CHARRED WOOD

BY

MYLES MUREDACH

 "_O, Designer Infinite, must Thou then Char the wood before Thou canst limn with it?_"

ILLUSTRATED BY

J. CLINTON SHEPHERD

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS --- NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1917

by

The Reilly & Britten Co. 

Published October 17, 1917

Reprinted December 10, 1917

Reprinted October 11, 1918. 

Charred Wood

CONTENTS

 I THE LADY OF THE TREE II MONSIGNORE III UNDER SUSPICION IV KILLIMAGA V WITH EMPTY HANDS VI WHO IS RUTH? VII BITTER BREAD VIII FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET IX THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION X AT THE MYSTERY TREE XI THIN ICE XII HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS XIII THE ABDUCTION XIV THE INEXPLICABLE XV "I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!" XVI HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED XVII THE OPEN DOOR XVIII SAUNDERS SCORES XIX CAPITULATION XX THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES XXI THE BECKONING HAND XXII RUTH'S CONFESSION XXIII CHARRED WOOD

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

On Killimaga's Cliff. . . . . _Frontispiece_

Something white swished quickly past him and he stared, bewildered . . . She had stepped out of nowhere. 

Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" heannounced. 

"God rest her, " Father Murray said after what seemed an age to Mark;"it is not Ruth!"

[Transcriber's note: The Frontispiece and the "Something white. .. "illustration were missing from the book. ]

Charred Wood

CHAPTER I

THE LADY OF THE TREE

The man lay in the tall grass. Behind him the wall of the Killimagaestate, from its beginning some fifty yards to his left, stretched awayto his right for over a thousand feet. Along the road which ran almostparallel with the wall was the remnant of what had once been a greatwoods; yearly the county authorities determined to cut away its thickundergrowth--and yearly left it alone. On the left the road was barefor some distance along the bluff; then, bending, it again sought theshelter of the trees and meandered along until it lost itself in themain street of Sihasset, a village large enough to support three banksand, after a fashion, eight small churches. In front, had the loungercared to look, he would have seen the huge rocks topping the bluffagainst which the ocean dashed itself into angry foam. But the mandidn't care to look--for in the little clearing between the wall ofKillimaga and the bluff road was peace too profound to be wantonlydisturbed by motion. And so he lay there lazily smoking his cigar, hislong length concealed by the tall grass. 

Hearing a slight click behind him and to his right, the man slowly, even languidly, turned his head to peer through the grass. But hisenergy was unrewarded, for he saw nothing he had not seen before--along wall, its rough stones half hidden by creeping vines, at its basea rank growth of shrubs and wild hedge; behind it, in the neardistance, the towers of a house that, in another land, perched amidjutting crags, would have inspired visions of far-off days of romance. Even in its New England setting the great house held a rugged charm, heightened by the big trees which gave it a setting of rich green. Some of the trees had daringly advanced almost to the wall itself, while one--a veritable giant--had seemingly been caught while juststepping through. 

With a bored sigh, as if even so slight an effort were too great, thesmoker settled himself more comfortably and resumed his indolentmusing. Then he heard the sound again. This time he did not troubleto look around. Something white swished quickly past him and hestared, bewildered. It was a woman, young, if her figure were to betrusted. His cigar dropped in the grass, and there he let it lie. Hisgaze never left her as she walked on; and he could scarcely be blamed, for he was still under thirty-five and feminine early twenties has aninterest to masculine full youth. He had never seen anyone quite socharming. And so he watched the lady as she walked to the edge of thebluff overlooking the sea, and turned to the left to go along thepathway toward the village. 

Five hundred yards away she was met by a tall man wearing a long blackcoat. Was it the priest he had noticed that morning at the door of theCatholic church in the village? Yes, there was no doubt about that; itwas the priest. He had just lifted his hat to the lady and was nowturning to walk back with her by the way he had come. They evidentlyknew each other well; and the man watching them almost laughed athimself when he realized that he was slightly piqued at the clergyman'sdaring to know her while he did not. He watched the pair until theydisappeared around the bend of the bluff path. Then he settled back tolook for his cigar. But he did not find it, for other matters quicklyabsorbed his attention. 

From out a clump of bushes on his left, where they evidently had beenhiding, two men appeared. He recognized them both. One was a bookagent who was stopping at the hotel in the village; the other was thelocal constable. The book agent had a paper in his hand. 

"That her?" he asked. 

"Yaas, sir!"--the constable was surely a native New Englander--"I seedher face plain. "

"I didn't, " said the agent, with annoyance. "I have never seen herwithout that confounded veil. This is the first time she's had itthrown back. But the description is right? Look at it. "

He showed the paper to the constable, tapping it as he read. 

"'Brown hair, blue eyes'--did you see her eyes?"

"I sure did, " answered the constable; "and they wuz blue. "

"All right, then. 'Blue eyes, regular features'--how about that?"

"Reg'lar enough, " said the constable. "She'd no pug nose, I kin tellya that. "

"'Regular features, ' then, is right. 'Five feet four inchestall'--that's right. 'Small hands and feet'--that's right. 'Abouttwenty-three years old; good figure. '"

"She sure hez all them, " vouchsafed the wearer of the star. "I knowedher right away, and I've seed her often. She's been in Sihasset wellnigh on a month. "

"But where--" the agent turned to look at the unbroken wall--"where inthunder did she come from?"

The constable, pushing back his helmet, scratched his head. 

"Damfino, " he said. "That's the rub. There's no gate on this side ofKillimaga. "

"Killimaga?"

"A rich old Irishman built it and put a wall around it, too. We folksof Sihasset don't like that; it shuts off the view of the house andlawn. Lawn's what makes things purty. He wuz a queer old mug--wantedto shut hisself up. "

"But how did she get out?" insisted the agent, coming back to the issue. 

"Search me, " offered the constable. He looked toward the top of thewall. "Clumb the fence, mebbe. "

"With her dress looking as it does?"

"There's no other way. I dunno. "

The agent was puzzled. "I want a closer inspection of that wall. We'll walk along this side. "

Both agent and constable started off, keeping well behind the wildhedge along the wall so that they might not be seen from the bluff road. 

The man lying in the grass was more puzzled than the agent. Why a bookagent and a constable should be so anxious about a lady who was--well, just charming--but who had herself stepped out of nowhere to join apriest in his walk, was a problem for some study. He got up and walkedto the wall. Then he laughed. Close examination showed him marks inthe giant tree, the vertical cuts being cleverly covered by the bark, while the horizontal ones had creepers festooned over them. A door waswell concealed. But the tree? It was large, yet there could not beroom in it for more than one person, who would have to stand uprightand in a most uncomfortable position. The man himself had been beforeit over an hour. How long had the lady been in the tree? He forgothis lost cigar in trying to figure the problem out. 

Mark Griffin had never liked problems. That was one reason why hefound himself now located in a stuffy New England inn just at the endof the summer season when all the "boarders" had gone except himselfand the book agent. 

Griffin himself, though the younger son of an Irish peer, had been bornin England. The home ties were not strong and when his brothersucceeded to the title and estates in Ireland Mark, who had inherited afortune from his mother, went to live with his powerful Englishrelatives. For a while he thought of going into the army, but he knewhe was a dunce in mathematics, so he soon gave up the idea. He triedOxford, but failed there for the same reason. Then he just drifted. Now, still on the sunny side of thirty-five, he was knocking about, sick of things, just existing, and fearfully bored. He had droppedinto Sihasset through sheer curiosity--just to see a typical NewEngland summer resort where the Yankee type had not yet entirelydisappeared. Now that the season was over he simply did not care topull out for New York and continue his trip to--nowhere. He was"seeing" America. It might take months and it might take years. Hedid not care. Then England again by way of Japan and Siberia--perhaps. He never wanted to lose sight of that "perhaps, " which was, after all, his only guarantee of independence. 

Siberia suited Mark Griffin's present mood, which was to be alone. Hehad never married, never even been in love, at least, not sinceboyhood. Of course, that had been mere puppy love. Still, it wassomething to look back to and sigh over. He liked to think that hecould still feel a sort of consoling sadness at the thought of it. He, a timid, dreaming boy, had loved a timid, dreaming girl. Her brotherbroke up the romance by taunting Mark who, with boyish bashfulness, avoided her after that. Then her parents moved to London and Mark wassent to school. After school he had traveled. For the last ten yearsEngland had been merely a place to think of as home. He had been inIndia, and South America, and Canada--up on the Yukon. He would havestayed there, but somebody suggested that he might be a remittance man. Ye gods! a remittance man with ten thousand pounds a year! And whocould have had much more, for Mark Griffin was a master with his pen. His imagination glowed, and his travels had fanned it into flame. Every day he wrote, but burned the product next morning. What was theuse? He had plenty to live on. Why write another man out of a job?And who could be a writer with an income of ten thousand pounds a year?But, just the same, it added to Mark Griffin's self-hatred to thinkthat it was the income that made him useless. Yet he had only one realfailure checked against him--the one at Oxford. But he knew--and hedid not deceive himself--why there had been no others. He had nevertried. 

But there was one thing in Mark's favor, too. In spite of hiswandering, in spite of the men and women of all kinds he had met, hewas clean. There was a something in the memory of his mother--and inthe memory, too, of that puppy love of his--that had made him a fighteragainst himself. 

"The great courage that is worth while before God, " his mother used tosay, "is the courage to run away from the temptation to be unclean. Itis the only time you have the right to be a coward. That sort ofcowardice is _true courage_. "

Besides her sweet face, that advice was the great shining memory he hadof his mother, and when he began to wander and meet temptations, hefound himself treasuring it as his best and dearest memory of her. True, he had missed her religion--had lost what little he had had ofit--but he had kept her talisman to a clean life. 

His lack of religion worried him, though he had really never known muchabout his family's form of it. For that his mother's death, earlyboarding school, and his father's worse than indifference, wereresponsible. But as he grew older he felt vaguely that he had missedsomething the quality of which he had but tasted through the oneadmonition of his mother that he had treasured. His nature was full ofreverence. His soul burned to respond to the call of faith, butsomething rebelled. He had read everything, and was humble enough toacknowledge that he knew little. He had given up the struggle tobelieve. Nothing seemed satisfactory. It worried him to think that hehad reached such a conclusion, but he was consoled by the thought thatmany men had been of his way of thinking. He hoped this would proveexcuse enough, but found it was not excuse enough for him. Here hewas, rich, noble, with the English scales of caste off his eyes, doingnothing, indolent, loving only a memory, indifferent but still seeing asaving something of his mother and his child love in every woman towhom he spoke. 

Now something else, yet something not so very different, had suddenlystepped into his life, and he knew it. The something was dressed inwhite and had stepped out of a tree. It was almost laughable. Thiswoman had come into his dreams. The very sight of her attractedhim--or was it the manner of her coming? She was just like an ideal hehad often made for himself. Few men meet even the one who looks likethe ideal, but he had seen the reality--coming out of a tree. He kepton wondering how long she had been there. He himself had been dreamingin front of the tree an hour before he saw her. Had she seen himbefore she came out? She had given no sign; but if she had seen him, she had trusted him with a secret. Mark looked at the tree. It washalf embedded in the wall. Then he understood. The tree masked asecret entrance to Killimaga. 

He was still smiling over his discovery when he heard the voices of theagent and constable. They were coming back, so he dropped into hishiding place in the tall grass. 

"Well, Brown, " the agent was saying, "I am going to tackle her. I'vegot to see that face. It's the only way! If I saw it once, I'd knowfor sure from the photograph they sent me. "

"Ye'd better not, " advised the constable. "She might be a-scaredbefore--"

"But I've got to be sure, " interrupted the agent. 

"Aw, ye're sure enough, ain't ye? There's the photygraft, and I seedher. "

"But she slipped me in Boston, and I nearly lost the trail. I can'ttake chances on this job--it's too important--and I've got to reportsomething pretty soon. That damn veil! She always has it on. "

"Yep, she had it when she come down here, too, and when she tuk thehouse. All right, see her if ye can! Ye're the jedge. She's comingaround the bend of the road now. " The constable was peering out fromhis hiding place among the bushes. 

"Is the priest with her?" asked the agent. 

"He's gone back to the village. She didn't go that far--she seldomdoes. But he goes to see her; and she goes to his church on Sundays. "

"I wonder if he knows anything?"

"Trust that gent to know most everything, I guess. " The constable wasvery positive. "Father Murray's nobody's fool, " he added, "and shewon't talk to nobody else. I'll bet a yearlin' heifer he's on; butnobody could drag nothing out of him. "

"I know that, " said the agent. "I've been up there a dozen times, andI've talked with him by the hour--but always about books; I couldn'tget him to talk about anything else. Here she is! Go on back. "

The constable disappeared behind the bushes, and his companion stoodout in the little clearing to wait. 

The woman saw him; Mark, watching from the long grass, thought shehesitated. Then she dropped her veil and came on. The agent steppedforward, and the woman seemed distressed. What the agent intended todo Mark could not guess, but he made up his mind at once as to what hewould do himself. He arose and, just as the agent met the lady, Mark'sarm went through his and he--not of his own volition--turned to facethe ocean. 

"Hello, Saunders!" Mark said heartily. "Who'd expect to see you here, with no one near to buy rare editions?"

Saunders looked at him with annoyance, but Mark was friendly. Heslipped his arm out of the agent's and slapped him on the shoulder. 

"Look out at that sea, you old money-grabber. There's a sight for yoursoul. Did you ever think of the beauty of it? Such a day!--no wonderyou're loafing. Oh! I beg your pardon, Madam. I am in your way. "

Keeping Saunders' back to the lady, Mark stepped aside to let her pass. Saunders could not even look back, as she walked quickly behind them. The agent stammered a reply to Mark's unwelcome greeting before heturned. But it was too late, for Mark heard the click that told himthat the tree had closed. He looked for the constable, to see if hehad been watching her and had discovered the secret door; but theconstable was leisurely walking toward the village. 

CHAPTER II

MONSIGNORE

As the two men walked along, Mark Griffin, tall and of athletic build, offered a sharp contrast to the typical American beside him. With hisgray tweeds, Mark, from his cap to shoes, seemed more English thanIrish, and one instinctively looked for the monocle--but in vain, forthe Irish-gray eyes, deep-set under the heavy straight brows, disdainedartifice as they looked half-seriously, though also a bit roguishly, out upon the world. The brown hair clustered in curls above the tannedface with its clear-cut features, the mouth firm under the aquilinenose, the chin slightly squared--the face of one who would seek andfind. 

He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit ofblue, his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tiltedAlpine, and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "Aman of brains, " thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent lookfrom the blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular infeature, bespoke strong determination. 

Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted againsteach other, it would be impossible for anyone to determine offhandwhich would be the victor. 

The agent was disposed to be surly during the walk to the hotel, for hehad become suspicious. Why had the fool Englishman done this thing?Did he know or suspect that the supposed book agent was really adetective? Did he know the woman? Was he in her confidence? How hadshe disappeared so quickly?

Saunders found it difficult to keep up even a semblance of interest inthe conversation, for Mark gave him little time to think. He plied himwith friendly questions until the detective wondered if his companionwere a fool, or someone "on the inside. " He wished that Mark wouldstop his chattering long enough to let him do the questioning. ButMark went right on. 

"How's the book trade? Bad, I'll wager, so far from town. Why aren'tyou working?"

Saunders had to think quickly. 

"Oh, I took an afternoon off; business has off days, you know. "

"Of course. Any success this morning?"

"One order. Took me a month to get it--from the Padre. "

"Ah!"

Mark gave the word the English sound, which convinced the detectivethat the speaker really was a fool who had stumbled into an affair heknew nothing about. But Mark kept up his questioning. 

"Did you get to talk much with the Padre? You know, he interests me. By the way, why do you call him by that Spanish name?"

"Oh, I got into the habit in the Philippines; that's what they call apriest there. I was a soldier, you know. Did you ever meet him?"

"No; but I'd like to. "

"Perhaps I could introduce you. " They were walking through the villagenow, and Saunders glanced toward the rectory. "There he is. "

The chance to get away attracted Saunders; and nothing suited Markbetter than to meet the priest at that very time. 

"Certainly, " he said; "I'd be glad if you introduced me. I'll stoponly a moment, and then go on to the hotel with you. "

But this did _not_ suit Saunders. 

"Oh, no; you must talk to the Padre. He's your kind. You'll like him. I can't wait, though, so I'll have to leave you there. "

"By the way, " Mark went on with his questioning, "isn't the Padrerather--well, old--to be in such a small and out-of-the-way place? Youknow I rather thought that, in his church, priests as old as he were inthe larger parishes. "

"Why, you couldn't have been listening much to gossip since you camedown here--not very much, " said Saunders. "The Padre is here bychoice--but only partially by choice. "

"By choice, but only partially by choice?" Mark was curious by thistime. "I don't quite understand. "

Saunders smiled knowingly, and dropped his voice. 

"It's like this, " he whispered. "The Padre was a big man in the citysix months ago. He was what they call a vicar general--next job to thebishop, you know. He was a great friend of the old Bishop who diedthree months before the Padre came here. A new Bishop came--"

"'Who knew not Joseph'?"

But the Scripture was lost on the agent. 

"His name is not Joseph, " he answered solemnly, "but Donald, DonaldMurray. I read it on the book order I got. "

"Donald! Funny name for a Catholic, " commented Mark. "It soundsPresbyterian. "

"That's what it is, " said Saunders quickly. "The Padre is a convert tothe Catholic Church. He was 'way up once, but he lost his big job asvicar general, and then he lost all his big jobs. I met a priest onthe train once--a young fellow--who told me, with a funny sort of laughthat sounded a bit sad, too, that the Bishop had the Padre buried. "

"I see, " said Mark, though he didn't see any more than the agent. "Butthe priest doesn't take it hard, does he?"

"Not that you could notice, " Saunders answered. "The Padre'sjolly--smart, too--and a bookman. He has books enough in that littlehouse to start a public library, but he's too poor now to buy many ofthe kind he's daffy over--old stuff, you know, first editions and thelike. "

They crossed the street to the rectory, an old-fashioned house nestlingamong the trees, the parapet and pillars of its broad veranda almosthidden by a heavy growth of ampelopsis. In front of the house, astretch of well-kept lawn was divided from the public walk by ahawthorn hedge, and, cutting through its velvety green, a wide graveledpathway swept up to the steps whose sharp angle with the veranda wassoftened by a mass of low-growing, flowering shrubs. To the side, extending towards the church, the hedge was tripled, with a space ofsome six feet between. The lower branches of the evergreens formingthe second row were scarcely higher than the hawthorn in front; while, in their turn, the evergreens were barely topped by the silver maplesbehind. That triple hedge had been the loving care of the successivepriests for fifty years and served as an effectual bar to the curiosityof the casual passer-by. In the little yard behind its shelter thepriest could read or doze, free from the intrusive gaze of the village. 

Father Murray, who was comfortably reading on the veranda, arose as histwo visitors approached. 

Saunders spoke quickly. "Don't worry, Padre. I ain't goin' to getafter you again to sell you another set. I just thought I'd like tohave you meet my friend, Mr. Griffin. I know you'll like him. He'sbookish, too, and an Englishman. Then, I'm off. " Suiting the actionto the word, the agent, raising his hat, walked down the graveled pathand down toward the hotel. 

Father Murray took Mark's hand with a friendly grip quite differentfrom the bone-crushing handshake he so often met in America. Markgazed thoughtfully at his host. With his thin but kindly face andcommanding presence, the priest seemed almost foreign. What Mark sawwas a tall--he was six feet at least of bone and muscle--andgood-looking man, with an ascetic nose and mouth; with hair, onceblack, but now showing traces of white, falling in thick waves over abroad brow. Mark noticed that his cassock was old and faded, but thatreddish buttons down its front distinguished it from the cassocks ofother village priests he had seen on his travels. 

"You are welcome, Mr. Griffin--very welcome. " Mark found FatherMurray's voice pleasing. "Sit down right over there. That chair ismore comfortable than it looks. I call it 'Old Hickory' because, though it isn't hickory, yet it began life in this old house and hasoutlived three pastors. Smoke?"

"Thanks, I do--but a pipe, you know. I'm hopelessly British. " Markpulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. 

Turning to the wicker table beside him, the priest dug down into an oldcigar box filled with the odds and ends that smokers accumulate. Hefound a pipe and filled it from Mark's extended tobacco pouch. 

"It's poor hospitality, Mr. Griffin, to take your tobacco; but Ioffered you a cigar. You know, this cigar habit has so grown into methat it's a rare occasion that brings me back to old times and mypipe. " Father Murray pressed the tobacco down into the bowl. "Howlong are you to be with us, Mr. Griffin?"

Mark was dropping into a lazy mood again; it was very comfortable onthe veranda. "I haven't fixed a time for going on. I beg your pardon, but aren't those buttons significant? I once spent six months in Rome. Aren't you what they call a _Monsignore_?"

"Don't tell them so here, or I'll lose my standing. Yes, I am aprelate, a Domestic Prelate to His Holiness. I am afraid it is thedomesticity of the title that sticks here in Sihasset, rather than theprelacy. My people are poor--mostly mill workers. I have never shownthem the purple. It might frighten them out of saying 'Father. '"

"But surely--" Mark hesitated. 

"Oh, yes, I know what you are thinking. I did like it at first, but Iwas younger then, and more ambitious. You know, Mr. Griffin, I findthat the priesthood is something like a river. The farther you go fromthe source the deeper and wider it gets; and it's at its best as itnears the ocean. Even when it empties into the wider waters, it isn'tquite lost. It's in the beginning that you notice the flowers on thebank. Coming toward the end, it's--well, different. "

"You are not beginning to think you are old?"

"No. " Father Murray was very positive. "I am not old yet; but I'mgetting there, for I'm forty-five. Only five years until I strike thehalf-century mark. But why talk about priests and the priesthood? Youare not a Catholic?"

"I don't know, " said Mark. "The difference between us religiously, Monsignore, is that I was and am not; you were not and behold you are. "

Father Murray looked interested. 

"Yes, yes, " he said; "I am a convert. It was long ago, though. I wasa young Presbyterian minister, and it's odd how it came about. Newmandidn't get me, though he shook his own tree into the Pope's lap; Iwasn't on the tree. It was Brownson--a Presbyterian like myself--whodid the business. You don't know him? Pity! He's worth knowing. Igot to reading him, and he made it so plain that I had to drop. Ididn't want to, either--but here I am. Now, Mr. Griffin, how did youhappen to go the other way?"

"I didn't go--that is, not deliberately. I just drifted. Mother died, and father didn't care, in fact rather opposed; so I just didn't last. Later on, I studied the church and I could not see. "

"Studied the church? You mean the Catholic Church?" Father Murray'smouth hid the ghost of a smile. 

"No, it wasn't the Catholic Church in particular. When we worldlingssay 'the church, ' we mean religion in general, perhaps all Christianityin general and all Christians in particular. "

"I know. " The priest's voice held a touch of sorrow now. "I hope youwill pardon me, Mr. Griffin, if I say one thing that may soundcontroversial--it's just an observation. I have noticed the tendencyyou speak of; but isn't it strange that when people go looking into thequestion of religion they can deliberately close their eyes to a 'Cityset upon a Mountain'?"

"I don't quite--"

"Get me?" Father Murray laughed. "I know that you wanted to use thatparticular expressive bit of our particularly expressive slang. What Imean is this: People study religion nowadays--that is, English-speakingpeople--with the Catholic Church left out. Yet she claims theallegiance of over three hundred million people. Without her, Christianity would be merely pitiful. She alone stands firm on herfoundation. She alone has something really definite to offer. She hasthe achievements of twenty centuries by which to judge her. She hasborne, during all those centuries, the hatred of the world; but to-dayshe is loved, too--loved better than anything else on earth. She hashugged the worst of her children to her breast, has borne their shamethat she might save them, because she is a mother; yet she has saintsto show by the thousands. She has never been afraid to speak--alwayshas spoken; but the ages have not trapped her. She is the biggest, most wonderful, most mysterious, most awful thing on earth; and yet, asyou say, those who study religion ignore her. I couldn't, and I havebeen through the mill. "

Mark shifted a little uneasily. "I can't ignore her, " he said, "but Iam just a little bit afraid of her. "

"Ah, yes. " The priest caught his pipe by the bowl and used the stem toemphasize his words. "I felt that way, too. I like you, Mr. Griffin, and so I am going to ask you not to mind if I tell you something that Ihave never told anyone before. I was afraid of her. I hated her. Istruggled, and almost cursed her. She was too logical. She wasleading me where I did not want to go. But when I came she put herarms around me; and when I looked at her, she smiled. I came in spiteof many things; and now, Mr. Griffin, I pay. I am alone, and I payalways. Yet I am glad to pay. I am glad to pay--even here--inSihasset. "

Mark was moved in spite of himself. "I wonder, " he said softly, "ifyou are glad, Monsignore, to pay so much? Pardon me if I touch uponsomething raw; but I know that you were, even as a Catholic, higherthan you are now. Doesn't that make it hard to pay?"

"To many it might appear that it would make things harder; but itdoesn't. You have to be inside in order to understand it. The Churchtakes you, smiling. She gives to you generously, and then, with asmile, she breaks you; and, hating to be broken, you break, knowingthat it is best for you. She pets you, and then she whips you; and thewhips sting, but they leave no mark on the soul, except a good mark, _if you have learned_. But pardon me, here's a parishioner--" Awoman, old and bent, was coming up the steps. "Come on, Mrs. O'Leary. How is the good man?"

The priest arose to meet the woman, whose sad face aroused in Mark akeen thrill of sympathy. 

"He's gone, Father, " she said, "gone this minute. I thank God he hadyou with him this morning, and went right. It came awful sudden. "

"God rest him. I'm sorry--"

"Don't be sorry, Father, " she answered, as he opened the door to lether go into the house ahead of him. "Sure, God was good to me, and toJohn and to the childer. Sure, I had him for thirty year, and he diedright. I'm happy to do God's will. "

She passed into the house. The priest looked over to where Mark wasstanding hat in hand. 

"Don't go, Mr. Griffin, unless you really have to. I'll be away only afew minutes. "

Mark sat down again and thought. The priest had said nothing about thelady of the tree, and Mark really wanted him to mention her; but FatherMurray had given him something else that made him thoughtful andbrought back memories. Mark did not have long to wait, for the dooropened in five minutes and the priest came out alone. 

"Mrs. O'Leary came to arrange for the funeral herself--brave, wasn'tit?" he said. "I left her with Ann, my housekeeper, a good soul whosespecialty is one in which the Irish excel--sympathy. Ann keeps it instock and, though she is eternally drawing on it, the stock neverdiminishes. Mrs. O'Leary's troubles are even now growing less. "

"Sympathy and loyalty, " said Mark, "are chief virtues of the Irish Iknew at home. "

"Ann has both, " said Father Murray, hunting for his pipe. "But thelatter to an embarrassing degree. She would even run the parish if shecould, to see that it was run to save me labor. Ann has been apriest's housekeeper for twenty-five years. She has condoled withhundreds; she loves the poor but has no patience with shams. We have achronic sick man here who is her particular _bête noir_. And, as fororganists, she would cheerfully drown them all. But Mrs. O'Leary issafe with Ann. "

"Poor woman!" said Mark. 

"That reminds me, " said Father Murray. "I had a convert priest here alittle while ago. His Bishop had sent him for his initial 'breakingin' to one of the poorest parishes in a great city. I questioned alittle the advisability of doing that; so, after six months, when I metthe priest--who, by the way, had been a fashionable minister likemyself--I asked him rather anxiously how he liked his people. 'Charming people, ' he answered, 'charming. Charming women, too--Mrs. O'Rourke, Mrs. Sweeney, Mrs. Thomasefski--' 'You speak of them, ' Isaid, 'as if they were society ladies. ' 'Better--better still, ' heanswered. 'They're the real thing--fewer faults, more faith, moredevotion. ' I tell you, Mr. Griffin, I never before met people such asthese. "

"Mrs. O'Leary seems to have her pastor's philosophy, " ventured thevisitor. 

"Philosophy! That would seem a compliment indeed to Mrs. O'Leary. Shewouldn't understand it, but she would recognize it as something fine. It isn't philosophy, though, " he added, slowly; "rather, it's somethingbigger. It's real religion. "

"She needs it!"

"So do we all need it. I never knew how much until I was so old that Ihad to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed. " The priestsighed as he hunted for his pipe. 

The discussion ended for, to Mark's amazement, who should come up thewalk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree? Boththe priest and his visitor stood up. Mark reached for his hat andgloves. 

"Pardon me, " said the lady, "for disturbing you, Monsignore. "

Father Murray laughed and put up his hand. "Now, then--please, please. "

"Well, _Father_, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poorman is dead. Can I do anything?"

"I think you can, " said Father Murray. "Will you step in?"

"No, Father; let me sit here. " She looked at Mark, who stood waitingto make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priestunderstood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The ladybowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazedtimidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of thegaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voicefaltered for an instant as she addressed him. 

"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin, " sheventured, "but I have to thank you for a service. "

Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath thedrooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brownhair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. Hewas thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It wasEnglish enough to make him think of her under certain trees in acertain old park of boyhood's days. 

"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still moreastonished. 

"Not exactly, " she said; "but Mr. Griffin has quick discernment, and isunhesitating in action. He saw someone about to--make himself, let ussay, unpleasant--and he moved promptly. I am glad of this chance tothank him. "

Mark hoped she would not try. The heavily lashed eyes of violet blue, under the graceful arches, were doing that splendidly. Mark was uneasyunder the gaze of them, but strangely glad. He wanted to go and yet tostay; but he knew that it was proper to go. 

Father Murray walked with him to the end of the lawn. 

"There was nothing serious in the matter to which Miss Athesonreferred, Mr. Griffin?" he said. "No one offered insult?" He wasplainly anxious. 

"Not at all, " answered Mark. "I think the man only wanted to stare. Igave him a chance to stare at me--and at the water. That is all. "

Father Murray looked relieved as he clasped Mark's hand. 

"Good-bye, " he said. "Come to see me again. I am usually alone. Comeoften. The latch-string is where you can reach it. "

In the street Mark met Saunders, but this time it was the agent whowanted to talk. 

"How did you like the Padre?" he began. 

"Splendid. Thank you for the meeting. "

"Did you see the lady who went in?"

"Yes; I was introduced. "

"Introduced? Never!"

"Why not?"

"Well, " the agent was confused, "I don't see why not after all. Didyou see her face?"

"She had on a veil. "

"Of course; she always has. She was the woman who passed us on thebluff road. "

"You saw her, then?"

"Yes, I saw her; but not close enough to know whether--"

"What?"

"I think she is someone I know. Are you coming back to the hotel?"

CHAPTER III

UNDER SUSPICION

That night, tossing in bed, Mark Griffin found the lady of the treeoccupying the center of his thoughts. He had to acknowledge to himselfthe simple truth, that she interested him more than any other woman hehad ever seen; and he had a vague idea that he had met her before--butwhere? He was wise enough to know where such interest would ultimatelylead him. The more he worried about it, the more a cause for worry itbecame. The very idea was foolish. He had seen her twice, had spokento her once. Yes, she was charming; but he had known others almost ascharming and he had not even been interested. Now he might godeeper--and what of the risks?

Saunders was certainly shadowing the woman. The town constable wasconstantly with him, seemingly ready to make an arrest the moment thedetective was sure of his ground. It was easy to figure that out. Worse than all, the woman was afraid--or why the veil? Why the secretdoor through a tree? Why her embarrassment when she faced the dangerof having the detective see her face?

On the other hand, she was a friend of the priest, and Mark had formeda very favorable opinion of Father Murray. Then she had referred tothe incident on the bluff road very openly and without embarrassmentThese things were in her favor, but--well, the rest looked bad. Aboveall was the danger of falling in love with her. 

Mark thought of his people in England and of his brother the Irishpeer. He knew their prejudices. What would they say if the heirpresumptive to the barony came home with an American wife? Yet whyshould he care?

The worry about Saunders came back. He was undoubtedly a detective, and surely detectives did not without cause shadow ladies of goodsocial standing? Mark knew there was something wrong. He knew therewas danger to himself, to his heart, and to his peace; so he decidedthat he had better go away at once. Then the face he had seen as shestepped past him out of the tree rose up, and he heard again the voicethat had in it so much gratitude when she thanked him for his littleservice. 

"Damn it, man, " he said to himself, "you can't be a coward! She needshelp; stay to give it. " That was Mark's first and last struggle overhis long-delayed moving problem. 

He met Saunders at breakfast the next morning. The detective must havebeen thinking, too, for his glance at Mark held a trifle of suspicion. Mark was too old a student of human nature to miss the significance ofthe look, and Saunders was too young at his business entirely toconceal his own feelings. He tried--but too late--and was foolishenough to think he had not betrayed himself. 

Mark made up his mind to profit by the suspicion. 

"Good morning, Saunders. You are thinking of the lady in the veil?"

But Saunders was already back in his shell. He looked puzzled. "Veil?Lady? Oh, yes. Sure I am. It would be very ungallant to forget her. She's too pretty. "

"How do you know? You didn't see her face. "

"I was just guessing. We Yankees are good at guessing. Don't youEnglish concede that?"

"Guessing and wooden nutmegs, " said Mark, "both go with the Yankeecharacter. "

"Guessing, wooden nutmegs, and a little taste of Brandywine thrown infor flavor. "

"Very unkind of you to throw our defeats in our teeth--and especiallyinto mine; for you know that I am half Irish, and we Irish helped you. "

Saunders laughed as they approached the desk together. 

"Letter for you, Mr. Griffin, " said the clerk, throwing a squareenvelope on the desk. 

Saunders just glanced at it before Mark himself saw that the letter waswithout a stamp; it had come by messenger. The detective turned hisback to hide a smile, then walked to the reading table and picked up apaper. 

Mark opened his letter. It was from the lady of the tree--only a fewlines--an invitation to tea that afternoon at the house behind thegreat wall. Twice he read it over. 

"Dear Mr. Griffin: Monsignore is coming to tea at four o'clock to-day. Won't you come with him? He likes you--that I know--and he alwayslooks lonesome when he comes alone, with only two women to talk to. Sincerely, Ruth Atheson. "

That was all. The letter went into Mark's pocket as he saw Saunderslooking over the top of his paper. 

"Getting acquainted in Sihasset pretty quickly, eh?" ventured thedetective. 

"Yes, " replied Mark, "bad pays get acquainted fast. " The reply wasobviously inadequate, but Mark wanted the detective to know. Saunderstook the bait, hook and all. 

"Sihasset's getting up in the world, " he commented. "Square, tintedenvelopes for bills were just coming in at New York two weeks ago. "

Both gentlemen were evidently quite pleased with themselves. Saunderstook the cigar Mark offered, and they sat talking over first editionsuntil ten. 

"Going out?" Saunders asked, as Mark threw away his cigar and rose. Something in his tone made Mark think he wanted him to go. Why?

"Just for a little while. Want to go?"

"No, I'm going to write letters. I'll go out later. "

Mark understood. Saunders suspected him to be an accomplice of thewoman and intended to search his room. Mark thought quickly. Immediate action was necessary; there were important papers in hisroom, and he didn't care to have his identity known just now. Then hesmiled cheerfully, for his whole plan of action was suddenly clear. Not only would he guard his papers, but he'd keep the detectiveguessing--guessing _hard_. He walked to the desk and addressed theclerk:

"Has any of the town banks a safety deposit vault for the public?"

"Yes, sir. The National has one and its terms are very reasonable. "

Mark went to his room, and carefully gathered every scrap of paper. The useless went into the old stove which had stood all summer waitingthe winter's need; the others he carefully placed in his pocket. Thenhe went out. At the bank he rented a box and left the papers he didn'twant Saunders to see. He felt satisfied that nothing Saunders foundwould relieve him of suspicion. The burning of the papers would makethe detective all the more certain that Mark ought to be watched. Thatwould help Miss Atheson by keeping the detective on the wrong scent. 

At noon Mark went to his room to wash before lunch. Saunders had notbeen very clever. There was a tell-tale smudge on the stove--a smudgemade by a hand that had blackened itself by diving down into the ashesto search among the burned papers. Mark knew that Saunders had lost notime in searching his room, and he was happy to be still undersuspicion. 

But Mark was not so happy in contemplating the rest of the situation. He was getting deeper into a game he knew nothing about. What was thereason for the suspicion against the girl? Could she be a thief--orworse? Mark had heard of pretty criminals before, and he knew thatbeauty without is no guarantee of virtue within. But he had resolvedto go through with the adventure, and he would not change his mind. Heargued, too, that it was not entirely the beauty of Ruth Atheson thatinterested him. There was an indefinable "something else. " Anyhow, innocent or guilty, he made up his mind to stand by her. 

At lunch he met Saunders again and found him overly friendly, evenanxious to talk. The detective opened the conversation. 

"Going to see the Padre again?"

"I have an engagement with him this afternoon. I rather like thePadre!"

"Sure you do, " said the detective. "Everybody does. The Padre's awonder, and the last man one might expect to find in a little parishlike this. "

Mark wanted to learn more on that score. 

"True enough, " he said. "In the Anglican Church they would make such aman a bishop, or at least a dean. "

"Well, they didn't do that with the Padre. " The detective shook hishead as if to express his regret that something of the kind had notbeen done. "He was the right hand man of the old Bishop of thediocese; but the new Bishop had to have new counselors. That's one wayof the world that the church fellows have gotten into. Some say thatit broke the Padre's heart, but he doesn't look it. Must have hurt hima little, though. Human nature is human nature--and after all he didfor the Church, too. "

"Did he do so much?" questioned Mark. 

"Sure he did! You saw the Cathedral, didn't you, when you passedthrough the city? Well, the Padre built that, and the big college, too, the one you see from the train. He was president of the college. He was the life and soul of the Catholic Church in this section. "

"Why was he dropped?"

"Search me, " offered the detective. "No one knows that except theBishop, I guess. Padre came here six months ago. Some of the youngpriests used to come to see him, but seldom any of the older ones. Igot all I know from one of those young chaps--the one I told you I meton the train. He almost cried over the affair. "

"It's sad enough to make any friend cry over it, " said Mark; "butsomehow it makes the man seem bigger to me. "

"True. " Saunders was clearly the Padre's admirer. "They say he hadthe best pulpit in London before he went over to the Catholics--bigsalary, and all that. Then he had to begin all over again as a layman. Went to school, by gosh!--dead game! But when they made him a priesthe jumped right to the front. His last money went into the college hebuilt. He has only five hundred a year to live on now. You know, Griffin, if it wasn't for the rotten way the Church treated him, Ihonestly believe the Padre could put some religion into me. He's apower here already. Look at the way he makes that girl at Killimagawork. "

It seemed to Mark that the detective was beginning to fence again. 

"She's a stranger, isn't she?" he asked. 

The detective half closed his eyes. "How do you know?"

"You told me so. "

Saunders blew a thoughtful smoke ring. 

"I guess I did. You know, of course, Killimaga was rented to her aboutthe time Padre came here. The old Irishman who built it, died, and hisfamily went over to your country to buy a title for their onlydaughter. The girl up there must be a rich one to rent such an estate;and, Griffin, that old Irishman had taste, believe me. His gardens area wonder. Ever see them?"

"No. "

"Try to; they're worth while. This girl spends her money and herselfon the Padre's charities. He directs, and she does things for the millpeople. By gad, Griffin, they just love her! I passed her just nowgoing into O'Leary's. The old man was crushed at the mill, and diedyesterday. It's dollars to doughnuts she takes care of that family allwinter. Where she gets the money is beyond me. "

"You Americans are all rich, " said Mark. "You English think we are, but you only see the gang that goes over to the other side everysummer. There's one Atheson family in America worth millions, but Iknow that crowd; she doesn't belong to it. I don't know what Athesonfamily she does belong to. She's a mystery, with her Killimaga and hermoney and her veil. "

"Why, " said Mark, "every woman wears a veil--the sun, you know. "

"Yes; the sun, and the rain, and the shade, and _every_ kind ofweather!"

The detective's face was betraying him again. But the luncheon wasover, and Mark would not be probed. He had made up his mind to goearly to the rectory, so he left Saunders with a parting shot:

"You'd better go on with the book sales. You've loafed all day. That's bad business policy for a Yankee. What would your wooden nutmegancestors say to that?"

Saunders grinned. 

"They wouldn't like it, " he answered. "They're not like ancestors whowouldn't have been able to sell even a real nutmeg. "

Mark acknowledged that in repartee Saunders scored, then went out tomake his way toward the rectory. As he passed the First National Bankhe saw the constable talking to the cashier. 

CHAPTER IV

KILLIMAGA

Father Murray was sitting in his favorite chair on the rectory verandawhen Mark came up the lawn. He rose with a welcome. 

"You must pardon me, Father, " began Mark, "for coming so soon after yournoon meal--" Mark hesitated about saying "luncheon, " not knowing thehabits of the rectory--"but, frankly, I wanted to talk to you before--"

"Before we go to Killimaga, " supplied Father Murray as Mark paused. "Yes, I know that you are invited. Sit down and open up. I am alwaysglad to talk--and to listen, too. What is it?"

Again Mark hesitated. "It's to ask about Miss Atheson. "

Father Murray's eyes smiled. "I thought so, " he said. "What do you wantto know?"

Mark hesitated. "I know that the lady is very charitable and kind, butespecially so to anyone whom you suggest. You must, therefore, beinterested in anything that concerns her. "

"I am, " said Father Murray. "Very much interested. "

Mark thought he noticed a new and half-suspicious note in the priest'svoice, and was distressed. He felt like blaming himself for havingmentioned the subject. He feared he had lost ground with his new-madefriend; but, having started the discussion, Mark was determined to gothrough with it. 

"It's just this way, Father, " he said. "I think you ought to know thatthere is someone besides yourself interested in Miss Atheson. Theincident she mentioned yesterday seemed a small one, but--well, I had tomove pretty quick to keep that man from making himself obnoxious. He hada photograph in his hand and was determined to see her face in order tomake comparisons. Incidentally, the constable was with him. "

Mark, watching closely to note the effect of his words, saw the facebefore him whiten. 

"The constable with him?"

"And I am confident that the other man is a detective. I feel sure hethinks Miss Atheson is someone he has been commissioned to find. Andthey evidently think that I am in the matter to defend the lady. Thismorning I left some papers in the safety deposit vault at the FirstNational, and as I passed the bank a little while ago I saw the constabletalking to the cashier--about me, judging from their confusion as theyacknowledged my greeting through the window. My room was searched thismorning. They didn't find anything, though. " Mark laughed as he thoughthow disappointed Saunders must have been. 

"I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Griffin, " said Father Murray, "if Iconfine myself for the present to asking questions. Have you evernoticed the camp of Slavic laborers about a mile east of Killimaga--alongthe line of the new railway?"

"I have passed it several times. "

"Did you by chance notice, " Father Murray went on, "whether thisdetective looked like a Slav?"

"On the contrary, he is--" Mark half paused, then hurried on--"anAmerican. " It was not necessary that he mention Saunders' name--not now, at least. 

Father Murray seemed puzzled. "There are two or three educated men inthat camp, " he said, "who have been hanging around Killimaga a great dealof late; and they have been worrying an old parishioner of mine--aretired farmer who finds plenty of time to worry about everybody else, since he has no worries of his own. He thinks that these well-dressed'bosses' are strange residents for a railroad construction camp. Hetells me that he has often been in such camps, but that he had never seenwhat he calls 'gintlemen' living in them before. "

Mark laughed. "Your old parishioner is a discerning man. "

"Uncle Mac, " replied Father Murray, "is the kind of man who believes thatvirtue stands in the middle. When I first came here he called to see meto ask about my politics. Uncle Mac is a lifelong Democrat, and when Itold him that I usually voted the Republican ticket he became suspicious. Just before the election I preached on 'Citizenship'--careful always toavoid any reference to partisanship. Uncle Mac came in after Mass andsaid: 'I think ye were preachin' Republican sintiments this morningFather. ' I said, 'Not at all, Uncle Mac. I made no reference to eitherparty. ' 'No, ' said he, 'but yer sintiments were awful highfalutin'. '"

Mark laughed his appreciation. "Wasn't that rather a compliment to theRepublicans?" he asked. 

"I took it so, " said Father Murray. "But Uncle Mac does not like the'highfalutin'. ' One day he said to me, when he saw all my books, 'Theman who was here before you, Father, wasn't smart enough; but you're toodom smart. Now, I don't like a priest who isn't smart enough, but I'mafeerd of one who's too dom smart. If you'd only half as many books, I'dfeel betther about ye. '"

The Padre paused a moment; then the anxious look returned and he spokeslowly as if he were trying to solve the puzzle even while he spoke. 

"Uncle Mac told me yesterday that there was a very 'highfalutin'gintleman' in the camp the night before last. He came there in a long, rakish automobile. Uncle Mac said that 'he parted his whiskers in themiddle, so he did, ' and that 'he looked like a governor or somethin' ofthe sort. ' I was just wondering if that detective of yours has anythingto do with that camp, and if these strange visitors are not in some wayconnected with his interest in Miss Atheson. But perhaps that's makingtoo much of a mystery of it. "

"As to that, " said Mark, "of course I cannot say. I merely wanted you toknow, Father Murray, just what was going on; to tell you that while youdon't know me, nevertheless I hope you will permit me to be of assistanceif these people are annoying Miss Atheson. If you wish to know moreabout me, I shall be glad to bring you the papers I left in the vaultthis morning. "

"I do not need to see your papers, Mr. Griffin, " Father Murray answered. "I am satisfied with you, especially since Miss Atheson owes something toyou. Will you mind if I do not discuss the matter with you further now?"

"Not at all, Father Murray. I do not ask for information that you feelyou should not give. "

"Perhaps, " said Father Murray, "I shall give it to you later on; but forthe present let matters stand as they are. You know the detective, and Idon't. The principal thing is to find out whether there is anyconnection between that camp, the 'highfalutin' gintleman' of Uncle Mac, and the detective. I have reason to think there may be. This much Iwill say to you: You need have no fear whatever for Miss Atheson. I canassure you that there is no good reason in the world why a detectiveshould be watching her. Miss Atheson is everything that she looks. "

"I am confident of that, " said Mark. "Otherwise I should not have spokento you. "

"Then, " said the priest, "suppose we go now to our engagement atKillimaga. "

The two passed across the lawn, then down the street and along the roadtoward the great house whose towers looked out over the trees. NeitherMark nor the priest said a word until the town was well behind them. Then Father Murray turned to his companion. 

"You will find Miss Atheson a remarkable woman, Mr. Griffin. There is areason, perhaps, why I might not be a competent judge--why I might beprejudiced--but still I think that you, too, will see it. She has notbeen here long, but she is already loved. She receives no one but me. But she seems to like you, and I didn't hurt you any in her estimation bymy own rather sudden attraction. "

"I am grateful for your appreciation, " replied Mark, "even though I maynot deserve it. And more grateful for your confidence. "

Walking slowly, and chatting in friendly fashion, they reached Killimaga. As the great gates swung open their attention was arrested by the purringof a motor. Father Murray uttered a low "Ah!" while Mark stared afterthe swiftly vanishing machine. He, too, had seen its passenger, a heavy, dark man with a short beard combed from the center to the sides. Theflashing eyes had seemed to look everywhere at once, yet the man in thecar had continued to smoke in quiet nonchalance as if he had not noticedthe two standing by the gates. Uncle Mac had described the man well. Hewas 'highfalutin'' without a doubt. 

"Sihasset is greatly honored, " Father Murray remarked softly. 

"Do you know him?"

"I have seen him before. He comes from a foreign state, but he is nostranger to America--nor to England, for that matter. Have you anyacquaintance with the diplomats in London?"

"I have attended balls at which some of them were present. "

"Does your memory recall one of that type?" persisted the priest. 

"No, it does not. "

"Mine does, " said Father Murray. "I once had occasion to offer a prayerat an important banquet at which that gentleman was the guest of honor. He sat near me, and when I asked him where he had acquired such a masteryof English, he told me that he had been for five years minister at theCourt of St. James. He is now accredited to Washington. Do you see whyI suggest that Sihasset is greatly honored to-day?"

Mark could not conceal his astonishment. 

"But why under heaven, " he said, "should a foreign diplomat be mixed upin a camp of Slavic laborers?"

"There are strange things in diplomacy, " said Father Murray. "Andstranger things in Sihasset when the town constable has so much interestin your taking of tea at Killimaga. If you had turned around a momentago, you would have seen our constable's coattails disappearing behindthe bushes on our right. "

CHAPTER V

WITH EMPTY HANDS

In the long after years Mark Griffin used to wonder at the strange wayin which love for Ruth Atheson entered his life. Mark always ownedthat, somehow, this love seemed sent for his salvation. It filled hislife, but only as the air fills a vacuum; so it was, consequently, nothing that prevented other interests from living with it. It arousedhim to greater ambition. The long-neglected creative power movedwithout Mark's knowing why. His pen wrote down his thoughts, and he nolonger destroyed what he committed to paper. It now seemed a crime todestroy what had cost him only a pleasure to produce. The world hadsuddenly become beautiful. No longer did Japan and Siberia call tohim. He had no new plans, but he knew that they were forming, slowly, but with finality and authority. 

Yet Mark's love was never spoken. It was just understood. Many timeshe had determined to speak, and just as many times did it seem quiteunnecessary. He felt that Ruth understood, for one day, when an avowaltrembled on his lips, she had broken it off unspoken by gently callinghim "Mark, " her face suffused the while with an oddly tender light thatwas in itself an answer. After that it was always "Ruth" and "Mark. "Father Murray also seemed to understand; with him, too, it was "Ruth"and "Mark. " After one week of that glorious September, Mark was atKillimaga daily; and when October came and had almost passed, without aword of affection being spoken between them, Ruth and Mark came to knowthat some day it would be spoken, quite as naturally as she had utteredhis Christian name for the first time. When Mark thought of his love, he thought also of his mother. He seemed to see her smile as if itquite pleased her; and he rejoiced that he could believe she knew, andsaw that it was good. 

"I love many things in men, " said Father Murray one day as he and Markwatched the waves dashing against the bluff. "I love generosity andstrength, truthfulness and mercy; but, most of all, I love cleanness. The world is losing it, and the world will die from the loss. Thechief aid to my faith is the clean hearts I see in my poor. "

"Uncle Mac again?" ventured Mark. 

"Uncle Mac, and Uncles Mac--many of them. They have a heritage ofcleanness. It is the best thing they brought to this new world, and_we_ were the losers when they left us. "

"_We_? But you are English, are you not?" asked Mark courteously. 

"Ah! So you caught me then, did you? Yes, I am English, or ratherBritish. But don't question me about that; I am real Yankee now. Evenmy tongue has lost its ancestral rights. "

Mark was persistent. "Perhaps you, too, have a little of the 'blesseddrop' that makes the Uncle Macs what they are? I really think, Father, that you have it. "

"Not even a little of the 'blessed drop. ' I am really not English, though born in England. Both father and mother were Scotch. So I amkin to the 'blessed drop. '"

"And you drifted here--"

"Not exactly 'drifted, ' Mark. I came because I wanted to come. I camefor opportunity. I was ambitious, and then there was anotherreason--but that is at present forbidden ground. Here is yourconstable friend again. "

The constable passed with a respectful touch of his helmet. _He_ atleast was of the soil. Every line of his face spoke of New England. 

"He is a character worth studying, " remarked Father Murray. "Have youever talked with him?"

"No. I have had no chance. "

"Then find one, and put him in a book. He was once rich for Sihasset. That was in the lumber days. But he lost his money, and he thinks thatthe town owes him a living. That is the Methodist minister to whom heis speaking now. He, too, is worth your attention. "

"Do you get along well with the Protestant clergy of the town?" askedMark. 

"Splendidly, " said Father Murray; "especially with the Universalist. There is a lot of humor in the Universalist. I suspect the 'blesseddrop' in him. One day I happened to call him a Unitarian, and hecorrected me. 'But what, ' I asked, 'is the difference between theUniversalists and the Unitarians?' The little man smiled and said:'One of my professors put it like this: "The Unitarians believe thatGod is too good to damn them, and the Universalists believe they aretoo good to be damned. "'"

"Still, it cannot be an easy life, " said Mark, "to be one of seven oreight Protestant pastors in such a small town. "

"It certainly is hard sledding, " replied Father Murray. "But these mentake it very philosophically and with a great deal of self-effacement. The country clergyman has trials that his city brother knows nothingabout. He has to figure on the pennies that rarely grow to dollars. "

The two friends walked on, Mark's mind reverting to his own lack offaith and contrasting his dubiety with the sincerity of men who firmlybelieve--foremost among them the man who walked by his side. Ah, ifhe, too, could only _know_! He broke the silence. 

"Father. " He spoke hurriedly, as if fearing he might not have courageto continue what he had so boldly begun. "Father, I can't forget yourwords regarding those who claim to have studied religion and yet whodeliberately leave out of the reckoning the greatest part of religion. I believe I did that very thing. I was once a believer, at least so Ithought. I let my belief get away from me; it seemed no longer tomerit consideration. I thought I had studied and discarded it; I seenow that I simply cast it away. Afterwards, I gave consideration toother religions, but they were cold, lacking in the higher appeal. Iturned at last to Theosophy, to Confucianism, but remained alwaysunsatisfied. I never thought to look again into the religion I hadinherited. "

Father Murray's face was serious. "I am deeply interested, " he said, "deeply, although it was only as I thought. But tell me. What led youto do this? There must have been a reason formed in your mind. "

"I never thought of a reason at all; I just did it. But now it seemsto me that the reason was there, and that it was not a very worthy one. I think I wanted to get away. My social interest and comfort, myindependence, all seemed threatened by my faith. You will acknowledge, Father, that it is an interfering sort of a thing? It hampers one'sactions, and it has a bad habit of getting dictatorial. Don't you seewhat I mean?"

"I do, " said the priest; and paused as if to gauge the sincerity of hiscompanion. "In fact, I went through a similar experience. "

"Then you can tell me what you think of my position. "

"I have already told you, " said the priest earnestly. "You are the oneto do the thinking now. All I can do is to point out the road by whichyou may best retrace your way. You have told me just what I expectedto hear; I admire your honesty in telling it--not to me, but toyourself. Don't you see that your reason for deserting your Faith wasbut a reason for greater loyalty? The oldest idea of religion in theworld, after that of the existence and providence of God, is the ideaof sacrifice. Even pagans never lost that idea. Nothing in this worldis worth having but must be paid for. Its cost is summed up insacrifice. Now, religion demands the same. If it calls for rightliving, it calls for the sacrifice that right living demands. Anathlete gets his muscle and strength, not by coddling his body, but byrestraining its passions and curbing its indolence, by working itssoftness into force and power. A river is bound between banks, andonly thus bound is it anything but a menace. If a church claims tohave the Truth, she forfeits her first claim to a hearing if she asksfor no sacrifice. That your Church asked many sacrifices was no causefor your throwing her over, but a sign that she claimed the just rightto put religion in positive form, and to give precepts of sacrifice, without the giving of which she would have no right to exist at all. Am I clear?"

"You are clear, Father, and I know you are right. I have never beenable to leave my own Faith entirely out of the reckoning. I am nottrying to excuse myself. I could not ignore it, for it intruded itselfand forced attention. In fact, it has been forcing itself upon me mostuncomfortably, especially of late years. "

"Again, " said Father Murray, "a reason why you should have attended toit. If there is a divine revelation confided to the care of a church, that revelation is for the sake of men and not for the sake of thechurch. A church has no right to existence for its own sake. He was awise Pope who called himself 'Servant of the Servants of God. ' Theposition of your Church--for I must look upon you as a Catholic--is, that a divine revelation has been made. If it has been made it must beconserved. Reason tells us that something then must have beenestablished to conserve it. That _something_ will last as long as therevelation needs conserving, which is to the end of the world. Now, only the Catholic Church claims that she has the care of thatrevelation--that she is the conserving force; which means that sheis--as I have told you before--a 'City set upon a Mountain. ' She can'thelp making herself seen. She _must_ intrude on your thoughts. She_must_ speak consistently through your life. She can permit no one toignore her. She _won't_ let anyone ignore her. Kick her out one door, and she will come in another. She is in your art, your music, yourliterature, your laws, your customs, your very vices as well as yourvirtues--as she was destined to be. It is her destiny--her manifestdestiny--and she can't change it if she would. "

Mark drew in a deep breath that sounded like a sigh. "I suppose, Father, " he said, "I could argue with you and dispute with you; underother circumstances perhaps I should. I hate to think that I may haveto give up my liberty; yet I am not going to argue, and I am not goingto dispute. I wanted information, and I got it. The questions I askedwere only for the purpose of drawing you out. But here is another: Whyshould any institution come between a man and his God? Is thatnecessary?"

The priest's eyes held a far-away look. It was some little whilebefore he spoke, and then very slowly, as if carefully weighing hiswords. 

"There is nothing, " said the priest, "between the trees and the flowersand their God--but they are only trees and flowers; they live, but theyneither think nor feel. There is nothing between the lower animals andtheir God; but, though they live and feel, they have none of the higherpower of thought. If God had wanted man thus, why should he have givenhim something more than the lower animals? Man cannot live and feelonly and still be a man. He must feed not only his body but his heartand soul and intellect. The men who have nothing between themselvesand their God are mostly confined in lunatic asylums. The gift ofintelligence demands action by the intellect; and there must be afoundation upon which to base action. When the foundation is in place, there never can be any limit to the desire for building upon it. Now, God willed all that. He created the condition and is, therefore, obliged to satisfy the desires of that condition. Some day He mustsatisfy the desires to the full; but now He is obliged only to keepthem fed, or to give them the means to keep fed. Of course, He coulddo that by a direct revelation to each individual; but that He has notdone so is proved by the fact that, while there can be but one Truth, yet each individual who 'goes it alone' has a different conception ofit. The idea of private religious inspiration has produced publicreligious anarchy. Now, God could not will religious anarchy--He lovestruth too much. So reason tells us that He _must_ have done the thingthat His very nature would force Him to do. He _must_ have confidedHis revelation to His Church in order to preserve it, to teach it, tokeep it for men. That is not putting any man or institution betweenHimself and His creatures. Would you call the hand which drags youover a danger an interference with your liberty? Liberty, my dearMark, is not the right to be blind, but the privilege of seeing. Thelight that shows things to your eyes is not an interference betweenthose things and your eyes. The road you take to your destination isnot an obstacle to your reaching it. "

The priest was silent for a moment, but Mark knew that he had not quitefinished. 

"The rich young man of the Scriptures went to Christ and asked what heshould do to be saved. He got his answer. Was Christ in his way? Wasthe answer a restraint upon his liberty?"

"No, " answered Mark, breaking in, "it was not a restraint upon hisliberty. But you say that Christ is God, so the young man had nothingbetween himself and his God. "

"Oh, yes, he had, " said the priest. "He had the command or counselthat Christ gave him. It was against the command or counsel that herebelled. Now have not I, and you, and all the world, the same rightto get an answer as that young man had? Since we are all equal in thesight of God, and since Christ came for all men, have we not the rightto an answer now as clear as His was then?"

"It seems logical, " admitted Mark. 

"Then, " said Father Murray, "the unerring Voice must still be here. Where is it?"

"Yes, " retorted Mark, "that is my cry. Where is it? I think it's thecry of many other men. What is the answer?"

"It is the thing that you threw over--or believed you had thrownover--and that you can't get away from thinking about. It waits toanswer you. "

A silence settled between the two men. It lasted for over a minute. Finally Mark broke it. 

"You told me, Father, " he said, "that what I called 'Mrs. O'Leary'sphilosophy' was religion. I now know better what you meant, for I havebeen gossiping about you. The best point you make is--yourself. Iknow what you have been, what you have done, and how sadly you havesuffered. Doesn't your religion demand too much--resignation? Does aGod of Justice demand that we tamely submit to injustice? I am notsaying this to be personal, or to pain you, but everyone seems towonder at your resignation to injustice. Why should such a fault be inthe Church you think so perfect?"

The priest looked at Mark with kindly and almost merry eyes. "I cananswer you better, my friend, by sticking to my own case. I have nevertalked of it before; but, if it helps you, I can't very well refuse totalk of it now. I came to the Church with empty hands, having passedthrough the crisis that seems to be upon you. She filled those emptyhands, for she honored me and gave me power. She set me in highplaces, and I honestly tried to be worthy. I worked for her, and Iseemed to succeed. Then--and very suddenly and quietly--she pulled medown, and tore my robe of honor from me. My fellow priests, my oldfriends, criticised me and judged me harshly. They came no more to seeme, though I had been generous with them. In the college I built anddirected, one of my old friends sits in my place and forgets who puthim there. Another is the Bishop who disgraced me. Now, have I aright to feel angry and rebel?"

"To me, " said Mark, "it seems as if you have. "

"I have not, " and the priest spoke very earnestly. "I have no suchright. I never knew--for I did not ask--the reason of my disgrace. But one thing I did know; I knew it was for my good. I knew that, though it was a trial given me by men, there was in it, too, somethinggiven by God. You judge as I should have judged ten years ago--by thestandards of the world. I judge now by other standards. It tookadversity to open my eyes. We are not here, my dear Mark, for thelittle, but for the big things. I had the little and I thought theywere big. My fall from a place of honor has taught me that they werereally little, and that it is only now that I have the big. What isreligion for but to enlighten and to save--enlighten here that thefuture may hold salvation? What were my purple, power and title?Nothing, unless I could make them help to enlighten and to save myselfand others. I ought to have fought them, but I was not big enough tosee that they hindered where I could have made them help. Like a boltout of the sunlight came the stripping. My shame was the best offeringI have made during all the days of my life. In my misery I went to Godas naturally as the poor prodigal son went to his father when he wasreduced to eating husks from the trough of the swine. I asked nothingas to the cause of my fall. I knew that, according to man'sstandard--even according to the laws that she herself had made--thatthe Church had been unjust; but I did not ask to know anything aboutit, for the acceptance of the injustice was worth more to my soul thanwas the great cathedral I had been instrumental in building. I wasgrieved that my friends had left me, but I knew at last that I hadcultivated them at the expense of greater friends--sacrifice andhumility. Shorn of my honors, in the rags and tatters left of mygreatness, I lay before my Master--and I gained more in peace than Ihad ever known was in life. "

"God!" Mark's very soul seemed to be speaking, and the single wordheld the solemnity of a prayer. "This, then, is religion! Was it thisthat I lost?"

"No one has lost, Mark, what he sincerely wishes to find. "

CHAPTER VI

WHO IS RUTH?

Leaving Father Murray at the rectory, Mark went on to the hotel. Entering the lobby, he gave vent to a savage objurgation as herecognized the man speaking to the clerk. Mark's thoughts were nolonger of holy things, for the man was no other than Saunders, fromwhom, for the past two weeks, Sihasset had been most pleasantly free. 

"Damn!" he muttered. "I might have known he'd return to spoil it all. "Then, mustering what grace he could, Mark shook hands with thedetective, greeting him with a fair amount of cordiality, for, personally, he rather liked the man. "You here!" he exclaimed. "Iscarcely expected ever to see you again. "

Saunders grinned pleasantly, but still suspiciously, as he answered. "I can't say the same of you, Mr. Griffin. I knew you would be herewhen I returned; fact is, I came back to see you. "

"Me? How could I cart books all over the world with me? What do youwant to see me for? No, no. I am bad material for you to work on. Better go back to the Padre. He's what you call an 'easy mark, ' isn'the?"

"Oh, he's not so easy as you think, Griffin. By the way, have youlunched?"

"No. "

"You will join me then?"

"Thanks; I will. "

"We can get into a corner and talk undisturbed. "

But lunch was disposed of before Saunders began. When he did, it wasright in the middle of things. 

"Griffin, " he said, leaning over the table and looking straight atMark, "Griffin, what's your game? Let's have this thing out. "

"I am afraid, Saunders, " replied Mark, "that I must take refuge againin the picturesque slang which the Padre thinks so expressive: I reallydon't get you. "

"Oh, yes, you do. What are you doing here?"

"Honestly, my good fellow, " Mark began to show a little pique, "youhave remarkable curiosity about what isn't your business. "

"But it _is_ my business, Griffin. I am not a book agent, and neverwas. "

It was Mark's turn to smile. 

"Which fact, " he said, "is not information to me. I knew it long ago. You are a detective. "

"I am. Does that tell you nothing?"

"Nothing, " replied Mark, "except that you make up splendidly as areally decent sort of fellow. "

"Perhaps I am a decent sort, decent enough, anyhow; and perhaps I don'tparticularly like my business, but it _is_ my business. Now, lookhere, Griffin, I want you to help instead of hindering me. I have toask this question of you: What do you know about Ruth Atheson? You seeher every day. "

"So, " said Mark, annoyed, "the constable has not been around fornothing. "

"You have seen him then?"

"Everywhere. "

"Which proves he is a reliable constable, even if he is not a gooddetective. " Saunders looked pleased. "But what about Ruth Atheson?"

But Mark would have his innings now. He knew well how to keep Saundersanxious. 

"I am quite--well, interested in Miss Atheson. "

"What!" Saunders half arose. 

"Sit down, Saunders, " said Mark quietly, "sit down. What's soastonishing about that?"

"You--you--are engaged to Miss Atheson? You can't mean it!"

"I didn't say _that_. "

Saunders sat down again. "You know nothing about her, " he gasped. 

"The Padre's friends are good enough to appeal to me. "

"But does the Padre know?"

Mark's eyes began to steel and glitter. He fixed them on Saunders, andhis voice came very steady and quiet. 

"Know what, Saunders? Know what?"

"Know what? Why, that Ruth Atheson is _not_ Ruth Atheson. "

"Then who _is_ she?"

Saunders drew a deep breath, and stared hard at Mark for what seemed along time to both. The detective broke the tension. 

"Griffin, " he almost shouted, "either I am a fool, and ought to begiven a job as town crier, or you are the cleverest I've ever gone upagainst, or--"

"Or, " Mark's voice was still quiet, "I may be entirely lacking in theknowledge which you possess. Get it off your mind, man--better do itsoon, for you will _have to_ later on, you know. I have _quite_ madeup my mind on that. "

"Yes, " Saunders seemed half satisfied, "yes, you may not know--itreally looks as if you didn't. Are you the simon-pure Mark Griffin, brother of Baron Griffin of the Irish peerage?"

"Yes. Where did you get that last bit of information?"

Saunders ignored the query. 

"Did you really drop in here as a traveler, aiming at nothing inparticular?"

"Yes. "

"Did you never know Ruth--"

"Miss--"

"Miss Ruth Atheson before?"

"No. "

"Ever hear of her?"

"No. "

"Are you really--interested in her?"

"Yes. "

"Do you intend to stay interested?"

"Yes. "

"I _was_ mistaken. You don't know, and I guess it's my duty to tellyou the truth. This girl is a _runaway_. "

"What?" Mark was rising. 

Saunders put out his hand. "Easy now, Griffin, easy now. Just wait. I am going to tell you something. I see that you really know nothing, and it's up to me to enlighten you. As I said, Ruth Atheson is _not_Ruth Atheson. She's the daughter of a grand duke. I can't tell youthe name of the Grand Duchy, but I'll say this: it isn't very far froma certain Big Kingdom we hear a great deal about now--in fact the Duchyis a dependency of the Big Kingdom--more than that, the so-called RuthAtheson is heiress presumptive to the throne. She'll some day be theGrand Duchess. "

Mark sat stunned. It was with difficulty that he could speak. He sawa tragedy that Saunders could not see. Then he broke out:

"But you? How do you know?"

"It's my business to know--the business you don't like. I wasinstructed to watch her. She got out of Europe before certain peoplecould reach her--"

"But, " objected Mark, "how do I know you are telling the truth?"

Saunders dug into his pocket and pulled out a postal card. "This willtell you--or the photograph on it will. "

The picture was a foreign one, bearing the strange characters of aSlavic language, such a card as is sold in every country with portraitsof reigning or distinguished personages. The facsimile signature, in abold feminine hand across the lower part of the picture, was "Carlotta. "

"Do you believe me now, Griffin?" asked Saunders, with some sympathyshowing on his face, which fact alone saved Mark from smashing it. 

"I am afraid I must, Saunders. You had better tell me the whole ofthis. "

"I will; for, as I have sized up the situation, it is best that Ishould. The Duchess ran away. She was supposed to be at San Sebastianwith a trusted attendant. The attendant was evidently _not_ to betrusted, for _she_ disappeared, too. They were traced to London, thento Madeira, then to a North German Lloyd liner which stopped at theisland on its way to America. Then to Boston. Then to Sihasset. "

"This attendant you spoke of--what was she like?"

Saunders gave the description: "Dark, fairly stout, white hair, badEnglish, piercing black eyes, sixty years old, upper lip showing agrowth of hair, slight wart on the right side of the nose. "

"Madam Neuville!"

"So she's here with her, is she? I suspected that, but I have neverseen the old lady. "

"She doesn't go out much. "

"Are you satisfied now, Mr. Griffin?"

"As to identity, yes. Now, I will ask the questions. I have a right, haven't I, Saunders?"

Saunders nodded. 

"Why did the Duchess run away?"

Saunders hesitated before he answered. "I hate to tell you that. Don't ask. "

"But I _do_ ask. "

"Well, you may have a right to know. There was a man, that's why. "

Mark wondered at his own self-control. 

"Who was he?"

"An army officer, attached to the Italian embassy at her father'scourt. But, look here, Griffin, there was no scandal about it. Shejust fell in love with him, that's all. I was here watching for _him_. I thought, for a while, that _you_ might be the man, though thedescriptions did not tally. I was taking no chances. If I saw him, mybusiness was to telegraph to a certain Ministry at Washington; that wasall. "

"And they would--"

"I don't know. Those fellows have ways I can't fathom. I don't knowwhat they would do. They probably have their plans laid. It's evidentthat they don't want her to meet him. I can't arrest her, and neithercan they; but they certainly could do for him if they wanted to. Itwould be easier to bring her back, then, without scandal or publicity. Now you've got all I know. What are you going to do?"

"I'm afraid, " Mark spoke with an effort, "I'm afraid that I don't knowjust what to do, Saunders. You see, I happen to love her. "

"But what about the other man?"

"Well, Saunders, I find it very hard to believe that. "

"Griffin, " said Saunders, "I've told you a lot, because I know you area gentleman, and because you have a right to know. I make only onerequest of you: please don't speak of this. "

"I appreciate the confidence, Saunders. My word is given. "

"Think this thing over, Griffin. You're the right stuff. I don'tblame you for wanting her. You know better than I if she's right, andif you ever can have her. "

Mark went back to his room. On his table lay a note. He opened it andread:

"My dear Mark: The Bishop is coming this morning to confirm the littleclass of tots who received their First Holy Communion last Sunday. HisLordship is a charming man. I'm sure you would like to meet him. Comeup and take dinner with us at noon. He leaves on the three o'clocktrain. Better be at the rectory at eleven thirty. Sincerely, Donald Murray. "

CHAPTER VII

BITTER BREAD

When Mark arrived at the church, which stood quite close to the littlerectory, he heard the choir singing the _Veni Creator_, and rememberedenough of former visits to church services to know that the sermon wasabout to begin. Early for dinner, he decided to pass the timelistening to what the Bishop might have to say. There were no vacantseats near the door of the church, so he had to go quite close to thesanctuary before he found a place. Only two seats ahead of him was thegroup of twenty little girls about to be confirmed, and directly acrossthe aisle from them were fifteen little boys. 

Mark had vivid recollections of the day of his own First Communion, buthe had never been confirmed. Things looked just as they did on the dayhe so well remembered. The girls were dressed in white, and each smallhead was covered by a veil which fell in soft long folds to the bottomof the short skirts. The boys were in black, each with a white ribbonaround his right arm. These boys all had serious faces, and hadevidently been prepared well for the reception of the Sacrament. Markfound himself wondering how the pastor could possibly have succeeded intaming some of the lads, in whom he recognized certain mischievousyoungsters he had seen about the hotel; but tamed they certainly were. 

Mark had scarcely sat down before the Bishop turned to the congregationand began to speak. His words were addressed entirely to the children. He told them in simple language, which Mark found himself admiring, themeaning and importance of the ceremony, sketching the apostolic originof Confirmation, and dwelling upon its strengthening spiritual effects. 

The Bishop was young, too young, Mark thought, since he was not yetforty. His hair was still black, and his cheeks ruddy. He was quite acontrast to Father Murray who sat near by. Mark noticed that thepastor did not wear the manteletta of a prelate, but only the surpliceof a simple priest. There were two other priests in the sanctuary, both young, one probably the Bishop's secretary. 

The Bishop allowed his gaze to wander over the congregation as he spokewith a rich, clear voice, and with growing eloquence. The children hadfixed their wondering eyes on his impressive figure, as he stood beforethem, crozier in hand and mitre on head. Mark found that he wasgrowing more attentive, and liking the Bishop even better as the sermonwent on. More than that, he found himself interested in the doctrineof Confirmation, a ceremony which but a few months before he would havethought quite meaningless. He watched the Bishop and listened asclosely as did the children. 

In the very midst of a sentence Mark saw a startled look on the face ofthe preacher, a quickly suppressed look that told of great surprise. The Bishop saved himself from breaking the current of his speech, butso plainly did Mark notice the instance that his mind jumped at once tothe conclusion that the Bishop had seen in the congregation somebody hehad not expected in that place and at that time. Instinctively Mark'sgaze followed the Bishop's. Across the aisle, and in a direct linewith himself, sat Ruth, veiled as usual, and Madame Neuville. For aninstant only the Bishop's glance rested on the veiled girl; then heturned again to the children. But the sermon had been spoiled forMark. The uneasiness was coming over him again. What did the Bishopknow? Mark could not help thinking that somehow the incident was aproof that the detective had told the truth. 

The sermon over, the Bishop's attendant came up to him, while FatherMurray went to marshal his little charges up to the foot of the altar. As the Bishop was about to sit down on the faldstool, Mark saw himwhisper to the young priest beside him, the one Mark thought to be thesecretary. He was a well trained secretary, for he made no sign; butMark watched him as he calmly turned around to face the congregation. His searching glance swept the church until it rested upon the girlwith the veil. He, too, seemed startled, but gave scarcely a sign ashe turned quickly away. When the ceremony had ended Mark left his pew, looking straight at Ruth as he turned to face the door. He imaginedthat her eyes looked directly into his; but if they did they looked athim as a stranger. He could have seen a smile under the veil if it hadbeen there, but there was none. Still more worried, he left thechurch. The girl remained behind, until there was no one but herselfand Madame Neuville left. In his anxiety for the girl, Mark returnedand looked at her from the rear of the church. Her face was buried inher hands. The sacristy door opened slightly and the young secretarylooked out. The girl, not seeing the door open, lifted the veil for aninstant to wipe away her tears. The secretary closed the door softlyas soon as he had seen her. 

Mark went directly to the rectory. The old housekeeper met him at thedoor before he could ring. 

"Come right in, Mr. Griffin, " she said. "I'm going to take ye into thedining room, sir, till the Father comes to present ye to His Lordship. He'd be wantin' to do that himself, I know; and sure I have the Bishopin the front room, so ye'll stay here please. "

Mark stepped into the little dining room, where the table was alreadyset, and waited for the priest. Ann went back to her cooking. Markcould hear her rattling the dishes and pans, all the while issuingorders to her assistants for the day. Ann was quite the most importantpersonage in the parish on this occasion and had to show it. It wasseldom she had such authority over others. Why not make the most of it?

There was only a folding door between the dining room where Mark waitedand, the room in which the Bishop sat Mark heard the Bishop ariseimpatiently from his chair and pace the room, a fact which caused himno little wonder. The Bishop had not impressed him as a man of nervoustemperament. Mark now heard him sit down again, crunching the springsof the chair, and again jump up, to continue his nervous pacing. Thenthe door from the hallway into the parlor opened and Mark heard theBishop's voice:

"Is she the woman?"

A young voice, which Mark was sure belonged to the secretary, answered:

"I am sorry to say, Bishop, that she is. "

"My God!" said the Bishop. There was deep distress in his tones. "Father, are you perfectly sure?"

"I could not be mistaken, Bishop. I stayed in the sacristy until allhad left the church except her attendant and herself. She was crying, and she threw back the veil to use her handkerchief. Then I saw herface quite plainly. She is the woman. "

"Crying?" The Bishop seemed about to cry himself. "Poor creature, poor creature--and unfortunate man. So he has brought her here afterall. I am afraid, Father, I did not do right when I omitted tellinghim the exact situation. What shall we do? We cannot possibly stay. "

Mark felt that he was eavesdropping, but everything had happened soquickly that there had been no chance to escape. He could not helphearing. His uneasiness became a great fear, and he felt that his facewas bloodless. Turning to escape if possible through the kitchen, hepaused long enough to hear the secretary say:

"No, Bishop, I am afraid you cannot stay. Monsignore Murray is quitebeyond understanding. He seems so good, and yet to have done a thinglike this is awful. Surely he realizes what a scandal he may stir up. "

"Could you possibly secure an automobile to take us to Father Darcy's?"asked the Bishop anxiously. "He lives in the next town, and we couldcatch the train at his station. "

"I will try. "

By this time Mark had decided that he could not very well go throughthe kitchen, and he had heard enough to make him feel that his dutytoward Ruth was to wait. It was something he would not have done underother circumstances; but Mark was in love, and he remembered the adageabout love and war. 

"At once, please, " he heard the young priest say over the telephone. Then he hung up the receiver, just as Father Murray stepped into thedining room from the kitchen through which he had passed from thesacristy. 

"Welcome, Mr. Griffin, " he said cordially. "Come, you must meet HisLordship. He's in here, " and he threw open the folding-doors. TheBishop was standing. The secretary entered from the hall. TheBishop's face was grave; but Father Murray did not notice that. He waslike a youth, with the excitement of the occasion upon him. 

"Let me present a traveler, Mr. Mark Griffin, of England, to YourLordship--or is it Ireland, Mr. Griffin? Mr. Griffin is going to stayto break bread with us, Bishop, and I know you will like him. "

"I am pleased indeed to meet Mr. Griffin, " said the Bishop. "I saw youin the church, sir. But I am very sorry, Monsignore, that I am not tohave the opportunity of knowing Mr. Griffin better. I am not--"

But the tactful secretary saved the Bishop an unpleasant explanation. 

"His Lordship has to leave, Monsignore, and at once. The automobile iseven now, I think, coming around the corner. It has become necessaryfor the Bishop to go to Father Darcy's before taking the train back tothe city. He hopes to catch Father Darcy for a few minutes beforetaking the train at the next station. "

Father Murray almost gasped. 

"But, My Lord, " he cried, "our meal is prepared. We have been lookingforward to your staying. It is customary, is it not? I shall never beable to--" and then his voice broke, for he was pleading, "My dearBishop, you will surely stay?"

Mark thought that all the misery of the world was in the priest's tones. 

"I am sorry, Monsignore, " and the Bishop looked it, though he spokevery quickly; "but circumstances compel me to leave at once. No oneregrets the necessity more than I do. I should willingly stay if itwere expedient, but unfortunately it is not. "

"The auto is waiting, Bishop, " said the secretary, who by this time hadthe prelate's coat and hat in his hand. The valises were lying packedin the hall, as they had come from the church. 

The Bishop put out his hand to Mark. 

"Good-bye, Mr. Griffin, " he said. "I hope we may meet at another time. "

He looked at Father Murray, but the poor pastor had dropped into achair, and Mark noticed that his face was white and drawn. For aninstant it appeared as though the Bishop would go up to him, for hemade one step in his direction. But Father Murray took no heed. Crushed by grief, he stared unseeing into space. The Bishop turnedabruptly and followed his secretary to the door. Mark heard them godown the steps. He listened as the door of the car slammed; then heheard the chugging of a motor, and they were gone. The noise grewfainter and fainter. There was silence. Father Murray never moved. 

Ann clattered in from the kitchen, calling back an order to one of herassistants. Through the folding-doors she saw Mark. 

"Where's the Father?" she asked, for the priest was hidden by part ofthe wall between the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to thesilent figure in the chair. Ann forgot her importance in an instant, and rushed over to the inert priest. 

"What is it, Father?" she cried. "What is it? Are ye sick?"

But Father Murray did not answer. 

"Where is His Lordship?" she asked sharply, turning again to Mark. 

"Gone. "

"Gone!" Ann almost whispered the word, as if in awe of it. "What! hewouldn't eat here--again!" Her face showed an agony of rage. "Thedirty--but God forgive me--he's the Bishop--I can't judge him--"

Father Murray arose, and Ann said no more. 

"Hush, Ann, " he cautioned, "hush. " Then, turning to Mark, "Comeoutside, Mark. "

The two passed out onto the veranda. Father Murray dropped heavilyinto his chair, with the weight of an old, feeble man. Mark felt thathe could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself. His voice had a ring of pathos in it, and he addressed Mark as thoughhe needed him and knew he could count upon him. 

"My friend, have you ever read Thomas à Kempis?"

"No, Father, I have not. "

"It is a pity, indeed; there is so much of consolation in him when weneed it. Listen to this quotation that I have learned by heart: 'Ifthou thinkest rightly and considerest things in truth, thou oughtestnever to be so much dejected and troubled for any adversity; but ratherto rejoice and give thanks, yea, to account this as a special subjectof joy, that afflicting thee with sorrows I do not spare thee. ' It isChrist speaking, and the quotation is from His _Imitation_. " ThenFather Murray made a gesture as though he were trying to throw it alloff. 

"Come in, Mark. The other guests did not intend to stay. The Bishophas never broken bread with me since--but let that pass. Come in andeat. It is bitter bread, my friend, bitter bread; but, alas, I musteat it. "

And Mark thought of his own bitter bread, too, as he reentered therectory. 

CHAPTER VIII

FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET

Ann bustled into Father Murray's study next morning with something onher mind. When Ann had something on her mind the pastor was alwaysquite likely to notice it, for Ann never had learned how to conceal herthoughts. Good, pious, and faithful she was, but with an inherent loveof gossip. She had loyal feelings to express this morning, but longexperience as the housekeeper of priests had made Ann wary ofapproaching a subject too abruptly. 

"Mrs. Thompson was here, yer Reverence. "

"Yes? What was it this time?"

"Sure, 'twas about her young b'y Jack, the good-fer-nothin'. He'sdrinkin' ag'in. "

"And she wants me to--"

"Give him the pledge. "

"All right; but why didn't you bring him in?"

"Well, wan raison is that he isn't sober yet and she couldn't bring himwid her. The other is that yer Reverence has sp'iled more good pledgeson that lad than would kape the Suprame Coort in business for tinyears. "

Father Murray smiled and Ann knew she had made considerable progress, but not quite enough yet. 

"I'll go and see him to-morrow morning. He'll be sober then, " said thepriest, looking down longingly at his work. 

But Ann had another case. "The choir's busted. "

Father Murray put down his book. Here was disaster indeed. "Again?"

"Yes, ag'in. The organist, Molly Wilson, is insulted. "

"Who insulted her?"

"Ye did. She says ye didn't appreciate her music for the Confirmation. "

"But I did. "

"But ye didn't tell her so, the hussy. "

"Hush, Ann. Don't call names. I had no time to tell Miss Wilsonanything. I'll see her to-day. "

"Yes, ye will, and that'll make her worse. She's got to be soft-soapedall the time, the painted thing!"

"Please, Ann, don't talk like that. I don't like it, and it makes hardfeelings. "

"'Tis little feelings yer Reverence should have left after the way theBishop--"

"Ann!"

"I _will_ say it. Didn't he slide out of bein' here three months ago?An' I wid a dinner fit fer the auld Bishop, and too good fer this--"

"Please, Ann. "

"Wasn't ye the Vicar Gineral once? Why should he hurt ye now? I couldtell him things if I had me tongue on him--"

But Father Murray was on his feet, and Ann was afraid. She held hertongue. 

"Once and for all, Ann, I forbid you to say a word about my superiors. The Bishop is a great and a good man. He knows what he is about, andneither you nor I may judge him. No! not a word. "

The housekeeper was crying. "Sure, I'm sorry, yer Reverence. I won'tsay a word ag'in, even if I do think he treated ye dirthy. But I hopeye won't spake like that to me. Sure I thry to serve ye well andfaithfully. "

"And so you do, Ann; so respect my wish in this. There, there, don'tcry. I don't want to hurt you; but please don't hurt me. "

"I'd cut me tongue out if it hurted yer Reverence. "

"I think you would. Indeed, I know you would. Don't mind a spoileddinner. There are plenty of dinners spoiled. "

"Sure, them that has theirs spoiled kin afford it. " Father Murraycould not help being amused again. Ann was always bemoaning hisslender revenues. "An' ye a Vicar Gineral. "

"Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?"

"McCarthy's sick ag'in. "

"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning. "

Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard onthe chronically dying McCarthy. 

"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oilanointin' that omadhan four times already. "

The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice. 

"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me myhat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's. "

Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information. 

"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga onyer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?"

"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and thereare plenty of servants at Killimaga. "

He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebukeforgotten. 

"Savin' me work, is it? Faith, he ought to be thinkin' of savin' hispinnies, slashin' thim around to the likes of McCarthy. " Then theremembrance of her spoiled tirade came to her, as she thought of herruined dinner and the Bishop. "What did he do that fer to a man whowas the Vicar Gineral? But God forgive me. An auld woman niver knowshow to hauld her tongue. Sure, the Father is a saint anyhow, whativerthe Bishop, bad scran to him, is. "

There was the eternal maternal in Ann, if nothing else was left of theeternal feminine. It is the eternal maternal that fights and hates, without knowing why--and loves and protects too--still without knowing, or asking, a reason. 

In the kitchen Ann saw Uncle Mac taking his ease by the table. Heoften dropped in for a chat. 

"Where's the Father?" he asked. 

"Gone to look over McCarthy ag'in, " she answered, with pleasedanticipation of the things she could safely say, without rebuke, of theparish's chronic hypochondriac. 

But Uncle Mac, while he never rebuked, yet was adroit in warding offtemptations to break the Commandments. He began to chuckle as if hehad just heard a wonderful story. 

Ann looked up. "What's biting ye this mornin'?"

"'Tis what the Father said to Brinn, the man that runs the _WeeklyHerald_. Ye know him?"

"I know no good av him. "

"He's not a bad fella a-tall. Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig. Well, he was goin' to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worritedabout a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must berigged up. He met the Father in Jim's drug sthore on the corner, andhe ups and axes him to tell him what to wear. "

"The omadhan!"

"Av coorse. " Uncle Mac fell from righteousness. "He shud not haveaxed such a question of a priest. But the Father had him. 'Ye want tobe disguised?' he said. 'That I do, ' said Brinn, takin' off his hat tomop the top of his shiny pate. 'What'll I wear?' The Father giv wanglance at his head. 'Wear a wig, ' sez he. "

Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected. 

"Faith, he did better nor that lasht week, " she confided. "'Twas auldRoberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it. His little dogdoes always be barkin' at Rover. The Father wint out walkin' to theother side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe's Jacky about servin'Mass on week days. Roberts comes along with his snarlin' little pup, and the imp bit at Rover's heels. Rover med wan bite at him, and heran off yelpin'. 'I'll shoot that big brute some day, ' sez Roberts tothe Father. 'Don't do that, Mr. Roberts, ' he sez, quiet-like. 'Thedogs understand each other. ' 'I will, so, ' sez Roberts, 'and I kinshoot a human dog, too. '"

"What's that?" Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant. "What's that?He said that to the Father? I'll murther him!"

"Ye n'adn't, " said Ann quietly. "The Father murthered him betther norye could, wid an answer. 'Don't let yer bad timper make ye thry tocommit suicide, Mr. Roberts, ' sez he, and off he marched. Sure thewhole town is laffin' at the mane auld snake. "

"Murther an' Irish!" was all Uncle could say. "An' he says he'sScotch. 'Tisn't in raison that a Scotchman could do it. "

Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walkedquickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived "over the tracks. " Aman was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed. 

"Good day to you, Elder, " he drawled. 

"Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis. How are you?" Father Murray stopped toshake hands. Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of thetown. He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, forhe was a well-to-do business man. 

"Fine, fine, Elder, " he answered. "Have you seen my new card?" Hefumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over. Father Murray readit aloud:

 JOHN JONATHAN STURGIS Justice of the Peace

 The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate. 

 Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and eloquently. 

 _Fees Moderate_. _Osculation extra_. 

 Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, no connection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill. 

 _P. S. My Anti-Blushine is guaranteed not to injure the most delicate complexion_. 

"You'll be running the clergy clean out of business if this keeps up, Mr. Sturgis, " laughed the priest. "But unless I am much mistaken, youdidn't stop me only to show the card. There's something else? I seeit on your face. "

"I thought you would, Elder. Let us walk down the side street a bitand I'll tell you. " The Justice became serious. "Elder, I suppose youknow Roberts who keeps the Depot Hotel?"

"I know him only slightly. "

"He was in to see me to-day, on what he called 'important business. 'He is a crony of my constable. He had a cock and bull story about thatlady at Killimaga, who goes to your church. I guess the constable toldit to him. I gave him no satisfaction because there was nothing in itthat concerned me; but the old scamp thinks it might hurt you, so hegave it to Brinn, who will publish it if you don't drop in on him. "

Father Murray put his hand on the shoulder of the justice. "Thank youkindly, Mr. Sturgis, " he said. "I would like to save the lady fromannoyance, and will see Mr. Brinn at once; but I must begin byapologizing for my recent attack on his beauty. "

"No need to do that, Father, " assured the justice. "He printed thejoke himself in to-day's _Herald_. "

When the priest left the office of the editor, he walked toward therectory in deep thought, quite evidently worried, but the suppressedstory was safely in his pocket. 

CHAPTER IX

THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION

"How do you do, Mr. Griffin. I am delighted to see you again, and sosoon after our first meeting. "

Two days had elapsed since the unpleasant incident at the rectory, andMark, engrossed in thoughts by no means in harmony with the peacefulcountry through which he wandered, was taken unawares. He turnedsharply. A big automobile had stopped near him and from it leaned theyoung Bishop, hand outstretched. 

Mark hurried forward. "I am glad to see Your Lordship again. You arestill traveling?" He had retained no pleasant recollections of thedignitary, and, as he shook the extended hand, was rather surprised torealize that he felt not a little pleased by the unexpected encounter. 

"I am still traveling--Confirmation tours all this season. Are yougoing far, Mr. Griffin?"

"I am merely walking, without goal. "

"Then come in with me. I am on my way to a little parish ten milesfarther on. I want to chat. My secretary went on ahead by train, to'prepare the way, ' as it were. I will send the car back with you. Won't you come?" The tone of the Bishop's voice indicated an earnestdesire that the invitation be accepted. 

Mark hesitated but a moment. "I thank Your Lordship. I will gladly gowith you on such pleasant terms. " He entered the car and, sinking intoits soft cushions, suddenly awakened to the fact that he had trampedfar, and was tired. 

The Bishop took up the conversation. 

"You are thoroughly British, Mr. Griffin, or you would not have said'Your Lordship. ' The bishops in England are all addressed in that way, are they not?"

"Of course, and here also. Did I not hear Father Murray--"

"Oh, Father Murray is quite different. He is a convert, and ratherinclined to be punctilious. Then, too, he is from England. In Americathe best we get as a rule is just plain 'Bishop. ' One of your own kindof Bishops--an Episcopalian--I knew him well and a charming man hewas--told me that in England he was 'My Lorded' and 'Your Lordshiped'everywhere, until he had gotten quite used to the dignity of it. Butwhen he stepped on the dock at New York, one of his lay intimates tookall the pomposity out of him by a sound slap on the back and thegreeting, 'Hello, Bish, home again?'"

"It was very American, that, " said Mark. "We wouldn't understand it. "

"But _we_ do. I wouldn't want anyone to go quite that far, of course. I have nerves. But I confess I rather like the possibility of it--solong as it stays a possibility only. We Yankees are a friendly lot, but not at all irreverent. A bishop has to be 'right' on the manhoodside as well as on the side of his office. That's the way we look atit. "

A wicked thought went through Mark's head. He let it slide out inwords before he weighed the words or the thought. An instant after, hecould have bitten his tongue with chagrin. 

"But don't you take the manhood into account in dealing with yourclergy?"

To Mark's surprise the Bishop was not offended by the plain referenceto the unpleasant scene in the rectory at Sihasset. 

"Thank you; thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin, for giving me such anexcellent opening. I really wanted you to say something like that. Ifyou hadn't, I should certainly have been nonplussed about finding theopening for what I desire to say to you. You are now referring to myseemingly unchristian treatment of Monsignore Murray? Eh, what?" Itseemed to please the Bishop to lay emphasis on the English "Eh, what?"He said it with a comic intonation that relieved Mark's chagrin. 

"Your Lordship is a diplomat. I was wrong to ask the question. Theaffair is simply none of my business. "

"But it is, Mr. Griffin. I would not want you, a stranger--perhaps noteven a Catholic--to keep in your mind the idea that a Catholic bishopis cold and heartless in his dealings with his flock, and particularlywith his under-shepherds. "

Mark did not know what to answer, but he wanted to help the Bishopunderstand his own feelings. 

"I like Father Murray very much, my dear Lord--or rather my dearBishop. "

It was the Bishop's turn to smile. "You are getting our ways fast, Mr. Griffin. When we part, I suppose you'll slap me on the back and say'Bish. '"

"The Lord forbid. "

"For my back's sake, " the Bishop was looking at Mark's strongshoulders, "for my back's sake I hope the Lord does forbid. But toyour question. I must get at the answer in a round-about way. FatherMurray, or Monsignore Murray, for he is a prelate, was one of mydearest friends. For no man had I a greater regard. He was the soulof generosity, earnest, zealous, kind, and--I believed then--a saint. "

"_Then_?"

"_Then_. I am going to confide in you, and for a good purpose. Youlike him. His people in Sihasset adore him, as did his curates and hispeople at the Cathedral. I expected, as did others, that he would bein the place I occupy to-day. " The Bishop broke off to look fixedly atMark for a moment. "Mr. Griffin, may I trust you to do your friend aservice?"

"Yes, Bishop, you may. "

"Then I will. I have no other way to do this thing. I cannot do itthrough another priest. They are all of one mind except a few of theyounger ones who might make matters worse. You can help MonsignoreMurray, if you will. Now, listen well. You heard the conversationbetween my secretary and myself at the rectory, did you not? You werein the next room, I know. "

"Yes; I could not help hearing it, and there was no way of escape. "

"I know there was no escape. You heard it all?"

"All. "

"That decides me to tell you more. It may be providential that youheard. A woman's name was mentioned?"

"No name, only a reference to a woman, but I think I know who wasmeant. "

"Exactly. " The Bishop's voice took on even a graver tone. "What I amgoing to say to you is given into your confidence for a stronger reasonthan to have you think more charitably of a bishop in his dealings withhis priests. I am taking you into my confidence chiefly for MonsignoreMurray's sake. He is a _different_ sort of man from the ordinary type. He has few intimate friends because his charity is very wide. You seemto be one of the rare beings he regards with special favor. You likehim in return. The combination is excellent for my purpose. I do notknow when this woman first came into Monsignore Murray's life, but hehas seen her quite frequently during the last few years. No one knowswhere she came from or who she is, except that she calls herself 'MissAtheson. '"

"That is her name, if you are thinking of the lady I have in mind--RuthAtheson. "

"Exactly. The old Bishop, my predecessor, seemed oblivious to thesituation. I soon learned, after my appointment, that MonsignoreMurray and Miss Atheson were together almost daily, either at therectory or at her hotel. But I said nothing to Monsignore and hadevery confidence in him until--well, until one day a member of theCathedral clergy, unexpectedly entering the rectory library, saw MissAtheson sitting on the arm of the priest's chair, with her head closeto his and her arm across his shoulders. They were reading from aletter, and did not see the visitor, who withdrew silently. His visitwas never known to Monsignore Murray. You understand?"

Mark was too much surprised to answer. 

"Don't look so horror-struck, Mr. Griffin. The thing might have anexplanation, but no one asked it. It looked too unexplainable ofcourse. The story leaked out, and after that Monsignore Murray wasavoided. Never once did I give in to the full belief that my dear oldsaint was wrong, so I gently suggested one day that I should like hisfullest confidence about Miss Atheson. He avoided the subject. StillI was loath to believe. I made up my mind to save him by a transfer, but he forestalled me and asked a change; so I sent him to Sihasset. "

Mark found his voice. 

"That was the reason? And he never knew?"

"That was the reason. I thought he would ask for it, and that I wouldthen have a chance to tell him; but he asked for nothing. The scenewhen he left his work at the cathedral was so distressing to me that Iwould willingly lay down my office to-morrow rather than go throughwith it again. "

"But he is so gentle. He could not make a scene?"

"That's it, that's it. There was no _scene_, and yet there was. Itold you how I loved him. We first met at college, in Rome. In yearsthe difference between us was not so very great, but in experience hewas far older than I. I was alone in the world, and he was both fatherand friend to me. When I sent him away, I felt as Brutus must havefelt when he condemned his sons to death. Only it was worse. It was ason condemning his father to disgrace. But I hoped to save him. "

"And you did not?"

"No, that was harder yet. I thought I had--until I went to Sihassetand saw her in the church. Poor creature! She must have followed him. "

"But, my dear Lord Bishop, she is so young and he--"

"Yes, I know. But facts are facts. What could I do? Look here, Mr. Griffin. Whatever there is in this that excuses him I ought to know. And he ought to know the cause of my actions in his regard. I shallhave to tell him and then-- If there _is_ an explanation, how can Iforgive myself? But he cannot be blind. Soon all Sihasset will noticeand talk. I shall have to remove him again, and then . . . . My God!I cannot think that my saint could ever merit such an end. Do you knowwhat it means to be an unfrocked priest?"

"Yes. " Mark had no other answer. His distress was too deep. His mindwas working fast, however. 

"Do you think, Mr. Griffin, that you could tell him--point out thedanger of his position--without hurting him? He is very sensitive. Don't tell him all you know--only intimate gently that there may besome misunderstanding of this kind. He surely will guess the rest. You may save him if you can do this and--if you will do it. "

It was on Mark's tongue to refuse, but he happened to glance at theBishop's face. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. 

"Don't mind my weakness, Mr. Griffin. It is a weakness in me thus totake a stranger into my confidence in such a matter. But I feel thatyou alone have his confidence. You can't realize what this thing hascost me, in peace. He was the last I should have suspected. I mustsave him. Help me do it. The Church is supposed to be hard-hearted, but she is forgiving--too forgiving sometimes. My duty is to be stern, and a judge; but I cannot judge him with sternness. I would give mylife to think that this was all a bad dream. Don't you see that he isthe man I always thought would be my own bishop? How can I go tohim--and hurt him?"

If Mark Griffin had had any misgivings about the character of theBishop, they had vanished. He saw no bishop beside him, but only a manwho in his heart of hearts had for years treasured a friendship and, inspite of everything, could not pluck it out. Now he had opened thatheart to an utter stranger, trusting him as if snatching at everychance to save his sacred ideals, shrinking from inflicting painhimself as a surgeon would shrink from operating on his own father. Mark's heart went out to the weeping man beside him. 

But his own sorrow Mark resolved to keep to himself yet a little while. He was not ready to think out his own case. The sweet, compelling faceof Ruth Atheson rose up before him to plead for herself. Who was she, this girl of mystery? His half-promised wife? A runaway duchesspledged to another man? A priest's--God! that was too much. Markclenched his hands to stifle a groan. Then he thought of FatherMurray. Good and holy and pure he had seemed to be, a man among men, apriest above all. Surely there was an explanation somewhere. And hehesitated no longer to accede to the request of the Bishop who still, Mark felt, believed in his friend, and was hoping against hope for him. 

"Here, Mr. Griffin, is my stop. You have been silent for fifteenminutes. " The Bishop's voice was sad, as if Mark had refused to help. 

"Was I silent so long? I did not know. There is something I cannottell you yet that may bring you consolation. Some day I will tell you. In the meantime, trust me. I see no way now by which I can fullyjustify your faith in my efforts, but I will try. I promise you that Iwill try. "

So they parted, and Mark was driven back to Sihasset alone. 

The Bishop prayed longer--much longer--than usual before he left thelittle church to join the priests who had gathered in the rectory afterthe ceremony. 

CHAPTER X

AT THE MYSTERY TREE

All next day Mark Griffin wandered about brooding. Father Murray hadreturned to his old place in his thoughts. Distress had bred sympathybetween the two, and instinctively Mark looked upon the priest as afriend; and, as a friend, he had cast doubt from his mind. There wasan appointment to fill at Killimaga in the afternoon, an appointment towhich Mark had looked forward with much joy; but he remembered thecoldness of Ruth when he saw her in the church, and felt that he wasnot equal to meeting her, much as he longed to be in her presence. Sohe sent a note pleading sickness. It was not a lie, for there was adull pain in both head and heart. 

All the afternoon he walked along the bluff road, studiously avoidingSaunders who had seemed desirous of accompanying him, for Mark wantedto be alone. Taking no note of the distance, he walked on for miles. It was already late in the afternoon when he turned to go back, yet hehad not thought out any solution to his own problem, nor how toapproach Father Murray in behalf of the Bishop. 

To Mark Griffin pain of any kind was something new. He had escaped itchiefly by reason of his clean, healthful life, and through a fear thatmade him take every precaution against it. He did not remember everhaving had even a headache before; and, as to the awful pain in hisheart, there never had been a reason for its existence till this moment. 

With all the ardor of a strong nature that has found the hidden springof human love, Mark Griffin loved Ruth Atheson. She had come into hislife as the realization of an ideal which since boyhood, so he thought, had been forming in his heart. In one instant she had given that ideala reality. For her sake he had forgotten obstacles, had resolved toovercome them or smash them; but now the greatest of them all insistedon raising itself between them. Poor, he could still have married her;rich, it would have been still easier so far as his people wereconcerned; but as a grand duchess she was neither rich nor poor. Theblood royal was a bar that Mark knew he could not cross except withruin to both; nor was he foolish enough to think that he would bepermitted to cross it even did he so will. Secret agents would takecare of that. There was no spot on earth that could hide this runawaygirl longer than her royal father desired. Mark Griffin would haveblessed the news that Ruth Atheson was really only the daughter of abeggar, or anything but what he now believed her to be. 

Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought littleof him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that theofficer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him. 

It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff roadwhere the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, heflung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day hefirst saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitterregrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past. 

The gray ocean seemed trying---and the thought consoled him alittle--to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him toremain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for hissympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made forhimself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him evenas he, Mark, loved the priest; but he felt that he must go away, mustflee from the misery he dared not face. Mark was big and strong; buthe cried at last, just as he had cried in boyhood when his strongerbrother had hurt his feelings, or his father had inflicted somedisappointment upon him; and a strong man's tears are not to be derided. 

How long he thus lay, brooding and miserable, he did not even care toknow. A step aroused him from his stupor. 

He looked up. A man was coming from the road toward the tree. He wastall, handsome and dark of face, Mark thought, for the moon had risen alittle and the man was in the light. His stride was that of a soldier, with a step both firm and sure. He looked straight ahead, with hiseyes fixed on the tree as though that were his goal. He passed Mark'sresting-place quickly and struck three times on the tree, which gaveback a hollow sound. Then he waited, while Mark watched. In a minutethe signal was repeated, and only a few more instants passed before thedoorway in the tree was flung open. 

Mark saw the white-gowned figure of the lady of the tree step out. Heheard her cry "Luigi!" with a voice full of joy and gladness. The twomet in quick embrace, and the desolation of the watcher was complete ashe heard her speak lovingly to the officer who had at last come backinto her life. She spoke in French and--was it because of the languageused or of the unusual excitement?--her voice took on a strange elusivequality utterly unlike the richness of the tones Mark loved so well, yet remained vibrant, haunting in its sibilant lightness. Never againwould he hear it so. He longed to go, but there was no present way ofescape, so he steeled his heart to listen. 

"You have come, my beloved, " he heard her say. 

"I have come, Carlotta. I told you that nothing could keep me. Whenyou wrote telling me where to come, and when and how to signal, I didnot delay one minute. "

"I feared to write, Luigi. Perhaps they are even now watching you. "

"I think they do not know I am here, " he answered. "I have seen no onewatching. And who knows of our love? How could they know?"

"They know very much, my Luigi, and I am afraid I should not havecalled you. But I wanted you so much. "

"If you had not called me I should have died. Without you, how could Ilive?"

"You love me, then, so much?"

"It takes great love to look up to you, Carlotta, and have I notlooked?"

"Yes, yes, Luigi, and I love you. "

They wandered down the little lane between the wall and the trees thatlined the road, while Mark lay in dumb misery in the grass. It hadbeen hard before. It was harder now when he knew for sure. He must goaway, and never see her again. It was all that was left him, as anhonorable man, to do. 

Down the road his eye caught a movement as if someone were slippinginto the bushes. Mark watched for a second glimpse of the lovers, butthey were far away on the other side. For a long time there was noother visible movement of the figure that had slipped into the shadows;but the listener could hear softened steps in the underbrush, and thecrackling of dead branches. Was it Saunders who at last had found hisman? Instinctively Mark resolved to protect, for did he not love her?He watched the shrubbery, and soon he saw a face peer out; but it wasnot the face of Saunders. It was a strange face, youthful, but beardedand grim, and a gun was poised beside it. Mark lay quite still, fornow he heard the lovers' steps returning; but he never took his gazeoff that terrible face. He saw the gun lifted and he prepared tospring; but when the man and the girl came into sight the gun barreldropped, and the face disappeared. In an instant Mark realized that itwas the man and not the girl who was threatened, and that nothing wouldbe done while she was there. 

The lovers stood before the tree, saying good-bye. 

"You will come back, Luigi?" the girl asked anxiously. 

"I will come when you call, my beloved. "

"But if they find you?"

"They will not find me. "

"Then we can go away. There is a great West in this country. I havemy jewels, you know. We could hide. We could live like other people. We could be just alone together. "

"But would you be happy, Carlotta?"

"I should be happy anywhere with you, Luigi. It is too much to pay forbeing a duchess, to lose all I want in life. "

"But many duchesses must do that, you know. I never have asked such asacrifice, though, God knows, I have wanted it. "

"You have never asked, Luigi, and that makes me all the more happy togive. I will tell you when to come. "

With an ardent embrace the two parted. She stepped inside the tree andclosed the door. 

The young officer turned. Mark knew that the time had come for action, and jumped for the other side--but too late. There was no sound, butpowder burned Mark's hand--powder from the muffled gun barrel which hehad tried to knock aside. The lover stood for an instant with his eyeswide open, as if in wonder at a strange shock, but only for an instant. Mark sprang to his side, and caught him as he fell to the ground. There was a heavy crashing through the underbrush, then a voice wasraised in an oath and there was the sound of a struggle. Mark lookedup as Saunders broke through the bushes dragging after him the body ofthe murderer. Dropping his unconscious burden, the detective came upto where Mark was bending over the victim and pulled a little electricglow lamp from his pocket. 

"Let me look at him, Griffin, " he said. He looked long and earnestlyat the man's face, then snapped off the light. 

"He's the man, " he announced. 

[Illustration: Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He'sthe man!" he announced. ]

"Who is he?" asked Mark quickly. 

"The man I told you about--the man I took you for--the man for whosesake the Duchess ran away--the chap I was watching for. "

"And the other?" Mark nodded toward the gunman, who still layunconscious. 

"Oh, he doesn't matter. " Saunders spoke carelessly. "He'll get out ofit. It's all been arranged, of course. They really sent me here towatch her; evidently they had him trailed from the beginning. "

Crossing over, Saunders again snapped on his light, and examined theface and clothing of the murderer. 

"It's easy to see, Griffin, what the game was. This chap is one of theforeigners at the railroad camp. He can say he was outhunting--shooting squirrels--anything. "

"He can't say that, " put in Mark quickly, "for I saw him do it. Itried to stop him. "

Saunders turned quickly to Mark. 

"Forget it, Griffin, " he said earnestly. "You saw nothing. Keep outof it. If it were only a common murder, I'd tell you to speak. Butthis is no common murder. There are international troubles mixed up init. No one will thank you, and you will only get into difficulties. Why, the biggest men in the country would have a special messenger downhere inside of twenty-four hours to keep you silent if they knew whowere behind this thing. For God's sake, leave it alone. Let thisfellow tell his story. " He pointed to the man who was now coming tohis senses. "He has it all prepared. "

"I'll leave it alone only if the man is dead; but, good God! you can'texpect me to leave him here to the mercy of that brood if he's onlywounded. "

The detective smiled grimly. 

"Wounded! Why, Griffin, do you think they would send a man who wouldmiss? Come, look at him. "

Mark placed his hand over the young officer's heart. He felt for thepulse, and looked into the face. 

"Come, Saunders, " he said, "we can do nothing for him. "

CHAPTER XI

THIN ICE

"I don't think you quite realize, Griffin, " Saunders' voice had quitean uneasy tremor in it, as he spoke, "that you are in some danger. "

The detective was sitting in Mark's bedroom, and the clock was strikingmidnight in the hotel office below. They had returned together fromthe bluff road and had been discussing the tragedy ever since. 

"I think I do, " Mark answered, "but I don't very much care. "

"Then, " said Saunders, "you English have some nerves!"

"You forget, Saunders, that I am not quite English. I am half Irish, and the Irish have 'some nerves. ' But I am really hit very hard. Isuppose it's the English in me that won't let me show it. "

Saunders did not answer for a moment. Then he took his cigar out ofhis mouth. 

"Nerves?" he repeated half laughingly. "Yes, nerves they have, but inthe singular number. "

"Beg pardon?"

"Oh, I forgot that your education in United States has been sadlyneglected. I mean to say that they have _nerve_, not nerves. "

"By which you mean--?"

"Something that you will need very soon--grit. "

"I--I don't quite understand yet, my dear fellow. Why?"

The face of Saunders was serious now. The danger that confronted bothof them was no chimera. 

"Look here, Griffin, " he broke out, "that murderer did this thing underorders. He either has had a story fixed up for him by his employers, or he will try to put the deed off on someone else. An explanationmust be given when the body is discovered in the morning. All wascertainly foreseen, for these chaps take no chances. Now, you maywager a lot that his superiors, or their representatives, are not faraway; no farther, in fact, than the railroad camp. You may be sure, too, that their own secret service men are on the job, close by. Thequestion is, what story will this fellow tell?"

"You can--ah--search me, Saunders, " retorted Mark. 

Saunders laughed. Mark had a way of appearing cheerful. 

"Come now, that's doing fine. 'Search you, ' eh? That is just exactlywhat the police probably will do. "

"Why?"

"Why? Because your being there was the unforeseen part of the wholetragedy. I think it quite upset their calculations. Your hand ismarked with powder from the gun fire. Everyone will see thatto-morrow. The principal will know something of it from the murderer. In fact, he probably knows now. To-morrow they will be searching forthe man with the powder mark. The murderer himself can swear that hesaw someone fire at the man who was killed. He may charge robbery. Only when the body is found shall we know what he is going to do. Ifthey have taken his money, it means that you are going to be arrested, for they intend putting it on you. Unless I am mistaken, his pocketsare inside out right now. The powder marks alone are enough to fastensuspicion on you. Then, you were absent all day, and someone certainlymust have seen you on the bluff road. Above all, you love RuthAtheson, and lovers have been known to kill rivals. My detectiveintuition tells me, Griffin, that you stand a good chance of beingcharged with murder. "

"Well, " said Mark, "I have an excellent witness for the defense, in oneJames Saunders, detective. "

"You have, " answered Saunders, "but not at the inquest; for if JamesSaunders, detective, shows his hand then, he will not live to testifyat the trial, where his testimony, sprung as a surprise, might beuseful. "

"You mean that they would--"

"Just so, " Saunders nodded wisely; "that's just what they would do. Onthe other hand, that fellow may stick to the story, whatever it is, that they had fixed up for him. It looks reasonable to me that hewould be instructed to do that. He may come forward when the body isfound, and give himself up, saying that he was out shooting coons, orsome other animals that you can best get at night, and that one of hisbullets must have killed the man. That looks like the easiest way outof it. "

"That sounds all right, Saunders, " answered Mark, "but I incline to theother theory. I think they'll accuse me. Their first plan would havebeen best if nobody had seen the deed. But since they know someone didsee it, they'll probably try to be on the safe side. Fortunately, theydon't know there were two of us, which leaves me better off. "

"If they find there was another, " said the detective, "you'll be saferin jail. Lives count nothing in the games of princes, and they'll getus both if they can. "

"Then you're in danger yourself, Saunders. "

"Not yet. As you remarked, they don't know there was another. Yousee, it was dark among the trees, and I caught the fellow in the rearas he ran away. He would naturally think that the man who caught himwas the one who jumped as he fired. "

Mark smoked thoughtfully before he spoke. 

"You're right, Saunders. My complacency is not so great that I do notrecognize the danger. I merely am indifferent to danger under thepresent circumstances. It's no use running away from it, and we can'thelp it now. Let's go to bed. "

"Well, those English-Irish nerves get me, " Saunders answered, as hearose and walked toward the door. "I suppose they're a good thing tohave; but, Griffin, take it from me, you're the worst lump of ice Iever saw. Aren't you even just a little afraid?"

"Oh, yes, " answered Mark, "I'm afraid all right, old man; I really amafraid. But there is somebody I am more afraid for than myself. I amworried about the lady. "

Mark thought of what he had seen as he lay near the tree. Walking overto the window, he thoughtfully pulled down the blind before he turnedagain to Saunders. "I shall always love her, no matter what happens. Of course, I can't marry a grand duchess, especially one who is watchedday and night; but I rather welcome the chance to stay near and protecther good name if the story does come out. That is why I won't go tojail for safety, not if I can prevent it. "

Saunders closed the half-opened door and walked back into the room. 

"Protect her? I don't understand, " he said. Clearly bewildered, hesat down, carelessly swinging one leg over an arm of the big chair, andstared at his host. 

Mark looked up. He spoke haughtily, with a slight shrug of theshoulders. 

"There is a British Ambassador in Washington. You have a free country, so I can always talk to him, even if I am a prisoner or on bail. Ihappen to be brother to a baron; that fact may prove useful, for thefirst time in my life. One word that involves her name in scandal, even as Ruth Atheson, brings the story out. And Great Britain does notparticularly care about your certain Big Kingdom. I am presuming, ofcourse, that I have rightly guessed what Big Kingdom is looking afterthe interests of your Grand Duchy. "

"You're right, Griffin; the Ministry could never let her name bementioned. "

"As the grand duchess, no. But they could mention the name of RuthAtheson, the Padre's friend, the Lady Bountiful of his poor, the girl Ilove. The Padre has had trouble enough, too, without that scandal inhis little flock. "

"I don't see how you can avoid it. "

"Oh, I can avoid it very simply. I can send word to the Ministry inquestion that I know who the lady really is, and that I am almost readyto talk for the public. "

"That's right, Griffin, you could. Gee, what a detective you wouldhave made! You're sure right. " He arose, stretched lazily, and walkedto the door, where he turned, his hand on the knob. "If it's anyconsolation for you to know, Griffin, they won't arrest--they'll juststick a knife into you. Good night, and pleasant dreams. "

"Good night, Saunders, and thanks for your cheerful assurances. "

But Mark had no dreams at all for, left alone, he smoked and worriedover his problem until morning. 

Very early he wrote a long letter, sealed it and put it in his pocketso that he could register it in person. It was addressed to theBritish Ambassador. 

As Mark passed on his way to the dining room, the hotel clerk gave hima note, remarking: "That's a bad-looking hand you have, Mr. Griffin. "

"Yes, rather. " Mark looked at his hand as though noticing itscondition for the first time. Then he spoke consolingly. "But it wasthe only one I had to put on this morning. Pleasant outside, isn't it?"

But the clerk had suddenly discovered that his attention was neededelsewhere, and Mark proceeded to his breakfast. 

Sitting down, he gave his order, then opened the letter. It was fromRuth. "I am sorry you were not feeling well yesterday, and hope youare all right now. If so, come to Killimaga to-day, quite early. Somehow I am always lonesome now. Ruth. "

It was rather strange--or was it?--that, in spite of what Mark knew, hewatched his chance and, when the waiter turned his back, kissed thesheet of scented paper. 

Saunders was in the hotel office when Mark came out of the dining room. The constable was with him. With little difficulty Saunders got rid ofthe officer and walked over to Mark. 

"Come outside, " he said. "I have some news. "

They left the hotel and moved down the street. When out of anyone'shearing, Saunders touched Mark's arm. 

"I routed out the constable early this morning--at daybreak, infact--and sent him on a wild-goose chase along the bluff road. Iwanted him to stumble onto that body, and get things going quickly. The sooner the cards are on the table, the better. His errand wouldkeep him close to the Killamaga wall, on the roadside. He saw nothing;if he had I should have known it. What do you think it means?"

"Means?" echoed Mark. "Why, it means that someone else has been there. "

"It looks that way, " admitted Saunders. "But why hasn't it beenreported?"

"I think, Saunders, " Mark said thoughtfully, "that we had better take awalk near the wall ourselves. "

"I was going to suggest that very thing. "

The morning was not beautiful. The chill wind of autumn had come up, and the pleasant weather that Mark had taken the trouble to praise wasvanishing. The clouds were dark and gloomy, threatening a storm. Whenthe men reached the bluff road, they saw that the ocean was disturbed, and that great white-capped waves were beating upon the beach below. Their own thoughts kept both of them in tune with the elements. Neither spoke a word as they rapidly covered the distance between thetown and the spot of the tragedy. But instinctively, as if caught bythe same aversion, both slackened pace as they neared the wall ofKillimaga. Going slowly now they turned out of the road and approachedthe tree, looking fearfully down at the grass. They reached the spotwhereon they had left the body the evening before. There was no bodythere. 

They searched the bushes and the long grass, but there was no sign ofanything out of the ordinary. Closely they examined the ground; butnot a trace of blood was to be seen, nor any evidence of conflict. Saunders was stupefied, and Mark showed signs of growing wonder. 

"It isn't here, " half whispered Saunders. "And it isn't in the bushes. What do you make of it, Griffin?"

Mark answered hesitatingly and half-nervously. 

"I can't make anything out of it, unless they have decided to hush thewhole thing up, figuring that the men who interfered will never tell. They disposed of the body overnight and covered all their traces. Unless I am mistaken, no one will ever find it or know that the murdertook place at all. "

"Then, " said Saunders emphatically, "they certainly had one of the bigfellows here to see that it was properly done. "

"It looks probable, " replied Mark; "for a common murderer would nothave planned so well. An expert was on this crime. The body isdisposed of finally. "

Saunders looked around nervously. 

"We had better go back, Griffin. There's nothing left for us to do, and they may be watching. "

Both men left the spot and returned to town; but they were no longersilent. Mark was decidedly anxious, and Saunders voiced his worry intones that shook. 

"I have more fear than ever for your sake, Griffin, and I'm beginningto have some for my own. Those fellows know how to act quickly andsurely. Their principal is in Washington. He has had word already bycipher as to what has happened. He won't rest until he finds thewitness, and then--"

"And then?"

"I'm afraid they will try another murder. They won't trust a livingsoul to hold his peace under the circumstances. "

"But how are they to know I saw the thing?"

"By your hand. In fact, I think they know already. "

"Already?"

"Yes. There was somebody about when we were there, and he wasevidently hiding. "

"You heard him?"

"Yes. I didn't want to alarm you. I have reason now to be alarmed formyself. They know I am in it. We've got to think quickly and actquickly. The minute that orders come they will try to get us. As longas we stay in public places we are safe. But we must not go out aloneany more. "

The two went on to the hotel. Saunders glanced back as they wereentering the town. His eyes covered the hedge. 

"I thought so, " he said. "That chap has been dodging in and out of thetrees and keeping watch on us. From this point he can see right alongthe street to the hotel door. It's no use trying to conceal anythingnow. Our only safety lies in keeping in public places; but they won'tstrike till they get their orders. "

As the two entered the hotel, a messenger boy came up carrying twotelegrams. The clerk nodded to the boy, who went over to Mark andSaunders. 

"Which is Mr. Saunders?" he asked. The detective reached out his handand the boy gave him one of the messages. "The other one, " he said, "is for Mr. Griffin. 

"Sign here, please. " The boy extended his book. Both men signed andthe boy went out. Sitting down in a corner of the writing room, Markand Saunders looked at one another, then at the yellow envelopes. 

"Why don't you open your telegram, Saunders?" asked Mark. 

"Because I know pretty well what's in it. I guessed it would becoming. I am ordered off this case, for the men who employed ouragency have no use for me after last night. They have found everythingout for themselves, and have settled it in their own way. Why don'tyou open yours?"

"For opposite reasons to yours, old chap: because I don't know what'sin it, and, whatever it is, I don't think I shall like it. I have nothad many messages of this kind. None but my solicitors would send one, and that means trouble. But here goes!"

Mark tore off the end of the envelope, opened the message and read. Saunders did the same with his. One glance was enough for each. 

"I told you so, " said Saunders. "Here's my message: 'Centraldisconnected. '"

Mark looked up with surprise. 

"'Central disconnected'? What's that, Saunders? More United States?"

"It's our code, " replied the detective, "for 'Come back to the centraloffice at once. Our connection with the case is at an end. '"

There was a trace of pain in Mark's face, as he handed his own telegramover for Saunders to read. It was from New York:

"Harvey, Sullivan and Riggs, your solicitors, wire us to find you andsay that your brother is dead and that you are to return at once. "

"I'm sorry, Griffin, very sorry. " There was real sympathy in Saunders'voice. "Perhaps it is better that you should go. It may be a way out. Your Ambassador can help you. I've got to stay and face it. Yes, itwould be better for you to go. "

"You're wrong, Saunders. " Mark's voice had a decided note in it. "Mydisappearance might complicate the international part of the situation. Baron Griffin was a member of the House of Lords, and quite apersonage. And I am the only brother of that late personage. He hadno children. I can fight better here--as Baron Griffin. "

"Great Scott!" cried Saunders. "Come to think of it, you _are_ BaronGriffin now!"

"Yes, I am, and only half sorry for it, much as I regret my brother'sdeath. What are you going to do, Saunders?"

The detective looked embarrassed. 

"I didn't intend to tell you, but I guess I will. I'm going to throwup my job. I'm in this thing and I'm going to stay and see it out. "

"Good old chap!" answered Mark. "I thought you would. But can youafford it?"

"Frankly, I can't; but I'm going to do it just the same. "

"Saunders, " said Mark, "I think I need the services of a sort ofdetective. "

"You mean a protective bodyguard. "

"Put it as you like--any way that will let me pay you for your time. You say you are going to stay on the case. I want to have you on it. You may not need me badly, but I'm sure that I need you. "

"Then you want me to apply for the job?"

"I'd employ you if you would take it, old chap. "

"Then I apply. I never asked for a job before, but I want this one. Shake!"

The men shook hands and started to go upstairs. When they were out ofhearing, the clerk called up a number on the telephone. 

CHAPTER XII

HIS EXCELLENCY SUGGESTS

In an upstairs room of a Washington Ministry three men sat inconference. One, a stout, bearded man, was seated behind a flat-topdesk on which he constantly thrummed with nervous fingers; the otherssat facing him. The man at the desk was the Minister of a Kingdom, andlooked it. His eyes were half closed, as if in languid indifference, effectually veiling their keenness. The expression of his mouth waslost in the dark moustache, and in the beard combed from the center. The visible part of his face would have made a gambler's fortune; and, save for its warm color, it might have been carved out of ice. Withoutever a hint of harshness or loudness, his voice was one to commandattention; though it came out soft and velvety, it was with the halfassurance that it could ring like steel if the occasion arose. Theoccasion never arose. The hands, whose fingers thrummed on theglass-topped desk, were soft, warm-looking, and always moist, with adampness that on contact made you feel vaguely that you had touchedoil--and you had. 

Both of the other men were beardless, but one had the ghost of amoustache on his upper lip. He was dapper, clean and deferential. Theother was short and somewhat ungainly in build, and his face showedevidence of the recent shaving off of a heavy beard. He had no graces, and evidently no thoughts but of service--service of any kind, so longas he recognized the authority demanding it. His clothes did not suithim; they were rich enough, but they were not his kind. A soldier ofthe ranks, a sailor before the mast, a laborer on Sunday, could haveexchanged clothes with this man and profited in values, while the otherwould certainly have profited in looks. 

"You did not see the other, then, Ivan?" the fat man asked, interrupting the story of his awkward guest. 

"I did not, Excellency. He came at me too quickly, and I had no ideathere was anyone there besides myself and--and the person who--"

"Yes, yes. The person who is now without a name. Go on. "

"I was in the shrubs, near a great large tree that seemed to form partof a wall, when the two, the person and a lady, came back together. She--"

"Did they act as if they knew one another?"

The man smiled. "Excellency, they acted as if they knew one anotherquite well. They embraced. "

"_That_ you did _not_ see, Ivan?"

"No, Excellency, of course, I did not see _that_. "

"Proceed, Ivan. "

"After they--parted, Excellency, the lady opened the tree and went intoit. "

"_Opened the tree_?" The nervous fingers were stilled. 

"Yes, Excellency. It must have been a door. "

"Rather odd for America, I should say. Eh, Wratslav?"

The dapper man bowed. "As you say, Excellency, it is rather unusual inAmerica. "

"Proceed, Ivan. " The Minister resumed his thrumming. 

"When the lady closed the tree and was gone, the--ah--person--turned togo past me. My gun had the silencer on which Your Excellency--"

"You are forgetting again, Ivan. " The half-closed eyes opened for aninstant, and the steel was close underneath the velvet of the tone. 

"Which Your Excellency has no doubt heard of. "

"Oh, yes--Maxim's. "

"My gun exploded--but noiselessly, Excellency, because of thesilencer--just as the strange man jumped at me. The--ah--person fell, and I ran. The strange man followed and caught me. I fought, but heknew where to hit; and when I awoke I was alone with the--person--whohad, most unfortunately, been killed when the gun went off. I cameback and--" he glanced at the one who had been called Wratslav--"hecame with me. "

The Minister looked inquiringly toward the dapper man, who then took upthe story. 

"We thought it better to dispose of the--person, Excellency, andavoid--"

"Exactly. You did well. That will do, Ivan. You may return to yourduties. "

The man arose and went toward the door, but the Minister stopped him. 

"One moment, Ivan. Do you think we could find the other?--the man whostruck you?"

"I think his face, or hands, or arms, would be marked by the gun fire, Excellency. "

"Thank you, Ivan. "

The rough man bowed himself out. For a while the Minister sat silent, gazing contemplatively at the fingers which were moving more slowly nowas though keeping pace with his thoughts. Finally he looked up. 

"Did you find out if there were any strangers in town last night, Wratslav?"

"There were two, Excellency. One was our own detective, who knew notat all that I was on the work. The other was an Englishman--the samewho visits the lady. "

"H-m, h-mmmm. " The tones were long drawn out, and again His Excellencywas silent, considering what this new development might mean. Thefingers ceased their thrumming and closed around a delicate ivorypaper-knife which lay near by. When the Minister again spoke, he didso slowly, carefully, weighing each word. 

"Have you seen him--the Englishman--since?"

"No, Excellency--"

"No?" The word came with cold emphasis. 

"The hotel clerk, who is friendly--for a consideration--telephoned methat the Englishman was out at the time of the accident, and that hishand was burned slightly, and showed powder marks. "

"So! He has said nothing to the authorities?"

"Not a word, so far as I have heard. "

"Strange. Why should he conceal the matter?"

"He might think that he would be suspected. "

"True, true. That is well spoken, Wratslav. But yet he knows a littletoo much, does he not?"

"A great deal too much, Excellency. "

"There is no certainty that he does not know also who the lady is. "

"He goes to see her, Excellency. "

The ivory knife swayed delicately, rhythmically, in the mobile fingers, then was still. The Minister spoke deliberately. 

"It would be well if he did not go again--did not speak to her againfor that matter--" The heavy lids flickered for an instant as HisExcellency flashed one look of keen intent towards his hearer as thoughto emphasize the portent of his words. Then the smooth voicecontinued, "if it could be arranged. "

"It can be arranged, Excellency. "

"I thought so. " Again the keen look. Then the Minister leaned back inhis chair, revolving it slightly that his arm might rest morecomfortably on the desk. 

"Excellency?" Wratslav spoke with some anxiety. 

"Yes?"

"Unfortunately, the Englishman is a person of some consequence in hisown country. "

"Indeed? One Griffin, is he not?"

"His brother is dead. He died last week. The Englishman is now BaronGriffin. "

The fingers tightened around the ivory knife. 

"That, " the Minister's voice became softer and even more velvety, "_that_ is unfortunate. " There was silence again. The knife was laiddown, and the fingers moved slowly, heavily, on the desk. "Still, Ithink, Wratslav, that Ivan should continue to work on the railroad--andyou also--while the excellent shooting continues near--ah--the camp. It seems best. "

The telephone on the desk tinkled. His Excellency picked up thereceiver. 

"Yes, someone will come down. "

He hung up the receiver and turned to Wratslav. 

"There is a telegram downstairs. Go down and get it and bring it here. Hurry. "

The secretary was back in a few moments with the envelope, which hehanded to the Minister, who cut it open and read the message. Theivory knife snapped in the tense grip; His Excellency looked idly atthe pieces, but never a line of his face moved. 

"Matters are a trifle more complicated, Wratslav. We must thinkagain. " He handed the telegram to his assistant. It read:

"A British subject presents his compliments to Your Excellency, andbegs to assure you that the statement which he has written and sentunder seal to the British Ambassador in Washington will not be openedor its contents made known to anyone except in the event of the suddendemise of Baron Griffin or James Saunders. "

Wratslav returned the message to His Excellency and sat waiting. Theslow thrumming was resumed. Then the Minister turned back to his desk, and his hand strayed to the papers on it. 

"We may, perhaps, need both you and Ivan here in Washington for sometime yet, Wratslav. "

"Yes, Excellency. "

The silence lasted a full minute. 

"About the lady, Wratslav--" the Minister almost smiled; "it would be agreat honor were she to visit the Ministry soon. "

"Would she come, Excellency?"

The question was ignored. 

"A very fast automobile could be used. It could be made quitecomfortable, I think. "

"If she made no outcry, Excellency. There is that danger--and ofgossip also. "

"That, too, might be arranged. "

"But if she proves--"

"She will not--not if I announce, after receiving your telegram, thather arrival is momentarily expected--traveling incognito, you see--nofuss or receptions--but a short visit before sailing back to Europe. Over there it has been given out that she is traveling, so they knownothing outside the court. The King is anxious. " There was anotherflashing look from the keen eyes before the slow, "He rewards well, "spoken with meaning emphasis. 

Wratslav answered the look. "I will try, Excellency. "

"To try is not sufficient, Wratslav. "

"I will do it, Excellency. "

"That is better. "

So it came to pass that the dapper young man called Wratslav, and therough one called Ivan, left next day in a fast automobile whoselimousine body seemed especially built to interfere as little aspossible with its speed. Why it was kept constantly stored withprovisions, and why it carried ropes and a tent of silk, no one of theworkers in the camp knew; for none of them ever saw those things--orindeed ever saw the interior of the car at all. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE ABDUCTION

Father Murray called at the hotel two days later and inquired for Mr. Griffin. Mark was in his room and hastened down. 

"I must apologize, Father, " he began, "that you had to come for me. Ishould not have let such a thing happen. But I thought it best not tobreak in upon you after--" Mark stopped, deeply chagrined at havingalmost touched what must be a painful subject to the priest. "I--I--"

But Father Murray smiled indulgently. 

"Don't, please, Mark. I am quite reconciled to that now. A few hourswith my _Imitation_ heals all such wounds. Why, I am beginning to knowits comforts by heart, like that one I inflicted on you the other day. Here's my latest pet: 'What can be more free than he who desiresnothing on earth?'"

"Fine--but a certain pagan was before your monk with that, " said Mark. "Wasn't it Diogenes who, asked by Alexander the Great to name a favorthe emperor could bestow upon him, asked His Majesty to step out of thesunlight? Surely he had all the philosophy of your quotation?"

"He had, " smiled back the priest; "but, as Mrs. O'Leary has thereligion which includes the best of philosophy, so our à Kempis hadmore than Diogenes. Philosophy is good to argue one intoself-regulation; but religion is better, because it first secures thevirtue and then makes you happy in it. 'Unless a man be at libertyfrom all things created, he cannot freely attend to the things divine. 'It is the attending to things divine that really makes true liberty. "

"Then, " said Mark, "I am forgiven for my failure to call, for I leftyou free for the more important things. "

Father Murray laughed. "You are quite a master in the art of makingexcuses, my dear Mark. You _are_ forgiven, so far as I am concerned. But I am not the only one who has been neglected. "

"That is true, Father. Won't you let me walk with you? I want tospeak about a matter of importance. "

So the friends walked along the main street of Sihasset and out towardthe Bluff Road. Mark was silent for a long time, wondering how hecould approach the subject. When he spoke he went directly to thepoint:

"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?"

"Yes. "

"You approve?"

"Decidedly. "

"But I am not of her faith. "

"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to staylong satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark. "

"And you would trust me?"

"Absolutely. "

"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon, after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now Ithink I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?"

"I have no such recollection. "

"Did you know some people named Meechamp?"

"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners ofmine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic. "

"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon. I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelongimpression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state ofmind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you weresacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to seeyou that morning. "

"Ah, now I remember, " exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came tosee me?"

"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this:the door we are passing through this morning, going in oppositedirections, is never locked. ' But let that pass. I want to comequickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone ina pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is hecrying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is. 'She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at hertone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear, ' I said, 'I never makegood people cry. ' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked. 'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those othersonly worried him. ' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, ofcourse, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of yourchurch in London included that little girl. I looked back from thedoor as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving herhand after me. I never forgot the face--nor the kiss. Now I know Ihave met her again--a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, apicture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together. Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true andthe faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understandnow?"

"I do, " said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder ifRuth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman'when I came out of the study to take her home. "

"Then you knew her family well?"

"Her mother was my sister. "

"Your sister!"

"Exactly. You are surprised?"

Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised. 

"I do not, then, understand some other things, " he stammered. 

"Please be explicit. "

"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourselffigured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between hisactivities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourselfsaw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching MissAtheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They areconfident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Severalthings have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convincedMiss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I havemyself seen, if she is really your niece. "

"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murrayanxiously. 

"Certainly, Father. "

"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait. "

The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Thenall at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him. Here was his chance. 

"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark relatedthe incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed. "You see, Father, " he said when the story was finished, "yourreputation will be cleared now. "

Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon becamegrave again. 

"You are right, " he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knewthere was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought ofthat. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me tokeep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that--"Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminarydays in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to somedecision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that noexplanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such atest, Mark?"

Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wetas he took it. 

Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy. Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murraystood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed thedeepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak. 

"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here. "

"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I gotthem trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer. "

Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words, the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it, screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood wastrickling down her cheek from a small wound--evidently the result of ablow. 

"_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruthis gone. They have taken her away in a great car. _Mon Dieu_, Father!Come--come at once!"

The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he hadsurmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga. Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to theroad showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road, " Sihasset calledit. 

"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them. They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out. I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried tofight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind. _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! Let me die!"

"Stop, please. " The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced theweeping woman. "What were those men like?"

"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was darkand short, but he was very large of the shoulders. "

Mark turned to Father Murray. 

"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes isthe murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventyhorsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The ladyis safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When theyfind she is not the Grand Duchess, they will let her go. Will you cometo Washington with me?"

"Her mother was my twin sister, and she herself has been as a daughterto me ever since I first saw her, a babe in arms, " replied FatherMurray. "Let us go. "

Madame Neuville rushed toward the great house, but the two men steppedback through the tree and hurriedly returned to Sihasset. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE INEXPLICABLE

Saunders, having selected the most comfortable chair in the hotellobby, was dozing placidly when Mark rushed in, and shook the detectivevigorously. 

"Wake up, " he called. "Will you come with me to Washington? When isthere a train connecting with the Congressional Limited? Father Murraywants to catch that. "

Saunders was alert in an instant. 

"Sure, I'll go. Train leaves in fifty minutes; you get the Limited atthe Junction--have to wait nearly an hour for the connection, though. What's up?"

"Hurry! I'll tell you later. Pack only what you need. Here, you paythe bills. " Mark shoved his purse into Saunders' hands. "Keep therooms; we'll need them when we return. I'm off. Oh, yes! I forgot. "Mark stopped on his way to the stairs. "Telephone the Padre about thetrain. "

In good time, Father Murray, Mark and Saunders stood at the end of thestation platform, grips in hand. 

"Now, open up, " said Saunders. "What's wrong?"

Mark looked inquiringly at the priest. Father Murray briefly gave thedetective a resume of what had occurred, including the informationwhich had so stunned Mark Griffin, and now had an even more stunningeffect on Saunders, the information regarding the priest's relationshipto Ruth Atheson. 

"But, Father, this looks like the impossible. It's unbelievable thatthese people could be mistaken about someone they had trailed fromEurope. They were so sure about it that they killed that officer. "

"Ruth Atheson is my sister's daughter, Mr. Saunders, " was the onlyanswer vouchsafed by the priest. He boarded the train, followed by hiscompanions. 

Saunders sat in puzzled silence till the junction point was reached. Then the three alighted, and Father Murray turned to the detective. 

"Mr. Saunders, I am going to ask a favor of you. I do not know howlong I may be away, and my parish is unattended. The Bishop is hereto-day on his Confirmation tour, and I am going to take Mr. Griffinwith me and call on him. Will you remain here in charge of oureffects?"

"Sure, Father. Go on. " He glanced toward the bulletin board. "TheLimited is late, and you have more than an hour yet. I'll telegraphfor sleeper reservations. "

Father Murray and Mark started out for the rectory. Very little wassaid on the way. The priest was sad and downcast, Mark scarcely lessso. 

"I almost fear to meet the Bishop, Mark, " Father Murray remarked, asthey approached the rectory, "after that shock the other day; but Isuppose it has to be done. "

The Bishop was alone in his room and sent for them to come up. Therewas a trace of deep sorrow in his attitude toward the priest, joined tosurprise at the visit. To Mark he was most cordial. 

"My Lord, " the priest began, "circumstances compel me to go toWashington for a few days, perhaps longer. My parish is unattended. The matter which calls me is urgent. Could you grant me leave ofabsence, and send someone to take my place?"

The Bishop glanced at Mark before he answered. Mark met his gaze witha smile that was full of reassurance. The Bishop seemed to catch themessage, for he at once granted Father Murray's request. 

"Certainly, Monsignore, you may go. I shall send a priest on Saturday, and telegraph Father Darcy to care for any sick calls in the meantime. "

Mark lingered a moment as Father Murray passed out. The Bishop's eyeswere appealing, and Mark could not help whispering:

"It will all come out right, Bishop. Cease worrying. When we return Ithink you will feel happier. Your message was carried to Monsignore. "

At the station Saunders was waiting. "Everything is arranged, " heannounced. "I tried to get drawing-rooms or compartments, but theywere all gone. The last was taken five minutes before I telephoned. Ihave sections for you both and a lower for myself. It was the bestpossible, so late. "

When the train came in and they had disposed of their effects, FatherMurray sat down and took out his breviary. Mark and Saunders, anxiousfor a smoke, sought the buffet car five coaches ahead. They sat downand Mark passed the detective his cigarette case. 

"Thanks, no, " said Saunders. "I like the long black fellows best. " Hepulled a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He appeared nervous. 

"Griffin, " he said, after a long silence, "there is something peculiarabout this whole business. "

"Yes, I know that very well. "

"It is quite a little more peculiar than you think. The abduction ofthe lady was no surprise to me. It is quite in line with what Iexpected. They had to get her somehow. The way they are supposed tohave taken would probably look the best way to them. "

"'Supposed to have taken?' What do you mean?"

"Easy now, I'm coming to that. This lady cannot be the Duchess andRuth Atheson at the same time. "

"Decidedly not. "

"She is one or the other. "

"Well?"

"Either there is no Duchess, or no Ruth Atheson. "

"True; but I cannot question the Padre's word. That, at least, I knowis good. Then, look at his distress. "

"Sure, I know that. I have been looking. And I've been thinking tillmy brain whirls. The Padre wouldn't lie, and there's no reason why heshould. But if the lady is Ruth Atheson, she is _not_ the Duchess?"

"N-no. "

"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why theabduction?"

"Oh, I don't know, Saunders. " Mark spoke wearily. 

"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?"

"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his wearinessgone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too. What is it now?"

"I thought I'd get you, " coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where themystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it. "He paused. 

"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly. 

"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possiblebits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glancedinto every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In thesecond car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had aclear view of the people inside, and--" the speaker's tone becameimpressive--"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; theother was--your lady of the tree. "

Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back. 

"Don't do that; there may be others to notice. "

"Ruth? You saw Ruth?"

"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, andthe other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the treeis on this train. "

It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths. Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regularbreathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for theydreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed alltheir conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this newdevelopment, had been as to whether they should break the news gentlyto the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to concealit from him altogether. 

Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He wasgreatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being coldand calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway GrandDuchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even betterthan Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, therecould never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closedbook to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that sheloved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though heknew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passagebetween the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes toother things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as tothe deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it?There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled bythe thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal heridentity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed thatthis might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. Therewas no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that thegirl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well thesweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before. He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could neverlove anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedlyabducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended byher own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play didthe false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He couldonly let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the trainkept saying:

"You love her--you love her--" in monotonous cadence. And he knewthat, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end. 

Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again theterrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless toremain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke. He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The wholecar seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the endof the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then hewas out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. Therewere shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled withfrightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern andhis hastily-flung words were caught and repeated:

"Collision--train ahead--wooden car crushed. " Cries began to ariseoutside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The passengersrushed out, all white with fear. 

Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried. 

"In his berth; he may be hurt. "

They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the endof his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark liftedhim up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laidhim down in the air. He opened his eyes. 

"What--what is it?" he asked. 

"Wreck--there was a collision, " answered Saunders. 

Father Murray struggled to arise. "Collision? Then I must go forward, if it is forward--where the people are--maybe dying. "

Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and heknew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to hisbattlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned himto silence. 

"Let him go, Saunders, " he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been apreparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with God'sways. "

So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded werebeing borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led bysome instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn andsplintered freight cars of the other train. 

"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of thefrightened conductor. 

The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there, " he answered. 

The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it. 

"My God!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get tothem. "

A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Marktore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyesopened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priestbent low to catch the words. 

"Father--don't--risk--trying--to get me--out--before you hear--myconfession. "

"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught, " remonstratedMark. "You have a chance if we act quickly. "

"The only--chance--I want--is my--confession. Quick--Father. "

With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened. The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pileof splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution. 

"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out. "

The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. Theblood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips therelingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace andunexpected contentment. 

Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wreckedfreight, lying beside the tracks--both dead. Then they went to thelengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each recumbentform. At some he just glanced, and passed on, for they were dead. Forothers he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. Butsometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his handin absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul. 

Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders. Quickly passing along the line of pain and death, they both looked forthe same face. It was not there. Yet _she_ had been in the wreckedcoach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straighttrack, as Mark turned to a brakeman. 

"Are there any others?"

"Yes; two--across the track. "

Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bendingover the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The wholeworld seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuvillewere lying there--both dead. 

The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. Theystepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not seethrough his tears--but they helped him. He tried to pray, but foundthat he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood withinpushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of hernow in but one setting--a great empty church at the end of springtime, crowds passing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and alittle child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew. He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel hercool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely manwithin. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark'ssorrow was beyond the consolation of tears. 

Saunders aroused him. 

"Be careful, Griffin. The Padre will come. Don't let him see her yet. He was hurt, you know, and he couldn't stand it. "

Slowly Mark arose. He couldn't look at her again. Saunders saidsomething to the women, and they covered both bodies with blankets fromthe wrecked car, just as the priest came up. 

"Are there others?" the priest asked. 

Saunders looked at Mark as if begging him to be silent. 

"No, Father, no others. "

"But these--" he pointed to the blanket-covered bodies. 

"They are--already dead, Father. "

"God rest them. I can do no more. "

The priest turned to cross the track, and almost fell. Mark sprang tosupport him. The relief train came in and another priest alighted, with a Protestant clergyman, and the surgeons and nurses. 

"It's all right, Father, " said Father Murray to his confrere. "I foundthem all and gave absolution. I'm afraid that I am tired. There aremany of your people, too, " he said, turning to the Protestantclergyman. "I wish I were able to go back and show--"

He was tired. They carried him into the relief train, unconscious. The young priest and the Protestant clergyman came frequently to lookat him as the train sped on toward Baltimore. But there was no causefor alarm; Father Murray was only overcome by his efforts and the blow. In half an hour he was helping again, Mark and Saunders watchingclosely, in fear that he might lift the blanket that covered the faceof Ruth Atheson. 

When Father Murray came to where she had been placed in the train, Markput his hand on the priest's arm. 

"Don't, please, Father. She is dead--one of the two you saw lying onthe other side when you came over. "

"Yes, I know. But I should like to see. " Father Murray started toraise the cloth, but again Mark stopped him. 

"Please do not look, Father. "

The deep sadness in Mark's voice caused the priest to stare at him withwidely opened eyes. A look of fear came into them as he glanced at thecovered body. For the first time he seemed afraid, and Saunders drewnear to catch him. But he did not fall. 

"I think--Mark--that I will look. I can drink of the chalice--if itmust be--I am sure I can. Don't be afraid for me, my friend. Draw theblanket back. "

But Mark could not. 

Father Murray pushed him gently aside and lifted the coveringreverently and slowly. He dropped it with a faint gasp as the facestood revealed. Then he leaned over the dead girl and searched thefeatures for a full half minute, that seemed an age to Mark. Thepriest's lips moved, but Mark caught only a few words: "I thank Theefor sparing me, Lord. "

He caught the end of the blanket and once more covered the dead face. Then he turned and faced Mark and Saunders. 

"God rest her. It is not Ruth. "

[Illustration: "God rest her, " Father Murray said after what seemed anage to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"]

Mark stared bewildered. Had the priest's, mind been affected by theblow, and the subsequent excitement? Father Murray sensed what wasgoing on in Mark's mind. 

"Can't you trust me, Mark? I know that the likeness is marvelous--"

"Likeness?" gasped Mark. But there was a whole world of hope in hisvoice. 

"Yes, my friend--likeness. I--" the priest hesitated--"I knew herwell. It is not Ruth. "

CHAPTER XV

"I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!"

A long, low-built limousine kept passing and repassing the Ministry, and taking excursions to the parks, in an evident effort to kill time. At last, the street being well clear of pedestrians and vehicles, thecar drew up in front of the house, the door of which was quickly thrownopen. The chauffeur descended and opened the door of the car, but saidnothing. A man stepped out backward. 

"We have arrived, Your Highness, " he said to someone within. "Will youwalk across the path to the door, or will you force us again to bedisrespectful in carrying out our orders?"

From within a girl's voice answered:

"You need not fear; I shall make no outcry. "

"The word of Your Highness is given. It would be painful for us to bedisrespectful again. Come. "

The girl who stepped out of the car was unmistakably Ruth Atheson. Behind her came a raw-boned, muscular woman, and a powerful-looking man. 

As she was hurried between the tall stone gateposts and up the cementwalk, Ruth had but little time to observe her surroundings; but hereyes were quick, and she saw that the house she was about to enter wasset some twenty feet back in quiet roomy grounds bordered by anornamental stone wall. Distinguishing the house from its neighbors wasa narrow veranda extending for some distance across the front, itsslender columns rising to such a height that the flat roof, lodged withstone, formed a balcony easily accessible from the second floor. Toone side, between the wall and the house, was a large tree whosefoliage, loath to leave the swaying boughs, defied the autumn breeze. 

Before she had time to observe more, the party entered the Ministry;the door was closed quickly, and Ruth's companions stood respectfullyaside. His Excellency was already coming down the steps, and met herat the foot of the stairs. Bowing low, he kissed the white hand beforeRuth could prevent. 

"We are highly honored by the presence of Your Highness. "

With another low bow he stood aside, and Ruth passed up the stairs. His Excellency conducted her into the room wherein the conferenceregarding her had been held only a few days before. 

"Your Highness--" he began. 

But Ruth interrupted him. "I do not understand your language. "

The Minister rubbed his hands, smiled, and, still using the foreignlanguage, said, "I am surprised that Your Highness should haveforgotten your native tongue during such a short sojourn in America. "

Ruth spoke somewhat haughtily. 

"I think, Your Excellency, that I know who you are--and also why I amhere. Permit me to tell you that you have made a serious blunder. Iam not the Grand Duchess Carlotta. "

The Minister smiled again, and started to speak. But Ruth againinterrupted him. 

"Pardon me, Your Excellency, but if you insist upon talking to me, Imust again request that you speak a language I can understand. I havealready told you that I do not understand what you say. "

The Minister still kept his smile, and still rubbed his hands, but thistime he spoke in English. 

"It shall be as Your Highness wishes. It is your privilege to choosethe language of conversation. We will speak in English, although yourown tongue would perhaps be better. "

"My own tongue, " said Ruth, "is the language that I am using; and againI must inform Your Excellency that I am not the Grand Duchess. Youhave simply been guilty of abduction. You have taken the wrong person. "

For answer the Minister went over to the mantel and picked up aportrait, which he extended toward the girl. 

"I know, " said Ruth, "I know. Many times in Europe I have beensubjected to annoyance because of the resemblance. I know the GrandDuchess very well, but my name is Ruth Atheson. "

The tolerant smile never left the face of the Minister. 

"Your Highness shall have it as you wish. I am satisfied with theresemblance. Since you left San Sebastian there has been scarcely aminute that you have not been under surveillance. It is true that youwere lost for a little while in Boston, but not completely. We tracedyou to Sihasset. We traced _him_ there also finally--unfortunately forthe poor fellow. "

Ruth started: "You have not--"

The Minister looked sad. "Alas! Highness, " he said, "he is nomore---an unfortunate accident. We do not even know where his body is. I fear he may have been drowned, or something worse. At any rate hewill trouble you no more. "

The face of the girl showed keen distress. "Poor child!" was all shecould say. 

"He was not, Highness, exactly a child, you know, " suggested theMinister. 

"I was not referring to _him_. "

The Minister's smile returned. 

"Then, Highness, perhaps you were referring to the Grand Duchess. "

"I was referring to the Grand Duchess. "

All this time His Excellency never lost his air of respect, but now asomewhat more familiar tone crept into his voice. 

"Highness, " he said, "you will pardon me, I know, if I issue orders inyour regard. All is being done by your father's commands, given to methrough His Majesty. You know as well as I do that your marriage tothis Italian adventurer was impossible. You know that you are next inline of succession, but you do not know something else. You do notknow that your father is even now dangerously ill. Your escapade hasbeen hushed up to avoid scandal, for you may be sitting on the thronewithin a month. You must return to Ecknor, and you must return atonce. The easiest way, and the best way, would be to notify theWashington papers that you have arrived on a visit to America_incognito_, and that you are now a guest at the Ministry. Though itis already midnight, I have prepared such a statement. Here is it. "The Minister pointed to a number of sealed envelopes on the desk. "Ifyou consent to be reasonable, I shall have these dispatched bymessenger at once, and to-morrow make arrangements for yourentertainment. We shall send you to see some of the cities of theUnited States before you leave again for Europe. In this way yourpresence in America is explained. Nothing need ever be said about thisunfortunate matter, and I can promise you that nothing will be saidabout it when you return home. "

It was Ruth's turn to smile. 

"You are overlooking one thing, Excellency, and that the mostimportant. I am not the Grand Duchess. "

"Of course, Highness. You have explained that before. It would notbecome me to contradict you, and yet you cannot blame me for carryingout my orders. If you do not agree to the plan I have suggested, Imust put you under restraint. No one will be permitted to see you, andproper arrangements will be made to have you transferred secretly toone of our warships, which will be making a cruise--for your especialbenefit--to America in the course of a month. A month, Highness, is along time to wait in restraint, but you must see that there is nothingelse for me to do. "

Ruth was obliged to smile in spite of herself at the mixture offirmness and respect in the suave Minister's tones. He was encouragedby the smile. 

"Ah, " he said, "I see that Your Highness will be reasonable. "

Ruth looked him straight in the eye. 

"But what if I should convince Your Excellency that you have made amistake, that I am telling you the truth when I say I am not the GrandDuchess Carlotta?"

The Minister bowed. "It would be easy to convince me, Highness, if youcould produce for me one who is more likely to be the Grand Duchessthan yourself. But, alas! could there be two such faces in the world?"Admiration shone out of the little man's eyes. 

"There is no doubt, Excellency, " said Ruth, still smiling, "that HisMajesty was wise in appointing you a diplomat. We shall be goodfriends even though I have to stay. You are making a mistake, and I amafraid you will have to pay for it. I shall, however, be a modelboarder, and possibly even enjoy my trip on the warship. But Icertainly shall not receive your friends at a reception, nor will Ipermit you to give me the honors due the Grand Duchess. Neither can Iproduce her. She is probably far away by this time. I will tell youmy story, and you may judge for yourself. "

His Excellency bowed profoundly. 

"Your Highness is most gracious, " he said. "Will you permit me to beseated?"

"Certainly, Your Excellency. "

The Minister drew up a chair and sat down, with a low bow, before hisdesk; but not before he had placed Ruth in a chair where the lightwould shine full on her face. He seemed now to be a changedman--almost a judge; and the fingers thrummed on the glass as they haddone during the conference with Wratslav and Ivan. 

With a half-amused smile, Ruth began. 

"Excellency, my name is Ruth Atheson. You may easily verify that bysending for my uncle, Monsignore Murray, of Sihasset, with whom I mademy home until he went to college in Rome to study for the priesthood. I was left in Europe to receive my education. Afterward I came toAmerica to be near my uncle, but I made frequent trips to Europe tovisit friends. It was during one of these visits that I first met theGrand Duchess Carlotta, four years ago, at San Sebastian. Theremarkable likeness between us caused me, as I have already told you, agreat deal of annoyance. Her Highness heard of it and asked to meet me. 

"We became close friends, so close that in her trouble she turned tome. I was with relatives in England at the time. She wrote asking meto receive her there, telling me that she intended to give up her claimto the throne and marry Luigi del Farno, whom she sincerely loved. Isent her a long letter warning her against the step--for I knew what itmeant--and advising her that I was even then preparing to leave forAmerica. Unfortunately, she knew my address and followed me toSihasset, directing her lover to wait until she sent for him. 

"I knew that the best means of concealing her would be to play upon thelikeness between us, and never go out together. For extra precaution, when either of us went out, a veil was worn. She was taken for RuthAtheson; and Ruth Atheson, by your detectives, was taken for the GrandDuchess Carlotta. Indeed, " and here Ruth smiled, "she was very muchtaken--in an auto, and as far as Washington. You propose now to takeher still farther. The Grand Duchess would know, ten minutes after ithappened, of my abduction, and she would guess who was responsible. Soyou may be certain that she is no longer at Sihasset. The picture youhave, Your Excellency, is the picture of the Grand Duchess, not of me. It happened that, as I was walking outside the gates of my home, yourfriends appeared. The mistake was quite natural. "

The Minister had listened respectfully while Ruth spoke, but he was notconvinced. 

"It would be discourteous in me, Highness, " he said, "to doubt yourword. But it would be worse than discourteous were I to accept it. Iam sorry; but you must offer me more than statements. My men couldscarcely have been deceived. They followed you each time you came out. Two people do not look so much alike--especially outside of families--"

His Excellency's eyes opened as he flashed a keen look at Ruth. Thename "Atheson" had suddenly commenced to bother him. What was it heshould have remembered--and couldn't? The intentness of his gazedisconcerted Ruth. The Minister changed it to look down at histhrumming fingers, and continued in his suavest tones, following thatscarcely perceptible pause. 

"--as to deceive men trained in the art of spying. I can only repeatwhat I have already said: there are two courses open, and it is for youto determine which you prefer. "

"You may be sure, then, Your Excellency, " said Ruth, "that I shall notselect the course that would put me in a false light before all theworld. I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta, and I must refuse to betaken for her. My uncle will not be long in deciding who isresponsible for my abduction, and I can assure you that you will haveexplanations to make before your warship arrives. "

The Minister arose promptly as Ruth stood up, her hand resting lightlyon the desk. 

"I am tired, Your Excellency, " she continued, "and--since you insist onmy being the guest of your government--I will ask to be conducted to myapartments. "

The Minister bowed. "If Your Highness will permit. " He touched abell. The raw-boned woman was in the room so quickly that Ruthwondered if she had been all the time just outside the door. At asignal from His Excellency, the woman picked up Ruth's wrap and gloves. His Excellency meanwhile, with a low bow, had opened the door. Ruthpassed into the broad corridor and, accompanied by the Minister, proceeded to a handsome suite of rooms. 

The Minister turned to Ruth. "I am sorry, Your Highness, but I havestrict instructions in the event of your refusal to comply with mysuggestion, that you are to remain in strict seclusion. I cannotpermit you to see or speak to anyone outside, so I hope you will notembarrass me by making any such request. " He pointed toward thewindows. "You will notice, Highness, that there is a balcony in frontof your apartments. In the next room, which also opens upon thebalcony, is a guard. There will be a guard also at your door andanother on the lawn below. Your windows will be under constantsurveillance, though you will never see the guards unless you ventureforth. Your guards will be changed constantly, and it will be--" theminister's pause was significant, the tone of his voice even more so"--unwise--to attempt to gain their friendship. They might findit--disastrous. " Again the smooth significance of the voice. Hepaused for a moment, then spoke more lightly. 

"If Your Highness will permit, Madam, my wife, will call on you and beat your disposal at any time, as also my daughters. Since you have nomaid with you, Madame Helda, " His Excellency called the raw-boned womanfrom the next room as he spoke, "will wait upon you. Everything tomake your stay pleasant and comfortable has been arranged. But you arean important personage and if we are firm, Your Highness, it is notbecause we wish to be, but only because of duty to your country, and toyourself. If you decide, at any time, that you should like to seeAmerica, you have only to summon me. Your Highness will permit me toretire?"

"Certainly, Your Excellency, and thank you. "

With a profound bow His Excellency left the room. Ruth examined herapartments with a pleased smile of gratification--for they lookedanything but a prison. The Minister knew how to make rooms pleasant. 

The diplomat went slowly downstairs. He had lost his smile, and hisface was contracted with worry. The girl's story had impressed himmore than he had cared to own, and there was much of the human in him, in spite of the diplomat's veneer. Then the name "Atheson" soundedinsistently in his ears and, momentarily, he felt that he was almostgrasping the clue as he strove to remember. 

As he entered the library, his secretary stood up, a yellow paper inhis hands. 

"I have been waiting to hand this to you personally, Excellency. "

The Minister took the paper. It was a cablegram translated from code, which read:

"The Duke is dead. If Her Highness has arrived do everything possibleto bring her to understand that there must be no scandal. Beabsolutely firm and have her return at any risk without delay. The_Caspian_ has been dispatched from the coast of France and shouldarrive in ten days. We have given out that the Duchess is travelingincognito, but has been notified to return. "

The worry on the Minister's face deepened. 

"This complicates matters, Wratslav, " he said, "and makes it moreimperative that Her Highness be kept most strictly secluded. Go to bednow. We shall have enough to keep us awake for the next ten days. "

Wratslav left, but the Minister sat down at his desk. Morning foundhim there asleep. 

CHAPTER XVI

HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED

At eleven o'clock, His Excellency the Minister was handed a card whichread:

 "RIGHT REV. DONALD MURRAY, D. D. "

Touching a bell, His Excellency summoned Wratslav. 

"There is a clergyman, " he said, "who calls on me. I do not know him, and of course I cannot guess his business. Perhaps you will see him. "

The secretary bowed and went out. As he entered the reception room, Father Murray arose. Before the priest could speak, the secretarybegan:

"You desire to see His Excellency?"

Father Murray bowed. 

"I am sorry, but His Excellency is very much engaged. He has requestedme to ascertain the nature of your business. "

"I regret that I may not tell you the nature of my business. " FatherMurray's reply was instant. "I may speak only to the Minister himself. "

"Then, " answered the secretary, "I regret to say that he cannot receiveyou. A diplomat's time is not his own. I am in his confidence. Couldyou not give me some inkling as to what you desire?"

"Since I cannot see him without giving you the information, you mightsay to His Excellency that I have come to speak to him in reference toMiss Ruth Atheson--" Father Murray paused, then added coolly: "He willunderstand. "

The secretary bowed courteously. "I will deliver your message atonce, " he said. 

In exactly one minute the Minister himself was bowing to Father Murray. 

"I beg your pardon for detaining you, Reverend Sir, but, as mysecretary explained, I am extremely busy. You mentioned Miss Athesonand, at least so I understand from my secretary, seemed to think Iwould know of her. In deference to your cloth, I thought I would seeyou personally, though I do not recall knowing anyone by that name. Perhaps she wishes a _visé_ for a passport?"

"That might explain it, " answered Father Murray; "but I think shedesires a passport without the _visé_. I have reason to believe thatYour Excellency knows something of her--rather--unexpected departurefrom her home in Sihasset. In fact, my information on that point isquite clear. I am informed that she was mistaken for another, avisitor in her home. Possibly she is here now. The passport desiredis your permission for her to return to her friends. "

The Minister's face expressed blankness. 

"You have been misinformed, " he answered. "I know nothing of MissAtheson. Would you kindly give me some of the facts? That is, if youthink it necessary to do so. It is possible I might be able to be ofservice to you; if so, do not hesitate to command me. "

"The facts are very easily stated, " said the priest. "First, the younglady is my niece. "

It was the Minister's boast--privately, understand--that he couldalways tell when a man believed himself to be telling the truth, andnow--past master in the art of diplomacy though he was--he found ithard to conceal his shocked surprise at this confirmation of the girl'sstory. 

"You say she left her home unexpectedly?"

"She was seized by two men and hurried to a waiting auto, YourExcellency. "

"And this happened where?"

"At Sihasset. Your Excellency passed through there quite recently, andwill probably remember it. "

The half-closed eyes almost smiled. 

"Had your niece lived there long?"

"Only a few months. She arrived less than a week before her visitor. "

Outwardly the Minister was calm, unmoved; but underneath the coldexterior the lurking fear was growing stronger. He must know more--all. 

"Before that--?"

"She came direct from England, where she was visiting relatives. "

"She was educated there perhaps?"

"She received her education principally in Europe. "

"She has traveled much, then?"

"She has spent most of her time in America since I came here; but shehas many friends both in England and on the Continent, and visits themquite frequently. She has very special friends in San Sebastian. "

"Ah!"

"Perhaps Your Excellency knows something about it now?"

"Nothing, I assure you. But I find your story very interesting, andregret that I can see no way of assisting you. "

Father Murray perfectly understood the kind of man he was dealing with. He must speak more plainly, suggesting in some degree the extent of hisknowledge. 

"I see, Your Excellency, that it will be necessary for me to mentionanother name, or rather to mention a title. There are, in your GreatKingdom, dependent duchies, and therefore people called grand dukes, and others called grand duchesses. Does that help Your Excellency tounderstand?"

The Minister still had control of himself, though he was greatlyworried. 

"It does not, Reverend Sir, " he answered, "unless you might possibly beable to introduce me to a grand duchess _in America_. I am alwaysinterested in my countrymen--and women. If a grand duchess werebrought here--that is, " he corrected himself, smiling courteously, "ifa grand duchess should call to see me, I should be glad to place myentire staff at your service to find the Ruth Atheson you speak of. Perhaps your Reverence understands?"

"Thoroughly, " said Father Murray. "I could not fail to understand. But it would be difficult for me to bring a grand duchess to call onyou, since the only one I have ever known is, unfortunately, dead. "

At last the Minister lost his _sang froid_. His face was colorless. 

"Perhaps you will tell me the name of this grand duchess whom you knew?"

"I think Your Excellency already knows. "

"How did she die, and when?"

"I am sorry to say that she was killed in an accident. "

"Where?"

"If Your Excellency will pick up this morning's paper--which youpossibly have neglected to read--you will see a list of those killed ina railroad wreck which took place the night before last on aWashington-bound train. The list includes 'two women, unknown' and thepictures of both are printed. Their bodies are now in the morgue inBaltimore awaiting identification. "

The Minister turned hastily to a table on which a number of newspapershad been carelessly laid. He picked up a Washington publication. Onthe front page was a picture of two women lying side by side--taken atthe morgue in Baltimore. Despite the rigor of death on the features, the Minister could perceive in the face of the younger woman anunmistakable resemblance to the girl upstairs. Greatly agitated, heturned to the priest. 

"How do I know, " he asked, "that this--" pointing to the picture--"isnot Ruth Atheson?"

"I think, " said the priest, "that you will have to take my word forit--unless Your Excellency will verify my statement by an actual visitto the morgue. The body is still unburied. "

"I shall send to the morgue. "

"Then for the present I will bid Your Excellency good morning. Beforegoing, however, I should like to emphasize that the lady now in yourcustody is my niece. And Baron Griffin, of the Irish peerage, istaking an active personal interest in the matter. Baron Griffin is nowin Washington and requests me to state that he will give you untilto-morrow morning to restore the lady to her friends. That will affordample time for a visit to Baltimore. Unless Miss Atheson is with us byten o'clock to-morrow morning the whole affair will be placed in thehands of the British Ambassador and of our own State Department--withall the details. I might add that I am stopping at the New WillardHotel. "

The priest looked at His Excellency, who again felt the insistenthammering of that "something" he should have remembered. The phrase, "all the details, " bore an almost sinister significance. 

His Excellency gave a sudden start. "Atheson--Atheson. " His voice wastense and he spoke slowly. "What was her father's name?"

It was what the priest had been waiting for, had expected all along. Forgotten for years--yes. But where was the diplomat who did not havethe information somewhere in his files? His face saddened as heanswered. 

"Edgar Atheson. "

"Etkar--"

But the priest raised his hand. 

"_Edgar Atheson_--if you _please_. "

The Minister bowed. "And you are the brother of--"

"Alice Murray, " the priest interrupted quietly, with a touch ofdignified hauteur. 

His Excellency was silent, and his visitor continued. 

"I must also suggest to Your Excellency that the fate of the youngItalian officer is known to others beside myself. It would makeunfortunate state complications if the occurrence should be madepublic. I wish Your Excellency good morning. "

He turned to go, but the Minister stood between him and the door. 

"One moment, " he said. "I regret that it is necessary to request yourReverence to remain. You will pardon the necessity, I am sure. Icannot permit His Majesty's secrets to be made known to the public. State complications often oblige us to take stern measures, and--" hecontinued coldly--"you are now on the territory of my royal master. "

But Father Murray did not seem at all afraid. 

"Do not think of detaining me, Your Excellency, " he said quietly. "Imentioned Baron Griffin. There is another. Both know where I am. Norneed you worry as to our discretion. We are well enough acquaintedwith state complications to know when silence is best. We shall notspeak unless it becomes necessary; but in that event we shall nothesitate. Don't make matters more difficult for yourself. I shallinsist on the release of my niece, and I warn you that neither you norHis Majesty may touch either of us and go unscathed. Kindly standaside. "

But His Excellency still barred the way. 

"Your Reverence, " he said, after a pause, "I shall stand aside on onecondition: that you will again give me your word that you will keepsilence. To-morrow morning you shall have your answer; but in themeantime not one syllable about this must pass your lips, and BaronGriffin must not approach the British Embassy on this matter. Theremay be no need of his doing so at all. Please understand my position. I must guard His Majesty's interests, and do my best under difficultcircumstances. Whether the lady be the Duchess or your niece, no harmshall come to her. Have I your word?"

"You have my word. Unless Your Excellency makes it necessary to act, we shall keep silence. "

"Then, " said the Minister, stepping aside, "I will bid you goodmorning. "

Father Murray bowed himself out. He met Mark and Saunders at thecorner. As they walked away, they saw nothing of the spy upon theirfootsteps; but they knew that the spy was there, for they had knowledgeof the ways of diplomacy. As a matter of fact, inside of twentyminutes the Minister knew what room each man was occupying at the NewWillard. An attache did not leave the hotel all night; and the nextmorning the same man found himself in the unusual surroundings of St. Patrick's Church where Father Murray said Mass. 

When the Minister returned to the library his face was white. Wratslavwas in his confidence, and did not have to wait long for information. For the first time in his diplomatic career of thirty years HisExcellency was nonplussed. 

"If she is dead, Wratslav, " he said, "what will be said of us, and whatnew trouble will arrive? Who is next in line of succession?"

"The Duchy, " said Wratslav, "will pass to the Grand Duke's brother. "

"Not so bad, not so bad. The King would like that. I think, then, that the brother is the only one who will benefit by this unfortunatecomplication. The Salic law should be enforced throughout the wholeworld. When we have to deal with women, only the good God knows what'sgoing to happen. I am afraid the girl above told the truth. "

"But, " objected Wratslav, "even if she did, Excellency, you cannot takethe risk of letting her go without orders from His Majesty. The GrandDuchess was always clever. She knew she was tracked down. It would beeasy for her to pretend that she did not know her native language. Youcannot let her go until you are sure. "

The Minister passed his hand wearily across his forehead and sighed. 

"At any rate we can verify some of the details. You must go toBaltimore, Wratslav, and view the bodies. Arrange for the embalming. Say that the two are ladies of our country. Give any names you wish. Place both bodies in a vault until this thing is cleared up; and bringme half a dozen pictures of the young one, taken close to the face onevery side. Note the hair, the clothes, any jewels she may have abouther; but, above all, find out if there are any papers to be found. Seealso if there are identifying marks. Return to-night; for by to-morrowmorning I must be ready to decide. I shall send no dispatches untilthen. "

His Excellency turned to his papers, and Wratslav left the room. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE OPEN DOOR

That night, Mark Griffin and Father Murray sat in the priest's room atthe New Willard until very late. Father Murray was by far the morecheerful of the two, in spite of the strain upon him. Mark lookedbroken. He had come into a full knowledge of the fact that Ruth hadnot been false to him, and that no barrier existed to their union, buthe could not close his eyes to the danger of the girl's situation. Father Murray, however, could see no dark clouds. 

"My dear Mark, " he said, "you don't understand the kind of a countryyou are in. Affairs of state here do not justify murder, and anelected public official cannot, even in the name diplomacy, connive atit. It is true that a Minister cannot very well be arrested, but aMinister can be disgraced, which is worse to his mind. You may be surethat our knowledge of the murder of the Italian will be quitesufficient to keep His Excellency in a painful state of suspense, andultimately force him to yield. "

"I could wish him, " said Mark, "a _more_ painful state of _suspense_. "

Father Murray smiled at the grim jest. "He will never see the rope, Mark, you may be sure of that. But there will be no more murdering. The situation of the Ministry is bad enough as it is. His Excellencylooked very much perturbed--for a diplomat--before I was done with him. There is nothing more certain than that he has had a messenger inBaltimore to-day, and, unless I mistake very much, he will be able toidentify the body. Then they must free Ruth. "

"I wish, Father, " Mark's voice was very tense, "that I could look atthings as you do. But I know how a court works, and how serious arethe games of kings. Then I haven't religion to help me, as you have. "

"I question a little, " replied Father Murray, "if that last statementis true--that you have no religion. You know, Mark, I am beginning tothink you have a great deal of religion. I wish that some who thinkthat they have very much could learn how to make what is really theirvery little count as far as you have made yours count. It dawned uponme to-night that there is a good reason why the most religious peoplenever make the best diplomats. Now, you would have been a failure inthat career. "

"I think, Father Murray, that your good opinion of me is at leastpartly due to the fact that I may yet be your nephew. Ruth is like adaughter to you; and so I gain in your esteem because of her. "

"Yes, " answered the priest thoughtfully, "Ruth is like a daughter tome. And it is a strange feeling for a priest to have--that he hassomeone looking up to him and loving him in that way. Though a priestis constituted the same as other men, long training and experience havemade his life and mental attitude different from those of men of moreworldly aspirations. A priest is bound to his work more closely thanis any other person in the world. Duty is almost an instinct with him. That is why he seldom shines in any other line, no matter how talentedhe may be. Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin almost had tounfrock themselves in order to become statesmen. Cardinal Wolsey lefta heritage that at best is of doubtful value--not because he was apriest as well as a lord chancellor, but because as lord chancellor heso often forgot that he was a priest. There are many greatpriest-authors, but few of them are among the greatest. A priest inpolitics does not usually hold his head, because politics isn't hisplace. There are priest-inventors; but somehow we forget the priest inthe inventor, and feel that the latter title makes him a little lessworthy of the former--rather illogical, is it not? The Abbot Mendelwas a scientist, but it is only now that he is coming into his own; andhow many know him only as Mendel, forgetting his priestly office?Liszt was a cleric, but few called him Abbé. A priest as a priest canbe nothing else. In fact, it is almost inevitable that his greatnessin anything else will detract from his priesthood. Now the Church, mydear Mark, has the wisdom of ages behind her. She never judges fromthe exceptions, but always from the rule. She gets better service froma man who has sunk his temporal interests in the spiritual. She is thesternest mistress the ages have produced; she wants whole-heartedservice or none at all. I like thinking of Ruth as my daughter; but Iam not averse, for the good of my ministry, to having someone else takethe responsibility from off my shoulders. "

"But, " said Mark, "how could a wife and children interfere with apriest's duties to his flock?"

"The church does not let them interfere, " answered Father Murray. "Sheholds a man to his sworn obligations taken in marriage. A husband must'cleave to his wife. ' How could a priestly husband do that and yetfulfill his vow to be faithful to his priesthood until death? His wifewould come first. What of his priesthood? Besides, a father has forhis children a love that would tend to nullify, only too often, thepriest's obligations toward the children of his flock. A man whooffers a supreme sacrifice, and is eternally willing to live it, mustbe supremely free. In theory, all clergymen must be prepared tosacrifice themselves for their people, for 'the Good Shepherd gives uphis life for his sheep. ' In practice, no one expects that except ofthe priest; but from him everyone expects it. "

"Do you really think, " asked Mark, "that those outside the Churchexpect such a sacrifice?"

Father Murray did not hesitate about his answer. 

"Expect it? They demand it. Why, my dear Mark, even as a Presbyterianminister I expected it of the men I almost hated. I never likedpriests then. Instinctively I classed them as my enemies, even as mypersonal enemies. Deep down in my heart I knew that, with the CatholicChurch eliminated from Christianity, the whole fabric tottered andfell, and Christ was stamped with the mark of an impostor and afailure--His life, His wonders, and His death, shams. Instinctively Iknew, too, that without the Catholic Church the Christian world wouldfall to the level of Rome at its worst, and that every enemy of Christturned his face against her priests. I knew that every real atheist, every licentious man, most revolutionists, every anarchist, hated apriest. It annoyed me to think that they didn't hate me, therepresentative, as I thought, of a purer religion. But they did nothate me at all. They ignored the sacredness of my calling, and classedme with themselves because of what they thought was the common bond ofenmity to the priest. I resented that, for, while I was against theirenemy, I certainly was not with them. The anomaly of my positionincreased my bitterness toward priests until I came almost to welcome ascandal among them, even though I knew that every scandal reacted on myown kind. But each rare scandal served to throw into clearer reliefthe high honor and stern purity of the great mass of those men who hadforsaken all to follow Christ. And my vague feeling of satisfactionwas tempered by an insistent sense of my own injustice which would notbe denied, for I knew that I was demanding of the Catholic priestgreater things than I demanded of any other men. Even while Ijudged--and, judging, condemned--I knew that I was measuring him by hisown magnificent standard, the very seeking of which made him worthy ofhonor. To have sought the highest goal and failed is better than neverto have sought at all. So long as life lasts, no failure is forever;it is always possible to arise and return to the path. And a fallshould call forth the charity of the beholder, leading him closer toGod. But there is no charity for the Catholic priest who stumbles--noreturn save in spaces hidden from the world. The most arrantcriminals, the most dangerous atheists, the most sincere Protestants, demand of the priest not only literal obedience to his vows, but asublime observance of their spirit. Why, Mark, you demand ityourself--you know you do. "

For a moment Mark did not answer. 

"Yes, " he said, after a pause, "I do demand it. I only wondered ifothers felt as I do. This job of trying to analyze one's own emotionsand thoughts is a difficult one. I have been trying to do it foryears. Frankly, there are things I cannot grasp. Let me put one ofthem before you now. "

"Go on, " said Father Murray. "I am glad the conversation is off theworry. "

"You remember, Father, " said Mark, "the day I met you in your studythat eventful Sunday in London?"

The priest nodded. 

"I had decided then to go out of the church, as I told you, to get awayfrom my faith. I thought that I had come to that decision with a clearconscience, but I know now that I had merely built up a false one andthat that was why I sought you out--not to give up, but to defy you, and defy my own heart at the same time. I thought that if I couldjustify myself before such a man as you it would set things at restwithin me for the remainder of my days. I did not justify myself. Ever since that day I have been attracted by the open doors of Catholicchurches. I never pass one without seeing that open door. The minuteI seriously think of religion the picture of an open church door is infront of me; it has become almost an obsession. I seem to see a handbeckoning from that door; some day I shall see more than the hand--mymother's face will be behind it. I can't get away from it--and I can'tunderstand why. "

Father Murray's eyes were serious. 

"Why, my dear Mark, " he answered, "you ought to know that you can't getaway. Do you suppose anybody ever got away from God? Do you supposeany man ever could close his eyes to the fact of His existence? Thenhow is it possible for you to get away from that which first told youof God, and which so long represented to you all that you knew aboutHim? There is in the Catholic faith a strange something which makesthose who have not belonged to it vaguely uneasy, but which makes thosewho have once had it always unsatisfied without it. There is aninfluence akin to that of the magnetic pole, only it draws_everything_. It intrudes itself upon every life. There seems to beno middle course between loving it and hating it; but, once known, itcannot be ignored. It has had its chain around _you_, Mark, and youare only now realizing that you can't cast it off. "

Mark Griffin was silent. For some minutes not a word was exchangedbetween the two men. Then Mark arose and, without looking at hisfriend, said good night and left the room. 

A minute later he returned. 

"Father, " he said, "you are very hopeful about Ruth. I am trying toshare your hope. If everything comes out right and she is not lost tome, will you--heretic or unfaithful son though I may still be, whichever you are pleased to call me--will you still be a friend and, should she accept me, join our hands?"

Father Murray walked over and put his hand on Mark's shoulders. 

"I am afraid, Mark, that it is again the Faith instinct. Of course Iwill marry you--that I expected to do. I could not be a mere onlookerto give her away. When you get her, Mark, you will get her from me, not only with an uncle's blessing, but with another as strong as MotherChurch can make it and as binding as eternity. "

CHAPTER XVIII

SAUNDERS SCORES

It lacked but five minutes to the hour of ten next morning when thecard of the Minister's secretary was handed to Father Murray. Thepriest sent down a polite request for the visitor to come to his room, and at once telephoned for Mark. Both men arrived at the same momentand were introduced at the door. Father Murray, at Saunders' ownrequest, kept the detective in the background. Saunders had, in themeantime, been learning all he could about the Ministry and itsinterior--"for emergencies, " he explained to Mark. 

The secretary proceeded to business without delay. 

"I have come on behalf of His Excellency, " he said, "and to express hisregrets. "

"I scarcely expected regrets, " answered the priest; "for at ten o'clockI was to have a definite answer. "

"It is impossible, Reverend Sir, to give you that. His Excellency bademe offer full assurance that a definite answer will not long bedelayed; but a somewhat unforeseen situation was found in Baltimore--asituation that was unforeseen by you, though rather expected by HisExcellency. "

"I cannot imagine, " Father Murray spoke rather tartly, "what thatsituation could be. "

"Let me explain then. " The secretary talked as one sure of his ground. "I take it that neither Baron Griffin nor yourself, Reverend Sir, wouldbe at all interested in the movements of the Grand Duchess?"

"Not particularly, " answered the priest. 

"Then I am sorry to say that the dead girl in Baltimore is surely yourniece. The other--"

"At the Ministry--" Mark put in. 

"Wherever she is, " parried the secretary. "The other is the GrandDuchess. "

"Perhaps, Mr. Secretary, " quietly suggested Father Murray, "you willadmit that I ought to know my own niece?"

"There is a great resemblance, Reverend Sir, between the two ladies. Ihave seen the dead girl, and have examined her belongings. Her apparelwas made, it is true, in Paris; but your niece has recently been there. Her bag bears the initials, 'R. A. ' The mesh bag is plainly marked ingold cut initials with the same letters. The dressing case is alsomarked 'R. A. ' Even the handkerchiefs are thus marked. "

"As she was a guest of my niece, and of course left Killimaga veryhurriedly after the abduction, " said Father Murray, "it is quiteprobable that the Grand Duchess took the first clothes and othereffects that came to hand. She may even have purposely used thingsbelonging to Miss Atheson in order not to have anything in herpossession that might betray her identity. "

"True, that is possible, " the secretary admitted; "but it is notprobable enough to satisfy His Excellency. Without a doubt, he oughtto satisfy himself. In the meantime, while the doubt remains, it isclear that your answer cannot be given. "

"Suppose we place this matter, then, " said the priest, "where theanswer will come in response to a demand? There is still the BritishEmbassy and the Department of State. "

"It will be plain to you, Reverend Sir, " said the secretary, "that sucha course would not be of assistance. Frankly, we do not wantpublicity; but, certainly, neither does your Department of State. Infact, I think that this affair might offer considerable embarrassmentto the President himself at this time. And you? Would you wish thereporters to hear of it and have it published with all possibleembellishments and sent broadcast? A few days will not be long inpassing. I can vouch for the fact that the lady is quite comfortable. Why not see it from His Excellency's point of view?"

"Just what is that point of view?"

"I will be frank. You gentlemen know the situation. His Excellency'sentire career is at stake. If this lady is the Grand Duchess and shedoes not go back to her throne--"

"Her throne?" Mark broke out in astonishment. 

"Her father is dead. She is the reigning Grand Duchess, though shedoes not know it yet. You see the situation? His Excellency must besure. "

"But how does he mean to arrive at certainty?" asked Father Murray. 

"That will be our task. "

"And in the meantime?"

"She is safe. "

"And if we seek the Department of State?"

"It will be the word of the minister from a friendly power againstyours--and they will not find the lady. "

"You would not--"

"They will not find the lady. "

"Then, " Mark spoke fiercely. "You have not kept your word. "

"We have. She is safe, and shall be safe. Patience, if you please, and all will be well. "

"It looks, " said Father Murray, "as though we had no other choice. "

Mark glanced at the priest, astonished that he should acquiesce soeasily, but Father Murray gave him a quick, meaning look. 

"That, Reverend Sir, " answered the secretary, "is true. Since you seeit so, I will bid you good day--to meet you again, shortly. "

Scarcely had the secretary left the room when Father Murray was at thetelephone calling Saunders. 

"Come down, " he directed, "at once. "

Saunders was with them before either Mark or the priest spoke again. 

"Well?" Saunders lost no time. 

Father Murray gave him an outline of what had passed. Mark saidnothing. A picture of despair, he was sitting with his head bowed uponhis breast. 

"And now, Mr. Saunders, " said Father Murray, "it is your business tocounsel--to be a real detective. What do you suggest?"

"She is at the Ministry, " said Saunders. "Let that be my firststatement. She is occupying a room which opens on a balcony of thesecond floor. There is a guard in the next room, which also opens onthe same balcony. She is well watched. But I was in front of thathouse three hours last night, and again this morning--rather, I was inthe house across the way. I had a good chance to communicate the newsof your arrival to her--"

"What!" Mark was on his feet now. 

"It was simple. I did it this morning with a hand mirror. Youremember how bright the sun was about nine o'clock? Well, it wasshining right into the room where I was, and when I saw that she wasprobably alone I caught the light on my little mirror and flashed thereflection into her room. I juggled it about as oddly as I could, flashing it across the book she was reading. Then I tried to make itwrite a word on her wall. Perhaps you would like to know the word, Baron?" He turned to Mark with a smile. "You would? Well, I tried towrite 'M-A-R-K. ' I think she understood, for she turned toward thewindow and seemed about to give me some signal. Then she raised herhand in a quick motion of alarm and began reading again. I withdrewthe light, just in time, for some woman entered the room. "

"I am afraid, Mr. Saunders, " said Father Murray, "that you aredangerous, being a very clever man. "

"But how, in Heaven's name, " asked Mark, "did you get into that house?It is the home of--"

"Sure it is, " answered Saunders. "Sure it is. But the family is away, and they left only the chauffeur at the residence. Chauffeurs are finefellows--under certain circumstances. They have acquired the habit. "

"The conditions, " laughed Mark, "will, I suppose, appear in youraccounts?"

"In my accounts? Yes . . . . Now to the rest of the discussion. I donot believe this affair can be arranged as easily as you think. Itlooks to me as if they really believe they have the Grand Duchess, andthat we are trying to help her get away. They think she has plannedthe whole thing and that we are part of the plan. Miss Ruth was withMadam Neuville when they caught her. That's one point in their favor. Then the Duchess had things belonging to Miss Ruth, and had them whenkilled. That's point two for them. The face of Miss Ruth is the faceon the portraits of the Grand Duchess. There's point three for them;and it is a fact that the face of the dead girl was slightlydisfigured, as you know. The Minister dare not make a slip. He is notgoing to make one if he can help it. He will do something withoutdelay to avoid all danger of your interference. If you go to court, you'll have publicity. If you go to the Department of State, theirdelays would make interference too late. If you don't act quick you'llhave no chance to act at all. My advice is, to get into bettercommunication with the young lady and then--to do a bit of quietabduction ourselves. "

"That's easy to say, Saunders, " said Mark. "But how carry it out?"

"I'll have to think on that. But I'm sure it can be done. " Saundersspoke convincingly. "Let me work this thing out as best I can. "

"We are in your hands, Mr. Saunders, " said Father Murray, "and we trustyou. "

"Thanks, Father, I'll do my best. Now let us go on--"

But at this moment the telephone bell rang. Father Murray answered thecall. 

"It's for you, Mark. "

Mark took the receiver, and listened for a moment. 

"All right; send him up. "

He turned to his companions. "A colored man who insists on seeing mepersonally. "

They had but a few minutes to wait. He came up with a bellboy andstood before them, bowing low--a typical Southern darkey, his hairwhitened by age. 

"Well, uncle, what can I do for you?" It was Mark who spoke. 

"Well, sah, seein' as how I found a lettah addressed to you--"

"A letter?"

"Yes, sah. " The old darkey was fumbling with his hat, trying towithdraw the letter he had put away so carefully. 

"I found it down the street, sah, neah one of them thar big for'nhouses. "

"Where?" The word was almost shouted as Mark jumped to his feet. 

But the trembling fingers had at last grasped and now held forth theprecious letter. Mark tore it open, and with a cry of glad surprisebegan to devour its contents. When he had finished, he handed theletter to Father Murray without a word, and turned to the darkey. 

"Thank you, uncle. I am very glad you brought it. "

"Yes, sah. I thought as how you might want to get it, seein' as how itwas a pretty young lady that threw it out. "

"You saw her?"

"Yes, sah. I was right across the street, and she suah is pretty, sah. " The old man smiled and bowed as Mark gave him a bill. "Thankyou, sah; thank you, sah. " And with a broad grin he left the room. 

Father Murray was still reading the letter and Mark motioned toSaunders to come to his side. Looking over the priest's shoulder, Markread the lines again:

"My Dear Mark: His Excellency isn't a very good housekeeper; I havefound an envelope in one of the books, and a tiny slip of blue-cordedpencil in the drawer of my dressing-table. I should like to pensionthe man who first put fly-leaves in a book. Fortunately, my maid isn'twith me much, and the man in the yard can't see my front window becauseof the tree. So I have only to listen to the guard in the next room. He is always walking up and down, and when he reaches the uncarpetedspace near the door I know he is at the end and ready to turn back. For that one second I can chance throwing this letter out into thestreet. I shall load it with a cut-glass ball I found on my desk. Itis a beautiful little paper-weight, but its beauty won't save it thistime. Someone will surely take the letter to you. Where to find youis my worry. But I know that the signal flashes could only mean thatyou are in the city, so I am risking the New Willard. 

"A warship has been sent to take the Grand Duchess home. I cannotconvince them that I am only Ruth Atheson. I am sure they are going tosend me away. You must get me out of this house quickly, or it will betoo late. 

"Give me this special signal and I will be ready: At ten-thirty anymorning flash the light and keep it still on the top of the gatepillar. Leave it there a moment; then flash it once across the top ifyou are coming that day, or twice for night. If you receive thisletter, answer it by flashing the light into my room to-morrow morning. I shall pray for friendly sunlight. 

"Thank you for coming. I don't know how you found out, but somehow Ifelt that you would. Love to the dear Father, if he is with you. Ifeel pretty sure he is. 

"Ruth. "

Saunders was the first to speak. 

"I think, Father, " he said, "that you have a clever niece. This makesthings easy. "

The Padre smiled. But Mark was not smiling--one can't do so little athing to show unbounded joy. 

CHAPTER XIX

CAPITULATION

It was early next morning when Saunders knocked at Mark Griffin's door. His knock was soft, for Mark's room adjoined Father Murray's. WhenMark rose to let him in, the detective entered on tiptoe. 

"I came down to see you early, " he said, "because I wanted to dodge thePadre, and I thought perhaps he'd be over in the church for his Mass. "

"A good Yankee guess, " said Mark. "I heard him leave a few minutesago, so you can talk as loud as you like. What is the matter?Anything gone wrong?"

"It's just this, " said the detective. "We must make our attempt to getMiss Atheson without the Padre's knowing anything about it. I havebeen thinking about the thing, and I have a plan I believe will work. It's out of the question to get that guard off the watch in anyordinary way. If we attempt it, the house will be alarmed and we shallbe taken for burglars. "

"What difference if we are?" said Mark, very warmly. "If the Ministrycan stand publicity, we can. I am in favor of taking strong measuresright now. "

"Not on your life, Griffin. Not on your life, " said Saunders. "Youdon't seem to realize that the Padre cannot stand strong measures. Arrest as burglars would mean publicity, and there would be all sortsof fierce stories in the press. He is a priest--and then some. "

"Well, what of it?"

"Sure, I know, " soothed Saunders. "But the papers aren't in thejournalistic game for dignity, and they'd play the Padre up for all hewas worth; the more yellow the story, the better. The lady must begotten out of the Ministry quietly. Once we have her, it will be up tothe Ministry to make the next move. I have a hunch that His Excellencywon't make it. "

"Well, " said Mark grudgingly, "I suppose the quiet way is the betterway. What is your plan? Why not let Father Murray know?"

"I can't let him know, because he'd want to be in on it. At all risks, he's got to be kept out. What I propose to do is to start up such atrouble in the rear of the house that, for five minutes at least, there'll be no guard in the front. "

"You would have to set it on fire to do that. "

Saunders put his finger impressively upon a button of Mark's pajamas. 

"You've guessed it, first shot out of the box. That's just what I'mgoing to do. Rather, that's what _we're_ going to do. "

Mark looked at him in solemn silence. 

"Saunders, what did you have to put you in this condition?"

"Plain water and a cold bath, " answered Saunders promptly. 

"Then perhaps you'll explain. "

"It'll be easy. They can put the fire out after the lady has gottenaway. The Minister is going to dinner to-night. Madame Minister--orwhatever you call her--will be with him; so will his flock of girls, and so, of course, will His Excellency's secretary. The rest of hisstaff don't live there. I figure that the guards, and the servants, and Miss Atheson will be the only ones in the house. The fire willbring all but Miss Atheson to the back. A rope ladder skillfullythrown will do the rest. Now you see why I can't mix the Padre up inthat. We may be arrested, though I don't think we shall. The Ministerdoesn't want anything of that kind. This morning I'll flash the nightescape signal to Miss Atheson. She'll be ready to leave, and you maybe sure she'll find a way to warn us if the guard is still around. To-night you make an excuse to the Padre and slip away. He's going tosee a friend anyhow at the University out in Brookland. I heard himsay so. Tell him not to worry if you happen to be out when he comesback. Fix it up any way you like, and we'll make the play and win. "

"Who's to do the 'skillful throwing' of the ladder?"

"A friend of mine who used to be a fireman. "

"Do you think you can get him?"

"I've engaged him already. "

"H-m. " Mark stared at the detective, then burst forth with, "What timedid you get up?"

"I didn't have to get up. I haven't gone to bed yet. "

Mark sat down in his chair to think. After a while he put out his handto the detective. 

"I believe you've got it, Saunders. I'll do it--but you'd better getsome rest"

"Me for my little trundle bed. " And Saunders, in high spirits, wavedhis hand as he went out the door. 

Left alone, Mark proceeded to dress, but awaited Father Murray's returnbefore going down to breakfast. The time seemed long after breakfast, but at length the priest prepared to leave the hotel. 

Mark spoke nonchalantly. "Oh, Father, I'm going out in the countrywith some friends, and may not get back till quite late to-night. "

"All right, Mark. I hope you have a pleasant trip. "

It was so easy that Mark felt a trifle worried. His device was crude, and the priest had never before been so easily deceived. 

It was midnight when a big automobile containing Saunders, hisex-fireman friend and Mark, drew up cautiously on a side street nearthe Ministry. The men at first walked quietly past the house. Theysaw a light in the apartment occupied by Ruth, but there seemed to beno other light within. They then walked around the block, passing apoliceman at the corner, and entered the alley behind the Ministry onthe other side, out of the bluecoat's sight. There was no one in theback yard, and Saunders easily effected an entrance into the garage, which was not far from the house. Taking from his pocket an ordinaryhot-water bag, he knocked the lock off the gasoline tank and proceededto fill the bag with gasoline. Then he turned to Mark. 

"That's all back here for you. Leave the rear work to me. Go around, you two, and get the ladder. In fifteen minutes I'll have a fire atthe back door. You'll probably see the light. As soon as you hearcries from the house, listen well and you'll know whether or not theguard has rushed back. The big door-window on the balcony is alwaysleft open so that the guard can command the window of Miss Atheson'sroom, and you can easily hear him open and close the inside door. Ifhe doesn't leave, the game's up. As soon as you are sure he's gone, throw up the ladder. If you get Miss Atheson, don't wait for me. Rushher to the automobile and back to the hotel. I'll take care of myself. Now go on, and wait for the big noise. "

The three men moved toward the door, but fell back when they saw a darkfigure plainly outlined against the dim light behind him. Saunderssaid something under his breath. The ex-fireman turned pale, for hethought it was a policeman. 

"The country is beautiful in the autumn, isn't it, Mark?"

Mark was as embarrassed as any small boy caught in truancy. 

"I thought you took things rather quietly, Father--I might have knownit was too good to be true. What did you come here for? You surelyknew it was something we could not have you concerned in. "

The priest laughed at Mark's rueful tone. 

"You should have known better, Mark, than to think I could be so easilydeceived. I am going to be mixed up in anything that concerns thewelfare of Ruth. Besides, " he added, with another quiet laugh, "Iheard everything you two said this morning. I saw Saunders coming downthe hall as I was leaving, and, as it was rather early for a casualvisit, I came back to see what he was up to. "

"Then why in--I beg your pardon, Father--why in all common sense, "blurted out Saunders, "did you come here? You can't help, and we aretaking the only possible way. "

"Happily, " rejoined Father Murray, "it is not the only way. Come outof this, and I will tell you something you will be very glad to hear. Let us get back to your automobile. We must not go very far away, forwe have yet to call at the Ministry, when His Excellency returns. "

"To-night?"

"This morning, " gently corrected the priest. It was now well on towardone o'clock. 

The three men obeyed him. The ex-fireman got into the automobile, while Mark and Saunders walked with Father Murray a short distance off. When they were out of earshot, the priest turned to his companions. 

"You two have been working your own plans while I have been workingmine. When you had finished your little secret conference, I went toSt. Patrick's and said Mass. When I returned to the hotel, Mark didn'tseem to appreciate my company, so I left rather early. Before going toBrookland, I called at the State Department. Happily, I know someonequite high up, so I had no trouble. I told him the whole story, and hepromised to help me. A few hours ago he sent for me again and--" thepriest smiled at his hearers' evident anxiety to hear the details--"andeverything will be all right now. We are to see the Minister as soonas he returns from the banquet. He will probably be back by oneo'clock, and he will listen--and listen well--to what I have to say. The guard will be off before we leave, and Ruth will be at the hotelbefore noon. "

"But, Father, " said Mark, "how can you do it? The State Departmentcannot get into this thing officially--cannot interfere at all. It istoo delicate. To-morrow morning Ruth will be on her way to theseacoast, as sure as fate. She will be kept hidden there until thatwarship comes. "

"The warship will not come, " answered Father Murray. "His Majesty'swarships will be engaged very busily for some time to come. Myinformation--information which so far has not leaked out to thepublic--is that the Big Kingdom is on the verge of war. There will beno warship flying that flag on this side of the water for a long time. "

"War!" said Saunders. "But how does that help us?"

Before Father Murray could reply, an automobile passed swiftly. 

"That is the Minister, " remarked Saunders. 

The priest looked up. "We must hurry. Leave everything to me. "

Walking hastily, the trio approached the Minister, who had stopped atthe curb to give some order to his chauffeur. The ladies of the partyhad already entered the house, accompanied by the secretary. 

It was Father Murray who spoke. 

"Pardon us, Your Excellency, for intruding on you at this hour, but itis necessary that we should speak to you at once. With yourpermission, we will go inside. "

The Minister looked disturbed. 

"Surely you know the hopelessness of it? I must warn you that you cansecure nothing through violence. My guard would not hesitate to takeforcible measures. "

"There is no need to worry about that, Your Excellency, " replied thepriest. "No need at all. We shall not resort to violence. It willnot be necessary. But the matter is important, and we must speak toyou at once. "

The words were spoken sharply. His Excellency hesitated for a momentlonger, then threw out his hand and motioned them toward the house. 

"Very well, gentlemen. Come. "

The unwelcome guests were shown into the drawing-room and the lightsswitched on. His Excellency put his hat aside and turned to face hiscallers. 

"It is already late, gentlemen, and I will ask you to be as brief aspossible. What is it you wish?"

"We shall not detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary, " saidFather Murray. "Yesterday I received a visit from your secretary, whoinformed me that the probabilities were so strong that it was my niecewho had been killed in the railroad accident that you would be obligedto decide against my claims for the present. "

"That is exactly the case, " replied His Excellency. "Permit me to say, Reverend Sir, that I can do nothing else. The Grand Duke is dead, andHis Majesty has taken charge of the matter. The Grand Duchess is aruler herself, at the present time. It is true she is only a foolishgirl, who ran away to marry a nonentity--but affairs of state aregreater than affairs of the heart. At all risks she must return toEcknor. I must be certain of her identity before I can make anothermove. I appreciate the delicacy of the situation. I know that I havepractically kidnaped the girl. But I am certain your State Departmentwill want no trouble about it, nor will mine. If you are right, andthe girl is your niece, you have no cause to fear for her; she will bereturned to this country at once. If, on the contrary, she is theGrand Duchess, there is no reason why you should seek to have her takenaway from us. "

"Her own wishes--" began Saunders. 

"Pardon me, sir. Her own wishes have nothing to do with the matter. Iconfess that it is embarrassing that she does not want to go, but it ismore embarrassing that she ever went away. She must return to hercountry, wishes or no wishes. I will consider nothing else. I have myorders, and I shall obey them. " The Minister turned toward the door, evidently desirous that his visitors should leave. "I will ask you toexcuse me now, gentlemen. "

But matters had not been arranged to Father Murray's satisfaction. Hemade no move to go, and looked straight into His Excellency's face ashe spoke. 

"Your Excellency has of course been informed of the critical conditionof affairs in Europe?"

"I do not understand. "

Though somewhat surprised, the priest could not doubt the sincerity ofthe speaker. He hesitated but a moment, then spoke quietly. 

"Before the conversation proceeds farther, may I suggest that it mightbe well for Your Excellency to see if there are any late dispatchesfrom your home government?" Noticing the Minister's haughtyastonishment, he added, "I have come from the Department of State. "

The Minister was startled, and turned to leave the room. "Pardon me amoment, gentlemen. "

Mark turned to the priest. "What have you up your sleeve, Father?"

Father Murray only smiled. "I think, Mark, " he said, "that you arecertainly improving in the American brand of English. 'Up your sleeve'is decidedly good United States. You will want to stay with us--eventhough you are a Baron. "

Mark could get no more out of the priest. 

In a few minutes His Excellency returned, his face showing signs ofextreme annoyance. 

"I thank you, Reverend Sir, " he said courteously. "I cannot understandwhy my dispatches were not delivered to me at the banquet. I can onlyexpress my regret. " Father Murray bowed, and the Minister went on:

"The lady is probably asleep now, but I think I may safely promise thatin a few hours she will be with you. It is more than probable that Ishall relinquish all claims upon her. "

Father Murray smiled and picked up his hat which was lying on a table. 

"We may expect the lady before noon?"

"Yes. "

"I thank Your Excellency. Permit us to bid you good morning. "

With a courteous bow, Father Murray took his leave, followed by Markand Saunders. The last they saw of His Excellency was the top of hishead as he bowed them out. 

Father Murray chuckled all the way back to the hotel--and kept hiscounsel. When they arrived at his bedroom door, Mark stopped him. 

"Great Heavens, Father! You're not going to leave us in the dark likethis?"

"'In the dark' is _very_ good United States, Mark. "

"But what does it mean? What card did you play?"

Father Murray's hand was on the doorknob, his eyes dancing withmerriment. 

"They say, Mark, that a royal flush beats everything. Well, I playedthat. "

Mark tried to catch him but, with a low chuckle, he slipped into theroom and closed the door. 

CHAPTER XX

THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES

A few hours later--about ten o'clock--an automobile stopped in front ofthe New Willard Hotel, and the Minister and his secretary alighted. The visitors were shown at once into Father Murray's room where Mark, Saunders and the priest waited. His Excellency took the chair offeredhim and, with some hesitation in his choice, of words, opened theconversation. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, "I first wish to congratulate you on yourpersistence. That persistence led me to think that there was somejustice in your case. You can scarcely blame me, however, for notgranting your wish immediately, especially since, as my secretaryinformed you, the effects of the dead lady seemed to indicate that itwas Miss Atheson who had been killed. I find that I was mistaken. Itwas the Grand Duchess. There is absolutely no question about that now. As soon as you are ready to receive Miss Atheson, she shall leave theMinistry where, as you understand, she has been an honored guest. "

The impetuous Saunders broke out: "Your Excellency means an honoredprisoner. "

But Father Murray stepped into the breach. 

"Not at all, Saunders, " he said, "not at all. " Then he turned to theMinister. "Miss Atheson has been an honored guest at the Ministry. That is perfectly understood, Your Excellency, _perfectly_ understood. "

The Minister bowed. "I thank you, Reverend Sir. I am glad you dounderstand. Miss Atheson was a friend of the Grand Duchess Carlotta. She had known her in Europe. Why should she not have been a guest atthe Ministry of the nation which exercises a protectorate over thedomains of her late Royal Highness? I should wish to have that knownto the public. This afternoon we shall give to the press the sad storyof the visit to America of Her Royal Highness, under strict incognito. Her friend, Miss Atheson, was of course awaiting the arrival of theGrand Duchess, having come down in advance. Miss Atheson will, I amsure, be kind enough, and considerate enough of the memory of HerHighness, not to deny any of these statements. "

"I am sure, Your Excellency, " said the priest, "that Miss Atheson willkeep strict silence as to the past. She would not wish to embarrassthe situation nor in any way stain the memory of her dead friend. Ofthat you may rest assured. "

"I beg your pardon, " said His Excellency, "but--I trust I may rely uponthe discretion of these gentlemen?"

Mark and Saunders bowed their assurance. 

"Certainly. "

"Your Excellency may rely on our discretion. "

"It is needless for me to say, " continued the Minister, "that thesituation is most embarrassing. But there is no reason why the GrandDuchess should not have visited her friend--no reason why she shouldnot have come to Washington on her way back to her own country. Shewould naturally wish to avoid publicity and, of course, the Ministrywas constantly in touch with her moves. All this is a reasonableexplanation of what has occurred. As to the body's having lainneglected in the Baltimore morgue for some hours, something must beassumed by the telegraph company. The body has already been embalmed, and arrangements have been made for its shipment to Europe. I shallmyself go to Baltimore this afternoon. Do you, Reverend Sir, wish itknown that the friend of the Grand Duchess is your niece?"

"Yes; but I wish it put to the world in the proper form. Since YourExcellency is preparing copy for the papers, may I ask if you willpermit me to revise it?"

"That I shall be glad to do, " said the Minister, his face all smiles. 

As His Excellency was about to depart, Saunders stopped him. 

"One word, Your Excellency. Baron Griffin and myself were witnesses toa very sad occurrence in Sihasset--"

The Minister turned hurriedly. 

"You are mistaken, my friend, " he said, significantly. "You aremistaken. You saw nothing--remember that. It will be better for allconcerned. Your State Department would not thank you for makingembarrassing statements. Things have come out happily for you, if notfor the unfortunate Duchess. Yet, after all, perhaps the best thingthat could have happened for her was what you believed--until you werecorrected--happened in Sihasset. Baron Griffin will tell you that Ispeak the truth when I say that the next best thing was her own death. "

Mark inclined his head, for he had heard something of the reputation ofLuigi del Farno, when he was in Florence. 

And then for the moment the Minister was forgotten in the man, andtears glistened in His Excellency's eyes. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, "I never saw Her Royal Highness. But I haveheard a great deal of her, and I have followed her career. She was notborn to be a Duchess. She had all my sympathy, for she was just awoman--beautiful, sentimental, loving. She was just the kind to do therash things which courts will not tolerate. She was the kind to followher own heart and not the dictates of kings. She was unhappy at court, and that unhappiness was increased when she fell in love with theItalian. She was the kind who would love until death--and then beyondthe grave. She was one who would make any sacrifice to her devotion. But she fought against the solid rock of princely customs andprejudices, and there was nothing for her but to break upon it. Herlove ruined that young officer. He was doomed from the moment she wentaway and he followed her. No earthly power could have saved him. But--believe me--she is better dead than married to him. We had hislife investigated. He has had his just deserts. The Grand Duchess wasnot the first. It is well that she was the last, poor girl. The mostmerciful thing that could have happened to a woman of her character wasthe thing that did happen. She never knew of his fate. She diedthinking that she should meet him again--that she had successfullybroken down all barriers--that she and her lover could live their livesin peace, here in America. She never learned that there could be nohappiness for her with a man like him. Let them rest in theirgraves--for graves are better than courts. As Minister I could not saythese things; but I trust you, gentlemen, and I am talking to you nowas a man who has known love himself. Good-bye. "

The little man stiffened up and became the Minister again. 

"When, gentlemen, will you be ready to receive Mademoiselle Atheson?"

Father Murray bowed. "Whenever Your Excellency is pleased to send her. "

"Perhaps, Reverend Sir, you will honor me by your presence atluncheon?" As Father Murray hesitated, he added, "It will be betterthat you should accompany Mademoiselle Atheson to the hotel. Besides, "and he smiled good-humoredly, "we can get together and revise thosestatements properly. "

Father Murray bowed his acceptance and His Excellency took his leave. "Luncheon is at one, " he remarked, as he left the room. "I should bepleased if you would come a little early. I know you will desire totalk with Mademoiselle. "

Shortly after twelve Father Murray was admitted to the Ministry, whereRuth greeted him affectionately. 

"How do you like being a Grand Duchess, Ruth?"

She made a little moue. "I don't like it at all. I'm abdicatingto-day. "

He laughed, and they chatted together for some time, being finallyjoined by His Excellency's daughters, who stayed with them untilluncheon was served. The meal proved to be a merry one, and after itwas over the two gentlemen withdrew to the library, followed byWratslav. Then, accompanied by Ruth, Father Murray returned to thehotel--in a long, low-built limousine. 

 * * * * * *

The Bishop hurriedly pushed aside his almost untouched breakfast andhastened to his study. The time was short, and there was much to bedone. His secretary, always prompt, handed him the morning papers, butthe Bishop pushed them aside. 

"No, I haven't time now. Put them in my grip. "

The secretary started to speak, but the Bishop was already giving hisinstructions, and his subordinate waited, perforce, for a moreopportune time--which never came. 

On the train, the Bishop's breviary first claimed his attention. As hepaused to rest his eyes, his idle glance was suddenly arrested by theflaring headlines of a paper across the aisle. Quickly he opened hisgrip and brought forth his own papers. Ah, here it was--on the firstpage. 

 MISS RUTH ATHESON TO WED BARON GRIFFIN Former Vicar-General Announces the Engagement of His Niece. 

And, in the next column:

 GRAND DUCHESS CARLOTTA VICTIM OF WRECK Ruler of Ecknor Killed While on Her Way to Washington. 

The story was skillfully written. No one had "remembered, " or at leastinfluence had been able to suppress unpleasant comment. But for theBishop the mere juxtaposition of words was enough. In fancy he wasback in the Seminary at Rome where he had first met Donald Murray. Hesaw the tall young Englishman at his desk, in front of him the portraitof a charming child. 

"My niece, " he had said. "She's a winsome little thing. I miss hersorely. "

He recalled, too, how someone had related the romance of Edgar Atheson, who had later become Grand Duke of Ecknor. Donald Murray had beenstrangely silent, he remembered. And--yes, it was just after thatthat the picture had disappeared from his desk. "It is best, " had beenDonald Murray's only comment. 

The Bishop remembered now. And he knew why Monsignore had looked sosurprised and reproachful when asked to give his "full" confidenceregarding Ruth Atheson. He understood, now, the meaning of the quiet, "My Lord, there are some things I cannot discuss even with you. "

The Bishop bowed his head. "Blind, blind, " he murmured, "to have knownso much, to have understood so little. Can you ever forgive me, myfriend?"

CHAPTER XXI

THE BECKONING HAND

The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air wasstill balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence farmore pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffablepeace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective wasevidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory"and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of hiscountenance. 

"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one, "he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to goout now and look for another one. "

"I do not believe, Mr. Saunders, " said Father Murray, "that you willhave to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you wouldcare for the same kind of position you had before--would you? Isuppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is notgoing to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has boughtKillimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. Iheard him say that he would try to influence you to become hisintendent. "

"Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendentintend to do? It's a new one on me. "

"An intendent, my dear Mr. Saunders, " said Father Murray, "is quite apersonage on the other side. He is the man who runs the businessaffairs of a castle. He has charge of all the property. It is quite agood position; better, in fact, than that of a private detective. Then, you see, his care of the servants and continued watchfulness overthe property makes detective experience somewhat valuable. If thesalary suits you, by all means I would advise you to accept the offer. Besides, you know, Mr. Saunders, we have all gotten to like you verymuch. Apart from the fact that you are what Mrs. O'Leary would call 'ablack Protestant, ' I look upon you as one of my own. "

Saunders laughed. "'A black Protestant' indeed! A lot of differencethat makes with you. Why, you were 'a black Protestant' yourself, Father Murray, and in some ways I believe they only whitewashed you. "

"Now, Mr. Saunders, " reproved Father Murray, "that is not verycomplimentary. There is no whitewash or veneer about my Catholicity. "

Despite the quizzical good-humor of the priest, there was a touch ofseriousness in his voice, and Saunders hastened to explain. 

"I didn't mean it quite that way, Father--only it strikes me that thereis always a difference between what I call the 'simon-pure Catholic'and the one that wasn't born a Catholic. "

"Well, Mr. Wise Man, " said the priest, "perhaps you'll explain thedifference. "

Saunders looked puzzled. "It is a hard thing to explain, Father, " hesaid, and then hesitated; "but I'll try to do it. In the firstplace--but this doesn't go for you--I think that the convert is morebigoted than the other kind. Now, honestly, don't you?"

Father Murray was amused. "I am glad, Mr. Saunders, " he replied, "thatyou leave me out of it. That is a _real_ compliment. Now, let us putit this way: If you had been the possessor of a million dollars fromthe time of your birth, it would be a matter of course with you, wouldit not?"

"Certainly. "

"But if you should suddenly acquire a million dollars, you wouldnaturally feel very much elated about it. Is that not true?"

"Yes--but what then?"

"That is the way it is with converts to anything. They suddenlyacquire what to them is very precious and, like the newly-mademillionaire, they are fearful of anything that threatens their wealth. They become enthusiasts about what they have--and I must confess thatsome of them even become a bit of a nuisance. But it is a good sign. It is a sign of sincerity, and you cannot overlook sincerity. There istoo little of it in the world. "

"I am mighty glad now, " said Saunders, "that you haven't got it. "

"What? The sincerity?"

"Oh, Lord, no!--the bigotry. Anyhow, if I stay here, you won't havemuch trouble with me for, like a certain man I once read about, thechurch I _don't_ go to is the Methodist. "

"Then I will have to give you up, " said Father Murray. "If theMethodist were the one you actually _did_ go to, I might have half achance to make you a convert; but since you do not go to _any_, I amafraid that my counsels would fall upon stony ground. But you willalways be welcome to the rectory, even if you do not bother thechurch, " he added. 

"But surely, Father, " said Saunders, "you are not going to stay here?Hasn't the Bishop made you his Vicar-General again? And doesn't hewant you to go back to the Cathedral?"

"That is true, " answered the priest, his face becoming grave. "But Ihave grown very fond of Sihasset, and the Bishop has kindly given mepermission to remain in charge of the parish here. "

"I don't quite understand that, " said the visitor in an urging way. "Ishould hate to lose you, Father--for of course I shall stay if theBaron offers me the position, and I'm going to bring the wife andkiddies, too--I like the place, and I like the people--but when I was acommon soldier, I wanted to be a sergeant, and when I became sergeant Iwanted to be a lieutenant. I suppose if I had gotten the lieutenancy, I should have wanted a captaincy, and then I shouldn't have beensatisfied until I had charge of a battalion--and so on up the line. Ittakes all the ginger out of a man if he has no ambitions. Whyshouldn't a priest have them, too?"

"Some of them have, " answered Father Murray, "when they are young. Butwhen they 'arrive' they begin to find out the truth of what they weretold in the seminary long before--that 'arriving' does not make themany happier. In the Catholic Church, position means trouble and worry, because it means that you become more of a servant yet assume greaterresponsibilities. If a man can center his ambitions in the next world, it makes him a great deal happier in this. I have had myambitions--and I have had them realized, too. But I found means totransplant them where they belonged. Having transplanted them, I donot propose to take them out of good heavenly soil and put them back onthe earth again. As they are quite well grown now in the garden ofGod, I am not going to risk losing them by making a change, if I canhelp it. I shall stay in Sihasset if I am permitted to do so. ShouldI be called away, that is a different matter. Please God, when I goout--to quote my friend, Father Daly--I'll go out feet first. "

"I suppose you're right, Father, " said Saunders, "I suppose you'reright. Anyhow, I'm glad that you're going to stay. By the way, nowthat you've told me one secret, won't you tell me another?"

Father Murray became very cheerful again. "I bet I can guess what youwant to know now, Saunders. "

"Well, I'll give you one guess, " answered the detective. 

"You want to know, " said Father Murray, "why the Minister gave up soeasily. "

"I do, " replied Saunders. "That's just what I want to know. You musthave told the Baron, but you have never told me. I want to know whatmagic you worked. "

"I suppose I shall have to tell you. Being a detective, you havelearned to keep your mouth shut. Here is the whole story: As I toldyou, I had a friend in the State Department. Well, I went to him and, for old times' sake, he tried to help, and did. When I told him mystory, he believed me, but he very frankly informed me that the matterwas a delicate one and that, officially, he could do nothing. Hewasn't entirely ignorant of the young Italian, but he said that wouldprobably have to be 'forgotten. ' He pointed out that the body haddisappeared, that the man was absolutely unknown here, and that toprove murder would be practically impossible. Still, he agreed thatour knowledge of the murder would be a powerful help toward making HisExcellency reasonable. He outlined how that game should be played, andbefore I left he had arranged for someone to meet the Minister at thebanquet that night, and delicately suggest that the State Departmenthad had some inquiry regarding the disappearance of a brilliant youngItalian officer. Knowing what would happen at the banquet, I was readyto meet the Minister. But it wasn't necessary to rely wholly on that. Late that night--after my return from Brookland--my friend sent for meto come to him at once. I went, and he showed me the translation of acipher-dispatch which had just been received from Europe. Thatdispatch gave information concerning a dangerous situation which mightlead to war. It was very long, and dwelt also on the situation in acertain Grand Duchy, the ruler of which had just died. The next inline, a girl, had disappeared. The King was worried. With war almoston his hands, he did not want the girl to take the throne, but ratherdesired the succession of her uncle, who was a strong soldier and justthe man for the emergency. The dispatch left it plainly to beunderstood that the girl was in America, and that the King would beglad if she remained here permanently--in other words, that she beallowed quietly to disappear. It was a cold-blooded proposition todeprive her of her rights, or to find some means of doing it. Our ownmilitary attache at the royal capital secured the information; and, since America had been mentioned, thought it his duty to forward thedispatch to our State Department. As soon as my friend had read it, hesent for me. He put me under a pledge of secrecy until the matter wassettled. It has been settled now; but there is no need of the storygoing any farther than yourself. 'Since the girl has died, ' said myfriend, 'the wishes of the King may easily be obeyed. The uncle willascend the throne, and the Duchy will remain an ally of the Kingdom. This information should be in the hands of the Minister now and, instead of trying to prove that the lady is the Grand Duchess, he willprobably be only too anxious to be rid of her. ' I had all thatinformation, " continued Father Murray, "when I went to find yougentlemen and save you from getting into mischief. "

"We would have had a glorious time, Father, " sighed Saunders, regretfully. Then he leaned back and whistled softly as his mindgrasped the full significance of the priest's words. "The detectivebusiness, Father, " he said energetically, "has many angles, and few ofthem are right angles; but I think that the number of obtuse and otherkind of angles is much larger in diplomacy. But I rather like thatMinister, " he added. "He isn't heartless. "

"No, " replied Father Murray, as he contemplatively lighted a cigar. "He was mighty human when he came to see us at the New Willard. Don'tyou remember how he forgot himself--even had tears in his eyes when hereferred to the dead Duchess and the fact that she was better off inher grave than she would have been at court? His wife had taken agenuine liking to Ruth, and the man himself was more than halfconvinced that she was all she claimed to be, but he wasn't free torelease her. He now wants to make reparation--but he wants also tosupport the idea that Ruth Atheson was only the _friend_ of the deadDuchess and, therefore, that the Duchess is really dead. It would bevery unfortunate, if, later on, it should prove that he had beendeceived. He would find it difficult to explain matters to His Majestyif a Grand Duchess, supposedly dead, should suddenly prove very muchalive and demand possession of a throne already occupied by hersuccessor. So His Excellency wants the lady married as 'Ruth Atheson'with due solemnity and with proper witness. There is method, Mr. Saunders, even in his kindness. "

Saunders whistled again. "It beats me, Father, " he said. "I own up. They know more than detectives. "

At this moment Mark came striding over the lawn. 

"Hello, Saunders, " he called. "I've been looking for you. Now thatI've got you, I might as well have it out and be done with it. Ruthwants you to stay here. She wants to make you one of us. We are goingto Ireland for six months, and then we're coming back to live here partof each year. We want you to take charge of Killimaga. I've boughtit. A good salary--no quarreling or dickering about it. What do yousay?"

"This is certainly a surprise, " said Saunders, winking at the Padre. "Have you room for an extra family?"

"You're married?"

"Very much so. "

"The bigger the family the better. But, " he added, as an afterthought, "I'll have to tell Ruth, or she'll be trying to marry you off. You'llcome, then?"

"Yes, " said Saunders, "I guess I'll take you up on that. "

Mark shook hands with him. "Done. You're a good old chap. I thoughtyou would stay. "

Then, turning to Father Murray, Mark spoke more seriously. "Don't youthink, Father, that it is almost time to meet the Bishop? He is comingon the next train, you know. " He paused and seemed momentarilyembarrassed. Then he straightened up and frankly voiced his thought. "Before he comes, will you not step into the church with me? I have alot of things to straighten out. "

The priest stood up and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Do you meanthat, my boy?"

"I do, " replied Mark. "I told you in Washington that I never passed anopen church door that my mind did not conjure up a beckoning handbehind it, and that I knew that some day I should see my mother's facebehind the hand. I have seen the face. It was imagination, perhaps--in fact, I know it must have been--but it was mother'sface--and I am coming home. "

The last words were spoken softly, reverently, and together the priestand the penitent entered the church. 

CHAPTER XXII

RUTH'S CONFESSION

Late that afternoon Mark sat alone in the great library at Killimaga, his head thrown back, his hands grasping the top of his chair. Histhoughts were of the future, and he did not hear the light footstepsbehind him. Then--two soft arms stole lightly around his neck, andRuth's beautiful head was bowed until her lips touched his forehead. It was a kiss of benediction, speaking of things too holy for words. 

He covered her hands with his own. "Ruth. " The tones breathed a worldof love. 

"I am so happy, " she murmured. 

He started to rise, but one small hand, escaping from his grasp, restedon his head and held him firmly. 

"I have a great deal to tell you, Mark. But first I want you to knowhow happy I am that you have come back to Mother Church. I have beenpraying so hard, Mark, and I should have been miserable had you refusedto return. Our union would never have been perfect without fullharmony of thought, and we might have drifted apart. But I am happynow. " Lightly her fingers stroked his brow and twined among his curls. 

He arose and, clasping her hands in both his own, he gazed down intoher eyes. 

"And I too am happy, dear one. You have brought me two blessings: Ihave found not only love, but peace at last after many years. "Tenderly he raised her hands to his lips. "But come, dear; it is tooglorious a day to remain in the house. Shall we go outside?"

It was but a moment till she returned ready for a walk, and togetherthey sauntered toward the bluff, where she seated herself on a greatrock. Sitting at her feet, his head resting against the rock, his handraised to clasp hers, he was content. For a while they sat in silence, gazing far out over the sea into the glory of the sunset. At last sheloosed her hand from his grasp and rested it lightly on his head. 

"Mark, dear, you know that there are to be no secrets between us twonow, don't you?"

He looked up and answered promptly. "Not one--not a single one, forall the days of the future, my darling. But, " he added, "I have nonethat are unrevealed. "

"I am not so fortunate, dear. I have a great one, and now I am goingto tell it all to you. "

"But--"

"No, let me do all the talking until you hear it to the end, and let metell it in my own way. "

"All right, " and he pressed her hand lovingly. 

"I never knew my father, Mark, " she went on, "and yet I heard of hisdeath only a short time ago--in Washington. His name was not'Atheson. ' He was a very great personage, no less than the Grand Dukeof Ecknor, Prince Etkar. "

Mark started, but Ruth put up her hand. "You promised. Let me go on. "

"My mother married my father, who then called himself Edgar Atheson, inLondon. He was the younger son of the then reigning Grand Duke and hadleft home for political reasons, expecting never to return. But hisfather and his elder brother were both killed by a bomb a few daysafter his marriage to my mother. He returned to Ecknor, and she wentwith him. In six months he had married, legally but not legitimately, a princess of the protecting kingdom. Under the laws of the kingdomthe princess was his legal mate, the Grand Duchess of Ecknor, but mymother was his wife before God and the Church. The Grand Duke gave hera large fortune, and she had a beautiful home near the palace. Everyone knew and pitied her, but they respected her. The Grand Dukesoon ceased to care for his morganatic wife, but he never deserted her. Then, a year after the court marriage, I was born. It was given outthat the Grand Duchess had also given birth to a daughter, Carlotta. "

Mark patted her hand, but kept his promise of silence. Ruth went on. 

"After that, the Grand Duke seemed to lose all interest in his Englishwife. My mother was very unhappy and wanted to return to England. Shefinally escaped, with me, in a closed carriage. My uncle met us as wecrossed the frontier, and it was only then that mother understood whyher escape had been so easy--the Grand Duke had wanted her away. Shesaw England only to die heart-broken, for she had loved her husbanddevotedly. My uncle kept me with him until he became a Catholic andwent to Rome to study. Then I was sent to school in Europe. Later Icame to America. But I had many friends in Europe and visited themfrequently. It was on one of these visits that I met Carlotta. Sheknew, and we became fast friends, as well as sisters. "

"But not full sisters, " Mark said, thinking that the story was over. 

"Wait, " cautioned Ruth. "There is more. Mother died thinking I washer only child. But two girls were born to mother, and a dead child tothe Grand Duchess. Mother never saw one of her babies. She neverknew. And it was years before the Grand Duchess learned that her childhad died. Carlotta was my full sister. She was stolen to replace thedead child. Now do you see?"

"But how did you come to know all this?" asked Mark. 

"Carlotta told me. The Grand Duchess never seemed to care forCarlotta; Carlotta's old nurse resented this and one day, after a worsestorm than usual, told Carlotta that the Duchess was not her mother. There was a terrible scene in the palace. The old nurse was all butbanished, but Carlotta saved her. She was sworn to secrecy by theGrand Duke. The Duchess died later as a result of the affair--ofapoplexy. Then the nurse disappeared, no one knew how or where, butnot before she had told Carlotta all about the twins that were born tothe Grand Duke's English wife. Carlotta had the secret and ruled herfather with it. She was allowed her own way, and it was not always agood way. Her last escapade was the one you already know. Poor girl, she was as good as a court would let her be; and here in Sihasset sherepented. But she believed in her lover, which I never did. I knewhis reputation, but she would not listen to a word against him. Nowyou have the whole story. "

"And you, " Mark managed to say, "you are the real Grand Duchess now. What a misfortune!"

"No, " she replied, "I could never make such a claim; for my mother'smarriage was never admitted by the court as a royal marriage. It wasconsidered morganatic. Her children were legitimate, but could neversucceed to the throne. "

"But, even so, " insisted Mark, "you are the Grand Duchess. "

Ruth put her hand gently over his mouth. "I am to be more than a grandduchess, dear. I am to be your wife--to-morrow. "

The sun was below the horizon now. For a while longer they watched itsbanners of flaming red and yellow flung across the sky. Then, hand inhand, they retraced their steps to Killimaga, where Mark left her witha whispered, "Sweet dreams, dear, " and went his way toward the rectory. 

As he sauntered aimlessly along, his thoughts were all of her. Neveronce had she lectured him on religious matters, yet she was splendidlysincere, and her faith of the greatest. And she had been praying forhim all the time! Yet what need of speech? Her very self, her everyaction, her nice sense of right, were greater than any sermon he hadever heard from mortal lips. She was a woman whom any man might welllove--and honor. 

Reluctantly Mark at last sought the rectory, where the Bishop andMonsignore awaited him. And almost desperately he sought to evade Ann, whose dinner had been kept waiting. Seeing the attempt was vain, hethrew up his hands. 

"Both hands up, Ann. I claim the protection of the Bishop. "

And Ann, not displeased, went on her way. 

CHAPTER XXIII

CHARRED WOOD

All Sihasset was in the little church next morning. Mrs. O'Leary, grand even in her widow's weeds, had a front seat before St. Joseph'saltar, where she could see everything, and crowded into the pew withher were all the little O'Leary's. The old lady had had somemisgivings about attending a wedding so soon after her husband's death;but the misgivings were finally banished for--as she confided to theeldest of her grandchildren--"Sure, 'tis Miss Ruth who is gettin'married, and himself would want me there. "

So Mrs. O'Leary arrived two hours ahead of time and secured her pointof vantage. Under more ordinary circumstances she would have had ahard time to quiet the energetic youngsters, but now they had enough tooccupy their minds, for when had they seen such gorgeous flowers, suchwonderful ferns? The sanctuary was massed with them, the little altarstanding out in vivid relief against their greenness. And then therewas that wonderful strip of white canvas down the center aisle, thatwhite strip that was so tempting to little feet, but which must not bestepped upon. And what were those kneeling benches for--the two drapedin white--one on each side of the open gateway, just inside thecommunion railing? And over on the left was a platform bearing a greatchair, and over it hung a canopy--only the children didn't call itso--of purple. 

They had never seen the sanctuary look like this before! And thentheir attention was attracted by the strains of the new organ, hurriedly bought for the occasion. The choir from the city waspractising before the service. Truly, the little O'Learys were gladthat "Grandma" had ignored their cries and had insisted on comingearly. And what would Miss Wilson say at not being permitted to playfor the wedding? That thought alone was enough to keep the littleminds busy. 

Outside, Main Street was decorated with flags; and the people, keenlyexpectant, were watching for His Excellency. Never before had theyknown the Minister of a Kingdom to step within the boundaries ofSihasset. Bishops had been seen there before, but Ministers were new, and international weddings had never come nearer than the greatmetropolis. Barons, too, were scarce, and who loves a baron--providedhe is not an American "baron"--any more than the simon-pure Yankee? Sothe decorations were up by order of the selectmen, and the merchantsvied with one another in making their own ornamentations as gorgeous aspossible. And the people--with the sole exception of theO'Learys--waited outside, each anxious to catch the first glimpse ofthe great man who to-day was to honor them by his presence. 

His Excellency arrived at last--in a low, swift-running automobile, thechauffeur of which seemed to know the road very well, and seemed alsoto be acquainted with every turn in the village. There was no one tonotice that, when he passed the gates of Killimaga, he laughed quietly. 

At Killimaga the gardens had never looked lovelier. Autumn was kindand contributed almost a summer sun. 

Father Murray tore himself away from his guests at the rectory--and whoshould those guests be but the old friends who had for so longneglected him--to run up before the ceremony to see Ruth. She wasalready arrayed in her bridal finery, but she rushed out to meet himwhen she heard that he had arrived. 

Holding her off at arm's length, he looked at her and said, "I think, dearie, that I am going to die very soon. "

"Die! Why, you old love, how could you get that notion into your head?"

"Because, " he answered, "I am so very, very happy--too happy. I havehad a great deal more, dear, than I was ever entitled to in this life. When I sent you away and went to Rome, I feared I had given you upforever; and, behold, here I am, with the silver hairs coming--a priestwith all the consolations that a priest can have, and yet I have adaughter, too. " And smiling in his own winning way, he added, "Andsuch a daughter!--even if she is really only a niece. "

Ruth laughed softly and drew his arm around her as she laid herslightly on his shoulder. 

"I am afraid, " she said, "that the daughter never deserved the kind ofa daddy she has had--the only one she ever knew. If Carlotta--"

But Father Murray interrupted hastily as he observed the touch ofsorrow in her voice. 

"Do not think of her to-day, my dear, " he said. "Put her out of yourmind. You have prayed for her, and so have I. It is all we can do, and we can always pray. Forget her until to-morrow and then--neverforget. "

Seeing that the sad look had not been entirely chased away, he added, cheerfully:

"Now, before I go back to the Bishop and my friends, I want to ask youone serious question. "

Ruth looked up with sudden interest. "As many as you like. "

He took her hands in his and looked keenly into her face. "It wasalways a mystery to me, " he said, "how you and Mark fell in love witheach other so promptly. He saw you coming out of the tree-door, thenhe met you once or twice, and after that he lost his head; andyou--minx!--you lost yours. I have often heard of love at first sight, but this is the only example I have ever seen of it. Explain, please, for the ways of youth are strange, and even yet--old as I am--I havenot learned to understand them. "

"Why, " she answered, "I had met him long before. Don't you rememberthat day in London when you said good-bye to your congregation? Haveyou forgotten that Ruth was there?" she asked archly, halfreproachfully. 

Father Murray's eyes lit up. "You remembered, then! Yes, yes. Hetold me of the little girl. And you really remembered?"

He was standing in front of her now, holding her at arm's length andlooking straight at her glowing face. 

"I remembered. I knew that day that you were suffering, and though Iwas only eight years old, I cried for you while I was sitting all alonein the big pew. He passed me, and smiled. When he came out again, hesaw that I was still crying. I asked him about you, and he saidsomething that went straight to my little girl's heart: he praised you. To soothe me, he took me in his arms and--well, " she added blushing, "he kissed me. I fell in love with that big man right there; I neverlost the memory of him or that kiss. When I saw him here at Killimaga, and when he told me what I wanted so badly to hear, I knew he was worthwaiting for. If you want to know more about the ways of youth, daddydear, " she continued saucily, "only know that I would have waited acentury--if I could have lived so long, and if I had had to wait. "

"Tell me, Ruth, what shall I give you? I alone have sent nothing, " hesaid. "'Ask and you shall receive, ' you know. What is to be my pooroffering for the wedding feast?"

"Will you promise beforehand to grant it?"

"If I can, dear, I will grant it. "

"Goody!" she cried, in almost childish glee. Then she stepped lightlyaway, her hands behind her, and, like a mischievous child, she leanedslightly forward as she spoke. "Here it is: Wear your purple to-day--Ilike it. "

"But, child, I don't want--"

One white hand was raised in protest, and he seemed once more to be inLondon, a tiny figure before him, the blue eyes open wide and thegraceful head nodding emphasis to each word:

"You--_promised_--uncle. "

Even so the child had spoken. Monsignore was learning more of the waysof youth. He sighed. 

"All right, " he granted, "I will wear the purple. "

"Thank you--and God bless you, Monsignore. "

"And God bless you, my child. " Monsignore lifted his hand in blessing, then hurried to the church to prepare for the Mass. 

The church was already crowded as he stepped from the sanctuary, cladin rich white vestments--a present from Mark. Leaning on the arm ofthe minister, Ruth came slowly up the aisle, her filmy lace veilflowing softly around her and far down over the delicate satin of hersweeping train. As they neared the altar where Monsignore stoodwaiting, her maids, friends who had come hurriedly from England, stepped aside and Mark took his stand at her right. Her small handtrembled in his as the words of the nuptial service were pronounced, but her eyes spoke volumes of love and trust. Then each sought aprie-dieu and knelt to pray, while the service went on and from thechoir rang the beautiful tones of the _Messe Solennelle_. The voicessoftened with the _Agnus Dei_, then faded into silence. Together thebride and groom approached the linen cloth held by the surpliced altarboys, and together they received the greatest of sacraments, thenreturned to their prie-dieux. 

The service over, Mark arose and joined his wife. Slowly the bridalparty went down the aisle and out to the waiting car which bore themswiftly to Killimaga. When the time came to part, Monsignore and hisguests accompanied Baron Griffin and his bride to the train, then oncemore sought the quiet of the ivy-clad rectory. 

But even the most pleasant of days must end. The happy group broke upas the guests departed, and at last Monsignore sat alone before theblazing fire which Ann had builded in the study, for the chill of theautumn evening was in the air. 

Mark and Ruth by this time were in Boston making ready to sail on themorrow. Ann had suggested a "cup of tay because you're tired, Monsignore, " but Monsignore wanted to be alone with his thoughts andwould have none of it. He wondered why he was not lonely, for he haddreaded the hours to follow his good-bye to Mark and Ruth. But lonelyhe was not, for he was happy. It seemed to him as if some mysteriousand forbidding gates had been suddenly flung open, and a flood ofhappiness loosed upon him. His last guest of the day had been theBishop, who had let all go before him that for an hour he might bealone with the friend who once had had all his love and all his trust. Now both love and trust were again his friend's, and the Bishop'spleasure was even greater than the priest's. 

"I would gladly give you both cross and crozier if I could, my friend, "His Lordship had said. 

"I will gladly take what I can of your cross, my dear Bishop, " FatherMurray had answered, very simply; "but I am happier to see the crozierin more worthy hands. God has been good to me. I am satisfied. "

"You will come to the cathedral as of old?" Though voiced as arequest, the words were a command. 

"Let me stay here, I beg of you, " pleaded the priest. "I am no longeryoung--"

"Age is not counted by years. "

"I love it here and--"

But the Bishop raised his hand, and the priest was silent. 

"You may stay for the present. That much I grant you. "

But Monsignore's heart was too full for long silence, his fears toogreat. He spoke hurriedly, pleadingly. 

"Will you not protect me?"

"I may not be able to protect you. "

"I am tired, my dear Bishop--tired, but contented. Here is rest, andpeace. And when _they_ come back, you know I want to be near them. Let me stay. "

"Yes, I know, " said the Bishop, and his voice forbade further plea. "You may stay--for the present. "

Then the Bishop, too, had left; and now Monsignore was alone. He satin his great armchair and watched the flames of the fire dancing andplaying before him. He marveled at his pleasure in them, as hemarveled at his pleasure now in the little things that were for thefuture to be the great things for him. Before his vision rose thecathedral he had builded, with its twin towers piercing the sky; butsomehow the new organ of the little church gave him greater pleasure. "The people were so happy about having it, " he had that day explainedto Father Darcy. His wonderful seminary on the heights had once seemedthe greatest thing in the world to him, but now it was less than themarble altars Mark had ordered for the little church only yesterday. He remembered the crowds that had hung upon his eloquence in the city, but now he knew that his very soul was mirrored in the simplediscourses to his poor in Sihasset. 

"I couldn't go back, " he said to the burning log, "I couldn't be greatagain when I know how much true happiness there is in being little. "

Then he lifted his eyes to where, from above the fireplace, theresmiled down at him the benign face of Pius the Tenth. "Poor Pope, " hesaid. "He has to be great, but this is what he would love. He nevercould get away from it quite. Doesn't he preach to the people yet, soas to feel the happiness of the pastor, and thus forget for an hour thefears and trials of the ruler?"

The fire was dying, but he did not stoop to replenish it. His thoughtswere too holy and comforting to be broken in upon. But they werebroken by Ann's knock. 

"That McCarthy is sick ag'in, " she said. "'Tis a nice time for thelikes of him to be botherin' yer Riverence. Will I tell them ye'll goin the mornin'?"

"No, Ann, tell them I'll go now. "

"Can't ye have wan night in peace?"

"McCarthy _is_ peace, Ann. You don't understand. "

No, Ann didn't understand. She only saw more labor. She didn'tunderstand that it was only this that the priest needed to crown theglory of his day. 

So Father Murray took his coat and hat and, with a light step, wentout--a father going to the son who needed him. 

He was not a bit tired when he came back to the blazing logs; but nowhe was perturbed, borne down by a prescience of coming change. Fromone point to another he walked--slowly, uneasily, pausing now and then. Finally he stood by his desk. Above it hung a large crucifix. Hislips moved in prayer as he gazed on the crucified Christ. Then idly hepicked up a book. It fell open in his hand, and he gazed thoughtfullyat the oft-scanned page. How many times had he pondered those twolines, "I fear to love thee, sweet, because Love's the ambassador of loss. "

Thus read the priest who felt that peace was no longer possible. For alittle while, perhaps--but not for long. The call would come again, and he would have to answer. He read once more, changing one word ashe spoke the lines softly to himself, "I fear to love thee, 'peace, ' because Love's the ambassador of loss. "

Yet, even in his vague unrest, this prelate who through humility hadfound the greater love, recalled his own words to Mark Griffin: "No onehas lost what he sincerely seeks to find. " Was not the past merely apreparation for the future? Peace might be found in any kind of duty. He looked up into the face of the sculptured Christ, and aswiftly-receding wave of agony swept across his mobile features, whilehis hand clenched tightly. "A soldier of the Cross, " he murmured, andthe hand was raised in quick salute. "Thy will be done. " It was hisfinal renunciation of self. 

Sinking into the chair before the desk, he sat there with bowed head. At last he arose and, the book still in his hand, went back to hischair by the fire. As he sat looking into the flames, his old dreamsof greater works rose up before him--those things that had been quiteforgotten in his days of sorrow. They were coming back to life, and hebegan to be half afraid of these, his dream children. Already theyseemed too real. 

Ann, all unconscious of his presence, opened the door; she paused, hesitatingly silent. 

"Well, Ann?" The voice was gentle, resigned. 

"A telegram, Father. "

He took the envelope which somehow reminded him of the yellow flames ofhis fire and seemed reaching out to grasp him. With a murmured prayerhe tore it open. It was a message from the Bishop. The words werefew, but only too easily understood by the priest who sought obscurity:

"Forgive me, my friend. I had not the heart to tell you the truth. Ineed you now, and then, perhaps, those greater than I. You may staybut a very little while. Come to me immediately after Christmas. "

The flame-colored message went to its kind amid the great logs of thefireplace. Father Murray picked up his book again, turned its pages, and read softly to himself:

 "Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must-- Designer Infinite-- Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?"