It was impossible for Abbott to receive all this as a whole; he took up the revelations one at a time. "Is it possible that Fran is Mr. Gregory's daughter?"

"Oh, she's his, all right, only child of his only legal wife—that's why she came, thinking her father would do the right thing, him that's always praying to be guided aright, and balking whenever the halter's pulled straight."

"Then," Abbott stammered, "Mrs. Gregory is..."

"Yap; is with a question mark. But there's one thing she isn't; she isn't the legal wife of this pirate what's always a-preying upon the consciences of folks that thinks they're worse than him."

"As for Mr. Gregory," Abbott began sternly—

Robert pursued the name with a vigorous expletive, and growled, "One thing Mr. Gregory has done for me, he's opened the flood-gates that have been so long dammed—yes, I say dammed—I say—"

"Bob," Abbott exclaimed, "don't you understand Fran's object in keeping the secret? It's on account of Mrs. Gregory. If she finds it out—that she's not legally married—don't you see? Of course it would be to Fran's interests—bless her heart! What a—what a Nonpareil!"

"'Tain't natural," returned Clinton, "for any girl to consult the interests of the woman that's supplanted her mother. No, Fran's afraid to have it told for fear she'd be injured by your cut-glass paragon, your religion-stuffed pillow that calls itself a man."

"Fran afraid? That's a joke! I tell you, she's thinking only of Mrs. Gregory."

"I'm sorry for Mrs. Gregory," Robert allowed, "but Grace Noir is more to me than any other woman on earth. You don't see the point. When I think of a girl like Grace Noir living under the same roof with that— that—"

"Mr. Gregory," Abbott supplied.

"—And she so pure, so high, so much above us....It makes me crazy. And all the time she's been breathing the same air, she's thought him a Moses in the Wilderness, and us nothing but the sticks. Think of her believing in that jelly pulp, that steel engraving in a Family Bible! No, I mean to open her eyes, and get her out of his spider's web."

"I see your point of view."

"You do if you have eyes. Think of that perfect angel—but just say Grace Noir and you've called all the virtues. And her in his house!—"

"You still believe in angels?" inquired Abbott gravely.

"Yap; and devils with long sort-of-curly hair, and pretty womanish faces, and voices like molasses."

"But Fran wants Mrs. Gregory spared—"

"Abbott, when I think of Grace Noir spending one more night under the roof of that burrowing mole, that crocodile with tears in his eyes and the rest of him nothing but bone and gristle—"

"Bob, if I assure you that Miss Noir will never spend another day under his roof, will you agree to keep this discovery to yourself?"

"You can't make no such assurance. If she ain't put wise to what branch of the animal kingdom he twigs to, she'll not leave his roof."

"Bob, if she leaves that house in the morning, for ever, won't you agree to silence, for Mrs. Gregory's sake—and because Fran asks it?"

"Fran's another angel, bless her heart! But you can't work it."

"Leave it to me, Bob. I'll be guided by the spur of the moment."

"I need a bookkeeper at my store," Robert said, ruminating.

"I promise you that Miss Noir will soon be open to offers."

"See here, Abbott, I can't afford to lose any chances on this thing. I'm going into that house before this night passes, and I'm going to see the feathers fly. No—I don't want Mrs. Gregory to learn about it, any more than you or Fran; but I'll limit the thing to Grace—"

"She'd tell Mrs. Gregory."

"Don't you say anything against Grace Noir, Abbott, for though you are my friend—"

"I say nothing against her; I say only that she's a woman."

"Well," Clinton reluctantly agreed, "I reckon she is. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go with you into that wolf's den, and I'll let you do all the talking; and if you can manage things in half an hour—just thirty minutes by my watch—so that Grace leaves there to-morrow, I'll leave you to steer things, and it's mum for keeps. But I'm going to be present, though I don't want to say one word to that—that—But if he don't crawl out of his wool far enough to suit the purpose, in short, if he don't cave, and in half an hour—"

"Half an hour will do the business," said Abbott stoutly. "Come!"

"Be sure to call for Mr. Gregory by himself," said Robert, as they walked swiftly back to the Gregory residence. "If Grace comes into the room while we're talking, or Mrs. Gregory—"

"If they do," Abbott said quickly, "you are not to utter one word, not one, about Springfield—you understand? It's the bargain, and I shall hold you to your word of honor."

"For half an hour I won't say a word," Clinton declared, "unless it's some word just drawn out of my bosom by the sight of that villain. Come!"



CHAPTER XVIII

JUST THIRTY MINUTES



During the weeks spent by Robert Clinton in search of Fran's life- secret, a consciousness of absence and its cause was like a hot iron branding Gregory's brain. What a mocking fatality, that it should have been Grace to send Robert on his terrible errand,—an errand which must result in ruin! Whenever Gregory tried to anticipate results, he stood appalled; hour by hour his mind was ever darting forward into the future, trying to build it of related parts of probabilities.

Mrs. Gregory would be pitied when it became known how she had been deceived; Fran would be pitied because she was a disowned daughter; Grace would be pitied for trusting in the integrity of her employer,— but Gregory, who of all men needed pity most, would be utterly despised. He did not think of himself alone, but of his works of charity—they, too, would fall, in his disgrace, and Walnut Street church—even religion itself—would be discredited because of an exposure that could avail nothing.

Gregory had been too long proclaiming the living God not to feel Him as a Presence, and in this Presence he felt a shuddering fear that could suggest no relief but propitiation. He as well as Abbott Ashton had kept himself informed of Robert's movements as far as they were known to Miss Sapphira, hence the day of Robert's return found his thought of atonement at its most frenzied stage.

As evening wore on, he made up his mind to the fatal step.

Before Robert could expose him, Gregory would confess. It had seemed inevitable since learning of the school-director's mission; but he could not shorten, by one hour, the sweet comradeship in the library. Now that the last hour had come, he sought his wife, reeling like a sick man as he descended the hall stairs.

Mrs. Gregory was softly playing an old hymn, when he discovered her presence in the brilliantly lighted parlor. Grace was expecting a visit from Clinton and had made the room cheerful for his coming, and Mrs. Gregory, looking in and finding no one present, had sunk upon the stool before the piano. She did not see her husband, for her face was bent low as she feelingly played, I Need Thee Every Hour.

Gregory, well-nigh overwhelmed with the realization of what he meant to do, grasped the door for support. Presently he spoke, brokenly, "Lucy, how true that is—we do, indeed, need Him every hour."

She did not start at his voice, though his presence had been unsuspected. She raised her serious eyes, and observed his haggard face. "Mr. Gregory, you are ill."

"No—the light hurts my eyes." He turned off the lights and drew a chair near her. The room was partly revealed by an electric arc that swung at the street corner—its mellowed beams entered the open window. "Lucy, I have something very important to say to you."

Her fingers continued to wander among the keys, making the hymn barely audible, then letting it die away, only to be revived. She supposed it was the old matter of her going to church—but since her name had been taken "off the book", what was left to be said?

"Lucy, I have never spoken of this before, but it has seemed to me for a long time that we have wandered rather far apart—yes, very far apart. We sit close together, alone, our hands could touch, but our souls live in different worlds. Do you ever feel that way?"

She ceased playing abruptly, and answered almost in a whisper, "Yes."

"Perhaps it is my fault," said Gregory, "although I know that if you had taken more interest in what interests me, if you had been true to the Faith as I have tried to be—"

"I have been true to you," said Mrs. Gregory.

"Of course—of course—there is no question of our being true to each other. But it's because you have alienated yourself from what I look upon as the only duty in life, that we have drifted—and you could have prevented that. I feel that I am not wholly to blame, Lucy, it has been my fault and it has been your fault—that is how I look at it."

There was silence, then she said, "There seems nothing to be done."

"How do you mean? You speak as if our love were dead and buried—"

She rose abruptly, saying, "And its grave unmarked."

"Sit down, Lucy—I haven't told you what I came to tell—you must listen and try to see it as I see it. Let us be reasonable and discuss the future in a—in a sensible and matter-of-fact way. If you will agree—"

"I will not agree to it," she answered firmly. "Let me go, Mr. Gregory, there is no need ever to bring up that subject."

He had risen, and now in blank amazement, he stared at her, repeating, "You will not agree to it? To what? You are unreasonable. What subject have I brought up?"

"It is very true that we have drifted too far apart to be as we were in the beginning. But there is still something left to me, and this something I shall cling to as long as I can. I mean to avoid the publicity, the open exposure, the shame of—of—a neglected wife."

"My God!" whispered Gregory, falling back, "then somebody has told you about Springfield—it was Fran!"

"I don't know what you mean," she returned, apparently without emotion. "What I mean is, that I shall never consent to a divorce."

"A divorce? Good heavens, Lucy, are you mad? Do you think I want a separation because you disown the church? What have I ever done to make you imagine such an absurdity?"

She answered gently, "Yes, it seems I misunderstood. But you said you wanted me to discuss the future in a matter-of-fact way, and I couldn't think of the future as having any other matter-of-fact solution."

Gregory was hotly indignant. "Lucy, if that is meant as an insinuation against—"

Mrs. Gregory raised her hand compellingly. "Do not speak any name," she said, looking at him steadily. "I can endure much," she went on, in a milder tone, finding him silent; "I often wonder if many women could endure as silently—but there must never be a name mentioned between us."

Her manner was so unwontedly final, that he stood looking at her, not knowing how to resume the pressing subject of his past. They were in that same silent attitude when Grace Noir came in from the hall.

Grace turned up the lights, and then—"Oh!" It was impossible to prevent an unpleasant compression of the mouth at discovering Gregory so near his wife. "Am I in the way? I am looking for company, and I heard the door-bell—please excuse me!" she added, biting off the words.

"Of course you are not in the way," Gregory returned desperately. "Company, you say? And you heard the door-bell—is Bob Clinton—" He grew white. "My eyes are bad, for some reason," he muttered, and switched off the lights again.

"How very dark you have it in here!" said Grace reprovingly. "Of course Mr. Clinton has been shown in the back-parlor, where it is light. I will go to him there, and leave you two—" she paused irresolutely, but neither spoke.

Grace had no sooner gone than Gregory with an effort found his voice. "Lucy, my conscience has tormented me until it will not let me rest— about you. It's your right to know something more about my life than I have ever told—"

"Right in there," said the maid's voice, from the hall, and Abbott Ashton and Robert Clinton entered the half-light.

While Robert was greeting Mrs. Gregory with exaggerated pleasure, in order to escape facing her husband, Abbott spoke to the other with an odd sense of meanness, as if he partook, by mere nearness, of the other's cowardice. "I wish to speak to you for a few minutes, Mr. Gregory."

Gregory, like an animal brought to bay, said, "I suppose you've some excuse about playing cards with Fran."

"More important than playing cards," Abbott returned. He could not meet the eyes of this man he had once highly venerated—it was like beholding an ideal divested of imagined beauty, shivering in the shame of its nakedness.

Gregory fought off the inevitable: "If you refer to losing your position at the public school—"

"No. Clinton has come home from Springfield, and we have a matter—"

"It's pressing business," spoke up Robert, who all this time had been asking Mrs. Gregory if her mother was well, if Simon Jefferson was no worse, if Fran was hearty, if Grace Noir was at home—"and private business."

Abbott looked warningly at his friend to remind him of his promise not to utter a word. Robert, remembering, tightly compressed his lips, and marched over to the piano. He leaned upon it heavily.

"I have no business," Mr. Gregory exclaimed, in fear, "that my wife need not know."

"This is—" cried Robert. Then remembering, he struck the keys a resounding chord.

Mrs. Gregory was about to leave the room.

"No, no!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory, starting to the door to intercept her, "I want you to stay. I'll have no secrets from you, Lucy. I want you to hear what these gentlemen have to say." He glared at Abbott as if daring him to speak the words that must destroy his wife's last feeble hold on her position.

"I hope Mrs. Gregory will excuse us," said Abbott, smiling at her as cheerfully as he could, "but she knows that there are matters of business that women don't understand, or care to learn. This is something that relates merely to you, Mr. Gregory, and ourselves."

"Of course I understand you, Abbott," said Mrs. Gregory gently, "and Mr. Gregory is wrong to insist on my interrupting—women are always in the way—" She smiled, and, slipping around Gregory, had reached the door, when she came face to face with Grace Noir, entering. At sight of her—for Grace did not pause, but went over to the piano—Mrs. Gregory apparently reconsidered, and stepped to her husband's side.

"So you did come," Grace said, smiling at Robert. "Shall we go into the other room?"

Robert reveled in her beauty, and to that extent his anger against Gregory flamed higher. "Pretty soon," he said, "pretty soon, Miss Grace—in just twenty minutes—" he looked at his watch, then at Abbott.

"I must tell you, Mr. Gregory," Abbott began rapidly, "that I had just thirty minutes to consummate the matter with you,—just half an hour, when we came here, and ten minutes are already gone. Only twenty minutes are left."

"What do you mean by your twenty minutes being left?" Gregory blustered.

Abbott spoke carefully, at the same time drawing a little farther away from the man he despised: "Bob has been to Springfield about that matter, you understand."

"No, I don't," cried Gregory. "Or if I do—tell it out—all of it."

"He has been to Springfield," Abbott went on, "and he got on the inside of the business, and the interests are determined that—that they will retaliate on you for your successes in the past, and at the same time be a help to Bob."

"I don't understand," Gregory gasped blankly.

"Me neither," muttered Robert.

"It's very simple," Abbott maintained. "The Springfield interests want to give you a blow, and give Bob a helping hand. Therefore, you are to transfer your secretary to his store, where a bookkeeper is needed."

"Oh, indeed," interposed Grace Noir icily. "I am a mere pawn, I presume, to be sent where I am wanted. But I would like to ask Mr. Clinton if he found out anything about Fran, while he was in Springfield?"

"Fran is all she claims to be," Robert declared bluntly.

"All? You can prove she's no fraud?"

"My pockets are full of proofs," Robert exclaimed, looking significantly at Gregory.

"Dear Fran!" murmured Mrs. Gregory with a sweet smile of reminiscence.

"Abbott," Mr. Gregory gasped, as he began to realize the compromise that was offered, "you have always been my friend—and you have been interested in my charities—you know how important my secretary is to my work. It is true that I did wrong, years ago—very wrong—it is true that I bitterly—what shall I say?—antagonized the interests at Springfield. But that was so long ago. Am I to be punished now—"

"Mr. Gregory," said Abbott, clearly and forcibly, "I have nothing to do with any punishment, I have nothing to do with demanding the release of your secretary. I am a mere agent of the interests, sent to you to demand that your secretary be dismissed in the morning; and if you can not see your way to promise me now that you will dismiss her, my office is ended. If you can promise to send her away, I give you my word the transactions shall be for ever hushed up, so far as we are concerned. If you can not promise, all will be revealed at once."

"In just ten minutes," said Robert Clinton, consulting his watch.

Grace stood looking at Gregory as if turned to stone. She had listened intently to every word as it fell from Abbott's lips, but not once had she turned her head to look at him.

"You are cruel," Gregory flared out, "you are heartless. If I send away the only one who is in perfect knowledge and sympathy with my work—"

"Then you refuse?"

"Of course I refuse. I'll not permit the work of years to perish because of an unreasonable and preposterous demand. You wouldn't exchange your position here for Bob's grocery, would you, Miss Grace?" he ended appealingly.

"Yes—if you dismiss me," Grace answered, her eyes smoldering.

"Lucy"—Gregory was almost beside himself—"tell her she must stay— tell these men we can not go on with our work, without her."

Not for worlds would Mrs. Gregory have betrayed eagerness for Grace to go, but for no consideration would she have asked her to stay. "Mr. Gregory," she responded, "I can not conceive of your being in the power of business interests to such an extent as to drive you to do anything that seems like taking your heart's blood."

"I refuse!" cried Gregory, again. "Of course I refuse."

"Very well," said Abbott, turning.

"But what are you going to do?" Gregory asked shrinkingly.

"I shall go now; my endeavor to straighten out things—or rather to keep everything peaceful and forgotten—comes to nothing, it seems. Good evening, Mrs. Gregory."

"But wait! Wait! Let us discuss this alone—"

"It is useless now, for the time has expired."

"That's right," Clinton confirmed; clicking to his watch.

"And all of it is going to be told? Everything?"

"Unless you will dismiss your secretary."

"But you insult Miss Grace to speak in that way. Good heavens, Abbott, what are you doing? How can you insult that—the best woman in the world?"

There was a moment's silence. Then Mrs. Gregory turned to her husband and said quietly, "If Miss Noir is the best woman in the world, you should be the last man in the world to say so."

He covered his face with his hands. "Everybody has turned against me," he complained. "I am the most miserable man on earth because for mere caprice, for mere spite, for no earthly good, it is the determination of people who have lost positions and the like, to drive me wild."

Robert Clinton thumped the keys of the piano with one hand.

"Why, hello, Mr. Bob!" cried Fran, dancing into forgotten—comes to nothing, it seems. Good evening, Mrs. Gregory."

"But wait! Wait! Let us discuss this alone—" "It is useless now, for the time has expired."

"That's right," Clinton confirmed; clicking to his watch.

"And all of it is going to be told? Everything?"

"Unless you will dismiss your secretary."

"But you insult Miss Grace to speak in that way. Good heavens, Abbott, what are you doing? How can you insult that—the best woman in the world?"

There was a moment's silence. Then Mrs. Gregory turned to her husband and said quietly, "If Miss Noir is the best woman in the world, you should be the last man in the world to say so."

He covered his face with his hands. "Everybody has turned against me," he complained. "I am the most miserable man on earth because for mere caprice, for mere spite, for no earthly good, it is the determination of people who have lost positions and the like, to drive me wild."

Robert Clinton thumped the keys of the piano with one hand.

"Why, hello, Mr. Bob!" cried Fran, dancing into the room. "So you're back, are you?" She shook hands breezily.

"Come back, Abbott, come back!" called Gregory, discovering that the young man was indeed going, "You know what I must do, if you drive me to the wall. I am obliged to do what you say. State the condition again if you have the courage to say it aloud."

"The past will be forgotten," said Abbott solemnly, "if you give your word that your secretary shall go in the morning."

"And you'll take me in her place," spoke up Fran decidedly.

"The time is up," said Clinton harshly, "It's too late now, for I shall tell—"

"I promise, I promise!" Gregory cried out, in an agony of fear. "I promise. Yes, I'll dismiss her. Yes, she shall go! Yes, let Fran have the place."

"Do I understand you to dismiss me, Mr. Gregory?" asked Grace, in a low concentrated tone, leaning slightly forward.

Fran turned on the lights to their fullest extent, and looked about with an elfish smile.

Hamilton Gregory was mute.

"I have your promise," said Abbott, bowing gravely. "That is enough."

"Yes," groaned Gregory, "but it is infamous."

Fran looked at Abbott inscrutably. "Third time's the charm," she said, in a whisper. "I'm proud of you this time, Abbott."

Grace turned with cold dignity, and moved slowly toward the hall door.

Fran slipped between Clinton and the piano, and began to play softly, carelessly with one hand, while she watched the retreating figure.

In a very short time, Gregory found himself alone in the parlor. Abbott and Clinton had withdrawn rather awkwardly, Mrs. Gregory had melted away unobtrusively, and Fran, last of all, had given the piano a final bang, and darted out of the house.

Gregory stood pale and miserable. It seemed as if all the world had deserted him. The future without Grace would be as dreary as now seemed his past with Fran's mother. He suffered horribly. Was suffering all that life had left for him? Perhaps he was reaping—but is there no end to the harvest? One sows in so brief a time; is the garnering eternal?

A bell rang, but he was not curious. Voices sounded at the front door, footsteps passed, then silence once more—silence and despair. Gregory went to the open window, and leaned heavily on the sill, taking great breaths, staring dully.

Footsteps were heard again! They were near by. They stopped at the door—they were hers. Gregory started up with a low cry of reanimated hope. Whatever happened—he was about to see Grace Noir once more.



CHAPTER XIX

THE FIRST VICTORY



When Grace reentered the parlor, to find Hamilton Gregory alone, her eyes were full of reproach without tenderness. He dropped his head before her accusing face, but, all the same, he felt a buoyant relief because she was there.

As she came straight toward him, an open letter in her hand, his body grew erect, and his brown eyes, losing their glazed light, burned from the depths.

"Read it," Grace said, in a thin brittle voice.

In taking the letter, Gregory touched her hand. With recaptured alertness, he held the missive to the light, and read:

"MY DEAR MISS NOIR:— "This is to officially offer you the position of bookkeeper at my grocery store, now that Hamilton Gregory has decided to make Fran his secretary. Come over early in the morning and everything will be arranged to your satisfaction. I am, ROBERT CLINTON."

Gregory looked up, and marked the fixedness of her gaze. It seemed to call upon him to avenge an insult. He could only bluster, "Who brought this thing here?" He flung the note upon the table.

"A messenger." Grace's look did not waver.

"The impudence!" he exclaimed. "The affront!"

"However," said Grace, "I presume it is final that I am dismissed?"

"But his unseemly haste in sending this note—it's infamous, that's what I call it, infamous!"

"And you mean to take Fran in my place, do you not?"

"You see," Gregory explained, "Bob Clinton came back to town this evening from Springfield, you understand, and Abbott came with him— er—and Mrs. Gregory was in the room so they could not speak exactly openly, and Abbott made the condition—I can hardly explain so delicate an affair of—of business—but you see, Bob is evidently very much in love with you, and he has it in his power to demand—"

Grace calmly waited for the other to lapse into uncertain silence, then said, "This note tells me definitely that I am offered another position, but you tell me nothing. It was I who sent Mr. Clinton to Springfield to look into the private record of that Fran."

"You see," Gregory explained, "he was afraid I might think it presumptuous of him to do that, it was like doubting my word, so he came to me—however, he is back and there is nothing to reveal, absolutely nothing to reveal."

"Is he sure that the girl is no impostor?"

"He knows she isn't. His pockets are full of proofs. I know you sent Bob on my account, Grace, but alas! Fran is a reality—she can't be dismissed."

"It seems I can be. But of course I am nothing."

"Grace! You are everything."

She laughed. "Everything! At the word of an Abbott Ashton, a disgraced school-teacher, you make me less than nothing!"

He cried out impetuously, "Shall I tell you why we must part?"

Grace returned with a somber look, "So Fran is to have my place!"

Gregory interposed passionately, "It is because I love you."

"So Fran is to be your secretary!" she persisted.

"Grace, you have read my heart, I have read yours; we thought we could associate in safety, after that—but I am weak. You never come into the room that I am not thrilled with rapture. Life hasn't any brightness for me except your presence. What can I do but protect you?"

"Mr. Gregory, Fran hasn't any interest in your work."

"I love you, Grace—I adore you. Beautiful darling—don't you see you must go away because you are so inexpressibly precious to me? That's why I mustn't have you under my roof." He sank upon his knees and caught her hand. "See me at your feet—should this thing be?"

Grace coldly withdrew her hand. "In spite of all you say, you have engaged Fran in my place."

"No one can take your place, dear."

Grace's voice suddenly vibrated: "You tell me you love me, yet you agree to hire that woman, in my place—the woman I hate, I tell you; yes, the spy, the enemy of this home."

"Yes, Grace, I do tell you that I love you—would I be kneeling here worshiping you, otherwise? And what is more, you know that you love me—you know it. That's why I must send you away."

"Then send Fran away, when you send me away."

"Oh, my God, if I could!" he exclaimed, starting up wildly. "But you see, it's impossible. I can't do that, and I can't keep you."

"Why is it impossible? Must you treat better the daughter of an old college friend, than the woman you say you love? What are those mysterious Springfield interests?"

"—And you are the woman who loves me!" Gregory interrupted quickly. "Say it, Grace! Tell me you love me before you go away—just those three words before I sink back into my lonely despair. We will never be alone together in this life—tell me, then, that you love me—let me hear those words from your beautiful lips—"

"It makes me laugh!" Grace cried out in wrath that could not be controlled, "to hear you speak of love in one breath and of Fran in the next. Maybe some day you'll speak both in the same breath! Yes, I will go and you can hire your Fran."

"But won't you tell me good-by?" he pleaded. "As soon as I have become complete master of my love for you, Fran shall be sent unceremoniously about her business. I fancy Abbott Ashton wants to marry her—let him take her away. Then she will be gone. Then my—er—duty—to friendship will be fulfilled. And if you will come back again then, we might be happy together, after all."

She stamped her foot violently. "This need not be, and you know it. You speak of being master of yourself. What do you mean? I already know you love me. What is there to hide?"

"But others would see. Others would suspect. Others would betray. Good heavens, Grace, all my life has been made horribly miserable because I've always had to be considering what others would think and do!"

"Betray? What is there to betray? Nothing. You are what you have always been, and so am I. We didn't commit a crime in speaking the truth for once—you are sending me away for ever, and yet you try to temporize on this eternity. Well—keep your Fran! It's fortunate for me that I have one friend." She snatched up the open letter, and hurried toward the door.

"Grace!" Gregory followed her imploringly, "not Bob Clinton! Hear me, Grace. If you ever marry that man, I shall kill myself."

She laughed scornfully as she snatched open the door.

"Grace, I tell you that Fran—"

"Yes!" exclaimed the other, her voice trembling with concentrated anger, "let that be the last word between us, for it is that, and that only which separates us. Yes—that Fran!"



CHAPTER XX

THE ENEMY TRIUMPHS



Sometimes the history of any household progresses rapidly in closely related scenes of action; but, for the most part, months pass by during which life has apparently ceased to act. Everything that had seemed tending toward catastrophe stopped, as it were, with the departure of Grace Noir. Possibly the climax was still ahead; if so, the waters were at present heaped high on this side of ultimate disaster, and on the other side, leaving, between past and future, a dry no-thoroughfare.

Old Mrs. Jefferson would long ago have struck a blow against Grace Noir had she not recognized the fact that when one like Grace wears the helmet of beauty and breastplate of youth, the darts of the very angles of justice, who are neither beautiful nor young, are turned aside. Helplessly Mrs. Jefferson had watched and waited and now, behold! there was no more Dragon. Fran had said she would do it— nothing could have exceeded the confidence of the old lady in the new secretary.

Mrs. Gregory's sense of relief was not so profound as her mother's, because she could not think of Grace's absence except as a reprieve. Surely she would return—but the present was to be placidly enjoyed. To observers, Mrs. Gregory appeared ever placid, not because of indifference, but, as it was supposed, from blindness. Under the calm exterior of the wronged wife, there seemed no smoldering fire awaiting a favorable wind. In truth, she was always fearing that people would discover her husband's sentimental bearing toward his secretary—and always hoping that if they did, they would conclude the wife understood best and felt no alarm.

In the meantime, Grace was gone. Mrs. Gregory's smile once more reminded Fran of the other's half-forgotten youth. When a board has laid too long on the ground, one finds, on its removal, that the grass is withered; all the same, the grass feels the sunshine.

Fran thanked herself that Grace was no longer silhouetted against the horizon, and Gregory, remarking this attitude of self-congratulation, was thrown more than ever out of sympathy with his daughter. Fran was indefatigable in her duties as secretary, but her father felt that it was not the same. She could turn out an immense amount of work because she was strong and playing for high stakes—but she did not have Grace's methodical ways—one never knew how Fran would do anything, only that she would do it. Grace was all method, but more than that she was, as Gregory phrased it to himself—she was all Grace.

Gregory missed her every minute of the day, and the harder Fran tried to fill her place, the more he resented it. He divined that Fran hated the routine, the monotonous forms of charity, the duplicated copies of kind acts, the rows of figures representing so many unfortunates. Instead of acknowledging to himself that his daughter did the work from a yearning for his love, from a resolution to save him from the Grace-infatuation by absent treatment, he perversely rebelled at her secretly rejoicing over a conquered foe. Fran was separated from his sympathies by the chasm in his own soul.

The time came when Gregory felt that he must see Grace again and be alone with her. At first, he had thought they must not meet apart from the world; but by the end of the week, he was wondering what excuse he could offer to induce her to meet him—not at Miss Sapphira's, where she now boarded, not at the grocery where Bob was always hovering about—but somewhere remote, somewhere safe, where they might talk about—but he had no idea of the conversation that might ensue; there was nothing definite in anything save his fixed thought of being with her. As to any harm, there could be none. He had so long regarded Grace as the best woman in the world, that even after the day of kisses, his mind continued in its inertia of faith,—even the gravitation of material facts were unable to check its sublime course.

It was at the close of a July day that Hamilton Gregory left his house resolved, at any cost—save that of exposure—to experience once more the only pleasure life held in reserve for him: nearness to Grace Noir. She might be at the store, since all shops were to remain open late, in hopes of reaping sordid advantages from the gaiety of mankind. In a word, Littleburg was in the grip of its first street fair.

Before going down-town, Gregory strolled casually within sight of the Clinton boarding-house.

Only Miss Sapphira was on the green veranda. She had watched the ceaseless streams of humanity pouring along either sidewalk, destined for the heart of the small town,—countless hordes, reenforced from rural districts by excursion trains. From the very ground they seemed to spring, these autochthones of confetti and side-shows. On they flowed, stormy with horn and whistle and hideous balloons whose horrid pipes squealed the music of modern Pan; they overwhelmed the native population with elusive tickler and rubber-stringed ball; here were to be seen weary mothers reaching forth for greater weariness; joy- scourged fathers driven to the money-changers; frenzied children at last in Fairyland.

Miss Sapphira, recognizing Gregory, waved a solemn greeting, and he felt reassured—for he was always afraid Robert—would "tell". He pushed his way nearer. Miss Sapphira sat in the huge chair not as if unable to rise, but as a tangible rebuke to carnal amusements. She spoke to Gregory on the subject of which she was full to the brim— and Miss Sapphira was of generous capacity—

"No wonder so few go to church!"

"Is Miss Noir here?" Gregory asked in a strained voice; the confusion hid the odd catch his voice had suffered in getting over the name.

"No. She's down-town—but not at any show, you may be sure. She's left late at the store because—I guess you've heard Abbott Ashton has been away a long time."

"I have heard nothing of the young man," Gregory replied stiffly.

"Well, he's been off two or three weeks somewhere, nobody knows unless it's Bob, and Bob won't tell anything any more. Abbott wrote he'd be home to-night, and Bob drove over to Simmtown to meet him in the surrey, so Miss Grace is alone down there—" She nodded ponderously.

"Alone!" he exclaimed involuntarily.

"Yes—I look for Bob and Abbott now just any minute." She added, eying the crowd—"I saw Fran on the street, long and merry ago!" Her accent was that of condemnation. Like a rock she sat, letting the fickle populace drift by to minstrel show and snake den. The severity of her double chin said they might all go thither—she would not; let them be swallowed up by that gigantic serpent whose tail, too long for bill-board illustration, must needs be left to coil in the imagination —but the world should see that Miss Sapphira was safe from deglutition, either of frivolity or anaconda.

That was also Gregory's point of view; and even in his joy at finding the coast clear, he paused to say, "I am sorry that Fran seems to have lost all reason over this carnival company. If she would show half as much interest in her soul's welfare—"

He left the sentence unfinished. The thought of Grace had grown supreme—it seemed to illuminate some wide and splendid road into a glorious future.

The bookkeeper's desk was in a gallery near the ceiling of the Clinton grocery store; one looked thence, through a picket-fence, down upon the only floor. Doubtless Grace, thus looking, saw him coming. When he reached her side, he was breathless, partly from his struggle through the masses, principally from excitement of fancied security.

She was posting up the ledger, and made no sign of recognition until he called her name.

"Mr. Clinton is not here," she said remotely. "Can I do anything for you?"

He admired her calm courtesy. If at the same time she could have been reserved and yielding he would have found the impossible combination perfect. Because it was impossible, he was determined to preserve her angelic purity in imagination, and to restore her womanly charm to actual being.

"How can you receive me so coldly," he said impulsively, "when I've not seen you for weeks?"

"You see me at church," she answered impersonally.

"But I have been dying to be near you, to talk to you—"

"Stop!" she held up her hand. "You should know that Mr. Clinton and I are—"

"Grace!" he groaned.

She whispered, her face suddenly growing pale, "Are engaged." The tete-a-tete was beyond her supposed strength. His melodious voice, associated in her mind with divine worship; the burning of those beautiful eyes in which she seemed to see her own love; the attitude of his arms as if, not knowing it, he were reaching out for her—all this was hard for her to resist.

"Engaged!" he echoed, as if she had pronounced one of the world's great tragedies. "Then you will give yourself to that man—yourself, Grace, that beautiful self—and without love? It's a crime! Don't commit the horrible blunder that's ruined my life. See what wretchedness has come to me—"

"Then you think," very slowly, "that I ought to let Fran ruin my whole life because your wife has ruined yours? Then you think that after I have been driven out of the house to make room for Fran, that I ought to stay single because you married unwisely?"

"Grace, don't say you are driven out."

"What do you call it? A resignation?"

"Grace!—we have only a few moments to be alone. For pity's sake, look at me kindly and use another tone—a tone like the dear days when you were by my side....We may never be together again."

She looked at him with the same repellent expression, and spoke in the same bitter tone: "Well, suppose we're not? You and that Fran will be together."

In his realization that it was Fran, and Fran alone, who separated them, Gregory passed into a state of anger, to which his love added recklessness. "Grace, hate me if you must, but you shall not misunderstand me!"

She laughed. "Please don't ask me to understand you, Mr. Gregory, while you hide the only secret to your understanding. Don't come to me with pretended liking when what you call 'mysterious business interests at Springfield' drive me from your door, and keep Fran at my desk."

He interposed in a low passionate voice. "I am resolved that you should know everything. Fran—is my own daughter."

She gave no sign save a sudden compression of the mouth; nevertheless, her surprise was extreme. Her mind flashed along the wires of the past and returned illuminated to the present entanglement.

He thought her merely stunned, and burst forth: "I tell you, Fran is my child. Now you know why I'm compelled to do what she wants. That's the secret Bob brought from Springfield. That's the secret Abbott Ashton hung over my head—the traitor! after I'd befriended him! All of my ungrateful friends have conspired to ruin me, to force you from me by this secret. But you know it now, and I've escaped its danger. You know it!"

"And does your wife know?"

"Would I tell her, and not tell you? It's you I've tried to shield. I married Josephine Derry, and Fran is our child. You know Fran. Well, her mother was just like her—frivolous, caring only for things of the world—irreligious. And I was just a boy—a mere college youth. When I realized the awful mistake I'd made, I thought it best just to go away and let her live her own life. Years after, I put all that behind me, and came to Littleburg. I married Mrs. Gregory and I wanted to put all my past life away—clear away—and live a good open life. Then you came. Then I found out I'd never known what love meant. It means a fellowship of souls, love does; it has nothing to do with the physical man. It means just your soul and mine...and it's too late!"

Grace, with hands locked upon her open ledger, stared straight before her, as if turned to stone. The little fenced-in box, hanging high above eager shoppers, was as a peaceful haven in a storm of raging noises. From without, gusts of merriment shrieked and whistled, while above them boomed the raucous cries of showmen, drowned in their turn by the indefatigable brass-band. The atmosphere of the bookkeeper's loft was a wedge of silence, splitting a solidarity of tumult.

Gregory covered his face with his hands. "Do you despise me, you pure angel of beauty? Oh, say you don't utterly despise me. I've not breathed this secret to any living soul but you, you whom I love with the madness of despair. My heart is broken. Tell me what I can do."

At last Grace spoke in a thin tone: "Where is that woman?"

"Fran's mother?"

She did not reply; he ought to know whom she meant.

"She died a few years ago—but I thought her dead when I married Mrs. Gregory. I didn't mean any wrong to my wife, I wanted everything legal, and supposed it was. I thought everything was all right until that awful night—when Fran came. There'd been no divorce, so Fran kept the secret—not on my account, oh, no, no, not on her father's account! She gave me no consideration. It was on account of Mrs. Gregory."

"Which Mrs. Gregory?"

"You know—Mrs. Gregory."

"Can you believe that?" Grace asked, with a chilled smile. "You believe Fran really cares for your wife? You think any daughter could care for the woman who has stolen her mother's rightful place?"

"But Fran won't have the truth declared; if it weren't for her, Bob would have told you long ago."

"Suppose I were in Fran's place—would I have kept the secret to spare man or woman? No! Fran doesn't care a penny for your wife. She couldn't. It would be monstrous—unnatural. But she's always hated me. That's why she acts as she does—to triumph over me. I see it all. That is the reason she won't have the truth declared—she doesn't want me to know that you are—are free."

Grace started up from the desk, her face deathly white. She was tottering, but when Gregory would have leaped to her side, she whispered, "They would see us." Suddenly her face became crimson. He caught his breath, speechless before her imperial loveliness.

"Mr. Gregory!" her eyes were burning into his, "have you told me all the secret?"

"Yes—all."

"Then Mr. Clinton deceived me!"

"He agreed to hide everything, if I'd send you away."

"Oh, I see! So even he is one of Fran's allies. Never mind—did you say that when you married the second time, your first wife was living, and had never been divorced?"

"But Grace—dear Grace! I thought it all right I believed—"

She did not seem to hear him. "Then she is not your wife," she said in a low whisper.

"She believes—"

"She believes!" Her voice rose scornfully. "And so that is the fact Fran wanted hidden; you are not really bound to Mrs. Gregory."

"Not legally—but—"

"In what way, then?"

"Why, in no regular way—I mean—but don't you see, there could be no marriage now to make it binding, without telling her—"

"You are not bound at all," Grace interrupted. "You are free—as free as air—as free as I am. Are you determined not to understand me? Since you are free, there is no obstacle, in Heaven or on earth, to your wishes."

His passage from despair to sudden hope was so violent that he grasped the desk for support. "What?—Then?—You—you—Grace, would you—But— "

"You are free," said Grace, "and since Mr. Clinton's treachery, I do not consider myself bound."

"Grace!" he cried wildly, "Grace—star of my soul—go with me, go with me, fly with me in a week—darling. Let us arrange it for to-morrow."

"No. I will not go with you, unless you take me now."

"Now? Immediately?" he gasped, bewildered.

"Without once turning back," she returned. "There's a train in something like an hour."

"For ever?" He was delirious. "And you are to be mine—Grace, you are to be mine—my very own!"

"Yes. But you are never to see Fran again."

"Do I want to see her again? But Grace, if we stay here until train- time, Bob will come and—er—and find us—I don't want to meet Bob."

"Then let us go. There are such crowds on the streets that we can easily lose ourselves."

"Bob will hunt for you, Grace, if he gets back with Abbott before ourtrain leaves. Miss Sapphira said she was looking for him any minute, and that was a good while ago."

"If you can't keep him from finding me," Grace said, "let him find. I do not consider that I am acting in the wrong. When people are not bound, they are free; and if they are free, they have the right to be happy, if at the same time, while being happy together, they can be doing good."

"Still," said Gregory, looking over the railing, "you know it would look—it would look bad, darling."

"This is the beginning of our lives," she said, with sudden joy.

"And if Bob sees me with you, Grace, after what he knows, you can guess that something very unpleasant would—"

Grace drew back, to look searchingly into his face. "Mr. Gregory," she said slowly, "you make difficulties."

He met her eyes, and his blood danced. "I make difficulties? No! Grace, you have made me the happiest man in the world. Yes, our lives begin with this night—our real lives. Grace, you're the best woman that ever lived!"



CHAPTER XXI

FLIGHT



To reach the station, they must either penetrate the heart of the town, or follow the dark streets of the outskirts. In the latter case, their association would arouse surprise and comment, but in the throng, reasonable safety might be expected. Once in the station, they might hope to pass the hour of waiting in obscurity, since that was the last place that a search would be made.

After the first intense moment of exaltation, both began to fear a possible search. Grace apparently dreaded discovery as shrinkingly as if her conscience were not clear, and Gregory, in the midst of his own perturbation, found it incongruous that she who was always right, wanted to hide. As they breasted the billows of jollity which in its vocal stress became almost materialized, there grew up within him a feeling uneasily akin to the shame of his past. Old days seemed rising from their graves to chill him with their ghastly show of skeletons of dead delights.

But Grace's hand was upon his arm, and the crowd pressed them close together—and she was always beautiful and divinely formed. The prospect of complete possession filled him with ecstasy, while Grace herself yielded to the love that had outgrown all other principles of conduct.

Grace could deceive herself about this love, could reassure her conscience with specious logic, but she never lost her coolness of judgment concerning Hamilton Gregory. His lapses from conventionality did not come from deliberate choice, and she realized the danger of letting his feverish impulse grow cold. Even the prospect of waiting one hour at the station frightened her. She must save him from that Fran who, it appeared, was his daughter—and from the worldly woman who was not his wife—and he must be saved at once, or the happiness of their lives would suffer shipwreck.

They gained the street before the court-house which by courtesy passed under the name of "the city square". Grace's hand grew tense on Gregory's arm—"Look!"

Her whisper was lost in the wind, but Gregory, following her frightened glance, saw Robert Clinton elbowing his way through the crowd, forcing his progress bluntly, or jovially, according to the nature of obstruction. He did not see them and, by dodging, they escaped.

The nearness of danger had paled Grace's cheeks. Gregory accepted his own trembling as natural, but Grace's evident fear acted upon his nebulous state of mind in a way to condense jumbled emotions and deceptive longings into something like real thought. If they were in the right, why did they feel such expansive relief when the crowd swept them from the sidewalk to bear them far away from Robert Clinton?

The merry-go-round, its very music traveling in a circle, clashed its steam-whistlings and organ-wailings against a drum-and-trombone band, while these distinct strata of sound were cut across by an outcropping of graphophones and megaphones. Upon an open-air platform, a minstrel troupe, by dint of falsetto inarticulateness, futile banjoes, and convulsive dancing, demonstrated how little of art one might obtain for a dime. Always out of sympathy with such displays, but now more than ever repelled by them, Grace and Gregory hurried away to find themselves penned in a court, surrounded on all sides by strident cries of "barkers", cracking reports from target-practice, fusillades at the "doll-babies", clanging jars from strength-testers and the like; while from this horrid field of misguided energy, there was no outlet save the narrow entrance they had unwittingly used.

"Horrible!" exclaimed Grace, half-stumbling over the tent-ropes that entangled the ground. "We must get out of this."

It was not easy to turn about, so dense was the crowd.

Scarcely had they accomplished the manoeuver when Grace exclaimed below her breath, "There he is!"

Sure enough, Robert Clinton stood at the narrowest point of their way. He was clinging to an upright, and while thus lifted above the heads of the multitude, sought to scan every face.

"I don't think he has seen us," muttered Hamilton Gregory, instinctively lowering his head.

"We can't get out, now," Grace lamented. "No, he hasn't seen us—yet. But that's the only place of—of escape—and he keeps looking so curiously—he must have been to the store. He knows I'm away. He may have gone to the house."

It was because every side-show of the carnival company had insisted on occupying space around the court-house, and because this space was meager, that the country folk and excursionists and townsmen showed in such compressed numbers at every turn. In reality, however, they were by no means countless; and if Robert's eagle glance continued to travel from face to face, with that maddening thoroughness—

"We'd better separate," Gregory hoarsely whispered. "We'll meet at the station."

"No. If he sees us, what would be the use? Anyway, he'll have to know to-morrow...everybody will know—to-morrow! No," said Grace, overcoming a slight indecision, "the important thing is not to be stopped, whoever sees. Come this way."

"But there's no chance out, that way," Gregory returned, with the obstinacy of the weak. "And if he does see us, it won't do to be seeming to try to hide."

"But we are hiding," Grace said definitely.

"Possibly we can keep moving about, and he will go away."

"Why should we hide, anyhow?" demanded Gregory, with sudden show of spirit.

To that, she made no reply. If he didn't know, what was the use to tell him?

Gregory moved on, but glanced back over his shoulder. "Now, he's getting down," he said in agitation. "He's making his way right toward us....All right, let him come!"

"In here—quick!" cried Grace, dragging him to one side. "Quick!"

A voice stopped them with, "Your tickets, please."

"Oh, no," wailed Gregory, "not into a show, Grace. We can't go into a show. It's—it's impossible."

She spoke rapidly: "We must. We'll be safe in there, because no one would ever suppose we'd go into such a place."

"But Grace," said Gregory firmly, "I can not—I will not go into a show."

The voice addressed them again: "It's first-class in every particular, lady. There is nothing here to bring the blush of shame to the cheek of the most fastidious. See those fierce man-eating lions that have been captured in the remotest jungles of Africa—"

Gregory looked back.

Robert Clinton was drawing nearer. As yet he had not discovered them but his eyes, grown fiercer and more impatient, were never at rest.

With a groan, Gregory thrust some money into the showman's hand, and he and Grace mingled with the noisy sight-seers flocking under the black tent.



CHAPTER XXII

THE STREET FAIR



Littleburg was trembling under the fearful din of a carnival too big for it, when Abbott Ashton, after his weeks of absence returned to find himself at Hamilton Gregory's door. He discovered old Mrs. Jefferson in the front room—this July night—because old age is on no friendly terms with falling dew; but every window was open.

"Come in," she cried, delighted at sight of his handsome smiling face —he had been smiling most of the time during his drive from Simmtown with Robert Clinton. "Here I sit by the window, where sometimes I imagine I hear a faint far-away sound. I judge it's from some carnival band. Take this chair and listen attentively; your ears are younger— now!"

Abbott did not get all of this because of the Gargantuan roar that swept through the window, but he gravely tilted his head, then took the proffered ear-trumpet: "You are right," he said, "I hear something."

"It's the street fair," she announced triumphantly. "But sometimes it's louder. How fine you look, Abbott—just as if your conscience doesn't hurt you for disappearing without leaving a clue to the mystery. You needn't be looking around, sir,—Fran isn't here."

"I wonder where she is?" Abbott smiled, "I'm dreadfully impatient to tell her the good news. Mrs. Jefferson, I'm to teach in a college— it's a much bigger thing than the position I lost here. And I have a chance to work out some ideas that I know Fran will like. I used to think that everything ought to be left precisely as it is, because it's been that way so long—I mean the church; and schools; and—and society. But I've made up my mind that nothing is right, unless it works right."

Mrs. Jefferson listened in desperate eagerness. "A watch?" she hazarded.

"Exactly," he responded hastily. "If a watch doesn't run, what's the use of its being pretty? And if churches develop a gift of tongue instead of character, what's the value of their prayers and songs? And I've concluded that if schools don't teach us how to live, they have the wrong kind of springs and wheels. Where is Fran, Mrs. Jefferson?"

"Still," she temporized, "we can't get along without watches, Abbott."

"No, nor schools, nor churches. But they must have good works. Is Fran down at the fair, do you think?"

The other bent toward him stealthily. "Ask where Mrs. Gregory is," she said, wonderfully significant.

"Well?"

"Abbott, listen: she's gone a-visiting!"

"Visiting!" Abbott was surprised.

"Yes, visiting, she that hasn't been off this place to visit a soul for ages. I tell you, boy, times have changed, here. Maybe you think nobody'd be left at home to visit; but Fran has found that there is a woman in town that she used to know, and the woman has a mighty sick child, and Lucy has gone to sit by it, so the mother can rest. Think of that, Abbott, think of Lucy going anywhere. My! Have you heard that we've lost a secretary at this place? I mean the future Mrs. Bob. Yes, she's gone. I'd as soon have thought of the court-house being picked up and set in the parlor."

Mrs. Jefferson drew back and said succinctly, "Fran did it!"

Her cap quivered as she leaned forward again. "Get her to tell you all about it. We darsen't speak about it much because of the neighbors. We conspired, Fran and I. Yes, she's down at the carnival, you boy!"

Abbott hastily departed. Later he found himself in a cloud-burst of confetti, on the "city square" and when he had cleared his eyes of the red and white snow, he saw Fran disappearing like a bit of crimson glass at the bottom of a human kaleidoscope. Fran had thrown the confetti, then fled—how much brighter she was than all the other shifting units of humanity.

He fought his way toward her determinedly, finding she was about to be submerged. Was she actually trying to elude him?

"Fran!" he cried reproachfully as he reached her side. "How have you the heart to run away from me after I've been lost for weeks? Nobody knew I'd ever be found."

Fran gave up flight, and stopped to look at him. A smile slipped from the corner of one eye, to get caught at the corner of her demure mouth. "When you disappeared, you left me yourself. A friend always does. I've had you all the time."

Abbott glowed. "Still, it isn't exactly the same as if I had been able to touch your hand. Suppose we shake hands, little friend; what do you say?"

"I don't say anything," Fran retorted; "I just shake."

Her handclasp was so hearty that he was slightly disconcerted. Was her friendship so great that it left no room in her heart for something greater? Fran's emotions must not be compressed under a friendship- monopoly, but just now he hardly saw his way toward fighting such a trust.

"I want to talk to you, Fran, talk and talk, oh, just about all the long night through! Come, let me take you back home—"

"Home? Me? Ridiculous! But I'll tell you the best place that ever was, for the kind of talking you and I want to do to each other. Abbott, it won't matter to you—will it?—at what place I say to meet me, at about half-past nine?"

"Why, Fran! It's not eight o'clock," Abbott remonstrated, glancing toward the court-house clock to find it stopped, and then consulting his watch. "Do you think I am going to wait till—"

"Till half-past nine," said Fran, nonchalantly. "Very well, then."

"But what will we do in the meantime, if we're not to talk till—"

"We?" she mocked him. "Listen, Abbott, don't look so cross. I've a friend in town with a sick daughter, and she's a real friend so I must go to help her, a while."

He was both mystified and disappointed. "I didn't know you had any such friends in Littleburg," he remonstrated, remembering how unkind tongues had set the village against her.

Fran threw back her head, and her gesture was full of pride and confidence. "Oh!" she cried, "the town is full of my friends."

He could only stare at her in dumb amazement.

"All right, then," she said with the greatest cheerfulness, "at half- past nine. You understand the date—nine-thirty. Of course you wouldn't have me desert a friend in trouble. Where shall we meet, Abbott—at nine-thirty? Shall we say, at the Snake-Eater's?"

"No. We shall not say at the Snake-Eater's. Fran, I want you right now. I know nothing of this sick friend, but I need you more than anybody else in the world could possibly need you."

Fran said nothing, but her eyes looked at him unfaltering. She flashed up out of the black continuity of the throng like a ray of light glancing along the surface of the sea. It needed no sun in the sky to make Fran-beams.

"Go, Fran," he exclaimed, "I'll wait for you as long as I must, even if it's the eternity of nine-thirty; and I'd go anywhere in the world to meet you, even to the den of the Snake-Eater."

"That's the way for a friend to talk!" she declared, suddenly radiant —a full Fran-sun, now, instead of the slender penetrating Fran-beam.

Seeing a leg-lined lane opening before her, she darted forward.

Abbott called—"But I can't promise to talk to you as a friend, when we meet—I mean, just as a friend."

Fran looked back at him, still dazzling. "I only ask you to treat me as well," she said with assumed humility, "as we are told we ought to treat our—enemies."



CHAPTER XXIII

THE CONQUEROR



After the extinguishment of the Fran-beam, Abbott wanted to be alone, to meditate on stellar and solar brightness, but in this vociferous wilderness, reflection was impossible. One could not even escape recognition, one could not even detach oneself from a Simon Jefferson.

"Got back to town again, hey?" said Simon. That was enough about Abbott; Simon passed at once to a more interesting theme: "Taken in the Lion Show, yet?"

"I'm just waiting for nine-thirty....I have an engagement." Futile words, indeed, since it was now only about eight o'clock.

"You come with me, then, I know all the ropes. Hey? Oh, yes, I know mother thinks me in bed—for goodness' sake don't tell on me, she'd be scared to death. But actually, old man, this carnival is good for my heart. 'Tisn't like going to church, one bit. Preaching makes me feel oppressed, and that's what scares me—feeling oppressed." He rubbed his grizzled hair nervously. "Just for fear somebody'd go tell, I've had to sneak into all these shows like I'd been a thief in the night."

Simon urged Abbott along in the direction taken, but a few minutes before, by Hamilton Gregory and Grace Noir. "You see," Simon panted, "when the girl fell off the trapeze—heard about that, hey? Mother was overjoyed, thinking I'd missed the sickening sight. But bless your soul!—I was right at the front, hanging on to the railing, and I saw it all. Why, she pretty near fell on me. Her foot slipped just so—" Simon extended his leg with some agility.

"Was she killed?" Abbott asked, concealing his astonishment over Simon's evident acquaintance with the black tent before which they had paused.

"Well," Simon reluctantly conceded, "n-n-no, she wasn't to say killed —but dreadfully bruised up, Abbott, very painful. I saw it all; this carnival has put new life into me—here! Get your ticket in a jiffy, or all the seats'll be taken. You can't stand there like that—give me your quarter, I know how to jump in and get first place. That ticket- agent knows me; I've been in five times."

From a high platform before the black tent, a voice came through a megaphone: "The Big Show. The BIG Show. See those enormous lions riding in baby carriages while La Gonizetti makes other lions dance the fandango to her violin. See those—"

"Here, Abbott, follow!" called the breathless Simon Jefferson. "Of course we'll see what's there—no use listening to him, like an introduction in a novel of Scott's, telling it all first. Oh, you've got to squeeze your way in," he continued, clenching his teeth and hurling himself forward, "just mash 'em endwise if they stand gawking in your way. You follow me."

Abbott laughed aloud at Simon's ability as they pushed their way under the tent.

"Uh-huh, now see that!" groaned Simon reproachfully, as he looked about. "Every seat taken. I tell you, you've got to lift up your feet to get into this show. Well, hang on to the rope—don't let anybody gouge you out of standing-room."

At least two-thirds of the space under the tent was taken up by tiers of seats formed of thin, and apparently fragile, blue planks, springy to the foot and deafening to the ear. From hardened ground to fringed tent-ceiling, these overlapping rows of narrow boards were brimming with men, women and children who, tenacious of their holdings, seemed each to contain in his pockets the feet of him who sat immediately behind. At any rate, no feet were visible; all was one dense mass of faces, shoulders, women's hats, and babies held up for air.

The seats faced an immense cage which rose almost to the roof. As yet, it was empty, but smaller adjoining cages promised an animated arena when the signal should be given.

Gregory and Grace Noir had sought refuge on the highest seat, where they might overlook the crowd; here, with heads bent forward as if to avoid the canvas, they hoped to escape observation. Thanks to the influx of country folk, Littleburg citizens were rarely to be seen at such shows until a later and more fashionable hour. Gregory was relieved to find his topmost plank filled with strangers.

"All goes well," he said, pressing Grace's hand. "Nobody will find out that we have been in here."

"Watch for Mr. Clinton," Grace counseled cautiously. "If he comes in, stoop lower."

"They're all strangers, Grace. Providence is with us—there's Simon Jefferson!" He was too amazed to think of concealment.

"Hush! Yes—and Abbott Ashton."

Gregory pulled his hat over his eyes.

Into the tent streamed a fresh body of sightseers. Simon, swinging to the rope that was stretched in front of the big cage, grumbled at being elbowed by weary mothers and broad-chested farmers. He told Abbott, "The lions are the only ones that have plenty of room. I wish there was a cage for me. But it's worth being jammed to see La Gonizetti—she's pretty as they're made and she's pretty all over, and she don't care who knows it. Now the first half is about to begin, but it's just bears and clowns; don't get fooled, though, La Gonizetti will come later, O. K."

The band entered and squatted upon blue boxes in one corner. Showy red coats were removed in deference to sweltering heat, and melody presided in undress. Three bears, two clowns and a bicycle sharpened interest in what was to come, whetting the mind upon jokes blunter than the intelligence of the audience. Even the band ceased playing though that had not seemed possible; its depressing andantinos had not only subdued the bears, rendering them as harmless as kittens, but had mournfully depressed the audience.

Into this atmosphere of tamed inertness, suddenly flashed a little figure whose quivering vitality communicated electric thrills. Even the clowns moved less like treadmill horses, as they took their stations at the smaller cages, waiting to lift the gates that would admit the restless lions into the central cage.

The form that had appeared—one knew not whence—was that of a slight woman, dressed in a short silk skirt of blue, and bodice of white satin. The trimmings which ran in all directions, were rich in pendents of gold and rubies. Above all, there was the alluring mystery of a crimson mask which effectually hid the woman's face.

Simon whispered into Abbott's always unready ear, "That isn't La Gonizetti. Wonder what this means? La Gonizetti is much more of a woman than this one, and she doesn't wear a mask, or much of anything else. La Gonizetti doesn't care who sees her. Why, this is nothing but a mere—I tell you now, if she ain't on to her job, I mean to have my money back." Simon glowered.

Abbott stared in great perplexity. "Then who is she?" he exclaimed. "Simon—doesn't she remind you of—of some one we know?"

"Naw. She's got on La Gonizetti's dress, and her voice has the show- girl's clangy-tin-panny-whangdoodle, but that's all I recognize."

Abbott wondered that Simon failed to notice the similarity between the show-girl's movements and those of Fran. This woman had Fran's form. To be sure the voice was entirely different, but the rapidity and decisiveness of action, and the air of authority, were Fran's very own. However, the show-girl's hands were as dark as an Italian's, while Fran's were—well, not so dark, at any rate,

Abbott's brow did not relax. He stood motionless, staring at everything before him with painful intentness.

Up near the roof, Gregory and Grace scarcely observed the entrance of the lion-tamer. Secured from espial, absorbed in each other, they were able, thanks to the surrounding clamor of voices, to discuss their future plans with some degree of confidence.

Simon told Abbott—"Anyway, no amateur would rub up against those beasts, so I guess it's all right. They ain't but two lions; bill says ten; man that wrote the bill was the other eight, I reckon." The show-girl was fastened in the central cage. The clowns raised the inner doors, and the lions shot from their cramped quarters swift as tawny arrows. They were almost against the slight figure, without seeming to observe her. For the fourth time since noon they stood erect, sniffing the air, their bodies unconfined by galling timbers and chilling iron. For the fourth time this day, they were to be put through their tricks by force of fear. They hated these tricks, as they hated the small cages in which they could not lash their tails. They hated the "baby carriage" in which one was presently to sit, while the other pushed him over the floor, his sullen majesty sport for the rabble. They hated the board upon which they must see-saw, while the woman stood in the middle, preserving equilibrium.

But greater than the lion's hatred, was their fear of the woman; and greater than their fear of her was their terror of that long serpent which, no matter how far it might dart through space, remained always in the woman's hand. They well knew its venomous bite, and as they slunk from side to side, their eyes were upon its coiling black tongue.

"I met Fran on the street," murmured Abbott, as he watched, unblinkingly." She said she was going to visit a sick friend. When did you see Fran last, Simon?"

"Don't know," Simon said, discouragingly. "Now they're going to see- saw. The black-maned one is the hardest to manage. I reckon, one day, he'll just naturally jump afoul of her, and tear her to pieces. Look at him! I don't believe this girl is going to make him get up on top of that board. My! how he is showing his teeth at her. Say! This is a pretty good show, hey? Glad you came, uh? Say! Look at his teeth!"

In truth, the black-maned lion opened his mouth to a frightful extent, making, however, not the slightest sound. He refused to budge.

Abbott shuddered.

"Samson!" cried the woman, impellingly. The other lion was patiently standing on his end of the board, waiting. He seemed fast asleep. Samson, however, was wide awake and every cruel tooth was exposed as he stretched his mouth. In his amber eyes was the glow of molten copper.

Suddenly Samson wheeled about, and made a rush for his end of the see- saw. He stepped upon it. He was conquered. His haste to obey, evidently the result of fear and hatred, produced a ripple of laughter. The other lion, feeling the sudden tremor of Samson's weight, opened his eyes suddenly and twitched his tail. He was not asleep, after all.

Simon whispered hoarsely, "It's interesting all the way through. A fellow never knows what's going to happen. 'Tain't as if you was watching clowns, knowing what the joke's to be before they say it. To my mind, lions are more like men than clowns are."

Abbott found himself intensely nervous. He longed to have it all over, anxious, above all, to prove his fears groundless. Yet how were so many coincidences to be explained away? Fran had been a show-girl, a trainer of lions, and Abbott distinctly remembered that she had spoken of a "Samson". Fran had just these movements and this height. He missed Fran's mellow voice, but voices may be disguised; and the hands now raised toward the audience may have been stained dark. Who was that "sick friend" that Fran had possibly mentioned only as an excuse for escaping? Was that a subterfuge? And why this red mask which, according to Simon Jefferson, was an innovation?

At every trick, the black-maned lion balked. He seemed resolved not to leap upon the wall-bracket; and, after attaining that precarious elevation, he pretended not to understand that he must descend. His insubordination disquieted the enormous animal acting the corresponding part. Even he began to pace softly to and fro at such times as he should have remained motionless.

When the time came for the clown to hand the woman her violin he was afraid, and withdrew his arm with marvelous rapidity. His grotesque disguise could not hide his genuine uneasiness. The members of the band, too, played their notes with unusual care, lest the slightest deviation from routine work bring catastrophe. Nothing had gone right but the see-sawing act; but of all this, the crowd was ignorant.

After the violin playing—"Now," Simon Jefferson announced, gleefully, "there's only one more act, but it's a corker, let me tell you—that's why she's resting a minute. La Gonizetti gets astride of Samson—the one that's mad—and grabs his mane, and pretends to ride like a cow- boy. Calls herself a Rough-Rider. Makes Samson get on top of that table, then she gets on top of him."

"But this isn't La Gonizetti," Abbott protested, shuddering again.

"Now you've said something. That's right. But it looks like she's game—she'll try it—we'd better stand a little farther back."

A hand was laid upon Abbott's arm. "Abbott," said the voice of Robert Clinton, harsh from smothered excitement, "You went to Gregory's house—did you see him?"

Abbott did not hear. The refractory lion, knowing that his time had come to be ridden, was asserting his independence. He would not leap upon the table. The other lion stood watching sleepily to see if he would obey.

"That you, Clinton?" Simon's greeting was tense with enjoyment. "Got here for the best of it, didn't you! Seems to me I saw Gregory somewhere not long ago, but I wasn't thinking about him."

"Hercules!" the masked woman addressed the gentler of the lions. "Go to your place. Hercules—go to your place!"

Hercules turned to his blue box, and seated himself upon it, leaving his tail to take care of itself.

"Say, Simon," muttered Robert Clinton, "you didn't see Miss Grace Noir, did you?"

"Shut up!" said Simon desperately.

The show-girl was fiercely addressing the black-maned lion. "Now! Now! To the table! To the table!"

Samson did not budge. Facing the woman of the mask, he opened his mouth, revealing the red cave of his throat—past the ivory sentinels that not only stood guard, but threatened, one could look down and down. This was no yawn of weariness, but a sign of rebellion—a sort of noiseless roar.

The trainer retreated to the farther side of the cage, then made a forward rush, waving her whip, and shouting dangerously, "Up, Samson, up Samson, UP!" She did not pause in her course till close to his face.

Again he opened his mouth, baring every tooth, voiceless, but unconquered.

Hercules, finding that affairs had come to a halt, slowly descended from his box, keeping his half-opened eyes upon the woman. Restlessly he began to pace before the outer door.

The slight figure withdrew several steps, then smote the rebellious lion a sharp blow across the mouth. He snapped viciously at the lash. It slipped away from between his teeth. Having rescued her whip, she shouted to the other lion, "Back to your place, Hercules. Hercules— back to your place!"

She stood pointing sternly toward the box, but Hercules stretched himself across the place of exit and lay watching her covertly.

The faces of the band boys had become of a yellowish paleness. They continued to pound and blow, but the music was not the same; a terrible foreboding brought a sense of faintness even to the boldest.

From behind the mask came the voice so loud that it sounded as a scream—"Up, Samson, up, Samson—UP!"

Then it was that Samson found his voice. A mighty roar shook the loosely-set bars of the central cage—they vibrated visibly. The roar did not come as one short sharp note of defiance; it rose and fell, then rose anew, varying in the inflections of the voice of a slave who dares to threaten, fears even while he threatens, and gathers passion from his fear.

At that fearful reverberation, the audience started up, panic- stricken. Hitherto, the last act had been regarded as a badly-played comedy; now tragedy was in the air.

Gregory and Grace Noir at that instant, became alive to their surroundings. Hitherto, despising the show, rebellious at the destiny which had forced them to attend it, they had been wholly absorbed in their efforts to escape observation. The roaring of the lion startled them to a perception of the general alarm.

Grace clung to Gregory. "Oh, save me!" she panted hysterically.

The voice of the woman behind the bars rang throughout the tent—"Sit down!" The voice was not loud, now, but singularly penetrating.

"Sit down, all of you, and remain absolutely motionless, or I am lost."

She dared not remove her gaze from Samson's eyes; but on hearing no rattling of planks, she knew her appeal had been obeyed. There came to her, however, the smothered cries of terrified women, mingled, here and there, with unrestrained ejaculations of dismay.

Abbott Ashton, but a few yards distant, grasped the rope with bloodless hands; he appeared as a white statue, seeming not even to breathe. In that moment, Robert Clinton forgot the jealous suspicion that had tortured his heart since missing Grace Noir from her desk.

Grace Noir, her eyes closed, her cheeks pallid, leaned her head upon Gregory's shoulder, quivering convulsively.

"There, there," Gregory whispered in her ear, soothingly, "everything will be all right."

The masked woman for the second time addressed the terrified audience, still not venturing to turn her head in their direction: "Whoever moves, or speaks, or cries aloud, will be my murderer. I have only one hope left, and I'm going to try it now. I ask you people out there to give me just this one chance for my life. Keep absolutely still."

Again Samson uttered his terrible roar. It alone was audible. Tier above tier, faces rose to the tent-roof, white and set. The audience was like one huge block of stone in which only faces have been carved.

The penetrating voice addressed the band boys: "Don't play. He can tell you're frightened."

The agitated music ceased.

Then the woman walked to the farthest side of the inclosure. In doing so she was obliged to pass the crouching form of Hercules, but she pretended not to know he was there; she moved slowly backward, always facing Samson.

At last the vertical bars prevented farther retreat Then she lifted her hand slowly, steadily, and drew off her crimson mask. It dropped at her feet Despite the muffled street-noises that never ceased to rumble from afar, the whispering sound of the silken mask, as it struck the plank floor of the cage, was distinctly audible.

"Grace!" Gregory whispered in horror,—"it's Fran!"

Grace started from his embrace at the name and glared down upon the stage. She sat erect, unsupported, petrified.

Gregory's brow was moistened with a chilled dew. "It's Fran," he mumbled, "it's Fran! Grace—pray for her!"

Fran looked Samson steadily in the eyes, and Samson glared back fixedly. For a few moments, this quiver between life and death remained at the breaking-point. Had a stranger at that moment looked under the tent-entrance, he might have thought everybody asleep. There was neither sound nor movement.

Grace whispered—"It is the hand of God!"

Her tone was almost inaudible, but Gregory shrank as from a mortal blow; its sinister meaning was unmistakable. Swiftly he turned to stare at her.

In Grace's eyes was a wild and ominous glare akin to that of the threatening lion. It was a savage conviction that Fran was at last confronted by the justice of Heaven.

Suddenly Fran crouched forward till her head was almost on a level with her waist, in so much that it was a physical exertion to hold her face uplifted. In this sinuous position she was the embodiment ofpower. If she felt misgivings concerning this last resource, there was no look to betray it. Straight toward Samson she rushed, her body lithe and serpentine, her direction unerring.

To the beast, Fran had become one of those mysterious flying serpents which bite from afar. He felt the sting of her terrible eyes and his gaze grew shifty. It wandered away, and, on returning, found her teeth bared, as if feeling for his heart.

Rushing up to his very face—"Samson!" she cried, impellingly.

Again he seemed to feel the lash upon his tawny skin.

"Samson. Up, Samson, up, Samson—UP!"

Suddenly Samson wheeled about, and leaped upon the table.

Fran stamped her foot at the other lion. "Go to your place, Hercules!" she cried, with something like contempt.

Hercules slowly rose, stretched himself, then marched to his box. He looked from Fran to the immovable Samson waiting upon the table, then mounted to his place, and seemed to fall asleep.

And now, at last, Fran looked at the spectators. Stepping lightly to the bars, she threw kisses this way and that, smiling radiantly. "Oh!" she cried, with vibrating earnestness, "you people out there—you can't think how I love you! You've saved my life. You are perfect heroes. Now make all the noise you please."

"May we move?" called a cautious voice from a few feet away. It was Abbott Ashton, with eyes like stars.

Fran looked at him, wondering at his thoughts. She answered by an upward movement of her hand.

As though by a carefully rehearsed arrangement, the audience rose to its feet, band boys and all. Such a shout! Such waving of hats and handkerchiefs! Such unabashed sobs! Such inarticulateness—such graspings of neighboring hands! The spectators had gone mad with joyful relief.

Fran leaped upon the table, and mounted Samson.

"Now, I'm a Rough-Rider!" she shouted, burying her hands in the mane, and lying along the lion's back in true cow-boy fashion. She plunged, she shouted loudly, but Samson only closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

After that, making the lions return to their cramped side-cages was a mere detail. The show was ended.