"By the way," Henry remarked, "this is the first time you have visited me in my work-room."

Witherspoon replied: "Yes, that's so; and it strikes me that you might get more comfortable quarters."

"Comfortable enough for a workshop," Henry rejoined.

"Yes, I presume so. Are you ready, Brooks?"

"Yes, sir."

"We have just come from police headquarters," said Witherspoon, "and thought that we would stop and tell you of the increased reward. You were late at dinner yesterday. Will you be on time this evening?"

"Yes, I think so."

When they were gone, Henry went into Miss Drury's room. "Was that your father?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And he scolded you for being late yesterday. If he had suspected that I was the cause, I suppose he would have come in and stormed at me."

"You were not the cause."

"Yes, you were helping me with my work."

"It was my work, too." He tilted a pile of newspapers off a chair, sat down and said: "I feel at home with you."

"Oh, am I so homely?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes, restoring the word to its best meaning. By the way, you haven't cut off your hair."

"No, I forgot it, but I'm going to."

"My sister Ellen has hair something like yours, but not so heavy and not so bright."

"I should like to see her."

"Because she has hair like yours?"

"What a question! No, because I am acquainted with her brother, of course."

"And when you become acquainted with a man do you want to meet his sister?"

"Oh, you are getting to be a regular tease, Mr. Witherspoon. After awhile I shall be afraid to talk to you."

"I hope the clock will refuse to record that time. You say that you would like to see my sister. You shall see her; you must come home to dinner with me."

She gave him a quick look, a mere glance, the shortest sentence within the range of human expression, but in that short sentence a full book of meaning. One moment she was nothing but a resentment; but when she looked up again the light in her eyes had been softened by that half-sarcastic pity which a well-bred woman feels for the ignorance of man.

"Your sister has not called on me," she said.

He replied: "I beg your pardon for overlooking the ceremonious flirtation which women insist shall be indulged in, for I assure you that their ways are sometimes a mystery to me; but I admit that the commonest sort of sense should have kept me from falling into this error. My sister shall call on you."

"Pardon me, but she must not."

"And may I ask why not?"

"My aunt lives in a flat," she answered.

"Suppose she does? What difference can that make?"

"It makes this difference: Your sister couldn't conceal the air of a patron, and I couldn't hide my resentment; therefore," she added with a smile that brought back all her brightness, "to be friends we must remain strangers."

"But suppose I should call on you; would you regard it as a patronage?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you are a man."

"You women are peculiar creatures."

"An old idea always patly expressed," she replied.

"But isn't it true?"

"It must be, or it wouldn't have lived so long," she answered.

"A pleasing sentiment," he replied, "but old age is not a mark of truth, for nothing is grayer than falsehood."

"But it finally dies, and truth lives on," she rejoined.

"No, it is often buried."

"So is a mummy buried, but it is brought to light again."

"Yes, but it doesn't live; it is simply a mummy."

"Oh, well," she said, "I know that you are wrong, but I won't worry with it."

John Richmond opened the door of Henry's room. "Come in," Henry called, advancing to meet him. "How are you? And now that you are here, make yourself at home."

"All right," Richmond replied, sitting down, reaching out with his foot and drawing a spittoon toward him. "How is everything running?"

"First-rate."

"You are getting out a good paper. I have just heard that the reward for Kittymunks has been increased."

"Yes, it was increased not more than an hour ago."

"Who is to pay it?"

"The State, you know, has offered a small reward; the Colossus Company is to pay twenty thousand dollars, and the remainder will be paid by the Colton estate."

"Who constitutes the Colton estate?"

"Brooks, mainly."

Richmond put his hand to his mouth. "That's what I thought," said he. "Do you know Brooks very well?" he asked after a short silence.

"Not very."

"What do you think of him?"

"I despise him."

"I thought so. As the French say, whom does it benefit?"

They looked at each other, but said nothing. There could be no mistake as to who was benefited. After a time Henry remarked: "I see that Flummers has gone to Omaha to identify a suspect."

"He did go, but I heard some of the boys say that he returned this morning. Is your work all done for to-day?"

"Yes, about all."

"Suppose we go over to the club."

"All right. Wait a moment."

Henry stepped into Miss Drury's room. "You must; forgive me," he said, in a low tone.

"What for?" she asked, in surprise.

"For so rudely inviting you to dinner when my sister had not even called on you."

"Oh, that's nothing," she replied, laughing. "Such mistakes are common enough with men, I should think."

"Not with sensible men. What have you here?"

"Oh, some stupid paragraphs about women."

"They'll keep till to-morrow."

"But Mr. Mitchell said he wanted them to-day."

"Tell him if he calls for them that I want them to-morrow. You'd better go home and rest."

"Rest? Why, I haven't done anything to make me tired."

"Well, you don't know how soon you may be tired, and you'd better take your rest in advance. All right, John," he said in a louder tone, "I'm with you."

When they entered the office of the Press Club, a forensic voice, followed by laughter, bore to them the intelligence that Mr. Flummers was in the front room, declaiming his recent adventures. They found the orator measuredly stepping the short distance between this round table and the post on which was fixed the button of the electric bell. Led by fondness to believe that some one, moved to generosity, might ask him to ring for the drinks, he showed a disposition to loiter whenever he reached the post, and the light of eager expectancy and the shadow of sore disappointment played a trick pantomime on his countenance.

"Oh, ho, ho, here come two of my staff. John, I have been talking for an hour, and the bell is rusting from disuse."

"Why don't you ring it on your own account?"

"Oh, no; you can't expect one man to do everything."

"Go on with your story."

"But is there anything in it?"

"If you mean your story, I don't think there's much in it."

"If you cut it short enough," said Mortimer, "we'll all contribute."

"There spoke a disgruntled Englishman," Flummers exclaimed. "Having no humor himself, he scowls on the—the"—He scalloped the air, but it failed to bring the right word. "Jim, you'd better confine yourself to the writing of encyclopedias and not meddle with the buzz-saw of—of sharp retort."

"He appears to have made it that time," said Whittlesy.

"Now, Whit, it may behoove some men to speak, but it doesn't behoove you. Remember that I hold you in the hollow of my hand."

"Let us have the story," said Henry.

"But is the laborer worthy of his hire—is there anything in it?"

"Yes, ring the bell."

"That's the stuff."

"Flummers," some one remarked, a few moments later, "I don't think that I ever saw you drunk."

Flummers tapped his forehead and replied: "The brain predominates the jag. But I must gather up the flapping ends of my discourse. I will begin again."

"Are you going to repeat that dose of bloody rot?" Mortimer asked.

"Jim, I pity you. I pity any man that can't see a point when it's held under his nose."

"Or smell one when it's held under his eye," someone suggested.

"You fellows are pretty gay," said Flummers. "You must have drawn your princely stipends this week." He hesitated a moment, pressed his hand to his forehead, cut a fish-hook in the air and resumed his recital:

"When I reached Omaha it was snowing. The heavens wore a feathery frown."

"He didn't fill," said Whittlesy.

Flummers condemned him with a look and continued: "The wind whetted itself to keenness on a bleak knob and came down to shave its unhappy customers."

"He made his flush," said Whittlesy.

Flummers did not look at him. "I went immediately to the jail, where one of the rank and file of the Kittymunkses was confined; and say, you ought to have seen the poor, miserable, bug-bitten wretch they stood up in front of me. He wore about a half-pint of dirty whiskers, and in his make-up he reminded me of a scare-crow that brother and I once made to put out on the farm in Wisconsin. I have seen a number of Kittymunkses, but he was the worst. I said, 'Say, why don't you wash yourself?' and the horrible suggestion made him shudder. 'Is this the man?' the sheriff asked. 'Gentlemen,' I replied, disdaining the sheriff, 'on the first train that pulls out I am going back to Chicago; and whenever you catch another baboon that has worn himself threadbare by sitting around your village, telegraph me and I will come and tell you to turn him loose.' 'Then he is not the man?' said the sheriff, giving me a look that told of deep official disappointment. 'Gentlemen,' I replied, still disdaining the sheriff, 'I never saw this poor wretch before. Tra la.' I met one gentleman in the town. I think he belonged to the sporting fraternity. He said, 'Will you have something?' and we went into a place kept by a retired prize-fighter. My friend pointed to a noisy party at the rear end of the room, and said: 'The city authorities.' 'Should they live?' I asked, and my friend said, 'They should not.' And then papa was in town. 'Make me a sufficient inducement,' said I, 'and I will take a position on one of your newspapers and kill them off. One of my specialties is the killing of city authorities. Nature has intended them for my meat. I have killed mayors in nearly every place that is worthy of the name of municipality; and between the ordinary city official and papa,' I added, 'there is about as much affinity as there is between a case of hydrophobia and a limpid trout stream trickling its way through the woods of my native Wisconsin.' Say, do you know what he did? He eyed me suspiciously and edged off toward the door. Oh, it is painful to stand by helplessly and see fate constantly casting my lot among jays."

"Mr. Flummers, do you think that you would recognize Kittymunks if you were to see him?" Henry asked.

"Sure thing. Papa's friends may deceive him, but his eyes, backed by his judgment, never do. Say, I'm getting up a great scheme, and pretty soon I'm going to travel through the country with it. I'm going to organize an investment company for country merchants. I've already got about fifteen thousand dollars' worth of stock ready to issue. Has everybody been to lunch? I have been so busy that I haven't eaten anything since early this morning. Joe, lend me fifty cents."

"And take a mortgage on your investment company?"

"Oh, ho, ho, that's a good thing. The other day one of your so-called literary men said that he would give me two dollars an hour to write for him from dictation. 'Ha, I've struck a soft thing,' thinks I, and I goes to his den with him. Well, when I had worked about half an hour, taking down his guff, he turns to me and says, 'Say, lend me a dollar.' 'I haven't got but forty cents,' I replied. But he didn't weaken. 'Well, let me have that,' says he. 'You've got job and I haven't, you know.' And he robbed me. I've got to go out now and see a business jay from Peoria. With my newspaper work and my side speculations I'm kept pretty busy. Joe, where's that fifty?"

"Gave it to you a moment ago."

"All right. Say, will you fellows be here when I come back?"

"Not if we can get out," Whittlesy replied.

"Oh, you've bobbed up again, have you? But remember that papa holds you in the hollow of his hand."



CHAPTER XX.

CRIED A SENSATION.

In Chicago was a sheet—it could not be called a newspaper and assuredly was not a publication—that was rarely seen until late at night, and which always appeared to have been smuggled across the border-line of darkness into the light of the street lamps. Ragged boys, carrying this sheet, hung about the theaters and cried a sensation when the play was done. Their aim was to catch strangers, and to turn fiercely upon their importunity was not so effective as simply to say, "I live here."

One night, as Henry and Ellen came out of a theater, they heard these ragged boys shouting the names of Witherspoon and Brooks.

"Gracious," said Ellen, with sudden weight on Henry's arm, "what does that mean?"

"It's nothing but a fake," he answered.

"But get a paper and see; won't you?"

"Yes, as soon as I can."

They were so crowd-pressed that it was some time before they could reach one of the boys; and when they did, Ellen snatched a paper and attempted to read it by the light of the carriage lamp.

"Wait until we get home," he said. "I tell you it amounts to nothing."

"No, we will go to a restaurant," she replied.

The sensation was a half column of frightening head on a few inches of smeared body. It declared that recent developments pointed to the fact that Witherspoon and Brooks knew more concerning the whereabouts of Dave Kittymunks than either of them cared to tell. It was known that old Colton's extreme conservatism had been regarded as an obstruction, and that while they might not actually have figured in the murder, yet they were known to be pleased at the result, that the large reward was all a "bluff," and that it was to their interest to aid the escape of Kittymunks.

Before breakfast the next morning Brooks was at Witherspoon's house. A "friend" had called his attention to the article. Had it appeared in one of the reputable journals instead of in this fly-by-night smircher of the characters of men, a suit for criminal libel would have been brought, but to give countenance to this slander was to circulate it; and therefore the two men were resolved not to permit the infamy to place them under the contribution of a moment's worry.

"The character of a successful man is a target to be shot at by the envious," said Witherspoon. He was pacing the room, and anger had hardened his step. "A target to be shot at," he repeated, "and the shots are free."

"I didn't know what to do," Brooks replied. He stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him. "I was so worried that I couldn't sleep after I saw the thing late last night; and my wife was crying when I left home."

"Infamous scoundrels!" Witherspoon muttered.

"I didn't think anything could be done," Brooke continued, "but I thought it best to see you at once."

"Of course," said Witherspoon.

"But, after all, don't you think we ought to have those wretches locked up?" Brooke asked.

"Yes," Witherspoon answered, "and we ought to have them hanged, but we might as well set out to look for Kittymunks. Ten chances to one they are not here at all; the thing might have been printed in a town three hundred miles from here."

"Yes, that's so," Brooks admitted; and addressing Henry, who stood at a window, gazing out, he added: "What do you think about it?"

Henry did not heed the question, so forgetfully was he gazing, and Brooks repeated it.

"If you have decided not to worry," Henry answered, "it is better not to trouble yourselves at all. I doubt whether you could ever find the publishers of the paper."

"You are right," Brooks agreed.

"Character used to be regarded as something at least half way sacred," said Witherspoon, "but now, like an old plug hat, it is kicked about the streets. And yet we boast of our freedom. Freedom, indeed! So would it be freedom to sit at a window and shoot men as they pass. I swear to God that I never had as much trouble and worry as I've had lately. Everything goes wrong. What about Jordway & Co., of Aurora?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Brooks answered. "Jordway has killed himself, and the affairs of the firm are in a hopeless tangle."

"Of coarse," Witherspoon replied, "and we'll never get a cent."

"I'm afraid not, sir. I cautioned you against them, you remember."

"Never saw anything like it," Witherspoon declared, not recalling the caution that Brooks had advised, or not caring to acknowledge it.

"Oh, everything may come out all right. Pardon me, Mr. Witherspoon, but I think you need rest"

"There is no rest," Witherspoon replied.

"And yet," said Henry, turning from the window, "you took me to task for saying that I sometimes felt there was nothing in the entire scheme of life."

"For saying it at your age, yes. You have but just begun to try life and have no right to condemn it."

"I didn't condemn it without a hearing. Isn't there something wrong when the poor are wretched and the rich are miserable?"

"Nonsense," said Witherspoon.

"Oh, but that's no argument."

"Isn't it? Well, then there shall be none."

"I must be getting back," said Brooks.

"Won't you stay to breakfast?" Witherspoon asked. "It will be ready in a few minutes. Hum"—looking at his watch—"ought to have been ready long ago. Everything goes wrong. Can't even get anything to eat. I'll swear I never saw the like."

"I'm much obliged, but I can't stay," Brooks answered.

"Well, I suppose I shall be down to the store some time to-day. If anybody calls to see me, just say that I am at home, standing round begging for something to eat. Good morning."

Henry laughed, and the merchant gave him a strained look. For a moment the millionaire bore a striking likeness to old Andrew, at the time when he declared that the devil had gone wrong. The young man sought to soothe him when Brooks was gone; he apologized for laughing; he said that he keenly felt that there was cause for worry, but that the picture of a Chicago merchant standing about at home begging for his breakfast, while important business awaited him at the store, was enough to crack the thickest crust of solemnity. The merchant's dignity was soon brought back; never was it far beyond his reach. At breakfast he was severe with silence.

Over and over again during the day Henry repeated Richmond's words, "Whom does it benefit" and these words went to bed with him, and as though restless, they turned and tossed themselves upon his mind throughout the night, and like children, they clamored to be taken up at early morning, to be dressed in the many colors of supposition.



CHAPTER XXI.

A HELPLESS OLD WOMAN.

In Kansas City was arrested a suspicious-looking man, who, upon being taken to jail, confessed that his name was Dare Kittymunks and owned that he had killed old man Colton. Thus was ended the search for the murderer, the newspapers said, and the vigilance of the Kansas City police was praised. But it soon transpired that the prisoner had been a street preacher in Topeka at the time when the murder was committed, that he had on that day created a sensation by announcing himself John the Baptist and swearing that all other Johns the Baptist were base impostors. The fellow was taken to an asylum for the insane, and the search for Dave Kittymunks was resumed.

Old Mrs. Colton had not moved a muscle since the night of the murder. She lay looking straight at the ceiling, and in her eyes was an expression that seemed constantly to repeat, "My body is dead, but my mind is alive." Once every week the pastor of her church came to see her. He was an old man, threatened with palsy, and had long ago ceased to find pleasure in the appetites and vanities of this life. He came on Sunday, just before the time for evening services in the church, and kneeling at the old woman's chair, which he placed near her bedside, lifted his shaking voice in prayer. It was a touching sight, one infirmity pleading for another, palsy praying for paralysis; but upon these devotions Brooks began to look with a frown.

"What is the use of it?" he asked, speaking to his wife. "If a celebrated specialist can't do her any good, I know that an old man's prayer can't."

"We ought not to deny her anything," the wife answered.

"And we ought not to inflict her with anything," the husband replied.

"Prayer was never an infliction to her."

"But this old man's praying is an infliction to the rest of us."

"Not to me; and you needn't hear him."

"I can't help it if I'm at home."

"But you needn't be at home when he comes."

"Oh, I suppose I could go over and stand on the lake shore, but it would be rather unpleasant this time of year."

"There are other places you can go."

"Oh, I suppose so. Doesn't make any difference to you, of course, where I go."

"Not much," she answered.

The Witherspoon family was gathered one evening in the mother's room. It was Mrs. Witherspoon's birthday, and it was a home-like picture, this family group, with the mother sitting in a rocking-chair, fondly looking about and giving the placid heed of love to Henry whenever he spoke. On the walls were hung the portraits of early Puritans, the brave and rugged ancestors of Uncle Louis and Uncle Harvey, and all her mother's people, who were dark.

Ellen had been imitating a Miss Miller, who, it was said, was making a determined set at Henry, and Witherspoon was laughing at the aptness of his daughter's mimicry.

"I must confess," said Mrs. Witherspoon, slowly rocking herself, "that I don't see anything to laugh at. Miss Miller is an exceedingly nice girl, I'm sure, but I don't think she is at all suited to my son. She giggles at everything, and Henry is too sober-minded for that sort of a wife."

"But marriage would probably cure her giggling," Witherspoon replied, slyly winking at Henry. "To a certain kind of a girl there is nothing that so inspires a giggle as the prospect of marriage, but marriage itself is the greatest of all soberers—it sometimes removes all traces of the previous intoxication."

"Now, George, what is the use of talking that way?" She rarely called him George. "You know as well as you know anything that I didn't giggle. Of course I was lively enough, but I didn't go about giggling as Miss Miller does."

"Oh, perhaps not exactly as Miss Miller does, but"—

"George!"

"I say you didn't. But anybody can see that Ellen is a sensible girl, and yet she giggles."

"Not at the prospect of marriage, papa," the girl replied. "To look at Mr. Brooks and his wife is quite enough to make me serious."

"Brooks and his wife? What do you mean?"

"Perhaps I oughtn't to have said anything, but they appear to make each other miserable. There, now, I wish I hadn't said anything. I might have known that it would make you look glum."

"How do you know that they make each other miserable?"

"I know this, that when they should be on their good behavior they can't keep from snapping at each other. I was over there this afternoon, and when Mr. Brooks came home he began to growl about the preacher's coming once a week to pray for Mrs. Colton. He ought to be ashamed of himself. The poor old creature lies there so helpless; and he wants to deny her even the consolation of hearing her pastor's voice. And he knows that she was so devoted to the church."

"My daughter," Witherspoon gravely said, "there must be some mistake about this."

"But I know that there isn't any mistake about it. I was there, I tell you."

"And still there may be some mistake," Witherspoon insisted.

"What doctor's treating the old lady?" Henry asked.

"A celebrated specialist, Brooks tells me," Witherspoon answered.

"What's his name?"

"I don't remember," said Witherspoon. "Do you know, Ellen?"

"Doctor Linmarck," Ellen answered.

"Let us not think of anything so very unpleasant," said Mrs. Witherspoon.

But the spirit of pleasantry was flown. With another imitation of Miss Miller, Ellen strove to call it back, but failed, for Witherspoon paid no attention to her. He sat brooding, with a countenance as fixed as the expression of a mask, and in his gaze, bent on that nothing through which nothing can be seen, there was no light.

"Father, do your new slippers fit?" Mrs. Witherspoon asked. He was not George now.

"Very nicely," he answered, with a warning absentmindedness. Presently he went to the library, and shutting out the amenities of that cheerful evening, shut in his own somber brooding.

"I don't see why he should let that worry him so," said Mrs. Witherspoon. "He's getting to be so sensitive over Brooks."

"I don't think it's his sensitiveness over Brooks, mother," Ellen replied, "but the fact that he is gradually finding out that Brooks is not so perfect as he pretends to be."

"I don't know," the mother rejoined, "but I think he has just as much confidence in Brooks as he ever had. I know he said last night that the Colossus couldn't get along without him."

"Ellen," said Henry, "what is the name of that doctor?"

"Linmarck. It isn't so hard to remember, is it?"

"No, but I forgot it."

Immediately after reaching the office the next day, Henry sent for a reporter who had lived so long in Chicago that he was supposed thoroughly to know the city.

"Are you acquainted with Doctor Linmarck?" Henry asked when the reporter entered the room.

"Linmarck? Let me see. No, don't think I am."

"Did you ever hear of him?"

"What's his particular line?"

"Paralysis, I think."

"No, I've never heard of him."

"Well, find out all you can about him and let me know as soon as possible. And say," he added as the reporter turned to go, "don't say a word about it."

"All right."

Several hours later the reporter returned. "Did you learn anything?" Henry asked.

"Yes, about all there is to learn, I suppose. He has an office on Wabash Avenue, near Twelfth Street. I called on him."

"Does he look like a great specialist?"

"Well, his beard is hardly long enough for a great specialist."

"But does he appear to be prosperous?"

"His location stands against that supposition."

"But does he strike you as being an impostor?"

"Well, not exactly that; but I shouldn't like to be paralyzed merely to give him a chance to try his hand on me. I told him that I had considerable trouble with my left arm, and he asked if I had ever been afflicted with rheumatism, or if I had ever been stricken with typhoid fever, or—I don't remember how many diseases he tried on suspicion. I told him that so far as I knew I had been in excellent health, and then he began to ask me about my parents. I told him that they were dead and that I didn't care to be treated for any disease that they might have had. I asked him where he was from, and he said Philadelphia. He hasn't been here long, but is treating some very prominent people, he says. There may be a reason why he should be employed, but I failed to find it."



CHAPTER XXII.

TO GO ON A VISIT.

A month must have passed since Henry had sought to investigate the standing of Dr. Linmarck, when, one evening, Ellen astonished her father with the news that old Mrs. Colton was to be taken on a visit to her sister, who lived in New Jersey. The sister had written an urgent letter to Mrs. Brooks, begging that the old lady might straightway be sent to her, and offering to relieve Mr. Brooks of all the trouble and responsibility that might be incurred by the journey. She would send her son and her family physician. Witherspoon grunted at so absurd a request and was surprised that Brooks should grant it. The old woman might die on the train, and besides, what possible pleasure could she extract from such a visit? It was nonsense.

"But suppose the poor old creature wants to go?" said Mrs. Witherspoon.

"Ah, but how is any one to know whether she does or not?"

"Of course no one can tell what she thinks, but it is reasonable to suppose that she would like to see her sister."

"Oh, yes, it is reasonable to suppose almost anything when you start out on that line; but it's not common sense to act upon almost any supposition. Of course, the old lady can live but a short time, and I think that if she were given her own choice she would prefer to die in her own bed. I shall advise Brooks not to let her go."

"I hope you'll not do that," said Henry, and he spoke with an eagerness that caused the merchant to give him a look of sharp inquiry. "I hope that you'll not seek to deprive the sister, who I presume is a very old woman, of the pleasure of sheltering one so closely related to her. The trip may be fatal, and yet it might be a benefit. At any rate don't advise Brooks not to let her go."

"Oh, it's nothing to me," Witherspoon replied, "and I didn't suppose that it was so much to the rest of you. How I do miss that old man!" he added after musing for a few moments. "The peculiar laugh he had when pleased became a very distressing cough whenever he fancied that his expenses were running too high, and every day I am startled by some noise that sounds like his hack, hack! And just as frequently I hear his good-humored ha, ha! He had never gone away during the summer, but he told me that this summer he was going to a watering-place and enjoy himself. 'And, Witherspoon,' he said, 'I'm going to spend money right and left.' Picture that old man spending money either right or left. He would have backed out when the time came. Some demand would have kept him at home."

"His will leaves everything to his wife, I believe," Henry remarked.

"Yes, with the proviso that at her death it is to go to Mrs. Brooks. Brooks has already taken Colton's place in the store, and now the question is, Who can fill Brooks' place?"

"I don't think you will have any trouble in filling it," Henry replied. "No matter who drops out, the affairs of this life go on just the same. A man becomes so identified with a business that people think it couldn't be run without him. He dies, and the business—improves."

"Yes, it appears so," Witherspoon admitted; "but what I wanted to get at, coming straight to the point, is this: I need you now more than ever before. One of the penalties of wealth is that a rich man is forced constantly to fumble about in the dark, feeling for some one whose touch may inspire confidence. That's the position I'm in."

"You make a strong appeal," said Henry, "far stronger than any personal advantages you could point out to me."

"But is it strong enough to move you?"

"It might be strong enough to move me to a sacrifice of myself, and still fail to draw me into a willingness to risk the opinion you have expressed of what you term my manliness. As a business man I know that I should be a failure, and then I'd have your pity instead of your good opinion. Let me tell you that I am a very ordinary man. I haven't the quickness which is a business man's enterprise, nor that judgment which is his safeguard. My newspaper is a success, but it is mainly because I have a capable man in the business office. It grieves me to disappoint you, and I will take an oath that if I felt myself capable I'd cheerfully give up journalism and place myself at your service."

"Father," said Mrs. Witherspoon—and anxiously she had been watching her husband—"I don't see what more he could say."

"He has said quite enough," Witherspoon replied.

"But you are not angry, are you, papa?" Ellen asked.

"No, I'm hurt."

"I'm very sorry," said Henry, "but permit me to say that a man of your strength of mind shouldn't be hurt by a present disappointment that may serve to prevent a possible calamity in the future."

"High-sounding nonsense. I could pick up almost any bootblack and make a good business man of him."

"But you can't pick up almost any boy and make a good bootblack of him. The bootblack is already a business man in embryo."

Witherspoon did not reply to this statement. He mused for a few moments and then remarked: "If it weren't too late we might make a preacher of you."

Mrs. Witherspoon's countenance brightened. "I am sure he would make a good one," she said. "My grandfather was a minister, and we have a book of his sermons now, somewhere. If you want it, my son, I will get it for you."

"Not to-night, mother."

"I didn't mean to-night. Ellen, what are you giggling at?"

"Why, mother, he would rather smoke that old black pipe than to read any book that was ever printed."

"When I saw the pipe that had robbed Kittymunks of his coat," said Henry, "I thought of my pipe tied with a ribbon."

During the remainder of the evening Witherspoon joined not in the conversation, he sat brooding, and when bed-time came, he stood in his accustomed place on the hearth-rug and wound his watch, still appearing to gaze at something far away.



CHAPTER XXIII.

HENRY'S INCONSISTENCY.

Snorting March came as if blown in off the icy lake, and oozy April fell from the clouds. How weary we grow of winter in a cold land, and how loath is winter to permit the coming of spring! May stole in from the south. There came a warm rain, and the next morning strips of green were stretched along the boulevards.

Nature had unrolled double widths of carpet during the night, and at sunset a yellow button lay where the ground had been harsh so long—a dandelion. An old man, in whom this blithe air stirred a recollection of an amative past, sat on a bench in the park, watching the flirtations of thrill-blooded youth, and pale mothers, housed so long with fretful children, turned loose their cares upon the grass. It was a lolling-time, a time to lose one's self in the blue above, or sweetly muse over the green below.

One night a hot wind came, and the nest morning was summer. The horse that had drawn coal during the winter, now hitched to an ice wagon, died in the street. The pavements throbbed, the basement restaurants exhaled a sickening air, and through the grating was blown the cellar's cool and mouldy breath; and the sanitary writer on the editorial page cried out: "Boil your drinking-water!"

It was Witherspoon's custom, during the heated term, to take his wife and his daughter to the seaside, and to return when the weather there became insufferably hot. It was supposed that Henry would go, but when the time came he declared that he had in view a piece of work that most not be neglected. Witherspoon recognized the urgency of no work except his own. "What, you can't go!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean by 'can't go'?"

"I mean simply that it is not convenient for me to get away at this time."

"And is it your scheme now to act entirely upon your own convenience? Can't you sometimes pull far enough away from yourself to forget your own convenience?"

"Oh, yes, but I can't very well forget that on this occasion it is almost impossible for me to get away. Of course you don't understand this, and I am afraid that if I should try I couldn't make it very clear to you."

"Oh, you needn't make any explanation to me, I assure you. I had planned an enjoyment for your mother and sister, and if you desire to interfere with it, I have nothing more to say."

"I have no business that shall interfere with their enjoyment," Henry replied. "I'm ready to go at any time."

The next day Witherspoon said: "Henry, if you have decided to go, there is no use of my leaving home."

"Now there's no need of all this sacrifice," Mrs. Witherspoon protested, "for the truth is I don't want to go anyway. During the hot weather I am never so comfortable anywhere as I am at home. My son, you shall not go on my account; and as for Ellen, she can go with some of our friends. But, father, I do think that you need rest."

"Very true," he admitted, "but unfortunately we can't drop a worry and run away from it."

"But what is worrying you now?"

"Everything. Nothing goes on as it should, and every day it seems that a new annoyance takes hold of me."

"In your time you have advised many a man to be sensible," said Henry, "and now if you please, permit a man who has never been very sensible to advise you." Witherspoon looked at him. "My advice is, be sensible."

In a fretful resentment Witherspoon jerked his shoulder as if with muscular force he sought a befitting reply, but he said nothing and Henry continued: "This may be impudence on my part, but in impudence there may lie a good intention and a piece of advice that may not be bad. The worry of a strong man is a sign of danger. The truth is that if you keep on this way you'll break down."

"None of you know what you are talking about," Witherspoon declared. "I'm as strong as I ever was. I'm simply annoyed, that's all."

"Why don't you see the doctor?" his wife asked.

"What do I want to see him for? What does he know about it? Don't you worry. I'm all right."

His fretfulness was not continuous. Sometimes his spirits rose to exceeding liveliness, and then he laughed at the young man and joked him about Miss Miller. But a single word, however lightly spoken, served to turn him back to peevishness. One evening Henry remarked that he was compelled to leave town on the day following and that he might be absent nearly a week.

"Why, how is this?" Witherspoon asked, with a sudden change of manner. "The other day you almost swore that it was impossible for you to leave home, and now you are compelled to go. What do you mean?"

"I have business out of town, and it demands my attention."

"Business out of town. The other day you despised business; now you've got business out of town. I'll take an oath right now that you are the strangest mortal I ever struck."

"I admit the appearance of inconsistency," Henry replied.

"And I know the existence of it," Witherspoon rejoined.

"You think so. The truth is that the affair I now have on hand had something to do with my objecting to leave town last week."

"Why don't you tell me what it is?"

"I will when the time is ripe."

The merchant grunted. "Is it a love affair?"

Mrs. Witherspoon became newly concerned. "In one sense, yes," Henry answered. "It is the love of justice."

Witherspoon called his wife's attention by clearing his throat. "Madam, I may be wrong, but it strikes me that your son is crazy. Good night."

Henry left town the next morning. He went to New Jersey.



CHAPTER XXIV.

WORE A ROSE ON HIS COAT.

Henry was absent nearly a week, and upon returning he did not refer to the business that had so peremptorily called him away. Mrs. Witherspoon still had a fear that it might be a love affair, and Ellen had a fear that it might not be. To keep the young woman's interest alive a mystery was necessary, and to free the mother's love from anxiety unrestrained frankness was essential. And so there was not enough of mystery to thrill the girl nor enough of frankness to satisfy the mother. In this way a week was passed.

"I don't see why you make so much of it," Witherspoon said to his wife. "Is there anything so strange in a young man's leaving town? Do you expect him to remain forever within calling distance? He told you that you should know in due time. What more can you ask? You are foolishly worried over him, and what is there to worry about?"

"I suppose I am," she answered, "but I'm so much afraid that he'll marry some girl that I shall not like."

"It's not only that, Caroline. You are simply afraid that he will marry some girl. The fear of not liking her is a secondary anxiety."

"But, father, you know"—

"Oh, yes, I know. But he is a man—presumably," he added to himself—"and your love cannot make him a child. It is true that we were robbed of the pleasure his infancy would have afforded us, but it's not true that there now exists any way by which that lost pleasure can be supplied. As for myself, I regret the necessity that compels me to say that he is far from being a comfort to me. What has he brought me? Nothing but an additional cause for worry."

"Father, don't say that!"

"But I am compelled to say it. I have pointed out a career to him and he simply bats his eyes at it. He is the most peculiar creature I ever saw. Oh, I know he has gone through enough to make him peculiar; I know all about that, but I don't see the sense of keeping up that peculiarity. He is aimless, and he doesn't want an aim urged upon him."

"But, father, he has made his newspaper a success."

"Ah, but what does it amount to? Within ten years he might make a hundred thousand dollars out of it, but"—

"Oh, surely more than that," she insisted.

"Well, suppose he does make more than that; say that he may make two hundred thousand. And even then what does it amount to in comparison with what I offer?"

"But you know he wants to be independent."

"Independent!" he repeated. "I'll swear I don't understand that sort of independence."

"Well," she said, with a consoling sigh, "it will come out all right after a while."

They were sitting in Mrs. Witherspoon's room. The footman announced that Mr. Brooks was waiting in the library. Witherspoon frowned.

"You needn't see him, dear," said his wife.

"Yes, I will. But I am tired and don't care to discuss business affairs. Of late he brings nothing but bad news."

The manager was exquisitely dressed and wore a rose on the lapel of his coat. "I am on my way to an entertainment at the Yacht Club," said he, when the merchant entered the library, "and I thought I'd drop in for a few moments."

"I'm glad you did," Witherspoon replied. "Sit down."

"I haven't long to stay," said Brooks, seating himself. "I am on one of the committees and must be getting over. Is your son going?"

"I don't know. He hasn't come home yet."

"He was invited," said Brooks.

"That doesn't make any difference," Witherspoon replied. "He appears to pay but little attention to invitations, or to anything else, for that matter. Spends the most of his time at the Press Club, I think."

"That's singular."

"Very," said Witherspoon.

"I was there the evening they gave a reception to Patti, some time ago," Brooke remarked, "but I didn't see anything so very attractive about the place."

"I suppose not," Witherspoon replied, and then he added: "That's Henry now, I think."

Henry came in and was apparently surprised to see Brooks. "I have been detained on account of business," he remarked as he sat down. Brooks smiled. Evidently he knew what was passing in Witherspoon's mind.

"My affairs may be light to some people," Henry said, "but they are heavy enough to me."

By looking serious Brooks sought to mollify the effect of his smile. He had not taken the time to think that in his sly currying of Witherspoon's favor he might be discovered, but now that he was caught he fell back upon the recourse of a bungling compliment. "Oh, I'm sure," said he, "that your business is most important. Your paper shows the care and ability with which you preside over it. I think it's the best paper in town, and advertisers tell me that they get excellent returns from it." Here he caught Witherspoon's eye and hastened to add: "Still, I believe that your place is with us in the store. You could soon make yourself master of every detail."

"But we will not talk about that now," Witherspoon spoke up.

"Of course not; but I merely mentioned it to show my belief in your son's abilities."

The footman appeared at the door. "Two gentlemen wish to see Mr. Brooks."

"Who are they?" Witherspoon asked.

"Wouldn't give me their names, sir."

"Some of the boys from the club," said Brooks. "Well, I must bid you good evening."

"There was something I wanted to say to you," the merchant remarked, walking down the hall with him.

Henry did not get up, but he listened eagerly. Presently he heard Witherspoon exclaim: "Great God!" And a moment later the merchant came rushing back.

"Where is my hat?" he cried. "Henry, Brooks is arrested on a charge of murdering Colton! Where is my hat?"

Henry got up, placed his hand on Witherspoon's shoulder, and said: "Sit down here, father."

"Sit down the devil!" he raved. "I tell you that Brooks has been arrested. I am going down-town."

"Not to-night. Sit down here."

"What do you mean, sir!"

"I mean that you must not go down-town. You can do no good by going, Brooks is guilty. There is no doubt about it."

The old man dropped in his chair. Mrs. Witherspoon came running into the room. "What on earth is the matter?" she cried. Witherspoon struggled to his feet. Henry caught him by the arm. "Mother, don't be alarmed. Brooks has simply been arrested."

"For the murder of Colton!" Witherspoon hoarsely whispered. His voice had failed him.

"Sit down, mother, and we will talk quietly about it. There is no cause for excitement when you make up your minds that the fellow is guilty, which you must do, for Mrs. Colton has made a statement—she saw Brooks kill the old man."

Witherspoon dropped in his chair. His hands hung listlessly beside him. Mrs. Witherspoon ran to him.

"Father!"

He lifted his hand, a heavy weight it seemed, and motioned her away. "The Colossus is ruined!" he hoarsely whispered. "Ruined. They'll try to mix me up in it. Ruined!"

"You can't be mixed up in it, and the Colossus will not be ruined," Henry replied.

"Yes, ruined. You haven't brought me anything but bad luck."

"I have brought you the best luck of your life. I have helped you to get rid of a vampire."

"You have?" He turned his lusterless eyes upon Henry.

"Yes, I have, and if you will be patient for a few moments I will make it plain to you. But wait, you must not think of going down-town to-night. Will you listen to me?"

"Yes."

"I was not the only one who suspected that Brooks had something to do with the murder. Many people, in fact—it seemed that almost everybody placed him under suspicion. But there was no evidence against him; there was nothing but a strong supposition. You remember one evening not long ago when Ellen said that he objected to the preacher's coming to pray for Mrs. Colton. This was enough to stamp him a brute. Give that sort of a man the nerve and he won't stop short of any cruelty or any crime."

"Are you going to tell me something or do you simply intend to preach?" Witherspoon asked. His voice had returned.

"Father, he's telling you as fast as he can."

"And I must tell it my own way," Henry said. "That same evening I learned the name of the doctor—the great specialist employed by Brooks to treat the old lady. But I inquired about him and found that he was simply a cheap quack. This was additional cause for suspicion. I called on a detective and told him that I suspected Brooks. At this he smiled. Then I said that if he would agree to give half the reward to any charity that I might name, in the event of success, I would submit my plan, and then he became serious. I convinced him that I had not only a plausible but a direct clue, and he agreed to my proposal. I then told him about the doctor; I expressed my belief that the old woman must know something and urged that this might be brought out if we could get her away and place her under the proper treatment. Well, we learned that she had a sister living in New Jersey. The detective went to see her, and you know the result—the old lady's removal. Recently we received word that she was so much improved that she could mumble in a way to be understood, and last week the detective and I went to see her. This was my apparently inconsistent business out of town."

"But tell us what she said," Witherspoon demanded.

"Her deposition is in the hands of the law." He said this with a sly pleasure—Witherspoon had so often spoken of the law as if it were his agent. "I can simply tell you," Henry continued, "that she saw Brooks when he shot the old man."

"But how can that be? Brooks and his wife ran into the room at the same time. They were together."

"Yes, they ran into the room together, and Brooks had presumably just jumped out of bed. But be that as it may, Mrs. Colton saw him when he shot the old man. And if he is guilty, why should you defend him?"

Witherspoon got up. "You are not going down-town, father," his wife pleaded. "George, you must not go!"

"I'm not going, Caroline." He began to walk up and down the room, but not with his wonted firmness of step. They said nothing to him; they let him walk in his troubled silence. Turning suddenly he would sometimes confront Henry and seem about to denounce him; and then he was strong. But the next moment, and as if weakened by an instantaneous failure of vital forces, he would helplessly turn to his wife as though she could give him strength.

"Don't let it worry you so, father," she begged of him; "don't let it worry you so. It will come out all right. Nobody can fasten any blame on you."

"Yes, they will—yes, they will, the wretches. They hate me; they bleed me every chance they get, and now they want to humble me—ruin me. Nobody can ever know what I have gone through. Defend him!" he exclaimed. "I hope they will hang him. I suspected him, and yet I was afraid to, for in some way it seemed to involve me—I don't know how. But I knew that the wretches would fix it up and ruin the Colossus. For weeks and weeks it has been gnawing me like a rat. But what could I do? I was afraid to discharge him. He's got a running tongue. But what have I done?" he violently asked himself. "He took Colton's place—held Colton's interest. I could do nothing. Sometimes I felt that he was surely innocent. But I fancied that I could hear mutterings whenever I passed people in the street, and the rat would begin its gnawing again. He will drag us all down." His voice failed him, and he sank in his chair. "Ruined! The Colossus is ruined!" he hoarsely whispered.

"If you would stop to think," said Henry, "you would know that your trouble is mostly physical. Your nerves are unstrung. The public is not so willing to believe any story that Brooks may tell. The Colossus will not be injured. But I know that you place very little faith in what I say." The merchant looked at him. "But mark my words: Your standing will not be lowered—the Colossus will not show any ill effect. It is too big a concern to be thus ruined. People trade there for bargains, and not out of sentiment. In a short time Brooks will be forgotten. It is perfectly clear to me."

"Is it?" he asked, with eagerness. "Is it clear to you?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"Then make it clear to me. You can't do it, don't you see? You can't do it."

"Yes, he can, father; yes, he can," Mrs. Witherspoon pleaded. "It is perfectly clear to me. You will look at it differently to-morrow. Come, now, and lie down. Sleep will make it clear. Come on, now."

She took hold of his arm. With a helpless trust he looked up at her. "Come on, now." He lifted his heavy hands, got up with difficulty and suffered her to lead him away.



CHAPTER XXV.

IMPATIENTLY WAITING.

While it was yet dark, and long before the dimply lake had caught a glint from the coming sun, Witherspoon asked for the morning papers. At brief periods of troubled sleep during the night he had fancied that he was reading of the wreck of the Colossus and of his own disgrace: and when he was told that the papers had not come, that it was too early for them, he said: "Don't try to keep them back. I am prepared." He wanted to get up and put on his clothes, but his wife begged him to remain in bed.

"Was the doctor here?" he asked.

"Yes, don't you remember telling him that Brooks had been arrested?"

"No, I don't remember anything but a bad taste in my mouth. I know him; he leaves a bad taste as his visiting-card. What did he say? Wasn't he delighted to have a chance at me?"

"He said that if you keep quiet you will be all right in a day or two."

"Did anybody else come?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Reporters?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so; but Henry saw them."

"Hum! I suppose he will be known now as Witherspoon the detective."

"No; the part he took will be kept a profound secret."

"I hope so; but don't you think he would rather be known as some sort of freak?"

"No, dear. You do him an injustice."

"But does he do me a justice? He's got to pay back every cent I advanced on that newspaper deal."

"We will attend to that, father."

"We will. You are to have nothing to do with it."

"I mean that he will."

"That's different. I'll take the thing away from him the first thing he knows. I'm tired of his browbeating. Isn't it time for those papers?"

"Not quite."

"Have they stopped printing them? Are they holding back just to worry me now that they've got me down? Where's Henry?"

"He has just gone out to wait for the carrier-boy. He's coming now, I think."

Henry came in with the morning papers. "What do they say?" Witherspoon eagerly asked. He flounced up, and drawing the covers about him, sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'll see," Henry answered.

"But be quick about it. Great goodness, I can't wait all day."

"There's so much that I can't tell it in a breath."

"But can't you give me the gist of it? Call yourself a newspaper man and can't get at the gist of a thing."

"Be patient a moment and I will read to you."

During more than an hour Witherspoon sat, listening; and when the last paper had been disposed of, he said: "Why, that isn't so bad. They don't mix me up in it after all. What was that? Brooks seems to he wavering and may make a confession? But what will he say? That's the question. What will he say?"

"How can he say anything to hurt you?" Mrs. Wither spoon asked.

"He can't if he sticks to the truth. But will he? He may want to ruin the Colossus. I will not go near him. They may hang him and let him rot. I will not go near him. The truth is, I have been afraid of him. The best of us have cause to fear the man we have placed too much confidence in. Caroline, I'll get up."

"Not now, father. The doctor said you must not get up to-day."

"But does he suppose I'm going to lie here and let the Colossus run wild? Got nobody to help me; nobody."

"I will go down this morning and see that everything starts off all right," said Henry.

"You will? What do you know about it? You could have known all about it, but what do you know now?"

"I should think that the heads of the departments understand their business; and I hope that I can at least represent you for a short time."

"For a short time? Oh, yes, a short time suits you exactly. Ellen could do that, and I'd send her if she were at home." The girl was at Lake Geneva. "Think you can go down and say, 'Wish you would open this door if you please'? Think you can do that?"

The mother put up her hands as though she would protect her son against the merchant's feelingless reproach. For a time Henry sat looking hard in Witherspoon's blood-shot eyes; and a thought, hot and anger-edged, strove for utterance, but an appealing gesture, a look from that gentle woman, turned his resentment into these consoling words, "Don't worry. I think I know my duty when it's put before me. The Colossus shall not suffer."

How tenderly she looked at him. She made a magnanimity of the cooling of his resentment and she gave him that sacred reward—a mother's gratefulness.

"All right," said the merchant, "Do the best you can."

His quick discernment had caught the play between Henry and Mrs. Witherspoon. "Of course I don't expect you to take my place. I want you merely to show that the Witherspoon family hasn't run away."

The doctor called and found his patient much improved. "A little rest is all you need to bring you about again," the physician said. "Your unsettled nerves have made you morbid. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

The newspaper reports of the arrest of Brooks, although they proceeded to arraign and condemn him, had on Witherspoon's nervous system more of a retoning effect than could have been brought about by a doctor's skill. That Brooks might be guilty, had not been the merchant's fear; but that he himself might in some way be implicated, had been his morbid dread. Now he could begin to recognize the truth that with a black beast of his own creation he had frightened himself; and he laughed with a nervous shudder. But when the doctor was gone he again became anxious.

"Caroline, didn't he ask if there had ever been any insanity in my family?"

"Why, no; he didn't hint at such a thing."

"I must have dreamed it, then. But what makes me dream such strange things? I thought you told him that my father had been a little off at times. Didn't you?"

"Why, of course not. You never told me that there was ever anything wrong with your father, and even if there was how should I know it?"

"But there wasn't anything wrong with him, Caroline, and why should you say 'if there was.'"

"Now, father, I never thought of such a thing as suspecting that there was, and please don't let that worry you."

"I won't, but didn't Henry bring a paper and keep it hidden until after I went to sleep?"

"No, he read them all to you."

"I thought he brought in a weekly paper and read something about a widow from Washington."

"No, he didn't."

After a time he dozed and then he began to mutter: "It is easier to pay than to explain."

"What is it, dear?" she asked, not noticing that he dozed.

"Did you speak to me?" he inquired, rousing himself.

"You said something about it's being easier to pay than to explain," she answered.

"Did I? Must have been dreaming. Has Ellen come home?"

"Not yet, but I'm looking for her. Of course she started for home as soon as she could after hearing the news."

"What time is it?"

"Twenty minutes of four," she answered, glancing at the clock.

"I wonder why Henry doesn't come."

"He'll be here soon."

"Has any one heard from Mrs. Brooks?"

"No. I would have gone over there, but I couldn't leave you."

"You are a noble woman, Caroline." She was arranging his pillow and he was looking up at her. "You are too good for me."

"Please don't say that," she pleaded.

"I might as well say it as to feel it. Isn't it time for Henry to come?"

"Yes, I think so. He'll be here soon, I'm sure."

"I hope I shan't have to lie here to-morrow. I can't, and that's all there is about it."

He lay listening with the nervous ear of eagerness until so wearied by disappointing noises that he sank into another doze.



CHAPTER XXVI.

TOLD IT ALL.

Witherspoon started. "Ah, it's you. Did you bring the evening papers?"

"Yes, here they are," Henry answered.

"What do they say? Can't you tell me? Got the papers and can't tell me what they say?"

"They say a great deal," Henry replied. "Brooks has made a confession."

In an instant Witherspoon sat on the edge of the bed, with the covers jerked about him. He opened his mouth, but no word came forth.

"When he was told that Mrs. Colton had made a statement he gave up," said Henry. "The confession is not a written one, but is doubtless much fuller than if it were. I will take the Star's report. They are all practically the same, but this one has a few pertinent questions. I will skip the introduction.

"'I confess,' said Brooks, 'that I killed the old man, but I did not murder him. I was trying to keep him from killing me. I had gone into a losing speculation and was in pressing need of money. I knew that it would be useless to ask him to help me; in fact, I didn't want him to know that I had been speculating, and I decided to help myself. I knew that he kept money in the safe at home; I didn't know how much, but I thought that it was enough to help me out, and I began deliberately to plan the robbery. I knew that it would have to be done in the most skillful manner, for the old man's love of money made him as sharp as a briar when money was at stake; and I was resolved to have no confederates to share the reward and afterward to keep me in fear of exposure, I wrote a letter, and using the first name that came into my head, addressed it to "Dave Kittymunks, General Delivery, Chicago." I don't know where I picked up the name, and it makes no difference. I ran up to Milwaukee, dropped the letter in a mail box and was back here before any one knew that I was out of town. I disguised myself with black whiskers, went to the post-office and called for the letter, and took care that the delivery clerk should notice me. Colton supposed that none but members of his family knew of the safe at home, and why a robber should know must be made clear; so, wearing the same disguise, I called at the house one day and told the servant in charge that I had been sent to search for sewer-gas. I showed an order. A shrewd colored man had been discharged on account of some irregularities into which I had entrapped him, and an ignorant fellow that had agreed to work for less had just been put in his place. One evening when our family visited the Witherspoons I perfected my arrangements. I sawed the iron bars at the window and placed the black coat, with the Kittymunks letter in the pocket, as if the sash had failed and caught it. It was necessary that the coat should be found, and it was hardly natural that it should be found lying in the yard, it must appear that in his haste to get away the robber was compelled to leave his coat, and this could not be done unless he was forced to get out of it, leaving the police to suspect that he had done so with a struggle. I had torn one sleeve nearly off. But the mere falling of the sash on the tail of the coat would not do, it would pull out too easily. Then I thought of the pipe. I arranged the safe so that with a chisel I could open it easily—it was an old and insecure thing, anyway—and then placed a ladder on the ground under the window. Here there is a paved walk, so there was no necessity to make tracks. Now, there was but one thing more, and that was a noise to sound like the falling of the sash, and which was to wake the old man so that he might jump up almost in time to catch the robber. I had almost forgotten this, and now it puzzled me. The vault-room, a narrow apartment, is between the old man's room and mine, and I could have left the window up, propped with a stick, and from my window jerked out the prop, but the cool air would have shown the old man that the window was raised, and this would have ruined everything. Finally I decided that the falling of my own window—both are old-fashioned and are held up by a notched button—would arouse him and that he would think that the noise came from the vault-room. I would prop it with the edge of the button so that a slight pull on a string would throw it. But another question then arose. The weather was cold, and why should we have our window up so high? How should I explain to my wife? I would build a roaring fire in the furnace. That would heat the room too hot and give me an excuse to raise the window. But she would find it down. I could tell her that the room cooled off and that I put it down. But I was quibbling with myself. Everything was settled. The hall-door of the vault-room is but a step from my own door, and was kept fastened with a spring lock and a bolt and was supposed never to be opened. I drew back the bolt and the catch, and fixed the catch so that I could easily spring it when I went out. When everything had thus been arranged, I went to Witherspoon's to come home with the folks. The sky was clouded and the night was very dark. When we reached home the old man complained of having eaten too much—something he never had cause to complain of when he ate at home—and said that he believed he would lie down.

"'The window of the vault-room was never raised by the old man, and was kept fastened down with an old-time cast-iron catch. I had broken this off; but, afraid that he might examine the window and the door, I went with him to his room. And when he went into the vault-room to light the gas, I stood in the door and talked to him about his intended investment, and I talked so positively of the great profit he would surely make that he looked at neither the door nor the window. Everything had worked well. I bade him and the old lady good night and went to my own room. My wife complained of the heat, and I raised the window, remarking that I would get up after a while and put it down. How dreadfully slow the time was after I went to bed! And when I thought that every one must be asleep, my wife startled me by asking if I had noticed how unusually feeble her mother looked. I imagined that some one was dragging the ladder from under the window, and once I fancied that I heard the old man call me. The thought, the possibility of committing murder never occurred to me. The positive knowledge that I should never be discovered and that I should get every dollar of his money would not have tempted me to kill him. I lay for a long time—until I knew that every one must be asleep. Then I carefully got out of bed. I struck a chair, and I waited to see if my wife had been awakened by the noise. No; she was sound asleep. I tied a string to the window button, got my tools, which I had hidden in a closet and which were mainly intended for show after the robbery was discovered, and softly stole out. The hall was dark. The old man hated a gas-bill. I felt my way to the vault-room door and gently pushed it open, a little at a time. When I got inside I remembered that the very first thing I must attend to during the excitement which would follow the discovery of the robbery was to slip the bolt back in its place. The gas appeared to be burning lower than usual, and I wondered if the prospect of parting with money enough to make the investment had driven the old man to one more turn of his screw of economy. Although I knew how to open the safe, for previous arrangement had made it easy, I found it to be some trouble after all. But I got it open and had taken out the money drawer when a noise startled me. I sprang up, and there was the old man. He was but a few feet from me. He had a pistol. I saw it gleam in the dim light. I couldn't stand discovery, and I must protect myself against being shot. I knew that in the semi-darkness he did not recognize me. All this came with a flash. I sprang upon him. With one hand I caught the pistol, with the other I clutched his throat. I would choke him senseless and run back to my room. He threw up one hand, threw back his head and freed his throat. We were under the gas jet. My hand struck the screw, and the light leaped to full blaze. At that instant the pistol fired and the old man fell, I wheeled about and was in the hall; I sprung the lock after me, and in a second I was in my own room—just as my wife, dazed with fright, had jumped out of bed. "Come," I cried, "something must have happened." And together we ran into the old man's room.'

"'During the excitement which followed I forgot no precaution; I slipped the bolt back into place and removed the string from the button of my own window. My wife was frantic. I did not suspect that the old woman had seen me, for I was not in the vault-room an instant after the pistol fired, and before that it was so dark that she could not have recognized me. If I had thought that she did see me'—

"'What would you have done?' the reporter asked.

"'I don't know,' Brooks answered, 'but it is not reasonable to suppose that I would have let her go away from home. I acknowledge that I did not care to see her recover—now that I am acknowledging everything—for at best she could be only in the way, and naturally, she would interfere with my management of the estate. But if I had been anxious that she should die, I could have had her poisoned. Instead, however, I employed a quack, who I knew pretended to be a great physician, and who I believed could do her no good. In fact, I didn't think that she could live but a few days.' After pausing for a moment he added, 'She must have seen me just as the light blazed up, and was doubtless standing back from the door. I didn't take any money.'

"'But why didn't you take the money while the old man was away? Then you would have run no risk of killing him or of being killed."

"'I could easily have done this, but he was so shrewd. I wanted him to believe that he had almost caught the robber.'

"'Then there is no such man as Dave Kittymunks,' said the reporter.

"'No,' Brooks answered.

"'But Flummers, the reporter, said that he knew him.'

"'I met Mr. Flummers one evening,' Brooks replied, 'and before we parted company I think that he must have had in his mind a vague recollection of having seen such a fellow. The public was eager, and that was a great stimulus to Mr. Flummers.'

"'Did you feel that you were suspected?' the reporter asked.

"'Not of having committed the murder, but I felt that I was suspected of having had something to do with it. But I hadn't a suspicion that any proof existed. I could stand suspicion, especially as I should receive large pay for it. A number of men in this city are under suspicion of one kind or another, but it doesn't seem to have hurt them a great deal. Their checks are good. Men come back from the penitentiary and build up fortunes with the money they stole. Their hammered brass fronts and colored electric lights are not unknown to Clark Street.'

"'But you suffered remorse, of course,' the reporter suggested.

"'I think that there is a great deal of humbug about the remorse a man feels,' Brooks replied. 'I regretted that I had been forced to kill the old man, for with all his stinginess he was rather kind-hearted, but I had to save my own life. It is true that I didn't have to commit the robbery, but robbery is not a capital crime.'

"'But the self-defense of a robber, when it results in a tragedy, is a murder,' the reporter suggested.

"'We'll see about that,' Brooks coolishly replied.

"'Do you make this confession with the advice of your lawyer?'

"'No, but at the suggestion of my own judgment. When I was told that the old woman had seen the killing and that, of course, her deposition would be introduced in court, I then knew that it was worse than useless to protest my innocence. Besides, as she saw it, the tragedy was a murder, but, as I confess it'—He hesitated.

"'It is what?' the reporter asked.

"'Well, that's for the law to determine. There should always be some mercy for a man who tells the truth. I have done a desperate thing—I staked my future on it. But I have associated with rich men so long that for me a future without money could be but a continuation of embarrassment. I have helped to make the fortunes of other men, but I failed when I engaged in speculations for myself. I had prospects, it is true, but I didn't know but Colton had arranged his will so as to prevent my using his money; and I had reason to fear that my wife was in touch with him,'

"'Has she been to see you?' the reporter asked.

"'That's rather an impertinent question,' Brooks replied, 'but I may as well confess everything. We haven't been getting along very well together. No, she hasn't been to see me. Not one of my friends has called. There, gentlemen, I have told you everything.'"

When the last word of the interview had been pronounced, Witherspoon grunted and lay back with his hands clasped under his head.

"What do you think of it?" Henry asked.

"There's hardly any room for thinking."

But he did think, and a few moments later he said: "Of all the cold-blooded scoundrels I ever heard of, he takes the lead. And just to think what I have done for him! I don't think, though, that he has robbed us of much. He didn't have the handling of a great deal of cash. Still I can't tell. My, how sharp he is! He didn't mention the Colossus. But what difference Would it make?" He sat up. "What need I care how often he mentions it? The public knows me. Nobody ever had cause to question my credit. Why should I have been worried over him? Henry, you are right; my trouble is the result of a physical cause. Caroline, I'm going in to dinner with you."



CHAPTER XXVII.

POINTS OUT HER BROTHER'S DUTY.

In the afternoon of the day that followed the publication of the confession Flummers minced his way into the Press Club. He wore a suit of new clothes, and although the weather was warm, he carried a silk-faced overcoat. Before any one took notice of him he put his coat and hat on the piano, and then, with a gesture, he exclaimed:

"Wow!"

"Why, here's Kittymunks! Helloa, Kit!" one man shouted. "Have you identified Brooks?" some one else cried, and a roar followed.

For a moment Flummers stood smiling at this raillery; then suddenly, and as though he would shut out a humiliating scene, he pressed his hands across his eyes. But his hands flew off into a double gesture—into a gathering motion that invited every one to come into his confidence, and solemnly he pronounced these words:

"He made a monkey of me."

"I should say he did!" Whittlesy cried. "Oh, you'll hold me in the hollow of your hand, will you?"

Flummers looked at Whittlesy and scalloped the forerunner of a withering speech; but, thoughtful enough suddenly to remember that at this solemn time his words and his eyes belonged not to one man, but to the entire company, he withdrew his gaze from Whittlesy, and in his broad look included every one present.

"He made a monkey of me. He stopped me on the street one evening—I had boned him for an advertisement when I was running The Art of Interior Decoration—and was so polite that I said to myself: 'Papa, here's another flip man thirsting for recognition. Put him on your staff.' Well, we had a bowl or two at Garry's, and the first thing I knew he began to remind me that I remembered a fellow who must be Kittymunks, and I said, 'Hi, gi, here's a scoop.' And it was. Oh, it's a pretty hard matter to scoop papa"—(tapping his head). "Papa knows what the public wants, and he serves it up. Some of you dry-dock conservative ducks would have let it go by, but papa is nothing if not adventurous. Papa knows that without adventure you make no discoveries. But, wow! he did make a monkey of me. Just think of a floor-walker making a monkey of papa!" He pressed his hand to his brow. "Why, a floor-walker has been my especial delicacy—he has been my appetizer, my white-meat—but, wow! this fellow was a gristle."

"Mr. Flummers," said McGlenn, "we all love you."

"Say, John, I owe you two dollars."

"No, Mr. Flummers, you don't owe me anything."

"But I borrowed two dollars from you, John, when I started The Bankers' Review."

"No man can borrow money from me, Mr. Flummers. If he gets money from me, it's his and not mine. We all love you, Mr. Flummers, and your Kittymunks escapade, so thoroughly in keeping with our estimate of you, has added strength to our affection. If you wish to keep friends, Mr. Flummers, you must do nothing which they could not forecast for you. The development of hitherto undiscovered traits, of an unsuspected and therefore an inconsistent strength, is a dash of cold water in the face of friendship. We are tied to you by a strong rope made of the strands of weaknesses, Mr. Flummers."

"Oh, no."

"Yes, made of the fine-spun strands of weaknesses, Mr. Flummers. It is better to be a joss of pleasing indiscretion than to be a man of great strength, for the joss has no enemies, but sooner or later the strong man must be overthrown by the hoard of weaklings that envy has set against him. Do you desire something to drink, Mr. Flummers?"

"No."

"Now you place your feet on inconsistent and slippery ground, Mr. Flummers. Remember that in order to hold our love you must not surprise us."

"But I can't drink now; I have just had something to eat."

"Beware, Mr. Flummers. Inconsiderate eating caused a great general to lose a battle, and now you are in danger. You may suffer superfluous lunch to change our opinion of you, which means a withdrawal of our love."

"Oh, wait a minute or two, John. But never mind. Say, there, boy, bring me a little liquor. But, say, wasn't it funny that Detective Stavers should give ten thousand dollars of that reward to the Home for the Friendless? I used to work for the Pinkertons, and I know all those guys, and there's not one of the whole gang that gives a snap for charity. There's a mystery about it somewhere."

"Probably you can throw some light on it as you did on the Kittymunks affair," Whittlesy suggested.

Flummers gave him a scallop. "Papa still holds you in the hollow of his hand. Here you are; see?" He put his finger in the palm of his hand. "You are right there; see? And when I want you, I'm going to shut down, this way." He closed his hand. "And people will wonder what papa's carrying around with him, but you'll know all the time."

"My," said Whittlesy, "what a dangerous man this fellow would be if he had nerve! Oh, yes, people will wonder what you have in the hollow of your hand, and sooner or later, they will find that you are carrying three shells and a pea. Get out, Kittymunks. I'm afraid of you—too tough for me."

Flummers waved Whittlesy into oblivion, and continued: "Old Witherspoon gave up his check for twenty thousand, and there the reward stops, for Mrs. Brooks won't give anything for having her husband caught. It has been whispered in the Star office that Henry Witherspoon had something to do with the detection of Brooks, and made Stavers promise that he would give half the reward to charity. But I don't believe it. Why should he want to give up ten thousand? But there's a mystery in it somewhere, and the first thing you know papa'll get on the track of it. Here, boy, bring that drink. What have you been doing out there? Have I got to drink alone? Well, I'm equal to any emergency." He shuddered as he swallowed the whisky, but recovered instantly, and with a circular movement, expressive of his satisfaction, rubbed his growing paunch.

Witherspoon remained three days at home and then resumed his place at the store. With a promptness in which he took a pride, he sent a check to the detective. He did this even before he went down to the Colossus. The physician had urged him to put aside all business cares, and the merchant had replied with a contemptuous grunt. He appeared to be stronger when he came home at evening, and he joked with Ellen; he told her that she had narrowly escaped the position of temporary manager of the Colossus. They were in the library, and a cheerfulness that had been absent seemed just to have returned. Witherspoon went early to bed and left Henry and Ellen sitting there.

"Don't you think he will be well in a few days?" the girl asked.

"Yes, now that his worry is locked in jail."

"That isn't so very bad," she replied, smiling at him. "But suppose they hang his worry?"

"It may be all the better."

"Mother and I went this afternoon to see Mrs. Brooks," said the girl. "And she doesn't appear to be crushed, either. I don't see why she should be—they wouldn't have lived together much longer anyway. Oh, of course she's humiliated and all that, but if she really cared for him she'd be heartbroken. She used to tell me how handsome he was, but that was before they were married. I think she must have found out lately what she might have known at first—that he married her for money. Oh, she's a good woman—there's no doubt of that—but she's surely as plain a creature as I've ever seen."

"If I had thought that she loved him," said Henry, "I should have hesitated a long time before seeking to fasten the murder on him. I may have only a vague regard for justice, for abstract right is so intangible; but I have a strong and definite sympathy."

"We all have," she said. "Oh, by the way," she broke off, as though by mere accident she had thought of something, "you superintended the Colossus for two whole days, didn't you?"

"I didn't exactly superintend it, but I stood about with an air of helpless authority."

"But how did you get along with your paper during all that worry?" she asked; and before he answered she added, "I don't see how you could write anything."

"Worry is a bad producer, but a good critic," Henry replied. "And I didn't try to write much," he added.

She put her elbows on the arm of her chair, rested her chin on her hand and leaned toward him. "Do you know what I've been thinking of ever since I came home?" she asked.

"Well," he answered, smiling on her, "as you haven't told me and as I am not a mind-reader, I can't say that I do."

"Must I tell you?"

"Yes."

"And you won't be put out?"

"Surely not. You wouldn't want to tell me if you thought it would put me out, would you?"

"No, but I was afraid this might." She hesitated. "I have been thinking that you ought to go into business with father. Wait a moment, now, please. You said you wouldn't be put out. You see how much he needs you, and you ought to be willing to make a personal sacrifice. You"—

He reached over and put his hand on her head. She looked into his eyes. "Ellen, there is but one thing that binds me to a past that was a hardship, but which after all was a liberty; and that one thing is the fact that I am independent of the Colossus, the mill where thousands of feet are treading. I have one glimpse of freedom, and that is through the window of my office. It isn't possible that you can wholly understand me, but let me tell you one time for all that I shall have nothing to do with the store."

She put his hand off her head and settled back in her chair. "I thought you might if I asked you, but I ought to have known that nothing I could say would have any effect. You don't care for me; you don't care for any of us."

"Ellen, it is but natural that you should side with father against me, and it is also natural that I should decide in favor of myself. You may say that on my part it is selfishness, and I may say that it is more just than selfish. But you must not say that I don't care for you."

"Oh, it is easy enough for you to say that you do care for me," she replied. "It costs but a breath that must be breathed anyway; but if you really cared for me you would do as I ask you—as I beg of you."

"Well," and he laughed at her, "there is a charming narrowness in that view, I must say. If I love you I will grant whatever you may ask; and if you love me—then what? Shall I answer?"

"Yes," she said, "as you seem to know what answer will be most acceptable to you."

"No, not the answer most acceptable to me, but the one that seems to be the most consistent. And if you love me," he continued, in answer to the question, "you will not ask me to make a painful sacrifice." He looked earnestly at her and added: "I think you'd better call me a crank and dismiss the subject."

He expected her to take this as a humorous smoothing of their first unpleasant ruffle, but if she did she shrewdly deceived him, for she looked at him with the soberest of inquiry as she asked:

"Do you really think you are a crank?"

"I sometimes think so," he answered.

"Isn't it simply that you take a pride in being different from other people. Don't you strive to be odd?"

"Are you talking seriously?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well, then, I will say seriously that I do take a pride in being different from some people?"

"Am I included?"

"Oh, nonsense, girl. What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, I know you don't care for any of us," she whimpered. "You won't even let mother show her love for you; you try to surround yourself with a lordly mystery."

"If I have a mystery it is far from a lordly one."

"But it's not far from annoying, I can tell you that."

"Don't try to pick a quarrel, little girl."

"Oh, I'm not half so anxious to quarrel as you are."

"All right; if that's the case, we'll get along smoothly. Get your doll out of the little trunk and let us play with her."

She got up and stood with her hands resting on the back of the chair. "If I didn't have to like you, Henry, I wouldn't like you a single bit. But somehow I can't help it. It must be because I can't understand you."

"Then why do you blame me for not making myself plain, since your regard depends upon the uncertain light in which you see me?"

"You are so funny," she said.

"Then you ought to laugh at me instead of scolding."

"Indeed! But if I didn't scold sometimes you would rim over me; and besides, we shouldn't have the happiness that comes from making up again. Really, though, won't you think about what I have said?"

"I will think about you, and that will include all that you have said and all that you may say."

"I oughtn't to kiss you good night, but after that I suppose I must. There—Mr.—Ungratefulness. Good night."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE VERDICT.

During the first few weeks of his imprisonment, the murderer of old man Colton had maintained a lightsome air, but as the time for his trial drew near he appeared to lose the command of that self-hypnotism which had seemed to extract gayety from wretchedness. To one who has been condemned to death there comes a resignation that is deeper than a philosophy. Despair has killed the nerve that fear exposed, and nothing is left for terror to feed on. But Brooks had not this deadened resignation, for he had a hope that he might escape the gallows, and so long as there is a hope there is an anxiety. He had refused to see his wife, for he felt that in her heart she had condemned him and executed the sentence; but he was anxious to see Witherspoon. He thought that with the aid of that logic which trade teaches and which in its directness comes near being an intellectual grace, he could explain himself to the merchant and thereby whiten his crime, and he sent for him; but the messenger returned with a note that bore words which Brooks had often heard Witherspoon speak and which he himself so often had repeated: "Explain to the law."