"No," she interrupted. "No one must know of this. I trust you to tell no one of this."

He thought a moment.

"Very well. But in order to locate him now, it will be necessary to call in the help of the police."

"The police!" she exclaimed in horror. "No! You must promise me you will not do that."

She rose to her feet all excitement.

"They would not arrest him," he assured her. "They would simply hold him until we came for him."

"I would rather not. I would rather wait until he comes back himself than do that."

He could not understand her fear, but he was bound to respect it.

"Very well," he answered quietly. "But I have a friend whom I can trust. You do not mind if I enlist his help?"

"He is of the police?" she asked suspiciously.

"He is a friend," he replied. "It is as a friend he will do this for me."

"Oh," she answered confused, "I don't know what to do! But I feel that I can trust you—I will trust you."

"Thank you. Then I must begin work at once. There is a telephone in the house?"

Her face brightened instantly. He seemed so decisive and sure. The fact that he was so immediately active, that he did not wait until daylight, when conditions would be best, but began the search in the face of apparent impossibility, brought her immediate confidence. She liked a man who would, without quoting the old saw, hunt for a needle in a haystack.

She directed him to the telephone, and he summoned a cab. He returned with the question,

"Do you know how much money he had?"

"Money? He had none."

"Then," said Donaldson, "won't he come back of himself? Opium is one thing for which there is no credit."

"I 'm afraid not. He has been away before without money, and—"

She stopped as abruptly as though a hand had been placed over her mouth. Her face clouded as though from some new and half forgotten fear. She glanced swiftly at Donaldson, as though to see if he had read the ellipsis.

When she spoke again it was slowly, each word with an effort.

"My pocket-book was upstairs. It is possible that he borrowed."

Donaldson knew the meaning of that. Kleptomania was a characteristic symptom. Victims of this habit had gone even further in their hot necessity for money.

"Perhaps," she suggested hesitatingly, "perhaps this search to-night may inconvenience you financially. I wish you to feel free to spend without limit whatever you may find helpful. We have more than ample funds. Unfortunately I have on hand only a little money, but as soon as I can get to my bank—"

"I have enough." He smiled as a new meaning to the phrase came to him. "More than enough."

He glanced at the clock. Over half of his first day already gone. He heard the crunching wheels of the taxicab on the graveled road outside. Hurrying into the hall he took one of Arsdale's hats—he had lost his own in the machine—and slipped into his overcoat. Still he paused, curiously reluctant to leave her. He did not feel that there was very much waiting for him outside, and here—he would have been content to live his week in this old library. He had glimpsed a dozen volumes that he would have enjoyed handling. He would like to spread them out upon his knee before the fire and read to her at random from them. Yes, she must be there to complete the library. He was getting loose again in his thoughts.

She was looking at him anxiously.

"I think we shall find him," he said confidently. "At any rate I shall come back in the morning and report."

"This seems such an imposition—" she faltered.

"Please don't look at it in that light," he pleaded earnestly. "I feel as though I were doing this for an old friend."

"You are kind to consider it so."

"You see we have been in the inner woods together."

She smiled courageously.

"Good night. I wish you were better guarded here," he added.

He held out his hand quite frankly. She put her own within it for a moment. He grew dizzy at the mere touch of it. It was as though his Lady of the Mountains had suddenly become a living, tangible reality. The light touch of her fingers was as wine to him. They made the task before him seem an easy one. They made it a privilege. She thought that he was making a sacrifice in doing this for her when she was granting him the boon of returning upon the morrow.

"Good night," he said again.

He turned abruptly and opening the door stepped out into the cab without daring to look back.



CHAPTER VII

The Arsdales

Miss Arsdale hurried upstairs to where in a rear room Marie, with a candle burning beside her, lay in bed done up like a mummy.

"Par Di', Mam'selle Elaine," exclaimed the old housekeeper, her eyes growing brighter at sight of her. "I had a dream about a black horse. Is anything wrong with you?"

"Nothing. And your poor lame knees, Marie—they are better?"

"N'importe," she grunted, "but I do not like the feel of the night. Was M'sieur Ben down there with you?"

"Yes."

"You should be in bed by now. You must go at once."

"I think I shall sleep in the little room off yours to-night."

"Bien. Then if you need anything in the night, you can call me."

Marie was scarcely able to turn herself in her bed, but, she still felt the responsibility of the house.

"Very well, Marie. Good night."

She kissed the old housekeeper upon the forehead and was going out when she heard the latter murmur as though to herself,

"The black horse may mean Jacques."

"Have you heard nothing from him in his new position?" she asked, turning at the door.

"Non," she answered sharply. "Go to bed."

So the girl went on into a darkness that she, too, found ridden by black horses.

For three generations the Arsdales had been a family of whom those who claim New York as their inheritance had known both much and little. It was impossible to ignore the silent part Horace Arsdale, the grandfather, had played in the New York business world or the quiet influence he had exerted in such musical and literary centres as existed in his day. Any one who knew anybody would answer an inquiry as to who they might be with a surprised lift of the eyebrows.

"The Arsdales? Why they are—the Arsdales."

"But what—"

"Oh, they are a queer lot. But they have brains and—money."

Horace Arsdale died in an asylum, and there were the usual ugly rumors as to what brought him there. He left a son Benjamin, and Benjamin built the present Arsdale house at a time when it was like building in the wilderness. Here he shut himself up with his bride, a French girl he had met on his travels. Ask any one who Benjamin Arsdale was and they would be apt to answer,

"Benjamin Arsdale? Oh, he is Benjamin Arsdale. They say he has a great deal of talent and—money."

The first statement seemed to be proven by some very delicate lyrical verse which appeared from time to time in the magazines. Though a member of the best half dozen New York clubs, not a dozen men out of the hundreds who knew his name had ever seen him.

His wife died within three years, some say from a broken heart, some say from homesickness, leaving a boy child six months old. At this point Benjamin Arsdale's name disappeared even from the magazines, and save to a very few people he was as though dead and buried beneath his odd house. An old Frenchman, his wife, and his son Jacques Moisson seemed content to live there and look after the household duties. Some ten years later a little girl of nine appeared, a niece of Arsdale's, it was said, and this completed the household, though old Pere Moisson died in the course of time, leaving his wife and Jacques as a sort of legacy to his old master, for a body-guard. The only reports of the inmates to the outside world came through the other servants who were employed here from time to time, and the most they had to say was that Arsdale was "queer," and they did n't think it was the place to bring up young children, though the master did adore the very ground they walked on. When the children were older, Arsdale was seen at concerts and the theatre with them, but seemed to resent any attempt on the part of well meaning acquaintances to renew social ties. People remarked upon how old for his age he had grown, and some spoke in a whisper of the spirituality of his features.

So much every one knew and that was nothing. What Elaine Arsdale, whom he had legally adopted, knew, was what caused the white light about the bowed head of the man. When she first learned she could not tell, but as a very young girl she remembered days when he came to her with his face very white and tense, and in his eyes the terror of one in great pain, and said to her,

"Little girl, will you sit with me a bit?"

So she would take a seat by the window in the library and he would face her very quietly with his long fingers twined around the chair arms. He would not speak and she knew that he did not wish her to speak. He wished for her only to sit there where he could see her. She was never afraid, but at times there came into his eyes a look that tempted her to cry. Sometimes an hour, sometimes two hours passed, and then he would rise to his feet and walk unsteadily towards her and say,

"Now I may kiss your forehead, Elaine."

He would kiss her, and shortly after fall into a deep sleep of exhaustion.

Between these periods, which she did not understand save that in some way he suffered a great deal, he was to her the gentlest and kindest guardian that ever a girl had. He personally superintended her studies and those of Ben, her only other playmate. The day was divided into regular hours for work and play. In the morning at nine he met them in the library and heard their lessons and gave them their tasks for the next day. He seemed to know everything and had a way of making one understand very difficult matters such as fractions and irregular French verbs. In the afternoon came the music lessons. He was anxious for them both to play well upon the violin, for he said that it had been to him one of the greatest joys of his life. Each night before bedtime he used to play for them himself and make her see finer pictures than even those she found in her fairy tales. But there were other times when he could make his violin terrible. He used to punish Ben in this way. When the latter had been over wilful, he made the boy stand before him. Then taking a position in front of him, he played things so wild, so fearful, that the boy would beg for mercy.

"Do you wish your soul to be like that?" he would demand sternly.

"No, father, no," Ben would whimper.

"Then you must control yourself. If ever you lose a grip upon yourself in temper or anything else, it will be like that."

But the music even at such times never frightened her, though it sounded very savage, like the wind through the trees in a thunder storm.

The only time that he had ever seemed the slightest bit angry at her was once during that wonderful summer when he had taken them abroad. She was seventeen, and on the boat she met a man with whom she fell in love. He was very much older than she, and possessed a glorious mustache which turned up at the corners. He helped her up and down the deck one day when the wind was blowing, and that night she lay awake thinking about him. When she appeared in the morning with her eyes heavy and her thoughts far away, the father put his arm about her and escorted her to the stern of the boat. Then sitting down beside her, he said,

"Tell me what is on your mind, little girl."

She told him quite simply, and had been surprised to see his face grow white and terrible.

"He put those thoughts into your heart?"

He rose to his feet and started towards the saloon. She knew what he was about to do. She flung her arms around his knees and, sobbing, pleaded with him until he stayed. Then after she had calmed a little, he talked to her and she listened as though to a stranger.

"Little girl," he cried fiercely, "there is much that you do not understand, and much that I pray God you never will understand. One of these things is the nature of man. If it were not for all the other fair things there are in life I would place you in a convent, for the best man who ever lived, little girl, is not good enough to take into his keeping the worst woman. They break their hearts with their weaknesses—they break their hearts."

"But you, dear Dada—"

"I did it! God forgive me, I did it, too!"

At this point he gained control of himself and his wild speech, but the words remained forever an echo in her heart.

They passed the next summer in the Adirondacks, and here in the deep woods she spent the pleasantest period of her life. She was strangely atune with the big pines and the fragrant shadows which lay beneath them. Arsdale used to sit beside her in these solitudes and read aloud by the hour from the poets in his sweet musical voice. At such times she wondered more than ever what he had meant in that outburst on the steamer. Here, too, he told her more of her mother who had died at almost the same time that Ben's mother had died. But of the father all he ever told her was,

"My brother was an Arsdale—like the rest of us."

So she lived her peaceful life and was conscious of missing nothing, save at odd moments the man with the beautiful mustache. Marie, the old housekeeper, was as careful of her as Jacques was of her father. Ben was kind to her, though during the latter years he had grown a bit out of her life. This had worried the father—this and other things. One day he had called her into the library, and though he was greatly agitated she saw that it was not in the usual way.

"Little girl," he said, "if it should so happen that you are ever left alone here with Ben and he—he does not seem to act quite himself, I want you to promise me that you will go to this address which I shall leave for you."

She had promised, knowing well to what he referred.

Then his face had hardened.

"There is still another thing you must promise; if at the end of six months he is no better I wish you to promise that you will not live in this house with him or anywhere near him—that you will cut off your life utterly from his life."

"But, Dada—"

"Promise."

She promised again, little thinking that the crisis of which he seemed to have a foreboding was so near at hand. A dark day came within two months when her soul was rent with the knowledge that he lay stark and cold in that very library where so much of his life had been lived. Marie gathered her into her arms and held her tight. She stared aghast at a world which frightened her by its emptiness. At her side stood Ben, his lips twitching, and in his eyes that haunting fear which always foreran the father's struggles. A month later the boy did not come home one night, but came after three days, a feeble wreck of a man. She tore open the letter the father had left, and this took her to Barstow, with whom he had evidently left instructions. That was five months ago, and in the meanwhile she had grown from a very young girl into a woman.

This was the sombre background to her frightened thoughts as she lay in her bed next to Marie. In the midst of all the figures which haunted her, there stood now one alone who offered her anything but fearful things—and he was a stranger. Out of the infinite multitude of the indifferent who surrounded her, he had leaped and within these few hours made her debtor to him for her life, and now for partial relief from a strain which was worse than sudden death might have been. In spite of other torments it was like a cool hand upon her brow to know that out in that chaos into which the boy had plunged, this other had followed. She had perfect confidence in him. After all, it is as easy in a crisis to pick a friend from among strangers as from among friends.



CHAPTER VIII

The Man Who Knew

There are several members of the New York police force who think they know their Chinatown; there are several slum workers who think they do; there are many ugly guides, real guides, who think they do, but Beefy Saul, ex-newspaper man, ex-United States Chinese immigration inspector, and finally of the Secret Service, really does. This is because Beefy Saul knows not only the bad, but the good Chinamen; because he knows not only the ins and outs of Chinatown, but the ins and outs of New York; because he knows not only the wiles and weaknesses of Chinamen, the wiles and weaknesses of ugly souled guides (and of slum workers), but best of all, because he knows the several members of the New York police department who think they know their Chinatown. But like men who know less, Beefy Saul enjoys his sleep and naturally objects to being roused at three o'clock in the morning, even though in the east the silver is showing through the black, as Donaldson pointed out, like the eyes of a certain lady when she smiles (as Donaldson did not point out). Beefy came down in answer to the insistent bell which connected with his modest flat—it ought to be called a suite, for the lower hall boasted only six speaking tubes—and he swore like a pirate as he came. Finally the broad shoulders, which gave him his name, filled the door frame.

"I don't give a tinker's dam who you are," he growled before he had made out the features before him, "it's a blasted outrage! Hello, Don, what in thunder brings you out at this time of night? You look white, man, what's the trouble?"

Saul hitched up his trousers, his round sleepy face that of a good-natured farmer.

"I want you to do me a favor if you will, Beefy. I know it 's a darned shame to get you out at this hour."

"Tut, tut, man. If a friend can't get up for another friend, he ain't much of a friend. Tell your troubles."

"I 'm looking for a man, Beefy, who 's down there somewhere among your Chinks."

"Hitting the pipe?"

"I 'm afraid so."

"Have n't any address I suppose—don't know his favorite joint?"

"I don't know a thing about him except that he has been down there before—that he lit out again a little over an hour ago, half mad—and that I must find him."

"An hour ago, eh? That helps, some. There 's only a few of 'em open to the public at that time. But say, is there any special hurry? He's had time to get his dope by now. I 've got some work there in the morning."

"There's a girl waiting for him, Beefy, a girl who is paying big for every hour he's gone."

"So? Well, m' boy, guess we 'll have to get him then. I 'll be down in ten minutes. Make yourself at home on the doorstep."

Donaldson waited in the taxicab. For the first time in his life he computed the value of one-sixth of an hour. So long as he had been with the girl—or so long as he had been active in her behalf—the minutes were filled with sufficient interest to make them pass unreckoned. But to sit here and wait, to sit here and watch the seconds wasted, to sit here and be conscious of each one of them as it bit, like a thieving wharf rat, into his dwindling Present and carried the morsel of time back to the greedy Past, was a different matter. When finally Saul appeared with a fat cigar in one corner of his chubby mouth, Donaldson was halfway across the sidewalk to meet him.

"Good Lord!" he laughed excitedly, almost pushing the big man toward the cab, "I thought you were lost up there."

Saul paused with one foot already on the step. Then turning back, he struck a match for his cigar. The flare revealed Donaldson's eager eyes, his tense mouth. He carelessly snapped the burnt match to the lapel of Donaldson's coat and stooping to pick it off took occasion to whiff the latter's breath.

"The sooner we start—" suggested Donaldson, impatiently.

Saul stepped in, his two hundred pounds making the springs squeak, and sinking into a corner waited to see what he might learn from Donaldson's talk. The suspicion had crossed his mind that possibly the latter had got into some such way himself—it was over a year since he had seen him—and was taking this method to hunt up an all-night opium joint. His experience made him constantly suspicious, but unlike the regular police, a suspicion with him remained a suspicion until proven. It never gained strength merely by being in his thought. At the end of five minutes he had discarded this theory. Stopping the machine, he gave the cabby a real address in the place of the fictitious one he had first given in Donaldson's hearing. The latter's mind, supernormally alert, detected the ruse instantly. He placed a hand upon Saul's knee.

"Beefy, you didn't suspect me, did you?"

"What the devil is the matter with you then?" demanded Saul.

"Nothing. What makes you think there is?"

"The mouth, man, the mouth! You don't get those wrinkles in the corner and a tight chin by being left alone five minutes, if all that is troubling you is a lost friend."

"You 're too confounded suspicious. It's only that I 've so many things to do, Beefy."

"Business picked up?"

Donaldson smiled. Saul had known his Grub Street life. As the cab sped on he regained his self-control. Action, movement was all he needed. For the next ten minutes he surprised Saul with his enthusiasm and loquacity. The latter having known him as a quiet and rather reserved fellow, finally decided that it was a clear case of woman. The questions he asked about young Arsdale, in securing a minute description of the man, confirmed this impression.

The cab turned into the narrow cobbled streets of Chinatown, past the dark windows, Chinese stores and restaurants, a region that, deserted now, appeared in the early morning quiet ominous rather than peaceful. Dark alleys opened out frequently—alleys which coiled like snakes past cellar entrances, noisome rears of tottering tenements, to grease-fingered doors as impassive as the stolid faces of guards who drowsed behind them asleep to all save those who knew the deadly pass-word. Paradoxical doors which shut in, instead of out, danger! But Saul knew them and they knew Saul. He knew further the haunts of beginners, where opium is high and the surroundings are fairly clean, he knew the haunts of the confirmed, where opium is cheaper and where surroundings do not matter at all. Also he knew Wun Chung, who does not smoke, but who, being rich, controls the trade and so keeps in touch with all who buy.

On the way to Chung's Saul made one stop. With Donaldson at his heels, he darted down a side street, pushed open, without knocking, a dingy door, went up a flight of stairs, along a dark hallway and down another flight, where he was stopped by a shadow. The big man spoke his name, and the shadow turned instantly from a guard to an obsequious servant. He opened the door and Saul strode across a narrow yard, stooping to brush beneath the stout clothes-line hung with blankets, an innocent appearing wash, which however served as an effective barrier to any one who might approach at a run. They entered the rear of a second tenement which faced a parallel street, but which, oddly enough, had no entrance to its rear rooms from the front. Another shadow rose before them only to vanish as the round red face of Saul appeared. He pushed on into a long, low-ceilinged room lined with bunks, the air heavy with the acrid dead smoke of opium.

"Light," demanded Saul.

The sleepy proprietor brought a kerosene lamp, the chimney befouled with soot and grease. It was an old trick. These fellows protect their customers and through a sooted chimney the feeble light makes scarcely more than shadows in which it is very difficult to identify a man. Seizing the slant-eyed ghoul by the arm Saul held the lamp within an inch of the yellow face, so close that it burned.

"Don't try such fool things on me, Tong," he warned. "Bring me a light."

The Chinaman squirmed in terror, and when loosed was back again in a hurry with a lamp that lighted the whole room. Saul took it and examined the nearest bunk. Donaldson glanced at the first face. That was enough. He retreated to the door for fresh air. Down the line went Saul, looking like some devil in Hell making tally of lost souls. He reached in and turned them, one after the other, face to the light, while Donaldson stood outside, dreading the call that should force him to look again. He was no man of the world and the reek of the place appalled him. Nothing he had ever read conveyed anything of the plain sordidness of it,—the unrelieved pall of it which burdened like the weary dead stretch of an alkali desert. The scene did not even become romantic to him, until glancing up, he saw above the irregular roof-tops, the stars still bright in the virgin purple, saw the unfouled spaces of the planet fields between them. What had such clean things as the stars to do with this mired world below? This jeweled roof was not intended for so squalid a floor. But the stars above brought him back to the girl again, and she to her brother, and her brother to this. Strange cycle! Then the stars and the blue gathered them all into one. Strange one!

"Not here," announced Saul, wiping the oil from his fingers. Donaldson breathed more freely. Without delay they hurried back to the cab.

"I had sort of a hunch that we 'd find him there," said Saul, "but we did n't. Now we 'll have a cup of tea with Chung and set him to work. It's a darned sight easier and a lot swifter way when you have n't any clue at all to work on."

"And pleasanter," returned Donaldson. "I 've seen enough of this."

"Not so bad when you get used to 'em," answered Saul, lighting a fresh cigar. "But I know how you feel; I 'm just that queer about morgues. Can't get used to 'em nohow. Get the creeps every time I step inside a morgue. But then I don't hanker after murder work of any sort like some of the boys. It would be just my chance to get a taste of it before I 'm done with the Riverside robberies."

"What are the Riverside robberies?" inquired Donaldson, with a faint remembrance of the name.

"You been out of town?"

"No, but I don't read the papers much."

"I should say not. Four hold-ups in three weeks, all within half a mile of one another on Riverside Drive."

"Riverside Drive?"

He remembered now. The Arsdale home was near Riverside Drive. Barstow had spoken of these crimes.

"You on the case?" he asked indifferently,

"Yes," answered Saul. "I 'm on the case and if another one breaks, the case and the Chief will be on me."

The cab had stopped before an unlighted store. The street light revealed a window filled with a medley of china, teas, silks, and joss-sticks. Above, in big gilt letters, was the sign "Wun Chung and Co."

It was surprising how quickly in response to Saul's knocking a door to the left of the main entrance, and leading upstairs, opened. After a few words with the moon-faced attendant, the light was switched on and the three ascended to a small room, brilliant with gaudy Oriental colors and heavy with ebony furnishings. A group of three or four Chinamen sat at a small table soberly drinking their tea with the exaggerated innocence of those who have a deck of cards up their sleeves. The proprietor himself, fat as a butter ball, toddled up to Saul with a grin upon his round, colorless face. He ordered tea for all and they sat down. In two minutes Saul had explained what he wished, and in five a couple of the silent group near had taken Chung's orders and stolen out like ghosts.

Saul swallowed his tea boiling hot and glanced at his watch. It was half-past four.

"Now," he said, "I 'm going back for a wink of sleep. You can sit on here or you can have Chung notify you at your hotel, eh, Chung?"

"Allee light," nodded the proprietor.

"How long do you think it will take?" asked Donaldson quickly.

"Might take till noon to search every place—and then we might not find him if he's an old hand at the game," answered Saul.

"Till noon!" exclaimed Donaldson irritably. "Good Lord, that's eight hours!"

Saul placed his hand affectionately upon Donaldson's shoulder.

"See here, Don," he replied earnestly. "Take my advice and get some sleep."

"Do you think I can waste time in sleep?"

"Better take a little now or you 'll be having a long one coming to you."

"That's just it," retorted Donaldson. "I 've got all eternity for sleep."

"So? Well, I 'll take mine here and now, thanks. I want to wake up!"

The older man's sober common-sense brought Donaldson to himself.

"Guess you 're right," he admitted.

He took out a card and scribbled two addresses, one of the Waldorf and the other of the Arsdale house.

"You will notify me at one of these places as soon as you learn anything?"

"Allee light."

"At once, you understand?"

Saul insisted upon landing Donaldson at his hotel before going on to his own home. The latter grasped the big hand of his friend.

"Beefy," he said, "if ever I can give her a chance to thank you, I 'll bet you 'll think your trouble worth while."

"Turn in and give her a chance to thank you in the morning. I reckon she 'll appreciate that more than an opportunity to thank me."

The cab bearing the big detective glided off. Donaldson watched it melt down the dwindling vista until finally, dissolved altogether, it became one with the dark.



CHAPTER IX

Dawn

Donaldson took a cold dip and then carefully dressed himself in fresh clothes. Sleep was out of the question. He had never in his life felt more alert in mind and body. He felt as though he could walk farther, hear farther, see farther than ever before. He was more keenly responsive to the perfume of the roses which were now drooping a bit languidly near the window; he was more alive to the delicate traceries of the ferns which banked one corner of the room; more appreciative of the little marine which he had hung near his dresser and—more alive to her into whose life Fate had picked him up and hurled him. He felt the warm pressure of her fingers as though they still rested within his; saw the marvelous quiet beauty of her eyes which had led him so far back into his past. Again out of this past they led him on—on to—he was checked as in his picture of her the ticking clock behind her intruded itself. There stood the sentinel to whom he must give heed. There stood the warning finger pointing to the seventh noon.

Good Lord, he must have more room. He must get out into the dawn—out where he could share these emotions which now surged in upon him with some virginal passion as big and fresh as the new-born day. He crossed to the window and looked out upon the dormant city. The morning light was just beginning to wash out the dark and to sketch in the outlines of buildings and the gray path of the road between them. He watched the new creation of a world. Around him lay a million souls ready to people it—ready to seize it and make it a part of themselves. In a few hours that dim street would be a bridge over which tens of thousands of people would pass to sorrow, to joy; to poverty, to riches; to hate, to love; to death, to life. That was a drama worth looking at. He must get out and rub shoulders with those who were playing their parts. He, too, must play his part in it.

He descended to the office and left instructions with the night clerk to insist upon a message from whoever might call him up. He would be back, he said, in an hour. He had not walked long before he found the city gently astir with life. Passing cars were soon well filled, traffic fretted the streets lately so quiet, while yawning pedestrians reminded him that there were still those who slept. At the end of thirty minutes more of brisk walking, the sky had melted through the entire gamut of colors, and finally settled into a blinding golden blue. A newsboy clicking out of space like a locust, shouted "Extra!" Donaldson gave little heed to the cry until he heard the word "Riverside," and caught the blatant headlines, "Another robbery." With an interest growing out of Saul's connection with the case, he skimmed through the story.

Then he tossed his paper away and took his course back to the hotel, glad to forget that sordid bit of drama, in the movement of the crowd now forcing its way to work. But something was lacking in the spectacle this morning. The play of light and color he still saw, the vibrancy of it he still felt, the dramatic quality of it he still appreciated, but still with the consciousness that it lacked something—that it had gone a bit flat. He no longer felt that princely sense of superiority to it—as though it were a gorgeous pageant upon which he was a mere onlooker. He felt now a harrying sense of responsibility towards it. It was as though they called him to join them. He quickened his pace. He must get back to the hotel and see if any message awaited him.

He caught his breath—he must get back to her. That was it. That was what the hurrying passers-by had called to him. Get back to her—what did the morning count until she became a part of it? It was because she had placed the red-blooded actuality of life before his eyes in contrast to the superficial picturesqueness of its expression as he had viewed it yesterday that the show had lost its vividness. She was making him see it again with eyes as they were at twenty. He recoiled. That way lay danger. He must put himself on guard. But from that moment he had but one object in mind—to get back to her as soon as possible.

A telephone message waiting him from Chung reported that no trace could be found of the boy.

He jumped into a cab and went at once to the Arsdale house. Miss Arsdale herself came to the door, her eyes heavy from lack of sleep but her face lighting instantly at sight of him.

"You have news?" she exclaimed.

"No," he answered directly.

She was a woman with whom one might be direct.

"No news may be good news," he added. "They have n't been able to locate him in Chinatown. I don't think there is a nook there in which he could hide from those people."

"Then," she exclaimed, "he has gone to Cranton."

"Then," he answered deliberately, "I will follow him there."

"No, I could n't allow you. It is two hours from town. You have already given generously of your time."

"Miss Arsdale," he said gently, "we of the inner woods must stand by each other. This week is a sort of vacation for me. I am quite free."

Yes, she was she he had seen through the tops of the whispering pines when he had thought it nothing but the blue sky; she was she who had brushed close to him when he had thought it only the rustling of dry leaves. Now that she stood beside him, his heart cried out, "Why did you not come before? Why did you not come a week ago?" If she could have stood for one brief second in that dingy office which had slowly closed in upon him until it squeezed the soul out of him, then he would have forced back the walls again. If only once she had walked by his side through the crowds, then he would have caught their cry in time. The world had narrowed down to a pin prick, but if only she had come a scant two days ago, she would have bent his eye to this tiny aperture as to the small end of a telescope as she did now and made him see big enough to grasp the meaning of life.

Well, the past was dead—even with her eyes magnifying the days to eternities; the past was dead, even with the delicate poise of her lips ready to utter prophecies. He must not forget that, and in remembering this he must choose this opportunity for exiling himself from her for the day. This mission would consume some six hours. It would take him out of the city where he would be able to think more clearly. This was well.

"Have you any idea how the trains run?" he inquired.

"I looked them up. There is one at 9.32."

"I can make it easily," he answered, glancing at the big clock. He had left his own watch at the hotel. He refused to carry so grim a reminder. "I suppose I 'll have no trouble in finding the place."

"You would ask for the Arsdale bungalow," she answered. "Every one there knows it. But the chances are so slight—it is only that his father went out there once. After several days Jacques, Marie's boy and father's servant, found him hidden in the unused cottage. I thought that possibly Ben might remember this."

"I should say that it was more than probable that he would go there if his object is to keep in hiding."

"It is three miles from the station and quite secluded."

"That will make a good walk for me."

He rose to leave at once. But she, too, rose.

"If you think it best to go," she said firmly, "then I must go, too. I could not remain here passive another day. And, besides, if he is there, it is better that I should be with you. I know how to handle him. He is always gentle with me."

Donaldson caught his breath. This was an emergency that he had not foreseen. Manifestly, she could not go. She must not go. It would be to take her back to the blue sky beneath which she was born. It would be to give her a setting that would intensify every wild thought he was trying so hard to throttle.

"No," he exclaimed. "You had better permit me to go alone."

"I should not think of it," she answered decisively.

"But he may not be there. He might come back here while you were gone."

"He will be quite safe if he returns here."

"But—"

"I will see Marie and come down at once."

She hurried upstairs.

"Marie," she asked, "is it quite safe to leave you here alone until afternoon?"

"Safe? Why not?"

"I was going out to the bungalow."

The old servant looked up shrewdly.

"Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing that you can help," the girl answered.

She had not yet told her of Ben's last disappearance. There was no use in worrying those who could give no help.

"Bien. Go on. It will do you both good."

"The telephone is at your bed—you can summon Dr. Abbot if you need anything."

"Bien."

"And perhaps while I am gone Jacques may come for a visit."

"Perhaps. Run along. The air will do you good."

The girl kissed the wrinkled forehead and hurried to her own room. There, before the mirror, she was forced to ask herself the question which she had tried to escape: "Why are you going?"

"Because if Ben were there and sick, he might need me!"

"Why are you going?"

The woman in the mirror was relentless.

"Because the house here is so full of shadows."

"Why are you going?"

"Because the sun will give me strength."

"Why are you going?"

"Because," she flushed guiltily,—"because it will be very much pleasanter than remaining here alone."

Whereupon the woman in the mirror ceased her questioning.

And, in the meanwhile, the relentless old clock was goading Donaldson. Its methodical, interminable ticking sounded like the approaching footsteps of a jailer towards the death cell.

"Don't you know better than to risk yourself out there one whole spring-time day with her?" it demanded.

"But with a full realization of the danger I can guard myself," he answered uneasily.

"Can you guard her?"

"That is unpardonable presumption," replied Donaldson heatedly.

"The mellow sun and the birthing flowers are ever presumptuous," answered the wise old clock.

"But a man may fight them off."

"I have ticked here many years and seen many things that man has prided himself upon having the power to do and yet has failed of doing."

"I cannot help myself. I should offend her unwarrantedly if I made further objection."

"Then you are not all-powerful."

"I have power over myself. And you are insulting her."

"Tick-tock. Tick-tock," answered the clock, jeeringly.

And Donaldson was saved from his impulse to kick the inanimate thing into splinters by the sound of her footsteps.



CHAPTER X

Outside the Hedge

She came down the stairs, a vision of young womanhood, dressed in white, with a wide turn-down collar fastened at the throat by a generous tie of black. Her hat was a girlish affair of black straw with a cluster of red roses gathered at the brim. She was drawing on her black gloves as she neared him—with the background of the broad Colonial staircase—a study for a master. She approached with the grace of a princess and the poise of a woman twice her years. He now could have no more bade her remain behind than he could have stopped the progress of time. There was something almost inevitable in her movements, as though it had been foreordained that they two should have this day in the country, no matter under what evil auspices. Without a word he held open the door for her to pass through and followed her into the cab.

Into the Drive they were whirled and so towards the station, the throbbing heart of the city. The ant-like throng was going and coming, and now he was one of them. It was as though the strand of his life, hanging loose, had been caught up, forced into the shuttle, and taken again into the pattern. At her side he made his way into the depot at the side of a hundred others; at her side he took his turn in line at the ticket window; at her side he made his way towards the gates, a score of others jostling him in criticism of his more moderate pace. An old client, one of his few, bowed to him. He returned the salute as though his position were the most matter-of-fact one in the world. Yet he was still confused. He had been thrust upon the stage but he was uncertain of his cue. What was the meaning of this figure by his side? In his old part, she had not been there.

When at last they were seated side by side in the car and the train began slowly to pull out, her presence there seemed even more unreal than ever. But soon he gave himself up comfortably to the illusion. She was within arm's length of him and they were steaming through the green country. That was enough for him to know at present. She looked very trim as compared to the other women who passed in and took their places in the dusty, red-cushioned seats. She looked more alive—less a type. She gave tone to the whole car.

Up to now, she had given her attention to scanning the faces of the multitude they had passed in the faint hope that by some chance her brother might be among them, but once the train started she surrendered herself fully to the new hope which lay ahead of her in the bungalow. This gave her an opportunity to study more closely this man who so suddenly had become her chief reliance in this intimate detail of her life. His kindly good nature furnished her a sharp contrast to the sober seriousness of the older man with whom so much of her youth had been lived. He had thrown open the doors and windows of the gloomy house in which she had so long been pent up. And yet as he rambled on in an evident attempt to lighten her burden, she caught a note that piqued her curiosity. It was as though below the surface he was fretted by some problem which lent a touch of sadness to his hearty courageous outlook. She felt it, when once on the journey he broke out,

"Don't ever look below the surface of anything I say. Don't ever try to look beyond the next step I take. I'm here to-day; gone to-morrow."

"Like the grass of the field?" she asked with a smile at his earnestness, which was so at odds with his light eager comments upon the bits of color which shot by them.

"Worse—because the grass is helpless."

"And we? We boast a little more, but are n't we at the mercy of chance?"

"Not if we are worthy of our souls."

She frowned.

"There is Ben, surely he is not altogether to blame," she objected.

"Less to blame than some others, perhaps."

"Then there is the chance that helps us willy nilly," she urged. "You, to me, are such a chance. Surely it was not within my power to bring about this good fortune any more than it is within the power of some others to ward off bad fortune."

"The mere episode does n't count. The handling of it is always within our power."

"And we can turn it to ill or good, as we wish?"

"Precisely."

"Providing we are wise enough," she returned.

"Yes, always providing that. That is the test of us."

"If we do poorly because of lack of wisdom?" she pressed him further.

"The cost is the same," he answered bitterly.

"That is a man's view. I don't like to feel so responsible."

"It would n't be necessary for women to be responsible for anything if men lived up to their best."

She laughed comfortably. He was one who would. She liked the uncompromising way in which his lips closed below his quick imaginative eyes.

It seemed but a matter of minutes before the train drew up at a toy station which looked like the suburban office of a real estate development company. Here they learned that the summer schedule was not yet in force, which meant that they would be unable to find a train back until four o'clock.

"I should have inquired at the other end. That oversight is either chance or stupidity," he exclaimed.

She met his eyes frankly, apparently not at all disconcerted.

"We can't decide which until we learn how it turns out, can we?" she laughed.

"No," he replied seriously, "it will depend upon that."

"Then," she said, "we need n't worry until the end. I have a feeling, grown strong now that we are here, that we shall need the extra time. I think we shall find him."

"That result alone will excuse my carelessness."

She appeared a bit worried over a new thought.

"I forgot. This will delay you further on your vacation."

"No. Nothing can do that," he interrupted her. "Every day, every hour I live is my vacation."

"That," she said, "is a fine way to take life."

He looked startled, but hastened to find a vehicle to carry them the three miles which lay between the station and the bungalow. He found an old white horse attached to the dusty skeleton of a depot wagon waiting for chance passengers. They clambered into this and were soon jogging at an easy pace over the fragrant bordered road which wandered with apparent aimlessness between the green fields. The driver turned half way in his seat with easy familiarity as they started up the first long hill. "Ben't ye afeered to go inter th' house?" he inquired.

"Afraid of what?" demanded Donaldson.

"Spooks."

"They don't come out in the daytime, do they?"

"I dunno. But they do say as how th' house is ha'nted these times."

"How did that story start?"

"Some allows they has seen queer lights there at night. An' there 's been shadders seen among the trees."

The girl leaned forward excitedly.

"Old wives' tales," Donaldson reassured her in an undertone.

"This has been lately?" he inquired of the driver.

"Off an' on in th' last few weeks."

Donaldson turned to the girl whose features had grown fixed again in that same old gloom of haunting fear.

"They circulate such yarns as those about every closed house," he said.

"Those lights and shadows are n't made by ghosts," she whispered.

"Then—that's so," he answered with sudden understanding. "It's the boy himself!"

At the barred lane which swept in a curve out of sight from the road he dismissed the driver. Even if they were successful in their quest, it would probably be necessary to straighten out Arsdale before allowing him to be seen. But as an afterthought he turned back and ordered the man to call here for them in time to make the afternoon train.

He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way without hesitation along a grass-grown road and through an old orchard. The trees were scraggly and untrimmed, littered with dead branches, but Spring, the mother, had decked them with green leaves and buds until they looked as jaunty as old people going to a fair. The sun sifted through the tender sprigs to the sprouting soil beneath, making there the semblance of a choice rug of a green and gold pattern. The bungalow stood upon the top of a small hill, concealed from the road. It was of rather attractive appearance, though sadly in need of repair. All the windows were curtained and there was no sign of life. The broad piazza which ran around three sides of it was cluttered with dead leaves.



She took the key to the front door from her purse and he inserted it in the lock.

"You wait out here," he commanded, "until I take a look around."

"I would rather go in with you. I know the house."

"I will open it up first," he said calmly, and stepping in before she had time to protest further, he closed the door behind him. He heard her clenched fists pounding excitedly on the panels.

"Mr. Donaldson," she pleaded, "it isn't safe. You don't know—"

"Don't do that," he shouted back. "I'll be out in a few moments."

"But you don't know him," she cried; "he might strike you!"

"I 'll be on guard," he answered.

The lower floor was one big room and showed no sign of having been occupied for years. It was scantily furnished and smelled damp and musty. At one side a big stone fireplace looked as dead as a tomb. He pushed through a door into the kitchen which led off this. The cast-iron stove was rusted and the covers cracked. He glanced into it. It was free of ashes and the wood-box was empty.

He came back and slowly mounted the stairs leading to the next floor. Stopping at the top, he listened. There was no sound. He entered the sleeping rooms one after another. The beds were stripped of blankets and the striped canvas of the mattresses was dusty and forbidding. There were six of these rooms but the farther one alone was habitable. Here a few blankets covered the bed and in the small fireplace there were ashes. They were cold, but he detected several bits of charred paper which were dry and crisp. Some old clothes were scattered about the floor and several minor articles which he scarcely noticed. He listened again. There was not a sound, and yet he had a feeling, born of what he did not know, that he was not alone here. The effect was to startle him. If he had been just a passing stranger looking for a place to lodge for the night it would have been sufficient to drive him outdoors again.

He came out into the hall which divided the rooms, and there saw a ladder which led into an unlighted attic. He paused. He heard her calling to him, but he did not answer. He would soon be down again.

He mounted the ladder quickly, and peered into the dark of the unlighted recess. He could make out nothing, and so clambered over a beam to the unfinished floor to wait until his eyes had become more accustomed to the shadows. His feet had scarcely touched a firm foundation before he was conscious of a slight noise behind him. He turned, and at the same moment a form hurled itself upon him. In the frenzied movement of the hands for his throat, in the spasmodic clutch of the arms which clung animal-like about him he recognized the same mad, unreasoning passion with which young Arsdale had before attacked him. He could not see his face, and the man uttered no cry. The fellow's arms seemed stronger than before and even longer. But he himself was stronger also, and so while the madman from behind clasped his hands below Donaldson's throat, the latter managed to get his own arms behind him and secure a firm grip on his assailant's trousers. Then he threw himself sideways and back as much as possible. They both fell, and Donaldson in the scramble got to his side and shifted one arm higher up. The fall, too, loosened the man's strangle hold though he still remained on top. Donaldson then fought to throw him off, but the fellow clung so close to his body that he was unable to secure a purchase.

The fight now settled down to a trial of strength and endurance between them. He strained his free arm as though to crush in this demon's ribs. He kicked out with his feet and knees; he dug his head into the fellow's chest. The latter clung without cry or word like a living nightmare. His hand was creeping towards Donaldson's throat again. He felt it stealing up inch by inch and was powerless to check it. He rolled and tumbled and pushed. Then his head came down sharply on a beam and he lost consciousness.

In the meanwhile Miss Arsdale had waited at the front door, her ears to the panels. For a few moments she heard Donaldson's footsteps moving about the house, but soon the walls swallowed him up completely. She ran back a little and strained her eyes towards the upper windows. They were darkened with shades. She felt a keen sense of responsibility for not having told him, from the start, of what a demon Arsdale became when cornered in this condition. She had half concealed the fact because of shame and because—she shuddered back from the mere thought of another possibility so terrible that she could not yet even admit it to herself. She comforted herself with the memory that at the last moment she had feebly warned. But twice before she had refused to admit to him the worst.

She waited as long as she was able to endure the strain and then skirted the house to the rear. The kitchen door was wide open. She pushed forward into the middle of the house, calling his name. Receiving no response, she mounted the stairs to the second floor. She glanced into each room. In the farther one an article on the floor, which had escaped Donaldson's notice, riveted her eyes. It was an empty pocket-book. It was neither her own nor Arsdale's. Instead of finding relief in this, it drove her back trembling against the wall. Then with swift resolution she gathered herself together, picked up the wallet and hid it in her waist. As she did so, she turned as though fearful that some one might be observing her act.

She made her way out into the hall again and there found herself confronting Donaldson—dusty, bruised, and dishevelled.

He was leaning against the ladder.



CHAPTER XI

A Parting and a Meeting

He was still dazed, but at sight of her he recovered himself and stepped forward.

"Are you injured?" she cried.

"Not in the slightest," he assured her. "I think if I could have seen, I 'd have thrown him."

"It was dark—up there?"

"Pitch dark. Did you see him go out?"

"No," she answered, steadying herself under the influence of his steadiness.

"I 'm sorry he escaped," he apologized.

"Don't think of that now," she exclaimed.

She moved nearer him, as though still fearing that he was concealing some injury from her. He rearranged his disordered collar and tie while she insisted upon dusting off his coat. He felt the brush of her fingers in every vein, and stepped almost brusquely towards the stairway. As a matter of fact he was none the worse for his tussle save for a good-sized bump which was growing on the back of his head.

"He may be here in hiding or he may have left the house. I wish you would step outside until I search the place."

"I shall remain here with you," she replied stubbornly.

She was still weak from the excitement of the last few minutes, but she followed closely at his heels while he went into every room and closet in the house without success. Once outside, he further made a careful search of the grounds, but again without result. He felt chagrined that he had not been strong enough to hold the fellow. He had missed the opportunity to put an end to her pitiful worry.

"I don't think he will come back here," he said, as they stood again before the front door. "He may make for the station in an attempt to get back to town. Are you strong enough to walk it?"

"Yes," she said eagerly.

"I can push on ahead and send a carriage back for you."

"So. I need the walk. But you—" she began anxiously.

"I shall enjoy it," he declared.

They took the pleasant country road, side by side, and in five minutes he had forgotten the episode in a confusion of thoughts that were cheap at the cost of a brief struggle with a madman. The wine of her presence in this medley of blue sky, green grass, and springtime perfume was a heady drink for one in his condition. The full-throated birds sang to him, and the booming insects hummed to him and her eyes prophesied to him of a thousand days like this which lay like roses in bud. He watched with growing awe the supple movement of her body, the tender arch of her neck, and the clear surface of her features ever alive with the quick expression of her eager thoughts. She caught his gaze once and colored prettily but without lowering her eyes.

"You belong out here," he exclaimed. "This is where you should live."

"And you?"

"I was born in just such surroundings."

"Why did you leave them? Men are so free."

"Free?"

The word startled him.

"Men are not limited by either time or place," she avowed.

Time? Time was an ugly word. His face grew serious.

"I think," he said slowly, "that I am just beginning to learn what freedom is."

"And it is?"

"Like everything else when carried to an extreme—a paradox. Freedom is slavery—to something, to someone."

"Then you are a slave?" she laughed.

"As I thought freedom, I am the freest man on earth to-day."

"You speak that like a king."

"Or a slave."

She puzzled over this a moment as she tried to keep up with him. He had suddenly increased his pace.

"Even on your vacation, you could n't be absolutely free, could you? I feel responsible for that," she apologized.

"You need n't, for you have given me this bit of road. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

So he turned her away from the subject and breathed more easily. She had both loosed him and shackled him. What a procession of golden days she made him see, if only as a mirage. Freedom? If only he could return to that little office and drudge for her unceasingly—toil and hack and hew at stubborn fortune merely in the consciousness that she was somewhere in the world, that would be freedom. He knew it now as she walked close beside him like a beautiful dream. There was no use longer in parrying or feinting. The brush of her sleeve made him dizzy; the sound of her voice set the whole world to music. How trivial seemed the barriers which had loomed so formidable before him a day ago. Given the opportunities he had thrown away and he would hew a path to her as straight as a prairie railroad bed. He would do this, remaining true to his old dreams and to better dreams. He would face New York and tear a road through the very centre of it. He would ram every steel-tipped ideal to its black heart. And all the inspiration he needed to give him this power was the knowledge that somewhere in one of its million crannies, this fragile half formed woman was there, seeing the sky with her silver gray eyes.

"I 'm afraid you are going too fast," she panted.

He stopped himself and found her with cheeks flushed in her effort to keep up with him.

"Pardon me," he exclaimed, "I did n't realize. I was going pretty fast. Let's sit down and rest a minute."

"It is n't necessary if you will only slow down a little."

"I will." He smiled. "My thoughts were going even faster than my legs. We 'll rest a little, anyhow."

They seated themselves beneath a roadside pine which had sprinkled the ground with redolent brown needles. He wiped his hot forehead. The undulating green fields throbbed before his excited eyes, as in midsummer when they glimmer from the heat rays. He burrowed his tightened fists to the cooler soil below the brown carpet.

"I guess you are glad to sit down a moment yourself," she suggested, noting his forced deep breathing. "Your efforts with Ben tired you more than you thought."

"I 'd like to have that chance over again—now."

His tense long body looked like Force incarnate. She caught her breath quickly.

"I 'm glad you have n't," she gasped.

She had the feeling that he could have picked up the boy and hurled him like a bit of wood into the road. She was not frightened. She liked to see him in such a mood. It gave her, somehow, a big sense of safety. It swept away all those haunting fears which had so long been always present in the background of her consciousness. It did this in as impersonal a way as the sun scatters shadows.

"The trouble is," he was saying, "that we don't often get a chance to try things—the big things—twice. The fairer way would seem to be to allow this, for we have to fail once in order to learn."

"You are generalizing?" she asked tentatively.

"I am sentimentalizing," he answered abruptly, suddenly coming to himself. He was more personal than he had any right to be. It did no good to become maudlin over what was irrevocably decided. The Present. He must cling to that one idea. Let him drink in the sunshine while it lasted; let him absorb as much of her as he could without taking one tittle from her.

His phrase had piqued her curiosity once more. She would like to know the inner meaning of his impatient eyes, the explanation of why his lips closed with such spasmodic firmness. There was something tantalizing in this reserve which he seemed to try so hard to maintain. She would like to deserve his confidences. He aroused her sympathy—a shy desire to be tender to him just because in his rugged strength there seemed to be nothing else but this for which he could need a woman. But as he glanced up she colored at the presumption of her thoughts.

"I think," he said, "that if you are rested we had better start again."

She rose at once and took her place by his side for the last stretch of free road that lay between her and the city.

At the station there was no sign of the fugitive. She objected instantly to Donaldson's suggestion that she go on while he wait over the night in the hope that Arsdale might turn up here for the first train in the morning.

"You have already sacrificed enough of your time to me and mine," she protested. "I will not listen to it."

And if she had been before her mirror doubtless the lady there would have pressed her to another explanation.

He submitted reluctantly, a new doubt springing to his eyes. But she was firm and so they boarded the train once more for home. She used the word "home," and Donaldson found himself responding to it with a thrill as though he himself were included. The word had lost its meaning to him since his freshman year at college.

They were back behind the hedge in so short a time that the day scarcely appeared real. She left him a moment in the hall while she ran upstairs to see Marie. The latter was still in bed, and at sight of her young mistress had a sharp question upon her lips.

"Cherie," she demanded, "why did not Ben go with you?"

"Ben?" faltered the girl.

"He was downstairs an hour after you left and would not come in to see me."

"Ben was here?"

"I shouted to him and he answered me. But his voice sounded bad. Is it well with him?"

"He may be here now. I will run down and see."

She flew down the stairs and into his room. It was empty. She rushed into her own room. It had been rifled. Every drawer was open, and it took but a glance to see that her few jewels were missing. She panted back to Marie.

"You are sure it was he who was here?"

"Do you think I do not know his voice after all these years?"

The old woman put out her hand and seized the girl's arm.

"Again?" she demanded.

"Yes! Yes! Oh, Marie, what does it all mean?"

"Ta, ta, cherie. Rest your head here."

She drew the young woman down beside her.

"You went out there all alone. You are brave, but you should not have done that. You should have taken me with you. See, now, I shall get well. I shall arise at once. I never knew the black horses to fail me."

Marie struggled to her elbow and threw off the clothes. But Elaine covered her up tight again, forcing her to lie still.

"Stay here quietly until I come back," she insisted. "I shall not be gone but a minute."

She hurried to her own room, trying to understand what the meaning of this impossible situation might be. Ben was here and Ben was in the bungalow and—there was the purse. There was the chance, of course, that Marie was mistaken, but Marie did not make such mistakes as this. Then one of the two men was not Ben. She took out again the pocket-book she had found and stared at it as though in hope that she might receive her answer through this. Then with a perplexed gasp, she threw it into one of the upset drawers, as though it burned her fingers.

She went downstairs to Donaldson. For reasons of her own she did not dare to tell him of this fresh complication, but she insisted that he should bother himself no more to-night with the matter.

"You should go straight back home and get some sleep," she told him.

Home? The word was flat again.

"And you?" he inquired.

"I shall try to sleep, too."

"You have a bolt on your door?"

"Yes."

"Will you promise to slide it before you retire?"

She nodded.

"If you only had a telephone in your room."

"There is one in the hall."

"Then you can call me in a moment if you should get frightened or need me?"

"You are good."

"You will not hesitate?"

"No."

"Then I shall feel that I am still near you. I will have a cab in waiting and on an emergency can reach here in twenty minutes. You could keep yourself barricaded until then?"

"Yes. But really there is no need. I—"

"You have n't wrestled with him. He is strong and—mad."

Still he hesitated. If it had been possible without compromise to her he would have remained downstairs. He could roll up in a rug and find all the sleep that he needed.

"See here," he exclaimed, as the sane solution to the whole difficulty, "why don't you let me take you and Marie to the Martha Washington?"

She placed her hand lightly upon his sleeve.

"I shall be all right here. You 'd best go at once and get some sleep. Your eyes look heavy."

Every minute that he stood near her he grew more reluctant to leave. It seemed like desertion. As he still stood irresolute, she decided for him.

"You must go now," she insisted.

"Will you call me if you are even so much as worried—even if it is only a blind making a noise?"

"Yes, and that will make me feel quite safe."

The booming of a distant clock—jailer of civilization—warned him that he must delay no longer. He took her hand a moment and then turned back into his free barren world.

He determined to dine somewhere down town and then spend the evening at a theatre. It was not what he wished, but he did not dare to go back to his room. He did not crave the movement of the crowds as he had last night, and yet he felt the need of something that would keep him from thinking. He jumped into the waiting cab and was driven to Park Row, where he got out. He had not eaten anything all day and felt faint.

Instead, however, of seeking one of the more pretentious dining rooms he dropped into a quiet restaurant and ate a simple meal. Then he came out and started to walk leisurely towards the Belasco.

He had not proceeded a hundred yards before his plan was very materially changed. He heard a cry, turned quickly, and saw a messenger boy sprawling in the street. The boy, in darting across, had tripped over a rope attached to an automobile having a second large machine in tow. The latter, the driver unable to turn because of vehicles which had crowded in on both sides of it, was bearing down upon the boy, who was either stunned or too frightened to move. This Donaldson took in at a glance as he dived under the belly of a horse, seized the boy and, having time for nothing else, held him above his head, dropping him upon the radiator of the approaching machine as it bore him to the ground. The chauffeur had shoved on his brakes, but they were weak. The momentum threw Donaldson hard enough to stun him for a moment and was undoubtedly sufficient to have killed the boy.

When Donaldson rose to his feet he found himself uninjured but something of a hero. Several newspaper photographers who happened to be passing (as newspaper photographers have a way of doing) snapped him. A reporter friend of Saul's recognized him and asked for a statement.

"A statement be hanged," snorted Donaldson. "Where's the kid?"

"Well," returned the newspaper man, "I 'm darned if I don't make a statement to you then; that was the quickest and nerviest stunt I 've ever seen pulled off in New York city."

"Thanks. Where 's the kid?"

The kid, with a grin from ear to ear, had kindly assumed a pose upon the radiator of the machine which had so nearly killed him for the benefit of the insatiate photographers. It was 3457.

"You!" exclaimed Donaldson, as he found himself looking into the familiar face. He lifted the boy to the ground.

"Let's get out of the crowd, kid," he whispered. "I want to see you."

He pushed his way through to the sidewalk, followed by the admiring throng, and hurried along to the nearest cab. He shoved the boy quickly into this and followed after as the photographers gave one last despairing snap.

"Drive anywhere," he ordered the driver. "Only get out of this."

He turned to the boy.

"Are you hurt?"

"No. Are youse?"

"Not a mite. Where were you bound?"

"Home."

"Where is that?"

The boy gave an address and Donaldson repeated it to the driver.

"I 'll go along with you and see that you don't block any more traffic."

"Gee. I never saw the rope."

"That's because you were in a hurry. It does n't pay to hurry life at all. Not a second."

"But the comp'ny can fire yer in a hurry if you don't hurry."

"A company can hurry because it hasn't a soul. You have. Keep it."

Donaldson felt as though he had found an old friend. It seemed now a month ago since he had wandered through the stores with this boy. The latter recalled again something of the spirit of those hours.

"Say," asked Bobby, "h'ain't yuh spent all yer coin yet?"

"No. I have n't had time to spend more than a few dollars since I left you. I ought to have hung on to you as a mascot."

"It's a cinch. I c'u'd a-helped yuh if yer 'd follered me. Me ten spot's gone."

"How'd you do it?"

"Huh? Yuh talks as though a feller'd have to hunt round an' find a hole to drop it inter. Dere 's allers one that's handy, 'n' that's th' rent hole."

"That does n't come on you, does it? Where's your Daddy?"

"Dead," answered the boy laconically.

The word had a new meaning to Donaldson as it fell from the lips of the boy. Dead. It was a terrible word.

"Guess th' ol' gent must ha' thought I was comin' to join him a minute ago. Would ha' been sort of rough on Mumsy."

"And on you, too," returned Donaldson fiercely. "You have been cheated out of a lot of life. Don't let that happen. Cling to every minute you can get. Die hard, boy. Die hard."

Bobby yawned.



CHAPTER XII

District Messenger 3457

The home of District Messenger 3457, who was known in private life as Bobby Wentworth, was what is technically called a basement kitchen.

Take it between four and five in the afternoon, which was a couple of hours before Bobby was expected home, and in consequence, at least an hour and a half before anything was astir in the way of supper, things got sort of lonesome looking and dull to Sis, daughter of the house. Ten to one that the baby—the tow-headed youngest—was a bit fussy; ten to one the mother gave you a sharp answer if you spoke to her, though, considering everything, she was remarkably patient; ten to one that every torn and cracked thing in the room became so conspicuous that you felt like a poor lone orphan girl and wanted to cry. If you did n't live below the sidewalk this was apt to go on until it was time to get supper, but here, in order to see to do the mending, the lamp was lighted, even in May, an hour or so earlier than the fire.

Then what a change! Instantly it was as though every one was tucked in from the night as children get tucked into bed. Not being able to see out of the windows any longer it was possible to imagine out there what one wished,—a big field, for instance, sprinkled over with flowers. The dull grays on wall and ceiling became brightened as though mixed with gold fire paint. Everything snuggled in closer; the kitchen table covered with a red table-cloth, the mirror with putty in the centre of the crack to keep the pieces from falling out, the kitchen stove, the wooden chairs, the iron sink with the tin dishes hanging over it, and the shelf on the wall with the wooden clock ticking cheerfully away, all closed in noiselessly nearer to the lamp. Ten to one that now mother glanced up with a smile; ten to one that the baby chuckled and fell to playing with his toes if he could n't find anything better within reach; ten to one there was nothing in the room that did n't look almost new. One thing was certain,—the light did n't reveal any dirt that would come off for there was n't any. Mrs. Wentworth's New England ancestry and training had survived even the blows of a hard luck which had n't fought her fair.

On this particular night Sis had just lost herself in her thumbworn volume of Grimm's Fairy Tales when—there came a kick on the outside door and the sound of two voices coming down the short hall. The next minute Bobby entered with his clothes all mud and behind him a strange gentleman.

It was evident that something had happened to the boy, but the mother did not scream. She was not that kind. Her lips tightened as she braced herself for whatever this new decree of Fate might be. In a jiffy Bobby, who recognized that look as the same he had seen when they had brought Daddy home, was at her side.

"Cheer up, Mumsy," he exclaimed. "Nothin' doin' in caskits this time."

She lifted her thin, angular face from the boy to Donaldson. The latter explained,

"He got tangled up a bit with an automobile, but I guess the machine got the worst of it. At any rate your boy is all right."

The mother passed her hand over the lad's head, expressing a world of tenderness in the act.

"It was kind of you to bring him home," she said.

The directness of the woman, her self control, her simplicity, enlisted Donaldson's interest at once. He had expected hysterics. He would have staked his last dollar that the woman came from Vermont. His observant eyes had in these few minutes covered everything in the room, including the long-handled dipper by the faucet used for dipping into pails sweating silver mist, the wooden clock upon the mantelpiece, and the Hicks Almanac hanging below it. He felt as though he were standing in a Berringdon kitchen with acres of green outside the windows sweeping in a circle off to the little hills, the acres of forest green, and the big hills beyond.

The mother stepped forward and brushed the mud from Bobby's coat. The baby screwed up his face for a howl to call attention to his neglect in the midst of all this excitement.

"What's this?" exclaimed Bobby, picking him up with as substantial an air of paternity as though he were forty. "What's this? Goneter cry afore a stranger?"

He held the child up to Donaldson.

"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think of him?"



"Corker," answered Donaldson. "Let me hold him."

"Sure. Get a chair for the gent, Sis."

In another minute Donaldson found himself sitting by the kitchen stove with a chuckling youngster on his knee. No one paid any attention to him; just took him for granted as a friend until he felt as though he had been one of the family all his life. Besides, the centre of the stage rightly belonged to Bobby, who was occupying it with something of a swagger in his walk.

"Well, I hope this will teach you a lesson, Bobby Wentworth," scolded the mother, now that after various proddings she had determined to her satisfaction that none of the boy's bones were broken. "I wish to the Lord you was back where the hills are so steep there ain't no automobiles."

Donaldson broke in.

"You were brought up in the country, Mrs. Wentworth?"

"Laws, yes, and lived there most of my life."

"In New England?"

"Berringdon, Vermont."

"Berringdon? Your husband was n't one of the Wentworth boys?"

"He was Jim Wentworth, the oldest"

"Well, well! Then you are Sally Burnham."

"And you," she hesitated, "I do b'lieve you 're Peter Donaldson."

"Yes," he said, "I 'm Peter Donaldson."

The name from her lips took on its boyhood meaning. He shifted the youngster to his arms and crossing the room held out his hand to her.

"We did n't know each other very well in those days, but from now on—from now on we 're old friends, are n't we?"

The steel blue eyes grew moist.

"It's a long time," she said, "since I 've seen any one from there."

"Or I. You left—"

"When I was married. Jim came here because his cousin got him a job as motorman. He done well,—but he was killed by his car just after the baby was born."

"Killed? That's tough. And it left you all alone with the children?"

"Yes. The road paid us a little, but I was sick and the children were sick, so it did n't last long."

She was not complaining. It was a bare recital of facts. But it raised a series of keen incisive thoughts in Donaldson's brain.

Wentworth had been killed. Chance had deprived this woman of her man; Chance had grabbed at her boy; Chance had sent Donaldson to save the latter; Chance—Donaldson caught his breath at the possibility the sequence suggested—Chance may have sent him to offset as far as possible the husband's death. It was too late, although he felt the obligation in a new light, for him to give his life for the life of that other, but there was one other thing he could do. He could play the father with what he had left of himself. So that when he came to face Wentworth—he smiled gently at the approaching possibility—he could hold his head high as he went to meet him.

He had argued to Barstow that he was shirking no responsibilities,—but what of such unseen responsibilities as this? What of the thousand others that he should die too soon to realize? It was possible that countless other such opportunities as this must be wasted because he should not be there to play his part. But there was still time to do something; he need not see, as with the girl and with love, the fine possibilities go utterly to waste.

The mother had noticed a warm light steal over his face, not realizing how closely his thoughts concerned her own future; she had seen the sabre cut of pain which had followed his thought of the girl and what she might have meant, knowing nothing of that grim tragedy. Now she saw his eyes clear as with their inspired light they were lifted to her. Yet the talk went on uninterruptedly on the same commonplace level.

"How old was Jim?"

"He was within a week of thirty."

That was within a few days of his own age. At thirty, Jim Wentworth, clinging to life, had been wrenched from it; at thirty, he himself had thrown it away. Wentworth had shouldered his duties manfully; he had been blind to them. But it was not too late to do something. He was being led as by Marley's ghost to one new vision of life after another. He saw love—with death grinning over love's shoulder; he was to be given a taste of fatherhood,—the grave at his feet.

"Do you ever hear from the people back home?" he asked abruptly.

"Not very often," she answered. "After the old folks went I sorter got out of tech with the others."

"What became of the homestead?"

"It was sold little by little when father was sick. When he died there was n't much left. That went to pay the debts."

"Who lives there now?"

"Let me see—I don't think any one is there now. Last I heard, it was fer sale."

"Who holds it?"

"Deacon Staples. Leastways it was him who held the notes."

"That old pirate? No wonder there was n't anything left."

"He was a leetle hard," she admitted. "I wanted Jim to go back an' take it after father died, but he couldn't seem to make a deal with the deacon."

"I s'pose not. No one this side of the devil himself will ever make a square deal with him. He 's still as strong in the church as ever?"

She smiled.

"I see by the Berringdon paper that he begun some revival meetin's in town."

"Which means he 's just put through some particularly thievish deal and wants to ease his conscience. Have you the paper? Perhaps the sale is advertised there."

She found the paper and ran a finger down the columns until she came to the item.

"Makes you feel sort of queer," she said, "to see the old place for sale. Almost like slaves must ha' felt to see their own in the market."

She read slowly,

"'Nice farm for sale cheap; story and a half frame house, good barn, ten acres of land, and a twenty-acre pasture lot. $1800. Apply to A. F. Staples, Berringdon, Vermont.'

"I 'm glad the old pasture is going with the house. Somehow the two seem to belong together. It was right in front across the road, an' all us children used to play there. There 's a clump of oak trees at th' end of it. Hope they have n't cut them down."

"Eighteen hundred dollars, was it?" asked Donaldson.

"Eighteen hundred dollars," she repeated slowly. "My, thet 's a lot of money!"

"That depends," he said, "on many things. Should you like to go back there?"

The answer came before her lips could utter the words, in the awakening of every dormant hope in her nature—in every suppressed dream. Some younger creature was freed in the hardening eyes. The strain of the lips was loosened. Even the passive worn hands became alert.

"I 'd sell my soul a'most to get back there—to get the children back there," she answered.

"It 's the place for them."

"Thet's the way I 've felt," she ran on. "Mine don't belong here. It's not 'cause they 're any better, but because they've got the country in their blood. They was meant to grow up in thet very pasture just like I did. I 've ben oneasy ever since the boys was born, and so was Jim. Both of us hankered after the old sights and sounds—the garden with its mixed up colors an' the smell of lilac an' the tinkle of the cow bells. Funny how you miss sech little things as those."

"Little things?" Donaldson returned. "Little things? They are the really big things; they are the things you remember, the things that hang by you and sweeten your life to the end!"

"Then it ain't just my own notions? But I have wanted the children to grow up in the garden instead of the gutters. If Jim had lived it would have be'n. We 'd planned to save a little every year until we had enough ahead to take a mortgage. But you can't do it with nothin'. There ain't no way, is there?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps," he said.

She leaned toward him, in her face the strength of a man.

"I 'd work," she said, "I 'd work my fingers to the bone if I had a chance to get back there. I 'm strong 'nuff to take care of a place. If I only had just a tiny strip of land—just 'nuff fer a garden. I could get some chickens an' pay off little by little. I 'm good for ten years yet an' by thet time Bobby would be old 'nough to take hold. If I only had a chance I could do it!"

Her cheeks had taken on color. She looked like one inspired. Donaldson sat dumb in admiration of her splendid courage.

"How long," he asked, "how long would it take you to get ready to leave here?"

She scarcely understood. She didn't dare to understand for fear it might be a mistake.

"I mean," he said, "if you had a chance to go back to the farm how long would it take you to pack up?"

"You don't mean if—if I really had the chance?"

He nodded.

"Lord, if I had the chance—if I really had the chance, I 'd leave afore to-morrer night."

"To-morrow is Sunday. But it seems as though you might get ready to take the noon train on Tuesday."

She thought he was merely carrying her dream a little farther than she had ever ventured to carry it herself. So she looked at him with a smile checked half-way by the beauty of the fantasy.

"It's too good a'most to dream about," she sighed.

"It is n't a dream," he answered, "unless it is a dream come true. Pack up such things as you wish to take with you and be ready to leave at noon Tuesday."

"Peter Donaldson!"

"I 'm in earnest," he assured her.

"Peter, Peter, it can't be true! I can't believe it!"

There were tears in her eyes.

"Hush," he pleaded. "Don't—don't do that. Sit down. Had n't you better sit down?"

She obeyed as meekly as a child, her hands clasped in her lap.

"Now," he said, "I 'll tell you what I want to do; I 'm going to buy the farm for you and I 'm going to get a couple of cows or so, a yard full of chickens, a horse and a porker, and start you fair."

"But why should you do this?" she demanded.

"I don't exactly know," he answered. "But I 'm going to do for you so far as I can what Jim would have done if he had lived."

"But you did n't know Jim!"

"I did n't, but I know him now. The kids introduced me."

"He was a good man—a very good man, Peter."

"Yes, he must have been that. I am glad that I can do something to finish a good man's work."

"You are rich? You can afford this?"

"Yes, I can afford it. But I don't feel that I 'm giving,—I 'm getting. It would not be possible for me to use my money with greater satisfaction to myself."

"Oh, you are generous!"

"No, not I. I can't claim that. I 've been selfish—intensely, cowardly selfish."

He meant to stand squarely before this woman. He would not soil his act by any hypocrisy. But she only smiled back at him unbelieving.

He glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He was ready now to return to the hotel. He wished to leave at once, for he shrank from the undeserved gratitude he saw welling up in her eyes.

"You must listen carefully to what I tell you," he said, "for I may not be able to see you again before you leave. Do you think you can get ready without any help?"

"Yes," she answered excitedly; "there is n't much here to pack up."

"If I were you I would n't pack up anything but what I could put in a trunk. Sell off these things for what you can get and start fresh. I'll send you enough to furnish the house."

"I ought to do that much myself," she objected feebly.

"No, I want to do this thing right up chuck. As soon as I reach the hotel I will telephone the Deacon. If I can't buy that house, I 'll get another, and in either case, I will drop you a note to-night. I 'll arrange to have the deed left with some one up there, and I 'll also deposit in the local bank enough for the other things. So all you 've to do is to get ready and start on Tuesday. Do you understand?"

"Yes! Yes!" she gasped. "But it doesn't sound true—it sounds like a dream."

"Are you going to have faith enough to act on it?"

"Oh, I did n't mean that I doubted! I trust you, Peter Donaldson."

He reached in his pocket and took out five ten-dollar bills.

"This is for your fare and to settle up any little accounts you may have."

She took the money with trembling fingers while Bobby and Sis crowded around to gape at it.

"There," exclaimed Donaldson in relief. "Now you 're all fixed up, and on Monday morning Bobby can throw up his job. He can fire the company."

"Gee!" he gasped.

And almost before any of them could catch their breath he had kissed the baby, gripped Mrs. Wentworth's hand a second, and with a "S'long" to the others disappeared as though, Sis declared, a magician had waved his wand over him.

It was after nine before he finally reached the Waldorf. No message was waiting for him from either the girl or Saul. He hunted up the telephone operator at once.

"Call up Berringdon, Vermont, for me, please."

"With whom do you wish to talk?"

"With Deacon Staples."

He smiled as he saw the hands of the clock pointing to nine-thirty. It was long after the Deacon's bedtime.



CHAPTER XIII

The Sleepers

It was twenty minutes of ten before a sleepy and decidedly irritable voice responded in answer to Donaldson's cheery hello. There was little of Christian spirit to be detected in it.

"Is this Deacon Staples?"

"Yes. But I 'd like t' know what ye mean by gettin' a man outern bed at this time of night?"

"Why, you were n't in bed, Deacon!"

"In bed? See here, is this some confounded joke?"

"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"

"A—joke. Who are you, anyway?"

"I don't believe you remember me; I 'm Peter Donaldson."

"Don't recoleck your name. What d' ye want this time o' night?"

"Why, it's early yet, Deacon. You weren't really in bed!"

"I tell ye I was, an' that so is all decent folk. Once 'n fer all—what d'ye want?"

"I heard you had a house to sell."

"Wall, I ain't sellin' houses on th' Lord's day."

"Won't be Sunday for two hours and twenty minutes yet, Deacon. If you talk lively, you can do a day's work before then. What will you take for the old Burnham place?"

The deacon hesitated. He was a bit confused by this unusual way of doing business. It was too hurried an affair, and besides it did not give him an opportunity to size up his man. Nor did he know how familiar this possible purchaser was with the property.

"Where be you?" he demanded.

"In New York."

"In—see here, I rec'gnize your voice; you 're Billy Harkins down to the corner. Ye need n't think ye can play your jokes on me."

"We 've only two hours and a quarter left," warned Donaldson.

"Well, ye need n't think I 'm goin' to stand here in the cold fer thet long."

"It's warm 'nuff here," Donaldson answered genially.

"Maybe ye 've gut more on than I have."

"Hush, Deacon, there are ladies present."

"They ain't neither, down here. Our women are in bed, where they oughter be."

"Not at this hour! Why, the evening is young yet. But how much will you take?"

"Wal, th' place is wuth 'bout two thousand dollars."

Donaldson realized that it was the magic word "New York" which had so suddenly inflated the price. The deacon was taking a chance that this might be some wealthy New Yorker looking for a country home.

"Do you call that a fair price?" he asked.

"The house is in good condition, and thar 's over three acres of good grass land and ten acres of pasture with pooty trees in it."

"Just so. I 'm not able to look the place over, so I 'll have to depend upon your word for it. You consider that a fair price for the property?"

"Well, o' course, fer cash I might knock off fifty."

"I see. Then nineteen hundred and fifty is an honest value of the whole estate?"

"I 'low as much."

"Deacon."

"Yes" (eagerly).

"You 're a member of the church."

"Yes" (lamely).

"And you certainly would n't deal unfairly with a neighbor on Sunday?"

"What—"

"It's thirteen minutes of ten on a Saturday night. That's pretty near Sunday, is n't it?"

"What of it?" (suspiciously).

"Remember that advertisement you inserted in the Berringdon Gazette?"

There was a silence of a minute.