Presently, she came down, dressed for walking.

"Where are you going, Mary?" he asked nervously.

"I'm going up to see father. It's the only thing to do. He cannot kill his own grandson. If Dick dies, his death will be at father's door."

"Mary, you are agitated and hysterical. You are not fit to see anyone. Your father can do nothing. The matter is in the hands of the bank. We must either remain passive, and await the issue of events, or see Ormsby and put the case to him, appealing to him for a withdrawal of the prosecution."

"What mercy do you think we shall get from him? You forget he is a prospective bridegroom, and his bride, Dora Dundas, is preparing for her wedding. What will Dora's action be, do you think, if she knows that Dick is here?"

"Dearest, if she believes him guilty, she will go on with her marriage. The understanding between Dick and Dora was informal. It was not like an engagement. She is engaged to Ormsby, and she will not go back on her word now, though I have grave doubts of the wisdom of allowing her to remain in ignorance of the truth."

"The girl loved Dick. There was a definite understanding between them. She has been breaking her heart over him. This engagement to Ormsby is a matter arranged by her father. No, the only person who can help us is my father, and I refuse to discuss it with you further. It's now a matter between me and Dick—a mother's utter ruin or a son's emigration. And, after all, why shouldn't Dick try his luck in another country? There's nothing for him here."

"What are you going to say?"

"I can't tell till I see father, and know what mood he is in. He has always abused Dick; but he always liked him. Dick was the only one who could speak out straight and defy him, and he appreciated it."

"I am helpless," cried the rector, throwing up his hands and turning away. "I know the path I should follow, but it is barred, and the way I am traveling is accursed."

"Then I must act alone, John. Good-bye. To-day must decide everything. John, won't you kiss me—won't you say good-bye?"

He still turned his back upon her, more in sorrow than in anger. She placed her gloved hand upon his shoulder appealingly, and turned a woe-begone face.

"It will all come right, John."

He sighed, and embraced her like the broken man he was, and she left him alone with his conscience.

And what a terrible companion that conscience had become! At times, it was a white-robed angel beckoning him, at others a red imp deriding in exultation, tormenting, wounding, maddening.

On the way to Asherton Hall, Mrs. Swinton framed a hundred speeches, and went through imaginary altercations. By the time she arrived, she was keyed up to a dangerous pitch of excitement, verging on hysteria. Nobody saw her coming and she entered the house through the eastern conservatory.

Herresford was back in the old bedroom, and Trimmer was there, superintending the removal of the breakfast things. The daughter, treading lightly, walked into the room, unannounced.

The old man looked up from his pillows, and started as if terrified.

"She's here again, Trimmer—she's here again," he whined.

Trimmer was no less surprised.

"Trimmer, you can leave us," cried Mary, whose eyes were glistening with an unusual light. There was a red patch in her cheeks, the lips were hard set, and her hands were working nervously in her muff. "I wish to speak to my father privately."

"If Mr. Herresford wishes—"

"I wish it. Please leave us!"

"Don't go! Don't go, Trimmer!" cried the miser extending one hand helplessly. "Raise me, Trimmer. Don't let her touch me."

Trimmer obeyed his master, ignoring Mrs. Swinton, and lifted the old bag of bones with a jerk that seemed to rattle it. He placed an especially large velvet-covered cushion behind the invalid's back, straightened the skull-cap so that the tassel should not fall over the eye; then, assuming a stony expression of face, turned to go.

Herresford mumbled and appealed until the door was closed; then, he seemed to recover his courage and his tongue.

"So, you're here again," he snapped. "What is it now—what is it now? Am I never to have peace?"

"I have strange news. Dick is alive."

"Not dead, eh! Humph! That does not surprise me. I expected as much. No man is dead in a war until his body is buried. So, he's come back, has he?"

"Yes, and that is why I'm here. The bank people will have him arrested."

There was a pause, which the miser ended by a fit of chuckling and choking laughter that maddened her.

"This is no laughing matter, father. Can't you see what the position is?"

"Oh, yes, it's a pretty position—quite a dramatic situation. Boy dead, shamefully accused; boy alive, and to be arrested for his mother's crime."

"Father, I've thought it all out. There is only one thing to do, and you must do it. You must pay that money to the bank, and compel them to abandon the prosecution by declaring that you made a mistake about the checks—that you really did authorize them."

"Add lie to lie, I suppose; and, according to your method of moral arithmetic, make two wrongs into one right. So, you want to drag me into it?"

"Father, if you have any natural feeling toward Dick—I don't ask you to think of me—you'll set this matter straight by satisfying the bank people."

"The bank people don't want to be satisfied. They've paid me my money—there's an end to it. You must appeal to Ormsby."

"But Ormsby hates Dick. He is marrying the woman Dick loves."

"And who is that, pray?" cried the old man, starting up and snapping his words out like pistol shots.

"Why, Dora Dundas, of course."

"Who's she?"

"The only daughter of Colonel Dundas, a wealthy man. His wealth, I suppose, attracted Ormsby. He will show Dick no mercy. You've met Colonel Dundas. You ought to remember him."

"Oh! the fool who writes to the papers about the war. I know him. What's the girl like? Is she as great an idiot as her father?"

"You've seen her. I brought her here with me one afternoon to see the gardens, and she came up and had tea with you. Don't you remember—about two years ago?"

The old man fingered the tassel of his cap, and chewed it meditatively for a few moments.

"I remember," he said, at last. "So, she's going to marry Ormsby, because Dick is supposed to be dead—and disgraced. Well, a sensible girl. Ormsby is rich. She knew that Dick would have money, lots of it, at my death; and, when she couldn't have him, she chose the next best man, the banker's son. Sensible girl, Dora Dundas. The question is—what's Dick going to do?"

"Father, Dick has behaved nobly, but unfortunately he is ill at home; and at any moment may be arrested. That's why I want to be prepared to prevent it. He talks of going abroad—emigrating—when he's strong enough."

"What!" screamed the old man, in astonishment. "He's not going to stand up for his honor, my honor, the honor of the family? What's he made of?"

"Father, father, can't you understand? If he speaks, he denounces me, his mother. Am I not one of the family? Think what my position is. It was as much for his sake as for John's that I took the money. You wouldn't save us from ruin. I was driven to desperation, you know I was. It was your fault, and you must do what is in your power to avert the threatened disgrace. Father, the bank people cannot possibly prosecute, if you pay them the seven thousand dollars. I will repay it out of my allowance in instalments."

There was silence for a few moments, during which the old man surveyed the situation with a clear mental vision, superior to that of his daughter.

"And you think Ormsby is going to compound a felony, and at the same time bring back to the neighborhood a young man in love with his future wife?"

"If I confessed everything, father, do you think that Ormsby would spare me, Dick's mother! Oh, it's all a horrible tangle. It's driving me mad!"

"Ha! ha!" chuckled the old man. "You're beginning to use your brain a little. You're beginning to realize the value of money—and you don't like it. Well, you can unravel your own tangle. Don't come to me."

The sight of her distress seemed to whet his appetite for cruelty. He rubbed salt into the open wounds with zest.

"Get your sky-pilot to help you out of it. I won't. Not a penny do I pay. Seven thousand dollars!"

"Father, a hundred thousand could not make any difference to you," she cried. "You must let me have the money. Take it out of my mother's allowance."

"What allowance? Who told you anything about any allowance?"

"Father, you're an old man, and your memory is failing you. You know, I'm entitled to an allowance from my mother's money. You don't mean to say you're going to stop that?"

"Who's stopping your allowance? Trimmer! Trimmer!" he cried.

Something in his manner—a look—a guilty terror in his eyes, made itself apparent to the woman. The reference to her mother frightened him. She saw behind the veil—but indistinctly.

It had always been a sore point that her father conceded only an allowance of a few thousands a year, whereas her mother had brought him an income of many thousands. Mrs. Herresford had always given her daughter to understand that wealth would revert to her, but, as the girl was too young to understand money matters at the time of her mother's death, she had been entirely at the mercy of her father.

In her present despair, she was ready to seize any floating straw. The idea came to her that she might have some unexpected reversionary interest in her mother's money, on which she could raise something.

Trimmer put an end to the interview by answering his master's call. The miser was gesticulating and mumbling, and frantically motioning his daughter to leave the room.

"She wants to rob me!—she wants to rob me!" This was all that she understood of his raving.

"It is useless to talk to him now, Mrs. Swinton," said Trimmer, with a suggestive glance toward the door.

She departed without another word, full of a new idea. Her position was such that only a lawyer could help her; and she was resolved to have legal advice. It was a forlorn hope, but one not to be despised; and there was not a moment to lose. As if by an inspiration, she remembered the name of a lawyer who used to be her mother's adviser—a Mr. Jevons, who used to come to Asherton Hall before her mother died, and afterward quarreled with Herresford. This was the man to advise her. He would be sure to know the truth about the private fortune of Mrs. Herresford, which the husband had absorbed after his wife's death.



CHAPTER XXIII

DORA SEES HERRESFORD

Herresford recovered his composure very quickly after the departure of his daughter. A few harsh words from Trimmer silenced him, and he remained sitting up, staring out of the window. The next time Trimmer came into the room, he called him to his side, and gazed into his face with a look that the valet understood. Trimmer knew every mood, and there were some when the master ruled the servant and commands were not to be questioned.

"Trimmer, I have a commission for you. Go to the residence of Colonel Dundas. See his daughter, Dora. She has been here—you remember her?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Pretty girl, brown hair, determined mouth, steady eyes, quietly dressed—no thousand-dollar sables and coats of ermine. Came to tea—and didn't cackle!"

"I can't recall her, sir."

"You must. We don't have many women here. My memory is better than yours. I want to see her again; and, when she comes, I talk to her alone, you hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Trimmer, my grandson is alive."

"Alive, sir?"

"Yes, and back from the war. He's got to marry that girl; but she's engaged to someone else—you understand?"

"I think so, sir."

"So, be cautious. Bring her here secretly, or—I'll sack you."

"Yes, sir."

"Go at once."

"Yes, sir. Your medicine first."

The old man dropped back into his querulous, peevish mood. Trimmer poured out the medicine, administered it, and then departed on his mission.

On his arrival at the colonel's house, he sent word to Dora that he came from Mr. Herresford on important business.

When Dora received the message, her face flushed, and she looked puzzled and distressed. But she came to Trimmer presently, and listened with bent head to what he had to say. Afterward, she was silent for several minutes. She did not know what to say to his curious request that she would come immediately and see Mr. Herresford—on a matter of grave importance.

"Do I understand you to say that he himself sent you with this strange request?" she asked.

"Yes, miss. I have come straight from Mr. Herresford."

"Did he not say why he wished to see me?"

"I am only his valet, miss; he would not be likely to tell me. What answer shall I take him?"

"I will call at Asherton Hall this afternoon," the girl promised.

"I will acquaint Mr. Herresford with your decision," replied Trimmer, and forthwith he took his departure.

When it was too late to recall her promise, Dora regretted having given it. She was rather frightened, and could not guess what the terrible old man could possibly want with her. The time of her marriage was drawing near, and she was striving to cast out of her heart all thoughts of Dick, or of the Swintons, or anybody connected with the old, happy days. If Mr. Herresford desired to see her, it could only be to talk about Dick.

The blood rushed to her cheeks. Then came a reaction, and her heart almost stood still as the wild idea came that perhaps, after all, Dick lived. Everybody else had regarded the idea of his being alive as preposterous; yet, for a long while, she had dreamed and hoped that the story of his death was false. Then, as time went on, the hope grew fainter; and, after many months, she abandoned it. She trembled now to think what her attitude would be if that dream came true. Of course, the old man might want to see her about Dick's affairs; and the summons probably meant nothing that could bring happiness. Nevertheless, having given her promise, she was determined to go through with it.

She trembled as she approached the great house, where half the blinds were down, and all was suggestive of neglect and decay. She had spent some pleasant afternoons in the splendid gardens and conservatories with Mrs. Swinton in the old days, but her one recollection of the eccentric old man was not very encouraging. She remembered how keenly he had eyed her, like a valuer summing up the points of a horse, and how glad she had been to escape his penetrating scrutiny. Others were present on that occasion. She was to face him alone now.

Mr. Trimmer met her in the hall with a face of stone, and conducted her up to the bedroom. Her heart beat wildly until she was actually in the room, and the little huddled-up figure on the bed came into view. Then, she lost all her terror, and felt only pity for the shriveled, ape-like creature.

"Sit down, Miss Dundas. It is kind of you to visit an old man. Trimmer, a chair for Miss Dundas, close to my bed. My hearing is not what it was."

His voice was soft, and his manner genial. There was nothing at all terrifying about him.

"You wished me to come to you?" murmured Dora.

"Trimmer, go out of the room. You needn't wait. Yes, Miss Dundas, I sent for you. I made your acquaintance two years ago. I was only in a bath-chair then; now, you see what I have come to."

"I am deeply sorry."

"When you came before," said Herresford, bluntly, "I liked the look of you, Miss Dora; and I said to myself that, if Dick was not a fool and blind, he would choose you for his wife."

"Don't! Don't!" cried Dora, with a sudden catch in her voice. "I'm engaged to marry Mr. Ormsby."

"An excellent match—a match that does credit to your head, my girl. But Ormsby is not a man—he's only a machine. He thinks too much of his money. With him, it's money, money—all money. A bad thing! A bad thing!"

Dora opened her eyes wide in surprise, wondering if she heard aright. Was this the miser?

"Now, Dick was a man—and he died like a gentleman—with his back to the wall—hurling defiance at the muzzles of the enemy's rifles."

Dora bowed her head, and the tears began to fall. She raised her muff to her face to hide the spasm of pain that distorted her features.

"Ah! a boy worth crying for, my dear," said the old man, dragging himself with difficulty to the edge of the bed; "but a shocking spendthrift. That's where we quarreled—though we never quarreled much. I had my say—the boy had his. Sometimes I was hard, and sometimes he was harder. The taunts of the young cut the old deeper than the taunts of the old cut the young. Do you follow me?"

Dora nodded.

"Now, if he had married a wife like you, a girl with a level head and a stiff upper lip, a girl with not sufficient sentiment to make her a fool, nor enough brains to be a prig, but just clever enough to supply her husband's deficiencies, he would have been my heir, and this place and all my money would have been his—and yours."

"Why do you tell me these things, now?" she cried, a note of anger in her voice.

"Because I don't want you to marry Ormsby."

"Why not? It is to please my father. He wishes it, and—I must marry somebody. I'm not going to be an old maid. I shall never love anybody as I loved Dick, and I might as well recognize the fact."

"Then, take the advice of an old man who married a woman who loved someone else. My wife married to please her father—married me. As my wife, she hated me. I hated her. She brought up my daughter to look upon me as a monster. Everything I did was unreasonable, eccentric, wicked; everything I said, absurd; every admonition, harshness; every economy, meanness. Well; I'm the sort of man that, when people pull me one way, I go the other. She spoiled my life, and I consoled myself with money—money—money!"

The old man dragged himself nearer to the edge of the bed, and, reaching over, tapped his bony fingers on Dora's knee. "Come, now—come—tell me that you'll think it over, and not marry Ormsby."

"O don't!—don't!" cried the girl, covering her face again, and sobbing bitterly.

"You can't—you sha'n't marry Ormsby. Dick'll haunt you—and sooner than you know."

"I've thought of that," sobbed the girl, "and I've tried to conquer it."

"Besides, no man is dead in a war till his body is buried. Get one lover under ground before you lead the other over his grave."

"You don't mean—you don't mean to suggest that you think there's any doubt?" cried Dora.

"There's no doubt on one point," chuckled the old man, relapsing into his usual sardonic manner. "You're not going to marry Ormsby—ha! ha! He thought he'd do me out of seven thousand dollars—and I've robbed him of his wife. Good business!"

"You seem to dislike Mr. Ormsby," said Dora, suspiciously.

"Not at all—not at all! Man of business—man of money—no good as a husband! To some men, money-bags are more beautiful than petticoats. When you're his wife, he'll leave you at home, and go down to the bank and woo his real mistress—money!—money! money! But you're not going to marry Ormsby, are you?"

"No, I can't—I can't!" cried the girl, starting up and pacing the room. Herresford, with superlative cunning, had struck the right chord. It only needed a little brusque advice to set her in open revolt.

"Having decided not to marry him," continued the old man "you'll write him a letter now—at once. There's pen and ink and paper on the desk. Write now, while your heart rings true; and you can tell him as well, if you like, that Mr. Herresford will alter his will to-morrow, and leave all his wealth to you."

Dora turned and faced him in amazement, fearing that his reason was unhinged. But the strange, quizzical, amused smile with which he surveyed her expressed so much sanity that she could not fail to respect his utterances.

"Say that Mr. Herresford makes it a condition that you do not marry without his consent, and he refuses his consent in so far as Mr. Ormsby is concerned."

"I can't do that, Mr. Herresford, you know I can't."

"Come here," he said, beckoning her authoritatively. "Have you any confidence in my judgment of what is best for you? If not, say so."

"I have every confidence in your judgment. You have voiced the things that were in my heart. I know you are right."

"Then, if you have confidence, do as I say, or you'll bitterly regret it. As the mistress of Asherton Hall and all my money, you can have any man you wish. Do you know what I'm worth?"

She made no answer.

"Come here." He beckoned again, and was about to whisper the amount, when his mood changed. "No, no! Nobody shall know what I'm worth. They'll want money out of me. They'll come around begging and borrowing and dunning. The less I pay, the more I have. Go, write the letter, girl—write the letter. Don't take any notice of me and my money. I'm an old man. You've got all your life before you—one of the greatest heiresses in the country! And I know a man who'll marry you for your money and love you as well—or I'll know the reason why."

There was something strangely sympathetic between these two widely-contrasted beings—the young, clear-brained, high-spirited girl and the old misanthrope. She obeyed him as though mesmerized, and, flinging down her muff, took off her gloves, and seated herself at the writing-table. There was determination in every movement. The invalid mumbled and chuckled with satisfaction from the depths of his pillows; but she paid no further heed to him. With the first pen that came to hand, she dashed off a curt note to Ormsby:

"DEAR VIVIAN, I cannot marry you, after all. It was all a mistake—a mistake. My heart always was and always will be another's. Good-bye. Don't come to see us any more. My decision is unalterable. It will only cause us both pain. I am very, very sorry." Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added, "I am going somewhere, right away, for a long time."

Again, she paused thoughtfully, and Herresford made signs to her which she could not see, signifying that he wished to see the letter.

"Let me read," he cried.

She handed him the letter as a matter of course, and he nodded approvingly as he read.

"Now, then, my girl, I'll tell you a secret. Can you keep secrets?"

"I have always been able to."

"It's a big secret. How long could you keep a very big secret?"

"Quite as long as a little one."

"Then, bend down and I'll tell you." His face lighted up with amusement; the ape-like features were transformed; the wrinkles of care and pain wreathed into smiles.

"Can't you guess?" he asked, with a hoarse chuckle, and his shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. "Bend lower." He grasped her arm, and drew his lips close to her ear. "Dick's alive."

She gave a great gasp, and broke away, uncertain whether this were not some devilish jest.

"Oh, it's true—it's true!" he cried, nodding.

"Alive!—alive! Not dead! Dick!"

"But keep it secret."

"But why? Why?" cried Dora.

"For reasons of my own. Oh, it's true. You needn't look at me like that. I'm not in my dotage yet."

"Dick alive!—alive!" she cried. She clasped her hands, and swung around and around in excitement too great to be controlled.

"Yes, alive, but in hiding," said the old man, "until I can get him out of that ugly scrape—cheaply."

"But where—where? Tell me!"

"That's my secret. You've got to keep your own."

"Oh! but I must tell father."

"Your father knows it already. He's not to be trusted."

"Father knows, and yet—?"

"Yet, he'd let you marry Ormsby. It's a way fathers have when they want their daughters to marry rich men. So, you see, he's not as honest as I am. Now, go home like a good girl, and in a day or two you shall hear from Dick. In the meantime, I tell you this much: The boy is ill and broken. You've both been fools. If you had come to me like sensible children, and told me that you wanted to get married, I'd have paid his debts and transferred the burden of responsibility to you—for he is a responsibility, and always will be—mark my words!"

"A responsibility I will gladly undertake, grandfather." She dropped on her knees beside the bed, and clasped his hand with a frankness and naturalness quite strange and wonderful to him. He raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed them with unusual emotion.

"That's right, call me grandfather. Good girl—good girl!" He reverted to his usual snappy manner. "Put on your gloves, girl. Get away home. Keep a still tongue in your head. Wait till you hear from me. Give me the letter. Trimmer shall post it."



Dora obeyed, and watched him as she drew on her gloves. When the last button was fastened, she took up her muff.

"Good-bye—good-bye!" he grunted brusquely, offering a bony hand.

"Oh, good-bye—good-bye, you dear, dear old man!" she cried, dropping on her knees beside him once more, and flinging her arms around his neck, weeping for joy at the great news.

"Get away! Get away! You'll kill me. Enough—enough for one day."

She kissed him, and he broke down. When she released him, he fell back on his pillows, breathing heavily. There were tears in his eyes. Trimmer entered at the opportune moment, and opened the door. Dora passed out and ran down the stairs. When in the open air, she wanted to dance, to laugh, to cry, to sing, all at once in the centre of the drive. Only a stern sense of decorum prevented an hysterical outburst. She walked faster and faster, until she almost ran.

"Dick! Dick! Dick!" she cried, shouting riotously to the leafless elms in the avenue, and scampering like a joyous child. She waved her arms and sang to the breeze.



CHAPTER XXIV

DICK EXPLAINS TO DORA

Dora hardly knew how she reached home after her visit to Herresford. She had no recollection of anything seen by the way. Her senses swam in an ecstasy too great for words, too intense to allow of impressions from outside. Tears of joy obscured her vision. It was only when she arrived home, and saw her father, and recollected that he had deceived her wilfully, that she had room in her heart for anything but happiness.

The colonel was in the library, turning over the leaves of a house-agent's catalogue—his favorite occupation at the present time: Ormsby had enlisted his help in search of a suitable home for his bride.

"Here's a nice little place," cried the colonel. "They give a picture of it. Why, girl, what a color you've got!"

"Yes, father, it's happiness."

"That's right, my girl—that's right. I'm glad you're taking a sensible view of things. What did I tell you?"

"You told me an untruth, father. You told me that Dick was dead."

Dora's eyes flashed, and the colonel looked sheepish. He covered his embarrassment with anger.

"So, the young fool hasn't taken my advice then? He wants to turn convict. Is that why you're happy?—because a man who presumed to make love to you behind your father's back has come home to get sent to the penitentiary, instead of remaining respectably dead when he had the chance?"

"Father, I shall never marry Mr. Ormsby. I have told him so."

"What! you've been down to the bank?"

"No, I have just come from Asherton Hall. What passed there I cannot explain to you at present, but I have written to Vivian, giving him his conge."

"Do you mean to tell me," thundered the colonel, rising and thumping the table with his clenched fist, "that you're going to throw over the richest bachelor in the country for a blackguard, a forger, a man who couldn't play the straight game?"

"Did you play the straight game, father, when you concealed the fact that Dick lived? You meant to trick me into a speedy marriage with your friend."

"I—I won't be talked to like this. There comes a time when a father must assert his authority, and I say—"

"Father, you'll be ill, if you excite yourself like this."

"Don't talk about playing the straight game to me. I suppose you've been to Asherton Hall to see the rascal. He's hiding there, no doubt."

"No, he's not. It is you who know where he is. You've seen him, and you must tell me where to find him. I won't rest till I've heard the true story of the forgery from his own lips."

"If I knew where he was at the present moment," exclaimed the colonel, thumping the table again, "I'd give information to the police. As for Ormsby, when he gets your letter—if you've written it—he'll search the wide world for him. He will be saving me the trouble. Swinton must pay the penalty—and the sooner the better."

"I've seen Mr. Herresford, who said it was only a question of money."

"Aha, that's where you're wrong. If Ormsby chooses to prosecute, no man can help the young fool. He's branded forever as a criminal and a felon. Why, if he could inherit his grandfather's millions, decent people would shut their doors in his face, now."

"Then, his service to his country counts for nothing," faltered Dora.

"No; many a man has distinguished himself in the field, but that hasn't saved him from prison. Dick Swinton is done for. Ormsby will see to that."

"Vivian is a coward, then, and his action will only show how wise I was to abandon all thought of marrying him."

"You haven't abandoned all thought of it. You're just a silly fool of a girl who won't take her father's advice. It is an insult to Ormsby to throw him over for a thieving rascal—"

"Father, you have always prided yourself on being a just man. Yet, you condemn Dick without a hearing."

"Without a hearing! Haven't I given him a hearing? I saw him. He had the chance then to deny the charge. His crime is set out in black and white, and he can't get away from it. No doubt, he thinks he can talk over a silly woman, and scrape his way back to respectable society by marrying my daughter; but no—not if I know it! Marry Dick Swinton, and you go out of my house, never to return. I'll not be laughed at by my friends and pointed at as a man of loose principles, who allowed his daughter to mate with a blackguard."

"Father, curb your tongue," cried Dora, flashing out angrily. Her color was rising, and that determined little mouth, which had excited the admiration of Herresford, was set in a hard, straight line. The colonel was red in the face, and emphasizing his words with his clenched fists, as if he were threatening to strike.

Dora was the first to recover her composure. She turned away with a shrug, and walked out of the room to put an end to the discussion.

Her joy at Dick's return from the grave was short-lived. The appalling difficulty of the situation was making itself felt. She left the colonel to ramp about the house, muttering, and shut herself in her boudoir, where she proceeded to make short work of everything associated with Vivian Ormsby. His photograph was torn into little pieces; the gifts with which he had loaded her were collected together in a heap; his letters were burned without a sigh. She would have been sorry for him, if he had not conspired with her father to conceal the truth about Dick's supposed death. She shuddered to think what her position would have been, if she had married Ormsby, and then discovered, when the die was cast, that Dick, her idol, the only one who had touched a responsive chord in her heart, was living, and set aside by fraud.

The scrape into which Dick had got himself could not really be as serious as her father imagined, since the grandfather of the culprit had spoken of it so lightly—and, in any case, the crime of forgery never horrifies a woman as do the supposedly meaner crimes of other theft and of violence. It was surely something that could be put right, and, if it could not, then it would become a battle of heart against conscience. But, at present, love held the field.

It was absolutely necessary to see Dick, and get information on all points; and, as it was quite impossible to extract information from her father as to her lover's whereabouts, the rectory seemed to be the most likely place to gather news. To the rectory, therefore, she went.

Dick was upstairs, ill. When her name was taken in to the clergyman—she chose the father in preference to the mother from an instinctive distrust of Mrs. Swinton which she could not explain—John Swinton trembled. Cowardice suggested that he should avoid her questioning. He knew why she came; and was not prepared with the answer to the inevitable inquiry, "Where is Dick?" Yet, anything that contributed to Dick's happiness at this miserable juncture was not to be neglected. Therefore, he received her.

Dora was shocked to see the change in the clergyman. His hand trembled when it met hers, and his eyes looked anywhere but into her face.

"Mr. Swinton, you can guess why I have come."

"I think I know. You have heard the glad news—indeed, everyone seems to have heard it—that my son has been given back to me."

"And to me, Mr. Swinton."

"What! Then, you do not turn your back upon him, Miss Dundas!" he cried, with tears in his voice.

"I have come to you, Mr. Swinton, to find out where he is, that I may go to him, and hear from his own lips a denial of the atrocious charge brought against him by the bank."

"Yes, yes, of course! I don't wonder that you find it hard to believe." The guilty rector fidgeted nervously, and covered his confusion by bringing forward a chair.

"I cannot stay, Mr. Swinton, thank you. I have just run down to beg you to put me in communication with your son. Oh, you can't think what it has meant to me. It has saved me from an unhappy marriage."

"Your engagement to Mr. Ormsby is broken off?"

"Yes."

"Because you think you'll be able to marry Dick?"

"Yes. Why do you speak of Dick like that?" she asked, with a sudden sinking at the heart. "Surely, you do not join in the general condemnation—you, his own father! Oh, it isn't true what they told me—that he's a forger, who will have to answer to the law, and go to prison. It isn't true."

"Dick himself is the only person who can answer your questions."

"But where is he? I suppose I can write to him?"

"He's in hiding," said the rector, brokenly. The words seemed to be choking him.

"In hiding! Dick, who faced a dozen rifles and flung defiance in the teeth of his country's enemies—in hiding!"

"Just for the present—just for the present. You see, they would arrest him. It's so much better to prepare a defense when one has liberty than—than—from the Tombs."

"Then, you will not tell me where he is?"

The information Dora vainly sought came to her by an accident. Netty, unaware of the presence of a visitor in the house, walked into the study, and commenced to speak before she was well into the room.

"Father, Dick wants the papers. He's finished the book and—Oh, Miss Dundas!"

"He is here—in this house?" cried Dora, flushing angrily at the rector's want of trust. "Oh, why didn't you tell me? Do you think that I would betray him? Why didn't you let me know? How long has he been home? Oh, please let me go to him!"

Father and daughter looked at one another in confusion.

"I intended to tell you, Miss Dundas, after I had asked my son's permission. You see, we are all in league with him here. If the police got an inkling of his presence in the house, it would be very awkward."

"I don't think Dick would like to see you just now," interjected Netty. "You see, he's ill—he's very ill, and much broken."

"Now that you know he is here," interposed the rector, "there can be no objection to your seeing him. I must first inform him of your coming—that he may be prepared. I'm sure he will be glad to see you."

The rector escaped to fulfil a difficult and painful mission. He had almost forgotten the existence of his son's sweetheart, and was only conscious that she added to the troubles of an already trying situation. The noble fellow, who was prepared to take the burden of his mother's sin, would certainly find it hard to justify himself in the eyes of the woman he loved. And, if he set himself right in Dora's eyes, that would mean—? He trembled to think what it would mean.

Dora and Netty, in the study, maintained an unnatural reserve, in which there was silent antagonism. Dora relieved the situation by a commonplace.

"You must be overjoyed, Netty, to have your brother back again."

"Overjoyed!" exclaimed Netty, with a shrug. "I'm likely to lose a husband. A disgraced brother is a poor exchange."

"You don't mean to say that Harry Bent would be so mean as to withdraw because your brother—"

"Oh, yes, say it—because my brother is a criminal. I don't pity him, and you'll find your father less lenient than mine. All thought of an engagement between you and Dick is now, of course, absurd."

"That is for Dick to decide," said Dora, quietly. But there was a horrible sinking at her heart, and tears came to her eyes. She walked to the window to hide her emotion from unsympathetic eyes. She almost hated Netty. Everyone seemed to be conspiring to overthrow her idol. They would not give her half a chance of believing him innocent. She positively quaked at the prospect of hearing from Dick's own lips his version of the story.

When the clergyman came down, he entered with bowed head and haggard face, like a beaten man. He signed to Netty that he wished to be alone with Dora, and, when the girl was gone, went over to his visitor, and laid a trembling hand upon her shoulder.

"My dear Miss Dundas, my son desires to see you, and speak with you alone. He will say—he will tell you things that may make you take a harsh view of—of his parents. I exhort you, in all Christian charity, to suspend your judgment, and be merciful—to us, at least. I am a weak man—weaker than I thought. This is a time of humiliation for us, a time of difficulty, bordering on ruin. Have mercy. That is all I ask."

Without waiting for a reply, he led the way upstairs. Dora followed with beating heart, conscious of a sense of mystery. At the door of Dick's room, the rector left her.

"Go in," he murmured, hoarsely.

"Dora!"

It was Dick's voice. He was reclining in a deck-chair, wrapped around with rugs, and with a book lying in his lap. He was less drawn and pinched than when he first returned, but the change in him was still great enough to give her a sudden wrench at the heart.

"Oh, Dick! Dick!" she cried, flinging away her muff and rushing to him. "Oh, my poor Dick! What have they done to you?"

He smiled weakly, and allowed her to wind her arms about his neck as she knelt by his side.

"They've nearly killed me, Dora. But I'm not dead yet. I'm in hiding here, as I understand father told you. You don't mean to give me the go-by just because people are saying things about me?"

"Indeed, no. But the things they're saying, Dick, are dreadful, and I wanted to hear from your own lips that they're not true."

"You remember what I said to you before I went away?"

"I remember, and I have been loyal to my promise."

"Well, you can continue loyal, little one. I am no forger—but I fear they're going to put me into jail, and I must go through with it, as I've had to go through lots of ugly things out there." He shuddered.

"But, Dick, if the charge is false, why cannot you refute it?"

"Ah, there you have me, Dora. If you force me to explain, I will. It concerns one who is near and dear to me, and I would rather be silent. If, however, there is the slightest doubt in your mind of my innocence, you must know everything."

"I—I would rather know," pleaded Dora, whose curiosity was overmastering.

"But is your faith in me conditional? Is not my word enough?"

"It is enough for me, Dick—but it is the others—father, and—"

"Ah! I understand. But what do other people matter—now? You're going to marry Ormsby, I understand."

Dora looked down, and her hand trembled in his as she sought for words to explain a situation which was hardly explainable.

"Well—you see—Dick—they told me you were dead. We all gave you up as a lost hero."

"Yet, before the grass had grown over my supposed grave, you were ready to transfer your love to—that cad."

"Not my love, Dick—not my love! Believe me, I was broken-hearted. They said dreadful things about you, and I couldn't prove them untrue, and I didn't want everybody to think—Well, father pressed it. I was utterly wretched. I knew I should never love anybody else, dearest—nobody else in the world, and I didn't care whom I married."

It was the sweetest reasoning, and of that peculiarly feminine order which the inherent vanity of man cannot resist. Dick's only rebuke was a kiss.

"Well, Dora, I'm not a marrying man, now. I'm not even respectable. As soon as I'm well, I've got to disappear again. But the idea of your marrying Ormsby—"

"It's off, Dick—off! I gave him his dismissal the moment I heard—"

"Did your father tell you I was alive?"

"No, your grandfather told me."

"Ye gods! You don't mean to say you've seen him!"

"Yes, Dick, and I think he's the dearest old man alive. He was most charming. He isn't really a bit horrid. My letter dismissing Mr. Ormsby was posted at his own request. So, if you want me, Dick, I am yours still. More wonderful still, he told me things I could hardly believe."

"He's a frightful old liar, is grandfather."

"I don't think he was lying, Dick. You'll laugh at his latest eccentricity. He told me he would alter his will and leave everything to me—not to you—to me."

"But why?"

"Well, I suppose—I suppose that he thought—"

Dora played with the fringe of the rug on Dick's knee as she still knelt by his side, and seemed embarrassed.

"I think I understand," laughed Dick. "He's taken a fancy to you."

"Yes, Dick, I think he has. It is because he thinks—that you have taken a fancy to me—that—oh, well, can't you understand?"

She rested her cheek against his, and, as he folded her to his heart, he understood.

"So, grandfather has turned matchmaker. I'll warrant he thinks you are a skinflint, and will take care of his money."

"That's it, Dick. He thinks I'm the most economical person. I saw him looking at my dress, a cheap, tweed walking affair. Oh, good gracious, if he had seen my wardrobe at home, or the housekeeping and the stable accounts!"

"Then, you'll have to keep it up, darling. Next time you go to see him, borrow a dress from your maid."

"Dick, your grandfather talked of getting you out of your scrape. What does that mean? If he pays the seven thousand dollars, will it get you off?"

"It is not a question of money, now. It is a question of the penitentiary, darling. And I don't see that it is fair to hold you to any pledges. I've got to go through with this business. You couldn't marry an ex-convict."

"Dick, if you are not guilty, if you have done no wrong, you are shielding someone else who has." Dora arose to her feet impatiently, and stood looking down almost angrily.

"Dora, Dora, don't force it out of me!" he pleaded. "If you think a little, you'll understand."

"I have thought. I can understand nothing. They told me that your mother's checks—"

Even as she spoke, she understood. The knowledge flashed from brain to brain.

"Oh, Dick—your mother!—Mrs. Swinton! Oh!"

"Grandfather drove her to it, Dora. You mustn't be hard on her."

"And she let them accuse you—her son—when you were supposed to have died gloriously—oh, horrible!"

"Ah, that's the worst of being a newspaper hero. The news that I'm home has got abroad somehow, and those journalist fellows are beginning to write me up again. I wish they'd leave me alone. They make things so hard."

"Dick, you're not going to ruin your whole career, and blacken your reputation, because your mother hasn't the courage to stand by her wickedness."

"It wasn't the sort of thing you'd do, Dora, I know. But mother's different. Never had any head for money, and didn't know what she was doing. She looked upon grandfather's money as hers and mine."

"But when they thought you were dead—oh, horrible. It was infamous!"

"Dora, Dora, you promised to be patient."

"Does your father know? He does, of course! A clergyman!"

"Leave him out of it. Poor old dad—it's quite broken him up. Think of it, Dora, the wife of the rector of St. Botolph's parish to go to jail. That's what it would mean. The rector himself disgraced, and his children stigmatized forever. An erring son is a common thing; and an erring brother doesn't necessarily besmirch a sister's honor. Can't you see, Dora, that it's hard enough for them to bear without your casting your stone as well?"

"Oh, Dick, I can't understand it. Has she no mother feeling? How could a woman do such a thing? Her own son! To take advantage of his death to defile his memory. Oh, if I had known, I—I would have—"

"Hush, hush, Dora! If you knew what my mother has suffered, and if you could look into my father's stricken heart, you'd be willing to overlook a great deal. When I get out of the country, I'm going to make a fresh start. Ormsby has set spies around the house like flies, and, as you've thrown him over now, he'll be doubly venomous. I only wanted to set myself right in your eyes, and absolve you from all pledges."

"But I don't want to be absolved," sobbed Dora, dropping on her knees again, and seeking his breast. "Oh, Dick, Dick, you are braver than they know. Was it not easier to face the firing party than to endure the ignominy of this unmerited disgrace?"

"There's no help for it. I must go through with it. Don't shake my courage. A man must stick up for his mother."

"Oh, Dick, there must be some other way."

"There is no other—unless—unless my grandfather consents to acknowledge those checks, and declares that the alterations were made with his knowledge. But that he will not do—because he knows who did it—and he is merciless. I don't care a snap of my finger for the world. You are my world, Dora. If you approve, then I am game. I shall be all right in a few days, and then—then I'll go and do my bit of time, and see the inside of Sing-Sing. It'll be amusing. There's a cab. That's mother come home."

"Oh, I can't face her!" cried Dora, with hardening mouth.

"Go away without seeing her, darling. Promise you won't reveal what I've told you."

"I can't promise. It's horrible!"

"You must—you must, little girl."

And in the end, much against her will, she was persuaded to keep silence.



CHAPTER XXV

TRACKED

Vivian Ormsby refused to abandon all hope of winning Dora. He believed that, if he got Dick Swinton into jail, it would crush her romance forever. In his pride, he disdained appeal to Colonel Dundas. He knew her father's view, and did not doubt that pressure would be brought to bear from that quarter. Dora could not well marry a penniless convict, and the colonel's wealth was worth a little submission to parental authority. Dora would soon change her tone when all illusions were shattered. She was far too sensible to ruin her life by a reckless marriage. Time was on his side. Every hour that passed must intensify her humiliation.

He had realized the necessity of prompt action, and was in closest touch with the police. Detectives were in and out of the bank all day long, and a famous private detective had promised him that the fugitive would be captured within seven days.

Detective Foxley entered the bank one day to see Vivian Ormsby, and brought the banker news of his latest investigations. The inspector was a small, thin-featured, sandy-haired man, with a calm exterior and a deliberate manner. He entered Ormsby's private room unobtrusively, and closed the door after him with care.

"Well, what news, Foxley?"

"My men have shadowed everybody, but so far with no result. I thought it advisable to keep an eye on the young lady. He is sure to communicate with her, and she'll try to see him. His people at the rectory know where he is, and I suspect that Mr. Herresford knows as well. My man reports that the young lady went to Asherton Hall after an interview with Mr. Herresford's valet. She came out of the house in a state of excitement, and showed every sign of joy. She thought she was alone, and danced and ran like a child, from which we deduced that she had seen the young man, and that he was hiding in Asherton Hall. We went so far as to interview the housekeeper, who made it clear that the young man had not been there, and offered to let us search. But we are watching the house."

"And the rectory?" asked Ormsby.

"He hasn't been there. Miss Dundas called at the rectory as well, and after a short visit returned home on foot. Evidently, she is getting information from his relatives. It has occurred to me that she'll possibly write to him, addressing him by some other name. Can you, therefore, arrange to have her letters posted by some—some responsible servant who will take copies of all the addresses?"

"I have no doubt that can be done. The housekeeper at the colonel's is a very good friend of mine. I have tipped her handsomely. The letters are all posted in a letter-box in the hall, and cleared by the same servant every day."

"We have endeavored to approach the servants at the rectory, but—no go. They are of course stanch and loyal to their young master. That is only natural. Mrs. Swinton has been shadowed, and she has made no attempt to meet her son. Our only danger is that he may get out of the country again. Every port is watched."

"What puzzles me is the visit of Miss Dundas to Herresford," said Ormsby, thinking of his letter of dismissal, with the old miser's monogram on it.

"She evidently went there to see him," said the detective, "and heard from him the news of the young man's escape. That, perhaps, accounted for her high spirits."

"Briefly, then, your labors have had no result, and you are as far from the scent as on the first day."

"Not exactly that, sir. We'll nab him yet."

"As for the people at the rectory," Ormsby said, decisively, "I'll tackle them myself."

"Be guarded, sir. We don't want them to suspect that they are watched."

"They probably know that already. I'm going to offer them terms. If they'll advise their son to give himself up, seven thousand dollars shall be paid by some 'friend,' and he will get off with a light sentence. It isn't as though I wanted him sent up for any great length of time. I only want him put in the dock. The whole United States will ring with the scandal, and the country'll be too hot to hold him, even if he should be acquitted. He's a reckless young fellow. There's no knowing what he might do. He might—"

Ormsby did not finish the sentence. The detective muttered one comprehensive word.

"Suicide."

Ormsby nodded.

"And the best thing, I should think," grunted the detective.

The upshot of this conversation was a prompt visit to the rectory by Ormsby, whose arrival caused no little consternation in the household. The rector was flustered and ill at ease. He would have liked to deny the visitor, but was afraid. He knew the banker slightly, well enough to dread the steady fire of those stern eyes.

Ormsby offered his hand in friendly fashion, and took stock of the trembling man before speaking.

"You can guess why I have come, Mr. Swinton."

"It is not difficult to guess, Mr. Ormsby. It is the sad business of the checks. I hear you have issued a warrant for my son's arrest, and you can scarcely expect to be received as a welcome guest in this house. What have you to say to me?"

"Only this, Mr. Swinton. If your son likes to give himself up, we will deal with him as leniently as possible to avoid delay and—expense. There'll be no question of refunding the money. My co-directors are willing to put in a plea for the unfortunate young man as a first offender, on certain conditions."

"And the conditions?"

"That he undertakes not to molest or in any way pursue Miss Dora Dundas."

"Molest is rather a hard word, Mr. Ormsby. I am aware of the rivalry between you and my son, and I recognize that he has made a dangerous enemy. Surely, Miss Dundas is the best judge of her own feelings?"

"Miss Dundas would have married me but for the return of your scapegrace son," cried Ormsby, flashing out. "He has seen her, and has upset all my plans."

"Yes, he has seen her—" The words slipped out before the clergyman knew what he was saying.

"Ah, he has seen her," cried Ormsby, sharply. "So, he's either at Asherton Hall—or here."

"I—I didn't say that!" gasped the rector. "This house is mine—you have no right—Dear, dear, I don't know what I'm doing, or what I'm saying."

"You have said enough, Mr. Swinton. Your son is in this house. I have him, at last."

"My son is ill, Mr. Ormsby. You must give him time. This dreadful matter may yet be set right."

"It is in the hands of the police. Good-day."

John Swinton was powerless to say a word in his son's defense. He led Ormsby from the room and out of the house, without another word of protest. On his return, he sank down in his writing-chair, groaning and weeping.

"Oh, what have I said! What have I done! I've doubly betrayed him. Nobody can help him now, unless—unless—"

He clasped his hands upon the desk as if in prayer, looking upward. He saw his way, clear and defined. Even as Abraham offered up his son at the call of God, so he must deliver up his guilty wife, and cry aloud his own sin. Ay, from the pulpit. It would be the last time his voice would ever be raised in the house of God. His congregation would know him for a sinner, a liar, a coward. He had remained silent when scandalous tongues were busy defaming his son's reputation; and not a word of protest had fallen from his lips. He had gone to the pulpit, and, with an expectant hush in the church, they had waited for him to speak of his dead son who had died gloriously—and no word had passed his lips, because only one declaration was possible. Either he must deny the foul slander, or by his silence give impetus to the rumor of guilt. The hue and cry had been openly raised for his son, and he had done nothing. The devil had demanded Dick, even as God demanded Isaac. And the traitorous priest had been under the spell of a woman. It was hard to deliver up to man's justice the wife of his bosom. It was no longer a choice of two evils; it was an issue between God and himself.

He prayed for strength that he might be able to go out of the house now—before his wife returned—and declare her guilt to the police and his own condonation of it; after that, to call together his own flock and make open confession of his sin, and say farewell to the priesthood. Then—chaos—poverty—new work, with Dick's help—but work with clean hands.

The way was clear enough now—while Mary was away out of the house—while her voice no longer rang in his ears and the soft rustle of her skirts had died away. But, when she came back with her pale face and care-lined eyes, her soft voice and caressing hand, pleading, pathetic, seeking protection from the horrible contact of a jail, would he be able to hold out?

His face was strained with mental agony, and his fingers worked convulsively on one another. He spread his arms upon the table and bowed his head as though racked with physical pain. The clarion voice of duty was calling; but, when the woman's cry, "I am your wife, John, your very own—you and I are one—you cannot betray me!" next broke on his ear, would he be strong then? If he could bear the punishment with her, and stand in the dock by her side, it would be better than suffering alone, tortured by the thought of the hours of misery to be endured by a gently-nurtured woman in a cruel prison. Perhaps, they would take him, too, for his share in the fraud. Dick was right when he said a man could more easily bear the hardship of prison than could a woman. If it had been possible, he would gladly have borne his wife's burden.

As usual, he did nothing. He put off the evil hour, and waited for Ormsby to act.



CHAPTER XXVI

MRS. SWINTON HEARS THE TRUTH

The junior clerk of Messrs Jevons & Jevons carried Mrs. Swinton's card to the senior partner, a hoary-headed old man, well stricken in years. When the card was scrutinized, he could not recall the personality of Mrs. Swinton. He sent for his confidential clerk, who was also at a disadvantage, yet they both seemed to remember having heard the name before.

At last, however, the client was ushered in, and Mr. Jevons hoped that his eyes would repair the lapse of his memory. A pale, dark-eyed, slender woman, wrapped in furs, entered.

"You don't remember me, Mr. Jevons?"

"Ah! now I hear your voice, I remember. You are the daughter of Mr. Herresford."

"You were once my mother's lawyer, Mr. Jevons," said Mrs. Swinton, plunging at once into business.

"I had that honor. Won't you sit down?"

"It is twenty-five years ago—more than that."

"Yes. You have married since then."

"I married Mr. Swinton, the rector of St. Botolph's."

"Indeed, indeed. That is very interesting. And now you are living—?"

"At the rectory, on Riverside Drive."

"Ah, yes.—And your father is well, I presume."

"As well as can be expected," answered Mrs. Swinton, tartly. "It is about money-matters I have come to you, Mr. Jevons. I want to know if it is possible by any means to raise the sum of seven thousand dollars."

"That is not a large sum. There ought to be no difficulty."

"You think so!" she cried, eagerly.

"Well, it depends. The income your mother left you—if it is not in any way mortgaged—should give ample security."

"My mother left me no income."

"I beg your pardon?" queried the old man, curtly, as if he doubted his hearing.

"My income is pitifully small, Mr. Jevons—only four thousand a year, which my father allows me, and he makes a favor of that, often withholding it, and plunging me into debt."

Mr. Jevons looked incredulous. "Four thousand a year. Did you see your mother's will, Mrs. Swinton?"

"No. Did she make a will?"

"Yes, of course. I drew it up for her. You were only a girl then, I remember. You were away in Europe, in a convent, were you not, when your mother died?"

"Yes, and father wouldn't allow me to come home."

"Under that will, your mother left you something more than twenty thousand a year."

"Mr. Jevons, you are thinking of someone else. You have so many clients you are mixing them up. My father, who is little better than a miser, absorbed the whole of my mother's income at her death."

"Impossible! Impossible! Your mother left you considerably more than half-a-million dollars. It was because of a dispute over the sum that I withdrew from your father's affairs. I was his lawyer once, you remember. A difficult man—a difficult man. You don't mean to tell me that you have received from your father only four thousand a year? It's incredible. It's illegal."

Mrs. Swinton laid her hand upon her heart, to still the throbbing set up by this startling turn of affairs.

"But, when you were married, what was your husband thinking of not to see your mother's will, and get proper settlements?"

"My husband has no head for money-affairs. It was a love match. We eloped, and father never forgave us."

Mr. Jevons gave vent to his anger in little, jerky exclamations of amazement.

"Mrs. Swinton, I ought to tell you that I always disapproved of your father's management of your mother's affairs—and his own. It was on this very question of your mother's money that I split with him. He insulted me, put obstacles in the way of my transacting his legal business, and I had no option but to withdraw. There was a clause in your mother's will which stipulated that your income should be paid to you quarterly, or at other intervals of time, according to your father's discretion. He chose to read that to mean that he could pay you money at discretion in small or large sums, as he thought fit. You were a mere child at the time, and your father was your natural guardian. I always suspected him of having some designs upon that money, for he bitterly resented the idea of a girl having an income at all. He was peculiar in money matters—I will not say grasping."

"He was a thief—is a thief!" cried Mrs. Swinton, breathing heavily, her eyes flashing with excitement. "Go on."

"I withdrew altogether from your father's affairs. I was busy, and had other matters to attend to. I naturally thought that your husband's lawyers would take over the management of your affairs, and any discrepancies due to the er—eccentricities of your father would be set right. But it appears that you have never questioned your father's discretion."

"I have questioned it again and again, and was always told that I was a pauper, that my mother's money belonged to him. Oh, if I had only known! What misery it would have prevented! It would have saved my son from ruin—"

"Your son!"

"Yes, I have a boy and a girl, both thinking of marriage, both crippled by the want of money. I must have seven thousand dollars this very day."

"I think it can be managed, Mrs. Swinton. I will see my partner about it, and probably let you have a check."

Mr. Jevons went fully into her affairs for nearly an hour. Then, he handed her a newspaper, and left the room. She flung down the journal, and started to her feet.

Twenty thousand a year! More than half-a-million dollars withheld from her for twenty-five years by a grasping, unnatural father. It was like a wonderful dream. The revelation opened up a prospect of unlimited joy.

In a few minutes, Mr. Jevons returned with a signed check for the amount required. He placed it in his client's hand, with a solemn bow. Mrs. Swinton, too much moved to utter thanks, folded the check, and slipped it into the purse in her muff.

"Mr. Jevons, what am I to do about the—other money?"

"I've just been thinking of that. I mentioned it to my partner. If you wish us to act for you, I will bring pressure upon your father to have it restored at once. There is not the smallest flaw in the will. We must bring pressure."

"Undoubtedly—every pressure that the law will allow. Expose him. Shame him. Humiliate him. Prosecute him, if need be."

"It is certainly a flagrant instance of the abuse of parental authority. But a suit is quite unnecessary. Your father must hand over to you the half-million, plus compound-interest for twenty-five years—an enormous sum! There can be no possible question of your right to the money. If you wish us to advance anything more—seven thousand dollars is a very small sum—we shall be most happy."

"I cannot believe it all yet, Mr. Jevons. I am so accustomed to penury and debt that it sounds like a fairy story. There is one other matter I wish to speak to you about. My son—my son is in trouble. Two checks, signed by my father, for small amounts were altered to larger ones, and cashed at our local bank. The amount in dispute came to seven thousand dollars, and my father declines to be responsible, and wants to force the bank to lose the money. That is why I wanted this check. If I pay them back with this money, the affair will be ended, and nothing more can be said about it. That is so?"

"Dear, dear! Raising checks!"

"Yes—it was wrong. But it was all my father's fault. He refused to give me money when—but that's nothing to do with it. I want you to tell me it will be all right when the money is paid."

"It depends entirely on the bank. Surely, your father will hush the matter up."

"No, he wishes us to be disgraced—ruined—just because my husband is a clergyman, and I married contrary to his wishes. He never forgives."

"But that was so many years ago! Surely, he won't question the checks."

"He has done so—and a warrant is out for my son's arrest."

"Dear, dear—that is very serious. I should take the money to the bank, and see what they can do. If the police have knowledge of the felony, they may take action on their own account, but these things can often be hushed up. I should advise you to see the responsible person at the bank. Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes, he's a friend—at least I'm afraid he's not much of a friend to my son."

"Well, it's a matter where a solicitor had better not interfere. The fewer people who have cognizance of the fact that the law has been broken, the better."

"I'll do as you advise. I'll see Mr. Ormsby to-day. You are quite sure, Mr. Jevons, that you've made no mistake about my mother's money. Oh, it's too wonderful—too amazing!"

"I am quite sure. I went thoroughly into the matter at the time, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to act for you against Mr. Herresford. If it should come to a suit, there can only be one issue."

"I will see father myself," observed Mrs. Swinton, with her teeth set and an ugly light in her eyes. "Mr. Jevons, you will come down to-morrow to see us, or next day?"

"To-morrow, at your pleasure. I'll bring a copy of the will, and prepare an exact calculation of the amount of your claim. Good-morning, Mrs. Swinton. I am pleased to have brought the color back to your cheeks. You looked very pale when you came in."

"It's the forgery—the dreadful business at the bank that frightens me."

"Do your best alone. I am sure your power of persuasion cannot fail to melt the hardest heart," the lawyer protested, with his most courtly air.

"The circumstances are peculiar. But I will try."

Mrs. Swinton reentered her cab with a strange mixture of emotions. As she drove through the crowded thoroughfares, her feelings were divided between indignant rage against her father and joy at the thought of John Swinton's troubles ended, the luxury and independence of the future, Netty no longer a dowerless bride, Dick a man of wealth without dependence upon his grandfather.

It is astonishing how soon one gets accustomed to a sudden change of fortune. The novelty of the situation had worn off by the time the home journey was finished. She was again in the grip of overwhelming fear. The horrible dread of a prosecution stood like a spectre in her path.

On her arrival at the bank, she found the doors closed; but she rang the bell so insistently that, at last, a porter appeared. And she even persuaded that grim person to violate all rules, and take her card to Vivian Ormsby, who was conferring with Mr. Barnby. In the end, she triumphed, and was admitted to the banker's private room.



CHAPTER XXVII

ORMSBY REFUSES

Ormsby greeted Dick's mother with marked coldness. He extended to her the politeness accorded to an enemy before a duel. He motioned her to a seat near his desk, and took up a position on the hearthrug. His pale face was hard set, and his dark eyes gleamed. His hands were clenched behind his back, and his whole attitude was that of a man holding himself in check. The very mention of the name of Swinton was enough to fill his brain with madness.

"I have come to pay you some money," said Mrs. Swinton quietly, as she unfastened the catch of her muff bag. "Here is a check for seven thousand dollars. It is the sum required by you to make good the discrepancy in my father's account with your bank. He is an old man in his dotage; and, as he repudiates his checks, you must not be the loser." She spoke in a dull voice—a monotone—as though repeating a lesson learnt by heart.

Ormsby was rather staggered. How Mrs. Swinton could raise seven thousand dollars without getting it from Herresford was a mystery, and he had never expected the miser to disgorge.

"May I ask you why you bring this money?" he demanded, at last.

"I have explained."

"I hope you don't think, Mrs. Swinton, that we are going to compound a felony, just because the criminal's family pursues the proper course, and reimburses our bank."

"Of course I do. When the money is paid, my family affairs are no business of yours."

"A warrant is out for your son's arrest, Mrs. Swinton, and we shall have him to-night. It pains me exceedingly to have to take this course, but—"

"You hypocrite!" she cried, starting up. "You are taking an unfair advantage of your position. You are playing a mean, contemptible trick. You are jealous of my son. Your action is not that of a man, but of a coward. Are you not satisfied with having robbed him of his wife that you must hound him down?"

"On the contrary, your son has robbed me of the woman I love," said Ormsby, with cutting emphasis, "and he shall not have her. She may not marry me, but she shall not mate with a felon."

"If it is money you want, you shall have more."

"You insult me, Mrs. Swinton. It is not the money I care about. It is the principle. Your son insulted me publicly—struck me like a drunken brawler—and worked upon the feelings of a pure and innocent woman, who will break her father's heart if she persists in the mad course she has adopted. But she'll change her mind, when she sees your son in handcuffs."

"It must not be! It must not be!" cried the guilty woman. "If you were a man and a gentleman, you would not let personal spite and jealousy come into a matter like this. You would not ruin my son for life, and break my heart, because you cannot have the girl, who pledged herself to Dick before you had any chance with her. You'll be cut by every decent person. Every door will be shut against you. If you do what you threaten, everyone shall know the truth—"

"The whole world may shut its doors—there is only one door that must open to me, the door of Colonel Dundas's house, where, until to-day, I was sure of a welcome, and almost sure of a wife. I am sorry for you, because it is obviously painful for a mother to contemplate the downfall of her son. You naturally strive to screen him by every means in your power. It is the common instinct of humanity. But I tell you"—and here he raised his fist with unwonted emphasis—"I'll kill him, hound him down, make his life unbearable. The country will be too hot to hold him. First a felon, then a convict, then an outcast, a marked man, a wastrel—"

"I beg of you—I beseech you! You don't understand—everything. If I could tell you, you would at least have a different point of view of Dick's honor. It's I who—who—"

"Honor! Don't talk to me about honor! How is it he's alive? Why isn't he beside his comrade, Jack Lorrimer, who died rather than betray his country? It is easy to see how he escaped the bullets of the firing party. He told his secret, and heaven alone knows how many dead men lie at his door as the result of that treachery."

"It is false!"

"If I err, Mrs. Swinton, it is because I believe that a forger is always a sneak and a thief. I judge men as I find them. I speculate upon their unseen acts by what has gone before. A brave man is always a brave man, a coward always a coward, a thief always a thief, because it is his natural bent. It is useless to prolong this interview. You lose your son; I gain a wife. The world will be well rid of a dangerous citizen. Allow me to open the side door for you. It is the quickest way."

Of what avail was her sudden avalanche of wealth? It could not move the determination of this remorseless man. If she confessed the truth—it was on her lips a dozen times to cry aloud her sin—he would only transfer his animosity to her, because it would hurt Dick the more. Next to humiliating his rival, to humble the wife of the rector of St. Botolph's would be a triumph for Ormsby. She took refuge in a last frantic lie.

"My father signed the checks for those amounts. The alterations were made in his presence—by me. I saw him sign them. He knew very well what he was doing then. But, since, he has forgotten. His denial is folly. Dick is innocent. I can swear to it."

Ormsby smiled sardonically as he opened the door. "It does great credit to your imagination, Mrs. Swinton. Your statement, on the face of it, is false. Unless Mr. Herresford made that avowal with his own lips, no one would take the slightest notice of it. It would only be adding folly to crime. I wish you good-day."

He held the door wide open, still smiling with an evil light in his eyes. As she passed out, she was almost tempted to strike him, so great was her mortification.

"You are as bad as my father," she cried. "Nothing pleases you men of money more than to wound and lacerate women's hearts. Dora is well saved from such a cur."

She reached the rectory in a state bordering on despair. Money could do nothing. She was powerless to evade the consequences of her folly. It was the more maddening because she had only robbed her father of a little, whereas he had defrauded her of much—oh, so much!

One sentence let fall by Ormsby remained vividly in her memory. "Unless Mr. Herresford made that avowal with his own lips, no one would take the slightest notice of it."

He should make the avowal; she would force it from him. The irony of the situation was fantastic in its horror.

She found her husband at home, looking whiter and more bloodless than ever.

"What news, Mary?" he asked awkwardly, avoiding her glance.

"The strangest, John—the strangest of all! My father is the biggest thief in America."

"Mary, Mary, this perpetual abuse of your father, whom we have wronged, will not help us in the least."

He led her into the study.

"John, John, you don't understand what I mean. I've been to Mr. Jevons, and he says that my mother left me more than half-a-million dollars, which my father has stolen—stolen! He has kept us beggars ever since our marriage, by a trick. My mother left me twenty thousand a year; and—you know what we've had from him."

"Mary, what wild things are you saying?"

"Ah, it's hard to believe; but it's true. He'll have to disgorge, or Mr. Jevons will take the business into court. He gave me the seven thousand dollars I wanted on the spot, and promised to get the rest for me, and give me as much more as I wanted. I've seen Ormsby, and paid him the money; but he's obdurate. The jealous wretch is bent upon ruining Dick. Nothing will move him."

"It is our sin crying for atonement, Mary. Money cannot buy absolution."

"No, but father can say the word that will save us all. He must swear he made a mistake—that he did sign those checks for the amounts drawn from the bank. That will paralyze Ormsby, and leave him powerless."

"Lies! lies!—we are wallowing in lies!" groaned the rector.

"When a lie can hurt no one, and can avert a terrible calamity, perjury can be no sin. God knows I have been punished enough." Then, with a sudden anger and a burst of violence so unusual in his wife that it horrified the rector, she began to abuse her father, calling him every terrible, foolish name that came to her tongue.

"He shall pay the penalty of his fraud," she cried. "Thief he calls me—well, it's bred in the bone. Set a thief to catch a thief. I've run him to earth. He'll have to lose hundreds of thousands, and more. It will send him wild with terror. Think what that'll mean! Think how he'll cringe and whine and implore! It'll be like plucking out his heart. I have the whip-hand of him now, and he shall dance to my tune. I shouldn't be surprised if compulsory honesty and the restoration of ill-gotten wealth were to kill him."

"Mary, Mary, be calm!"

"I'm going to him now," she cried. "We'll see who will be worsted in the fight. I'll silence his taunts. There'll be no more chuckling over his daughter's misery—no more insults and abuse of you, John."

"My dear Mary, you mustn't think of going now. You're unsprung, overcome. You'll do something rash. Let us be satisfied for the present with this great change of fortune. One ghost at least is laid—the terror of poverty. The way lies open now for our honorable confession. You see that, don't you?" he pleaded. "We can delay no longer. There is no excuse. By the return of our boy, the ground was cut from beneath our feet. What does it matter what the world says of us, when we have made things right with our God, when we have done justice by our brave son?"

"Oh, no—think of Netty."

"Ah, Netty is in trouble, dearest. She's had bad news to-day. Harry Bent talks of canceling his engagement. The scandal has reached the ears of his family, and his money-affairs are dependent on his mother, whom he can't offend. You see, darling, the sins of the fathers have begun to descend on the children—Dick and Netty both stricken. We must confess!—confess!"

"I can't, John, I can't—I can't. Dick won't hear of it."

"Dick has no voice in the matter at all. It is the voice of God that calls."

"Yes, yes, I know, John, but—wait till I've seen father once more. I won't listen to you, I won't eat, I won't sleep, until I've seen him. I'll go to him at once."

"I must come, too," urged the rector weakly. Yet, the thought of facing the miser's taunts at such a time filled him with unspeakable dread. And he could not tell her that Dick's arrest was imminent.

"Have some food, dearest, and go afterward."

"I couldn't eat. It would choke me," Mrs. Swinton said, rebelliously.

Netty, hearing her mother's voice, came into the room, her eyes red with weeping.

"You've heard, mother?" she cried, plaintively.

"I've heard, Netty. To-morrow Mrs. Bent will be sorry. We're no longer paupers, Netty."

"Why, grandfather isn't dead?"

"No, but we are rich. He's a thief. We've always been rich. Your grandfather has robbed us of hundreds of thousands—all my mother's fortune. I've only just found it out to-day from a lawyer."

"Oh, the villain!" cried Netty. "But I shall be jilted all the same. Dick has ruined and disgraced us all. I'm snubbed—jilted—thrown over, because my brother is a felon."

"Silence, Netty. There are other people in the world beside yourself to think of," cried the rector.

"Well, nobody ever thinks of me," sobbed the girl, angrily.

There was a loud rattling at the front door. The rector started, and listened in terror.

"Too late!" he groaned, dropping into a chair. "It's the police!"

"John, you have betrayed me—after all!" screamed his wife, looking wildly around like a hunted thing.

He bowed his head in assent. He misunderstood her meaning. "Ormsby has been here. He found out—by a slip of the tongue."



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE WILL

The police had arrived with a warrant to search the house. Mrs. Swinton seemed turned to stone. The rector drooped his head in resignation, and stood with hands clenched at his side, looking appealingly at his wife. He said nothing, but his eyes beseeched her to be brave, to say the words that would save her son, to surrender in the name of truth and justice.

She understood, but refused; and the police proceeded with their search.

Now that further concealment was useless, they were led upstairs. Dick, lying in his deck-chair, heard them coming, and guessed what had happened. He dropped his book upon his lap, and, when the police inspector and the detective entered the room, he was quite prepared.

"Well, so you've found me," he cried, with a laugh. "It's no good your thinking of taking me, unless you've brought a stretcher, for I can't walk."

"We sha'n't take you without doctor's orders, if you're ill, sir."

"Well, he won't give you the order, so you'd better leave your warrant, and run away and play."

"I have to warn you, sir," said the officer pompously, "that anything you say will be taken down in evidence against you."

"Well, take that down in evidence—what I've just said. You're a smart lot to look everywhere except in the most likely place. Take that down as well."

"We don't want any impudence. You're our prisoner; we shall put an officer in the house."

"Well, all I ask is that you won't make things more unpleasant for my mother and father than is absolutely necessary. Now, get out. I'm reading an interesting book. If you should see Mr. Ormsby, you can give him my kind regards, and tell him he's a bigger cad than I thought, and, when I'm free, I'll repeat the dose I gave him at our club dinner. Say I'm sorry I didn't rob his bank of seventy thousand instead of seven thousand."

"Do I understand, sir," said the officer, taking out his notebook, "that you confess to defrauding the bank of seven thousand dollars?"

"Oh, certainly! I'll confess to anything you like, only get out."

Netty had taken refuge in the drawing-room, where she locked herself in, inspired with an unreasoning terror, and a dread of seeing her brother handcuffed and carried out of the house. The rector and his wife stood face to face in the study, with the table between them.

"For the last time, Mary, I implore you to speak." He raised his hand, and his eyes blazed with a light new and strange to her.

"I tell you, there is no need for me to speak, John. This can all be settled in a few hours, when I have denounced father to his face, and compelled him to retract."

"When you have compelled him to add lie to lie. Mary—wife—I charge you to speak, and save me the necessity of denouncing you."

"John, you are mad. Trouble has turned your brain. What are you saying?"

"I am no longer your husband. I am your judge."

"Oh, John, John—give me time—give me a little time. I promise you, I will set everything right in a few hours."

The rector looked at the clock. "At half-past six, I go to conduct the evening service—my last service in the church. This is the end of my priesthood. I preach my last sermon to-night. Unless you have surrendered yourself to justice before I go into the pulpit for my sermon, I shall make public confession of our sin."

"John, you no longer love me. You mean to ruin me—you despise me—you want to get rid of me!" cried the wretched woman between her sobs, as she flung herself on her knees at his feet. "John! John! I can't do it—I can't!"

"Get away, woman—don't touch me! You're a bad woman. You have broken my faith in myself—almost my faith in God. I'll have nothing further to do with you—or your father—or the money that you say is yours. Money has nothing to do with it. It is a matter of conscience, of courage, of truth! I've been a miserable coward, and my son has shamed me into a semblance of a brave man. I am going to do the right thing by the boy."

"John! John!—you can't—you won't! You'll keep me with you always. I'll love you—oh—you shall not regret it. You cannot do without me."

"Out of my sight!"

He rushed from the room, leaving his wife still upon her knees, with her arms outstretched appealingly. When the door slammed behind him, she uttered one despairing moan, and fell forward on her face, sobbing hysterically.

Her hands clawed at the carpet in her agony, yet she could not bring herself to make any effort towards the rehabilitation of her son's honor. Her thoughts flew again to her father—the greatest sinner, as she regarded him—and the flash of hope that had so elated her in the afternoon again blinded her. She struggled to her feet, still sobbing, and looked at the clock. If John persisted in his determination to denounce her at evening service, there was at least a three hours' respite—time enough to go to her father.

The rector, in the hall, had met an officer coming down the stairs, who explained the situation to him—that a doctor's certificate would be necessary, and that officers must remain in and about the house to keep watch on their prisoner. The rector listened to them with his mind elsewhere, as though their communication had little interest for him, and his lips moved with his thoughts. But, before they left, he pulled himself together, and addressed them.

"Officers, I beg one favor of you: that you will not make this matter public until after the service in the church this evening. You have arrested the wrong culprit. The real forger may possibly come to you at the police station with me to-night, and surrender."

"Was that the meaning of the young man's cheek?" wondered the officer, eying the pale-faced, distraught clergyman suspiciously. He had arrested defaulting priests before to-day, and was half-inclined to believe that the rector himself was the culprit indicated. However, he didn't care to hazard a guess openly.

"There is no objection to keeping our mouths shut for an hour or two, sir," he answered.

"I am obliged to you for the concession. Until after the evening service then; after that you can do as you please."

The rector picked up his hat, and walked out of the house without another word, leaving the policemen in some doubt as to the wisdom of allowing him out of sight.

Mary heard the talking in the hall, and her husband's step past the window, and was paralyzed with terror, fearing lest he might already have betrayed her to the police. The easiest way to settle the doubt was to go into the hall, and see what had happened. To her infinite relief, the officer allowed her to pass out of the front door without molestation.

The automobile for which she had telephoned was already waiting. She entered hurriedly, and bade the chauffeur drive at top speed to Asherton Hall. The cold air outside in the darkening twilight revived her, and brought fresh energy. Her anger against her father grew with every turn of the wheels, and her rage was such that she almost contemplated killing him. Indeed, the vague idea was rioting in her mind that, rather than go to prison, she would die, first wreaking some terrible vengeance on the miser, who had ruined the happiness of her married life and brought disaster on all belonging to her.

On her arrival, there were only three windows lighted in the whole front of the great house; but outside the entrance there were the blinking lamps of two carriages, one a shabby hired vehicle, the other a smart brougham, which she recognized at once as belonging to her father's family physician.

Her heart sank with an awful dread. If her father were ill, and unable to give attention to her affairs, it spelled ruin.

The door was opened by Mrs. Ripon, who admitted Mrs. Swinton in silence. The hall was lighted by a single oil lamp, which only served to intensify the desolation and gloom of the dingy, faded house.

"I want to see my father at once, Mrs. Ripon," the distracted woman declared.

"The doctor is with him, madam. He won't be long. Will you step into the library? Mr. Barnby is there."

The mention of that name caused her another fright. She was inclined to avoid the bank-manager. Curiosity, however, conquered, and she resolved to face him, in the hope of hearing why he had come to her father.

On her entrance, Mr. Barnby bowed with frigid politeness.

"You have seen my father, Mr. Barnby. Is he well?" she asked, eagerly.

"He looked far from well. I was shocked at the change in him."

"Did he send for you?"