Title: The Seventh Noon
Author: Bartlett, Frederick Orin
Language: English
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[Frontispiece: "Spring," she answered.  "Just spring"
(missing from book)]



THE SEVENTH NOON

BY

FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT


_Author of "The Web of the Golden Spider",
"Joan of the Alley," etc._



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

EDMUND FREDERICK



BOSTON

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY

PUBLISHERS



COPYRIGHT, 1910

By Small, Maynard & Company

(INCORPORATED)


Entered at Stationers' Hall



Two editions before publication, January, 1910



To

K. P. B. and K. J. B.



CONTENTS


CHAPTER

      I  THE BLACK DOG
     II  KING OF TO-DAY
    III  THE BEGINNING OF THE END
     IV  KISMET
      V  THE INNER WOODS
     VI  THE SHADOW ON THE PORTRAITS
    VII  THE ARSDALES
   VIII  THE MAN WHO KNEW
     IX  DAWN
      X  OUTSIDE THE HEDGE
     XI  A PARTING AND A MEETING
    XII  DISTRICT MESSENGER 3457
   XIII  THE SLEEPERS
    XIV  CONSEQUENCES
     XV  THE DERELICT
    XVI  THE FOURTH DAY
   XVII  AN INTERLUDE
  XVIII  THE MAKING OF A MAN
    XIX  A MIRACLE
     XX  A LONG NIGHT
    XXI  FACING THE SUN
   XXII  CLOUDS
  XXIII  WHEN THE DEAD AWAKE
   XXIV  THE GREATER MASTER
    XXV  THE SHADOW ON THE FLOOR
   XXVI  ON THE BRINK
  XXVII  THE END OF THE BEGINNING
 XXVIII  THE SEVENTH NOON



ILLUSTRATIONS


"Spring," she answered.  "Just spring" . . . _Frontispiece_

"What, you, Miss Arsdale?"

As he studied her it seemed certain that she was
by no means enjoying herself in her present company

Facing her he faced the pendulum which ticked
out to him the cost of each new picture he had of her

He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way

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

At noon!  At the seventh noon, the whistle was to blow!



The Seventh Noon


CHAPTER I

_The Black Dog_

"The right to die?"

Professor Barstow, with a perplexed scowl ruffling the barbette of gray
hairs above his keen eyes, shook his head and turning from the young
man whose long legs extended over the end of the lean sofa upon which
he sprawled in one corner of the laboratory, held the test-tube, which
he had been studying abstractedly, up to the light.  The flickering gas
was not good for delicate work, and it was only lately that Barstow,
spurred on by a glimpse of the end to a long series of experiments, had
attempted anything after dark.  He squinted thoughtfully at the yellow
fluid in the tube and then, resuming his discussion, declared
emphatically,

"We have no such right, Peter!  You 're wrong.  I don't know where,
because you put it too cleverly for me.  But I know you 're dead
wrong--even if your confounded old theories are right, even if your
deductions are sound.  You 're wrong where you bring up."

"Man dear," answered the other gently, "you are too good a scientist to
reason so.  That is purely feminine logic."

"I am too good a scientist to believe that anything so complex as human
life was meant to be wasted in a scheme where not so much as an atom is
lost.  Bah, your liver is asleep!  Too much work--too much work!  The
black dog has pounced upon your shoulders!"

"I never had an attack of the blues or anything similar in my life,
Barstow," Donaldson denied quietly.  "You 'll propose smelling salts
next."

"Then what the devil does ail you?"

"Nothing ails me.  Can't a man have a few theories without the aid of
liver complaint?"

"Not that kind.  They don't go with a sound constitution.  When a man
begins to talk of finding no use for life, he 's either a coward or
sick.  And--I know you 're not a coward, Peter."

The man on the couch turned uneasily.

"Nor sick either.  You are as stubborn and narrow as an old woman,
Barstow," he complained.

"Living is n't a matter of courage, physical or moral.  It suits
you--it doesn't happen to suit me, but that doesn't mean that you are
well and moral while I 'm sick and a coward.  My difficulty is
simple--clear; I haven't the material means to get out of life what I
want.  I 'll admit that I might get it by working longer, but I should
have to work so many years in my own way that there would n't in the
end be enough of me left to enjoy the reward.  Now, if I don't like
that proposition, who the devil is to criticize me for not accepting
it?"

"It's quitting not to stay."

"It would be if we elected to come.  We don't.  Moreover, my case is
simplified by circumstances--no one is dependent upon me either
directly or indirectly.  I have no relatives--few friends.  These, like
you, would call me names for a minute after I 'd gone and then forget."

"You 're talking beautiful nonsense," observed Barstow.

"Schopenhauer says--"

"Damn your barbaric pessimists and all their hungry tribe!"

Donaldson smiled a trifle condescendingly.

"What's the use of talking to you when you 'll not admit a sound
deduction?  And yet, if I said you don't know what results when you put
together two known chemicals, you 'd--"

There was a look in Barstow's face that checked Donaldson,--a look of
worried recollection.

"I 'd say nothing," he asserted earnestly, "because I _don't_ always
know."

For a moment his fingers fluttered over the medley of bottles upon the
shelves before him.  They paused over a small vial containing a
brilliant scarlet liquid.  He picked it out and held it to the light.

"See this?" he asked.

Donaldson nodded indifferently.

"It is a case in point.  Theoretically I should have here the innocuous
union of three harmless chemicals; as a matter of fact I had occasion
to experiment with it and learned that I had innocently produced a
vicious and unheard-of poison.  The stuff is of no use.  It is one of
those things a man occasionally stumbles upon in this work,--better
forgotten.  How do I account for it?  I don't.  Even in science there
is always the unknown element which comes in and plays the devil with
results."

"But according to your no-waste theory, even this discovery ought to
have some use," commented Donaldson with a smile.

"Well," drawled the chemist whimsically, "perhaps it has; it makes
murder very simple for the laity."

"How?"

Barstow turned back to his test-tube, relieved that the conversation
had taken another turn.

"Because of the slowness with which it works.  It requires seven days
for the system to assimilate it and yet the stomach stubbornly retains
it all this while.  It is impossible to eliminate it from the body once
it is swallowed.  It produces no symptoms and leaves no evidence.
There is no antidote.  In the end it paralyzes the heart--swiftly,
silently, surely."

Donaldson sat up.

"Any pain?" he inquired.

"None."

Barstow ran his finger over a calendar on the wall.  Then he glanced at
his watch.

"Stay a little while longer and you can see for yourself how it works.
I am making a final demonstration of its properties."

Barstow stepped into the next room.  He was gone five minutes and
returned with a scrawny bull terrier scrambling at his heels.  The
little brute, overjoyed at his release, frisked across the floor,
clumsily tumbling over his own feet, and sniffed as an overture of
friendship at Donaldson's low shoes.  Then wagging his feeble tail he
lifted his head and patiently blinked moist eyes awaiting a verdict.
The young man stooped and scratched behind its ears, the dog holding
his head sideways and pressing against his ankles.  He looked like a
dog of the streets, but in his eyes there was the dumb appreciation of
human sympathy which neutralizes breeding and blood.  As Barstow
returned to his work, the pup followed after him in a series of awkward
bounds.

"Poor little pup," murmured Donaldson, sympathetically leaning forward
with his arms upon his knees.  "What's his name?"

"Sandy.  But he 's a lucky little pup according to you; within an hour
by the clock he ought to be dead."

"Dead?"

"If my poison works.  It was seven days ago to-night that I gave him a
dose."

Donaldson's brows contracted.  He was big-hearted.  This seemed a cruel
thing to do.  He whistled to the pup and called him by name, "Sandy,
Sandy."  But the dog only wagged his tail in response and snuggled with
brute confidence closer to his master.  Donaldson snapped his fingers
coaxingly, leaning far over towards him.  Reluctantly, at a nod from
Barstow, the dog crept belly to the ground across the room.  Donaldson
picked up the trembling terrier and settling him into his lap passed
his hand thoughtfully over the warm smooth sides where he could feel
the heart pounding sturdily.

From the dog, Donaldson lifted his eyes to Barstow's back.  They were
dark brown eyes, set deep below a square forehead.  His head, too, was
square and drooped a bit between loose shoulders.  He smiled to himself
at some passing thought and the smile cast a pleasant softness over
features which at rest appeared rather angular and decidedly intense.
The mouth was large and the irregular teeth were white as a hound's.
His black hair was cut short and at the temples was turning gray,
although he had not yet reached thirty.  It was an eager face, a strong
face.  It hardened to granite over life in the abstract and softened to
the feminine before concrete examples of it.

"It is a bit of a paradox," he resumed, "that so harmless a creature as
you, Barstow, should stumble upon so deadly an agent.  What do you call
it?"

"I have n't reported it yet.  I don't know as I care to have my name
coupled with it in these days of newspaper notoriety--even though it
may be my one bid for fame."

Donaldson drew a package of Durham from his pocket and fumbled around
until he found a loose paper.  He deftly rolled a cigarette, his long
fingers moving with the dexterity of a pianist.  He smoked a moment in
silence, exhaling the smoke thoughtfully with his eyes towards the
ceiling.  The dog, his neck outstretched on Donaldson's knee, blinked
sleepily across the room at his master.  The gas, blown about by drafts
from the open window, threw grotesque dancing shadows upon the stained,
worn boards of the floor.  Finally Donaldson burst out, ever recurring
to the one subject like a man anxious to defend himself,

"Barstow, I tell you that merely to cling to existence is not an act in
itself either righteous or courageous.  If we owe obligations to
individuals we should pay them to the last cent.  If we owe obligations
to society, we should pay those, too,--just as we pay our poll tax.
But life is a straight business proposition--pay in some form for what
you get out of it.  There are no individuals in my life, as I said.
And what do I owe society?  Society does not like what I offer--the
best of me--and will not give me what I want--the best of _it_.  Very
well, to the devil with society.  Our mutual obligations are cancelled."

Barstow, still busy with his work, shook his head.

"You come out wrong every time," he insisted.  "You don't seem to get
at the opportunities there are in just living."

The young man took a long breath.

"So?" he demanded between half closed teeth.  "No?" he challenged with
bitter intensity.  "You are wrong; I know all that it is possible for
life to mean!  That's the trouble.  Oh, I know clear to my parched
soul!  I was made to live, Barstow,--made to live life to its fullest!
There isn't a bit of it I don't love,--love too well to be content much
longer to play the galley slave in it.  To live is to be free.  I love
the blue sky above until I ache to madness that I cannot live under it;
I love the trees and grasses, the oceans, the forests and the denizens
of the forests; I love men and women; I love the press of crowds, the
clamor of men; I love silks and beautiful paintings and clean white
linen and flowers; I love good food, good clothes, good wine, good
music, good sermons, and good books.  All--all it is within me to love
and to desire mightily.  How I want those things--not morbidly--but
because I have five good senses and God knows how many more; because I
was _made_ to have those things!"

"Then why don't you keep after them?" demanded Barstow coldly.

"Because the price of them is so much of my soul and body that I 'd
have nothing left with which to enjoy them afterwards.  You can't get
those things honestly in time to enjoy them, in one generation.  You
can't get them at all, unless you sell the best part of you as you did
when you came to the Gordon Chemical Company.  Oh Lord, Barstow, how
came you to forget all the dreams we used to dream?"

Barstow turned quickly.  There was the look upon his face as of a man
who presses back a little.  For a moment he appeared pained.  But he
answered steadily,

"I have other dreams now, saner dreams."

"Saner dreams?  What are your saner dreams but less troublesome
dreams,--lazier dreams?  Dreams that fit into things as they are
instead of demanding things as they should be?  You sleep o' nights
now; you sleep snugly, you tread safely about the cage they trapped you
into."

"Then let me alone there.  Don't--don't poke me up."

Donaldson snapped away his cigarette.

"No.  Why should I?  But I 'll have none of it.  That damned Barnum,
'Society,' shall not catch me and trim my claws and file my teeth."

He laughed to himself, his lips drawn back a little, rubbing behind the
pup's ears.  The dog moved sleepily.

"Barstow," he continued more calmly, "this is n't a whine.  I 'm not
discouraged--it is n't that.  I 'm not frightened, nor despondent, nor
worried, understand.  I know that things will come out all right by the
time I 'm fifty, but I shall then be fifty.  I 'd like a taste of the
jungle now--a week or two of roaming free, of sprawling in the
sunshine, of drinking at the living river, of rolling under the blue
sky.  I 'd like to slash around uncurbed outside the pale a little.  I
'd like to do it while I 'm young and strong,--I 'd like to do it now."

"In brief," suggested Barstow, "you desire money."

"Enough so that I might forget there was such a thing."

"Well, you 'll have to sell something of yourself to get it."

"Just so.  I won't and there you are.  You see I don't fit."

Donaldson paused a moment and then went on.

"You know something of my story, you alone of all this grinding city.
You saw me in college and in the law school, where on a coolie diet I
did a man's work.  But even you don't know how close to hard pan I was
during those seven years,--down to crackers and water for weeks at a
time."

"You don't mean to say you went hungry?"

"Hungry?" laughed Donaldson.  "Man dear, there were days when I was
starving!  I 've been to classes when I was so weak I could n't push my
pencil.  I was hungry, and cold, and lonesome, but at that time I had
my good warm, well-fed dreams, so I did n't mind so much.  And always I
thought it would be better next year, but it was n't.  None of the
things that come to some men fell to me; it continued the same old
pitiless grind until I began to expect it.  Then I said to myself that
it would be different when I got through.  But it was n't.  I finished,
and you are the only pleasant recollection I have of all that past.
You used to let me sit by your fire and now and then you brought out
cake they had sent you from home."

"Good Lord," groaned Barstow, "why did n't you let a fellow know?"

"Why should I let you know?  It was my fight.  But I 've watched by the
hour your every move about the room, so hungry that my pulse increased
or decreased as you neared or retreated from the closet where you kept
that cake.  I 'll admit that this condition was a good deal my
fault,--I had a cursed false pride that forbade my doing for grub what
some of the fellows did.  Then, too, I was an optimist; it was coming
out all right in the end.  But it did n't and it has n't."

Donaldson paused.

"Am I boring you, old man?"

"No!  No!  Go on.  But if I had suspected--"

"You could not then have been the friend you were to me,--I 'd have cut
you dead.  And understand, I 'm not recalling this now for the purpose
of exciting sympathy.  I don't deserve sympathy; I went my own gait and
cheerfully paid the cost, content with my dreams of the future.  I
would n't sell one whit of myself.  I wouldn't sacrifice one
extravagant belief.  I would n't compromise.  And I 'm glad I did n't.

"When I finished my course you lost sight of me, but it was the same
old thing over again.  I refused to accept a position in a law office,
because I would n't be fettered.  I had certain definite notions of how
a law practice ought to be conducted,--of certain things a decent man
ought not to do.  This in turn barred me from a job offered by a street
railway company and another by a promoting syndicate.  I took a room
and waited.  It has been a long wait, Barstow, a bitter long wait.
Four barren years have gone.  I have been hungry again; I have gone on
wearing second-hand clothes; I have slept in second-class surroundings;
my life has resembled life about as much as the naked trees in the Fall
resemble those in June.  I have existed after a fashion and learned
that if I skimp and drudge and save for twenty years I can then begin
to do the things I wish to do.  But not before,--not before without
compromise.  And I 've had enough of the will o' the wisp Future,
enough of the shadowy to-morrows.  I 've saved a few hundreds and had a
few hundreds left me recently by the last relative I had on earth.  I
'd like to take this and squander it--live a space."

"Why don't you?"

"It's the curse of coming back, and the mere fact that your heart
continues to tick forces that upon you.  There is only one way--one way
to dodge the mortgage I would place upon my Future by spending these
savings."

"And that?"

"Not to let the heart tick on; to bar the future."

Donaldson moved a bit uneasily.  As he did so the pup lost his balance
and fell to the floor.  The little fellow struck upon his side but
instantly regained his feet, blinking sleepily at the light.  Barstow
took out his watch and squatting nearer him studied him with interest.

Suddenly the dog's legs crumpled beneath him.  He tried to stand, to
make his way to his master, but instantly toppled over on his side.
Donaldson reached for him.  That which he lifted was like a limp glove.
He drew back from it in horror, glancing up at Barstow.

"You see," exclaimed the chemist with evident satisfaction, "almost to
the hour!"

"But he isn't--"

"Dead!"

"Poor Sandy!  Poor Sandy!"

Donaldson gingerly passed his fingers over the dog's hair.  He was
curiously unconvinced.  There was no responsive lift of the head, no
contented wagging of the tail, but that was the only difference.  A
moment ago the dog had been asleep for an hour; now he was asleep for
an eternity.  That was the only difference.

"Well," reflected Barstow, "Sandy had his week; beefsteak, bread and
milk, all he could eat."

"Is n't that better than being still alive,--hungry in the gutters?"

"God knows," answered Barstow solemnly, as he picked up the body and
carried it into the next room.  "You see what is left."

As Barstow went out, Donaldson crossed to the chemist's desk.  He
fumbled nervously among the bottles until he found the little vial
Barstow had pointed out.  He had just time to thrust this into his
pocket and reseat himself before Barstow returned.  At the same moment
there was a firm but decidedly feminine knock upon the outer door.  The
chemist seemed to recognize it, for instead of his usual impatient
shout he went to the door and opened it.  And yet, when the feeble
light revealed his visitor he evinced surprise.

"What, you, Miss Arsdale?"

[Illustration: "_What, you, Miss Arsdale?_"]

"Yes, Professor," she answered, slightly out of breath.  "I thought
that if I hurried I might possibly find you here.  I am all out of my
brother's medicine and I did not dare wait until to-morrow."

"I 'm glad you did n't," he responded heartily.  "If you will sit down
a moment I will prepare it."

Donaldson glanced up, irritated to think he had not left earlier and so
escaped the inevitable introduction.  He saw a young woman of perhaps
twenty-two or three, and then--the young woman's eyes.  They were dark,
but not black, a sort of silver black like gun metal.  They were, he
noted instantly, apparently more mature than the rest of her features,
as is sometimes true when the soul grows out of proportion to the
years.  Her hair was of a reddish brown; brown in the shadows, a golden
red as she stood beneath the gas-jet.  She was a little below medium
height, rather slight, and was dressed in a dark blue pongee suit, the
coat of which reached to her ankles.  One might expect most anything of
her, thought Donaldson, child or woman.  It would no more surprise one
to see her in tears over a trifle than standing firm in a crisis;
bending over a wisp of embroidery, or driving a sixty horse-power
automobile.  Of one thing Donaldson thought he could be sure; that
whatever she did she would do with all her heart.

These and many other fugitive thoughts passed through Donaldson's brain
during the few minutes he was left here alone with her.  What was said
he could not remember a minute afterwards; something of the night,
something of the brilliant reflections of the gas-light in the
varicolored bottles, something of the approaching summer.  Her thoughts
seemed to be as far removed from this small room as were his own.

"Your patient is better?" Barstow inquired, when he returned with the
package.

Her face lightened instantly.

"Yes," she answered, "much better."

"Good."  He added, "I should n't think it safe for you to be out alone
at night.  Have n't there been a good many highway robberies recently
in your neighborhood?"

"You have heard?"

"It would be difficult to listen to the newsboys and not hear that.
The last one, a week ago, made the fourth, didn't it?"

"I don't know.  I seldom read the papers.  They are too horrible."

"I will gladly escort you if--"

"I could n't think of troubling you," she protested, starting at once
for the door.  "I 'm in the machine, so I 'm quite safe.  Good night."

With a nod and smile to both men she went out.

Donaldson himself prepared to go at once.

"Well, old man," he apologized nervously to the chemist, "pardon me for
boring you so long.  It is bad taste I know for a man to air such views
as mine, but it has done me good."

"Take my advice and forget them yourself.  Go into the country.  Loaf a
little in the sunshine.  Stay a week.  I 'm going off for a while
myself."

"You leave--"

"Within a few days, possibly.  I can't tell."

"Well, s' long and a pleasant trip to you."

Donaldson gripped the older man's hand.  The latter gazed at him
affectionately, apprehensively.

"See here, Peter," he broke out earnestly.  "There is one thing even
better for you than the country, a thing that includes the sunshine and
everything else worth while in life.  I have hesitated about mentioning
it, but this girl who was here made me think of it again.  You know I
'm not a sentimental man, Peter?"

"Unless you have changed.  But your panacea?"

"Love."

"That's a generic term."

"Just plain human love, love for a woman like this one who was here.  I
wish you knew her.  She 'd be good for you; she 'd give your present
self-centred life a broader meaning."

Donaldson turned away.

"Barstow," he replied uneasily, "you 're good,--good clear through, but
we move in different worlds.  It is n't in me to love as you mean.  I
'm too critical, which is to say too selfish."

"I think you are selfish, Peter," Barstow agreed frankly, "but I don't
think it's your nature.  You 've got into the Slough of Despond, and
the only thing that will drag you out of that is love, love of
something outside yourself.  Try it."

Donaldson shook his head.

"You 're as good as gold," he declared, "but the things which content
you and me are not the same.  Good night."

"Good night.  Be sure to drop in again when I get back."

Donaldson went out the door.  He groped his way down the stairs into
the street.  Once he swung abruptly on his heel and stared at the
pavement behind him.  He thought he heard at his heels the scratching
padded tread of the pup.



CHAPTER II

_King of To-day_

Donaldson pressed his way along the lighted streets, clutching the vial
in his pocket with the thrill of a man holding the key to fretting
shackles.  One week of life with the future eliminated; one week with no
reckoning to be made at the end; one week with every human fetter struck
off; one week in which to ignore every curbing law of futurity and
abandon himself to the joy of the present!  The future--even the narrow
bounds of an earthly future--holds men prisoners.  A few careless dogs,
to be sure, live their day, blind to the years to come, but that is brute
stupidity.  A few brave souls swagger through their prime with some
bravado, knowing the final cost, but willing to pay it by installments
through the dribbling years which follow; but the usury of time makes
that folly.  The wise choke such gypsy impulses--admit the mortgage of
the Present to the Future--and surrender the brisk liberty of youth to
the limping freedom of old age.  But Donaldson was too thoughtful a man
to belong to either the first or second class and yet of too lusty stuff
to join the third.

There were now just two doubtful points which checked him in his first
impulse to swallow the deadly elixir at once,--two questions needing
further thought before he would have a clear conscience about it; he must
convince himself a trifle more clearly that he shifted nothing to the
load of those he left behind, and he must make sure that no element of
fear entered into his act.  That phrase of Barstow's, "It's quitting not
to stay," smarted a bit.

In spite of these vital problems, Donaldson was keenly conscious, even
with his wild freedom still nothing but a conception, of sharpened senses
which responded keenly to the lights and sounds about him.  This bottle
which he held made him feel like some old time king's messenger who
carried a warrant making him exempt from local laws.  He moved among
people whose perplexed thoughts wandered restlessly down the everlasting
vista of the days ahead, and he alone of them all knew the secret of
being untroubled beyond the week.  The world had not for ten years
appeared so gay to him.  He felt the exhilarating sting of life as he had
when it first surged in upon him at twenty.  The very fact that he held
even a temporary solution to his barren days was enough.  In the joy of
his almost august scorn of circumstance he forgot the minor difficulties
which still lay before him.

He turned aside from the direct course to his room into Broadway.  It was
the last of May and early evening.  The month revealed itself in the warm
night sky and the buoyant spirits of those below its velvet richness.
Spring was in the air--a stimulation as of etherialized champagne.  The
spirit of adventure, the spirit of renaissance, the spirit of creation
was abroad once more.  Not a cranny in even this sprawling section of
denaturalized earth but thrilled for the time being with budding hopes,
sap-swollen courage, and bright, colorful dreams.  Walking beneath the
spitting glare of the arc-lights, through the golden mist flooding from
the store windows, Donaldson hazily saw again the careless unburdened
world of his early youth.  He caught the spirit of Broadway and all
Broadway means in the spring.  It was a marionette world where
marionettes dance their gayest.  Yesterday this would have been to him
nothing but a dead bioscope picture; now, though he still sat an onlooker
in the pit, it was a living human drama at which he gazed.

Two dark-haired grisettes passed him, their cheeks aglow and their eyes
dancing.  They appeared so full of life, so very gay, that he turned to
glance back at them.  He found the eyes of the prettier one upon him; she
had turned to look at him.  It was long since even so trifling an
intrigue as this had quickened his life.

As a matter of fact Donaldson always attracted more interest in feminine
eyes than, in his self engrossment, he was ever aware.  Even in his shiny
blue serge suit, baggy at the knees and sagging at the shoulders, even in
his shabby hat, he carried himself with an air.  Two things about his
person were always as fine and immaculate as though he were a gentleman
of some fortune, his linen and his shoes.  But in addition to such slight
externals Donaldson, although not a large man, had good shoulders, a
well-poised head, and walked with an Indian stride from the hips that
made him noticeable among the flat-footed native New Yorkers.  He might
have been mistaken for an ambitious actor of the younger school; even for
a forceful young cleric, save for the fact that he smoked his cigarette
with evident satisfaction.

He followed an aimless course--but a course fairly prickling with new
sensations--until he stood before one of the popular cafés, now
effervescing with sprightly life.  He paused here a moment to listen to
the music.  A group of well-groomed men and women laughingly clambered
out of a big touring car and passed in before the obsequious attendants.
He watched them with some envy.  Music, good food, good wines, laughter,
and bright eyes--the flimsiest vanities of life to be sure--and yet there
was something in his hungry heart that craved them all.  Well, ten years
from now perhaps,--his hand fell upon the vial.  No.  Not ten years from
now, but to-morrow, even tomorrow, he might claim these luxuries!

He jumped on a car and in thirty minutes stood in the lean, quiet street
into which for three years he had stared from his third floor room.
These quarters seemed now more than ever a parody on home.  This row of
genteel structures which had degenerated into boarding houses for the
indigent and struggling younger generation, and the wrecks of the past,
embodied, in even the blank stare of their exteriors, stupid mediocrity.
He fumbled nervously in his pocket for his latch-key, and opening the
door climbed the three stale flights to his room.  He lighted both
gas-jets, but even then the gloom remained.  He craved more light--the
dazzling light of arc-lamps, the glare reflected from polished mirrors.
Better absolute darkness than this.  He turned out the gas and throwing
open his window leaned far out over the sill.  Then he concentrated his
thoughts upon the issue confronting him.

At the end of other colorless days, when he had come back here only to be
tortured by the stretch of gray road before him, he had considered as a
possibility that which now was almost a reality.  He had always been
checked by this desire to have first his taste of life and by the
troublesome conviction that there was something unfair about seizing it
in this way.  Furthermore, though he could, without Barstow's discovery,
have lived his week and closed it by any one of a dozen effective means,
he realized that he could not trust even himself to fulfill at the
end--no matter how binding the oath--so fearful a decree.  A few deep
draughts of joyous life might turn his head.  It was as dangerous an
experiment as taking the first smoke of opium, as tampering with the
first injection of morphine, upon the promise of stopping there.  No,
before beginning he must set at work some power outside himself which
should be operative even against his will; which should be as final as
death itself.  Until to-night this had seemed an impossibility.  Now,
with that chief obstruction removed, he had but to consider the ethics of
the question.

In arguing with Barstow he had been sincere.  He believed as he had said
that a man had the right to end the contract so long as he cheated no one
by so doing.  All his life he had paid his way like a man, done his duty
like a good citizen, given a fair return for everything he took.  He did
not feel himself indebted to his country, his state, his city, nor to any
living man or woman.  In one form and another, he had paid.  Few men
could claim this as sincerely as Donaldson.  He had lived
conscientiously, so very conscientiously in fact that it was as much
rebellion against self-imposed fetters which now drove him on to an
opposite extreme as any bitterness against that society which had spurned
his idealism.  He had refused to compromise and learned that the world
uses only as martyrs those who so refuse.  The limitations of his nature
were defined by the fact that he withdrew from so self sacrificing an end
as that.  But now if he demanded nothing more--if he was tired of this
give and take--why should he not balance accounts?

Chiefly because there would still be one week to account for--that last
week in which he should demand most.  Like an inspiration came the
solution to this, the final difficulty; economically he was wasting a
life; very well, but if he could find a way of not wasting it, of giving
his life to another, then he would have paid even this last bill.  In the
excitement of this new idea, he paced his room.  If he could give his
life for another!  But supposing this were impossible, supposing no
opportunity should offer, it would be something if he held himself open,
offered himself a free instrument of Fate.  He could promise--and he knew
he could keep so sacred a promise as this with death approaching in so
inevitable a form,--he could promise to offer himself upon the slightest
pretext, recklessly and without fear, instantly and without thought, to
the first chance which might come to him to give his life for another.
That was the bond he would give to Fate--the same Fate which had produced
him--his life for the life of another.  Let society use him so if such
use could be found for him.  He would stand ready, would live up to the
spirit and the letter of the bond unhesitatingly.  For one week he would
live his life in the present upon that condition--one week with the
eighth day a blank, one week with the whole world his plaything.

He stared with new eyes from his window to the jumble of houses below, to
the jumble of stars above.  The whole world expanded and vibrated before
the intensity of his passion.  He was to condense a possible thirty or
forty years into seven days.  To-day was the twenty-third of May.  By
to-morrow noon he could adjust all his affairs.  With nothing to demand
of them in the future it would be an easy matter to cut them off.  On
Friday, May twenty-fourth, then, he could begin.  This would bring the
end on the thirty-first.

He considered a moment; was it better to die at noon or at night?  An odd
thing for a man to decide, but such details as this might as well be
fixed now as later.  It took but a moment's deliberation; he elected to
go out at high noon.  There would be dark enough afterwards--possibly an
eternity of dark.  He would face the sun with his last gaze; he would
have the mad riot of men and women at midday ringing last in his ears.

As he drew in deep breaths it was as if he inhaled the whole world.  He
felt as though, if he but stepped out sturdily enough, he could foot the
darkness.  His head was light; his brain teemed with wild fancies.  Then
pressing through this medley he saw for a moment the young woman who had
come to Barstow's laboratory.  The effect was to steady him.  He
remembered the sweet girlishness of her face, the freshness of it which
was like the freshness of a garden in the early morning.  He realized
that she stood for one thing that he could never know.  What was it that
he saw now in those strange eyes that left him a bit wistful at thought
of this?  There was not a detail of her features, of her dress, of her
speech, that he could not see now as vividly as though she were still
standing before him.  That was odd, too.  He was not ordinarily so
impressionable.  It occurred to him that he would not like her to know
what he was about to do.  Bah, he was getting maudlin!

Late as it was, he left his room and went downtown to his office.  He
worked here until daylight, falling asleep in his chair from four to
seven.  He awoke fresh, and even more eager than the night before to
undertake his venture.

There remained still a few men to be seen.  He transacted his business
with a brilliant dispatch and swift decision that startled them.  He
disposed of all his office furniture, his books, destroyed all his
letters, made a will leaving instructions for the disposal of his body,
and concluded every other detail of his affairs before eleven o'clock.
When he left his office to go back to his room, he had in his pocket
every cent he possessed in the world in crisp new bank notes.  It
amounted to twenty-eight hundred and forty-seven dollars.  Not much to
scatter over a long life,--not much as capital.  Invested it might yield
some seventy dollars a year.  But as ready cash, it really stood for a
fortune.  It was the annual income at four per cent on over seventy
thousand dollars, the monthly income on eight hundred and forty thousand
dollars, the weekly income on over three million.  For seven days then he
could squander the revenue of a princely estate.

As a matter of fact his position was even more remarkable; he was as
wealthy--so far as his own capacity for pleasure went--as though the
possessor of thirty million.  This because of his limitations; he was
barred from travel; barred from the purchase of future holdings; barred
from everything by this time restriction save what he could absorb within
seven days through his five senses.  Being an intelligent man of decent
morals and no bad habits, he was also restrained from license and the
gross extravagance accompanying it.  But within his own world, there was
not a desire which need remain unsatisfied.

Back again in his room he summoned his landlady.

"I am going away," he informed her briefly.  "I sha'n't leave any address
and I 'm going to take with me only the few things I can pack into a
dress-suit case.  I 'll give you the rest."

The woman--she had become rather fond of the quiet, gentle third story
front--looked up sympathetically.

"Have you had bad news?"

"Bad news?  No," he smiled.  "Very good news.  I 'm going to take a sort
of vacation."

"Then perhaps you 'll come back."

"So, I 'm quite sure I shall never come back."

She watched him at his packing, still puzzled by his behavior.  She
noticed that he took nothing but a few trinkets, a handful of linen, and
a book or two.  He glanced at his watch.

"Madame," he announced, offering her his hand, "it is now eleven thirty.
My vacation begins in half an hour.  I must hurry.  The remainder of
these things I bequeath to you."

In twenty minutes he was at the Waldorf.  He asked for and was allotted
one of the best rooms in the house, for which he paid the suspicious
clerk in advance.  When at length he was left alone in his luxurious
apartments, it was still a few minutes before twelve.  He drew the vial
from his pocket without fear, without hesitation.  He placed his watch
upon the table before him.  Then he sat down and wrote out the following
oath:


"I, Peter Donaldson, swear by all that I hold most sacred that I will
offer my life freely and without question for the protection of any human
being needing it during these next seven days in which I shall live."


He signed this in a bold scrawling hand.  It was as simply and earnestly
expressed as he knew how to make it.

He uncorked the vial and poured the liquid into a glass without a quaver
of his hand.  He mixed a little water with it and raised it to his lips.
There he paused, for once again he seemed to see the big, calm eyes of
the girl now staring at him as though in surprise.  But this time he
smiled, and with a little lift of the glass towards her swallowed the
liquid at a gulp.



CHAPTER III

_The Beginning of the End_

Before the bitter taste of the syrup faded from his tongue, Donaldson's
thoughts shifted from the Ultimate to the Now.  He was too good a
sportsman to question his judgment by worry when once committed to an
enterprise.  The world now lay before him as he had wished it--an
enchanted land in which he could move with as great freedom as a prince
in the magical kingdoms of Arabia.  The Present became sharpened to
poignancy.  Even as he stood there musing over the marvel of the new
world into which he had leaped--the old thin world of years condensed
into one thick week--he realized that this very wondering had cost him
five precious minutes.  A dozen such periods made an hour, two dozen
hours a day--one seventh of his living space.  This thought so whetted
his interest that he could have sat on here indefinitely, thrilled to
the marrow by the mere pageant of life as it passed before his eyes on
the street below.  The slightest incident was now dramatic; the hurry
of men and women on their way up-town and down-town, the swift movement
of vehicles, the fluttering of birds in the sunshine, the unceasing,
eager flux of life.  It was through the eyes of youth he was
looking--for is youth anything more than the ability to live the
irresponsible days as they come?  Youth is Omar without his philosophy.
He grew dizzy.  Life taken so was too powerful a stimulant.  He must
brace himself.

He settled into one of the big chairs, closing his eyes to the wonders
about him, and tried to think more soberly.  He felt as though he must
dull his quickened senses in some way.  His unsheathed nerves quivered
back from so direct a contact with life.

"Quiet, old man, quiet," he cautioned himself.  "There 's a lot of
things you wish to do in these next few days.  So you must sober
down--you must get a grip on yourself."

He rose to his feet determinedly.  He must work out of such moods as
this.  One of the first things for him to do was to buy a decent
personal outfit.  As soon as he gave his mind a definite object upon
which to work, his thoughts instantly cleared.  It was just some such
matter-of-fact task as this which he needed.

He went down-stairs, and stepping into a taxicab, was whisked to one of
the large retail stores.  He had no time to squander upon a tailor, but
he was successful in securing a good fit in ready-made clothing.  He
bought several street suits, evening clothes, overcoats and hats, much
silk underwear--a luxury he had always promised himself in that ghost
future--and an extravagant supply of cravats, gloves, socks, and odds
and ends.  He omitted nothing necessary to make him feel a well-dressed
man so far as he could find it ready made.  There was nothing conceited
about Donaldson, nothing of the fop, but he enjoyed both the feeling
and the appearance of rich garments.  He hired a messenger boy who
announced his name as Bobby and who followed along at his heels,
collecting the bundles and carrying them out to the waiting cab.

He was a fresh cheeked youngster with a quick interest in things.  He
could n't make up his mind whether Donaldson was really an Indian
prince or whether as a result of drinking he merely felt like one.  As
time passed and he saw that the man was neither an oriental nor drunk,
his imagination then wavered between accepting him as an English duke
or a member of the Vanderbilt family.

Donaldson perceived the keen interest the boy was taking in his
purchases, saw the wonder in his eyes grow, based upon a faith that
still accepted Aladdin as an ever-present possibility, and realized
that Bobby was getting almost as much fun out of this game as he
himself.  He began to humor him further by consulting his taste in the
matter of ties and waistcoats, though he found that the latter's
sporting instincts led him to colors too pronounced to harmonize with
his own ideas.  Still he appreciated the fact that Bobby was indulging
in almost as many thrills as though he were actually holding the purse.
This became especially true when Donaldson allowed the boy to purchase
for himself such articles as struck his fancy.  As a matter of fact
there was not so much difference in the present point of view of the
man and the boy; it was to them both a fairy episode.

They lounged from one store to another, enjoying the lights, the
colors, the beautiful cloths, choosing where they would with all the
abandon of those with genii to serve them.  Donaldson was indulging
something more fundamental than his enjoyment of the things themselves;
this was his first taste, as well as Bobby's, of gratifying desires
without worry of the reckoning.  His wishes were now stripped to bare
wants.  He was free of the skeleton hand of the Future which had so
long held him prisoner--which had frightened him into depriving himself
of all life's garnishings until his condition had been reduced to one
of monastic simplicity without the monk's redeeming inspiration.  He
was no longer mocked by the thin cry of "Wait!"

He moved about this gay store world with a sense of kingly superiority.
He listened indulgently to the idle chatter of the shop girls, the
rattle of the cash boxes, and smiled at the seriousness with which this
business of selling was pressed.  What a tremendous ado they made of
living, with year after year, month after month, day after day, looming
endlessly before them!  Not an act which they performed, even to the
tying up of a bundle, ended in itself, but was one of an endless vista
of acts.  The burden of the Future was upon them.  They drooped, poor
bloodless things, beneath the weight of the relentless days before
them.  And so this faded present was all their future, too.  They saw
nothing of the joyous world which spun around him bright as a new coin.
They were dead, because of the weary days to come, to the magical
brilliancy of the big arc-lights, to the humor and action of the crowd,
to the quick shifts of colors; they were stupefied by this great flux
of life which swept them on day after day to another day.  Often
unexpressed, this, but felt dumbly below the chatter and dry laughter.
They waited, waited, circling about in a gray maelstrom until the grave
sucked them in.  He himself had been in the clutch of it.  But that was
yesterday.

To-day he saw all that lay unseen before their dulled vision--all the
show with its million actors.  He saw for example the pathos in the
patient eyes of the old lady yonder--still waiting at eighty; he caught
the flash of scarlet ribbon beyond, the silent message of the black one
(another long waiting); the muffled laugh and the muffled oath; the
careless eyes that tossed the coin to the counter, the sharp eyes that
followed it, the dead ones that picked it up and threw it into the
nickeled cash box which flew with it to its golden nest; the tread, the
tread, the tread of a thousand feet, the beat, beat, beat of a thousand
hearts.  All these things he saw and heard and felt.

When he had fully replenished his wardrobe he still had several hours
left to him.  He remembered a unique book store just off Fifth Avenue
at West Thirty-ninth Street which he had frequently passed, often
lingering in front of the windows to admire quaint English prints.  On
cloudy days especially he had often made it a point to walk up there
and breathe in the spirit of sunshine that he found in the green grass
of the old hunting scenes and in the scarlet coats of the
hearty-cheeked men riding to hounds upon their lean horses.

"Come on," he called enthusiastically to Bobby.  "We 've just begun."

"Gee!" gasped Bobby.  "H'aint you spent it all?  Have yer gut more
left?"

"Lots.  As much as I can spend until I die."

The boy's face grew eager.

"Say," he asked confidentially.  "Where 'd yer git it?"

"Earned it,--the most of it.  Sweat for it and starved for it and
suffered for it!  And I earned with it the right to spend it, the
_right_, I tell you!"

Bobby shrank back a little before such fierceness.  The boy felt a
faint suspicion of what had not before occurred to him: that the man
was crazy.  But the next second the gentle smile returned to soften the
tense mouth, and the boy's fear vanished.  No one could fear Donaldson
when he smiled.

In front of the modest shop with its quaint sign swinging above the
door, they paused.  Donaldson found it difficult to believe that he now
had the right to enter.  To him this store had never been anything else
but a part of the scenery of life, a part of the setting of some
foreign world at which he gazed like a boy from the upper galleries of
a theatre.  He had rebelled at this, looking with some hostility at the
well groomed men and women who accepted it with such assurance that it
was for them alone, but now he realized the pettiness of that position.
With a few unmortgaged dollars in his pocket, he was instantly one of
them.  He could stride in and use the quiet luxury of the place as his
own.

For half an hour then, he browsed about the sun-lit shop, selecting
here and there bits with which to brighten his room during the week.
He picked out an engraving or two, several English prints which seemed
to welcome him like old friends, and a marine in water color because of
the golden blue in it.  His bill exceeded that of the department
stores, and Bobby confidently delivered himself of the opinion that he
had been soaked, "good and plenty."

From here Donaldson began an extravagant course down Fifth Avenue that
left the boy, who watched him closely every time he paid his bill,
convinced that he had on his hands nothing short of an Arabian Prince
such as his sister had told him of when he had thought her fooling.
They wandered from book store to art store, to Tiffany's, to an antique
shop back to another book store and then to where in his lean days he
had seen a bit of Dresden that brought comfort to him through its
dainty beauty.  He took for his own now all the old familiar friends
who had done what they could through store windows to brighten those
days.  They should be a part of him; share his week with him.  There
was that old hammered copper tray which in the sun glowed like a
cooling ember; there was that hand-illumined volume of Keats which he
had so long craved; there was that vase of Cloisonne, that quaint piece
of ivory browned with age, that old pewter mug reflecting the burden of
its years in its sober surface.  All these things he had long ago known
as his own, and now he came to claim them.

"Mine, all mine!" he exclaimed to the boy.  "And was n't it decent of
them to wait for me?"

"They was waitin' for you all right," agreed Bobby.  "They seen you
comin'.  They waits fer the easy marks."

"Yes," returned Donaldson, ignoring the latter's sarcasm.  "They saw me
coming when yet I was a great way off.  They knew me, so they waited.
I told them all to wait and some day I would come to them."

"D' yuh mean that ivory monkey waited?"

"For nearly a year."

Bobby did not reply, but his respect for Donaldson fell several degrees.

"There is one thing more, boy," exclaimed Donaldson; "I need flowers."

He ordered sent to his room two dozen rich lipped roses, a half dozen
potted plants, and a small conservatory of ferns.  Then he started back
to the hotel.

It took the boy several trips to carry the bundles upstairs even when
they were piled to his eyes.  When he finished, Donaldson held out his
hand.

"I 've had a mighty pleasant afternoon with you," he said.  "And I hope
we 'll meet again.  What's your number?"

"Thirty-four fifty-seven."

"Well, thirty-four fifty-seven, give us your hand in case we lose one
another for good."

The boy gingerly extended his grimy paw.  When he removed it, he found
himself clutching a ten-dollar bill.

Donaldson remained in his room only long enough to arrange his
treasures and slip into his evening clothes.  There was too much
outside to be enjoyed for him to appreciate yet the luxury of his
indoor surroundings.  He had a passion for people, for crowds of
people.  He had thought at first that he might attend the theatre, but
he realized now that the stage puppets were but faint reflections of
the stirring drama all about him--the playwright's plot less gripping
than that in which he himself was the central figure.  To pass through
those doors would be more like stepping out of a theatre into the
leaden reality of life as he had seen it before yesterday.

For an hour or more he rubbed shoulders with the press that was on its
way to find relief from their own lives in the mimic lives of others
behind the footlights.  To him in the Now it was comedy enough to watch
them as they filed in; it would have been an anticlimax to have gone
further.  He craved good music, but a search of the papers did not
reveal any concert of note, so he sought one of the popular
restaurants, and, choosing a table in a corner, devoted himself to the
ordering of his dinner.  He was hungry and took a childish delight in
selecting without first studying the price list.

When he had concluded, he took a more careful survey of the room.  His
wandering gaze was checked by the profile of the woman whose eyes had
haunted him ever since he had first seen them in Barstow's laboratory.
It was Miss Arsdale, and opposite her sat a tall, thin-visaged young
man.  As the latter turned and presented a full face view, Donaldson
was held by the peculiarity of his expression.  His hot, beadlike eyes
burned from a white sensitive face that was almost emaciated; his thin
lips were set as though in grim resolution; while even his brown hair
refused to lend repose to the face, but, sticking out in cowlicks,
added to the whole effect of nervousness still further exaggerated by
the restless white hands.  Over all, like a black veil, was an
expression as of one haunted by a great fear.  The man both repelled
and interested Donaldson.  There was a shiftiness about the eyes that
excited suspicion, and yet there was in them a silent plea that asked
for sympathy.  Save for the eyes, the face had a certain poetic beauty
due to its fine modeling and its savage intensity.  The longer
Donaldson studied it, the more sympathy he had for it.  He had the
feeling that the fellow had gone through some such crisis as his own.

But it was difficult to define the girl's relationship to him.  There
was not the slightest trace of family resemblance between them, and yet
the man was hardly of a type that she would choose for so intimate a
friend as her presence here with him suggested.  She did not talk much,
but seemed rather to be on the alert to protect him as from some unseen
danger which appeared to hang over him.  She followed his eyes wherever
they wandered, and clearly took but little pleasure in being here.

Donaldson found the oddly matched couple absorbing his interest not
only in the other guests but also in his dinner.  He finished in almost
the undue haste with which ordinarily he devoured his dairy lunch and
with scarcely more appreciation of the superior quality of these richer
dishes.  With his black coffee he rolled a cigarette.  The familiar old
tobacco brought him back to himself again so that for a few minutes he
was able to give himself up to the swirling strains of the Hungarian
orchestra.  But even through the delicious intoxication of the waltz,
the personality of this girl asserted itself to him.  He got the
impression now that she herself was in some danger.  He wished that he
had asked Barstow more about her.  She had not noticed him as yet.  He
had watched closely to see if she turned.  As he studied her it seemed
certain that she was by no means enjoying herself in her present
company.  If given half an opportunity he would go over and speak to
her.

[Illustration: _As he studied her it seemed certain that she was by no
means enjoying herself in her present company_]

He wished to see her eyes again.  He remembered them distinctly.  They
were not black--not gray, but black with the faintest trace of silver,
like starlight on a deep pool.  The whites were very clear and blue
tinted.  Just then she raised her head and looked at him as though she
had been called.  At that moment the orchestra swept their strings in a
minor and swirled off in a mystic dance like that of storm ghosts in
the tree-tops.  It caught him up with the girl and for a measure or so
bore them along like leaves, in a new comradeship.  To them the light
laughter was hushed; to them the heavy smoke clouds vanished; to them
the Babel of other personalities was no more.  They two had been lifted
out of this and carried hand in hand to some distant gypsy region.  She
was the first to shake herself free.  She started, nodded pleasantly to
him, and turned back to her companion, with a little shiver.

That was all, but it left Donaldson strangely moved.  He paid his check
at once and prepared to leave, hoping that in passing her table he
might find his opportunity to stop a moment.  But they too rose as he
was getting into his coat and passed out ahead, the young man evidently
trying to hurry her.

On the sidewalk Donaldson found them waiting at the curb for a big
automobile which swooped out of the dark to meet them.  Making a
pretext of stopping to roll a cigarette, he paused.  The girl stepped
into the machine, but her companion instead of following at once gave
an order to the chauffeur.  The latter left his seat and the girl
expostulated.  The chauffeur apparently hesitated, but, the younger man
insisting, he hurried past Donaldson into the café.  Unconsciously
Donaldson moved nearer.  He felt a foreboding of danger and a curious
sense of responsibility.  He caught a glimpse of the white face of the
girl leaning forward towards her companion--heard her cry as the fellow
stepped into the chauffeur's seat--and, yielding to some impulse,
jumped to the running-board just as the man threw on the power.

The machine leaped forward with a shock that nearly tossed him off.  To
save himself he sprang to the empty seat beside the girl.  The man at
the wheel had apparently not noticed him; he had plenty to occupy his
mind to control the machine which was tearing along at the rate of
fifty miles an hour.

The girl leaned forward and gripped Donaldson's arm.

"You must stop him," she said.  "He has lost himself again!  Do you
understand?  You must stop him!"



CHAPTER IV

_Kismet_

The machine swirled around a corner at a speed that swung the rear
wheels clear of the ground.  It righted itself as a frightened dog
scrambles to his legs, and shot on up the avenue, which was for the
moment fortunately clear of other vehicles.  It took a crossing at a
single leap, missed a dazed pedestrian by an inch, and shot on as mad a
thing as the man who ran it.  It was clearly only a matter of minutes
that this could last.  Bending low, the madman, with still enough
cunning left to know how to manage the machine, held it to its highest
speed.  But his arm was weakening.  He did not have the physical
strength to hold steady the vibrating steering gear.  The big car began
to tack.

Donaldson saw the girl's eyes upon him.  They were confident with an
instinct that is woman's sixth sense.  A man has not lived until he has
seen that look in a woman's eyes.  Nor has a man suffered until he
realizes that he must disappoint that look.  Donaldson had never been
in an automobile in his life.  He knew no more how to control one than
he did an aëroplane.  And the arc-lights were flashing by at the rate
of one every four seconds--and a madman at the wheel--and a woman's
eyes upon him.

Donaldson was naturally a man of some courage, but it is doubtful if
under ordinary conditions this situation would not have brought the
cold sweat to his brow.  As it was, he was conscious of only two
emotions; an appreciation of the grim humor which had called upon him
so early in his week to fulfill his oath, and a grinding resentment at
the Fate which had thrust him into a position where he should show so
impotent before those eyes.  As far as personal fear went, it was nil.
He was as oblivious to possible pain, possible death, as though he were
now merely recalling a dream.  Such contingencies had been decided the
moment he swallowed the scarlet syrup.  Fear had been annihilated in
him because the most he had to lose was this next six days.  He was too
good a gambler to resent, in a fair game, the turn of the cards against
him.

He stepped past her and out upon the running board, feeling his way
along to the empty seat.  The machine swayed dizzily.  The wind tore
off his hat and tugged at his coat, nearly dragging him to the ground
which flowed beneath him as smoothly as a fly belt.  He could not have
made that distance yesterday with the assurance of to-day.  He swung
himself into the empty seat.

He had but one thing in mind; he knew that these big machines, in spite
of their tremendous power, were as nicely adjusted as watches.  They
had their vital spots, their hearts.  If only he could find this
vulnerable place!  At his feet he saw a small wooden box fastened to
the dash-board.  He did not know what it was, but on a blind chance he
kicked it again and again until it splintered beneath his heels.  The
machine swerved across the road and he fought with the crazed man for
the possession of the wheel.  He was strong and he had this much at
heart, but the other had the super-human strength of the crazed.  Even
as they struggled the machine began to slow down and within a few
hundred yards came to a standstill.  In destroying the coil box he had
reached the heart.

The driver turned upon him, but Donaldson managed to secure a good grip
and dragged the fellow to the ground.  The latter was up in a minute
and faced him with that gleam of devilish hatred that marks the foiled
maniac.  The girl started to separate the two men, but it was
unnecessary; she saw the murder fade from her companion's face before
the calm untroubled gaze of the other.  She saw his strained body
relax, she saw his fists unclench, and she saw him shrink back to her
side trembling in fright.  The demon in him had been quelled by the
unflinching eyes of the sane man.

There was, luckily, no gathering of a crowd, for no one had witnessed
the struggle in the machine.  A few steps beyond, the blue and red
lights of a drugstore stained the sidewalk.  The girl seized the man's
arm and turned to Donaldson.

"He is my brother," she explained.  "We must leave the machine and get
him home at once.  Can we order a cab from somewhere?"

"At the drugstore we can telephone for one and also reach your garage."

"Would you mind attending to it?" she asked anxiously.  "We will wait
here,--in the car."

He hesitated.

"I don't like to leave you here alone," he said.

"I shall be quite safe--really."

"But in the drugstore it is warmer, and--"

"No, no," she broke in hurriedly.  "I--I would much rather not."

Without further parley he took the address of the garage where the
machine had been hired, and walked on to the drugstore.  He was back
again in five minutes, relieved to find her safe and the brother still
quiet.  While waiting for the cab it occurred to him that he should
also have telephoned for a physician to meet them when they reached the
house.  But Miss Arsdale objected at once to this.

"I think we had better not.  But if you would--it's asking a great deal
of you--if you yourself would ride back with us."

"I had intended to do that," he assured her.

The cab arrived within a few minutes, and she gave an address off
Riverside Drive.  It took half an hour to make the run.  On the journey
the three remained silent save for a few commonplaces, for conversation
seemed to have a disquieting effect upon young Arsdale.  The lighted
houses flashed past the carriage windows in the soft spring dark,
looking like specks of gold upon black velvet.  A certain motherliness
pervaded the night; there was a suggestion of birth everywhere.
Donaldson responded to it with a growing feeling of anticipation.
Sitting here confronting this girl he was swept back to a primal joy of
things, to a sense of new worlds.  He felt for a moment as though back
again with her in that gypsy kingdom into which the music had borne
them.

The cab swung from the boulevard and, after following for a few moments
a somewhat tortuous course among side streets, stopped before an iron
gate which stretched across the drive leading to the house.  Either
side of the gate a high hedge extended.  The three stepped out and
Donaldson paused a moment before dismissing the cabby.  The girl saw
his hesitancy and in her turn seemed rapidly to revolve some question
in her own mind.  A quick motion on the part of her brother determined
her.  In the shadow of the house he began to show ill-boding symptoms.

"I wonder if--if you would come in for a minute," she asked in an
undertone.

Without answer he dismissed the driver and followed her through a small
gate in the hedge, down a short walk, to a brown-stone house with its
entrance on a level with the ground.  The house was unlighted and the
lower windows were covered with wooden shutters.  In the midst of its
brilliantly lighted neighbors it looked severe and inhospitable.  The
girl drew a key from her purse and, opening the door, stepped inside
and switched on the lights.  Donaldson found himself in a large,
cheerful looking hall finished in Flemish oak.  A broad Colonial
staircase led from the end and swung upstairs in a graceful turn which
formed a landing.  The floor was covered with rugs which he recognized
as of almost priceless value.  Several oil portraits in heavy frames
ornamented the walls.  It took but a glance to see that they were of
the same family and to recognize in all their thin faces an expression
that he had caught in young Arsdale himself--a haunting fear as of some
family tragedy.  Through an uncurtained door to the right opened what
appeared to be a library, while to the left--Donaldson turned his back
for a moment upon Arsdale.  And the man, freed from the eyes, threw
himself upon Donaldson's shoulder.  The woman shouted a warning, but it
was too late.  She clutched at her brother's clothes, pulling with all
her strength, crying,

"Ben!  Ben!"

Donaldson slipped upon the polished floor and Arsdale, throwing his arm
about his victim's neck, secured a very effective strangle hold.  It
looked bad for Donaldson.  On the smooth waxed floor he could secure no
purchase by which to regain his feet and he could not reach the fellow
with either fist.  He was as helpless as though he had the Old Man of
the Mountain upon his back.  The world began to swim before his eyes;
the cries of the girl to sound in the distance.  Then he smelled the
biting aroma of spirits of ammonia and felt the clutch upon his throat
loosen.  He broke free, got upon his feet and found Arsdale rubbing his
smarting eyes while the girl stood over him, frightened at what she had
done, with the empty bottle in her hand.

"I've blinded him!" she cried, drawing back in horror.

"Thanks.  You 've also prevented him from killing me."

"Don't say that--not kill!"

"But the man is n't responsible."

"That is true, but--even when he is like this he would n't do any harm."

His throat was still sore from the press of the fellow's fingers, but
he nodded politely.

Donaldson perceived that she was fighting off a fear.  It made the
danger seem even more imminent.  He had noted with surprise that no
servants had appeared.  This gave a particularly uncanny atmosphere to
the big house, making it look as deserted as though empty of furniture.

"We must get him upstairs and into bed," she said.  "Will you help him?"

The man was choking and writhing upon the floor in his pain.  Donaldson
stooped and wiped off his eyes.  Then he placed his arm about him and
half dragged and half carried him up the stairs as she led the way.
She preceded them up two flights, switching on the lights at each
landing, and entered a small, simply furnished room in the middle of
the house,--a room, Donaldson was quick to note, having only a skylight
for a window.  Here he dashed cold water into the man's face and placed
him on the bed.  As soon as the pain subsided, Miss Arsdale
administered two spoonfuls of a darkish brown medicine which seemed to
have instantly a quieting effect.

It was the sight of the bottle that again recalled to Donaldson the
fact of his own peculiar position in life.  Even at the risk of
appearing rude, he was forced to look at his watch.  It was a few
minutes after eleven o'clock.  Well, what of it?  Had not these hours
been full--had he not had more of real living than during the entire
last decade?  He had faced death twice, he had met a woman, and he now
stood at the threshold of a mystery that seemed to demand him.  There
was no other interest in his life to occupy him--nothing to prevent him
from throwing himself heart and soul into the case, lending what aid
was possible to this woman.  Furthermore, he was clear of all selfish
interests; he need bother himself with no queries of what this might be
worth to him.  But it was worth something, it was worth something to
have a woman look at him as this girl had done--with unquestioning
trust in a crisis.

She glanced up as he replaced his watch.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "I must detain you no longer!"

"My time is absolutely yours," he reassured her.  "I was merely curious
to know how old I have grown."

She did not understand.

"I 'm eleven hours old."

Again she did not understand, but in turning to care for her brother
she ceased to puzzle over the enigma.  Shortly afterwards the patient
closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.  Immediately the girl led
the way on tiptoe from the room.  She locked the door behind her and
preceded Donaldson downstairs.

Once below there seemed nothing for him to do but to leave, but, quite
aside from the fact that he felt himself to be really needed here, he
was as reluctant to depart as a man is to awake from a pleasant dream.
She had picked up a white silk Japanese shawl and thrown it about her
shoulders.

He turned to her with the question,

"Is there nothing more I can do for you?  Is there no one I may summon
to help you?"

"I can manage very well now, thank you."

"But you can't stay here alone with the boy in this condition."

"Why not?"

Her reply came like a rebuke of his impetuous presumption.

"It is hardly safe for you," he declared more quietly.

"It is perfectly safe," she answered evenly.

"I suppose there are servants in the house upon whom you can call," he
hazarded.

She looked a bit embarrassed.

"If I should need any one there is my old housekeeper, Marie," she
answered.

Marie was upstairs, sick in bed with rheumatism, too feeble to move
without help.  But to confess this fact to him would be almost to force
him to stay.  As welcome a relief as it would be to have him remain
until she had administered the medicine once more, she shrank from
placing him in a position where he would have no alternative.

She roused herself from the temptation and extended her hand.

"Thank you is a weak phrase for all you 've done," she said.

"It is enough."

He took the hand but he did not say good night.  So she withdrew it,
her cheeks a bit redder, her eyes, a trick they had when brilliant,
growing silver.

He had been studying her keenly, and now removing his overcoat, he said
decidedly,

"I shall stay a little longer."

She seemed to hesitate a moment, meeting his eyes quite frankly.  Then,
with a little sigh of relief she stepped into the library.



CHAPTER V

_The Inner Woods_

In the fireplace there were birch logs ready to be kindled.  At her
suggestion he put a match to them for the cheeriness they gave while
she lighted a green shaded lamp which radiated a soft glow over the
heavy mahogany library table upon which it stood.  The room slowly
warmed out of the gloom and shadows as though the three walls closed in
nearer to the fire.  Just outside the radius of warmth the bookbindings
shone gold in the dark.  In a frame six inches deep the ghostly
outlines of a portrait of Horace Arsdale flickered near and away as the
flames rose and fell.

Miss Arsdale came to a chair a little to the left of Donaldson,
brushing back from her eyes the soft hair which in the firelight shone
like burnished copper.  He smiled at the strange chance which led her
to seat herself almost directly in front of the grandfather's clock, so
that facing her he faced the pendulum which ticked out to him the cost
of each new picture he had of her.  It was now within a few minutes of
midnight--one half of his first day gone before he had more than raised
the glass to his lips.  He felt for a moment the petulant annoyance of
a man imposed upon--as though Time were playing him unfairly; until
today the hours had dragged heavily enough; now they sped like arrows.

[Illustration: _Facing her he faced the pendulum which ticked out to
him the cost of each new picture he had of her_]

And yet he did not count the time as ill spent.  Though he had
anticipated nothing of this sort, he found himself enjoying the
situation with as deep a satisfaction as anything which had so far
occurred in the swift hours which had sped by since noon.  Outside lay
the quick-moving throngs which he so loved, in his room there waited
for him the gentle marine, the bit of brown ivory, the luxury of deep
blooming roses, and yet he was not conscious of missing them.  Those
things had been waiting for him all through the long tedious years, and
this--well perhaps this, too, had been waiting for him.  He wondered if
this effect was produced by the surroundings which were much as he
would have chosen them if he had possessed the means from the first.
The sober good taste of the room, its quiet richness, its air of being
a part of several generations of men of culture pleased him.

He turned to the girl again.  She too was one with this past of the
room.  The straight nose with its shell-like nostrils as sensitive to
her thoughts as her eyes, the sharp cut corners of her mouth, and the
fine hair over her white forehead dated back to women whose features
had long been refined through their souls.  All that he wished to crowd
into a week, they had possessed for a hundred years or more.  It showed
even in this girl who had not yet come into the fulness of her
womanhood.

She sat uneasily far forward on her chair, leaning toward the flames as
though fearful of what might happen next.  The light played upon her
hair and her white face, making her seem almost a thing of some
lighter, spirit world.

"I don't feel that I ought to detain you," she said, breaking the
silence which he for his part would have been willing to continue,
"but"--she looked up at him with a half-shamed smile--"I have n't the
courage to refuse your kindness."

"You have the right to accept it merely as a woman," he assured her.

"But I should n't need help," she answered with some spirit.  "I don't
know what has come over me.  I 'm just afraid of being alone."

"It is n't good for any one to be alone."

"You know?"

He answered slowly,

"Yes, I know."

Did any one know better?  The curse of it had driven him to secure at
any cost the broader comradeship of men and women which, if it does not
come through some more subtle means such as she now seemed to suggest
to him, can be found in that cruder relationship always at the command
of those with some fortune.  The thought swept over him that if he had
known her before yesterday, he could never have felt alone again.  But
what had he to do with yesterday any more than with to-morrow?

"It is n't that there is anything to be afraid of here," she protested,
to ward off any suspicions that might be lurking in his mind.  "It is
n't that.  I 'm perfectly safe."

He nodded, though he by no means agreed with her.

"It would be just the same," she insisted with almost too much
emphasis, "if Ben were well.  I think I must have become panic stricken
with myself."

He frowned.  Then he broke out fiercely,

"It's the feel of all the silent people in the city around you,
perhaps.  They are ghosts, these strangers,--human ghosts with fingers
which clutch your throat if you are n't careful.  You sense them in New
York as nowhere else."

She glanced up quickly,

"That's an odd idea," she replied.  "The loneliness comes then because
you are n't really alone."

"Yes--here in New York."

"But that is n't true of the woods," she asserted.

"You have been much among the trees?" he asked quickly, his voice
softening.

"Not very much.  But enough to learn to love them.  Especially the
inner woods."

He knew what she meant--the forests where things still grow for the sky
and the beasts and not for man; where man may come as guest but not as
master.

"No," he answered, "one never feels alone there."

"In there," she faltered, trying to express vague thoughts which yet
were most real to her, "everything seems to be normal."

He studied her with increasing interest and a growing sense of
comradeship.  Her eyes were wonderful as she sat chin in hands, gazing
into the fire, lost in some pleasant picture of the past.  When he
looked into them, they caught him up again as they had done in the
café.  They swept him to the rhythm of some haunting music back to the
days when his blood had run strong--back to the beauty of the hills at
twenty when he had not felt big enough by himself to absorb their full
marvel.  In a dim mystical way he had realized even then that the
keenest edge of their meaning was escaping him.  The blue sky above the
trees had seemed like the laughing eyes of a woman and the rustle of
leaves like the whisper of her skirt.  He had laughed back boldly then,
feeling in the pride of his strength little need of them.

Now the eyes of this girl, and the soft modeling of every line of her,
filled him with an infinite tenderness for those forgotten hours.  It
was as though she cleared away the intervening years and made him face
the fragrant Spring again.  Without diminishing one whit of his
vigorous enjoyment of life, she added an element of refinement to it.

Half in fear of what this might mean, he shook himself free of the
mood, and moving a chair to the other side of the fire sat down.
Behind her the old clock still ticked as though in malicious
appreciation of the situation.

She clung to the subject of the woods as though in it she found relief.
She wished to hear more of it from him.  It made him appear less a
stranger.  When he spoke of these things he went back into her own
past--into the most beautiful, intimate part of it.  He was the only
man other than Mr. Arsdale that she could have endured to associate
with those days.  She felt at ease with him there, and this made her
feel that he had more right to be here now.  His eager face softened
when he spoke of those things.  There was in it then none of that
fierceness which had for a moment startled her when he spoke of the
loneliness he had found here in New York.  At that moment he had looked
like a man at bay.  He had challenged life bitterly.  It was not in
keeping with the kindly generous strength of his mouth and chin.

"Tell me," she asked him, "of some of your days in the woods."

Yesterday he could not have complied.  Those days had seemed dead and
buried.  Now he was in the mood for it.  He found it pleasant, sitting
here, to go back.

Each hour stood out as bright with sunshine as a Sorolla.  It was as
though they had sprung to life at a call from her--had come to bring
her ease.  He talked at random of brooks that start nowhere and go
nowhere, save over white stones and past watercress; of thin ribbed
ferns and of scarlet bunchberries.  He told her of a stream he knew,
where, if you lie very quiet in the moss, you see speckled trout dart
over white pebbles into the darker water beneath the lichened rocks.
He told her of the shallows, and pools, and falls you find if you keep
to its banks for the miles it sings by the grave trees.  He told her of
mountain tops where he had lain near the stars and watched the noon
clouds sweep half a county with their big shadows.  He told her of old
wood roads he had followed through the young maples and birches and
evergreens and pines--roads which lay silent all day long and all night
long, month after month, ready for the feet which might tread it once
in a year.

So she took him back again to the redolent shadows, back to the
silences where dreams are born.  Here he came upon other things--the
old path gay flowered with illusions which led him toward that future--

A future?  What had he to do with a future?  Was he rushing headlong
thus soon into another pit as bad as that from which he had just
escaped?  The Future was Now--not one minute, not one second beyond.
He was here before an open fire, with this girl in the background, with
beautiful rugs and pictures about him, with a great seething,
struggling, future-chained horde outside, and the eternal stars
overhead.  In the midst of it he was free, and this was enough for him
to know.  Now!  Now!  The girl was now and her eyes were now and the
flush of her velvet cheek was now!



CHAPTER VI

_The Shadow on the Portraits_

He was roused by the sound of her voice and the single stroke of the
clock back of her.  It was one, and he could have sworn that they had
been sitting here less than fifteen minutes.

"I must go to Ben now," she said.  "It is time to give him more
medicine."

"I will go with you."

"No," she decided, "I think I had better go alone.  A stranger might
frighten him."

He hesitated with an uneasy sense of foreboding, but she moved past him
determinedly and went up the stairs, leaving him alone with the
haunting picture upon the wall.  He moved nearer to study it more in
detail.  He caught a trace of resemblance to the boy but none to the
girl.  The features were more rugged than those of young Arsdale, and
the forehead was broader and higher, but the mouth was the same--thin,
tense, and yet with no strength of jaw behind it.  The cheek bones were
rather high and the eyes set deep but over-close together.  It was a
face, thought Donaldson, of which great things might be expected, but
upon which nothing could be depended.  The man would move eratically
but brilliantly, like those aquatic fireworks which dart in burning
angles along the face of the water--scarlet serpents shooting to the
right, the left, in their gorgeous irresponsible course towards the
dark.

As he stood there Donaldson thought he heard the soft tread of feet in
the hall and the click of the outside door as it was opened.  He
listened intently, but he heard nothing further.  He crossed the
library and looked out.  The door was ajar.  He flung it open and
peered down the driveway; there was nothing to be seen but the dark
mass of hedge bounding the yard.  He went to the foot of the stairs and
listened; there was no sound above.

The wind may have blown open the door if it had been unlatched, and the
imagined footsteps in the hall may have been nothing but the rustling
of the hangings, but still he was not satisfied.  He ventured up the
first flight and paused to listen.  He thought he heard a movement
above, but was not quite sure.  He neither wished to intrude nor to
frighten her unnecessarily, but he called her name.  At first he
received no response, and then, with a sense of relief that made him
realize how deep his fear had been, he saw her come to the head of the
stairs.  The light came only from the sick room, so that he could not
see her very clearly.  She took a step towards them, and then he
noticed that she swayed and clutched the banister.  He was at her side
in three bounds.

"What is the trouble?" he demanded.

"If you will steady me a bit," she answered.

"Are you hurt?"

"Just dazed a little.  Did you stop him?"

"Stop him?  Then some one did go out?"

"As I opened the door Ben rushed by me and--I fell down.  I hoped you
might see him and hold him!"

"I was at the other end of the library.  He must have stolen out on
tiptoe.  But you are faint."

"I am stronger now."

She started down the stairs with the help of the banister, holding
herself together with remarkable self control.  As they came into the
light he saw that she was very pale, but she insisted that she needed
nothing but a breath of cool air.  He helped her to the door and here
she sat down for a moment upon the step.

"I might take a look around the grounds," Donaldson suggested.

"It is quite useless.  He is not here."

"Then you have an idea where he has gone!"

She hesitated a moment.

"Yes," she answered.

He waited, but she ventured nothing further.

"I want you to feel," he said quietly, "that you may call upon me for
anything you wish done.  My time is my own--quite my own.  I place it
at your service."

She turned to study his face a moment.  It was clean and earnest.  It
bade her trust.  Yet to ask him to do what lay before her was to bring
him, a stranger, into the heart of her family affairs.  It was to
involve her in an intimacy from which instinctively she shrank.  But
pressing her close was the realization of the imminent danger
threatening the boy.  This was no time for quibbling--no time for nice
shadings of propriety.  Even if this meant a sacrifice of something of
herself, she must cling to the one spar that promised a chance for her
brother's safety.  As Donaldson's eyes met hers, she felt ashamed that
she had hesitated even long enough for these thoughts to flash through
her brain.

"The boy uses opium," she said without equivocation.

The bare naming of the drug rolled up the curtain before the whole
tragedy which had been suggested by the portrait in the library; it
explained every detail of this wild night except her presence here
practically alone with the crazed young man.  It accounted for her
objection to waiting in the drugstore; it solved the mystery of her
fear of the city shadows.  Had he suspected this, he would no more have
allowed her to go up those stairs alone than he would have permitted
her to go unescorted into the cell of a madman.

"I 'm sorry for him," he murmured.  "Then he has gone straight to Mott
Street?"

"I 'm afraid so.  He has been there once before."

"The habit has been long upon him?"

"It is inherited.  This is the third generation," she admitted, turning
her head aside in shame.

"But he himself--"

"Only after his father's death.  The father feared this and watched him
every minute.  He died thinking the danger was passed, but he left me a
prescription which had been of help to him.  It was given him by our
old family physician who has since died.  Mr. Barstow knew Dr. Emory
and so has always prepared it for me."

"How long this last time did he go without the drug?"

"It is three months since the first attack.  This medicine tided him
over five days.  He was nervous to-night and begged me to go out to
dinner with him.  I 'm afraid it was unwise--the lights and the music
excited him."

"But you have n't been here alone with him?"

"There is Marie."

"Two women alone with a man in that condition--it is n't safe."

"You don't understand how good he has been.  He has struggled hard.  He
has allowed me to lock him up--to do everything to help him.  He has
never been like this before."

"It is n't safe for you," he repeated.  "Are there no relatives I may
summon?"

"None," she answered.  "I am his cousin--his sister by adoption.  There
are no other relatives."

"No friends?"

"I would rather fight it out alone," she answered firmly.  "I don't
wish my friends to know about this," she added hastily, as though to
avoid further discussion along this line.

"It was careless of me to leave the door open as I went in."

"It was lucky for you.  He might have--"

"Don't!" she shuddered.

He waited a moment.

"You are brave," he declared, "but this is too big a problem for you to
manage.  He should have been placed in the hands of a physician."

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

He thought a moment.

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

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

She rose to her feet all excitement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you know how much money he had?"

"Money?  He had none."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was looking at him anxiously.

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

"This seems such an imposition--" she faltered.

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

"You are kind to consider it so."

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

She smiled courageously.

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

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

"Good night," he said again.

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



CHAPTER VII

_The Arsdales_

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

"Very well, Marie.  Good night."

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

"The black horse may mean Jacques."

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

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

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

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

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

"But what--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now I may kiss your forehead, Elaine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He put those thoughts into your heart?"

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

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

"But you, dear Dada--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had promised, knowing well to what he referred.

Then his face had hardened.

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

"But, Dada--"

"Promise."

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

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



CHAPTER VIII

_The Man Who Knew_

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hitting the pipe?"

"I 'm afraid so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing.  What makes you think there is?"

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

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

"Business picked up?"

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

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

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

"Light," demanded Saul.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You been out of town?"

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

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

"Riverside Drive?"

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

"You on the case?" he asked indifferently,

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

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

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

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

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

"Allee light," nodded the proprietor.

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

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

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

Saul placed his hand affectionately upon Donaldson's shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Guess you 're right," he admitted.

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

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

"Allee light."

"_At once_, you understand?"

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER IX

_Dawn_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have news?" she exclaimed.

"No," he answered directly.

She was a woman with whom one might be direct.

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

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

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

"So, I could n't allow you.  It is two hours from town.  You have
already given generously of your time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That will make a good walk for me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But--"

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

She hurried upstairs.

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

"Safe?  Why not?"

"I was going out to the bungalow."

The old servant looked up shrewdly.

"Is anything the matter?"

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

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

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

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

"Bien."

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

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

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

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

"Why are you going?"

The woman in the mirror was relentless.

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

"Why are you going?"

"Because the sun will give me strength."

"Why are you going?"

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

Whereupon the woman in the mirror ceased her questioning.

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

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

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

"Can you guard _her_?"

"That is unpardonable presumption," replied Donaldson heatedly.

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

"But a man may fight them off."

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

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

"Then you are not all-powerful."

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

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

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



CHAPTER X

_Outside the Hedge_

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Worse--because the grass is helpless."

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

"Not if we are worthy of our souls."

She frowned.

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

"Less to blame than some others, perhaps."

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

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

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

"Precisely."

"Providing we are wise enough," she returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That result alone will excuse my carelessness."

She appeared a bit worried over a new thought.

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

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

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

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

"Afraid of what?" demanded Donaldson.

"Spooks."

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

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

"How did that story start?"

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

The girl leaned forward excitedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: _He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way_]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was leaning against the ladder.



CHAPTER XI

_A Parting and a Meeting_

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

"Are you injured?" she cried.

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

"It was dark--up there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she said eagerly.

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

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

"I shall enjoy it," he declared.

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

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

"And you?"

"I was born in just such surroundings."

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

"Free?"

The word startled him.

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

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

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

"And it is?"

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

"Then you are a slave?" she laughed.

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

"You speak that like a king."

"Or a slave."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are generalizing?" she asked tentatively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ben?" faltered the girl.

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

"Ben was here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Again?" she demanded.

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

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

She drew the young woman down beside her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home?  The word was flat again.

"And you?" he inquired.

"I shall try to sleep, too."

"You have a bolt on your door?"

"Yes."

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

She nodded.

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

"There is one in the hall."

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

"You are good."

"You will not hesitate?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

She placed her hand lightly upon his sleeve.

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

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

"You must go now," she insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks.  Where 's the kid?"

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to the boy.

"Are you hurt?"

"No.  Are youse?"

"Not a mite.  Where were you bound?"

"Home."

"Where is that?"

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

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

"Gee.  I never saw the rope."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How'd you do it?"

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

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

"Dead," answered the boy laconically.

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

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

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

Bobby yawned.



CHAPTER XII

_District Messenger 3457_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He held the child up to Donaldson.

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

[Illustration: _"The kid," he announced laconically.  "What yuh think
of him?"_]

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

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

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

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

Donaldson broke in.

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

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

"In New England?"

"Berringdon, Vermont."

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

"He was Jim Wentworth, the oldest"

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

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

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

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

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

The steel blue eyes grew moist.

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

"Or I.  You left--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How old was Jim?"

"He was within a week of thirty."

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

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

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

"What became of the homestead?"

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

"Who lives there now?"

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

"Who holds it?"

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

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

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

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

She smiled.

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

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

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

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

She read slowly,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It 's the place for them."

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

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

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

"Perhaps.  Perhaps," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't mean if--if I _really_ had the chance?"

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

"Peter Donaldson!"

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

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

There were tears in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

"But you did n't know Jim!"

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

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

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

"You are rich?  You can afford this?"

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

"Oh, you are generous!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gee!" he gasped.

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

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

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

"With whom do you wish to talk?"

"With Deacon Staples."

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



CHAPTER XIII

_The Sleepers_

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

"Is this Deacon Staples?"

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

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

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

"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"

"A--joke.  Who are you, anyway?"

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

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

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

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

"I heard you had a house to sell."

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

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

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

"Where be you?" he demanded.

"In New York."

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

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

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

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

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

"Hush, Deacon, there are ladies present."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I 'low as much."

"Deacon."

"Yes" (eagerly).

"You 're a member of the church."

"Yes" (lamely).

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

"What--"

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

"What of it?" (suspiciously).

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

There was a silence of a minute.

"Wall," faltered the deacon rather feebly, "I thought mebbe ye wanted
the farm fer a summer place.  It's wuth more fer that."

"It is n't worth a cent more.  You simply tried to steal two hundred
dollars."

"Ye mean ter say--"

"Exactly that; I 've prevented you from going to bed within two hours
of the Lord's day with the theft of two hundred dollars on your soul."

"If ye think I 'm gonter stand up here in th' cold and listen to sech
talk as thet--"

"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars cash for the place,"
interrupted Donaldson.  "And remember that I know you through and
through.  I even know how much you stole from old man Burnham."

This was a chance shot, but it evidently went home from the sound of
uneasy coughing and spluttering that came to him over the telephone.
Donaldson found considerable amusement in grilling this country Shylock.

"Why, the house 'n' barn is wuth more 'n thet," the deacon exploded.

"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars, and mail the money to you
to-night."

"See here, I don't know who ye be, but ye 're darned sassy.  I won't
trade with ye afore Monday an'--"

"Then you won't trade at all."

"I 'll split th'--"

"You 'll take that price or leave it."

"I'll take it, but--"

"Good," broke in Donaldson sharply.  "The operator here is a witness.
I 'll send the money to-night, and have a tenant in the house Tuesday.
Good night, Deacon."

"If yer--"

The rest of the sentence faded into the jangle of the line, but
Donaldson broke in again.

"Say, Deacon, were you really in bed at this time of night?"

"Gol darn--"

"Careful!  Careful!"

"Wall, ye need n't think cause ye 're in N' York ye can be so all-fired
smart."

A sharp click told him that the deacon had hung up the receiver in
something of a temper.  Donaldson came out of the booth, hesitated, and
then put in another call.  He found relaxation in the vaudeville
picture he had of the spindle-shanked hypocrite fretting in the cold so
many miles distant.  He was morally certain that the old fellow had
robbed the dying Burnham of half his scant property.  If he had had the
time he would have started a lawyer upon an investigation.  As he did
n't, and he saw nothing more entertaining ahead of him until morning,
he took satisfaction in pestering him as much as possible in this
somewhat childish way.

"Keep at him until he answers," he ordered the girl.

It took ten minutes to rouse the deacon again.

"Is this Deacon Staples?" he inquired.

"Consarn ye--"

"I was n't sure you said good night.  I should hate to think you went
to sleep in a temper."

"It's none of your business how I go to sleep.  If you ring me up again
I 'll have the law on ye."

"So?  I 'll return good for evil.  I 'll give you a warning; look out
for the ghost of old Burnham to-night."

"For what?"

There was fear in the voice.  Donaldson smiled.  This suggested a new
cue.

"He's coming sure, because his daughter is a widow, and needs that
money."

"I held his notes," the deacon explained, as though really anxious to
offer an excuse.  "I can prove it."

"Prove it to Burnham's ghost.  He may go back."

"B--back where?"

"To his grave.  He sleeps uneasy to-night."

"Be you crazy?"

"Look behind you--quick!"

The receiver dropped.  Donaldson could hear it swinging against the
wall.  Without giving the deacon an opportunity to express his wrath
and fears, Donaldson hung up his own receiver and cheerfully paid the
cost of his twenty-minute talk.

In spite of the fact that on Thursday night he had slept only three
hours, that on Friday night he had not even lain down, his mind was
still alert.  He did not have the slightest sense of weariness.  It was
rest enough for him to know that the girl was asleep, relaxation enough
to recall the maiden joy that had freshened the eyes of Mrs. Wentworth.

It was too late to get a money-order, but he secured a check from the
hotel manager for the amount, and finding in the Berringdon paper the
name of a local lawyer whom he remembered as a boy, he mailed it to him
with a letter of explanation.  The deed was to be made out to Mrs.
Alice E. Wentworth, and was to be held until she called for it.  In
case of any difficulty--for it occurred to him that the deacon might at
the last moment sacrifice a good trade out of spite--the lawyer was to
telegraph him at once at the Waldorf.

Then he looked up the time the Berringdon train left and wrote a note
giving Mrs. Wentworth final detailed instructions.

Then still unwilling to trust himself alone with his thoughts,
Donaldson remained about the lobby.  He felt in touch here with all the
wide world which lay spread out below the night sky.  He studied with
interest the weary travellers who were dropped here by steamers which
had throbbed across so many turbulent watery miles, by locomotives hot
from their steel-held course.  The ever-changing figures absorbed him
until, with her big shouldered husband, a woman entered who remotely
resembled her he had been forced to leave to the protection of one old
serving maid.  Then in spite of himself, his thoughts ran wild again.

He hungered to get back to his old office, where, if he could find
nothing else to do for her, he could at least bury himself in his law
books.  This unknown man strode across the lobby so confidently--every
sturdy line of him suggesting blowsy strength.  The unknown woman
tripped along at his heels in absolute trust of it.  And he, Donaldson,
sat here, a helpless spectator, with a worthier woman trusting him as
though he were such a man.

In rebellion he argued that it was absurd that such a passion as his
towards a woman of whom he had seen so little should be genuine.  His
condition had made him mawkishly sentimental.  He had been fascinated
like a callow youngster by her delicate, pretty features; by her deep
gray eyes, her budding lips, her gentle voice.  He would be writing
verse next.  He was free--free, and in one stroke he had placed the
world at his feet.  He was above it--beyond it, and every living human
soul in it.  He rose as though to challenge the hotel itself, which
represented the crude active part of this world.

But with the memory of his afternoon, his declaration of independence
lasted but a moment.  He was back in the green fields with her--back in
the blazing sunshine with her, and the knowledge that from there, not
here, the road began along which lay everything his eager nature craved.

Well, even so, was he going to cower back into a corner?  There still
remained to him five days.  To use them decently he must keep to the
present.  The big future--the true future was dead.  Admit it.  There
still remained a little future.  Let him see what he could do with that.

A porter came in with a mop and swabbed up the deserted floors.
Donaldson watched every movement of his strong arms and felt sorry,
when, his part played, he retired to the wings.  Then he went to his
room.  He partly undressed and threw himself upon the bed.  It was then
ten minutes of four on Sunday morning, May twenty-sixth.

In spite of his apparent wakefulness he napped, for when he came to
himself again it was broad daylight.  An anxious looking hotel clerk
stood at the foot of his bed, while a pop-eyed bell-boy pressed close
behind him.  Donaldson rose to his elbow.

"What the devil are you doing in here?" he demanded.

The clerk appeared relieved by the sound of his voice.

"Why, sir, we got a bit worried about you.  We weren't able to raise
you all day yesterday."

"Could n't what?  I sat up until two o'clock this morning in the lobby.
I was awake in my room here two hours after that!"

"You must be mistaken, sir.  We rang your room telephone several times
yesterday, and pounded at your door without getting an answer."

"I was away during the day, but I was here all last night.  I asked you
particularly if any call had been received for me."

The clerk smiled tentatively.

"The chamber-maid found you in bed at eleven o'clock in the morning,
sir."

"The chamber-maid must have come into the wrong room," answered
Donaldson, beginning to suspect that he had caught the two men in the
act of thieving.  "I was n't in bed at all yesterday, and left the city
at nine o'clock."

The clerk hitched uneasily.  It was evident to him that Donaldson had
been drinking, and had the usual morning-after reluctance about
admitting it.  The night telephone operator had said that he had acted
queer.  However, as long as the man was n't dead this did n't concern
him.

"Sorry the mistake was made, sir," he replied, anxious now to
conciliate the guest.  "I would n't have bothered you only the lady
said the call was urgent."

"Good lord, man, what call?"

"It is to ring up Miss Arsdale's house at once, sir."

"When did you get that?" demanded Donaldson, as he sprang from his bed.

"This morning, sir, at one o'clock."

In three strides Donaldson was across the room.  The hotel attendants
crowded one another in their efforts to get out.

Donaldson gave the number and waited, every pulse beat of time
throbbing hot through his temples.  She had called and been unable to
rouse him, while he lay there like a yokel and dreamed of her!  He
conjured up visions of all sorts of disaster.  The boy might have
returned and--he shuddered and drew back from the suggestion.  He
refused to imagine.  He beat a tattoo with the inane hook which summons
Central.

"Number does n't answer, sir," came the reply.

"They _must_ answer!  You must _make_ them answer."

Again the interminable wait; again the dead reply.  He hung up the
receiver.  The hallucinations which swarmed through his brain taken in
connection with the meaningless talk of the hotel employees made him
fear an instant for his sanity.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and devoted five minutes to the
concentration of his mind upon the fact that he must be cool, must be
steady.  Else he would be of no use to any one.  He must be deliberate.
Then he dressed himself with complete self-possession.

When he came down into the lobby he noticed with some astonishment the
business-like appearance of the place for Sunday morning.  The clerk
glanced at him curiously as he approached.  Donaldson spoke with
exaggerated slowness and precision.

"I wish," he said, "that you would kindly make a careful note of any
messages which may come to me to-day.  Your error of this morning--"

He stopped as his eye caught the calendar, and its big black numeral.
It read Monday, May 27.  He looked from the calendar to the clerk.

"Have n't you made a mistake?" Donaldson asked.

"No, sir.  Shall I send a boy with you to the Turkish baths, sir?"

Then the truth dawned upon him; he had lost in sleep one whole precious
day!

And the girl--



CHAPTER XIV

_Consequences_

The driver threw on his high speed after a promise that his fine would
be paid and ten dollars over should they be stopped.  He made the house
in fifteen minutes and was lucky enough not to pass a policeman.
Donaldson jumping out bade him wait for further orders.

Donaldson received no response to his ring.  He tried the latch and
found the door locked.  On a run he skirted the house to the rear.  The
back door was open.  He pushed through into the cold kitchen, through
this into the dining room, and so into the hall.  There was no sign
either of the servant or of the girl herself.  He was now thoroughly
alarmed.

As he ran up the stairs he was confronted by what he took to be an old
witch in a purple wrapper.  She barred his way in a decidedly militant
manner, her sunken black eyes flashing anger.  She seemed about to
spring at him.

"Bien," she croaked, "qui diable are you?"

He paused.

"You are Marie?" he demanded.

"Bien, and you?"

A voice came from a room leading from the hall.  "Marie, who is it?  Is
it Ben?"

"I know not who it is," Marie shouted back; "but if he comes up another
step I will tear out his eyes."

"Miss Arsdale," called Donaldson, "is anything the trouble?  It is
I--Donaldson."

"You!"

Her voice, which had at first sounded weary, as the voice of one who
has waited a long while, gathered strength.

"It is all right, Marie," she called.  "This--this is my friend."

Marie relaxed and gripped the banister for support.  She was weak.

"I have never seen him before," she challenged.

There was a movement at the door.

"No, you have never seen him.  Come here a moment, Marie."

With difficulty the old woman hobbled back into the room to her
mistress, and for a few moments Donaldson waited impatiently for the
next development.  It came when he heard her voice asking him to come
in.  He was in the room in three strides.  She was sitting in her chair
with her head bandaged, Marie sitting by her side as though liking but
little his intrusion.  At sight of the white strip across her forehead,
he caught his breath.

"What does this mean?" he demanded with quick assumption of authority.

"You must n't think it is anything serious," she hastened to explain,
awed by the fierceness of his manner.  "It is only that--that he came
back."

"Arsdale?"

"Yes."

"Where is he now?"

"He went away again.  Marie and I tried to hold him, but we weren't
strong enough."

"It would be easier to hold the devil," interpolated Marie.

"But you," asked the girl,--"I was afraid you had met with an accident."

"I?" he cried.  "I was asleep--asleep like a drunken lout."

"All yesterday--all last night?" she asked in astonishment.

"Yes," he admitted, as though it were an accusation.

"Ah, that is good," she replied.  "You needed the rest."

"Needed rest, and you in this danger?" he exclaimed contemptuously.
"It was unpardonable of me."

"No!  No!  Don't say that.  You could have done nothing had you been
here."

"If ever I get my hands on him again," he cried below his breath.

"Mon Dieu," broke in Marie.  "If I, too--"

"Hush," interrupted the girl.  "It is quite useless for any of us to
attempt more until his money gives out.  He came back and found a few
dollars in my purse."

She had fought this madman, she and this rheumatic old woman, while he
had slept!  She had called to him and he had not answered!  The blood
went hot to his cheeks.  It was enough to make a man feel craven.

The wounded girl rested her bandaged head on the back of the chair.  At
the light in Donaldson's eyes, Marie straightened herself aggressively.

"Are you badly hurt?" he asked quietly.

"Only a bump," she laughed, remembering how he had stood by the ladder.
"Marie insisted upon this," she added, lightly touching the cloth about
her forehead.

"A bump?" snorted Marie.  "It is a miracle that she was not altogether
killed.  She--"

But a hand upon the old servant's arm checked her indignation.

"You two women cannot remain here any longer alone," he said
authoritatively.  "Either you must allow me to take you to the shelter
of some friend or--"

"There is no one," she interrupted quickly.  "No one to whom I would go
in this condition.  They would not understand."

"Then," he said, "I must secure a nurse for you."

"Am I not able to care for the p'tite?" demanded Marie.  "A nurse!"

"A nurse is needed to care for you both.  I am going downstairs now to
summon one."

She protested feebly, and Marie vigorously, but he was insistent.

"I ought to call your family physician--"

"No, Mr. Donaldson, you must not do that."

She was firm upon this point, so he went below to do what else he might.

At the telephone he found the explanation of his inability to get the
house in the fact that the receiver was hanging loose.  It was another
accusation.  Doubtless in her weakened condition she had dropped it
from her hand and turned away, too dazed to replace it.  The hot shame
of it dried his tongue so that he could scarcely make himself
understood.  In spite of this he accomplished many things in a very few
minutes.  The operator gave him the number of a near-by reliable nurse,
and finding her in, he sent off the cab for her.  Then through an
employment bureau he secured a cook who agreed to reach the house
within an hour.  He then telephoned the nearest market and ordered
everything he could think of from beefsteak to fruit, and to this added
everything the marketman could think of.  He had no sooner finished
than the nurse arrived.

By the greatest good luck Miss Colson proved to be young, cheerful, and
capable.  She followed Donaldson upstairs and succeeded in winning the
confidence of both the girl and Marie at once.  Donaldson left them
together.  A little while later he was allowed to come up again.

"I feel like an unfaithful knight," he said, as he entered.  "I deserve
to be dismissed without a word."

"Because you slept?  It was not your fault.  I fear I have left you
little time for rest."

"Why did n't you tell them to break down the doors--to _get_ me!"

Her face clouded for a moment.

She saw how chagrined he still felt.

"Don't blame yourself," she pleaded.  "It's all over anyway and you 've
done everything possible.  You 've been very thoughtful."

"I was a fool to leave you here.  I should have stayed."

"That was impossible."

Donaldson marveled that she could pass off the whole episode so
generously.  He refrained from questioning her further as to what had
happened.  It was unnecessary, for he knew well enough.

"Let us choose a pleasanter subject," she said.  "Tell me how you
became a great hero."

"A sorry hero," he answered, not understanding what she meant.

"No.  No.  It was fine!  It was fine!"

He was bewildered.

"You don't mean to say you have n't seen the papers--but then, of
course, you have n't, if you were asleep all day Sunday.  Please bring
me that pile in the corner."

He handed them to her and she unfolded the first page of the uppermost
paper.  He found himself confronting a picture of himself as he had
stood, the centre of an admiring crowd, in front of the big machine
which had so nearly killed Bobby.

He shared the first page with the latest guesses concerning the
Riverside robberies.

"Well," he stammered, "I 'd forgotten all about that!"

"Forgotten such an act!  You don't half realize what a hero you are.
Listen to the headlines, 'Heroic Rescue,' 'Young Lawyer Gives
Remarkable Exhibition of Nerve,' 'The Name of Lawyer Donaldson
Mentioned for Carnegie Medal,' 'Bravest Deed of the Year,' 'Faced Death
Unflinchingly.'"

And the pitiful feature of it was that he must sit and listen to this
undeserved praise from her lips.  That, knowing deep in his heart his
own unworthiness, he must face her and see her respond to those things
as though he really had been worthy.  He, who had done the act under
oath, was receiving the reward of a man who would have done it with no
false stimulus.  He, who had been unconsciously braced to it by the
fact that he had so little to lose, was receiving the praise due only a
man who risks all the happiness of a long life.  He had faced death
after flinching from life.  He was sick of his hypocrisy; he would be
frank with himself.  He would be frank with her; he had a right to it
this once.  He pressed down the paper she was reading.

"Don't repeat it," he commanded.  "It is n't true!  It's all wrong!"

"What do you mean?"

"That it's all a lie!"

"But here 's your picture.  And _that 's_ you."

"Oh, the naked facts are true.  But the rest about,--" it was hard to
do this with her eyes upon him, "the rest about being a hero--about
nerve and bravery.  It's rot!  It is n't so!"

She threw back her head, resting it upon the top of her chair, and
laughed gently.  The color had come back into her cheeks and even the
dark below her eyes seemed to fade.

"Of course," she returned, "you would n't be a truly hero if you knew
you were one."

"But I know I 'm not."

"Of course and so you are!"

The impulse was strong within him to pour out to her the whole bitter
story.  Better to stand shorn and true before her than garbed in such
false colors as these.  But as before, he realized that her own welfare
forbade even this relief.

The nurse approached with a cheery smile, but with an unmistakable air
of authority.

"You will pardon me," she interrupted, "but we must keep Miss Arsdale
as quiet as possible.  I think she ought to try to sleep a little now."

Sorry as he was to go, Donaldson was relieved to know that he was
leaving her in such good hands.

The ringing of the front door-bell startled her.  She shrank back in
her chair.  The nurse was at her side instantly.

"You had better leave at once," she whispered to Donaldson.

"It's only the new cook," he answered.

He went downstairs and ushered her in, and led her to the kitchen.

"The place is yours," he said, waving his hands about the room, "and
all you 've got to do is to cook quickly and properly whatever order is
sent down to you.  Get that?"

The woman nodded, but glanced suspiciously about the deserted quarters.
The place looked as when first opened in the Fall, after the return
from the summer vacation.

"The family," Donaldson went on to explain, "consists of three.  If you
succeed in satisfying this group I 'll give you an extra ten at the end
of the week."

"I 'll do it, sor."

She looked as though she was able.

"Anything more you want to know?"

"The rist of the help, sor,--"

"You 're all of it," he answered briefly.

Before leaving the house he did one thing more to allay his fears.  He
called up a private detective bureau and ordered them to keep watch of
the house night and day until further notice.  They were to keep their
eyes open for any slightly deranged person who might seek an entrance.
In the event of capturing him, they were to take him into the house and
put him to bed, remaining at his side until he, Donaldson, arrived.

Then he ordered his cab to the restaurant of Wun Chung.



CHAPTER XV

_The Derelict_

Chung had news for him; he had not yet found Arsdale, but his men
reported that yesterday the boy had been concealed at Hop Tung's, where
Saul had first suspected him to be.  The evil-eyed proprietor had
hidden him, half in terror of Arsdale himself and half through lust of
his money.  Finally, however, fearing for the young man's sanity he had
thrown him out upon the street.  It would go hard with the yellow rat,
Chung declared, for such treachery as this to the Lieutenant.

"It may go hard with all of you," replied Donaldson significantly.
"But you 've another chance yet; the boy is back here somewhere.  Find
him within twenty-four hours and I'll help you with Saul."

"He clome black?" exclaimed Chung.

"Sometime early this morning."

If the boy was in the neighborhood, Chung asserted eagerly, he would
find him within an hour or hang the cursed-of-his-ancestors, Tung, by
his pigtail from his own window.

"Which is better than being locked up in jail.  Are you children,"
Donaldson exploded, "that you can be duped like that?"

Chung appeared worried.  But his slant eyes contracted until scarcely
more than the eye-lashes were revealed.  However inactive he may have
been up to now, Donaldson knew that an end had come to his
sluggishness.  When Chung left the room there was determination in
every wrinkle of his loose embroidered blouse.

So there were some nooks in Chinatown, mused Donaldson, that even Saul
did not know.  The longer he sat there, the more indignant he became at
the treachery of this moon-faced traitor who was indirectly responsible
for the nightmare through which the girl had passed.  Yet, as he
realized, no more responsible than he himself.  He had been a thousand
times more unfaithful to the girl than Tung had been to Saul.

Chung returned with a brew of his finest tea.  He was loquacious.  He
tried one subject after another, interjecting protestations of his
friendship for Saul.  Donaldson heard nothing but the even voice and
the sibilant dialect.  He seemed chained to that one torturing picture.
Even the prospect of finding the boy and so ending the suspense which
had battered Miss Arsdale's nerves for so long brought little relief.
He never could be needed again as he had been needed then.  He might
even have been able to detain Arsdale and so have avoided this present
crisis.  He felt all the pangs of an honest sentry who, asleep at his
post, awakes to the fact that the enemy has slipped by him in the night.

It was well within the hour when Chung's lieutenant glided in with a
message that brought a suave smile to the face of his master.

"Allee light," he announced, beaming upon Donaldson.  "Gellelum
dlownslairs."

"You've found him!"

"In callage," nodded Chung, with the genial air of a clergyman after
completing a marriage ceremony.

Donaldson reached the carriage before Chung had descended the first
half-dozen steps.  He opened the door and saw a limp, unkempt form
sprawled upon the seat.  He recognized it instantly as Arsdale.  But
the man was in no condition to be carried home.  He must take him
somewhere and watch over him until he was in a more presentable shape.
But one place suggested itself,--his own apartments.

Donaldson paused.  He must take this bedraggled, disheveled remnant of
a man to the rooms which stood for rich cleanliness.  He must soil the
nice spotlessness of the retreat for which he had paid so dearly.  In
view of the little he had so far enjoyed of his costly privileges, this
last imposition seemed like a grim joke.

"To the Waldorf," he ordered the driver with a smile.

He himself climbed up on the box where he could find fresh air.  At the
hotel he bribed a bellboy to help him with the man to his room by way
of the servant's entrance.  Then he telephoned for the hotel physician,
Dr. Seton.

Before the doctor arrived Donaldson managed to strip the clothes from
the senseless man and to roll him into bed.  Then he sat down in a
chair and stared at him.

"It's an opium jag," he explained, as soon as Dr. Seton came in, "but
that is n't the worst feature of it.  I 'm tied here to him until he
comes to.  I can't tell you how valuable my time is to me.  I want you
to take the most heroic measures to get him out of it as soon as
possible."

"Very well, we 'll clear his system of the poison.  But we can't be too
violent.  We must save his nerves."

"Damn his nerves," Donaldson exclaimed.  "He doesn't deserve nerves."

The doctor glanced sharply from his patient to Donaldson himself.  He
noted the latter's pupils, his tense lips, his tightened fingers.  He
had jumped at the word poison, like a murderer at the word police.

"See here," he demanded, "you have n't any of this stuff in you, have
you?"

"No," answered Donaldson, calmly.

"Anything else the matter with you?"

"Nothing but nervousness, I guess.  I 've been under something of a
strain recently."

Donaldson turned away.  He was afraid of the keen eyes of this man.
Barstow had not experimented very long with the stuff; perhaps, after
all, it did produce symptoms.  But he reassured himself the next
minute, remembering that the drug was unknown.  Barstow had not
revealed his discovery to any one.  If he showed a dozen symptoms they
would be unrecognizable.

The doctor dropped his questioning and turned to his patient.  He
subjected the man to the stomach-pump and hot baths.  Donaldson
assisted and watched every detail of the vigorous treatment with
increasing interest.  At the end of two hours Arsdale was allowed to
sleep.

Seton put on his coat and wrote out instructions for the further care
of the man.  But before leaving he again turned his shrewd eyes upon
Donaldson himself.

"My boy," he said kindly, "you ought to pay some attention to your own
health.  I hate to see a man of your age go to pieces."

He squinted curiously at Donaldson's eyes.  The latter withdrew a
little.

"What makes you think there is anything wrong with me?" he asked.

"Your eyes for one thing," he answered.

"Nonsense.  If I need anything, its only a good sweating, such as you
gave Arsdale."

"There are some poisons not so easily sweated out."

Donaldson hesitated.  While watching this man at work upon the boy, he
had felt a temptation which was now burning hot within him.  It was
possible that it was not too late even now to clean his own system of
the drug he had swallowed.  This man, he knew, would bring to his aid
all the wisdom of medical science.  Barstow may have been mistaken,
although he knew the careful chemist well enough to realize this was
well nigh an impossibility.  The next second he held out his hand.  It
was steady.  He smiled as he saw Seton pause a moment to note if it
trembled.

"Thanks for all you 've done, doctor," he said.  "Do you think I can
take him home tomorrow?"

"If you follow my instructions.  The boy really has a sound physique.
He ought to pull out quickly."

As the door closed upon the doctor, Donaldson drew a breath of relief.
Thank God he had resisted his impulse.  He would keep true to his
compact.  He must remain true to himself.  That was all that was now
left.  There must be no shirking--no flinching.  If he had played the
fool, he must not play the coward.  The subtle tempter had suggested
the girl, but he realized that he had better not come to her at all
than to come as one who had played unfairly with himself.  To be
unfaithful to the spirit of his undertaking would be as weak a thing as
not to fulfill the letter of his oath.  His shadowy duty to the girl
would not justify himself in evading a crisis demanding his life for
the life of another, nor would it vindicate the greater evasion.  It
was a matter of honor to remain true to that which at the start had
justified the whole hazard to him.  It was this which restrained him
even from learning whether or not Barstow was in town.

The man on the bed was breathing heavily, his lips moving at every
breath in a way to form a grimace.  He made in this condition the whole
room as tawdry as a tavern tap.  And at the feet of this thing he was
tossing his meager store of golden minutes.

Yet it was through this inert medium alone that Miss Arsdale could pay
the debt to the father who had been so good to her; and it was only
through this same unsightly shell that he, Donaldson, could in his turn
repay his debt for the dreams she had quickened in him.

He stepped to the telephone to tell her what he could of that which he
had found and done.  The mere sound of her voice as it came over the
wire brightened the room like a flood of light.  The joy in it as she
listened to what he had accomplished was payment enough for all he had
sacrificed.  He told her that the doctor had advised keeping the boy in
for at least another day.

"Oh, but you are good!" she exclaimed.  "And you will not leave
him--you will guard him against running off again?"

"I shall stay here at his side until it is absolutely safe to go."

"If I could only come down!"

"But you must n't.  You must stay where you are and do as you 're told."

"It will be only for to-day and to-night, won't it?"

"Probably that is all."

"That is n't very long."

"Not as time goes."

"But it will seem long."

"Will it--to you?"

He regretted the question the moment it had been uttered.  But it came
to his lips unbidden.

"Of course," she answered.

"It will seem very long to me," he returned slowly.  "Almost a
lifetime."

"Perhaps you will telephone now and then."

"Very often, if I may."

"The nurse says she 'll not allow me to answer the telephone after nine
at night."

"Nine to-night is a long way off yet."

"It's only half a day."

"But that's twelve hours!"

"Do you think that long?"

"Yes.  That seems a very long while to me."

"It is soon gone."

"Too soon."

"Then comes the night and then the morning and then you 'll bring him
home."

"Then I 'll bring him home."

What a new meaning that word home had when it fell from her lips.  What
a new meaning everything had.

She turned aside to address some one in the room and then her voice
came in complaint.

"The nurse is here with my medicine."

"Then close your eyes and swallow it quickly.  I 'll telephone you
later and inquire how it tasted."

"Thank you.  Good bye."

"Good bye."

He hung up the receiver and settled down to the grim task of counting
the passing minutes which were draining his life as though each minute
were a drop of blood let from an artery.  And all the company he had
for it was this poor devil on the bed who grimaced as he breathed.

He folded his arms.  If this, too, was a part of the cost he must pay
it like a man.



CHAPTER XVI

_The Fourth Day_

The morning of Tuesday, May twenty-eighth, found Donaldson still
sitting in the chair, facing the form upon the bed.  He had not
undressed, and had slept less than an hour.  He was now waiting for
eight o'clock, when he had received permission from the nurse to ring
up Miss Arsdale again.

With some tossing Arsdale had slept on without awaking fully enough to
be conscious of his surroundings.  Now, however, Donaldson became aware
that the fellow's brain was clearing.  He watched the process with some
interest.  It was an hour later before the man began to realize that he
was in a strange room, and that another was in the room with him.  It
was evident that he was trying hard, and yet with fear of whither the
road might lead him, to trace himself back.  He had singled out
Donaldson for some time, observing him through half-closed eyes, before
he ventured to speak.

"Where am I?" he finally faltered huskily.

"In my charge."

"Who are you?"

"One Donaldson."

"I never heard of you."

"That is not improbable."

Arsdale reflected upon this for some time before he gained courage to
proceed further.

"I 'm going to get up," he announced, at the end of some five minutes.

"No, you 're not.  You are going to stay right where you are."

"What right have you to keep me here?" he demanded.

"The right of being stronger than you."

Arsdale struggled feebly to his elbow, but Donaldson pushed him back
with a pressure that would not have made a child waver.  He stood
beside him wondering just how much the dulled brain was able to grasp.
The long night had left him with little sympathy.  The more he had
thought of that blow, the greater the aversion he felt towards Arsdale.
If the boy had n't struck her he would feel some pity for him, but that
blow given in the dark against a defenseless woman--the one woman who
had been faithful and kind to him--that was too much.  It had raised
dark thoughts there in the night.

Arsdale, his pupils contracted to a pin-point, stared back at him.  Yet
his questions proved that he was now possessed of a certain amount of
intelligence.  If he was able to realize that he was in a strange
place, he might be able to realize some other things that Donaldson was
determined he _should_.

"You are n't very clear-headed yet, but can you understand what I am
saying to you now?"

Arsdale nodded weakly.

"Do you remember anything of what you did yesterday?" he demanded, in a
vibrant voice that engraved each word upon the sluggish brain.

"No," answered the man quailing.

"No?  Then I'll tell you.  You came back to the house and you struck
your sister."

"No!  No!  Not that!  I didn't do that."

Donaldson responded to a new hope.  This seemed to prove that the
conscience of the man was not dead.  It came to him as a relief.  He
was relentless, not out of hate, but because so much depended upon
establishing the fact that the fellow still had a soul.

"Yes.  You did," he repeated, his fingers unconsciously closing into
his palms.  "You struck her down."

"Good God!"

"Think of that a while and then I 'll tell you more."

"Is she hurt, is she badly hurt?"

Without replying Donaldson returned to his chair on the opposite side
of the bed and watched him as a physician might after injecting a
medicine.  Arsdale stared back at him in dumb terror.  Donaldson could
almost see the gruesome pictures which danced witch-like through his
disordered brain.  He did n't enjoy the torture, but he must know just
how much he had upon which to work.

It was in the early hours of the morning that Donaldson had become
conscious of the new and tremendous responsibility which rested upon
him.  To leave Arsdale behind him alive in such a condition as this
would be to leave the curse upon the girl,--would be to desert her to
handle this mad-man alone.  He had seen red at the thought of it.  It
would be to brand his own act with unpardonable cowardice; it would be
to go down into his grave with the helpless cries of this woman ringing
in his ears; it would be to shirk the greatest and most sacred duty
that can come to a man.  The cold sweat had started upon his forehead
at the thought of it.

The inexorable alternative was scarcely less ghastly.  Yet in the face
of this other the alternative had come as a relief.  If it cost him his
immortal soul, this other should not be left behind to mar a fair and
unstained life.  He would throttle him as he lay there upon the bed
before he would leave him behind to this.  He would go to his doom a
murderer before he would leave Arsdale alive to do a fouler murder.
That should be his final sacrifice,--his ultimate renunciation.  In its
first conception he had been appalled by the idea, but slowly its
inevitability had paralyzed thought.  It had made him feel almost
impersonal.  Considering the manner in which he had been thrust into
it, it seemed, as it were, an ordinance of Fate.

Though this had now become fixed in his mind, there was still the scant
hope that he had grasped from what he had observed in Arsdale's manner.
Given the morsel of a man, and there was still hope.  Therefore it was
with considerable interest that he watched for some evidence of the
higher nature, even if only expressed in the crude form of shame.  At
times Arsdale looked like a craven cornered to his death--at times like
a man struggling with a great grief--at times like a man dazed and
uncomprehending.

To himself he moaned continuously.  Frequently he rose to his elbow
with the cry, "Is she hurt?"

Still in silence Donaldson watched him.  Once Arsdale fell forward on
his chin, where he lay motionless, his eyes still upon Donaldson.  The
latter helped him back to the pillow, but Arsdale shrank from his touch.

"Your eyes!" he gasped, covering his own with his trembling hand.
"They are the eyes of a devil.  Take them off me--take them off!"

But Arsdale could not endure his blindness long.  It made the ugly
visions worse.  So, he saw the girl with red blood streaming down her
cheeks.

The sight of this writhing soul raised many new speculations in
Donaldson's mind especially in connection with its possible outcome.
In the matter of religion he was negative, neither believing any
professed creed nor denying any.  He had received no early impetus, and
had up to now been too preoccupied with his earthly interests, with no
great grief or happiness to arouse him, to formulate any theory in his
own mind.  Even at the moment he had swallowed the poison the motive
prompting him to it had been so intensely material that it had started
but the most momentary questions.  It was the thought of Mrs.
Wentworth, the sight of the baby, the indefinable boundaries of his own
love--it was love that pressed the question in upon him.  Now the other
extreme embodied in the sight of the man before him, capped by the
acute query of what the sin of murder might mean, sharpened it to a
real concern.  If such love as the mother and the girl connoted forbade
the conception that love expired with life, the torture of this other
stunted soul seemed prophetic of what might be awaiting his own future,
dwarfed by the shifty expedient he had adopted to check its
development.  If punishment counted for anything, he was, to be sure,
receiving his full portion right here on earth.  The realization of
what he was leaving was an inquisition of the most exquisite order.
But would this be the end?  His consciousness, as he sat there, refused
to allow the hope,--refused even to allow the hope to be desired.

So, face to face, each of these two struggled with the problem of his
next step.  To each of them life had a new and terrible significance.
From a calm sea it had changed to wind-rent chaos.  It was revealing
its potentialities,--lamb-like when asleep, lion-like when roused.
Tangle-haired Tragedy had stalked forth into the midst of men going
about their business.

The man on the bed broke out again,

"Why did n't I die before that?  Why did n't I die before?"

Then he turned upon Donaldson with a new horror in his eyes.

"I did n't kill her?" he gasped.

The answer to his cry came--though he could not interpret it--in the
ringing of the telephone.  Donaldson crossed to it, while Arsdale
cowered back in bed as though fearing this were news of some fresh
disaster.  To him the broken conversation meant nothing; to Donaldson
it brought a relief that saved him almost from madness.

"Is that you, Mr. Donaldson?" she asked.

"Yes.  And you--you are well?"

There was a pause, and then came the query again,

"Is that you?"

"Yes, can't you hear my voice?"

"It does n't sound like your voice.  Is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing.  I don't understand what you mean."

She hesitated again and then answered,

"It--it made me almost afraid."

"It's your nerves.  Did you sleep well?"

"Yea.  And is Ben all right?"

"Yes."

"There it is again," she broke in.  "Your voice sounds harsh."

"That must be your imagination."

"Perhaps," she faltered.  "Are you going to bring him home to-day?"

"Probably not until this evening.  But," he broke in, "I shall come
sooner myself.  I shall come this morning.  Will you tell that
gentleman waiting near the gate to come down here?"

"What gentleman?"

"You probably have n't seen him.  I put him there on guard."

"You are thoughtful.  Your voice is natural again.  Is Ben awake now?"

"Yes."

"And does he know?"

"Some things."

"Mr. Donaldson," she said, and he caught the shuddering fear in her
voice, "are you keeping anything from me?"

"I don't know what you mean, but I will come up so that you may see
there has been no change."

"I still think you are concealing something."

"Nothing that is not better concealed; nothing that you could help."

"I should rather know.  I do not like being guarded in that way."

"We all have to guard one another.  You in your turn guard me."

"From what?"

"Many things.  You are doing it now--this minute."

"From what?" she insisted.

"From myself."

"Oh, I don't know what you mean.  I think you had better come up here
at once--if it is safe to leave Ben."

"I shall make it safe.  Don't forget to send down my man."

He hung up the receiver and turned to Arsdale.  The latter must have
noticed instantly the change in Donaldson's expression, for he rose to
his elbow with eager face.

"You'll tell me before you go!  You'll tell before--"

"You didn't kill," answered Donaldson.

"Thank God!"

"She is n't even wounded seriously."

"She knows that it was I?"

"Yes.  She knows."

"How she must hate me, gentle Elaine."

"It is hard for her to hate any one."

"You think she--she might forgive?"

"I don't know.  That remains to be seen."

The man buried his face in his arms and wept.  This was not maudlin
sentimentality; it struck deeper.

"Are you ready to do anything more than regret?" demanded Donaldson.
"Are you ready to make a fight to quit that stuff?"

"So help me as long as I live--"

"Don't tell me that.  I want you to think it over a while.  I 'm going
to have some one stay here with you until I get back this afternoon.
Will you remain quiet?"

"Yes."

"And remember that even if by chance you did n't do much harm, still
you struck.  You struck a woman; you struck your sister."

Arsdale cringed.  Each word was a harder blow than he, even in his
madness, could strike.

"It's a--terrible thing to remember.  But--but it will be always with
me.  It will never leave me."

As soon as the detective arrived Donaldson gave him his instructions,
adding,

"Look out for tricks, and be ready to tell me all he says to you."

"I 've had 'em before," answered the man.



CHAPTER XVII

_An Interlude_

She was waiting for him in the library with an expression both eager
and worried.  She crossed the room to meet him, but paused half-way as
though really fearful of some change.  But she saw only the same kind,
tense face, looking perhaps a bit heavy from weariness, the same dark
eyes with their strange fires, the same slight droop of the shoulders.
There was certainly nothing to fear in him as he stood before her with
a tender, quizzical smile about his large mouth.  He looked to her now
more like a big boy than the cold, stern man she had half expected.

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

"No, not standing here where I can see you.  But over the telephone
with your strange voice and your half meanings--what _did_ you mean?"

"Nothing you need worry about."

She became suddenly serious.

"I want to tell you now that there is no need of your trying to hide
anything at all from me about Ben."

"I am hiding nothing.  But," he asked with quick intuition, "are _you_?"

She hesitated, met his eyes, and dropped her voice.

"I can tell you nothing--not even you--unless you have learned it."

"I, in my turn, don't know what you mean," he answered.  "I have
learned nothing new about him.  And it is too fair a morning," he
concluded abruptly, "to bother over puzzles.  Things have happened so
rapidly that we are probably both muddled, and if we could spend the
time in explanations we should doubtless find that neither of us means
anything."

She was clearly relieved, but it raised a new question in Donaldson's
mind.  Of course she understood nothing of what had taken place last
night unless by mental telepathy.  But in these days of psychic
revelations a man could n't feel secure even in his thoughts.  There
was apparently some inner secret--she had touched upon it
before--relating to the Arsdale curse.  Doubtless if one pried
carefully enough many another skeleton could be found in the closets of
the house of this family half-poisoned now through three generations.

It was early and it suddenly occurred to her that he had probably not
yet breakfasted.

She struggled a moment with a conflicting sense of hospitality and
propriety, but finally said resolutely, "I should be glad if you would
breakfast with me.  You ought to try your new cook."

The picture he had of her sitting opposite him at the coffee brought
the warm blood to his cheeks.

"I--why--"

"Will you have your chop well done?" she broke in, without giving him
time to frame an excuse.

"Yes," he answered.

She left him.

Within a very short time she announced the meal with pretty grace,
which concealed all trace of nervousness, save for the heightened color
of her cheeks, which, he noted, were as scarlet as though she herself
had been bending over a hot stove.  She led the way into an exquisite
little dining room, which he at once took to be the expression of her
own taste.  It was in white and apple green, with a large trellised
window opening upon the lawn.  A small table had been placed in the sun
near the window, and was covered with dazzling white linen, polished
silver, and cut glass, which, catching the morning beams, reflected a
prismatic riot of colors.  The chops, lettuce, bread and butter, and
coffee were already served.  As he seated her, he felt as though he
were living out a dream--one of the dreams that as a very young man he
had sometimes dreamed when, lying flat upon his back in the sun, he had
watched the big cotton clouds wafted, like thistledown, across the blue.

It might have been Italy for the blue of the sky and the caressing
warmth of the sun.  They threw open the big window and in flooded the
perfume of lilacs and the twitter of sparrows, which is the nearest to
a bird song one can expect in New York.  But after all, this was n't
New York; nor Spain; nor even the inner woods; it was just Here.  And
Here is where the eyes of a man and a woman meet with spring in their
blood.

Griefs of loss, bitter, poignant; sorrows of mistakes, bruising,
numbing; the ache of disappointments, ingratitudes, betrayals,--Nature
surging on to her fulfillment sweeps them away, like fences before a
flood, allowing no obstructions to Youth's kinship with Spring.  So the
young may not mourn long; so, if they do, they become no longer young.

The man and the woman might have been two care-free children for all
they were able to resist the magic of this fair morning or the subtler
magic of their own emotions.

To the man it suggested more than to the woman because he gave more
thought to it, but the woman absorbed more the spirit of it because she
more fully surrendered herself.

Donaldson found himself with a good appetite.  There was nothing
neurotic about him.  He was fundamentally normal--fundamentally
wholesome--with no trace of mawkishness in his nature.  As he sipped
the hot golden-brown coffee, he tried to get at just what it was that
he felt when he now looked at her.  It came to him suddenly and he
spoke it aloud,

"I seem to have, this minute, a fresher vision of life than I have
known since I was twenty."

It was something different from anything he had experienced up to now.
It was saner, clearer.

"It is the morning," she hazarded.  "I never saw the grass so green as
it is this morning; I never felt the sun so warm."

"It is like the peace of the inner woods,--only brighter," he declared.

"You said such peace never came to any one unless alone."

"Did I?"

She nodded.

"But it _is_ like that," he insisted.  "Only more joyous.  I think it
is the extra joy in it that makes us not want it alone.  Queer, too, it
seems to be born altogether of this spot, of this moment.  Understand
what I mean?  It does n't seem to go back of the moment we entered this
room and--," he hesitated, "it does n't seem to go forward."

"It is as though coming in here we had stepped into a beautiful picture
and were living inside the frame for a little," she suggested.

"Exactly.  The frame is the hedge; the picture is the sky, the sun, and
you."

She laughed, frankly pleased in a childish way, at his conceit.

"Then for me," she answered, "it must be the sun, the sky, and _you_."

"We are n't trying to compliment each other, are we?"

"No," she answered seriously.  "I hope not."

She went on after a moment's reflection,

"I have been puzzling over the strange chance that brought you into my
life at so opportune a time."

"I came because you believed in me and because you needed me.  You
believed in me because--," he paused, his blood seeming suddenly to run
faster, "because I needed you."

"You needed me?"

"Yes," he answered, "I needed you.  I needed you long ago."

"But how--why?"

"To show me the joy there is in the sunlight wherever it strikes; to
take me with you into this picture."

Their eyes met.

"Have I done that?" she asked.

"Yes."

She shook her head.

"I 'm afraid not," she disclaimed, "because the joy has n't been in my
own heart."

"Nor was it in mine--then."

Her eyes turned back to his.  The silver in them came to the top like
the moon reflection on dark waters through fading clouds.  He was
leaning a little towards her.

"It seems to be something that we can't get alone," he explained.

"Perhaps it is," she pondered, "perhaps."

She started back a little, as one who, lost in a sunset, leans too far
over the balcony.  Then she smiled.  Donaldson's heart answered the
smile.

"Your coffee is cooling," she said.  "May I pour you some fresh?"

He passed his cup automatically.  But the act was enough to bring him
back.  A moment gone the room had grown misty.  Something had made his
throat ache.  He felt taut with a great unexpressed yearning.  He
became conscious of his breakfast again.  He sipped his hot coffee.

"I suppose," he reflected, "you ought to know something about me."

"I am interested," she answered, "but I don't think it matters much."

Again he saw in her marvelous eyes that look of complete confidence
that had thrilled him first on that mad ride.  Again he realized that
there is nothing finer in the world.  For a moment the room swam before
him at the memory of his doom.  But her calm gaze steadied him at once.
He must cling to the Now.

"I have n't much I can tell you," he resumed.  "My parents died when I
was young.  They were New England farm-folk and poor.  After I was left
alone, I started in to get an education without a cent to my name.  It
took me fifteen years.  I graduated from college and then from the law
school.  I came here to New York and opened an office.  That is all."

He waved his hand deprecatingly as though ashamed that it was so slight
and undramatic a tale.  But she leaned towards him with sudden access
of interest.

"Fifteen years, and you did it all alone!  You must have had to fight."

"In a way," he answered.

"Will you tell me more about it?" she asked eagerly.

"It's not very interesting," he laughed.  "It was mostly a grind--just
a plain, unceasing grind.  It was n't very exciting--just getting any
old job I could and then studying what time was left."

"And growing stronger every day--feeling your increasing power!"

"And my hunger, too, sometimes."

He tried to make light of it because he didn't wish her to become so
serious over it.  He did n't like playing the part of hero.

"You did n't have enough to eat?" she asked in astonishment.

"You should have seen me watch Barstow's cake-box."

He told her the story, making it as humorous as he could.  But when he
had finished, she wasn't laughing.  For a moment his impulse was to lay
before her the whole story--the bitter climax, the ashen climax, which
lately he had thought so beautiful.  She had said that nothing in the
past would matter--but this was of the future, too.  Even if she ought
to know, he had no right to force upon her the burden of what was to
come.  He found now that he had even cut himself off from the privilege
of being utterly honest with her.  To tell her the whole truth might be
to destroy his usefulness to her.  She might then scorn his help.  He
must not allow that.  Nothing could justify that.

"You are looking very serious," she commented.

Her own face had in the meanwhile grown brighter.

"It is all from within," he answered, "all from within.  And--now
presto!--it is gone."

Truly the problem did seem to vanish as he allowed himself to become
conscious of the picture she made there in the sunshine.  With her hair
down her back she could have worn short dresses and passed for sixteen.
The smooth white forehead, the exquisite velvet skin with the first
bloom still upon it, the fragile pink ears were all of unfolding
womanhood.

"Since my mother died," he said, "you are the first woman who has ever
made me serious."

"Have you been such a recluse then?"

"Not from principle.  I have been a sort of office hermit by necessity."

"You should not have allowed an office to imprison you," she scolded.
"You should have gone out more."

"I have--lately."

"And has it not done you good?" she challenged, not realizing his
narrow application of the statement.

"A world of good."

"It brightens one up."

"Wonderfully."

"If we stay too much by ourselves we get selfish, don't we?"

"Intensely.  And narrow-minded, and morbid, and petty and--," the words
came charged with bitterness, "and intensely foolish."

"I 'm glad you crawled out before you became all those things."

"You gave me a hand or I should n't."

"I gave you a hand?"

"Yea," he answered, soberly.

"Perhaps--perhaps this is another of the things that could n't have
happened to either of us alone."

"I think you are right," he answered.

He did not dare to look at her.

"Perhaps that is true of all the good things in the world," she
hazarded.

"Perhaps."

Once again the golden mist--once again the aching yearning.

The telephone jangled harshly.  It was a warning from the world beyond
the hedge, the world they had forgotten.

The sound of it was to him like the savage clang of barbaric war-gongs.

With her permission he answered it himself.  It was a message from his
man at the Waldorf.

"He's making an awful fuss, sir.  He says as how he wants to go home.
I can hold him all right, only I thought I 'd let you know."

"Thanks, I 'll be right down."

"I 'd better go back to your brother," he said to her as he hung up the
receiver.  "I want to have a talk with him before bringing him home."

Her eyes grew moist.

"How am I ever going to repay you for all you 've done?"

"You 've repaid me already," he answered briefly and left at once.



CHAPTER XVIII

_The Making of a Man_

Donaldson with hands in his pockets stood in front of Arsdale, who had
slumped down into a big leather chair, and admired his work.  There was
much still to be done, but, comparing the man before him with the thing
he had brought in here some thirty hours before, the improvement was
most satisfactory.  Arsdale, with trimmed hair and clean, shaven face,
in a new outfit from shoes to collar, and sane even if depressed, began
to look a good deal of a man.

"How do you feel now?" inquired Donaldson.

Arsdale hitched forward and resting his chin in his hands, elbows on
knees, stared at the floor.

"Like hell," he answered.

Donaldson frowned.

"You deserve to, but you oughtn't," he said.

"Oh, I deserve it all right.  I deserve it--and more!"

"Yes, you do.  But that does n't help any."

Arsdale groaned.

"There is n't any help.  I 've made a beastly mess out of my life, out
of myself."

"I wish I could disagree, but I can't," answered Donaldson.

He walked up and down a moment before the fellow studying him.  He was
worried and perplexed.  The task before him was an unpleasant one.  He
had to overcome a natural repugnance to interference in the life of
another.  Under ordinary circumstances he would have watched Arsdale go
to his doom with a feeling of nothing but indifference.  In his own
passion for individual liberty he neither demanded nor accepted
sympathy for personal misfortunes or mistakes, and in turn was loath to
trespass either upon the rights or duties of another, but his own life,
through the medium of the boy's sister, was so inextricably entangled
with this other that now he recognized the inevitability of such
interference.  On his success or failure to arouse Arsdale largely
depended the happiness of the girl.

"No," he reflected aloud, "the question is n't how much punishment you
deserve, for the pain you suffer personally does n't, unfortunately,
remedy matters in the slightest.  It wouldn't do you any good for me to
kick you about the room or I 'd do it.  It would n't do you any good
for me to turn you over to the police or I 'd do that.  You 're hard to
get hold of because there's so little left of you."

Arsdale made no reply.  He remained motionless.

"But," continued Donaldson with emphasis, "that does n't make it any
the less necessary.  You 've got to pull what is left together--you 've
got to play the man with what remains.  You can't get all the
punishment you deserve and so you 've got to deserve less.  This, not
for your own sake, but for the sake of the girl,--for the sake of the
girl you struck."

"Don't!"

Arsdale quailed.  He glanced up at Donaldson with a look that made the
latter see again Barstow's dog Sandy as he had tottered in his death
throes.  But the mere fact that the man quivered back from this
shameful thing was encouraging.  It was upon this alone that Donaldson
based his hope, upon this single drop of uncorrupted Arsdale blood
which still nourished some tiny spot in the burned out brain.

"You must make such reparation as you can," continued Donaldson.  "Your
life is n't long enough to do it fully, but you can accomplish
something towards it if you start at once."

Arsdale shook his head.

"It's all a beastly mess.  It 's too late!"

Donaldson's lips tightened.

"Well," he asked, "if you are n't going to do what you can, what do you
propose?"

Thickly Arsdale answered,

"I know a way; I 'm going to pull out for the sake of Elaine!"

Donaldson started as at the cut of a whip-lash.  Then he straightened
to meet face to face this new development.  Somehow this contingency
had never occurred to him.  Now for the moment it disarmed him, for it
brought him down, like a wounded bird, to the level of Arsdale himself.
As voiced by the latter the act expressed the climax of simpering
cowardice.  Donaldson, in the first shock of finding himself included
in the same indictment with the very man for whom he had had so little
mercy, felt the same powerlessness that had paralyzed this other.  He
was shorn of his strength.  He blinked as stupidly at Arsdale as
Arsdale had blinked at him.

But even as he stood with loose lips before the infirm features of the
younger man, he realized that Arsdale's talk had been the chatter of a
child.  He had used the phrase idly and, although it was possible he
might in just as idle a mood commit the act itself, Donaldson was
convinced that it was not yet a fixed idea.  With this came the
inspiration which gave him a fresh grip upon himself, that revealed his
great opportunity; he would make Arsdale see all that he himself had
learned in these few days.  So in reality he would be giving the best
of his life to another.

It was like oxygen to one struggling for breath through congested
lungs.  He went to the window and in great deep-chested inhalations
stood for a moment drinking in not only the fresh air but with it the
spirit of the eager, turbulent world which was bathed in it, the world
that he now saw so clearly.  The sun flashing from the neighboring
windows glinted its glad message of life; the rumbling of the passing
traffic roared it to him in a thundering message, like that of
shattered sea waves; the deep cello-like undernote of the city itself
sang it to him.  And the message of all the voices was just, "It is
good to live!  It is good to be!"

He turned back, seeing a new man in the chair before him.  Here was a
brother--a brother in a truer sense than a better man could have been.
Coming from different directions, along different roads, through
different temptations, they had reached at last the crumbling edge of
the same dark chasm.  They faced the same eternal problem.  That made
them brothers.  But Donaldson had already seen, already learned; that
made him the stronger brother.

His face was alight, his body alert, as he came to Arsdale's side.  The
latter looked up at him in surprise, feeling his presence before he
saw.  Donaldson's first words stirred him,

"You can't pull out," he said, "because you 're out already.  You must
pull in.  Don't you see,--you must pull back!"

"You don't understand what I mean."

"A great deal better than you yourself do.  And in the light of that
understanding I tell you that you can't do it,--that it is n't the way."

"I 'm no good to any one," Arsdale complained dully.  "I don't see why
it would n't be better for everyone if I just quit."

The word quit was a biting gnome to Donaldson.

"I know," he answered.  "But it is n't right--all because you don't
know and you can't know what you 're quitting.  You can't just look
around you and see.  You wouldn't just be quitting the girl who perhaps
does n't need you, though you can't even tell that; you would n't be
quitting just your friends who can get along without you--though even
that is n't sure; you 'd be quitting the others, the unseen others, the
unknown others, who are waiting for you, perhaps a year from now,
perhaps twenty years from now, but in their need waiting for you.  They
are waiting for you, understand, and for no one else.  Just you, no
matter how weak you are, or how poor you are, or how worthless you are,
because it is you and no one else who will fit into their lives to help
complete them."

"I 'd bring nothing but trouble.  I 've been no good to any one."

"You can't help being good to some one.  Queer it sounds, but I believe
that's true.  A man never lived, so mean that he didn't do good to some
one."

"You believe that?" demanded Arsdale.

"Yes.  I know that.  I know that, Arsdale!" he answered, his lips
tremulous, a deep-seated light in his eyes.  "I know that you can't
possibly be so useless, so cowardly, so utterly bad, but what you 're
still more useless, still more of a coward, still worse when you quit!
Maybe we can't see how--maybe at the time we can't realize it, but it's
so.  Some one will get at the good in us if we just fight along, no
matter how we may cover it up."

Arsdale straightened in his chair.  His shaking fingers clutched the
chair arms.  But the next second his face clouded.

"Tell me what good I 've done," he demanded aggressively.

Donaldson smiled.  He could n't very well tell the man the details of
these last few days and what they meant to him, but they proved his
claim.  Arsdale had been, if nothing else, a connecting link.  It was
he, even this self-indulgent weakling, who had brought Donaldson to his
own, who had led Donaldson, through a series of self-revealing
incidents, to where he could stand quivering with the truth of life,
and give of his strength back to this man to pay the debt.  Yes, he
knew what Arsdale had accomplished, and before he was through the
latter should feel its effect.

"Man," answered Donaldson almost solemnly, "you have done your
good--even you, in spite of yourself."

"But not to Elaine where I should have done most!"

Donaldson's hand rested a moment on Arsdale's shoulder.

"Yes," he said, "I like to think you have been of some service even to
her."

Arsdale rose to his feet.

"If I could think that--if I could look her in the eyes again!"

"Look her in the eyes!  Keep those eyes before you!  Never get where
those eyes can't follow you!  And as you look take my word for it that
even there by a strange chance you 've done your good."

The man in Arsdale was at the top.  For a second he faced Donaldson as
one man should face another.  Then he tottered and fell back in his
chair, covering his face with his hands.

"It's too late," he groaned, "God, it's too late!"

Donaldson seized him by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet--not
in anger, not in contempt, but in his naked eagerness to make the man
see.  Half supporting him, he drew him to the window.  He threw it wide
open.

"Too late!" he cried, waving his hand at the brisk scene upon the
street.  "Too late!  It is n't too late so long as there's a living
world out there, so long as there's a man or a woman out there!  It
isn't too late because there's work for you to do, work for others that
you 've shirked.  What is it?  I don't know, but it's there.  Dig
around until you find it.  Maybe to-day it was only to give a nickel to
the blind beggar at the corner, maybe it was only to help an old lady
across the street, maybe it was to do some kindness to your sister.  I
don't know what it was, but I know it was something, and went undone
because of you."

Arsdale, leaning against the window-sill, strained towards Donaldson.

"That's a queer idea," he whispered hoarsely.

"And another thing," continued Donaldson, "tangled up with those duties
are all the joys of the world.  You 've been looking for them somewhere
else--I 've been looking for them somewhere else--but it is n't any
use.  They are right there with your duties--in the keeping of other
people, the unseen others.  And they couldn't be bought, not with all
the gold in the world.  They must be given if you get them at all."

Arsdale was listening eagerly.  It was as much the spirit back of the
words as the words themselves that made him feel the stirring of a new
power which was a new hope.

"You!" he exclaimed.  "You make a man feel that you know!  But the
hellish smoke-hunger--you don't know anything of that."

"It's a part of the same hellish selfishness which eats the vitals out
of everything.  Get out of yourself, get into the lives of others, and
the smoke-hunger will quit you.  You could n't go down where you 've
been and made a beast of yourself if you cared more about others than
yourself.  The power that drove you down there would n't mean anything
if a stronger power held you back.  The point is, Arsdale, the point
is, that all by himself a man is n't worth much.  He does n't count.
Either he dries up or he rots."

"That's true!  That's true!" answered Arsdale.  "And I 've rotted.  If
only I had found you a year ago!"

"A year ago is dead and buried.  Let it alone.  Think of the live
things; think of the Now!  There 's a big, strong world all around you,
pulsating with life; there 's sunshine in the morning and stars at
night--and they are alive; there are flowers, and birds, and
grasses--all alive; there are live men and women, live questions, and
there is your sister.  The world would be alive--would be worth while
if you had only her.  She 's a world in herself."

"You are right.  Man, how you know!"

"Can't you see it yourself?  Can't you feel the thrill of it all?"

"Yes," answered Arsdale, his eyes as alive as Donaldson's, "I see.  I
feel.  And if I had your strength--"

"You have the strength!  You have everything you need in just your
beating heart and the days ahead of you.  Buck up to it!--Go and meet
life half-way.  Throw yourself at life!  The trouble with you and me is
that we stand still, all curled up in ourselves as in a chrysalis.  You
must give yourself room, you must break free from your own selfish
conceit, you must reach a point where you don't give a damn about
yourself!  Do you hear--where all the worrying you do is about others?
Then don't worry."

Arsdale was breathing through his nostrils, his lips closed.

"It's going to be a hard fight," he said.  "It 's going to be a hard
fight, but you make me feel as though I could do it."

"A hard fight," cried Donaldson.  "Why, man, I 'd strip myself down to
you--I 'd go back to where you stand to-day for the fighting chance you
have."

"You'd--what?"

Donaldson caught his breath.  For a moment he was silent, staring at
the eager life upon the street.  Then he turned again to Arsdale.

"I 'd like to swap places with you--that's all," he said.



CHAPTER XIX

_A Miracle_

Elaine, her pale face tense, heard the steps of Arsdale coming up the
stairs to meet her.  Donaldson had telephoned at nine that if she had
not yet retired he was going to bring her brother home.  She dreaded
the ordeal for herself and for him.  She dreaded lest the aversion she
felt for him with the horror of that night still upon her might
overcome her sense of duty; she dreaded the renewed protestations, the
self abasement, the sight of the maudlin shame of the man.  She had
gone through the hysterical scenes so many times that it was growing
difficult, especially in her present condition of weakness, to arouse
the necessary spirit to undergo it.  Not only this, but she found
herself inevitably pitting him against the strong self-reliant
character of Donaldson.  It had been easier for her to condone when she
had seen Arsdale only as the loved son of the big-hearted elder, but
now that this other unyielding personality had come into her life it
was difficult to avoid comparison.  Arsdale when standing beside a man
was only pitiable.

He faltered at the door and then crossed the room with a poise that
reminded her of the father who to the end had never shown evidence of
any physical weakness in his bearing.  In fact in look and carriage,
even in the spotless freshness of his dress which was a characteristic
of the elder, he appeared like his father.  She could hardly believe.
She sat as silent as though this were some illusion.

There was color in the ordinarily yellow cheeks, there was life in the
usually dull eyes, though the spasmodic twitching testified to nerves
still unsteady.  When he held out his trembling hand, she took it as
though in a trance.  She saw that it was difficult for him to speak.
It was impossible for her.  The suggested metamorphosis was too
striking.

He broke the strained, glad silence.

"Elaine, can you forget?"

She uttered his name but could go no further.

"I can't apologize," he stammered, "it's too ghastly.  But if we could
start fresh from to-day, if you could wait a little before judging, and
watch.  Perhaps then--"

She drew him quickly towards her.

"Can I believe what I see?" she asked.

"I--I don't know what you see," he answered unsteadily.

"I see your father.  I see the man who was the only father I myself
knew."

He bent over her.  He kissed her forehead.

"Dear Elaine," he said hoarsely, "you see a man who is going to be a
better man to you."

"To yourself, Ben,--be better to yourself!  Are you going to be that?"

"That is the way,--by being a man to you and to the others."

"The others?"

"The unseen others.  You must get Donaldson to tell you about the
others."

She grasped his wrist with both her hands, looking up at him intently.
Where was the change?  A photograph would not have shown all the
change.  Yet it was there.  Nor was this a temporal reformation based
upon cowardly remorse.  It showed too calm, too big an impulse for
that.  It was so sincere, so deep, that it did not need words to
express it.

"I believe you, Ben," she said, "I believe you with all my heart and
soul."

In the words he realized the divine that is in all women, the eagerness
that is Christ-like in its eternal hunger to seize upon the good in
man.  He stooped again and with religious reverence kissed the white
space above her eyes.

"We 'll not talk about it much, shall we?" he said.  "I want you to
believe only as I go on from day to day.  I 've some big plans that I
thought up on the way home.  Some day we 'll talk those over, but not
now.  Donaldson is downstairs."

He saw the color sweep her face.  It suggested to him something that he
had not yet suspected.  It came to him like a new revelation of
sunlight.

He smiled.  It was the smile of the father which she had so long
missed, the smile that always greeted her when his sad heart was
fullest of hope and gladness.  It was so he used to smile when at
twilight he stood at her side, his long thin arm over her shoulder and
talked of Ben with a new hope born of his own victory.

"I was going to tell you," he said tenderly, "I was going to tell you
of what a big fine fellow this Donaldson is.  But--perhaps you know."

She refused not to meet her brother's eyes.

"Yes, Ben," she said, "I know that."

He took her hand, seating himself on the arm of her chair, the other
arm resting affectionately across her shoulders.  So the father had
sometimes sat.

"Is there more?" he asked softly.

"So," she answered, starting a little, "not as you mean.  But tell me
about him--tell me all about him, Ben."

He felt her hand throb as he held it.

"It's just this; that I owe everything in the world to him.  I owe my
life to him; I owe," his voice lowered, "I owe my soul to him.  You
ought to have heard him talk.  But it was n't talking, it wasn't
preaching.  I don't know what it was, unless--unless it was praying.
Yet it was n't like that either.  He got inside me and made me talk to
myself.  It was the first time words ever meant anything to me--that
they ever got a hold on me.  You 've talked, little sister, Lord knows
how often, and how deep from the heart, but somehow, dear, nothing of
it sank in below the brain.  I understood as in a sort of dream.
Sometimes I even remembered it for a little, but that was all.

"But he was different, Elaine!  If I forgot every word he spoke, the
meaning of it would still be left.  I 'd still feel his hand upon my
shoulder, the hand that sank through my shoulder and got a grip on
something inside me.  I 'd still feel his eyes burning into mine.  I 'd
still see that street out the window and know what it meant.  I 'd even
see the little old lady picking her way to the other side,--see the
blind beggar on the corner and the Others.  Oh, the Others, Elaine!"

He had risen from beside her and pressed towards the window as though
once again he wished to taste the air that came down to him from the
star-country to sweeten the decaying soul of him.

"What was it, Elaine?" he demanded.

"You heard," she answered, "because every fibre of him is true.  Tell
me more."

"He showed me the sun on the windows!" he ran on eagerly.  "He showed
me the people passing on the streets!  He showed me what I--even I--had
to do among them.  Did you know that we are n't just ourselves--that we
're a part of a thousand other lives?  Did you know that?"

"It takes a seer really to know that," she answered, "but it's true."

"That's it," he broke in.  "He _knows_!  He doesn't guess, he doesn't
reason, he _knows_!"

She was leaning forward, her head a little back, her eyes half-closed.
He saw the veins in her neck--the light purple penciling of them--as
they throbbed.  He was held a moment by the sight.  Then he laughed
gently.

"Little sister," he said, "you know him even better than I."

She started back.

He was surprised at the shy beauty he perceived.  She had always seemed
to him such a sober body.

The nurse rapped at the door.

"It is bedtime," she announced,

"Yes, nurse," she answered quickly.

"He asked if he might come to say good night.  He 's going to stay here
with me a day or so.  Shall I bring him up?"

She hesitated a moment and then meeting her brother's eyes steadily,
answered,

"Yes, Ben."

When Donaldson came into the room she was shocked at the change in his
appearance.  It was almost as though what Arsdale had gained Donaldson
had lost.  He was colorless, wan, and haggard.  His eyes seemed more
deeply imbedded in the dark recesses below his brows.  Even his hair at
the temples looked grayer.  But neither his voice nor his manner
betrayed the change.  The grip of his hand was just as sure; there was
the same certainty in gesture and speech, save perhaps for some
abstraction.

"They tell me I may stay but a minute," he said, "but it is good to see
you even that long."

"You brought him back home," she cried.  "But it has cost you heavy.
You look tired."

"I am not tired," he answered shortly.  Then turning the talk away from
himself, as he was ever eager to do, he continued,

"I brought him home, but the burden is still on you."

"Not a burden any longer.  You have removed the burden."

"I 'm afraid not.  There still remains the fight to make him stay.
This is only a beginning."

His face grew worried.

"He will stay," she answered confidently, "he will stay because you
reached the father in him and the father was a fighter.  I saw the
father in his eyes--I heard his father's voice.  It is a miracle!"

"No.  The miracle is how we men keep blind."

"I feel blind myself when I think how you see."

"I am no psychic," he exclaimed impatiently.  "I see nothing that is
n't before me.  You can't help seeing unless you close your eyes.  The
world presses in upon you from every side.  It is insistent.  Even now
the stars outside there are demanding recognition."

He drew back the crimson curtains draping the big French windows, which
opened upon a balcony.  The silver stiletto rays darted a greeting to
him.  He swung open the windows.

"Come out with me and see my friends," he said.

She rose instantly and followed him.

He stood there a moment in silence, his head back as he seemed to lead
her into the limitless fragrant purple above.  She caught his profile
and saw him like some prophet.  It was as though a people were at his
back and he trying to pierce the road ahead for them.  The thin face
and erect head seemed to dominate the night.  He looked down at her, a
sad smile about his mouth.

"Out here," he said, "out here with a million miles over our heads we
are freer."

In her eyes he saw now just what he saw in the stars, the same freedom
of unpathed universes.  He saw the same limitlessness.  Here there were
no boundaries.  A man could go on forever and forever in those eyes--in
their marvelous unfolding.  More!  More!  He would go beyond the
cognate universe, straight into the golden heart of universes beyond.
Eternity was written there.  The beacon of her eyes flamed a path that
reached beyond the stars!

She seemed like nothing but a trusting child.  So, she was one with the
great poets.  So, she was a great poem.  He listened to the same music
which had moved Isaiah.

"The stars,--they seem to be dancing!" she exclaimed.

It was to the music of the spheres they were dancing.

"You!" he commanded, "you must get away from this house.  You must take
Ben and get away from here.  You must go into a new country.  You must
begin your life anew and forget all this, forget everything."

He paused.

"Everything," he repeated.  "They tell us that the road is straight and
narrow.  It's narrow, but it is n't straight.  It's crooked and it's
winding and it goes through brake and brush.  It's a hard road to find
and a hard road to keep, even with the polestar over our heads.  Maybe,
if we were a little above earth--maybe for those who are winged--the
road is straight, but we are n't all winged.  Some of us have n't even
sturdy legs and have to creep.  Some of us find our legs only after we
are helplessly lost.  For down below there is a terrible tangle with
things to be gone around, with things to beat down, and always the
tangle above our heads.  So what wonder that we get lost?  What wonder?"

"But I am not lost--you are not lost!"

"I!  I do not matter," he answered slowly.  "You must n't let me
matter.  I come into your life and I go out of your life and I pray
that I have done no harm."

His words to her were like words caught in a wind.  She heard snatches
of them, but she was unable to piece them together.

"In your new life you must forget even me.  We have met in the brush
and gone on a little way together.  We have helped each other in
finding each his true road again.  Whether the paths will meet
again--whether the paths will meet again--" he repeated as though deep
in some new and grander reflection, "why, God knows.  If we go on
forever, perhaps they will in an aeon or two."

He paused to give her an opportunity to say something which he might
use as a subject for proceeding farther.  His thoughts did n't go very
far along any one line.  Always he seemed checked by a wall of
darkness.  But she said nothing.  The silence lengthened into a minute.

"Do you understand?" he asked gently.

"No," she answered frankly.

"Then--then perhaps we had better go in," he said, fearing for himself.

He led the way through the swinging windows and closed them behind him.
In the light he saw that she was shivering.

"I 'm afraid I kept you out there too long," he said anxiously.  He
reached her shawl and placed it about her shoulders.  His throat ached.

"I haven't hurt you?"

"I think you have hurt yourself, somehow."

She raised her head a little.

Marie was calling.

"Good night," he said quickly.

"Good night."



CHAPTER XX

_A Long Night_

Donaldson retired to his room, and without undressing threw up his
window and stared at the hedge and the dark that lay beyond.  Then he
tried to work out some solution to the problem which confronted him.
There was no use for him to try to blind himself to the fact that he
loved this girl--that was but to shirk the question.  She stood out as
the supreme passion of his life and forced upon him a future that had a
meaning beyond anything of which he had ever dreamed.  She quickened in
him new hopes, new aspirations, new ambitions.  She made him see the
triviality of all that he had most hoped to enjoy during this week; she
opened his eyes to all that he had tried to make Arsdale see.  With her
by his side every day would be like that first afternoon; every hour
thrilling with opportunities.  The barren future which he had so
feared, even though it offered no greater opportunities than had always
lain before him, would tingle with possibilities.  Wait?  He could wait
an eternity with her by his side and every waiting minute would be a
golden minute.  He could go back to that little office now and find a
thousand things to do.  He could hew out a career that would honor her.
He saw numberless chances for reform work into which he could throw
himself, heart and soul, while waiting.  But there would be no waiting;
life would begin from the first hour.  What more did he need than her?
He shuddered back from his luxurious room at the hotel as from
something cheap.

A loaf of bread without even so much as a jug of wine would be paradise
enow.  Just the opportunity to live and breathe and have his being in
this big pregnant universe was all he craved.  He needed nothing else.
So the universe would be his.

He dared not try to read her thoughts.  He had no right to do this.  It
did n't matter.  Her love was not essential.  If he deserved it, that
would come.  It was enough that she had given him back his dreams, that
she had taken him back to those fragrant days when his uncrusted soul
had known without knowing.  It was enough that the sweetness of her had
become an inseparable part of him for evermore.  She was his now, even
though he should never again lay eyes upon her.  The only relief he had
was in the thought that she had accomplished this without committing
herself.  At least he did not have the burden of her tender love upon
his soul further to complicate matters.

So much he admitted frankly; so much was fact.  The problem which now
confronted him was how he could best escape from involving her at all
in the inevitable climax--how he could make his escape without
destroying in her the ideals with which she had surrounded him and
which she had a right to keep.  He owed this to her, to Arsdale, and to
the world of men.

A dozen times he was upon the point of pushing out into the dark.  If
he had followed his own impulse he would have taken some broad road and
footed it hour after hour, through the night, through the next day,
through the next night, and so till the end overtook him, striking him
down in his tracks.  He would get as far away as possible, keeping out
under the broad expanse of the sky above.  He could find rest only by
taking a course straight on over the hills, turning aside for nothing,
tearing a path through the tangle.

But he still had his work to do.  He must lend his strength to the boy
so long as any strength was left.  He must pound into him again and
again the realization of life which he himself had been tempted to
shirk.  He must make him see,--must make him know.  In recalling that
scene in the room by the window, in recalling his own words to Arsdale,
he felt strangely enough the force of his own thoughts entering into
himself with new life.  He listened as it were to himself.  Even for
him there were the Others.  Down to the last arrow-sped minute there
would still be the Others.  Who knew what remained for him to
do--charged with what influence might be even the manner in which he
drew his last breath?  If he stood up to it sturdily, if he faced death
with his head high, his shoulders back, even though he might be
cornered in his room like a rat in its hole, so the message might be
wired silently into the heart of some poor devil struggling hard
against his death throes and lend him courage.

At the end of two hours he undressed and tumbled upon the bed.

His room was next to Arsdale's room and during the night the latter
came in.

"I 've had bad dreams about you," the boy exclaimed.  "Is anything the
matter?"

"I 'm not sleeping very well," Donaldson answered.

"You haven't a fever or anything?"

"No.  Just restless."

"I have n't slept very well myself.  I 've been doing so much thinking.
That keeps a fellow awake."

"Yes--thinking does.  You 'd better let your brain close up shop and
get some rest."

"I can't.  I 've been chewing over what you said, and the more I think
of it, the more I see that you have the right idea.  The secret of
keeping happy is to fight for others.  It's the only thing that will
make a man put up a good fight, isn't it?"

"The only thing," answered Donaldson.

"I don't understand why I did n't realize that before--with Elaine
here.  You 'd think she would make a man realize that."

Donaldson did not answer.

"I think one reason is," continued the boy, "that until now, until
lately, she's been so nervy herself that she did n't seem to need any
one.  She 's been stronger than I.  But last night she looked like a
little girl.  And now, I'd like to die fighting for her."

Donaldson found the boy's hand.

"Never lose that spirit," he said earnestly.  "But remember, she 's
worth more than dying for, she 's worth living for."

"That's so.  You put things right every time.  She is worth living for.
You are n't much good to people after you 're dead, are you?"

"Not as far as we know."

The boy hesitated a moment, a bit confused, and then blurted out,

"I 'm going to take up some sort of work.  Perhaps you can help me get
after something.  We have loads of money, you know.  I don't think much
of giving it out as cash,--the charity idea.  I 've a hunch that I 'd
like to study law and then give my services free to the poor devils who
need a man to look after their interests.  They are darned small
interests to men who are only after their fee, but they are big to the
poor devils themselves.  And generally they get done.  Do you think I
have it in me to study law?"

"You have it in you to study law with that idea back of you.  You 'd
make a great lawyer with that idea."

"Do you think so?" asked the boy eagerly.

"I know it."

"Then perhaps--perhaps--say, would you be willing to take me in with
you?"

Donaldson moved uneasily.

"It sounds sort of kiddish, but I know that I 'd do better alongside of
you.  I 'd help you around the office.  I 'd feel better, just to see
you.  Anyway, would you be willing to try me for a while until I sort
of get my bearings?"

"I like the idea," answered Donaldson.  "Let 's talk it over later.
You see there's a chance that I may give up law."

"Give it up?"

"I may have to leave this part of the country--for good."

"Why, man," burst out Arsdale, "you wouldn't leave Elaine?"

The silence grew ominous.  The fighting spirit rose in Arsdale at the
suggestion.

"You would n't leave Elaine?" he demanded again, turning towards the
form on the bed which looked strangely huddled up.

"I must leave her with you," answered Donaldson unsteadily.  The boy
scarcely recognized the voice, but it roused him to a danger which he
felt without understanding.

"Why, man dear," he exclaimed, "what would I count to Elaine with you
gone?  Don't you know?  Have n't you seen?"

They were the identical words Donaldson had used in trying to open
Arsdale's eyes to another great truth.  And Donaldson knew that if they
cut half as deep into the boy as they now cut into him they had left
their mark.  He found no answer.  He listened with his breath coming as
heavily as the boy's breath had come when they had stood before the
open window.

Arsdale faltered for words.

"Why--why Elaine loves you!" he blurted out.

"Don't!"

So, too, the boy had exclaimed.

"Don't you know?  I thought you knew everything, Donaldson!  I don't
see how you help seeing that.  But I suppose it's because you 're so
thoughtful of others that you can't see your own joys.  But it's true,
Donaldson.  I don't suppose I ought to tell you about it, but man, man,
she loves you!  Give me your hand, Donaldson."

He found it in the dark, hot and dry.

"I want to tell you how glad I am.  I suppose I must be a sort of
father to her now, and I tell you that I would n't give her to another
man in the world but you.  You 're the only one worthy of her."

He pressed the big hand.

"You 're the one man who can make her happy," he ran on.  "You can give
her some of the things she 's been cheated out of.  Why, when I was
talking to her last night, her face looked like an angel's as I spoke
of you.  It is you who makes it easier for her to forget all the
past--even--even the blow.  I knew what it was when I came home--that
you 'd done even that for me--though she couldn't see it.  You 've
blotted out of her mind every dark day in her life!"

"That is something, is n't it?" asked Donaldson almost pleadingly.

"Something?  Something?  It's everything.  Don't you see now that you
can't go away?"

"I see," he answered.

"Well, then, give me your hand again.  Sort of trembly, eh?  But I 'll
bet you sleep better the rest of the night.  And don't you on your life
let her know I told you.  She 's proud as the devil.  But she would
have done the same for me.  They say love is blind," he laughed
excitedly, "but, Holy Smoke, this is the worst case of it I ever saw!"

Donaldson lay passive.

"Now," concluded Arsdale, "I 'll go back and see if I can sleep.  Good
night."

Donaldson again lay flat on his back after Arsdale had gone.  So he
lay, not sleeping, merely enduring, until, almost imperceptibly at
first, the dark about him began to dissolve.  Then he rose, partly
dressed, and sitting by the open window watched the East as the dawn
stole in upon the sleeping city.  It came to the attack upon the grim
alleys, the shadows around buildings, the stealthy figures, like a
royal host.  A few gray outriders reconnoitred over the horizon line
and sent scurrying to their hovels those who looked up at them from
shifty eyes.  Then came a vanguard in brighter colors with crimson
penants who attacked the fields and broad thoroughfares; then the
King's Own in scarlet jackets and wide sweeping banners, bronze tinted,
who charged the smaller streets and factory roofs, and finally the
brave array of all the dazzling host itself, who hurled their golden,
sun-tipped lances into every nook and cranny, awaking to life all save
those whose souls were dark within.

In watching it Donaldson found the first relief in the long night.  His
own mind cleared with the dawn.  The day broke so clean and fresh, so
bathed in morning dew, that once again his mind, grown perhaps less
active, clung in some last spasm to the present as when he had sat with
Elaine at breakfast, part of the little Dutch picture.  Without
reasoning into the to-morrow, he felt as though this day belonged to
him.  As the sun rose higher and stronger, enveloping the world in its
catholic rays, the night seemed only an evil dream.  He was both
stronger and weaker.  He was swept on, unresisting, by the high flood
of the new day.  This world now before his eyes acknowledged nothing of
his agony but came mother-like to ease his fretting.  She would have
nothing of the heavy tossings inspired by her sinister sister, the
Night.  She was all for clean glad spirits, all for new hopes.  So he
who had first frowned at it, who had then watched passively, now rose
to its call.

He was entitled to this day, sang the tempter sun,--one big day out of
all his life.  The crisis would be no more acute upon the morrow and he
might be stronger to meet it.  This day was his and hers, and even the
boy's.  To accept it would be to shirk nothing; it would be only to
postpone--to weave into the sombre grave vestments be was making for
himself one golden thread.  Arsdale's talk had removed the last vestige
of hope.  The worst had happened.  Surely one gay interlude could add
no burden.  A day was always a day, and joys once lived could never be
lost.  Always in her life and in his this would remain, and since he
had shouldered the other days as they had come to him, it seemed no
more than right that he should take this.  Not to do so would be but
sorry self-imposed martyrdom.

Arsdale came in, still in his bathrobe, with brisk step and his face
a-beaming.

"Well," he demanded, "how do you feel now?"

"Better," answered Donaldson, unhesitatingly.

"Better!  You ought to feel great!  Look at the sun out there!  Smell
that air!  Have you had your tub?"

"Not yet," smiled Donaldson.

Arsdale led the way to the shower, and a few minutes later Donaldson
felt his akin tingle to new life beneath the cold spray.



CHAPTER XXI

_Facing the Sun_

When he came down-stairs he found her dressed in white and looking like
a nun.  Her hair was brushed back from her forehead and the
silk-figured Japanese shawl was over her shoulders.  He recalled the
shawl and with it the picture she had made that first night.

At the door he called her name and she looked up quickly, swiftly
scanning his face.  He crossed to her side.

"You should n't stay in here," he said.  "Come outdoors a moment before
breakfast.  It's bright and warm out there."

She arose, and they went out together to the lawn.  Each blade of grass
was wearing its morning jewels.  The sun petted them and bestowed
opals, amethysts, and rubies upon them.  The hedge was as fresh as if
newly created; the neighboring houses appeared as though a Dutch
housewife had washed them down and sanded them; the sky was a perfect
jewel cut by the Master hand.  The peeping and chattering of the
swallows was music, while a robin or two added a longer note to the
sharp staccatos.

They stood in the deep porch looking out at it, while the sun showered
them with warmth.

"You 've seen Ben?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, turning her face up to his with momentary
brightness.  "Yes.  And he was like this out here!  The change is
wonderful!  It is as though he had risen from the dead!"

Donaldson lifted his head toward the stark blue of the sky.

"The dead?  There are no dead," he exclaimed passionately.  "Even those
we bury are ever ready to open their silent lips to us if only we give
them life again.  We owe it to them to do that, through our own lives
to continue as best we can their lives here on earth.  But we can't do
that as long as we have them dead, can we?  And that is true of dead
hopes, of dead loves.  We have to face the sun with all those things
and through it breathe into them a new spirit.  Do you see, Miss
Arsdale?"

He did not look at her, but as her voice answered him it seemed to be
stronger.

"I think--I think I do."

"Nothing can die, unless we let it die," he ran on, paving the way for
what he realized she must in the end know.  "Some of it can disappear
from our sight.  But not much.  We can bury our dead, but we need n't
bury their glad smiles, we need n't bury the feel of their hands or the
brush of their lips, we need n't bury their songs or the brave spirit
of them.  We can keep all that, the living part of them, so long as our
own spirit lives.  It is when that dies in us that we truly bury them.
And this is even truer of our loves--intangible spirit things as they
are at best."

He did not wish that part of him to die utterly in her with his doomed
frame.

"But--" she shivered, "all this talk of graves and the dead?"

"It is all of the sun and the living," he replied earnestly.  "You must
face the sun with me to-day.  Will you?"

"Yes!  Yes!  But last night you made me afraid.  Was it the dark,--did
you get afraid of the dark?  I know what that means."

"Perhaps," he answered gently.  "But if so, it was because I was
foolish enough to let it be dark.  And you yourself must never do it
again.  If things get bad at night you must wait until morning and then
come out here.  So, if you remember what I have said, it will get light
again.  Will you promise to do that?"

"Yes."

"I 'd like to make this day one that we 'll both remember forever.  I
'd like to make it one that we can always turn back to."

"Yes."

"Perhaps after to-day we 'll neither of us be afraid of the dark again."

"I 'm not afraid now."

"Nor I," he smiled.

The voice of Arsdale came to them,

"Oh, Elaine!  Oh, Donaldson!"

She led the way into the house with a lighter step and Arsdale met them
with a beaming face which covered a broad grin.

"I suppose you two can do without food," he exclaimed, "but I can't.
Breakfast has been waiting ten minutes."

"It's my fault," apologized Donaldson.

"You can't see stars in the morning, can you?" chuckled Arsdale.

"Maybe," answered Donaldson.

Elaine checked the boy's further comments with a frightened pressure as
she took his arm and passed into the white and green breakfast room.

There stood the table by the big warm window again, and as she took her
place it seemed as though they were stepping into the same picture
framed by the hedge.  She caught Donaldson's eye with a little smile
and saw that he understood.

Arsdale broke in with renewed enthusiasm for his philanthropic project
and outlined his ambitions to Elaine.

"You see," he concluded, "some day, little sister, you may see the law
sign 'Donaldson & Arsdale, Counsellors at Law.'  Not a bad sounding
firm name, eh?"

"I think it is great--just great, Ben!" she exclaimed enthusiastically.
"It's almost worth being a man to make your life count for something
like that."

"I want you to make out a list of books for me to get and I 'll go
down-town this afternoon.  I suppose you 've a pretty good law library
yourself?"

"I had the beginning of one.  I sold it."

"What did you do that for?"

"My practice was n't big enough to support it.  But you--you 'll not be
bothered with lack of clients."

With school-boy eagerness Arsdale was anxious to plunge into the scheme
at once.

"And say," he ran on, "I 'm going to look up some offices.  I 'll stake
the firm to some good imposing rooms in one of the big law buildings.
Nothing like looking prosperous at the start.  Guess I 'll drop
down-town right after breakfast and see what can be had."

Donaldson didn't have the heart to check him.  Later on he would write
him a letter sustaining him in his project and recommending him to a
classmate of his, to whom this partnership would be a godsend, as, a
week ago, it would have been to himself.  That was the best he could
think of at the moment and so he let him rattle on.

As soon as they had finished breakfast Arsdale was off.

"I 'll leave you two to hunt out new stars as long as that occupation
does n't seem to bore you.  I 'll be back for dinner."

Miss Arsdale looked a bit worried and questioned Donaldson with her
eyes.

"He 'll be all right," the latter assured her.  "Good Lord, a man with
an idea like that is safe anywhere.  It's the best thing in the world
for him."

A little later Donaldson went up-stairs to his room.  He took out his
wallet and counted his money.  He had over four hundred dollars.  At
noon forty-eight hours would be remaining to him.  He still had the
ample means of a millionaire for his few needs.

He was as cool as a man computing what he could spend on a summer
vacation.  He was not affected in the slightest by the details of death
or by the mere act of dying itself.  He was of the stuff which in a
righteous cause leads a man to face a rifle with a smile.  He would
have made a good soldier.  The end meant nothing horrible in itself.
It meant only the relinquishing of this bright sky and that still
choicer gift below.

He rose abruptly and came down-stairs again to the girl, impatient at
being away from her a minute.  She was waiting for him.

"This," he said, "is to be our holiday.  I think we had better go into
the country.  I should like to go back to Cranton.  Is it too far?"

"Not too far," she answered.  "But the memories of the bungalow--"

"I had forgotten about that.  It does n't count with the green fields,
does it?  We can avoid the house, but I should like to visit the
orchard and ride behind the old white horse again."

"I am willing," she replied.

"Then you will have to get ready quickly."

They had just time to catch the train and before they knew it they were
there.

The old white horse was at the little land-office station to meet them
for all the world as though he had been expecting them, and so, for
that matter, were the winding white road, the stile by the lane, and
the orchard itself.  It was as though they had been waiting for them
ever since their last visit and were out ready to greet them.

The driver nodded to them as if they were old friends.

"Guess ye did n't find no spooks there after all," he remarked.

"Not a spook.  Any more been seen there since?"

"H'ain't heern of none.  Maybe ye took off the cuss."

"I hope so."

They dismissed the driver at the lane and then went back a little way
so as to avoid the bungalow.  Donaldson was in the best of spirits, for
at the end of the first hour he had solaced himself with the belief
that Arsdale had been mistaken in his statement.  She was nothing but a
glad hearted companion in look and speech.  They sat down a moment in
the orchard and he was very tender of her, very careful into what trend
he let their thoughts run.  But soon he moved on again.  He needed to
be active.  It was the walk back through the fields to which he had
looked forward.

They brushed through the ankle-deep grass, pausing here and there to
admire a clump of trees, a striking sky line, or a pretty slope.

To Donaldson it did not seem possible that this could ever end, that
any act of nature could blot this from his mind as though it had never
been.  It was unthinkable that through an eternity he should never know
again the meaning of blue sky, of blossoms, of such profligate pictures
as now met his eye at every step, but above all, that he should be
blind to the girl herself and all for which she stood.  No matter how
long the journey he was about to take, no matter through what new
spheres, these things must remain if anything at all of him remained.
So his one thought was to fill himself as full of this day as possible,
to crowd into his flagging brain the many pictures of her and this
setting which so harmonized with her.  The deeper joys of love he might
not know, save as his silent heart conjured them, but all that he could
see with his eyes should be his.  He would fill his soul so full of
light that the unknown trail would be less dark to him.  He would carry
with him for torches the sun and her bright eyes.

"Let's go back as the crow flies," he suggested.  "'Cross country--over
hill and dale.  We must n't turn out for anything," he explained, "we
must go crashing through things--trampling them down."

"My," she cried, mocking his fierceness--little realizing the emotion
to which they gave vent, "my, things had better look out!"

He paused, caught his breath, and turned to her, an almost terrified
smile about his tense mouth.

"Oh, little comrade, you 'd best let me be serious."

"No, no.  Not to-day.  Let us be as glad as we can,--let us celebrate."

"Celebrate what?" he demanded, lest she might think that he had
confessed his thoughts to her.

"Spring," she answered, with a laugh that came from deep within her big
happy heart.  "Just spring."

"Then we must n't trample down anything?" he queried.

"Nothing that we can help.  But we can take the straight course just
the same.  We 'll turn aside for the flowers and little trees."

"And nothing else."

"Nothing else," she agreed.

He led the way, his shoulders drooping a trifle and his step not so
light as her step.  She could have trodden upon violets without harm to
them.  Still, he marched with a sturdiness that was commendable
considering the load he carried.  They made their way down through the
orchard and over the sun-flecked grass until they encountered their
first obstacle.  It was a stone wall made out of gray field rocks.  He
gave her his hand.  The fingers clung to his like a child's fingers.
Their warm, soft caress went to his head like wine so that for a
moment, as she stood near him, it was a question whether or not he
could resist drawing her into his arms which throbbed for her.  He
spoke nothing; she spoke nothing.  There was no boldness in her, nor
any struggle either.  With her head thrown back a little, she waited.
So for ten seconds they stood, neither moving.  Then he motioned and
she jumped lightly to the ground.  He led the way and they took up
their march again, though once behind him she found it difficult to
catch her breath again.

They moved on down the green hill, across a field, ankle deep in new
grass, into the heavier green of the low lands.  So they came to a
meadow brook running shallow over a pebbly bottom but some five yards
wide.  There were no stepping stones, but a hundred rods to the right a
small foot bridge crossed.

Again she waited to see what he would do, while he waited to see what
he would dare.  With his heart aching in his throat he challenged
himself.  It was asking superhuman strength of him to venture his lips
so near the velvet sheen of her cheeks--he who so soon was going out
with a hungry heart.  Her arms would be about his neck--that would be
something to remember at the end--her arms about his neck.  He knew
that she expected him in even so slight a thing as this to keep true to
his undertaking and march straight ahead.  She realized nothing of the
struggle which checked him.  Tragic triviality--the problem of how to
cross a brook with a maid!  There was but one way even when it involved
the mauling of a man's heart.

He held out his arms to her and she came to them quite as simply as she
had taken his proffered hand at the wall.  He placed one arm about her
waist and another about her skirts.  She clasped her fingers behind his
neck and sat up with as little embarrassment as though riding upon a
ferry.

He lifted her and the act to him was as though he had condensed a
thousand kisses into one.  He walked slowly.  This was a brief span
into which to crowd a lifetime of love.  In the middle of the brook he
stopped--just a second, to mark the beginning of the end--and then went
on again.  When he set her down he was breathing heavily.  She had
become a bit self-conscious.  Her cheeks were aflame.

Her low black shoes with their big silk bows tied pertly below her trim
ankles were a goodly sight to see against the green grass as he might
have observed had he looked at them at all.  But he did n't.  He wiped
his moist forehead as though, instead of a dainty armful, she had been
a burden.

She shook the wrinkles from her skirt and looked up at him laughing.
Then she frowned.

"Mr. Donaldson," she scolded, "you walked across there with your shoes
and stockings on."

"Why, that's so," he exclaimed, looking down at his water-logged shoes
as though in as great surprise as she herself.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," he answered helplessly.

"You ought to spread them out in the sun to dry."

"You can't spread out shoes, can you?  Besides we have n't time.  We
must hurry right on.  Right on, this minute," he added as the motherly
concern in her face set his throat to aching again.

With the stride of a pioneer he led off, praying that they might not
find in their path another brook.  For a stretch of a mile, he pressed
on without once looking around, taking a faster pace than he realized.
The course was a fairly smooth one over an acre or so of pasture,
through a strip of oak woods, and up a stiff slope.  It was not until
he reached the top of this that he paused.  He looked around and saw
her about halfway up the hill, climbing heavily, her eyes upon the
ground.  Even as he watched her, he saw her sway, catch herself, and
push on again without even looking up.  It was the act of a woman
almost exhausted.  He reached her side in a couple of strides.  He
tried to take her arm but she broke free of him and in a final spurt
reached the top of the hill and threw herself upon the ground to catch
her breath.

"I did n't realize how fast I was going," he apologized kneeling by her
side.  "That was unpardonable, but why did n't you call to me?"

She removed her hat.  Then she leaned back upon her hands until she
could speak evenly.  A light breeze loosened a brown curl and played
with it.

"Why did n't you call to me?"

"Because I wished to keep pace with you."  He turned away from her.

"When you are rested we will start again," he said.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Then I am ready."

"You will take my arm?"

"No," she answered.

"Then you must keep by my side where I can watch you."

They took the remaining distance in more leisurely fashion, now
realizing that they were nearing the outskirts of this fairy kingdom.
With this thought he relaxed a little and instantly the sun and
burgeoning nature claimed him, making light of every problem save the
supreme one of bringing together a man and his mate.

They crossed a field or two and so came again into the road which they
had left three miles back.  Walking a short distance along this, they
found themselves on a sharp hill overlooking the station a few hundred
yards below.  With the same impulse they turned back far enough to be
out of sight of this.  Twenty minutes still remained to them.  They sat
down by the side of the road where they had rested before.  A light
breeze pushing through the top of a big pine made a sound as of running
water in the distance.

With her chin in one hand, elbow on knee, she studied him a moment as
though endowed with sudden inspiration.  A quick frown which had
shadowed his face at sight of the railroad had driven home a suspicion
which she had long held.  Now she dared to voice it.

"Have things been mixed up for you--back there?"

The question startled him.  He gave her a swift look as though to
divine the reason for it.  It was so direct that it was hard to evade.
And he would not lie directly to her.  So he replied bluntly,

"Yes."

She waited.  He saw her expectant eyes, but he went no further.  Part
of the price he paid for being here was renunciation of the balm he
might have in the sharing of his trouble with her.  He knew that she
would take his silence for a rebuff, but he could not help that.  He
said nothing more, the silence eating into him.

But something stronger than her pride drove her on.

"Mr. Donaldson," she said, "you have given a great deal of time to me
and mine--if there is anything I may do in return, you will give me the
privilege?"

"There is nothing," he answered.

He saw the puzzled hurt in her eyes.

"I know all that you with your big heart would do for me," he declared
earnestly, "but honestly there is nothing possible.  My worry will cure
itself.  I can see the end of it even now."

"Will the end of it come within a month?"

"Within a week."

"Perhaps," she said, "I could hasten the end to a day."

"No," he smiled, "I 'd rather you would n't.  I 'd rather you would
prolong it if you could."

"Is that a riddle?"

"To you."

"Then I can't answer it for I never guessed one in my life."

So with his knuckles kneading the grass by his side, he made light of
it until she turned away from the subject to admire the blue seen
through the pine needles above their heads.

Soon he heard the distant low whistle of the engine which was coming
for them like a sheriff with a warrant.

He was not conscious of very much more until they were back again in
the house and he heard Arsdale's voice,

"I 've rented the offices, old man!  Swellest in the city.  To-morrow
you must come down and see them!"



CHAPTER XXII

_Clouds_

Arsdale was somewhere about the house and Elaine had gone up-stairs
when Donaldson, who had come out-doors to smoke, saw a man with broad
shoulders and a round unshaven face step from a cab, push through the
hedge gate, and come quickly up the path.  He watched him with
indifferent interest, until in the dusk he recognized the stubborn
mouth which gripped a cigar as a bull-dog hangs to a rag.  Then he
hurried forward with hand extended.

"Good Lord, Saul," he exclaimed, "where did you drop from?"

"Hello, Don.  I rather hoped that I might run across you here."

"I 'm ashamed of myself," answered Donaldson guiltily.  "I did n't
notify you that we had found him.  But the last I heard of you, you
were out of town."

"Oh, that's all right.  Tung gave me the whole story."

"The rat!  He made a lot of trouble for us."

"And for me, too."

"Still working on the Riverside robberies?"

Saul glanced up quickly.  Then looking steadily into Donaldson's eyes
as though the reply had some significance he answered,

"Yes."

"I wish you luck.  And say, old man, I 've worried since for fear lest
you lost a good opportunity for a hot scent the time I kept you out."

"I did.  But I picked it up again by chance."

"You did?  Have you caught the man?"

"No," answered Saul abstractedly.  "Not yet."

He chewed the stub of his cigar a moment, glancing frequently at the
house.

"Say," he asked abruptly, "come down the road here a piece with me,
will you?"

Saul led him to the street and far enough away from the cab so that
their conversation could not be overheard, yet near enough to the
electric light for him to see Donaldson's face clearly.

"I want you to tell me something about young Arsdale," he began.  "Is
he in the house there now?"

"Yes.  And happy as a clam at high water."

"Has he talked any since he came back?"

"Talked?  He's clear-headed enough, if that is what you mean?"

"Has he appeared at all worried--as though he had something on his
mind?"

"Not in the slightest  He's taken such a new grip on himself that the
last few days are almost blotted out.  You 'd never know him for the
same boy, Saul.  He's quit the dope for good."

"So?  Remorse!"

"Not the kind of remorse you mean, Beefy.  This is the real thing."

Saul thought a moment.  Then he asked,

"You told me, did n't you, that he had no money with him that night?"

"Not more than a dollar or so."

"He spent a lot at Tung's."

"The heathen probably robbed him of it!"

"Yes, but where did Arsdale get it?"

Donaldson started.  There was something ominous in the question.  But
he could n't recount to Saul that disgraceful attack the boy had made
upon his sister when returning for funds.  It wouldn't be fair to the
present Arsdale.

"I don't know," he answered.  "What have you up your sleeve, Beefy?"

"Something bad," replied Saul bluntly.  He lowered his voice: "It is
beginning to look as though your young friend might know something
about the robberies that have been taking place around here."

"What!"

If an earthquake had suddenly shattered the stone house behind the
hedge, it would have left him no more dazed.

"I won't say that we 've got him nailed," Saul hastened to explain,
"but it begins to look bad for him."

"But, man dear," gasped Donaldson, "he is n't a thug!  He isn't--"

"If he 's like the others he 's anything when he wants his smoke.  I
've seen more of them than you."

"Saul," he said, "you 're dead wrong about this!  You 've made a
horrible mistake!"

"Perhaps.  But he 'll have to explain some things."

Donaldson took a grip on himself.

"What's the nature of your evidence?"

"There 's the question of where he got his funds, first; then the fact
that all the attacks took place within a small radius of this house;
then the motive, and finally the fact, that in a general way he answers
to the description given by four witnesses.  He 'll have to take the
third degree on that, anyway."

The third degree would undoubtedly kill the boy, or, worse, break his
spirit and drive him either to a mad-house or the solace of his drug.
It was a cruel thing to confront him with this at such a point in his
life.  It was fiendish, devilish.  It was possible that they might even
make the boy believe that in his blind madness he actually did commit
these crimes.  Then, as in a lurid moving picture, Donaldson recalled
the uneasiness of the girl; the morning papers with their glaring
headlines of the Riverside robberies, which he had found that morning
scattered about the floor; her fear of the police, and the mystery of
the untold story at which she had hinted.  Take these, and the fact
that in his madness Arsdale had actually made an attack upon the girl
and upon himself, similar to those outside the house, and the chain was
a strong one.  The pity of it--coming now!

Yes, it was in this that the cruel injustice lay.  Even admitting the
boy to be guilty, it was still an injustice.  The man who had done
those things was outside the pale of the law; he was no more.  Arsdale
himself, Arsdale the clean-minded young man with a useful life before
him, Arsdale with his new soul, had no more to do with those black
deeds than he himself had.  Yet that lumbering Juggernaut, the Law,
could not take this into account.  The Law did not deal with souls, but
bodies.

To this day--what a hideous climax!

Saul detected the fear in Donaldson's eyes,

"You know something about this, Don!" he asked eagerly.

He was no longer a friend; he was scarcely a man; he was a hound who
has picked up his trail.  His eyes had narrowed; his round face seemed
to grow almost pointed.  He chewed his cigar end viciously.  He was
alert in every nerve.

"You'd better loosen up," he warned, "it's all right to protect a
friend, but it can't be done in a case of this sort.  You as a lawyer
ought to know that.  It can't be done."

"Yes, I know, I know.  But I want to tell you again that you 're dead
wrong about this.  You haven't guessed right, Beefy."

"That's for others to decide," he returned somewhat sharply.  "It 's up
to you to tell what you know."

"It's hard to do it--it's hard to do it to you."

Donaldson's face had suddenly grown blank--impassive.  The mouth had
hardened and his whole body stiffened almost as it does after death.
When he spoke it was without emotion and in the voice of one who has
repeated a phrase until it no longer has meaning.

"I realize how you feel," Saul encouraged him, "but there's no way out
of it."

"No, there's no way out of it.  So I give myself up!"

"But it is n't you I want,--it's Arsdale."

"No, I guess it's I.  See how your descriptions fit me."

Saul pressed closer.

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded.

"Just this," answered Donaldson dully, "I can't see an innocent man go
to jail."

To his mind Arsdale was as innocent to-day as though not a shadow of
suspicion rested upon him.

"Are you mad?"

"Not yet," answered Donaldson.

Saul waited a moment.  In all his professional career he had never
received a greater surprise than this.  He would not have believed
enough of it to react had it not been for Donaldson's expression.  Back
of the impassiveness he read guilt, read it in the restless shifting of
the eyes and in the voice dead to hope.  Then he said deliberately,

"I don't believe you, Don."

"No?  Yet you 've got as much evidence against me as against Arsdale."

"But, God A'mighty, Donaldson, why should you do such a thing?"

"Why should the boy?"

Saul seized his arm.

"You don't tell me that you've fallen into that habit?"

"Sit in a law-office and do nothing for three years, then--then,
perhaps, you 'll understand."

Saul threw away his cigar.  He studied again the thin face, the
haggardness that comes of opium, the nervous fingers, the vacant shifty
gaze of those on the sharp edge of sanity.  Then he lighted a fresh
cigar and declared quietly,

"I don't believe you!"

"You 'll have to for the sake of those in the house.  They 've been
good to me in there."

His voice was as hard as black ice and as cold.  He looked more like a
magnetized corpse than he did a man.

"I wish," he continued evenly, "I wish I might have been knocked over
the head before it came to this.  If I had known I had to face you, I
would have let it come to that.  But I didn't expect this, Beefy."

"If this story is on the level, you 'd better shut up," warned Saul.
"What you say will be used against you."

"Thanks for reminding me, but things have come out so wrong that I
can't even shut up.  If you should go inside that house with the dream
you sprang on me, you 'd drive the boy crazy and kill the girl.  The
boy has been in a bad way, but he's all straight again now, and yet you
might make him believe he did these jobs when out of his head.  And
then--and then--why, it would kill them both!  That's why I could n't
let you do it.  That's why you _must n't_ do anything like that."

Saul did not answer.  He waited.

"So I might as well make a clean breast of it.  Do you remember when
the last job was?"

"Last Saturday morning."

"Remember where you were at that time?"

"Why--that was the morning I went out with you!"

"Just so," answered Donaldson, his eyes leveled over Saul's head.  "I
hate to tell you, but--but it was necessary to do that in order to keep
you away from headquarters."

Saul reached for his throat, pushing him back a step.

"You played me traitor like that?" he demanded.

"It was part of the game," answered Donaldson indifferently.  Saul,
fearful of himself, drew back.

The latter tried to reason it out.  A man can change a good deal in a
year, but even with opium it seemed impossible for Donaldson so to
abuse a friendship.  But he was checked in his recollection of the man
as he had known him by the memory of that very morning.  He had been
suspicious even then that something was wrong.  Donaldson had appeared
nervous and altered.

"Donaldson," he burst out, "I 'd give up my rank to be out of this
mess."

He added impulsively,

"Tell me it's all a damned lie, Don!"

"No," replied Donaldson, "the sooner it's over the better.  I 'm all
through now."

Still Saul hesitated.  But there seemed nothing left.

"Come on," he growled.

Donaldson followed him to the cab.  He was like a man too tired to care.

"Had n't you better make up some sort of a story for them in there?"
asked Saul, with a jerk of his head towards the house.

"That's so," answered Donaldson.  "Will you trust me for a few minutes?"

"Take your time," said Saul.

Donaldson went back up the path and found both Arsdale and his sister
in the library.

"I 'll have to ask you to excuse me for to-night," he said.  "I 've
just had word from a friend who wishes me to spend the night with him."

They both looked disappointed.

"He 's waiting out there for me now."

"Perhaps you will come back later," suggested Arsdale.

"Not to-night.  Perhaps in the morning.  I 'll drop you a word if I 'm
kept longer."

He spoke lightly, with no trace of anything abnormal in his bearing.

"All right, but we 'll miss you," answered Arsdale.

The girl said nothing but her face grew suddenly sober.

They went to the door with him and watched him step into the cab.

Saul had prayed that he would not return, and now looked more as though
it were he that was being led off.  He chewed his unlighted cigar in
silence while the other sat back in his corner with his eyes closed.

Once on his way to headquarters he leaned forward, and clutching
Donaldson's knee, repeated his cry,

"Tell me it's all a lie," he begged.  "There's time yet.  I 'll hustle
you to the train and stake you to Canada.  Just give me your word for
it."

Donaldson shook his head.

"It would only come back on Arsdale, and that is n't square."

"Then God help you," murmured Saul.

The cab stopped before headquarters and Saul, with lagging steps, led
his man in.  The Chief listened to the story he told with his keen eyes
kindling like a fire through shavings.  He saw the end to the bitter
invective heaped upon him during the last three weeks by the press.
Then he began his gruelling cross-examination.

The story Donaldson told was simple and convincing.  He had come to New
York full of hope, had waited month after month, and had finally become
discouraged.  In this extremity he had taken to a drug.  His relations
with the Arsdales began less than a week ago and they knew nothing of
him save that he had been of some assistance in helping young Arsdale
straighten out.  Arsdale had borrowed money of him, although doubtless
he could not remember it, and had taken it to go down to Tung's.
Feeling a sense of responsibility for the use the boy had made of this
money and out of regard to the sister, he had done his best to help him
pull out.

When pressed for further details of the crimes themselves, Donaldson
admitted that his memory was very much clouded.  He had committed the
assaults when in a mental condition that left them in his memory only
as evil dreams.  The substantiation of this must come through his
identification by the witnesses.  He could remember nothing of what he
had done with the purses, or the jewels and papers which they
contained.  He had used only the money.

An officer was sent to search his rooms at the hotel, and in the
meanwhile men were sent out to bring in the victims of the assaults.
It was for this test that Donaldson held in check all the reserve power
he had within him.  If his story was weak up to this point, he realized
that this identification would substantiate it beyond the shadow of a
doubt.  This he knew must be done in order to offset Arsdale's possible
attempt to give himself up when he should hear of this.  As a student
he had been impressed with the unreliability of direct evidence, and
here would be an opportunity to test his theory that much of the
evidence to the senses is worthless.  From the moment he had determined
upon this course he had based his hopes upon this test.  Saul had made
it clear that the descriptions given by the witnesses were vague, and
now in the excitement of confronting their assailant they were apt to
be still more unsubstantial.  If he could succeed in terrifying them,
he could convince them to a point where they would make all their
excited visions fit him to a hair.

And so as each man was brought before him, Donaldson looked at him from
beneath lowering brows with his mind fixed so fiercely upon the
determination to force them to see him as the shadowy brute who had
attacked them that he in reality looked the part.  Two of the men
withdrew, wiping their foreheads, after making the identification
absolute.

The third witness, a woman, promptly fainted.  When she revived she
said she was willing to take her oath that this was the man.  Not only
was she sure of his height, weight, and complexion, but she recognized
the same malicious gleam which flashed from the demon's eyes as he had
stood over her.  She shivered in fright.

The fourth victim was a man of fifty.  He was slower to decide, but the
longer he stood in front of Donaldson, the surer he became.  Donaldson,
with his arms folded, never allowed his eyes to move from the honest
eyes of this other.  And as he looked he made a mental picture of the
act of creeping up behind this man, of lifting his weapon, finally of
striking.  With the act of striking, his shoulders lifted, so intense
was his determination.

The man drew back from him.

"Yes," he said, "I am sure.  This is the brute."

It was two hours later before Donaldson was finally handed over to the
officers of the Tombs, and Saul turned back reluctantly to give to the
eager reporters as meagre an outline of the story as he could.



CHAPTER XXIII

_When the Dead Awake_

Donaldson, without removing his clothes, tumbled across his bunk and
fell into a merciful stupor which lasted until morning.  He was aroused
by a rough shaking and staggered to his feet to find Saul again
confronting him.  The latter had evidently been some time at his task,
for he exclaimed,

"I thought you were dead!  You certainly sleep like an honest man."

"Sleep?  Where am I?"

"You are at present enjoying a cell in the Tombs.  You seem to like it."

Donaldson pressed his hand to his aching eyes.  Then slowly the truth
dawned upon him.

"What day is this?" he asked.

"Thursday."

"Yes.  Yes.  That's so.  And to-morrow is Friday."

"That's a good guess.  Do you remember what happened last night?"

"Yes, I remember.  I 'm under arrest.  I remember the terror in the
face of that woman!"

Saul laughed inhumanly.

"Of all the bogie men I ever saw you were the worst."

"I suppose I 'll be arraigned this morning."

"I doubt it, old man.  In some ways you deserve it, but I'm afraid the
Chief won't satisfy your morbid cravings.  Remember the story you told
him?"

"Yes."

"And you 're wide enough awake to understand what I 'm saying to you
now?"

"Perfectly," answered Donaldson, growing suspicious.

"Then," exploded Saul, "I want to ask you what the devil your blessed
game is?"

"I could n't sacrifice an honest man, could I?"

"Then," went on Saul with increasing vehemence, "I want to tell you
plainly that you 're a chump, because you sacrificed an honest man
after all."

"You have n't arrested Arsdale?  Lord, Saul, you haven't done that,
have you?"

"No," answered Saul, "I was ass enough to arrest you."

"It would be wrong, dead wrong, to touch the boy.  He didn't have
anything to do with this.  There was no one with me."

Saul took a long breath.

"I 'm hanged if I ever saw a man _hanker_ after jail the way you do.
And you 've got the papers full of it.  And pretty soon I 'll be
getting frantic messages from the girl.  And you 've made all sorts of
an ass of yourself.  Do you hear--you chump of a hero, you?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Donaldson.

"I mean just this; that we 've nailed the right man at last!  Got him
with the goods on, so that we won't need the identification of a bunch
of hysterical idiots to prove it.  We won't even need a loose-jointed
confession, because we caught him black-handed.  But my guess wasn't
such a bad one--it was n't Arsdale, but it was Jacques Moisson, his
father's valet."

"Jacques Moisson?"

"The son of that old crone Marie there.  He caught the dope habit
evidently from his master and has been to the bad ever since Arsdale
senior died.  The old lady has been hiding him part of the time in the
garret of the house."

Donaldson's thoughts flew back to the bungalow; it was this fellow then
and not Arsdale who had attacked him,--if Saul's story was true.

Saul approached him with outstretched hand.

"You played a heavy game, Don."

Donaldson grew suspicious.

"I don't know what you 're talking about," he said, his lips coming
tightly together again.

"No.  Of course not!  That's right.  Keep it up!  But I 'll have my
revenge.  I 'll give the newspaper boys every detail of it.  I 'll see
your name in letters six inches higher than they were even this
morning.  I will; I swear it!"

"Saul," said Donaldson quietly, "you 're doing your best to make me go
back upon my story.  You can't do it."

Saul folded his arms.

"Of all the heroic liars," he gasped, his face beaming, "you 're the
prince.  And," he continued in an undertone, "it 's all for the sake of
a girl."

Donaldson sprang to his feet.

"Don't bring in _her_ name, Saul," he commanded.

"All for the sake of a girl," continued Saul undisturbed.  "It took me
some time to work it out, but now I see.  Take my hand, won't you,
Donaldson?  I want to say God bless you for it."

Donaldson hesitated.  But Saul's eyes were honest.

"This is the truth you're telling me?" he trembled.

"The truth," answered the other solemnly.

"Then you won't touch the boy?  There is no further suspicion resting
upon him?"

"To hell with the boy!" exploded Saul.  "You 're free yourself!  Don't
you get that?"

"Yes," answered Donaldson.

He passed his hand thoughtfully over his face.  Then he glanced up with
a smile.

"I need a shave, don't I?" he asked.

"You sure do.  Let's get out of here.  And if I were you I 'd get back
to her about as soon as I could.  It's early yet, so maybe she has n't
seen the papers.  I gave the boys the real arrest, so that they could
get out an extra on it and take the curse off the first editions.  And
now," he added, "and now I 'm going to give them the story of their
lives--the inside story of all this."

"Don't be a chump, Beefy!"

"I'll do it," answered Saul firmly.  "I'll leave out the girl but I 'll
give them the rest.  I 've got some rights in this matter after the way
you 've used me."

"I know," he apologized, "but there didn't seem any road out of it.  If
you 'll just keep quiet about--"

"Not a word.  You 'll take your medicine.  Besides, the dear public
will think you were crazy if they don't learn the truth."

"I don't care about that, if--"

"Bah!  Come on.  I 'll get you past the bunch now, but you 'll have to
run for your life after this."

Saul put him with all possible despatch through the red tape necessary
to secure his acquittal, and then led him out by a side door.  He
summoned a cab.

"They 're waiting," he chuckled.  "Twenty of 'em with sharpened pencils
and,--Holy Smoke,--the story!  The story!"

"Forget it, Saul.  Forget it--"

But Saul only pushed him into the cab and hurried back to his joyous
mission.

Donaldson ordered the driver to the Waldorf.  He must get a clean
shave, change his clothes and get back to the Arsdale house before the
first editions were out heralding his arrest.  If Jacques had been
arrested at the house it was possible that the excitement might have
prevented them from learning anything at all of his part in the mess.

He found a letter from Mrs. Wentworth waiting for him.  He tore it
open.  She wrote:

"Oh, Peter Donaldson, I wish I had the gift to make you understand how
grateful I am for all you 've done.  But I can't until you come up and
visit us.  We reached here safely and found everything all right.  The
deed was given to me and the money you put in the bank for me.  The
house now is all clean and the children are playing out doors.  My
heart is overflowing, Peter Donaldson.  It is better than anything I
ever dreamed of here.  My prayers are with you all the time and I know
they will be heard."

So she ran on and told him all about the place and what she had already
accomplished.  Happiness breathed like a flower's fragrance from every
line of it, until it left him with a lump in his throat.

"That is something," he said to himself as he finished it.  "It has n't
been all waste."

He went to the barber in better spirits and came back to his room to
read the letter again.  It was like a tonic to him.  He looked from his
window a moment, to breathe the fresh morning air.

The street below him was alive once more with its eager life.  Men and
women passed to the right and left, the blind beggar still waited at
the corner, the world, expressed now through this one human being, had
abated not one tittle of its activity.  The Others were still about
him.  The pigeons still cut gray circles through the sunshine and the
girl still waited.  As he stood there he heard the raucous cries of the
newsboys shouting "Extra," and knew that he must go on and face this
final crisis.  He could not delay another minute.

When he reached the house he found his worst fears realized.  She was
in the library with a crumpled paper in her hand and Arsdale was
bending over her.  As he greeted them they both pushed back from him as
though one of the dead had entered.  The boy was the first to recover
himself.  He sprang to Donaldson's side with his hand out.

"I told her it was n't true," he exclaimed.  "I told her it was all a
beastly lie!"

He grasped Donaldson's hand and dragged him towards his sister.

"See," he cried, "see, here he is!  The papers lied about him!"

The girl tottered forward.  Donaldson put out his arm and supported her.

"I 'm sorry you saw the papers," he said quietly.  "I was in hopes I
should reach here before that."

"But what is the meaning of it?"

"The police made a mistake, that 's all," he explained.

Arsdale broke in,

"We 'll sue them for it, Donaldson!  I 'll get the best legal talent in
the country and make them sweat for this!  It's an outrage!"

"I 'm sorry you saw the paper," he repeated to the girl.

Her pale face and startled eyes frightened him.  She had withdrawn from
his arm after a minute and now fell into a chair.

"The blasted idiots," raged the boy.

The telephone rang imperiously and Arsdale went to answer it, chewing
invectives.

Donaldson crossed to the side of the girl.

"Where is Marie?" he asked.

"She is in bed again.  Her poor knees are troubling her."

"I have both good news and bad news for you," he said after a moment's
hesitation, "the real assailant has been found and it is Jacques
Moisson."

The girl recoiled.

"Jacques!"

"So the police feel sure.  They say they caught him this morning in the
attempt to commit another robbery.  The Arsdale curse is upon him."

"Oh," she cried, "that is terrible."

But as he had guessed, it was good news also.  There was no longer any
doubt of who brought that wallet to the bungalow.  There was no longer
the grim suspicion of who might have rifled her rooms.  The spectres
which had seemed to be moving nearer and nearer her brother vanished
instantly.  That burden at least was lifted from her shoulders, even
though it was replaced by another.

"Poor Marie!  Poor Marie!" she moaned.

"I think she may suspect this," he said.  "But it will be better for
you to tell her than the police."

"Yes, I must go to her at once."

Arsdale came to the door, his face strangely agitated.  He paused there
a moment clinging to the curtains.  Then, almost in awe, he came
unsteadily towards Donaldson.  The latter straightened to meet him.
The boy started to speak, choked, and, finding Donaldson's hand, seized
it in both his own.  Then with his eyes overflowing he found his voice.

"How am I ever going to repay you for this?" he exclaimed in a daze.

Elaine was at his side in an instant.

"What is it, Ben?  What is it now?"

"What is it?" he faltered.  "It's so much--it's so much, I can't say it
all at once."

Donaldson turned away from them both.

"He," panted the boy, "he gave himself up for me.  They thought it was
I, and he went to jail for me."

"It was a mistake on their part," answered Donaldson.  "They did n't
know."

"And so you shouldered it," she whispered.

"I knew it would come out all right," he faltered.

"A reporter rang me up just now," ran on Arsdale.  "He told me the
whole thing.  The papers are full of it.  They--they say you 're great,
Donaldson, but they don't know _how_ great!"

"If you would n't talk about it," pleaded Donaldson.

"Talk about it?  I want to scream it!  I want to get out and stand in
Park Row and yell it.  I want every living man and woman in the world
to know about it!"

"It's all over--it's done with!"

"No," answered Arsdale, "it's just begun.  I feel weak in the knees.  I
must go--I must be alone a minute and think this over."

He staggered from the room and Donaldson turning to the girl, said
gently, "Go to Marie now.  She will need you."

"You," she exclaimed below her breath, "you are wonderful!"

He turned away his head and she left him there alone.



CHAPTER XXIV

_The Greater Master_

In the fifteen minutes that Donaldson waited in the library, he fought
out with himself the question as to whether he had the strength to
remain here in the house on this the day before the end.

In his decision he took into account his duty towards the boy, the
possible danger to the girl, and his own growing passion.  There was
but one answer: he owed it to them all to pull free while there was yet
time.  It would be foolhardy to risk here a full day and an evening.

He felt the approaching crisis more than he had at any time during the
week.

At times he became panic-stricken at his powerlessness to check for
even one brief pendulum-swing this steady tread of time.  Time was such
an intangible thing, and yet what a Juggernaut!  There was nothing of
it which he could get hold of to wrestle, and yet it was more powerful
than Samson to throw him in the end.  Sly, subtle, bodiless, soulless,
impersonal; expressed in the big clock above the city, and in milady's
dainty watch rising and falling upon her breast; sweeping away cities
and nursing to life violets; tearing down and building up; killing and
begetting; bringing laughter and tears, it is consistent in one thing
alone,--that it never ceases.  There is but one word big enough to
express it, and that is God.  Without beginning, without end, and never
ceasing.  At times he grew breathless, so individualized did every
second become, so fraught with haste.  Where was he being dragged, and
in the end would the seconds rest?  No, they would go on just the same,
and he might hear them even in his grave.

With his decision came the even more vital question as to what he
should tell this girl.  With the strength of his whole nature he craved
the privilege of standing white before her.  He longed to tell her the
whole pitiful complication that he might stand before her without
shadow of hypocrisy.  He could then leave with his head up to meet his
doom.  But even this crumb of relief was refused him.  To do this might
break down the boy and would leave her, if only as a friend, to bear
something of the ensuing hours.  He must, then, leave her in darkness,
suffering the lesser stings of doubt and suspicion and bewilderment.
He must leave her in false colors to whatever she might imagine.

She came back again with her lips quivering.

"Poor Marie," she gasped.  "She lies there broken hearted, praying to
die."

"I am sorry for her," he said gently.

"I feel the blame of it," she answered.  "Why must the curse of the
house have fallen upon her?"

"It is difficult to work out such matters," he replied.  "But I don't
think you should shoulder the responsibility.  We each of us must bear
the burden of our own acts.  It makes it even harder when another tries
to relieve us of this."

"But I can't relieve her.  That is the pity of it.  She turns away her
head from me for she has taken upon herself all the responsibility for
Jacques."

"That is the mother in her.  There is nothing you can do."

"She will die of grief."

"Then she will be dead.  So her relief will come."

The girl drew back a little.

"She must not die.  I must not let her die."

She looked up at him as though she expected him even in this emergency
to suggest some way out of it.  But he was speechless.

"I must go back to her," she said after a minute.  "I must go and
comfort her."

"Yes," he said, "that is the best you can do.  Take her hand and hold
it.  That is all you can do.  Ben is upstairs?"

"Yes.  I have n't told him yet."

"Tell him," he advised.  "It will help him to have an opportunity to
help another."

"Then you will excuse me?"

"Of course.  But there is something that I must tell you before you go.
I must leave you both now."

"You will come back to dinner with us?"

"I 'm afraid I shall be unable.  I start on a long journey.  I must say
good bye."

She fixed her eyes upon him in a new alarm, waiting for what he should
say next.  But that was all.  That was all he had to say.  In those two
words, "Good bye," he bounded all that was in the past, all that was in
the future.

"You have had some sudden call?"

"Yes."

"But you will come back again.  Don't--don't make it sound so final."

"I have no hope of coming back."

"Oh," she cried, "I thought that now you might find a little rest."

"Perhaps I shall.  I do not know.  But before I go I wish to insist
again that you and Ben leave this house and get back into the country
somewhere.  Don't think I am presuming, but I should feel better if I
knew you had this in mind.  I see so clearly that it is the thing for
you to do."

"Don't speak as though you were going so far," she shuddered.  "What
will Ben do without you?"

"Get him away from these old surroundings.  Let him make
friends--clean, wholesome friends.  Let him pursue his hobby.  There
are other places besides New York where he is needed.  If he is kept
busy I do not fear for him."

She tried to pierce the white mask he wore.  It was quite useless.  She
knew that there was something in him now that she could not reach.  Yet
she felt that there was need of it.  She felt that there was need that
she of all women in the world should force her way into his soul and
there comfort him as he had bidden her comfort Marie.  She felt this
with an insurge of passion that left her girlhood behind forever.  It
swept away all thoughts of Ben, all thoughts of Marie, all thoughts of
herself.  She heard his voice as though in the distance.

"It is better," he was saying, "to be direct--to be as honest as
possible at such a time as this.  We can't say some things very gently,
try as we may, because they are brutal facts in themselves.  But I am
going to tell you all I can as simply as I can.  I must leave you.  It
is n't of my own free will that I go, though at the beginning it was.
Now I go because I must.  Perhaps you will never again hear of me.  If
you don't you must remember me as you know me now.  Do you understand
that, Miss Arsdale?  You know me now as I am--as no other human being
knows me.  Will you cling to this?"

"You are to me as you are.  So you always will be."

She met his eyes unflinchingly, feeling a new strength growing within
her.  He went on:

"If we cling to what we ourselves know of our friends--if we cling to
that through thick and thin, nothing that happens to them can matter
much.  It is that confidence which lifts our friendships beyond the
reach of the cur snappings of circumstance.  So you, whatever you may
hear afterwards, whatever things you find yourself unable to
understand, must hold fast to this week.  You must say to yourself,"
his voice grew husky, "you must say this,--'If it had been possible for
him to do so, he would have lived out his life as I wished him to live
it out.'"

As he spoke on, it seemed to him that she, in some subtle way, was
rising superior to him.  Instead of losing strength as she stood there
before him, he felt her growing in power.  He had been talking to her
as to a child, and now he suddenly found himself confronting a woman.
She was now the dominant personality.  When she spoke to him her voice
was firmer and possessed of a new richness.

"I have heard you," she said.  "All the things you spoke are true.  Why
are you going?"

He hesitated at the direct question.

"Because I must."

"Why must you?"

"I cannot tell you."

She placed a steady hand upon his arm.

"Yes.  You must tell me."

"Don't tempt me like that!"

He felt himself weakening.  If only he might stand before her with his
mask off.  It meant freedom, it meant peace.  That was all he
asked--just the privilege of standing stark white before this one woman.

He turned away.  The burden was his and he must bear it, if it crushed
his very soul into the clay.  Away from those eyes, he might be able to
write some poor explanation.  But to put it into cold words would be
only to force upon her the torture of the next few hours.  It was
better for her to believe as she now saw him, as she might guess, than
to suffer the ghastly truth and then shiver at the mud idol that was
left.

He moved back a step.

"You must not look at me," he cried.  "You must keep your eyes away
from me and--and let me go."

But she followed, pressing him to the wall as they all had done.  The
color leaped to her cheeks.  Her eyes grew big and tender.

"I do not think you understand me," she said.

He stood awed before what he now saw.  It was as though he were looking
at a naked soul.

"I do not think you understand," she continued, lifting her head a
little.  "You will not go, because there can be no call so great as
that which bids you stay."

He answered, "My master is the master of us all."

"Then," she returned, "I too must go to meet your master.  He must
claim us both."

"God forbid," he exclaimed.

"You talk of masters," she ran on more excitedly, "and you are only a
man.  We women have a master greater than any you know.  You taught me
a moment ago to be direct--to be honest.  It is so I must be with you
now.  I must be brave," her voice trembled a little, "I must stand face
to face with you.  Oh, if you were not so unselfish--so unseeing, you
would not make me do this!"

He stood speechless--his throat aching the length of it.

"You treat me like a child, when you have made me a woman!  You treat
me like a weakling, when you have given me strength!  You tell me you
have some great trouble and then you refuse to allow me to share it!
Don't you see?"

Her face was transfigured by pure white courage.  He trembled before
it.  Yet he only gripped himself the firmer and stood before her
immovable, every word she spoke leaving a red welt upon his soul.

"Peter," she trembled, not in fright but because of her overflowing
heart, "you have shown me the wonder of life during this last week.
You have taken me by the hand and have led me out of the gray barren
land into the flowers and perfume of the orchard.  You have done for me
as you did for Ben.  Why should I be ashamed to say this?  I would not
measure up to you if I kept silent now and let you go alone.  I am not
ashamed."

To himself he said,

"God give me courage to stand firm."

"You make it harder for me when you say nothing."

"I must not listen!"

"Don't keep me in the dark," she pleaded.  "Don't send me back alone
into the dark.  It's being alone that hurts."

To himself he said,

"God keep me from telling her.  God keep me from letting her know of my
love.  So it is best."

"Don't you see now?"

Again that phrase of his which had come back through Arsdale's lips to
scorch him.

All he could say aloud was,

"I must go, and if I can, I will come back."

"I mean nothing to you if I cannot help you now," she said steadily.
"If the road were smooth to you do you think I could tell you what I
have?  It is your need--it is your need that has given me the strength."

To himself he said,

"God keep my lips sealed."

To her he said,

"I must go."

She was startled.

"You remember the orchard, Peter?"

"As long as I remember anything, I shall remember that."

"You remember the walk straight through things?"

"Yes--you at my side."

"I have just taken it again--alone.  I have pressed straight through."

There was a pause of a few seconds.  Then,

"That is a hard thing for a woman to do."

There was a longer silence.  Then she said tenderly,

"You look very tired.  This day has been heavy to you.  Go up-stairs to
your room and rest.  Then in the morning--why, in the morning we may
both see clearer."

"I can rest nowhere.  There is no rest left to me."

"Ah, you look so tired," she repeated.

He seized her hand and pressed it.  Then he turned abruptly towards the
hall.  She watched him with a new fright.  He paused at the door, his
eyes drawn back to her against his will.  She was standing there quite
helpless, a growing pallor sweeping over her cheeks that so lately had
been as richly red as rose leaves.

"God help me hard now," he moaned.

She stood before him like a marble statue.  There were no tears.

"I have been very bold," she murmured.  "I can never forgive myself
that."

"You have been wonderful!" he cried.

"Perhaps you had better go at once, Peter Donaldson," she said.

He saw her in a blinding white light.

"God keep you," he managed to say.  "God keep you forever and ever."

He stumbled to the hall, found his hat, and staggered through the door.

At the hedge a shadow stole out to meet him.  It was an ambitious young
reporter.

"Is this Mr. Donaldson?" he asked.

"Damn you, no!" shouted Donaldson.  "Donaldson is dead!"



CHAPTER XXV

_The Shadow on the Floor_

Donaldson toiled up the dark staircase leading to Barstow's laboratory.
To him it was as though he were fighting his way through deep water
reaching twenty fathoms above his head.  The air was just as cold as
green water; it contained scarcely more life.  He felt the same sense
of clammy, lurking things, unknown things, such as crawl along the
slimy bottoms where rotting hulks lie.  He was impelled here by the
same sort of fascination which is said to lead murderers back to their
victims, yet it seemed to be the only place where he would be able to
think at all.  It was getting back to the beginning--to the
source--where he could start fresh.  It was here, and here alone, that
he could write his letter to her.  Perhaps here he could make something
out of the chaos of his thoughts.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused before the closed
door.  He did not expect Barstow to be in.  He hoped that he was not.
He did not wish to face him to-day.  To-morrow perhaps--but he realized
that if Barstow had gone on his proposed vacation he would not be back
even then.  That did not matter either.  The single thing remaining for
him to do was to make Elaine understand something of what his life had
meant, what she had meant in it, what he hoped to mean to her in the
silent future.  That must be done alone, and this of all places was
where he could best do it.  The mere thought of his room at the hotel
was repulsive to him.

He listened at the door.  There was no sound--no sound save the
interminable "tick-tock, tick-tock" which still haunted him through the
pulse beats in his wrists.  He reached forward and touched the knob;
listened again, and then turned it and pressed.  The door was locked.
But it was a feeble affair.  Barstow had made his experimental
laboratory in this old building to get away from the inquisitive, and
half of the time did not take the trouble to turn the key when he left,
for there was little of value here.

He knocked on the chance that Barstow might have lain down upon the
sofa for a nap.  Again he waited until he heard the "tick-tock,
tick-tock" at his wrists.  Then, pressing his body close to the lock,
he turned the knob and pushed steadily.  It weakened.  He drew back a
little and threw his weight more heavily against it.  The lock gave and
the door swung open.

The sight of the threadbare sofa was as reassuring as the face of an
old friend.  Yet what an eternity it seemed since he had sat there and
discussed his barren life with Barstow.  The phrases he had used came
back to mock him.  He had talked of the things that lay beyond his
reach, while even then they were at his hand, had he been but hardy
enough to seize them; he had spoken of what money could buy for him,
with love eagerly pressing greater gifts upon him without price; he had
hungered for freedom with freedom his for the taking.  Sailors have
died of thirst at the broad mouth of the Amazon, thinking it to be the
open salt sea; so he was dying in the midst of clean, sweet life.

He sat down on the sofa, with his head between his hands and stared at
the glittering rows of bottles which caught the sun.  Each one of them
was a laughing demon.  They danced and winked their eyes--yellow, blue,
and blood-red.  There were a hundred of them keeping step to the
bobbing shadows upon the floor.  Row upon row of them--purple, brown,
and blood-red--all dancing, all laughing.

"You come out wrong every time," Barstow had said.

And he--he had laughed back even as the bottles were doing.

He was not cringing even now.  He was asking no pity, no mercy.  When
he had stepped across the room and had taken down that bottle, he had
been clear-headed; he had been clear-headed when he had swallowed its
contents.  The only relief he craved for himself was to be allowed to
remain clear-headed until he should have written his letter.  Coming up
the stairs he feared lest this might not be.  Now he seemed to be
steadying once more.

He thought of Sandy.  Poor pup, he had gone out easily enough.  He had
curled up on a friendly knee and gone to sleep.  That was all there had
been to it.  It would be an odd thing, he mused, if the dog was where
he could look down on this man-struggle.  This braced him up; he would
not have even this dog see him die other than bravely.

As far as he himself was concerned, he knew that he would go
unflinchingly to meet his final creditor, but there were the
Others--with Sandy there had been no Others.  It was easy enough to die
alone, but when in addition to one's own death throes one had to bear
those of others,--that was harder.  When he died, it would be as when
several died.  There would be that mother in Vermont--part of her would
die with him; there would be Saul--even part of him would die with him;
there was Ben--some of him would die, too; and there was Elaine--good
God, how much of her would die with him?

He sprang to his feet and began to pace the stained wooden floor.  As
he did so, a shadow crawled, from beneath the sofa and stole across the
room like a rat.  But unlike a rat, it did not disappear into a hole;
it came back again towards Donaldson.  He stopped.  Close to the ground
the shadow crept nearer until he saw that it was a dog.  Then he saw
that it was a black terrier.  Then he saw that in size, color, and
general appearance it was the living double of Sandy.

He stooped and extended his hand.  He tried to pronounce the name, but
his lips were too dry.  The dog crouched, frightened, some three feet
distant.  Donaldson, squatting there, watched him with straining eyes.
Once again he tried to utter the name.  It stuck in his throat, but at
the inarticulate cry he made, the dog wagged his tail so feebly that it
scarcely moved its shadow.  Donaldson ventured nearer.  The dog rolled
over to its back and held up its trembling forefeet on guard, studying
Donaldson through half closed eyes with its head turned sideways.

Donaldson put forward his trembling fingers and touched its side.  The
dog was warm, even as Sandy had been when he first picked him up.  The
dog feebly waved his padded paws and finally rested them upon
Donaldson's hand.

"Sandy!  Sandy!" he murmured, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

The dumb mouth moved nearer to lick the man's fingers, but his
movements were negative as far as any recognition of the name went.  It
was just the friendly overture of any dog to any man.

If he could get him to answer to the name!  It meant life--a chance for
life!  It meant, perhaps, that there had been some mistake--that,
perhaps, after all, the poison was not so deadly as Barstow had thought
it.

He threw himself upon the floor beside the dog.  In the body of this
black terrier centred everything in life that a man holds most dear.
If he could speak--if the dumb tongue could wag an answer to that one
question!

The dog turned over and crawled nearer.  Donaldson fixed his burning
eyes upon the blinking brute.

"Sandy," he cried, "is this you, Sandy?"

The moist tongue reached for his fingers.

He took a deep breath.  He said,

"Dick--is this you, Dick?"

Again the moist tongue reached for his fingers.

Donaldson picked him up.

"Sandy," he cried, "answer me."

The dog closed his eyes as though expecting a blow.

Donaldson dropped him.  The animal crawled away beneath the sofa.
Donaldson felt more alone that minute than he had ever felt in all his
life.  It was as though he sat there, the sole living thing in the
broad universe.  There was nothing left but the blinking eyes of the
bottles dancing in still brisker joy.  He could not endure it.

Moving across the room he knelt by the sofa and tried to coax the
frightened animal out again.

"Sandy.  Come, Sandy," he called.

There was no show of life.  He snapped his fingers.  He groped beneath
the old lounge.  Then, in a frenzy of fear, lest it had all been an
apparition, he swung the sofa into the middle of the room.  The dog
followed beneath it, but he caught a glimpse of him.  He pushed the
sofa back to the wall and began to coax again.

"Come out, Sandy.  I 'll not hurt you.  Come, Sandy."

There was a scratching movement and then the tip of a hot, dry nose
appeared.

"Come.  That 's a good dog.  Come."

He could hear the tail vigorously thumping the floor, but the head
appeared only inch by inch.  Donaldson held his breath.

"Come," he whispered.

Slowly, with the sly pretension that it demanded a tremendous physical
effort, the dog emerged and stood shivering beneath the big hand which
smoothed its back with cooing words of assurance.

"Why, I was n't going to hurt you, Sandy," whispered Donaldson, finding
comfort in pronouncing the name.  "I was n't going to hurt you.  We 're
old friends.  Don't you remember, Sandy?  Don't you remember the night
I held you?  Don't you remember that, Sandy?"

The dog looked up at him moistening its own dry mouth.  In every detail
this was the same dog he had held upon his knee while arguing with
Barstow.  He made another test.

"Mike," he called.

In response the pup wagged his tail good naturedly and with more
confidence now.

Donaldson caught his breath.  Locked within that tiny brute brain was
the secret of what waited for him on the morrow: love and the glories
of a big life, or death and oblivion.  The answer was there behind
those moist eyes.  But if he could reach Barstow--

Here was a new hope.  He could ask him if this was Sandy, and so spare
himself the terrors of the night to come.  He had the right to do that
as long as he abided by the decision.  There was a telephone here, and
he knew that Barstow lived in an up-town apartment house, so that some
one was sure to be in.  He found the number in the battered,
chemical-stained directory, and put in his call.  It seemed an hour
before he received his reply.

"No, sir, Mr. Barstow is away.  Any message?"

"Where has he gone?" asked Donaldson dully.

"He's off on a yachting cruise, sir."

It would have been impossible for him to withdraw more completely out
of reach.

"When do you expect him back?"

"I don't know, sir.  He said he might be gone a day or two or perhaps a
week."

"And he left?"

"Last Friday--very unexpectedly."

Donaldson hung up the receiver, which had grown in his hand as heavy as
lead.  He turned back to the dog, who had jumped upon the sofa and was
now cuddled into a corner.  He lifted his head and began to tremble
again as Donaldson came nearer.

"Still afraid of me?" he asked with a sad smile.  "Why, there is n't
enough of me left to be afraid of, pup.  There 's only about a day of
me left and we ought to be friends during that time."

He nestled his head down upon the warm body.  The dog licked his hair
affectionately.  The kindness went to his heart.  The attention was
soothing, restful.  He responded to it the more, because this dog was
to him the one thing left in the world alive.  He snuggled closer to
the silky hide and continued to talk, finding comfort in the sound of
his own voice and the insensate response of the warm head.

"We ought to be good comrades--you and I--Sandy, because we 're all
alone here in this old rat trap.  When a man's alone, Sandy, anything
else in the world that's alive is his brother.  The only thing that
counts is being alive.  Why, a fly is a better thing than the dead man
he crawls over.  And if there be a live man, a dead man, and a fly,
then the fly and the live man are brothers.  So you and I are brothers,
and we must fight the devil-eyes in those bottles together."

They danced before him now--yellow, blue, and blood-red.  A more
perfect semblance of an evil gnome could not be made than the
flickering reflection of the sunlight in the bottle of blood-red
liquid.  It was never still.  It skipped from the bottom of the bottle
to the top and from one side to the other, as though in drunken ecstasy.

It fascinated Donaldson with the allurement of the gruesome.  It was
such a restless, scarlet thing!  It looked as though it were trying to
get out of its prison and in baffled rage was shooting its fangs at the
sides, like a bottled viper.

"See it, Sandy?  It's trying to get at us.  But it can't, if we keep
together.  It's only when a man's alone that those things have any
power.  And the little devil knows it.  If it were not for you, Sandy,
the thing might drive me mad--might make me mad before I had written my
letter!"

He sprang to his feet in sudden passion, and the dog with all four feet
planted stiffly on the sofa gave a sharp bark.  This broke the tension
at once.

"That's the dog," Donaldson praised him.  "When the shadows get too
close bark at 'em like that!"

The bellicose attitude of the tiny body brought a smile to Donaldson's
mouth.  This, too, was like a bromide to shaking nerves.

But in this position the dog did not so closely resemble that other dog
which he had held upon his knee.  He looked thinner, more angular.  His
ears were cocked like two stiff v-shaped funnels.  Now he looked like
an older dog.  It was more reasonable to suppose, Donaldson realized,
that Barstow had two dogs of this same breed than that a dead dog had
come to life.

"Sandy!" he called sharply.

The dog wagged his stub-tail with vigor.

"Spike!" he called again.

The tail wagged on with undiminished enthusiasm.

Donaldson passed his hand over his forehead.

This was as useless as to try to solve the enigma of the Sphinx.  The
dog's lips were sealed as tightly as the stone lips; the barrier
between his brain and Donaldson's brain was as high as that between the
man-chiseled image and the man who chiseled.  He was only wasting his
time on such a task, time that he should use in the framing of his
letter.

He sat down again upon the sofa, took the dog upon his knee, and tried
to think.  Before him the bottles danced--purple, brown, and blood-red.
He closed his eyes.  He would begin his letter like this:

"To the most wonderful woman in all the world."

He would do this because it was true.  There was no other woman like
her.  No other woman would have so helped an old man in his battle with
himself; no other woman would have stayed on there alone in that house
and would have helped the son in his battle with himself; no other
woman would have followed him as she had wished to do and help him
fight his battle with himself.  But she was the most wonderful woman in
the world because of the white courage she had shown in standing before
him and telling of her love.  The eyes of her--the glory in her
hair--the marvel in her cheeks--the smile of her!

He opened his eyes.  The devil in the bottle directly in front of him
was more impish than it had been at all.  Donaldson rose.  The pup
rolled to the floor.  Donaldson crossed the room, picked out the
bottle, drew back his arm, and hurled it against the wall, where it
broke into a thousand pieces.  It left a gory-looking blotch where it
struck.  He went back to the sofa.  The dog crept to his side again.
Before him a devil danced in a purple bottle.  He closed his eyes.

He would begin his letter, then, like that.  He would go on to tell her
that he was unable to compute his life save in terms of her, that it
had its beginning in her, grew to its fulness through her, and now had
reached its zenith in her.  At the brook when he had clasped her in his
arms, he had drunk one deep draught of her.

He lost himself in one hot love phrase after another.  He poured out
his soul in words he had left unspoken to her.  He was back again
before the fire, telling her all that he did not tell her then.  One
gorgeous image after another swarmed to his brain.  He was like a poet
gone mad.  He crowded sentence upon sentence, superlative upon
superlative, until he found himself upon his feet, his cheeks hot, and
his breath coming short.  Then he caught sight of the crimson stain
upon the wall and felt himself a murderer.  He staggered back and threw
himself full-length upon the couch, panting like one at the end of a
long run.  He lay here very quietly.

The dog crawled to his side and licked the hair at his hot temple.



CHAPTER XXVI

_On the Brink_

Donaldson was aroused by the dog which was at the door barking
excitedly.  It was broad daylight.  As Donaldson sprang up he heard the
brisk approach of footsteps, and the next second a key fumbling in the
lock.  Before he had fully recovered his senses the door swung open,
and Barstow, tanned and ruddy, burst in.  Donaldson stared at him and
he stared at Donaldson.  Then, striding over the dog, who yelped in
protest at this treatment, Barstow approached the haggard, unshaven man
who faced him.

"Good Heavens, Peter!" he cried, "what ails you?"

Donaldson put out his hand and the other grasped it with the clasp of a
man in perfect health.

"Can't you speak?" he demanded.  "What's the matter with you?"

"I 'm glad to see you," answered Donaldson.

"But what are you doing here in this condition?  Are you sick?"

"No, I 'm not sick.  I lay down on the sofa and I guess I fell asleep."

"You look as though you had been sleeping there a month.  Sit down,
man.  You have a fever."

"There 's your dog," said Donaldson.

Barstow turned.  The dog, with his forefeet on Barstow's knee, was
stretching his neck towards his master's hand.

"Hello, pup," he greeted him.  "Did the janitor use you all right?"  He
shook him off.

Donaldson sat down.  Barstow stood in front of him a moment and then
reached to feel his pulse.  It was normal.

"I 'm not sick, I tell you," said Donaldson, trying to laugh, "I was
just all in.  I came up here to see if you were back and slumped down
on the couch.  Then I fell asleep.  There 's your dog behind you."

"What of it?" demanded Barstow.

"Why--he looks glad to see you."

"What of that?"

"Nothing."

Barstow laid his hand on Donaldson's shoulder.

"Have you been drinking?" he asked.

"Drinking?  No, but I've a thirst a mile long.  Any water around here?"

Barstow went to the closet and came back with a graduating glass full
of lukewarm water.  Donaldson swallowed it in a couple of gulps.

"Lord, that's good!"

Barstow again bent a perplexed gaze upon him.

"You have n't been fooling with any sort of dope, Peter?"

"No."

"This is straight?"

"Yes, that's straight," answered Donaldson impatiently.  "I tell you
that there is n't anything wrong with me except that I 'm fagged out."

"You did n't take my advice.  You ought to have gone away.  Why did n't
you?"

"I 've been too busy.  There's your dog."

Barstow hung down his hand, that the pup might lick the ends of his
fingers.

"Peter," he burst out, "you ought to have been with me.  If I 'd known
about the trip I 'd have taken you.  It was just what you needed--a
week of lolling around a deck in the hot sun with the sea winds blowing
over your face.  That's what you want to do--get out under the blue sky
and soak it in.  If you don't believe it, look at me.  Fit as a fiddle;
strong as a moose.  You said you wanted to sprawl in the sunshine,--why
the devil don't you take a week off and do it?"

"Perhaps I will."

"That's the stuff.  You must do it.  You were in bad shape when I left,
but, man dear, you 're on the verge of a serious breakdown now.  Do you
realize it?"

"Yes, I realize it.  That 's a good dog of yours, Barstow."

"What's the matter with the pup?  Seems to me you 're taking a deuce of
a lot of interest in him," he returned suspiciously.

"Dogs seem sort of human when you 're alone with them."

"This one looks more human than you do.  See here, Don, Lindsey said
that he might start off again to-morrow on a short cruise to Newport.
I think I can get you a berth with him.  Will you go?"

"It's good of you, Barstow," answered Donaldson uneasily, "but I don't
like to promise."

Would Barstow never call the dog by name?  He could n't ask him
directly; it would throw too much suspicion upon himself.  If Barstow
had left his laboratory that night for his trip, the chances were that
the bottle was not yet missed.  He must be cautious.  It would be
taking an unfair advantage of Barstow's friendship to allow him to feel
that indirectly he had been responsible for the death of a human being.
Donaldson glanced at his watch.

It had stopped.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Half past nine."

Two hours and a half longer!  He determined to remain here until
eleven.  If, up to that time, Barstow had not called the dog by name he
would leave.  He must write that letter and he must put himself as far
out of reach of these friends as possible before the end.  If he died
on the train, his body would be put off at the next station and a local
inquest held.  The verdict would be heart disease; enough money would
be found in his pocket to bury him; and so the matter would be dropped.

"I want you to promise, Don," ran on Barstow, "for I tell you that it's
either a rest or the hospital for you.  You have nervous prostration
written big all over your face.  I know how hard it is to make the
initial effort to pull out when your brain is all wound up, but you 'll
regret it if you don't.  And you 'll like the crowd, Don.  Lindsey is a
hearty fellow, who hasn't anything to do but live--but he does that
well.  He's clean and square as a granite corner-stone.  It will do you
good to mix in with him.

"And his boat is a corker!  He spent a quarter of a million on it, and
he 's got a French cook that would make a dead man eat.  He 'll put fat
on your bones, Don, and Lindsey will make you laugh.  You don't laugh
enough, Don.  You 're too serious.  And if you have such weather as we
've had this week you 'll come back with a spirit that will boost your
law practice double."

He felt of Donaldson's arm.  It was thin and flabby.

"Good Heavens--here, feel of mine!"

Donaldson grasped it with his weak fingers.  It was beastly thick and
firm.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It is twenty minutes of ten.  Is time so important to you?"

"I must get down-town before long."

"Rot!  Why don't you drop your business here and now.  Let things rip."

"Where 's the dog?" demanded Donaldson.  The pup was out of sight.  He
felt strangely frightened.  He got up and looked all about the room.

"Where 's he gone?" he demanded again.

Barstow grasped him by the shoulder.

"You must pull yourself together," he said seriously.  "You 're heading
for a worse place than the hospital."

"But where the devil has he gone?  He was here a minute ago, was n't
he?"

"Easy, easy," soothed Barstow.  "Hold tight!"

"Find him, won't you, Barstow?  Won't you find him?"

To quiet him Barstow whistled.  The dog pounded his tail on the floor
under the lounge.

"He 's under there," said Barstow.

"Get him out--get him out where I can see him, won't you?"

Barstow stooped.

"Come, Sandy, come," he called.

Donaldson leaped forward.

"What did you call him?" he demanded as Barstow staggered back.

"Have you gone mad?" shouted Barstow.

"What did you call him?" repeated Donaldson fiercely.  "Tell me what
you called him?"

"I called him Sandy.  Control yourself, Don.  If you let yourself go
this way--it's the end."

"The end?" shouted Donaldson.  "Man, it 's the beginning!  It's just
the beginning!  Sandy--Sandy did n't die after all!"

"Oh, that's what's troubling you," returned Barstow with an air of
relief.  "Why did n't you tell me?  You thought the dead had risen, eh?
No, the stuff didn't work.  The dog only had an attack of acute
indigestion from overeating.  But Gad, the coincidence _was_ queer,
when you stop to think of it.  I 'd forgotten you left before he came
to."

"Then," cried Donaldson excitedly, "you did n't have any poison after
all!"

"No.  I was so busy on more important work that my experiments with
that stuff must all of them have been slipshod.  But it did look for a
minute as though Sandy here had proven it.  But, Lord,--it was n't the
poison that did for him--it was his week.  His week was too much for
him!"

"Give me your hand, Barstow.  Give me your hand.  I 'm limp as a rag."

"That's your nerves again.  If you were normal, the mere fact that you
thought you saw a spook dog would n't leave you in this shape.  Come
over here and sit down."

"Get me some water, old man--get me a long, long drink."

When Barstow handed him the glass, which must have held a pint,
Donaldson trembled so that he could hold it to his lips only by using
both hands, as those with palsy do.  He swallowed it in great gulps.
He felt as though he were burning up inside.  The room began to swim
around him, but with his hands kneading into the old sofa he warded off
unconsciousness.  He must not lose a single minute in blankness.  He
must get back to her--get back to her as soon as he could stand.  She
was suffering, too, though in another way.  He must not let another
burning minute scorch her.

"Perhaps you 'll take my advice now," Barstow was saying, "perhaps you
were near enough the brink that time to listen to me.  Tell me I may
ring up Lindsey--tell me now that you 'll go with him."

"Go--away?  Go--out to sea?" cried Donaldson.

"Yes.  To-morrow morning."

"Why, Lord, man!  Lord, man!" he panted, "I--would n't leave New
York--I would n't go out there--for--for a million dollars."

"You damned ass!" growled Barstow.

"I--I would n't--go, if the royal yacht--of the King of England were
waiting for me."

"Some one ought to have the authority to put you in a strait-jacket and
carry you off.  I tell you you 're headed for the madhouse, Don!"

Donaldson staggered to his feet.  He put his trembling hands on
Barstow's shoulders.

"No," he faltered, "no, I 'm headed for life, for life, Barstow!  You
hear me?  I 'm headed for a paradise right here in New York."

Barstow felt baffled.  The man was in as bad a way as he had ever seen
a man, but he realized the uselessness of combatting that stubborn
will.  There was nothing to do but let him go on until he was struck
down helpless.  From the bottom of his heart be pitied him.  This was
the result of too much brooding alone.

"Peter," he said, "the loneliest place in this world is New York.  Are
you going to let it kill you?"

"No!  It came near it, but I 've beaten it.  I 'm bigger now than the
dear old merciless city.  It's mine--down to every dark alley.  I 've
got it at my feet, Barstow.  It is n't going to kill me, it's going to
make me grow.  It is n't any longer my master--it's a good-natured,
obedient servant.  New York?" he laughed excitedly.  "What is New York
but a little strip of ground underneath the stars?"

"That would sound better if your eyes were clearer and your hand
steadier."

"You 'd expect a man to be battered up a little, would n't you, after a
hard fight?  I 've fought the hardest thing in the world there is to
fight--shadows, Barstow, shadows--with the King Shadow itself at their
head."

Was the man raving?  It sounded so, but Donaldson's eyes, in spite of
their heaviness, were not so near those of madness as they had been a
moment ago.  The startled look had left his face.  Every feature stood
out brightly, as though lighted from within.  His voice was fuller, and
his language, though obscure, more like that of the old Donaldson.
Barstow was mystified.

"Had n't you better lie down here again?" he suggested.

"I must go, now.  What--what time is it, old man?"

"Five minutes past ten."

Donaldson took a deep breath.  Time--how it stretched before him like a
flower-strewn path without end.  He heard the friendly tick-tock at his
wrists.  The minutes were so many jewel boxes, each containing the
choice gift of so many breaths, so many chances to look into her eyes,
so many chances to fulfil duties, so many quaffs of life.

"My watch has run down," he said, with curious seriousness.  "I 'm
going to wind it up again.  I 'm going to wind it up again, Barstow."

He proceeded to do this as though engaged in some mystic rite.

"May I set it by your watch?  I 'd like to set it by your watch,
Barstow."

He adjusted the hands tenderly, again as though it were the act of a
high priest.

"Now," he said, "it's going straight.  I shall never let the old thing
run down again.  I think it hurts a watch, don't you, Barstow?"

"Yes," answered the latter, amazed at his emphasis upon such
trivialities.

"Now," he said, "I must hurry.  Where's my hat?  Oh, there it is.  And
Sandy--where's Sandy?"

The dog crawled out at once at the sound of his name, and he stooped to
pet him a moment.

"I don't suppose you 'd sell Sandy, would you, Barstow?"

"I 'll give him to you, if you 'll take him off.  I have n't a fit
place to keep him."

"May I take him now?  May I take him with me?"

"Yes--if you'll come back to me to-morrow and report how you are."

"I 'll do it.  I 'll be here to-morrow."

He cuddled the dog into his arm and held out his hand.

"Don't worry about me, old man.  Just a little rattled that's all.  But
fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose, even if I don't look it as you do!"

Barstow took his hand, and when Donaldson left, stood at the head of
the stairs anxiously watching him make his way to the street, hugging
the dog tightly to his side.



CHAPTER XXVII

_The End of the Beginning_

When Donaldson appeared at the door of the Arsdale house he was
confronted by Ben whose eyes were afire as though he had been drinking.
Before he could speak a word the latter squared off before him
aggressively.

"What the devil have you done to my sister?" he demanded.

Donaldson drew back, frightened by the question.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, the dog dropping from his arms to the
floor.

"She 's in bed, and half out of her mind," returned the other fiercely.
"She said you 'd gone!  Donaldson, if you 've hurt her--"

The boy's fists were clenched as though he were about to strike.
Donaldson stood with his arms hanging limply by his side.  He felt
Arsdale's right to strike if he wished.

"I have n't gone," he answered.

"I don't know what has happened," Arsdale ran on heatedly, "but I want
to tell you this--that as much as you 've done for me, I won't stand
for your hurting her."

"Let me see her," demanded Donaldson, coming to himself.

"She won't see any one!  She 's locked up in her room.  She may be
dead.  If she is, you 've killed her!"

Arsdale half choked upon the words.  It was with difficulty that he
restrained himself.  He was blind to everything, save that in some way
this man was responsible for the girl's suffering.

"Perhaps she 'll see me.  Where is she?"

Donaldson without waiting for an answer pushed past Arsdale and the
latter allowed it, but followed at his heels.  Donaldson knew where she
was without being told.  She was in the big front room where the
balcony led outdoors.  He went up the stairs heavily, for he knew that
more depended on the next half hour than had anything so far in all
this harrowing week.  Though there was plenty of light he groped his
way close to the wall like a blind man.  At the closed door he paused
to catch his breath.  In the meanwhile the boy, half frantic, pounded
on the panels, shouting over his shoulder,

"She won't let us in, I tell you!  She won't let us in!  She may be
dead!"

At this, Donaldson forced Arsdale back.  He put his mouth close to the
insensate wood and called her name.

"Elaine."

There was no answer.

He knocked lightly and called again.  Again the silence, the boy
stumbling up against him with an inarticulate cry.  The nurse joined
them, and the three stood there in shivering terror.  Donaldson felt
panic clutching at his own heart.  Before throwing his weight against
the door, he tried once more.

"Elaine," he cried, "it is I--Donaldson."

There was the sound of movement within, and then came the stricken plea,

"Go away.  Please go away."

Arsdale answered,

"Let me in, Elaine.  Nothing shall hurt you.  I'll--"

Donaldson turned upon him and the nurse.

"Go down-stairs," he commanded.

His voice made them both shudder back.

"Go down-stairs," he repeated.  "Do you hear!  Leave her to me!"

Arsdale started a protest, but the nurse, in fright, took his arm and
half dragged him towards the stairs.  Donaldson followed threateningly.
His face was terrible.  He stood at the head of the stairs until they
reached the hall below.  Then he returned to the door.

"Elaine," he said, "I have come back.  Do you hear me, Elaine?  I have
come back."

He heard within the sound as of muffled sobbing.  He himself was
breathing as though a great weight were on his chest.

"Elaine," he cried, "won't you open the door to me?"

The sobbing was broken by a tremulous voice.

"Is that you, Peter Donaldson?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Then go away and leave me, Peter Donaldson."

"Elaine, can you hear me clearly?"

There was the pause of a moment, and than the broken voice.

"Go away."

"No," he answered steadily, "I can't.  I can't go away again until I
see you.  You must tell me face to face to go.  I 've come back to you."

She did not answer.

"Elaine," he cried, "open the door to me.  Let me see you."

"I don't want to see you."

He waited a moment.  Then he said more soberly,

"Elaine, I can't go away.  I must stay right here until I see you.  I
sha'n't move from here until my soul goes.  Whether you hear me or not,
you will know that I am right here by the door.  At the end of one
hour, at the end of two hours, at the end of a day, I shall still be
here.  If they try to drag me away, they 'll have to fight--they 'll
have to fight hard."

There was no answer.  He leaned back against the wall.  Below, he heard
a whispered conversation between Arsdale and the nurse; within, he
heard nothing.  So five minutes passed, and to Donaldson the world was
chaos.  He felt as though he were locked up in a tomb.  There was the
same feeling of dead weight upon the shoulders; the same sensation of
stifling.  Then he heard her voice,

"Are you still there, Peter Donaldson?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Won't you please go away?"

"I shall not go away until I have seen you."

Then another long suspense began, but it was shorter than the first.

"If I let you come in for a minute, will you go then?"

"Yes," he answered, "I will go then."

It seemed an eternity before he heard the key turn in the lock and saw
the door swing open a little.  He stepped in.  She had taken a position
in a far corner.  She had drawn the Japanese shawl tightly about her,
and was standing very erect, her white face like chiseled marble.  He
started towards her, but she checked him.

"Do not come any nearer," she commanded.

He steadied himself.

"I told you," he began abruptly, "that I was going because I must.
That was true; I went thinking I was to meet Death."

She took a step towards him.

"You were ill?  You are ill now?"

"No."

He paused.  Now that the time had come when he could tell her all, it
was a harder thing to do than he had thought.  If she withdrew from him
now--what would she do after she had learned?  Yet he must do this to
be a free man, to be even a free spirit.  There must be no more shadows
between them, not even shadows of the past.

"I told you," he said, "of my life up to the time I came to New York,
of the daily grind it was to get that far.  That was only the
beginning--after that came the real struggle.  It was easy to fight
with the enemy in front--with something for your fists to strike
against.  But then came the waiting years.  I was too blind to see all
the work that lay around me.  I was too selfish to see what I might
have fought for.  I saw nothing except the wasting months.  I lost my
grip.  I played the coward."

He took a quick, sharp breath at the word.  It was like plunging a
knife into his own heart to stand before her and say that.

"One day in the laboratory," he struggled on, "Barstow told me of a
poison which would not kill until the end of seven days.  Because I was
not--the best kind of fighter--I--stole it and swallowed it.  That was
a week ago.  I am here now only because the poison did n't work."

"You--you tried to kill yourself?" she cried in amazement.

"Yes," he answered unflinchingly, "I tried to quit.  There were many
things I wanted--cheap, trivial things, and at the time I did n't see
my course clear to getting them in any other way.  The other
things--the things worth while were around me all the time, but I could
n't see them."

He paused.  She drew away from him.

"So you see I did not do bravely.  I wanted you to know this from the
first, but there didn't seem to be any way.  I did n't want to stand
before you as a liar--as a hypocrite, and yet I did n't want to balk
myself in the little good I found myself able to do.  That silence was
part of the penalty.  I left you yesterday without telling, for the
same reason.  That and one other: because I did n't want you to think
me a coward when death might cut off all opportunity for ever proving
otherwise."

Again he paused, hoping against a dead hope.  But she stood there,
cringing away from him, her frightened lips dumb.

"That is all," he concluded.  "Now I will go.  But don't you see that I
had to intrude long enough to tell you this?  I stand absolutely honest
before you.  There isn't a lie in me.  Now I am going to work."

He made an odd looking picture as he stood there.  Haggard, hot-eyed,
with a touch of color above his unshaven cheeks, he was like a
victorious general at the end of a hard week's campaign.

He turned away from her and went out of the room.  At the foot of the
stairs he passed in silence Arsdale and the nurse.  He turned back.

"Sandy!  Sandy!  Where are you?"

The dog came scrambling over the smooth floor with a joyous yelp.  He
picked him up and passing out the door went down the street.  The few
remaining dollars he had left burned in his pocket.  He tossed them
into the first sewer.  He was now free--free to begin clean handed.

A little farther along he came to a gang of men at work upon the
excavation for a new house.  He needed money for food and a night's
lodging.  He went to the foreman.

"Want an extra hand?"

"Wot th' devil ye 're givin' us?"

"I 'm in earnest.  I have n't a cent.  I need work.  Try me."

The burly foreman looked him over with a grin.  Then as though he saw a
good joke in it, he gave him a shovel and sent him into the cellar.

Donaldson removed his coat and rolling up his sleeves took his place
beside the others.  Sandy found a comfortable nest in the discarded
garment and settled down contentedly.



CHAPTER XXVIII

_The Seventh Noon_

When Arsdale with the nurse at his heels rushed up-stairs, he found his
sister before the mirror combing her hair.  There was nothing
hysterical about her, but her white calmness in itself was ominous.

"What is it, Elaine?" he panted, "has Donaldson gone mad?"

"No," she answered, "I should say that he is quite sane now."

"But what the deuce was the trouble with him?  He looked as though he
had lost his senses."

"Perhaps he has just found them."

The nurse interrupted him, in an aside,

"I would n't agitate her further."  To the girl, she said, "Don't you
think you had better lie down for a little, Miss Arsdale?"

"Please don't worry about me," she replied calmly, "I am going to
change my dress and then I shall come down-stairs.  I wish you would go
to Marie--both of you.  It is she who needs attention."

"But--" broke in Arsdale.

"There's a good boy.  Do what you can to make her comfortable.  I will
join you in a few minutes."

Uncomprehending, Arsdale reluctantly led the way out.  She closed the
door behind them and turned to her mirror again.

"Well," demanded her reflection, "what are you going to do now?"

"Do?  I shall go on as I have always done."

"Shall you?"

"Why not?  There is Ben.  Perhaps we shall go out into the country to
live--perhaps we shall travel."

"Shall you?"

"That is certainly the sensible thing to do."

"Shall you?"

She smoothed back the hair from her throbbing temples.

"He looked very much in need of help," suggested the mirror.

"Who?"

"Peter Donaldson."

"Oh," gasped Elaine, "why did he do it?  Why did he do it?"

The mirror recognized the question as one which every woman has asked
at least once in her lifetime.  But somehow this did not swerve her
from her insistence.

"You must judge him from what you yourself have seen of him," the
mirror harped back to Donaldson's own words.

"He acted bravely before me--before Ben.  He did do bravely," cried the
girl.

"And yet below these acts he had a craven heart?" hinted she of the
mirror.

"No.  No.  It isn't possible!  It isn't possible!"

"But he admitted the dreadful thing he tried to do."

"That was the folly of a moment.  He has grown through it.  He asked no
mercy--asked no pardon.  Did n't you see the expression upon his
haggard face as he left the room?"

"Were you looking?" queried she of the mirror in surprise.  "Your eyes
were away from him."

"But one couldn't help but see that!"

The woman in the mirror found herself suddenly put upon the defensive.

"Where has he gone?" cried the girl.  "What is he going to do now?"

"Will he do bravely whatever lies before him?"

"Yes.  He will!  He will!"

"How do you know?"

"I know.  That is enough."

"Then why do you not call him back?"

The girl's cheeks grew scarlet.

"The shame of what I told him yesterday!"

"Was it not a bit brave of him to turn away from you?"

"He should have explained to me at that time why he was going.  He
needed me then."

"Do you not suppose that he knew it?  Do you not suppose that it took
the strength of a dozen men to go alone to what he thought was waiting
for him?"

"I know nothing."

"And yet you saw his eyes as he stood before you then?  And you saw his
eyes as he left you five minutes ago?"

"I won't see.  I can't risk--again!"

"Yet you love him?"

Once again the flaming scarlet in her cheeks.  Her lips trembled.  She
turned away from the mirror.

"I said nothing of love," she insisted.

"Yet you love him?"

"Why did he do it?" she moaned.

"Yet you love him?"

"He did so bravely--he spoke so bravely, yet--"

"He learned.  If, of all the world of men, you were to choose one to
stand by your side when hardest pressed, whom would you choose?"

"I would choose him," answered the girl without hesitation.

"Why?"

"Because--"

"After all, is n't that enough?  You would trust him to fight an
eternity as he has fought for you these few days.  Twice he staked his
life for you--once his good name."

"But he thought he was soon to die."

"All the more precious the time that was left."

Her eyes brightened.

"Yes.  Yes.  I had not thought of that."

"Yet he did this and further risked what was left to save an unknown
messenger boy."

"Oh, he did well!"

"Then he came to you like a man and told what you might never have
discovered, just because he wished to stand clean before you."

"Yes," she breathed.

"Why did he do that?" demanded her reflection.

"I--I don't know."

"Why did he do that?"

"Because--"

"After all, isn't that enough?"

"But he said nothing.  If only he had turned back!"

"What right had he to say the thing you wish?  If he had been less a
man he _would_ have turned back."

"Where has he gone?  What is he going to do?"

"Why don't you find out?"

"It would be unmaidenly."

"Yes, and very womanly.  Do you owe him nothing?"

"I owe him everything."

"Then--"

"I must send Ben to find him.  I must--oh, but I need n't do anything
more?"

"No.  Nothing more."

Her heart pounded in her throat in her eagerness to finish her toilet.
Her fingers were so light that she could scarcely hold her comb.  She
hurried into a fresh gown and then down-stairs where she found Ben
anxiously pacing the library.  He appeared greatly agitated--anchorless.

"Ben," she began, "I had no right to allow Peter Donaldson to go away
as I did."

"Little sister," he demanded, "was he unkind to you?"

"No.  No," she broke in eagerly, "he was most generous with me.  But
for the moment I could n't see it.  It was my fault that he went."

"But what was the cause of it?" he insisted, puzzled and dazed by the
whole episode.

"It was nothing that counts now.  I want you to promise me, Ben, that
you will never refer to it, that you will never permit him to tell you
of it."

His face cleared.

"Just a little tiff?  But he took it hard.  I never saw a man so worked
up over anything."

"It belongs to the past," she hurried on, eager to allow it to pass as
he interpreted it.  "It would be cruel to him to bring it up again.
Will you promise me, Ben?"

"I will promise.  But I 'm afraid you overdid it.  It is going to be
hard to straighten him out."

"No.  It is all straightened out now.  All that remains for you to do
is to find him and say that I--that I wish him to come back for lunch."

"Is it that simple?"

He smiled, his easy-going nature glad to seize upon anything that
promised relief from such a jumble as this.

"You must say nothing more than that," she put in, frightened at the
sound of her own words.  Supposing that he would not come--supposing
that even now she had presumed too far?

"You will tell him just that?"

"Yes," he agreed, "and this morning I would have thought that it was
enough."

"It is enough now--whatever happens," she said hastily.

"I must hurry back to Marie," she concluded breathlessly.  "You must
not delay.  It may be that he is planning to leave town.  If so, you
must catch him before he starts."

He placed his arm tenderly about her slight waist and led her to the
foot of the stairs.

"You will let me know as soon as you come in?" she pleaded.

"Yes, and don't worry while I 'm gone."

Arsdale did not take a cab.  He needed a walk to clear his head.  The
air was balmy with the fragrance of growing things and he was sensitive
to its influence as he had never been in his life.  As he strode along
he felt twice his normal size.  And yet what a puppet he was as
compared to this Donaldson who had been willing to take upon his
shoulders the ghastly burden which had been his own.  He himself might
bear it to-day, but yesterday it would have crushed him.  He had not
realized how low he had sunk until he learned that it was considered a
possibility that he might have committed such crimes as those.  If at
first the suspicion had roused his wrath, the sober truth that Jacques
under the same influence was actually guilty had been enough to disarm
him.  The past was like a nightmare, and this Donaldson was the man who
had found his hand in the dark and roused him.  He quickened his pace.
A small black dog nosing about the fresh dirt thrown from an excavation
to his left attracted his attention to a new house which was going up.
He glanced at the men at work and then stood still in his tracks.  Down
there, in his shirt sleeves, bent over a shovel was Peter Donaldson.

It was impossible to believe, but he stared at the illusion with his
hands getting cold.  Then he turned back to the dog.  It was the same
pup Donaldson had brought into the house with him.

He riveted his eyes once more upon the figure standing out among his
fellow workers like a uniformed general in a rabble.  He strode to the
side of the foreman of the gang who stood near.

"Who is that man down there?" he demanded.

"Dunno," the foreman answered briefly, "he asked fer work this mornin'
and I give him a job."

"I 'm going to speak to him."

"Fire erway."

Arsdale clambered into the hole and reached Donaldson's side before the
latter glanced up.  When he did raise his head, it was with an easy,
unembarrassed nod of recognition.

"Good Lord," gasped Arsdale, "it _is_ you!"

"Yes."

Donaldson wiped his wet brow.  He was not in particularly good training
for such heavy work.

"But what the deuce--"

"I needed money for a night's lodging and took the first job that
offered," he explained.

There was nothing melodramatic in his speech or attitude.  He was not
posing.  He spoke of his necessity in the matter-of-fact way in which
he had accepted it.  It was necessary to earn the sheer essentials of
life, in order to get a footing--to get sufficient capital to open up
his office again.  He would not have borrowed if he could, and a
penniless lawyer in New York is in as bad a position as a penniless
tramp.  Not only was he glad of this opportunity to earn a couple of
dollars, but he found pleasure, in spite of the physical strain, in
this most elemental of employments.  There was something in the act of
forcing his shovel into the earth that brought him comfort in the
thought that he was beginning in the cleanest of all clean ways.  He
was earning his first dollar like a pioneer.  He was earning it by the
literal sweat of his brow.

He turned back from Arsdale's astonished expression to his task.

"See here, Donaldson," protested the latter excitedly, "this is absurd!
You must quit this.  I 've money enough--"

"And I have n't," interrupted Donaldson heaving a shovel full of moist
dirt into the waiting dump cart.

Even Arsdale was checked by the expression he caught in Donaldson's
eyes.  He ventured nothing further, but, bewildered, stood there, dumb
a moment, before he remembered his message.

"I came out to find you," he managed to speak.  "Elaine wants you to
come back to lunch."

"What?"

Donaldson paused in his work and searched Arsdale's face.

"What did you say?" he demanded slowly.

"Elaine wants you to come back for lunch.  She sent me to find you."

Arsdale saw Donaldson's lungs expand.  He saw every vein in his face
throb with new life.  He saw him grow before his eyes to the capacity
of two men.  He saw him step forth from this aching begrimed shell into
a new physique as vibrant with fresh strength as a young mountaineer.
It was as startling a metamorphosis as though the man had been touched
with a magician's wand.

"Thank you," answered Donaldson on a deep intake of breath.  "I shall
be glad to come."

"Drop your shovel then and come along now."

"No," he replied, as he dug his spade deep into the soil, "I can't quit
my job.  The whistle blows at noon."

At noon!  At the seventh noon, the whistle was to blow!  He tossed the
weight of two ordinary shovelfuls of gravel into the cart as lightly as
a child tosses a bean bag.

[Illustration: _At noon!  At the seventh noon, the whistle was to
blow!_]

Perceiving the uselessness of further argument Arsdale climbed out to
the bank, and, sitting on a big boulder, watched Donaldson with dazed
fascination.  The foreman passed him once.

"May be cracked," he remarked, "but I 'd' take a hundred men, the likes
of him."

"You could n't find them on two continents," answered Arsdale.

The dog made overtures of friendship and he took him on his knee.

Donaldson never glanced up.  With the precision of a machine he bent
over his shovel, lifted, and threw without pause.  The men near him
looked askance at such unceasing labor.

In time, the foreman blew a shrill note on a whistle and as though he
had applied a brake connected with every man, the shovels dropped and
the motley gang scrambled for their dinner pails.  Donaldson for the
first time then lifted his face to Arsdale.  The seventh noon had come,
and never had a midday been ushered in to such a sweet note as the
foreman had blown on his penny whistle.

Donaldson, picking up his coat, made his way to the side of Arsdale,
who had risen to meet him with Sandy barking at his heels.

"I have only an hour," apologized Donaldson, "I 'm afraid I 'm hardly
in a condition to go into the house."

"You are n't coming back here?"

"Yes."

Once again Arsdale found his protest choked at his lips.  What was the
use of talking to a man in such a stubborn mood as this?  He led the
way to the house.

In the hall, he shouted up the stairs,

"Elaine, Peter Donaldson is here!"

The girl stepped from the library clutching the silken curtains.  She
hesitated a moment at sight of him and then faltering forward, offered
her hand.

"I 'm glad you came back," she said.

His fingers closed over her own with a decisiveness that made her catch
her breath.  As the woman in the mirror had divined, there was nothing
more left for her to do.

"But the old chump is going again in an hour," choked Arsdale, "he 's
taken a job shovelling dirt."

She met Donaldson's eyes.  For a moment they questioned him.  Then her
own eyes grew moist and she smiled.  The joy of it all was too much for
her.  She stooped and patted Sandy who was clawing her skirts for
recognition.

"Oh, little dog," she whispered in his silken ear, "I am glad you came
back.  Glad--glad--glad!"



THE END





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Seventh Noon" ***

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