Mark went directly to the rectory. The old housekeeper met him at the door before he could ring.

"Come right in, Mr. Griffin," she said. "I'm going to take ye into the dining room, sir, till the Father comes to present ye to His Lordship. He'd be wantin' to do that himself, I know; and sure I have the Bishop in the front room, so ye'll stay here please."

Mark stepped into the little dining room, where the table was already set, and waited for the priest. Ann went back to her cooking. Mark could hear her rattling the dishes and pans, all the while issuing orders to her assistants for the day. Ann was quite the most important personage in the parish on this occasion and had to show it. It was seldom she had such authority over others. Why not make the most of it?

There was only a folding door between the dining room where Mark waited and, the room in which the Bishop sat Mark heard the Bishop arise impatiently from his chair and pace the room, a fact which caused him no little wonder. The Bishop had not impressed him as a man of nervous temperament. Mark now heard him sit down again, crunching the springs of the chair, and again jump up, to continue his nervous pacing. Then the door from the hallway into the parlor opened and Mark heard the Bishop's voice:

"Is she the woman?"

A young voice, which Mark was sure belonged to the secretary, answered:

"I am sorry to say, Bishop, that she is."

"My God!" said the Bishop. There was deep distress in his tones. "Father, are you perfectly sure?"

"I could not be mistaken, Bishop. I stayed in the sacristy until all had left the church except her attendant and herself. She was crying, and she threw back the veil to use her handkerchief. Then I saw her face quite plainly. She is the woman."

"Crying?" The Bishop seemed about to cry himself. "Poor creature, poor creature—and unfortunate man. So he has brought her here after all. I am afraid, Father, I did not do right when I omitted telling him the exact situation. What shall we do? We cannot possibly stay."

Mark felt that he was eavesdropping, but everything had happened so quickly that there had been no chance to escape. He could not help hearing. His uneasiness became a great fear, and he felt that his face was bloodless. Turning to escape if possible through the kitchen, he paused long enough to hear the secretary say:

"No, Bishop, I am afraid you cannot stay. Monsignore Murray is quite beyond understanding. He seems so good, and yet to have done a thing like this is awful. Surely he realizes what a scandal he may stir up."

"Could you possibly secure an automobile to take us to Father Darcy's?" asked the Bishop anxiously. "He lives in the next town, and we could catch the train at his station."

"I will try."

By this time Mark had decided that he could not very well go through the kitchen, and he had heard enough to make him feel that his duty toward Ruth was to wait. It was something he would not have done under other circumstances; but Mark was in love, and he remembered the adage about love and war.

"At once, please," he heard the young priest say over the telephone. Then he hung up the receiver, just as Father Murray stepped into the dining room from the kitchen through which he had passed from the sacristy.

"Welcome, Mr. Griffin," he said cordially. "Come, you must meet His Lordship. He's in here," and he threw open the folding-doors. The Bishop was standing. The secretary entered from the hall. The Bishop's face was grave; but Father Murray did not notice that. He was like a youth, with the excitement of the occasion upon him.

"Let me present a traveler, Mr. Mark Griffin, of England, to Your Lordship—or is it Ireland, Mr. Griffin? Mr. Griffin is going to stay to break bread with us, Bishop, and I know you will like him."

"I am pleased indeed to meet Mr. Griffin," said the Bishop. "I saw you in the church, sir. But I am very sorry, Monsignore, that I am not to have the opportunity of knowing Mr. Griffin better. I am not—"

But the tactful secretary saved the Bishop an unpleasant explanation.

"His Lordship has to leave, Monsignore, and at once. The automobile is even now, I think, coming around the corner. It has become necessary for the Bishop to go to Father Darcy's before taking the train back to the city. He hopes to catch Father Darcy for a few minutes before taking the train at the next station."

Father Murray almost gasped.

"But, My Lord," he cried, "our meal is prepared. We have been looking forward to your staying. It is customary, is it not? I shall never be able to—" and then his voice broke, for he was pleading, "My dear Bishop, you will surely stay?"

Mark thought that all the misery of the world was in the priest's tones.

"I am sorry, Monsignore," and the Bishop looked it, though he spoke very quickly; "but circumstances compel me to leave at once. No one regrets the necessity more than I do. I should willingly stay if it were expedient, but unfortunately it is not."

"The auto is waiting, Bishop," said the secretary, who by this time had the prelate's coat and hat in his hand. The valises were lying packed in the hall, as they had come from the church.

The Bishop put out his hand to Mark.

"Good-bye, Mr. Griffin," he said. "I hope we may meet at another time."

He looked at Father Murray, but the poor pastor had dropped into a chair, and Mark noticed that his face was white and drawn. For an instant it appeared as though the Bishop would go up to him, for he made one step in his direction. But Father Murray took no heed. Crushed by grief, he stared unseeing into space. The Bishop turned abruptly and followed his secretary to the door. Mark heard them go down the steps. He listened as the door of the car slammed; then he heard the chugging of a motor, and they were gone. The noise grew fainter and fainter. There was silence. Father Murray never moved.

Ann clattered in from the kitchen, calling back an order to one of her assistants. Through the folding-doors she saw Mark.

"Where's the Father?" she asked, for the priest was hidden by part of the wall between the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to the silent figure in the chair. Ann forgot her importance in an instant, and rushed over to the inert priest.

"What is it, Father?" she cried. "What is it? Are ye sick?"

But Father Murray did not answer.

"Where is His Lordship?" she asked sharply, turning again to Mark.

"Gone."

"Gone!" Ann almost whispered the word, as if in awe of it. "What! he wouldn't eat here—again!" Her face showed an agony of rage. "The dirty—but God forgive me—he's the Bishop—I can't judge him—"

Father Murray arose, and Ann said no more.

"Hush, Ann," he cautioned, "hush." Then, turning to Mark, "Come outside, Mark."

The two passed out onto the veranda. Father Murray dropped heavily into his chair, with the weight of an old, feeble man. Mark felt that he could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself. His voice had a ring of pathos in it, and he addressed Mark as though he needed him and knew he could count upon him.

"My friend, have you ever read Thomas a Kempis?"

"No, Father, I have not."

"It is a pity, indeed; there is so much of consolation in him when we need it. Listen to this quotation that I have learned by heart: 'If thou thinkest rightly and considerest things in truth, thou oughtest never to be so much dejected and troubled for any adversity; but rather to rejoice and give thanks, yea, to account this as a special subject of joy, that afflicting thee with sorrows I do not spare thee.' It is Christ speaking, and the quotation is from His Imitation." Then Father Murray made a gesture as though he were trying to throw it all off.

"Come in, Mark. The other guests did not intend to stay. The Bishop has never broken bread with me since—but let that pass. Come in and eat. It is bitter bread, my friend, bitter bread; but, alas, I must eat it."

And Mark thought of his own bitter bread, too, as he reentered the rectory.



CHAPTER VIII

FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET

Ann bustled into Father Murray's study next morning with something on her mind. When Ann had something on her mind the pastor was always quite likely to notice it, for Ann never had learned how to conceal her thoughts. Good, pious, and faithful she was, but with an inherent love of gossip. She had loyal feelings to express this morning, but long experience as the housekeeper of priests had made Ann wary of approaching a subject too abruptly.

"Mrs. Thompson was here, yer Reverence."

"Yes? What was it this time?"

"Sure, 'twas about her young b'y Jack, the good-fer-nothin'. He's drinkin' ag'in."

"And she wants me to—"

"Give him the pledge."

"All right; but why didn't you bring him in?"

"Well, wan raison is that he isn't sober yet and she couldn't bring him wid her. The other is that yer Reverence has sp'iled more good pledges on that lad than would kape the Suprame Coort in business for tin years."

Father Murray smiled and Ann knew she had made considerable progress, but not quite enough yet.

"I'll go and see him to-morrow morning. He'll be sober then," said the priest, looking down longingly at his work.

But Ann had another case. "The choir's busted."

Father Murray put down his book. Here was disaster indeed. "Again?"

"Yes, ag'in. The organist, Molly Wilson, is insulted."

"Who insulted her?"

"Ye did. She says ye didn't appreciate her music for the Confirmation."

"But I did."

"But ye didn't tell her so, the hussy."

"Hush, Ann. Don't call names. I had no time to tell Miss Wilson anything. I'll see her to-day."

"Yes, ye will, and that'll make her worse. She's got to be soft-soaped all the time, the painted thing!"

"Please, Ann, don't talk like that. I don't like it, and it makes hard feelings."

"'Tis little feelings yer Reverence should have left after the way the Bishop—"

"Ann!"

"I will say it. Didn't he slide out of bein' here three months ago? An' I wid a dinner fit fer the auld Bishop, and too good fer this—"

"Please, Ann."

"Wasn't ye the Vicar Gineral once? Why should he hurt ye now? I could tell him things if I had me tongue on him—"

But Father Murray was on his feet, and Ann was afraid. She held her tongue.

"Once and for all, Ann, I forbid you to say a word about my superiors. The Bishop is a great and a good man. He knows what he is about, and neither you nor I may judge him. No! not a word."

The housekeeper was crying. "Sure, I'm sorry, yer Reverence. I won't say a word ag'in, even if I do think he treated ye dirthy. But I hope ye won't spake like that to me. Sure I thry to serve ye well and faithfully."

"And so you do, Ann; so respect my wish in this. There, there, don't cry. I don't want to hurt you; but please don't hurt me."

"I'd cut me tongue out if it hurted yer Reverence."

"I think you would. Indeed, I know you would. Don't mind a spoiled dinner. There are plenty of dinners spoiled."

"Sure, them that has theirs spoiled kin afford it." Father Murray could not help being amused again. Ann was always bemoaning his slender revenues. "An' ye a Vicar Gineral."

"Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?"

"McCarthy's sick ag'in."

"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning."

Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on the chronically dying McCarthy.

"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil anointin' that omadhan four times already."

The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice.

"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me my hat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's."

Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information.

"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga on yer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?"

"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and there are plenty of servants at Killimaga."

He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebuke forgotten.

"Savin' me work, is it? Faith, he ought to be thinkin' of savin' his pinnies, slashin' thim around to the likes of McCarthy." Then the remembrance of her spoiled tirade came to her, as she thought of her ruined dinner and the Bishop. "What did he do that fer to a man who was the Vicar Gineral? But God forgive me. An auld woman niver knows how to hauld her tongue. Sure, the Father is a saint anyhow, whativer the Bishop, bad scran to him, is."

There was the eternal maternal in Ann, if nothing else was left of the eternal feminine. It is the eternal maternal that fights and hates, without knowing why—and loves and protects too—still without knowing, or asking, a reason.

In the kitchen Ann saw Uncle Mac taking his ease by the table. He often dropped in for a chat.

"Where's the Father?" he asked.

"Gone to look over McCarthy ag'in," she answered, with pleased anticipation of the things she could safely say, without rebuke, of the parish's chronic hypochondriac.

But Uncle Mac, while he never rebuked, yet was adroit in warding off temptations to break the Commandments. He began to chuckle as if he had just heard a wonderful story.

Ann looked up. "What's biting ye this mornin'?"

"'Tis what the Father said to Brinn, the man that runs the Weekly Herald. Ye know him?"

"I know no good av him."

"He's not a bad fella a-tall. Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig. Well, he was goin' to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worrited about a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must be rigged up. He met the Father in Jim's drug sthore on the corner, and he ups and axes him to tell him what to wear."

"The omadhan!"

"Av coorse." Uncle Mac fell from righteousness. "He shud not have axed such a question of a priest. But the Father had him. 'Ye want to be disguised?' he said. 'That I do,' said Brinn, takin' off his hat to mop the top of his shiny pate. 'What'll I wear?' The Father giv wan glance at his head. 'Wear a wig,' sez he."

Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected.

"Faith, he did better nor that lasht week," she confided. "'Twas auld Roberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it. His little dog does always be barkin' at Rover. The Father wint out walkin' to the other side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe's Jacky about servin' Mass on week days. Roberts comes along with his snarlin' little pup, and the imp bit at Rover's heels. Rover med wan bite at him, and he ran off yelpin'. 'I'll shoot that big brute some day,' sez Roberts to the Father. 'Don't do that, Mr. Roberts,' he sez, quiet-like. 'The dogs understand each other.' 'I will, so,' sez Roberts, 'and I kin shoot a human dog, too.'"

"What's that?" Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant. "What's that? He said that to the Father? I'll murther him!"

"Ye n'adn't," said Ann quietly. "The Father murthered him betther nor ye could, wid an answer. 'Don't let yer bad timper make ye thry to commit suicide, Mr. Roberts,' sez he, and off he marched. Sure the whole town is laffin' at the mane auld snake."

"Murther an' Irish!" was all Uncle could say. "An' he says he's Scotch. 'Tisn't in raison that a Scotchman could do it."

Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walked quickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived "over the tracks." A man was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed.

"Good day to you, Elder," he drawled.

"Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis. How are you?" Father Murray stopped to shake hands. Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of the town. He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, for he was a well-to-do business man.

"Fine, fine, Elder," he answered. "Have you seen my new card?" He fumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over. Father Murray read it aloud:

JOHN JONATHAN STURGIS Justice of the Peace

The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate.

Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and eloquently.

Fees Moderate. Osculation extra.

Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, no connection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill.

P. S. My Anti-Blushine is guaranteed not to injure the most delicate complexion.

"You'll be running the clergy clean out of business if this keeps up, Mr. Sturgis," laughed the priest. "But unless I am much mistaken, you didn't stop me only to show the card. There's something else? I see it on your face."

"I thought you would, Elder. Let us walk down the side street a bit and I'll tell you." The Justice became serious. "Elder, I suppose you know Roberts who keeps the Depot Hotel?"

"I know him only slightly."

"He was in to see me to-day, on what he called 'important business.' He is a crony of my constable. He had a cock and bull story about that lady at Killimaga, who goes to your church. I guess the constable told it to him. I gave him no satisfaction because there was nothing in it that concerned me; but the old scamp thinks it might hurt you, so he gave it to Brinn, who will publish it if you don't drop in on him."

Father Murray put his hand on the shoulder of the justice. "Thank you kindly, Mr. Sturgis," he said. "I would like to save the lady from annoyance, and will see Mr. Brinn at once; but I must begin by apologizing for my recent attack on his beauty."

"No need to do that, Father," assured the justice. "He printed the joke himself in to-day's Herald."

When the priest left the office of the editor, he walked toward the rectory in deep thought, quite evidently worried, but the suppressed story was safely in his pocket.



CHAPTER IX

THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION

"How do you do, Mr. Griffin. I am delighted to see you again, and so soon after our first meeting."

Two days had elapsed since the unpleasant incident at the rectory, and Mark, engrossed in thoughts by no means in harmony with the peaceful country through which he wandered, was taken unawares. He turned sharply. A big automobile had stopped near him and from it leaned the young Bishop, hand outstretched.

Mark hurried forward. "I am glad to see Your Lordship again. You are still traveling?" He had retained no pleasant recollections of the dignitary, and, as he shook the extended hand, was rather surprised to realize that he felt not a little pleased by the unexpected encounter.

"I am still traveling—Confirmation tours all this season. Are you going far, Mr. Griffin?"

"I am merely walking, without goal."

"Then come in with me. I am on my way to a little parish ten miles farther on. I want to chat. My secretary went on ahead by train, to 'prepare the way,' as it were. I will send the car back with you. Won't you come?" The tone of the Bishop's voice indicated an earnest desire that the invitation be accepted.

Mark hesitated but a moment. "I thank Your Lordship. I will gladly go with you on such pleasant terms." He entered the car and, sinking into its soft cushions, suddenly awakened to the fact that he had tramped far, and was tired.

The Bishop took up the conversation.

"You are thoroughly British, Mr. Griffin, or you would not have said 'Your Lordship.' The bishops in England are all addressed in that way, are they not?"

"Of course, and here also. Did I not hear Father Murray—"

"Oh, Father Murray is quite different. He is a convert, and rather inclined to be punctilious. Then, too, he is from England. In America the best we get as a rule is just plain 'Bishop.' One of your own kind of Bishops—an Episcopalian—I knew him well and a charming man he was—told me that in England he was 'My Lorded' and 'Your Lordshiped' everywhere, until he had gotten quite used to the dignity of it. But when he stepped on the dock at New York, one of his lay intimates took all the pomposity out of him by a sound slap on the back and the greeting, 'Hello, Bish, home again?'"

"It was very American, that," said Mark. "We wouldn't understand it."

"But we do. I wouldn't want anyone to go quite that far, of course. I have nerves. But I confess I rather like the possibility of it—so long as it stays a possibility only. We Yankees are a friendly lot, but not at all irreverent. A bishop has to be 'right' on the manhood side as well as on the side of his office. That's the way we look at it."

A wicked thought went through Mark's head. He let it slide out in words before he weighed the words or the thought. An instant after, he could have bitten his tongue with chagrin.

"But don't you take the manhood into account in dealing with your clergy?"

To Mark's surprise the Bishop was not offended by the plain reference to the unpleasant scene in the rectory at Sihasset.

"Thank you; thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin, for giving me such an excellent opening. I really wanted you to say something like that. If you hadn't, I should certainly have been nonplussed about finding the opening for what I desire to say to you. You are now referring to my seemingly unchristian treatment of Monsignore Murray? Eh, what?" It seemed to please the Bishop to lay emphasis on the English "Eh, what?" He said it with a comic intonation that relieved Mark's chagrin.

"Your Lordship is a diplomat. I was wrong to ask the question. The affair is simply none of my business."

"But it is, Mr. Griffin. I would not want you, a stranger—perhaps not even a Catholic—to keep in your mind the idea that a Catholic bishop is cold and heartless in his dealings with his flock, and particularly with his under-shepherds."

Mark did not know what to answer, but he wanted to help the Bishop understand his own feelings.

"I like Father Murray very much, my dear Lord—or rather my dear Bishop."

It was the Bishop's turn to smile. "You are getting our ways fast, Mr. Griffin. When we part, I suppose you'll slap me on the back and say 'Bish.'"

"The Lord forbid."

"For my back's sake," the Bishop was looking at Mark's strong shoulders, "for my back's sake I hope the Lord does forbid. But to your question. I must get at the answer in a round-about way. Father Murray, or Monsignore Murray, for he is a prelate, was one of my dearest friends. For no man had I a greater regard. He was the soul of generosity, earnest, zealous, kind, and—I believed then—a saint."

"Then?"

"Then. I am going to confide in you, and for a good purpose. You like him. His people in Sihasset adore him, as did his curates and his people at the Cathedral. I expected, as did others, that he would be in the place I occupy to-day." The Bishop broke off to look fixedly at Mark for a moment. "Mr. Griffin, may I trust you to do your friend a service?"

"Yes, Bishop, you may."

"Then I will. I have no other way to do this thing. I cannot do it through another priest. They are all of one mind except a few of the younger ones who might make matters worse. You can help Monsignore Murray, if you will. Now, listen well. You heard the conversation between my secretary and myself at the rectory, did you not? You were in the next room, I know."

"Yes; I could not help hearing it, and there was no way of escape."

"I know there was no escape. You heard it all?"

"All."

"That decides me to tell you more. It may be providential that you heard. A woman's name was mentioned?"

"No name, only a reference to a woman, but I think I know who was meant."

"Exactly." The Bishop's voice took on even a graver tone. "What I am going to say to you is given into your confidence for a stronger reason than to have you think more charitably of a bishop in his dealings with his priests. I am taking you into my confidence chiefly for Monsignore Murray's sake. He is a different sort of man from the ordinary type. He has few intimate friends because his charity is very wide. You seem to be one of the rare beings he regards with special favor. You like him in return. The combination is excellent for my purpose. I do not know when this woman first came into Monsignore Murray's life, but he has seen her quite frequently during the last few years. No one knows where she came from or who she is, except that she calls herself 'Miss Atheson.'"

"That is her name, if you are thinking of the lady I have in mind—Ruth Atheson."

"Exactly. The old Bishop, my predecessor, seemed oblivious to the situation. I soon learned, after my appointment, that Monsignore Murray and Miss Atheson were together almost daily, either at the rectory or at her hotel. But I said nothing to Monsignore and had every confidence in him until—well, until one day a member of the Cathedral clergy, unexpectedly entering the rectory library, saw Miss Atheson sitting on the arm of the priest's chair, with her head close to his and her arm across his shoulders. They were reading from a letter, and did not see the visitor, who withdrew silently. His visit was never known to Monsignore Murray. You understand?"

Mark was too much surprised to answer.

"Don't look so horror-struck, Mr. Griffin. The thing might have an explanation, but no one asked it. It looked too unexplainable of course. The story leaked out, and after that Monsignore Murray was avoided. Never once did I give in to the full belief that my dear old saint was wrong, so I gently suggested one day that I should like his fullest confidence about Miss Atheson. He avoided the subject. Still I was loath to believe. I made up my mind to save him by a transfer, but he forestalled me and asked a change; so I sent him to Sihasset."

Mark found his voice.

"That was the reason? And he never knew?"

"That was the reason. I thought he would ask for it, and that I would then have a chance to tell him; but he asked for nothing. The scene when he left his work at the cathedral was so distressing to me that I would willingly lay down my office to-morrow rather than go through with it again."

"But he is so gentle. He could not make a scene?"

"That's it, that's it. There was no scene, and yet there was. I told you how I loved him. We first met at college, in Rome. In years the difference between us was not so very great, but in experience he was far older than I. I was alone in the world, and he was both father and friend to me. When I sent him away, I felt as Brutus must have felt when he condemned his sons to death. Only it was worse. It was a son condemning his father to disgrace. But I hoped to save him."

"And you did not?"

"No, that was harder yet. I thought I had—until I went to Sihasset and saw her in the church. Poor creature! She must have followed him."

"But, my dear Lord Bishop, she is so young and he—"

"Yes, I know. But facts are facts. What could I do? Look here, Mr. Griffin. Whatever there is in this that excuses him I ought to know. And he ought to know the cause of my actions in his regard. I shall have to tell him and then— If there is an explanation, how can I forgive myself? But he cannot be blind. Soon all Sihasset will notice and talk. I shall have to remove him again, and then . . . . My God! I cannot think that my saint could ever merit such an end. Do you know what it means to be an unfrocked priest?"

"Yes." Mark had no other answer. His distress was too deep. His mind was working fast, however.

"Do you think, Mr. Griffin, that you could tell him—point out the danger of his position—without hurting him? He is very sensitive. Don't tell him all you know—only intimate gently that there may be some misunderstanding of this kind. He surely will guess the rest. You may save him if you can do this and—if you will do it."

It was on Mark's tongue to refuse, but he happened to glance at the Bishop's face. The tears were streaming down his cheeks.

"Don't mind my weakness, Mr. Griffin. It is a weakness in me thus to take a stranger into my confidence in such a matter. But I feel that you alone have his confidence. You can't realize what this thing has cost me, in peace. He was the last I should have suspected. I must save him. Help me do it. The Church is supposed to be hard-hearted, but she is forgiving—too forgiving sometimes. My duty is to be stern, and a judge; but I cannot judge him with sternness. I would give my life to think that this was all a bad dream. Don't you see that he is the man I always thought would be my own bishop? How can I go to him—and hurt him?"

If Mark Griffin had had any misgivings about the character of the Bishop, they had vanished. He saw no bishop beside him, but only a man who in his heart of hearts had for years treasured a friendship and, in spite of everything, could not pluck it out. Now he had opened that heart to an utter stranger, trusting him as if snatching at every chance to save his sacred ideals, shrinking from inflicting pain himself as a surgeon would shrink from operating on his own father. Mark's heart went out to the weeping man beside him.

But his own sorrow Mark resolved to keep to himself yet a little while. He was not ready to think out his own case. The sweet, compelling face of Ruth Atheson rose up before him to plead for herself. Who was she, this girl of mystery? His half-promised wife? A runaway duchess pledged to another man? A priest's—God! that was too much. Mark clenched his hands to stifle a groan. Then he thought of Father Murray. Good and holy and pure he had seemed to be, a man among men, a priest above all. Surely there was an explanation somewhere. And he hesitated no longer to accede to the request of the Bishop who still, Mark felt, believed in his friend, and was hoping against hope for him.

"Here, Mr. Griffin, is my stop. You have been silent for fifteen minutes." The Bishop's voice was sad, as if Mark had refused to help.

"Was I silent so long? I did not know. There is something I cannot tell you yet that may bring you consolation. Some day I will tell you. In the meantime, trust me. I see no way now by which I can fully justify your faith in my efforts, but I will try. I promise you that I will try."

So they parted, and Mark was driven back to Sihasset alone.

The Bishop prayed longer—much longer—than usual before he left the little church to join the priests who had gathered in the rectory after the ceremony.



CHAPTER X

AT THE MYSTERY TREE

All next day Mark Griffin wandered about brooding. Father Murray had returned to his old place in his thoughts. Distress had bred sympathy between the two, and instinctively Mark looked upon the priest as a friend; and, as a friend, he had cast doubt from his mind. There was an appointment to fill at Killimaga in the afternoon, an appointment to which Mark had looked forward with much joy; but he remembered the coldness of Ruth when he saw her in the church, and felt that he was not equal to meeting her, much as he longed to be in her presence. So he sent a note pleading sickness. It was not a lie, for there was a dull pain in both head and heart.

All the afternoon he walked along the bluff road, studiously avoiding Saunders who had seemed desirous of accompanying him, for Mark wanted to be alone. Taking no note of the distance, he walked on for miles. It was already late in the afternoon when he turned to go back, yet he had not thought out any solution to his own problem, nor how to approach Father Murray in behalf of the Bishop.

To Mark Griffin pain of any kind was something new. He had escaped it chiefly by reason of his clean, healthful life, and through a fear that made him take every precaution against it. He did not remember ever having had even a headache before; and, as to the awful pain in his heart, there never had been a reason for its existence till this moment.

With all the ardor of a strong nature that has found the hidden spring of human love, Mark Griffin loved Ruth Atheson. She had come into his life as the realization of an ideal which since boyhood, so he thought, had been forming in his heart. In one instant she had given that ideal a reality. For her sake he had forgotten obstacles, had resolved to overcome them or smash them; but now the greatest of them all insisted on raising itself between them. Poor, he could still have married her; rich, it would have been still easier so far as his people were concerned; but as a grand duchess she was neither rich nor poor. The blood royal was a bar that Mark knew he could not cross except with ruin to both; nor was he foolish enough to think that he would be permitted to cross it even did he so will. Secret agents would take care of that. There was no spot on earth that could hide this runaway girl longer than her royal father desired. Mark Griffin would have blessed the news that Ruth Atheson was really only the daughter of a beggar, or anything but what he now believed her to be.

Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought little of him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that the officer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him.

It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff road where the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, he flung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day he first saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitter regrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past.

The gray ocean seemed trying—-and the thought consoled him a little—to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him to remain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for his sympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made for himself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him even as he, Mark, loved the priest; but he felt that he must go away, must flee from the misery he dared not face. Mark was big and strong; but he cried at last, just as he had cried in boyhood when his stronger brother had hurt his feelings, or his father had inflicted some disappointment upon him; and a strong man's tears are not to be derided.

How long he thus lay, brooding and miserable, he did not even care to know. A step aroused him from his stupor.

He looked up. A man was coming from the road toward the tree. He was tall, handsome and dark of face, Mark thought, for the moon had risen a little and the man was in the light. His stride was that of a soldier, with a step both firm and sure. He looked straight ahead, with his eyes fixed on the tree as though that were his goal. He passed Mark's resting-place quickly and struck three times on the tree, which gave back a hollow sound. Then he waited, while Mark watched. In a minute the signal was repeated, and only a few more instants passed before the doorway in the tree was flung open.

Mark saw the white-gowned figure of the lady of the tree step out. He heard her cry "Luigi!" with a voice full of joy and gladness. The two met in quick embrace, and the desolation of the watcher was complete as he heard her speak lovingly to the officer who had at last come back into her life. She spoke in French and—was it because of the language used or of the unusual excitement?—her voice took on a strange elusive quality utterly unlike the richness of the tones Mark loved so well, yet remained vibrant, haunting in its sibilant lightness. Never again would he hear it so. He longed to go, but there was no present way of escape, so he steeled his heart to listen.

"You have come, my beloved," he heard her say.

"I have come, Carlotta. I told you that nothing could keep me. When you wrote telling me where to come, and when and how to signal, I did not delay one minute."

"I feared to write, Luigi. Perhaps they are even now watching you."

"I think they do not know I am here," he answered. "I have seen no one watching. And who knows of our love? How could they know?"

"They know very much, my Luigi, and I am afraid I should not have called you. But I wanted you so much."

"If you had not called me I should have died. Without you, how could I live?"

"You love me, then, so much?"

"It takes great love to look up to you, Carlotta, and have I not looked?"

"Yes, yes, Luigi, and I love you."

They wandered down the little lane between the wall and the trees that lined the road, while Mark lay in dumb misery in the grass. It had been hard before. It was harder now when he knew for sure. He must go away, and never see her again. It was all that was left him, as an honorable man, to do.

Down the road his eye caught a movement as if someone were slipping into the bushes. Mark watched for a second glimpse of the lovers, but they were far away on the other side. For a long time there was no other visible movement of the figure that had slipped into the shadows; but the listener could hear softened steps in the underbrush, and the crackling of dead branches. Was it Saunders who at last had found his man? Instinctively Mark resolved to protect, for did he not love her? He watched the shrubbery, and soon he saw a face peer out; but it was not the face of Saunders. It was a strange face, youthful, but bearded and grim, and a gun was poised beside it. Mark lay quite still, for now he heard the lovers' steps returning; but he never took his gaze off that terrible face. He saw the gun lifted and he prepared to spring; but when the man and the girl came into sight the gun barrel dropped, and the face disappeared. In an instant Mark realized that it was the man and not the girl who was threatened, and that nothing would be done while she was there.

The lovers stood before the tree, saying good-bye.

"You will come back, Luigi?" the girl asked anxiously.

"I will come when you call, my beloved."

"But if they find you?"

"They will not find me."

"Then we can go away. There is a great West in this country. I have my jewels, you know. We could hide. We could live like other people. We could be just alone together."

"But would you be happy, Carlotta?"

"I should be happy anywhere with you, Luigi. It is too much to pay for being a duchess, to lose all I want in life."

"But many duchesses must do that, you know. I never have asked such a sacrifice, though, God knows, I have wanted it."

"You have never asked, Luigi, and that makes me all the more happy to give. I will tell you when to come."

With an ardent embrace the two parted. She stepped inside the tree and closed the door.

The young officer turned. Mark knew that the time had come for action, and jumped for the other side—but too late. There was no sound, but powder burned Mark's hand—powder from the muffled gun barrel which he had tried to knock aside. The lover stood for an instant with his eyes wide open, as if in wonder at a strange shock, but only for an instant. Mark sprang to his side, and caught him as he fell to the ground. There was a heavy crashing through the underbrush, then a voice was raised in an oath and there was the sound of a struggle. Mark looked up as Saunders broke through the bushes dragging after him the body of the murderer. Dropping his unconscious burden, the detective came up to where Mark was bending over the victim and pulled a little electric glow lamp from his pocket.

"Let me look at him, Griffin," he said. He looked long and earnestly at the man's face, then snapped off the light.

"He's the man," he announced.



"Who is he?" asked Mark quickly.

"The man I told you about—the man I took you for—the man for whose sake the Duchess ran away—the chap I was watching for."

"And the other?" Mark nodded toward the gunman, who still lay unconscious.

"Oh, he doesn't matter." Saunders spoke carelessly. "He'll get out of it. It's all been arranged, of course. They really sent me here to watch her; evidently they had him trailed from the beginning."

Crossing over, Saunders again snapped on his light, and examined the face and clothing of the murderer.

"It's easy to see, Griffin, what the game was. This chap is one of the foreigners at the railroad camp. He can say he was out hunting—shooting squirrels—anything."

"He can't say that," put in Mark quickly, "for I saw him do it. I tried to stop him."

Saunders turned quickly to Mark.

"Forget it, Griffin," he said earnestly. "You saw nothing. Keep out of it. If it were only a common murder, I'd tell you to speak. But this is no common murder. There are international troubles mixed up in it. No one will thank you, and you will only get into difficulties. Why, the biggest men in the country would have a special messenger down here inside of twenty-four hours to keep you silent if they knew who were behind this thing. For God's sake, leave it alone. Let this fellow tell his story." He pointed to the man who was now coming to his senses. "He has it all prepared."

"I'll leave it alone only if the man is dead; but, good God! you can't expect me to leave him here to the mercy of that brood if he's only wounded."

The detective smiled grimly.

"Wounded! Why, Griffin, do you think they would send a man who would miss? Come, look at him."

Mark placed his hand over the young officer's heart. He felt for the pulse, and looked into the face.

"Come, Saunders," he said, "we can do nothing for him."



CHAPTER XI

THIN ICE

"I don't think you quite realize, Griffin," Saunders' voice had quite an uneasy tremor in it, as he spoke, "that you are in some danger."

The detective was sitting in Mark's bedroom, and the clock was striking midnight in the hotel office below. They had returned together from the bluff road and had been discussing the tragedy ever since.

"I think I do," Mark answered, "but I don't very much care."

"Then," said Saunders, "you English have some nerves!"

"You forget, Saunders, that I am not quite English. I am half Irish, and the Irish have 'some nerves.' But I am really hit very hard. I suppose it's the English in me that won't let me show it."

Saunders did not answer for a moment. Then he took his cigar out of his mouth.

"Nerves?" he repeated half laughingly. "Yes, nerves they have, but in the singular number."

"Beg pardon?"

"Oh, I forgot that your education in United States has been sadly neglected. I mean to say that they have nerve, not nerves."

"By which you mean—?"

"Something that you will need very soon—grit."

"I—I don't quite understand yet, my dear fellow. Why?"

The face of Saunders was serious now. The danger that confronted both of them was no chimera.

"Look here, Griffin," he broke out, "that murderer did this thing under orders. He either has had a story fixed up for him by his employers, or he will try to put the deed off on someone else. An explanation must be given when the body is discovered in the morning. All was certainly foreseen, for these chaps take no chances. Now, you may wager a lot that his superiors, or their representatives, are not far away; no farther, in fact, than the railroad camp. You may be sure, too, that their own secret service men are on the job, close by. The question is, what story will this fellow tell?"

"You can—ah—search me, Saunders," retorted Mark.

Saunders laughed. Mark had a way of appearing cheerful.

"Come now, that's doing fine. 'Search you,' eh? That is just exactly what the police probably will do."

"Why?"

"Why? Because your being there was the unforeseen part of the whole tragedy. I think it quite upset their calculations. Your hand is marked with powder from the gun fire. Everyone will see that to-morrow. The principal will know something of it from the murderer. In fact, he probably knows now. To-morrow they will be searching for the man with the powder mark. The murderer himself can swear that he saw someone fire at the man who was killed. He may charge robbery. Only when the body is found shall we know what he is going to do. If they have taken his money, it means that you are going to be arrested, for they intend putting it on you. Unless I am mistaken, his pockets are inside out right now. The powder marks alone are enough to fasten suspicion on you. Then, you were absent all day, and someone certainly must have seen you on the bluff road. Above all, you love Ruth Atheson, and lovers have been known to kill rivals. My detective intuition tells me, Griffin, that you stand a good chance of being charged with murder."

"Well," said Mark, "I have an excellent witness for the defense, in one James Saunders, detective."

"You have," answered Saunders, "but not at the inquest; for if James Saunders, detective, shows his hand then, he will not live to testify at the trial, where his testimony, sprung as a surprise, might be useful."

"You mean that they would—"

"Just so," Saunders nodded wisely; "that's just what they would do. On the other hand, that fellow may stick to the story, whatever it is, that they had fixed up for him. It looks reasonable to me that he would be instructed to do that. He may come forward when the body is found, and give himself up, saying that he was out shooting coons, or some other animals that you can best get at night, and that one of his bullets must have killed the man. That looks like the easiest way out of it."

"That sounds all right, Saunders," answered Mark, "but I incline to the other theory. I think they'll accuse me. Their first plan would have been best if nobody had seen the deed. But since they know someone did see it, they'll probably try to be on the safe side. Fortunately, they don't know there were two of us, which leaves me better off."

"If they find there was another," said the detective, "you'll be safer in jail. Lives count nothing in the games of princes, and they'll get us both if they can."

"Then you're in danger yourself, Saunders."

"Not yet. As you remarked, they don't know there was another. You see, it was dark among the trees, and I caught the fellow in the rear as he ran away. He would naturally think that the man who caught him was the one who jumped as he fired."

Mark smoked thoughtfully before he spoke.

"You're right, Saunders. My complacency is not so great that I do not recognize the danger. I merely am indifferent to danger under the present circumstances. It's no use running away from it, and we can't help it now. Let's go to bed."

"Well, those English-Irish nerves get me," Saunders answered, as he arose and walked toward the door. "I suppose they're a good thing to have; but, Griffin, take it from me, you're the worst lump of ice I ever saw. Aren't you even just a little afraid?"

"Oh, yes," answered Mark, "I'm afraid all right, old man; I really am afraid. But there is somebody I am more afraid for than myself. I am worried about the lady."

Mark thought of what he had seen as he lay near the tree. Walking over to the window, he thoughtfully pulled down the blind before he turned again to Saunders. "I shall always love her, no matter what happens. Of course, I can't marry a grand duchess, especially one who is watched day and night; but I rather welcome the chance to stay near and protect her good name if the story does come out. That is why I won't go to jail for safety, not if I can prevent it."

Saunders closed the half-opened door and walked back into the room.

"Protect her? I don't understand," he said. Clearly bewildered, he sat down, carelessly swinging one leg over an arm of the big chair, and stared at his host.

Mark looked up. He spoke haughtily, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

"There is a British Ambassador in Washington. You have a free country, so I can always talk to him, even if I am a prisoner or on bail. I happen to be brother to a baron; that fact may prove useful, for the first time in my life. One word that involves her name in scandal, even as Ruth Atheson, brings the story out. And Great Britain does not particularly care about your certain Big Kingdom. I am presuming, of course, that I have rightly guessed what Big Kingdom is looking after the interests of your Grand Duchy."

"You're right, Griffin; the Ministry could never let her name be mentioned."

"As the grand duchess, no. But they could mention the name of Ruth Atheson, the Padre's friend, the Lady Bountiful of his poor, the girl I love. The Padre has had trouble enough, too, without that scandal in his little flock."

"I don't see how you can avoid it."

"Oh, I can avoid it very simply. I can send word to the Ministry in question that I know who the lady really is, and that I am almost ready to talk for the public."

"That's right, Griffin, you could. Gee, what a detective you would have made! You're sure right." He arose, stretched lazily, and walked to the door, where he turned, his hand on the knob. "If it's any consolation for you to know, Griffin, they won't arrest—they'll just stick a knife into you. Good night, and pleasant dreams."

"Good night, Saunders, and thanks for your cheerful assurances."

But Mark had no dreams at all for, left alone, he smoked and worried over his problem until morning.

Very early he wrote a long letter, sealed it and put it in his pocket so that he could register it in person. It was addressed to the British Ambassador.

As Mark passed on his way to the dining room, the hotel clerk gave him a note, remarking: "That's a bad-looking hand you have, Mr. Griffin."

"Yes, rather." Mark looked at his hand as though noticing its condition for the first time. Then he spoke consolingly. "But it was the only one I had to put on this morning. Pleasant outside, isn't it?"

But the clerk had suddenly discovered that his attention was needed elsewhere, and Mark proceeded to his breakfast.

Sitting down, he gave his order, then opened the letter. It was from Ruth. "I am sorry you were not feeling well yesterday, and hope you are all right now. If so, come to Killimaga to-day, quite early. Somehow I am always lonesome now. Ruth."

It was rather strange—or was it?—that, in spite of what Mark knew, he watched his chance and, when the waiter turned his back, kissed the sheet of scented paper.

Saunders was in the hotel office when Mark came out of the dining room. The constable was with him. With little difficulty Saunders got rid of the officer and walked over to Mark.

"Come outside," he said. "I have some news."

They left the hotel and moved down the street. When out of anyone's hearing, Saunders touched Mark's arm.

"I routed out the constable early this morning—at daybreak, in fact—and sent him on a wild-goose chase along the bluff road. I wanted him to stumble onto that body, and get things going quickly. The sooner the cards are on the table, the better. His errand would keep him close to the Killamaga wall, on the roadside. He saw nothing; if he had I should have known it. What do you think it means?"

"Means?" echoed Mark. "Why, it means that someone else has been there."

"It looks that way," admitted Saunders. "But why hasn't it been reported?"

"I think, Saunders," Mark said thoughtfully, "that we had better take a walk near the wall ourselves."

"I was going to suggest that very thing."

The morning was not beautiful. The chill wind of autumn had come up, and the pleasant weather that Mark had taken the trouble to praise was vanishing. The clouds were dark and gloomy, threatening a storm. When the men reached the bluff road, they saw that the ocean was disturbed, and that great white-capped waves were beating upon the beach below. Their own thoughts kept both of them in tune with the elements. Neither spoke a word as they rapidly covered the distance between the town and the spot of the tragedy. But instinctively, as if caught by the same aversion, both slackened pace as they neared the wall of Killimaga. Going slowly now they turned out of the road and approached the tree, looking fearfully down at the grass. They reached the spot whereon they had left the body the evening before. There was no body there.

They searched the bushes and the long grass, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Closely they examined the ground; but not a trace of blood was to be seen, nor any evidence of conflict. Saunders was stupefied, and Mark showed signs of growing wonder.

"It isn't here," half whispered Saunders. "And it isn't in the bushes. What do you make of it, Griffin?"

Mark answered hesitatingly and half-nervously.

"I can't make anything out of it, unless they have decided to hush the whole thing up, figuring that the men who interfered will never tell. They disposed of the body overnight and covered all their traces. Unless I am mistaken, no one will ever find it or know that the murder took place at all."

"Then," said Saunders emphatically, "they certainly had one of the big fellows here to see that it was properly done."

"It looks probable," replied Mark; "for a common murderer would not have planned so well. An expert was on this crime. The body is disposed of finally."

Saunders looked around nervously.

"We had better go back, Griffin. There's nothing left for us to do, and they may be watching."

Both men left the spot and returned to town; but they were no longer silent. Mark was decidedly anxious, and Saunders voiced his worry in tones that shook.

"I have more fear than ever for your sake, Griffin, and I'm beginning to have some for my own. Those fellows know how to act quickly and surely. Their principal is in Washington. He has had word already by cipher as to what has happened. He won't rest until he finds the witness, and then—"

"And then?"

"I'm afraid they will try another murder. They won't trust a living soul to hold his peace under the circumstances."

"But how are they to know I saw the thing?"

"By your hand. In fact, I think they know already."

"Already?"

"Yes. There was somebody about when we were there, and he was evidently hiding."

"You heard him?"

"Yes. I didn't want to alarm you. I have reason now to be alarmed for myself. They know I am in it. We've got to think quickly and act quickly. The minute that orders come they will try to get us. As long as we stay in public places we are safe. But we must not go out alone any more."

The two went on to the hotel. Saunders glanced back as they were entering the town. His eyes covered the hedge.

"I thought so," he said. "That chap has been dodging in and out of the trees and keeping watch on us. From this point he can see right along the street to the hotel door. It's no use trying to conceal anything now. Our only safety lies in keeping in public places; but they won't strike till they get their orders."

As the two entered the hotel, a messenger boy came up carrying two telegrams. The clerk nodded to the boy, who went over to Mark and Saunders.

"Which is Mr. Saunders?" he asked. The detective reached out his hand and the boy gave him one of the messages. "The other one," he said, "is for Mr. Griffin.

"Sign here, please." The boy extended his book. Both men signed and the boy went out. Sitting down in a corner of the writing room, Mark and Saunders looked at one another, then at the yellow envelopes.

"Why don't you open your telegram, Saunders?" asked Mark.

"Because I know pretty well what's in it. I guessed it would be coming. I am ordered off this case, for the men who employed our agency have no use for me after last night. They have found everything out for themselves, and have settled it in their own way. Why don't you open yours?"

"For opposite reasons to yours, old chap: because I don't know what's in it, and, whatever it is, I don't think I shall like it. I have not had many messages of this kind. None but my solicitors would send one, and that means trouble. But here goes!"

Mark tore off the end of the envelope, opened the message and read. Saunders did the same with his. One glance was enough for each.

"I told you so," said Saunders. "Here's my message: 'Central disconnected.'"

Mark looked up with surprise.

"'Central disconnected'? What's that, Saunders? More United States?"

"It's our code," replied the detective, "for 'Come back to the central office at once. Our connection with the case is at an end.'"

There was a trace of pain in Mark's face, as he handed his own telegram over for Saunders to read. It was from New York:

"Harvey, Sullivan and Riggs, your solicitors, wire us to find you and say that your brother is dead and that you are to return at once."

"I'm sorry, Griffin, very sorry." There was real sympathy in Saunders' voice. "Perhaps it is better that you should go. It may be a way out. Your Ambassador can help you. I've got to stay and face it. Yes, it would be better for you to go."

"You're wrong, Saunders." Mark's voice had a decided note in it. "My disappearance might complicate the international part of the situation. Baron Griffin was a member of the House of Lords, and quite a personage. And I am the only brother of that late personage. He had no children. I can fight better here—as Baron Griffin."

"Great Scott!" cried Saunders. "Come to think of it, you are Baron Griffin now!"

"Yes, I am, and only half sorry for it, much as I regret my brother's death. What are you going to do, Saunders?"

The detective looked embarrassed.

"I didn't intend to tell you, but I guess I will. I'm going to throw up my job. I'm in this thing and I'm going to stay and see it out."

"Good old chap!" answered Mark. "I thought you would. But can you afford it?"

"Frankly, I can't; but I'm going to do it just the same."

"Saunders," said Mark, "I think I need the services of a sort of detective."

"You mean a protective bodyguard."

"Put it as you like—any way that will let me pay you for your time. You say you are going to stay on the case. I want to have you on it. You may not need me badly, but I'm sure that I need you."

"Then you want me to apply for the job?"

"I'd employ you if you would take it, old chap."

"Then I apply. I never asked for a job before, but I want this one. Shake!"

The men shook hands and started to go upstairs. When they were out of hearing, the clerk called up a number on the telephone.



CHAPTER XII

HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS

In an upstairs room of a Washington Ministry three men sat in conference. One, a stout, bearded man, was seated behind a flat-top desk on which he constantly thrummed with nervous fingers; the others sat facing him. The man at the desk was the Minister of a Kingdom, and looked it. His eyes were half closed, as if in languid indifference, effectually veiling their keenness. The expression of his mouth was lost in the dark moustache, and in the beard combed from the center. The visible part of his face would have made a gambler's fortune; and, save for its warm color, it might have been carved out of ice. Without ever a hint of harshness or loudness, his voice was one to command attention; though it came out soft and velvety, it was with the half assurance that it could ring like steel if the occasion arose. The occasion never arose. The hands, whose fingers thrummed on the glass-topped desk, were soft, warm-looking, and always moist, with a dampness that on contact made you feel vaguely that you had touched oil—and you had.

Both of the other men were beardless, but one had the ghost of a moustache on his upper lip. He was dapper, clean and deferential. The other was short and somewhat ungainly in build, and his face showed evidence of the recent shaving off of a heavy beard. He had no graces, and evidently no thoughts but of service—service of any kind, so long as he recognized the authority demanding it. His clothes did not suit him; they were rich enough, but they were not his kind. A soldier of the ranks, a sailor before the mast, a laborer on Sunday, could have exchanged clothes with this man and profited in values, while the other would certainly have profited in looks.

"You did not see the other, then, Ivan?" the fat man asked, interrupting the story of his awkward guest.

"I did not, Excellency. He came at me too quickly, and I had no idea there was anyone there besides myself and—and the person who—"

"Yes, yes. The person who is now without a name. Go on."

"I was in the shrubs, near a great large tree that seemed to form part of a wall, when the two, the person and a lady, came back together. She—"

"Did they act as if they knew one another?"

The man smiled. "Excellency, they acted as if they knew one another quite well. They embraced."

"That you did not see, Ivan?"

"No, Excellency, of course, I did not see that."

"Proceed, Ivan."

"After they—parted, Excellency, the lady opened the tree and went into it."

"Opened the tree?" The nervous fingers were stilled.

"Yes, Excellency. It must have been a door."

"Rather odd for America, I should say. Eh, Wratslav?"

The dapper man bowed. "As you say, Excellency, it is rather unusual in America."

"Proceed, Ivan." The Minister resumed his thrumming.

"When the lady closed the tree and was gone, the—ah—person—turned to go past me. My gun had the silencer on which Your Excellency—"

"You are forgetting again, Ivan." The half-closed eyes opened for an instant, and the steel was close underneath the velvet of the tone.

"Which Your Excellency has no doubt heard of."

"Oh, yes—Maxim's."

"My gun exploded—but noiselessly, Excellency, because of the silencer—just as the strange man jumped at me. The—ah—person fell, and I ran. The strange man followed and caught me. I fought, but he knew where to hit; and when I awoke I was alone with the—person—who had, most unfortunately, been killed when the gun went off. I came back and—" he glanced at the one who had been called Wratslav—"he came with me."

The Minister looked inquiringly toward the dapper man, who then took up the story.

"We thought it better to dispose of the—person, Excellency, and avoid—"

"Exactly. You did well. That will do, Ivan. You may return to your duties."

The man arose and went toward the door, but the Minister stopped him.

"One moment, Ivan. Do you think we could find the other?—the man who struck you?"

"I think his face, or hands, or arms, would be marked by the gun fire, Excellency."

"Thank you, Ivan."

The rough man bowed himself out. For a while the Minister sat silent, gazing contemplatively at the fingers which were moving more slowly now as though keeping pace with his thoughts. Finally he looked up.

"Did you find out if there were any strangers in town last night, Wratslav?"

"There were two, Excellency. One was our own detective, who knew not at all that I was on the work. The other was an Englishman—the same who visits the lady."

"H-m, h-mmmm." The tones were long drawn out, and again His Excellency was silent, considering what this new development might mean. The fingers ceased their thrumming and closed around a delicate ivory paper-knife which lay near by. When the Minister again spoke, he did so slowly, carefully, weighing each word.

"Have you seen him—the Englishman—since?"

"No, Excellency—"

"No?" The word came with cold emphasis.

"The hotel clerk, who is friendly—for a consideration—telephoned me that the Englishman was out at the time of the accident, and that his hand was burned slightly, and showed powder marks."

"So! He has said nothing to the authorities?"

"Not a word, so far as I have heard."

"Strange. Why should he conceal the matter?"

"He might think that he would be suspected."

"True, true. That is well spoken, Wratslav. But yet he knows a little too much, does he not?"

"A great deal too much, Excellency."

"There is no certainty that he does not know also who the lady is."

"He goes to see her, Excellency."

The ivory knife swayed delicately, rhythmically, in the mobile fingers, then was still. The Minister spoke deliberately.

"It would be well if he did not go again—did not speak to her again for that matter—" The heavy lids flickered for an instant as His Excellency flashed one look of keen intent towards his hearer as though to emphasize the portent of his words. Then the smooth voice continued, "if it could be arranged."

"It can be arranged, Excellency."

"I thought so." Again the keen look. Then the Minister leaned back in his chair, revolving it slightly that his arm might rest more comfortably on the desk.

"Excellency?" Wratslav spoke with some anxiety.

"Yes?"

"Unfortunately, the Englishman is a person of some consequence in his own country."

"Indeed? One Griffin, is he not?"

"His brother is dead. He died last week. The Englishman is now Baron Griffin."

The fingers tightened around the ivory knife.

"That," the Minister's voice became softer and even more velvety, "that is unfortunate." There was silence again. The knife was laid down, and the fingers moved slowly, heavily, on the desk. "Still, I think, Wratslav, that Ivan should continue to work on the railroad—and you also—while the excellent shooting continues near—ah—the camp. It seems best."

The telephone on the desk tinkled. His Excellency picked up the receiver.

"Yes, someone will come down."

He hung up the receiver and turned to Wratslav.

"There is a telegram downstairs. Go down and get it and bring it here. Hurry."

The secretary was back in a few moments with the envelope, which he handed to the Minister, who cut it open and read the message. The ivory knife snapped in the tense grip; His Excellency looked idly at the pieces, but never a line of his face moved.

"Matters are a trifle more complicated, Wratslav. We must think again." He handed the telegram to his assistant. It read:

"A British subject presents his compliments to Your Excellency, and begs to assure you that the statement which he has written and sent under seal to the British Ambassador in Washington will not be opened or its contents made known to anyone except in the event of the sudden demise of Baron Griffin or James Saunders."

Wratslav returned the message to His Excellency and sat waiting. The slow thrumming was resumed. Then the Minister turned back to his desk, and his hand strayed to the papers on it.

"We may, perhaps, need both you and Ivan here in Washington for some time yet, Wratslav."

"Yes, Excellency."

The silence lasted a full minute.

"About the lady, Wratslav—" the Minister almost smiled; "it would be a great honor were she to visit the Ministry soon."

"Would she come, Excellency?"

The question was ignored.

"A very fast automobile could be used. It could be made quite comfortable, I think."

"If she made no outcry, Excellency. There is that danger—and of gossip also."

"That, too, might be arranged."

"But if she proves—"

"She will not—not if I announce, after receiving your telegram, that her arrival is momentarily expected—traveling incognito, you see—no fuss or receptions—but a short visit before sailing back to Europe. Over there it has been given out that she is traveling, so they know nothing outside the court. The King is anxious." There was another flashing look from the keen eyes before the slow, "He rewards well," spoken with meaning emphasis.

Wratslav answered the look. "I will try, Excellency."

"To try is not sufficient, Wratslav."

"I will do it, Excellency."

"That is better."

So it came to pass that the dapper young man called Wratslav, and the rough one called Ivan, left next day in a fast automobile whose limousine body seemed especially built to interfere as little as possible with its speed. Why it was kept constantly stored with provisions, and why it carried ropes and a tent of silk, no one of the workers in the camp knew; for none of them ever saw those things—or indeed ever saw the interior of the car at all.



CHAPTER XIII

THE ABDUCTION

Father Murray called at the hotel two days later and inquired for Mr. Griffin. Mark was in his room and hastened down.

"I must apologize, Father," he began, "that you had to come for me. I should not have let such a thing happen. But I thought it best not to break in upon you after—" Mark stopped, deeply chagrined at having almost touched what must be a painful subject to the priest. "I—I—"

But Father Murray smiled indulgently.

"Don't, please, Mark. I am quite reconciled to that now. A few hours with my Imitation heals all such wounds. Why, I am beginning to know its comforts by heart, like that one I inflicted on you the other day. Here's my latest pet: 'What can be more free than he who desires nothing on earth?'"

"Fine—but a certain pagan was before your monk with that," said Mark. "Wasn't it Diogenes who, asked by Alexander the Great to name a favor the emperor could bestow upon him, asked His Majesty to step out of the sunlight? Surely he had all the philosophy of your quotation?"

"He had," smiled back the priest; "but, as Mrs. O'Leary has the religion which includes the best of philosophy, so our a Kempis had more than Diogenes. Philosophy is good to argue one into self-regulation; but religion is better, because it first secures the virtue and then makes you happy in it. 'Unless a man be at liberty from all things created, he cannot freely attend to the things divine.' It is the attending to things divine that really makes true liberty."

"Then," said Mark, "I am forgiven for my failure to call, for I left you free for the more important things."

Father Murray laughed. "You are quite a master in the art of making excuses, my dear Mark. You are forgiven, so far as I am concerned. But I am not the only one who has been neglected."

"That is true, Father. Won't you let me walk with you? I want to speak about a matter of importance."

So the friends walked along the main street of Sihasset and out toward the Bluff Road. Mark was silent for a long time, wondering how he could approach the subject. When he spoke he went directly to the point:

"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?"

"Yes."

"You approve?"

"Decidedly."

"But I am not of her faith."

"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to stay long satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark."

"And you would trust me?"

"Absolutely."

"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon, after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?"

"I have no such recollection."

"Did you know some people named Meechamp?"

"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic."

"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon. I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see you that morning."

"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to see me?"

"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this: the door we are passing through this morning, going in opposite directions, is never locked.' But let that pass. I want to come quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.' She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked. 'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her hand after me. I never forgot the face—nor the kiss. Now I know I have met her again—a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together. Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand now?"

"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman' when I came out of the study to take her home."

"Then you knew her family well?"

"Her mother was my sister."

"Your sister!"

"Exactly. You are surprised?"

Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised.

"I do not, then, understand some other things," he stammered.

"Please be explicit."

"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They are confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have myself seen, if she is really your niece."

"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray anxiously.

"Certainly, Father."

"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait."

The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him. Here was his chance.

"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed. "You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your reputation will be cleared now."

Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became grave again.

"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of that. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that—" Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a test, Mark?"

Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet as he took it.

Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy. Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak.

"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here."

"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer."

Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words, the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it, screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was trickling down her cheek from a small wound—evidently the result of a blow.

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruth is gone. They have taken her away in a great car. Mon Dieu, Father! Come—come at once!"

The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he had surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga. Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the road showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road," Sihasset called it.

"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them. They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out. I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried to fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Let me die!"

"Stop, please." The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced the weeping woman. "What were those men like?"

"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was dark and short, but he was very large of the shoulders."

Mark turned to Father Murray.

"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes is the murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventy horsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The lady is safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When they find she is not the Grand Duchess, they will let her go. Will you come to Washington with me?"

"Her mother was my twin sister, and she herself has been as a daughter to me ever since I first saw her, a babe in arms," replied Father Murray. "Let us go."

Madame Neuville rushed toward the great house, but the two men stepped back through the tree and hurriedly returned to Sihasset.



CHAPTER XIV

THE INEXPLICABLE

Saunders, having selected the most comfortable chair in the hotel lobby, was dozing placidly when Mark rushed in, and shook the detective vigorously.

"Wake up," he called. "Will you come with me to Washington? When is there a train connecting with the Congressional Limited? Father Murray wants to catch that."

Saunders was alert in an instant.

"Sure, I'll go. Train leaves in fifty minutes; you get the Limited at the Junction—have to wait nearly an hour for the connection, though. What's up?"

"Hurry! I'll tell you later. Pack only what you need. Here, you pay the bills." Mark shoved his purse into Saunders' hands. "Keep the rooms; we'll need them when we return. I'm off. Oh, yes! I forgot." Mark stopped on his way to the stairs. "Telephone the Padre about the train."

In good time, Father Murray, Mark and Saunders stood at the end of the station platform, grips in hand.

"Now, open up," said Saunders. "What's wrong?"

Mark looked inquiringly at the priest. Father Murray briefly gave the detective a resume of what had occurred, including the information which had so stunned Mark Griffin, and now had an even more stunning effect on Saunders, the information regarding the priest's relationship to Ruth Atheson.

"But, Father, this looks like the impossible. It's unbelievable that these people could be mistaken about someone they had trailed from Europe. They were so sure about it that they killed that officer."

"Ruth Atheson is my sister's daughter, Mr. Saunders," was the only answer vouchsafed by the priest. He boarded the train, followed by his companions.

Saunders sat in puzzled silence till the junction point was reached. Then the three alighted, and Father Murray turned to the detective.

"Mr. Saunders, I am going to ask a favor of you. I do not know how long I may be away, and my parish is unattended. The Bishop is here to-day on his Confirmation tour, and I am going to take Mr. Griffin with me and call on him. Will you remain here in charge of our effects?"

"Sure, Father. Go on." He glanced toward the bulletin board. "The Limited is late, and you have more than an hour yet. I'll telegraph for sleeper reservations."

Father Murray and Mark started out for the rectory. Very little was said on the way. The priest was sad and downcast, Mark scarcely less so.

"I almost fear to meet the Bishop, Mark," Father Murray remarked, as they approached the rectory, "after that shock the other day; but I suppose it has to be done."

The Bishop was alone in his room and sent for them to come up. There was a trace of deep sorrow in his attitude toward the priest, joined to surprise at the visit. To Mark he was most cordial.

"My Lord," the priest began, "circumstances compel me to go to Washington for a few days, perhaps longer. My parish is unattended. The matter which calls me is urgent. Could you grant me leave of absence, and send someone to take my place?"

The Bishop glanced at Mark before he answered. Mark met his gaze with a smile that was full of reassurance. The Bishop seemed to catch the message, for he at once granted Father Murray's request.

"Certainly, Monsignore, you may go. I shall send a priest on Saturday, and telegraph Father Darcy to care for any sick calls in the meantime."

Mark lingered a moment as Father Murray passed out. The Bishop's eyes were appealing, and Mark could not help whispering:

"It will all come out right, Bishop. Cease worrying. When we return I think you will feel happier. Your message was carried to Monsignore."

At the station Saunders was waiting. "Everything is arranged," he announced. "I tried to get drawing-rooms or compartments, but they were all gone. The last was taken five minutes before I telephoned. I have sections for you both and a lower for myself. It was the best possible, so late."

When the train came in and they had disposed of their effects, Father Murray sat down and took out his breviary. Mark and Saunders, anxious for a smoke, sought the buffet car five coaches ahead. They sat down and Mark passed the detective his cigarette case.

"Thanks, no," said Saunders. "I like the long black fellows best." He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He appeared nervous.

"Griffin," he said, after a long silence, "there is something peculiar about this whole business."

"Yes, I know that very well."

"It is quite a little more peculiar than you think. The abduction of the lady was no surprise to me. It is quite in line with what I expected. They had to get her somehow. The way they are supposed to have taken would probably look the best way to them."

"'Supposed to have taken?' What do you mean?"

"Easy now, I'm coming to that. This lady cannot be the Duchess and Ruth Atheson at the same time."

"Decidedly not."

"She is one or the other."

"Well?"

"Either there is no Duchess, or no Ruth Atheson."

"True; but I cannot question the Padre's word. That, at least, I know is good. Then, look at his distress."

"Sure, I know that. I have been looking. And I've been thinking till my brain whirls. The Padre wouldn't lie, and there's no reason why he should. But if the lady is Ruth Atheson, she is not the Duchess?"

"N-no."

"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why the abduction?"

"Oh, I don't know, Saunders." Mark spoke wearily.

"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?"

"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his weariness gone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too. What is it now?"

"I thought I'd get you," coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where the mystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it." He paused.

"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly.

"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced into every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In the second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a clear view of the people inside, and—" the speaker's tone became impressive—"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the other was—your lady of the tree."

Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back.

"Don't do that; there may be others to notice."

"Ruth? You saw Ruth?"

"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, and the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree is on this train."

It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths. Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular breathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for they dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal it from him altogether.

Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand Duchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passage between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it? There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or—Mark was startled by the thought—had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that this might explain something—until he thought of Father Murray. There was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before. He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train kept saying: