Title: The Mystery of Monastery Farm
Author: Naylor, H. R.
Language: English
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                     The Mystery of Monastery Farm

                            By H. R. NAYLOR

                                 1908



CHAPTER I

A GREAT BANK ROBBERY


On the eleventh day of April, 18--, the officers of the Bank of England
were greatly excited on receiving notice of a special meeting called for
that night at ten o'clock, an unusual hour, and indicating, surely,
something of great importance. Promptly at the hour appointed fifteen
directors occupied their usual places in the council chamber. There were
also present two paying tellers, which was not usual. Besides these two
bank clerks was observed Major Andrews, the well-known chief of the Bow
Street detective service, and by his side sat two of his assistants. As
yet, there were only five persons present who knew the cause of this
meeting--the president, cashier, and the chief and his assistants.

No time was permitted to waste. The president of the bank in a few
nervous words asked the cashier to state the object of the call. Mr. Bone
at once stated that there were strong indications that a robbery of the
bank had been perpetrated; that a large amount of currency had been
abstracted from the paying teller's room. Hence this sudden call for
consultation; this, also, accounted for the unusual presence of Chief
Andrews and his colleagues. He then called on Mr. Roe, the senior paying
teller, to make a statement of what he knew of the matter.

Mr. Roe arose, and told that at nine o'clock that morning in his
preparations for business he had brought from the vault a quantity of
currency and placed it with other moneys on a side table conveniently
situate for ready use. And that when, about two o'clock, he had occasion
for its use, it was gone. Everything possible had been done to gain a
clue, but there was not the slightest thing upon which to hang the
faintest suspicion.

Major Andrews, stepping in front of the table, then requested permission
to ask Mr. Roe a few questions simply for information. This permission
was at once granted.

"Mr. Roe," asked the chief, "what was the general appearance of this
money? Was it loose or in a package?"

"It was a neat package," replied Mr. Roe, "wrapped in brown paper, with
its character and value marked distinctly on the wrapper."

"You say," said the chief, "'character and value distinctly marked on the
wrapper.' Please to explain what you mean by these terms."

"I mean," replied the teller, "by 'character' that there were one hundred
and fifty one-thousand-pound notes, and by 'value' the value of the
package--one hundred and fifty thousand pounds."

"Mr. Roe," continued the major, "is it the custom of your department to
have so large an amount of currency upon your side table?"

"No, sir," replied the teller, "but I had been notified that a large
draft would be presented today, and this package came nearest to the
amount spoken of; consequently, I selected and brought it to my table out
of the vault to be in readiness to pay the draft when presented."

"You say you had been notified that a large draft would be presented. May
I ask who notified you?"

"The cashier told me this morning when we were getting ready to open,"
was the prompt reply.

"Mr. Roe, when did you last see this money?"

"This morning about a quarter after nine, when it was placed upon my
table; I counted the notes."

"Mr. Roe, do you feel free to tell the Board the name of the party who
was expected to draw on you for this large amount?"

The teller's head dropped somewhat, and after a slight hesitation he
replied: "Major, I cannot do this in accordance with the rules of
the bank."

"Ah! that is all right, Mr. Roe; I forgot your rules. We can get at this
in some other way. Mr. Roe, will you tell us if you did cash the large
draft today which you say the cashier had indicated?"

"Yes, sir. I cashed a draft for one hundred and thirty-eight
thousand pounds."

"Mr. Roe, was anyone in your room during banking hours?"

"Yes, the president and cashier both visited my room; it is their custom
and, I believe, duty to do so each day."

"When did you first miss the package?"

"When the large draft was presented about two o'clock."

"What did you do then?"

"I spoke through the 'phone to Mr. Bone, asking him to come in."

"Does not the porter come to your room occasionally?"

"He never comes into the room after nine o'clock."

"Cannot other clerks enter?"

"Not without permission. The door fastens with a spring lock."

"How about your lunch?"

"Our lunch is handed us at half-past twelve through the door which we
open."

"Now, Mr. Roe, with your knowledge of the case, what is your conviction
concerning this lost package of money?"

"Major, I am compelled to say that I have not the faintest suspicion as
to how it was taken."

Moving suddenly around, the major looked at the cashier and said: "Mr.
Bone, what was your business in the teller's room this morning?"

"It is one of my duties, morning and evening, to tally the cash taken
from the vault and returned in the evening."

"How long were you there this morning?"

"Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes."

"When were you there the next time?"

"About half-past two, when Mr. Roe 'phoned me to come to his room, and I
again opened the vault, that the teller might get some money to cash the
large draft of one hundred and thirty-eight thousand pounds."

Much discussion followed this informal catechising, but the only thing
evident was that the package was lost. How it had disappeared, or where
it was, none could so much as guess. Here were twenty men--thorough
business men--several of whom had had large and successful banking
experience, among them a cashier than whom there was no brighter
financier in the great city of London, and the chief of a peerless
detective force, with two of his shrewdest colleagues. All were
nonplussed, annoyed, humiliated, returning to their homes and leaving the
great building in charge of half a score of sturdy watchmen, safer, it
would seem, in the night than in the day.

Next day several city newspapers had the following:

"REWARD

"A reward of TEN THOUSAND POUNDS will be paid for the arrest of the party
or parties who abstracted a valuable package of Bank of England notes
April 11, 18--, from said bank. This currency can be of no value to the
thieves, as the bank holds a list of the numbers, and their circulation
has been ordered stopped. The receiver of any of these notes will be
liable to arrest."

Nearly every important newspaper in the kingdom copied this item. Besides
this, a list of the numbers of the lost notes was sent to every banking
institution in England and America.



CHAPTER II

MONASTERY FARM


Billy Sparrow stood leaning against the gate post, looking down upon the
river three hundred yards away. He and his two helpers had been
cultivating corn and tobacco through a long June day; and now the sun was
going down, and he was making his plans for tomorrow's work. Billy had
just closed his fourth year as master of Monastery Farm. Billy was an
Englishman from Durham County, having attended school in Barnard's Castle
three years, with an additional two and a half years spent at the
agricultural college in Darlington. He then married the girl of his
choice and for four years superintended his father's farm; then, with
their one child, three years old, set sail for America to seek his
fortune, and four weeks later landed in New York.

Billy had letters of recommendation from the Wesleyan minister, Dr.
Walsh, his father's physician, and old Squire Horner. But in vain did
Billy present these credentials as he tramped the streets--nobody seemed
to need his services in a city containing millions of people. Billy's
capital was getting low and he was becoming discouraged. From one of
those profitless tramps he was returning one evening when he observed the
word "parsonage" on a door plate. He had always had a friend in a
preacher in his native town; why not make the acquaintance of this one?
Perhaps he might tell him of some sort of employment. Without stopping to
think further he pulled the bell. In a moment or two he found himself in
the presence of a young man, one but little older than himself, and the
stranger was invited inside, feeling very much at home with the preacher.

After quite a lengthy conversation the preacher remarked: "You are a
farmer; New York is no place for you. I would advise you to go out into
the country; and, by the way, I believe I saw, a day or two since, an
advertisement for a man to take charge of a farm."

After some search on the part of the minister the paper containing the
announcement was found. Billy, having eagerly read the advertisement,
thanked the minister, pushed the paper into his pocket, and speedily left
the house. He returned to the humble apartment that he had secured, and
as the little family partook of their frugal evening meal, his wife
Nancy, addressing her husband, said: "I think we had better get out of
this expensive city, somewhere into the country, where it is cheaper
living, and where you may find something to do more to your liking."

"Well, Nancy," replied Billy, "this is the second time today that this
advice has been given me, for," he added, pulling the newspaper from his
pocket, "a minister gave me a paper in which there is an advertisement
for a farmer, and advised me to look into it. Here it is," and he read
as follows:

"WANTED--A FARMER. Wanted, competent man, not afraid of work, to take
charge of a farm of two hundred acres in ---- County, New York. A good
house to live in, and good wages to the right man. References required.
Apply by mail or in person to J. M. Quintin, Centerville Landing, ----
County, New York."

"Why," exclaimed Nancy, "I believe that is providential."

After pondering the subject awhile Billy wrote to Mr. Quintin, enclosing
his credentials, and mailed the letter immediately.

In less than a week he received the following reply:

"William Sparrow, Esq., New York.

"I have just received your application for the position on Monastery Farm
in answer to my advertisement. In replying I want to be candid with you.
In a word, unless you are an expert farmer your application cannot be
considered. If, therefore, you have any doubts about being able to meet
the requirements, there is no need for further correspondence. This is a
first-class farm and must be worked by first-class methods. The opening
is an especially good one for the right man. Perhaps you had better come
up and see the place, and give us a chance to see you. Come by boat to
Centerville Landing. Let me know the time of your arrival, should you
decide to come, and someone will meet you.

"J.W. QUINTIN, Trustee."

Billy read this letter with somewhat mixed feelings. There was no
mistaking its meaning. This man spoke out. Its very brusqueness
disconcerted the unsophisticated young man. His experience was quite
limited. He had managed his father's one-hundred-acre farm several years,
and it had paid very well. But he had always had his father's advice; of
which he would be deprived in this his greater work. He read the letter
to Nancy, and she was similarly impressed.

Finally Billy remarked: "I will find the preacher and ask his advice,"
and without further words he started to Washington Square, where his
newly-found friend lived.

He was ushered into the library. He had never seen so many books before
in one place. While he was glancing around in his surprise, the preacher
entered. "Good evening, Mr. Sparrow," he said. "How are you? Have you
found any employment yet?"

Billy handed him the letter which had brought him there, saying: "I
received this letter today, and, if you please, I should like to have
your advice about it."

The preacher opened the letter, and as he did so gave a little start.
Then he smiled as he glanced down at the signature. He finished reading
with a decidedly happy expression on his face, and Billy asked: "Can you
tell me about this place, and of the man?"

"O, yes," was the ready reply, "I know both the place and the man; the
fact is, that is my county, and Quintin is my friend. I never had a
better friend than Jerry Quintin. I always spend my vacation there. I
lived there from the time I was ten years old until I was twenty-three,
and always go there in summertime for a few weeks' rest--occupying my old
room, eating with the boys, and roaming in the woods; I know every tree
and bypath; yes, and many a swim have I had in the old river. Jerry
Quintin," he continued, "as we used to call him. Why, I've known him
since I was a child. Do you want to hear about him? Well, when he was a
youth, not quite out of his teens, Mr. Thorndyke gave the land on which
the Monastery stands, Quintin was made chairman of the board of
trustees, and treasurer also. He has handled every dollar of the funds,
superintended the erection of all the buildings, the laying off of the
Monastery Park, and had charge of the farm; and through all the years no
auditing committee had ever found an inaccuracy in his accounts.
Foresight, sagacity, rectitude are synonymous terms with the name of
Quintin. True as gold is Jerry Quintin. He always means what he says, and
says just what he means. Let me assure you, there is no truer man in the
Empire State than this same Quintin."

A few days later Sparrow found himself set ashore at Centerville Landing
at an early hour in the morning. The first thing he saw was a plainly
dressed man sitting in a buckboard who, as Sparrow approached, accosted
him with the words: "Mr. Sparrow, good morning. Glad to see you. Expected
to see an older man. Get in, we will go round and get some breakfast and
afterward go out to the farm."

After breakfast they drove along the river road, behind an excellent team
of bay horses, for a distance of about two miles, and drew up in front of
a large brick house.

"This is our farm, Mr. Sparrow. We will drive on to the farm and come
back to the house later."

Everything indicated thrift and prosperity. There was a great barn and
stables, a capacious warehouse, out-buildings of all sorts, corn houses,
hayricks, and a building for wheat, while nearby was a shed full of
modern agricultural machinery. They walked through the stables; five fine
horses occupied the stalls, while close at hand were not fewer than a
dozen Jersey cows.

Mr. Quintin was busy describing everything--and he knew all about
everything: buildings, their uses and cost; the horses, as he stroked the
nose of each--breed, age, peculiarities. Each cow and heifer he knew by
name and age. The machinery--he was familiar with its make and use as
well as its cost. If his eyes had been bandaged, apparently he could have
described everything on Monastery Farm.

They next drove back to the farmhouse. It was a substantial brick
building, containing twelve spacious rooms, furnished with plain, rather
old-fashioned furniture, and set back from the river road about three
hundred yards; it was surrounded by a well-kept lawn, and in all
respects, the place was inviting and homelike.

"Mr. Sparrow," said Quintin, "this farm contains two hundred and two
acres of arable land, good land, no better, in fact, in the country.
Besides, we have twenty acres of wooded land and a tenant house. This
machinery is the best that we could find. We have two men--Giles and
Ephraim; they are the best hands we know of, for Mr. Rixey trained them
from their boyhood; there are no better. Mr. Rixey was our farmer
twenty-six years. He died last November. Let us now have a look at the
Monastery."

Half a mile away they came to it, a large five-story brick building in
the midst of native oak trees; a wide driveway led up to the front door,
while in front was a sparkling fountain. Another, a smaller building,
occupied a site near by, and constituted the president's residence. The
whole was inclosed with a tall iron fence.

Years before our story begins this land (three hundred acres) was donated
by Richard Thorndyke, a wealthy Episcopalian, for a training school for
clergymen, to which gift was added as an endowment fund one hundred
thousand dollars on the condition that the church should erect suitable
buildings. Thorndyke Theological Seminary was its original name; but, as
the students as well as the teachers were all men, the people soon began
to call it the Monastery, and in the course of years this became its
common title; and the farm became known far and wide as Monastery Farm.
This institution had from its inception found peculiar favor with the
church as well as with the people, and the buildings were speedily
erected. Two men at first were enough to do the teaching, as at the
beginning there were only seventeen pupils, several of these students
earning their tuition by working upon the farm. But at the time to which
this story points one hundred and seventy-two students and nine
professors composed the faculty besides the president, and the school was
known as Monastery Classical and Theological College.

This inexperienced young Englishman as he saw all this became dismayed.
This was too great an undertaking. He depreciated his own ability. This
was altogether too big a job. He remembered that Nancy called it
providential, but surely she was mistaken. What could he do with all
that machinery? True, he had successfully managed his father's
one-hundred-acre farm, but this farm was twice as large. There were
likewise oxen on the place, and he had never handled a yoke of oxen.
No; he would take the night boat home. Surely something more suitable
would turn up.

He almost regretted having seen the advertisement. However,
notwithstanding his lack of self-confidence, he presented to Mr. Quintin
the letter which the preacher in New York had given him to be delivered
to that gentleman.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Quintin as he read, "this is from one of our best
boys; you know him, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, Charlie is as true as steel, Charlie is."

"He says better words of you, Mr. Quintin," remarked Billy.

"Indeed! What does he say?"

"He says you are true as gold."

"Well, I doubt whether that is better. That is Charlie's way of showing
his appreciation. But steel is better than gold. I don't know of any
useful thing made of gold; but what could we do without steel?"

They drove away from the Monastery and stopped in front of the
farmhouse. Then Mr. Quintin, in quiet tones, asked: "Well, Mr. Sparrow,
what do you think of Monastery Farm? Would you not like to live in that
good old house? I am authorized to pay the right man seven hundred
dollars a year, besides house rent, garden, milk, etc. What do you think
of such a chance?"

"Mr. Quintin," replied the other, slowly, "I am afraid that it is too
much of an undertaking. I fear that my experience is too limited. It
would perhaps be better for me to look for a lighter job. I am a farmer,
Mr. Quintin, and love the work. For four years I have managed my father's
small farm, and have succeeded in making some money. But this work needs
a man of more experience. Everything is on a larger scale, and I fear I
am not experienced enough for so large an undertaking."

Mr. Quintin was an astute reader of men and had formed a favorable
opinion of this modest young man. "How old are you?" he asked.

"I am twenty-six years old next month," was the reply.

"I'm afraid you are in danger of making a mistake. You may never have an
opportunity like this again. The crops for the season are all in, and the
two men on the place understand everything, and during this year you can
familiarize yourself with the machinery, cattle, and all other necessary
details. My advice to you is to take hold and feel that you are master of
the situation as you soon will be."

Quintin, in fact, was so favorably impressed with this young man of
twenty-six that Billy was finally persuaded to take charge of Monastery
Farm, and in two weeks the new farmer and his young wife and child were
comfortably located in the old farmhouse. And time had proven that
Quintin had made no mistake in this selection. Each year had enhanced his
opinion of the character and ability of Sparrow; the great farm had never
been so productive, the cattle had never been more thrifty, and the
revenue had never been as large.

Four years had passed, and well might Billy feel quite satisfied as he
stood there in his shirt sleeves at the close of a certain day looking
out over the farm. While he was thus engaged a young man, tall and
slight in appearance and apparently not much more than twenty years of
age, approached. He was lithe and seemingly agile; a thin, brown beard
covered his face, which was cheery indeed, as was the smile which shone
through two big brown eyes. His clothing was well worn, and upon his
shoulders or back was something resembling a soldier's knapsack, while
in his hand he carried a knotty stick. Halting at the gate, where
Sparrow and Nancy and the boy stood, the stranger saluted them with a
courteous bow. "Good evening," he said, "may I inquire how far it is to
the next village?"

"Not more than two miles," was the answer.

"Is there a tavern in the village?" was next asked.

"O, yes, two of them," was Billy's response.

"I'm looking for work," said the stranger. "Do you think I shall be able
to find something to do in the village?"

"What sort of work do you want?" queried Billy with a smile.

"Anything that is honest," was the prompt reply. "What I don't know I can
learn. I want to settle down, at least for a while."

"Well, now," replied Billy, "you don't look as if you could do much on a
farm. If you could, I might give you a job, at least for a week or two;
only farmers or carpenters are needed through this part of the country.
Could you plow corn or saw wood?"

"Well," was the response, "I don't think that I could plow corn, but I
could saw wood, hoe in the garden, do chores, or feed stock."

As they talked the stranger unbuckled his knapsack, and set it down on
the horse block.

"Where are you from?" asked Sparrow in a somewhat abrupt tone.

"I'm from--from--well, from every place, from New York last."

"Where are you headed for?"

"Well, sir, to be honest with you, I suppose you might call me a tramp.
I'm hunting for a place to settle down in, as I seem to be without
friends, so one place is as good as another for me."

It was now nearly dark, and the kindly heart of Nancy prompted her to
ask him if he were hungry, to which he replied that he had eaten
nothing since morning. "I had a good breakfast," he added, "at a place
called Tipton."

"Why," ejaculated Billy, "Tipton is twenty-two miles away."

The good wife had slipped away, and presently returned, inviting him to
enter and have something to eat. As they entered the cozy dining room,
turning to Mrs. Sparrow, the young man said: "My name is Edwards--Carl
Edwards; I am an Englishman, and have been in this country only six
weeks. I am trying to find some employment."

Billy, learning from Nancy that the stranger was a countryman of his,
after he had eaten his supper, engaged him in conversation concerning the
old country, during the course of which he learned that they were from
the same county--he, Billy, from Barnard Castle, and Edwards from the
city of Durham, which places were not more than forty miles apart. Of
course Billy would not turn his countryman out to seek a lodging. So he
was invited to remain for the night, which invitation the young man
gladly accepted.

Next morning the stranger was found at the woodpile, busily engaged in
cutting wood for the cook stove. Billy found him thus working as he
returned from feeding the stock. It was a sultry morning in June and the
perspiration was streaming freely down the young man's face. It was
evident that this was harder work than he had been used to.

"You had better go slow for a while, Edwards, until you get toughened to
it," remarked Sparrow.

Just then was heard the sound of the bell calling them to
breakfast. Strange as it may seem, no more words about work passed
between the two men.

Immediately after breakfast the newcomer found a hoe and spent the day in
hoeing potatoes and corn in the garden. Cutting wood, bringing water to
the house, feeding the poultry, assisting in feeding the horses, mules,
and cows, until, before the end of a week, both Billy and Nancy wondered
how they possibly got along before he came. An extensive bed of
watercress had been discovered on the edge of a stream that ran through
the farm and each morning the table was supplied, and a fine bouquet of
wild roses and other woodland flowers was found in front of Nancy's
plate, while their odor filled the breakfast room.

Another change had come in to this kind and simple-hearted family.
Tom--little Tom, now seven years old and the sunbeam of the
farm-house--had begged to have his cot put into the room occupied by the
stranger. Up to this time Nancy had been compelled to wash and dress the
lad; but now he arose when Edwards arose, washed and dressed himself, and
went downstairs, remaining by the side of his new friend until called to
breakfast, when he would bring in a dozen or more fresh eggs.

So the summer weeks passed by; no word had been spoken about wages. The
young man was now known by the familiar name of Carl. He was recognized
as the general utility man of the farm. Giles and Ephraim, the two
helpers, hired by the year, went twice a month on Saturday evening to
Centerville, where Mr. Quintin paid them their wages. But Carl had so far
received nothing, and his clothes became very much worn and their renewal
was becoming quite an apparent necessity. One Saturday afternoon Billy
invited Carl to go with him to Centerville, and there he was fitted out
with a good supply of everything he needed in the way of clothes. So
great was the change on his return that at first the keen-eyed little Tom
was not able to recognize him, but a moment later exclaimed: "Ah, Carl, I
always knew you were a gentleman."



CHAPTER III

THE PROMOTION


Rexford Mills was the manager of all temporal supplies of the
Monastery--all food supplies, repairs, fuel, servants, etc. Three times
a week his orders for vegetables, flour, corn meal, fowls, butter,
eggs, milk, cheese, etc., as well as fruits in season, came to the
farm. Hitherto to supply these demands devolved upon Sparrow himself,
thus occupying much of his time. But during the seven months of his
sojourn here, Carl had gradually and almost unconsciously become
interested in the great warehouse and its contents and the triweekly
demands of the family at the Monastery. Often the little wagon stood
already filled with the order before Billy arrived, and Carl was found
in the office crediting the farm with the morning's order on the books.
This was a great relief to the farmer, as it allowed him to spend the
time with the men upon the farm. So satisfactorily was this work done
that Carl had really become the manager of this part of the farm's
obligations. Once a month, Mr. Mills and Carl met to compare and adjust
accounts, thus greatly assisting Mr. Mills in bringing an accurate
report to the board of trustees. Mr. Quintin highly appreciated this
accuracy, and spoke of it at every opportunity. Everything in the
warehouse as well as upon the farm was in perfect order. This pleasant
state of things could not long exist without becoming known in the
family of students and faculty, and all soon began to be interested in
the young man, the result being that invitations began to arrive for
him to attend their entertainments and other functions. He was
especially invited to the exercise grounds and games.

A literary and musical entertainment was to be given. It was to be a sort
of Thanksgiving festival; the best speakers and singers had been engaged
and they had spent much time in rehearsal. The bishop was to preside. The
hour had arrived, but alas, where was the organist? No word as to the
cause of his absence had been received, and a substitute must be found.
Who, then, could be organist? John Keyes was the only man among them that
was acquainted with the numbers; he had rehearsed them. But yesterday he
had rushed away to visit his mother, who was ill, expecting to be able to
return in time, and Professor Cummings was greatly disturbed because
unsuccessful in finding someone to take his place. The president and
faculty were approaching. They should now be singing the welcoming
"Gloria." Instead, the great organ was silent. But listen! Someone had
touched the keys. The audience arose simultaneously and sounded forth the
grand old chorus, "Glory to God in the Highest." Few in the audience
suspected that John Keyes was not at the organ. No one dreamed that the
fingers pressing those keys had not during the last year and a half
touched a musical instrument. But the festival went on with artistic
smoothness to the finish. None was more surprised than the bishop, who at
the close turned to thank the young man; but Carl had slipped away and
was not to be seen. During the entire entertainment Tom sat on a stool as
if he were petrified. This was the astonishment of his young life.

Next morning the stalwart voices of the students were heard as usual in
their early devotions, but there were no notes of the organ accompanying
them. Word had been received that Keyes himself was ill, and, strange as
it may seem, of all the one hundred and seventy-four students none felt
sufficiently proficient to assume his place at the organ.

"Who played the organ last night?" asked the bishop. "Why can he
not play?"

"O, he is not a student. He is a young Englishman from the farm, a
relative of Sparrow's," replied the professor.

"Well, why don't you secure his services until Keyes returns? I
wanted to thank him last night but could not find him. That young
man is a musician, whoever he is. I will go over with you and we will
see Sparrow."

But they did not find the farmer; instead, they fell in with Carl in
the office of the warehouse. Tom stood on a box taking a lesson in
penmanship. The copy was, "Honesty is the best policy." The writing
lesson was being accompanied by a lesson in honesty. The visitors
listened on the other side of the thin partition to what Carl was
saying to Tom.

"Honesty is telling the truth," were his words. "Honesty means not
keeping back anything. Honesty means telling a thing as it is. Telling
the truth--not more, not less."

The grave bishop tapped at the door which was immediately opened by Carl.

"Is Mr. Sparrow here?" asked the professor.

"No, sir," was the reply. "He has gone to Centerville, but will
return by noon."

"Well," said the bishop, "we really came to see you. You play the organ,
and we are minus an organist at our chapel services. Mr. Keyes, our
organist, we have just learned, has been taken suddenly ill and is in the
hospital. Can you serve us until he returns?"

"I hardly know how to answer you, Bishop," replied Carl, hesitatingly. "I
am working for Mr. Sparrow; and, besides, I have had no practice, with
the exception of last evening, for a long time, which is, of course, a
serious disadvantage. But if Mr. Sparrow does not object, I will do the
best I can for you."

The end of the matter was that that evening Carl conducted all the
musical services in the chapel.

The news soon spread abroad that remarkable music could be heard in the
Monastery, and the people flocked there from outside to hear it, and the
spacious chapel became crowded at even the everyday services. This new
organist improvised such harmonies as they had never heard before. And
this inspiration seemed to touch the faculty as each member of it took
his turn in conducting the services. Bishop Albertson preached as never
before. He seemed to almost ignore his notes as he talked to the people,
and the people in turn manifested a devoutness never witnessed before by
a Monastery congregation. Dr. Ezra Day had ever been a favorite, but the
present hour brought him a far greater degree of popularity. The veteran
Dr. Peregrine Worth also preached as never before. Indeed, everything
seemed to receive new life; the old monotony had departed; something new
had come. What was it? Was this what the Methodists called a revival?

So marked and intense was this feeling that a meeting of the faculty and
trustees was called. Was this a modern Pentecost? So Worth said; so
Cummings thought. A great meeting was held for consultation and the
people were publicly invited. Everyone declared a church should be
organized. The bishop was in favor of this, and at the proper time one
hundred and eighteen persons presented themselves as candidates for
confirmation. Up to this time what was known as Monastery was simply a
scientific and theological seminary. Its faculty was composed of educated
clergymen. It was a college with a bishop as president, supported by the
church at large and the products of the farm, having a board of trustees
to hold and manage the estate according to the laws of the commonwealth.
Now it was to become an organized parish church and, in addition, the
center of a diocese. The bishop was to assume the duties of the rector,
with the members of the faculty as his assistants, and the trustees were
incorporated as the "Board of Trustees of Monastery Church and College,"
according to law. This was a new regime for Bishop Albertson, who, years
before, had been rector of a small parish in Virginia. Even at that time
he was a rigid churchman and a profound scholar, and because of these and
other qualifications he had unexpectedly been elevated to the episcopal
office. Soon after this well-merited promotion he had been earnestly
requested to take this young seminary under his care and
superintendence, and had cheerfully accepted this added responsibility.
From that time he had made Monastery his home and the headquarters of his
diocese. It continued to be "a school of the prophets" during ten years,
when it was granted a university charter and it became a school of
classics as well as theology. No one ever felt disappointed at this
appointment of Bishop Albertson to the presidency of the institution,
which under his care had grown from a small seminary with seventeen
students to its present proportions and standing in the state. Now there
were seventy-two theological students and two hundred and forty-five in
the classical and scientific courses. This had been done under the
fostering care and superintendency of the present incumbent. This
institution had been simply a high-grade school of classics and theology,
principally the latter. Experimental religion had but a small place in
its curriculum or life. "Thou shalt not" of the Old Testament was
strictly taught and demanded of all. But "Thou shalt" of the New
Testament was rarely thought of, much less practiced. So apparent was
this that critical observers used to say of it: "Here is where they have
neither religion nor politics." And this local adage was literally true.
The highest morality was practiced and demanded, but the dogmas which
insisted upon the regeneration of the heart and life were very sparingly
taught. Morality in its highest life was demanded of all, but the inner
life was left to take care of itself.

But now, something had happened; here was a change. Even the organ spoke
with a new voice; the prayer book meant more than it had in the
past--everything spoke with a new tongue. Here was an amount of emotion
that was new and strange, and the responses in the services were more
prompt and fervent. The bishop ceased to read his sermons and talked as
one who had authority. His voice was more distinct. The audiences heard
him as never before. Several of the professors who had always been spoken
of as unattractive and uninteresting became exactly the reverse. Young
men were found praying in their rooms. In one of them the bishop was
heard leading a score of young men in prayer. Old-fashioned and old-time
hymns were sung, fervent responses were heard, and scores of persons from
roundabout professed to have found Christ. During six weeks this
wonderful influence was felt. It extended for miles throughout the
country. During that time four hundred persons took upon themselves the
obligations of the Christian profession and Monastery Church became a
great power through the county.

Mr. Keyes, the organist, had died in the hospital, and Carl had been
appointed in his place as organist and musical director. He very soon
organized a choir of forty persons. And this was not all that added
responsibility to this young man's life. The bishop, realizing the
growing responsibilities of his work, appointed him his private
secretary, which necessarily took him away from all the work on the farm;
but even this did not separate him from the farmhouse. He continued to
sleep there in "Carl and Tom's room," and, excepting during school hours,
wherever you found Carl Tom was not far away.

The grand old man, Dr. George Thorndyke, who gave three hundred acres of
land for a "school for prophets," little dreamed that his gift was to
develop to such proportions, and become, also, a great influential
church, a great center of religious influence, whose power would be felt
miles around.

But the college chapel was neither fit nor large enough for the demands
which were now pressing upon it. They must have a building capacious and
suitable in which to worship. And now the true character of the great
revival was seen in the prompt responses of the people; more generous
were they than the ancient people who built the temple, and in the course
of a few months a large and beautiful church was erected capable of
seating twelve hundred people. As this building neared completion the
building committee began to prepare for its dedication. The chief
clergyman to be invited was an old friend and classmate of Bishop
Albertson--Bishop McLaren, of Durham, England. There was to be, of
course, select music; the singing must not be inferior to that which
Bishop McLaren listened to in his cathedral home. Carl was told that the
Durham singers were known throughout the kingdom as superb, and he must
do his best in drilling his choir.

But there seemed to be, if not a lack of interest, at least a lack of
energy. For many weeks before the time Carl assembled the choir for
special rehearsal at least twice a week. And while progress was made, yet
there seemed to be a lack of enthusiasm in both singers and organist. The
cause of this was soon apparent. Carl was ill; and the day that the
president went to New York to meet his friend, Carl was attacked with a
raging fever. It was seen very quickly that the young man ought to have
given up much sooner and the best medical aid was hastily summoned. Of
course a substitute must be provided, and the committee succeeded in
securing the services of Professor Schuets, from New York, to have charge
of the organ and music during the dedicatory services. When the day (the
Sabbath) for the great service came Carl lay in his bed delirious with
typhoid fever. Nancy Sparrow was his faithful nurse, while Tom was hands
and feet to his mother. It was really pathetic to see the little fellow
as he sat near the bed so vigilant and anxious in his desire to be of
service. And when the doctor came, how his great blue eyes watched his
every movement! Then he would waylay the doctor as he left the house,
asking if Carl were not improving, and if he would not be up in a few
days. But the physician did not dare encourage the boy. It was soon
observed that every morning and evening, immediately after the doctor's
visits, Tom walked over to the office in the warehouse, where Giles more
than once found him engaged in earnest prayer for Carl's recovery.

"I tell you, Mrs. Sparrow," said Giles on one of these occasions, "Carl
will get well. Tom talked to God today, and I don't believe that God will
refuse the little fellow what he wants."

It was on one of those visits that Billy, who was in the root cellar
under the warehouse, heard the lad's footsteps and, slipping upstairs,
listened to the prayer of his boy. These were his words: "Dear Father in
heaven, maybe you are tired of hearing me ask you for the same thing so
many times, but there is nothing else that I want; but I _do_ want Carl.
I would not have to ask my earthly father so often, if he could possibly
do it; but he isn't able. _You are able_ and, somehow, I can't
understand why you don't. Father and mother and I all love Carl; he is
one of us; and what would the bishop do without him? And now, dear
Father, I'm going back to the house to see if he isn't better. I know
you will do it. Amen."

The two prelates sat in the resident bishop's study. "There is a sample
of my secretary's work," said Bishop Albertson, as he handed an account
book to his friend, "and it is as accurate as it is beautiful."

Bishop McLaren started when his eyes fell upon the ledger. After a
moment's hesitancy he remarked: "Never but in one instance have I seen as
fine work. That was the writing of my own dear boy; those capitals are
just like his. Ah, well."

On the afternoon of the Sabbath the two bishops strolled across the park,
and almost unconsciously found themselves in front of the farmhouse.
Little Tom sat on the front steps with a sad countenance; looking up he
recognized Bishop Albertson standing before him.

"Well, Tom, how is Carl today?" asked the bishop.

"O, Bishop, he is very bad. He talks and talks, and they don't know what
he means. He talks about his father and mother, and nobody knows where
they live. He never told anybody. But I'm praying for him, Bishop, and I
know he won't die."

"Can we go up and see him?" asked Bishop Albertson, and without waiting
for an answer, he proceeded up the back stairs, but the English visitor
remained below.

When Bishop Albertson entered the room he found Nancy bathing the sick
youth's brow. She saluted the visitor with great respect. Carl lay quite
still with his face toward the wall. Laying her hand upon his brow, Nancy
said: "Carl, dear, here's the bishop come over to see you."

The sick man murmured: "No, no, he will never come to see me, but mother
would if she knew."

The bishop in low, quiet tones said: "Carl, where is your father? We will
let him know how ill you are, and I know he will come to you."

In still weaker accents the delirious youth went on: "No, no, don't tell
him; he thinks I'm dead; better so."

At this moment Dr. King, making his second call for the day, stepped
into the room, and at once in low but emphatic tones remarked: "Mrs.
Sparrow, this will not do. Our patient must be kept quiet; otherwise
more harm can be done in a half hour than can be overcome in a week. I
will send a nurse tonight, and with skillful nursing we will, if
possible, save the patient."

The bishop took the hint and quietly descended to the parlor, where he
found his colleague awaiting him with his head resting upon both hands.
Silently they wended their way to the bishop's study. It lacked about an
hour to the time of evening service.

The visiting clergyman, addressing his host said: "Bishop Albertson, I
think I have never told you the particulars of my great affliction. The
illness of your secretary, and seeing the specimen of his penmanship,
brings back to my recollection the darkest providence that has ever come
into my life."

"No, Bishop," said his brother minister, kindly, "you have not. But
sorrow passes few of us by in this world. We all suffer, some grievously.
I did not suspect, however, that such had been your lot."

"Yes," was the reply, after a moment's silence, "mine has been a heavy
cross. A little more than a year ago my son, just entering upon the
summer vacation, went off with two friends on a yachting trip. They were
near Land's End when a hurricane struck and wrecked the boat; they were
all lost, the yacht never having been seen again; and once this
afternoon, when the door of your secretary's room was opened for a
moment, I heard his delirious cry, and his voice sounded strangely like
that of my own lost boy. Possibly, I, too, should have gone up to see
him, but after that I could not--I could not." He paused and then added:
"O, it was my profoundest wish that Eddie might some day take my place,
and be the comfort of my old age."

That evening's sermon will never be forgotten by the large congregation
which came to hear the eminent English divine. "Thou destroyest the hopes
of man" was the text.

Two days later the Bishop of Durham returned to his home, and although he
had enjoyed seeing the classmate of his early years, the affliction in
Bishop Albertson's home had reminded him of his own sad loss, so that
when he arrived at Durham he felt prostrated by the renewal of his bitter
bereavement.



CHAPTER IV

SLOW CONVALESCENCE


The new nurse would not permit even Tom to enter the sick man's room, so
he waylaid the doctor at every visit, and, stern as he was, that
professional gentleman was compelled through sheer sympathy to speak as
encouragingly as possible to the lad.

Every morning Tom brought from the garden a handful of flowers and,
tapping gently at the sick man's door, handed them to the nurse, who,
giving him a more hopeful word concerning the patient, would send him
with light heart downstairs to his mother to report the good news. One
morning the boy brought a bunch of roses and violets, and gave them to
Enoch, the nurse, who received them with greater cordiality than usual,
remarking as he accepted the flowers: "Mr. Carl is much better. You shall
see him tomorrow."

The joyous-hearted boy bounded downstairs and, throwing his arms around
his mother's neck, repeated the words of the nurse. Enoch met Tom in the
hall next day. The lad was dressed in his best clothes and was nervously
impatient. "Now Tom," said Enoch, "promise me that you will not talk,
and you must not cry, and, remember, you can only stay ten minutes."

"All right! I'll promise anything, only let me see my Carl."

But Enoch's patience was tried at the very start. Tom tiptoed into the
room, and as he saw the pale smiling face of Carl and heard his welcome
he threw his arms around the sick man's neck, and sobbed through his
tears: "Carl, my Carl, you're nearly well, aren't you?"

Enoch, standing near the bed, placed his finger upon his lips, but Tom
did not recognize his admonition, and kept on giving expression to his
happiness. "Carl," said he, "God has given you back to us. I told mother
that he would, and he has."

The pleasure of Bishop McLaren's visit was plainly lessened by the
illness of the young secretary. The family of his host were all anxious,
and the members of the faculty were visibly affected. Even the servants
about the place felt concern for the young secretary and whispered many
exaggerated stories concerning the case. But the crisis had been passed,
and Carl began to improve. After a slow recovery he took up his
accustomed duties, and church and school work fell back into its old
routine. But six weeks of typhoid fever had greatly emaciated the young
secretary. The buoyancy and brightness seemed to have left him. He had
been fond of athletic sports, but now he apparently cared nothing for
them. With Tom he would walk over to the exercise grounds and, seated in
a chair, would watch the students in their games, seldom speaking and
never elated.

The kindly bishop watched the young man closely and, after much serious
thought, wrote to his personal friend, Dr. Marmion, of New York, inviting
him to the Monastery to take a day or two of rest. Nancy exhausted her
ingenuity to tempt and increase his appetite, but nothing served to help
him, and what made matters worse, he seemed to have no desire to improve.
True, he was just as exact and faithful in the discharge of his official
duties, and in the correspondence, which was without dictation, there was
quite as much courtesy, but it all lacked that freshness that had marked
the past. The organ gave forth notes just as harmonious and perfect, but
the music lacked the brilliancy and uplifting power that had hitherto
characterized it. Indeed, his youthfulness seemed to have departed, and
maturity, if not old age, taken its place. Previously Carl's full and
joyous laugh had attracted scores toward him; now, however, a quiet smile
was frequently the only indication that he was pleased, and even a
sprinkling of gray hair was here and there seen among the curly brown
locks. Once it had been a trick of his to leap from the ground to the
back of Allick, Sparrow's tallest horse, but he now declined mounting a
horse at all. The strong and springy step was gone and his feet shuffled
like those of a very old man.

One day the bishop entered the office where Carl was at work, accompanied
by a plain-looking man, possibly forty years of age. He was of medium
stature, with broad and prominent brow, great brown eyes, and prominent
nose. But the most significant and impressive feature of the man's face
was his eyes--large, brown, and possessed of that peculiar quality which
made them grow luminous when he was much interested and almost frightful
when excited. He was introduced to Carl as Mr. Marmion, from New York. As
Carl had no particular interest in the New York gentleman, after a few
words of commonplaces he turned away and resumed his work; but the bishop
having slipped out, the stranger seemed to call for the courtesy of the
secretary.

"Take that easy chair, Mr. Marmion," said Carl. "Bishop Albertson will no
doubt return presently."

"Bishop Albertson tells me that you are just recovering from a severe
illness, Mr. Edwards," said Mr. Marmion, as he sat down in the
comfortable chair.

"Yes, I have been quite ill with typhoid fever," was the reply.

"Are you sleeping and eating well?"

"No, not by any means. If I am gaining at all, it is a very slow gain. I
have almost an aversion to food, and every exertion is a task."

"Ah, that ought not to be," said the gentleman. "You are surely not
gaining if you can neither eat nor sleep. Perhaps your liver is not
right. What is the doctor giving you?" Carl handed him the bottle
containing the medicine, which he uncorked and after touching the liquid
to his tongue remarked: "It seems to be the right stuff. I'm something of
a doctor, myself, and I must help to shake up that liver. Who is
your doctor?"

"Dr. King."

"Ah, yes--Hiram King. I know him."

The seemingly mere friendly interest of the doctor aroused in Carl no
suspicion that he was the direct object of his visit, and that the
conversation really constituted a diagnosis of his case.

After a short silence, Dr. Marmion incidentally, seemingly, asked: "You
have no financial difficulties have you?"

"No, doctor," was the prompt reply. "Bishop Albertson allows me a very
generous salary, and I have few demands."

"You have never been in the habit of dissipating, I am sure?"

"No, indeed; this is no place for dissipation, and before coming here, I
was in school, where such a practice would have been impossible. I am as
regular in my habits as when a boy in my father's house in England."

"Oh! Ah! You are an Englishman. From what part of England are you?"

"The north of England," was the short reply.

"Mr. Edwards, excuse me, but have you any great trouble upon your
heart? _That_ sometimes causes trouble, an actual physical disturbance,
you know."

The young man, who up to this time had evinced no particular interest in
the conversation, now hesitated, so much so, in fact, that the doctor
repeated his question, adding: "There is but little prospect of helping
the body, if there is a secret enemy affecting the heart and mind. This
will always create trouble in the digestive organs."

To these words Carl replied somewhat nervously: "I suppose that, like
most young men, I have regrets concerning my earlier life. There are some
things that I am sorry for having done, and other duties that I have
neglected, for which delinquencies I am sorry."

So entirely informal had been the discussion that Carl still did not
suspect that he had been under examination. And the sagacious doctor
having gained some information, quite as much, indeed, as he had expected
in the first interview, abstained from pushing the matter for the
present, and adroitly changed the subject; but while he continued to
converse easily with the young man, he felt assured that he was on the
right track. And when, later, he was telling the bishop about it, he
declared that he felt sure it was a disturbed mind and uneasy conscience,
more than any particular functional disorder, that was robbing the young
man of his vitality. But after two days had passed, and he had taken
advantage of every opportunity, he concluded that he would take the
midnight boat for New York, his mission having been fruitless.



CHAPTER V

A CLUE


Two men sat in a secluded room on a quiet street in London. To look at
the building from the street it would have been taken for a modest
dwelling house. The room they occupied was spacious, furnished with
several desks and tables and lounge and easy chairs. One of the men was
large and white-haired, upon whose vest a golden star sparkled. But for
this badge of authority he would have passed merely for a well-dressed
business man. The other was a younger man, possibly not more than thirty
years old. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance; he was tall
and well proportioned with every indication of strength and vigor. He
looked through large brown and sparkling eyes, a full brown beard covered
his face and his head was covered with a heavy suit of hair somewhat
darker than his beard.

"Lucas," said the older man to a stalwart colored attendant, "you can go
now, and be sure to admit no one until I ring."

The speaker was the chief of the Bow Street detective service; the other
was his youngest colleague. His name was Job Worth. He had belonged to
the force three years, and in several instances had achieved more than
ordinary success. He was known as Number 11. Job had graduated four years
ago from Burrough Road Institute, and soon after received an appointment
of secretary of the Legation at Washington, United States. In this
honorable office he had spent one year, but the work did not suit his
strenuous nature, and he returned home and soon afterward received an
appointment in this detective service. Job was known in the force as
quiet, self-contained, observant, patient, and was possessed of an
extraordinarily retentive memory. Rarely was it necessary for him to say,
"I have forgotten."

"Major," said Worth, as soon as they were alone, "I asked this private
interview to talk to you about the bank robbery which occurred on the
eleventh of last April."

"Well," replied the chief, "do you know anything new?"

"No, nothing certain, but I have a new suspicion."

"Suspicion," said the other, "suspicion doesn't amount to much. But what
do you suspect?"

"Well, I suspect that certain parties got that money, and I want to
submit the matter to you before I go any further."

"That is all right, Job. If there is enough in your suspicions, you
shall not lack the authority to act. Proceed."

"Well," said Worth, "if the bank people will grant me permission, I can
show them how that package of money was extracted."

"That," replied the chief, "might interest them somewhat; at the same
time what they want is not to be given an exhibition of expertness in
bank robbing, but to be shown how the money can be restored. In short,
how it was taken is secondary to the matter of how to get it back.
Anything else?"

"Of course, but I propose to show not only how it was taken but also to
get on to the track of the fellows that took it."

"That is more like it," said the chief, quietly. "If you can do that,
your reputation as a detective will climb pretty high. And there will be
money in it for you besides. Go ahead."

"You remember," continued Job, "that just at that time, almost the same
date--it was only two or three days later--three young men from
Burrough Road (my old school) were drowned from a yacht in the channel
off Land's End."

"Yes, I remember that incident," said the chief. "Judge Thurston's son,
Bishop McLaren's boy, and another by the name of Blair."

"Well," said Job, "I don't believe they were drowned. I believe that the
so-called yacht was nothing but an old tub that they bought for a trifle
and burned, and then in disguise they left for foreign parts; in fact, I
believe I know where one of them is."

"Just a moment, Job," said Andrews, interrupting, "has it occurred to you
that every passenger's name is recorded on the ship's passenger list?"

"Exactly," admitted Job, "but who has ever examined any particular
passenger list? And who, having robbed a bank, would give his true
name? Then there are other ways of crossing the ocean besides a regular
ocean steamer."

"Well," replied the chief, doubtfully, "ambition can construct many
theories, but, really, you know, theories are worthless unless supported
by something more than suspicion, and I fear your case is more of
suspicion than of evidence."

"All I want," replied Job, earnestly, "is that you will allow me to
follow my suspicions for the next three months."

"Very well," was the reply, "but let me advise you to go slowly. Be
discreet. Remember there are other men also at work on this case."

"Thank you," replied Job with pleased emphasis, "I will remember. Please
prepare my credentials and arrange for my expenses; and," he added, "I
desire a warrant for the arrest of James Thurston."

That evening, Job visited his club, where he was quite popular, and was
received with customary good will. One man in particular seemed much
pleased to see him. He was sitting alone at a small table, sipping coffee
and at intervals emitting a cloud of smoke from a half-smoked cigar.
Shaking hands with Worth, he said, as he offered his cigar case: "Mr.
Worth, I'm glad to meet you again. I haven't seen you for more than a
year. Won't you join me in a cup of this delightful beverage?"

"Thank you, Captain," responded Worth. "I shall be delighted. We haven't
met, I believe, since we crossed the water together three years ago."

"That is so," replied the captain, as Worth sat down.

Captain Johnson was the captain and part owner of a large merchant ship,
and had arrived the day before from New Orleans.

"How does it happen, Captain," asked Job, as he lighted his cigar, "that
you come from New Orleans? Your trip used to be New York and London."

"Yes," replied the captain, "that was my trip up to about three years
ago. I now make alternate trips to New York and New Orleans. There is
more money in it for the company."

"I think you still carry a few passengers?"

"Yes; a little more than a year ago three young fellows prevailed upon
me to carry them across. About that time I enlarged my cabin, and since
then I have been carrying from four to twenty passengers each trip."

When the captain spoke of carrying to New York three passengers a year
before Worth became quietly interested. Accordingly, he inquired who the
three young fellows were that were his first passengers.

"O, they were three young chaps going to America to seek their fortunes.
Their names I've forgotten. The most I remember of that trip is that it
was the stormiest passage I've ever made. It was a six weeks' voyage, and
the worst of it was we could not have a fire, and, consequently, could
not cook anything, and had to live on hard tack and raw pork, or beef. I
tell you, those young fellows were unanimous in declaring that they had
their fill of the seafaring life."

"Have you ever met them since?"

"No." was the reply. "We parted at the dock. I have sometimes wondered
what success they had. They were quite young."

About three weeks later Job Worth landed in New York City, and, guided by
an advertisement in the newspaper, he found a select boarding house on
Clinton Place and engaged a convenient room with board for an indefinite
term. Job represented himself as a gentleman traveling for pleasure--and
information, he might have added, for his quest for the latter certainly
took him nearly everywhere. Thus he visited the theatres, concert halls,
casinos, and other places of amusement. He called at the private office
of the Pinkerton Detective Agency several times, but nothing was
accomplished. He mingled with the congregations of the more popular
churches, with his mind and eyes upon the people more than upon the
preacher, but without results.

One morning he sat in the reception room of his boarding place feeling
somewhat discouraged. He was reading a morning paper, when a young girl,
the daughter of the lady of the house, tripped along the hall holding
several letters which the postman had just handed in.

"O, Mr. Worth," she exclaimed, "I want to show you the picture of my last
beau. He is a countryman of yours. He promised to send me his photograph,
and here it is. He is good looking, isn't he?" And she handed the card to
Worth. "I didn't expect him to keep his promise," she concluded.

As Worth glanced at the picture, he was startled, for his eyes fell upon
a face he had seen in the junior class a year ago at Burrough Road
commencement. Turning the card over, he read on the back: "From your ever
true friend and well-wisher, J.G. Markham, Evansville, Indiana."

"What is your friend's name?" asked Worth.

"James Thorne," answered the girl. "Did you ever see him?"

In an indifferent tone Worth replied: "Don't know anybody of that name."

In thirty-six hours the young detective found himself domiciled in a
quiet little hotel, the Mount Vernon, on the wharf of the Ohio River, at
Evansville, Indiana. He selected this house because of its retired
location. He knew that it was just as necessary for him to keep out of
the sight of the man he sought as it was for the thief to keep outside
the pale of his vision. He easily found the photograph gallery of
Markham, but nothing of a satisfactory nature developed. True, the
negative was at last found with a number 1,761 upon it, but no name, and
the artist didn't so much as remember the face.

The hotel registers were next inspected without giving any clue. Now the
young detective quietly took account of the evidence in his possession.
What did he have to justify the arrest of James Thurston even in case he
found him? And should he effect his arrest, the difficulty of extradition
was still to be met and overcome. Could that be accomplished with the
amount of evidence in hand?

He determined, in his uncertainty, to seek the advice of the British
Consul, Mr. Harris, residing at Louisville, Kentucky, and accordingly he
repaired to that city on the following day. The Consul recognized
Worth's credentials and treated him with cordiality. When the detective
had stated the case he said: "Mr. Worth, you can't arrest a man because
he was not drowned, although rumor said that he was. What has such an
incident to do with a bank robbery? It is hardly fair to connect a man's
name with a crime merely because he happened to disappear about the time
the crime was committed. Suppose a young man did leave England suddenly
and secretly, and come to America? Maybe it was not _that_ kind of a
case at all. Could not even some unsuccessful love affair on the
Continent have caused his abrupt departure, rather than the robbery of a
bank? Mere suspicion is not sufficient to secure a man's extradition. No
doubt your own good judgment will guard you against any hasty action,
which could," he concluded, significantly, "prove a rather costly
proceeding in the end."

Worth left the Consul's office somewhat cast down. He asked himself what
next? Should he give it up? If he quietly returned, none but the Major
would be any wiser.

Next day was Sunday and, back in Evansville, he wended his way to a
popular church--Trinity--where the most fashionable people were said to
attend. The structure was modern and capacious, seating about twelve
hundred. The weather was fine and the audience filled the room. The music
was good and the service pleasing, but the sermon was too long for Worth.
He had slipped into a seat near the door, from which position he could
secure a better general view of the people. Job at this time had a not
overly vivid recollection of the man he sought, nor a precise idea of
what his course would be should he find him. It was more than a year now
since he had seen him, and then it was in a crowded hall in the midst of
commencement exercises.

As the congregation dispersed Job also passed out, and took a position on
the sidewalk, where, without attracting attention, he could observe the
retiring crowd. The bulk of the congregation had left the church; a few
ladies in pairs, still lingered, when the minister, accompanied by a
young man of athletic build, came out through what seemed to be a vestry
door, and would have gone by without especially attracting Worth's
attention, but for the words of the clergyman as they stopped directly in
front of the detective.

"Well, good-by, Thorne," he said, "I'll be around to chat a while with
you in a couple of hours at the Commercial."

They parted, the preacher going in one direction in company with several
ladies, and the man he called Thorne in the opposite.

Worth instantly recalled the photograph owned by the girl at his boarding
place and followed the man whom he heard addressed as Thorne. There was
nothing remarkable in his appearance, however, nor was there anything to
remind him that he had before seen him. He was a good looking man,
perhaps twenty-five years of age, of medium size, broad shoulders, and
elastic step. He seemed to be in no haste, for he moved leisurely along
his way. Every person he met seemed to recognize him, and he in most
affable manner returned their greetings.

Soon a dignified old gentleman approached, and holding out both hands
said: "Good morning, George. How is your father today?"

"Good morning, Judge," responded the young man. "I saw father just before
I came to church; he is much better, thank you."

"Ah! that is good," said the old gentleman, as he passed on. "Give my
love to him."

"Surely, I'm off scent this time," muttered Job to himself, as he slowly
followed in the steps of the young man.

Entering the Commercial Hotel, he stepped up to the desk, and turned over
the pages of the register. Presently he found the name of George Thornly,
room 104. Ah! this was the man he had followed. He had missed the last
syllable of the name. It was Thornly instead of Thorne. He was now
certainly at sea. Moving away, disgusted with himself, he walked through
the spacious office, and almost ran into a man as he reached the door.
Both men exclaimed in mutual surprise, "Hello!" Neither pronounced the
name of the other, and yet both spoke it mentally.

Worth was the first to recover, and said: "Pardon me, I thought I
recognized a friend; possibly I'm mistaken; my name is Worth. May I
ask yours?"

"O," replied the other, "I have heard of you. You are connected with the
Legation in Washington."

"Well," replied Worth, "I _was_ secretary, but have resigned. Where have
I met you--somewhere, I'm pretty certain. Was it in Washington? One is
apt to forget names, when meeting so many."

With a slight hesitancy the other answered: "My name is Thorne. I'm a
stranger here. Are you stopping here?" The young man was evidently
nervous, and spoke in an uneasy manner.

Job, pointing to a chair, said, quietly: "Shall we sit down? We are both
strangers." The invitation to be seated was rather reluctantly accepted,
and there was a shade of suspicion seen by Worth on Thorne's face.

"Where have we met, Mr. Thorne?" asked Worth again, as if still debating
that question. "Wherever it was, it must have been several years ago, if
it wasn't in Washington, as I was there three years ago."

The young man seemed to recover himself on hearing this, thinking at once
that Worth's residence in Washington had doubtless hindered him from
hearing of any occurrences near Land's End or in London, and replied:
"I'm an Englishman, like yourself. You may possibly have seen me, if you
have been much in London. I spent several years in Burrough Road School."

"Indeed!" interrupted Worth, "why, that is my old school; but I must have
left there before you entered, and I have only visited the institute once
since I graduated. It is really a pleasure to meet in this country one of
the boys of old Burrough Road. How long have you been in America?"

"I have been here about a year. I am looking around for an opportunity to
invest some money with which I have been intrusted, but am making haste
slowly in that respect," replied the other with a faint smile.

"Well," remarked Job, "your business is just the opposite of mine. I am
looking around to _find_ some money. Do you know of anything that I could
get to do, in order to make some cash?"

"I'm afraid I don't know enough to advise you on that line," was the
answer, adding: "Where are you stopping?"

"At the Mount Vernon Hotel, down on the wharf," was the reply. "It suits
my pocket."

Just then the dining room doors were opened, and Thorne cordially invited
Job to stay to dinner. The invitation was accepted, and they entered the
dining room together.

This was a strange fellowship. Each knew the other, and knowing him was
intent on outwitting him; consequently the conversation was abstract,
abstruse, and uninteresting.

It was a strange phase of hospitality. When the meal was ended neither of
the men could have told what he had eaten, or what he had said.



CHAPTER VI

OUT HERODING HEROD


While eating dinner the younger man assumed the lead in the matter of
conversation, and it became general in its character.

"Mr. Worth," remarked Thorne, "you say that economy took you to the Mount
Vernon. Now, I happen to have two beds in my room. What do you say to
sharing one of them with me? It will cost you no more than you are
paying, and I judge that the service here is much better than in your
present hotel."

This proposition rather pleased Job, and the arrangement was accordingly
perfected, and the evening found the two men genially smoking their
cigars quite like two old friends.

This proposition of Thorne was not as generous as Worth might have
supposed. There lurked in the former's mind an indistinct suspicion. Nay,
it was more than a suspicion, and he reasoned that if this man was what
he feared he was, he could parry the danger better by having him under
his eye, for even now he was concocting a scheme of escape. On the other
hand, Worth had no doubt in his mind that this was the man he was after;
but how to proceed was the question that was troubling him. The words of
the Consul still gave him no little concern. He had plainly intimated
that extradition would not be possible as the case stood, and he knew
that he could not secure them without the Consul's recommendation.

That Sunday night was an important point of time in the lives of both
these young men. Some light wine was partaken of in addition to cigars,
and each was thinking his own thoughts and forming his own plans even
while the conversation was on other subjects. The bank robbery in London
was spoken of, and in the course of the conversation the wreck of the
yacht and the drowning of the three young men also were mentioned yet
neither subject seemed of much interest, although Thorne remarked that he
was well acquainted with them all.

Worth allowed the younger man to lead, and really direct the
conversation, being all the while convinced that Thorne was trying to
draw him out, trying to find out how much or how little he knew.

It was near midnight when Job undressed and laid down on his bed, with
his mind made up that in the morning at breakfast he would arrest
Thorne. The latter continued to sit at a table writing after the
detective had retired.

Worth soon slept, and slept soundly. This was a new experience of late;
but when he awoke, to his surprise, it was broad daylight, and yet the
gas was still burning brightly. His head ached, and he raised up and
looked in the direction of Thorne's bed. It was unoccupied. The instant
thought that something was wrong, that something unusual had transpired
aroused him, and he sprang out of bed. Just then a tap on the door
startled him. "Hello!" he said, "come in."

A voice replied: "Can't come in--door is locked. Do you want breakfast?"

Job sprang to his vest, which hung on a chair, to find, by his watch,
what time it was; but his watch was not there. As quickly as possible he
dressed himself, and in doing so, he put his hand into a secret pocket
where he carried his valuable papers, and pocketbook. It was empty. Every
paper, even the warrant which the London authorities had issued,
authorizing Worth to arrest James Thurston, and his pocket book,
containing over a hundred pounds, had disappeared and he was locked in
his room. In the midst of his humiliating astonishment, his eyes rested
on a paper neatly folded and addressed to Job Worth, Esq., Bow Street
Detective, London, England. Opening it, he read as follows:

"You will doubtless be surprised on perusing this affectionate note. I
know you, of course. I also know why you are here. When I met you today I
at once knew it was all up with me unless I could outgeneral you--and I
think I have. Part of the money you seek you will find in the bureau
drawer. You are welcome to it. I have carried it around a year, and have
not been able to buy so much as a cigar with it. Possibly you may be able
to convince the bank that you are not one of the men who stole it. But,
in return for making you so liberal a bequest, I have possessed myself of
your watch and pocketbook. I trust that this will not distress you. My
financial condition made it a necessity. I kindly fixed your wine last
night in order to give you a good night's rest. When you arrest me be
sure you have the needed papers. Good-by.

"JAMES THURSTON, alias THORNE."

Worth at once drew out the drawer of the bureau and found at its further
end a package securely wrapped in brown paper; but fearing there still
might be deception, opened it, and sure enough, he counted fifty
one-thousand-pound Bank of England notes. Securely tying them together,
he placed them in the secret pocket which had been so recently rifled,
and started to go downstairs, but found that the porter was right, he was
locked in his room. After thumping at the door, without success, he
remembered seeing a bell, which he rang lustily. After a few minutes a
youth came to the door and turned the key. Worth, thus released, hastened
down to discover that it was eleven o'clock in the forenoon. Within two
hours a warrant for the arrest of James Thurston, alias James Thorne, was
issued with a description of the watch and the amount of money stolen. A
notice of reward was also issued and appeared at once in the newspapers.
A general alarm was sent out by the Police Department, the railroad
stations and steamboat landings were vigilantly watched, but without any
results. Thorne had gotten away while Worth was asleep.

Fortunately, before leaving home Worth had sewed in the lining of his
coat a sum of money as a reserve fund. This had not been discovered, but
for which fact he would have found himself penniless in a strange land,
with only his silver star as the insignia of his identity.



CHAPTER VII

"MICE AND MEN GANG AFT A-GLEY"


The return of Job Worth to London was not at all joyous. He sat upon the
deck in his ship chair or lay in his bunk drawing darkest pictures of his
defeat, as he called it. Nor was there any elation in his feelings when,
upon his arrival at the bank, the cashier handed him a check for three
thousand pounds, as a reward for the restoration of the fifty thousand
pounds. Yes, it was something to be sure; yet not much. There was chagrin
in it all, and he continually felt this, as he mingled with his
colleagues. To him it was--well--failure. At this time, there was another
meeting of the bank directors. Nearly all were present. The cashier
presided. Something had happened again. Was it another robbery? But no,
the atmosphere was different. Mr. Bone presented the case in a nutshell:
A package had been received from New York containing fifty thousand
pounds, and a letter had accompanied the money. It ran thus:

"MR. STEPHEN BONE, Cashier, Bank of England:

"Inclosed find a receipt from Express Company, which will be delivered to
you, for the sum of fifty thousand pounds, which is one third of the
amount borrowed from you a little over a year ago. Please to acknowledge
its receipt to Express Company, and oblige,

"Yours penitently, ANDREW COURTENAY."

"This money," said the cashier, "was received yesterday and is now in the
vault. Permit me to congratulate the Board upon having now received two
thirds of the stolen money."

"Does anyone know who Andrew Courtenay is?" asked one of the directors.

"No," replied Mr. Bone, as the others sat silent, "I presume not. It is
not vital, however, since the name is most likely fictitious."

Job Worth was given a vote of thanks for his services in restoring the
fifty thousand pounds, and it was resolved that in each case where the
money was refunded further prosecution would cease.

One day, soon after Job's return, he sat in his bachelor quarters,
brooding over his ill luck, as he called it. So intense was his
disappointment that he began to doubt his fitness for the calling he had
entered, and to think seriously of resigning. True, he had been credited
with two or three successful investigations, but this last undertaking
could hardly be called a success. He had spent four hundred dollars in
recovering one third of the stolen money, and had suffered the thief to
outgeneral him. He concluded that he was stupid. Why had he not arrested
him while he had a chance? But he had allowed Thurston to put him to
sleep, and then possess himself of his watch and a hundred pounds of his
money, slipping away while he slept, leaving him a prisoner in his own
room. Surely Thurston, instead of himself, had played the detective.
While in this despondent mood one of his brother officers made his
appearance and was greeted with a decidedly doleful "Good morning, Nick."

But the other's response was more cheerful. "Job," he said, "I'm glad to
see you again after your trip. I understand that the bank people honored
you with a vote of thanks. That was a great thing you did in getting that
pile of the bank's money."

Nick Hanson and Job Worth were of the same class in the department, and
had been admitted on the same date. Nick was every inch an athlete,
fearless and enduring. He was anything but good looking with his broad
face, short limbs, and heavy body. He had made pugilism and wrestling his
study, because they were his delight. Every man in the service respected
his prowess. They all knew that Nick had never been out-classed in
athletic sports. Yet, better than any or all of these qualifications,
were his character and disposition. He was the soul of honor and gentle
as a little child. He had a gentle and musical voice. Men used to say
that Nick Hanson's laugh was worth fifty dollars a month. They called him
"Old Nick," but no man among them was further away from that august
personage in character and personality.

"Yes, Job," Nick continued as the two shook hands, "I came in to
congratulate you on your successful trip and to welcome you home again. I
think the bank has done the right thing by you."

It did not take many minutes for Nick to discover that his
congratulations, while appreciated, were not entirely acceptable, and he
went on to say: "Job, there was not a man among us that as much as
suspected those kids of having done that slick job at the bank."

And, sure enough, this was true, and Worth unquestionably deserved credit
for the original thought as well as for the ends accomplished. And
although he had not succeeded in capturing the thief, he had restored one
third of the stolen money. Surely, this merited the congratulations of
all honest men.

Worth could not withstand the cheery words and more cheery laugh of his
friend. Indeed no one could. None had ever heard Nick speak an angry
word. He brought sunshine with him everywhere, even when engaged in the
most serious work of his profession. He was the hardest man in the
department to comprehend, and yet he was without a peer in frankness and
good nature. Nick's genial spirit had somewhat restored job to his usual
equanimity, and Nick knew it.

"It seems, Job," remarked Hanson, "that there were three of those
rascals, and they divided the spoils equally. Let me see--Thurston,
McLaren, and Blair. There is only one left. Is there no way to find out
which it is? Two have been exempted from further prosecution, and I
suppose the third one will be, if the money is given up."

"Would you know the third one if you could come across him, Nick?"

"Yes," replied Hanson, "I would know them all anywhere. And I think I
could find McLaren, but since I believe he is one of the men
forgiven--having given up the money--I don't want him. Blair is the
fellow we want. Good-by, Job, I'm going away."

And it was four months before these two friends met again during which
interval one of them, at least, had an eventful experience.



CHAPTER VIII

FURTHER DIAGNOSIS


Doctor Marmion, of New York, was greatly drawn toward his young patient
at the Monastery, and as he saw him daily wasting away, he concluded that
something more than medicine was needed to save his life. The secretary
still dragged himself through each day's work, spending the evening in
his room with Tom. The day after the doctor's arrival the second time,
Tom being in school and Bishop Albertson away, he found himself in the
office alone with Carl. He had hardly hoped for so early an opportunity
to interview his interesting patient. But taking advantage of the
opportunity, exclaimed:

"Well, Carl, you have improved, I hope, since I was here?"

"I fear there has not been much improvement in my physical condition; nor
do I much expect any; and, really, to tell you the truth, Doctor, I am
almost wishing for the end," was the young man's reply.

"Carl," said Dr. Marmion in earnest tones, "if you would give me your
confidence, I feel sure that I could help you, and I will be candid with
you. If you don't give that confidence to someone, it will only be the
worse for you. Disease is not the only thing that kills."

"Doctor," was the quiet reply, "I sincerely thank you for the interest
you take in me, but really your words give me pleasure instead of
anxiety. Truly, it is not unpleasant to be warned that I have no
assurance of life. I have nothing to live for. My life is wrecked, and I
have not a friend in the world. Why should I desire to prolong my life?"

"Carl," said the doctor, "listen. Everything you say springs from
mistaken and blind selfishness. Yours is the spirit of the suicide and
coward; surely, this is unworthy of you. And, besides, what you say is
not true. Your life is not wrecked, only as you determine to wreck it.
You say you have nothing to live for. I know of no young man that has
more to live for. You foolishly and ungratefully say you haven't a friend
in the world. You certainly know the contrary is true. Everyone who knows
you is your friend. Is Bishop Albertson not your friend? Is Tom not your
friend? Is that sweet young girl in the other part of the house, whom you
have caused to give her innocent heart to you, not your friend? By some
mistake you have crippled your life. But the good Lord, who pities his
erring child, will help you to redeem and make it both useful and happy.
Bear with me, Carl, when I say, if you know that there is a way by which
the usefulness and happiness of your life may be restored and redeemed,
and you refuse to adopt it, you will be guilty of self-murder. Forgive me
for these seemingly harsh words. God knows they are true, and my only
plea for thus speaking them to you is my love for you. I cannot refrain."

Carl sat with drooping head and with tears coursing down his pale cheeks.
For a moment or two he sat silently sobbing; his whole frame was shaking,
and looking up with a woebegone countenance, said: "Doctor, let me come
to your room tonight after chapel prayers."

"Very well; I shall be glad to see you," said Doctor Marmion, kindly, and
rising, he went out, leaving Carl alone.

At the close of the evening service the doctor and Carl found themselves
alone in the vestry. The younger man took from the pocket of his top coat
a package, and, handing it to the doctor, said: "I want you to take this
package and open it; it will tell its own tale."

Somewhat surprised, the doctor went to a stand close by and did as he was
requested. The next moment he stood speechless with astonishment, for he
held in his hands money, English bank notes, more than he had ever before
seen. What did it all mean?

"There, Doctor," sobbed Carl, who had approached him, tremblingly, "is
my crime; and growing out of it is my other and greater crime. I have
been and still am a living lie. My father and mother think me dead. They
have suffered--how much, I cannot tell. And my father was here. His
expected coming made me ill; nor did he see me. Are you surprised that I
do not desire to live? Father's belief in my death is easier for him to
bear than it would be to know that I am alive and a criminal."

Then it was for the first time that the doctor grasped the full
story--that this gifted, promising young man, lovable and genial, so
attractive as to appeal to him as no other had ever done, should, of all
men, prove a thief, one who had stolen a large amount of money from the
great bank. The doctor was dumfounded! He knew not what to say.

Silence prevailed for a few moments; then the doctor's good judgment
inspired him to say in emphatic tones: "Carl, our first step in righting
this great wrong is to get the money back to where it belongs. I will see
to it. You may rely on me, and the sooner it is done, the better. I will
take the next boat and tomorrow forward the money by express to London.
This will not be difficult," added the doctor. "But you have before you
another duty equally as great. You must next enlighten your parents
concerning your existence and whereabouts."

This was truly the most difficult as well as delicate, and Carl shrank
back from it. "Is it not sufficient to return the money?" he pleaded.

"No, my dear boy, the return of the money is only a part of your
obligation. No part of your debt must be left unpaid. To fail here would
mean utter failure. Everything in this matter must be made clear, and
then you will be enabled to begin life anew."

But Carl, with anguish in his tones as well as in his countenance,
exclaimed: "_Must_ my father and mother be told everything concerning
my criminality? That he has a son who deserves a prison sentence? No!
no! Better to let me die; better for both mother and father as well
as myself."

"Carl," sternly replied the doctor, "you know not what you ask. Would
you die with a lie on your soul? You said a moment ago that you are a
living lie. Would you die thus? You are willing to pay your debt to the
bank, but you are not willing to be just to those who love you with a
love which none but a parent can experience. I am a parent and know all
about it."

"Well, Doctor," said Carl, when he had grown more composed, "can we not
do one thing at a time? Can we not take the money and send it to the
owners, and suffer the other matter to rest at least for the present,
until we conclude how to manage it?"

"Carl," replied the doctor, as he pushed the package toward the young
man, "there is only one right way, and that is to become truly sorry for
wrongdoing, and cheerfully and bravely make retribution to all parties
you have injured. Anything short of this is not fair, and will do you no
good. If I take any hand in this matter, it must be to right the whole.
But, Carl, don't you see, you make no sacrifice in sending back the
money--money you have been unable to use? Had you been able to use it, it
might have been very different; it doubtless would have been. Its return
is not necessarily an evidence of either penitence or reform. It is
simply a confession of defeat. A coward can give up that which he cannot
use to his convenience. And is it possible, after all you have said about
being a living lie, is it possible that you are unwilling to pay any part
of the price of your unfortunate actions? Penitence is like charity. It
never counts cost. It is a godly sorrow for sin, and is willing to accept
results, be they ever so bitter."

"Doctor," said Carl, in complete surrender, "Let it be so. I am willing
to pay the price, even to death. I plead no more for my own sake, but I
would, if possible, save those who love me from humiliation and agony,
which to them would be more terrible than death."

"Here you mistake again," replied the doctor. "You imagine that your
father's pride is stronger than his love."

"So I do," stammered Carl. "I believe that my father would much rather
believe that his son is dead than to know that he is a criminal. There
has never been a stain on my father or mother's name until--until I
brought this one upon it and the holy office he occupies. Then, they have
lived through the anguish of believing me to be dead, and it is terrible
to think of bringing into their declining years a deeper sorrow. Ah,
believe me, Doctor, it is not my happiness I desire, but to save them
from deeper pain. If I am acting wrongly, I pray God, whom I now ask for
pardon, may direct me aright."

"I greatly fear," replied the doctor, "that you are only willing to be
directed in your own way. But I must leave you. The boat passes
Centerville in an hour. I will take the money and send it by express on
tomorrow's steamer."

As has been told, the money was duly received by the cashier of the Bank
of England.

As Mr. Bone opened the package, he discovered that the notes had been
first wrapped in a sheet of substantial letter paper, and sealed at both
ends. As he was about to drop this wrapper into the waste basket his eye
caught sight of a water mark; the letters were "C.A. Marmion, N.Y.,
U.S.A." Thinking that this might prove important, he preserved it for
future reference. He laid it upon his desk and a few days later he wrote
and mailed the following letter:

"London, May 25, 18--.

"MR. C.A. MARMION, New York, U.S.A:

"Dear Sir: A few days since I received an express package containing
fifty thousand pounds. The signature was to us unimportant, as we felt
sure it was not the name of the writer, but your paper bears the imprint
(water mark) of your name, and I concluded that you are interested in the
matter, so I take the liberty of addressing you.

"Inclosed find an announcement we have made in many papers. The directors
of the Bank of England have now received two thirds of the amount stolen
April 11, 18--, and hereby announce that the persons who have the
remainder of the stolen money, if they return it, will not be prosecuted.

"STEPHEN BONE."



CHAPTER IX

HOME BANKING--A FAILURE


In the upper suburb of Montreal, Canada, stood an unassuming cottage, in
the midst of a spacious and well-kept lawn and garden. A young man was
seen carrying a rake on his shoulder and with the other hand drawing a
lawn mower toward a shed in one corner of the lot, where he was to
deposit them for the night.

"Hiram, I never saw the lawn look better." These words were spoken by a
venerable-looking old gentleman with cheery voice, as he came around
the corner of the garden, smoking a cigar. The speaker was a large and
well proportioned man of perhaps fifty-five years of age. He looked
through large brown eyes, kindly but resolute. His square jaw and firm
mouth denoted will power, his face was ruddy, and his head was crowned
with an abundance of curling hair as white as snow. This was Abram
McLain, the retired member of the firm of McLain, Shaw & Co., the
originators and organizers of the first steamboat line running between
Liverpool and Montreal. From this investment and an interest in
building the great Victoria bridge across the Saint Lawrence, Mr.
McLain had accumulated a large fortune, which, promptly invested in
real estate and safe stocks which were continually enhancing in value
in this rapidly growing municipality, soon placed him among the
accredited millionaires of Canada.

The cottage which he owned and in which he lived was built of gray stone,
one tall story in height, and crowned with a French roof. It was
beautified by a wide door in front with colonial pillars and porch. The
windows were tall, to which iron shutters were attached. The ground on
which this building stood had been bought immediately after the
conflagration of 1852, when Saint Mary's Ward was almost obliterated.
From that date each year had increased the value of all property in this
part of the city, so that this property alone, having five acres, would
have placed its owner among the well-to-do citizens of the community. But
this property was only a small portion of the holdings of Abram McLain. A
unique building was this cottage.

Two skilled mechanics had been brought from Quebec, and no one was
permitted to see their work nor to learn what they were doing. Their
work was to be in the basement, which had been excavated ten feet deep,
the massive walls reaching down until they rested upon solid rock. The
building was seventy-five feet square. A furnace occupied the center of
the basement. Next, in front, was a beautiful office, finished in
hardwood, exquisitely polished, and furnished with most modern
furniture. In the rear of this office was a smaller room, the walls of
which were incased with steel plates, supposed to be both burglar-proof
and fire-proof. This room contained a safe having no opening except the
door into the office. It would never have been taken for anything but a
closet convenient to the main office; but the door was solid iron, the
lock of which none but the owner could manipulate. A reception or
smoking room, which Mr. McLain called his den, was on the other side of
the hallway--a cozy and yet elaborately furnished room, containing
tables, sofas, and easy chairs, where the owner could meet his friends
for business or pleasure.

Mr. McLain's father, a sturdy and sagacious Scotchman, had landed in
Canada when Abram was about ten years of age, and began in earnest to
win at least a living, if not a fortune, in this sparsely settled city,
which at that time was hardly worthy the name of a city, although its
thoroughgoing citizens had procured a city charter. Mr. McLain by
earnest long-sightedness and industry succeeded in becoming a well-to-do
citizen. Unfortunately, Mr. McLain invested most of his savings in a
large banking institution, located on McGill Street--The Montreal
National Bank--which a few months later was consumed in the
conflagration. This unfortunate event with subsequent obligations, left
him both poor and in debt, from which he never recovered, but in two
years died, leaving his wife dependent upon their only son. Some years
later, when Abram was accumulating money rapidly, he bought stock in gas
and water works, and in both instances they collapsed, and the
stockholders were left by a dishonest set of officers to meet delinquent
obligations. This experience of both father and son not only met with
indignant protestations, but drove Abram to a conclusion wise, or
foolish, as the case may be; but he concluded that hereafter he would be
his own banker, or at least the custodian of his own money. This
accounted for the burglar-proof safe in the basement of the new cottage,
and where he could keep every valuable paper, securities, deeds,
mortgages, or money. This line of business was no secret in the
community. He was his own banker, and when he sold property or anything
else, the place of the money deposited was his own safe.

Much of Mr. McLain's spare time was spent at the Majestic, then the
largest hotel in the city, he being its owner. Ernest Case, the acting
landlord, took great pleasure in introducing him to customers, and
especially if they were prominent persons or had titles attached to
their names, who honored this hostelry with their presence.

One evening Mr. McLain sat in one of the cozy parlors enjoying a cigar
with Mayor Dalrymple, he, himself, being an alderman. They had much in
common to interest them, and were conversing interestedly, when Mr. Case,
accompanied by an imposing-looking stranger, approached and asked
permission to introduce Major Bancroft, of Quebec. The major took the
liberty of correcting a slight mistake.

"True, from Quebec last," he said, pleasantly, "but from Devonshire,
England, first. That is my home, and you know an Englishman
never denies his country. I am nephew to the Duke of Devon,
and"--hesitatingly--"possibly the next heir to the title. At present I am
a major in Her Majesty's Twenty-first Cavalry. I am just taking a run
through your grand country, while not much needed at home. Gentlemen, you
certainly have the making of a great city here in Montreal."

"We think so," said the mayor.

"Yes," added Mr. McLain, "we think that much of it is already made. We
have already the best schools, the best churches, the best hotels and
shipping wharves on the continent, and," he added, smiling, "the most
beautiful women in Canada."

"I have no inclination to doubt your word in any one of those
statements, Mr. McLain, and especially your last proposition, as it
accords with my own observation; but my opportunities of looking about as
yet have been limited, having arrived only yesterday." Then the major
continued: "Is real estate increasing in value very rapidly?"

The mayor replied: "We have been burned out three times, but each fire
has enhanced the value of all real estate."

"I am glad to hear that," the major replied, "as I am traveling with an
eye open for investments. It is quite different with us. Capital invested
in real estate in England usually results in regrets and loss."

This young stranger was a man of sturdy frame, broad shoulders, and
medium height, having a military bearing; save his mustache, his face was
clean shaven, and he had full lips and large, white teeth. He looked to
be possibly twenty-five years of age, and would have been called
good-looking anywhere. Both the resident citizens invited the major to
call at their places of business before he left the city. This he
promised to do.

A few days later, Case, in a joking sort of way, remarked to Mr. McLain:
"I think some of your landowners ought to sell Major Bancroft something
in the way of real estate. He has plenty of money. I have fifty thousand
of his money in my safe, and he seems to be aching to invest it."

"I am quite willing to sell him some city stock, if he will give me my
price," remarked McLain.

"But I imagine he wants something bigger," said Case.

"Why," muttered McLain, "I don't want anything better or bigger."

"Yes, I know," replied Case, "but I think he wants something that will
grow while he is fighting the Boers, as he is looking every day to be
ordered home."

"Well," replied McLain, "I give you authority to sell him the Majestic,
if you can. I'll authorize you to act as my agent."

"Thank you," replied Case, "but I'm not anxious to change employers."

"But," answered McLain, "I'm not joking. I will sell anything I have,
except my wife and cottage, if I can get my price."

"What's your selling price for the Majestic?" laughingly asked the other.

"O, well, let me see--I suppose forty thousand pounds would buy it."

"All right," said Case, as he turned away, "I guess I'll not change
employers this year."

The Montreal Daily Gazette lay upon Mr. McLain's breakfast table a few
days later. Mrs. McLain called his attention to it, stating that while
awaiting his coming to breakfast she had noticed that the Albermarle was
about to be sold to an English capitalist, who proposed to increase its
capacity, and make it the largest hotel in the colony.

"Indeed!" said Mr. McLain, sipping his coffee, and he took up the paper
to read for himself.

Glancing first at the money market, his eyes next sought for local items,
and he read the following article: "Changes in real estate. Rumor says
that the Albermarle is to change owners. An English nobleman who is
looking for profitable investments is said to be the prospective
purchaser. The capacity of this excellent hostelry, according to the
report, is to be greatly increased by the purchase of the two adjoining
properties."

About noon the same day Mr. McLain received a call from Major Bancroft.

"This is a delightful office," remarked the major, as he lighted a cigar
that had been handed him.

"Yes, Major, I had an eye to comfort as well as to business when I built
it," adding in a sort of casual way, "I see by this morning's paper that
you think of becoming a property owner in our city; allow me to
congratulate you."

"Well," replied the major, "your newspapers are a little too rapid. I
notice that they sometimes get ahead of the hounds. I'm glad you
mentioned the matter. Might I ask you how much the Albermarle is worth
in your opinion?"

"O!" replied Mr. McLain, "it would not be right for me to appraise it, as
I own the same kind of property."

"I see," replied the major. "Of course. What, then, would be a fair
selling price for the Majestic? It seems superior in both locality and
capacity."

"Well," observed Mr. McLain, "the Majestic has never been put on the
market, nor is it today for sale; consequently, I should ask its full
value, if I mentioned any price at all. I would not look at anything less
than forty thousand pounds for it."

"Would you not sell for thirty-five thousand pounds cash?"

Mr. McLain dropped his head slightly, and then suddenly replied: "No,
sir, but I would sell for forty thousand pounds cash, English money."

"Very well, Mr. McLain, make out the necessary papers, and on one
week from today I will pay you forty thousand pounds in Bank of
England notes."

"All right, Major, I will meet you at the Montreal National Bank one week
from today, at 12 o'clock. I will bring the papers."

"All right," said the Major, and departed.



CHAPTER X

ALMOST A TRAGEDY


A day or two after the sale of the Majestic, while the preparation of
the transfer papers was going on, Mr. McLain's young man, who was acting
as his secretary and clerk, asked his employer to be relieved of his
present duties.

"Why, what is the matter, Hiram?" asked Mr. McLain. "Don't you like
your job?"

"Yes, sir," was the prompt reply, "but I have got a place that suits me
better, and, besides, I shall make more money."

"Where are you going?"

"Major Bancroft has given me the chief clerkship at the hotel."

"Ah, I didn't know that you had met the major. What will he do
with Case?"

"I do not know."

"Well, it will be several days before he gets possession. When do you
want to leave me?"

The reply was: "I should like to be released tonight, as Mr. Case is
going to show me how to do the work."

"Very well," replied Mr. McLain, "come to me tomorrow morning and I will
settle with you."

       *       *       *       *       *


"Nick Hanson, Genesee House, Buffalo, N.Y., U.S.A: Come quick. Your man
is here. Risis--Montreal."

Hanson received this telegram at seven o'clock in the morning, while
eating his breakfast in the old Genesee House, Buffalo. In thirty minutes
he was on the Niagara Express. That night about ten o'clock two men
walked into the public room of the Majestic. Just outside the office
door, in a lounging chair, sat the prospective landlord, as everybody
called him. One of the newcomers was Ben Loring, a well-known detective
of the Montreal department; the other our old friend Nick Hanson.

"Hello, Blair!" exclaimed Nick, in his usual jovial tones, as if greeting
an old friend, as he confidently held out his hand.

At that instant, instead of receiving a handshake, he received a
tremendous blow on the neck, just the place which pugilists aim for. Nick
staggered and almost fell. This blow was not struck by the major, but by
his new clerk, who had not been observed by either of the newcomers.

"Two can play at that game," muttered Ben Loring, as he felled Hiram to
the floor with a sweeping blow, and in half a minute Ben had his nippers
on the young man's wrists. "I'll teach you to interfere with an officer
in the line of duty," he added.

In the meantime, as Nick staggered up, and the major saw him gaining his
equilibrium, he succeeded in drawing a revolver, but as he raised it to
about the level of Hanson's breast that athlete kicked the hand that held
it, and the gun flew upward, struck the ceiling, was discharged, and fell
harmlessly to the floor, while the dislocated hand of the major dropped
helplessly to his side. The other wrist was instantly handcuffed, and
within a few minutes both landlord and clerk were helpless prisoners on
their way to the police station. Arriving at that place, they were duly
searched by an officer and their pockets emptied. From the major was
taken a receipt signed by Case for a package of money said to contain
fifty thousand pounds. Then a doctor was found to examine his crippled
hand. There was a compound fracture in addition to the dislocation.

It was now nearly midnight. After the injured hand had been properly
treated and dressed the prisoners were locked up, and the officers
returned to the hotel, where Case handed over to them the package of
money. The two officers examined the notes and, finding them to be as the
major had represented, departed with them in their possession, pending
the proper disposition of the case. When they were gone the two
detectives sat discussing the event that had just occurred.

"But who is the fellow that gave you the lick which so nearly put you to
sleep?" asked Ben.

"O, that is Thurston, who is at the bottom of this whole Montreal
scheme. He came here and learned that McLain had a safe of his own, and
was the custodian of his own money, and knowing that no bank would
receive one of these notes, since they have all the numbers, and that
McLain would in all probability give no particular thought to the matter
of the numbered notes, they both determined to risk buying and paying
with this marked money, hold the property a while, sell out, if necessary
for less than they gave, and, by selling, get hold of money that they
_could_ use."

"Nothing plainer," said Ben, when Nick had finished, "and tomorrow was
the day set for closing the deal and turning the property over to the
new owner."

"This Thurston," said Nick, "is the fellow that slipped away from Job
Worth, taking Job's watch and one hundred pounds of his money."

Just as they were about to go to bed Mr. McLain arrived, and in the
conversation which ensued made it clear that while deploring the
unfortunate developments in the case, he really entertained no regret in
having failed to dispose of the Majestic.

The next day a consultation was held at the Montreal Police Headquarters.
There were present Nick Hanson, Ben Loring, the chief of police, the
mayor of the city, two attorneys, Mr. Cross, cashier of the First
National Bank, and Mr. McLain. The money was produced, together with the
announcement issued by the Bank of England, and the cashier showed the
list of numbers of the missing notes. The next point considered was the
official assurance of the Bank of England that should the money be
returned, prosecution would cease. All the money had been captured, or
returned, and yet they had two of the men prisoners. What should they do
with them? It was finally agreed to set them free. Before this was done,
however, Hanson cabled his chief in London identifying Thurston as the
man who had robbed Worth in Evansville, Indiana, but received the answer
that Thurston would not be prosecuted. Upon receipt of this order both
men were allowed to go free, and Nick in a few days sailed for Liverpool.

The major was taken to the hospital, but despite the most careful
treatment two of his fingers were lost. He went from bad to worse, and
was finally reduced to the state of a wretched pauper, but ever bearing
the derisive title of "Major Bancroft." They all remembered him as the
thief who bought the Majestic. Such was the end of a young man whose
future had been full of promise, the brightest student of his class in
Burrough Road Institute--a poor pauper, unpitied by all who learned the
history of his life. Thurston secured a place to drive an omnibus to and
from the railroad depot to the Majestic Hotel. He is now an old man,
white headed, unknown, forgotten, unloved, and alone.

O, the pity of it! Two young men of good parentage and of more than
ordinary ability, with gracious opportunities, wrecked in early manhood
by mad and reckless ambition. Haste to become rich. And after the
sacrifice of honor and self-respect and the securing that which they had
coveted--could not use it for any commercial purpose. Thinking that its
possession would make them rich they became poor indeed. They now drop
out of our story, followed by our deepest pity and commiseration.



CHAPTER XI

AN HYPOTHETICAL CASE


There seemed to come to Carl some improvement in his physical condition;
but there still came over him hours of great depression and despondency,
when even Tom could do little to cheer him.

Dr. Marmion in his correspondence with Bishop Albertson had hitherto made
no revelation of Carl's case. But the conviction came upon him that he,
himself, was guilty of what he condemned in others and especially in
Carl, in allowing the bishop to retain in his service a man who, in the
eyes of the law, was a criminal, the perpetrator of a great crime. He
concluded to write the bishop an hypothetical letter, describing this
case, asking his judgment; and in this way find out what course the
bishop would pursue if such a case should come into his life, and he
wrote the following:

"MY DEAR BISHOP ALBERTSON: To whom but you can I go for advice in an
important matter, which at this time is causing me much perplexity? I
feel sure that your conscientious judgment will help me to arrive at an
equitable conclusion. To you this may be hypothetical, but to me it is
much worse.

"Suppose, then, a young man, well born, and so far well trained, at
twenty years of age, away from home, falls into bad company, and,
yielding to temptation, commits a great crime, but, escaping by a bit of
sagacious stratagem, succeeds in causing his parents to believe that he
is dead and mourn him as such, wholly unsuspicious in their minds that he
has committed a crime. In the meantime he, in a distant land, lives a
useful and honorable life, deeply repenting the sad mishap of his life,
and fully redeeming his crime, so that no one but himself and the unhappy
parents suffer by his unfortunate act. Furthermore, he occupies a most
honorable and useful position, his employer, of course, knowing nothing
of his previous misdeeds. Now, as already has been inferred, this young
man is living a pure and honorable life, loved by all who know him; but
he claims that to reveal to his parents the fact that he is alive would
entail more and deeper sorrow upon them than to allow them to continue to
believe him dead. He declares that they would suffer less in believing
him dead than to know him to be a living criminal.

"Now, my dear Bishop, I write this note to you, calling it hypothetical;
but to me, it is more than hypothetical--it is a real case. This young
man is one of my patients, and I love him as dearly as if he were my own
son for his noble qualities and his sincere penitence, as well as for the
pure life he lives. His physical condition is indeed precarious, and I
feel sure that his life will be shortened unless he receives relief.
Kindly give me your righteous judgment of this case. I have his
confidence, and cannot betray it; hence the secrecy of this inquiry.

"Sincerely yours,

"MARMION."

A few days later the doctor received the following:

"MY DEAR DOCTOR MARMION: Your hypothetical (?) note is here. I have read
it several times, with increasing interest, and with a prayerful desire
to be able to assist you to arrive at a righteous decision in what seems
to be a very important matter.

"First. You say (if I understand correctly) that restitution has been
made to the parties against whom the crime was perpetrated. That is well
and so far satisfactory.

"But, second. The crime was a double one. When _that_ wrong was righted
to the first parties, then the second parties, in the deception practiced
upon them, suffered more and longer than the parties of the first part,
so that really the crime is only partially expiated until the wronged
parents are undeceived, and he has made his peace with them. I feel safe
in saying that this young man will never be happy, nor his physical
condition improved, until he pays the full price of his sin. All who have
been wronged must be righted. Depend upon it, his life will be chaotic,
unreliable, and unhappy until he makes a clean breast of it to his
parents. When he does this, if I were his father, I would take him to my
heart, and give him a father's love and forgiveness. If I were his
employer, and he came to me honestly confessing his sin, I should not
dare to withhold either my confidence or my love. I should pity as a
father pities, and I should say: "Go, sin no more."

"Now, my dear Doctor, in conclusion, this son (not you) should be the one
to undeceive the parents. I can and do understand the _delicate reason_
which actuates him in fearing to undeceive his parents in regard to his
being alive, while they have and do believe him dead. If you can remove
this deep impression from his mind, all will soon be right. _But he must
do this himself_, not by letter either, he must go to his father; yes, he
must arise and go to his father.

"Affectionately yours,

"ALBERTSON."

The bishop sat in his office six feet away from his secretary, while
writing this letter of reply, and when he had concluded it he did as was
his custom in his correspondence--passed both letters over to his
secretary to read aloud.

In a few moments Carl picked up Marmion's letter. After reading a few
sentences he halted, saying: "Bishop, this seems to be a confidential
letter. Shall I continue?"

"O, yes," replied the bishop, "there are no names mentioned; read on. I
want to know if my answer sounds right, and I can learn that best by
hearing it read."

Carl had grasped the spirit and meaning, and he already knew what was
coming. But he proceeded and somewhat hesitatingly read it through.
Having done this, he was in the act of handing both letters back, when
the good bishop, with a wave of his hand, said: "Now read my reply,
please, _that_ is the most important thing--read slowly, please."

The dismayed secretary felt that this was indeed crucifixion. Why had not
the doctor spared him this? Did he not know that the letter would come
under his eye? His first thought was to decline under the plea of
nervousness; then, he thought this would be cowardly and unmanly. No, he
would read, and at the close would decide. The bishop was a poor scribe,
and his writing was always difficult to decipher; so taking this as an
excuse, he plodded along slowly, and thereby gave himself a chance to
hide his real feelings. But still he found this a difficult task, for
his voice trembled perceptibly, and when he came to the latter part,
where the father said he would welcome his son back to his home and
heart, he stopped, his head dropped upon his hand on the table, and the
paper fell from his grasp to the floor. The bishop arose quickly, and
caught him in his arms, or he too would have fallen. In a few moments,
with the assistance of Alice, Carl was laid upon two chairs. The bishop
with the assistance of the registrar, who was hastily summoned from the
next room, bore the unconscious secretary into another room and laid him
upon the bed.

The terrible strain had been too much for the young man's weak condition.
It was not long, however, before he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking
up, he saw Alice gazing at him with anxious solicitude, while with her
soft hand she was bathing his temples and brow.

Then all the circumstances came back to him, and he heard the gentle
voice of the young girl bending over him. "Carl, dear," she was saying,
"you are better now, and will soon be all right again."

"Alice," said the young man, faintly, "I shall never be all right again.
It is too late."

"No, it is not too late, Carl," was the smiling reply, "you have many
happy years before you. You are not strong. You must have a rest, and
then your strength will return and so will your courage."

Mrs. Albertson came in at this point, bringing a cup of tea and a
wafer, and succeeded in getting the patient to drink the tea. Then the
bishop returned quietly and took a chair by the bedside, and soon both
ladies retired.

This incident had been a revelation to the slowly acting powers of the
bishop's mind; a quicker perception would have grasped the whole case
much sooner, and might have obviated much trouble. But now the revelation
had forced itself upon the unsuspecting mind of the prelate. Now he fully
understood Dr. Marmion's letter, and, also, the cause of Carl's fainting.
All his fatherly instincts were aroused, and taking the hand of the
revived youth, he said, very tenderly: "My poor boy."

"O, Bishop," sobbed the young man, "Let me go! Turn me out! I have been a
living lie to you and yours."

In his rapidly returning strength he arose as he thus spoke. "Forgive
me," he continued, disconsolately, "and let me get away out of your
sight. I will disgrace you no longer." He had secured his hat and moved
toward the door, but the bishop gently detained him, saying: "Wait, Carl.
Do nothing in haste. If you are sufficiently strong let us walk out into
the park. The fresh air will help you."

It was a beautiful autumn day. All around them the scene was bright and
peaceful. The trees were beginning to cast off their leaves. In the
exercise grounds the laughter of the students in their games was heard,
emphasizing the happiness of life and the joy of living. They sat down on
one of the rustic seats. After a few moments of silence, and when Carl
seemed to have become more calm, the bishop in a subdued tone said: "My
dear boy, I am glad this hour has come. You have my sincere forgiveness,
as well as my unbroken confidence. Let that suffice between you and me; I
forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and I love you more than ever.
But, Carl, there is yet another duty which you must perform. It has been
left too long undone already. It should have had the first place, but it
is not too late."

"I know, I know," interrupted the youth, desperately, "but it is
impossible. How can I tell my father and mother that their son lives, and
that he is a criminal and a liar? Can I inflict this upon them? They have
by this time passed through the bitterest pang in believing me to be
dead. Why now bring a deeper sorrow to their hearts?"

"Listen, my son; let me talk a moment without interruption. You are not
_now_ responsible for consequences. _You owe this debt and it must be
paid_. It is just as much a part of the debt you owe--yes, just as much
as the money that you returned. You cannot repudiate it and retain your
self-respect. No man can respect himself any more than he can respect
another who is able and yet refuses to pay a just debt. Now, you have
paid your debt to the bank, and they have forgiven you. You have
confessed your fault to me, and I gladly pardon you, and this confession
and repentance enhances my love for you. Now, think you that your father
and mother will do less? You are both unjust and unkind to him whom I
have known and loved from my earliest manhood; and I must, also, add,
that if you still refuse to pay this part of your debt, my confidence in
your repentance will be lessened."

"Bishop," said the youth, slowly, as if weighing well his words, "I see
it all now. But how can I do this? Can you not, will you not, write to
my father?"

"No, Carl," was the reply, "you must, in response to your honest heart,
do this yourself, nor must it be done through a letter."

Carl was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he arose. "Bishop," said he,
"I will follow your advice. I will leave at once for England."

"This, my boy," said the bishop, also rising, "is what you must do. I
was sure you would see it in this light. It is the only course."

At midnight Carl caught the New York boat, landing in that city in time
for early breakfast.

Carl could not pass through the city without calling upon his kind friend
Marmion. The Doctor was delighted to see him, and especially when he
learned the young man's errand--that he was on his way to pay the last
installment of his debt.

He prevailed upon Carl to stay with him until the following Saturday, and
then accompanied him to the steamer Europa, on which Carl sailed for
Liverpool.



CHAPTER XII

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN


The Right Reverend Leonidas McLaren, Bishop of Durham, paced his room
with nervous tread that was uncommon with him. He was _thinking_, and
every few moments he turned to look at his wife, who had been engaged
with a piece of embroidery upon her lap. The day was closing, and a soft
melody from the piano, at which the young daughter sat, was the only
sound which broke the stillness of the twilight hour. Frequently at this
hour the little family found themselves indulging in thoughts of the sad
experience which had come to them. More than a year and a half had passed
since had been enacted the tragedy which brought to them their great
trouble, and yet resignation had hardly been perfected--a sad lingering
hope still clung to them even in the midst of their apparent despair.

"Tomorrow would have been his anniversary day," murmured the mother,
sadly, "who knows, but that, after all, he may come back."

"My dear," said the bishop, pausing in front of her, and laying his hand
gently upon her shoulder, "I think we mistake in trying to deceive
ourselves. It is better to cultivate the spirit of resignation."

At this moment, Joseph, the house man, entered and quietly approaching
the bishop, handed him a card. Glancing at the card, the bishop said:
"Conduct him to the reception room. I will be there presently." Written
with pencil on the card were the words: "A stranger desires to see you."
That was all.

The bishop laid the card upon the stand by his wife's side and
left the room.

The visitor's back was toward the bishop as he entered. He wore a long
duster, and held his hat in his hand. The bishop's quiet salutation
caused the man to turn partially around, and at the sight of his face the
bishop started slightly and asked: "Whom have I the pleasure of
addressing?"

"Father! Don't you know me?" burst from the visitor's lips, and then his
eyes fell, as if he were overwhelmed with a sense of shame and remorse.

The bishop raised his hand in a gesture of blank amazement. Surely this
mature man could not possibly be his son!

But at this moment his wife pushed past him exclaiming: "It is Edward, it
is Edward!" She threw her arms around Carl's neck, and the next moment he
was supporting her unconscious form, for she had fainted. The bishop
recovering from his astonishment assisted Carl in placing her upon a
sofa, and an instant later Eleen, the daughter, was at her side. The
bishop embraced the trembling, tearful prodigal, but could only
inarticulately murmur: "My boy--my boy--you have come back--you have come
back! Can it really be you--Edward?"

"Yes, father," sobbed the young man, "I am, indeed, Edward, your son; but
I am no more worthy to be thus called. I have sinned, father, against you
and in heaven's sight."

"Sinned," said his father, still embracing him. "What of that? Are you
not my son, and are you not living? O, how is this? We had so nearly
given you up."

Nor was his sister's welcome less affectionate. "You are my brother
Eddie," she exclaimed, kissing him fondly, "and you are alive! You were
not drowned. O, we hardly dared to hope for this!"

The mother's eyes at last opened, and she motioned for her son to come
and sit by her side on the sofa. Then, with mother's arms around him, and
father and sister near, he told the sad story of his fall, with all the
consequences that had followed--the return of the money, and his
confession to Bishop Albertson. "The Lord has forgiven me," he said, "the
bank has lost nothing and forgiven my crime. Bishop Albertson has
blotted it all out and loves me more dearly than ever, and gives me, as
before, his full confidence. But all this was not sufficient to give me
peace, and I have crossed the sea to confess to you my sin against you,
and ask your pardon." The mother's arms were around his neck, the
father's hands were upon his head, and Eleen held his hands in her own.
All wept in silence a moment or two, but the tears were tears of joy.

Then the father spoke with trembling voice: "My son was dead and is alive
again," he said. "He was lost and is found. Pardoned? Yes, joyously
pardoned! Forgiven by heaven, forgiven on earth. My heart gratefully
pardons all your errors toward me and mine. And now, my son, consecrate
yourself this day to God's service, and may your future life be so loyal
and noble that he who has been so loving and forbearing to us all and
restored you to his favor, may at last crown you with 'Well done, good
and faithful servant.'"

It was past midnight before they became aware of it. Joseph came in to
escort Mr. Edward, as he familiarly called him, to his room, but the
young man excused himself, since he had engaged a room at the hotel and
his baggage was there; but tomorrow he would come to them.

He returned to his lodging, where he slept as he had not slept during one
and a half years.

The next day was a great occasion at the episcopal residence. The early
morning service conveyed the strange, but glad, news to all who were
present that the good bishop's long absent son had returned, and they in
turn transmitted it to their friends. He was supposed to have been
drowned more than a year ago, and this day was the twentieth anniversary
of his birth. The house was filled with callers from early morning until
late at night. And thus it was for many days.

If anyone associated the reported drowning with the event of the bank
robbery, they never so expressed themselves, nor was his whereabouts
during his absence discussed in other than a friendly way. Nevertheless,
the returned wanderer was not wholly at ease. He suspected that the
kindly and refined nature of these friends silenced many questions which
doubtless were in their minds, and often a lull in the conversation
filled him with fear and dread of an inadvertent inquiry.



CHAPTER XIII

THE NEW LIFE


The chief regret now in this young man's mind was the loss of two college
years. Bishop Albertson greatly desired his return to the Monastery to
take up and finish his collegiate course, and receive his diploma from
that institution. But the father seriously objected, because this would
necessitate his absence again from home. After much discussion and
correspondence, the two bishops concluded to leave its decision to the
young man himself. As soon as Eleen learned this her woman's sagacity
told her what the decision would be. She had her brother's confidence,
young as she was, and he had shown her Alice's photograph. She was
correct in her conclusions. It was not many days before he made known his
determination to return to the Monastery and finish his studies. This
would only take two years.

Edward McLaren now felt how irksome this change of name would be among
his friends at the Monastery, for there he was known only as "Carl." But
this must be met honestly, so he returned at once to his true name in all
his correspondence. Edward's expected return to the Monastery was hailed
with delight by all. Two great loves welcomed him: first, Alice, of
course, knowing how much she had done in his decision to return to
America, and that but for his love for her he probably would not have
returned, gave to him her implicit confidence and all the wealth of
affection contained in her womanly heart. Then Tom, who had been bereaved
sorely for four months, was in rapture; he, however, could not tolerate
any name but the old one, "Carl." Nor was Bishop Albertson far behind
these two in his expressions of affection and confidence. All matters of
business, of a secular character, were placed in Edward's hands and his
judgment was seldom overruled. But, finally, on account of his studies,
Edward had to give these up. So with great reluctance he resigned his
office as secretary. This was greatly regretted by the bishop, but he
could not conscientiously oppose it. But at the suggestion of the
retiring secretary Alice was appointed to fill the vacant place, with the
promise that Edward, when possible, would render her his assistance. And
thus the collegiate year commenced. The number of students matriculated
was larger than ever before.

Edward again assumed charge of the organ and was recognized as music
director of Monastery University and church. Tom, too, was entered in
the last year of the preparatory department. Edward and he still
occupied the room at the farm known as Carl and Tom's room. This was a
great help to the boy, as they had set apart three hours each evening for
their respective studies, and the elder student rendered Tom much
assistance.

At the close of the year Tom passed out of the preparatory department and
was admitted into the classical course, and Edward McLaren entered upon
his senior year. Edward was likewise recommended as a licentiate for the
ministry. But the committee ordered that before this should be fully
granted the old custom should be observed and he should preach a "trial
sermon," and the date was set for that occasion. If possible, this
occasion was of more importance to Tom than to Edward. He was continually
referring to it and hoping that it might be a great success. The
committee had appointed Sunday afternoon as the time, and the service was
announced throughout a wide territory.

The day for the sermon was clear and beautiful. The bishop and faculty
were surprised at the amount of interest shown. Many persons remained
after the morning service, having brought their luncheons with them, and,
as the appointed hour, three o'clock, approached, it was seen that the
college chapel would not contain the great crowd, and it was concluded
that the service must be held in the auditorium of the church. The large
audience room was filled to its utmost capacity. It was truly an ordeal
for the young man to pass through. Tom was the most nervous person in the
twelve hundred present. "Will my Carl stand the test?" asked Tom of
himself. But of course he would. Two young clergymen had charge of the
opening exercises. Alice presided at the organ, and a full choir rendered
the music, doing justice to the hour and the service.

The young preacher was pale and somewhat nervous when he arose to
announce his text. At first he could scarce be heard ten yards away;
but he quickly corrected the fault and went on with fuller confidence
and courage.

He spoke from Psalm 119. 59: "I thought on my ways, and turned my feet
unto thy testimonies."

"Thinking is royal," he said. "Thought is king. Everything of beauty or
usefulness is the child of thought. Here is the distinction between man
and the brute. Here is the cause of difference between the savant and the
savage. And here is the difference between men. Some think; others do
not. And what fields for thought are spread out before the human mind!
For instance, nations and cities once great and influential are now
blotted out. Babylon, Rome, Palmyra, Jerusalem. What destroyed them?
They refused to acknowledge God, and he left them to perish. Ah! They
forsook God and he left them.

"Again. Notice the nations that have come up out of barbaric obscurity to
become the world power today--England, Germany, the United States. What
has thus lifted them to their peerless position? They acknowledge God to
be their God and King of all kings and all nations. Surely, then, this is
a nation's palladium, just as it is the individual standard of character.
Emmanuel--God with us.

"And to think of ourselves is truly ennobling. I do not mean as the
egotist thinks. But to think of our individual capacity and obligations.
The Greeks had a motto over their temple at Delphi, it was 'Know
Thyself.' To know ourselves is the beginning of wisdom. Young men, learn
to know yourselves and your responsibility; but none of these is the
subject of David's thought.

"'_I thought on my ways_.' Our ways toward God. We have not treated
anyone as we have treated God. We have shut him out of our homes, lives,
hearts, while he stood at the door knocking; while he cried, 'Behold I
stand at the door and knock.' Men live through years without thinking of
God, until illness or affliction comes, then they call upon him for help.
Ah! It is indeed humiliating to think of our ways toward our dearest
Friend, who loves us and gave himself for us. It is wise and should,
also, be profitable to think of our ways toward our fellow-men. We have
not always treated them as directed by God's Word. How selfishness has
inspired our conduct toward them in many instances! Who of us today can
look back and see ourselves ever doing to others as we would have them do
unto us? Who of us can say, 'I have always loved my neighbor as myself'?

"Well might this be the cry of David's repentant heart. He thought of a
brave and honest soldier, whose wife he coveted, and in order to possess
her he ordered the soldier to be placed in the most dangerous place in
the battle, where he was slain. First, murder; next, adultery. Well might
David's soul cry out, 'I thought on my ways.' It is not likely that I am
at this time speaking to anyone who would be guilty of such gross sins as
here cited, but you, citizens of this fair commonwealth, nevertheless,
can well afford to consider your ways toward your fellow-men, remembering
that no man has come to the full stature of Christian manhood who does
not love his neighbor as himself.

"Now, in conclusion. Your thinking brings results: David turned his feet
unto the testimonies of the Lord. Thought, if worthy of the name, prompts
a man to do something or to leave off doing something." With strength
and effectiveness the young preacher dwelt upon the latter part of the
text, and closed with a warning against procrastination, declaring it
senseless, dangerous, and, in many cases, cruel.

The doxology was sung and the people began to disperse, though many of
those present pressed toward the chancel to congratulate the young
preacher. The bishop, too, was generous in his words of praise, "The Lord
thinks kindly of you, my son," he said, warmly, "or you could not have
preached that good sermon. God bless you."

That evening and for several days afterward Tom was exultant. In his
estimation no man had ever preached such a sermon in the Monastery church
at the opening service, not even Bishop McLaren himself.

"Mother," cried the lad, as he returned to the farmhouse, "don't you
think that my Carl preached better than his father?"

"I don't know about that, my boy," was her reply, "but I know that he
preached a noble and practical sermon today. Yes," she added, "I think it
was remarkable as a first attempt."



CHAPTER XIV

AN UNDREAMED OF PROMOTION


Three years have passed since Edward McLaren preached his trial sermon.
One year later he graduated, and then came a surprise.

At the annual meeting of the board of trustees, the Rev. Peregrine Worth,
D.D., Professor of Greek and Greek Literature, submitted his resignation.
He had occupied his present chair eighteen years, but the infirmities of
age were reminding him of the need of rest, and he felt that a younger
man might be able to do better work. This was an unexpected action to the
board, and it was thought at first that the retirement of Dr. Worth
should be postponed, pending their effort to secure a suitable successor
to fill the vacant place. But Dr. Worth remarked that he could not see
any need for delay, as he was fully prepared to make a nomination in the
matter of a successor. This, at first, startled them, and he was
requested to state to whom he referred. But the venerable doctor
preferred to do one thing at a time. "You must first declare the chair
vacant," he said. "When you accept my resignation I shall, if you desire,
nominate a suitable man to succeed me, one who will, I feel certain,
receive the unanimous vote of this Board."

After some discussion it was moved and seconded that Dr. Worth's
resignation be accepted with regret. The motion carried and the chair was
declared vacant. Then it was that Mr. J.M. Quintin arose and moved that
they at once proceed to elect a man to fill the vacant chair. After some
debate, this motion prevailed. Dr. Worth then arose and said: "It now
becomes my privilege, as well as pleasure, to put in nomination the name
of a man whom I deem fully competent to fill the vacant chair. One who
has just graduated with honor and esteem. He is a conscientious student,
a thorough scholar, and an able preacher. It gives me pleasure to present
the name of Edward McLaren for the chair of Greek in this Institution."

The fact that he had but just graduated had shut him out of their minds
as a probable candidate. While there was nothing objectionable in the man
named save his youth and inexperience, still the nomination was
productive of no little surprise. The bishop, although secretly indorsing
the nomination, feared for its success because of its being sprung upon
them so suddenly, so he suggested its postponement until next day. But
Mr. Quintin arose and expressed his belief that they were as well
prepared to decide the matter then as they would be tomorrow. As for
himself, he was glad he had the privilege of seconding the nomination of
this young man, whom he had known for some time and most favorably. His
remarks created a good impression, and after due deliberation the vote
was taken and Edward McLaren was declared unanimously elected to occupy
the chair of Greek and Greek Literature in Monastery University.

That evening the president's banquet was a season of universal rejoicing.
The president, the retiring professor, Dr. Worth, and the new professor
welcomed the many guests.

The courtship of Edward McLaren and Alice Albertson was not of the usual
character. In this instance love did run smoothly. It was such a union of
souls as needed no rapturous expressions. It was made up of esteem,
appreciation, and confidence, resulting in simple, sincere affection that
was unselfish and unflinching.

A formal betrothal had seemed scarcely necessary. From their first
meeting their love had been mutual. Every glance of the eye, every word
of the lip, was a pledge of loyalty and affection. There was no fearful
ordeal of gaining her father's consent. They simply loved each other
unfalteringly, strongly, devotedly, and the bishop and his wife were wise
enough to see and heed.

And their marriage was of a similar unique character. No great
announcements were sent out. Bishop Albertson simply invited his many
friends to witness the ceremony, and the University Chapel, in which the
ceremony was performed, was filled to its utmost capacity. No presents
were accepted. Bishop McLaren and Eleen crossed the ocean for the
occasion, and a warm welcome was given them by the great circle of
friends. Tom was Edward's best man, and Eleen was Alice's bridesmaid. The
great choir sang the grand old "Marriage Jubilate," and the two bishops
made them one.

Edward and Alice accompanied the Bishop and Eleen to Durham, making this
their bridal trip, returning by way of London, being absent two months.

Upon their return there was no choice left them but to live with Alice's
parents, at the Bishop's residence, which was a joy to the parental
hearts as well as a great pleasure to the newly-married couple.



CHAPTER XV

TEN YEARS LATER


The Monastery Church has assumed the size and somewhat the character of a
cathedral and the good bishop has begun to feel the irksomeness of his
accumulating labors. True, he is able to attend to his episcopal duties,
but even they have in many instances been laid upon his gifted
son-in-law. This has been almost entirely true of the University
superintendency, so much so, in fact, that McLaren has acquired the title
of Dean and is now seldom, addressed by, or spoken of, by any other
official title than Dean.

Alice has become quite matronly, and her two boys, Leonidas and Tom, make
cheerful the episcopal residence, and enliven the episcopal heart. The
students in the preparatory department speak of her as Mother McLaren,
because of her sweet and loving guardianship; and the older students
bring their trouble and confidences to her for comfort and advice. Tom
Sparrow, after he graduated, spent three years at Heidelberg and won the
degree of Ph.D. But while these honors came to Tom, and still greater
honors had come to McLaren, they were still the same to each other. To
Tom, McLaren, although addressed as "Doctor" by others, was still "my
Carl," and in return the younger man to McLaren was simply "Tom." Nothing
seemed able to change these relations; nor did the parties most deeply
interested desire to change them.

Tom in his travels had been to Durham. Yes, it turned out that he had
spent _much_ of his spare time in that ancient city, and that his home at
those visits was usually at the episcopal residence.

Tom and Eleen had met at McLaren's wedding, and it did not take long for
the old, old story to find a place in their lives. Of course anyone from
America who was acquainted with their son was welcomed by the bishop and
his wife. But knowing the intimate relations existing between these two,
Tom was made doubly welcome. Besides this, Tom had developed into a
splendid man in both body and mind. He was six feet high and well
proportioned. He had inherited a healthy constitution, lived a clean and
natural life, and was in the best sense a handsome man, one whom in
passing you would incline to glance at a second time. He soon became
quite popular at Heidelberg with both lecturers and students, so when he
visited Barnard's Castle, the family of Grandpa Sparrow, received Billy's
son with open arms and hearts. The unsophisticated old people just sat
and looked at him and listened to his words about his father and mother,
and the great farm which he was operating so successfully. Cliff Farm was
a little more than a mile from Barnard's Castle, and as Elder Sparrow was
very popular with the people, many of them came to see Billy's son, both
young men and maidens, and many a delightful time they had together.
Though gifted with personal grace of person, Tom's real attractiveness
was his naturalness. He was just as simple and natural as when, years
ago, he went to the warehouse and talked to God about Carl. And so, now
at twenty-one, he had a pleasant greeting and a happy word for everyone.
The young girls were charmed and the young men listened admiringly. He
talked to the young farmers about farming. Horses, breeds of cows, sheep
hogs, fertilizers, until the young men went away feeling that they knew
but little about real farming.

The aged rector of Ascension Church, who had known Billy when a child,
came to Cliff Farm to see Billy's son. He likewise knew something of the
Monastery, and more about Bishop Albertson, with whom he had been
associated in his collegiate days at Oxford. The aged clergyman was much
interested in the curriculum at Monastery University, and perhaps no one
was better able to satisfy his quest than Tom. Tom might safely have
written, if such had been his ambition, "Veni, vidi vici," but nothing
of this spirit inspired this young man of nature; and perhaps while he
would not have been adjudged a remarkable scholar, yet he was an
encyclopedia of general information, and out of the fullness of a healthy
heart and memory his mouth spoke to the edification and enjoyment of all
who heard him.

We have said that Tom was not a remarkable scholar; yet he was a scholar,
he was cyclopaedic. He had a general knowledge, and never forgot
anything. He was an unconscious student all the time.

But his attractiveness was not in his scholarship, but in his heart and
character. He possessed and was actuated by an unselfish and clean heart
and a pure conscience. He did not need to write upon his hat, I am a
Christian. The Golden Rule was the standard of his life and he was hardly
conscious of it.



CHAPTER XVI

THE FAREWELL COMMENCEMENT


Commencement exercises this year were very interesting; more than
ordinarily so. There were twenty-two graduates in the classical course,
and twenty-seven seniors in the theological class. There were four
hundred and sixty students in all. This was a much larger number than in
any preceding year. Nothing had occurred during the year to mar the peace
of the institution. Sixteen professors, clothed in their official
garments, with the president, occupied the platform, which was profusely
decorated with plants and cut flowers, while an immense American flag
floated over the president's table. But, somehow, there was a feeling of
sadness pervading the whole program; probably no one could have told what
caused it.

The four addresses, delivered by as many graduates, were of a high
order--vivacious, brilliant, and one or two of them quite exhilarating
and fine. Yet there was prevalent something like the feeling of a funeral
occasion--a feeling which follows the loss of a friend. But no one was
dead. Even the applause at the end of any well-given number was gentle
and subdued. The president and Professor McLaren presented the diplomas.
After the graduating classes were again seated the president arose to
deliver his annual address.

This was Bishop Albertson's thirtieth time during his presidential
career. How changed since he delivered the first address to seventeen
students, and with only three professors by his side! Now four hundred
and sixty students in his audience; sixteen professors sat by his side
and he had just delivered forty-nine diplomas to as many graduates.
Usually the annual address was mainly to the graduates. This address took
a wider scope. It was intended and did touch everyone who had an interest
in this great institution. It was full of affectionate counsel and
expressions of honest gratitude. The atmosphere which had been
unconsciously affecting the people throughout the program was beginning
to be analyzed. Farewell words were of course expected at this time; such
were customary at such a time. But these were no common words. There was
more than a common "Good-by" in them. This president had spoken similar
words twenty-nine times, but never just such words. His eyes were growing
misty when at the end he said: "My dear friends, this is not simply a
'Good-by' that I speak, but a sincere, heartfelt 'Farewell.'" A few
minutes later seven hundred persons stood with eyes suffused with tears,
and with bowed heads to receive the apostolic benediction.

Next day at ten o'clock the joint board met in the board room, in its
annual meeting. The attendance was large--trustees, faculty, and visiting
brethren. The word had gone out that important changes would likely take
place, but none knew just what they would be.

J. M. Quintin, chairman of the board, presided. Reports from each officer
were made. The secretary of the board read his report; it was a model of
perspicuity and encouragement. Each member of the faculty presented an
account of his work. A glowing report was made by Quintin of Sparrow's
work on the farm, and a resolution of appreciation was sent to the
farmer. Indeed, the board had never received such reports of the
prosperous condition of the Monastery. Then came the president's annual
report. This was his thirtieth annual report; nor was it very different
from the twenty-nine that had preceded it. It was permeated with
hopefulness for the future and gratitude for the past. Then came that
which seemed to be the great burden of his heart. This was to be his last
official message. He said, in substance, that the wise man's description
of old age was fast coming into his experience. The keepers of the house
begin to tremble, the grinders were ceasing because they were few. He
was beginning to be afraid of that which was high. The almond was
flourishing; the grasshopper was becoming a burden; desire was beginning
to fail. In a word, three score and ten years reminded him that he must
be relieved of some of his official burdens. He did not dare to interfere
with his episcopal duties, feeling that possibly for a year or two more
he might be able to meet and discharge them. But that from the arduous
duties of the University he must be relieved and a younger man asked to
become its president. And he wished that these remarks be considered as
his positive resignation as president of Monastery University.

It was now four o'clock. They had been in session since ten o'clock. So,
by motion, they, without remarks, adjourned to meet at seven o'clock in
the evening.

In reality the president's resignation was a surprise to many. "What
now?" was the question. As the hour approached the men were seen in
groups, engaged in earnest discussion. But when they came together it was
soon manifest that there was no concert of thought, much less readiness
for concert of action. The prevailing thought seemed to be to postpone
any attempt to elect a president, it being the feeling that it was too
precipitous. But a majority of the board insisted on at once proceeding
to fill the vacant presidency, their chief argument being that the new
incumbent might have time to prepare for the fall term, and, further,
that no outside parties might be formed and no politics should be allowed
to interfere.

Bishop Albertson was asked to preside, and when the board was called to
order, Mr. Quintin arose and modestly asked permission to address them.
All were glad to hear this faithful servant of the institution.

He begged them not to construe his remarks into self-praise, but to
understand them as intending to simply show his unselfish interest in the
prosperity of the Monastery. Only this and nothing more. Thirty-one years
ago he had been made a trustee. He was then nineteen years of age, and at
their first meeting he was elected treasurer of said board. From, that
date every dollar received or paid out in the interest of this
institution had passed through his hands. He had planned every building
and paid for its erection; laid off the Monastery Park, superintended the
farm, stocked it with all its live stock, purchased and paid for all the
agricultural implements. He had planned, built and paid for the erection
of the new church building. He had charge of Mr. Thorndyke's endowment
fund, to which had been added fifty thousand dollars, making now one
hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which was safely invested at six per
cent interest per annum. All this had been simply a labor of love, he
never having received a dollar for his services. This was not boasting,
but simply to show them his love for the interests of Monastery
University and church. And this love alone inspired him to nominate a man
for the vacant presidency. And to still further gain their confidence in
his unselfish judgment and love, he continued: "Seventeen years ago, when
Mr. Rixey died, I engaged a young man twenty-six years of age to work our
farm. Surely I made no mistake. There is no better man than William
Sparrow, and no better farm in the county. Ten years ago, I made bold to
nominate a man for the place made vacant by the resignation of Dr. Worth.
Did I make any mistake in that nomination? Did you make any mistake in
confirming that nomination? And now our beloved president is retiring,
full of honors and esteem, and that great and responsible place is
vacant, and I confess that my past successes make me confident as I
pronounce the name of a successor. I have consulted no man, not even the
man whose name I shall speak. I do not know but he may decline the
nomination, but my best judgment and unbiased conscience unite and prompt
me to nominate Edward McLaren, LL.D., for presidency of Monastery
University."

This nomination did not seem to surprise anyone except the man
nominated. The thought of such an occurrence had not so much as come to
him. Several weeks before the bishop had in an incidental way intimated
that he was seriously contemplating shaking off some of his
responsibilities, but nothing more had been said, and Edward had
forgotten the remark. And when the bishop had presented his resignation,
and it was accepted, McLaren simply concluded that this would entail
extra work upon him for a month or two, until the trustees found a
suitable man to fill the vacancy. But now as he heard his name spoken, it
came like an electric shock, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming: "O,
no! This must not be. It cannot be!" He then moved a postponement of the
election. He said: "It is only thirteen years since I stood in front of
that old farmhouse, tired and hungry, a timid wandering youth, seeking
work and bread, but more, seeking rest of soul and conscience. The farmer
and his precious wife took me in and have been to me more than brother
and sister." Then, turning round and facing the bishop, he continued:
"And this man has been more than a father; but for him and the wife he
gave me, I should not be here today. No! no! You have honored me too much
already, and I move a postponement of this election until a future
meeting of the board of trustees."

There was not a man but what was affected by these unselfish and
grateful words; but they affected the auditors in just the opposite
direction from that intended--really they insured his election.

A moment of silence followed. Then Mr. Quintin arose and said. "Mr.
President, I hear no second to Dr. McLaren's motion to postpone. His
words have indeed touched my heart, and in their modesty and
unselfishness I see only a confirmation that I am making a wise
nomination. I am thoroughly convinced that I am commending the right man,
and with all due respect to the opinion of Dr. McLaren, I now renew my
nomination."

The chairman, with his usual dignity, put the question, and Edward
McLaren, LL.D., was unanimously elected president of Monastery
University.

Such election of course created another vacancy in the faculty of the
Monastery. The chairman proceeded at once to state this fact. Again there
was silence.

"Cannot the work of this chair be divided among the other professors for
a time?" asked Professor Ware, the Professor of Belles-Lettres.

Mr. Smithson, one of the trustees, moved to adjourn, but the motion was
defeated by a large majority.

"What now is the pleasure of the board?" asked the chairman. Then
someone moved to proceed at once to the election of a professor to fill
the vacant chair of Greek and Greek Literature.

This motion prevailed, and the chair announced its readiness to hear
nominations for the vacant chair.

Abram Smithson, Jr., son of one of the trustees, who graduated the day
before, was nominated. But this nomination met with no second.

There were some indications of surprise, which brought Professor Cummins
to his feet, and with some asperity to say that he saw no reasons for
expressions of surprise. It was certainly not the first time that this
chair had been filled by a man who had recently graduated. This made
several men smile, among them McLaren, who had been elected to fill that
chair the day after his graduation.

Then the bishop stated that during the thirty years in the past he had
never made a nomination, but that he now felt inclined to do so; and he
would nominate Thomas Sparrow, Ph.D., for the vacant chair of Greek and
Greek Literature. Sparrow was one of their own graduates. First, in their
preparatory course; then in classics, and afterward three years in
Heidelberg, where he had won the Philosophy Doctorate.

At this moment the newly-elected president who had been sitting with
drooping head, as if he had been rebuked instead of having received their
highest honor, arose and stated that he would be greatly pleased if Dr.
Sparrow could be elected to fill the vacant chair, but he feared they
were too late. Forty-eight hours ago the joint board of Burrough Road
Institute, a noted school in London, had elected him to fill the chair of
Belles-Lettres and History, and he feared that Sparrow had before now
telegraphed his acceptance.

"Then," said Quintin, "I move that we elect him anyhow--even if I have to
cross the sea to give Burrough Road satisfaction."

The inspiration was complete; every man was ready to vote, and did vote
for the man who was wanted in London--and Tom Sparrow became Dr. Sparrow,
Professor of Greek and Greek Literature in Monastery University, a result
which none ever regretted.

An earnest throng clustered around the newly-elected president, with
hearty congratulations. Not only the trustees, but more than two hundred
students, graduates included, who had been nervously waiting outside to
hear the news--rushed impetuously as far as they could into the board
room, and seizing McLaren, hoisted him to the shoulders of four sturdy
men, and then marched out from the chapel into the park singing
boisterously their latest college song:

Rah! Rah! Monastery,
Biggest Lion of them all,
Albertson and Mack and Quintin,
  Rah! Rah! Rah!

A full moon made it almost as light as day, and even dignified Albertson
joined in the jovial song, while Billy Sparrow, dressed in his best blue
broadcloth with its bright brass buttons, joined lustily in the chorus:
"Rah! Rah! Rah! Albertson, Mack, and Jerry Quintin."

Quintin's team stood at the gate, and its owner told the driver to drive
to the farmhouse and wait there. Quintin himself was somewhat nervous,
knowing that he had something more to accomplish before he slept.

The leader in this carnival of pleasure and song was Joe Elliot, a next
year's senior. He was a stalwart man, the largest in the crowd, six feet
four inches in height, broad-shouldered and clear-eyed--a leader in
everything he undertook. He stalked in front, bearing a United States
flag, setting the pace in both step and song.

Quintin after some effort succeeded in reaching Joe's side, and said to
the leader: "Joe, get to the farm as soon as you can and set him down, I
want to speak to him as soon as possible. Stop with three cheers for
Mack." Joe took the hint, and with march and song, he halted his men in
front of the farmhouse, and setting McLaren down, took off his cap, an
example which was immediately followed, and they gave three tremendous
cheers for the new president of the Monastery and dispersed.

Immediately, grasping McLaren's arm, Quintin said: "We must find Tom and
learn whether he has cabled to London." They entered the house and found
Nancy at once, as if she had been awaiting their coming, who, without
being asked, remarked: "Tom waited until the president was elected, and
then started to Centerville, taking Leon with him to cable to London his
acceptance. It is about half an hour since they started."

"How did he go?" asked Quintin.

"On foot; he took the boy with him for company. It is such a beautiful
night, and the lad wanted to go."

"That is enough," exclaimed Quintin. "Jump in, we may catch him yet. Now,
Cyrus, let them go," and they did go. In ten minutes they were in front
of the telegraph office at the wharf at Centerville Landing. Just as they
began to ascend the stairs a man and a boy came out of the office--Tom
and Leonidas.

"Tom, what have you done?" exclaimed McLaren.

"I have just sent my acceptance to London," and, thinking that perhaps
he had done wrong in bringing the boy, added, "and it was such a
beautiful night, I brought Leon for company."

"But, Tom, why were you so hasty in the matter? Why did you not consult
your friends?"

In the meantime Quintin pushed past them into the office, where Reid, the
operator, sat.

"Reid," asked Quintin, "have you sent Dr. Sparrow's message?"

"No, sir," was the prompt reply, "but two minutes more and it would have
been on the wires; here it is," holding up the yellow paper.

"Hold on, then. It must not go in its present shape."

Reid at once laid the message down on his desk, and turned to other work,
feeling assured that it was all right if Quintin and McLaren were
interrupting its transit. In the meanwhile McLaren had pushed Tom into a
small private room adjoining, and the younger man heard for the first
time that he had been elected to the chair of Greek at the Monastery.
Then heavy steps were heard and Billy Sparrow rushed into the room
exclaiming: "Tom, what have you done?"

"Father," said the young man, "I did what I thought was best. They kindly
offered me an honorable place at Burrough Road, and I had no expectation
of anything of the kind here, and really did not think that anyone would
object, so I accepted; that is all there is to it. I am truly sorry if
you don't like what I have done. Had I known it, I might not have been so
quick in replying. _But it is now too late_, and we must make the best of
it. But you must remember my future wife is in England."

"No! No!" interrupted Quintin, "It is not too late," and he held up the
unsent message. "It has not been sent. Here it is, and your acceptance
would be the most unnatural and ungrateful thing you could do. Here is
your father and mother. Here is one, who has been to you more than a
brother, and here is the fostermother that has fitted you for your great
career, and now offers you one of her most important professorships. We
are all aware that the girl who is to be your future wife is in England,
but think you that Eleen would urge you because of that to make the
sacrifice that your acceptance of the Burrough Road professorship
demands? No. She would say: 'We are young. We can wait. Stay with your
father and mother a while--it will be best.'"

Tom was visibly affected, and after a moment's silence he turned to
McLaren. "Carl," he said, "take the blank and fill it out as you think
best. You can sign my name," and taking Leon by the hand, together they
went out, descended the stairs, and started homeward.

Without a word, McLaren took the blank and wrote: "Honor appreciated,
but cannot accept. T. Sparrow, Professor of Greek, Monastery University."

Thus ended a most eventful day at the Monastery.

Quintin was not to be seen. His work for the day was ended when Tom told
McLaren to fill out the cablegram; he had slipped away and by this time
was in his bed, but not before he had told Cyrus to take the party back
to the farm.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Mystery of Monastery Farm" ***

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