Out of the Ashes by Ethel Watts Mumford (page 3)

effort, and sank, gasping, upon a bench. It faced toward the darkened residence of the murdered man. A few stragglers stood grouped on the pavement before the house, of asked questions of the policeman stationed near by. The electric lights threw lace patterns that wavered over the unfrequented paths. She leaned back, staring at the dark bulk of the mansion with the darker streak at the doorway, which one divined to be the sinister mark of death. Suddenly she sat erect, her aching weariness forgotten. She knew, past peradventure, that _she had sat there upon that very seat the night before_. The memory was but a flash. Already delirium was returning. She was powerless to move. Hours passed, and still she sat staring, unseeing, straight before her. Once a policeman passed and turned to look at her, but her evident refinement quieted his suspicions, and he moved on.

She was roused at last by a movement of the bench as someone took a place beside her. She looked up and vaguely realized that it was a woman, darkly dressed and heavily veiled like herself. She, too, leaned back and seemed lost in contemplation of the house opposite. Presently she raised the veil, as if it obstructed her vision too greatly, revealing a withered face, narrow and long, with a singularly white skin. She had the look of a respectable working woman, and her black-gloved hands were folded over a neat paper package. Her curious glance turned toward the lady beside her, and seemed to find satisfaction in the elegance that even the darkness could not quite conceal. She moved nearer, and with a birdlike twist of the head, leaned forward and frankly gazed in her companion’s face. The other did not resent the action.

The woman slowly nodded her head. “Don’t know what she’s doin’, not she. She’s one of the silly kind.” She put out a hand like a claw, and touched Mrs. Marteen’s shoulder. Mrs. Marteen turned her flushed and troubled face toward the woman with something akin to intelligence in her eyes. “What are you settin’ here fur, lady?” asked the woman harshly. “Watchin’ his house? Well, it’s no use; he won’t come out again for you or your likes–never again, never again,” and she chuckled.

“I was here last night. I sat here last night,” said Mrs. Marteen, her mind reverting to its last conscious moment.

The woman peered at her closely, striving to see through the meshes of the veil where the electric light touched her cheek.

“You did? What fur? Was he comin’ out to ye, or did ye want to be let inside?”

The insult was lost on the sufferer.

The woman shifted her position, and changed her tone to one of cunning ingratiation.

“Goin’ to the funeral?” she inquired, and without waiting for an answer, continued to talk. “I am. I won’t be asked, of course–they don’t know I’m here; but I’m goin’. I wouldn’t miss it–no, not for–nothing. I ought to have some crape, I know, but I don’t see’s I can. It would be the right thing, though. I’ll ride in a carriage,” she boasted. “I suppose they’ll have black horses. I haven’t seen anything back where I come from, so’s I’d know just what _is_ the fashionable thing. It’ll be a fashionable funeral, won’t it? He’s a great big man, he is. Everybody knows him–and everybody _don’t_ know him; but I do–he’s a devil I And women love him, always did love him, the fools! Why, _I_ used to love him. You wouldn’t think that now, would you? Well, I did.” She laughed a broken cackle, and seemed surprised that her listener remained mute. “Did you love him?” demanded the crone sneeringly.

“Love him–love him?” exclaimed Mrs. Marteen, her emotions responding where her mind was unreceptive. “I hated him–I hated him!”

“Of course you hated him. How could a lady help hating him?” murmured the questioner. “But would _you_ have the courage to kill him–that’s what I want to know!”

Under the inquisition Mrs. Marteen half roused to consciousness. She was in the semi-lucid state of a sleepwalker.

“Kill him!” She held up her hands and looked at them as she had done after reading the account of the murder. “I’m not sure I didn’t kill him; perhaps I did–I can’t remember–I can’t remember,” she moaned more and more faintly.

“Don’t you take the credit of _that_!” shouted the woman, so loudly that a young man who had been aimlessly walking up and down as if intent upon some rendezvous, stopped short to gaze at them keenly.

The older woman, with a movement so rapid that it seemed almost prestidigitation, lifted and threw back her companion’s veil. The young man gave a start and approached hastily, amazement in every feature. But the two women were unaware of his presence, and what he next heard made him pause, turn, and by a slight detour come up close behind the bench.

“Keep your hands off. Don’t you say you killed him. What right have _you_ to take his life, I’d like to know! Don’t let me hear you say that again–don’t you dare! Just remember that killing him is _my_ business. You sha’n’t try to rob me–it’s my right!” She leaned forward threateningly.

A hand closed over her wrist. The woman screamed.

“Hold on, Mother, none of that.” The young man, still retaining his hold, came from behind the seat and stood over her.

She began to whimper and tremble. “Don’t hit me,” she begged pitifully. “Don’t hit me, and I’ll be good, indeed, I will.”

Mrs. Marteen had taken no notice of her providential protector. Her head was sunk upon her breast and her hands hung limp in her lap.

The young man whistled twice, never relaxing his hold. A moment later a form detached itself from the group before the door of the house opposite, crossed the street and joined them quickly, yet with no impression of hurry.

“What’s up?” the newcomer asked quietly.

“Here, take hold. Don’t let her get away from you.” With a glance round, he took a hypodermic needle from hi” pocket, and a quick prick in the wrist instantly quieted the struggling, captive. “Get a cab,” he ordered, “and bring her over to my rooms. The utmost importance–not a sound to anybody. I’ve got my job cut out for me–no police in this, mind.”

He turned, his manner all gentleness. “Mrs. Marteen–Mrs. Marteen,” he repeated. She raised her head slightly. “Will you come with me? My name is Brencherly, and Mr. Gard sent me for you. Come.”

She rose obediently. The name he had spoken seemed to inspire confidence, trust and peace, like a word of power; but her limbs refused to move, and she sank back again. Brencherly took her unresisting hand in his, felt her pulse and shook his head.

“Long!” he called. “Get a cab. I’ll take Mrs. Marteen; stop somewhere and send a taxi back for you; it might look queer to see two of us with unconscious patients.”

When his subordinate turned to go, Brencherly leaned toward the drugged woman, took the bundle from her listless hands and rapidly examined its contents. A coarse nightdress, a black waist and a worn and ragged empty wallet rewarded his search. He tied them up again, put the package in its place and turned once more to Mrs. Marteen. “She’s a mighty sick woman,” he murmured. “Well, it’s home for hers, and then me for the old man.”

A taxi drove up, and his assistant descended. With his help Brencherly half supported, half carried his charge to the curb.

Directing the chauffeur to stop at a nearby hotel before proceeding to Mrs. Marteen’s apartment, he climbed in beside the patient, and as the machine gathered headway, murmured a fervent “Thank God!”

Mrs. Marteen lay back upon the cushioned seat inert and passive. In the flash of each passing street-light her face showed waxen pale, a cameo against the dark background; so drawn and pinched were her features, that Brencherly, in panic, seized her pulse, in order to assure himself that life had not already fled. Obedient to his orders the cab ran up to an hotel entrance, and Brencherly, leaning out, called the starter.

“Here!” he snapped, “send a taxi over to the park–the bench opposite No. –, and pick up a man with an old lady. She’s unconscious.”

For an instant the light glinted on his metal badge as he threw back his coat. The starter nodded. Brencherly settled back again in his place with a sigh of relief. It was only a matter of moments now, and he would have brought to an unexpectedly successful close the task he had set himself. He began to build air castles; to construct for himself a little niche in his own selected temple of Fame. He was aroused from his revery by a voice at his side. Mrs. Marteen was speaking, at first indistinctly, then with insistent repetition.

“I can’t remember–I can’t remember.”

He turned to her with gentle questioning, but she did not heed him. Slowly, with infinite effort, as if her slender hands were weighted down, she lifted them before her face. She stared at them with growing horror depicted on her face. He was suddenly reminded of an electrifying performance of Macbeth he had once witnessed. A red glare from a ruby lamp at a fire-street corner splashed her frail fingers with vivid color as they passed it by. She gave a scream that ended in a moan, and mechanically wiped her hands back and forth, back and forth, upon her coat. Brencherly’s heart ached for her. Over and over he repeated reassuring words in her deafened ears, striving to lay the awful ghost that had fastened like a vampire on her heart. But to no avail. She was as beyond his reach as if she were a creature of another planet. Never in his active, efficient life had he felt so helpless. It was with thanksgiving that at last he saw the ornate entrance of Mrs. Marteen’s home.

“Watch her!” he ordered the chauffeur, as he leaped up the steps and into the vestibule to prepare for her reception.

A message to her apartment brought the maid and butler in haste. With many exclamations of alarm and sympathy they bore her to her own room once more, and laid her upon the bed. She lay limp and still, while they hurried about her with restoratives.

Brencherly was at the telephone. Almost at once, in answer to his ring, Doctor Balys’ voice sounded over the wire in hasty congratulations and promises of immediate assistance. Hanging up the receiver, he turned again to his patient.

Through the silent apartment the sound of the doorbell buzzed with sudden shock. The butler stood as if transfixed.

“It’s Miss Dorothy!” he exclaimed in consternation. “She went out to walk a little, with young Mr. Mahr. She was nervous and couldn’t rest, and telephoned for him to come–in spite of–in spite of–” He hesitated. “Anyway, Mr. Mahr–young Mr. Mahr–came for her, sir. Mr.–Mr.–I think you’d better break it to her, sir. She mustn’t see her mother like this–without warning!”

Brencherly ran down the hall, the servant preceding him. As the door swung wide, Dorothy, followed by Teddy Mahr, entered the hallway. She stopped suddenly, face to face with a stranger.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she asked, sudden fear and suspicion in her eyes.

Brencherly explained quickly.

“Mr. Gard employed me, Miss Marteen, to find your mother, if possible–and–she is here. Don’t be alarmed.”

Dorothy sank into a chair, weak with relief. Teddy put forth his hand to help her. Instinctively she remained clasping his arm as if his presence gave her strength.

“And she’s all right–she isn’t hurt–or–or anything?” she implored breathlessly.

“She’s very ill, I’m afraid,” said Brencherly. “I think you–had better not go to her till the doctor comes. I’ve sent for him.”

“Oh! but I must–I must!” she cried, tears in her voice.

In the rush of happenings no one had thought of Mrs. Mellows. Hers was not a personality to commend itself in moments of stress. Now she suddenly appeared, her eyes swollen with sleep, her ample form swathed in a dressing gown.

“What _is_ the matter?” she complained. “I told you, Dorothy, that I thought it very bad form, indeed, for you and Mr. Mahr to go out. In bereavements, such as yours, sir, it’s not the proper thing for you to be making exhibitions of yourself. Like as not the reporters have been taking pictures. And at any time they may find out that my poor dear sister is ill and wandering. I don’t know _what_ to say! The papers will be full of it. And you!” she exclaimed, having for the first time become aware of the detective’s presence. “Who are you. How did you get in? I hope and pray you’re not a reporter!–Dorothy, don’t tell me you’ve brought a reporter in here–or I shall leave this house at once!”

“No, Aunt, no!” cried Dorothy. “This–this gentleman, has brought my mother home. She’s in her room now–she’s–“

Mrs. Mellows turned and made a rush down the corridor. Four pairs of hands stayed her in her flight.

“No–no!” begged Dorothy. “This gentleman says she is very ill. We mustn’t disturb her–Aunt–please–the doctor is coming.”

As if the name had conjured him, a ring announced Doctor Balys’ arrival. He entered hastily, his emergency bag in his hand.

“Mr. Brencherly, come with me, please,” he ordered. “You can tell me the details as I work. Miss Marteen and Mrs. Mellows, wait for me, and I’ll come and tell you the facts just as soon as I know them myself.” He nodded unceremoniously and followed Brencherly.

As they neared Mrs. Marteen’s room the silence was suddenly broken by a cry. Balys strode past his guide and threw open the door.

Mrs. Marteen, sitting erect in the bed, held out rigid arms as if in desperate appeal. The terrified maid stood by, wringing her hands.

“Gard!” she called. “Marcus Gard! help me! Tell me–I’ll believe you–I’ll believe you–will you tell me the truth!” Her strength left her suddenly, and as the physician placed a supporting arm about her, she sank back, her eyes closed wearily. As he laid her gently back upon the pillows, she sighed softly, her heavy lids unclosed a moment. “I knew you’d come,” she murmured. “You’ll take care of–of Dorothy–you will–” Her voice trailed off into nothingness; then “Marcus”–she whispered.

The two men turned away. Brencherly coughed. “Is there any hope?” he asked, breaking the tense silence that seemed suddenly to have entered the room like an actual presence.

The doctor nodded without speaking. “Yes–hope,” he said at length, as he opened his leather satchel.

* * * * *

XIII

It was well into the small hours of the morning when Brencherly sought his own rooms in an inconspicuous apartment hotel, where he, his activities and, at times, strange companions, were not only tolerated, but welcomed. He was weary, but too excited and elated to desire sleep. He nodded to the friendly night clerk, and received a favorable response to his request, even at that unwholesome hour, for coffee and scrambled eggs to be served in his rooms.

He found Long, his assistant, slumbering sonorously in an armchair in the living-room of his modest suite. The open door to the chamber beyond, sufficiently indicated where his charge had been placed.

Long awoke, and stretched himself with a yawn.

“Three o’clock,” he observed, with a glance at the mantel clock. “Made a good haul, hey? Well, your kidnapped beauty is in there, dead to the world. I tied her feet together before I went to sleep. You can’t tell when they’re going to come to, you know, and I thought it would be safer. Now, tell a feller, what’s the dope?”

Brencherly entered the adjoining apartment without deigning an answer, switched on the lights and approached the bed. The wizen little woman, with her disheveled white hair and tumbled garments looked pitifully weak and helpless; her thin, claw-like hands clutching at the pillow in a childish pose. Her captor stared at her intently, his brain crowded with strange thoughts. Who was she? What was her history? He had his suspicions, but they all remained to be verified.

He took one of the emaciated wrists in his hand. How frail and small it was, and yet, perhaps, an instrument in the hands of Fate. She moved uneasily, and, glancing down, he noticed how securely she was bound. Leaning over, he loosened the curtain cord with which she had been secured. She sighed as if relieved, and, turning, he left her, as a discreet tapping at his door announced the coming of the meal he had ordered.

A night watchman in shirt sleeves brought in the tray softly and set it upon the table, with a glance of curiosity at the adjoining room. There was usually an interesting story to be gleaned from the guests that the detective brought.

“Come on,” said the host eagerly, “fall on it, I’m starved.”

“Anything I can do?” inquired the night watchman hopefully.

But Brencherly was still uncommunicative. “Nope, thanks.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Good-night–or good-morning. Tell ’em down stairs I’m much obliged, as usual.”

The two men ate heartily and in silence. It was not till the plates were scraped that either spoke. With the last sip of the soothing beverage Brencherly closed his eyes peacefully.

“Old man,” he said, “this night’s work is the best luck I’ve ever had. Now, tell me, did the lady say anything at any time? or did she remain as she is?”

“She didn’t say much. Grumbled a little at being moved around; in fact, I thought she was coming out of it for a minute when we first got her in here. Then she straightened out for another lap of sleep. Here’s her kit.”

He rose as he spoke, and took from the mantel the package she had clung to during all her enforced journey. He untied the parcel, and both men bent over its meager contents. Though Brencherly had seen them under the wavering arc lights of Washington Square, he now gave each article the closest scrutiny. Nothing offered any clew, except the wallet. That, worn as it was, showed its costly texture, and the marks of careful mountings. It was unmistakably a man’s wallet, and its flexibility denoted constant use. Brencherly set it on one side.

“Anything else?” he asked.

The other nodded. He had the most important find in reserve.

“These,” he said, and drew from his pocket a bunch of newspaper clippings. He laid each one on the table. “Now, _what_ do you think of _that_?” His lean, cadaverous face took on a look of satisfied cunning. If his colleague had not chosen to take him into his confidence, he could show him that he was quite capable of drawing his own inferences and making his own conclusions. He sat back and nonchalantly lit a cigarette.

There were at least twenty cuttings, of all sizes, from a half page from a Sunday supplement to a couple of lines from a financial column. But all bore the name of Victor Mahr more or less conspicuously displayed. Two scraps showed conclusively that they had been cherished and handled more than all the others. One was a sketch of the millionaire’s country estate; the other, a reproduction from a photograph of his old-fashioned and imposing city residence.

“H’m!” said Brencherly. “It’s pretty clear that she had a reason for occupying that park bench, hey? And she certainly has patronized the news bureau, or been a patient collector herself. See that?” He pushed forward the largest of the clippings. “That’s three years old. I remember when that came out. It was after Teddy’s sensational playing at the Yale-Harvard game. They had the limelight well turned on then, you remember. And that”–he smoothed another slip–“that announcement of his purchase of ‘Allanbrae’ is at least five years old. She’s been treasuring all this for a long time. Where did you find them?”

“When I put her on the bed,” Long replied, “her collar seemed to be choking her, so I loosened it, and a button or two. There was a pink string around her throat and a little old chamois bag–like you might put a turnip-watch in. I took it in here and found–that stuff–what do you think?”

“I think that we’re getting near the answer to something we all want to know,” said Brencherly. “But it means a lot to a lot of people to keep the police off–for the present. I want to be sure.”

“How do you suppose she got in?” said Long, insinuatingly.

“Don’t know yet–but we’ll find that out. Meantime, don’t use the telephone for anything you have to say to anybody. And the other woman, let me tell you, has nothing to do with this case. I’ll tell you now, before your curiosity makes you make a fool of yourself–she’s been hunted for high and low, because she’s had aphasia–forgets who she is, and all that, every once in a while, and her people have been offering a reward. Just happened to make a double haul, that’s all. But you don’t get in on the first one. Now are you satisfied?” Brencherly looked at his companion quizzically.

Long grunted. He was rather annoyed at having the occurrence so simply explained.

“Oh, well,” he yawned, “you’re on this case, and I’m only your lobbygow; so I suppose I’ve got to let it go at that. But, say, I’m tired. Let’s turn in, or, if you don’t want me in your joint, I’ll go down stairs and get them to bunk me somewhere in the dump.” He rose. “I suppose they’ll fix me up?”

Brencherly went to the telephone and spoke for a moment. “All right,” he said; “they’ll give you number seventy-three on this floor. I want you to do something for me to-morrow, so set the bellboy for eight o’clock, will you?” A moment later he turned his assistant over to the hotel roundsman, and turned to his own well earned rest. Making a neat packet of the clippings, he stowed them away once more in their worn receptacle–he hesitated, then nodded to himself, having decided to replace them. He must gain this woman’s confidence. She must not be made suspicious. Above all, her anger must not be roused. She might become stubborn and uncommunicative. He stepped into the adjoining room and turned on the electrics. The quick flash of the light made him shut his eyes. When he opened them he gave a cry of dismay. The tumbled bed was empty–the window stood wide open. It flashed into his mind, that as he had talked with Long over the incriminating bits of paper, he had felt a draft of air; but his knowledge that his captive was securely tied had eliminated from his mind any idea of the possibility of an attempt at escape. Then, cursing himself, he recalled how he had loosened the cords about her ankles. With a bound he was at the window, looking down at the spidery threads of fire escape ladders, leading down to the utter dark of the service alley.

“My God!” he exclaimed aloud. “My God!” He feared to find a crushed and broken little body at the foot of those steep iron ladders. It seemed impossible for such a frail and aged woman to have, unaided, made her way down the sides of that inky precipice. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed again, “if only she isn’t killed!” He stood looking out, leaning as far over the iron railing as he dared, waiting till his eyes should become accustomed to the darkness. Gradually the details of the structure became clear to his vision. No ominous dark mass took shape on the pavement, far beneath. He could vaguely make out the contours of an ash can or two and an abandoned wheelbarrow. But the alley from end to end held no human form. She had succeeded in making her escape! Then at all costs he must find her; and the police must not get hold of her. The evidence of the clippings, her angry words as she prepared to attack Mrs. Marteen–all outlined a possible solution to the tragedy in Washington Square.

He hesitated a moment. His first impulse was to descend the fire escapes in turn and look below for further trace of her going. But he realized that he could reach the alley quicker by going through the house. He cursed himself for a careless fool. How could he have allowed this to happen!

He turned quickly, intent on losing no further moments, when he was frozen into immobility by a sound, the most curiously unexpected of all sounds–a laugh, a faint treble chuckle! It seemed to come from the outer air, from nowhere, to hang suspended in the damp air of the shaft. It was eerie, ghostly. Was the spirit of the dead man laughing at his folly? The detective stepped back on the grating, flattening himself against the outer sill of his window. Again the chuckler–now an unmistakable laugh floated to his ears. With a smothered exclamation he stepped forward again, and looked upward. There, against the violet-gray of the star-sprinkled sky, bulked a crouching shape, cuddled on the landing above.

Brencherly held his breath. It seemed that the woman must fall from her perch, so insecure it seemed. He controlled himself, thinking rapidly. Then he laughed in return.

“That _was_ a good joke you played on me,” he said. “How did you ever think of it?”

“Oh,” came the answer, punctuated by smothered peals of laughter. “That’s the way I got away from the Sanatorium. I just went up instead of down, and stayed there, till they’d hunted all the place over. Then when I saw where they weren’t, I just went down and walked out.”

“That was clever,” he exclaimed. “But you can’t be comfortable up there. Won’t you come down, and I’ll get something for you to eat. You must be hungry, and cold, too.”

“No,” came the response. “I sort of like it here. It reminds me of the way I fooled them all back there; and they thinking themselves that sharp, too. It’s sort of nice, too, looking at the stars–sort of feels like a bird in a nest, don’t it?”

“I hope to goodness, she don’t take it into her head she can fly,” thought Brencherly. Aloud he said: “Say, do you mind if I come up there and sit with you a while? I’m sort of lonesome here myself.” He had already moved silently forward, and was slowly mounting the iron ladder–very slowly, a rung at a time, talking all the while in a cordial, friendly voice. He feared she might take fright and precipitate herself to the stones below. But her mood was otherwise.

“I don’t mind,” she said. “I don’t seem to know just how I got here, and perhaps you can tell me. I just woke up and found myself sleepin’ on somebody’s bed. I thought at first that I was back in the ward, when I found my feet was tied up. Then when I got loose and had time to feel around, I saw ’twas some strange place. Then the fire escapes sort of looked nice and cool, so I came out.”

By this time her visitor had climbed beside her and had seated himself on the landing in such fashion that no move of hers could dislodge either of the strange couple. He noted with relief that they were outside of a door instead of a window, as was the case on all the floors below. The drying roof of the hotel only was above them. He did not wish this extraordinary interview to be interrupted. His airy nest-mate seemed amenable to conversation.

“Well, well!” he resumed, “so _that_ was the way you worked it. Wouldn’t that make the doctor mad, though–what was the old duffer’s name, anyway? You did tell me, but I’ve got such a poor memory–now, yours is good, I’ll bet a hat.”

“Well,” she said, “’tain’t what it used to be, but I’ll never forget old Malbey’s name as long as I live, nor what he looks like, either. He looks like a potato with sprouts for eyes.”

Brencherly laughed. He had a very clear, if unflattering, picture of the learned physician.

“But, say,” she cried suddenly, “you’re not trying to get me, are you?”

“Oh, _I’m_ no friend of the doctor’s,” he said easily. “Why, I brought you up here to hide you away safely. That was one of my rooms you woke up in. You see, I found you on a bench in the park out there, and you went to sleep so suddenly right while I was talking to you, that I thought you must be tired out.”

She leaned forward, peering at him through the dusk. Her white pinched face looked skull-like in the faint light.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “seems to me that I remember some woman saying she killed Victor Mahr, and me getting angry about it–and then I don’t seem to know just _what_ happened. Well, young man, I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure. ‘Tain’t often an old woman like me gets so well taken care of.”

“But why,” he questioned softly, “were you so annoyed with the other lady? She had just as much right as you had, I suppose, to kill the gentleman?”

“She had not!” she shrilled. “She had not!” Then lowering her voice to a whisper, she murmured confidentially: “_My_ name ain’t Welles!”

“Why, Mrs. Welles,” he exclaimed, “how can you say so? If you aren’t Mrs. Welles, who are you?”

“Just as if you didn’t know!” she retorted scornfully.

“Well, perhaps,” he admitted. “But never mind that now. Do you know that you lost your bag of clippings?”

Her hand flew to her breast. “Now, gracious me! How could I?”

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” he soothed. “I’ve got them all in my room. You shall have them again. Don’t you want to come down and get them?” He was cramped and chilled to the bone; moreover, the stars had paled, and a misty fog of floating, impalpable crystal was slowly crossing the oblong of sky left visible by the edifices on both sides of the alley. He waited anxiously for her to reply, but she seemed lost in thought. He looked at her closely. She was asleep, her head resting against the blistered paneling of the door. He shifted his position slightly, and gazed at the coming of the dawn. Gradually the crystal white gave place to faintest violet, then flushed to rose color. The details of the coping above them became sharply distinct. Below them the canyon was full of blue shadow, but already the depths were becoming translucent. He looked at his strange companion. Should he wake her, he wondered. Softly he tried the door. It was locked from within. If he allowed her to slumber in peace, she might, on awakening, be terrified at the visible depths below. Now, all was vague in the blue canyon.

Very gently he pressed her hand and called her. “Mrs. Welles.”

She awoke with such a violent start that for an agonized instant he felt his hold slipping. He held her firmly, however, and steadied her with voice and hand.

“Let’s go indoors,” he said quite casually. “You see if we sit here much longer, it’s growing light, and people will see us. Then it won’t be easy for me to keep you hidden. Now, if you’ll just turn about and let me go first, I’ll get you down quite easily and nobody the wiser for our outing.”

She looked at him for a moment as if puzzled, then her brow cleared. “Very well, young man,” she said. “I must have had a nap. Now, how do you want me to turn?”

He showed her, and with his arms on the outside of the ladder, her body next the rungs–as he had often seen the firemen make their rescues, he slowly steadied her to the landing below and assisted her in at the window.

With a sigh of relief he closed the window behind them and drew down the blinds.

“Now! that’s all right, Mrs. Mahr. You’re quite safe.”

She turned on him her beady eyes and laughed her shrill chuckle. “There, didn’t I tell you, you knew all the time? I guess you’ll own up that it’s the wife who’s got the right to kill a husband, won’t you?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll see that nobody else gets the credit, believe me!”

* * * * *

XIV

With Dorothy clinging to his hand, Marcus Gard watched the door of Mrs. Marteen’s library with an ever-growing anxiety. Only the presence of the child, who clasped his hand in such fear and grief, kept him from giving way. The long reign of terror that had dragged his heart and mind to the very edge of martyrdom had worn thin his already exhausted nerves, and now–now that the lost was found again, it was to learn by what a slender thread of life they held her with them.

Every moment he could spare from the demands of his responsibilities was spent in close companionship with Dorothy in the house where only the sound of soft-footed nurses, the clink of a spoon in a medicine glass or the tread of the doctor mounting the stairs broke the waiting silence. For many days she had not known them. Now came intervals of consciousness and coherence, but weakness so great that the two anxious watchers, unused to illness, were appalled by the change it wrought. Now for the twentieth time they sat longing for and yet fearing the moment when Dr. Balys, with his friendly eyes and grim mouth, would enter to them with the tale of his last visit and his hopes or fears for the next.

The lamps were lighted, the shades drawn; the fire crackled quietly on the hearth. The room was filled with the familiar perfume of violets, for Dorothy, true to her mother’s custom, kept every vase filled with them.

Silently Gard patted the little cold hand in his, as the sound of approaching footsteps warned them of the doctor’s coming. In silence they saw the door open, and welcomed with a throb of relief the smile on the physician’s face.

“A great, a very great improvement,” he said quickly, in answer to Dorothy’s supplicating eyes. “Quite wonderful. She is a woman of such extraordinary character that, once conscious, we can count on her own great will to save the day for us–and to-morrow you shall both see her. To-night, little girl, you may go in and kiss her, very quietly–not a word, you know. Just a kiss and go.”

“Now?” whispered Dorothy, as if she were already in the sick room. “May I go now?”

“Yes. No tears, you know, and no huggings–just one little kiss–and then come back here.”

Dorothy flew from the room, light and soundless as blown thistledown. The doctor turned to his friend.

“There is something troubling her,” he said gravely, “something that is eating at her heart. Ordinarily I wouldn’t consent to anyone seeing her so soon; but she called for you in her delirium; and now that she is conscious, she whispers that she must consult you. Perhaps you can relieve her trouble, whatever it is. I’m going to chance it; after Dorothy has seen her, you may. I don’t know exactly what to say, but–well, answer the question in her eyes, if you can–but only a moment–only give her relief. She must have no excitement.”

Gard nodded.

“I think I know,” he said slowly.

The doctor nodded in understanding, as the girl appeared, her face drawn by emotion.

“Oh, poor mother!” she gasped. “She seemed–so–I don’t know why–grateful–to me–thanked me for coming to her–_thanked_ me, Dr. Balys, as if I wasn’t longing every minute to be with her! She is not quite over her delirium yet, do you think?”

Balys smiled. “Of course she is grateful to see you. Your mother has been very close to the Great Divide, and she, more than any of us, realizes it. Now,” he said, turning to Gard, “go in and make your little speech; and, mind you, say your word and go. No conversation with my patient.”

Gard stood up, excitement gripping him. He was to see her eyes again, open and understanding. He was to hear her voice in coherent tones once more! The realization of this wonder thrilled him. He went to her presence as some saint of old went to the altar, where, in a dream, the vision of miracle had been promised him. All the pain and torture of the past seemed nothing in the light of this one thing–that she was herself again, to meet him hand to hand and eye to eye. He entered the quiet room and crossed its dimly lighted spaciousness to the bed. The nurse rose tactfully and busied herself among the bottles on the distant dresser.

At last, after the ordeal that they had gone through, in the lonely, hollow torture chamber of the heart, they met, and knew. With a sigh of understanding, she moved her waxen fingers, and, comprehending her gesture, he took her hand and held it, striving to impart to her weakness something of his own vigor. For a moment they remained thus. Then into her eyes, where at first great repose had shone, there came a gleam of questioning. He leaned close above her to catch her whispered words.

“She doesn’t know?”

“No,” he answered. “Dorothy came to me with his letter. I got everything from the safe, and I sent her away so no further messages might reach her. Now do you see?”

She looked up at him.

Again he took her hand in his and strove to give it life, as a transfusion of blood is given through the veins.

There was silence for a moment. Then her white lips framed a request.

“Bring them–all the things from the inner safe–bring them to-morrow to me.” Her eyes turned toward the fire that glowed on the hearth.

He comprehended her intention.

“To-morrow,” he murmured, and, turning, softly left the room. With a few words to Dorothy he hurried from the house.

Instinctively he turned to seek the sanctuary of his library, but paused ere he gave the order to his chauffeur. No, before he could call the day complete, there was something else to do. He gave the address of the house on Washington Square. The mansion, as the limousine drew up before it, looked dark, almost deserted. He mounted the steps slowly, his mind crowded with memories–with what burning hatred in his heart he had come to face the owner of that house, to disarm Victor Mahr of his revengeful power. With what primeval elation he had stood upon that topmost step and drawn long breaths of satisfaction at the thought of the encounter in which, with his own hands he had laid his enemy low! Its thrill came to him anew. Again he recalled the hurried purposeful visit that had ended with his finding the enemy passed forever beyond his reach. Vividly he saw before him the silent room–soft lighted, remotely quiet; the waxen hand of a man contrasting with the scarlet damask of a huge winged chair, that hid the face of its owner. And more distinct than all else, staring from the surrounding darkness of the walls, the glorious, palpitating semblance of a warrior of long ago. The strangely living lips, the dusky hollows where thoughtful eyes gleamed darkling. The glint of armor half covered by velvet and fur. A gloved hand that seemed to caress a sword hilt, that caught one crashing ruby light upon its pommel–the matchless Heim Vandyke–the silent, attentive watcher who had seen his sacking of the dead; who seemed, with those deep eyes of understanding, to realize and know it all–the futile clash of human wills, the little day of love and hate, the infinite mercy, and the inexorable law.

Gard paused, his hand upon the bell. Now at last he could enter this house, and wish it peace. His errand, even the all-comprehending eyes of the dead and gone warrior could look upon without their half-cynic sadness.

As he entered the great silent hall, where the footfalls of the servant were hushed, as if overawed by tragedy, he seemed to leave behind him, as distinctly as he discarded the garment he gave into the lackey’s hands, the bitterness of the past. He was ushered into a small and elaborate waiting room to the right. And a moment later Teddy Mahr entered to him, with extended hands.

The boy had aged. His face was white and drawn, but the eyes that looked into Gard’s face were courageous and clear.

“Thank you for coming,” he said frankly. “Shall we sit here, or–in Father’s room?” His mouth twitched slightly. “It really must be part of the house, you know. It was his workshop–and I want it to be mine in the future. I haven’t been in there since, and, somehow, if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like you to come with me–to be with me, when I first go back.”

Gard nodded and smiled rather grimly. “Yes, boy–I’d like to myself. I would have asked it of you, but I feared to awaken memories that were too painful for you. Let us go in. What I have to talk over with you concerns him, too.”

They crossed the hall, and Teddy unlocked the heavy door and paused to find the switch. The anteroom sprung into light. In silence they crossed the intervening space to the inner door, which was in turn unlocked.

As the soft lights were once more renewed, Gard started, so vividly had he reconstructed the scene as he had last looked upon it, with that hasty yet detailed scrutiny of the stage manager. He was almost surprised to find the great damask-covered easy chair untenanted, and order restored to the length and breadth of the library table. Involuntarily his eyes sought the wall behind the desk, where the panoply of ancient arms glinted somberly, then scanned the polished surface of the wood in search of what?–of the stiletto that was a foil in miniature. Somehow, though he knew that it, along with other relics of that dreadful passing, were in charge of the officials of the law, he had expected to see it there. Something of the impermanence of life and the indifferent, soulless permanence of things, flashed through his mind. “Art and art alone, enduring, stays to us,” he quoted the words aloud unconsciously. “The bust outlasts the throne, the coin–Tiberius.” His eyes were fixed upon the picture, which, though thrown in no relief by the unlighted globes above it, yet in its very obscurity, dominated the room with its all but unseen presence.

“Oh, no, not that alone,” Teddy Mahr objected. “Don’t you think we live on, in what we have done, in what we have been, in what we desire to do?”

Gard was silent. The words seemed irony. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that the end is not yet. I believe that we are each accountable for our individual being. I believe that every one of us is his brother’s keeper.” He was silent. His own short, newly evolved credo, surprised him.

Teddy crossed to the great armchair, and laid his hand on it reverently.

“It was here his Fate found him,” he said with quiet self-control. “Where will Fate find me–or you–I wonder?”

“Fate _has_ found me,” said Gard. “Death isn’t the only thing that Fate means, but Life also; and it’s of Life I came to speak to you–as well as the Past, that we must realize _is_–the Past. Of course, you know what has been learned–something about what happened here. Now, I want to tell you of my plans. I want, if possible, to keep things quiet–Oh, it’s only comparatively speaking–but we can avoid a great deal of publicity, if you will let me handle the matter. It’s for your sake, and I’m sure your father would desire it–and–pardon me, if I presume on grounds I’m not supposed to know anything of–but for Dorothy’s, too. Dorothy may have to face bereavement too. Publicity, details, the nine days’ wonder–it’s all unpleasant, distressing. I have arranged to see the District Attorney to-morrow night. He can, if he will, materially aid us. This poor insane woman has delusions that it would be painful for you to even know. It would certainly be most unfortunate if she were tried or examined in public. I’d rather you didn’t come–did not even see her at any time. Will you trust me? You have a perfect right to do otherwise, I know–but–will you believe me when I say I’ve given this my best thought, and I believe I am giving you the best advice?”

He stood very erect, speaking with formality, with a certainly stilted, “learned by rote” manner, very different from his usual fiery utterances.

Teddy respected his mood and bowed with courtly deference. “You were my father’s friend,” he said. “You were the last to be with him. I know you are giving me the wisest advice a wise man can give, and I accept it gratefully, Mr. Gard–for myself, and father and for Dorothy, too.”

The older man held out his hand. Their clasp was strong and responsive. There were tears in Teddy’s eyes, and he turned his head away quickly.

“Then,” said Gard briskly, “it is understood. You also know and realize why I have kept the whole matter under seal. Why I have secreted this poor demented creature, have kept even you in ignorance of her whereabouts. Oh, I know I have had your consent all along; I know you have given me your complete trust long before this; but to-night I wanted your final cooperation in the hardest task of all–to acquiesce, while in ignorance, to permit matters that concern you, and you alone most truly and deeply, to be placed in the hands of others. I thank you for your faith, boy. God bless you.”

Teddy saw his guest to the door, stood in the entry watching him descend to the street and his car, and turned away with a sigh. He reentered the room they had left, and stood for a moment in grave thought. He sighed again as he plunged the apartment in darkness and, leaving, locked the doors one after the other. Something, some very vital part of his existence was shut behind him forever. There were questions that he might not ask himself–there were veils he must not lift–there was a door in his heart, the door to the shrine of a dead man–it must be locked forever, if he would keep it a sanctuary.

In the hall once more, he turned toward the entrance; his thoughts again with the strong, kindly presence of the man who had just left him. He wondered why he had never realized the vast, unselfish human force in Gard. “What an indomitable soul,” he said softly. “I must have been very blind.”

* * * * *

XV

The following day found Marcus Gard at the usual morning hour in conference with Dorothy. The girl was radiant. The nurses had reported a splendid sleep and a calm awakening. She had been allowed a moment with her mother, whose voice was no longer faint, but was regaining its old vibrant quality.

The doctor entered smiling and grasped Gard’s extended hand.

“You said it,” he laughed. “Whatever it was, you said it, all right. Mrs. Marteen slept like a child, and there’s color in her face to-day. See if you can do as well again. I’ll give you five minutes–no, ten.”

Preceded by the doctor, he once more found his way through the velvet-hushed corridors to the softly lighted bedroom, where lay the woman who had absorbed his every thought. Her eyes, as they met his, were bright with anxiety, and her glance at the doctor was almost resentful. But it was not part of the physician’s plan to interfere with any confidence that might relieve the patient’s mind. With a casual nod to Mrs. Marteen, he called to the nurse and led her from the room, his finger rapidly tapping the sick-room chart, as if medical directions were first in his mind.

Left alone, Gard approached the bed, and in answer to the unspoken question in her eyes, fumbled in his pocket and brought forth the thin packets of letters and the folded yellow cheques. One by one he laid them where her hands could touch them. He dared not look at her. He felt that her newly awakened soul was staring from her eyes at the mute evidence of a degrading past.

A moment passed in silence that seemed a year of pain; then, without a sob, without a sigh, she slowly handed him a bundle of papers, withholding them only a moment as she verified the count; then, with a slight movement she indicated the fireplace. He crossed to it and placed the papers on the coals, where they flared a moment, casting wavering shadows about the silent room, and died to black wisps. Again and again he made the short journey from the bed to the grate; each time she verified the contents of the envelopes before delivering them to his hand.

Last of all the two yellow cheques crisped to ashes. He stood looking down upon them as they dropped and collapsed into cinders, and from their ashes rose the phoenix of happiness. A glow of joyful relief lighted his spirit. There, in those dead ashes, lay a dead past–a past that might have been the black future, but was now relinquished forever, voluntarily–gone–gone! He realized a supreme moment, a turning point. Fate looked him in the eyes.

He turned, and saw a face transfigured. There was a light in Mrs. Marteen’s eyes that matched the glow in his own heart. Very reverently he raised her hand and kissed it; two sudden tears fell hot upon her cheeks and her lips quivered.

He had never seen her show emotion, and it went to his heart. He saw her gaze at her hands with dilating eyes, and divined before she spoke the question she whispered:

“Who killed Victor Mahr?”

He bent above her gravely. “His wife. The wife he had cruelly wronged–his wife, who escaped at last from an asylum. She is quite mad–now. She is in our hands, and to-night, at eleven o’clock, the district attorney will be at my house to see her and have the evidence laid before him–to save Teddy,” he added quickly.

She looked at him wildly. “His wife–the wife that I–“

He took her hand quickly. He feared to hear the words that he knew she was about to say.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Yes–she killed him.”

Mrs. Marteen sank slowly back upon her pillows and lay with closed eyes. A heavy pulse beat in the arteries at her throat, and a scarlet spot burned on either cheek.

“Nemesis,” she murmured. “Nemesis.” She lay still for a moment. “Thank God!” she said at length, and let her hands fall relaxed upon the counterpane. She seemed as if asleep but for the quick intake of her breath.

Gard gazed upon her with infinite tenderness, yet with sudden bitter consciousness of the isolation of each individual soul. She was remote, withdrawn. Even his eager sympathy could not reach the depths of her self-tortured heart. But now at last he knew her, a completed being. The soul was there, palpitant, awake. The something he had so sorely missed was the living and real presence of spirit. It came over him in a wave of realization that he, too, had been unconscious of his own higher self until his love had made him feel the need of it in her. They two, from the depths of self-satisfied power, had gone blindly in their paths of self-seeking–till each had awakened the other. A strange, retarded spiritual birth.

He looked back over his long career of remorseless success with something of the self-horror he had read in her eyes as he had placed the incriminating papers in her frail hands. And as she had cast contamination from her, so he promised himself he would thrust predatory greed from his own life. They were both born anew. They would both be true to their own souls.

* * * * *

XVI

The softened electric light suffused a glamour of glowing color over the rich brocade of the walls of Marcus Gard’s library, catching a glint here and there on iridescent plaques, or a mellow high light on the luscious patine of an antique bronze. The stillness, so characteristic of the place, seemed to isolate it from the whole world, save when a distant bell musically announced the hour.

Brencherly sat facing his employer, respecting his anxious silence, while they waited the coming of the district attorney, to whose clemency they must appeal–surely common humanity would counsel protective measures, secrecy, in the proceeding of the law. The links in the chain of evidence were now complete, but more than diplomacy would be required in order to bring about the legal closing of the affair without precipitating a scandal. Gard’s own hasty actions led back to his fear for Mrs. Marteen, that in turn involved the cause of that suspicion. To convince the newsmongers that the crime was one of an almost accidental nature, he felt would be easy. An escaped lunatic had committed the murder. That revenge lay behind the insane act would be hidden. If necessary, the authorities of the asylum could be silenced with a golden gag–but the law?

Neither of the two men, waiting in the silent house, underestimated the importance of the coming interview.

The night was already far spent, and the expected visitor still delayed. At length the pale secretary appeared at the door to announce his coming.

Gard rose from his seat, and extended a welcoming hand to gray-haired, sharp-featured District Attorney Field.

Brencherly bowed with awkward diffidence.

Gard’s manner was ease and cordiality itself, but his heart misgave him. So much depended upon the outcome of this meeting. He would not let himself dwell upon its possibilities, but faced the situation with grim determination.

“Well, Field,” he said genially, “let me thank you for coming. You are tired, I know. I’m greatly indebted to you, but I’m coming straight to the point. The fact is, we,” and he swept an including gesture toward his companion, “have the whole story of Victor Mahr’s death. Brencherly is a detective in my personal employ.” Field bowed and turned again to his host. “The person of the murderer is in our care,” Gard continued. “But before we make this public–before we draw in the authorities, there are things to be considered.”

He paused a moment. The district attorney’s eyes had snapped with surprise.

“You don’t mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that you have the key to that mystery! Have you turned detective, Mr. Gard? Well, nothing surprises me any more. What was the motive? You’ve learned that, too, I suppose?”

“Insanity,” said Gard shortly.

“Revenge,” said the detective.

“Suppose,” said Gard, “a crime were committed by a totally irresponsible person, would it be possible, once that fact was thoroughly established, to keep investigation from that person; to conduct the matter so quietly that publicity, which would crush the happiness of innocent persons, might be avoided?”

“It might,” said the lawyer, “but there would have to be very good and sufficient reasons. Let’s have the facts, Mr. Gard. An insane person, I take it, killed Mahr. Who?”

“His wife.” Gard had risen and stood towering above the others, his face set and hard as if carved in flint.

Field instinctively recoiled. “His wife!” he exclaimed. “Why, man alive, _you_ are the madman. His wife died years ago.”

“No,” said Gard. “Teddy Mahr’s mother died. His wife is living, and is in that next room.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Field demanded.

“A pretty plain meaning,” Gard rejoined. “The woman escaped from the asylum where she was confined. According to her own story, she had kept track of her husband from the newspapers. Mahr couldn’t divorce her, but he married again, secure in his belief that his first marriage would never be discovered. Mad as she was, she knew the situation, and she planned revenge. Dr. Malky, of the Ottawa Asylum, is here. We sent for him. The woman has been recognized by Mahr’s butler as the one he admitted. There is no possible doubt. And her own confession, while it is incomplete in some respects, is nevertheless undoubtedly true.

“But, Field, this woman is hopelessly demented. There is nothing that can be done for her. She must be returned to the institution. I want to keep the knowledge of her identity from Mahr’s son. Why poison the whole of his young life; why wreck his trust in his father? Convince yourself in every way, Mr. Field, but the part of mercy is a conspiracy of silence. Let it be known that an escaped lunatic did the killing–a certain unknown Mrs. Welles–and let Brencherly give the reporters all they want. For them it’s a good story, anyway–such facts as these, for instance: he happened by in time to see an attack upon another woman on a bench opposite Mahr’s house, and to hear her boast of her acts. But I ask as a personal favor that the scandal be avoided. Brencherly, tell what happened.”

The detective looked up. “There was an old story–our office had had it–that Mahr was a bigamist. In searching for a motive for the crime, I hit on that. I had all our data on the subject sent up to me. I found that our informant stated that Mahr had a wife in an asylum somewhere. That gave me a suspicion. I found from headquarters that there were two escapes reported, and one was a woman. She had broken out of a private institution in Ottawa. I got word from there that her bills had been paid by a lawyer here–Twickenbaur. I already knew that he was Mr. Mahr’s confidential lawyer. But all this I looked up later, after I’d found the woman. You see, Mr. Gard is employing me on another matter, and after he returned from Washington, I gave my report to him here.

“Then I went over to Mahr’s house. I had a curiosity to go over the ground. It was quite late at night, and I was standing in the dark, looking over the location of the windows, when I saw a woman acting strangely. She was threatening and talking loudly, crying out that she had a right to kill him. I sneaked up behind just in time to stop her attack on another woman who was seated on the same bench, and who seemed too ill to defend herself. Well, sir, I had to give her three hypos before I could take her along. Then I got her to my rooms, and when she came around, she told me the story. Of course, sir, you mustn’t expect any coherent narrative, though she is circumstantial enough. Then I brought over the butler, and he identified her at once. Mr. Gard advised me not to notify the police until he had seen you. We got the doctor from the asylum here as quickly as possible. He’s with her in there now.”

The attorney sat silent a moment, nodding his head slowly. “I’ll see her, Gard,” he said at length. “This is a strange story,” he added, as Brencherly disappeared into the anteroom.

Field’s eyes rested on Gard’s face with keen questioning, but he said nothing, for the door opened, admitting the black-clad figure of a middle-aged woman, escorted by a trained nurse and a heavily built man of professional aspect.

“This is–” Field asked, as his glance took in every detail of the woman’s appearance.

“Mrs. Welles, as she is known to us,” the doctor answered; “but she used to tell us that that was her maiden name, and she married a man named Mahr. We didn’t pay much attention to what she said, of course, but she was forever begging old newspapers and pointing out any paragraphs about Mr. Victor Mahr, saying she was his wife.”

Field gazed at the ghastly pallor of the woman’s face, the maze of wrinkles and the twinkling brightness of her shifting eyes, as she stood staring about her unconcernedly. Her glance happened upon Brencherly. Her lips began to twitch and her hands to make signals, as if anxious to attract his attention. She writhed toward him.

“Young man,” she whispered audibly, “they’ve got me–I knew they would. Even you could not keep me so hidden they couldn’t find me.” She jerked an accusing thumb over her shoulder at the corpulent bulk of her erstwhile jailer. “They’ve been trying to make me tell how I got out; but I won’t tell. I may want to do it again, you see, and you won’t tell.”

“But,” said Brencherly soothingly, “you don’t want to get out now, you know. You’ve no reason to want to get out.”

She nodded, as if considering his statement seriously.

“Of course, since I’ve got Victor out of the way, I don’t much care. And I had awful trouble to steal enough money to get about with. Why, I had to pick ever so many pockets, and I do hate touching people; you never can tell what germs they may have.” She shook out her rusty black skirt as if to detach any possible contagion.

“But, why,” the incisive voice of the attorney inquired, “did you want to kill Victor Mahr?”

“Why?” she screamed, her body suddenly stiffening. “Suppose you were his wife, and he locked you up in places, and made people call you Mrs. Welles, while he went swelling around everywhere, and making millions! What’d you do? And besides, it wasn’t only _that_, you see. _I_ knew, being his wife, that he was a devil–oh, yes, he was; you needn’t look as if you didn’t believe it. But I soon learned that when I said I was ‘Mrs. Victor Mahr’ in the places he put me into, they laughed at me, the way they do at my roommate, who says she’s a sideboard and wants to hold a tea-set.”

“Tell these gentlemen how cleverly you traced him,” suggested Brencherly.

“Oh, I knew where he lived and what he was doing well enough.” She bridled with conscious conceit; “I read the papers and I had it all written down. So when I got out and stole the money, I knew just where to go. But he’s foxy, too. I knew I’d have to _make_ him see me. So I stole some of the doctor’s letterhead paper, and I wrote on it, ‘Important news from the Institution’–that’s what he likes to call his boarding house–an institution.” She laughed. “It worked!” she went on as she regained her breath. “I just sent that message, and they let me go right in. ‘Well, what is it–what is it?’ Victor said, just like that.” Her tones of mimicry were ghastly. She paused a moment, then broke out:

“Now you won’t believe it, but I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was going to kill him with when I went in there–I really didn’t. The doctor will tell you himself that I’m awfully forgetful. But there, spread out before him, he had a whole collection of weapons, just as if he should say, ‘Mamie, which’ll you have?’ I couldn’t believe my eyes; so I said first thing, ‘Why, you were expecting me!’ He heard my voice, and his eyes opened wide; and I thought: ‘If I don’t do it now, he’ll raise the house.’ So I grabbed the big pistol and hit him! I’m telling you gentlemen all this, because I don’t want anyone else to get the credit. There was a woman I met on a bench, and I just was sure she was going to take all the credit, but I told her that was _my_ business. I hate people who think they can do everything. There’s a woman across my hall who says she can make stars–” She broke off abruptly as for the first time she became aware of Gard’s presence in the room. “Why, there you are!” she exclaimed delightedly. “Now, that’s good! You can tell these people what _you_ found.”

“But Mr. Mahr was stabbed, Mrs. Welles,” Gard interrupted. “You said you struck him with a pistol.”

“Oh, I did _that_ afterward.” She took up the thread of her narrative. “I selected the place very carefully, and pushed the knife way in tight. I hate the sight of blood, and I sort of thought that’d stop it, and it did. Then, dear me, I had a scare. There’s a picture in that room as live as life, and I looked up, and saw it looking at me. So I started to run out, but somebody was coming, so in the little room off the big one I got behind a curtain. Then this gentleman went through the room where I was, and into the room where _he_ was. But he shut the door, and I couldn’t see what he thought of it. After a while he came out and said ‘good-night’ to me, though how he knew I was there I can’t guess. So I waited a very long time, till everything was quiet, and then I went back and sat with him. It did me good just to sit and look at him; and every little while I’d lift his coat to see if the little sword was still there. The room was awful messy, and I tidied it up a bit. Then when dawn about came, I got up and walked out. I had a sort of idea of getting back to the institution without saying anything, because I was afraid they’d punish me.”

“Why did you rob Mr. Mahr?” asked Mr. Field.

“Rob nothing!” she retorted.

“But his jewels, his watch,” the attorney continued, his eyes riveted on her face with compelling earnestness. The woman gave an inarticulate growl. “But,” interposed Brencherly, “I found his wallet in your package.” He took from his pocket a worn and battered leather pocketbook and held it toward her.

“Oh,” she answered indifferently, “I just took it for a souvenir. In fact, I came back for it–last thing.”

Brencherly shrugged his shoulders expressively. Gard sat far back in his chair, his face in shadow.

“How long has it been, Mrs. Welles, since you–accomplished your purpose?” he asked slowly.

“You know as well as I do,” she cried angrily.

“You were there. It was yesterday–no, the day before.”

“It was just a week ago we found her,” Brencherly said in a low voice. “I had to look up everything and verify everything.”

“You don’t think I did it?” she burst out angrily. “Well, I’ll prove it. I tell you I did, and I thought it all out carefully, although the doctor says I can’t think connectedly. I’ll show him.” She fumbled in the breast of her dress for a moment, and brought out her cherished handful of newspaper clippings, which she cast triumphantly upon the table. “There’s all about him from the papers, and a picture of the house. Why, I’d ‘a’ been a fool not to find him, and I had to. Oh, yes, I suppose, as the doctor says, I’m queer; but I wasn’t when he first began sending me away–no, indeed. I wasn’t good enough for him, that was all; and I was far from home, and hadn’t a friend, and he had money. Oh, he was clever–but he’s the devil. He used to file his horns off so people wouldn’t see, but I know. So, I’ll tell you everything, except how I got away. There’s somebody else I may want to find.” She glanced with infinite cunning at Brencherly, and began her finger signals as if practicing a dumb alphabet of which he alone knew the key.

“Where did you receive her from, Doctor?” Field asked.

“From Ogdensburg, sir. Before that they told me she was found wandering, and put under observation in Troy. All I knew was that somebody wanted her kept in a private institution. She’d always been in one, I fancy.”

There was a pause as Field seemed lost in thought. Then he turned to Gard.

“May I ask you to clear one point?” he asked “You gave evidence that he was alive when you entered the room. According to her story–“

“I lied,” said Gard, his pale face suffused with color. “I had to–I was most urgently needed in Washington. I would have been detained, perhaps prevented altogether from leaving. Who knows–I might even have been accused. I plead guilty of suppressing the facts.”

There was silence in the room. The attorney’s eyes were turned upon the self-confessed perjurer. In them was a question. Gard met their gaze gravely, without flinching. Field nodded slowly.

“You’re right; publicity can only harm,” he said at last. “We will see what can be done. I’ll take the proper steps. It can be done legally and verified by the other witnesses. The butler identifies her, you say. It’s a curious case of retribution. I can’t help imagining Mahr’s feelings when he recognized her voice. Is your patient at all dangerous otherwise?” He addressed himself to the nurse.

“No,” she answered. “We’ve never seen it. Irritable, of course, but not vicious. I can’t imagine her doing such a thing. But you never can tell, sir–not with this sort.”

Field again addressed Gard, whose admission seemed to have exhausted him. “And the son–knows nothing?”

“Nothing,” answered Gard. “He worships his father’s memory. He is engaged, also, to–a very dear little friend of mine–the child of an old colleague. I want to shield them–both.”

“I understand.” He nodded his head slowly, lost in thought.

The woman, childishly interested in the grotesque inkwells on the table, stepped forward and raised one curiously. Her bony hands, of almost transparent thinness, seemed hardly able to sustain the weight of the cast bronze. It was hard to believe such a birdlike claw capable of delivering a stunning blow, or forcibly wielding the deadly knife. She babbled for a moment in a gentle, not unpleasant voice, while they watched her, fascinated.

“She’s that way most of the time,” said the nurse softly. “Just like a ten-year-old girl–plays with dolls, sir, all day long.”

Suddenly her expression changed. Over her smiling wrinkles crept the whiteness of death. Her eyes seemed to start from her head, her lips drew back, while her fingers tightened convulsively on the metal inkstand. The nurse, with an exclamation, stepped forward and caught her.

There was a gleam of such maniacal fury in the woman’s face that Mr. Field shuddered. “Hardly a safe child to trust even with a doll,” he said. “I fancy the recital has excited her. Hadn’t you better take her away and keep her quiet? And don’t let anyone unauthorized by Mr. Gard or myself have access to her. It will not be wise to allow her delusion that she was the wife of Victor Mahr to become known–you understand?”

Mr. Gard rose stiffly. “I will assume the expense of her care in future. Let her have every comfort your institution affords, Dr. Malky. I will see you to-morrow.”

“Thank you, sir.” The physician bowed. “Good night. Come, Mrs. Welles.”

Obediently the withered little woman turned and suffered herself to be led away.

As the door closed, Field came forward and grasped Gard’s hand warmly. “It is necessary for the general good,” he said, his kindly face grown grave, “that this matter be kept as quiet as possible. Believe me, I understand, old friend; and, as always, I admire you.”

Gard’s weary face relaxed its strain. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely. “We can safely trust the press to Brencherly. He,” and he smiled wanly, “deserves great credit for his work. I’m thinking, Field, I need that young man in my business.”

Field nodded. “I was thinking I needed him in mine; but yours is the prior claim. And now I’m off. Mr. Brencherly, can I set you down anywhere?”

Confusedly the young man accepted the offer, hesitated and blushed as he held out his hand. “May I?”

Gard read the good-will in his face, the congratulation in the tone, and grasped the extended hand with a warm feeling of friendly regard.

“Good-night–and, thank you both,” he said.

* * * * *

XVII

Spring had come. The silvery air was soft with promises of leaf and bud. Invitation to Festival and Adventure was in the gold-flecked sunlight. Nature stood on tiptoe, ready for carnival, waiting for the opening measures of the ecstatic music of life’s renewal.

The remote stillness of the great library had given place to the faint sounds of the vernal world. A robin preened himself at an open casement, cast a calculating eye at the priceless art treasures of the place, scorned them as useless for his needs, and fluttered away to an antique marble bench in the walled garden, wherefrom he might watch for worms, or hop to the Greek sarcophagus and take a bath in accumulated rainwater.

Marcus Gard, outwardly his determined, unbending self again, sat before his laden table, slave as ever to his tasks. Nine strokes chimed from the Gothic clock in the hall; already his busy day had begun.

Denning entered unannounced, as was his special privilege, and stood for a moment in silence, looking at his friend. Gard acknowledged his presence with a cordial nod, and continued to glance over and sign the typewritten notes before him. At last he put down his pen and settled back in his chair.

“Well, old friend, how goes it?” he inquired, smiling.

Denning nodded. “Fine, thank you. I thought I’d find you here. I was in consultation with Langley last night, and we have decided we are in a position now to go ahead as we first planned over a year ago. The opposition in Washington has been deflected. Besides, Langley dug up a point of law.”

Gard rose and crossed to Denning. His manner was quietly conversational, and he twirled his _pince-nez_ absently.

“My dear man,” he said slowly, “you will have to adjust yourself to a shock. We will stick to the understanding as expressed in our interviews of last February, whether Mr. Langley has dug up a point of law or not. In short, Denning, we are not in future doing business in the old way.”

“But you don’t understand,” gasped the other. “Langley says that it lets us completely out. They can’t attack us under that ruling–can’t you see?”

“Quite so–yes. I can imagine the situation perfectly. But we entered into certain obligations–understandings, if you will–and we are going to live up to them, whether we could climb out of them or not.”

Denning sat down heavily.

“Well, I’ll be–Why, it’s no different from our position in the river franchise matter, not in the least–and we did pretty well with that, as you know.”

Gard nodded. “Yes, we are practically in the same position, as you say. The position is the same–but _we_ are different. I suppose you’ve heard a number of adages concerning the irresponsibility of corporations? Well, we are going to change all that. I fancy you have already noticed a different method in our mercantile madness, and you will notice it still more in the future.”

Denning pulled his mustache violently, a token with him of complete bewilderment.

“H’m–er–exactly,” he murmured. “Of course, if that’s the way you feel now–and you have your reasons, I suppose–I’ll call Langley up. He’ll be horribly disappointed, though. He’s pluming himself on landing this quick getaway for you. He’s been staking out the whole plan.”

Gard chuckled. “Do you remember, Denning, how hard you worked to make me go to Washington–and how my ‘duty to our stockholders’ was your favorite weapon? Where has all that noble enthusiasm gone–eh?”

Denning blushed. “But we were in a very dangerous hole. Things are different now.”

“Yes,” said Gard with finality, “they are–don’t forget it.”

“Well,” and Denning rose, discomfited, “I’m going. Three o’clock, Gard, the directors’ meeting. I’ll see you then.”

He shook hands and turned to the door, paused, turned again as if to reopen the subject, checked himself and went out.

As the door closed Gard chuckled. “I bet he’s cracking his skull to find out my game,” he thought with amusement. “By the time he reaches the office, he’ll have worked it out that I’m more far-sighted than the rest of them, and am making character; that I’m trying to do business by the Ten Commandments will never occur to him.” He returned to the table and resumed his task, paused and sat gazing absently at the contorted inkwells.

His secretary entered quietly, a sheaf of letters in his hand.

“Saunders,” said Marcus Gard, not raising his eyes from their absorbed contemplation, “did you ever let yourself imagine how hard it is to do business in a strictly honest manner, when the whole world seems to have lost the habit–if it ever _had_ the habit?”

Saunders looked puzzled. “I don’t know, sir. Mr. Mahr is in the hall and wants to see you,” he added, glad to change the subject.

“Is he? Good. Tell him to come in.” Gard rose with cordial welcome as Teddy entered.

There was an air of responsibility about the younger man, calmness, observation and concentration, very different from his former light-hearted, easy-mannered boyishness. Gard’s greeting was affectionate. “Well, boy, what brings you out so early? Taking your responsibilities seriously? And in what can I help you?”

Teddy blushed. “Mr. Gard,” he said, hurrying his words with embarrassment, “I wish you’d let me _give_ you the Vandyke–please do. I don’t want to _sell_ it to you. Duveen’s men are bringing it over to you this morning; they are on their way now. I want you to have it. I–I–” He looked up and gazed frankly in the older man’s face, unashamed of the mist of tears that blinded him. “I know father would want you to have it. And I know, Mr. Gard, what you did to shield his memory. If you hadn’t gone to Field–if you hadn’t taken the matter in charge–” He choked and broke off. “I don’t _know_ anything–but you handled the situation as I could not. Please–won’t you take the Vandyke?”

Gard’s hand fell on the boy’s shoulder with impressive kindliness. “No,” he said quietly, “I can’t do that, much as I appreciate your wanting to give it to me. I have a sentiment, a feeling about that picture. It isn’t the collector’s passion–I want it to remind me daily of certain things, things that you’d think I’d want to forget–but not I. I want that picture ‘In Memoriam’–that’s why I asked you to let me have it; and I want it by purchase. Don’t question my decision any more, Teddy. You’ll find a cheque at your office, that’s all.” He turned and indicated a space on the velvet-hung wall, where a reflector and electric lights had been installed. “It’s to hang there, Teddy, where I can see it as I sit. It is to dominate my life–how much you can never guess. Will you stay with me now, and help me to receive it?”

Teddy was obviously disappointed. “I can’t–I’m sorry. I ought to be at the office now; but I did so want to make one last appeal to you. Anyway, Mr. Gard, your cheque will go to enrich the Metropolitan purchase fund.”

“That’s no concern of mine,” Gard laughed. “You can’t make me the donor, you know. How is Dorothy–to change the subject!”

“What she always is,” the boy beamed, “the best and sweetest. My, but I’m glad she is back! And Mrs. Marteen, she’s herself again. You’ve seen them, of course?”

Gard nodded. “I met them at the train last night. Yes–she is–herself.”

“She had an awful close call!” Teddy exclaimed, his face grown grave.

There was reminiscent silence for a moment. With an active swing of his athletic body, Dorothy’s adorer collected his hat, gloves and cane in one sweep, spun on his heel with gleeful ease, smiled his sudden sunny smile, and waved a quick good-by.

* * * * *

XVIII

Teddy Mahr paused for a moment before descending to the street. He was honestly disappointed. He had hoped with all his heart to overcome Gard’s opposition. Not that he was over anxious to pay, in some degree, the debt of gratitude that he owed–he had come to regard his benefactor as a being so near and dear to him that there was no question of the ethics of giving and taking, but he had longed to give himself the keen pleasure of bestowing something that his friend really wanted. There was just one more chance of achieving his purpose–the intervention of Dorothy; her caprices Gard never denied. If he could only induce Dorothy–Early as it was he determined to intreat her intercession.

Walking briskly for a few blocks, he entered an hotel and sought the telephone booth. The wide awake voice that answered him was very unlike the sweet and sleepy drawls of protest his matutinal ringings were wont to call forth when Dorothy had been a gay and frivolous debutante. The enforced quiet of her mother’s prolonged illness, and the sojourn in the retirement of a hill sanitarium, had made of her a very different creature from the gaudy little night-bird of yore. The experiences through which she had passed, their anxiety and pain, had left her nature sweetened and deepened; had given her new sympathies and understandings. Now her laugh was just as clear–but its ring of light coquetry was gone.

“Of course, I’ll take a walk with you,” came her answer,–“if you’ll stop for me. I’m quite a pedestrian, you know. I _had_ to take some sort of a cure in sheer self-defense, up there in the wilds, so I decided on fresh air–and now it’s a habit. I’ll be ready.”

Teddy walked rapidly, his heart singing. He had quite forgotten his errand in the anticipated joy of seeing her. If he thought at all of the painting, it was an unformulated regret that no living artist could do Dorothy justice, or ever hope to transfer to canvas any true semblance of her many perfections.

She joined him in the hallway of her home, called back a last happy good-by to her mother, and passed with him into the silver and crystal morning light. She was simply dressed in a dark tailor suit, with a little hat and sensible shoes–a very different silhouette from that of the girl who left her room only in time to keep her luncheon appointments. He looked at her with approval and laughed happily.

“Hello, Country!–how are the cows to-day?”

“Fine,” she answered. “All boiled and sterilized, milked by electricity, manicured by steam and dehorned by absent treatment, sir, she said–sir, she said.”

“May I go with you into your highly sanitary barnyard, my pretty maid?” he asked seriously.

“Not unless you take a bath in carbolic solution, are vaccinated twice, and wear a surgeon’s uniform, sir, she said.”

“But, I’m going to marry you, my pretty maid.” The words were out before he could check them. He blushed furiously. To propose in a nursery rhyme was something that shocked his sense of fitness. He was amazed to find that he meant what he said in just the very way he had said it.

But Dorothy took his answer as part of their early morning springtime madness.

“Nobody asked you to be farm inspector, sir, she said,” she replied promptly.

But he was silent. His own words had choked him completely. She looked at him quickly, but his head was turned away. Her own heart began to beat nervously. She felt the magnetic current of his emotion vibrating through her being. Her eyes opened wide in wonder. She had for so long accustomed herself to the idea that Teddy was her own peculiar property, and that, of course, she intended to marry him, that but for his half-distressed perturbation, she would have thought no more of the momentous “Yes” than of voicing some long-formed opinion. Now his throbbing excitement had become contagious. She found herself fluttering and tongue-tied. Though she realized suddenly that their ridiculous child’s-play had turned to earnest, she could not find word or look to ease the strain. They walked on in silence, step for step, in a sort of mechanical rhythmic physical understanding. Suddenly he spoke.

“Dolly, I wish you’d punch old Marcus!”

The remark was so unexpected that Dorothy slipped a beat in her step and shuffled quickly to fall in tune.

“Good Gracious!–what for?” Her surprise was unfeigned.

“Because he won’t let me give him the Heim Vandyke–wants to buy it, insists on buying it. Asked me to let him have it–and then won’t accept it. Now, do me a favor, will you? You _make_ him take it. You’re the only person who can boss him–and he likes to have you do it. Will you see him to-day, and fix it?”

“Well of all!–Why, _I_ can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. Of course, he ought to take it, if you want to give it to him; but I really don’t see–I wonder–” She meditated for a full block in silence. “I’m going to lunch with him and Miss Gard and Mother. If I can, I’ll–no, I _can’t_. It’s none of my business. It’s up to you. How can I say–‘You ought to do what Teddy says’? He’d tell me I was an impertinent little girl, and that he knew how he wanted to deal with little boys without being told by their desk-mates.”

Teddy scowled. He wanted to get back to the barnyard he had left so abruptly, impelled by his new and unaccountable fright. But having hitched himself to his new subject of conversation, he felt somehow compelled to drag at it. It was up-hill work. To be sure, he had come to Dorothy for the purpose of soliciting her help, but Gard and Vandyke had both lost interest. Against his will he kept on talking.

“Well, I’ve done everything I can to make him see my point of view. I’ve told him I owe it to him; that Father would want him to have it; that I’ll give his money away if he sends it; that I’ve already shipped the thing to him; that I don’t want it; that it’s unbecoming to my house–he won’t listen. Just says he’s sent his cheque and we’ll please change the subject.”

“Well, you don’t have to _cash_ his cheque, do you?” she inquired gravely.

“I know that,” Teddy scoffed. “But if I don’t, he’ll send it in my name, in cash, to some charity, and that’ll be all the same in the final addition. He’s so confoundedly resourceful, you can’t think around him.”

“No, you can’t,” she agreed. “That’s one of the wonderful things about him. He thinks in his own terms, in terms of you or me, or the janitor, or the President. He isn’t just himself, he’s everybody.”

“He isn’t thinking in terms of _me_,” Teddy complained.

She shook her head. “No,” she smiled wisely, “he’s thinking in terms of himself, this time, and we aren’t big enough to see that, too, and understand.”

They had reached the entrance to the Park and crossed the already crowded Plaza to its quieter walks. The tender greens of new grass greeted them, and drifts of pink and yellow vaporous color that seemed to overhang and envelop every branch of tree and shrub, like faint spirits of flower and leaf, clustering about and striving to enter the clefts of gray bark, that they might become embodied in tangible and fragile beauty. Sweet pungent smells of damp earth rose to their nostrils,–fragrance of reviving things, of stirring sap, of diligent seeds moling their way to light and air. Mists shifted by softly, now gray, now rainbow-hued, now trailing on the grass, now sifting slowly through reluctant branches that strove to retain them.

Dorothy sighed happily. The restraint that had troubled them both slowly metamorphosed itself into a tender, dreamy content. Why ask anything of fate? Why crystallize with a word the cloudland perfection of the mirage in which they walked? They were content, happy with the vernal joy of young things in harmony with all the world of spring. They were silent now–unconscious, and one with the heart of life, as were Adam and Eve in the great garden of Eternal Spring–isolated, alone, all in all to each other, and kin with all the vibrant life about them, sentient and inanimate. For them the rainbow glowed in every drop the trailing mists scattered in their wake; for them the pale light of the sun was pure gold of dreams; every frail, courageous flower a delicate censor of fragrance. There was crooning in the tree-tops and laughter in the confidential whisper of the fountains–as if Pan’s pipes had enchanted all this ruled-and-lined, sophisticated, urban _pleasaunce_ into a dell in Arcady.

Teddy looked down at his companion, trudging sturdily by his side. How sweet and dear were her eyes of violet, how tender and gentle the slim curves of her mouth, how wholly lovely the contour of cheek and chin, and the curled tendrils of her moist, dark hair!

She was conscious of his gaze. She felt an impulse to take his arm–that strong, strong arm; to walk with him like that–like the old, long married couples, who come to sun themselves in the warm light of the young day, and the sight of passing lovers. A Judas tree in full blossom arrested her attention, and they came to a halt before its lavish display.

“There’s nothing in the world so beautiful as natural things,” she said slowly, breaking the enchanted silence.

Teddy was master of himself again. “I know,” he said, “and I want to get back again to the barnyard we left so suddenly. I said something then–I want to say it over again.”

It was Dorothy’s turn to become frightened and confused.

“Oh,” she said with an indifference she was far from feeling. “Barnyard! It’s such a commonplace spot after all. Don’t you like the garden better?”

But Teddy was determined. “My pretty maid,” he began in a tender voice.

But she moved away suddenly down a tempting path, and, perforce, he followed her.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said hurriedly, “about Mr. Gard. I’m sure, if he felt he was hurting your feelings, he wouldn’t think _all_ his own way. Now, if you want me to, I’ll try and make him understand it. I’ll tell him that you came to me in an awful huff–all cut up. I’m sure I can put it strongly enough.”

“And I shall go to him, and complain that when I want to talk with you, you put me off–won’t listen to me. I’ll ask him to make you listen to reason. I’ll tell him to put it to you. I’ll show him that I _am_ cut up, all around the heart. Perhaps he can put it to you strongly enough–“

Dorothy stopped short and wheeled around to face him.

“Oh, very well, then,” she smiled, “if you are going to get someone else to do your love making for you, _I_ apply for the position. Teddy Mahr, will you marry the milkmaid?–Honest and true, black and blue?”

“I will!” he cried ecstatically, and caught her in his arms.

Two wrens upon a neighboring branch, tilted forward to watch them, the business of nest building for the moment forgotten. A gray squirrel, with jerking tail and mincing gate, approached along the path. A florid policeman, wandering aimlessly in this remote arbor, stopped short, grinned, stuck his thumbs in his belt, and contemplated the picture, then wheeled about and stole out of sight in fashion most unmilitary. Across the lake the white swans glided, and two little “mandarin” ducks sidled up close to shore, regarding the moveless group of humans with bright and beady eyes.

Dorothy disengaged herself from his arms with a happy little gurgle, set her hat straight upon her tumbled hair, and glanced at the ducks.

“There,” she said softly, “that’s a lucky sign. In China they always send the newlyweds a pair. They are love birds; they die when separated–which means, I’m a duck.”

“You are,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

“Now,” she said seriously, “I’ve found a way to clear all difficulties.”

He looked at her, troubled. “I didn’t know there were any,” he said anxiously. “I think your mother likes me, and I don’t see–I can keep you in hats and candy; and Miss Gard is the only person who has seemed to disapprove of me.”

“All wrong,” she said. “I don’t mean that at all. I mean about the picture. I have thought it all out while you were kissing me.”

He grinned. “Did you, indeed? I’m vastly flattered, I’m sure. In that case I shall go to kissing school no later than to-morrow. However, since you work out problems in that way, I’ll give you another to Q.E.D. When will the wedding be?” He folded his arms about her rapturously.

The ducks waddled up the bank; the squirrel climbed to the back of the bench; one wren captured a damaged feather from Dorothy’s hat that had fallen to earth, and made off with his nest contribution.

“Now,” Teddy demanded as he released her. “Did you work _that_ out?”

She gasped. “If you act like that, I’ll not tell you anything. I’ll leave you guessing all the rest of your life.”

“I expect that,” he laughed. “Who am I to escape the common lot?”

She frowned. “As I was saying before you interrupted me so rudely, I have found a way to overcome the arguments and refusals of ‘Old Marcus’–by the way, if he heard you call him that, he’d beat you up, and perfectly right. He isn’t old, and I wish you had half his sense.”

“Dolly, we are _not_ married yet, and I object to unfavorable comparisons. Kindly get down to business.”

“Well,” she said, “I was thinking just this. We can give it to him as a wedding present–we’ve got him there, don’t you see?”

“No, I _don’t_ see,” he replied. “Will you kindly show me how you work that out. He’ll probably want to give you a Murillo and a town house and a Cellini service, and a motor car upholstered in cloth of gold, a Florentine bust and an order on Raphael to paint your portrait. If you ask me if I see him accepting the Vandyke as a wedding present from us–I don’t.”

“Goose!” she said with withering scorn.

He laughed. “Oh, very well, I’m back in the barnyard, so I don’t mind. Just a minute ago and you had me a duck. I’ve lost caste–I was a mandarin then.”

“I didn’t say a wedding present for _our_ wedding, did I?” she inquired loftily. “Why don’t you stop and think a minute. They don’t teach observation in college, evidently.”

Teddy was nonplussed. “You’ve got me,” he said, his brows drawn together in a puzzled frown.

She tapped her foot impatiently. “Well, how else could we be giving him a wedding present?” she inquired.

“That’s just what I don’t see,” he replied emphatically.

“When _he_ gets married, of course–heavens! you are dense!”

Teddy was stunned. “When he–why–what nonsense!–he’s a confirmed old bachelor. There! I knew you couldn’t think out problems when I was kissing you. I’m glad you didn’t answer my second question, if that’s the way you work things out. Who in the world would he marry!”

“How would you like him for a step-father-in-law?” She looked at him with an amused smile.

“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “Why, I never thought of that! Your mother!–Oh, by golly! that’s great, that’s great! Of course, of course. Here, I’ll kiss you again–you can answer my second question.” He embraced her with hysterical enthusiasm. “Oh, when did it happen?” he begged. “How did you know? Since when have they been engaged? My! I have been a bat! Where were my eyes? Of all the jolly luck!” he leaped from the bench and executed a triumphal war dance.

“You act just like the kids–I mean, the baby goats, up in the Bronx,” she laughed. “Teddy, stop, somebody might see you, and they’d send us both to an asylum. Stop it! And besides, my step-father hasn’t proposed yet.”

Teddy ceased his gambols abruptly. “What in the world have you been telling me, then?” he demanded, crestfallen. “Here I’ve been celebrating an event that hasn’t happened.”

“Well, it’s going to,” she affirmed with an impressive nod of her head. “_I_ know. Why, even Mother hasn’t the slightest idea of it yet. Poor, dear Mother, she’s so really humble minded, she wouldn’t let herself realize how he loves her. But she leans on him, on the very thought of him. When we were away recuperating, she used to watch for his letters–like–like–I watched for yours, Teddy; and when I’d hand her one, she had such a look of calm, of rest. I’ve found her asleep with one crushed up in her hand. I’m sure she used to put them under her pillow at night, just as–well–just as I used to put yours, Teddy, under mine. Don’t you know, that when two women are in love, they know it one from another, without a word. Of course, Mother knew all about how _I_ felt, I used to catch her looking at me, oh, so wistfully–but she never dreamed that wise little daughter had guessed her secret–oh, no–mothers never realize that their little chick-children have grown to be big geese. But, _I_ know, and, well, Teddy, as you know, if he doesn’t ask her pretty soon, I’ll go and ask him myself–and he never refuses me anything. I shall say, ‘Dear old Marcus, Teddy and I wish you’d hurry up and ask Mother to marry you. We have set our hearts on picking out our own “steps.” We think of being married in June, and we want it all settled.’ There,” she said with a radiant blush, “I’ve answered all your questions–have you another problem?”

* * * * *

XIX

Left alone before the empty space reserved for the masterpiece the expression on Gard’s face changed. Grave and purposeful, he continued to regard the blank wall, then, turning, he caught up the desk telephone, gave Mrs. Marteen’s private number and waited.

A moment later the sweet familiar voice thrilled him.

“It’s I–Marcus,” he said. “I am coming for you this morning. Yes, I’m taking a holiday, and I’m going to bring you back to the library to see a new acquisition of mine–that will interest you. Then you and Dorothy will lunch with Polly. Dorothy can join us at one o’clock. This is a private view–for you alone…. You will? That’s good! Good-by.”

Noises in the resonant hall and the opening of the great doors announced the arrival of the moving van and its precious contents, before Saunders, his eyes bulging with excitement, rushed in with the tidings of the coming of the world famous Heim Vandyke. With respectful care the great canvas was brought in, unwrapped and lifted to its chosen hanging place.

Seated in his armchair, Gard with mixed emotions watched it elevated and straightened. The pictured face smiled down at him–impersonal yet human, glowing, vivid with color, alive with that suggestion of eternal life that art alone in its highest expression can give. Card’s smile was enigmatical; his eyes were sad. His imagination pictured to him Mrs. Marteen as she had sat before him in her self-contained stateliness and announced with indifferent calm that the Vandyke had been but a ruse to gain his private ear.

Gard rose, approached the picture, and for an instant laid his fingers upon its darkened frame. The movement was that of a worshiper who makes his vow at the touch of some relic infinitely holy.

Then he returned to his seat and for some time remained wrapped in thought. These moments of introspection, of deep self-questioning, had become more and more frequent. He had made in the past few months a new and most interesting acquaintance–himself. All the years of his over-hurried, over-cultivated, ambitious life he had delved into the psychology of others. It had been his pride to divine motives, to dissect personalities, to classify and sort the brains and natures of men. Now for the first time he had turned the scalpel upon himself. He was amazed, he was shocked, almost frightened. He could not hide from himself, he was no longer blind, the searchlight of his own analysis was inexorably focused on his own sins and shortcomings–his powers misused, his strength misdirected, his weaknesses indulged, because his strength protected them. In these hours of what he had grown to grimly call his “stock taking,” he had become aware of a new and all-important group of men. Where before he had reckoned values solely by capacities of brain and hand, he found now a new factor–the capacity of heart. Ideals that heretofore had borne to his mind the stamp of weakness, now showed themselves as real bulwarks of character. The men who had fallen by the wayside in the advance of his pitiless march to power, were no longer, to his eyes, types of the unfit, to be thrust aside. Some were men, indeed, who knew their own souls, and would not barter them.

In his mind a vast readjustment had taken place. Words had become bodied, the unseen was becoming the visible–Responsibility, Honesty, Fairness, Truth! they had all been words to conjure with–for use in political speeches, in interviews–because they seemed to exercise an occult influence upon the gullible public. “Law,” “Peace,” “Order,” “The Greatest Good to the Greatest Number,” he had used them all as an Indian medicine-man shakes bone rattles, and waves a cow’s tail before the tribe, laughing behind his gaping mask at the servile acceptance of his prophecies. One and all these Cunjar Gods he had believed to be only bits of shell and plaited rope, had come to life–they _were_ gods, real presences, real powers. He had invoked them only to deceive others–and, behold! he it was who knew not the truth.

The high tower of his heaven-grasping ambitions seemed suddenly insecure and founded upon shifting sands. The incense the sycophant world burned before him became a stench in his nostrils. The fetishes he had tossed to the crowd now faced him as real gods; and they were not to be blinded with dust, nor bought with gold. The specious and tortured verbiage of twisted law never for one moment deceived the open ears of Justice, even though it tied her hands, and her voice was the voice of condemnation. Honor–he had sold it. Faith–he had not kept it. Truth–he had distorted to fit whatever garb he had chosen for her to wear. And, withal, he had hailed himself conqueror; had placed his laurels himself upon his head, ranking all others beneath him. The clamor of the mob he had interpreted as acclaim. Now he heard above the applause the hoarse chorus of disdain and fear. It had been his pride to see men fall back and make way at the very mention of his name. Now he felt that they shrank from him–not before his greatness, but from his very contact. He had driven his fellow creatures from him, and in return, they withdrew themselves.

If they came to him fawning, they but showed their lower natures. He had not called forth the power for good, from these the necromancy of his personality had touched. He had conjured evil, he had pandered to base forces.

The realization had not come easily. His habits of thought would return and blind him as of old. He had laughed at himself; he had derided the new gods, he had disobeyed them and their strange commands–only to return crestfallen, contrite, feeling himself unworthy. He became aware that he had run a long and victorious race for a prize he had craved–only to find that the goal to which it brought him was not that