[Frontispiece: "Spring, " she answered. "Just spring"(missing from book)]

THE SEVENTH NOON

BY

FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT

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

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

EDMUND FREDERICK

BOSTON

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1910

By Small, Maynard & Company

(INCORPORATED)

Entered at Stationers' Hall

Two editions before publication, January, 1910

To

K. P. B. And K. J. B. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

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

ILLUSTRATIONS

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

"What, you, Miss Arsdale?"

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

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

He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way

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

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

The Seventh Noon

CHAPTER I

_The Black Dog_

"The right to die?"

Professor Barstow, with a perplexed scowl ruffling the barbette of grayhairs above his keen eyes, shook his head and turning from the youngman whose long legs extended over the end of the lean sofa upon whichhe sprawled in one corner of the laboratory, held the test-tube, whichhe had been studying abstractedly, up to the light. The flickering gaswas not good for delicate work, and it was only lately that Barstow, spurred on by a glimpse of the end to a long series of experiments, hadattempted anything after dark. He squinted thoughtfully at the yellowfluid in the tube and then, resuming his discussion, declaredemphatically, "We have no such right, Peter! You 're wrong. I don't know where, because you put it too cleverly for me. But I know you 're deadwrong--even if your confounded old theories are right, even if yourdeductions are sound. You 're wrong where you bring up. "

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

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

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

"Then what the devil does ail you?"

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

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

The man on the couch turned uneasily. 

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

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

"It's quitting not to stay. "

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

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

"Schopenhauer says--"

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

Donaldson smiled a trifle condescendingly. 

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

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

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

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

"See this?" he asked. 

Donaldson nodded indifferently. 

"It is a case in point. Theoretically I should have here the innocuousunion of three harmless chemicals; as a matter of fact I had occasionto experiment with it and learned that I had innocently produced avicious and unheard-of poison. The stuff is of no use. It is one ofthose things a man occasionally stumbles upon in this work, --betterforgotten. How do I account for it? I don't. Even in science thereis always the unknown element which comes in and plays the devil withresults. "

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

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

"How?"

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

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

Donaldson sat up. 

"Any pain?" he inquired. 

"None. "

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

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

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

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

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

"Dead?"

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

Donaldson's brows contracted. He was big-hearted. This seemed a cruelthing to do. He whistled to the pup and called him by name, "Sandy, Sandy. " But the dog only wagged his tail in response and snuggled withbrute confidence closer to his master. Donaldson snapped his fingerscoaxingly, leaning far over towards him. Reluctantly, at a nod fromBarstow, the dog crept belly to the ground across the room. Donaldsonpicked up the trembling terrier and settling him into his lap passedhis hand thoughtfully over the warm smooth sides where he could feelthe heart pounding sturdily. 

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

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

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

Donaldson drew a package of Durham from his pocket and fumbled arounduntil he found a loose paper. He deftly rolled a cigarette, his longfingers moving with the dexterity of a pianist. He smoked a moment insilence, exhaling the smoke thoughtfully with his eyes towards theceiling. The dog, his neck outstretched on Donaldson's knee, blinkedsleepily across the room at his master. The gas, blown about by draftsfrom the open window, threw grotesque dancing shadows upon the stained, worn boards of the floor. Finally Donaldson burst out, ever recurringto the one subject like a man anxious to defend himself, "Barstow, I tell you that merely to cling to existence is not an act initself either righteous or courageous. If we owe obligations toindividuals we should pay them to the last cent. If we owe obligationsto society, we should pay those, too, --just as we pay our poll tax. But life is a straight business proposition--pay in some form for whatyou get out of it. There are no individuals in my life, as I said. And what do I owe society? Society does not like what I offer--thebest of me--and will not give me what I want--the best of _it_. Verywell, to the devil with society. Our mutual obligations are cancelled. "

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

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

The young man took a long breath. 

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

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

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

Barstow turned quickly. There was the look upon his face as of a manwho presses back a little. For a moment he appeared pained. But heanswered steadily, "I have other dreams now, saner dreams. "

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

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

Donaldson snapped away his cigarette. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donaldson paused a moment and then went on. 

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

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

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

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

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

Donaldson paused. 

"Am I boring you, old man?"

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

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

"When I finished my course you lost sight of me, but it was the sameold thing over again. I refused to accept a position in a law office, because I would n't be fettered. I had certain definite notions of howa law practice ought to be conducted, --of certain things a decent manought not to do. This in turn barred me from a job offered by a streetrailway company and another by a promoting syndicate. I took a roomand waited. It has been a long wait, Barstow, a bitter long wait. Four barren years have gone. I have been hungry again; I have gone onwearing second-hand clothes; I have slept in second-class surroundings;my life has resembled life about as much as the naked trees in the Fallresemble those in June. I have existed after a fashion and learnedthat if I skimp and drudge and save for twenty years I can then beginto do the things I wish to do. But not before, --not before withoutcompromise. And I 've had enough of the will o' the wisp Future, enough of the shadowy to-morrows. I 've saved a few hundreds and had afew hundreds left me recently by the last relative I had on earth. I'd like to take this and squander it--live a space. "

"Why don't you?"

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

"And that?"

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

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

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

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

"But he isn't--"

"Dead!"

"Poor Sandy! Poor Sandy!"

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

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

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

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

As Barstow went out, Donaldson crossed to the chemist's desk. Hefumbled nervously among the bottles until he found the little vialBarstow had pointed out. He had just time to thrust this into hispocket and reseat himself before Barstow returned. At the same momentthere was a firm but decidedly feminine knock upon the outer door. Thechemist seemed to recognize it, for instead of his usual impatientshout he went to the door and opened it. And yet, when the feeblelight revealed his visitor he evinced surprise. 

"What, you, Miss Arsdale?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her face lightened instantly. 

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

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

"You have heard?"

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

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

"I will gladly escort you if--"

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

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

Donaldson himself prepared to go at once. 

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

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

"You leave--"

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

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

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

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

"Unless you have changed. But your panacea?"

"Love. "

"That's a generic term. "

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

Donaldson turned away. 

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

"I think you are selfish, Peter, " Barstow agreed frankly, "but I don'tthink it's your nature. You 've got into the Slough of Despond, andthe only thing that will drag you out of that is love, love ofsomething outside yourself. Try it. "

Donaldson shook his head. 

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

_King of To-day_

Donaldson pressed his way along the lighted streets, clutching the vialin his pocket with the thrill of a man holding the key to frettingshackles. One week of life with the future eliminated; one week with noreckoning to be made at the end; one week with every human fetter struckoff; one week in which to ignore every curbing law of futurity andabandon himself to the joy of the present! The future--even the narrowbounds of an earthly future--holds men prisoners. A few careless dogs, to be sure, live their day, blind to the years to come, but that is brutestupidity. A few brave souls swagger through their prime with somebravado, knowing the final cost, but willing to pay it by installmentsthrough the dribbling years which follow; but the usury of time makesthat folly. The wise choke such gypsy impulses--admit the mortgage ofthe Present to the Future--and surrender the brisk liberty of youth tothe limping freedom of old age. But Donaldson was too thoughtful a manto belong to either the first or second class and yet of too lusty stuffto join the third. 

There were now just two doubtful points which checked him in his firstimpulse to swallow the deadly elixir at once, --two questions needingfurther thought before he would have a clear conscience about it; he mustconvince himself a trifle more clearly that he shifted nothing to theload of those he left behind, and he must make sure that no element offear entered into his act. That phrase of Barstow's, "It's quitting notto stay, " smarted a bit. 

In spite of these vital problems, Donaldson was keenly conscious, evenwith his wild freedom still nothing but a conception, of sharpened senseswhich responded keenly to the lights and sounds about him. This bottlewhich he held made him feel like some old time king's messenger whocarried a warrant making him exempt from local laws. He moved amongpeople whose perplexed thoughts wandered restlessly down the everlastingvista of the days ahead, and he alone of them all knew the secret ofbeing untroubled beyond the week. The world had not for ten yearsappeared so gay to him. He felt the exhilarating sting of life as he hadwhen it first surged in upon him at twenty. The very fact that he heldeven a temporary solution to his barren days was enough. In the joy ofhis almost august scorn of circumstance he forgot the minor difficultieswhich still lay before him. 

He turned aside from the direct course to his room into Broadway. It wasthe last of May and early evening. The month revealed itself in the warmnight sky and the buoyant spirits of those below its velvet richness. Spring was in the air--a stimulation as of etherialized champagne. Thespirit of adventure, the spirit of renaissance, the spirit of creationwas abroad once more. Not a cranny in even this sprawling section ofdenaturalized earth but thrilled for the time being with budding hopes, sap-swollen courage, and bright, colorful dreams. Walking beneath thespitting glare of the arc-lights, through the golden mist flooding fromthe store windows, Donaldson hazily saw again the careless unburdenedworld of his early youth. He caught the spirit of Broadway and allBroadway means in the spring. It was a marionette world wheremarionettes dance their gayest. Yesterday this would have been to himnothing but a dead bioscope picture; now, though he still sat an onlookerin the pit, it was a living human drama at which he gazed. 

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

As a matter of fact Donaldson always attracted more interest in feminineeyes than, in his self engrossment, he was ever aware. Even in his shinyblue serge suit, baggy at the knees and sagging at the shoulders, even inhis shabby hat, he carried himself with an air. Two things about hisperson were always as fine and immaculate as though he were a gentlemanof some fortune, his linen and his shoes. But in addition to such slightexternals Donaldson, although not a large man, had good shoulders, awell-poised head, and walked with an Indian stride from the hips thatmade him noticeable among the flat-footed native New Yorkers. He mighthave been mistaken for an ambitious actor of the younger school; even fora forceful young cleric, save for the fact that he smoked his cigarettewith evident satisfaction. 

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

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

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

In arguing with Barstow he had been sincere. He believed as he had saidthat a man had the right to end the contract so long as he cheated no oneby so doing. All his life he had paid his way like a man, done his dutylike a good citizen, given a fair return for everything he took. He didnot feel himself indebted to his country, his state, his city, nor to anyliving man or woman. In one form and another, he had paid. Few mencould claim this as sincerely as Donaldson. He had livedconscientiously, so very conscientiously in fact that it was as muchrebellion against self-imposed fetters which now drove him on to anopposite extreme as any bitterness against that society which had spurnedhis idealism. He had refused to compromise and learned that the worlduses only as martyrs those who so refuse. The limitations of his naturewere defined by the fact that he withdrew from so self sacrificing an endas that. But now if he demanded nothing more--if he was tired of thisgive and take--why should he not balance accounts?

Chiefly because there would still be one week to account for--that lastweek in which he should demand most. Like an inspiration came thesolution to this, the final difficulty; economically he was wasting alife; very well, but if he could find a way of not wasting it, of givinghis life to another, then he would have paid even this last bill. In theexcitement of this new idea, he paced his room. If he could give hislife for another! But supposing this were impossible, supposing noopportunity should offer, it would be something if he held himself open, offered himself a free instrument of Fate. He could promise--and he knewhe could keep so sacred a promise as this with death approaching in soinevitable a form, --he could promise to offer himself upon the slightestpretext, recklessly and without fear, instantly and without thought, tothe first chance which might come to him to give his life for another. That was the bond he would give to Fate--the same Fate which had producedhim--his life for the life of another. Let society use him so if suchuse could be found for him. He would stand ready, would live up to thespirit and the letter of the bond unhesitatingly. For one week he wouldlive his life in the present upon that condition--one week with theeighth day a blank, one week with the whole world his plaything. 

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

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

As he drew in deep breaths it was as if he inhaled the whole world. Hefelt as though, if he but stepped out sturdily enough, he could foot thedarkness. His head was light; his brain teemed with wild fancies. Thenpressing through this medley he saw for a moment the young woman who hadcome to Barstow's laboratory. The effect was to steady him. Heremembered the sweet girlishness of her face, the freshness of it whichwas like the freshness of a garden in the early morning. He realizedthat she stood for one thing that he could never know. What was it thathe saw now in those strange eyes that left him a bit wistful at thoughtof this? There was not a detail of her features, of her dress, of herspeech, that he could not see now as vividly as though she were stillstanding before him. That was odd, too. He was not ordinarily soimpressionable. It occurred to him that he would not like her to knowwhat he was about to do. Bah, he was getting maudlin!

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

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

As a matter of fact his position was even more remarkable; he was aswealthy--so far as his own capacity for pleasure went--as though thepossessor of thirty million. This because of his limitations; he wasbarred from travel; barred from the purchase of future holdings; barredfrom everything by this time restriction save what he could absorb withinseven days through his five senses. Being an intelligent man of decentmorals and no bad habits, he was also restrained from license and thegross extravagance accompanying it. But within his own world, there wasnot a desire which need remain unsatisfied. 

Back again in his room he summoned his landlady. 

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

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

"Have you had bad news?"

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

"Then perhaps you 'll come back. "

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

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

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

In twenty minutes he was at the Waldorf. He asked for and was allottedone of the best rooms in the house, for which he paid the suspiciousclerk in advance. When at length he was left alone in his luxuriousapartments, it was still a few minutes before twelve. He drew the vialfrom his pocket without fear, without hesitation. He placed his watchupon the table before him. Then he sat down and wrote out the followingoath:

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

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

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

CHAPTER III

_The Beginning of the End_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He moved about this gay store world with a sense of kingly superiority. He listened indulgently to the idle chatter of the shop girls, therattle of the cash boxes, and smiled at the seriousness with which thisbusiness of selling was pressed. What a tremendous ado they made ofliving, with year after year, month after month, day after day, loomingendlessly before them! Not an act which they performed, even to thetying up of a bundle, ended in itself, but was one of an endless vistaof acts. The burden of the Future was upon them. They drooped, poorbloodless things, beneath the weight of the relentless days beforethem. And so this faded present was all their future, too. They sawnothing of the joyous world which spun around him bright as a new coin. They were dead, because of the weary days to come, to the magicalbrilliancy of the big arc-lights, to the humor and action of the crowd, to the quick shifts of colors; they were stupefied by this great fluxof life which swept them on day after day to another day. Oftenunexpressed, this, but felt dumbly below the chatter and dry laughter. They waited, waited, circling about in a gray maelstrom until the gravesucked them in. He himself had been in the clutch of it. But that wasyesterday. 

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

When he had fully replenished his wardrobe he still had several hoursleft to him. He remembered a unique book store just off Fifth Avenueat West Thirty-ninth Street which he had frequently passed, oftenlingering in front of the windows to admire quaint English prints. Oncloudy days especially he had often made it a point to walk up thereand breathe in the spirit of sunshine that he found in the green grassof the old hunting scenes and in the scarlet coats of thehearty-cheeked men riding to hounds upon their lean horses. 

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

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

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

The boy's face grew eager. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"D' yuh mean that ivory monkey waited?"

"For nearly a year. "

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

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

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

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

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

"Thirty-four fifty-seven. "

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

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

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

For an hour or more he rubbed shoulders with the press that was on itsway to find relief from their own lives in the mimic lives of othersbehind the footlights. To him in the Now it was comedy enough to watchthem as they filed in; it would have been an anticlimax to have gonefurther. He craved good music, but a search of the papers did notreveal any concert of note, so he sought one of the popularrestaurants, and, choosing a table in a corner, devoted himself to theordering of his dinner. He was hungry and took a childish delight inselecting without first studying the price list. 

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

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

Donaldson found the oddly matched couple absorbing his interest notonly in the other guests but also in his dinner. He finished in almostthe undue haste with which ordinarily he devoured his daily lunch andwith scarcely more appreciation of the superior quality of these richerdishes. With his black coffee he rolled a cigarette. The familiar oldtobacco brought him back to himself again so that for a few minutes hewas able to give himself up to the swirling strains of the Hungarianorchestra. But even through the delicious intoxication of the waltz, the personality of this girl asserted itself to him. He got theimpression now that she herself was in some danger. He wished that hehad asked Barstow more about her. She had not noticed him as yet. Hehad watched closely to see if she turned. As he studied her it seemedcertain that she was by no means enjoying herself in her presentcompany. If given half an opportunity he would go over and speak toher. 

[Illustration: _As he studied her it seemed certain that she was by nomeans enjoying herself in her present company_]

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

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

On the sidewalk Donaldson found them waiting at the curb for a bigautomobile which swooped out of the dark to meet them. Making apretext of stopping to roll a cigarette, he paused. The girl steppedinto the machine, but her companion instead of following at once gavean order to the chauffeur. The latter left his seat and the girlexpostulated. The chauffeur apparently hesitated, but, the younger maninsisting, he hurried past Donaldson into the café. UnconsciouslyDonaldson moved nearer. He felt a foreboding of danger and a curioussense of responsibility. He caught a glimpse of the white face of thegirl leaning forward towards her companion--heard her cry as the fellowstepped into the chauffeur's seat--and, yielding to some impulse, jumped to the running-board just as the man threw on the power. 

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

The girl leaned forward and gripped Donaldson's arm. 

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

CHAPTER IV

_Kismet_

The machine swirled around a corner at a speed that swung the rearwheels clear of the ground. It righted itself as a frightened dogscrambles to his legs, and shot on up the avenue, which was for themoment fortunately clear of other vehicles. It took a crossing at asingle leap, missed a dazed pedestrian by an inch, and shot on as mad athing as the man who ran it. It was clearly only a matter of minutesthat this could last. Bending low, the madman, with still enoughcunning left to know how to manage the machine, held it to its highestspeed. But his arm was weakening. He did not have the physicalstrength to hold steady the vibrating steering gear. The big car beganto tack. 

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

Donaldson was naturally a man of some courage, but it is doubtful ifunder ordinary conditions this situation would not have brought thecold sweat to his brow. As it was, he was conscious of only twoemotions; an appreciation of the grim humor which had called upon himso early in his week to fulfill his oath, and a grinding resentment atthe Fate which had thrust him into a position where he should show soimpotent before those eyes. As far as personal fear went, it was nil. He was as oblivious to possible pain, possible death, as though he werenow merely recalling a dream. Such contingencies had been decided themoment he swallowed the scarlet syrup. Fear had been annihilated inhim because the most he had to lose was this next six days. He was toogood a gambler to resent, in a fair game, the turn of the cards againsthim. 

He stepped past her and out upon the running board, feeling his wayalong to the empty seat. The machine swayed dizzily. The wind toreoff his hat and tugged at his coat, nearly dragging him to the groundwhich flowed beneath him as smoothly as a fly belt. He could not havemade that distance yesterday with the assurance of to-day. He swunghimself into the empty seat. 

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

The driver turned upon him, but Donaldson managed to secure a good gripand dragged the fellow to the ground. The latter was up in a minuteand faced him with that gleam of devilish hatred that marks the foiledmaniac. The girl started to separate the two men, but it wasunnecessary; she saw the murder fade from her companion's face beforethe calm untroubled gaze of the other. She saw his strained bodyrelax, she saw his fists unclench, and she saw him shrink back to herside trembling in fright. The demon in him had been quelled by theunflinching eyes of the sane man. 

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

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

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

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

He hesitated. 

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

"I shall be quite safe--really. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without answer he dismissed the driver and followed her through a smallgate in the hedge, down a short walk, to a brown-stone house with itsentrance on a level with the ground. The house was unlighted and thelower windows were covered with wooden shutters. In the midst of itsbrilliantly lighted neighbors it looked severe and inhospitable. Thegirl drew a key from her purse and, opening the door, stepped insideand switched on the lights. Donaldson found himself in a large, cheerful looking hall finished in Flemish oak. A broad Colonialstaircase led from the end and swung upstairs in a graceful turn whichformed a landing. The floor was covered with rugs which he recognizedas of almost priceless value. Several oil portraits in heavy framesornamented the walls. It took but a glance to see that they were ofthe same family and to recognize in all their thin faces an expressionthat he had caught in young Arsdale himself--a haunting fear as of somefamily tragedy. Through an uncurtained door to the right opened whatappeared to be a library, while to the left--Donaldson turned his backfor a moment upon Arsdale. And the man, freed from the eyes, threwhimself upon Donaldson's shoulder. The woman shouted a warning, but itwas too late. She clutched at her brother's clothes, pulling with allher strength, crying, "Ben! Ben!"

Donaldson slipped upon the polished floor and Arsdale, throwing his armabout his victim's neck, secured a very effective strangle hold. Itlooked bad for Donaldson. On the smooth waxed floor he could secure nopurchase by which to regain his feet and he could not reach the fellowwith either fist. He was as helpless as though he had the Old Man ofthe Mountain upon his back. The world began to swim before his eyes;the cries of the girl to sound in the distance. Then he smelled thebiting aroma of spirits of ammonia and felt the clutch upon his throatloosen. He broke free, got upon his feet and found Arsdale rubbing hissmarting eyes while the girl stood over him, frightened at what she haddone, with the empty bottle in her hand. 

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

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

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

"But the man is n't responsible. "

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

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

Donaldson perceived that she was fighting off a fear. It made thedanger seem even more imminent. He had noted with surprise that noservants had appeared. This gave a particularly uncanny atmosphere tothe big house, making it look as deserted as though empty of furniture. 

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

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

It was the sight of the bottle that again recalled to Donaldson thefact of his own peculiar position in life. Even at the risk ofappearing rude, he was forced to look at his watch. It was a fewminutes after eleven o'clock. Well, what of it? Had not these hoursbeen full--had he not had more of real living than during the entirelast decade? He had faced death twice, he had met a woman, and he nowstood at the threshold of a mystery that seemed to demand him. Therewas no other interest in his life to occupy him--nothing to prevent himfrom throwing himself heart and soul into the case, lending what aidwas possible to this woman. Furthermore, he was clear of all selfishinterests; he need bother himself with no queries of what this might beworth to him. But it was worth something, it was worth something tohave a woman look at him as this girl had done--with unquestioningtrust in a crisis. 

She glanced up as he replaced his watch. 

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

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

She did not understand. 

"I 'm eleven hours old. "

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

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

He turned to her with the question, "Is there nothing more I can do for you? Is there no one I may summonto help you?"

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

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

"Why not?"

Her reply came like a rebuke of his impetuous presumption. 

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

"It is perfectly safe, " she answered evenly. 

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

She looked a bit embarrassed. 

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

Marie was upstairs, sick in bed with rheumatism, too feeble to movewithout help. But to confess this fact to him would be almost to forcehim to stay. As welcome a relief as it would be to have him remainuntil she had administered the medicine once more, she shrank fromplacing him in a position where he would have no alternative. 

She roused herself from the temptation and extended her hand. 

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

"It is enough. "

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

He had been studying her keenly, and now removing his overcoat, he saiddecidedly, "I shall stay a little longer. "

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

CHAPTER V

_The Inner Woods_

In the fireplace there were birch logs ready to be kindled. At hersuggestion he put a match to them for the cheeriness they gave whileshe lighted a green shaded lamp which radiated a soft glow over theheavy mahogany library table upon which it stood. The room slowlywarmed out of the gloom and shadows as though the three walls closed innearer to the fire. Just outside the radius of warmth the bookbindingsshone gold in the dark. In a frame six inches deep the ghostlyoutlines of a portrait of Horace Arsdale flickered near and away as theflames rose and fell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know?"

He answered slowly, "Yes, I know. "

Did any one know better? The curse of it had driven him to secure atany cost the broader comradeship of men and women which, if it does notcome through some more subtle means such as she now seemed to suggestto him, can be found in that cruder relationship always at the commandof those with some fortune. The thought swept over him that if he hadknown her before yesterday, he could never have felt alone again. Butwhat had he to do with yesterday any more than with to-morrow?

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

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

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

He frowned. Then he broke out fiercely, "It's the feel of all the silent people in the city around you, perhaps. They are ghosts, these strangers, --human ghosts with fingerswhich clutch your throat if you are n't careful. You sense them in NewYork as nowhere else. "

She glanced up quickly, "That's an odd idea, " she replied. "The loneliness comes then becauseyou are n't really alone. "

"Yes--here in New York. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

_The Shadow on the Portraits_

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

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

"I will go with you. "

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

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

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

The wind may have blown open the door if it had been unlatched, and theimagined footsteps in the hall may have been nothing but the rustlingof the hangings, but still he was not satisfied. He ventured up thefirst flight and paused to listen. He thought he heard a movementabove, but was not quite sure. He neither wished to intrude nor tofrighten her unnecessarily, but he called her name. At first hereceived no response, and then, with a sense of relief that made himrealize how deep his fear had been, he saw her come to the head of thestairs. The light came only from the sick room, so that he could notsee her very clearly. She took a step towards them, and then henoticed that she swayed and clutched the banister. He was at her sidein three bounds. 

"What is the trouble?" he demanded. 

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

"Are you hurt?"

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

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

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

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

"I am stronger now. "

She started down the stairs with the help of the banister, holdingherself together with remarkable self control. As they came into thelight he saw that she was very pale, but she insisted that she needednothing but a breath of cool air. He helped her to the door and hereshe sat down for a moment upon the step. 

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

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

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

She hesitated a moment. 

"Yes, " she answered. 

He waited, but she ventured nothing further. 

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

She turned to study his face a moment. It was clean and earnest. Itbade her trust. Yet to ask him to do what lay before her was to bringhim, a stranger, into the heart of her family affairs. It was toinvolve her in an intimacy from which instinctively she shrank. Butpressing her close was the realization of the imminent dangerthreatening the boy. This was no time for quibbling--no time for niceshadings of propriety. Even if this meant a sacrifice of something ofherself, she must cling to the one spar that promised a chance for herbrother's safety. As Donaldson's eyes met hers, she felt ashamed thatshe had hesitated even long enough for these thoughts to flash throughher brain. 

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

The bare naming of the drug rolled up the curtain before the wholetragedy which had been suggested by the portrait in the library; itexplained every detail of this wild night except her presence herepractically alone with the crazed young man. It accounted for herobjection to waiting in the drugstore; it solved the mystery of herfear of the city shadows. Had he suspected this, he would no more haveallowed her to go up those stairs alone than he would have permittedher to go unescorted into the cell of a madman. 

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

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

"The habit has been long upon him?"

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

"But he himself--"

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

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

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

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

"There is Marie. "

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

"You don't understand how good he has been. He has struggled hard. Hehas allowed me to lock him up--to do everything to help him. He hasnever been like this before. "

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

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

"No friends?"

"I would rather fight it out alone, " she answered firmly. "I don'twish my friends to know about this, " she added hastily, as though toavoid further discussion along this line. 

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

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

"Don't!" she shuddered. 

He waited a moment. 

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

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

He thought a moment. 

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

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

She rose to her feet all excitement. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her face brightened instantly. He seemed so decisive and sure. Thefact that he was so immediately active, that he did not wait untildaylight, when conditions would be best, but began the search in theface of apparent impossibility, brought her immediate confidence. Sheliked a man who would, without quoting the old saw, hunt for a needlein a haystack. 

She directed him to the telephone, and he summoned a cab. He returnedwith the question, "Do you know how much money he had?"

"Money? He had none. "

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

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

She stopped as abruptly as though a hand had been placed over hermouth. Her face clouded as though from some new and half forgottenfear. She glanced swiftly at Donaldson, as though to see if he hadread the ellipsis. 

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

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

Donaldson knew the meaning of that. Kleptomania was a characteristicsymptom. Victims of this habit had gone even further in their hotnecessity for money. 

"Perhaps, " she suggested hesitatingly, "perhaps this search to-nightmay inconvenience you financially. I wish you to feel free to spendwithout limit whatever you may find helpful. We have more than amplefunds. Unfortunately I have on hand only a little money, but as soonas I can get to my bank--"

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

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

She was looking at him anxiously. 

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

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

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

"You are kind to consider it so. "

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

She smiled courageously. 

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

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

"Good night, " he said again. 

He turned abruptly and opening the door stepped out into the cabwithout daring to look back. 

CHAPTER VII

_The Arsdales_

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

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

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

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

"Yes. "

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

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

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

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

"Very well, Marie. Good night. "

She kissed the old housekeeper upon the forehead and was going out whenshe heard the latter murmur as though to herself, "The black horse may mean Jacques. "

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

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

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

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

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

"But what--"

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

Horace Arsdale died in an asylum, and there were the usual ugly rumorsas to what brought him there. He left a son Benjamin, and Benjaminbuilt the present Arsdale house at a time when it was like building inthe wilderness. Here he shut himself up with his bride, a French girlhe had met on his travels. Ask any one who Benjamin Arsdale was andthey would be apt to answer, "Benjamin Arsdale? Oh, he is Benjamin Arsdale. They say he has agreat deal of talent and--money. "

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

His wife died within three years, some say from a broken heart, somesay from homesickness, leaving a boy child six months old. At thispoint Benjamin Arsdale's name disappeared even from the magazines, andsave to a very few people he was as though dead and buried beneath hisodd house. An old Frenchman, his wife, and his son Jacques Moissonseemed content to live there and look after the household duties. Someten years later a little girl of nine appeared, a niece of Arsdale's, it was said, and this completed the household, though old Pčre Moissondied in the course of time, leaving his wife and Jacques as a sort oflegacy to his old master, for a body-guard. The only reports of theinmates to the outside world came through the other servants who wereemployed here from time to time, and the most they had to say was thatArsdale was "queer, " and they did n't think it was the place to bringup young children, though the master did adore the very ground theywalked on. When the children were older, Arsdale was seen at concertsand the theatre with them, but seemed to resent any attempt on the partof well meaning acquaintances to renew social ties. People remarkedupon how old for his age he had grown, and some spoke in a whisper ofthe spirituality of his features. 

So much every one knew and that was nothing. What Elaine Arsdale, whomhe had legally adopted, knew, was what caused the white light about thebowed head of the man. When she first learned she could not tell, butas a very young girl she remembered days when he came to her with hisface very white and tense, and in his eyes the terror of one in greatpain, and said to her, "Little girl, will you sit with me a bit?"

So she would take a seat by the window in the library and he would faceher very quietly with his long fingers twined around the chair arms. He would not speak and she knew that he did not wish her to speak. Hewished for her only to sit there where he could see her. She was neverafraid, but at times there came into his eyes a look that tempted herto cry. Sometimes an hour, sometimes two hours passed, and then hewould rise to his feet and walk unsteadily towards her and say, "Now I may kiss your forehead, Elaine. "

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

Between these periods, which she did not understand save that in someway he suffered a great deal, he was to her the gentlest and kindestguardian that ever a girl had. He personally superintended her studiesand those of Ben, her only other playmate. The day was divided intoregular hours for work and play. In the morning at nine he met them inthe library and heard their lessons and gave them their tasks for thenext day. He seemed to know everything and had a way of making oneunderstand very difficult matters such as fractions and irregularFrench verbs. In the afternoon came the music lessons. He was anxiousfor them both to play well upon the violin, for he said that it hadbeen to him one of the greatest joys of his life. Each night beforebedtime he used to play for them himself and make her see finerpictures than even those she found in her fairy tales. But there wereother times when he could make his violin terrible. He used to punishBen in this way. When the latter had been over wilful, he made the boystand before him. Then taking a position in front of him, he playedthings so wild, so fearful, that the boy would beg for mercy. 

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

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

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

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

The only time that he had ever seemed the slightest bit angry at herwas once during that wonderful summer when he had taken them abroad. She was seventeen, and on the boat she met a man with whom she fell inlove. He was very much older than she, and possessed a gloriousmustache which turned up at the corners. He helped her up and down thedeck one day when the wind was blowing, and that night she lay awakethinking about him. When she appeared in the morning with her eyesheavy and her thoughts far away, the father put his arm about her andescorted her to the stern of the boat. Then sitting down beside her, he said, "Tell me what is on your mind, little girl. "

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

"He put those thoughts into your heart?"

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

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

"But you, dear Dada--"

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

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

They passed the next summer in the Adirondacks, and here in the deepwoods she spent the pleasantest period of her life. She was strangelyatune with the big pines and the fragrant shadows which lay beneaththem. Arsdale used to sit beside her in these solitudes and read aloudby the hour from the poets in his sweet musical voice. At such timesshe wondered more than ever what he had meant in that outburst on thesteamer. Here, too, he told her more of her mother who had died atalmost the same time that Ben's mother had died. But of the father allhe ever told her was, "My brother was an Arsdale--like the rest of us. "

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

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

She had promised, knowing well to what he referred. 

Then his face had hardened. 

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

"But, Dada--"

"Promise. "

She promised again, little thinking that the crisis of which he seemedto have a foreboding was so near at hand. A dark day came within twomonths when her soul was rent with the knowledge that he lay stark andcold in that very library where so much of his life had been lived. Marie gathered her into her arms and held her tight. She stared aghastat a world which frightened her by its emptiness. At her side stoodBen, his lips twitching, and in his eyes that haunting fear whichalways foreran the father's struggles. A month later the boy did notcome home one night, but came after three days, a feeble wreck of aman. She tore open the letter the father had left, and this took herto Barstow, with whom he had evidently left instructions. That wasfive months ago, and in the meanwhile she had grown from a very younggirl into a woman. 

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

CHAPTER VIII

_The Man Who Knew_

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hitting the pipe?"

"I 'm afraid so. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing. What makes you think there is?"

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

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

"Business picked up?"

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

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

On the way to Chung's Saul made one stop. With Donaldson at his heels, he darted down a side street, pushed open, without knocking, a dingydoor, went up a flight of stairs, along a dark hallway and down anotherflight, where he was stopped by a shadow. The big man spoke his name, and the shadow turned instantly from a guard to an obsequious servant. He opened the door and Saul strode across a narrow yard, stooping tobrush beneath the stout clothes-line hung with blankets, an innocentappearing wash, which however served as an effective barrier to any onewho might approach at a run. They entered the rear of a secondtenement which faced a parallel street, but which, oddly enough, had noentrance to its rear rooms from the front. Another shadow rose beforethem only to vanish as the round red face of Saul appeared. He pushedon into a long, low-ceilinged room lined with bunks, the air heavy withthe acrid dead smoke of opium. 

"Light, " demanded Saul. 

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

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

The Chinaman squirmed in terror, and when loosed was back again in ahurry with a lamp that lighted the whole room. Saul took it andexamined the nearest bunk. Donaldson glanced at the first face. Thatwas enough. He retreated to the door for fresh air. Down the linewent Saul, looking like some devil in Hell making tally of lost souls. He reached in and turned them, one after the other, face to the light, while Donaldson stood outside, dreading the call that should force himto look again. He was no man of the world and the reek of the placeappalled him. Nothing he had ever read conveyed anything of the plainsordidness of it, --the unrelieved pall of it which burdened like theweary dead stretch of an alkali desert. The scene did not even becomeromantic to him, until glancing up, he saw above the irregularroof-tops, the stars still bright in the virgin purple, saw theunfouled spaces of the planet fields between them. What had such cleanthings as the stars to do with this mired world below? This jeweledroof was not intended for so squalid a floor. But the stars abovebrought him back to the girl again, and she to her brother, and herbrother to this. Strange cycle! Then the stars and the blue gatheredthem all into one. Strange one!

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

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

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

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

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

"You been out of town?"

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

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

"Riverside Drive?"

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

"You on the case?" he asked indifferently, "Yes, " answered Saul. "I 'm on the case and if another one breaks, thecase and the Chief will be on me. "

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

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

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

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

"Allee light, " nodded the proprietor. 

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

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

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

Saul placed his hand affectionately upon Donaldson's shoulder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Guess you 're right, " he admitted. 

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

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

"Allee light. "

"_At once_, you understand?"

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX

_Dawn_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have news?" she exclaimed. 

"No, " he answered directly. 

She was a woman with whom one might be direct. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I looked them up. There is one at 9. 32. "

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

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

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

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

"That will make a good walk for me. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But--"

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

She hurried upstairs. 

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

"Safe? Why not?"

"I was going out to the bungalow. "

The old servant looked up shrewdly. 

"Is anything the matter?"

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

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

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

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

"Bien. "

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

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

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

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

"Why are you going?"

The woman in the mirror was relentless. 

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

"Why are you going?"

"Because the sun will give me strength. "

"Why are you going?"

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

Whereupon the woman in the mirror ceased her questioning. 

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

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

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

"Can you guard _her_?"

"That is unpardonable presumption, " replied Donaldson heatedly. 

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

"But a man may fight them off. "

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

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

"Then you are not all-powerful. "

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

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

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

CHAPTER X

_Outside the Hedge_

She came down the stairs, a vision of young womanhood, dressed inwhite, with a wide turn-down collar fastened at the throat by agenerous tie of black. Her hat was a girlish affair of black strawwith a cluster of red roses gathered at the brim. She was drawing onher black gloves as she neared him--with the background of the broadColonial staircase--a study for a master. She approached with thegrace of a princess and the poise of a woman twice her years. He nowcould have no more bade her remain behind than he could have stoppedthe progress of time. There was something almost inevitable in hermovements, as though it had been foreordained that they two should havethis day in the country, no matter under what evil auspices. Without aword he held open the door for her to pass through and followed herinto the cab. 

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

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

Up to now, she had given her attention to scanning the faces of themultitude they had passed in the faint hope that by some chance herbrother might be among them, but once the train started she surrenderedherself fully to the new hope which lay ahead of her in the bungalow. This gave her an opportunity to study more closely this man who sosuddenly had become her chief reliance in this intimate detail of herlife. His kindly good nature furnished her a sharp contrast to thesober seriousness of the older man with whom so much of her youth hadbeen lived. He had thrown open the doors and windows of the gloomyhouse in which she had so long been pent up. And yet as he rambled onin an evident attempt to lighten her burden, she caught a note thatpiqued her curiosity. It was as though below the surface he wasfretted by some problem which lent a touch of sadness to his heartycourageous outlook. She felt it, when once on the journey he broke out, "Don't ever look below the surface of anything I say. Don't ever tryto look beyond the next step I take. I'm here to-day; gone to-morrow. "

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

"Worse--because the grass is helpless. "

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

"Not if we are worthy of our souls. "

She frowned. 

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

"Less to blame than some others, perhaps. "

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

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

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

"Precisely. "

"Providing we are wise enough, " she returned. 

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

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

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

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

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

She laughed comfortably. He was one who would. She liked theuncompromising way in which his lips closed below his quick imaginativeeyes. 

It seemed but a matter of minutes before the train drew up at a toystation which looked like the suburban office of a real estatedevelopment company. Here they learned that the summer schedule wasnot yet in force, which meant that they would be unable to find a trainback until four o'clock. 

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

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

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

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

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

"That result alone will excuse my carelessness. "

She appeared a bit worried over a new thought. 

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

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

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

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

"Afraid of what?" demanded Donaldson. 

"Spooks. "

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

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

"How did that story start?"

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

The girl leaned forward excitedly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way without hesitationalong a grass-grown road and through an old orchard. The trees werescraggly and untrimmed, littered with dead branches, but Spring, themother, had decked them with green leaves and buds until they looked asjaunty as old people going to a fair. The sun sifted through thetender sprigs to the sprouting soil beneath, making there the semblanceof a choice rug of a green and gold pattern. The bungalow stood uponthe top of a small hill, concealed from the road. It was of ratherattractive appearance, though sadly in need of repair. All the windowswere curtained and there was no sign of life. The broad piazza whichran around three sides of it was cluttered with dead leaves. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He mounted the ladder quickly, and peered into the dark of theunlighted recess. He could make out nothing, and so clambered over abeam to the unfinished floor to wait until his eyes had become moreaccustomed to the shadows. His feet had scarcely touched a firmfoundation before he was conscious of a slight noise behind him. Heturned, and at the same moment a form hurled itself upon him. In thefrenzied movement of the hands for his throat, in the spasmodic clutchof the arms which clung animal-like about him he recognized the samemad, unreasoning passion with which young Arsdale had before attackedhim. He could not see his face, and the man uttered no cry. Thefellow's arms seemed stronger than before and even longer. But hehimself was stronger also, and so while the madman from behind claspedhis hands below Donaldson's throat, the latter managed to get his ownarms behind him and secure a firm grip on his assailant's trousers. Then he threw himself sideways and back as much as possible. They bothfell, and Donaldson in the scramble got to his side and shifted one armhigher up. The fall, too, loosened the man's strangle hold though hestill remained on top. Donaldson then fought to throw him off, but thefellow clung so close to his body that he was unable to secure apurchase. 

The fight now settled down to a trial of strength and endurance betweenthem. He strained his free arm as though to crush in this demon'sribs. He kicked out with his feet and knees; he dug his head into thefellow's chest. The latter clung without cry or word like a livingnightmare. His hand was creeping towards Donaldson's throat again. Hefelt it stealing up inch by inch and was powerless to check it. Herolled and tumbled and pushed. Then his head came down sharply on abeam and he lost consciousness. 

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

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

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

He was leaning against the ladder. 

CHAPTER XI

_A Parting and a Meeting_

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

"Are you injured?" she cried. 

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

"It was dark--up there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was still weak from the excitement of the last few minutes, but shefollowed closely at his heels while he went into every room and closetin the house without success. Once outside, he further made a carefulsearch of the grounds, but again without result. He felt chagrinedthat he had not been strong enough to hold the fellow. He had missedthe opportunity to put an end to her pitiful worry. 

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

"Yes, " she said eagerly. 

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

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

"I shall enjoy it, " he declared. 

They took the pleasant country road, side by side, and in five minuteshe had forgotten the episode in a confusion of thoughts that were cheapat the cost of a brief struggle with a madman. The wine of herpresence in this medley of blue sky, green grass, and springtimeperfume was a heady drink for one in his condition. The full-throatedbirds sang to him, and the booming insects hummed to him and her eyesprophesied to him of a thousand days like this which lay like roses inbud. He watched with growing awe the supple movement of her body, thetender arch of her neck, and the clear surface of her features everalive with the quick expression of her eager thoughts. She caught hisgaze once and colored prettily but without lowering her eyes. 

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

"And you?"

"I was born in just such surroundings. "

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

"Free?"

The word startled him. 

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

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

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

"And it is?"

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

"Then you are a slave?" she laughed. 

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

"You speak that like a king. "

"Or a slave. "

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

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

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

So he turned her away from the subject and breathed more easily. Shehad both loosed him and shackled him. What a procession of golden daysshe made him see, if only as a mirage. Freedom? If only he couldreturn to that little office and drudge for her unceasingly--toil andhack and hew at stubborn fortune merely in the consciousness that shewas somewhere in the world, that would be freedom. He knew it now asshe walked close beside him like a beautiful dream. There was no uselonger in parrying or feinting. The brush of her sleeve made himdizzy; the sound of her voice set the whole world to music. Howtrivial seemed the barriers which had loomed so formidable before him aday ago. Given the opportunities he had thrown away and he would hew apath to her as straight as a prairie railroad bed. He would do this, remaining true to his old dreams and to better dreams. He would faceNew York and tear a road through the very centre of it. He would ramevery steel-tipped ideal to its black heart. And all the inspirationhe needed to give him this power was the knowledge that somewhere inone of its million crannies, this fragile half formed woman was there, seeing the sky with her silver gray eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are generalizing?" she asked tentatively. 

"I am sentimentalizing, " he answered abruptly, suddenly coming tohimself. He was more personal than he had any right to be. It did nogood to become maudlin over what was irrevocably decided. The Present. He must cling to that one idea. Let him drink in the sunshine while itlasted; let him absorb as much of her as he could without taking onetittle from her. 

His phrase had piqued her curiosity once more. She would like to knowthe inner meaning of his impatient eyes, the explanation of why hislips closed with such spasmodic firmness. There was somethingtantalizing in this reserve which he seemed to try so hard to maintain. She would like to deserve his confidences. He aroused her sympathy--ashy desire to be tender to him just because in his rugged strengththere seemed to be nothing else but this for which he could need awoman. But as he glanced up she colored at the presumption of herthoughts. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ben?" faltered the girl. 

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

"Ben was here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Again?" she demanded. 

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

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

She drew the young woman down beside her. 

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

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

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

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

She went downstairs to Donaldson. For reasons of her own she did notdare to tell him of this fresh complication, but she insisted that heshould bother himself no more to-night with the matter. 

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

Home? The word was flat again. 

"And you?" he inquired. 

"I shall try to sleep, too. "

"You have a bolt on your door?"

"Yes. "

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

She nodded. 

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

"There is one in the hall. "

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

"You are good. "

"You will not hesitate?"

"No. "

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

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

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

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

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

She placed her hand lightly upon his sleeve. 

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

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

"You must go now, " she insisted. 

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

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

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

He determined to dine somewhere down town and then spend the evening ata theatre. It was not what he wished, but he did not dare to go backto his room. He did not crave the movement of the crowds as he hadlast night, and yet he felt the need of something that would keep himfrom thinking. He jumped into the waiting cab and was driven to ParkRow, where he got out. He had not eaten anything all day and feltfaint. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks. Where 's the kid?"

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

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

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

He pushed his way through to the sidewalk, followed by the admiringthrong, and hurried along to the nearest cab. He shoved the boyquickly into this and followed after as the photographers gave one lastdespairing snap. 

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

He turned to the boy. 

"Are you hurt?"

"No. Are youse?"

"Not a mite. Where were you bound?"

"Home. "

"Where is that?"

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

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

"Gee. I never saw the rope. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How'd you do it?"

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

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

"Dead, " answered the boy laconically. 

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

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

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

Bobby yawned. 

CHAPTER XII

_District Messenger 3457_

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

Take it between four and five in the afternoon, which was a couple ofhours before Bobby was expected home, and in consequence, at least anhour and a half before anything was astir in the way of supper, thingsgot sort of lonesome looking and dull to Sis, daughter of the house. Ten to one that the baby--the tow-headed youngest--was a bit fussy; tento one the mother gave you a sharp answer if you spoke to her, though, considering everything, she was remarkably patient; ten to one thatevery torn and cracked thing in the room became so conspicuous that youfelt like a poor lone orphan girl and wanted to cry. If you did n'tlive below the sidewalk this was apt to go on until it was time to getsupper, but here, in order to see to do the mending, the lamp waslighted, even in May, an hour or so earlier than the fire. 

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

On this particular night Sis had just lost herself in her thumbwornvolume of Grimm's Fairy Tales when--there came a kick on the outsidedoor and the sound of two voices coming down the short hall. The nextminute Bobby entered with his clothes all mud and behind him a strangegentleman. 

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

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

She lifted her thin, angular face from the boy to Donaldson. Thelatter explained, "He got tangled up a bit with an automobile, but I guess the machinegot the worst of it. At any rate your boy is all right. "

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

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

The directness of the woman, her self control, her simplicity, enlistedDonaldson's interest at once. He had expected hysterics. He wouldhave staked his last dollar that the woman came from Vermont. Hisobservant eyes had in these few minutes covered everything in the room, including the long-handled dipper by the faucet used for dipping intopails sweating silver mist, the wooden clock upon the mantelpiece, andthe Hicks Almanac hanging below it. He felt as though he were standingin a Berringdon kitchen with acres of green outside the windowssweeping in a circle off to the little hills, the acres of forestgreen, and the big hills beyond. 

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

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

He held the child up to Donaldson. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I hope this will teach you a lesson, Bobby Wentworth, " scoldedthe mother, now that after various proddings she had determined to hersatisfaction that none of the boy's bones were broken. "I wish to theLord you was back where the hills are so steep there ain't noautomobiles. "

Donaldson broke in. 

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

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

"In New England?"

"Berringdon, Vermont. "

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

"He was Jim Wentworth, the oldest"

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

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

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

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

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

The steel blue eyes grew moist. 

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

"Or I. You left--"

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

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

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

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

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

He had argued to Barstow that he was shirking no responsibilities, --butwhat of such unseen responsibilities as this? What of the thousandothers that he should die too soon to realize? It was possible thatcountless other such opportunities as this must be wasted because heshould not be there to play his part. But there was still time to dosomething; he need not see, as with the girl and with love, the finepossibilities go utterly to waste. 

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

"How old was Jim?"

"He was within a week of thirty. "

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

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

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

"What became of the homestead?"

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

"Who lives there now?"

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

"Who holds it?"

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

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

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

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

She smiled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It 's the place for them. "

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

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

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

"Perhaps. Perhaps, " he said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Peter Donaldson!"

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

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

There were tears in her eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

"But you did n't know Jim!"

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

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

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

"You are rich? You can afford this?"

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

"Oh, you are generous!"

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

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

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

"You must listen carefully to what I tell you, " he said, "for I may notbe able to see you again before you leave. Do you think you can getready without any help?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gee!" he gasped. 

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

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

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

"With whom do you wish to talk?"

"With Deacon Staples. "

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

CHAPTER XIII

_The Sleepers_

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

"Is this Deacon Staples?"

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

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

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

"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I heard you had a house to sell. "

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

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

The deacon hesitated. He was a bit confused by this unusual way ofdoing business. It was too hurried an affair, and besides it did notgive him an opportunity to size up his man. Nor did he know howfamiliar this possible purchaser was with the property. 

"Where be you?" he demanded. 

"In New York. "

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

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

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

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

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

"Hush, Deacon, there are ladies present. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I 'low as much. "

"Deacon. "

"Yes" (eagerly). 

"You 're a member of the church. "

"Yes" (lamely). 

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

"What--"

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

"What of it?" (suspiciously). 

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

There was a silence of a minute. 

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

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

"Ye mean ter say--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you won't trade at all. "

"I 'll split th'--"

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

"I'll take it, but--"

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

"If yer--"

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

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

"Gol darn--"

"Careful! Careful!"

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

A sharp click told him that the deacon had hung up the receiver insomething of a temper. Donaldson came out of the booth, hesitated, andthen put in another call. He found relaxation in the vaudevillepicture he had of the spindle-shanked hypocrite fretting in the cold somany miles distant. He was morally certain that the old fellow hadrobbed the dying Burnham of half his scant property. If he had had thetime he would have started a lawyer upon an investigation. As he didn't, and he saw nothing more entertaining ahead of him until morning, he took satisfaction in pestering him as much as possible in thissomewhat childish way. 

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

It took ten minutes to rouse the deacon again. 

"Is this Deacon Staples?" he inquired. 

"Consarn ye--"

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

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

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

"For what?"

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

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

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

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

"B--back where?"

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

"Be you crazy?"

"Look behind you--quick!"

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

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

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

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

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

He hungered to get back to his old office, where, if he could findnothing else to do for her, he could at least bury himself in his lawbooks. This unknown man strode across the lobby so confidently--everysturdy line of him suggesting blowsy strength. The unknown womantripped along at his heels in absolute trust of it. And he, Donaldson, sat here, a helpless spectator, with a worthier woman trusting him asthough he were such a man. 

In rebellion he argued that it was absurd that such a passion as histowards a woman of whom he had seen so little should be genuine. Hiscondition had made him mawkishly sentimental. He had been fascinatedlike a callow youngster by her delicate, pretty features; by her deepgray eyes, her budding lips, her gentle voice. He would be writingverse next. He was free--free, and in one stroke he had placed theworld at his feet. He was above it--beyond it, and every living humansoul in it. He rose as though to challenge the hotel itself, whichrepresented the crude active part of this world. 

But with the memory of his afternoon, his declaration of independencelasted but a moment. He was back in the green fields with her--back inthe blazing sunshine with her, and the knowledge that from there, nothere, the road began along which lay everything his eager nature craved. 

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

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

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

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

The clerk appeared relieved by the sound of his voice. 

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

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

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

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

The clerk smiled tentatively. 

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

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

The clerk hitched uneasily. It was evident to him that Donaldson hadbeen drinking, and had the usual morning-after reluctance aboutadmitting it. The night telephone operator had said that he had actedqueer. However, as long as the man was n't dead this did n't concernhim. 

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

"Good lord, man, what call?"

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

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

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

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

Donaldson gave the number and waited, every pulse beat of timethrobbing hot through his temples. She had called and been unable torouse him, while he lay there like a yokel and dreamed of her! Heconjured up visions of all sorts of disaster. The boy might havereturned and--he shuddered and drew back from the suggestion. Herefused to imagine. He beat a tattoo with the inane hook which summonsCentral. 

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

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

Again the interminable wait; again the dead reply. He hung up thereceiver. The hallucinations which swarmed through his brain taken inconnection with the meaningless talk of the hotel employees made himfear an instant for his sanity. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl--

CHAPTER XIV

_Consequences_

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

Donaldson received no response to his ring. He tried the latch andfound the door locked. On a run he skirted the house to the rear. Theback door was open. He pushed through into the cold kitchen, throughthis into the dining room, and so into the hall. There was no signeither of the servant or of the girl herself. He was now thoroughlyalarmed. 

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

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

He paused. 

"You are Marie?" he demanded. 

"Bien, and you?"

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

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

"Miss Arsdale, " called Donaldson, "is anything the trouble? It isI--Donaldson. "

"You!"

Her voice, which had at first sounded weary, as the voice of one whohas waited a long while, gathered strength. 

"It is all right, Marie, " she called. "This--this is my friend. "

Marie relaxed and gripped the banister for support. She was weak. 

"I have never seen him before, " she challenged. 

There was a movement at the door. 

"No, you have never seen him. Come here a moment, Marie. "

With difficulty the old woman hobbled back into the room to hermistress, and for a few moments Donaldson waited impatiently for thenext development. It came when he heard her voice asking him to comein. He was in the room in three strides. She was sitting in her chairwith her head bandaged, Marie sitting by her side as though liking butlittle his intrusion. At sight of the white strip across her forehead, he caught his breath. 

"What does this mean?" he demanded with quick assumption of authority. 

"You must n't think it is anything serious, " she hastened to explain, awed by the fierceness of his manner. "It is only that--that he cameback. "

"Arsdale?"

"Yes. "

"Where is he now?"

"He went away again. Marie and I tried to hold him, but we weren'tstrong enough. "

"It would be easier to hold the devil, " interpolated Marie. 

"But you, " asked the girl, --"I was afraid you had met with an accident. "

"I?" he cried. "I was asleep--asleep like a drunken lout. "

"All yesterday--all last night?" she asked in astonishment. 

"Yes, " he admitted, as though it were an accusation. 

"Ah, that is good, " she replied. "You needed the rest. "

"Needed rest, and you in this danger?" he exclaimed contemptuously. "It was unpardonable of me. "

"No! No! Don't say that. You could have done nothing had you beenhere. "

"If ever I get my hands on him again, " he cried below his breath. 

"Mon Dieu, " broke in Marie. "If I, too--"

"Hush, " interrupted the girl. "It is quite useless for any of us toattempt more until his money gives out. He came back and found a fewdollars in my purse. "

She had fought this madman, she and this rheumatic old woman, while hehad slept! She had called to him and he had not answered! The bloodwent hot to his cheeks. It was enough to make a man feel craven. 

The wounded girl rested her bandaged head on the back of the chair. Atthe light in Donaldson's eyes, Marie straightened herself aggressively. 

"Are you badly hurt?" he asked quietly. 

"Only a bump, " she laughed, remembering how he had stood by the ladder. "Marie insisted upon this, " she added, lightly touching the cloth abouther forehead. 

"A bump?" snorted Marie. "It is a miracle that she was not altogetherkilled. She--"

But a hand upon the old servant's arm checked her indignation. 

"You two women cannot remain here any longer alone, " he saidauthoritatively. "Either you must allow me to take you to the shelterof some friend or--"

"There is no one, " she interrupted quickly. "No one to whom I would goin this condition. They would not understand. "

"Then, " he said, "I must secure a nurse for you. "

"Am I not able to care for the p'tite?" demanded Marie. "A nurse!"

"A nurse is needed to care for you both. I am going downstairs now tosummon one. "

She protested feebly, and Marie vigorously, but he was insistent. 

"I ought to call your family physician--"

"No, Mr. Donaldson, you must not do that. "

She was firm upon this point, so he went below to do what else he might. 

At the telephone he found the explanation of his inability to get thehouse in the fact that the receiver was hanging loose. It was anotheraccusation. Doubtless in her weakened condition she had dropped itfrom her hand and turned away, too dazed to replace it. The hot shameof it dried his tongue so that he could scarcely make himselfunderstood. In spite of this he accomplished many things in a very fewminutes. The operator gave him the number of a near-by reliable nurse, and finding her in, he sent off the cab for her. Then through anemployment bureau he secured a cook who agreed to reach the housewithin an hour. He then telephoned the nearest market and orderedeverything he could think of from beefsteak to fruit, and to this addedeverything the marketman could think of. He had no sooner finishedthan the nurse arrived. 

By the greatest good luck Miss Colson proved to be young, cheerful, andcapable. She followed Donaldson upstairs and succeeded in winning theconfidence of both the girl and Marie at once. Donaldson left themtogether. A little while later he was allowed to come up again. 

"I feel like an unfaithful knight, " he said, as he entered. "I deserveto be dismissed without a word. "

"Because you slept? It was not your fault. I fear I have left youlittle time for rest. "

"Why did n't you tell them to break down the doors--to _get_ me!"

Her face clouded for a moment. 

She saw how chagrined he still felt. 

"Don't blame yourself, " she pleaded. "It's all over anyway and you 'vedone everything possible. You 've been very thoughtful. "

"I was a fool to leave you here. I should have stayed. "

"That was impossible. "

Donaldson marveled that she could pass off the whole episode sogenerously. He refrained from questioning her further as to what hadhappened. It was unnecessary, for he knew well enough. 

"Let us choose a pleasanter subject, " she said. "Tell me how youbecame a great hero. "

"A sorry hero, " he answered, not understanding what she meant. 

"No. No. It was fine! It was fine!"

He was bewildered. 

"You don't mean to say you have n't seen the papers--but then, ofcourse, you have n't, if you were asleep all day Sunday. Please bringme that pile in the corner. "

He handed them to her and she unfolded the first page of the uppermostpaper. He found himself confronting a picture of himself as he hadstood, the centre of an admiring crowd, in front of the big machinewhich had so nearly killed Bobby. 

He shared the first page with the latest guesses concerning theRiverside robberies. 

"Well, " he stammered, "I 'd forgotten all about that!"

"Forgotten such an act! You don't half realize what a hero you are. Listen to the headlines, 'Heroic Rescue, ' 'Young Lawyer GivesRemarkable Exhibition of Nerve, ' 'The Name of Lawyer DonaldsonMentioned for Carnegie Medal, ' 'Bravest Deed of the Year, ' 'Faced DeathUnflinchingly. '"

And the pitiful feature of it was that he must sit and listen to thisundeserved praise from her lips. That, knowing deep in his heart hisown unworthiness, he must face her and see her respond to those thingsas though he really had been worthy. He, who had done the act underoath, was receiving the reward of a man who would have done it with nofalse stimulus. He, who had been unconsciously braced to it by thefact that he had so little to lose, was receiving the praise due only aman who risks all the happiness of a long life. He had faced deathafter flinching from life. He was sick of his hypocrisy; he would befrank with himself. He would be frank with her; he had a right to itthis once. He pressed down the paper she was reading. 

"Don't repeat it, " he commanded. "It is n't true! It's all wrong!"

"What do you mean?"

"That it's all a lie!"

"But here 's your picture. And _that 's_ you. "

"Oh, the naked facts are true. But the rest about, --" it was hard todo this with her eyes upon him, "the rest about being a hero--aboutnerve and bravery. It's rot! It is n't so!"

She threw back her head, resting it upon the top of her chair, andlaughed gently. The color had come back into her cheeks and even thedark below her eyes seemed to fade. 

"Of course, " she returned, "you would n't be a truly hero if you knewyou were one. "

"But I know I 'm not. "

"Of course and so you are!"

The impulse was strong within him to pour out to her the whole bitterstory. Better to stand shorn and true before her than garbed in suchfalse colors as these. But as before, he realized that her own welfareforbade even this relief. 

The nurse approached with a cheery smile, but with an unmistakable airof authority. 

"You will pardon me, " she interrupted, "but we must keep Miss Arsdaleas quiet as possible. I think she ought to try to sleep a little now. "

Sorry as he was to go, Donaldson was relieved to know that he wasleaving her in such good hands. 

The ringing of the front door-bell startled her. She shrank back inher chair. The nurse was at her side instantly. 

"You had better leave at once, " she whispered to Donaldson. 

"It's only the new cook, " he answered. 

He went downstairs and ushered her in, and led her to the kitchen. 

"The place is yours, " he said, waving his hands about the room, "andall you 've got to do is to cook quickly and properly whatever order issent down to you. Get that?"

The woman nodded, but glanced suspiciously about the deserted quarters. The place looked as when first opened in the Fall, after the returnfrom the summer vacation. 

"The family, " Donaldson went on to explain, "consists of three. If yousucceed in satisfying this group I 'll give you an extra ten at the endof the week. "

"I 'll do it, sor. "

She looked as though she was able. 

"Anything more you want to know?"

"The rist of the help, sor, --"

"You 're all of it, " he answered briefly. 

Before leaving the house he did one thing more to allay his fears. Hecalled up a private detective bureau and ordered them to keep watch ofthe house night and day until further notice. They were to keep theireyes open for any slightly deranged person who might seek an entrance. In the event of capturing him, they were to take him into the house andput him to bed, remaining at his side until he, Donaldson, arrived. 

Then he ordered his cab to the restaurant of Wun Chung. 

CHAPTER XV

_The Derelict_

Chung had news for him; he had not yet found Arsdale, but his menreported that yesterday the boy had been concealed at Hop Tung's, whereSaul had first suspected him to be. The evil-eyed proprietor hadhidden him, half in terror of Arsdale himself and half through lust ofhis money. Finally, however, fearing for the young man's sanity he hadthrown him out upon the street. It would go hard with the yellow rat, Chung declared, for such treachery as this to the Lieutenant. 

"It may go hard with all of you, " replied Donaldson significantly. "But you 've another chance yet; the boy is back here somewhere. Findhim within twenty-four hours and I'll help you with Saul. "

"He clome black?" exclaimed Chung. 

"Sometime early this morning. "

If the boy was in the neighborhood, Chung asserted eagerly, he wouldfind him within an hour or hang the cursed-of-his-ancestors, Tung, byhis pigtail from his own window. 

"Which is better than being locked up in jail. Are you children, "Donaldson exploded, "that you can be duped like that?"

Chung appeared worried. But his slant eyes contracted until scarcelymore than the eye-lashes were revealed. However inactive he may havebeen up to now, Donaldson knew that an end had come to hissluggishness. When Chung left the room there was determination inevery wrinkle of his loose embroidered blouse. 

So there were some nooks in Chinatown, mused Donaldson, that even Sauldid not know. The longer he sat there, the more indignant he became atthe treachery of this moon-faced traitor who was indirectly responsiblefor the nightmare through which the girl had passed. Yet, as herealized, no more responsible than he himself. He had been a thousandtimes more unfaithful to the girl than Tung had been to Saul. 

Chung returned with a brew of his finest tea. He was loquacious. Hetried one subject after another, interjecting protestations of hisfriendship for Saul. Donaldson heard nothing but the even voice andthe sibilant dialect. He seemed chained to that one torturing picture. Even the prospect of finding the boy and so ending the suspense whichhad battered Miss Arsdale's nerves for so long brought little relief. He never could be needed again as he had been needed then. He mighteven have been able to detain Arsdale and so have avoided this presentcrisis. He felt all the pangs of an honest sentry who, asleep at hispost, awakes to the fact that the enemy has slipped by him in the night. 

It was well within the hour when Chung's lieutenant glided in with amessage that brought a suave smile to the face of his master. 

"Allee light, " he announced, beaming upon Donaldson. "Gellelumdlownslairs. "

"You've found him!"

"In callage, " nodded Chung, with the genial air of a clergyman aftercompleting a marriage ceremony. 

Donaldson reached the carriage before Chung had descended the firsthalf-dozen steps. He opened the door and saw a limp, unkempt formsprawled upon the seat. He recognized it instantly as Arsdale. Butthe man was in no condition to be carried home. He must take himsomewhere and watch over him until he was in a more presentable shape. But one place suggested itself, --his own apartments. 

Donaldson paused. He must take this bedraggled, disheveled remnant ofa man to the rooms which stood for rich cleanliness. He must soil thenice spotlessness of the retreat for which he had paid so dearly. Inview of the little he had so far enjoyed of his costly privileges, thislast imposition seemed like a grim joke. 

"To the Waldorf, " he ordered the driver with a smile. 

He himself climbed up on the box where he could find fresh air. At thehotel he bribed a bellboy to help him with the man to his room by wayof the servant's entrance. Then he telephoned for the hotel physician, Dr. Seton. 

Before the doctor arrived Donaldson managed to strip the clothes fromthe senseless man and to roll him into bed. Then he sat down in achair and stared at him. 

"It's an opium jag, " he explained, as soon as Dr. Seton came in, "butthat is n't the worst feature of it. I 'm tied here to him until hecomes to. I can't tell you how valuable my time is to me. I want youto take the most heroic measures to get him out of it as soon aspossible. "

"Very well, we 'll clear his system of the poison. But we can't be tooviolent. We must save his nerves. "

"Damn his nerves, " Donaldson exclaimed. "He doesn't deserve nerves. "

The doctor glanced sharply from his patient to Donaldson himself. Henoted the latter's pupils, his tense lips, his tightened fingers. Hehad jumped at the word poison, like a murderer at the word police. 

"See here, " he demanded, "you have n't any of this stuff in you, haveyou?"

"No, " answered Donaldson, calmly. 

"Anything else the matter with you?"

"Nothing but nervousness, I guess. I 've been under something of astrain recently. "

Donaldson turned away. He was afraid of the keen eyes of this man. Barstow had not experimented very long with the stuff; perhaps, afterall, it did produce symptoms. But he reassured himself the nextminute, remembering that the drug was unknown. Barstow had notrevealed his discovery to any one. If he showed a dozen symptoms theywould be unrecognizable. 

The doctor dropped his questioning and turned to his patient. Hesubjected the man to the stomach-pump and hot baths. Donaldsonassisted and watched every detail of the vigorous treatment withincreasing interest. At the end of two hours Arsdale was allowed tosleep. 

Seton put on his coat and wrote out instructions for the further careof the man. But before leaving he again turned his shrewd eyes uponDonaldson himself. 

"My boy, " he said kindly, "you ought to pay some attention to your ownhealth. I hate to see a man of your age go to pieces. "

He squinted curiously at Donaldson's eyes. The latter withdrew alittle. 

"What makes you think there is anything wrong with me?" he asked. 

"Your eyes for one thing, " he answered. 

"Nonsense. If I need anything, its only a good sweating, such as yougave Arsdale. "

"There are some poisons not so easily sweated out. "

Donaldson hesitated. While watching this man at work upon the boy, hehad felt a temptation which was now burning hot within him. It waspossible that it was not too late even now to clean his own system ofthe drug he had swallowed. This man, he knew, would bring to his aidall the wisdom of medical science. Barstow may have been mistaken, although he knew the careful chemist well enough to realize this waswell nigh an impossibility. The next second he held out his hand. Itwas steady. He smiled as he saw Seton pause a moment to note if ittrembled. 

"Thanks for all you 've done, doctor, " he said. "Do you think I cantake him home tomorrow?"

"If you follow my instructions. The boy really has a sound physique. He ought to pull out quickly. "

As the door closed upon the doctor, Donaldson drew a breath of relief. Thank God he had resisted his impulse. He would keep true to hiscompact. He must remain true to himself. That was all that was nowleft. There must be no shirking--no flinching. If he had played thefool, he must not play the coward. The subtle tempter had suggestedthe girl, but he realized that he had better not come to her at allthan to come as one who had played unfairly with himself. To beunfaithful to the spirit of his undertaking would be as weak a thing asnot to fulfill the letter of his oath. His shadowy duty to the girlwould not justify himself in evading a crisis demanding his life forthe life of another, nor would it vindicate the greater evasion. Itwas a matter of honor to remain true to that which at the start hadjustified the whole hazard to him. It was this which restrained himeven from learning whether or not Barstow was in town. 

The man on the bed was breathing heavily, his lips moving at everybreath in a way to form a grimace. He made in this condition the wholeroom as tawdry as a tavern tap. And at the feet of this thing he wastossing his meager store of golden minutes. 

Yet it was through this inert medium alone that Miss Arsdale could paythe debt to the father who had been so good to her; and it was onlythrough this same unsightly shell that he, Donaldson, could in his turnrepay his debt for the dreams she had quickened in him. 

He stepped to the telephone to tell her what he could of that which hehad found and done. The mere sound of her voice as it came over thewire brightened the room like a flood of light. The joy in it as shelistened to what he had accomplished was payment enough for all he hadsacrificed. He told her that the doctor had advised keeping the boy infor at least another day. 

"Oh, but you are good!" she exclaimed. "And you will not leavehim--you will guard him against running off again?"

"I shall stay here at his side until it is absolutely safe to go. "

"If I could only come down!"

"But you must n't. You must stay where you are and do as you 're told. "

"It will be only for to-day and to-night, won't it?"

"Probably that is all. "

"That is n't very long. "

"Not as time goes. "

"But it will seem long. "

"Will it--to you?"

He regretted the question the moment it had been uttered. But it cameto his lips unbidden. 

"Of course, " she answered. 

"It will seem very long to me, " he returned slowly. "Almost alifetime. "

"Perhaps you will telephone now and then. "

"Very often, if I may. "

"The nurse says she 'll not allow me to answer the telephone after nineat night. "

"Nine to-night is a long way off yet. "

"It's only half a day. "

"But that's twelve hours!"

"Do you think that long?"

"Yes. That seems a very long while to me. "

"It is soon gone. "

"Too soon. "

"Then comes the night and then the morning and then you 'll bring himhome. "

"Then I 'll bring him home. "

What a new meaning that word home had when it fell from her lips. Whata new meaning everything had. 

She turned aside to address some one in the room and then her voicecame in complaint. 

"The nurse is here with my medicine. "

"Then close your eyes and swallow it quickly. I 'll telephone youlater and inquire how it tasted. "

"Thank you. Good bye. "

"Good bye. "

He hung up the receiver and settled down to the grim task of countingthe passing minutes which were draining his life as though each minutewere a drop of blood let from an artery. And all the company he hadfor it was this poor devil on the bed who grimaced as he breathed. 

He folded his arms. If this, too, was a part of the cost he must payit like a man. 

CHAPTER XVI

_The Fourth Day_

The morning of Tuesday, May twenty-eighth, found Donaldson stillsitting in the chair, facing the form upon the bed. He had notundressed, and had slept less than an hour. He was now waiting foreight o'clock, when he had received permission from the nurse to ringup Miss Arsdale again. 

With some tossing Arsdale had slept on without awaking fully enough tobe conscious of his surroundings. Now, however, Donaldson became awarethat the fellow's brain was clearing. He watched the process with someinterest. It was an hour later before the man began to realize that hewas in a strange room, and that another was in the room with him. Itwas evident that he was trying hard, and yet with fear of whither theroad might lead him, to trace himself back. He had singled outDonaldson for some time, observing him through half-closed eyes, beforehe ventured to speak. 

"Where am I?" he finally faltered huskily. 

"In my charge. "

"Who are you?"

"One Donaldson. "

"I never heard of you. "

"That is not improbable. "

Arsdale reflected upon this for some time before he gained courage toproceed further. 

"I 'm going to get up, " he announced, at the end of some five minutes. 

"No, you 're not. You are going to stay right where you are. "

"What right have you to keep me here?" he demanded. 

"The right of being stronger than you. "

Arsdale struggled feebly to his elbow, but Donaldson pushed him backwith a pressure that would not have made a child waver. He stoodbeside him wondering just how much the dulled brain was able to grasp. The long night had left him with little sympathy. The more he hadthought of that blow, the greater the aversion he felt towards Arsdale. If the boy had n't struck her he would feel some pity for him, but thatblow given in the dark against a defenseless woman--the one woman whohad been faithful and kind to him--that was too much. It had raiseddark thoughts there in the night. 

Arsdale, his pupils contracted to a pin-point, stared back at him. Yethis questions proved that he was now possessed of a certain amount ofintelligence. If he was able to realize that he was in a strangeplace, he might be able to realize some other things that Donaldson wasdetermined he _should_. 

"You are n't very clear-headed yet, but can you understand what I amsaying to you now?"

Arsdale nodded weakly. 

"Do you remember anything of what you did yesterday?" he demanded, in avibrant voice that engraved each word upon the sluggish brain. 

"No, " answered the man quailing. 

"No? Then I'll tell you. You came back to the house and you struckyour sister. "

"No! No! Not that! I didn't do that. "

Donaldson responded to a new hope. This seemed to prove that theconscience of the man was not dead. It came to him as a relief. Hewas relentless, not out of hate, but because so much depended uponestablishing the fact that the fellow still had a soul. 

"Yes. You did, " he repeated, his fingers unconsciously closing intohis palms. "You struck her down. "

"Good God!"

"Think of that a while and then I 'll tell you more. "

"Is she hurt, is she badly hurt?"

Without replying Donaldson returned to his chair on the opposite sideof the bed and watched him as a physician might after injecting amedicine. Arsdale stared back at him in dumb terror. Donaldson couldalmost see the gruesome pictures which danced witch-like through hisdisordered brain. He did n't enjoy the torture, but he must know justhow much he had upon which to work. 

It was in the early hours of the morning that Donaldson had becomeconscious of the new and tremendous responsibility which rested uponhim. To leave Arsdale behind him alive in such a condition as thiswould be to leave the curse upon the girl, --would be to desert her tohandle this mad-man alone. He had seen red at the thought of it. Itwould be to brand his own act with unpardonable cowardice; it would beto go down into his grave with the helpless cries of this woman ringingin his ears; it would be to shirk the greatest and most sacred dutythat can come to a man. The cold sweat had started upon his foreheadat the thought of it. 

The inexorable alternative was scarcely less ghastly. Yet in the faceof this other the alternative had come as a relief. If it cost him hisimmortal soul, this other should not be left behind to mar a fair andunstained life. He would throttle him as he lay there upon the bedbefore he would leave him behind to this. He would go to his doom amurderer before he would leave Arsdale alive to do a fouler murder. That should be his final sacrifice, --his ultimate renunciation. In itsfirst conception he had been appalled by the idea, but slowly itsinevitability had paralyzed thought. It had made him feel almostimpersonal. Considering the manner in which he had been thrust intoit, it seemed, as it were, an ordinance of Fate. 

Though this had now become fixed in his mind, there was still the scanthope that he had grasped from what he had observed in Arsdale's manner. Given the morsel of a man, and there was still hope. Therefore it waswith considerable interest that he watched for some evidence of thehigher nature, even if only expressed in the crude form of shame. Attimes Arsdale looked like a craven cornered to his death--at times likea man struggling with a great grief--at times like a man dazed anduncomprehending. 

To himself he moaned continuously. Frequently he rose to his elbowwith the cry, "Is she hurt?"

Still in silence Donaldson watched him. Once Arsdale fell forward onhis chin, where he lay motionless, his eyes still upon Donaldson. Thelatter helped him back to the pillow, but Arsdale shrank from his touch. 

"Your eyes!" he gasped, covering his own with his trembling hand. "They are the eyes of a devil. Take them off me--take them off!"

But Arsdale could not endure his blindness long. It made the uglyvisions worse. So, he saw the girl with red blood streaming down hercheeks. 

The sight of this writhing soul raised many new speculations inDonaldson's mind especially in connection with its possible outcome. In the matter of religion he was negative, neither believing anyprofessed creed nor denying any. He had received no early impetus, andhad up to now been too preoccupied with his earthly interests, with nogreat grief or happiness to arouse him, to formulate any theory in hisown mind. Even at the moment he had swallowed the poison the motiveprompting him to it had been so intensely material that it had startedbut the most momentary questions. It was the thought of Mrs. Wentworth, the sight of the baby, the indefinable boundaries of his ownlove--it was love that pressed the question in upon him. Now the otherextreme embodied in the sight of the man before him, capped by theacute query of what the sin of murder might mean, sharpened it to areal concern. If such love as the mother and the girl connoted forbadethe conception that love expired with life, the torture of this otherstunted soul seemed prophetic of what might be awaiting his own future, dwarfed by the shifty expedient he had adopted to check itsdevelopment. If punishment counted for anything, he was, to be sure, receiving his full portion right here on earth. The realization ofwhat he was leaving was an inquisition of the most exquisite order. But would this be the end? His consciousness, as he sat there, refusedto allow the hope, --refused even to allow the hope to be desired. 

So, face to face, each of these two struggled with the problem of hisnext step. To each of them life had a new and terrible significance. From a calm sea it had changed to wind-rent chaos. It was revealingits potentialities, --lamb-like when asleep, lion-like when roused. Tangle-haired Tragedy had stalked forth into the midst of men goingabout their business. 

The man on the bed broke out again, "Why did n't I die before that? Why did n't I die before?"

Then he turned upon Donaldson with a new horror in his eyes. 

"I did n't kill her?" he gasped. 

The answer to his cry came--though he could not interpret it--in theringing of the telephone. Donaldson crossed to it, while Arsdalecowered back in bed as though fearing this were news of some freshdisaster. To him the broken conversation meant nothing; to Donaldsonit brought a relief that saved him almost from madness. 

"Is that you, Mr. Donaldson?" she asked. 

"Yes. And you--you are well?"

There was a pause, and then came the query again, "Is that you?"

"Yes, can't you hear my voice?"

"It does n't sound like your voice. Is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing. I don't understand what you mean. "

She hesitated again and then answered, "It--it made me almost afraid. "

"It's your nerves. Did you sleep well?"

"Yea. And is Ben all right?"

"Yes. "

"There it is again, " she broke in. "Your voice sounds harsh. "

"That must be your imagination. "

"Perhaps, " she faltered. "Are you going to bring him home to-day?"

"Probably not until this evening. But, " he broke in, "I shall comesooner myself. I shall come this morning. Will you tell thatgentleman waiting near the gate to come down here?"

"What gentleman?"

"You probably have n't seen him. I put him there on guard. "

"You are thoughtful. Your voice is natural again. Is Ben awake now?"

"Yes. "

"And does he know?"

"Some things. "

"Mr. Donaldson, " she said, and he caught the shuddering fear in hervoice, "are you keeping anything from me?"

"I don't know what you mean, but I will come up so that you may seethere has been no change. "

"I still think you are concealing something. "

"Nothing that is not better concealed; nothing that you could help. "

"I should rather know. I do not like being guarded in that way. "

"We all have to guard one another. You in your turn guard me. "

"From what?"

"Many things. You are doing it now--this minute. "

"From what?" she insisted. 

"From myself. "

"Oh, I don't know what you mean. I think you had better come up hereat once--if it is safe to leave Ben. "

"I shall make it safe. Don't forget to send down my man. "

He hung up the receiver and turned to Arsdale. The latter must havenoticed instantly the change in Donaldson's expression, for he rose tohis elbow with eager face. 

"You'll tell me before you go! You'll tell before--"

"You didn't kill, " answered Donaldson. 

"Thank God!"

"She is n't even wounded seriously. "

"She knows that it was I?"

"Yes. She knows. "

"How she must hate me, gentle Elaine. "

"It is hard for her to hate any one. "

"You think she--she might forgive?"

"I don't know. That remains to be seen. "

The man buried his face in his arms and wept. This was not maudlinsentimentality; it struck deeper. 

"Are you ready to do anything more than regret?" demanded Donaldson. "Are you ready to make a fight to quit that stuff?"

"So help me as long as I live--"

"Don't tell me that. I want you to think it over a while. I 'm goingto have some one stay here with you until I get back this afternoon. Will you remain quiet?"

"Yes. "

"And remember that even if by chance you did n't do much harm, stillyou struck. You struck a woman; you struck your sister. "

Arsdale cringed. Each word was a harder blow than he, even in hismadness, could strike. 

"It's a--terrible thing to remember. But--but it will be always withme. It will never leave me. "

As soon as the detective arrived Donaldson gave him his instructions, adding, "Look out for tricks, and be ready to tell me all he says to you. "

"I 've had 'em before, " answered the man. 

CHAPTER XVII

_An Interlude_

She was waiting for him in the library with an expression both eagerand worried. She crossed the room to meet him, but paused half-way asthough really fearful of some change. But she saw only the same kind, tense face, looking perhaps a bit heavy from weariness, the same darkeyes with their strange fires, the same slight droop of the shoulders. There was certainly nothing to fear in him as he stood before her witha tender, quizzical smile about his large mouth. He looked to her nowmore like a big boy than the cold, stern man she had half expected. 

"Are you afraid?" he asked. 

"No, not standing here where I can see you. But over the telephonewith your strange voice and your half meanings--what _did_ you mean?"

"Nothing you need worry about. "

She became suddenly serious. 

"I want to tell you now that there is no need of your trying to hideanything at all from me about Ben. "

"I am hiding nothing. But, " he asked with quick intuition, "are _you_?"

She hesitated, met his eyes, and dropped her voice. 

"I can tell you nothing--not even you--unless you have learned it. "

"I, in my turn, don't know what you mean, " he answered. "I havelearned nothing new about him. And it is too fair a morning, " heconcluded abruptly, "to bother over puzzles. Things have happened sorapidly that we are probably both muddled, and if we could spend thetime in explanations we should doubtless find that neither of us meansanything. "

She was clearly relieved, but it raised a new question in Donaldson'smind. Of course she understood nothing of what had taken place lastnight unless by mental telepathy. But in these days of psychicrevelations a man could n't feel secure even in his thoughts. Therewas apparently some inner secret--she had touched upon itbefore--relating to the Arsdale curse. Doubtless if one priedcarefully enough many another skeleton could be found in the closets ofthe house of this family half-poisoned now through three generations. 

It was early and it suddenly occurred to her that he had probably notyet breakfasted. 

She struggled a moment with a conflicting sense of hospitality andpropriety, but finally said resolutely, "I should be glad if you wouldbreakfast with me. You ought to try your new cook. "

The picture he had of her sitting opposite him at the coffee broughtthe warm blood to his cheeks. 

"I--why--"

"Will you have your chop well done?" she broke in, without giving himtime to frame an excuse. 

"Yes, " he answered. 

She left him. 

Within a very short time she announced the meal with pretty grace, which concealed all trace of nervousness, save for the heightened colorof her cheeks, which, he noted, were as scarlet as though she herselfhad been bending over a hot stove. She led the way into an exquisitelittle dining room, which he at once took to be the expression of herown taste. It was in white and apple green, with a large trellisedwindow opening upon the lawn. A small table had been placed in the sunnear the window, and was covered with dazzling white linen, polishedsilver, and cut glass, which, catching the morning beams, reflected aprismatic riot of colors. The chops, lettuce, bread and butter, andcoffee were already served. As he seated her, he felt as though hewere living out a dream--one of the dreams that as a very young man hehad sometimes dreamed when, lying flat upon his back in the sun, he hadwatched the big cotton clouds wafted, like thistledown, across the blue. 

It might have been Italy for the blue of the sky and the caressingwarmth of the sun. They threw open the big window and in flooded theperfume of lilacs and the twitter of sparrows, which is the nearest toa bird song one can expect in New York. But after all, this was n'tNew York; nor Spain; nor even the inner woods; it was just Here. AndHere is where the eyes of a man and a woman meet with spring in theirblood. 

Griefs of loss, bitter, poignant; sorrows of mistakes, bruising, numbing; the ache of disappointments, ingratitudes, betrayals, --Naturesurging on to her fulfillment sweeps them away, like fences before aflood, allowing no obstructions to Youth's kinship with Spring. So theyoung may not mourn long; so, if they do, they become no longer young. 

The man and the woman might have been two care-free children for allthey were able to resist the magic of this fair morning or the subtlermagic of their own emotions. 

To the man it suggested more than to the woman because he gave morethought to it, but the woman absorbed more the spirit of it because shemore fully surrendered herself. 

Donaldson found himself with a good appetite. There was nothingneurotic about him. He was fundamentally normal--fundamentallywholesome--with no trace of mawkishness in his nature. As he sippedthe hot golden-brown coffee, he tried to get at just what it was thathe felt when he now looked at her. It came to him suddenly and hespoke it aloud, "I seem to have, this minute, a fresher vision of life than I haveknown since I was twenty. "

It was something different from anything he had experienced up to now. It was saner, clearer. 

"It is the morning, " she hazarded. "I never saw the grass so green asit is this morning; I never felt the sun so warm. "

"It is like the peace of the inner woods, --only brighter, " he declared. 

"You said such peace never came to any one unless alone. "

"Did I?"

She nodded. 

"But it _is_ like that, " he insisted. "Only more joyous. I think itis the extra joy in it that makes us not want it alone. Queer, too, itseems to be born altogether of this spot, of this moment. Understandwhat I mean? It does n't seem to go back of the moment we entered thisroom and--, " he hesitated, "it does n't seem to go forward. "

"It is as though coming in here we had stepped into a beautiful pictureand were living inside the frame for a little, " she suggested. 

"Exactly. The frame is the hedge; the picture is the sky, the sun, andyou. "

She laughed, frankly pleased in a childish way, at his conceit. 

"Then for me, " she answered, "it must be the sun, the sky, and _you_. "

"We are n't trying to compliment each other, are we?"

"No, " she answered seriously. "I hope not. "

She went on after a moment's reflection, "I have been puzzling over the strange chance that brought you into mylife at so opportune a time. "

"I came because you believed in me and because you needed me. Youbelieved in me because--, " he paused, his blood seeming suddenly to runfaster, "because I needed you. "

"You needed me?"

"Yes, " he answered, "I needed you. I needed you long ago. "

"But how--why?"

"To show me the joy there is in the sunlight wherever it strikes; totake me with you into this picture. "

Their eyes met. 

"Have I done that?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

She shook her head. 

"I 'm afraid not, " she disclaimed, "because the joy has n't been in myown heart. "

"Nor was it in mine--then. "

Her eyes turned back to his. The silver in them came to the top likethe moon reflection on dark waters through fading clouds. He wasleaning a little towards her. 

"It seems to be something that we can't get alone, " he explained. 

"Perhaps it is, " she pondered, "perhaps. "

She started back a little, as one who, lost in a sunset, leans too farover the balcony. Then she smiled. Donaldson's heart answered thesmile. 

"Your coffee is cooling, " she said. "May I pour you some fresh?"

He passed his cup automatically. But the act was enough to bring himback. A moment gone the room had grown misty. Something had made histhroat ache. He felt taut with a great unexpressed yearning. Hebecame conscious of his breakfast again. He sipped his hot coffee. 

"I suppose, " he reflected, "you ought to know something about me. "

"I am interested, " she answered, "but I don't think it matters much. "

Again he saw in her marvelous eyes that look of complete confidencethat had thrilled him first on that mad ride. Again he realized thatthere is nothing finer in the world. For a moment the room swam beforehim at the memory of his doom. But her calm gaze steadied him at once. He must cling to the Now. 

"I have n't much I can tell you, " he resumed. "My parents died when Iwas young. They were New England farm-folk and poor. After I was leftalone, I started in to get an education without a cent to my name. Ittook me fifteen years. I graduated from college and then from the lawschool. I came here to New York and opened an office. That is all. "

He waved his hand deprecatingly as though ashamed that it was so slightand undramatic a tale. But she leaned towards him with sudden accessof interest. 

"Fifteen years, and you did it all alone! You must have had to fight. "

"In a way, " he answered. 

"Will you tell me more about it?" she asked eagerly. 

"It's not very interesting, " he laughed. "It was mostly a grind--justa plain, unceasing grind. It was n't very exciting--just getting anyold job I could and then studying what time was left. "

"And growing stronger every day--feeling your increasing power!"

"And my hunger, too, sometimes. "

He tried to make light of it because he didn't wish her to become soserious over it. He did n't like playing the part of hero. 

"You did n't have enough to eat?" she asked in astonishment. 

"You should have seen me watch Barstow's cake-box. "

He told her the story, making it as humorous as he could. But when hehad finished, she wasn't laughing. For a moment his impulse was to laybefore her the whole story--the bitter climax, the ashen climax, whichlately he had thought so beautiful. She had said that nothing in thepast would matter--but this was of the future, too. Even if she oughtto know, he had no right to force upon her the burden of what was tocome. He found now that he had even cut himself off from the privilegeof being utterly honest with her. To tell her the whole truth might beto destroy his usefulness to her. She might then scorn his help. Hemust not allow that. Nothing could justify that. 

"You are looking very serious, " she commented. 

Her own face had in the meanwhile grown brighter. 

"It is all from within, " he answered, "all from within. And--nowpresto!--it is gone. "

Truly the problem did seem to vanish as he allowed himself to becomeconscious of the picture she made there in the sunshine. With her hairdown her back she could have worn short dresses and passed for sixteen. The smooth white forehead, the exquisite velvet skin with the firstbloom still upon it, the fragile pink ears were all of unfoldingwomanhood. 

"Since my mother died, " he said, "you are the first woman who has evermade me serious. "

"Have you been such a recluse then?"

"Not from principle. I have been a sort of office hermit by necessity. "

"You should not have allowed an office to imprison you, " she scolded. "You should have gone out more. "

"I have--lately. "

"And has it not done you good?" she challenged, not realizing hisnarrow application of the statement. 

"A world of good. "

"It brightens one up. "

"Wonderfully. "

"If we stay too much by ourselves we get selfish, don't we?"

"Intensely. And narrow-minded, and morbid, and petty and--, " the wordscame charged with bitterness, "and intensely foolish. "

"I 'm glad you crawled out before you became all those things. "

"You gave me a hand or I should n't. "

"I gave you a hand?"

"Yea, " he answered, soberly. 

"Perhaps--perhaps this is another of the things that could n't havehappened to either of us alone. "

"I think you are right, " he answered. 

He did not dare to look at her. 

"Perhaps that is true of all the good things in the world, " shehazarded. 

"Perhaps. "

Once again the golden mist--once again the aching yearning. 

The telephone jangled harshly. It was a warning from the world beyondthe hedge, the world they had forgotten. 

The sound of it was to him like the savage clang of barbaric war-gongs. 

With her permission he answered it himself. It was a message from hisman at the Waldorf. 

"He's making an awful fuss, sir. He says as how he wants to go home. I can hold him all right, only I thought I 'd let you know. "

"Thanks, I 'll be right down. "

"I 'd better go back to your brother, " he said to her as he hung up thereceiver. "I want to have a talk with him before bringing him home. "

Her eyes grew moist. 

"How am I ever going to repay you for all you 've done?"

"You 've repaid me already, " he answered briefly and left at once. 

CHAPTER XVIII

_The Making of a Man_

Donaldson with hands in his pockets stood in front of Arsdale, who hadslumped down into a big leather chair, and admired his work. There wasmuch still to be done, but, comparing the man before him with the thinghe had brought in here some thirty hours before, the improvement wasmost satisfactory. Arsdale, with trimmed hair and clean, shaven face, in a new outfit from shoes to collar, and sane even if depressed, beganto look a good deal of a man. 

"How do you feel now?" inquired Donaldson. 

Arsdale hitched forward and resting his chin in his hands, elbows onknees, stared at the floor. 

"Like hell, " he answered. 

Donaldson frowned. 

"You deserve to, but you oughtn't, " he said. 

"Oh, I deserve it all right. I deserve it--and more!"

"Yes, you do. But that does n't help any. "

Arsdale groaned. 

"There is n't any help. I 've made a beastly mess out of my life, outof myself. "

"I wish I could disagree, but I can't, " answered Donaldson. 

He walked up and down a moment before the fellow studying him. He wasworried and perplexed. The task before him was an unpleasant one. Hehad to overcome a natural repugnance to interference in the life ofanother. Under ordinary circumstances he would have watched Arsdale goto his doom with a feeling of nothing but indifference. In his ownpassion for individual liberty he neither demanded nor acceptedsympathy for personal misfortunes or mistakes, and in turn was loath totrespass either upon the rights or duties of another, but his own life, through the medium of the boy's sister, was so inextricably entangledwith this other that now he recognized the inevitability of suchinterference. On his success or failure to arouse Arsdale largelydepended the happiness of the girl. 

"No, " he reflected aloud, "the question is n't how much punishment youdeserve, for the pain you suffer personally does n't, unfortunately, remedy matters in the slightest. It wouldn't do you any good for me tokick you about the room or I 'd do it. It would n't do you any goodfor me to turn you over to the police or I 'd do that. You 're hard toget hold of because there's so little left of you. "

Arsdale made no reply. He remained motionless. 

"But, " continued Donaldson with emphasis, "that does n't make it anythe less necessary. You 've got to pull what is left together--you 'vegot to play the man with what remains. You can't get all thepunishment you deserve and so you 've got to deserve less. This, notfor your own sake, but for the sake of the girl, --for the sake of thegirl you struck. "

"Don't!"

Arsdale quailed. He glanced up at Donaldson with a look that made thelatter see again Barstow's dog Sandy as he had tottered in his deaththroes. But the mere fact that the man quivered back from thisshameful thing was encouraging. It was upon this alone that Donaldsonbased his hope, upon this single drop of uncorrupted Arsdale bloodwhich still nourished some tiny spot in the burned out brain. 

"You must make such reparation as you can, " continued Donaldson. "Yourlife is n't long enough to do it fully, but you can accomplishsomething towards it if you start at once. "

Arsdale shook his head. 

"It's all a beastly mess. It 's too late!"

Donaldson's lips tightened. 

"Well, " he asked, "if you are n't going to do what you can, what do youpropose?"

Thickly Arsdale answered, "I know a way; I 'm going to pull out for the sake of Elaine!"

Donaldson started as at the cut of a whip-lash. Then he straightenedto meet face to face this new development. Somehow this contingencyhad never occurred to him. Now for the moment it disarmed him, for itbrought him down, like a wounded bird, to the level of Arsdale himself. As voiced by the latter the act expressed the climax of simperingcowardice. Donaldson, in the first shock of finding himself includedin the same indictment with the very man for whom he had had so littlemercy, felt the same powerlessness that had paralyzed this other. Hewas shorn of his strength. He blinked as stupidly at Arsdale asArsdale had blinked at him. 

But even as he stood with loose lips before the infirm features of theyounger man, he realized that Arsdale's talk had been the chatter of achild. He had used the phrase idly and, although it was possible hemight in just as idle a mood commit the act itself, Donaldson wasconvinced that it was not yet a fixed idea. With this came theinspiration which gave him a fresh grip upon himself, that revealed hisgreat opportunity; he would make Arsdale see all that he himself hadlearned in these few days. So in reality he would be giving the bestof his life to another. 

It was like oxygen to one struggling for breath through congestedlungs. He went to the window and in great deep-chested inhalationsstood for a moment drinking in not only the fresh air but with it thespirit of the eager, turbulent world which was bathed in it, the worldthat he now saw so clearly. The sun flashing from the neighboringwindows glinted its glad message of life; the rumbling of the passingtraffic roared it to him in a thundering message, like that ofshattered sea waves; the deep cello-like undernote of the city itselfsang it to him. And the message of all the voices was just, "It isgood to live! It is good to be!"

He turned back, seeing a new man in the chair before him. Here was abrother--a brother in a truer sense than a better man could have been. Coming from different directions, along different roads, throughdifferent temptations, they had reached at last the crumbling edge ofthe same dark chasm. They faced the same eternal problem. That madethem brothers. But Donaldson had already seen, already learned; thatmade him the stronger brother. 

His face was alight, his body alert, as he came to Arsdale's side. Thelatter looked up at him in surprise, feeling his presence before hesaw. Donaldson's first words stirred him, "You can't pull out, " he said, "because you 're out already. You mustpull in. Don't you see, --you must pull back!"

"You don't understand what I mean. "

"A great deal better than you yourself do. And in the light of thatunderstanding I tell you that you can't do it, --that it is n't the way. "

"I 'm no good to any one, " Arsdale complained dully. "I don't see whyit would n't be better for everyone if I just quit. "

The word quit was a biting gnome to Donaldson. 

"I know, " he answered. "But it is n't right--all because you don'tknow and you can't know what you 're quitting. You can't just lookaround you and see. You wouldn't just be quitting the girl who perhapsdoes n't need you, though you can't even tell that; you would n't bequitting just your friends who can get along without you--though eventhat is n't sure; you 'd be quitting the others, the unseen others, theunknown others, who are waiting for you, perhaps a year from now, perhaps twenty years from now, but in their need waiting for you. Theyare waiting for you, understand, and for no one else. Just you, nomatter how weak you are, or how poor you are, or how worthless you are, because it is you and no one else who will fit into their lives to helpcomplete them. "

"I 'd bring nothing but trouble. I 've been no good to any one. "

"You can't help being good to some one. Queer it sounds, but I believethat's true. A man never lived, so mean that he didn't do good to someone. "

"You believe that?" demanded Arsdale. 

"Yes. I know that. I know that, Arsdale!" he answered, his lipstremulous, a deep-seated light in his eyes. "I know that you can'tpossibly be so useless, so cowardly, so utterly bad, but what you 'restill more useless, still more of a coward, still worse when you quit!Maybe we can't see how--maybe at the time we can't realize it, but it'sso. Some one will get at the good in us if we just fight along, nomatter how we may cover it up. "

Arsdale straightened in his chair. His shaking fingers clutched thechair arms. But the next second his face clouded. 

"Tell me what good I 've done, " he demanded aggressively. 

Donaldson smiled. He could n't very well tell the man the details ofthese last few days and what they meant to him, but they proved hisclaim. Arsdale had been, if nothing else, a connecting link. It washe, even this self-indulgent weakling, who had brought Donaldson to hisown, who had led Donaldson, through a series of self-revealingincidents, to where he could stand quivering with the truth of life, and give of his strength back to this man to pay the debt. Yes, heknew what Arsdale had accomplished, and before he was through thelatter should feel its effect. 

"Man, " answered Donaldson almost solemnly, "you have done yourgood--even you, in spite of yourself. "

"But not to Elaine where I should have done most!"

Donaldson's hand rested a moment on Arsdale's shoulder. 

"Yes, " he said, "I like to think you have been of some service even toher. "

Arsdale rose to his feet. 

"If I could think that--if I could look her in the eyes again!"

"Look her in the eyes! Keep those eyes before you! Never get wherethose eyes can't follow you! And as you look take my word for it thateven there by a strange chance you 've done your good. "

The man in Arsdale was at the top. For a second he faced Donaldson asone man should face another. Then he tottered and fell back in hischair, covering his face with his hands. 

"It's too late, " he groaned, "God, it's too late!"

Donaldson seized him by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet--notin anger, not in contempt, but in his naked eagerness to make the mansee. Half supporting him, he drew him to the window. He threw it wideopen. 

"Too late!" he cried, waving his hand at the brisk scene upon thestreet. "Too late! It is n't too late so long as there's a livingworld out there, so long as there's a man or a woman out there! Itisn't too late because there's work for you to do, work for others thatyou 've shirked. What is it? I don't know, but it's there. Digaround until you find it. Maybe to-day it was only to give a nickel tothe blind beggar at the corner, maybe it was only to help an old ladyacross the street, maybe it was to do some kindness to your sister. Idon't know what it was, but I know it was something, and went undonebecause of you. "

Arsdale, leaning against the window-sill, strained towards Donaldson. 

"That's a queer idea, " he whispered hoarsely. 

"And another thing, " continued Donaldson, "tangled up with those dutiesare all the joys of the world. You 've been looking for them somewhereelse--I 've been looking for them somewhere else--but it is n't anyuse. They are right there with your duties--in the keeping of otherpeople, the unseen others. And they couldn't be bought, not with allthe gold in the world. They must be given if you get them at all. "

Arsdale was listening eagerly. It was as much the spirit back of thewords as the words themselves that made him feel the stirring of a newpower which was a new hope. 

"You!" he exclaimed. "You make a man feel that you know! But thehellish smoke-hunger--you don't know anything of that. "

"It's a part of the same hellish selfishness which eats the vitals outof everything. Get out of yourself, get into the lives of others, andthe smoke-hunger will quit you. You could n't go down where you 'vebeen and made a beast of yourself if you cared more about others thanyourself. The power that drove you down there would n't mean anythingif a stronger power held you back. The point is, Arsdale, the pointis, that all by himself a man is n't worth much. He does n't count. Either he dries up or he rots. "

"That's true! That's true!" answered Arsdale. "And I 've rotted. Ifonly I had found you a year ago!"

"A year ago is dead and buried. Let it alone. Think of the livethings; think of the Now! There 's a big, strong world all around you, pulsating with life; there 's sunshine in the morning and stars atnight--and they are alive; there are flowers, and birds, andgrasses--all alive; there are live men and women, live questions, andthere is your sister. The world would be alive--would be worth whileif you had only her. She 's a world in herself. "

"You are right. Man, how you know!"

"Can't you see it yourself? Can't you feel the thrill of it all?"

"Yes, " answered Arsdale, his eyes as alive as Donaldson's, "I see. Ifeel. And if I had your strength--"

"You have the strength! You have everything you need in just yourbeating heart and the days ahead of you. Buck up to it!--Go and meetlife half-way. Throw yourself at life! The trouble with you and me isthat we stand still, all curled up in ourselves as in a chrysalis. Youmust give yourself room, you must break free from your own selfishconceit, you must reach a point where you don't give a damn aboutyourself! Do you hear--where all the worrying you do is about others?Then don't worry. "

Arsdale was breathing through his nostrils, his lips closed. 

"It's going to be a hard fight, " he said. "It 's going to be a hardfight, but you make me feel as though I could do it. "

"A hard fight, " cried Donaldson. "Why, man, I 'd strip myself down toyou--I 'd go back to where you stand to-day for the fighting chance youhave. "

"You'd--what?"

Donaldson caught his breath. For a moment he was silent, staring atthe eager life upon the street. Then he turned again to Arsdale. 

"I 'd like to swap places with you--that's all, " he said. 

CHAPTER XIX

_A Miracle_

Elaine, her pale face tense, heard the steps of Arsdale coming up thestairs to meet her. Donaldson had telephoned at nine that if she hadnot yet retired he was going to bring her brother home. She dreadedthe ordeal for herself and for him. She dreaded lest the aversion shefelt for him with the horror of that night still upon her mightovercome her sense of duty; she dreaded the renewed protestations, theself abasement, the sight of the maudlin shame of the man. She hadgone through the hysterical scenes so many times that it was growingdifficult, especially in her present condition of weakness, to arousethe necessary spirit to undergo it. Not only this, but she foundherself inevitably pitting him against the strong self-reliantcharacter of Donaldson. It had been easier for her to condone when shehad seen Arsdale only as the loved son of the big-hearted elder, butnow that this other unyielding personality had come into her life itwas difficult to avoid comparison. Arsdale when standing beside a manwas only pitiable. 

He faltered at the door and then crossed the room with a poise thatreminded her of the father who to the end had never shown evidence ofany physical weakness in his bearing. In fact in look and carriage, even in the spotless freshness of his dress which was a characteristicof the elder, he appeared like his father. She could hardly believe. She sat as silent as though this were some illusion. 

There was color in the ordinarily yellow cheeks, there was life in theusually dull eyes, though the spasmodic twitching testified to nervesstill unsteady. When he held out his trembling hand, she took it asthough in a trance. She saw that it was difficult for him to speak. It was impossible for her. The suggested metamorphosis was toostriking. 

He broke the strained, glad silence. 

"Elaine, can you forget?"

She uttered his name but could go no further. 

"I can't apologize, " he stammered, "it's too ghastly. But if we couldstart fresh from to-day, if you could wait a little before judging, andwatch. Perhaps then--"

She drew him quickly towards her. 

"Can I believe what I see?" she asked. 

"I--I don't know what you see, " he answered unsteadily. 

"I see your father. I see the man who was the only father I myselfknew. "

He bent over her. He kissed her forehead. 

"Dear Elaine, " he said hoarsely, "you see a man who is going to be abetter man to you. "

"To yourself, Ben, --be better to yourself! Are you going to be that?"

"That is the way, --by being a man to you and to the others. "

"The others?"

"The unseen others. You must get Donaldson to tell you about theothers. "

She grasped his wrist with both her hands, looking up at him intently. Where was the change? A photograph would not have shown all thechange. Yet it was there. Nor was this a temporal reformation basedupon cowardly remorse. It showed too calm, too big an impulse forthat. It was so sincere, so deep, that it did not need words toexpress it. 

"I believe you, Ben, " she said, "I believe you with all my heart andsoul. "

In the words he realized the divine that is in all women, the eagernessthat is Christ-like in its eternal hunger to seize upon the good inman. He stooped again and with religious reverence kissed the whitespace above her eyes. 

"We 'll not talk about it much, shall we?" he said. "I want you tobelieve only as I go on from day to day. I 've some big plans that Ithought up on the way home. Some day we 'll talk those over, but notnow. Donaldson is downstairs. "

He saw the color sweep her face. It suggested to him something that hehad not yet suspected. It came to him like a new revelation ofsunlight. 

He smiled. It was the smile of the father which she had so longmissed, the smile that always greeted her when his sad heart wasfullest of hope and gladness. It was so he used to smile when attwilight he stood at her side, his long thin arm over her shoulder andtalked of Ben with a new hope born of his own victory. 

"I was going to tell you, " he said tenderly, "I was going to tell youof what a big fine fellow this Donaldson is. But--perhaps you know. "

She refused not to meet her brother's eyes. 

"Yes, Ben, " she said, "I know that. "

He took her hand, seating himself on the arm of her chair, the otherarm resting affectionately across her shoulders. So the father hadsometimes sat. 

"Is there more?" he asked softly. 

"So, " she answered, starting a little, "not as you mean. But tell meabout him--tell me all about him, Ben. "

He felt her hand throb as he held it. 

"It's just this; that I owe everything in the world to him. I owe mylife to him; I owe, " his voice lowered, "I owe my soul to him. Youought to have heard him talk. But it was n't talking, it wasn'tpreaching. I don't know what it was, unless--unless it was praying. Yet it was n't like that either. He got inside me and made me talk tomyself. It was the first time words ever meant anything to me--thatthey ever got a hold on me. You 've talked, little sister, Lord knowshow often, and how deep from the heart, but somehow, dear, nothing ofit sank in below the brain. I understood as in a sort of dream. Sometimes I even remembered it for a little, but that was all. 

"But he was different, Elaine! If I forgot every word he spoke, themeaning of it would still be left. I 'd still feel his hand upon myshoulder, the hand that sank through my shoulder and got a grip onsomething inside me. I 'd still feel his eyes burning into mine. I 'dstill see that street out the window and know what it meant. I 'd evensee the little old lady picking her way to the other side, --see theblind beggar on the corner and the Others. Oh, the Others, Elaine!"

He had risen from beside her and pressed towards the window as thoughonce again he wished to taste the air that came down to him from thestar-country to sweeten the decaying soul of him. 

"What was it, Elaine?" he demanded. 

"You heard, " she answered, "because every fibre of him is true. Tellme more. "

"He showed me the sun on the windows!" he ran on eagerly. "He showedme the people passing on the streets! He showed me what I--even I--hadto do among them. Did you know that we are n't just ourselves--that we're a part of a thousand other lives? Did you know that?"

"It takes a seer really to know that, " she answered, "but it's true. "

"That's it, " he broke in. "He _knows_! He doesn't guess, he doesn'treason, he _knows_!"

She was leaning forward, her head a little back, her eyes half-closed. He saw the veins in her neck--the light purple penciling of them--asthey throbbed. He was held a moment by the sight. Then he laughedgently. 

"Little sister, " he said, "you know him even better than I. "

She started back. 

He was surprised at the shy beauty he perceived. She had always seemedto him such a sober body. 

The nurse rapped at the door. 

"It is bedtime, " she announced, "Yes, nurse, " she answered quickly. 

"He asked if he might come to say good night. He 's going to stay herewith me a day or so. Shall I bring him up?"

She hesitated a moment and then meeting her brother's eyes steadily, answered, "Yes, Ben. "

When Donaldson came into the room she was shocked at the change in hisappearance. It was almost as though what Arsdale had gained Donaldsonhad lost. He was colorless, wan, and haggard. His eyes seemed moredeeply imbedded in the dark recesses below his brows. Even his hair atthe temples looked grayer. But neither his voice nor his mannerbetrayed the change. The grip of his hand was just as sure; there wasthe same certainty in gesture and speech, save perhaps for someabstraction. 

"They tell me I may stay but a minute, " he said, "but it is good to seeyou even that long. "

"You brought him back home, " she cried. "But it has cost you heavy. You look tired. "

"I am not tired, " he answered shortly. Then turning the talk away fromhimself, as he was ever eager to do, he continued, "I brought him home, but the burden is still on you. "

"Not a burden any longer. You have removed the burden. "

"I 'm afraid not. There still remains the fight to make him stay. This is only a beginning. "

His face grew worried. 

"He will stay, " she answered confidently, "he will stay because youreached the father in him and the father was a fighter. I saw thefather in his eyes--I heard his father's voice. It is a miracle!"

"No. The miracle is how we men keep blind. "

"I feel blind myself when I think how you see. "

"I am no psychic, " he exclaimed impatiently. "I see nothing that isn't before me. You can't help seeing unless you close your eyes. Theworld presses in upon you from every side. It is insistent. Even nowthe stars outside there are demanding recognition. "

He drew back the crimson curtains draping the big French windows, whichopened upon a balcony. The silver stiletto rays darted a greeting tohim. He swung open the windows. 

"Come out with me and see my friends, " he said. 

She rose instantly and followed him. 

He stood there a moment in silence, his head back as he seemed to leadher into the limitless fragrant purple above. She caught his profileand saw him like some prophet. It was as though a people were at hisback and he trying to pierce the road ahead for them. The thin faceand erect head seemed to dominate the night. He looked down at her, asad smile about his mouth. 

"Out here, " he said, "out here with a million miles over our heads weare freer. "

In her eyes he saw now just what he saw in the stars, the same freedomof unpathed universes. He saw the same limitlessness. Here there wereno boundaries. A man could go on forever and forever in those eyes--intheir marvelous unfolding. More! More! He would go beyond thecognate universe, straight into the golden heart of universes beyond. Eternity was written there. The beacon of her eyes flamed a path thatreached beyond the stars!

She seemed like nothing but a trusting child. So, she was one with thegreat poets. So, she was a great poem. He listened to the same musicwhich had moved Isaiah. 

"The stars, --they seem to be dancing!" she exclaimed. 

It was to the music of the spheres they were dancing. 

"You!" he commanded, "you must get away from this house. You must takeBen and get away from here. You must go into a new country. You mustbegin your life anew and forget all this, forget everything. "

He paused. 

"Everything, " he repeated. "They tell us that the road is straight andnarrow. It's narrow, but it is n't straight. It's crooked and it'swinding and it goes through brake and brush. It's a hard road to findand a hard road to keep, even with the polestar over our heads. Maybe, if we were a little above earth--maybe for those who are winged--theroad is straight, but we are n't all winged. Some of us have n't evensturdy legs and have to creep. Some of us find our legs only after weare helplessly lost. For down below there is a terrible tangle withthings to be gone around, with things to beat down, and always thetangle above our heads. So what wonder that we get lost? What wonder?"

"But I am not lost--you are not lost!"

"I! I do not matter, " he answered slowly. "You must n't let mematter. I come into your life and I go out of your life and I praythat I have done no harm. "

His words to her were like words caught in a wind. She heard snatchesof them, but she was unable to piece them together. 

"In your new life you must forget even me. We have met in the brushand gone on a little way together. We have helped each other infinding each his true road again. Whether the paths will meetagain--whether the paths will meet again--" he repeated as though deepin some new and grander reflection, "why, God knows. If we go onforever, perhaps they will in an aeon or two. "

He paused to give her an opportunity to say something which he mightuse as a subject for proceeding farther. His thoughts did n't go veryfar along any one line. Always he seemed checked by a wall ofdarkness. But she said nothing. The silence lengthened into a minute. 

"Do you understand?" he asked gently. 

"No, " she answered frankly. 

"Then--then perhaps we had better go in, " he said, fearing for himself. 

He led the way through the swinging windows and closed them behind him. In the light he saw that she was shivering. 

"I 'm afraid I kept you out there too long, " he said anxiously. Hereached her shawl and placed it about her shoulders. His throat ached. 

"I haven't hurt you?"

"I think you have hurt yourself, somehow. "

She raised her head a little. 

Marie was calling. 

"Good night, " he said quickly. 

"Good night. "

CHAPTER XX

_A Long Night_

Donaldson retired to his room, and without undressing threw up hiswindow and stared at the hedge and the dark that lay beyond. Then hetried to work out some solution to the problem which confronted him. There was no use for him to try to blind himself to the fact that heloved this girl--that was but to shirk the question. She stood out asthe supreme passion of his life and forced upon him a future that had ameaning beyond anything of which he had ever dreamed. She quickened inhim new hopes, new aspirations, new ambitions. She made him see thetriviality of all that he had most hoped to enjoy during this week; sheopened his eyes to all that he had tried to make Arsdale see. With herby his side every day would be like that first afternoon; every hourthrilling with opportunities. The barren future which he had sofeared, even though it offered no greater opportunities than had alwayslain before him, would tingle with possibilities. Wait? He could waitan eternity with her by his side and every waiting minute would be agolden minute. He could go back to that little office now and find athousand things to do. He could hew out a career that would honor her. He saw numberless chances for reform work into which he could throwhimself, heart and soul, while waiting. But there would be no waiting;life would begin from the first hour. What more did he need than her?He shuddered back from his luxurious room at the hotel as fromsomething cheap. 

A loaf of bread without even so much as a jug of wine would be paradiseenow. Just the opportunity to live and breathe and have his being inthis big pregnant universe was all he craved. He needed nothing else. So the universe would be his. 

He dared not try to read her thoughts. He had no right to do this. Itdid n't matter. Her love was not essential. If he deserved it, thatwould come. It was enough that she had given him back his dreams, thatshe had taken him back to those fragrant days when his uncrusted soulhad known without knowing. It was enough that the sweetness of her hadbecome an inseparable part of him for evermore. She was his now, eventhough he should never again lay eyes upon her. The only relief he hadwas in the thought that she had accomplished this without committingherself. At least he did not have the burden of her tender love uponhis soul further to complicate matters. 

So much he admitted frankly; so much was fact. The problem which nowconfronted him was how he could best escape from involving her at allin the inevitable climax--how he could make his escape withoutdestroying in her the ideals with which she had surrounded him andwhich she had a right to keep. He owed this to her, to Arsdale, and tothe world of men. 

A dozen times he was upon the point of pushing out into the dark. Ifhe had followed his own impulse he would have taken some broad road andfooted it hour after hour, through the night, through the next day, through the next night, and so till the end overtook him, striking himdown in his tracks. He would get as far away as possible, keeping outunder the broad expanse of the sky above. He could find rest only bytaking a course straight on over the hills, turning aside for nothing, tearing a path through the tangle. 

But he still had his work to do. He must lend his strength to the boyso long as any strength was left. He must pound into him again andagain the realization of life which he himself had been tempted toshirk. He must make him see, --must make him know. In recalling thatscene in the room by the window, in recalling his own words to Arsdale, he felt strangely enough the force of his own thoughts entering intohimself with new life. He listened as it were to himself. Even forhim there were the Others. Down to the last arrow-sped minute therewould still be the Others. Who knew what remained for him todo--charged with what influence might be even the manner in which hedrew his last breath? If he stood up to it sturdily, if he faced deathwith his head high, his shoulders back, even though he might becornered in his room like a rat in its hole, so the message might bewired silently into the heart of some poor devil struggling hardagainst his death throes and lend him courage. 

At the end of two hours he undressed and tumbled upon the bed. 

His room was next to Arsdale's room and during the night the lattercame in. 

"I 've had bad dreams about you, " the boy exclaimed. "Is anything thematter?"

"I 'm not sleeping very well, " Donaldson answered. 

"You haven't a fever or anything?"

"No. Just restless. "

"I have n't slept very well myself. I 've been doing so much thinking. That keeps a fellow awake. "

"Yes--thinking does. You 'd better let your brain close up shop andget some rest. "

"I can't. I 've been chewing over what you said, and the more I thinkof it, the more I see that you have the right idea. The secret ofkeeping happy is to fight for others. It's the only thing that willmake a man put up a good fight, isn't it?"

"The only thing, " answered Donaldson. 

"I don't understand why I did n't realize that before--with Elainehere. You 'd think she would make a man realize that. "

Donaldson did not answer. 

"I think one reason is, " continued the boy, "that until now, untillately, she's been so nervy herself that she did n't seem to need anyone. She 's been stronger than I. But last night she looked like alittle girl. And now, I'd like to die fighting for her. "

Donaldson found the boy's hand. 

"Never lose that spirit, " he said earnestly. "But remember, she 'sworth more than dying for, she 's worth living for. "

"That's so. You put things right every time. She is worth living for. You are n't much good to people after you 're dead, are you?"

"Not as far as we know. "

The boy hesitated a moment, a bit confused, and then blurted out, "I 'm going to take up some sort of work. Perhaps you can help me getafter something. We have loads of money, you know. I don't think muchof giving it out as cash, --the charity idea. I 've a hunch that I 'dlike to study law and then give my services free to the poor devils whoneed a man to look after their interests. They are darned smallinterests to men who are only after their fee, but they are big to thepoor devils themselves. And generally they get done. Do you think Ihave it in me to study law?"

"You have it in you to study law with that idea back of you. You 'dmake a great lawyer with that idea. "

"Do you think so?" asked the boy eagerly. 

"I know it. "

"Then perhaps--perhaps--say, would you be willing to take me in withyou?"

Donaldson moved uneasily. 

"It sounds sort of kiddish, but I know that I 'd do better alongside ofyou. I 'd help you around the office. I 'd feel better, just to seeyou. Anyway, would you be willing to try me for a while until I sortof get my bearings?"

"I like the idea, " answered Donaldson. "Let 's talk it over later. You see there's a chance that I may give up law. "

"Give it up?"

"I may have to leave this part of the country--for good. "

"Why, man, " burst out Arsdale, "you wouldn't leave Elaine?"

The silence grew ominous. The fighting spirit rose in Arsdale at thesuggestion. 

"You would n't leave Elaine?" he demanded again, turning towards theform on the bed which looked strangely huddled up. 

"I must leave her with you, " answered Donaldson unsteadily. The boyscarcely recognized the voice, but it roused him to a danger which hefelt without understanding. 

"Why, man dear, " he exclaimed, "what would I count to Elaine with yougone? Don't you know? Have n't you seen?"

They were the identical words Donaldson had used in trying to openArsdale's eyes to another great truth. And Donaldson knew that if theycut half as deep into the boy as they now cut into him they had lefttheir mark. He found no answer. He listened with his breath coming asheavily as the boy's breath had come when they had stood before theopen window. 

Arsdale faltered for words. 

"Why--why Elaine loves you!" he blurted out. 

"Don't!"

So, too, the boy had exclaimed. 

"Don't you know? I thought you knew everything, Donaldson! I don'tsee how you help seeing that. But I suppose it's because you 're sothoughtful of others that you can't see your own joys. But it's true, Donaldson. I don't suppose I ought to tell you about it, but man, man, she loves you! Give me your hand, Donaldson. "

He found it in the dark, hot and dry. 

"I want to tell you how glad I am. I suppose I must be a sort offather to her now, and I tell you that I would n't give her to anotherman in the world but you. You 're the only one worthy of her. "

He pressed the big hand. 

"You 're the one man who can make her happy, " he ran on. "You can giveher some of the things she 's been cheated out of. Why, when I wastalking to her last night, her face looked like an angel's as I spokeof you. It is you who makes it easier for her to forget all thepast--even--even the blow. I knew what it was when I came home--thatyou 'd done even that for me--though she couldn't see it. You 'veblotted out of her mind every dark day in her life!"

"That is something, is n't it?" asked Donaldson almost pleadingly. 

"Something? Something? It's everything. Don't you see now that youcan't go away?"

"I see, " he answered. 

"Well, then, give me your hand again. Sort of trembly, eh? But I 'llbet you sleep better the rest of the night. And don't you on your lifelet her know I told you. She 's proud as the devil. But she wouldhave done the same for me. They say love is blind, " he laughedexcitedly, "but, Holy Smoke, this is the worst case of it I ever saw!"

Donaldson lay passive. 

"Now, " concluded Arsdale, "I 'll go back and see if I can sleep. Goodnight. "

Donaldson again lay flat on his back after Arsdale had gone. So helay, not sleeping, merely enduring, until, almost imperceptibly atfirst, the dark about him began to dissolve. Then he rose, partlydressed, and sitting by the open window watched the East as the dawnstole in upon the sleeping city. It came to the attack upon the grimalleys, the shadows around buildings, the stealthy figures, like aroyal host. A few gray outriders reconnoitred over the horizon lineand sent scurrying to their hovels those who looked up at them fromshifty eyes. Then came a vanguard in brighter colors with crimsonpenants who attacked the fields and broad thoroughfares; then theKing's Own in scarlet jackets and wide sweeping banners, bronze tinted, who charged the smaller streets and factory roofs, and finally thebrave array of all the dazzling host itself, who hurled their golden, sun-tipped lances into every nook and cranny, awaking to life all savethose whose souls were dark within. 

In watching it Donaldson found the first relief in the long night. Hisown mind cleared with the dawn. The day broke so clean and fresh, sobathed in morning dew, that once again his mind, grown perhaps lessactive, clung in some last spasm to the present as when he had sat withElaine at breakfast, part of the little Dutch picture. Withoutreasoning into the to-morrow, he felt as though this day belonged tohim. As the sun rose higher and stronger, enveloping the world in itscatholic rays, the night seemed only an evil dream. He was bothstronger and weaker. He was swept on, unresisting, by the high floodof the new day. This world now before his eyes acknowledged nothing ofhis agony but came mother-like to ease his fretting. She would havenothing of the heavy tossings inspired by her sinister sister, theNight. She was all for clean glad spirits, all for new hopes. So hewho had first frowned at it, who had then watched passively, now roseto its call. 

He was entitled to this day, sang the tempter sun, --one big day out ofall his life. The crisis would be no more acute upon the morrow and hemight be stronger to meet it. This day was his and hers, and even theboy's. To accept it would be to shirk nothing; it would be only topostpone--to weave into the sombre grave vestments be was making forhimself one golden thread. Arsdale's talk had removed the last vestigeof hope. The worst had happened. Surely one gay interlude could addno burden. A day was always a day, and joys once lived could never belost. Always in her life and in his this would remain, and since hehad shouldered the other days as they had come to him, it seemed nomore than right that he should take this. Not to do so would be butsorry self-imposed martyrdom. 

Arsdale came in, still in his bathrobe, with brisk step and his facea-beaming. 

"Well, " he demanded, "how do you feel now?"

"Better, " answered Donaldson, unhesitatingly. 

"Better! You ought to feel great! Look at the sun out there! Smellthat air! Have you had your tub?"

"Not yet, " smiled Donaldson. 

Arsdale led the way to the shower, and a few minutes later Donaldsonfelt his skin tingle to new life beneath the cold spray. 

CHAPTER XXI

_Facing the Sun_

When he came down-stairs he found her dressed in white and looking likea nun. Her hair was brushed back from her forehead and thesilk-figured Japanese shawl was over her shoulders. He recalled theshawl and with it the picture she had made that first night. 

At the door he called her name and she looked up quickly, swiftlyscanning his face. He crossed to her side. 

"You should n't stay in here, " he said. "Come outdoors a moment beforebreakfast. It's bright and warm out there. "

She arose, and they went out together to the lawn. Each blade of grasswas wearing its morning jewels. The sun petted them and bestowedopals, amethysts, and rubies upon them. The hedge was as fresh as ifnewly created; the neighboring houses appeared as though a Dutchhousewife had washed them down and sanded them; the sky was a perfectjewel cut by the Master hand. The peeping and chattering of theswallows was music, while a robin or two added a longer note to thesharp staccatos. 

They stood in the deep porch looking out at it, while the sun showeredthem with warmth. 

"You 've seen Ben?" he asked. 

"Yes, " she answered, turning her face up to his with momentarybrightness. "Yes. And he was like this out here! The change iswonderful! It is as though he had risen from the dead!"

Donaldson lifted his head toward the stark blue of the sky. 

"The dead? There are no dead, " he exclaimed passionately. "Even thosewe bury are ever ready to open their silent lips to us if only we givethem life again. We owe it to them to do that, through our own livesto continue as best we can their lives here on earth. But we can't dothat as long as we have them dead, can we? And that is true of deadhopes, of dead loves. We have to face the sun with all those thingsand through it breathe into them a new spirit. Do you see, MissArsdale?"

He did not look at her, but as her voice answered him it seemed to bestronger. 

"I think--I think I do. "

"Nothing can die, unless we let it die, " he ran on, paving the way forwhat he realized she must in the end know. "Some of it can disappearfrom our sight. But not much. We can bury our dead, but we need n'tbury their glad smiles, we need n't bury the feel of their hands or thebrush of their lips, we need n't bury their songs or the brave spiritof them. We can keep all that, the living part of them, so long as ourown spirit lives. It is when that dies in us that we truly bury them. And this is even truer of our loves--intangible spirit things as theyare at best. "

He did not wish that part of him to die utterly in her with his doomedframe. 

"But--" she shivered, "all this talk of graves and the dead?"

"It is all of the sun and the living, " he replied earnestly. "You mustface the sun with me to-day. Will you?"

"Yes! Yes! But last night you made me afraid. Was it the dark, --didyou get afraid of the dark? I know what that means. "

"Perhaps, " he answered gently. "But if so, it was because I wasfoolish enough to let it be dark. And you yourself must never do itagain. If things get bad at night you must wait until morning and thencome out here. So, if you remember what I have said, it will get lightagain. Will you promise to do that?"

"Yes. "

"I 'd like to make this day one that we 'll both remember forever. I'd like to make it one that we can always turn back to. "

"Yes. "

"Perhaps after to-day we 'll neither of us be afraid of the dark again. "

"I 'm not afraid now. "

"Nor I, " he smiled. 

The voice of Arsdale came to them, "Oh, Elaine! Oh, Donaldson!"

She led the way into the house with a lighter step and Arsdale met themwith a beaming face which covered a broad grin. 

"I suppose you two can do without food, " he exclaimed, "but I can't. Breakfast has been waiting ten minutes. "

"It's my fault, " apologized Donaldson. 

"You can't see stars in the morning, can you?" chuckled Arsdale. 

"Maybe, " answered Donaldson. 

Elaine checked the boy's further comments with a frightened pressure asshe took his arm and passed into the white and green breakfast room. 

There stood the table by the big warm window again, and as she took herplace it seemed as though they were stepping into the same pictureframed by the hedge. She caught Donaldson's eye with a little smileand saw that he understood. 

Arsdale broke in with renewed enthusiasm for his philanthropic projectand outlined his ambitions to Elaine. 

"You see, " he concluded, "some day, little sister, you may see the lawsign 'Donaldson & Arsdale, Counsellors at Law. ' Not a bad soundingfirm name, eh?"

"I think it is great--just great, Ben!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's almost worth being a man to make your life count for somethinglike that. "

"I want you to make out a list of books for me to get and I 'll godown-town this afternoon. I suppose you 've a pretty good law libraryyourself?"

"I had the beginning of one. I sold it. "

"What did you do that for?"

"My practice was n't big enough to support it. But you--you 'll not bebothered with lack of clients. "

With school-boy eagerness Arsdale was anxious to plunge into the schemeat once. 

"And say, " he ran on, "I 'm going to look up some offices. I 'll stakethe firm to some good imposing rooms in one of the big law buildings. Nothing like looking prosperous at the start. Guess I 'll dropdown-town right after breakfast and see what can be had. "

Donaldson didn't have the heart to check him. Later on he would writehim a letter sustaining him in his project and recommending him to aclassmate of his, to whom this partnership would be a godsend, as, aweek ago, it would have been to himself. That was the best he couldthink of at the moment and so he let him rattle on. 

As soon as they had finished breakfast Arsdale was off. 

"I 'll leave you two to hunt out new stars as long as that occupationdoes n't seem to bore you. I 'll be back for dinner. "

Miss Arsdale looked a bit worried and questioned Donaldson with hereyes. 

"He 'll be all right, " the latter assured her. "Good Lord, a man withan idea like that is safe anywhere. It's the best thing in the worldfor him. "

A little later Donaldson went up-stairs to his room. He took out hiswallet and counted his money. He had over four hundred dollars. Atnoon forty-eight hours would be remaining to him. He still had theample means of a millionaire for his few needs. 

He was as cool as a man computing what he could spend on a summervacation. He was not affected in the slightest by the details of deathor by the mere act of dying itself. He was of the stuff which in arighteous cause leads a man to face a rifle with a smile. He wouldhave made a good soldier. The end meant nothing horrible in itself. It meant only the relinquishing of this bright sky and that stillchoicer gift below. 

He rose abruptly and came down-stairs again to the girl, impatient atbeing away from her a minute. She was waiting for him. 

"This, " he said, "is to be our holiday. I think we had better go intothe country. I should like to go back to Cranton. Is it too far?"

"Not too far, " she answered. "But the memories of the bungalow--"

"I had forgotten about that. It does n't count with the green fields, does it? We can avoid the house, but I should like to visit theorchard and ride behind the old white horse again. "

"I am willing, " she replied. 

"Then you will have to get ready quickly. "

They had just time to catch the train and before they knew it they werethere. 

The old white horse was at the little land-office station to meet themfor all the world as though he had been expecting them, and so, forthat matter, were the winding white road, the stile by the lane, andthe orchard itself. It was as though they had been waiting for themever since their last visit and were out ready to greet them. 

The driver nodded to them as if they were old friends. 

"Guess ye did n't find no spooks there after all, " he remarked. 

"Not a spook. Any more been seen there since?"

"H'ain't heern of none. Maybe ye took off the cuss. "

"I hope so. "

They dismissed the driver at the lane and then went back a little wayso as to avoid the bungalow. Donaldson was in the best of spirits, forat the end of the first hour he had solaced himself with the beliefthat Arsdale had been mistaken in his statement. She was nothing but aglad hearted companion in look and speech. They sat down a moment inthe orchard and he was very tender of her, very careful into what trendhe let their thoughts run. But soon he moved on again. He needed tobe active. It was the walk back through the fields to which he hadlooked forward. 

They brushed through the ankle-deep grass, pausing here and there toadmire a clump of trees, a striking sky line, or a pretty slope. 

To Donaldson it did not seem possible that this could ever end, thatany act of nature could blot this from his mind as though it had neverbeen. It was unthinkable that through an eternity he should never knowagain the meaning of blue sky, of blossoms, of such profligate picturesas now met his eye at every step, but above all, that he should beblind to the girl herself and all for which she stood. No matter howlong the journey he was about to take, no matter through what newspheres, these things must remain if anything at all of him remained. So his one thought was to fill himself as full of this day as possible, to crowd into his flagging brain the many pictures of her and thissetting which so harmonized with her. The deeper joys of love he mightnot know, save as his silent heart conjured them, but all that he couldsee with his eyes should be his. He would fill his soul so full oflight that the unknown trail would be less dark to him. He would carrywith him for torches the sun and her bright eyes. 

"Let's go back as the crow flies, " he suggested. "'Cross country--overhill and dale. We must n't turn out for anything, " he explained, "wemust go crashing through things--trampling them down. "

"My, " she cried, mocking his fierceness--little realizing the emotionto which they gave vent, "my, things had better look out!"

He paused, caught his breath, and turned to her, an almost terrifiedsmile about his tense mouth. 

"Oh, little comrade, you 'd best let me be serious. "

"No, no. Not to-day. Let us be as glad as we can, --let us celebrate. "

"Celebrate what?" he demanded, lest she might think that he hadconfessed his thoughts to her. 

"Spring, " she answered, with a laugh that came from deep within her bighappy heart. "Just spring. "

"Then we must n't trample down anything?" he queried. 

"Nothing that we can help. But we can take the straight course justthe same. We 'll turn aside for the flowers and little trees. "

"And nothing else. "

"Nothing else, " she agreed. 

He led the way, his shoulders drooping a trifle and his step not solight as her step. She could have trodden upon violets without harm tothem. Still, he marched with a sturdiness that was commendableconsidering the load he carried. They made their way down through theorchard and over the sun-flecked grass until they encountered theirfirst obstacle. It was a stone wall made out of gray field rocks. Hegave her his hand. The fingers clung to his like a child's fingers. Their warm, soft caress went to his head like wine so that for amoment, as she stood near him, it was a question whether or not hecould resist drawing her into his arms which throbbed for her. Hespoke nothing; she spoke nothing. There was no boldness in her, norany struggle either. With her head thrown back a little, she waited. So for ten seconds they stood, neither moving. Then he motioned andshe jumped lightly to the ground. He led the way and they took uptheir march again, though once behind him she found it difficult tocatch her breath again. 

They moved on down the green hill, across a field, ankle deep in newgrass, into the heavier green of the low lands. So they came to ameadow brook running shallow over a pebbly bottom but some five yardswide. There were no stepping stones, but a hundred rods to the right asmall foot bridge crossed. 

Again she waited to see what he would do, while he waited to see whathe would dare. With his heart aching in his throat he challengedhimself. It was asking superhuman strength of him to venture his lipsso near the velvet sheen of her cheeks--he who so soon was going outwith a hungry heart. Her arms would be about his neck--that would besomething to remember at the end--her arms about his neck. He knewthat she expected him in even so slight a thing as this to keep true tohis undertaking and march straight ahead. She realized nothing of thestruggle which checked him. Tragic triviality--the problem of how tocross a brook with a maid! There was but one way even when it involvedthe mauling of a man's heart. 

He held out his arms to her and she came to them quite as simply as shehad taken his proffered hand at the wall. He placed one arm about herwaist and another about her skirts. She clasped her fingers behind hisneck and sat up with as little embarrassment as though riding upon aferry. 

He lifted her and the act to him was as though he had condensed athousand kisses into one. He walked slowly. This was a brief spaninto which to crowd a lifetime of love. In the middle of the brook hestopped--just a second, to mark the beginning of the end--and then wenton again. When he set her down he was breathing heavily. She hadbecome a bit self-conscious. Her cheeks were aflame. 

Her low black shoes with their big silk bows tied pertly below her trimankles were a goodly sight to see against the green grass as he mighthave observed had he looked at them at all. But he did n't. He wipedhis moist forehead as though, instead of a dainty armful, she had beena burden. 

She shook the wrinkles from her skirt and looked up at him laughing. Then she frowned. 

"Mr. Donaldson, " she scolded, "you walked across there with your shoesand stockings on. "

"Why, that's so, " he exclaimed, looking down at his water-logged shoesas though in as great surprise as she herself. 

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know, " he answered helplessly. 

"You ought to spread them out in the sun to dry. "

"You can't spread out shoes, can you? Besides we have n't time. Wemust hurry right on. Right on, this minute, " he added as the motherlyconcern in her face set his throat to aching again. 

With the stride of a pioneer he led off, praying that they might notfind in their path another brook. For a stretch of a mile, he pressedon without once looking around, taking a faster pace than he realized. The course was a fairly smooth one over an acre or so of pasture, through a strip of oak woods, and up a stiff slope. It was not untilhe reached the top of this that he paused. He looked around and sawher about halfway up the hill, climbing heavily, her eyes upon theground. Even as he watched her, he saw her sway, catch herself, andpush on again without even looking up. It was the act of a womanalmost exhausted. He reached her side in a couple of strides. Hetried to take her arm but she broke free of him and in a final spurtreached the top of the hill and threw herself upon the ground to catchher breath. 

"I did n't realize how fast I was going, " he apologized kneeling by herside. "That was unpardonable, but why did n't you call to me?"

She removed her hat. Then she leaned back upon her hands until shecould speak evenly. A light breeze loosened a brown curl and playedwith it. 

"Why did n't you call to me?"

"Because I wished to keep pace with you. " He turned away from her. 

"When you are rested we will start again, " he said. 

"Are you ready?" she asked. 

He nodded. 

"Then I am ready. "

"You will take my arm?"

"No, " she answered. 

"Then you must keep by my side where I can watch you. "

They took the remaining distance in more leisurely fashion, nowrealizing that they were nearing the outskirts of this fairy kingdom. With this thought he relaxed a little and instantly the sun andburgeoning nature claimed him, making light of every problem save thesupreme one of bringing together a man and his mate. 

They crossed a field or two and so came again into the road which theyhad left three miles back. Walking a short distance along this, theyfound themselves on a sharp hill overlooking the station a few hundredyards below. With the same impulse they turned back far enough to beout of sight of this. Twenty minutes still remained to them. They satdown by the side of the road where they had rested before. A lightbreeze pushing through the top of a big pine made a sound as of runningwater in the distance. 

With her chin in one hand, elbow on knee, she studied him a moment asthough endowed with sudden inspiration. A quick frown which hadshadowed his face at sight of the railroad had driven home a suspicionwhich she had long held. Now she dared to voice it. 

"Have things been mixed up for you--back there?"

The question startled him. He gave her a swift look as though todivine the reason for it. It was so direct that it was hard to evade. And he would not lie directly to her. So he replied bluntly, "Yes. "

She waited. He saw her expectant eyes, but he went no further. Partof the price he paid for being here was renunciation of the balm hemight have in the sharing of his trouble with her. He knew that shewould take his silence for a rebuff, but he could not help that. Hesaid nothing more, the silence eating into him. 

But something stronger than her pride drove her on. 

"Mr. Donaldson, " she said, "you have given a great deal of time to meand mine--if there is anything I may do in return, you will give me theprivilege?"

"There is nothing, " he answered. 

He saw the puzzled hurt in her eyes. 

"I know all that you with your big heart would do for me, " he declaredearnestly, "but honestly there is nothing possible. My worry will cureitself. I can see the end of it even now. "

"Will the end of it come within a month?"

"Within a week. "

"Perhaps, " she said, "I could hasten the end to a day. "

"No, " he smiled, "I 'd rather you would n't. I 'd rather you wouldprolong it if you could. "

"Is that a riddle?"

"To you. "

"Then I can't answer it for I never guessed one in my life. "

So with his knuckles kneading the grass by his side, he made light ofit until she turned away from the subject to admire the blue seenthrough the pine needles above their heads. 

Soon he heard the distant low whistle of the engine which was comingfor them like a sheriff with a warrant. 

He was not conscious of very much more until they were back again inthe house and he heard Arsdale's voice, "I 've rented the offices, old man! Swellest in the city. To-morrowyou must come down and see them!"

CHAPTER XXII

_Clouds_

Arsdale was somewhere about the house and Elaine had gone up-stairswhen Donaldson, who had come out-doors to smoke, saw a man with broadshoulders and a round unshaven face step from a cab, push through thehedge gate, and come quickly up the path. He watched him withindifferent interest, until in the dusk he recognized the stubbornmouth which gripped a cigar as a bull-dog hangs to a rag. Then hehurried forward with hand extended. 

"Good Lord, Saul, " he exclaimed, "where did you drop from?"

"Hello, Don. I rather hoped that I might run across you here. "

"I 'm ashamed of myself, " answered Donaldson guiltily. "I did n'tnotify you that we had found him. But the last I heard of you, youwere out of town. "

"Oh, that's all right. Tung gave me the whole story. "

"The rat! He made a lot of trouble for us. "

"And for me, too. "

"Still working on the Riverside robberies?"

Saul glanced up quickly. Then looking steadily into Donaldson's eyesas though the reply had some significance he answered, "Yes. "

"I wish you luck. And say, old man, I 've worried since for fear lestyou lost a good opportunity for a hot scent the time I kept you out. "

"I did. But I picked it up again by chance. "

"You did? Have you caught the man?"

"No, " answered Saul abstractedly. "Not yet. "

He chewed the stub of his cigar a moment, glancing frequently at thehouse. 

"Say, " he asked abruptly, "come down the road here a piece with me, will you?"

Saul led him to the street and far enough away from the cab so thattheir conversation could not be overheard, yet near enough to theelectric light for him to see Donaldson's face clearly. 

"I want you to tell me something about young Arsdale, " he began. "Ishe in the house there now?"

"Yes. And happy as a clam at high water. "

"Has he talked any since he came back?"

"Talked? He's clear-headed enough, if that is what you mean?"

"Has he appeared at all worried--as though he had something on hismind?"

"Not in the slightest He's taken such a new grip on himself that thelast few days are almost blotted out. You 'd never know him for thesame boy, Saul. He's quit the dope for good. "

"So? Remorse!"

"Not the kind of remorse you mean, Beefy. This is the real thing. "

Saul thought a moment. Then he asked, "You told me, did n't you, that he had no money with him that night?"

"Not more than a dollar or so. "

"He spent a lot at Tung's. "

"The heathen probably robbed him of it!"

"Yes, but where did Arsdale get it?"

Donaldson started. There was something ominous in the question. Buthe could n't recount to Saul that disgraceful attack the boy had madeupon his sister when returning for funds. It wouldn't be fair to thepresent Arsdale. 

"I don't know, " he answered. "What have you up your sleeve, Beefy?"

"Something bad, " replied Saul bluntly. He lowered his voice: "It isbeginning to look as though your young friend might know somethingabout the robberies that have been taking place around here. "

"What!"

If an earthquake had suddenly shattered the stone house behind thehedge, it would have left him no more dazed. 

"I won't say that we 've got him nailed, " Saul hastened to explain, "but it begins to look bad for him. "

"But, man dear, " gasped Donaldson, "he is n't a thug! He isn't--"

"If he 's like the others he 's anything when he wants his smoke. I've seen more of them than you. "

"Saul, " he said, "you 're dead wrong about this! You 've made ahorrible mistake!"

"Perhaps. But he 'll have to explain some things. "

Donaldson took a grip on himself. 

"What's the nature of your evidence?"

"There 's the question of where he got his funds, first; then the factthat all the attacks took place within a small radius of this house;then the motive, and finally the fact, that in a general way he answersto the description given by four witnesses. He 'll have to take thethird degree on that, anyway. "

The third degree would undoubtedly kill the boy, or, worse, break hisspirit and drive him either to a mad-house or the solace of his drug. It was a cruel thing to confront him with this at such a point in hislife. It was fiendish, devilish. It was possible that they might evenmake the boy believe that in his blind madness he actually did committhese crimes. Then, as in a lurid moving picture, Donaldson recalledthe uneasiness of the girl; the morning papers with their glaringheadlines of the Riverside robberies, which he had found that morningscattered about the floor; her fear of the police, and the mystery ofthe untold story at which she had hinted. Take these, and the factthat in his madness Arsdale had actually made an attack upon the girland upon himself, similar to those outside the house, and the chain wasa strong one. The pity of it--coming now!

Yes, it was in this that the cruel injustice lay. Even admitting theboy to be guilty, it was still an injustice. The man who had donethose things was outside the pale of the law; he was no more. Arsdalehimself, Arsdale the clean-minded young man with a useful life beforehim, Arsdale with his new soul, had no more to do with those blackdeeds than he himself had. Yet that lumbering Juggernaut, the Law, could not take this into account. The Law did not deal with souls, butbodies. 

To this day--what a hideous climax!

Saul detected the fear in Donaldson's eyes, "You know something about this, Don!" he asked eagerly. 

He was no longer a friend; he was scarcely a man; he was a hound whohas picked up his trail. His eyes had narrowed; his round face seemedto grow almost pointed. He chewed his cigar end viciously. He wasalert in every nerve. 

"You'd better loosen up, " he warned, "it's all right to protect afriend, but it can't be done in a case of this sort. You as a lawyerought to know that. It can't be done. "

"Yes, I know, I know. But I want to tell you again that you 're deadwrong about this. You haven't guessed right, Beefy. "

"That's for others to decide, " he returned somewhat sharply. "It 's upto you to tell what you know. "

"It's hard to do it--it's hard to do it to you. "

Donaldson's face had suddenly grown blank--impassive. The mouth hadhardened and his whole body stiffened almost as it does after death. When he spoke it was without emotion and in the voice of one who hasrepeated a phrase until it no longer has meaning. 

"I realize how you feel, " Saul encouraged him, "but there's no way outof it. "

"No, there's no way out of it. So I give myself up!"

"But it is n't you I want, --it's Arsdale. "

"No, I guess it's I. See how your descriptions fit me. "

Saul pressed closer. 

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded. 

"Just this, " answered Donaldson dully, "I can't see an innocent man goto jail. "

To his mind Arsdale was as innocent to-day as though not a shadow ofsuspicion rested upon him. 

"Are you mad?"

"Not yet, " answered Donaldson. 

Saul waited a moment. In all his professional career he had neverreceived a greater surprise than this. He would not have believedenough of it to react had it not been for Donaldson's expression. Backof the impassiveness he read guilt, read it in the restless shifting ofthe eyes and in the voice dead to hope. Then he said deliberately, "I don't believe you, Don. "

"No? Yet you 've got as much evidence against me as against Arsdale. "

"But, God A'mighty, Donaldson, why should you do such a thing?"

"Why should the boy?"

Saul seized his arm. 

"You don't tell me that you've fallen into that habit?"

"Sit in a law-office and do nothing for three years, then--then, perhaps, you 'll understand. "

Saul threw away his cigar. He studied again the thin face, thehaggardness that comes of opium, the nervous fingers, the vacant shiftygaze of those on the sharp edge of sanity. Then he lighted a freshcigar and declared quietly, "I don't believe you!"

"You 'll have to for the sake of those in the house. They 've beengood to me in there. "

His voice was as hard as black ice and as cold. He looked more like amagnetized corpse than he did a man. 

"I wish, " he continued evenly, "I wish I might have been knocked overthe head before it came to this. If I had known I had to face you, Iwould have let it come to that. But I didn't expect this, Beefy. "

"If this story is on the level, you 'd better shut up, " warned Saul. "What you say will be used against you. "

"Thanks for reminding me, but things have come out so wrong that Ican't even shut up. If you should go inside that house with the dreamyou sprang on me, you 'd drive the boy crazy and kill the girl. Theboy has been in a bad way, but he's all straight again now, and yet youmight make him believe he did these jobs when out of his head. Andthen--and then--why, it would kill them both! That's why I could n'tlet you do it. That's why you _must n't_ do anything like that. "

Saul did not answer. He waited. 

"So I might as well make a clean breast of it. Do you remember whenthe last job was?"

"Last Saturday morning. "

"Remember where you were at that time?"

"Why--that was the morning I went out with you!"

"Just so, " answered Donaldson, his eyes leveled over Saul's head. "Ihate to tell you, but--but it was necessary to do that in order to keepyou away from headquarters. "

Saul reached for his throat, pushing him back a step. 

"You played me traitor like that?" he demanded. 

"It was part of the game, " answered Donaldson indifferently. Saul, fearful of himself, drew back. 

The latter tried to reason it out. A man can change a good deal in ayear, but even with opium it seemed impossible for Donaldson so toabuse a friendship. But he was checked in his recollection of the manas he had known him by the memory of that very morning. He had beensuspicious even then that something was wrong. Donaldson had appearednervous and altered. 

"Donaldson, " he burst out, "I 'd give up my rank to be out of thismess. "

He added impulsively, "Tell me it's all a damned lie, Don!"

"No, " replied Donaldson, "the sooner it's over the better. I 'm allthrough now. "

Still Saul hesitated. But there seemed nothing left. 

"Come on, " he growled. 

Donaldson followed him to the cab. He was like a man too tired to care. 

"Had n't you better make up some sort of a story for them in there?"asked Saul, with a jerk of his head towards the house. 

"That's so, " answered Donaldson. "Will you trust me for a few minutes?"

"Take your time, " said Saul. 

Donaldson went back up the path and found both Arsdale and his sisterin the library. 

"I 'll have to ask you to excuse me for to-night, " he said. "I 'vejust had word from a friend who wishes me to spend the night with him. "

They both looked disappointed. 

"He 's waiting out there for me now. "

"Perhaps you will come back later, " suggested Arsdale. 

"Not to-night. Perhaps in the morning. I 'll drop you a word if I 'mkept longer. "

He spoke lightly, with no trace of anything abnormal in his bearing. 

"All right, but we 'll miss you, " answered Arsdale. 

The girl said nothing but her face grew suddenly sober. 

They went to the door with him and watched him step into the cab. 

Saul had prayed that he would not return, and now looked more as thoughit were he that was being led off. He chewed his unlighted cigar insilence while the other sat back in his corner with his eyes closed. 

Once on his way to headquarters he leaned forward, and clutchingDonaldson's knee, repeated his cry, "Tell me it's all a lie, " he begged. "There's time yet. I 'll hustleyou to the train and stake you to Canada. Just give me your word forit. "

Donaldson shook his head. 

"It would only come back on Arsdale, and that is n't square. "

"Then God help you, " murmured Saul. 

The cab stopped before headquarters and Saul, with lagging steps, ledhis man in. The Chief listened to the story he told with his keen eyeskindling like a fire through shavings. He saw the end to the bitterinvective heaped upon him during the last three weeks by the press. Then he began his gruelling cross-examination. 

The story Donaldson told was simple and convincing. He had come to NewYork full of hope, had waited month after month, and had finally becomediscouraged. In this extremity he had taken to a drug. His relationswith the Arsdales began less than a week ago and they knew nothing ofhim save that he had been of some assistance in helping young Arsdalestraighten out. Arsdale had borrowed money of him, although doubtlesshe could not remember it, and had taken it to go down to Tung's. Feeling a sense of responsibility for the use the boy had made of thismoney and out of regard to the sister, he had done his best to help himpull out. 

When pressed for further details of the crimes themselves, Donaldsonadmitted that his memory was very much clouded. He had committed theassaults when in a mental condition that left them in his memory onlyas evil dreams. The substantiation of this must come through hisidentification by the witnesses. He could remember nothing of what hehad done with the purses, or the jewels and papers which theycontained. He had used only the money. 

An officer was sent to search his rooms at the hotel, and in themeanwhile men were sent out to bring in the victims of the assaults. It was for this test that Donaldson held in check all the reserve powerhe had within him. If his story was weak up to this point, he realizedthat this identification would substantiate it beyond the shadow of adoubt. This he knew must be done in order to offset Arsdale's possibleattempt to give himself up when he should hear of this. As a studenthe had been impressed with the unreliability of direct evidence, andhere would be an opportunity to test his theory that much of theevidence to the senses is worthless. From the moment he had determinedupon this course he had based his hopes upon this test. Saul had madeit clear that the descriptions given by the witnesses were vague, andnow in the excitement of confronting their assailant they were apt tobe still more unsubstantial. If he could succeed in terrifying them, he could convince them to a point where they would make all theirexcited visions fit him to a hair. 

And so as each man was brought before him, Donaldson looked at him frombeneath lowering brows with his mind fixed so fiercely upon thedetermination to force them to see him as the shadowy brute who hadattacked them that he in reality looked the part. Two of the menwithdrew, wiping their foreheads, after making the identificationabsolute. 

The third witness, a woman, promptly fainted. When she revived shesaid she was willing to take her oath that this was the man. Not onlywas she sure of his height, weight, and complexion, but she recognizedthe same malicious gleam which flashed from the demon's eyes as he hadstood over her. She shivered in fright. 

The fourth victim was a man of fifty. He was slower to decide, but thelonger he stood in front of Donaldson, the surer he became. Donaldson, with his arms folded, never allowed his eyes to move from the honesteyes of this other. And as he looked he made a mental picture of theact of creeping up behind this man, of lifting his weapon, finally ofstriking. With the act of striking, his shoulders lifted, so intensewas his determination. 

The man drew back from him. 

"Yes, " he said, "I am sure. This is the brute. "

It was two hours later before Donaldson was finally handed over to theofficers of the Tombs, and Saul turned back reluctantly to give to theeager reporters as meagre an outline of the story as he could. 

CHAPTER XXIII

_When the Dead Awake_

Donaldson, without removing his clothes, tumbled across his bunk andfell into a merciful stupor which lasted until morning. He was arousedby a rough shaking and staggered to his feet to find Saul againconfronting him. The latter had evidently been some time at his task, for he exclaimed, "I thought you were dead! You certainly sleep like an honest man. "

"Sleep? Where am I?"

"You are at present enjoying a cell in the Tombs. You seem to like it. "

Donaldson pressed his hand to his aching eyes. Then slowly the truthdawned upon him. 

"What day is this?" he asked. 

"Thursday. "

"Yes. Yes. That's so. And to-morrow is Friday. "

"That's a good guess. Do you remember what happened last night?"

"Yes, I remember. I 'm under arrest. I remember the terror in theface of that woman!"

Saul laughed inhumanly. 

"Of all the bogie men I ever saw you were the worst. "

"I suppose I 'll be arraigned this morning. "

"I doubt it, old man. In some ways you deserve it, but I'm afraid theChief won't satisfy your morbid cravings. Remember the story you toldhim?"

"Yes. "

"And you 're wide enough awake to understand what I 'm saying to younow?"

"Perfectly, " answered Donaldson, growing suspicious. 

"Then, " exploded Saul, "I want to ask you what the devil your blessedgame is?"

"I could n't sacrifice an honest man, could I?"

"Then, " went on Saul with increasing vehemence, "I want to tell youplainly that you 're a chump, because you sacrificed an honest manafter all. "

"You have n't arrested Arsdale? Lord, Saul, you haven't done that, have you?"

"No, " answered Saul, "I was ass enough to arrest you. "

"It would be wrong, dead wrong, to touch the boy. He didn't haveanything to do with this. There was no one with me. "

Saul took a long breath. 

"I 'm hanged if I ever saw a man _hanker_ after jail the way you do. And you 've got the papers full of it. And pretty soon I 'll begetting frantic messages from the girl. And you 've made all sorts ofan ass of yourself. Do you hear--you chump of a hero, you?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Donaldson. 

"I mean just this; that we 've nailed the right man at last! Got himwith the goods on, so that we won't need the identification of a bunchof hysterical idiots to prove it. We won't even need a loose-jointedconfession, because we caught him black-handed. But my guess wasn'tsuch a bad one--it was n't Arsdale, but it was Jacques Moisson, hisfather's valet. "

"Jacques Moisson?"

"The son of that old crone Marie there. He caught the dope habitevidently from his master and has been to the bad ever since Arsdalesenior died. The old lady has been hiding him part of the time in thegarret of the house. "

Donaldson's thoughts flew back to the bungalow; it was this fellow thenand not Arsdale who had attacked him, --if Saul's story was true. 

Saul approached him with outstretched hand. 

"You played a heavy game, Don. "

Donaldson grew suspicious. 

"I don't know what you 're talking about, " he said, his lips comingtightly together again. 

"No. Of course not! That's right. Keep it up! But I 'll have myrevenge. I 'll give the newspaper boys every detail of it. I 'll seeyour name in letters six inches higher than they were even thismorning. I will; I swear it!"

"Saul, " said Donaldson quietly, "you 're doing your best to make me goback upon my story. You can't do it. "

Saul folded his arms. 

"Of all the heroic liars, " he gasped, his face beaming, "you 're theprince. And, " he continued in an undertone, "it 's all for the sake ofa girl. "

Donaldson sprang to his feet. 

"Don't bring in _her_ name, Saul, " he commanded. 

"All for the sake of a girl, " continued Saul undisturbed. "It took mesome time to work it out, but now I see. Take my hand, won't you, Donaldson? I want to say God bless you for it. "

Donaldson hesitated. But Saul's eyes were honest. 

"This is the truth you're telling me?" he trembled. 

"The truth, " answered the other solemnly. 

"Then you won't touch the boy? There is no further suspicion restingupon him?"

"To hell with the boy!" exploded Saul. "You 're free yourself! Don'tyou get that?"

"Yes, " answered Donaldson. 

He passed his hand thoughtfully over his face. Then he glanced up witha smile. 

"I need a shave, don't I?" he asked. 

"You sure do. Let's get out of here. And if I were you I 'd get backto her about as soon as I could. It's early yet, so maybe she has n'tseen the papers. I gave the boys the real arrest, so that they couldget out an extra on it and take the curse off the first editions. Andnow, " he added, "and now I 'm going to give them the story of theirlives--the inside story of all this. "

"Don't be a chump, Beefy!"

"I'll do it, " answered Saul firmly. "I'll leave out the girl but I 'llgive them the rest. I 've got some rights in this matter after the wayyou 've used me. "

"I know, " he apologized, "but there didn't seem any road out of it. Ifyou 'll just keep quiet about--"

"Not a word. You 'll take your medicine. Besides, the dear publicwill think you were crazy if they don't learn the truth. "

"I don't care about that, if--"

"Bah! Come on. I 'll get you past the bunch now, but you 'll have torun for your life after this. "

Saul put him with all possible despatch through the red tape necessaryto secure his acquittal, and then led him out by a side door. Hesummoned a cab. 

"They 're waiting, " he chuckled. "Twenty of 'em with sharpened pencilsand, --Holy Smoke, --the story! The story!"

"Forget it, Saul. Forget it--"

But Saul only pushed him into the cab and hurried back to his joyousmission. 

Donaldson ordered the driver to the Waldorf. He must get a cleanshave, change his clothes and get back to the Arsdale house before thefirst editions were out heralding his arrest. If Jacques had beenarrested at the house it was possible that the excitement might haveprevented them from learning anything at all of his part in the mess. 

He found a letter from Mrs. Wentworth waiting for him. He tore itopen. She wrote:

"Oh, Peter Donaldson, I wish I had the gift to make you understand howgrateful I am for all you 've done. But I can't until you come up andvisit us. We reached here safely and found everything all right. Thedeed was given to me and the money you put in the bank for me. Thehouse now is all clean and the children are playing out doors. Myheart is overflowing, Peter Donaldson. It is better than anything Iever dreamed of here. My prayers are with you all the time and I knowthey will be heard. "

So she ran on and told him all about the place and what she had alreadyaccomplished. Happiness breathed like a flower's fragrance from everyline of it, until it left him with a lump in his throat. 

"That is something, " he said to himself as he finished it. "It has n'tbeen all waste. "

He went to the barber in better spirits and came back to his room toread the letter again. It was like a tonic to him. He looked from hiswindow a moment, to breathe the fresh morning air. 

The street below him was alive once more with its eager life. Men andwomen passed to the right and left, the blind beggar still waited atthe corner, the world, expressed now through this one human being, hadabated not one tittle of its activity. The Others were still abouthim. The pigeons still cut gray circles through the sunshine and thegirl still waited. As he stood there he heard the raucous cries of thenewsboys shouting "Extra, " and knew that he must go on and face thisfinal crisis. He could not delay another minute. 

When he reached the house he found his worst fears realized. She wasin the library with a crumpled paper in her hand and Arsdale wasbending over her. As he greeted them they both pushed back from him asthough one of the dead had entered. The boy was the first to recoverhimself. He sprang to Donaldson's side with his hand out. 

"I told her it was n't true, " he exclaimed. "I told her it was all abeastly lie!"

He grasped Donaldson's hand and dragged him towards his sister. 

"See, " he cried, "see, here he is! The papers lied about him!"

The girl tottered forward. Donaldson put out his arm and supported her. 

"I 'm sorry you saw the papers, " he said quietly. "I was in hopes Ishould reach here before that. "

"But what is the meaning of it?"

"The police made a mistake, that 's all, " he explained. 

Arsdale broke in, "We 'll sue them for it, Donaldson! I 'll get the best legal talent inthe country and make them sweat for this! It's an outrage!"

"I 'm sorry you saw the paper, " he repeated to the girl. 

Her pale face and startled eyes frightened him. She had withdrawn fromhis arm after a minute and now fell into a chair. 

"The blasted idiots, " raged the boy. 

The telephone rang imperiously and Arsdale went to answer it, chewinginvectives. 

Donaldson crossed to the side of the girl. 

"Where is Marie?" he asked. 

"She is in bed again. Her poor knees are troubling her. "

"I have both good news and bad news for you, " he said after a moment'shesitation, "the real assailant has been found and it is JacquesMoisson. "

The girl recoiled. 

"Jacques!"

"So the police feel sure. They say they caught him this morning in theattempt to commit another robbery. The Arsdale curse is upon him. "

"Oh, " she cried, "that is terrible. "

But as he had guessed, it was good news also. There was no longer anydoubt of who brought that wallet to the bungalow. There was no longerthe grim suspicion of who might have rifled her rooms. The spectreswhich had seemed to be moving nearer and nearer her brother vanishedinstantly. That burden at least was lifted from her shoulders, eventhough it was replaced by another. 

"Poor Marie! Poor Marie!" she moaned. 

"I think she may suspect this, " he said. "But it will be better foryou to tell her than the police. "

"Yes, I must go to her at once. "

Arsdale came to the door, his face strangely agitated. He paused therea moment clinging to the curtains. Then, almost in awe, he cameunsteadily towards Donaldson. The latter straightened to meet him. The boy started to speak, choked, and, finding Donaldson's hand, seizedit in both his own. Then with his eyes overflowing he found his voice. 

"How am I ever going to repay you for this?" he exclaimed in a daze. 

Elaine was at his side in an instant. 

"What is it, Ben? What is it now?"

"What is it?" he faltered. "It's so much--it's so much, I can't say itall at once. "

Donaldson turned away from them both. 

"He, " panted the boy, "he gave himself up for me. They thought it wasI, and he went to jail for me. "

"It was a mistake on their part, " answered Donaldson. "They did n'tknow. "

"And so you shouldered it, " she whispered. 

"I knew it would come out all right, " he faltered. 

"A reporter rang me up just now, " ran on Arsdale. "He told me thewhole thing. The papers are full of it. They--they say you 're great, Donaldson, but they don't know _how_ great!"

"If you would n't talk about it, " pleaded Donaldson. 

"Talk about it? I want to scream it! I want to get out and stand inPark Row and yell it. I want every living man and woman in the worldto know about it!"

"It's all over--it's done with!"

"No, " answered Arsdale, "it's just begun. I feel weak in the knees. Imust go--I must be alone a minute and think this over. "

He staggered from the room and Donaldson turning to the girl, saidgently, "Go to Marie now. She will need you. "

"You, " she exclaimed below her breath, "you are wonderful!"

He turned away his head and she left him there alone. 

CHAPTER XXIV

_The Greater Master_

In the fifteen minutes that Donaldson waited in the library, he foughtout with himself the question as to whether he had the strength toremain here in the house on this the day before the end. 

In his decision he took into account his duty towards the boy, thepossible danger to the girl, and his own growing passion. There wasbut one answer: he owed it to them all to pull free while there was yettime. It would be foolhardy to risk here a full day and an evening. 

He felt the approaching crisis more than he had at any time during theweek. 

At times he became panic-stricken at his powerlessness to check foreven one brief pendulum-swing this steady tread of time. Time was suchan intangible thing, and yet what a Juggernaut! There was nothing ofit which he could get hold of to wrestle, and yet it was more powerfulthan Samson to throw him in the end. Sly, subtle, bodiless, soulless, impersonal; expressed in the big clock above the city, and in milady'sdainty watch rising and falling upon her breast; sweeping away citiesand nursing to life violets; tearing down and building up; killing andbegetting; bringing laughter and tears, it is consistent in one thingalone, --that it never ceases. There is but one word big enough toexpress it, and that is God. Without beginning, without end, and neverceasing. At times he grew breathless, so individualized did everysecond become, so fraught with haste. Where was he being dragged, andin the end would the seconds rest? No, they would go on just the same, and he might hear them even in his grave. 

With his decision came the even more vital question as to what heshould tell this girl. With the strength of his whole nature he cravedthe privilege of standing white before her. He longed to tell her thewhole pitiful complication that he might stand before her withoutshadow of hypocrisy. He could then leave with his head up to meet hisdoom. But even this crumb of relief was refused him. To do this mightbreak down the boy and would leave her, if only as a friend, to bearsomething of the ensuing hours. He must, then, leave her in darkness, suffering the lesser stings of doubt and suspicion and bewilderment. He must leave her in false colors to whatever she might imagine. 

She came back again with her lips quivering. 

"Poor Marie, " she gasped. "She lies there broken hearted, praying todie. "

"I am sorry for her, " he said gently. 

"I feel the blame of it, " she answered. "Why must the curse of thehouse have fallen upon her?"

"It is difficult to work out such matters, " he replied. "But I don'tthink you should shoulder the responsibility. We each of us must bearthe burden of our own acts. It makes it even harder when another triesto relieve us of this. "

"But I can't relieve her. That is the pity of it. She turns away herhead from me for she has taken upon herself all the responsibility forJacques. "

"That is the mother in her. There is nothing you can do. "

"She will die of grief. "

"Then she will be dead. So her relief will come. "

The girl drew back a little. 

"She must not die. I must not let her die. "

She looked up at him as though she expected him even in this emergencyto suggest some way out of it. But he was speechless. 

"I must go back to her, " she said after a minute. "I must go andcomfort her. "

"Yes, " he said, "that is the best you can do. Take her hand and holdit. That is all you can do. Ben is upstairs?"

"Yes. I have n't told him yet. "

"Tell him, " he advised. "It will help him to have an opportunity tohelp another. "

"Then you will excuse me?"

"Of course. But there is something that I must tell you before you go. I must leave you both now. "

"You will come back to dinner with us?"

"I 'm afraid I shall be unable. I start on a long journey. I must saygood bye. "

She fixed her eyes upon him in a new alarm, waiting for what he shouldsay next. But that was all. That was all he had to say. In those twowords, "Good bye, " he bounded all that was in the past, all that was inthe future. 

"You have had some sudden call?"

"Yes. "

"But you will come back again. Don't--don't make it sound so final. "

"I have no hope of coming back. "

"Oh, " she cried, "I thought that now you might find a little rest. "

"Perhaps I shall. I do not know. But before I go I wish to insistagain that you and Ben leave this house and get back into the countrysomewhere. Don't think I am presuming, but I should feel better if Iknew you had this in mind. I see so clearly that it is the thing foryou to do. "

"Don't speak as though you were going so far, " she shuddered. "Whatwill Ben do without you?"

"Get him away from these old surroundings. Let him makefriends--clean, wholesome friends. Let him pursue his hobby. Thereare other places besides New York where he is needed. If he is keptbusy I do not fear for him. "

She tried to pierce the white mask he wore. It was quite useless. Sheknew that there was something in him now that she could not reach. Yetshe felt that there was need of it. She felt that there was need thatshe of all women in the world should force her way into his soul andthere comfort him as he had bidden her comfort Marie. She felt thiswith an insurge of passion that left her girlhood behind forever. Itswept away all thoughts of Ben, all thoughts of Marie, all thoughts ofherself. She heard his voice as though in the distance. 

"It is better, " he was saying, "to be direct--to be as honest aspossible at such a time as this. We can't say some things very gently, try as we may, because they are brutal facts in themselves. But I amgoing to tell you all I can as simply as I can. I must leave you. Itis n't of my own free will that I go, though at the beginning it was. Now I go because I must. Perhaps you will never again hear of me. Ifyou don't you must remember me as you know me now. Do you understandthat, Miss Arsdale? You know me now as I am--as no other human beingknows me. Will you cling to this?"

"You are to me as you are. So you always will be. "

She met his eyes unflinchingly, feeling a new strength growing withinher. He went on:

"If we cling to what we ourselves know of our friends--if we cling tothat through thick and thin, nothing that happens to them can mattermuch. It is that confidence which lifts our friendships beyond thereach of the cur snappings of circumstance. So you, whatever you mayhear afterwards, whatever things you find yourself unable tounderstand, must hold fast to this week. You must say to yourself, "his voice grew husky, "you must say this, --'If it had been possible forhim to do so, he would have lived out his life as I wished him to liveit out. '"

As he spoke on, it seemed to him that she, in some subtle way, wasrising superior to him. Instead of losing strength as she stood therebefore him, he felt her growing in power. He had been talking to heras to a child, and now he suddenly found himself confronting a woman. She was now the dominant personality. When she spoke to him her voicewas firmer and possessed of a new richness. 

"I have heard you, " she said. "All the things you spoke are true. Whyare you going?"

He hesitated at the direct question. 

"Because I must. "

"Why must you?"

"I cannot tell you. "

She placed a steady hand upon his arm. 

"Yes. You must tell me. "

"Don't tempt me like that!"

He felt himself weakening. If only he might stand before her with hismask off. It meant freedom, it meant peace. That was all heasked--just the privilege of standing stark white before this one woman. 

He turned away. The burden was his and he must bear it, if it crushedhis very soul into the clay. Away from those eyes, he might be able towrite some poor explanation. But to put it into cold words would beonly to force upon her the torture of the next few hours. It wasbetter for her to believe as she now saw him, as she might guess, thanto suffer the ghastly truth and then shiver at the mud idol that wasleft. 

He moved back a step. 

"You must not look at me, " he cried. "You must keep your eyes awayfrom me and--and let me go. "

But she followed, pressing him to the wall as they all had done. Thecolor leaped to her cheeks. Her eyes grew big and tender. 

"I do not think you understand me, " she said. 

He stood awed before what he now saw. It was as though he were lookingat a naked soul. 

"I do not think you understand, " she continued, lifting her head alittle. "You will not go, because there can be no call so great asthat which bids you stay. "

He answered, "My master is the master of us all. "

"Then, " she returned, "I too must go to meet your master. He mustclaim us both. "

"God forbid, " he exclaimed. 

"You talk of masters, " she ran on more excitedly, "and you are only aman. We women have a master greater than any you know. You taught mea moment ago to be direct--to be honest. It is so I must be with younow. I must be brave, " her voice trembled a little, "I must stand faceto face with you. Oh, if you were not so unselfish--so unseeing, youwould not make me do this!"

He stood speechless--his throat aching the length of it. 

"You treat me like a child, when you have made me a woman! You treatme like a weakling, when you have given me strength! You tell me youhave some great trouble and then you refuse to allow me to share it!Don't you see?"

Her face was transfigured by pure white courage. He trembled beforeit. Yet he only gripped himself the firmer and stood before herimmovable, every word she spoke leaving a red welt upon his soul. 

"Peter, " she trembled, not in fright but because of her overflowingheart, "you have shown me the wonder of life during this last week. You have taken me by the hand and have led me out of the gray barrenland into the flowers and perfume of the orchard. You have done for meas you did for Ben. Why should I be ashamed to say this? I would notmeasure up to you if I kept silent now and let you go alone. I am notashamed. "

To himself he said, "God give me courage to stand firm. "

"You make it harder for me when you say nothing. "

"I must not listen!"

"Don't keep me in the dark, " she pleaded. "Don't send me back aloneinto the dark. It's being alone that hurts. "

To himself he said, "God keep me from telling her. God keep me from letting her know of mylove. So it is best. "

"Don't you see now?"

Again that phrase of his which had come back through Arsdale's lips toscorch him. 

All he could say aloud was, "I must go, and if I can, I will come back. "

"I mean nothing to you if I cannot help you now, " she said steadily. "If the road were smooth to you do you think I could tell you what Ihave? It is your need--it is your need that has given me the strength. "

To himself he said, "God keep my lips sealed. "

To her he said, "I must go. "

She was startled. 

"You remember the orchard, Peter?"

"As long as I remember anything, I shall remember that. "

"You remember the walk straight through things?"

"Yes--you at my side. "

"I have just taken it again--alone. I have pressed straight through. "

There was a pause of a few seconds. Then, "That is a hard thing for a woman to do. "

There was a longer silence. Then she said tenderly, "You look very tired. This day has been heavy to you. Go up-stairs toyour room and rest. Then in the morning--why, in the morning we mayboth see clearer. "

"I can rest nowhere. There is no rest left to me. "

"Ah, you look so tired, " she repeated. 

He seized her hand and pressed it. Then he turned abruptly towards thehall. She watched him with a new fright. He paused at the door, hiseyes drawn back to her against his will. She was standing there quitehelpless, a growing pallor sweeping over her cheeks that so lately hadbeen as richly red as rose leaves. 

"God help me hard now, " he moaned. 

She stood before him like a marble statue. There were no tears. 

"I have been very bold, " she murmured. "I can never forgive myselfthat. "

"You have been wonderful!" he cried. 

"Perhaps you had better go at once, Peter Donaldson, " she said. 

He saw her in a blinding white light. 

"God keep you, " he managed to say. "God keep you forever and ever. "

He stumbled to the hall, found his hat, and staggered through the door. 

At the hedge a shadow stole out to meet him. It was an ambitious youngreporter. 

"Is this Mr. Donaldson?" he asked. 

"Damn you, no!" shouted Donaldson. "Donaldson is dead!"

CHAPTER XXV

_The Shadow on the Floor_

Donaldson toiled up the dark staircase leading to Barstow's laboratory. To him it was as though he were fighting his way through deep waterreaching twenty fathoms above his head. The air was just as cold asgreen water; it contained scarcely more life. He felt the same senseof clammy, lurking things, unknown things, such as crawl along theslimy bottoms where rotting hulks lie. He was impelled here by thesame sort of fascination which is said to lead murderers back to theirvictims, yet it seemed to be the only place where he would be able tothink at all. It was getting back to the beginning--to thesource--where he could start fresh. It was here, and here alone, thathe could write his letter to her. Perhaps here he could make somethingout of the chaos of his thoughts. 

When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused before the closeddoor. He did not expect Barstow to be in. He hoped that he was not. He did not wish to face him to-day. To-morrow perhaps--but he realizedthat if Barstow had gone on his proposed vacation he would not be backeven then. That did not matter either. The single thing remaining forhim to do was to make Elaine understand something of what his life hadmeant, what she had meant in it, what he hoped to mean to her in thesilent future. That must be done alone, and this of all places waswhere he could best do it. The mere thought of his room at the hotelwas repulsive to him. 

He listened at the door. There was no sound--no sound save theinterminable "tick-tock, tick-tock" which still haunted him through thepulse beats in his wrists. He reached forward and touched the knob;listened again, and then turned it and pressed. The door was locked. But it was a feeble affair. Barstow had made his experimentallaboratory in this old building to get away from the inquisitive, andhalf of the time did not take the trouble to turn the key when he left, for there was little of value here. 

He knocked on the chance that Barstow might have lain down upon thesofa for a nap. Again he waited until he heard the "tick-tock, tick-tock" at his wrists. Then, pressing his body close to the lock, he turned the knob and pushed steadily. It weakened. He drew back alittle and threw his weight more heavily against it. The lock gave andthe door swung open. 

The sight of the threadbare sofa was as reassuring as the face of anold friend. Yet what an eternity it seemed since he had sat there anddiscussed his barren life with Barstow. The phrases he had used cameback to mock him. He had talked of the things that lay beyond hisreach, while even then they were at his hand, had he been but hardyenough to seize them; he had spoken of what money could buy for him, with love eagerly pressing greater gifts upon him without price; he hadhungered for freedom with freedom his for the taking. Sailors havedied of thirst at the broad mouth of the Amazon, thinking it to be theopen salt sea; so he was dying in the midst of clean, sweet life. 

He sat down on the sofa, with his head between his hands and stared atthe glittering rows of bottles which caught the sun. Each one of themwas a laughing demon. They danced and winked their eyes--yellow, blue, and blood-red. There were a hundred of them keeping step to thebobbing shadows upon the floor. Row upon row of them--purple, brown, and blood-red--all dancing, all laughing. 

"You come out wrong every time, " Barstow had said. 

And he--he had laughed back even as the bottles were doing. 

He was not cringing even now. He was asking no pity, no mercy. Whenhe had stepped across the room and had taken down that bottle, he hadbeen clear-headed; he had been clear-headed when he had swallowed itscontents. The only relief he craved for himself was to be allowed toremain clear-headed until he should have written his letter. Coming upthe stairs he feared lest this might not be. Now he seemed to besteadying once more. 

He thought of Sandy. Poor pup, he had gone out easily enough. He hadcurled up on a friendly knee and gone to sleep. That was all there hadbeen to it. It would be an odd thing, he mused, if the dog was wherehe could look down on this man-struggle. This braced him up; he wouldnot have even this dog see him die other than bravely. 

As far as he himself was concerned, he knew that he would gounflinchingly to meet his final creditor, but there were theOthers--with Sandy there had been no Others. It was easy enough to diealone, but when in addition to one's own death throes one had to bearthose of others, --that was harder. When he died, it would be as whenseveral died. There would be that mother in Vermont--part of her woulddie with him; there would be Saul--even part of him would die with him;there was Ben--some of him would die, too; and there was Elaine--goodGod, how much of her would die with him?

He sprang to his feet and began to pace the stained wooden floor. Ashe did so, a shadow crawled, from beneath the sofa and stole across theroom like a rat. But unlike a rat, it did not disappear into a hole;it came back again towards Donaldson. He stopped. Close to the groundthe shadow crept nearer until he saw that it was a dog. Then he sawthat it was a black terrier. Then he saw that in size, color, andgeneral appearance it was the living double of Sandy. 

He stooped and extended his hand. He tried to pronounce the name, buthis lips were too dry. The dog crouched, frightened, some three feetdistant. Donaldson, squatting there, watched him with straining eyes. Once again he tried to utter the name. It stuck in his throat, but atthe inarticulate cry he made, the dog wagged his tail so feebly that itscarcely moved its shadow. Donaldson ventured nearer. The dog rolledover to its back and held up its trembling forefeet on guard, studyingDonaldson through half closed eyes with its head turned sideways. 

Donaldson put forward his trembling fingers and touched its side. Thedog was warm, even as Sandy had been when he first picked him up. Thedog feebly waved his padded paws and finally rested them uponDonaldson's hand. 

"Sandy! Sandy!" he murmured, his voice scarcely above a whisper. 

The dumb mouth moved nearer to lick the man's fingers, but hismovements were negative as far as any recognition of the name went. Itwas just the friendly overture of any dog to any man. 

If he could get him to answer to the name! It meant life--a chance forlife! It meant, perhaps, that there had been some mistake--that, perhaps, after all, the poison was not so deadly as Barstow had thoughtit. 

He threw himself upon the floor beside the dog. In the body of thisblack terrier centred everything in life that a man holds most dear. If he could speak--if the dumb tongue could wag an answer to that onequestion!

The dog turned over and crawled nearer. Donaldson fixed his burningeyes upon the blinking brute. 

"Sandy, " he cried, "is this you, Sandy?"

The moist tongue reached for his fingers. 

He took a deep breath. He said, "Dick--is this you, Dick?"

Again the moist tongue reached for his fingers. 

Donaldson picked him up. 

"Sandy, " he cried, "answer me. "

The dog closed his eyes as though expecting a blow. 

Donaldson dropped him. The animal crawled away beneath the sofa. Donaldson felt more alone that minute than he had ever felt in all hislife. It was as though he sat there, the sole living thing in thebroad universe. There was nothing left but the blinking eyes of thebottles dancing in still brisker joy. He could not endure it. 

Moving across the room he knelt by the sofa and tried to coax thefrightened animal out again. 

"Sandy. Come, Sandy, " he called. 

There was no show of life. He snapped his fingers. He groped beneaththe old lounge. Then, in a frenzy of fear, lest it had all been anapparition, he swung the sofa into the middle of the room. The dogfollowed beneath it, but he caught a glimpse of him. He pushed thesofa back to the wall and began to coax again. 

"Come out, Sandy. I 'll not hurt you. Come, Sandy. "

There was a scratching movement and then the tip of a hot, dry noseappeared. 

"Come. That 's a good dog. Come. "

He could hear the tail vigorously thumping the floor, but the headappeared only inch by inch. Donaldson held his breath. 

"Come, " he whispered. 

Slowly, with the sly pretension that it demanded a tremendous physicaleffort, the dog emerged and stood shivering beneath the big hand whichsmoothed its back with cooing words of assurance. 

"Why, I was n't going to hurt you, Sandy, " whispered Donaldson, findingcomfort in pronouncing the name. "I was n't going to hurt you. We 'reold friends. Don't you remember, Sandy? Don't you remember the nightI held you? Don't you remember that, Sandy?"

The dog looked up at him moistening its own dry mouth. In every detailthis was the same dog he had held upon his knee while arguing withBarstow. He made another test. 

"Mike, " he called. 

In response the pup wagged his tail good naturedly and with moreconfidence now. 

Donaldson caught his breath. Locked within that tiny brute brain wasthe secret of what waited for him on the morrow: love and the gloriesof a big life, or death and oblivion. The answer was there behindthose moist eyes. But if he could reach Barstow--

Here was a new hope. He could ask him if this was Sandy, and so sparehimself the terrors of the night to come. He had the right to do thatas long as he abided by the decision. There was a telephone here, andhe knew that Barstow lived in an up-town apartment house, so that someone was sure to be in. He found the number in the battered, chemical-stained directory, and put in his call. It seemed an hourbefore he received his reply. 

"No, sir, Mr. Barstow is away. Any message?"

"Where has he gone?" asked Donaldson dully. 

"He's off on a yachting cruise, sir. "

It would have been impossible for him to withdraw more completely outof reach. 

"When do you expect him back?"

"I don't know, sir. He said he might be gone a day or two or perhaps aweek. "

"And he left?"

"Last Friday--very unexpectedly. "

Donaldson hung up the receiver, which had grown in his hand as heavy aslead. He turned back to the dog, who had jumped upon the sofa and wasnow cuddled into a corner. He lifted his head and began to trembleagain as Donaldson came nearer. 

"Still afraid of me?" he asked with a sad smile. "Why, there is n'tenough of me left to be afraid of, pup. There 's only about a day ofme left and we ought to be friends during that time. "

He nestled his head down upon the warm body. The dog licked his hairaffectionately. The kindness went to his heart. The attention wassoothing, restful. He responded to it the more, because this dog wasto him the one thing left in the world alive. He snuggled closer tothe silky hide and continued to talk, finding comfort in the sound ofhis own voice and the insensate response of the warm head. 

"We ought to be good comrades--you and I--Sandy, because we 're allalone here in this old rat trap. When a man's alone, Sandy, anythingelse in the world that's alive is his brother. The only thing thatcounts is being alive. Why, a fly is a better thing than the dead manhe crawls over. And if there be a live man, a dead man, and a fly, then the fly and the live man are brothers. So you and I are brothers, and we must fight the devil-eyes in those bottles together. "

They danced before him now--yellow, blue, and blood-red. A moreperfect semblance of an evil gnome could not be made than theflickering reflection of the sunlight in the bottle of blood-redliquid. It was never still. It skipped from the bottom of the bottleto the top and from one side to the other, as though in drunken ecstasy. 

It fascinated Donaldson with the allurement of the gruesome. It wassuch a restless, scarlet thing! It looked as though it were trying toget out of its prison and in baffled rage was shooting its fangs at thesides, like a bottled viper. 

"See it, Sandy? It's trying to get at us. But it can't, if we keeptogether. It's only when a man's alone that those things have anypower. And the little devil knows it. If it were not for you, Sandy, the thing might drive me mad--might make me mad before I had written myletter!"

He sprang to his feet in sudden passion, and the dog with all four feetplanted stiffly on the sofa gave a sharp bark. This broke the tensionat once. 

"That's the dog, " Donaldson praised him. "When the shadows get tooclose bark at 'em like that!"

The bellicose attitude of the tiny body brought a smile to Donaldson'smouth. This, too, was like a bromide to shaking nerves. 

But in this position the dog did not so closely resemble that other dogwhich he had held upon his knee. He looked thinner, more angular. Hisears were cocked like two stiff v-shaped funnels. Now he looked likean older dog. It was more reasonable to suppose, Donaldson realized, that Barstow had two dogs of this same breed than that a dead dog hadcome to life. 

"Sandy!" he called sharply. 

The dog wagged his stub-tail with vigor. 

"Spike!" he called again. 

The tail wagged on with undiminished enthusiasm. 

Donaldson passed his hand over his forehead. 

This was as useless as to try to solve the enigma of the Sphinx. Thedog's lips were sealed as tightly as the stone lips; the barrierbetween his brain and Donaldson's brain was as high as that between theman-chiseled image and the man who chiseled. He was only wasting histime on such a task, time that he should use in the framing of hisletter. 

He sat down again upon the sofa, took the dog upon his knee, and triedto think. Before him the bottles danced--purple, brown, and blood-red. He closed his eyes. He would begin his letter like this:

"To the most wonderful woman in all the world. "

He would do this because it was true. There was no other woman likeher. No other woman would have so helped an old man in his battle withhimself; no other woman would have stayed on there alone in that houseand would have helped the son in his battle with himself; no otherwoman would have followed him as she had wished to do and help himfight his battle with himself. But she was the most wonderful woman inthe world because of the white courage she had shown in standing beforehim and telling of her love. The eyes of her--the glory in herhair--the marvel in her cheeks--the smile of her!

He opened his eyes. The devil in the bottle directly in front of himwas more impish than it had been at all. Donaldson rose. The puprolled to the floor. Donaldson crossed the room, picked out thebottle, drew back his arm, and hurled it against the wall, where itbroke into a thousand pieces. It left a gory-looking blotch where itstruck. He went back to the sofa. The dog crept to his side again. Before him a devil danced in a purple bottle. He closed his eyes. 

He would begin his letter, then, like that. He would go on to tell herthat he was unable to compute his life save in terms of her, that ithad its beginning in her, grew to its fulness through her, and now hadreached its zenith in her. At the brook when he had clasped her in hisarms, he had drunk one deep draught of her. 

He lost himself in one hot love phrase after another. He poured outhis soul in words he had left unspoken to her. He was back againbefore the fire, telling her all that he did not tell her then. Onegorgeous image after another swarmed to his brain. He was like a poetgone mad. He crowded sentence upon sentence, superlative uponsuperlative, until he found himself upon his feet, his cheeks hot, andhis breath coming short. Then he caught sight of the crimson stainupon the wall and felt himself a murderer. He staggered back and threwhimself full-length upon the couch, panting like one at the end of along run. He lay here very quietly. 

The dog crawled to his side and licked the hair at his hot temple. 

CHAPTER XXVI

_On the Brink_

Donaldson was aroused by the dog which was at the door barkingexcitedly. It was broad daylight. As Donaldson sprang up he heard thebrisk approach of footsteps, and the next second a key fumbling in thelock. Before he had fully recovered his senses the door swung open, and Barstow, tanned and ruddy, burst in. Donaldson stared at him andhe stared at Donaldson. Then, striding over the dog, who yelped inprotest at this treatment, Barstow approached the haggard, unshaven manwho faced him. 

"Good Heavens, Peter!" he cried, "what ails you?"

Donaldson put out his hand and the other grasped it with the clasp of aman in perfect health. 

"Can't you speak?" he demanded. "What's the matter with you?"

"I 'm glad to see you, " answered Donaldson. 

"But what are you doing here in this condition? Are you sick?"

"No, I 'm not sick. I lay down on the sofa and I guess I fell asleep. "

"You look as though you had been sleeping there a month. Sit down, man. You have a fever. "

"There 's your dog, " said Donaldson. 

Barstow turned. The dog, with his forefeet on Barstow's knee, wasstretching his neck towards his master's hand. 

"Hello, pup, " he greeted him. "Did the janitor use you all right?" Heshook him off. 

Donaldson sat down. Barstow stood in front of him a moment and thenreached to feel his pulse. It was normal. 

"I 'm not sick, I tell you, " said Donaldson, trying to laugh, "I wasjust all in. I came up here to see if you were back and slumped downon the couch. Then I fell asleep. There 's your dog behind you. "

"What of it?" demanded Barstow. 

"Why--he looks glad to see you. "

"What of that?"

"Nothing. "

Barstow laid his hand on Donaldson's shoulder. 

"Have you been drinking?" he asked. 

"Drinking? No, but I've a thirst a mile long. Any water around here?"

Barstow went to the closet and came back with a graduating glass fullof lukewarm water. Donaldson swallowed it in a couple of gulps. 

"Lord, that's good!"

Barstow again bent a perplexed gaze upon him. 

"You have n't been fooling with any sort of dope, Peter?"

"No. "

"This is straight?"

"Yes, that's straight, " answered Donaldson impatiently. "I tell youthat there is n't anything wrong with me except that I 'm fagged out. "

"You did n't take my advice. You ought to have gone away. Why did n'tyou?"

"I 've been too busy. There's your dog. "

Barstow hung down his hand, that the pup might lick the ends of hisfingers. 

"Peter, " he burst out, "you ought to have been with me. If I 'd knownabout the trip I 'd have taken you. It was just what you needed--aweek of lolling around a deck in the hot sun with the sea winds blowingover your face. That's what you want to do--get out under the blue skyand soak it in. If you don't believe it, look at me. Fit as a fiddle;strong as a moose. You said you wanted to sprawl in the sunshine, --whythe devil don't you take a week off and do it?"

"Perhaps I will. "

"That's the stuff. You must do it. You were in bad shape when I left, but, man dear, you 're on the verge of a serious breakdown now. Do yourealize it?"

"Yes, I realize it. That 's a good dog of yours, Barstow. "

"What's the matter with the pup? Seems to me you 're taking a deuce ofa lot of interest in him, " he returned suspiciously. 

"Dogs seem sort of human when you 're alone with them. "

"This one looks more human than you do. See here, Don, Lindsey saidthat he might start off again to-morrow on a short cruise to Newport. I think I can get you a berth with him. Will you go?"

"It's good of you, Barstow, " answered Donaldson uneasily, "but I don'tlike to promise. "

Would Barstow never call the dog by name? He could n't ask himdirectly; it would throw too much suspicion upon himself. If Barstowhad left his laboratory that night for his trip, the chances were thatthe bottle was not yet missed. He must be cautious. It would betaking an unfair advantage of Barstow's friendship to allow him to feelthat indirectly he had been responsible for the death of a human being. Donaldson glanced at his watch. 

It had stopped. 

"What time is it?" he asked. 

"Half past nine. "

Two hours and a half longer! He determined to remain here untileleven. If, up to that time, Barstow had not called the dog by name hewould leave. He must write that letter and he must put himself as farout of reach of these friends as possible before the end. If he diedon the train, his body would be put off at the next station and a localinquest held. The verdict would be heart disease; enough money wouldbe found in his pocket to bury him; and so the matter would be dropped. 

"I want you to promise, Don, " ran on Barstow, "for I tell you that it'seither a rest or the hospital for you. You have nervous prostrationwritten big all over your face. I know how hard it is to make theinitial effort to pull out when your brain is all wound up, but you 'llregret it if you don't. And you 'll like the crowd, Don. Lindsey is ahearty fellow, who hasn't anything to do but live--but he does thatwell. He's clean and square as a granite corner-stone. It will do yougood to mix in with him. 

"And his boat is a corker! He spent a quarter of a million on it, andhe 's got a French cook that would make a dead man eat. He 'll put faton your bones, Don, and Lindsey will make you laugh. You don't laughenough, Don. You 're too serious. And if you have such weather as we've had this week you 'll come back with a spirit that will boost yourlaw practice double. "

He felt of Donaldson's arm. It was thin and flabby. 

"Good Heavens--here, feel of mine!"

Donaldson grasped it with his weak fingers. It was beastly thick andfirm. 

"What time is it?" he asked. 

"It is twenty minutes of ten. Is time so important to you?"

"I must get down-town before long. "

"Rot! Why don't you drop your business here and now. Let things rip. "

"Where 's the dog?" demanded Donaldson. The pup was out of sight. Hefelt strangely frightened. He got up and looked all about the room. 

"Where 's he gone?" he demanded again. 

Barstow grasped him by the shoulder. 

"You must pull yourself together, " he said seriously. "You 're headingfor a worse place than the hospital. "

"But where the devil has he gone? He was here a minute ago, was n'the?"

"Easy, easy, " soothed Barstow. "Hold tight!"

"Find him, won't you, Barstow? Won't you find him?"

To quiet him Barstow whistled. The dog pounded his tail on the floorunder the lounge. 

"He 's under there, " said Barstow. 

"Get him out--get him out where I can see him, won't you?"

Barstow stooped. 

"Come, Sandy, come, " he called. 

Donaldson leaped forward. 

"What did you call him?" he demanded as Barstow staggered back. 

"Have you gone mad?" shouted Barstow. 

"What did you call him?" repeated Donaldson fiercely. "Tell me whatyou called him?"

"I called him Sandy. Control yourself, Don. If you let yourself gothis way--it's the end. "

"The end?" shouted Donaldson. "Man, it 's the beginning! It's justthe beginning! Sandy--Sandy did n't die after all!"

"Oh, that's what's troubling you, " returned Barstow with an air ofrelief. "Why did n't you tell me? You thought the dead had risen, eh?No, the stuff didn't work. The dog only had an attack of acuteindigestion from overeating. But Gad, the coincidence _was_ queer, when you stop to think of it. I 'd forgotten you left before he cameto. "

"Then, " cried Donaldson excitedly, "you did n't have any poison afterall!"

"No. I was so busy on more important work that my experiments withthat stuff must all of them have been slipshod. But it did look for aminute as though Sandy here had proven it. But, Lord, --it was n't thepoison that did for him--it was his week. His week was too much forhim!"

"Give me your hand, Barstow. Give me your hand. I 'm limp as a rag. "

"That's your nerves again. If you were normal, the mere fact that youthought you saw a spook dog would n't leave you in this shape. Comeover here and sit down. "

"Get me some water, old man--get me a long, long drink. "

When Barstow handed him the glass, which must have held a pint, Donaldson trembled so that he could hold it to his lips only by usingboth hands, as those with palsy do. He swallowed it in great gulps. He felt as though he were burning up inside. The room began to swimaround him, but with his hands kneading into the old sofa he warded offunconsciousness. He must not lose a single minute in blankness. Hemust get back to her--get back to her as soon as he could stand. Shewas suffering, too, though in another way. He must not let anotherburning minute scorch her. 

"Perhaps you 'll take my advice now, " Barstow was saying, "perhaps youwere near enough the brink that time to listen to me. Tell me I mayring up Lindsey--tell me now that you 'll go with him. "

"Go--away? Go--out to sea?" cried Donaldson. 

"Yes. To-morrow morning. "

"Why, Lord, man! Lord, man!" he panted, "I--would n't leave NewYork--I would n't go out there--for--for a million dollars. "

"You damned ass!" growled Barstow. 

"I--I would n't--go, if the royal yacht--of the King of England werewaiting for me. "

"Some one ought to have the authority to put you in a strait-jacket andcarry you off. I tell you you 're headed for the madhouse, Don!"

Donaldson staggered to his feet. He put his trembling hands onBarstow's shoulders. 

"No, " he faltered, "no, I 'm headed for life, for life, Barstow! Youhear me? I 'm headed for a paradise right here in New York. "

Barstow felt baffled. The man was in as bad a way as he had ever seena man, but he realized the uselessness of combatting that stubbornwill. There was nothing to do but let him go on until he was struckdown helpless. From the bottom of his heart be pitied him. This wasthe result of too much brooding alone. 

"Peter, " he said, "the loneliest place in this world is New York. Areyou going to let it kill you?"

"No! It came near it, but I 've beaten it. I 'm bigger now than thedear old merciless city. It's mine--down to every dark alley. I 'vegot it at my feet, Barstow. It is n't going to kill me, it's going tomake me grow. It is n't any longer my master--it's a good-natured, obedient servant. New York?" he laughed excitedly. "What is New Yorkbut a little strip of ground underneath the stars?"

"That would sound better if your eyes were clearer and your handsteadier. "

"You 'd expect a man to be battered up a little, would n't you, after ahard fight? I 've fought the hardest thing in the world there is tofight--shadows, Barstow, shadows--with the King Shadow itself at theirhead. "

Was the man raving? It sounded so, but Donaldson's eyes, in spite oftheir heaviness, were not so near those of madness as they had been amoment ago. The startled look had left his face. Every feature stoodout brightly, as though lighted from within. His voice was fuller, andhis language, though obscure, more like that of the old Donaldson. Barstow was mystified. 

"Had n't you better lie down here again?" he suggested. 

"I must go, now. What--what time is it, old man?"

"Five minutes past ten. "

Donaldson took a deep breath. Time--how it stretched before him like aflower-strewn path without end. He heard the friendly tick-tock at hiswrists. The minutes were so many jewel boxes, each containing thechoice gift of so many breaths, so many chances to look into her eyes, so many chances to fulfil duties, so many quaffs of life. 

"My watch has run down, " he said, with curious seriousness. "I 'mgoing to wind it up again. I 'm going to wind it up again, Barstow. "

He proceeded to do this as though engaged in some mystic rite. 

"May I set it by your watch? I 'd like to set it by your watch, Barstow. "

He adjusted the hands tenderly, again as though it were the act of ahigh priest. 

"Now, " he said, "it's going straight. I shall never let the old thingrun down again. I think it hurts a watch, don't you, Barstow?"

"Yes, " answered the latter, amazed at his emphasis upon suchtrivialities. 

"Now, " he said, "I must hurry. Where's my hat? Oh, there it is. AndSandy--where's Sandy?"

The dog crawled out at once at the sound of his name, and he stooped topet him a moment. 

"I don't suppose you 'd sell Sandy, would you, Barstow?"

"I 'll give him to you, if you 'll take him off. I have n't a fitplace to keep him. "

"May I take him now? May I take him with me?"

"Yes--if you'll come back to me to-morrow and report how you are. "

"I 'll do it. I 'll be here to-morrow. "

He cuddled the dog into his arm and held out his hand. 

"Don't worry about me, old man. Just a little rattled that's all. Butfit as a fiddle; strong as a moose, even if I don't look it as you do!"

Barstow took his hand, and when Donaldson left, stood at the head ofthe stairs anxiously watching him make his way to the street, huggingthe dog tightly to his side. 

CHAPTER XXVII

_The End of the Beginning_

When Donaldson appeared at the door of the Arsdale house he wasconfronted by Ben whose eyes were afire as though he had been drinking. Before he could speak a word the latter squared off before himaggressively. 

"What the devil have you done to my sister?" he demanded. 

Donaldson drew back, frightened by the question. 

"What do you mean?" he demanded, the dog dropping from his arms to thefloor. 

"She 's in bed, and half out of her mind, " returned the other fiercely. "She said you 'd gone! Donaldson, if you 've hurt her--"

The boy's fists were clenched as though he were about to strike. Donaldson stood with his arms hanging limply by his side. He feltArsdale's right to strike if he wished. 

"I have n't gone, " he answered. 

"I don't know what has happened, " Arsdale ran on heatedly, "but I wantto tell you this--that as much as you 've done for me, I won't standfor your hurting her. "

"Let me see her, " demanded Donaldson, coming to himself. 

"She won't see any one! She 's locked up in her room. She may bedead. If she is, you 've killed her!"

Arsdale half choked upon the words. It was with difficulty that herestrained himself. He was blind to everything, save that in some waythis man was responsible for the girl's suffering. 

"Perhaps she 'll see me. Where is she?"

Donaldson without waiting for an answer pushed past Arsdale and thelatter allowed it, but followed at his heels. Donaldson knew where shewas without being told. She was in the big front room where thebalcony led outdoors. He went up the stairs heavily, for he knew thatmore depended on the next half hour than had anything so far in allthis harrowing week. Though there was plenty of light he groped hisway close to the wall like a blind man. At the closed door he pausedto catch his breath. In the meanwhile the boy, half frantic, poundedon the panels, shouting over his shoulder, "She won't let us in, I tell you! She won't let us in! She may bedead!"

At this, Donaldson forced Arsdale back. He put his mouth close to theinsensate wood and called her name. 

"Elaine. "

There was no answer. 

He knocked lightly and called again. Again the silence, the boystumbling up against him with an inarticulate cry. The nurse joinedthem, and the three stood there in shivering terror. Donaldson feltpanic clutching at his own heart. Before throwing his weight againstthe door, he tried once more. 

"Elaine, " he cried, "it is I--Donaldson. "

There was the sound of movement within, and then came the stricken plea, "Go away. Please go away. "

Arsdale answered, "Let me in, Elaine. Nothing shall hurt you. I'll--"

Donaldson turned upon him and the nurse. 

"Go down-stairs, " he commanded. 

His voice made them both shudder back. 

"Go down-stairs, " he repeated. "Do you hear! Leave her to me!"

Arsdale started a protest, but the nurse, in fright, took his arm andhalf dragged him towards the stairs. Donaldson followed threateningly. His face was terrible. He stood at the head of the stairs until theyreached the hall below. Then he returned to the door. 

"Elaine, " he said, "I have come back. Do you hear me, Elaine? I havecome back. "

He heard within the sound as of muffled sobbing. He himself wasbreathing as though a great weight were on his chest. 

"Elaine, " he cried, "won't you open the door to me?"

The sobbing was broken by a tremulous voice. 

"Is that you, Peter Donaldson?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Then go away and leave me, Peter Donaldson. "

"Elaine, can you hear me clearly?"

There was the pause of a moment, and than the broken voice. 

"Go away. "

"No, " he answered steadily, "I can't. I can't go away again until Isee you. You must tell me face to face to go. I 've come back to you. "

She did not answer. 

"Elaine, " he cried, "open the door to me. Let me see you. "

"I don't want to see you. "

He waited a moment. Then he said more soberly, "Elaine, I can't go away. I must stay right here until I see you. Isha'n't move from here until my soul goes. Whether you hear me or not, you will know that I am right here by the door. At the end of onehour, at the end of two hours, at the end of a day, I shall still behere. If they try to drag me away, they 'll have to fight--they 'llhave to fight hard. "

There was no answer. He leaned back against the wall. Below, he hearda whispered conversation between Arsdale and the nurse; within, heheard nothing. So five minutes passed, and to Donaldson the world waschaos. He felt as though he were locked up in a tomb. There was thesame feeling of dead weight upon the shoulders; the same sensation ofstifling. Then he heard her voice, "Are you still there, Peter Donaldson?"

"Yes, " he answered. 

"Won't you please go away?"

"I shall not go away until I have seen you. "

Then another long suspense began, but it was shorter than the first. 

"If I let you come in for a minute, will you go then?"

"Yes, " he answered, "I will go then. "

It seemed an eternity before he heard the key turn in the lock and sawthe door swing open a little. He stepped in. She had taken a positionin a far corner. She had drawn the Japanese shawl tightly about her, and was standing very erect, her white face like chiseled marble. Hestarted towards her, but she checked him. 

"Do not come any nearer, " she commanded. 

He steadied himself. 

"I told you, " he began abruptly, "that I was going because I must. That was true; I went thinking I was to meet Death. "

She took a step towards him. 

"You were ill? You are ill now?"

"No. "

He paused. Now that the time had come when he could tell her all, itwas a harder thing to do than he had thought. If she withdrew from himnow--what would she do after she had learned? Yet he must do this tobe a free man, to be even a free spirit. There must be no more shadowsbetween them, not even shadows of the past. 

"I told you, " he said, "of my life up to the time I came to New York, of the daily grind it was to get that far. That was only thebeginning--after that came the real struggle. It was easy to fightwith the enemy in front--with something for your fists to strikeagainst. But then came the waiting years. I was too blind to see allthe work that lay around me. I was too selfish to see what I mighthave fought for. I saw nothing except the wasting months. I lost mygrip. I played the coward. "

He took a quick, sharp breath at the word. It was like plunging aknife into his own heart to stand before her and say that. 

"One day in the laboratory, " he struggled on, "Barstow told me of apoison which would not kill until the end of seven days. Because I wasnot--the best kind of fighter--I--stole it and swallowed it. That wasa week ago. I am here now only because the poison did n't work. "

"You--you tried to kill yourself?" she cried in amazement. 

"Yes, " he answered unflinchingly, "I tried to quit. There were manythings I wanted--cheap, trivial things, and at the time I did n't seemy course clear to getting them in any other way. The otherthings--the things worth while were around me all the time, but I couldn't see them. "

He paused. She drew away from him. 

"So you see I did not do bravely. I wanted you to know this from thefirst, but there didn't seem to be any way. I did n't want to standbefore you as a liar--as a hypocrite, and yet I did n't want to balkmyself in the little good I found myself able to do. That silence waspart of the penalty. I left you yesterday without telling, for thesame reason. That and one other: because I did n't want you to thinkme a coward when death might cut off all opportunity for ever provingotherwise. "

Again he paused, hoping against a dead hope. But she stood there, cringing away from him, her frightened lips dumb. 

"That is all, " he concluded. "Now I will go. But don't you see that Ihad to intrude long enough to tell you this? I stand absolutely honestbefore you. There isn't a lie in me. Now I am going to work. "

He made an odd looking picture as he stood there. Haggard, hot-eyed, with a touch of color above his unshaven cheeks, he was like avictorious general at the end of a hard week's campaign. 

He turned away from her and went out of the room. At the foot of thestairs he passed in silence Arsdale and the nurse. He turned back. 

"Sandy! Sandy! Where are you?"

The dog came scrambling over the smooth floor with a joyous yelp. Hepicked him up and passing out the door went down the street. The fewremaining dollars he had left burned in his pocket. He tossed theminto the first sewer. He was now free--free to begin clean handed. 

A little farther along he came to a gang of men at work upon theexcavation for a new house. He needed money for food and a night'slodging. He went to the foreman. 

"Want an extra hand?"

"Wot th' devil ye 're givin' us?"

"I 'm in earnest. I have n't a cent. I need work. Try me. "

The burly foreman looked him over with a grin. Then as though he saw agood joke in it, he gave him a shovel and sent him into the cellar. 

Donaldson removed his coat and rolling up his sleeves took his placebeside the others. Sandy found a comfortable nest in the discardedgarment and settled down contentedly. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

_The Seventh Noon_

When Arsdale with the nurse at his heels rushed up-stairs, he found hissister before the mirror combing her hair. There was nothinghysterical about her, but her white calmness in itself was ominous. 

"What is it, Elaine?" he panted, "has Donaldson gone mad?"

"No, " she answered, "I should say that he is quite sane now. "

"But what the deuce was the trouble with him? He looked as though hehad lost his senses. "

"Perhaps he has just found them. "

The nurse interrupted him, in an aside, "I would n't agitate her further. " To the girl, she said, "Don't youthink you had better lie down for a little, Miss Arsdale?"

"Please don't worry about me, " she replied calmly, "I am going tochange my dress and then I shall come down-stairs. I wish you would goto Marie--both of you. It is she who needs attention. "

"But--" broke in Arsdale. 

"There's a good boy. Do what you can to make her comfortable. I willjoin you in a few minutes. "

Uncomprehending, Arsdale reluctantly led the way out. She closed thedoor behind them and turned to her mirror again. 

"Well, " demanded her reflection, "what are you going to do now?"

"Do? I shall go on as I have always done. "

"Shall you?"

"Why not? There is Ben. Perhaps we shall go out into the country tolive--perhaps we shall travel. "

"Shall you?"

"That is certainly the sensible thing to do. "

"Shall you?"

She smoothed back the hair from her throbbing temples. 

"He looked very much in need of help, " suggested the mirror. 

"Who?"

"Peter Donaldson. "

"Oh, " gasped Elaine, "why did he do it? Why did he do it?"

The mirror recognized the question as one which every woman has askedat least once in her lifetime. But somehow this did not swerve herfrom her insistence. 

"You must judge him from what you yourself have seen of him, " themirror harped back to Donaldson's own words. 

"He acted bravely before me--before Ben. He did do bravely, " cried thegirl. 

"And yet below these acts he had a craven heart?" hinted she of themirror. 

"No. No. It isn't possible! It isn't possible!"

"But he admitted the dreadful thing he tried to do. "

"That was the folly of a moment. He has grown through it. He asked nomercy--asked no pardon. Did n't you see the expression upon hishaggard face as he left the room?"

"Were you looking?" queried she of the mirror in surprise. "Your eyeswere away from him. "

"But one couldn't help but see that!"

The woman in the mirror found herself suddenly put upon the defensive. 

"Where has he gone?" cried the girl. "What is he going to do now?"

"Will he do bravely whatever lies before him?"

"Yes. He will! He will!"

"How do you know?"

"I know. That is enough. "

"Then why do you not call him back?"

The girl's cheeks grew scarlet. 

"The shame of what I told him yesterday!"

"Was it not a bit brave of him to turn away from you?"

"He should have explained to me at that time why he was going. Heneeded me then. "

"Do you not suppose that he knew it? Do you not suppose that it tookthe strength of a dozen men to go alone to what he thought was waitingfor him?"

"I know nothing. "

"And yet you saw his eyes as he stood before you then? And you saw hiseyes as he left you five minutes ago?"

"I won't see. I can't risk--again!"

"Yet you love him?"

Once again the flaming scarlet in her cheeks. Her lips trembled. Sheturned away from the mirror. 

"I said nothing of love, " she insisted. 

"Yet you love him?"

"Why did he do it?" she moaned. 

"Yet you love him?"

"He did so bravely--he spoke so bravely, yet--"

"He learned. If, of all the world of men, you were to choose one tostand by your side when hardest pressed, whom would you choose?"

"I would choose him, " answered the girl without hesitation. 

"Why?"

"Because--"

"After all, is n't that enough? You would trust him to fight aneternity as he has fought for you these few days. Twice he staked hislife for you--once his good name. "

"But he thought he was soon to die. "

"All the more precious the time that was left. "

Her eyes brightened. 

"Yes. Yes. I had not thought of that. "

"Yet he did this and further risked what was left to save an unknownmessenger boy. "

"Oh, he did well!"

"Then he came to you like a man and told what you might never havediscovered, just because he wished to stand clean before you. "

"Yes, " she breathed. 

"Why did he do that?" demanded her reflection. 

"I--I don't know. "

"Why did he do that?"

"Because--"

"After all, isn't that enough?"

"But he said nothing. If only he had turned back!"

"What right had he to say the thing you wish? If he had been less aman he _would_ have turned back. "

"Where has he gone? What is he going to do?"

"Why don't you find out?"

"It would be unmaidenly. "

"Yes, and very womanly. Do you owe him nothing?"

"I owe him everything. "

"Then--"

"I must send Ben to find him. I must--oh, but I need n't do anythingmore?"

"No. Nothing more. "

Her heart pounded in her throat in her eagerness to finish her toilet. Her fingers were so light that she could scarcely hold her comb. Shehurried into a fresh gown and then down-stairs where she found Benanxiously pacing the library. He appeared greatly agitated--anchorless. 

"Ben, " she began, "I had no right to allow Peter Donaldson to go awayas I did. "

"Little sister, " he demanded, "was he unkind to you?"

"No. No, " she broke in eagerly, "he was most generous with me. Butfor the moment I could n't see it. It was my fault that he went. "

"But what was the cause of it?" he insisted, puzzled and dazed by thewhole episode. 

"It was nothing that counts now. I want you to promise me, Ben, thatyou will never refer to it, that you will never permit him to tell youof it. "

His face cleared. 

"Just a little tiff? But he took it hard. I never saw a man so workedup over anything. "

"It belongs to the past, " she hurried on, eager to allow it to pass ashe interpreted it. "It would be cruel to him to bring it up again. Will you promise me, Ben?"

"I will promise. But I 'm afraid you overdid it. It is going to behard to straighten him out. "

"No. It is all straightened out now. All that remains for you to dois to find him and say that I--that I wish him to come back for lunch. "

"Is it that simple?"

He smiled, his easy-going nature glad to seize upon anything thatpromised relief from such a jumble as this. 

"You must say nothing more than that, " she put in, frightened at thesound of her own words. Supposing that he would not come--supposingthat even now she had presumed too far?

"You will tell him just that?"

"Yes, " he agreed, "and this morning I would have thought that it wasenough. "

"It is enough now--whatever happens, " she said hastily. 

"I must hurry back to Marie, " she concluded breathlessly. "You mustnot delay. It may be that he is planning to leave town. If so, youmust catch him before he starts. "

He placed his arm tenderly about her slight waist and led her to thefoot of the stairs. 

"You will let me know as soon as you come in?" she pleaded. 

"Yes, and don't worry while I 'm gone. "

Arsdale did not take a cab. He needed a walk to clear his head. Theair was balmy with the fragrance of growing things and he was sensitiveto its influence as he had never been in his life. As he strode alonghe felt twice his normal size. And yet what a puppet he was ascompared to this Donaldson who had been willing to take upon hisshoulders the ghastly burden which had been his own. He himself mightbear it to-day, but yesterday it would have crushed him. He had notrealized how low he had sunk until he learned that it was considered apossibility that he might have committed such crimes as those. If atfirst the suspicion had roused his wrath, the sober truth that Jacquesunder the same influence was actually guilty had been enough to disarmhim. The past was like a nightmare, and this Donaldson was the man whohad found his hand in the dark and roused him. He quickened his pace. A small black dog nosing about the fresh dirt thrown from an excavationto his left attracted his attention to a new house which was going up. He glanced at the men at work and then stood still in his tracks. Downthere, in his shirt sleeves, bent over a shovel was Peter Donaldson. 

It was impossible to believe, but he stared at the illusion with hishands getting cold. Then he turned back to the dog. It was the samepup Donaldson had brought into the house with him. 

He riveted his eyes once more upon the figure standing out among hisfellow workers like a uniformed general in a rabble. He strode to theside of the foreman of the gang who stood near. 

"Who is that man down there?" he demanded. 

"Dunno, " the foreman answered briefly, "he asked fer work this mornin'and I give him a job. "

"I 'm going to speak to him. "

"Fire erway. "

Arsdale clambered into the hole and reached Donaldson's side before thelatter glanced up. When he did raise his head, it was with an easy, unembarrassed nod of recognition. 

"Good Lord, " gasped Arsdale, "it _is_ you!"

"Yes. "

Donaldson wiped his wet brow. He was not in particularly good trainingfor such heavy work. 

"But what the deuce--"

"I needed money for a night's lodging and took the first job thatoffered, " he explained. 

There was nothing melodramatic in his speech or attitude. He was notposing. He spoke of his necessity in the matter-of-fact way in whichhe had accepted it. It was necessary to earn the sheer essentials oflife, in order to get a footing--to get sufficient capital to open uphis office again. He would not have borrowed if he could, and apenniless lawyer in New York is in as bad a position as a pennilesstramp. Not only was he glad of this opportunity to earn a couple ofdollars, but he found pleasure, in spite of the physical strain, inthis most elemental of employments. There was something in the act offorcing his shovel into the earth that brought him comfort in thethought that he was beginning in the cleanest of all clean ways. Hewas earning his first dollar like a pioneer. He was earning it by theliteral sweat of his brow. 

He turned back from Arsdale's astonished expression to his task. 

"See here, Donaldson, " protested the latter excitedly, "this is absurd!You must quit this. I 've money enough--"

"And I have n't, " interrupted Donaldson heaving a shovel full of moistdirt into the waiting dump cart. 

Even Arsdale was checked by the expression he caught in Donaldson'seyes. He ventured nothing further, but, bewildered, stood there, dumba moment, before he remembered his message. 

"I came out to find you, " he managed to speak. "Elaine wants you tocome back to lunch. "

"What?"

Donaldson paused in his work and searched Arsdale's face. 

"What did you say?" he demanded slowly. 

"Elaine wants you to come back for lunch. She sent me to find you. "

Arsdale saw Donaldson's lungs expand. He saw every vein in his facethrob with new life. He saw him grow before his eyes to the capacityof two men. He saw him step forth from this aching begrimed shell intoa new physique as vibrant with fresh strength as a young mountaineer. It was as startling a metamorphosis as though the man had been touchedwith a magician's wand. 

"Thank you, " answered Donaldson on a deep intake of breath. "I shallbe glad to come. "

"Drop your shovel then and come along now. "

"No, " he replied, as he dug his spade deep into the soil, "I can't quitmy job. The whistle blows at noon. "

At noon! At the seventh noon, the whistle was to blow! He tossed theweight of two ordinary shovelfuls of gravel into the cart as lightly asa child tosses a bean bag. 

[Illustration: _At noon! At the seventh noon, the whistle was toblow!_]

Perceiving the uselessness of further argument Arsdale climbed out tothe bank, and, sitting on a big boulder, watched Donaldson with dazedfascination. The foreman passed him once. 

"May be cracked, " he remarked, "but I 'd' take a hundred men, the likesof him. "

"You could n't find them on two continents, " answered Arsdale. 

The dog made overtures of friendship and he took him on his knee. 

Donaldson never glanced up. With the precision of a machine he bentover his shovel, lifted, and threw without pause. The men near himlooked askance at such unceasing labor. 

In time, the foreman blew a shrill note on a whistle and as though hehad applied a brake connected with every man, the shovels dropped andthe motley gang scrambled for their dinner pails. Donaldson for thefirst time then lifted his face to Arsdale. The seventh noon had come, and never had a midday been ushered in to such a sweet note as theforeman had blown on his penny whistle. 

Donaldson, picking up his coat, made his way to the side of Arsdale, who had risen to meet him with Sandy barking at his heels. 

"I have only an hour, " apologized Donaldson, "I 'm afraid I 'm hardlyin a condition to go into the house. "

"You are n't coming back here?"

"Yes. "

Once again Arsdale found his protest choked at his lips. What was theuse of talking to a man in such a stubborn mood as this? He led theway to the house. 

In the hall, he shouted up the stairs, "Elaine, Peter Donaldson is here!"

The girl stepped from the library clutching the silken curtains. Shehesitated a moment at sight of him and then faltering forward, offeredher hand. 

"I 'm glad you came back, " she said. 

His fingers closed over her own with a decisiveness that made her catchher breath. As the woman in the mirror had divined, there was nothingmore left for her to do. 

"But the old chump is going again in an hour, " choked Arsdale, "he 'staken a job shovelling dirt. "

She met Donaldson's eyes. For a moment they questioned him. Then herown eyes grew moist and she smiled. The joy of it all was too much forher. She stooped and patted Sandy who was clawing her skirts forrecognition. 

"Oh, little dog, " she whispered in his silken ear, "I am glad you cameback. Glad--glad--glad!"

THE END