The young man paused for a moment, his dark eyes gazing earnestly into the clear gray eyes watching him intently; then, without shifting his gaze, he continued, in low tones:

"She told me that about a year before my birth she and my father were married against her father's will, his only objection to the marriage being that my father was poor. She told me of their happy married life that followed, but that my father was ambitious, and the consciousness of poverty and the fact that he could not provide for her as he wished galled him. She told me how, when there was revealed to them the promise of a new love and life within their little home, he redoubled his efforts to do for her and hers, and then, dissatisfied with what he could accomplish there, went out into the new West to build a home for his little family. She told of the brave, loving letters that came so faithfully and the generous remittances to provide for every possible need in the coming emergency. Then Fortune beckoned him still farther west, and he obeyed, daring the dangers of that strange, wild country for the love he bore his wife and his unborn child. From that country only one letter ever was received from him. Just at that time I was born, and my life came near costing hers who bore me. For weeks she lay between life and death, so low that the report of her death reached her parents, bringing them broken-hearted and, as they supposed, too late to her humble home. They found her yet living and threw their love and their wealth into the battle against death. In all this time no news came from the great West. As soon as she could be moved my mother and her child were taken to her father's home. Her father forgave her, but he had no forgiveness for her husband and no love for his child. He tried to make my mother believe her husband had deserted her, but she was loyal in her trust in him as in her love for him. She named her child for his father, 'John,' but as her father would not allow the name repeated in his hearing she gave him the additional name of 'Darrell,' by which he was universally known; but in those sacred hours when she told me of my father and taught me to pray for him, she always called me by his name, 'John Britton.'"

As he ceased speaking both men rose simultaneously to their feet. The elder man placed his hands upon the shoulders of the younger, and, standing thus face to face, they looked into each other's eyes as though each were reading the other's inmost soul.

"What was your mother's name?" Mr. Britton asked, in low tones.

"Patience—Patience Jewett," replied the other.

Mr. Britton bowed his head with deep emotion, and father and son were clasped in each other's arms.

When they had grown calm enough for speech Mr. Britton's first words were of his wife.

"What of your mother, my son,—was she living when you came west?"

"Yes, but her health was delicate, and I am fearful of the effects of my long absence; it must have been a terrible strain upon her. As soon as I reached the city this morning I telegraphed an old schoolmate for tidings of her, and I am expecting an answer any moment."

They talked of the strange chain of circumstances which had brought them together and of the mysterious bond by which they had been so closely united while as yet unconscious of their relationship. The summons to lunch recalled them to the present. As they rose to leave the room Mr. Britton threw his arm affectionately about Darrell's shoulders, exclaiming,—

"My son! Mine! and I have loved you as such from the first time I looked into your eyes! If God will now only permit me to see my beloved wife again, I can ask nothing more!"

And as Darrell gazed at the noble form, towering slightly above his own, and looked into the depths of those gray eyes, penetrating, fearless, yet tender as a woman's, he felt that however sweet and sacred had been the friendship between them in the past, it was as naught compared with the infinitely sweeter and holier relationship of father and son.

They passed into the dining-room where Mr. Underwood and Mrs. Dean awaited them, a look of eager expectancy on both faces, the wistful expression of Mrs. Dean as she watched for the first token of recognition on Darrell's part being almost pathetic.

Mr. Britton, who had entered slightly in advance, paused half-way across the room, and, placing his hand on Darrell's shoulder, said, in a voice which vibrated with emotion,—

"My dear friends, Mrs. Dean and Mr. Underwood, allow me to introduce my son, John Darrell Britton!"

There, was a moment of strained silence in which only the labored breathing of Mr. Underwood could be heard.

"Do you mean that you have adopted him?" Mr. Underwood asked, slowly, seeming to speak with difficulty.

"No, David; he is my own flesh and blood—my legitimate son; I will explain later."

Mrs. Dean and Darrell had clasped hands and were scanning each other's faces.

"John, do you remember me?" she asked, with trembling lips.

Darrell bent his head and kissed her. "I do, Mrs. Dean," he replied.

She smiled, at the same time wiping away a tear with the corner of her white apron.

"I don't think I could have borne it if you hadn't," she remarked, simply; then, shaking hands with Mr. Britton, she added:

"I congratulate you, Mr. Britton; I congratulate you both. If ever there were two who ought to be father and son, you are the two."

Mr. Underwood wrung Darrell's hand. "I congratulate you, boy, and I'm mighty glad to find you're not a stranger to us, after all."

Then, grasping his old-time partner's hand, he added: "Jack, you old fraud! You've always got the best of me on every bargain, but I forgive you this time. I wanted the boy myself, but you seem to have the best title, so there's no use to try to jump your claim."

Lunch was just over as a messenger was announced, and a moment later a telegram was handed to Darrell. As he opened the missive his fingers trembled and Mr. Britton's face grew pale. Darrell hastily read the contents, then met his father's anxious glance with a reassuring smile.

"She is living and in usual health, though my friend says she is much more delicate than when I left."

"We must go to her at once, my boy," said Mr. Britton; "how soon can you leave?"

"In a very few hours, father; when do you wish to start?"

Mr. Britton consulted a time-table. "The east-bound express leaves at ten-thirty to-night; can we make that?"

"Sure!" Darrell responded, with an enthusiasm new to his western friends; "you can't start too soon for me, and there isn't a train that travels fast enough to take me to that little mother of mine, especially with the good news I have for her."

Half an hour later, as he was hastily gathering together his possessions, he came suddenly upon a picture, at sight of which he paused, then stood spellbound, all else for the time forgotten. It was a portrait of Kate Underwood, taken in the gown she had worn on that night of her first reception. It served as a connecting link between the past and present. Gazing at it he was able to understand how the young girl whom he faintly remembered had grown into the strong, sweet character delineated in the recorded story of his love. He was able to recall some of the scenes portrayed there; he recalled her as she stood that day on the "Divide," her head uncovered, her gleaming hair like a halo about her face, her eyes shining with a light that was not of earth.

He kissed the picture reverently. "Sweet angel of my dream!" he murmured; "come what may, you hold, and always will, a place in my heart which no other can ever take from you. I will lay your sweet face away, never again to be lifted from its hiding-place until I can look upon it as the face of my betrothed."

His trunk was packed, his preparations for departure nearly complete, when there came a gentle tap at his door, and Mrs. Dean entered.

"I was afraid," she said, speaking with some hesitation, "that you might think it strange if you did not see Katherine, and I wanted to explain that she is away. She went out of town, to be gone for a few days. She will be very sorry when she returns to find that she has missed seeing you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dean," said Darrell, slowly; "on some accounts I would have been very glad to meet Kate; but on the whole I think perhaps it is better as it is."

"I don't suppose you remember her except as you saw her when you first came," Mrs. Dean added, wistfully; "I should like to have you see her as she is now. I think she has matured into a beautiful young woman."

"Yes, I remember her, Mrs. Dean; she is beautiful."

"Oh, do you? She will be glad to hear that!" Mrs. Dean exclaimed, with a happy smile.

Darrell came nearer and took her hands within his own. "Will you give her a message from me, just as I give it to you? She will understand."

"Oh, yes; gladly."

"Tell her," said Darrell, and his voice trembled slightly, "I remember her. Tell her I will see her 'at the time appointed;' and that I never forget!"



Chapter XXX

AFTER MANY YEARS

The evening train, as it was known,—a local from the south,—was approaching the little village of Ellisburg, winding its way over miles of rolling country dotted with farm-houses of snowy white; to the east, rough, rugged hills surmounted by a wall of forest, while far to the west could be seen the sandy beaches and blue waters of Lake Ontario.

The arrival of this train formed one of the chief events in the daily life of the little town, and each summer evening found a group of from twenty to fifty of the village folk awaiting its incoming. To them it afforded a welcome break in the monotony of their lives, a fleeting glimpse of people and things from that vague world outside the horizon bounding their own.

Amid the usual handful of passengers left at the station on this particular evening were two who immediately drew the attention of the crowd. Two men, one something over fifty years of age, tall, with erect form and dark hair well silvered, and with a grave, sweet face; the other not more than seven-and-twenty, but with hair as white as snow, while his face wore an inscrutable look, as though the dark, piercing eyes held within their depths secrets which the sphinx-like lips would not reveal. Closely following them was a splendid collie, trying in various ways to give expression to his delight at being released from the confinement of the baggage-car.

There was a sudden, swift movement in the crowd as a young man stepped quickly forward and grasped the younger of the two by the hand.

"Darrell, old boy! is this you?" he exclaimed; "Great Scott! what have you been doing to yourself these two years?"

"Plenty of time for explanations later," said Darrell, shaking hands heartily; "Ned, I want you to know my father; father, this is my old chum, now Dr. Elliott."

The young physician's face betrayed astonishment, but he shook hands with Mr. Britton with no remarks beyond the customary greeting.

"Now, Ned," continued Darrell, "get us out of this mob as quickly as you can; I don't want to be recognized here."

"Not much danger with that white pate of yours; but come this way, my carriage is waiting. I did not let out that you were coming back, for I thought you wouldn't want any demonstration from the crowd here, so I told no one but father; he's waiting for you in the carriage."

"You're as level-headed as ever," Darrell remarked.

They reached the carriage, greetings were exchanged with Mr. Elliott, and soon the party was driving rapidly towards the village.

"We will go at once to my office," Dr. Elliott remarked to Darrell, who was seated beside himself; "we can make arrangements there as to the best method of breaking this news to your mother."

"You have told her nothing, then?" Darrell inquired.

"No; life has so many uncertainties and she has already suffered so much. You had a long journey before you; if anything had happened to detain you, it was better not to have her in suspense."

"You were right," Darrell replied; "you know I left all that to your own judgment."

"Darrell, old boy," said the doctor, inspecting his companion critically, "do satisfy my curiosity: is that white hair genuine or a wig donned for the occasion?"

"What reason could I have for any such masquerading?" Darrell demanded; "when you come to know my experience for the past two years you will not wonder that my hair is white."

"I beg your pardon, old fellow; I meant no offence. We had all given you up for dead—all but your mother; and your telegram nearly knocked me off my feet."

Here the doctor drew rein, and, fastening the horses outside, they entered his office, a small, one-story building standing close to the street in one corner of the great dooryard of his father's home, and sheltered alike from sun and storm by giant maples.

After brief consultation it was decided that as Dr. Elliott and his father were frequent callers at the Jewett home, the entire party would drive out there, and, in the probable event of not seeing Mrs. Britton, who was an invalid and retired at an early hour, Darrell and his father would spend the night at the old homestead, but their presence would not be known by the wife and mother until the following morning.

"You see, sir," Dr. Elliott remarked to Mr. Britton, "your coming has complicated matters a little. I would not apprehend any danger from the meeting between Mrs. Britton and her son, for she has looked for his return every day; but I cannot say what might be the result of the shock her nervous system would sustain in meeting you. We are safe, however, in going out there this evening, for she always retires to her room before this time."

Both Mr. Britton and Darrell grew silent as the old Jewett homestead came in view. It was a wide-spreading house of colonial build, snowy white with green shutters and overrun with climbing roses and honeysuckle vines. It stood back at a little distance from the street, and a broad walk, under interlacing boughs of oak, elm, and maple, led from the street to the lofty pillared veranda across its front. The full moon was rising opposite, its mellow light throwing every twig and flower into bold relief. Two figures could be seen seated within the veranda, and as the carriage stopped Dr. Elliott remarked,—

"I was right; Mr. Jewett and his elder daughter are sitting outside, but Mrs. Britton has retired."

As the four men alighted and proceeded up the walk towards the house strangely varied emotions surged through the breasts of Darrell and his father. To one this was his childhood's home, the only home of which he had any distinct memory; to the other it was the home to which long ago he had been welcomed as a friend, but from which he had been banished as a lover. But all reminiscent thoughts were suddenly put to flight.

They had advanced only about half-way up the walk when one of the long, old-fashioned windows upon the veranda was hastily thrown open and a slender figure robed in a white dressing-gown came with swift but tremulous steps down the walk to meet them, crying, in glad accents,—

"Oh, my son! my son! you have come, as I knew you would some day!"

Darrell sprang forward and caught his mother in his arms, and then, unable to speak, held her close to his breast, his tears falling on her upturned face, while she caressed him and crooned fond words of endearment as in the days when she had held him in her arms. Dr. Elliott and his father stood near, nonplussed, uncertain what to do or what course to take. The old gentleman on the veranda left his seat and took a few steps towards the group, as though to assist his daughter to the house, but Dr. Elliott motioned him to remain where he was. Mr. Britton, scarcely able to restrain his feelings, yet fearful of agitating his wife, had withdrawn slightly to one side, but unconsciously was standing so that the moonlight fell full across his face.

At that instant Mrs. Britton raised her head, and, seeing the familiar faces of Dr. Elliott and his father, looked at the solitary figure as though to see who it might be. Their eyes met, his shining with the old-time love with which he had looked on her as she stood a bride on that summer evening crowned with the sunset rays, only a thousand-fold more tender. She gave a startled glance, then raised her arms to him with one shrill, sweet cry,—the cry of the lone night-bird for its mate,—

"John!"

"Patience!" came the responsive note, deep, resonant, tender.

He held her folded within his arms until he suddenly felt the fragile form grow limp in his clasp, then, lifting her, he bore her tenderly up the walk, past the bewildered father and sister, into the house, Dr. Elliott leading the way, and laid her on a couch in her own room.

She was soon restored to consciousness, and, though able to say little, lay feasting her eyes alternately upon the face of husband and son, her glance, however, returning oftener and dwelling longer on the face of the lover, who, after more than twenty-seven years of absence, was a lover still.



Chapter XXXI

AN EASTERN HOME

Within a few days Darrell and his father were domiciled in the Jewett homestead, the physicians pronouncing it unwise to attempt to remove Mrs. Britton to another home.

To Experience Jewett, who reigned supreme in her father's house, it seemed as though two vandals had invaded her domain, so ruthlessly did they open up the rooms for years jealously guarded from sunshine and dust, while her cherished household gods were removed by sacrilegious hands from their time-honored niches and consigned to the ignominy of obscure back chambers or the oblivion of the garret.

Under Mr. Britton's supervision, soon after his arrival, the great double parlors, which had not been used since the funeral of Mrs. Jewett some seven years before, were thrown wide open, Sally, the "help," standing with open mouth and arms akimbo, aghast at such proceedings, while Miss Jewett executed a lively quick-step in pursuit of a moth, which, startled by the unusual light, was circling above her head.

Not only were the gayly flowered Brussels carpet and the black haircloth furniture the same as when he had been a guest in those rooms nearly thirty years before, but each piece of furniture occupied the same position as then. He smiled as he noted the arm-chair by one of the front windows, to which he had been invariably assigned and in which he had slipped and slid throughout each evening to the detriment of the crocheted "tidy" pinned upon its back. The vases and candlesticks upon the mantel were arranged with the same mathematical precision. He could detect only one change, which was that to the collection of family photographs framed and hanging above the mantel, there had been added a portrait of the late Mrs. Jewett.

Within a week the old furnishings had been relegated to other parts of the house and modern upholstery had taken their places, the soft subdued tints of which blended harmoniously, forming a general impression of warmth and light.

Most of these innovations Miss Jewett viewed with disfavor, particularly the staining of the floors preparatory to laying down two Turkish rugs of exquisite coloring and design.

"I don't see any use in being so skimping with the carpets," she remarked to Sally; "if I'd been in his place I'd have got enough to cover the whole floor while I was about it, even if I'd bought something a little cheaper. A carpet with bare floor showing all 'round it puts me in mind of Dick's hat-band that went part way 'round and stopped."

"That's jest what it does!" Sally assented.

"I wanted to lay down some strips of carpeting along the edges, but he wouldn't hear to it," Miss Jewett continued, regretfully.

"I s'pose," Sally remarked, sagely, "it's all on account of livin' out west along with them wild Injuns and cow-boys so many years. Western folks 'most always has queer ideas about things."

"I never would have believed it to see such overturnings in my house!" exclaimed Miss Jewett, with a sigh; "and if 'twas anybody but John Britton I wouldn't stand it. I wonder if he won't be telling me how to make butter and raise chickens and turkeys next!"

"Mebbe he'll bring 'round one o' them new-fangled contrivances for hatchin' chickens without hens," Sally ventured, with a laugh; adding, reflectively, "I wonder why, when they was about it, they didn't invent a machine to lay aigs as well as hatch 'em; that would 'ave been a savin', for a hen's keep don't amount to much when she's settin', but they're powerful big eaters generally."

Miss Jewett prided herself upon her thrift and economy; her well-kept house where nothing was allowed to go to waste; her spotless dairy-rooms and rolls of golden butter which never failed to bring a cent and a half more a pound than any other; her fine breeds of poultry which annually carried off the blue ribbons at the county fair. She had achieved a local reputation of which she was quite proud; she would brook no interference in her management of household affairs, and, as she said, no one but John Britton would ever have been allowed to infringe upon her established rules and regulations. There had been a time when she had shared equally with her sister John Britton's attentions. It had been the only bit of romance in her life, but a lingering sweetness from it still remained in her heart through all the commonplace years that had followed, like the faint perfume from rose-leaves, faded and shrivelled, but cherished as sacred mementos. She had not blamed him for choosing her younger and more attractive sister, and she had secretly admired her sister for braving their father's displeasure to marry him. And now she was glad that he had returned; glad for his own sake that the imputations cast upon him by her father and others were refuted; for her sister's sake, that her last days should be so brightened and glorified; but deep within her heart, glad for her own sake, because it was good to look upon his face and hear his voice again.

Sally's strident tones broke in upon her retrospection:

"There's one thing, Miss Jewett, I guess you needn't be afeard they'll meddle with, and that's your cookin'. Mr. Darrell, he was tellin' me about the prices people had to pay for meals on them eatin'-cars,—'diners' he called 'em,—and I told him there wasn't no vittles on earth worth any such price as that, and I up and asked him whether they was as good as the vittles he gets here, and he laughed and said there wasn't nobody could beat his Aunt Espey at cookin'."

Miss Jewett's eyes brightened. "Bless the boy's heart!" she exclaimed; "I'm glad they're going to be here for Thanksgiving; I'll see that they get such a dinner as they neither of them ever dreamed of!"

Darrell had won a warm place in her heart in his baby days with his earliest efforts to speak her name. "Espey" had been the result of his first attack on the formidable name of "Experience," and "Aunt Espey" she had been to him ever since.

Her father, Hosea Jewett, was a hale, hearty man of upward of seventy, hard and unyielding as the granite ledges cropping out along the hill-sides of his farm, and with a face gnarled and weather-beaten as the oaks before his door. He was scrupulously honest, but exacting, relentless, unforgiving.

He was not easily reconciled to the new order of things, but for his daughter's sake he held his peace. Then, too, though he never forgave John Britton for having married his daughter, yet John Britton as a man whose wealth exceeded even his own was an altogether different person from the ambitious but impecunious lover of thirty years before. He had never forgiven Darrell for being John Britton's son, but mingled with his long-cherished animosity was a secret pride in the splendid physical and intellectual manhood of this sole representative of his own line.

Between the sisters there had been few points of resemblance. Patience Jewett had been of an ardent, emotional nature, passionately fond of music, a great reader, and with little taste for the household tasks in which her more practical sister delighted. Having a more delicate constitution, she had little share in the busy routine of farm life, but was allowed to follow her own inclinations. She was still absorbed in her music and studies when Love found her, and the woman within her awoke at his call.

After Darrell's birth her health was seriously impaired. It seemed as though her faith in her husband, her belief that he would one day return, and her love for her son were the only ties holding soul and body together, and, with her natural religious tendencies, the spiritual nature developed at the expense of the physical. Since Darrell's strange disappearance she had failed rapidly.

With the return of her husband and son she seemed temporarily to renew her hold on life, appearing stronger than for many months. For the first few days much of her time was spent at her piano, singing with her husband the old songs of their early love, but oftenest a favorite of his which she had sung during the years of his absence, and which Darrell had sung on that night at The Pines following his discovery of the violin,—"Loyal to Love and Thee."

Her delight in the rooms newly fitted up for her was unbounded, and against the background of their subdued, warm tints she made a strikingly beautiful picture, with her sweet, spirituelle face crowned with waving silver hair.

Either Darrell or his father, or both, were constantly with her, for they realized that the time was short in which to make amends for the missing years. She loved to listen to her husband's tales of the great West or to bits which Darrell read from his journal of that strange chapter of his own life.

"You have not yet asked after your sweetheart, Darrell," his mother said one evening soon after his arrival, as they sat awaiting his father's return from a short stroll.

"You are my sweetheart now, little mother," he replied, kissing the hand that lay within his own.

"Does that mean that you care less for Marion than before you went away?" she queried.

"No," Darrell answered, slowly; "I cannot say that my regard for her has decreased. I may have changed in some respects, but not in my feelings towards Marion. I will ask you a question, mother: Do you think she still cares for me as before I left home?"

"I hardly know how to answer you, because, as you know, Marion is so silent and secretive. I never could understand the girl. To be candid, Darrell dear, I never could understand why you should care for her, and I never thought she cared for you as she ought."

"You know, mother, how I came to be attracted to her in the first place; we were schoolmates, and you know she was an exceptionally brilliant girl, and different from most of the others. We were interested in the same subjects, and naturally there sprang up quite an intimacy between us. Then we corresponded while I was at college, and her letters were so bright and entertaining that my admiration for her increased. I thought her the most brilliant and the best girl, every way, in all my acquaintance, and I think so still."

"But, my dear boy," his mother exclaimed, "admiration is not love; I don't believe you ever really loved her, and she always seemed to me to be all brains and no heart—one of those cold, silent natures incapable of loving."

"I think you are wrong there, mother. Marion is silent, but I don't believe she is cold or incapable of loving. She may, or may not, be incapable of expressing it, but I believe she could love very deeply and sincerely were her love once awakened."

"You know she has taken up the study of medicine?"

"Ned Elliott told me she had been studying with Dr. Parker for about a year."

"Dr. Parker tells me she is making remarkable progress."

"I don't doubt it, mother; she will probably make a success of it; she is just the woman to do so."

"There never was any mention of love between you two, was there, or any engagement?" Darrell's mother asked, with some hesitation, after a brief silence.

"None whatever," he replied, then added, with a smile: "We considered ourselves in love at the time,—at least, I did; but as I look back now it seems a very Platonic affair; but I thought I loved her, and I think she loved me."

"You say, Darrell, that your regard for her is unchanged?"

"Yes; the same as ever."

"But you do not think now that you love her or loved her then?"

"No, mother; I know I do not, and did not."

"Then, Darrell, my boy, some one else has taught you what love really is?"

For answer Darrell bowed his head in assent over his mother's hand.

For a few moments she silently stroked his hair as in his boyish days; then she said, in low tones,—

"Answer me one question, Darrell: Was she a good, pure woman?"

Darrell raised his head, his eyes looking straight into the searching dark eyes, so like his own.

"My little mother," he replied, tenderly, "don't think that your teachings all the past years or the lessons of your own sweet life were lost in those two years; their influence lived even when memory had failed."

He bent and kissed her, then added: "She was scarcely more than a child; not so brilliant, perhaps, as Marion, but beautiful, good, and pure as the driven snow."

Hearing his father's voice outside, Darrell rose and, picking up his journal, opened it at the story of his love and Kate's. Then placing it open upon a table beside his mother, he said,—

"There, mother, is the story of my Dream-Love, as I call her. Read it, and if you should wish to know anything further regarding it, ask my father, for he knows all."



Chapter XXXII

MARION HOLMES

The following day when Darrell entered his mother's rooms he found her with his journal lying open before her. Looking up with a smile, she said,—

"Darrell, my dear, I would like to meet your 'Kathie,' but that can never be in this world. But you will meet her again, and when you do, give her a mother's love and blessing from me."

Then, laying her hand on his arm, she added: "I understand now your question regarding Marion. As I told you, it is difficult to judge anything about her real feelings. For the first year after you went away she came often to see me and frequently inquired for tidings of you, but this last year she has seemed different. She has come here less frequently and seldom referred to you, and appeared so engrossed in her studies I concluded she had little thought or care for you. I may have misjudged her, but even were that so and she did care for you still, you would not marry her now, loving another as you do, would you?"

Darrell smiled as he met his mother's eager, questioning gaze. "If I had won the love of a girl like Marion Holmes," he said, "I would do nothing that would seem like trifling with that love; but, in justice to all parties concerned, herself in particular, I would never marry her without first giving her enough knowledge of the facts in the case that she would thoroughly understand the situation."

His mother seemed satisfied. "Marion has brains, whether she has a heart or not," she replied, with quiet emphasis; "and a girl of brains would never marry a man under such circumstances."

Handing him his journal she pointed with a smile to its inscription.

"'Until the day break,'" she quoted; "that has been my daily watchword all these years; strange that you, too, should have chosen it as your own."

Had Darrell gone to his aunt for a gauge of Marion Holmes's feelings towards himself she could have informed him more correctly than his mother. She, with an old love hidden so deeply in her heart that no one even suspected its existence, understood the silent, reticent girl far better than her emotional, demonstrative sister.

A few days after moving into the rooms newly fitted up for her Mrs. Britton gave what she termed "a little house-warming," to which were invited a few old-time friends of her own and Mr. Britton's, together with some of Darrell's associates. Among the latter Marion was, of course, included, but happening at the time to be out of town, she did not receive the invitation until two days afterwards. Meantime, Darrell, who was anxious to meet the syndicate from whom he had received his western commission two years before, left on the following day for New York City. Consequently when Marion, upon her return, called on Mrs. Britton to explain her absence, Darrell was away.

Marion Holmes was, as Mrs. Britton had said, a silent girl; not from any habitual self-repression, but from an inherent inability to express her deeper feelings. Hers was one of those dumb speechless souls, that, finding no means of communicating with others, unable to get in touch with those about them, go on their silent, lonely ways, no one dreaming of the depth of feeling or wealth of affection they really possess.

The eldest child of a widowed mother, in moderate circumstances, her life had been one of constant restriction and self-denial. Her association with Darrell marked a new epoch in the dreary years. For the first time within her memory there was something each morning to which she could look forward with pleasant anticipation; something to look back upon with pleasure when the day was done. As their intimacy grew her happiness increased, and when he returned from college with high honors her joy was unbounded. Brought up in a home where there was little demonstration of affection, she did not look for it here; she loved and supposed herself loved in return, else how could there be such an affinity between them? The depth of her love for Darrell Britton she herself did not know until his strange disappearance; then she learned the place he had filled in her heart and life by the void that remained. As months passed without tidings of him she lost hope. Unable to endure the blank monotony of her home life she took up the study of medicine, partly to divert her mind and also as a means of future self-support more remunerative than teaching.

With the news of Darrell's return, hope sprang into new life, and it was with a wild, sweet joy, which would not be stilled, pulsating through her heart, that she went to call on Mrs. Britton.

She had a nature supersensitive, and as she entered Mrs. Britton's rooms her heart sank and her whole soul recoiled as from a blow. With her limited means and her multiplicity of home duties her outings had been confined to the small towns within a short distance of her native village. These rooms, in such marked contrast to everything to which she had been accustomed, were to her a revelation of something beyond her of which she had had no conception; a revelation also that her comrade of by-gone days had grown away from her, beyond her—beyond even her reach or ken.

Quietly, with a strange, benumbing pain, she noted every detail as she answered Mrs. Britton's inquiries, but conscious of the lack of affinity between herself and Darrell's mother, it seemed to her that the dark eyes regarding her so searchingly must read with what hopes she had come, and how those hopes had died. She was glad Darrell was not at home; she could not have met him then and there. But so quiet were her words and manner, so like her usual demeanor, that Mrs. Britton said to herself, as Marion took leave,—

"I was right; she cares for Darrell only as a mere acquaintance."

On her return she entered the parlor of her own home and stood for some moments gazing silently about her. How shabby, how pitiably bare and meagre and colorless! An emblem of her own life! Throwing herself upon the threadbare little sofa where she and Darrell had spent so many happy hours reviewing their studies and talking of hopes and plans for the future, she burst into such bitter, passionate weeping as only natures like hers can know.

Darrell's trip proved successful beyond his anticipations. He found the leading members of the syndicate, to whom he explained his two years' absence and into whose possession he gave the money intrusted to his keeping. So delighted were they to see him after having given him up for dead, and so pleased were they with his honesty and integrity that they tendered him his old position with them, offering to continue his salary from the date of his western commission. This offer he promptly declined, declaring that he would undertake no commissions or enter into no business agreements during his mother's present state of health.

He had taken with him the completed manuscript of his geological work, and this, through the influence of one or two members of the syndicate, he succeeded in placing with a publishing house making a specialty of scientific works.

These facts, communicated to his parents, soon reached Miss Jewett, filling her with a pride and delight that knew no bounds. Ellisburg had no daily paper, but it possessed a few individuals of the gentler sex who as advertising mediums answered almost as well, and whom Miss Jewett included among her acquaintance. She suddenly remembered a number of calls which her household duties had hitherto prevented her returning, and decided that this was the most opportune time for paying them. Ordering her carriage and donning her best black silk gown, she proceeded with due ceremony to make her round of calls, judiciously dropping a few words here and there, which, like the seed sown on good ground, brought forth fruit, thirty, sixty, and a hundred-fold. As a result Darrell, upon his return, found himself a literary star of the first magnitude,—the cynosure of all eyes.

These reports reaching Marion only widened the gulf which she felt now intervened between herself and Darrell.

Almost immediately upon his return Darrell called upon her. She was at home, but sent a younger sister to admit him while she nerved herself for the dreaded interview. As he awaited her coming he looked around him with a sort of wonder. Each object seemed familiar, and yet, was it possible this was the room that used to seem so bright and pleasant as he and Marion conned their lessons together? Had it changed, he wondered, or had he?

Marion's entrance put a stop to his musings. He sprang to meet her, she advanced slowly. She had changed very little. Her face, unless animated, was always serious, determined; it was a shade more determined, almost stern, but it had the same strong, intellectual look which had always distinguished it and for which he had admired it.

Darrell, on the contrary, was greatly changed. Marion, gazing at the snow-white hair, the dark eyes with their piercing, inscrutable look, the firmly set mouth, and noting the bearing of conscious strength and power, was unable to recognize her quondam schoolmate until he spoke; the voice and smile were the same as of old!

They clasped hands for an instant, then Darrell, as in the old days, dropped easily into one corner of the little sofa, supposing she would take her accustomed place in the other corner, but, instead, she drew a small rocker opposite and facing him, in which she seated herself. His manner was cordial and free as, after a few inquiries regarding herself, he spoke of his absence, touching lightly upon his illness and its strange consequences, and expressed his joy at finding himself at home once more.

She was kind and sympathetic, but her manner was constrained. She could not banish the remembrance of her call upon his mother, of the contrast between his home and hers; and as he talked something indefinable in his language, in his very movements and gestures, revealed to her sensitive nature a contrast, a difference, between them; he had somehow reached ground to which she could not attain. He drew her out to speak of her new studies and congratulated her upon her progress; but the call was not a success, socially or otherwise.

When Darrell left the house he believed more firmly than ever that Marion had loved him in the past. Whether she had ceased to love him he could not then determine; time would tell.

During the weeks that followed there were numerous gatherings of a social and informal nature where Darrell and Marion were thrown in each other's society, but, though he still showed a preference for her over the girls of his acquaintance, she shrank from his attentions, avoiding him whenever she could do so without causing remark.

Thanksgiving Day came, and Miss Jewett's guests were compelled to admit that she had surpassed herself. The dinner was one long to be remembered. Her prize turkey occupied the place of honor, flanked on one side by a roast duck, superbly browned, and on the other by an immense chicken pie, while savory vegetables, crisp pickles, and tempting relishes such as she only could concoct crowded the table in every direction. A huge plum-pudding headed the second course, with an almost endless retinue of pies,—mince, pumpkin, and apple,—while golden custards and jellies—red, purple, and amber, of currant, grape, and peach—brought up the rear. A third course of fruits and nuts followed, but by that time scarcely any one was able to do more than make a pretence of eating.

To this dinner were invited the minister and his wife, one or two far-removed cousins who usually put in an appearance at this season of the year, Marion Holmes, and a decrepit old lady, a former friend of Mrs. Jewett's, who confided to the minister's wife that she had eaten a very light breakfast and no lunch whatever in order that she might be able to "do justice to Experience's dinner."

Marion Holmes was not there, and Darrell, meeting her on the street the next day, playfully took her to task.

"Why were you not at dinner yesterday?" he inquired; "have you no more regard for my feelings than to leave me to be sandwiched between the parson's wife and old Mrs. Pettigrew?"

"I might have gone had I known such a fate as that awaited you," she replied, laughing; "but," she added with some spirit, thinking it best to come to the point at once, "I can see no reason for thrusting myself into your family gatherings simply because you and I were good comrades in the past."

"Were we not something more than merely good comrades, Marion?" he asked, anxious to ascertain her real feelings towards himself; "it seemed to me we were, or at least that we thought we were."

"That may be," she answered, her color rising slightly; "but if we thought so then, that is no reason for deceiving ourselves any longer."

She intended to mislead him, and she did.

"Very well," he replied; "we will not deceive ourselves; we will have a good understanding with ourselves and with each other. Is there any reason why we should not be at least good comrades now?"

"I know of none," she answered, meeting his eyes without wavering.

"Then let us act as such, and not like two silly children, afraid of each other. Is that a compact?" he asked, smiling and extending his hand.

"It is," she replied, smiling brightly in return as their hands clasped, thus by word and act renouncing her dearest hopes without his dreaming of the sacrifice.



Chapter XXXIII

INTO THE FULNESS OF LIFE

With the opening of cold weather the seeming betterment in Mrs. Britton's health proved but temporary. As the winter advanced she failed rapidly, until, unable to sit up, she lay on a low couch, wheeled from room to room to afford all the rest and change possible. Day by day her pallor grew more and more like the waxen petals of the lily, while the fatal rose flush in her cheek deepened, and her eyes, unnaturally large and lustrous, had in them the look of those who dwell in the borderland.

She realized her condition as fully as those about her, but there was neither fear nor regret in the eyes, which, fixed on the glory invisible to them, caught and reflected the light of the other world, till, in the last days, those watching her saw her face "as it had been the face of an angel."

No demonstration of sorrow marred the peace in which her soul dwelt the last days of its stay, for the very room seemed hallowed, a place too sacred for the intrusion of any personal grief.

Turning one day to her husband, who seldom left her side, she said,—

"My sorrow made me selfish; I see it now. Look at the good you have done, the many you have helped; what have I done, what have I to show for all these years?"

Just then Darrell passed the window before which she was lying.

"There is your work, Patience," Mr. Britton replied, tenderly; "you have that to show for those years of loneliness and suffering. Surely, love, you have done noble work there; work whose results will last for years—probably for generations—yet to come!"

Her face lighted with a rapturous smile. "I had not thought of that," she whispered; "I will not go empty-handed after all. Perhaps He will say of me, as of one of old, 'She hath done what she could.'"

From that time she sank rapidly, sleeping lightly, waking occasionally with a child-like smile, then lapsing again into unconsciousness.

One evening as the day was fading she awoke from a long sleep and looked intently into the faces gathered about her. Her pastor, who had known her through all the years of her sorrow, was beside her. Bending over her and looking into the eyes now dimmed by the approaching shadows, he said,—

"You have not much longer to wait, my dear sister."

With a significant gesture she pointed to the fading light.

"'Until the day break,'" she murmured, with difficulty.

He was quick to catch her meaning and bowed his head in token that he understood; then, raising his hand above her head, as though in benediction, in broken tones he slowly pronounced the words,—

"'Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.'"

Her face brightened; a seraphic smile burst forth, irradiating every feature with a light which never faded, for, with a look of loving farewell into the faces of husband and son, she sank into a sleep from which she did not wake, and when, as the day was breaking over the eastern hill-tops, her soul took flight, the smile still lingered, deepening into such perfect peace as is seldom seen on mortal faces.

As Darrell, a few moments later, stood at the window, watching the stars paling one by one in the light of the coming dawn, a bit of verse with which he had been familiar years before, but which he had not recalled until then, recurred to him with peculiar force:

"A soul passed out on its way toward Heaven As soon as the word of release was given; And the trail of the meteor swept around The lovely form of the homeward-bound. Glimmering, shimmering, there on high, The stars grew dim as one passed them by; And the earth was never again so bright, For a soul had slipped from its place that night."

After Mrs. Britton's death, deprived of her companionship and of the numberless little ministrations to her comfort in which they had delighted, both Mr. Britton and Darrell found life strangely empty. They also missed the strenuous western life to which they had been accustomed, with its ceaseless demands upon both muscle and brain. The life around them seemed narrow and restricted; the very monotony of the landscape wearied them; they longed for the freedom and activity of the West, the breadth and height of the mountains.

As both were standing one day beside the resting-place of the wife and mother, which Mr. Britton had himself chosen for her, the latter said,—

"John, there are no longer any ties to hold us here. You may have to remain here until affairs are settled, but I have no place, and want none, in Hosea Jewett's home. I am going back to the West; and I know that sooner or later you will return also, for your heart is among the mountains. But before we separate I want one promise from you, my son."

"Name it," said Darrell; "you know, father, I would fulfil any and every wish of yours within my power."

"It was my wish in the past, when my time should come to die, to be buried on the mountain-side, near the Hermitage. But life henceforth for me will be altogether different from what it has been heretofore; and I want your promise, John, if you outlive me, that when the end comes, no matter where I may be, you will bring me back to her, that when our souls are reunited our bodies may rest together here, within sound of the river's voice and shielded by the overhanging boughs from winter's storm and summer's heat."

Father and son clasped hands above the newly made grave.

"I promise you, father," Darrell replied; "but you did not need to ask the pledge."

When John Britton left Ellisburg a few days later a crowd of friends were gathered at the little depot to extend their sympathy and bid him farewell. A few were old associates of his own, some were his wife's friends, and some Darrell's. To those who had known him in the past he was greatly changed, and none of them quite understood his quaint philosophizings, his broad views, or his seeming isolation from their work-a-day, business world in which he had formerly taken so active a part. They knew naught of his years of solitary life or of how lives spent in years of contemplation and reflection, of retrospection and introspection, become gradually lifted out of the ordinary channels of thought and out of touch with the more practical life of the world. But they had had abundant evidence of his love and devotion to his wife, and of his kindness and liberality towards many of their own number, and for these they loved him.

There was not one, however, who mourned his departure so deeply as Experience Jewett, though she gave little expression to her sorrow. She had hoped that after her sister's death his home would still be with them. This, not from any weak sentimentality or any thought that he would ever be aught than as a brother to her, but because his very presence in the home was refreshing, helpful, comforting, and because it was a joy to be near him, to hear him talk, and to minister to his comfort. But he was going from them, as she well knew, never to return, and beneath the brave, smiling face she carried a sore and aching heart.

Thus John Britton bade the East farewell and turned his face towards the great West, mindful only of the grave under the elms, to which the river murmured night and day, and with no thought of return until he, too, should come to share that peaceful resting place.



Chapter XXXIV

A WARNING

Spring had come again and Walcott's probationary year with Mr. Underwood had nearly expired. For a while he had maintained his old suavity of manner and business had been conducted satisfactorily, but as months passed and Kate Underwood was unapproachable as ever and the prospect of reconciliation between them seemed more remote, he grew sullen and morose, and Mr. Underwood began to detect signs of mismanagement. Determined to wait until he had abundance of evidence with which to confront him, however, he said nothing, but continued to watch him with unceasing vigilance.

Mr. Underwood, though able to attend to business, had never fully recovered from the illness of the preceding year. His physician advised him to retire from business, as any excitement or shock would be likely to cause a second attack far more serious than the first; but to this Mr. Underwood would not listen, clinging tenaciously to the old routine to which he had been accustomed. Kate, realizing her father's condition, guarded him with watchful solicitude from every possible worry and anxiety, spending much of her time with him, and even familiarizing herself with many details of his business in order to assist him.

In the months since Darrell's return east Kate had matured in many ways. Her tall, slender form was beginning to round out in symmetrical proportions, and her voice, always sweet, had developed wonderfully in volume and range. She had taken up the study of music anew, both vocal and instrumental, devoting her leisure hours to arduous practice, her father having promised her a thorough course of study in Europe, for which she was preparing herself with great enthusiasm.

Though no words were exchanged between Mr. Underwood and Walcott, the latter became conscious of the other's growing disfavor, and the conviction gradually forced itself upon him that all hope of gaining his partner's daughter in marriage was futile. For Kate Underwood he cared little, except as a means of securing a hold upon her father's wealth. As he found himself compelled to abandon this scheme and saw the prize he had thus hoped to gain slipping farther and farther from his grasp, his rage made him desperate, and he determined to gain all or lose all in one mad venture. To make ready for this would require weeks, perhaps months, but he set about his preparations with method and deliberation. Either the boldness of his plan or his absorption in the expected outcome made him negligent of details, however, and slowly, but surely, Mr. Underwood gathered the proofs of his guilt with which he intended to confront him when the opportune moment arrived. But even yet he did not dream the extent of his partner's frauds or the villany of which he was capable; he therefore took no one into his confidence and sought no assistance.

Kate was quick to observe the change in Walcott's manner and to note the malignity lurking in the half-closed eyes whenever they encountered her own or her father's gaze, and, while saying nothing to excite or worry the latter, redoubled her vigilance, seldom leaving him alone.

Affairs had reached this state when, with the early spring days, Mr. Britton returned from the East and stopped for a brief visit at The Pines. In a few days he divined enough of the situation to lead him to suspect that danger of some kind threatened his old friend. A hint from Kate confirmed his suspicion, and he resolved to prolong his stay and await developments.

One afternoon soon after his arrival Kate, returning from a walk, while passing up the driveway met a woman coming from The Pines. The latter was tall, dressed in black, and closely veiled,—a stranger,—yet something in her appearance seemed familiar. Suddenly Kate recalled the "Senora" who sent the summons to Walcott on that day set for their marriage, more than a year before. Though she had caught only a brief glimpse of the black-robed and veiled figure within the carriage, she remembered a peculiarly graceful poise of the head as she had leaned forward for a final word with Walcott, and by that she identified the woman now approaching her. Each regarded the other closely as they met. To Kate it seemed as though the woman hesitated for the fraction of a second, as though about to speak, but she passed on silently. On reaching a turn in the driveway Kate, looking back, saw the woman standing near the large gates watching her, but the latter, finding herself observed, passed through the gates to the street and walked away.

Perplexed and somewhat annoyed, Kate proceeded on her way to the house. She believed the woman to be in some way associated with Walcott, and that her presence there presaged evil of some sort. As she entered the sitting-room her aunt looked up with a smile from her seat before the fire.

"You have just had rather a remarkable caller, Katherine."

"That woman in black whom I just met?" Kate asked, betraying no surprise, for she felt none; she was prepared at that moment for almost any announcement.

"Who was she, Aunt Marcia? and what did she want with me?"

"She refused to give her name, but said to tell you 'a friend' called. She seemed disappointed at not seeing you, and as she was leaving she said, 'Say to her she has a friend where she least thinks it, and if she, or any one she loves, is in danger, I will come and warn her.' She was very quiet-appearing, notwithstanding her tragic language. You say you met her; what do you think of her?"

Kate had been thinking rapidly. "I have seen her once before, auntie. I am positive she is in some way connected with Mr. Walcott, and equally positive that he has some evil designs against papa; but why she should warn me against him, if that is her intention, I cannot imagine."

"Is there no way of warning your father, Katherine?" Mrs. Dean inquired, anxiously.

"Mr. Britton and I have talked it over, auntie. We think papa suspects him and is watching him, but so long as he doesn't take either of us into his confidence we don't want to excite or worry him by suggesting any danger. This woman may or may not be friendly, as she claims, but in any event, if she comes again, I must see her. Whatever danger there may be I want to know it; then I'm not afraid but that I can defend papa or myself in case of trouble."

For several days Kate scanned her horizon closely for portents of the coming storm. She saw nothing of the mysterious woman who had styled herself a friend, but on more than one occasion she had a fleeting glimpse of the man who on that memorable day brought the message from her to Walcott, and Kate felt that a denouement of some kind was near.

Walcott's preparations were nearly perfected; another week would complete them. By that time the funds of the firm as well as large deposits held in trust, would be where he could lay his fingers on them at a moment's notice. At a given signal two trusted agents would be at the side entrance with fleet horses on which they would travel to a neighboring village, and there, where their appearance would excite no suspicion, they were to board the late express, which would carry them to a point whence they could easily reach a place of safety.

But his well-laid plans were suddenly checked by a request one afternoon from his senior partner to meet him in his private office that evening at eight o'clock. The tone in which this request was preferred aroused Walcott's suspicions that an investigation might be pending, and, enraged at being thus checkmated, he determined to strike at once.

At dinner Mr. Underwood mentioned an engagement which would, he said, detain him for an hour or so that evening, but having never since his illness gone to the offices in the evening, no one supposed it more than an ordinary business appointment with some friend.

He had left the house only a few moments when a caller was announced for Miss Underwood.

Kate's heart gave a sudden bound as, on entering the reception-hall, she saw again the woman whose coming was to be a warning of danger. She was, as usual, dressed in black and heavily veiled. Kate was conscious of no fear; rather a joy that the suspense was over, that there was at last something definite and tangible to face.

"Senorita, may I see you in private?" The voice was sweet, but somewhat muffled by the veil, while the words had just enough of the Spanish accent to render them liquid and musical.

Kate bowed in assent, and silently led the way to a small reception-room of her own. She motioned her caller to a seat, but the latter remained standing and turned swiftly, facing Kate, still veiled.

"Senorita, you do not know me?" The words had the rising inflection of a question.

"No," Kate replied, slowly; "I do not know you; but I know that this is not your first call at The Pines."

"I called some ten days since to see you."

"You called," Kate spoke deliberately, "more than a year since to see Mr. Walcott."

The woman started and drew back slightly. "How could you know?" she exclaimed; "surely he did not tell you!"

"I saw you."

There was a moment's silence; when next she spoke her voice was lower and more musical.

"Senorita, I come as your friend; do you believe me?"

"I want to believe you," Kate answered, frankly, "but I can tell better whether I do or not when I know more of you and of your errands here."

For answer the woman, with a sudden swift movement, threw back her veil, revealing a face of unusual beauty,—oval in contour, of a rich olive tint, with waving masses of jet-black hair, framing a low, broad forehead. But her eyes were what drew Kate's attention: large, lustrous, but dark and unfathomable as night, yet with a look in them of dumb, agonizing appeal. The two women formed a striking contrast as they stood face to face; they seemed to impersonate Hope and Despair.

"Senorita," she said, in a low, passionless voice, "I am Senor Walcott's wife."

Kate's very soul seemed to recoil at the words, but she did not start or shrink.

"I have the certificate of our marriage here," she continued, producing a paper, "signed by the holy father who united us."

Kate waved it back. "I do not wish to see it, nor do I doubt your word," she replied, gently; "I understand now why you first came to this house. What brings you here to-night?"

"I come to warn you that your father is in danger."

"My father!" Kate exclaimed, quickly, her whole manner changed. "Where? How?"

"Senor Walcott has an engagement with him at eight o'clock at their offices, and he means to do him harm, I know not just what; but he is angry with him, I know not why, and he is a dangerous man when he is angry."

Kate touched a bell to summon a servant. "I will go to him at once; but," she added, looking keenly into the woman's face, "how do you know of this? How did you learn it? Did he tell you?"

The other shook her head with a significant gesture. "He tells me nothing; he tells no one but Tony, and Tony tells me nothing; but I saw them talking together to-night, and he was very angry. I overheard some words. I heard him say he would see your father to-night and make him sorry he had not done as he agreed, and he showed Tony a little stiletto which he carries with him, and then he laughed."

Kate shuddered slightly. "Who is Tony?" she asked.

The woman smiled with another gesture. "Tony is—Tony; that is all I know. He and my husband know each other."

A servant appeared; Kate ordered her own carriage brought to the door at once. Then, turning on a sudden impulse to the stranger, she said,—

"Will you come with me? Or are you afraid of him—afraid to have him know you warned me?"

The woman laughed bitterly. "I feared him once," she said; "but I fear him no longer; he fears me now. Yes, I will go with you."

"Then wait here; I will be ready in a moment."

At twenty minutes of eight Kate and the stranger passed down the hall together—the woman veiled, Kate attired in a trim walking suit. The latter stopped to look in at the sitting-room door.

"Aunt Marcia, Mr. Britton said he would be out but a few minutes. When he comes in please tell him I want to see him at papa's office; my carriage will be waiting for him here."

Her aunt looked her surprise, but she knew Kate to be enough like her father that it was useless to ask an explanation where she herself made none.

Once seated in the carriage and driving rapidly down the street Kate laid her hand on the arm of her strange companion.

"Senora," she said, "you say you are my friend; were you my friend the first time you came to the house? If not then, why are you now?"

"No, I was not your friend;" for the first time there was a ring of passion in her voice; "I hated you, for I thought he loved you—that you had stolen his heart and made him forget me. I travelled many miles. I vowed to kill you both before you should marry him. Then I found he could not marry you while I was his wife; he had told me our marriage was void here because performed in another country. I found he had told me wrong, and I told him unless he came with me I would go to the church and tell them there I was his wife."

"And he went away with you?" Kate questioned.

"Yes, and he gave me money, and then he told me——" The woman hesitated.

"Go on," said Kate.

"He told me that he did not love you; that he only wanted to marry you that he might get money from your father, and then he would leave you. So when I found he wanted to make you suffer as he had me I began to pity you. I came back to Ophir to see what you were like. He does not know that I am here. I found he was angry because you would not marry him. Then I was glad. I saw you many times that you did not know. Your face was kind and good, as though you would pity me if you knew all, and I loved you. I heard something about a lover you had a few years ago who died, and I knew your heart must have been sad for him, and I vowed he should never harm you or any one you loved."

They had reached the offices; the carriage stopped, but not before Kate's hand had sought and found the stranger's in silent token that she understood.



Chapter XXXV

A FIEND AT BAY

Kate, on leaving her carriage, directed the driver to go back to The Pines to await Mr. Britton's return and bring him immediately to the office. She then unlocked the door to the room which had been Darrell's office and which opened directly upon the street, and she and her companion entered and seated themselves in the darkness. The room next adjoining was Walcott's private office, and beyond that was Mr. Underwood's private office, the two latter rooms being separated by a small entrance. They had waited but a few moments when Mr. Underwood's carriage stopped before this entrance, and an instant later Kate heard her father's voice directing the coachman to call for him in about an hour. As the key turned in the lock she heard Walcott's voice also. The two men entered and went at once into Mr. Underwood's private office.

Mr. Underwood immediately proceeded to business in his usual abrupt fashion:

"Mr. Walcott, there is no use dallying or beating about the bush; I want this partnership terminated at once. There's no use in an honest man and a thief trying to do business together, and this interview to-night is to find the shortest way of dissolving the partnership."

"I think that can be very easily and quickly done, Mr. Underwood," Walcott replied.

Kate, who had stationed herself in the entrance where she had a view of both men, saw the cruel leer that accompanied Walcott's words and understood their significance as her father did not. Her hand sought the bosom of her dress for an instant, then dropped quietly at her side, but swift as the movement was, her companion had seen in the dim light the gleam of the weapon now partially concealed by the folds of her skirt. With noiseless, cat-like step she approached Kate and touched her arm.

"You will not shoot? You will not kill him?" she breathed rather than whispered.

Kate's only reply was to lay her finger on her lips, never removing her eyes from Walcott's face, but even then, in her absorption, she noted a peculiar quality in those scarcely audible tones, something that was neither fear nor love; there seemed somehow an element of savagery in them.

Meanwhile, Mr. Underwood was going rapidly through the evidence which he had accumulated, showing mismanagement and fraud in the conduct of the business of the firm and misappropriation of some of the funds held in trust. Of the wholesale robbery, the plans for which Walcott had so nearly perfected, he knew absolutely nothing. As Walcott listened, the sneer on his face deepened.

"You seem to have gone to a vast amount of labor for nothing," he remarked, as Mr. Underwood concluded. "I could have given you that much information off-hand. You have not lived up to your part of the contract, and I see no reason why I should be expected to fulfil mine. You promised me your daughter in marriage, and then simply because she saw fit——"

"We will leave my daughter's name out of this controversy, sir," Mr. Underwood interposed, sternly. "Were it not for the fact that your name has been publicly associated with hers, I would prosecute you for the scoundrel and black-leg that you are."

"But for the sake of your daughter's name you intend to deal leniently with me," Walcott sneered. "Supposing we come at once to the point of dissolving our partnership; it cannot be done any too quickly for me. May I inquire on what terms you propose to settle?"

Mr. Underwood went briefly over the terms which he had outlined on a sheet of paper before him on his desk; Walcott, seated eight or ten feet distant, listened, his dark face paling with anger.

"Pardon me," he said, at the conclusion; "I think I missed a few details; suppose we go over that again together."

He rose and advanced towards Mr. Underwood's chair as though to look over his shoulder, at the same time thrusting his right hand within the inner pocket of his coat. Before he had covered half the space, however, a voice rang through the room with startling clearness,—

"Not a step farther, or you are a dead man!"

Both men turned, to see Kate Underwood standing in the doorway, holding a revolver levelled at Walcott with an aim which the latter's practised eye told him to be both sure and deadly. Astonishment and rage passed in quick succession over his countenance; he looked for an instant as though contemplating some desperate move.

"Stir one hair's breadth, and you are a dead man!" she repeated. He remained motionless, and the hand just withdrawn from his coat disclosed to view a tiny, glittering stiletto.

Kate's only anxious thought was for her father, who, too bewildered to move or speak, was for the time as motionless as Walcott himself; she feared lest the suddenness of the shock might prove too much for him. To her relief, she heard Mr. Britton entering. He took in the situation at a glance and sprang at once to her side.

"I am all right," she cried, brightly; "look after papa, first; then we will attend to this creature."

With the revolver still levelled at Walcott, Kate slowly advanced towards him.

"Give me that weapon!" she demanded.

He gave a sinister smile, but before she had taken another step, her companion sprang into the room with a piercing cry and intercepted her:

"No, no, Senorita!" she exclaimed; "do not touch it! Mother of God! it is poisoned; a single scratch means death!"

At sight of her, Walcott's face grew livid. "You fiend! You she-devil!" he hissed; "this is your doing, is it?" and he burst into a torrent of curses and imprecations.

"Be silent!" Mr. Britton ordered, sternly, and Kate accompanied the command with an ominous click of her revolver. The wretch cowered into silence, but his eyes glowed with fairly demoniac fury.

"Now," said Mr. Underwood, his faculties fully restored, "I want to know the meaning of this; let us sift this whole thing to the bottom."

"Search your man, first, David," said Mr. Britton, and suiting the action to the word he approached Walcott, but was warded off by the woman standing near.

"No, no, Senor, a little turn of the wrist, so slight you would not see, would cause death. I will take it from him; the viper dare not sting me!"

As she extended her hand she tauntingly held her wrist close to the tiny point, scarcely larger than a good-sized pin.

"Life and freedom are precious, Senor!" she said, in low, mocking tones, as she took the weapon from him and handed it to Mr. Britton, who laid it carefully on a table near by, and then proceeded to search Walcott's clothing, saying.—

"I want you to see what you have been dealing with, David."

To the stiletto already placed upon the table were added another of larger size, two loaded revolvers, several packages of valuable securities taken from the vaults of the firm that afternoon, and a nearly complete set of duplicate keys to the safes and deposit boxes of the offices.

Mr. Britton then relieved Kate, congratulating her warmly, and stationed himself near Walcott, who glowered like a wild beast that, temporarily restrained by the keeper's lash, only awaits opportunity for a more furious onslaught later.

Kate stepped at once to her father's side; he turned upon her a look of affectionate pride, but before he could speak, she had drawn forward her companion, saying,—

"Here is one, papa, to whom we owe much. She has saved your life to-night, for I would not have known you were in danger if she had not warned me, and she saved me from worse than death in preventing the carrying out of the farce of an illegal marriage with that villain, by giving me a glimpse of his real character before it was too late."

The change that passed over Mr. Underwood's countenance during Kate's words was fearful to see. From the kindliness and courtesy with which he had greeted the stranger his face seemed changed to granite, so hard and relentless it became.

"An illegal marriage? What do you mean?" he demanded, and there was something in his voice that no one present had ever heard there before.

"Illegal, papa, because this woman is his lawful wife." And Kate gave a brief explanation of the situation.

"Is that so?" he appealed to the woman, his tones strangely quiet.

"Yes, Senor; I have the papers to prove it."

"Do you admit it?" he demanded of Walcott, with a glance which made the latter quail, while his hand sought one of the loaded revolvers lying on the table.

"We were married years ago, but I did not know the woman was living; I swear I did not. I supposed she was dead until the day she came to me."

"How about the past year? You have known all this time that she was living, yet you have dared to press your suit for my daughter, you dog! Not another word!" he exclaimed, as Walcott strove to form some excuse.

He raised his hand and the revolver gleamed in the light. Mr. Britton grasped him by the arm.

"David, old friend, calm yourself!" he exclaimed. "Don't be rash or foolish; let the law take its course."

"The law!" interposed Mr. Underwood, fiercely; "do you think I'd take a case of this kind into the courts? Charges such as these against a man whose name has been publicly associated with my daughter's as her betrothed husband, and the principal witness against that man his own wife! Do you suppose for a moment I'll have my daughter's name dragged through such mire? No, by God! I'll blow the dog's brains out with my own hand first!"

A fierce struggle ensued for a moment between the two men, which ended in John Britton's disarming his friend, Kate meanwhile keeping Walcott at bay as he sought in the momentary confusion to effect an escape.

Once calmed, Mr. Underwood, notwithstanding Mr. Britton's protestations, sullenly refused to prosecute Walcott. Telephoning for an attorney who was an old-time and trusted friend, he had an agreement drawn and signed, whereby, upon the repayment of the funds belonging to him, after deducting an amount therefrom sufficient to replace what he had misappropriated, he was to leave the country altogether.

"You have escaped this time," were Mr. Underwood's parting words; "but remember, if you ever again seek to injure me or mine, no power on earth can save you, and I'll not go into the courts either."

As Kate and her strange companion parted, the former inquired, "Why did you ask me not to shoot him? You surely cannot love him!"

"Love him?" she exclaimed, softly. "No, but I feared you would kill him. His time has not come yet, Senorita, but when it does, this must be the hand!" She lifted her own right hand with a significant movement as she said this, and glided out into the darkness and was gone ere Kate could recall her.

When Kate and her father, with Mr. Britton's assistance, before returning home for the night, removed the articles taken from Walcott's pockets, the tiny, poisoned stiletto was nowhere to be found.



Chapter XXXVI

SENORA MARTINEZ

Although Mr. Underwood escaped the stroke which it was feared might follow the excitement of his final interview with Walcott, it was soon apparent that his nervous system had suffered from the shock. His physician became insistent in his demands that he not only retire from business, but have an entire change of scene, to insure absolute relaxation and rest. This advice was earnestly seconded by Mr. Britton, not alone for the sake of his friend's health, but more especially because he believed it unsafe for Mr. Underwood or Kate to remain in that part of the country so long as Walcott had his liberty. Their combined counsel and entreaties at length prevailed. A responsible man was found to take charge, under Mr. Britton's supervision, of Mr. Underwood's business interests. The Pines was closed, two or three faithful servants being retained to guard and care for the property, and early in April Mr. Underwood, accompanied by his sister and daughter, left Ophir ostensibly for the South. They remained south, however, only until he had recuperated sufficiently for a longer journey, and then sailed for Europe, but of this fact no one in Ophir had knowledge save Mr. Britton.

During the last days of Kate's stay in Ophir she watched in vain for another glimpse of her strange friend. On the morning of her departure, as the train was leaving the depot, she suddenly saw the olive-skinned messenger of former occasions running alongside the Pullman in which she was seated. Catching her eye, he motioned for her to raise the window; she did so, whereupon he tossed a little package into her lap, pointing at the same time farther down the platform, and lifting his ragged sombrero, vanished. An instant later the Senora came into view, standing at the extreme end of the platform, a lace mantilla thrown about her head and shoulders, the ends of which she now waved in token of farewell. Kate held up the little package with a smile; she responded with a deprecatory gesture indicative of its insignificance, then with another wave of the lace scarf and a flutter of Kate's handkerchief, they passed out of each other's sight.

Kate hastily undid the package; a little box of ebony inlaid with pearl slipped from the wrappings, which, upon touching a secret spring, opened, disclosing a small cross of Etruscan gold of the most exquisite workmanship. In her first letter to Mr. Britton Kate related the incident, and begged him to look out for the woman and render her any assistance possible.

To this Mr. Britton needed no urging. Since his first sight of her that night in Mr. Underwood's office he had been looking for her, for a twofold purpose. For a number of weeks he failed to get even a glimpse of her, nor could he obtain any clew to her whereabouts.

One night, well into the summer, he came upon her, unexpectedly, standing in front of a cheap restaurant, looking at the edibles displayed in the window. She was not veiled, her face was pale and haggard, and there was no mistaking the expression in her eyes as she finally turned away.

"My friend," said Mr. Britton, laying his hand gently on her shoulder, "are you hungry?"

She shrank from him with a start till a glance in his face reassured her, and she answered, with an expressive gesture,—

"Yes, Senor; I have had nothing to eat to-day, and but little yesterday."

"This is no fit place; come with me," Mr. Britton replied, leading the way two or three blocks down the street, to a first-class restaurant. He conducted her through the ladies' entrance into a private box, where he ordered a substantial dinner for two.

"Senor," she protested, as the waiter left the box, "I have no money, no way to repay you for this, you understand?"

"I understand," he answered, quickly; "I want no return for this. Miss Underwood wished me to find you, and help you, if I could."

"Yes, I know; you are the Senorita's friend."

"And your friend also, if I can help you."

"You saved his life that night, Senor; I do not forget," the woman said, with peculiar emphasis.

"Yes, I undoubtedly saved the scoundrel from a summary vengeance; possibly I might not have done it, had I known what the alternative would be. Where is that man now?" he asked, with sudden directness.

"I do not know, Senor; he tells me nothing, but I have heard he went south some time ago."

The entrance of the waiter with their orders put a temporary stop to conversation. The woman ate silently, regarding Mr. Britton from time to time with an expression of childlike wonder. When her hunger was appeased, and she seemed inclined to talk, he said,—

"Tell me something of yourself. When and where did you marry that man?"

"We were married in Mexico, seven years ago."

"Your home was in Mexico?"

"No, Senor, my father owned a big cattle ranch in Texas. Senor Walcott, as you call him here, worked for him. He wanted to marry me, but my father opposed the marriage. We lived close to the line, so we went across one day and were married. My father was very angry, but I was his only child, and by and by he forgave and took us back."

"Do I understand you that Walcott is not this man's real name?" Mr. Britton interposed.

"His name is Jose Martinez, Senor."

"But is he not a half-breed? I have understood his father was an Englishman."

"His father was an Englishman, but no one ever knew who he was, you understand, Senor? Afterwards his mother married Pablo Martinez, and her child took his name. That was why my father opposed our marriage."

"I understand," said Mr. Britton; "but he claims heavy cattle interests in the South; how did he come by them?"

"My father's, all of them;" she replied. "He and my father quarrelled soon after we went there to live. Then we came away north; we lived for a while in this State,"—she paused and hesitated as though fearing she had said too much, but Mr. Britton's face betrayed nothing, and she continued: "Then, in a year or so, we went south and he and my father quarrelled again. My father was found dead on the plains, trampled by the cattle, but no one knew how it came about. Then Jose took everything and told me I had nothing. He went north again three years ago. A year later he came back and told me I was not his wife, that our marriage was void because it was not performed in this country. I became very ill. He took me away among strangers and left me there, to die, as he thought. But he was mistaken. I had something to live for,—to follow him, as I have followed him and will follow him to the end."

The woman rose from the table; Mr. Britton rose also, and stood for a moment, facing her.

"He is a dangerous man," he said; "how is it that you do not fear him?"

She laughed softly. "He fears me, Senor; why should I fear him?"

"I understand," Mr. Britton said; "he fears you because you know him to be a criminal; because his freedom—perhaps his very life—is in your hands. Why are you not in danger on that account? What is to hinder his taking a life so inimical to his own?"

A cunning, treacherous smile crept over her face and a baleful light gleamed in her eyes, as she replied, "If I die at his hand my secret does not die with me. I have fixed that. If I die to-day, the world knows my secret to-morrow. He knows it, Senor, and I am safe."

"Did it never occur to you," said Mr. Britton, slowly, "that for the safety of others your secret should be made known now?"

The woman's whole appearance changed; she regarded Mr. Britton with a look of mingled anger and terror, as he continued:

"That man's life and freedom are a constant menace to other lives. Are you willing to take the responsibility of the results which may follow your withholding that secret, keeping it locked within your own breast?"

The woman looked quickly for a chance of escape, but Mr. Britton barred the only means of exit. Her expression was that of a creature brought to bay.

"I understand the meaning of your kindness to-night," she cried, fiercely. "You are one of the 'fly' men, and you thought to buy my secret from me. Let me tell you, you will never buy it, nor can you force it from me! So long as he does me no harm I will never make it known, and if I die a natural death, it dies with me!"

"You are mistaken," he replied, calmly; "I am no detective, no official of any sort. My bringing you here to-night was of itself wholly disinterested, done for the sake of a friend who wished me to help you. I have wished to meet you and talk with you, as I was interested to learn your story, out of sympathy for you and a desire to help you, and also to shed new light on your husband's character, of which I have made quite a study; but I am not seeking to force you into making any disclosures against your will."

Her anger had subsided as quickly as it had been aroused.

"Pardon me, Senor," she said; "I was wrong. Accept my gratitude for your kindness; I will not forget."

"Don't mention it. If you need help at any time, let me know; I do not forget that you saved my friend's life. But one word in parting: don't think your secret will not become known. Those things always work themselves out, and justice will overtake that man yet. When it does, your own life may not be as safe as you now think it is. If you need a friend then, come to me."

The woman regarded him silently for a moment. "Thank you, Senor," she said, gently; "I understand. Justice will yet overtake him, as you say; and when it does," she added, significantly, "I will need no help."



Chapter XXXVII

THE IDENTIFICATION

The following September found Darrell again in Ophir and re-established in his old-time quarters. To his old office he had added the room formerly occupied by Walcott, his increasing business demanding more office room and the presence of an assistant.

Before leaving the East he revisited the members of his old syndicate and informed them that he intended henceforth making his head-quarters in the West, and if they wished to employ him as their expert, he would execute commissions from that point. To this they readily agreed, and also gave him letters of introduction to a number of capitalists interested in western mining properties, who were only too glad to secure the services of a reliable expert who would be on the ground and familiar with existing conditions. As a result, Darrell had scarcely reopened business at his former quarters before he found himself with numerous eastern commissions to be executed, in addition to his old work as assayer.

He was prepared for the changes which had taken place during the year of his absence, his father having kept him thoroughly informed of all that had occurred.

Darrell was delighted at the story of Kate Underwood's coolness and bravery in saving her father's life, and sent her a note of hearty congratulation, which she kept among her cherished treasures. Since that time, occasional letters were exchanged between them; hers, bright, entertaining sketches of their travels here and there, with comments characteristic of herself regarding places and people; his, permeated with the fresh, exhilarating atmosphere of the mountains, and pervaded by a vigor and virility which roused Kate's admiration, yet led her to wonder if this could be the same lover who had won her childish heart in those idyllic days. Each realized the fact that notwithstanding their love, notwithstanding their stanch comradeship, at present they were little more than strangers. Darrell's love for Kate was a reality, but her personality, so far as he could recall it, was little more than a dream; each letter revealed some unexpected phase of her character; he found their correspondence an unfailing source of pleasure, and was content to await the time of their meeting, confident that he would find the real woman all and more than the ideal which he fondly cherished as his Dream-Love. And to Kate, each letter of Darrell's brought more and more forcibly the conviction that the lover whom she remembered was as a dream compared with the reality she was to meet some day.

About six months had elapsed when Darrell received, early one morning, the following telegram from his father, summoning him to Galena:

"Come over on first train. Important."

By the first train he would reach Galena a little before noon; he had not breakfasted, and had but twenty minutes in which to make it. Calling a carriage, he went directly to his office, where he left a brief explanatory note for the clerk, written on the way, then drove with all possible speed to the depot, arriving on time but without a minute to spare. He breakfasted on the train, and while running over the morning paper, his attention was caught by a despatch from Galena to the effect that one of the leading banks in that city had been entered and the safe opened and robbed on the preceding night. The robbers, of whom there were three, had been discovered by the police. A fight had ensued in which one officer and one of the robbers were killed, the second robber wounded, while the third had made his escape with most of the plunder. It was further stated that they were known to belong to the notorious band of outlaws so long the terror of that region, and it was believed the wounded man was none other than the leader himself, the murderer of Harry Whitcomb and the young express clerk, for whom there was a standing reward of twenty-five thousand dollars, dead or alive. The man was to have a preliminary examination that afternoon, and the greatest excitement prevailed in Galena, as it was rumored that others of the band would probably be present, scattered throughout the crowd, for the purpose of rescuing their leader.

In a flash Darrell understood his father's summons. He let the paper fall and, unmindful of his breakfast, gazed abstractedly out of the window. His thoughts had reverted to that scene in the sleeper on his first trip west. He seemed to see it again in all its sickening detail, the face of the assassin standing out before him with such startling distinctness and realism that he involuntarily placed his hand over his eyes to shut out the hateful sight.

At Galena he was met by his father, who took a closed carriage to his hotel, conducting Darrell immediately to his own room, where he ordered lunch served for both.

"Do you know why I have sent for you?" Mr. Britton inquired, as soon as they were left alone together.

"I had no idea when I started," Darrell replied, "but on reading the morning paper, on my way over, I concluded you wanted me at that trial this afternoon."

"You are correct. Are you prepared to identify that face? Is your recollection of it as distinct as ever?"

"Yes; after reading of that bank robbery this morning, the whole affair in the car that night came back to me so vividly I could see the man's face as clearly as any face on the train with me."

"Good!" Mr. Britton ejaculated.

"Do you think there is any likelihood of an attempt to rescue him, as stated by the paper?" Darrell inquired, rather incredulously.

"If the leader of the band finds himself in need of help it will be forthcoming," Mr. Britton answered, with peculiar emphasis. "The citizens are expecting trouble and have sworn in about a dozen extra deputy sheriffs, myself among the number."

When lunch was over Mr. Britton ordered a carriage at once, and they proceeded to the court-room.

"What is your opinion of this man?" Darrell asked his father, while on the way. "Would you have selected him as the murderer, from your study of him?"

"I reserve my opinions until later," Mr. Britton replied. "I want you to act from memory alone, unbiased by any outside influence."

Arriving at the court-room, they found it already well filled. Darrell was about to enter, but his father took him into a small anteroom, while he himself went to look for seats. He had a little difficulty in finding the seats he wanted, which delayed them so that proceedings had begun as he and Darrell entered from a side door and took their places in rather an obscure part of the room.

"You will have a good view here," Mr. Britton said to Darrell, as they seated themselves, "and there is little likelihood of your being recognized from this point."

"There is little probability of the man's recognizing me, even if he is here," Darrell replied, "for he did not give me a second thought that night, and if he had, I am so changed he would not know me."

"We cannot be too cautious," his father answered.

In a few moments the prisoner was brought in, and there was a general craning of necks to see him, a number of men in Darrell's vicinity standing and thus obstructing his view.

"Wait," said his father, as he was about to rise with the others; "don't make yourself conspicuous; when the man is called for examination you will have an excellent view from here."

Curiosity gradually subsided, and the men sank back into their seats as proceedings went on. Then the prisoner was called and stood up for examination. Darrell drew a quick breath and leaned eagerly forward. The man was of medium height and size, but his movements seemed heavy and clumsy, whereas Darrell had been impressed by a litheness and agility in the movements of the other.

He stood facing his interlocutor, affording Darrell a three-quarter view of his face, but soon he turned in Darrell's direction, scanning the crowd slowly, as though in search of some one.

Darrell saw a squarely built, colorless face, surmounted by a shock of coarse, straight black hair, with heavy, repulsive features, and small, bullet-shaped, leaden eyes of rather light blue. The face was so utterly unlike what he had expected to see that he sank back into his seat with a smothered exclamation of disgust. His father, watching closely, smiled, seeming rather pleased than otherwise, but Darrell was half indignant.

"The idea of a lout like that being taken for the leader!" he exclaimed. "He is nothing but a tool, and a pretty clumsy one at that."

Notwithstanding his vexation, Darrell continued to watch the proceedings, and in a few moments began to grow interested, not so much in the examination as in the conduct of the prisoner. The latter evidently had found the face for which he was looking, for his eyes seemed glued to a certain spot. Occasionally he would shift them for a moment, but invariably, with each new interrogatory, they would turn to that particular spot, as the needle to the pole, not through any volition of his own, but drawn by some influence against which he was temporarily powerless.

"That man is under a spell; he is being worked by some one in the crowd," Darrell exclaimed to his father, in a low tone.

"Yes, and by some one not very far from us; I have spotted him, see if you cannot."

Following the direction of the man's glance, Darrell began to scan the faces of the crowd. Suddenly his pulses gave a bound. Seated at a little distance and partially facing them was a man of the same size and height as the prisoner, but whose every move and poise suggested alertness. He was leaning his arms on the back of the seat before him; his head was lowered so that his chin rested lightly on one hand, while the other hand played nervously with the seat on which he leaned. His whole attitude was that of a wild beast crouched, ready to spring upon his prey. He had an oval face, with deep olive skin, wavy black hair, cut close except where it curled low over his forehead, and through the half-closed eyes, fixed upon the prisoner's face, Darrell caught a glint like that of burnished steel. For an instant Darrell gazed like one fascinated; he had not expected such an exact reproduction of the face as he had seen it on that night. His father touched him lightly; he nodded significantly in reply.

"There is your man!" he exclaimed.

"You are sure? You could swear to it?" queried his father.

"Swear to it? Yes. I would have known him anywhere, but sitting there, watching that man, his face is precisely as I saw it that night. Wait a moment, look!"

The man in his agitation at some word of the prisoner's, raised one hand and brushed his forehead with a nervous gesture, which lifted his hair slightly, disclosing one end of a scar.

"Did you see that scar?" Darrell questioned, eagerly. "You will find it almost crescent shaped, rather jagged, and nearly three inches in length."

"That is all I wanted," his father replied. "I have the warrant for his arrest with me, and the examination is so nearly over I shall serve it at once."

"Can I help you?" Darrell asked, as his father moved away.

"No; stay where you are; don't let him see you until after he is under arrest."

The examination of the prisoner had just ended when Mr. Britton, accompanied by two deputies, re-entered the court-room. The man still maintained his crouching attitude, intently watching proceedings. Mr. Britton approached from the rear. Seizing the man suddenly by the arms, he pinioned him so that for an instant he was unable to move, and one of the deputies, leaning over, snapped the handcuffs on him before he fairly realized what had happened. Then, with a swift movement, Mr. Britton raised him to his feet and lifted him quickly out into the aisle, while his voice rang authoritatively through the court-room,—

"Jose Martinez, alias Walcott, I arrest you in the name of the State!"

The man shouted something in Spanish, evidently a signal, for it was repeated in different parts of the room. Instantly all was confusion. A shot fired from the rear wounded one of the deputies; a man seated near Darrell drew a revolver, but before he could level it Darrell knocked it from his hand and felled him to the floor. The officers rushed to the spot, and as the outbreak subsided Mr. Britton brought forward his prisoner.