He turned and pressed a button in the wall behind him, and a moment later the door opened; but it was Beatrice Brunswick who stood upon the threshold, and not the servant who had been summoned.

She hesitated an instant, then came forward swiftly, until she stood beside Morton, facing his accusers. With one swift glance, she took in the scene by which she was surrounded, and with a woman's intuition understood it. Turning partly around, she permitted one hand to rest lightly upon Morton's arm, and she said to him, ignoring the others:

"It is really too bad, Mr. Morton. I know that you did not mean it; and I am unharmed. See: the bullet did not touch me at all. It only frightened me. I am sure that you were over-wrought by all that had happened, and I'll forgive you, even if the others do not. I am sure, too, that Patricia will forgive you, if you ask her. Come with me; I will take you to her."

She tightened her grasp upon his arm and sought to draw him toward the door, but Jack Gardner interrupted, quickly and sharply.

"Stop Beatrice!" he said. "Mr. Morton is about to take his departure. This is an occasion for men to deal with. Morton cannot see Miss Langdon again unless she seeks him, and that I don't think she will do."

"I'll get her; I'll bring her here!" exclaimed Beatrice, starting toward the door alone; but this time it was Morton's voice that arrested her—the first time he had spoken since he entered the room.

"Please, wait, Miss Brunswick," he said, and the quiet calmness of his tone was a surprise to everyone present. It belied the expression of his eyes and of his set jaws. "I thank you most heartily for what you have said, and for what you would do now. Miss Langdon won't forgive me, nor, indeed, do I think she ought to do so. I have not attempted to make any explanation of my conduct to these gentlemen, but to you I will say this: I realize the enormity of it, thoroughly, and, while I can find no excuse for what I have done, I can offer the one explanation, that I was, for the moment, gone mad—locoed, we call it, in the West. If Miss Langdon will receive any message from me at all, tell her that I am sorry."

He bowed to her with a dignity that belied his training, and, stepping past her, opened the door, holding it so until she had passed from the room. Then, he turned toward the others.

"I am quite ready to go now," he said. "Gardner, if you will have my car brought around, I shall not trouble you further."

With another slight inclination of his head, he passed out of the room and along the hall to the front door, where he paused at the top of the steps, waiting till his car should be brought to him; and no one attempted to follow, or say another word to him.

Standing alone at the top of the steps, while he waited for the car, Morton was presently conscious of a slight movement near him, and he turned quickly. Patricia Langdon slowly arose from one of the veranda chairs, and approached him. She came quite close to him, and stopped. For a moment, both were silent; he, with hard, unrelenting eyes, which nevertheless expressed the exquisite pain he felt; she, with tear-dimmed vision, in which pity, regret, sympathy and real liking strove for dominant expression.

"I couldn't let you go, Mr. Morton, without a few more words with you, and I have purposely waited here, because I thought it likely you would come from the house alone."

"Thank you," he replied, not knowing what else to say.

"I am so sorry for it all, Mr. Morton; and I cannot help wondering if I am to blame, in any measure. I wanted you to know that I freely forgive you for whatever offense you have committed against me. I think that is all. Good-night."

She was turning away, but he called to her, with infinite pain in his voice:

"Wait; please, wait," he said. "Give me just another moment, I beseech you."

She turned to face him again.

"I have been a madman to-night, Miss Langdon, and I know it," he told her rapidly. "There is no excuse for the acts I have committed; there can be no palliation for them. I would not have dared to ask for your forgiveness; I can only say that I am sorry. It was not I, but a madman, who for a moment possessed me, who conducted himself so vilely toward you. I shall go back to my ranch again. My only prayer to you is, that you will forget me, utterly."

Patricia came a step nearer to him, reaching out her hand, tentatively, and said, in her softest tone, while tears moistened her eyes:

"Good-bye, and God bless you."

But Morton, ignoring her extended hand, cleared the steps of the veranda at one leap, and disappeared in the darkness, toward the garage.

Five minutes later, while Patricia yet remained at the top of the steps where Morton had left her, the steam-roadster that had been so closely related to her experiences of the night rushed past the house and disappeared along the winding roadway toward the Cedarcrest gate. And she remained there, in a listening attitude, as long as she could hear the droning murmur of its mechanism. When that died away in the distance, she sighed, and turned to reenter the house; but it was only to find that she was no longer alone. Roderick Duncan appeared in the doorway, and came through the entrance, to meet her.

"Was it Morton's car that just went past the door?" he asked her.

"Yes," she replied, shrinking away from him.

"Did you see him, and talk with him, before he went away?" he asked, partly reaching out one hand, but instantly withdrawing it.

"Yes," she answered again, retreating still farther from him.

"That was like you, Patricia. I am rather sorry for the poor chap, despite what he did to you, to-night. You see, I know what it means, to be so madly in love with you that it is barely possible for one to stand or sit beside you, without crushing you in one's arms. Oh, Patricia, won't you be kind to me? Won't you forgive me, too, as I know, just now, you forgave that poor chap? Surely, my offense was not so great as his."

"It has been infinitely greater," she told him, coldly; and, with head erect, but with averted face, she went past him, through the doorway.

Down the highway, half-way between Cedarcrest and the city, was a place where building operations were in progress; where huge rocks had been blasted out to make room for intended improvements; where derricks and stone-crushers and other machinery were idly waiting the dawn of another day, when the workmen would arrive and resume their several occupations.

Richard Morton, dashing along this highway with ever-increasing speed, utilizing the full power of his racing roadster, remembered that place along the highway. With cold, set face and protruding chin, he set his jaws sharply together, and wondered why his flying car would go no faster. He did not realize that he was covering more than a mile with every minute of time. The pace seemed slow to him, for he had suddenly determined what he would do. He had thought of a plan to expiate his follies of the night.

At last, almost directly beneath an arc-light along the highway, he saw, dimly, the spot where the stone was being quarried, and, as he recognized it, he laughed aloud with a sort of desperate joy, because of the plunge he intended to take. He threw the throttle wide open, and after another moment he saw the derrick loom before him. With careful deliberation, he turned the steering-wheel.

There was a loud crash in the darkness; the roadster leaped into the air like a live thing, and turned over, end for end, twice. Then, it seemed to shoot high into the air, and fell again, in a confused heap of wreckage, among the broken stones of the quarry. Morton was thrown from it, like the projectile from a catapult, and he came down in a crumpled heap, somewhere among that mass of rocks; and after that there was silence.



CHAPTER XVII

CROSS-PURPOSES AT CEDARCREST

At Cedarcrest, the night was still young. Patricia, and then Morton, had arrived at the country home of the Gardners while the several guests were still at table, and the scenes which followed their coming had passed with such stunning rapidity that every one of the party was more or less affected by them, each one in his or her separate manner. The men of the party were silent and preoccupied. The scene enacted just before the departure of Morton weighed more or less heavily upon them, and while each one felt that the young ranchman had "got what was coming to him," there was not one among them who did not experience a thrill of sympathy for the young fellow, who had been so well liked by the new acquaintances he had made in the East.

The two gentlemen strangers, who had brought Morton to the house in their car, were the first to take their departure, after Morton's dramatic exit, although they remained long enough to imbibe a whisky-and-soda, and to hear what Jack Gardner still had to say. That was not so very much, but, like all he had said that night, it was straight to the point.

"Gentlemen," he said to them, standing with his glass in hand and addressing all, impersonally, "what I have to say now, is said to all, alike. Two of you are strangers to me; the others are more or less intimately my friends. It is my particular wish that we should all bind ourselves to secrecy, concerning what has happened at Cedarcrest, and in this vicinity, to-night. It happens that no real harm has been done; no one has been injured; amends have been made to Miss Langdon, so far as it has been possible to make them, and I am quite sure of her desire never to hear the subject mentioned again."

There was a generally affirmative nodding of heads about him as he spoke, and after an instant, he continued:

"In what has occurred in this room, I have had to assume a triple obligation: that of host, that of self-appointed champion of the young woman who received the affront from another of my guests, and that of a life-long acquaintance with the man whom I was compelled, by circumstances, to expel from my house. The last was the most difficult of all to fill. There is not one of you who could not readily have assumed two of the responsibilities; the last one I have named has been distinctly unpleasant. I have known and liked Dick Morton, since we were boys. We hail from the same state, and from a locality there where we were near neighbors, during our youth. He is somewhat younger than I—about two years, I think—and, until to-night, I have never known him to be otherwise than a brave and chivalrous fellow, ready to fight at the drop of the hat. We must agree that no matter what his conduct was, prior to the scene in this room, he conducted himself, while here, in a manner that was beyond reproach. He realized the enormity of the outrage he had committed, and he took his medicine, I think, as a fighter should. He is gone now, and I doubt if any of us see him again. That is all, I think, that need be said." It was then that Roderick Duncan silently put aside his glass, and went out of the room, unnoticed by the others. He knew that a general discussion of the incidents of the evening would follow, and he had no wish to take part in it. He anticipated that the two gentlemen who had brought Morton to the house, would be asked to remain, and that he would therefore see them again, later on, and so he took the opportunity that was afforded him to escape unseen and unnoticed.

The whole affair weighed heavily upon him. He realized much better than Patricia did that she alone was to blame for it all; and the fear lest the responsibility of it should come home to her drove him to seek her at once, even before Morton had had time to get beyond the gates of Cedarcrest. Patricia was, of course, unaware of the scene that had taken place at Duncan's rooms just before the informal invitations to Cedarcrest were issued, but Duncan recalled that circumstance now, with a deeper understanding of all that had happened as a sequel to it; and he believed that the time was ripe for a better understanding between himself and Patricia. Therefore, he left the room to seek her.

Outside the door, he came to a pause, in doubt which direction to take. From where he stood, he could see into a part of the dining-room, and instinct told him that it was deserted, save by the butler, who was yet at his post. He approached the music-room, and, screened by a Japanese curtain that hung across the entrance, peered inside. Beatrice and Sally were there, with the other ladies of the party, but Patricia was nowhere to be seen. It occurred to him that she might have sought solitude in some other part of the great house, and he had turned away, striving to think where he might find her, when the whirr of an automobile engine came to him through an open window from the rear of the building.

He guessed, at once, that it would be Morton's roadster, ready to take him away, and, impelled by a sudden spasm of pity for the man who was now tabooed he hurried toward the front entrance—and fate willed it that he should arrive at the threshold just at the very instant when Patricia took that impulsive step nearer to Morton, reaching her arms out toward him, as she did so, and Duncan plainly heard the words she uttered, "Good bye, Dick; and God bless you." He had heard no word which preceded them; he had seen nothing till that instant; but he did see the tears in Patricia's eyes, and hear the pathos in her voice when she spoke those last words to the man who was supposed to have offended her past forgiveness: and he saw Morton leap into the roadway and start toward the garage to meet his machine.

Duncan waited a moment before he advanced farther; watching Patricia from his sheltered place near the door. Then, he stepped forward to meet the young woman to whom he was betrothed—stepped forward to plead with her once more, and to be rebuffed in the manner we have seen.

When she had left him, he dropped upon one of the veranda chairs, and with his head upon his hand gave himself up to bitter thought—bitter, because of his utter inadequacy to cope with the conditions by which he was surrounded.

Duncan was aroused, presently, by the approach of Beatrice and Sally. They came through the door with their arms encircling each other's waist, and walked forward together until they stood at the edge of the top step, under the porte cochere.

"It's a shame," Beatrice was saying, impulsively. "I feel that the whole thing is more or less my fault, Sally, and—" a warning cough from Duncan told them that they were not alone; and also, at that moment, the other guests trooped out upon the broad veranda; all save Patricia, who did not appear.

The two gentlemen who had brought Morton to the house after he was deserted by Patricia on the road, declined to remain, pleading other engagements, and soon their car whirred itself away down the road, and was gone. Nesbit Farnham contrived to secure a solitude-a-deux with Beatrice, who, however, turned an indifferent shoulder to his eager words; Agnes and Frances Houston strolled into obscurity with the two "extras" who had been asked there to fill out Sally's original plan; Sally disappeared into the house, evidently in search of Patricia; Jack Gardner and the lawyer lighted cigars and betook themselves to an "S" chair at a far corner of the veranda. Duncan remained where he was, alone, screened from view by overhanging vines, as desolate in spirit as any man can be, who is suddenly brought face to face with an unpleasant truth.

Nothing had mattered much, in a comparative sense, until this last scene with Patricia. He had been convinced all along, until now, that Patricia loved him and that her strange conduct during the last upheaval in their relations had been the result of wounded pride, only; it had not even remotely occurred to him that she did not love him. They had been together all their lives; he had never known a time when he did not love her; he believed that there had never been a time, since their childhood, when she did not expect some day to become his wife.

But that short scene he had witnessed on the veranda, when Patricia bade Morton good-bye, had changed all this. He doubted the correctness of his previous convictions. He saw another and an entirely different explanation for Patricia's conduct toward him, for her attitude in the matter of the engagement contract which Melvin had been compelled to draw, and which he, himself, had likewise been compelled to sign. He read in that last scene between the ranchman and Patricia a fondness on her part for the young cattle-king which had been forced into the "open" of her own convictions, by the principal episode of the evening. He saw the utter wreck of his own hopes, of his entire scheme of life.

While he sat there in the shadow of the vine, unseen and unseeing, he made still another discovery, a grim one, which brought with it a better realization of Morton's incentives, than anything else could have done. He realized that he hated Morton; hated him wholly and absolutely—hated him suddenly and vehemently. He knew, then, why Morton had attempted to kill him, for, if Morton had made a reappearance at that moment, Roderick Duncan would have taken the initiative, and would have been the one to do the killing.

Yet, he made no move. If you had been watching him from beyond the screen of vines, no indication of what was passing in his thoughts would have been noticeable. The fierce hatred he so suddenly experienced was not made manifest by any act or expression, although it was none the less pronounced, for all that. And, strangely enough, it did not lead him to any greater consideration of Morton, or of his acts; rather the contrary.

Once, while he was preoccupied in this manner, he was again conscious of the distant whirr of an automobile engine, but he gave it no thought, till afterward. He did notice that Jack Gardner also heard it, and took his cigar from his mouth while he listened to it; but at once resumed his conversation with the lawyer. Soon afterward, Roderick left his chair under the vine, and passed inside the house.

"Hello, Rod," Jack called after him. "I didn't know you were there. Won't you join Melvin and me, in our cozy corner?" to which Duncan called back some casual reply, and passed on.

He had made up his mind that he would seek out Patricia, at once, and tell her of the discovery he had just made; that he had been a fool not to realize before, that Morton was the man of her choice, and that she could have the fellow if she wanted him; that he would not only release her from the tentative engagement, but that he would repudiate the contract entirely, and that, as soon as he could secure his own copy of it from the strong-box where he had put it, he would tear it into ten thousand pieces; that he would have no more of her, on any conditions, and that—oh, well, he thought of many bitter and biting things that he would say to her the moment he should find her—possibly in tears because of Morton's enforced departure from Cedarcrest, or in the act of weeping out the truth on Sally Gardner's shoulder. He thought he understood the situation now, as he had not seen it before.

Duncan searched in the drawing-room, the music-room, the dining-room; he explored the snuggery, the library, and even Jack's own particular den; he sought the side piazzas; he went outside among the trees to certain hidden nooks he knew. But Patricia was nowhere to be discovered. Neither had he been able to see Sally anywhere about, and the conviction became stronger upon him that the two were somewhere together, and that Patricia, her pride forgotten, was keeping the young hostess with her while she told of the terrible predicament in which she now found herself to be enmeshed; for it would be a most stupendous predicament for Patricia to face—the realization that she was in love with Morton, in spite of the contract in writing she had forced Roderick Duncan to sign with her.

Returning to the house, he found the butler, and was about to send him in search of his mistress, when he discovered Sally, descending the stairway.

"Where is Patricia?" Each asked the question simultaneously, so that the words were pronounced exactly together; and yet neither one smiled. Each question was a reply to its mate.

"I have been searching everywhere for her," said Duncan.

"So have I," replied Sally. "Where can she be?"

"I haven't an idea. Isn't she up-stairs?"

"No. Couldn't you find her, outside?"

"No."

"I haven't seen her since—since that dreadful scene on the veranda," said Sally. "Have you seen her, Roderick?"

"Yes."

"When? Where?"

"I saw her taking leave of Morton, when he went away," he replied, with such bitterness that Sally stared at him; but, wisely, she made no comment; nor did she attempt to stay him when he turned abruptly away from her, and walked rapidly toward one of the side entrances. But he stopped and turned, before he left the room.

"Sally," he said, "I am going to ask you to excuse me. I want to get away. I would rather not explain to the others—I would rather not attempt to explain to you. But I want to go. You will excuse me? and if those who remain should happen to miss me, will you make whatever excuse seems necessary?"

"None will be necessary, Roderick. Oh, you men! You make me tired! You do, really! It is inconceivable why you should all fall hopelessly in love with one woman, and utterly ignore the others who are—" She stopped suddenly. She had been on the point of saying too much, and she did not wish to utter words she would be sorry for, afterward. Duncan did not attempt any reply, and was turning away a second time, when she called after him: "If you would only be really sensible, and—"

"And what, Sally?" he asked her, when she again hesitated.

"Nothing."

"But you were about to make a suggestion. What was it?"

"If it was anything at all, it was that you chase yourself out there among the trees, find Beatrice and Nesbit Farnum, and take her away from him," exclaimed this impetuous young woman, who found delight in expressing herself in the slang of the day. Duncan shrugged his shoulders, and uttered the one word:

"Why?"

But Sally did not vouchsafe any reply at all, to the question. She tossed her head, and darted along the wide hall toward a rear door.

Duncan gazed after her for a moment, and then, with another shrug of his shoulders, he passed on out of the house, and made his way swiftly toward the stables and the garage, for he was determined to get out his car and to return to the city, forthwith.

His surprise was great, when, on arriving at the door of the garage, he found that Sally had preceded him, and, as he drew near, she turned a white, scared face toward him, exclaiming:

"Oh, Roderick! What do you think? Patricia has gone."

"Gone!" he echoed. "Gone where? Gone, when? What do you mean, Sally?"

"She has gone. She has taken one of Jack's cars, and gone home."

"Alone?"

"No. She took Patrick with her, to drive the car. They left here half an hour ago, I am told. Why do you suppose she did such a thing, without consulting me, Roderick? Why? Why?"

"Why?" he echoed her question a second time. Then, he laughed, and it was not a pleasant laugh to hear. All the bitterness of those moments under the vine on the veranda was voiced in that laugh. "It isn't a difficult question to answer, Sally. She has followed Morton—that is why;" and, while Mrs. Gardner stared at him, uncomprehendingly, he turned to one of the stablemen who was near, and who had been Sally's informant about the movements of Patricia, and called out:

"Tell my man to fetch my car to me, here. I shall go, at once, Sally." His car was already moving toward him, and, as it stopped and he put one foot upon the step, Sally replied:

"I'll say that you and Patricia went away together. It will sound better."

"Pardon me, Sally, but you will say no such thing—with my permission. Go ahead, Thompson." He sprang into the car, and it sped away with him, leaving Sally staring after him, wide-eyed with the amazement she felt. Already, she realized that her house-party, from which she had expected such wholesome results, had proven disastrous all around. Her husband's prophecy concerning it had been correct. But she did not know, and could not know as yet, just how disastrous it had been, for there had been no prophet to foretell the catastrophe at the stone quarry, toward which Patricia Langdon had started, half an hour earlier, in one of Jack Gardner's cars, guided by one of Jack's most trusted servants; and, oddly enough, by one who had formerly been in the employ of Stephen Langdon, and who, as a servant, had fallen under the spell of the daughter of the house to such an extent that he had never ceased to quote her as the criterion of all things in the way of excellence to be attained by an employer. And toward this quarry Duncan was now hastening at the full speed of his big Packard-sixty, with the trusted Thompson at the wheel; and toward it, as the chief actor, Richard Morton had started away from Cedarcrest with a broken heart, and with a brain crazed by the calamities that had rushed so swiftly upon him.



CHAPTER XVIII

MYSTERIES BORN IN THE NIGHT

When the car, driven by Thompson, drew near to the derrick which had been to Morton the suggestion of an unholy impulse, he slowed the big Packard and leaned ahead, far over the wheel, for his keen eyes had already discerned something beside the road which had not been there when he had passed earlier in the evening. He stopped the car, and that fact awoke Duncan to a recollection of his surroundings.

"What is it, Thompson?" he asked. "Why have you stopped?"

Thompson was peering anxiously toward the jumbled mass of broken stone ahead of him, and there was an instant of silence before he replied. Then—

"There has been a wreck here, sir," he told his employer.

Instantly, Duncan thought of Patricia. He forgot Morton. He was out of the car even before Thompson could slide from under the steering-wheel, and started ahead at a run, toward the remnants of the wreck which he could now see quite plainly.

The roadster, in making its last leap, had literally climbed the rocky place, and then, turning end for end twice, had finally alighted upon a heap of stone, from which it could be seen from the roadway. It was now a mass of iron, a twisted chaos of castings and machinery, recognizable only as something that had once been an automobile; but the experienced eyes of Thompson, trained to the quick and perfect recognition of all cars that he had ever seen, identified the mass of wreckage as soon as he got near enough to see it clearly. One comprehensive glance sufficed for him. He straightened up after that quick search for identification marks, which was his first instinct, and said, quietly:

"It is Mr. Morton's roadster, sir."

"My God!" cried Duncan, with a catch in his breath. The truth of the matter seemed to rush upon him on the instant, although he afterward refused to recognize it as truth. But, as Thompson made the statement, Duncan saw again the despairing face of Richard Morton which had still had in it a hidden determination to do something that Duncan had not even tried to guess at the time. "Was this what he intended to do?" Duncan asked himself, silently.

"Yes, sir; it is Mr. Morton's roadster," Thompson repeated, with entire conviction. "He must have been hitting up a great gait, when he struck, too. I never saw such a wreck; never, sir. He must be somewhere about, sir."

"True. Look for him, Thompson; look everywhere."

He started forward himself, leaping over the stones, and plunging into every place where the body of a man might have fallen, after being hurled from the wrecked car. They searched distances beyond where it was possible that the body of a man might have been thrown, but they did not find Morton.

"It is possible that he escaped," said Duncan, at last, pausing and wiping perspiration from his brow. "He might have alighted on his feet, and—"

"No, sir. Pardon me. It is not possible. No man could go through such a wreck as that one, and in such a place, and escape alive. Besides, sir—look here."

The man struck a match, and held the blaze of it toward a pile of sharp stones. Duncan bent forward, peered at the spot indicated by Thompson, and drew back again with a sharp exclamation of horror.

There was blood on the stones; quite a lot of it, partly dried. And near it, half-hidden among the jagged stones, were Morton's watch and fob. The fob was instantly recognizable for it was totally unlike any other that Duncan had ever seen, formed of nuggets in the rough, linked together with steel rings, instead of with gold, or silver. The watch was smashed almost as badly as the automobile. Duncan took it in his hand, held it so for a moment, and at last, with a shudder, dropped it into one of his pockets.

"What does it mean, Thompson? Where is he?" he asked.

"I think it is likely, sir, that someone passed the spot, either at the time of the accident or directly after it happened. Of course, sir, the body would not have been left here under any circumstances."

"The body? You think he must be dead?"

"There can be no doubt of it, sir," said Thompson, with conviction. "Shall we go on, sir? Nothing more can be done here."

They returned to their own car, and the journey toward the city was resumed. Not another word was spoken until they were in the city streets, and then the only direction that Duncan gave his chauffeur was that he be taken directly to his rooms, where, as soon as he entered, he seized upon the telephone. One after another, he called up every hospital in the city, and it was not until he found his search to be entirely unavailing that it occurred to him Morton would have been taken to some place nearer the scene of the accident. Then, he bethought himself to communicate with police headquarters.

"I will give," he said, "a thousand dollars for positive information about the fate of Richard Morton, provided the same is brought to me before daylight, and that my request be kept a secret. This is not a bribe, but a spur to great effort. You have facilities for making such inquiries. Find Morton for me, before morning, if you can, no matter where he is. Keep it from the newspapers, too. Then, come to me for the check." He explained fully the locality of the accident—and then he waited.

He did not occupy his bed that night, and he could not have explained why he did not do so. He kept telling himself that Richard Morton was nothing whatever to him; that it did not matter what had happened to the fellow; that Morton deserved death for what he had done—and a lot of other things of the same character. But all the while he paced the floor, and waited for information; or, he seated himself in a corner of the room and smoked like a furnace chimney. Just as daylight was breaking, while gazing through his window toward the eastward, he started, and asked himself, guiltily:

"Am I hoping all the time that he is dead? Have I offered that thousand dollars only for assurance of his death?"

Fortunately, he was not compelled to reply to the self-accusing question, for there came a summons at his door, and an officer from headquarters entered to announce that, although diligent search and inquiry had been made in every conceivable quarter, not a word of information regarding Richard Morton could be obtained. Duncan listened in silence to the report, and, when it was finished, said:

"Very well; continue the search. Find the man, or find out what became of him. I will defray all the expenses, and will pay the reward I offered, too. But I must have the information at once, and everything relative to this affair must be kept from the newspapers."

The officer had just gone when a ring at Duncan's telephone took him quickly to it—and the voice of Jack Gardner at the other end of the wire alarmed him unduly, considering that there was no known reason to feel alarm. Gardner, upon being assured that he was talking directly with his friend, said:

"You'll have to pardon me, old chap, for calling you out of bed at this ungodly hour, but I just had to do it."

"You needn't worry, Jack. I haven't been in bed. What's up?" Duncan replied.

"Why; you see there is a mystery developed, just now. If you haven't been in bed, I have. I was called out of it by this confounded telephone—twice. The first call was to tell me that some sort of an accident had happened to Dick Morton. I couldn't gather what it was, and didn't really take much stock in it, so far as that goes. Then, the second call came. I was mad by that time, and didn't have very much to say to the chap at the other end of the wire—till Sally put me up to calling you."

"What was the second call about?" asked Duncan, gritting his teeth and almost fearing to hear what it might have been.

"Why, my Thomas car—the one that took Patricia away, you know—has been found somewhere in the streets of New York, deserted, apparently. I can't understand it. They identified the car by the number, you know. When I told Sally what had been said to me, she immediately had a spasm of fear lest the accident reported to have happened to Morton might have been Patricia, instead. I thought I'd ask you about it; that's all."

"Wait a minute, Jack. Just let me think, a minute; then I'll answer you."

Duncan put the receiver down on the table, and crossed the room. He found it difficult to grasp the situation. Until that moment, it had not occurred to him that Patricia might have been the one to find Morton, or Morton's body, at the scene of the wreck. He had forgotten that she must have passed that way within half an hour from the time of the piling of the steamer upon the mass of sharp stones. Presently, he returned to the telephone, and told his friend all that he knew about the circumstances, and all that he had done since Thompson and he came away from the scene of the wreck.

"But I don't see what your Thomas car has got to do with it," he concluded. "Your man Patrick was driving it, wasn't he? I know he was. He used to be with Langdon, you know. He isn't a chauffeur, but he's a lot more competent to be one than half the men who are. I say, Jack, have Sally call up Patricia, right away. You—"

He heard a click over the wire which told him that connection was cut off; and after that he paced the floor again, wishing and hoping for the ringing of his telephone-bell.

"We are coming to the city at once," Gardner told him, when at last it did ring, and Duncan had taken down the receiver. "What the devil is the matter with everything, anyhow? You had better hump yourself, Duncan, and get busy. I don't believe that Morton was hurt half so badly as you and Thompson seemed to think. Anyhow, the only way I can see through it all is that Patricia was the one who found him. But, even so—"

"Hold on a minute, Jack. You are getting too swift for me. What did Sally find out when she telephoned to Patricia?"

"Oh! Didn't I tell you that? Patricia hasn't been home, at all. They thought, at Langdon's, that she was here. She certainly hasn't shown up there. And you say that Dick has disappeared, after leaving his gore spread all over the place where his car was smashed. And, then, my car is found somewhere down there, abandoned. I can't make it out, at all. Sally is sure that something dreadful has happened. We're starting now. Sally won't wait another minute. I'll see you as soon as I get into town."

He did not delay to say good-bye, but hung up the receiver at his end.

Duncan did not await the arrival of Gardner. He summoned his valet, and gave him strict directions about the reception of any news concerning the mysteries of the night. Then, he hurried to Stephen Langdon's home where he was admitted at once to the old banker's sleeping apartment.

"What in heaven's name is the matter now, Rod?" the financier demanded, testily. "It is bad enough to have you and Patricia at sword's points, but to rout out an old fellow like me from his bed at this hour, is rubbing it in."

"I suppose you haven't heard that Patricia did not come home last night, have you?" Duncan said, by way of reply.

"No, I haven't. I should have been surprised, if I had heard it. She wasn't expected to come home. She went to the Gardners."

"Well, sir, there is a lot that you ought to know, before you step out of this room, to face all sorts of statements and inquiries. That is why I am here. I thought I was the best one to tell you."

"To tell me what?"

"It will be something of a shock, sir. Brace yourself for it. I don't think that a soul in the world except me, guesses at the truth."

"Guesses at what truth? What the devil is the matter with you? What are you trying to tell me? Out with it, whatever it is!"

"Patricia has run away with Richard Morton. He was hurt last night. She was in love with him, and—"

"Stop! Stop where you are, Rod. You're crazy. You're stark, staring, raving crazy! Why in heaven's name should Patricia want to run away with Morton? It is true that I have always wanted her to marry you, but, if she wanted him, she knows mighty well she could have him. I wouldn't put out a finger to stop her from marrying anybody of her choice, so long as the man was morally and mentally fit. Sit down over there; take a drink. You look as if you needed one. Don't utter a word for five minutes, and then begin at the beginning and tell me all about it."

But Duncan would listen to neither request. He began at once and told of the occurrences of the night, from the moment when Patricia had arrived at Cedarcrest alone, till the receipt of the telephonic messages from Gardner; and he concluded by saying:

"There is no mystery in the affair, at all, as I regard it. Patricia left the house, at Cedarcrest, half an hour after Morton left it. She found the wrecked car, near the derrick, as Thompson and I found it, later on. But she found Morton, too. Patrick was with her, and Patrick is devoted to Patricia. He wouldn't consider the fact that he is, or was, in Jack's employ, if it came to a question of obedience to her wishes; he would serve her. You see, Patricia found out that she loved Morton, when he got his calling-down; only, I suppose, even then, she wasn't quite sure. But, when the time came for him to go away entirely, she had no more doubts about it! She didn't remain long at Cedarcrest, after that; she followed him. She knew that Patrick was there, and that he would go with her. Well, they found the wreck of Morton's car, along the road; then, they found Morton. Probably, he wasn't much hurt; chaps like him don't mind the loss of a little blood. Patricia and the man helped him into the car. It was just the proper scene, with all the best kind of setting for a mutual confession of their love, and—there you are."

"Go on, Roderick. Finish all you have to say, before I begin. What next?"

"Why—oh, what's the use? There isn't any more to say. Morton probably asked her to go away with him, and she went. That's all. I thought you ought to know it."

"You don't know it yourself, do you?"

"No—not positively, of course."

"You have just guessed it."

"I suppose that's true, too."

"I wonder if your guessing has gone far enough to enlighten me on two important points."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like to know why Morton would want her to run away with him at all, and why she should think of consenting to such a thing, if he did. Patricia isn't one of the run-away kind. I should think you would know that. And they didn't have to run."

"Why, Morton had just been virtually kicked out of Jack Gardner's house. He was—"

"Well? Well? Couldn't Stephen Langdon's daughter kick him into it again? Or into any other house on God's green earth, for that matter, if she tried to do so? Do you suppose he'd have to pay any attention to a little, petty ostracism, on the part of such puppets of society as gathered out there, if he became the husband of Patricia Langdon? Don't be an ass, Roderick! You are just plain jealous, and I don't know that I blame you—for that."

"I'm not jealous."

"Then, you're a fool, and that's a heap worse."



CHAPTER XIX

RODERICK DUNCAN SEES LIGHT

The police department of the city of New York did not earn the thousand dollars reward offered by Roderick Duncan. The mystery of the abandoned car, owned by Jack Gardner, was not explained. Patrick O'Toole did not return to his duties at Cedarcrest. The story of the wreck of the White Steamer on the rocks under the derrick remained untold. Patricia Langdon did not reappear among her friends and acquaintances in the city. The mysteries born of that party at Cedarcrest continued unsolved.

Roderick Duncan, having arrived at a conclusion about all those matters which was quite satisfactory to himself, declined to concern himself farther about them; he believed that he perfectly understood the situation, and he let it go at that—although he engaged the services of every clipping-bureau in the city, in an effort to find announcement somewhere of the marriage of Patricia Langdon to Richard Morton. But no such record was discovered, nor was any evidence found that suggested such a possibility. He withdrew very much into himself, shunned his clubs, avoided his friends, and could not himself tell why he did not go away somewhere, to the other side of the world, seeking to forget what he had lost. He went so far in his studied aloofness as to keep entirely away from Stephen Langdon, and was perhaps all the more surprised when, as time elapsed, Patricia's father did not send for him. The utter silence of Stephen Langdon, and his entire inactivity concerning the absence of his daughter convinced Duncan, as it did also Patricia's, friends, generally, that he knew perfectly well where she was. It was a logical conclusion, too, for, if Stephen Langdon had not known, it is safe to say that he would have moved heaven and earth to find his daughter.

Jack and Sally Gardner went to Europe and took Beatrice with them. Nesbit Farnham followed them, on the next steamer. The Misses Houston, also, disappeared. The newspapers had contained merely a mention of the wreck, nothing more of consequence. The destruction of the machine was told, and it was hinted that the chauffeur was slightly injured; nothing was said to suggest that Richard Morton had been hurt at all. The police, to whom Duncan had telephoned, made no bones of pooh-poohing the entire matter, and laughing in their sleeves about it. The police had their own ideas about the whole thing—and speedily forgot them all.

Stephen Langdon was strangely grim and silent, those days; he was also unusually dangerous to his rivals in "the street." Every energy that he possessed seemed bent upon ruining somebody, anybody. It did not occur to Duncan that the old man avoided him, because he was guilty of the like avoidance himself; but, had he been less concerned with his own sorrows, and given some thought to Stephen Langdon's, he would have been quick enough to discover that the old financier dodged him, studiously.

There was no gossip about the disappearance of Patricia, because nothing was known about it. She was out of town, as were most of her associates; traveling somewhere, doubtless, or was passing the time among her numerous friends.

The first week after the beginning of the mystery was lived through in a state of unrest by Duncan, and the second and third weeks brought no change to him. With the beginning of the fourth week, he encountered Burke Radnor, and the mere sight of the newspaper man recalled to the young millionaire that bitterly unpleasant episode in which his name and that of Beatrice Brunswick were coupled. Radnor was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Astor, when Duncan entered the place. The man had been drinking just enough to render him a bit boisterous and a trifle loud in his talk and demeanor, when Duncan saw him. He was seated with several other men, and all of them were talking and laughing together at the moment when Duncan passed them on his way to the desk to inquire for a guest whom he desired to see. He took no notice whatever of Radnor, and was passing on, when a remark dropped noisily by the newspaper writer arrested him. It brought him to a halt so suddenly, that he sank at once upon a chair near at hand, and remained there without realizing that he did so, for the sole purpose of hearing what else Radnor might have to say upon this particular subject. He would have passed on, even then, had he not been convinced that Radnor had not seen him, and did not suspect his nearness. As he listened, he gathered that Radnor was boasting of a prospective news story which he had in prospect, and for the publication of which he needed only a few additional facts.

"—elopement in high life, with an automobile wreck, a broken head—a broken heart also, only that was quickly mended—and a bunch of other little details thrown in, you know," was the remark that was overheard by Duncan, as he strolled past the group; was his reason for dropping down upon a convenient chair and remaining there, to listen. "The lady in the case is a swell who is away up in the top rank of the 'two-hundred-and-fifty;' and the man—well, he is up in high C, too, for that matter. One of the newly-rich, you know, lately materialized out of the wild and woolly. Fine stunt, that story; only, I can't seem to nail the few additional facts I need," Radnor continued, while Duncan listened with all his ears. "There are certain elements connected with the story that make it especially attractive to me, for, in addition to getting a clear scoop in the biggest sensation of the year, I can clean up an old grudge of mine, bee-eautifully. And won't I clean it up, when I get my hooks fairly into it! Well! You can take it from me."

"Oh, go on, Radnor, and tell us about it!" urged one of his companions—another newspaper writer, evidently. "How'd you get next to it in the first place?"

"Oh, that was an accident—a series of accidents, it might be called. I don't mind telling you that part of it, without names. I mentioned a broken head, just now. Well, I had a line on a dandy story that was located out of town, and so I borrowed Tony Brokaw's automobile to go after it, because the story was located some distance off of the main line of travel. I was bowling along quite merrily, all alone in a car that is made to carry seven. It was just in the shank of the evening, and—"

"All this happened out of town, didn't it, Radnor?"

"Yes—a little way out. I came to a place where there had been a wreck, and—well—seated on the ground at the scene of the disaster, was the lady in the case, holding the head of the man in the case, in her lap, and moaning over it to beat the band. Standing beside them, like a big dog on guard, was a 'faithful servant.' It made a picture that couldn't be beaten, for suggestive points, provided the likenesses were made good enough. I took the whole thing in, at a glance, and sized the situation up rather correctly, too. The young woman was rattled clean out of her senses, and kept moaning something about it's being all her fault—I wasn't able to get just the gist of that part of it. She knew me by sight, and remembered my name. I offered my assistance, and then fell to examining the injured man. I discovered that he wasn't dead by a long shot, although he had been hurt quite badly, and he'd bled a lot. But I've been a war correspondent; I know all about first aid to the injured; I have seen wounds of all kinds, and it didn't take me long to estimate 'mister magusalem's' chances at about a thousand to one, for recovery. I made the chauffeur help me, and together we toted the wounded man to my car, and put him in the tonneau. The lady climbed in beside him—and ordered her chauffeur to follow her, and help her with the injured man. All the time, I was keeping up a devil of a thinking, wondering what it was all about. You see, I knew who the man and the woman were, but I couldn't fix the facts of the case sufficiently clear to satisfy me. I knew it would be a dandy sensation for the morning papers, but there was yet plenty of time to get it in, over a wire—besides, I wanted it to go in late, so that other papers than the one I gave it to, couldn't get a line on it. I got into my car—that is, the one I had borrowed, you understand—wondering where I would take the bunch, when another car stopped alongside of us, and a man, also alone, asked what was the matter. I found out that he was a doctor, and got him to take a look at the wounded man. To make a long story short, he dressed the wound then and there, said there wasn't any immediate danger—and a lot more—and went on his way. That decided me. I knew of a place about twenty miles away where I could take them, where the man would have the best of care, and—best of all—where I could fix things up to keep everything quiet till I found out all the facts. You see, I scented the greatest sensational story of my career—and I wasn't far out, either, if ever I get all of it."

"But, great Scott, man, didn't you have it then?"

"You'd have had it, Sommers; but not I. I knew there was more to it. When the doctor pulled his freight out of there, I didn't lose any time in getting a move on me, too. And the girl never asked a question; not one; I had told her that I would take them to a place where the man could get well, and she seemed satisfied. The chauffeur never peeped a word. I let the motor skim along at a good rate, and wasn't long in bringing the bunch to the place I had thought of, which happens to be a small, private sanatorium, which isn't known to be one at all, save by those who patronize it and who want to put their loved ones away for a time, secretly. But the doc who runs it, is a good fellow, a good friend of mine, and when I told him that we didn't want a word said about the affair—and particularly when he discovered who the parties were and that there was a heap of dough in it for him—he fell into my plans without a dissenting vote."

"Say, Radnor, that's a long winded yarn, all right, but it's interesting. I wish, though, that you'd open up with the names."

"Not I, Sommers. I haven't got to the real mystery of the affair—yet."

"You don't say! What is it?"

"Well, when I had fixed things to suit me, and had received the thanks of the lady, when I had also satisfied myself that she was just as anxious for secrecy about the thing as I was, although I couldn't tell exactly why she was so, I hiked it back for town. It was too late, then, to get the other story I had been after, and I had ceased to care much about it, anyhow; and then, when I was ready to leave, out came the chauffeur, and he said, if I didn't mind, he'd ride part of the way back with me. He and the woman had been whispering together, just before that, and I sized it up that she had given him certain instructions to carry out. Anyhow, when we arrived at the scene of the accident, the chauffeur got down, and I came on, to the city, alone. I'm not going to tell you why the chauffeur left me, at the scene of the accident, because that would give you a pointer which I don't wish you to have. He had a certain duty to perform which I did not guess at, just then, but which was all plain to me the next A. M., if anybody should ask you. It amazed me, and it added immensely to the mystery. And now, brace yourself, fellows, for the real mystery—the one I am chasing at the present time."

"We're all ears, Radnor."

"I telephoned to my friend the doc, the next morning. He reported that the man was doing well, and that the lady was hanging over him like a possum over a ripe persimmon. I telephoned again that afternoon, again the next morning, and every day after that, but the doc kept telling me that, although the man was doing well, and the lady was still there with him, I had better not butt in until he tipped me the wink—and I'll give you my word that he managed to keep me on the hooks for ten days before I tumbled."

"Tumbled to what?"

"You shall hear. I got leary about things on the tenth day, for this telephoning was getting monotonous, and borrowed Brokaw's car again, but when I got to the little hidden sanatorium, my birds had flown, and—"

"Your birds had flown! What do you mean, Radnor?"

"Just what I say. The man and the woman had gone, and the doc wouldn't tell me when they went away, or anything at all about them. He said he had been well paid for keeping quiet, and I couldn't get any more information out of him than you could dig out of a clam. What is more, that chauffeur hadn't been seen by anybody since I dropped him out of the machine, at the scene of the accident—and that is the story. I don't know whether the doc lied to me, or not. He wouldn't let me go through his place, and, for all I know, the man and the girl were both there when I went back. On the other hand, they might have been gone a week, already. I've been unearthing every clue I could think of, since then, to get trace of them, but you might as well look for saw dust in hades, as for clues about those two—or rather the three of them, for I am satisfied that the chauffeur returned to the sanatorium after he had performed the errand he was sent to do."

"What gets me," said Sommers, "is how people as prominent as you say they were could fade out of sight like that, and leave no trace behind them. I should have thought there would be a hue and cry after them that would have stirred every newspaper in town."

"Well—all that rather gets me, too. Of course, I could make a big story out of it, as it stands; but that isn't all of the story, and I want it all."

"There is a scandal in the thing, too, Radnor."

"Of course, man! The fellow wasn't so badly hurt but what he must have been around again, by the time I went back to the sanatorium. The girl was certainly in her right senses. She remained there with him, hanging over him and helping to take care of him—and there wasn't a thing said about any marriage-ceremony. Oh, it's a big story all right, no matter how it turns out. You see, there are some remarkable circumstances associated with the case. For instance, there are two men in town now, both of whom should be very greatly concerned over the mystery. I have had them both watched, and, while both seem anxious about something, neither one seems to give a hang about an affair which I know they would have broken their necks to have prevented. There's a nigger in the fence, somewhere; and those two men avoid each other as if one had the smallpox and the other was down with yellow fever. Whenever I have asked any of the intimate friends about the principals in the case, I have been told enough to inform me that the intimate friends know as little as I do, and don't guess anything about it, at all. Oh, it's a fine mix-up! But just where the trouble is located, I can't make out."

"Put me wise, Radnor, and let me help you. Then, we'll do the story together," said the man called Sommers.

"Not much. It's my story, and I'm going to hang to it. If you can make anything out of what I have told you, you're welcome. You can't! The young woman in the case has got more brains than half the business men, down-town. The man and the woman have both got millions to burn; and there you are. Come on; let's have something. I'm dry as a bone."

The members of Radnor's party marched past Roderick Duncan without seeing him; and he, totally forgetful of the errand that had taken him to the hotel, passed swiftly out of it, hailed a taxi, and gave the address of Malcolm Melvin, the lawyer; and then he was whirled away as swiftly as the driver of the cab dared to take him through the streets of the teeming city.



CHAPTER XX

THE LAST WOMAN

Stephen Langdon was seated at one end of the table, Roderick Duncan was at the opposite one. Melvin, the lawyer, was behind it. Duncan had just related the story he had overheard told by Radnor, and he had brought his recital to a close by making a remarkable statement, which had brought at least one of his hearers to a mental stand-still.

"I am a party to an agreement which was signed, sealed and delivered, in this office, Mr. Langdon," he said. "You are also a party to that document. Your daughter also signed it. By the terms of that document, Patricia Langdon became my promised wife. Under the terms recited in that document, she named a day when we were to be married. That day has come and gone, and I have received no word of any kind from her. I am convinced that you, her father, know where she is, where she can be found, and now I demand of you that information, in order that I may seek her. It is my wish to know from her own lips if she repudiates that contract, or if it is still her intention to live up to it. I have asked you, in Mr. Melvin's presence, twice, to give me the information I wish for. I have asked you once on the ground of our mutual friendship: you declined to answer. I have asked you, the second time, on the ground of love and affection, for you and for your daughter: you have refused. I ask you now on the ground of a commercial transaction, just as Miss Langdon insisted upon viewing it, and with all personal considerations put aside. If you again decline my request, I give you warning that I shall make a call upon you within an hour, for the loan I have advanced. I have that right, under the terms of the agreement, and I shall take advantage of it. That is all I have to say. It is my last word."

Stephen Langdon left his chair. His face was cold, stern, expressionless. It wore the mask which long years in "the street," had given it. He did not look toward Duncan, but turned his face to the lawyer, and said, with cold preciseness:

"Mr. Melvin, you may say for me, to all who may be concerned, that I shall be prepared within an hour to meet all demands that may be made upon me."

With a slight inclination of his head, he left the office of the lawyer. He walked as erect as ever; he carried himself no less proudly, although he knew that he was going to his financial ruin unless the unexpected should happen. Twenty millions is a large sum to pay at an hour's notice. It was not a tithe of the fortune which Stephen Langdon was supposed to possess; yet his circumstances at the moment were such that terrible disaster would immediately follow upon the demand for its payment. He knew it; Melvin knew it; Roderick Duncan knew it. But the fighting blood of Roderick Duncan's father was surging in his son's soul, just then; and, in his day, "Old Man Duncan" had been a harder and a more relentless financier than ever his partner, Stephen Langdon, had become.

"You will not insist, will you, Roderick?" the lawyer asked, as soon as they were alone.

"I shall insist," replied Duncan, with decision.

"Even in the event that I might give you the information you seek? Even in that case, will you insist upon forcing your father's life-long friend to the wall? For that is what it will amount to."

"No. In that case I shall not insist upon calling in the loan. I seek only the information. It doesn't matter where I get it, so long as I do get it, and it proves to be correct. That is all I require."

The lawyer drew a pad of paper toward him and hastily wrote a few lines upon it. Then, tearing off the sheet, he rang a bell and gave the written message into the hand of a clerk.

"Mr. Langdon just left this office," he said. "Overtake him and give him this message. See to it that you do not fail to place it in his hands at once." He waited until the door had closed behind the retreating figure of the clerk; then he turned toward Duncan again.

"Mr. Langdon is only a very little wiser than yourself about what has happened to his daughter, during the last few weeks," he said, with a touch of coldness in his tones. "I am somewhat better informed than either of you, and in order to save my old friend from utter ruin—in order to save his life, for ruin would spell death to him—I shall tell you what you wish to know, even though I have been implored not to do so. Frankly, I believe it better that you should know the truth, only"—he hesitated a moment—"I shall ask you to remember who you are and what you are, and to govern yourself as your father's son should."

"Well, Mr. Melvin?"

"Miss Langdon is at Three-Star ranch, in Montana. She has been there—"

"One moment, Melvin!"

"Well?"

"You said, Miss Langdon. Do you wish to correct that statement by any change of name? Was it a slip of the tongue, caused by momentary forgetfulness?"

"No."

"'Three-Star' is the name of a brand owned by Richard Morton, is it not?"

"Yes."

"Three-Star ranch is one of his many properties, I believe."

"It is."

"Go on, please."

"I repeat: Miss Langdon is at Three-Star ranch, in Montana. She has been there since a little more than a week after her disappearance. I was the first to be informed of the fact. The information came to me through a letter written by her to me. I have fulfilled the requests made to me in that letter—until now, when I am revealing truths which she wished untold. Through me, her father has settled one million dollars upon her. She now enjoys the income of that amount. That is all."

"The letter! May I see it?"

The lawyer methodically took a red-leather pocketbook from his coat, extracted an envelope therefrom, and passed it across the table to Duncan.

"Dear Mr. Melvin," the young man read, half-aloud, although to himself, "I am at Three-Star ranch, one of the properties of Mr. Richard Morton, in Montana. The full address is inclosed, written upon an additional slip of paper which I trust you will destroy at once; also this letter. I am with Mr. Morton; I am caring for him. More than that, you need not know. I desire you to tell my father that it is my wish to forego any inheritance I might have received from him, but that if he is disposed to make any present settlement upon me, I shall cheerfully receive it. I shall not communicate with him; I do not wish him to communicate with me. I cannot command your silence, or his, concerning me; but I expect it. Unless he should demand of you knowledge of my place of abode, I prefer that you withhold it from him. Concerning others, I implore your entire silence and discretion. I shall communicate with you again only in the event that it should become necessary to do so.—Patricia Langdon."

The letter fluttered from Duncan's hands to the floor. He bent forward and picked it up, his face white and drawn and set and suddenly haggard. He folded the letter carefully, returned it to the envelope, and then, with slow precision, tore it into bits, carried the mass of fragments to the hearth, piled them into a heap and touched a lighted match to it. The lawyer watched the proceeding without emotion, without a change of expression. But he gave a slight nod of satisfaction when it was done.

Duncan did not return to his chair. He stood for a moment before the hearth, with his back turned toward the lawyer; then he wheeled about and came forward three steps, until he could reach his hat which was on the table.

"Thank you, Melvin," he said. "I shall entirely respect your confidence. Good-day."

"Where are you going, Duncan?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought of that—yet."

The lawyer rose from his chair, and rested the tips of his fingers on the table in front of him, bending slightly forward.

"She was a good girl; and you loved her. Don't forget that," he said.

"No; I won't forget it, Melvin."

"And—there are others, just as good; don't forget that, either."

"No. There are no others like her. She was the last woman—for me; the last woman; and she is dead."

"The last woman? Nonsense!"

"The last woman, Melvin. You don't understand me."

"No, I do not understand you."

"Good God! Don't you see how it all came about? Don't you know Patricia Langdon?"

"I know that I won't hear a word against her, even now—even from you, Duncan," said the lawyer, with a touch of savagery.

"Don't you understand that, having put her name to a written contract with me, she would not break that contract, or repudiate it? And don't you see that she has intended, all along, to force me into a position where I would be the one to repudiate its terms? You're a poor judge of character, Melvin, if you don't see that. You have never known Patricia Langdon, if you don't understand her, now. And"—he hesitated an instant—"your association with me has taught you mighty little about my character, if you haven't guessed what I will do—now!"

"What will you do, Roderick? What do you mean?" asked the lawyer, alarmed by the deep intensity with which Duncan spoke those last words.

"I shall go to Montana. I shall start to-night. I shall find Patricia Langdon. I shall live up to the terms of the contract I made with her, and I shall compel her to do the same. I shall make her my wife. I shall bring her back to New York, to her father, to her home, as Mrs. Roderick Duncan. That is what I shall do. That is what I mean."

"God bless you, boy! But—it can't be done."

"It shall be done."

"But, she will never consent to such an arrangement. She is the last woman in the world to drag your name—"

"The last woman; that is it. She is the last of the Langdon's; she shall be the last of the Duncan's, too. She will keep to the letter of her contract, if I force her to it. I know that. And I will force her to it."

"But the man! What will you do with him?"

Duncan stared a moment. Then, he smiled, as he replied:

"After Patricia Langdon has become Patricia Duncan, I will kill him. Good-day, Melvin."



CHAPTER XXI

THE REASON WHY

Roderick Duncan traveled westward in a special train made up of his own private car, a regular Pullman, and a diner. With his valet for company, Duncan constituted the personnel of the first of these; the second was occupied by the Reverend Doctor Moreley, his wife and two daughters. The reverend gentleman was aware of a part of the purpose of that trip; the members of his family were yet to be told of it. A lavish use of the magician, Money, had prepared everything in advance for Duncan, and he had now only to carry out the arrangements he had made. There was a slight delay in making the start, but after that all things moved as smoothly as possible. Ultimately, the special train was sidetracked at a point that was within a few miles of the house and outbuildings of Three-Star ranch.

The state of Montana held no finer ranch and range, no better or more up-to-date buildings, no better outfit in all respects, than Three-Star. The house, set well up along the side of a hill, faced toward the south, and commanded a view which had been the pride of its former owners, before Richard Morton bought up all the rangeland in that locality and converted it into one huge estate of his own. A broad veranda extended from end to end, at the front, and from that vantage point miles upon miles of rich pasture could be seen, dotted with grazing thousands of cattle. Trees, set out with a view to the future, by the creators of the ranch, imparted an aspect of homely comfort, of seclusion, peace and contentment to it all.

Just at sundown when Patricia Langdon came through the wide door and stepped out upon the veranda toward the broad flight of steps which led down to the flowered inclosure in front of the house, she stopped suddenly, her right hand flew toward her throat, and her face, flushed and angry until that instant, went as pale as death itself. She gasped and caught her breath, swayed a second where she stood, and then drew herself upright again; and she stood straight and tall and brave, face to face with Roderick Duncan who appeared at the top step at the instant when Patricia advanced toward it.

For a space, neither one uttered a word, or made another gesture, save that, in the first instant, Roderick raised his hat in silent salutation, and now stood with it held in his hand.

Patricia's first act was to cast a half-furtive and wholly apprehensive glance over her shoulder, toward the doorway through which she had just passed. Then, she sprang forward like a young fawn and darted down the steps toward the pathway.

"Come with me," she threw back at him. "There must be an interview, but it cannot be held here. Follow me."

Duncan obeyed her, but without haste; and she led him into a pathway among the trees, soon emerging upon an open space in the center of which a rustic pavilion had been erected. It was overgrown by a riot of climbing vines; an inclosure with windows at every side of it, occupied the center of the space beneath the roof, and inside the inclosure were all the evidences of feminine occupancy. Wicker chairs and chairs of willow, rugs, hassocks, cushions, pillows with embroidered covers, littered the place. One could discern at a glance that it was a place of retreat and rest for a woman of taste. In reality, it was Patricia Langdon's place of refuge—at least, she so regarded it.

She did not speak again until she had mounted the steps which led up to it; nor did the man who followed her. But then, when they were beneath the roof of the pavilion, she turned about and faced him.

"Now," she said, "why are you here? Why have you dared to come to this place, in search of me?" She spoke without emphasis, but the very absence of all emotion gave her words the more weight and power.

Duncan stood tall and straight before her, calmly facing her. If her face showed no emotion, now that she had regained control over herself, neither did his. Before he replied to her question, he took a folded paper from the breast-pocket of his coat, and held it in his hand.

"I have a document here, which bears your signature, and mine," he said, then. "It recites the terms of a certain contract which you have agreed to fulfill. I am here to insist that you carry out the terms of this agreement. It is time now, for action on your part."

Patricia gasped. She took a single step backward, and rested one hand upon the top of a willow armchair. Her composure seemed about to forsake her utterly, but by a great effort she controlled herself, lifting her free hand to her throat as if something were choking her.

"It—is—impossible—now," she muttered, at last; and she swayed where she stood, as if she might fall.

"Be seated, Patricia," he said, using her name for the first time; and, when she had complied, he passed around the chair until he stood behind her. It was a delicate act on his part—a consideration for her feelings which might not have been expected, under all the circumstances. He thought he understood how terrible this interview must be to her, and he did not wish to compel her to face him, while it endured. Patricia shivered when he passed her; otherwise she gave no sign. "It is not impossible," he went on, without perceptible pause. "It has never been impossible; it can never be so. On the contrary, it is imperative; more than ever imperative, now."

She shivered again, and did not reply when he paused. He continued:

"Patricia Langdon, you are not one to refuse the terms of a written contract which you have signed and sealed with a full knowledge of its meaning, particularly when the other party to it insists upon its fulfillment. I am the other party to this contract, and I do insist upon its complete fulfillment. You are the last woman in the world to—"

"I am the last woman in the world—the very last!" she interrupted him, vehemently, but she did not turn her head toward him. He continued as if he had not heard her:

"—to repudiate the distinct terms of an agreement you have knowingly made."

"I have already repudiated them."

"No, you have not. And you shall not."

"Shall not?"

"No."

"Do—do you mean that you would force me to a compliance with the conditions of that agreement you hold in your hand?"

"Yes—if such a course is necessary."

"But you cannot! You cannot!"

"Yes, I can; and I will, Patricia."

"Don't speak my name!" she cried out, hotly. "Don't utter it again! Don't you dare to do so! Don't you dare!"

"Very well."

"How will you force me? You cannot do it."

"There is a penalty attached to all legally drawn contracts," he lied, glibly enough; and, realizing that she was startled by what he had already said, he did not hesitate to add more to it. "I have come here prepared to insist that you fulfill your obligation. You know that I am not one to relent, once I have set my course. There are officers of the law in this county and state, as well as within the county and state where you made the contract." He stopped a moment when she shrank visibly in her chair, for he was about to say a really cruel thing. He would not have said it, had he not deemed it entirely necessary, in order to coerce her to his will; but he went on, relentlessly: "If you make it needful to do so, I shall not hesitate to send officers here, to take you before a court, there to relate why you will not carry out the conditions of your contract."

Duncan expected that Patricia would fly into a rage, at this; he thought she would leap to her feet, confront him, and defy him. He looked for a tirade of rage, of abuse, or of despair; or, failing these, for an outburst of pleading on her part that he would relent.

There was no evidence of any of these emotions. Indeed, for a moment it seemed as if she had not heard him, so still did she sit in her chair, so utterly unmoved did she appear to be by the statement he had made.

If, at that moment he had stepped around in front of her and looked into her face, he would have been amazed by what he saw. He would have seen great tears welling in her eyes, held in check by her long lashes; he would have seen a near approach to a smile behind those tears, although she was unconscious of that, herself; he would have noticed that she caught her breath again, but not in the same manner, nor from the same cause that had led to the like effort, earlier in their interview. When, at last, she did reply to him, it was in a far-away, uncertain voice, so soft, and so like the Patricia of quiet and sympathetic moods, that Roderick was startled, and he found himself compelled to hold his own spirit in check, lest he should forget the studied deportment he had determined upon for the occasion.

"Why do you insist upon it?" she asked him. He replied, without hesitation—and coldly:

"Because I love you."

"Because ... you ... love ... me," she said, slowly, and so softly that he barely heard the words. They did not form a question; they comprised a statement, like his own.

"Yes," he said.

"But"—she hesitated—"there is another reason."

"Yes. We need not dwell upon that."

"Nevertheless, I should like to hear it."

"No."

"You will not tell me what it is?"

"It is not necessary. It is begging the question."

"You wish to give me the protection of your name. I think I understand."

"Have it so, if you wish."

"You wish to make me your wife. I am beginning to comprehend you, Roderick." The name slipped out, unconsciously, on her part, although he was tragically aware of it. "Have you remembered—have you thought of—are you quite aware of what you are doing?"

"Quite. I have remembered everything, thought of all things."

"And your reason for all this is—what? Tell me again, please."

"You make my task harder," he said, coldly. "My reason is that I love you."

Again, Patricia was silent for a time. Then:

"How do you propose to carry out this chivalrous conduct? Who will marry us, if I agree to your absurd proposal?"

"It is not absurd. It is the only logical thing for you to do. Doctor Moreley will marry us. He came with me, in my special train." She caught at the arms of the chair, and clung to them. "Mrs. Moreley, with Evelyn and Kate, accompany him. It is a short ride to where the cars are sidetracked, waiting. You can ride there in the morning—or go there with me this evening, if you will."

"Do ... they ... know—?"

"They know nothing save the one fact that we are to be married, that Doctor Moreley is to perform the ceremony, and that the members of his family are to act as witnesses. Nobody knows anything at all, save that. Nobody ever shall know. Your absence from New York has occasioned no suspicion—save only in the mind of one man, Radnor. The fact of our marriage will be published and broadcast at once, and even his suspicions will be stilled."

"And ... afterward ... after we are married—what?"

"We will discuss that question after the ceremony."

"No. We will discuss it now. Afterward—what?"

"You will be my wife, then. It is right and proper that you should return to New York, that you should live in my house. I shall take you there, and install you, properly. I shall insist upon that much. There is no way for you to escape the fulfillment of your contract. When you are my wife, you will have entered upon another contract which you will also keep. The contract to honor and obey."

"To love, honor, and obey," she corrected him.

"I shall not insist upon the first of those terms. The second one I shall endeavor to merit. The third one, I shall insist upon. Now, when will you—"

"Wait. You are sure that you do this because you love me?"

"Yes."

"And you are ready to sacrifice your name, your life, to a creature who, according to your view of conditions, should be the very last woman to bear your name—to become your wife? You do this because you love me? It must be a great love, indeed, Roderick, to compel you to such an act—oh it must have been a very great love, indeed."

"It is a great love; and there will be no sacrifice: there will be satisfaction."

She arose from the chair, but stood as she was, with her back toward him.

"You have forgotten one thing," she said, gently.

"I have forgotten nothing."

She raised her right arm, and pointed toward the house, through the trees.

"You have forgotten the man, in there," she said, no less gently. It was his turn to shudder, but he repeated with doggedness in his tone:

"I have forgotten nothing."

"You mean to deal with him—afterward?"

"Yes."

"How? If I consent to all that you have asked, will you deal with him—gently?"

"Can you plead for him, even now, when—?"

"Hush! Answer my question, if you please."

"I will deal with him more gently than he deserves. I promise you that."

"I shall be satisfied with that promise." She turned about and faced him, and there was a smile on her lips, now, although Roderick entirely misunderstood the cause of it. He drew backward, farther away from her. But she followed after him, holding out one hand for him to take, and persisting in the effort when he refused to see it. There were tears under her lashes again, but she was smiling through them; and then, while she followed him, and he still sought to avoid her, Patricia lost all control over herself. She half-collapsed, half-threw herself upon the chair again, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

"Don't Patricia; please, don't," he said to her, brokenly. "You make it much harder for both of us. This has been a terrible scene for you to pass through, I know, but after a little you will realize its wisdom—and the full justice of the cause I plead."

She controlled herself. She started to her feet.

"Come with me," she cried out to him; and then, before he could stop her, she darted away out of his reach, flew down the steps, and along the pathway, toward the house. He followed. There was nothing else for him to do. She waited for him at the top of the steps where he had first seen her; and, when he would have detained her, she eluded him a second time, and fled through the doorway, into the wide hall of the house—of Richard Morton's dwelling place.

"Come," she called after him again; and again he followed.



CHAPTER XXII

THE MYSTERY

The house was a large one. It covered a great deal of ground although it was only one story high. A wide hall ran through the center of the main building, and there were doors to the right and the left. Through the first doorway to the right, Patricia made her escape; and, through it, Roderick Duncan followed her. But he brought up suddenly, the instant he had crossed the threshold, and stood there, staring. Patricia had passed swiftly ahead of him, and Roderick saw her drop upon her knees beside a couch-bed, whereon a man was lying—and that man was Richard Morton.

Duncan was too greatly amazed for connected thought, but he was conscious of the fact that Morton's eyes sought him over the shoulder of Patricia, who knelt beside the couch. He had never thought that Morton's eyes were quite so expressive. They seemed almost to speak to him, to wonder at his presence there; but, stranger than all else, to express unquestionable pleasure because of his presence. He thought it remarkable that Morton did not move; that the man made no effort to rise, or to speak; that there was neither smile nor frown upon his white, still face. Then, Patricia's voice broke the spell that was upon him. She turned, and beckoned to him.

"Come here, Roderick," she said, softly. "Come and speak to Richard. Tell him that you have come all the way out here, by a special train, to marry me, and that you have brought a minister along with you to perform the ceremony. Come, Roderick, come. He will be made very happy by the news." She turned toward the stricken man, again, and added: "Won't you, Richard?"

Slowly the lids dropped for an instant over those strangely brilliant eyes, and, when they were raised again, the eyes seemed to smile at Roderick; but there was no other emotion visible about the prostrate man.

"I have not told you about him, Roderick," Patricia said, rising to her feet, "but I will do so now, in his presence. He wishes it so; do you not, Richard?"

Again, those eyes closed for an instant, and Roderick understood that the gesture, if gesture it could be called, meant an affirmative.

"Richard wishes you to know all the truth about him," she continued. "I have promised him, many times, that some day I would tell you. He meant to kill himself that night, when he drove his roadster away from Cedarcrest. He guided his car, purposely, into the mass of rocks at the roadside. I found him there. Patrick O'Toole, who is devoted to me, was with me, you know. We saw the wreck, and stopped. Then, we found Richard. Oh, it was awful. I thought he was dead, and I believed that I was his murderer. I still think that I was the unconscious cause of it all, although he will not have it so. I was moaning over him, when Mr. Radnor—you remember him?—found us. He took us to a sanatorium that he knew about, where he said there was a good doctor; and so it proved. I forgot all about Jack Gardner's car, but later I sent Patrick back after it."

Morton's eyes began to wink rapidly, and Roderick called Patricia's attention to the fact.

"Yes; I know that I am getting ahead of my story," she said, as if she perfectly understood what the winking meant. "Richard was like a dead man when we arrived at the sanatorium—all save his eyes, and the fact that he breathed. He was completely paralyzed; only his eyes, and the lids over them, retained the power of motion. He was terribly injured. The doctor said he would not die, but that he would never move a muscle of his body again, no matter how long he might live. The power of speech was gone, too. Only his eyes lived; the rest of him—all but his eyes and his great heart—was dead."

Morton's eyes began to wink rapidly, again.

"Yes, I shall tell it all; only, let me do it in my own way," Patricia said to him. "Mr. Radnor told me that he had given fictitious names for both of us to the doctor. At first, I was offended because of it, but later, I was glad. The doctor permitted me to assist in the nursing—I ... I told him that I was Richard's wife. Mr. Radnor had already given that impression. I did not deny it; I made it more emphatic, in order that I might take the direction of affairs. When Mr. Radnor went away, he said he would return the following day; but I did not want him to do that, and so, when the next day came, I persuaded the doctor to telephone to him that he must not come. Also, when Mr. Radnor took his departure, I sent Patrick with him, to care for Jack's car. I told him to deliver it at the garage, and then to return to me, at the sanatorium, for further orders. But, when he came back, he told me he had abandoned the car in the streets of New York, knowing that it would be found and claimed, and wishing to avoid the necessity of answering questions. Am I telling the story satisfactorily now, Richard?"

Slowly, the speaking eyes drooped their assent, and she went on:

"At the end of a few days, Richard was much better of his hurts. There was no change in the other condition—the one that still holds him so helpless. I seemed to have a positive genius for understanding him, and he made me know—you see, I kept asking questions till he made the positive or the negative sign. I hit upon that idea because once, Roderick, you made me read 'The Count of Monte Cristo,' and I remembered old Nortier—Well, Richard made me understand several things. One was that he wished to come here, as soon as possible; another was that, most emphatically, he did not wish to have any of the old friends and acquaintances in New York know what had happened to him. Fortunately, he had a large sum of money in his pockets—What are you insisting about now, Richard?" she concluded, with a smile, perceiving that the eyelids of the stricken man were working rapidly. He looked steadily at her, and she shrugged her shoulders.

"Very well," she said, "I understand you. Roderick, he wishes me to tell you that he had the money with him because he intended to run away with me, that evening, and that he came very near to doing so. He wants me to tell you that he was a brute, and everything bad and mean and low and—there! I hope you are satisfied, Richard."

The eyes slowly closed and opened again.

"Richard had a large sum with him. I, also, had a considerable amount with me. I had had some thought of running away from all of you, and had prepared myself for such an emergency. Well, when I knew what Richard wanted, I took command of things. I did not consult him at all, but went directly ahead, in my own way. I always did that, you know, Roderick. I engaged a private car and a special train to bring us here; engaged them in the name of—in the assumed name, you know. One week from the day we entered the sanatorium, we left it again, went aboard the special train, and came here. Patrick came with us. He refused to leave.

"Oh, yes; I am forgetting something. You needn't wink so hard, Richard. I shall tell all of it. Richard protested with his eyes against my accompanying him. I do believe that he never once stopped blinking them, all the way out here. He would have said horrid things to me, if he could have spoken. I think that I was sometimes really glad he could not do so, fearing what he might have said. But nobody else could understand him; I could, and did. He was utterly helpless, and it was my fault that he was so. Yes, it was, and is, Richard, so stop protesting. I bribed the doctor at the sanatorium, to say nothing at all about us, and above all to keep every bit of information away from Mr. Radnor. Then, we came here.

"At first, it did not occur to me that I should remain, but, when I understood how entirely dependent Richard was upon me, I had to stay. Think of what he had been, Roderick, and of the condition to which I had brought him! It seemed a very little thing for me to do, to stay here and be his wife—Yes, that is what I decided to do; only, he would not let me. Just think of it! I have begged and pleaded with him to marry me, and he has refused."

Again, the eyes began a violent winking, and Patricia, smilingly, said:

"Oh, yes. He wants me to tell you that he has begged and pleaded, just as hard, for me to return to New York, and leave him here, helpless and alone, and that I have been just as contrary about this, as he was about the other. There! Can you imagine our quarreling, Roderick? Well, just before you appeared here, this evening, we had been having a violent quarrel. I was really angry at Richard, when I went out upon the veranda—and met you. He had ordered me out of the house. He had said, as plainly as he could look it, that he didn't want me here; that I was only a trouble to him; that I made him unhappy by remaining; that he would be much better in every way if I were gone. He ... he made me understand that my ... my good name was in question; that I would be talked about. I confess that I had never thought of it in that light, before. I asked him again to marry me, and let me remain; but he refused. Then, I left him, in a huff, declaring that he couldn't drive me away. And then"—she turned directly toward Roderick this time, and held out both her hands—"I almost ran into your arms, Roderick."