed this terrible personage. He had heard strange stories of an abusive old man in his dotage, who contrived to make it very unpleasant for any representative of the bank sent up to his bedroom to get documents signed, and was therefore surprised to see an alert, hawk-eyed old gentleman, with a skull-cap and a dressing-jacket, sitting up in bed in a small turret bedroom, smiling, and almost genial. "Will you take a seat, Mr.----? I didn't quite catch your name." "Barnby, sir." "Take a seat, Mr. Barnby. You've come to see me about money?" "Yes, sir, an unpleasant matter, I fear." "Depression in the market, eh? Things still falling? Ah! It's the war, the war--curse it! Tell me more--tell me quickly!" "It's a family matter, sir." "Family matter! What has my family to do with my money--ha! I guess why you've come. Yes--yes--something to do with my grandson?" "Just so, sir." "What is it now? Debts, overdrawn accounts--what--what?" "To put the matter in a nutshell, sir, two checks were presented some weeks ago, signed by you, one for two thousand dollars, the other for five thousand dollars--which--" "What!--when? I haven't signed a check for any thousand dollars for months." This was true, as the miser's creditors knew to their cost. It was next to impossible to collect money from him. "One check was made out to your daughter, Mary Swinton, and presented at the bank, and cashed by your grandson, Mr. Richard Swinton." "Yes, for five dollars." "Five thousand dollars, sir." "But I tell you I never drew it." "I'm very sorry to hear it, sir. The first check for two thousand dollars looks very much as though it had been altered, having been originally for two dollars; and, in the second check, made out to Mr. Swinton, the same kind of alteration occurs--five seems to have been changed into five thousand." "What!" screamed the old man, raising himself on one hand and extending the other. "Let me look! Let me look!" His bony claw was outstretched, every finger quivering with excitement. "These are the checks, sir. That is your correct signature, I believe?" "I never signed them--I never signed them. Take them away. They're not mine." "Pardon me, sir, the signature is undoubtedly yours. Do you remember signing any check for two dollars or for five?" "Yes, yes, of course. I gave her two--yes--and I gave her five--for the boy." "Just so, sir. Well, some fraudulent person has altered the figures. You'll see, if you look through this magnifying glass, holding the glass some distance from the eyes, that the ink of the major part of the check is different. When Mr. Swinton presented these checks, the ink was new, and the alterations were not apparent. But, in the course of time, the ink of the forgery has darkened." "The scoundrel!" cried the old man in guttural rage. "I always said he'd come to a bad end--but I never believed it--never believed it. Let me look again. The rascal! The scoundrel! Do you mean to say he has robbed your bank of seven thousand dollars?" "No, he has robbed you, sir," replied the bank-manager, with alacrity, for his instructions were to drive home, at all costs, the fact that it was Herresford who had been swindled, and not the bank. They knew the man they were dealing with, and had no fancy for fighting on technical points. Unfortunately for the bank, Mr. Barnby was a little too eager. "My money? Why should I lose money?" snapped the miser, turning around upon him. "I didn't alter the checks. You ought to keep your eyes open. If swindlers choose to tamper with my paper, what's it to do with me? It's your risk, your business, your loss, not mine." "No, sir, surely not. A member of your own family--" "A member of my own family be hanged, sir. He's no child of mine. He's the son of that canting sky-pilot, that parson of the slums." "But he is your grandson, sir. I take it that you would not desire a scandal, a public exposure." "A scandal! What's a scandal to me? Am I to pay seven thousand dollars for the privilege of being robbed, sir? No, sir. I entrusted you with the care of my money. You ought to take proper precautions, and safeguard me against swindlers and forgers." "But he is your heir." "Nothing of the sort. He is not my heir." "But some day--" "Some day! What has some day got to do with you, eh, sir? Are you in my confidence, sir? Have I ever told you that I intend to leave my money to my grandson?" "No, sir, of course not. I beg your pardon if I presumed--" "You do presume, sir." Poor Mr. Barnby was in a perspiration. The keen, little old man was besting and flurrying him; he was no match for this irascible invalid. "Then, sir, I take it, that you wish us to prosecute your grandson--who is at the war." "Prosecute whom you like, sir, but don't come here pretending that you're not responsible for the acts of fraudulent swindlers." "It has been fought out over and over again, and I believe never settled satisfactorily." "Then, it is settled this time--unless you wish me to withdraw my account from your bank instantly--I'm the best customer you've got. Prosecute, sir--prosecute. Have him home from the war, and fling him into jail." "Of course, sir, we have no actual evidence that the forgery was made by the young man, although he--er--presented the checks, and pursued an unusual course. He took the amount in notes. The second amount he took partly in notes, and paid the rest into his account, which has since gone down to a few dollars. Of course, it may have been done by--er--someone else. It is a difficult matter to decide who--er--that is who actually made the alterations. We have not yet brought the matter to the notice of Mrs. Swinton. She may be able to explain--" "What! Do you mean to insinuate that my daughter--my daughter--sir, would be capable of a low, cunning forgery?" "I insinuate nothing, sir. But mothers will sometimes condone the faults of their sons, and--er--it would be difficult, if she were to say--" "Let me tell you that the two checks were signed by me for two and for five dollars, and given into the hands of my daughter. If she was fool enough to let them pass into the clutches of her rascally son, she must take the consequences, and remember, sir, you'll get no money out of me. I'll have my seven thousand, every penny." Mr. Barnby subsided. The situation was clear enough. Herresford repudiated the checks, and it was for Mr. Ormsby to decide what action should be taken, and against whom. Mr. Barnby's personal opinion of the forgery was that it might just as well have been done by Mrs. Swinton as by her son. In fact, after a close perusal of the second check, to which he had brought some knowledge of handwriting, he was more inclined to regard her as the culprit. He knew Dick slightly, and certainly could not credit him with the act of a fool. As a parting shot, he asked: "Just for the sake of argument, sir, I presume that you would not have us prosecute if it were your daughter; whereas, if it were your grandson--?" "Women don't forge, sir," snarled the old man, "they're too afraid of paper money. I don't want to hear anything more about the matter. What I do want is a full statement of my balance. And, if there's a dollar short, I'll sue you, sir--yes, sue you!--for neglect of your trust." "I quite understand, sir. I'll put your views before Mr. Ormsby. There is no need for hurry. The young man is at the war." "Have him home, sir, have him home," snapped the old man, "and as for his mother--well, it serves her right--serves her right. Never would take my advice. Obstinate as a mule. But I'll pay her out yet, ha, ha! Forgery! Scandal, ha, ha! All her fine friends will stand by her now, of course. Unnatural father, eh? Unnatural, because he knew what he was dealing with. I knew my own flesh and blood. Like her mother--couldn't hold a penny. Yet, married a beggar--and ruined him, too--ha, ha! Goes to church three times on Sundays, and casts up her eyes to heaven, pleading for sinners, and gambles all night at bridge. Now, she'll have the joy of seeing her son in the dock--her dear son who was always dealt hardly with by his grandfather, because his grandfather knew the breed. No sense of the value of money. No brains! I'll have my revenge now. Yes, yes. What are you staring at, sir? Get out of the room. How dare you insult my daughter?" "I said nothing, sir." "Then, what are you waiting for? Get back to your bank, and look after my money." CHAPTER X HEARTS ACHE AND ACHE YET DO NOT BREAK "That's right, my girl, play away. It's good to hear the piano going again. And, between ourselves, I'm beginning to feel depressed by the stillness of the house. It's difficult to believe that this is home since we took on hospital work. Between ourselves, I sha'n't be sorry when Ormsby says good-bye. As a strong man and a soldier, I like him; but, as a sick man, I've had enough of him. Never had a fancy for ambulance work or being near the hospital base." "I, too, shall be glad when we have the house to ourselves," observed Dora. "Of course, I'm fearfully sorry for Captain Ormsby, and all that; but I do wish he'd go. He's not very ill now. Couldn't you throw out a hint about his going, father?" "Impossible! I--I am not a strategist; but you are. I will leave him to you, and you must get to work. But I don't know what you've got to grumble about with a man like Ormsby in the house to amuse you and admire you all the time." The colonel turned on his heel, and was out of the room before Dora could stop him. She got up from the piano, and pushed the stool aside, impatiently. Her lovely face was clouded, and two little lines above the curving arch of her eyebrows were deeply set in thought. Ormsby's continued presence filled her with uneasy dread. For the past two weeks, he had watched her with an intentness that was embarrassing. She knew that he meant to propose to her, if he succeeded in finding her alone; and she was undecided as to whether she should give, or deny, him the opportunity of hearing the worst. Perhaps, it would be better to let him speak; he could not possibly remain after she had refused him. This decision made, she presently went into the library, where she found her father and their guest. The two men were talking earnestly, and, as she approached, her father shook hands heartily with Ormsby--for some unknown reason--and went out of the room. It looked like a plot to leave her at Vivian Ormsby's mercy. She made an excuse to follow her father. Now that the moment was come, her courage failed her. She saw that the man was very much in earnest, and she knew that it would be difficult to turn him from his purpose. "One moment," said Ormsby, resting his hand on her arm. "I have something to say to you. You must give me a few minutes--you really must, I insist." "Must! Captain Ormsby," faltered Dora, with the color flooding her cheeks. "I never allow anyone to use that word to me--not even father." "Then, let me beg you to listen." He spoke softly, caressingly, but the mouth was hard, and his fine, full eyes held her as under a spell. "What I have to say will not, I feel sure, come as a surprise, for you must have seen that I love you. I have your father's permission to ask you to be my wife." "Please, please, don't say any more, Mr. Ormsby. I knew that you liked me, but--oh, I am so sorry! I can never be anything to you--never--never--never!" "Dora"--he caught her sharply, roughly by the arm--"you don't know what you are saying. Perhaps, I've startled you. Listen, Dora. I am asking you to marry me. I have cared for you ever since the first moment I saw you, and I always wanted to make you my wife. You are everything in the world to me." "Mr. Ormsby, please, don't say any more. What you ask is impossible, quite impossible--I do not care for you; I can never care for you--in that way." He uttered an exclamation of bitter annoyance. "Then, it is as I thought. You have given your love to young Dick Swinton. But you'll never marry him. I may not be able to win you, but I can spoil his chances--yes, spoil them, and I will, by God! Shall I tell you what sort of a man you have chosen for your lover?--a thief, a common thief, a man who will be wanted by the police, who will go into the hands of the police at my will and pleasure." "That is a falsehood--a deliberate lie!" cried Dora. "You would not dare to say such a thing if Dick were in New York. It's only cowards who take advantage of the absent. I know of the quarrel you had with Dick at the dinner--I heard all about it. I'm glad he struck you. If he could know what you have just said, he would thrash you--as a liar deserves to be thrashed." "Gently, young lady, gently," replied Ormsby, quietly, yet his face livid with passion. "You are foolish to take up this tone with me. I hold the whip, and, thanks to you, I intend to let Dick Swinton feel it." Then, with swift change of voice, from which all anger had vanished, he continued: "Forgive me, forgive me! I should not speak to you like this, but--really that fellow is not worthy of you. His own grandfather disowns him." "But I don't," cried Dora, angrier than before. "You will change presently." "Never!" "Oh, yes, you will. When he comes home from the war, I shall have him arrested for forgery. That is, if he dares set foot in the United States again." "Forgery of what?" she asked, with a little, contemptuous laugh. "Of two checks signed by his grandfather, one for two, the other for five thousand, dollars. He has robbed him of seven thousand dollars, and we have Herresford's permission to prosecute. He signed no such checks, and he desires us to take action. He refuses to make good our loss. We cannot compound a felony." "You are saying this in spite--to frighten me." "Ah, you may well be frightened. The best thing he can do is to get shot." "I don't believe you," she cried, with a little thrill of terror in her voice. She knew that Ormsby was a man of precise statement, and not given to exaggeration or bragging. "Will you believe it if I show you the warrant for his arrest? It will be here this afternoon. Barnby, our manager, will apply for it, unless the rector can reimburse us. He's always up to his eyes in debt. I'm sorry for the vicar and Mrs. Swinton, yet you cannot blame me for feeling glad that my rival has shown himself unworthy of the sweetest girl that--" "Stop! I will not listen--I won't believe unless I hear it from his own lips." "You shall see the police warrant." "I will not believe it, I tell you. His last words to me were a warning against you. He told me to be true and believe no lies that you might utter. And I will be true. Good-morning, Mr. Ormsby, and--good-bye. I presume you will be returning home this afternoon. You are quite well now--robust, in fact--and you are showing your gratitude for the kindness received at our hands in a very shabby way. Good-day." With that, she left him chewing the cud of his bitterness. * * * * * John Swinton seemed to have recovered his elasticity and strength, both of mind and body. His sermons took on a more optimistic tone, his energy in parish work was well-nigh doubled. The change was remarked by everybody, and it found expression in the phrase: "He's a new man, quite like his old self." Never was man so cheery, so encouraging, so enthusiastic. No longer did he pass his tradesmen in the street with eyes averted, or make a cowardly escape down a by-lane to avoid them. He owed no money. The sensation was so delightful, so novel, that it was like renewed youth. The long period of stinginess and penny-wise-pound-foolish economy at the rectory had ceased. The rector himself whistled and sang about the house, and he came into the drawing-room in the evening on the rare occasions when Netty and her mother were at home, rubbing his hands like a man who is very satisfied with the world. He showered compliments upon his beautiful wife and daughter. Never man owned a prettier pair, he declared, and Harry Bent ought to think himself a lucky dog. As for Mary Swinton, her pallor, which troubled him a little, seemed to have increased her beauty. He often took her by the shoulders and, looking into her soft eyes, declared that she was the most wonderful wife, and the best mate any clergyman ever had. Her gowns were more magnificent than ever, regal in their sumptuousness and elegance, and her hair maintained its pristine brilliance--aided a little by art, but of that, as a man, he knew nothing. Her manner, too, had altered--she was more anxious to please than ever before--and it touched him deeply. She tried hard to stay at home and practise self-denial and reasonable economy; it seemed that the ideal home-life was a thing accomplished. The rector's cup of happiness would have been quite full but for the anxiety of the war. His son had enjoyed wonderful luck. He had been mentioned in dispatches within a week of his arrival at the front. What more could a father desire? Every morning, they opened their newspapers with dread; but, as the weeks slipped by, they grew accustomed to the strain. Netty even forgot to look at the paper for days together. Her lover had been invalided home, and her chief interest in the war news was removed. For some weeks, Mrs. Swinton sincerely tried to live the life of a clergyman's wife. She attended church meetings, mothers' meetings, gave away prizes, talked with old women and bores, and went to church four times on Sunday--and all this as a salve to her conscience, with a desperate hope that it would help to smooth away difficulties if they ever arose. That "if" was her mainstay. Her last forgery was a very serious affair--she did not realize how serious, or how large the sum, until the first excitement had died down, and all the money had been paid away. The possibility of raising any more funds by the same methods was quite out of the question. She was dimly conscious of a growing terror of her father. He was by nature merciless, and had always seemed to hate her. If he discovered her fraud, would he spare her for the sake of the family name and honor? No. He would do something, but what? She dared not contemplate. She dared not think of the frailness of the barriers which stood between herself and the possible consequences of her crime. Sometimes, she awoke in the night with a damp sweat upon her, and saw herself arraigned in the dock as a criminal charged with robbing her father. In the daylight, she rated her possible punishment as something lower. Perhaps, he would arrange to have his money back by stopping her allowance, and so leave her stranded until the debt was paid off--or he would beggar her by stopping it altogether. Another thought came often. Before anything was found out, the old man might die. That would mean her deliverance. Yet, again, if he left her nothing, or Dick either, then it spelt ruin, which would shadow all their lives. The thought was unbearable. She tried to forget it in a ceaseless activity. The thunderbolt fell on a day that she had devoted to her husband's interests. The bishop was having luncheon with the rector. The Mission Hall was to be opened in the afternoon, and the bishop had promised to be present. The full amount of the building funds had been subscribed, thus reimbursing the clergyman to the extent of a thousand dollars, the amount promised by Herresford and never paid. The ceremony brought to St. Botolph's Mission Hall the oddly-assorted crowd which generally finds its way to such functions. There were smart people, just a scattering of the cultured, dowdy and dull folk, who had "helped the good cause," and expected to get as much sober entertainment in return as might be had for the asking. Then, there were the ever-present army of free sight-seers, and a leaven of real workers. On the platform with the bishop and other notables, both men and women, sat Mrs. Swinton, and she sighed with unspeakable weariness. It had been one of those dull, monotonous, clerical days, replete with platitudes, the tedium of custom, and all the petty ceremonies and observances that she hated. She returned home worn out physically, and mentally benumbed. Netty, who had remained away, on pretence of a bad cold, met her mother in the hall. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come. Polly's in the drawing-room, and she says she's come to see what a high tea is like, and to be introduced to the dear bishop. Muriel West and Major Joicy are with her. They're singing comic songs at the piano." Mrs. Swinton looked annoyed. So far, she had avoided any clashing between her smart friends and her clerical acquaintances. Mrs. Ocklebourne was the last person in the world she wanted to see to-day. "Ah, here's our dear, saintly Mary, with her hands full of prayer-books!" exclaimed Polly Ocklebourne, as her hostess came into the room. "So glad you're home, dear. This little handful of sinners wants to be put through its paces before coming into the rarefied atmosphere of bishops and things. Where is the dear man?" "He is coming later, with John." "I hope you don't mind our coming, but we're awfully curious to see you presiding at a high tea, with the bishop's lady and her satellites. What are you going to feed the dears on, Mary? You'll ask us to stay, won't you? And, if I laugh, you'll find excuses for me." "Don't be absurd, Polly. I'd very much rather you hadn't come--you know that. But, since you're here, do try to be normal." "There you are!" cried racy Mrs. Ocklebourne, turning to her companions with a tragic expression; "I told you she wouldn't stretch out a hand to save sinners. But methinks I scent the cloth of the cleric, and I am sure I detect the camphor wherein furs have lain all summer. Come, Mary, bridge the gulf between the sheep and the goats, and introduce us to the bishop." "An unexpected pleasure," exclaimed the rector, who had just entered the room, coming forward to greet Mrs. Ocklebourne. "You should have come to the ceremony? We had a most eloquent address from the bishop--let me make you known to each other." "Delighted," murmured Mrs. Ocklebourne, with a smirk at her hostess, who was supremely uncomfortable, "and I do so want to know your dear wife, bishop. So does Major Joicy. He's tremendously interested in the Something Society, which looks after the poor black things out in Nigeria--that is the name of the place, isn't it?"--this with a sweet smile at the major, who was blushing like a schoolboy, and thoroughly unhappy. When detached from the racecourse or the card-table, his command of language was nil. He would rather have encountered a wild beast than a bishop's wife, and Mrs. Ocklebourne knew this. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, for she was full of mischief, and the present situation promised to yield a rich harvest. But another look at the weary face of Mrs. Swinton made her change her tactics. She laid herself out to amuse the bishop, and also to charm his wife. "The sinner has beguiled the saint," whispered Mrs. Ocklebourne, as the party made a move for the dining-room, "but I'm hungry, and, if I were really good, I believe I should want a high tea every day." The meal was a merry one. Polly Ocklebourne had the most infectious laugh in the world, and she kept the conversation going in splendid fashion, whipping up the laggards and getting the best out of everybody. She even succeeded in making the major tell a funny story, at which everybody laughed. A little while before the time for the bishop to leave, a servant whispered to the rector that a gentleman was waiting in the study to see him. He did not trouble to inquire the visitor's name. Since money affairs had been straightened out, these chance visitors had lost their terror, and anyone was free to call upon the clergyman, with the certainty of a hearing, at morning, noon, or night, on any day in the week. Mr. Barnby was the visitor. He came forward to shake the rector's hand awkwardly. "What is it, Barnby?" cried the rector, with a laugh. "No overdrawn account yet awhile, surely." "No, Mr. Swinton, nothing as trivial as that. I have just left Mr. Herresford at Asherton Hall, and he makes a very serious charge concerning two checks drawn by him, one for two thousand, the other for five thousand dollars. He declares that they are forgeries." "Forgeries! What do you mean?" "To be more accurate, the checks have been altered. The first was originally for two dollars, the second for five dollars. These figures were altered into two thousand and five thousand. You will see, if you take them to the light, that the ink is different--" "But what does all this signify?" asked the rector, fingering the checks idly. "Herresford doesn't repudiate his own paper! The man must be mad." "He repudiates these checks, sir. They were presented at the bank by your son, Mr. Richard Swinton, and it's Mr. Herresford's opinion that the alterations were made by the young man. He holds the bank responsible for the seven thousand dollars drawn by your son--" "But the checks are signed by Herresford!" cried Swinton, hotly. "This is some sardonic jest, in keeping with his donation of a thousand dollars to the Mission Hall, given with one hand and taken away with the other. It nearly landed me in bankruptcy." "But the checks themselves bear evidence of alteration." "Do you, too, sir, mean to insinuate that my son is a forger?" A sudden rat-tat at the door silenced them, and a servant entered with a telegram. A telegram! Telegrams in war time had a special significance. The bank-manager understood, and was silent while John Swinton held out his hand tremblingly and opened the yellow envelope with feverish fingers. Under the light, he read words that swam before his eyes, and with a sob he crumpled the paper. All the color was gone from his face. "My son"--he explained. "Nothing serious, I hope. Not--?" "Yes--dead!" There was a long pause, during which the rector stood breathing heavily, with one hand upon his heart. Mr. Barnby folded the forged checks mechanically, and stammered out: "Under--the--er--circumstances, I think this interview had better be postponed. Pray accept my condolences, sir. I am deeply, truly sorry." "Gone!--killed!--and he didn't want to go." With the tears streaming down his cheeks, the stricken man turned once more to the telegram, and muttered the vital purport of its message: "Died nobly rendering special service to his country. Captured and shot as a spy having courageously volunteered to carry dispatches through the enemy's lines." CHAPTER XI A HOUSE OF SORROW Mr. Barnby took his leave, feeling very wretched. John Swinton remained in the study, staring at the telegram like one stunned. He read and re-read it until the words lost their meaning. "Gone--gone--poor Dick gone!" he murmured, "and just as we were beginning to hold up our heads again, and feel that life was worth living. My poor boy--my poor boy!" A momentary spirit of rebellion took possession of him, and he clenched his fists and cursed the war. Light, rippling music broke on his ear. Netty was at the piano in the drawing-room. He must calm himself. His hand was shaking and his knees trembling. He could only murmur, "Poor Dick! Poor Dick!" and weep like a child. The music continued in a brighter key, and jarred upon him. He covered his ears, and paced up and down the room as though racked with pain. "How can I tell them--how can I tell them?" he sobbed. "Our poor boy--our fine boy--our little Dick, who had grown into such a fine, big chap. He died gloriously--yes, there's some consolation in that. But it doesn't wipe out the horror of it, my poor lad. Shot as a spy! Executed! A crowd of ruffians leveling their guns at you--my poor lad--" He could not follow the picture further. He buried his face in his hands and dropped into the little tub chair by the fire. The music in the next room broke into a canter, with little ripples of gaiety. "Stop!" he cried in his agony. At the moment, the study door opened gently--the soft rustle of silk--his wife. In an instant, she was at his side. "What is it--what has happened?" He rose, and extended his hand to her like a blind man. "Dick--" "Is dead! Oh!" A long, tremulous cry, and she fell into his arms. "I knew it--I felt it coming. Oh, Dick--Dick, why did they make you go?" "He died gloriously, darling--for his country, performing an act of gallantry--volunteering to run a great risk. A hero's death." They wept in each other's arms for some moments, and the gay music stopped of its own accord. "Netty will be here in a moment, and she'll have to be told," said Mrs. Swinton. "The bishop and the others mustn't get an inkling of what has happened. Their condolences would madden us. Send them away, John--send them away." "They'll be going presently, darling. If I send them away, I must explain why. Pull yourself together. We've faced trouble before, and must face this. It is our first real loss in this world. We still have Netty." "Netty! Netty!" cried his wife, with a petulance that almost shocked him. "What is she compared with Dick? And they've taken him--killed him. Oh, Dick!" Netty's voice could be heard, laughing and talking in a high key as she opened the drawing-room door. "I'll find her," she was saying, and in another moment she burst into the study. "Mother--mother, they're all asking for you. The bishop is going now. Why, what is the matter?" "Your mother and I are not very well, Netty, dear. Tell them we shall be back in a moment." "More money worries, I suppose," sighed Netty with a shrug, as she went out of the room. "You see how much Netty cares," cried Mrs. Swinton. "You're rather hard on the girl, dearest. Your heart is bitter with your loss. Let us be charitable." "But Dick!--Dick! Our boy!" she sobbed. Then, with a wonderful effort, she aroused herself, dried her eyes, and composed her features for the ordeal of facing her guests again. With remarkable self-control, she assumed her social manner as a mummer dons his mask; and, after one clasp of her husband's hand and a sympathetic look, went back to her guests with that leisurely, graceful step which was so characteristic of the popular and self-possessed Mary Swinton. Netty, who was quick to read the signs, saw that something was wrong, and that her mother was eager to get rid of her guests. She expedited the farewells with something of her mother's tact, and with an artificial regret that deceived no one. The bishop went unbidden to the study of his old friend, the rector, ostensibly to say good-bye, but in reality to drop a few hints concerning the unpleasant complaints that had reached him during the year from John Swinton's creditors. He knew Swinton's worth, his over-generous nature, his impulsive optimism and his great-hearted Christianity; but a rector whom his parishioners threatened to make bankrupt was an anxiety in the diocese. While the clergyman listened to the bishop's friendly words, he could not conceal the misery in his heart. "What's the matter?" cried the bishop at last, when John Swinton burst into tears, and turned away with a sob. The rector waved his hand to the telegram lying on the table, and the bishop took it up. "Dreadful! A terrible blow! Words of sympathy are of little avail at the present moment, old friend," he said, placing his hand on the other's shoulder. "Everyone's heart will open to you, John, in this time of trouble. The Lord giveth and He taketh away. Your son has died the death of an honorable, upright man. We are all proud of him, as you will be when you are more resigned. Good-bye, John. This is a time when a man is best left to the care of his wife." The parting handgrip between the bishop and the stricken father was long and eloquent of feeling, and the churchman's voice was husky as he uttered the final farewell. Soon, everyone was gone. The door closed behind the last gushing social personage, and the rector was seated by the fire, with his face buried in his hands. Netty came quietly to his side. "Father, something serious is the matter with mother. You've had news from the war. What is it--nothing has happened to Harry?" "No, child--your brother." "Oh!" The unguarded exclamation expressed a world of relief. Then, Netty's shallow brain commenced to work, and she murmured: "Is Dick wounded or--?" "The worst, Netty dear. He is gone." He spoke with his face still hidden. "Go to your mother," he pleaded, for he wished to be alone. A furious anger against the war--against all war and bloodshed, was rising up within him. All a father's protective instinct of his offspring burst forth. Revenge entered into his soul. He beat the air with clenched fists, and with distended eyes saw the muzzles of rifles presented at his helpless boy. Of a sudden, he remembered Mr. Barnby's accusation against his son's honor. The horrible, abominable suggestion of forgery. Everybody seemed to have been against the boy. How could Dick have forged his grandfather's signature? Herresford, who was always down on Dick, had made an infamous charge--the result of a delusion in his dotage. It mattered little now, or nothing. Yet, everything mattered that touched the honor of his boy. It was disgraceful, disgusting, cruel. Netty had gone to her own room, weeping limpid, emotional tears, with no salt of sorrow in them. The mother was in the drawing-room, sobbing as though her heart would break. A chill swept over the house. In the kitchen, there was silence, broken by an occasional cry of grief. The rector pulled himself together, and went to his wife. He found her in a state of collapse on the hearth-rug, and lifted her up gently. He had no intention of telling her of Barnby's mistake, or of uttering words of comfort. In the thousand and one recollections that surged through his brain touching his boy, words seemed superfluous. He put his arm tenderly around the queenly wife of whom he was so proud, for she was more precious to him than any child--and led her back to his study. He drew forward a little footstool by the fire, which was a favorite seat with her, and placed her there at his feet, while he sat in the tub chair; and she rested between his knees, in the old way of years ago, when they were lovers, and gossiped over the fire after all the house was quiet and little golden-haired Dick was fast asleep upstairs. And thus they sat now, till the fire burned out, and the keen, frosty air penetrated the room, chilling them to the bone. "Grieving will not bring him back, darling," murmured the broken man. "Let us to bed. Perhaps, a little sleep will bring us comfort and strength to face the morrow, and attend to our affairs as usual." She arose wearily, and asked in quite a casual manner, as if trying to avoid the matter of their sorrow: "What did Barnby want?" "Oh, he came with some crazy story about--some checks Dick cashed for you, which your father repudiates. The old man must be going mad!" "Checks?" she asked huskily, and her face was drawn with terror. "Checks for quite large amounts," said the rector. "Two or five thousand dollars, or something like that. The old man's memory must be failing him. He's getting dangerous. I always thought his animosity against Dick was more assumed than real, but to launch such a preposterous accusation is beyond enduring." "Does he accuse Dick?" she asked, in a strained voice; "Dick, who is dead?" "Yes, darling. But don't think of such nonsense. Barnby himself saw the absurdity of discussing it. Dick has had no money except what you got for him." She made no reply, but with bowed head walked unsteadily out of the room. CHAPTER XII A DIFFICULT POSITION There was no rest for John Swinton that night. After the first rush of sorrow, he began to rebel against the injustice of his Master, who seemed to heap trouble upon him with both hands, and reward his untiring efforts in the cause of good by a crushing load of worry. His was a temperament generally summed up by the world in the simple phrase, good-natured. He was soft-hearted, and weaker of spirit than he knew. Those in trouble always found in him a sympathetic listener; and the distress and poverty among his people often pained him more acutely than it did the actual sufferers born in, and inured to, hardship and privation. His energy was tremendous where a noble end was to be achieved; but he loved the good things of life, and hated its trivial worries, the keeping of accounts, the payment of cash on the spot, and the attendance of committee meetings, where men met together to talk of doing what he could accomplish single-handed while they were deliberating. He was worldly enough to know that a great deal could be done by money, and his hand was always in his pocket to help those less fortunate than himself. The influence of a wife that had no sympathy with plain, common people who wore the wrong clothes, and said the wrong things, and desired to be guided in their ridiculous, trivial affairs, had more to do with his failure than he knew. He was always drawn between two desires, the one to be a great and beloved divine, the other to be a country gentleman, living in refinement, and in surroundings sympathetic to his emotional artistic temperament. The early promise of his youth, unfulfilled in his middle age, had disappointed him. But there was always one consolation. His son would endure no privation and limitation such as hampered a man without private means, like himself. As the heir to Herresford's great wealth, Dick's future prospects had seemed to be assured. But the lad himself, careless of his own interests, like his father, ran wild at an awkward period when his grandfather, breaking in mind and body, developed those eccentricities which became the marked feature of his latter days. The animosity of the old man was aroused, and once an enemy was always an enemy with him. He cared nothing for his daughter. Indeed, he cherished a positive hatred of her at times; and never lost an opportunity of humiliating the rector and making him feel that he gained nothing by marrying the daughter against her father's wishes. It was bad enough to have troubles coming upon him in battalions without this final blow--the charge of forgery against Dick. The wife, unable to rest, arose and paced the house in the small hours. She dreaded to ask for further particulars of the charge brought by the bank against poor Dick, for fear she should be tempted to confess to her husband that she had robbed her own father. The horrible truth stood out now in its full light, naked and terrifying. With any other father, there might have been a chance of mercy. But there was none with this one. The malevolent old miser's nature had ever been at war with her own. From her birth, he had taunted her with being like her mother--a shallow, worthless, social creature, incapable of straight dealing and plain economy. From her childhood, she had deceived him, even in the matter of pennies. She had lied to him when she left home to elope with John Swinton; and it was only by threatening him with lawyers and a public scandal that she had been able to make him disgorge a part of the income derived from her dead mother's fortune, which had been absorbed by the miser through a legal technicality at his wife's death. He would not scruple to prosecute his own child for theft. He would certainly make her smart for her folly. The bad end, which he always prophesied for anyone who did not conform to his arrogant decrees, loomed imminent and forbidding. He was little better than a monster, with no more paternal instinct than the wild-cat. He would only chuckle and rub his hands in glee at the thought of her humiliation in the eyes of her friends. He might accuse the rector of complicity in her fraud. He would spread ruin around, rather than lose his dollars. In the morning, half-an-hour after the bank opened, Mr. Barnby appeared again at the rectory, impelled by a strict sense of duty once more to enter the house of sorrow, on what was surely the most unpleasant errand ever undertaken by a man at his employer's bidding. The news of Dick's death had already spread over the town; and those who knew of the affair at the club dinner and the taunt of cowardice did not fail to comment on the glorious end of the brave young officer who had died a hero. A splendid coward they called him, ironically. Mr. Barnby asked to see her ladyship, and not the rector. The recollection of John Swinton's haggard face had kept him awake half the night. The more he thought of the forgery, the more he was inclined to believe that Mrs. Swinton could explain the mystery of the checks. He knew, by referring to several banking-accounts, that she had recently been paying away large sums of money to tradesmen, and the amounts paid by Dick Swinton were not particularly large. Mrs. Swinton stood outside the drawing-room door with her hand on her heart for a full minute, before she dared enter to meet the visitor. Then, assuming her most self-possessed manner, with a slight touch of hauteur, she advanced to greet the newcomer. He arose awkwardly, and she gave him a distant bow. "You wish to see me, I understand, and you come from some bank, I believe?" She spoke in a manner indicating that her visitor was a person of whose existence she had just become aware. "Your husband has not informed you of the purport of my visit last night, Mrs. Swinton?" asked Mr. Barnby. "He spoke of some silly blunder about checks. Why have you come to me this morning--at a time of sorrow? Surely your wretched business can wait?" "It cannot wait," replied Mr. Barnby, with growing coolness. He saw a terrified look in her eyes, and his own sparkled with triumph. It was easier to settle matters of business with a woman in this mood than with a tearful mother. "I shall be as brief as possible, Mrs. Swinton. I only come to ask you a plain question. Did you recently receive from your father, Mr. Herresford, a check for two dollars?" "I--I did. Yes, I believe so. I can't remember." "Did you receive one from him for two thousand dollars?" "Why do you ask?" "Because the check for two dollars appears to have been altered into two thousand." "Let me see it," she demanded with the greatest _sang froid_. He produced the check, and she took it; but her hand trembled. "This is certainly a check for two thousand dollars, but I know nothing of it." "It was presented at the bank by your son, and cashed." "I tell you I know nothing of it. My son is dead, and cannot be questioned now." "I have another check here for five thousand dollars, made out to your son and cashed by him also. You will see that the ink has changed color in one part, and that the five has been altered to five thousand. The body of the check is in your handwriting, I believe." "Yes, that is my handwriting." "The additions were very cleverly made," ventured Mr. Barnby. "The forger must have imitated your handwriting wonderfully." "Yes, it is wonderfully like," she replied, huskily. "This check was also presented by your son, and honored by us. Both checks are repudiated by your father, who will only allow us to debit his account with seven dollars. Therefore, we are six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-three dollars to the bad. Mr. Ormsby, our managing director, says we must recover the money somehow. Your son is dead, and cannot explain, as you have already reminded me. Unfortunately, a warrant has been applied for, for his arrest for forgery." "You mean to insinuate that my son is a criminal?" she cried, with mock rage, drawing herself up, and acting her part very badly. "If you say those checks were not altered by you, there can be little doubt of the identity of the guilty person." "My son is dead. How dare you bring such a charge against him. I refuse to listen to you, or to discuss money matters at such a time. My father must pay the money." "He refuses, absolutely. And he says he will prosecute the offender, even if the forger be his own child." "He has the wickedness and audacity to suggest that I--?" "I merely repeat his words." She rang the bell, sweeping across the room in her haughtiest manner, and drawing herself up to her full height. The summons was answered instantly. "Show this gentleman to the door." "Madam, I will convey the result of this interview to Mr. Ormsby." The old man bowed himself out with a dignity that was more real than hers, and it had, as well, a touch of contempt in it. The moment the door closed behind him, Mrs. Swinton dropped into a chair, white and haggard, gasping for breath, with her heart beating great hammer-strokes that sent the blood to her brain. The room whirled around, the windows danced before her eyes, she clutched the back of a chair to prevent herself from fainting. "God help me!" she cried. "There was no other way. The disgrace, the exposure, the scandal would be awful. I should be cut by everybody--my husband pointed at in the streets and denounced as a partner in my guilt--for he has shared the money. It was to pay his debts as well, to save Dick and the whole household from ruin--for Netty's sake, too--how could Harry Bent marry a bankrupt clergyman's daughter? But it wasn't really my doing, it was his, his! He's no father at all. He's a miser, a beast of prey, a murderer of souls! From my birth, he's hated and cheated me. He has checked every good impulse, and made me regard his money as something to be got by trickery and misrepresentation and lies. And, now, I have lied on paper, and they suspect poor, dead Dick, who was the soul of honor. Oh, Dick, Dick! But they can't do anything to you, Dick--you're dead. Better to accuse you than ruin all of us. Your father couldn't hold up his head again, or preach a sermon from the pulpit. We should be beggars. I couldn't live that kind of a life. I should die. I have only one child now, and she must be my care. I've not been a proper mother to her, I fear, but I'll make up for it--yes, I'll make up for it. If I spoiled her life now, she would never forgive me--never! She is like me: she must have the good things of life, the things that need money. And, after all, it was my own money I took. It was no theft at all. It's only the wretched law that gives a miser the power to crush his own child for scrawling a few words on a piece of paper." Then came the worst danger of all. How was she to explain to her husband--how make him see her point of view--how face his condemnation of her guilty act, and secure his consent to the damnable sin of dishonoring her dead son's name to save the family from ruin. CHAPTER XIII DICK'S HEROISM Everybody in the country heard of Dick Swinton's death and the way in which he died--except Dora Dundas. The news was withheld from her by trickery; and she went on in blissful ignorance of the calamity that had overtaken her. The newspapers were full of the story. It had in it the picturesque elements that touch the public imagination and arouse enthusiasm. It appeared, from the narrative of a man who narrowly escaped death--one of the gallant band of three who volunteered to penetrate the enemy's lines and carry dispatches--that General Stone, who for days was cut off from the main body of the army, found it absolutely necessary to call for volunteers to carry information and plans to the commander in the field. Three men were chosen--two officers and a private--Dick Swinton, Jack Lorrimer, and a private named Nutt. The three men started from different points, and their instructions were to converge and join forces, and pass through a narrow ravine, which was the only possible path. Once through this, they could make a bolt for the American lines. Each man carried a written dispatch in such a manner that it could be destroyed instantly, the moment danger threatened, and, also, the subject matter of the dispatch was committed to memory. The enemy's lines were penetrated at night, but unforeseen dangers and obstacles presented themselves; so that it was daylight before the ravine was reached. The gallant three met at the appointed spot, and were within sight of one another, with only half-a-mile to ride through the ravine, when a shot rang out. A hundred rifles arose from the boulders. The little band rushed for cover, and destroyed their dispatches by burning. Certain death stared them in the face. After destroying the papers, they elected to ride on and run the gantlet, rather than be captured as spies and shot ignominiously. But it was too late. They were surrounded. Only when Jack Lorrimer fell with one arm shattered by a bullet and a bullet had grazed Dick Swinton's side did the others surrender. They were promised their lives, if they laid down their arms and gave up the dispatches. The prisoners were bound and marched to a lonely farmhouse, where their persons were searched and their saddles ripped to pieces to find the papers. The failure to discover anything aroused the anger of their captors, and Dick Swinton, who from his bearing seemed to be an officer, was exhorted to reveal the nature of his mission on promise of his life. He refused. A further examination was made. Their boots were cut to pieces, the heels split open, their weapons smashed, and their clothes torn to ribbons, but without avail. They were brought before an officer high in command, who charged them with bearing important messages, and again promised them their lives, if they would betray their country. Each man doggedly refused. They were given an hour to reconsider their decision; at the end of that time, they were to be shot. A firing party was told off, and the men were led outside the house, where they were bound hand and foot, and flung upon the ground--for an engagement was in progress, and distant firing threatened a possible advance on the part of the Americans. So hot was the firing that the hour's respite was reduced to half-an-hour, and a surly old soldier was sent to inform them that he had orders to carry out their execution at once, if they would not speak. They refused, without hesitation. Jack Lorrimer was unbound, and led around to the side of the farmhouse. They tied him to a halter-ring on the wall. Three times, he was given the chance of saving his life by treachery; and his only reply was: "I'm done. Damn you--shoot!" The rifles were raised; there was a rattling volley, a drooping figure on the halter-cord, and the officer turned his attention to the others. "Now then, the next." Dick Swinton and Nutt were lying side by side. Nutt had taken advantage of the interest excited by the execution to wriggle himself free of his loosely-tied fetters, which consisted of cords binding his wrists behind his back and passed around to a knot on his breast. He called upon Dick to aid him. Dick Swinton rolled over, and with his teeth loosened the first knot, then fell back into the old position. Nutt remained as though still bound. Dick was next unbound, and led around the farmhouse. That was Nutt's opportunity. He saw them first drag away the dead body of Jack Lorrimer, and fling it on one side; then they thrust Dick back against the wall out of sight. There was a pause while the firing party loaded their rifles. This was the moment chosen by Nutt for shaking off his bonds. He crawled a few yards, heard the appeal to Dick Swinton, and Dick's defiant refusal--then the order to fire, and the volley. He arose to his feet and ran. All the men in the ravine were gone forward to repel the dreaded advance, and the path was moderately clear. He ran for dear life until he reached the firing line, where he seized a wounded soldier's rifle, and dropped down as though he were dead. Here, he remained until the firing line retreated slowly before the American advance, and he heard the tramp of feet and the bad language of the soldiers, groaning, swearing, cursing. Then, he got up, turned around, and with a yell of triumph entered into the battle against his former captors. At the end of the fighting, he reported himself at headquarters. He told his story to the general, and to a newspaper correspondent. He made the most of it, and informed them how, as he wriggled free of his bonds, he heard the officer commanding the firing party call upon Dick Swinton three times, as upon the preceding victim. Each time, there came Dick's angry refusal, in a loud, defiant tone. Then, as he ran, there was the ugly volley. When he looked back, the firing party were dragging away the dead body, preparatory to stripping it. The sympathy with the rector was profound. Letters of condolence poured in. Yet, the bereaved man could not absolutely reconcile himself to the belief that Dick was no more. But it was evident that the authorities regarded Nutt's news as convincing, or they would not have sent an official intimation of his death. Colonel Dundas read the news in his morning paper. It was his custom to seize the journals the moment they arrived, and read to Dora at the breakfast-table all war news of vital interest--and a good deal more that was prosy, and only interesting to a soldier. By chance, he saw the story of Dick's death before his daughter came upon the scene, and was discreet enough not to mention the matter. Since Dora's refusal of Ormsby, he was fairly certain as to the nature of his daughter's feelings toward Dick, and in his displeasure made no reference whatever to the young man whom formerly he had so welcomed to his home. Dora was left to find out the truth four days later, when she came upon a stray copy of a weekly paper belonging to the housekeeper. Dick's portrait stared out at her from the middle of the page, and the whole story was given in detail. She was stunned at first, and, like the rector, refused to believe. It seemed possible that, at the last moment, the firing party might have missed their aim--a preposterous idea, seeing that the prisoner was set with his back against the wall, a dozen paces from his executioners. She understood why her father had not mentioned it. For the last day or two, he had sung the praises of Captain Ormsby, who was coming to dine with them on Monday. He had thrown out a very distinct hint as to his own admiration for that gentleman's sterling qualities. There was no one to help Dora bear her sorrow. It prostrated her. But for the forlorn hope that the escaped trooper might have made a mistake, and that, after all, Dick might have been saved, she would have broken down utterly. It was unnecessary to tell the colonel that his well-meant postponement of the sad news was wasted effort. He ventured awkwardly to comment upon the death of their old friend. "A good chap--a wild chap," he observed "but of no real use to anybody but his country, which has reason to thank him. If I'd been in his place, I should have done the same. But, if I'd done what he did before he left home, I think I should have died in the firing line, quietly and decently. Poor chap! Poor chap!" "What do you mean by 'if you had done what he did before he left home?'" asked the grief-stricken girl. "I mean the forgery." "What forgery?" "Do you mean to say you haven't heard? Why, everybody knows about it. Ormsby kept it dark as long as he could, but Herresford forced his hand. Don't you know what they're saying?" "I know what Mr. Ormsby said. But I warn you not to expect me to believe any lie that ungenerous, cruel man has circulated about the man I loved." "Well, they say he went out to the war to get shot." "It's a lie!" "He was in an awful hole, up to his eyes in debt, and threatened with arrest. He almost ruined his father and mother, and forged his grandfather's signature to two checks, robbing him of seven thousand dollars--or, rather, defrauded the bank, for Herresford won't pay, and the bank must. It is poor Ormsby who will be the sufferer. He suspected the checks, and said nothing--just like him--the only thing he could do, after the row at the club dinner." "Is it on the authority of Mr. Ormsby that these foul slanders on my dead lover have been made? Are they public property, or just a private communication to you, father?" "It is the talk of the town, girl. Why, his own mother has had to own up that the checks were forgeries. He cashed two checks for her, and saw his opportunity to alter the amounts, passing over to her the original small sums, while he kept the rest to pay his debts. Herresford's opinion of him has been very small all along; but nobody expected the lad to steal. Such a pity! Such a fine chap, too--the sort of boy girls go silly about, but lacking in backbone and stability. The matter of the checks has been kept from his father for the present, poor man. He knows nothing whatever about it." "Father, the things you tell me sound like the horrible complications of a nightmare. They are absurd." "Absurd! Why, I've seen the forged checks, girl. The silly young fool forgot to use the same colored ink as in the body of the check. A few days afterward, the added figures and words dried black as jet, whereas the ink used by Herresford dried a permanent blue." "Mr. Ormsby showed you the checks?" "Yes. Dora--Dora--don't look like that! I understand, my girl. I know you were fond of the boy, and I disapproved of it from the beginning. I said nothing, in case he didn't come home from the front. Put him out of your heart, my girl--out of mind. I'm as sorry about everything as if he were a boy of my own, and, if I could do anything for poor John Swinton and his wife, I would. I saw Mrs. Swinton yesterday driving, looking superbly handsome, as usual, but turned to stone. Poor old John goes about, saying, 'My son isn't dead! My son isn't dead!' and nobody contradicts him." "And Netty?" asked Dora, with a sob. "Oh! nobody bothers about her. It'll postpone her marriage with Harry Bent, I suppose, for a little while. They were to have been married as soon as he was well enough. Sit up, my girl--sit up. Keep a straight upper lip. You're under fire, and it's hot." "I can't--I can't!" sobbed Dora, burying her face in her hands, and swaying dangerously. Her father rushed forward to catch her, and held her to his heart, where she sobbed out her grief. While they stood thus, in the centre of the room, the servant announced Mr. Ormsby. At the mention of his name, Dora cried out in anger, and declared that she would not see him. But her father hushed her, and nodded to the servant as a sign that the unwelcome gentleman was to be shown into the room. "We're a little upset, Ormsby--we're a little upset," cried the colonel. "But a soldier's daughter is not afraid of her tears being seen. We were talking about poor Swinton. Dora has only just heard. How do things go at the rectory? And what's Herresford going to do about the checks?" "He insists upon our paying, and we must get the money from somebody. Mrs. Swinton has none. We must put the case to the rector, and get him to reimburse the bank to avoid a lawsuit and a public scandal. Poor Swinton set things right by his death. There was no other way out. He died like a brave man, and he will be remembered as a hero, except by those who know the truth; and I am powerless to keep that back now. Believe me, Miss Dundas, if I had known of his death, I would have cut out my tongue rather than have published the story of the crime, which was the original cause of his going to the war." "So, you still believe him to be a coward as well as a thief," she cried, hotly. "You are a hypocrite. It was you who really sent him away. He never meant to go. He didn't want to go. And now you have killed him." "Hush, hush, Dora!" cried the colonel. "I believe it was all some scheme of your own," cried the girl, hysterically. "You are the coward. I shall believe nothing until I've seen Mrs. Swinton, and hear what the rector has to say about it. Dick was the soul of honor. He was no thief." "He was in debt, my girl," cried the colonel. "You don't understand the position of a young man placed as he was. Herresford was understood to have discarded him as his heir. No doubt the young fellow had raised money on his expectations. Creditors were making existence a burden to him. Many a soldier has ended things with a revolver and an inquest for less than seven thousand dollars." "Ah, that sort of death requires a different kind of courage," sneered Ormsby, who was nettled by Dora's taunts. "I won't listen to you," she cried. "You are defaming the man I love. He couldn't go away with such things on his conscience. It is all some wicked plot." Ormsby shrugged his shoulders, and the colonel sighed despondently, while Dora swept out of the room, drawing her skirts away from Ormsby as though his touch were contamination. CHAPTER XIV MRS. SWINTON CONFESSES Those who heard of the heroic death of Dick Swinton soon heard also of the disgraceful circumstances surrounding his departure. His volunteering was now looked upon as a flight from justice; his death as a suicide to avoid the inevitable punishment of his crime. Everybody knew--except the rector. He, poor man, comforted in his sorrow by the thought that his son's memory would be forever glorious, manfully endeavored to stifle his misery and go about his daily tasks. The sympathy of his parishioners was not made apparent by their bearing toward him. He was disappointed in not receiving more direct consolation from his friends and those with whom he was in direct and almost daily communication. There was something shamefaced in their attitude. His churchwardens mumbled a few words of regret, and turned away, confused. People avoided him in the street, for the simple reason that they knew not what attitude to take in such painful circumstances. The stricken man was very conscious of, but could not understand, the constraint and diffidence of those people who did pluck up sufficient courage to say they were sorry. The revelation came, not through the proper channel--his wife--but from an old friend who met the rector in the street, one afternoon, and spoke out. He offered his hand, and, gripping the clergyman's slender, delicate white fingers, exclaimed: "I'm sorry for you, Swinton, and sorry for the lad. He died like a man, and I'll not believe it was to avoid disgrace." "Avoid disgrace?" cried the rector, astounded. "Ay; many a man has gone to war because his country was too hot to hold him. But your son was different. If he did steal his grandfather's money, he meant to come back. Thieves and vagabonds of that sort don't stand up against a wall with a dozen rifles at them, and refuse to speak the few words that'd save their skins." "Stole his grandfather's money! What do you mean?" "Why, the money they say he got from the bank. Bah! the Ormsby's are a bad lot. I'd rather deal with the Jews. It was his grandfather he thought he was cheating, perhaps--that isn't like stealing from other people. But this I will say, Swinton: your wife, she might have told a lie to save the boy." "I don't understand you," said the clergyman, haughtily. "Well, I'll be more plain. He altered his grandfather's checks, and kept the money for himself, didn't he? Well, if my boy had done the same, and my wife hadn't the sense or the heart to shield him, I'd--" He broke off abruptly. "What you are saying is all double Dutch to me," cried the rector, hoarsely. "You don't mean to tell me that the bank people have set about that cock-and-bull story of repudiated checks? I told them they were wrong. I thought they understood." "Ay, you told them they were wrong; but your wife told them they were right--at least, that's how the story goes. The boy altered her checks, and robbed his grandfather--if you call it robbing. I call it getting a bit on account by forcing the hand of a skinflint. For old Herresford is worse than the Ormsbys, worse than the Jews. He has owed me money for eighteen months, and I've got to go to the courts to force him to pay. I've had a boy go wrong myself; but he's working with me now as straight and good a lad as man could wish. Look them straight in the face, Swinton, and tell them from the pulpit that the boy's fault in swindling his grandfather out of what ought to be his, was wiped out by his service to his country. It was a damned fine piece of pluck, sir. I take off my hat to the boy; and, if there's to be any service of burial, or anything of that sort, I'll come." The rector parted from his candid friend, still unable to grasp the situation thoroughly. That the bank had spread abroad the false report seemed certain. He hurried, fuming with indignation, to call on Mr. Barnby and have the matter out with him. But it was past three, and the doors of the bank were shut. If his wife had seen Barnby, there must have been some misunderstanding. He hurried home, to find the house silent and deserted. In the study, the light was fading and the fire had gone out. He was about to ring for the lamp to be lighted when a stifled sob revealed the presence of someone in the room. "Mary!" His wife was on the hearth-rug, with her arms spread out on the seat of the little tub chair, and her head bowed down. She heard him come in, but did not raise her head. "Mary, Mary, you must not give way like this," he murmured, as he bent over her and raised her gently. "Tears will not bring him back, Mary." "It isn't that--it isn't that!" she cried, as he lifted her to her feet. "Oh, I am so wretched! I must confess, John--something that will make you hate and loathe me." "And I have something to talk to you about, dearest. There is a horrible report spread in the town, apparently, by the bank people. Just now, a man came up and condoled with me, calling my son a thief and a forger." "John! John!" cried his wife, placing her hands upon his shoulders, and presenting a face strained with agony. "I am going to tell you something that will make you hate me for the rest of your life." The rector trembled with a growing dread. "First, tell me what Barnby said to you, and what you said to him, about those checks that you got from your father. You must have given Barnby an entirely erroneous impression." "It is about those checks I am going to speak. When you have heard me, condemn me if you like, but don't ruin us utterly. That is all I ask. Don't ruin us." "Be more explicit. You are talking in riddles. Everybody seems to be conspiring to hide something from me. What is it? What has happened? What did Dick do before he went away? Did he do anything at all? Have you hidden something from me?" "John, the checks I got from father, with which we paid our debts to stave off disgrace, were--forgeries." "Lord help us, Mary! Do you mean that we have been handling stolen money?" "Don't put it like that, John, don't! I can't bear it." "And is it true what they're saying about Dick? Oh! it's horrible. I'll not believe it of our boy." "There is no need to believe it, John. He is innocent, though they condemn him. Yet, the checks were forgeries." "Then, who? You got the checks, didn't you? I thought--Ah!" "I am the culprit, John. I altered them." "You?" "Yes, John. Don't look at me like that. Father was outrageous. There was no money to be got from him, and I had no other course. Your bankruptcy would have meant your downfall. That dressmaker woman was inexorable. You would have been sued by your stock-broker, and--who knows what wretchedness was awaiting us?--perhaps absolute beggary in obscure lodgings, and our daily bread purchased with money begged from our friends. You know what father is: you know how he hates both you and me, how he would rub salt into our wounds, and gloat over our humiliation. If--if Dick hadn't gone to the front--" "Mary, Mary, what are you saying! You have robbed your father of money instead of facing the result of our follies bravely? You have sent our boy to the war--with money filched by a felony! Don't touch me! Stand away! No; I thought you were a good woman!" "I didn't know. I didn't realize." "You are not a child, without knowledge of the ways of the world. You must have known what you were doing." "I thought that father would never know," she faltered, chokingly. "He hoards his money, and a few thousands more or less would make no difference to him. There was every chance that he would never discover the loss. It was as much mine as his. He has thousands that belonged to my mother, which he cheated me out of. I added words and figures to the checks, like the fool that I was, not using the same ink that father used for the signatures, and--and the bank found out." "Horrible! horrible! But what has this to do with poor Dick? Why do people turn away from me and stammer at the mention of his name, as though they were ashamed? He, poor boy, knew nothing of all this." "John, John, you don't understand yet!" she whispered, creeping nearer to him, with extended hands, ready to entwine her arms about his neck. He retreated, white-faced and terrified, thinking of the serpent in Eden and the woman who tempted. She was tempting him now, coming nearer to wind her soft arms about him and hold him close, so that he would be powerless, as he always was when her breath was on his cheek, and her eyes pleading for a bending of his stern principles before her more-worldly needs. She held him tight-clasped to her until he could feel the beating of her heart and the heaving of her bosom against his breast. It was thus that she had often cajoled him to buy things that he could not afford, to entertain people that he would rather not see, to indulge his children in vanities and follies against his better judgment, to desert his plain duty to his Church in favor of some social inanity. She was always tempting, caressing, and charming him with playful banter when he would be serious, weakening him when he would be strong, coaxing him to play when he would have worked. He had been as wax in her hands; but hitherto her sins had been little ones, and chiefly sins of omission. "John! John!" she whispered huskily, with her lips close to his ear. "You must promise not to hate me, not to curse me when you have heard. You'll despise me, you'll be horrified. But promise--promise that you won't be cruel." "I am never cruel, Mary. Tell me--how is Dick implicated?" "John, I have done a more dreadful thing than stealing money." "Mary!" "I have denied my sin--not for my own sake; no, John, it was for all our sakes--for yours, for Netty's, for her future husband's, for the good of the church where you have worked so hard and have become so indispensable." "Don't torture me! Speak plainly--speak out!" he gasped, with labored breath, as though he were choking. "The bank people thought that Dick altered the checks, John. Of course, if he had lived, I should have confessed that it was not he, but I. I saw our chance when the dreadful news came. They couldn't punish him for his mother's sin, and they were powerless, if I denied altering the checks. I did deny it--no, John, don't shrink away like that! I won't let you go. No, hold me to you, John, or I can't go on. Don't you see that my disgrace would be far greater than a man's? I should be cut by everyone, disowned by my own father, prosecuted by the bank, and sent to prison. John--don't you understand? Don't look at me like that! They'll put me in a felon's dock, if you speak. I, your wife, the wife of the rector of St. Botolph's--think of it!" She held out her hands appealingly to him; but he thrust her off in terror, as though she were an evil spirit from another world, breathing poisonous vapors. "John, John, you must see that I'm right. Think of Netty. We have a child who lives. Dick is dead. How does it matter what they say about Dick's money affairs? He died bravely. His name will go down honored and esteemed. The glamour of his heroism will blot out any taint of sin his mother may have put upon him. My denial will save his sister, his father, his mother--our home. Oh, John, you must see it--you must!" "You must confess!" he cried, denouncing her with outstretched finger and in bitter scorn. "You shall!" "No, no, John," she screamed, wringing her hands in pitiful supplication. "Speak more quietly." "You have sullied the name of your dead son with a cowardly crime. Woman! Woman! This is devil's work. They think our boy fled like a thief with his pockets full of stolen money, whilst all the time you and I were evading the just reward of our follies and extravagance." "John, the money was used to pay your debts and his debts, as well as mine; to stave off ruin from you and from him as well as from myself, and to keep Netty's husband for her. Do you think that Harry Bent could possibly marry Netty, if her mother were sent to jail?" "Don't bring our children into this, Mary. You--" "I must speak of Netty--I must! Would she ever forgive us, if her lover cast her off?" "And will he marry her, now that her brother is disgraced?" "Oh, her brother's disgrace is nothing. It is only gossip. They can't arrest Dick and imprison him. Oh, I couldn't bear it--I couldn't!" "And, yet, you will see your son's name defamed in the moment of his glory." "John, John, I did it to save you. I didn't think of myself. I've never been afraid to stand by anything I've done before. But this! Oh, take me away and kill me, shoot me, say that it was an accident, and I'll gladly endure my punishment. But a mother is never alone in her sin. The sins of the fathers--you know the text well enough, John. Last night, I tried to kill myself." "Mary!" He groaned, with outstretched hands, revealing his love and the gap in his armor where he could still be pierced. "Yes. I thought it would be best. I wrote a full confession of everything, such a letter as would cover my father with shame, and send him to his grave, dreading to meet his Maker. I meant to poison myself, but I thought of you in your double sorrow, John--what would you do without me?--and Netty, motherless when she most needs guidance. I thought of the disgrace and the shame of it, the inquest and the newspaper accounts--oh, I've been through horrors untold, John. I've been punished a hundred times for all I've done. John! John! Don't stand away from me like that! If you do, I shall go upstairs now--now!--and put an end to everything. I've got the poison there. I'll go. God is my judge. I won't live to be condemned by you and everybody, and have my name a by-word for all time--the daughter who ran away with a parson, and robbed her father to save her husband, and then was flung into jail by the godly man, who would rather see his daughter a social outcast and his wife in penal servitude than stand by her." "It's a sin--a horrible sin!" "Who are you to judge me? Would Dick have betrayed his mother?" "Mary--Mary! Don't tempt me--don't--don't! You know what my plain duty is. You know what our duty to our dead son is. Your father must be appealed to. We will go to him on our bended knees, and beg forgiveness. The bank people must be told the truth, and they must contradict publicly the slander upon Dick." "Then, you would have your wife humiliated and publicly branded as a thief and a forger? What do you think people will say of us, then? Shall I ever dare to show my face among my friends again?" "We must go away, to a new place, a new country, where no one knows us and we mustn't come back." "And Netty?" "Netty must bear her share of the burden you have put upon us. We will bear it together." "No; Netty is blameless. You and I, John, must suffer, not she. It would be wicked to ruin her young life. You won't denounce me, John. You can't. You won't have me sent to prison. You won't disgrace me in the eyes of my friends. You won't do anything--at least, until Netty is married--will you?" "Harry Bent must know." "No, no, John. You know what his people are, stiff-necked, conventional, purse-proud, always boasting of their lineage. Until Netty is married! Wait till then." "I don't know what to do," moaned the broken man, bursting into tears, and sinking into his chair at the table. "Be guided by me, John. The dead can't feel, while the living can be condemned to lifelong torture." "Have your own way," he groaned. "I don't know what to do. I shall never hold up my head again." "Oh, yes, you will, John, and--there is always my shoulder to rest it upon, dearest. Let me comfort you." * * * * * Netty Swinton sat before the drawing-room fire, curled up on the white bearskin rug with a book in her hand, munching biscuits. Netty was generally eating something. Her eyes were red, but she had not been weeping much, and, as she stared into the embers, her pretty, expressionless little mouth was drawn in a discontented downward curve. She was in mourning--and she hated black. Netty was thinking ruefully of Dick's disgrace that had fallen upon the family, and wondering anxiously what the effect would be upon Harry Bent and his relations, when a knock at the front door disturbed her meditations, and presently, after a parley, a visitor was announced--although visitors were not received to-day, with Mrs. Swinton lying ill upstairs, and the rector shut up alone in his study. "Miss Dundas." Netty rose ungraciously, and presented a frigid hand to Dora, casting a sharp, feminine eye over the newcomer's black dress and hat, which signified that she, too, was in mourning. This Netty regarded as rather impertinent. The girls had never been intimate friends, although they had seen a great deal of one another when Mrs. Swinton took Dora under her wing and introduced her into society, which found Netty dull, and made much of Dora. This aroused a natural jealousy. The girls were opposite in temperament, and, in a way, rivals. "Netty, is your mother really ill?" asked Dora, as she extended her hand, "or is she merely not receiving anyone?" "Mother has a bad headache, and is lying down. She is naturally very upset." "Oh, Netty, it is terrible!" sobbed Dora, breaking down hopelessly. "It can't be true--it can't!" "What can't be true?" asked Netty, coldly. "Poor dear Dick's death. It will kill me." "I don't think there is any doubt about it," snapped Netty. "And I don't see why you should feel it more than anybody else." "Netty, that is unkind of you--ungenerous. You know I loved Dick. He was mine--mine!" "Forgive me, but was he not also Nellie Ocklebourne's, and the dear friend of I don't know how many others besides? But none of them have been here since they heard that he got into a scrape before he went away." "There has been some hideous blunder." "No, it is simple enough," said Netty, curling herself up on a low settee. "Think what it may mean to me--just engaged to Harry Bent--and now, there's no knowing what he may do. His people may resent his bringing into the family the sister of a--forger." "Netty, you sha'n't speak of Dick like that!" "Why shouldn't I? Did he think of me? Really, you are too absurd! I don't see why you should excite yourself about it. If you think that he cared for you only, you are merely one more foolish victim." "Netty, how can you talk of your brother so! He is accused of a horrible crime. Why don't you stand up for him? Why don't you do something to clear him? What is your father doing--and your mother?" "Surely, they can be left to manage their affairs as they think best." "And I, who loved him, must do nothing, I suppose," cried Dora, hysterically. "I loved him, I tell you, and he loved me. We were engaged." "Engaged! What nonsense! Really, Dora!" "No one knew, Netty," sobbed Dora, aching for a little feminine sympathy, even from Netty. "Here is his ring, upon this ribbon round my neck." "Surely, you don't think that is interesting to me--and at such a time." "Well, if it isn't," cried Dora, flashing out through her tears, "perhaps your brother's honor is. I must see your mother, and urge her to refute the awful slanders spread about by Vivian Ormsby." "Oh, so your other admirer is responsible for spreading the story of Dick's misdeeds. I think he might have kept silent. You must know that it is only because Ormsby made himself ridiculous about you, and because Dick hated Ormsby, that he flirted with you, and so caused bad blood between them. I think that you might leave Dick alone, now that he is dead." "Dead! Dead! He can't be," cried Dora desperately. "I must see your mother," she insisted. "I shall go up to her room. This is no ordinary time, and my business is urgent." Netty shrugged her shoulders, and walked out of the room, apparently to inform her mother of the visit. After a long delay, Mrs. Swinton entered, looking white and haggard. "What is it you want of me?" she asked, with a feeble assumption of her usual languid tone. "Oh, Mrs. Swinton, it isn't true--tell me it isn't true! I can't believe it of him." "You are referring to Dick's trouble? Our sorrow is embittered by the knowledge that our poor boy went away--" Words failed her. She could not lie to this girl, whose eyes seemed to be searching her very soul. What did she suspect? "My father told me of the checks," said Dora. "They were made out to you. Yet, they say he forged them. How could he? I don't understand these things; and father's explanation didn't enlighten me at all. I loved Dick--you know I did." "I suspected it, Dora, and had things gone well with us, I should have been as pleased as anybody, if the affection between you ripened--" "Ripened!" cried Dora, with fine contempt: "He loved me, and I loved him. We were engaged. No one was to know till he came back, but now--well, what does it matter who knows? But those who slander him and take away his good name must answer to me. Vivian Ormsby was always his enemy. But you--you must have known what he was doing. He couldn't take all that money and go away in debt, and talk as he did of having got money from his grandfather by extortion. He told me that you'd been able to arrange things for him." "He told you that!" cried Mrs. Swinton, startled into revealing her alarm. "Yes, he told me that his grandfather had grown impossible, and that you were the only one who could get money out of him. He said you'd got lots of money, and that things were better for everybody at home--those were his words. Yet, they say he altered checks. What do they mean? How could he?" "My dear, it is too complicated a matter for a girl like you to understand. You must know that to discuss such a matter with me in this time of sorrow is little less than cruel." "Cruel? Isn't it cruel to me, too? Isn't his honor as dear to me as to his mother? I tell you, I won't rest until he is set right before the world. Where is Mr. Swinton? He is a man, and can make a public denial on behalf of his son. Surely, he's not going to sit quiet, and let Mr. Ormsby--" "It is not Mr. Ormsby--it is his grandfather who repudiates the checks, Dora. Don't you think that you are best advised by me, his mother? Do you think I didn't love Dick? Do you think that, if there were any way of refuting the charges, I should be silent? His father knows that it is useless. You will serve Dick best by burying your love in your heart, and saying as little as possible. He died the death of a hero; and as a hero he will be remembered by us, not by his follies. And, after all, what was the tricking of his grandfather out of a few thousands that were really his own? It was a family matter, which should never have been made public at all." "That's what I told father," faltered Dora. "The best thing you can do, Dora, is to mollify Mr. Ormsby. Don't anger him. Don't urge him on to blacken Dick's memory, as he is sure to do if you don't look more kindly upon his suit. He expects to marry you. He told me so when I met him at dinner at the Bents'. Your father wishes it, and, if Dick could speak now, he would wish it, too--that you would do everything in your power to close the lips of his rival. Ormsby is a splendid match for a girl like you, an eldest son, and immensely wealthy. He worships you, and is a stronger man altogether than poor Dick, who was weak, like his mother. What am I saying--what am I saying? My sense of right and wrong is dulled. Help me. Bring me that chair. Oh! I'm a very wretched woman, Dora!" cried the unhappy mother, sinking into the chair Dora brought forward. "Take warning by me. Love with your head and not your heart, Dora. Don't risk everything for a foolish girl's passion, when a rich man offers you a proud position." "I shall never marry Vivian Ormsby," said Dora, scornfully, "I shall never marry anybody. Oh, Dick!--I am his. And you, Mrs. Swinton--I thought one day to call you mother. Yet, you talk like this to me, as though Dick were unworthy--you whom he idolized." "Don't taunt me, Dora!" moaned the wretched mother. "I shall always be fond of you for Dick's sake. Good-bye--and forgive me." Mrs. Swinton tottered from the room with arms extended, a pitiable figure; and Dora stood alone, crestfallen, and faced with the inevitable. Her idol was thrown down. Yet, what did it matter that his feet were clay? She stood where Mrs. Swinton had left her, rooted to the spot as if unable to move. This room was in Dick's home, and shadowed by remembrances of him. The door opened, and the rector looked in, with a face so ghastly and drawn that she almost cried out in terror. His hair was white, and his eyes looked wild. "Oh, you, Miss Dundas," he murmured, as he advanced with an extended, limp hand. "I thought I heard my wife's voice." "I have come to offer my condolences," murmured Dora, unable to do more than utter commonplaces in the face of his grief. "Yes, yes--thank you--thank you. It is a great blow, but I suppose we shall be reconciled in time." With that, he turned abruptly and hurried away into the study, not trusting himself to say more, and omitting to bid her adieu. Her mission had failed, and, as Netty did not return, she let herself out of the house quietly, and, with one last look round at Dick's home, crept away. CHAPTER XV COLONEL DUNDAS SPEAKS HIS MIND Colonel Dundas entered the dining-room with his hands full of letters, and gave a sharp glance at Dora, who was there before him this morning, sitting with a newspaper in her lap, and her hands clasped, gazing abstractedly into space. People who knew of her regard for Dick Swinton spared her any reference to the young man's death; but others, who loved gossip and were blind to facial signs, babbled to her of the rector's trouble. The poor man was so broken, they said, that he could not conduct the Sunday services. A friend was doing duty for him. But Mrs. Swinton had come out splendidly, and was throwing herself heart and soul into the parish work, which the collapse of her husband seriously hindered. It was gossiped that she had sold her carriage and pair to provide winter clothing for the children of the slums. The gay wife had quite reformed--but would it last? How dull it was in the church without the rector, and what an awful blow his son's death must have been to whiten his hair and make an old man of him in the course of a few days? Dora listened to these tales, unwilling to surrender one jot of news that in any way touched the death of her lover. She found that the people who talked of Dick very soon forgot his heroism. Mark Antony's words were too true: "The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones." Now, the colonel flung down his letters, and, taking up one that was opened, handed it to Dora. "There's something in this for you to read--a letter from Ormsby, Dora." "I don't want to read anything from Mr. Ormsby." "I've read it," said the colonel awkwardly, "as Mr. Ormsby requested me to. I think you'll be sorry if you don't see what he says." Dora's face hardened as she took out the closely-written letter, addressed to herself, and enclosed under cover to her father. "MY DEAR MISS DUNDAS, I have been very wretched since our last interview, when you judged me unfairly and said many hard things, the worst of which was your dismissal, and your wish that I should not again enter your father's house. He has invited me to come, and I am feverishly looking forward to your permission to accept the invitation. I am not jealous now of a dead man, nor do I wish to press my suit at such a time. But I desire to set myself right. You have no doubt learned by this time that the lies of which you accused me were painful truths. The hard things you said were not justified, and I only ask to be received as a visitor, for my life is colorless and miserable if I cannot see you. There is one other matter I must discuss with you in full. It is, briefly, this: Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his account from our bank, of which I am a director and a partner, and demands the restitution of seven thousand dollars taken by poor Dick Swinton. My co-directors blame me for not acting at once when I suspected the first check. But they are not disposed to pay the money, and a lawsuit will result. You know what that means--a public scandal, a full exposure of my fellow-officer's act of folly, a painful revelation concerning the affairs of the Swinton's and their money troubles. All this, I am sure, would be most repugnant to you. For your sake, I am willing to pay this money, and spare you pain. If, however, you persist in treating me unfairly and breaking my heart, I cannot be expected to make so great a sacrifice to save the honor of one who publicly insulted me by striking me a cowardly blow in the face because I held a smaller opinion of him than did other people, and thoughtlessly revealed the fact by an unguarded remark. I never really doubted his physical courage, and he has rendered a good account of himself, of which we are all proud. But seven thousand dollars is too dear a price to pay without some fair recognition of my sacrifice on your behalf." "Father," cried Dora, starting up, and reading no more, "I want you to let me have seven thousand dollars." "What!" cried the colonel, staring at her as though she had asked for the moon. "I want seven thousand dollars. I'll repay it somehow, in the course of years. I'll economize--" "Don't think of it, my girl--don't think of it. That miserly old man, who starves his family and washes his dirty linen in public, is going to have no money of mine." "But, father, give it to me. It'll make no real difference to you. You are rich enough--" "Not a penny, my girl--not a penny. Let Ormsby pay the money. Thank heaven, it's his business, not ours. Your animosity against him is most unreasonable. Because you had a difference of opinion over a lad who couldn't hold a candle to him as an upright, honorable man--" "You sha'n't speak like that, father." "But I shall speak! I'm tired of your pale face, and your weeping in secret, turning the whole house into a place of mourning. And what for? A man who would never have married you in any case. His grandfather disowned him, he wouldn't have gained my consent, and the chances are a hundred to one you would have married Ormsby. But, now, you suddenly insult my friend--you see nobody--we can't talk about the war--and, damn me! what else is there to talk about? You call yourself a soldier's daughter, and you're going to break your heart over a man who couldn't play the straight game. Why, his own father and mother can't say a good word for him. Yet, Ormsby's willing to pay seven thousand dollars to stifle a public exposure, just for your sake. Why, girl, it's magnificent! I wouldn't pay seven cents. Ormsby is coming here, and you'll have to be civil to him. Write and tell him so." "Very well, father," sighed Dora, to whom the anger of her parent was a very rare thing. There was some justice in his point of view, although it was harsh justice. For Dick's sake, she could not afford to incense Ormsby. She swallowed her pride and humbled her heart, and, after much deliberation, wrote a reply that was short and to the point. "Miss Dundas expects to receive Mr. Ormsby as her father wishes." CHAPTER XVI MR. TRIMMER COMES HOME "Mr. Trimmer is back." The words went around among the servants at Asherton Hall in a whisper; and everybody was immediately alert, as at the return of a master. Mr. Trimmer was old Herresford's valet, who had been away for a long holiday--the first for many years. Trimmer was a power for good and evil--some said a greater power than Herresford himself, over whom he had gained a mental ascendency. Mr. Trimmer was sixty at least. Yet, his face bore scarce a wrinkle, his back was as straight as any young man's. His hair was coal black--Mrs. Ripon declared that he dyed it. And he was about Herresford's height, spare of figure, and always faultlessly dressed in close-fitting garments with a tendency toward a horsey cut. His head was large, and his thick hair suggested a wig, for two curly locks were brushed forward and brought over the front of the ears, and at the summit of the forehead was a wonderful curl that would not have disgraced a hair-dresser's window block. Faultless and trim, with glistening black eyes that were ever wandering discreetly, he was the embodiment of alert watchfulness. He could efface himself utterly at times, and would stand in the background of the bedchamber, almost out of sight, and as still as if turned to stone. Interviews with Herresford were generally carried on in Trimmer's presence, but, although the old man frequently referred to Trimmer in his arguments and quarrels, the valet acutely avoided asserting himself beyond the bounds of the strictest decorum while visitors were present. But, when they were gone, Trimmer's iron personality showed itself in a quiet hectoring, which made him the other's master. Mr. Trimmer was financially quite independent of his employer's ill humors. He was wealthy, and his name was mentioned by the other servants with 'bated breath. He was the owner of three saloons which he had bought from time to time. In short, Mr. Trimmer was a moneyed man. His was one of those strange natures which work in grooves and cannot get out of them. Nothing but the death of Herresford would persuade him to break the continuity of his service. His master might storm, and threaten, and dismiss him. It always came to nothing. Mr. Trimmer went on as usual, treating the miser as a child, and administering his affairs, both financial and domestic, with an iron hand. Never before had he taken a holiday, and on his return there was much anxiety. The servants at the Hall had hoped that he was really discharged, at last. But no, he came back, smiling sardonically, and, as he entered the front door--not the servants' entrance--his eye roved everywhere in search of backsliding. Mrs. Ripon met him in the hall with a forced smile and a greeting, but she dared not offer to shake hands with the great man. "Anything of importance since I have been away?" asked Mr. Trimmer. "Yes, Mr. Trimmer. Mr. Herresford has changed his bedroom." "Humph! We'll soon alter that," murmured Trimmer. "That's what I told him, Mr. Trimmer. I said you'd be annoyed, and that he'd have to go back when you returned." "Just so, just so! Any trouble with his family?" "Mr. Dick--I daresay you have heard." "I've heard nothing." "Dead--killed in the war." "Dead! Well, to be sure." "Yes, poor boy--killed." "Dear, dear!" murmured Mr. Trimmer, growing meditative. Mrs. Ripon knew what he was thinking--or imagined that she did. There was no one now to inherit Herresford's money but Mrs. Swinton, and she believed that Trimmer was wondering how much of it he would get for himself; for it was a popular delusion below stairs that Mr. Trimmer had mesmerized his master into making a will in his favor, leaving him everything. "How did Mr. Dick get away?" asked Mr. Trimmer. "Surely, his creditors wouldn't let him go." "Ah, now you have touched the sore point, Mr. Trimmer. The poor young man swindled--yes, swindled the bank, forged checks in his grandfather's name." Mr. Trimmer allowed some human expression to creep into his stone face. He puckered his brows, and his usually marble-smooth forehead showed unexpected wrinkles. "It was the very last thing we'd have believed, Mr. Trimmer; it was for seven thousand dollars." "Tut, tut!" exclaimed Mr. Trimmer, sorrowfully. "That comes of my going away. I ought to have locked up the check-book. I suppose the young man came here to see his grandfather and stole the checks." "No, he never came--at least only once, and just for a moment. Then, his grandfather was so insulting that he only stayed a few minutes. That was when he came to say good-bye. But Mrs. Swinton came, trying to get money for the boy." "I must see Mr. Herresford about this." Trimmer walked mechanically upstairs to the former bedroom, quite forgetting that his master would not be there. He came out again with a short, sharp exclamation of anger, and at last found the old man in the turret room. Herresford was reading a long deed left by his lawyer, and on a chair by his bedside was a pile of documents. "Good morning, sir," said Trimmer, in exactly the same tone as always during the last forty years, and he cast his eye around the untidy room. "Oh, it's you? Back again, eh?" grunted the miser. "About time, too! How long is it since valets have taken to doing the grand tour, and taking three months' holiday without leave of their masters?" "I gave myself leave, sir," replied Trimmer, nonchalantly. "And what right have you to take holidays without my permission?" "You discharged me, sir--but I thought better of it." A grunt was the only answer to this impertinence. "You seem to have been muddling things nicely in my absence," observed Trimmer after a moment, with cool audacity. "Have I? That's all you know. Who told you what I've been doing?" "Your heir is dead, I hear. I hope you had nothing to do with that." "What do you mean, sir--what do you mean?" "I mean that I hope you didn't send him away to the war to save money and keep him from further debt." "My family affairs are nothing to do with you, sir." "So you have told me for the last forty years, sir. I liked the young man. There was nothing bad about him. But I hear you drove him to forgery." "It's a lie--a lie!" "How did he get your checks?" The miser made no answer. Trimmer came over, and fixed glittering eyes upon him. The old man cowered. "You've ruined the boy, and sent him to the war. I can see it in your face. I knew what would happen if I let you alone--I knew you'd do some rascally meanness that--" "Trimmer, it's a lie!" cried the old man, shaking as with a palsy, and drawing further down into his pillow. "I'm an old man--I'm helpless--I won't be bullied." "This is one of the occasions when I feel that a shaking would do you good," declared Trimmer. "No, no--not now--not again! Last time, I was bad for a week. The shock might kill me. It would be murder." "Well, and would that matter?" asked Trimmer, callously. He stood at the bedside, with a duster in one hand and a medicine-glass in the other, polishing the glass in the most leisurely fashion, and speaking in hard, even tones. He looked down upon the old wreck as on the carcase of a dead dog. They were a strange pair, these two, and the world outside, although it knew something of the influence of Trimmer over his master, had no conception of its real extent. Trimmer ought to have been a master of men; but some defect in his mental equipment at the beginning of life, or an unkind fate, was responsible for his becoming a menial. He was a slave of habit, a stickler for scrupulous tidiness. A dusty room or an ill-folded suit of clothes would agitate him more than the rocking of an empire. He entered the service of Herresford when quite a young man, and that service had become a habit with him, and he could not break it. He was bound to his menial occupation by bonds of steel; and the idea of doing without Trimmer was as inconceivable to his master as the idea of going without clothes. The miser, who followed no man's advice, nevertheless revealed more of his private affairs to his valet than to his lawyers. And Trimmer, who consulted nobody, and was by nature secretive, jealously guarded his master's interests, and insisted on being consulted in all private matters. A miser himself, Trimmer approved and fostered the miserly instincts of his master, until there had grown up between them an intimacy that was almost a partnership. And, now that Herresford was broken in health, and had become a pitiful wreck, he preferred to be left entirely at Trimmer's mercy. "What are you going to do about an heir now?" asked the valet, curtly. "Have you made a new will?" "No, I've not. Why should I? I left everything to the boy--with a reasonable amount for his mother. In the event of his death, his mother inherits. You wouldn't have me leave my money to charities--or rascally servants like you, who are rolling in money? You needn't be anxious. I told you that you would have your fifty thousand dollars, if you were in my service at my death and behaved yourself--and if I died by natural means! Ha, ha! I had to put in that clause, or you would have smothered me with my own pillows long ago." "Very likely--very likely," murmured Trimmer indifferently, as though the suggestion were by no means strained. He had heard it many hundreds of times before. It was a favorite taunt. "Who is that coming up the drive?" asked the invalid, craning his neck to look out of the window. "It is Mrs. Swinton, sir, and Mr. Swinton." "On foot?" cried the old man. "And since when, pray, did they begin to take the walking exercise? Ha! ha! Coming to see me--about their boy. Of course, you've heard all about it, Trimmer." "Very little, sir." "Well, if you stay here, you'll hear a little more." The decrepit creature chuckled with a sound like loose bones rattling in his throat. He laughed so much that he almost choked. Trimmer was obliged to lift him up and pat his back vigorously. The valet's handling was firm, but by no means gentle; and, the moment the old man was touched, he began to whine as if for mercy, pretending that he was being ill-used. Mrs. Swinton entered the room alone; the rector remained below in the library. She found her father well propped up with pillows, and his skull-cap, with the long white tassel, was drawn down over one eye, giving him a curious leer. The rakish angle of the cap, with the piercing eyes beneath, the hawk-like beak, and the shriveled old mouth, puckered into a sardonic smile, made him an almost comic figure. Trimmer stood at attention by the head of the bed like a sentinel. His humility and deference to both his master and Mrs. Swinton were almost servile; it was always so in the presence of a third person. "I am glad to see you sitting up and looking so well, father," observed the daughter, after her first greeting. "Oh, yes, I'm well--very well--better than you are," grunted the old man. "I know why you have come." "I wish to talk on important family matters, father," said Mrs. Swinton, dropping into the chair which Trimmer brought forward, and giving the valet a sharp, resentful look. "You can talk before Trimmer. You ought to know that by this time. Trimmer and I are one." "If madam wishes, I will withdraw," murmured Trimmer, retiring to the door. "No--no--don't leave me--not alone with her--not alone!" cried the old man, reaching out his hand as if in terror. But Trimmer had opened the door. He gave his master one sharp look of reproof, and closed the door--almost. Father and daughter sat looking at each other for a full minute. The old man dragged down the tassel of his skull-cap with his bony fingers, and commenced chewing the end. The glittering eyes danced with evil amusement, and, as he sat there huddled, he resembled nothing so much as an ape. "I am glad to find you in a good temper, father." "Good temper--eh!" He laughed, and again the bones seemed to rattle in his throat. The fit ended with coughing and whining and abuse of the draughts and the cold. "Why don't you have a fire in the room, father? You'd be so much more comfortable." "Fire! We don't throw away money here--nor steal it." "Father, I beg that you will not refer to Dick in this interview by offensive terms; I can't stand it. My boy is dead." "Who was referring to Dick?" His eyes sought hers, and searched her very soul. She felt her flesh growing cold and her senses swooning. It had been a great effort to come up and face him at such a time, but her mission was urgent. She came to entreat an amnesty, to beg that he would not drag the miserable business of the checks into court by a dispute with the bank, and there was something horrible in his mirth. "Hullo, forger!" he cried at last, and he watched the play of her face as the color came and went. "What do you mean, father?" "What I say. How does it feel to be a forger--eh? What is it like to be a thief? I never stole money myself--not even from my parents. D'ye think I believe your story? D'ye think I don't know who altered my checks--who had the money--who told the dirty lie to blacken the memory of her dead son? D'ye think I'm going to spare you--eh?" "Father! Father! Have mercy--I was helpless!" she cried in terror, flinging herself on her knees beside his bed. "I couldn't ruin both husband and daughter for the sake of a boy who was gone." "You couldn't ruin yourself, you mean--but you could sully the memory of my heir with a foul charge--the worst of all that can be brought against a man and a gentleman." "It was you, father--you--you who denounced him." "Lies, lies! I did nothing of the sort. The bank people suspected him because he was a man, because they didn't think that any child of mine could rob me of seven thousand dollars--seven thousand dollars! Think of it, madam--seven thousand dollars! D'ye know how many nickels there are in seven thousand dollars? Why, I could send you to Sing-Sing for years, if I chose to lift my finger." "But you won't father--you won't! You'll have mercy. You'll spare us. If you knew what I have suffered, you'd be sorry for me." "Oh, I can guess what you have suffered. And you're going to suffer a good deal more yet. Don't tell me you've come up here to get more money--not more?" "No, father--indeed, no. John and I are going to lead a different kind of life. I've come to entreat you not to press the bank for that money. We'll pay it all back, somehow. John and I will earn it, if necessary." "Earn it! Rubbish! You couldn't earn a dime." "We'll repay every penny--if you will only give us time, only stop pressing the bank--" "I shall do nothing of the sort. You've robbed them, not me. You must answer to them. If you've got any of it left, pay it back to Ormsby. If your husband is such an idiot as to beggar himself to restore the spoils, more fool he, that's all I can say. When you steal, steal and stick to it. Never give up money." "Father, you'll not betray me! You won't tell them--" "I don't know. I'll have to think it over. Get up off your knees, and sit on a chair. That sort of thing has no effect with me. You ought to have found that out long ago." She arose wearily, and dropped back limply into the chair like a witness under fire in a court of law. The old man sat chewing the tassel of his cap, and mumbling, sniggering, chuckling, spluttering with indecent mirth. "Listen to me, madam," he said at last, leaning forward. "Behind my back you've always called me a skinflint, a miser, a villain. I always told you I'd pay you out some day--and now's my chance. I'm not going to lose anything. I'm going to leave you to your own conscience and to the guidance of your virtuous sky-pilot. People'll believe anything of a clergyman's son. They're a bad lot as a rule, but your boy was not; he was only a fool. But he was my heir. I'd left him everything in my will." "Father, you always declared that--" "Never mind what I declared. It wasn't safe to trust you with the knowledge while he lived. You would have poisoned me." "Father, your insults are beyond all endurance!" she cried, writhing under the lash and stung to fury. She started up with hands clenched. "There, there, I told you so!" he whined, recoiling in mock terror. "Trimmer, Trimmer! Help! She'll kill me!" "It would serve you right if I did lay violent hands upon you," she cried. "If I took you by the throat, and squeezed the life out of you, as I could, though you are my father. You're not a man, you're a beast--a monster--a soulless caricature, whose only delight is the torturing of others. I could have been a good woman and a good daughter, but for your carping, sneering insults. At different times, you have imputed to me every vile motive that suggested itself to your evil brain. You hated me from my birth. You hate me still--and I hate you. Yes, it would serve you right if I killed you. It would separate you from your wretched money, and send your soul to torment--" "Trimmer! Trimmer!" screamed the old man, as she advanced nearer with threatening gestures, and fingers working nervously. Trimmer entered as noiselessly as a cat. "Trimmer, save me from this woman--she'll kill me. I'm an old man! I'm helpless. She's threatening to choke me. Have her put out. I can't protect myself, or I'd--I'd have her prosecuted--the vampire!" Mrs. Swinton recovered herself in the presence of Trimmer, and drew away in contempt. She flung back the chair upon which she had been sitting with an angry movement, and she would have liked to sweep out of the room; but fear seized her at the thought of what she had done. This was not the way to mollify the old man, who could ruin her by a word. "I am sorry, father," she faltered. "I forgot that you are an invalid, and not responsible for your moods." He leaned forward on the edge of the bed, resting on his hands, and positively spat out his next words. "Bah! You're a hypocrite. Go home to your sky-pilot. But keep your mouth shut--do you hear?" "I hear, father." "Pay them back your money if you like, but don't ask me for another cent, or I'll tell the truth--do you hear?" "I hear, father," she replied, with a sob. "Open the door for her, Trimmer." Trimmer darted to the door as if his politeness had been questioned, and bowed the daughter out. When her footsteps had died away, he walked to the bed and looked down contemptuously at the mumbling creature. He surveyed him critically, as a doctor might look at a feverish patient. "You're overdoing it," he said. "You're getting foolish." "That's right, Trimmer--that's right. You abuse me, too!" whined the old man, bursting into tears. "Isn't it bad enough to have one's child a thief, without servants bullying one?" "You are the last person to talk to Mrs. Swinton about stealing." "Keep your tongue still!" "If your daughter knew what I know!" "You don't know anything, sir--you don't know anything!" "I know a good deal. Three times during your illness, you were light-headed--you remember?" "I tell you, I'm not a thief. The money was mine--mine! Her mother was my wife--it belonged to me. Doesn't a wife's money belong to her husband?" "Tut, tut! Lie down and be quiet. I only kept quiet on condition that you set things straight for your daughter in your will, and left her the three thousand a year her mother placed in your care." "Trimmer, you're presuming. Trimmer, you're a bully. I'll--I'll cut your fifty thousand dollars out of my will--" "And I'll promptly cut you out of existence, if you do," murmured Trimmer, bending down. "That's right, threaten me--threaten me," whined the old man. "You're all against me--a lot of thieves and scoundrels! What would become of the world, if there weren't a few people like me to look after the money and save it from being squandered in soup-kitchens, and psalm-smiting, and Sunday schools?" "Lie down and be quiet. You've done enough talking for to-day. I'm going to have you moved into the other room." "I'll not be treated as a child, sir. I'll stop your wages, sir. I'll--" "I've had no wages for many months. Lie down." CHAPTER XVII MRS. SWINTON GOES HOME Mrs. Swinton returned to the rector, who was waiting in the library, with set face and clenched hands, pacing up and down like a caged beast. The increased whiteness of his hair and the extreme pallor of his skin gave to his sorrow-shadowed eyes an extraordinary brilliancy. His lips moved incessantly as thoughts, surging in his brain, demanded physical utterance. At intervals, he would wring his hands and look upward appealingly, like a man struggling in the toils of a temptation too great to be mastered. A long period of worry and embarrassment had broken his spirit. He was fated with the first real calamity that had ever overtaken him. With money difficulties, he was familiar. They scarcely touched his conscience. But, in this matter of his son's honor, the divergent roads of right and wrong were clearly defined; unhappily, he was not strong enough fearlessly to tread the path of virtue. His wife's arguments seemed unanswerable. Indeed, whenever she was near, he hopelessly surrendered himself to her guidance. He knew perfectly well that the only proper course for a man of God was to go forth into the market-place and proclaim his son's innocence, to the shame of his wife, of himself, and of his daughter. It was not a question of precise justice. It was a plain issue between God and the devil. But Mary had pursued the policy of throwing dust in his eyes, and led him blindly along the road where he was bound to sink deeper and deeper into the mire. When the love of wife conflicts with the love of child, a father is between the horns of a dilemma. The woman was living; the boy dead. The arguments were overpoweringly plausible. Mrs. Swinton had her life to live through; whereas Dick's trials were ended. And would a suspicious world believe he shared his wife's plunder without knowing how it was obtained? In addition, Netty's future would certainly be overshadowed to a cruel extent. The arguments of the woman were, indeed, unanswerable: the misery of it was that the whole thing resolved itself into a simple question of right and wrong. As a clergyman of the church he could not countenance a lie, live a lie, and stand idly by while Herresford compelled the bank to refund the money stolen from them by his wife. He had naturally argued the matter out with her, in love, in anger, in piteous appeal. It always came around to the same thing in the end--a compromise. The seven thousand dollars must be paid to the miser, if it took the rest of their lives to raise it; if they starved, and denied themselves common necessities. And Herresford must say that he drew the checks for innocent Dick. His wife agreed with him on these points; but on the question of confessing their sin--their joint sin it had become now--she was obdurate. She had yielded to his entreaties so far as to face the ordeal of an interview with her father, she agreed to the most painful economies; but further she would not go. If Herresford consented to add lie to lie, and to exonerate Dick by acknowledging the checks, all might yet be well. Now, when his wife came in, with flushed face and lips working in anger, he cried out, tremulously: "Well, Mary?" "It is useless, worse than useless!" she answered. "He is quite impossible, as I told you." "Then, he will not lend us the money?" "No, indeed, no. Worse, John, he knows." "Knows what?" "That I did it. He understood Dick well enough, in spite of his wicked abuse of him, and he had made him his heir. He accused me of altering the checks, and--I couldn't deny it." "Mary! Mary! You have ruined all. He will denounce us." "No, he doesn't intend to do that, John. He knows the torture we are enduring, and he wants it to go on. He means to let the bank lose the money." "Then, the burden of the guilt still rests on the shoulders of our dead son." "Oh, don't, John--don't put it like that! I've borne enough--I can't bear much more. I think I'm going mad. My brain throbs, everything goes dim before my sight, and my heart leaps, and shooting pains--" She tottered forward into her husband's arms. He clasped her close, drawing her to him and pressing kisses on her cheeks. "My darling, my darling, be strong. It is not ended yet." "Take me home, John--take me home!" she sobbed. "No, I'll see the old man myself." "John! John! It'll do no good--I beseech you! I cannot trust you out of my sight. I never know what you may do or what you will say. I know it's hard for you to go against your principles; but you mustn't absolutely kill me. I should die, John, if you played traitor to me, your wife, and allowed me to be sent to jail." "Don't Mary--don't!" he groaned. "When a man leaves his father and mother, he cleaves unto his wife: and, when I left my home, John, I was faithful and true to you. It was for you that I stooped to the trick which I now realize was a crime which my father uses as a whip to lash me with. We must live it down, John. The bank people are rich. It won't hurt them much--whereas confession would annihilate us." "The money must be paid back," he cried resolutely, striking the air with his clenched fist, while he held her to him with the other arm. "It's impossible, John, impossible. We cannot pay back without explaining why." "We must atone--for Dick's sake. No man shall say that our son robbed him of money without compensation from us, his parents. Let us go home, Mary, and begin from to-day. The rectory must be given up. It must be let furnished, and the servants dismissed. We must go into some cheap place." "Yes, let us go home, John. You'll talk more reasonably there, and see things in another light." The man listened, and allowed himself to be led. This was as it had been always; but it could not go on forever. Deep down in John Swinton's vacillating nature, there was the spirit of a martyr. CHAPTER XVIII A SECOND PROPOSAL Dora was undetermined in her attitude toward Dick's enemy, who, for her sake, was ready to become his friend and save his name from public disgrace. She had a poor opinion of a man who was willing to further his own suit by making concessions to a rival, even though that rival were dead; but her attitude of mind toward Dick was changing slowly under outside influence--as it was bound to do with a clear-headed girl, trained to the strict code of honor that exists among military men concerning other people's money. A soldier who had committed forgery could never hold up his head again in the eyes of his regiment, or of the woman he loved. He voluntarily made himself an outcast. The colonel did not fail to drive home the inevitable moral, and congratulated himself upon his daughter's escape. Dora was obliged to acknowledge that Dick, if not a villain, was at least a fool. The sorrow he had brought upon his father and mother was alone sufficient to warrant the heartiest condemnation. The colonel was never tired of commenting on the awful change in the mother's appearance and the blight upon John Swinton, who went about like a condemned man, evading his friends, and scarcely daring to look his parishioners in the face. There had been talk of a memorial service in the parish church, but nothing came of it. Its abandonment was looked upon as a tacit recognition of a painful situation, which would only be augmented by a public parade of sorrow. Ormsby treated Dora with the greatest consideration. No lover could have been more sympathetic--not a word about Dick Swinton or the seven thousand dollars. He laid himself out to please, and self-confidence made him almost gay--if gaiety could ever be associated with a man so somber and proud. The colonel persisted in throwing his daughter and the banker together in a most marked fashion, and Ormsby was at much pains to ignore the father's blundering diplomacy. As a result of his skilled tactics, Dora had ceased to shrink away from him--because she no longer feared that he would make love to her. She laughed at her father's insinuations, because it was easier to laugh than to go away and cry. She put a brave face on things--for Dick's sake. She did not want it to be thought that he had spread around more ruin and misery than already stood to his credit at the rectory. Pride played its part. She supposed Ormsby understood that the idea of his being a lover was absurd. In this, she was rudely awakened one evening after the banker had dined at the house. The colonel pleaded letters to write, and begged Dora to play a little and entertain their guest. "Ormsby loves a cigarette over the fire, Dora, and he's fond of music. I shall be able to hear you up in the study." Ormsby added his entreaties, and the colonel left them alone. Dora was in a black evening-gown. It heightened the pallor of her skin, and made her look extremely slender and tall. Ormsby, whose clothes always fitted him like a uniform, looked his best in evening dress, with his black hair and dark eyes. His haughty bearing and stern, handsome features went well with the severe lines of his conventional attire. The colonel paused at the door before going out, and looked at the two on whom his hopes were now centred--Ormsby standing on the hearth-rug, straight as a dart, and Dora offering him the cigarette-box with a natural, sweet grace that was instinctive with her. He nodded in approval as he looked. Dora was an unfailing joy to him. She pleased his eye as she might have pleased a lover. He was proud of her, too, of her fearlessness, her tact, her womanliness, and, above all, her air of breeding. She certainly looked charming to-night, a fitting châtelaine for the noblest mansion. As the colonel remained in the doorway, still staring, Dora turned her head with a smile. "What are you looking at, father?" "I was only thinking," said the colonel bluntly, "what a magnificent pair you two would make if you would only bring your minds to join forces, instead of always fencing and standing on ceremony like two proud peacocks." "My mind requires no making up, colonel," responded Ormsby quickly, with an appealing, almost humble glance at Dora. "Father, what nonsense you talk!" cried she, changing color and trembling so much that the cigarettes spilled upon the floor. The colonel shut the door without further comment, and left them alone. "How stupid of me," murmured Dora, seeking to cover her confusion by picking up the cigarettes. "I shall not allow you," he murmured, seizing her arm in a strong grip, gently but firmly, and raising her. "I am ever at your service. You know that." "Let go my arm, please." "May I not take the other one as well, and look into your eyes, and ask you the question which has been in my mind for days?" "It is useless, Mr. Ormsby. Let me go." "No," he cried, coming quite close and surveying her with a glance so intense that she shrank away frightened. "I will not let you go. You are mine--mine! I mean to keep you forever. I'll shadow you till you die. You shall never cast me off. No other man shall ever approach you as near as I. I will not let him. I would kill him." "You are talking nonsense, Mr. Ormsby, and you are hurting my arm." "To prevent your escaping, I shall encircle you with bands of steel," and he put his arm around her quickly, and held her to him. "I beg that you will behave decently and sensibly," she cried, with a sob. "I've given you to understand before that this sort of thing is repugnant to me. Let me go." She struck him on the breast with the flat of her hand, and thrust herself away, compelling him to release her. Her anger spent itself in tears, and she hurried across to the piano stool, where she dropped down, feeling more helpless and hopeless than ever in her life before. Her father had given Ormsby the direct hint; and he had proposed again. She could not blame him for that. She could not deny that he was masterful, and handsome, and convincing. There was no escape; and the absurdity of sweeping out of the room in indignation was obvious. He was their guest, and would be their guest as long as her father chose. The ardent lover held himself in check with wonderful self-possession. He drew forward an armchair, and, dropping into it, picked up the cigarettes from the floor, lighted one and settled himself callously to smoke, taking no further notice of her tears. It was better than offering sympathy that would be scorned. It was exactly the right thing at the moment, and Dora saw the wisdom of it and respected him. It lessened her fear; but she cried quietly for a little while; then, drying her tears, she fingered the music on the top of the grand piano, idly. "I'm afraid you think me a very hysterical and stupid person, Mr. Ormsby?" she said at last, growing weary of the strained silence and his indifferent nonchalance. "I don't usually cry like this, and make scenes, and behave like a schoolgirl." "I'm making headway," was Ormsby's thought, "or she wouldn't take the trouble to excuse herself." "I think you are the most sensible girl I ever met, Dora." "You have no right to call me Dora." "In future, I shall do just as I choose. You know your father's wishes--you know mine. I am patient, I can wait. After to-night, you are mine always, and forever. Some day, you will be my wife, and, instead of sitting apart from me over there, you will be here by my side, holding my hand." "Never!" she cried, starting up, and emphasizing her determination by a blow with her hand upon the music lying on the piano top. "Ah! you feel like that now. Dora, show your sweet reasonableness by playing to me for a little while. I promise, I shall not annoy you further." "I don't feel like playing. You have upset me." "Then, sit by the fire." He drew forward a chair of which he knew she was fond, and brought it close to the hearth. "Come! You used to smoke in the old days. Have a cigarette. It will help you to forget unpleasant things. It will calm you--if you don't feel inclined to play." "I would rather play," she faltered. "Whichever you please." She settled herself at the piano, and fingered the music, irresolutely. She had not touched the keys since Dick's death, and, if she had been less perturbed to-night, she would not for a moment have contemplated breaking that silence for the sake of Vivian Ormsby, but an extraordinary helplessness had taken possession of her. There was something magnetic about this man whom she feared, and tried to hate, something that compelled her to act against her will and better judgment. She chose the first piece of music at hand--a waltz, a particularly romantic and melancholy refrain, that was soothing to the man in the chair. He sat with his head thrown back, blowing rings of smoke into the air and secretly congratulating himself upon his progress. In imagination, he experienced all the intoxication of the dance, and Dora in his arms, resting heavily upon him. In imagination, he was drawing her closer and closer, her eyes looking into his, and her breath upon his cheek. He started up and faced her, watching the slender hands gliding over the keys, as if he could keep away no longer; then, he strolled over and stood behind her, ostensibly watching the music. She felt his presence oppressively. He bent lower, as if to scan the notes: yet, she knew that he could not read music. Her fingers faltered, and she looked over her shoulder nervously. Her eyes met his, and the playing ceased. Those glittering orbs held her as if by a magic spell. She was rendered powerless when he put his arm about her, and touched her lips in a kiss. Instantly, the spell was broken. She started up, and struck him in the face--even as Dick had done. He only laughed--and apologized. The blow was a very slight one: and it gave him the opportunity of seizing her wrists, and holding her captive for a few moments, until she confessed that she was sorry. Then she fled from the room. "I'm getting on," he murmured, as he dropped back into the armchair, and lighted another cigarette. "A little more boldness, a rigid determination, a constant repetition of my assurances that she cannot escape me, and she will surrender. They all do. It's the law of nature. The man subdues the woman; and she surrenders at once when her strength is gone." CHAPTER XIX AN UNEXPECTED TELEGRAM As the days wore on, Dora went through many scenes with her father concerning Vivian Ormsby. The banker pressed his suit remorselessly, yet with a consideration for the girl, which did him the greatest credit. The colonel made no secret of his keen desire for the match; and he informed his friends, as well as Dora, that he looked upon the thing as settled. Naturally, the girl's name was coupled with Ormsby's, and, wherever one was invited, the other always appeared. Ormsby showed himself at his best during this period. He would have made no progress at all but for his tactful recognition of the fact that Dora had loved Dick Swinton, and must be treated tenderly on that account. She was grateful to him, for he seemed to be the only one who respected poor Dick's memory. Other people were free in their comments, and remorseless in their condemnation of the criminal act which, as the culmination of a long series of follies, must inevitably have brought him to ruin if he had not chosen to end his life at the war. Nobody was surprised when the society columns of the newspapers hinted of a coming engagement between the daughter of a well-known soldier and the son of a banker, who came together under romantic circumstances, not unconnected with a regrettable accident. Later, there was a definite announcement: "An engagement has been arranged between Miss Dundas, daughter of Colonel Herbert Dundas, and Vivian Ormsby, eldest son of William Ormsby, the well-known banker." Letters poured in on every side. Polly Ocklebourne drove over to congratulate Dora in person, and found the affianced bride looking very pale, and by no means happy. Dora hastened to explain that the engagement would be a long one, possibly two years at least--and they laughed at her. The girl had given her consent grudgingly, in half-hearted fashion, with the stipulation that she might possibly withdraw from it. Her father coaxed it out of her. But, when people came around and talked of the wedding, and abused her for treating poor Ormsby shabbily by insisting on an engagement of quite unfashionable and absurd length, the thought of what she had done began to terrify her. She knew perfectly well that she did not care for her lover; that, under certain circumstances, she almost hated him. But there was no one she liked better, nor was there any prospect of her dead heart coming to life again at all. And, in the meantime, Ormsby was constantly by her side. One morning, Ormsby drove up in his automobile, to propose an engagement for the evening to Dora. His _fiancée_, however, had gone out for a walk, and he was forced to content himself by leaving a message with her father. The two men were chatting together in the library, when a servant entered with a telegram. "For Miss Dundas, sir," was the explanation. "I suppose I'd better open it," murmured the colonel, as he slit the envelope. He read the message, frowned, swore an oath, turned it over, then read it again, with a look of blank amazement, whilst Ormsby watched. "Bad news?" "Read." Ormsby took the slip between his fingers. His pale face hardened, and his teeth ground together. His surprise was expressed in a smothered cry of rage. "It can't be!" he gasped. "Alive? Then, the story of his death was a lie. His heroic death was a sham." "Dora will have to be told," groaned the colonel. "No, certainly not," cried Ormsby. "If he attempts to show his face in New York, I'll have him arrested." "No, no, Ormsby, you wouldn't do that. I must confess, it isn't any pleasure to hear that he's alive. It's a confounded nuisance! His death--damn it all! He sha'n't see her. They mustn't meet, Ormsby!" "No, of course not--of course not. We'll have to send him to jail." "Ormsby, you couldn't do it--you couldn't." "Well, he mustn't see Dora." "No--I'll attend to that." The colonel read the telegram again. "Arrived at Boston Parker House this morning. Start home this afternoon. Send message. Dying to see you. "DICK SWINTON." "What does the fool want to come home for?" growled the colonel. "Hasn't he any consideration for his mother and father and sister? Everybody thinks he's dead--why doesn't he remain dead? He sha'n't upset my girl. I'll see to that. I'll--I'll meet him myself." "A good idea," observed Ormsby, who had grown thoughtful. "For my part, my duty is plain. A warrant is out for his arrest. I shall give information to the police that he is in the country again." "No, Ormsby--no!" pleaded the colonel. "You'll utterly upset yourself with Dora. You won't stand a ghost of a chance. "A hero with handcuffs doesn't cut an agreeable figure, or stand much of a chance. Dora has glorified him, you must remember. There will be a reaction of feeling. She'll alter her opinion, when she knows he's a criminal, flying from justice. They gave him his life, I suppose, because he hadn't the courage to die, and keep his country's secrets. The traitor!" They resolved to say nothing of the arrival of the telegram. The colonel gave out that business affairs necessitated a journey to Boston, and Dora was to be told that he would be back in the evening. Ormsby drove the colonel to the station in his motor. Afterward, he called at police-headquarters, and then at the bank. There, he wrote a letter to Herresford, reopening the matter of the seven thousand dollars, which had lain dormant all this time, true to the promise made to Dora. He had let the quarrel stand in abeyance in case of accidents. This was characteristic of the cautious Ormsbys, and quite in keeping with the remorseless character of the man who never forgave, and never desisted in any pursuit where personal gain was the paramount consideration. Colonel Dundas had been genuinely fond of Dick Swinton--up to a point. The kind of regard he had for him was that which is accorded to many self-indulgent, reckless young men who are their own greatest enemies. He was always pleased to see him; but he would never have experienced pleasure in contemplating him as a possible son-in-law. His supposititiously heroic death had surrounded him with a halo of romance dear to the colonel's heart; but his sudden reappearance in the land of the living, with a warrant out for his arrest, and Dora's happiness in the balance, excited a growing anger. All the way to Boston, the colonel fumed and swore. He muttered to himself and thumped the arms of his chair, rehearsing the things he meant to say when the rascal confronted him. How dare Dick send telegrams to his innocent child without her father's knowledge, in order that he might work upon her feelings! Perhaps, he thought of persuading her to elope with him--elope with a criminal! By the time he reached Boston, the colonel had built up a hundred imaginary wrongs that it was his duty to set right by plain speaking. As he entered the vestibule of the hotel, he saw Dick Swinton--or someone like him--wrapped in a long, ill-fitting coat, walking up and down very slowly. The young man caught sight of the ruddy face of Colonel Dundas, and he tried to hurry, but his step was slow and uncertain. As they came near each other, he seized the colonel's arm. "Colonel! Colonel!" he cried. "How glad I am to see you! Is Dora with you?" "Dora--no, sir! What do you take me for? Good God! what a wreck you are! Where have you been? How is it you've come home?" "I--I thought she would come!" gasped Dick, who looked very white. His eyes were unnaturally large, and his cheeks sunken, and his hands merely bones. "Here, come out of the crowd," said the colonel, forgetting his tremendous speeches. He seized the young man by the arm, but gripped nothing like muscle. "Why, you're a skeleton, boy!" he exclaimed, adopting the old attitude in spite of himself. "Yes, I'm not up to the mark," laughed Dick. "I thought you knew all about it." "Knew all about it, man? You're dead--dead! Everyone, your father and mother and all of us, read the full story of your death in the papers." "Yes; but I corrected all that," cried Dick, "My letters--they got my letters?" "What letters?" "The two I sent through by the men that were exchanged. Young Maxwell took one." "Maxwell died of dysentery." "Ah, that accounts for it. The other I gave to a sailor. He promised to deliver it." "To whom did you write?" "To Dora. I asked her to go to mother and explain things, so as not to give too great a shock. You don't mean to say that my mother doesn't know!" "No, of course not--not through Dora, at any rate." "Good heavens! Let's get to a telegraph-office, and I'll send her word at once. And father, too--dear old dad--he's had two months of sorrow that might have been avoided. What a fool I was! I ought to have telegraphed from Copenhagen." "Copenhagen!" "Yes; I escaped--nearly died of hunger--got on board a Danish ship as stowaway, and arrived at Copenhagen half-starved. But I wasn't up to traveling for a bit. I'm pulling around, gradually. I'm--well, to be sure! And mother doesn't know. What a surprise it will be! What a jollification! What a--!" "Here, hold up, Dick--hold up, man--you're tottering." The colonel's strong hand kept Dick on his feet. He led the young man gently through the vestibule. "Here, come to a quiet place. You mustn't be seen in public," growled the colonel. "Why not?" asked Dick. "I'm a little faint. You see, I haven't much money. I had to borrow. A square meal, at your expense, would do me a world of good, colonel. Let's go to the dining-room." "Very well. We can get a quiet table there. But I want you to understand at once that, though I'm here, I'm not your friend." "Eh? What?" "Well, you can't expect it." "Oh, you're angry with me because I'm fond of Dora. I suppose you saw my telegram and--intercepted it." "Yes." "Then Dora doesn't know!" "No, Dora doesn't know--nor will she know. Better be dead, my boy--better be dead!" "I beg your pardon?" queried Dick, gazing at the colonel with dull, tired eyes. The colonel vouchsafed no explanation, but led the way into the dining-room. He selected a table in a corner, and thrust the menu over to Dick. The sick man's eyes ran listlessly down the card, and he gave it back. "I'm too done. You order. Perhaps, a drink'll pull me up." The colonel ordered brandy. He was now able to get a better look at the returned hero. The change in the young man shocked him, and he could see that the hand of death had clutched Dick harshly before letting him go. "What was it--fever?" he asked, with soldier-like abruptness, as he scanned the lean, weary face. "Enteric and starvation, and a bit of a wound, too. I was taken prisoner, but, when the ambulance cart was left in a general stampede, I was just able to cry out to a nigger to cut my bonds. He set me free; but, afterward, I think I went mad. I was in our lines, I know. It was a good old Yankee who set me free; but, when reason came, I was again in the wrong camp. The ambulance cart had got into its own lines again. At any rate, I was in different hands, with a different regiment, packed off to a proper prison camp. I sent word home, or thought I'd sent word. I thought you all knew. By Jove, what a lark it will be to turn up and see their faces!" Dick took a long draught at the brandy, and a little color came into his face. "I suppose they'll be glad and all that, as I'm something of a hero," he continued. "A chap on the train told me that the story of my capture got into the papers, and was written up for all it was worth. Another smack in the eye for Ormsby, that! Nutt got away, and told you I was dead, I suppose." "Yes," answered the colonel, gloomily; then, leaning across the table: "Dick, my boy, I don't want to be hard on you. We are all liable to err. Don't you think it would have been better if you had remained dead?" Dick looked blankly into his friend's face for some moments. A look of fear came into his eyes. "What's the matter? What's happened? Dora's--alive?" "Yes, of course." "And my father and mother?" "Oh, yes, yes, they're well--as well as can be expected under the circumstances." "Well, what's the matter, then? What's happened?" "Dick, you must know perfectly well what has happened. Your grandfather found out--the--er--what you did before you went away." "What I did before I went away?" "Well, it's no good skirmishing. Let's call it by its proper name--your forgery. Those two checks you cashed at the bank, originally for two and five dollars. I daresay you thought that your grandfather never looked at his pass-book. You were mistaken. And what a confounded fool you must have been to think that two amounts of such magnitude as two thousand and five thousand dollars could be overlooked." Dick's lower jaw had dropped a little, and he looked at the colonel in blank surprise, yet with more listlessness than would a man in rude health when amazed. The colonel misread the signs, and saw only the astonishment of guilt unmasked. "Your mother got the checks for you: but you added to the figures in another ink. The forgery was discovered, and by Ormsby, too, unfortunately, who is no friend of yours. The matter was hushed up, of course. You have to thank Dora for that. A warrant was out for your arrest, but Dora begged Ormsby to stay his hand for the sake of your mother and father. And--er--well, the long and short of it is that Ormsby was prepared to lose seven thousand dollars, rather than ruin your family. The news of your death--your heroic death, as we imagined--came at the opportune moment to help people to forget your folly." Dick sat like a stone, calm, pale, holding his glass and listening intently. For an instant he seemed about to faint. "Of course, we all thought," continued the colonel, "that you had put yourself into a tight corner on purpose, that you might respectably creep out of your difficulties by dying and troubling nobody. And we respected you for that. Everybody knew that you were up to your eyes in debt, and at loggerheads with your grandfather, that the old man had disinherited you, and all that. But surely you didn't owe seven thousand dollars!" "Are you talking about the checks my mother gave me before I went away?" Dick asked, quietly. "Of course I am. You know the circumstances better than I do. It's no good playing the fool with me, and I don't intend to have my daughter upset by telegrams and surreptitious communications. So, now, you know. You've done for yourself, my lad, and you'd better face it and remain dead." "But my mother--she has explained?" "Of course, she has, and it's nearly broken her heart. Think of her awful position, to have to confess that her son altered her checks--checks actually drawn in her name--and the money filched from the bank by a dirty trick! The bank's got to lose it. Your grandfather won't pay a cent." "But my mother--?" faltered Dick again, leaning forward heavily on the table, and gazing at the colonel with eyes so full of horror that the elder man wondered whether suffering had not turned Dick's brain. "Ah, you may well ask about your mother. She tried to do her best, I believe, to get your grandfather to pay up; but the shame of the thing is what I look at. That's why I came to you here, to-day. If your mother knows no more than Dora and all the rest--if they still think you're dead--well, why not remain dead? It's only charity--it's only kind. Your father and mother think that you died a hero's death, and, naturally, aren't disposed to look upon your crime quite in the same light as other people. Why, in heaven's name, when you got a chance of slipping out of life, and out of the old set, and making a fresh start, didn't you seize it?" "You mean, why didn't I get shot?" asked Dick, slowly. "Well, not exactly that. You know as well as I do that lots of chaps go to the front to get officially shot, and have their names on the list of the killed--men who really mean to turn over a new leaf, and get a fresh lease of life in another country, under another name, when the war is over. Others get put right out of the way, because they haven't the courage to do it themselves." "But my mother could have explained!" cried Dick, huskily. He was so weak that he was unable to cope with agitation. "Tut, tut, man, your mother could explain nothing. She could only tell the truth--that she gave you two checks for small amounts, and you put bigger amounts to them, and cashed them at the bank; in short, that her son was a forger." "My mother said that!" "Yes." "God help her!" gasped Dick, with a gulp. He put his hand to his throat, and fell forward on the table, senseless. The colonel jumped up in alarm. Waiters rushed forward, and they revived the sick man by further applications of brandy. He recovered quickly, and food was again set before him. He ate mechanically, and for a long time there was silence between the two men. The colonel wished himself well out of the business, and felt the brutality of using harsh words to a man in such a condition of health. Yet, he was resolute in his purpose. Dick appeared somewhat stronger after the meal. Every now and again, he would look up at the colonel in a dazed fashion, as if unable to believe the evidence of his senses. At last, he spoke again. "I suppose--my brain isn't what it was. But I'm feeling better. Tell me again what my mother said--and my father." The colonel detailed all that he knew, displaying considerable irritation in the process. This attitude of ignorance and innocence nettled him. He wound up with a soldier-like abruptness. "Well, are you going to live, or do you intend to remain dead?" "I'm going home." "To be arrested?" "No, to ask some questions." "Don't be a fool. You'll be arrested at the station." "No, I sha'n't. I've done a little dodging lately. I shall travel to some other place, and walk home. I've faced worse things than--" The sentence was never finished. He seemed to realize that there could be nothing worse than to be falsely denounced by his own mother--the mother whom he loved and idolized, the most wonderful mother son ever had, the most beautiful woman in New York, the wife of John Swinton, chosen man of God. "You'd better not come home," urged the colonel; "at any rate, as far as we are concerned." "Ah, that means you intend to cut me." "Yes; and as far as Dora is concerned--Well, the fact is, she's engaged to Ormsby now." "Engaged to Ormsby?" Dick put out his hand almost blindly to take his cap, and adjusted it on his head like a man drunk. He arose and staggered from the table. This was the last straw. "Look here, boy--you want some money," exclaimed the colonel, brusquely. "I've come prepared. You'll find some bills in this envelope. Put it in your pocket." Dick's hands hung limply at his sides. The colonel seized him by the loose front of his ulster, and kept him from swaying, at the same time thrusting the envelope into one of his pockets. Then, he took the young man's arm, and led him out into the vestibule. "Bear up, my boy--bear up," he whispered. "You've got to face it. You're dead--remember that. Nobody but myself knows the truth. Be a man, for God's sake--for your mother's sake--for your father's. You've got the whole world before you. If things go very wrong--well, you can rely upon me for another instalment--just one more, like the one in your pocket. Write to me under some other name. Call yourself John Smith--do you hear?" "Yes--John Smith," echoed Dick, huskily. "Well, good-bye, my boy--good-bye," the colonel exclaimed. "I must catch my train." He tried to say something else. Words failed him. He turned and ignominiously escaped, leaving Dick standing alone, helpless and dazed. "I'm going home--I'm going home," muttered Dick, as he thrust his hands into his ulster pockets, and tottered along toward the elevator, for he felt that he must get to his room at once. "My own mother!--I can't believe it." CHAPTER XX THE WEDDING DAY ARRANGED When the colonel suppressed Dick's telegram, and as he fondly imagined, silenced the young man in Boston, he left out of the reckoning a prying servant, who secretly examined the message which the colonel had thrown into a wastebasket torn across only twice. In consequence of this, hundreds of persons, presently, were discussing a rumor to the effect that Dick Swinton was still alive. Dora, as it chanced, heard nothing; but Vivian Ormsby--who thought that he alone shared the colonel's secret--heard the gossip circulating through the city. "Dick Swinton is not dead," said the report, "he is hiding in New York." Mr. Barnby spoke of this as laughable. But Ormsby knew that the truth must out sooner or later, and it was necessary that he should be ready. The police were on the alert--reluctantly alert, for they respected the rector. The banker, however, was a more important person than the clergyman, and his evident anxiety to lay hands on the forger was a thing not to be overlooked. There was also a little private reward mentioned. The colonel, when Ormsby arrived to continue his courtship, heard of these rumors with alarm, and took every precaution to keep them from Dora by maintaining a constant watch over her. He was as impatient at the protracted engagement as was Ormsby himself, and one morning he attacked Dora upon the question of the marriage. "Dora, your engagement is a preposterous thing, child. It's a shame to keep Ormsby waiting and dangling at your heels as you do. To look at you, no one would suspect you two were lovers." "We are not, father. You know that very well." "Fiddlesticks! You're willing enough to let him fetch and carry for you, and motor you all over the country, and smother you with flowers, and load you with presents. Yet, you are always as glum as a church-warden while he's here. And, when he's away, you seem to buck up and show that you can be cheerful, if you like." "I have submitted to an engagement with Mr. Ormsby more to please you, father, than to please myself." "Then, my child, why can't you please me by settling things right away. Marriage is a serious responsibility. It is a woman's profession, and the sooner she gets the hang of it, the quicker her promotion. I'm getting an old man, and I want to see you married before I die." "Don't talk like that, father." "Well, I'm not a young man, am I? The doctor told me this morning--but what the doctor told me has nothing to do with your feelings for Ormsby." "Father, father, you're not keeping anything from me. What did the doctor say?" The colonel saw his advantage, and, although he was inclined to smile, pulled a long face, and sighed. "My child, I want to see you comfortably settled before I die. You wouldn't like me to leave you here alone with no one to look after you--" "Father, father! What are you saying? I'm sure the doctor has told you something. I saw you looking very strange yesterday, and holding your hand over your heart." The colonel wanted to exclaim, "Indigestion!" but he shook his head, and sighed mournfully once more. "It's anxiety, my child, about your welfare. It's telling on me." "I don't want to be an anxiety to you, father. I know I've not been a cheerful companion lately, but--it will be worse for you when I get married." "Nothing of the sort, my girl. Ormsby and I have settled that we are not to be separated. He's looking out for a big place, where there'll be a corner for an old man. Come, come, have done with this shilly-shallying. What on earth is the use of a two years' engagement? At the end of the two years, do you suppose you will be able to break your word and Ormsby's heart? No, my girl, it's not right. Either you are going to marry Ormsby, or you are not. If you are, then it might as well be to-morrow as next month, and next month as next year. And as for two years--bah! Come, now, I'll fix it for you: four weeks from to-day." "Impossible, father--impossible! I couldn't get my clothes ready--" "Clothes be hanged! He's going to marry you, not your kit. You've got clothes enough to supply a boarding-school. Six weeks--I give you six weeks.--Ah! here's Ormsby. Ormsby, it's settled. Dora is to marry you in six weeks, or--she's no child of mine." "I--I didn't say so, father," cried Dora, blushing hotly. "I'm the happiest man in America!" cried Ormsby, coming over with outstretched hands, and a greater show of feeling than he had ever before displayed. He looked exceedingly handsome, and almost boyish. "Say it is true!--say it is true!" he cried. "Oh, as you please, as you please." And, turning to her father to hide her embarrassment, Dora murmured, "You're not really ill, father?" "I tell you, my child, I shall be," roared the colonel, with a wink at Ormsby, "if this anxiety goes on any longer. Publish the date, Ormsby. Put it in the papers." "At once!" cried the delighted lover. "I saw Farebrother to-day, and he assures me he has just the place we want, not twenty miles out. Shall we go over in the motor, and look at it? Will you come and choose your home--our home, Dora?" "Of course she will," cried the colonel, starting up with wonderful alacrity for a sick man. "I'll go and order the motor, this minute." CHAPTER XXI DICK'S RETURN The deepest stillness of night had settled down on Riverside Drive, when Dick Swinton came cautiously along the cross-town street, and paused near the corner, looking suspiciously to left and to right. Convinced, at last, that no one was about, he advanced toward his home in the shadow of the houses, going warily. At the beginning of the rectory grounds, he stopped and leaned against the wall, peering into the shadows for signs of a watching figure. All was silent as the grave. He slipped to the side gate without meeting anyone. Still going cautiously, he entered without a sound. The place was in shadow, but from a window on the ground floor a narrow beam of light shot out on the drive and across the lawn. It came from between the half-closed curtains of his father's study. The rector was at work. It was Friday. Dick had chosen the day and the hour because he knew that it was his father's custom to sit up far into the night, preparing his Sunday sermon. Sunday morning's discourse was prepared on Friday evening; the evening homily on Saturday. He crept to the window, and looked in. The light from the lamp was shining on his father's hair. How white it was! The iron-gray streaks were quite gone. And yet how little time had elapsed! The rector's Bible was at his elbow, lying open, and the desk was covered with sheets of manuscripts, spread about in unmethodical fashion. At the moment when Dick looked in, the rector picked up his Bible, and laid it open before him on the desk. "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth them shall have mercy." John Swinton arose from the table, and closed the book abruptly. His study fire had burned low, yet the sermon was only half-finished. For weeks past, his life had been a hideous burden. It was unendurable. Every time he opened his Bible, he read his own condemnation; and, as he slowly paced his study, he muttered text after text, always dealing with the one thing--confession. He was between the devil and the deep sea. His wife's arguments for silence were unanswerable. The call of his conscience was unanswerable, too, except in one way--by confession. He was a living lie; his priesthood, a mockery. There was not a father or a mother in his congregation who would not turn from him in horror, if it were known that he shielded the guilty beneath the pall of the honorable dead. As the rector walked up and down the room, Dick was able to look upon his father's face unobserved. The change shocked him. Was it grief for a dead son, or grief for an erring one, that had whitened his hair and hollowed his cheeks? In the few days that had elapsed since his interview with Colonel Dundas, Dick had pulled up wonderfully. He had not come on to New York until he felt himself strong enough to face the ordeal before him. He had forgiven his mother from the first. What she did must have been done with the best intentions. The poverty of her son and the dire distress of his father had tempted her to obtain possession of money by forgery. The bank had at once suspected the ne'er-do-well son. The son had been proclaimed dead, and the mother had chosen silence. These things, so unforgivable, were at once condoned by the tender-hearted lad, who only remembered his mother's caresses and her constant anxiety for his welfare from the day of his birth. It was the loss of Dora that stung him most--the thought that she had believed him dead and disgraced. His father's attitude puzzled him more, and he naturally jumped to the conclusion that John Swinton knew nothing; that he was deceived by his wife, like the rest; otherwise, he would have scouted the lie on the instant, no matter what the consequences. Such was the son's belief in his father's integrity. What would his father's reception be? He raised his finger to tap at the window, but paused as this thought occurred to him. The rector could not fail to receive him back from the dead joyfully; but there would be the inevitable reckoning to pay. Even now, the lad hesitated, wondering whether, after all, Colonel Dundas were not right in declaring him better dead. But he was not without hope; and his determination to be set right in Dora's eyes was inflexible. He tapped at the window, gently. The rector started and listened, but hearing nothing further, supposed that he had been mistaken as to the sound. The prodigal tapped again, this time with a coin. There was no mistaking the summons. The rector went to the window, flung back the curtains, and peered out, standing between the window and the light. Dick pressed himself close to the glass, and took off his cap. "Father!" he cried. "Open the window." It was Dick's voice, but not Dick's face. "Open the window." Like a man in a dream, the rector loosened the catch, and opened the casement. "Father--father! It is I--Dick--alive! and glad to be home." The clergyman retreated as from a ghost--afraid. "Don't be afraid of me. The report of my death was all a mistake, father." "Dick--Dick--my boy--back--alive!" The father folded his son to his heart, with a cry of joy and a sudden rush of tears. He babbled incoherently, and gasped for breath. Dick supported the faltering steps to the chair by the desk. Then, he closed the window silently, and flinging his cap upon the table, slowly divested himself of the long ulster. The inevitable pause of embarrassment followed. "I've come to have a talk with you, father," said Dick, cheerily. He seized the poker, and raked together the embers of the dying fire, as naturally as though no interval of time had elapsed since he was there last. The rector wiped his eyes and pulled himself together, realizing, after the first rush of emotion, the terrible situation created by his son's return. His natural impulse was to rush upstairs to Mary, and tell her the glad news--glad, yet terrible. But Dick forestalled him by remarking quite casually: "I want to see you first, father, before telling mother. My coming back will be a shock; and she ought to be prepared." "Yes--you've taken me by surprise, my boy. Why didn't you write? Why didn't you let us know? Why didn't you telegraph?" "I did write, and I thought you knew all about it, and would be expecting me, and, as soon as I landed, I telegraphed to Dora Dundas, thinking she would call on mother. But the colonel intercepted my telegram, and came himself, and told me of the--of the--" The rector looked down at his desk; he could not face his son. His hand involuntarily clenched as it rested on the table. "He told me of the mess I've got myself into over the bank business--told me they would arrest me if I came home. But I couldn't keep away, father." There were tears in Dick's voice now. "I just wanted to see you before--before emigrating." "Emigrating, my boy! Why should you emigrate?" This was hardly the tone that Dick expected: no reproach, no questioning. "It's no good running the risk of a prosecution, is it, father? And, as I've disgraced the family, I'd--" "You mean to say that you don't deny the bank's charge of forgery?" "No--no, father, I don't deny it. Why should I?" The rector looked at his son helplessly, in agonized appeal. His hands went up, and he bowed his head before him. Dick was the strong man, and he the weak one. Dick was ready to be wiped out of existence, rather than betray his mother. He believed that his father knew nothing. "Dick--forgive!" The stricken father took a step forward, but his strength gave out, and he dropped upon his knees at his son's feet. "Dick! Dick! We are sinners, your mother and I. I ask your pardon. Forgive me, boy, forgive--It was my wish from the first that you should be set straight. I knew you were incapable of a fraud, and your mother confessed everything to me. I only consented to the blackening of your name at--at your mother's entreaty--to save Netty's life from ruin and your mother from prison." "That's all right, father--that's all right," cried Dick huskily, with an affected cheeriness, as he raised the stricken man. "I'm not able to grapple with it all just now. You see, I've had enteric, and am still shaky. I've thought it all out. Mother was--was foolish. She wanted to set us all straight, to pay my debts and save me from arrest. Well, I can but return the compliment. A fellow can't see his own mother sent to prison. She did it for love of her husband and children. She only defrauded her own father; and, if he had an ounce of sentiment in him, or was in his right mind, he'd acknowledge the checks, and make us disgorge in some other way. I felt like going up to Asherton Hall first, and strangling the old villain in his bed." "Dick, my boy, it is not his fault. It is he who has been right, and we who have been wrong. No man should spend money he does not possess. Debts that a man can never pay are robberies. I have condoned, I am worse than she--worse than all of you--I, the clergyman, who have been given the care of souls. Dick, there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, and your mother and I have sincerely repented; but we have not atoned. You must see her to-night, and tell her that you mean to come home. You must tell the truth, and set yourself right in the eyes of all men. Your father and mother don't matter. You have a life before you, and a name that should go down in history, honored--" "Oh, nonsense, father! What I've been through is nothing to what some of the chaps suffered. Some thriving colony is the place for me under a new name, a new life. So long as mother and you know, and send me a cheery word sometimes, and wish me well, I shall be all right. You see, it's easier to go when the girl that a fellow loves is--is going to marry another man, a rich man--a cad. But that's her affair. She thinks I'm a bad lot, and put away under the turf, and she's going to live her life comfortably like other people, I suppose. Old Dundas was always keen on Ormsby. When she's married--and settled down--then you must tell her the truth--that I didn't alter those checks, that I wasn't such a cheat, nor a coward either. Don't let her think I died a skunk who wanted to be shot to avoid the consequences of a forgery. Yes, you'll have to tell her that, father--you'll have to tell her--" The words came out with difficulty. Dick, who was standing on the hearthrug, put out his hand blindly for support. It rested on a table for a moment, but only for a moment. His lips parted, and his eyes closed. Ere the rector could rush to his aid, he slipped to the floor in a faint. Emotion, in his present weak state, was too much for him. He had overestimated his strength. "Dick--my boy!--my boy!" cried the father, raising him tenderly in his arms. "He'll die--he'll die after all!" The study door opened suddenly. Mary in her nightdress, with her hair about her shoulders, and her eyes staring, entered the room, barefooted. "I heard his voice, John--I heard his voice!" she cried, in shrill fear. "Mary! Help, help! He's here--Dick--alive! He's fainted!" The table stood between her and the dark form in the shadow on the floor. She advanced slowly. "Dick--not dead!" she screamed. Her cry rang through the house and awakened everybody. Netty heard the words upstairs, and sat up in bed, trembling. The servants heard them, and began to dress hurriedly. Dick was lifted by his father from the floor to the couch, and the conscience-stricken mother looked on with drawn, white face. Love conquered her fear, and she put her arms about him and kissed him; but, when he opened his eyes, she drew away out of sight, fearing reproach. His first words might be bitter denunciation. "He knows all; he understands," whispered the rector. The study door stood open, and in another moment they became conscious of the half-clad figure of Jane, the housekeeper, looking in. "Mr. Dick!" she screamed. "Mr. Dick! Not dead!" She turned and rushed upstairs to Netty's room. She found Netty in a panic, pale and trembling. "What has happened?" "Mr. Dick--he's alive! alive! He's come home." "He'll be arrested," was Netty's only thought, and she thrust Jane out of the room, telling her to hold her tongue. It was bitterly cold, and she went back to bed. She guessed that there must be a painful interview in progress down in the study, and her own joy--if any--at the return of her disgraced brother could wait. She had no two points of view. She was sorry that Dick had returned. She regretted that the forger was not dead. It was so hideously inconvenient when one wanted to get married to have a disreputable brother in the family. She then and there resolved that Dick need not think he would ever get money out of Harry Bent. It was a strange home-coming for the prodigal. His intention to emigrate as soon as he had seen his father and mother was frustrated by an attack of weakness, which made it impossible for him to be moved. He was helped to bed, miserably conscious that self-sacrifice would entail more than emigration. If he took upon his shoulders the family burden, it would be as a prisoner and a convict. The secret of his home-coming could not be kept, and Ormsby's warrant must take effect. CHAPTER XXII THE BLIGHT OF FEAR Breakfast at the rectory on the morning following Dick's sensational return was a very solemn meal, for the blight of fear had fallen upon the whole household. No one slept. The father and mother had remained with Dick until the small hours of the morning, and, when they finally bade each other good-night, both were conscious that the old days of sweet comradeship were over forever. There would be no more heart-to-heart speaking between these two, no sharing of burdens. The man must go his way and the woman hers, each with a load of sorrow to bear. The rector was the only one really glad to find that the news of Dick's death was not true; but the joy of finding him alive was nullified by the terror of coming trouble. Mary was mentally stunned by the shock of Dick's return. She had grown accustomed to the thought of him as dead, and, of late, had been almost glad, since it saved the whole family from social ruin. Now, what would happen? She could not think, every faculty seemed benumbed. She had arisen and dressed in a perfectly mechanical manner, and, even now that she was sitting at the breakfast-table, her eyes had the strange and set expression which one sees in the eyes of the sleep-walker. Her voice, too, had unfamiliar notes as she read aloud the headings of the news columns, making a wretched pretense of keeping up appearances before the servants. The domestics had been sworn to secrecy. This was not difficult, as all were devoted to Dick. He had always been a favorite. His kindness and consideration for those who served him was always in marked contrast to Netty's haughty and exacting nature. There was not a creature in the house who would not have run personal risk to serve him. He was still in a state of prostration, weaker far than he knew, and on the brink of a serious collapse. The need for secrecy made it dangerous to call in medical aid, and he tried to allay his father's anxiety by assuring him that rest was all he needed. He would soon be well enough to start on his way again. During breakfast, Netty had made no comment on her brother's return. Her eyes were red with weeping, but only because she saw the possibility of her brother in the dock, and Harry Bent's mother opposing her marriage. The rector and his wife scarcely exchanged a word; it was obvious that there was a growing antagonism between them. The woman already suspected her husband of leaning toward her son, with designs upon her liberty and reputation. The rector was hoping that his wife would come to her senses, now that her boy had returned, and see the wisdom of confession, without forcing upon him the painful task of telling the dreadful truth. The situation had been argued out between them until words ceased to have meaning, and by common consent all action was suspended until this morning, when, it was hoped, Dick would be rested, and able to join the council. If anything, Dick was worse; listless, nerveless, unable to rise, and spending his time in dozes that were perilously near unconsciousness. The meal ended, Netty escaped. Her mother hurried up to Dick, and the rector to his study, where he awaited his wife. Presently, she came down, dressed for walking. "Where are you going, Mary?" he asked nervously. "I'm going up to see father. It's the only thing to do. He cannot kill his own grandson. If Dick dies, his death will be at father's door." "Mary, you are agitated and hysterical. You are not fit to see anyone. Your father can do nothing. The matter is in the hands of the bank. We must either remain passive, and await the issue of events, or see Ormsby and put the case to him, appealing to him for a withdrawal of the prosecution." "What mercy do you think we shall get from him? You forget he is a prospective bridegroom, and his bride, Dora Dundas, is preparing for her wedding. What will Dora's action be, do you think, if she knows that Dick is here?" "Dearest, if she believes him guilty, she will go on with her marriage. The understanding between Dick and Dora was informal. It was not like an engagement. She is engaged to Ormsby, and she will not go back on her word now, though I have grave doubts of the wisdom of allowing her to remain in ignorance of the truth." "The girl loved Dick. There was a definite understanding between them. She has been breaking her heart over him. This engagement to Ormsby is a matter arranged by her father. No, the only person who can help us is my father, and I refuse to discuss it with you further. It's now a matter between me and Dick--a mother's utter ruin or a son's emigration. And, after all, why shouldn't Dick try his luck in another country? There's nothing for him here." "What are you going to say?" "I can't tell till I see father, and know what mood he is in. He has always abused Dick; but he always liked him. Dick was the only one who could speak out straight and defy him, and he appreciated it." "I am helpless," cried the rector, throwing up his hands and turning away. "I know the path I should follow, but it is barred, and the way I am traveling is accursed." "Then I must act alone, John. Good-bye. To-day must decide everything. John, won't you kiss me--won't you say good-bye?" He still turned his back upon her, more in sorrow than in anger. She placed her gloved hand upon his shoulder appealingly, and turned a woe-begone face. "It will all come right, John." He sighed, and embraced her like the broken man he was, and she left him alone with his conscience. And what a terrible companion that conscience had become! At times, it was a white-robed angel beckoning him, at others a red imp deriding in exultation, tormenting, wounding, maddening. On the way to Asherton Hall, Mrs. Swinton framed a hundred speeches, and went through imaginary altercations. By the time she arrived, she was keyed up to a dangerous pitch of excitement, verging on hysteria. Nobody saw her coming and she entered the house through the eastern conservatory. Herresford was back in the old bedroom, and Trimmer was there, superintending the removal of the breakfast things. The daughter, treading lightly, walked into the room, unannounced. The old man looked up from his pillows, and started as if terrified. "She's here again, Trimmer--she's here again," he whined. Trimmer was no less surprised. "Trimmer, you can leave us," cried Mary, whose eyes were glistening with an unusual light. There was a red patch in her cheeks, the lips were hard set, and her hands were working nervously in her muff. "I wish to speak to my father privately." "If Mr. Herresford wishes--" "I wish it. Please leave us!" "Don't go! Don't go, Trimmer!" cried the miser extending one hand helplessly. "Raise me, Trimmer. Don't let her touch me." Trimmer obeyed his master, ignoring Mrs. Swinton, and lifted the old bag of bones with a jerk that seemed to rattle it. He placed an especially large velvet-covered cushion behind the invalid's back, straightened the skull-cap so that the tassel should not fall over the eye; then, assuming a stony expression of face, turned to go. Herresford mumbled and appealed until the door was closed; then, he seemed to recover his courage and his tongue. "So, you're here again," he snapped. "What is it now--what is it now? Am I never to have peace?" "I have strange news. Dick is alive." "Not dead, eh! Humph! That does not surprise me. I expected as much. No man is dead in a war until his body is buried. So, he's come back, has he?" "Yes, and that is why I'm here. The bank people will have him arrested." There was a pause, which the miser ended by a fit of chuckling and choking laughter that maddened her. "This is no laughing matter, father. Can't you see what the position is?" "Oh, yes, it's a pretty position--quite a dramatic situation. Boy dead, shamefully accused; boy alive, and to be arrested for his mother's crime." "Father, I've thought it all out. There is only one thing to do, and you must do it. You must pay that money to the bank, and compel them to abandon the prosecution by declaring that you made a mistake about the checks--that you really did authorize them." "Add lie to lie, I suppose; and, according to your method of moral arithmetic, make two wrongs into one right. So, you want to drag me into it?" "Father, if you have any natural feeling toward Dick--I don't ask you to think of me--you'll set this matter straight by satisfying the bank people." "The bank people don't want to be satisfied. They've paid me my money--there's an end to it. You must appeal to Ormsby." "But Ormsby hates Dick. He is marrying the woman Dick loves." "And who is that, pray?" cried the old man, starting up and snapping his words out like pistol shots. "Why, Dora Dundas, of course." "Who's she?" "The only daughter of Colonel Dundas, a wealthy man. His wealth, I suppose, attracted Ormsby. He will show Dick no mercy. You've met Colonel Dundas. You ought to remember him." "Oh! the fool who writes to the papers about the war. I know him. What's the girl like? Is she as great an idiot as her father?" "You've seen her. I brought her here with me one afternoon to see the gardens, and she came up and had tea with you. Don't you remember--about two years ago?" The old man fingered the tassel of his cap, and chewed it meditatively for a few moments. "I remember," he said, at last. "So, she's going to marry Ormsby, because Dick is supposed to be dead--and disgraced. Well, a sensible girl. Ormsby is rich. She knew that Dick would have money, lots of it, at my death; and, when she couldn't have him, she chose the next best man, the banker's son. Sensible girl, Dora Dundas. The question is--what's Dick going to do?" "Father, Dick has behaved nobly, but unfortunately he is ill at home; and at any moment may be arrested. That's why I want to be prepared to prevent it. He talks of going abroad--emigrating--when he's strong enough." "What!" screamed the old man, in astonishment. "He's not going to stand up for his honor, my honor, the honor of the family? What's he made of?" "Father, father, can't you understand? If he speaks, he denounces me, his mother. Am I not one of the family? Think what my position is. It was as much for his sake as for John's that I took the money. You wouldn't save us from ruin. I was driven to desperation, you know I was. It was your fault, and you must do what is in your power to avert the threatened disgrace. Father, the bank people cannot possibly prosecute, if you pay them the seven thousand dollars. I will repay it out of my allowance in instalments." There was silence for a few moments, during which the old man surveyed the situation with a clear mental vision, superior to that of his daughter. "And you think Ormsby is going to compound a felony, and at the same time bring back to the neighborhood a young man in love with his future wife?" "If I confessed everything, father, do you think that Ormsby would spare me, Dick's mother! Oh, it's all a horrible tangle. It's driving me mad!" "Ha! ha!" chuckled the old man. "You're beginning to use your brain a little. You're beginning to realize the value of money--and you don't like it. Well, you can unravel your own tangle. Don't come to me." The sight of her distress seemed to whet his appetite for cruelty. He rubbed salt into the open wounds with zest. "Get your sky-pilot to help you out of it. I won't. Not a penny do I pay. Seven thousand dollars!" "Father, a hundred thousand could not make any difference to you," she cried. "You must let me have the money. Take it out of my mother's allowance." "What allowance? Who told you anything about any allowance?" "Father, you're an old man, and your memory is failing you. You know, I'm entitled to an allowance from my mother's money. You don't mean to say you're going to stop that?" "Who's stopping your allowance? Trimmer! Trimmer!" he cried. Something in his manner--a look--a guilty terror in his eyes, made itself apparent to the woman. The reference to her mother frightened him. She saw behind the veil--but indistinctly. It had always been a sore point that her father conceded only an allowance of a few thousands a year, whereas her mother had brought him an income of many thousands. Mrs. Herresford had always given her daughter to understand that wealth would revert to her, but, as the girl was too young to understand money matters at the time of her mother's death, she had been entirely at the mercy of her father. In her present despair, she was ready to seize any floating straw. The idea came to her that she might have some unexpected reversionary interest in her mother's money, on which she could raise something. Trimmer put an end to the interview by answering his master's call. The miser was gesticulating and mumbling, and frantically motioning his daughter to leave the room. "She wants to rob me!--she wants to rob me!" This was all that she understood of his raving. "It is useless to talk to him now, Mrs. Swinton," said Trimmer, with a suggestive glance toward the door. She departed without another word, full of a new idea. Her position was such that only a lawyer could help her; and she was resolved to have legal advice. It was a forlorn hope, but one not to be despised; and there was not a moment to lose. As if by an inspiration, she remembered the name of a lawyer who used to be her mother's adviser--a Mr. Jevons, who used to come to Asherton Hall before her mother died, and afterward quarreled with Herresford. This was the man to advise her. He would be sure to know the truth about the private fortune of Mrs. Herresford, which the husband had absorbed after his wife's death. CHAPTER XXIII DORA SEES HERRESFORD Herresford recovered his composure very quickly after the departure of his daughter. A few harsh words from Trimmer silenced him, and he remained sitting up, staring out of the window. The next time Trimmer came into the room, he called him to his side, and gazed into his face with a look that the valet understood. Trimmer knew every mood, and there were some when the master ruled the servant and commands were not to be questioned. "Trimmer, I have a commission for you. Go to the residence of Colonel Dundas. See his daughter, Dora. She has been here--you remember her?" "I'm afraid not, sir." "Pretty girl, brown hair, determined mouth, steady eyes, quietly dressed--no thousand-dollar sables and coats of ermine. Came to tea--and didn't cackle!" "I can't recall her, sir." "You must. We don't have many women here. My memory is better than yours. I want to see her again; and, when she comes, I talk to her alone, you hear?" "Yes, sir." "Trimmer, my grandson is alive." "Alive, sir?" "Yes, and back from the war. He's got to marry that girl; but she's engaged to someone else--you understand?" "I think so, sir." "So, be cautious. Bring her here secretly, or--I'll sack you." "Yes, sir." "Go at once." "Yes, sir. Your medicine first." The old man dropped back into his querulous, peevish mood. Trimmer poured out the medicine, administered it, and then departed on his mission. On his arrival at the colonel's house, he sent word to Dora that he came from Mr. Herresford on important business. When Dora received the message, her face flushed, and she looked puzzled and distressed. But she came to Trimmer presently, and listened with bent head to what he had to say. Afterward, she was silent for several minutes. She did not know what to say to his curious request that she would come immediately and see Mr. Herresford--on a matter of grave importance. "Do I understand you to say that he himself sent you with this strange request?" she asked. "Yes, miss. I have come straight from Mr. Herresford." "Did he not say why he wished to see me?" "I am only his valet, miss; he would not be likely to tell me. What answer shall I take him?" "I will call at Asherton Hall this afternoon," the girl promised. "I will acquaint Mr. Herresford with your decision," replied Trimmer, and forthwith he took his departure. When it was too late to recall her promise, Dora regretted having given it. She was rather frightened, and could not guess what the terrible old man could possibly want with her. The time of her marriage was drawing near, and she was striving to cast out of her heart all thoughts of Dick, or of the Swintons, or anybody connected with the old, happy days. If Mr. Herresford desired to see her, it could only be to talk about Dick. The blood rushed to her cheeks. Then came a reaction, and her heart almost stood still as the wild idea came that perhaps, after all, Dick lived. Everybody else had regarded the idea of his being alive as preposterous; yet, for a long while, she had dreamed and hoped that the story of his death was false. Then, as time went on, the hope grew fainter; and, after many months, she abandoned it. She trembled now to think what her attitude would be if that dream came true. Of course, the old man might want to see her about Dick's affairs; and the summons probably meant nothing that could bring happiness. Nevertheless, having given her promise, she was determined to go through with it. She trembled as she approached the great house, where half the blinds were down, and all was suggestive of neglect and decay. She had spent some pleasant afternoons in the splendid gardens and conservatories with Mrs. Swinton in the old days, but her one recollection of the eccentric old man was not very encouraging. She remembered how keenly he had eyed her, like a valuer summing up the points of a horse, and how glad she had been to escape his penetrating scrutiny. Others were present on that occasion. She was to face him alone now. Mr. Trimmer met her in the hall with a face of stone, and conducted her up to the bedroom. Her heart beat wildly until she was actually in the room, and the little huddled-up figure on the bed came into view. Then, she lost all her terror, and felt only pity for the shriveled, ape-like creature. "Sit down, Miss Dundas. It is kind of you to visit an old man. Trimmer, a chair for Miss Dundas, close to my bed. My hearing is not what it was." His voice was soft, and his manner genial. There was nothing at all terrifying about him. "You wished me to come to you?" murmured Dora. "Trimmer, go out of the room. You needn't wait. Yes, Miss Dundas, I sent for you. I made your acquaintance two years ago. I was only in a bath-chair then; now, you see what I have come to." "I am deeply sorry." "When you came before," said Herresford, bluntly, "I liked the look of you, Miss Dora; and I said to myself that, if Dick was not a fool and blind, he would choose you for his wife." "Don't! Don't!" cried Dora, with a sudden catch in her voice. "I'm engaged to marry Mr. Ormsby." "An excellent match--a match that does credit to your head, my girl. But Ormsby is not a man--he's only a machine. He thinks too much of his money. With him, it's money, money--all money. A bad thing! A bad thing!" Dora opened her eyes wide in surprise, wondering if she heard aright. Was this the miser? "Now, Dick was a man--and he died like a gentleman--with his back to the wall--hurling defiance at the muzzles of the enemy's rifles." Dora bowed her head, and the tears began to fall. She raised her muff to her face to hide the spasm of pain that distorted her features. "Ah! a boy worth crying for, my dear," said the old man, dragging himself with difficulty to the edge of the bed; "but a shocking spendthrift. That's where we quarreled--though we never quarreled much. I had my say--the boy had his. Sometimes I was hard, and sometimes he was harder. The taunts of the young cut the old deeper than the taunts of the old cut the young. Do you follow me?" Dora nodded. "Now, if he had married a wife like you, a girl with a level head and a stiff upper lip, a girl with not sufficient sentiment to make her a fool, nor enough brains to be a prig, but just clever enough to supply her husband's deficiencies, he would have been my heir, and this place and all my money would have been his--and yours." "Why do you tell me these things, now?" she cried, a note of anger in her voice. "Because I don't want you to marry Ormsby." "Why not? It is to please my father. He wishes it, and--I must marry somebody. I'm not going to be an old maid. I shall never love anybody as I loved Dick, and I might as well recognize the fact." "Then, take the advice of an old man who married a woman who loved someone else. My wife married to please her father--married me. As my wife, she hated me. I hated her. She brought up my daughter to look upon me as a monster. Everything I did was unreasonable, eccentric, wicked; everything I said, absurd; every admonition, harshness; every economy, meanness. Well; I'm the sort of man that, when people pull me one way, I go the other. She spoiled my life, and I consoled myself with money--money--money!" The old man dragged himself nearer to the edge of the bed, and, reaching over, tapped his bony fingers on Dora's knee. "Come, now--come--tell me that you'll think it over, and not marry Ormsby." "O don't!--don't!" cried the girl, covering her face again, and sobbing bitterly. "You can't--you sha'n't marry Ormsby. Dick'll haunt you--and sooner than you know." "I've thought of that," sobbed the girl, "and I've tried to conquer it." "Besides, no man is dead in a war till his body is buried. Get one lover under ground before you lead the other over his grave." "You don't mean--you don't mean to suggest that you think there's any doubt?" cried Dora. "There's no doubt on one point," chuckled the old man, relapsing into his usual sardonic manner. "You're not going to marry Ormsby--ha! ha! He thought he'd do me out of seven thousand dollars--and I've robbed him of his wife. Good business!" "You seem to dislike Mr. Ormsby," said Dora, suspiciously. "Not at all--not at all! Man of business--man of money--no good as a husband! To some men, money-bags are more beautiful than petticoats. When you're his wife, he'll leave you at home, and go down to the bank and woo his real mistress--money!--money! money! But you're not going to marry Ormsby, are you?" "No, I can't--I can't!" cried the girl, starting up and pacing the room. Herresford, with superlative cunning, had struck the right chord. It only needed a little brusque advice to set her in open revolt. "Having decided not to marry him," continued the old man "you'll write him a letter now--at once. There's pen and ink and paper on the desk. Write now, while your heart rings true; and you can tell him as well, if you like, that Mr. Herresford will alter his will to-morrow, and leave all his wealth to you." Dora turned and faced him in amazement, fearing that his reason was unhinged. But the strange, quizzical, amused smile with which he surveyed her expressed so much sanity that she could not fail to respect his utterances. "Say that Mr. Herresford makes it a condition that you do not marry without his consent, and he refuses his consent in so far as Mr. Ormsby is concerned." "I can't do that, Mr. Herresford, you know I can't." "Come here," he said, beckoning her authoritatively. "Have you any confidence in my judgment of what is best for you? If not, say so." "I have every confidence in your judgment. You have voiced the things that were in my heart. I know you are right." "Then, if you have confidence, do as I say, or you'll bitterly regret it. As the mistress of Asherton Hall and all my money, you can have any man you wish. Do you know what I'm worth?" She made no answer. "Come here." He beckoned again, and was about to whisper the amount, when his mood changed. "No, no! Nobody shall know what I'm worth. They'll want money out of me. They'll come around begging and borrowing and dunning. The less I pay, the more I have. Go, write the letter, girl--write the letter. Don't take any notice of me and my money. I'm an old man. You've got all your life before you--one of the greatest heiresses in the country! And I know a man who'll marry you for your money and love you as well--or I'll know the reason why." There was something strangely sympathetic between these two widely-contrasted beings--the young, clear-brained, high-spirited girl and the old misanthrope. She obeyed him as though mesmerized, and, flinging down her muff, took off her gloves, and seated herself at the writing-table. There was determination in every movement. The invalid mumbled and chuckled with satisfaction from the depths of his pillows; but she paid no further heed to him. With the first pen that came to hand, she dashed off a curt note to Ormsby: "DEAR VIVIAN, I cannot marry you, after all. It was all a mistake--a mistake. My heart always was and always will be another's. Good-bye. Don't come to see us any more. My decision is unalterable. It will only cause us both pain. I am very, very sorry." Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added, "I am going somewhere, right away, for a long time." Again, she paused thoughtfully, and Herresford made signs to her which she could not see, signifying that he wished to see the letter. "Let me read," he cried. She handed him the letter as a matter of course, and he nodded approvingly as he read. "Now, then, my girl, I'll tell you a secret. Can you keep secrets?" "I have always been able to." "It's a big secret. How long could you keep a very big secret?" "Quite as long as a little one." "Then, bend down and I'll tell you." His face lighted up with amusement; the ape-like features were transformed; the wrinkles of care and pain wreathed into smiles. "Can't you guess?" he asked, with a hoarse chuckle, and his shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. "Bend lower." He grasped her arm, and drew his lips close to her ear. "Dick's alive." She gave a great gasp, and broke away, uncertain whether this were not some devilish jest. "Oh, it's true--it's true!" he cried, nodding. "Alive!--alive! Not dead! Dick!" "But keep it secret." "But why? Why?" cried Dora. "For reasons of my own. Oh, it's true. You needn't look at me like that. I'm not in my dotage yet." "Dick alive!--alive!" she cried. She clasped her hands, and swung around and around in excitement too great to be controlled. "Yes, alive, but in hiding," said the old man, "until I can get him out of that ugly scrape--cheaply." "But where--where? Tell me!" "That's my secret. You've got to keep your own." "Oh! but I must tell father." "Your father knows it already. He's not to be trusted." "Father knows, and yet--?" "Yet, he'd let you marry Ormsby. It's a way fathers have when they want their daughters to marry rich men. So, you see, he's not as honest as I am. Now, go home like a good girl, and in a day or two you shall hear from Dick. In the meantime, I tell you this much: The boy is ill and broken. You've both been fools. If you had come to me like sensible children, and told me that you wanted to get married, I'd have paid his debts and transferred the burden of responsibility to you--for he is a responsibility, and always will be--mark my words!" "A responsibility I will gladly undertake, grandfather." She dropped on her knees beside the bed, and clasped his hand with a frankness and naturalness quite strange and wonderful to him. He raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed them with unusual emotion. "That's right, call me grandfather. Good girl--good girl!" He reverted to his usual snappy manner. "Put on your gloves, girl. Get away home. Keep a still tongue in your head. Wait till you hear from me. Give me the letter. Trimmer shall post it." [Illustration: "OH, GOOD-BYE--GOOD-BYE, YOU DEAR, DEAR OLD MAN!" SHE CRIED, DROPPING ON HER KNEES BESIDE HIM.--Page 261] Dora obeyed, and watched him as she drew on her gloves. When the last button was fastened, she took up her muff. "Good-bye--good-bye!" he grunted brusquely, offering a bony hand. "Oh, good-bye--good-bye, you dear, dear old man!" she cried, dropping on her knees beside him once more, and flinging her arms around his neck, weeping for joy at the great news. "Get away! Get away! You'll kill me. Enough--enough for one day." She kissed him, and he broke down. When she released him, he fell back on his pillows, breathing heavily. There were tears in his eyes. Trimmer entered at the opportune moment, and opened the door. Dora passed out and ran down the stairs. When in the open air, she wanted to dance, to laugh, to cry, to sing, all at once in the centre of the drive. Only a stern sense of decorum prevented an hysterical outburst. She walked faster and faster, until she almost ran. "Dick! Dick! Dick!" she cried, shouting riotously to the leafless elms in the avenue, and scampering like a joyous child. She waved her arms and sang to the breeze. CHAPTER XXIV DICK EXPLAINS TO DORA Dora hardly knew how she reached home after her visit to Herresford. She had no recollection of anything seen by the way. Her senses swam in an ecstasy too great for words, too intense to allow of impressions from outside. Tears of joy obscured her vision. It was only when she arrived home, and saw her father, and recollected that he had deceived her wilfully, that she had room in her heart for anything but happiness. The colonel was in the library, turning over the leaves of a house-agent's catalogue--his favorite occupation at the present time: Ormsby had enlisted his help in search of a suitable home for his bride. "Here's a nice little place," cried the colonel. "They give a picture of it. Why, girl, what a color you've got!" "Yes, father, it's happiness." "That's right, my girl--that's right. I'm glad you're taking a sensible view of things. What did I tell you?" "You told me an untruth, father. You told me that Dick was dead." Dora's eyes flashed, and the colonel looked sheepish. He covered his embarrassment with anger. "So, the young fool hasn't taken my advice then? He wants to turn convict. Is that why you're happy?--because a man who presumed to make love to you behind your father's back has come home to get sent to the penitentiary, instead of remaining respectably dead when he had the chance?" "Father, I shall never marry Mr. Ormsby. I have told him so." "What! you've been down to the bank?" "No, I have just come from Asherton Hall. What passed there I cannot explain to you at present, but I have written to Vivian, giving him his _congé_." "Do you mean to tell me," thundered the colonel, rising and thumping the table with his clenched fist, "that you're going to throw over the richest bachelor in the country for a blackguard, a forger, a man who couldn't play the straight game?" "Did you play the straight game, father, when you concealed the fact that Dick lived? You meant to trick me into a speedy marriage with your friend." "I--I won't be talked to like this. There comes a time when a father must assert his authority, and I say--" "Father, you'll be ill, if you excite yourself like this." "Don't talk about playing the straight game to me. I suppose you've been to Asherton Hall to see the rascal. He's hiding there, no doubt." "No, he's not. It is you who know where he is. You've seen him, and you must tell me where to find him. I won't rest till I've heard the true story of the forgery from his own lips." "If I knew where he was at the present moment," exclaimed the colonel, thumping the table again, "I'd give information to the police. As for Ormsby, when he gets your letter--if you've written it--he'll search the wide world for him. He will be saving me the trouble. Swinton must pay the penalty--and the sooner the better." "I've seen Mr. Herresford, who said it was only a question of money." "Aha, that's where you're wrong. If Ormsby chooses to prosecute, no man can help the young fool. He's branded forever as a criminal and a felon. Why, if he could inherit his grandfather's millions, decent people would shut their doors in his face, now." "Then, his service to his country counts for nothing," faltered Dora. "No; many a man has distinguished himself in the field, but that hasn't saved him from prison. Dick Swinton is done for. Ormsby will see to that." "Vivian is a coward, then, and his action will only show how wise I was to abandon all thought of marrying him." "You haven't abandoned all thought of it. You're just a silly fool of a girl who won't take her father's advice. It is an insult to Ormsby to throw him over for a thieving rascal--" "Father, you have always prided yourself on being a just man. Yet, you condemn Dick without a hearing." "Without a hearing! Haven't I given him a hearing? I saw him. He had the chance then to deny the charge. His crime is set out in black and white, and he can't get away from it. No doubt, he thinks he can talk over a silly woman, and scrape his way back to respectable society by marrying my daughter; but no--not if I know it! Marry Dick Swinton, and you go out of my house, never to return. I'll not be laughed at by my friends and pointed at as a man of loose principles, who allowed his daughter to mate with a blackguard." "Father, curb your tongue," cried Dora, flashing out angrily. Her color was rising, and that determined little mouth, which had excited the admiration of Herresford, was set in a hard, straight line. The colonel was red in the face, and emphasizing his words with his clenched fists, as if he were threatening to strike. Dora was the first to recover her composure. She turned away with a shrug, and walked out of the room to put an end to the discussion. Her joy at Dick's return from the grave was short-lived. The appalling difficulty of the situation was making itself felt. She left the colonel to ramp about the house, muttering, and shut herself in her boudoir, where she proceeded to make short work of everything associated with Vivian Ormsby. His photograph was torn into little pieces; the gifts with which he had loaded her were collected together in a heap; his letters were burned without a sigh. She would have been sorry for him, if he had not conspired with her father to conceal the truth about Dick's supposed death. She shuddered to think what her position would have been, if she had married Ormsby, and then discovered, when the die was cast, that Dick, her idol, the only one who had touched a responsive chord in her heart, was living, and set aside by fraud. The scrape into which Dick had got himself could not really be as serious as her father imagined, since the grandfather of the culprit had spoken of it so lightly--and, in any case, the crime of forgery never horrifies a woman as do the supposedly meaner crimes of other theft and of violence. It was surely something that could be put right, and, if it could not, then it would become a battle of heart against conscience. But, at present, love held the field. It was absolutely necessary to see Dick, and get information on all points; and, as it was quite impossible to extract information from her father as to her lover's whereabouts, the rectory seemed to be the most likely place to gather news. To the rectory, therefore, she went. Dick was upstairs, ill. When her name was taken in to the clergyman--she chose the father in preference to the mother from an instinctive distrust of Mrs. Swinton which she could not explain--John Swinton trembled. Cowardice suggested that he should avoid her questioning. He knew why she came; and was not prepared with the answer to the inevitable inquiry, "Where is Dick?" Yet, anything that contributed to Dick's happiness at this miserable juncture was not to be neglected. Therefore, he received her. Dora was shocked to see the change in the clergyman. His hand trembled when it met hers, and his eyes looked anywhere but into her face. "Mr. Swinton, you can guess why I have come." "I think I know. You have heard the glad news--indeed, everyone seems to have heard it--that my son has been given back to me." "And to me, Mr. Swinton." "What! Then, you do not turn your back upon him, Miss Dundas!" he cried, with tears in his voice. "I have come to you, Mr. Swinton, to find out where he is, that I may go to him, and hear from his own lips a denial of the atrocious charge brought against him by the bank." "Yes, yes, of course! I don't wonder that you find it hard to believe." The guilty rector fidgeted nervously, and covered his confusion by bringing forward a chair. "I cannot stay, Mr. Swinton, thank you. I have just run down to beg you to put me in communication with your son. Oh, you can't think what it has meant to me. It has saved me from an unhappy marriage." "Your engagement to Mr. Ormsby is broken off?" "Yes." "Because you think you'll be able to marry Dick?" "Yes. Why do you speak of Dick like that?" she asked, with a sudden sinking at the heart. "Surely, you do not join in the general condemnation--you, his own father! Oh, it isn't true what they told me--that he's a forger, who will have to answer to the law, and go to prison. It isn't true." "Dick himself is the only person who can answer your questions." "But where is he? I suppose I can write to him?" "He's in hiding," said the rector, brokenly. The words seemed to be choking him. "In hiding! Dick, who faced a dozen rifles and flung defiance in the teeth of his country's enemies--in hiding!" "Just for the present--just for the present. You see, they would arrest him. It's so much better to prepare a defense when one has liberty than--than--from the Tombs." "Then, you will not tell me where he is?" The information Dora vainly sought came to her by an accident. Netty, unaware of the presence of a visitor in the house, walked into the study, and commenced to speak before she was well into the room. "Father, Dick wants the papers. He's finished the book and--Oh, Miss Dundas!" "He is here--in this house?" cried Dora, flushing angrily at the rector's want of trust. "Oh, why didn't you tell me? Do you think that I would betray him? Why didn't you let me know? How long has he been home? Oh, please let me go to him!" Father and daughter looked at one another in confusion. "I intended to tell you, Miss Dundas, after I had asked my son's permission. You see, we are all in league with him here. If the police got an inkling of his presence in the house, it would be very awkward." "I don't think Dick would like to see you just now," interjected Netty. "You see, he's ill--he's very ill, and much broken." "Now that you know he is here," interposed the rector, "there can be no objection to your seeing him. I must first inform him of your coming--that he may be prepared. I'm sure he will be glad to see you." The rector escaped to fulfil a difficult and painful mission. He had almost forgotten the existence of his son's sweetheart, and was only conscious that she added to the troubles of an already trying situation. The noble fellow, who was prepared to take the burden of his mother's sin, would certainly find it hard to justify himself in the eyes of the woman he loved. And, if he set himself right in Dora's eyes, that would mean--? He trembled to think what it would mean. Dora and Netty, in the study, maintained an unnatural reserve, in which there was silent antagonism. Dora relieved the situation by a commonplace. "You must be overjoyed, Netty, to have your brother back again." "Overjoyed!" exclaimed Netty, with a shrug. "I'm likely to lose a husband. A disgraced brother is a poor exchange." "You don't mean to say that Harry Bent would be so mean as to withdraw because your brother--" "Oh, yes, say it--because my brother is a criminal. I don't pity him, and you'll find your father less lenient than mine. All thought of an engagement between you and Dick is now, of course, absurd." "That is for Dick to decide," said Dora, quietly. But there was a horrible sinking at her heart, and tears came to her eyes. She walked to the window to hide her emotion from unsympathetic eyes. She almost hated Netty. Everyone seemed to be conspiring to overthrow her idol. They would not give her half a chance of believing him innocent. She positively quaked at the prospect of hearing from Dick's own lips his version of the story. When the clergyman came down, he entered with bowed head and haggard face, like a beaten man. He signed to Netty that he wished to be alone with Dora, and, when the girl was gone, went over to his visitor, and laid a trembling hand upon her shoulder. "My dear Miss Dundas, my son desires to see you, and speak with you alone. He will say--he will tell you things that may make you take a harsh view of--of his parents. I exhort you, in all Christian charity, to suspend your judgment, and be merciful--to us, at least. I am a weak man--weaker than I thought. This is a time of humiliation for us, a time of difficulty, bordering on ruin. Have mercy. That is all I ask." Without waiting for a reply, he led the way upstairs. Dora followed with beating heart, conscious of a sense of mystery. At the door of Dick's room, the rector left her. "Go in," he murmured, hoarsely. "Dora!" It was Dick's voice. He was reclining in a deck-chair, wrapped around with rugs, and with a book lying in his lap. He was less drawn and pinched than when he first returned, but the change in him was still great enough to give her a sudden wrench at the heart. "Oh, Dick! Dick!" she cried, flinging away her muff and rushing to him. "Oh, my poor Dick! What have they done to you?" He smiled weakly, and allowed her to wind her arms about his neck as she knelt by his side. "They've nearly killed me, Dora. But I'm not dead yet. I'm in hiding here, as I understand father told you. You don't mean to give me the go-by just because people are saying things about me?" "Indeed, no. But the things they're saying, Dick, are dreadful, and I wanted to hear from your own lips that they're not true." "You remember what I said to you before I went away?" "I remember, and I have been loyal to my promise." "Well, you can continue loyal, little one. I am no forger--but I fear they're going to put me into jail, and I must go through with it, as I've had to go through lots of ugly things out there." He shuddered. "But, Dick, if the charge is false, why cannot you refute it?" "Ah, there you have me, Dora. If you force me to explain, I will. It concerns one who is near and dear to me, and I would rather be silent. If, however, there is the slightest doubt in your mind of my innocence, you must know everything." "I--I would rather know," pleaded Dora, whose curiosity was overmastering. "But is your faith in me conditional? Is not my word enough?" "It is enough for me, Dick--but it is the others--father, and--" "Ah! I understand. But what do other people matter--now? You're going to marry Ormsby, I understand." Dora looked down, and her hand trembled in his as she sought for words to explain a situation which was hardly explainable. "Well--you see--Dick--they told me you were dead. We all gave you up as a lost hero." "Yet, before the grass had grown over my supposed grave, you were ready to transfer your love to--that cad." "Not my love, Dick--not my love! Believe me, I was broken-hearted. They said dreadful things about you, and I couldn't prove them untrue, and I didn't want everybody to think--Well, father pressed it. I was utterly wretched. I knew I should never love anybody else, dearest--nobody else in the world, and I didn't care whom I married." It was the sweetest reasoning, and of that peculiarly feminine order which the inherent vanity of man cannot resist. Dick's only rebuke was a kiss. "Well, Dora, I'm not a marrying man, now. I'm not even respectable. As soon as I'm well, I've got to disappear again. But the idea of your marrying Ormsby--" "It's off, Dick--off! I gave him his dismissal the moment I heard--" "Did your father tell you I was alive?" "No, your grandfather told me." "Ye gods! You don't mean to say you've seen him!" "Yes, Dick, and I think he's the dearest old man alive. He was most charming. He isn't really a bit horrid. My letter dismissing Mr. Ormsby was posted at his own request. So, if you want me, Dick, I am yours still. More wonderful still, he told me things I could hardly believe." "He's a frightful old liar, is grandfather." "I don't think he was lying, Dick. You'll laugh at his latest eccentricity. He told me he would alter his will and leave everything to me--not to you--to me." "But why?" "Well, I suppose--I suppose that he thought--" Dora played with the fringe of the rug on Dick's knee as she still knelt by his side, and seemed embarrassed. "I think I understand," laughed Dick. "He's taken a fancy to you." "Yes, Dick, I think he has. It is because he thinks--that you have taken a fancy to me--that--oh, well, can't you understand?" She rested her cheek against his, and, as he folded her to his heart, he understood. "So, grandfather has turned matchmaker. I'll warrant he thinks you are a skinflint, and will take care of his money." "That's it, Dick. He thinks I'm the most economical person. I saw him looking at my dress, a cheap, tweed walking affair. Oh, good gracious, if he had seen my wardrobe at home, or the housekeeping and the stable accounts!" "Then, you'll have to keep it up, darling. Next time you go to see him, borrow a dress from your maid." "Dick, your grandfather talked of getting you out of your scrape. What does that mean? If he pays the seven thousand dollars, will it get you off?" "It is not a question of money, now. It is a question of the penitentiary, darling. And I don't see that it is fair to hold you to any pledges. I've got to go through with this business. You couldn't marry an ex-convict." "Dick, if you are not guilty, if you have done no wrong, you are shielding someone else who has." Dora arose to her feet impatiently, and stood looking down almost angrily. "Dora, Dora, don't force it out of me!" he pleaded. "If you think a little, you'll understand." "I have thought. I can understand nothing. They told me that your mother's checks--" Even as she spoke, she understood. The knowledge flashed from brain to brain. "Oh, Dick--your mother!--Mrs. Swinton! Oh!" "Grandfather drove her to it, Dora. You mustn't be hard on her." "And she let them accuse you--her son--when you were supposed to have died gloriously--oh, horrible!" "Ah, that's the worst of being a newspaper hero. The news that I'm home has got abroad somehow, and those journalist fellows are beginning to write me up again. I wish they'd leave me alone. They make things so hard." "Dick, you're not going to ruin your whole career, and blacken your reputation, because your mother hasn't the courage to stand by her wickedness." "It wasn't the sort of thing you'd do, Dora, I know. But mother's different. Never had any head for money, and didn't know what she was doing. She looked upon grandfather's money as hers and mine." "But when they thought you were dead--oh, horrible. It was infamous!" "Dora, Dora, you promised to be patient." "Does your father know? He does, of course! A clergyman!" "Leave him out of it. Poor old dad--it's quite broken him up. Think of it, Dora, the wife of the rector of St. Botolph's parish to go to jail. That's what it would mean. The rector himself disgraced, and his children stigmatized forever. An erring son is a common thing; and an erring brother doesn't necessarily besmirch a sister's honor. Can't you see, Dora, that it's hard enough for them to bear without your casting your stone as well?" "Oh, Dick, I can't understand it. Has she no mother feeling? How could a woman do such a thing? Her own son! To take advantage of his death to defile his memory. Oh, if I had known, I--I would have--" "Hush, hush, Dora! If you knew what my mother has suffered, and if you could look into my father's stricken heart, you'd be willing to overlook a great deal. When I get out of the country, I'm going to make a fresh start. Ormsby has set spies around the house like flies, and, as you've thrown him over now, he'll be doubly venomous. I only wanted to set myself right in your eyes, and absolve you from all pledges." "But I don't want to be absolved," sobbed Dora, dropping on her knees again, and seeking his breast. "Oh, Dick, Dick, you are braver than they know. Was it not easier to face the firing party than to endure the ignominy of this unmerited disgrace?" "There's no help for it. I must go through with it. Don't shake my courage. A man must stick up for his mother." "Oh, Dick, there must be some other way." "There is no other--unless--unless my grandfather consents to acknowledge those checks, and declares that the alterations were made with his knowledge. But that he will not do--because he knows who did it--and he is merciless. I don't care a snap of my finger for the world. You are my world, Dora. If you approve, then I am game. I shall be all right in a few days, and then--then I'll go and do my bit of time, and see the inside of Sing-Sing. It'll be amusing. There's a cab. That's mother come home." "Oh, I can't face her!" cried Dora, with hardening mouth. "Go away without seeing her, darling. Promise you won't reveal what I've told you." "I can't promise. It's horrible!" "You must--you must, little girl." And in the end, much against her will, she was persuaded to keep silence. CHAPTER XXV TRACKED Vivian Ormsby refused to abandon all hope of winning Dora. He believed that, if he got Dick Swinton into jail, it would crush her romance forever. In his pride, he disdained appeal to Colonel Dundas. He knew her father's view, and did not doubt that pressure would be brought to bear from that quarter. Dora could not well marry a penniless convict, and the colonel's wealth was worth a little submission to parental authority. Dora would soon change her tone when all illusions were shattered. She was far too sensible to ruin her life by a reckless marriage. Time was on his side. Every hour that passed must intensify her humiliation. He had realized the necessity of prompt action, and was in closest touch with the police. Detectives were in and out of the bank all day long, and a famous private detective had promised him that the fugitive would be captured within seven days. Detective Foxley entered the bank one day to see Vivian Ormsby, and brought the banker news of his latest investigations. The inspector was a small, thin-featured, sandy-haired man, with a calm exterior and a deliberate manner. He entered Ormsby's private room unobtrusively, and closed the door after him with care. "Well, what news, Foxley?" "My men have shadowed everybody, but so far with no result. I thought it advisable to keep an eye on the young lady. He is sure to communicate with her, and she'll try to see him. His people at the rectory know where he is, and I suspect that Mr. Herresford knows as well. My man reports that the young lady went to Asherton Hall after an interview with Mr. Herresford's valet. She came out of the house in a state of excitement, and showed every sign of joy. She thought she was alone, and danced and ran like a child, from which we deduced that she had seen the young man, and that he was hiding in Asherton Hall. We went so far as to interview the housekeeper, who made it clear that the young man had not been there, and offered to let us search. But we are watching the house." "And the rectory?" asked Ormsby. "He hasn't been there. Miss Dundas called at the rectory as well, and after a short visit returned home on foot. Evidently, she is getting information from his relatives. It has occurred to me that she'll possibly write to him, addressing him by some other name. Can you, therefore, arrange to have her letters posted by some--some responsible servant who will take copies of all the addresses?" "I have no doubt that can be done. The housekeeper at the colonel's is a very good friend of mine. I have tipped her handsomely. The letters are all posted in a letter-box in the hall, and cleared by the same servant every day." "We have endeavored to approach the servants at the rectory, but--no go. They are of course stanch and loyal to their young master. That is only natural. Mrs. Swinton has been shadowed, and she has made no attempt to meet her son. Our only danger is that he may get out of the country again. Every port is watched." "What puzzles me is the visit of Miss Dundas to Herresford," said Ormsby, thinking of his letter of dismissal, with the old miser's monogram on it. "She evidently went there to see him," said the detective, "and heard from him the news of the young man's escape. That, perhaps, accounted for her high spirits." "Briefly, then, your labors have had no result, and you are as far from the scent as on the first day." "Not exactly that, sir. We'll nab him yet." "As for the people at the rectory," Ormsby said, decisively, "I'll tackle them myself." "Be guarded, sir. We don't want them to suspect that they are watched." "They probably know that already. I'm going to offer them terms. If they'll advise their son to give himself up, seven thousand dollars shall be paid by some 'friend,' and he will get off with a light sentence. It isn't as though I wanted him sent up for any great length of time. I only want him put in the dock. The whole United States will ring with the scandal, and the country'll be too hot to hold him, even if he should be acquitted. He's a reckless young fellow. There's no knowing what he might do. He might--" Ormsby did not finish the sentence. The detective muttered one comprehensive word. "Suicide." Ormsby nodded. "And the best thing, I should think," grunted the detective. The upshot of this conversation was a prompt visit to the rectory by Ormsby, whose arrival caused no little consternation in the household. The rector was flustered and ill at ease. He would have liked to deny the visitor, but was afraid. He knew the banker slightly, well enough to dread the steady fire of those stern eyes. Ormsby offered his hand in friendly fashion, and took stock of the trembling man before speaking. "You can guess why I have come, Mr. Swinton." "It is not difficult to guess, Mr. Ormsby. It is the sad business of the checks. I hear you have issued a warrant for my son's arrest, and you can scarcely expect to be received as a welcome guest in this house. What have you to say to me?" "Only this, Mr. Swinton. If your son likes to give himself up, we will deal with him as leniently as possible to avoid delay and--expense. There'll be no question of refunding the money. My co-directors are willing to put in a plea for the unfortunate young man as a first offender, on certain conditions." "And the conditions?" "That he undertakes not to molest or in any way pursue Miss Dora Dundas." "Molest is rather a hard word, Mr. Ormsby. I am aware of the rivalry between you and my son, and I recognize that he has made a dangerous enemy. Surely, Miss Dundas is the best judge of her own feelings?" "Miss Dundas would have married me but for the return of your scapegrace son," cried Ormsby, flashing out. "He has seen her, and has upset all my plans." "Yes, he has seen her--" The words slipped out before the clergyman knew what he was saying. "Ah, he has seen her," cried Ormsby, sharply. "So, he's either at Asherton Hall--or here." "I--I didn't say that!" gasped the rector. "This house is mine--you have no right--Dear, dear, I don't know what I'm doing, or what I'm saying." "You have said enough, Mr. Swinton. Your son is in this house. I have him, at last." "My son is ill, Mr. Ormsby. You must give him time. This dreadful matter may yet be set right." "It is in the hands of the police. Good-day." John Swinton was powerless to say a word in his son's defense. He led Ormsby from the room and out of the house, without another word of protest. On his return, he sank down in his writing-chair, groaning and weeping. "Oh, what have I said! What have I done! I've doubly betrayed him. Nobody can help him now, unless--unless--" He clasped his hands upon the desk as if in prayer, looking upward. He saw his way, clear and defined. Even as Abraham offered up his son at the call of God, so he must deliver up his guilty wife, and cry aloud his own sin. Ay, from the pulpit. It would be the last time his voice would ever be raised in the house of God. His congregation would know him for a sinner, a liar, a coward. He had remained silent when scandalous tongues were busy defaming his son's reputation; and not a word of protest had fallen from his lips. He had gone to the pulpit, and, with an expectant hush in the church, they had waited for him to speak of his dead son who had died gloriously--and no word had passed his lips, because only one declaration was possible. Either he must deny the foul slander, or by his silence give impetus to the rumor of guilt. The hue and cry had been openly raised for his son, and he had done nothing. The devil had demanded Dick, even as God demanded Isaac. And the traitorous priest had been under the spell of a woman. It was hard to deliver up to man's justice the wife of his bosom. It was no longer a choice of two evils; it was an issue between God and himself. He prayed for strength that he might be able to go out of the house now--before his wife returned--and declare her guilt to the police and his own condonation of it; after that, to call together his own flock and make open confession of his sin, and say farewell to the priesthood. Then--chaos--poverty--new work, with Dick's help--but work with clean hands. The way was clear enough now--while Mary was away out of the house--while her voice no longer rang in his ears and the soft rustle of her skirts had died away. But, when she came back with her pale face and care-lined eyes, her soft voice and caressing hand, pleading, pathetic, seeking protection from the horrible contact of a jail, would he be able to hold out? His face was strained with mental agony, and his fingers worked convulsively on one another. He spread his arms upon the table and bowed his head as though racked with physical pain. The clarion voice of duty was calling; but, when the woman's cry, "I am your wife, John, your very own--you and I are one--you cannot betray me!" next broke on his ear, would he be strong then? If he could bear the punishment with her, and stand in the dock by her side, it would be better than suffering alone, tortured by the thought of the hours of misery to be endured by a gently-nurtured woman in a cruel prison. Perhaps, they would take him, too, for his share in the fraud. Dick was right when he said a man could more easily bear the hardship of prison than could a woman. If it had been possible, he would gladly have borne his wife's burden. As usual, he did nothing. He put off the evil hour, and waited for Ormsby to act. CHAPTER XXVI MRS. SWINTON HEARS THE TRUTH The junior clerk of Messrs Jevons & Jevons carried Mrs. Swinton's card to the senior partner, a hoary-headed old man, well stricken in years. When the card was scrutinized, he could not recall the personality of Mrs. Swinton. He sent for his confidential clerk, who was also at a disadvantage, yet they both seemed to remember having heard the name before. At last, however, the client was ushered in, and Mr. Jevons hoped that his eyes would repair the lapse of his memory. A pale, dark-eyed, slender woman, wrapped in furs, entered. "You don't remember me, Mr. Jevons?" "Ah! now I hear your voice, I remember. You are the daughter of Mr. Herresford." "You were once my mother's lawyer, Mr. Jevons," said Mrs. Swinton, plunging at once into business. "I had that honor. Won't you sit down?" "It is twenty-five years ago--more than that." "Yes. You have married since then." "I married Mr. Swinton, the rector of St. Botolph's." "Indeed, indeed. That is very interesting. And now you are living--?" "At the rectory, on Riverside Drive." "Ah, yes.--And your father is well, I presume." "As well as can be expected," answered Mrs. Swinton, tartly. "It is about money-matters I have come to you, Mr. Jevons. I want to know if it is possible by any means to raise the sum of seven thousand dollars." "That is not a large sum. There ought to be no difficulty." "You think so!" she cried, eagerly. "Well, it depends. The income your mother left you--if it is not in any way mortgaged--should give ample security." "My mother left me no income." "I beg your pardon?" queried the old man, curtly, as if he doubted his hearing. "My income is pitifully small, Mr. Jevons--only four thousand a year, which my father allows me, and he makes a favor of that, often withholding it, and plunging me into debt." Mr. Jevons looked incredulous. "Four thousand a year. Did you see your mother's will, Mrs. Swinton?" "No. Did she make a will?" "Yes, of course. I drew it up for her. You were only a girl then, I remember. You were away in Europe, in a convent, were you not, when your mother died?" "Yes, and father wouldn't allow me to come home." "Under that will, your mother left you something more than twenty thousand a year." "Mr. Jevons, you are thinking of someone else. You have so many clients you are mixing them up. My father, who is little better than a miser, absorbed the whole of my mother's income at her death." "Impossible! Impossible! Your mother left you considerably more than half-a-million dollars. It was because of a dispute over the sum that I withdrew from your father's affairs. I was his lawyer once, you remember. A difficult man--a difficult man. You don't mean to tell me that you have received from your father only four thousand a year? It's incredible. It's illegal." Mrs. Swinton laid her hand upon her heart, to still the throbbing set up by this startling turn of affairs. "But, when you were married, what was your husband thinking of not to see your mother's will, and get proper settlements?" "My husband has no head for money-affairs. It was a love match. We eloped, and father never forgave us." Mr. Jevons gave vent to his anger in little, jerky exclamations of amazement. "Mrs. Swinton, I ought to tell you that I always disapproved of your father's management of your mother's affairs--and his own. It was on this very question of your mother's money that I split with him. He insulted me, put obstacles in the way of my transacting his legal business, and I had no option but to withdraw. There was a clause in your mother's will which stipulated that your income should be paid to you quarterly, or at other intervals of time, according to your father's discretion. He chose to read that to mean that he could pay you money at discretion in small or large sums, as he thought fit. You were a mere child at the time, and your father was your natural guardian. I always suspected him of having some designs upon that money, for he bitterly resented the idea of a girl having an income at all. He was peculiar in money matters--I will not say grasping." "He was a thief--is a thief!" cried Mrs. Swinton, breathing heavily, her eyes flashing with excitement. "Go on." "I withdrew altogether from your father's affairs. I was busy, and had other matters to attend to. I naturally thought that your husband's lawyers would take over the management of your affairs, and any discrepancies due to the er--eccentricities of your father would be set right. But it appears that you have never questioned your father's discretion." "I have questioned it again and again, and was always told that I was a pauper, that my mother's money belonged to him. Oh, if I had only known! What misery it would have prevented! It would have saved my son from ruin--" "Your son!" "Yes, I have a boy and a girl, both thinking of marriage, both crippled by the want of money. I must have seven thousand dollars this very day." "I think it can be managed, Mrs. Swinton. I will see my partner about it, and probably let you have a check." Mr. Jevons went fully into her affairs for nearly an hour. Then, he handed her a newspaper, and left the room. She flung down the journal, and started to her feet. Twenty thousand a year! More than half-a-million dollars withheld from her for twenty-five years by a grasping, unnatural father. It was like a wonderful dream. The revelation opened up a prospect of unlimited joy. In a few minutes, Mr. Jevons returned with a signed check for the amount required. He placed it in his client's hand, with a solemn bow. Mrs. Swinton, too much moved to utter thanks, folded the check, and slipped it into the purse in her muff. "Mr. Jevons, what am I to do about the--other money?" "I've just been thinking of that. I mentioned it to my partner. If you wish us to act for you, I will bring pressure upon your father to have it restored at once. There is not the smallest flaw in the will. We must bring pressure." "Undoubtedly--every pressure that the law will allow. Expose him. Shame him. Humiliate him. Prosecute him, if need be." "It is certainly a flagrant instance of the abuse of parental authority. But a suit is quite unnecessary. Your father must hand over to you the half-million, plus compound-interest for twenty-five years--an enormous sum! There can be no possible question of your right to the money. If you wish us to advance anything more--seven thousand dollars is a very small sum--we shall be most happy." "I cannot believe it all yet, Mr. Jevons. I am so accustomed to penury and debt that it sounds like a fairy story. There is one other matter I wish to speak to you about. My son--my son is in trouble. Two checks, signed by my father, for small amounts were altered to larger ones, and cashed at our local bank. The amount in dispute came to seven thousand dollars, and my father declines to be responsible, and wants to force the bank to lose the money. That is why I wanted this check. If I pay them back with this money, the affair will be ended, and nothing more can be said about it. That is so?" "Dear, dear! Raising checks!" "Yes--it was wrong. But it was all my father's fault. He refused to give me money when--but that's nothing to do with it. I want you to tell me it will be all right when the money is paid." "It depends entirely on the bank. Surely, your father will hush the matter up." "No, he wishes us to be disgraced--ruined--just because my husband is a clergyman, and I married contrary to his wishes. He never forgives." "But that was so many years ago! Surely, he won't question the checks." "He has done so--and a warrant is out for my son's arrest." "Dear, dear--that is very serious. I should take the money to the bank, and see what they can do. If the police have knowledge of the felony, they may take action on their own account, but these things can often be hushed up. I should advise you to see the responsible person at the bank. Do you know him?" "Oh, yes, he's a friend--at least I'm afraid he's not much of a friend to my son." "Well, it's a matter where a solicitor had better not interfere. The fewer people who have cognizance of the fact that the law has been broken, the better." "I'll do as you advise. I'll see Mr. Ormsby to-day. You are quite sure, Mr. Jevons, that you've made no mistake about my mother's money. Oh, it's too wonderful--too amazing!" "I am quite sure. I went thoroughly into the matter at the time, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to act for you against Mr. Herresford. If it should come to a suit, there can only be one issue." "I will see father myself," observed Mrs. Swinton, with her teeth set and an ugly light in her eyes. "Mr. Jevons, you will come down to-morrow to see us, or next day?" "To-morrow, at your pleasure. I'll bring a copy of the will, and prepare an exact calculation of the amount of your claim. Good-morning, Mrs. Swinton. I am pleased to have brought the color back to your cheeks. You looked very pale when you came in." "It's the forgery--the dreadful business at the bank that frightens me." "Do your best alone. I am sure your power of persuasion cannot fail to melt the hardest heart," the lawyer protested, with his most courtly air. "The circumstances are peculiar. But I will try." Mrs. Swinton reëntered her cab with a strange mixture of emotions. As she drove through the crowded thoroughfares, her feelings were divided between indignant rage against her father and joy at the thought of John Swinton's troubles ended, the luxury and independence of the future, Netty no longer a dowerless bride, Dick a man of wealth without dependence upon his grandfather. It is astonishing how soon one gets accustomed to a sudden change of fortune. The novelty of the situation had worn off by the time the home journey was finished. She was again in the grip of overwhelming fear. The horrible dread of a prosecution stood like a spectre in her path. On her arrival at the bank, she found the doors closed; but she rang the bell so insistently that, at last, a porter appeared. And she even persuaded that grim person to violate all rules, and take her card to Vivian Ormsby, who was conferring with Mr. Barnby. In the end, she triumphed, and was admitted to the banker's private room. CHAPTER XXVII ORMSBY REFUSES Ormsby greeted Dick's mother with marked coldness. He extended to her the politeness accorded to an enemy before a duel. He motioned her to a seat near his desk, and took up a position on the hearthrug. His pale face was hard set, and his dark eyes gleamed. His hands were clenched behind his back, and his whole attitude was that of a man holding himself in check. The very mention of the name of Swinton was enough to fill his brain with madness. "I have come to pay you some money," said Mrs. Swinton quietly, as she unfastened the catch of her muff bag. "Here is a check for seven thousand dollars. It is the sum required by you to make good the discrepancy in my father's account with your bank. He is an old man in his dotage; and, as he repudiates his checks, you must not be the loser." She spoke in a dull voice--a monotone--as though repeating a lesson learnt by heart. Ormsby was rather staggered. How Mrs. Swinton could raise seven thousand dollars without getting it from Herresford was a mystery, and he had never expected the miser to disgorge. "May I ask you why you bring this money?" he demanded, at last. "I have explained." "I hope you don't think, Mrs. Swinton, that we are going to compound a felony, just because the criminal's family pursues the proper course, and reimburses our bank." "Of course I do. When the money is paid, my family affairs are no business of yours." "A warrant is out for your son's arrest, Mrs. Swinton, and we shall have him to-night. It pains me exceedingly to have to take this course, but--" "You hypocrite!" she cried, starting up. "You are taking an unfair advantage of your position. You are playing a mean, contemptible trick. You are jealous of my son. Your action is not that of a man, but of a coward. Are you not satisfied with having robbed him of his wife that you must hound him down?" "On the contrary, your son has robbed me of the woman I love," said Ormsby, with cutting emphasis, "and he shall not have her. She may not marry me, but she shall not mate with a felon." "If it is money you want, you shall have more." "You insult me, Mrs. Swinton. It is not the money I care about. It is the principle. Your son insulted me publicly--struck me like a drunken brawler--and worked upon the feelings of a pure and innocent woman, who will break her father's heart if she persists in the mad course she has adopted. But she'll change her mind, when she sees your son in handcuffs." "It must not be! It must not be!" cried the guilty woman. "If you were a man and a gentleman, you would not let personal spite and jealousy come into a matter like this. You would not ruin my son for life, and break my heart, because you cannot have the girl, who pledged herself to Dick before you had any chance with her. You'll be cut by every decent person. Every door will be shut against you. If you do what you threaten, everyone shall know the truth--" "The whole world may shut its doors--there is only one door that must open to me, the door of Colonel Dundas's house, where, until to-day, I was sure of a welcome, and almost sure of a wife. I am sorry for you, because it is obviously painful for a mother to contemplate the downfall of her son. You naturally strive to screen him by every means in your power. It is the common instinct of humanity. But I tell you"--and here he raised his fist with unwonted emphasis--"I'll kill him, hound him down, make his life unbearable. The country will be too hot to hold him. First a felon, then a convict, then an outcast, a marked man, a wastrel--" "I beg of you--I beseech you! You don't understand--everything. If I could tell you, you would at least have a different point of view of Dick's honor. It's I who--who--" "Honor! Don't talk to me about honor! How is it he's alive? Why isn't he beside his comrade, Jack Lorrimer, who died rather than betray his country? It is easy to see how he escaped the bullets of the firing party. He told his secret, and heaven alone knows how many dead men lie at his door as the result of that treachery." "It is false!" "If I err, Mrs. Swinton, it is because I believe that a forger is always a sneak and a thief. I judge men as I find them. I speculate upon their unseen acts by what has gone before. A brave man is always a brave man, a coward always a coward, a thief always a thief, because it is his natural bent. It is useless to prolong this interview. You lose your son; I gain a wife. The world will be well rid of a dangerous citizen. Allow me to open the side door for you. It is the quickest way." Of what avail was her sudden avalanche of wealth? It could not move the determination of this remorseless man. If she confessed the truth--it was on her lips a dozen times to cry aloud her sin--he would only transfer his animosity to her, because it would hurt Dick the more. Next to humiliating his rival, to humble the wife of the rector of St. Botolph's would be a triumph for Ormsby. She took refuge in a last frantic lie. "My father signed the checks for those amounts. The alterations were made in his presence--by me. I saw him sign them. He knew very well what he was doing then. But, since, he has forgotten. His denial is folly. Dick is innocent. I can swear to it." Ormsby smiled sardonically as he opened the door. "It does great credit to your imagination, Mrs. Swinton. Your statement, on the face of it, is false. Unless Mr. Herresford made that avowal with his own lips, no one would take the slightest notice of it. It would only be adding folly to crime. I wish you good-day." He held the door wide open, still smiling with an evil light in his eyes. As she passed out, she was almost tempted to strike him, so great was her mortification. "You are as bad as my father," she cried. "Nothing pleases you men of money more than to wound and lacerate women's hearts. Dora is well saved from such a cur." She reached the rectory in a state bordering on despair. Money could do nothing. She was powerless to evade the consequences of her folly. It was the more maddening because she had only robbed her father of a little, whereas he had defrauded her of much--oh, so much! One sentence let fall by Ormsby remained vividly in her memory. "Unless Mr. Herresford made that avowal with his own lips, no one would take the slightest notice of it." He should make the avowal; she would force it from him. The irony of the situation was fantastic in its horror. She found her husband at home, looking whiter and more bloodless than ever. "What news, Mary?" he asked awkwardly, avoiding her glance. "The strangest, John--the strangest of all! My father is the biggest thief in America." "Mary, Mary, this perpetual abuse of your father, whom we have wronged, will not help us in the least." He led her into the study. "John, John, you don't understand what I mean. I've been to Mr. Jevons, and he says that my mother left me more than half-a-million dollars, which my father has stolen--stolen! He has kept us beggars ever since our marriage, by a trick. My mother left me twenty thousand a year; and--you know what we've had from him." "Mary, what wild things are you saying?" "Ah, it's hard to believe; but it's true. He'll have to disgorge, or Mr. Jevons will take the business into court. He gave me the seven thousand dollars I wanted on the spot, and promised to get the rest for me, and give me as much more as I wanted. I've seen Ormsby, and paid him the money; but he's obdurate. The jealous wretch is bent upon ruining Dick. Nothing will move him." "It is our sin crying for atonement, Mary. Money cannot buy absolution." "No, but father can say the word that will save us all. He must swear he made a mistake--that he did sign those checks for the amounts drawn from the bank. That will paralyze Ormsby, and leave him powerless." "Lies! lies!--we are wallowing in lies!" groaned the rector. "When a lie can hurt no one, and can avert a terrible calamity, perjury can be no sin. God knows I have been punished enough." Then, with a sudden anger and a burst of violence so unusual in his wife that it horrified the rector, she began to abuse her father, calling him every terrible, foolish name that came to her tongue. "He shall pay the penalty of his fraud," she cried. "Thief he calls me--well, it's bred in the bone. Set a thief to catch a thief. I've run him to earth. He'll have to lose hundreds of thousands, and more. It will send him wild with terror. Think what that'll mean! Think how he'll cringe and whine and implore! It'll be like plucking out his heart. I have the whip-hand of him now, and he shall dance to my tune. I shouldn't be surprised if compulsory honesty and the restoration of ill-gotten wealth were to kill him." "Mary, Mary, be calm!" "I'm going to him now," she cried. "We'll see who will be worsted in the fight. I'll silence his taunts. There'll be no more chuckling over his daughter's misery--no more insults and abuse of you, John." "My dear Mary, you mustn't think of going now. You're unsprung, overcome. You'll do something rash. Let us be satisfied for the present with this great change of fortune. One ghost at least is laid--the terror of poverty. The way lies open now for our honorable confession. You see that, don't you?" he pleaded. "We can delay no longer. There is no excuse. By the return of our boy, the ground was cut from beneath our feet. What does it matter what the world says of us, when we have made things right with our God, when we have done justice by our brave son?" "Oh, no--think of Netty." "Ah, Netty is in trouble, dearest. She's had bad news to-day. Harry Bent talks of canceling his engagement. The scandal has reached the ears of his family, and his money-affairs are dependent on his mother, whom he can't offend. You see, darling, the sins of the fathers have begun to descend on the children--Dick and Netty both stricken. We must confess!--confess!" "I can't, John, I can't--I can't. Dick won't hear of it." "Dick has no voice in the matter at all. It is the voice of God that calls." "Yes, yes, I know, John, but--wait till I've seen father once more. I won't listen to you, I won't eat, I won't sleep, until I've seen him. I'll go to him at once." "I must come, too," urged the rector weakly. Yet, the thought of facing the miser's taunts at such a time filled him with unspeakable dread. And he could not tell her that Dick's arrest was imminent. "Have some food, dearest, and go afterward." "I couldn't eat. It would choke me," Mrs. Swinton said, rebelliously. Netty, hearing her mother's voice, came into the room, her eyes red with weeping. "You've heard, mother?" she cried, plaintively. "I've heard, Netty. To-morrow Mrs. Bent will be sorry. We're no longer paupers, Netty." "Why, grandfather isn't dead?" "No, but we are rich. He's a thief. We've always been rich. Your grandfather has robbed us of hundreds of thousands--all my mother's fortune. I've only just found it out to-day from a lawyer." "Oh, the villain!" cried Netty. "But I shall be jilted all the same. Dick has ruined and disgraced us all. I'm snubbed--jilted--thrown over, because my brother is a felon." "Silence, Netty. There are other people in the world beside yourself to think of," cried the rector. "Well, nobody ever thinks of me," sobbed the girl, angrily. There was a loud rattling at the front door. The rector started, and listened in terror. "Too late!" he groaned, dropping into a chair. "It's the police!" "John, you have betrayed me--after all!" screamed his wife, looking wildly around like a hunted thing. He bowed his head in assent. He misunderstood her meaning. "Ormsby has been here. He found out--by a slip of the tongue." CHAPTER XXVIII THE WILL The police had arrived with a warrant to search the house. Mrs. Swinton seemed turned to stone. The rector drooped his head in resignation, and stood with hands clenched at his side, looking appealingly at his wife. He said nothing, but his eyes beseeched her to be brave, to say the words that would save her son, to surrender in the name of truth and justice. She understood, but refused; and the police proceeded with their search. Now that further concealment was useless, they were led upstairs. Dick, lying in his deck-chair, heard them coming, and guessed what had happened. He dropped his book upon his lap, and, when the police inspector and the detective entered the room, he was quite prepared. "Well, so you've found me," he cried, with a laugh. "It's no good your thinking of taking me, unless you've brought a stretcher, for I can't walk." "We sha'n't take you without doctor's orders, if you're ill, sir." "Well, he won't give you the order, so you'd better leave your warrant, and run away and play." "I have to warn you, sir," said the officer pompously, "that anything you say will be taken down in evidence against you." "Well, take that down in evidence--what I've just said. You're a smart lot to look everywhere except in the most likely place. Take that down as well." "We don't want any impudence. You're our prisoner; we shall put an officer in the house." "Well, all I ask is that you won't make things more unpleasant for my mother and father than is absolutely necessary. Now, get out. I'm reading an interesting book. If you should see Mr. Ormsby, you can give him my kind regards, and tell him he's a bigger cad than I thought, and, when I'm free, I'll repeat the dose I gave him at our club dinner. Say I'm sorry I didn't rob his bank of seventy thousand instead of seven thousand." "Do I understand, sir," said the officer, taking out his notebook, "that you confess to defrauding the bank of seven thousand dollars?" "Oh, certainly! I'll confess to anything you like, only get out." Netty had taken refuge in the drawing-room, where she locked herself in, inspired with an unreasoning terror, and a dread of seeing her brother handcuffed and carried out of the house. The rector and his wife stood face to face in the study, with the table between them. "For the last time, Mary, I implore you to speak." He raised his hand, and his eyes blazed with a light new and strange to her. "I tell you, there is no need for me to speak, John. This can all be settled in a few hours, when I have denounced father to his face, and compelled him to retract." "When you have compelled him to add lie to lie. Mary--wife--I charge you to speak, and save me the necessity of denouncing you." "John, you are mad. Trouble has turned your brain. What are you saying?" "I am no longer your husband. I am your judge." "Oh, John, John--give me time--give me a little time. I promise you, I will set everything right in a few hours." The rector looked at the clock. "At half-past six, I go to conduct the evening service--my last service in the church. This is the end of my priesthood. I preach my last sermon to-night. Unless you have surrendered yourself to justice before I go into the pulpit for my sermon, I shall make public confession of our sin." "John, you no longer love me. You mean to ruin me--you despise me--you want to get rid of me!" cried the wretched woman between her sobs, as she flung herself on her knees at his feet. "John! John! I can't do it--I can't!" "Get away, woman--don't touch me! You're a bad woman. You have broken my faith in myself--almost my faith in God. I'll have nothing further to do with you--or your father--or the money that you say is yours. Money has nothing to do with it. It is a matter of conscience, of courage, of truth! I've been a miserable coward, and my son has shamed me into a semblance of a brave man. I am going to do the right thing by the boy." "John! John!--you can't--you won't! You'll keep me with you always. I'll love you--oh--you shall not regret it. You cannot do without me." "Out of my sight!" He rushed from the room, leaving his wife still upon her knees, with her arms outstretched appealingly. When the door slammed behind him, she uttered one despairing moan, and fell forward on her face, sobbing hysterically. Her hands clawed at the carpet in her agony, yet she could not bring herself to make any effort towards the rehabilitation of her son's honor. Her thoughts flew again to her father--the greatest sinner, as she regarded him--and the flash of hope that had so elated her in the afternoon again blinded her. She struggled to her feet, still sobbing, and looked at the clock. If John persisted in his determination to denounce her at evening service, there was at least a three hours' respite--time enough to go to her father. The rector, in the hall, had met an officer coming down the stairs, who explained the situation to him--that a doctor's certificate would be necessary, and that officers must remain in and about the house to keep watch on their prisoner. The rector listened to them with his mind elsewhere, as though their communication had little interest for him, and his lips moved with his thoughts. But, before they left, he pulled himself together, and addressed them. "Officers, I beg one favor of you: that you will not make this matter public until after the service in the church this evening. You have arrested the wrong culprit. The real forger may possibly come to you at the police station with me to-night, and surrender." "Was that the meaning of the young man's cheek?" wondered the officer, eying the pale-faced, distraught clergyman suspiciously. He had arrested defaulting priests before to-day, and was half-inclined to believe that the rector himself was the culprit indicated. However, he didn't care to hazard a guess openly. "There is no objection to keeping our mouths shut for an hour or two, sir," he answered. "I am obliged to you for the concession. Until after the evening service then; after that you can do as you please." The rector picked up his hat, and walked out of the house without another word, leaving the policemen in some doubt as to the wisdom of allowing him out of sight. Mary heard the talking in the hall, and her husband's step past the window, and was paralyzed with terror, fearing lest he might already have betrayed her to the police. The easiest way to settle the doubt was to go into the hall, and see what had happened. To her infinite relief, the officer allowed her to pass out of the front door without molestation. The automobile for which she had telephoned was already waiting. She entered hurriedly, and bade the chauffeur drive at top speed to Asherton Hall. The cold air outside in the darkening twilight revived her, and brought fresh energy. Her anger against her father grew with every turn of the wheels, and her rage was such that she almost contemplated killing him. Indeed, the vague idea was rioting in her mind that, rather than go to prison, she would die, first wreaking some terrible vengeance on the miser, who had ruined the happiness of her married life and brought disaster on all belonging to her. On her arrival, there were only three windows lighted in the whole front of the great house; but outside the entrance there were the blinking lamps of two carriages, one a shabby hired vehicle, the other a smart brougham, which she recognized at once as belonging to her father's family physician. Her heart sank with an awful dread. If her father were ill, and unable to give attention to her affairs, it spelled ruin. The door was opened by Mrs. Ripon, who admitted Mrs. Swinton in silence. The hall was lighted by a single oil lamp, which only served to intensify the desolation and gloom of the dingy, faded house. "I want to see my father at once, Mrs. Ripon," the distracted woman declared. "The doctor is with him, madam. He won't be long. Will you step into the library? Mr. Barnby is there." The mention of that name caused her another fright. She was inclined to avoid the bank-manager. Curiosity, however, conquered, and she resolved to face him, in the hope of hearing why he had come to her father. On her entrance, Mr. Barnby bowed with frigid politeness. "You have seen my father, Mr. Barnby. Is he well?" she asked, eagerly. "He looked far from well. I was shocked at the change in him." "Did he send for you?" "Yes, and it will be some satisfaction to you to know that he has withdrawn his charge against his grandson. When I came before, he asserted most emphatically that the checks had been altered without his knowledge. He now declares angrily that I utterly mistook him, that he said nothing of the kind. He is prepared to swear that the checks are not forgeries at all." "Ah! he has come to his senses, at last. I knew he would," she cried. "So, you see, Mr. Barnby, that you were utterly in the wrong." "You forget, madam. You yourself admitted that the checks were altered without your knowledge." "Did I? No--no; certainly not! You misunderstood me." "Mr. Herresford and his family are fond of misunderstandings," said the manager stiffly, with a flash of scorn. He shrewdly guessed who the real forger was; but, in the face of the miser's declaration, he was powerless. "This means, Mr. Barnby, that now my son will not be arrested, that the impudent affront put upon us by Mr. Ormsby will need an ample apology--a public apology. The scandal caused by your blunders has been spread far and wide." "That is a matter for Mr. Ormsby. Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his previous assertion, and has given me a written statement, which absolves your son. I insisted upon it being written. It may have to be an affidavit." The sound of the arrival of another carriage broke upon Mrs. Swinton's ear, and she listened in some surprise. "Why are so many people arriving here at this hour?" she demanded, curiously. Mr. Barnby shrugged his shoulders, to signify that it was no affair of his. The front door was opened by Mr. Trimmer, who had hurriedly descended the stairs. Mrs. Swinton emerged from the library at the same moment, impatient to see her father. To her amazement, she beheld Dora Dundas enter. The girl carried in her hand a piece of paper. Her face was pale, her eyes were red with weeping, and her bearing generally was subdued. The message in her hand was a crumpled half-sheet of note-paper, in the miser's own handwriting, short and dramatic in its appeal: "Come to me. I am dying." "Trimmer, I must see my father at once," cried Mrs. Swinton, without waiting to greet Dora. The girl gave her one look, a frozen glance of contempt, and turned her appealing eyes to Mr. Trimmer. "Mr. Herresford," the valet announced, "wishes to see Miss Dundas. The doctor is with him. No one else must come up." "But I insist," Mrs. Swinton cried. "And I, too, insist," cried Trimmer, with glittering eyes and a voice thrilling from excitement. His period of servitude was nearly ended, and he cared not a snap of his fingers for Mrs. Swinton or for anyone else. His legacy of fifty thousand dollars was almost within his grasp. The rector's wife fell back, too astonished to speak. Dora followed Trimmer's lead up the stairs, and entered the death chamber with noiseless tread. The dying man was lying propped up with pillows as usual. One side of him was already at rest forever; but his right hand, with which he had written his last letter and signed the lying statement which was to absolve his grandson, was lovingly fingering a large bundle of bank-notes that Mr. Barnby, by request, had brought up from the bank. On a chair by the bedside, account-books were spread in confusion, and one--a black book with a silver lock--was lying on the bed. The physician stood on one side, half-screened by the curtains of the bed. Herresford beckoned Dora, who approached tremblingly. The old man crumpled up the bank-notes, and placed them in her hand, murmuring something which she could not hear. She bent down nearer to his lips. "For Dick--for present use--to put himself straight." "I understand, grandfather." The miser made impatient signs to her, which the doctor interpreted to mean that he desired her to kneel by his bedside. She dropped down, and her face was close to his; she could feel his breath upon her cheek. "I'm saying--good-bye--" "Yes." "To my money.... All for you.... You'll marry him?" "Yes." "No mourning--no delays--no silly nonsense of that sort." "It shall be as you wish." "Marry at once. And my daughter--beware of her. A bad woman. I saved it from her clutches. It's there." He pointed to the account-books. "If I hadn't taken care of it for her, she would have squandered every penny--can't keep it from her any longer. Plenty for you and Dick. You'll take care of it--you'll take care of it? You won't spend it?" he whined, with sudden excitement. Dora passed her hand over his hair, and soothed him. He moaned like a fretful child, then recovered his energies with surprising suddenness. He seized the little black account-book with the silver lock. "It's all here," he cried, holding up the volume with palsied hand. "It runs into millions--millions!" The doctor shook his head at Dora, as much as to say, "Take no notice; he is wandering." Trimmer now interrupted, entering the room abruptly. "Mrs. Swinton, sir, wishes to see you at once, on urgent business," he announced. "Send her away!" cried the old man, throwing out his arm, and hurling the book from him so that it slid along the polished floor. He made one last supreme effort, and dragged himself up. "Send her away," he screamed. "Liar!--Cheat!--Forger!--Thief! She sha'n't have my money--she sha'n't--" The words rattled in his throat, and he fell forward into Dora's arms. She laid him back gently, and, after a few labored moments, he breathed his last. The daughter, unable to brook delay, and furious at Trimmer's insolent opposition to her will, entered the room at this moment. "Why am I kept away from my father?" she cried. "Your father is no more," whispered the physician, gently. "Dead?--dead?--And he never knew that I had found him out. The thief, dead--and I--Oh, father--!" She collapsed, sobbing hysterically and screaming. The pent-up agony of the last few weeks burst forth, and she babbled and raved like a mad woman. The physician carried her shrieking from the room, and the miser was left in peace. By his bedside, his only friend, Dora, knelt and prayed silently. Trimmer stole from the room, with bowed head and tears falling--tears for the first time since childhood. The strange, hypnotic spell of his servitude was finished. He walked about aimlessly, like one wandering in a mist. As yet, he could not lay hold on the freedom that was his at last. CHAPTER XXIX A PUBLIC CONFESSION The physician and Mrs. Ripon between them managed to soothe Mrs. Swinton, and bring her back to consciousness of her surroundings; but the minutes were flying, and she dimly remembered that her husband, knowing nothing of what had passed, would go remorselessly through with his confession. She begged to be allowed to return home at once. They helped her into the automobile, and she fell back on the cushions, listlessly. The quiet of the drive revived her a little. The window was open, and the cold air fanned her hot cheeks. But, as the car reached the city streets, a despairing helplessness settled down upon her. It seemed to her that she could even hear the bell of St. Botolph's, calling the congregation to listen to the confession which her husband would surely make. On reaching the rectory, she bade the chauffeur wait, and then entered the house with faltering steps. She found Netty just ready to go out. "Where is your father, Netty?" Mrs. Swinton demanded. "Gone to the church, mother. He seems very strange." "Did he leave no message?" "No, but Mr. Barnby was here a few moments ago, and Mr. Barnby saw the police officers; and they went away, after he showed them a letter from grandfather, absolving Dick from all blame about the checks." "Did he show your father the letter?" "Yes." "What happened then?" "He crushed it in his hand, and cried 'Lies! lies! all lies!' and went out of the house, muttering and staring before him, like a man walking in his sleep." "Netty, you must take a message to your father," Mrs. Swinton directed. "You must come with me in the automobile. Then, you must take my note into the vestry, and see that he gets it at once, before service. There will be plenty of time." Her voice was hoarse with fear. She dragged off her gloves, and entered her husband's study, the scene of so many painful interviews, and yet of so many pleasant hours, during twenty-five years of married life. On a piece of sermon paper, the first that came to hand, and with trembling fingers, she scrawled a last, wild appeal, which also conveyed the information that her father was dead. "This must be given into your father's hand, and he must read it before he goes into the pulpit, Netty, or we are all ruined. Your grandfather is dead--you understand?" "Dead--at last!" The joyous exclamation from the girl's lips jarred horribly. Yet, it was only an echo of her own old, oft-repeated lament at the length of the miser's life. "Let him write me a reply, for you to bring back." Netty took the letter, and then followed her mother to the automobile, which was driven rapidly to St. Botolph's. But, at the church, Mrs. Swinton had not the courage to enter. Instead, when she had hurried Netty toward the vestry, she approached a side window, where one of the panels stood open, and peered within, stealthily. At once, she perceived her husband by the lectern. He was calm and pale, droning out the service with unusual lassitude. The church was crammed. It was a vast edifice, and its ample accommodations were rarely strained; but to-night people were standing up in a black mass by the door. Pastor and congregation understood each other. An electric thrill passed through the expectant crowd. The news of Dick Swinton's arrest had been spread broadcast, despite the promise to the rector. Ormsby and the clerks of the bank, too, had scattered information. The general question was as to what course the clergyman would now pursue. He was an exceedingly popular preacher, and his services were usually well attended. But, to-night, the people were flocking to St. Botolph's, expecting they knew not what, yet certain that the rector would not go into the pulpit without making some reference to the calamity that had befallen him. The whispered disgrace had become a public record. Would he defend his son against the charges? All in all, it was a most sensational scandal--one sure to move a congregation more deeply than the richest oratory. Everybody knew that the rector's heart was not in his words; for he never gabbled the prayers and hurried through the service as he was doing to-night. There was surely something coming. He, like them, was waiting for the moment when he should ascend the pulpit steps. For a minute, a wild fury against him arose in the guilty woman's heart--a bitter sense of humiliation and injustice. And, when she looked upon the white-robed figure, standing apart from the serried mass of faces, she understood with a great pang how much he had been alone in the past twenty-five years, fighting his way through life amid alien surroundings, dragged down by the burden of her follies. He was walking to the pulpit now. He had gone out of sight of the congregation, and was near the window--within three yards of her, so near that she could almost touch him. "John! John!" she cried; but her voice was hoarse, and the droning notes of the organ shut out her appeal. At the bottom of the steps, he held the rail, and steadied himself. Twice he faltered. His face was as white as his surplice. He closed his eyes, and threw back his head, turning his face heavenward; his lips parted, and he seemed to be on the verge of fainting and falling backward. She cried out again, and pressed her face close to the window. Her cry must have penetrated this time, for he looked around in a dazed fashion, as one who heard a voice from afar. It seemed to stimulate him. With one hand on his heart and the other gripping his Bible, he mounted the steps unsteadily. He spread out the Book on the red cushion, and read the text. "Confess your faults one to another and pray one for another that ye may be healed." The woman, listening outside the window, could not endure the suspense. She entered the church by a side door, and listened not far from the pulpit steps. Her husband's voice rang out amid a breathless silence, as he repeated his text. "Confess your faults one to another and pray one for another that ye may be healed." "Brethren, I stand before you to-night for the last time." A gasp and a murmur ran through the congregation, followed by an awed silence. "I am here to confess my sins, because I am unworthy to hold the sacred office, because for weeks past my life has been a living lie. At each service, I have mounted the steps of this pulpit, and have preached to you of sin and its atonement, and all the while my heart was sore, and my conscience eating into it like a canker. "I am a husband and a father, like many of you here, with the love of wife and children strong in my breast. Alas! it has been stronger than my love for God. I have succumbed to the lusts of the flesh, and have listened to the voice of the devil. I come not to cry aloud unto you, 'A woman tempted me and I fell!' I blame no one but myself. The voice of the tempter spoke to me in devious ways, and I listened." The preacher paused, and rested silent for a long time. But, at last, he spoke again, hesitatingly: "You have doubtless heard of the terrible charge made against my brave son." There was a murmur, a shuffling of feet, and a turning of heads; eyes looking into eyes, saying, "Ah, I told you so." "On the very day that the news of my boy's supposed death reached me," John Swinton continued, more firmly, "an infamous charge was made against him. While on all sides praises of his bravery were being noised abroad, I learned that a warrant had been issued for his arrest. A respected member of this congregation, Mr. Barnby, the manager of the bank, was with me in the moment of my sorrow, and, with great consideration for my feelings, made no further reference to the misdemeanor my son was supposed to have committed. Let me tell you at once that my boy was innocent of the forgery of which you have all heard--innocent! Ah! you are surprised. You have heard the story--garbled, no doubt--how he presented to the bank two checks for small amounts which had been altered into large ones--the checks signed by his grandfather, Mr. Herresford. Such an act would have been infamous, and, when I fully understood the charge, I knew it was false. The bank had been defrauded, certainly, but not by my son. There was another culprit; and that culprit was known to me." At this declaration, there was a louder murmur, and more shuffling of feet, as people leaned forward in the pews, and the old men put their hands to their ears for fear of missing a single word. "While it was believed that my son was dead, no action could be taken. But tongues were busy circulating the slander, and the noble heroism of my boy was put into the shade, and forgotten. His name became a byword, his memory odious, and we, his parents, dared not mention him. Yet, all the time, I knew him to be innocent, and I held my peace. That was the sin of which I desire to purge myself by public confession. I allowed my boy's name to be dragged in the mire, in order to shield another dearer to me than my dead son. My life was a lie--a daily treachery. For the sake of the living, I consented to dishonor the dead, and live in wedlock with the woman who was afraid to speak, afraid to suffer and to atone. I can't explain to you all the circumstances, and make you realize the crying need for money which led my unhappy wife--God bless her, and forgive her, sinner though she be--to take that one false step in the hope of lightening the burdens that were pressing upon me and my son. My financial embarrassments have been well known to you for some time past. There was no secret about them. Much of my own indebtedness was due to foolish ventures for the good of the poor of this town. Money, for its own sake has never had any value to me; and I have been a bad steward of my own fortunes. I now have to confess to you that my dear wife thought to ease the family burden by an act of sin, lightly regarding the fraud as merely a family matter. The money she secured by unlawful means was, from her point of view, mere surplus wealth belonging to her father--wealth in which she had a reversionary interest. Indeed, we now know that she had more than reversionary interest--that Mr. Herresford, who died to-day--" The murmuring and whispering and hoarse exclamations of astonishment at this announcement interrupted the preacher's discourse for a moment. "--that Mr. Herresford unlawfully withheld from her a very large income, left by his wife. He is dead--God rest his soul!--and in this hour, when his clay is scarcely cold, it behooves us to be charitable, and to speak no ill of him; but that much I must tell you. "My son, as you know, escaped from his captors, and reached the United States, only to find that the police were waiting for him, with a warrant for his arrest. His bravery was forgotten. His supposed crime was now branded on his reputation in letters deeper by far than those that told the other tale as to his heroism. He came home, ill and broken, to me, his father, and demanded an explanation of the foul slander that had shattered his honor. I told him the truth, that his erring mother was the culprit. And the boy was merciful, and ready to bear disgrace for his mother's sake. Even now, he would have me close my lips. But there is a duty to One on High." The rector paused, and put his hand to his breast. He was silent for a few moments, with closed eyes, and his face, which a few moments before had been flushed with excitement, paled to an ashen gray. He was silent so long that the congregation became uneasy. One or two arose to their feet. The clergyman put forth a hand blindly for support, as though about to faint; but he recovered slowly, and, after resting for a few moments on both hands, continued his discourse in a lower key. "There are many among you here, loyal husbands and wives, who will think that, under the circumstances, I ought to have remained silent, cherishing the wife of my bosom and protecting her from the rough usage of the world. Alas! in heaven, where there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage, no distinctions are allowed. Sin is sin; right is right; and justice is justice. No young man at the outset of his life should be blasted and accursed among men because his father and mother, into whose hands God has given the care of his soul, are too weak to stand by the consequences of their wickedness and folly. The sin of the woman in the beginning was a small thing--evil done that good might come of it. The sin of the father--my sin--was ten times greater. I consented to, and acted, the lie: I, who lived in an atmosphere of sanctity--a hypocrite, a cheat, a fraud, admonishing sinners and backsliders--I, the greatest of them all. "I will not enter into particulars of the inevitable prosecution for forgery, which must follow this declaration. Jealousy and spite have been imported into a plain issue; but the matter is now out of my hands. I--have--confessed! The rest is with the Lord." The rector raised his arms, and flung them outward, as though casting off the mantle of deceit under which he had shielded himself--the heavy cloak that had bowed his shoulders till he looked like an old man. The arms that were flung upward did not descend for many seconds. His head was thrown back, looking upward, and he swayed. Several women, overwrought and terrified by the misery written on the man's face, arose to their feet, and cried out loudly: "He'll fall!" The pulpit steps were behind him, and he balanced just a second, but regained his equilibrium, resting his left hand on the stone pillar around which the pulpit was built. "And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be ascribed all honor, might, majesty, dominion, and power henceforth and for ever. Amen." Like an aged, feeble man, he turned to descend the pulpit steps. His left hand grasped the rail, which was too wide to give him much support. He took one step downward; then, his white head and shoulders suddenly disappeared from the view of the congregation. There was a scuffling sound, and a thud. The congregation stood up; many rushed from their pews. The guilty wife had heard every word. She had seen him descend the steps, and had turned to fly, dreading to meet him, afraid to look him in the face, now that she knew what he really thought of her. But the sound of his fall awakened all her wifely instincts, and she rushed into the sight of all. "John! John!" she cried, as she bent over the huddled mass of humanity on the stairs. She was too weak to help him. He had fainted, but was reviving slowly. The men who reached the pulpit thrust her to one side roughly, and carried the rector into the vestry. Fortunately, there were medical men in the congregation, and he was transferred to their charge, Mary standing by, wringing her hands and weeping. Her face was distorted with pain; for her grief was blended with rage and humiliation. How contemptuously all these people treated her--Smith, the church-warden, a grocer, and Harris, the coal-merchant. Their cringing respect to her had always been amusing in its servility; but now she was as dust beneath their feet. They turned their backs, and ignored her existence. The physicians took pity on her, and sent her to the rectory to make preparations to receive her husband, whose consciousness did not return completely. In falling, he had struck his head against a jagged piece of carving on the pulpit rails, and there was an ugly wound in his temple. Netty had already fled home from the church, and Dick, quite unconscious of the progress of affairs, was upstairs, quietly reading in snatches, and dreaming of Dora--dreams that were interspersed with misgivings and a shuddering fear of the future. In his present state of health, the prospect of jail did not seem so amusing as he had pretended to Dora. Netty came rushing up to him with the news of what had happened in the church. He was deeply agitated, though not so astonished as his sister. The awakening of his father's conscience had always been an eventuality to be reckoned with; and the awakening had come. They carried the rector into his home, and he was put to bed by the physicians. Mary, feeling that she was banned and shunned, shut herself up in her room, a prey to a hundred different emotions. Terror was the dominant one. Those dreadful, rough-spoken men, who had come to arrest Dick, would soon be arriving to take her away. She commenced to pack a trunk. Flight was the only thing possible under the circumstances. CHAPTER XXX FLIGHT Everybody supposed Mrs. Swinton to be locked in her room. The rector was attended by his daughter and the physicians, and lay in a state of collapse for many hours, causing considerable anxiety to the household; but, toward midnight, he rallied and asked for his wife. Visitors were forbidden. The presence of Mrs. Swinton was not likely to have a soothing effect, and all emotion must be avoided. Nevertheless, under the peculiar circumstances, the physicians decided that she should be told of his asking for her, although she was not to be allowed to enter the sickroom. Netty, in tears, crept upstairs to her mother's room, and knocked softly. There was no answer. Examination showed that the place was empty. The erring wife had fled, and no one knew whither--except Dick. The young man's position was extremely painful. Unable to do anything, with scarcely strength enough to rise from his couch, he lay in torment. His mother had rushed into his room in a highly hysterical state, and announced her intention of fleeing before the consequences of her husband's public confession could culminate in arrest. In vain, the young man implored her to remain and face it out, and comfort the rector. It was impossible to reason with her, her terror and humiliation were too great. She could not, she declared, live another day in this atmosphere. He pointed out that, since the miser had acknowledged the checks, a prosecution was out of the question, and that she was as safe at home as a thousand miles away. It was, however, useless and painful to argue with her. Her double crime had been laid bare, and shame--all the more acute because it humbled a woman who had borne herself proudly all her life--as much as fright prompted her flight. Moreover, she believed that Ormsby might act upon the rector's confession, despite Herresford's dying acknowledgment. * * * * * For a time, they feared that the rector would slip out of the world. He lay quite still, but his lips moved incessantly, murmuring his wife's name; and from this condition he passed into a state of mental coma, from which he did not recover till next day, after a long and heavy sleep. Then, he asked again for his wife; and they told him that she had gone away--for the present. "Poor Mary, poor Mary!" he murmured, and fell asleep again. Dick's recovery was more swift. He was soon at his father's bedside, and the pleasure that the stricken man took in the presence of his son did more to help him back to full consciousness of his surroundings than anything else. No word came from the wife, however. She was deeply wounded, as well as humiliated. She recognized that her god and the rector's were not the same. Hers was self. He had made peace with his Master; but her heart was still hard; and her god was only a graven image. In an empty, barnlike hotel in an obscure town, with never a familiar face about her, she experienced her first sensation of utter desolation. She missed Dick. She missed Netty; yes, even Netty would have been a comfort. But, beyond all, she missed her husband. Away from home, alone, in a strange place, she was able to survey herself and her affairs with a detachment impossible in the familiar surroundings of the rectory. Economy was no longer a consideration; expense mattered nothing now; but how surprisingly little she desired to spend when both hands were full! How trivial the difference that money really made in the things that mattered! It could not buy back the respect of husband and son. Yet, along with these thoughts came others full of hot rebellion, for her penitence was not yet complete. She alternated between regret for her folly and a passionate anger against the whole world. Was not all she had done for the good of others? Nothing had been placed in the balance to her credit. She was condemned as a selfish criminal, with no account taken of motives. Was it for herself she forged? Was it for herself she lied, when her sin came home to roost? Was it through any lack of love for Dick that she allowed the foul slander to besmirch his memory, when everybody had believed him dead? No, a thousand times no! The position was a strange one, a hideous tangle of nice, sentimental distinctions. Small wonder that the woman should be blind, and set the balance in her own favor! The vigor of her lamentations and the intensity of her resentment against everything and everybody brought the inevitable reaction. Truth began to arise from the mirage. Much contemplation of self brought humility, and, try as she would, she could not stifle an aching desire to know what was happening to John since that awful night in the church. She had left him when he was ill, because he had laid the lash upon her shoulders. Yet, her place was at his side. Netty was there, of course. But of what use could Netty be when John was ill? Dick, too, still needed her care. A wave of deep remorse swept over her when she remembered how weak and helpless he was. Her natural curiosity to know the exact conditions of her father's will was satisfied by the gossip of the newspapers. And nothing amazed her more than the announcement that Dora Dundas, of all people in the world, was to inherit his millions. Thoughts of Dora sent cold shivers down her back. She knew the downright and straightforward nature so well that she could easily imagine the hot indignation flaming in the girl's breast for any wrong or injustice inflicted on Dick. And there was no letter from Dick! Had they all cast her off utterly? A week spent amid uncongenial surroundings and without communication from home, reduced her to a state of pitiable depression. The world did not want her. Even her newly-found wealth could not make her welcome in her own home. Dick, of course, would be consoled by Dora; and the marriage arranged by the miser would take place with as little delay as possible. Her son would then, indeed, be lost to her--Dick who had never uttered one word of reproach, Dick who had been ready to suffer for her sin! Gradually, the fear of arrest died down. All sense of panic vanished on calm consideration of the facts; but this produced no real relief. Indeed, it made matters worse: it removed her only excuse for remaining in hiding. Her first letter home was written to Netty, not to her husband. Pride would not allow a complete surrender. And how eagerly she waited for the reply! When it did come, it was a bitter disappointment. It was stilted and commonplace. Netty regretted that her mother felt it necessary to absent herself from home, and she was very wretched because father was still far from well, although recovering slowly. He was in the hands of Dora Dundas, who had volunteered to nurse him; and it was "positively sickening" to see the way in which he and Dick allowed themselves to be led and swayed by Dora in everything. Mrs. Bent had at first consented to her engagement continuing, so long as Mrs. Swinton did not again make her appearance in New York until after the wedding. But, when she heard how rich Mrs. Swinton had become by the death of Herresford and the recovery of Mrs. Herresford's fortune, she changed her mind, and desired the marriage to take place as soon as the local scandal had blown over. There must be substantial settlements, however. A significant line came at the end of the letter: "Captain Ormsby has gone away on a three months' yachting cruise." There was little mention of the rector, yet Mary was burning with desire to know what attitude he had taken up toward her: whether he ever mentioned her name, or regarded her as an outcast. Netty gave no clue at all to the real state of affairs at home. CHAPTER XXXI DORA DECIDES "Dick, you are no longer an invalid, and it is absurd for you to pose as one." "Well, I feel pretty rotten, and I need a lot of attention. Come here, little one, and look after me." "It is absurd of you to describe yourself as weak, when you have a grip like that. Why, you positively bruised my arm." Dora made a great show of reluctance in coming to Dick's side. He sat in his father's arm-chair in the study, near the window, where the warm sunshine could fall upon him. "You are a prisoner, Dora, until you tell me why you have avoided me during the past few days." "Your father requires so much attention." "And don't I?" "No, you are getting quite yourself again, and rough, and brutal, and tyrannical." She looked at him indulgently, and made a little _moué_. "You know, we're engaged, Dora, and, when a fellow is in love with a girl with lots of money, like you, it's only natural that he should take every opportunity of being with his sweetheart. And he doesn't expect that same sweetheart to give him the cold shoulder." Dora drew forward a little hassock, and settled herself at his feet with a sigh. He bent forward, and looked into her eyes questioningly. "Are you quite sure my going away didn't make any difference to you, Dora?" "How foolish you are, Dick! That wretched will of your grandfather's made it necessary that I should marry you, and marry you I must, or you'll be a pauper. Father, who was opposed to the match at one time, is now all eagerness for it. I hate to think that money has any part in our marriage." "Never mind about that. Your father was all eagerness that you should marry Ormsby at one time, wasn't he?" "Dick, I thought I told you never to mention that horrid man's name again." "You are quite sure he is a horrid man?" "Dick, don't be absurd." She flushed hotly. "What hurts me about our marriage is that you, the man, have no option in the matter. I am just a stepping-stone to wealth, so far as you are concerned, and I--I don't like it." "Why not, darling?" "Because it would have been so much nicer, if--if you had come to me with nothing, despised and friendless. Then, I could have shown my love by defying the whole world for your sake." "Thanks, darling, but I prefer the money, if you don't mind." "Ah! but you're a man." "I only want mother to come back to be perfectly happy," Dick said, gravely. "You don't know mother. She could stand anything but rebuke. That sermon of father's must have almost done for her. Nothing could be more terrible in her eyes than to be held up to contempt. You must make allowances for mother, Dora." "She must be wretchedly unhappy," Dora agreed. "Yet, she writes no letters that give any clue to her feelings." "No, the letters she sends are merely to let us know where she is--never a word about father." "Does she know how ill he has been?" "Well, you see, I can't write much, and I hesitated to say anything that would hurt her feelings. I said he'd been very ill, but was mending slowly, and we hoped to see him himself again in a week or two." "Does she know that he has given up St. Botolph's?" "Yes, I told her that." "She makes no mention of coming home?" "Not a word." "Dick, she must return, and at once," Dora declared, vehemently. "Not to this place, Dora. She would never do it. It wouldn't be fair to ask her." "But something must be done." "I feel pretty sick about it. It was partly through me and my wretched debts that father and mother got so short of money. Mother was always hard up. It runs in the blood. And, what with one thing and another, we were all of us in a pretty tight fix; and she tried to get us out of it." "I don't blame her for altering her father's checks. That's nothing," observed Dora, with typical feminine inconsequence, "but letting people think that--" "I know, I know! But it couldn't really have done me any harm when I was under the turf; and it meant ruin to father, if she had done nothing. Look here, Dora, mother must come back, or father must go to her. We've got to arrange it between us. If mother won't come home, she must be fetched." Dora sat for a few moments with her elbows resting on her knees and her chin on her hands, gazing thoughtfully out of the window, watching the sparrows on the path outside. "Can she ever forgive him?" she asked, after a pause. "Well, the sermon was certainly pretty rough, especially after things had been all smoothed out. But father is a demon for doing nasty things when he thinks they've got to be done. You don't suppose he's any less fond of mother than before, do you?" "No; but, you see, a woman feels differently about these things--things of conscience, I mean. Your mother probably thinks he despises her, and a proud woman can never stand that." "But he doesn't. It was himself that he was troubled about, to think that he had strayed from the strict path of duty to such an extent as to allow me--his son--to be blamed for that--Well, it's all wrong, anyway, and mother's got to come home." "How are we to set about it, Dick?" "Dora, you'll have to go and fetch her. I've thought it all out." "I? How can I? That wouldn't do at all, Dick. Don't you see that she would resent it--the advance coming from me, because I was one of those most concerned and affected by her sin; and, being a woman, more likely to be hard upon her than anyone else." "You mean that you nearly married Ormsby because she led you to think that I wasn't worth a tinker's damn. Well, perhaps I wasn't--before the war. But I learned things out there. I had to pull myself together, and endure and go through such privation that a whole life on fifteen dollars a week would be luxury in comparison. I'd go to mother at once, if I were strong enough, but I'm not. So, what do you suggest, little girl?" "I think we ought to sound your father on the matter first. He is difficult to approach. He has a trick of making you feel that he prefers to bear his sorrow alone; but I think it can be managed, if we use a little harmless deception." "How?" "Well, first of all, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get Jane to turn your mother's room out, and clean it as if getting ready for the return of the mistress of the house." "I see," cried Dick, with a spasmodic tightening of the right hand which rested on Dora's shoulder. "Give father the impression that she's coming back, just to see how he takes it." "Yes." "Good! Set about it to-day." "I'll find Jane at once. And, now, I've been here with you quite a long time, and there are many things for me to attend to." "No, not yet," he pleaded with an invalid's sigh, a very mechanical one; but he had found it effectual in reaching Dora's heart on previous occasions. It was efficacious to-day. Her heart was full to bursting with joy and love and--the spring. Dick again raised the delicate question of the date of their marriage, and Dora no longer procrastinated. It should take place as soon as ever the rector and his wife were reconciled. * * * * * John Swinton, who was just beginning to move about the house, white-faced and shaky, with a lustreless eye and snow-white head, was awakened from his torpor by a tremendous bustling up and down stairs. Furniture strewed the landing outside his wife's room, and it was evident that something was going on. "What is happening?" he asked on one occasion, when he found the road to the staircase absolutely barred. "The mistress's room is being prepared for her return," replied Jane, to whom the query was addressed. He started as though someone had struck him in the breast. "Coming home," he gasped, staring at the woman with dropped jaw and wondering eye. "Miss Dora's orders, sir. She said the room might be wanted any day now, and it must be cleaned." "Coming home," murmured the rector, as he steadied himself with the aid of the banister, "coming home! coming home!" There was a different inflection in his voice each time he repeated the phrase. Tenderness crept into the words, and tears streamed down his cheeks, as he passed slowly into his study. "Coming home! Mary coming home!" Dick and Dora were rather alarmed at the result of their plot. They dreaded the effect of possible disappointment; but they had learned what they wanted to know--that was the main point. The rector was inconsolable without his wife. Her return was the only thing that could dispel the torpor which rendered him indifferent to daily concerns. Netty was called into counsel to decide what was to be done. Her simple settlement of the difficulty was very welcome. "I shall just write and tell mother what you've done. Then, she can act as she pleases; but I expect she'll be very angry." CHAPTER XXXII HOME AGAIN Netty's letter to her mother was characteristic: "MY DEAR MOTHER, I do wish you would come home. It's positively hateful here without you. Dora Dundas goes to-morrow, thank goodness, and, of course, Dick is in the dumps. She has managed the house as though it were her own, and I, for one, shall be heartily glad to see the back of her. "I am very miserable for many reasons. Since that wretched business about the checks, Mrs. Bent has been so different, and so has Harry. He is always at the Ocklebournes', and you know what Nelly Ocklebourne is. The way she behaves is disgraceful. Harry was always particularly friendly in that quarter, and it is absurd of them to talk about the friendship of a lifetime as an excuse for a quite disgraceful familiarity. Wherever he goes, Nell is certain to turn up, too. It is quite marked. "We all want you to come home, father included. Dora and Dick had your room turned out yesterday, and, when father saw the muddle, he asked why. They told him your room was being got ready for your return. He seemed overjoyed and quite overcome, and for the first time since his illness he looks something like his old self. He is studying the time-tables and the clocks all day, expecting you at any minute, so you need not be afraid the excitement will be too much for him." Mrs. Swinton read no more than this. A sudden wild happiness seized her. She pressed the letter to her lips, and sobbed with relief. All the pent-up misery of the last few weeks were washed away in tears; the barriers of pride were broken down; she was as humble and contrite as a little child. She startled her maid by an unusual morning activity, and consulted the time-tables quite as eagerly as John. He wanted her; that was enough. She cared nothing now for the censorious tongues. Her gentle, sweet-spirited husband awaited her return. All else melted away into insignificance. He was a beacon in the darkness, a very mountain of light on the horizon. He was calling on her--this hero of schoolgirl days, this lover of her runaway marriage. The eleven-o'clock express found her, accompanied by her faithful and astonished maid, being carried toward New York. On the way, she sent a telegram, announcing her return. In the momentous message, there was no shirking the main issue. It was to John himself: "Shall be home to-morrow. Wife." The rector was hourly growing uneasy, when he found that neither Dora nor Dick could give him any definite news concerning his wife's return: but, when her telegram was placed in his trembling hand, he was unable to open it. He passed it dumbly to Dick in piteous helplessness, who, after a hasty glance at the message, read it aloud cheerily, and with a splendid affectation of inconsequence, as though his mother's return was a matter of course, and not an occasion for wonderment. Then, at last, the rector's tongue was let loose. He talked incessantly on trivialities, and fussed about the house, vainly imagining that no one noticed his delight and excitement. He visited his wife's room, and ordered every conceivable comfort that his agitated mind could suggest. Everything was to be arranged exactly as it had been before Mrs. Swinton went away, so that she could see no difference. The home had really undergone little change, yet the rector was not satisfied until every vase and cushion, plant, and book was as he remembered it. Dick and Dora were in high glee at the success of their ruse, while Netty took to herself the sole credit of the idea. Dora went home from the rectory in the best of spirits. The colonel had fretted and fumed at her prolonged absence, for he missed her sorely, and was very glad of her return. There came a sound of wheels on the rectory drive. Dick hurried upstairs, and the servants were nowhere to be seen. Everybody understood that the meeting between husband and wife was a thing too sacred for other eyes, and all disappeared as if by mutual consent. The rector's heart almost failed him as he stepped toward the carriage. He was bareheaded, and his face was wan and thin in the strong light. When his eyes fell upon the beautiful woman, his expression changed. It was he who was strong now, the wife who faltered. As his fingers closed upon hers, she broke down, and with a helpless sob dropped into his arms. He held her to his breast for a full minute. Then, at last, when she was able to hold him at arm's length and look with anxious eyes into his stricken, careworn face, she read there the story of his sorrow and anguish. It was now her turn to lavish tenderness. "Oh, my poor John, my poor John!" she cried, as together they passed into the porch, leaving the cabman looking after them, wondering where his fare was coming from. Then Rudd appeared--from nowhere--and slipped the fare into the man's hand. Rudd had caught the excitement of the household, and his face was beaming. "Was that mother?" cried Dick from an upper window, in a loud whisper. "Yes, sir, it's herself right enough." Dick nodded and disappeared. He was impatient enough to go down, but held himself in check, leaving his father and mother to enjoy uninterrupted communion. It was a long time before Mary's musical voice was heard at the foot of the stairs, asking, "Where's Dick?" "I'm here, mother, and as lively as a cricket." This was not strictly correct, for he came downstairs very gingerly, and obviously relied on the banisters for support. He gave his mother a hearty hug, and, in reply to her questions concerning the whereabouts of Netty, explained that the daughter of the house had gone out in a state of agitation and tears, not stating her destination. By a curious coincidence, the first visitor to arrive at the house after the return of Mrs. Swinton was one of Dick's unpaid creditors, the very man who had threatened to have him arrested on the eve of his departure for the war. A small balance of the debt still remained unliquidated. But the mother was quite equal to the situation. She laughed gaily, like her old self, and went to the study check-book in hand to wipe out the last of the blots on the old life, with an easy conscience, knowing that the balance at the bank would never more be an uncertain quantity. CHAPTER XXXIII THE SCARLET FEATHER Netty entered the room presently, and greeted her mother with a warmth of emotion beyond the usual. Dick took advantage of her coming to excuse himself for a little while. He had promised Dora immediate information concerning his mother's coming, and he was now all eagerness to tell her of the new happiness in his home. He had telephoned for a hansom, and the drive through the Park to the colonel's was quickly accomplished. Soon, the girl he loved was a sharer in his joy over the reunion of father and mother. After a time, there came a lapse into silence, when the first subject had been gone over with fond thoroughness. It was broken by Dora: "Do you know, Dick," she remarked, "that I shall be hard put to it to live up to you? You are such a hero!" "Pooh! Nonsense!" the lover exclaimed, in much confusion. But Dora shook her head, solemnly. "It is a fact," she declared, "and all the world knows it. If I didn't love you to distraction, I could never endure the way in which father raves about you. And he says, your brother officers are to give a dinner in your honor, and--" "Good heavens!" Dick muttered, in consternation. "--and they are going to club on a silver service for a wedding present. Isn't that lovely?" "Oh, yes, I suppose so," Dick conceded. "But just think--if they should expect me to make a speech at the dinner! Good lord!" Dora opened her clear, gray eyes wide: "Why, Dick!" she remonstrated. "You don't mean to tell me that you would show the white feather, just at the idea of making some response to a toast in your honor?" "I never made a speech in my life," the lover answered, shamefacedly; "and I am frightened nearly out of my wits at the bare idea of being called on.... But you spoke of the white feather, dearest. I never told you that my miserable enemy, Ormsby, sent me one." "What? He dared?" Dora sat erect, and her eyes flashed in a sudden wrath. "Tell me about it, Dick." The story was soon related, and the girl's indignation against his whilom rival filled him with delight. "The odd thing about it all was," he went on, "that I carried that white feather with me. I had a feeling, somehow, that it would serve as a talisman. And, perhaps, it did. Anyhow, I lived through the experience. One thing I know for a certainty. While my memory of the white feather lasted, I could never be a coward of the sort Ormsby meant." "Oh, Dick," Dora cried, "have you the feather still?" "Yes, indeed," was the smiling answer. "You see, I got into the habit of keeping it by me." "But you haven't it with you, now?" The girl's eyes were very wistful. To her imagination, there was a potent charm in this lying symbol, which had been the companion of the man whom she adored. "Oh, yes, I have it," Dick replied, carelessly. He reached a hand into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, and brought forth the feather, which he held out to the girl. She accepted it reverently, but an expression of dissatisfaction showed on her face. "It--it isn't exactly a white feather now," she suggested. "It is really quite shockingly dirty. But I shall have it cleaned, and then set in a case or a frame of gold, decorated with--" Dick interrupted, somewhat indignantly. "You can't expect a man living for months in the way I did to keep a white feather immaculate. And, anyhow, it is not so very dirty. Besides, I couldn't help the blood--could I?" "The blood!" Dora exclaimed, startled, and her face whitened. "What blood, Dick?" "Mine. You see, it lay right alongside the place where that bullet scraped my side." "Your blood!" The girl's face was wonderfully alight. "And I said that I would have it cleaned. Why, the idea seems sacrilege! No, this feather shall never be cleaned from those precious stains, sweetheart. The white feather--and now it is scarlet with the blood of my hero. Ah, this scarlet feather shall be set in purest gold, and bordered with jewels. It shall be a shrine for my worship, Dick. And--" The lover, who had taken her into his arms, bent his head suddenly, and kissed her to silence. THE END A FEW OF GROSSET & DUNLAP'S Great Books at Little Prices NEW, CLEVER, ENTERTAINING. GRET: The Story of a Pagan. By Beatrice Mantle. Illustrated by C. M. Relyea. The wild free life of an Oregon lumber camp furnishes the setting for this strong original story. Gret is the daughter of the camp and is utterly content with the wild life--until love comes. A fine book, unmarred by convention. OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Howard Pyle. A vivid yet delicate portrayal of characters in an old New England town. Dr. Lavendar's fine, kindly wisdom is brought to bear upon the lives of all, permeating the whole volume like the pungent odor of pine, healthful and life giving. "Old Chester Tales" will surely be among the books that abide. THE MEMOIRS OF A BABY. By Josephine Daskam. Illustrated by F. Y. Cory. The dawning intelligence of the baby was grappled with by its great aunt, an elderly maiden, whose book knowledge of babies was something at which even the infant himself winked. A delicious bit of humor. REBECCA MARY. By Annie Hamilton Donnell. Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green. The heart tragedies of this little girl with no one near to share them, are told with a delicate art, a keen appreciation of the needs of the childish heart and a humorous knowledge of the workings of the childish mind. THE FLY ON THE WHEEL. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher. An Irish story of real power, perfect in development and showing a true conception of the spirited Hibernian character as displayed in the tragic as well as the tender phases of life. THE MAN FROM BRODNEY'S. By George Barr McCutcheon. Illustrated by Harrison Fisher. An island in the South Sea is the setting for this entertaining tale, and an all-conquering hero and a beautiful princess figure in a most complicated plot. One of Mr. McCutcheon's best books. TOLD BY UNCLE REMUS. By Joel Chandler Harris. Illustrated by A. B. Frost, J. M. Conde and Frank Verbeck. Again Uncle Remus enters the fields of childhood, and leads another little boy to that non-locatable land called "Brer Rabbit's Laughing Place," and again the quaint animals spring into active life and play their parts, for the edification of a small but appreciative audience. THE CLIMBER. By E. F. Benson. With frontispiece. An unsparing analysis of an ambitious woman's soul--a woman who believed that in social supremacy she would find happiness, and who finds instead the utter despair of one who has chosen the things that pass away. LYNCH'S DAUGHTER. By Leonard Merrick. Illustrated by Geo. Brehm. A story of to-day, telling how a rich girl acquires ideals of beautiful and simple living, and of men and love, quite apart from the teachings of her father, "Old Man Lynch" of Wall St. True to life, clever in treatment. GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS A Few that are Making Theatrical History MARY JANE'S PA. By Norman Way. Illustrated with scenes from the play. Delightful, irresponsible "Mary Jane's Pa" awakes one morning to find himself famous, and, genius being ill adapted to domestic joys, he wanders from home to work out his own unique destiny. One of the most humorous bits of recent fiction. CHERUB DEVINE. By Sewell Ford. "Cherub," a good hearted but not over refined young man is brought in touch with the aristocracy. Of sprightly wit, he is sometimes a merciless analyst, but he proves in the end that manhood counts for more than ancient lineage by winning the love of the fairest girl in the flock. A WOMAN'S WAY. By Charles Somerville. Illustrated with scenes from the play. A story in which a woman's wit and self-sacrificing love save her husband from the toils of an adventuress, and change an apparently tragic situation into one of delicious comedy. THE CLIMAX. By George C. Jenks. With ambition luring her on, a young choir soprano leaves the little village where she was born and the limited audience of St. Jude's to train for the opera in New York. She leaves love behind her and meets love more ardent but not more sincere in her new environment. How she works, how she studies, how she suffers, are vividly portrayed. A FOOL THERE WAS. By Porter Emerson Browne. Illustrated by Edmund Magrath and W. W. Fawcett. A relentless portrayal of the career of a man who comes under the influence of a beautiful but evil woman; how she lures him on and on, how he struggles, falls and rises, only to fall again into her net, make a story of unflinching realism. THE SQUAW MAN. By Julie Opp Faversham and Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from the play. A glowing story, rapid in action, bright in dialogue with a fine courageous hero and a beautiful English heroine. THE GIRL IN WAITING. By Archibald Eyre. Illustrated with scenes from the play. A droll little comedy of misunderstandings, told with a light touch, a venturesome spirit and an eye for human oddities. THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL. By Baroness Orczy. Illustrated with scenes from the play. A realistic story of the days of the French Revolution, abounding in dramatic incident, with a young English soldier of fortune, daring, mysterious as the hero. GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK A FEW OF GROSSET & DUNLAP'S Great Books at Little Prices CY WHITTAKER'S PLACE. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Illustrated by Wallace Morgan. A Cape Cod story describing the amusing efforts of an elderly bachelor and his two cronies to rear and educate a little girl. Full of honest fun--a rural drama. THE FORGE IN THE FOREST. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated by H. Sandham. A story of the conflict in Acadia after its conquest by the British. A dramatic picture that lives and shines with the indefinable charm of poetic romance. A SISTER TO EVANGELINE. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated by E. McConnell. Being the story of Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into exile with the villagers of Grand Prè. Swift action, fresh atmosphere, wholesome purity, deep passion and searching analysis characterize this strong novel. THE OPENED SHUTTERS. By Clara Louise Burnham. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher. A summer haunt on an island in Casco Bay is the background for this romance. A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside vanity and self love. A delicately humorous work with a lofty motive underlying it all. THE RIGHT PRINCESS. By Clara Louise Burnham. An amusing story, opening at a fashionable Long Island resort, where a stately Englishwoman employs a forcible New England housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. How types so widely apart react on each others' lives, all to ultimate good, makes a story both humorous and rich in sentiment. THE LEAVEN OF LOVE. By Clara Louise Burnham. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher. At a Southern California resort a world-weary woman, young and beautiful but disillusioned, meets a girl who has learned the art of living--of tasting life in all its richness, opulence and joy. The story hinges upon the change wrought in the soul of the blasè woman by this glimpse into a cheery life. GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK A FEW OF GROSSET & DUNLAP'S Great Books at Little Prices QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. A Picture of New England Home Life. With illustrations by C. W. Reed, and Scenes Reproduced from the Play. One of the best New England stories ever written. It is full of homely human interest * * * there is a wealth of New England village character, scenes and incidents * * * forcibly, vividly and truthfully drawn. Few books have enjoyed a greater sale and popularity. Dramatized, it made the greatest rural play of recent times. THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. By Charles Felton Pidgin. Illustrated by Henry Roth. All who love honest sentiment, quaint and sunny humor, and homespun philosophy will find these "Further Adventures" a book after their own heart. HALF A CHANCE. By Frederic S. Isham. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. The thrill of excitement will keep the reader in a state of suspense, and he will become personally concerned from the start, as to the central character, a very real man who suffers, dares--and achieves! VIRGINIA OF THE AIR LANES. By Herbert Quick. Illustrated by William R. Leigh. The author has seized the romantic moment for the airship novel, and created the pretty story of "a lover and his lass" contending with an elderly relative for the monopoly of the skies. An exciting tale of adventure in midair. THE GAME AND THE CANDLE. By Eleanor M. Ingram. Illustrated by P. D. Johnson. The hero is a young American, who, to save his family from poverty, deliberately commits a felony. Then follow his capture and imprisonment, and his rescue by a Russian Grand Duke. A stirring story, rich in sentiment. GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: The following changes were made to the original text. The change is enclosed in brackets: Page 15: Then, glancing at =he= clock, [the] Page 22: The result of it had been to develop =certainly= miserly instincts [certain] Page 26: There is a man at =out= house [our] Page 41: He looked at =he= envelope, [the] Page 57: It's splendid match, [added 'a': It's a splendid match] Page 110: would beggar her by stopping it =altogther= [altogether] Page 169: MY DEAR MISS DUNDAS [added beginning double quote] Page 180: "Who is that coming up the drive?"; asked =th= [the] Page 208: This was characteristic of the cautious =Ormsby's= [Ormsbys] Page 216: and I don't intend =of= have my daughter [to] Page 231: And, as I've disgraced the family, I'd-- [added missing double quote mark at the end of the sentence] Page 257: he said, beckoning her =authoritively=. [authoritatively] Page 265: Dick Swinton =in= done for. [is] Page 274: It is enough for me, Dick--but it is the others--father, and-- [added missing double quote mark at the end of the sentence] The following words were found in variable forms in the original text and both versions have been retained: armchair/arm-chair; byword/by-word; hearthrug/hearth-rug; housekeeping/house-keeping; sky pilot/sky-pilot; stockbroker/stock-broker. The illustration on Page 260 has been moved so that the illustration is not in the middle of a paragraph. 
297	----	This etext was prepared with the use of Calera WordScan Plus 2.0 THE FLIRT BY BOOTH TARKINGTON To SUSANAH THE FLIRT CHAPTER ONE Valentine Corliss walked up Corliss Street the hottest afternoon of that hot August, a year ago, wearing a suit of white serge which attracted a little attention from those observers who were able to observe anything except the heat. The coat was shaped delicately; it outlined the wearer, and, fitting him as women's clothes fit women, suggested an effeminacy not an attribute of the tall Corliss. The effeminacy belonged all to the tailor, an artist plying far from Corliss Street, for the coat would have encountered a hundred of its fellows at Trouville or Ostende this very day. Corliss Street is the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, the Park Lane, the Fifth Avenue, of Capitol City, that smoky illuminant of our great central levels, but although it esteems itself an established cosmopolitan thoroughfare, it is still provincial enough to be watchful; and even in its torrid languor took some note of the alien garment. Mr. Corliss, treading for the first time in seventeen years the pavements of this namesake of his grandfather, mildly repaid its interest in himself. The street, once the most peaceful in the world, he thought, had changed. It was still long and straight, still shaded by trees so noble that they were betrothed, here and there, high over the wide white roadway, the shimmering tunnels thus contrived shot with gold and blue; but its pristine complete restfulness was departed: gasoline had arrived, and a pedestrian, even this August day of heat, must glance two ways before crossing. Architectural transformations, as vital, staggered the returned native. In his boyhood that posthumously libelled sovereign lady, Anne, had terribly prevailed among the dwellings on this highway; now, however, there was little left of the jig-saw's hare-brained ministrations; but the growing pains of the adolescent city had wrought some madness here. There had been a revolution which was a riot; and, plainly incited by a new outbreak of the colonies, the Goth, the Tudor, and the Tuscan had harried the upper reaches to a turmoil attaining its climax in a howl or two from the Spanish Moor. Yet it was a pleasant street in spite of its improvements; in spite, too, of a long, gray smoke-plume crossing the summer sky and dropping an occasional atomy of coal upon Mr. Corliss's white coat. The green continuous masses of tree-foliage, lawn, and shrubbery were splendidly asserted; there was a faint wholesome odour from the fine block pavement of the roadway, white, save where the snailish water-wagon laid its long strips of steaming brown. Locusts, serenaders of the heat, invisible among the branches, rasped their interminable cadences, competing bitterly with the monotonous chattering of lawn-mowers propelled by glistening black men over the level swards beneath. And though porch and terrace were left to vacant wicker chairs and swinging-seats, and to flowers and plants in jars and green boxes, and the people sat unseen--and, it might be guessed, unclad for exhibition, in the dimmer recesses of their houses--nevertheless, a summery girl under an alluring parasol now and then prettily trod the sidewalks, and did not altogether suppress an ample consciousness of the white pedestrian's stalwart grace; nor was his quick glance too distressingly modest to be aware of these faint but attractive perturbations. A few of the oldest houses remained as he remembered them, and there were two or three relics of mansard and cupola days; but the herd of cast-iron deer that once guarded these lawns, standing sentinel to all true gentry: Whither were they fled? In his boyhood, one specimen betokened a family of position and affluence; two, one on each side of the front walk, spoke of a noble opulence; two and a fountain were overwhelming. He wondered in what obscure thickets that once proud herd now grazed; and then he smiled, as through a leafy opening of shrubbery he caught a glimpse of a last survivor, still loyally alert, the haughty head thrown back in everlasting challenge and one foreleg lifted, standing in a vast and shadowy backyard with a clothesline fastened to its antlers. Mr. Corliss remembered that backyard very well: it was an old battlefield whereon he had conquered; and he wondered if "the Lindley boys" still lived there, and if Richard Lindley would hate him now as implacably as then. A hundred yards farther on, he paused before a house more familiar to him than any other, and gave it a moment's whimsical attention, without emotion. It was a shabby old brick structure, and it stood among the gayest, the most flamboyant dwellings of all Corliss Street like a bewildered tramp surrounded by carnival maskers. It held place full in the course of the fury for demolition and rebuilding, but remained unaltered--even unrepaired, one might have thought--since the early seventies, when it was built. There was a sagging cornice, and the nauseous brown which the walls had years ago been painted was sooted to a repellent dinge, so cracked and peeled that the haggard red bricks were exposed, like a beggar through the holes in his coat. It was one of those houses which are large without being commodious; its very tall, very narrow windows, with their attenuated, rusty inside shutters, boasting to the passerby of high ceilings but betraying the miserly floor spaces. At each side of the front door was a high and cramped bay-window, one of them insanely culminating in a little six-sided tower of slate, and both of them girdled above the basement windows by a narrow porch, which ran across the front of the house and gave access to the shallow vestibule. However, a pleasant circumstance modified the gloom of this edifice and assured it a remnant of reserve and dignity in its ill-considered old age: it stood back a fine hundred feet from the highway, and was shielded in part by a friendly group of maple trees and one glorious elm, hoary, robust, and majestic, a veteran of the days when this was forest ground. Mr. Corliss concluded his momentary pause by walking up the broken cement path, which was hard beset by plantain-weed and the long grass of the ill-kept lawn. Ascending the steps, he was assailed by an odour as of vehement bananas, a diffusion from some painful little chairs standing in the long, high, dim, rather sorrowful hall disclosed beyond the open double doors. They were stiff little chairs of an inconsequent, mongrel pattern; armless, with perforated wooden seats; legs tortured by the lathe to a semblance of buttons strung on a rod; and they had that day received a streaky coat of a gilding preparation which exhaled the olfactory vehemence mentioned. Their present station was temporary, their purpose, as obviously, to dry; and they were doing some incidental gilding on their own account, leaving blots and splashes and sporadic little round footprints on the hardwood floor. The old-fashioned brass bell-handle upon the caller's right drooped from its socket in a dead fag, but after comprehensive manipulation on the part of the young man, and equal complaint on its own, it was constrained to permit a dim tinkle remotely. Somewhere in the interior a woman's voice, not young, sang a repeated fragment of "Lead, Kindly Light," to the accompaniment of a flapping dust-cloth, sounds which ceased upon a second successful encounter with the bell. Ensued a silence, probably to be interpreted as a period of whispered consultation out of range; a younger voice called softly and urgently, "Laura!" and a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl of something over twenty made her appearance to Mr. Corliss. At sight of her he instantly restored a thin gold card-case to the pocket whence he was in the act of removing it. She looked at him with only grave, impersonal inquiry; no appreciative invoice of him was to be detected in her quiet eyes, which may have surprised him, possibly the more because he was aware there was plenty of appreciation in his own kindling glance. She was very white and black, this lady. Tall, trim, clear, she looked cool in spite of the black winter skirt she wore, an effect helped somewhat, perhaps, by the crisp freshness of her white waist, with its masculine collar and slim black tie, and undoubtedly by the even and lustreless light ivory of her skin, against which the strong black eyebrows and undulated black hair were lined with attractive precision; but, most of all, that coolness was the emanation of her undisturbed and tranquil eyes. They were not phlegmatic: a continuing spark glowed far within them, not ardently, but steadily and inscrutably, like the fixed stars in winter. Mr. Valentine Corliss, of Paris and Naples, removed his white-ribboned straw hat and bowed as no one had ever bowed in that doorway. This most vivid salutation--accomplished by adding something to a rather quick inclination of the body from the hips, with the back and neck held straight expressed deference without affecting or inviting cordiality. It was an elaborate little formality of a kind fancifully called "foreign," and evidently habitual to the performer. It produced no outward effect upon the recipient. Such self-control is unusual. "Is Mr. Madison at home? My name is Valentine Corliss." "He is at home." She indicated an open doorway upon her right. "Will you wait in there?" "Thank you," said Mr. Corliss, passing within. "I shall be----" He left the sentence unfinished, for he was already alone, and at liberty to reflect upon the extraordinary coolness of this cool young woman. The room, with its closed blinds, was soothingly dark after the riotous sun without, a grateful obscurity which was one of two attractions discovered in it by Mr. Corliss while he waited. It was a depressing little chamber, disproportionately high, uncheered by seven chairs (each of a different family, but all belonging to the same knobby species, and all upholstered a repellent blue), a scratched "inlaid table," likewise knobby, and a dangerous looking small sofa--turbulent furniture, warmly harmonious, however, in a common challenge to the visitor to take comfort in any of it. A once-gilt gas chandelier hung from the distant ceiling, with three globes of frosted glass, but undeniable evidence that five were intended; and two of the three had been severely bitten. There was a hostile little coal-grate, making a mouth under a mantel of imitation black marble, behind an old blue-satin fire-screen upon which red cat-tails and an owl over a pond had been roughly embroidered in high relief, this owl motive being the inspiration of innumerable other owls reflected in innumerable other ponds in the formerly silver moonlight with which the walls were papered. Corliss thought he remembered that in his boyhood, when it was known as "the parlour" (though he guessed that the Madison family called it "the reception room," now) this was the place where his aunt received callers who, she justifiably hoped, would not linger. Altogether, it struck him that it might be a good test-room for an alienist: no incipient lunacy would remain incipient here. There was one incongruity which surprised him--a wicker waste-paper basket, so nonsensically out of place in this arid cell, where not the wildest hare-brain could picture any one coming to read or write, that he bestowed upon it a particular, frowning attention, and so discovered the second attractive possession of the room. A fresh and lovely pink rose, just opening full from the bud, lay in the bottom of the basket. There was a rustling somewhere in the house and a murmur, above which a boy's voice became audible in emphatic but undistinguishable complaint. A whispering followed, and a woman exclaimed protestingly, "Cora!" And then a startlingly pretty girl came carelessly into the room through the open door. She was humming "Quand I' Amour Meurt" in a gay preoccupation, and evidently sought something upon the table in the centre of the room, for she continued her progress toward it several steps before realizing the presence of a visitor. She was a year or so younger than the girl who had admitted him, fairer and obviously more plastic, more expressive, more perishable, a great deal more insistently feminine; though it was to be seen that they were sisters. This one had eyes almost as dark as the other's, but these were not cool; they were sweet, unrestful, and seeking; brilliant with a vivacious hunger: and not Diana but huntresses more ardent have such eyes. Her hair was much lighter than her sister's; it was the colour of dry corn-silk in the sun; and she was the shorter by a head, rounder everywhere and not so slender; but no dumpling: she was exquisitely made. There was a softness about her: something of velvet, nothing of mush. She diffused with her entrance a radiance of gayety and of gentleness; sunlight ran with her. She seemed the incarnation of a caressing smile. She was point-device. Her close, white skirt hung from a plainly embroidered white waist to a silken instep; and from the crown of her charming head to the tall heels of her graceful white suede slippers, heels of a sweeter curve than the waist of a violin, she was as modern and lovely as this dingy old house was belated and hideous. Mr. Valentine Corliss spared the fraction of a second for another glance at the rose in the waste-basket. The girl saw him before she reached the table, gave a little gasp of surprise, and halted with one hand carried prettily to her breast. "Oh!" she said impulsively; "I _beg_ your pardon. I didn't know there was---- I was looking for a book I thought I----" She stopped, whelmed with a breath-taking shyness, her eyes, after one quick but condensed encounter with those of Mr. Corliss, falling beneath exquisite lashes. Her voice was one to stir all men: it needs not many words for a supremely beautiful "speaking-voice" to be recognized for what it is; and this girl's was like herself, hauntingly lovely. The intelligent young man immediately realized that no one who heard it could ever forget it. "I see," she faltered, turning to leave the room; "it isn't here--the book." "There's something else of yours here," said Corliss. "Is there?" She paused, hesitating at the door, looking at him over her shoulder uncertainly. "You dropped this rose." He lifted the rose from the waste-basket and repeated the bow he had made at the front door. This time it was not altogether wasted. "I?" "Yes. You lost it. It belongs to you." "Yes--it does. How curious!" she said slowly. "How curious it happened to be _there_!" She stepped to take it from him, her eyes upon his in charming astonishment. "And how odd that----" She stopped; then said quickly: "How did you know it was _my_ rose?" "Any one would know!" Her expression of surprise was instantaneously merged in a flash of honest pleasure and admiration, such as only an artist may feel in the presence of a little masterpiece by a fellow-craftsman. Happily, anticlimax was spared them by the arrival of the person for whom the visitor had asked at the door, and the young man retained the rose in his hand. Mr. Madison, a shapeless hillock with a large, harassed, red face, evidently suffered from the heat: his gray hair was rumpled back from a damp forehead; the sleeves of his black alpaca coat were pulled up to the elbow above his uncuffed white shirtsleeves; and he carried in one mottled hand the ruins of a palm-leaf fan, in the other a balled wet handkerchief which released an aroma of camphor upon the banana-burdened air. He bore evidences of inadequate adjustment after a disturbed siesta, but, exercising a mechanical cordiality, preceded himself into the room by a genial half-cough and a hearty, "Well-well-well," as if wishing to indicate a spirit of polite, even excited, hospitality. "I expected you might be turning up, after your letter," he said, shaking hands. "Well, well, well! I remember you as a boy. Wouldn't have known you, of course; but I expect you'll find the town about as much changed as you are." With a father's blindness to all that is really vital, he concluded his greeting inconsequently: "Oh, this is my little girl Cora." "Run along, little girl," said the fat father. His little girl's radiant glance at the alert visitor imparted her thorough comprehension of all the old man's absurdities, which had reached their climax in her dismissal. Her parting look, falling from Corliss's face to the waste-basket at his feet, just touched the rose in his hand as she passed through the door. CHAPTER TWO Cora paused in the hall at a point about twenty feet from the door, a girlish stratagem frequently of surprising advantage to the practitioner; but the two men had begun to speak of the weather. Suffering a momentary disappointment, she went on, stepping silently, and passed through a door at the end of the hall into a large and barren looking dining-room, stiffly and skimpily furnished, but well-lighted, owing to the fact that one end of it had been transformed into a narrow "conservatory," a glass alcove now tenanted by two dried palms and a number of vacant jars and earthen crocks. Here her sister sat by an open window, repairing masculine underwear; and a handsome, shabby, dirty boy of about thirteen sprawled on the floor of the "conservatory" unloosing upon its innocent, cracked, old black and white tiles a ghastly family of snakes, owls, and visaged crescent moons, in orange, green, and other loathsome chalks. As Cora entered from the hall, a woman of fifty came in at a door opposite, and, a dust-cloth retained under her left arm, an unsheathed weapon ready for emergency, leaned sociably against the door-casing and continued to polish a tablespoon with a bit of powdered chamois-skin. She was tall and slightly bent; and, like the flat, old, silver spoon in her hand, seemed to have been worn thin by use; yet it was plain that the three young people in the room "got their looks" from her. Her eyes, if tired, were tolerant and fond; and her voice held its youth and something of the music of Cora's. "What is he like?" She addressed the daughter by the window. "Why don't you ask Coralie?" suggested the sprawling artist, relaxing his hideous labour. He pronounced his sister's name with intense bitterness. He called it "Cora-_lee_," with an implication far from subtle that his sister had at some time thus Gallicized herself, presumably for masculine favour; and he was pleased to receive tribute to his satire in a flash of dislike from her lovely eyes. "I ask Laura because it was Laura who went to the door," Mrs. Madison answered. "I do not ask Cora because Cora hasn't seen him. Do I satisfy you, Hedrick?" "`Cora hasn't seen him!'" the boy hooted mockingly. "She hasn't? She was peeking out of the library shutters when he came up the front walk, and she wouldn't let me go to the door; she told Laura to go, but first she took the library waste-basket and laid one o' them roses----" "_Those_ roses," said Cora sharply. "He _will_ hang around the neighbours' stables. I think you ought to do something about it, mother." "_Them_ roses!" repeated Hedrick fiercely. "One o' them roses Dick Lindley sent her this morning. Laid it in the waste-basket and sneaked it into the reception room for an excuse to go galloping in and----" "`Galloping'?" said Mrs. Madison gravely. "It was a pretty bum excuse," continued the unaffected youth, "but you bet your life you'll never beat our Cora-_lee_ when there's a person in pants on the premises! It's sickening." He rose, and performed something like a toe-dance, a supposed imitation of his sister's mincing approach to the visitor. "Oh, dear, I am such a little sweety! Here I am all alone just reeking with Browning-and-Tennyson and thinking to myself about such lovely things, and walking around looking for my nice, pretty rose. Where can it be? Oh heavens, Mister, are _you_ here? Oh my, I never, never thought that there was a _man_ here! How you frighten me! See what a shy little thing I am? You _do see, don't_ you, old sweeticums? Ta, ta, here's papa. Remember me by that rose, 'cause it's just like me. Me and it's twins, you see, cutie-sugar!" The diabolical boy then concluded with a reversion to the severity of his own manner: "If she was _my_ daughter I'd whip her!" His indignation was left in the air, for the three ladies had instinctively united against him, treacherously including his private feud in the sex-war of the ages: Cora jumped lightly upon the table and sat whistling and polishing the nails of one hand upon the palm of another; Laura continued to sew without looking up, and Mrs. Madison, conquering a tendency to laugh, preserved a serene countenance and said ruminatively: "They were all rather queer, the Corlisses." Hedrick stared incredulously, baffled; but men must expect these things, and this was no doubt a helpful item in his education. "I wonder if he wants to sell the house," said Mrs. Madison. "I wish he would. Anything that would make father get out of it!" Cora exclaimed. "I hope Mr. Corliss will burn it if he doesn't sell it." "He might want to live here himself." "He!" Cora emitted a derisive outcry. Her mother gave her a quick, odd look, in which there was a real alarm. "What is he like, Cora?" "Awfully foreign and distinguished!" This brought Hedrick to confront her with a leap as of some wild animal under a lash. He landed close to her; his face awful. "Princely, I should call him," said Cora, her enthusiasm undaunted. "Distinctly princely!" "Princely," moaned Hedrick. "Pe-rin-sley!" "Hedrick!" Mrs. Madison reproved him automatically. "In what way is he `foreign,' Cora?" "Oh, every way." Cora let her glance rest dreamily upon the goaded boy. "He has a splendid head set upon a magnificent torso----" "_Torso_!" Hedrick whispered hoarsely. "Tall, a glorious figure--like a young guardsman's." Madness was gathering in her brother's eyes; and observing it with quiet pleasure, she added: "One sees immediately he has the grand manner, the bel air." Hedrick exploded. "`_Bel air_'!" he screamed, and began to jump up and down, tossing his arms frantically, and gasping with emotion. "Oh, bel air! Oh, blah! `Henry Esmond!' Been readin' `Henry Esmond!' Oh, you be-yoo-tiful Cora-Beatrix-a-_lee_! Magganifisent torso! Gull_o_-rious figgi-your! Bel air! Oh, slush! Oh, luv-a-ly slush!" He cast himself convulsively upon the floor, full length. "Luv-a-ly, _luv_-a-ly slush!" "He is thirty, I should say," continued Cora, thoughtfully. "Yes--about thirty. A strong, keen face, rather tanned. He's between fair and dark----" Hedrick raised himself to the attitude of the "Dying Gaul." "And with `hair slightly silvered at the temples!' _Ain_'t his hair slightly silvered at the temples?" he cried imploringly. "Oh, sister, in pity's name let his hair be slightly silvered at the temples? Only three grains of corn, your Grace; my children are starving!" He collapsed again, laid his face upon his extended arms, and writhed. "He has rather wonderful eyes," said Cora. "They seem to look right through you." "Slush, slush, luv-a-ly slush," came in muffled tones from the floor. "And he wears his clothes so well--so differently! You feel at once that he's not a person, but a personage." Hedrick sat up, his eyes closed, his features contorted as with agony, and chanted, impromptu: "Slush, slush, luv-a-ly, slush! Le'ss all go a-swimmin' in a dollar's worth o' mush. Slush in the morning, slush at night, If I don't get my slush I'm bound to get tight!" "Hedrick!" said his mother. "Altogether I should say that Mr. Valentine Corliss looks as if he lived up to his name," Cora went on tranquilly. "Valentine Corliss of Corliss Street--I think I rather like the sound of that name." She let her beautiful voice linger upon it, caressingly. "Valentine Corliss." Hedrick opened his eyes, allowed his countenance to resume its ordinary proportions, and spoke another name slowly and with honeyed thoughtfulness: "Ray Vilas." This was the shot that told. Cora sprang down from the table with an exclamation. Hedrick, subduing elation, added gently, in a mournful whisper: "_Poor_ old Dick Lindley!" His efforts to sting his sister were completely successful at last: Cora was visibly agitated, and appealed hotly to her mother. "Am I to bear this kind of thing all my life? Aren't you _ever_ going to punish his insolence?" "Hedrick, Hedrick!" said Mrs. Madison sadly. Cora turned to the girl by the window with a pathetic gesture. "Laura----" she said, and hesitated. Laura Madison looked up into her sister's troubled eyes. "I feel so morbid," said Cora, flushing a little and glancing away. "I wish----" She stopped. The silent Laura set aside her work, rose and went out of the room. Her cheeks, too, had reddened faintly, a circumstance sharply noted by the terrible boy. He sat where he was, asprawl, propped by his arms behind him, watching with acute concentration the injured departure of Cora, following her sister. At the door, Cora, without pausing, threw him a look over her shoulder: a full-eyed shot of frankest hatred. A few moments later, magnificent chords sounded through the house. The piano was old, but tuned to the middle of the note, and the keys were swept by a master hand. The wires were not hammered; they were touched knowingly as by the player's own fingers, and so they sang--and from out among the chords there stole an errant melody. This was not "piano-playing" and not a pianist's triumphant nimbleness--it was music. Art is the language of a heart that knows how to speak, and a heart that knew how was speaking here. What it told was something immeasurably wistful, something that might have welled up in the breast of a young girl standing at twilight in an April orchard. It was the inexpressible made into sound, an improvisation by a master player. "You hear what she's up to?" said Hedrick, turning his head at last. But his mother had departed. He again extended himself flat upon the floor, face downward, this time as a necessary preliminary to rising after a manner of his own invention. Mysteriously he became higher in the middle, his body slowly forming first a round and then a pointed arch, with forehead, knees, and elbows touching the floor. A brilliantly executed manoeuvre closed his Gothic period, set him upright and upon his feet; then, without ostentation, he proceeded to the kitchen, where he found his mother polishing a sugar-bowl. He challenged her with a damnatory gesture in the direction of the music. "You hear what Cora's up to?" Mrs. Madison's expression was disturbed; she gave her son a look almost of appeal, and said, gently: "I believe there's nothing precisely criminal in her getting Laura to play for her. Laura's playing always soothes her when she feels out of sorts--and--you weren't very considerate of her, Hedrick. You upset her." "Mentioning Ray Vilas, you mean?" he demanded. "You weren't kind." "She deserves it. Look at her! _You_ know why she's got Laura at the piano now." "It's--it's because you worried her," his mother faltered evasively. "Besides, it is very hot, and Cora isn't as strong as she looks. She said she felt morbid and----" "Morbid? Blah!" interrupted the direct boy. "She's started after this Corliss man just like she did for Vilas. If I was Dick Lindley I wouldn't stand for Cora's----" "Hedrick!" His mother checked his outburst pleadingly. "Cora has so much harder time than the other girls; they're all so much better off. They seem to get everything they want, just by asking: nice clothes and jewellery--and automobiles. That seems to make a great difference nowadays; they all seem to have automobiles. We're so dreadfully poor, and Cora has to struggle so for what good times she----" "Her?" the boy jibed bitterly. "I don't see her doing any particular struggling." He waved his hand in a wide gesture. "She takes it _all_!" "There, there!" the mother said, and, as if feeling the need of placating this harsh judge, continued gently: "Cora isn't strong, Hedrick, and she does have a hard time. Almost every one of the other girls in her set is at the seashore or somewhere having a gay summer. You don't realize, but it's mortifying to have to be the only one to stay at home, with everybody knowing it's because your father can't afford to send her. And this house is so hopeless," Mrs. Madison went on, extending her plea hopefully; "it's impossible to make it attractive, but Cora keeps trying and trying: she was all morning on her knees gilding those chairs for the music-room, poor child, and----" "`Music-room'!" sneered the boy. "Gilt chairs! All show-off! That's all she ever thinks about. It's all there is to Cora, just show-off, so she'll get a string o' fellows chasin' after her. She's started for this Corliss just exactly the way she did for Ray Vilas!" "Hedrick!" "Just look at her!" he cried vehemently. "Don't you know she's tryin' to make this Corliss think it's _her_ playin' the piano right now?" "Oh, no----" "Didn't she do that with Ray Vilas?" he demanded quickly. "Wasn't that exactly what she did the first time he ever came here--got Laura to play and made him think it was _her_? Didn't she?" "Oh--just in fun." Mrs. Madison's tone lacked conviction; she turned, a little confusedly, from the glaring boy and fumbled among the silver on the kitchen table. "Besides--she told him afterward that it was Laura." "He walked in on her one day when she was battin' away at the piano herself with her back to the door. Then she pretended it had been a joke, and he was so far gone by that time he didn't care. He's crazy, anyway," added the youth, casually. "Who is this Corliss?" "He owns this house. His family were early settlers and used to be very prominent, but they're all dead except this one. His mother was a widow; she went abroad to live and took him with her when he was about your age, and I don't think he's ever been back since." "Did he use to live in this house?" "No; an aunt of his did. She left it to him when she died, two years ago. Your father was agent for her." "You think this Corliss wants to sell it?" "It's been for sale all the time he's owned it. That's why we moved here; it made the rent low." "Is he rich?" "They used to have money, but maybe it's all spent. It seemed to me he might want to raise money on the house, because I don't see any other reason that could bring him back here. He's already mortgaged it pretty heavily, your father told me. I don't----" Mrs. Madison paused abruptly, her eyes widening at a dismaying thought. "Oh, I do hope your father will know better than to ask him to stay to dinner!" Hedrick's expression became cryptic. "Father won't ask him," he said. "But I'll bet you a thousand dollars he stays!" The mother followed her son's thought and did not seek to elicit verbal explanation of the certainty which justified so large a venture. "Oh, I hope not," she said. "Sarah's threatening to leave, anyway; and she gets so cross if there's extra cooking on wash-days." "Well, Sarah'll have to get cross," said the boy grimly; "and _I_'ll have to plug out and go for a quart of brick ice-cream and carry it home in all this heat; and Laura and you'll have to stand over the stove with Sarah; and father'll have to change his shirt; and we'll all have to toil and moil and sweat and suffer while Cora-lee sits out on the front porch and talks toodle-do-dums to her new duke. And then she'll have _you_ go out and kid him along while----" "_Hedrick_!" "Yes, you will!--while she gets herself all dressed and powdered up again. After that, she'll do her share of the work: she'll strain her poor back carryin' Dick Lindley's flowers down the back stairs and stickin' 'em in a vase over a hole in the tablecloth that Laura hasn't had time to sew up. You wait and see!" The gloomy realism of this prophecy was not without effect upon the seer's mother. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, protestingly. "We really can't manage it. I'm sure Cora won't want to ask him----" "You'll see!" "No; I'm sure she wouldn't think of it, but if she does I'll tell her we can't. We really can't, to-day." Her son looked pityingly upon her. "She ought to be _my _ daughter," he said, the sinister implication all too plain;--"just about five minutes!" With that, he effectively closed the interview and left her. He returned to his abandoned art labours in the "conservatory," and meditatively perpetrated monstrosities upon the tiles for the next half-hour, at the end of which he concealed his box of chalks, with an anxiety possibly not unwarranted, beneath the sideboard; and made his way toward the front door, first glancing, unseen, into the kitchen where his mother still pursued the silver. He walked through the hall on tiptoe, taking care to step upon the much stained and worn strip of "Turkish" carpet, and not upon the more resonant wooden floor. The music had ceased long since. The open doorway was like a brilliantly painted picture hung upon the darkness of the hall, though its human centre of interest was no startling bit of work, consisting of Mr. Madison pottering aimlessly about the sun-flooded, unkempt lawn, fanning himself, and now and then stooping to pull up one of the thousands of plantain-weeds that beset the grass. With him the little spy had no concern; but from a part of the porch out of sight from the hall came Cora's exquisite voice and the light and pleasant baritone of the visitor. Hedrick flattened himself in a corner just inside the door. "I should break any engagement whatsoever if I had one," Mr. Corliss was saying with what the eavesdropper considered an offensively "foreign" accent and an equally unjustifiable gallantry; "but of course I haven't: I am so utterly a stranger here. Your mother is immensely hospitable to wish you to ask me, and I'll be only too glad to stay. Perhaps after dinner you'll be very, very kind and play again? Of course you know how remarkable such----" "Oh, just improvising," Cora tossed off, carelessly, with a deprecatory ripple of laughter. "It's purely with the mood, you see. I can't make myself do things. No; I fancy I shall not play again today." There was a moment's silence. "Shan't I fasten that in your buttonhole for you," said Cora. "You see how patiently I've been awaiting the offer!" There was another little silence; and the listener was able to construct a picture (possibly in part from an active memory) of Cora's delicate hands uplifted to the gentleman's lapel and Cora's eyes for a moment likewise uplifted. "Yes, one has moods," she said, dreamily. "I am _all_ moods. I think you are too, Mr. Corliss. You _look_ moody. Aren't you?" A horrible grin might have been seen to disfigure the shadow in the corner just within the doorway. CHAPTER THREE It was cooler outdoors, after dinner, in the dusk of that evening; nevertheless three members of the Madison family denied themselves the breeze, and, as by a tacitly recognized and habitual house-rule, so disposed themselves as to afford the most agreeable isolation for the younger daughter and the guest, who occupied wicker chairs upon the porch. The mother and father sat beneath a hot, gas droplight in the small "library"; Mrs. Madison with an evening newspaper, her husband with "King Solomon's Mines"; and Laura, after crisply declining an urgent request from Hedrick to play, had disappeared upstairs. The inimical lad alone was inspired for the ungrateful role of duenna. He sat upon the topmost of the porch steps with the air of being permanently implanted; leaning forward, elbows on knees, cheeks on palms, in a treacherous affectation of profound reverie; and his back (all of him that was plainly visible in the hall light) tauntingly close to a delicate foot which would, God wot! willingly have launched him into the darkness beyond. It was his dreadful pleasure to understand wholly the itching of that shapely silk and satin foot. The gas-light from the hall laid a broad orange path to the steps--Cora and her companion sat just beyond it, his whiteness gray, and she a pale ethereality in the shadow. She wore an evening gown that revealed a vague lilac through white, and shimmered upon her like a vapour. She was very quiet; and there was a wan sweetness about her, an exhalation of wistfulness. Cora, in the evening, was more like a rose than ever. She was fragrant in the dusk. The spell she cast was an Undine's: it was not to be thought so exquisite a thing as she could last. And who may know how she managed to say what she did in the silence and darkness? For it was said--without words, without touch, even without a look--as plainly as if she had spoken or written the message: "If I am a rose, I am one to be worn and borne away. Are you the man?" With the fall of night, the street they faced had become still, save for an infrequent squawk of irritation on the part of one of the passing automobiles, gadding for the most part silently, like fireflies. But after a time a strolling trio of negroes came singing along the sidewalk. "In the evening, by the moonlight, you could hear those banjos ringing; In the evening, by the moonlight, you could hear those darkies singing. How the ole folks would injoy it; they would sit all night an' lis-sun, As we sang I-I-N the evening BY-Y-Y the moonlight.' "Ah, _that_ takes me back!" exclaimed Corliss. "That's as it used to be. I might be a boy again." "And I suppose this old house has many memories for you?" said Cora, softly. "Not very many. My, old-maid aunt didn't like me overmuch, I believe; and I wasn't here often. My mother and I lived far down the street. A big apartment-house stands there now, I noticed as I was walking out here this afternoon--the `Verema,' it is called, absurdly enough!" "Ray Vilas lives there," volunteered Hedrick, not altering his position. "Vilas?" said the visitor politely, with a casual recollection that the name had been once or twice emphasized by the youth at dinner. "I don't remember Vilas among the old names here." "It wasn't, I guess," said Hedrick. "Ray Vilas has only been here about two years. He came from Kentucky." "A great friend of yours, I suppose." "He ain't a boy," said Hedrick, and returned to silence without further explanation. "How cool and kind the stars are to-night," said Cora, very gently. She leaned forward from her chair, extending a white arm along the iron railing of the porch; bending toward Corliss, and speaking toward him and away from Hedrick in as low a voice as possible, probably entertaining a reasonable hope of not being overheard. "I love things that are cool and kind," she said. "I love things that are cool and strong. I love iron." She moved her arm caressingly upon the railing. "I love its cool, smooth touch. Any strong life must have iron in it. I like iron in men." She leaned a very little closer to him. "Have you iron in you, Mr. Corliss?" she asked. At these words the frayed edge of Hedrick's broad white collar was lifted perceptibly from his coat, as if by a shudder passing over the back and shoulders beneath. "If I have not," answered Corliss in a low voice, "I will have--now!" "Tell me about yourself," she said. "Dear lady," he began--and it was an effective beginning, for a sigh of pleasure parted her lips as he spoke--"there is nothing interesting to tell. I have spent a very commonplace life." "I think not. You shouldn't call any life commonplace that has escaped _this_!" The lovely voice was all the richer for the pain that shook it now. "This monotony, this unending desert of ashes, this death in life!" "This town, you mean?" "This prison, I mean! Everything. Tell me what lies outside of it. You can." "What makes you think I can?" "I don't need to answer that. You understand perfectly." Valentine Corliss drew in his breath with a sound murmurous of delight, and for a time they did not speak. "Yes," he said, finally, "I think I do." "There are meetings in the desert," he went on, slowly. "A lonely traveller finds another at a spring, sometimes." "And sometimes they find that they speak the same language?" His answer came, almost in a whisper: "`Even as you and I.'" "`Even as you and I,'" she echoed, even more faintly. "Yes." Cora breathed rapidly in the silence that followed; she had every appearance of a woman deeply and mysteriously stirred. Her companion watched her keenly in the dusk, and whatever the reciprocal symptoms of emotion he may have exhibited, they were far from tumultuous, bearing more likeness to the quiet satisfaction of a good card-player taking what may prove to be a decisive trick. After a time she leaned back in her chair again, and began to fan herself slowly. "You have lived in the Orient, haven't you, Mr. Corliss?" she said in an ordinary tone. "Not lived. I've been East once or twice. I spend a greater part of the year at Posilipo." "Where is that?" "On the fringe of Naples." "Do you live in a hotel?" "No." A slight surprise sounded in his voice. "I have a villa there." "Do you know what that seems to me?" Cora asked gravely, after a pause; then answered herself, after another: "Like magic. Like a strange, beautiful dream." "Yes, it is beautiful," he said. "Then tell me: What do you do there?" "I spend a lot of time on the water in a boat." "Sailing?" "On sapphires and emeralds and turquoises and rubies, melted and blown into waves." "And you go yachting over that glory?" "Fishing with my crew--and loafing." "But your boat is really a yacht, isn't it?" "Oh, it might be called anything," he laughed. "And your sailors are Italian fishermen?" Hedrick slew a mosquito upon his temple, smiting himself hard. "No, they're Chinese!" he muttered hoarsely. "They're Neapolitans," said Corliss. "Do they wear red sashes and earrings?" asked Cora. "One of them wears earrings and a derby hat!" "Ah!" she protested, turning to him again. "You don't tell me. You let me cross-question you, but you don't tell me things! Don't you see? I want to know what _life_ is! I want to know of strange seas, of strange people, of pain and of danger, of great music, of curious thoughts! What are the Neapolitan women like?" "They fade early." She leaned closer to him. "Before the fading have you--have you loved--many?" "All the pretty ones I ever saw," he answered gayly, but with something in his tone (as there was in hers) which implied that all the time they were really talking of things other than those spoken. Yet here this secret subject seemed to come near the surface. She let him hear a genuine little snap of her teeth. "I _thought_ you were like that!" He laughed. "Ah, but you were sure to see it!" "You could 'a' seen a Neapolitan woman yesterday, Cora," said Hedrick, obligingly, "if you'd looked out the front window. She was working a hurdy-gurdy up and down this neighbourhood all afternoon." He turned genially to face his sister, and added: "Ray Vilas used to say there were lots of pretty girls in Lexington." Cora sprang to her feet. "You're not smoking," she said to Corliss hurriedly, as upon a sudden discovery. "Let me get you some matches." She had entered the house before he could protest, and Hedrick, looking down the hall, was acutely aware that she dived desperately into the library. But, however tragic the cry for justice she uttered there, it certainly was not prolonged; and the almost instantaneous quickness of her reappearance upon the porch, with matches in her hand, made this one of the occasions when her brother had to admit that in her own line Cora was a miracle. "So thoughtless of me," she said cheerfully, resuming her seat. She dropped the matches into Mr. Corliss's hand with a fleeting touch of her finger-tips upon his palm. "Of course you wanted to smoke. I can't think why I didn't realize it before. I must have----" A voice called from within, commanding in no, uncertain tones. "Hedrick! I should like to see you!" Hedrick rose, and, looking neither to the right nor, to the left, went stonily into the house, and appeared before the powers. "Call me?" he inquired with the air of cheerful readiness to proceed upon any errand, no matter how difficult. Mr. Madison countered diplomacy with gloom. "I don't know what to do with you. Why can't you let your sister alone?" "Has Laura been complaining of me?" "Oh, Hedrick!" said Mrs. Madison. Hedrick himself felt the justice of her reproof: his reference to Laura was poor work, he knew. He hung his head and began to scrape the carpet with the side of his shoe. "Well, what'd Cora say I been doing to her?" "You know perfectly well what you've been doing," said Mr. Madison sharply. "Nothing at all; just sitting on the steps. What'd she _say_?" His father evidently considered it wiser not to repeat the text of accusation. "You know what you did," he said heavily. "Oho!" Hedrick's eyes became severe, and his sire's evasively shifted from them. "You keep away from the porch," said the father, uneasily. "You mean what I said about Ray Vilas?" asked the boy. Both parents looked uncomfortable, and Mr. Madison, turning a leaf in his book, gave a mediocre imitation of an austere person resuming his reading after an impertinent interruption. "That's what you mean," said the boy accusingly. "Ray Vilas!" "Just you keep away from that porch." "Because I happened to mention Ray Vilas?" demanded Hedrick. "You let your sister alone." "I got a right to know what she said, haven't I?" There was no response, which appeared to satisfy Hedrick perfectly. Neither parent met his glance; the mother troubled and the father dogged, while the boy rejoiced sternly in some occult triumph. He inflated his scant chest in pomp and hurled at the defeated pair the well-known words: "I wish she was _my_ daughter--about five minutes!" New sounds from without--men's voices in greeting, and a ripple of response from Cora somewhat lacking in enthusiasm--afforded Mr. Madison unmistakable relief, and an errand upon which to send his deadly offspring. Hedrick, after a reconnaissance in the hall, obeyed at leisure. Closing the library door nonchalantly behind him, he found himself at the foot of a flight of unillumined back stairs, where his manner underwent a swift alteration, for here was an adventure to be gone about with ceremony. "Ventre St. Gris!" he muttered hoarsely, and loosened the long rapier in the shabby sheath at his side. For, with the closing of the door, he had become a Huguenot gentleman, over forty and a little grizzled perhaps, but modest and unassuming; wiry, alert, lightning-quick, with a wrist of steel and a heart of gold; and he was about to ascend the stairs of an unknown house at Blois in total darkness. He went up, crouching, ready for anything, without a footfall, not even causing a hideous creak; and gained the top in safety. Here he turned into an obscure passage, and at the end of it beheld, through an open door, a little room in which a dark-eyed lady sat writing in a book by the light of an oil lamp. The wary Huguenot remained in the shadow and observed her. Laura was writing in an old ledger she had found in the attic, blank and unused. She had rebound it herself in heavy gray leather; and fitted it with a tiny padlock and key. She wore the key under her dress upon a very thin silver chain round her neck. Upon the first page of the book was written a date, now more than a year past, the month was June--and beneath it: "Love came to me to-day." Nothing more was written upon that page. CHAPTER FOUR Laura, at this writing, looked piquantly unfamiliar to her brother: her eyes were moist and bright; her cheeks were flushed and as she bent low, intently close to the book, a loosened wavy strand of her dark hair almost touched the page. Hedrick had never before seen her wearing an expression so "becoming" as the eager and tremulous warmth of this; though sometimes, at the piano, she would play in a reverie which wrought such glamour about her that even a brother was obliged to consider her rather handsome. She looked more than handsome now, so strangely lovely, in fact, that his eyes watered painfully with the protracted struggle to read a little of the writing in her book before she discovered him. He gave it up at last, and lounged forward blinking, with the air of finding it sweet to do nothing. "Whatch' writin'?" he asked in simple carelessness. At the first sound of his movement she closed the book in a flash; then, with a startled, protective gesture, extended her arms over it, covering it. "What is it, Hedrick?" she asked, breathlessly. "What's the padlock for?" "Nothing," she panted. "What is it you want?" "You writin' poetry?" Laura's eyes dilated; she looked dangerous. "Oh, I don't care about your old book," said Hedrick, with an amused nonchalance Talleyrand might have admired. "There's callers, and you have to come down." "Who sent you?" "A man I've often noticed around the house," he replied blightingly. "You may have seen him--I think his name's Madison. His wife and he both sent for you." One of Laura's hands instinctively began to arrange her hair, but the other remained upon the book. "Who is it calling?" "Richard Lindley and that Wade Trumble." Laura rose, standing between her brother and the table. "Tell mother I will come down." Hedrick moved a little nearer, whereupon, observing his eye, she put her right hand behind her upon the book. She was not deceived, and boys are not only superb strategic actors sometimes, but calamitously quick. Appearing to be unaware of her careful defence, he leaned against the wall and crossed his feet in an original and interesting manner. "Of course _you_ understand," he said cosily. "Cora wants to keep this Corliss in a corner of the porch where she can coo at him; so you and mother'll have to raise a ballyhoo for Dick Lindley and that Wade Trumble. It'd been funny if Dick hadn't noticed anybody was there and kissed her. What on earth does he want to stay engaged to her for, anyway?" "You don't know that she is engaged to Mr. Lindley, Hedrick." "Get out!" he hooted. "What's the use talking like that to me? A blind mackerel could see she's let poor old Lindley think he's High Man with her these last few months; but he'll have to hit the pike now, I reckon, 'cause this Corliss is altogether too pe-rin-sley for Dick's class. Lee roy est mort. Vive lee roy!" "Hedrick, won't you please run along? I want to change my dress." "What for? There was company for dinner and you didn't change then." Laura's flushed cheeks flushed deeper, and in her confusion she answered too quickly. "I only have one evening gown. I--of course I can't wear it every night." "Well, then," he returned triumphantly, "what do you want to put it on now for?" "_Please_ run along, Hedrick," she pleaded. "You didn't for this Corliss," he persisted sharply. "You know Dick Lindley couldn't see anybody but Cora to save his life, and I don't suppose there's a girl on earth fool enough to dress up for that Wade Trum----" "Hedrick!" Laura's voice rang with a warning which he remembered to have heard upon a few previous occasions when she had easily proved herself physically stronger than he. "Go and tell mother I'm coming," she said. He began to whistle "Beulah Land" as he went, but, with the swift closing of the door behind him, abandoned that pathetically optimistic hymn prematurely, after the third bar. Twenty minutes later, when Laura came out and went downstairs, a fine straight figure in her black evening gown, the Sieur de Marsac--that hard-bitten Huguenot, whose middle-aged shabbiness was but the outward and deceptive seeming of the longest head and the best sword in France--emerged cautiously from the passageway and stood listening until her footsteps were heard descending the front stairs. Nevertheless, the most painstaking search of her room, a search as systematic as it was feverish, failed to reveal where she had hidden the book. He returned wearily to the porch. A prophet has always been supposed to take some pleasure, perhaps morbid, in seeing his predictions fulfilled; and it may have been a consolation to the gloomy heart of Hedrick, sorely injured by Laura's offensive care of her treasure, to find the grouping upon the porch as he had foretold: Cora and Mr. Corliss sitting a little aloof from the others, far enough to permit their holding an indistinct and murmurous conversation of their own. Their sequestration, even by so short a distance, gave them an appearance of intimacy which probably accounted for the rather absent greeting bestowed by Mr. Lindley upon the son of the house, who met him with some favour. This Richard Lindley was a thin, friendly looking young man with a pleasing, old-fashioned face which suggested that if he were minded to be portrayed it should be by the daguerreotype, and that a high, black stock would have been more suitable to him than his businesslike, modern neck-gear. He had fine eyes, which seemed habitually concerned with faraway things, though when he looked at Cora they sparkled; however, it cannot be said that the sparkling continued at its brightest when his glance wandered (as it not infrequently did this evening) from her lovely head to the rose in Mr. Corliss's white coat. Hedrick, resuming a position upon the top step between the two groups, found the conversation of the larger annoying because it prevented him from hearing that of the smaller. It was carried on for the greater part by his mother and Mr. Trumble; Laura sat silent between these two; and Lindley's mood was obviously contemplative. Mr. Wade Trumble, twenty-six, small, earnest, and already beginning to lose his hair, was talkative enough. He was one of those people who are so continuously aggressive that they are negligible. "What's the matter here? Nobody pays any attention to me. I'M important!" He might have had that legend engraved on his card, it spoke from everything else that was his: face, voice, gesture--even from his clothes, for they also clamoured for attention without receiving it. Worn by another man, their extravagance of shape and shade might have advertised a self-sacrificing effort for the picturesque; but upon Mr. Trumble they paradoxically confirmed an impression that he was well off and close. Certainly this was the impression confirmed in the mind of the shrewdest and most experienced observer on that veranda. The accomplished Valentine Corliss was quite able to share Cora's detachment satisfactorily, and be very actively aware of other things at the same time. For instance: Richard Lindley's preoccupation had neither escaped him nor remained unconnected in his mind with that gentleman's somewhat attentive notice of the present position of a certain rose. Mr. Trumble took up Mrs. Madison's placid weather talk as if it had been a flaunting challenge; he made it a matter of conscience and for argument; for he was a doughty champion, it appeared, when nothings were in question, one of those stern men who will have accuracy in the banal, insisting upon portent in talk meant to be slid over as mere courteous sound. "I don't know about that, now," he said with severe emphasis. "I don't know about that at all. I can't say I agree with you. In fact, I do not agree with you: it was hotter in the early part of July, year before last, than it has been at any time this summer. Several degrees hotter--several degrees." "I fear I must beg to differ with you," he said, catching the poor lady again, a moment later. "I beg to differ decidedly. Other places get a great deal more heat. Look at Egypt." "Permit me to disagree," he interrupted her at once, when she pathetically squirmed to another subject. "There's more than one side to this matter. You are looking at this matter from a totally wrong angle. . . . Let me inform you that statistics. . . ." Mrs. Madison's gentle voice was no more than just audible in the short intervals he permitted; a blind listener would have thought Mr. Trumble at the telephone. Hedrick was thankful when his mother finally gave up altogether the display of her ignorance, inaccuracy, and general misinformation, and Trumble talked alone. That must have been the young man's object; certainly he had struggled for it; and so it must have pleased him. He talked on and on and on; he passed from one topic to another with no pause; swinging over the gaps with a "Now you take," or, "And that reminds me," filling many a vacancy with "So-and-so and so-and-so," and other stencils, while casting about for material to continue. Everything was italicized, the significant and the trivial, to the same monotone of emphasis. Death and shoe-laces were all the same to him. Anything was all the same to him so long as he talked. Hedrick's irritation was gradually dispelled; and, becoming used to the sound, he found it lulling; relaxed his attitude and drowsed; Mr. Lindley was obviously lost in a reverie; Mrs. Madison, her hand shading her eyes, went over her market-list for the morrow and otherwise set her house in order; Laura alone sat straight in her chair; and her face was toward the vocalist, but as she was in deep shadow her expression could not be guessed. However, one person in that group must have listened with genuine pleasure--else why did he talk? It was the returned native whose departure at last rang the curtain on the monologue. The end of the long sheltered seclusion of Cora and her companion was a whispered word. He spoke it first: "To-morrow?" "To-morrow." Cora gave a keen, quick, indrawn sigh--not of sorrow--and sank back in her chair, as he touched her hand in farewell and rose to go. She remained where she was, motionless and silent in the dark, while he crossed to Mrs. Madison, and prefaced a leave-taking unusually formal for these precincts with his mannered bow. He shook hands with Richard Lindley, asking genially: "Do you still live where you did--just below here?" "Yes." "When I passed by there this afternoon," said Corliss, "it recalled a stupendous conflict we had, once upon a time; but I couldn't remember the cause." "I remember the cause," said Mr. Lindley, but, stopping rather short, omitted to state it. "At all events, it was settled." "Yes," said the other quietly. "You whipped me." "Did I so?" Corliss laughed gayly. "We mustn't let it happen again!" Mr. Trumble joined the parting guest, making simultaneous adieus with unmistakable elation. Mr. Trumble's dreadful entertainment had made it a happy evening for him. As they went down the steps together, the top of his head just above the level of his companion's shoulder, he lifted to Corliss a searching gaze like an actor's hopeful scrutiny of a new acquaintance; and before they reached the street his bark rang eagerly on the stilly night: "Now _there_ is a point on which I beg to differ with you. . . ." Mrs. Madison gave Lindley her hand. "I think I'll go in. Good-night, Richard. Come, Hedrick!" Hedrick rose, groaning, and batted his eyes painfully as he faced the hall light. "What'd you and this Corliss fight about?" he asked, sleepily. "Nothing," said Lindley. "You said you remembered." "Oh, I remember a lot of useless things." "Well, what was it? I want to know what you fought about." "Come, Hedrick," repeated his mother, setting a gently urgent hand on his shoulder. "I won't," said the boy impatiently, shaking her off and growing suddenly very wideawake and determined. "I won't move a step till he tells me what they fought about. Not a step!" "Well--it was about a `show.' We were only boys, you know--younger than you, perhaps." "A circus?" "A boy-circus he and my brother got up in our yard. I wasn't in it." "Well, what did you fight about?" "I thought Val Corliss wasn't quite fair to my brother. That's all." "No, it isn't! How wasn't he fair?" "They sold tickets to the other boys; and I thought my brother didn't get his share." "This Corliss kept it all?" "Oh, something like that," said Lindley, laughing. "Probably I was in the wrong." "And he licked you?" "All over the place!" "I wish I'd seen it," said Hedrick, not unsympathetically, but as a sportsman. And he consented to be led away. Laura had been standing at the top of the steps looking down the street, where Corliss and his brisk companion had emerged momentarily from deep shadows under the trees into the illumination of a swinging arc-lamp at the corner. They disappeared; and she turned, and, smiling, gave the delaying guest her hand in good-night. His expression, which was somewhat troubled, changed to one of surprise as her face came into the light, for it was transfigured. Deeply flushed, her eyes luminous, she wore that shining look Hedrick had seen as she wrote in her secret book. "Why, Laura!" said Lindley, wondering. She said good-night again, and went in slowly. As she reached the foot of the stairs, she heard him moving a chair upon the porch, and Cora speaking sharply: "Please don't sit close to me!" There was a sudden shrillness in the voice of honey, and the six words were run so rapidly together they seemed to form but one. After a moment Cora added, with a deprecatory ripple of laughter not quite free from the same shrillness: "You see, Richard, it's so--it's so hot, to-night." CHAPTER FIVE Half an hour later, when Lindley had gone, Cora closed the front doors in a manner which drew an immediate cry of agony from the room where her father was trying to sleep. She stood on tiptoe to turn out the gas-light in the hall; but for a time the key resisted the insufficient pressure of her finger-tips: the little orange flame, with its black-green crescent over the armature, so maliciously like the "eye" of a peacock feather, limned the exquisite planes of the upturned face; modelled them with soft and regular shadows; painted a sullen loveliness. The key turned a little, but not enough; and she whispered to herself a monosyllable not usually attributed to the vocabulary of a damsel of rank. Next moment, her expression flashed in a brilliant change, like that of a pouting child suddenly remembering that tomorrow is Christmas. The key surrendered instantly, and she ran gayly up the familiar stairs in the darkness. The transom of Laura's door shone brightly; but the knob, turning uselessly in Cora's hand, proved the door itself not so hospitable. There was a brief rustling within the room; the bolt snapped, and Laura opened the door. "Why, Laura," said Cora, observing her sister with transient curiosity, "you haven't undressed. What have you been doing? Something's the matter with you. I know what it is," she added, laughing, as she seated herself on the edge of the old black-walnut bed. "You're in love with Wade Trumble!" "He's a strong man," observed Laura. "A remarkable throat." "Horrible little person!" said Cora, forgetting what she owed the unfortunate Mr. Trumble for the vocal wall which had so effectively sheltered her earlier in the evening. "He's like one of those booming June-bugs, batting against the walls, falling into lamp-chimneys-----" "He doesn't get very near the light he wants," said Laura. "Me? Yes, he would like to, the rat! But he's consoled when he can get any one to listen to his awful chatter. He makes up to himself among women for the way he gets sat on at the club. But he has his use: he shows off the other men so, by contrast. Oh, Laura!" She lifted both hands to her cheeks, which were beautiful with a quick suffusion of high colour. "Isn't he gorgeous!" "Yes," said Laura gently, "I've always thought so." "Now what's the use of that?" asked Cora peevishly, "with _me_? I didn't mean Richard Lindley. You _know_ what I mean." "Yes--of course--I do," Laura said. Cora gave her a long look in which a childlike pleading mingled with a faint, strange trouble; then this glance wandered moodily from the face of her sister to her own slippers, which she elevated to meet her descending line of vision. "And you know I can't help it," she said, shifting quickly to the role of accuser. "So what's the use of behaving like the Pest?" She let her feet drop to the floor again, and her voice trembled a little as she went on: "Laura, you don't know what I had to endure from him to-night. I really don't think I can stand it to live in the same house any longer with that frightful little devil. He's been throwing Ray Vilas's name at me until--oh, it was ghastly to-night! And then--then----" Her tremulousness increased. "I haven't said anything about it all day, but I _met_ him on the street downtown, this morning----" "You met Vilas?" Laura looked startled. "Did he speak to you?" "`Speak to me!'" Cora's exclamation shook with a half-laugh of hysteria. "He made an awful _scene_! He came out of the Richfield Hotel barroom on Main Street just as I was going into the jeweller's next door, and he stopped and bowed like a monkey, square in front of me, and--and he took off his hat and set it on the pavement at my feet and told me to kick it into the gutter! Everybody stopped and stared; and I couldn't get by him. And he said--he said I'd kicked his heart into the gutter and he didn't want it to catch cold without a hat! And wouldn't I please be so kind as to kick----" She choked with angry mortification. "It was horrible! People were stopping and laughing, and a rowdy began to make fun of Ray, and pushed him, and they got into a scuffle, and I ran into the jeweller's and almost fainted." "He is insane!" said Laura, aghast. "He's nothing of the kind; he's just a brute. He does it to make people say I'm the cause of his drinking; and everybody in this gossipy old town _does_ say it--just because I got bored to death with his everlasting do-you-love-me-to-day-as-well-as-yesterday style of torment, and couldn't help liking Richard better. Yes, every old cat in town says I ruined him, and that's what he wants them to say. It's so unmanly! I wish he'd die! Yes, I _do_ wish he would! Why doesn't he kill himself?" "Ah, don't say that," protested Laura. "Why not? He's threatened to enough. And I'm afraid to go out of the house because I can't tell when I'll meet him or what he'll do. I was almost sick in that jeweller's shop, this morning, and so upset I came away without getting my pendant. There's _another_ thing I've got to go through, I suppose!" She pounded the yielding pillow desperately. "Oh, oh, oh! Life isn't worth living--it seems to me sometimes as if everybody in the world spent his time trying to think up ways to make it harder for me! I couldn't have worn the pendant, though, even if I'd got it," she went on, becoming thoughtful. "It's Richard's silly old engagement ring, you know," she explained, lightly. "I had it made up into a pendant, and heaven knows how I'm going to get Richard to see it the right way. He was so unreasonable tonight." "Was he cross about Mr. Corliss monopolizing you?" "Oh, you know how he is," said Cora. "He didn't speak of it exactly. But after you'd gone, he asked me----" She stopped with a little gulp, an expression of keen distaste about her mouth. "Oh, he wants me to wear my ring," she continued, with sudden rapidity: "and how the dickens _can_ I when I can't even tell him it's been made into a pendant! He wants to speak to father; he wants to _announce_ it. He's sold out his business for what he thinks is a good deal of money, and he wants me to marry him next month and take some miserable little trip, I don't know where, for a few weeks, before he invests what he's made in another business. Oh!" she cried. "It's a _horrible_ thing to ask a girl to do: to settle down--just housekeeping, housekeeping, housekeeping forever in this stupid, stupid town! It's so unfair! Men are just possessive; they think it's loving you to want to possess you themselves. A beautiful `love'! It's so mean! Men!" She sprang up and threw out both arms in a vehement gesture of revolt. "Damn 'em, I wish they'd let me _alone_!" Laura's eyes had lost their quiet; they showed a glint of tears, and she was breathing quickly. In this crisis of emotion the two girls went to each other silently; Cora turned, and Laura began to unfasten Cora's dress in the back. "Poor Richard!" said Laura presently, putting into her mouth a tiny pearl button which had detached itself at her touch. "This was his first evening in the overflow. No wonder he was troubled!" "Pooh!" said Cora. "As if you and mamma weren't good enough for him to talk to! He's spoiled. He's so used to being called `the most popular man in town' and knowing that every girl on Corliss Street wanted to marry him----" She broke off, and exclaimed sharply: "I wish they would!" "Cora!" "Oh, I suppose you mean that's the reason _I_ went in for him?" "No, no," explained Laura hurriedly. "I only meant, stand still." "Well, it was!" And Cora's abrupt laugh had the glad, free ring fancy attaches to the merry confidences of a buccaneer in trusted company. Laura knelt to continue unfastening the dress; and when it was finished she extended three of the tiny buttons in her hand. "They're always loose on a new dress," she said. "I'll sew them all on tight, to-morrow." Cora smiled lovingly. "You good old thing," she said. "You looked pretty to-night." "That's nice!" Laura laughed, as she dropped the buttons into a little drawer of her bureau. It was an ugly, cheap, old bureau, its veneer loosened and peeling, the mirror small and flawed--a piece of furniture in keeping with the room, which was small, plain and hot, its only ornamental adjunct being a silver-framed photograph of Mrs. Madison, with Cora, as a child of seven or eight, upon her lap. "You really do look ever so pretty," asserted Cora. "I wonder if I look as well as I did the last time I heard I was pretty," said the other. "That was at the Assembly in March. Coming down the stairs, I heard a man from out of town say, `That black-haired Miss Madison is a pretty girl.' And some one with him said, `Yes; you'll think so until you meet her sister!'" "You are an old dear!" Cora enfolded her delightedly; then, drawing back, exclaimed: "You _know_ he's gorgeous!" And with a feverish little ripple of laughter, caught her dress together in the back and sped through the hall to her own room. This was a very different affair from Laura's, much cooler and larger; occupying half the width of the house; and a rather expensive struggle had made it pretty and even luxurious. The window curtains and the wall-paper were fresh, and of a quiet blue; there was a large divan of the same colour; a light desk, prettily equipped, occupied a corner; and between two gilt gas-brackets, whose patent burners were shielded by fringed silk shades, stood a cheval-glass six feet high. The door of a very large clothes-pantry stood open, showing a fine company of dresses, suspended from forms in an orderly manner; near by, a rosewood cabinet exhibited a delicate collection of shoes and slippers upon its four shelves. A dressing-table, charmingly littered with everything, took the place of a bureau; and upon it, in a massive silver frame, was a large photograph of Mr. Richard Lindley. The frame was handsome, but somewhat battered: it had seen service. However, the photograph was quite new. There were photographs everywhere--photographs framed and unframed; photographs large and photographs small, the fresh and the faded; tintypes, kodaks, "full lengths," "cabinets," groups--every kind of photograph; and among them were several of Cora herself, one of her mother, one of Laura, and two others of girls. All the rest were sterner. Two or three were seamed across with cracks, hastily recalled sentences to destruction; and here and there remained tokens of a draughtsman's over-generous struggle to confer upon some of the smooth-shaven faces additional manliness in the shape of sweeping moustaches, long beards, goatees, mutton-chops, and, in the case of one gentleman of a blond, delicate and tenor-like beauty, neck-whiskers;--decorations in many instances so deeply and damply pencilled that subsequent attempts at erasure had failed of great success. Certainly, Hedrick had his own way of relieving dull times. Cora turned up the lights at the sides of the cheval-glass, looked at herself earnestly, then absently, and began to loosen her hair. Her lifted hands hesitated; she re-arranged the slight displacement of her hair already effected; set two chairs before the mirror, seated herself in one; pulled up her dress, where it was slipping from her shoulder, rested an arm upon the back of the other chair as, earlier in the evening, she had rested it upon the iron railing of the porch, and, leaning forward, assumed as exactly as possible the attitude in which she had sat so long beside Valentine Corliss. She leaned very slowly closer and yet closer to the mirror; a rich colour spread over her; her eyes, gazing into themselves, became dreamy, inexpressibly wistful, cloudily sweet; her breath was tumultuous. "`Even as you and I'?" she whispered. Then, in the final moment of this after-the-fact rehearsal, as her face almost touched the glass, she forgot how and what she had looked to Corliss; she forgot him; she forgot him utterly: she leaped to her feet and kissed the mirrored lips with a sort of passion. "You _darling_!" she cried. Cora's christening had been unimaginative, for the name means only, "maiden." She should have been called Narcissa. The rhapsody was over instantly, leaving an emotional vacuum like a silence at the dentist's. Cora yawned, and resumed the loosening of her hair. When she had put on her nightgown, she went from one window to another, closing the shutters against the coming of the morning light to wake her. As she reached the last window, a sudden high wind rushed among the trees outside; a white flare leaped at her face, startling her; there was a boom and rattle as of the brasses, cymbals, and kettle-drums of some fatal orchestra; and almost at once it began to rain. And with that, from the distance came a voice, singing; and at the first sound of it, though it was far away and almost indistinguishable, Cora started more violently than at the lightning; she sprang to the mirror lights, put them out; threw herself upon the bed, and huddled there in the darkness. The wind passed; the heart of the storm was miles away; this was only its fringe; but the rain pattered sharply upon the thick foliage outside her windows; and the singing voice came slowly up the street. It was a strange voice: high-pitched and hoarse--and not quite human, so utter was the animal abandon of it. "I love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie," it wailed and piped, coming nearer; and the gay little air--wrought to a grotesque of itself by this wild, high voice in the rain--might have been a banshee's love-song. "I love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie. She's as pure as the lily in the dell----" The voice grew louder; came in front of the house; came into the yard; came and sang just under Cora's window. There it fell silent a moment; then was lifted in a long peal of imbecile laughter, and sang again: "Then slowly, slowly rase she up And slowly she came nigh him, And when she drew the curtain by-- `Young man I think you're dyin'.'" Cora's door opened and closed softly, and Laura, barefooted, stole to the bed and put an arm about the shaking form of her sister. "The drunken beast!" sobbed Cora. "It's to disgrace me! That's what he wants. He'd like nothing better than headlines in the papers: `Ray Vilas arrested at the Madison residence'!" She choked with anger and mortification. "The neighbours----" "They're nearly all away," whispered Laura. "You needn't fear----" "Hark!" The voice stopped singing, and began to mumble incoherently; then it rose again in a lamentable outcry: "Oh, God of the fallen, be Thou merciful to me! Be Thou merciful--merciful--_merciful_" . . . "MERCIFUL, MERCIFUL, MERCIFUL!" it shrieked, over and over, with increasing loudness, and to such nerve-racking effect that Cora, gasping, beat the bedclothes frantically with her hands at each iteration. The transom over the door became luminous; some one had lighted the gas in the upper hall. Both girls jumped from the bed, ran to the door, and opened it. Their mother, wearing a red wrapper, was standing at the head of the stairs, which Mr. Madison, in his night-shirt and slippers, was slowly and heavily descending. Before he reached the front door, the voice outside ceased its dreadful plaint with the abrupt anti-climax of a phonograph stopped in the middle of a record. There was the sound of a struggle and wrestling, a turmoil in the wet shrubberies, branches cracking. "Let me go, da----" cried the voice, drowned again at half a word, as by a powerful hand upon a screaming mouth. The old man opened the front door, stepped out, closing it behind him; and the three women looked at each other wanly during a hushed interval like that in a sleeping-car at night when the train stops. Presently he came in again, and started up the stairs, heavily and slowly, as he had gone down. "Richard Lindley stopped him," he said, sighing with the ascent, and not looking up. "He heard him as he came along the street, and dressed as quick as he could, and ran up and got him. Richard's taken him away." He went to his own room, panting, mopping his damp gray hair with his fat wrist, and looking at no one. Cora began to cry again. It was an hour before any of this family had recovered sufficient poise to realize, with the shuddering gratitude of adventurers spared from the abyss, that, under Providence, Hedrick had not wakened! CHAPTER SIX Much light shatters much loveliness; but a pretty girl who looks pretty outdoors on a dazzling hot summer morning is prettier then than ever. Cora knew it; of course she knew it; she knew exactly how she looked, as she left the concrete bridge behind her at the upper end of Corliss Street and turned into a shrub-bordered bypath of the river park. In imagination she stood at the turn of the path just ahead, watching her own approach: she saw herself as a picture--the white-domed parasol, with its cheerful pale-green lining, a background for her white hat, her corn-silk hair, and her delicately flushed face. She saw her pale, live arms through their thin sleeves, and the light grasp of her gloved fingers upon the glistening stick of the parasol; she saw the long, simple lines of her close white dress and their graceful interchanging movements with the alternate advance of her white shoes over the fine gravel path; she saw the dazzling splashes of sunshine playing upon her through the changeful branches overhead. Cora never lacked a gallery: she sat there herself. She refreshed the eyes of a respectable burgess of sixty, a person so colourless that no one, after passing him, could have remembered anything about him except that he wore glasses and some sort of moustache; and to Cora's vision he was as near transparent as any man could be, yet she did not miss the almost imperceptible signs of his approval, as they met and continued on their opposite ways. She did not glance round, nor did he pause in his slow walk; neither was she clairvoyant; none the less, she knew that he turned his head and looked back at her. The path led away from the drives and more public walks of the park, to a low hill, thoughtfully untouched by the gardener and left to the shadowy thickets and good-smelling underbrush of its rich native woodland. And here, by a brown bench, waited a tall gentleman in white. They touched hands and sat without speaking. For several moments they continued the silence, then turned slowly and looked at each other; then looked slowly and gravely away, as if to an audience in front of them. They knew how to do it; but probably a critic in the first row would have concluded that Cora felt it even more than Valentine Corliss enjoyed it. "I suppose this is very clandestine," she said, after a deep breath. "I don't think I care, though." "I hope you do," he smiled, "so that I could think your coming means more." "Then I'll care," she said, and looked at him again. "You dear!" he exclaimed deliberately. She bit her lip and looked down, but not before he had seen the quick dilation of her ardent eyes. "I wanted to be out of doors," she said. "I'm afraid there's one thing of yours I don't like, Mr. Corliss." "I'll throw it away, then. Tell me." "Your house. I don't like living in it, very much. I'm sorry you _can't_ throw it away." "I'm thinking of doing that very thing," he laughed. "But I'm glad I found the rose in that queer old waste-basket first." "Not too much like a rose, sometimes," she said. "I think this morning I'm a little like some of the old doors up on the third floor: I feel rather unhinged, Mr. Corliss." "You don't look it, Miss Madison!" "I didn't sleep very well." She bestowed upon him a glance which transmuted her actual explanation into, "I couldn't sleep for thinking of you." It was perfectly definite; but the acute gentleman laughed genially. "Go on with you!" he said. Her eyes sparkled, and she joined laughter with him. "But it's true: you did keep me awake. Besides, I had a serenade." "Serenade? I had an idea they didn't do that any more over here. I remember the young men going about at night with an orchestra sometimes when I was a boy, but I supposed----" "Oh, it wasn't much like that," she interrupted, carelessly. "I don't think that sort of thing has been done for years and years. It wasn't an orchestra--just a man singing under my window." "With a guitar?" "No." She laughed a little. "Just singing." "But it rained last night," said Corliss, puzzled. "Oh, _he_ wouldn't mind that!" "How stupid of me! Of course, he wouldn't. Was it Richard Lindley?" "Never!" "I see. Yes, that was a bad guess: I'm sure Lindley's just the same steady-going, sober, plodding old horse he was as a boy. His picture doesn't fit a romantic frame--singing under a lady's window in a thunderstorm! Your serenader must have been very young." "He is," said Cora. "I suppose he's about twenty-three; just a boy--and a very annoying one, too!" Her companion looked at her narrowly. "By any chance, is he the person your little brother seemed so fond of mentioning--Mr. Vilas?" Cora gave a genuine start. "Good heavens! What makes you think that?" she cried, but she was sufficiently disconcerted to confirm his amused suspicion. "So it was Mr. Vilas," he said. "He's one of the jilted, of course." "Oh, `jilted'!" she exclaimed. "All the wild boys that a girl can't make herself like aren't `jilted,' are they?" "I believe I should say--yes," he returned. "Yes, in this instance, just about all of them." "Is every woman a target for you, Mr. Corliss? I suppose you know that you have a most uncomfortable way of shooting up the landscape." She stirred uneasily, and moved away from him to the other end of the bench. "I didn't miss that time," he laughed. "Don't you ever miss?" He leaned quickly toward her and answered in a low voice: "You can be sure I'm not going to miss anything about _you_." It was as if his bending near her had been to rouge her. But it cannot be said that she disliked his effect upon her; for the deep breath she drew in audibly, through her shut teeth, was a signal of delight; and then followed one of those fraught silences not uncharacteristic of dialogues with Cora. Presently, she gracefully and uselessly smoothed her hair from the left temple with the backs of her fingers, of course finishing the gesture prettily by tucking in a hairpin tighter above the nape of her neck. Then, with recovered coolness, she asked: "Did you come all the way from Italy just to sell our old house, Mr. Corliss?" "Perhaps that was part of why I came," he said, gayly. "I need a great deal of money, Miss Cora Madison." "For your villa and your yacht?" "No; I'm a magician, dear lady----" "Yes," she said, almost angrily. "Of course you know it!" "You mock me! No; I'm going to make everybody rich who will trust me. I have a secret, and it's worth a mountain of gold. I've put all I have into it, and will put in everything else I can get for myself, but it's going to take a great deal more than that. And everybody who goes into it will come out on Monte Cristo's island." "Then I'm sorry papa hasn't anything to put in," she said. "But he has: his experience in business and his integrity. I want him to be secretary of my company. Will you help me to get him?" he laughed. "Do you want me to?" she asked with a quick, serious glance straight in his eyes, one which he met admirably. "I have an extremely definite impression," he said lightly, "that you can make anybody you know do just what you want him to." "And I have another that you have still another `extremely definite impression' that takes rank over that," she said, but not with his lightness, for her tone was faintly rueful. "It is that you can make _me_ do just what you want me to." Mr. Valentine Corliss threw himself back on the bench and laughed aloud. "What a girl!" he cried. Then for a fraction of a second he set his hand over hers, an evanescent touch at which her whole body started and visibly thrilled. She lifted her gloved hand and looked at it with an odd wonder; her alert emotions, always too ready, flinging their banners to her cheeks again. "Oh, I don't think it's soiled," he said, a speech which she punished with a look of starry contempt. For an instant she made him afraid that something had gone wrong with his measuring tape; but with a slow movement she set her hand softly against her hot cheek; and he was reassured: it was not his touching her that had offended her, but the allusion to it. "Thanks," he said, very softly. She dropped her hand to her parasol, and began, musingly, to dig little holes in the gravel of the path. "Richard Lindley is looking for investments," she said. "I'm glad to hear he's been so successful," returned Corliss. "He might like a share in your gold-mine." "Thank heaven it isn't literally a gold-mine," he exclaimed. "There have been so many crooked ones exploited I don't believe you could get anybody nowadays to come in on a real one. But I think you'd make an excellent partner for an adventurer who had discovered hidden treasure; and I'm that particular kind of adventurer. I think I'll take you in." "Do you?" "How would you like to save a man from being ruined?" "Ruined? You don't mean it literally?" "Literally!" He laughed gayly. "If I don't `land' this I'm gone, smashed, finished--quite ended! Don't bother, I'm going to `land' it. And it's rather a serious compliment I'm paying you, thinking you can help me. I'd like to see a woman--just once in the world--who could manage a thing like this." He became suddenly very grave. "Good God! wouldn't I be at her feet!" Her eyes became even more eager. "You think I--I _might_ be a woman who could?" "Who knows, Miss Madison? I believe----" He stopped abruptly, then in a lowered, graver voice asked: "Doesn't it somehow seem a little queer to you when we call each other, `Miss Madison' and `Mr. Corliss'?" "Yes," she answered slowly; "it does." "Doesn't it seem to you," he went on, in the same tone, "that we only `Miss' and `Mister' each other in fun? That though you never saw me until yesterday, we've gone pretty far beyond mere surfaces? That we did in our talk, last night?" "Yes," she repeated; "it does." He let a pause follow, and then said huskily: "How far are we going?" "I don't know." She was barely audible; but she turned deliberately, and there took place an eager exchange of looks which continued a long while. At last, and without ending this serious encounter, she whispered: "How far do _you_ think?" Mr. Corliss did not answer, and a peculiar phenomenon became vaguely evident to the girl facing him: his eyes were still fixed full upon hers, but he was not actually looking at her; nevertheless, and with an extraordinarily acute attention, he was unquestionably looking at something. The direct front of pupil and iris did not waver from her; but for the time he was not aware of her; had not even heard her question. Something in the outer field of his vision had suddenly and completely engrossed him; something in that nebulous and hazy background which we see, as we say, with the white of the eye. Cora instinctively turned and looked behind her, down the path. There was no one in sight except a little girl and the elderly burgess who had glanced over his shoulder at Cora as she entered the park; and he was, in face, mien, and attire, so thoroughly the unnoticeable, average man-on-the-street that she did not even recall him as the looker-round of a little while ago. He was strolling benevolently, the little girl clinging to one of his hands, the other holding an apple; and a composite photograph of a thousand grandfathers might have resulted in this man's picture. As the man and little girl came slowly up the walk toward the couple on the bench there was a faint tinkle at Cora's feet: her companion's scarfpin, which had fallen from his tie. He was maladroit about picking it up, trying with thumb and forefinger to seize the pin itself, instead of the more readily grasped design of small pearls at the top, so that he pushed it a little deeper into the gravel; and then occurred a tiny coincidence: the elderly man, passing, let fall the apple from his hand, and it rolled toward the pin just as Corliss managed to secure the latter. For an instant, though the situation was so absolutely commonplace, so casual, Cora had a wandering consciousness of some mysterious tensity; a feeling like the premonition of a crisis very near at hand. This sensation was the more curious because nothing whatever happened. The man got his apple, joined in the child's laughter, and went on. "What was it you asked me?" said Corliss, lifting his head again and restoring the pin to his tie. He gazed carelessly at the back of the grandsire, disappearing beyond a bush at a bend in the path. "Who was that man?" said Cora with some curiosity. "That old fellow? I haven't an idea. You see I've been away from here so many years I remember almost no one. Why?" "I don't know, unless it was because I had an idea you were thinking of him instead of me. You didn't listen to what I said." "That was because I was thinking so intensely of you," he began instantly. "A startlingly vivid thought of you came to me just then. Didn't I look like a man in a trance?" "What was the thought?" "It was a picture: I saw you standing under a great bulging sail, and the water flying by in moonlight; oh, a moon and a night such as you have never seen! and a big blue headland looming up against the moon, and crowned with lemon groves and vineyards, all sparkling with fireflies--old watch-towers and the roofs of white villas gleaming among olive orchards on the slopes--the sound of mandolins----" "Ah!" she sighed, the elderly man, his grandchild, and his apple well-forgotten. "Do you think it was a prophecy?" he asked. "What do _you_ think?" she breathed. "That was really what I asked you before." "I think," he said slowly, "that I'm in danger of forgetting that my `hidden treasure' is the most important thing in the world." "In great danger?" The words were not vocal. He moved close to her; their eyes met again, with increased eagerness, and held fast; she was trembling, visibly; and her lips--parted with her tumultuous breathing--were not far from his. "Isn't any man in great danger," he said, "if he falls in love with you?" "Well?" CHAPTER SEVEN Toward four o'clock that afternoon, a very thin, fair young man shakily heaved himself into a hammock under the trees in that broad backyard wherein, as Valentine Corliss had yesterday noticed, the last iron monarch of the herd, with unabated arrogance, had entered domestic service as a clothes-prop. The young man, who was of delicate appearance and unhumanly pale, stretched himself at full length on his back, closed his eyes, moaned feebly, cursed the heat in a stricken whisper. Then, as a locust directly overhead violently shattered the silence, and seemed like to continue the outrage forever, the shaken lounger stopped his ears with his fingers and addressed the insect in old Saxon. A white jacketed mulatto came from the house bearing something on a silver tray. "Julip, Mist' Vilas?" he said sympathetically. Ray Vilas rustily manoeuvred into a sitting position; and, with eyes still closed, made shift to accept the julep in both hands, drained half of it, opened his eyes, and thanked the cup-bearer feebly, in a voice and accent reminiscent of the melodious South. "And I wonder," he added, "if you can tell me----" "I'm Miz William Lindley's house-man, Joe Vaxdens," said the mulatto, in the tone of an indulgent nurse. "You in Miz Lindley's backyard right now, sittin' in a hammick." "I seem to gather almost that much for myself," returned the patient. "But I should like to know how I got here." "Jes' come out the front door an' walk' aroun' the house an' set down. Mist' Richard had to go downtown; tole me not to wake you; but I heerd you splashin' in the bath an' you tole me you din' want no breakfuss----" "Yes, Joe, I'm aware of what's occurred since I woke," said Vilas, and, throwing away the straws, finished the julep at one draught. "What I want to know is how I happened to be here at Mr. Lindley's." "Mist' Richard brought you las' night, suh. I don' know where he got you, but I heered a considerable thrashum aroun', up an' down the house, an' so I come help him git you to bed in one vem spare-rooms." Joe chuckled ingratiatingly. "Lord name! You cert'n'y wasn't askin' fer no _bed_!" He took the glass, and the young man reclined again in the hammock, a hot blush vanquishing his pallor. "Was I--was I very bad, Joe?" "Oh, you was all _right_," Joe hastened to reassure him. "You was jes' on'y a little bit tight." "Did it really seem only a little?" the other asked hopefully. "Yessuh," said Joe promptly. "Nothin' at all. You jes' wanted to rare roun' little bit. Mist' Richard took gun away from you----" "What?" "Oh, I tole him you wasn' goin' use it!" Joe laughed. "But you so wile be din' know what you do. You cert'n'y was drunkes' man _I_ see in _long_ while," he said admiringly. "You pert near had us bofe wore out 'fore you give up, an' Mist' Richard an' me, we _use'_ to han'lin' drunkum man, too--use' to have big times week-in, week-out 'ith Mist' Will--at's Mist' Richard's brother, you know, suh, what died o' whiskey." He laughed again in high good-humour. "You cert'n'y laid it all over any vem ole times we had 'ith Mist' Will!" Mr. Vilas shifted his position in the hammock uneasily; Joe's honest intentions to be of cheer to the sufferer were not wholly successful. "I tole Mist' Richard," the kindly servitor continued, "it was a mighty good thing his ma gone up Norf endurin' the hot spell. Sence Mist' Will die she can't hardly bear to see drunkum man aroun' the house. Mist' Richard hardly ever tech nothin' himself no more. You goin' feel better, suh, out in the f'esh air," he concluded, comfortingly as he moved away. "Joe!" "Yessuh." Mr. Vilas pulled himself upright for a moment. "What use in the world do you reckon one julep is to me?" "Mist' Richard say to give you one drink ef you ask' for it, suh," answered Joe, looking troubled. "Well, you've told me enough now about last night to make any man hang himself, and I'm beginning to remember enough more----" "Pshaw, Mist' Vilas," the coloured man interrupted, deprecatingly, "you din' broke nothin'! You on'y had couple glass' wine too much. You din' make no trouble at all; jes' went right off to bed. You ought seen some vem ole times me an Mist' Richard use to have 'ith Mist' Will----" "Joe!" "Yessuh." "I want three more juleps and I want them right away." The troubled expression upon the coloured man's face deepened. "Mist' Richard say jes' one, suh," he said reluctantly. "I'm afraid----" "Joe." "Yessuh." "I don't know," said Ray Vilas slowly, "whether or not you ever heard that I was born and raised in Kentucky." "Yessuh," returned Joe humbly. "I heerd so." "Well, then," said the young man in a quiet voice, "you go and get me three juleps. I'll settle it with Mr. Richard." "Yessuh." But it was with a fifth of these renovators that Lindley found his guest occupied, an hour later, while upon a small table nearby a sixth, untouched, awaited disposal beside an emptied coffee-cup. Also, Mr. Vilas was smoking a cigarette with unshadowed pleasure; his eye was bright, his expression care-free; and he was sitting up in the hammock, swinging cheerfully, and singing the "Marseillaise." Richard approached through the yard, coming from the street without entering the house; and anxiety was manifest in the glance he threw at the green-topped glass upon the table, and in his greeting. "Hail, gloom!" returned Mr. Vilas, cordially, and, observing the anxious glance, he swiftly removed the untouched goblet from the table to his own immediate possession. "Two simultaneous juleps will enhance the higher welfare," he explained airily. "Sir, your Mr. Varden was induced to place a somewhat larger order with us than he protested to be your intention. Trusting you to exonerate him from all so-and-so and that these few words, etcetera!" He depleted the elder glass of its liquor, waved it in the air, cried, "Health, host!" and set it upon the table. "I believe I do not err in assuming my cup-bearer's name to be Varden, although he himself, in his simple Americo-Africanism, is pleased to pluralize it. Do I fret you, host?" "Not in the least," said Richard, dropping upon a rustic bench, and beginning to fan himself with his straw hat. "What's the use of fretting about a boy who hasn't sense enough to fret about himself?" "`Boy?'" Mr. Vilas affected puzzlement. "Do I hear aright? Sir, do you boy me? Bethink you, I am now the shell of five mint-juleps plus, and am pot-valiant. And is this mere capacity itself to be lightly _boyed_? Again, do I not wear a man's garment, a man's garnitures? Heed your answer; for this serge, these flannels, and these silks are yours, and though I may not fill them to the utmost, I do to the longmost, precisely. I am the stature of a man; had it not been for your razor I should wear the beard of a man; therefore I'll not be boyed. What have you to say in defence?" "Hadn't you better let me get Joe to bring you something to eat?" asked Richard. "Eat?" Mr. Vilas disposed of the suggestion with mournful hauteur. "There! For the once I forgive you. Let the subject never be mentioned between us again. We will tactfully turn to a topic of interest. My memories of last evening, at first hazy and somewhat disconcerting, now merely amuse me. Following the pleasant Spanish custom, I went a-serenading, but was kidnapped from beneath the precious casement by--by a zealous arrival. Host, `zealous arrival' is not the julep in action: it is a triumph of paraphrase." "I wish you'd let Joe take you back to bed," said Richard. "Always bent on thoughts of the flesh," observed the other sadly. "Beds are for bodies, and I am become a thing of spirit. My soul is grateful a little for your care of its casing. You behold, I am generous: I am able to thank my successor to Carmen!" Lindley's back stiffened. "Vilas!" "Spare me your protests." The younger man waved his hand languidly. "You wish not to confer upon this subject----" "It's a subject we'll omit," said Richard. His companion stopped swinging, allowed the hammock to come to rest; his air of badinage fell from him; for the moment he seemed entirely sober; and he spoke with gentleness. "Mr. Lindley, if you please, I am still a gentleman--at times." "I beg your pardon," said Richard quickly. "No need of that!" The speaker's former careless and boisterous manner instantly resumed possession. "You must permit me to speak of a wholly fictitious lady, a creature of my wanton fancy, sir, whom I call Carmen. It will enable me to relieve my burdened soul of some remarks I have long wished to address to your excellent self." "Oh, all right," muttered Richard, much annoyed. "Let us imagine," continued Mr. Vilas, beginning to swing again, "that I thought I had won this Carmen----" Lindley uttered an exclamation, shifted his position in his chair, and fixed a bored attention upon the passing vehicles in the glimpse of the street afforded between the house and the shrubberies along the side fence. The other, without appearing to note his annoyance, went on, cheerfully: "She was a precocious huntress: early in youth she passed through the accumulator stage, leaving it to the crude or village belle to rejoice in numbers and the excitement of teasing cubs in the bear-pit. It is the nature of this imagined Carmen to play fiercely with one imitation of love after another: a man thinks he wins her, but it is merely that she has chosen him--for a while. And Carmen can have what she chooses; if the man exists who could show her that she cannot, she would follow him through the devil's dance; but neither you nor I would be that man, my dear sir. We assume that Carmen's eyes have been mine--her heart is another matter--and that she has grown weary of my somewhat Sicilian manner of looking into them, and, following her nature and the law of periodicity which Carmens must bow to, she seeks a cooler gaze and calls Mr. Richard Lindley to come and take a turn at looking. Now, Mr. Richard Lindley is straight as a die: he will not even show that he hears the call until he is sure that I have been dismissed: therefore, I have no quarrel with him. Also, I cannot even hate him, for in my clearer julep vision I see that he is but an interregnum. Let me not offend my friend: chagrin is to be his as it is mine. I was a strong draught, he but the quieting potion our Carmen took to settle it. We shall be brothers in woe some day. Nothing in the universe lasts except Hell: Life is running water; Love, a looking-glass; Death, an empty theatre! That reminds me: as you are not listening I will sing." He finished his drink and lifted his voice hilariously: "The heavenly stars far above her, The wind of the infinite sea, Who know all her perfidy, love her, So why call it madness in me? Ah, why call it madness----" He set his glass with a crash upon the table, staring over his companion's shoulder. "_What_, if you please, is the royal exile who thus seeks refuge in our hermitage?" His host had already observed the approaching visitor with some surprise, and none too graciously. It was Valentine Corliss: he had turned in from the street and was crossing the lawn to join the two young men. Lindley rose, and, greeting him with sufficient cordiality, introduced Mr. Vilas, who bestowed upon the newcomer a very lively interest. "You are as welcome, Mr. Corliss," said this previous guest, earnestly, "as if these sylvan shades were mine. I hail you, not only for your own sake, but because your presence encourages a hope that our host may offer refreshment to the entire company." Corliss smilingly declined to be a party to this diplomacy, and seated himself beside Richard Lindley on the bench. "Then I relapse!" exclaimed Mr. Vilas, throwing himself back full-length in the hammock. "I am not replete, but content. I shall meditate. Gentlemen, speak on!" He waved his hand in a gracious gesture, indicating his intention to remain silent, and lay quiet, his eyes fixed steadfastly upon Corliss. "I was coming to call on you," said the latter to Lindley, "but I saw you from the street and thought you mightn't mind my being as informal as I used to be, so many years ago." "Of course," said Richard. "I have a sinister purpose in coming," Mr. Corliss laughingly went on. "I want to bore you a little first, and then make your fortune. No doubt that's an old story to you, but I happen to be one of the adventurers whose argosies are laden with real cargoes. Nobody knows who has or hasn't money to invest nowadays, and of course I've no means of knowing whether _you_ have or not--you see what a direct chap I am--but if you have, or can lay hold of some, I can show you how to make it bring you an immense deal more." "Naturally," said Richard pleasantly, "I shall be glad if you can do that." "Then I'll come to the point. It is exceedingly simple; that's certainly one attractive thing about it." Corliss took some papers and unmounted photographs from his pocket, and began to spread them open on the bench between himself and Richard. "No doubt you know Southern Italy as well as I do." "Oh, I don't `know' it. I've been to Naples; down to Paestum; drove from Salerno to Sorrentoby Amalfi; but that was years ago." "Here's a large scale map that will refresh your memory." He unfolded it and laid it across their knees; it was frayed with wear along the folds, and had been heavily marked and dotted with red and blue pencillings. "My millions are in this large irregular section," he continued. "It's the anklebone and instep of Italy's boot; this sizable province called Basilicata, east of Salerno, north of Calabria. And I'll not hang fire on the point, Lindley. What I've got there is oil." "Olives?" asked Richard, puzzled. "Hardly!" Corliss laughed. "Though of course one doesn't connect petroleum with the thought of Italy, and of all Italy, Southern Italy. But in spite of the years I've lived there, I've discovered myself to be so essentially American and commercial that I want to drench the surface of that antique soil with the brown, bad-smelling crude oil that lies so deep beneath it. Basilicata is the coming great oil-field of the world--and that's my secret. I dare to tell it here, as I shouldn't dare in Naples." "Shouldn't `dare'?" Richard repeated, with growing interest, and no doubt having some vague expectation of a tale of the Camorra. To him Naples had always seemed of all cities the most elusive and incomprehensible, a laughing, thieving, begging, mandolin-playing, music-and-murder haunted metropolis, about which anything was plausible; and this impression was not unique, as no inconsiderable proportion of Mr. Lindley's fellow-countrymen share it, a fact thoroughly comprehended by the returned native. "It isn't a case of not daring on account of any bodily danger," explained Corliss. "No," Richard smiled reminiscently. "I don't believe that would have much weight with you if it were. You certainly showed no symptoms of that sort in your extreme youth. I remember you had the name of being about the most daring and foolhardy boy in town." "I grew up to be cautious enough in business, though," said the other, shaking his head gravely. "I haven't been able to afford not being careful." He adjusted the map--a prefatory gesture. "Now, I'll make this whole affair perfectly clear to you. It's a simple matter, as are most big things. I'll begin by telling you of Moliterno--he's been my most intimate friend in that part of the continent for a great many years; since I went there as a boy, in fact." He sketched a portrait of his friend, Prince Moliterno, bachelor chief of a historic house, the soul of honour, "land-poor"; owning leagues and leagues of land, hills and mountains, broken towers and ruins, in central Basilicata, a province described as wild country and rough, off the rails and not easy to reach. Moliterno and the narrator had gone there to shoot; Corliss had seen "surface oil" upon the streams and pools; he recalled the discovery of oil near his own boyhood home in America; had talked of it to Moliterno, and both men had become more and more interested, then excited. They decided to sink a well. Corliss described picturesquely the difficulties of this enterprise, the hardships and disappointments; how they dragged the big tools over the mountains by mule power; how they had kept it all secret; how he and Moliterno had done everything with the help of peasant labourers and one experienced man, who had "seen service in the Persian oil-fields." He gave the business reality, colouring it with details relevant and irrelevant, anecdotes and wayside incidents: he was fluent, elaborate, explicit throughout. They sank five wells, he said, "at the angles of this irregular pentagon you see here on the map, outlined in blue. These red circles are the wells." Four of the wells "came in tremendous," but they had managed to get them sealed after wasting--he was "sorry to think how many thousand barrels of oil." The fifth well was so enormous that they had not been able to seal it at the time of the speaker's departure for America. "But I had a cablegram this morning," he added, "letting me know they've managed to do it at last. Here is, the cablegram." He handed Richard a form signed "Antonio Moliterno." "Now, to go back to what I said about not `daring' to speak of this in Naples," he continued, smiling. "The fear is financial, not physical." The knowledge of the lucky strike, he explained, must be kept from the "Neapolitan money-sharks." A third of the land so rich in oil already belonged to the Moliterno estates, but it was necessary to obtain possession of the other two thirds "before the secret leaks into Naples." So far, it was safe, the peasants of Basilicata being "as medieval a lot as one could wish." He related that these peasants thought that the devils hiding inside the mountains had been stabbed by the drills, and that the oil was devils' blood. "You can see some of the country people hanging about, staring at a well, in this kodak, though it's not a very good one." He put into Richard's hand a small, blurred photograph showing a spouting well with an indistinct crowd standing in an irregular semicircle before it. "Is this the Basilicatan peasant costume?" asked Richard, indicating a figure in the foreground, the only one revealed at all definitely. "It looks more oriental. Isn't the man wearing a fez?" "Let me see," responded Mr. Corliss very quickly. "Perhaps I gave you the wrong picture. Oh, no," he laughed easily, holding the kodak closer to his eyes; "that's all right: it is a fez. That's old Salviati, our engineer, the man I spoke of who'd worked in Persia, you know; he's always worn a fez since then. Got in the habit of it out there and says he'll never give it up. Moliterno's always chaffing him about it. He's a faithful old chap, Salviati." "I see." Lindley looked thoughtfully at the picture, which the other carelessly returned to his hand. "There seems to be a lot of oil there." "It's one of the smaller wells at that. And you can see from the kodak that it's just `blowing'--not an eruption from being `shot,' or the people wouldn't stand so near. Yes; there's an ocean of oil under that whole province; but we want a lot of money to get at it. It's mountain country; our wells will all have to go over fifteen-hundred feet, and that's expensive. We want to pipe the oil to Salerno, where the Standard's ships will take it from us, and it will need a great deal for that. But most of all we want money to get hold of the land; we must control the whole field, and it's big!" "How did you happen to come here to finance it?" "I was getting to that. Moliterno himself is as honourable a man as breathes God's air. But my experience has been that Neapolitan capitalists are about the cleverest and slipperiest financiers in the world. We could have financed it twenty times over in Naples in a day, but neither Moliterno nor I was willing to trust them. The thing is enormous, you see--a really colossal fortune--and Italian law is full of ins and outs, and the first man we talked to confidentially would have given us his word to play straight, and, the instant we left him, would have flown post-haste for Basilicata and grabbed for himself the two thirds of the field not yet in our hands. Moliterno and I talked it over many, many times; we thought of going to Rome for the money, to Paris, to London, to New York; but I happened to remember the old house here that my aunt had left me--I wanted to sell it, to add whatever it brought to the money I've already put in--and then it struck me I might raise the rest here as well as anywhere else." The other nodded. "I understand." "I suppose you'll think me rather sentimental," Corliss went on, with a laugh which unexpectedly betrayed a little shyness. "I've never forgotten that I was born here--was a boy here. In all my wanderings I've always really thought of this as home." His voice trembled slightly and his face flushed; he smiled deprecatingly as though in apology for these symptoms of emotion; and at that both listeners felt (perhaps with surprise) the man's strong attraction. There was something very engaging about him: in the frankness of his look and in the slight tremor in his voice; there was something appealing and yet manly in the confession, by this thoroughgoing cosmopolite, of his real feeling for the home-town. "Of course I know how very few people, even among the `old citizens,' would have any recollection whatever of me," he went on; "but that doesn't make any difference in my sentiment for the place and its people. That street out yonder was named for my grandfather: there's a statue of my great uncle in the State House yard; all my own blood: belonged here, and though I have been a wanderer and may not be remembered--naturally am _not_ remembered--yet the name is honoured here, and I--I----" He faltered again, then concluded with quiet earnestness: "I thought that if my good luck was destined to bring fortunes to others, it might as well be to my own kind--that at least I'd offer them the chance before I offered it to any one else." He turned and looked Richard in the face. "That's why I'm here, Mr. Lindley." The other impulsively put out his hand. "I understand," he said heartily. "Thank you." Corliss changed his tone for one less serious. "You've listened very patiently and I hope you'll be rewarded for it. Certainly you will if you decide to come in with us. May I leave the maps and descriptions with you?" "Yes, indeed. I'll look them over carefully and have another talk with you about it." "Thank heaven, _that's_ over!" exclaimed the lounger in the hammock, who had not once removed his fascinated stare from the expressive face of Valentine Corliss. "If you have now concluded with dull care, allow me to put a vital question: Mr. Corliss, do you sing?" The gentleman addressed favoured him with a quizzical glance from between half-closed lids, and probably checking an impulse to remark that he happened to know that his questioner sometimes sang, replied merely, "No." "It is a pity." "Why?" "Nothing," returned the other, inconsequently. "It just struck me that you ought to sing the Toreador song." Richard Lindley, placing the notes and maps in his pocket, dropped them, and, stooping, began to gather the scattered papers with a very red face. Corliss, however, laughed good-naturedly. "That's most flattering," he said; "though there are other things in `Carmen' I prefer--probably because one doesn't hear them so eternally." Vilas pulled himself up to a sitting position and began to swing again. "Observe our host, Mr. Corliss," he commanded gayly. "He is a kind old Dobbin, much beloved, but cares damn little to hear you or me speak of music. He'd even rather discuss your oil business than listen to us talk of women, whereas nothing except women ever really interests _you_, my dear sir. He's not our kind of man," he concluded, mournfully; "not at all our kind of man!" "I hope," Corliss suggested, "he's going to be my kind of man in the development of these oil-fields." "How ridic"--Mr. Vilas triumphed over the word after a slight struggle--"ulous! I shall review that: ridiculous of you to pretend to be interested in oil-fields. You are not that sort of person whatever. Nothing could be clearer than that you would never waste the time demanded by fields of oil. Groundlings call this `the mechanical age'--a vulgar error. My dear sir, you and I know that it is the age of Woman! Even poets have begun to see that she is alive. Formerly we did not speak of her at all, but of late years she has become such a scandal that she is getting talked about. Even our dramas, which used to be all blood, have become all flesh. I wish I were dead--but will continue my harangue because the thought is pellucid. Women selecting men to mate with are of only two kinds, just as there are but two kinds of children in a toy-shop. One child sets its fancy on one partic"--the orator paused, then continued--"on one certain toy and will make a distressing scene if she doesn't get it: she will have that one; she will go straight to it, clasp it and keep it; she won't have any other. The other kind of woman is to be understood if you will make the experiment of taking the other kind of child to a toy-shop and telling her you will buy her any toy in the place, but that you will buy her only one. If you do this in the morning, she will still be in the shop when it is closing for the night, because, though she runs to each toy in turn with excitement and delight, she sees another over her shoulder, and the one she has not touched is always her choice--until she has touched it! Some get broken in the handling. For my part, my wires are working rather rustily, but I must obey the Stage-Manager. For my requiem I wish somebody would ask them to play Gounod's masterpiece." "What's that?" asked Corliss, amused. "`The Funeral March of a Marionette!'" "I suppose you mean that for a cheerful way of announcing that you are a fatalist." "Fatalism? That is only a word," declared Mr. Vilas gravely. "If I am not a puppet then I am a god. Somehow, I do not seem to be a god. If a god is a god, one thinks he would know it himself. I now yield the floor. Thanking you cordially, I believe there is a lady walking yonder who commands salutation." He rose to his feet, bowing profoundly. Cora Madison was passing, strolling rather briskly down the street, not in the direction of her home. She waved her parasol with careless gayety to the trio under the trees, and, going on, was lost to their sight. "Hello!" exclaimed Corliss, looking at his watch with a start of surprise. "I have two letters to write for the evening mail. I must be off." At this, Ray Vilas's eyes--still fixed upon him, as they had been throughout the visit--opened to their fullest capacity, in a gaze of only partially alcoholic wildness. Entirely aware of this singular glare, but not in the least disconcerted by it, the recipient proffered his easy farewells. "I had no idea it was so late. Good afternoon. Mr. Vilas, I have been delighted with your diagnosis. Lindley, I'm at your disposal when you've looked over my data. My very warm thanks for your patience, and--addio!" Lindley looked after him as he strode quickly away across the green lawn, turning, at the street, in the direction Cora had taken; and the troubled Richard felt his heart sink with vague but miserable apprehension. There was a gasp of desperation beside him, and the sound of Ray Vilas's lips parting and closing with little noises of pain. "So he knows her," said the boy, his thin body shaking. "Look at him, damn him! See his deep chest, that conqueror's walk, the easy, confident, male pride of him: a true-born, natural rake--the Toreador all over!" His agitation passed suddenly; he broke into a loud laugh, and flung a reckless hand to his companion's shoulder. "You good old fool," he cried. "_You'll_ never play Don Jose!" CHAPTER EIGHT Hedrick Madison, like too many other people, had never thought seriously about the moon; nor ever had he encouraged it to become his familiar; and he underwent his first experience of its incomparable betrayals one brilliant night during the last week of that hot month. The preface to this romantic evening was substantial and prosaic: four times during dinner was he copiously replenished with hash, which occasioned so rich a surfeit within him that, upon the conclusion of the meal, he found himself in no condition to retort appropriately to a solicitous warning from Cora to keep away from the cat. Indeed, it was half an hour later, and he was sitting--to his own consciousness too heavily--upon the back fence, when belated inspiration arrived. But there is no sound where there is no ear to hear, and no repartee, alas! when the wretch who said the first part has gone, so that Cora remained unscathed as from his alley solitude Hedrick hurled in the teeth of the rising moon these bitter words: "Oh, no; _our_ cat only eats _soft_ meat!" He renewed a morbid silence, and the moon, with its customary deliberation, swung clear of a sweeping branch of the big elm in the front yard and shone full upon him. Nothing warned the fated youth not to sit there; no shadow of imminent catastrophe tinted that brightness: no angel whisper came to him, bidding him begone--and to go in a hurry and as far as possible. No; he sat upon the fence an inoffensive lad, and--except for still feeling his hash somewhat, and a gradually dispersing rancour concerning the cat--at peace. It is for such lulled mortals that the ever-lurking Furies save their most hideous surprises. Chin on palms, he looked idly at the moon, and the moon inscrutably returned his stare. Plausible, bright, bland, it gave no sign that it was at its awful work. For the bride of night is like a card-dealer whose fingers move so swiftly through the pack the trickery goes unseen. This moon upon which he was placidly gazing, because he had nothing else to do, betokened nought to Hedrick: to him it was the moon of any other night, the old moon; certainly no moon of his delight. Withal, it may never be gazed upon so fixedly and so protractedly--no matter how languidly--with entire impunity. That light breeds a bug in the brain. Who can deny how the moon wrought this thing under the hair of unconscious Hedrick, or doubt its responsibility for the thing that happened? "_Little boy_!" It was a very soft, small voice, silky and queer; and at first Hedrick had little suspicion that it could be addressing him: the most rigid self-analysis could have revealed to him no possibility of his fitting so ignominious a description. "Oh, little boy!" He looked over his shoulder and saw, standing in the alley behind him, a girl of about his own age. She was daintily dressed and had beautiful hair which was all shining in pale gold. "Little boy!" She was smiling up at him, and once more she used that wantonly inaccurate vocative: "Little boy!" Hedrick grunted unencouragingly. "Who you callin' `little boy'?" For reply she began to climb the fence. It was high, but the young lady was astonishingly agile, and not even to be deterred by several faint wails from tearing and ripping fabrics--casualties which appeared to be entirely beneath her notice. Arriving at the top rather dishevelled, and with irregular pennons here and there flung to the breeze from her attire, she seated herself cosily beside the dumbfounded Hedrick. She turned her face to him and smiled--and there was something about her smile which Hedrick did not like. It discomforted him; nothing more. In sunlight he would have had the better chance to comprehend; but, unhappily, this was moonshine. "Kiss me, little boy!" she said. "I won't!" exclaimed the shocked and indignant Hedrick, edging uneasily away from her. "Let's play," she said cheerfully. "Play what?" "I like chickens. Did you know I like chickens?" The rather singular lack of connection in her remarks struck him as a misplaced effort at humour. "You're having lots of fun with me, aren't you?" he growled. She instantly moved close to him and lifted her face to his. "Kiss me, darling little boy!" she said. There was something more than uncommonly queer about this stranger, an unearthliness of which he was confusedly perceptive, but she was not without a curious kind of prettiness, and her pale gold hair was beautiful. The doomed lad saw the moon shining through it. "Kiss me, darling little boy!" she repeated. His head whirled; for the moment she seemed divine. George Washington used profanity at the Battle of Monmouth. Hedrick kissed her. He instantly pushed her away with strong distaste. "There!" he said angrily. "I hope that'll satisfy you!" He belonged to his sex. "Kiss me some more, darling little boy!" she cried, and flung her arms about him. With a smothered shout of dismay he tried to push her off, and they fell from the fence together, into the yard, at the cost of further and almost fatal injuries to the lady's apparel. Hedrick was first upon his feet. "Haven't you got _any_ sense?" he demanded. She smiled unwaveringly, rose (without assistance) and repeated: "Kiss me some more, darling little boy!" "No, I won't! I wouldn't for a thousand dollars!" Apparently, she did not consider this discouraging. She began to advance endearingly, while he retreated backward. "Kiss me some----" "I won't, I tell you!" Hedrick kept stepping away, moving in a desperate circle. He resorted to a brutal formula: "You make me sick!" "Kiss me some more, darling lit----" "I won't!" he bellowed. "And if you say that again I'll----" "Kiss me some more, darling little boy!" She flung herself at him, and with a yell of terror he turned and ran at top-speed. She pursued, laughing sweetly, and calling loudly as she ran, "Kiss me some more, darling little boy! Kiss me some more, darling little boy!" The stricken Hedrick knew not whither to direct his flight: he dared not dash for the street with this imminent tattered incubus--she was almost upon him--and he frantically made for the kitchen door, only to swerve with a gasp of despair as his foot touched the step, for she was at his heels, and he was sickeningly assured she would cheerfully follow him through the house, shouting that damning refrain for all ears. A strangling fear took him by the throat--if Cora should come to be a spectator of this unspeakable flight, if Cora should hear that horrid plea for love! Then farewell peace; indeed, farewell all joy in life forever! Panting sobbingly, he ducked under the amorous vampire's arm and fled on. He zigzagged desperately to and fro across the broad, empty backyard, a small hand ever and anon managing to clutch his shoulder, the awful petition in his ears: "Kiss me some more, darling little boy!" "_Hedrick_!" Emerging from the kitchen door, Laura stood and gazed in wonder as the two eerie figures sped by her, circled, ducked, dodged, flew madly on. This commonplace purlieu was become the scene of a witch-chase; the moonlight fell upon the ghastly flitting face of the pursued, uplifted in agony, white, wet, with fay eyes; also it illumined the unreal elf following close, a breeze-blown fantasy in rags. "Kiss me some more, darling little boy!" Laura uttered a sharp exclamation. "Stand still, Hedrick!" she called. "You must!" Hedrick made a piteous effort to increase his speed. "It's Lolita Martin," called Laura. "She must have her way or nothing can be done with her. Stand _still_!" Hedrick had never heard of Lolita Martin, but the added information concerning her was not ineffective: it operated as a spur; and Laura joined the hunt. "Stand still!" she cried to the wretched quarry. "She's run away. She must be taken home. Stop, Hedrick! You _must_ stop!" Hedrick had no intention of stopping, but Laura was a runner, and, as he dodged the other, caught and held him fast. The next instant, Lolita, laughing happily, flung her arms round his neck from behind. "Lemme go!" shuddered Hedrick. "Lemme go!" "Kiss me again, darl----" "I--woof!" He became inarticulate. "She isn't quite right," his sister whispered hurriedly in his ear. "She has spells when she's weak mentally. You must be kind to her. She only wants you to----" "`_Only_'!" he echoed hoarsely. "I won't ki----" He was unable to finish the word. "We must get her home," said Laura anxiously. "Will you come with me, Lolita, dear?" Apparently Lolita had no consciousness whatever of Laura's presence. Instead of replying, she tightened her grasp upon Hedrick and warmly reiterated her request. "Shut up, you parrot!" hissed the goaded boy. "Perhaps she'll go if you let her walk with her arms round your neck," suggested Laura. "If I _what_?" "Let's try it. We've got to get her home; her mother must be frantic about her. Come, let's see if she'll go with us that way." With convincing earnestness, Hedrick refused to make the experiment until Laura suggested that he remain with Lolita while she summoned assistance; then, as no alternative appeared, his spirit broke utterly, and he consented to the trial, stipulating with a last burst of vehemence that the progress of the unthinkable pageant should be through the alley. "Come, Lolita," said Laura coaxingly. "We're going for a nice walk." At the adjective, Hedrick's burdened shoulders were racked with a brief spasm, which recurred as his sister added: "Your darling little boy will let you keep hold of him." Lolita seemed content. Laughing gayly, she offered no opposition, but, maintaining her embrace with both arms and walking somewhat sidewise, went willingly enough; and the three slowly crossed the yard, passed through the empty stable and out into the alley. When they reached the cross-street at the alley's upper end, Hedrick balked flatly. Laura expostulated, then entreated. Hedrick refused with sincere loathing to be seen upon the street occupying his present position in the group. Laura assured him that there was no one to see; he replied that the moon was bright and the evening early; he would die, and readily, but he would not set foot in the street. Unfortunately, he had selected an unfavourable spot for argument: they were already within a yard or two of the street; and a strange boy, passing, stopped and observed, and whistled discourteously. "Ain't he the spooner!" remarked this unknown with hideous admiration. "I'll thank you," returned Hedrick haughtily, "to go on about your own business." "Kiss me some more, darling little boy!" said Lolita. The strange boy squawked, wailed, screamed with laughter, howled the loving petition in a dozen keys of mockery, while Hedrick writhed and Lolita clung. Enriched by a new and great experience, the torturer trotted on, leaving viperish cachinnations in his wake. But the martyrdom was at an end. A woman, hurrying past, bareheaded, was greeted by a cry of delight from Lolita, who released Hedrick and ran to her with outstretched arms. "We were bringing her home, Mrs. Martin," said Laura, reassuringly. "She's all right; nothing's the matter except that her dress got torn. We found her playing in our yard." "I thank you a thousand times, Miss Madison," cried Lolita's mother, and flutteringly plunged into a description of her anxiety, her search for Lolita, and concluded with renewed expressions of gratitude for the child's safe return, an outpouring of thankfulness and joy wholly incomprehensible to Hedrick. "Not at all," said Laura cheerfully. "Come, Hedrick. We'll go home by the street, I think." She touched his shoulder, and he went with her in stunned obedience. He was not able to face the incredible thing that had happened to him: he walked in a trance of horror. "Poor little girl!" said Laura gently, with what seemed to her brother an indefensibly misplaced compassion. "Usually they have her live in an institution for people afflicted as she is, but they brought her home for a visit last week, I believe. Of course you didn't understand, but I think you should have been more thoughtful. Really, you shouldn't have flirted with her." Hedrick stopped short. "`_Flirted_'!" His voice was beginning to show symptoms of changing, this year; it rose to a falsetto wail, flickered and went out. With the departure of Lolita in safety, what had seemed bizarre and piteous became obscured, and another aspect of the adventure was presented to Laura. The sufferings of the arrogant are not wholly depressing to the spectator; and of arrogance Hedrick had ever been a master. She began to shake; a convulsion took her, and suddenly she sat upon the curbstone without dignity, and laughed as he had never seen her. A horrid distrust of her rose within him: he began to realize in what plight he stood, what terrors o'erhung. "Look here," he said miserably, "are you--you aren't--you don't have to go and--and _talk_ about this, do you?" "No, Hedrick," she responded, rising and controlling herself somewhat. "Not so long as you're good." This was no reassuring answer. "And politer to Cora," she added. Seemingly he heard the lash of a slave-whip crack in the air. The future grew dark. "I know you'll try"--she said; and the unhappy lad felt that her assurance was justified; but she had not concluded the sentence--"darling little boy," she capped it, choking slightly. "No other little girl ever fell in love with you, did there, Hedrick?" she asked, and, receiving an incoherent but furious reply, she was again overcome, so that she must lean against the fence to recover. "It seems--so--so _curious_," she explained, gasping, "that the first one--the--the only one--should be an--a--an----" She was unable to continue. Hedrick's distrust became painfully increased: he began to feel that he disliked Laura. She was still wiping her eyes and subject to recurrent outbursts when they reached their own abode; and as he bitterly flung himself into a chair upon the vacant front porch, he heard her stifling an attack as she mounted the stairs to her own room. He swung the chair about, with its back to the street, and sat facing the wall. He saw nothing. There are profundities in the abyss which reveal no glimpse of the sky. Presently he heard his father coughing near by; and the sound was hateful, because it seemed secure and unshamed. It was a cough of moral superiority; and just then the son would have liked to believe that his parent's boyhood had been one of degradation as complete as his own; but no one with this comfortable cough could ever have plumbed such depths: his imagination refused the picture he was bitterly certain that Mr. Madison had never kissed an idiot. Hedrick had a dread that his father might speak to him; he was in no condition for light conversation. But Mr. Madison was unaware of his son's near presence, and continued upon his purposeless way. He was smoking his one nightly cigar and enjoying the moonlight. He drifted out toward the sidewalk and was accosted by a passing acquaintance, a comfortable burgess of sixty, leading a child of six or seven, by the hand. "Out taking the air, are you, Mr. Madison?" said the pedestrian, pausing. "Yes; just trying to cool off," returned the other. "How are you, Pryor, anyway? I haven't seen you for a long time." "Not since last summer," said Pryor. "I only get here once or twice a year, to see my married daughter. I always try to spend August with her if I can. She's still living in that little house, over on the next street, I bought for her through your real-estate company. I suppose you're still in the same business?" "Yes. Pretty slack, these days." "I suppose so, I suppose so," responded Mr. Pryor, nodding. "Summer, I suppose it usually is. Well, I don't know when I'll be going out on the road again myself. Business is pretty slack all over the country this year." "Let's see--I've forgotten," said Madison ruminatively. "You travel, don't you?" "For a New York house," affirmed Mr. Pryor. He did not, however, mention his "line." "Yes-sir," he added, merely as a decoration, and then said briskly: "I see you have a fine family, Mr. Madison; yes-sir, a fine family; I've passed here several times lately and I've noticed 'em: fine family. Let's see, you've got four, haven't you?" "Three," said Madison. "Two girls and a boy." "Well, sir, that's mighty nice," observed Mr. Pryor; "_mighty_ nice! I only have my one daughter, and of course me living in New York when I'm at home, and her here, why, I don't get to see much of her. You got both your daughters living with you, haven't you?" "Yes, right here at home." "Let's see: neither of 'em's married, I believe?" "No; not yet." "Seems to me now," said Pryor, taking off his glasses and wiping them, "seems to me I did hear somebody say one of 'em was going to be married engaged, maybe." "No," said Madison. "Not that I know of." "Well, I suppose you'd be the first to know! Yes-sir." And both men laughed their appreciation of this folly. "They're mighty good-looking girls, _that's_ certain," continued Mr. Pryor. "And one of 'em's as fine a dresser as you'll meet this side the Rue de la Paix." "You mean in Paris?" asked Madison, slightly surprised at this allusion. "You've been over there, Pryor?" "Oh, sometimes," was the response. "My business takes me over, now and then. I _think_ it's one of your daughters I've noticed dresses so well. Isn't one of 'em a mighty pretty girl about twenty-one or two, with a fine head of hair sort of lightish brown, beautiful figure, and carries a white parasol with a green lining sometimes?" "Yes, that's Cora, I guess." "Pretty name, too," said Pryor approvingly. "Yes-sir. I saw her going into a florist's, downtown, the other day, with a fine-looking young fellow--I can't think of his name. Let's see: my daughter was with me, and she'd heard his name--said his family used to be big people in this town and----" "Oh," said Madison, "young Corliss." "Corliss!" exclaimed Mr. Pryor, with satisfaction. "That's it, Corliss. Well, sir," he chuckled, "from the way he was looking at your Miss Cora it struck me he seemed kind of anxious for her name to be Corliss, too." "Well, hardly I expect," said the other. "They just barely know each other: he's only been here a few weeks; they haven't had time to get much acquainted, you see." "I suppose not," agreed Mr. Pryor, with perfect readiness. "I suppose not. I'll bet _he_ tries all he can to get acquainted though; he looked pretty smart to me. Doesn't he come about as often as the law allows?" "I shouldn't be surprised," said Madison indifferently. "He doesn't know many people about here any more, and it's lonesome for him at the hotel. But I guess he comes to see the whole family; I left him in the library a little while ago, talking to my wife." "That's the way! Get around the old folks first!" Mr. Pryor chuckled cordially; then in a mildly inquisitive tone he said: "Seems to be a fine, square young fellow, I expect?" "Yes, I think so." "Pretty name, `Cora'," said Pryor. "What's this little girl's name?" Mr. Madison indicated the child, who had stood with heroic patience throughout the incomprehensible dialogue. "Lottie, for her mother. She's a good little girl." "She is _so_! I've got a young son she ought to know," remarked Mr. Madison serenely, with an elderly father's total unconsciousness of the bridgeless gap between seven and thirteen. "He'd like to play with her. I'll call him." "I expect we better be getting on," said Pryor. "It's near Lottie's bedtime; we just came out for our evening walk." "Well, he can come and shake hands with her anyway," urged Hedrick's father. "Then they'll know each other, and they can play some other time." He turned toward the house and called loudly: "Hedrick!" There was no response. Behind the back of his chair Hedrick could not be seen. He was still sitting immovable, his eyes torpidly fixed upon the wall. "Hed-_rick_!" Silence. "Oh, _Hed_-rick!" shouted his father. "Come out here! I want you to meet a little girl! Come and see a nice little girl!" Mr. Pryor's grandchild was denied the pleasure. At the ghastly words "_little girl_," Hedrick dropped from his chair flat upon the floor, crawled to the end of the porch, wriggled through the railing, and immersed himself in deep shadow against the side of the house. Here he removed his shoes, noiselessly mounted to the sill of one of the library windows, then reconnoitred through a slit in the blinds before entering. The gas burned low in the "drop-light"--almost too dimly to reveal the two people upon a sofa across the room. It was a faint murmur from one of them that caused Hedrick to pause and peer more sharply. They were Cora and Corliss; he was bending close to her; her face was lifting to his. "Ah, kiss me! Kiss me!" she whispered. Hedrick dropped from the sill, climbed through a window of the kitchen, hurried up the back-stairs, and reached his own apartment in time to be violently ill in seclusion. CHAPTER NINE Villages are scattered plentifully over the unstable buttresses of Vesuvius, and the inhabitants sleep o' nights: Why not? Quite unaware that he was much of their condition, Mr. Madison bade his incidental gossip and the tiny Lottie good-night, and sought his early bed. He maintained in good faith that Saturday night was "a great night to sleep," because of the later hour for rising; probably having also some factitious conviction that there prevailed a hush preparative of the Sabbath. As a matter of fact, in summer, the other members of his family always looked uncommonly haggard at the Sunday breakfast-table. Accepting without question his preposterous legend of additional matutinal slumber, they postponed retiring to a late hour, and were awakened--simultaneously with thousands of fellow-sufferers--at about half-after five on Sunday morning, by a journalistic uprising. Over the town, in these early hours, rampaged the small vendors of the manifold sheets: local papers and papers from greater cities, hawker succeeding hawker with yell upon yell and brain-piercing shrillings in unbearable cadences. No good burgher ever complained: the people bore it, as in winter they bore the smoke that injured their health, ruined their linen, spoiled their complexions, forbade all hope of beauty and comfort in their city, and destroyed the sweetness of their homes and of their wives. It is an incredibly patient citizenry and exalts its persecutors. Of the Madison family, Cora probably suffered most; and this was the time when it was no advantage to have the front bedroom. She had not slept until close upon dawn, and the hawkers woke her irreparably; she could but rage upon her hot pillow. By and by, there came a token that another anguish kept company with hers. She had left her door open for a better circulation of the warm and languid air, and from Hedrick's room issued an "_oof_!" of agonized disgust. Cora little suspected that the youth reeked not of newsboys: Hedrick's miseries were introspective. The cries from the street were interminable; each howler in turn heard faintly in the distance, then in crescendo until he had passed and another succeeded him, and all the while Cora lay tossing and whispering between clenched teeth. Having ample reason, that morning, to prefer sleep to thinking, sleep was impossible. But she fought for it: she did not easily surrender what she wanted; and she struggled on, with closed eyes, long after she had heard the others go down to breakfast. About a hundred yards from her windows, to the rear, were the open windows of a church which fronted the next street, and stood dos-a-dos to the dwelling of the Madisons. The Sunday-school hour had been advanced for the hot weather, and, partly on this account, and partly because of the summer absence of many families, the attendants were few. But the young voices were conducted, rather than accompanied, in pious melody by a cornetist who worthily thought to amend, in his single person, what lack of volume this paucity occasioned. He was a slender young man in hot black clothes; he wore the unfacaded collar fatally and unanimously adopted by all adam's-apple men of morals; he was washed, fair, flat-skulled, clean-minded, and industrious; and the only noise of any kind he ever made in the world was on Sunday. "Prashus joowuls, sweet joowuls, _thee_ jams off iz crowowun," sang the little voices feebly. They were almost unheard; but the young man helped them out: figuratively, he put them out. And the cornet was heard: it was heard for blocks and blocks; it was heard over all that part of the town--in the vicinity of the church it was the only thing that could be heard. In his daily walk this cornetist had no enemies: he was kind-hearted; he would not have shot a mad dog; he gladly nursed the sick. He sat upon the platform before the children; he swelled, perspired and blew, and felt that it was a good blowing. If other thoughts vapoured upon the borders of his mind, they were of the dinner he would eat, soon after noon, at the house of one of the frilled, white-muslin teachers. He was serene. His eyes were not blasted; his heart was not instantly withered; his thin, bluish hair did not fall from his head; his limbs were not detached from his torso--yet these misfortunes had been desired for him, with comprehension and sincerity, at the first flat blat of his brassy horn. It is impossible to imagine the state of mind of this young cornetist, could he have known that he had caused the prettiest girl in town to jump violently out of bed with what petitions upon her lips regarding his present whereabouts and future detention! It happened that during the course of his Sunday walk on Corliss Street, that very afternoon, he saw her--was hard-smitten by her beauty, and for weeks thereafter laid unsuccessful plans to "meet" her. Her image was imprinted: he talked about her to his boarding-house friends and office acquaintances, his favourite description being, "the sweetest-looking lady I ever laid eyes on." Cora, descending to the breakfast-table rather white herself, was not unpleasantly shocked by the haggard aspect of Hedrick, who, with Laura and Mrs. Madison, still lingered. "Good-morning, Cora," he said politely, and while she stared, in suspicious surprise, he passed her a plate of toast with ostentatious courtesy; but before she could take one of the slices, "Wait," he said; "it's very nice toast, but I'm afraid it isn't hot. I'll take it to the kitchen and have it warmed for you." And he took the plate and went out, walking softly. Cora turned to her mother, appalled. "He'll be sick!" she said. Mrs. Madison shook her head and smiled sadly. "He helped to wait on all of us: he must have been doing something awful." "More likely he wants permission to do something awful." Laura looked out of the window. "There, Cora," said Hedrick kindly, when he brought the toast; "you'll find that nice and hot." She regarded him steadfastly, but with modesty he avoided her eye. "You wouldn't make such a radical change in your nature, Hedrick," she said, with a puzzled frown, "just to get out of going to church, would you?" "I don't want to get out of going to church," he said. He gulped slightly. "I like church." And church-time found him marching decorously beside his father, the three ladies forming a rear rank; a small company in the very thin procession of fanning women and mopping men whose destination was the gray stone church at the foot of Corliss Street. The locusts railed overhead: Hedrick looked neither to the right nor to the left. They passed a club, of which a lower window was vacated simultaneously with their coming into view; and a small but ornate figure in pale gray crash hurried down the steps and attached itself to the second row of Madisons. "Good-morning," said Mr. Wade Trumble. "Thought I'd take a look-in at church this morning myself." Care of this encumbrance was usually expected of Laura and Mrs. Madison, but to their surprise Cora offered a sprightly rejoinder and presently dropped behind them with Mr. Trumble. Mr. Trumble was also surprised and, as naively, pleased. "What's happened?" he asked with cheerful frankness. "You haven't given me a chance to talk to you for a long while." "Haven't I?" she smiled enigmatically. "I don't think you've tried very hard." This was too careless; it did not quite serve, even for Trumble. "What's up?" he asked, not without shrewdness. "Is Richard Lindley out of town?" "I don't know." "I see. Perhaps it's this new chap, Corliss? Has he left?" "What nonsense! What have they got to do with my being nice to you?" She gave him a dangerous smile, and it wrought upon him visibly. "Don't you ever be nice to me unless you mean it," he said feebly. Cora looked grave and sweet; she seemed mysteriously moved. "I never do anything I don't mean," she said in a low voice which thrilled the little man. This was machine-work, easy and accurate. "Cora----" he began, breathlessly. "There!" she exclaimed, shifting on the instant to a lively brusqueness. "That's enough for you just _now_. We're on our way to church!" Trumble felt almost that she had accepted him. "Have you got your penny for the contribution box?" she smiled. "I suppose you really give a great deal to the church. I hear you're richer and richer." "I do pretty well," he returned, coolly. "You can know just how well, if you like." "Not on Sunday," she laughed; then went on, admiringly, "I hear you're very dashing in your speculations." "Then you've heard wrong, because I don't speculate," he returned. "I'm not a gambler--except on certainties. I guess I disappointed a friend of yours the other day because I wouldn't back him on a thousand-to-one shot." "Who was that?" she asked, with an expression entirely veiled. "Corliss. He came to see me; wanted me to put real money into an oil scheme. Too thin!" "Why is it `too thin'?" she asked carelessly. "Too far away, for one thing--somewhere in Italy. Anybody who put up his cash would have to do it on Corliss's bare word that he's struck oil." "Well?" She turned her face to him, and a faint perturbation was manifest in her tone. "Isn't Mr. Corliss's `bare word' supposed to be perfectly good?" "Oh, I suppose so, but I don't know. He isn't known here: nobody really knows anything about him except that he was born here. Besides, I wouldn't make an investment on my own father's bare word, if he happened to be alive." "Perhaps not!" Cora spoke impulsively, a sudden anger getting the better of her, but she controlled it immediately. "Of course I don't mean that," she laughed, sweetly. "But _I_ happen to think Mr. Corliss's scheme a very handsome one, and I want my friends to make their fortunes, of course. Richard Lindley and papa are going into it." "I'll bet they don't," said Trumble promptly. "Lindley told me he'd looked it over and couldn't see his way to." "He did?" Cora stiffened perceptibly and bit her lip. Trumble began to laugh. "This is funny: you trying to talk business! So Corliss has been telling you about it?" "Yes, he has; and I understand it perfectly. I think there's an enormous fortune in it, and you'd better not laugh at me: a woman's instinct about such things is better than a man's experience sometimes." "You'll find neither Lindley nor your father are going to think so," he returned skeptically. She gave him a deep, sweet look. "But I mustn't be disappointed in you," she said, with the suggestion of a tremor in her voice, "whatever _they_ do! You'll take my advice, won't you--Wade?" "I'll take your advice in anything but business." He shook his head ominously. "And wouldn't you take my advice in business,"--she asked very slowly and significantly--"under _any_ circumstances?" "You mean," he said huskily, "if you were my wife?" She looked away, and slightly inclined her head. "No," he answered doggedly, "I wouldn't. You know mighty well that's what I want you to be, and I'd give my soul for the tip of your shoe, but business is an entirely different matter, and I----" "_Wade_!" she said, with wonderful and thrilling sweetness. They had reached the church; Hedrick and his father had entered; Mrs. Madison and Laura were waiting on the steps. Cora and Trumble came to a stop some yards away. "Wade, I--I _want_ you to go into this." "Can't do it," he said stubbornly. "If you ever make up your mind to marry me, I'll spend all the money you like on _you_, but you'll have to keep to the woman's side of the house." "You make it pretty hard for me to be nice to you," she returned, and the tremor now more evident in her voice was perfectly genuine. "You positively refuse to do this--for me?" "Yes I do. I wouldn't buy sight-unseen to please God 'lmighty, Cora Madison." He looked at her shrewdly, struck by a sudden thought. "Did Corliss ask you to try and get me in?" "He did not," she responded, icily. "Your refusal is final?" "Certainly!" He struck the pavement a smart rap with his walking-stick. "By George, I believe he _did_ ask you! That spoils church for me this morning; I'll not go in. When you quit playing games, let me know. You needn't try to work me any more, because I won't stand for it, but if you ever get tired of playing, come and tell me so." He uttered a bark of rueful laughter. "Ha! I must say that gentleman has an interesting way of combining business with pleasure!" Under favourable circumstances the blow Cora dealt him might have been physically more violent. "Good-morning," she laughed, gayly. "I'm not bothering much about Mr. Corliss's oil in Italy. I had a bet with Laura I could keep you from saying `I beg to differ,' or talking about the weather for five minutes. She'll have to pay me!" Then, still laughing, she lowered her parasol, and with superb impudence, brushed it smartly across his face; turned on her heel, and, red with fury, joined her mother and sister, and went into the church. The service failed to occupy her attention: she had much in her thoughts to distract her. Nevertheless, she bestowed some wonderment upon the devotion with which her brother observed each ceremonial rite. He joined in prayer with real fervour; he sang earnestly and loudly; a great appeal sounded in his changing voice; and during the sermon he sat with his eyes upon the minister in a stricken fixity. All this was so remarkable that Cora could not choose but ponder upon it, and, observing Hedrick furtively, she caught, if not a clue itself, at least a glimpse of one. She saw Laura's clear profile becoming subtly agitated; then noticed a shimmer of Laura's dark eye as it wandered to Hedrick and so swiftly away it seemed not to dare to remain. Cora was quick: she perceived that Laura was repressing a constant desire to laugh and that she feared to look at Hedrick lest it overwhelm her. So Laura knew what had wrought the miracle. Cora made up her mind to explore this secret passage. When the service was over and the people were placidly buzzing their way up the aisles, Cora felt herself drawn to look across the church, and following the telepathic impulse, turned her head to encounter the gaze of Ray Vilas. He was ascending the opposite aisle, walking beside Richard Lindley. He looked less pale than usual, though his thinness was so extreme it was like emaciation; but his eyes were clear and quiet, and the look he gave her was strangely gentle. Cora frowned and turned away her head with an air of annoyance. They came near each other in the convergence at the doors; but he made no effort to address her, and, moving away through the crowd as quickly as possible, disappeared. Valentine Corliss was disclosed in the vestibule. He reached her an instant in advance of Mr. Lindley, who had suffered himself to be impeded; and Cora quickly handed the former her parasol, lightly taking his arm. Thus the slow Richard found himself walking beside Laura in a scattered group, its detached portion consisting of his near-betrothed and Corliss; for although the dexterous pair were first to leave the church, they contrived to be passed almost at once, and, assuming the position of trailers, lagged far behind on the homeward way. Laura and Richard walked in the unmitigated glare of the sun; he had taken her black umbrella and conscientiously held it aloft, but over nobody. They walked in silence: they were quiet people, both of them; and Richard, not "talkative" under any circumstances, never had anything whatever to say to Laura Madison. He had known her for many years, ever since her childhood; seldom indeed formulating or expressing a definite thought about her, though sometimes it was vaguely of his consciousness that she played the piano nicely, and even then her music had taken its place as but a colour of Cora's background. For to him, as to every one else (including Laura), Laura was in nothing her sister's competitor. She was a neutral-tinted figure, taken-for-granted, obscured, and so near being nobody at all, that, as Richard Lindley walked beside her this morning, he glanced back at the lagging couple and uttered a long and almost sonorous sigh, which he would have been ashamed for anybody to hear; and then actually proceeded on his way without the slightest realization that anybody had heard it. She understood. And she did not disturb the trance; she did nothing to make him observe that she was there. She walked on with head, shoulders, and back scorching in the fierce sun, and allowed him to continue shading the pavement before them with her umbrella. When they reached the house she gently took the umbrella from him and thanked him; and he mechanically raised his hat. They had walked more than a mile together; he had not spoken a word, and he did not even know it. CHAPTER TEN Dinner on Sunday, the most elaborate feast of the week for the Madisons, was always set for one o'clock in the afternoon, and sometimes began before two, but not to-day: the escorts of both daughters remained, and a change of costume by Cora occasioned a long postponement. Justice demands the admission that her reappearance in a glamour of lilac was reward for the delay; nothing more ravishing was ever seen, she was warrantably informed by the quicker of the two guests, in a moment's whispered tete-a-tete across the banisters as she descended. Another wait followed while she prettily arranged upon the table some dozens of asters from a small garden-bed, tilled, planted, and tended by Laura. Meanwhile, Mrs. Madison constantly turned the other cheek to the cook. Laura assisted in the pacification; Hedrick froze the ice-cream to an impenetrable solidity; and the nominal head of the family sat upon the front porch with the two young men, and wiped his wrists and rambled politically till they were summoned to the dining-room. Cora did the talking for the table. She was in high spirits; no trace remained of a haggard night: there was a bloom upon her--she was radiant. Her gayety may have had some inspiration in her daring, for round her throat she wore a miraculously slender chain of gold and enamel, with a pendant of minute pale sapphires scrolled about a rather large and very white diamond. Laura started when she saw it, and involuntarily threw a glance almost of terror at Richard Lindley. But that melancholy and absent-minded gentleman observed neither the glance nor the jewel. He saw Cora's eyes, when they were vouchsafed to his vision, and when they were not he apparently saw nothing at all. With the general exodus from the table, Cora asked Laura to come to the piano and play, a request which brought a snort from Hedrick, who was taken off his guard. Catching Laura's eye, he applied a handkerchief with renewed presence of mind, affecting to have sneezed, and stared searchingly over it at Corliss. He perceived that the man remained unmoved, evidently already informed that it was Laura who was the musician. Cora must be going it pretty fast this time: such was the form of her brother's deduction. When Laura opened the piano, Richard had taken a seat beside Cora, and Corliss stood leaning in the doorway. The player lost herself in a wandering medley, echoes from "Boheme" and "Pagliacci"; then drifted into improvisation and played her heart into it magnificently--a heart released to happiness. The still air of the room filled with wonderful, golden sound: a song like the song of a mother flying from earth to a child in the stars, a torrential tenderness, unpent and glorying in freedom. The flooding, triumphant chords rose, crashed--stopped with a shattering abruptness. Laura's hands fell to her sides, then were raised to her glowing face and concealed it for a moment. She shivered; a quick, deep sigh heaved her breast; and she came back to herself like a prisoner leaving a window at the warden's voice. She turned. Cora and Corliss had left the room. Richard was sitting beside a vacant chair, staring helplessly at the open door. If he had been vaguely conscious of Laura's playing, which is possible, certainly he was unaware that it had ceased. "The others have gone out to the porch," she said composedly, and rose. "Shan't we join them?" "What?" he returned, blankly. "I beg your pardon----" "Let's go out on the porch with the others." "No, I----" He got to his feet confusedly. "I was thinking---- I believe I'd best be going home." "Not `best,' I think," she said. "Not even better!" "I don't see," he said, his perplexity only increased. "Mr. Corliss would," she retorted quickly. "Come on: we'll go and sit with them." And she compelled his obedience by preceding him with such a confident assumption that he would follow that he did. The fugitive pair were not upon the porch, however; they were discovered in the shade of a tree behind the house, seated upon a rug, and occupied in a conversation which would not have disturbed a sick-room. The pursuers came upon them, boldly sat beside them; and Laura began to talk with unwonted fluency to Corliss, but within five minutes found herself alone with Richard Lindley upon the rug. Cora had promised to show Mr. Corliss an "old print" in the library--so Cora said. Lindley gave the remaining lady a desolate and faintly reproachful look. He was kind, but he was a man; and Laura saw that this last abandonment was being attributed in part to her. She reddened, and, being not an angel, observed with crispness: "Certainly. You're quite right: it's my fault!" "What did you say?" he asked vacantly. She looked at him rather fixedly; his own gaze had returned to the angle of the house beyond which the other couple had just disappeared. "I said," she answered, slowly, "I thought it wouldn't rain this, afternoon." His wistful eyes absently swept the serene sky which had been cloudless for several days. "No, I suppose not," he murmured. "Richard," she said with a little sharpness, "will you please listen to me for a moment?" "Oh--what?" He was like a diver coming up out of deep water. "What did you say?" He laughed apologetically. "Wasn't I listening? I beg your pardon. What is it, Laura?" "Why do you let Mr. Corliss take Cora away from you like that?" she asked gravely. "He doesn't," the young man returned with a rueful shake of the head. "Don't you see? It's Cora that goes." "Why do you let her, then?" He sighed. "I don't seem to be able to keep up with Cora, especially when she's punishing me. I couldn't do something she asked me to, last night----" "Invest with Mr. Corliss?" asked Laura quickly. "Yes. It seemed to trouble her that I couldn't. She's convinced it's a good thing: she thinks it would make a great fortune for us----" "`Us'?" repeated Laura gently. "You mean for you and her? When you're----" "When we're married. Yes," he said thoughtfully, "that's the way she stated it. She wanted me to put in all I have----" "Don't do it!" said Laura decidedly. He glanced at her with sharp inquiry. "Do you mean you would distrust Mr. Corliss?" "I wasn't thinking of that: I don't know whether I'd trust him or not--I think I wouldn't; there's something veiled about him, and I don't believe he is an easy man to know. What I meant was that I don't believe it would really be a good thing for you with Cora." "It would please her, of course--thinking I deferred so much to her judgment." "Don't do it!" she said again, impulsively. "I don't see how I can," he returned sorrowfully. "It's my work for all the years since I got out of college, and if I lost it I'd have to begin all over again. It would mean postponing everything. Cora isn't a girl you can ask to share a little salary, and if it were a question of years, perhaps-- perhaps Cora might not feel she could wait for me, you see." He made this explanation with plaintive and boyish sincerity, hesitatingly, and as if pleading a cause. And Laura, after a long look at him, turned away, and in her eyes were actual tears of compassion for the incredible simpleton. "I see," she said. "Perhaps she might not." "Of course," he went on, "she's fond of having nice things, and she thinks this is a great chance for us to be millionaires; and then, too, I think she may feel that it would please Mr. Corliss and help to save him from disappointment. She seems to have taken a great fancy to him." Laura glanced at him, but did not speak. "He _is_ attractive," continued Richard feebly. "I think he has a great deal of what people call `magnetism': he's the kind of man who somehow makes you want to do what he wants you to. He seems a manly, straightforward sort, too--so far as one can tell--and when he came to me with his scheme I was strongly inclined to go into it. But it is too big a gamble, and I can't, though I was sorry to disappoint him myself. He was perfectly cheerful about it and so pleasant it made me feel small. I don't wonder at all that Cora likes him so much. Besides, he seems to understand her." Laura looked very grave. "I think he does," she said slowly. "And then he's `different,'" said Richard. "He's more a `man of the world' than most of us here: she never saw anything just like him before, and she's seen _us_ all her life. She likes change, of course. That's natural," he said gently. "Poor Vilas says she wants a man to be different every day, and if he isn't, then she wants a different man every day." "You've rather taken Ray Vilas under your wing, haven't you?" asked Laura. "Oh, no," he answered deprecatingly. "I only try to keep him with me so he'll stay away from downtown as much as possible." "Does he talk much of Cora?" "All the time. There's no stopping him. I suppose he can't help it, because he thinks of nothing else." "Isn't that rather--rather queer for you?" "`Queer'?" he repeated. "No, I suppose not!" She laughed impatiently. "And probably you don't think it's `queer' of you to sit here helplessly, and let another man take your place----" "But I don't `let' him, Laura," he protested. "No, he just does it!" "Well," he smiled, "you must admit my efforts to supplant him haven't----" "It won't take any effort now," she said, rising quickly. Valentine Corliss came into their view upon the sidewalk in front, taking his departure. Seeing that they observed him, he lifted his hat to Laura and nodded a cordial good-day to Lindley. Then he went on. Just before he reached the corner of the lot, he encountered upon the pavement a citizen of elderly and plain appearance, strolling with a grandchild. The two men met and passed, each upon his opposite way, without pausing and without salutation, and neither Richard nor Laura, whose eyes were upon the meeting, perceived that they had taken cognizance of each other. But one had asked a question and the other had answered. Mr. Pryor spoke in a low monotone, with a rapidity as singular as the restrained but perceptible emphasis he put upon one word of his question. "I got you in the park," he said; and it is to be deduced that "got" was argot. "You're not _doing_ anything here, are you?" "No!" answered Corliss with condensed venom, his back already to the other. He fanned himself with his hat as he went on. Mr. Pryor strolled up the street with imperturbable benevolence. "Your coast is cleared," said Laura, "since you wouldn't clear it yourself." "Wish me luck," said Richard as he left her. She nodded brightly. Before he disappeared, he looked back to her again (which profoundly surprised her) and smiled rather disconsolately, shaking his head as in prophecy of no very encouraging reception indoors. The manner of this glance recalled to Laura what his mother had once said of him. "Richard is one of those sweet, helpless men that some women adore and others despise. They fall in love with the ones that despise them." An ostentatious cough made her face about, being obviously designed to that effect; and she beheld her brother in the act of walking slowly across the yard with his back to her. He halted upon the border of her small garden of asters, regarded it anxiously, then spread his handkerchief upon the ground, knelt upon it, and with thoughtful care uprooted a few weeds which were beginning to sprout, and also such vagrant blades of grass as encroached upon the floral territory. He had the air of a virtuous man performing a good action which would never become known. Plainly, he thought himself in solitude and all unobserved. It was a touching picture, pious and humble. Done into coloured glass, the kneeling boy and the asters--submerged in ardent sunshine--would have appropriately enriched a cathedral: Boyhood of Saint Florus the Gardener. Laura heartlessly turned her back, and, affecting an interest in her sleeve, very soon experienced the sensation of being stared at with some poignancy from behind. Unchanged in attitude, she unravelled an imaginary thread, whereupon the cough reached her again, shrill and loud, its insistence not lacking in pathos. She approached him, driftingly. No sign that he was aware came from the busied boy, though he coughed again, hollowly now--a proof that he was an artist. "All right, Hedrick," she said kindly. "I heard you the first time." He looked up with utter incomprehension. "I'm afraid I've caught cold," he said, simply. "I got a good many weeds out before breakfast, and the ground was damp." Hedrick was of the New School: everything direct, real, no striving for effect, no pressure on the stroke. He did his work: you could take it or leave it. "You mustn't strain so, dear," returned his sister, shaking her head. "It won't last if you do. You see this is only the first day." Struck to the heart by so brutal a misconception, he put all his wrongs into one look, rose in manly dignity, picked up his handkerchief, and left her. Her eyes followed him, not without remorse: it was an exit which would have moved the bass-violist of a theatre orchestra. Sighing, she went to her own room by way of the kitchen and the back-stairs, and, having locked her door, brought the padlocked book from its hiding-place. "I think I should not have played as I did, an hour ago," she wrote. "It stirs me too greatly and I am afraid it makes me inclined to self-pity afterward, and I must never let myself feel _that_! If I once begin to feel sorry for myself. . . . But I _will_ not! No. You are here in the world. You exist. You _are_! That is the great thing to know and it must be enough for me. It is. I played to You. I played _just love_ to you--all the yearning tenderness--all the supreme kindness I want to give you. Isn't love really just glorified kindness? No, there is something more. . . . I feel it, though I do not know how to say it. But it was in my playing--I played it and played it. Suddenly I felt that in my playing I had shouted it from the housetops, that I had told the secret to all the world and _everybody_ knew. I stopped, and for a moment it seemed to me that I was dying of shame. But no one understood. No one had even listened. . . . Sometimes it seems to me that I am like Cora, that I am very deeply her sister in some things. My heart goes all to You--my revelation of it, my release of it, my outlet of it is all here in these pages (except when I play as I did to-day and as I shall not play again) and perhaps the writing keeps me quiet. Cora scatters her own releasings: she is looking for the You she may never find; and perhaps the penalty for scattering is never finding. Sometimes I think the seeking has reacted and that now she seeks only what will make her feel. I hope she has not found it: I am afraid of this new man--not only for your sake, dear. I felt repelled by his glance at me the first time I saw him. I did not like it--I cannot say just why, unless that it seemed too intimate. I am afraid of him for her, which is a queer sort of feeling because she has alw----" Laura's writing stopped there, for that day, interrupted by a hurried rapping upon the door and her mother's voice calling her with stress and urgency. The opening of the door revealed Mrs. Madison in a state of anxious perturbation, and admitted the sound of loud weeping and agitated voices from below. "Please go down," implored the mother. "You can do more with her than I can. She and your father have been having a terrible scene since Richard went home." Laura hurried down to the library. CHAPTER ELEVEN "Oh, _come_ in, Laura!" cried her sister, as Laura appeared in the doorway. "Don't _stand_ there! Come in if you want to take part in a grand old family row!" With a furious and tear-stained face, she was confronting her father who stood before her in a resolute attitude and a profuse perspiration. "Shut the door!" shouted Cora violently, adding, as Laura obeyed, "Do you want that little Pest in here? Probably he's eavesdropping anyway. But what difference does it make? I don't care. Let him hear! Let anybody hear that wants to! They can hear how I'm tortured if they like. I didn't close my eyes last night, and now I'm being tortured. Papa!" She stamped her foot. "Are you going to take back that insult to me?" "`Insult'?" repeated her father, in angry astonishment. "Pshaw," said Laura, laughing soothingly and coming to her. "You know that's nonsense, Cora. Kind old papa couldn't do that if he tried. Dear, you know he never insulted anybody in his----" "Don't touch me!" screamed Cora, repulsing her. "Listen, if you've got to, but let me alone. He did too! He did! He _knows_ what he said!" "I do not!" "He does! He does!" cried Cora. "He said that I was--I was too much `interested' in Mr. Corliss." "Is that an `insult'?" the father demanded sharply. "It was the way he said it," Cora protested, sobbing. "He meant something he didn't _say_. He did! He did! He _meant_ to insult me!" "I did nothing of the kind," shouted the old man. "I don't know what you're talking about. I said I couldn't understand your getting so excited about the fellow's affairs and that you seemed to take a mighty sudden interest in him." "Well, what if I _do_?" she screamed. "Haven't I a right to be interested in what I choose? I've got to be interested in _something_, haven't I? _You_ don't make life very interesting, do you? Do you think it's interesting to spend the summer in this horrible old house with the paper falling off the walls and our rotten old furniture that I work my hands off trying to make look decent and can't, and every other girl I know at the seashore with motor-cars and motor-boats, or getting a trip abroad and buying her clothes in Paris? What do _you_ offer to interest me?" The unfortunate man hung his head. "I don't see what all that has to do with it----" She seemed to leap at him. "You _don't_? You _don't_?" "No, I don't. And I don't see why you're so crazy to please young Corliss about this business unless you're infatuated with him. I had an idea--and I was pleased with it, too, because Richard's a steady fellow--that you were just about engaged to Richard Lindley, and----" "Engaged!" she cried, repeating the word with bitter contempt. "Engaged! You don't suppose I'll marry him unless I want to, do you? I will if it suits me. I won't if it suits me not to; understand that! I don't consider myself engaged to anybody, and you needn't either. What on earth has that got to do with your keeping Richard Lindley from doing what Mr. Corliss wants him to?" "I'm not keeping him from anything. He didn't say----" "He did!" stormed Cora. "He said he would if you went into it. He told me this afternoon, an hour ago." "Now wait," said Madison. "I talked this over with Richard two days ago----" Cora stamped her foot again in frantic exasperation. "I'm talking about this afternoon!" "Two days ago," he repeated doggedly; "and we came to the same conclusion: it won't do. He said he couldn't go into it unless he went over there to Italy--and saw for himself just what he was putting his money into, and Corliss had told him that it couldn't be done; that there wasn't time, and showed him a cablegram from his Italian partner saying the secret had leaked out and that they'd have to form the company in Naples and sell the stock over there if it couldn't be done here within the next week. Corliss said he had to ask for an immediate answer, and so Richard told him no, yesterday." "Oh, my God!" groaned Cora. "What has that got to do with _your_ going into it? You're not going to risk any money! I don't ask you to _spend_ anything, do I? You haven't got it if I did. All Mr. Corliss wants is your name. Can't you give even _that_? What importance is it?" "Well, if it isn't important, what difference does it make whether I give it or not?" She flung up her arms as in despairing appeal for patience. "It _is_ important to him! Richard will do it if you will be secretary of the company: he promised me. Mr. Corliss told me your name was worth everything here: that men said downtown you could have been rich long ago if you hadn't been so square. Richard trusts you; he says you're the most trusted man in town----" "That's why I can't do it," he interrupted. "No!" Her vehemence increased suddenly to its utmost. "No! Don't you say that, because it's a lie. That isn't the reason you won't do it. You won't do it because you think it would please _me_! You're afraid it might make me _happy_! Happy--happy--_happy_!" She beat her breast and cast herself headlong upon the sofa, sobbing wildly. "Don't come near me!" she screamed at Laura, and sprang to her feet again, dishevelled and frantic. "Oh, Christ in heaven! is there such a thing as happiness in this beast of a world? I want to leave it. I want to go away: I want _so_ to die: Why can't I? Why can't I! Why can't I! Oh, God, why _can't_ I die? Why can't----" Her passion culminated in a shriek: she gasped, was convulsed from head to foot for a dreadful moment, tore at the bosom of her dress with rigid bent fingers, swayed; then collapsed all at once. Laura caught her, and got her upon the sofa. In the hall, Mrs. Madison could be heard running and screaming to Hedrick to go for the doctor. Next instant, she burst into the room with brandy and camphor. "I could only find these; the ammonia bottle's empty," she panted; and the miserable father started hatless, for the drug-store, a faint, choked wail from the stricken girl sounding in his ears: "It's--it's my heart, mamma." It was four blocks to the nearest pharmacy; he made what haste he could in the great heat, but to himself he seemed double his usual weight; and the more he tried to hurry, the less speed appeared obtainable from his heavy legs. When he reached the place at last, he found it crowded with noisy customers about the "soda-fount"; and the clerks were stonily slow: they seemed to know that they were "already in eternity." He got very short of breath on the way home; he ceased to perspire and became unnaturally dry; the air was aflame and the sun shot fire upon his bare head. His feet inclined to strange disobediences: he walked the last block waveringly. A solemn Hedrick met him at the door. "They've got her to bed," announced the boy. "The doctor's up there." "Take this ammonia up," said Madison huskily, and sat down upon a lower step of the stairway with a jolt, closing his eyes. "You sick, too?" asked Hedrick. "No. Run along with that ammonia." It seemed to Madison a long time that he sat there alone, and he felt very dizzy. Once he tried to rise, but had to give it up and remain sitting with his eyes shut. At last he heard Cora's door open and close; and his wife and the doctor came slowly down the stairs, Mrs. Madison talking in the anxious yet relieved voice of one who leaves a sick-room wherein the physician pronounces progress encouraging. "And you're _sure_ her heart trouble isn't organic?" she asked. "Her heart is all right," her companion assured her. "There's nothing serious; the trouble is nervous. I think you'll find she'll be better after a good sleep. Just keep her quiet. Hadn't she been in a state of considerable excitement?" "Ye-es--she----" "Ah! A little upset on account of opposition to a plan she'd formed, perhaps?" "Well--partly," assented the mother. "I see," he returned, adding with some dryness: "I thought it just possible." Madison got to his feet, and stepped down from the stairs for them to pass him. He leaned heavily against the wall. "You think she's going to be all right, Sloane?" he asked with an effort. "No cause to worry," returned the physician. "You can let her stay in bed to-day if she wants to but----" He broke off, looking keenly at Madison's face, which was the colour of poppies. "Hello! what's up with _you_?" "I'm all--right." "Oh, you are?" retorted Sloane with sarcasm. "Sit down," he commanded. "Sit right where you are--on the stairs, here," and, having enforced the order, took a stethoscope from his pocket. "Get him a glass of water," he said to Hedrick, who was at his elbow. "Doctor!" exclaimed Mrs. Madison. "_He_ isn't going to be sick, is he? You don't think he's sick _now_?" "I shouldn't call him very well," answered the physician rather grimly, placing his stethoscope upon Madison's breast. "Get his room ready for him." She gave him a piteous look, struck with fear; then obeyed a gesture and ran flutteringly up the stairs. "I'm all right now," panted Madison, drinking the water Hedrick brought him. "You're not so darned all right," said Sloane coolly, as he pocketed his stethoscope. "Come, let me help you up. We're going to get you to bed." There was an effort at protest, but the physician had his way, and the two ascended the stairs slowly, Sloane's arm round his new patient. At Cora's door, the latter paused. "What's the matter?" "I want," said Madison thickly--"I want--to speak to Cora." "We'll pass that up just now," returned the other brusquely, and led him on. Madison was almost helpless: he murmured in a husky, uncertain voice, and suffered himself to be put to bed. There, the doctor "worked" with him; cold "applications" were ordered; Laura was summoned from the other sick-bed; Hedrick sent flying with prescriptions, then to telephone for a nurse. The two women attempted questions at intervals, but Sloane replied with orders, and kept them busy. "Do you--think I'm a---a pretty sick man, Sloane?" asked Madison after a long silence, speaking with difficulty. "Oh, you're sick, all right," the doctor conceded. "I--I want to speak to Jennie." His wife rushed to the bed, and knelt beside it. "Don't you go to confessing your sins," said Doctor Sloane crossly. "You're coming out of the woods all right, and you'll be sorry if you tell her too, much. I'll begin a little flirtation with you, Miss Laura, if you please." And he motioned to her to follow him into the hall. "Your father _is_ pretty sick," he told her, "and he may be sicker before we get him into shape again. But you needn't be worried right now; I think he's not in immediate danger." He turned at the sound of Mrs. Madison's step, behind him, and repeated to her what he had just said to Laura. "I hope your husband didn't give himself away enough to be punished when we get him on his feet again," he concluded cheerfully. She shook her head, tried to smile through tears, and, crossing the hall, entered Cora's room. She came back after a moment, and, rejoining the other two at her husband's bedside, found the sick man in a stertorous sleep. Presently the nurse arrived, and upon the physician's pointed intimation that there were "too many people around," Laura went to Cora's room. She halted on the threshold in surprise. Cora was dressing. "Mamma says the doctor says he's all right," said Cora lightly, "and I'm feeling so much better myself I thought I'd put on something loose and go downstairs. I think there's more air down there." "Papa isn't all right, dear," said Laura, staring perplexedly at Cora's idea of "something loose," an equipment inclusive of something particularly close. "The doctor says he is very sick." "I don't believe it," returned Cora promptly. "Old Sloane never did know anything. Besides, mamma told me he said papa isn't in any danger." "No `immediate' danger," corrected Laura. "And besides, Doctor Sloane said you were to stay in bed until to-morrow." "I can't help that." Cora went on with her lacing impatiently. "I'm not going to lie and stifle in this heat when I feel perfectly well again--not for an old idiot like Sloane! He didn't even have sense enough to give me any medicine." She laughed. "Lucky thing he didn't: I'd have thrown it out of the window. Kick that slipper to me, will you, dear?" Laura knelt and put the slipper on her sister's foot. "Cora, dear," she said, "you're just going to put on a negligee and go down and sit in the library, aren't you?" "Laura!" The tone was more than impatient. "I wish I could be let alone for five whole minutes some time in my life! Don't you think I've stood enough for one day? I can't bear to be questioned, questioned, questioned! What do you do it for? Don't you see I can't stand anything more? If you can't let me alone I do wish you'd keep out of my room." Laura rose and went out; but as she left the door, Cora called after her with a rueful laugh: "Laura, I know I'm a little devil!" Half an hour later, Laura, suffering because she had made no reply to this peace-offering, and wishing to atone, sought Cora downstairs and found no one. She decided that Cora must still be in her own room; she would go to her there. But as she passed the open front door, she saw Cora upon the sidewalk in front of the house. She wore a new and elaborate motoring costume, charmingly becoming, and was in the act of mounting to a seat beside Valentine Corliss in a long, powerful-looking, white "roadster" automobile. The engine burst into staccato thunder, sobered down; the wheels began to move both Cora and Corliss were laughing and there was an air of triumph about them--Cora's veil streamed and fluttered: and in a flash they were gone. Laura stared at the suddenly vacated space where they had been. At a thought she started. Then she rushed upstairs to her mother, who was sitting in the hall near her husband's door. "Mamma," whispered Laura, flinging herself upon her knees beside her, "when papa wanted to speak to you, was it a message to Cora?" "Yes, dear. He told me to tell her he was sorry he'd made her sick, and that if he got well he'd try to do what she asked him to." Laura nodded cheerfully. "And he _will_ get well, darling mother," she said, as she rose. "I'll come back in a minute and sit with you." Her return was not so quick as she promised, for she lay a long time weeping upon her pillow, whispering over and over: "Oh, poor, poor papa! Oh, poor, poor Richard!" CHAPTER TWELVE Within a week Mr. Madison's illness was a settled institution in the household; the presence of the nurse lost novelty, even to Hedrick, and became a part of life; the day was measured by the three regular visits of the doctor. To the younger members of the family it seemed already that their father had always been sick, and that he always would be; indeed, to Cora and Hedrick he had become only a weak and querulous voice beyond a closed door. Doctor Sloane was serious but reassuring, his daily announcement being that his patient was in "no immediate danger." Mrs. Madison did not share her children's sanguine adaptability; and, of the three, Cora was the greatest solace to the mother's troubled heart, though Mrs. Madison never recognized this without a sense of injustice to Laura, for Laura now was housewife and housekeeper--that is, she did all the work except the cooking, and on "wash-day" she did that. But Cora's help was to the very spirit itself, for she was sprightly in these hours of trial: with indomitable gayety she cheered her mother, inspiring in her a firmer confidence, and, most stimulating of all, Cora steadfastly refused to consider her father's condition as serious, or its outcome as doubtful. Old Sloane exaggerated, she said; and she made fun of his gravity, his clothes and his walk, which she mimicked till she drew a reluctant and protesting laugh from even her mother. Mrs. Madison was sure she "couldn't get through" this experience save for Cora, who was indeed the light of the threatened house. Strange perversities of this world: Cora's gayety was almost unbearable to her brother. Not because he thought it either unfeeling or out of place under the circumstances (an aspect he failed to consider), but because years of warfare had so frequently made him connect cheerfulness on her part with some unworthily won triumph over himself that habit prevailed, and he could not be a witness of her high spirits without a strong sense of injury. Additionally, he was subject to a deeply implanted suspicion of any appearance of unusual happiness in her as having source, if not in his own defeat, then in something vaguely "soft" and wholly distasteful. She grated upon him; he chafed, and his sufferings reached the surface. Finally, in a reckless moment, one evening at dinner, he broke out with a shout and hurled a newly devised couplet concerning luv-a-ly slush at his, sister's head. The nurse was present: Cora left the table; and Hedrick later received a serious warning from Laura. She suggested that it might become expedient to place him in Cora's power. "Cora knows perfectly well that something peculiar happened to you," she advised him. "And she knows that I know what it was; and she says it isn't very sisterly of me not to tell her. Now, Hedrick, there was no secret about it; you didn't _confide_ your--your trouble to me, and it would be perfectly honourable of me to tell it. I wont{sic} unless you make me, but if you can't be polite and keep peace with Cora--at least while papa is sick I think it may be necessary. I believe," she finished with imperfect gravity, "that it--it would keep things quieter." The thoughts of a boy may be long, long thoughts, but he cannot persistently remember to fear a threatened catastrophe. Youth is too quickly intimate with peril. Hedrick had become familiar with his own, had grown so accustomed to it he was in danger of forgetting it altogether; therefore it was out of perspective. The episode of Lolita had begun to appear as a thing of the distant and clouded past: time is so long at thirteen. Added to this, his late immaculate deportment had been, as Laura suggested, a severe strain; the machinery of his nature was out of adjustment and demanded a violent reaction before it could get to running again at average speed. Also, it is evident that his destruction had been planned on high, for he was mad enough to answer flippantly: "Tell her! Go on and tell her--_I_ give you leaf! _that_ wasn't anything anyway--just helped you get a little idiot girl home. What is there to that? I never saw her before; never saw her again; didn't have half as much to do with her as you did yourself. She was a lot more _your_ friend than mine; I didn't even know her. I guess you'll have to get something better on me than that, before you try to boss _this_ ranch, Laura Madison!" That night, in bed, he wondered if he had not been perhaps a trifle rash; but the day was bright when he awoke, and no apprehension shadowed his morning face as he appeared at the breakfast table. On the contrary, a great weight had lifted from him; clearly his defiance had been the proper thing; he had shown Laura that her power over him was but imaginary. Hypnotized by his own words to her, he believed them; and his previous terrors became gossamer; nay, they were now merely laughable. His own remorse and shame were wholly blotted from memory, and he could not understand why in the world he had been so afraid, nor why he had felt it so necessary to placate Laura. She looked very meek this morning. _That_ showed! The strong hand was the right policy in dealing with women. He was tempted to insane daring: the rash, unfortunate child waltzed on the lip of the crater. "Told Cora yet?" he asked, with scornful laughter. "Told me what?" Cora looked quickly up from her plate. "Oh, nothing about this Corliss," he returned scathingly. "Don't get excited." "Hedrick!" remonstrated his mother, out of habit. "She never thinks of anything else these days," he retorted. "Rides with him every evening in his pe-rin-sley hired machine, doesn't she?" "Really, you should be more careful about the way you handle a spoon, Hedrick," said Cora languidly, and with at least a foundation of fact. "It is not the proper implement for decorating the cheeks. We all need nourishment, but it is _so_ difficult when one sees a deposit of breakfast-food in the ear of one's vis-a-vis." Hedrick too impulsively felt of his ears and was but the worse stung to find them immaculate and the latter half of the indictment unjustified. "Spoon!" he cried. "I wouldn't talk about spoons if I were you, Cora-lee! After what I saw in the library the other night, believe _me_, you're the one of this family that better be careful how you `handle a spoon'!" Cora had a moment of panic. She let the cup she was lifting drop noisily upon its saucer, and gazed whitely at the boy, her mouth opening wide. "Oh, no!" he went on, with a dreadful laugh. "I didn't hear you asking this Corliss to kiss you! Oh, no!" At this, though her mother and Laura both started, a faint, odd relief showed itself in Cora's expression. She recovered herself. "You little liar!" she flashed, and, with a single quick look at her mother, as of one too proud to appeal, left the room. "Hedrick, Hedrick, Hedrick!" wailed Mrs. Madison. "And she told me you drove her from the table last night too, right before Miss Peirce!" Miss Peirce was the nurse, fortunately at this moment in the sick-room. "I _did_ hear her ask him that," he insisted, sullenly. "Don't you believe it?" "Certainly not!" Burning with outrage, he also left his meal unfinished and departed in high dignity. He passed through the kitchen, however, on his way out of the house; but, finding an unusual politeness to the cook nothing except its own reward, went on his way with a bitter perception of the emptiness of the world and other places. "Your father managed to talk more last night," said Mrs. Madison pathetically to Laura. "He made me understand that he was fretting about how little we'd been able to give our children; so few advantages; it's always troubled him terribly. But sometimes I wonder if we've done right: we've neither of us ever exercised any discipline. We just couldn't bear to. You see, not having any money, or the things money could buy, to give, I think we've instinctively tried to make up for it by indulgence in other ways, and perhaps it's been a bad thing. Not," she added hastily, "not that you aren't all three the best children any mother and father ever had! _He_ said so. He said the only trouble was that our children were too good for us." She shook her head remorsefully throughout Laura's natural reply to this; was silent a while; then, as she rose, she said timidly, not looking at her daughter: "Of course Hedrick didn't mean to tell an outright lie. They were just talking, and perhaps he--perhaps he heard something that made him think what he _did_. People are so often mistaken in what they hear, even when they're talking right to each other, and----" "Isn't it more likely," said Laura, gravely, "that Cora was telling some story or incident, and that Hedrick overheard that part of it, and thought she was speaking directly to Mr. Corliss?" "Of course!" cried the mother with instant and buoyant relief; and when the three ladies convened, a little later, Cora (unquestioned) not only confirmed this explanation, but repeated in detail the story she had related to Mr. Corliss. Laura had been quick. Hedrick passed a variegated morning among comrades. He obtained prestige as having a father like-to-die, but another boy turned up who had learned to chew tobacco. Then Hedrick was pronounced inferior to others in turning "cartwheels," but succeeded in a wrestling match for an apple, which he needed. Later, he was chased empty-handed from the rear of an ice-wagon, but greatly admired for his retorts to the vociferous chaser: the other boys rightly considered that what he said to the ice-man was much more horrible than what the ice-man said to him. The ice-man had a fair vocabulary, but it lacked pliancy; seemed stiff and fastidious compared with the flexible Saxon in which Hedrick sketched a family tree lacking, perhaps, some plausibility as having produced even an ice-man, but curiously interesting zoologically. He came home at noon with the flush of this victory new upon his brow. He felt equal to anything, and upon Cora's appearing at lunch with a blithe, bright air and a new arrangement of her hair, he opened a fresh campaign with ill-omened bravado. "Ear-muffs in style for September, are they?" he inquired in allusion to a symmetrical and becoming undulation upon each side of her head. "Too bad Ray Vilas can't come any more; he'd like those, I know he would." Cora, who was talking jauntily to her mother, went on without heeding. She affected her enunciation at times with a slight lisp; spoke preciously and over-exquisitely, purposely mincing the letter R, at the same time assuming a manner of artificial distinction and conscious elegance which never failed to produce in her brother the last stage of exasperation. She did this now. Charming woman, that dear Mrs. Villard, she prattled. "I met her downtown this morning. Dear mamma, you should but have seen her delight when she saw _me_. She was but just returned from Bar Harbor----" "`Baw-hawbaw'!" Poor Hedrick was successfully infuriated immediately. "What in thunder is `Baw-hawbaw'? Mrs. Villawd! Baw-hawbaw! Oh, maw!" "She had no idea she should find _me_ in town, she said," Cora ran on, happily. "She came back early on account of the children having to be sent to school. She has such adorable children--beautiful, dimpled babes----" "SLUSH! SLUSH! LUV-A-LY SLUSH!" "--And her dear son, Egerton Villard, he's grown to be such a comely lad, and he has the most charming courtly manners: he helped his mother out of her carriage with all the air of a man of the world, and bowed to me as to a duchess. I think he might be a great influence for good if the dear Villards would but sometimes let him associate a little with our unfortunate Hedrick. Egerton Villard is really _distingue_; he has a beautiful head; and if he could be induced but to let Hedrick follow him about but a little----" "I'll beat his beautiful head off for him if he but butts in on me but a little!" Hedrick promised earnestly. "Idiot!" Cora turned toward him innocently. "What did you say, Hedrick?" "I said `Idiot'!" "You mean Egerton Villard?" "Both of you!" "You think I'm an idiot, Hedrick?" Her tone was calm, merely inquisitive. "Yes, I do!" "Oh, no," she said pleasantly. "Don't you think if I were _really_ an idiot I'd be even fonder of you than I am?" It took his breath. In a panic he sat waiting he knew not what; but Cora blandly resumed her interrupted remarks to her mother, beginning a description of Mrs. Villard's dress; Laura was talking unconcernedly to Miss Peirce; no one appeared to be aware that anything unusual had been said. His breath came back, and, summoning his presence of mind, he found himself able to consider his position with some degree of assurance. Perhaps, after all, Cora's retort had been merely a coincidence. He went over and over it in his mind, making a pretence, meanwhile, to be busy with his plate. "If I were _really_ an idiot." . . . It was the "_really_" that troubled him. But for that one word, he could have decided that her remark was a coincidence; but "_really_" was ominous; had a sinister ring. "If I were _really_ an idiot!" Suddenly the pleasant clouds that had obscured his memory of the fatal evening were swept away as by a monstrous Hand: it all came back to him with sickening clearness. So is it always with the sinner with his sin and its threatened discovery. Again, in his miserable mind, he sat beside Lolita on the fence, with the moon shining through her hair; and he knew--for he had often read it--that a man could be punished his whole life through for a single moment's weakness. A man might become rich, great, honoured, and have a large family, but his one soft sin would follow him, hunt him out and pull him down at last. "_Really_ an idiot!" Did that relentless Comanche, Cora, know this Thing? He shuddered. Then he fell back upon his faith in Providence. It _could_ not be that she knew! Ah, no! Heaven would not let the world be so bad as that! And yet it did sometimes become negligent--he remembered the case of a baby-girl cousin who fell into the bath-tub and was drowned. Providence had allowed that: What assurance had he that it would not go a step farther? "Why, Hedrick," said Cora, turning toward him cheerfully, "you're not really eating anything; you're only pretending to." His heart sank with apprehension. Was it coming? "You really must eat," she went on. "School begins so soon, you must be strong, you know. How we shall miss you here at home during your hours of work!" With that, the burden fell from his shoulders, his increasing terrors took wing. If Laura had told his ghastly secret to Cora, the latter would not have had recourse to such weak satire as this. Cora was not the kind of person to try a popgun on an enemy when she had a thirteen-inch gun at her disposal; so he reasoned; and in the gush of his relief and happiness, responded: "You're a little too cocky lately, Cora-lee: I wish you were _my_ daughter--just about five minutes!" Cora looked upon him fondly. "What would you do to me," she inquired with a terrible sweetness--"darling little boy?" Hedrick's head swam. The blow was square in the face; it jarred every bone; the world seemed to topple. His mother, rising from her chair, choked slightly, and hurried to join the nurse, who was already on her way upstairs. Cora sent an affectionate laugh across the table to her stunned antagonist. "You wouldn't beat me, would you, dear?" she murmured. "I'm almost sure you wouldn't; not if I asked you to kiss me some _more_." All doubt was gone, the last hope fled! The worst had arrived. A vision of the awful future flamed across his staggered mind. The doors to the arena were flung open: the wild beasts howled for hunger of him; the spectators waited. Cora began lightly to sing: . . . "Dear, Would thou wert near To hear me tell how fair thou art! Since thou art gone I mourn all alone, Oh, my Lolita----" She broke off to explain: "It's one of those passionate little Spanish serenades, Hedrick. I'll sing it for your boy-friends next time they come to play in the yard. I think they'd like it. When they know why you like it so much, I'm sure they will. Of course you _do_ like it--you roguish little lover!" A spasm rewarded this demoniacal phrase. "Darling little boy, the serenade goes on like this: Oh, my Lolita, come to my heart: Oh, come beloved, love let me press thee, While I caress thee In one long kiss, Lolita! Lolita come! Let me----" Hedrick sprang to his feet with a yell of agony. "Laura Madison, you tattle-tale," he bellowed, "I'll never forgive you as long as I live! I'll get even with you if it takes a thousand years!" With that, and pausing merely to kick a rung out of a chair which happened to be in his way, he rushed from the room. His sisters had risen to go, and Cora flung her arms round Laura in ecstacy. "You mean old viper!" she cried. "You could have told me days ago! It's almost too good to be true: it's the first time in my whole life I've felt safe from the Pest for a moment!" Laura shook her head. "My conscience troubles me; it did seem as if I ought to tell you--and mamma thought so, too; and I gave him warning, but now that I have done it, it seems rather mean and----" "No!" exclaimed Cora. "You just gave me a chance to protect myself for once, thank heaven!" And she picked up her skirts and danced her way into the front hall. "I'm afraid," said Laura, following, "I shouldn't have done it." "Oh, Laura," cried the younger girl, "I am having the best time, these days! This just caps it." She lowered her voice, but her eyes grew even brighter. "I think I've shown a certain gentleman a few things he didn't understand!" "Who, dear?" "Val," returned Cora lightly; "Valentine Corliss. I think he knows a little more about women than he did when he first came here." "You've had a difference with him?" asked Laura with eager hopefulness. "You've broken with him?" "Oh, Lord, no! Nothing like that." Cora leaned to her confidentially. "He told me, once, he'd be at the feet of any woman that could help put through an affair like his oil scheme, and I decided I'd just show him what I could do. He'd talk about it to me; then he'd laugh at me. That very Sunday when I got papa to go in----" "But he didn't," said Laura helplessly. "He only said he'd try to----when he gets well." "It's all the same--and it'll be a great thing for him, too," said Cora, gayly. "Well, that very afternoon before Val left, he practically told me I was no good. Of course he didn't use just those words--that isn't his way--but he laughed at me. And haven't I shown him! I sent Richard a note that very night saying papa had consented to be secretary of the company, and Richard had said he'd go in if papa did that, and he couldn't break his word----" "I know," said Laura, sighing. "I know." "Laura"--Cora spoke with sudden gravity--"did you ever know anybody like me? I'm almost getting superstitious about it, because it seems to me I _always_ get just what I set out to get. I believe I could have anything in the world if I tried for it." "I hope so, if you tried for something good for you," said Laura sadly. "Cora, dear, you will--you will be a little easy on Hedrick, won't you?" Cora leaned against the newel and laughed till she was exhausted. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Mr. Trumble's offices were heralded by a neat blazon upon the principal door, "Wade J. Trumble, Mortgages and Loans"; and the gentleman thus comfortably, proclaimed, emerging from that door upon a September noontide, burlesqued a start of surprise at sight of a figure unlocking an opposite door which exhibited the name, "Ray Vilas," and below it, the cryptic phrase, "Probate Law." "Water!" murmured Mr. Trumble, affecting to faint. "You ain't going in _there_, are you, Ray?" He followed the other into the office, and stood leaning against a bookcase, with his hands in his pockets, while Vilas raised the two windows, which were obscured by a film of smoke-deposit: there was a thin coat of fine sifted dust over everything. "Better not sit down, Ray," continued Trumble, warningly. "You'll spoil your clothes and you might get a client. That word `Probate' on the door ain't going to keep 'em out forever. You recognize the old place, I s'pose? You must have been here at least twice since you moved in. What's the matter? Dick Lindley hasn't missionaried you into any idea of _working_, has he? Oh, no, _I_ see: the Richfield Hotel bar has closed--you've managed to drink it all at last!" "Have you heard how old man Madison is to-day?" asked Ray, dusting his fingers with a handkerchief. "Somebody told me yesterday he was about the same. He's not going to get well." "How do you know?" Ray spoke quickly. "Stroke too severe. People never recover----" "Oh, yes, they do, too." Trumble began hotly: "I beg to dif----" but checked himself, manifesting a slight confusion. "That is, I know they don't. Old Madison may live a while, if you call that getting well; but he'll never be the same man he was. Doctor Sloane says it was a bad stroke. Says it was `induced by heat prostration and excitement.' `Excitement!'" he repeated with a sour laugh. "Yep, I expect a man could get all the excitement he wanted in _that_ house, especially if he was her daddy. Poor old man, I don't believe he's got five thousand dollars in the world, and look how she dresses!" Ray opened a compartment beneath one of the bookcases, and found a bottle and some glasses. "Aha," he muttered, "our janitor doesn't drink, I perceive. Join me?" Mr. Trumble accepted, and Ray explained, cheerfully: "Richard Lindley's got me so cowed I'm afraid to go near any of my old joints. You see, he trails me; the scoundrel has kept me sober for whole days at a time, and I've been mortified, having old friends see me in that condition; so I have to sneak up here to my own office to drink to Cora, now and then. You mustn't tell him. What's she been doing to _you_, lately?" The little man addressed grew red with the sharp, resentful memory. "Oh, nothing! Just struck me in the face with her parasol on the public street, that's all!" He gave an account of his walk to church with Cora. "I'm through with that girl!" he exclaimed vindictively, in conclusion. "It was the damnedest thing you ever saw in your life: right in broad daylight, in front of the church. And she laughed when she did it; you'd have thought she was knocking a puppy out of her way. She can't do that to me twice, I tell you. What the devil do you see to laugh at?" "You'll be around," returned his companion, refilling the glasses, "asking for more, the first chance she gives you. Here's her health!" "I don't drink it!" cried Mr. Trumble angrily. "And I'm through with her for good, I tell you! I'm not your kind: I don't let a girl like that upset me till I can't think of anything else, and go making such an ass of myself that the whole town gabbles about it. Cora Madison's seen the last of me, I'll thank you to notice. She's never been half-decent to me; cut dances with me all last winter; kept me hanging round the outskirts of every crowd she was in; stuck me with Laura and her mother every time she had a chance; then has the nerve to try to use me, so's she can make a bigger hit with a new man! You can bet your head I'm through! She'll get paid though! Oh, she'll get paid for it!" "How?" laughed Ray. It was a difficult question. "You wait and see," responded the threatener, feebly. "Just wait and see. She's wild about this Corliss, I tell you," he continued, with renewed vehemence. "She's crazy about him; she's lost her head at last----" "You mean he's going to avenge you?" "No, I don't, though he might, if she decided to marry him." "Do you know," said Ray slowly, glancing over his glass at his nervous companion, "it doesn't strike me that Mr. Valentine Corliss has much the air of a marrying man." "He has the air to _me_," observed Mr. Trumble, "of a darned bad lot! But I have to hand it to him: he's a wizard. He's got something besides his good looks--a man that could get Cora Madison interested in `business'! In _oil_! Cora Madison! How do you suppose----" His companion began to laugh again. "You don't really suppose he talked his oil business to her, do you, Trumble?" "He must have. Else how could she----" "Oh, no, Cora herself never talks upon any subject but one; she never listens to any other either." "Then how in thunder did he----" "If Cora asks you if you think it will rain," interrupted Vilas, "doesn't she really seem to be asking: `Do you love me? How much?' Suppose Mr. Corliss is an expert in the same line. Of course he can talk about oil!" "He strikes me," said Trumble, "as just about the slickest customer that ever hit this town. I like Richard Lindley, and I hope he'll see his fifty thousand dollars again. _I_ wouldn't have given Corliss thirty cents." "Why do you think he's a crook?" "I don't say that," returned Trumble. "All _I_ know about him is that he's done some of the finest work to get fifty thousand dollars put in his hands that I ever heard of. And all anybody knows about him is that he lived here seventeen years ago, and comes back claiming to know where there's oil in Italy. He shows some maps and papers and gets cablegrams signed `Moliterno.' Then he talks about selling the old Corliss house here, where the Madisons live, and putting the money into his oil company: he does that to sound plausible, but I have good reason to know that house was mortgaged to its full value within a month after his aunt left it to him. He'll not get a cent if it's sold. That's all. And he's got Cora Madison so crazy over him that she makes life a hell for poor old Lindley until he puts all he's saved into the bubble. The scheme may be all right. How do _I_ know? There's no way to tell, without going over there, and Corliss won't let anybody do that--oh, he's got a plausible excuse for it! But I'm sorry for Lindley: he's so crazy about Cora, he's soft. And she's so crazy about Corliss _she's_ soft! Well, I used to be crazy about her myself, but I'm not soft--I'm not the Lindley kind of loon, thank heaven!" "What kind are you, Trumble?" asked Ray, mildly. "Not your kind either," retorted the other going to the door. "She cut me on the street the other day; she's quit speaking to me. If you've got any money, why don't you take it over to the hotel and give it to Corliss? She might start speaking to _you_ again. I'm going to lunch!" He slammed the door behind him. Ray Vilas, left alone, elevated his heels to the sill, and stared out of the window a long time at a gravelled roof which presented little of interest. He replenished his glass and his imagination frequently, the latter being so stirred that when, about three o'clock, he noticed the inroads he had made upon the bottle, tears of self-pity came to his eyes. "Poor little drunkard!" he said aloud. "Go ahead and do it. Isn't anything _you_ won't do!" And, having washed his face at a basin in a corner, he set his hat slightly upon one side, picked up a walking stick and departed jauntily, and, to the outward eye, presentably sober. Mr. Valentine Corliss would be glad to see him, the clerk at the Richfield Hotel reported, after sending up a card, and upon Ray's following the card, Mr. Valentine Corliss in person confirmed the message with considerable amusement and a cordiality in which there was some mixture of the quizzical. He was the taller; and the robust manliness of his appearance, his splendid health and boxer's figure offered a sharp contrast to the superlatively lean tippler. Corliss was humorously aware of his advantage: his greeting seemed really to say, "Hello, my funny bug, here you are again!" though the words of his salutation were entirely courteous; and he followed it with a hospitable offer. "No," said Vilas; "I won't drink with you." He spoke so gently that the form of his refusal, usually interpreted as truculent, escaped the other's notice. He also declined a cigar, apologetically asking permission to light one of his own cigarettes; then, as he sank into a velour-covered chair, apologized again for the particular attention he was bestowing upon the apartment, which he recognized as one of the suites de luxe of the hotel. "`Parlour, bedroom, and bath,'" he continued, with a melancholy smile; "and `Lachrymae,' and `A Reading from Homer.' Sometimes they have `The Music Lesson,' or `Winter Scene' or `A Neapolitan Fisher Lad' instead of `Lachrymae,' but they always have `A Reading from Homer.' When you opened the door, a moment ago, I had a very strong impression that something extraordinary would some time happen to me in this room." "Well," suggested Corliss, "you refused a drink in it." "Even more wonderful than that," said Ray, glancing about the place curiously. "It may be a sense of something painful that already has happened here--perhaps long ago, before your occupancy. It has a pathos." "Most hotel rooms have had something happen in them," said Corliss lightly. "I believe the managers usually change the door numbers if what happens is especially unpleasant. Probably they change some of the rugs, also." "I feel----" Ray paused, frowning. "I feel as if some one had killed himself here." "Then no doubt some of the rugs _have_ been changed." "No doubt." The caller laughed and waved his hand in dismissal of the topic. "Well, Mr. Corliss," he went on, shifting to a brisker tone, "I have come to make my fortune, too. You are Midas. Am I of sufficient importance to be touched?" Valentine Corliss gave him sidelong an almost imperceptibly brief glance of sharpest scrutiny--it was like the wink of a camera shutter--but laughed in the same instant. "Which way do you mean that?" "You have been quick," returned the visitor, repaying that glance with equal swiftness, "to seize upon the American idiom. I mean: How small a contribution would you be willing to receive toward your support!" Corliss did not glance again at Ray; instead, he looked interested in the smoke of his cigar. "`Contribution,'" he repeated, with no inflection whatever. "`Toward my support.'" "I mean, of course, how small an investment in your oil company." "Oh, anything, anything," returned the promoter, with quick amiability. "We need to sell all the stock we can." "All the money you can get?" "Precisely. It's really a colossal proposition, Mr. Vilas." Corliss spoke with brisk enthusiasm. "It's a perfectly certain enormous profit upon everything that goes in. Prince Moliterno cables me later investigations show that the oil-field is more than twice as large as we thought when I left Naples. He's on the ground now, buying up what he can, secretly." "I had an impression from Richard Lindley that the secret had been discovered." "Oh, yes; but only by a few, and those are trying to keep it quiet from the others, of course." "I see. Does your partner know of your success in raising a large investment?" "You mean Lindley's? Certainly." Corliss waved his hand in light deprecation. "Of course that's something, but Moliterno would hardly be apt to think of it as very large! You see he's putting in about five times that much, himself, and I've already turned over to him double it for myself. Still, it counts--certainly; and of course it will be a great thing for Lindley." "I fear," Ray said hesitatingly, "you won't be much interested in my drop for your bucket. I have twelve hundred dollars in the world; and it is in the bank--I stopped there on my way here. To be exact, I have twelve hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty-one cents. My dear sir, will you allow me to purchase one thousand dollars' worth of stock? I will keep the two hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty-one cents to live on--I may need an egg while waiting for you to make me rich. Will you accept so small an investment?" "Certainly," said Corliss, laughing. "Why not? You may as well profit by the chance as any one. I'll send you the stock certificates--we put them at par. I'm attending to that myself, as our secretary, Mr. Madison, is unable to take up his duties." Vilas took a cheque-book and a fountain-pen from his pocket. "Oh, any time, any time," said Corliss cheerfully, observing the new investor's movement. "Now, I think," returned Vilas quietly. "How shall I make it out?" "Oh, to me, I suppose," answered Corliss indifferently. "That will save a little trouble, and I can turn it over to Moliterno, by cable, as I did Lindley's. I'll give you a receipt----" "You need not mind that," said Ray. "Really it is of no importance." "Of course the cheque itself is a receipt," remarked Corliss, tossing it carelessly upon a desk. "You'll have some handsome returns for that slip of paper, Mr. Vilas." "In that blithe hope I came," said Ray airily. "I am confident of it. I have my own ways of divination, Mr. Corliss. I have gleams." He rose as if to go, but stood looking thoughtfully about the apartment again. "Singular impression," he murmured. "Not exactly as if I'd seen it in a dream; and yet--and yet----" "You have symptoms of clairvoyance at times, I take it." The conscious, smooth superiority of the dexterous man playing with an inconsequent opponent resounded in this speech, clear as the humming of a struck bell; and Vilas shot him a single open glance of fire from hectic eyes. For that instant, the frailer buck trumpeted challenge. Corliss--broad-shouldered, supple of waist, graceful and strong--smiled down negligently; yet the very air between the two men seemed charged with an invisible explosive. Ray laughed quickly, as in undisturbed good nature; then, flourishing his stick, turned toward the door. "Oh, no, it isn't clairvoyance--no more than when I told you that your only real interest is women." He paused, his hand upon the door-knob. "I'm a quaint mixture, however: perhaps I should be handled with care." "Very good of you," laughed Corliss--"this warning. The afternoon I had the pleasure of meeting you I think I remember your implying that you were a mere marionette." "A haggard harlequin!" snapped Vilas, waving his hand to a mirror across the room. "Don't I look it?" And the phrase fitted him with tragic accuracy. "You see? What a merry wedding-guest I'll be! I invite you to join me on the nuptial eve." "Thanks. Who's getting married: when the nuptial eve?" Ray opened the door, and, turning, rolled his eyes fantastically. "Haven't you heard?" he cried. "When Hecate marries John Barleycorn!" He bowed low. "Mr. Midas, adieu." Corliss stood in the doorway and watched him walk down the long hall to the elevator. There, Ray turned and waved his hand, the other responding with gayety which was not assumed: Vilas might be insane, or drunk, or both, but the signature upon his cheque was unassailable. Corliss closed the door and began to pace his apartment thoughtfully. His expression manifested a peculiar phenomenon. In company, or upon the street, or when he talked with men, the open look and frank eyes of this stalwart young man were disarming and his most winning assets. But now, as he paced alone in his apartment, now that he was not upon exhibition, now when there was no eye to behold him, and there was no reason to dissimulate or veil a single thought or feeling, his look was anything but open; the last trace of frankness disappeared; the muscles at mouth and eyes shifted; lines and planes intermingled and altered subtly; there was a moment of misty transformation--and the face of another man emerged. It was the face of a man uninstructed in mercy; it was a shrewd and planning face: alert, resourceful, elaborately perceptive, and flawlessly hard. But, beyond all, it was the face of a man perpetually on guard. He had the air of debating a question, his hands in his pockets, his handsome forehead lined with a temporary indecision. His sentry-go extended the length of his two rooms, and each time he came back into his bedroom his glance fell consideringly upon a steamer-trunk of the largest size, at the foot of his bed. The trunk was partially packed as if for departure. And, indeed, it was the question of departure which he was debating. He was a man of varied dexterities, and he had one faculty of high value, which had often saved him, had never betrayed him; it was intuitive and equal to a sixth sense: he always knew when it was time to go. An inner voice warned him; he trusted to it and obeyed it. And it had spoken now, and there was his trunk half-packed in answer. But he had stopped midway in his packing, because he had never yet failed to make a clean sweep where there was the slightest chance for one; he hated to leave a big job before it was completely finished--and Mr. Wade Trumble had refused to invest in the oil-fields of Basilicata. Corliss paused beside the trunk, stood a moment immersed in thought; then nodded once, decisively, and, turning to a dressing-table, began to place some silver-mounted brushes and bottles in a leather travelling-case. There was a knock at the outer door. He frowned, set down what he had in his hands, went to the door and opened it to find Mr. Pryor, that plain citizen, awaiting entrance. Corliss remained motionless in an arrested attitude, his hand upon the knob of the opened door. His position did not alter; he became almost unnaturally still, a rigidity which seemed to increase. Then he looked quickly behind him, over his shoulder, and back again, with a swift movement of the head. "No," said Pryor, at that. "I don't want you. I just thought I'd have two minutes' talk with you. All right?" "All right," said Corliss quietly. "Come in." He turned carelessly, and walked away from the door keeping between his guest and the desk. When he reached the desk, he turned again and leaned against it, his back to it, but in the action of turning his hand had swept a sheet of note-paper over Ray Vilas's cheque--a too conspicuous oblong of pale blue. Pryor had come in and closed the door. "I don't know," he began, regarding the other through his glasses, with steady eyes, "that I'm going to interfere with you at all, Corliss. I just happened to strike you--I wasn't looking for you. I'm on vacation, visiting my married daughter that lives here, and I don't want to mix in if I can help it." Corliss laughed, easily. "There's nothing for you to mix in. You couldn't if you wanted to." "Well, I hope that's true," said Pryor, with an air of indulgence, curiously like that of a teacher for a pupil who promises improvement. "I do indeed. There isn't anybody I'd like to see turn straight more than you. You're educated and cultured, and refined, and smarter than all hell. It would be a big thing. That's one reason I'm taking the trouble to talk to you." "I told you I wasn't doing anything," said Corliss with a petulance as oddly like that of a pupil as the other's indulgence was like that of a tutor. "This is my own town; I own property here, and I came here to sell it. I can prove it in half-a-minute's telephoning. Where do you come in?" "Easy, easy," said Pryor, soothingly. "I've just told you I don't want to come in at all." "Then what do you want?" "I came to tell you just one thing: to go easy up there at Mr. Madison's house." Corliss laughed contemptuously. "It's _my_ house. I own it. That's the property I came here to sell." "Oh, I know," responded Pryor. "That part of it's all right. But I've seen you several times with that young lady, and you looked pretty thick, to me. You know you haven't got any business doing such things, Corliss. I know your record from Buda Pesth to Copenhagen and----" "See here, my friend," said the younger man, angrily, "you may be a tiptop spotter for the government when it comes to running down some poor old lady that's bought a string of pearls in the Rue de la Paix----" "I've been in the service twenty-eight years," remarked Pryor, mildly. "All right," said the other with a gesture of impatience; "and you got me once, all right. Well, that's over, isn't it? Have I tried anything since?" "Not in that line," said Pryor. "Well, what business have you with any other line?" demanded Corliss angrily. "Who made you general supervisor of public morals? I want to know----" "Now, what's the use your getting excited? I'm just here to tell you that I'm going to keep an eye on you. I don't know many people here, and I haven't taken any particular pains to look you up. For all I know, you're only here to sell your house, as you say. But I know old man Madison a little, and I kind of took a fancy to him; he's a mighty nice old man, and he's got a nice family. He's sick and it won't do to trouble him; but--honest, Corliss--if you don't slack off in that neighbourhood a little, I'll have to have a talk with the young lady herself." A derisory light showed faintly in the younger man's eyes as he inquired, softly: "That all, Mr. Pryor?" "No. Don't try anything on out here. Not in _any_ of your lines." "I don't mean to." "That's right. Sell your house and clear out. You'll find it healthy." He went to the door. "So far as I can see," he observed, ruminatively, "you haven't brought any of that Moliterno crowd you used to work with over to this side with you." "I haven't seen Moliterno for two years," said Corliss, sharply. "Well, I've said my say." Pryor gave him a last word as he went out. "You keep away from that little girl." "Ass!" exclaimed Corliss, as the door closed. He exhaled a deep breath sharply, and broke into a laugh. Then he went quickly into his bedroom and began to throw the things out of his trunk. CHAPTER FOURTEEN Hedrick Madison's eyes were not of marble; his heart was not flint nor his skin steel plate: he was flesh and tender; he was a vulnerable, breathing boy, with highly developed capacities for pain which were now being taxed to their utmost. Once he had loved to run, to leap, to disport himself in the sun, to drink deep of the free air; he had loved life and one or two of his fellowmen. He had borne himself buoyantly, with jaunty self-confidence, even with some intolerance toward the weaknesses of others, not infrequently displaying merriment over their mischances; but his time had found him at last; the evil day had come. Indian Summer was Indian for him, indeed: sweet death were welcome; no charity was left in him. He leaped no more, but walked broodingly and sought the dark places. And yet it could not be said that times were dull for him: the luckless picket who finds himself in an open eighty-acre field, under the eye of a sharpshooter up a tree, would not be apt to describe the experience as dull. And Cora never missed a shot; she loved the work; her pleasure in it was almost as agonizing for the target as was the accuracy of her fire. She was ingenious: the horrible facts at her disposal were damaging enough in all conscience: but they did not content her. She invented a love-story, assuming that Hedrick was living it: he was supposed to be pining for Lolita, to be fading, day-by-day, because of enforced separation; and she contrived this to such an effect of reality, and with such a diabolical affectation of delicacy in referring to it, that the mere remark, with gentle sympathy, "I think poor Hedrick is looking a little better to-day," infallibly produced something closely resembling a spasm. She formed the habit of never mentioning her brother in his presence except as "poor Hedrick," a too obvious commiseration of his pretended attachment--which met with like success. Most dreadful of all, she invented romantic phrases and expressions assumed to have been spoken or written by Hedrick in reference to his unhappiness; and she repeated them so persistently, yet always with such apparent sincerity of belief that they were quotations from him, and not her inventions, that the driven youth knew a fear, sometimes, that the horrid things were actually of his own perpetration. The most withering of these was, "Torn from her I love by the ruthless hand of a parent. . . ." It was not completed; Cora never got any further with it, nor was there need: a howl of fury invariably assured her of an effect as satisfactory as could possibly have been obtained by an effort less impressionistic. Life became a series of easy victories for Cora, and she made them somehow the more deadly for Hedrick by not seeming to look at him in his affliction, nor even to be aiming his way: he never could tell when the next shot was coming. At the table, the ladies of his family might be deep in dress, or discussing Mr. Madison's slowly improving condition, when Cora, with utter irrelevance, would sigh, and, looking sadly into her coffee, murmur, "Ah, _fond_ mem'ries!" or, "_Why_ am I haunted by the dead past?" or, the dreadful, "Torn from her I love by the ruthless hand of a parent. . . ." There was compassion in Laura's eyes and in his mother's, but Cora was irresistible, and they always ended by laughing in spite of themselves; and though they pleaded for Hedrick in private, their remonstrances proved strikingly ineffective. Hedrick was the only person who had ever used the high hand with Cora: she found repayment too congenial. In the daytime he could not go in the front yard, but Cora's window would open and a tenderly smiling Cora lean out to call affectionately, "Don't walk on the grass--darling little boy!" Or, she would nod happily to him and begin to sing: "Oh come beloved, love let me press thee, While I caress thee In one long kiss, Lolita. . . . " One terror still hung over him. If it fell--as it might at any fatal moment--then the utmost were indeed done upon him; and this apprehension bathed his soul in night. In his own circle of congenial age and sex he was, by virtue of superior bitterness and precocity of speech, a chief--a moral castigator, a satirist of manners, a creator of stinging nicknames; and many nourished unhealed grievances which they had little hope of satisfying against him; those who attempted it invariably departing with more to avenge than they had brought with them. Let these once know what Cora knew. . . . The vision was unthinkable! It was Cora's patent desire to release the hideous item, to spread the scandal broadcast among his fellows--to ring it from the school-bells, to send it winging on the hot winds of Hades! The boys had always liked his yard and the empty stable to play in, and the devices he now employed to divert their activities elsewhere were worthy of a great strategist. His energy and an abnormal ingenuity accomplished incredible things: school had been in session several weeks and only one boy had come within conversational distance of Cora;--him Hedrick bore away bodily, in simulation of resistless high spirits, a brilliant exhibition of stagecraft. And then Cora's friend, Mrs. Villard, removed her son Egerton from the private school he had hitherto attended, and he made his appearance in Hedrick's class, one morning at the public school. Hedrick's eye lighted with a savage gleam; timidly the first joy he had known for a thousand years crept into his grim heart. After school, Egerton expiated a part of Cora's cruelty. It was a very small part, and the exploit no more than infinitesimally soothing to the conqueror, but when Egerton finally got home he was no sight for a mother. Thus Hedrick wrought his own doom: Mrs. Villard telephoned to Cora, and Cora went immediately to see her. It happened to Hedrick that he was late leaving home the next morning. His entrance into his classroom was an undeniable sensation, and within ten minutes the teacher had lost all control of the school. It became necessary to send for the principal. Recess was a frantic nightmare for Hedrick, and his homeward progress at noon a procession of such uproarious screamers as were his equals in speed. The nethermost depths were reached when an ignoble pigtailed person he had always trodden upon flat-footed screamed across the fence from next door, as he reached fancied sanctuary in his own backyard: "Kiss me some _more_, darling little boy!" This worm, established upon the fence opposite the conservatory windows, and in direct view from the table in the dining-room, shrieked the accursed request at short intervals throughout the luncheon hour. The humour of childhood is sometimes almost intrusive. And now began a life for Hedrick which may be rather painfully but truthfully likened to a prolongation of the experiences of a rat that finds itself in the middle of a crowded street in daylight: there is plenty of excitement but no pleasure. He was pursued, harried, hounded from early morning till nightfall, and even in his bed would hear shrill shouts go down the sidewalk from the throats of juvenile fly-by-nights: "Oh dar-ling lit-oh darling lit-oh _lit_-le boy, _lit_-le boy, kiss me some _more_!" And one day he overheard a remark which strengthened his growing conviction that the cataclysm had affected the whole United States: it was a teacher who spoke, explaining to another a disturbance in the hall of the school. She said, behind her hand: "_He kissed an idiot_." Laura had not even remotely foreseen the consequences of her revelation, nor, indeed, did she now properly estimate their effect upon Hedrick. She and her mother were both sorry for him, and did what they could to alleviate his misfortunes, but there was an inevitable remnant of amusement in their sympathy. Youth, at war, affects stoicism but not resignation: in truth, resignation was not much in Hedrick's line, and it would be far from the fact to say that he was softened by his sufferings. He brooded profoundly and his brightest thought was revenge. It was not upon Cora that his chief bitterness turned. Cora had always been the constant, open enemy: warfare between them was a regular condition of life; and unconsciously, and without "thinking it out," he recognized the naturalness of her seizing upon the deadliest weapon against him that came to her hand. There was nothing unexpected in that: no, the treachery, to his mind, lay in the act of Laura, that non-combatant, who had furnished the natural and habitual enemy with this scourge. At all times, and with or without cause, he ever stood ready to do anything possible for the reduction of Cora's cockiness, but now it was for the taking-down of Laura and the repayment of her uncalled-for and overwhelming assistance to the opposite camp that he lay awake nights and kept his imagination hot. Laura was a serene person, so neutral--outwardly, at least--and so little concerned for herself in any matter he could bring to mind, that for purposes of revenge she was a difficult proposition. And then, in a desperate hour, he remembered her book. Only once had he glimpsed it, but she had shown unmistakable agitation of a mysterious sort as she wrote in it, and, upon observing his presence, a prompt determination to prevent his reading a word of what she had written. Therefore, it was something peculiarly sacred and intimate. This deduction was proved by the care she exercised in keeping the book concealed from all eyes. A slow satisfaction began to permeate him: he made up his mind to find that padlocked ledger. He determined with devoted ardour that when he found it he would make the worst possible use of it: the worst, that is, for Laura. As for consequences to himself, he was beyond them. There is an Irish play in which an old woman finds that she no longer fears the sea when it has drowned the last of her sons; it can do nothing more to her. Hedrick no longer feared anything. The book was somewhere in Laura's room, he knew that; and there were enough opportunities to search, though Laura had a way of coming in unexpectedly which was embarrassing; and he suffered from a sense of inadequacy when--on the occasion of his first new attempt--he answered the casual inquiry as to his presence by saying that he "had a headache." He felt there was something indirect in the reply; but Laura was unsuspicious and showed no disposition to be analytical. After this, he took the precaution to bring a school-book with him and she often found the boy seated quietly by her west window immersed in study: he said he thought his headaches came from his eyes and that the west light "sort of eased them a little." The ledger remained undiscovered, although probably there has never been a room more thoroughly and painstakingly searched, without its floor being taken up and its walls torn down. The most mysterious, and, at the same time, the most maddening thing about it was the apparent simplicity of the task. He was certain that the room contained the book: listening, barefooted, outside the door at night, he had heard the pen scratching. The room was as plain as a room can be, and small. There was a scantily filled clothes-press; he had explored every cubic inch of it. There was the small writing table with one drawer; it held only some note-paper and a box of pen-points. There was a bureau; to his certain knowledge it contained no secret whatever. There were a few giltless chairs, and a white "wash-stand," a mere basin and slab with exposed plumbing. Lastly, there was the bed, a very large and ugly "Eastlake" contrivance; he had acquired a close acquaintance with all of it except the interior of the huge mattress itself, and here, he finally concluded, must of necessity be the solution. The surface of the mattress he knew to be unbroken; nevertheless the book was there. He had recently stimulated his deductive powers with a narrative of French journalistic sagacity in a similar case; and he applied French reasoning. The ledger existed. It was somewhere in the room. He had searched everything except the interior of the mattress. The ledger was in that interior. The exploration thus become necessary presented some difficulties. Detection in the act would involve explanations hard to invent; it would not do to say he was looking for his knife; and he could not think of any excuse altogether free from a flavour of insincerity. A lameness beset them all and made them liable to suspicion; and Laura, once suspicious, might be petty enough to destroy the book, and so put it out of his power forever. He must await the right opportunity, and, after a racking exercise of patience, at last he saw it coming. Doctor Sloane had permitted his patient to come down stairs for an increasing interval each day. Mr. Madison crept, rather than walked, leaning upon his wife and closely attended by Miss Peirce. He spoke with difficulty and not clearly; still, there was a perceptible improvement, and his family were falling into the habit of speaking of him as almost well. On that account, Mrs. Madison urged her daughters to accept an invitation from the mother of the once courtly Egerton Villard. It was at breakfast that the matter was discussed. "Of course Cora must go," Laura began, "but----" "But nothing!" interrupted Cora. "How would it look if I went and you didn't? Everybody knows papa's almost well, and they'd think it silly for us to give up the first real dance since last spring on that account; yet they're just spiteful enough, if I went and you stayed home, to call me a `girl of no heart.' Besides," she added sweetly, "we ought to go to show Mrs. Villard we aren't hurt because Egerton takes so little notice of poor Hedrick." Hedrick's lips moved silently, as in prayer. "I'd rather not," said Laura. "I doubt if I'd have a very good time." "You would, too," returned her sister, decidedly. "The men like to dance with you; you dance every bit as well as I do, and that black lace is the most becoming dress you ever had. Nobody ever remembers a black dress, anyway, unless it's cut very conspicuously, and yours isn't. I can't go without you; they love to say nasty things about me, and you're too good a sister to give 'em this chance, you old dear." She laughed and nodded affectionately across the table at Laura. "You've got to go!" "Yes, it would be nicer," said the mother. And so it was settled. It was simultaneously settled in Hedrick's mind that the night of the dance should mark his discovery of the ledger. He would have some industrious hours alone with the mysterious mattress, safe from intrusion. Meekly he lifted his eyes from his plate. "I'm glad you're going, sister Laura," he said in a gentle voice. "I think a change will do you good." "Isn't it wonderful," exclaimed Cora, appealing to the others to observe him, "what an improvement a disappointment in love can make in deportment?" For once, Hedrick only smiled. CHAPTER FIFTEEN Laura had spent some thoughtful hours upon her black lace dress with results that astonished her family: it became a ball-gown--and a splendidly effective one. She arranged her dark hair in a more elaborate fashion than ever before, in a close coronal of faintly lustrous braids; she had no jewellery and obviously needed none. Her last action but one before she left her room was to dispose of the slender chain and key she always wore round her neck; then her final glance at the mirror--which fairly revealed a lovely woman--ended in a deprecatory little "face" she made at herself. It meant: "Yes, old lady, you fancy yourself very passable in here all by yourself, don't you? Just wait: you'll be standing beside Cora in a moment!" And when she did stand beside Cora, in the latter's room, a moment later, her thought seemed warranted. Cora, radiant-eyed, in high bloom, and exquisite from head to foot in a shimmering white dancing-dress, a glittering crescent fastening the silver fillet that bound her vivid hair, was a flame of enchantment. Mrs. Madison, almost weeping with delight, led her daughters proudly, an arm round the waist of each, into her husband's room. Propped with pillows, he reclined in an armchair while Miss Peirce prepared his bed, an occupation she gave over upon this dazzling entrance, departing tactfully. "Look at these," cried the mother; "--from our garden, Jim, dear! Don't we feel rich, you and I?" "And--and--Laura," said the sick man, with the slow and imperfect enunication caused by his disease; "Laura looks pretty--too." "Isn't she adorable!" Cora exclaimed warmly. "She decided to be the portrait of a young duchess, you see, all stately splendour--made of snow and midnight!" "Hear! hear!" laughed Laura; but she blushed with pleasure, and taking Cora's hand in hers lifted it to her lips. "And do you see Cora's crescent?" demanded Mrs. Madison. "What do you think of _that_ for magnificence? She went down town this morning with seven dollars, and came back with that and her party gloves and a dollar in change! Isn't she a bargainer? Even for rhinestones they are the cheapest things you ever heard of. They look precisely like stones of the very finest water." They did--so precisely, indeed, that if the resemblance did not amount to actual identity, then had a jeweller of the town been able to deceive the eye of Valentine Corliss, which was an eye singularly learned in such matters. "They're--both smart girls," said Madison, "both of them. And they look--beautiful, to-night--both. Laura is--amazing!" When they had gone, Mrs. Madison returned from the stairway, and, kneeling beside her husband, put her arms round him gently: she had seen the tear that was marking its irregular pathway down his flaccid, gray cheek, and she understood. "Don't. Don't worry, Jim," she whispered. "Those bright, beautiful things!--aren't they treasures?" "It's--it's Laura," he said. "Cora will be all right. She looks out for--herself. I'm--I'm afraid for--Laura. Aren't you?" "No, no," she protested. "I'm not afraid for either of them." But she was: the mother had always been afraid for Cora. . . . . At the dance, the two girls, attended up the stairway to the ballroom by a chattering covey of black-coats, made a sensational entrance to a gallant fanfare of music, an effect which may have been timed to the premonitory tuning of instruments heard during the ascent; at all events, it was a great success; and Cora, standing revealed under the wide gilt archway, might have been a lithe and shining figure from the year eighteen-hundred-and-one, about to dance at the Luxembourg. She placed her hand upon the sleeve of Richard Lindley, and, glancing intelligently over his shoulder into the eyes of Valentine Corliss, glided rhythmically away. People looked at her; they always did. Not only the non-dancers watched her; eyes everywhere were upon her, even though the owners gyrated, glided and dipped on distant orbits. The other girls watched her, as a rule, with a profound, an almost passionate curiosity; and they were prompt to speak well of her to men, except in trustworthy intimacy, because they did not enjoy being wrongfully thought jealous. Many of them kept somewhat aloof from her; but none of them ever nowadays showed "superiority" in her presence, or snubbed her: that had been tried and proved disastrous in rebound. Cora never failed to pay her score--and with a terrifying interest added, her native tendency being to take two eyes for an eye and the whole jaw for a tooth. They let her alone, though they asked and asked among themselves the never-monotonous question: "Why do men fall in love with girls like that?" a riddle which, solved, makes wives condescending to their husbands. Most of the people at this dance had known one another as friends, or antagonists, or indifferent acquaintances, for years, and in such an assembly there are always two worlds, that of the women and that of the men. Each has its own vision, radically different from that of the other; but the greatest difference is that the men are unaware of the other world, only a few of them--usually queer ones like Ray Vilas--vaguely perceiving that there are two visions, while all the women understand both perfectly. The men splash about on the surface; the women keep their eyes open under water. Or, the life of the assembly is like a bright tapestry: the men take it as a picture and are not troubled to know how it is produced; but women are weavers. There was a Beauty of far-flung renown at Mrs. Villard's to-night: Mary Kane, a creature so made and coloured that young men at sight of her became as water and older men were apt to wonder regretfully why all women could not have been made like Mary. She was a kindly soul, and never intentionally outshone her sisters; but the perfect sumptuousness of her had sometimes tried the amiability of Cora Madison, to whom such success without effort and without spark seemed unfair, as well as bovine. Miss Kane was a central figure at the dance, shining tranquilly in a new triumph: that day her engagement had been announced to Mr. George Wattling, a young man of no special attainments, but desirable in his possessions and suitable to his happiness. The pair radiated the pardonable, gay importance of newly engaged people, and Cora, who had never before bestowed any notice upon Mr. Wattling, now examined him with thoughtful attention. Finding him at her elbow in a group about a punch bowl, between dances, she offered warm felicitations. "But I don't suppose you care whether _I_ care for you to be happy or not," she added, with a little plaintive laugh;--"you've always hated me so!" Mr. Wattling was startled: never before had he imagined that Cora Madison had given him a thought; but there was not only thought, there was feeling, in this speech. She seemed to be concealing with bravery an even deeper feeling than the one inadvertently expressed. "Why, what on earth makes you think that?" he exclaimed. "Think it? I _know_ it!" She gave him a strange look, luminous yet mysterious, a curtain withdrawn only to show a shining mist with something undefined but dazzling beyond. "I've always known it!" And she turned away from him abruptly. He sprang after her. "But you're wrong. I've never----" "Oh, yes, you have." They began to discuss it, and for better consideration of the theme it became necessary for Cora to "cut" the next dance, promised to another, and to give it to Mr. Wattling. They danced several times together, and Mr. Wattling's expression was serious. The weavers of the tapestry smiled and whispered things the men would not have understood--nor believed. Ray Vilas, seated alone in a recessed and softly lighted gallery, did not once lose sight of the flitting sorceress. With his elbows on the railing, he leaned out, his head swaying slowly and mechanically as she swept up and down the tumultuously moving room, his passionate eyes gaunt and brilliant with his hunger. And something very like a general thrill passed over the assembly when, a little later, it was seen that he was dancing with her. Laura, catching a glimpse of this couple, started and looked profoundly disturbed. The extravagance of Vilas's passion and the depths he sounded, in his absurd despair when discarded, had been matters of almost public gossip; he was accounted a somewhat scandalous and unbalanced but picturesque figure; and for the lady whose light hand had wrought such havoc upon him to be seen dancing with him was sufficiently startling to elicit the universal remark--evidently considered superlative--that it was "just like Cora Madison!" Cora usually perceived, with an admirably clear head, all that went on about her; and she was conscious of increasing the sensation, when after a few turns round the room, she allowed her partner to conduct her to a secluding grove of palms in the gallery. She sank into the chair he offered, and, fixing her eyes upon a small lamp of coloured glass which hung overhead, ostentatiously looked bored. "At your feet, Cora," he said, seating himself upon a stool, and leaning toward her. "Isn't it appropriate that we should talk to music--we two? It shouldn't be that quick step though--not dance-music--should it?" "Don't know 'm sure," murmured Cora. "You were kind to dance with me," he said huskily. "I dared to speak to you----" She did not change her attitude nor the direction of her glance. "I couldn't cut you very well with the whole town looking on. I'm tired of being talked about. Besides, I don't care much who I dance with--so he doesn't step on me." "Cora," he said, "it is the prelude to `L'Arlesienne' that they should play for you and me. Yes, I think it should be that." "Never heard of it." "It's just a rustic tragedy, the story of a boy in the south of France who lets love become his whole life, and then--it kills him." "Sounds very stupid," she commented languidly. "People do sometimes die of love, even nowadays," he said, tremulously--"in the South." She let her eyes drift indifferently to him and perceived that he was trembling from head to foot; that his hands and knees shook piteously; that his lips quivered and twitched; and, at sight of this agitation, an expression of strong distaste came to her face. "I see." Her eyes returned to the lamp. "You're from the South, and of course it's going to kill you." "You didn't speak the exact words you had in your mind.'" "Oh, what words did I have `in my mind'?" she asked impatiently. "What you really meant was: `If it does kill you, what of it?'" She laughed, and sighed as for release. "Cora," he said huskily, "I understand you a little because you possess me. I've never--literally never--had another thought since the first time I saw you: nothing but you. I think of you--actually every moment. Drunk or sober, asleep or--awake, it's nothing but you, you, _you_! It will never be different: I don't know why I can't get over it--I only know I can't. You own me; you burn like a hot coal in my heart. You're through with me, I know. You drained me dry. You're like a child who eats so heartily of what he likes that he never touches it again. And I'm a dish you're sick of. Oh, it's all plain enough, I can tell you. I'm not exciting any more--no, just a nauseous slave!" "Do you want people to hear you?" she inquired angrily, for his voice had risen. He tempered his tone. "Cora, when you liked me you went a pretty clipping gait with me," he said, trembling even more than before. "But you're infinitely more infatuated with this Toreador of a Corliss than you were with me; you're lost in him; you're slaving for him as I would for you. How far are you going with----" "Do you want me to walk away and leave you?" she asked, suddenly sitting up straight and looking at him with dilating eyes. "If you want a `scene'----" "It's over," he said, more calmly. "I know now how dangerous the man is. Of course you will tell him I said that." He laughed quietly. "Well--between a dangerous chap and a desperate one, we may look for some lively times! Do you know, I believe I think about as continuously of him, lately, as I do of you. That's why I put almost my last cent into his oil company, and got what may be almost my last dance with you!" "I wouldn't call it `almost' your last dance with me!" she returned icily. "Not after what you've said. I had a foolish idea you could behave--well, at least decently." "Did Corliss tell you that I insulted him in his rooms at the hotel?" "You!" She laughed, genuinely. "I see him letting you!" "He did, however. By manner and in speech I purposely and deliberately insulted him. You'll tell him every word of this, of course, and he'll laugh at it, but I give myself the pleasure of telling you. I put the proposition of an `investment' to him in a way nobody not a crook would have allowed to be smoothed over--and he allowed it to be smoothed over. He ate it! I felt he was a swindler when he was showing Richard Lindley his maps and papers, and now I've proved it to myself, and it's worth the price." Often, when they had danced, and often during this interview, his eyes lifted curiously to the white flaming crescent in her hair; now they fixed themselves upon it, and in a flash of divination he cried: "You wear it for me!" She did not understand. "Finished raving?" she inquired. "I gave Corliss a thousand dollars," he said, slowly. "Considering the fact that it was my last, I flatter myself it was not unhandsomely done--though I may never need it. It has struck me that the sum was about what a man who had just cleaned up fifty thousand might regard as a sort of `extra'--`for lagniappe'--and that he might have thought it an appropriate amount to invest in a present some jewels perhaps--to place in the hair of a pretty friend!" She sprang to her feet, furious, but he stood in front of her and was able to bar the way for a moment. "Cora, I'll have a last word with you if I have to hold you," he said with great rapidity and in a voice which shook with the intense repression he was putting upon himself. "We do one thing in the South, where I came from. We protect our women----" "This looks like it! Keeping me when----" "I love you," he said, his face whiter than she had ever seen it. "I love you! I'm your dog! You take care of yourself if you want to take care of anybody else! As sure as----" "My dance, Miss Madison." A young gentleman on vacation from the navy had approached, and, with perfect unconsciousness of what he was interrupting, but with well-founded certainty that he was welcome to the lady, urged his claim in a confident voice. "I thought it would never come, you know; but it's here at last and so am I." He laughed propitiatingly. Ray yielded now at once. She moved him aside with her gloved forearm as if he were merely an awkward stranger who unwittingly stood between her and the claiming partner. Carrying the gesture farther, she took the latter's arm, and smilingly, and without a backward glance, passed onward and left the gallery. The lieutenant, who had met her once or twice before, was her partner for the succeeding dance as well, and, having noted the advantages of the place where he had discovered her, persuaded her to return there to sit through the second. Then without any fatiguing preamble, he proposed marriage. Cora did not accept, but effected a compromise, which, for the present, was to consist of an exchange of photographs (his to be in uniform) and letters. She was having an evening to her heart. Ray's attack on Corliss had no dimming effect; her thought of it being that she was "used to his raving"; it meant nothing; and since Ray had prophesied she would tell Corliss about it, she decided not to do so. The naval young gentleman and Valentine Corliss were the greatest of all the lions among ladies that night; she had easily annexed the lieutenant, and Corliss was hers already; though, for a purpose, she had not yet been seen in company with him. He was visibly "making an impression." His name, as he had said to Richard Lindley, was held in honour in the town; and there was a flavour of fancied romance in his absence since boyhood in unknown parts, and his return now with a `foreign air' and a bow that almost took the breath of some of the younger recipients. He was, too, in his way, the handsomest man in the room; and the smiling, open frankness of his look, the ready cordiality of his manner, were found very winning. He caused plenty of flutter. Cora waited till the evening was half over before she gave him any visible attention. Then, during a silence of the music, between two dances, she made him a negligent sign with her hand, the gesture of one indifferently beckoning a creature who is certain to come, and went on talking casually to the man who was with her. Corliss was the length of the room from her, chatting gayly with a large group of girls and women; but he immediately nodded to her, made his bow to individuals of the group, and crossed the vacant, glistening floor to her. Cora gave him no greeting whatever; she dismissed her former partner and carelessly turned away with Corliss to some chairs in a corner. "Do you see that?" asked Vilas, leaning over the balcony railing with Richard Lindley. "Look! She's showing the other girls--don't you see? He's the New Man; she let 'em hope she wasn't going in for him; a lot of them probably didn't even know that she knew him. She sent him out on parade till they're all excited about him; now she shows 'em he's entirely her property--and does it so matter-of-factly that it's rubbed in twice as hard as if she seemed to take some pains about it. He doesn't dance: she'll sit out with him now, till they all read the tag she's put on him. She says she hates being talked about. She lives on it!--so long as it's envious. And did you see her with that chap from the navy? Neptune thinks he's dallying with Venus perhaps, but he'll get----" Lindley looked at him commiseratingly. "I think I never saw prettier decorations. Have you noticed, Ray? Must have used a thousand chrysanthemums." "Toreador!" whispered the other between his teeth, looking at Corliss; then, turning to his companion, he asked: "Has it occurred to you to get any information about Basilicata, or about the ancestral domain of the Moliterni, from our consul-general at Naples?" Richard hesitated. "Well--yes. Yes, I did think of that. Yes, I thought of it." "But you didn't do it." "No. That is, I haven't yet. You see, Corliss explained to me that----" His friend interrupted him with a sour laugh. "Oh, certainly! He's one of the greatest explainers ever welcomed to our city!" Richard said mildly: "And then, Ray, once I've gone into a thing I--I don't like to seem suspicious." "Poor old Dick!" returned Vilas compassionately. "You kind, easy, sincere men are so conscientiously untruthful with yourselves. You know in your heart that Cora would be furious with you if you seemed suspicious, and she's been so nice to you since you put in your savings to please her, that you can't bear to risk offending her. She's twisted you around her little finger, and the unnamed fear that haunts you is that you won't be allowed to stay there--even twisted!" "Pretty decorations, Ray," said Richard; but he grew very red. "Do you know what you'll do," asked Ray, regarding him keenly, "if this Don Giovanni from Sunny It' is shown up as a plain get-rich-quick swindler?" "I haven't considered----" "You would do precisely," said Ray, "nothing! Cora'd see to that. You'd sigh and go to work again, beginning at the beginning where you were years ago, and doing it all over. Admirable resignation, but not for me! I'm a stockholder in his company and in shape to `take steps'! I don't know if I'd be patient enough to make them legal--perhaps I should. He may be safe on the legal side. I'll know more about that when I find out if there is a Prince Moliterno in Naples who owns land in Basilicata." "You don't doubt it?" "I doubt everything! In this particular matter I'll have less to doubt when I get an answer from the consul-general. _I_'ve written, you see." Lindley looked disturbed. "You have?" Vilas read him at a glance. "You're afraid to find out!" he cried. Then he set his hand on the other's shoulder. "If there ever was a God's fool, it's you, Dick Lindley. Really, I wonder the world hasn't kicked you around more than it has; you'd never kick back! You're as easy as an old shoe. Cora makes you unhappy," he went on, and with the very mention of her name, his voice shook with passion,--"but on my soul I don't believe you know what jealousy means: you don't even understand hate; you don't eat your heart----" "Let's go and eat something better," suggested Richard, laughing. "There's a continuous supper downstairs and I hear it's very good." Ray smiled, rescued for a second from himself. "There isn't anything better than your heart, you old window-pane, and I'm glad you don't eat it. And if I ever mix it up with Don Giovanni T. Corliss--`T' stands for Toreador--I do believe it'll be partly on your----" He paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, as his attention was caught by the abysmal attitude of a figure in another part of the gallery: Mr. Wade Trumble, alone in a corner, sitting upon the small of his small back, munching at an unlighted cigar and otherwise manifesting a biting gloom. Ray drew Lindley's attention to this tableau of pain. "Here's a three of us!" he said. He turned to look down into the rhythmic kaleidoscope of dancers. "And there goes the girl we all _ought_ to be morbid about." "Who is that?" "Laura Madison. Why aren't we? What a self-respecting creature she is, with that cool, sweet steadiness of hers--she's like a mountain lake. She's lovely and she plays like an angel, but so far as anybody's ever thinking about her is concerned she might almost as well not exist. Yet she's really beautiful to-night, if you can manage to think of her except as a sort of retinue for Cora." "She _is_ rather beautiful to-night. Laura's always a very nice-looking girl," said Richard, and with the advent of an idea, he added: "I think one reason she isn't more conspicuous and thought about is that she is so quiet," and, upon his companion's greeting this inspiration with a burst of laughter, "Yes, that was a brilliant deduction," he said; "but I do think she's about the quietest person I ever knew. I've noticed there are times when she'll scarcely speak at all for half an hour, or even more." "You're not precisely noisy yourself," said Ray. "Have you danced with her this evening?" "Why, no," returned the other, in a tone which showed this omission to be a discovery; "not yet. I must, of course." "Yes, she's really `rather' beautiful. Also, she dances `rather' better than any other girl in town. Go and perform your painful duty." "Perhaps I'd better," said Richard thoughtfully, not perceiving the satire. "At any rate, I'll ask her for the next." He found it unengaged. There came to Laura's face an April change as he approached, and she saw he meant to ask her to dance. And, as they swam out into the maelstrom, he noticed it, and remarked that it _was_ rather warm, to which she replied by a cheerful nod. Presently there came into Richard's mind the thought that he was really an excellent dancer; but he did not recall that he had always formed the same pleasing estimate of himself when he danced with Laura, nor realize that other young men enjoyed similar self-help when dancing with her. And yet he repeated to her what Ray had said of her dancing, and when she laughed as in appreciation of a thing intended humorously, he laughed, too, but insisted that she did dance "very well indeed." She laughed again at that, and they danced on, not talking. He had no sense of "guiding" her; there was no feeling of effort whatever; she seemed to move spontaneously with his wish, not to his touch; indeed, he was not sensible of touching her at all. "Why, Laura," he exclaimed suddenly, "you dance _beautifully_!" She stumbled and almost fell; saved herself by clutching at his arm; he caught her; and the pair stopped where they were, in the middle of the floor. A flash of dazed incredulity from her dark eyes swept him; there was something in it of the child dodging an unexpected blow. "Did I trip you?" he asked anxiously. "No," she laughed, quickly, and her cheeks grew even redder. "I tripped myself. Wasn't that too bad--just when you were thinking that I danced well! Let's sit down. May we?" They went to some chairs against a wall. There, as they sat, Cora swung by them, dancing again with her lieutenant, and looking up trancedly into the gallant eyes of the triumphant and intoxicated young man. Visibly, she was a woman with a suitor's embracing arm about her. Richard's eyes followed them. "Ah, don't!" said Laura in a low voice. He turned to her. "Don't what?" "I didn't mean to speak out loud," she said tremulously. "But I meant: don't look so troubled. It doesn't mean anything at all--her coquetting with that bird of passage. He's going away in the morning." "I don't think I was troubling about that." "Well, whatever it was"--she paused, and laughed with a plaintive timidity--"why, just don't trouble about it!" "Do I look very much troubled?" he asked seriously. "Yes. And you don't look very gay when you're not!" She laughed with more assurance now. "I think you're always the wistfulest looking man I ever saw." "Everybody laughs at me, I believe," he said, with continued seriousness. "Even Ray Vilas thinks I'm an utter fool. Am I, do _you_ think?" He turned as he spoke and glanced inquiringly into her eyes. What he saw surprised and dismayed him. "For heaven's sake, don't cry!" he whispered hurriedly. She bent her head, turning her face from him. "I've been very hopeful lately," he said. "Cora has been so kind to me since I did what she wanted me to, that I----" He gave a deep sigh. "But if you're _that_ sorry for me, my chances with her must be pretty desperate." She did not alter her attitude, but with her down-bent face still away from him, said huskily: "It isn't you I'm sorry for. You mustn't ever give up; you must keep on trying and trying. If you give up, I don't know what will become of her!" A moment later she rose suddenly to her feet. "Let's finish our dance," she said, giving him her hand. "I'm sure I won't stumble again." CHAPTER SIXTEEN The two girls let themselves into the house noiselessly, and, turning out the hall-light, left for them by their mother, crept upstairs on tiptoe; and went through the upper hall directly to Laura's room--Cora's being nearer the sick-room. At their age it is proper that a gayety be used three times: in anticipation, and actually, and in after-rehearsal. The last was of course now in order: they went to Laura's room to "talk it over." There was no gas-fixture in this small chamber; but they found Laura's oil-lamp burning brightly upon her writing-table. "How queer!" said Laura with some surprise, as she closed the door. "Mother never leaves the lamp lit for me; she's always so afraid of lamps exploding." "Perhaps Miss Peirce came in here to read, and forgot to turn it out," suggested Cora, seating herself on the edge of the bed and letting her silk wrap fall from her shoulders. "Oh, Laura, wasn't he gorgeous. . . ." She referred to the gallant defender of our seas, it appeared, and while Laura undressed and got into a wrapper, Cora recounted in detail the history of the impetuous sailor's enthrallment;--a resume predicted three hours earlier by a gleeful whisper hissed across the maritime shoulder as the sisters swung near each other during a waltz: "_proposed_!" "I've always heard they're horribly inconstant," she said, regretfully. "But, oh, Laura, wasn't he beautiful to look at! Do you think he's more beautiful than Val? No--don't tell me if you do. I don't want to hear it! Val was so provoking: he didn't seem to mind it at all. He's nothing but a big brute sometimes: he wouldn't even admit that he minded, when I asked him. I was idiot enough to ask; I couldn't help it; he was so tantalizing and exasperating--laughing at me. I never knew anybody like him; he's so sure of himself and he can be so cold. Sometimes I wonder if he really cares about anything, deep down in his heart--anything except himself. He seems so selfish: there are times when he almost makes me hate him; but just when I get to thinking I do, I find I don't--he's so deliciously strong, and there's such a _big_ luxury in being understood: I always feel he _knows_ me clear to the bone, somehow! But, oh," she sighed regretfully, "doesn't a uniform become a man? They ought to all wear 'em. It would look silly on such a little goat as that Wade Trumble, though: nothing could make him look like a whole man. Did you see him glaring at me? Beast! I was going to be so nice and kittenish and do all my prettiest tricks for him, to help Val with his oil company. Val thinks Wade would come in yet, if I'D only get him in the mood to have another talk with Val about it; but the spiteful little rat wouldn't come near me. I believe that was one of the reasons Val laughed at me and pretended not to mind my getting proposed to. He _must_ have minded; he couldn't have helped minding it, really. That's his way; he's so _mean_--he won't show things. He knows _me_. I can't keep anything from him; he reads _me_ like a signboard; and then about himself he keeps me guessing, and I can't tell when I've guessed right. Ray Vilas behaved disgustingly, of course; he was horrid and awful. I might have expected it. I suppose Richard was wailing _his_ tiresome sorrows on your poor shoulder----" "No," said Laura. "He was very cheerful. He seemed glad you were having a good time." "He didn't look particularly cheerful at me. I never saw so slow a man: I wonder when he's going to find out about that pendant. Val would have seen it the instant I put it on. And, oh, Laura! isn't George Wattling funny? He's just _soft_! He's good-looking though," she continued pensively, adding, "I promised to motor out to the Country Club with him to-morrow for tea." "Oh, Cora," protested Laura, "no! Please don't!" "I've promised; so I'll have to, now." Cora laughed. "It'll do Mary Kane good. Oh, I'm not going to bother much with _him_--he makes me tired. I never saw anything so complacent as that girl when she came in to-night, as if her little Georgie was the greatest capture the world had ever seen. . . ." She chattered on. Laura, passive, listened with a thoughtful expression, somewhat preoccupied. The talker yawned at last. "It must be after three," she said, listlessly, having gone over her evening so often that the colours were beginning to fade. She yawned again. "Laura," she remarked absently, "I don't see how you can sleep in this bed; it sags so." "I've never noticed it," said her sister. "It's a very comfortable old bed." Cora went to her to be unfastened, reverting to the lieutenant during the operation, and kissing the tire-woman warmly at its conclusion. "You're always so sweet to me, Laura," she said affectionately. "I don't know how you manage it. You're so good"--she laughed--"sometimes I wonder how you stand me. If I were you, I'm positive I couldn't stand me at all!" Another kiss and a hearty embrace, and she picked up her wrap and skurried silently through the hall to her own room. It was very late, but Laura wrote for almost an hour in her book (which was undisturbed) before she felt drowsy. Then she extinguished the lamp, put the book away and got into bed. It was almost as if she had attempted to lie upon the empty air: the mattress sagged under her weight as if it had been a hammock; and something tore with a ripping sound. There was a crash, and a choked yell from a muffled voice somewhere, as the bed gave way. For an instant, Laura fought wildly in an entanglement of what she insufficiently perceived to be springs, slats and bedclothes with something alive squirming underneath. She cleared herself and sprang free, screaming, but even in her fright she remembered her father and clapped her hand over her mouth that she might keep from screaming again. She dove at the door, opened it, and fled through the hall to Cora's room, still holding her hand over her mouth. "Cora! Oh, Cora!" she panted, and flung herself upon her sister's bed. Cora was up instantly; and had lit the gas in a trice. "There's a burglar!" Laura contrived to gasp. "In my room! Under the bed!" "What!" "I fell on him! Something's the matter with the bed. It broke. I fell on him!" Cora stared at her wide-eyed. "Why, it can't be. Think how long I was in there. Your bed broke, and you just thought there was some one there. You imagined it." "No, no, no!" wailed Laura. "I _heard_ him: he gave a kind of dreadful grunt." "Are you sure?" "_Sure_? He wriggled--oh! I could _feel_ him!" Cora seized a box of matches again. "I'm going to find out." "Oh, no, no!" protested Laura, cowering. "Yes, I am. If there's a burglar in the house I'm going to find him!" "We mustn't wake papa." "No, nor mamma either. You stay here if you want to----" "Let's call Hedrick," suggested the pallid Laura; "or put our heads out of the window and scream for----" Cora laughed; she was not in the least frightened. "That wouldn't wake papa, of course! If we had a telephone I'd send for the police; but we haven't. I'm going to see if there's any one there. A burglar's a man, I guess, and I can't imagine myself being afraid of any _man_!" Laura clung to her, but Cora shook her off and went through the hall undaunted, Laura faltering behind her. Cora lighted matches with a perfectly steady hand; she hesitated on the threshold of Laura's room no more than a moment, then lit the lamp. Laura stifled a shriek at sight of the bed. "Look, look!" she gasped. "There's no one under it now, that's certain," said Cora, and boldly lifted a corner of it. "Why, it's been cut all to pieces from underneath! You're right; there was some one here. It's practically dismembered. Don't you remember my telling you how it sagged? And I was only sitting on the edge of it! The slats have all been moved out of place, and as for the mattress, it's just a mess of springs and that stuffing stuff. He must have thought the silver was hidden there." "Oh, oh, oh!" moaned Laura. "He _wriggled_----ugh!" Cora picked up the lamp. "Well, we've got to go over the house----" "No, no!" "Hush! I'll go alone then." "You _can't_." "I will, though!" The two girls had changed places in this emergency. In her fright Laura was dependent, clinging: actual contact with the intruder had unnerved her. It took all her will to accompany her sister upon the tour of inspection, and throughout she cowered behind the dauntless Cora. It was the first time in their lives that their positions had been reversed. From the days of Cora's babyhood, Laura had formed the habit of petting and shielding the little sister, but now that the possibility became imminent of confronting an unknown and dangerous man, Laura was so shaken that, overcome by fear, she let Cora go first. Cora had not boasted in vain of her bravery; in truth, she was not afraid of any man. They found the fastenings of the doors secure and likewise those of all the windows, until they came to the kitchen. There, the cook had left a window up, which plausibly explained the marauder's mode of ingress. Then, at Cora's insistence, and to Laura's shivering horror, they searched both cellar and garret, and concluded that he had escaped by the same means. Except Laura's bed, nothing in the house had been disturbed; but this eccentricity on the part of a burglar, though it indeed struck the two girls as peculiar, was not so pointedly mysterious to them as it might have been had they possessed a somewhat greater familiarity with the habits of criminals whose crimes are professional. They finally retired, Laura sleeping with her sister, and Cora had begun to talk of the lieutenant again, instead of the burglar, before Laura fell asleep. In spite of the short hours for sleep, both girls appeared at the breakfast-table before the meal was over, and were naturally pleased with the staccato of excitement evoked by their news. Mrs. Madison and Miss Peirce were warm in admiration of their bravery, but in the same breath condemned it as foolhardy. "I never knew such wonderful girls!" exclaimed the mother, almost tearfully. "You crazy little lions! To think of your not even waking Hedrick! And you didn't have even a poker and were in your bare feet--and went down in the _cellar_----" "It was all Cora," protested Laura. "I'm a hopeless, disgusting coward. I never knew what a coward I was before. Cora carried the lamp and went ahead like a drum-major. I just trailed along behind her, ready to shriek and run--or faint!" "Could you tell anything about him when you fell on him?" inquired Miss Peirce. "What was his voice like when he shouted?" "Choked. It was a horrible, jolted kind of cry. It hardly sounded human." "Could you tell anything about whether he was a large man, or small, or----" "Only that he seemed very active. He seemed to be kicking. He _wriggled_----ugh!" They evolved a plausible theory of the burglar's motives and line of reasoning. "You see," said Miss Peirce, much stirred, in summing up the adventure, "he either jimmies the window, or finds it open already, and Sarah's mistaken and she _did_ leave it open! Then he searched the downstairs first, and didn't find anything. Then he came upstairs, and was afraid to come into any of the rooms where we were. He could tell which rooms had people in them by hearing us breathing through the keyholes. He finds two rooms empty, and probably he made a thorough search of Miss Cora's first. But he isn't after silver toilet articles and pretty little things like that. He wants really big booty or none, so he decides that an out-of-the-way, unimportant room like Miss Laura's is where the family would be most apt to hide valuables, jewellery and silver, and he knows that mattresses have often been selected as hiding-places; so he gets under the bed and goes to work. Then Miss Cora and Miss Laura come in so quietly--not wanting to wake anybody--that he doesn't hear them, and he gets caught there. That's the way it must have been." "But why," Mrs. Madison inquired of this authority, "why do you suppose he lit the lamp?" "To see by," answered the ready Miss Peirce. It was accepted as final. Further discussion was temporarily interrupted by the discovery that Hedrick had fallen asleep in his chair. "Don't bother him, Cora," said his mother. "He's finished eating--let him sleep a few minutes, if he wants to, before he goes to school. He's not at all well. He played too hard, yesterday afternoon, and hurt his knee, he said. He came down limping this morning and looking very badly. He oughtn't to run and climb about the stable so much after school. See how utterly exhausted he looks!--Not even this excitement can keep him awake." "I think we must be careful not to let Mr. Madison suspect anything about the burglar," said Miss Peirce. "It would be bad for him." Laura began: "But we ought to notify the police----" "Police!" Hedrick woke so abruptly, and uttered the word with such passionate and vehement protest, that everybody started. "I suppose you want to _kill_ your father, Laura Madison!" "How?" "Do you suppose he wouldn't know something had happened with a squad of big, heavy policemen tromping all over the house? The first thing they'd do would be to search the whole place----" "Oh, no," said Mrs. Madison quickly. "It wouldn't do at all." "I should think not! I'm glad," continued Hedrick, truthfully, "_that_ idea's out of your head! I believe Laura imagined the whole thing anyway." "Have you looked at her mattress," inquired Cora, "darling little boy?" He gave her a concentrated look, and rose to leave. "Nothin' on earth but imagina----" He stopped with a grunt as he forgetfully put his weight on his left leg. He rubbed his knee, swallowed painfully, and, leaving the word unfinished, limped haughtily from the room. He left the house, gloomily swinging his books from a spare length of strap, and walking with care to ease his strains and bruises as much as possible. He was very low in his mind, that boy. His fortunes had reached the ebb-tide, but he had no hope of a rise. He had no hope of anything. It was not even a consolation that, through his talent for surprise in waylayings, it had lately been thought necessary, by the Villard family, to have Egerton accompanied to and from school by a man-servant. Nor was Hedrick more deeply depressed by the certainty that both public and domestic scandal must soon arise from the inevitable revelation of his discontinuing his attendance at school without mentioning this important change of career at home. He had been truant a full fortnight, under brighter circumstances a matter for a lawless pride--now he had neither fear nor vainglory. There was no room in him for anything but dejection. He walked two blocks in the direction of his school; turned a corner; walked half a block; turned north in the alley which ran parallel to Corliss Street, and a few moments later had cautiously climbed into an old, disused refuse box which stood against the rear wall of the empty stable at his own home. He pried up some loose boards at the bottom of the box, and entered a tunnel which had often and often served in happier days--when he had friends--for the escape of Union officers from Libby Prison and Andersonville. Emerging, wholly soiled, into a box-stall, he crossed the musty carriage house and ascended some rickety steps to a long vacant coachman's-room, next to the hayloft. He closed the door, bolted it, and sank moodily upon a broken, old horsehair sofa. This apartment was his studio. In addition to the sofa, it contained an ex-bureau, three chair-like shapes, a once marble-topped table, now covered with a sheet of zinc, two empty bird cages, and a condemned whatnot. The walls were rather over-decorated in coloured chalks, the man-headed-snake motive predominating; they were also loopholed for firing into the hayloft. Upon the table lay a battered spy-glass, minus lenses, and, nearby, two boxes, one containing dried corn-silk, the other hayseed, convenient for the making of amateur cigarettes; the smoker's outfit being completed by a neat pile of rectangular clippings from newspapers. On the shelves of the whatnot were some fragments of a dead pie, the relics of a "Fifteen-Puzzle," a pink Easter-egg, four seashells, a tambourine with part of a girl's face still visible in aged colours, about two thirds of a hot-water bag, a tintype of Hedrick, and a number of books: several by Henty, "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," "100 Practical Jokes, Easy to Perform," "The Jungle Book," "My Lady Rotha," a "Family Atlas," "Three Weeks," "Pilgrim's Progress," "A Boy's Life in Camp," and "The Mystery of the Count's Bedroom." The gloomy eye of Hedrick wandered to "The Mystery of the Count's Bedroom," and remained fixed upon it moodily and contemptuously. His own mystery made that one seem tame and easy: Laura's bedroom laid it all over the Count's, in his conviction; and with a soul too weary of pain to shudder, he reviewed the bafflements and final catastrophe of the preceding night. He had not essayed the attempt upon the mattress until assured that the house was wrapped in slumber. Then, with hope in his heart, he had stolen to Laura's room, lit the lamp, feeling safe from intrusion, and set to work. His implement at first was a long hatpin of Cora's. Lying on his back beneath the bed, and, moving the slats as it became necessary, he sounded every cubic inch of the mysterious mattress without encountering any obstruction which could reasonably be supposed to be the ledger. This was not more puzzling than it was infuriating, since by all processes of induction, deduction, and pure logic, the thing was necessarily there. It was nowhere else. Therefore it was there. It _had_ to be there! With the great blade of his Boy Scout's knife he began to disembowel the mattress. For a time he had worked furiously and effectively, but the position was awkward, the search laborious, and he was obliged to rest frequently. Besides, he had waited to a later hour than he knew, for his mother to go to bed, and during one of his rests he incautiously permitted his eyes to close. When he woke, his sisters were in the room, and he thought it advisable to remain where he was, though he little realized how he had weakened his shelter. When Cora left the room, he heard Laura open the window, sigh, and presently a tiny clinking and a click set him a-tingle from head to foot: she was opening the padlocked book. The scratching sound of a pen followed. And yet she had not come near the bed. The mattress, then, was a living lie. With infinite caution he had moved so that he could see her, arriving at a coign of vantage just as she closed the book. She locked it, wrapped it in an oilskin cover which lay beside it on the table, hung the key-chain round her neck, rose, yawned, and, to his violent chagrin, put out the light. He heard her moving but could not tell where, except that it was not in his part of the room. Then a faint shuffling warned him that she was approaching the bed, and he withdrew his head to avoid being stepped upon. The next moment the world seemed to cave in upon him. Laura's flight had given him opportunity to escape to his own room unobserved; there to examine, bathe and bind his wounds, and to rectify his first hasty impression that he had been fatally mangled. Hedrick glared at "The Mystery of the Count's Bedroom." By and by he got up, brought the book to the sofa and began to read it over. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The influence of a familiar and sequestered place is not only soothing; the bruised mind may often find it restorative. Thus Hedrick, in his studio, surrounded by his own loved bric-a-brac, began to feel once more the stir of impulse. Two hours' reading inspired him. What a French reporter (in the Count's bedroom) could do, an American youth in full possession of his powers--except for a strained knee and other injuries--could do. Yes, and would! He evolved a new chain of reasoning. The ledger had been seen in Laura's room; it had been heard in her room; it appeared to be kept in her room. But it was in no single part of the room. All the parts make a whole. Therefore, the book was not in the room. On the other hand, Laura had not left the room when she took the book from its hiding-place. This was confusing; therefore he determined to concentrate logic solely upon what she had done with the ledger when she finished writing in it. It was dangerous to assume that she had restored it to the place whence she obtained it, because he had already proved that place to be both in the room and out of the room. No; the question he must keep in was: What did she do with it? Laura had not left the room. But the book had left the room. Arrived at this inevitable deduction, he sprang to his feet in a state of repressed excitement and began to pace the floor--like a hound on the trail. Laura had not left the room, but the book had left the room: he must keep his mind upon this point. He uttered a loud exclamation and struck the zinc table-top a smart blow with his clenched fist. Laura had thrown the book out of the window! In the exaltation of this triumph, he forgot that it was not yet the hour for a scholar's reappearance, and went forth in haste to search the ground beneath the window--a disappointing quest, for nowhere in the yard was there anything but withered grass, and the rubbish of other frost-bitten vegetation. His mother, however, discovered something else, and, opening the kitchen window, she asked, with surprise: "Why, Hedrick, what on earth are you doing here?" "Me?" inquired Hedrick. "What are you doing here?" "Here?" Evidently she puzzled him. She became emphatic. "I want to know what you are doing." "Just standing here," he explained in a meek, grieved way. "But why aren't you at school?" This recalled what he had forgotten, and he realized the insecurity of his position. "Oh, yes," he said--"school. Did you ask me----" "Didn't you go to school?" He began to speak rapidly. "Didn't I go to _school_? Well, where else could I go? Just because I'm here now doesn't mean I didn't _go_, does it? Because a person is in China right now wouldn't have to mean he'd never been in South America, would it?" "Then what's the matter?" "Well, I was going along, and you know I didn't feel very well and----" He paused, with the advent of a happier idea, then continued briskly: "But that didn't stop me, because I thought I ought to go if I dropped, so I went ahead, but the teacher was sick and they couldn't get a substitute. She must have been pretty sick, she looked so pale----" "They dismissed the class?" "And I don't have to go to-morrow either." "I see," said his mother. "But if you feel ill, Hedrick, hadn't you better come in and lie down?" "I think it's kind of passing off. The fresh air seems to be doing me good." "Be careful of your sore knee, dear." She closed the window, and he was left to continue his operations in safety. Laura had thrown the ledger out of the window; that was proved absolutely. Obviously, she had come down before daylight and retrieved it. Or, she had not. Proceeding on the assumption that she had not, he lifted his eyes and searched the air. Was it possible that the book, though thrown from the window, had never reached the ground? The branches of an old and stalwart maple, now almost divested of leaves, extended in rough symmetry above him, and one big limb, reaching out toward the house, came close to Laura's windows. Triumph shown again from the shrewd countenance of the sleuth: Laura must have slid the ledger along a wire into a hollow branch. However, no wire was to be seen--and the shrewd countenance of the sleuth fell. But perhaps she had constructed a device of silk threads, invisible from below, which carried the book into the tree. Action! He climbed carefully but with many twinges, finally pausing in a parlous situation not far from the mysterious window which Laura had opened the night before. A comprehensive survey of the tree revealed only the very patent fact that none of the branches was of sufficient diameter to conceal the ledger. No silk threads came from the window. He looked and looked and looked at that window; then his eye fell a little, halted less than three feet below the window-ledge, and the search was ended. The kitchen window which his mother had opened was directly beneath Laura's, and was a very long, narrow window, in the style of the house, and there was a protecting stone ledge above it. Upon this ledge lay the book, wrapped in its oil-skin covering and secured from falling by a piece of broken iron hooping, stuck in the mortar of the bricks. It could be seen from nowhere save an upper window of the house next door, or from the tree itself, and in either case only when the leaves had fallen. Laura had felt very safe. No one had ever seen the book except that night, early in August, when, for a better circulation of air, she had left her door open as she wrote, and Hedrick had come upon her. He had not spoken of it again; she perceived that he had forgotten it; and she herself forgot that the memory of a boy is never to be depended on; its forgettings are too seldom permanent in the case of things that ought to stay forgotten. To get the book one had only to lean from the window. * * * Hedrick seemed so ill during lunch that his mother spoke of asking Doctor Sloane to look at him, if he did not improve before evening. Hedrick said meekly that perhaps that would be best--if he did not improve. After a futile attempt to eat, he courteously excused himself from the table--a ceremony which made even Cora fear that his case might be serious--and, going feebly to the library, stretched himself upon the sofa. His mother put a rug over him; Hedrick, thanking her touchingly, closed his eyes; and she went away, leaving him to slumber. After a time, Laura came into the room on an errand, walking noiselessly, and, noticing that his eyes were open, apologized for waking him. "Never mind," he returned, in the tone of an invalid. "I didn't sleep sound. I think there's something the matter inside my head: I have such terrible dreams. I guess maybe it's better for me to keep awake. I'm kind of afraid to go to sleep. Would you mind staying here with me a little while?" "Certainly I'll stay," she said, and, observing that his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes unusually bright, she laid a cool hand on his forehead. "You haven't any fever, dear; that's good. You'll be all right to-morrow. Would you like me to read to you?" "I believe," he answered, plaintively, "reading might kind of disturb my mind: my brain feels so sort of restless and queer. I'd rather play some kind of game." "Cards?" "No, not cards exactly. Something' I can do lying down. Oh, I know! You remember the one where we drew pictures and the others had to guess what they were? Well, I've invented a game like that. You sit down at the desk over there and take some sheets of paper. I'll tell you the rest." She obeyed. "What next?" "Now, I'll describe some people and where they live and not tell who they are, and you see if you can guess their names and addresses." "Addresses, too?" "Yes, because I'm going to describe the way their houses look. Write each name on a separate sheet of paper, and the number of their house below it if you know it, and if you don't know it, just the street. If it's a woman: put `Miss' or `Mrs.' before their name and if it's a man write `Esquire' after it." "Is all that necessary for the game?" "It's the way I invented it and I think you might----" "Oh, all right," she acquiesced, good-naturedly. "It shall be according to your rules." "Then afterward, you give me the sheets of paper with the names and addresses written on 'em, and we--we----" He hesitated. "Yes. What do we do then?" "I'll tell you when we come to it." But when that stage of his invention was reached, and Laura had placed the inscribed sheets in his hand, his interest had waned, it appeared. Also, his condition had improved. "Let's quit. I thought this game would be more exciting," he said, sitting up. "I guess," he added with too much modesty, "I'm not very good at inventing games. I b'lieve I'll go out to the barn; I think the fresh air----" "Do you feel well enough to go out?" she asked. "You do seem to be all right, though." "Yes, I'm a lot better, I think." He limped to the door. "The fresh air will be the best thing for me." She did not notice that he carelessly retained her contributions to the game, and he reached his studio with them in his hand. Hedrick had entered the 'teens and he was a reader: things in his head might have dismayed a Borgia. No remotest glimpse entered that head of the enormity of what he did. To put an end to his punishing of Cora, and, to render him powerless against that habitual and natural enemy, Laura had revealed a horrible incident in his career--it had become a public scandal; he was the sport of fools; and it might be months before the thing was lived down. Now he had the means, as he believed, to even the score with both sisters at a stroke. To him it was turning a tremendous and properly scathing joke upon them. He did not hesitate. * * * That evening, as Richard Lindley sat at dinner with his mother, Joe Varden temporarily abandoned his attendance at the table to answer the front doorbell. Upon his return, he remarked: "Messenger-boy mus' been in big hurry. Wouldn' wait till I git to door." "What was it?" asked Richard. "Boy with package. Least, I reckon it were a boy. Call' back from the front walk, say he couldn' wait. Say he lef' package in vestibule." "What sort of a package?" "Middle-size kind o' big package." "Why don't you see what it is, Richard?" Mrs. Lindley asked of her son. "Bring it to the table, Joe." When it was brought, Richard looked at the superscription with surprise. The wrapper was of heavy brown paper, and upon it a sheet of white notepaper had been pasted, with the address: "Richard Lindley, Esq., 1218 Corliss Street." "It's from Laura Madison," he said, staring at this writing. "What in the world would Laura be sending me?" "You might possibly learn by opening it," suggested his mother. "I've seen men puzzle over the outside of things quite as often as women. Laura Madison is a nice girl." She never volunteered similar praise of Laura Madison's sister. Mrs. Lindley had submitted to her son's plans concerning Cora, lately confided; but her submission lacked resignation. "It's a book," said Richard, even more puzzled, as he took the ledger from its wrappings. "Two little torn places at the edge of the covers. Looks as if it had once had clasps----" "Perhaps it's the Madison family album," Mrs. Lindley suggested. "Pictures of Cora since infancy. I imagine she's had plenty taken." "No." He opened the book and glanced at the pages covered in Laura's clear, readable hand. "No, it's about half full of writing. Laura must have turned literary." He read a line or two, frowning mildly. "My soul! I believe it's a novel! She must think I'm a critic--to want me to read it." Smiling at the idea, he closed the ledger. "I'll take it upstairs to my hang-out after dinner, and see if Laura's literary manner has my august approval. Who in the world would ever have thought she'd decide to set up for a writer?" "I imagine she might have something to write worth reading," said his mother. "I've always thought she was an interesting-looking girl." "Yes, she is. She dances well, too." "Of course," continued Mrs. Lindley, thoughtfully, "she seldom _says_ anything interesting, but that may be because she so seldom has a chance to say anything at all." Richard refused to perceive this allusion. "Curious that Laura should have sent it to me," he said. "She's never seemed interested in my opinion about anything. I don't recall her ever speaking to me on any subject whatever--except one." He returned his attention to his plate, but his mother did not appear to agree with him that the topic was exhausted. "`Except one'?" she repeated, after waiting for some time. "Yes," he replied, in his habitual preoccupied and casual tone. "Or perhaps two. Not more than two, I should say--and in a way you'd call that only one, of course. Bread, Joe." "What two, Richard?" "Cora," he said, with gentle simplicity, "and me." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Mrs. Lindley had arranged for her son a small apartment on the second floor, and it was in his own library and smoking-room that Richard, comfortable in a leather-chair by a reading-lamp, after dinner, opened Laura's ledger. The first page displayed no more than a date now eighteen months past, and the line: "Love came to me to-day." The next page was dated the next day, and, beneath, he read: "That was all I _could_ write, yesterday. I think I was too excited to write. Something seemed to be singing in my breast. I couldn't think in sentences--not even in words. How queer it is that I had decided to keep a diary, and bound this book for it, and now the first thing I have written in it was _that_! It will not be a diary. It shall be _your_ book. I shall keep it sacred to You and write to You in it. How strange it will be if the day ever comes when I shall show it to You! If it should, you would not laugh at it, for of course the day couldn't come unless you understood. I cannot think it will ever come--that day! But maybe---- No, I mustn't let myself hope too much that it will, because if I got to hoping too much, and you didn't like me, it would hurt too much. People who expect nothing are never disappointed--I must keep that in mind. Yet _every_ girl has a _right_ to hope for her own man to come for her some time, hasn't she? It's not easy to discipline the wanting to hope--since _yesterday_! "I think I must always have thought a great deal about you without knowing it. We really know so little what we think: our minds are going on all the time and we hardly notice them. It is like a queer sort of factory--the owner only looks in once in a while and most of the time hasn't any idea what sort of goods his spindles are turning out. "I saw You yesterday! It seems to me the strangest thing in the world. I've seen you by chance, probably two or three times a month nearly all my life, though you so seldom come here to call. And this time wasn't different from dozens of other times--you were just standing on the corner by the Richfield, waiting for a car. The only possible difference is that you had been out of town for several months--Cora said so this morning--and how ridiculous it seems now, didn't even know it! I hadn't noticed it--not with the top part of my mind, but perhaps the deep part that does the real thinking had noticed it and had mourned your absence and was so glad to see you again that it made the top part suddenly see the wonderful truth!" Lindley set down the ledger to relight his cigar. It struck him that Laura had been writing "very odd Stuff," but interesting; and certainly it was not a story. Vaguely he recalled Marie Bashkirtseff: hadn't she done something like this? He resumed the reading: "You turned and spoke to me in that lovely, cordial, absent-minded way of yours--though I'd never thought (with the top part) what a lovely way it was; and for a moment I only noticed how nice you looked in a light gray suit, because I'd only seen you in black for so long, while you'd been in mourning for your brother." Richard, disturbed by an incredible idea, read these last words over and then dismissed the notion as nonsense. ". . . While you'd been in mourning for your brother--and it struck me that light gray was becoming to you. Then such a queer thing happened: I felt the great kindness of your eyes. I thought they were full of--the only word that seems to express it at all is _charity_--and they had a sweet, faraway look, too, and I've _always_ thought that a look of wistful kindness was the loveliest look in the world--and you had it, and I saw it and then suddenly, as you held your hat in your hand, the sunshine on your hair seemed brighter than any sunshine I had ever seen--and I began to tremble all over. I didn't understand what was the matter with me or what had made me afraid with you not of you--all at once, but I was so hopelessly rattled that instead of waiting for the car, as I'd just told you I meant to, I said I'd decided to walk, and got away--without any breath left to breathe with! I _couldn't_ have gotten on the car with you--- and I couldn't have spoken another word. "And as I walked home, trembling all the way, I saw that strange, dazzling sunshine on your hair, and the wistful, kind look in your eyes--you seemed not to have taken the car but to have come with me--and I was uplifted and exalted oh, so strangely--oh, how the world was changing for me! And when I got near home, I began to walk faster, and on the front path I broke into a run and rushed in the house to the piano--and it was as if my fingers were thirsty for the keys! Then I saw that I was playing to you and knew that I loved you. "I love you! "How different everything is now from everything before. Music means what it never did: Life has leaped into blossom for me. Everywhere there is colour and radiance that I had never seen--the air is full of perfume. Dear, the sunshine that fell upon your head has spread over the world! "I understand, as I never understood, that the world--so dazzling to me now--was made for love and is meaningless without it. The years until yesterday are gray--no, not gray, because that was the colour You were wearing--not gray, because that is a beautiful colour. The empty years until yesterday had no colour at all. Yes, the world has meaning only through loving, and without meaning there is no real life. We live only by loving, and now that this gift of life has come to me I love _all_ the world. I feel that I must be so kind, kind, _kind_ to _everybody_! Such an odd thing struck me as my greatest wish. When I was little, I remember grandmother telling me how, when she was a child in pioneer days, the women made the men's clothes--homespun--and how a handsome young Circuit Rider, who was a bachelor, seemed to her the most beautifully dressed man she had ever seen. The women of the different churches made his clothes, as they did their husbands' and brothers.' you see--only better! It came into my head that that would be the divinest happiness that I could know--to sew for you! If you and I lived in those old, old times--you _look_ as if you belonged to them, you know, dear--and You were the young minister riding into the settlement on a big bay horse--and all the girls at the window, of course!--and I sewing away at the homespun for you!--I think all the angels of heaven would be choiring in my heart--and what thick, warm clothes I'd make you for winter! Perhaps in heaven they'll let some of the women sew for the men they love--I wonder! "I hear Cora's voice from downstairs as I write. She's often so angry with Ray, poor girl. It does not seem to me that she and Ray really belong to each other, though they _say_ so often that they do." Richard having read thus far with a growing, vague uneasiness, looked up, frowning. He hoped Laura had no Marie Bashkirtseff idea of publishing this manuscript. It was too intimate, he thought, even if the names in it were to be disguised. . . . "Though they _say_ so often that they do. I think Ray is in love with _her_, but it can't be like _this_. What he feels must be something wholly different--there is violence and wildness in it. And they are bitter with each other so often-- always `getting even' for something. He does care--he is frantically `_in_ love' with her, undoubtedly, but so insanely jealous. I suppose all jealousy is insane. But love is the only sanity. How can what is insane be part of it? I could not be jealous of You. I owe life to you--I have never lived till now." The next writing was two days later: . . . . "To-day as I passed your house with Cora, I kept looking at the big front door at which you go in and out so often--_your_ door! I never knew that just a door could look so beautiful! And unconsciously I kept my eyes on it, as we walked on, turning my head and looking and looking back at it, till Cora suddenly burst out laughing, and said: `Well, _Laura_!' And I came to myself--and found her looking at me. It was like getting back after a journey, and for a second I was a little dazed, and Cora kept on laughing at me, and I felt myself getting red. I made some silly excuse about thinking your house had been repainted--and she laughed louder than ever. I was afraid then that she understood--I wonder if she could have? I hope not, though I love her so much I don't know why I would rather she didn't know, unless it is just my _feeling_ about it. It is a _guardian_ feeling--that I must keep for myself, the music of these angels singing in my heart--singing of You. I hope she did not understand--and I so fear she did. Why should I be so _afraid_?" . . . . . . . "Two days since I have talked to You in your book after Cora caught me staring at your door and laughed at me--and ten minutes ago I was sitting beside the _actual_ You on the porch! I am trembling yet. It was the first time you'd come for months and months; and yet you had the air of thinking it rather a pleasant thing to do as you came up the steps! And a dizzy feeling came over me, because I wondered if it was seeing me on the street _that_ day that put it into your head to come. It seemed too much happiness--and risking too much--to let myself _believe_ it, but I couldn't help just wondering. I began to tremble as I saw you coming up our side of the street in the moonlight--and when you turned in here I was all panic--I nearly ran into the house. I don't know how I found voice to greet you. I didn't seem to have any breath left at all. I was so relieved when Cora took a chair between us and began to talk to you, because I'm sure I couldn't have. She and poor Ray had been having one of their quarrels and she was punishing him. Poor boy, he seemed so miserable--though he tried to talk to me--about politics, I think, though I'm not sure, because I couldn't listen much better than either of us could talk. I could only hear Your voice--such a rich, quiet voice, and it has a sound like the look you have--friendly and faraway and wistful. I have thought and thought about what it is that makes you look wistful. You have less to wish for than anybody else in the world because you have Yourself. So why are you wistful? I think it's just because you _are_! "I heard Cora asking you why you hadn't come to see us for so long, and then she said: `Is it because you dislike me? You look at me, sometimes, as if you dislike me!' And I wished she hadn't said it. I had a feeling you wouldn't like that `personal' way of talking that she enjoys--and that--oh, it didn't seem to be in keeping with the dignity of You! And I love Cora so much I wanted her to be finer--with You. I wanted her to understand you better than to play those little charming tricks at you. You are so good, so _high_, that if she could make a real friend of you I think it would be the best thing for her that could happen. She's never had a man-_friend_. Perhaps she _was_ trying to make one of you and hasn't any other way to go about it. She can be so _really_ sweet, I wanted you to see that side of her. "Afterwhile, when Ray couldn't bear it any longer to talk to me, and in his desperation brazenly took Cora to the other end of the porch almost by force, and I was left, in a way, alone with you what did you think of me? I was tongue-tied! Oh, oh, oh! You were quiet--but _I_ was _dumb_! My heart wasn't dumb--it hammered! All the time I kept saying to myself such a jumble of things. And into the jumble would come such a rapture that You were there--it was like a paean of happiness--a chanting of the glory of having You near me--I _was_ mixed up! I could _play_ all those confused things, but writing them doesn't tell it. Writing them would only be like this: `He's here, he's _here_! Speak, you little fool! He's here, he's here! He's sitting beside you! _speak_, idiot, or he'll never come back! He's here, he's beside you you could put out your hand and touch him! Are you dead, that you can't speak? He's here, he's here, he's _here_!' "Ah, some day I shall be able to talk to you--but not till I get more used to this inner song. It seems to _will_ that nothing else shall come from my lips till _it_ does! "In spite of my silence--my outward woodenness--you said, as you went away, that you would come again! You said `soon'! I could only nod but Cora called from the other end of the porch and asked: `_How_ soon?' Oh, I bless her for it, because you said, `Day after to-morrow.' Day after tomorrow! Day after to-morrow! _Day after tomorrow_! . . . . "Twenty-one hours since I wrote--no, _sang_--`Day after to-morrow!' And now it is `To-morrow!' Oh, the slow, golden day that this has been! I could not stay in the house--I walked--no, I _winged_! I was in the open country before I knew it--with You! For You are in everything. I never knew the sky was blue, before. Until now I just thought it was the sky. The whitest clouds I ever saw sailed over that blue, and I stood upon the prow of each in turn, then leaped in and swam to the next and sailed with _it_! Oh, the beautiful sky, and kind, green woods and blessed, long, white, dusty country road! Never in my life shall I forget that walk--this day in the open with my love--You! To-morrow! To-morrow! To-morrow! _To-morrow_!" The next writing in Laura's book was dated more than two months later: . . . . "I have decided to write again in this book. I have thought it all out carefully, and I have come to the conclusion that it can do no harm and may help me to be steady and sensible. It is the thought, not its expression, that is guilty, but I do not believe that my thoughts are guilty: I believe that they are good. I know that I wish only good. I have read that when people suffer very much the best thing is for them to cry. And so I'll let myself _write_ out my feelings--and perhaps get rid of some of the silly self-pity I'm foolish enough to feel, instead of going about choked up with it. How queer it is that even when we keep our thoughts respectable we can't help having absurd _feelings_ like self-pity, even though we know how rotten stupid they are! Yes, I'll let it all out here, and then, some day, when I've cured myself all whole again, I'll burn this poor, silly old book. And if I'm not cured before the wedding, I'll burn it then, anyhow. "How funny little girls are! From the time they're little bits of things they talk about marriage--whom they are going to marry, what sort of person it will be. I think Cora and I began when she was about five and I not seven. And as girls grow up, I don't believe there was ever one who genuinely expected to be an old maid. The most unattractive young girls discuss and plan and expect marriage just as much as the prettier and gayer ones. The only way we can find out that men don't want to marry us is by their not asking us. We don't see ourselves very well, and I honestly believe we all think--way deep down--that we're pretty attractive. At least, every girl has the idea, sometimes, that if men only saw the whole truth they'd think her as nice as any other girl, and really nicer than most others. But I don't believe I have any hallucinations of that sort about myself left. I can't imagine--now--_any_ man seeing anything in me that would make him care for me. I can't see anything about me to care for, myself. Sometimes I think maybe I could make a man get excited about me if I could take a startlingly personal tone with him from the beginning, making him wonder all sorts of you-and-I perhapses--but I couldn't do it very well probably--oh, I couldn't make myself do it if I could do it well! And I shouldn't think it would have much effect except upon very inexperienced men--yet it does! Now, I wonder if this is a streak of sourness coming out; I don't feel bitter--I'm just thinking honestly, I'm sure. "Well, here I am facing it: all through my later childhood, and all through my girlhood, I believe what really occupied me most--with the thought of it underlying all things else, though often buried very deep--was the prospect of my marriage. I regarded it as a certainty: I would grow up, fall in love, get engaged, and be married--of course! So I grew up and fell in love with You--but it stops there, and I must learn how to be an Old Maid and not let anybody see that I mind it. I know this is the hardest part of it, the beginning: it will get easier by-and-by, of course. If I can just manage this part of it, it's bound not to hurt so much later on. "Yes, I grew up and fell in love with You--for you will always be You. I'll never, never get over _that_, my dear! You'll never, never know it; but I shall love You always till I die, and if I'm still Me after that, I shall keep right on loving you then, of course. You see, I didn't fall in love with you just to have you for myself. I fell in love with You! And that can never bother you at all nor ever be a shame to me that I love unsought, because you won't know, and because it's just an ocean of good-will, and every beat of my heart sends a new great wave of it toward you and Cora. I shall find happiness, I believe, in service--I am sure there will be times when I can serve you both. I love you both and I can serve her for You and you for her. This isn't a hysterical mood, or a fit of `exaltation': I have thought it all out and I know that I can live up to it. You are the best thing that can ever come into her life, and everything I can do shall be to keep you there. I must be very, very careful with her, for talk and advice do not influence her much. You love her--she has accepted you, and it is beautiful for you both. It must be kept beautiful. It has all become so clear to me: You are just what she has always needed, and if by any mischance she lost you I do not know what would become----" "Good God!" cried Richard. He sprang to his feet, and the heavy book fell with a muffled crash upon the floor, sprawling open upon its face, its leaves in disorder. He moved away from it, staring at it in incredulous dismay. But he knew. CHAPTER NINETEEN Memory, that drowsy custodian, had wakened slowly, during this hour, beginning the process with fitful gleams of semi-consciousness, then, irritated, searching its pockets for the keys and dazedly exploring blind passages; but now it flung wide open the gallery doors, and there, in clear light, were the rows of painted canvasses. He remembered "that day" when he was waiting for a car, and Laura Madison had stopped for a moment, and then had gone on, saying she preferred to walk. He remembered that after he got into the car he wondered why he had not walked home with her; had thought himself "slow" for not thinking of it in time to do it. There had seemed something very "taking" about her, as she stopped and spoke to him, something enlivening and wholesome and sweet--it had struck him that Laura was a "very nice girl." He had never before noticed how really charming she could look; in fact he had never thought much about either of the Madison sisters, who had become "young ladies" during his mourning for his brother. And this pleasant image of Laura remained with him for several days, until he decided that it might be a delightful thing to spend an evening with her. He had called, and he remembered, now, Cora's saying to him that he looked at her sometimes as if he did not like her; he had been surprised and astonishingly pleased to detect a mysterious feeling in her about it. He remembered that almost at once he had fallen in love with Cora: she captivated him, enraptured him, as she still did--as she always would, he felt, no matter how she treated him or what she did to him. He did not analyze the process of the captivation and enrapturement--for love is a mystery and cannot be analyzed. This is so well known that even Richard Lindley knew it, and did not try! . . . Heartsick, he stared at the fallen book. He was a man, and here was the proffered love of a woman he did not want. There was a pathos in the ledger; it seemed to grovel, sprawling and dishevelled in the circle of lamp-light on the floor: it was as if Laura herself lay pleading at his feet, and he looked down upon her, compassionate but revolted. He realized with astonishment from what a height she had fallen, how greatly he had respected her, how warmly liked her. What she now destroyed had been more important than he had guessed. Simple masculine indignation rose within him: she was to have been his sister. If she had been unable to stifle this misplaced love of hers, could she not at least have kept it to herself? Laura, the self-respecting! No; she offered it--offered it to her sister's betrothed. She had written that he should "never, never know it"; that when she was "cured" she would burn the ledger. She had not burned it! There were inconsistencies in plenty in the pitiful screed, but these were the wildest--and the cheapest. In talk, she had urged him to "keep trying," for Cora, and now the sick-minded creature sent him this record. She wanted him to know. Then what else was it but a plea? "I love you. Let Cora go. Take me." He began to walk up and down, wondering what was to be done. After a time, he picked up the book gingerly, set it upon a shelf in a dark corner, and went for a walk outdoors. The night air seemed better than that of the room that held the ledger. At the corner a boy, running, passed him. It was Hedrick Madison, but Hedrick did not recognize Richard, nor was his mind at that moment concerned with Richard's affairs; he was on an errand of haste to Doctor Sloane. Mr. Madison had wakened from a heavy slumber unable to speak, his condition obviously much worse. Hedrick returned in the doctor's car, and then hung uneasily about the door of the sick-room until Laura came out and told him to go to bed. In the morning, his mother did not appear at the breakfast table, Cora was serious and quiet, and Laura said that he need not go to school that day, though she added that the doctor thought their father would get "better." She looked wan and hollow-eyed: she had not been to bed, but declared that she would rest after breakfast. Evidently she had not missed her ledger; and Hedrick watched her closely, a pleasurable excitement stirring in his breast. She did not go to her room after the meal; the house was cold, possessing no furnace, and, with Hedrick's assistance, she carried out the ashes from the library grate, and built a fire there. She had just lighted it, and the kindling was beginning to crackle, glowing rosily over her tired face, when the bell rang. "Will you see who it is, please, Hedrick?" He went with alacrity, and, returning, announced in an odd voice. "It's Dick Lindley. He wants to see you." "Me?" she murmured, wanly surprised. She was kneeling before the fireplace, wearing an old dress which was dusted with ashes, and upon her hands a pair of worn-out gloves of her father's. Lindley appeared in the hall behind Hedrick, carrying under his arm something wrapped in brown paper. His expression led her to think that he had heard of her father's relapse, and came on that account. "Don't look at me, Richard," she said, smiling faintly as she rose, and stripping her hands of the clumsy gloves. "It's good of you to come, though. Doctor Sloane thinks he is going to be better again." Richard inclined his head gravely, but did not speak. "Well," said Hedrick with a slight emphasis, "I guess I'll go out in the yard a while." And with shining eyes he left the room. In the hall, out of range from the library door, he executed a triumphant but noiseless caper, and doubled with mirth, clapping his hand over his mouth to stifle the effervescings of his joy. He had recognized the ledger in the same wrapping in which he had left it in Mrs. Lindley's vestibule. His moment had come: the climax of his enormous joke, the repayment in some small measure for the anguish he had so long endured. He crept silently back toward the door, flattened his back against the wall, and listened. "Richard," he heard Laura say, a vague alarm in her voice, "what is it? What is the matter?" Then Lindley: "I did not know what to do about it. I couldn't think of any sensible thing. I suppose what I am doing is the stupidest of all the things I thought of, but at least it's honest--so I've brought it back to you myself. Take it, please." There was a crackling of the stiff wrapping paper, a little pause, then a strange sound from Laura. It was not vocal and no more than just audible: it was a prolonged scream in a whisper. Hedrick ventured an eye at the crack, between the partly open door and its casing. Lindley stood with his back to him, but the boy had a clear view of Laura. She was leaning against the wall, facing Richard, the book clutched in both arms against her bosom, the wrapping paper on the floor at her feet. "I thought of sending it back and pretending to think it had been left at my mother's house by mistake," said Richard sadly, "and of trying to make it seem that I hadn't read any of it. I thought of a dozen ways to pretend I believed you hadn't really meant me to read it----" Making a crucial effort, she managed to speak. "You--think I--did mean----" "Well," he answered, with a helpless shrug, "you sent it! But it's what's in it that really matters, isn't it? I could have pretended anything in a note, I suppose, if I had written instead of coming. But I found that what I most dreaded was meeting you again, and as we've got to meet, of course, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to blunder through a talk with you, somehow or another, and get that part of it over. I thought the longer I put off facing you, the worse it would be for both of us--and--and the more embarrassing. I'm no good at pretending, anyhow; and the thing has happened. What use is there in not being honest? Well?" She did not try again to speak. Her state was lamentable: it was all in her eyes. Richard hung his head wretchedly, turning partly away from her. "There's only one way--to look at it," he said hesitatingly, and stammering. "That is--there's only one thing to do: to forget that it's happened. I'm--I--oh, well, I care for Cora altogether. She's got never to know about this. She hasn't any idea or--suspicion of it, has she?" Laura managed to shake her head. "She never must have," he said. "Will you promise me to burn that book now?" She nodded slowly. "I--I'm awfully sorry, Laura," he said brokenly. "I'm not idiot enough not to see that you're suffering horribly. I suppose I have done the most blundering thing possible." He stood a moment, irresolute, then turned to the door. "Good-bye." Hedrick had just time to dive into the hideous little room of the multitudinous owls as Richard strode into the hall. Then, with the closing of the front door, the boy was back at his post. Laura stood leaning against the wall, the book clutched in her arms, as Richard had left her. Slowly she began to sink, her eyes wide open, and, with her back against the wall, she slid down until she was sitting upon the floor. Her arms relaxed and hung limp at her sides, letting the book topple over in her lap, and she sat motionless. One of her feet protruded from her skirt, and the leaping firelight illumined it ruddily. It was a graceful foot in an old shoe which had been re-soled and patched. It seemed very still, that patched shoe, as if it might stay still forever. Hedrick knew that Laura had not fainted, but he wished she would move her foot. He went away. He went into the owl-room again, and stood there silently a long, long time. Then he stole back again toward the library door, but caught a glimpse of that old, motionless shoe through the doorway as he came near. Then he spied no more. He went out to the stable, and, secluding himself in his studio, sat moodily to meditate. Something was the matter. Something had gone wrong. He had thrown a bomb which he had expected to go off with a stupendous bang, leaving him, as the smoke cleared, looking down in merry triumph, stinging his fallen enemies with his humour, withering them with satire, and inquiring of them how it felt, now _they_ were getting it. But he was decidedly untriumphant: he wished Laura had moved her foot and that she hadn't that patch upon her shoe. He could not get his mind off that patch. He began to feel very queer: it seemed to be somehow because of the patch. If she had worn a pair of new shoes that morning. . . . Yes, it was that patch. Thirteen is a dangerous age: nothing is more subtle. The boy, inspired to play the man, is beset by his own relapses into childhood, and Hedrick was near a relapse. By and by, he went into the house again, to the library. Laura was not there, but he found the fire almost smothered under heaping ashes. She had burned her book. He went into the room where the piano was, and played "The Girl on the Saskatchewan" with one finger; then went out to the porch and walked up and down, whistling cheerily. After that, he went upstairs and asked Miss Peirce how his father was "feeling," receiving a noncommital reply; looked in at Cora's room; saw that his mother was lying asleep on Cora's bed and Cora herself examining the contents of a dressing-table drawer; and withdrew. A moment later, he stood in the passage outside Laura's closed door listening. There was no sound. He retired to his own chamber, found it unbearable, and, fascinated by Laura's, returned thither; and, after standing a long time in the passage, knocked softly on the door. "Laura," he called, in a rough and careless voice, "it's kind of a pretty day outdoors. If you've had your nap, if I was you I'd go out for a walk." There was no response. "I'll go with you," he added, "if you want me to." He listened again and heard nothing. Then he turned the knob softly. The door was unlocked; he opened it and went in. Laura was sitting in a chair, with her back to a window, her hands in her lap. She was staring straight in front of her. He came near her hesitatingly, and at first she did not seem to see him or even to know that she was not alone in the room. Then she looked at him wonderingly, and, as he stood beside her, lifted her right hand and set it gently upon his head. "Hedrick," she said, "was it you that took my book to----" All at once he fell upon his knees, hid his face in her lap, and burst into loud and passionate sobbing. CHAPTER TWENTY Valentine Corliss, having breakfasted in bed at a late hour that morning, dozed again, roused himself, and, making a toilet, addressed to the image in his shaving-mirror a disgusted monosyllable. "Ass!" However, he had not the look of a man who had played cards all night to a disastrous tune with an accompaniment in Scotch. His was a surface not easily indented: he was hard and healthy, clear-skinned and clear-eyed. When he had made himself point-device, he went into the "parlour" of his apartment, frowning at the litter of malodorous, relics, stumps and stubs and bottles and half-drained glasses, scattered chips and cards, dregs of a night session. He had been making acquaintances. He sat at the desk and wrote with a steady hand in Italian: MOST ILLUSTRIOUS MOLITERNO: We live but learn little. As to myself it appears that I learn nothing--nothing! You will at once convey to me by _cable_ five thousand lire. No; add the difference in exchange so as to make it one thousand dollars which I shall receive, taking that sum from the two-hundred and thirty thousand lire which I entrusted to your safekeeping by cable as the result of my enterprise in this place. I should have returned at once, content with that success, but as you know I am a very stupid fellow, never pleased with a moderate triumph, nor with a large one, when there is a possible prospect of greater. I am compelled to believe that the greater I had in mind in this case was an illusion: my gentle diplomacy avails nothing against a small miser--for we have misers even in these States, though you will not believe it. I abandon him to his riches! From the success of my venture I reserved four thousand dollars to keep by me and for my expenses, and it is humiliating to relate that all of this, except a small banknote or two, was taken from me last night by amateurs. I should keep away from cards--they hate me, and alone I can do nothing with them. Some young gentlemen of the place, whose acquaintance I had made at a ball, did me the honour of this lesson at the native game of poker, at which I--though also native--am not even so expert as yourself, and, as you will admit, Antonio, my friend, you are not a good player--when observed. Unaided, I was a child in their hands. It was also a painful rule that one paid for the counters upon delivery. This made me ill, but I carried it off with an air of carelessness creditable to an adopted Neapolitan. Upon receipt of the money you are to cable me, I shall leave this town and sail immediately. Come to Paris, and meet me there at the place on the Rue Auber within ten days from your reading this letter. You will have, remaining, two hundred and twenty-five thousand francs, which it will be safer to bring in cash, and I will deal well with you, as is our custom with each other. You have done excellently throughout; your cables and letters for exhibition concerning those famous oil wells have been perfection; and I shall of course not deduct what was taken by these thieves of poker players from the sum of profits upon which we shall estimate your commission. I have several times had the feeling that the hour for departure had arrived; now I shall delay not a moment after receiving your cable, though I may occupy the interim with a last attempt to interest my small miser. Various circumstances cause me some uneasiness, though I do not believe I could be successfully assailed by the law in the matter of oil. You do own an estate in Basilicata, at least your brother does--these good people here would not be apt to discover the difference--and the rest is a matter of plausibility. The odious coincidence of encountering the old cow, Pryor, fretted me somewhat (though he has not repeated his annoying call), and I have other small apprehensions--for example, that it may not improve my credit if my loss of last night becomes gossip, though the thieves professed strong habits of discretion. My little affair of gallantry grows embarrassing. Such affairs are so easy to inaugurate; extrication is more difficult. However, without it I should have failed to interest my investor and there is always the charm. Your last letter is too curious in that matter. Licentious man, one does not write of these things while under the banner of the illustrious Uncle Sam--I am assuming the American attitude while here, or perhaps my early youth returns to me--a thing very different from your own boyhood, Don Antonio. Nevertheless, I promise you some laughter in the Rue Auber. Though you will not be able to understand the half of what I shall tell you--particularly the portraits I shall sketch of my defeated rivals--your spirit shall roll with laughter. To the bank, then, the instant you read. Cable me one thousand dollars, and be at the Rue Auber not more than ten days later. To the bank! Thence to the telegraph office. Speed! V. C. He was in better spirits as he read over this letter, and he chuckled as he addressed it. He pictured himself in the rear room of the bar in the Rue Auber, relating, across the little marble-topped table, this American adventure, to the delight of that blithe, ne'er-do-well outcast of an exalted poor family, that gambler, blackmailer and merry rogue, Don Antonio Moliterno, comrade and teacher of this ductile Valentine since the later days of adolescence. They had been school-fellows in Rome, and later roamed Europe together unleashed, discovering worlds of many kinds. Valentine's careless mother let her boy go as he liked, and was often negligent in the matter of remittances: he and his friend learned ways to raise the wind, becoming expert and making curious affiliations. At her death there was a small inheritance; she had not been provident. The little she left went rocketing, and there was the wind to be raised again: young Corliss had wits and had found that they could supply him--most of the time--with much more than the necessities of life. He had also found that he possessed a strong attraction for various women; already--at twenty-two--his experience was considerable, and, in his way, he became a specialist. He had a talent; he improved it and his opportunities. Altogether, he took to the work without malice and with a light heart. . . . He sealed the envelope, rang for a boy, gave him the letter to post, and directed that the apartment should be set to rights. It was not that in which he had received Ray Vilas. Corliss had moved to rooms on another floor of the hotel, the day after that eccentric and somewhat ominous person had called to make an "investment." Ray's shadowy forebodings concerning that former apartment had encountered satire: Corliss was a "materialist" and, at the mildest estimate, an unusually practical man, but he would never sleep in a bed with its foot toward the door; southern Italy had seeped into him. He changed his rooms, a measure of which Don Antonio Moliterno would have wholly approved. Besides, these were as comfortable as the others, and so like them as even to confirm Ray's statement concerning "A Reading from Homer": evidently this work had been purchased by the edition. A boy came to announce that his "roadster" waited for him at the hotel entrance, and Corliss put on a fur motoring coat and cap, and went downstairs. A door leading from the hotel bar into the lobby was open, and, as Corliss passed it, there issued a mocking shout: "Tor'dor! Oh, look at the Tor'dor! Ain't he the handsome Spaniard!" Ray Vilas stumbled out, tousled, haggard, waving his arms in absurd and meaningless gestures; an amused gallery of tipplers filling the doorway behind him. "Goin' take Carmen buggy ride in the country, ain't he? Good ole Tor'dor!" he quavered loudly, clutching Corliss's shoulder. "How much you s'pose he pays f' that buzz-buggy by the day, jeli'm'n? Naughty Tor'dor, stole thousand dollars from me--makin' presents--diamond cresses. Tor'dor, I hear you been playing cards. Tha's sn't nice. Tor'dor, you're not a goo' boy at all--_you_ know you oughtn't waste Dick Lindley's money like that!" Corliss set his open hand upon the drunkard's breast and sent him gyrating and plunging backward. Some one caught the grotesque figure as it fell. "Oh, my God," screamed Ray, "I haven't got a gun on me! He _knows_ I haven't got my gun with me! _Why_ haven't I got my gun with me?" They hustled him away, and Corliss, enraged and startled, passed on. As he sped the car up Corliss Street, he decided to anticipate his letter to Moliterno by a cable. He had stayed too long. Cora looked charming in a new equipment for November motoring; yet it cannot be said that either of them enjoyed the drive. They lunched a dozen miles out from the city at an establishment somewhat in the nature of a roadside inn; and, although its cuisine was quite unknown to Cora's friend, Mrs. Villard (an eager amateur of the table), they were served with a meal of such unusual excellence that the waiter thought it a thousand pities patrons so distinguished should possess such poor appetites. They returned at about three in the afternoon, and Cora descended from the car wearing no very amiable expression. "Why won't you come in now?" she asked, looking at him angrily. "We've got to talk things out. We've settled nothing whatever. I want to know why you can't stop." "I've got some matters to attend to, and----" "What matters?" She shot him a glance of fierce skepticism. "Are you packing to get out?" "Cora!" he cried reproachfully, "how can you say things like that to _me_!" She shook her head. "Oh, it wouldn't surprise me in the least! How do _I_ know what you'll do? For all I know, you may be just that kind of a man. You _said_ you ought to be going----" "Cora," he explained, gently, "I didn't say I meant to go. I said only that I thought I ought to, because Moliterno will be needing me in Basilicata. I ought to be there, since it appears that no more money is to be raised here. I ought to be superintending operations in the oil-field, so as to make the best use of the little I have raised." "You?" she laughed. "Of course _I_ didn't have anything to do with it!" He sighed deeply. "You know perfectly well that I appreciate all you did. We don't seem to get on very well to-day----" "No!" She laughed again, bitterly. "So you think you'll be going, don't you?" "To my rooms to write some necessary letters." "Of course not to pack your trunk?" "Cora," he returned, goaded; "sometimes you're just impossible. I'll come to-morrow forenoon." "Then don't bring the car. I'm tired of motoring and tired of lunching in that rotten hole. We can talk just as well in the library. Papa's better, and that little fiend will be in school to-morrow. Come out about ten." He started the machine. "Don't forget I love you," he called in a low voice. She stood looking after him as the car dwindled down the street. "Yes, you do!" she murmured. She walked up the path to the house, her face thoughtful, as with a tiresome perplexity. In her own room, divesting herself of her wraps, she gave the mirror a long scrutiny. It offered the picture of a girl with a hard and dreary air; but Cora saw something else, and presently, though the dreariness remained, the hardness softened to a great compassion. She suffered: a warm wave of sorrow submerged her, and she threw herself upon the bed and wept long and silently for herself. At last her eyes dried, and she lay staring at the ceiling. The doorbell rang, and Sarah, the cook, came to inform her that Mr. Richard Lindley was below. "Tell him I'm out." "Can't," returned Sarah. "Done told him you was home." And she departed firmly. Thus abandoned, the prostrate lady put into a few words what she felt about Sarah, and, going to the door, whisperingly summoned in Laura, who was leaving the sick-room, across the hall. "Richard is downstairs. Will you go and tell him I'm sick in bed--or dead? Anything to make him go." And, assuming Laura's acquiescence, Cora went on, without pause: "Is father worse? What's the matter with you, Laura?" "Nothing. He's a little better, Miss Peirce thinks." "You look ill." "I'm all right." "Then run along like a duck and get rid of that old bore for me." "Cora--please see him?" "Not me! I've got too much to think about to bother with him." Laura walked to the window and stood with her back to her sister, apparently interested in the view of Corliss Street there presented. "Cora," she said, "why don't you marry him and have done with all this?" Cora hooted. "Why not? Why not marry him as soon as you can get ready? Why don't you go down now and tell him you will? Why not, Cora?" "I'd as soon marry a pail of milk--yes, tepid milk, skimmed! I----" "Don't you realize how kind he'd be to you?" "I don't know about that," said Cora moodily. "He might object to some things--but it doesn't matter, because I'm not going to try him. I don't mind a man's being a fool, but I can't stand the absent-minded breed of idiot. I've worn his diamond in the pendant right in his eyes for weeks; he's never once noticed it enough even to ask me about the pendant, but bores me to death wanting to know why I won't wear the ring! Anyhow, what's the use talking about him? He couldn't marry me right now, even if I wanted him to--not till he begins to get something on the investment he made with Val. Outside of that, he's got nothing except his rooms at his mother's; she hasn't much either; and if Richard should lose what he put in with Val, he couldn't marry for years, probably. That's what made him so obstinate about it. No; if I ever marry right off the reel it's got to be somebody with----" "Cora"--Laura still spoke from the window, not turning--"aren't you tired of it all, of this getting so upset about one man and then another and----" "_Tired_!" Cora uttered the word in a repressed fury of emphasis. "I'm sick of _everything_! I don't care for anything or anybody on this earth--except--except you and mamma. I thought I was going to love Val. I thought I _did_--but oh, my Lord, I don't! I don't think I _can_ care any more. Or else there isn't any such thing as love. How can anybody tell whether there is or not? You get kind of crazy over a man and want to go the limit--or marry him perhaps--or sometimes you just want to make him crazy about you--and then you get over it--and what is there left but hell!" She choked with a sour laugh. "Ugh! For heaven's sake, Laura, don't make me talk. Everything's gone to the devil and I've got to think. The best thing you can do is to go down and get rid of Richard for me. I _can't_ see him!" "Very well," said Laura, and went to the door. "You're a darling," whispered Cora, kissing her quickly. "Tell him I'm in a raging headache--make him think I wanted to see him, but you wouldn't let me, because I'm too ill." She laughed. "Give me a little time, old dear: I may decide to take him yet!" It was Mrs. Madison who informed the waiting Richard that Cora was unable to see him, because she was "lying down"; and the young man, after properly inquiring about Mr. Madison, went blankly forth. Hedrick was stalking the front yard, mounted at a great height upon a pair of stilts. He joined the departing visitor upon the sidewalk and honoured him with his company, proceeding storkishly beside him. "Been to see Cora?" "Yes, Hedrick." "What'd you want to see her about?" asked the frank youth seriously. Richard was able to smile. "Nothing in particular, Hedrick." "You didn't come to tell her about something?" "Nothing whatever, my dear sir. I wished merely the honour of seeing her and chatting with her upon indifferent subjects." "Why?" "Did you see her?" "No, I'm sorry to----" "She's home, all right," Hedrick took pleasure in informing him. "Yes. She was lying down and I told your mother not to disturb her." "Worn out with too much automobile riding, I expect," Hedrick sniffed. "She goes out about every day with this Corliss in his hired roadster." They walked on in silence. Not far from Mrs. Lindley's, Hedrick abruptly became vocal in an artificial laugh. Richard was obviously intended to inquire into its cause, but, as he did not, Hedrick, after laughing hollowly for some time, volunteered the explanation: "I played a pretty good trick on you last night." "Odd I didn't know it." "That's why it was good. You'd never guess it in the world." "No, I believe I shouldn't. You see what makes it so hard, Hedrick, is that I can't even remember seeing you, last night." "Nobody saw me. Somebody heard me though, all right." "Who?" "The nigger that works at your mother's--Joe." "What about it? Were you teasing Joe?" "No, it was you I was after." "Well? Did you get me?" Hedrick made another somewhat ghastly pretence of mirth. "Well, I guess I've had about all the fun out of it I'm going to. Might as well tell you. It was that book of Laura's you thought she sent you." Richard stopped short; whereupon Hedrick turned clumsily, and began to stalk back in the direction from which they had come. "That book--I thought she--sent me?" Lindley repeated, stammering. "She never sent it," called the boy, continuing to walk away. "She kept it hid, and I found it. I faked her into writing your name on a sheet of paper, and made you think she'd sent the old thing to you. I just did it for a joke on you." With too retching an effort to simulate another burst of merriment, he caught the stump of his right stilt in a pavement crack, wavered, cut in the air a figure like a geometrical proposition gone mad, and came whacking to earth in magnificent disaster. Richard took him to Mrs. Lindley for repairs. She kept him until dark: Hedrick was bandaged, led, lemonaded and blandished. Never in his life had he known such a listener. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE That was a long night for Cora Madison, and the morning found her yellow. She made a poor breakfast, and returned from the table to her own room, but after a time descended restlessly and wandered from one room to another, staring out of the windows. Laura had gone out; Mrs. Madison was with her husband, whom she seldom left; Hedrick had departed ostensibly for school; and the house was as still as a farm in winter--an intolerable condition of things for an effervescent young woman whose diet was excitement. Cora, drumming with her fingers upon a window in the owl-haunted cell, made noises with her throat, her breath and her lips not unsuggestive of a sputtering fuse. She was heavily charged. "Now what in thunder do _you_ want?" she inquired of an elderly man who turned in from the sidewalk and with serious steps approached the house. Pryor, having rung, found himself confronted with the lady he had come to seek. Ensued the moment of strangers meeting: invisible antennae extended and touched;--at the contact, Cora's drew in, and she looked upon him without graciousness. "I just called," he said placatively, smiling as if some humour lurked in his intention, "to ask how your father is. I heard downtown he wasn't getting along quite so well." "He's better this morning, thanks," said Cora, preparing to close the door. "I thought I'd just stop and ask about him. I heard he'd had another bad spell--kind of a second stroke." "That was night before last. The doctor thinks he's improved very much since then." The door was closing; he coughed hastily, and detained it by speaking again. "I've called several times to inquire about him, but I believe it's the first time I've had the pleasure of speaking to you, Miss Madison. I'm Mr. Pryor." She appeared to find no comment necessary, and he continued: "Your father did a little business for me, several years ago, and when I was here on my vacation, this summer, I was mighty sorry to hear of his sickness. I've had a nice bit of luck lately and got a second furlough, so I came out to spend a couple of weeks and Thanksgiving with my married daughter." Cora supposed that it must be very pleasant. "Yes," he returned. "But I was mighty sorry to hear your father wasn't much better than when I left. The truth is, I wanted to have a talk with him, and I've been reproaching myself a good deal that I didn't go ahead with it last summer, when he was well, only I thought then it mightn't be necessary--might be disturbing things without much reason." "I'm afraid you can't have a talk with him now," she said. "The doctor says----" "I know, I know," said Pryor, "of course. I wonder"--he hesitated, smiling faintly--"I wonder if I could have it with you instead." "Me?" "Oh, it isn't business," he laughed, observing her expression. "That is, not exactly." His manner became very serious. "It's about a friend of mine--at least, a man I know pretty well. Miss Madison, I saw you driving out through the park with him, yesterday noon, in an automobile. Valentine Corliss." Cora stared at him. Honesty, friendliness, and grave concern were disclosed to her scrutiny. There was no mistaking him: he was a good man. Her mouth opened, and her eyelids flickered as from a too sudden invasion of light--the look of one perceiving the close approach of a vital crisis. But there was no surprise in her face. "Come in," she said. * * * . . . . When Corliss arrived, at about eleven o'clock that morning, Sarah brought him to the library, where he found Cora waiting for him. He had the air of a man determined to be cheerful under adverse conditions: he came in briskly, and Cora closed the door behind him. "Keep away from me," she said, pushing him back sharply, the next instant. "I've had enough of that for a while I believe." He sank into a chair, affecting desolation. "Caresses blighted in the bud! Cora, one would think us really married." She walked across the floor to a window, turned there, with her back to the light, and stood facing him, her arms folded. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, noting this attitude. "Is it the trial scene from a faded melodrama?" She looked steadily at him without replying. "What's it all about to-day?" he asked lightly. "I'll try to give you the proper cues if you'll indicate the general nature of the scene, Cora mine." She continued to look at him in silence. "It's very effective," he observed. "Brings out the figure, too. Do forgive me if you're serious, dear lady, but never in my life was I able to take the folded-arms business seriously. It was used on the stage of all countries so much that I believe most new-school actors have dropped it. They think it lacks genuineness." Cora waited a moment longer, then spoke. "How much chance have I to get Richard Lindley's money back from you?" He was astounded. "Oh, I say!" "I had a caller, this morning," she said, slowly. "He talked about you--quite a lot! He's told me several things about you." "Mr. Vilas?" he asked, with a sting in his quick smile. "No," she answered coolly. "Much older." At that he jumped up, stepped quickly close to her, and swept her with an intense and brilliant scrutiny. "Pryor, by God!" he cried. "He knows you pretty well," she said. "So do I now!" He swung away from her, back to his chair, dropped into it and began to laugh. "Old Pryor! Doddering old Pryor! Doddering old ass of a Pryor! So he did! Blood of an angel! what a stew, what a stew!" He rose again, mirthless. "Well, what did he say?" She had begun to tremble, not with fear. "He said a good deal." "Well, what was it? What did he tell you?" "I think you'll find it plenty!" "Come on!" "_You_!" She pointed at him. "Let's have it." "He told me"--she burst out furiously--"he said you were a professional sharper!" "Oh, no. Old Pryor doesn't talk like that." She came toward him. "He told me you were notorious over half of Europe," she cried vehemently. "He said he'd arrested you himself, once, in Rotterdam, for smuggling jewels, and that you were guilty, but managed to squirm out of it. He said the police had put you out of Germany and you'd be arrested if you ever tried to go back. He said there were other places you didn't dare set foot in, and he said he could have you arrested in this country any time he wanted to, and that he was going to do it if he found you'd been doing anything wrong. Oh, yes, he told me a few things!" He caught her by the shoulder. "See here, Cora, do you believe all this tommy-rot?" She shook his hand off instantly. "Believe it? I know it! There isn't a straight line in your whole soul and mind: you're crooked all over. You've been crooked with _me_ from the start. The moment that man began to speak, I knew every word of it was true. He came to me because he thought it was right: he hasn't anything against you on his own account; he said he _liked_ you! I _knew_ it was true, I tell you." He tried to put his hand on her shoulder again, beginning to speak remonstratingly, but she cried out in a rage, broke away from him, and ran to the other end of the room. "Keep away! Do you suppose I like you to touch me? He told me you always had been a wonder with women! Said you were famous for `handling them the right way'--using them! Ah, that was pleasant information for _me_, wasn't it! Yes, I could have confirmed him on that point. He wanted to know if I thought you'd been doing anything of that sort here. What he meant was: Had you been using me?" "What did you tell him?" The question rang sharply on the instant. "Ha! That gets into you, does it?" she returned bitterly. "You can't overdo your fear of that man, I think, but _I_ didn't tell him anything. I just listened and thanked him for the warning, and said I'd have nothing more to do with you. How _could_ I tell him? Wasn't it I that made papa lend you his name, and got Richard to hand over his money? Where does that put _me_?" She choked; sobs broke her voice. "Every--every soul in town would point me out as a laughing-stock--the easiest fool out of the asylum! Do you suppose _I_ want you arrested and the whole thing in the papers? What I want is Richard's money back, and I'm going to have it!" "Can you be quiet for a moment and listen?" he asked gravely. "If you'll tell me what chance I have to get it back." "Cora," he said, "you don't want it back." "Oh? Don't I?" "No." He smiled faintly, and went on. "Now, all this nonsense of old Pryor's isn't worth denying. I have met him abroad; that much is true--and I suppose I have rather a gay reputation----" She uttered a jeering shout. "Wait!" he said. "I told you I'd cut quite a swathe, when I first talked to you about myself. Let it go for the present and come down to this question of Lindley's investment----" "Yes. That's what I want you to come down to." "As soon as Lindley paid in his check I gave him his stock certificates, and cabled the money to be used at once in the development of the oil-fields----" "What! That man told me you'd `promoted' a South American rubber company once, among people of the American colony in Paris. The details he gave me sounded strangely familiar!" "You'd as well be patient, Cora. Now, that money has probably been partially spent, by this time, on tools and labour and----" "What are you trying to----" "I'll show you. But first I'd like you to understand that nothing can be done to me. There's nothing `on' me! I've acted in good faith, and if the venture in oil is unsuccessful, and the money lost, I can't be held legally responsible, nor can any one prove that I am. I could bring forty witnesses from Naples to swear they have helped to bore the wells. I'm safe as your stubborn friend, Mr. Trumble, himself. But now then, suppose that old Pryor is right--as of course he isn't--suppose it, merely for a moment, because it will aid me to convey something to your mind. If I were the kind of man he says I am, and, being such a man, had planted the money out of reach, for my own use, what on earth would induce me to give it back?" "I knew it!" she groaned. "I knew you wouldn't!" "You see," he said quietly, "it would be impossible. We must go on supposing for a moment: if I had put that money away, I might be contemplating a departure----" "You'd better!" she cried fiercely. "He's going to find out everything you've been doing. He said so. He's heard a rumour that you were trying to raise money here; he told me so, and said he'd soon----" "The better reason for not delaying, perhaps. Cora, see here!" He moved nearer her. "Wouldn't I need a lot of money if I expected to have a beautiful lady to care for, and----" "You idiot!" she screamed. "Do you think I'm going with you?" He flushed heavily. "Well, aren't you?" He paused, to stare at her, as she wrung her hands and sobbed with hysterical laughter. "I thought," he went on, slowly, "that you would possibly even insist on that." "Oh, Lord, Lord, Lord!" She stamped her foot, and with both hands threw the tears from her eyes in wide and furious gestures. "He told me you were married----" "Did you let him think you hadn't known that?" demanded Corliss. "I tell you I didn't let him think _anything_! He said you would never be able to get a divorce: that your wife hates you too much to get one from you, and that she'll never----" "See here, Cora," he said harshly, "I told you I'd been married; I told you before I ever kissed you. You understood perfectly----" "I did not! You said you _had_ been. You laughed about it. You made me think it was something that had happened a long time ago. I thought of course you'd been divorced----" "But I told you----" "You told me after! And then you made me think you could easily get one--that it was only a matter of form and----" "Cora," he interrupted, "you're the most elaborate little self-deceiver I ever knew. I don't believe you've ever faced yourself for an honest moment in----" "Honest! _you_ talk about `honest'! You use that word and face _me_?" He came closer, meeting her distraught eyes squarely. "You love to fool yourself, Cora, but the role of betrayed virtue doesn't suit you very well. You're young, but you're a pretty experienced woman for all that, and you haven't done anything you didn't want to. You've had both eyes open every minute, and we both know it. You are just as wise as----" "You're lying and _you_ know it! What did _I_ want to make Richard go into your scheme for? You made a fool of me." "I'm not speaking of the money now," he returned quickly. "You'd better keep your mind on the subject. Are you coming away with me?" "What for?" she asked. "What _for_?" he echoed incredulously. "I want to know if you're coming. I promise you I'll get a divorce as soon as it's possible----" "Val," she said, in a tone lower than she had used since he entered the room; "Val, do you want me to come?" "Yes." "Much?" She looked at him eagerly. "Yes, I do." His answer sounded quite genuine. "Will it hurt you if I don't?" "Of course it will." "Thank heaven for that," she said quietly. "You honestly mean you won't?" "It makes me sick with laughing just to imagine it! I've done some hard little thinking, lately, my friend--particularly last night, and still more particularly this morning since that man was here. I'd cut my throat before I'd go with you. If you had your divorce I wouldn't marry you--not if you were the last man on earth!" "Cora," he cried, aghast, "what's the matter with you? You're too many for me sometimes. I thought I understood a few kinds of women! Now listen: I've offered to take you, and you can't say----" "Offered!" It was she who came toward him now. She came swiftly, shaking with rage, and struck him upon the breast. "`Offered'! Do you think I want to go trailing around Europe with you while Dick Lindley's money lasts? What kind of a life are you `offering' me? Do you suppose I'm going to have everybody saying Cora Madison ran away with a jail-bird? Do you think I'm going to dodge decent people in hotels and steamers, and leave a name in this town that--Oh, get out! I don't want any help from you! I can take care of myself, I tell you; and I don't have to marry _you_! I'd kill you if I could--you made a fool of me!" Her voice rose shrilly. "You made a fool of me!" "Cora----" he began, imploringly. "You made a fool of me!" She struck him again. "Strike me," he said. "I love you!" "Actor!" "Cora, I want you. I want you more than I ever----" She screamed with hysterical laughter. "Liar, liar, liar! The same old guff. Don't you even see it's too late for the old rotten tricks?" "Cora, I want you to come." "You poor, conceited fool," she cried, "do you think you're the only man I can marry?" "Cora," he gasped, "you wouldn't do that!" "Oh, get out! Get out _now_! I'm tired of you. I never want to hear you speak again." "Cora," he begged. "For the last time----" "_No_! You made a fool of me!" She beat him upon the breast, striking again and again, with all her strength. "Get out, I tell you! I'm through with you!" He tried to make her listen, to hold her wrists: he could do neither. "Get out--get out!" she screamed. She pushed and dragged him toward the door, and threw it open. Her voice thickened; she choked and coughed, but kept on screaming: "Get out, I tell you! Get out, get out, damn you! Damn you, _damn_ you! get out!" Still continuing to strike him with all her strength, she forced him out of the door. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Cora lost no time. Corliss had not closed the front door behind him before she was running up the stairs. Mrs. Madison, emerging from her husband's room, did not see her daughter's face; for Cora passed her quickly, looking the other way. "Was anything the matter?" asked the mother anxiously. "I thought I heard----" "Nothing in the world," Cora flung back over her shoulder. "Mr. Corliss said I couldn't imitate Sara Bernhardt, and I showed him I could." She began to hum; left a fragment of "rag-time" floating behind her as she entered her own room; and Mrs. Madison, relieved, returned to the invalid. Cora changed her clothes quickly. She put on a pale gray skirt and coat for the street, high shoes and a black velvet hat, very simple. The costume was almost startlingly becoming to her: never in her life had she looked prettier. She opened her small jewel-case, slipped all her rings upon her fingers; then put the diamond crescent, the pendant, her watch, and three or four other things into the flat, envelope-shaped bag of soft leather she carried when shopping. After that she brought from her clothes-pantry a small travelling-bag and packed it hurriedly. Laura, returning from errands downtown and glancing up at Cora's window, perceived an urgently beckoning, gray-gloved hand, and came at once to her sister's room. The packed bag upon the bed first caught her eye; then Cora's attire, and the excited expression of Cora's face, which was high-flushed and moist, glowing with a great resolve. "What's happened?" asked Laura quickly. "You look exactly like a going-away bride. What----" Cora spoke rapidly: "Laura, I want you to take this bag and keep it in your room till a messenger-boy comes for it. When the bell rings, go to the door yourself, and hand it to him. Don't give Hedrick a chance to go to the door. Just give it to the boy;--and don't say anything to mamma about it. I'm going downtown and I may not be back." Laura began to be frightened. "What is it you want to do, Cora?" she asked, trembling. Cora was swift and business-like. "See here, Laura, I've got to keep my head about me. You can do a great deal for me, if you won't be emotional just now, and help me not to be. I can't afford it, because I've got to do things, and I'm going to do them just as quickly as I can, and get it over. If I wait any longer I'll go insane. I _can_'T wait! You've been a wonderful sister to me; I've always counted on you, and you've never once gone back on me. Right now, I need you to help me more than I ever have in my life. Will you----" "But I must know----" "No, you needn't! I'll tell you just this much: I've got myself in a devil of a mess----" Laura threw her arms round her: "Oh, my dear, dear little sister!" she cried. But Cora drew away. "Now that's just what you mustn't do. I can't stand it! You've got to be _quiet_. I can't----" "Yes, yes," Laura said hurriedly. "I will. I'll do whatever you say." "It's perfectly simple: all I want you to do is to take charge of my travelling-bag, and, when a messenger-boy comes, give it to him without letting anybody know anything about it." "But I've got to know where you're going--I can't let you go and not----" "Yes, you can! Besides, you've promised to. I'm not going to do anything foolish ----" "Then why not tell me?" Laura began. She went on, imploring Cora to confide in her, entreating her to see their mother--to do a dozen things altogether outside of Cora's plans. "You're wasting your breath, Laura," said the younger sister, interrupting, "and wasting my time. You're in the dark: you think I'm going to run away with Val Corliss and you're wrong. I sent him out of the house for good, a while ago----" "Thank heaven for that!" cried Laura. "I'm going to take care of myself," Cora went on rapidly. "I'm going to get out of the mess I'm in, and you've got to let me do it my own way. I'll send you a note from downtown. You see that the messenger----" She was at the door, but Laura caught her by the sleeve, protesting and beseeching. Cora turned desperately. "See here. I'll come back in two hours and tell you all about it. If I promise that, will you promise to send me the bag by the----" "But if you're coming back you won't need----" Cora spoke very quietly. "I'll go to pieces in a moment. Really, I do think I'd better jump out of the window and have it over." "I'll send the bag," Laura quavered, "if you'll promise to come back in two hours." "I promise!" Cora gave her a quick embrace, a quick kiss, and, dry-eyed, ran out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. She walked briskly down Corliss Street. It was a clear day, bright noon, with an exhilarating tang in the air, and a sky so glorious that people outdoors were continually conscious of the blue overhead, and looked up at it often. An autumnal cheerfulness was abroad, and pedestrians showed it in their quickened steps, in their enlivened eyes, and frequent smiles, and in the colour of their faces. But none showed more colour or a gayer look than Cora. She encountered many whom she knew, for it was indeed a day to be stirring, and she nodded and smiled her way all down the long street, thinking of what these greeted people would say to-morrow. "_I_ saw her yesterday, walking down Corliss Street, about noon, in a gray suit and looking fairly radiant!" Some of those she met were enemies she had chastened; she prophesied their remarks with accuracy. Some were old suitors, men who had desired her; one or two had place upon her long list of boy-sweethearts: she gave the same gay, friendly nod to each of them, and foretold his morrow's thoughts of her, in turn. Her greeting of Mary Kane was graver, as was aesthetically appropriate, Mr. Wattling's engagement having been broken by that lady, immediately after his drive to the Country Club for tea. Cora received from the beautiful jilt a salutation even graver than her own, which did not confound her. Halfway down the street was a drug-store. She went in, and obtained appreciative permission to use the telephone. She came out well satisfied, and went swiftly on her way. Ten minutes later, she opened the door of Wade Trumble's office. He was alone; her telephone had caught him in the act of departing for lunch. But he had been glad to wait--glad to the verge of agitation. "By George, Cora!" he exclaimed, as she came quickly in and closed the door, "but you _can_ look stunning! Believe me, that's some get-up. But let me tell you right here and now, before you begin, it's no use your tackling me again on the oil proposition. If there was any chance of my going into it which there wasn't, not one on earth--why, the very fact of your asking me would have stopped me. I'm no Dick Lindley, I beg to inform you: I don't spend my money helping a girl that I want, myself, to make a hit with another man. You treated me like a dog about that, right in the street, and you needn't try it again, because I won't stand for it. You can't play _me_, Cora!" "Wade," she said, coming closer, and looking at him mysteriously, "didn't you tell me to come to you when I got through playing?" "What?" He grew very red, took a step back from her, staring at her distrustfully, incredulously. "I've got through playing", she said in a low voice. "And I've come to you." He was staggered. "You've come----" he said, huskily. "Here I am, Wade." He had flushed, but now the colour left his small face, and he grew very white. "I don't believe you mean it." "Listen," she said. "I was rotten to you about that oil nonsense. It _was_ nonsense, nothing on earth but nonsense. I tell you frankly I was a fool. I didn't care the snap of my finger for Corliss, but--oh, what's the use of pretending? You were always such a great `business man,' always so absorbed in business, and put it before everything else in the world. You cared for me, but you cared for business more than for me. Well, no woman likes _that_, Wade. I've come to tell you the whole thing: I can't stand it any longer. I suffered horribly because--because----" She faltered. "Wade, that was no way to _win_ a girl." "Cora!" His incredulity was strong. "I thought I hated you for it, Wade. Yes, I did think that; I'm telling you everything, you see just blurting it out as it comes, Wade. Well, Corliss asked me to help him, and it struck me I'd show that I could understand a business deal, myself. Wade, this is pretty hard to say, I was such a little fool, but you ought to know it. You've got a right to know it, Wade: I thought if I put through a thing like that, it would make a tremendous hit with you, and that then I could say: `So this is the kind of thing you put ahead of _me_, is it? Simple little things like this, that _I_ can do, myself, by turning over my little finger!' So I got Richard to go in--that was easy; and then it struck me that the crowning triumph of the whole thing would be to get you to come in yourself. That _would_ be showing you, I thought! But you wouldn't: you put me in my place--and I was angry--I never was so angry in my life, and I showed it." Tears came into her voice. "Oh, Wade," she said, softly, "it was the very wildness of my anger that showed what I really felt." "About--about _me_?" His incredulity struggled with his hope. He stepped close to her. "What an awful fool I've been," she sighed. "Why, I thought I could show you I was your _equal_! And look what it's got me into, Wade!" "What has it got you into, Cora?" "One thing worth while: I can see what I really am when I try to meet you on your own ground." She bent her head, humbly, then lifted it, and spoke rapidly. "All the rest is dreadful, Wade. I had a distrust of Corliss from the first; I didn't like him, but I took him up because I thought he offered the chance to show _you_ what I could do. Well, it's got me into a most horrible mess. He's a swindler, a rank----" "By George!" Wade shouted. "Cora, you're talking out now like a real woman." "Listen. I got horribly tired of him after a week or so, but I'd promised to help him and I didn't break with him; but yesterday I just couldn't stand him any longer and I told him so, and sent him away. Then, this morning, an old man came to the house, a man named Pryor, who knew him and knew his record, and he told me all about him." She narrated the interview. "But you had sent Corliss away first?" Wade asked, sharply. "Yesterday, I tell you." She set her hand on the little man's shoulder. "Wade, there's bound to be a scandal over all this. Even if Corliss gets away without being arrested and tried, the whole thing's bound to come _out_. I'll be the laughing-stock of the town--and I deserve to be: it's all through having been ridiculous idiot enough to try and impress you with my business brilliancy. Well, I can't stand it!" "Cora, do you----" He faltered. She leaned toward him, her hand still on his shoulder, her exquisite voice lowered, and thrilling in its sweetness. "Wade, I'm through playing. I've come to you at last because you've utterly conquered me. If you'll take me away to-day, I'll _marry_ you to-day!" He gave a shout that rang again from the walls. "Do you want me?" she whispered; then smiled upon his rapture indulgently. Rapture it was. With the word "marry," his incredulity sped forever. But for a time he was incoherent: he leaped and hopped, spoke broken bits of words, danced fragmentarily, ate her with his eyes, partially embraced her, and finally kissed her timidly. "Such a wedding we'll have!" he shouted, after that. "No!" she said sharply. "We'll be married by a Justice of the Peace and not a soul there but us, and it will be now, or it never will be! If you don't----" He swore she should have her way. "Then we'll be out of this town on the three o'clock train this afternoon," she said. She went on with her plans, while he, growing more accustomed to his privilege, caressed her as he would. "You shall have your way," she said, "in everything except the wedding-journey. That's got to be a long one--I won't come back here till people have forgotten all about this Corliss mix-up. I've never been abroad, and I want you to take me. We can stay a long, long time. I've brought nothing--we'll get whatever we want in New York before we sail." He agreed to everything. He had never really hoped to win her; paradise had opened, dazing him with glory: he was astounded, mad with joy, and abjectly his lady's servant. "Hadn't you better run along and get the license?" she laughed. "We'll have to be married on the way to the train." "Cora!" he gasped. "You angel!" "I'll wait here for you," she smiled. "There won't be too much time." He obtained a moderate control of his voice and feet. "Enfield--that's my cashier--he'll be back from his lunch at one-thirty. Tell him about us, if I'm not here by then. Tell him he's got to manage somehow. Good-bye till I come back Mrs. Trumble!" At the door he turned. "Oh, have you--you----" He paused uncertainly. "Have you sent Richard Lindley any word about----" "Wade!" She gave his inquiry an indulgent amusement. "If I'm not worrying about him, do you think you need to?" "I meant about----" "You funny thing," she said. "I never had any idea of really marrying him; it wasn't anything but one of those silly half-engagements, and----" "I didn't mean that," he said, apologetically. "I meant about letting him know what this Pryor told you about Corliss, so that Richard might do something toward getting his money back. We ought to--" "Oh, yes," she said quickly. "Yes, that's all right." "You saw Richard?" "No. I sent him a note. He knows all about it by this time, if he has been home this morning. You'd better start, Wade. Send a messenger to our house for my bag. Tell him to bring it here and then take a note for me. You'd really better start--dear!" "_Cora_!" he shouted, took her in his arms, and was gone. His departing gait down the corridor to the elevator seemed, from the sounds, to be a gallop. Left alone, Cora wrote, sealed, and directed a note to Laura. In it she recounted what Pryor had told her of Corliss; begged Laura and her parents not to think her heartless in not preparing them for this abrupt marriage. She was in such a state of nervousness, she wrote, that explanations would have caused a breakdown. The marriage was a sensible one; she had long contemplated it as a possibility; and, after thinking it over thoroughly, she had decided it was the only thing to do. She sent her undying love. She was sitting with this note in her hand when shuffling footsteps sounded in the corridor; either Wade's cashier or the messenger, she supposed. The door-knob turned, a husky voice asking, "Want a drink?" as the door opened. Cora was not surprised--she knew Vilas's office was across the hall from that in which she waited--but she was frightened. Ray stood blinking at her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, at last. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE It is probable that he got the truth out of her, perhaps all of it. That will remain a matter of doubt; Cora's evidence, if she gave it, not being wholly trustworthy in cases touching herself. But she felt no need of mentioning to any one that she had seen her former lover that day. He had gone before the return of Enfield, Mr. Trumble's assistant, who was a little later than usual, it happened; and the extreme nervousness and preoccupation exhibited by Cora in telling Enfield of his employer's new plans were attributed by the cashier to the natural agitation of a lady about to wed in a somewhat unusual (though sensible) manner. It is the more probable that she told Ray the whole truth, because he already knew something of Corliss's record abroad. On the dusty desk in Ray's own office lay a letter, received that morning from the American Consul at Naples, which was luminous upon that subject, and upon the probabilities of financial returns for the investment of a thousand dollars in the alleged oil-fields of Basilicata. In addition, Cora had always found it very difficult to deceive Vilas: he had an almost perfect understanding of a part of her nature; she could never far mislead him about herself. With her, he was intuitive and jumped to strange, inconsistent, true conclusions, as women do. He had the art of reading her face, her gestures; he had learned to listen to the tone of her voice more than to what she said. In his cups, too, he had fitful but almost demoniac inspirations for hidden truth. And, remembering that Cora always "got even," it remains finally to wonder if she might not have told him everything at the instance of some shadowy impulse in that direction. There may have been a luxury in whatever confession she made; perhaps it was not entirely forced from her, and heaven knows how she may have coloured it. There was an elusive, quiet satisfaction somewhere in her subsequent expression; it lurked deep under the surface of the excitement with which she talked to Enfield of her imminent marital abduction of his small boss. Her agitation, a relic of the unknown interview just past, simmered down soon, leaving her in a becoming glow of colour, with slender threads of moisture brilliantly outlining her eyelids. Mr. Enfield, a young, well-favoured and recent importation from another town, was deliciously impressed by the charm of the waiting lady. They had not met; and Enfield wondered how Trumble had compassed such an enormous success as this; and he wished that he had seen her before matters had gone so far. He thought he might have had a chance. She seemed pleasantly interested in him, even as it was--and her eyes were wonderful, with their swift, warm, direct little plunges into those of a chance comrade of the moment. She went to the window, in her restlessness, looking down upon the swarming street below, and the young man, standing beside her, felt her shoulder most pleasantly though very lightly--in contact with his own, as they leaned forward, the better to see some curiosity of advertising that passed. She turned her face to his just then, and told him that he must come to see her: the wedding journey would be long, she said, but it would not be forever. Trumble bounded in, shouting that everything was attended to, except instructions to Enfield, whom he pounded wildly upon the back. He began signing papers; a stenographer was called from another room of his offices; and there was half an hour of rapid-fire. Cora's bag came, and she gave the bearer the note for Laura; another bag was brought for Wade; and both bags were carried down to the automobile the bridegroom had left waiting in the street. Last, came a splendid cluster of orchids for the bride to wear, and then Wade, with his arm about her, swept her into the corridor, and the stirred Enfield was left to his own beating heart, and the fresh, radiant vision of this startling new acquaintance: the sweet mystery of the look she had thrown back at him over his employer's shoulder at the very last. "Do not forget _me_!" it had seemed to say. "We shall come back--some day." The closed car bore the pair to the little grim marriage-shop quickly enough, though they were nearly run down by a furious police patrol automobile, at a corner near the Richfield Hotel. Their escape was by a very narrow margin of safety, and Cora closed her eyes. Then she was cross, because she had been frightened, and commanded Wade cavalierly to bid the driver be more careful. Wade obeyed sympathetically. "Of course, though, it wasn't altogether his fault," he said, settling back, his arm round his lady's waist. "It's an outrage for the police to break their own rules that way. I guess they don't need to be in a hurry any more than _we_ do!" The Justice made short work of it. As they stood so briefly before him, there swept across her vision the memory of what she had always prophesied as her wedding:--a crowded church, "The Light That Breathed O'er Eden" from an unseen singer; then the warm air trembling to the Lohengrin march; all heads turning; the procession down the aisle; herself appearing--climax of everything--a delicious and brilliant figure: graceful, rosy, shy, an imperial prize for the groom, who in these foreshadowings had always been very indistinct. The picture had always failed in outline there: the bridegroom's nearest approach to definition had never been clearer than a composite photograph. The truth is, Cora never in her life wished to be married. But she was. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Valentine Corliss had nothing to do but to wait for the money his friend Antonio would send him by cable. His own cable, anticipating his letter, had been sent yesterday, when he came back to the hotel, after lunching in the country with Cora. As he walked down Corliss Street, after his tumultuous interview with her, he was surprised to find himself physically tremulous: he had not supposed that an encounter, however violent, with an angry woman could so upset his nerves. It was no fear of Pryor which shook him. He knew that Pryor did not mean to cause his arrest--certainly not immediately. Of course, Pryor knew that Cora would tell him. The old fellow's move was a final notification. It meant: "Get out of town within twenty-four hours." And Corliss intended to obey. He would have left that evening, indeed, without the warning; his trunk was packed. He would miss Cora. He had kept a cool head throughout their affair until the last; but this morning she had fascinated him: and he found himself passionately admiring the fury of her. She had confused him as he had never been confused. He thought he had tamed her; thought he owned her; and the discovery of this mistake was what made him regret that she would not come away with him. Such a flight, until to-day, had been one of his apprehensions: but now the thought that it was not to be, brought something like pain. At least, he felt a vacancy; had a sense of something lacking. She would have been a bright comrade for the voyage; and he thought of gestures of hers, turns of the head, tricks of the lovely voice; and sighed. Of course it was best for him that he could return to his old trails alone and free; he saw that. Cora would have been a complication and an embarrassment without predictable end, but she would have been a rare flame for a while. He wondered what she meant to do; of course she had a plan. Should he try again, give her another chance? No; there was one point upon which she had not mystified him: he knew she really hated him. . . . The wind was against the smoke that day; and his spirits rose, as he walked in the brisk air with the rich sky above him. After all, this venture upon his native purlieus had been fax from fruitless: he could not have expected to do much better. He had made his coup; he knew no other who could have done it. It was a handsome bit of work, in fact, and possible only to a talented native thoroughly sophisticated in certain foreign subtleties. He knew himself for a rare combination. He had a glimmer of Richard Lindley beginning at the beginning again to build a modest fortune: it was the sort of thing the Richard Lindleys were made for. Corliss was not troubled. Richard had disliked him as a boy; did not like him now; but Corliss had not taken his money out of malice for that. The adventurer was not revengeful; he was merely impervious. At the hotel, he learned that Moliterno's cable had not yet arrived; but he went to an agency of one of the steamship lines and reserved his passage, and to a railway ticket office and secured a compartment for himself on an evening train. Then he returned to his room in the hotel. The mirror over the mantelpiece, in the front room of his suite, showed him a fine figure of a man: hale, deep-chested, handsome, straight and cheerful. He nodded to it. "Well, old top," he said, reviewing and summing up his whole campaign, "not so bad. Not so bad, all in all; not so bad, old top. Well played indeed!" At a sound of footsteps approaching his door, he turned in casual expectancy, thinking it might be a boy to notify him that Moliterno's cable had arrived. But there was no knock, and the door was flung wide open. It was Vilas, and he had his gun with him this time. He had two. There was a shallow clothes-closet in the wall near the fireplace, and Corliss ran in there; but Vilas began to shoot through the door. Mutilated, already a dead man, and knowing it, Corliss came out, and tried to run into the bedroom. It was no use. Ray saved his last shot for himself. It did the work. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE There is a song of parting, an intentionally pathetic song, which contains the line, "All the tomorrows shall be as to-day," meaning equally gloomy. Young singers, loving this line, take care to pronounce the words with unusual distinctness: the listener may feel that the performer has the capacity for great and consistent suffering. It is not, of course, that youth loves unhappiness, but the appearance of it, its supposed picturesqueness. Youth runs from what is pathetic, but hangs fondly upon pathos. It is the idea of sorrow, not sorrow, which charms: and so the young singer dwells upon those lingering tomorrows, happy in the conception of a permanent wretchedness incurred in the interest of sentiment. For youth believes in permanence. It is when we are young that we say, "I shall never," and "I shall always," not knowing that we are only time's atoms in a crucible of incredible change. An old man scarce dares say, "I have never," for he knows that if he searches he will find, probably, that he has. "All, all is change." It was an evening during the winter holidays when Mrs. Lindley, coming to sit by the fire in her son's smoking-room, where Richard sat glooming, narrated her legend of the Devil of Lisieux. It must have been her legend: the people of Lisieux know nothing of it; but this Richard the Guileless took it for tradition, as she alleged it, and had no suspicion that she had spent the afternoon inventing it. She did not begin the recital immediately upon taking her chair, across the hearth from her son; she led up to it. She was an ample, fresh-coloured, lively woman; and like her son only in being a kind soul: he got neither his mortal seriousness nor his dreaminess from her. She was more than content with Cora's abandonment of him, though, as chivalrousness was not demanded of her, she would have preferred that he should have been the jilt. She thought Richard well off in his release, even at the price of all his savings. But there was something to hope, even in that matter, Pryor wrote from Paris encouragingly: he believed that Moliterno might be frightened or forced into at least a partial restitution; though Richard would not count upon it, and had "begun at the beginning" again, as a small-salaried clerk in a bank, trudging patiently to work in the morning and home in the evening, a long-faced, tired young man, more absent than ever, lifeless, and with no interest in anything outside his own broodings. His mother, pleased with his misfortune in love, was of course troubled that it should cause him to suffer. She knew she could not heal him; but she also knew that everything is healed in time, and that sometimes it is possible for people to help time a little. Her first remark to her son, this evening, was that to the best of her memory she had never used the word "hellion." And, upon his saying gently, no, he thought it probable that she never had, but seeking no farther and dropping his eyes to the burning wood, apparently under the impression that the subject was closed, she informed him brusquely that it was her intention to say it now. "What is it you want to say, mother?" "If I can bring myself to use the word `hellion'," she returned, "I'm going to say that of all the heaven-born, whole-souled and consistent ones I ever knew Hedrick Madison is the King." "In what new way?" he inquired. "Egerton Villard. Egerton used to be the neatest, best-mannered, best-dressed boy in town; but he looks and behaves like a Digger Indian since he's taken to following Hedrick around. Mrs. Villard says it's the greatest sorrow of her life, but she's quite powerless: the boy is Hedrick's slave. The other day she sent a servant after him, and just bringing him home nearly ruined her limousine. He was solidly covered with molasses, over his clothes and all, from head to foot, and then he'd rolled in hay and chicken feathers to be a _gnu_ for Hedrick to kodak in the African Wilds of the Madisons' stable. Egerton didn't know what a gnu was, but Hedrick told him that was the way to be one, he said. Then, when they'd got him scraped and boiled, and most of his hair pulled out, a policemen came to arrest him for stealing the jug of molasses at a corner grocery." Richard nodded, and smiled faintly for comment. They sat in silence for a while. "I saw Mrs. Madison yesterday," said his mother. "She seemed very cheerful; her husband is able to talk almost perfectly again, though he doesn't get downstairs. Laura reads to him a great deal." He nodded again, his gaze not moving from the fire. "Laura was with her mother," said Mrs. Lindley. "She looked very fetching in a black cloth suit and a fur hat--old ones her sister left, I suspect, but very becoming, for all that. Laura's `going out' more than usual this winter. She's really the belle of the holiday dances, I hear. Of course she would be", she added, thoughtfully--"now." "Why should she be `now' more than before?" "Oh, Laura's quite blossomed," Mrs. Lindley answered. "I think she's had some great anxieties relieved. Of course both she and her mother must have worried about Cora as much as they waited on her. It must be a great burden lifted to have her comfortably settled, or, at least, disposed of. I thought they both looked better. But I have a special theory about Laura: I suppose you'll laugh at me----" "Oh, no." "I wish you would sometimes," she said wistfully, "so only you laughed. My idea is that Laura was in love with that poor little Trumble, too." "What?" He looked up at that. "Yes; girls fall in love with anybody. I fancy she cared very deeply for him; but I think she's a strong, sane woman, now. She's about the steadiest, coolest person I know--and I know her better, lately, than I used to. I think she made up her mind that she'd not sit down and mope over her unhappiness, and that she'd get over what caused it; and she took the very best remedy: she began going about, going everywhere, and she went gayly, too! And I'm sure she's cured; I'm sure she doesn't care the snap of her fingers for Wade Trumble or any man alive. She's having a pretty good time, I imagine: she has everything in the world except money, and she's never cared at all about _that_. She's young, and she dresses well--these days--and she's one of the handsomest girls in town; she plays like a poet, and she dances well----" "Yes," said Richard;--reflectively, "she does dance well." "And from what I hear from Mrs. Villard," continued his mother, "I guess she has enough young men in love with her to keep any girl busy." He was interested enough to show some surprise. "In love with Laura?" "Four, I hear." The best of women are sometimes the readiest with impromptu statistics. "Well, well!" he said, mildly. "You see, Laura has taken to smiling on the world, and the world smiles back at her. It's not a bad world about that, Richard." "No," he sighed. "I suppose not." "But there's more than that in this case, my dear son." "Is there?" The intelligent and gentle matron laughed as though at some unexpected turn of memory and said: "Speaking of Hedrick, did you ever hear the story of the Devil of Lisieux, Richard?" "I think not; at least, I don't remember it." "Lisieux is a little town in Normandy," she said. "I was there a few days with your father, one summer, long ago. It's a country full of old stories, folklore, and traditions; and the people still believe in the Old Scratch pretty literally. This legend was of the time when he came to Lisieux. The people knew he was coming because a wise woman had said that he was on the way, and predicted that he would arrive at the time of the great fair. Everybody was in great distress, because they knew that whoever looked at him would become bewitched, but, of course, they had to go to the fair. The wise woman was able to give them a little comfort; she said some one was coming with the devil, and that the people must not notice the devil, but keep their eyes fastened on this other--then they would be free of the fiend's influence. But, when the devil arrived at the fair, nobody even looked to see who his companion was, for the devil was so picturesque, so vivid, all in flaming scarlet and orange, and he capered and danced and sang so that nobody could help looking at him--and, after looking once, they couldn't look away until they were thoroughly under his spell. So they were all bewitched, and began to scream and howl and roll on the ground, and turn on each other and brawl, and `commit all manner of excesses.' Then the wise woman was able to exorcise the devil, and he sank into the ground; but his companion stayed, and the people came to their senses, and looked, and they saw that it was an angel. The angel had been there all the time that the fiend was, of course. So they have a saying now, that there may be angels with us, but we don't notice them when the devil's about." She did not look at her son as she finished, and she had hurried through the latter part of her "legend" with increasing timidity. The parallel was more severe, now that she put it to him, than she intended; it sounded savage; and she feared she had overshot her mark. Laura, of course, was the other, the companion; she had been actually a companion for the vivid sister, everywhere with her at the fair, and never considered: now she emerged from her overshadowed obscurity, and people were able to see her as an individual--heretofore she had been merely the retinue of a flaming Cora. But the "legend" was not very gallant to Cora! Mrs. Lindley knew that it hurt her son; she felt it without looking at him, and before he gave a sign. As it was, he did not speak, but, after a few moments, rose and went quietly out of the room: then she heard the front door open and close. She sat by his fire a long, long time and was sorry--and wondered. When Richard came home from his cold night-prowl in the snowy streets, he found a sheet of note paper upon his pillow: "Dearest Richard, I didn't mean that anybody you ever cared for was a d---l. I only meant that often the world finds out that there are lovely people it hasn't noticed." . . . He reproached himself, then, for the reproach his leaving her had been; he had a susceptible and annoying conscience, this unfortunate Richard. He found it hard to get to sleep, that night; and was kept awake long after he had planned how he would make up to his mother for having received her "legend" so freezingly. What kept him awake, after that, was a dim, rhythmic sound coming from the house next door, where a holiday dance was in progress--music far away and slender: fiddle, 'cello, horn, bassoon, drums, all rollicking away almost the night-long, seeping through the walls to his restless pillow. Finally, when belated drowsiness came, the throbbing tunes mingled with his half-dreams, and he heard the light shuffling of multitudinous feet over the dancing-floor, and became certain that Laura's were among them. He saw her, gliding, swinging, laughing, and happy and the picture did not please him: it seemed to him that she would have been much better employed sitting in black to write of a hopeless love. Coquetting with four suitors was not only inconsistent; it was unbecoming. It "suited Cora's style," but in Laura it was outrageous. When he woke, in the morning, he was dreaming of her: dressed as Parthenia, beautiful, and throwing roses to an acclaiming crowd through which she was borne on a shield upon the shoulders of four Antinouses. Richard thought it scandalous. His indignation with her had not worn off when he descended to breakfast, but he made up to his mother for having troubled her. Then, to cap his gallantry, he observed that several inches of snow must have fallen during the night; it would be well packed upon the streets by noon; he would get a sleigh, after lunch, and take her driving. It was a holiday. She thanked him, but half-declined. "I'm afraid it's too cold for me, but there are lots of nice girls in town, Richard, who won't mind weather." "But I asked _you_!" It was finally left an open question for the afternoon to settle; and, upon her urging, he went out for a walk. She stood at the window to watch him, and, when she saw that he turned northward, she sank into a chair, instead of going to give Joe Varden his after-breakfast instructions, and fell into a deep reverie. Outdoors, it was a biting cold morning, wind-swept and gray; and with air so frosty-pure no one might breathe it and stay bilious: neither in body nor bilious in spirit. It was a wind to sweep the yellow from jaundiced cheeks and make them rosy; a wind to clear dulled eyes; it was a wind to lift foolish hearts, to lift them so high they might touch heaven and go winging down the sky, the wildest of wild-geese. . . . When the bell rang, Laura was kneeling before the library fire, which she had just kindled, and she had not risen when Sarah brought Richard to the doorway. She was shabby enough, poor Cinderella! looking up, so frightened, when her prince appeared. She had not been to the dance. She had not four suitors. She had none. He came toward her. She rose and stepped back a little. Ashes had blown upon her, and, oh, the old, old thought of the woman born to be a mother! she was afraid his clothes might get dusty if he came too close. But to Richard she looked very beautiful; and a strange thing happened: trembling, he saw that the firelight upon her face was brighter than any firelight he had ever seen.