"An injury to the base of the brain, such as he has received, no matter how slight, might, in this instance, produce either insanity or partial loss of memory, which is almost as bad," said the surgeon. "It will soon be determined when consciousness, returns to him."

This indeed proved to be the case. Just as daylight broke Lester Armstrong opened his eyes, looking in amazement around the strange apartment in which he found himself.

A kindly-faced nurse bent over him, who, in answer to his look of inquiry, said:

"You had a severe fall and hurt yourself last night and was brought to the hospital. You are doing finely. Can you remember anything about the incident?"

Lester looked up vacantly into the dark-gray eyes. "I—I was in a hurry to close my books at the office; that is all I recollect," he murmured.

From documents found in his pockets, it was learned that he had some connection with the great dry goods house of Marsh & Co., and the senior member of the firm was notified. Within an hour Mr. Marsh responded in person. He was greatly distressed over the occurrence and took it deeply to heart.

"I think as much of that young man as if he were my own son. Do everything in human power for him. Let no pains be spared. I will stand every expense," he said, and then and there he also confided a startling secret to the surgeon.

"I am a lone man in this world, without one kindred tie on earth. Some little time since I made my will. I left every dollar I possessed on earth to my young cashier, Lester Armstrong, though he never even dreamed of such an existing state of affairs. I never intended that he should know that I had made him my heir for perhaps years to come yet."

"Lester Armstrong!" exclaimed the surgeon. "Why, that is not the name he is entered here under, Mr. Marsh. The friend who was with him did not call him that."

"Then the friend who was with him evidently did not know him. I identify him as my cashier, Lester Armstrong."

The surgeon bowed courteously.

"I would also suggest no mention whatever of this affair be given to the newspapers," continued the gentleman. "They would make a sensational story out of it, and I detest notoriety."

"Your wishes shall be respected, sir," replied the surgeon, who had a great reverence for men of wealth.

His prediction proved quite correct. When Lester Armstrong arose from that bed of sickness ten days later, his mind, although as bright and keen as ever on some subjects, on others was hopelessly clouded. Even the slightest recollection of beautiful Faynie Fairfax, the little sweetheart whom he had loved better than his own life, was completely obliterated from his mind. He did not even remember such a being had ever existed.

Another event had transpired on the eventful night of his injury. The humble boarding house where he had made his home so many years, had been destroyed by fire, and the people had gone none knew whither. This was indeed a trying blow to Lester, for the fire had completely wiped out all of his savings which he had kept in the little haircloth trunk in his room. But, without a murmur, he took up the burden of life over again and went back to his work at his desk.

In going over his accounts he suddenly came across the name of Faynie Fairfax.

The pen fell from his fingers and he brushed his hand over his brow.

"What a strangely familiar ring that name has to me!" he muttered, "but I cannot imagine who it can be. Her checks seem to be paid in here. I must remember to notice who she is when next she comes to this window."

Life had dropped into the same old groove again for Lester Armstrong, the only difference in the routine of his daily life being that he was not obliged to take his daily trips to Beechwood any more, for the reason that his employer, Mr. Marsh, had taken up his residence in the city again.

But in less than a fortnight another event happened.

Mr. Marsh died suddenly, and to the great surprise of every one, Lester Armstrong was named as his sole heir. At first the young man was dumfounded. He could not believe the evidence of his own senses, when first the news was conveyed to him.

The papers contained columns concerning the young man's wonderful luck. Those who knew Lester Armstrong said the great fortune which had come to him would not spoil him.

There was one who read this account with amazed eyes, and that was Halloran.

"Great God!" he muttered, his hands shaking, his teeth chattering. "Kendale told me that Armstrong was taken to the hospital in a precarious condition and died there."

He made all haste to Kendale's lodgings. The latter, who was still masquerading under the name of Lester Armstrong, had been on a continuous spree ever since the night he had wedded the little beauty, and Halloran had let him take his course, saying to himself that there was plenty of time in the future to carry out their scheme.

For once he found Kendale partially sober. He knew by Halloran's face that something out of the usual order of events had transpired.

"What is the matter?" he cried; "what's up now?"

For answer Halloran laid the paper before him, pointing to the column, remarking, grimly:

"The game's up now, and we've gone through all this trouble for nothing. Your cousin, Lester Armstrong, is not dead, but instead is alive and well."

The papers which contained the account gave another bit of unfortunate information, stating that Lester Armstrong had suffered from loss of memory since he had received the fall on that fatal night.

"Well," said Halloran, as his friend laid down the paper, "you see, the game's up."

"By no means," exclaimed Kendale, perfectly sober by this time. "It's a poor rule that won't work both ways," he added, excitedly.

"I don't understand your cause for rejoicing," returned Halloran, gloomily.

"Don't you?" cried Kendale. "Then let me make it clear to you. We not only have one fortune through the girl that I tied myself to, and can, as her husband, collect all in good time, but with a little strategy I can come in for the Marsh millions. We can decoy Armstrong into a coach, and let the world find out his fate after that if it can. I will coolly take his place, just as I did in that other affair, and who is there to question that I am not he."

"But they know you there. You worked a week in the employ of Marsh & Co. You forget that."

"It was at one of their branch stores," was the reply, "and they had never heard of Armstrong there, and had never seen him. I left in a week. I did not resemble my cousin so much at that particular time for the reason that my mustache was shaven off then. Without that you would be surprised to see what a wide difference there is between us."

"It is a great scheme, if you are sure that you can carry it through," said Halloran, breathing hard and eying his companion fixedly.

"Trust that to me," replied Kendale, jumping up and walking the floor to and fro excitedly.

It was midnight when Halloran left Kendale's apartments. During those long hours the two plotters had concocted a diabolical scheme, which they meant to carry out ere the morning light dawned.

All unconscious of the nefarious plot against his life, Lester Armstrong was up with the sun the next morning, and was down to the office at an early hour transacting the great amount of business that he found upon his hands, contingent upon being the head of the firm of which he had for so many years been but an humble cashier.

Despite the sudden wealth which had come to him, all that day he felt a strange depression of the heart, a strong impression of impending evil, which he could not shake off. Even those about him noticed what a gloomy look there was in his eyes.

He was the last one to leave the great building that night, and as he stepped out upon the sidewalk, he muttered to himself: "I wonder what is about to happen to me, my heart feels so heavy, so depressed."



CHAPTER XIII.

IN THE TOILS OF THE CONSPIRATORS.

Lester Armstrong had no sooner stepped to the pavement than he was accosted by a man who stepped suddenly up to him.

"Mr. Armstrong?" he said, interrogatively, touching his hat respectfully.

"Yes," responded Lester, "what can I do for you?"

"I am here on a deed of mercy. A friend of mine, an employee of yours, sir, has met with a serious accident and calls for you repeatedly. I am a hackman, and I volunteered to come for you and ask you to let me take you to him. It is not very far. My cab stands right here."

"I will go to the poor fellow, certainly," responded Lester, hurrying to the vehicle in question and hastily entering it.

In a moment the driver had mounted the box and was off like the wind. It did not occur to Lester until he was well under way that he had not thought to inquire who the injured man was.

As the cab rolled swiftly along over the crowded thoroughfare, Lester leaned back and gave himself up to his own thoughts.

Wealth had come to him, and with it honors had crowded thick and fast upon him. The world of society held out its arms eagerly to him. Lovely young girls, matrons of the house, offered their congratulations to him with the most bewitching of smiles, and mothers with marriageable daughters from all over the city opened an account with the great dry goods house, whose sole owner was a young and handsome bachelor.

But for all this there seemed to be something sadly missing in his life, a want which he could hardly define, and it seemed to take the shape of something which he was striving to remember, but could not.

Only that morning he had been talking with some one in the office about it, and had been laughingly informed that there was a method that could bring back to his memory that which he desired so ardently to recollect. "If you will tell me how to unravel this tangle that is in my brain, you will have my everlasting gratitude," declared Lester, earnestly.

"It takes people with nerves of steel to accomplish it. A person who is nervous to the slightest degree would not dare to try it, for fear of turning suddenly insane from the terrible mental struggle. Do you still wish to know what it is?"

"Yes," responded Lester, "and I can use my judgment whether I dare try it or not."

"Very good," replied the gentleman, "then here it is: Counting five thousand backward will either restore your loss of memory, or, as I have taken care to warn you gravely in advance, cause you to go insane. It must be done rapidly, and in a given space of time. In my belief the remedy is by far worse than the malady. I feel, somehow, as though I ought not to have told you about it."

"Nonsense," said Lester. "You need have little fear of my trying it."

He thought of it, however, as the cab rolled rapidly along.

"I wonder if harm would result from my trying it?" he mused. "I have unusually strong nerves, and—and, if anything disastrous should come of it, there is not one soul on the wide earth that would be injured. There is no mother to weep, no fair young sister to grieve, no father or brother to be bowed down with sorrow. I am alone in the world. My foolhardiness would injure only myself—only myself."

He had been thinking so deeply that he had not noted the flight of time, nor that the street lamps had grown fewer and far between, at last ceasing altogether, and that they were traveling a country road. Suddenly the vehicle came to a stop. The driver jumped from his box and opened the door with a jerk, remarking:

"This is the place."

Lester alighted, looking about him in a rather mystified manner, but before he could make the inquiry that rose to his lips the driver hastened to say:

"The path that leads to the house, which is just beyond that clump of trees, is so narrow that we cannot drive there. We will have to walk. It is but a short distance. You will see the house at the first turn in the path."

And as the man uttered the words he gave a peculiar cough.

"Who is the person who sent for me?" Lester queried, stopping short. The man made an evasive answer, which aroused his suspicions that all was not as it should be.

"Why do you not answer my question? I refuse to proceed a step farther until you have satisfied me on this point," declared Lester, haughtily.

"That's your opinion. I think differently, my fine fellow," answered the man insolently. "I'd advise you to come along quietly."

Lester Armstrong saw at once that he had been lured into a trap. It was natural for him to jump to the conclusion that it was for robbery, owing to the fact of his coming into possession of the great Marsh fortune so recently, and a sudden sternness settled upon his face. He was not used to broils, but this fellow should see that he was not quite a stranger to the manly art of self-defense, and that he had an adversary worthy of his steel.

"Are you coming along peaceably with me, or shall I be obliged to call upon my pals for assistance?" he asked, grimly.

"I propose to defend myself against all odds," answered Lester, more than angry with himself for falling so easily into the trap that had been so cunningly set for him.

He had but a few dollars in money about him, and the disappointment of his assailant in not finding a large roll of bills would in all probability cause the man to take desperate chances in trying to make away with him. If he was armed he was at the fellow's mercy. There might be half a dozen accomplices in collusion with him, he had little doubt.

Again the cabby uttered that peculiar cough which was half a whistle, and in response two men, whose features were covered by black masks, sprang from the adjacent bushes.

Our hero put up a splendid defense, but the united strength of his three antagonists at length overpowered him.

What was there in the figure of one of the men that seemed so familiar to him? he wondered, and just as they were bearing him to the ground by their united efforts, he suddenly reached forward and tore the mask from his assailant's face.

One glance, and the horror of death seemed to suddenly freeze the blood in his veins. His eyes dilated and seemed to nearly burst from their sockets. The face into which he gazed was that of Clinton Kendale, his cousin.

"You!" he gasped, quite disbelieving the evidence of his own senses.

Kendale laughed a diabolical laugh, while his features were distorted into those of a fiend incarnate.

"I haven't the least hesitation in admitting my identity," he said, coolly. "Yes, you are in good hands, if you give us no trouble, and come along quietly, without compelling us to use further force."

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" cried Lester, white to the lips.

"That you shall learn all in good time, cousin mine," replied Kendale, mockingly.

In struggling out of their grasp to better protect himself, Lester fell headlong on the icy ground, striking his head heavily against the gnarled, projecting root of a tree and lying at their feet like one dead.

"He will give us little enough trouble now," said Kendale, grimly. "Lend a hand there, both of you, and get him into the house quickly. I am almost frozen to death here."

In less time than it takes to narrate it, Lester Armstrong was hurriedly conveyed into the house.

The place consisted of but two rooms, and into the inner one Lester was thrust with but little ceremony, and tossed upon a pallet of straw in the corner.

He had not entirely lost consciousness, as they supposed, but was only stunned, realizing fully all that was transpiring about him.

"Your scheme has worked like a charm, Halloran," said Kendale. "We have bagged our game more easily than I imagined we would. Now there is nothing in the way between me and the fortune that liberal old fool Marsh willed to my amiable cousin."

"Everything rests with the shrewdness with which you play your part," answered the man addressed as Halloran.

"You ought not to have any scruples on that score," exclaimed Kendale, boastfully. "After leaving my amiable cousin on the night of the accident, did I not go immediately to the pretty little heiress, Faynie Fairfax, and successfully pass myself off as the lover she was waiting to elope with? And the little beauty never knew the difference."

"I must own that you played your cards successfully in that direction," was the response, "but this will be a far different matter from hoodwinking a young, unsophisticated girl."

"Within a month from to-day I shall have the Fairfax fortune and the Marsh millions added to it," said Clinton Kendale, emphatically.

"I would put an eternal quietus upon my fortunate cousin here, did I not need his assistance in one or two matters concerning the method of running the business, which was known only to old Marsh and himself."

"Are you fool enough to think that he will divulge those secrets to you?" said Halloran, impatiently.

"They can be forced from him. I know how," returned Kendale, with a brutal laugh. "Come," he said, turning on his heel.

His companion followed him from the apartment, and the door closed with a resounding bang, and Lester lay there too horror-stricken to move hand or foot, fairly spellbound by the disclosures he had overheard as they stood over him, believing him unconscious.

All in an instant a great wave of awakened memory swept over him, opening out the flood-gates of recollection like a flash. He remembered his interview with his sweetheart, his darling Faynie, and how he was arranging to hurry back to marry her when the fatal accident occurred, and how, believing himself dying, he had confided all to his treacherous cousin, bidding him take the message to his darling, that even in death his only thought was of her.

Oh, merciful God! how horribly had his treacherous cousin betrayed that sacred trust, because of his fatal resemblance to himself! He cried out to God and the listening angels:

"Heaven help my beautiful darling and save her from the machinations of that desperate villain!"

He knew that Clinton Kendale would stop at nothing to gain his end, and his agony at the thought that he might be unable to prevent it in time almost drove him to the verge of madness.

He felt that they would hold him there until they tortured from him whatever secret he held which they wished to learn; then they would deliberately make away with him. Clinton Kendale would step into his place, personating himself so cleverly that the great world, under whose very eyes the terrible tragedy had taken place, would never know the difference. Even Faynie would not know how she had been tricked and cheated, and the last thought almost drove him to the point of frenzy, nearly succeeding in turning his tortured brain.



CHAPTER XIV.

"YOU ARE OUR PRISONER!"

For hours Lester Armstrong lay like one stunned, turning over and over in his mind the awful revelation he had heard. That a human being, especially his cousin, Clinton Kendale, should have plotted so horribly against him seemed almost past believing. Then he remembered how treacherous he had been in his early days, and he wondered that he had been so mad as to have trusted him.

"Heaven save my darling from him!" he cried out in an agony too great for words. To realize that she was in the mercy of such a man was a sorrow so great that all else on earth paled before it. Then a mighty resolve came to him—to foil the villainous plot, weak though he was; he must make his escape and fly to his darling's aid.

He knew that Clinton Kendale would follow out his line of action, keeping him there as long as it was necessary—that is, until he learned all the secrets that he was so anxious to ascertain—then he would put him out of the way with as little compunction as he would a dog. He might expect little mercy at Kendale's hands, when two fortunes and a beautiful young girl hung in the balance.

For hours he lay there, turning the matter over in his mind. He knew he was terribly weak from the awful fall which he had received, and which had hurt his head the second time in almost the same place; but escape he must from the clutches of the conspirators, even though he were dying.

Suddenly the key turned in the lock, the door swung open and Kendale entered, bearing a lighted candle in his hand.

"Ah, you have come to, have you?" he remarked, seeing the other's eyes turn toward him; and before Lester Armstrong could answer he went on quickly: "You are the only one who knows the combination which opens the safe of the late Marsh & Co., and as I intend to open it to-morrow morning at the usual hour in place of your punctual self, it will be most necessary for you to give me the required information."

For one moment Lester Armstrong gazed steadily into the face of the fiend incarnate before him—a look before which the other quailed despite his apparent bravado.

"I am in your power and at your mercy," he said, "but though you torture me on the rack I shall never tell you what you want to know. That safe contains valuable papers which belong to others; they are secure in my keeping. You can kill me, but the secret of the safe combination will die with me."

Kendale laughed a little short, hard laugh.

"You are mad to thus defy me," he cried, harshly, "when you stop to consider that I can open it in any event. I can simply say the combination has slipped from my mind. Who is there to question Mr. Lester Armstrong, the head of the firm? No one—no one. It will be broken open quite as soon as workmen can be found to accomplish it."

The lines about the sufferer's mouth tightened; he clutched his hands hard. He knew the dare devil Kendale would stop at nothing—nothing.

"I will give you until daylight to decide. I promise you that it will go hard with you if you are not complaisant."

With that he turned on his heel and quitted the room.

During all the long hours of that never-to-be-forgotten night Lester Armstrong lay there on his pallet of straw praying for strength to foil the villain—for Heaven to direct him what to do.

For the Marsh millions he cared nothing; but his heart was wrung with anguish when he trusted himself to think of Faynie.

He knew that Kendale had kept the appointment made by himself, but for some reason the elopement could not have taken place. A thousand causes might have prevented its successful carrying out, though Kendale was sure of a satisfactory finish, he imagined.

Daylight broke at last; he could see it dimly through the dust-begrimed, boarded-up windows; but it was not until the sun had well risen that his cousin put in an appearance again. Lester was suffering intense pain from the terrible bruise on his head at the base of the brain, but he set his teeth hard together, determining that his mortal foe should not know it.

"Ah!" exclaimed Kendale, sneeringly. "Wide awake, I see!—probably the fixed habit of years. You have, no doubt, come to a more sensible frame of mind than I left you in last night, I trust, regarding the information I want concerning the combination of the big safe in the private office of Marsh & Co."

"I will never reveal it to you," cried Lester. "Never!"

For an instant a black, malignant scowl swept over Kendale's face, but after a moment's deep thought he turned on his heel again, laughing immoderately as he stepped to the door and held a low conversation with the two men who were still in the outer apartment, and in a trice they had joined Kendale, one of them still wearing the black mask which he had used the night before.

"We will proceed to relieve him of his private papers, keys, wallet, and so forth," said Kendale; and, as if in compliance with some previously arranged plan, the three set upon Lester, and in his almost helpless condition it was not difficult to overpower him and take from him his possessions, which Kendale quickly took charge of.

In the encounter, owing to his exhausted condition, Lester lost consciousness; and thus they left him, making him their prisoner by turning the key in the lock again when they reached the outer room.

"And now," said Halloran, removing the square of black linen from his face, "what's next on the programme?"

"Our friend, the cabby, will take me back to town with as much speed as possible. You, my dear fellow, will remain here on guard, making yourself as comfortable as is absolutely possible under the dismal circumstances of keeping guard and circumventing any attempt of our prisoner to escape. You know we have great need of him yet, in forcing him to disclose much that is advantageous to us. We can starve it out of him, if threats fail. As long as you have a good warm fire, plenty of provisions and plenty to read here you ought not to complain. You are having the easiest part of the bargain, Halloran, while I am doing all of the hazardous work."

"What if I should be suspected in the role I am about to play for the Marsh millions? Why, it would mean State's prison instead of the fortune we have planned for so desperately."

"You will carry it through all right," declared Halloran, confidently.

"My nerve has never failed me so far, and I'm depending on that," said Kendale, mechanically.

Two hours later Kendale was breakfasting in a fashionable downtown restaurant, endeavoring to fortify himself with courage for the trying ordeal which he was about to face.

He had given Halloran his promise to abstain from touching even a drop of liquor, fully realizing it to be his mortal foe; but with Kendale a promise amounted to scarcely a flip of his white fingers when it ran contrary to his own desires.

He told himself that he must have a "bracer" to steady his nerves. It was not until a second and a third had been drunk that the proper amount of courage came to him to undertake the dastardly scheme. Half an hour later he walked boldly into the big dry goods emporium. He had no idea where the private office was, but his quick wits served him in this dilemma. Laying his hands on an errand boy who was just passing out, whose cap bore the name of Marsh & Co., he said, carelessly:

"Here, lad, take my coat up to the private office; I will follow you. Go slowly, though, through the crowd of shoppers."

With a respectful bow the boy took the coat from him.

It so happened that one of the rules of the house was that the employees must not use the elevators, and by the time Kendale had climbed the fourth flight of stairs he was thoroughly exhausted, the perspiration fairly streaming down his face.

"Don't you know enough to go by way of the elevator, you young idiot?" he roared, almost gasping for breath.

"You forget it's against the rules for us to do so, Mr. Armstrong," returned the lad.

"Rules be hanged!" cried his companion. "How many more floors up is it?"

The lad looked up into his face in the greatest amazement. Such a question on the lips of the head of the firm rather astounded him; but then, perhaps it had not occurred to the gentleman just how many flights of steps the boys were obliged to climb.

"We are only on the fourth floor, sir," he responded, "and it's up the other four flights, you know."

"Get into the elevator," commanded Kendale; and the boy turned, and walked over to it, closely followed by his companion, mentally wondering what in the world had come over courteous, kindly Mr. Lester Armstrong.



CHAPTER XV.

THE NEW BROOM DID NOT SWEEP CLEAN.

Clinton Kendale showed himself to be a thorough actor in carrying out a part carefully, as he followed the boy through the main office, where all of the bookkeepers were at work, toward the little office in the rear.

"Ah, this is indeed comfortable," he exclaimed, flinging himself into a luxurious leather armchair. "Throw the coat down anywhere, and go," he said, as the boy stood before him awaiting his dismissal.

"Great Scott! What an elegant nest Lester got himself into!" he ejaculated, looking about him. "I can enjoy it far better than he could, though I don't expect to be cooped up here more than an hour or two a day. Those fellows out there in the outer office are paid to do the work, and I'll be hanged if they shan't do it—every bit of it. I'll break 'em in my way, and they'll think it's new rules. By George! they'll find plenty of new rules. Ha! ha! ha! I suppose I'd better be opening that desk."

Feeling in his pocket, he drew forth the bunch of keys which he had taken by force from his cousin. One by one he fitted each to the lock, but none of them seemed to work.

"Confound the thing!" he muttered. "My patience won't last much longer. Then I'll stave it in with my heel.

"Hello, there!" he cried, as, hearing a slight noise behind him, he wheeled around and found an elderly man, with a pen behind his ear, and a sheet of paper in his hand, standing there.

"Why the deuce didn't you knock?" he cried, angrily and flushing hotly, for he realized this man must have witnessed his vain attempts to open the desk. "What do you want?" he asked sharply and ill-humoredly.

Mr. Conway, the old cashier—for it was he—was looking at him with dilated, amazed eyes; but in a moment he recovered himself.

"You said to come into your office quite as soon as you came this morning, as you wished to see me on particular business, Mr. Armstrong," he replied in the low voice habitual with him.

For an instant the bogus Lester Armstrong's brows were knit closely together; then he said, coolly, sharply: "I've changed my mind; I don't want to see you."

Still the man lingered.

"Pardon me," he said. "I thought probably it might be in regard to those notes of Jordan & Beckwith which you were considering negotiating for."

"Well, you'll have to think again," exclaimed the other, tartly.

Mr. Conway turned toward the door, but as he stretched out his hand to grasp the knob his employer sang out, sharply:

"Hold on, there! Come here and see if you can do anything with this confounded desk. It's got the jim-jams or something. I've been monkeying with it for the last half hour, and can do nothing with it." And as he uttered the words, he held out the bunch of keys toward him.

If Mr. Conway had been startled before, he was certainly alarmed now, and he looked at his companion in amazement which could not be concealed.

"Well," cried the other, his temper rising, the result of the brandy diffusing itself through his brain, "what are you staring at me like that for? Why don't you take the keys and go ahead?"

Quite as soon as speech would come to him the old cashier said, slowly:

"You seem to forget, Mr. Armstrong, that the keys have been done away with some time, and the desk now opens with a secret spring which you yourself devised."

"Well, come here and open it. My fingers are all thumbs to-day," replied his companion, looking at him doggedly.

Mr. Conway stepped forward and touched what appeared to be one of the brass nails that studded the outer rim, and, as if by magic, the desk flew open, the other watching keenly to see how he did it.

Without further comment Mr. Conway turned away and with slow, heavy tread left the private office and walked toward his desk. When he reached it his emotions overcame him completely, and he laid his head down upon his ledger, tears falling like rain down his face.

In an instant half a dozen of his fellow bookkeepers were about him, frightened beyond words at this unusual scene and inquiring what could be the matter.

For a moment the old cashier hesitated, then he resolved to break the truth to them; they would soon find it out for themselves; he would tell them, and at the same time instruct them as best he could in this unfortunate affair. He raised his white head, the head that had grown gray in the employ of the firm he had loved so well and served so faithfully.

"You must know the truth, my fellows," he answered, slowly, huskily, and with apparent difficulty. "Our Mr. Armstrong has, for the first time since we have all known him, gone wrong; he is under the influence of strong drink, and by no means himself. I may add that I earnestly pray that each of you be loyal to him, even through this misfortune, and not let even a hint of it go forth to the outside world, for at this crisis it would ruin the well-known firm of Marsh & Co., which is now vested in him."

The horror and amazement on the faces of the men can better be imagined than described. All had loved and revered Lester Armstrong, and to hear that he had suddenly gone wrong because he had become possessed of a fortune was alarming and distressing news to them.

"Drink changes him so completely in temperament that it is hard to realize that he is the same courteous companion of those other days. He was so far gone from the effects of liquor I am not even sure that he recognized me. Hark! what is that?"

Several of the detectives of the place were rushing through the main office toward the private office, in answer to Mr. Armstrong's summons. The call for them had been so furious that they rushed in pell-mell, without waiting to take time to rap.

The bogus Mr. Lester Armstrong still sat in the luxurious leather armchair, his heels on the desk, fairly hidden in heavy clouds of blue smoke from his Havana cigar, at which he was puffing vigorously, fairly going into convulsions of laughter over a letter bearing a blue and gold monogram, which he was reading.

The unceremonious entrance of the four men caused him to spring suddenly to his feet.

"What the d—-l do you fellows want?" he exclaimed angrily. "How dare you intrude upon me, in my private office, in this unheard-of fashion, like a herd of escaped lunatics?"

"You rang for us," replied one of the men.

"I did not," replied the bogus Mr. Armstrong, resuming his seat pompously.

"The bells certainly rang, sir!" exclaimed the other three, simultaneously.

"Didn't I tell you that I didn't ring?" he answered, stamping his feet furiously.

In less time than it takes to tell it three more men dashed into the private office, exclaiming:

"We are here, sir, at the very first tap of your bell."

"You have all gone suddenly stark mad, or you are a set of the blamedest fools in existence, as I have just told these men. I did not ring. What on earth do you mean, by insisting that I did, I should like to know?"

"I beg your pardon, but you are still ringing, sir," declared one of the men. "We can distinctly hear the bell ringing furiously. Do you not see that your foot is still on it?"

"My foot!" exclaimed the bogus Mr. Armstrong, angrily. "Explain what you mean at once."

For answer, the man stepped forward, and pulled aside the mat under his employer's feet, mentally wondering if Mr. Lester Armstrong had not grown suddenly daft himself, thereby disclosing a set of electric buttons which the rug had cunningly concealed.

"You kept your foot on them and they rang, calling us here instantly," returned the man.

"Bless me! I forgot entirely about those confounded electric buttons," declared the bogus Armstrong, turning very red. "I'll have 'em put somewhere else to-morrow; great nuisance; always in the way." And after an instant a bright thought occurred to him, and he said blandly: "Well, to tell you the truth, men, I was only trying you to see how quickly you would respond; you may all go now."

The men quitted the private office, looking rather dumfounded into each other's blank faces, and in less than half an hour afterward every employee in the vast dry goods establishment heard the shocking news, that Mr. Lester Armstrong, whom they all believed well-nigh perfect, was terribly intoxicated up in his private office, but they were to be still more astounded ere the eventful day closed.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE WILL DISINHERITING FAYNIE.

As soon as the men had quitted the private office Kendale sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down the length of the room excitedly, muttering under his breath:

"'Ah, what a fatal web we weave When first we practice to deceive.'

"It seems to me that there are traps in every direction to catch me. I must be extra shrewd. I'll have those confounded bells changed at once. I shouldn't be at all surprised to find an electric bell connected with that chair at the desk which would call up the entire fire force of the city if I were to lean back far enough in it."

He flung himself down in his seat again and took up the letter which he had been perusing and which interested him so.

When he had first broken the seal of this missive his heart had fairly jumped into his throat; at the first glance he saw that it was from Mrs. Fairfax, of Beechwood.

He read it carefully through fully a half dozen times. It ran as follows:

"MY DEAR MR. ARMSTRONG: I wish to extend to you my sincere congratulations over your good fortune in succeeding to the business of my dear old friend and neighbor, Mr. Marsh, late of Beechwood village. I feel as though I know you well from hearing him speak so continually of you. I am indeed thankful that his business fell into the hands of one whom he trusted so deeply.

"It was his wish, long ago, that we should meet and know each other, and in remembrance of this, his earnest and oft-repeated wish, I now extend you a cordial invitation to visit our home at Beechwood at your earliest convenience and dine with the family. My daughter and I will have a most hearty welcome for you. Any date convenient to you which you may set will be agreeable to us.

"Trusting that we may have the pleasure of seeing you very soon, I remain, yours very truly,

"MRS. HORACE FAIRFAX, Beechwood."

The bogus Lester Armstrong laid the letter down and looked abstractedly out of the window.

"Of all places in the world, to think that I should be invited there," he mused. "While I have just been wondering how they took Faynie's elopement—and never hearing from her since—and wondering how in the world I was to discover all that—lo! a way is opened to me!"

Then his thoughts flew back to that stormy wedding night, and that midnight scene in the little inn, when the girl he had just wedded, believing her to be an heiress, revealed to him the exasperating truth, that only that night her father had disinherited her, making a new will in favor of her stepmother and her daughter Claire. The plan which Halloran had laid out was to wait a reasonable time, then put in an appearance, stating that he was Faynie's husband, and that she had just died, and claim her portion of the estate. Every detail had been most carefully mapped out; but here he saw an easier way of gaining that same fortune without the trouble of litigation—marry the girl Claire.

They would never know anything about that previous marriage with Faynie, and the dead could tell no secrets.

"I'll go," he muttered. "I shall reply at once, telling her she may expect me two days hence—let me see, this is Tuesday; I will dine with her Thursday, and, at least, see what the girl Claire looks like. It would be the proper caper to gather in as many fortunes as drift my way. I suppose I shall run through half a dozen of them ere I reach the end of my tether."

All in due season his letter of acceptance reached Mrs. Fairfax, and she was highly elated over it.

She had seized upon her neighborly acquaintance with the late Mr. Marsh to invite to her home the young man who had fallen heir to his millions, in order that her daughter Claire might win him—if it were a possibility.

She had succeeded in forcing Faynie to remain beneath that roof, even after informing her that she was disinherited—dependent upon her stepmother—by saying that it was her father's wish that she should thus remain for at least six months.

Mrs. Fairfax's real reason was that the outside world would not know just how affairs stood in the family until she had had time to turn everything into cash and get over to Europe to look up another millionaire widower.

On the very night that Faynie had returned so unceremoniously there had been a most thrilling scene but an hour before between Mrs. Fairfax and her daughter.

Unable to sleep, Claire had wandered down to her late stepfather's library in search of a book.

She was not a little surprised to see her mother there—writing—at that late hour.

Her footsteps had made no sound on the thick velvet carpet, and she stole up to her side quite unobserved, looking over her shoulder to see what interested her mother so deeply.

One—two—-three—four—five minutes she stood there, fairly rooted to the spot, then a gasp of terror broke from her white lips, causing her mother to spring to her feet like a flash.

"Claire!" she exclaimed, hoarsely, trembling like an aspen leaf and clinging to the back of the nearest chair for support. "How long have you been here?" she gasped.

"Quite—five—minutes," whispered the girl.

"And you have seen—" The mother looked into the daughter's eyes fearfully, not daring to utter the words trembling on her lips.

"I saw you change the—the will!" whispered Claire, in a terror-stricken voice. "I saw you erase with a green fluid, which must have been a most powerful chemical, the words of the will, 'to my daughter Faynie' in the sentence: 'I bequeath all of my estate, both personal and real,' and insert therein the words, 'my wife, Margaret' in place of 'my daughter Faynie.'"

The woman stepped forward and clutched the girl's arm.

"It was for your sake, Claire, that I did it," she whispered, shrilly; "he cut us off with almost nothing, giving all to that proud daughter Faynie of his. We would have had to step out into the world—beggars again. We know what it is to be poor—ay, in want; we could never endure it again—death would be easier for both of us.

"The will was drawn two years ago; I am confident that it is the latest—that there is no other. I took a desperate chance to do what I have done to-night—so cleverly that it could never be detected.

"A few strokes of the pen meant wealth or poverty for us, Claire. I am too old to face beggary after living a life of luxury. You will not betray me, Claire—you dare not, knowing that it was done for your sake, Claire."

The girl was not naturally wicked; she had always had a great respect for the high-bred, beautiful Faynie—her stepfather's daughter by his first wife. There had been no discord between the two young girls.

Still, as her mother had said so emphatically, it was better that Faynie should step out of that lovely home a beggar than that they should lose it.

Claire quite agreed with her mother that Faynie must stay there for the present at all hazards; it would arouse such an uproar if she were thrust from that roof just then.

"If my father has expressed the desire that I shall stay here six months, I—I shall do so, even though it breaks my heart," Faynie had said.

She kept her own apartments, refusing to come down to her meals, and Mrs. Fairfax humored this whim by ordering Faynie's meals served in her rooms.

In vain the old housekeeper expostulated with Faynie, urging her to come down at least to the drawing-room evenings, as she used to do.

Faynie shook her golden curls.

"It is no longer my home," she would say, with bitter sobs; "I am only biding my time here—the six months that I am in duty bound to remain—then I am going away—it does not matter where."

The old housekeeper had tried in vain to coax from the girl the story of where she had been while away from home.

"That is my secret," Faynie would say, with a burst of bitter tears; "I shall never divulge it—until the hour I lie dying."



CHAPTER XVII.

EVERY MAN TO HIS TRADE.

After the bogus Lester Armstrong had dispatched his letter of acceptance to Mrs. Fairfax he braced himself for what would happen next by taking a deep draught from the silver brandy flask which he kept in his breast pocket, though he realized that he had need of all his senses for any emergency.

During the next hour a score or more bookkeepers came to him with bills, letters and papers of all descriptions. To one and all he said, with a yawn, and very impatiently: "Leave what you have brought on my desk; I'll look over it this afternoon."

Then it occurred to him that such a great concern must have a general manager, and of course he would know something about the different papers these people had brought for his inspection and for him to pass upon, which were like so much Greek to him.

In answer to his summons, a tall, dignified, keen-eyed elderly man responded—a man who struck considerable awe to Kendale's guilty heart. He said to himself that he wished to the Lord he knew this man's name to be able to call him by it—but of course it couldn't be helped.

"I have concluded to permit you to attend to these matters for me—get through them the best you can in your own way without bothering me with them; do just as you would if I were away on a vacation, we will say, and left everything in your charge—all matters for you to settle as you deemed best."

The gentleman looked surprised and bowed gravely. "I can attend to most of the documents connected with the firm, but there are a few matters I see there that the parties interested might object to if they saw the name of Manager Wright attached instead of the name of the proprietor."

"In that case, show me where you want me to sign, and I'll put down my name here and now, to end the matter."

"Without first examining the documents carefully?" asked the manager, in amazement, thinking how slipshod in his business methods the new proprietor of the great establishment was becoming since he suddenly found himself raised from a poor cashier to a multi-millionaire, and thinking that good old Mr. Marsh would turn over in his grave if he had heard that.

"Thank Heaven all that is off my mind," muttered Kendale, breathing freer as the manager left the office with the papers, adding, thoughtfully: "I hope I won't have to come in contact with that man very often. I felt so uncomfortable that it was by the greatest effort I could control myself—keep from springing from my chair, seizing my hat and fairly flying out of this place.

"His keen gray eyes seemed to pierce through and through me. I expected every moment to hear him shout out: 'Come hither, everybody—quickly; this man is not Lester Armstrong, striking though the resemblance is. Send for the police, that this mystery may be solved at once!'"

He was not far wrong in his suspicions.

Manager Wright had quitted the private office with a deeply knitted brow and a troubled expression on his face.

"The change in Lester Armstrong since yesterday is amazing," he mused. "Long years of dissipation could not have told more on him than the change these few hours have worked. He must have been out drinking and carousing all night long—the odor of the room from the fumes of strong liquor was almost unbearable; it was blue with smoke, too, and Lester Armstrong always led us to believe that he had never smoked a cigar in his life; and, worst of all, from a gentleman he has suddenly turned into a libertine, if I am any judge of features.

"I cannot begin to account for the great change in him; it mystifies me quite as much as it did the store detectives and Mr. Conway, the cashier. It is all terribly wrong—somehow—somewhere. If it were not that I have been here so many years I would tender Mr. Armstrong my resignation. I am not at all satisfied—and yet, yesterday, when Mr. Armstrong called me into his private office and we had that long talk about the business matters of the house, I felt that all would go well; to-day he is like a different man—appears to have forgotten completely all of the instructions he was so particular to give me. Yesterday he said: 'We will go over the books and papers very carefully, you and I, and see that every department is run as carefully and well as heretofore. I should not like any one in the establishment to feel that my taking possession will mean any change for them—save for the better.'

"To-day he is as different as night from day; he does not know what he wants; he seems all at sea over the simplest details which he ought to be decidedly familiar with." His musings were suddenly cut short by an immediate summons to return to the private office.

It was with some misgivings that he entered his employer's presence the second time.

The bogus Mr. Armstrong was almost invisible from a cloud of smoke from a freshly lighted Havana. He held the morning paper in his hand and was perusing its columns with apparent avidity.

"Wright!" he cried, excitedly, "how much ready money do you suppose there is in the safe of this shebang—-hey?"

It took Mr. Wright almost a moment to recover his usual calm dignity and make answer:

"Five thousand in cash, and there are negotiable notes amounting to upward of forty thousand more."

"Are you sure of that?" queried Kendale, his excitement growing keener; "how do you know?"

"You placed bills in my hands a few moments since which necessitated conferring with Mr. Conway, the cashier, about meeting them."

"Well, hold on—don't pay out any bills to-day; I want to make use of that money—two great opportunities here. Say!" he added in the next breath, "do you know anything about sailing yachts and trotters?"

The question fairly staggered Mr. Wright, but he answered promptly:

"Nothing whatever, Mr. Armstrong. I have never taken any interest in them; it would be out of place for a man in my position to cultivate a taste for that which is so far beyond his means. I am glad to be able to say to you, sir, that my tastes are simple and my wants few. I have never been on board a yacht, nor have I ever ridden behind what you call a trotter."

"Then you've missed a deal of sport," declared Kendale. "But that isn't what I sent for you to discuss. What I meant to say is that there's a fellow from Newport gone all to smash. His fine yacht, the Daisy Bell, is to be sold at auction to-day, likewise the contents of his stables. There are two of his animals that are flyers—the Lady Albia and Sterling. Why, the Lady has a record better than 2.05 1-2, open gaited, warranted sound, both of 'em, and no end of traps, tea carts, and buggies. I tell you what, Wright, I must have that yacht and that team. You must go and bid them in for me—get 'em at any price, if you have to run it up to a hundred thousand, and you can even do a little better than that rather than see some other lucky fellow get 'em."

Mr. Wright was staring at him as though he quite believed his employer had gone suddenly out of his mind.

"Well," said the bogus Mr. Lester Armstrong, coolly, "you heard my command to you, didn't you?"

Without another word the general manager turned and with slow, unsteady steps quitted his new employer's presence.

"Heaven help me, that I should live to see this hour," he groaned; "a hundred thousand dollars—ten fortunes to a poor man like myself—frittered away on a yacht and a pair of horses! Mr. Marsh would pitch him out if he could but know and come back long enough to do it. It spoils the best of 'em to have money thrown at them—to come into a fortune that they haven't worked for. A yacht and a pair of horses! What will people say to see me, a business man of supposed sense and judgment, bidding at a public auction mart for anything like this? Heaven help me, I can see the finish of the time-honored dry goods house of Marsh & Co., in which I have taken such a world of pride. But I suppose I must do as he has ordered, no matter how galling it is to me."

Mr. Wright had no sooner reached the auction mart than a telegram was handed him. It was from his employer, and read as follows:

"There are also a pair of seal-brown pacers to be sold. Secure these in addition to the others. Price must not stand in the way."

David Wright crushed the telegram in his hands, and the first oath he had ever uttered in all his life was ground out between his teeth.

The yacht and two pairs of horses were spiritedly bid for by half a dozen gentlemen, who were apparently eager to secure them.

It was easy to see that the quiet, elderly business man, who always went higher than the others, was little used to such contests, but he secured them at last for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, and there was more than one amused laugh in the auction room, knowing ones whispering that he had paid three times more than the owner had been asking for them.



CHAPTER XVIII.

MARGERY'S LOVE DREAM.

An hour after Mr. Wright had concluded his purchase for his employer he returned to the establishment, accompanied by one of the persons authorized to collect the money. When he presented the order at the cashier's window, Mr. Conway, the old cashier, drew back aghast as he looked at the man.

"Is—is it possible you have indorsed this?" he asked, turning to the manager.

Mr. Wright bowed, but his face betrayed deep agitation.

"I cannot pay it without consulting Mr. Armstrong," he exclaimed, in a troubled voice. "Wait a moment."

Could it be possible that Lester Armstrong had authorized the payment of an amount like that, knowing that the firm was a little crippled for cash just at that season of the year? Surely the man must be mad, he told himself; and that for which the money was to be paid fairly staggered him. He had to look a second time to satisfy himself that he had not made a horrible mistake when he read: "For one steam yacht and two pairs of horses, $125,000; terms cash."

He set his lips hard together, saying to himself that this was the beginning of the end.

At that same moment quite a thrilling scene was taking place in the private office, which would have unnerved the old cashier completely had he known of it. It so happened, in exploring the nooks of the office, Kendale had by chance touched another bell, the bell communicating with the suit department, which was in charge of Mr. Conway's pretty daughter, Miss Margery. When that bell tapped it meant that the young lady was to make all possible haste to the private office, to which she had been summoned, and this the young girl proceeded to do, not without some little trepidation, however. Fair Margery Conway had a secret romance in her life, a romance which no one in the wide world would ever have guessed.

For many a long day she had been secretly in love with Mr. Lester Armstrong, her father's assistant, of whom; she had heard him speak so much and praise so highly.

She admired him immensely. Many a time she made excuses to speak with her father a moment in their private office. No one in the wide world guessed that grave, handsome Lester Armstrong was the attraction that brought her there.

She had many a casual chat with him, and somehow the hope grew in her heart that he was not altogether indifferent to her.

Once, when she had started home in the pouring rain, he had gone out of his way to see her safely to her destination under the shelter of his umbrella.

He had only been courteous, but she had built up many a hope from this little incident alone.

She had not seen very much of Lester Armstrong since that never-to-be-forgotten day, but her father had told her that he usually asked each morning: "How is your daughter, Miss Margery?" and once her father had said:

"Of all the young men whom I have met, I have the greatest regard for Lester Armstrong. Such young men are the salt of the earth. There is a future before him. When he earns a dollar he puts by more than half of it against a rainy day. He is not extravagant. Few young men making his salary would dress so very plainly and make his clothes do him as long. He has no bad habits; he neither smokes nor drinks, and that is something you can say of very few young men nowadays."

Margery looked up into her father's face with shining eyes. She made no answer, but a vivid flush crept up into her cheeks, and the little hands that were busy with the teacups trembled a little. She knew quite well that in the depth of his heart her father was hoping that she and Lester Armstrong would take a fancy to each other, and that in time that fancy might ripen into love, and instead of being only acquaintances, she and the assistant cashier might be nearer and dearer to each other.

Not long after this Margery Conway received a letter, a poem, rather, typewritten. There was no name signed to it, but she felt sure that it came from some one in the establishment of Marsh & Co. More than one salesman looked at pretty Margery Conway with admiring eyes, but she never thought of any of these. The truth was, it was sent by one of the bookkeepers, but the girl jumped at once to the conclusion that it was from Lester Armstrong. She imagined that from the tender, sentimental words. She read the beautiful poem over and over again, until she knew every word by heart. The lines even floated dreamily through her brain in her sleep. She would awaken with them on her lips. Ah, surely, the poem was from Lester Armstrong, she fully believed. It read as follows:

"What have I done that one face holds me so, And follows me in fancy through the day? Why do I seek your love? I only know That fate is resolute, and points the way To where you stand, bathed in amber light. Since first you looked on me I've seen no night— What have I done?

"What can be done? As yet no touch, no kiss; Only a gaze across your eyes' blue lake. Better it were, sweetheart, to dream like this, Than afterward to shudder and awake. Love is so very bitter, and his ways Tortured with thorns—with wild weeds overgrown. Must I endure, unloved, these loveless days?— What can be done?

"This I say, 'Marry where your heart goes first, Dear heart, and then you will be blessed. Ah, how can others choose for you What is for your best? If you're told to wed for gold, Dear girl, or for rank or show, Stand by love, and boldly say, "No, my heart cries no!"'"

Like most young girls, pretty Margery was sentimental. She slept with the folded paper beneath her pillow at night, and all day long it was carefully tucked away over her beating heart.

It was quite a week after receiving this ere she saw Lester Armstrong again; then her face turned burning red. Lester saw it, but how was he to dream that he was the cause of her emotion?

"Sweet Margery Conway is not strong," he thought, pityingly. "How frightened her father would be were he to see that sudden rush of blood to the head."

He wondered whether or not he should run to her and proffer his assistance. He had once seen a young woman who was thus affected fall to the floor in a fit, and it had been many a long day ere the unfortunate woman could return to her work again. He devoutly hoped this might not be the case with poor, pretty Margery.

She saw him start and look at her searchingly. She could not have stopped and exchanged a word with him if her life had depended upon it. She hurried past him with desperate haste, praying that he might not hear the beating of her heart.

He noticed that she did not stop to speak, but he quite believed that it was because she was very busy. The next moment he had forgotten all about it, and about the girl, too, for that matter.

He scarcely remembered pretty Margery until he happened to see her again. The girl was fairly stunned by the intelligence that the great millionaire owner of the establishment had made Lester Armstrong his heir.

At first her joy was so great that she could not speak. Then a sudden fright swept over her heart. He was rich now, and she was poor. Would it make any difference with him. She tried to put the chilling thought from her, for it made her heart turn cold as ice. Her gentle eyes did not close in sleep all the long night through. Her pillow was wet with tears. The one prayer on her lips was: "I pray to Heaven this may make no change in him; that he will care for me as much as when he sent me the poem."

She had not seen Lester Armstrong since he had taken his new position as proprietor of the great establishment, and now, when his bell rang for her, no wonder the girl's heart leaped into her mouth, and involuntarily she looked into the long pier glass eagerly. Ah, it was a fair face reflected there. There were few fairer, with its delicate coloring framed in nut-brown curls, gathered back so carelessly from the white brow, and there was a light in the brown eyes beautiful to behold. She had been wondering only the moment before if the hero of her daydreams had forgotten her, and lo! the summons of his bell had seemed to come in answer to the thought.

With trembling, hopeful anticipation, Margery wended her way to her employer's office, taking the nearer route, not through the main office, where her father was, but by a more direct narrow passage, which was seldom used.

All unmindful of his daughter's presence in the main office, the old cashier had bent his steps thither for instructions regarding the bill which had just been presented, but he had scarcely reached out his hand to knock, ere he heard a blood-curdling, piercing scream, in a woman's voice, from within, and recognized, in horror too great for words, the voice of his own daughter, his Margery!



CHAPTER XIX.

PRETTY MARGERY'S TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.

Pretty Margery Conway had made her way eagerly enough to Mr. Lester Armstrong's private office, but her light tap on the door brought no response, and, as it was slightly ajar, she pushed it open and stepped across the threshold.

To her great surprise she saw that her employer was deeply engrossed in the pictures of a comic weekly, and the loud "Ha! ha! ha!" that fell from his lips struck upon the girl's sensitive nerves most unpleasantly.

She was wondering how she should make her presence known to him, when suddenly he turned around, and then he saw her and a quick gleam of intense admiration leaped into his bold, dark eyes at the vision of the lovely, blushing, dimpled face of the slender, graceful young girl.

"I am here in response to your summons, Mr. Armstrong," she said, with much embarrassment. "Your bell rang so imperatively that—"

"I didn't ring any bell, my dear," he exclaimed, "but still I am uncommonly glad to see you. Sit down and we'll have a little chat."

"There is a customer awaiting my return as soon as you—"

"Oh, hang the customer," cut in Kendale. "Sit down, pretty one, and we'll make each other's acquaintance."

Margery looked at him in helpless bewilderment.

Had handsome Lester Armstrong, the hero of her dream, gone suddenly mad, she wondered?

"Sit down, my dear," he reiterated, "don't look at me in such affright. I'm not an ogre; I don't intend to eat you, though, upon my honor, those peachy cheeks and pomegranate lips are most wonderfully tempting."

Margery was so intensely surprised she was fairly speechless—incapable of word or action.

From where she stood the fumes of strong brandy reached her, and she realized that the man before her was under its influence to an alarming extent.

No wonder her pretty face paled; even her lips grew white.

She stood before him as one mesmerized by the baleful gleam in his merciless concentrated gaze, as the fluttering, frightened bird does in the presence of the deadly serpent that means to destroy it.

"Won't be sociable, eh?" muttered Kendale. "You are not diplomatic; you don't know your own interests. Sit down here and tell me all about yourself—how long you have been here, and all about it. I ought to know, of course, but I forget. Come, brush up my memory a bit, won't you?"

"Your memory seems indeed very poor all at once," said Margery, spiritedly, "considering the fact that you have known me since I was a little child"—and, in spite of her efforts at self-control, big tears brimmed over the pretty eyes and rolled down the round cheeks.

In an instant Kendale was on his feet.

"There, there, Susie, don't cry," he said, reaching her side quickly and grasping both of the little clasped hands in one of his.

"You must have some one else in your mind—that is quite evident. Please to recollect that I am Margery Conway, not—not Susie—whoever she may be."

He laughed a rollicking, maudlin laugh. The brandy was beginning to diffuse itself through his brain.

"I'll never call you anything but Margery again," he cried, "beautiful, peerless Margery, the sweetest, jolliest, most bewitching and lovable shop girl in all New York."

The young girl looked at him with dilated eyes. Every impulse in her terrified heart warned her to turn and fly from the place, but it was all in vain. She could not have moved hand or foot if her very life had been the forfeit.

"So you are toiling away in a place like this for a mere pittance," he went on; "probably hardly enough to keep soul and body together. That's a confounded shame for a pretty girl like you. Work isn't for such as you—you ought to be out in the sunshine, dressed in silks and velvets and diamonds galore. It's bad enough for the old and ugly—those whose hair is streaked with gray and around whose eyes the crow's feet have been planted by the hand of time, to work—ay, toil for their bread. By Jove, I say you are far too lovely for such a fate!"

"Sir!" cried Margery, drawing herself up to her fullest height. "I work for my living, but I want you to understand that I am proud of the fact, instead of deeming it a disgrace, as you seem to think it.

"Up to this hour I have always considered you a man of honor—one of nature's noblemen—a gentleman. Now I know you as you are—a roue—ay, a scoundrel. I would scorn to remain another hour in your employ. Money earned in this establishment from this moment would burn my fingers."

"Hoity-toity! Don't get big feelings too suddenly, my pretty dear," he cried, with a load, hilarious laugh. "Lord! what simpletons some girls are! You're standing in your own light, pretty one! Can't you see that?"

"Sir!" cried Margery, struggling to free herself from the grasp of his strong hand, "it is dastardly, it is cowardly to summon me here to subject me to—insult."

"'Pon my honor, I want to be friendly, but you won't have it so—you seem determined to kick up a row. Come, now, be friendly; sit down here and we'll talk it over."

"Unhand me!" cried Margery in terror. "Let me go, or I shall scream for help!"

"You won't do any such thing, my little ruffled birdling," he cut in, an angry light leaping up into his eyes, adding: "I am disposed to treat you very kindly, but you seem determined to make an enemy of me instead of a friend, my dear, and your reason ought to tell you how foolish that is. Come, be sensible and listen to me. I've taken a violent fancy to that pretty face of yours. We must be friends—excellent friends. That's a good beginning, you know."

Margery glanced toward the door, the fright deepening in her eyes. He had placed himself between her and the door, kicking it to with his foot.

He saw that quick glance, and read it aright, and his brow darkened.

"Don't be a little fool!" he cried. "Don't anger me, girl. You had better make a friend instead of an enemy of me."

"Your enmity or friendship is a matter of equal indifference to me now," gasped Margery, sobbing bitterly.

"You have slain my respect for you. I—I am sorry—sorry from the bottom of my heart—that I realize you have fallen from such a noble height in my estimation."

"That's all bosh and moonshine," hiccoughed Kendale; "respect and high pedestal of honor and all that sort of thing. You're among the clouds; get down to earth. I'm only a man—you mustn't take me for a little god. Come, now, what in the name of reason is the use of making such a fuss over this thing, and storming like an angry princess on the stage because I tell you frankly that I've taken a notion to you. By George, you ought to be mighty pleased to know that you've captured the fancy of a man like me, with no end of money at my command. Do you realize that, little one?"

The girl's terror was growing intense with each passing moment.

Her horror and dread of the man before her was a thousand-fold greater at that moment than her admiration for Lester Armstrong had been in days gone by. He seemed to her a different being in the same form—one suddenly transformed from all that was manly and noble to a very fiend incarnate.

An awful stillness had fallen over the girl—a full realization of the meaning of his jocular remarks was just dawning upon her. She was looking at him with the awful pallor of death on her lovely young face.

"Come, my pretty Margery," he cried, quite mistaking the reason that her struggle to free herself from his clasping hand had so suddenly ceased; "now you are falling into a more complaisant mood. I am glad of that. Sit down and we'll talk. I must lock that door, or some blundering fool will be stumbling in without taking the trouble to knock. But first give me a kiss from those sweet lips, my dear, to assure me you don't quite dislike me, you know."

As he spoke he flung his arm about the girl's slender waist, and it was then that Margery's piercing scream rang out so loudly upon her father's ears, fairly electrifying him as he stood with his hand upon the knob of the door of the private office.



CHAPTER XX.

A FATHER'S RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION

For an instant the old cashier stood like one suddenly paralyzed before the door of the private office from which that terrified scream had issued.

Great God! was he mad or dreaming, that he should imagine he heard his daughter Margery's voice calling for help from within?

But even as he stood there, trembling, irresolute, the piercing cry was repeated more shrilly, more piteous than before, and it cut through the frightened father's heart like the thrust of a dagger.

"I am coming, I am here, Margery!" he answered, twisting the bronze knob fiercely; But the door did not yield to his touch as usual, and to his horror he realized that it was locked upon the inside!

With the fury of a tiger, David Conway threw himself against it with all his strength; strong as the lock was, it could not withstand the weight that was brought to bear upon it, and in an instant it was snapped asunder, the door falling in with a crash.

With a terrible imprecation Kendale wheeled about, his grasp around the girl's waist slackening for a single instant.

And in that instant Margery sprang from him, darting into the arms of her father, who had leaped over the threshold.

"How dare you enter here?" shrieked Kendale, fairly beside himself with baffled rage.

The old cashier thrust his daughter behind him and walked up to the foiled villain, gazing him steadily, unflinchingly in the eye.

"I am here just in time to defend my child," he cried, white to the lips, "and here to chastise you, you villain, old man as I am"—and with the rapidity of lightning his clinched fist fell upon the face of the man before him with stinging blows, that resounded with all the strength and force of a steel hammer.

Kendale, who was by this time entirely under the influence of the brandy he had imbibed, was no match for the enraged cashier, who followed up his advantage by ringing blows, which fell as thick and fast as driving hail, until the other, coward as he was, fell down on his knees before him, shrieking out for mercy.

The unusual disturbance soon brought a throng of cashiers, bookkeepers and clerks flocking to the scene.

The old cashier turned upon them, holding up his hand to stay their steps as they crowded over the threshold, Mr. Wright, the manager, calling upon him anxiously to explain at once this unusual scene—this disgraceful encounter between his employer, who seemed unable to speak because of his injuries, and himself.

"It is due you all to know just what has happened," replied the old cashier, in a high, clear voice, "but I say to you, by the God above me, if this hound dares arise from his knees ere I have finished, I will kill him before your very eyes. There is something he has to say before you all while still on his knees. Let no man speak until I have had my say, and then you—my companions of years, my fellow-workers, my friends of a lifetime—shall judge of my action in this matter and deal with me accordingly."

The scene was so extraordinary that no man among them seemed capable of uttering so much as a syllable, so great was their consternation at beholding their employer on his knees, groveling before the old cashier, who stood over him like an aroused, avenging spirit.

In a voice high and clear the old cashier, whom they had known and revered for years, told his story in a simple, straightforward way, yet quivering with excitement, drawing his terror-stricken daughter Margery into the shelter of his strong arms as he spoke.

"I am Margery's father—her only protector," he said, in conclusion. "Is there a man among you with a father's heart beating in his bosom who would not have done as I have done to the villain who dared to thus insult his child. Ay, there are men among you who would not have hesitated to have stricken him dead with a single blow—who would have considered it a crime to have spared him."

By this time Kendale was recovering from the stunning blows which had been dealt him—realized that help was at hand; the employees would be in duty bound to protect him from the enraged man before him.

He realized, too, that the old cashier meant that he should remain there on his knees and beg the girl's pardon before all these people.

Ere Mr. Conway could judge of his design the bogus Lester Armstrong had bounded to his feet and into the midst of the crowd.

"You are discharged!" he cried, turning to the old cashier. "I will give you just ten minutes to get out of this building—you and the girl, both of you. It was a plan hatched up between you and her to extort money from me."

The old cashier attempted to spring at him, but the strong hands of indignant, pitying friends held him back.

Suddenly he stopped short, saying, with a dignity wonderful to behold:

"It is not necessary, I think, to ask any of you, who all know me so well and know also my little Margery, not to give credence to so heinous a statement. I am going from this place, friends. I would not stay another moment in this villain's employ, nor would my Margery, though he weighed us down with all the wealth the world holds. Come, Margery."

The crowd slowly parted, making way for them, and together Margery and her father passed through the line of sympathizing faces, hand in hand—the old man white, stern and resolute, pretty Margery sobbing as though her heart would break.

Mr. Wright, the manager, who had been—like the old cashier—fully five and twenty years beneath that roof, turned and faced the throng, saying, huskily:

"Mr. Armstrong, I herewith tender you my resignation. My friend of a lifetime is going, and I shall go, too."

"And I," "And I," "And I," quickly rang out, voice after voice.

"Confound you all, I discharge the whole lot of you!" shouted Kendale, now quite sobered by the excitement he was passing through. "Don't think your going troubles me even a little bit. The set of men don't live who will ever trouble me or my business!"

With great rapidity the men fled from the private office, and, without waiting even to close their ledgers, took down their coats and hats, got into them quickly and filed downstairs.

Kendale never could fully comprehend how it happened that in five minutes' time the five hundred employees of the place heard what had occurred, and in less time than it takes to recount it the strangest event that had ever taken place in the annals of a great New York business house occurred—there was a mighty uproar and by one accord the great throng of employees quitted their tasks—badly as they needed work—and dashed out into the street, leaving the vast emporium to the hundreds of astonished customers with which it was crowded at that hour.

For an instant Kendale was horror-stricken when he realized what was occurring.

"God Almighty!" he gasped, "I am ruined, disgraced! A thousand furies take that girl; but she shall pay dearly for this. The police will be here to quell the riot and disperse the crowd outside, and turn out the people who are still inside!"

Looking from the window, he saw that the throng of angry employees were gathered around the old cashier and his daughter in a mighty mob.

"Good Lord! if Halloran were only here, to advise me this time," he muttered, turning pale with fear. He could hear their loud, angry voices hurling imprecations at him, and he knew full well that he would never be able to pass through that throng of thoroughly aroused and angry men without their doing him bodily injury, and he told himself in affright that all the Marsh millions for which he had bartered his soul would not save him from the hands of that raging mob.



CHAPTER XXI.

"I LIKE HER BETTER THAN ANY I HAVE MET—I SHALL MARRY HER."

Kendale was clever and quick of resource. He realized that there must be sudden action on his part. Should he fly headlong from the place and give up all? Then a remembrance of the yacht and the horses came to him, and he set his teeth hard together.

"I will see this game through, come what may," he muttered.

At that instant a daring thought came to him, and he acted upon it before he could have time to back down through cowardice.

Throwing open the window wide, he stepped boldly out upon the ledge in full view of the angry crowd of five hundred employees.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he exclaimed, raising his voice to a high key that all might hear, "I have something to say, and it is only due me that you should listen and then pass judgment.

"Please believe me, one and all, I had no thought, no wish to offend Mr. Conway's pretty daughter Margery. I may as well own the truth. I had fallen desperately in love with the girl and was telling her so, and was just on the point of asking her to accept me as a suitor for her hand when she, mistaking my motives, it appears, called for assistance, and I was not permitted to speak in order to explain.

"Assuring her and all of you that my motives were most honorable, I beg of you to reconsider leaving me in this abrupt fashion. Return to your posts of duty, and this little difficulty will be adjusted satisfactorily to you and to Miss Conway."

Kendale was used to making a hit with an audience—used to throwing his soul, as it were, into anything he had to say.

The effect on the crowd below was magical; for a moment they were stunned.

The old cashier was almost stunned. The young millionaire was just about proposing marriage to Margery! Why, what a mistake he had made—what a terrible mistake! Even Margery had fallen back a step or two and was clinging to her father's hand in the greatest amazement.

"I—I think I was mad, friends and fellow-workers," he exclaimed, huskily. "I believe I was too precipitate in this affair.

"It is so long since I was young I—I had forgotten that it is the custom of men now, as in the years long since gone by, to speak to a maiden of love before he said anything of marriage.

"It did not occur to me that the great millionaire wanted my little girl for his wife, as he now says.

"Hear me, friends, one and all. I most heartily regret causing this disturbance and I move that we return to our places, as our employer suggests."

There was a murmur of assent among the throng; then, all in a body, they moved forward, entering the building again; and in less than five minutes' time matters were moving on quite as smoothly once more as though no sudden upheaval had ever occurred in the great dry goods establishment.

Mr. Conway, however, was too upset to attend further to his duties that afternoon, and accepted the manager's suggestion that he should go to his home, Margery accompanying him.

Meanwhile Kendale had thrown himself down into the nearest chair, breathing hard, feeling like a general who had achieved a most wonderful victory.

"A few soft, silvery words saved me this time," he muttered, "but it throws the girl on my hands. Well, I suppose I will have to propose marriage to her now—every one expects it; there would be a terrible rumpus kicked up if I did not. Well, let there be an engagement between us; that doesn't mean that there will be a marriage, by any means. The engagement can drag along three or four years, and then we can break off. By that time I shall be ready to marry the heiress of the Fairfax millions. Ah, how much easier it is to scheme for a fortune than to toil for one, as most poor mortals do."

The entrance of the manager with the bill for the hundred and twenty-five thousand put an end to his musings and plans for the present. Mr. Wright emerged from the office ten minutes later with a very troubled expression on his face. It was dearly patent to him that Mr. Lester Armstrong did not care how badly the business was crippled, so long as he secured the yacht and the fast horses.

From that first day, so full of awkward and almost fatal mistakes, Kendale spent as little time as was absolutely necessary in the establishment of Marsh & Company, as it was still called, preferring to let all of the business cares fall upon the manager's already weighted shoulders.

In less than a week it was noised about social circles that the young man who had so suddenly dropped into millions of money was something of a sport—a yachtsman whose magnificent yachting parties were the wonder of the metropolis; a horseman whose racing stables were second to none and were worth a handsome fortune; and it was hinted that he seemed no stranger at cards and gambled sums of gold that would have purchased a king's ransom at a single game—until those who looked on in speechless wonder were sure he must have exhaustless wealth. Every one prophesied, however, that this reckless extravagance must have an ending some time. Meanwhile society held out its arms to the young millionaire, welcoming him with its sweetest smiles.

The date which he had set to dine with the Fairfaxes, of Beechwood, rolled around at last, and for once in his life Kendale, or rather the bogus Lester Armstrong, was punctual in his appointment.

He was ushered into a drawing-room of such magnificence that for a moment he fairly caught his breath in wonder.

"So this was the home of Faynie Fairfax, the girl whom I wedded in the old church and who died so suddenly on her bridal eve," he soliloquized. "Well, all this could be mine for the fighting for it as Faynie's husband, who has survived her, but, as Halloran would say, 'It's a deal easier getting the same fortune by marrying the stepmother's daughter, who has come into it by Faynie's father cutting her off at the eleventh hour.'

"I wonder what the girl Claire is like."

There was a portrait of a young girl done in water colors over the mantel. He stepped over to examine it.

"If this is Claire's portrait she's certainly not bad looking," he mused, "but she is one I should not care to cross."

The figure was slight, draped in a gown of some light, airy fabric. The head was small, crowned in a mass of waving dark hair. The contour of the face was perfect; a pair of deep gray eyes looked out of it straight at you; the lips were small, but a little too compressed, showing that the owner of them had certainly a will of her own, which it was neither wise nor best to cross.

He was startled from his contemplation by the sound of silken robes rustling across the carpet, and, wheeling suddenly about, he was confronted by a tall, slim, magnificent woman, who welcomed him most graciously to Fairfax House.

"My daughter Claire will join us in a very few minutes. Ah, she is here now," she announced, as a swift step was heard in the corridor outside; a moment later the portieres parted, and the young girl whose portrait he had been critically analyzing entered the room.

"I shall know at once by the first words he utters whether I shall like him or not," thought the girl, looking straight into his face with her fearless, keen, gray eyes. "He is handsome, and that generally goes with great conceit, Faynie always said."

"I hope we shall be friends, Miss Fairfax," he said, extending his hand and bowing low over the little brown one that lay for an instant in his palm.

"There is a great mistake evident at the outset," said the girl, looking up into his face. "Mamma said just now: 'This is my daughter Claire.' I think mamma intended to add, 'Miss Claire Stanhope.' Mr. Fairfax was my steppapa."