"I knew it all the time." She was cruel, and from her cruelty he guessed the measure of her pride.

"I've done all I can to atone. I want you to know that I love you. I do, Beth. I love you——"

There was a note in his voice different from that she had heard the other day. His head was bent and he did not hear the little gasp or see the startled look in her eyes, which she controlled before he raised his head. With great deliberateness she answered him.

"Maybe you and I—have a different idea of what love ought to be," she said. But he saw that her reproof was milder.

"I know," he insisted. "You've sung it to me——"

"No—not to you—not love," she said, startled. And then, "You had no right to be listenin'." And then, with a glance at Aunt Tillie's clock, "You have no right to be here now. It's late."

"But I can't go until you understand what I want to do for you. You say that I can't know what love is. It asks nothing and only gives. I swear I wanted to give without thought of a return—until you laughed at me. And then—I wanted to punish you because you wouldn't understand——"

"Yes. You punished me——"

"Forgive me. You shouldn't have laughed at me, Beth. If you knew everything, you'd understand that I'm doing it all without a hope of payment,—just because I've got to."

Her eyes grew larger. "What do you mean?"

"I can't tell you now—but something has happened that will make a great difference to you."

"What?"

"Forgive me. Come to-morrow and perhaps I'll tell you. We've already wasted two days."

"I'm not so sure they've been wasted," said Beth quietly.

"I don't care if you'll only come. Will you, Beth? To-morrow?"

She nodded gravely at last.

"Perhaps," she said. And then, gently, "Good-night, Mr. Nichols."

So Peter kissed her fingers as though she had been his Czarina and went out.



CHAPTER XV

SUPERMAN

Of course Beth Cameron knew nothing of Russia's grand dukes. The only Duke that she had ever met was in the pages of the novel she had read in which the hero was named Algernon. That Duke was of the English variety, proud, crusty, and aged and had only made an unpleasant impression upon her because she had liked Algernon, who had fallen in love with the daughter of the Duke, and the Duke had been very horrid to him in consequence or by reason of that mishap. When she had said to Peter that he reminded her of Algernon she had meant it, and that was really very nice of her, because she thought Algernon all that a self-respecting hero should be. It was true that Peter, though mostly an Englishman, didn't play polo and ride to hounds or swagger around a club and order people about, because he was too poor and was obliged to work for his living.

But he did remind her of Algernon somehow. He had a way with him, as though if there had been butlers and valets at Black Rock he could have swaggered and ordered them around if he'd had a mind to. He was good looking too. She had noted that even from the very first when she had found him lugging his suitcase down on the road from Pickerel River. Then too he did say things to her, nicer things than any fellow had ever known how to say to her before, and he was much more polite than she had ever believed it possible for any one, to be without seeming queer. But when, eavesdropping at McGuire's, she had heard Peter play the piano, she felt herself conducted into a new world which had nothing at all to do with glass factories and vineyards. Even the sartorial splendor of Miss Peggy McGuire paled into insignificance beside the new visions which the music of Peter Nichols had invoked. He hadn't just lied to her. He was a musician. He could play. She had never heard anybody bring from a piano sounds like these. And he had said he wanted her to sing for him.

Beth had sung always—just as she had always breathed—but she had never heard any good music except on a talking machine at the boarding house at Glassboro—an old record of Madame Melba's that they played sometimes. But even that song from an opera ("Lay Boheem" they called it), mutilated as it was, had shown her that there was something more wonderful than the popular melodies that the other people liked. Beth's taste for good music, like her taste for nice people, was instinctive. And she had found that in her walk of life the one was about as difficult to find as the other. She had had her awakenings and her disillusionments, with women as well as men, but had emerged from her experiences of two winters in a factory town with her chin high and her heart pure—something of an achievement for one as pretty as Beth.

All in all, she had liked Shad Wells better than any of the men she had met. He was rough, but she had discovered that good manners didn't always mean good hearts or clean minds.

It was this discovery that had made her look askance at Peter Nichols when she had first met him on the road, for he was politer than anybody she had ever met. If her philosophy was to be consistent this new superintendent would need watching. But his music disarmed her and captured her imagination. And then came the incident of the jealous Shad and the extraordinary outcome of Mr. Nichols's championship of her rights. She had witnessed that fight from the shelter of the bushes. It had been dreadful but glorious. Peter's chivalry appealed to her—also his strength. From that moment he was superman.

Then had followed the long wonderful weeks of music at the Cabin, in which she had learned the beginnings of culture and training. Her music-master opened new and beautiful vistas for her, told her of the great musicians and singers that the world had known, described the opera houses of Europe, the brilliant audiences, the splendid ballets, the great orchestras, and promised her that if she worked hard, she might one day become a part of all this. She had learned to believe him now, for she saw that as time went on he was more exacting with her work, more sparing in his praise of her, and she had worked hard—in despair at times, but with a slowly growing confidence in her star of destiny.

And all the while she was wondering why Peter Nichols was doing this for her and what the outcome of it all was to be. He spoke little of the future except to hint vaguely at lessons elsewhere when he had taught her all that he knew. The present it seemed was sufficient for them both. His moods of soberness, of joy, of enthusiasm, were all catching and she followed him blindly, aware of this great new element in her life which was to make the old life difficult, if not impossible. He treated her always with respect, not even touching her arms or waist in passing—an accepted familiarity of men by girls of her social class. Beth understood that it was a consideration due to a delicate situation, the same consideration which had impelled her always to call him Mr. Nichols.

And yet it was this very consideration of Peter's that vexed her. It wasn't an air of superiority, for she couldn't have stood that. It was just discretion, maybe, or something else, she couldn't decide what. But Beth didn't want to be put in a glass case like the wax flowers at home. Her voice was a mere mechanical instrument, as he had taken pains so often to tell her, but he seemed to be making the mistake of thinking her a mechanical instrument too. She wasn't. She was very much alive, tingling with vitality, very human under her demure aspect during the singing lessons, and it had bothered her that Peter shouldn't know it. His ignorance, his indifference affronted her. Didn't he see what she looked like? Didn't he see that she might be worth making love to ... just a little, a very little ... once in a while?

The clouds had broken suddenly, almost without warning, when he had talked like a professor—about sentiment—apologized—that was what he had done—apologized for not making love to her! Oh!

And then things had happened swiftly—incredible, unbelievable things. The lightning had flashed and it had shown an ugly Mr. Nichols—a different Mr. Nichols from anything that she could have imagined of him. The things he had said to her ... his kisses ... shameful things! A hundred times she had brushed them off like the vision of him from her mind. And still they returned, warm and pulsing to her lips. And still the vision of him returned—remained. He had been so nice to her before....

* * * * *

Now Beth sat in the big chair opposite Peter in the Cabin by the log fire (for the evenings were getting cool) while he finished telling her about the death of Ben Cameron, of the murder and of Jonathan K. McGuire's share in the whole terrible affair. It was with some misgivings, even after swearing her to secrecy, that he told her what he had learned through Kennedy and McGuire. And she had listened, wide-eyed. Her father of course was only the shadow of a memory to her, the evil shade in a half-forgotten dream, and therefore it was not grief that she could feel, not even sorrow for one who in life had been so vile, even if his miserable death had been so tragic—only horror and dismay at the thought of the perpetrator of the infamy. And not until Peter had come to the end of the story did she realize what this revelation meant, that the very foundation of McGuire's great fortune was laid upon property which belonged to her.

"Out of all this evil must come some good, Beth," he finished soberly. "That copper mine was yours. McGuire took it and he is going to pay you what he owes."

Beth had already exhausted all the expletives of horror and amazement, and now for a moment this last information staggered her and she stared at him unbelieving.

"Pay me? I can't believe——"

"It was your property by every law of God and man, and I mean that you shall have it." He paused and smiled softly. "You see, Beth, you won't need to depend on me now for your training."

"Oh—then this was what you meant——"

"What I meant when I said that you should owe me nothing—that I——"

"But I will owe you—everything. I shall still owe you everything." And then, wonderingly, "And just to think of my livin' here all this time so near the man—and not knowin' about——" Her words trailed off into silent astonishment.

"Yes. And to think of his making his fortune on money that belonged to you! Millions. And he's going to pay you what he got out of the Tarantula mine—every dollar with interest to date."

"But how can you make him do that?" she cried eagerly. "What proof have you got?"

He smiled grimly into the fire as he poked a fallen log into the blaze.

"Blackmail is an ugly word, Beth. But it shouldn't be blackmail, if silence is the price of getting what really belongs to you. McGuire is using your money—and he must give it to you. It's your money—not his. If he won't give it to you of his own free will, he will give it against his will."

"But how can you make him do that?" asked Beth timidly.

"By saving him from Hawk Kennedy. That's my price—and yours."

"But how can you?"

"I don't know. I've got to fight Kennedy with his own weapons—outwit him. And I've thought out a plan——"

"But he's dangerous. You mustn't take any further risks with a man like that for me."

Peter only smiled.

"It will amuse me, Beth. And besides——" He bent forward to tend the fire, his face immediately grave again. "Besides—I think I owe you that, now."

She understood what he meant and thrilled gently. Her joy had come back to her with a rush. All through the music lesson and through the recital of the tale of mystery she had hung breathlessly on his words and watched the changing expression on his features as he talked into the fire. This was her Mr. Nichols who was speaking now, her friend and mentor, who wanted her to understand that this was his way of atonement. But she ignored his last remark, to Beth the most important of the entire conversation.

"How—how much will the—the money amount to?" she asked timidly.

Peter laughed.

"Figure it out for yourself. Half a million—six per cent—fifteen years——"

"Half a million dollars——!"

"A million—or more!"

"A million! God-a-mercy!"

Peter recognized one of Aunt Tillie's expressions, Beth's vocabulary being inadequate to the situation.

"But you haven't got it yet," he said.

"And I daren't think of gettin' it. I won't think of it. I'd get my brain so full of things I wanted it would just naturally bust. Oh lordy!"

Peter laughed.

"You do want a lot of things, don't you?"

"Of course. A silk waist, a satin skirt, some silk stockings—but most of all, a real sure enough piano," she gasped. And then, as though in reproach of her selfishness, "And I could pay off the mortgage on Aunt Tillie's farm back in the clearing!"

"How much is that?"

"Three thousand dollars. I've already paid off three hundred."

"There ought to be enough for that," said Peter soberly.

"Oh, Mr. Nichols. I hope you don't think I'm an awful fool talkin' this way."

"Not unless you think I am."

"But it is nice to dream of things sometimes."

"Yes. I do that too. What do you dream of, Beth?"

"Oh, of bein' a great singer, mostly—standin' on a stage with people lookin' up and clappin' their hands at me."

"What else?"

"Oh," she laughed gayly, "I used to dream of marryin' a prince—all girls do. But there ain't any princes now to marry."

"No, that's true," he assented. "The old world hasn't any use for princes now." And then, "But why did you want to marry a prince?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know. It's just fairy tales. Haven't you ever lived in a fairy tale and loved a princess?"

"Yes, I've lived in a fairy tale, but I've never loved a princess."

"I guess if everybody knew," said Beth with conviction, "the princes in Europe are a pretty bad lot."

"Yes," said Peter slowly, "I guess they are."

She paused a moment, looking into the fire. And then, "Were you ever acquainted with any princes in Europe, Mr. Nichols?"

Peter smiled. "Yes, Beth. I did know one prince rather intimately—rather too intimately."

"Oh. You didn't like him?"

"No, not much. He was an awful rotter. The worst of it was that he had good instincts and when he went wrong, he went wrong in spite of 'em. You see—he was temperamental."

"What's temperamental?"

"Having the devil and God in you both at the same time," muttered Peter after a moment.

"I know," she said. "Satan and God, with God just sittin' back a little to see how far Satan will go."

He smiled at her. "You don't mean that you have temptations too, Beth?"

She ignored his question, her face sober, and went back to her subject.

"I guess your prince wasn't any better or any worse than a lot of other people. Maybe he didn't give God a chance?"

"No. Maybe not," said Peter.

"It seems to me he must have been kind of human, somehow," Beth commented reflectively. "What's become of him now?" she asked, then.

"Oh, he's out of it," replied Peter.

"Dead?"

"Yes. His country has chucked all the nobility out on the dust heap."

"Russia?"

"Yes."

"Did they kill him?"

"They tried to, but couldn't."

"Where is he now?"

"A wanderer on the face of the earth."

"I'm so sorry. It must be terrible to have to eat pork and beans when your stomach's only used to chocolate sundaes."

Peter grinned.

"Some of 'em were glad enough to get off with stomachs to put beans and pork into. Oh, you needn't waste your pity, Beth."

"I don't. I read the papers. I guess they got what they deserved. The workin' people in the world ain't any too keen on buyin' any more diamond tiaras for loafers. I reckon it was about time for a new deal all around without the face cards."

"Perhaps, Beth. But there's always the ten spot to take the deuce."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Beth reflectively. "People aren't really equal—are they? Some apples are better than others. I guess," she sighed, "that the real trouble with the world is because there ain't enough friendship in it."

Peter was silent for a moment.

"Yes, that's true," he said, "not enough friendship—not enough love. And it's all on account of money, Beth. There wouldn't have been any European war if some people hadn't wanted property that belonged to somebody else."

"I hope wanting this money won't make me hate anybody or make anybody hate me. I don't want to make Mr. McGuire unhappy or Miss McGuire——"

"You needn't worry," said Peter dryly. "You see, it's your money."

Beth gave a deep sigh.

"I can't help it. I would like to have a sport coat and a cerise veil like Peggy wears."

"You shall have 'em. What else?"

"Some pretty patent leather shoes with rhinestone buckles——"

"Yes——"

"And a black velvet hat and nice lingerie——" (Beth pronounced it lingery).

"Of course. And the piano——"

"Oh, yes. A piano and books—lots of books."

"And a red automobile?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dare wish for that."

"Why not? It's just as easy to wish for an automobile as a piano."

"Yes, I suppose so." She became immediately grave again. "But I can't seem to believe it all. I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of Hawk Kennedy. I feel that he's going to make trouble for us all, Mr. Nichols. I'm afraid. I always seem to feel things before they happen. Any man who could do what he did—murder!"

"There will be some way to get around him."

"But it's dangerous. I don't feel I've got the right to let you do this for me."

"Oh, yes, you have. I'd do it anyhow. It's only justice."

"But suppose he—suppose——"

"What——?"

"He might kill you, too."

Peter laughed. "Not a chance. You see, I wasn't born to die a violent death. If I had been, I'd have been dead months ago."

"Oh—the war, you mean?" she asked soberly.

"Yes—the war. Everything is tame after that. I'm not afraid of Hawk Kennedy."

"But there's danger just the same."

"I hope not. I won't cross that bridge until I come to it."

Beth was silent for a long moment and then with a glance at the clock on the mantel slowly gathered her music, aware of his voice close at her ear.

"And if I do this, Beth,—if I get what belongs to you, will you believe that I have no motive but friendship for you, that I care for you enough to want you to forgive me for what has happened?"

He had caught her fingers in his own but she did not try to release them.

"Oh, don't speak of that—please! I want to forget you—that day."

"Can't you forget it more easily by remembering me as I am now, Beth? See. I want you as much now as I did then—just as much, but I cannot have you until you give yourself to me."

What did he mean? She wasn't sure of him. If marriage was what he meant, why didn't he say so? Marriage. It was such an easy word to say. Her fingers struggled in his.

"Please, Mr. Nichols," she gasped.

"You mean that you won't—that you don't care enough——?"

"I—I'm not sure of you——"

"I love you, Beth——"

"You say so——"

"I do—better than anything in the world."

"Enough to—enough to...?"

She was weakening fast. She felt her danger in the trembling of her fingers in his. Why didn't he finish her question for her? Marriage. It was such a little word. And yet he evaded it and she saw that he meant to evade it.

"Enough to have you almost in my arms and yet hardly to touch you—enough to have your lips within reach of mine and yet not to take them. Isn't that what you wanted, Beth? Gentleness, tenderness——"

She flung away from him desperately.

"No—no. I want nothing—nothing. Please! You don't want to understand." And then with an effort she found her poise. "Things must be as they are. Nothing else. It's getting late, I must go."

"Beth—Not yet. Just a minute——"

"No."

But she did not go and only stood still, trembling with irresolution. He knew what she wanted him to say. There could be no middle ground for Beth. She must be all to him or nothing. Marriage. It was the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch who had evaded this very moment while Peter Nichols had urged him to it. And it was Peter Nichols who knew that any words spoken of marriage to Beth Cameron would be irrevocable, the Grand Duke Peter (an opportunist) who urged him to utter them, careless of consequences. And there stood Beth adorable in her perplexity, conjuring both of him to speak.

It was Peter Nichols who met the challenge, oblivious of all counsels of pride, culture, vainglory and hypocrisy. This was his mate, a sweeter lady than any he had ever known.

"Beth," he whispered. "I love you. Nothing in the world makes any difference to me but your happiness."

He came to her and caught her in his arms, while she still struggled away from him. "I want you. It doesn't matter who I am or who you are. I want you to——"

Beth suddenly sprung away from him, staring at a figure which stood in the doorway as a strident, highly pitched voice cut in sharply on Peter's confession.

"Oh, excuse me! I didn't mean to intrude."

It was Miss Peggy McGuire in her cerise veil and her sport suit, with hard eyes somewhat scandalized by what she had seen, for Peter was standing awkwardly, his arms empty of their prize, who had started back in dismay and now stood with difficulty recovering her self-possession. As neither of them spoke Miss McGuire went on cuttingly, as she glanced curiously around the Cabin.

"So this is where you live? I seem to have spoiled your party. And may I ask who——" and her eyes traveled scornfully over Beth's figure, beginning at her shoes and ending at her flushed face—"I think I've seen you before——"

"Miss McGuire," said Peter quietly, "This is Miss Cameron——"

"Oh, yes—the kitchen maid."

"Miss Beth Cameron," insisted Peter frigidly, "who has just done me the honor of promising to marry me."

"Oh! I see——"

Beth stared from one to the other, aware of the meaning of the visitor's manner and of Peter's reply.

"That is not true," she said very quietly, her deep voice vibrant with emotion. "I come here often. Mr. Nichols is teaching me music. I am very proud of his friendship. But I did not promise to marry him."

Peggy McGuire turned on her heel.

"Well, it's almost time you did," she said insultingly.

Peter, now pale and cold with fury, reached the door before her and stood blocking the passageway. "Miss McGuire, I'll trouble you to be more careful in addressing my guests," he said icily.

"Let me pass——"

"In a moment."

"You'd dare——?"

"I would like you to understand that this cabin is mine—while I am in Black Rock. Any guest here comes at my invitation and honors me by accepting my hospitality. But I reserve the privilege of saying who shall come and who shall not. I hope I make myself clear——" And Peter bowed low and then moved aside, indicating the door. "Good-night," he finished.

Miss Peggy McGuire glared at him, red as a young turkey cock, her finishing school training just saving her from a tirade. "Oh, you! We'll see about this——" and dashed past him out of the door and disappeared into the darkness.

Peter followed her with his angry gaze, struggling for his self-control, and at last turned into the room toward Beth, who now stood a smiling image turned into stone.

"Why did you deny what I said, Beth?" he pleaded.

"It wasn't the truth. I never promised to marry you. You never asked me to."

"I would have asked you. I ask you now. I was asking you when that little fool came in——"

"Maybe you were. Maybe you weren't. Maybe I'm a little hard of hearin'. But I'm not goin' to make that an excuse for my bein' here——"

"I don't understand——"

"It's just that I came here because I wanted to come and because you wanted me. People have been talkin'. Let them talk. Let her talk——"

"She will. You can be pretty sure of that."

Peter was pacing up and down the room, his hands behind him. "If she'd been a man——" he was muttering. "If she'd only been a man."

Beth watched him a moment, still smiling.

"Oh, I got what she meant—she was just tryin' to insult me."

She laughed. "Seems as if she'd kind of succeeded. I suppose I ought to have scratched her face for her. I think I would have—if she'd just stayed a minute longer. Funny too, because I always used to think she was so sweet."

Peter threw his arms wildly into the air and exploded.

"Sweet! Sweet! That girl! Yes, if vinegar is. She'll tear your reputation to shreds."

Beth had stopped smiling now and leaned against the wall, her chin lowered.

"I reckon it serves me right. I hadn't any business to be comin' here—not at night, anyway."

"Oh, Beth," he pleaded, catching her hands. "Why couldn't you have let things be?"

She struggled a little. And then, "Let her think I was engaged to you when I wasn't?" she gasped.

"But we are, Beth, dear. Say we are, won't you?"

"Not when we're not."

"Beth——!"

"You should have spoken sooner, if you'd really meant it. Oh, I know what it is. I've always known there's a difference between us."

"No—not unless you make it."

"Yes. It was there before I was born. You were brought up in a different kind of life in a different way of thinkin' from mine——"

"What has that got to do with it?"

"Everything. It's not my fault. And maybe I'm a little too proud. But I'm straight——"

"Don't, Beth——" He put his arm around her but she disengaged herself gently.

"No, let me finish. Maybe you wanted me. I guess you did. But not that much—not enough to speak out—and you were too straight to lie to me. I'm thankful for that——"

"But I have spoken, Beth," he insisted, taking her by the elbows and holding her so that he could look into her eyes. "I've asked you to—to be my wife. I ask you now. Is that clear?"

Her eyes evaded him and she laughed uneasily.

"Yes, it's clear—and—and your reason for it——"

"I love you——"

"A little, maybe. But I'll marry no man just to save my face—and his."

But he caught her close to him, finding a new joy in his momentous decision. She struggled still, but he would not be denied.

"Yes, you will," he whispered. "You've got to marry me whether you want to or not. You're compromised."

"I don't care."

"Oh, yes, you do. And you love me, Beth."

"I don't love you——"

"You do. And I'm going to marry you whether you want it or not."

"Oh, are you?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Soon."

He kissed her. She didn't resist him. Resistance was useless. He had won.

"Beth, dear," he went on. "I couldn't lie to you. I'm glad you knew that. And I couldn't hurt you. I think I've always loved you—from the first."

"I too—I too," she whispered. "I couldn't help it."

"I think I knew that too——"

"No, no. You couldn't——"

"Yes. It was meant to be. You've given a new meaning to life, torn from its very roots a whole rotten philosophy. Oh, you don't know what I mean—except that nobility is in the mind, beauty in the heart. Nothing else matters."

"No. It doesn't," she sighed. "You see, I—I do believe in you."

"Thank God! But you know nothing of me—nothing of my past——"

"I don't care what your past has been or who you are. You're good enough for me. I'm satisfied——"

He laughed joyously at the terms of her acquiescence.

"Don't you want to know what I've been—who I am——?"

"No. It wouldn't make any difference—not now."

"I'll tell you some day."

"I'll take a chance on that. I'm not afraid."

"And whatever I am—you'll marry me?"

"Yes. Whatever—you—are——"

While he smiled down at her she straightened in his arms and gently released herself, glancing guiltily at the clock.

"I—I must be going now," she whispered.

And so through the quiet forest they went to Black Rock village, hand in hand.



CHAPTER XVI

IDENTIFICATION

The sudden and unexpected arrival of Miss Peggy McGuire upon the scene had been annoying. That young person was, as Peter knew, a soulless little snob and materialist with a mind which would not be slow to put the worst possible construction upon the situation. Of course as matters stood at the close of that extraordinary evening of self-revelations, it did not matter a great deal what Peggy McGuire thought or said or did, for nothing could hurt Beth now. The Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch had capitulated and Peter Nichols gloried in his victory over inherited tradition. He had no regrets and he had made his choice, for Beth was what he wanted. She completed him. She was effulgent,—even in homespun. A little tinsel more or less could make no difference in Beth. Those of his own class who would not accept her might go hang for all he cared.

Still Peter had rather that almost any one but Peggy should have come upon the scene, and Beth's frankness had given her a handle for a scandal, if she chose to make one. Beth cared nothing, he knew, for her soul was greater than his, but Peter's anger still smoldered at the words that had been used to Beth.

He did not fear complications with McGuire, nor did he court them, but he knew how this daughter had been brought up, spoiled and pampered to the very limits of McGuire's indulgence and fortune, and he couldn't help holding her up in comparison with Beth, much to Peggy's detriment. For Beth was a lady to her finger tips, born to a natural gentility that put to confusion the mannerisms of the "smart" finishing school which had not succeeded in concealing the strain of a plebeian origin, and Beth's dropped g's and her quaint inversions and locutions were infinitely more pleasing to Peter than Miss Peggy's slang and self-assurance, which reflected the modernity of the fashionable hotel tea-room.

Fortunately, Jonathan K. McGuire, who had returned from the seashore the night before, was not disposed to take his daughter's animadversions too seriously and when Peter announced his engagement to the niece of his housekeeper he made no comment further than to offer his congratulations. He did not even know her name and when McGuire was told that it was Beth Cameron, Peter did not miss his slight start of inquiry. But of course, having only owned his acres of woodland for half a dozen years, he knew little as to the origins of the inhabitants of Black Rock and as Peter said nothing at that moment he asked no questions and only listened to the forester's account of the progress of the work and of the difficulties experienced in attempting to complete the timber-contract. There was no way of improving the labor situation and a visit to the camp proved to him that Peter had done all that could be expected with the poor material at hand. On the way back they stopped at the Cabin and Peter showed him the letter from Hawk Kennedy. And there for a while they sat discussing plans to outwit the enemy and draw his sting.

It was going to be no easy task and could only be accomplished by Peter's apparent compliance with Kennedy's wishes in throwing in his lot with Hawk and simulating an enmity for his employer. McGuire nodded his head and listened soberly. The rest at the seashore had done him good and he was disposed to meet the situation with courage, reflecting Peter's own attitude of confidence and optimism, admitting that his confession to Peter had lifted a weight from his shoulders and given him the spirit to meet the issue, whatever it might be.

"You see," he said at last, "if the worst comes I'm in a pretty bad hole. But it was the shock of meeting Hawk after all these years that took the courage out of me at first. I wasn't quite right in my head for a while. I'd have killed him gladly and gotten away with it perhaps—but I'm glad now that things turned out the way they did. I've got no blood on my hands—that's one thing—whatever I signed. I've been thinking a good deal since I've been away. If I signed that fake confession Hawk Kennedy signed it too. He won't dare to produce it except as a last resort in desperation, to drag me down with him if he fails. We can string him along for a while before he does that and if he falls for your game we may be able to get the paper away from him. You've thought of something, Nichols?" he asked.

"Yes, of several things," said Peter slowly. "I'm going to try diplomacy first. If that doesn't work, then something else more drastic."

McGuire rose at last and took up his hat.

"I don't know how to thank you for what you've done, Nichols," he said awkwardly. "Of course if—if money will repay you for this sort of service, you can count on my doing what you think is right."

Peter rose and walked to the window, looking out.

"I was coming to that, Mr. McGuire," he said gravely.

McGuire paused and laid his hat down again.

"Before you went away," Peter went on, turning slowly toward his employer, "you told me that you had never made any effort to discover the whereabouts of any of the relatives of Ben Cameron. But I inferred from what you said that if you did find them, you'd be willing to do your duty. That's true, isn't it?"

McGuire examined him soberly but agreed.

"Yes, that's true. But why do you bring this question up now?"

"I'll explain in a moment. Mr. McGuire, you are said to be a very rich man, how rich I don't know, but I think you'll be willing to admit to me, knowing what I do of your history, that without the 'Tarantula' mine and the large sum it brought you you would never have succeeded in getting to your present position in the world of finance."

"I'll admit that. But I don't see——"

"You will in a minute, sir——"

"Go on."

"If I have been correctly informed, you sold out your copper holdings in Madre Gulch for something like half a million dollars——" Peter paused for McGuire's comment. He made none. But he had sunk into his chair again and was listening intently.

"The interest on half a million dollars, even at six per cent, if compounded, would in fifteen years amount with the principal to a considerable sum."

"Ah, I see what you're getting at——"

"You will admit that what I say is true?"

"Yes——"

"You'll admit also, if you're reasonable, that the money which founded your great fortune was as a matter of fact not yours but Ben Cameron's——?"

"But why speak of him now?" muttered the old man.

"Do you admit this?"

McGuire frowned and then growled, "How can I help admitting it, since you know the facts? But I don't see——"

"Well then, admitting that the 'Tarantula' mine was Ben Cameron's and not yours or Hawk Kennedy's, it seems clear that if any of Ben Cameron's heirs should turn up unexpectedly, they might claim at least a share of what should have been their own."

McGuire had started forward in his chair, his gaze on Peter's face, as the truth was suddenly borne in upon him.

"You mean, Nichols, that——." He paused and gasped as Peter nodded.

"I mean that Ben Cameron's only child, a daughter, lives here at Black Rock—the niece of your housekeeper—Mrs. Bergen——"

"Miss Cameron—My God!" McGuire fell back in his chair, staring at Peter, incapable of further speech.

"Beth Cameron," said Peter gently, "the lady who has done me the honor of promising to become my wife——"

"But how do you know?" gasped McGuire. "There must be some mistake. Are you sure you——" He broke off and then a sly smile curled at the corners of his lips. "You know, Nichols, Cameron is not an unusual name. It's quite possible that you're—er—mistaken."

"No. I'm quite sure there's no mistake. I think the facts can be proved—that is, of course, if you're willing to help to establish this claim and to admit it when established. Otherwise I intend to establish it without your assistance—as an act of justice and of—er—retribution."

McGuire watched his superintendent's face for a while before replying. And then, briefly, "What are the facts on which you base this extraordinary statement?" he asked.

"I'll present those facts when the time comes, Mr. McGuire," said Peter at a venture. "I don't think it will be a difficult matter to identify the murdered man. He wrote home once or twice. He can be traced successfully. But what I would like to know first is what your disposition toward his daughter will be when the proper proofs are presented."

"If they're presented," said McGuire.

"Will you answer me?"

"It would seem time enough to answer then. I'll do the right thing."

"Meaning what?"

"Money enough to satisfy her."

"That won't do. She must have what is hers by right. Her price is one million dollars," said Peter quietly.

McGuire started up. "You're dreaming," he gasped.

"It's her money."

"But I developed that mine."

"It was her mine that you developed."

McGuire stopped by the window and turned.

"And if I refuse——?"

"I don't think you will——"

The two men stared at each other, but Peter had the whip hand—or McGuire thought he had, which was quite sufficient.

"Will you help me to perform this act of justice?" Peter went on calmly. "It's the only thing to do, Mr. McGuire. Can't you see that?"

McGuire paced the floor heavily a few times before replying. And then,

"I've got to think this thing over, Nichols. It's all so very sudden—a million dollars. My God! man, you talk of a million as if it grew on the trees." He stopped abruptly before the fireplace and turned to Peter. "And where does Hawk Kennedy come in on this?"

"Beth Cameron's claim comes before his—or yours," said Peter quietly. "Whatever happens to either of you—it's not her fault."

Peter hadn't intended a threat. He was simply stating the principal thought of his mind. But it broke McGuire's front. He leaned upon the armchair and then fell heavily into it, his head buried in his hands.

"I'll do—whatever you say," he groaned at last, "but you've got to get me out of this, Nichols. I've got to have that paper."

Peter poured out a drink of the whisky and silently handed it to his employer.

"Come, Mr. McGuire," he said cheerfully, "we'll do what we can. There'll be a way to outwit Hawk Kennedy."

"I hope to God there is," muttered McGuire helplessly.

"I'll make a bargain with you."

"What?" asked McGuire helplessly.

"If I get the confession from Kennedy, you give Beth Cameron the money I ask for."

"No publicity?"

"None. I give you my word on it."

"Well," muttered the old man, "I guess it's coming to her. I'll see." He paused helplessly. "A million dollars! That's a big sum to get together. A big price—but not too big to clear this load off my conscience."

"Good. I'm glad you see it in this way."

The old man turned shrewdly. "But I've got to have the proofs——"

"Very well. If you're honest in your intentions you'll help me confirm the evidence."

"Yes," said the other slowly. "I'll do what I can."

"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what Ben Cameron looked like——"

"I've told you as near as I can remember," muttered McGuire.

"Had the murdered man, for instance, lost the little finger of his left hand?" asked Peter, coolly concealing the anxiety which lay behind his question.

But he had his reward, for McGuire shot a quick glance at him, his heavy jowl sagging. And as he didn't reply, Peter urged him triumphantly.

"You promised to help. Will you answer me truthfully? It will save asking a lot of questions."

At last McGuire threw up his hands.

"Yes," he muttered, "that was Ben Cameron. One of his little fingers was missing all right enough."

"Thanks," said Peter, with an air of closing the interview. "If you want this proof that the murdered man was Beth's father, ask Mrs. Bergen."

There was a silence. Peter had won. McGuire gathered up his hat with the mien of a broken man and moved toward the door.

"All right, Nichols. I guess there's no doubt of it. I'll admit the proof's strong enough. It can be further verified, I suppose, but I'd rather no questions were asked. You do your part and I—I'll do mine."

"Very good, sir. You can count on me. If that fake agreement is still in existence, I'll get it for you. If it has been destroyed——"

"I'll have to have proof of that——"

"Won't you leave that in my hands?"

McGuire nodded, shook Peter's hand and wandered out up the path in the direction of Black Rock House.

From the first, Peter had had no doubt that the murdered man was Beth's father, but he had to admit under McGuire's questioning that there might still be a difficulty in tracing the vagrant from the meager history of his peregrinations that Mrs. Bergen had been able to provide. McGuire's attitude in regard to the absent little finger had been really admirable. Peter was thankful for that little finger, and for McGuire's honesty. There was no doubt in his mind now—if any had existed—who Ben Cameron's murderer was. The affair was simplified amazingly. With Beth's claim recognized, Peter could now enter heart and soul into the interesting business of beating Hawk Kennedy at his own game. He would win—he must win, for the pitiful millionaire and for Beth.

And so, jubilantly, he made his way to Black Rock village to fill a very agreeable engagement that he had, to take supper (cooked and served by her own hands) with Miss Beth Cameron. He found that Beth had tried to prevail upon Aunt Tillie to be present but that the arrival of the McGuire family at Black Rock House had definitely prevented the appearance of their chaperon. Peter's appetite, however, suffered little diminution upon that account and he learned that singing was not Beth's only accomplishment. The rolls, as light as feathers and steaming hot, were eloquent of her skill, the chicken was broiled to a turn, the creamed potatoes delicious, and the apple pie of puff-paste provoked memories of the Paris Ritz. Aunt Tillie's best tablecloth and family silver—old, by the looks of it—had been brought into requisition and a bunch of goldenrod and purple asters graced the centerpiece. And above it all presided Beth, her face aflame from the cookstove, gracious and more than lovable in her pride and self-consciousness.

When the supper was finished, Peter helped her to clear away the things and insisted on being allowed to help wash the dishes. But to this Beth demurred for they were of Aunt Tillie's blue colonial china set and not to be trusted to impious hands. But she let Peter sit in the kitchen and watch her (which was quite satisfactory) and even spared him a kiss or two at propitious intervals.

Then when all things had been set to rights they went into the little parlor and sat on the worn Victorian plush-covered sofa. There was much to talk about, matters of grave importance that concerned themselves alone, explanations to be made, hopes to be expressed, and Beth's affair with McGuire to be discussed in all its phases. Peter told her nothing of his rank or station in life, saving that revelation for a later moment. Was not the present all-sufficient? And hadn't Beth told him and didn't she tell him again now that she believed in him and that "no matter what" she loved him and was his, for ever after, Amen. She didn't care who he was, you see.

And when the important business of affirming those vows was concluded again and again, the scarcely less important business of Beth's future was talked over with a calmness which did much credit to Beth's control of the situation. Peter brought out Hawk Kennedy's letter and they read it together, and talked about it, Peter explaining his intention to acquiesce in Hawk's plan. Then Peter told of his conversation with McGuire and of the proof of Ben Cameron's identity which the old man had honestly admitted.

"It looks very much, Beth," said Peter at last, with a smile, "as though you were going to be a very wealthy young woman."

"Oh, Peter," she sighed (the elimination of formal appellations had been accomplished during the earlier stages of the repast), "Oh, Peter, I hope it isn't going to bring us unhappiness."

"Unhappiness! Why, Beth!"

"Oh, I don't know. It seems to me that people with a lot of money always look unhappy wantin' to want somethin'."

He laughed.

"The secret of successful wanting is only to want the things you can get."

"That's just the trouble. With a million dollars I'll get so much more than I want. And what then——?"

"You'll have to start all over again."

"No," she said quietly. "I won't. If wantin' things she can't buy makes a girl hard, like Peggy McGuire, I think I'd rather be poor."

Peter grew grave again.

"Nothing could ever make you like Peggy McGuire," he said.

"I might be—if I ever get into the habit of thinkin' I was somethin' that I wasn't."

"You'll never be a snob, Beth, no matter how much money you have."

"I hope not," she said with a laugh. "My nose turns up enough already." And then, wistfully, "But I always did want a cerise veil."

"I've no doubt you'll get it, a cerise veil—mauve, green and blue ones too. I'll be having to keep an eye on you when you go to the city."

She eyed him gravely and then, "I don't like to hear you talk like that."

But he kept to his topic for the mere delight of hearing her replies.

"But then you might see somebody you liked better than me."

She smiled at him gently. "If I'd 'a' thought that I wouldn't 'a' picked you out in the first place."

"Then you did pick me out. When?"

"H-m. Wouldn't you like to know!"

"Yes. At the Cabin?"

"No——"

"At McGuire's——?"

"No-o. Before that——"

"When——"

She blushed very prettily and laughed.

"Down Pickerel River road."

"Did you, Beth?"

"Yes. I liked your looks. You do smile like you meant it, Peter. I said to myself that anybody that could bow from the middle like you was good enough for me."

"Now you're making fun of me."

"Oh, no. I'm not. You see, dear, you've really lived up to that bow!"

"I hope," said Peter gently, "I hope I always will."

"I'm not worryin'. And I'm glad I knew you loved me before you knew about the money."

"You did know, then——"

"Yes. What bothered me was your findin' it so hard to tell me so."

Peter was more awkward and self-conscious at that moment than he could ever remember having been in his life. Her frankness shamed him—made it seem difficult for him ever to tell her the real reasons for his hesitation. What chance would the exercise of inherited tradition have in the judgment of this girl who dealt instinctively and intimately with the qualities of the mind and heart, and only with them?

"I—I was not good enough for you," he muttered.

She put her fingers over his lips. And when he kissed them—took them away and gave him her lips.

"I'll hear no more of that, Peter Nichols," she whispered. "You're good enough for me——"

Altogether, it may be said that the evening was a success at every angle from which Peter chose to view it. And he made his way back to the Cabin through the deep forest along the path that Beth had worn, the path to his heart past all the fictitious barriers that custom had built about him. The meddlesome world was not. Here was the novaya jezn that his people had craved and shouted for. He had found it. New life—happiness—with a mate ... his woman—soon to be his wife—whether Beth Nichols or the Grand Duchess Elizabeth...? There was no title of nobility that could make Beth's heart more noble, no pride of lineage that could give her a higher place than that which she already held in his heart.

His blood surging, he ran along the log at the crossing and up the path to the Cabin, where a surprise awaited him. For he found the lamp lighted, and, seated complacently in Peter's easy chair, stockinged feet toward the blaze of a fresh log, a bottle at his elbow, was Hawk Kennedy.



CHAPTER XVII

PETER BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR

Peter entered and stood by the door, startled from his rhapsody by the appearance of the intruder, who had made himself quite at home, regardless of the fact that the final words of their last meeting had given no promise of a friendship which would make his air of easy familiarity acceptable to Peter, whose first impulse moved him to anger, fortunately controlled as he quickly remembered how much hung upon the assumption of an amicable relationship with McGuire's arch enemy. Peter hadn't replied to Hawk's letter which had indicated that some weeks might elapse before Black Rock received another of his visitations. The speculations in Peter's mind as to the change in his visitor's plans and the possible causes for them may have been marked in his face, for Hawk grinned at him amiably and rose and offered his hand with an air of assurance.

"Wondering why I dropped in on you so unexpected-like? Let's say that I got tired of staring at the lonely grandeur of Pike's Peak, mon gars, or that the lady who gave me the pleasure of her society skipped for Denver with a younger man, or that the high altitude played Billy-be-damned with my nerves, and you'll have excuse enough. But the fact is, Pete, I was a bit nervous at being so long away from the center of financial operations, and thought I'd better come right on and talk to you."

"I got your letter," said Peter calmly, "I hadn't answered it yet——"

"I thought it better to come for my answer."

"I've been thinking it over——"

"Good. It will be worth thinkin' over. You'll bless the day Jim Coast ran athwart your course."

"You seem to be taking a good deal for granted."

"I do. I always do. Until the present opportunity it was about the only thing I got a chance to take. You wouldn't of done me a good turn that night, if you hadn't been O.K. Will you have a drink of your own? It's good stuff—ten years in the wood, I see by the label, and I'm glad to get it, for whisky is scarcer than hen's teeth between this and the Rockies."

As Peter nodded he poured out the drinks and settled down in Peter's chair with the air of one very much at home.

"Well, Pete, what's yer answer to be?" he said at last. "You weren't any too polite when I left here. But I didn't think you'd turn me down altogether. And you're straight. I know that. I've been countin' on your sense of justice. How would you like to be treated the way I was treated by Mike McGuire?"

"I wouldn't like it."

"You just bet you wouldn't. You wouldn't stand for it, you wouldn't. I've got justice on my side and I've got the law—if I choose to use it—but I'd rather win this case as man to man—without its getting into the newspapers. That wouldn't matter much to a poor man like me, but it would make a heap of difference to a man who stands where McGuire does."

"That's true."

"Yes. And he knows it. He hasn't got a leg to stand on." Kennedy paused and looked Peter over coolly. Peter had been studying the situation critically, playing his game with some care, willing to placate his visitor and yet taking pains not to be too eager to gain his confidence. So he carefully lighted his cigarette while he debated his course of action.

"What makes you think that I'm in a different mood now from when you left here?"

"Haven't I told you? Because I believe that you know that right's right and wrong's wrong."

"But I told you that I didn't want to have anything to do with the case."

"True for you. But you will when I've finished talking to you."

"Will I?"

"You will if you're not a fool, which you ain't. I always said you had somethin' between your ears besides ivory. You don't like to stay poor any more than anybody else. You don't have to. A good half of McGuire's money is mine. If it hadn't been for me helpin' to smell that copper out he'd of been out there grub-stakin' yet an' that's a fact. But I'm not goin' to be too hard on him. I'm no hog. I'm goin' to let him down easy. What's a million more or less to him? It might pinch him a little here and there sellin' out securities he had a fancy for, but in a year or so he'd have it all back and more, the way he works. Oh, I know. I've found out a bit since I've been away. And he'll come across all right, when he hears what I've got to say to him."

"Why don't you go to him direct?" asked Peter.

"And have him barricadin' the house and shootin' promiscuous at me from the windows? Not on your life. I know what I'm about. This thing has got to be done quiet. There's no use stirring up a dirty scandal to hurt his reputation for honest dealin' in New York. Even as it is, the story has got around about the mystery of Black Rock. No use makin' talk. That's why I want you. You stand ace high with the old man. He'll listen to you and we'll work the game all right and proper."

"But suppose he won't listen to me."

"Then we'll put the screws on."

"What screws?"

Hawk Kennedy closed one eye and squinted the other at Peter quizzically.

"I'll tell you that all in good time. But first I've got to know how you stand in the matter."

Peter judicially examined the ash of his cigarette. "He ought to do the right thing," he said slowly.

"He will—never you fear. But can I count on you, Pete?"

"What do you want me to do?" asked Peter after a moment.

"Oh, now we're talkin'. But wait a minute. We won't go so fast. Are you with me sure enough—hope I may die—cross my heart?"

"If you'll make it worth my while," said Peter cautiously.

"A hundred thousand. How's that?"

"It sounds all right. But I can't see what I can do that you couldn't do yourself."

"Don't you? Well, you don't know all this story. There's some of it you haven't heard. Maybe it's that will convince you you're makin' no mistake——"

"Well—I'm listening."

A shrewd look came into Kennedy's face—a narrowing of the eyelids, a drawing of the muscles at the mouth, as he searched Peter's face with a sharp glance.

"If you play me false, Pete, I'll have your heart's blood," he said.

Peter only laughed at him.

"I'm not easily scared. Save the melodrama for McGuire. If you can do without me—go ahead. Play your hand alone. Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know."

The bluff worked, for Kennedy relaxed at once.

"Oh, you're a cool hand. I reckon you think I need you or I wouldn't be here. Well, that's so. I do need you. And I'm goin' to tell you the truth—even if it gives away my hand."

"Suit yourself," said Peter, indifferently.

He watched his old "bunkie" pour out another drink of the whisky, and a definite plan of action took shape in his mind. If he could only get Kennedy drunk enough.... The whisky bottle was almost empty—so Peter got up, went to his cupboard and brought forth another one.

"Good old Pete!" said Hawk. "Seems like July the first didn't make much difference to you."

"A present from Mr. McGuire," Peter explained.

"Well, here's to his fat bank account. May it soon be ours." And he drank copiously. Peter filled his own glass but when the opportunity offered poured most of it into the slop-bowl just behind him.

"I'm goin' to tell you, Pete, about me and McGuire—about how we got that mine. It ain't a pretty story. I told you some of it but not the real part—nobody but Mike McGuire and I know that—and he wouldn't tell if it was the last thing he said on earth."

"Oh," said Peter, "something crooked, eh?"

Kennedy laid his bony fingers along Peter's arm while his voice sank to an impressive whisper.

"Crooked as Hell, Pete—crooked as Hell. You wouldn't think Mike McGuire was a murderer—would you?"

"A murderer——!"

Kennedy nodded. "We took that mine—stole it from the poor guy who had staked out his claim. Mike killed him——"

"You don't mean——?"

"Yes, sir. Killed him—stuck him in the ribs with a knife when he wasn't lookin'. What do you think of that?"

"McGuire—a murderer——!"

"Sure. Nice sort of a boss you've got! And he could swing for it if I didn't hold my tongue."

"This is serious——"

"You bet it is—if he don't come across. Now I guess you know why he was so cut up when I showed up around here. I've got it on him all right."

"Can you prove it?"

Kennedy rubbed his chin for a moment.

"I could but I don't want to. You see—Pete——" He paused again and blinked pensively at his glass. "Well, you see—in a manner of speakin'—he's got it on me too."

And Peter listened while his villainous companion related the well known tale of the terrible compact between the two men in which both of them had agreed in writing to share the guilt of the crime, carefully omitting to state the compulsion as used upon McGuire. Hawk Kennedy lied. If Peter had ever needed any further proof of the honesty of his employer he read it in the shifting eye and uncertain verbiage of his guest, whose tongue now wagged loosely while he talked of the two papers, one of which was in McGuire's possession, the other in his own. Hawk was no pleasant companion for an evening's entertainment. From the interesting adventurer of the Bermudian, Jim Coast had been slowly changing under Peter's eyes into a personality more formidable and sinister. And the drink seemed to be bringing into importance potentialities for evil at which Peter had only guessed. That he meant to fight to the last ditch for the money was clear, and if the worst came would even confess, dragging McGuire down among the ruins of both their lives. In his drunken condition it would have been ridiculously easy for Peter to have overpowered him, but he was not sure to what end that would lead.

"You say there were two papers," said Peter. "Where are they?"

"McGuire's got his—here at Black Rock," muttered Hawk.

"How do you know that?" asked Peter with interest.

"Where would he keep it?" sneered Hawk. "In his business papers for 'zecutors to look over?"

"And where's yours?" asked Peter.

He hoped for some motion of Kennedy's fingers to betray its whereabouts, but the man only poured out another drink and leered at Peter unpleasantly.

"That'sh my business," he said with a sneer.

"Oh. Is it? I thought I was to have a hand in this."

Kennedy grinned.

"Y'are. Your job is t' get other paper from McGuire's safe. And then we'll have fortune in—hic—nutshell."

The man wasn't as drunk as he seemed. Peter shrugged.

"I see. I've got to turn burglar to join your little criminal society. Suppose I refuse?"

"Y' won't. Why, Pete, it ought to be easiest job in world. A few dropsh in glass when you're talkin' business and he'd never know it happened. Then we 'beat it,' y'understand, 'n' write lettersh—nice lettersh. One of 'em to that swell daughter of his. That would do the business, pronto."

"Yes, it might," admitted Peter ruminatively.

"Sure it will—but we'll give him chance. Are y' on?" he asked.

Peter was silent for a moment. And then,

"I don't see why you want that paper of McGuire's," he said. "They're exactly alike, you say—both incriminating. And if you've got your paper handy——"

Peter paused but Kennedy was in the act of swallowing another glass of whisky and he didn't stop to answer the half-formulated query. He gave a gasp of satisfaction and then shrugged.

"No use, Pete," he said huskily. "I said I had paper and I have paper handy, but I've got to have McGuire's paper too. I ain't got money and spotless rep'tation like Mike McGuire but I don't want paper like that floatin' roun' universh with my name signed to it."

"I don't blame you," said Peter dryly.

Hawk Kennedy was talking thickly now and spilled the whisky in trying to pour out a new glassful.

"Goo' whisky this—goo' ole whisky, Pete. Goo' ole Peter. Say, you'll get pater, Peep—I mean Peter pape—Oh H—— Paper. You know."

"I'll have to think about it, Jim."

"Can't think when yer drunk, Pete," he muttered with an expiring grin. "To-morr'. 'Nother drink an' then we'll go sleep. Don't mind my sleepin' here, Pete. Nice plache shleep. Goo' old shleep...."

Peter paused in the act of pouring out another drink for him and then at a sound from Kennedy set the bottle down again. The man suddenly sprawled sideways in the chair, his head back, snoring heavily. Peter watched him for a moment, sure that he couldn't be shamming and then looked around the disordered room. Hawk's overcoat and hat lay on the bed. On tiptoe Peter got up and examined them carefully, watching the man in the chair intently the while. Hawk stirred but did not awaken. Peter searched the overcoat inch by inch. There was nothing in the pockets, but a tin of tobacco and a Philadelphia newspaper. So Peter restored the articles and then hung the hat and coat on the nails behind the door. Hawk Kennedy did not move. He was dead drunk.

The repulsive task of searching the recumbent figure now lay before him. But the game had been worth the candle. If the fateful confession was anywhere in Hawk's clothing Peter meant to find it and yet even now he hesitated. He put the whisky bottle away, cleared up the mess and then bodily picked his visitor up and carried him to the bed. Hawk muttered something in his sleep but fell prone and immediately was snoring stertorously. Then Peter went through his pockets methodically, removing an automatic pistol from his trousers, and examining all his papers carefully by the light of the lamp-a hotel bill receipted, some letters in a woman's hand, a few newspaper clippings bearing on the copper market, a pocketbook containing bills of large denomination, some soiled business cards of representatives of commercial houses, a notebook containing addresses and small accounts, a pass book of a Philadelphia bank, the address of which Peter noted. And that was all. Exhausting every resource Peter went over the lining of his coat and vest, inch by inch, even examined his underwear and his shoes and stockings. From the skin out, Hawk Kennedy had now no secrets from Peter. The incriminating confession was not on Hawk Kennedy's clothing.

At last Peter gave up the search and went out into the air, and lighted his corncob pipe, puzzled at his failure. And yet, was it a failure after all? Hawk had eluded every attempt to discuss his copy of the confession. He had it "handy," he had said. A safe deposit box at the Philadelphia bank of which Peter had made record would be handy, but somehow Peter thought the chances were much against Kennedy's having put it there. Men of his type usually carry everything they possess about their persons. Peter remembered the ragged wallet of the Bermudian. What if after all these years of hardship the paper had been worn so that it was entirely illegible, or indeed that in Kennedy's many wanderings it had been lost? Either of these theories was plausible, but none provoked a decision. So after awhile Peter went indoors and opening all the windows and doors to cleanse the air, sat in the big chair and bundling himself in a blanket fell asleep.



CHAPTER XVIII

FACE TO FACE

We are told, alas, that at the highest moment of our expectations the gods conspire to our undoing, and therefore that it is wise to take our joys a little sadly, that we may not fall too far. But Beth, being wholesome of mind and body and an optimist by choice, was not disposed to question the completeness of her contentment or look for any dangers which might threaten its continuance. And so when Peter went home through the forest, she took her kerosene lamp to her room, there to smile at her joyous countenance in the mirror and to assure herself that never since the beginning of the world had there been a girl more glad that she had been born. All the clouds that had hung about her since that evening in the woods had been miraculously rolled away and she knew again as she had known before that Peter Nichols was the one man in all the world for her.

Their evening together was a wonderful thing to contemplate, and she lay in bed, her eyes wide open, staring toward the window, beyond which in a dark mass against the starlit sky she could see the familiar pines, through which was the path to Peter's cabin. The stars twinkled jovially with assurance that the night could not be long and that beyond the night were to-morrows still more wonderful than to-day. And praying gently that all might be well with them both, she fell asleep, not even to dream.

Early morning found her brisk at her work around the house, cleansing and polishing, finishing to her satisfaction the tasks which Peter's impatience had forbidden the night before. All of Aunt Tillie's blue china set was carefully restored to its shelves, the napery folded away, the shiny pots hung upon their hooks and the kitchen carefully mopped. Then, with a towel wrapped about her head (for such was the custom of the country), she attacked the dining-room and parlor with broom and dust-cloth, singing arpeggios to remind herself that everything was right with the world.

It was upon the plush-covered sofa where she and Peter had sat the night before that Beth's orderly eye espied a square of paper just upon the point of disappearing in the crease between the seat and back of Aunt Tillie's most cherished article of furniture and of course she pounced upon it with the intention of destroying it at the cookstove. But when she drew it forth, she found that it was an envelope, heliotrope in color, that it bore Peter's name in a feminine handwriting, and that it had a strange delicate odor with which Beth was unfamiliar. She held it in her hand and looked at the writing, then turned it over and over, now holding it more gingerly by the tip ends of her fingers. Then she sniffed at it again. It was a queer perfume—strange—like violet mixed with some kind of spice.

She put her broom aside and walked to the window, her brow puckered, and scrutinized the postmark. "London!" Of course—London was in England where Peter had once lived. And Peter had drawn the letter from his pocket last night with some other papers when he had shown her the communication from "Hawk" Kennedy. It was lucky that she had found it, for it might have slipped down behind the plush covering, and so have been definitely lost. Of course Peter had friends in London and of course they should wish to write to him, but for the first time it seemed curious to Beth that in all their conversations Peter had never volunteered any information as to the life that he had lived before he had come to Black Rock. She remembered now that she had told him that whatever his past had been and whoever he was, he was good enough for her. But the heliotrope envelope with the feminine handwriting and the strange odor immediately suggested queries along lines of investigation which had never before entered her thoughts. Who was the lady of the delicate script and the strange perfume? What was her relationship to Peter? And upon what topic was she writing to him?

Beth slipped the note about a quarter of an inch out of its envelope until she could just see a line of the writing and then quickly thrust it in again, put the envelope on the mantel above the "parlor heater" and resolutely went on with her sweeping. From time to time she stopped her work and looked at it just to be sure that it was still there and at last took it up in her fingers again, a prey to a more lively curiosity than any she had ever known. She put the envelope down again and turning her back to it went into the kitchen. Of course Peter would tell her who this lady was if she asked him. And there was no doubt at all that it was a lady who had written the letter, some one familiar with a delicate mode of existence and given to refinements which had been denied to Beth. It was this delicacy and refinement, this flowing inscription written with such careless ease and grace which challenged Beth's rusticity. She would have liked to ask Peter about the lady at once. But Peter would not be at the Cabin at this early hour of the morning, nor would Beth be able to see him until late this afternoon—perhaps not until to-night. Meanwhile, the note upon the mantel was burning its way into her consciousness. It was endued with a personality feminine, insidious and persuasive. No ladies of London affecting heliotrope envelopes had any business writing scented notes to Peter now. He was Beth's particular property....

When she went up to the second floor of the cottage a few minutes later she took the heliotrope letter with her and put it on her bureau, propped against the pincushion, while she went on with her work. And then, all her duties for the morning finished, she sat down in her rocking chair by the window, the envelope in her idle fingers, a victim of temptation. She looked out at the pine woods, her gaze afar, her guilty fingers slipping the letter out of its covering an inch, two inches. And then Beth opened Peter's heliotrope note and read it. At least, she read as much of it as she could understand,—the parts that were written in English—with growing amazement and incertitude. A good deal of the English part even was Greek to her, but she could understand enough to know that a mystery of some sort hung about the letter and about Peter, that he was apparently a person of some importance to the heliotrope lady who addressed him in affectionate terms and with the utmost freedom. Beth had learned in the French ballads which Peter had taught her that ami meant friend and that bel meant beautiful. And as the whole of the paragraph containing those words was written in English, Beth had little difficulty in understanding it. What had Peter to do with the cause of Holy Russia? And what was this danger to him from hidden enemies, which could make necessary this discretion and watchfulness in Black Rock? And the last sentence of all danced before Beth's eyes as though it had been written in letters of fire. "There is at least one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of the dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo."

What right had the heliotrope lady's heart to beat fondly in memory of dear dead days with Peter Nichols at Galitzin or Zukovo or anywhere else? Who was she? Was she young? Was she beautiful? And what right had Peter given her to address him in terms of such affection? Anastasie!

And now for the first time in her life, though to all outward appearance calm, Beth felt the pangs of jealousy. This letter, most of it in the queer-looking script (probably Russian) that she could not even read, in its strange references in English to things beyond her knowledge, seemed suddenly to erect a barrier between her and Peter that could never be passed, or even to indicate a barrier between them that had always existed without her knowledge. And if all of the parts of the letter that she could not understand contained sentiments like the English part that she could understand, it was a very terrible letter indeed and indicated that this heliotrope woman (she was no longer "lady" now) had claims upon Peter's heart which came long before Beth's. And if this Anastasie—other women too....

Beth read the letter again and then slipped it back into its envelope, while she gazed out of the window at the pines, a frown at her brows and two tiny lines curving downward at the corners of her lips. She was very unhappy. But she was angry too—angry at the heliotrope woman, angry at Peter and angrier still at herself. In that moment she forgot that she had taken Peter Nichols without reference to what he was or had been. She had told him that only the future mattered and now she knew that the past was beginning to matter very much indeed.

After a while she got up, and took the heliotrope letter to the bureau where she wrote upon the envelope rather viciously with a soft lead pencil, "You left this last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie." Then she slipped the letter into her waist and with an air of decision went down the stairs (the ominous parentheses still around her mouth), and made her way with rapid footsteps toward the path through the forest which led toward Peter's cabin.

Beth was primitive, highly honorable by instinct if not by precept, but a creature of impulse, very much in love, who read by intuition the intrusion of what seemed a very real danger to her happiness. If her conscience warned her that she was transgressing the rules of polite procedure, something stronger than a sense of propriety urged her on to read, something stronger than mere curiosity—the impulse of self-preservation, the impulse to preserve that which was stronger even than self—the love of Peter Nichols.

The scrawl that she had written upon the envelope was eloquent of her point of view, at once a taunt, a renunciation and a confession. "You left this last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie!"

It was the intention of carrying the letter to Peter's cabin and there leaving it in a conspicuous position that now led her rapidly down the path through the woods. Gone were the tender memories of the night before. If this woman had had claims upon Peter Nichols's heart at the two places with the Russian names, she had the same claims upon them now. Beth's love and her pride waged a battle within her as she approached the Cabin. She remembered that Peter had told her last night that he would have a long day at the lumber camp, but as she crossed the log-jam she found herself hoping that by some chance she would find Peter still at home, where, with a fine dignity (which she mentally rehearsed) she would demand explanation, and listening, grant forgiveness. Or else ... she didn't like to think of the alternative.

But instead of Peter, at the Cabin door in the early morning sunlight she found a strange man, sitting in a chair in the portico, smoking one of Peter's cigarettes, and apparently much at home. The appearance of the stranger was for a moment disconcerting, but Beth approached the familiar doorway, her head high, the heliotrope letter burning her fingers. She had intended to walk in at the door of the Cabin, place the letter in a conspicuous position where Peter could not fail to see it, and then return to her home and haughtily await Peter's arrival. But the presence of this man, a stranger in Black Rock, making free of Peter's habitation, evidently with Peter's knowledge and consent, made her pause in a moment of uncertainty.

At her approach the man in the chair had risen and she saw that he was tall—almost as tall as Peter, that he had a hooked nose and displayed a set of irregular teeth when he smiled—which he did, not unpleasantly. There was something about him which repelled her yet fascinated at the same time.

"Mr. Nichols has gone out?" Beth asked, for something to say.

"Yes, Miss," said the stranger, blinking at her with his bleary eyes. "Mr. Nichols is down at the lumber camp—won't be back until night, I reckon. Anythin' I can do for ye?"

"No, I——?" Beth hesitated. "I just wanted to see him—to leave somethin' for him."

"I guess he'll be right sorry to miss you. Who shall I say called?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Beth, turning away. But she was now aware of a strange curiosity as to this person who sat with such an air of well-being in Peter's chair and spoke with such an air of proprietorship. The insistence of her own personal affair with Peter had driven from her mind all thoughts of the other matters suggested in the letter, of the possible dangers to Peter even here in Black Rock and the mysterious references to Holy Russia. This man who stood in Peter's portico, whoever he was, was not a Russian, she could see that at a glance and read it in his accents, but she was equally certain from his general character that he could be no friend of Peter's and that his business here was not of Peter's choosing.

"If ye'd like to wait a while——"

He offered her the chair, but Beth did not accept it.

"Ye don't happen to be Miss Peggy McGuire, do ye?" asked the stranger curiously.

"No," replied the girl. "My name is Beth Cameron."

"Beth——?"

"Cameron," she finished firmly.

"Oh——"

The stranger seemed to be examining her with a glowing interest, but his look was clouded.

Beth had decided that until Peter came explaining she had no further possible interest either in him or his affairs, but in spite of this she found her lips suddenly asking,

"Are you a friend of Mr. Nichols's?"

The man in the portico grinned somberly.

"Yes. I guess I am—an old friend—before he came to America."

"Oh!" said Beth quietly. "You've known him a long time then?"

"Ye might say so. We were buddies together."

"Then you knew him in—in London?"

The man grinned. "Can't say I did. Not in London. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I just wanted to know."

The gaze of the stranger upon her was disquieting. His eyes seemed to be smoldering like embers just ready to blaze. She knew that she ought to be returning and yet she didn't want to go leaving her object unaccomplished, the dignity of her plan having already been greatly disturbed. And so she hesitated, curiosity at war with discretion.

"Would you mind telling me your name?" she asked timidly.

The man shrugged a shoulder and glanced away from her. "I reckon my name wouldn't mean much to you."

"Oh—I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked?"

The stranger put his hands into his coat pockets and stared down at Beth with a strange intrusive kind of smile.

"You and Pete seem kind of thick, don't ye?" he muttered.

"Pete!"

"Pete Nichols. That's his name, ain't it? Kind of thick, I'd say. I can't blame him though——"

"You're mistaken," said Beth with dignity, "there's nothin' between Peter Nichols and me." And turning heel, Beth took a step away.

"There! Put my foot in it, didn't I? I'm sorry. Don't go yet. I want to ask ye something."

Beth paused and found that the stranger had come out from the portico and still stood beside her. And as her look inquired fearlessly,

"It's about your name, Miss," he muttered, and then with an effort spoke the word savagely, as though it had been wrenched from him by an effort of will, "Cameron——? Your name's Cameron?"

"Yes," said Beth, in some inquietude.

"Common name in some parts—Cameron—not so common in others—not in Jersey anyway——"

"I didn't know——"

"Is yer father livin'?" he snapped.

"No—dead. Many years ago. Out West."

"Tsch!" he breathed, the air whistling between his teeth, "Out West, ye say—out West?"

He stood in front of Beth now, his arms akimbo, his head bent forward under the stress of some excitement. Beth drew away from him, but he came forward after her, his gaze still seeking hers.

"Yes—out West," said Beth haltingly.

"Where?" he gasped.

"I don't know——"

"Was his name—was his name—Ben Cameron?" He shot the question at her with a strange fury, catching meanwhile at her arm.

"Let me go——," she commanded. "You're hurtin' me."

"Was it——?"

"Yes. Let me go."

The stranger's grip on her arm suddenly relaxed and while she watched his face in curiosity the glow in his eyes suddenly flickered out, his gaze shifting from side to side as he seemed to shrink away from her. From timidity at his roughness she found new courage in her curiosity at his strange behavior. What had this stranger to do with Ben Cameron?

"What did you want to know for?" she asked him.

But his bent brows were frowning at the path at his feet. He tried to laugh—and the sound of the dry cackle had little mirth in it.

"No matter. I—I thought it might be. I guess ye'd better go—I guess ye'd better." And with that he sank heavily in Peter's chair again.

But Beth still stood and stared at him, aware of the sudden change in his attitude toward her. What did it all mean? What were Peter's relations with this creature who behaved so strangely at the mention of her name? Why did he speak of Ben Cameron? Who was he? Who——?

The feeling of which she had at first been conscious, at the man's evil leering smile which repelled her suddenly culminated in a pang of intuition. This man ... It must be ... Hawk Kennedy—the man who ... She stared at him with a new horror in the growing pallor of her face and Hawk Kennedy saw the look. It was as though some devilish psychological contrivance had suddenly hooked their two consciousnesses to the same thought. Both saw the same picture—the sand, the rocks, the blazing sun and a dead man lying with a knife in his back.... And Beth continued staring as though in a kind of horrible fascination. And when her lips moved she spoke as though impelled by a force beyond her own volition.

"You—you're Hawk Kennedy," she said tensely, "the man who killed my father."

"It's a lie," he gasped, springing to his feet. "Who told you that?"

"I—I guessed it——"

"Who told ye about Hawk Kennedy? Who told ye about him?"

"No one——"

"Ye didn't dream it. Ye can't dream a name," he said tensely. "Pete told ye—he lied to ye."

"He didn't."

But he had caught her by the wrist again and dragged her into the Cabin. She was thoroughly frightened now—too frightened even to cry out—too terrified at the sudden revelation of this man who for some days had been a kind of evil spirit in the background of her happiness. He was not like what she had thought he was, but he embodied an idea that was sinister and terrible. And while she wondered what he was going to do next, he pushed her into the armchair, locked the door and put the key into his pocket.

"Now we can talk," he muttered grimly. "No chance of bein' disturbed—Pete ain't due for hours yet. So he's been tellin' you lies about me. Has he? Sayin' I done it. By G—, I'm beginnin' to see...."

He leered at her horribly, and Beth seemed frozen into her chair. The courage that had been hers a moment ago when he had shrunk away from her had fled before the fury of his questions and the violence of his touch. She was intimidated for the first time in her life and yet she tried to meet his eyes, which burned wildly, shifting from side to side like those of a caged beast. In her terror she could not tell what dauntless instinct had urged her unless it was Ben Cameron's soul in agony that had cried out through her lips. And now she had not only betrayed Peter—but herself....

"I'm beginnin' to see. You and Pete—playin' both ends against the middle, with McGuire comin' down somethin' very handsome for a weddin' present and leavin' me out in the cold. Very pretty! But it ain't goin' to work out just that way—not that way at all."

All of this he muttered in a wildly casual kind of a way, at no one in particular, as his gaze flitted from one object in the room to another, always passing over Beth almost impersonally. But in a moment she saw his gaze concentrate upon her with sudden eagerness.

"He told ye I done it, did he? Well, I didn't," he cried in a strident voice. "I didn't do it. It was McGuire and I'll prove it, all right. McGuire. Pete can't fix that on me—even if he wanted to. But he told you or ye wouldn't of spoke like ye did. I guess maybe ye wouldn't of said so much if Pete had been here. But ye let the cat slip out of the bag all right. You and Pete—and maybe McGuire's with ye too—all against me. Is that so?... Can't yer speak, girl? Must ye sit there just starin' at me with yer big eyes? What are ye lookin' at? Are ye dumb?"

"No, I'm not dumb," gasped Beth, struggling for her courage, aware all the while of the physical threat in the man's very presence.

"Speak then. Tell me the truth. Pete said it was your money McGuire took—your money McGuire's got to make good to ye? Ain't that the truth?"

"I won't answer."

"Oh, yes, ye will. You'll answer all right. I'm not goin' to trifle. What did ye come here to see Pete about? What's that letter ye came to give him? Give it to me!"

Beth clutched the heliotrope note to her bosom but Hawk Kennedy caught at her hands and tried to tear it away from her. It needed only this new act of physical violence to give Beth the courage of despair. She sprang to her feet eluding him but he caught her before she reached the window. She struck at him with her fists but he tore the letter away from her and hurled her toward the bed over which she fell breathless. There was no use trying to fight this man.... There was a cruelty in his touch which spoke of nameless things.... And so she lay motionless, nursing her injured wrists, trying desperately to think what she must do.

Meanwhile, watching her keenly from the tail of his eye, Hawk Kennedy was reading the heliotrope letter, spelling out the English word by word. Fascinated, Beth saw the frown of curiosity deepen to interest and then to puzzled absorption.

"Interestin'—very," she heard him mutter at last, as he glanced toward the bed. "Holy Russia. H——! What's this mean, girl? Who is Peter Nichols? Answer me."

"I—I don't know," she said.

"Yes, ye do. Where did ye get this letter?"

"He left it at—at my house last night."

"Oh! Your house! Where?"

"In the village."

"I see. An' this scrawl on the envelope—you wrote it——"

Beth couldn't reply. He was dragging her through the very depths of humiliation.

At her silence his lips curved in ugly amusement.

"Anastasie!" he muttered. "Some queen that—with her purple paper an' all. And ye don't know who she is? Or who Pete is? Answer me!"

"I—I don't know," she whispered. "I—I don't, really."

"H-m! Well, he ain't what he's seemed to be, that's sure. He ain't what he's seemed to be to you and he ain't what he's seemed to be to me. But whoever he is he can't put anything over on me. We'll see about this."

Beth straightened and sat up, watching him pace the floor in deep thought. There might be a chance that she could escape by the window. But when she started up he ordered her back roughly and she soon saw that this was impossible.

At last he stopped walking up and down and stared at her, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, his brows drawn ominously together. It seemed that he had reached a decision.

"You behave yourself an' do what I tell ye an' ye won't be hurt," he growled.

"Wh-what are you goin' to do?" she gasped.

"Nothin' much. Ye're just goin' with me—that's all."

"W-where?"

"That's my business. Oh, ye needn't be scared of any love makin'. I'm not on that lay this trip."

He went to the drawer of Peter's bureau and took out some handkerchiefs.

"But ye'd better be scared if ye don't do what I tell ye. Here. Stand up!"

Beth shrank away from, him, but he caught her by the wrists and held her.

"Ye're not to make a noise, d'ye hear? I can't take the chance."

And while she still struggled desperately, he fastened her wrists together behind her. Then he thrust one of Peter's handkerchiefs in her mouth and securely gagged her. He wasn't any too gentle with her but even in her terror she found herself thanking God that it was only abduction that he planned.