How he would use this confirmation Crane hardly knew; it would come up in its own proper place at the right time, no doubt.

"We can go back now," he said to Farrell; "we may as well walk leisurely to the station; we can get a train"—he pulled out his watch—"in twenty minutes."

Crane had made up his mind not to show himself at the bank that day. He wished to bold his discovery quite close within himself—plan his course of action with habitual caution. It meant no increased aggression against Mortimer's liberty; it was of value only in his pursuit of Allis Porter.

As they walked slowly toward the station Crane met abruptly the girl who was just then so much in his thoughts. Her sudden appearance quite startled him, though it was quite accidental. She had gone in to do some shopping, she explained, after Crane's greeting.

Farrell continued on when his companion stopped. A sudden determination to tell the girl what he had unearthed took quick possession of Crane. His fine sense of reasoning told him that though she professed positive faith in Mortimer, she must have moments of wavering; it seemed only human. Perhaps his presiding deity had put this new weapon in his hands to turn the battle. He began by assuring her that he had prosecuted the inquiry simply through a desire to establish the innocence of either Mortimer or her brother, or, if possible, both.

"You understand," he said, quite simply, "that Alan is like a brother—" he was going to say "son," but it struck him as being unadvisable, it aged him. He related how he had traced the stolen note, how he had discovered it, how he had brought the bookmaker down, and how, without guidance from him, Farrell had gone into the bank and identified Mortimer as the man who had betted the money.

"It clears Alan," he said, seeking furtively for a look into the drooping face.

The bright sun struck a sparkle of light from something that shot downward and splashed in the dust. The girl was crying.

"I'm sorry," he offered as atonement. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told you; it's too brutal."

The head drooped still lower.

"I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. I didn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Though it is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right to deceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodness that has taught me to love you."

"Don't," she pleaded; "I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk of love, don't talk of anything. Can't you see—can't you understand?"

"Yes, I know—you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair to yourself. If this man would steal money, what difference would your love make to him? He would be as unfaithful to you as he has been to his trust in the bank. You must consider yourself—you must give him up; you can't link your young, beautiful life to a man who is only saved from the penitentiary because of your influence."

"Don't talk that way, Mr. Crane, please don't. I know you think that what you say is right, but what difference does it all make to me? You know what love is like, you say it has come to you now. My heart tells me that Mortimer is guiltless. The time has been so short that he has had no chance to clear himself. If I didn't believe in him I wouldn't love him; but I still love him, and so I believe in him. I can't help it—I don't want to help it; I simply go on having faith in him, and my love doesn't falter. Can't you understand what a terrible thing it would be even if I were to consent to become your wife? I know it would please my mother. But if afterward this other man was found to be innocent, wouldn't your life be embittered—wouldn't it be terrible for you to be tied to a woman who loved another man?"

"But it is impossible that he is innocent, or will ever be thought so."

"And I know that he is innocent."

"Your judgment must tell you that this is only fancy."

"My heart tells me that he is not guilty of this crime. My heart is still true to him; so, shall I decide against myself? Don't—don't stab me to death with words of Mortimer's guilt; it has no effect, and only gives me pain. I must wait—we must all wait, just wait. There is no harm in waiting, the truth will come out at last. But you will keep your promise?" she said, lifting her eyes to his face.

"Yes, I meant no harm to Mortimer in searching for this evidence; it was only to clear your brother."

They had come to the station by now.

"Would you like to speak to Mr. Farrell?" Crane asked. "You are taking my word."

"No, it is useless. I can do nothing but wait; that I can and will do."

"Don't think me cruel," Crane said, "but the wait will be so long."

"It may be forever, but I will wait. And I thank you again for your—for your goodness to me. I'm sorry that I've given you trouble. If you can—if you can—make it easier for Mortimer—I know he'll feel it if you could make him think that you didn't altogether believe him as—dishonest—will you, for my sake?"

It was generally supposed that Crane's heart had been mislaid at his inception and the void filled with a piece of chiseled marble; for years he was a convert to this belief himself; but as he stood on the platform of the primitive little station and looked into the soft luminous gray eyes, swimming moist in the hard-restrained tears of the pleading girl, he became a child. What a wondrous thing love was! Mountains were as mole-hills before such faith. In the unlimited power of her magnetism, what a trifle she had asked of him! With an influence so great she had simply said, "Spare of censure this man for my sake." In thankfulness rather than in condescension he promised.

Even in disgrace—a felon—how Mortimer was to be envied! Above all else was such abiding love. In his, Crane's, victory was the bitterness of defeat; the other, beaten down, triumphed in the gain of this priceless love.

A sharp material whistle, screeching through its brass dome on the incoming train, cut short these fantastically chaotic thoughts.

"Good-bye, and thank you," said the girl, holding out her hand to Crane.

"Good-bye," he repeated, mechanically.

What had he accomplished? He had beaten lower his rival and wedded firmer to the beaten man the love he prized above all else. In his ears rang the girl's words, "Wait, wait, wait." Irresponsibly he repeated to himself, "All things come to them that wait."

Seated in the car swift whirled toward the city, he was almost surprised to find Farrell by his side. He was like a man in a dream. A vision of gray eyes, blurred in tears of regret, had obliterated all that was material. In defeat his adversary had the victory. He, Philip Crane, the man of calculation, was but a creature of emotion. Bah! At forty if a man chooses to assume the role of Orlando he does it to perfection.

With an effort he swept away the cobweb of dreams and sat upright—Philip Crane, the careful planner.

"You nearly missed the train," said Farrell.

"Did I?" questioned Crane, perplexedly. "I thought I got on in plenty of time."

Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation—a New Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane. Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimming hopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love; and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon him with senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry.

Perhaps a year before this moral angularity would not have affected him; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever or objectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But Allis Porter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He even fought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelong habits of a man. His callousness had been a shield that had saved him troublous misgivings; behind this shield, even in rapacity, he had experienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have put away from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Why should he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangible as a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemed hopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, was equally hopeless in his hour of victory.

Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones that sounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime.

"Will it be a court case?" he queried.

"What?" asked Crane, from his tangled elysium.

"That high roller in the bank."

"Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to." Crane's caution always asserted itself first.

"Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, but when it comes to swearing to a man's identity in court, it's just a bit ticklish."

Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first, then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was now verifying his plans.

Farrell continued, "You see what I mean?"

"I don't," answered Crane, shortly.

"You will if you wait," advised Farrell, a tinge of asperity in his tone. "I'm makin' a book, say. All the blazin' idiots in Christendom is climbin' over me wantin' to know what I'll lay this and what I'll lay that. They're like a lot of blasted mosquitos. A rounder comes up an' makes a bet; if it's small p'r'aps I don't twig his mug at all, just grabs the dough an' calls his number. He may be Rockefeller, or a tough from the Bowery, it don't make no difference to me; all I want is his goods an' his number, see? But a bettor of the right sort slips in an' taps me for odds to a thousand. Nat'rally I'm interested, because he parts with the thousand as though it was his heart's blood. I size him up. There ain't no time fer the writin' down of earmarks, though most like I could point him out in a crowd, an' say, 'That's the rooster.' But sposin' a judge stood up another man that looked pretty much like him, an' asked me to swear one of the guys into ten years in Sing Sing, pr'aps I'd weaken. Mistaken identity is like grabbin' up two kings an' a jack, an' playin' 'em fer threes."

"Which means, if I understand it, that you're guessing at the man—that I've given you all this trouble for nothing."

Crane wished that Farrell had kept his doubts to himself; the case had been made strong by his first decision, and now the devil of uncertainty would destroy the value of identification.

"Not by a jugful!" ejaculated Farrell. "I'm just tellin' you this to show you that we've got to make it complete—we've got to get collateral to back up my pickin'."

"You mean some one else to identify him also?"

"No, not just that; but that's not a bad thought. My clerk, Ned Hagen, must have noticed him too. I mean that the bettor's badge number will be in line with that bet, an' you can probably find out the number of the badge this rooster wore."

An inspiration came with Farrell's words—came to Crane. Why had he not thought of that before? Still it didn't matter. The badge number, Mortimer's number, would be in Faust's book where had been entered the hundred dollars Mortimer put on Lauzanne. He could compare this with the number in Farrell's book; no doubt they would agree; then, indeed, the chain would be completed to the last link. No man on earth could question that evidence.

"It's a good idea, Farrell," he said.

"Bet yer life, it's clear Pinkerton. You'd better come round to my place to-morrow about ten, an' we'll look it up."

"I will," Crane answered.



XLIII.

The old bay horse that crawled back to Ringwood with Allis Porter after her interview with Crane must have thought that the millennium for driving horses had surely come. Even the ambition to urge the patriarch beyond his complacent, irritating dog trot was crushed out of her by the terrible new evidence the banker had brought in testimony against her lover.

"I didn't need this," the girl moaned to herself. In her intensity of grief her thoughts became audible in expressed words. "Oh, God!" she pleaded to the fields that lay in the silent rapture of summer content, "strengthen me against all this falseness. You didn't do it, George—you couldn't—you couldn't! And Alan! my poor, weak brother; why can't you have courage and clear your friend?"

Her heart rose in angry rebellion against her brother, against Crane, against Providence, even against the man she loved. Why should he sacrifice both their lives, become an outcast himself to shield a boy, who in a moment of weakness had committed an act which might surely be forgiven if he would but admit his mistake? yes, it might even be called a mistake. The punishment accepted in heroic silence by Mortimer was out of all proportion to the wrong-doing. It meant the utter ruin of two lives. Firmly as she believed in his innocence, a conviction was forced upon her that unless Alan stood forth and boldly proclaimed the truth the accumulated guilt—proof would cloud Mortimer's name, perhaps until his death. Even after that his memory might linger as that of a thief.

The evening before Alan had been at Ringwood and Allis had made a final endeavor to get him to clear the other's name by confessing the truth to Crane. On her knees she had pleaded with her brother. The boy had fiercely disclaimed all complicity, protested his own innocence with vehemence, and denounced Mortimer as worse than a thief in having poisoned her mind against him.

In anger Alan had disclosed Mortimer's treachery—as he called it—and crime to their mother. Small wonder that Allis's hour of trial was a dark one. The courage that had enabled her to carry Lauzanne to victory was now tried a thousandfold more severely. It seemed all that was left her, just her courage and faith; they had stood out successfully against all denunciation of Lauzanne, and, with God's help, they would hold her true to the man she loved.

Even the pace of a snail lands him somewhere finally, and the unassailed Bay, with a premonition of supper hovering obscurely in his lazy mind, at last consented to arrive at Ringwood.

Allis crept to her father like a fearsome child avoiding goblins. Providentially he had not been initiated into the moral crusade against the iniquitous Mortimer, so the girl clung to him as a drowning person might to a plank of salvation. She longed to tell him everything—of her love for Mortimer, perhaps he had guessed it, for he spoke brave words often of the sturdy young man who had saved her from Diablo. Perhaps she would tell him if she felt her spirit giving way—it was cruel to stand quite alone—and beseech him, as he had faith in her, to believe in her lover.

Allis went to the tea table by her father's side, fearing to get beyond his hearing; she dreaded her mother's questioning eyes. What could be said in the accused man's defense, or in her own? Nothing; she could only wait.

A square old-fashioned wooden clock on the mantelpiece of the sitting room had just droned off seven mellow hours, when the faint echo of its music was drowned by the crunch of gravel; there was the quick step of somebody coming up the drive; then the wooden steps gave hollow notice. The visitor's advent was announced again by the brass knocker on the front door.

"I'll go," said Allis, as her mother rose. The girl knew who it was that knocked, not because of any sane reason; she simply knew it was Mortimer.

When she opened the door he stepped back hesitatingly. Was he not a criminal—was he not about to leave his position because of theft?

"Come in," she said, quietly; "I am glad you have come."

"Shall I? I just want to speak to you for a minute. I said I would come. But I can't see anybody—just you, alone."

"I understand," she answered. "Come inside."

"I am going away," he began; "I can't stand it here."

"You have done nothing—nothing to clear yourself?"

"Nothing."

"And you won't?"

"No."

"Is this wise?"

"It is the inevitable."

They were silent for a little; they were both standing. The girl broke the stillness.

"I am glad you have come, because I can tell you again that I know you are innocent. I know it, because my heart repeats it a thousand times a day. I listen to the small voice and I hear nothing else."

"You never waver—you never doubt?"

"Never."

"You never will?"

"Never."

"Then I care not. Other men have had misfortune thrust upon them and have borne it without complaint, have had less to solace them than you have given me now, and I should be a coward if I faltered. Some day perhaps, you will know that I am worthy of your faith: God grant that the knowledge brings you no fresh misery—there, forgive me, I have said too much; I am even now a coward. If you will say good-bye I'll go."

"Good-bye, my hero." She raised her eyes, blurred with tears, and held out her hand gropingly, as one searches in the dark, for the room whirled like a storm cloud, and just faintly she could see the man's strong face coming to her out of the gloom like the face of a god. He took her hand. "Good-bye," his voice vibrated brokenly; "if—if Justice wills that my innocence be known some day, may I come back? Will you wait, believing in me for a little?"

"Forever."

He drew her to him by the hand he still clasped, and put his strong arms about her. What mattered it now that he had been falsely accused—what mattered it to either of them that he must accept the grim penalty of his endeavor? With them in the soft gloom was nothing but love, and faith, and innocence; and within the strong arms a sense of absolute security, as though the false accusing world had been baffled, beaten down, and the victory theirs—love.

He raised the girl's face and kissed her. "Let God witness that I press your brave lips in innocence," he said; "and in this pledge I love you forever and ever."

"Amen," came from Allis involuntarily; it sounded to them both like the benediction of a high priest.

"Amen,—" he responded. To speak again would have been sacrilege.

He put her from him gently, turned away and walked quickly from the house.

The girl sat for a long time a gray shadow in the gathering darkness. He was gone from her. It seemed as though she had scarce spoken the encouragement she wished to give him. It had been a meeting almost without words; but she felt strangely satisfied. The accusing revelation that had come from Crane in the afternoon had been a crushing blow. It was a mistake, of course; it wasn't true—somehow it wasn't true, but still it had stunned. Now in the gloaming she sat with an angel of peace; big, steadfast, honest eyes, full of thankfulness, looked lovingly at her from where he had stood. If she could sit there forever, with the echo of his deep "Amen" to their love lingering in her ears, she would ask no further gift of the gods.

Mortimer, as with swinging stride he hurried toward the village, let his mind flit back to the room of gray shadows. How little he had said! Had there been aught spoken at all? The strong arms still tingled with tender warmth where the impress of an angel had set them thrilling ecstatically. Yes, what mattered their speech? There had been little of the future—no promise to send word of his well-being—but let the future look to itself. In the present he was king of a love realm that was greater than all the world.

Field after field flitted by, studded here and there by square, gray specters of ghost-like houses that blinked at him with red dragon eyes. Sub-consciously he knew the eyes were searching out the secret that made him in all his misery of misfortune so happy. And he would answer to the eyes, dragon or human, without fear and without shame—because he was innocent—that it was love, the greatest thing in all the world, the love and faith sublime of a good, true woman. Woman had he said?—an angel!



XLIV

As Farrell had suggested, Crane sought him at the office the next day at ten o'clock.

Farrell and his clerk were busy planning an enterprising campaign against men who had faith in fast horses for the coming week at Sheepshead Bay.

"Ah!" the Bookmaker exclaimed when Crane entered, "you want that badge number. Hagen, get the betting sheet for the second last day at Gravesend, and look up a bet of one thousand dollars we roped in over Mr. Crane's horse. I want the number to locate the man that parted—I wish there'd been more like him."

"Do you mean Billy Cass?" queried the clerk.

"Who the devil's Billy Cass?"

"Why the stiff that played The Dutchman for a thou'."

"You know him?" This query from Farrell.

"I should say! He's a reg'lar. Used to bet in Mullen's book last year when I penciled for him."

The clerk brought the betting sheet and ran his finger down a long row of figures.

"That's the bet. A thousand calls three on The Dutchman. His badge number was 11,785. Yes, that's the bet; I remember Billy Cass takin' it. You see," he continued, explanatory of his vivid memory, "he's gen'rally a piker—plays a long shot—an' his limit's twenty dollars; so, when he comes next a favorite that day with a cool thou' it give me stoppage of the heart. Damn'd if I didn't get cold feet. Bet yer life it wasn't Billy's money—not a plunk of it; he had worked an angel, an' was playin' the farmer's stuff for him."

"Are you sure, Mr. Hagen—did you know the man?" Crane asked.

"Know him? All the way—tall, slim, blue eyes, light mustache, hand like a woman."

"That's the man," affirmed Farrell; "that's the man—I saw him yesterday in your place."

Crane stared. For once in his life the confusion of an unexpected event momentarily unsettled him.

"I thought you identified—which man in the bank did you mean?"

"I saw three: a short, dark, hairless kid"—Alan Porter, mentally ticked off Crane; "a tall, dark, heavy-shouldered chap, that, judged by his mug, would have made a fair record with the gloves—"

"Was not that the man you identified as having made the bet?" interrupted Crane, taking a step forward in his intense eagerness.

"Not on your life; it was the slippery-looking cove with fishy eyes."

"Cass," muttered Crane to himself; "but that's impossible—he never left the bank that day; there's some devilish queer mistake here." Farrell had identified David Cass in the bank as the man who had bet with him, while the clerk asserted that one "Billy" Cass had made the same wager. Hagen's description of "Billy" Cass fitted David Cass in a general way. Again the badge number—11,785—was not Mortimer's, as registered in Faust's book.

Crane stood pondering over the complication. He saw that until further investigation disproved it there could be but one solution of this intricate riddle. Billy Cass, the maker of the bet, was a race track frequenter; David Cass was not. They must be separate personalities; but they resembled each other; they were of the same name—they might be brothers. Billy Cass had been in possession of the stolen note; he must have got it from some one having access to it in the bank—Mortimer, Alan Porter, or Cass—the cashier was quite out of the question.

The next move was to trace back through Billy Cass the man who had delivered to him the stolen money. There was still a chance that Mortimer, unfamiliar with betting and possibly knowing of Billy Cass through his brother in the bank—if they were brothers—had used this practical racing man as a commission agent. This seemed a plausible deduction. It was practically impossible that David Cass could have got possession of the bill, for it was locked in a compartment of which Mortimer had the key; the latter had admitted that the keys were not out of his possession.

This far in his hurried mental retrospect Crane spoke to Farrell: "I think this is all we can do at present. I may find it necessary to ask you to identify this Cass, but I hope not to trouble you any further in the matter."

"Hang the trouble!" energetically responded Farrell, with huge disclaiming of obligation; "I'll spend time and money to down a crook any day; I've no use for 'em; a few of that kidney gives the racin' game a black eye. If you need me or Hagen, just squeak, an' we'll hop onto the chap if he's a wrong one with both feet."

Crane said nothing about the other number he had culled from Faust's book; he said nothing about his suspicions of a brotherhood; he wanted to go back to his quarters and think this new problem out.

What if in seeking for conclusive evidence against Mortimer he should prove him innocent? He was treading upon dangerous ground, pushing out of his path with a firebrand a fuse closely attached to a mine that might explode and shatter the carefully constructed fabric.

Sitting in his own chamber he once more went over the whole extraordinary entanglement. Mistaken as it was, Farrell's identification at Brookfield must have strongly affected the mind of Allis Porter. At the time Crane had played an honest part in recounting it to the girl. He had firmly believed that Farrell, owing to his ambiguous report, had meant Mortimer; in fact, Cass had not entered his mind at all. Even yet Mortimer might be the guilty man—probably was. Why should he, Crane, pursue this investigation that might turn, boomerang-like, and act disastrously. Mortimer was either a thief or a hero; there could be no question about that. As a hero, in this case, he was pretty much of a fool in Crane's eyes; but Allis Porter would not look upon it in that light—she would deify him. Crane would commit diplomatic suicide in developing Mortimer's innocence. Again he asked himself why he should proceed. Mortimer was guilty in the strong, convicting light of the apparent evidence; better let it rest that happy way—happy for Crane. But still would he rest satisfied himself? He was not accustomed to doing things by halves. If Cass had stolen the money it would never do to retain him in a position of trust. Then the devil of subtle diplomacy, familiar at all times to Crane, whispered in his ear that he need not blazen to the world the result of his further investigation; he might satisfy himself, and then if Mortimer were found still deeper in the toils it might be spoken of; but if he were found innocent—well, was Crane his brother's keeper? He could adopt one of two plans to get at the truth; he could trace out Billy Cass and extort from him the name of his principal; but if startled, the latter might refuse to divulge anything. Police pressure meant publicity. There was a better plan—Crane always found a better plan in everything. If David Cass had stolen the money he must have sent it to his brother; if that fact were established it would show a connection between the two.

That afternoon Crane took a train to Brookfield. A visit to the village post office disclosed a hidden jewel. As far as Crane was concerned the fate of the two men was held in the hollow of the postmaster's hand. The latter, with little hesitation, allowed him to delve into official secrets.

He learned that David Cass had sent a letter, with a quick-delivery stamp on it, to William Cass, at A B C, East Fourteenth Street, New York, at 3:30 p.m., on June 12. So far as guilt or innocence was concerned there was nothing left to discover; the connection between these two men was demonstrated. Farrell's misidentification established another truth—they were brothers. The letter, hastening to its destination, had contained the stolen money. Mortimer would not give it to Cass to send away; even if he had done so he would not then have gone to Gravesend. Alan Porter had also gone to Gravesend; if he had stolen the money he would have taken it with him.

David Cass, the unsuspected, was the thief. Mortimer, condemned, having restored the money—having taken upon himself with almost silent resignation the disgrace—was innocent. And all this knowledge was in Crane's possession alone, to use as he wished. The fate of his rival was given into his hands; and if he turned down his thumb, so, better for Mortimer that he had been torn of wild beasts in a Roman arena than to be cast, good name and all, to the wolves of righteous humanity.

As a dog carries home a bone too large for immediate consumption, Crane took back this new finding to his den of solitude in New York. At eight o'clock he turned the key in his door, and arm in arm with his now constant companion walked fitfully up and down, up and down, the floor. Sometimes he sat in a big chair that beckoned to him to rest; sometimes he raced with swift speed; once he threw himself upon his bed, and lay staring wide-eyed at the ceiling for hours. What mockery—hours! on the mantelpiece the clock told him that he had ceased his strides for a bare five minutes.

Then he thrust himself back into a chair, and across the table opposite sat Wrong, huge—grinning with a devilish temptation; not gold, but a perfume of lilacs, and the music of soft laughter like the tinkle of silver bells, the bejeweled light of sweet eyes that were gray, and all the temptation that Wrong held in itself was the possession of Allis Porter.

And Crane need commit no crime, unless inaction were a crime—just leave things as they were. In the eyes of the world Mortimer was a thief; he would never claim Allis so branded.

Crane with a word could clear the accused man; he could go to David Cass and force him to confess. But why should he do it—sacrifice all he held dear in life? Everything that he had valued before became obliterated by the blindness of his love for the girl. Yet still the love seemed to soften him. Into his life had come new, strange emotions. The sensuous odor of stephanotis, that had not repelled in the old life, had come to suggest a pestilence in his nostrils, made clean by the purity of lilac. As he swayed in contention, the face of Wrong fronting him became the face of Sin—repellent, abhorrent; how could he ruin her life, and by a criminal act?

Hour by hour the struggle went on, until, exhausted, Crane flung himself upon his bed to rest a few minutes, and sleep, unsought, came and hushed the turmoil of his heart.

Without decision he had cast himself down; his mind, tortured in its perplexity, was unequal to the task of guiding him. So wearied he should have slept for hours, but, as the first glint of sunlight came through the uncurtained window, he sprang from his couch with the call of an uncompleted something in his ears.

But calm had come to him in his sleep; the question of right or wrong had been settled. He tried to remember how he had come to the conclusion that was alone in his rested mind. It must have been before he slept, though his memory failed him, for as he slumbered Allis Porter had come with the big gray eyes full of tears and asked him once again to spare Mortimer humiliation for her sake. And he had answered, "He is innocent." God! he remembered it, even now it thrilled through his frame—she had bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Yes, that was what had wakened him. What foolish things dreams were. He had won just a kiss and had paid the price of his love; and now waking, and in the calm of a conflict passed, he had won over the demon that had tempted him with the perfume of lilacs. He had striven to the point when further strife became a crime. He had lost; but he would prove himself a good loser.



XLV

That day Crane went to Brookfield.

In spirit he was like a man that had been cast into an angry sea, and had battled his way through hungry waves to shore. Saved, the utter weariness of fierce strife hung heavy over his soul, and exhaustion deadened his joy of escape. Just saved, bereft of everything, he looked back over the dark waters and shuddered. And before him a dreary waste of desert shore-land stretched out interminably, and he must wander alone over its vast expanse forever.

Crane in all things was strong. It was strength drawn to right by the influence of the woman he loved that had saved him from the waters that were worse than the broad sands of a desolate life. But he still had something to do, the final act made possible by his redemption.

At Brookfield he went to the hotel, secured an isolated sitting room upstairs, and with this as a hall of justice, followed out with his usual carefulness a plan he had conceived. First he wrote a brief note to Allis Porter asking her to come and see him at once. One line he wrote made certain the girl's coming, "I have important news to communicate concerning Mr. Mortimer." Then he sent the note off with a man. Next he despatched a messenger for David Cass. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. It was three o'clock. "I think five will do," he muttered; "it should be all over by that time." Another note addressed to Mortimer, asking him to call at the hotel at five o'clock, went forth.

The village hotel throbbed with the pressure of unwonted business. The proprietor surmised that a financial matter of huge magnitude was afloat—another farm was being mortgaged, most like; more money for Ringwood probably, for had not a buggy gone out there to bring some one in to the great financier. Those race horses were the devil to put a man in a hole.

David Cass came, treading on the heels of a much-whiskied howler who had summoned him.

"You sent for me, sir?" he asked of Crane. It may have been the stairs—for he had come up hurriedly—that put a waver in his voice; or it may have been a premonition of trouble.

"Take a seat, Mr. Cass," Crane answered, arranging a chair so that a strong light from the one window fell across the visitor's face.

The hostler who had shown Cass to where the big man awaited him lingered, a jagged wobble of humanity, leaning against the door jamb. He expected an order for "Red Eye," as he had baptized strong drink since it had grown familiarly into his being. "Oh!" exclaimed Crane, "I'd forgotten; here's a quarter; much obliged. That's all."

The hostler's unjointed legs, unstable because of recurrent debauchery, carried him disconsolately to lower levels. The Banker must be sure of his business, must have it well in hand, when he ignored the usual diplomatic mollifying preparation of a drink.

The hostler had left the sitting-room door open; Crane closed it carefully, and, sitting with his back to the window, said to the bank clerk: "Mr. Cass, I am going to be very candid with you; I am going to tell you that I have discovered you stole the thousand dollars Mortimer has been accused of taking."

Cass's face blanched a bluish white; his jaw dropped loosely like the jaw of a man who had been suddenly struck a savage blow. His weak, watery, blue eyes opened wide in terror; he gasped for breath; he essayed to speak—to give even a cry of pain, but the muscles of his tongue were paralyzed. His right hand resting on the arm of his chair, as Crane ceased speaking, fell hopelessly by his side, where it dangled like the cloth limb of a dummy.

Crane saw all this with fierce satisfaction. He had planned this sudden accusation with subtle forethought. It even gave him relief to feel his suffering shifted to another; he was no longer the assailed by evil fortune, he was the assailant. Already the sustaining force of right was on his side; what a dreadful thing it was to squirm and shrink in the toils of crime. A thought that he might have been like this had he allowed Mortimer to stand accused flashed through his mind. He waited for his victim to speak.

At last Cass found strength to say: "Mr. Crane, this is a terrible accusation; there is some dreadful mistake—I did not—"

The other interrupted him. The man's defense must be so abjectly hopeless, such a cowardly weak string of lies, that out of pity, as he might have ceased to beat a hound, Crane continued, speaking rapidly, holding the guilty man tight in the grasp of his fierce denunciation.

"You stole that note. You sent it, with a quick-delivery stamp to your brother, Billy Cass, in New York, and he bet it for you on my horse, The Dutchman, on the 13th, and lost it. Mortimer, thinking that Alan Porter had taken the money, replaced it, and you nearly committed a greater crime than stealing when you allowed him to be dishonored, allowed him to be accused and all but convicted of your foolish sin. It is useless to deny it, all this can be proved in court. I have weighed the matter carefully, and if you confess you will not be prosecuted; if you do not, you will be sent to the penitentiary."

Cass, stricken beyond the hope of defense, rose from his chair, steadying himself with his hands on the table, leaned far over it, as though he were drawn physically by the fierce magnetism of his accuser, and spoke in a voice scarce stronger than the treble of a child's: "My God! Mr. Crane! Do you mean it, that you won't prosecute me? Did you say that?"

"Not if you confess."

"Thank God—thank you, sir. I'm glad, I'm glad; I've been in hell for days. I haven't slept. Mortimer's eyes have stared at me all through the night, for I liked him—everybody liked him—he was good to me. Oh, God! I should have gone out of my mind with more of it. I didn't steal the money—no, no! I didn't mean to steal it; the Devil put it into my hands. Before God, I never stole a dollar in my life. But it wasn't that—it wasn't the money—it was to think that an innocent man was to suffer—to have his life wrecked because of my folly."

How it was coming home to Crane. Had he not dabbled his hands in the same sin, almost committed it?

"You have never known what it is to suffer in that way. But let me tell you all. I must. Then perhaps you will understand how I was tempted. For years I have been ground in poverty. My mother and my sister, even my brother have all looked to me. My brother should have supported them, but all his money went on the race course, gambling. When I heard Alan Porter tell Mortimer that your horse was sure to win, for the first time in my life I felt a desire to get money that way. But I had no money to bet. That day as I went into the vault I saw under a lower shelf—the Devil drew my eyes that way—a bank note. I hardly knew it was a bank note, for I saw but a piece of paper indistinctly in the dim light. I picked it up. Oh, God! if I hadn't touched it! I looked at it. My heart jumped in my throat and choked me; my head swam. In my ears were strange voices, saying: 'Take it! Put it in your pocket!' Perhaps it was because it was so large—a thousand dollars—perhaps it was because it seemed lost, out of place, I don't know. I had handled thousands and thousands before, and never felt that way.

"The devil voices that were in my ears said: 'This is your chance. Take it, borrow it, no one will know. Bet it on the horse that will surely win, and you will get many thousands; then you can replace it, and for once in your life you will know what it is to have something of your own.'"

"I tried to put it back. I couldn't. The voices called me a fool, a coward. I thought of my mother, my sister, what I could do if I had the courage. I tried to take it in to Mr. Lane and say that I had found it. I couldn't. Oh, my God! you don't know what it is to be tempted! You have been successful, and don't know how miserably weak ill-fortune makes a man. I yielded—I took it; then when its loss was discovered, and Mortimer was accused, I tried to confess—I couldn't; I was a coward, a traitor, a Judas. Oh, God!"

The overwrought man threw himself face down on the table in front of his grim accuser, like a child's broken doll, and wept with great sobs that shook his frame as the wind lashes the waters into turmoil.

An exultation of righteous victory swept through Crane's soul. He might have been like that; he had been saved from it by his love for a good woman. He could not despise the poor broken creature who confessed so abjectly, because all but in deed he also had sinned. The deepest cry of despair from Cass was because of the sin he had committed against his friend—against Mortimer.

Crane waited until Cass's misery had exhausted itself a little, and when he spoke his voice was soft in pity.

"I understand. Sit in your chair there and be a man. Half an hour ago I thought you a thief—I don't now. You had your time of weakness, perhaps all men have that; you fell by the wayside. I don't think you'll do it again."

"No, no, no! I wouldn't go through the hell I've lived in again for all the money in the world. And I'm so glad that it is known; I feel relief."

"Well, it is better that the truth has come out, because everything can be put right. I was going to make you pay back the thousand dollars to Mortimer—I was going to drive you from the bank—I was going to let it be known that you had stolen the money, but now, I must think. You must have another chance. It's a dangerous thing to wreck lives—"

"My God! it is; that's what haunted me night and day. I felt as though I had murdered a man who had been my friend. I knew he thought young Porter had taken it and was shielding him. The memory of the misery in Mortimer's face at being counted a thief would have stuck to me if I had lived a hundred years."

Cass had interrupted Crane. When he ceased again out of exhaustion, Crane proceeded, "Mortimer must be paid back the money."

"I'll save and work my fingers off till I do it."

"You can't. Those dependent upon you would starve. I'll attend to that myself."

"And you will let me go without—"

"No, you can't go."

"My God! I'm to be prosecuted?"

"No, you can stay in the bank. I don't think you'll ever listen to the voices again; it's bad business."

Cass sat and stared at the strange man who said these things out of silly expressionless eyes that were blurred full of tears.

"Yes, you can go right on as you have been. It will be understood that the money was found, had been mislaid; I'll think that out. It's nobody's business just now; I run the bank and you take orders from me. Go back to your desk and stay there. I've got to tell Mortimer and Miss Porter that you made this mistake, and Lane, too, I suppose, but nobody else will ever know of it. I was going to make you sign a confession, but it's not needed. You may go now."

Cass rose, his thin legs seeming hopelessly inadequate to the task of carrying his body, and said, "Will you take my hand, sir?"

"Of course I will. Just do right from this on, and forget-no, better not forget; remember that there is no crime like weakness; all crime comes from weakness. Be strong, and listen to no more voices. But I needn't tell you. I know from this out I can trust you further than a man who has never been tried."

At the door Cass turned and looked back at the man who had reached down into the abyss, pulled him up, and stood him on his feet. The man was sitting quite still, his back to the light, his head drooped, and Cass could not see his face. He strove futilely for some adequate expression of gratitude, but his senses were numb from the shock of what he had escaped; he simply nodded twice toward the sitting figure, turned, and passed out into the street, where the sunlight baptized him with warmth as though he had been born again.

"Poor, weak devil!" muttered Crane; then he shivered. Had the imbecile's talk of voices got on to his nerves? Surely a voice had whispered derisively in his ear, "Which one is the poor, weak devil?" And in answer within his soul Crane knew that the margin was indeed of infinitesimal narrowness. Cass, hastened in his temptation, yielding to the first insane impulse, not knowing that the damnation of a friend hung on his act, had fallen. He, Crane, in full knowledge that two innocent lives might be wrecked by his doing, had been kept to the right only after hours of struggle, and by the supporting influence of a supreme love. To have gained Allis Porter by the strategy of a villain could not be the method of holy passion. To sacrifice his desire and give her back her lover was love, love worthy of the girl.

For an hour he waited; then there was turmoil on the stairway; horses were surely coming up. At the door a thick voice explained the diversion. The hostler had again arrived, with an hour of increased drunkenness pulling mercilessly at his erratic legs.

"John Porter's gal 'sh here, an'—an'—" the hostler wrestled with the mental exercise that had been entrusted to his muddled brain. He'd swear that she was there, for his eyes had seen her, two of her; and also he had a hazy idea that when he essayed the stairs she had entrusted to him some message. He groped fitfully among the wheels that buzzed in his skull for the elusive something connected with her advent. The heredity of habit came to his assistance.

"D'ye want a drink?" he asked, with a sudden brightening.

"Drink!" a voice cried. "I don't want any drink" A strong hand had him by the collar, and the house was rocking violently to and fro; he could scarcely keep his feet.

"Wake up, you're drunk. Is Miss Porter down stairs?"

"Porter, Porter, yesh, Portersh gal; thatsh what I said. Whatsh matter with you?—leg-go. Keep cool, don't get excited."

"Here, get out—go down stairs!" And he did, hurriedly.

Crane had followed him down. Allis was standing just within the hall door.

"Good afternoon, Miss Porter," he said. "It was good of you to come. I've got something very important to tell you, and it's better that we have quiet—it doesn't seem quite the usual order of things here. Should you mind coming upstairs to the sitting room, where we shall be undisturbed?"

"I don't mind," answered the girl, simply.

"Have a chair," he said, motioning to the one Cass had lately sat in.

Crane did not take the other seat, but paced restlessly up and down the room; it cooled the fever of his mind.

"I hope it isn't more bad news, Mr. Crane," Allis said; for her companion seemed indisposed to break the silence.

"It is—" the girl started—"for me," Crane added, after a little pause; "and yet I am glad."

"That sounds strange," Allis commented, wonderingly.

"What I am going to say to you means the destruction of the dearest hope I have in life, but it can't be helped. Now I wouldn't have it any other way."

Suddenly he stopped in his swift pace, faced the girl, and asked, "You are quite sure you can't love me?" He was waiting for an answer.

"No, I can't—I hate to cause you misery, but I must speak the truth; you have asked for it."

"And you've answered honestly. I know it was foolish in me to ask the impossible. Just one more question and then I will tell you why I brought you here. Do you still believe in Mortimer's innocence—do you love Mortimer?"

"Yes."

"If I were to tell you that he is innocent, that I have discovered the guilty one."

"Oh, my God!" It was a cry of sudden joy, incapable of exact expression, irrelevant in its naming of the Deity, but full in its exultation of soul. Then, in quick transformation, the girl collapsed, as Cass had done, and huddled in her chair, stricken by the sudden conviction that the crime had been brought home to her brother. Her lover was guiltless; but to joy over it was a sin, inhuman, for was not Alan the thief, if Mortimer were innocent?

Crane understood. He had forgotten. He stepped quickly to the girl's side, put his hand tenderly on her head; her big gray eyes stared up at him full of a shrinking horror.

"Poor little woman!" he said, "your big, tender heart will be the death of you yet. But I've got only good news for you this time. Neither Mortimer nor Alan took the money—it was Cass."

"They are both innocent?"

"Yes, both."

"Oh, my God, I thank Thee." She pulled herself up from the chair, holding to Crane's arm, and looking in his face, said, "You did this; you found the guilty man for me?"

Crane nodded his head; and it came to the girl as she looked, that the eyes she had thought narrow in evil grew big and round and full of honesty, and soft with gentleness for her.

"How can I thank you—what can I do or say to repay you?" She knew what it must have cost the man to clear his rival's name.

"It was your doing, Miss Allis; it is I who must thank you. You made a man of me, brought more good into my life than had been there for forty years. I will be honest. I did not do this of myself, my own free will. In my love for you, and desire to have you with me always, I almost committed a crime. I was tempted to conceal the discovery I had made; I knew that if I cleared Mortimer you were lost to me. I struggled with temptation and fell asleep still not conquering it. In my sleep I dreamed—I don't think it was a dream—it was like a vision—you came to me, and when I said that Mortimer was innocent, you kissed me on the forehead. I woke then, and the struggle had ceased—the temptation had passed. I came down here, and Cass has confessed that he took the money."

"Would you like it—would you think it wrong—it seems so little for me to do—may I kiss you now, as I did in your dream, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for making me so happy? It all seems like a dream to me now."

For answer Crane inclined his head, and Allis, putting her hand upon his shoulder, kissed him on the forehead, and through him went a thrill of great thankfulness, of joy such as he knew would never have come to him had he gained through treachery even this small token of conquest.

"There," he said, taking Allis by the arm, and gently drawing her back to the chair; "now I am repaid a thousandfold for not doing a great wrong. You have beaten me twice within a few days. I fancy I should almost be afraid to be your husband, you master me so easily."

"That's Mortimer coming," Crane said, suddenly, as a step with more consistency in its endeavor than pertained to the hostler's, sounded, coming up the stairs. "I sent for him," he added, seeing the look of happy confusion in Allis's face.

"Come in," he called cheerily, in answer to a knock on the door.

"You sent for me—" Then Mortimer stopped suddenly, and stood staring first at Allis, then at Crane, alternately, back and forth from one to the other.

Crane turned his back upon the younger man and busied himself wondrously over the manipulation of a chair. A strange dread crept into Mortimer's heart; it smothered him; he felt dizzy. Why did Allis look so happy—why were there smiles on her lips when she must know there were ashes of gloom in his soul? Why was she alone there with Crane? Was it but another devilish trick of the misfortune that pursued him?

"Good afternoon, Miss" the words stuck in Mortimer's throat, and he completed his greeting with a most dreadfully formal bow.

The girl laughed outright; how droll it was to see a man trying to make himself unhappy when there was nothing but happiness in the world. Through the open window she could hear the birds singing, and through it came the perfume of clover-buried fields; across the floor streamed warm, bright sunlight from a blue sky in which was no cloud. And from their lives, Mortimer's and her own, had been swept the dark cloud—and here, in the midst of all this joy was her lover with a long, sad face, trying to reproach her with a stiff, awkward bow.

Her laugh twirled Crane about like a top. He saw the odd situation; there was something incongruous in Mortimer's stiff attitude. Crane had a big cloud of his own not quite driven from his sky, but a smile hovered on his thin lips. This happiness was worth catching.

Mortimer noticed the distasteful mirth reflected in the other man's face, and he repeated with asperity, "You sent for me, sir—may I ask—"

"Will you take a chair," said Crane, and he pushed the one he had been toying with toward Mortimer. The latter remained standing.

Allis sprang forward and caught him by the arm—Crane turned away, suddenly discovering that from the window the main street of Brookfield was a most absorbing study.

"I'm so happy," began Allis. Mortimer shivered in apprehension. Why had Crane turned his face away—what was coming? How could she be happy, how could anyone in the world be happy? But evidently she was. She stole a quick look at Crane—to be exact, Crane's back, for his head and shoulders were through the window.

Then the girl—she had to raise on her tiptoes—kissed the sad man on the cheek. I'm ashamed to say that he stared. Were they all mad—was he not standing with one foot in the penitentiary?

She drew him toward the chair, calling to Crane: "Will you please tell Mr. Mortimer the good news. I am too happy; I can't."

A fierce anger surged in Mortimer's heart; it was true, then—his disgrace had been too much for Allis. The other had won; but it was too cruel to kiss him.

Crane faced about, and coming forward, held out his hand to the man of distrust. "I hope you'll forgive me."

Mortimer sprang to his feet, shoving back his chair violently, and stood erect, drawn to his full height, his right hand clenched fiercely at his side. "Shake hands? No, a thousand times no!" he muttered to himself.

Crane saw the action, and his own hand dropped. "Perhaps I ask too much," he said, quietly; "I wronged you—"

Mortimer set his teeth and waited. There were great beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his broad chest set his breath whistling through contracted nostrils. A pretty misdirected passion was playing him. This was why they had sent for him—the girl he would have staked his life on had been brought to believe in his guilt, and had been won over to his rival. Ah—a new thought; his mind, almost diseased by unjust accusation, prompted it—perhaps it was to save him from punishment that Allis had consented to become Crane's wife.

"But I believed you guilty—" Mortimer started as Crane said this "now I know that you are innocent, I ask—"

Mortimer staggered back a step and caught at the chair to steady himself. He repeated mechanically the other's words: "You know I'm innocent?"

"Yes, I've found the guilty man."

"Then Alan—oh, the poor lad! It's a mistake—you are wrong. The boy didn't take the money—I took it."

Crane looked at him in admiration, an indulgent smile on his lips.

"Nonsense, my dear sir!" he exclaimed, dryly; "Alan did not take the money—neither did you. Cass took it, and you wasted a day of the bank's time covering the crime for him."

"Cass took it?" asked Mortimer in a dazed way, looking from Crane to Allis.

"Yes; he has confessed, so you see he's ahead of you in that line" He went on, speaking hurriedly: "I ask you to forgive me now for my suspicions. Your innocence is completely established. You acted like a hero in trying to shield Alan Porter, and I like men of that stamp. The thousand dollars you paid in will be restored to you; it is yours. We will devise some scheme for clearing up the matter as far as your good name is concerned that will shield poor Cass from people who have no business in this affair."

"But how did Cass manage to get the note?"

"Found it on the floor of the vault, he says."

"I don't see how it could have fallen out of the box, because the three bills were pinned to the note."

Crane drew forth a pocket book, and opening it took out the bill that had been stolen. He examined it closely, holding it up in front of the window.

"I think you are mistaken," he said, "there are no pin holes in this bill; I see," he continued, "the pin had not gone through this one; being detached, in handling the box, it has slipped out."

"It must have," concurred Mortimer. "I remember in putting the box in the compartment once I had to turn it on its edge; the bill being loose, as you say, has slipped to the floor, and as the vault was dark I did not notice it."

"It doesn't matter," added Crane. "I must go now. Good-bye, Miss Allis."

Turning to Mortimer he held out his hand.

"Good-bye, and long happiness to you both," he said; "I trust you will think kindly of me and poor Cass. I am sure we are sorry for what has been done."

As Crane went down the stairs he wondered why he had coupled himself with Cass. Was the difference so slight—had they been together in the same boat up to the point of that silly, fantastic dream. Perhaps they had.



XLVI

With the going of Crane an awkward restraint came over the two who were left; the man who had suffered so much for the woman's sake, and the girl who had endeavored so much.

He was like a man suddenly thrust into a new world of freedom; he indulged in a physical manifestation of its exhilaration, drinking in a long, deep draught of the clover-scented air, until his great lungs sighed with the plethora. It seemed a lifetime that he had lived in the noisome atmosphere of a felon's cell. But now the crime had dropped from him; a free man in every sense of the word, he could straighten himself up and drink of the air that was without taint.

Allis watched Mortimer curiously; she was too happy to speak—just to look upon him standing there, her undefiled god, her hero, with his heroism known and applauded, was a suffusing ecstasy. He was so great, so noble, that anything she might say would be inane, tawdry, inconsequent; so she waited, patiently happy, taking no count of time, nor the sunshine, nor the lilt of the birds, nor even the dissolution of conventionality in the unsupervised tete-a-tete.

The ecstatic magnetism of congenial silence has always a potency, and its spell crept into Mortimer's soul and laid embargo on his tongue. He crossed over to Allis, and taking her slender hand in his own, crouched down on the floor beside her chair, and looked up into her face, just as a great St. Bernard might have done, incapable of articulating the wealth of love and gratitude and faithfulness that was in his heart.

Even then the girl did not speak. She drew the man's strong rugged head close up to her face, and nestled her cheek against his. Love without words; love greater than words. It was like a fairy dream; if either spoke the gentle gossamer web of it would float away like mist, and of needs they must talk of the misery that had passed.

In the end the girl spoke first, saying like a child having a range of but few words, "You are happy now, my hero?"

"Too happy—I almost fear to wake and find that I've been dreaming."

She kissed him.

"Yes, it's real," he answered; "in dreams happiness is not so positive as this. You did not doubt?" he queried.

"Never."

"You would have waited?"

"Forever."

"And now—and now, we must still wait."

"Not forever."

They talked of the wonderful necromancy the gods had used to set their lives to the sweet music of happiness. How Lauzanne the Despised had saved Ringwood to her father; how he had won Alan's supposed price of redemption for Mortimer; how he had stood sturdy and true to the girl of much faith and all gentleness. And the room became a crypt of confessional when she, in penitence, told of her ride on the gallant Chestnut.

Just a span of Fate's hand from these two happy mortals, and twice the sand had sifted through the hour glass, sat a man all alone in his chamber. On his table was the dust of solitariness; and with his finger he wrote in it "Forever." But he looked fearlessly across the board, for there sat no grinning demon of temptation, nor remorse, nor fear. But a fragrance as of lilacs and of sweet clover coming through an open window was in his nostrils; and in his memory was the picture of a face he loved, made like unto an angel's with gratitude, and on his forehead still burned, like a purifying fire, a kiss that reached down into his soul and filled him with the joy of thankfulness.

THE END