"To police precinct station No. 2."

Going there, Oswald asks about an old man, that morning arrested on Broadway, near Trinity Church.

No such prisoner had been brought to that station.

He learns there will be a session of police court that afternoon at the new Criminal Court Building. The prisoner will be there for arraignment.

Oswald takes the elevated train to Franklin Street, goes over to this building, and awaits opening of that afternoon's session.

Looking about the court-room, he sees that same innocent-appearing old chap, still expostulating with his stern captor, who soothes him with the assurance:

"Yez will warble a different chune at Sing Sing!"

Oswald decides to await the court's action in this case before making any explanations. Possibly no interference may be necessary. He observes that the newsboy is not present.

For over two hours Oswald listens to the proceedings of this tribunal. The docket is cleared of many trivial cases, and more serious matters are sent to the Special or General Sessions.

All this seems strangely offhand and informal, but he reasons that such, being of daily occurrence, sentimental scruples are in natural abeyance.

Michael Patrick O'Brien is signaled by a court official, steps proudly forward, and makes an explanation of his morning's prowess.

With skeptical smile the magistrate looks at that felonious, would-be kidnaper of a juvenile innocent, and asks for the boy.

Michael explains little Jack's sprinting performance, adding:

"It was ivident, yer honner, that the skeert child feart that owld vilyun more than the noime of the law."

Just then an officer who had been on duty near the South Ferry stepped forward and cleared the situation.

"This old man is a peaceful, respected resident, living a little way from Battery Park. He has grown sons and daughters in the city. With a score of grandchildren making bedlam at his home, it is not likely he would steal a newsboy."

The old man looked both relieved and vexed. This unexpected intervention would help him out of trouble, but he preferred not being recognized in such a role. At the station he had refused to tell his name or residence.

With a smile, the judge said:

"Turn your kidnapper loose!"

Escorted by the crestfallen Michael, he left, returning to the station for money and watch.

The last words Oswald heard from this diplomatic representative of New York man-catchers were:

"Indade yez in luck to have inflooenz! It was me own resarve that yez did not git the limits! If iver Oi nades a rickomindashun, yer noime will head the soobscripshun!"

Oswald learned that in the vicinity of this arrest, Broadway was the dividing line between police precincts Nos. 1 and 2. Having been arrested on the east side of Broadway, the old man was taken to precinct station No. 1, or "Old Slip."

Michael Patrick O'Brien was not a member of the regularly appointed city police force. He was a special, this being his initial exploit.

Oswald viewed numerous objects of interest while awaiting that letter from Sir Donald Randolph. Though aware that through uncertainty of Sir Donald's stay at any particular place there might be prolonged delay, he feels sure that when his letter is received, answer will be prompt.

Often is felt unutterable loneliness. There is nothing like immense crowds of strangers in a strange land to make individual segregation absolute.

At times only that image-something, somehow, from somewhere, reflected into recesses of his consciousness, avails against childish fretting and petulant protest. From outer or inner depths, occasionally come suggestive glimpses and assuring voices.

The first Sabbath after his arrival in New York Oswald attended church. Not since that Northfield visit had this son of a clergyman heard a sermon or prayer.

The familiar ritual of the Episcopal Church is not used, yet responsive chords vibrate to some mystic touch. The church is plain and music faulty. In pulpit utterances there is nothing strikingly trite or profound. The preacher has none of oratorical gifts. Oswald cannot account for his own interest. While those imperfectly sharped and flatted notes are sounding, he wonders if that peculiarly adjusted, harmonious Sense, quickening at scream of seagull or roar of ravenous beast, would not miss these poorly pitched tones more than Gabriel's highest or Creation's ever-echoing oratorio.

Listening to doctrinal directions as to ceremonial observances radically differing from other beliefs, Oswald thinks of the big-hearted Father, tenderly amused at zeal of His children in their many ways of seeking that coveted smile.

Despite these surroundings, the morning's moods had been so comfortable that in the evening Oswald attended services at one of New York's prominent churches, where he listened to grand music by a skillful choir, and a scholarly sermon from an able preacher.

But the emotional key ranged capriciously.

A good-looking assistant, in dictatorial tones, told the world's Helper what was expected. The choir sang well a hymn, the burden of which was expressed in oft-repeated phrase:

"Save Thy servant who trusteth in Thee."

Oswald found himself wondering if there ever were any real need for such prayer. Loss of one such trusting, faithful soul would drape the stars in blackest bunting.

After the reading of scriptural selections, a slim, consumptive-looking youth, with a sympathetic, long-range voice, exquisitely sang a solo, the most effective part of which was:

"O Israel, He redeemeth thee."

From recollections of Bible accounts, Oswald thought Israel required frequent redemption, though that apostrophized by the impressive exclamation was neither exclusively nor peculiarly Semitic.

The preacher's theme was "Overcoming the World."

Though the subject was ably and eloquently treated, that listener found his ideas ranging at various angles to those of the speaker. It seemed so characteristic of venerable manhood to dwell on old heroes whose exploits impressed youthful fancy, so hard to canonize any person whom we had met and understood.

In commenting upon great deeds of famous men, the nearest approach to present times was the preacher's reference to George Washington.

During the week Oswald had been reading about conspicuous actors in the American Civil War, and still more recent history of the Republic. Martial dreams had been renewed. While those ancient notables were being paraded before that congregation, others more recent posed upon Oswald's "boards."

Tall, lank ghost, thy patient, kindly brow marred by assassin's lead! Mighty warrior shade, bearing upon thy tense, heroic face traces of Mount McGregor's pain! Thou from Atlanta march! Thou from Winchester ride! Thou from Mentor Mecca, thy glazing orbs lighting with boyhood's longing for ocean's trackless wave! And ye mighty hosts of marching and countermarching nineteenth-century worthies, witness bear to worth of your most thrilling times!

Still that sermon was very well prepared, and doubtless met the preacher's critical approval.

It ought not to be expected that this able divine gauge his expressed thoughts by fancies of an erratic youth under abnormal, emotional pressure.

Gazing at some of those richly attired communicants as in elegant carriages they were driven homeward, Oswald wondered if it were easy or hard for such to "overcome the world."

Though shunning the forming of any intimate friendships, Oswald longed for that sympathy which comes from human contact. Watching the exchanges of mutual good-will between many, he envied their freedom from his own restraints. At times even effusive flutterings of social butterflies seemed rational compared with such hampering reserve and forced discretion.

Oswald was an omnivorous reader, but never could restrain his interest to set pace of the author's art. In this haste many little touches of sentiment were overlooked, but strong points were quickly grasped and held by a tenacious memory. His waking hours were occupied mostly in sight-seeing and in this rapid process of book and paper assimilation.

As in his perusal of American military exploits, which revived boyish fancies tempered by maturing thought, so sentiments appealing to lapsed memories and living pictures that suggested even profiles or silhouettes of once familiar views took on new significance and transfigured tints.

The second Sunday after Oswald's arrival in New York he attended morning services at St. Thomas' Church, and afterward strolled over to Central Park. He is seated near the statue of Alexander Hamilton. While pondering over the tragic fate of this "great secretary," Oswald failed to notice an elegantly dressed gentleman who in passing stared inquiringly. Looking up, he sees a familiar face smiling in questioning surprise. Claude Leslie grasps Oswald's extended hand, and with many an ejaculated "Well!" leads him to the carriage.

During Oswald's reverie, Claude, in passing, caught a view of that handsome face which so often lighted with its fine expressions in Himalaya camp. The carriage stops, and Claude returns to confirm his impression. With offhand cordiality, Claude takes charge of this interesting friend.

Though Oswald feels some embarrassment and a little doubt as to the outcome, he can but rejoice at such welcome change. Fortunately Claude is alone in the carriage. Explanations need not be heard by others. Besides, Claude had shown respect for Oswald's reserve.

During their ride through the park they chat pleasantly about former experiences. Claude asks where his friend is stopping, and suggests that when convenient he would like to show him the sights. However, he will not intrude on Oswald's time, except when agreeable.

"I have all the time there is, but you may have your own plans."

That evening Oswald accepted an invitation to dine at his friend's elegant apartments. There were no other guests.

Claude learns that Oswald will not object to limited acquaintance with congenial people, and likes seeing objects of local interest.

They mingled quite freely with prominent male residents, and met not a few popular local celebrities of the gentler sex.

Though having no hint as to the nature of Oswald's troubles, Claude was most considerate. When shielding his friend from possible embarrassments, there was such apparent offhand frankness that for the time Oswald forgot former stresses. Even Claude's silences or evasive replies to questions about his friend's past life seemed casual inadvertence or preoccupation.

Claude Leslie had easy entree to both business and social circles.

Oswald attributed gracious greetings and cordial welcomes to Claude's tact.

Doubtless he owed much to this source, but his own chastened manners, refined, brilliant conversation, suggestiveness of romantic interest, and good looks, were the most potent factors.

Among male acquaintances then formed were some prominent in business and politics. Oswald met young men who were social favorites in exclusive circles. Some of these soon afterward won robust renown at Las Guasimas and upon the slopes of San Juan.

Oswald's pensive reserve made him an interesting enigma to social belles. Claude jokingly remarked:

"It is evident that this Englishman is not seeking matrimonial alliance with any 'Gotham' heiress."

In explanation of his friend's occasional preoccupied, listless irresponsiveness, Claude said:

"Perhaps there is a continuing infatuation across the Atlantic."

One day Claude proposed that Oswald, as his guest, accompany him on a sight-seeing tour of the Western States. This was just what would have most pleased Oswald but for that expected letter from Sir Donald Randolph.

He every day looked for a reply. Oswald could not think of then leaving on a prolonged trip.

Expressing gratitude for the invitation, he declined, assigning his daily expectation of important news from England.

Claude excused Oswald, adding, in pleasant banter:

"I hope congratulations soon will be in order, but bring her to New York!"

To this Oswald responded with a sadly suggestive smile.

Next day, at the Grand Central Station, these friends parted.

Oswald greatly missed Claude Leslie's congenial society and contagious enthusiasm. That expressive face became familiar to general-delivery mail-clerks, who could tell the non-arrival of expected letter, yet carefully looked, for his better assurance.

In this extremity Oswald seeks the society of an Italian guide, who as protege of Claude Leslie often piloted these friends through parts of "darker" New York.

From the first Oswald felt an interest in Marco Salvini. This grew with each meeting. Though much pleased, the guide often responded with looks of blank wonder. Claude Leslie had noted this capricious favor, but regarded it as an out-growth from Oswald's peculiar temperament, influenced by self-inflicted social reserve. But these marked attentions soon suggested to Claude a cause more significant. The guide's likeness to that bandit who died in Himalaya camp was most striking. It seemed that this sentimental Englishman yet felt compunction for that fatal shot.

After Claude's departure, Oswald's fancy again reverts to this Italian. Going to neighborhood of "Five-Points," he calls at proper number, but gets no information, except that Marco Salvini has been away two days. In front of "Five-Points House of Industry" he pauses to reflect.

A new sensation of dizziness is felt. Oswald braces against the brick wall, facing "Five-Points Mission." The bewildering faintness is brief, yet he still stands in reverie. In recent years much had been done for this formerly depraved neighborhood. His thoughts cross the sea to an embowered spot, near a beautiful lake, where one timidly and in faltering accents had announced her solemn consecration to like humble yet exalted ministry. In striking contrast appears a chafing, petulant suitor, privately protesting against such infatuation and indignantly railing at spiritual advisers. The sacrifice now seems more rational, and the advice kindly considerate. Was that modestly brilliant, sweetly fascinating girl engaged in her chosen mission?

Oswald recalls Claude Leslie's accounts of charitable deeds and gifts by benevolent persons in support of this beneficent work among the poor. How worthy of emulation the helpful ministries and charities of one Gotham heiress, proceeds of whose inherited millions are finding distribution in these and kindred lines!

Passing along Park Street to Mott intersection, Oswald meets the priest who officiates at the church near there.

That guide had spoken of this man, and Oswald thinks here is a possible chance to learn present whereabouts of Marco Salvini.

He is shocked to hear that two days before this Italian had been nearly crushed to death by a car collision, and is now at St. Vincent's.

Oswald loses no time in delay. Going promptly to the hospital, he is admitted to proper ward. Upon assurance of his friendship for the injured man, he is permitted to remain. For a week he watches, eating and sleeping little.

Oswald becomes ill, and is soon delirious. For a long time his strong will had braced against the insidious disease. The fever laid sure hold on that athletic frame, and its course was relentless.

Two days after Oswald was stricken, Marco Salvini died.

The continuous attentions of this quiet stranger at that Italian's cot had attracted the notice and won the regard of those in charge.

From this patient there were neither confidences nor complaints. During earlier deliriums utterances seemed held in check by that coercive will, but as the disease wasted vital energies speech became strikingly suggestive.

With some disregard to order of their occurrence, many tragic happenings were reenacted during these delirious states.

Oswald is again at Northfield, along the lake, and upon the Thames. They are now on the road from Calcutta.

"What a dreary stretch! 'So foolish was I and ignorant!'"

The scene changes to Himalaya slope.

"Lie still, Karl! I will hit him hard!"

From another room come violin strains of "Ave Maria."

Opening his eyes with a start, they settle upon the crucifix pendent from the neck of the sweet-faced nun.

"Poor fellow! I shot too straight!"

Again he gazes on that sacred symbol.

"'Thou that takest away—takest away—away the sin of the world'—his sin, poor fellow! Mine too!"

Staring at his upturned palm lying on the spread, he exclaims:

"See that mark? It's blood! I shot too straight."

Higher rise the notes of the violin.

Rapturously those grand eyes turn toward the ceiling.

"Look! look! Wild flowers arch the mountains! See the graves, Karl! The clouds drop wreaths!"

There is another quiet lapse, then the patient tosses feverishly. The weeping nun says:

"He is making a hard fight!"

In startling response comes:

"'I was ever a fighter, so one fight more, The best and the last!'"

His view seems dazzled by the lights, and the good priest suggests that his eyes be shaded.

"'I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore and bade me creep past!'"

For a while Oswald seems quietly sleeping, then in confused accents mutters, and starting up, calls out:

"'Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set And blew; Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'"

These quotations fall upon the ears of priest and Sister of Charity with awfully solemn accents. They feel in presence of double mystery of life and death.

There is now naught to break the impressive silence but ticking of a clock and distant rumble of the elevated trains. No word had been uttered by this patient giving any clew to his religious training. The friend at whose cot this stranger so faithfully watched was a professed believer. Too, those fixed glances at the crucifix and solemn utterances suggested belief in the "atoning merits." Priest and nun exchange inquiring looks, then intently gaze at that quiet sleeper.

Oswald stirs, opens his eyes, tosses feebly, and in low tones says:

"A squall! They reef the sails! A typhoon!"

After brief pause he whispers audibly:

"Dark! So dark!" Then exclaims:

"The star! the star! Mother!"

Somewhere in pulsing zone, circling this vexed human state, there is commotion. Rock-posing Barjona, think not to question this outgoing! At sight of inverted spike-prints echoes not yet that morning crowing in old Jerusalem?

Faster than light, swifter than sweep of angelic herald, quicker than aught else than Infinite quickening at human prayer, speeds the mystery of motherhood.

Gently ministering to most intricate throbbings of that suspended spirit consciousness, as her own had dominated embryo pulsings pending expectant miracle of birth, each disordered beat is soothed to rest. Who may more than hint those voices, sounding not above the din of life—whisperings to That, not always checked by vesturing clay nor indexed by crude registers of flesh?

Oswald lay long in this still sleep. The fevered crisis past, he slowly returns to conscious memory. There seems no curiosity as to future plans. When there is but slight danger of relapse, the nun who had been present at critical stage asks his name, and suggests that he may desire his mail brought to the hospital. This seems proper. It soon arrives. There is only one letter, but this bears a suggestive postmark. Its contents electrify Oswald, who hardly can restrain his joy. His impulse is to confide the good news to that kind-hearted sister who stands smiling at this handsome patient. Oswald checks his feelings and remarks:

"It is only good news from England, sister!"

The nun now learns that Oswald's home is near London, and that he has been away for years.

The rigid reserve relaxes, and he talks freely, yet saying nothing about causes for such absence. Recovery is now rapid. The letter arrived in New York about three weeks before its delivery at the hospital.

Not knowing anything about Oswald's past life or name, there had been no call for his mail.

As he would not be able to take the sea voyage for several days, a letter is sent, addressed to Sir Donald Randolph, stating the reasons for delay in receiving and answering, with expectation of being able to start homeward within two weeks. This had been dictated to an obliging nurse.

The now happy convalescent hardly can suppress within discreet bounds his longing for speedy return. Within three weeks from this date Oswald Langdon is aboard ship, booked for Southampton.



CHAPTER XXV

A ROGUE'S HEART AND CONSCIENCE

That evening's meeting was most interesting. Out of consideration for the feelings of Alice, Charles Randolph was absent until after those girl friends had exchanged tearful greetings and all embarrassments of the reunion were past. Sir Donald's and Esther's unfeigned hospitality eased any possible misgivings or restraints of their guests. Father and daughter seemed influenced by a glad hope that their future lives would find congenial association through this renewed confiding. Soon Sir Donald and Thomas Webster are conferring privately. That conditional promise is being kept sacred. The pledge is now without scruple. Reasons for such puzzling reservations are told. In abbreviated summary Sir Donald relates his own and detective tactics during that long pursuit of the Laniers.

Both clearly see the strange, romantic threads restraining them within coercive limits, interdicting helpful alliances while leading all at divergent angles of cross-purpose.

At a Randolph conference, Sir Donald said:

"I will privately tell the uncle about Oswald Langdon's escape from Thames drowning and strange after conduct. Of this miracle Alice can learn through her Uncle Thomas."

Charles Randolph, who had endured with becoming fortitude his voluntary absence, returns at the exact time limit. He is now formally presented to the girl whose image fascination so often had intruded upon his sentimental musings, assuming conspicuous place in ambitious dreams.

Sir Donald and that interesting uncle remain in extended conference, but their absence leaves little void.

After they joined the circle, all lingered until a late hour. They separated with mutual understanding that all would plan and act together.

Sir Donald had not written to Oswald Langdon. He thought it prudent to wait until after Alice's completed story. There now can be no need of further delay. This unhappy wanderer must be notified of recent revelations. After the evening meeting Sir Donald wrote a clear, ringing letter, in substance stating that Alice Webster was rescued from the Thames; for good reasons, until recently, concealed her identity; now lived with a relative in London, and had spent the evening with his family. Both Laniers were under arrest, and could not escape. There was no possible necessity for Oswald to remain away longer. Charles Randolph had returned from a long absence, and Esther was well. Alice Webster did not yet know of Oswald's being alive, but would hear it soon. All past troubles were clearing, and the future was hopeful. Oswald could reach Northfield soon as a letter from New York, but it would be better to write anyway. The letter closed with cheering words:

"Esther and Charles join me in congratulations, and hope for your speedy safe return."

This was that delayed epistle which so electrified an interesting convalescent in hospital ward across the sea.

While at Northfield before the arrests, Sir Donald had received Oswald's letter from New York announcing arrival and intention to remain until answer came.

As there then was no very sure prospect of the conspiracy being speedily cleared, Sir Donald delayed answering until some definite progress could be reported. When at Calcutta it had been agreed that Sir Donald should not write "except upon some important development." Oswald seemed to have forgotten this, as he expected sure reply upon receipt of his letter by Sir Donald.

Thinking that Oswald might inquire for mail under the agreed alias, Sir Donald also sent a copy so addressed. Because of Oswald's truthful response when questioned by the nun, this copy never was delivered.

Sir Donald and his friend now devoted their combined counsels to securing for Alice her father's estate.

Paul Lanier surely would be officially declared insane. This wretched victim of parental greed and criminal connivance could only excite most profound pity. Against this poor crazed creature neither now feels the least vindictive impulse.

Proper proceedings are instituted, resulting in Paul Lanier being committed as a madman. Nothing was said about Lanier crimes except killing of that Northfield sentinel.

In the struggle Paul and the guard had exchanged daggers.

Paul's crazed actions were sufficiently described by witnesses to make insanity conclusive. There had been such evident reserve as to convince onlookers of some suppressed evidence through understood, concerted restraints. Pierre was brought before the tribunal, but declined to testify. Paul frantically appealed to his father:

"Save your own Paul from these stranglers!"

He then lapsed into reverie, and muttered:

"The world shall see his bones!"

After Paul had been adjudged insane, Pierre sent for Sir Donald Randolph to visit him in prison.

That proceedings were about to be commenced against him Pierre had no doubt. Since his arrest a settled conviction that he was now within the coils of justice had been always present. Paul's hopeless derangement seemed to unnerve that cold-tempered, persistent will.

Pierre never had planned crime without some reference to the future of his only son. All heartless scheming and precautions had tended to unrest, culminating in Paul's dreadful disorder. Possibly justice longer might be impeded, but its course would be none the less sure and crushing.

Old religious precepts, forgotten in tense devotion to criminal purposes, come to mind. Odd sentimental moods occasionally are felt. Pierre keeps thinking about his own responsibility for Paul's awful state. In the solitude of his cell, he mutters:

"That inherited taint which, through soothing specific of quiet living, for two generations lay dormant, now spreads its ravages within Paul's distracted brain. All this is the work of one who knew of that mental disorder in maternal line, yet heeding not, nor giving care to its restraint or healing, has slain his boy's reason through tenacious holding to the fruits of crime.

"Paul's mother gave her life for his, yet I, his father, who tenderly reared the motherless babe through early childhood, and proudly looked upon maturing growth, sacrificed all upon the flameless altar of consuming greed."

At times Pierre's remorse is horrible. He thinks not of defrauded, murdered ward. Paul's victims raise no spectral hands of menace. To Pierre all other crimes shrink aghast at this most heinous incarnation of a father's guilt. He becomes indifferent to his own life. In despairing solicitude, he exclaims:

"Only that some relief come to that distracted head I gladly would pay the penalties of all my crimes!"

This desperate man even beseeches heaven for his son's relief. He prays not for himself, nor cares for personal deliverance. In all-absorbing concern for the crazed Paul, he dares appeal to divine compassion, without thought of self or pardon. Strange infatuation! Pierre grows hopeful, and feels some queer sense of grateful obligation. He slowly gropes and stumbles, while tenaciously turning his soul's blind orbs toward this dimly glimmering yet hopeful ray. Pierre faintly recollects the account of the "Gadirean" tenant of the tombs.

"Paul's case is not so serious as that, but who will pity my poor crazed boy?"

Pierre thinks of Sir Donald Randolph. This high-principled champion of the defrauded, murdered Alice Webster is Pierre's and Paul's uncompromising pursuer. That any other had set or kept in operation such tireless shadowings Pierre has no thought. This man can be neither cajoled nor bribed, yet may soften at frank avowal or direct appeal.

Pierre gives no thought to his own accountings. Through troubled night he has been thinking about his crazed boy. Suppose it might transpire that the prison portal swings open and he walks forth into the light of day a free man, what is there in life for Pierre Lanier? The only ogre shape whose boding presence for him has terrors is this avenging "sprite," Paul's growing craze.

Pierre could seek respite in suicide, but not thus might escape a father's heavy accounting. He has no thought of such evasive shift. In all the worlds, it seems to Pierre, there is none but he to pity Paul. But for the irrational hope of in some way ministering to stresses of this afflicted son, that guilty, wretched parent would, with bared brow and unflinching front, welcome fate's worst.

Pierre will make a decisive throw of the fateful dice. Calling the turnkey, he asks for paper and pencil. These are brought. Pierre writes a brief note to Sir Donald Randolph, handing it open to the surprised watcher. It is a simple request that Sir Donald come at once to see Pierre Lanier upon important matters.

Upon reference to superiors the note is sent by special messenger to Sir Donald's hotel. In a short time Sir Donald Randolph and Pierre Lanier are holding their first conference.

Knowing the crafty past of this schemer, Sir Donald anticipated some astute proposition in the Lanier interest. He was ill-prepared for one so direct and ingenuous.

Without the slightest attempt at preliminary fencing, Pierre says:

"I am run to cover and hopelessly besieged. I have no favors to ask, except such as may help my poor boy. I defrauded Alice, as you well know. I am ready to turn over to her estate, or to that of William Webster, all the proceeds of my embezzlement. The whole thing will amount in value to about six hundred thousand pounds. Do with me as you please, but because of my thus making your work easy it would not be amiss to have a care for Paul's comfort and cure. Except for that wronged child's good I care not what becomes of me."

To say that Sir Donald was surprised were mild reference to his amazement. For some moments he sat speechless, then in husky tones said:

"Your proposition seems most fair and honorable. I will think it over, and soon return."

In leaving, Sir Donald extends his hand. Pierre hesitates, then offers his own. Grasping that reserved palm, Sir Donald feels it tremble, while Pierre's body seems to collapse against the wall of his cell.

That there is any shamming or covert deceit in this strange proposition, Sir Donald now has not a semblance of suspicion.

After a conference with Thomas Webster, Sir Donald hastens back to the prison. He assures Pierre that the offer will be accepted.

"No pledges have been exacted and none will be given, but it will be my pleasure to alleviate in all possible ways Paul's unfortunate state."

Sir Donald then says:

"May it not be hoped that you can find some help in your own troubles?"

To this Pierre makes no reply, but turns away his face. In leaving, Sir Donald asks:

"When will it best suit you to give an inventory and make transfers?"

Pierre answers:

"The sooner the better. Please attend to it at once. You will know just how to proceed."

Next day Sir Donald visits at the prison, and obtains a full statement of property in Calcutta and London in which the estate of William Webster has interest. There is nothing said about the manner in which Pierre obtained possession. This strange criminal is making no detailed confession, but Sir Donald doubts not that restitution will be complete. Pierre tells what Calcutta banks are custodians of papers, shares of stock, other muniments of title and moneys. Minute descriptions of real property and chattels are given. Much of all this is held by trusted agents as ostensible owners, but he gives their names and addresses. Pierre will sign proper orders, and convey at any time all his interests and equities.

At an early after visit all necessary papers are duly executed, and Thomas Webster is constituted Pierre's lawful agent to make any further transfers. Pierre tells where may be found those unrecorded deeds perfecting Alice Webster's title to the London property.

The now earnest man evinces a strong determination that restitution be complete. To some suggestion of Sir Donald and Thomas Webster, that certain formalities could be waived, as they have no doubt of Pierre's good faith, he becomes impatient, and insists on compliance with every legal requirement.

Fortified with these documents, Thomas Webster soon left for Calcutta.

Nothing had been hinted about escapes of Oswald Langdon and Alice Webster from Paul's murderous assaults. Pierre still believes these had fallen victims to Paul's passionate, hasty revenge. Until the restitution becomes absolute by full recovery of all, Pierre will not be told about their strange escapes or after experiences.

There now will be no occasion for bringing of civil actions against Pierre Lanier. Even that conspiracy to defraud Alice out of London property can not be clearly established. That Pierre had to do in any of Paul's murderous assaults is not susceptible of competent proof, except in those upon the Dodges in Calcutta. Of these favorable circumstances Pierre knows little and cares less. But for Paul he would have found grim satisfaction in paying the most extreme penalties.

That uncle, before starting on his trip, arranged for delay in proceedings against Pierre Lanier, and suggested that the whole case might be simplified by judicious waiting.

Pierre makes no demand for a hearing or arraignment. All remains in status quo through irregular, concurring sufferance.

Sir Donald and family, accompanied by Alice Webster, leave for Northfield.

A letter is daily expected from Oswald Langdon. Alice and Charles seem forgetful of all former experiences. The attraction is mutual. They talk and laugh as though no shadow ever crossed the path of either or hung like a menacing cloud over that Northfield household. Alice heard of Oswald's escape and romantic conduct. She so long had thought of him as dead that these reports sound like ghostly recitals. Oswald Langdon's living, corporeal presence would seem as one long dead, whose reembodied spirit had been clothed anew with vesture of flesh. In dreams had she not beheld that drowned form lying at bottom of the fateful river? In far Bombay Alice conjured Oswald's fleshless skeleton into a fearful ogre fright for Paul Lanier. Again, along the lake had she stampeded this crazed madman by impressive promptings about those bleaching bones. To Alice Webster Oswald Langdon is surely dead. But how instinct and tremulous with pulsing life is that other handsome, manly presence whose eyes seek hers! Does he not know her strange romance, yet seem to feel that all is right? Charles's unfeigned admiration and growing interest cannot escape that father's observing glances, yet Sir Donald seems pleased. Esther sees all, and smiles approval. If these who know the worst make no protest, why should Alice feel scruples about the unhappy past?

Esther's expressive face lights at all announcements of letters, but grows pensive at each inspection of tell-tale postmarks. Sir Donald looks over each mail's assortment, and his eyes seek Esther's. That indulgent father remarks:

"Oswald Langdon may be away from New York a few days, and some time could elapse between receipt of my letter and sailing of ship carrying English mails."

From day to day that letter is looked for, and Esther seems as though hourly expecting some interesting visitor at Northfield. Her pretty dissembling is sure proof, but all concur in its bewitching seeming.

In the privacy of her room Esther consults maps of travel and transatlantic ship schedules. Names, dates, and descriptive particulars are confusing. Many very essential items of information seem lacking. What ship will Oswald take from New York? Is it seaworthy? When will the ship sail? Will the vessel be crowded or the cargo too heavy? Are there severe storms at this season?

All these and many other items of general information about ocean travel have been omitted.

Tremulously confiding in Brother Charles, now regarded as sufficiently sentimental for a safe bureau agent of nautical information, all Esther's puzzling queries are answered in clearest detail.

"Yes, there can be no doubt; Oswald took the very safest ship sailing out of New York; that vessel is never crowded or overloaded; in fact, only enough cargo is aboard for proper ballast; at this season the Atlantic is very calm; the ship is now near Southampton."

This is sufficient for present assurance. As days pass without expected letter or arrival, Esther grows skeptical as to Charles's marine lore, and appeals to her father. Sir Donald smiles at her recital of Charles's positive assurances, and tenderly toying with Esther's glossy tresses, says:

"All will be well; I have no fears. Daughter mine, times and tides, storms and calms, clouds and sunlight, come not amiss."

Next day Sir Donald received a second letter. Its contents accounted for all delay and waiting. With certainty that Oswald will not leave New York before two weeks from date of this letter, Esther feels a sense of resignation. He has escaped death, and soon will start homeward. She feels some fear of a possible relapse, but reasons that Oswald will take proper precautions. Delaying sailing showed discretion. Esther has some doubts about two weeks being sufficient after such a terrible sickness. Just then she would have advised waiting a few days longer.

The next fortnight passes slowly. Then came a letter from Oswald to Sir Donald. Under advice of his physician, he will wait another week before starting homeward. His passage is already engaged, and he gives the ship's name, with date when it will leave New York Harbor. After arrival at Southampton, he will visit his parents, and then at Northfield. Some pleasant things were written about anticipated reunions, and the letter closed with wish for remembrance to Esther, Alice Webster, and Charles Randolph.

There is regret at this waiting, but all approve Oswald's doing as advised by the physician.

Alice and Charles are not pensive over any delays. In conscious adjustment to the happy present, neither past nor future clouds their clear, sunlighted skies. Both feel that their lives soon will blend. Before that expected proposal neither doubted its utterance or acceptance. It came as easily as come responsive, happy greetings from eager lips and lustrous eyes. There is no doubt of that uncle's approval, but the nuptial ceremony can abide his return from Calcutta.

The next day after this betrothal came another letter from Oswald to Sir Donald, telling of his safe arrival at Southampton. He will visit his parents, and in three days from that date be at Northfield.

All experience a sense of expectant pleasure. Sir Donald feels that past worries are receding into waning retrospect. Charles is happy in his own right. Alice longs for a sight of that Thames resurrection while looking into the handsome face then smiling its admiration of her own. Bessie—well, this little fair-haired "find" says all sorts of pretty, indiscreet things, interrupts tete-a-tetes, intrudes upon conferences, artlessly domineers over everybody, closing each day's performances by going to sleep upon the arm of Sir Donald.

Without mishap Oswald reaches Southampton. The ocean voyage had been pleasant, and he feels buoyantly hopeful. He is impatient for the home reunion with father and mother. Anticipating their glad surprise at his safe return, Oswald pauses at the familiar portal out of which he had fled a disguised fugitive years before. He hesitates, then rings the bell. The door is opened, and his father looks inquiringly. There is glad recognition, and the rector leads his son to a chair, but both remain standing. Looking tearfully upward, the father holds Oswald's hand and says nothing. Both fix their eyes upon a new oil portrait. Sinking into a chair, Oswald whispers:

"Where is mother?"

To this comes only:

"Gone home!"

For an hour these stricken ones sit with clasped palms, neither crying nor indulging in spoken grief. Then, as if by mutual impulse, both talk of other things.

Oswald speaks of past troubles and present deliverances. He is now free from all suspicion, and can face the world without fear. Alice Webster is alive, and the Laniers are in custody.

The rector tells of his continued ministerial work and lonesome life.

That evening neither referred to their great loss. Upon the following day Oswald's father told about the mother's troubles after the son's flight, and related some of the incidents of her last sickness. Neither parent ever confided to any human being Oswald's plight, nor had either the least information about his fate.

"Mother talked and dreamed of her absent son. In sleep she sang cradle lullabys and gently reproved her 'own little Ossie.' For hours she would sit looking out of the window, expecting your return.

"Without apparent cause came that fatal attack. After a few days the physician said there was no hope. His diagnosis revealed no malignant disease, but indicated a total collapse of vital forces. For hours mother would lay at the window, clasping your boyhood miniature, often turning it toward the light of the sun or stars. Just before going into her last long sleep mother looked out into the rayless dark, and whispered:

"'Percy, dear, see that star! It is coming this way. Now I will go and find Ossie!'

"She has been dead two years."

Each bearing flowers, father and son visit the grave. Wife and mother is not there, but these floral tokens are sacred to loving, pathetic memories. Her ministries know, but feel not earthly limitations.

Oswald stands long with bowed, uncovered head. Neither speaks. There are no tears. Reverend Percy Langdon passes his arm through that of his son and slowly leads homeward.

Upon the next day Oswald starts for Northfield. He promises soon to return and talk over plans with his father.

Upon Oswald's spirits has settled deep pensiveness, so solemn as to check all buoyant exuberance, for the time restraining joyous tremor at thought of those waiting Northfield greetings.

There are upon the faces of that early-risen household looks of expectation. All seem self-possessed, except Esther. While bewitchingly trying to be very circumspect, Esther is consciously excited. Starting up, checking the impulse, with forced composure slowly sitting down, Esther steals glances at Alice and Charles, asks questions, answers to which do not interest her in the least, then hugs the spoiled Bessie, and quits the room.

Sir Donald drives alone to the station. Soon the train arrives. After greetings, Oswald enters the carriage, and they slowly drive toward that elegant home. Sir Donald notes Oswald's subdued responses. His intuition suggests some recent sad revelation at the parental fireside. He inquires about Oswald's home visit and the health of his parents. The reply sounds like echo of requiem toll.

"Mother went away!"

Words of condolence would be incongruous. Silence is more expressive. Without reference to past tragic happenings, these talk about current matters of incidental interest, and are soon at the Northfield mansion.

Entering the family sitting-room, Charles is first presented. Then from an obscure corner, with scared smile upon her face, advances Alice Webster. Both look inquiringly as they extend their hands. Bessie gazes with large, curious eyes, and all are seated.

Sir Donald has relieved the tense embarrassment by some casual comments, when in the next room is heard timid, hesitating steps. Turning toward the connecting arch, Oswald's eyes meet those of Esther Randolph. Timidly advancing, Esther extends her hand, which soon trembles in his own, but hints not at withdrawal. That palm's tremulous lingering is most subtle, yet ingenuous assurance. Oswald's heart quickens at the sign.

The evening is passed in refined conversation. Oswald's pensive musings cannot last in such environment. There is no haste to talk over past sorrows. Both Oswald and Charles recall having met on that "tramp" steamer.

As if for Oswald's better assurance, Esther lingers near, never seeming at ease except in his presence. At times she gazes upon that erratic erstwhile suitor as if fearful he again may leave upon some strange journey. Often to Esther it seems Oswald is unduly reserved, fearing long looking into her eyes or lingering touches of that confiding hand as useless toying with forbidden things. Her woman's intuition suggests the cause. Upon the lake's wooded shore years ago did she not respond to that eloquent avowal with stated consecration upon the altar of self-sacrifice? Oswald may believe that this decision is final. Too, this handsome, fascinating, imperious, masterful man has been away ample time to grow cold or meet some other attraction.

In their tete-a-tetes Esther shows continuing interest for charitable matters. She tells about Paris and Calcutta hospitals. Those calls at cabins in Calcutta suburb are related with harrowing incidents of the mothers' poverty. Oswald listens intently, but does not moralize. Esther looks troubled, and refers to happenings when Oswald first visited Northfield and Alice Webster was her guest. That quiet listener hears all, but seems in pensive reverie.



They are sitting in secluded bower within the mansion grounds. Sir Donald is taking his accustomed afternoon nap. Alice and Charles are out for a drive. Bessie is just awake, and has come out to survey her vested belongings. Esther hears the child's happy humming, and looking appealingly at Oswald, propounds this puzzling interrogatory:

"Under all the circumstances, Mr. Langdon, would you advise a young girl, with—with such a good home—who has such a kind father and brother—and—well—you know—like me—to—to—spend her life in hospitals?"

Quickly looking into that flushed face and those questioning eyes, Oswald needs no further assurance. Impulsively encircling the unresisting form, he answers upon those upturned lips. This sage reply is heard by the eavesdropping Bessie, who, as self-constituted ceremonial dictator, emerges and joins their hands in the wordless betrothal.

Soon, slowly leading Esther and carrying that spoiled four-year-old toward the mansion, Oswald says:

"I will speak to your father." Esther's reply is a happy smile.

Thomas Webster's Calcutta trip had been a complete success. Alice received a letter from her Uncle Thomas, and expected him to be at Northfield within six weeks. A double wedding is set for a date soon after that uncle's Northfield visit. Oswald returns to his father's home and tells the good news. By Esther's and Sir Donald's special request, the rector soon accompanies Oswald back to Northfield. In this hospitable mansion father and son spend much of the time until those nuptial ceremonies.

Sir Donald receives a letter from Thomas Webster requesting him to be in London on a certain date. These two allies hold a conference, and upon the following day Pierre Lanier is released from prison. There had been no formal charge requiring investigation. All concerned had acquiesced in this irregular, unauthorized detention. Having fully accomplished that Calcutta mission, and received, direct to Alice, transfers of all property listed by Pierre Lanier, there could be no possible good result from longer detention of this miserable man.

Pierre is stupefied by this unexpected release. He seems neither elated nor curious at such good fortune. Sir Donald was at the prison when Pierre came out. They walked away together. To Sir Donald's question:

"What can I now do for you, Mr. Lanier?" there is a long silence, then comes reply:

"How is Paul?"

Hearing that Paul is being kindly treated, Pierre looks grateful, and says:

"That is right. Paul is not to blame."

Sir Donald now offers to do all in his power for Pierre's future comfort, adding:

"I will consider it a privilege to help you."

Pierre smiles vacantly, stands in reverie, then extending his hand, in low tones says:

"My boy is innocent! His father did it all."

With Sir Donald's assurance that in a few days he will meet Pierre at a designated place in London, and tell him some good news, they separate.

When first confined in the asylum Paul had been fierce and violent. This was followed by more pacific moods, and he became quite tractable. At times Paul indulged in childish speech, and cried for his father's coming. After a long reverie Paul once said:

"No, I did not drown them! That was Alice at—at—what's the name of that place? That strong fellow could swim. What's his name? Yes, that's it."

Within a week after Thomas Webster's return occurred those happy nuptials. Because of tragic happenings there were few invited guests. All had resulted well. Past sorrows cast their inevitable forward shadows, but the present is nevertheless joyous in full content, luminous with halo of future hopes.

Each day Pierre Lanier calls at the asylum. Through Sir Donald's previous suggestion, Pierre is accorded special privileges. Paul grows hysterically joyful when his father comes. Alone after these oft-recurring visits, Paul sobs bitterly.

From Sir Donald and Thomas Webster Pierre scrupulously declines any offers of personal assistance. This is not through pique or pride.

That restitution had been in nature of a bid for Paul's deliverance, but these would-be almoners were not contracting parties. To his clingingly audacious supplications in behalf of the crazed Paul, Pierre had heard an imperious voice whisper:

"Do equity!"

Pierre is not quite sure that this is a divinely stated "condition precedent," but will treat it as such.

With gropingly tenacious faith he stumbles toward this hinted adjudication. Without suspicion of selfish motive or accepted personal benefit, Pierre will keep his part of the solemn pact.

"Paul is not to blame!" That awful inherited taint and a father's dominating, all-consuming greed!

These are at least mitigating claims.

Who may contest Paul's right "before the face of the Most High"?

Paul seems improving. Pierre is elated. That shriveled heart pulses with new hope. He even presumes to thank heaven for covenant fealty. With consummate audacity Pierre now hopes there may be found some "extenuating circumstances" in his own case.

Soon after the nuptials Sir Donald meets Pierre Lanier in London and tells him of the marriage ceremonies. Pierre turns pale, stares, and sinks upon the floor of his room. Sir Donald supports the trembling form. The romantic coincidences are partly related. Pierre smiles hopefully. Sir Donald invites him to confirm the queer story by a visit to Northfield, but Pierre is fully convinced.

"Then Paul did not kill them! My boy is innocent! Excuse me, please; now I will go to the asylum."

Sir Donald and Thomas Webster return to Northfield. Neither newly married couple took a wedding journey. The four had planned spending their honeymoons at Paris. Just before the nuptials, in presence of that little autocrat now nearing the ripe age of five years, Sir Donald is speaking about some objects of interest to be visited by these travelers. Bessie begins to cry, and clinging to Esther's hand, says:

"Stay here with me and papa!"

There is instant approval. Oswald says, "Why not?" Sir Donald and Uncle Thomas both declare in favor of the change; Alice joyously assents; Charles announces his cheerful acquiescence; Esther kisses Bessie and is smilingly content.

Uncle Thomas tells about meeting Mr. and Mrs. Dodge while at Calcutta. When William Dodge was released from custody he accepted a lucrative position obtained for him by Thomas Webster, and promised when required to testify about the Lanier conspiracy against Alice. This weak-principled man still retained the position, and was waiting to comply with his agreement.

That assistant sleuth who had trailed the Laniers from Southampton to Bombay, accompanied old "Josiah Peters" over to Calcutta, then shadowed Sir Donald and Esther, kept track of Lanier peregrinations until this pair landed in London, watched at the alley cabin, followed both along the Thames, and was present at their final arrests, had gone on a recent trip to Alaska gold fields.

Alice Randolph insists on Uncle Thomas accepting fifty thousand pounds for his services and reimbursement. The uncle proposes a compromise of half that sum, but Alice and Charles are obstinate. To avoid a serious rupture between relatives, Uncle Thomas yields.

In their complete content pity is felt for Paul Lanier. Alice cannot forget her part in that Bombay tableau or in those lake promptings.

Looking at Bessie, they often think of that crazed outlaw's strange caprice in sparing lives of Northfield sleepers upon the memorable night.

It is with much satisfaction that all learn of Paul's possible recovery. Pierre's strange restitution and refusal to accept any aid from either Sir Donald or Thomas Webster is matter for frequent Northfield comment.

Paul grows more tractable, showing signs of returning reason. Pierre becomes devoutly thankful.

Some believe Pierre hypocritical; others say:

"He cannot fool Heaven!"

Many look upon this enigma, the while thinking of one who "went to his own place."

Eternity is so long! A lost soul is such a fearful loss!

Possibly that ancient Tenderness, with bias for saving, hopefully "shadows" Pierre and Paul Lanier.

Transcribers's Note: Various inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation have been regularized, References are to folio (page) numbers: 20 - "disposition" second "i" added 43 - terminal "e" added to "appearance" 125 - accent removed from "employe" 186 - "...into the sea." was comma 276 - "...home again." period added 355 - accent added to "elite" 381 - ""Listening at the...." double quote added 422 - terminal "s" added to "status" List of Illustrations, 327, Illustration caption - "Car'line" sometimes shown as "Caroline" in original Italicized words are noted with "_"

THE END