Master Tales of Mystery, Volume 3 (page 5)

was already headed for Baldwin’s ranch, with no likelihood of his stopping till he reached home. At least that was what I hoped; but there were a lot of ponies standing about, and, not knowing the markings of the one I had ridden, I wasn’t able to tell whether he might not be among them.

Just as the fragments of the papers were passed over to Mr. Camp, he was joined by Baldwin and the judge, and Camp held the torn pieces up to them, saying–

“They’ve torn the proxies in two.”

“Don’t let that trouble you,” said the judge. “Make an affidavit before me, reciting the manner in which they were destroyed, and I’ll grant you a mandamus compelling the directors to accept them as bona-fide proxies. Let me see how much injured they are.”

Camp unfolded the papers, and I chuckled to myself at the look of surprise that overspread his face as he took in the fact that they were nothing but section reports. And, though I don’t like cuss-words, I have to acknowledge that I enjoyed the two or three that he promptly ejaculated.

When the first surprise of the trio was over, they called on the sheriff, who arrived opportunely, to take us into 97 and search the three of us–a proceeding that puzzled Fred and his lordship not a little, for they weren’t on to the fact that the letters hadn’t been recovered. I presume the latter will some day write a book dwelling on the favorite theme of the foreigner, that there is no personal privacy in America, and I don’t know but his experiences justify the view. The running remarks as the search was made seemed to open Fred’s eyes, for he looked at me with a puzzled air, but I winked and frowned at him, and he put his face in order.

When the papers were not found on any of us, Camp and Baldwin both nearly went demented. Baldwin suggested that I had never had the papers, but Camp argued that Fred or Lord Ralles must have hidden them in the car, in spite of the fact that the cowboys who had caught them insisted that they couldn’t have had time to hide the papers. Anyway, they spent an hour in ferreting about in my car, and even searched my two darkies, on the possibility that the true letters had been passed on to them.

While they were engaged in this, I was trying to think out some way of letting Mr. Cullen and Albert know where the letters were. The problem was to suggest the saddle to them, without letting the cowboys understand, and by good luck I thought I had the means. Albert had complained to me the day we had ridden out to the Indian dwellings at Flagstaff that his saddle fretted some galled spots which he had chafed on his trip to Moran’s Point. Hoping he would “catch on,” I shouted to him–

“How are your sore spots, Albert?”

He looked at me in a puzzled way, and called, “Aw, I don’t understand you.”

“Those sore spots you complained about to me the day before yesterday,” I explained.

He didn’t seem any the less befogged as he replied, “I had forgotten all about them.”

“I’ve got a touch of the same trouble,” I went on; “and, if I were you, I’d look into the cause.”

Albert only looked very much mystified, and I didn’t dare say more, for at this point the trio, with the sheriff, came out of my car. If I hadn’t known that the letters were safe, I could have read the story in their faces, for more disgusted and angry-looking men I have rarely seen.

They had a talk with the sheriff, and then Fred, Lord Ralles, and I were marched off by the official, his lordship loudly demanding sight of a warrant, and protesting against the illegality of his arrest, varied at moments by threats to appeal to the British consul, minister plenipo., her Majesty’s Foreign Office, etc., all of which had about as much influence on the sheriff and his cowboy assistants as a Moqui Indian snake-dance would have in stopping a runaway engine. I confess to feeling a certain grim satisfaction in the fact that if I was to be shut off from seeing Madge, the Britisher was in the same box with me.

Ash Fork, though only six years old, had advanced far enough toward civilization to have a small jail, and into that we were shoved. Night was come by the time we were lodged there, and, being in pretty good appetite, I struck the sheriff for some grub.

“I’ll git yer somethin’,” he said, good-naturedly; “but next time yer shove people, Mr. Gordon, just quit shovin’ yer friends. My shoulder feels like–” perhaps it’s just as well not to say what his shoulder felt like. The Western vocabulary is expressive, but at times not quite fit for publication.

The moment the sheriff was gone, Fred wanted the mystery of the letters explained, and I told him all there was to tell, including as good a description of the pony as I could give him. We tried to hit on some plan to get word to those outside, but it wasn’t to be done. At least it was a point gained that some one of our party besides myself knew where the letters were.

The sheriff returned presently with a loaf of canned bread and a tin of beans. If I had been alone, I should have kicked at the food and got permission for my darkies to send me up something from 97; but I thought I’d see how Lord Ralles would like genuine Western fare, so I said nothing. That, I have to state, is more–or rather less–than the Britisher did, after he had sampled the stuff; and really I don’t blame him, much as I enjoyed his rage and disgust.

It didn’t take long to finish our supper, and then Fred, who hadn’t slept much the night before, stretched out on the floor and went to sleep. Lord Ralles and I sat on boxes–the only furniture the room contained–about as far apart as we could get, he in the sulks, and I whistling cheerfully. I should have liked to be with Madge, but he wasn’t; so there was some compensation, and I knew that time was playing the cards in our favor: so long as they hadn’t found the letters we had only to sit still to win.

About an hour after supper, the sheriff came back and told me Camp and Baldwin wanted to see me. I saw no reason to object, so in they came, accompanied by the judge. Baldwin opened the ball by saying genially–

“Well, Mr. Gordon, you’ve played a pretty cute gamble, and I suppose you think you stand to win the pot.”

“I’m not complaining,” I said.

“Still,” snarled Camp, angrily, as if my contented manner fretted him, “our time will come presently, and we can make it pretty uncomfortable for you. Illegal proceedings put a man in jail in the long run.”

“I hope you take your lesson to heart,” I remarked cheerfully, which made Camp scowl worse than ever.

“Now,” said Baldwin, who kept cool, “we know you are not risking loss of position and the State’s prison for nothing, and we want to know what there is in it for you?”

“I wouldn’t stake my chance of State’s prison against yours, gentlemen. And, while I may lose my position, I’ll be a long way from starvation.”

“That doesn’t tell us what Cullen gives you to take the risk.”

“Mr. Cullen hasn’t given, or even hinted that he’ll give, anything.”

“And Mr. Gordon hasn’t asked, and, if I know him, wouldn’t take a cent for what he has done,” said Fred, rising from the floor.

“You mean to say you are doing it for nothing?” exclaimed Camp, incredulously.

“That’s about the truth of it,” I said; though I thought of Madge as I said it, and felt guilty in suggesting that she was nothing.

“Then what is your motive?” cried Baldwin.

If there had been any use, I should have replied, “The right;” but I knew that they would only think I was posing if I said it. Instead I replied: “Mr. Cullen’s party has the stock majority in their favor, and would have won a fair fight if you had played fair. Since you didn’t, I’m doing my best to put things to right.”

Camp cried, “All the more fool–” but Baldwin interrupted him by saying–

“That only shows what a mean cuss Cullen is. He ought to give you ten thousand, if he gives you a cent.”

“Yes,” cried Camp, “those letters are worth money, whether he’s offered it or not.”

“Mr. Cullen never so much as hinted paying me,” said I.

“Well, Mr. Gordon,” said Baldwin, suavely, “we’ll show you that we can be more liberal. Though the letters rightfully belong to Mr. Camp, if you’ll deliver them to us we’ll see that you don’t lose your place, and we’ll give you five thousand dollars.”

I glanced at Fred, whom I found looking at me anxiously, and asked him–

“Can’t you do better than that?”

“We could with any one but you,” said Fred.

I should have liked to shake hands over this compliment, but I only nodded, and turning to Mr. Camp, said–

“You see how mean they are.”

“You’ll find we are not built that way,” said Baldwin. “Five thousand isn’t a bad day’s work, eh?”

“No,” I said, laughing; “but you just told me I ought to get ten thousand if I got a cent.”

“It’s worth ten to Mr. Cullen, but–”

I interrupted by saying, “If it’s worth ten to him, it’s worth a hundred to me.”

That was too much for Camp. First he said something best omitted, and then went on, “I told you it was waste of time trying to win him over.”

The three stood apart for a moment whispering, and then Judge Wilson called the sheriff over, and they all went out together. The moment we were alone, Frederic held out his hand, and said–

“Gordon, it’s no use saying anything, but if we can ever do–”

I merely shook hands, but I wanted the worst way to say–

“Tell Madge what I’ve done, and the thing’s square.”

CHAPTER XIII

A LESSON IN POLITENESS

Within five minutes we had a big surprise, for the sheriff and Mr. Baldwin came back, and the former announced that Fred and Lord Ralles were free, having been released on bail. When we found that Baldwin had gone on the bond, I knew that there was a scheme of some sort in the move, and, taking Fred aside, I warned him against trying to recover the proxies.

“They probably think that one or the other of you knows where the letters are hidden,” I whispered, “and they’ll keep a watch on you; so go slow.”

He nodded, and followed the sheriff and Lord Ralles out.

The moment they were gone, Mr. Camp said, “I came back to give you a last chance.”

“That’s very good of you,” I said.

“I warn you,” he muttered threateningly, “we are not men to be beaten. There are fifty cowboys of Baldwin’s in this town, who think you were concerned in the holding up. By merely tipping them the wink, they’ll have you out of this, and after they’ve got you outside I wouldn’t give the toss of a nickel for your life. Now, then, will you hand over those letters, or will you go to —- inside of ten minutes?”

I lost my temper in turn. “I’d much prefer going to some place where I was less sure of meeting you,” I retorted; “and as for the cowboys, you’ll have to be as tricky with them as you want to be with me before you’ll get them to back you up in your dirty work.”

At this point the sheriff called back to ask Camp if he was coming.

“All right,” cried Camp, and went to the door. “This is the last call,” he snarled, pausing for a moment on the threshold.

“I hope so,” said I, more calmly in manner than in feeling, I have to acknowledge, for I didn’t like the look of things. That they were in earnest I felt pretty certain, for I understood now why they had let my companions out of jail. They knew that angry cowboys were a trifle undiscriminating, and didn’t care to risk hanging more than was necessary.

A long time seemed to pass after they were gone, but in reality it wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before I heard some one steal up and softly unlock the door. I confess the evident endeavor to do it quietly gave me a scare, for it seemed to me it couldn’t be an above-board movement. Thinking this, I picked up the box on which I had been sitting and prepared to make the best fight I could. It was a good deal of relief, therefore, when the door opened just wide enough for a man to put in his head, and I heard the sheriff’s voice say, softly–

“Hi, Gordon!”

I was at the door in an instant, and asked–

“What’s up?”

“They’re gettin’ the fellers together, and sayin’ that yer shot a woman in the hold-up.”

“It’s an infernal lie,” I said.

“Sounds that way to me,” assented the sheriff; “but two-thirds of the boys are drunk, and it’s a long time since they’ve had any fun.”

“Well,” I said, as calmly as I could, “are you going to stand by me?”

“I would, Mr. Gordon,” he replied, “if there was any good, but there ain’t time to get a posse, and what’s one Winchester against a mob of cowboys like them?”

“If you’ll lend me your gun,” I said, “I’ll show just what it is worth, without troubling you.”

“I’ll do better than that,” offered the sheriff, “and that’s what I’m here for. Just sneak, while there’s time.”

“You mean–?” I exclaimed.

“That’s it. I’m goin’ away, and I’ll leave the door unlocked. If yer get clear let me know yer address, and later, if I want yer, I’ll send yer word.” He took a grip on my fingers that numbed them as if they had been caught in an air-brake, and disappeared.

I slipped out after the sheriff without loss of time. That there wasn’t much to spare was shown by a crowd with some torches down the street, collected in front of a saloon. They were making a good deal of noise, even for the West; evidently the flame was being fanned. Not wasting time, I struck for the railroad, because I knew the geography of that best, but still more because I wanted to get to the station. It was a big risk to go there, but it was one I was willing to take for the object I had in view, and, since I had to take it, it was safest to get through with the job before the discovery was made that I was no longer in jail.

It didn’t take me three minutes to reach the station. The whole place was black as a coal-dumper, except for the slices of light which shone through the cracks of the curtained windows in the specials, the dim light of the lamp in the station, and the glow of the row of saloons two hundred feet away. I was afraid, however, that there might be a spy lurking somewhere, for it was likely that Camp would hope to get some clue of the letters by keeping a watch on the station and the cars. Thinking boldness the safest course, I walked on to the platform without hesitation, and went into the station. The “night man” was sitting in his chair, nodding, but he waked up the moment I spoke.

“Don’t speak my name,” I said, warningly, as he struggled to his feet; and then in the fewest possible words I told him what I wanted of him–to find if the pony I had ridden (Camp’s or Baldwin’s) was in town and, if so, to learn where it was, and to get the letters on the quiet from under the saddle-flap. I chose this man, first because I could trust him, and next, because I had only one of the Cullens as an alternative, and if any of them went sneaking round, it would be sure to attract attention. “The moment you have the letters, put them in the station safe,” I ended, “and then get word to me.”

“And where’ll you be, Mr. Gordon?” asked the man.

“Is there any place about here that’s a safe hiding spot for a few hours?” I asked. “I want to stay till I’m sure those letters are safe, and after that I’ll steal on board the first train that comes along.”

“Then you’ll want to be near here,” said the man. “I’ll tell you, I’ve got just the place for you. The platform’s boarded in all round, but I noticed one plank that’s loose at one end, right at this nigh corner, and if you just pry it open enough to get in, and then pull the board in place, they’ll never find you.”

“That will do,” I said; “and when the letters are safe, come out on the platform, walk up and down once, bang the door twice, and then say, ‘That way freight is late.’ And if you get a chance, tell one of the Cullens where I’m hidden.”

I crossed the platform boldly, jumped down, and walked away. But after going fifty feet I dropped down on my hands and knees and crawled back. Inside of two minutes I was safely stowed away under the platform, in about as neat a hiding-place as a man could ask. In fact, if I had only had my wits enough about me to borrow a revolver of the man, I could have made a pretty good defence, even if discovered.

Underneath the platform was loose gravel, and, as an additional precaution, I scooped out, close to the side-boarding, a trough long enough for me to lie in. Then I got into the hole, shovelled the sand over my legs, and piled the rest up in a heap close to me, so that by a few sweeps of my arm I could cover my whole body, leaving only my mouth and nose exposed, and those below the level. That made me feel pretty safe, for, even if the cowboys found the loose plank and crawled in, it would take uncommon good eyesight, in the darkness, to find me. I had hollowed out my living grave to fit, and if I could have smoked, I should have been decidedly comfortable. Sleep I dared not indulge in, and the sequel showed that I was right in not allowing myself that luxury.

I hadn’t much more than comfortably settled myself, and let thoughts of a cigar and a nap flit through my mind, when a row up the street showed that the jail-breaking had been discovered. Then followed shouts and confusion for a few moments, while a search was being organized. I heard some horsemen ride over the tracks, and also down the street, followed by the hurried footsteps of half a dozen men. Some banged at the doors of the specials, while others knocked at the station door.

One of the Cullens’ servants opened the door of 218, and I heard the sheriff’s voice telling him he’d got to search the car. The darky protested, saying that the “gentmun was all away, and only de miss inside.” The row brought Miss Cullen to the door, and I heard her ask what was the matter.

“Sorry to trouble yer, miss,” said the sheriff, “but a prisoner has broken jail, and we’ve got to look for him.”

“Escaped!” cried Madge, joyfully. “How?”

“That’s just what gits away with me,” marvelled the sheriff. “My idee is–”

“Don’t waste time on theories,” said Camp’s voice, angrily. “Search the car.”

“Sorry to discommode a lady,” apologized the sheriff, gallantly, “but if we may just look around a little?”

“My father and brothers went out a few minutes ago,” said Madge, hesitatingly, “and I don’t know if they would be willing.”

Camp laughed angrily, and ordered, “Stand aside, there.”

“Don’t yer worry,” said the sheriff. “If he’s on the car, he can’t git away. We’ll send a feller up for Mr. Cullen, while we search Mr. Gordon’s car and the station.”

They set about it at once, and used up ten minutes in the task. Then I heard Camp say–

“Come, we can’t wait all night for permission to search this car. Go ahead.”

“I hope you’ll wait till my father comes,” begged Madge.

“Now go slow, Mr. Camp,” said the sheriff: “We mustn’t discomfort the lady if we can avoid it.”

“I believe you’re wasting time in order to help him escape,” snapped Camp.

“Nothin’ of the kind,” denied the sheriff.

“If you won’t do your duty, I’ll take the law into my own hands, and order the car searched,” sputtered Camp, so angry as hardly to be able to articulate.

“Look a here,” growled the sheriff, “who are yer sayin’ all this to anyway? If yer talkin’ to me, say so right off.”

“All I mean,” hastily said Camp, “is that it’s your duty, in your honorable position, to search this car.”

“I don’t need no instructing in my dooty as sheriff,” retorted the official. “But a bigger dooty is what is owin’ to the feminine sex. When a female is in question, a gentleman, Mr. Camp–yes, sir, a gentleman–is in dooty bound to be perlite.”

“Politeness be —- —-!” swore Camp.

“Git as angry as yer —- please,” roared the sheriff wrathfully, “but —- my soul to —- if any —- —- cuss has a right to use such —- —- talk in the presence of a lady!”

CHAPTER XIV

“LISTENERS NEVER HEAR ANYTHING GOOD”

Before I had ceased chuckling over the sheriff’s indignant declaration of the canons of etiquette, I heard Mr. Cullen’s voice demanding to know what the trouble was, and it was quickly explained to him that I had escaped. He at once gave them permission to search his car, and went in with the sheriff and the cowboys. Apparently Madge went in too, for in a moment I heard Camp say, in a low voice–

“Two of you fellows get down below the car and crawl in under the truck where you can’t be seen. Evidently that cuss isn’t here, but he’s likely to come by and by. If so, nab him if you can, and if you can’t, fire two shots. Mosely, are you heeled?”

“Do I chaw terbaccy?” asked Mosely, ironically, clearly insulted at the suggestion that he would travel without a gun.

“Then keep a sharp lookout, and listen to everything you hear, especially the whereabouts of some letters. If you can spot their lay, crawl out and get word to me at once. Now, under you go before they come out.”

I heard two men drop into the gravel close alongside of where I lay, and then crawl under the truck of 218. They weren’t a moment too soon, for the next instant I heard two or three people jump on to the platform, and Albert Cullen’s voice drawl, “Aw, by Jove, what’s the row?” Camp not enlightening them, Lord Ralles suggested that they get on the car to find out, and the three did so. A moment later the sheriff came to the door and told Camp that I was not to be found.

“I told yer this was the last place to look for the cuss, Mr. Camp,” he said. “We’ve just discomforted the lady for nothin’.”

“Then we must search elsewhere,” spoke up Camp. “Come on, boys.”

The sheriff turned and made another elaborate apology for having had to trouble the lady.

I heard Madge tell him that he hadn’t troubled her at all, and then, as the cowboys and Camp walked off, she added, “And, Mr. Gunton, I want to thank you for reproving Mr. Camp’s dreadful swearing.”

“Thank yer, miss,” said the sheriff. “We fellers are a little rough at times, but —- me if we don’t know what’s due to a lady.”

“Papa,” said Madge, as soon as he was out of hearing, “the sheriff is the most beautiful swearer I ever heard.”

For a while there was silence round the station; I suppose the party in 218 were comparing notes, while the two cowboys and I had the best reasons for being quiet. Presently, however, the men came out of the car and jumped down on the platform. Madge evidently followed them to the door, for she called, “Please let me know the moment something happens or you learn anything.”

“Better go to bed, Madgy,” Albert called. “You’ll only worry, and it’s after three.”

“I couldn’t sleep if I tried,” she answered.

Their footsteps died away in a moment, and I heard her close the door of 218. In a few moments she opened it again, and, stepping down to the station platform, began to pace up and down it. If I had only dared, I could have put my finger through the crack of the planks and touched her foot as she walked over my head, but I was afraid it might startle her into a shriek, and there was no explaining to her what it meant without telling the cowboys how close they were to their quarry.

Madge hadn’t walked from one end of the platform to the other more than three or four times, when I heard some one coming. She evidently heard it also, for she said–

“I began to be afraid you hadn’t understood me.”

“I thought you told me to see first if I were needed,” responded a voice that even the distance and the planks did not prevent me from recognizing as that of Lord Ralles.

“Yes,” said she. “You are sure you can be spared?”

“I couldn’t be of the slightest use,” asserted Ralles, getting on to the platform and joining Madge. “It’s as black as ink everywhere, and I don’t think there’s anything to be done till daylight.”

“Then I’m glad you came back, for I really want to say something–to ask the greatest favor of you.”

“You only have to tell me what it is,” said his lordship.

“Even that is very hard,” murmured Madge. “If–if–Oh! I’m afraid I haven’t the courage, after all.”

“I’ll be glad to do anything I can.”

“It’s–well–Oh, dear, I can’t. Let’s walk a little, while I think how to put it.”

They began to walk, which took a weight off my mind, as I had been forced to hear every word thus far spoken, and was dreading what might follow, since I was perfectly helpless to warn them. The platform was built around the station, and in a moment they were out of hearing.

Before many seconds were over, however, they had walked round the building, and I heard Lord Ralles say–

“You really don’t mean that he’s insulted you?”

“That is just what I do mean,” cried Madge, indignantly. “It’s been almost past endurance. I haven’t dared to tell any one, but he had the cruelty, the meanness, on Hance’s trail to threaten that–”

At that point the walkers turned the corner again, and I could not hear the rest of the sentence. But I had heard more than enough to make me grow hot with mortification, even while I could hardly believe I had understood aright. Madge had been so kind to me lately that I couldn’t think she had been feeling as bitterly as she spoke. That such an apparently frank girl was a consummate actress wasn’t to be thought, and yet–I remembered how well she had played her part on Hance’s trail; but even that wouldn’t convince me. Proof of her duplicity came quickly enough, for, while I was still thinking, the walkers were round again, and Lord Ralles was saying–

“Why haven’t you complained to your father or brothers?”

“Because I knew they would resent his conduct to me, and–”

“Of course they would,” cried her companion, interrupting. “But why should you object to that?”

“Because of the letters,” explained Madge. “Don’t you see that if we made him angry he would betray us to Mr. Camp, and–”

Then they passed out of hearing, leaving me almost desperate, both at being an eavesdropper to such a conversation, and that Madge could think so meanly of me. To say it, too, to Lord Ralles made it cut all the deeper, as any fellow who had been in love will understand.

Round they came again in a moment, and I braced myself for the lash of the whip that I felt was coming. I didn’t escape it, for Madge was saying–

“Can you conceive of a man pretending to care for a girl and yet treating her so? I can’t tell you the grief, the mortification, I have endured.” She spoke with a half-sob in her throat, as if she was struggling not to cry, which made me wish I had never been born. “It’s been all I could do to control myself in his presence, I have come so utterly to hate and despise him,” she added.

“I don’t wonder,” growled Lord Ralles. “My only surprise is–”

With that they passed out of hearing again, leaving me fairly desperate with shame, grief, and, I’m afraid, with anger.

I felt at once guilty and yet wronged. I knew my conduct on the trail must have seemed to her ungentlemanly because I had never dared to explain that my action there had been a pure bluff, and that I wouldn’t have really searched her for–well, for anything; but though she might think badly of me for that, yet I had done my best to counter-balance it, and was running big risks, both present and eventual, for Madge’s sake. Yet here she was acknowledging that thus far she had used me as a puppet, while all the time disliking me. It was a terrible blow, made all the harder by the fact that she was proving herself such a different girl from the one I loved–so different, in fact, that, despite what I had heard, I couldn’t quite believe it of her, and found myself seeking to extenuate and even justify her conduct. While I was doing this, they came within hearing, and Lord Ralles was speaking.

“–with you,” he said. “But I still do not see what I can do, however much I may wish to serve you.”

“Can’t you go to him and insist that he–or tell him what I really feel toward him–or anything, in fact, to shame him? I really can’t go on acting longer.”

That reached the limit of my endurance, and I crawled from my burrow, intending to get out from under that platform, whether I was caught or not. I know it was a foolish move; after having heard what I had, a little more or less was quite immaterial. But I entirely forgot my danger, in the sting of what Madge had said, and my one thought was to stand face to face with her long enough to–I’m sure I don’t know what I intended to say.

Just as I reached the plank, however, I heard Lord Ralles ask–

“Who’s that?”

“It’s me,” said a voice,–“the station agent.” Then I heard a door close. Some one walked out to the centre of the platform and remarked–

“That ‘ere way freight is late.”

At least the letters were recovered.

CHAPTER XV

THE SURRENDER OF THE LETTERS

If the letters were safe, that was a good deal more than I was. The moment the station-master had made his agreed-upon announcement, he said to the walkers–

“Had any news of Mr. Gordon?”

“No,” replied Lord Ralles. “And, as the lights keep moving in the town, they must still be hunting for him.”

“I reckon they’ll do considerable more huntin’ before they find him up there,” chuckled the man, with a self-important manner. “He’s hidden away under this ere platform.”

“Not right here?” I heard Madge cry, but I had too much to do to take in what followed. I was lying close to the loose plank, and even before the station-master had completed his sentence I was squirming through the crack. As I freed my legs I heard two shots, which I knew was the signal given by the cowboys, followed by a shriek of fright from Madge, for which she was hardly to be blamed. I was on my feet in an instant and ran down the tracks at my best speed. It wasn’t with much hope of escape, for once out from under the planking I found, what I had not before realized, that day was dawning, and already outlines at a distance could be seen. However, I was bound to do my best, and I did it.

Before I had run a hundred feet I could hear pursuers, and a moment later a revolver cracked, ploughing up the dust in front of me. Another bullet followed, and, seeing that affairs were getting desperate, I dodged round the end of some cars, only to plump into a man running at full speed. The collision was so unexpected that we both fell, and before I could get on my feet one of my pursuers plumped down on top of me and I felt something cold on the back of my neck.

“Lie still, yer sneakin’ coyote of a road agent,” said the man, “or I’ll blow yer so full of lead that yer couldn’t float in Salt Lake.”

I preferred to take his advice, and lay quiet while the cowboys gathered. From all directions I heard them coming, calling to each other that “the skunk that shot the woman is corralled,” and other forms of the same information. In a moment I was jerked to my feet, only to be swept off them with equal celerity, and was half carried, half dragged, along the tracks. It wasn’t as rough handling as I have taken on the foot-ball-field, but I didn’t enjoy it.

In a space of time that seemed only seconds, I was close to a telegraph-pole; but, brief as the moment had been, a fellow with a lariat tied round his waist was half-way up the post. I knew the mob had been told that I had killed a woman in the hold-up, for the cowboy, bad as he is, has his own standards, beyond which he won’t go. But I might as well have tried to tell my innocence to the moon as to get them to listen to denials, even if I could have made my voice heard.

The lariat was dropped over the cross-piece, and as a man adjusted the noose a sudden silence fell. I thought it was a little sense of what they were doing, but it was merely due to the command of Baldwin, who, with Camp, stood just outside the mob.

“Let me say a word before you pull,” he called, and then to me he said, “Now will you give up the property?”

I was pretty pale and shaky, but I come of stiffish stock, and I wouldn’t have backed down then, it seemed to me, if they had been going to boil me alive. I suppose it sounds foolish, and if I had had plenty of time I have no doubt my common-sense would have made me crawl. Not having time, I was on the point of saying “No,” when the door of 218, which lay about two hundred yards away, flew open, and out came Mr. Cullen, Fred, Albert, Lord Ralles, and Captain Ackland, all with rifles. Of course it was perfect desperation for the five to tackle the cowboys, but they were game to do it, all the same.

How it would have ended I don’t know, but as they sprang off the car platform Miss Cullen came out on it, and stood there, one hand holding on to the door-way, as if she needed support, and the other covering her heart. It was too far for me to see her face, but the whole attitude expressed such suffering that it was terrible to see. What was more, her position put her in range of every shot the cowboys might fire at the five as they charged. If I could have stopped them I would have done so, but, since that was impossible, I cried–

“Mr. Camp, I’ll surrender the letters.”

“Hold on, boys,” shouted Baldwin; “wait till we get the property he stole.” And, coming through the crowd, he threw the noose off my neck.

“Don’t shoot, Mr. Cullen,” I yelled, as my friends halted and raised their rifles, and, fortunately, the cowboys had opened up enough to let them hear me and see that I was free of the rope.

Escorted by Camp, Baldwin, and the cowboys, I walked toward them. On the way Baldwin said, in a low voice, “Deliver the letters, and we’ll tell the boys there has been a mistake. Otherwise–”

When we came up to the five, I called to them that I had agreed to surrender the letters. While I was saying it, Miss Cullen joined them, and it was curious to see how respectfully the cowboys took off their hats and fell back.

“You are quite right,” Mr. Cullen called. “Give them the letters at once.”

“Oh, do, Mr. Gordon,” said Madge, still white and breathless with emotion. “The money is nothing. Don’t think–” It was all she could say.

I felt pretty small, but with Camp and Baldwin, now reinforced by Judge Wilson, I went to the station, ordered the agent to open the safe, took out the three letters, and handed them to Mr. Camp, realizing how poor Madge must have felt on Hance’s trail. It was a pretty big take down to my pride I tell you, and made all the worse by the way the three gloated over the letters and over our defeat.

“We’ve taught you a lesson, young man,” sneered Camp, as after opening the envelopes, to assure himself that the proxies were all right, he tucked them into his pocket. “And we’ll teach you another one after to-day’s election.”

Just as he concluded, we heard outside the first note of a bugle, and as it sounded “By fours, column left,” my heart gave a big jump, and the blood came rushing to my face. Camp, Baldwin, and Wilson broke for the door, but I got there first, and prevented their escape. They tried to force their way through, but I hadn’t blocked and interfered at football for nothing, and they might as well have tried to break through the Sierras. Discovering this, Camp whipped out his gun, and told me to let them out. Being used to the West, I recognized the goodness of the argument and stepped out on the platform, giving them free passage. But the twenty seconds I had delayed them had cooked their goose, for outside was a squadron of cavalry swinging a circle round the station; and we had barely reached the platform when the bugle sounded “Halt,” quickly followed by “Forward left.” As the ranks wheeled, and closed up as a solid line about us, I could have cheered with delight. There was a moment’s dramatic hush, in which we could all hear the breathing of the winded horses, and then came the clatter of sword and spurs, as an officer sprang from his saddle.

“I want Richard Gordon,” the officer called.

I responded, “At your service, and badly in need of yours, Captain Singer.”

“Hope the delay hasn’t spoilt things,” said the captain. “We had a cursed fool of a guide, who took the wrong trail and ran us into Limestone Canon, where we had to camp for the night.”

I explained the situation as quickly as I could, and the captain’s eyes gleamed. “I’d have given a bad quarter to have got here ten minutes sooner and ridden my men over those scoundrels,” he muttered. “I saw them scatter as we rode up, and if I’d known what they’d been doing we’d have given them a volley.” Then he walked over to Mr. Camp and said, “Give me those letters.”

“I hold those letters by virtue of an order–” Camp began.

“Give me those letters,” the captain interrupted.

“Do you intend a high-handed interference with the civil authorities?” Judge Wilson demanded.

“Come, come,” said the captain, sternly. “You have taken forcible possession of United States property. Any talk about civil authorities is rubbish, and you know it.”

“I will never–” cried Mr. Camp.

“Corporal Jackson, dismount a guard of six men,” rang the captain’s voice, interrupting him.

Evidently something in the voice or order convinced Mr. Camp, for the letters were hastily produced and given to Singer, who at once handed them to me. I turned with them to the Cullens, and, laughing, quoted, “‘All’s well that ends well.'”

But they didn’t seem to care a bit about the recovery of the letters, and only wanted to have a hand-shake all round over my escape. Even Lord Ralles said, “Glad we could be of a little service,” and didn’t refuse my thanks, though the deuce knows they were badly enough expressed, in my consciousness that I had done an ungentlemanly trick over those trousers of his, and that he had been above remembering it when I was in real danger. I’m ashamed enough to confess that when Miss Cullen held out her hand I made believe not to see it. I’m a bad hand at pretending, and I saw Madge color up at my act.

The captain finally called me off to consult about our proceedings. I felt no very strong love for Camp, Baldwin, or Wilson, but I didn’t see that a military arrest would accomplish anything, and after a little discussion it was decided to let them alone, as we could well afford to do, having won.

This matter decided, I said to the captain, “I’ll be obliged if you’ll put a guard round my car. And then, if you and your officers will come inside it, I have a–something in a bottle, recommended for removing alkali dust from the tonsils.”

“Very happy to test your prescription,” responded Singer, genially.

I started to go with him, but I couldn’t resist turning to Mr. Camp and his friends and saying–

“Gentlemen, the G.S. is a big affair, but it isn’t quite big enough to fight the U.S.”

CHAPTER XVI

A GLOOMY GOOD-BY

At that point my importance ceased. Apparently seeing that the game was up, Mr. Camp later in the morning asked Mr. Cullen to give him an interview, and when he was allowed to pass the sentry he came to the steps and suggested–

“Perhaps we can arrange a compromise between the Missouri Western and the Great Southern?”

“We can try,” Mr. Cullen assented. “Come into my car.” He made way for Mr. Camp, and was about to follow him, when Madge took hold of her father’s arm, and, making him stoop, whispered something to him.

“What kind of a place?” asked Mr. Cullen, laughing.

“A good one,” his daughter replied.

I thought I understood what was meant. She didn’t want to rest under an obligation, and so I was to be paid up for what I had done by promotion. It made me grit my teeth, and if I hadn’t taught myself not to swear, because of my position, I could have given sheriff Gunton points on cursing. I wanted to speak up right there and tell Miss Cullen what I thought of her.

Of the interview which took place inside 218, I can speak only at second-hand, and the world knows about as well as I how the contest was compromised by the K. & A. being turned over to the Missouri Western, the territory in Southern California being divided between the California Central and the Great Southern, and a traffic arrangement agreed upon that satisfied the G.S. That afternoon a Missouri Western board for the K. & A. was elected without opposition, and they in turn elected Mr. Cullen president of the K. & A.; so when my report of the holding-up went in, he had the pleasure of reading it. I closed it with a request for instructions, but I never received any, and that ended the matter. I turned over the letters to the special agent at Flagstaff, and I suppose his report is slumbering in some pigeon-hole in Washington, for I should have known of any attempt to bring the culprits to punishment. Mr. Cullen had taken a big risk, but came out of it with a great lot of money, for the Missouri Western bought all his holdings in the K. & A. and C.C. But the scare must have taught him a lesson, for ever since then he’s been conservative, and talks about the foolishness of investors who try to get more than five per cent, or who think of anything but good railroad bonds.

As for myself, a month after these occurrences I was appointed superintendent of the Missouri Western, which by this deal had become one of the largest railroad systems in the world. It was a big step up for so young a man, and was of course pure favoritism, due to Mr. Cullen’s influence. I didn’t stay in the position long, for within two years I was offered the presidency of the Chicago & St. Paul, and I think that was won on merit. Whether or not, I hold the position still, and have made my road earn and pay dividends right through the panic.

All this is getting away ahead of events, however. The election delayed us so that we couldn’t couple on to No. 4 that afternoon, and consequently we had to lie that night at Ash Fork. I made the officers my excuse for keeping away from the Cullens, as I wished to avoid Madge. I did my best to be good company to the bluecoats, and had a first-class dinner for them on my car, but I was in a pretty glum mood, which even champagne couldn’t modify. Though all necessity of a guard ceased with the compromise, the cavalry remained till the next morning, and, after giving them a good breakfast, about six o’clock we shook hands, the bugle sounded, and off they rode. For the first time I understood how a fellow disappointed in love comes to enlist.

When I turned about to go into my car, I found Madge standing on the platform of 218 waving a handkerchief. I paid no attention to her, and started up my steps.

“Mr. Gordon,” she said–and when I looked at her I saw that she was flushing–“what is the matter?”

I suppose most fellows would have found some excuse, but for the life of me I couldn’t. All I was able to say was–

“I would rather not say, Miss Cullen.”

“How unfair you are!” she cried. “You–without the slightest reason you suddenly go out of your way to ill-treat–insult me, and yet will not tell me the cause.”

That made me angry. “Cause?” I cried. “As if you didn’t know of a cause! What you don’t know is that I overheard your conversation with Lord Ralles night before last.”

“My conversation with Lord Ralles?” exclaimed Madge, in a bewildered way.

“Yes,” I said bitterly, “keep up the acting. The practice is good, even if it deceives no one.”

“I don’t understand a word you are saying,” she retorted, getting angry in turn. “You speak as if I had done wrong–as if–I don’t know what; and I have a right to know to what you allude.”

“I don’t see how I can be any clearer,” I muttered. “I was under the station platform, hiding from the cowboys, while you and Lord Ralles were walking. I didn’t want to be a listener, but I heard a good deal of what you said.”

“But I didn’t walk with Lord Ralles,” she cried, “The only person I walked with was Captain Ackland.”

That took me very much aback, for I had never questioned in my mind that it wasn’t Lord Ralles. Yet the moment she spoke, I realized how much alike the two brothers’ voices were, and how easily the blurring of distance and planking might have misled me. For a moment I was speechless. Then I replied coldly–

“It makes no difference with whom you were. What you said was the essential part.”

“But how could you for an instant suppose that I could say what I did to Lord Ralles?” she demanded.

“I naturally thought he would be the one to whom you would appeal concerning my ‘insulting’ conduct.”

Madge looked at me for a moment as if transfixed. Then she laughed, and cried–

“Oh, you idiot!”

While I still looked at her in equal amazement, she went on, “I beg your pardon, but you are so ridiculous that I had to say it. Why, I wasn’t talking about you, but about Lord Ralles.”

“Lord Ralles!” I cried.

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand,” I exclaimed.

“Why, Lord Ralles has been–has been–oh, he’s threatened that if I wouldn’t–that–”

“You mean he–?” I began, and then stopped, for I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Oh,” she burst out, “of course you couldn’t understand, and you probably despise me already, but if you knew how I scorn myself, Mr. Gordon, and what I have endured from that man, you would only pity me.”

Light broke on me suddenly. “Do you mean, Miss Cullen,” I cried hotly, “that he’s been cad enough to force his attentions upon you by threats?”

“Yes. First he made me endure him because he was going to help us, and from the moment the robbery was done, he has been threatening to tell. Oh, how I have suffered!”

Then I said a very silly thing. “Miss Cullen,” I groaned, “I’d give anything if I were only your brother.” For the moment I really meant it.

“I haven’t dared to tell any of them,” she explained, “because I knew they would resent it and make Lord Ralles angry, and then he would tell, and so ruin papa. It seemed such a little thing to bear for his sake, but, oh, it’s been–suppose you despise me!”

“I never dreamed of despising you,” I said. “I only thought, of course–seeing what I did–and–that you were fond–No–that is–I mean–well–The beast!” I couldn’t help exclaiming.

“Oh,” said Madge, blushing, and stammering breathlessly, “you mustn’t think–there was really–you happened to–usually I managed to keep with papa or my brothers, or else run away, as I did when he interrupted my letter-writing–when you thought we had–but it was nothing of the–I kept away just–but the night of the robbery I forgot, and on the trail his mule blocked the path. He never–there really wasn’t–you saved me the only time he–he–that he was really rude; and I am so grateful for it, Mr. Gordon.”

I wasn’t in a mood to enjoy even Miss Cullen’s gratitude. Without stopping for words, I dashed into 218, and, going straight to Albert Cullen, I shook him out of a sound sleep, and before he could well understand me I was alternately swearing at him and raging at Lord Ralles.

Finally he got the truth through his head, and it was nuts to me, even in my rage, to see how his English drawl disappeared, and how quick he could be when he really became excited.

I left him hurrying into his clothes, and went to my car, for I didn’t dare to see the exodus of Lord Ralles, through fear that I couldn’t behave myself. Albert came into 97 in a few moments to say that the Englishmen were going to the hotel as soon as dressed, the captain having elected to stay by his brother.

“I wouldn’t have believed it of Ralles. I feel jolly cut up, you know,” he drawled.

I had been so enraged over Lord Ralles that I hadn’t stopped to reckon in what position I stood myself toward Miss Cullen, but I didn’t have to do much thinking to know that I had behaved about as badly as was possible for me. And the worst of it was that she could not know that right through the whole I had never quite been able to think badly of her. I went out on the platform of the station, and was lucky enough to find her there alone.

“Miss Cullen,” I said, “I’ve been ungentlemanly and suspicious, and I’m about as ashamed of myself as a man can be and not jump into the Grand Canon. I’ve not come to you to ask your forgiveness, for I can’t forgive myself, much less expect it of you. But I want you to know how I feel, and if there’s any reparation, apology, anything, that you’d like, I’ll–”

Madge interrupted my speech there by holding out her hand.

“You don’t suppose,” she said, “that, after all you have done for us, I could be angry over what was merely a mistake?”

That’s what I call a trump of a girl, worth loving for a lifetime.

Well, we coupled on to No. 2 that morning and started East, this time Mr. Cullen’s car being the “ender.” All on 218 were wildly jubilant, as was natural, but I kept growing bluer and bluer. I took a farewell dinner on their car the night we were due in Albuquerque, and afterward Miss Cullen and I went out and sat on the back platform.

“I’ve had enough adventures to talk about for a year,” Madge said, as we chatted the whole thing over, “and you can no longer brag that the K. & A. has never had a robbery, even if you didn’t lose anything.”

“I have lost something,” I sighed sadly.

Madge looked at me quickly, started to speak, hesitated, and then said, “Oh, Mr. Gordon, if you only could know how badly I have felt about that, and how I appreciate the sacrifice.”

I had only meant that I had lost my heart, and, for that matter, probably my head, for it would have been ungenerous even to hint to Miss Cullen that I had made any sacrifice of conscience for her sake, and I would as soon have asked her to pay for it in money as have told her.

“You mustn’t think–” I began.

“I have felt,” she continued, “that your wish to serve us made you do something you never would have otherwise done, for–Well, you–any one can see how truthful and honest–and it has made me feel so badly that we–Oh, Mr. Gordon, no one has a right to do wrong in the world, for it brings such sadness and danger to innocent–And you have been so generous–”

I couldn’t let this go on. “What I did,” I told her, “was to fight fire with fire, and no one is responsible for it but myself.”

“I should like to think that, but I can’t,” she said. “I know we all tried to do something dishonest, and while you didn’t do any real wrong, yet I don’t think you would have acted as you did except for our sake. And I’m afraid you may some day regret–”

“I sha’n’t,” I cried; “and, so far from meaning that I had lost my self-respect, I was alluding to quite another thing.”

“Time?” she asked.

“No.”

“What?”

“Something else you have stolen.”

“I haven’t,” she denied.

“You have,” I affirmed.

“You mean the novel?” she asked; “because I sent it in to 97 to-night.”

“I don’t mean the novel.”

“I can’t think of anything more but those pieces of petrified wood, and those you gave me,” she said demurely. “I am sure that whatever else I have of yours you have given me without even my asking, and if you want it back you’ve only got to say so.”

“I suppose that would be my very best course,” I groaned.

“I hate people who force a present on one,” she continued, “and then, just as one begins to like it, want it back.”

Before I could speak, she asked hurriedly, “How often do you come to Chicago?”

I took that to be a sort of command that I was to wait, and though longing to have it settled then and there, I braked myself up and answered her question. Now I see what a duffer I was–Madge told me afterward that she asked only because she was so frightened and confused that she felt she must stop my speaking for a moment.

I did my best till I heard the whistle the locomotive gives as it runs into yard limits, and then rose. “Good-by, Miss Cullen,” I said, properly enough, though no death-bed farewell was ever more gloomily spoken; and she responded, “Good-by, Mr. Gordon,” with equal propriety.

I held her hand, hating to let her go, and the first thing I knew, I blurted out, “I wish I had the brass of Lord Ralles!”

“I don’t,” she laughed, “because, if you had, I shouldn’t be willing to let you–”

And what she was going to say, and why she didn’t say it, is the concern of no one but Mr. and Mrs. Richard Gordon.

THE RISEN DEAD

BY MAX PEMBERTON

CHAPTER I

The sun was setting on the second day of June, in the year 1701, when Pietro Falier, the Captain of the Police of Venice, quitted his office in the Piazzetta of St. Mark and set out, alone, for the Palace of Fra Giovanni, the Capuchin friar, who lived over on the Island of the Guidecca.

“I shall return in an hour,” he said to his subordinate as he stepped into the black gondola which every Venetian knew so well. “If any has need of me, I am at the house of Fra Giovanni.”

The subordinate saluted, and returned slowly toward the ducal palace. He was thinking that his Captain went over-much just then to the house of that strange friar who had come to Venice so mysteriously, and so mysteriously had won the favor of the republic.

“Saint John!” he muttered to himself, “that we should dance attendance on a shaven crown–we, who were the masters of the city a year ago! What is the Captain thinking of? Are we all women, then, or have women plucked our brains that it should be Fra Giovanni this and Fra Giovanni that, and your tongue snapped off if you so much as put a question. To the devil with all friars, say I.”

The good fellow stopped a moment in his walk to lay the flat of his sword across the shoulders of a mountebank, who had dared to remain seated at the door of his booth while so great a person passed. Then he returned to his office, and whispered in the ear of his colleague the assurance that the Captain was gone again to the island of the Jews, and that his business was with the friar.

“And look you, Michele,” said he, “it is neither to you nor to me that he comes nowadays. Not a whisper of it, as I live, except to this friar, whom I could crush between my fingers as a glass ball out of Murano.”

His colleague shook his head.

“There have been many,” said he, “who have tried to crush Fra Giovanni. They grin between the bars of dungeons, my friend–at least, those who have heads left to grin with. Be warned of me, and make an ally of the man who has made an ally of Venice. The Captain knows well what he is doing. If he has gone to the priest’s house now, it is that the priest may win rewards for us again, as he has won them already a hundred times.

He spoke earnestly, though, in truth, his guess was not a good one. The Captain of the Police had not gone to the Island of the Guidecca to ask a service of the friar; he had gone, as he thought, to save the friar’s life. At the moment when his subordinates were wagging their heads together, he himself stood in the priest’s house, before the very table at which Fra Giovanni sat busy with his papers and his books.

“I implore you to listen to me, Prince!” he had just exclaimed very earnestly, as he repeated the news for the second time, and stood clamorous for the answer to his question.

The friar, who was dressed in the simple habit of the Capuchins, and who wore his cowl over his head so that only his shining black eyes could be seen, put down his pen when he heard himself addressed as “Prince.”

“Captain,” he said sharply, “who is this person you come here to warn? You speak of him as ‘Prince.’ It is some other, then, and not myself?”

The Captain bit his lip. He was one of the four in Venice who knew something of Fra Giovanni’s past.

“Your Excellency’s pardon,” he exclaimed very humbly; “were we not alone, you would find me more discreet. I know well that the Prince of Iseo is dead–in Venice at least. But to Fra Giovanni, his near kinsman, I say beware, for there are those here who have sworn he shall not live to say Mass again.”

For an instant a strange light came into the priest’s eyes. But he gave no other sign either of surprise or of alarm.

“They have sworn it–you know their names, Captain?”

“The police do not concern themselves with names, Excellency.”

“Which means that you do not know their names, Captain?”

Pietro Falier sighed. This friar never failed to humble him, he thought. If it were not for the honors which the monk had obtained for the police since he began his work in Venice, the Captain said that he would not lift a hand to save him from the meanest bravo in Italy.

“You do not know their names, Captain–confess, confess,” continued the priest, raising his hand in a bantering gesture; “you come to me with some gossip of the bed-chamber, your ears have been open in the market-place, and this tittle-tattle is your purchase–confess, confess.”

The Captain flushed as he would have done before no other in all Venice.

“I do not know their names, Excellency,” he stammered; “it is gossip from the _bravo’s_ kitchen. They say that you are to die before Mass to-morrow. I implore you not to leave this house to-night. We shall know how to do the rest if you will but remain indoors.”

It was an earnest entreaty, but it fell upon deaf ears. The priest answered by taking a sheet of paper and beginning to write upon it.

“I am indebted to you, Signor Falier,” said he, quietly, “and you know that I am not the man to forget my obligations. None the less, I fear that I must disregard your warning, for I have an appointment in the market to-night, and my word is not so easily broken. Let me reassure you a little. The news that you bring to me, and for which I am your debtor, was known to me three days ago. Here upon this paper I have written down the name of the woman and of her confederates who have hired the _bravo_ Rocca to kill me to-night in the shadow of the church of San Salvatore. You will read that paper and the woman’s name–when you have my permission.”

Falier stepped back dumb with amazement.

“The woman’s name, Excellency,” he repeated, so soon as his surprise permitted him to speak, “you know her, then?”

“Certainly, or how could I write it upon the paper?”

“But you will give that paper to me, here and now. Think, Excellency, if she is your enemy, she is the enemy also of Venice. What forbids that we arrest her at once? You may not be alive at dawn!”

“In which case,” exclaimed the priest, satirically, “the Signori of the Night would be well able to answer for the safety of the city. Is it not so, Captain?”

Falier stammered an excuse.

“We have not your eyes, Excellency; we cannot work miracles–but at least we can try to protect you from the hand of the assassin. Name this woman to me, and she shall not live when midnight strikes.”

Fra Giovanni rose from his chair and put his hand gently upon the other’s shoulder.

“Signer Falier,” said he, “if I told you this woman’s name here and now as you ask, the feast of Corpus Christi might find a new Doge in Venice.”

“You say, Excellency–?”

“That the city is in danger as never she was before in her history.”

“And your own life?”

“Shall be given for Venice if necessary. Listen to this: you seek to be of service to me. Have you any plan?”

“No plan but that which posts guards at your door and keeps you within these walls–”

“That the enemies of Venice may do their work. Is that your reason, Signor Falier?”

“I have no other reason, Excellency, but your own safety and that of the city.”

“I am sure of it, Captain, and being sure I am putting my life in your hands to-night–”

“To-night; we are to follow you to the Merceria, then?”

“Not at all; say rather that you are to return to the palace and to keep these things so secret that even the Council has no word of them. But, at ten o’clock, take twenty of your best men and let your boat lie in the shadow of the church of San Luca until I have need of you. You understand, Captain Falier?”

Falier nodded his head and replied vaguely. Truth to tell, he understood very little beyond this–that the friar had been before him once more, and that he could but follow as a child trustingly. And the city was in danger! His heart beat quick when he heard the words.

“Excellency,” he stammered, “the boat shall be there–at ten o’clock–in the shadow of the church of San Luca. But first–”

“No,” said the priest, quickly, “we have done with our firstly–and your gondola waits, I think, signore!”

CHAPTER II

The bells of the Chapel of St. Mark were striking the hour of eight o’clock when, Fra Giovanni stepped from his gondola, and crossed the great square toward that labyrinth of narrow streets and winding alleys they call the Merceria.

The Piazza itself was then ablaze with the light of countless lamps; dainty lanterns, colored as the rainbow, swayed to the soft breeze between the arches of the colonnade. Nobles were seated at the doors of the splendid cafes; the music of stringed instruments mingled with the louder, sweeter music of the bells; women, whose jewels were as sprays of flame, many-hued and dazzling, hung timidly upon the arms of lovers; gallants swaggered in costly velvets and silks which were the spoil of the generous East; even cassocked priests and monks in their sombre habits passed to and fro amidst that glittering throng, come out to herald the glory of a summer’s night.

And clear and round, lifting themselves up through the blue haze to the silent world of stars above, were the domes and cupolas of the great chapel itself–the chapel which, through seven centuries, had been the city’s witness to the God who had made her great, and who would uphold her still before the nations.

The priest passed through the crowd swiftly, seeming to look neither to the right nor to the left. The brown habit of the Capuchins was his dress, and his cowl was drawn so well over his head that only his eyes were visible–those eyes which stand out so strangely in the many portraits which are still the proud possession of Venice. Though he knew well that an assassin waited for him in the purlieus of the church of San Salvatore, his step was quick and brisk; he walked as a man who goes willingly to a rendezvous, and anticipates its climax with pleasure. When he had left the great square with its blaze of lanterns and its babel of tongues, and had begun to thread the narrow streets by which he would reach the bridge of the Rialto, a smile played for a moment about his determined mouth, and he drew his capuce still closer over his ears.

“So it is Rocca whom they send–Rocca, the poltroon! Surely there is the hand of God in this.”

He raised his eyes for a moment to the starlit heaven, and then continued his brisk walk. His way lay through winding alleys; over bridges so narrow that two men could not pass abreast; through passages where rogues lurked, and repulsive faces were thrust grinning into his own. But he knew the city as one who had lived there all his life; and for the others, the thieves and scum of Venice, he had no thought. Not until he came out before the church of Santa Maria Formosa did he once halt or look behind him. The mystery of the night was a joy to him. Even in the shadow of the church, his rest was but for a moment; and, as he rested, the meaning smile hovered again upon his wan face.

“The play begins,” he muttered, while he loosened slightly the girdle of his habit and thrust his right hand inside it; “the God of Venice give me courage.”

A man was following him now–he was sure of it. He had seen him as he turned to cross the bridge which would set him on the way to the church of San Salvatore–a short, squat man, masked and dressed from head to foot in black. Quick as the movements of the fellow were, dexterous his dives into porches and the patches of shadow which the eaves cast, the priest’s trained eye followed his every turn, numbered, as it were, the very steps he took. And the smile upon Fra Giovanni’s face was fitful no more. He walked as a man who has a great jest for his company.

“Rocca the fool, and alone! They pay me a poor compliment, those new friends of mine; but we shall repay, and the debt will be heavy.”

He withdrew his hand from his habit, where it had rested upon the hilt of a dagger, for he knew that he had no need of any weapon. His gait was quick and careless; he stopped often to peer into some windowless shop where a sickly lamp burned before the picture of a saint; and wares, which had not tempted a dead generation, appealed unavailingly to a living one. The idea that his very merriment might cost him his life never entered his head. He played with the assassin as a cat with a mouse, now tempting him to approach, now turning suddenly, and sending him helter-skelter into the door of a shop or the shadow of a bridge. He was sure of his man, and that certainty was a delight to him.

“If it had been any other but Rocca the clown!” he said to himself, his thoughts ever upon the jest; “surely we shall know what to say to him.”

He had come almost to the church of San Salvatore by this time. His walk had carried him out to the bank of a narrow, winding canal, at whose quays once-splendid gondolas were rotting in neglect. It seemed to him that here was the place where his tactics might well be changed and the _role_ of the hunted put aside for that of the hunter. Quick to act, he stepped suddenly behind one of the great wooden piles driven into the quay for the warping of barges. The _bravo_, who did not perceive that he had been detected, and who could not account for the sudden disappearance of his prey, came straight on, his cloak wrapped about his face, his naked sword in his hand. The wage would be earned easily that night, he was telling himself. No one would miss a beggarly monk–and he, Rocca, must live. A single blow, struck to the right side of the back, and then–and then–

This pleasant anticipation was cut short abruptly by the total disappearance of the man whose death was a preliminary to the wage he anticipated so greedily. Mystified beyond measure, he let his cloak fall back again, and began to peer into the shadows as though some miracle had been wrought and the priest carried suddenly from earth to that heaven whither he had meant to send him so unceremoniously.

“Blood of Paul!” he exclaimed angrily, turning about and about again, “am I losing my eyes? A plague upon the place and the shadows.”

He stamped his foot impotently, and was about to run back by the way he had come when a voice spoke in the shadows; and at the sound of the voice, the sword fell from the man’s hand and he reeled back as from a blow.

“Rocca Zicani, the Prince is waiting for you.”

The assassin staggered against the door of a house, and stood there as one paralyzed. He had heard those words once before in the dungeons of Naples. They had been spoken by the Inquisitors who came to Italy with one of the Spanish princes. Instantly he recalled the scene where first he had listened to them–the dungeon draped in black–the white-hot irons which had seared his flesh; the rack which had maimed his limbs, the masked men who had tortured him.

“Great God!” he moaned, “not that–not that–”

The priest stepped from the shadows and stood in a place where the feeble light of an oil lamp could fall upon his face. The laugh hovered still about his lips. He regarded the trembling man with a contempt he would not conceal.

“Upon my word, Signer Rocca,” he exclaimed, “this is a poor welcome to an old friend.”

The _bravo_, who had fallen on his knees, for he believed that a trick had again delivered him into the hands of his enemies, looked up at the words, and stared at the monk as at an apparition.

“Holy Virgin!” he cried, “it is the Prince of Iseo.”

The priest continued in the jester’s tone:

“As you say, old comrade, the Prince of Iseo. Glory to God for the good fortune which puts you in my path to-night! Oh, you are very glad to see me, Signor Rocca, I’ll swear to that. What, the fellow whom my hands snatched from the rack in the house of the Duke of Naples–has he no word for me? And he carries his naked sword in his hand; he has the face of a woman and his knees tremble. What means this?”

He had seemed to speak in jest, but while the cowed man was still kneeling before him, he, of a sudden, struck the sword aside, and, stooping, he gripped the _bravo_ by the throat and dragged him from the shelter of the porch to the water’s edge. As iron were the relentless hands; the man’s eyes started from his head, the very breath seemed to be crushed out of him in the grip of the terrible priest.

“Signor Rocca, what means this?” the friar repeated. “A naked sword in your hand and sweat upon your brow. Oh, oh! a tale, indeed! Shall I read it to you, or shall I raise my voice and fetch those who will read it for me–those who have the irons heated, and the boot so made for your leg that no last in Italy shall better it. Speak, rascal, shall I read you the tale?”

“Mercy, Prince, for the love of God!”

The priest released the pressure of his hands and let the other sink at his feet.

“Who sent you, rogue?” he asked. “Who pays your wage?”

“I dare not tell you, Excellency.”

“Dare not! _you_ dare not–you, whom a word will put to torture greater than any you have dreamed of in your worst agonies; _you_ dare not.”

“Excellency, the Countess of Treviso; I am her servant.”

“And the man who sent her to the work–his name?”

“Andrea, Count of Pisa, Excellency.”

The priest stepped back as one whose curiosity was entirely satisfied.

“Ah! I thought so. And the price they paid you, knave?”

“Forty silver ducats, Excellency,”

“Ho, ho! so that is the price of a friar in Venice.”

The _bravo_ sought to join in the jest.

“Had they known it was the Prince of Iseo, it had been a hundred thousand, Excellency.”

Fra Giovanni did not listen to him. His quick brain was solving a strange problem–the problem of the price that these people, in their turn, should pay to Venice. When he had solved it, he turned to the cringing figure at his feet.

“Signor Rocca,” he said, “do you know of what I am thinking?”

“Of mercy, Excellency; of mercy for one who has not deserved it.”

“But who can deserve it?”

“Excellency, hearken to me. I swear by all the saints–”

“In whose name you blaspheme, rascal. Have I not heard your oath in Naples when the irons seared your flesh? Shall I listen again when the fire is being made ready, and there is burning coal beneath the bed you will lie upon to-night, Signor Rocca?”

“Oh! for God’s sake, Excellency!”

“Not so; for the sake of Venice, rather.”

“I will be your slave–I swear it on the cross–I will give my life–”

“Your precious life, Signor Rocca!–nay, what a profligate you are!”

Fra Giovanni’s tone, perhaps, betrayed him. The trembling man began to take heart a little.

“Prove me Excellency,” he whined; “prove me here and now.”

The friar made a pretence of debating it. After a little spell of silence he bade the other rise.

“Come,” he said, “your legs catch cold, my friend, and will burn slowly. Stretch them here upon the Campo while I ask you some questions. And remember, for every lie you tell me there shall be another wedge in the boot you are about to wear. You understand that, signore?”

“Excellency, the man that could lie to the Prince of Iseo has yet to be born.”

It was a compliment spoken from the very heart; but the priest ignored it.

“Let us not speak of others, but of you and your friends. And, firstly, of the woman who sent you. She is now–”

“In the Palazzo Pisani waiting news of you.”

“You were to carry that news to her?”

“And to receive my wage, Excellency. But I did not know what work it was–Holy God, I would not have come for–”

Fra Giovanni cut him short with a gesture of impatience.

“Tell me,” he exclaimed, “the Count of Pisa, is he not the woman’s lover?”

“They say so, signore.”

“And he is at her house to-night?”

The man shook his head.

“Before Heaven, I do not know, Excellency. An hour ago, he sat at a cafe in the great square.”

“And the woman–was she alone when you left her?”

“There were three with her to sup.”

The priest nodded his head.

“It is good!” he said; “we shall even presume to sup with her.”

“To sup with her–but they will kill you, Excellency!”

“Ho, ho! see how this assassin is concerned for my life.

“Certainly I am. Have you not given me mine twice? I implore you not to go to the house–”

He would have said more, but the splash of an oar in the narrow canal by which they walked cut short his entreaties. A gondola was approaching them; the cry of the gondolier, awakening echoes beneath the eaves of the old houses, gave to Fra Giovanni that inspiration he had been seeking now for some minutes.

“Rocca Zicani,” he exclaimed, standing suddenly as the warning cry, “_Stale_,” became more distinct, “I am going to put your professions to the proof.”

“Excellency, I will do anything–”

“Then, if you would wake to-morrow with a head upon your shoulders, enter that gondola, and go back to those who sent you. Demand your wage of them–”

“But, Excellency–”

“Demand your wage of them,” persisted the priest, sternly, “and say that the man who was their enemy lies dead before the church of San Salvatore. You understand me?”

A curious look came into the _bravo’s_ eyes.

“Saint John!” he cried, “that I should have followed such a one as you, Excellency!”

But the priest continued warningly:

“As you obey, so hope for the mercy of Venice. You deal with those who know how to reward their friends and to punish their enemies. Betray us, and I swear that no death in all Italy shall be such a death as you will die at dawn to-morrow.”

He raised his voice, and summoned the gondolier to the steps of the quay. The _bravo_ threw himself down upon the velvet cushions with the threat still ringing in his ears.

“Excellency,” he said, “I understand. They shall hear that you are dead.”

CHAPTER III

Fra Giovanni stepped from his gondola, and stood at the door of the Palazzo Pisani exactly at a quarter to ten o’clock. Thirty minutes had passed since he had talked with the _bravo_, Rocca, and had put him to the proof. The time was enough, he said; the tale would have been told, the glad news of his own death already enjoyed by those who would have killed him.

Other men, perhaps, standing there upon the threshold of so daring an emprise, would have known some temptation of fear or hesitation in such a fateful moment; but the great Capuchin friar neither paused nor hesitated. That strange confidence in his own mission, his belief that God had called him to the protection of Venice, perchance even a personal conceit in his own skill as a swordsman, sent him hurrying to the work. It was a draught of life to him to see men tremble at his word; the knowledge which treachery poured into his ear was a study finer than that of all the manuscripts in all the libraries of Italy. And he knew that he was going to the Palazzo Pisani to humble one of the greatest in the city–to bring the sons of Princes on their knees before him.

There were many lights in the upper stories of the great house, but the ground floor, with its barred windows and cell-like chambers, was unlighted. The priest saw horrid faces grinning through the bars; the faces of fugitives, fleeing the justice of Venice, outcasts of the city, murderers. But these outcasts, in their turn, were silent when they saw who came to the house, and they spoke of the strange guest in muted exclamations of surprise and wonder.

“Blood of Paul! do you see that? It is the Capuchin himself and alone. Surely there will be work to do anon.”

“Ay, but does he come alone? Saint John! I would sooner slit a hundred throats than have his shadow fall on me. Was it not he that hanged Orso and the twelve! A curse upon the day he came to Venice.”

So they talked in whispers, but the priest had passed already into the great hall of the palace and was speaking to a lackey there.

“My friend,” he said, “I come in the name of the Signori. If you would not hear from them to-morrow, announce me to none.”

The lackey drew back, quailing before the threat.

“Excellency,” he exclaimed, “I am but a servant–”

“And shall find a better place as you serve Venice faithfully.”

He passed on with noiseless steps, mounting the splendid marble staircase upon which the masterpieces of Titian and of Paolo Veronese looked down. At the head of the stairs, there was a painted door, which he had but to open to find himself face to face with those who were still telling each other that he was dead.

For an instant, perhaps, a sense of the danger of his mission possessed him. He knew well that one false step, one word undeliberated, would be paid for with his own blood. But even in the face of this reckoning he did not hesitate. He was there to save Venice from her enemies; the God of Venice would protect him. And so without word or warning, he opened the door and stood, bold and unflinching, before those he had come to accuse.

There were four at table, and one was a woman. The priest knew her well. She had been called the most beautiful woman in Venice–Catherine, Countess of Treviso. Still young, with a face which spoke of ambition and of love, her white neck glittered with the jewels it carried, her dress of blue velvet was such a dress as only a noblewoman of Venice could wear. A queenly figure, the friar said, yet one he would so humble presently that never should she hold up her head again.

As for the others, the men who had cloaked conspiracy with a woman’s smile, he would know how to deal with them. Indeed, when he scanned their faces and began to remember the circumstances under which he had met them before, his courage was strengthened, and he forgot that he had ever reasoned with it.

He stood in the shadows; but the four, close in talk, and thinking that a lackey had entered the room, did not observe him. They were laughing merrily at some jest, and filling the long goblets with the golden wine of Cyprus, when at last he strode out into the light and spoke to them. His heart beat quickly; he knew that this might be the hour of his death, yet never had his voice been more sonorous or more sure.

“Countess,” he exclaimed, as he stepped boldly to the table and confronted them, “I bring you a message from Andrea, the lord of Pisa!”

He had expected that the woman would cry out, or that the men would leap to their feet and draw their swords; but the supreme moment passed and no one spoke. A curious silence reigned in the place. From without there floated up the gay notes of a gondolier’s carol. The splash of oars was heard, and the low murmur of voices. But within the room you could have counted the tick of a watch–almost the beating of a man’s heart. And the woman was the first to find her tongue. She had looked at the friar as she would have looked at the risen dead; but, suddenly, with an effort which brought back the blood to her cheeks, she rose from her seat and began to speak.

“Who are you?” she asked; “and why do you come to this house?”

Fra Giovanni advanced to the table so that they could see his face.

“Signora,” he said, “the reason of my coming to this house I have already told you. As to your other question, I am the Capuchin friar, Giovanni, whom you desired your servant Rocca to kill at the church of San Salvatore an hour ago.”

The woman sank back into the chair; the blood left her face; she would have swooned had not curiosity proved stronger than her terror.

“The judgment of God!” she cried.

Again, for a spell, there was silence in the room. The priest stood at the end of the table telling himself that he must hold these four in talk until the bells of San Luca struck ten o’clock, or pay for failure with his life. The men, in their turn, were asking themselves if he were alone.

“You are the Capuchin friar, Giovanni,” exclaimed one of them presently, taking courage of the silence, “what, then, is your message from the Count of Pisa?”

“My message, signore, is this–that at ten o’clock to-night, the Count of Pisa will have ceased to live.”

A strange cry, terrible in its pathos, escaped the woman’s lips. All had risen to their feet again. The swords of the three leaped from their scabbards. The instant of the priest’s death seemed at hand. But he stood, resolute, before them.

“At ten o’clock,” he repeated sternly, “the Count of Pisa will have ceased to live. That is his message, signori, to one in this house. And to you, the Marquis of Cittadella, there is another message.”

He turned to one of the three who had begun to rail at him, and raised his hand as in warning. So great was the curiosity to hear his words that the swords were lowered again, and again there could be heard the ticking of a clock in the great room.

“For me–a message! Surely I am favored, signore.”

“Of that you shall be the judge, since, at dawn to-morrow, your head will lie on the marble slab between the columns of the Piazzetta.”

They greeted him with shouts of ridicule.

“A prophet–a prophet!”

“A prophet indeed,” he answered quietly, “who has yet a word to speak to you, Andrea Foscari.”

“To me!” exclaimed the man addressed, who was older than the others, and who wore the stola of the nobility.

“Ay, to you, who are about to become a fugitive from the justice of Venice. Midnight shall see you hunted in the hills, my lord; no house shall dare to shelter you; no hand shall give you bread. When you return to the city you would have betrayed, the very children shall mock you for a beggar.”

Foscari answered with an oath, and drew back. The third of the men, a youth who wore a suit of white velvet, and whose vest was ablaze with gold and jewels, now advanced jestingly.

“And for me, most excellent friar?”

“For you, Gian Mocenigo, a pardon in the name of that Prince of Venice whose house you have dishonored.”

Again they replied to him with angry gibes.

“A proof–a proof–we will put you to the proof, friar–here and now, or, by God, a prophet shall pay with his life.”

He saw that they were driven to the last point. While the woman stood as a figure of stone at the table, the three advanced toward him and drove him back before their threatening swords. The new silence was the silence of his death anticipated. He thought that his last word was spoken in vain. Ten o’clock would never strike, he said. Yet even as hope seemed to fail him, and he told himself that the end had come, the bells of the city began to strike the hour, and the glorious music of their echoes floated over the sleeping waters.

“A proof, you ask me for a proof, signori,” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Surely, the proof lies in yonder room, where all the world may see it.”

He pointed to a door opening in the wall of mirrors, and giving access to a smaller chamber. Curiosity drove the men thither. They threw open the door; they entered the room; they reeled back drunk with their own terror.

For the body of Andrea, lord of Pisa, lay, still warm, upon the marble pavement of the chamber, and the dagger with which he had been stabbed was yet in his heart.

“A proof–have I not given you a proof?” the priest cried again, while the woman’s terrible cry rang through the house, and the three stood close together, as men upon whom a judgment has fallen.

“Man or devil–who are you?” they asked in hushed whispers.

He answered them by letting his monk’s robe slip from his shoulders. As the robe fell, they beheld a figure clad in crimson velvet and corselet of burnished gold; the figure of a man whose superb limbs had been the envy of the swordsmen of Italy; whose face, lighted now with a sense of power and of victory, was a face for which women had given their lives.

“It is the Prince of Iseo,” they cried, and, saying it, fled from the house of doom.

At that hour, those whose gondolas were passing the Palazzo Pisani observed a strange spectacle. A priest stood upon the balcony of the house holding a silver lamp in his hand; and as he waited, a boat emerged from the shadows about the church of San Luca and came swiftly toward him.

“The Signori of the Night,” the loiterers exclaimed in hushed whispers, and went on their way quickly.

* * * * *

Very early next morning, a rumor of strange events, which had happened in Venice during the hours of darkness, drew a great throng of the people to the square before the ducal palace.

“Have you not heard it,” man cried to man–“the Palazzo Pisani lacks a mistress to-day? The police make their toilet in the boudoir of my lady. And they say that the lord of Pisa is dead.”

“Worse than that, my friends,” a gondolier protested, “Andrea Foscari crossed to Maestre last night, and the dogs are even now on his heels.”

“Your news grows stale,” croaked a hag who was passing; “go to the Piazzetta and you shall see the head of one who prayed before the altar ten minutes ago.”

They trooped off, eager for the spectacle. When they reached the Piazzetta, the hag was justified. The head of a man lay bleeding upon the marble slab between the columns. It was the head of the Marquis of Cittadella.

In the palace of the police, meanwhile, Pietro Falier, the Captain, was busy with his complaints.

“The lord of Pisa is dead,” he said, “the woman has gone to the Convent of Murano; there is a head between the columns; Andrea Foscari will die of hunger in the hills–yet Gian Mocenigo goes free. Who is this friar that he shall have the gift of life or death in Venice?”

His subordinate answered–

“This friar, Captain, is one whom Venice, surely, will make the greatest of her nobles to-day.”

COWARDICE COURT

BY GEO.B. McCUTCHEON

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH A YOUNG MAN TRESPASSES

“He’s just an infernal dude, your lordship, and I’ll throw him in the river if he says a word too much.”

“He has already said too much, Tompkins, confound him, don’t you know.”

“Then I’m to throw him in whether he says anything or not, sir?”

“Have you seen him?”

“No, your lordship, but James has. James says he wears a red coat and–”

“Never mind, Tompkins. He had no right to fish on this side of that log. The insufferable ass may own the land on the opposite side, but confound his impertinence, I own it on this side.”

This concluding assertion of the usually placid but now irate Lord Bazelhurst was not quite as momentous as it sounded. As a matter of